by J. J. Faulks
No one paid attention to his objection. They were too busy fleeing into the scorching heat of the fields, scattering before the boy could catch them. He was no longer their classmate but had transformed into a ferocious Hunter whose only desire was to slay the Guardians and to breach the Sanctuary so that he might steal the Key of Life.
“Run!” Orleigh squealed as the Hunter lunged at her. “Protect the Key of Life!”
“To the Sanctuary!” Piprin shouted.
The Guardians rallied together, charging towards the Sanctuary, invisible on the riverbank next to the grain store.
Orleigh caught sight of Scorlan stood outside the store, glowering at them as they hurtled in his direction. His hands gripped at his stone tablet so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and his lips were puckered as if he were sucking on something very sour.
Children were nothing but a nuisance. Scorlan turned his back to the hoard of children storming across the farmland. They ought to be in school or helping to deliver the grain to the store, not rampaging through the village like feral animals.
One of the farmers was leading his horse up the track, approaching the grain store at a saunter. As the horse came to a halt it snorted and clopped its hoof twice, sending up a haze of dust. The farmer clapped the horse’s shoulder and bumbled purposefully towards the back of the cart. He hauled two sacks of grain to the ground with a thump and then, laying his hands against the small of his back as he stretched, he said, “Give us a hand, will you?”
Scorlan’s forehead crinkled into a frown and his grip on the slate tightened. He opened his mouth ready to point out that he was busy making note of all the deliveries, but he snapped his lips shut again. He struck the slate twice with the nugget of chalk and then put it down on a tuft of dry grass. Reluctant footsteps carried him to the back of the cart. He eyed up the sacks. “Are they heavy?” he asked.
The farmer shrugged. “Heavy enough, I suppose.” He picked one up and slung it over his shoulder with such ease that it could have been filled with feathers.
Scorlan studied the second sack before squatting down and laying his hands on it. He adjusted his grip several times before attempting to lift it. This sack could have been filled with boulders. He staggered towards the grain store, huffing and panting. For that brief moment he was glad that it had been another poor harvest and that there were not more sacks to lug into the store.
The farmer stood in the entrance to the grain store with his hands on his hips, the stance accentuating his broad shoulders. He shook his head and whistled. “Looks like there was no need to build that second store of yours after all,” he said and gave a bitter chuckle.
Scorlan slumped back against the stone wall, his legs threatening to give way beneath him. “The harvests aren’t what they were,” he conceded.
“No, they’re certainly not,” the farmer agreed. “Word is there might not be enough for the winter.” He took another sweeping glance of the inside of the store, only half-filled with sacks of grain. “I guess it’s just as well that people are leaving. I hear the other villages nearby don’t have the same problems that we do.”
“People leaving won’t help us,” Scorlan said. “It’s the younger ones that are leaving, the ones that are still fit to work the land. Without them we’ll produce even less food and we’ll still have the older villagers to provide for. I don’t see any of them out on the farms.”
The farmer pursed his lips and nodded. He muttered, “Hadn’t considered that.”
“No,” Scorlan said bluntly. No one else apart from himself had considered that.
The horse tossed its head in the air and gave a startled whinny as the children charged by, fleeing from the runtish boy who trailed behind the pack. Orleigh ran at the front, leading the others with her war cry. “Protect the Key of Life!”
“If only she hadn’t been born,” the farmer said. He shook his head and stepped forward to calm his horse. “All of this is her doing. Her and her curse.”
Scorlan gave a half-nod, a nod designed to keep the conversation flowing without indicating that he agreed with the statement. Superstition could be very foolish or very wise, depending upon the outcome, and he wanted to say that he was right all along.
The farmer held onto the horse’s reins, his other hand stroking its muzzle. The horse snorted its contentment. “Someone ought to do something,” he said. He lowered his voice and leaned in towards Scorlan. “A friend of a friend was cursed. He went to see the Seer—you’ve heard of the Seer, haven’t you?”
“Only what I heard on my travels before coming to the village,” Scorlan said, “And that was mainly tales shared in the taverns over a mug of ale.”
“Well, he went to see the Seer and the Seer got rid of his curse,” the farmer said. “The Seer spoke to the gods and gave him a potion and the curse was gone! If it worked for him, why not for us? Things could go back to the way they were.”
Scorlan nodded. Things could be how they were before Orleigh was born, back when he and Ormoss saw their plans for the village coming to life. They would be prosperous again. He stared past the farmer and his horse to the children running around the oak tree, his eyes narrowing on Orleigh.
“Someone ought to talk to Ormoss,” the farmer said. He paused. “Say, you’re his advisor, maybe you could talk to him. He spends so much time alone in that house of his now that the rest of us hardly ever see him anymore.” He led the horse and cart in a wide circle, readying them to return down the track. “It’s something to think about anyway,” he called over his shoulder as he walked away.
Scorlan didn’t reply. The conversation he would have with Ormoss was already running through his mind, the words being played out and then revised until they hummed with perfection. As he looked out across the land, he imagined crops sprouting from the earth and surging up until they were the height of a full-grown man. He saw herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, all fattened and strong. Next to his first grain store appeared a second; straining with sacks of grain, it was no longer just a blueprint collecting dust on a shelf in the village hall.
Pityr marched towards the oak tree, his hands balled into fists at his sides. All their friends fell silent and shrank back into the shade, but Orleigh stayed at Piprin’s side. She reached for his hand, his palm clammy against hers.
“Come here now!” Pityr shouted.
Piprin dropped her hand and stumbled forward. “We were just playing,” Piprin stuttered, his voice softer than a feather drifting to the ground.
“Playing?” Pityr echoed. “There’s work to be done! You don’t see your brothers out here playing, do you?” Piprin shook his head, but Pityr hadn’t waited for a reply. “No, because they’re busy working on the farm—where you should be!—not wasting time playing your silly, childish games.”
Orleigh glanced back at their classmates. They were studying the ground, doing everything they could to avoid Pityr’s glower. A few had even disappeared behind the tree trunk.
“We were playing Guardians of the Sanctuary,” she spoke up. A shush from one of the boys crept over her shoulder, but she ignored it. No one else was willing to stand up for Piprin. “It’s not just a game; it’s a real myth!”
Pityr glared at her. The hooves of a thousand horses galloped in her chest, but she did not flinch. Instead, she jutted out her chin and stretched herself as tall as she could. The might of the Guardians coursed through her.
“Home, Piprin! Now!” Pityr growled.
With his head hung, Piprin traipsed homewards. His dark hair had fallen across his face, but Orleigh could still see the flush of scarlet that rose up from his neck. Pityr marched a step behind, his hand ready to spur Piprin on with a shove each time that he slowed.
When Orleigh turned back to face the others she could see that the spirit of the Guardians had deserted them all. Not one of them was a mighty warrior worthy of defending the Key of
Life. They were just children, young and timid and ready to go home.
*
Orleigh pushed open the front door. It was always so gloomy inside, like a dark cloud had fallen from the sky and buried itself in the house. Even when graced by the afternoon sunlight, the house felt more like a cave. It was the opposite to Piprin’s home which, warmed by Meila’s love and laughter, glowed like a campfire.
The house was silent. Orleigh’s ears were filled with the sound of her own heartbeat. She tiptoed along the corridor, preserving the silence as if it were sacred, a gift from the gods. Through the doorway to the living room she caught sight of her father. He was hunched over in his armchair, a chair as old and tattered as he was, with his face buried in his hand. Tears rolled out from beneath his palm, flowing down his cheeks and tumbling to the floor. She stopped to watch him, counting the tears that fell. On the tenth she retreated from the doorway and continued on down the corridor, shutting herself in the emptiness of her bedroom.
Chapter Eight
The children flooded out of the school. Scorlan peered at them through the window of the village hall. Ormoss was late. He should have been there long before the school day was over. Scorlan tutted to himself.
There were squeals of laughter and Orleigh darted through the crowd, chased by a skinny boy, the son of one of the farmers. She was as slick as a fish through water, but the boy was weedy and lumbered along, bumping into the other children and never coming close to catching her.
The children had dispersed, but Ormoss was still yet to arrive. Scorlan yawned. He leant back in his chair and studied the room. It used to be someone’s home, until he came to the village and appropriated the land for construction of the hall and school. It had been necessary in order to give the village independence from its neighbours, but the villagers did not see it that way.
Scorlan stood up and stretched his legs. Glancing out of the window, he saw Ormoss approaching, blinkered as he trudged past the villagers towards the village hall. Scorlan fussed over the records that he had set out earlier, aligning the pieces of parchment with the edge of the table.
The doorway of the village hall was generous, but Ormoss nearly filled the frame as he entered. His height and bulk gave him a powerful presence that demanded respect, and he had the charisma to match. He was a born leader. Until Alea died. Though still tall and well-built, if a little withered by age, something was missing. It was as if he had hollowed and was now no more than a shell, vulnerable to fracturing and crumbling. One push, even from someone as meagre as Scorlan, might see him topple.
“Ormoss!” Scorlan pulled out a chair and beckoned Ormoss to sit down. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
Ormoss frowned at the pieces of parchment on the table, as if Scorlan’s records were written in a foreign language. “I was busy,” he muttered. He waved his hand over the documents. “What are these?”
“Records of harvest yields from the last seven years,” Scorlan said. He leant over the table, running his finger down the columns. “Here are the predicted figures, and here are the actual yields. And here—”
Ormoss batted his hand away. “Yes, yes,” he said. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Well, if you look here,” Scorlan said and he extended a tentative hand. “You can see that the yield this year is worse than my original predictions, and if you look here you can see that the total yield is decreasing each year.”
“I can see that by looking at the fields,” Ormoss said. His finger and thumb massaged the bruised shadows beneath his eyes.
Scorlan hesitated. He gathered together the documents before they could fall to the floor, forming a neat pile and placing them out of Ormoss’s reach. He would return them to their file after the meeting. “If things don’t improve,” he said, “We won’t have enough supplies for the winter.”
Ormoss frowned. “You want us to rely on crops from our neighbours again?” He shook his head. “That’s not an option I’m willing to consider.”
“No!” Scorlan said. That wasn’t an option that he was willing to consider either. “You brought me here because you believed that my ideas would make the village less dependent on its neighbours. Working together, we achieved that. I don’t want all our efforts to go to waste! I want the village to thrive again!”
“Then what do you suggest we do?” Ormoss demanded. He folded his arms across his broad chest and leant back in his chair. He looked defiant, as if he were challenging Scorlan to solve an impossible puzzle.
Scorlan took a deep breath. “I think we should visit the Seer.”
“The Seer? Why would we visit the Seer?” Ormoss asked. Leaning forward, he dug his elbows into the top of the ornate wooden table.
Scorlan settled into the adjacent chair, perching on the edge of the seat. “There is talk of a curse,” he said. “What with Alea’s passing, the strange way that the fire reacted during Orleigh’s naming ceremony, and now seven years of poor harvests. You must have heard people talk.”
Ormoss swatted the suggestion away like he was warding off a mosquito. “People can talk about what they like, it doesn’t mean there’s a curse.”
“Maybe there isn’t,” Scorlan offered. He could humour Ormoss’s denial. “But if there is, the Seer could help. He has freed others from their curses. He can make deals with the gods!”
Ormoss’s eyes darkened. “I don’t trust the Seer anymore than I trust the gods.”
“We need to do something, Ormoss,” Scorlan said. His hand clenched into a fist and, resisting the urge to bang it against the table, he tapped it against the wood. Such a weak gesture was not fitting for the strength of his emotion. “If we do nothing, soon there won’t be enough crops to feed our people and the village will die out. You brought me here as your advisor, and this is the advice that I’m giving you. We should visit the Seer. We should ask for help.”
There was a long silence. Scorlan clasped his hands together atop the table to stop his fingers from fidgeting as he waited for a reply.
“Fine,” Ormoss murmured. His voice was so low and quiet that Scorlan could have mistaken it for a sigh. “Visit the Seer if you must, though I don’t see what good it will do.”
Scorlan let out a long breath that had been building in his belly. As it passed through his lips, it teased his mouth into a smile. He was going to meet the Seer. He was going to save the village.
*
The hourglass projected from the centre of the stone plinth. It stood at the heart of the map, towering over the Land of Mortals and Land of Gods. Sand funnelled through its neck like water trickling through a brook. The first grain to fall represented Orleigh’s birth and each grain since an opportunity for her to be reunited with her fate. The final grain would see the threads severed forever, her future lost. But only if the Seer failed, and he had never failed before.
The Seer knelt down. His knees crackled, a tendon snapped. He lowered himself until his eyes were level with the shelf that was cut deep into the side of the plinth. He studied the legion of figurines that had found their home on the shelf, each carved from chunks of bone. Some were thick with dust, placed there and never disturbed again, whilst others remained fresh, repeatedly returned to the table. At the front of the ranks was a piece that bore the likeness of a porcupine. He had carved it for Scorlan. He plucked it from the shelf and, easing to his feet, he placed the figurine on the table. It was on the path at last.
Chapter Nine
Scorlan followed the main trade route to its split at the base of the mountain. The two tracks veered round and rejoined at the opposite side, rendering the mountain like an ait in a stream. The other travellers chose either path to follow, but Scorlan strode straight ahead, entering the grove of pine trees that lay between the track and the rockface.
The trees hugged one another with boughs that wept to the floor. Scorlan stooped beneath their curtains, one arm pro
tecting his eyes from their needles as he passed. He emerged from the grove and unfurled himself from his awkward crouch, stretching out his legs and back.
He craned his neck to take in the full view of the mountainside. The sheer bluish-grey rockface stretched up as far as he could see and disappeared into a spiral of cloud that lingered around the peak. The sky was otherwise clear, but the cloud formed a smoky white fog that cloaked the mountain and obscured its true height. The cloud looked like a mask, and masks were only worn when there was something to hide. A cold thrill rippled through him. The only thing more dangerous than proceeding was returning to the village with the curse still intact.
Scorlan stepped through the undergrowth towards the mountain and began to scour the rockface for an entrance to the Seer’s cave, but as hard as he looked, there was no doorway. All he found was a slender crack in the mountainside that was just wide enough to accommodate one man.
Above the crevice there was an inscription etched into the rock; the letters were worn smooth with time and they appeared to be written in a foreign language. Though he had traveled throughout the Land of Mortals and had dabbled in many different tongues, the words were unrecognisable even to him.
“He’s clever is the Seer,” wisps of words spoken in taverns years ago echoed in his mind, “Knows more than any mortal. Some say he isn’t a mortal, not truly, but he isn’t a god either.”
Perhaps the inscription was written in a forgotten language, now known only to the Seer.
Turning sideways, Scorlan squeezed through the opening and edged himself into a close-walled tunnel. Little light followed him through the gap, so he relied on his hands to guide him. The walls were damp and slick with slimy growth; jagged spurs of rock projected outwards, snagging on his skin and clothes. His progress was halting, but each step drove him further beneath the mountain and deeper into the darkness.