by Donovan, Rob
He grinned and let his trousers fall to his ankles. He stopped as they made a thud on the floor and watched as a yellow stone rolled out of one of the pockets. Frendel frowned and bent to pick it up. The girl took advantage of his hesitation and ran screaming hysterically from the house.
Just like that, the urge left him again. He fell to his knees mortified that he had done it again after being so good for so long. He looked at the stone. At last I am being punished, he thought, I deserve it.
He was still kneeling studying the stone when the city guards came and arrested him.
* * *
Jensen found Brody sitting on the bridge located just outside Longcombe. He sat with his legs dangling over the ledge, chin resting on one of the support beams.
The river Mistdrop underneath him was the only source of water for the town and was the sole reason for it being founded where it was. Although not especially wide, the river was surprisingly deep. Even Jon Slow could not cross it without being submerged completely.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” Brody mumbled.
Jensen sat down and unconsciously duplicated Brody’s pose. They both sat like that for a while. Brody was plucking the seeds from a stalk of corn and dropping them into the water below. They fell languidly before floating out of sight under the wooden structure.
“I heard,” Jensen said finally.
“You heard,” Brody said.
“Blows to be you.”
“Nah, I still don’t have your bad looks,” Brody replied looking up and smiling weakly. It quickly disappeared though.
The two friends slipped once again into an easy silence and stared into the Mistdrop. After a while Jensen put an arm round his friend’s shoulder.
“You seen my father?” Brody asked. Jensen nodded.
“Him and your ma are over at ours now,” Jensen replied before adding, “They look a mess.”
It was Brody’s turn to nod.
“I couldn’t stand to see them looking like that. It is why I came out here. As soon as I saw my dad start to weep I just had to get out of the house, you know?”
“Yeah,” was all Jensen could think of to say.
He understood perfectly what Brody was talking about. Earlier his father had struggled desperately to hold back tears. It had really affected him. He had never seen his father cry before, or any other man for that matter. Except for Gorman, but that was acceptable as he had witnessed his own brother decapitated next to him on the battlefield.
Although he was growing up and in many ways could physically challenge his father, the sight of him openly displaying such emotions made him scared. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone, not even to Brenna. The way he saw it, his father showing such obvious weakness signalled that he was on his own. It made him realise that his father was not strong enough to protect him anymore and he would have to rely on himself.
Brody brushed his hands against one another, crushing the rest of the stalk and causing it to fall into the river. He stood up, flicking one of his long dark curls out of his eyes. He helped Jensen to his feet.
“Do you know who else received a stone?” Brody asked. Jensen chose his next words carefully.
“I haven’t heard of anyone else,” he replied, trying to answer as honestly as he could.
“Don’t suppose it matters much anyway. It does not change my situation. They are just a number like me.”
“It won’t be you, Brode.”
“Oh yeah?” Brody said amused. “And why is that?”
Jensen shrugged. He had no answer other than he didn’t want it to be him. It was so unfair, out of the whole of Frindoth, his best friend and his sister had each been selected as two of the twelve. Suddenly he remembered his father’s words. Despite being sceptical at them, he had felt a glimmer of hope all the same. He had a plan to protect Janna; maybe there was a way to save Brody too? He opened his mouth to tell Brody this, but stopped as he also remembered his father’s warning not to tell anyone.
Jensen felt an overwhelming feeling of dread as the overall consequences of what his father was proposing became clear. Before, when he thought of Frindoth suffering in order to save his sister, it seemed an even trade. Now, as the horror dawned on him that someone he loved would be killed as a result, the plan seemed stupid and selfish.
There is no way they could go through with it. He simply wouldn’t let it happen. His sister should face the Ritual like everyone else. Like all those before had done. He spun away from his friend and thumped his clenched fist against the bridge. The pain that shot up his arm did little to quell his anger.
He could no longer look his friend in the eye. How could his father put him in this position? He must have known from the way Mertyn and Tyra had slunk up to the house that one of them had found a stone, yet he still told him not to say anything of their plan.
“Hey, you would have thought that you were the one that got the stone not me. I don’t want you acting all weepy on me, I came here to get away from that,” he said.
Jensen composed himself. He would talk his father out of this folly later. If he didn’t agree with him and still proceeded with his mad scheme, then he would just expose him to the mayor.
“Hey, come on, snap out of it.”
“I’m not angry about that, I am just angry that my friend would stoop so low as to use the stone as a sympathy vote in trying to win Annie Marquee’s affections,” Jensen said.
“Hey, a guy has got to try. Do you think it will work?”
“Nah, with those looks you will need more help than that.”
This time they both laughed.
They were too busy laughing to notice the wagon that passed through the trees in the distance. Marybeth had returned.
Chapter 9
Rhact left his house in the dead of the night. He had once again been sleeping in the rocking chair beside Janna. Before he left, he kissed her. At least she was sleeping. All the other nights she had simply carried on staring straight ahead. These nights disturbed him as they reminded him of Jon Slow being possessed.
She lay spread-eagled, her chestnut hair all tangled, spilt over her face. Her mouth open slightly and a thin line of drool had seeped out. It left a damp patch on her pillow. Rhact smiled, he loved her so much. When parents thought of their children, they remembered the perfect images of them sleeping peacefully, curled up and looking cute, but Rhact loved the imperfect images of Janna and Jensen: at village balls, Janna’s muddy gown in contrast to all the other girls’ immaculate dresses, or Jensen’s insistence in wearing a rag around his neck when the conduct for boys his age was shirts. The memories brought a fresh pang of fear and sadness within him. How could he leave it to chance that she be spared?
The thought made him angry. He had no idea what the witch wanted from him, but he would not be weak. He would fight her if it came to it.
He crept out of the house without waking Kiana. His wife had made him promise to wake her before he left but once she had surprised him and fallen asleep, he knew he wasn’t going to. The village was bathed in the pale moonlight from just one of the moons, giving it a bluish glow. The streets were deserted at this hour. There were no lights on any of the houses he passed. Even so, he kept to the shadows of the blue moon light.
There was no such thing as a curfew imposed by Mayor Pinkleton (the town would object strongly to such a law), but people are both nosey and suspicious and given that any one person knew about three-quarters of the town’s population, people often thought it was their right to know everyone’s business.
The only sound he heard emanated from Andre Hollington’s bedroom window. A playful slap followed by a woman’s squeal and a giggle. Rhact found it brought a smile to his face despite himself. At least someone was finding a way to deal with the tension.
He did not have to travel far to reach the witch’s temporary abode. She had constructed a crude but effective shelter a short walk into the wood. A faint glow from the embers of a fire r
evealed where she was camped.
As soon as Rhact saw it, he stopped to study the area. He could not see the witch but assumed she lay within the sleeping quarters. It consisted of two wooden sticks stuck in the ground with a length of material tied to them and then to the base of a neighbouring tree. The whole shelter looked like a tent chopped in half.
He began to approach, but soon slowed. He was suddenly conscious that this was a witch he was dealing with. Whilst he didn’t particularly believe all the exaggerated stories about Marybeth, he had seen enough of her over the last few days to certainly be afraid of her. In the middle of the forest in the dead of the night, the stories suddenly seemed more believable.
The wood that only a few seconds ago had smelt fresh with pine, now smelt dank and musty. The campfire cast enough light to make out Marybeth’s camp. Scattered about were various objects that made him aware of who he was coming to see. There were numerous bottles that were filled with different coloured liquid, some were steaming and others glowed, illuminating the area in a myriad of eerie colours. There were also groups of sticks that had been tied together using twine, which no doubt represented something meaningful to the witch, but just looked like a child’s toy to Rhact.
As he crept towards the witch’s shelter, the fabric that hung from the tree obscured his view. He tried to stare through the cloth, willing his sight to bore through the shelter and determine whether or not the witch was lying in her makeshift bed. Unable to make anything out, he cautiously began to circle the shelter. He figured if he maintained a safe distance between himself and the shelter, he could weigh up the situation. He winced as a twig snapped under his boot. He paused, waiting to hear if he had been detected. The only sound came from the crickets. He went to continue but a raspy voice spoke out of the darkness that told him he was wrong.
“I know what you are planning. Are you sure you have thought about the consequences?”
Rhact jumped slightly and this angered him.
“I have to protect my family, crone,” he said as he searched around looking for the voice.
“Your pleasant greeting is touching.”
“Do you deserve such? You arrived delivering nothing but misery with your malicious prophesies.”
“It is my role, my curse. Without which, towns would suffer, I save millions of lives, if it wasn’t—”
“Spare the lecture. I want to know if my daughter is to be selected.”
“I am no fortune teller.”
“Yet you know I am planning to flee with my family.”
Rhact surprised himself with his directness. In truth he was petrified and was struggling to make his tone firm. He hoped Marybeth would not pick up on this, although she could probably smell his fear. Rhact still didn’t have any idea where she was, which made him more anxious. It wasn’t a dark night and he could clearly see all of her camp, yet there was no sign of her.
“Only the stones can decide her fate. Yet you are correct, I do possess a certain soothsaying ability.”
At this Marybeth paused, whether for dramatic effect or contemplating whether she wished to reveal more to him, he was unsure.
“If you flee, your family will endure terrible suffering, possibly death.”
“If my daughter is chosen my family will die inside anyway,” he said.
“Then know this also, you’ll never be free from the decision you make. You should know that the town will suffer devastation like it has never known. Scores upon scores of people will be killed. There will be only a handful of survivors. Can your love for your family outweigh the death of your friends and townsfolk?”
“That is for me to decide.”
As he said it, he clenched his fists. How dare this witch march into his town and deliver such news and proclaim to be moralistic.
“You enjoy this, don’t you? You get your kicks out of watching others suffer? You travel around from town to town and deliver hateful prophesies. You get to watch the despair your news inflicts on families, whilst all the time protesting your sanctimonious views and claiming to be providing a service,” Rhact said at last.
His anger made his tongue reckless; nevertheless, he was again surprised by the boldness he felt. He steeled himself, waiting for the backlash. Instead, Marybeth was silent. After a while, this angered him further.
“Can you not even admit it? Or do you only hide away in the shadows when you are confronted? You probably summon the Gloom yourself?”
At this there was a loud crack and a flash of purple light. Its brightness temporarily blinded him, forcing him to shield his eyes. He could see the witch crouched on a branch of a tree on the edge of camp. She held a short staff with a small glowing orb on the end.
Once again he was amazed at her beauty. She wore a brown cloak with the hood up which partially concealed her blonde hair. He could clearly make out her face, though, her smooth skin and voluptuous lips. She pulled these into a sneer.
“I know you don’t honestly believe that, peasant. But if you want me to prove what I am capable of, I would gladly escort your family to Lilyon and force you to watch as the Gloom devours your daughter’s ensnared body.”
He immediately went weak at the knees and forced down the rising bile in his throat. His anger dissipated as he looked into the crone’s fierce unblinking eyes. He held her gaze for a little while before lowering his head. He felt ashamed that his attempt at bravery had been so easily exposed.
What was he thinking? He was a humble man trying to raise a family; he was no warrior. His destiny was not to do battle with beings he did not understand. Or was it? By considering fleeing with his family, was he in fact choosing this path? Was he cut out for this? The answer came to him instantly. He would do anything to protect his family, all of his family. If that meant slaying demons, or taking on whole armies single-handedly, then so be it. He looked up and was surprised to see the witch was no longer there.
“Well?” he froze as he heard her whisper in his ear.
“That won’t be necessary,” he managed to say.
He could feel her body close to his and shivered. He was afraid he had overstepped the mark and bit back his remaining comments. There was a short pause, before she sighed.
“We have started off on the wrong foot. My intention is not to intimidate you.”
“What are your intentions then? Why did you summon me here? Why me?” He was going to call her a “crone” again but something in the way her voice had changed stopped him. She suddenly sounded weary.
“It is actually in my interests for your daughter to not attend the Ritual.”
Rhact felt his jaw fall. He had not expected her to say that. It went against everything he knew of the Order and what they stood for. He turned to face her but could see nothing in her expression to indicate she was bothered by his surprise.
“You are willing to encourage all of the death and destruction you just spoke of?”
“If I can, I will prevent it, but some casualties will be inevitable. Believe it or not, I do not like the Gloom and I intend to do something about it.” Rhact flinched as she grabbed his wrists. Her grip was stronger than he expected it would be. “I need two things from you and your family.”
Rhact nodded for her to go on.
“You are to not say a word about this to anyone. I will be watching and if I see even a hint that you are going to tell anyone, I will kill you.” She stared.
Rhact felt his stomach churn; he had no doubt she would carry out her threat. “And the second,” he managed to whisper.
The witch circled him until she was facing him. She moved towards him so her face was only inches from his. Her breath was sweet. Again not what you would expect from the stories of witches he was told about in the taverns. He reflected that this was more terrifying than if her breath was foul.
“Keep your daughter alive.”
At that she turned and sat down by the fire, her gaze fixed on the flames. After a moment it became clear to Rhact that his audience with
the witch was over. He turned and began to walk back to the town. After a few steps, he paused and asked the witch over his shoulder, “I don’t get it, won’t the Order find out?”
There was long pause and Rhact began to think she had drifted off to sleep before her soft voice said, “I hope not, otherwise we will wish the Gloom had killed us.”
It was not the comforting answer he was hoping for.
“I would hurry back if I were you, your daughter is about to wake up from her trance,” she said.
Rhact did not hesitate and sprinted back to his home.
* * *
Jensen lay in Ned Thornton’s barn with Brenna’s head nestled on his chest. She had one arm draped loosely around his stomach and her legs entwined with his. With the hay digging in his back, Jensen could honestly say he was not feeling the most comfortable he had ever felt. Still, he did not care, as he listened to Brenna’s soft breathing.
They had positioned themselves so they could see through the shutter to the night sky, the blue moon and millions of stars. There was a nervous tension between them, as a level of expectancy hung in the air. Jensen didn’t like the feeling. He was used to everything being so easy with her.
He had never been with a girl before. Sure, he had fumbled around with plenty, but he had always told himself despite how many of his friends boasted about it, he was going to wait until it had some semblance of meaning. This went completely against most of the attitudes of the men he had ever met, who saw it as their right to copulate when they wanted to as a husband, or seek out the fleeting pleasure of being with a whore. Those attitudes were fine, but Jensen figured that when he did spill his seed, it would be with someone who meant something to him. He believed Brenna was that person.
The two of them had been secretly seeing each other since the start of the summer. Until then, Jensen had regarded her as nothing more than Brody’s little sister, sometimes annoying, but mostly all right as far as sisters go. She had a mischievousness about her that Jensen recognised in himself. Whereas Janna and Brody were always the ones that hesitated when he came up with any plans that might prove unlawful, Brenna would always back him up.