by CW Tickner
He shielded his eyes with a hand and squinted up at the strip of light that blazed across the roof of the world. Perhaps it was more vulnerable up there? But even if they did manage to reach it, they would probably go blind so close to the light.
No, the barrier was the end of their world during life. The priests promised more, but their words were hollow. Only the pure of heart can live in a land without barriers. You must suffer the burdens of existence. Then, when your soul breaks free at the end of life, there will be no barrier. Purity is its own reward.
Harl didn’t believe a word of it.
He strolled onto the worn cobbles of Gifting Square. The town had grown around Gifting Square in a rough horseshoe, with only a flat, grazed field separating it from the Sight. The vendors and market stalls that normally crowded it had been cleared away for the upcoming gifting. Contributions for the feast lined the perimeter, while tethered sheep and goats wandered as far as their neck ropes allowed, creating a cacophony of animal noises. A team of workmen were stacking wood into an immense pile in the centre of the square ready for the bonfire. They sang and swapped jokes as they worked, while excited children scuttled around them and trailed their every move. The fire wouldn’t be lit until the gifting ceremony began and its blaze invited the god to drop the precious supplies into the field.
As Harl walked around the square his eyes locked on Rufus. He had set up a small table at the side of the bonfire. It was covered with scrolls of paper and musty old ledgers, a chaotic mess that was threatening to spill off onto the floor. Dressed in his white Elderman’s robes, he was a pale beacon of hate. His sunken, hawked face tracked anyone nearby with an accusing stare.
The youngest of the ten Eldermen, Rufus had been on the council for the last two giftings after inheriting the position from his father. It was rare to be given such a privileged position, but the Elders had deemed him capable of finishing his father’s term after the old man passed away. Their sympathy had blinded them though. Rufus was merciless. No one was ever pious enough for him and no sacrifice to the gods seemed to satisfy his rabid zealotry.
Rufus’ snivelling voice drifting over the square towards Harl. He clenched his hands into fists. Rufus was berating an old lady for only giving a half-filled sack of goods for the feast. She was cowering before him to his obvious delight.
A flush of anger swept over Harl. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his feelings. He had to report to Rufus himself, but he knew that if he confronted the man now it wouldn’t end well, so he paced to the far edge of the square and gazed across the wide field that opened out in front of him. This was where the god graced them with bounty while the faithful prayed in the square. It gave an unobstructed view all the way to the Sight at the edge of the world. He walked across the field to the transparent glass barrier and stared out into the void.
The god was moving around out there. It was only a shadow in the dark, too far away to make out any detail, but it was there… Waiting. Everything behind it faded into a dim blur. Instead of a world full of trees and valleys, people and places, there were just the ghosts of things. It wasn’t always like that. Sometimes the light grew stronger and the ghosts became real. Once, long ago, Harl had seen a giant doorway, but it had made no sense. Why would the god need doors? The thought still made him shiver. And then there were the other gods, sometimes one, other times groups of them, drifting in and out of view or leaning down to cast critical eyes over the world. It was like looking out an epic window into a vast space that no man had ever reached, except those who had been lifted.
The god faded from view and Harl closed his eyes. His parents were out there somewhere, dead and forgotten by the revellers around him. It was the same for Earl and all of the poor souls who had been lifted. What happened to them beyond the Sight? Were they judged by the god before being turned to dust and left to float in the void? It was too much. He couldn’t bare to think about all those who had been taken. Feeling sick, he backed away from the Sight and retreated to the square.
Rufus was still bellowing at the old woman. She bowed as she backed away, almost tripping over her tattered dress.
‘Off with you,’ he said at last, brandishing a scruffy quill, ‘and bring the rest before lights out.’ He looked up from his parchment lists and saw Harl. He scowled, but then a cold smile spread across his face.
‘Late again, Harl Eriksson? Or perhaps you’ve been helping others lie about their children’s whereabouts?’ His smile faded and he snatched a parchment list from the table and hovered his quill over it. ‘Your tribute’s overdue. The One True God does not smile kindly on those who avoid their responsibilities. Or do you believe yourself above others?’
‘Well, not all of us are gifted our position, Elderman.’ Harl said, ‘And not all of us lust after power. Some of us prefer the honesty of hard work. But I’ll offer my share and gladly. Is three cows enough?’
‘It’ll have to do,’ Rufus snapped. He threw Harl a vicious look as he scribbled a note, and then slammed the parchment down onto the table. The inkwell tipped over and ink splashed across the list. Rufus cursed and began to mop the liquid up with his sleeve. ‘Get out of here, you idiot, before you damage something else.’
Harl turned away and for the first time since seeing the fletcher a grin found its way onto his face. Three cows were far more than some people contributed; it was a full quarter of his livestock. But seeing Rufus mop up ink with his precious Elderman’s robe was worth the price.
As Harl wound his way through the melee of animals, he spotted Troy jogging into the square, a knobbly sack of produce balanced on one skinny shoulder. Troy winked at a pretty herbalist as he dumped the sack on the pile and then exchanged a few curt words with Rufus. Seeing Harl at the side of the square, he hurried over, yelling something rude back at Rufus as he stopped in front of Harl.
‘Well,’ Troy said, ‘will we be getting as drunk this gifting as the last?’
‘I’m in no mood for drinking, my friend. I need to get my tribute to Rufus before the light disappears. He’ll have me breaking stone in the quarry if he gets his way.’
‘I could arrange a diversion,’ Troy said, glancing at the tethered animals. ‘One quick cut and the goats will win freedom. Wouldn’t look good under Screwfus’s watch. Whadda you say?’
Harl shook his head. ‘He’d just order them killed and I don’t have the stomach for it.’
‘You look fine to me,’ Troy said, inspecting him from head to toe like a cattle merchant, before prodding Harl’s muscular chest with one finger. ‘On second thought you could do with feeding up a bit.’ He shrugged and put an arm around Harl’s shoulder. ‘You just need time, Harl. And a drink. Definitely a drink. I’ve heard tell,’ Troy said, leaning in to whisper, ‘that the Harkens have brewed a particularly potent ale this gifting, and I wouldn’t want to miss the fun when they break open a barrel or three. Have you got time for a quick one now at the Spear?’
‘I can’t,’ Harl said, slumping against an animal stake ‘I just want to get home by the fire, but even that’ll have to wait. I’m duty bound to bring my cows here by lights end.’
‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ Troy said. ‘I’m sure You’ll get more in the gifting to replace them. I’m hoping for crop seed myself. The farm’s been running out and, although I get some back from the harvest, the bloody mice have been at them again. Still, you never know what we’ll get. Perhaps the god will gift us some beautiful ladies.’
Troy rubbed his hands together, grinning, but Harl just frowned.
‘Alright, alright!’ Troy flung his hands up. ‘Maybe dropping people into the world would be a bit weird, but it’ll do you good to drown your sorrows, and I can make sure you get rid of that foul temper.’
Harl offered a reluctant smile that seemed to satisfy Troy, who swivelled around as a pretty girl strolled into the Golden Spear.
‘Ho, ho! What have we here?’ Troy said, making for the tavern as well. He winked back at Harl. ‘Come find me a
fterwards for a drink. We can have a catch up before it all starts on the next cycle,’
‘You should grow hops instead of corn,’ Harl called after him, ‘and start your own tavern, then the women might come to you instead of the other way around.’
Chapter 2
They are a fascinating species. Bipedal, with complex language and social interactions. In a bizarre way they are like micro versions of us.
Harl sat staring out into the half-light of the god’s realm. He had returned home, selected the cattle for Rufus, and then wandered towards the Sight, hoping to clear his mind from the cycle’s worries. Now he was sitting on a bench with the Sight five paces in front of him, its thick, clear glass the only thing barring him from the realm of the gods. It soared up to the very top of the world, a window looking out from the box of their world into the void.
He watched the darkness until he thought it would consume him, but there was nothing out there, no sign of the gods, no sign of his parents.
The gods were a mystery. They lived their lives beyond the barrier and only revealed themselves when they chose. He had even seen one sitting at a table eating once. The thought still made him shiver. It had seemed so strange that a god would have such needs, but he was sure that’s what it had been doing. But it had only been a blur in the distant gloom, and he’d never seen the like again.
A thought struck him as if he had run into the barrier. Could the God have eaten his parents? He tried to dismiss it, but the image of the god’s hand tossing them up into its vast, open maw would not pass. Their screams rolled over and over through his thoughts. Why hadn’t it looked into their souls and seen their innocence? It must have known that they were faithful and honest. Why had it taken them?
He took a long, deep breath and tried to let the thoughts slip away. The scent of roses wafted over him. Blooms trailed up the young trees that surrounded the bench. They had crawled up the thickening trunks and coiled around the lowest branches long ago before blooming into a colourful red canopy. He looked down and traced the carvings across the wooden planks. It had taken cycles to hew the wood and plane it into shape; it had taken twice as long to carve his parents’ faces into the timber. He ran his fingers over the carvings. It was hard to remember them sometimes. But here, in this place, this was where he could still come to find them. And yet looking at the calm faces grew more painful each time he came. He had planted the flowers and saplings around the bench to create a small beauty spot to get lost in, anything to just blunt the edge off the pain he kept feeling. But it didn’t feel so beautiful now; it was just a constant reminder that they were dead and all he could do was watch the gods go about their incomprehensible work.
A god stepped into view on the other side of the Sight.
Harl lurched to his feet as something snapped inside. He scooped a handful of mud off the ground and hurled it onto the Sight before him, roaring as it splattered across the barrier to mar his view of the god as it lumbered past. Harl smashed his fists against the image, hammering at it until mud smeared across his arms, his face, his clothes, but still the god was there, mocking him, teasing him. He rained blows against the glass until his fists were raw and bleeding, and then screamed in fury and despair as he staggered back to the bench and collapsed, his face hidden in the muddied palms of his hands.
Shuddering, he wiped the exhausted tears from his face and then rose from the bench and walked away.
There was no one here for him; there were only gods.
Harl caught the scent of beer on the air as he navigated the narrow alleyway. Buildings rose up on either side of him, but there was no one in sight. Not even rats scuttled across the cobbles. The dark cycle had forced everyone inside well before he had arrived back in town. Walking through the empty, torch-lit streets was like being a lost soul. Was this what it felt like to be dead? He gazed at the glowing windows around him. It gave him no sense of warmth. Instead he felt cold and alone.
He walked out of the alley onto the edge of Gifting Square, which was quiet and deserted, aside from the dozing animals. Light from the Golden Spear spilled out through its windows and cast a harsh glare across the cobbles. It was a squat, two-story building, thatched and whitewashed, and had a ghostly hue in the darkness. Harl shied away from it at first. The Spear was normally a snug and friendly place, but the light from it made him shiver. Earl’s lifting was just too recent.
Laughter echoed from inside. How could they all sit around laughing like that? Didn’t they remember what had just happened? Earl’s screams seemed to haunt the streets and dog his steps. Was he the only one who still heard them? He stalked back the way he had come. When he reached the alley, he stopped and laid his brow against the cool stone building.
Troy was waiting for him in the Spear. Troy would understand.
He sighed and tried to stop the anger coursing through him. Perhaps getting drunk was the answer? He could blot out the world and fall into oblivion for a while. So many people had lost loved ones to the liftings and yet they all seemed to move on, but the scar of losing his parents ran too deep. It marked him as different. Walking among the others made him feel like a fake. Their smiles and laughter just clawed at his wound. He shook himself. Troy was in there, and it was the thought of his friendly face that finally got Harl moving.
He stepped through the open doorway into the Golden Spear, his senses overwhelmed in comparison to the emptiness outside. The chaos of cheerful voices, sights and smells was almost enough to force him back outside. A blazing fire pit stretched away from him along the centre of the long, busy room. The air smelled of the brews on offer and the sawdust covering the floor. A beer-stained bar nestled to Harl’s left, tucked into the corner where a balding barman passed trays of foam-topped mugs over to the pretty girls serving the bustling tables. Judging by the mass of people, the tavern was doing a roaring trade. Everyone chattered amiably to each other amid jeers and laughter.
Harl cast his gaze across the patrons. The crowd of dark-haired people made it difficult to pick anyone out, but he spotted Troy seated at his usual table in the centre of the room. His face was red with effort as his hand clasped the butcher’s meaty fist, their eyes locked in a battle of wills as they arm-wrestled. Harl had seen it all before. He had no idea why anyone still tried their luck against Troy. His skinny frame belied the strength gained from a lifetime of hard labour on the farm. No one ever beat him. The credits he won usually paid the bar tab he racked up during the process, and the barman would sometimes encourage him by gifting a free ale or two, knowing that the entertainment would keep his customers drinking and spending. And, of course, Troy revelled in the attention it got him with the ladies. It was a win-win situation.
Harl squeezed past a group of merchants boasting of the money to be made at the festival. They stepped aside with a nod, seeing a fellow shopkeeper among them. An old greybeard at a nearby table was regaling some young drunks with the legend of the three men, his voice hoarse and serious as he held them in thrall.
‘And when the three were placed in the world, they came from above, dropped inside by the hand of God,’ the old man said. ‘But within a cycle they were dead un’s. They struggled to breathe and couldn’t speak a word when the healers tried to help.’
Harl had heard the story so many times he knew it word for word, but the drunken men gasped and murmured to each other as the old man spoke, their tankards frozen halfway to their mouths..
‘Aye, it’s a long and worrisome tale, boys,’ the old man said, looking at his empty mug, ‘and it’s thirsty work in the telling. How about another drink to set me right?’
Leaving them, Harl approached the packed bar and beckoned the barman for a drink.
‘Good evening, young master,’ the rotund man said, stacking a dozen beers on one plate and balancing it all on a pudgy hand. ‘Looking forward to the gifting? I know I am. I’ve turned half my stock over to that blood-sucker Rufus, and it galls me, lad, galls me.’
Harl nodded. ‘I know t
he feeling. I just left some of my herd in his joyous company. But I’m expecting that and more in return.’
‘We can only hope so,’ the barman said, as though speaking from experience.
‘Do you doubt the fair division?’
The barman mopped his brow with a handkerchief and flicked his gaze to a group of priests in the far corner of the Spear. He lowered his voice even further and placed an open palm on his chest. ‘Not so much the division, lad. I just remember a long way back when the gifting was poor. Almost put me out of business it did.’ He slid a mug across the bar.
‘We shall see, I suppose,’ Harl said, placing a credit down and nodding farewell. He headed for the cheering crowd around Troy.
Troy had just finished arm-wrestling the butcher and, as the crowd moved away, Troy scooped up a handful of credits from the table before taking a celebratory swig of ale.
‘Hello again, my friend,’ Harl said. He placed his flagon on the stained wooden table and sat down. ‘Can’t you wait for the real drinking when the festivities start up?’
‘Ha!’ Troy said, ‘I’m just warming up. The drink will be flowing early this gifting, what with all the entertainments setting up this dark cycle. And I hear there’s to be juggling and fire breathing. Can’t say how much of the fire liquid is left, though, but the gifting should provide more.’
‘True,’ Harl said. ‘There’s plenty of liquid each time, but never enough containers to satisfy everyone. Remember last gifting when Jonfry swapped his cow for three empty cans? I hear Ilsa made a set of pans from them.’
‘I wondered why her soup tasted so bad,’ Troy said as he counted his winnings. He looked up and grinned. ‘But I sometimes think the god would prefer us to use it in a more productive way, say burning Rufus’ house to the ground. But I doubt I could get away with it, and if half of what he preaches about the god protecting the faithful is true, then I wouldn’t last long afterwards. Did you hear he actually asked for a sacrifice this gifting?’