Timshel

by Lillian Turner

  He had said, Eiland recalled through a daze of horror, that Eiland would know when an Agony came.

  He was right. There could be no mistaking this for anything else.

  Eiland turned his face away. With his hands bound there was no way to cover his ears and no way to escape from the awful sounds that Charon made.

  He moved his arms this way and that, but the knots Charon had made felt intractable. Sidestepping around the edge of the tree, Eiland put it between him and Charon. It only gave him a few more feet of distance, but at this moment Eiland cherished every inch of space.

  It went on and on, past what any human should endure. Leaves rustled as Charon’s limbs thrashed. Coupled with his pained, guttural cries, he sounded like an animal writhing in his death throes. There was nothing godly in it, only pain.

  Eiland bent his legs slowly, working the circle of his bound hands down over the trunk until he could sit. He rested his head against the trunk and stared out into the forest.

  Somehow, impossibly, he slept.

  He woke with a start when something tugged at both his shoulders. It took him a long moment to realize that his hands were free but had gone completely dead; the tug at his shoulders was the only sign that they’d shifted position.

  He turned his head, groggy with too little rest. Charon sat curled up against the trunk of the tree beside him, his head drooping low. In his hands he clutched a rusty little knife that he used to skin game.

  Eiland sat up and gasped in pain as the motion pulled at cramped muscles in his back and legs. The sound made Charon stir; he lifted his head.

  The flesh of his face was swollen, his features puffy and smeared with grime. His eyes were so reddened they look rimmed in blood; thin, snaking veins showed clearly through the delicate skin around them. Dried vomit crusted in the corner of his mouth.

  Eiland pulled away. His revulsion must have shown in his face, because something in Charon’s eyes broke and went scurrying away inside of him, that blank coldness slamming down in its place.

  He licked his cracked lips and croaked, “Fetch more water.”

  Chapter Five

  The mixing pot shook in Eiland’s hand. “Hold it still,” Charon said.

  “I’m trying,” Eiland gritted. He shifted his grip but that just made the shaking worse.

  Charon huffed and sat back on his heels, glaring at Eiland. “Do you want to get scalded?”

  “You try doing this after being bound by your wrists all night!” Eiland snapped then almost bit his tongue.

  Fortunately Charon only rolled his eyes. “Stop being such a baby, that was ages ago.”

  Actually, only four days had passed since Charon’s Agony struck. Eiland didn’t know if these kinds of things kept to a schedule or not, but he hoped that meant it wouldn’t come back for a while.

  His wrists were still darkened and sore where the rope had dug in. The muscles in his hands shook whenever he held them a certain way.

  Charon had no sympathy—though, Eiland could grudgingly understand why. After the Agony, half a day had passed before Charon could stand, and then only with aid from a walking stick and by sheer dint of will.

  Even now his brow shone with sweat and his breath fought its way in and out of his throat. Charon sent Eiland a sour look with bloodshot eyes. “Hold it with your toes if you have to. Unless they’re unbearably bruised, too?”

  Eiland set his mouth and wiggled his arm until he could catch the cuff of his sleeve and pull it down over his hand. Thus protected, he cupped it against the side of the pot; heat still seeped through the fabric, but it didn’t burn him.

  Charon grunted and poured the thick, pungent mixture of gyman root, bunnera vine, and flour into the second pot, which was full of boiled numeria leaves.

  “There!” Eiland clapped a rough cover over the finished mixture and set it carefully on a nest of leaves.

  They both sat staring at the pot. “Is that it?” Charon asked at length, almost tentative.

  “Well, we’ll have to let it cool for a few hours. And we should probably stir it up again before we pour it into the jars. But yes, we’re done.”

  Charon questioned him a bit further, even going so far as to take out the now almost-empty jar of salve that Eiland’s father had given him to compare the color and consistency of their new batch.

  Once he had verified its authenticity, a new urgency seized him. He announced that they would break camp as soon as the salve cooled.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t travel while you’re so unwell?” Eiland asked, appalled as he watched Charon move around their small camp and gather up their belongings.

  Charon coughed a laugh. It sounded wet. “I’m Cursed, Eiland. I’m always unwell.”

  “But maybe you should wait?

  “For what? The land to shift? The miles to shrink? No. We’re to make for the mountains right away.”

  Eiland couldn’t speak for a moment, but he finally squeaked out, “We?”

  Charon had been in the process of kicking dirt on the fire. He stopped and stared down at Eiland. “Yes. We.”

  “You—you said you’d let me go after I showed you how to make the salve.”

  Charon lifted one eyebrow into a perfect arch, sharp enough to draw blood. “When did I say that?”

  He hadn’t, in so many words. He’d said that he wanted Eiland to go with him, to teach him how to make the salve; he’d never said that was the end of his interests. But Eiland had thought—he’d hoped— “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  “Will you let me go then?”

  Sudden emotion twisted Charon’s face. It was gone again in a heartbeat, like a thunderstorm that cast only one bolt of lightning, but for half a second the jagged edges of hurt and disappointment seemed close to cutting him open.

  Before Eiland could speak, though, Charon’s expression resettled into the familiar cold sneer. “You will do and go exactly where I tell you, and right now I am telling you that you are coming with me.”

  That night he made Eiland sleep right next to him, as if to make certain that Eiland did not run off. In the days that followed they traveled much faster than before: passing quickly out of the low forests below the eastern ridge of the valley, they emerged into gently rolling hills.

  Eiland made no further attempts to wander, sticking close behind Charon with his head down and his brain fluttering with fretful thoughts. After the Agony he’d done what he could to help Charon recover, but that didn’t seem to have bought him any good will. Whatever kind feelings Charon might have once had for him seemed to have vanished completely.

  Now he scowled every time he looked at Eiland and touched him in rough ways—not how Eiland’s parents had feared but unpleasant all the same. He used whatever excuse he could to force closeness between them, sleeping side-by-side or turning back to grab Eiland’s wrist and drag him along whenever Eiland wasn’t walking fast enough to suit him.

  The contact wasn’t violent, exactly, but there was anger behind it. Eiland couldn’t help but flinch away, and that seemed to feed Charon’s black mood.

  Yet there were other times, usually at night when they sat beside their small campfire with what seems like all the darkness in the world around them, when Charon’s shoulder pressed against his in a different way…less like a challenge and more like a withered plant grasping for rain.

  Eiland had even less idea what to do in those moments; he knew he should pull away, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do so.

  The grasslands teemed with new and unfamiliar forms of life. The cattle were much broader in the shoulders, their horns thicker than Eiland’s forearms. Insects buzzed loud in the trees and snakes slithered out of their path. Charon had to physically stop Eiland from chasing the serpents; apparently the breeds here were deadly poisonous.

  Every morning they rose with the sun—toward Summerton, Eiland told himself, the morning sun led back to Summerton—and walked until midday when it hung
directly overhead and the day was at its hottest. Either the sun was stronger here or constant traveling had made Eiland take fever, because he’d never known such heat.

  Fortunately Charon felt it as well, because they usually stopped for a few hours in the shade of a convenient tree. Eiland learned to be grateful for every creek they encountered, though some were a bit more treacherous to cross than others.

  At one large passage, the water looked deep enough to reach their chests. Charon led the way across a downed log. When Eiland—never known for his grace—tried to follow, he lost his balance and tipped sideways into the water with a yelp and splash.

  Resurfacing in the muddy shallows, he blinked water out of his eyes in time to see a huge dark flock rising overhead, startled out the high grass on the creek’s bank. The birds flew so close together that they seemed to become one shape that twisted as it passed low in the air.

  Standing on the far bank, Charon watched the cloud of birds dip and turn even as Eiland sloshed out of the creek to his side.

  “I’m fine, by the way,” Eiland groused as he tossed his pack to the ground. Crickets, everything was going to be soaked through.

  “The water was five feet deep,” Charon answered without looking away from the birds. “The worst you’ve got to fear are leeches.”

  “Bleah.” Eiland peeled off his shirt and trousers to peer nervously at his skin. “Give me your blanket or I’ll catch cold and die.”

  “Last time I checked the sky you were in no danger of—” Charon fell silent midsentence, and the scowl dropped straight off his face as he turned to see Eiland standing naked beside him.

  The air felt cool on Eiland’s skin. His trousers hung loose from his hands; he couldn’t decide whether or not he should put them back on and instead he wound up standing stock-still, his hair dripping on his shoulders. He hadn’t even hesitated to undress; he and his brothers had regularly shed their clothing for swims in the lake near Summerton.

  From the expression on Charon’s face and the way his eyes kept darting between Eiland’s face and—lower, it had been some time since he last saw another person naked.

  “Charon?” Eiland tried hesitantly as the moment has stretched on and on. “Can I have your blanket?”

  For another awkward moment Charon stood unmoving. Then his fingers twitched at his sides, he swallowed hard, and he turned away, sliding his travel pack down from his shoulders. The skin on the back of his bowed neck shone bright red as he dug out his blanket and shoved it at Eiland without looking at him again.

  That night Eiland slept wrapped inside the folds of Charon’s blanket. The night was warm, but he drew the blanket tight around him. All through supper he’d felt Charon’s gaze on him, rising and falling away again at regular intervals.

  So Eiland sweated underneath the thick blanket, staring up at the stars and listening to Charon’s breathing. They hadn’t—nothing had happened in days. Ever since the village, all feelings of softness or affection seemed to have vanished from Charon.

  Yet again and again in the firelight, his eyes had brushed over all the places where the blanket slipped low before he looked away again with his shoulders curled inward.

  Somehow that splintered, uneven response unsettled Eiland more than anything else had. He knew what Charon wanted, but he didn’t know whether he should brace himself for a shy kiss or—or what his parents had feared. The uncertainty knotted Eiland’s heart and mind.

  Beside him, Charon lay silent and unmoving all night, his back to Eiland.

  The next day they reached the river.

  It winded out of the distance from the northeast and the shadow of the mountains, swirled across the lower lands to pass under the bluff below their feet, and then disappeared again over the opposite horizon.

  That must be the direction of the sea, Eiland realized. He’d heard tales of the great Southern Sea. It must be very far away still, because all he saw was more land and the glitter-white, snaking line of the river.

  At the foot of the bluff sprawled a large town that Charon called Rivervale. Some of the houses had two levels, something Eiland had never seen before, and were built so close that their eaves touched. Instead of a central temple, the town seemed to have been built around the river: its buildings sprang up from both riverbanks like impatient reeds. The water teemed with many tiny craft rowing to and fro, bearing goods that, upon reaching the shore, were quickly loaded on to carts.

  In the midst of all these smaller darting boats, like a fat bumblebee among mayflies, moved a great, flat-bottomed wooden ferry. Eiland was mesmerized by its steady progress, and by the sights and sounds of the river-town below.

  “Are we going to cross?”

  “Yes.” Charon made no move to walk down the bluff, though. He stood looking down at the town for a long moment then dropped his chin to his chest. Eiland could hear the long breath he drew in. “The ferry is guarded by King’s soldiers.”

  “It is?” Eiland peered down the hill. At this distance he could just barely see the fluttering red standards, each one emblazoned with a thick yellow circle. The only soldiers Eiland had ever seen were the tax collectors who rode through Summerton every three years, and they had been mostly overfed old men.

  “Will we talk to them?” Eiland asked, excited.

  “No. Absolutely not. You’re to stick near me—and no more interfering. The charge for the ferry is a doublet each, and if we make a scene getting it from the merchants then one of the soldiers might try to follow us.”

  At first Eiland couldn’t understand what he meant, but then he realized that Charon meant to just take the gold from someone. Just as he’d taken the apothecary supplies.

  Just as he’d taken Eiland.

  “No,” Eiland said, and Charon looked at him. “We can’t—we can’t just go into this place and take things from people. It’s stealing. You don’t know—maybe some of them need the things you’re taking, and you’re giving them nothing in return. It’s wrong.”

  “Do you have any brilliant suggestions?” Charon snapped. “Really, I’m all ears. Would you like to sell more furs to fill their rubbish piles? They won’t take anything that they know came from a Cursed! Don’t you think I’ve tried?” he said, his voice rising over Eiland’s protest. “Do you really think I want to—”

  He cut off and looked away. Eiland, who had drawn breath to shout back, checked himself. “I’ll go alone, then. They’ll trade with me, and then we’ll have enough money.”

  A sharp frown met that suggestions, but when Charon offered no protests Eiland shucked his pack. They had been carrying their captured game on thin strands of rope slung over their shoulders, but now Eiland quickly began combining the two, untying the less-appealing animals and cringing at their little dead faces.

  He spoke as he worked. “I can sell all this—you can always catch more, can’t you? They won’t know that it came from a Cursed and I—I won’t lie, that’d be just as wrong, but they won’t ask, will they? I’ll just pretend it came from a normal person, or no, I’ll pretend I’m a trapper.”

  He said this with some doubt. He’d only met a few trappers in his entire life, and he had no idea how to impersonate one.

  Still Charon said nothing, just stood watching him. Of a sudden another realization hit Eiland: he could run. This would be a perfect opportunity for him to escape and make his way back to Summerton.

  Not that he knew the way, exactly. It was east from here and over a ridge, but beyond that he remembered little of the winding journey. Perhaps he could go somewhere else—maybe one of the local temples would take him on as an acolyte. He didn’t remember much of the Writings and the priests of Summerton had despaired of ever getting him to meditate properly, but maybe they would give him sanctuary. Then again, Eiland highly doubted that Charon would respect the boundaries of a temple.

  And if Eiland didn’t come back…then Charon would be out here alone. It was the place of the Cursed to live alone, they always did. Eiland knew that but
it still seemed unfair, somehow.

  With his thoughts swirling, Eiland finished tying the rope around the feet of a dead fox and stood up. Perhaps Charon could tell the bent of Eiland’s mind, because he had his arms folded tight, his shoulders rigid. He looked at the string of game lying on the ground then at Eiland.

  Charon said, short and fast and hard, “If you don’t come back by sundown, I’ll go back to your family’s house and Curse your mother.”

  Something very important inside Eiland went cold and still.

  When he could speak he said, “Don’t you dare.”

  “I will.” Charon’s eyes narrowed to blue slits. “I’ll Curse her if you don’t come back. You don’t know the way, do you?” he added, smirking at Eiland’s expression. “I do. I’ll get back there before you and Curse her. She’ll be like me, forever.”

  They faced off on the hilltop, unstirred by the slight breeze that rustled the branches around them. It was a very pretty place, Eiland thought distractedly. He was still unaccustomed to the flicker of so many leaves, but the shadows they cast were quite lovely.

  It was all so beautiful and so horribly different from anything he had ever known. He felt suddenly, acutely aware of being alone in this strange place with Charon.

  He wound his fingers in the thin rope to which the game was attached. It was the same length of rope that Charon had used to tie him to that tree during his last Agony. The little bodies of animals twisted and shifted as Eiland hoisted them up onto his shoulder.

  Charon still watched him, his arms crossed tight. He had that sneer on his face again, but now Eiland could see the places where it was just barely stitched into place.

  If any kindness lurked under that mask, Eiland could not see. Nor, suddenly, did he care to even look.

  He turned and walked down the hill.

  Chapter Six

  The main street of the village led down to the docks. It had been set with cream-colored cobblestones, something Eiland would stop to admire if he had the time or the space inside his own head.