Death of the Soul-Stealing Weasels of Despair
A NaNo Novel by: Tyler C. Willson
Tiriak woke with a start. It was today. He swung his feet off the bed and
stretched, the queasy feeling in his stomach growing as his mind came to full
wakefulness. The morning sunlight streamed through the chinks in the wall of
the small room where he slept, illuminating the faces of his little brothers
sleeping in the bed with him.
He stood up quietly, not wanting to disturb them yet. They were too young
still to help out with chores and so would be allowed to sleep for another
hour or so.
Man, I really hate that beginning. Why do all of my stories start out with
someone waking up? Wonder how many times this poor guy will be knocked
unconscious in order to make smoother scene transitions? Oh well, it has to
start somehow. I can't sit here stewing about a sucky beginning. Let's just
run with it...
His father’s tall frame filled the doorway, and he called his name softly.
“Tiriak, no time for relaxing today.” Tiriak looked up and smiled. He
quickly found his shoes and put them on, then followed his father down the
narrow hallway and into the kitchen. His step-mother was at the stove, several
pots already steaming away. She turned, and smiled at him; a nervous tentative
smile.
“Did you sleep well?” She asked, genuine concern shading her voice.
“Well enough I guess...” Tiriak replied.
Her obvious concern for him brought a pang of regret that his real mother had
not lived to see this day. She was in every way a perfect mother except for
the one which she had no control over – she was not his mother.
Wow! That was deep. Perfect in ever way... stupid. Remember to delete that
first.
“Chores are waiting” his father reminded and Tiriak turned to follow him
outside.
As they fed the animals and tended to the garden they spoke little if at all.
His father was not one given to much speech in the first place and this
morning Tiriak was glad. The tension he had felt upon awaking was growing as
the sun moved upwards from the horizon. As they walked to the bottom of the
pasture to find the old brown milk cow his father finally broke the silence.
“Are you ready?” he asked, getting directly to the point as usual.
Tiriak shrugged.
“I guess so. Is anyone really ever ready?” he asked. His father chuckled
under his breath.
“No, I don’t suppose anyone really is.” Tiriak could tell that his
father was pleased with his answer, although anyone who didn’t know him well
would easily be fooled into thinking his father had no opinion one way or
another. They walked in silence for a few more yards before his father spoke
again.
“Has Julio been back to see you?” Once again his voice was even and
emotionless, but Tiriak knew him well enough to detect the anger in his voice.
“No, he seems to have taken your warning seriously. I saw him in the
market last week and he acted as if I was invisible.” Tiriak answered, a bit
too smugly. His father didn’t answer right away, just looked at him sideways
for a minute.
“Be not too proud that he is afraid of me. Today you become a man and
will no longer be under my protection. Remember that vermin like him are
always afraid when the watchman is on duty.” Tiriak felt his face burning
under this gentle rebuke. He nodded respectfully and looked away, across the
fields towards the line of trees that marked the course of the stream and the
edge of their small farm land. The strange little man who belonged to the
shadowy clan known as the Supreme Servants of the Weasel of Daiga had worked
hard to befriend himself with Tiriak, his efforts increasing when it was known
that he had chosen to undertake the vision quest this summer. Tiriak had at
first felt pride at being noticed by a man of such obvious power. It was
rumored that the Weasels were in control of the local councils in most of the
villages and towns throughout the lands of Tukea. Others believed
that they possessed the secrets of dark magic, and that only those with the
innate ability to summon the forces of the underworld were invited to join
them. Turak dismissed them simply as a cult which stole the will of
its victims and worked to spread fear and disorder across the land. The first
time he found that Julio had been speaking to Tiriak he had firmly forbidden
Tiriak to ever speak to him again. When Julio appeared at their farm a few
days later, Turak had met him at the gate and forbade him to ever return.
Tiriak had watched from the front porch, and while he could not hear the words
being spoken he could tell by the posture of his father and by the hasty
retreat made by the normally unflappable monk Julio that his words had been
harsh, and his meaning made more than clear. Though his father had borne no
weapon it was well known throughout the land that Turak, son of Turin was the
greatest warrior in the land, and that his great sword Nemorak remained
sharpened and polished in a place of honor over their hearth.
No more words were spoken between them until the cow had been located and led
back to the barn, had been milked and released back into the pasture. As they
walked towards the kitchen door his father placed one hand on his shoulder and
said in a voice that was much more strained with emotion than before,
“You will do fine. You are my son.”
Hmm, not bad. I suppose the great sword was a little much, but I am trying
to model Tolkien right? Man, fantasy is harder than I thought it would be.
The village square was already crowded by the time Tiriak’s family arrived.
His younger brothers were being their usual energetic selves and his step
mother was constantly running after them. Tiriak and his father walked
together silently. As they worked their way through the crowd many of the men
nodded respectfully at his father and more than one of the woman gave his
mother a jealous glare. They finally reached the platform at the center of the
village square and Tiriak turned to his father once again. His father stood
watching several other boys who had already arrived and were being clothed in
the ceremonial garb and receiving instructions. Worry creased his brow as he
watched one very young boy struggle to get the toga style cloak to stay in
place on his skinny shoulder. He shook his head and Tiriak could tell by the
tensing of his facial muscles that he was repressing his feelings only with
great effort. Tiriak waited for his attention to return to him, and finally
his father turned his calm gray eyes back to him.
“Son, I am glad that you were wise enough to follow my counsel. This
will be the most difficult day of your life, you were wise to follow the
ancient tradition and wait.” Tiriak nodded, understanding that this was all
the goodbye he was likely to get from his father. A man of few words and even
fewer emotions Tiriak knew that his father loved him and was proud of him,
though he had never voiced those words. It was his father’s way, and Tiriak
respected him all the more for it. His father was a strict traditionalist, and
was disgusted by a recent trend in the villiage to send their sons on the
vision quest younger and younger. Despite the rules forbidding anyone to
compel a boy to take the trials, many families were bragging about the young
age at which their sons had "chosen" to undertake the trials. A sudden
tightness in his throat made him fear that he would disgrace himself with
tears, and to push the feeling back he reached out his hand to his father. He
took it firmly, his iron grip crushing Tiriak’s hand and giving him the
reassurance that he needed to push the tears back down inside, just as he knew
his father would do. Then, he turned and ascended the stairs to the platform
and was welcomed by the grizzled old chief of the council as he reached the
top.
The Dorian coming of age ceremony was reportedly millennia old. In all those
years it had remained basically the same. Unlike some other cultures, in which
such a rite may be compulsory, the Tukean tradition held that no young man
should be compelled to undertake the Quest. To do so would ensure that the
Spirits would fail to speak and that he would return to the village as an
underclass citizen or fail to return at all. Men who had chosen not to
undertake the ordeal were held in higher regard than one who failed, since
cowardice was thought less shameful than to be rejected by the Spirits. Men
who returned and were judged successful by the council of elders were given
status and privelige and allowed to take a wife. Otherwise, they lived their
lives as bachelors and servants. Tiriak was still unsure whether or not he was
ready, but he knew that if he delayed his ordeal until next summer he could
end up being judged as too old and not allowed to try. He stood on the
platform listening carefully to the words of the chief of the council as he
spoke the words that Tiriak could recite in his sleep.
“Today you will begin your quest. The Spirits will decide whether or not
you are ready, whether or not you are worthy to be considered a man. Some of
you will not return. Some of you will return broken by the quest, or without a
vision. Today ends the life of the child and begins the life of the man. May
the Spirits judge wisely and with mercy.”
Tiriak watched as the old man approached the first boy in line, a slight boy
with blinding white hair and a massive sprinkling of freckles across his
cheeks. Three men followed the chief carrying the implements used to make the
mark of manhood. A small silver dagger, a silver basin of a purple viscous
liquid and a clean white cloth. The boy looked terrified, his eyes were wide
and his chest was heaving rapidly. The chief seemed not to notice, or to care.
He stood for a moment in front of him, and called out in a voice that echoed
throughout the square.
“Evanal, son of Elianze, do you undertake this ordeal of flesh and
spirit of your own free will, and not compelled by any?” Evanal flinched at
the words, and making a visible effort to meet the old man’s eyes he answered
in a cracking voice.
“I, Evanal, son of Elianze, do undertake this ordeal of my own free will
and not compelled by any other.” The chief nodded, and turned and took the
silver dagger from the first man who immediately stepped back allowing the
next man to step up with the basin. He dipped the dagger in the liquid and
turned back to the young man.
“Then by your own voice, let it be known that Evanal son of Elianze has
asked to received the mark of manhood and seek the voice of the Spirits to
receive the words that will guide you in your new life. The child Evanal shall
be known no more.” As he spoke the last word he reached out and taking Evanal
by the back of the neck he pulled him forward and plunged the dagger through
the lobe of his left ear. After removing it, he dipped it in the purple liquid
again and drug it across his left cheek, from the ear to the chin. It left an
ugly purple gash which was quickly muddied by red blood. He repeated this
action three more times, each time dipping the dagger in the basin. When he
finished the fourth line he took the cloth from the third man and wiped the
dagger clean. Then he took it by the blade and placed it in the quivering hand
of Evanal. They locked eyes for a moment, until the chief intoned quietly,
"Then fly, child Evanal, and return not unless a man."
Evanal gulped and hesitated only a moment, before turning deliberately away
and sprinting away, down the stairs and through the crowd. As he ran the crowd
erupted into cheers and more than a few hands reached out and slapped him on
the back as he sprinted away through the crowd, towards the glowering
mountains in the distance.
That was a pretty lame ceremony. I guess cutting their faces was pretty
cool, but in retrospect it seems kind of pointless. I guess I just needed some
way to mark him. I guess that was a dumb idea. I will have to rething that one
later.
Tiriak watched him go, feeling his own apprehension growing and hoping that he
would be able to hold his own composure as well as Evanal had. He watched as
each boy ahead of him was given the same treatment, running off into the
distance to acclaim from the crowd and clutching their tiny silver dagger as
they ran. Several of the boys shed tears of pain and fear as the knife scraped
open their skin, and Tiriak knew that he mixture of herbs and plants used to
make the purple liquid would also be causing a severe feeling of burning. The
resulting tattoo would mark them forever as men, members of the clan who had
been through the ordeal and receiving their vision from the Spirits. Boys who
returned unsuccessful in obtaining a vision would receive another mark,
crossing the four lines and signifying their status as servants and second
class citizens. None of them cried out loud, which was fortunate. such a sign
of weakness would have resulted in immediate dismissal and failure in the
quest. All of the boys knew this, and many of them bit bloody holes in their
cheeks to keep from doing so.
Finally it was Tiriak's turn, and his stomach did flip flops as he stood
before the chief, looking into his watery old eyes.
"Tiriak, son of Turak, do you undertake this ordeal of
flesh and spirit of your own free will, and not compelled by any?" Tiriak
searched his soul, wanting to be sure he answered truthfully. It was said that
the Spirits would abandon any boy who lied to the Chief in this ritual and
Tiriak wanted to be sure that his answer was indeed true. After a few moments
of searching, he responded in a clear voice.
"I, Tiriak, son of Turak do undertake this ordeal of my own
free wil and not compelled by any other." The chief nodded solemnly, and
pronounced his part. As he turned to take the dagger, Tiriak found his breath
had frozen in his chest and feared that his heart would leap out of his chest.
The silvery glint of the dagger blade disappeared for an instant in the purple
liquid, then came quickly dripping towards the left side of his head. The
Chief's ancient hand gripped his neck like a claw and Tiriak concentrated
every last bit of self control he possesed into not jerking away or flinching.
When the blade pierced his ear he was surprised at first at how little it
actually hurt. Then the burning of the purple mixture set in. It crept rapidly
up the side of his head and quickly enveloped it in a cloud of burning,
stinging haze. Suddenly a crimson streak of pain cut through the haze as the
Chief cut the first gash across his cheek. The burning increased, and he began
to feel a spinning light headedness that made him forget all about the fear of
a few minutes ago. The pain was intense, and the burning continued to increase
until he was sure his entire head was actually flaming. The heat began to
spread down his neck, following his spine in a trickling stream of pain. The
Chief was now wiping the tiny dagger on the cloth, now stained liberally with
purple and red. When the dagger was pressed into his palm his panicked mind
latched on to it as a foundation of reality in the haze of pain and fire in
which it was enveloped. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the silver haft,
and felt strength flowing up his arm and combatting the haze. Then the
Chief's voice, although soft had an urgency of command that he felt all of his
will screaming to obey.
"Then fly child Tiriak, and return not unless a man."
Tiriak felt his feet move of their own volition, and he found himself
sprinting through the square as fast as he could. Hands reached out towards
him, but the seemed fuzzy, as if fading away into a different world. His
entire concentration was focused on the flat top of the mountain his people
called Carokras. It was there that the Spirits would reach down from the
sky and communicate with him, giving him the path that he should follow in his
life, giving him purpose and direction. The hallucinogenic effects of the
purple ink were beginning already to change his perception of the world, and
as he ran he saw fantastic colors and designs spinning and leaping in
beautiful arrays of light. His feet seemed not to touch the ground and the
burning and pain had receded into a warm feeling of elation. He continued
running, following a path worn into the grasslands of the valley by
generations of young men seeking the words of the Spirits. As he neared the
foothills at the base of the mountain, the path began to fade, as each boy
began to find his own way to the flat top of Carokras, the mountain of dreams.
Tiriak continued straight, ignoring the many paths leading off to each side.
Inside him a voice spoke clearly, telling him to continue as he was on the
main path. He obeyed unquestionably, his feet continuing to pound the dirt at
top speed. He was in woods now, the streaks of sunlight falling through the
trees filled with pulsing spinning color. He was amazed that he could sprint
at such a speed without hitting any branches or tripping on any rocks or roots
yet still had time to admire the beautiful colors.
Cool! Tiriak is tripping! Although I am not sure even under the influence
of a hallucinogenic he would be able to sprint all the way to the mountain. I
suppose I should move the whole ceremony from the town square to a location a
bit closer to the mountain. I mean, what about the boys in towns not so close
to the mountain? Or do they have their own mountain to run away to? How
cohesive is this society?
Finally, he reached the flat top of the mountain. He was finally starting to
tire, and his frantic sprint had slowed to a more measured lope. He slowed to
a stop, and he became aware again of his frantically pounding heart and his
lungs screaming for lack of oxygen. The colors and visions were fading as
well, and his tounge felt dry and swollen in his mouth. He was also horribly
hungry. He continued walking, not sure what to do now. The voice that had
directed his feet before was gone, and he was left confused and unsure. He
knew that he needed to find water first, his mouth felt like old cracked
leather that has lain in the weather for too long. He saw a clump of
cottonwood trees off in the distance, and remembered what his father had
taught him. Cottonwood trees required a constant source of water to grow, and
wherever they were it was a good guess that the water was near the surface. He
walked slowly towards them, his heart rate and breathing slowly returning to
normal.
Tiriak sat with his back against a cottonwood tree and watched the sun go
behind the horizon. He was completely worn out, his body slowly stiffening
after the athletic exertions of the morning. His stomach was rumbling with
hunger, but he was forbidden to partake of anything except water while on his
quest, so he simply sat there feeling the motions of his stomach and pondering
the events of the day. His eyes were feeling heavy, and he suddenly felt the
overwhelming urge to sleep. He slipped sideways to the ground and was
instantly and blissfully asleep.
Yep, there is the first unconsciousness for no other reason than to
transition scenes. At least this time the hero didn't have to take a beating
to fall asleep. And now I get to start with the dream sequences!
The chickens were stacked neatly in a pile in one corner of the coop, their
bloody bodies already attracting a swarm of flies. Tiriak stood gaping at the
carnage. He knew it had to be an enemy, someone with a score to settle against
his family, and tears of anger filled his eyes. He ran to get his father, to
show him what had happened. His father listened to his frantic description
without emotion, then followed the angry young boy to the chicken coop. Tiriak
continued to rant and rave, naming all of the people in the village whom he
suspected. His father listened, but his grey eyes were grim. Finally, his
father placed his hand on Tiriak's shoulder, quieting him instantly. He knelt
on the floor of the coop, and pointed to a tiny hole that had been gnawed
through the wall of the coop in the dark corner. Sunlight streamed through it,
and Tiriak wondered that he had never seen it before.
"See that hole? That's how he got in." Tiriak was confused,
the hole looked like something chewed by a mouse, probably seeking the grains
of wheat that the chickens had missed on the floor. But what could fit through
that hole that would be capable of such wanton destruction? He looked his
question at his father, not wanting to question him but not quite
understanding.
"Weasels. The only creature on God's earth that kills for
the fun of it, besides us." His father answered, understanding his confusion.
"They can squeeze through holes much smaller than you can imagine, and they
will kill anything they find. They eat until they are full, then leave the
rest to rot. They will not eat anything but freshly killed flesh, and so the
rest goes to waste."
Tiriak could tell by the expression on his father's face that he felt as angry
at the waste as he did, but he controlled his emotions, and kept a calm face.
Just then, their dog Sufi came in, snuffing at the pile of chicken bodies. He
continued to explore the coop, and when he came to the water trough overturned
in the center of the coop, his fur stood up and a deep growl echoed through
his body. Turak turned, his expression changing from helpless anger to sudden
vigilance.
"Luckily for us, Tiriak, this weasel was not as wise as he
was bloodthirsty. He has eaten too much, and could not escape the way he came.
Tiriak, fetch me a shovel, or a hoe; Quickly!" Sufi continued to snuff at the
overturned trough, pawing at the edge and growling. Tiriak returns with an old
rusty hoe and hands it to his father, then steps back to the door of the coop
expectantly. His father approaches the trough, and shoos the dog away with his
foot. Then, he reaches out with the hoe and flips the trough over. Hissing
defiantly there sits a long, slender creature. Its menacing black eyes are
sparkling with ferocity, and its mouth is wide open, showing tiny razor sharp
needle teeth. Turak reacts quickly, swinging the hoe in an overhead arc. His
first swing misses, as the weasel dodges quicker than Tiriak can follow and
charges straight at him. Time seems to stand still, as Tiriak watches this
bloodthirsty creature approach. Suddenly ever detail of the animal is
magnified, it is as if Tiriak has been reduced in size to match the creature,
and he is in line to be the next victim. The sleek shiny fur fascinates him,
and the sharp teeth terrify him, but the black eyes hypnotize him and hold him
fast. He can not run, he can not move. He is pinned to the spot, his mind
under the utter control of the approaching killer. Then, just before the
weasel makes its last leap to latch its teeth into Tiriak's throat the rusty
hoe whistles through the air and hits the weasel just behind its tiny
triangular ears. Blood splatters as the head seperates from the rest of the
body and the entire mess flies across the coop and thuds wetly against the
wall. The spell is broken and Tiriak is once again a normal sized boy who has
just watched his father kill a predatory pest. His father strides across the
enclosure and picks up the still twitching body.
"Well, he won't make a very good pair of gloves, only the
winter fur is good for that. But we will keep the skin anyway. I will show you
how to tan it." He tossed the limp body up on a high shelf, and then turned to
the pile of chickens.
"Well, we can't let them all go to waste. Let's gather them
up and see what meat we can salvage from them. It won't keep long in this
heat, but perhaps we can share some with the neighbors rather than letting the
flies have them."
I am not too sure about eating weasel killed chicken. I suppose I should
research that and see. Oh well. I can easily change that line without ruining
the vision at all.
Tiriak woke shivering in the darkness. Though it was still midsummer, and the
night was warm his body was racked with shivering as if he was sleeping in a
snow bank. He struggled to his feet with a groan. All the muscles in his body
were knotted and sore and his tounge was once again dry and swollen. He
wandered back to the small spring that he had found earlier in the day, and
knelt in the soft mud to quench his thirst. A gentle night breeze rustled the
cottonwood leaves overhead, chilling Tiriak even more. As he drank, he
remembered the dream. Was this his vision? Had the Spirits spoken already?
What could this dream mean? He was not sure that it was more than just a dream
- a memory his exhausted mind had pulled from wherever it stored them. He
remembered the day the weasel had taken their entire flock of chickens. While
it had been a little bit terrifying at the time, it was nowhere near as
fraught with terror as his dream had portrayed it. In fact, until the dream he
had mostly forgoten about it altogether. When he had quenched his thirst he
decided to take a walk to get his blood circulating and hopefully warm
himself. When he left the shadow of the clump of trees he found that the full
moon was just rising on the horizon. He took a moment to enjoy the sight of
the large orange ball sitting on the tops of the distant mountains, but the
shivering soon brought him back to the present and he began to walk briskly
into the meadow. Soon enough he was feeling better, and he started to circle
back towards the clump of trees. As he did, his finger traced the four scabbed
over lines on his face, and the slit in the lobe of his ear. They seemed to
radiate a gentle warmth, as though reminding him of the painful burning they
had possessed when freshly made. He had wondered all his young life about the
purple stripes he saw on the faces of the men in his village, but until he
began the preparations for his own ordeal did he understand their meaning. As
he walked he began to hear a sound that was out of place in the inky
blackness. It took a few minutes for him to realize that he was hearing the
sound of human voices. Curiosity, mixed with fear touched his mind. It was
forbidden for any of the boys undergoing the ordeal to speak to each other,
and the flat top of Carokras was forbidden to anyone else during the
time of the trial. He stood still for a few moments, trying to decide what to
do and where the voices were coming from. Eventually, he allowed his curiosity
to overtake the fear, and he began creeping quietly in the direction of the
voices. Just to the west of the cottonwood grove where he had found water he
found a small stream flowing towards the edge of the flat top mountain. The
voices seemed to be in that direction, and so he followed the stream as it
burrowed its way deeper into the landscape. Soon it was a small gorge, and
Tiriak had to watch his step in the narrow bottom where the light from the
full moon was blocked by the high walls. The voices were closer and closer,
and he could now make out a word or two. It seemed to him that an argument of
some sort was taking place, with one voice sounding terrified and weak, the
other strong and demanding. The fear welled up again, and he considered
turning away once again. However, the thought that someone was being
victimized awakened his feeling of duty and he straightened his shoulders and
committed to continue. He found the tiny dagger he had been given during the
ceremony and clasped it in his hand. It was a pitiful weapon against any foe,
but it was all he had and it gave him at least a small portion of courage. He
continued down the gully, keeping as much as possible to the dark shadows of
the overhanging banks, not sure when he would encounter the others. When he
did, it was more than simple to remain hidden. The gorge suddenly widened out
into a broad, flat valley, large enough to support a small growth of cedars.
Beneath their reaching boughs, someone had kindled a large fire, and it threw
strange shadows all around the little valley. Seated on the ground next to the
fire was the small boy Tiriak and his father had seen preparing for the
ceremony that morning. He was weeping loudly, and cowering in terror before a
hooded figure that was more than a little familiar to Tiriak. Two other cowled
figures stood on either side of the boy, each holding long, intricately carved
staffs. Tiriak froze, and watched in dread as the smaller man stood over the
cowering boy.
'You covenanted with us, at the cost of your very soul that
you would obey your orders without question. And now you dare to question us?
Have you forgotten so soon, the power of the Servants?" Gesturing his hand
theatrically towards the fire, he muttered a few words and the flames leapt
higher and changed color. They now burned an eerie purplish glow, giving the
clearing the appearance of being bathed in blood. The boy on the ground
screamed, his voice filled with terror. Tiriak felt frantic. He had to do
something to help the boy, to get him out of the clearing before the menacing
figures hurt him, or worse. He felt around his feet until he found a fist
sized stone, round and smooth. He picked it up, and careful not to expose
himself to the light, threw it with all his might at the far side of the
clearing. It flew silently through the dark, then landed with a splash in the
stream at the far end of the clearing. All four figures in the clearing froze,
their heads immediately drawn in that direction. The small man gestured to one
of the larger figures, then in the direction of the sound and he silently
disappeared from the firelight. Tiriak knew the odds were now as good as they
were going to get, and that he had to act now or never. He crept out into the
clearing, keeping in the darkness at the edge for as long as possible, then
when he was as close as he could get he sprinted full speed towards the fire.
All three were still staring off into the darkness, wondering what the noise
was and none of them heard his approach. At the last second he launched
himself through the air and planted a shoulder directly in the center of the
large man's back. Tiriak was not exceptionally large, but with the speed and
surprise of his attack the man went sprawling into the fire. The small man
screamed, a high pitched trill of pure fear and collapsed, covering his head
with his hands. The boy lay on the ground in a fetal position, not seeing or
caring what this new terror was, only wanting to become invisible. Tiriak
rebounded from his attack and lost his own footing, landing on the soft ground
with a grunt. He didn't take any time to recover however, and jumped right
back up and grasping the boy by his belt began to drag him away from the fire
and into the darkness. The boy hung like a rag doll, too terrified and
confused to either assist or resist his sudden rescue. Tiriak paused for a
moment, looking for a better hold on the boy. He knelt and grasped one wrist
which he flung over his shoulder. Heaving his other shoulder beneath the boy's
body he stood and began racing as best he could for the small ravine where he
had entered the valley. Behind him he could hear the smaller man's shrill
scream continuing, along with the injured curses of the larger man.
Fortunately for them both, the other man had not yet returned. Tiriak made the
corner and turned into the ravine, plunging himself suddenly in total
blackness. He continued blindly, wishing to put as much distance between
himself and the strange men as possible. More than once he tripped and fell on
branches and rocks in the darkness, but still he kept on. The boy on his
shoulders remained motionless and quiet, and Tiriak hoped that he was not
injured, but dared not stop to check. Finally he felt the ground beneath his
feet begin to rise and the moonlight returned to the quickly shrinking gully.
When it was shallow enough, Tiriak climbed out and paused for the first time
to get his bearings and make a plan. His breathing was ragged and coarse and
the scars on his face were beginning to throb and burn as they had at the
ceremony. He neither heard nor saw any signs of pursuit, and so allowed
himself a moment more to catch his breath. He could see the cottonwood grove
where he had rested earlier, and having no other obvious cover he decided that
would be the best place, at least for now. He set off, and in a few seconds
had reached the grove. Completely exhausted he collapsed to his knees and
dumped the boy rather unceremoniously on the ground. Then he rested on all
fours for a moment, his breath rasping in and out of his searing hot lungs.
After a moment he crawled on hands and knees to the stream and plunged his
face into the cool water. He drank until his stomach felt bloated and his
throat no longer ached. Then he rolled over on his back and lay there,
listening for any sounds of pursuit. It was then that he heard the sound of
the boy sobbing quietly. He struggled to a sitting position and looked back to
where the boy was laying still on the ground where he had dumped him. He
started to speak, but remembered the injunction of the Chief, instructing them
not to open their mouths to another being until the ordeal was past. Instead,
he crawled back over to where the boy was and put a hand on his shoulder. As
if his hand was burning hot the boy jumped and screamed, scrabbling in the
soft earth to get away. He only got a few feet away however, before he hit his
head against a tree and fell motionless to the ground. Tiriak crawled over and
felt his chest, the boy was breathing so he decided that it would be best to
let him be. He seemed safe for now, from whatever demons had been tormenting
him in the clearing in the gulley. At that thought, Tiriak thought it would be
best to make a reconnaisance to be sure they were safe. He stood, but no
sooner was he upright than the world seemed to spin about him and his
quivering legs collapsed beneath him. He lay there, his heart thumping again
and wondered that the cuts on his face seemed to have caught fire when his
exhauseted mind made the decision of whether to try again or not for him. His
eyes closed, and he slept the sleep of exhaustion.
Out cold again! Twice in one night! I really need to study better ways to
transition from one scene to another.
Tiriak was in the chicken coop again, staring in horror at the pile of dead
bodies, the black and white speckled feathers sticky with drying blood. He
turned, and knowing this time that the monster responsible for the carnage was
under the overturned water trough he felt creeping terror paralyze his legs.
He yearned to turn and run, yearned to find his father, wanted desperately to
scream yet he had not the strength. The sun streamed through the open door,
illuminating the hiding place of the tiny terror with the mouth full of razor
sharp teeth. Tiriak stared in horror as the edge of it lifted, and the tiny
pink nose emerged, sniffing the air cautiosly. Then the beady black eyes,
glinting with malice emerged. The immediately locked on Tiriak, and the small
animal seemed to be grinning as it showed him its teeth. The weasel continued
forwards, enjoying the stench of fear in the air. Tiriak seemed to be
shrinking before the methodical advance of the creature, til he was now
looking up at it as it moved forwards. Finally it stopped and bunched itself
as if to spring. Its slender body formed a small arch, and it wiggled its tail
as its feet sought a firm foothold in the chicken litter on the floor. Then it
froze, fixing its eyes on its intended victim as if studying the best place to
sing its now gigantic fangs. Tiriak felt a moan of terror escape him, but he
still lacked the strength to move, and even if he had, he was now so small in
comparison to the monster that he would have had no chance at all in escaping.
Suddenly, the animal uncoiled its length and sprang at Tiriak. Time slowed to
a crawl as he watched the lithe body stretch and leap, soaring through the air
with its claws outstretched. In the middle of the leap, Tiriak's perception
changed. Instead of standing there paralyzed waiting for death to arrive, he
found himself sailing through the air towards a waiting chicken paralyzed with
fear. The difference between being the victim and waiting for death and then
being the attacker preparing to deal it was more than night and day. He felt
the energy of the weasel, the bloodlust making his mouth water and his
adrenaline surge. He landed on the cowering victim and felt the warm softness
of its vulnerable skin as his claws dug into, and through the dry feathers. He
teeth found the pulsing blood beneath its skin and the coppery taste of the
blood exploded in his brain in a confusion of pleasure and greed. It poured,
scalding hot down his chin and he hung on grimly to its delicious warmth. He
pulled against the warm trembling flesh and felt a satisfying give as the
flesh was sliced off by his razor sharp teeth. He quickly swallowed that bite
of flesh and opened his mouth for another when his father entered the coop
holding the old rusty hoe.
Whoa! That was kind of a surprise. I never intended to have his father come
in with the hoe. Does that mean he is afraid his father wants to kill him? Or
what? Hmmm... I guess I will have to revisit that part as well.
Tiriak jerked awake, his heart pounding in his chest and his lungs aching. The
dream had been so vivid that he reached up to wipe the blood off of his chin
that he remembered flowing so freely out of the chicken's neck. He looked
around in confusion. His mind was failing to remember where he was, how he had
been transported so quickly from a musty chicken coop from a childhood memory
to a grove of cottonwood trees. The burning of his face markings finally
reminded him, and he settled back to the ground and tried to relax. As he
leaned over the spring to get a drink the events of last night came back to
him, and he looked up in a panic for the boy he had rescued from the fire last
night. Due to the confusion and darkness of the night before he had no
way of remembering where he had lain, and it took a moment for Tiriak to find
the disturbed ground where he had been. He remembered the boy hitting his head
on a tree and falling still; he remembered checking him for signs of life
before falling unconscious himself, but he still had to carefully read the
signs on the ground to locate the tree where the boy had been. He was gone
now, but a few drops of blood and the shape of a body pressed into the grass
showed where he had been. Then he saw the symbol carved into the trunk of the
tree. A large inverted triangle, with two smaller ones at each corner of the
top. Then, two more even smaller in the middle as of eyes. He knew the symbol
well, and it left a bad taste in his mouth each time he saw it. It was the
symbol of the Servants of the Supreme Weasel of Daiga. They called themselves
either the SSWD or simply the Servants; their detractors called them the Soul
Stealing Weasels of Despair. This was the band to which Julio belonged, which
his father despised so greatly. They followed the philosophies of the Supreme
Weasel of Daiga, a legendary figure of long ago. His father had told him that
they were simply power hungry glory seekers, working to bring the people of
the land under their power. Tiriak knew that they were the primary influence
behind the tendency of boys to seek after the vision quest at younger and
younger ages; indeed this was the purpose for which Julio had approached and
befriended Tiriak himself. At first, Tiriak had felt special and privelidged
to have attracted the attention of such an infamous group. He found them to be
mysterious and worldly, far above the common people his village was filled
with. They did not work in the fields, nor were they craftsmen. When he
questioned Julio about the source of their apparent wealth, he only laughed
and promised that if Tiriak would only join them, he would learn these secrets
and much more. The only part which bothered him was the insistence on secrecy,
and it was this which saved him from making any foolish mistakes. For his
father had always taught him that those who creep about in secrecy and
darkness do so because they have something to hide; anyone who was ashamed of
their actions, or who sought to cover them up was automatically assumed to be
up to no good. And so Tiriak had told his father of his newfound mentor,
despite the dire warnings of Julio. His father had instantly brought Tiriak to
town, seeking out Julio. While they walked his father commended him for
bringing this thing to his attention, but also reprimanded him for being so
easily impressed by the glammer of Julio's deceptive words. He also informed
him that he, Tiriak, would be the one to dismiss Julio, and order him to stay
out of his life. This was his responsibility, and he would not bear that
burden for him. Tiriak still remembered how dry his throat had been, and how
his heart had been pounding when they finally located Julio in a tavern. Turak
marched his son right up to his table, where he sat with a number of the rich
and influential villagers. His face burning, Tiriak had recited the words
given him by his father; he told Julio that he wanted nothing to do with the
SSWD, or with Julio. Turak stood silent one step behind his son, his face
expressionless. When Tiriak was finished, Turak only spoke to remind Julio, as
well as the others seated there of the dire consequences of pressuring young
men to undertake the ordeal too early. None of them dared to openly argue, as
Turak's status as a great warrior was well known. Nevertheless, Tiriak
remembered the expressions of the men at that table that day. Scorn, pity,
pride; these were men who believed that they were above such primitive
beliefs. While not openly members of the Servants themselves, Tiriak was sure
they were at least sympathetic to its teachings. He left the tavern that day
with a better understanding of who these men were, and how he felt about them.
OK, that scene left me feeling all dirty. I am not sure I like the whole
village being corrupted idea much. Every time I try to write it I really
dislike where it goes. Is this idea too big for me? Or will it just take more
polishing to make it subtle enough to be believable? I may have to go back
before the vision quest and do some character development in the village to
make that whole idea work.
He searched all around the tree for more signs of what had happened to the
boy. The symbol carved into the tree was done crudely, and recently. The wood
chips at the base of the tree were still wet on the backside of the bark. A
glint of silvery light in the grass led him to find the most disturbing sign:
a tiny silver dagger. Every man who undertook the ordeal kept the silver
dagger close. It was a very powerful symbol and charm. Tiriak's father still
recalled the first time his father had allowed him to see his; the silver
tarnished with age, yet still sharp and beautiful. Tiriak quickly checked
where he had tucked his away last night just before the frantic ambush and
found it safe. This then, must belong to the boy. Tiriak held it long, and
wondered what had happened. Finally, he took the fine blade and stuck it in
the trunk of the tree, just below the symbol. He hoped that the boy would come
back and find it. Tiriak could not imagine what had happened while he slept.
Hmmm... Hero rescues oppressed boy, oppressed boy disappears. That seems
lame somehow. I should come back and flesh that out a bit I think. I am
beginning to see my tendency to want to keep the book moving at any cost,
despite the obvious need for more detail in places. I guess that is why I
enjoy writing short stories so much more: less detail, quicker resolution.
That thought brought back the dream, with its utter reality. As he remembered,
he found he could still taste the coppery saltiness of the blood, feel the
fibers of feather tickling his nose, feel the panicked fluttering of the poor
bird's heart. He felt again the rush of power and strength, the utter
domination of the helpless creature and spent a few moments relishing the
memory. The morning wore on, and the sun had moved across the sky before
Tiriak realized that he had been sitting there, kneeling before the marked
tree and reliving the dream. His knees were sore and his calf muscles cramped
from having sat there so long. He shook his head to clear it and rose to his
feet. His head spun slightly, and his stomach rumbled to remind him of his
fast. He drank from the cool spring once again and, not being able to think of
anything else to do, decided to explore the flat top of the mountain.
The instructions given to the young men in preparation were purposefully
lacking in details. They were reminded of the seriousness of making the
decision to undertake the trials of their own free will, of the requirement to
abstain from food, and from speaking, and they were told of the significance
that their scars and the dagger which created them would hold for the rest of
their lives. In order to purchase land, take a wife, or serve in any ruling
capacity they would be required to prick a thumb with the dagger and use the
blood to seal the transaction with a thumbprint. A man without a vision dagger
was a second class citizen and destined to serve in a servient capacity for
the rest of his life. As to what they were supposed to do, and how to contact
the Spirits to receive their vision this was left up to the boys. The flat top
of Carockras had always been a magical place where the Spirits seemed close.
Except for the weeks when the ordeals were under way, many people traveled to
the mountain top to attempt to contact departed loved ones, to receive
guidance, or to be healed of some malady. The ground was considered holy, and
only those who were undergoing the ordeal were allowed to spend the night
there. Fires were strictly forbidden, for to cut down any of the trees was to
risk incurring the wrath of a Spirit who may have chosen that tree for its
habitation.
Tiriak had been here once before, shortly after his mother passed away. Turak
had brought him to the hill with an offering of food and wine to leave for her
spirit. They had broken the soft white bread into small pieces, and sprinkled
it along with the dried beef on the ground near the base of a tall spire of
rock that jutted up unexpectedly in the middle of the high plateau. Then they
poured the wine over the bits of food, and his father spread a blanket on the
grass, and they sat there silently, watching the forest creatures creep up
shyly and take pieces of food and scamper away. No words were spoken, but
Tiriak was surprised to see his own silent tears mirrored in the calm gray
eyes of his father. This was the first and only time Tiriak had seen him cry.
All through his mother's long illness he had been a rock of calm, tending to
her through her raging fevers with a cool cloth, and building up the fire and
piling on quilts when she shivered with the chills. He took prepared meals
from neigbors with a nod and a word of genuine gratitude, but returned
stoically to his vigil at her bedside. Tiriak did what he could in his young
age, including sitting by his mother's bedside holding her hand when his
father was forced to leave her side and tend to the farm. Those were long and
terrifying moments for such a young boy. His mother seemed to have been
replaced by a frightening, shrinking ghost of her old self. Nevertheless, he
sat in his place, holding her hand and watching her eyes as they suffered
through the fever dreams.
The day of the funeral had come almost as a relief to Tiriak, and he burned
with shame when he realized this. He loved his mother, missed her more than he
ever thought possible. But the wasting ghost in her bed had ceased, at least
in his mind, to be his mother weeks ago. He spent the day in unconscious
imitation of his father, receiving the hugs and kisses, the mournful
handshakes, the awkward pats on the back with a stoic nod of the head and a
genuine if reserved word of thanks. People whispered behind his back that he
should be more broken up, sadder, more grief stricken. But they could not see
how his world had spun out of control months ago when his mother first
complained of a headache and went to bed early. That he was supressing
his grief was the common belief; that he was supressing his relief at the
end of her suffering was his guilty secret.
Wow! I really liked that bit. That is definitely staying in, regardless.
Even if the story is compressed all the way down to a single paragraph. Just
kidding.
Tiriak found himself standing once again before that same spire of rock. The
sweet smell of spoiled food assailed his nostrils, and took him back yet again
to that day with his father, the day when he finally understood that his
father did understand, that his father was as lonely and lost as himself, that
a man sometimes had to hide those feelings. Tiriak felt tears starting now,
and felt no need to restrain them. He sat on the ground and stared fixedly at
the ancient rocks. He wondered, now as then, what force had eroded all of the
land around except for this one towering spire? Had it been the hand of man,
or the work of nature? Nobody had ever proffered any theories on this that he
had heard. He sat there in the meadow grass for hours that day, staring at the
tower of mourning and remembering. He relived every minute of his mother's
life that he could remember, and found a few memories that he had forgotten.
There was something about this peaceful place, the buzzing of bees in the
flowers, the distant calls of the birds, the soft sighing of the wind past his
ears. Tiriak could never remember feeling more relaxed, or at peace. It was as
if his mother's spirit was indeed there, calming and comforting him. He closed
his eyes, and called out to her in his mind. He imagined her voice answering,
soft and clear in the wind. He imagined her walking through the grass towards
him, her hands in the pockets of her apron like she always did when she was
not busy. She smiled, and the joy and pride of that smile for him broke his
heart. He wanted to leap up and run to her, but he knew that any action on his
part would ruin the vision. He just watched as she approached, walking past
the rock of mourning and stopping a few yards in front of him. He could now
smell the lavender she used to keep her clothes fresh on the shelves, the
wonderfel scent making her even more real to him. Her voice once again sounded
in his ears, like the soft touch of a feather, though her lips had not moved.
"How you have grown my son! I have watched you learn
at your father's knee, and I rest easy knowing that you are growing wise and
strong." Tiriak's heart swelled with happiness at these words, for he had
often wondered if she saw him, or could watch over him.
"Mother, I miss you so much! I try to think of you
every day, and I wonder where you are. Do you live here? On Carockras?" He
thought this was a silly, childish question, but his mother seemed not to. She
smiled, and her voice came to his mind again.
"No son, I am where you are. I love your father, and I
watch to see that he is comforted, but you are a part of me, and so where ever
you go I go too." A warm feeling pulsed in the center of Tiriak's chest and he
felt comfort in knowing that through him she could continue to exist. He
pondered that for a moment, and soon his mind came to his purpose on the
mountain that day.
"Mother? Are you the vision I was to seek? Were you
sent by the Spirits to instruct me?" She smiled again, and answered him in the
gently prodding voice she had used when teaching him to read.
"Tiriak, I believe you know the answer to that
already. Twice you have been instructed already, and more instruction will
come to you before it is time to leave this place." Then, a line of worry
crossed her beautiful face and she leaned towards him, as if to emphasize her
message.
"Learn carefully my son, there are many spirits of
deception among mankind. Watch for them, and take care not to allow them into
your heart. You will always know, if you learn to listen inside for the voice
that guides." She placed her hand over the center of her chest, over her
heart, and Tiriak remembered, and understood. She gazed intently into his eyes
for a time, and then her face brightened and she straightened up.
"Farewell again my son. I have faith in you. Sore
trials are upon you, and you will wander long before you find peace again. But
I am not afraid for you." She turned and began to walk away, towards the stone
of mourning. Tiriak wanted desperately to run after her, to beg her to stay,
but in that instant the calm face of his father greeting mourners at his
mother's funeral came to his mind, and he realized that this was one of those
times that a man should hide his feelings deep inside. He stayed in place, and
watched her figure fade in the distance. Just before her familiar figure faded
into nothingness, she turned, and raising one hand waved farewell. He raised
his in answer, and he heard her voice, much more quietly now in his mind.
"You will be fine. You are my son."
Good tie-in to his father's sentiments earlier, kind of a cheesy vision
altogether though. But I like it. It moves the plot along nicely. We get some
good character development for Tiriak, his mother, and foreshadowing of more
visions to come. That part stays too.
Tiriak wandered back to the spring beneath the cottonwood grove and drank long
and greedily of the cool water. He was glad for the ability to put something
in his belly, the water at least quieted the anxious grumbling for a time.
Finding a soft spot in the grass beneath the trees he bundled up his robe into
a pillow and lay his head upon it. As he lay there he pondered the meaning of
his mother's words. She had told him that he had already received instruction,
but he was not sure what that instruction had been. Were the dreams about the
weasel his vision? Was that the message that the Spirits had chosen to
give him? If so, what was he to learn? Perhaps his path was to become a
chicken farmer, but as he thought this his heart told him that this was not at
all true. As he drifted off to sleep, he heard the breeze blowing through the
trees and wondered if he would dream again of weasels.
The dream this time began very differently. He found himself in a dark hall,
decorated with blood red tapestries and furniture carved of some gray colored
wood. He walked towards what appeared to be a throne, an intricately carved
chair at the top of a platform. Behind the throne, the only light in the vast
room were three torches arranged in a horizontal line, centered on the throne.
He walked forward, a strange mixture of dread and anticipation pulsing through
his veins. He discovered that he was carrying the implements of battle, and
their balanced weight in his hands gave him a feeling of strength and potency.
He was dangerous, and powerful, and the sword and shield were a natural and
easy extension of his own flesh and blood limbs. His pace increased as he
approached the throne, and he now saw someone sitting upon it. The strange
figure wore a long dark robe of the same blood red color as the curtains
behind the throne, and the dark tapestries half glimpsed in the distant
darkness. A cowl concealed the face of the man on the throne, but Tiriak
sensed a power emanating from the man that went straight through to his bones.
He was surprised to find that he was not in the least frightened of this
menacing figure; on the contrary, he felt a kinship with him, an understanding
and fellowship. Yet he also felt with certainty that his mission was to
destroy this man, and he felt his adrenaline surging as he drew near. He
now stood at the bottom stair of the platform, looking up the three broad
steps at the man on the throne. He could still not see his face, but that did
not matter. He felt alive, full of power and strength, he felt dangerous and
deadly. He brought his sword up before him, and admired the fine blade,
reflecting the orange of the torchlight and the blood red of the curtains. He
noticed an etching on it, and for the first time in this dream he felt a chill
of misapprehension run down his spine. There, inscribed on the blade was the
familiar three triangle symbol of the Servants of the Supreme Weasel of Daiga.
The eyes of the beast were black opals, the ears were blood red rubies, and
the three stars across the forehead were cold shining diamonds. He stood
staring, entranced by the evil beauty of the symbol, and wondered why he would
be carrying such a sword. Before he came up with a good answer, he saw the
hand of the cowled figure on the throne raise its hand as if to strike at him.
Still overwhelmed by the feeling of invulnerability despite the lingering
feeling of dread uncertainty he swung his sword upwards and then leapt up the
three steps to the base of the throne. It was then that he saw what it was
that the cowled figure had raised up to strike at him with - it was a tiny
ceremonial dagger, just like the one he had been given on the day of his
ordeal. This one was older though, and tinged with tarnish though its blade
was still keen. The hand that held the knife reached for his heart, and he
knew that he would killed if he hesitated one more second. Crying out with all
his might he brought the sword down and into the body of the mysterious
figure. The sword was sharp, and it sliced through flesh and bone easily,
and the sword continued its downward track until it thunked into the hard wood
of the seat. The body on the throne twitched once, and then rolled off the
throne and fell at his feet, blood pouring down the steps like a waterfall. He
stood there, looking at the body and felt the same sharp thrill that he had
felt before as the weasel killing the helpless bird. He could even taste the
coppery saltiness of blood on his tounge. He wanted to see the face of the man
he had just slain, but a sudden terror gripped him at the very thought.
Instead, he looked to recover his father's ordeal dagger, to reclaim it as an
heirloom of his heritage. He nudged the arm of the body with a foot, and the
arm flopped over and down one stair. The hand opened, and out fell instead of
a small ceremonial dagger, the blade of a rusty old hoe. The wooden handle had
been cut off of it, but he recognized it all the same. As he did so, he jerked
awake, morning sunlight streaming through the cottonwood trees.
Pretty good up until the hoe falls out of the guys hand. I was trying to
tie this vision in to the chicken coop vision, but am not sure that is the way
to do so. I want him to realize that the dark figure is him in the end, and
that his direction in life was not only to fight against the weasels, but to
fight their very influence on his own personality. This dream is really good
but needs a better ending.
His eyes slowly focused, and he found himself looking directly towards the
calm waters of the stream. There, staring back at him was a weasel, standing
upright on two feet and staring at him with its two beady black eyes. Tiriak
gasped, but lay still, paralyzed by the deadly cunning in those eyes. Then he
saw the strangest thing. The weasel was holding something in its tiny paws.
Something shiny and bright. It was a small ceremonial dagger, bright silver
and glinting in the sunlight. Tiriak cautiosly moved one hand up to where he
had tucked the dagger away yesterday, and then remembered pulling off his
cloak and bundling it up to make a pillow the night before. He realized that
the dagger the weasel had was most likely his, and that he would be disgraced
and shunned if he returned without it. His mind whirled, searching for a way
to recover it, but before anything occurred to him, the weasel dropped to all
fours and darted away, the dagger in his mouth. Tiriak leapt up to follow but
it was impossible. The tiny animal had vanished instantly into some hidden
burrow, and with it his chance at a normal life.
Tiriak sat glumly at the edge of the ring of trees. He had spent hours poking
at every likely looking animal hole he could find with a stick,
he decided that having a weasel steal his ceremonial dagger was pretty
stupid, so he decided to delete that part out in December. Wow, a weasel that
steals a tiny ceremonial dagger? Come on dude! You can do better than
that!
Tiriak trudged down the mountain, his head light and his heart heavy. He was
starving, and was looking forward to the feast his step mother would most
likely have laid out to celebrate his return. He was also worried about
telling his father what he had dreamed, and his interpretation of it. For the
rest of that day and night, Tiriak had wandered the flat top mountain
pondering his final dream. He couldn't shake the feeling that it had been
incomplete, that he had missed something important. Still, from what he had
seen he believed he understood what the Spirits were trying to tell him. The
image of the sword engraved with the mark of the Weasel had been the most
distinct part of the dream and even now he could see the cold gleam of the
gemstones. He could also remember the feeling of triumph as the sword had
cloven the obviously evil figure on the throne. The meaning of the dream was
clear to Tiriak. The Spirits wanted him to fight evil, and they wanted him to
join the Servants to do so. Julio had told him this very thing, before his
father had run him off.
"Son, I have forseen that you will become a great
swordsman, just like your father. Such talents were surely meant to be put to
good use, and the Servants would be proud to help you learn the art of war and
polish your natural talents into the high sheen that you will need to become
great." Julio's eyes were earnest and serious. Tiriak had thought at first he
might be teasing, but he found himself being drawn into those eyes and
believing what they said.
"Just as the Supreme Weasel himself first joined the battle
against evil himself when only a boy, you would enter the ranks of the
Servants as soon as you have completed the ordeal. We would take you to the
House of the Weasel on the high plains of Daiga and there you would learn the
ways of the Supreme Weasel along with the arts of war. When you are ready you
would march at the head of your own army to fight the evil creeping across our
land." Tiriak's eyes were wide as he listened, images of himself in full
battle dress, leading an army into battle running through his mind.
"My father doesn't think..." Tiriak began timidly but Julio
interrupted scornfully. "Your father was once a great swordsman, but he has
become soft as a farmer. He clings to his old beliefs because his mind is not
broad enough to understand the new teachings of the Supreme Weasel." Tiriak
felt confused. He had himself been frustrated with his father for his
insistence on clinging to the old ways and customs. Here was a wise and
powerful man, a man who some labeled a wizard, telling him the same thing.
Could it be that he was right? That his father was old fashioned and out of
touch? Julio saw these thoughts in the expressions on the boy's face and he
dug in a little deeper.
"Your father was the one who refused to let one of our
doctors in to see your mother when she was sick did he not?" Julio saw the
hurt flash across Tiriak's face and knew he had scored a deep cut with this
line of reasoning. "We could have saved her, if not for his stubborn
resistance to modern science!" Julio whispered the last, as if he and Tiriak
were conspirators in some secret intrigue. But Julio had pushed too deep, and
Tiriak felt tears welling up behind his eyes. He turned and ran, not wanting
this powerful man to see his weakness.
OK, two problems with that bit. First, the transition to the flashback is
WAY too sudden. Blend it a little more... Second, the memory, as before,
approaches its purpose, toys around with it, then suddenly ends. There is
definitely room for expansion there!
Not wanting to face the council of elders with his vision yet, Tiriak decided
to take a less direct rout home from the mountain. He veered east as soon as
he hit the plains, and found a well worn trail that followed a seasonal stream
bed. The trail allowed him to cross the broad valley undetected, but it also
kept him from seeing the villiage, or his home until he was nearly there. The
stream bed finally intersected with the shallow stream that marked the north
eastern boundary of Turak's farm. Tiriak followed the stream towards home, but
as the sides of the stream bed flattened out he finally noticed the thick
black billows of smoke rising into the summer sky. He wondered idly what was
burning, but his thoughts were so filled with his vision and how he would tell
his father what he thought it meant that he failed to understand its dark
import. When he finally did realize that the smoke was rising from his own
house panic filled his chest and he began to sprint across the fields. When he
got there, he was devastated.
Ok, that was the worst paragraph so far. I am not sure how to get Tiriak
down from the flat topped mountain gracefully, so I will just skip all of that
and go right to the crying scene.
Tiriak stood in front of the destroyed farmhouse, the stench of burning and
death in his nostrils. He fell to his knees and stared, the world spinning
about him. It was all gone, all burning, all destroyed. His stomach growled
angrily with hunger, but he was barely conscious of it. Who could have done
this?
OK, that didn't turn out so well either. So I am going to skip directly to
the wandering. I will come back to this later, I hope. Why am I having such a
hard time with the destruction of the village? Perhaps I should rethink that
plotline altogether. Perhaps Tiriak returns and is instructed to join the
weasels, but he and his father refuse and his father has him sneak away in the
night and then the farm is destroyed? Much better. I see thousands of words in
that idea!
The Wandering.
Tiriak was not sure where to go, or what to do. Everything he had known was
gone. The house, the barn, the stalls, even the chicken coop had been smashed
and burned. Who would go to such great lengths to destroy a single farm? As he
searched all around the farm, his fear grew when he could find no evidence of
bodies. He did find several drying pools of blood here and there, but nothing
more. He was terrified, terrified and lonely. He had been apprehensive about
telling his father of his vision, but more than that he had been looking
forward to a cool bath in the stream, a clean tunic and leggings and a hearty
meal. Now he had no idea about where to turn, who to trust. He decided that he
had to get to town, tell the council of elders what had happened and get help.
Whoever had done this may be planning to attack some of the other isolated
farms in the valley. He rushed up the path to the road and turned towards town
when he saw the sign post. It was freshly sawn, and freshly planted where the
path to the farm met the road. The paper tacked to the top flapped listlessly
in the breeze, but Tiriak could see that it was covered with a dark maroon
writing. He stepped forward and grasped it tentatively. As he read it, his
feeling of dread grew and
Crap. I hate that too. Maybe I am just hating everything tonight. I think I
will skip even farther ahead. Let's find Mirian.
Tiriak sat on a rock overlooking the rushing gray waters of the Norowath as
they rushed between the walls of the pass. He was just below the road that
wound through the narrow way and over the great ancient bridge that spanned
the great river. He had seen an approaching caravan crossing the ancient
bridge ahead and not wanting to meet anyone in this narrow place with no
escape he quickly dropped off the surface of the road and found a place to
hide beneath an overhanging ledge. He was not well hidden, anyone approaching
from the south would have a clear view of him from the bottom of the steep
winding road cut into the rock. But from the north the pass curved back to the
east and nobody would be able to see him. Hopefully he would be able to slip
back to the road and continue northward after they passed without being seen.
He sat there on the cold rock, watching the waters as they crashed and foamed
over the rocks far below. The sound of the caravan was directly above him now,
and the jingling of horse gear and the creaking and scraping of the wagon
wheels over the solid rock road surface were easy to hear. As they passed he
tried counting the horses and wagons, but the muddle of sound echoing through
the narrow pass made his task impossible. Finally the last traveler was past,
and the noise began to recede down the canyon. It was time to get out, before
they rounded the curve and could look back and see him hiding there. He began
to pick his way up the sheer rock wall, when he heard the sound of feet
scrabbling for purchase on the rocks ahead of him. He was trapped! There was
no way he could make a stand where he was. He was balanced precariously on a
rock with a hundred feet of sheer drop to the raging rapids below. His only
choice was to continue forward, toward the attacker or back to his resting
place. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the vanguard of the caravan just
starting to make the turn in the road that would expose his position to anyone
who happened to glance back. Drawing his sword was not an option either, since
he was using both hands to maintain his grip on the rock wall. He quickly
chose to advance on whoever it was that was climbing down, and hope for a
better place to make a stand. He began climbing recklessly up the wall,
angling away from view of the caravan. Then he caught sight of the intruder
and his heart beat slowed a bit and his surging adrenaline fell back to
normal.
A skinny young girl in ragged clothing was hanging by both hands and
scrabbling against the rock with her bare feet trying to gain purchase. Tiriak
could see that all she needed to do was let go; a level patch of ground was
only six inches below her feet, but she could not see it with her face pressed
into the rock wall. He could hear her panicked breathing, but no whimpers
escaped her throat. Other than the sound of her bare feet scrabbling against
the rock she was perfectly silent. Tiriak pondered what to do. If he spoke, he
might startle her and cause her to fall. The flat spot was narrow and small
and if she lost her balance after landing she could easily continue tumbling
down the cliff to her doom. Yet it seemed that doing nothing may lead to the
same result; he could see her hands beginning to lose their grip on the rock
above her. He decided that speaking would be the better option, and maneuvered
as close as he could to give him a chance to reach out and catch her if she
fell. He got there just in time, as her hands finally lost their grip and her
body slipped down the rock wall. He reached out swiftly and caught one bony
wrist just as her feet landed on the small level spot below them. Just as
Tiriak had predicted her body's downward momentum carried her away from the
rock wall and out over the drop. Her other arm pinwheeled madly trying to
maintain balance, while her eyes rolled upwards in terror. A small shriek
escaped her lips, then she felt the strong hand on her wrist. Tiriak pulled
her towards him, and she stopped her mad scramble for balance and fixed a
poisonous glare on him. He felt her catch her balance, but did not loosen his
grip on her wrist. He smiled, trying to silently reassure her that she was
safe when her other hand swung around in a vicious over hand swing and caught
him on the cheek bone right below the eye. Stars exploded in his vision and he
let go of her hand and jumped back, nearly losing his own balance as his mind
tried to compensate for the stinging blow. She scooted back as far as she
could on the narrow ledge and looked frantically for an escape route. Tiriak
found a handhold to steady himself and looked angrily at the gir.
"What was that for? I just saved your life!" He hissed in a
loud whisper. He knew how sounds echoed in this pass, and was still painfully
aware that the caravan was now passing into plain view of where they both hung
precariously to the rocks. The girl's eyes narrowed, and she hissed back.
"Why? So you can return me to them? I would rather have
died!" Tiriak stared at her, not comprehending. "Return you to who? I have no
idea who you are, or who they are, or why in the world you are hanging on this
cliff!" Her face became even more spiteful and angry, if that were possible.
"You are asking why I am here? Why are you here? Unless you were sent to fetch
me back!" She stooped down carefully and picked up a shard of rock. It was too
tiny to be an effective weapon, but she cocked her arm back and threatened to
throw it anyway.
"I am hiding from them!" Tiriak gestured madly at the
distant caravan, which was now almost entirely in view. "And for what reason I
can not now understand I didn't want to see you fall to your death in front of
me!" He reached up for another hand hold, and made as if to begin climbing.
"But as long as you don't mind dying, I guess I don't mind letting you. But
don't expect me to stick around and watch." The girl's spiteful face struggled
with this, as if trying to decide whether or not to trust him. "You are hiding
from them?" She asked tentatively. Tiriak chose to ignore her. There was not
time; any second someone from the caravan was bound to look back and see the
two shapes hanging there. He hoisted himself up to the rock she had been
hanging from and got his feet under him. He was straightening to find his next
hand hold when he heard her voice again. "Are you one of the Servants?" she
asked. The name struck Tiriak cold. He turned his eyes slowly to the girl who
had moved over to stand directly beneath him. "You have the mark of manhood on
your face, you carry a sword, yet I don't recognize you." Her face looked at
him, a faint glint of hope in her eyes. "Can you help me escape them?" He only
pondered a moment. Her desperation was obvious, and her fear of the Servants
was plain. He reached one hand down to her and she took it firmly. He pulled
her up to the ledge he was on and then quickly placed his hands on her waist
in preparation for hoisting her up the final distance to the road surface.
"When you are on the road, stay low but move quickly
towards the bridge. Get around the corner so that they cannot see you. Stay
there until I come. If you see anyone, do not scream, it will only alert the
rest. Do your best to avoid them until I get there." She nodded, her eyes wide
with fear. He lifted her, and marveled at how light she was. She was only a
child, although her manner seemed much older. As soon as she was settled on
the surface of the road over his head she scrambled away towards the bridge.
Tiriak quickly scrambled up the last few feet himself and hunching low
sprinted up the road, marveling that nobody from the caravan had yet spotted
them. As he rounded the corner, he stopped and pressing himself flat against
the rocks peeped around them to get a view of the caravan. Nothing seemed out
of order, and he began to believe that they had escaped all notice. Then he
heard a scuffling sound behind him. Turning, he saw two evil looking men, and
the girl. One was holding her, one burly arm wrapped tightly around her waist
and the other filthy hand clapped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide with
panic and anger, and he could see that she believed that he had betrayed her
in sending her to them.
"We owe you some thanks stranger, for helpin' us
recover our property." The unladen stranger drawled, but Tiriak could tell by
the suspicious glint in his eyes, and the way he held his hand on the hilt of
his sword that he was as surprised to see Tiriak climb over the edge as Tiriak
was to see them there. "Course, now that you're done helpin' out its time you
got on down the road and forgot what you seen here." The false friendliness
was fast melting away to reveal the true malice in his intent and Tiriak
understood that he was being given just one chance to extricate himself from
the situation. As much as he felt sorry for the girl, his chances at besting
two obviously experienced thugs were slim, and he nodded in understanding and
began to edge away towards the bridge when the other man spoke and easily
changed his mind.
"Yeah Bilak, Let no man say that the Servants of the
Supreme Weasel are not generous!" His voice was sarcastic and mocking, as if
he was taunting Tiriak to disagree. At the name of the hated cult Tiriak felt
his blood rising. He forgot all thoughts of self preservation, and could only
see the identical innocent faces of his two brothers, and imagined them being
carried of in like manner by these two animals. He stopped edging away, and
his hand dropped to his sword. The unladen man grinned, and drew his own
weapon.
"Looks like he thinks to take our property from us
Gort! We know he can climb rock walls, let's see if he flies as well!" He
stepped forward with his sword raised, and Tiriak drew his father's sword. The
bright glint of the blade flashed in the pale sun and his attacker paused for
a moment. "That's a fine sword you have there son, I'll be sure to think of
you whenever I use it!" Gort snorted and sneered, "Who'd ya steal that from
kid? You know how to use it? Be careful not to hurt yerself!" Tiriak's blood
boiled over at the thought of this scum holding his father's sword, and he
stepped forward raising the sword high. Bilak met his angry stroke with an
easy parry that jarred Tiriak's hands with its force. Fortunately for Tiriak,
Bilak was not a master swordsman, simply a thug, a foot soldier with only the
ability to bludgeon and hurt. But his skill was more than a match for Tiriak's
inexperience. Tiriak brought his sword up to meet the thrust of Bilak's sword
just in time to save himself from being skewered, but the blade still sliced
open his shoulder. Bilak followed his wicked thrust with a fist to Tiriak's
face which landed squarely on his nose. Stars exploded in his vision as his
nose broke and he found himself temporarily blind. Groggily he raised his
sword up defensively as he staggered backwards, but had no idea where Bilak
even was for the moment. He heard Grog swearing loudly and then grunting in
pain, but his entire focus was on Bilak for now. Shaking his head to try and
clear his vision he splattered the blood running freely from his broken nose
to the right and left. He saw a blurry shape quickly closing on him and a
voice in the back of his mind screamed for him to just drop to the ground. He
obeyed, not having any better ideas and as he did heard the whistle of Bilak's
sword as it passed through the space where his neck had been an instant
before. He hit the ground and rolled towards Bilak's legs. He felt his body
collide with them and the slid backwards, throwing Bilak down on the ground.
Tiriak kept rolling, not wanting to get caught in a wrestling match, then when
he felt he had put some distance between himself and the man he rolled to his
knees and looked back to asses the situation. Bilak lay where he had fallen,
not moving. Tiriak only got an instant to wonder about that before a
thunderous blow to the side of his head sent him reeling again. He recovered
and turned to face this new attack when he realized that somehow he had lost
his sword. Before he could ponder that realization much, Gort landed another
blow to his gut that drove the breath from him with a whoosh. He doubled over,
gasping for breath and fell to the ground. He could see Gort's feet step
towards him and aim a kick at his head. He didn't even have time to cover his
head with his arms but strangely, the kick never landed. Gorts foot had
reached back, but never came forward and now his entire body had collapsed on
top of him. The stench of old rum and sweat overwhelmed Tiriak, but he
realized that the fact that he could smell meant that he was breathing again.
He curled into a ball and kicked out with both feet and arms with all of his
might. Gort grunted and rolled off. Tiriak scrambled to get to his feet but
Gort was faster. He stood over Tiriak and bringing both hands together to
make a fist raised it over is head in preparation for bringing it down on
Tiriak. Then a fist sized rock smashed into his face and he stumbled backwards
in surprise. Tiriak looked up at him, confused. Gort stumbled backwards
another step, wiping blood from a gash in his forehead. The blood was pouring
freely into his eyes, and he was temporarily blinded. Another rock smashed his
nose and he stumbled one more step back, except that there was no ground
behind him. His melee with Tiriak had carried them to the very edge of the
road, and Gort was now teetering crazily on the edge. His face was confused
and angry as Tiriak watched him fall backwards, and he heard him grunt again
as he smashed into some outcropping rocks on his way down. He sat there on the
road staring after him and wondering what had happened when he heard the
sounds of soft sobbing behind him. He turned to see the little girl collapsed
on the ground and sobbing quietly with her hands over her face. He started to
go to her, but remembered the other one, Bilak. He looked around frantically
and finally found him laying still where he had fallen earlier. A pool of
crimson blood was seeping slowly towards the edge of the road but otherwise
the man could have been laying there asleep. Tiriak was suspicious of a trick,
and walked cautiosly over to where he lay. He kicked him tentatively with his
foot, but getting no response, reached down and grasped his arm and turned him
over. Bilak's face was twisted in surprise and pain, his eyes frozen open in
death and his mouth gaping wide open. Tiriak blinked in confusion at a dull
glint of metal in his mouth, but as his glance ran down the body he gasped in
understanding. In the middle of his stomach, Tiriak saw the hilt of his
father's sword. As he fell, Bilak had impaled himself on the blade. It had
entered his gut, then turning upwards had slid all the way up his body where
the very tip must have been embedded in the thug's brain. The glint of metal
Tiriak had seen running through the mouth had been the blade of the sword as
it traveled upwards through the head. He reached down and grasped the hilt of
the sword. The sword was firmly embedded in the body, and he had to brace one
foot against Bilak's chin and strain backwards to get it free. He held the
sword up and looked at its blood stained blade and silently thanked his father
for this gift. He then turned to the small girl, still sobbing alone on the
roadway. He walked over to her, and setting the sword on the ground, he placed
a hand gently in the middle of her back. She jumped, then seeing his face
relaxed and jumped into his arms. He held her awkwardly for a moment, feeling
her sobs rack her tiny body. He knew that they should be moving on, he was
sure that even if nobody from the caravan had been able to see the battle on
the road, that they would certainly be sending someone back to find Gort and
Bilak before long. Nevertheless he was hesitant to interrupt the girl, he
wanted to take time to comfort her and make her feel safe. He held her for a
few more seconds, then softly pried her arms from around his neck.
"We have to get moving. Someone may be coming back to
check on them soon. We have a long way to go before we will find a good hiding
place." He saw understanding dawn in her eyes, and she immediately stopped
crying. He marveled at such control in one so young, and wondered what kind of
a life had cultivated such a talent. She nodded, then asked in a voice that
was clear and firm, "What do you need me to do?" Tiriak stood up and looked
around. "Just wait for a moment while I take care of the mess a bit." He said,
and she nodded in understanding. Tiriak walked back to where Bilak lay and
quickly went through his clothes looking for anything useful. He found a
couple of coins, a bundle of chewing tobacco, and a rusty old dagger. He was
wearing a pair of sturdy boots, and Tiriak quickly stripped them off his feet,
grimacing at the terrible smell. He would have to try and wash them out and
let them air out for a time before he could think of putting them on his own
feet. Having satisfied himself that there was nothing else useful he drug the
body to the edge of the road and rolled him over the edge. He watched the body
tumble through the air until it landed in the distant river with a splash then
returned to the girl. She had not been idle either. While he had been getting
rid of the body, she had found where the two men had stashed their packs while
they waited for the girl to climb back up to the roadway. She had found a
filthy shirt in one, and was trying to wipe the blood from his father's sword.
His throat caught with emotion when he saw that, and he felt a wave of
admiration for the girl. She looked up and saw him watching her and held the
sword up to him. "I tried to clean it, but we will need some water to get it
all." He nodded. "This will do for now. We must be moving." He picked up the
two packs and slung them over his shoulder, then sheathing his sword he held
out a hand to the girl. She looked up at him and he almost thought for a
moment that she might smile, but she just took his hand and said in a quiet
voice. "Let's go..."
OK, overall a pretty good fight. Although I am not so sure about the
mechanism for them to meet. I mean really, perching on a sheer cliff to hide?
I guess it is plausible, but I will need to go back a little earlier and show
how desperate Tiriak was not to be seen, and maybe even give a good reason for
that desperation. OK, lets go on for now...
It was several hours later that night before either Tiriak or the
girl felt comfortable stopping to rest. The had run almost the whole way
over the bridge and down the pass on the far side. Then another few miles
along the great highway before they found a grove of trees down near the bank
of the river that provided some cover. Tiriak had been carrying the girl for
the last few miles, after she collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Tiriak was
feeling light headed from loss of blood, and his head throbbed and ached where
he had been beaten. When they finally collapsed beneath the trees the both lay
there on the ground, motionless for a few minutes. Then Tiriak noticing the
gathering gloom and feeling the creeping cold of the coming autumn night
forced himself to get up and kindle a small fire. The girl's rags would
certainly not provide much warmth, and his own tattered bedroll would only be
enough to cover one of them. He took it out and wrapped it around her where
she lay on the ground. He then gathered some dry twigs and bark and in a few
minutes had a small fire going. The girl came closer, the blanket wrapped
tightly around her thin shoulders and sat next to the tiny fire. Tiriak
continued to prepare for the night, bringing out some jerky and a crust of
bread he had been saving. When he handed them to the girl she gulped them down
as if they were the first food she had seen in a long while, and Tiriak
suspected that this might just be the case. She drank deeply from his water
skin, before looking guiltily up at him.
OK, I have thought about this part a lot too. They really should not run so
far down the road. I think once they get to the bottom of the pass they should
immediately look for some shelter, and just watch the road for pursuit. Then
they can have their "get acquainted" talk. The whole domestic situation can
occur later. After another scene change assisted by slipping into
unconsciousness.
"Why don't you eat too?" Tiriak shrugged his
shoulders. "That's all I have. You go ahead. I'm not that hungry." he lied.
She looked at him for a few seconds, then handed him back the water skin.
"Thank you... for helping me." her voice was soft, but with a firmness that
belied her young age. Tiriak felt a bit awkward, and stood up. "I am
going to try and was up a bit. I must look horrible." He turned and headed
down to the river. The cool water felt good on his throbbing face, and he was
amazed at the amount of blood that washed off into the river. He sat there in
the twilight, watching it swirl and mix with the clear water of the river. He
took off his shirt and examined the cut on his shoulder as best he could in
the fading light. It wasn't deep; he rinsed it out and put his shirt back on.
There was some blood crusted in his hair where he had been hit by Gort, he
knelt on the ground and plunged his entire head in the river to rinse it out.
When he was finished he felt much better, and he returned to the fire. Both of
the packs they had taken from the thugs had been dumped out and the girl was
going through them. She had found no food, but there was a small cooking pot
and a couple of greasy, filthy shirts. In addition she had found another
dagger, this one of much better quality than the one they had taken from
Bilak's belt. This one had a fine steel blade, although it was filthy and
nicked. The handle was made of bone, and had at one time been studded with
stones of some kind; they were gone now, probably hocked long ago. With this
poor implement the girl was slicing something into the cooking pot which sat
in the fire steaming water just beginning to boil.
"What are you cooking?" he asked curiously. "Parsnips.
I found a whole bunch of them over there." she waved behind her. "They are
much better with some meat, but I don't imagine we can be picky tonight." He
marveled for a moment, before sitting down to watch. She looked up at him, a
slightly annoyed look on her face. "Instead of sitting there being lazy, why
don't you take those shirts down to the creek and wash them out? If they were
a bit less disgusting I could wear them for a dress, instead of this." she
gestured at her ragged clothing. Tiriak sat for a moment, trying to comprehend
and she stopped working and snapped at him, "Now! You aren't getting anything
to eat until they are done!" Tiriak jumped and before he realized it was
hurrying back towards the river with the filthy shirts. After he had spent a
few minutes swishing them around in the water and wringing them out he
returned to the fire. She had been busy, and besides his own tattered blanket
there were now two others much thicker and in better repair if smelling of the
thugs they had previously belonged. "We can wash these out tomorrow. If we do
it tonight, we won't be able to sleep in them." Tiriak sat down and she handed
him the steaming pot of boiled parsnips. "I am sorry, but those guys didn't
have any forks or spoons." She seemed genuinely sorry that she had no fine
cutlery to offer him for his meal, and he wondered again at who this young
child was and how she had come to be in the situation in which he found her.
But his growling stomach had caught a whiff of the aromatic steam rising from
the pot, and he decided that his questions could wait until later. He reached
into the pot and fished out one of the long, thin roots that she had peeled
and sliced lengthwise. He was amazed at how delicious it was, and it only took
a few minutes for him to gulp down all of them and then he even tipped the pot
up and guzzled the broth in one long draught. While he ate, the girl went down
to the river to clean herself up as well. When she returned Tiriak had his
sword out and was cleaning all of the blood off of it. The girl sat down on
one of the blankets, across the fire from him and watched him.
"What's your name?" She asked suddenly. Tiriak looked
up, considered for a moment, then answered simply. "Tiriak." He finished
cleaning his sword, and slid it back into its scabbard. "Don't you want to
know my name?" She asked, Tiriak shrugged. Now that the adrenaline had worn
off, he was beginning to wonder what he was going to do with a little girl.
"Well, my name is Mirian. Where are you from?" Tiriak looked at her for a
moment, then mumbled, "Nowhere." He looked up at her. "Where do you live? I am
sure your parents are looking for you." Her face fell, and she stared into the
fire. "My parents are dead. The Servants claimed that they were robbing the
villiagers. They came to our home one night and killed them and kidnapped me.
They told the elders that they had resisted and attacked them. They also told
them that I died in the fire. I don't have a home." Tiriak felt the familiar
anger rising in his throat, at the smug face of Julio and the others at the
table in the tavern that day. At the anger and evil that he saw in his eyes
when his father had warned him never to speak to his son again the week before
the ordeal. The hissing voice warning that the Servants would not be
frightened away. Tiriak realized that this girl and he had a lot in
common. Nevertheless, there was no way he could look after a child.
OK, so this has been bugging me. I need Tiriak to be MUCH more concerned
about getting rid of her, at least at first. He needs to stubornly insist that
she will be getting dropped off at the first village they come to. Then she
can bring up the Badger and yadda yadda...
"So how did you end up on that cliff?" Tiriak was
interested now. Mirian scowled darkly. "I was trying to escape. Gort and Bilak
were supposed to be watching me, but the ran up ahead to try and peek in the
lady's wagon cause I told them she was changing her robes. I thought I would
just climb down a bit and hide there while they passed." She shrugged her
shoulders. Tiriak looked at her curiously. "Then what? Where were you going to
go after that? In a raggedy dress, no food or water, how long did you think
you could last on your own?" Mirian's head snapped up, and her eyes were
bright with anger. "I would have happily walked through the great desert
barefoot and died of starvation and lonliness than spend another minute as the
property of those two animals!" She stood up and stomped away from the fire,
off towards the river. Tiriak understood, and felt a bit chagrined that he had
upset her. He had not thought about it that way, he was only thinking of how
hungry and cold he had been in the last few months since he walked away from
the ruins of his home. He brought out the crumpled and stained paper he had
found nailed to the post at the end of the path to his home. By the flickering
firelight he re-read the words written there, accusing his father of treason
against the council, sentencing him to hard labor under the supervision of the
Servants, reminding him that the penalty for resistance was death. As he read
Mirian returned to the fire, carrying an armful of wood. He marveled that she
was so practical. All the little girls he had ever been associated with would
break into a hysterical panic at the very idea of having dinner delayed by
five minutes. Yet here was a girl who of her own accord had taken it upon
herself to find food, clean his sword, make a rather comfortable camp, and now
was stocking in firewood for the night to come. There was much to learn about
this child, and he suddenly felt a desire for her to feel a similar respect
for him. She was now stacking the wood neatly just within reach of the head of
her bed, and he stood up and walked to where she was.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." She glared at him for
just a second before returning to her work. He shrugged, then laid the paper
on her bed and walked out into the darkness to gather an armload of wood
himself. When he returned she was holding it, tears glinting in her eyes.
"They ruined your life too." She said. It was not a question, but a statement.
He nodded and after dropping the wood next to hers reached for the paper. She
gave it back and he could see that her anger was gone. He returned to his own
bed and sat down. "My name is Tiriak." She looked up gratefully and nodded.
She was now wrapped up in her blanket and looked half asleep. Tiriak knew that
he would have to stay awake and keep watch for a while, but he was not too
sure about his ability to stay up all night. His head was still throbbing in
concert with his bruised ribs and he was still having trouble breathing
through his broken nose. He leaned his back against a tree and wrapped the
blanket around him grateful for its warmth despite the lingering stench of
Bilak on it.
"So, even if you would rather die, you had to have
some sort of plan in mind. Or were you just planning on dying in the first
place?" Tiriak asked drowsily. Mirian opened her blue eyes momentarily, and
looked at Tiriak. "I was going to try and find the Badger." Tiriak stifled a
chuckle. So she was not as grown up as she acted he thought. The Badger was a
fairy tale, a story of a kindly old man who took in lost or abandoned children
and gave them a safe home. Problem was that nobody had ever actually met the
Badger, or any of the children he had helped out. It was always third or
fourth person; my butchers's uncle's blacksmith met a kid once who had stayed
with the Badger for a few years. Tiriak however had learned enough about this
child to not want to risk her temper again. "That's a great idea he said." His
voice trailing off into sleep of his own.
Ummm, that is three times now. What is up with that?
In the night, the dream returned. The slow motion march down the darkened
chamber towards the foreboding figure on the stark throne. The flickering
firelight glinting off of the weasel symbol on the deadly blade of the sword.
The feeling of deadly competence as the sword sliced through the rough robe.
The terror when he awoke in the dark woods with the orange coals of the fire
winking eerily at him. He reached over and placed a couple of sticks on the
fire then sat and watched them as they smoked, smoldered, then burst into
orange flames. He added a couple more and felt the need for a drink. His
bruised body unlimbered slowly as he picked up the pot from next to the fire
where he had left it. He walked slowly through the woods to the river, letting
his eyes adjust slowly to the darkness after the small light of the fire. He
scooped the pot full of water and drained it, then refilled it to take it back
to the fire. He set it aside, planning to put it on the fire when it was time
to wake. Perhaps Mirian would be able to show him how to find the wild
parsnips and they could cook some up for breakfast. He sat back down and
wrapped himself in his blanket and watched the fire lick hungrily at the wood.
He pondered again whether the dream had any meaning, or was simply the product
of his own imagination. All his life he had been told that when he was ready
he would go and commune with the Spirits and that they would then give him
direction for his life. He had never doubted, he had seen the boys leave town
and return men. They had assumed the paths the elders gave them as they
interpreted their dreams, and life went on. Everybody seemed happy. Until the
Servants came to town. First it was just Julio, showing up at odd times and
places and striking up conversations with all the right people. Then, as he
formed friendships and alliances more of the brown robed men started to
appear. All of them much like Julio - overly friendly and gracious to all,
agreeable and humble. But to the young men they seemed exotic and wise. Julio
would occasionally perform some small act of magic or
fortunetelling. Predicting the name a child had written on a piece of
parchment, bending spoons with the will of his mind, making animals appear
from the folds of his cloak. Always asking the boys when they would be seeking
their visions, always asking about the visions. Tiriak tired of hearing these
questions, but still looked forward to speaking to the mysterious stranger. He
made Tiriak feel grown up and wise, listening intently to his complaints about
life on a farm or the limited social life to be found in the small village and
not once pointing out how inexperienced he was, or how he should listen more
closely to his elders like his father.
"What is making you so sad?" Mirian's voice startled him.
He found her sitting up staring at him wide-eyed. He shook his head. "Just
thinking about stuff. Nothing important." She looked intently at his
expression for a moment, then spoke in a voice so low he could barely hear
her. "How did you escape them? They usually don't leave witnesses. Makes it
harder to convince everyone that they were fighting to preserve the peace if
someone is left to contradict them." Tiriak nodded, and decided to answer her
question directly. "I was on Carockras, seeking the Spirits. When I returned,
I went directly home instead of to the villiage elders. I found our farm
utterly destroyed, and the notice I showed you posted. I found my father's
sword in the rubble and fled. I was intending to seek out Mount Daiga and
exact revenge, but I found that I am not much of a swordsman. I also found
that wandering alone is much more difficult and lonely than I thought it would
be." He reached over and tossed another stick on the fire, and the sparks rose
in a swirling cloud. "Now we have to figure out what to do with you. Winter is
coming on, and I can barely fend for myself, let alone you too." Her eyes
narrowed momentarily, but then she seemed to resign herself to something. "You
are probably right. If I had not been throwing rocks at Bilak he would have
brained you back there. I see what you mean about not being a swordsman."
Tiriak started, about to be offended, then realized that she was merely
stating a fact, not trying to insult him. And he could not disagree. His
father had refused to teach him, insisting that through the efforts and hard
work of men like himself, his children did not need to know the arts of war.
That learning to work the fields was enough for them. Thus Tiriak was woefully
unprepared for the life of a wanderer. He grinned wryly, remembering the look
of consternation on the face of the thug when the rock had smacked him. Then,
she abruptly changed the subject and again surprised him with her
perceptiveness.
"You don't believe in the Badger do you?" Tiriak pondered
his answer carefully. Though his own belief system had been completely rocked
he was loathe to cause this child to question hers. Finally he chose honesty,
which seemed the best course to take with this child. "No" He shook his head.
"But then there are a lot of things I don't believe any more." She seemed to
understand that, and laid her head back down and closed her eyes. Tiriak
followed her example, then reached out and placed a couple more sticks on the
fire. Just before he drifted off to sleep, he heard her mumble sleepily:
"Well, I will show you where he lives."
And again... they drift off to sleep. Twice in one night! Sheesh! Find a
different device already!
The next morning Tiriak awoke to the smell of boiling parsnips, as well as
some kind of roasting meet. He sat up and looked at the fire. The carcass of
some sort of small mammal had been spitted and was hanging over the coals,
while another pot of the long slender tubers boiled merrily. He sat up and
stretched, looking around for Mirian. She was just coming up from the river,
her hair damp and wearing one of the shirts he had attempted to wash
yesterday. It was indeed large enough for her to wear as a dress, and she had
tied a strip of leather around her waist as a belt. The dagger with the
missing jewels was thrust through the belt, and Tiriak noticed that the edges
had been honed and most of the largest nicks had been filed off. As she bent
over the fire and turned the roasting animal his curiosity finally got the
better of him.
"Where did you learn all of this?" She looked up from her
work without pausing. "Gort and Bilak were unforgiving teachers. And lazy.
Anything they could teach me to do they no longer had to do for themselves. I
didn't like being beaten, so I learned fast." Tiriak felt his heart constrict
with sorrow for the harsh life this child had so far endured, and he began to
understand why she acted so far beyond her few years. "How long have you
traveled with them?" He asked, moving closer to the fire to warm himself. She
didn't answer right away, just stirred the pot and poked at the animal with
her dagger. "A couple of years I guess. I kind of lost track of time. I was
beginning to think that this would be my life, but then I heard them talking
one night about how I was getting old enough to learn some new things."
Tiriak's stomach flip flopped as he imagined the kind of things they might
have been referring to. "I saw the way they treated the women that they
brought back to camp from the taverns. I did not want to learn those things."
Tiriak could feel the anger in her voice, and decided it was time to change
the subject. He sniffed deeply, breathing in the wonderful scent of the
sizzling meat. "What kind of animal is that?" He asked with genuine
appreciation in his voice. She smiled. "It's a squirrel. They are really
pretty stupid. This one heard you talking in your sleep and was so concerned
about hiding from you that he completely ignored me." Tiriak laughed. "How did
you kill it?" She picked up a fist sized stone from the ground near the fire
and took aim at a dead branch a couple dozen yards away. The rock thudded
solidly dead center on the branch and it broke off, falling to the ground.
Tiriak remembered the sound of the rock thudding into the thug Bilak's face,
saving him from an even worse beating and probable death and understood. "Did
they teach you that too?" He asked. She shook her head. "Nope, that I picked
up on my own. When I didn't have chores to do, they would usually leave me
tied up somewhere. Throwing rocks was a way to pass the time." Their
conversation ended here, as she judged the squirrel to be ready to eat. She
produced two large pieces of bark, freshly cut from the tree and a stick with
a flattened end served as a spoon to fish the parsnips from the boiling water.
After dividing the squirrel between the two bark plates she handed Tiriak the
older dagger, its blade having been honed and sharpened as well. He took the
plate and the dagger and was about to dig in when he saw her looking at him in
anticipation.
"Don't you thank the Spirits before you eat?" She said,
disappointment evident in her voice. He felt his face flushing slightly, but
met her gaze evenly. "I haven't been on a very good relationship with the
Spirits lately." he said gruffly, then deliberately stabbed a parsnip with the
dagger and lifted it to his mouth. She watched him bite and chew it, then
shook her head. "Well, I will thank them for you, and ask them to help you
learn to forgive them." He felt guilty as she lifted her face to the rising
sun, her eyes closed and her lips moving silently. Nevertheless, he had
decided that the Spirits would have no further impact on his life, until such
time as they decided to explain their perverse attempt to persuade him to join
the Servants.
That was good! Bitterness at the Spirits! That will need to be a recurring
theme, and developed in much detail earlier in the book. We will get back to
that, I promise!
After breakfast Mirian cleaned up camp after sending Tiriak down to the river
to wash. He obeyed with an amused smile on his face. She seemed to genuinely
like having someone to take care of, and was probably thrilled to think that
she would not be rewarded anymore with beatings and promises of worse. When he
returned she had packed all of their scant belongings in the two packs
precisely evenly. He began to protest, insisting that he could carry much more
than her but then he picked up the pack and realized that even if she had
insisted on carrying all of their stuff it would not have been a heavy burden.
The pack itself constituted at least half of the total weight. So he chose to
simply go along. He situated the pack on his back, and helped her get hers on
and comfortable. Then they just stood there looking at each other.
"So where are we going?" He asked, an amused smile tickling
the corner of his lips. She looked at him as if trying to decide whether or
not to be offended. Then deciding to ignore his amusement she answered. "To
the valley of the Badger of course. I think we should only have to travel a
few weeks to get there. If we are lucky we can make it before the first snow."
Tiriak shook his head and laughed out loud. "Do you know how to get there?" He
asked, humoring her. She narrowed her eyes in that way that he was beginning
to understand meant that he was about to be in trouble. "Of course not! We
will have to ask someone." Tiriak struggled to look serious. "And who would
you propose we ask?" He asked, expecting another indirect answer. Instead, she
stuck her chin out defiantly and spit the answer in four short words: "The
Great Mountain Wizard." Tiriak groaned. Another mythical character. But didn't
it make perfect sense to ask one legend how to find another? "And how, if I
may ask are we to find the Great Mountain Wizard?" His amusement was giving
way to annoyance now. But her answer to that question left him speechless. "I
know where to find him. I have been there."
Crap... yet another mythical character to develop. I will have to think
about that a bit. I am not so sure how I feel about that one.
Tiriak had decided at this point to concede defeat, at least for now. He had
no better plan for a destination, having committed himself to a life of
wandering. He knew that before winter set in hard that he would need to find
someone somewhere to take in this remarkable child. The thoughts of the harsh
winter ahead were frightening enough as he pondered facing them himself. Let
alone with the extra responsibility of a half grown child. Nevertheless, he
thought they had at least a few more weeks of mild autumn weather before their
situation would become grave, so he decided to follow her lead. She claimed
that as a young child her parents had travelled to consult the Great Mountain
Wizard on a matter of import to her father's business matters. Her father had
received information from somewhere regarding his location and so had packed
up his family and set out for the Southern arm of the Great Mountains where
his grotto was reported to be under a high peak of the mountain. Her memories
of the trip were naturally quite vague, but she swore that if she could only
find the trail again she would recognize it, and better yet, if she could once
again lay eyes on that strange mountain peak she would know it instantly. Its
odd shape and strange feelings would certainly strike her as familiar and she
would be able to find her way. Tiriak quizzed her as to her alleged trip, but
like all memories of early childhood, hers were scattered and disjointed. She
remembered the taste of the treats the Wizard had given her upon arrival, but
could not remember ever seeing her father converse with him. She knew that her
mother was there, but could not produce a single memory including her. She
knew that her father had left satisfied with the advice given, but could not
remember what the advice might have been, or whether it had ever turned out to
be good or evil. She only knew that the trail ran through a beautiful valley
with a waterfall at one end, and that the trail passed beneath the water fall
then climbed up out of the valley where the traveler would have their first
view of the mountain peak. Another day of travel directly towards the peak
would bring you to the entrance to the Wizard's grotto deep in the side of the
mountain. Tiriak listened to her relate her memories of the trip and realized
that he enjoyed listening to her. Her voice was hopeful and melodious and once
again he wondered at her resiliance. To have lived for the best part of your
childhood as the slave of such men as Gort and Bilak should have crushed the
spirit of even the proudest child. But for Mirian, the experience seemed only
to have sharpened her will to live, and her enjoyment of life. It was a couple
of hours past noon when they turned aside to pick berries for an early dinner.
Mirian had gathered another handful of the parsnips, but she assured Tiriak
that they would keep indefinitely, and should be saved against harsher times.
He could hardly disagree, especially when they happened upon the broad field
filled with ripe, juicy blackberries. They filled the pot with the juicy
berries, while eating at least twice as many apiece. Their hands and lips were
stained with the dark purple juice, and they were about to set out again when
the bear appeared. Tiriak had wandered away to relieve himself, leaving Mirian
alone in the midst of the berries. When he returned, he could not see her
above the thicket, and he stood still and listened for her. He heard the
bushes rustling near where he guessed her to be, and decided to sneak up on
her and startle her. He crept slowly forward, and then when he was near
enough, he jumped out and made a snorting sound. The bear was certainly
startled, but not any more than Tiriak who suddenly found himself faced with a
frightened bear. Luckily for him it was not one of the great bears who
inhabited the far northern mountains. This was a small black bear, but even so
it was more than large enough and strong enough to tear a man to bits. The
bear whirled around at the sudden noise and backed defensively into the bushes
at its back. Tiriak froze, unsure for a second what to do. His panicked
thoughts dug deep for any advice he had ever been given when faced with a
bear, but nothing came immediately to his mind. He started to back slowly
away, scrabbling at his belt for his sword.
Then, the author decided that this bear encounter has no redeeming value
and will not be continued. We will return to the two travelers as they go
south towards the southern arm of the great mountains. Nope, we won't. It is
stupid for Tiriak to just capitulate and allow Mirian to be with him. There
needs to be more conflict between the two regarding their destination. I
believe that we will have a long argument with lots of dialog when they come
to the decision point of heading south into the mountains, or re-crossing the
the pass and heading back into the valley.
They came to the bottom of the pass just before evening that day. Tiriak led
them off the highway and found a dense clump of trees to make camp in again.
Wait! Making camp again! Geez! What is this, a camping novel? Go back to
the morning. Make their day eventful or something. Or, let them
camp. Whatever...
While he gathered wood for a fire, Mirian went hunting. He returned to find
her skinning a fat rabbit. His mouth started watering and he set about
starting a fire. Unfortunately, this was a skill he had never refined, and his
clumsy attempts to strike a spark into the pile of kindling were sadly
unsuccessful. After the rabbit was prepared and waiting on its makeshift spit,
Mirian huffed impatiently at him and shoved him aside. She took the flint and
steel from him, then picked up a handful of dry leaves and crushed them nearly
to powder on a flat rock. She then piled the leaf powder into a shape like a
birds nest, which she then covered half over with a selection of tiny twigs.
When her miniature covered nest was to her satisfaction she struck the flint
once with her dagger, and a bright white spark leapt into the middle of the
nest. A tendril of smoke rose up and she blew carefully on it, pressing the
sides of the nest in towards the nearly invisible glowing ember. A tiny flame
leapt up, and she quickly began pushing the nest up under the shelter of the
twigs. Tiriak was amazed at how quickly the twigs caught fire, and Mirian
continued adding twigs of gradually increasing size. In the time it had taken
Tiriak to strike a spark of any kind from the flint a pleasant fire was
crackling in its circle of stones. Handing him the flint without a word, she
set about positioning the rabbit on its spit over the fire. Tiriak shook his
head in amazement. He went with her to search for something else to add to
their fire, and she pointed out to him a patch of cattails in a low spot near
the river.
"Go dig up some of the roots of those plants. They
aren't as good as the parsnips, but they will do. Get enough to eat and enough
to keep for later." Her voice was confident, as if she were used to being in
charge, and used to being obeyed. Without even waiting for an answer she
turned and headed back to the fire to check on the rabbit. Tiriak decided not
to argue, since he was indeed pretty hungry. Despite their rather generous
lunch of blackberries, he found that they didn't stick around long, and
he had been hungry again less than an hour after they left the berry patch and
went on down the road. He pulled his dagger out and set to work digging the
roots out of the sticky black muck of the swamp. He kept working until he had
a good armful, and returned to the fire. He plopped them down on the ground
near the fire, and she looked at them, then up at his grime covered hands and
face, and rolled her eyes. "You think you might want to wash them a bit? Or do
you enjoy the feeling of mud gritting in your teeth as you eat?" Tiriak began
to formulate a retort of some kind, but the smell of the roasting rabbit
stopped all thought of protest. He gathered the roots up and walked down to
the river where the bank was gravel and the water ran clear. He washed the
roots the best he could, then himself. He returned to the fire with a clean
face and hands, and found a dinner of roast rabbit waiting for him. While he
was gone she had cut out another bark plate for him, divided the rabbit up and
served it on some sort of green leaf.
"I have already given thanks, since I know you won't.
Don't forget to eat your greens. You will need them to keep your movements
regular." Tiriak stood there staring. That was the last straw. While he was
indeed grateful for the food, and for all the other things she had done for
him he would not have her advising him on his bodily functions.
"Now wait a minute. How did you get to be my mother?"
He asked, his voice sarcastic. Mirian looked up,
Naw, I won't have them argue about this. They need to argue, but I don't
like the way this one starts. Wait! I have a better idea. AFTER he eats...
plus, I mean... arguing about MOVEMENTS? what is wrong with you?
Tiriak sat down gratefully and tore into the delicious meat. Mirian had
seasoned it with some sort of herb, and it was as good as anything he had
eaten in his life. While he ate she peeled some of the cat tail roots and
dropped them in the already boiling pot. More of the herbs were already
steeped in there and the fragrance was nearly maddening. Tiriak stripped the
meat from the bones and then helped himself to some of the roots. They were a
bit more chewy and stringy than the parsnips had been, but they filled him up
nicely. He wiped his mouth with his hand and emptied the water skin in one
long gulp and tossed his bark plate away with a satisfied sigh. Mirian looked
at him and he suddenly realized he had committed some crime, although he had
no idea just yet what it might be.
"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" He said,
feeling his own annoyance rising. He was very grateful for all the help she
had been to him, but he was beginning to tire of being treated like a child
by, well, a child! She gestured at the plate, upside down on the ground with
the green leaves spilled all around it. "Why didn't you eat your chard? You
will need it to keep up your energy. I had to look for a long time to find
that, it doesn't exactly grow on trees you know." Tiriak studied the green
leaves on the ground. "I didn't know it was for eating. I just thought you
were trying to make it look pretty." He answered defensively. "Make it look
pretty?" She exclaimed. "We are tramping through the wilderness and you think
I am worried about PRESENTATION?" she was getting worked up now, and Tiriak
wondered if he had crossed some invisible line. Wanting to make peace, he
leaned over and gathered up the leaves and began stuffing them in his mouth.
"There, are you happy now?" he said, his mouth stuffed with the green leaves.
Mirian's eyes narrowed to slits, and her lips pressed together tightly. "How
are we ever going to make it to the Valley if you continue to be so hard
headed and mean?" she said, her voice breaking. Tiriak
Crap. That argument sucks. All of a sudden Tiriak goes from being just dumb
quiet guy doing what he's told to arrogant food critic? Sheesh. I am beginning
to hate these two...
Tiriak looked at her in amazement. He was not sure exactly what part of his
behaviour up till throwing the leaves on the ground had been mean. "Which
part was the meanest, the part where I saved you from falling off a cliff or
the part where I got my nose broken and my ribs cracked?" He was still chewing
on the leaves, so his words came out slurred and blurry. "Or was it the part
where I carried you on my back because you were so tired from running that you
couldn't walk anymore?" Mirian's eyes were filling with tears, and Tiriak had
the feeling that the argument had turned a corner, but for some reason he felt
compelled to keep pushing. "And how mean was it to let you think that it was
possible at all to find a mythical valley where some legendary old man will
take you in just because you are sad and pitiful?" As he said this, Tiriak
knew he had gone too far. Mirian burst into tears and ran from the fire
towards the woods. He let her go, not yet wanting to admit that he had been
exactly what she had accused him of. He sat staring glumly into the fire and
finished chewing up the leaves. They were stringy and somewhat bitter, yet he
forced himself to swallow them anyway lest Mirian return and be further
offended. Her plate sat on the ground, the half-finished rabbit growing cold.
He picked up his own plate and turned it upside down over the top of her food.
She would still be hungry when she returned he guessed, and would want to
finish. He walked down to the river to refill the skin then sat there on the
bank watching the river flow past. He sat there for a good long while,
listening to the night sounds and the calming swish of the river cool his
emotions. The chilly night air soon drove him back to the fire, which he was
surprised to find was almost out. Mirian was still not back, and he felt a
twinge of worry flavored with guilt. Any other child her age stomping off into
the darkness alone would have been an immediate cause for concern, but Tiriak
had learned already not to underestimate her ability to fend for herself.
Nope, no good. Time for some more action. It may be stupid, but it uses
lots of words... Bring on yet another clumsy rescue!
Tiriak realized how long he had been sitting there when he found himself
shivering. The cool night breeze was blowing across the river and the chill
had finally penetrated his awareness. He got up to head back to the camp when
he heard the scream. His heart leapt into his throat, and Tiriak plunged
blindly into the dark forest. As he went, he drew his sword and cursed again
at the clumsy feel it had in his hand. The scream sounded again and he
realized that Mirian was screaming his name. He doubled his speed, the tree
branches reaching out to whip his face as he flew through the wood. He stopped
to listen again, trying to find his bearings. Now he heard a sound that
chilled his bones. It was the sound of a snarling dog, or a wolf. Moving as
swiftly as he could while trying to be quiet he went in the direction he
thought the sounds were coming from. The noise grew closer, and Mirian
screamed again, this time sounding more angry than frightened. At last he
blundered out into a moonlit clearing and stopped again, this time wondering
at the mess he found himself in now. A pack of wolves were milling around at
the base of a giant oak at the other end of the clearing. Their grey and black
fur was nearly invisible in the pale moonlight, and it was nearly impossible
to get an idea of how many there really were. Mirian screamed again and one of
the wolves yelped in pain as a rock sailed out of the tree and thumped him in
the head. Tiriak was just about to retreat back into the cover of the trees to
come up with a better plan when one of the wolves caught sight of him. The
whole pack froze, and turned to stare with their golden eyes at Tiriak. He
stared back, just for an instant when he heard Mirian's sobbing voice come
from up in the tree. Without hesitation, he opened his mouth in a screeching
war cry and clasping his sword with both hands leapt towards the pack. The
wolves remained motionless for an instant, watching this strange creature
charge at them across the moonlit clearing. They remained motionless until
Tiriak reached the first wolf and swinging his sword down with all his might
sliced the animal in two. It screeched in pain, its front paws clawing madly
at the ground in an effort to flee while its disconnected rear legs and tail
twitched madly in protest. Without slowing Tiriak recovered his sword and
swung backhanded at another wolf nearby but by now the wolves had made their
decision not to face whatever this strange demon was who had appeared so
suddenly. The entire pack deserted the clearing almost instantly, snarling and
barking over their shoulders as they ran. Tiriak let loose another war cry at
their fleeing tails, then turned to the dying wolf on the ground and silenced
its constant yaps of pain. His head was buzzing with the adrenaline, his heart
was pounding in his chest. He called out to Mirian, "Are you OK? We better get
back to the fire, before they change their mind and come back." He could hear
her sobbing somewhere in the darkness over his head, but no movement, no
answer to his call. "Are you coming down? We need to get back to the fire
right away!" The adrenaline surge was beginning to wear off, and he was
starting to feel a little bit nervous. He knew that wolves were easily
startled, but that they were also nearly impossible to simply chase off. Their
very hunting technique was based on the idea that anything they could not take
down with a full frontal assault could be run to death with enough tenacity.
But Mirian did not seem to be moving at all. Tiriak squinted his eyes, trying
to make out her shape in the darkness, but was still unsure of her exact
location. "Listen! I am sorry I hurt your feelings. But unless you want to
spend the night in that tree, you have to come down now. Those wolves will be
back, I can guarantee and they won't be so easily surprised this time!" Anger
was beginning to return, at her frustrating stubborness. Suddenly he heard a
low howl somewhere in the darkness behind him. An answering howl echoed from
somewhere else and he heard a rustling in the bushes nearby. Not wanting to
find out how close they were, Tiriak jumped up and grabbed a low hanging
branch. He pulled himself up, just in time to hear a snarl and the snap of
teeth beneath him. Quickly scrambling up the tree, he looked down and saw the
moonlight reflected in the yellow eyes of a half dozen wolves, while the
howling of more still echoed back and forth around them. He stopped to catch
his breath, and heard Mirian's voice somewhere above him.
"I am sorry, I can't climb down. I am stuck." Tiriak
squinted up into the darkness, and saw a pale gray shape somewhere above him.
He carefully climbed higher, feeling his way slowly in the dark. When he
reached the limb she was on, he could see that she was frightened. She had
both arms wrapped around the trunk, and her legs were clasped together tightly
beneath the branch she was on. He climbed past her carefully, until he could
sit on the same branch. It was broad and flat, and there were branches nearby
for him to rest his feet on and hold on to with his hand. With the other, he
reached out to Mirian. Laying his hand on her shoulder, he tried to comfort
her.
"I can see why you are a little worried. You got pretty
high up in this tree! Did you think the wolves were going to come up after
you?" Mirian made a sound that could have been a sob, or could have been a
laugh. Her face was buried in one arm, and he could not even guess at her
expression.
"Listen, I am sorry about what I said about your food. I
really shouldn't complain. Before you I was eating whatever I could dig out of
trash pits, or steal from hog troughs. I am really amazed at how well you know
how to take care of yourself." He felt her shoulder relax slightly, and
suddenly felt awkward sitting there with his hand on her shoulder. He pulled
it away and sighed deeply. They sat there for a while, listening to the
confused whines and occasional snarls of the wolves below. They were fighting
over the carcass of the one Tiriak had killed, but they soon moved off into
the woods. Tiriak knew that they would not go far however. Wolves were
known for their tenacity, and he knew that they would not go far from prey in
a tree.
"So, I guess we will be spending the night up here eh?" he
said, trying to keep his voice light.
"I am sorry I got you into this." Mirian said, her voice
quivering. "I guess you were right. We should have just found the first town
and asked someone to take me in. I just thought..." her voice trailed off, and
Tiriak wondered where she was going with that thought.
"You just thought that I was brave and resourceful and
valiant enough to rescue you and take you to the mythical Valley of the Badger
so you could live happily ever after?" he said, trying to sound
humorous. Not getting any response he fell quiet. Leaning his head on his arm
he closed his eyes. The cool night air was not making him feel very sleepy,
but he was pretty sleepy. He imagined their small campfire crackling
cheerfully and their pitiful but warm bedrolls laying empty. He shivered. Then
he almost jumped out of the tree when a small hand was laid against his arm.
He recovered and turned to find Mirian had pried her hand from around the tree
trunk and edged a few inches closer to him. She looked up at him, and he could
see her shivering in the darkness. He reached one arm out and wrapped it
around her shoulders, wanting to keep her warm.
"Do you think the wolves are gone?" she asked, her voice
quivering with fear and cold.
The Valley of the Badger
The snow blew viciously against their tattered blankets as they pulled
them tighter around them and leaned into the wind.
Wait! I was going to have that be the end of the wandering period.
But I guess I can start there, just to make sure my story works.
Tiriak pulled Mirian closer to him and tried to pull the blanket a little
tighter around her. The snow was up to their knees already, and it had been
hours since he had felt his toes. Mirian was in even worse shape. Her shoes
had long ago fallen to pieces, and she was wearing what remained of the thug
Bilak's shirt torn into shreds and wrapped around her feet as shoes. She
stumbled constantly, and Tiriak was using what was left of his pitiful
strength to keep her upright. They reached the crest of the hill and began
trudging down the other side. Being in the lee of the wind helped a little,
but the snow still swirled around them and they found the snow drifted even
higher on this side of the hill. In places, it was drifted up past Tiriak's
waist. When they reached such a drift, Tiriak lifted Mirian to his back, and
floundered his way through for both of them. He could hear Mirian sobbing
quietly in his ear, and feel her tiny body shivering with the cold. They could
not take much more of this. He looked around desperately for anywhere that
they could find shelter. The few trees there were in this part of the desert
were small and scrubby and were almost all drifted over completely with snow.
He felt a terrified desperation well up inside him, and anger at the lingering
hope that he felt inside at the idea of an enchanted valley where he and
Mirian would be safe. Not knowing what else to do, he continued to trudge on
hoping that he was still following the path. It had been faint enough two days
ago when the first snow flurries began to fall. It had become harder and
harder to see as the snow began to pile up and he deeply regretted not
insisting on finding a place to wait out the storm. Pulling the blanket
tighter, he pushed on. They were at the bottom of the valley now, and the
ground flattened somewhat. He could tell the valley was quite narrow for the
wind had shifted from behind them, over the top of the hill and was now
rushing at them from the right. It moaned and whistled and Tiriak took what
comfort that he could from the knowledge that they must still be on the
correct path. The old woman had told them that they would find themselves
after a time in a small canyon, at which time they sould begin searching in
earnest for the signs of the Badger. Of course, such searching was now
impossible. Whatever was not covered with snow was invisible if it was more
than a few feet away behind a blinding curtain of blowing snow. Tiriak knew he
had no idea what direction to go, or if he was even on the path. Yet he knew
that to stop was to admit defeat, to give in to despair and to sentence
himself and Mirian to death. He cared not for his own life, except as far as
he was able to help and protect this child that he now loved as a sister. If
not for her he would most certainly have simply collapsed and gratefully
succumbed to the warmth of death. Suddenly out of the snow loomed a rock shelf
about the height of Tiriak's shoulder. He passed it on the left, and found
just behind it another small pocket of calm sheltered from the wind. He
staggered as close to the wall as he could, and leaning against it helped
Mirian down from his back. He pulled her around where he could look at her
face. "How are you doing?" He had to yell, although they were close together
for the howling wind. Her lips were blue and shivering uncontrollably. Her
cheeks were pinched and red with the cold. She could not respond, just shook
her head miserably. Frustration and anger boiled over and he wanted to hit
something. Despite all of his hard work he was losing. The Weasels would win
and he would die out here with Mirian. Just another proof that the belief that
the Spirits could fortell a man's life well enough to guide him was nothing
more than a fairy tale. Just like the so called Badger. They had trekked
through the harsh landscape of the frozen desert for a week, then up into the
treeless mountains for two more days all on the advice of a drunken old woman.
Chasing after yet another supernatural cure for their utterly natural
problems. And once again Tiriak was being rewarded for his faith with
disaster. At least he could be certain that this would be the last time he
would be disappointed. He picked up Mirian in his arms this time, tucking the
blanket in around her feet the best he could. Then grabbing a handful of snow
to slake his thirst he struggled back to his feet. From where he stood he
could see that he was at the right hand side of the valley. A few feet past
the shelf against which he was leaning, and beneath which he was sheltering,
he could see the wall of the canyon stretch up out of sight in the blowing
snow. The wall curved back to the left before it too disappeared, and he knew
that he would be once again out in the blowing wind. Knowing that he would not
be able to get up if he waited any longer he set off again. He followed the
right hand side of the canyon, the wind at his back. He felt the land rising
slightly, but in his tiny world was unable to really guage how much. He
struggled on for what seemed hours, but still found no more shelter than
another curve in the canyon that blocked the worst of the wind. Feeling as if
he could not take another step he collapsed to the frozen ground in the
pitiful shelter. Pulling the blankets back from Mirian's face to check on her
he found her eyes closed and for a moment the world swirled around him as he
thought she was dead. Then her eyes fluttered open, and he was not sure
whether it was a good thing or not that she had stopped shivering. Her lips
moved, and he struggled to hear her over the roar of the wind.
"It's alright Tiriak, I am not cold anymore. In fact, I
don't remember ever feeling this warm. I am just going to take a nap. You
should too, you look exhausted!" She closed her eyes, and he sat staring at
her face for a time, until a stray snowflake swirled in and landed on her
cheek. He quickly bundled her up again, then held her close and fought the
fear in his heart. He had not the strength to stand and struggle onward, but
he knew that her delirious state was the last stage before death. Then he
began to warm up himself, and decided that Mirian had been right. A short nap
was exactly what he needed. As he drifted off to sleep, he dreamt of a
gigantic fuzzy dog snuffling at him. He wanted to reach out to pat its
friendly snout, but felt so drowsy and sleepy that he could not find the
strength.
Death was not so bad, Tiriak decided. He felt warm and comfortable, and he
even seemed to have imagined that someone had brought him something warm to
drink at one time. It was dark, but a warm glow came from somewhere out of
sight. The smell of spices and baking reminded him of lazy fall mornings at
home, when the harvest was brought in and there was a lull in the normally
busy schedule of a farm. His father would occasionally allow him to lay in bed
on such mornings, trying to stay asleep while his mother fixed breakfast. The
only problem with being dead was that it seemed that a million bees were
buzzing inside of his feet. They constantly itched and twitched, and he
realized that this was the feeling which had brought him from deep sleep. Did
dead people sleep? He wondered. Or, if they did, how was it possible to be
awakened? He was perplexed, but much too comfortable and warm to worry about
it much. Other than the swarm of bees making a hive in the lower half of his
legs he was utterly relaxed. His foot twitched again and he shook it to try
and drive the bees off. They only buzzed the louder, and he felt something
slip off of his foot and cool air struck his skin. How curious that a dead
person could feel so much and be aware of so much Tiriak wondered. Shouldn't
he be in oblivion? Shouldn't his body be frozen to the bank of some canyon
where he had died with Mirian in his arms? The curiosity was growing, and he
soon realized that he would not be able to slip back into comfortable rest
without resolving it. Tiriak tried to slip back into the warm oblivion,
but the assault of sensation in his feet and elsewhere on his body kept
bringing him back. Then another new sensation, his stomach growled. In
addition to the familiar sensation, he actually heard the growling and
bubbling as his stomach reminded him that he was starving. No way a dead
person could be hungry! He shook his head and discovered that he could not
possibly be dead. He struggled to sit up, then startled when a soft, gentle
hand pushed firmly in the center of his chest, forcing him back down.
"Don't try to get up friend, you have nowhere pressing
to go. I am not sure you would have the strength just yet anyway." The voice
was interesting. It had the strength and conviction of wisdom and strength,
but lacked nothing in caring and tenderness. It was the voice of caring and
charity personified, yet with the strength of the most terrible war leader in
history. Tiriak looked around, trying to locate its source, but the room was
too dark. "Who... where... Am I dead?" Tiriak asked, his voice cracking
painfully. He tried to swallow, but found his mouth was horribly dry. The
gentle hand moved from his chest to the back of his head, tilting it up while
a cup of cool water was pressed to his lips. He sipped the water greedily, the
cool wetness spreading quickly through his parched mouth. He tried to gulp
more, but the cup was removed and his head was placed gently back on the
pillow. He lay there, feeling the cool water trace a course down his throat
and into his belly. Then he asked his question again.
"Am I dead?" The gentle voice laughed softly, without
malice or ridicule and Tiriak found himself wanting to laugh too. "Then where
am I, if not dead?" he asked, more firmly this time.
"You are safe. However you cut it pretty close there.
If not for an overgrown puppy who wanted to go out into a snow storm to
relieve himself, you would most likely be right." Then a terrified thought
struk Tiriak, and his throat closed before he could voice it. The voice must
have noticed the flicker of pain across his face, and correctly interpreted
it.
"Your little friend is safe too, although she was in
much worse shape than you. She has yet to awaken, but I am certain that she
will be fine. She is a strong one, that girl." The obvious concern in the
voice assuaged his feelings of guilt, and he felt relief take its place.
"Where is she? Can I see..." Tiriak struggled to sit
up again, but the gentle hand pushed him again back into the pillows.
"When you are both ready, I will reunite you. Til
then, you must concentrate on your own recovery." Tiriak surrendered, then his
stomach growled again, loudly and almost painfully. The voice laughed again,
and Tiriak felt himself smiling too.
"You must be hungry. That is good, it means that your
body is ready to begin rebuilding. Let me get you something to eat." Tiriak
heard the voice stand up and move across the room. Then, the pale light
blinked out for a moment as it was blocked by the voice's body. Tiriak turned
in time to see a shape that seemed impossibly large duck through a
ridiculously small doorway somewhere across the room. He pushed himself
upright, letting the warm covers slip away from his body. The air in the room
was far from cold, but compared to the warmth he had felt underneath the
covers it was almost biting and he gasped at the contrast. The cool ari
cleared his head somewhat, and his eyes struggled to focus in the dark room.
He put his hands up to rub his eyes, and found them covered with cloth. He
stared at them for a moment, wondering what had happened to his hands that
they needed to be bandaged, when the large shape blocked the light through the
doorway again, this time carrying a lantern. For the first time, Tiriak was
able to see the face of the voice. It was a kind face, surrounded by a flowing
white beard that resembled nothing other than a halo. Two sharp yet cheery
eyes were set beneath two eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own, of
the same snowy white color as the beard, they were only just behind in their
length and fluffiness. Although the mouth was mostly hidden behind the waving
white beard, Tiriak could tell that a great smile was there, and he felt
immediately at peace with its owner. Not since the day he had set off on his
quest had Tiriak felt such a feeling of peace and well being. Whoever this
person was, he knew instantly and without a doubt that he was a friend, and
could be trusted with anything and everything. The man came around the bed
where Tiriak lay and placed the lantern and a steaming bowl of something that
smelled utterly heavenly on the side table. Then, he reached behind Tiriak and
rearranged the pillows so that he could sit up straight. As he did so Tiriak
marvelled at the size of the hands, but even more so at their extreme
gentleness. They looked large enough to crush rocks to dust, yet felt gentle
enough to pluck a bit of dust from the smallest baby's eye without causing any
harm.
His amazement must have been plain on his face, for the man chuckled softly,
and answered the question that was foremost in his mind. "You can call me
Tejon, for now. When you have eaten and recovered a bit I will tell you more.
You need not know any more for now." Tiriak felt the tinies wrangling of
annoyance at the thought of not needing to know something, but the utter trust
he felt in this person quickly alleviated that. He nodded, and looked hungrily
at the soup. Tejon settled himself down on a stool pulled up close to his bed,
and picked up the bowl. Tiriak reached for it with his bandaged hands, and
Tejon laughed again. "I know you are much too old to be spoon fed, but until
you recover full use of your hands I reccomend that you humble yourself and
allow me to do so. Your hands were quite burned by the frost, and you were
lucky that you still have all ten. However, it will be a while before you will
be able to do any kind of work as delicate as spooning food into your mouth.
Since I don't want to have to change the bedclothes just yet, you will have to
either allow me, or go hungry." The smile on his face as he spoke these words
was so warm and his feelings of trust so great that Tiriak surrendered easily,
settling back into the pillows with a sigh and accepting the warm broth from
the spoon proffered by the enourmous hands. The broth tasted, if possible,
even better than it smelled, and he quickly emptied the bowl. His stomach
rumbled loudly demanding more, but Tejon shook his head.
"Your body is not yet as ready for food as it thinks
it is. Give your stomach an hour or two to digest that, and we will feed it
some more." Tiriak was disappointed, he felt utterly well enough to eat an
entire horse, but had no inclination to argue with this strange person.
However, now that his hunger was slaked his mind insisted on also being fed.
"Where am I? How long have I been here?" he asked,
looking again at his bandaged hands. Nore questions tumbled through his mind,
and he struggled to prioritize them, knowing instinctively that Tejon, whoever
he was would not reveal too much at once. Tejon peered intently into his eyes
before answering, as if guaging his ability to handle the information. "You
have been in my house for just over seven days. In that time you have slept
deeply and long, as one who has not slept comfortably for a while." Tiriak
felt the creeping despair of his vision quest and the aftermath begin to seep
back into his consciousness, but Tejon quickly banished those thoughts. "You
will have no nightmares while you rest in my house. I allow no despair
here, nor unreasoned fear. When you are strong enough, if you wish you may
tell me of your dreams, and I will do my best to help you understand them, but
I cannot guarantee anything. The ways of the Spirits are not easily
interpreted, regardless of what some so called 'wise' men might say." he said,
as one large finger gently traced the faint purple lines on the side of
Tiriak's face. Tiriak felt his anxiety slip easily away, and at the touch of
Tejon's finger his scars warmed, not with the vicious heat he was accustomed
to when reminded of his quest, but with a gentle warmth that soothed rather
than terrified. He turned his eyes to Tejon, wonderingly trying to understand
this person who had obviously saved his life and how he could know so much
about his inner turmoil with so little spoken aloud. Tejon met his gaze
unflinchingly, almost inviting him to study the depths of those blue eyes. It
was Tiriak who first turned away, feeling suddenly afraid to learn much more.
He was beginning to feel sleepy again, the warm broth seeping its strength
into his battered body and reminding it of its need for more rest to repair
itself. Tejon seemed to immediately sense this, and reaching over rearranged
the pillows so that Tiriak was once again comfortable flat on his back. As he
drifted off, Tejon stood, taking the lantern and empty bowl and moving towards
the door. As he did, the light from the lantern flickered over something
on the far wall. Tiriak recognized the cold polished steel of his father's
sword, hanging in the place of honor over the door. Beneath it was a smaller
glint of silver, and he realized that his vision dagger had also been given
honor in its display. Then Tejon ducked his massive shaggy head and went
beneath the two symbols of his life, and the light was gone. Tiriak wondered
again what wonderful place he had arrived in, right before his eyes closed and
he drifted off again to sleep.
As Tejon promised, Tiriak slept dreamlessly for the next few days, waking long
enough to be fed another bowl of the wonderful broth, eventually graduating to
soft chunks of vegetables and meat and finally a crusty hunk of bread spread
with thick creamy butter. His hands and feet continued to itch maddeningly as
they healed and Tiriak began to chafe at being restrained to the bed. He also
wanted to see Mirian, to know that she was well and revovering. Finally, one
day he decided to get out of bed and find her. He was not worried that Tejon
would lie to him. He was not worried that something horrible had happened, he
simply wanted to see his friend, and to set his mind at ease about her. He
pushed the covers back, and swung his feet off the bed. The freshly changed
bandages reminded him that his feet were still not fully recovered, but they
felt so much better that he had convinced himself that they would easily
support his weight. He pushed himself off the bed and gingerly placed some
weight on his feet. The bees returned with a veangeance, buzzing and swarming
all about the healing skin. Tiriak gritted his teeth and let a little more
weight off the bed and on to his feet. The first sliveres of pain shot up from
his toes, and he bit his toungue to keep a gasp of pain inside. He had no idea
where Tejon was, but he knew that the man had an uncanny ability to detect any
stirring of his patient and was worried that at any moment he would come in
and put him back to bed. He was now standing free of the bed, all of his
weight on his injured feet. He shifted his weight back and forth
experimentally, testing the reaction that his feet and toes would make. The
pain was duller now, a throbbing that began with pinpricks in the toes and
thickened as it moved upwards through his calves. He took a tentative step
forwards, feeling his head spin with dizzyness. He had never realized what a
miracle it was that humans could walk upright at all. After so long on his
back he was amazed at all of the different muscles and bones that had to work
in perfect concert to allow this most natural of actions. His weight
transferred successfully to the front foot, he lifted the back one to complete
the first stride. His foot shuffled forwards, passing the first and then
leading out. He gasped in satisfaction. His heart was pounding with the
exertion, but he felt elated at his apparent success so far. Taking another
tentative step, and another he managed to shuffle around the foot of the bed
towards the door. He paused at the far corner of the bed, waiting for his
heartbeat to slow and his breathing to subside. A faint ringing was starting
to build up in his ears, but thankfully the dull throbbing in his feet was
beginning to fade. He gathered his strength and took a step away from the bed,
towards the door. Til then he had not realized how much he was leaning on the
bed for support, but with it gone he realized that his hand on the bed had
been providing more than just comfort. The room spun crazily and he tottered
on his feet. His eyes caught sight of the dull shine of the blade of his
father's sword, and he forced himself to focus all of his attention on that,
to think only of steadying the room and staying upright by focusing on that
one distant point. After a few seconds, it worked and he took another
tentative step. Each step that brought him closer to the low arch of the
doorway became easier and easier and the pain in his feet less and less. He
was feeling heady with confidence when he finally reached the doorway and
leaned on it. He reached one hand up and touched his father's sword, feeling
gratitude to Tejon for recognizing its worth and giving it due respect. The
slim silver dagger he tried not to look at, the memories it engendered were
far too painful yet to dwell upon. After a moment he ducked his head and
stepped through the low doorway. On the other side he found himself in a large
comfortable kitchen. The constant warm glow that had illuminated his room came
from an open fire burning at the far end. Hanging over the fire was a huge
cauldron bubbling over with the now familiar stew. The kitchen was huge and
was lit mainly by the large open fire. The smoke hole high above the open
fire let in a blinding ray of sunlight, filtered only by the haze of
smoke hovering about the roof. Tiriak stood still for a moment, taking in the
scene. Now that he had emerged from his dark room, he was not sure where to
go. Two large tables and countless chairs were scattered about the space,
as if a large party had just ended although the place was deserted. Several
small arches identical to the one he had just passed through were spaced
regularly around the room, but there was no indication that he could see to
tell where any one of them went. He decided to try the one immediately to his
left. As he shuffled slowly towards it he could feel the ache beginning to
return to his feet and his head spun even more crazily, but he persisted. He
approached the doorway slowly, not wanting to intrude on a stranger, but
needing to satisfy his curiosity regarding Mirian. He lowered his head and
peeked in, but could hear nothing. The room was as dark as his had been, and
after the relative brightness of the kitchen his eyes could see nothing. He
waited for them to adjust, shuffling the rest of his body through the opening.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that he could see a room set
up exactly like his had been. And lying on the bed was a small body, his heart
leaped as he realized that it was just the right size to be Mirian. He rushed
in, and in his haste he did not see the large shape sitting in the far corner.
He reached the bed and leaned over so he could see the face. The room was
still too dark, and he could not distinguish the features, whoever it was had
their head buried in the covers. Not wanting to awake the person, if it was
not Mirian he hesitated to touch, or to speak to the person. Then he heard a
sound, muffled in the blankets. It sounded strangely like a giggle, but he
could not imagine what in this place would make such a noise. He stepped back
a step, and the noise came again, louder this time and he noticed the mound of
blankets covering the person on the bed moving slightly. Then, from the dark
corner of the room he heard familiar laughter, a deep resonating laughter that
pulled the corners of his own mouth up in a reflex imitation. He whipped his
head around, and finally saw the massive shadow of Tejon sitting in the
corner. Tiriak was confused. The giggle erupted again from the bed, and the
shape abruptly sat up and he saw the familiar face that he had been searching
for. Mirian was giggling uncontrollably and threw her arms wide for a hug.
Tiriak stood there in amazement for a moment, then fell into the enthusiastic
embrace. He felt tears of joy streaming down his face, and he found himself
laughing out loud himself. They stayed there like that for a long time,
laughing, crying, hugging, just enjoying being together in such a happy
and comfortable place. Since they had met, they had been struggling for their
lives in one miserable place or another. Now they were in this wonderful
place, having their needs met by Tejon and as far as they were both concerned,
there was nothing else in the world for them. They would have stayed there
longer, but Tiriak's feet had reached their limit, and his head swam and his
feet buckled and he would have ended up on the floor, had not Tejon appeared
suddenly behind him and caught him. He swept him up and set him in the chair
he had just left. As Tiriak sat there trying to regain his balance he heard
Mirian's voice chattering away, asking question after question, telling him
stories and things that had happened to her, but he could not understand or
comprehend. Tejon reappeared with a lantern and a cup of cold water which
Tiriak took gratefully and sipped slowly at it. Tejon sat on a stool, and
silenced Mirian with a wave of his massive hand and watched carefully as
Tiriak recovered.
"I told you that you were not yet strong enough to get out
of bed. Yet I knew that you would not stay in much longer." The smile in his
voice tempered the gentle reprimand that Tiriak knew was there, and he did not
feel at all chagrined at having been caught out of bed against instructions.
Mirian giggled again, "Tejon told me that you would be up today. He said you
were getting too restless, and that you would come see me today, whether he
said you could or not." Tiriak laughed out loud. "I wanted to make sure that
you were alright. Tejon said that you were fine, but he wouldn't tell me
anything about you, or how you were doing..." his voice faded out as he saw
the mirth fade from Mirian's face. Tejon looked seriously at Tiriak, and he
realized that he had just stumbled into the reason why Tejon had been so
obtuse in answering questions about Mirian's condition. Tejon looked over at
Mirian and asked a question with his eyes. She understood and shook her head
fiercely. Tejon gazed into her eyes for a moment, then back to Tiriak. "How
are your feet feeling Tiriak?" he asked, surprising him with the seeming
change of topic. He thought for a moment about it, "They are still a
little bit sore, but I made it in here alright." Tejon nodded, then responded
softly, "Mirian's feet will never recover. They were far too frozen, and may
never be whole again." Tiriak felt his throat constrict and tears sprang to
his eyes. Guilt welled up in him, and he hung his head in shame. Tejon's deep
voice came to him soothingly, "You saved her life young man, more than once
according to her stories. Without you she would still be serving those vile
creatures, or the vicious villagers who saw only a small person whom they
could dominate." Tiriak looked up, into those deep blue eyes. He wanted to
believe those words, but he was still haunted. "But I should have found her a
place to stay, some place like this. I gave in to her belief in a fairy tale
and it nearly cost us our lives. Did she tell you how we came to be wandering
in that blizzard?" Tiriak saw a strange mirth in Tejon's face, and Mirian
covered an apparent giggle with both hands. He looked accusingly at her,
wondering how she could be laughing when her condition was so hopeless. Tejon
said nothing, just continued to watch the play of emotion across Tiriak's
face. He seemed to be waiting for him to finish his internal ruminations,
almost as if he could hear the thoughts in his mind. "Did she tell you? What
we were looking for? About the old crone, drooling down her chin and
staggering drunk who gave us instructions for finding the mythical Valley of
the Badger?" Tejon laughed out loud, but this time Tiriak's anger overrode the
urge to laugh along. Mirian could contain herself no longer, and she burst out
happily, "Haven't you figured out yet where we are Tiriak? Can you really be
that dense?" Tiriak turned his face towards her, laying there in her sickbed
with two feet that may never be normal again and laughing happily. "I don't
know where we are, Tejon won't tell me anything. Just keeps telling me that
all will be well, and to concentrate on recovering my strength. Where am I
Tejon!" Tiriak was getting seriously worked up now, and his head was
developing a serious ache. Tejon shook his head at the sudden outburst. "I
don't answer that question son, because if you don't believe, or don't
understand, then you really will never be here. And when you leave you will
never have been here. And so you will have proven yourself correct, this place
will remain a myth. Not because of your unbelief, but because I wish it so. If
you will not believe, then I want you not to believe." Tiriak puzzled over the
cryptic statement, and understanding began to dawn in his eyes. Mirian clapped
her hands happily. "He is starting to see Tejon! I told you he was smarter
than he lets on. Just a little bit slow sometimes!" Tejon laughed again, and
Tiriak finally believed and finally understood. And finally laughed, long and
loud and happily. Such is the way in the Valley of the Badger.
Wow! That ended pretty well. Although that was one of the more difficult
parts to write so far. Now we have a lot of time passing exercise to do, while
the two recover and heal and Tiriak begins to believe again. I still need to
develop his lack of belief a bit more earlier in the story. That is turning
out to be the main theme of the story - Tiriak's loss of belief, and gaining
it back.
Tiriak and Mirian spent most of their time together after that. Tiriak would
wake up and immediately go check on Mirian to see if there was anything he
could do to make her comfortable, fetch her food, water, whatever she needed.
If she was still sleeping he busied himself in the kitchen. He still tired
easily, and his feet even more easily, so whatever he did he tried to do it
sitting down but he was determined to make himself useful. He began to explore
the sprawling complex of tunnels that was known as The Burrow. He was amazed
to learn that the entire thing was underground, and except for the smoke hole
above the fire in the kitchen and the windows in the ceiling of the Great Hall
there were no windows. He had never imagined that an underground house could
be so homey and comfortable. It was indeed dark, but was warm and dry, except
for the cellar, which was always chilly; on purpose Tejon informed him. It
kept the food stores cold and unspoiled all year round. The windows in the
great hall were shuttered for the winter, but a row of open airholes ran all
along the ceiling and let in cool air and blinding white light. He found the
only doorway in the house which included an actual door. Tejon explained that
although the armory was filled with the finest of weapons, as long as peace
reigned in the Valley that the door would remain fast and only himself would
have the key. His father's sword was allowed its place of honor only because
Tejon understood that it would not be wielded foolishly or in haste. Tiriak
was somewhat taken aback when Tejon told him this. He wondered how he had
inspired such confidence in this man who knew so little of him and his life.
Yet he had no doubt that Tejon had more knowledge than he let on.
Tiriak began meeting other inhabitants of the valley, as he and Mirian were
judged strong enough to have company. He learned that the current emptiness of
the Burrow was quite unusual, and occasioned only by the need for Tiriak and
Marian's recovery. As they recovered the Burrow began again to be its normal
bustling center of social activity in the Valley. A few other adults were
seen, but by and large the population of the Valley were children. The adults
were all as merry and kind as Tejon himself, and the feeling whenever any
number were gathered together was that of a large family. As he got to know
the others he found many stories like his and Marian's, and many much more
painful. Yet the stories were all recited with an air of gratitude, as of
someone reciting nothing more than a silly nightmare, which when one has
awakened quickly fades into nothing more than uncomfortable memory. All shared
one thing in common. They had found their own way to the Valley. None had been
brought by parents no longer willing to bear the burden of children. None had
been sent by relatives too busy or concerned with their own families to care
for the orphans. All had been left alone in the world, and somehow had found
their way across the desert to the valley. Some had been given directions by a
former resident of the valley, some had pieced the location of the valley
together on their own from the bits and pieces of lore that blew this way and
that across the land. Tiriak wondered at this, thinking it somewhat
harsh that Tejon would not seek out the children who needed his help. He
questioned him on it, one night as they sat peeling potatoes in the warm
kitchen.
"Why don't you seek out children who are in need, and
who might be unable to travel across the desert to find you
Wait a minute. That is a pretty big plot hole. Do I really want to go
there? Why can't The Badger just be like Santa Claus and show up to rescue
kids? I wanted to have him give his shpiel about not wanting to encourage
parents to dump their kids on him, but now that is sounding a bit hard
hearted. Hmmm.... I guess I will follow the story for a bit and see how it
turns out. Nope, I am going to skip ahead to the battle training...
Tiriak was waiting early the next morning, his stomach churning with
anticipation. He could not decide whether he was excited or nervous about the
day. He sat on a stump at the edge of the broad field, watching the sun rise
and trying to remember the few things his father had taught him about sword
fighting.
"Are you ready?" the deep voice of Tejon caught him by
surprise and he jerked upright and spun around. Tejon stood there, dressed in
battle garb, holding two wooden swords. Tiriak suddenly wondered if he should
have worn something else, but Tejon as usual was one step ahead of him. "You
will probably want to put this on." He held out a leather vest and a battered
helmet. Tiriak took them and struggled into them. Tejon waited patiently, then
handed him his wooden sword. Tiriak held it awkwardly, wondering what was
next. Tejon looked at him with a laugh in his eyes and took a step back,
raising his sword into position. Tiriak stepped back and tried to imitate the
move. Tejon laughed out loud.
"First of all, it is quite rare in a real fight that you
will get a chance to prepare yourself. Most fights, especially in a war are
not real dignified affairs. Men just swing their swords at each other until
one gets too tired to continue and he dies. The winner then goes on to the
next victim until he is too tired, then he dies. So on and so forth until one
of the armies decides they have lost enough men and someone surrenders, or
runs, or defects to the winning side." the humor had left his voice, his eyes
were now grave and serious. "War is an ugly business Tiriak, but it is good
that this is so. Otherwise we would grow too fond of it." Tiriak nodded. His
father had told him the same thing on more than one occaision. "But for those
who do not learn the arts of war, life is full of fear and trepidation. Peace
requires strength. Security requires sacrifice. Freedom requires the blood of
good men and women who understand these things. But you don't win wars by
sacrificing your own blood, you win by convincing the other guy to sacrifice
his." Saying this, he swung his sword in a vicious overhand arc that landed
squarely in the middle of Tiriak's forehead. The metal helmet clanged and
Tiriak stumbled backwards watching the stars swirl around his head. Tejon
pressed the attack, and Tiriak vainly attempted to bring his sword up in
defense. Tejon easily slapped it aside and tapped him quickly once on each
side of his helmet then thrust the blunt point of the sword into Tiriak's
stomach. He gasped and fell to his knees, feeling anger well up inside of him.
He had not expected his lessons to be easy, but had not expected either to be
beaten and humiliated. Nevertheless, Tejon continued pressing in towards him,
swinging his sword in a series of short yet powerful strokes, each one
connecting with Tiriak's body at a different point. Tiriak had finally had
enough. Grasping his sword with both hands he swung madly at Tejon's attack,
parrying the sword away and swinging wildly at his face. Tejon easily dodged
the attack and responded by swinging his sword underneath Tiriak's wild swing
and connecting another sharp blow to his ribs. Tiriak was now absolutely
furious, and his head was buzzing. He took a step back, trying to create some
space between himself and Tejon but he simply pressed his advance all the
more. Suddenly Tiriak felt himself falling backwards, his sword falling out of
his grasp and flying away. He lay there on his back, panting and angry as the
Tejon finally stepped back and leaned on his sword.
"Not bad for a first lesson. You took your blows well. Most
men will flinch and curl up into themselves when they are hit. You were trying
to attack even as I was beating you." Tiriak wanted to yell, he wanted to
curse, but at the same time he listened to the words and felt a feeling of
pride. Tejon smiled, as usual understanding exactly what Tiriak was thinking.
"You will do fine. You are your father's son." He reached out a giant hand and
Tiriak grasped it and pulled himself to his feet. "I suppose I should teach
you to defend yourself now." Tejon said with a twinkle in his eyes. Tiriak
found himself smiling in answer.
Over the next few weeks Tiriak worked with Tejon as often as his duties would
permit. When Tejon was not available, Tiriak worked by himself. Standing out
in the field