Valley of the Shadow

by Michael Gardner

  Raven held up the needle.

  Basileios reached out as if he were about to strike Raven, but instead placed his hand gently on Raven’s head and tousled his hair. “Good boy,” he said. “Now go see your mother. She’s prepared the midday meal.”

  Raven waited several more days until the weather was fine, warm and settled. Basileios had taken the boys fishing. He filled his knapsack with his clothes, and slung his bow and loaded quiver across his back. He found Charis in the garden pulling weeds and cleared his throat.

  She turned and her mouth fell open. They looked at each other for a long moment without speaking. Then she nodded and bowed her head. Raven saw her tears fall to the earth. He approached her quietly, extended his hand and stroked her head. “I have to go now. You have been a good mother and I’ll never forget you,” he said.

  She held out her hand. He took it and pressed his lips to her palm, not caring it was covered with dirt.

  ~ Chapter 5 ~

  The Watcher’s Tower (The Arcananian Border between Ancient Greece and Illyria)

  280 BC

  Raven travelled north towards Lilya and The Watcher’s Tower. He remembered Wolf’s story about Khryseoi childhood being a confusing experience. In the centuries that had passed before his death at the hand of Acabar, Raven had found it easy to shy away from attachments to people he would invariably lose. In the short time he’d spent with his new family, he’d started to feel a need to protect and provide for them. They lingered in his thoughts. Despite their prejudices and fears about his appearance, there had been many good times filled with laughter and love. He stopped walking as a powerful urge to return to them took hold, but he was Khryseoi, and no matter what he did, he would lose them either by natural means or at the hand of Eurynomos. He tried to force the thought from his mind but it was too late. Unless Acabar could be stopped, Charis, Basileios, Duris, Eos, and every other living creature would become part of The Forsaken.

  He pressed on again. Lilya was his best ally now that Wolf had gone. Raven would need to rely on her strength and support until he was fully grown. As he travelled, he rested often and ran only when necessary. Wherever possible, he avoided people and roads. He hadn’t felt the overwhelming fatigue of his first few years for some time but any recurrence would put him at risk alone in the wild. He couldn’t expect too much of his body. It needed to grow and refused to be pushed beyond its mortal limits. He shuddered, unnerved by the thought he was now so vulnerable, for he would be no match for a dark spirit.

  Finding the shoreline, Raven made the ivory beaches his nomadic home, using driftwood for poles to pitch his small tent each night. He fished from the rocks and roasted his catch over the hot coals of his campfire. As he walked, he ate leaves and berries as he found them in nature’s larder. There was a meal to be had almost anywhere and he was grateful for the memory of centuries of bush craft.

  On the fifth day of his journey, dark clouds gathered and the air swelled with oppressive heat. Raven turned away from the coast to find shelter in woodland where the trees had denser canopies than their coastal cousins. The rain came before his short legs could climb a rise, falling hard and heavy, soaking him to the skin. He took shelter under a large pine tree to wait out the storm, huddling under the canvas sheet he used for his tent. The rain pounded like a hundred drums. As he crouched there, his teeth started chattering and he felt the desire to return to his family to rest in Charis’s loving embrace. Now they were separated, he felt a dull ache in his chest which reminded him of an old wound aggravated by winter’s chill. It was the same sense of loss he’d felt for his first mother and father. This time the feeling was close and raw, yet to be dulled by time. Charis set his mind at ease. His first mother had done the same, singing different songs and telling stories in another language. These mothers were like sisters separated by time. He remembered being held by them both, listening to their heartbeats, feeling his own settle down into the same rhythm. Raven realised he was confident he could also have won Basileios’s affection with time and patience. He closed his eyes and hung his head. This was the Khryseoi’s sacrifice.

  The rain passed, leaving the air fresh and fragrant with pine. Raven pressed on, seeking patches of sunshine between the trees so his clothes would dry. He came across a glade with lush green grass and stopped to rest. On a rotting log under a tree he spied a clump of mushrooms. He hurried over to inspect them. A cautious forager avoided any mushroom that wasn’t white on top and dark brown underneath. He saw two varieties: the first was red as fresh blood, the other was as yellow as autumn leaves. Snapping the stalks and caressing the gills, Raven brought the different scents to his nose with his fingertips. The red caps smelled of three-day-old fish. They would be lethal if consumed, so he put them aside. The yellow ones had the odour of stone-cracked barley, a rare prize, and soon after, he sat down to enjoy three large caps lightly toasted on a stick. The flavour brought back more memories of his first childhood. They were as rich and savoury as roasted red meat. As a young child in Britannia he’d been taught which mushrooms were safe to eat. When he went hunting, he was as happy to return with a bag full of mushrooms as with a wild beast. Back then, he never would have imagined he would eat mushrooms in a faraway land, fried in olive oil and seasoned with herbs and a pinch of salt, but these ones were just as good unseasoned and cooked on a stick. Now that his clothes were dry and belly full, he let out a long yawn and lay down to sleep.

  In a child’s body, every step of his journey was testing. Travelling north as directly as possible, he was forced to climb weather-battered slopes sparsely covered by straggly dark green shrubs. He stopped often to bind his feet with cloth strips to stop his blisters from bleeding. His palms and knees were grazed and his young muscles ached with the rigours of climbing. He longed for the strength of his former body, forever in its prime. Then the wild lands would have been no challenge. He could have run free as wind over the hills and across the valleys.

  Breathless, sweaty and tired, he looked down the cliff face, following the curve of the beach as it stretched away, edged by a light veil of blue-green water. As much as his body protested at the ordeal of climbing, where there were no beaches, the shoreline was unsafe to cross. The rocks were sharp and loose, and though the sea was invitingly clear, the water was deep and treacherous. Greece revealed the dangers of her shoreline as if she were tempting Raven to test his resolve there.

  Food and water was scarce on the remote cliff tops, and Raven’s water skin soon ran dry. He ate shoots of andrakla thriving in the poor soil. The succulent red stalks and small green leaves provided some moisture and nourishment, but his mouth remained dry.

  When at last he heard a stream, he chased the sound, running without pause for the first time since starting his journey. Dropping his burdens and stripping to the skin, he dived into the water, not caring that it was cold. He drank, splashed and allowed his hot, tired feet to soak in the soothing water. Then he laughed, suddenly aware he was playing as if he were an eight-year-old boy, not a man of eighteen hundred years or more. He washed the dirt from his face and thought about when he had forgotten his exact age. Some time in his first two hundred years the notion of keeping track of his age and observing his birthday had come to seem pointless.

  Suddenly, over the soft babbling of the brook, he heard footfalls crunching the long grass. He turned to see a stocky man wearing a stained cloak and carrying a staff used to herd goats. His skin was as weather-beaten as the cliff face. “Are you lost, child?” he said.

  Raven scrambled out of the stream and began to dress, struggling to pull his wet arms through the sleeves of his chiton.

  “You’re no Greek,” the man continued.

  Raven pulled on his sandals and grabbed his pack.

  “Don’t you speak, boy? I’m curious to know what you’re doing alone in these hills.”

  “I come from the north,” said Raven. “I’ve been sent to live with my aunt. She resides in a small tower overlooking the sea towar
ds Illyria.”

  The man raised his eyebrows and his forehead creased. “The daughter of Circe is your kin?”

  Raven wasn’t sure if the man had made the remark out of fear or surprise. He nodded and slung his quiver over his shoulder, but kept his bow in his hand, leaning on it like a walking stick.

  The man knelt down at the water’s edge. “They speak of her in my village now and then,” he said, taking his eyes away from Raven to fill a water bladder from the stream. “Some say she has great knowledge of herbs and mixes them to heal the sick. Others say she uses magic, that she’s a witch and unnaturally long-lived. A few say she brings luck by some means or other, although I’ve not seen how. Are you lucky too, boy?”

  “No more than the next person,” Raven replied.

  The man sealed his skin with a wooden plug. “The north, you say? I’d say you must be lucky, a boy of your age travelling so far alone. The wilds are dangerous. My people have come to be suspicious of strangers. We’ve seen too many in recent years, and most have come into our lands with swords and ill intent.” His eyes fell on Raven’s bow. “We don’t trust outsiders, even children.”

  “My aunt... I mean her people have lived here for a long time. Is she counted as a stranger among you too?”

  “I’ve never met any of ‘her people.’ ”

  “Have you met my aunt?”

  The man nodded. “We’ve crossed paths. The first time I was a boy about your age.” He washed his hands and face and met Raven’s gaze. A small grin appeared in his dripping beard. With the dirt washed away, Raven could see it was flecked with grey.

  Raven gripped his bow tightly with both hands. “Where are your goats? Aren’t you concerned they’ll stray?”

  The man stood and picked up his staff. “Who said I was a goatherd? I’d suggest you get on your way. You’ll not make the tower before dusk. Give your aunt my regards.”

  Raven backed away, freeing one arm from his bow, ready to reach for an arrow. The man leaned on his staff with both hands and smiled. As soon as he felt safe enough to turn his back, Raven broke into a run. He glanced back over his shoulder. The man had remained by the stream, watching. Raven bolted, running until his lungs were burning and his legs were hot and sore.

  When he couldn’t run any more, he stopped and lay down on his back panting. He wondered if this was another reason Phylasso had cautioned the Khryseoi about becoming involved in mortal affairs, that they were daemons now, changed forever. There was no going back, only a release from the gift. He wondered if immortality was indeed a curse, as the strange spirit, Guide, whom Raven had met in the Valley of the Shadow, had suggested. If mortals understood it was possible to transcend death, a dangerous seed would be planted. There would be many people, like Theophilos, who would meddle with the unknown to discover the secret of eternal life. If that weren’t possible, they would come to fear the Khryseoi and start a war of a different kind. It was human nature. The Khryseoi were better to live in the shadows and travel the world unseen, as if clothed in mist, and hope all knowledge of their existence would be lost in myth.

  Raven caught his breath and pressed on. As the sun sank into the ocean, he spied the tower atop the next rise, although ‘tower’ was a generous word for the structure. It was a small circular stone building, just tall enough for its occupants to see the land beyond the cliff’s edge from the second storey. The setting sun cast a red hue across the wispy clouds. Raven forced his tired legs to walk although he knew he couldn’t reach the tower before dark. Without an adult’s strength and coordination he believed it was unwise to make an ascent of unfamiliar slopes at night. He used the remaining light to find a nook in the rocks for shelter from the biting sea breeze. Cocooning himself in his blanket he settled down to sleep with the hope that this would be his last night alone as a child. Despite years of meditation and practice of mind-easing techniques he couldn’t fall asleep, so he listened to the waves crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. Deep into the night sleep took him at last. His dreams were filled with dark shapes and distant roars.

  His eyes were dry and sore when he woke, and he found himself lying in an uncomfortable position some distance from the spot where he had settled down for the night. Unravelling himself from his canvas sheet, he wondered how he’d managed to sleep at all. No longer needing to ration his water, he drank deeply from his water skin and poured the rest over his head. The icy water stung his face and he cried out, his voice echoing through the valley. He rolled up his tent canvas and began to climb, not waiting to see if his outburst had attracted attention.

  After an hour, he reached the top. He mopped the sweat from his face and felt relieved to walk on firm ground. He resisted the urge to call out to Lilya and waited instead for the warmth of the epiphaneia to reveal her presence. It was subtle between Khryseoi, a soothing sensation like sitting beside an open fire on a cold night. Only the smell of the sea disturbed the air. He quickened his pace to a trot and then ran at full speed up the slope towards the tower. The sandstone was splotched with damp in places and mottled with lichen. Some reeds had come loose from the roof. It was unlike Lilya to allow the tower to fall into disrepair. She was orderly, particular, and to Raven’s knowledge, never strayed far from the tower for too long. The old wooden door, warped and heavy with recent rain, swayed in the breeze. Raven dropped his gear, pushed the door open and crept inside.

  He called her name quietly at first, and then louder. The ground floor chamber was a mess. The table and chairs had been overturned, possessions were scattered over the floor, and a large wooden box containing many of his gifts to her, lay on its side.

  “Lilya?” he cried out at the top of his voice. He rushed up the stairwell that hugged the inner wall and spiralled up to the second floor.

  Lilya was draped over the end of her bed. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale and her dark hair was plastered to her face. Raven fell to his knees at her side and peeled back the wet tresses. She stared at him with vacant eyes. As he cupped her face in his small hands, her skin felt clammy and cold. He had examined many fallen comrades during the war. If they had not been unbound, a resonance remained; a breath of wind shifting through a forest. The air around Lilya was still. He groaned from the place deep in his soul.

  He made a fire in the hearth and hung a bronze pot filled with rain water above it to warm. She was beyond his strength to lift, so he wrestled with her body to set it straight on the bed, his tears dotting her dress. He cut the dress away, washed her head to foot and combed her hair. While he worked he softly sang the songs his people used at sad times.

  The only sign of violence he found was a small cut on the side of her neck, a scratch, not enough to cause a mortal discomfort, let alone a Khryseoi. Finally, he pried open her jaw with his small fingers. Her tongue was swollen and black. Once he had cleaned her, he swaddled her in sheets.

  It took Raven two days to find enough wood for a funeral pyre and another to build a makeshift stretcher to move Lilya’s body. He handled her with as much care and respect as he could manage but he knew the journey from her bed to her final resting place was filled with jarring bumps. He built the pyre around the stretcher and set it alight. He hoped, as he watched the smoke rise to the heavens, that her spirit would be carried to a better place. She had been unbound, but by whom? If this were the work of a dark spirit, her soul was forfeit to Eurynomos.

  When the fire died out, he dug a small grave to bury the fragments of her bones. He returned her to the earth, apologising for the rough journey to her final resting place. With the cremation and burial complete, Raven yawned. He was worn out, but his mind remained alert and deeply troubled. He lay on Lilya’s bed to rest but the pain of her death was too close. The floorboards, although hard and cold, brought him more comfort. First Lykos and now Lilya. The Khryseoi were being hunted and killed. Without Phylasso their collective strength would diminish and then there would be no force on earth that could prevent Acabar from setting his master free.
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  Phylasso had never taught them about The Unbinding, how to pass on the gift of immortality, or how to choose the time and place of their return from death. Phylasso sat at the heart of unanswered questions. Now Lilya was gone, Raven understood he would have to enter the spirit world to try to contact Phylasso. He felt his heart accelerate and a cold pit open in his stomach. Many Khryseoi had tried to spirit walk and all had failed. He’d spent a long time with the small group who had been determined to master the art of separating their spirits from their mortal bodies. Raven had learnt the ritual but had never attempted it. He had seen what remained of a Khryseoi man who had failed. The man had lived on for a week unable to blink, a statue made from flesh. He had died of thirst, and to Raven’s knowledge, had never been reborn.

  With a heavy heart, Raven considered what he needed to do to prepare for the ritual. He also felt the urge to return to the place of his first death as keenly as if he’d been stuck with a knife. He turned his small hands in front of his face. They weren’t yet big enough to handle a bow that could stop a man, let alone a dark spirit. Before anything else, Raven would have to master his impatience until he became a man again.

  In the weeks following Lilya’s funeral, Raven slept little. He spent many nights watching from the second storey windows with a knife in his hand, haunted by the thought that if he had been The Watcher instead of Lilya, he would have been lying in her place. During the day he made arrows and placed them at every window, enough to defend against an attack for a time. He memorised every route and obstacle to and from the tower, and how to navigate them quickly, even on a moonless night, in case flight was his only remaining course of action.

  The fear Lilya’s killer might return forced him to review his options. He considered travelling alone, in the hope he could find another Khryseoi. Solomon lived in the cold mountains to the north, but he knew the ascent would be difficult and dangerous even for a grown Khryseoi. He was just as likely to encounter a dark spirit as he was another Khryseoi on the road. The Watcher’s Tower was defensible, familiar, and offered a chance of survival. He decided to stay for as long as it took him to recover his former strength.