The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  Past the fields, she descended a hill to a small grove of trees hugging the bank of the river where it flowed at the level of the ground around it. Teth had discovered this place on her second day and came here often. It was one of the few places that she felt comfortable and safe. She supposed it was having the branches of the trees above her, having their trunks around her, their roots beneath her. The shade helped too, she thought, as she pushed the sweat from her dripping head.

  Without even bothering to remove her clothes, she walked into the river. She knew from experience that it was shallow here for several feet before starting to drop away, and she waded out until the water rose to her hips. It was cool enough to make her shiver. It felt wonderful. She reached her hands into the grey swirl so unlike the crystal streams of her forest and splashed it onto her face, felt it running in cool beads down her back and chest. Finally, she spread her arms to the sides, leaned back, and allowed herself to fall. She splashed into the water, felt it surround her, pull at her, cool her.

  There was a thump, a splash, a creaking, sounds that did not belong to the river. Teth’s head shot up. Her body tensed, heart raced, chest heaved. Her hands clenched the mud beneath them as if hoping to find a weapon in the muck. The sound came again: thump, splash, creak. It was in many ways softer now that the water was not carrying it, so it must be in the water, but there was nothing in her grove. Thump, splash, creak. Thump, splash creak. She followed the sound and realized that it was coming from the rounded wall twenty yards up river just before the bank sloped down to her grove. Something was on the other side of that wall. It sounded like a boat, but who or what did it carry? Why was it here? Why near the compound? Why near her grove? Why now? Teth could not think of an answer to any of those questions that did not make her heart leap into her throat.

  Staying low, she retreated to the safety of the trees and drew herself out of the water behind the nearest, its trunk standing in a foot of water from the flooded river. She stared at the steep bank, terrified of what could be hiding behind that bend. Waiting, listening, she wondered what she could do. She expected to hear voices or weapons or feet splashing through water, but there was no change, wood slapping water, tapping stone, creaking as it is bends.

  No people, she told herself, you’d have heard them by now. But that didn’t mean that they didn’t exist. Maybe they’d already gone ashore. Maybe they were searching for her now. Maybe they were in the compound, were asking questions, were getting answers. Only one way to find out and no more risk than standing right here.

  With a deep breath, she sprinted up the side of the hill. She stayed low, feet spread wide, hands out to help, tall brown grass swirling around her hips and shoulders. She fell to her hands and knees then to her belly as she crested the hill and looked down the other side at the small cove where the river bent around the thumb that made up her perch. Trapped there against the rocks was a boat.

  Teth stared at the vessel in disbelief. It was empty. It had to be. She scanned it for signs of life. A dozen paces long and five across, its deck was almost completely open. A low railing surrounded it. A long, closed hatch sat in the middle. A canvas tarp stood over the aft section where the pilot would handle the vessels great rudder. Teth could see under the tent from her angle. No one held the rudder, slept on the straw mat, or sat on the wooden stool. There was no one on the deck, the boat was not tied in place, and surrounded by sheer limestone cliffs twenty feet high, there was no chance that anyone could have gotten off.

  The question then was the hold. She watched the hatch for a long time, imagining what was beneath it then looked at the deck for clues. There were no signs of human occupation, no scraps of food, no tools beyond a great pole stowed along one side and several neat coils of rope, no clothes on the line that ran from a pole near the hatch, no fishing lines. So why was it here? The only clue was a fragment of rope hanging in defeat from the front of the boat. Its end was frayed and worn, showing all the signs of having snapped.

  For a long time, Teth considered. The boat was lodged against the bank, was not going anywhere. It had clearly been abandoned, had broken free without a person on board. It was perfect for their escape. And that was what finally spurred her into action.

  Teth descended the hill until she could jump easily into the water. She walked around the bank toward the boat. The water rose to her chest then the ground fell away. One second, she was walking against the current, the riverbed firmly beneath her feet; the next, her foothold was gone. She lost her balance, and the river caught her. She tumbled as memories of another time in another river took hold, but this river was a kitten compared to the one that had claimed her on her joining day. She soon found the ground again. Gripping it with her hands then toes, she brought herself back up and took a deep breath. She had been close before, only a few paces from the shred of rope at the boat’s keel, but to clear that distance, she was going to have to swim.

  She weighed that. The boat was exactly what she needed to get away from the Weavers. No matter Dasen’s condition – he must be unconscious to have never responded to her calls – it would carry him. They would not have to wander through barren plains with no water, no shelter, no food, no sense of location. The river would carry them to Wildern without even having to row. It could carry all the supplies they needed, could provide shelter, anonymity and a story if questions were anyway. They had to have it. She had to swim.

  That decided, Teth walked back out along the cliff to where the bottom fell away. She peered around the corner, saw the boat so close that she could nearly feel it. She had only to grab the rope and pull herself on board. Bracing herself, she leapt around the side of the bank. Her head plunged beneath the water. The current caught her and threw her flailing limbs into the cliff at her side. Her shoulder pounded against the stone, her elbow scraped. The force of the blow removed a layer of skin. With a gasp, she braced herself against the stone and brought her head up for a breath. The boat was there, almost within reach, but the current was stronger here where the face concentrated it. She could feel it pulling her down and away from the boat. Clinging to the rock, feeling it bite at her, she took a breath and leapt away, reaching toward the rope. The current pulled her under, pushed her again toward the rocks, but she felt hemp brush her fingers. A second later, it was stinging her palm. She pulled and felt herself rise from the water.

  Gasping, she held the bow of the boat and forced herself to breathe. She had only been under the water for a few seconds, but she gasped as if half-drowned. Cursing, she pulled herself up with trembling arms until she could throw a leg over the railing and climb into the vessel. She sat there panting and brought her emotions into check. With another breath, she looked down at her elbow, stared as blood mixed with the water and dripped to the deck in a pink puddle. She’d had worse scrapes climbing trees as a girl, but it surely did sting. She squinted against the pain and rolled her shoulder, felt the bruise that was forming along its back.

  Cursing again, she looked around the boat. The deck was just as empty as it had appeared from the cliff. She crept to the hatch and unlatched it. “Hello,” she called into the hold. Her breath caught as she heard a banging then subsided when she realized it was just the boat scraping against the rock. “Hello,” she called again. “Is anyone there? My brothers and I found your boat. We thought you might need some help.” She looked around her, wishing that the stout brothers were actually there. She waited, listened, but there was no response. “I’m coming down,” she declared. “It’s okay, Will. Your shoulders will barely fit through there. I’m sure it’s safe, but you and Kev stay up here just in case.”

  She waited another minute to allow her imaginary brothers to take their positions, then turned and started down the slanted stairs. It was dark inside with the only light coming from two small, round windows on either side and the hatch above. After the brilliance of the afternoon sun, it took her eyes some time to adjust, but even through the gloom, she could tell that the hold was empty.
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  The space inside must have run the entire length and breadth of the boat, with a floor of rough planks and the deck serving as a ceiling only five feet above. Toward the back of the space was the living area. A sleeping pallet was rolled and tucked at the end of a cot. A single blanket was folded beside it. A pot-bellied stove with a single pan, plate, and fork was on the opposite wall. A chimney rose from the stove and then exited out the back. Two knives were tucked into a block built into the wall next to a small table. Two armless chairs were nailed in place on either side of the table. Beyond that was a closed carpenter’s box, a folded tarp, a bucket of charcoal, and a single set of empty shelves. The other end of the space was equipped for cargo. Ropes and nets were attached to the walls but hung lifeless on this day, the space beyond them empty.

  “Perfect,” she mouthed the word and smiled. The boat had everything they needed. Now, she just had to get it to the grove. Emerging from the hold, Teth grabbed the long pole and lifted it with some effort. As long as the boat, it was thin but heavy, meant for poling along the river. She braced it against the wall of rock and pushed. The current resisted but the boat slid slowly along the wall, scraping as it went. She pushed again, straining against the current until the weight of the boat eased around the corner with a lurch.

  Teth fell on her ass. The pole landed on top of her and almost tipped into the water. Stunned, she clasped it and rubbed another set of bruises. The boat had almost drifted past the grove and on down the river before she could recover her feet. She immediately planted the pole in the bed of the river and held it there, feet firm on the deck. The boat resisted but stopped.

  “Now what,” she asked herself out loud. She tried pushing with the pole, but only managed to pivot the boat around it, and almost ended back on the deck as it swung around. Considering, she pushed again, allowed the boat to swing until she was facing the bank. Then she walked. Leaving the pole planted, she walked the boat toward the bank. When she reached the stern, the bow was nearly there, so she simply pushed with all her might and was rewarded with the sound of wood scraping against sand and mud.

  Another push drove it firmly into place. Satisfied that the current would not immediately rip it away, she stored the pole, walked to the front, and leapt into the water. It came to her waist. She grabbed the frayed lead rope and pulled. The boat barely budged. She strained with all her might, but the boat would go no further. Still, she could not trust that the current would not eventually dislodge it.

  Minutes later, she had a length of rope tied to the remnant and looped around the first tree. Using the tree as a pulley, she dragged the boat up until the bottom was resting on the bank. She tied the rope around the tree and laid down to rest in the shade. She was panting, clothes soaked with sweat now instead of river water, but she felt good, felt like she had accomplished something for the first time in a week.

  Now, I just need Dasen, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

  #

  When Teth woke, it was dark. The half-moon had set hours ago, but the sky was clear with so many stars as to be an almost complete cover of glittering diamonds. She moaned and tried to swallow. Her mouth was a desert, tongue swollen, throat sore. It was the only part of her that was not wet. Her entire body was soaked as if she were lying in a downpour. Even here in the shelter of the trees, in the dead of the night, by the cool flow of the river, the heat was tyrannical.

  Wondering how she had ever managed to sleep so long in such heat, Teth stumbled to the river, and bent to drink. Her head plunged into the water when her stomach sloshed. Water ran down her back as she watched steam rise from the river, saw the water being consumed by the tinder dry air. She supposed it might always be like this on the plains, but she could not imagine. She had never considered that it could be this hot even after the sun had fallen. Hot and dry, she thought. The air did not feel like it had a drop of water in it. Each breath dried her tongue, leaving it almost aching to be moist.

  How long was I sleeping? she asked herself. It had been late afternoon when she fell asleep and must be almost morning now. Well, I certainly needed it. She felt as good as she had in days, head clear, body strong, nerves steady. A last yawn claimed her, but she shook it off. She knew what she had to do, and now was the perfect time. She rose from the river and forced her stiff body to run back to the compound.

  It only took her an hour or smuggle her store of supplies from the compound to the boat. She stowed everything in the hold and returned for more food, which was easily pilfered from the unlocked kitchen. She added two more knives, water jugs, a gallon of cider, pans, utensils, and other necessities – she almost relished the thought of what those missing items would do to the Weavers’ routines when they rose. Finally, she snuck into the compound’s small library. She had already pilfered a few books and used their leather covers for her shoes. Now, it was their most valuable member she needed. She quickly found the volume she was looking for. It was an immaculate hand-printed copy of The Book of Valatarian with silver and gold inlay and full color illustrations that were art in their own right. Teth had never seen so fine a book, but she had no doubt that it could fetch a high price or a great favor when it was needed most. She wrapped the book in a canvas sack and hid it at the bottom of the boat’s tool chest.

  By the time she finished her thievery, the sun was just starting to lighten the eastern sky. She knew that the monks would be going to their meditations soon, so she returned to the grove, wading for what felt like the hundredth time through the grass that snapped and crackled beneath her feet, and waited for the rising of the sun. She was ready now. She just needed Dasen, and for some reason, she felt that today was the day she would find him.

  At the top of the knoll, she sat and looked to the east. The stars there were just starting to fade, the first glow of sun extinguishing them. But there was something else there as well. Flashing along the horizon as far as her eye could see was lightning. It had to be lightning, but she could not see any clouds, could not hear even the most distant rumbles of thunder. Lightning without a storm, she thought. She felt the brittle grass around her, the astonishing heat, the air so warm it could not hold even a breath of water. She looked back to the horizon, watched the flashing, and wondered if the red glow there was really the rising of the sun.

  Chapter 10

  The 20 – 21st Day of Summer

  Eia was gone. Ipid reached for her, longing to touch her, to smell her, to feel her warmth after the nightmares he’d just endured. She wasn’t there. He sat up and rubbed his head, trying to dispel the images of those men, the sounds of that woman’s screams, the sense of dread that had been playing all night in his mind. After the horror they’d witnessed, they had returned to the house, locked the door, and retreated to his room without lights. The bed had been easy to find, his passion had not. Nothing Eia did could get his mind away from what they had seen, what had happened, what they hadn’t done, away from the troubled world that made such horrors possible. She had eventually given up. Her frustration had been obvious, but she’d said that she understood, that it didn’t matter, that they could try again in the morning. And now she was gone.

  Outside, the sun was barely up but already blazing. Ipid marveled that he had slept at all as he lifted the damp nightshirt from his body and fanned it. The balcony doors, left open in the night, welcomed a breeze that offered not the slightest reprieve. This hot, this early in the morning. He tried to remember ever feeling heat this intense. Certainly, it was not unusual to have blazing hot days in these summer months, but for the heat to hold into the night with such intensity . . . . Ipid could not recall its like in all his time. He shook his head, felt the water running, already, down his face and back and chest.

  Eia’s simply looking for some relief, he told himself. She couldn’t sleep in this, and I can’t blame her in the slightest.

  Thinking to find her, Ipid drained a cup of warm water from the pitcher on his desk and changed from the sodden sleeping clothes into pants and
a shirt that would soon be just as damp. He looked at the wool jacket hanging across the back of his chair but felt slightly ill at the prospect of wearing it. As strange as it felt, he did not button his shirt, put on shoes, or tie a scarf around his neck. It left him feeling nearly naked, but in this heat, he almost wished he were naked.

  Most of the next hour was spent looking for Eia. He did not find her. Through the sleeping quarters, the kitchen, the studies and sitting rooms, servants’ quarters, storage areas, and grounds he saw nothing. The only sign of her were scattered dishes, an overturned chair, an oddly placed knife, food left out to spoil, toppled bottles. Individually, those signs meant nothing, but they were enough for Ipid’s imagination. It began to whirl. Had she left? Had something happened? Had those men come? Had they attacked her? Had she run from them? Had they dragged her away? And how could he have slept through it if that were the case?

  Picking up a long knife from the floor of the kitchen, he walked through the house trying to connect the clues. But they did not connect. If she’d been surprised in the kitchen, why were the bottles toppled in the study? If someone had entered the house, if she’d left, why were all the doors still locked, the windows still firmly closed? And outside, there were no signs of footprints, no signs of a struggle. So where was she?

  Walking through the garden for a second time with fear as his companion – crouched low, knife held out in front of him – Ipid searched, half expecting to be ambushed around each hedge or tree. She was still not at the pond, nowhere along the path, not in the flower gardens, or among the fruit trees or berry vines. He climbed the fateful hill from the previous night, looked down, and saw something that made him temporarily forget about Eia. A streamer of smoke rose, barely distinguishable against the blaze of the rising sun. He traced it to its source, the same house they had watched the night before. An entire section now laid in ruins, smoke rising from the cinders where a fire had burned itself out.