Overmorrow (4)

4:

The sun was well down, and I wasn’t quite there.

I’d had to stop and rest, and eat, and water the horse, and push on.  Fortunately, he was an even tempered animal, and stout enough. I would have to remember to compensate the two stable boys that remained. They too, had no family, having been orphaned during the years of drought, turning up at the gate in baskets, squalling for all they were worth.

I was able to procure a wetnurse, who stayed on to mother them into fine young men, who mourned her passing bitterly, and were left with only the clerics and no prospects of brides.

Still, they’d be young enough to move on and make lives for themselves when this was over.

A breeze wafted over me, and I could smell the dank loam of the foul woods, laced through with more than a trace of carrion and stale blood.

My stomach flipped, and the horse refused to go any further, no matter my spurs.

I would have to walk into the Dark Wood on foot, approaching gods-knew-what across an open field.

I now what they meant of the fine line between bravery and stupidity.

Likely, I’d not see the animal again; whatever was out here would feast well, and how I got back, if I got out, was up to me.

Crepuscular colors inked the grass, and the edge of the forest was a wide, black, horizontal line that looked disturbingly like the maw of a great beast lurking in camouflage.

Xantara must know they’re after me. I have to tell her before she arrives.

I slipped the reins from the horse’s nose and took off the saddle, and put them at the trunk of a twisted tree.

“Farewell, good steed. I’m only sorry I can’t protect you, too. If you can, live.”

I loaded the crossbow, for all the good it would do in the dark, and left him behind in the gathering dark.

He snorted once, then I heard him run off.

The horse is smarter than you, Harkin.

 

******************

Approaching the tree line, I felt the weight of many eyes watching me.

Low growls and hissings tried to warn me away, and furtive movements that rustled the lower branches.

I’d come too far to turn back now though, and was grateful for the moonrise, though it was only a half moon. The first of the evening stars shone brightly, speckling the blackening sky with diamond brilliance.

Out of habit, I prayed to the woods gods I served, then announced to all concerned that I was coming in there whether they liked it or not, and began walking.

Nothing broke from the shadows, though the warnings got louder at first.

I persisted, and the noise receded, along with the eyes I could see, and they fell back from the edge of the tree line.

At that, I stopped. It was a coordinated move, as if that’s what they all did to lure in prey.

When I stopped, something charged at me.

I had seconds, and surprising myself, the bow was in my hand, and my finger was about to squeeze the trigger, when I realized that what was running at me was a child, yelling and waving its weaponless arms in the air, calling to me.

“MITRE! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, Mitre!”

It was a boy of about ten, and behind him, a girl of around the same.

I somehow managed not to skewer him with the arrow, but I didn’t lower the bow either.

“Stop there!”

They stopped.

“Who are you?”

They didn’t answer me, but asked me a question.

“Why did you come here?”

“I came to see…a Summoner.”

“No,” the boy said, “You don’t want to do that, Mitre.”

“I do, and I’ll pay you well to lead me.”

The little girl grinned at the word ‘pay,’ and tugged the boy’s sleeve.

“We need gold,” she said.

“You hush, Vilus. He doesn’t need to know that.”

“He didn’t need to know my name either, but you told him…Jirus.”

He slapped her so fast we both were amazed.

I thought she was going to cry, but she actually snarled as she jumped on him, and they rolled on the ground trading punches; I didn’t have much to do with things now, so I started walking toward the forest again.

That got their attention, and they broke apart and ran towards me, spitting at each other and giving dirty looks as they did so.

They stopped in front of me, breathless.

“I’ll make it plain for you: it’s night, I don’t know the way, I need protection, and you need gold. If you lead me into a trap, you get nothing, if I make it, I give you some gold, and you go on your way.

“I need a Summoner, tonight, so the sooner we get there, the sooner you can go back to your home and sleep, or fight, or kill each other. I don’t really care, but take me to a Summoner. Now!”

They jumped a bit, but I dared soften my look, though I wanted to; I would have lost the edge it had given me, and I’d get no respect afterwards.

“Let’s go.”

They walked in front of me.

“What’s your name, Mitre?” Vilus asked.

“How did you know I was a Mitre?”

“We’ve heard the stories,” Jirus said.

“It was bad when they came.” Vilus said.

“You’re talking about the Mitres?”

Vilus giggled. “Yes, Mitre. You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Harkin.”

“That’s a crazy name,” she said.

Jirus stopped, and gave her an exasperated look, then he moved in close to me, tossing his hair from his eyes.

“The Mitres were the only ones that dared befriend us, but then they betrayed us. Anyway, you were about to be killed, but the animals saw us, and they didn’t come out.”

“Because it was us. We’re hunters. They’re afraid of us.” Vilus said with not a little pride.

Jirus started walking again, with Vilus by his side and me in his wake.

“We didn’t want to see you get eaten, so we saved you.” Vilus said.

“Thank you. Thank you both.”

“You’re welcome,” Jirus said. “The Summoner may not want to see you though, and we can’t make her.”

“Let me worry about that part. I’m glad you saved me.”

“Why do you need a Summoner?” Vilus asked.

“A friend of mine is in trouble, and I have to send her a message before she comes to visit tomorrow.”

“Is she your girrrlfriend?” she asked in singsong, and giggled. She seemed an abnormally giddy child to be in such a mire of darkness.

My innocence again?

“No, she’s just a friend.”

“If you saaayy so.” She smiled at me.

I chuckled, and Jirus looked at her and rolled his eyes, and then the moon was caught in the treetops, and the darkness was practically utter.

“Take my hand,” Vilus said, and slipped hers into mine.

A faint glow, pale blue, filled their eyes, and I felt a small thrill of fear.

Jirus must have known.

“Don’t worry, mitre. It’s how we see in the dark. We’ve a distance though, so save your words, and whatever you do, don’t let go of Vilus’ hand. If the connection is broken, we won’t be able to see you, but the animals still can. Understand?”

“I do.”

    I’m not ashamed to say I was just shy of crushing the bones of a child’s hand, but Vilus didn’t complain, and after awhile, I relaxed.

The night forest was beautiful, resonant with birdsong and rustlings, fireflies of different colors, night flowers that were surprisingly, pleasantly fragranced, and curious, pale, blind creatures came to examine if what was in their path was a mate, or food, or danger.

Thankfully, they decided the three of us were danger, and receded as fast as they appeared.

Vilus, watching one, took her eyes off the path and stumbled, and I clutched at her hand.

“Ouch!”

“I’m sorry, Vilus; I didn’t want you to fall.”

I rubbed it, so she wouldn’t reflexively pull away.

“Are you all right?”

“I guess,” she said, her voice sullen. I could tell she didn’t want to hold my hand anymore, but she was bound by Jirus’ words, so she couldn’t let go.

The moon flicked at the ground in dappled patches, but they were few and far between.

“Jirus?” I said.

“Not much further, Mitre; it’s just over that rise.”

A pearlescent white bird landed on a low branch in front of us, the colors swirling, as if someone put cream into a dark liquid.

“Never saw one like that before,” said Jirus.

The bird was looking right at me, and its staring made Vilus look up at me too, but she said nothing.

“Let’s go,” I said. “The night is wasting.”

Jirus trudged ahead of us, and Vilus, no longer my friend, in the way kids form friendships, sighed at having to hold my hand some more.

“I’ll make it up to you for hurting your hand, Vilus.”

“It’s all right, Mitre. I just want you to help your friend now. Besides, you can’t; you don’t live here, remember?” She smiled up at me again. Silly Mitre.

I had no answer for that, and in a few minutes, we topped the rise, and the pearlescent bird, the demon who was tracking me, flew over us and disappeared into a valley that, if possible, was even darker.

“You can let her hand go now.”

I did, and she shook it, getting the circulation back, and rubbed her left arm, which had been extended for some time as we walked.

She was tougher than she seemed at first. Like Xantara,

    “We’ll rest here awhile,” Jirus said, “but I’m getting hungry, which means Vilus is probably starving. We’ll walk with you a bit further, but we’ll point you where you need to go, and then we have to hunt.”

“All right.”

 

****************

 

They pointed me to rundown cottage that had smoke coming from the chimney.

“The Summoner lives there, but we’re going back.”

“You’ve done more than enough, Jirus.” I gave them each two pieces of gold, and their eyes lit up.

“We can guide you out, too,” Vilus offered, then smiled, “but then you have to hold Jirus’s hand.”

“How will I reach you?”

“We’ll know,” Jirus said. “The smoke will turn black. We’ll wait here for you when it does, Mitre Harkin.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope you’re in time.”

I turned and began walking toward the cottage.

“Me too,” I called, over my shoulder.

When I turned around after a few steps, they were gone, and the sense of danger began to creep back in, though in truth, I had never been out of it.

 

Overmorrow (3)

They would use Xantara’s affection for me to catch and kill her.

I was sweating, and were it not against the rules of the gods I served to do so, I would have sworn.

The silence that followed was even more nerve wracking; I dared not get up to retrieve the covers, and the light of my night candle seemed too tenuous and meager to venture. Still, sitting up against the headboard and cowering would serve no purpose either, so after some minutes, where nothing else seemed it was going to occur, and the desire to sleep had fled, I got up.

Snatching covers, then? A rather childish prank.

My pounding heart had begun throb once more, and my breathing evened out.

I ran a hand through my hair, more out of distraction than a need to straighten, and went over to my writing desk, where my brandy decanter sat, and poured myself a healthy dose.

I’ve never had them come to me before. They’re after me now, to get to her.

   Fool! You should’ve known it would only be a matter of time.

That meant the temple was now at risk too, though it was all but abandoned in patronage and congregants, all stragglers really, like me, who, for whatever reason, just didn’t want to let go.

I possessed no certain powers or gifts that they would need, and I realized the childish prank was a message: they could get to me, and when they did, they would use Xantara’s affection for me to catch and kill her.

I will return overmorrow. The day after tomorrow.

We were now into the wee hours of this day, which was all I had to try to send her a message, though I had no way of knowing how to do that.

Find a way.

There was only one way, and it was not an easy one. It was perilous in terrain as well as the occupants in it, but it would be my only chance.

In the hillsides surrounding the temple was a hidden path, stony and steep, that led into the dark woods, known for having little sun and nothing good inside. It was a pestilence on the land, but we’d defeated them long ago, and they remained there, also in dwindling number, being unable to prey any longer on the populace.

A victory the gods of light had won, at great cost.

But their ancient magic still pulsed in putrid waves throughout the woods, corrupting tree and creature and stream, and it seemed they too, were unwilling to let go.

In this, I was fortunate, for now I could seek a Summoner, one of those who were able to bridge the gap between worlds untold and unspeakable, and ours.

For the remainder of the night, I packed for my journey, though I had no idea how long it would take. I was a fair enough horseman, and handy with a crossbow (which for all I knew they could burn in my hands).

While packing, I shook, and mumbled, and drank brandy, but the overall factor was protecting Xantara. I told myself I was not, in fact, running away; if they killed me, I’d have no further part in things, and therefore would not be blamed for the inevitable, even if history branded me a coward.

Still, it felt like I was doing exactly that: no one would know if I left for good, and when they found out, they wouldn’t care.

They scared you off without even touching you.

I ignored that voice, and checked the crossbow to make sure everything was still working. I didn’t hunt often, but I used this when I did; I liked the feel of it, the swiftness of the arrow, the finality of the kill, and the silence of the falling prey, like Xantara’s falling demon.

It was almost graceful the way it fell, until it crashed.

I admit to being surprised the noise of the table breaking brought none of the other clerics running, but when I looked over, the table had been as it always was, so there was no reason to fear.

Leave now, Harkin. You’re conflicted, and trying to put it off with useless memories.

I began to leave, and the sound of footsteps behind followed me to the door.

I stopped and turned, and said to no one visible, “You can’t have her.”

And once again, the laughter, far more low and sinister, rumbling through the soles of my feet, filled the room.

I somehow managed to close the door with my hand shaking.       

 

*******************

The sun was just kissing the edge of the horizon awake when I finally set out.

I would reach the dark woods in the late afternoon; it was doubtful if the horse would go in, or if I could maneuver him if he did, so I’d already resolved to do the last leg of the journey on foot, which meant I would be in the Dark Wood at night.

Since no one had ever explored it to chart it, at least that I knew of, what happened in there at night was even more of a mystery than what happened during the day, but I’d also resolved to make it out alive, otherwise, this undertaking was purposeless.

It would be no mean feat if I survived, but would I be coherent.

I shook my head; too much speculation on the unknown. I’d have to trust myself, and this animal, to deal with whatever came up.

Leaving my thoughts, I gave over to admiring the view.

The hills were yet green, with a tint of autumn in the leaves now, and birdcalls sounded in cacophonous harmonies in the trees, as morning flocks of geese took wing to their feeding places.

The air was sharp, and clean, invigorating me, and I promised myself that if I did live, and remained sane, I would explore the surrounding countryside more frequently.

Duties were binding, and sometimes limiting, and kept one from doing things far more important.

The gods were served were benign, and I would go so far as to say, somewhat ineffective: gods of trees and stones and water, small gods of nature to micromanage what the bigger gods of planets and stars and weather had no time for, or didn’t want to be bothered with.

The people, for a time, seemed to be content with that, and the temple, while not wealthy, prospered well enough until the years of drought, and everything died but the trees of the Dark Wood.

Those brave enough to try and bring out the occupants to help us were never seen again, and the pyres of livestock and people burned high and long during those years.

Those who didn’t get sick, or try to wait things out, packed and left.

With their leaving, the temple, and its useless clerics and ineffective gods, fell from favor, and the offerings dried up along with the crops.

Some of the clerics, like me, who had no other family, simply waited for the end, and lived off the last of the stockpile we’d saved, and somehow made it through the winter.

That spring, the rains returned with a vengeance, and had remained more or less consistent, but the people who trickled in now to try their hand were mostly new farmers, so the land would take some time to turn fertile again for abundant crops; they could still eke meager ones while they worked together to establish themselves.

They were willing to do the hard work in order to claim the land their own, but few had come to the temple to replenish the congregation.

But we had another problem: with the Protectors gone, and the creeping demise of the temple, whose minor gods had now abandoned the faithless, the demons, sensing the absence of power to stop them, were returning.

And with only one Protector left, after they killed her, the clerics were the next line of defense they would take down.

I then recalled the dream of the young boy who’d beheaded Xantara, but whether it was dire prophecy, or just a nightmare, I couldn’t know.

I was on a fool’s mission, to save a world that didn’t deserve it, and to place the burden of that squarely on the shoulders of a young, untried girl who shouldn’t be alive, and trusted me.

You can’t have her, I’d said to the demon that dogged my steps, and even now, was certainly trailing me.

You can’t have her.

And now, I had to make that happen.

At any cost.

 

 

 

Overmorrow (2)

2:

On my walk around the grounds, I met the sexton, who only nodded in that grim way he always had, as if a perpetual crown of thorns in a black cloud burdened his brow.
I smiled, for all the good it did, and continued on.
Satisfied that no one else remained, I retired for the night, and drifting off to sleep by the light of a single candle, I dreamed I saw Xantara’s head taken, not by a demon, but by another Protector, unknown to me, a lad of strength and beauty, who’d captured her heart, only to murder her.
I felt myself tossing, but was unable to wake, when a vision from my youth emerged, as if from underwater, as if I was scrying, as an unclean oracle, or a foaming, raving prophet…

It was late, but the old librarian, the one with the tortoise-shaped head, who seemed as if, also like a tortoise, he would live forever, had taken a liking to me, confessing that I looked like the son he’d fathered on a young girl shortly before coming to the temple.
Given his age, on which I could only speculate, I had no idea how he’d know what an infant would look like in his young adulthood, but I didn’t press, and he didn’t elaborate, and it was of no great matter to me.
I had to study, and he made a pot of his special coffee, which was now thrumming in my veins, and sleep would not be forthcoming tonight.
Finding the compendium I needed, I opened it, perusing casually before I got to my subject; it seemed to contain the history of everything, written twice.
I was about to locate my subject, and turned the page, when an illuminated illustration caught my attention.
It was a picture of a young dark-haired girl, praying at night as she stood in her novice whites, in the middle of a stream, the moonlight bathing her from above, and the water from below.
Above her, in the star-strewn sky, she was circled by fierce, hideous demons, with gore filled grins, and straining jaws filled with rows of teeth made for rending flesh and snapping bone.
Their weapons were as sharp and gruesome as their assorted teeth and claws, dulled with ages of reaping hapless souls.
Grim as their visages and weaponry was, they seemed unable to break the barrier of prayer she’d erected about herself, and as I peered closer, admiring the depth of the detail and time the illustrator had taken, I saw that in their expressions there was something of a hallowed fear, and a dread anticipation…They were ensnared, about to die, and they knew it.
Fascinated, I proceeded to read the text:

These are the Protectors, weaponless watchmen standing guard between the realms of flesh and spirit, the divine and unclean, and the living and the dead.
The origins of their power are lost to time, but in their orisons, they are as lethal as any demon, the latter of which, oddly, gather to hear the prayers that ultimately destroy them.
No one has ever recorded the prayers for posterity, but the language is said to have a sibilant quality that renders it almost as whispered, and therefore as indecipherable as it is incomprehensible.
This compendium has no records of their gods or demons, their names, or when they became Protectors. Once our mutual fates were intertwined, as we relied on their protection, and they relied on us for sustenance; as such we were gradually beginning to understand each other.
They are seemingly by nature reclusive, shy, furtive to the point of sneakiness if their motives were evil.
In what few encounters we’ve engaged, they are affable, but loathe to get close. 

There is an unseen barrier, brilliant in its concealment, that we may not cross despite our best efforts, either by strength of sinew, or power of arrow.
In time, as men do when they are unable to solve mysteries, we decided the difficulty of pursuing any kind of relationship with them any further, possibly decimating the storehouses of our youth in future generations, was not worth the risk.
With the passing of years, since we could not get close, we became suspicious, and such allies as they had among us began to dwindle, and in the winter of their fiftieth year among us, we used our trade with them to gain access behind the shield, driving them out to seek and make their way some other place.
Our clerics, who’d witnessed their powers first hand in matters ceremonial, and it is rumored, in cases of demon attack and possession, advocated that we needed them, and would find ourselves at a disadvantage in their absence.
We did not listen, and when the demons tried again, they found our collective belly exposed.
If you are reading this, know that even now they are here, and my hand grows erratic as I hear the sound of their laughter mingling with the screams of the slaughtered.

And so I end, imploring that if it is at all possible, find them.
Find them soon.

Amid the din of screams and weapons smacking flesh, grunts of effort and groans of misery, pleas for mercy and cruel laughter denying it, my eyes flew open and I screamed.
My scream reverberated in my bedchamber, and something ripped my covers from me, and I scrambled backward to sit up.
At the foot of my bed, a deathly pale hand with short, sharp nails, pulled the covers to the floor, and low laughter, wrought through with ill intent, ascended through the floor.

 

Overmorrow

Kneeling by the light that beamed in a soft corona about her, not quite an aura, setting her prayer shawl and priestess gown alight, hair coiled about her head like an ebon halo, I came through the door and held my breath at the vision.

Above her was a monster, weeping in rage, his muscles bunched, his thick and heavy neck holding up his massive head and horns.

Her whispered fervent prayer was binding him, and the axe just shuddered in his trembling hands.

“Xantara, is this one yours?”

She didn’t turn, or give answer, or acknowledge I was there.

The monster turned its head, regarded me with pleading in his soulless eyes.

“You were going to kill her; I can’t allow that, and you deserve your punishment.”

At my refusal of intercession, it redoubled its effort, but Xantara never wavered; I could hear the reverberating sibilance of her foreign, arcane tongue, long vanished from these walls, long banished from these shores.

No one else knew she was here, for no one else could see her.

The colors in the stained glass windows deepened with the dying light, and the candles flared a little brighter as the power of her prayer began to manifest, and the muscled monstrosity that would have taken her head, and probably mine, seemed surprised to find its neck cleaved clean through, almost as if with the very axe it carried, and the knobbed head tumbled in ponderous slowness, to crack on the black marble floor.

Its body listed like a great old dying tree, and shattered the great oak table where the ceremonial cups and candles were, cracking and splintering it like a ruined spine.

The dust cloud was massive, and dark, acrid, smoking blood seethed across the marble, hissing and pitting it as it puddle and pooled.

She stood up and looked at me, as if the creature she’d just slain was nothing more than a reed blown over in the wind.

“Good evening, Mitre Harkin. I’m…sorry…about the mess. I’ll clean it.”

“It’s alright, Xantara. There’s no one here but the two of us, anyway. It’s no great matter.”

She smoothed her gown as she approached.

“They keep coming after me.”

“I’m afraid they won’t stop; your powers have grown.”

“I’ve thought to renounce them.”

“Your powers? You mustn’t.”

“Why not?”

“We’ve been over this, my child. You are the protector.”

“It’s the job of the gods to protect us.”

I laughed.

“Don’t laugh at me, Mitre.”

“I’m not, my dear. I’m laughing at the innocence of your youth as it concerns the gods; they choose their servants, not always willingly. Truth be told, not even always wisely.”

“Are you now saying—?“

“I’m saying, Xantara, that your role in the events to unfold is irreplaceable, and unfortunately for you, irrevocable.”

She sighed, and even in her forlorn state, was rife with divine sweetness.

“You will help guide me though, won’t you Mitre?”

“I will ever be here for you, Xantara; you have my word.”

She nodded, a tear running from her eye.

I took the corner of my prayer shawl, and dabbed it away.

“I must be going,” she said.

“I understand.” The demons didn’t regard the time of day, and she was tired. Rest replenished her powers, and exhaustion weakened them.

But she hesitated.
“Mitre?”

I inclined my head, inviting her to continue.

“Can you make it so I don’t have to kneel and pray so long?”

I thought it over; that would mean facing the Council, making them aware of her existence, or believing me insane, for which the consequences would be immediate, and final.

“You know I can’t appeal to them without revealing your presence.”

“I know, but I’m tired of hiding. Perhaps I will reveal it to them myself.”

I shook my head.

“Xantara, they will pull you from both sides like quartering horses.”

I put my hand on her cheek, and she leaned into it.

“If rest comes so uneasy to you now, child, imagine it never coming at all. They will use you until your very essence is a husk, and they will toss it in the fire, and forget you, taking the credit for your victory.”

She placed her hand over mine, removed it, but held it.

“My dear Mitre, always so wise.”

I chuckled, and she smiled. It was beatific.

“My innocence again?”

“Yes. Go, my child. The hour grows late.”

She nodded.

“Overmorrow, I will return.”

“I await the welcome vision. Farewell, Xantara.”

She gave a small, endearing curtsy. “Farewell, Mitre Harkin.”

Truth be told, I should have been afraid of such burgeoning power in the hands, heart, and mind of one so untried (for there was no fear in her at all), but I was not, and would have cause to regret it later.

Looking back to where the monster had fallen, there was no trace of severed flesh or steaming blood, and no thick hafted weapon to leave behind the threat of death.

It was as if she’d merely stopped praying, and was now leaving.

I turned back toward the doors.

She seemed to glide down the black marble path, the temple doors parted of themselves, and in the last rays of the sun, she faded like an unfulfilled wish that never came true.

 

 

 

 

Obasi’s Honor

The sun was hot on his skin, and the camel he rode began to stumble.

He is going to die, but not me. I will do what I must.

Behind him lay the bodies he’d killed, but it had been, at best, serendipity, and not skill.

He would rather that it had been skill.

The town was in the distance, indistinct in color from the sand everywhere, save that it had shape, and he could see the shapes of the buildings through the haze and the heat shimmer that felt like it would boil his eyes in their sockets.

I did not avoid being a sacrifice only to have my bones bleach in this merciless sun.

He stopped, and taking the knife he pilfered from the body of the man that had sought to tie the rope around his neck, he put his hand on the camel’s neck and said a silent prayer of thanks to its spirit for providing him life.

And he cut its throat with his spiked club, ripping out the spike and cupping his hands around the fount that spurted as the animal bellowed a final curse, and toppled. The taste of its blood was rancid and bitter in his mouth, but he was going to die if he didn’t drink, and water was not to be found.

And as he had no water, he made no urine, or he would have used that instead.

He was tempted to skin the camel and make a tent, but the sun had crested its zenith, and would be down soon; if he skinned it now, night would catch him crossing the dunes, and the chill wind would ice the blood that was now boiling.

Breathing heavy against the urge to vomit, which would dehydrate him further, the burning sand licking at the sides of his feet in the leather sandals that adorned them, he took the spiked club from the camel’s neck, and pushed on.

Distance was a tricky thing in the desert, however, and if the town wasn’t as close as it looked, he would be covered over by the relentlessly flowing sand, buried in an unmarked grave so deep and remote his ancestors would never see him.

“You will not die, Obasi. Your ancestors will strike you in the afterlife if you do.”

He didn’t know if the part about his ancestors was true, and anyway, it was a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep; he only knew that if he didn’t hear himself make it, he wouldn’t survive.

 

********************

 

Two horsemen came out to retrieve him from the sand, where he’d vomited and lay in a pool of rancid blood.

“Fool boy, drank the blood of his camel.”

“How do you know?”

“The hairs on his robe, his skin. He was unskilled, and favored by the gods that he made it here.

The guard that noticed the hair threw the boy across the saddle, and with the other, he walked his horse back.

The watchman called. “Is he alive?”

“Barely, but yes.”

“Take him to see –“

“I know, I know. He needs water though, and now.”

The watchman threw his canteen down, and they dribbled water into the boy’s mouth, held him as he sputtered and coughed, gave him some more, and he spat.

The water was threaded with bright red strands of bile, and both men made the sign against evil.

“Get him out of here,” the watchman said.

The other guard proffered him to take his canteen back, but the watchman smiled and shook his head.

“I’ll get another; he can keep that one. I should’ve let the vultures have him. If it hadn’t been for their circling, I wouldn’t have seen him.”

“You did well to save his life; these things come back to you.”

“As I well know. Take him quickly.”

They proceeded to the town sick house, as they called it, and the boy began to stir.

They were carrying him on a horse, sideways across the saddle, as if he was a sack of something heavy and unpleasant, but he didn’t know who ‘they’ were or where ‘they’ were taking him, but their robes were dark, in stark contrast to the sand, and against the normal dress of white and tan, which kept the heat of the sun away.

He noticed they were on a road of stone.

“Where am I?” His voice came out like a croak, and he coughed.

The horse nickered in warning, not liking the smell of stale camel blood in its nostrils.

“In the land of Fatinah, south of your lands. We are taking you to the sick house; our doctor is an elder, and will see to your needs. Rest now, boy. There is time enough for introductions and conversation; this is not that time.”

Not willing to trust his voice again, or have the horse bite him, he closed his eyes and mouth again, and swayed to the animal’s rhythm, his insides rolling, as unconsciousness reclaimed him from the waking world again.

 

When the Broken Dolls are Screaming

She left me here alone with them again.

I asked her not to; I always ask, but she always forgets.

I try not to look at them, but the room is only four walls, and I’ve read all the books in the case now, some more than twice.

I do the, read the books, to keep from looking at them.

They seem whole, serene, even, their painted poker faces never moving.

Dust motes drift in the persimmon light of a dying sun, and there’s an air of expectation, though no one’s here but me.

And them.

Their eyes glitter as they track me aimlessly moving about the dark and stuffy ‘guest quarters,’ for such is my dwelling called.

The days of glory, when it housed royalty, heads of state, politicians, and valued courtesans (two sides of a coin, that), had long past.

It was now little more than a storage room containing forgotten tributes and trinkets of those times, but the dolls took up the most space.

They belonged to Doll Kensington, a woman child with a moue for a mouth and the morals of a…

No…no, I will not brand her a whore; she was voracious in her appetite, and highly skilled at sating them; she enjoyed sex unapologetically, and when expedient, or necessary, charged highly for those skills.

I was a fool to think I could save her

She was a fool for laughing at my foolishness.

Even now, I wonder if her spirit is the one within these dolls; I can fell the heat of the hellfire in their eyes, the longing for revenge.

They are, after all, no different from their namesake: her eyes glittered, but had no life, her limbs were pliant, but without strength, her face was garishly painted, and her red, red lips were cold.

But I never touched her.

 

*********************

I was alone in the bar.

   Life and music, women and smoke, vice and danger all danced around me with the familiarity of tired old couples no longer in love, clinging to a tattered remnant of a happy, fading memory, even as they trampled it underfoot.

   In the bottom of my glass, I saw myself.

  It wasn’t appealing, so I ordered another to drown the face, but it only floated to the top again, and looked at me with sad, defeated eyes.

   “It’s on me,” a voice next to me said, and a pale hand with painted nails slid money across the bar, and an old hand, bristling with white hairs and missing a finger, slid it off and took it to parts unknown.

   I didn’t look up, or say ‘thank you,’ or do anything.

  The pale hand went from the bar to my thigh.

   “I can make it better.”

  “Only for awhile.”

   “It’ll have to be enough, love.”

   I tossed back the whiskey, felt it burn my blood, and followed her out into the abyss.

 

Kahi’s Chalice (2)

Recommended reading on WriteHere: Kahi’s Chalice (2) – http://wh.tl/151118-3

Source: Kahi’s Chalice (2)

Kahi’s Chalice

Recommended reading on WriteHere: Kahi’s Chalice – http://wh.tl/151113-3

Source: Kahi’s Chalice

Of War and Breakfast

Recommended reading on WriteHere: Of War and Breakfast – http://wh.tl/140827-1

Source: Of War and Breakfast

Soyala and The Runaway

She didn’t know how long she’d been running, and now she was in unfamiliar territory. Her body was sore, and her feet full of small cuts and scratches, but it was worth it.

She barely escaped.

The slavers were cruel men with strange markings, sharp piercings, and thick, hard, callused hands that often held thick, heavy chains, and whips laced with things that cut flesh to shreds.

The screams and cries of those victims kept the human chattel shaking and crying through the night, to drift off to restless sleep with nightmares until dawn, only to be awakened by raucous laughter, coarse words, hard boots, and grabbing hands.

Being scrubbed like dirty pots, worked and beaten like mules, and passed around like back-alley dice resulted in three things: embracing the life, going insane, or dying.

Escaping, as she’d done, was perhaps the deadliest option, because as far as she knew, she was the only one who had, and was still alive; others had tried, and their deaths, in public for all to see, reached new depths of torture and brutality.

These were men without souls, hewn on the anvils of hell, and tempered in its fires.

She didn’t know if they’d ever stop looking; she only knew she couldn’t stop running.

**************

The sun was low, but the moon was already rising, not willing to wait its turn, when she found a path, wide and smooth, flat, and flanked by high, ancient trees with arced branches that threw long, deep blue shadows at her feet, as if laying down cloaks for her to cross puddles.

Someone did that for her once, but she couldn’t remember his face.

The wind began to pick up speed, and in her tattered clothing, between the chill of the coming night and the horrors of her dreams, she’d be shivering again.

I will have to make the best of it; I’m too tired go on.

An opening in the tree line caught her attention, and if it had been dark she would have missed it, and wound up sleeping by the roadside, easy pickings for man or beast.

She said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god was listening, and went inside, bathed in the last weak rays of sunlight.

Almost immediately, after her eyes adjusted, she saw a place where she could shelter on the lee side of some rocks where she could take shelter against the wind, and keep out of view from hunters, if she didn’t cry out in her sleep.

Excited, and eager to rest, she half-ran, half-stumbled to where the rock above her jutted out above the one below, and she almost sobbed in relief when she realized she would fit in the space between them.

Like a coffin, almost. Dark and hard, but safe.

A breeze gusted through, and she heard a splash, a leaping fish perhaps, and realized she was close to water, though she’d missed seeing it at first.

The night will be colder, but there’s nothing to be done for it.

   Folding her arms across her breasts, though there was no one around to be modest for, she examined the space again to see how she might best lie down, when she saw a small light in the distance, coming through the trees.

She felt the urge to flee flash through her, but her muscles were unresponsive.

If it’s the slavers come, I’ll take my own life first.

   Yet something about the light was strange; it was steady, neither brightening nor dimming in its intensity.

The wind doesn’t seem to affect it.

The light was also low to the ground, not raised high as a torch would be, nor was it moving especially fast.

Curious now, she watched its approach; someone seemed to be carrying it; she caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a green fabric, the color of sunlight through leaves in high summer, and a brief flash of honey gold hair.

A sprite. A witch. I fled from slavers to die in this copse.

The sun was gone now.

The girl shrank back against the rocks.

She realized she was breathing too quickly, and pursed her lips, willing herself to stop.

By the nimbus of light, she could somewhat see the woman’s features; they were distinct, but not sharp, not yet.

Soon, whoever it was would see her, if they couldn’t already.

As she turned to climb up into the space, she slipped, fell and hit her head, crying out, as whoever was carrying the light came upon her, outlining her sobbing shadow with a corona of amber-gold light.

She gave herself up for lost.

“Kill me then. Get it over with.”

Night clouds drifted apart, and a waning gibbous moon suffused the clearing with a brighter, softer light.

They could see each other clearly now, and when the light the woman was carrying went out, the girl could see there was no lantern or torch.

The light was around her hand!

“Don’t be startled, friend. I mean you no harm. My name is Soyala. What is yours?”

The girl, still processing what she’d just witnessed, was hesitant.

The woman stepped back. “I promise not to hurt you.”

They stayed like that for a moment, and the girl rolled over, stood to her feet, and took stock of the woman: she was beautiful, regal, but for wanting a crown.

She wore a gown, not seeming to fit the surrounding, but more for a noblewoman. It was green, with gold piping, and her hair was artfully coiffed, and unbound. She had no weapon, but that meant nothing to the girl. If this woman could put light around her hand, she could put a weapon in it too, but she would’ve done that by now if she was going to do anything.

Almost imperceptibly, the girl felt herself begin to relax a bit.

“Will you tell me your name?”

“It’s…it’s…my name….is Brielle.”

“Brielle,” the woman smiled at her. “It has the sound of melody, of wedding bells. It’s a beautiful name.”

“Th-th-thank…thank you.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I…I’m cold.”

“And scared.”

“Yes.”

“What would you have me do to ease your mind?”

Before she knew what she was going to say, the words were out.

“Hold me? Please? Please, before I drift away.” She stumbled toward Soyala, her arms outstretched.

Soyala embraced her, reignited the light from her hand, and put it around both their bodies,

Brielle clung to her as if she were the last floating piece of a sunken ship, and her wails and sobs rang across the river, the tolling of funeral bells over the epicedium.

*****************

Brielle woke to find herself still in the clearing of the thicket, but covered with a thick blanket, swaddled almost, and warmed by a fire Soyala had made.

Craning her neck, she could see the woman, sitting on the rocks alone, a cushion of her own beneath her, staring calmly at the wheeling stars, the climbing moon, and the rolling river.

Something in Brielle knew what happened.

“How much did you see?”

Soyala didn’t look at her: “Almost all  of it; the pain was too much, so I stopped.”

“I’m sorry if it…if …my memories…my dreams…they hurt you.”

“It’s not you who should apologize. Your anguish was great, and deep within you. I thought I could take some it from you but…”

Brielle put the covers aside, and clambered up to sit beside Soyala, and saw her eyes were brimming.

“The horrors you’ve seen…the brutality of men…” She shook her head at the images.

Brielle took her hand, and interlaced their fingers.

“And yet, Soyala, I’m here. I’m here because of you. I can go on.

“I will.”

And they sat, looking at the moon floating on the river’s surface, the ripples and eddies dancing tarantellas across its reflection, and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

********************

Brielle woke to find herself nestled into the space again, and swaddled in the blanket.

The day was overcast, the clouds still gleaning the moisture needed for rain, but for now, the ground was dry, if chilled.

A slow moving fog rambled down the slow moving river, sending fragile tendrils onto the banks, and over the grass, dissipating before the heat of another small fire, and her clothes were clean, and no longer torn.

The smell of roasting rabbit meat was in the air, and she found herself salivating.

“Good morning, Brielle.”

“And to you, Soyala.”

“Come, we have meat, bread, and water.”

“You hunted?”

“I cooked.”

“But how did…?”

Soyala smiled.

“Do I want to know?”

“If you really want to know, then I will really tell you. But does it really matter?”

“No. No, it doesn’t.”

They ate in companionable silence.

********************

“Where will you go?”

“Best if I sail. Sail far, where they won’t find me.”

“How do you know?”

Brielle smiled.

“Do I want to know?”

They laughed.

“Come,” Soyala said, taking Brielle’s hand. “I will walk with you to the road.”

As they rounded the opening in the trees, Brielle saw a sleek, strong horse cropping grass at the entrance.

She shrank back in horror, her hand over her mouth. “They’re here!”

Soyala shushed her. “They are not, Brielle. Quiet yourself. The horse is yours.”

“Mine?” She walked up to the horse, who stopped eating and watched her approach.

“Where did he come from?”

“He is my gift to you, to speed you on your journey, to get away from them.”

“But he’s unsaddled.”

“He won’t go with you over the sea. Take him to the pier, and he’ll return to his home from there.”

Brielle gave Soyala another long hug, one that felt lighter, still with a pang of melancholy, but lighter.

Soyala closed her mind to keep away the girl’s memories, and when they finally let each other go, they were crying.

“Be safe, Brielle”

“Soyala, I…”

“If we meet again, we will celebrate, yes?”

“Yes.”

Soyala kissed her forehead: “Farewell, my friend.”

Brielle gave her hand a light squeeze. “My Soyala.”

She mounted the horse, which endured her clumsiness, and let her adjust.

“What’s his name?”

“For as long as your journey lasts, whatever you like.”

*******************

Brielle told herself she wouldn’t look back, but she did, and what she saw made her turn the horse around and start riding back.

Soyala’s hands were over her face, and her shoulders were shaking.

As she got closer, she called, but Soyala didn’t seem to hear her;  Brielle saw her slowly fade from view.

She brought the horse up short,  shaking her head in wonder.

Who are you…?

She had too many questions now; the answers would have to wait.

**************

“Come, Hatik, let us go.”

She’d named the horse after her loathsome captor, and as he trotted through the rain, she gave voice to her thoughts.

One day, Hatik, I will ride you as I ride this horse, not to be set free when I am done, but until you die.

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.  2015