Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  Gisle hesitated, then his words came in a rush. “Is Doran the Wyrm?”

  Pezzik looked at him, keenly. She nodded. “He is. Jealous of Domini and bound to that form in judgment.

  “I appreciate the aid, Lord de Clelland. We must leave immediately and transport our charges to safety. We shall make for Siarad. The Conclave cannot enter the cursed city. We cannot be of much immediate help to you, I’m sure.”

  The lord’s eyes bulged. His eyebrows raised, his mustaches quivering.

  Pezzik stifled a laugh at his expression.

  “You have a long journey through rough country, but you travel toward my home. My company could join you. The Conclave has helpfully left us extra boats. Will you grant us the honor of escorting you? We can speak more of these matters.”

  Noorie and Dodd slid down the embankment to the chirps and nickers of approving otters. They were followed by a soldier who helped to catch Jesse and Mary. Pezzik frowned, thinking.

  “We are well supplied and shall of course respect your privacy,” said de Clelland. “We have travelled the country you must cross. Shadows are falling across fen, glade, and forest. It is not safe. Please, gnomemother, accept our escort.”

  Pezzik’s mouth twitched as the man’s words tugged at her memory. Shadows are falling across fen and glade and forest. The man echoed the fae’s warnings to Dane. He must be the Storm King’s aid.

  She nodded, acquiescing. “My name is Pezzik. I’m pleased to meet you. We shall accept your kind offer. How soon can you leave?”

  “Instantly. Many thanks. You shall not regret this.”

  The man clicked his heels together, turned and began shouting orders to load the boats and care for the wounded. Pezzik watched their progress. The soldiers nearly had the first boat loaded when two straggled in from beneath the willow branches, dragging a makeshift stretcher behind them. Chesed lay on it, bloodstained, his breathing shallow.

  Pezzik grabbed her satchel and hopped down from the boat, running to reach the injured chymaera. She leaned her head on his chest and listened. His heart was beating, but it was very slow.

  “I need water,” she said, pulling scissors from the satchel to cut crusted linen from his wounds. “Water and clean linens.”

  Chesed moaned.

  Pezzik leaned in, her tone fierce. “I won’t let you die, Child of the Morning. I promise.”

  In the distance, an eagle cried.

  Pezzik labored over Chesed, cleaning each wound carefully, applying Essences as a balm.

  As she worked, she prayed to the Storm King for the chymaera’s life. Shanna, Gisle de Clelland’s healer, helped, applying pressure to the wounds and supplying clean needles with cotton thread. Pezzik worked as quickly as she could, sewing up each gash and cut.

  In the end, despite her promise, her efforts were in vain. Shortly before noon, Chesed stopped breathing. He opened his eyes and gazed at Pezzik and took her hand in his. A smile lit his face.

  Then he was gone.

  Pezzik closed Chesed’s eyes and snapped clean sheets over his rigid form. She had to use two because he was so tall. Tears rolled down her face, and she muttered under her breath as she worked, cursing Aric.

  “You did all you could, Pezzik” said Shanna. “He just lost too much blood. Nothing could have saved him from that neck wound. Now ’tis time to care for those he died to save. Do you know the chymaera burial custom?”

  Pezzik shook her head, numb. “I’ve no idea what their ways are. Surely M’ra will come back for him. When she does, we need to be well away. The bard, Aric, has laid Chesed’s death at our feet. The chymaera may hunt us.”

  “Leave his body,” said Gisle, coming up behind her. “If we leave the body, the chymaera may take their beloved home and mourn him in their own way. You may ask your otter friends to watch over him.”

  “We might need to abandon the boats. If we stay on the rivers, we could be too easily found,” said Pezzik.

  Gisle tipped his hat to the gnome. “We have been planning while you worked and have already chosen a possible alternate route over land. We shall mourn the noble Chesed and be on our way.”

  In the end, they laid him on his makeshift pallet once more and dragged him under the largest willow. Pezzik placed a rose blossom in his hands, and they covered him. The gnomes gathered round and sang a mourning song, their five voices rising in harmony. The song drifted over the river and into the meadows beyond.

  Pezzik stepped forward. She cleared her voice to address the group.

  “Today Chesed died so our loved ones might live. We pledge to hold him in our hearts and share his story to our children and our children’s children. His name may never be forgotten. His song has ended, but his life shall continue, in those he died to save.

  “We thank you, Storm King, for this bright child of the morning and commit him to your care.”

  Not one person made the sign of the Arc, not even the men and women in Gisle’s company. Noorie and Dodd bowed and walked away. The others followed their example. All were solemn as they boarded the flatboats and pushed off from the mooring.

  M’ra stood over Chesed’s body as the sun rose the next day. She had flown all night to return so quickly. She gathered him in her arms and wept. Her shining hair covered his still, broken form. She kissed his cheek and dragged his pallet to the skycart, placing him carefully inside.

  She spoke as if he could hear, seeking absolution. “I needed your eyes, little brother. I did not seek your life. Your heartfire burned so bright. You shall be avenged. I vow to bring justice to those responsible. I will spend my life hunting them and shall show them no mercy.”

  She sat with him, weeping, until she had no more tears. She rose and gathered meadow blossoms, covering his lifeless form. That done, she shifted, transforming into her true shape. The enormous white gryphon lifted the skycart and carried Chesed home to his final rest.

  Sara wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked up. She blinked.

  Sara watched the gnomes sing. The tall lady came and took him away. Chesed, they called him. Sara saw the lady weeping. Sara stared in wonder as the lady transformed into a gryphon. Tears streaked Sara’s face as she tracked the white gryphon’s flight, not understanding why she wept.

  Sara was suddenly in a large cave, next to a massive statue of Chesed. He stood next to her as well, alive. The living-Chesed fell to his knees and raised one arm, begging her for help. He was silent. In fact, everything was silent. She couldn’t hear at all. No wind, no rustling, not even her own breath or heartbeat.

  Am I deaf? She felt curiously detached. Dreaming.

  Sara smiled, relieved to see Chesed alive. She took his hand in her transparent one and helped him rise to his feet. His hand felt solid in hers. She touched the statue. Music played.

  The statue moved. It bent on one knee and put one hand on its heart, while the other reached out in supplication. Sara could not see the living-Chesed anymore. All she saw was the statue.

  “So strange,” she murmured aloud. She shifted in bed, pulling her blankets up under her chin.

  Sara rolled over and drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

  M’ra took the stairs to Chesed’s quarters, her feet ringing each hollow step like a bell. Chesed could not have been more explicit if he had written her a letter. M’ra marveled at the energy and the grace it must have taken to control his signet from such a distance while dying. Never before had such a thing occurred.

  The moon watched her enter the pavilion housing Chesed’s signet. The stone figure contained so much of him. It was kneeling, one arm outspread, beseeching. The other covered his heart. Its message was clear. Remember love and mercy. Listen to your heartfire.

  She stood, contemplating the signet for a long time. It accused, humbled, rebuked, and challenged her. She took it in whole, absorbing its Virtue into her heartfire. When finished, she touched it and sang. The signet crumbled into dust as her voice rang out in sorrow. She returned the way she had come. She
took the same path, but in a very real sense, she was not the same person she had been.

  M’ra had found a glimpse of grace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SARA’S HEAD POUNDED. She stared blearily at the clock, at herself. She was wearing the same clothes from the night before but had no recollection of walking home. She sat up in bed. Her shoes had been neatly placed next to her dresser. She groaned. Her phone lay on her nightstand. There it was, a text from Peter.

  —Got someone to let me in last night and found you. Brought you home. Nice flask you have there. We need to talk.

  Without even thinking about it, Sara dialed his number. He answered on the third ring.

  “It’s me. I’m so sorry, Peter. I lost it yesterday.”

  “Yeah, you did,” said Peter. “I saw your sculpture. You okay now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sara. “It’s not about Marilla. It’s really about me. I realized yesterday. Mom is going to try to get Marilla real help. She quit her job. She’s going with her to do some crazy treatment. She didn’t tell me so I wouldn’t try to go with her, so I could graduate. I’ve been hiding. I’ve been hiding from my life and from my artwork and from decisions. It all came clear yesterday. When it did, I tried to run away.”

  “Did part of that running include a fraternity guy? You had a flask with Phi Kappa monogrammed on it,” Peter said. “Who is it?”

  Sara exhaled slowly. “I hung out with Scott Black after work the other night. He gave me the flask. We kissed. That’s all. Yesterday I found out he has a girlfriend.”

  The silence on the other end of the line stabbed Sara.

  “So you never meant to go on our date,” Peter said. “I know you, Sara. At least tell me the truth. Just spit out.”

  “I was running from you, too, Peter,” Sara said. “I need time.”

  “Okay,” said Peter.

  “Please don’t give up on me. I…”

  Peter laughed, and even over the phone, Sara sensed how hollow the laugh was. “Hey, I know when I’m being friend-zoned. I’ve seen you do this before, remember? In high school, to other guys. Why would you be different with me? I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

  The line went dead. It felt like a verdict.

  Sara’s studio looked like a storm had blown through it. Her sculpture was in pieces. She fiddled with her amulet absently, surveying the damage, and set about cleaning the mess. She walked over to her stereo, popped in an instrumental soundtrack from one of her favorite movies, and trekked to the supply closet for trash bags.

  Marilla had always been the brave one. She was the outgoing one, the fearless one. Marilla and her boyfriend Rick met in high school and were inseparable. They both wanted the same things. Rick had proposed to Rilla at Christmas. He had been almost a brother to Sara.

  Now she couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him. He knew Dad cheated on Mom. In spite of that, he had...cheated on Marilla. Marilla never should have been in that accident. Maybe she tried to kill herself. Or maybe she just swerved into the oncoming lane because she was upset. The result was the same, either way.

  Sara swept the floor, beating it with her broom. She stooped and picked up a large piece to throw away. A reptilian eye shone out of the fragment, part of her angry drunken sculpt session. Sara stared at it.

  Snake.

  She tossed it in the bag and sat down hard on her stool.

  Marilla was gone. Even if she came back, it would all be different. She’d never be the same. It was time to accept her own crap. Peter scared the hell out of her. She leaned on him and gave little back. She knew what he wanted. Part of her wanted it too.

  She didn’t know.

  You must find your heart’s inner fire and master it. The words rose up within her. Bastien Crowe had said it during his presentation. Sara wondered if she could. She didn’t know what she loved the most. She didn’t know who she was without Marilla. There wasn’t anything she could call her heart’s inner fire.

  The door opened, and Chantal swept in. Her smirk was triumphant, surveying the destruction. Sara balled her hand into a fist. The jagged shard of clay bit into her palm.

  “I heard there was a problem with your piece,” Chantal said. She stopped just inside the door, one hand on her hip. “Just wanted to check and see if you needed any help.”

  “No, thanks.” Sara’s voice sounded clipped, strange even to her own ears.

  Chantal shook her head, her mouth pursing as she took in the full extent of the carnage. “Too bad. I thought you might be able to give me a run for my money. I do love a good challenge.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sara said. She stood, her cheeks flushing.

  “The internship?”

  “You don’t need to worry. I’m not out of the running yet,” Sara said.

  Chantal’s laugh tinkled as it bounced around the room. “Aren’t you just a peach? You really think you can beat me now?” She shook her head, looking at Sara with something like pity. “Well...” She waved her hand over the mess and shrugged. “Good luck with that.”

  Her narrow-set eyes gleamed.

  Sara’s rage rekindled. But now it had focus. She had fallen. It was true. But she could get back up.

  “I will not only beat you, I will beat everyone else and win the internship,” Sara said. She felt a strange resolve fall on her. It almost felt like peace. “Now get your bony butt out of my studio.”

  Chantal rolled her eyes, and left, still smirking. Her scorn remained, hanging heavy in the air as the door clicked shut behind her.

  “I gotta deal with my mess. But I will beat you,” Sara said. She picked up another piece of sculpture and spoke to it. “I will win. I can do this. I may not understand my heart’s inner fire yet, but putting that witch in her place is a heck of a start.”

  Sara flopped on the couch in her apartment and arched a brow at her roommate. Jane was wearing a red dress and heels. “Hey stranger. You look hot.”

  “Hey lady, thanks,” said Jane. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone so much this week. You know how it is. Last semester of school. I’m a wreck.”

  “Yep, I get it. Listen, I’m going to catch up on my Practicum project and will be at the studio all weekend. I just came home to grab food and sketch. But I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Cool.” Jane’s blue eyes rested on Sara. “How’s Pete? I haven’t seen him lately.”

  Sara sighed. “He asked me out on a real date,” she said. “I screwed it up, bad.”

  Jane leaned forward. “He finally asked you out? What did you do?”

  “I ended up blowing him off. Mom moved Marilla to South Carolina behind my back...”

  “What?” Jane interrupted. “Are you kidding me? How could she do that?”

  “Well, it turns out, pretty easily. But it’s not what you think. She quit her job. She’s actually going to take care of Rilla. Anyhow. I freaked out and blew Peter off. And I sorta kissed this other guy.”

  “You what? No way.” Jane’s eyes widened.

  “Yeah, I did. And he has a girlfriend.” Sara’s chest felt heavy as she confessed. “I didn’t know when I kissed him, I swear. Anyhow I told Peter about all of it, and it’s a big mess now. He’s really hurt. I screwed up. Please don’t hate me. I hate myself right now.”

  Jane shook her head. “What happens between you and Peter is between the two of you. I gotta stay out of it. But yeah, you screwed up. On the other hand, Pete has seen you breaking hearts since we were in high school, so…” Jane shrugged. Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s the other guy?”

  “Scott Black, I work with him at the Tank,” Sara answered.

  Jane visibly recoiled at the mention of Scott’s name. “That guy is a jerk. Cute, but a real slimeball. He went to Trinity, and I had a couple friends who went out with him. He thought he was a big deal, because he was a football player. But he always tried…well, you know. More than he should. Didn’t like the word no.”

  Jane glanced
at the clock. “Listen, there’s more to that story, but Daniel is picking me up any minute now. We have dinner with his parents tonight. I’ll be back late. Are you okay, though? I can cancel if you need me. I’ll stay here with you.”

  Sara waved her away. “I’m good. I may just stay in and sketch. Go into the studio tomorrow. Making tea and watching old movies sounds really good right now. I’ll be fine.”

  Jane looked at Sara as if weighing her, uncertain, but nodded slowly. “Okay, but if you need anything, call, okay? I’ll come home.”

  “I’ll be fine, mama,” Sara said. “Get outta here.”

  Sara put on sweats and slippers, popped a huge bowl of popcorn, made a pitcher of sweet tea, and settled in on the couch with her sketchbook. Sara flipped to a clean page and started doodling. She didn’t know her own heart, but maybe she could come to understand it by exploring.

  She drew Max, the gargoyle Bastien had shown them. She dreamed about them enough. As she drew, she thought about gargoyles, reviewing what she knew. It wasn’t much. She flipped open her Mac and searched, making notes as she read.

  Gargoyles were originally ornamental architectural features, part of a gutter system on building. They literally carried water runoff. The water they carried would spill out of their mouths. Later, gargoyles that had no water spouts became popular. These were known as grotesques. They were added to churches and other buildings in Europe to teach about the inhabitants of Hell. Some thought they were put there to guard or protect the inhabitants by scaring away evil spirits.

  Sara sighed.

  Bastien said that if she understood Max and why he was made, she’d be a good candidate. But she didn’t have a clue.

  Sara stared at the figure she had drawn. It was a good likeness of Max. She’d studied him a lot since Bastien’s presentation. Now, sketching him was simple. He didn’t look so much like a demon as much as he resembled a whimsical imp. His face was sly and wise at once. He sported wings, like many creatures who adorned gothic buildings, but he stood on his own. Unattached to any building, he gave the impression of a resting mountain.