by D. W. Rigsby
Silda giggled. “I think it is from your mother, too. I also think it’s about Petro.” Her eyes brightened. “And I think we have to do what the messenger says.”
The two waited, looking back and forth at each other, wondering if either of them was right. Dia’s mind was still on her terrible thought, trying to capture what it was, though it was slowly slipping. The orb decelerated on approach and then came to a stop in front of the girls and waited. They all did that—waited to be spoken to first, as it was polite and the proper form of etiquette.
“Messenger,” Dia said. “What news do you bring?”
The electronic voice spoke, but not smoothly like a person’s voice. There was a little static. “Your Highness. I have a message from King Amerstall. He wishes you to come to his study, but first you must meet with Leader Gull, who waits for you at the back entrance.”
Dia cocked her head. “Well, we both were wrong on that one.” Facing the orb, she said, “Messenger, tell me.” Her eyes darted around as she thought of what to say. “Is it urgent?” Maybe if it weren’t urgent, which it usually was not, Dia could go and rest and try to reconstruct the thought she had, this terrible thought. It meant something, but what?
“That’s not fair,” Silda said. Her mouth dropped open.
“Shh…” Dia said, holding her finger up to her lips. She was playing now and grew tired of this game while this gnawing feeling still lingered about Petro—if she could only remember what it was.
The electronic voice spoke once more. “I cannot say.”
Dia looked at Silda confused. “Well, that’s a strange response. Let’s go see what my father wants.”
They followed the orb through the garden, across the open area, and then into a maze of honeysuckle vines, ferns, and blooming flowers of red, gold, and white. Neither one of them spoke. Dia’s mind was on what her father wanted and why the messenger had said that it could not tell her if it was urgent or not urgent. Maybe it’s nothing, she thought. Just her imagination getting the better of her, but why was Leader Gull waiting for her? That made no real sense—she could find her way to her father easily enough. There must be something else, had to be. An unpleasant sensation filled her stomach, and she rested her hands there for comfort. No, it’s nothing, just my father taking precautions, she thought. But for what? There she was again, conflicted as to what was going on. She glanced back at Silda, whose head was down, staring at the path.
When they got to the back entrance, the door opened, and a guard held it in place. The orb hovered just outside. When Dia and Silda entered, it followed them. Leader Gull was standing in the hall. He had dark hair, brown skin, and a fighter’s build. He wore a blue uniform. The epaulets and front button were silver, and Dugual’s sigil was pinned on his right breast. “Your Highness.” He bowed with such grace that it would almost seem he was more of a dancer than a fighter. “Lady Silda.” He called her that, but Silda was not from nobility.
“Is there cause for concern?” Dia asked. She held her tone in check, not wanting to bring attention to her own suspicious thoughts.
“Your Highness. Your father requests your presence. He’s in his study. Please come with me,” he said.
Dia would not budge. Was there a connection between the terrible feeling she’d had outside in the gardens? “I think you should tell me what is going on. Silda and I were outside, relaxing in the garden.” She held her composure.
Leader Gull let out his breath, his eyes softened, and he offered his arm to her. “Please, Princess Dia. He is waiting, and my instructions were to bring you to him.”
Dia, with some hesitation, took his arm. “Silda, we shall meet later. Dinner, if not sooner. I’ll send for you.”
Silda nodded.
The two strolled down the hall. Dia’s hands ran cold, and fright gripped her like an electric charge. She could not hide the look upon her face—her dreadful stare. There was something wrong—very wrong—and her stomach turned. The walk was longer than she thought it should be, which gave her much time to ponder. She knew asking Leader Gull would not provide any more information than it already had. He is a good man, she thought, loyal to my father. What would require his presence? Her father could have sent any other servant, but he had sent his finest warrior and the leader of his house guards. Just that small piece of information made her realize even more the importance of this meeting with her father.
The two of them stopped in front of a large oak door with two guards posted outside. One of the guards opened the solid wood door, and Princess Dia and Leader Gull both entered. Flavored tobacco smoke permeated the air; it was coming from King Amerstall, who sat behind a large cherry-colored desk, smoking a pipe. He had never seemed older to her than at this moment. Smoke rose up around his head, twirled into tight swirls, and then dissipated. The chamber was lined with books from top to bottom and end to end. There was a large fireplace centered on the far wall, next to her father’s favorite sitting chair and ottoman.
Leader Gull and King Amerstall exchanged glances. King Amerstall gave a nod of his head, and Leader Gull quietly left.
Dia’s lower lip trembled as she stood there, watching her father. He seemed too far away from her, yet he was right in front of her, only a few paces away. It was as though she were dreaming and what was happening wasn’t real, but it was. Dia searched herself for any more answers to the question of why she had been called here in this manner. And there were no more answers.
“Father. You sent for me,” she said.
He looked directly at her, and then his gaze drifted to the side and stared at a piece of paper on his desk. He took a few puffs of his pipe, blew out the smoke, and then set the pipe down.
Dia followed his gaze to the paper and saw Petro’s name. She stilled her breath.
King Amerstall stood and then came around the desk close to Dia. He was tall next to her, his chest wide, his beard thick. He reached out and took her hand.
She blinked several times, and the edges of her eyelids began to wet. It came back to her; in that instant she knew what it was. She could see Petro lying on the ground, the red of life pouring from his leg. He was dying.
“Petro is dying. I’m so sorry, dear. I feel cursed sometimes, how direct I am, even with my own. I’ve sent an air transport to the Numas to bring him home to finish out what remaining time he has,” he said. King Amerstall pulled her against his chest, squeezing her tight.
Her body tensed, and she shook all over. It was too much. The tears fell, streaming down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry. I only wanted Petro to find himself, to explore the world outside Dugual, and to be his own man,” he said as he held her. His voice was flat and calm. King Amerstall exhaled.
Dia pushed away slightly and looked up into her father’s eyes. “What happened?” She’d seen only a glimpse of it, but she needed to know more.
King Amerstall took in a deep breath, stepped back, and let it out. “Boar. He was attacked while hunting. The boar’s tusk cut right into his calf. They were unable to get medical aid right away. His leg became infected, and the infection spread. Petro will be arriving at any moment,” King Amerstall said.
“Where will he stay?” Dia blurted out. She regained her composure, using as much as her royal training as she could in the situation.
“Close to the Dr. Brattic’s quarters. I thought it would…” Before he could finish, Dia had turned and hurriedly left the room.
As she hurried down the hall, she ran into Sid. She went to him, threw her arms about his neck, and buried her face into his chest.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She raised her head, looked into his eyes. “Petro, he’s…he’s…coming home to die.” Dia choked out the words.
Sid’s body went rigid, and she felt him take her arms from his neck and move away from her. He had a cold stare. “This isn’t his home.”
Dia’s mouth opened, and she had not one word with which to express her utter revulsion to what her brother
had just said.
Life is eternal; there is no end, only a beginning. Why fear tomorrow when you know this to be true? Why worry about what you will have or how you will live? Does He not know your needs? Will He not provide for you? Be still and listen, for life is eternal.
—From The Book of Prophets, by the Numas
Petro lay on the bed, his face pale as a full moon during the night. The purple veins were less prominent now, but the infection still remained. It was the middle of the night; his dreams came, but not like other dreams. These dreams seemed to go on for an age and seemingly spanned lifetimes. These were the kinds of dreams where one felt there was something unsound with the world. Everything in the world was not of this world, and what was of this world seemed to fade away. There were drifts like sand sweeping across the surface, dusting all the buildings, people, clothes, and faces and turning them a desert brown. And in this dust, all was still; no one moved, not a thing, no bird, no cat, no person. Even still the dream stretched on into a place that seemed void of life itself, and only the slow rhythm of his heartbeat signified his existence.
Perspiration rolled down the sides of his forehead, and he jerked side to side, trying to come up out of the dream. His throat felt raw, sore, and cut off. Petro opened his mouth and tried to pull in the dust-filled air, but it was no use. The thin film only coated his tongue, giving him a bitter taste of ash and soot. No air could come, and the lungs expanded, working to fill themselves. In a coughing fit, he woke, stared at the ceiling for an hour or more, and then finally went back to sleep, letting the pain go—either from exhaustion or a blessing—so he could finally rest.
Morning had come, and he opened his eyes to see blues, reds, golds, and violets—such vibrant colors enveloped him. The ceiling above was high, and elongated windows let sunlight through. Where was he? He searched the room, looking at the large bed he rested in, noticing that it was large enough to fit three people in it. Across the way, he saw the deeply recessed windows, taking notice of yellow flowers in vases lined up in a row. He recognized the yellow hibiscus from the subtropical region on the southernmost point of Spearca, something he’d seen and found familiar as it was grown in the internal gardens of Dugual. Why would he be in the south? He sensed the dry air—an indication he was not in the south at all.
Petro focused on what he remembered. He knew he was injured; he brought his hands up to see the toll the infection had taken: the veins, capillaries were dark purple. He knew he was ill, and he knew that he was in the care of Master Lim, but this was not Tokus Numas. A word came forth—“Spearca”—and he felt stupid for saying it. Of course he was on Spearca.
He concentrated on the room, trying to ascertain his whereabouts. He thought to call out to see who would come, but something inside him prohibited it. The word “Spearca” came again as a thought in his mind. He felt a sudden urge to rise up out of his bed and go to the window. He tried to lift his arm, and pain shot over his shoulders and into his neck, followed by a burning sensation. He moved his legs, and both felt like there were weights attached to his hips. Flashes of the wild boar shot through his mind about its huge, furry-ridged back and the ground, which had trembled as it had charged headlong at him. Petro shook off the image and focused back on his right leg. He reached forward, ignoring the screaming aches that threatened to render him motionless. Groping at his leg, he managed to grab hold and dragged it over to the side, where he tossed it over. His arms burned, and he unwillingly gave into their demand to stop. There was no time to stop; he had to get out of bed and do it now. Out there she called to him; he could feel her presence and sense her touch. Spearca rang out in his head. Petro forced his leg up and under to hook the bottom of the frame, and then he pulled himself over the edge. He tumbled onto the floor and landed with a thud.
Agonizing cramps took hold of his legs. The muscles twisted unnaturally under the skin, sending waves of stabbing pain up the back of his legs and into his lower back. His jaw clenched tight, bearing down so as not to let out a cry. When the episode passed, he rotated to his side and tried to push himself up. His arms collapsed, their strength nearly gone. He turned onto his back, wiggling his way, using his hips and legs together. Petro then took his legs, pulled them up, and pushed himself across the floor like an inchworm. All the way across he went until he found his head pressed against the wall. He looked up to see the windowsill, reached up, took hold, and worked his legs one by one under his body. When he finally had his feet in place, he pushed up, grunting, his legs wobbling and his hands aching.
His breath was hot and short when he finally stood upright. The room looked different to him now, like he’d been here or seen it before, but he was having trouble remembering. His eyes shifted to the floor and then fluttered, and he nearly lost consciousness when he shook himself out of it. He heard it again: Spearca. He faced the window and looked down upon the garden.
He now knew he was in Dugual, and he was glad for it. They’d brought him home. Below the window was a freshly tilled spot, ready for new life to take hold, for the green sprouts to come up and reach for the sun above and dig down into Spearca with their roots. He tried to smell the scent of soil, but all he smelled was rot. Out there in the garden was where he needed to be, like he’d been many times before. Out there was where he felt at peace and could think on a subject and gain clarity—or think of nothing at all. Spearca was calling him.
Slowly he slid himself onto the windowsill, pushed the window open fully, and felt the cool air on his skin. He looked up to see the sun begin to turn; a shadow cast over the edge of it. Petro inched his body out and took hold of a grounding wire that went from a lightning rod high up down into the ground. Pulling himself out, he hung on to the wire with most of his upper body hanging over the ledge; then he let go. Up and over he went, legs in the air, head down; he hit the soft tilled soil below with his chest. The fall knocked the wind out of him; he sucked the air back in, and dirt went into his mouth. He coughed and spat; his mouth was already dry and cracked from dehydration. Petro fought to sit upright and looked at his wounded leg. Then he cupped the dirt around it and began to pile it high around the appendage until it was completely covered. He fell back into the dirt and looked up into the subdued sky; the sun had been replaced by a fiery ring—an annular eclipse.
The ring of light reached down and enveloped Petro; it touched his very being and soothed his soul. He felt at peace, as if he belonged. Tears formed in his eyes, not ones of weeping but ones of gratitude. “You are My Will,” he heard a voice—not the one before, this one was not even a voice really—but it was there inside him.
“I am Your Will,” he muttered to himself. Then an explosion erupted from outside of the castle’s walls; horns blared, and the sounds of gunfire ensued. Dugual was under attack! Petro searched the area and looked back up to his room. Above him was a silhouette of a man in the window; it was Vetus Sepher looking down at him. There was a bright flash of white light, and Petro was lifted up, up, and into a place he’d never been—a space but not space, a place but not a place. He tried to open his eyes but could not. He could feel the world around him, which felt different now, the way one might feel suspended in midair, and all was dark. Now he descended down and felt the ground beneath his feet. His eyes opened, and he found himself in the forest, and in front of him was Kad.
When the prophecy of the Coming occurs, remember what has been said. The ground will shake, the trees will fall, the mountains will rumble, the sky will turn to black, and then a blue light will cascade over Spearca. All will be still, and in this time nothing will be what it seems—all will seem as if from another world, another place.
—From The Book of Prophets, by the Numas
The forest began to open back up, and they came to a clearing. Petro moved to the left to get a better view. Not far from them, large clumps of dirt and mud were torn up. Small scrubs had been rooted out, and the bottoms had been eaten. The damage was all over the forest floor. This can’t be right, can it? P
etro felt dizzy and nearly lost his footing but regained it quickly. He scoured his surroundings and saw bushes, trees, the sun peeking down through the leaves, and his friend Kad holding a bow in his hand. Wasn’t I just in the outer gardens of Dugual? Was Dugual being attacked? He felt fatigued. The air was stifling. He jerked the collar of his tunic down to release the constriction around his neck and took in a deep breath.
“Did a boar do all this?” Petro said. Wait. I said this before. I was wondering if there was one boar or many. The ground had been dug up everywhere he could see.
“Yes, I think so, but I can’t see just one boar doing this much damage. They call it…”
“Rooting,” Petro found himself saying.
Kad tilted his head and raised one eyebrow. “Right. Boars have only one stomach like us. Grass and other types of plants are too tough for them to digest. The roots are easier on their stomachs,” Kad said. “Look here.”
Petro remembered what Kad had said about the boar. His mind raced, and he drowned out Kad, who continued to explain how the boar had planted its snout and where its tusks imprinted. He nodded a few times toward Kad, but all the while he was thinking about the garden, lying in the dirt. His leg was wounded. He reached down a brief moment while Kad’s back was turned and touched his calf.
He sought his mind, finding pieces of a memory that he wasn’t even sure existed. Kad walked ahead, and Petro recalled what had happened before, that they were tracking a large boar, and then it hit him. The boar attacked; no, Kad had attacked first, and the arrow missed its mark, and then the boar had turned in Petro’s direction. His heart raced, and his palms were so wet with sweat that he took turns holding the shotgun with one hand while wiping the other dry on his tunic. This can’t be real. If it’s real, the biggest boar on Spearca will come out of those bushes across that opening.