by Ethan Proud
***
Ruckstead’s mustache was just as impeccable as it had been in life and his grey eyes burned with the same intensity, though in death they were full of sadness. He wore the clothes he had died in, but they showed no signs of Vahrun’s teeth, dirt, or any wear.
“Wilder,” Beatrice said in relief and raised an eyebrow coyly. Old habits die hard.
Ruckstead only sighed in response to her addressing him by his first name. “So you have died too.”
“I am not dead, I am returning to earth,” Beatrice said.
“Then you have not come from Northgate?” Ruckstead asked hollowly.
“No, I have come from the Halls of Mond,” Beatrice answered.
The sheriff snorted. “Just as devious as you were in life.”
“I am not dead, Wilder,” Beatrice said evenly. “I allied myself with Artemisia to defeat Vahrun and became collateral damage.”
“Then Vahrun is dead?” Ruckstead asked.
“His soul was shredded by Detrita’s sons. He no longer exists. How did you know I was lost?” Beatrice asked, thinking of the badge she still held. She handed it over to Ruckstead.
“I didn’t know it was you, but I could detect that you were from Northgate and I wished to hear news of Gertrude and Benjamin,” Ruckstead said, accepting the badge as he hung his head.
“Your wife and son are healthy and safe,” Beatrice said to comfort the sheriff. “Mond allowed me to watch the comings and goings of Northgate. The Rameks are all dead and a new mayor and sheriff have been elected. Artemisia still resides in the woods and sells her herbs and salves to the townsfolk in peace. She hasn’t been harassed by the law in some time.”
“Then Kerfield is not the sheriff?” Ruckstead asked and Beatrice hesitated. She did not want to reveal Gertrude’s role in the young deputy’s demise. She hemmed and hawed for a moment before she found the right words.
“His body is behind your house, he too was…collateral damage,” Beatrice said. “I am surprised you have not detected his crossing over.”
“Thank you for the news,” Ruckstead said solemnly. “When you return to Northgate, would you mind bearing a message to Gertrude for me?”
Beatrice shook her head. “I cannot go back to my home. The Fates have condemned me to the life of a wanderer.”
“No one’s fate is written in stone,” Ruckstead assured her.
“The gods seem to think differently,” Beatrice said, fighting back tears.
“I wouldn’t be so certain. I must search out James, but before I do so…I can take you to Nipor and you can plead your case,” Ruckstead said.
Beatrice nodded, but her heart clenched at the thought of facing the ruler of the Underworld, especially after having left his son to be consumed by his brothers.
Chapter Nine
Ruckstead led Beatrice to the Hall of Nipor unmolested. No evil beings attacked them, no gods attempted to thwart their travels.
“Is this plane so desolate that nothing is around to hinder us?” Beatrice asked and Ruckstead snorted.
“The third plane of the Underworld is the resting place of the dead. We desire peace. The only ghosts who haunt the living are lost and confused,” Ruckstead explained at the doors to a great hall which could have housed the entirety of Northgate. “But I must be going, I need to find Kerfield. Good luck on your journey and tell my wife that I love her if you should ever find yourself in Northgate.”
Ruckstead tipped his hat and was gone. Like a wisp on the wind his essence was taken elsewhere. Alone again, Beatrice turned to the doors which swung open silently in greeting. Within the hall were great braziers full of purple flames and the souls of gods, demons, and men tended to them with coals. Pillars larger than the ponderosa pines that surrounded Northgate held the ceiling out of Beatrice’s sight. A rug woven with rich colors and exquisite craftsmanship lined the length of the temple and at the end was a single throne. A staircase led from its base twenty feet into the air where an immense being rested.
Nipor, Lord of the Underworld, stood a staggering twelve feet tall and dwarfed the goddess’ Detrita and Mond. Beatrice felt small indeed before one of the Fates. Nipor had dark skin, though it was not like the sunkissed skin of the migrant workers Beatrice had seen. It was black like the night sky and scintillated in the light of the fires in the hall. Two servants, one human and one not, held platters brimming with food as Nipor neatly devoured one item after the other. Beatrice spied an entire turkey disappear down his gullet followed by a pheasant or duck. She felt her mouth water when he delicately selected a stalk of buttered asparagus.
Beatrice began moving down the hall towards Nipor. He followed her with his gaze the entire time, but said nothing. He continued to feast. As she got closer, Beatrice noticed the food less and less as her attention was stolen by the countenance of the Fate before her. His features were hard; a hooked nose, heavy brows, and a jawline that was closer to being called a muzzle. A moment later his face shifted and was completely wolfish before morphing back into the heavily browed man with a hooked nose, and a strong jaw. Another second later and another face regarded Beatrice. She counted fourteen transformations before she was at the foot of his throne and staring at the wolfen face. It shifted to resemble a human and stayed.
“Beatrice,” he boomed. “I am pleased that you have passed the Fates’ test.”
Rising to his feet, he descended the steps.
“Does that mean I get to go home now?” Beatrice asked, struggling to keep her voice from breaking or catching. She was unsuccessful at many junctures.
“You are free to return to the First Temporal Plane and find whatever home you may, but you will never return to Northgate,” Nipor answered. “I am sorry, but the first plane is one of many journeys you will take. The time spent there will seem superficial as time passes.”
“I beg of you to let me visit Northgate, if not to just pass through!” Beatrice pleaded. Twin trails of tears raced down her cheeks. “Please.”
Nipor’s brow furrowed. “We have chosen your path. To ask for another is to doubt our wisdom.”
His voice was full of anger but Beatrice was not done. As far as she was concerned she was immune from the perils of the Underworld—at least until she found herself back on the First Temporal Plane.
“My life has been ripped from me! It is cruelty to send me back and call it mercy,” Beatrice spat, though she sniffled and it broke her façade of stoicism.
“I never said that it was mercy or kindness. It is your fate. Wallowing in self-pity will get you nowhere. Out of my generosity I will send you somewhere you are familiar with.”
Beatrice resisted the urge to stamp her foot or cross her arms. She knew the difference between being demanding and throwing a tantrum. Instead, she took a deep breath, wiped the tears from her face and asked, “Is there another trial I must face or can I go now?”
Nipor smiled, though it wasn’t a gentle expression. “You have done enough.”
He clapped her on the back roughly and the entire Hall of Nipor dissolved around her. It was replaced with a bustling street, carts, carriages, and humans milling about and the smell of the ocean in her nostrils. The buildings were all blanched with the salt that filled the very air and Beatrice felt her hair already growing frizzy and kinky from the humidity. She smelled the fresh aroma of food coming from a nearby pub and her mouth welled with saliva and it was all she could do to keep it from cascading down her chin. She looked down at her garb and found that she was wearing a pair of breeches, knee high boots, and a sheepskin jacket. Many of the residents around her were dressed similarly, or were wearing floor length skirts and shawls.
Beatrice spotted a street vendor selling ale and wine in the horns of oxen and realized where she was at. An elderly woman with an extreme hunchback, two bright hazel eyes, and fewer wrinkles than she deserved stopped in front of Beatrice.
“Mond’s blessing to you!” the old woman exclaimed and clasped Beatrice’s hand in both of hers.
Beatrice swore with such profanity that she would have been fired from the town’s offices in Northgate. She was in the Mond worshipping port city of Hollandale.
The crone’s eyes darkened at the foul words coming from Beatrice’s mouth and she turned and hurried off. With a sigh, Beatrice turned and looked for the source of the smell of food. She saw a sign swinging on a post that read The Sloshed Seal Pub. It sounded like just the kind of place she wanted to be.
Chapter Ten
“Two shots of whiskey and whatever ale you have on tap,” Beatrice said as she sidled up to the bar and tried to decipher the chalk scrawl on the blackboard behind it. Realizing that she didn’t have any money she thrust her hands into the pockets of her jackets and found she had ample coin.
“Anything to eat, ma’am?” the bartender asked her. He was very young, probably no older than twenty and could have been considered handsome if he wasn’t missing two teeth and if the swelling from a black eye had gone down.
“I’ll have your specials,” Beatrice said when she couldn’t make a choice between her options.
Confused, the young man said, “There’s three of ‘em.”
“And I will have all three, now how about those shots?” Beatrice smiled demurely. She didn’t have to tiptoe around the ire of the gods or play at the devices of the Fates. She was back in her element. She ran a hand through her hair, working at the rats and gnarls that had already showed up with the moisture that weighed the air down.
The barman deftly poured her two shots and slid the glasses across the lacquered wood surface and Beatrice thanked him. She downed both of them in the span of seconds and didn’t even blink as the whiskey burned her thoat. She could have cried for joy, or laughed with hysterics, but she maintained her composure. In fact, she was marinating on Ruckstead’s words: No one’s fate is written in stone. She had spent enough time with Mond to know how fickle the gods were and a reasonable conjecture was that the Fates were just so inclined.
Her reverie was broken by a glass of ale and three plates full of mundane human food. The first plate had a charred fillet of some kind of fish and herb seasoned potatoes. The second was a slice of chicken breast paired with a beet salad. The last was pork and asparagus. She dove in with reckless abandon, only pausing to wipe her mouth with a napkin or cleanse her palate with hops infused liquid. She felt a hand on her back and whirled around with a clenched fist. As unbecoming as it would be for a woman to strike someone, Beatrice had her boundaries.
“Mycorr,” she said in astonishment.
He pulled a stool up next to her. His face was bruised, but other than that he looked no worse for wear.
“Beatrice,” he said amiably.
“I thought I would never see you again. I am glad you escaped,” she said and pushed the plate of half eaten chicken towards him but he declined.
“Your food holds no promise for me. I am, however, a fan of whiskey,” Mycorr said with a grin.
“In that case,” Beatrice started before politely garnering the attention of the bartender. “Four more shots of whiskey.”
Four shots and three courses later, Beatrice turned to Mycorr. “I didn’t think you needed to accompany me any further than the Underworld?”
The bartender shot them a strange look and moved to the far end of the bar to converse with other patrons.
“Indeed. But I have grown rather attached to you and would like to help you in your quest. I believe we have similar motives,” Mycorr said without giving anything away.
“It seems that my mission in life is to wander until I die,” Beatrice said morosely.
“If you adhered to the Fates’ wishes. But this is your life, and if you desire Northgate… then the Fates be damned,” Mycorr said and hailed the bartender for two more shots.
“As if I could contend with their wills,” Beatrice said derisively.
“You may not be able to, and neither can I… but we can petition those more powerful than us,” Mycorr replied cryptically.
“Detrita?”
“No, she will not help us because of her union with my father. Though undoubtedly she will be angry with him due to the treatment I suffered at the hands of my siblings. The power she achieves through him, though, is too much for her to discard easily. Mond will not help us either for fear of angering my mother. But D’rij is as volatile as the tides he commands. If any god will lend their ear to us, it will be him. We just have to find him,” Mycorr said between pulls of whiskey.
“That is good and all, but what do you have to gain from this?” Beatrice asked suspiciously. Mycorr was half god and half Fate, by all rights he was more fickle than his parentage.
“Revenge,” he started. “My father left me to be tortured by my siblings and did nothing.”
“And where are your siblings now?” Beatrice asked warily.
“One is dead, and the other two are my slaves should I ever return,” Mycorr said casually and Beatrice made a mental note to never cross him.
“Good. I’m glad you are safe,” Beatrice said into her ale before looking up. “And how do we find D’rij?”
“We go out to sea. The easiest portal to navigate is in the Kirean Archipelago,” Mycorr said and polished off his last shot.
Beatrice turned green at the very thought of being adrift on the ocean.
Of Ghosts and Men
Book Two
Chapter Eleven
Gertrude Ruckstead woke with a sigh as the cabinet door slammed thrice in a row and Benjamin came to in a fit of screaming. It had been nearly six months since the ghost of James Kerfield had grown restless and began tormenting the Ruckstead family. His spirit had been fairly benign for nearly four years. Now he had grown malevolent and Gertrude had not been able to sleep from dusk ‘til dawn in many moons. Rising from her bed, the widow went to her son’s room and sat down next to his shivering form.
“It’s just James,” she whispered as she ran her hand through Benjamin’s thick hair. He was almost seven years old. He’d started school last year. He enjoyed playing kickball with his peers and excelled in his studies, but his teacher had recently grown worried about the dark circles under his eyes and his lack of appetite.
“I know,” he whimpered. “He talks to me.”
“What does he say?” Gertrude said sweetly.
Benjamin rolled over to look at his mother. His hair was a mess and his eyes were wild. “He says… you killed him.”
***
Benjamin had long since walked to school, but Gertrude still found herself sitting in the rocking chair nigh catatonic. Her eyes were glossed over and she clutched a glass of rum in her fist. She had skipped breakfast, coffee, tea, and had even neglected to go to work. Since Benjamin began school she had been able to work for herself and not rely on Wilder’s benefits package. She kept the books for the local farrier and occasionally cooked for them to ease the tax burden from the new town administration. Johan Kander would not mind if she missed one day. At least, that was what she told herself.
Gertrude glanced down at the rum in her hand, she hadn’t touched it yet. Thinking it would help her despondency she had poured it nearly to the brim. She set it on the end table next to her and rose. She had moped long enough. The rum would be waiting for her when she came back.
She stepped into the wintry air, out the front door and onto a well worn path that took her to the barn. She saddled Lily; Benjamin had taken Ransom to school. The horse went everywhere with the boy, despite Benjamin not being able to put more than the reins on. The old gelding would hang his head low so Benjamin could slide the tack over the horse’s head. To get onto Ransom, Benjamin had to stand on the tallest fence rail and swing his little leg over the withers.
Lily and Gertrude took off, northbound. The snow in the ditches was easily three feet high, but there had been enough travel on the road to keep it hard packed down and Lily was able to move easily. When they turned off the Main Road the horse had to slog through the deep snow, but it was muc
h easier for the beast than it would have been for Gertrude.
When the widow reached Artemisia’s cabin smoke was curling from the chimney and the garden beds couldn’t be differentiated from the blanket of snow that coated the ground. Gertrude let Lily into Newt’s paddock and knocked at the door. Artemisia answered quickly and ushered her inside.
“I don’t get many guests this time of year, everyone else uses Mission as the go-between,” Artemisia said as she poured Gertrude a cup of ginger tea and set a second bowl of mushroom and onion soup.
“Can’t I come because I enjoy your company?” Gertrude asked in an attempt to sound innocent.
Artemisia set her with a stern eye. “You have not been out in many months, dare I say a year?”
Gertrude cast her gaze at the table bashfully.
“No use in feeling guilty. I am quite all right by myself. But if you have business you should state it. You look troubled,” Artemisia said sagely.
“Kerfield has taken to disturbing Benjamin and myself in the middle of the night. Ben confided in me last night that James talks to him and says that I killed him. I am afraid that he will only grow more malicious,” Gertrude said and her voice caught in her throat.