Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  The words disappeared as Dane spoke, leaving the page blank. Dane inspected the figure. “Domini?”

  A chime answered him. The statue of Domini shimmered. It spoke to him in a voice as cold and terrible as a blizzard.

  “Danethor Thomas Whitley. Dewin, you have laid down your life for another. You have asked for an eternal bond. You have spoken with the Storm King and yielded. You have stood against darkness. You have chosen to become a majister in these, the Last Days. Do you accept the call?”

  Dane went to one knee before the cyntae. “I accept, milord.”

  “Arise. You will meet six more before you take up the staff.”

  Dane stood. The statue fell silent, once more lifeless.

  Dane continued up the stairs.

  Sara was breathing heavily by the time she came upon a landing.

  A small table stood in the middle of the landing. A book lay open upon it. She picked it up and read aloud.

  William and Catherine Moore are proud to announce the birth of twin girls, Sara Elizabeth and Marilla Jette...

  As she read the words on the page, images surrounded her, replaying her past. She was in the vision, but an unseen observer. A witness. Her father held her in his arms and whispered in her ear how much he loved her. She blinked back tears. He never told her he loved her growing up. He always was too busy.

  Everything shifted, blurring. Her father practiced a song, a composition of his own, scribbled on staff paper. Sara stood behind him, watching. At the top of the page, in his bold script, the title was “For My Girls.” The music soared through his study, liquid joy.

  She’d never heard that song before.

  Shift.

  Sara saw her mother holding her, her father holding Marilla, rocking gently together in matching rocking chairs. “Trade!” said Dad, rising. Carefully they exchanged babies and settled back down in the chairs.

  Shift.

  She saw her mother and father waking up, feeding twin babies. Up every four hours. The images flashed by rapidly.

  Diapers, late nights, chaos. Toddlers, potty training. Toys, books, laughter.

  Bills piling up. Her mother’s face, ashen as she returned to work. Her mother’s face drawn with fatigue, coming home late. Her father, home with them. His cello rested on its stand, unused.

  Shift.

  Dad argued with Mom, their bedroom door closed while she and Marilla slept in toddler beds. He wanted to spend time with Mom, and she had to work.

  Shift.

  Her father’s face, forlorn, as he put them on a yellow bus for the first day of school. Sara watched him retreat to his study. He began to play his cello, this time, a dirge.

  She’d thought those were happy days, though…

  She had never considered her parents just as people. They were her parents.

  A tear rolled down her father’s cheek. It broke her heart.

  So young. Dad was happy taking care of them. But he had less and less time to play his own music. Mom supported them on her salary as a doctor, but was never home. The music echoed. So lonely. She thought he was happy to have time to play again. He wasn’t.

  He missed us.

  He missed Mom.

  It was the root of his betrayal. His leaving them. His yelling?

  Was Dad...selfish? Or was he hurting, too?

  The room faded. Only the pages of the open book lay before her, now empty. Rain fell, christening her. Sara looked up. The sky was cloudy. It was sprinkling, water dripping onto her forehead through the open roof. Sara set the book on the table and climbed the steps.

  A bell chimed as she ascended.

  Dane arrived on the next platform to find a large, round fountain. On a table next to the fountain lay a book. He picked it up, eager to read it.

  Renato, Second of the Cyntae, reigned over many waters. Her heart ever pure, she sensed Doran’s anger, and sought to bring him peace.

  The words disappeared from the page as he read.

  He set the book on the table and a bell chimed. The note this time was D. Was the last one a C? Might have been. Would the ritual contain a scale? Did that matter?

  The thought vanished as waters rose from the fountain, spraying around him until he was surrounded by a perfect sphere of liquid, turning and flowing. Enclosed in this ball of water entirely, he floated above the ground. It flowed under his feet. He watched, mesmerized, as the sphere separated and another, much smaller, sphere circled before him, floating like a bubble. A face made of water shimmered within. The voice that spoke to him had something in it of a rushing stream.

  “Danethor Thomas Whitley, you must seek the truth of the Lorica, find its refrains hidden beyond sight. You will need a pure heart. Will you be cleansed?”

  Fear gripped Dane. It fell on him, as heavy as a curse, a black layer of despair and shame. It rose up, threatening to strangle him. He choked. He saw in his mind’s eye long, cold nights sleeping on the ground. He saw himself, in the grip of Dissonance. Towns burning, people dead, their bodies splayed, disjointed.

  If I’m not cleansed now, I cause this.

  Dane bowed to Renato, fighting his rising tide of fear. “I accept,” he gasped.

  The waters crashed over him as the sphere collapsed, leaving him wet and sputtering.

  All of his fatigue, his fears, and his worries washed away in that instant.

  He felt stronger. Lighter.

  He shook his head in wonder and turned, running to the next step.

  Sara reached the second platform and found another book on top of a podium. She stood behind it and read aloud slowly, feeling the weight of the words.

  Name your sorrow.

  Her sorrow.

  In her mind, she saw Marilla, that night.

  Marilla’s face, a mask of pain, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Marilla ran at Rick, beating his chest.

  Marilla turned and spat on the girl Rick had been kissing. The girl Marilla trusted above all others. Someone she loved.

  The girl who had broken Marilla’s heart.

  Marilla spit on Sara, grabbed her keys, and ran out the door, into the night.

  She didn’t return.

  Tears flowed like rain down Sara’s face. She never even let herself think of this memory; it was too painful. She had spoken of it to no one, not even Dr. Carol. She felt her shame wash over her, unsuppressed, and could not meet it. Sara blinked through tears as family and friends coalesced before her. Marilla, her parents, Peter, Jane, Dr. Carol, Professor Polly. All of her classmates stood behind them, a huge jury. They crowded the landing, now a stage. She stood behind the podium, and they waited for her to speak.

  Sara looked at the book again. The words on the page remained, adamant. Name your sorrow.

  Paralysis gripped her. Sara’s thoughts moved sluggishly, her face growing numb.

  They all waited, silent. Looking at her.

  I can’t do this.

  Unbidden, Dane filled her vision. He was running to save her, blue eyes blazing as he sang at a flesh-eating swarm.

  Sara thought of her father, playing a dirge, lonely. Sorrowfish.

  She saw herself. Her fear she was too much. Her fear Marilla was better, and she didn’t count. Her envy. She saw herself wondering what it would be like to be Marilla, to have everyone love you. Rick’s mouth on hers.

  Sorrowfish. Not just selfish.

  Sara held onto the idea, gulped, and let it all out in a rush.

  “I betrayed my twin sister, Marilla. I kissed Rick. I was full of envy. I was stupid. Jealous. Afraid. I broke her heart. Sorrowfish. I hurt you, pushed you away. All of you. I sabotaged my work. It’s my fault Marilla is in a coma. It’s all my fault,” she said.

  Tears streamed down her face. “I don’t deserve you, any of you. Please, forgive me.”

  The people in front of her looked shocked, sad, hurt. Sympathetic.

  None of them looked hateful. They shimmered, fading one by one.

  Only Marilla remained.

>   Marilla walked over to Sara, took her hands, and drew her out from behind the podium. Sara looked into Marilla’s eyes, mirrors of her own, pleading. She found compassion there.

  “I understand…I do. I was always jealous of you.

  “I’ve had a long time to think. Every day, lying in that bed. And I’ve had to forgive myself. You. Rick.

  “It was terrible and a betrayal on your part. But I was afraid of you, too, Sara. Like you were of me. I was a total mess.

  “I’m the one who chose to swerve in front of that truck. I’m the one who made a choice to die. It’s not your fault.

  “I heard when you came and talked to me. Every time. I saw you weeping. You stood by me. I know, Sara. I know you love me.

  “I forgive you.”

  Sara dropped to the floor and curled up in a ball, overwhelmed as the weight lifted, the horrible weight of shame and grief. She shuddered, sobbing. Marilla leaned down and embraced her. “I’m here,” she said. “But...I have to go now. Just remember, I forgive you. I love you, Sara.”

  Sara lifted her head, calling after her sister. “Love you, Rill!”

  A bell chimed.

  With a radiant smile, Marilla ascended the stairs. Sara rose to follow, still shaking.

  Dane took the steps quickly, coming upon the third platform. This one was brightly lit, though Dane could not see the source. A garden filled the platform. Dane searched for a book and found it nesting in the crook of a sapling, pages open. Dane breathed in the scents of tunebells and delphiniums.

  He retrieved the book and read.

  Miah was beloved and tended the flowers. Her song gave strength and Virtue. It was she who bound Doran within the ground.

  A melody burst forth, the Song erupting and filling the room. The sapling flowered. A face appeared above it, strong as an oak tree. Miah’s voice held the sound of boughs sighing in the wind.

  “Danethor Thomas Whitley. Dewin. The refrains have been hidden within the ground, sky, air, and water. One you carry. Seek seven more. This food I give you for knowledge.”

  The flowers on the tree turned to fruit. Dane lay the book in her boughs and plucked the fruit. As he ate, the garden disappeared, replaced by a new scene.

  A wiry man with a big nose and long dark hair crafted boxes in the shapes of octagons. He placed scrolls inside. A teenaged boy assisted the crafter.

  Images flashed before Dane so quickly, he could hardly retain them.

  The boy and the man spoke to a large dragon. A lakeside palace. A Fellishman spoke earnestly, his dark features sharp against the sunset. Pink light bathed the high moors and a mirrorlike lake. Walking together into a dwarvish mountain. On a ship at sea, diving to meet tiny merfolk. Slogging through a swamp, surrounded by fluted columns, hanging moss, and olive-colored men wearing gossamer veils. Kneeling before a winged lion made of fire.

  The old man wept before a winged unicorn, alone.

  As the images faded, the garden vanished, leaving only a bare stone room and the moonlight filtering down from above.

  “Remember,” said Miah, her voice resonating throughout the chamber.

  A bell chimed.

  Sara climbed, half blinded. She couldn’t stop crying. Marilla had forgiven her, but she felt weak and drained. Shaky. Raw. She stumbled onto the next platform and saw a book sitting on a normal dining room table and chairs. The table was a perfect replica of one she’d eaten at as a child. She sat down at the table and pulled the book to her, reading only one phrase.

  In remembrance.

  A plate appeared before her, filled with her favorite meal. It smelled wonderful. Her father used to make it. Beef Bourguignon, pronounced with a horrific French accent in imitation of Julia Child. Dad would serve a warm red merlot and make crusty flatbread. Everyone would take turns saying silly things in equally terrible accents. Then Dad would play the cello for them, “La Vie en Rose.”

  Sara smiled at the vivid memories and picked up a wine glass. Sara toasted her family and dug into the meal. It was as good as she remembered. She sopped up the sauce with the bread and sipped the wine. Church bells sounded in the distance, from St. Francis down the street. Warmth spread through her.

  A wave of strength enveloped Sara, like an embrace. When she was finished, she felt much better. More solid, at peace. As if broken pieces within her were knitting. She stood and looked at the book. Its words were gone.

  A bell chimed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  ON THE FOURTH platform, Dane found the book resting on a table shaped like an arc.

  He picked it up, apprehensive. He’d had quite enough of the Conclave.

  Faron chronicled the days and nights, the years and the ages. He was tasked to prepare for the Last Day.

  As Dane read the words, he saw worlds and stars, all their light woven together. He saw an old man, robed with a scythe, the blade shaped like an arc. The man poked a hole in the sky like tearing a tent. Suddenly, the moon appeared, its arc shining with a soft light. Dane saw a Wyrm wrapped around the World Tree, climbing.

  The old man stepped forward to look at Dane, his eyes shimmering, filled with unshed tears.

  “Doran wanted to usurp Domini’s place. He fell. He was bound into the form you know. In his hatred for all beloved, he cursed each one, vowing their destruction. And so he became the Wyrm, unable to hear the Song.

  “Speak your hatred, my son. Release it, lest you fall.”

  Dane nodded. He was angry with the Conclave. The anger lay simmering, under the surface, waiting for the opportunity to flare. He had not given it attention.

  Snakes wrapped around his legs, climbing. Dane’s emotions surged. He felt the hatred, luring him. It beckoned for him to give in, to accept it. He saw Siles in his mind’s eye. The high cantor cast a spell to kill his parents. Siles stood next to a pool and sang and Dane’s parents sickened. Dane held them in his arms, watched them die. He saw Bell, drooling, unable to speak or think. She scraped the earth with broken fingernails, her eyes dull and lifeless. Dane saw himself, covered in a swarm of blackness so thick it choked him, his skin disintegrating. Agony swept through his body, a fire that could not be contained. He screamed.

  He was so angry. He wanted them dead. Dane stood his ground, shaking. He grit his teeth, filled with cold fury.

  The snakes coiled, undulating higher up his legs.

  Storm King, help me.

  Wasn’t it the Storm King who had allowed all this? Didn’t He have ultimate control?

  The thought skewered Dane.

  The snakes stopped climbing. They waited. The pain fled as suddenly as it had arrived.

  The Storm King was the Creator of all things. In control. And He let it all happen. Dane closed his eyes and remembered the Storm King, his form, glowing. Made of lightning, though it was only one side of His true form.

  He let it all happen.

  He thought about Sara, suddenly. He saw her.

  She wanted so desperately to love Peter. But she was afraid, and instead of loving Peter, she chased the lackwit. But the truth was, she did love Peter. She was just running out of fear to things she thought she could control. Someone who didn’t want her was safe. Much safer than a man who would love her, ask things of her.

  And if she made the lackwit love her, wouldn’t it prove she was worth something?

  You couldn’t force someone to love you.

  The Storm King couldn’t force love someone to love him either. He wouldn’t. It would be a rape.

  And so Nadir hurt Bell. Siles killed Dane’s family. Because the Storm King wouldn’t force love. Nadir and Siles didn’t love the Storm King or the cyntae. They loved themselves. They loved power and control, sought it.

  But the Storm King was there, in all of it, fighting…through him.Through Dane.

  What had they really done but set Dane off on a quest to heal the Tree and become a majister?

  The Storm King had moved to help Dane. The story was far from over. The Storm King was even now, turning ev
ents for good. Even the most horrible events.

  Anger seeped from him. Dane spoke aloud. “I forgive them.”

  He would not seek revenge or the Conclave’s harm. He would trust the Storm King.

  “I choose to release this hatred.”

  The snakes disappeared along with Faron and the Tree.

  Only the table and the book remained.

  A bell chimed the next note in the scale.

  Dane sat down, heavily, breathing. It was several minutes before he forced himself to rise and continue.

  Sara reached the fourth platform wondering if it would be her last. The book stood on a tall pedestal along with a crystal vial filled with amber liquid.

  Chesed’s alabaster likeness filled the space. Sara blinked, remembering his death. She saw it again in her mind’s eye. This statue had moved, beseeching. It kneeled in that position still, one hand over its heart, the other reaching out.

  It was like him...and not like him.

  Somehow it seemed more noble, more beautiful than she remembered. Sara reached up to nudge the book off the tall pedestal. She caught it and read, Find your heart’s inner fire.

  She stamped her foot in frustration. “I’ve tried to find my heart’s inner fire. I have no idea what it means!”

  The air next to the column rippled, and the statue of Chesed turned and spoke.

  “Do you know what I am?”

  Sara shook her head, surprised.

  “The signet of Chesed. Daily he came to sing to the Storm King. He sang his hopes and dreams, his anger and disappointment. He Canted each of his failings without fear, with honesty, seeking to grow. He fought his own darkness daily. He never ran or neglected the work.

  “His Song formed me, his signet. At the appointed time of Quickening, Chesed would have merged with me to receive his wings. He could transform and put on his true shape as a Derbyn, a gryphon. He could fly.”

  Sara stared at the signet. Slowly, she answered.