by Joseph Lallo
"I am very sorry about this, sir," she grunted to her fallen benefactor. "I do realize how disrespectful this is." Grunt. "But I am left with very little choice."
Several minutes of prying and apologizing later, she'd cracked the icy buildup and freed the pack. Eagerly, she pulled it open. Savior! Salted meat and hard biscuit. By no means a banquet, but it was more than enough to save her. The food was well past its prime, but so long as it was still edible, it would serve its purpose. Aside from the food, she found a small bag of copper coins and a rock-hard frozen flask of water. There was also a pan for cooking and something that roused her spirits even higher. There were two loops of fabric across the top of the pack that could be only one thing.
"Tent straps! You had a tent, stranger! And if you had a tent, then I have a tent. I just have yet to find it," Myranda said.
Grabbing the unlit portion of the largest stick in the fire, Myranda held the makeshift torch, swept it about near to the ground. Before long, she found what was left of the tent. It was flat against the ground and crusted with ice, one of the supports shattered. Myranda set what was left of the tiny tent near the smoldering fire. The heat slowly filled the half-collapsed cloth shelter and gave her the first comfort she had felt in days.
She had only just fastened the tent flap when a heavy, wet snow began to fall. Myranda put the pan on the coals and heated some of the food she'd found, smiling to herself about her accuracy in detecting the coming snow. It was a skill to be able to read the clouds. The northern lands were shrouded in thick, gray clouds for most of the year. One could not simply see clouds on the horizon and predict rain. It was more a feeling, a nearly imperceptible change in the color of the gray, a new quality to the wind. Even she wasn't quite sure how she knew, but whether it was to be rain or snow, hail or sleet, she always knew. It was a gift.
She nearly burned herself as she snatched the meat eagerly from the pan. She had stood the hunger this long, but the smell of the cooking food made the pain a thousand times worse. Myranda took her first bite of food in days, the first full meal in more than a week. Her eyes rolled and her jaw tingled at the first taste of food. When she'd eaten the ration for the day, she slipped into a sleep few would ever know. If there was one thing she'd learned in her years of endless travel, it was that starving made any meal a feast, and exhaustion made any bed fit for a king. She was warm, full, and happy now, and that was all that mattered.
In a flash, she found herself in the middle of a sun-drenched field. She was bewildered and disoriented. The ground was warm against her bare feet. As her eyes adjusted to the light, they saw the beauty of the field. It was the finest sight she had ever seen, a vast meadow of lush green grass as far as the eye could see. She breathed in the freshness of the air and let out a triumphant sigh of joy. Myranda closed her eyes and began laughing, sheer happiness spilling out of her.
When she opened her eyes to take in more of the splendor, they came to rest on a tiny speck of black. It was the smallest fleck of darkness, but in such a place nothing could have been more foreign. It floated near to her, then off and way, almost out of sight. Slowly, it drifted down and touched the ground. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the ground began to darken. The life-giving soil turned a charred black color, spreading outward like a stain across the countryside. The green grass faded slowly, so slowly that it was barely noticeable. She stood, helpless, as her paradise blackened. It was as though the world was being consumed by night from the ground up.
When all of the life had been drawn from the grass it spread skyward. Night flooded the field in spite of the sun above. In a grim finale, that too was blocked out by a curtain of black clouds. Only darkness remained, a darkness stirred by a frigid wind. Myranda strained her eyes, searching desperately for some wisp of what had been before. She saw faint, flickering lights far off in the distance. She rushed toward them, but one by one, the embers of light winked out, swallowed into the darkness as all else had.
"No!" Myranda screamed, opening her eyes. A sliver of light peeked through the flaps of her tent.
It was not real. The horror she had seen was false, a dream. The horror she had felt, though, was real. She took several minutes to catch her breath and steady her pounding heart. Never before had a dream been so vivid. She shook herself in a vain attempt to chase the tormenting images from her mind. The only comforting thought came in the words her mother had spoken to her long ago. Even with the eternity that had passed since she lost her mother, the voice still echoed in her ears. Now memories were all she had left.
"A nightmare is the best kind of dream. The only one that brings happiness when it ends," she repeated.
The fright had brought her to full wakefulness instantly, with no hope of returning to sleep. She smiled as she wiped a drop of sweat from her brow. How long had it been since she had been too warm? The feeling of sweat trickling down her back was one she'd not felt in weeks--months, even. Of course, once the cold hit her when she left the tent, the novelty would wear thin rather quickly. Carefully, she pulled the flap of the tent aside. A cascade of snow from the previous night's fall assured her that it was at least not dangerously cold, or else the wetness of the snow would have frozen it into a shell of ice. She crawled out of the dilapidated tent, favoring her stricken left hand.
With the light of the morning filling the field where she'd slept, she could finally see the scene she had stumbled through in darkness the night before. It had all been blanketed with several inches of dense snow that elsewhere might have been a terrible storm, but amounted to little more than a light flurry to the people of the Northern Alliance. She waded into the ankle-deep snow and surveyed the campsite.
Where she had thought there was a great mound of rocks the night before could now be seen for what it really was. Even buried beneath the snow, the mound clearly had the shape of a beast. The form indicated a dragon, but it was a bit bulkier than she'd imagined a dragon to be. Of course, she had no interest in finding out if she was correct, particularly because she would have to step into the pool of blackish liquid that stained the snow around the fallen creature. A liquid that was too thin to be pitch, and too black to be blood.
"Well, you killed it and it killed you," Myranda said, looking at the fallen soldier, its form barely discernible through the snow. She looked to the dragon. "That goes for you too. But why were the two of you here, I wonder? The dragon can come and go as it pleases, but this is awfully far from the front to find a soldier from either side."
She knelt and brushed the snow from the shield. It was standing nearly straight up after the prying she had done to free the meal the night before. She expected to find the crest of the Northern Alliance, or perhaps that of the southern land of Tressor. Instead she found the same simple crest she'd seen among other marks on the sword and armor. It resembled a smooth, curving letter V, with a rounded bottom and downturned ends, or perhaps a pair of smooth waves with a trough between them. Centered above them was a single point.
"So, you were not of the north or the south. That must be why you were in this forsaken place. You fall into the same lonesome caste as I. Non-supporter of the Perpetual War. You refused to join either side. You should consider it something of a triumph that you had managed to be killed by something other than an angry mob. I know it is no consolation, but the end you came to here prevented my own. I sincerely thank you for it, and I hope that whatever powers pass judgment on you in the great beyond will take that into account. I thank you for the food, the shelter . . . and the sword."
It had not been her intention to take the sword, but even she could not resist such a treasure. Even the most treacherous buyer would be forced to dole out a sizable price for such a weapon, and it was unlikely she'd find a buyer of any other kind. Myranda never even entertained the possibility of being paid a fair price for the piece. These days the shopkeepers were nearly as cutthroat as the soldiers, with barely enough wares to go around. Still, something of such value was sure to at
least provide her with the funds to buy a horse, a tent, some food, and perhaps some clothes more befitting of the season.
She rolled the sword in her blanket and took some of the softened biscuit for breakfast. She then transferred the food, as well as the water and the heavy blanket, from the soldier's pack to her own lighter one. If only it had been smaller or she had been stronger, she could have taken the tent with her, but the days of walking would be made difficult enough with her newly-filled pack without a mound of heavy canvas and wooden poles. When all had been prepared, Myranda went on her way.
Chapter 2
It was surprising how much spring was put into one's step by a decent meal and good night's sleep. Myranda's pace was twice that of the weary trudge of the day before. A trained eye and the clouds overhead told her that it was just past noon when she finally saw something on the horizon. A building with a spire. A church. The sight brought a wide smile to Myranda's face. She'd been turned away by every type of shelter, but never a church.
Quickening her pace, she came to the door of the small building and pushed it open. There was not a single occupied pew, nor was a single candle lit. The only light was that which filtered through the clouds to the simple stained glass window.
"Hello?" Myranda called out.
"In the priest's quarters," came the answer.
Myranda walked up the dim aisle and, on the wall left of the pulpit, found a door.
"May I come in?" she asked.
"Of course, all are welcome," the kindly voice replied.
Myranda opened the door. Inside, the warm orange light of a cozy fire danced in an otherwise unlit room. A large, fine chair faced away from the doorway and toward the fire. Aside from the luxurious-looking seat, the room was nearly bare. The walls were empty, not a painting to break the view of plain wooden planks. In the center of the room, a simple table and chair stood awaiting the next meal to be served. The corner held an immaculately made bed with a coarse gray blanket and single pillow. The only other furniture in the room was a suitably humble chest of drawers and a cupboard.
"What brings you here?" asked the unseen priest.
"I thought I might warm up a bit before I went off on my way again," Myranda said.
"Well, I am always glad to share what the heavens have provided for me," he said without rising.
"I am quite grateful. If you don't mind me asking, why do you keep it so dark?" Myranda asked as she walked into the room of her gracious host.
"I've little use for light these days," said the priest.
When she was near enough to spy the face of the priest, the answer to her query became quite clear. He was a kind-looking man, dressed in plain black vestment. Old, but not terribly so, he had sparse white hair on his wise head and a carefully shaved face. Most notably, though, was the blindfold over his eyes. Myranda had a vague feeling that she'd seen him before.
"Oh, I am so sorry!" Myranda said, covering her mouth. "You are blind!"
"Now, now, not to worry. It was none of your doing," he said.
"How did it happen?" she asked.
"It is the place of a holy man not to burden others with his troubles, but to relieve others of their burden," he said.
His voice had a powerful, clear tone, deep and commanding. It radiated wisdom and authority. He sipped something from a clay mug and cleared his throat before speaking again.
"May I offer you some tea, my dear?" he asked, raising his cup.
"Oh, I couldn't bother you for that," she said.
"No bother at all," he said, slowly rising from his chair.
"Oh, please, let me," Myranda offered.
"Nonsense, nonsense, sit down. You are my guest. Besides, if you get in my way I may lose my place and be lost in my own home," he assured her.
Myranda took a seat and watched as the priest paced out a practiced number of steps to the cupboard and ran his fingers over the contents until he found the correct canister. It was astonishing how smoothly he navigated the task without the aid of vision. In no time at all, he had placed her cup on the table and found his way back to his seat. She slid the cup in front of her, warming her near-numb hands on its warm exterior.
"That was amazing," she said.
"Oh, yes. Folks come from all over the kingdom to watch me make tea," he said lightly.
"I only mean that I had thought that losing one's sight would leave one helpless," Myranda said.
"I've still four senses left. A hand without a thumb is still a hand," he said.
"But you cannot count to ten," she said.
"You can if you remember how," he answered swiftly. "My goodness, why are we talking about me? I have been here for years. You are the newcomer, what about you?"
"What would you have me say?" Myranda asked.
"I would not mind a description. My ears can only tell me so much. I know your height from where your voice comes from, and your build by the creak of your chair, but try as I might, I still have not found a way to hear hair color," he said.
"Oh, well, I have got red hair, long, and brown eyes. My clothes are gray," Myranda said, embarrassed.
"And I am sure you are every bit as lovely as your voice," he said.
"Oh . . ." Myranda blushed.
"And your name?" he asked.
"Myranda Celeste," she answered. "And yours?"
"You may call me Father," he said. "So, from where are you headed?"
"North," Myranda said.
"North West or North East?" he asked.
"Just North," came her reply, worried about the line of questions that were sure to follow.
"There is nothing north of here but miles and miles of tundra," he said.
"I know," she said gruffly.
"The only things that would send a person through that waste are very good confidence or very bad directions. Not to offend, but I am inclined to believe that the latter is the case," he said.
"No, no. I just . . . misunderstood; I asked for the shortest way to Renack, and he sent me this way," she explained, hoping that the priest would not pry further. Her story was suspect enough as it was. The truth would reveal the reason she had been shunned, and she would at least like a chance to let her feet stop throbbing before she was thrown out in the cold again.
"Oh, well, that certainly would explain it. It could have used more conflict, though. The best fairytales always have plenty of conflict. The essence of drama, you know," said the priest, clearly aware that Myranda was hiding something.
"What? How did you know I was lying?" she asked, realizing the purpose of the comment.
"Listen hard enough and you begin to hear more of what people say than they had intended. Care to tell the truth--or, at least, a more compelling tale?" he asked.
"I wanted to know the easiest way to get to the next town. That was true, but I was purposely misled," she said.
"Why would someone do that? You could have died out there," he wondered.
"I had made myself . . . unwelcome," she said, carefully dancing about the key bit of information sure to cost her the respect of her host.
"Do I need to ask, or will you save me the trouble?" he asked, clearly in search of the missing piece.
Myranda sighed heavily. There were no two ways about it. She simply could not lie to a holy man.
"I . . . showed sympathy for the soldiers killed in a battle . . . both sides. From that moment on, no one there would help me. When I finally found someone who would speak to me, I asked for directions and he sent me through the field, assuring me it was the surest way," she confessed.
"A sympathizer," he said coldly. "It stands to reason why you would have been sent down such a disadvantageous path."
"I will leave, I don't want to--" Myranda began, rising from her seat.
"No, you may remain. I am a man of heaven and it is my place to show compassion. I will hear your confession and oversee your penance," he said with poorly-suppressed disgust.
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"I will take my leave, I have caused you enough trouble," she said, gathering the pack that she had only just let slip to the floor, and turning to the door.
"Young lady, for your wrong to be forgiven, you must repent," he demanded.
Myranda froze. She turned back to the priest.
"Forgiven? Wrong?" she said, anger mounting.
When the priest asked her to redeem herself, it stirred thoughts she'd long ago pushed aside. So long as she'd cost herself the comfort of the shelter already, she may as well at least free her mind of its burden.
"I will not apologize for what I know in my heart is right," she cried out.
"You have sympathized with the Tressons. These are men who seek only to kill your countrymen. Every soft thought for them is a knife in the back of a brother," he said.
"Don't you understand? Somewhere on the other side of the line that splits our world, another priest is giving this same speech to a person who had shed a tear for the Alliance Army. Any life cut short is a tragedy. I do not care how or why!" she proclaimed, giving voice to feelings long suppressed.
"If we allow our resolve to weaken, we will be overrun! Today you waste thoughts on an enemy. Tomorrow you poison the mind of another. Before long, there will be no one left with the will to fight!" the priest said, spouting the same tired ideas that Myranda had heard all of her life.
"At least then the war will be over," she said. "I will take an end to this war regardless of the cost. Enough lives have been lost already."
"Even if it costs you your freedom and the freedom of all of the people of the Northern Kingdoms?" he asked.
"Freedom? What freedom do we have? In the world we live in, there are but two choices to be made: join the army or run from it. If you join, you will pray each day that you will live long enough to pray again on the next. Pray that the impossible happens, that you live to see your children march off to the same fate as you try for the rest of your life to wash the blood from your hands. And if you cannot bear to throw your body into the flames of war, then you can live as I have. A fugitive, a nomad. Known by no one and hated by everyone. What worse fate could the Tressons have in store? What worse fate exists?" she proclaimed.