The Deer King: Novella One

by Ben Spencer

  In yet another dream she married the boy. He was a handsome teenager, and they stole away together deep into the Wolfresh woods, where a woman dressed in raven wings performed a ceremony that united their souls for all of eternity. They honeymooned in the belly of the earth, walking hand in hand into a cavern that knew no end. She awoke in a cold sweat the instant the last of the light from the cavern’s entrance extinguished.

  Time continued to pass. The summer beckoned, and with it, her fifteenth birthday. She decided that she would leave then. She took to sleeping outdoors in preparation for her travels. Clay and Seywa would often join her, thinking it a camping trip, and together the three of them would name the constellations, both the Harrish/Breekish and the Massaporan groupings. She winced when Seywa proudly pointed out dachahelu, the mighty antlers that filled the northern sky. She thought to show the twins the Bronze Titan holding his spear in the east, but when she looked closely, the stars resembled the priest, and she lost the urge. She wished that she could stick her hand into the firmament and stir the great starry soup, make the heavens anew. When they were finished naming the constellations, the twins would fall asleep and Emmaline would lay quietly, listening to them breathe. Then she would stay awake as long as possible, trying to remember her father’s and brother’s faces, trying to envision them in the stars.

  One week before her birthday, she made her decision. She would go and search for the priest. It was a selfish decision, she knew, one that would likely end in her death, which, she had come to realize, was what she wanted most of all. When she had first arrived in Falls, she was distraught over the death of her father and brother, but it wasn’t until Seywa said what she said about the stone that Emmaline’s sadness overwhelmed her. She knew that she could never truly belong to a family that was sympathetic to the Deer King. There was nothing left for her in life but to meet her destiny, the same as Brutus and Joseph. She told herself that if she managed to kill the priest, she would hunt down the Deer King. But she was confident that death would take her before then.

  The day of her fifteenth birthday arrived. Her intention was to run away in the afternoon—she often took a long walk then, and she doubted that her disappearance would be noted for some time—but near lunchtime Shayo yelled for Emmaline and the twins to come inside from tending the family garden, her voice laced with urgency. Hurrying inside, the three of them saw Shayo cradling Oostri’s listless head in her lap, stroking the fiery filaments of his hair. Emmaline thought he was dead: his naturally pale pallor had turned ghostly white, and his lively eyes, the boiler of his personality, were cold and lifeless.

  “What happened? What’s wrong with him?” Emmaline asked Shayo, not understanding. When she had last seen him an hour ago, he had been fine. The twins, standing behind her, appeared concerned, but not altogether surprised.

  “Old poison,” Shayo replied. “From a long time ago. His master in Tiderealm made the house slaves drink it. The Silver Worm. It lies dormant, until it doesn’t.” She looked at Seywa. “Do,” she said, which meant daughter in Massaporan, “bring me the olorusco.”

  Seywa moved quickly, darting across the hut and removing a stone in the wall. Behind it, a small leather pouch. She brought it on swift feet to her mother.

  Shayo opened the pouched and extricated a strange clot of leafy, purple-brown product. Still cradling Oostri’s head, she firmly but delicately stuffed a sizeable amount of it into the corner of his gums. Seconds later, Oostri came to life: his eyes darted about the hut and landed on every person in turn, wild and grateful.

  “Ah, the worm lives,” he chuckled weakly when at last he found his voice. “Tasty, that,” he continued, licking his lips before spitting a mushy glob of brown onto the floor. “But now I’ll need to deaden the cravings. What wiswake we have is long expired, no doubt,” he said, looking at Shayo.

  Shayo’s sad smile served as a response. Oostri sighed, then smiled. “It appears a trip is in store,” he said to Emmaline and the kids.

  Emmaline’s confusion persisted. Shayo, noting it, addressed her. “When the olorusco enters the bloodstream, it takes the life out of the worm, lulls it into a deep slumber. Without the olorusco, your life belongs to the worm, who may keep you in bed for months on end or end your life. But the olorusco brings with it its own set of problems.”

  “‘Tis a sweet leaf,” cooed Oostri, “for a time.”

  Shayo continued stroking Oostri’s hair, though her demeanor grew matter-of-fact. “It’s best not to chew olorusco. Some men, once they have tasted it, desire nothing else for the rest of their days. It’s why the masters in Tiderealm poisoned their house slaves. Then they could control them with the olorusco.” With her free hand she pointed east. “But to live under the olorusco’s spell for too long is to say goodbye to both normality and sanity. Such is the fate of Oostri’s mountain brothers.”

  “They can’t go into Wolfresh for the wiswake like I can,” Oostri protested, defending them. “They don’t have a Massaporan wife to escort them.”

  Shayo shrugged, dismissing the men with a wave of her hand. “It’s not a life that they lead, roaming the mountains, half out of their minds. It’s an existence, nothing more. Besides, you’ve offered them the wiswake. They don’t want it.”

  Oostri said nothing to this. Emmaline looked closely at Oostri. His pupils had dilated to the size of the moon, and he seemed to hum with a strange, insectoid energy.

  Shayo addressed Emmaline once more. “The olorusco makes men alert. On it, they can stay awake for days. But it also makes them passive, dazed. Over time it destroys one’s sense of identity. When Oostri and the others escaped Tiderealm, they stole enough olorusco both to last the journey and to grow their own crops in Falls. Once they were here and the leaf was planted, the others continued with their habit. Only Oostri did not. He found me. And then, together, we procured the wiswake.”

  “At a cost,” chimed Oostri.

  “Yes,” admitted Shayo. “At a cost. But I was glad to pay the price.”

  Quiet fell. The unspoken parts of the conversation hovered in the room like spirits.

  “Where do you find the wiswake?” Emmaline asked. And then, before Shayo could reply, “And what is it, exactly?”

  “Wiswake is a paste made from the wood of a tree of the same name that grows deep in the forests of Wolfresh. It stays fresh for six to eight months, then loses its efficacy. The silver worm rears its head only now and again, sometimes with gaps as short as two months and sometimes as long as five years in between. So we travel to Wolfresh only when necessary.”

  Emmaline couldn’t help but ask the obvious question. “Why not live in Wolfresh, then?”

  One of the spirits showed its face. “We are allowed to visit. But living there is not permitted.”

  Another quiet. The spirit flitted away.

  “We’ll leave in the morning,” Oostri said, breaking the stillness. Somewhere behind his glassy gaze his mind was operating, trying to decide what was best for his family. “Eight days there, eight days back. We’ll be home in…”

  Shayo’s shaking head cut him off. “No. If we all leave now, we’ll lose the early summer harvest. You stay here, and take the olorusco as needed. Remember last time? Traveling agitates the worm, and, once the worm is agitated, you become more dependent on the leaf. So stay. Rest. The children will tend the crops, and take care of you. Won’t you?” she asked, looking at the twins.

  Emmaline wasn’t certain if she was included with the children, but she nodded her head regardless. In her mind, she thought, Good. It will be easier to run away once Shayo’s gone.

  But then Shayo’s gaze fell on her like a lighthouse on a ship. It was a penetrating stare, different than any look Shayo had given Emmaline before. The map of Emmaline’s mind felt exposed. “Emmaline will travel with me to Wolfresh. She’s nearly a woman now. Besides, she needs to visit Wolfresh. She needs to meet my people. Together, we’ll make good time. Faster than if we all went. We’ll be home in a matter of we
eks.”

  4

  They left together later that same afternoon, at the hour that Emmaline had planned to slip away. By nightfall they had traveled five miles. They set up camp on the slope of a stunted mountain, one of the dwarf crags that overlooked the heavy pinewood forests that marked Wolfresh’s northeastern border.

  Now that they were alone together, Shayo resumed her habit of not speaking to Emmaline, a courtesy that Emmaline extended to Shayo in turn. They danced a soundless dance of chores: gathering kindling for the fire, boiling water from a nearby stream, constructing a lean-to in the event the grumbling clouds to the south carried their complaints north. Sitting cross-legged by the fire, they shared salted strips of beef and a piping-hot sweet potato for supper. Then they fell asleep like logs.

  They reached the forests of Wolfresh by mid-morning the following day. They traveled at a brisk pace, stopping only occasionally to sip water from leather canteens. Emmaline, who owned two outfits, had opted at the last moment to wear the buckskin dress that Shayo had given to her three months prior, rather than the tattered petticoat and gown that she had brought with her to Wolfresh. It turned out to be a wise decision. The dress was comfortable for traveling, and it fit better than the petticoat and gown, which had begun to look unseemly on her. On the inside of the dress was a hideaway pocket that Emmaline had sewn in secret. While they traveled, Emmaline grazed the pocket from time to time to feel the stone. She felt the stone’s pull stronger than usual. She wondered if she might steal an opportunity to look at it somewhere along the way.

  When they made camp later that evening, Shayo spoke to her for the first time since their departure. “I’m going hunting,” she announced. Then she left, offering Emmaline no instructions. Emmaline watched silently as Shayo disappeared into a tangle of blood elms and dew oaks, the pines now behind them. The instant she was out of sight, Emmaline fished out the stone.

  She wasted no time in summoning the boy, rotating the stone and chanting “Dachahelu” in a hushed but insistent voice. The boy appeared in his usual possessed state, verdant irises aflame. The stone, energized by the boy’s presence, tugged Emmaline west. Continuing to chant, Emmaline glanced up and looked westward, wondering how close to the boy she might come if she continued on the journey with Shayo. When she glanced back down, she gave a start. Peering at her from behind the boy was an old woman cloaked in raven feathers.

  She dropped the stone.

  Emmaline hadn’t yet recovered from the shock of seeing the old woman when Shayo returned from the hunt, a pair of tan, long-legged rabbits slung over her shoulder. Emmaline sensed that Shayo knew that something was amiss, but Shayo said nothing, only went about the work of dressing the rabbits for the meal. Emmaline did her best to act normal. She helped Shayo prepare the meal, skewering the rabbits and rotating them over the fire, though throughout, the vision of the feather-cloaked woman plagued her mind. It seemed that Shayo would let the matter pass unmentioned—keeping quiet was in her character, after all—but when Emmaline took her first bite of rabbit meat, Shayo addressed the mood in a roundabout fashion.

  “Considering running away again?”

  Emmaline nearly choked on the rabbit. She wondered how long Shayo had suspected her plans; she wondered if Shayo had known back in Falls. Emmaline recovered quickly, however, and when she replied, a note of defiance crept into her voice. “And if I am? I’m not yours to keep.”

  Shayo didn’t respond right away. Instead, she took a bite of rabbit and stared into the distance. The stars were flaring into existence; it seemed to Emmaline as if Shayo were gazing at dachahelu, searching for an answer there.

  “I know,” she responded at last.

  They finished the meal. Emmaline supposed that that was that, and nothing more would be said of it, but moments after Emmaline licked the last of the rabbit juice clean from her lips, Shayo spoke again. “Stay with me until I have the wiswake in my possession. That’s all I ask of you.” Her voice sounded clean and cold, like falling snow.

  This time it was Emmaline’s turn to stare into the distance. Her eyes lit upon the Titan’s spear. She resented that she garnered no comfort from it, that it offered her no sense of who she was as a person.

  “I will,” she answered. After all that Shayo and her family had done for her, it was the only answer that she could give.

  On the fourth day of their travels, after a rainy night that had tried Emmaline’s spirits, they came upon a Massaporan village. Shayo spotted it first, pointing at a smattering of rectangular wood and clay houses a couple hundred yards to the northwest. They might have skirted it and continued on their way, but seconds after spotting the village, a Massaporan family spotted them. The family, returning to the village after an early morning outing, approached.

  Shayo offered up pleasantries to the family. They weren’t reciprocated. The man of the family, who looked like a large, leathery beetle, growled at Shayo in harsh Massaporan, and scowled at Emmaline. What initially sounded like complaints evolved into a harangue. Emmaline grew increasingly uncomfortable. Shayo had stopped responding and seemed to be taking a measure of pleasure in the man’s anger. The man appeared on the verge of combustion when Shayo rolled her arm over and presented him with the underside of her wrist. Seeing the tattoo there—a series of six connected black diamonds, strung three to a side and separated by a perfect black circle—the man gasped, as did his family. Their faces turned skeletal white, and they hurried away, muttering what were either apologies or frightened curses.

  “Why did they react like that to your tattoo?” Emmaline asked as the family fled. Shayo had multiple tattoos, tribal symbols all. Emmaline had never suspected that the one on the underside of her wrist bore special significance.

  “The six diamonds signify that I’m the friend of a powerful person. The black circle represents my exile from the Massaporan community. I’m allowed to travel through Wolfresh, but I’m not allowed to build a home, and no Massaporan is permitted to offer me food and shelter.”

  “But your friend, wouldn’t he…”

  “My friend is a she. And no. Seeing as how she’s the one who exiled me.”

  Emmaline wanted to ask additional questions, but Shayo signaled that they needed to move on. By the time they stopped at midday to eat, the window for asking questions had passed.

  They moved deeper into the heart of Wolfresh. The unrelenting woods dominated the terrain: towering blood elms shadowed every inch of land with their leafy crowns, massive dew oaks hoarded terra firma with trunks as thick as boulders, while underneath the forest canopy saplings pushed and prodded at each other like jealous siblings, competing for space and recognition. Massaporan villages appeared with increasing frequency, camouflaged in the timber. Now and again Emmaline and Shayo were forced to deal with the Massaporans themselves. The result was always a variation of their first encounter: Shayo carried on contentious conversations, and Emmaline endured sneers and scowls; then Shayo flashed her tattoo, and their harassers departed posthaste. Emmaline hadn’t thought to be frightened before she came to Wolfresh, but now that she was here, she realized how naïve she had been. The Massaporans hated her. She wondered how her father had ever operated in a land so hostile to his existence.

  On the seventh day they spotted yet another village, smaller than most. Emmaline supposed that they would skirt it as they had the others, but instead Shayo led them to the edge of the village. A lanky, long-boned Massaporan with a horse’s face greeted them.

  “It’s good to see you, Shayo,” the man said in Harrish, eschewing Massaporan. He had an aloof, regal bearing.

  “And you, Uncle,” she replied.

  The man looked at Emmaline, neither disdain nor approval in his eyes. “This one isn’t Breekish.”

  “No, she isn’t. Oostri is still alive, if you’re probing. As are your niece and nephew.”

  Shayo’s uncle nodded noncommittally, as if Shayo had asked him a question that couldn’t be answered instead of telling him a fact.
Shayo smiled, continued, “They still speak of the honey apples you gave them the last time we visited.”

  “Honey apples are delicious,” he said, looking away. “Now tell me who the girl is.”

  Shayo switched to Massaporan. Though Emmaline didn’t understand what she said, something about Shayo’s tone sent a shock of fear through her system. Emmaline looked from Shayo to the man, whose eyes thrashed hard and then went still, like a fish caught in a net.

  “Let’s go, then,” the man said.

  “I need wiswake,” Shayo demanded with authority. Shayo had an air about her of one battle won, and another on the verge of being fought. Emmaline’s mind swirled in confusion, trying to adapt to the subtle changes taking place.

  Shayo’s uncle nodded but didn’t reply. He turned and led them into the village.

  The village was bruised from a recent storm, a lightning-struck dew oak having toppled into the midst. Fallen from the northwest, the massive tree cleaved the village in half, starting at ten o’clock on the dial and landing at four. Two houses had been smashed in its wake, pressed flat like trampled clover. The storm’s detritus—scattered tree limbs, castaway leaves—lay around the village in an embryonic pattern, the peculiar artistry of a storm god. Massaporans moved like dreams around the wreckage, reinterpreting their daily lives with a seamless grace. If they glanced Emmaline’s way they acted as if they didn’t see her. She assumed it was because Shayo’s uncle was their guide.

  Shayo’s uncle led them to the heart of the tree, where a gaggle of Massaporan children frolicked, the lot of them so thick that at first Emmaline didn’t notice the gaping hole bored into the center of the colossal dew oak. The hole was large enough for humans to enter, which they did. To Emmaline’ wonderment, inside of the tree was a corridor, straight and dark and leading to the roots. Emmaline glanced behind her as she disappeared into the tree and saw the children staring after her, their curious faces blurring into a smudgy halo.