“But it’s my past, grandmother, my life. Shouldn’t I be the one to judge what’s right for me?” the boy argued in a troubled voice.
Eromes’ red book came to his mind. He too had hidden something from his grandmother. Secrets… everybody seems to keep secrets, the boy said to himself.
Lula swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “Before your grandfather died, something happened, something like what happened three weeks ago. Days later, your grandfather came back home dying, to take his last breath in my arms. Oh, no… what a truly horrendous day…”
“You don’t need to go on if you don’t want to, grandmother. I understand it’s painful for you,” Manchego said when he saw her pain.
The woman shook her head. She breathed deeply, as if preparing for a great effort. “I can guess what your questions are, my dear, but there are truths about your past that I can’t tell you… yet. They’ll come in their own time.”
Manchego knew that with these words his grandmother had shut the chest of her memories. Another day he would rummage again, but for now, all he could do was sit down and have dinner.
Chapter XII – Spells
They had to take him to Intensive Care, where healers and witch-doctors took care of the wounded in the silent war. Silent because it was not a war that was open and declared, nor was it fought on a battlefield; the fighting used guerilla tactics, directed against a well armed, sharp-witted beast, a beast motivated by an invisible hand which seemed to coordinate everything with maleficent perfection.
The Mayor’s soldiers acted against their own people, and nobody could explain why there was so much violence. Those soldiers fought with the burning embers of hell, they were too strong to be defeated by poorly-trained country folk. Even the hooligans, who previously had made life impossible for everybody, now joined forces against the barbarians. It was the chief of the hooligans, one Buhrman, who ordered the healers to dedicate themselves exclusively to treating one of the injured.
He gave no reasons, nor were any needed; by now everybody understood that insubordination earned a punishment which was worse than death. Hence the whole team set out to save this boy who must be special. Some whispers said that a horseman from hell had taken his life, that the horse had given him such a kick in the chest that all his organs had burst inside him.
The villagers’ supplies were limited, and the few weapons they had they stole from the soldiers when they killed them ̶ if they managed to, which was not easy. The Mayor’s army was gaining ground in the Poor Sector. The hooligans were in charge of stopping them, and they did it well. But evil was conquering the village, with nothing to hold it back.
The wounded ended up dying from illnesses and plagues, some had to be sacrificed in fires to prevent contagion. Soon the graveyards were found to be insufficient, and they had to pile the corpses in great heaps which they then set fire to. Around the pyre many gathered in search of heat during the freezing and violent nights.
On the ground and the cobblestones there accumulated feces, dismembered bodies, viscera. The rain washed away the misery and bore it away on rivers of flesh and bone, until the wells of death were reached. Pregnant women gave birth in the mud and their babies fell into a pool of excrement. Not even the healers could stand such hardship.
Without reasons, without any declaration of war, the village was being massacred, at the mercy of the Mayor and his soldiers. The only certainty was that nobody could escape the terror. When anyone tried to flee, cross the borders, evil shadows swallowed them up.
In the hands of the healers, who were working tirelessly to save his life, Malabrad was regretting having been so cruel to Manchego and wished he had taken another course. He hoped he might be able to straighten himself out. He did not imagine his wishes would be granted. Every time he prayed to the god of light a presence would manifest itself, with wisdom greater than that contained in a thousand ancient books, and two sky-blue eyes which penetrated his soul.
Malabrad had been in intensive care and under strict supervision for a month and a half. Among the healers there was one who stood out as especially talented. He selected herbs from his satchel, mixed them in a mortar and mashed them with the pestle. The resultant paste was the only thing that managed to help young Malabrad’s wounds. Nobody knew this healer, who came and went at his own whim. He wore a black hooded cloak which only partially revealed his lips and a strong chest, golden-skinned and with a large tattoo.
One evening of heavy rain, numerous deaths and cries for help, the healer arrived to go on with his treatment of the severely-wounded boy. But this time his presence was not physical.
He appeared in his dreams. Or rather his nightmares. The healer entered his mind and spoke to him, but incomprehensibly. Then that ghostly voice began to make sense, the words turned clear. The healer was inviting him to go on a mysterious excursion.
They were walking through a dark forest, sunk in dense mist. It was night and the darkness was almost complete. Malabrad followed the healer, who turned from time to time to check whether he was still there. With one hand he urged him not to lag behind. In bed, unconscious still, the patient’s fever rose. They placed damp cloths on his forehead, but the dreams did not stop.
For days the healer prowled through Malabrad’s mind, led him at a slow but sure pace through the dense, misty forest. At times a black owl came to perch on the healer’s shoulder and fix its gaze on the boy who was obediently following the steps of the hooded man. The patient’s condition grew worse, and in his dreams things were turning stranger all the time.
The guide stopped on a level plain not wider than the height of a tree, where a fire burnt faintly with orange tongues of flame which made the wood crack. At opposite ends were two rotten trunks, and there they took their seats, the boy and the healer, who started to peel a branch, unhurriedly, without showing any emotion, simply watching the fire. The next morning the patient awoke from his unconscious state and saw the face of the healer very close to his own, those so serene sky-blue eyes. He was swinging a mortar held by four threads made out of roots. In the bottom there burnt the ember of a piece of mashed eucalyptus, its smell an invitation to the trance. The hooded figure was chanting a song in a low voice, giving out deep and mystical powers.
Everything went black. He dreamed again. They were back on the plain, sitting in front of the fire. The healer did not raise his eyes, but this time something had changed. He was reciting a chant in a very low voice, and although it was so quiet, he could clearly make out one word: sun. There passed what he felt to be hours, days, months, even though in the real world he had been in that forest only minutes, listening to the chanting. He slept, and dreamed that he was dreaming about a sun.
About a sun…
He awoke. The healer was still beside him, moving the mortar which smelt of eucalyptus, singing, and only one word was clear: sun. Sun, sun… There was a strange taste in his mouth which changed to one that was sweet and invigorating. He rolled his eyes and fell into the blackness once again. He saw himself on the plain once more, seated in front of the dance of the tongues of fire. The healer did not look up, but his chanting began to turn more comprehensible: “solemn sun”, “solace sun”, “sun solacium”, sun solanum”… It sounded like the beginning of a verse or a refrain. What felt like months, eons, parallel universes passed, crashed, melted together.
He lost the concept of time and opened his eyes. Again the healer, the mortar and the chanting. “Solemn sun…” The hood no longer covered his face, but he could not see him. Everything was dark, it was a black moonless night. The embers in the mortar lit up only his silhouette. “Solemn sun”. “Sun solacium”. “Sun solanum”. The rhythm grew stronger. The smoke curled and twisted. The words were growing clearer all the time. He dreamt.
They were walking through the forest, dodging rotten wood and pools of mud. The healer guided him through the shadows, a bird with intense yellow eyes perching on his shoulder. They reached a mystical enclav
e, the plain with the camp fire. The healer turned and pushed back his hood. For the first time, Malabrad saw his jaw, which was square, and his eyes, which were deep and sky-blue. He began to sing, looking at the boy, as if instructing him: “Solemn sun, calming fires… Solace sun, innocent forges…Sun solacium, beardless, allusive… Sun solanum, carry me in your hand”.
He clicked his fingers and the fire went out. Everything was now dark. Another click and the fire took hold again, but around it everything had changed.
Malabrad was floating in a perfect black emptiness. He headed towards a shining point on the horizon, set at a distance there was no way of calculating. As he floated, he sang:
“Solemn sun, calming fires… Solace sun, innocent forges…Sun solacium, beardless, allusive… Sun solanum, carry me in your hand”. He repeated this hymn, spellbound.
He felt happy, exalted to note that with every second that passed he was nearer to that light which by now was no longer a point but a perfect sphere of fire.
The sphere went on growing, giving forth a light so intense that it blinded him. It was a sun. It shone so beautifully, so powerfully, the giver of life. “Solemn sun, calming fires… Solace sun, innocent forges…Sun solacium, beardless, allusive… Sun solanum, carry me in your hand”.
Malabrad embraced the sun. He felt wellbeing, absolute happiness. He had never felt so whole. He could have stayed like that for ever. He began to fuse with the orb of fire, until it had swallowed him completely. The healers and witch-doctors could not explain how the boy had recovered from his terrible injuries. He had been so close to death, and now he looked like new. What they did not know was that this criminal was doomed.
He had come back from death to be controlled like a mere puppet. His body succumbed, but not his soul. The spell activated itself, brought his body back to life and allowed the soul to rule it once again. A scream began to climb through his consciousness, emerging like a bubble from the deep. Soon it would burst.
Malabrad’s mouth opened like a cave, black and dead inside. He released an implacable fury. Suddenly he woke up and leapt to his feet. He cried out to the sky with a rage both happy and melancholy.
Malabrad had come back to life, alert and aware. He was dead, yet alive. He could see, but nothing of what he saw attracted him. He could hear, but nothing mattered to him.
His master. Where was his master? “Sun, little sun. Sun, little sun. Sun, little sun”. He closed his eyes and visualized his master: the sun, little sun. He ran out to look for him, blind and deaf to the rest of the world.
Chapter XIII – A ghostly event
It was a strange dream. Vaporous shapes mixed with lights and explosions, he heard spells directed to control his mind. A powerful sorcery had blocked some memories, and now another spell was to unravel them. Ramancia’s words echoed forcefully:
Those who sow with tears
the seeds which in black fire lie,
through blackened sunset creeping
on the alum, the darkening sky;
a sea with darkness weeping
summons Thórlimás from the land.
From the land of Tutonticám,
lost, lovely, remote Teitú,
there walks firmly over the veil
over ships of white bamboo,
which on a purple sky sail,
a warrior of the Naevas Aedán.
Times spent in Chaos will pass by him
over the war of a sadness
between its mighty supports,
where his dwelling shone in gladness
days passed in a peace of sorts,
a place that remains destroyed.
The old Lyric of the Wind sings that he
who bears the sack of seed with care,
heavy and somber, bent double,
will soon shine with joy so fair,
his night disappear from the rubble
and his discontent never return.
And as a leaf falls from the tree, the lad’s conscious mind gave way to the unconscious, where the spell would reveal hidden truths to him.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.
Six. Five. Four.
Three. Two.
One…
He was running. It was one of those memories which magic had hidden from him. He was fleeing from Findus, Mowriz and Hogue. Looking back, he saw Findus’ image like a shadow which sometimes turned back into the handsome youth he had been. A multitude of emotions passed across his face: kindness, pain, revenge. He crossed several streets and ended up at Ramancia’s house, where he stopped.
The sky, the clouds, the wind, his breathing, everything was at peace, in suspense. He knew Findus was close, that Mowriz was following him with the worst of intentions. There was a wall made up of vertical wooden planks, and underneath one of them was a hole with enough room for him. He went in and gave his pursuers the slip.
The darkness was complete. Something was calling him in whispers. He groped blindly for a long while along a corridor. He could not see where it led to, but he already knew. Without effort he turned the knob on the door in front of him and closed it behind him.
He was inside Ramancia’s shop. The house was dead. The walls were covered with cobwebs. Silence reigned, as though in mourning. He went out into the corridor again. Now it was not dark, with a faint light illuminating the walls, where several pictures were hanging. One of them caught his attention.
It showed a demon who was holding by the neck an angel with limp wings. They were floating over an abyss from which came a green infernal light, in which he could make out the hands of the dead, anxious to receive in the abyss, wishing to possess the body of the angel. But that was not what mattered at that moment, that was not what the memory wished to show him.
He went along that corridor and others without hesitation; he knew every nook and cranny. He could hear a voice calling him, faint, distant, and he made his way towards it. With each step, he felt more and more anxious to arrive. He saw himself reflected in a mirror. A youthful, frightened gaze returned his own. It was himself from some other time, calling him. His face was troubled, he wished to tell him something, yet the words were unintelligible.
He remembered everything at that moment. The spell which had spread a blanket over his memories died, and now his past belonged to him. He heard Ramancia. She was telling him that this was the mirror of the Black Queen of the Abyss of Morelia. He stared at his own reflection and the image said to him in anguish: “You must find the mirror…” The voice died away in echoes…
Boom, Boom…
There was the sound of something striking against wood.
Boom, Boom…
An echo as of war drums.
Boom, Boom…
Solemn sun, calming fires…Solace sun, innocent forges… Sun solacium, beardless and alluring… Sun solanum, carry me in your hand…
Manchego opened his eyes all of a sudden. The night was dark. He was afraid. His heart was galloping, he suddenly broke out in goose-bumps. Something or someone was there, with him! Maybe it was Rufus. No, Rufus would have already licked his face. He heard something. It was a voice, something between happy and frustrated, singing. He paid attention, filled with anxiety: Solemn sun, calming fires… Solace sun, innocent forges… Sun solacium, beardless and alluring…Sun solanum, carry me in your hand.
It was no more than a whisper. The voice spoke close to his bed. The presence emanated the vibration of a living being, and yet he could not hear its breathing. He was silent. The voice did not utter the chant again, as if it had realized that Manchego had noticed that presence. The boy was paralyzed.
He could not summon up the courage to ask who or what it was. Maybe it was just a dream. He had to find out, but he was growing more fearful all the time. That presence gave out a groan, something like two membranes brushing against each other. He could feel it three steps or so from the bed, drinking in his breath.
He held the Teitú nut tightly
. It was time to act. That thing had not come with good intentions, and it had the advantage. Manchego could only defend himself or resort to an element of surprise. The options for defense were limited as he had no weapons nearby; he wished he had not left the machete in the stable, although in any case he would not know how to use it to attack. How could it have managed to get in without disturbing either Rufus or Grandmother? he thought. Then he considered one possible option. He lowered one hand until he found his boots.
He took hold of one of them with the utmost care and prepared to throw it. He knew that house like the back of his hand. Nervously he threw the boot toward a shelf of metal objects. The sudden jangle told him he had hit his target. Rufus started to bark.
Good!
He heard steps running toward the kitchen. Manchego shot out in blind pursuit. Like an arrow, he flew outside, so carried away he did not realize he was barefooted. Out there, in the middle of the night, he felt vulnerable and drowsy, but still he ran after his prey.
The lights went on in the Ranch; Lulita had woken up. The Wild Woman had already picked up a weapon.
Fear returned to give his brain a kick. He stopped suddenly, panting. The vapor of his breath and the sound of his breathing burst out like strange elements in the placid night. And suppose this was the assailant’s plan? To lead Manchego out of the Ranch, where Lulita could not defend him? At that very moment he would be able to cut his throat in a matter of seconds.
The silence was terrifying. There, among the wheat, suffocated by the height of the spikes, he had nowhere to hide. His attacker could be behind him and he would never know. He wished he had had the sense to wait till dawn, the patience to work out an intelligent plan. But no, he had to be impetuous, and now he found himself in a situation it would be hard to get out of.
The Sacrifice (The War of the Gods Book 1) Page 8