Candlewax

by C. Bailey Sims

  The male cat growled again in fury and rose on his hind legs, swiping lethally with his forepaws in great, arching swings. Pokos rose also and struck the cat hard across the neck, his claws sheathed. He felt the razor claws of the other cat graze his flesh and he growled with the deep vibrations that he knew could stun his enemy. The other cat was snarling at him and launched another sequence of blows. His claws tore into Pokos’s head as he tried to get his jaws around Pokos’s neck. He is trying to kill me! Pokos dodged and swiped at the cat with his claws unsheathed. He landed a blow on the cat’s shoulder, just to let him know that he could.

  The cat spun around, locked eyes with Pokos, and unleashed a deafening growl. My bones. Pokos shuddered and took a deep breath to growl back, but before he could empty his lungs the cat lunged at him again, pushing him back to the edge of All Souls Ravine. He heard Catherine scream. His back paw slid off the edge.

  Pokos sprang off the paw that was still firmly grounded and grabbed the other cat by his emaciated neck. With his sheer weight he muscled the writhing cat away from the precipice, squeezing just hard enough to stun without killing.

  He released his grip and looked into the glazed, golden eyes of the fairrier cat. “I need you. Lackanay needs you.” The cat blinked. Does he understand me? Pokos tried to listen.

  “Mine. I am Zekkarados. This is my pride.” The blazing hot thoughts of the fairrier cat were seared into Pokos’s consciousness.

  The cat struggled to rise but Pokos held him down. “All of us are Lackanay’s. I will show you.” For some reason, at that moment Catherine and Bessie screamed, but he didn’t want to take his eyes away from the fairrier cat. He needs to understand.

  “Cyril! The bow!” shouted Menard. Pokos could hear the metal of Menard’s sword as he pulled it from the scabbard. Pokos looked up. Allianans! Felonius Spat and his men were poised to throw their spears. Cyril was looking the other way, pulling the longbow off his back. What is he doing? Catherine was pointing at something behind Pokos. They have not noticed the Allianans. They are looking the wrong way!

  Catherine was screaming again. Bessie was waving wildly. Pokos turned to look. Eighty yards away Pulquin stood among the trees, Magnus and Julia at his side. Pulquin’s hand drifted back. He had already loosed the arrow. Pokos felt a sharp pain as it pierced his neck. Before he fell, he saw Pulquin drop to the ground, Cyril’s arrow in his chest. The cat under Pokos scrambled and ran away through the trees. Pokos looked at Catherine, who was running toward him. Why is she moving so slowly? Why is everyone screaming? Pokos felt strange.

  “Pokos!” screamed Catherine. She sounds so far away.

  * * *

  “After them!” Quor shouted to the Allianans. “Bring them back!” Catherine was shocked at the loudness and fierceness of his voice. She had only ever heard Quor speak in quiet tones. Felonious Spat looked up the trail at Magnus and Julia, who were hastening away. In seconds they were out of sight. Pulquin’s body was left in an awkward heap. No one had even touched him since he fell.

  Spat sprinted up the trail with the energy of a young man and the other Allianans followed. Quor turned to face an anxious group of Cinnans who had gathered behind him. Seconds later the group bounded away after the Allianans. Menard looked longingly in the direction they had gone.

  “Let’s go, Menard,” said Cyril. He removed the crossbow and handed it to Catherine. “It’s loaded. Point and shoot.” She nodded. Cyril took his longbow in hand and loped silently up the trail with Menard huffing and puffing behind.

  On her knees now beside Spelopokos, Catherine dared not lose hope. He has to live. He must. The great fairrier cat lay motionless except for shallow breathing. The arrow still pierced his neck. Should we pull it out?

  “I do not know,” said Quor quietly to Catherine. “Perhaps pulling that arrow out will make it worse.” Quor knelt beside her and cocked his head toward Pokos, listening intently.

  Bessie joined Catherine at Pokos’s side. They exchanged anxious glances, Bessie close to weeping. Catherine rose and hugged her.

  “He’s going to live, Bessie. We’ll take him to the pool. The Cinnans will help. Won’t you Quor?” Catherine tried to believe her own quiet words, fighting against the sorrow that surrounded her like a thick fog. She patted Bessie on the back, trying to think.

  Quor said, “Spelopokos spoke in my thoughts before he fell unconscious. Neponza or something.”

  “Oh,” said Catherine limply. “That was his brother, Nepozadan. Kallik killed him. Oh, Pokos!” Catherine knelt next to the cat and stroked his head softly, unable to fight her tears any longer. Don’t leave us! Nepozadan can wait.

  “I know not of this Kallik you speak of. He is an enemy?”

  “Yes. A wicked man who has plagued Lackanay for a very long time. He rules in Tabrek. You see, he wears Nepozadan’s skin. It makes him strong. He never would have killed Nepozadan if Nepozadan could have made it back to his birthplace. Crossing through the Cinna Gate without the pendant made him too weak to hide his... his tracks.” Catherine’s voice trailed off. Her heart began to race.

  She jumped to her feet. “Quor! That’s what we must do for Spelopokos! Take him back to his birthplace in Tabrek. He told us once... Bessie! What did he say? Where was it?” Why didn’t I listen?

  “I don’t remember, Catherine. Some place near Krenaka I think.”

  “We must remember. It was a cave in some mountain.” Catherine closed her eyes. “Oh, what was the name!”

  “Rokura?” asked Quor.

  “Yes!” shouted Bessie and Catherine together.

  “I thought it was just some sort of fairrier cat sound. I didn’t think it was a word. He was thinking, ‘Rokura, Rokura’.”

  “He was trying to tell us, Quor. That’s where we need to take him.”

  “I will help.” Quor nodded, his voice sure. He looked over at Pulquin’s body, some eighty yards away. “It was a Cinnan who shot Spelopokos. A Cinnan shall try to save him.”

  Cyril was gaining on the group of Cinnans. Soon he was running past them and amongst the Allianans. He ran past the man who had once taken his crossbow, and then he caught up with Felonius Spat. Cyril was determined to capture Magnus and Julia. What they had done to Spelopokos was unforgivable. White-hot resolve forced him to push harder.

  Cyril ran past a Cinnan corpse. He didn’t pause, but glimpsed her crushed neck and bloodied coat. A priestess. The work of a fairrier cat. Not far ahead, he saw another, this one dragged farther off the trail than the first body. He didn’t slow. His breathing was labored and his legs were burning with the effort. He wished again that he and Menard had thought to put fairrier cat fur in their boots, but everything had been so rushed. At last he caught a flash of white and purple through the trees ahead.

  Magnus and Julia! They were stopped on the trail and were looking down into All Souls Ravine. Cyril paused. There was no sign of the other Cinnans. Uneasy, Cyril motioned for the Allianans to halt. Spat repeated the command with a wave of his arm.

  “It’s a trap,” Cyril whispered to Spat. “Where have the others gone?”

  Spat scanned the trees, perplexed.

  Menard had caught up. Only the sound of heavy breathing filled the air. Carefully Cyril nocked an arrow. Magnus and Julia were a mere sixty yards ahead.

  “Why aren’t they running? They don’t seem to notice us,” panted Menard between gulps of air.

  Cautiously, Cyril started to walk toward them. Menard came with him. Cyril looked through the trees on the other side of the trail, searching for the rest of Magnus’s Cinnans. There was no sign of them at all. Julia and Magnus stood motionless at the brink of the ravine.

  “Do not try to run,” Cyril ordered. Magnus didn’t look concerned. He and Julia stood quietly. Cyril whispered to Menard, “We should have brought Quor. He could’ve translated.” Cyril took another step closer.

  “Careful, lads. These Cinnans can be tricky,” warned Spat from behind them. Cyril glanced over the edge of the ravine. He r
emembered only too well the unforgiving, empty space just steps from the trail.

  “Come away from the edge!” Cyril commanded. Magnus and Julia might have plans to get him close to the cliff’s edge and then use their thought force to throw him off. Cyril remembered how the Speakers had been tossed to the ground at the Duray Principas. And Catherine.

  Cyril sensed that the crowd behind him had thickened. Sure enough, their Cinnan friends were gathering at his back.

  Magnus took Julia by the hand. They faced the precipice. Then the old man turned his head towards Cyril and smiled.

  Cyril felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He readied his arrow. “Come away!” he shouted.

  Magnus and Julia stepped off the edge. No! Cyril let the arrow fly. It flew straight through Magnus as he fell into the abyss. Cyril watched as Julia and Magnus fell and fell until they were too small to see anymore.

  “Dead my arse.” Menard spit over the edge and pulled Cyril away. The Cinnans were shaking their heads and walking back toward Quor, Catherine, and the others. “I saw your arrow. That was no body falling.”

  “You mean they aren’t dead?” asked Spat, who had overheard.

  “No, Captain Spat. ‘Twas just a vision. Not real. Might have worked, too, if Cyril hadn’t shot it.”

  Stunned, Captain Spat searched the ground.

  “Won’t find any footprints, if that’s what you’re looking for. That’s why they shot Pokos. He was the only one who could track ’em. Disgusting, cowardly thing to do. I hope they rot. Bad apples, that’s what they are.” Menard kicked a stone over the edge of the cliff for good measure.

  The group trudged back to the others, the Cinnans picking up the two bloodied corpses and carrying them along the way. Might be better to leave them as cat food, Cyril thought, but he did not intervene. When they reached Pulquin’s body, Cyril felt an unexpected pang of sadness looking at the young man’s sightless, open eyes. He reached down and closed them. The Cinnans lifted his body, too, and hauled it toward the camp. Menard picked up Pulquin’s longbow.

  A crowd was gathered around Spelopokos. Cyril searched out Catherine. He knew he would be able to read Pokos’s fate in her face. She looked up at him with urgency and hope. He ran to her and explained what had happened with Magnus and Julia. Her expression turned bitter.

  “It’s my fault. If we hadn’t chased after them, Pokos would be unharmed.”

  “We will never know that, Catherine.” He traced a finger down her flushed cheek. “It is possible that every path has its own peril.”

  Catherine leaned against him and Cyril enfolded her in his arms, stroking her hair.

  “We aren’t safe,” Quor said. “I am asking the Allianans to camp here with us. We Cinnans are used to fending off fairrier cats and we can protect them. If the fairrier cats hunt men tonight, let us hope it will be Magnus and his followers.”

  Cyril took up the crossbow from where Catherine had set it on the ground and slung it back over his shoulder. The tall, bearded Allianan followed the bow with his eyes, the way a dog looks at a morsel of food out of reach. “I will show you how to shoot the longbow, Quor,” said Cyril with a grim smile. “We can practice until nightfall. With your build you’ll be much better than Pulquin.”

  Quor blinked, dumbfounded. He looked from Cyril to Menard and back to Cyril. Menard handed him Pulquin’s longbow. He took it reluctantly, as if the taint of its misuse might rub off on him. Then he held it forward, mimicking Cyril’s stance, and aimed at an imaginary target, shifting the bow left and right.

  Menard looked at Quor’s stance and nodded in appreciation. “Aye. Good idea, Cyril,” he muttered. “Better to have an extra bowman on our side.”

  In the growing cold of dusk, a lone fairrier cat cry pierced the silence.

  The Allianans huddled together, seemingly unsure of what they were supposed to do and awed by the Cinnans’ quiet efficiency as they set up tents and organized the camp.

  Captain Spat scowled at the idleness of his men. “Make a fire, Lefford,” he ordered.

  One of the Allianans brushed by Catherine as he carried a wad of tinder, a stick, and a charred wooden trough. Fascinated, she watched as the man rubbed the stick vigorously in the trough until the tinder smoked and flamed. Soon he had a small fire burning.

  Catherine pondered the youngest of the Allianans, the one they called Norman, as he sat on a log. He had been staring at her, but he looked quickly away as their eyes met. By her estimation he must have been just a boy when they sailed from Alliana on The Fortune. Now he looked as if he were still only twelve or thirteen—an oddly solid and strong twelve or thirteen—and yet Catherine knew he had to be closer to twenty-four. Older than Cyril. It must be the fairrier cat skins. Catherine imagined that somewhere there was a mother on the Island of Alliana, anguishing about the fate of her son.

  Norman pulled off an old boot with a hole in the side and dumped out a pebble. There was a large split in the seam. No wonder he has pebbles in his shoes. It occurred to her that the boy’s boots must have come from one of the older Allianans, perhaps one who had no further need for boots.

  Captain Spat’s eyes slid sideways at Pokos in between cleaning his nails with a knife. Over the shirt he wore the same fairrier cat vest Catherine had seen that first day at All Souls Ravine. Even with his long, matted gray hair and two missing teeth, he moved like a much younger man. He ran his fingers restlessly over the words carved into the shaft of his spear. Not words, Catherine realized. Names.

  Cyril was at her side, his face close to hers. “If we carry Pokos through the Gate, the journey to Tabrek will take at least two weeks by wagon, then perhaps another two weeks to find Rokura. Can he live that long?” he whispered in her ear so the Allianans wouldn’t hear. Behind them, Quor and Menard were watchful as they listened.

  “We must try,” said Catherine.

  “There is another way,” interjected Quor. “The route I have in mind is across All Souls Ravine.” There was total silence at Quor’s words. Catherine felt weak. All Souls Ravine!

  “Across the ravine? You can’t be serious.” Cyril’s whisper rasped through the air.

  Quor ignored him. “I’ll need our best Cinnan climbers and I’ll be taking Captain Spat and his men. With their help we can bring Pokos to Tabrek much quicker than the weeks it would require by way of the Gate. Cyril, you must stay with Catherine to help her fulfill the prophecy.”

  Catherine snorted. “Prophecy? How will I ever get the fairrier cats to come with us? Even with Pokos it would’ve been hard.” Her nails bit into the palms of her hands and her throat grew tight.

  “Catherine, you must bring the other fairrier cats back through the Gate,” said Quor, each word taking up carefully measured space.

  “Quor, you’ve seen what those wild cats are like! How can I do anything without Pokos? It’s impossible.” Her voice trembled and her head dropped forward.

  A hand gently squeezed her shoulder. Catherine looked up into Quor’s calm, warm gaze. “You have the pendant now, Catherine. You will find a way. I am sure of it.”

  “But I can’t leave Pokos. He needs me. I am coming with you.” Her voice broke.

  “Catherine, Pokos would want you to fulfill the prophecy. You are Catherine of the Ancient Onyxes,” said Quor.

  She bowed her head. When she finally spoke it was hardly a whisper. “I don’t want to be Catherine of the Ancient Onyxes anymore. I only want Pokos to live, Quor. He must live.” She looked around carefully. “And I’m not sure you can trust the Allianans. They came to Cinna for fairrier cat skins, and Pokos is so helpless.”

  “We Cinnans will protect Pokos. If the Allianans try to hurt him, we will stop them.”

  “If he... Quor, you must promise me...”

  “No one will touch him. I will defend his honor with my own life, Catherine.” Quor’s voice had a steely edge.

  “That arrow must come out or it will fester.” Menard’s whisper was urgent; he, too, glanced carefully around to
make sure no one had overheard. “Cyril and I will remove it. Doesn’t look like a bleeder. Strange. The force of Pulquin’s bowshot works in our favor now. The fact that it pierced straight through will make it easier to take out.”

  “Yes. You are right, Menard. And we must wash and dress the wound,” murmured Quor.

  “You mean to take him all the way back to your pool?” asked Catherine.

  “I wish we could, Catherine, but it’s a two-day journey,” said Quor.

  “But the waters could help him,” she said.

  “They cleanse. Some Cinnans believe that they do more, but I do not. Belief can be a powerful instrument, but it is rarely the truth, and after a time these beliefs wash away. No, the waters themselves do not heal, Catherine. But the springs are sacred because they help us to purify our thoughts.”

  “Best get started on that arrow, Cyril,” said Menard. Quor, Cyril, and Menard huddled around the cat and inspected the wound. Mekrita and a host of Cinnans and Allianans looked on.

  With Quor linked to the cat with mental reassurances, Catherine and Bessie bound his jaws with a strip of linen cut from one of the tents. Menard broke off the arrowhead and Cyril pulled the shaft out. Pokos flinched and his breath came in loud puffs. The three men gently lifted the great cat’s head while Catherine and Bessie washed and bound up the wound. That finished, Catherine untied his jaws. Other than his breathing, Pokos never made a sound.

  The Cinnans made a stretcher with cut pine boughs tied together with ropes. It took eight men to lift Pokos’s limp form onto the litter.

  Catherine stared at Spelopokos with tears rolling down her cheeks. She brushed them away and tried not to think about the possibility of never seeing him again. Exhausted, she looked listlessly around the camp, noting that darkness had fully descended on them. Quor and Spat had struck an agreement to bring Pokos across All Souls Ravine to his birth cave in Rokura and were busy planning the route. Catherine’s eyes found Cyril and rested there. He was listening intently to something Menard was saying, his brow furrowed in concentration, firelight making the skin of his face glow. How can he still be so handsome? I must look as wretched as I feel.