“A young lady without the Land of wonder to her?”
She laughs. “You say ‘young lady’ as if you know how old I am.”
“I would guess you’re at least . . . a triple decade younger than me.”
“If only. I’m thirty-three if you’re asking. At least that’s what I’m told.”
“Well, you could still be my daughter, so I’m happy to call you a young lady.” Bernard smiles, taking a large bite for himself.
❖❖❖
Finished eating, Brute curls close to Bernard and closes his eyes, his wet fur warming in the fire. “You’ve made yourself a little friend,” Sanet says.
Looking down at the quiet frek, Bernard shakes his head. “Jame will not be happy.”
“Do you bring freks home often?”
“On the few treks I’ve been allowed, I’ve brought back a frek or two. The last one was a drum of bomwigs, which Jame refused to take care of until they became sick. Then he was insufferable. Our lives for two whole months were nothing but taking care of those slimy little festatars. You’ll find that I’m the one who starts things, but Jame’s the one who finishes them.” Guilt courses through Bernard, who imagines how lonely and frightened Jame must be alone in their haynest, no one to answer his call. I don’t even know if Jame knows where I’ve been . . .
“Have you two been together long?”
Bernard looks up, out of sorts. He takes a deep breath. “Apory. Twenty-three years. I found Jame while I was hunting. He was caught in an emorteen trap, and his legs were mangled. I brought him home and nursed him back to health, though he’s not been able to walk properly since. Some wounds never heal, as much as oilments act as cure-all these days. We have bad days, as any relationship, but he’s the great joy of my life.” For a minor, Bernard loses his thoughts to Jame but shakes out of it. I’ll be haynest soon, the whole affair behind us. “So, you’ve found your sliver of brass. Are you returning to Yikshir then?”
“There’s another one I need to find before heading back. In the Tunnels.”
“How many are there?”
“Not exactly sure. But not very many. Maybe a dozen? There are very few, I’m told.” She pats her bag where the brass is kept.
“Sounds like quite the trek for such an enigmit thing.” Sanet nods in polite agreement. “I can’t believe you’re not the slightest bit curious about what it’s for,” he doubles.
“There are a few things I wonder about, but fragments of brass are not one of them.” She takes a deep breath, lying back on the bed.
“May I see it again? For a minor?”
Sanet hesitates, then pulls it from her small pouch and hands it to Bernard. He turns it over in his hand. Innocuous in shape and form, it has an odd smooth and faintly bowed back.
He looks back to Sanet. “The neox attacked me last night while I was hunting it. They’ve never done that before. In fact, it had a pretty good chance of escaping me. I was tired, ready to go haynest. And when the storm started, I knew the hunt was over. So when it turned on me, when it came at me, it was alarming.” He studies the sliver more closely. “I guess it must have had this little shard jabbing in its gut. Maybe it made the frek more aggressive?”
“Perhaps.”
“Lincoln, a sliver of brass nearly sends me left, and the next day, it saves me.” Bernard tosses the brass across the fire to Sanet, who returns it to her pouch.
“Well, Sur Bernard, I think it’s time we retired. Approsh for the delicious duskmeal and warm company.”
He nods as Sanet turns over on her bed. Lost in the flickers of the fire, he scratches under Brute’s chin as it sleeps. “Don’t mind me if I stay up a while. Too eager to see Jame.”
❖❖❖
Hours later, the winds wake them.
Inside the trunk, ash and remains of the fire swirl in a miniature whirlwind. Brute huddles close to Bernard, shaking in fear. Sanet covers her face as she attempts to repack her rucksack. Some of her possessions, a pad, clothing, and a small letter, spill across the trunk and whip across the room. Bernard helps to gather her things and she shoves them hurriedly back inside the bag.
An ear-splitting howl, the noise deafening, whistles across the small opening of the trunk. Bernard screams over the noise to Sanet, “We need to get out of here! We’ll go deaf if we don’t.”
Screaming back, she asks, “Is it safe to go out there?”
“If we stay low to the ground, we can find somewhere safer.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not going to lose my hearing over a little windstorm.” Bernard smirks and grabs his rucksack. He pushes toward the opening, covering his face.
Sanet looks around, repeating, “You’re mad.”
He turns. “You’ve said that. Let’s go.”
As they exit, they’re met with slamming horizontal rain that cuts at their faces like tiny razors. Bernard turns to Sanet, speaking as loudly as he can and gesturing with his hands. “Stay. Low.”
She nods. They start to crawl along the ground, mud and water pummeling their heads and necks.
They crawl inch by inch away from the trunk. Bernard attempts to gauge his surroundings and recollect a nearby shelter. He looks around. “Where’s Brute?”
Sanet looks around, too, and finds nothing.
“Is he still in the tree?” Bernard glances at their abandoned shelter. That mangy frek. He turns back.
“Where are you going?” Sanet screams out.
“I can’t leave him behind.”
“Are you mad?”
“Look, we can grit about my madness later.”
She rolls her eyes, turning back as well.
When they reach the shelter tree once more, their ears are assaulted as the whistling grows louder with the strengthening winds. Brute huddles near the edge of the tree’s opening, immobile from fright.
“Come on, Brute. You need to get out of there. We’re leaving.” The creshwillow tarries, watching Bernard with concern and confusion. With a booming voice and broad gestures, Bernard attempts to coax the creshwillow into moving. “We can’t stay here. You have to come with me, or you’re going to be all alone in there.”
Brute refuses to move.
Bernard becomes furious, slamming the ground with a palm. “You move your shnite right now.” Brute jumps and then creeps forward. “Come on now.”
Sanet yells from behind him, “The wind’s getting stronger. We’ll be flying soon.”
Brute inches his way closer.
“Come on . . . come on.” And then, finally, Brute’s within reach, and Bernard grabs the creshwillow by its scruff. He turns to Sanet. “We should go.”
“Where to?”
“I think there’s an old house east of here. Out of the way, but close.”
“Wisnok, lead the way, madman,” she calls out, letting Bernard pass.
He scrabbles his way along, holding Brute to his chest as he crawls. The journey to the old house is tumultuous. The longer they’re in the storm, the fiercer the squalls become, causing a struggle with every stride gained. Brute digs into Bernard’s chest, which he’s sure will leave lasting marks. And then, a branch crashes into and knocks Sanet to her side.
Bernard turns, exposing Brute to the winds, and the frek clamps down even harder. “All running well?”
She groans, her noise masked by the howling wind; then grimacing, her face injured, she nods and motions to continue. Bernard acknowledges and resumes moving in the direction of the house, only a few hundred strides away. The rain cuts and thunder booms.
“We’re almost there.”
Behind him, she curses, “Approsh Lincoln.”
Within a short distance, the front door of the wooden house swings violently, slamming and banging in the wind. Its windows have long since shattered.
Bernard catches the door as it pivots open and struggles to hold on to it as Sanet passes. He sees she’s battered more than he first thought, with blood dripping from her hair, tangled in mud and rain
. Inside, she collapses to the ground.
There’s no warmth in the house nor shelter from the rain, which pours in and on them in buckets; but as a barrier and being a few decibels quieter, it’ll do for the major while the echoes of wind still ring in their ears. Brute releases Bernard and finds a dark corner to cower in.
“Well, that was unexpected,” he says.
“I thought there were warning whistles for tormisands?”
“There are, but not this deep in the forest.” Bernard pauses. “This storm is terribly short. It only rained for two days before the squalls started. Hopefully, that means we should get some Peace Hours soon. We can walk back in that and wait out the second half of the storm in the warmth of a haynest and bed.”
“I’ll take it.” Sanet rubs her head.
“I should probably look at that.” He walks over to her, rain pattering on his back. “May I?”
She nods and he grasps her head, moving her hair aside to find the cut. She winces as he touches close to her wound.
“Not the worst head injury I’ve seen. I can’t do much with it until we’re haynest, but I can patch you up temporarily until then.”
“Approsh, Bernard.”
“Brute, you mind handing me my bandages?” He looks over to the creshwillow, who shivers in fear in the corner. “He’s going to need training,” Bernard jokes.
Sanet smiles back meekly. “You are a madman, an old and reckless madman.”
“Should have left me to the protnuk.”
❖❖❖
To Bernard’s surprise, the winds cease after an hour. Sanet is bandaged and resting her eyes. Brute has begun to warm up to the haynest and grows more energetic as the sound of the wind fades to a whimper. Bernard looks out into the forest and watches as the fog retreats. Everything is exceptionally still during Peace Hours, and excessively green. Sounds are reduced to a mild, wet drip of water from leaf to leaf, leaf to mud.
“We should go soon. This is one of the shortest storms I’ve ever encountered, which means I don’t imagine it’ll be long before the squalls return.”
Sanet opens her eyes and lifts herself up. Bernard reaches out to help, but she waves him off, grunting as she stands.
“You might have a broken bone there.”
“Pretty sure I have more than one broken bone.” She smirks, lifting her rucksack.
“Jame will make you a neox soup that’ll cure all wounds.”
“I look forward to it.” She pats him on the shoulder and steps outside. Bernard motions for Brute to follow. The little frek hesitates but obeys.
Everything outside feels better. Rays of sunlight reach through the leaves and create a lush green paradimo around them. They walk with haste, though Sanet needs an extra step for every one of Bernard’s.
As she takes in the surroundings, she comments, “Now this is the Radiba Highlands I’ve read about. I mean, I knew about the tormisands, but they say there’s nothing to compare to the green of the forest, a real envy for us in the desert.”
“I’ve seen some incredible paintings of those Redrocks.”
“They’re nice, but they’re also dull.” Her response drips with hesitation, her quiet nature returning.
Bernard continues to lead, knowing they’re only hours away. Above them, Brute hops from tree to tree, shaking leaves and drops of water in his wake.
❖❖❖
The smoke first looks like a return of fog, but its blue tint hints at something different. Soon, the smell of burned wood, charred meat, and vegetation fills the air. The smoke begins to billow around them. This alarms Bernard.
“Is that fire?” Sanet says aloud what Bernard is reasoning.
“I’m going to run ahead.”
Before Sanet can answer, he takes off, running into the smoke and leaving her and Brute behind. The farther he runs, the thicker it becomes. In minors, the first hint of heat touches him. His eyes burn from the miasma, and ahead there are tiny hints of yellow, orange, and red.
Please don’t be . . .
He fights his way through the smoke before coming face to face with the fire. It licks and spits and crackles around him. His haynest, his Land, is burning.
“Jame!” he screams, the blue smoke disorienting. It masks the warmth and bright flames coming from all directions. He covers his nose and mouth with his arm as he attempts to locate the front door. How is there a fire after so much rain? Finding the short gray wall that surrounds his haynest, he hops over it and lands in a patch of green-orange vegetables. There’s a small shovel in the dirt. The one he dropped when the neox passed the yard. Planting vegetables as an old man, to run off a little boy. He runs toward the haynest drenched in horrific flames.
“Jame!” he screams again and pounds at the door. Through a small glass frame in the door, Bernard glimpses inside. Everything is on fire. He pulls his sleeve over his hand to grab hold of the homemade door handle. Seven years ago, he’d melted a dozen silver arrowheads that he’d gathered in the surrounding Land and carved them into an intricate knob that he’d given Jame on their sixteenth anniversary.
Opening the door, he’s met by a backdraft of flame. Shielding himself, he falls to the ground.
“Jame!” He stands and rushes inside. “Jame!”
The main room is still a mess. Jame used his lack of “easy mobility” as an excuse to leave his dirty rounds and half-drunk mugs of tea around the haynest. A pile of clothing sits in the corner, an unwelcome bonfire.
“Jame!” Fighting down his hallway, Bernard sees their portrait frames have fallen and shattered on the ground. Jame’s terrible paintings of the two of them. Mostly crude drawings he’d spent hours on. The ones where he painted himself with the bigger cock. You wish, Jame. He cracks a glass frame with his boot as he runs forward, continuing to shield himself from unexpected bursts of fire.
“Jame!” The door to the master is burned almost off, only half hanging on its hinge. Jame is always so shy, needing to close the door even when they’re alone in the haynest. Even though there are no neighbors for miles around. In the middle of their peaceful haynest, amid the quiet forest, they could never slip together without the doors locked. And Lincoln forbid we go outdoors. Jame is a private man. He is a handsome man. He is a loving man. He is sometimes a real proshing shnite. He is finicky. And persistent. He is kind. He is sometimes so wrong that Bernard wants to strangle him in his sleep. And then sometimes he is right. Like about Bernard’s haircut.
“Jame!”
Bernard catches the first and last glimpse of him. Burned in their bed, half hanging over its side and reaching for the door. In horror, Bernard screams. He attempts to get closer, but smoke and fire and heat prevent him. He wants to touch him one last time.
“Jame!”
And then everything goes black.
Chapter 4
HE WHO MISSES NINE BUT ONE MORE
Standing in a new and empty vacuum, Bernard is alone. Above him are thousands of pinpoint holes creating a star-filled dome with light from an unknown source pouring in as far as he can see. Around him, the vacancy holds naught but absolute black. Walking, one foot in front of the other, his steps echo outward as he moves what he believes is forward even as at the major, he finds himself ostensibly nowhere.
And then, ahead, a frontz torch is lit, and a friend begins walking toward him, his steps matched to Bernard’s. Partly afraid and wanting to escape the intense isolation that drips around him, Bernard runs toward the stranger, who in turn, with perfect symmetry, runs at him. They continue toward each other until Bernard stops, which halts the mysterious figure.
“Jame?” Bernard calls out, but the figure does not answer. Instead he stands inert, without emotion, without fear or sadness or happiness. “Jame, are you there?” The shadow of what looks like Jame turns and begins walking away, and this action sends Bernard to his knees.
For Jame walks.
And continues to, leaving Bernard behind. Bernard stands and, jogging closer, attempts to keep in step
at Jame’s side. “Where are we?”
Jame doesn’t answer, his expression stoic and forward. After a long silence, Jame stops just before a small bed. Bernard’s attention focuses on its sudden appearance just as it alights with fire. He shields himself from the heat and flames, turning away, and just as sudden as it was there, everything dims to dark again.
“The sixth and second foretales will come after and before you send the burned man left,” Jame says in a calm and steady voice.
“But I didn’t send you left . . .” Bernard murmurs. Jame walks without reacting, without answering. Bernard follows, heart sunk. “Jame, please, what’s going on?”
Ahead, a huge orange protnuk with its six monstrous limbs stalks the darkness. It crouches as if ready to attack, growling at the two as they approach.
“The seventh shall be translated . . .” But the protnuk’s roar overpowers them, and Bernard is unable to hear the last of Jame’s sentence.
“Translated by who?”
Jame doesn’t answer and turns to where the protnuk stood and where absence has taken its place.
“Jame, stop.” He does not and they continue forward. “Apory,” Bernard’s face contorts with uncontrolled emotion. With sadness. “Apory crept in a millenary sword. Apory that I wasn’t there when . . .” Before he’s able to finish, a looming figure stands before them, its palm held face up, and inches above it floats a small silver orb.
Jame speaks again. “The fifth shall come by enemy whose path you choose to cross.” The looming figure dissipates into fog as Jame continues, Bernard left to silently follow.
Ahead, a small house built on long wooden legs rises from the floor, which ripples like black water. The haynest is half their size, as if designed for a child’s play. “The third and the fourth arrive by handwritten note from a friend long left.” The haynest looks familiar, as if he had been there many years ago, years before Jame. Bernard steps closer, and just as he sees a woman in the window pulling its curtains shut, a black wave surges from the floor and engulfs the miniature house, returning the space to darkness.
Advent of the Roar (The Land Old, Untouched Book 1) Page 4