Into the Raging Mountains

by Caroline Gill

  Just looked at her. And looked. And looked.

  And then he slept.

  Chapter Twenty

  Gardener’s Journal

  Scratch, scratch, scratch. Glide and scratch went the sound of the pen across the thick paper. It was the sound of luxury, the strike of quill against paper grain. The nib was full of ink, writing quickly as the color flowed effortlessly out. Then, as it began to lessen in its deliverance, the intensity of the marks that scrawled across the scroll faded slightly. Dipping into the well again, its fullness was restored.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch, the sound continued.

  Long into that nightfall's embrace, he wrote. The message would be delivered. The knowledge would pass on into recorded history, all of it; the plan, the deceit, the capture, and the sacrifice would immortalize him forever amongst the Devoted. The scholarly gray priest would perch with the truly great Falcons, a true and noble Servant Who Simply Did What He Was Asked.

  The entire event was carefully planned and enforced. Finally, the prize had been retrieved and bound. All that was left was the Rite of Flying and then the Drinking.

  The effortless Way of Nothing would be established and spread in its unifying influence amongst all the inhabitants of the whole land. No more wars, no more fights, no more bickering, no more arguments, no more hatred, all of it would be no more! The beauty of the Gray Way was mesmerizing and compelling. And, to think that he would be one of the leaders to finally accomplish the true goal, his heart leapt in glee and hunger. Anticipation whetted his insatiable appetite, the one thing original to him that was not consumed by his vows and his orders.

  The moments that held the mixing of dark and light were established as the designated time for true action. It was clear to him that the approaching twilight was the coming moment for the perfect ritual. He rose, pacing. Within his silken tent, he walked in deep thought, searching for any detail that he might have overlooked, anything crucial to the planned event that might be askew, but no specific part came to mind.

  Sure of his victory, but not entirely certain of his hired men, he pondered as his age spotted hands wandered through his sparse hair. He shook off the growing feeling of any upcoming uncertainty by gathering his robes and striding out of the silvered, silken walls. I will be secure! This was a beautiful triumph and nothing would spoil the victory he held in his grasp. His moment would come, come soon, and come gloriously.

  *

  Another hand, another pen moved across different paper.

  Smoothly gliding across the waxed slickness, the village's apothecary wrote out the instructions. “It's really quite simple,” he said. “One dose three times a day, right after meals. If he still has no appetite, then a glass of water and the dose. I am certain this will put him right.”

  Looking down at his hands for a moment, Kand said softly, “It is regrettable, this whole business. Surely his little friends are well too? We will find them soon, I am sure,” he said. “Has he spoken yet?” Seeing his words caused pain in the eyes of Ranada, the shopkeeper's comments trailed off. With a shrug of his shoulders and a light pat on the arm, he left the house of the Returned Boy.

  Every nearby face watched him leave. As he headed back to his shop, appropriately named The Wilted Leaf, several different women approached him asking after the welfare of the poor child. Tsking their support throughout his retelling of the visit, they walked with him in a clinging fashion.

  Never before had he felt so popular with the ladies, though swarmed would be another word for it. Politely, he removed two fawning hands from his elbow and forearm and bowed once to all assembled. Having done all he could for the stricken family and somewhat overwhelmed by the hen pecking of the clustered women, Kand decided to get back to his work. Nodding curtly, the harried man stepped inside his shop and began to mix new potions and unguents.

  After a while, the group of concerned and talkative women noticed he offered no more new information and that he had disappeared from their midst. That was alright with them as they were happy to supply extra tidbits and slight distortions all on their own. The squawking and peeping continued, droning on and on. “What can we do? What should we do? How many more will be lost? What to do, what to do?” It was a conversation of social station and concern that ran in circles and went nowhere at all.

  He closed his ears to the cacophony outside. The tired man thought, What good can a bunch of gossiping, peckish ninnies accomplish anyway?

  *

  “Are we all gathered?” whispered from within the darkened cloak.

  “We are gathered,” the other cloaked ones answered.

  “Are we all one?” the ritual was spoken.

  “We are one.”

  “What brings us to Council?” the form continued.

  “Council is brought for the Good of the World, for the Light of the Sun and the cool Respite of the Darkness.”

  “What do we do?” asked one sonorously.

  “It is time to act. The theft must be avenged. There cannot be such greed amongst us. It will not be countenanced,” said another.

  “Who will lead us?” came the required words.

  “The mother will lead. After that, the sisters, the aunts, the grandmothers, and the mothers of marriage. The price will be paid, and the offering bought. The thief will be bound and the child returned. Her time is not yet come. That moment is not yet upon us. Pray it does not come in your lifetimes! Let her grow old within our walls, safe and innocent, protected and naïve.”

  Silence. Dark and velvet in its softness, clinging to the skin, sinking in with peace.

  “The Council has spoken. It is agreed?”

  “It is agreed.”

  “Then, we disperse.”

  The cloaked ones stepped away into the black and vanished, until none were left. The last words hung in the nightfall, almost a shimmering chime in the very air:

  “As One we go. As One.”

  *

  He ran. And ran. Cethel ran and could not escape.

  It never seemed to end. Whatever was chasing him, whatever monster panted so loudly in his ears, the stench of its breath curling his nose hairs and bringing his skin to hardened little bumps, that thing of nightmare seemed always on the verge of capturing him. So he ran, as if running away ever truly solved anything. Keeping ahead of the darkness that pursued him, that was the all consuming thought of his mind's eye: running, always running.

  When his eyes peeked open, squinting even against the curtained light of his room, the glare was almost too much. Almost instantly the rush of an oncoming headache would overwhelm him. Tears came unbidden, sobs hiccuping up into his mouth, generated from his very lungs. Curling into the safety of his blankets, the boy's mind receded into gibberish.

  He lay as still as he could. In that silence of shadow and quiet, his heart beat so loudly, pushing his cycling blood through his unwilling veins and body. The sound of its continuous labor was overwhelming in its demands, its judgment, its hammering.

  He felt starkly alone, so alone. It seemed clear to him that he was the Darkness. The destruction was inside of him. He was the wrong amidst all peace! He had done the unthinkable and there was no return for him. No way to ever come home again.

  Half-opened eyes occasionally saw glimpses of dim shadows that came to his side and fed him, gave him drink, bathed Cethel's head. The scuff of boots on the worn wooden planks was like thunder to his ears. Any sound at all increased the fierceness of the reverberating head pain to almost unbearable levels. His only escape was by climbing back into the forgetfulness of sleep. But in his turning and tossing dreams the clawed and fanged hunter-beast continued to pursue him unceasingly.

  Even the normally calming pattern of repetition and care were for him signs scattered along the descending path of destruction. The illness inside of him curdled and grew in power and strength until Cethel vomited the bile up and out of his mouth and nose. Gagging, unable to breathe for a few precious moments he could only pray for the true En
d to come. But with the faithfulness of an eager dog, his lungs and throat worked against him to clear the obstruction and to force him to inhale the next needed breath.

  Still, those were the moments he was grateful; the stench of the vomit cut through the ongoing nightmares, the self-hatred, and the consuming guilt. For just a moment of clarity, Cethel's spinning mind was occupied with the singularly repulsive, acidic smell of returned, half-consumed food. The wet feeling of it lay on his cheeks, coating his chest and his bedding. It was the only sensation of cleanliness he was capable of finding, luxuriating in, and clinging desperately onto.

  Exhaustion filled his core to the brink and beyond. Fear and tiredness, confusion and hatred, doubt and guilt all sat as black imps on his laboring chest. Words came out of him in rambling tirades, bursting with anger, pleading for mercy, begging to be listened to. No one answers. No one understands.

  The wrongness of his actions weighed so heavily that the boy could only wait for his punishment, certain it would come. He deserved whatever path the Gods decreed. He knew he would never truly be home again.

  *

  Up the stone-strewn pathway, she walked. Her strides were measured. Her back leg pushed with more force as she smoothly ascended. Almost without thought her body worked her will. Arriving at the small wooden doorway, her knuckles rapped curtly.

  A worried face peeked through the side of the dooropening, seeking the identity of the visitor. “Ah, Sansha. You have come.”

  “Yes. It is time.”

  “He suffers so. Is this related to her vanishing? Do you have any idea where he went or what caused this?”

  “Ranada, you know these things work themselves out. Something happened to your boy. Exactly what is unclear to even the most learned of us. All the same, this is for him.” She handed the weary mother a small packet of herbs which had a peculiar fragrance.

  “This must be slowburnt in his room, preferably at the edge of his bed. We can only hope this will drive away the Darkness that has a grasping connection to your poor son's life. Once clear of it, we may be able to finally ask him what he saw, what he knows. Perhaps it will help us. It is our only hope that he can shed light on the captors of our children and our friends. Pray near him, where he can hear your words. Pray that this breaks the foulness.”

  *

  He sweated, cried, puked, and slept. There was no relief. In the depth of his mind's misery Cethel made a house and there he dwelt. He was surrounded by the enormity of his deed, full of regret, and scared witless.

  His mother had taken to making him a calming tea which took a small bit of the edge off of her son's shouts and stutters, but did not ease him completely. At least he did sleep a little. So often the whole house was awoken by their son's strange ramblings, incoherent in their urgency. It was as if he desperately needed to tell them something, and yet had forgotten his native language.

  In the depths of his tormented misery he heard her enter, a shadow on the edges of the room. Coming close to his side, she whispered, “Cethel, Cethel, my son! My son. Do you hear me, son? Do you hear me?”

  He did not respond, although some part of his attention was caught by the drone of her soft voice, by its familiarity. After a while, he heard her tears falling, sniffles in the semi-darkened room. With a swiftness of sound, his ears detected a striking hiss as fire caught on the first bit of dried herb. The crackle of ignition, flames, and smoke wended into his senses, drawing him out of his fortress of contempt. It also made him remember other hisses that petrified him, driving out all courage. But this was a warming smoke, a gentle smell. Spicy and smoky, sweet and strong, it tickled his nostrils and drew him into its surrounding embrace.

  *

  For a good long while their son just breathed in the fumes. Ranada could see that his mind that ran and ran on an empty road to nowhere, slowed to a walk and then stood still. With a deep sigh, some great trouble left him. He slept deeply for the first time since he had returned.

  Finally, Ranada caught her breath. Peace was a long time coming. Praise to Bira! His mother sat at his bedpost, running her fingers through his hair and cried.

  Ranada's tears were filled with relief and hope. She took both of his limp hands in her own and began to rock slightly, singing his lullaby, praying he would emerge from the grip of whatever foulness held him trapped.

  *

  Rest was deep; rest was kind. Oblivion gave him a chance to think, to gather, to reflect. He liked this feeling. Digging down deep in his soul, he found respite within himself. And he relished it. Safe. I feel safe. Finally, I can rest. Finally, I have no fear.

  Like the plunk of a stone at the surface of a well, the peacefulness took him into itself and pulled him down. No monster could find him. No trouble pushed and pulled at the edges of his sanity. He could just be, and be content. It was enough.

  Slowly, so slowly, he relaxed. His mind's troubles faded and were still. A heavy perfume filtered into the troubled boy's subconscious and he rested, calm.

  So calming was the smell that filled his lungs and nose, so persuasive in its wending, winding call to relaxation, that Cethel did not even notice the far, far away star. At first just a pinpoint of light, coolness that agreed with his well-earned, well-deserved respite from dread and destruction, blueness emanated from that dreaming glimmer. He was not alarmed that the flame of that star spread, covering the blank canvas of his mind. When the pulsing, swirling brightness coalesced into a form, which solidified and called him by name, he did not even flinch.

  “Cethel. I name you! Cethel, you are called!”

  The boy could only nod. He knew there had to be a repayment for the life he had taken.

  “You are called by your guilt and by my need, to save my child. My daughter needs redemption and you have taken away her only hope.”

  He knew this simple truth all too well.

  “There is a pathway that still leads to her rescue, although even now I am not certain of the outcome. There is too much you don't know, too much I cannot teach you. What is required is all I can give you. You must find your own path within these words: Child must sleep, child must rise. Child will weep. Fear her surprise. The way is dull and the path is sharp. Her heart is full. All hope is dark.

  “Can you remember that? Can you?” she asked him somberly.

  He nodded. Can it be? “Is there really a way for me? Is there something I can do that will show that I am truly, very, very sorry?”

  Her face did not change. Forgiveness apparently had to be earned, not just spoken.

  “You must know that there must be something or someone to help me because I am not enough against those Dirtmen. Can you give me any guide, any help?”

  It seemed like she gazed at him for cycles. Finally, she said, “Look to the ashes. Look to the death of fire. Take that gift into the forest. My daughter's friends will find you. Do not return here if you cannot save her. I will come to you as I can.

  His heart finally beat with a purpose! He had found something to latch onto, some way out of the fortress of blackness that had been built up around him. The geas was actually a relief. Redemption from murder would only be answered with his own sacrifice; Cethel knew that.

  Tatanya's parting words commanded him, “Go when you awaken, and do not return without her.”

  He could only nod. Then the spirit was gone, the silver and black dagger still embedded in her heart.

  *

  Cethel awoke with a start.

  His mother lay sleeping next to him on the floor. The tracks of her tears were still visible in the light of the late-day sun. His mind raced from the moment his eyes opened. He felt as if he had been on a long journey and fought in countless battles, as if he had aged ten cycles since he left the encampment. For a few precious moments he watched her sleeping, feeling a sense of hope burning in his heart for the first time.

  From the wear on his mother's face and the bits of gray that scattered in her hair, he knew he had been gone some time. That did not alarm
him. As he stretched the length of his body, his hand and arm dangled over the edge of the roped bed. His feet pushed easily beyond the end support. As his toes felt the emptiness of the cool air, he felt as if he lived in the body of his father, a stranger in his own flesh.

  Yet, he felt completely present in the moment. The first thought that emerged to be dwelt upon was this: The village must be warned! It was important that he find someone fast, someone who would be believed and would listen to him. Cethel sat up first, pushing off the bed with one shoulder, securing his other arm beneath him. A flash of dizziness passed over him and then was gone. Bending his legs, he moved off of the bed, carefully placing his feet on the worn wooden floor.

  Leaning down, the youth touched his mother's shoulder. “Mother? Mother?” He spoke softly, his voice raspy. “Mother? Are you awake?”

  She shifted slightly in her sleep.

  “Mother?”

  A stillness came to Ranada's face, as if she were afraid to breathe. One eye opened slightly, searching in the soft light that shone from beyond the curtain. Her head turned. Both eyes opened wide.

  “Cethel? Cethel? Cethel!” Her hands flew to his, and then traveled onward in a rush, touching his shoulders, his face, his smile. “Cethel? Is it you? Truly you?” She looked back at the bed and saw the truth.

  With his help, she stood and wondered. He could see with new eyes that she wanted only to stay in the moment when her boy returned to her, finally returned.

  “Mother? You know I have to go? You know I have to do this?”

  *

  She hugged him, not speaking.

  Her son asked her again. Heart breaking, Ranada nodded her understanding into his neck. She couldn't look at him, couldn't let him go. I can’t keep him here. Her hands grabbed his hair on both sides of his head, a fierce cradling. Looking up into his determined face, she saw what she was looking for.

  “I know,” she said. “I know.”