The Fire and the Fog
__________
David Alloggia
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
The Fire and the Fog
Copyright © 2012 by David Alloggia
Cover design by Lucia Alloggia
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
Second Edition: December 2013
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For mom.
For all the stories you told.
Map of Dohm
Contents
Map of Dohm
Of Beginnings
Icthysius
The Fisherman
The Boy
The Girl
Pain
The Man
On Waking
The Student and the Master
Meeting
Of Endings
Intermission
Epilogue
About the Author
Of Beginnings
Icthysius
Icthysius was getting old. He felt it in his bones when he stood, when he walked. He felt it in his lungs; in the difficulty he had trying to draw each breath, in the dry rattle that filled his chest at night, and kept him awake. He heard it anytime he had to climb the long, winding stairs of his tower, the cracks and groans in his knees and hips grew worse with every passing day. He knew it in his mind as well; his thoughts were slowing, his Words and his Music were losing their power, their life. His Art was suffering as well, his hands were growing stiff and clumsy, would no longer move quite the way he wanted them to.
He had started forgetting things too. He knew stories were told about him, told across the length and breadth of Alta; he had even collected most of them into a book once. He just could no longer remember which were real. Iris could have helped him. She always remembered. She had always calmed his mind, steadied his hands, helped him to work at his best.
Iris, he would never forget. How could he? No matter what else he lost, no matter what other memories slipped away from him, disappeared into the ether of age, he would never forget her. She had always stood by him; through all the years he had known her she had helped him. Now he made the long, arduous climb up the tower stairs to the room where she lay, for what would be the last time. The cracks in his bones echoed through the long, cold stairwell, the only sound other than silence to accompany him as he reminisced.
He remembered his names as he climbed the tall, empty tower, its heights reaching into the air above the island Kol as if to pierce the clouds. Icthysius Aedenhide. Icthysius the Mage, the Magister. Icthysius the strong, the wise, the powerful, the terrible. He had been called cruel, a savior, a tyrant. He had started wars, forged alliances, hunted down rogue mages. He had raised Kings, broken Empires. For over eighty years he had been one of the most powerful men in all of Alta. He was powerful enough, influential enough, to be given leave from the Watchers; the only Artist in over five hundred years to be granted freedom from their scrutiny.
He almost wished he had a watcher now, one to pull him back from the brink, to keep him from trying something so forbidden; to stop him, or to die trying. He almost wished he had a watcher now, but he did not. His preparations were complete, and nothing could stop him now.
‘Nothing can stop me for long, at least’ Icthysius thought as he reached the top of the tower and stood with his hands on his knees, his head down, panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath. Looking down at himself saddened him. Once he had been strong, tanned, a powerful example of a man, with a broad chest and powerful arms. Now he wore long, flowing robes, to hide his gut, to cover his pale skin and wrinkled, age-spotted arms. No man could escape the passage of time, no matter how hard he tried.
He took his time before he moved again. He loved the top of the tower, even though he rarely came up to it anymore. The tower’s sides were open and a large, see-through dome was held up by columns spaced evenly around the sides. His eyes skipped over the center of the tower as they looked around. His golden looking glass still sat where he had left it, gazing out over the waters to the west of Kol. On a clear day, he used to be able to see most of the Million Islands. Could he still? He could hear the waves crashing against the rocks below, could imagine what the Islands looked like, stretched out like a million dots of ink spattered on a page, rising out of the pure blue waters But no, his eyes were ageing, just as the rest of him was.
Looking out from the tower was always beautiful. The ocean stretched out on every side, and the tower was high enough that you could not see the island below unless you strayed close to the edge. It gave the illusion that you were up, high in the sky, flying over the ocean as the sea birds did. Icthysius often wished he could fly, but the Watchers had not allowed a Magister to try flying in centuries. Just as they had not allowed what he was about to try.
That thought brought Icthysius back to the present, back to the center of the tower, back to the bier that lay there. Back to his wife, his Iris, who lay on the wooden bier in the center of the tower.
She was old, he knew. Any who had looked on her days ago would have seen an old, wrinkled and stooped woman, smiling despite the pain of the years that lay heavily upon her. Any who looked on her now would see the same, only without the smile, without life. But Icthysius; when he looked on her, he still saw her as she had been all those years ago when he first met her. Golden hair shining in the sun, her slender form so supple and graceful as she danced. Oh how she had loved to dance, how she had loved to dance to his Music. How she had loved to dance for him. She had had the same smile then, a smile she always carried. Until now.
He saw her die again as he walked towards her. He saw her as he sat in their rooms lower down in the tower. He had raised his head from his book and looked towards her as she came to the top step of the tiny staircase that led to their bedroom. It was only five steps. Five steps she had climbed up and down thousands of times before.
He saw her smile change to surprise as she tripped somehow, tripped on nothing. He heard the snap of her neck as she landed badly on the ground. He felt his pain again as he watched her die. He wished he could forget it, as he was forgetting so much else of late. But he couldn’t.
It didn’t matter though; Icthysius thought as he reached the bier and drew himself up as high, as straight, as he could. He pulled a large, ornate, armless wooden chair from his robe and sat beside the bier, then pulled out an intricately carved violin and bow.
He sat there for a time, his head bowed, his eyes closed, as he willed himself to do what no man had done before. He was Icthysius after all. Icthysius the mage, the all-powerful, the Magister. No effects of old age; no failings of memory or stiffness of joints, no shortness of breath could stop him. He would not bow down to time, or death. He would force them to stoop to him. He would bend even the gods to his will.
Everything else was ready. The script covered the bier his wife lay on, covered her skin. It had taken him days to write out what he needed, made all the more painful by the shaking, the pain in his hands. But it was finished, all his preparations were finished.
He would bring his Iris back.
He
had to.
And then he began to play, to sing. His fingers were swift and sure over the violin strings, his voice clear and powerful, and all of Kol heard him play.
The Fisherman
He’d been a fisherman as long as he could remember. As long as anyone could remember, really. His father had been, and his father’s father, and his father’s fathers father, and his…and so on. And someday, his son would be a fisherman too.
It was bright. Early morning. The best time for fishing. The sun was just rising over the coast to the West of Rege, and he had been on the waters for a good two or three hours already, working at his nets. There would be a good catch today, he thought to himself absently. But at the same time, he really just wanted to be home. Home with his wife, and his newborn son. Ragn send his son would stay strong. He didn’t know if he could deal with losing another child.
He should stay on the water longer, he knew. But…he wanted to be with his son, wanted just to watch him sleep, to look into his wife’s eyes and feel her love and warmth. It was simple, pure, and breathtaking. The fish could wait. They would be there tomorrow. They would always be there.
His mind made up, he hauled in his nets swiftly. He didn’t even care about the fish he managed to bring in with them. Again, there were more important things to be about.
It wasn’t until he hauled in and stowed his nets, and was preparing to make for land that he noticed that an eerie silence had fallen. Nothing made noise except for the occasional wave lapping against the bottom of his small wooden boat. No birds, no wind…nothing.
And then he noticed a wall of fog rolling in from the North. Fog that should have been burnt away by the bright morning sun. Fog that moved even though there was no wind. Fog that felt…wrong somehow.
He panicked. He didn’t know why. All he knew was that he had to get home before the fog. He rowed, rowed for his life. He didn’t care if he was overreacting, or if he looked ridiculous. He just knew something was wrong.
He didn’t bother to secure his boat as it ground up on the shallow sand to the south of his home; he simply jumped out into the foaming surf and took off running, bits of sand flying as his feet dug into the shore. His feet slipped in the loose, wet sand; lost purchase. He went to one knee, one hand planting itself on the beach, curling into a fist around the small grains. And then he was up, running towards his house on the hill as the fog rolled ever closer.
He was halfway up the hill when the fog hit the house. He half expected something to happen, but there was nothing but silence; silence he broke as he started yelling for his wife, for his son.
There was no answer even when he burst in the front door. He could see the fog billowing out of the back room, their bedroom. Why hadn’t his wife answered? Even if she were asleep, she would have woken by now.
In a second he was at the fog, reaching up to brush it away, to go to his wife and son. But before he even touched it, it…jumped to him. Thin tendrils grabbed his arm, slowly climbing up it. He yelled, backed away, waving his arm violently, but the fog stuck, seemed to pull at him. He tripped and fell, felt more tendrils of the fog grabbing at his legs, his waist, felt it slowly moving its way over him. He was screaming, he knew, but then the fog closed over his mouth; his eyes; and he knew nothing.
The Boy
I
Music is difficult to describe in words; the way it sounds and flows, the way it feels. But if Gel had to put what he thought or felt about the notes that came flying from his fingers, each note in perfect sequence, each following the last with no loss of tone or feeling, if he had to describe them, he would call them yellow. Not the pale, sickly, off-yellow of a coward, or the disturbing almost-green yellow of disease, but the light, bright, warm yellow of a lovely spring day. A spring day filled with sun and without a cloud in the sky. Where the ocean-blue soul of the heavens above would be reflected side-by-side with the sun in the tiny ripples of a brook whose cool waters bubbled as it wound refreshingly over smooth, time-worn stones, and little tiny minnows darted in and out among the rocks and reeds, engaging in whatever little fish games that little brook-fish play on beautiful days.
And Gel would, of course, be lying beside the brook in a field of gold and white flowers, with his arms wrapped gently around Mae as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear.
Or maybe it would be Sheane. No, Sheane was much too shy…maybe Faela? Britt? Whoever it was, she would be pretty. Long, golden hair just the colour of the sun, and brilliant blue eyes just the colour of the sky. Really it didn’t matter who it was. The day would be perfect, she would be beautiful, and it would all be so very yellow.
As Gel sat and continued to play, now focused on trying to decide exactly what such a shade of yellow would be called, a cloud slowly inched its way into his perfect world. The cloud was dark, as black as pitch, with no silver lining in sight. As the cloud slowly covered the sky over the pretty little brook with its gorgeous flowers, the perfect spot for two, the cloud moved with a fitful anger, jumping ahead with each rhythmic, impatient tap of the foot.
Gel’s reverie was broken when his teacher’s hands clapped angrily in front of his nose, ringed fingers jingling wildly as she did so, and her stern old face came clearly into focus.
‘You are rushing, and you are adding notes. Play what is written, or do not play at all’
The old lady’s eyes narrowed, and her brow furrowed as Gel cocked his head to respond.
‘But, ma’am, the song’s…the song’s off. It’s missing something. I’m sure I could fix it if…’
Gel stopped as his teacher old Ms. Vaen stood quickly, clearly angry looking at the scowl clouding her face. She wasn’t actually old, not really anyway, but Gel was at an age where anyone older than him seemed old, so she was.
She towered over Gel as she glared down her nose at him. The disdain she felt was evident everywhere; from the stiff-backed stance she had taken, to the way she imperiously cleared her throat before beginning her lecture.
‘Listen, young man’ she started, somehow managing to make “young man” sound as condescending and scathing, as demeaning, as if she had called him “boy” or “thing”, ‘Enscepallius don Vole was a genius, one of the most prolific and influential composers of all time. By your age, he had already written multiple compositions, concertos, and two plays, and was both well-known and well-respected the world over. By Ragn, he played a concerto for the Eastern Alde when he was only a year older than you!’
Gel could tell by the way her eyes had pinched, almost to closing, and by her steadily reddening face that, while certainly mad, lady Vaen was only getting warmed up. She was like a dragon, or a very bad storm. A dragon for the fire she could spit out in her anger; a storm because if you sat, buckled in and weathered her anger, it too would pass.
And so Gel bent his head in feigned dejection and let lady Vaen’s tirade wash over him. He nodded in the appropriate places, and made short non-committing noises when she paused for breath. For some time lady Vaen railed about Don Vole’s life, and how important to music he had been, and how Gel would never measure up to his standard if he did not apply himself. Gel had heard it before, about Don Vole as well as other composers; from old lady Vaen and at least two of his previous instructors. He knew that these old, dead men were supposed to be much better than he, he just couldn’t believe it; he couldn’t hear it.
He thought their songs had no heart. They had character, they were well written, but the songs lacked, as far as Gel could tell, feeling. It was always hard for him to explain what he felt the songs were missing, what he felt he had to add. It was like a chef, putting a final sprig of parsley on a dish to add colour, or a woodworker adding delicate scrollwork to an already working, finished piece. It was always some small little change that Gel knew he could, he should, make, to fix the song. If only he was ever allowed.
Even as he sat, nodding glumly as lady Vaen enthused about the inherent intricacies of Don Vole’s tempo shifts in the third stanza, and the major/minor co-
harmony in the chord progression of the final bars of the piece, Gel could see the notes floating through his head. He could see the notes, could hear the sounds they would make when played, he could feel the places where they were wrong, and had to be fixed.
The problem, Gel had realized, was that this always happened. In almost every song he heard he found…mistakes. The songs all had problems, and Gel had to fix them. Normally he was able to keep control; to fight the urge to fix the songs while playing them in front of other people. Unfortunately, his daydreaming had distracted him, and now he faced the wrath of the dragon.
But the wrath would not last long. Lady Vaen would tire, would run out of words, would run out of praise for long-dead composers. She would lose interest in the subject, in Gel, and would let him go, and then the afternoon would be his.
Lady Vaen’s tirade lost steam quickly, and as her oration began to wind down, Gel started moving anxiously in his seat, his anticipation rising.
‘Oh what does it matter,’ Vaen said finally, her hand going to her forehead and shading her eyes in exasperated resignation. ‘Off with you then. But I expect you back here on time, tomorrow, and no more nonsense.’
Gel’s lute was in its case, its clasps latched tight, and Gel himself was bowing his way out of the house before she managed to finish the sentence.
***
As soon as Gel’s feet hit the cobblestone street outside his tutor’s elegant, narrow house, he was off at a run, only slowing long enough to push the large wrought-iron gate open and closed behind him. He ran through the town, too quickly to appreciate its beauty: the detail of the architecture, the angular lines of the roofs and the contrast between the wooden beams and colored panels. Most people would consider the small stone walkways flanked on either side by lovingly tended gardens as things of grace, would know that the tall, narrow houses lining each side of the cobblestone road were monuments to both architecture and history. And Gel too knew all these things, and would readily have agreed had he been asked. But, as boys his age always do, he had more important things on his mind.
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