Of Gods and Men

by Stephen Aryan

  “What are you going to do?” asked Vargus.

  “I’ll show you later. Its cave is over that way,” he said, gesturing through the trees on their left. “Bring back anything that looks unusual and it will go into the fire as well.”

  Vargus followed the Maker’s directions until he came to the cave which had been partially concealed by a dense mix of holly and brambles. The prickly bush had been pulled across the opening but he was able to drag it aside and slip into the cave. In the light from his smoking torch, he found a small network of caves, most of them too small to house the Gralldire. These were abandoned but at the back he found a large space that it had used as its home. On a natural rocky shelf, he found a small collection of worn figurines carved from different types of stone. Some were ancient and crude, depicting gods that had been dead for centuries whose names had been forgotten by history. Others were more recent including one for the Lady of Light and another denoting the Blessed Mother.

  In another corner, he found some pieces of clothing, all of them torn and stained with old blood. There was also a ripped blanket and two pairs of boots. In an old wooden crate, he found a small collection of personal belongings. There were a few pieces of jewellery, a comb made of yellow horn, two necklaces and a gold ring with a severed finger still attached.

  There seemed to be little else besides some green branches which it had collected for a bed. Gathering all of the items together, Vargus wrapped them in the blanket and checked again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Something made him look up and his mouth fell open in surprise.

  The ceiling was covered with tally marks. The Gralldire must have been living in this cave for years and every month, or perhaps every day, it had scratched a line into the rock with its claws. There were too many to count at a glance, but he guessed there were thousands. It made him wonder how old the Gralldire had been and how long it had been living in isolation in the mountains, feared and hunted by humans.

  Vargus returned to the blaze and showed his old friend what he’d found. Working together, they smashed the ancient idols between two large rocks until they were reduced to dust. After adding more fuel to the fire, they tossed in all of the clothing found in the Gralldire’s cave. The jewellery and other personal items would be returned to Morgan’s Creek.

  “Keep it as hot as you can,” said the Maker. “I’ll be back soon.”

  He disappeared into the woods, leaving Vargus to tend the blaze. The heat was already intense but he chopped off low branches and hacked apart small trees, regularly adding fuel. The bones at the heart of the blaze were smouldering and some of the smallest had already been reduced to ash. At this rate, it would take hours for the rest to be consumed by the fire.

  A short time later, the Maker returned with a huge ball of dripping mud clutched between his hands. Clearing a space on the ground, he sat down and began to pound and shape the mud like dough. As he worked, Vargus noticed the soil falling away to reveal the clay beneath.

  For the next hour, as he looked after the fire, the Maker sculpted with the clay. Slowly the shape began to emerge and Vargus saw that it resembled the head of a large bear. The Maker was incredibly talented as the sculpture appeared so lifelike, but Vargus noticed some of the details had been shaped crudely. A few of the bear’s features were slightly out of alignment, giving it a disfigured appearance. Hopefully it would be enough to convince the villagers in Morgan’s Creek that it had been a bear and nothing more.

  Another hour passed without conversation while the Maker worked. The only sounds came from the fire as timbers cracked and the Gralldire’s bones were gradually reduced to ash.

  The day had started early and, despite being healed of his wounds, a bone-deep weariness swept through Vargus. The heat of the fire and the flickering light lulled him into a daze where he swayed on his feet. The Maker caught him by the shoulders and guided him a short distance away from the fire where he sat down with his back against a tree.

  “Rest. I’ll tend to the fire,” said the Maker, patting him on the shoulder. Vargus tried to say something but his head dipped forward against his chest and he slept.

  When he next awoke, a few hours had passed as the sky was pale grey overhead. Dawn wasn’t far away and the bonfire had been reduced to a wide circle of white ash with a glowing core of orange like an angry eye. Sleep pulled at him again but he pushed it away long enough to locate his friend.

  Sitting not far away, the Maker was holding up his sculpture between both hands, turning it this way and that. When he’d finished with his inspection, he took a deep breath in and Vargus heard the air whistle past his ears. There was a long pause and a moment of absolute silence before the Maker started to slowly exhale, almost pressing his lips to the sculpture’s mouth.

  Colour began to bleed into the brown clay, turning the lifeless earth into flesh, bone and fur. The silent maw was transformed into a mouth full of broken yellow teeth that lolled open. The carved vague imitation of fur became lush and brown, the Maker’s fingers sinking into its depth. Piece by piece, the carving was transformed and when it was done, for the briefest of moments, there was life behind its brown eyes.

  But the bear was incomplete. It had been designed to be nothing more than a head that had been savagely detached from its body. The spark faded and the glorious beast became lifeless again, transformed into inert flesh that would immediately begin to decay. The Maker dropped the head into a bag he’d fashioned from a blanket and lay down to sleep beside it.

  Chapter 10

  In the morning, Vargus thought hunger would be gnawing away at his insides, but as he shook sleep from his limbs one thought was consuming him. The Maker woke some time later, sluggish and weary despite the rest, probably a by-product of his exertions with the clay.

  The fire had finally died while they slept and all that remained was a large circle of grey ash, which was already being dispersed on the breeze. Digging a crude pit, they buried what remained, gathered their belongings and prepared to descend back to Morgan’s Creek with their grisly trophy. With luck, once the locals saw the misshapen head, they would accept that it had been nothing more than a deformed bear and stories about the beast in the hills would dry up. It was the least they could do for the Gralldire.

  Ever since they had come up the mountain, his old friend had been present and the boy, Lanny, pushed into the background. There seemed no better time to take a risk.

  “Before we go, there’s something I want to show you,” said Vargus.

  Normally Vargus closed his eyes during the transition between places, but this time he kept them open and experienced a moment of dizziness.

  One second they were on the mountain and the next he and the Maker were standing together inside a long banqueting hall. The walls were covered with massive slabs of white and grey marble shot through with veins of gold. At regular intervals, huge fireplaces, large enough to walk into without bending over, were all silent and cold. Far above his head, black crossbeams like the bones of a monstrous beast criss-crossed the ceiling. There were no lanterns or candles and yet the room was filled with warm yellow light.

  The cavernous space was empty of people but the centre of the room was taken up by a massive wooden table which had been carved from a single tree that had existed in a different age.

  On either side of the table was a row of identical-looking chairs, but each held a special and unique quality that made it vastly different from those beside it. Sat at the head of the table was a massive chair which dwarfed all of the others.

  At first, his old friend seemed disorientated, but once he caught sight of the table and chairs his posture changed.

  “Why have you brought me here?” he asked Vargus without turning around. His eyes remained locked on the largest chair.

  “To remember.”

  The Maker turned towards him, face stricken with grief. “Remember? I remember it all. I only wish that I could forget, just for a moment. The carnage. The destruction. The wars
and terror. The barbaric torments they inflict upon one another, driving races to extinction like the wily Necheye. Always they have a reason. A cause they believe is noble and true. Murder in the name of faith, of love, or in my name. How many times have they done it in my name?” He slammed his open palms on the table and Vargus felt the vibration through his feet. He reeled back in shock until he collided with a wall.

  For centuries, the two of them had been performing this dance at the Maker’s behest. It had been this way since he’d put an end to the Maker’s first body, giving him relief from the accumulated rot. Vargus scattered his essence on the wind and the Maker was soon reborn into the world. But his time in the Void, in a womb of silence that was free of memory, was not enough and he returned fractured and in pain. He’d cried out in despair and Vargus answered, smothering him in his crib, sending him back to the Void. So it went for years until he was born without any memory of who he used to be. It had taken a long time but eventually Vargus had found him, working on a farm, doing the work of three men.

  Since then they had played the same roles, with the Maker as the idiot man-child, Lanny, and him as the doting uncle. Vargus always did his best to find Lanny a good home where he could live in peace, but inevitably his real personality seeped in through the cracks. Memories of who he was resurfaced, causing problems for him and the adopted family. Lanny would have to move on and then the cycle would start again in a new community.

  Vargus had believed the Maker needed more time to heal and that his memory was incomplete. That he couldn’t remember much of what had gone before but he’d believed that eventually his mind would return.

  The truth was he had already regained his memory and didn’t want to return.

  “How long?” asked Vargus. “How long have you remembered?”

  “Not long after I became the boy.”

  “Why do you not permanently break free of him?”

  The Maker’s bitter laugh echoed around the hall. “And return to what? When the boy is in control, I can forget the accumulated misery of centuries for a while. The world is still there if I want it, if I stretch myself and rise to the surface, but after all this time, little seems to have changed.” He hefted the bag containing the bear’s head.

  “I have lived among the races for a long time. They are growing.”

  The Maker was not convinced. “They still fight and kill each other every day.”

  “You’ve not been seen for a long time and yet they still believe. Your faithful exist in every nation.”

  “Sometimes I wish it were not so,” whispered the Maker, voicing what Vargus had begun to suspect. “Sometimes I want them to forget so that I might rest eternally.”

  All of their kind, with a few exceptions, had to fight for survival in a world that was ever changing. Vargus had given up the mantle of Weaver to become the Gath, but now that too was beginning to wane. To survive, he would have to adapt again. But like Summer and Winter, the Maker did nothing and yet his power continued to thrive. Despite the long silence, despite the lack of proof, their faith in him remained.

  “Look at all of those who have cared for you as the boy,” said Vargus, approaching it from a different angle. “They selflessly accept and love him. Not all of them are rotten at the core.”

  “A few acts of kindness are not enough to balance the scales. They are still tipped against them,” said the Maker. He turned away and stared into one of the empty fireplaces. Perhaps in his version of the banquet hall there was a glorious blaze that warmed him, but all Vargus could see was cold iron and grey ash.

  “What will you do?” he asked.

  The Maker shrugged his shoulders. “Watch and wait.” He laughed then, at himself perhaps, and as he turned around Vargus saw his wry smile.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you not see the joke? After so long without me, their belief remains absolute. Now, my faith in them wavers and I wait for a miracle.”

  “One day they will tip the scales.”

  The Maker approached his chair, raised one towards it but then dropped it to his side. “Perhaps, but until then I will remain hidden.” He turned away from his chair and rightful place at the table and closed his eyes. “Take us back.”

  They returned to their temporary camp on the mountain only a second after they left. Vargus looked across at his old friend and for a few heartbeats there was nothing familiar, no recognition, not even the boy, just an absence. He blinked and the boy returned, puzzled about their location and why he was holding a blanket with something heavy inside.

  “What happened?” he asked, staring around in wonder.

  “I’ll tell you on the way down,” said Vargus, forcing a smile. “We’re heroes, Lanny. Heroes.”

  Chapter 11

  It was early evening by the time they arrived back in Morgan’s Creek. The whole village was still on alert, so despite the hour they had been spotted coming down through the hills. Half a dozen armed men and women were waiting for them at the edge of the village. Vargus knew they had questions but when they saw what Lanny was carrying a stunned silence fell over the crowd.

  Vargus was hungry, tired and weighed down by the memory of what they’d done and what he’d learned. There was plenty of dried blood on his and Lanny’s clothes but the locals didn’t seem to notice their lack of injuries. They only had eyes for the large bundle the boy was carrying, held against his chest, shielding others from seeing it until the time was right.

  Word spread of their return and by the time they pushed through the front door of the Fighting Cock, quite a crowd had built up in the street behind them. Vargus went straight to the bar, put down some money and ordered food and drinks for them both. He gulped down half of his first ale in three swallows, barely tasting it, before savouring the second half. Lanny joined him at the bar, unwilling to let go of his burden, but he did smack his lips in thirst.

  “Put it down over there,” said Vargus, waving at an empty table in the corner. “Then come and get a drink.”

  People began to trickle into the tavern, buying drinks and filling tables, but mostly they were all staring at the bundle, a question on their lips.

  They were both on their third ales, and halfway through a tasty beef and ale pie with bread and potatoes, when Cerille came through the front door. Her broken arm had been wrapped in bandages and hung around her in a sling, but other than that and the dark slashes under her eyes, she seemed well.

  Vargus nodded but continued eating, dipping his bread in the rich, dark gravy, soaking up every tasty mouthful until he’d cleaned his plate. Lanny didn’t notice when she sat down at their table and didn’t lift his face from his plate until it was empty. Cerille let them eat in peace, sipping at her ale, eyes roaming over the bloodstained blanket on the edge of the table. The owner of the tavern took pity on them, or perhaps she was simply glad of all the onlookers buying drinks. She put a generous portion of apple pie in front of them both and when Vargus reached for his money she waved it away.

  Cerille smiled as Lanny tucked into his pie with vigour, licking his spoon after every mouthful. When they were finished she put down her drink and pointed at the bundle. “Tell me,” was all she said.

  Vargus had rehearsed this with Lanny several times as they came down the mountainside. He was supposed to let Vargus tell the whole story, but his excitement meant he couldn’t resist interrupting with over-the-top details. Ultimately it didn’t matter as everyone there was familiar with his child-like enthusiasm. Any peculiar details they simply put down to his imagination, laughing off the idea that the bear had spoken to them. Vargus smiled when Lanny swore it was true, while others smiled at him in a patronising way as if he were a simpleton. He only settled down when Cerille said that she believed him.

  When Vargus described the deformed manner of the bear, and its unusual size, he saw Cerille twitch and adjust her sling. It made him wonder how clearly she’d seen the Gralldire before her fall and if the Maker’s ruse would be enough to conv
ince her it was the same beast. Several men from the mill had been killed and others injured by it as well. They would have no reason to doubt his story, unless Cerille gave them one.

  More people had squeezed into the tavern during his speech and now the room felt crowded and hot from too many bodies. Cerille glanced at them and he saw a frown briefly mar her features. He guessed she would have preferred a more private location to question him about the beast, but it was too late for that. She had been forced to come to them. With hindsight, Vargus realised he should have gone straight to her home when they had arrived, but they’d both been so hungry.

  “Let’s see it then,” said Cerille, gesturing at the bundle. As he started to untie the blanket, all of the villagers crowded around the table, keen to see the creature that had plagued them.

  Vargus pulled back the blanket and a collective gasp ran through the crowd. The bear was a grisly sight with viscera hanging from the severed neck and its deformed jaws gaping wide. As Cerille stared at the creature’s head, Vargus found himself holding his breath. Vargus felt Lanny tense up beside him, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the Elder to see if it was his old friend or the boy who was nervous. Finally, Cerille broke eye contact with the beast’s head and he heaved a long sigh of relief as she drained the rest of her ale in one gulp.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that before,” she said.

  “Nor have I,” admitted Vargus. “I think something damaged it,” he said, tapping the side of his head with two fingers.

  “It was sad,” said Lanny, staring at the beast with sympathy.

  “It didn’t give us a choice,” said Vargus, willing the boy to shut up. The more he talked, the more risky it became with so many people watching. Instead of speaking, Lanny yawned and Vargus found himself involuntarily following suit.