by Krista Rose
“He’s not breathing.” Janis swore heatedly; I think she had forgotten me. “He’s not breathing!”
“Hush. Tend to Adelie.” She shooed Janis away, then met my stricken gaze, motioning for me to join her by the bed. I walked forward, my legs leaden, and she gently placed my brother in my arms so that his head was cradled against my heart, both of us heedless of the blood.
He was so warm, but yet so still, his tiny face composed as if he were asleep. Babies aren’t supposed to be born sleeping. I looked up at the Crone, afraid.
“Wake him,” she said simply.
I swallowed. The Crone stared at me, waiting. Janis was feeding Mother something out of a dark glass bottle, her voice soothing as she promised an end to the pain. The room smelled of sweat and fear and imminent death, and my mouth was filled with the taste of blood. I had bitten through my lip in fear.
My brother’s heart beat, weak and fluttering, and I could feel it through my palms on his back, echoing in my head.
“Wake up,” I whispered.
He didn’t stir.
I closed my eyes, my forehead dropping to touch his, my heart breaking within me. My mother was dying; I could not lose my brother as well. I had spoken to him for months through the wall of her skin, had loved him since I had first felt his movements. Please. Tears burned against my eyelids. Please wake up. Come back to me.
His heart beat once, twice. The air was still, the whole world achingly silent.
And then he took a breath, and let out his first, piercing wail.
I smiled, opening my eyes with relief, the dim room sparkling in my vision through my tears. Janis bustled over to me, beaming. She lifted my brother from my arms, murmuring the nonsense women always speak to babies as she turned away to clean him up.
The door burst open, crashing loudly against the wall, and I spun, startled. Father filled the doorway, his face too pale, his eyes half-mad. The Crone, who had gone to tend my mother, simply looked at him and stepped aside.
He staggered to the bed and sank to his knees at Adelie’s side, brushing long, golden hair from her face with shaking fingers. “Estaur.”
She opened glazed, drugged eyes, struggling to focus on him. “Our child?”
He had not bothered to check on the baby, and glanced at me, helpless. I moved to stand beside him so that she could see me. “It’s a boy, Mama.”
“A boy.” She smiled, her hand reaching out blindly for my father. He took it, and raised it to his cheek, desperately trying to hold her to life. “Reyce, I think. ‘Glory’.” Her gaze sharpened for a moment on my face. “Kryssa, you’ll take care of them for me, won’t you? Promise me you will.”
I think now that, had she known what would come, if she had understood the enormity of the burden that she was placing on me, she would not have asked. But she was delirious and drugged against the pain, and I was only a child, scared and heartbroken as I watched my mother die- what else could I say?
“Yes, Mama.” I knuckled away the tears sliding down my cheeks. “I will.”
She closed her eyes. “That’s my good girl.”
“Adelie.” My father’s voice was broken. “Please. I need you.”
“Rava’eth.” She smiled at him, but her eyes were blind, already seeing past him. “I love you.”
“Adelie, no, don’t leave me! Adelie!”
But she was already gone.
KRYSSA
14 Llares 565A.F.
It did not rain the day we buried our mother. I remember thinking that it should, that the heavens should weep as we did for our loss. But instead the sky remained painfully blue, the sun beating down on us as our father gently placed Adelie in the grave beneath the Teminar tree.
He could not bring himself to cover her, and so it was Janis who picked up the shovel, filling the grave with soft dirt until our mother was at last hidden from view. We stood in silence when she had finished, waiting, our heads bowed for prayer.
I did not pray. I knew then that the Gods had taken her, killing her with her own vision. I hated them for it, even as I held Reyce in my arms, the twins clinging to my skirts and Brannyn and Lanya pressed close to my side. I did not care about her visions of glory; I simply wanted my mother.
Janis began to sing, her voice soft and lovely as tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Wind, wind, blow me down,
Cast my ashes all around.
Rain, rain, fall on me,
Drown me and my misery.
The light has gone away,
And I am left alone, afraid.
So rain, rain, cry on me-
I will never be free.
“This rain and wind that bring me down
Are all the hope I’ve ever found,
And ashes fall all around
As I die here without a sound.
“Oh, rain, rain, wash away
My pain, take it far, I pray.
And wind, wind, blow me high
So my ashes touch the sky.
And sun, shine down on me
So I may finally be free-
“At last, I am finally free.”
Malachi sobbed brokenly as her voice trailed off. She turned away, her lashes glistening, and motioned us children inside, leaving our father alone to mourn.
565A.F. – 566A.F.
It is a sad truth that in the aftermath of great pain, it is in our nature to seek out the darkness, for we think that we will find healing there. But it is in the darkness that we forget that there was ever light, and grow shriveled and ugly in the shadows where we cannot be seen, twisted into something horrifying in the wake of our tragedy.
Certainly, that is what happened to Malachi Rose.
All except Brannyn and I were too young to remember what he was like before the madness took him. Lanya almost remembers, but in small glimpses, like a half-forgotten dream. The others knew nothing of the happiness we once had, the joy and laughter that had filled the walls of our home before it became a prison.
They only remember Father as the monster he became.
It took years to build to that point, of course. Janis stayed with us after our mother’s death, taking care of us as Father sank into unreasoning despair. He sat by Adelie’s grave day and night, silent and withdrawn; he would have joined her in it within the month, had Janis not forced him to eat.
With Malachi incapacitated, it was left to Janis to keep the farm running, and she managed both our home and our lives with her forcible personality. She was never cruel, though we discovered quickly that she did not truly understand children, and expected for us to work as hard as she did to keep up the farm. Brannyn and I, as the oldest, soon learned to chop wood, and washed both laundry and floors until our shoulders ached. We learned to cook, though I was never very good at it, tending to burn the food so badly it was no longer fit for even the pigs to eat. We cleaned the windows and the fireplace and tended to the livestock each day, until we were allowed at last to collapse onto our pallets in the great room, thoroughly exhausted. The others were exempted, as they were still much too young, and Lanya was set to watch over them, keeping them quiet as the rest of us worked.
Janis instructed the two hirelings to collect the harvest in the fall, and doled out their pay once they were done. Enough was set aside to see us through till the spring, and the rest was carted into the village, to be sold at the general goods store.
Winter came at last. Somehow, Janis managed to get Malachi inside before he froze to death, though he stank so badly it made my stomach clench. She bathed him as if he were a child, burned his soiled clothes, and then locked him in his room, where he lay, catatonic and uncaring, for all those cold, snow-filled months.
Spring came, finally, and he returned to our mother’s grave. Janis continued to stay with us, running the farm with a firm, confident hand.
I turned seven in the summer, and it was then, in the evenings after our chores had been finished, that Janis at last began to teach us how to read. Our parents ha
d never bothered with our education; we were poor commoners, and parchment was expensive. But Janis had been a student once, at a small university in the capitol of Val Estus, and she confessed to me that she found ignorance and illiteracy repulsive, even in children.
It was at her knee that we first learned of our world, and the Gods that cared for us. She read to us from her precious books when our chores for the day were done, and we gathered around her to listen in rapt silence, our eyes and minds open and curious.
“‘Once, there was only Destiny and the Darkness.’” Janis’ face was softer in the light from the fireplace, and she stroked Lanya’s hair as she read from the heavy, dusty book. Book of the Sun Children was etched in peeling gold lettering upon the spine, and my fingers itched to trace the beautiful illuminations within the pages. “‘The Darkness wanted to leave the void silent, but Destiny created lights to banish it.’” She glanced up. “Brannyn, what are the names of the lights that Destiny created?”
“The sun, the moon, and the stars,” he recited dutifully.
“Very good.” She held up the book so we could gaze at the image of those lights, drawn as if set in stained glass. She set the book back in her lap, and started to read again. “‘The Darkness took the Stars and the Moon, and bound them to Night, to punish Destiny for trying to banish it. Destiny wept, and five tears fell and became Worlds, locked in a Circle.’” She looked at me. “Kryssa, what are the names of the five worlds?”
“Ca’erdylla!” Lanya piped up before I could answer.
Janis smiled at her, and I felt strangely jealous of her obvious favoritism. “Yes, my dear, Ca’erdylla, which is our world.” She glanced back at me. “What are the others?”
“Well, there’s Ca’erlyssa, where Mama went when she died.” I counted them off on my fingers. “And the Realm of the Gods, and Ca’ersenta, where bad people go when they die. And- and-” I struggled to remember, flushing with shame when I couldn’t.
“Ca’erolne,” Janis said, gently reminding, “which is the world below ours.”
“Ca’erolne,” I repeated. My cheeks burned.
“‘Destiny then created Gods, to watch over the Worlds.’ The first Gods it created were called..?”
“The Elder Gods!” Brannyn grinned. “They created the First Race, but then they turned evil, and-”
“Thank you, Brannyn. Please don’t skip ahead. ‘The Elder Gods became evil, corrupted by the Darkness, as did the First Race. Only Diona, the Goddess of the Stars, was unaffected, and she created the Mortal Races to fight the Darkness.’” She glanced at our upturned faces. “Lanya, can you tell me what these races were?”
“Um, Men?” She frowned, concentrating. “And Elves, and- and- Dwarves!”
“Very good, Lanya.” She smiled, and stroked my sister’s hair. “And whom did Destiny create to look after these new mortals?”
“The Younger Gods!” This was my favorite part of the story. “And the Younger Gods created the Great Warriors, and they started the War of the Gods, and they defeated the Elder Gods and saved the world!”
“Kryssa.” Janis leveled me with a stare. “You know better than to interrupt. It’s rude.”
I bowed my head, apologetic. “Sorry.”
“Brannyn, can you tell me the names of the seven Younger Gods?”
He swallowed, glancing at me. He could never remember all the names. “Um… Yrisa?”
“And she is what?”
“The- the Goddess of Life?”
“Very good. Who else?”
“Sirius. Um, he’s the God of the Dead. And Naitre, Goddess of Love, and- and-” He flushed, and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry, Janis. I can’t remember all of them.”
She sighed. “This is important, children. The Younger Gods protect us and care for us. Our Faith keeps them pure, so that they do not become evil like the Elder Gods.”
“Janis?” I lifted my eyes, a question burning within me. “What is evil?”
She gazed at me for a moment, then sighed. “Evil is complicated, Kryssa. When you do something bad that you know is bad, that is evil.”
“What if I do something bad that I don’t know is bad? Am I still evil?”
She shifted, uncomfortable. “This is not our lesson today. Today I want to know about the Younger Gods.”
“But-”
“No.” Her face hardened, and I knew there would be no answer to my questions. “Now tell me the names and titles of the Younger Gods.”
I sighed. “Yrisa, Goddess of Life. Sirius, God of the Dead. Rina, Goddess of Justice and Balance. Palata-”
“Palata is the God of Peace!” Lanya smiled at me, thinking she was helping me.
“Very good, Lanya.” Janis stroked her hair again, and I glared in childish resentment. She turned back to me. “And the others?”
“Vanae, Goddess of Beauty and Fertility,” I continued, though my pleasure for the lesson had vanished. “Armas, God of Beasts and Guardian of the Wilderness. And Naitre, Child-Goddess of Love.”
“And of all the Younger Gods, who is the most powerful?”
“Naitre.” I hugged my knees to my chest as I stared at the floor. “She’s the most fickle, and requires the most attention. That’s why we worship her at every holiday and before every meal.”
“What happens to those who don’t worship her?” Lanya asked, wide-eyed and innocent.
“She breaks their heart,” I whispered before Janis could answer, and shuddered. “She makes them like Papa.”
There was a moment of silence. Brannyn slowly drew in a breath, and tension rose in the room. I thought I was about to be punished, and braced for it as tears sparkled in my vision. I wished in that moment for my mother, harder than I had ever wished before.
A calloused hand gripped my chin, firm but gentle, and tilted my face up so that I was forced to look Janis in the eye. I stared back, defiant, waiting for my punishment, but her face showed only sympathy.
“Your mother served the Gods better than most,” she murmured. “It is a hard thing, to follow the demands of our Faith, to do what is right by sacrificing ourselves. Your mother loved you, all of you, enough to judge the cost worth it.”
I swallowed as tears leaked from my eyes. “She did it because the Gods told her to.”
“Yes.” She sighed, and sat back in her chair wearily. “If you truly are the God’s chosen, I pray they are gentler on you than they were to Adelie.”
A shadow clutched my heart, a terrible, foreboding fear. Heaven had merely whispered to my mother, and had taken her life as payment. What would it ask for in return for claiming us as its chosen? Would the Gods demand our deaths then, as they had demanded our mother’s? The memory-scent of blood and death filled my nose.
To die in the name of Love- could anything be more awful?
566A.F. – 20Alune 569A.F.
Harvest came, and the return of winter. Father was led back inside the house, shaking and frail, and collapsed almost immediately into his bed after Janis had bathed him. His eyes were sunken and empty; it was as if his soul had disappeared from within them, and it frightened me. Janis worried over him for weeks, but there was little she could do.
Our lives assumed a cautious routine, and we spent the next two years this way, watching our father barely survive his madness as Janis raised us without his help. We loved her; how could we not? We were children without parents, and she cared for us. She continued educating us as best she was able; though she grew frustrated with our questions, she taught us the basics of mathematics and science, religion and philosophy, opening our minds to the world around us.
We were not as grateful for it as we should have been. It was not until long after that I realized the hardship she had undertaken, and the depth of her love for Adelie that had compelled her to stay and raise children not her own.
It was in the winter of my ninth year that Janis grew ill, developing a cough and a fever that wouldn’t abate. Frightened, I tended to her and my father as the winter nigh
ts dragged on toward spring, directing the others in their chores as I shouldered Janis’ responsibilities. Spring was halted by a late winter snowstorm, and it was then that Janis’ fever took a turn for the worse. She burned at my touch, and her eyes were glazed as she spoke to people who were not there, her voice growing high and childish.
At last, she slipped into a sleep I could not wake her from, and I was forced to seek out the Crone.
I had never been to the village on my own before, and it was terrifying to ride Renic through the murky, desolate woods. The mile between Desperation and our farm seemed much farther as we battled through the drifts of waist-high snow. The stark, bare trees lining the rutted path cast unfriendly shadows against the blinding white.
The Crone’s house was decrepit and uncared for, shutterless windows dark and menacing to my eye. It nearly looked abandoned, and, if not for my love of Janis, I would have fled in fear. I knocked timidly at her door and waited, listening to the wind wail through the clawing branches of the trees that loomed too close to her home.
The door opened, and the Crone stood before me, her face unreadable. “Do you have payment?”
“I- I-” I swallowed, mustering my courage as I held out a handful of copper dhabis. “Janis is sick. She won’t wake up.”
She took the coin from my hand, her fingers icy as they brushed against mine. “Let me gather my things.”
It was not a long wait, and soon we were on our way back to the farm. The Crone was mounted on Renic, and I led them, my feet and hands growing wet and numb as I waded through the drifts of snow. It was dark when we finally reached the farm, the air biting and cold, and I smiled in relief as the lights of the house greeted us, though my cheeks felt frozen.
The Crone saw to Janis immediately, and Brannyn took Renic from me to tend to him as Lanya dragged me inside to the welcome warmth, taking my damp clothes and tucking blankets around me as I sat before the fireplace. It was painful at first to regain sensation in my fingers and toes, but soon I was suffused with pleasant heat, and began to doze.