Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Manchego came out of his trance. Was he spellbound? Had he been bewitched? He felt strange. He knew the place well, and also the woman who was waving her arms—it was the witch’s shop and Ramancia herself—but he did not remember having entered it. The witch was looking at him with irritation.

  On one wall were three shelves filled with colorful jars which glowed with secret, mystical powers. The air, acid and sulfurous, smelt charred. Killer spiders filled each corner, awaiting the flight of some unfortunate insect.

  He also became aware of a smell of death, perhaps coming from one of those jars with their dark, viscous contents, with worms that moved in an endless spiral. Another held the head of a beast with three eyes and two long horns. Another jar held the claws of a wyvern in an opaque liquid.

  A cupboard with glass doors showed weapons, such as daggers and blades, tiny shields and long glass brushes. A Morningstar caught the boy’s attention, with its characteristic ball of points joined to a long chain. Another cupboard was full of stuffed animals. In front of it the old woman with curly black hair, wearing a tall, pointed hat, was waiting for the boy’s reply with increasing irritation.

  “What do you need?” she repeated for the umpteenth time.

  “Umm… I need a potion for a sick hen,” said the lanky boy, still feeling strange.

  “Ah, so you’ve woken up at last! And you can talk, too,” Ramancia said sarcastically. “You’re very reckless. The next time you make me waste my time I’ll turn you into a horrible little animal, d’you understand? So, a potion for a sick hen, you said… Is she depressed and doesn’t lay eggs anymore?”

  “Yes, yes. That’s just what’s happening,” he said. His ear hurt and he did not know why. He remembered running from Mowriz and his friends, but not arriving at the witch’s shop.

  “Here it is!” the witch cried from among the shelves.

  From the uppermost she took a flask with a wide base and narrow beak, stopped with a dilapidated cork. It held a fluorescent blue liquid. “This potion is the solution. Five crowns, please,” the old woman said with her palm held out. Manchego took out his pouch, counted the money and gave it to the witch. “Anything else, young man?”

  “No, thank you very much. I must get back to the Central Park.”

  When Manchego was turning to go, Ramancia stopped him.

  “For three crowns more I’ll give you this totem. It’s a Teitú nut.”

  Manchego took the nut and felt it, surprised that such an ordinary object could be sold as something precious. Three crowns would buy three weeks’ worth of bread.

  “Don’t underestimate a Teitú nut,” the witch said as if she had read his thoughts. “It’s a magical nut, an indispensable totem.”

  “And what does it do?” Manchego asked, stirred by curiosity. He was still holding it in his hand, fascinated without knowing why.

  “You’ll know when you’re in trouble,” the witch replied. “When you have need, bury the Teitú nut a foot underground, water it three times a day and, curled over it, give it your heat during five successive nights.” Manchego hesitated. If he spent three crowns on this, his grandmother would hang him up by his ears.

  Ramancia went pale, as if the boy’s indecision entailed some grave danger. “Don’t waste this offer! Take it!”

  Manchego, startled, began to tremble.

  “All right, all right… I don’t want any trouble, Ramancia. Here are the three crowns.” He put the nut in his pocket and turned to leave as fast as he could.

  The witch collapsed onto a stool when the boy closed the door behind him. She exhaled.

  “He’s growing up too fast… he got too close this time… too risky,” the witch said and wiped cold sweat from her nose.

  Chapter VI – Secrets and Mysteries

  It took Lula a while to calm her anger. A nut? For three crowns? It was unheard-of. An utter swindle! She considered going to take it back herself, but she knew it would be a terrible idea and dismissed it out of hand. It was not unusual to hear that Ramancia had turned customers she had fallen out with into vermin.

  Meanwhile Manchego was holding onto the blessed nut as if it were a treasure. Her grandchild was certainly peculiar, and she found it difficult to know what was going on in his mind at any given moment. Always in love with the dawn… always in love with the sunset… Frankly, he was a special young man.

  Manchego put his hand in his pants pocket and took the Teitú nut out. He liked to play with it, throw it in the air, catch it and then throw it again. It had been a long time since Lulita had seen his grandson play like he used to when he was a little boy. At times she had feared that little boy had vanished, pushed away by having to work so hard at such a young age. Seeing him play like a little boy again made her feel warm inside.

  “You’re a very strange nut…” muttered the boy and put it away again.

  “Ok, you can keep it,” said Lulita with a grin. “But please promise me you’ll try and avoid being swindled by that old hag! She is a good village witch, providing what is needed, when needed. But sometimes she sells naive children the oddest of things. Now please, get back to work.”

  Manchego smiled back at her and said, “I promise I’ll be more careful.”

  “You covered it up quite well. But I can tell you’re hurt. Let me see.” Lulita pulled Manchego over and examined his ear.

  “It was them, wasn’t it?”

  “No! Not at all! I tripped… that’s all!”

  “Tripped, huh? Well, you aren’t all beat up and have no broken ribs. So I guess you must be right. All right then, be more careful, please. The world is dangerous… there are perils which you have no idea of…” said Lulita.

  “Oh… ok. Umm… I’d better go and work the field,” said Manchego, leaving his grieving grandmother be.

  ***

  He was sitting on the grass. At a safe distance, the donkey was grazing.

  “We have to go back for a spade and a pick, Donks.”

  He had left the tools in the field, perhaps on purpose; now he was only thinking that a new sunset awaited him.

  The donkey remained unperturbed while Manchego saddled him.

  It remained a leaden day after his encounter with Ramancia earlier in the morning, with a covering of clouds that threatened to break. They had been praying to the Goddess of Water, Mythlium, so that she would end the drought, and apparently the deity had listened to the pleading. The rain began to fall in heavy drops.

  “By the Gods… May Mythlium be merciful…” Manchego sighed, looking up at the sky, where the clouds were swelling and whirling. In a single instant the drizzle turned into a storm, with the water falling furiously.

  “By the Gods! Too much rain, Mythlium! Too much!” cried the boy, pleading with the deity as he scurried about to gather his belongings. Unfortunately, many times before the elements behaved in such a way he was sure the Gods were not listening to him only. With so many requests coming from so many people in need, a deity could not please all its followers. If it rained as it did now, you had to make the best of it. Manchego was not ready for this, however!

  A flash of lightning crossed the sky like an elk’s horn. Manchego shivered; cold crept up his back. Soon the water soaked his clothes. He had to find shelter. The nearest place was the one he avoided most: the graveyard. He hated that place because it always seemed haunted. It was that one isolated area in the farm where nobody went, save Granny once in a while, and she always cried when she visited this place.

  Strange noises came from inside the small house at times. He avoided it as much as he could, and if he had to go near the graveyard’s small and forgotten house, it was at high noon and only when there was plenty of sun. Otherwise he would never approach the area. Today, however, he was in need of a roof, and fast. And that was the closest roof he could find.

  He set off at a run, pulling Donks by the rein, and reached a field surrounded by a worn-out wooden fence: the graveyard. Inside the fence he made out the eleven headstone
s of his deceased relatives. To one side was the little white house with a red roof blanched by the sun.

  A black owl with very yellow eyes was perched on one of the headstones. The bird studied Manchego with its intense, strangely intelligent gaze, unperturbed by the beating of the rain.

  Manchego walked quickly, trying to ignore the bird and feeling tempted at the same time. The entrance to the graveyard was a gate held by a hinge so rusty it might give way at any moment.

  The black owl followed him with those intense yellow eyes. It was barely a couple of yards away from the boy. Suddenly it flew away and disappeared amid the dense foliage, ignoring the rain. Manchego went up to an old portico with three feeding troughs under the roof. Several farming tools hung from a cobwebbed wall.

  The boy tethered the donkey to the column of the portico, then without paying attention to any other detail turned to the forgotten little house. The lock hung askew, so he slipped inside, making as little noise as possible. He feared waking up a ghost.

  The atmosphere changed radically, as if he had stepped into a bubble with a different temperature and pressure. Once inside, the silence was welcoming. He did not expect this at all. He was in fear of finding a place that would put him on edge. To the contrary, he found a strange solace. He had been dead scared of this place for so long he hadn’t had the courage to step inside and actually explore its confines. This was a hidden treasure. He made a mental note about how his fears had made him create a monster of a place. What other things in his life was he avoiding because he feared them?

  Manchego dried himself up as best as he could. But his cotton clothes were drenched and muddied. He would have to wait for them to dry up.

  The rain sounded like a distant echo, transmitting serenity. Particles of dust floated in the air. It was a moment of sublime beauty. Manchego took a deep breath of the air, which smelt damp and forgotten. The house was a cube with two small windows and a door, divided into two rooms, separated by a plain wooden wall. On the right-hand wall, where one of the windows opened, was a wooden chair, and beside it a bedside table on which lay the remains of a red candle. A small painting of a sunflower decorated the wall above the bedside table.

  The door to the other room was ajar. It seemed to move from inside, but it was only the wind, edging through the cracks of the house. He felt an irresistible impulse to find out what was behind that door.

  Curiosity got the best of him. It was irresistible not to investigate a little further. It was still pouring outside, so he might as well make the best of it. He pushed the door open gently and went inside.

  Lightning lit up the room. At the entrance was a desk with a candle on it. In the darkness once again, Manchego felt along the table for something to light it with. He found flint and tinder. Striking the black stone as he had done many times, he ignited the tinder and then transferred the small flaming tinder to the candle. The lamp gave off a wavering orange light as the flame danced with the boy’s breath.

  Besides the desk there were a chair and a bed, covered with a blue comforter with tiny sunflowers. On the desk was a red candle, almost used up, and beside it an open book with a charcoal-stick in the middle used to write with.

  The pages were dusty and moth-eaten. From where he was he could not read it, so he went closer and picked it up. He sneezed as he disturbed the dust. He examined the volume. The cover had an engraved emblem, with words underneath it: “Holy Comment Ranch. Crops between the years 421–431 p.k.” He turned to the open page. The writing was almost illegible. He read in a whisper:

  Holy Comment Ranch

  431 p.k.

  Crops

  Day one:

  The tunnels are as wide as three tall trees like the Great Pine. The tunnels are dark and desolate, and I have found no life in them.

  I must admit I am scared. This place oozes death. I feel surrounded by it at every moment. I swear by the Goddess of Night that it is deeply strange. I never imagined there could be such a desolate place in our Empire, much less underneath my land, the land where my family has lived for three generations. And yet I must accept that the structure of this place is very special, too perfect.

  After going deeply into it for a good while, I decided to go back to the Ranch, as I knew that Lulita would be very worried about me. She does not suspect anything, and I must not tell her, at least not yet. I do not want her to panic. I shall tell her as soon as I can make any sense of this evil place.

  Day two:

  I had to come back to the tunnels. I dreamt about the shadow and its flame, which devoured me. My adventure did not last long, as I was poorly prepared. I shall come back tomorrow. Today I prayed to the Goddess of the Night, D’Santhes Nathor. I asked her to protect me with her shadow.

  Day three:

  Today I found light, but it was green, ghostly. I chased it and realized that it came from the rocks. What is this? Can it be a blasphemy against the God of Light?

  I heard voices, whispers, without being able to discern any words. Or perhaps my mind played a trick on me after so many days in this hell.

  Tomorrow I shall go in again and take a path with a low ceiling, which obliges me to crouch as I walk. I had better arm myself. I am not a man of arms, nor do I care for violence, but I feel the need to protect myself. There is something which lurks in the shadow.

  Day four:

  I have arranged everything with Tomasa so as to be away for the whole day, if not more. I am carrying three torches, flint and tinder, and a rope in case I lose my way. I must find out what mystery these tunnels hide, and where they lead to. The impulse to explore them is too strong.

  Balthazar is already preparing the goods we are to transport across the Tempranero Sea, from the port of Merromer, to the north—bordering Háztatlon—towards Grizna, for some new customers. Can I believe that Princess Sokomonoko herself has asked for my produce? It is incredible. I shall pray to the Goddess of Water that she may protect our goods.

  Tomorrow I shall ask my colleague if he knows anything more about the black owl on the headstone of my ancestors.

  I hope to come back to these pages to write about a “day five” in the tunnels.

  Eromes

  Breathless, Manchego closed the book. He felt a sudden flash of emotions, for he felt both happy and frustrated on reading these notes. There was no day five.

  “This book belonged to my grandfather! It’s impossible! It’s the second thing I have of his, beside this vest,” the boy thought, moved. “My grandfather… tunnels… Balthazar?” His surprised face was illuminated by the strength of the candle which continued to dance calmly.

  Everything was very strange, too somber even. He found it hard to imagine his grandfather, a rancher, engaged in an adventure like this, much less that there were tunnels underneath his lands. His grandfather had also spoken of a black owl. Could it be the same one which had been watching him a moment before? Could it be that a family of owls had lived there since remote times? What startled him most, though, was the mention of Balthazar. Was this the same one he had met a few weeks before in the Central Market?

  When he left the room he realized that the storm had died off into a drizzle. He considered taking his grandfather’s book with him, but he knew that in this place it would be safe from his grandmother’s questions, and it would surely get all wet if he took it outside. He could not think how to explain this discovery to her. She probably already knew about it. Didn’t she? The book was right there, open for anyone to look at it. Had it been there all along? Or had somebody planted it for him to read it? The lock was forced… and the door was ajar. Manchego shook the eerie feeling of someone toying with him and continued on his path to return home.

  Outside he was greeted by a gust of cold air; his feet sank in the mud. In the treetops, drops of water sparkled like tiny jewels as scattered rays of sunlight came through the ebbing clouds. From one of the headstones in the graveyard the same black owl he had seen before watched him with an unfathomable gaze. Manc
hego went closer, watched by the bird’s penetrating yellow eyes.

  “What!? What do you want!” yelled Manchego. He was frustrated, and taking it all out on a dumb owl seemed appropriate. The bird flew off and lost itself in the thickness of the forest beyond the farm.

  The graveyard was silent. The place had lost much of its monstrosity since he had been forced to enter the small house. It was just… another part of the farm now. He was glad to have lost his fear towards the place.

  For the first time in his life, the boy passed among the graves and read various headstones. Why hadn’t he done this before? It seemed this was the place to learn more about his heritage.

  One which looked quite ancient read: “Ermeos, who traveled leagues until he found his home and there sowed the fields with his gift, and they returned their fruits with generosity. May his name shine forever in the sky and his family prosper in the opulent Holy Comment which he founded.”

  The next headstone read: “Esomer, son of the founder of the Holy Comment, may he rest in peace. May his buried body serve as fertilizer to these blessed lands, may his nobility cause the fruits to blossom and feed his sons and daughters, and the sons and daughters of the QuepeK’Baj.”

  The next headstone was closer to him. “Eromes the Perpetuator, highest and most excellent farmer, proper, elegant, humble, attractive, kind, austere, and passionate. We lament his passing to eternal life, to the Deep Azure of the Skies, for his harvest, although good, did not turn out as it should have. Even so, we still enjoy his natural gift for the moving of nature. May the God of Light always light his way.”

  “My grandpa…” the boy had told himself sadly. He vowed to visit the grave more often.

  Beside it were two nameless headstones, but bearing a message which left him thoughtful: “For those unfortunate ones whose names cannot be said aloud, for those who did not manage to open their eyes and breathe, for those sad souls who died without mercy, for those souls the Gods claim for themselves. For them we pray. They watch all night over us.”