Red Death

by Jeff Altabef

  She followed a bend in the path, and abruptly stopped.

  A red witch stood in front of a small campfire, holding a torch and a spear much like her own.

  Tears sprang to P’mina’s eyes. “Mother!” She ran and jumped into the open arms that welcomed her.

  Strong arms wrapped around her as she buried her head into the witch’s chest. “I knew I would find you,” she sputtered.

  The witch whistled, and the firefoxes stopped snarling and snapping their jaws.

  P’mina separated from the witch.

  Affectionate brown eyes specked with red peeked through a hood from a scarlet robe. “Come on, sweetie, let’s get you inside.”

  P’mina noticed the old, partially ruined, stone and wood cabin behind the witch. It had a sturdy door, but the mostly grass thatch roof did not quite cover the entire building.

  “I can’t believe you found me.” Honey and warmth dripped from the witch’s voice. The firefoxes stayed outside as the woman closed the door behind them. A small fire blazed in the fireplace and a kettle hung from a black metal bar. “You must be starving. I’ve made some stew.”

  The smell of meat and vegetables caused P’mina’s stomach to flip happily. She hadn’t eaten anything but a small snack of nuts and berries at midday. A wide smile spread across her face. She had found her mother. The world was right and true and good.

  Her mother pointed to a simple wooden table with two benches. “Please, darling, take a seat while your mother gets you a bowl.”

  P’mina happily sat on the bench as her mother left to tend to the kettle. Stress, worry, and years of anguish all melted off her at once, and she immediately decided she liked the small room. The fireplace looked wide and inviting, and the straw spread across the floor added warmth and a sense of hominess to the place. She couldn’t spot any decorations, but she noticed, with some satisfaction, a number of dried plants in different wooden bins at the far side of the room.

  “I know all about plants, just like you,” she said.

  Her mother returned with two full wooden bowls, one in each hand, and carefully placed the bowls on the table, one in front of P’mina. She spoke in a high-pitched, sweet tone. “Eat. It will make you feel better. Then we can talk all about plants and whatnot.”

  P’mina obediently picked up the wooden spoon and dove into the stew. It tasted even better than it smelled.

  Her mother smiled and pulled back her hood.

  P’mina involuntarily sucked in her breath at the sight of the lush, blood-red hair that cascaded around her face. She had never seen anyone with red hair before.

  “I said for you to eat your stew, sweetie.” Her mother’s voice had turned noticeably cooler.

  P’mina scooped another spoonful of stew into her mouth, not wanting to anger her newfound mother. She was indeed beautiful, more beautiful than P’mina had imagined, with a fair complexion, oval face, and bright red lips.

  “Have you lived here the entire time since you left the tribe?”

  Her mother smiled. “Not the entire time, but mostly.”

  When P’mina ate another spoonful of stew, her mother’s smile deepened.

  P’mina pointed to a banner above the fireplace. “That’s a pretty red bird, Mother.”

  “That’s my banner, the Red Raven.” Her mother unclasped her robe and let it fall away from her shoulders and onto the back of the bench.

  Something struck P’mina as odd, but it took her a moment to realize what seemed amiss. “Where’s your tree and all your art?”

  No tattoos graced her mother’s neck and arms.

  “They vanished when the red eyes and hair came.”

  A lifetime of achievements had been wiped away in one night. P’mina frowned. It didn’t seem fair. “No one told me about that, but I guess we can get Kalhona to give you new ones. She’s the best Artist in the tribe.” A warm, sleepy feeling started to settle into her body.

  “Sure, we can get Kapohona to do it, if you like.”

  P’mina’s heart jumped and her eyes widened as the firelight danced wickedly in her moth— No, in the red witch’s face. The room suddenly turned hot and filled with sharp shadows and malice. She fought hard to keep awake. “Who are you? You’re not my mother.”

  The witch pulled the bowl of stew away from P’mina. “No, sweet child, I’m not your mother. My name is Santra, and I know someone who will pay plenty for a pretty little Painted One.”

  P’mina eyed her spear, which she’d left near the door, next to the witch’s spear.

  She realized now that the two spears were not alike at all. The witch’s spear was longer, made of dark wood, and a spike protruded from it a third of the way up. It looked well used—stained brown and red, like a mix of old and new blood.

  She struggled to keep her eyes open, but blackness circled in on her....

  ***

  Click Here to View the CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Chapter 20 – Piers

  Piers walked stiffly down the long hallway toward his siblings’ dwelling, a grimace fixed on his face. He searched for room 833 in the almost pitch black hallway and held his arm still as he went. When his robe rubbed against the new burn, he saw stars. The medical Priest had put a numbing salve on it, which had helped for a short time, but the effects had mostly worn off now. A part of him welcomed the pain, knowing Aaliss and Wilky must be facing far worse than a burned arm. He should be with them, protecting them, but instead he was stuck in the comforts of the Compound with a burned arm and a shattered heart.

  Only trace amounts of moonlight filtered through the windows on the ends of the long corridor. Although he could barely see in the darkness, he kept his flashlight switched off. He had no need for it during this part of his nocturnal sortie. He knew the way by heart and had no trouble navigating the long dark hallway.

  He’d snuck out of the Parsonage after all the other novices had fallen asleep—well, all but one. He thought Zeke might have seen him leave, but he was a solid enough guy, almost a friend, so Piers thought he would keep his mouth shut. Still, it didn’t matter.

  What choice do I have?

  He recalled the events of the prior day as he hobbled down the hallway.

  ***

  At sunrise, two Monks retrieved him before the other novices woke.

  Piers feared another encounter with the Viper, but instead, he faced the High Priest sitting alone behind the Desk of Jacob.

  A pleasant smile played on the obese Priest’s face, and he greeted Piers as if they hadn’t been together under such different circumstances only a few hours earlier.

  The High Priest’s eyes beamed warmly, but his voice sounded cold. “Last night was necessary, Piers. I know you might not understand that now, but in time you will. Jacob wanted me to test you, so I could be certain as to your loyalty.” He leaned forward. “I had no choice but to follow His wishes. I suspect Jacob has big plans for you. I have big plans, too, but first we must get through today. You will sit beside me for this morning’s prayers while I explain your siblings’ treachery. It is important that the Community understands the treason stopped with your brother and sister. I know you are innocent of any dark deeds. Now the Community will also know you are pious when I place my hand on your shoulder. It is the best way for me to communicate my faith in you to them. Do you understand?”

  “You want me to stay silent as you condemn my brother and sister as traitors.”

  The High Priest clasped his hands in front of him. “That’s exactly what I want, and exactly what you shall do. I knew there would be no problem. After all, the evidence is unquestionable, and I know you had nothing to do with their crimes, right?”

  The last few words hung in the air like an invisible dagger, which the High Priest could sink into Piers’s neck at any moment.

  He nodded his head numbly, unable to speak.

  “Good, Piers. Good. I know you are loyal. See yourself out. I need to pray before the morning sermon and hear what Jacob wishes of me.”
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br />   Just like that, the meeting ended.

  Later that morning, prayers started off routinely, but the High Priest cut them short. When he reached the conclusion, he forced a grave tone into his voice as he informed the Community about Aaliss and Wilky and their traitorous ways.

  He rambled on for half an hour and hit all the important points: the Dark One convinced them to join the Soulless for personal vice; the Red Death had contaminated them; they had become enemies of everything good and holy; anyone caught helping them would be treated as harshly as the traitors themselves; the evidence against them was undeniable.

  He broadcasted the sermon to every breakfast hall; nowhere within Eden would be safe for them now.

  Piers sat next to the High Priest, silently enduring the man’s hand on his right shoulder as his fingers dug into his flesh. It took all his willpower not to vomit.

  His uncle, the President, sat on the other side of the High Priest and nodded as the High Priest condemned his niece and nephew.

  The High Priest said they would be captured if possible, but he had authorized lethal force to subdue them, if necessary. With the Dark One involved, he could take no chances. Jacob would decide their fate. It was in His hands now.

  Piers’s stomach twisted into knots. With each hateful word, the knots tightened. He knew the charges against his siblings were false. They had to be false. They would never make a deal with the Dark One. They had to be innocent. Yet he still couldn’t fathom how the High Priest could have made this mistake.

  The High Priest was supposed to be infalliable. It was the Edenites’ most sacred rule—the High Priest speaks with Jacob’s voice in all matters. Jacob spoke directly to the High Priest, guided him in all things, and the High Priest in return ruled over the Community. His word was beyond reproach, but how could that be true when he proclaimed Aaliss and Wilky traitors?

  Piers wanted to stand and shout his defiance, proclaim their innocence to the entire Community, call out that the High Priest was somehow mistaken, that it was all a grave misunderstanding. But he had no proof. Without proof he feared he would sound crazy or, worse yet, under the influence of the Dark One. No, he had to find a better way. First, he had to discover what really happened and find proof of their innocence. He was the oldest. This responsibility fell on him.

  He would not fail.

  ***

  He felt tired, as if all the light from his soul had been sucked away, and what had been bright and true and good had become gray and dark and foul.

  When he reached apartment 833, he removed a key from his pocket and checked both sides of the hallway to make sure no one lurked in the shadows. The Monks had taped a big red capital letter J to the door, indicating that a crime had been committed and no one could enter.

  He ignored the tape, unlocked the door, scooted inside, and closed it behind him.

  Safely inside, he steadied his nerves, switched on the flashlight, and swung it in a wide looping arc.

  The chaos and mess startled him. The Book of Jacob made it clear that dirtiness and clutter were grievous sins to be punished severely. Monks sometimes investigated different apartments on suspicion of untidiness.

  Rumors swirled that they had other motives for the searches, dark motives, but Piers had always dismissed the rumors. The High Priest’s actions were supposed to be pure and above suspicion, and therefore, the Monks who reported to him could be nothing less.

  Now, as he surveryed the room, he suspected otherwise.

  The Monks had upended furniture and books and smashed picture frames on the floor. The place looked as if a twister had ripped through it, everything tossed about except the dual portraits of Jacob and the High Priest. Every dwelling had both pictures, and now they looked oddly out of place, perfectly straight and centered on the living room wall—serene in the midst of chaos.

  The simple dwelling consisted of a living room, two bedrooms, and one bathroom. Before Piers moved to the Parsonage he had shared one of the bedrooms with Wilky. Everything in their room had to be maintained in a certain order. If he switched one book with another or replaced one crookedly, his brother would melt down until Piers restored it. Some nights it took hours to determine what was wrong.

  Now, he’d do anything to get those nights back.

  He navigated carefully around the debris as he moved to Aaliss’s bedroom, and hesitated at the doorframe, recalling how territorial she was over her space. She hated when others entered her room without permission, so he paused out of habit and remembered the night she had decided to become a Guardian. Stunned, he’d tried to argue with her, urging her to go into politics or buildings or anything safer, but she was resolute.

  Once she made up her mind, no one could persuade her differently.

  He’d grudgingly accepted the decision. Every night since, he’d prayed to the Creator to keep her safe.

  Piers had made a pact with Aaliss the night before her first patrol in the Zone, and they created a secret hiding place where she left her final words. They laughed about it at the time, but he knew she was serious and the small precaution made her feel better. In truth, it made him feel better, too. If anything happened to her, he would find her final words and hear the farewell she would have told him in person.

  He shoved the metal bedframe a few inches toward the windows, wincing as it scraped against the wooden floor, and found the loose board three slots in from the bedpost. He tapped it with the end of the flashlight and breathed a sigh of relief.

  The Monks had missed it.

  He used a paring knife to easily pry up the wooden board. When he flashed the light into the hollow space left behind, he found two neatly folded pieces of paper.

  The first had Piers written on top in Aaliss’s script. He opened it with a shaky hand.

  Dear Piers:

  I guess you were right. The Zone was too dangerous for me! I don’t regret my decision. Stubborn until the end I guess. I owe my courage to you. You’re the strongest person I know. No one cares about the scars as much as you do. Don’t let them limit you! Be the person I know you are.

  You’re going to have to take care of our Wilky. He has gotten much more independent over the years, but he can’t go it alone. Always make sure he has smooth soap. I know he’s in good, strong hands with you.

  I’ll see you in the next life.

  Love Always,

  Aaliss

  He exhaled. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath while he read the note. He folded it slowly and neatly before looking at the second one.

  Wilky had addressed it to him in precise block letters. Surprised that Wilky knew about the hiding spot, Piers cautiously unfolded the note, his hands no less shaky than before.

  Piers:

  Username: Piers

  Password: David

  Love,

  Wilky

  Piers pondered Wilky’s note for a long moment. David had been their father’s name. The note had to be a clue, a breadcrumb to follow so he could learn the truth.

  He pocketed both messages in his robe, and spotted a photograph of Aaliss and Wilky on the floor that made him grin. Aaliss smiled grimly for the camera while Wilky had a blank expression on his face. She kept an inch of space between them.

  He laughed—Wilky hated to be touched—but the laughter turned to anger and he slammed his hand against the wall.

  I’m the oldest! I should have protected them.

  Just then, the door to the dwelling opened. He heard whispers and the sound of glass breaking under foot.

  He was trapped.

  On a whim, he removed Wilky’s note, ripped it into shreds and tossed it across the room. The small pieces fluttered in the air, and blended in with the rest of the chaos. He retrieved his paring knife in one hand and held the sturdy flashlight in the other.

  The crunching sounds became louder as the footsteps grew nearer.

  He frowned at his inadequate weapons. Jacob would have to guide him.

  Summoning up his courage,
he stood taller and lurched out of the doorway, switching on the flashlight at the last second in an effort to blind the intruder.

  Two figures darted forward, and a large, strong hand grabbed his wrist, twisted it behind his back, and slammed him against the wall, face first with a crunch.

  Piers dropped the flashlight.

  “Drop the knife, Priest, or I’ll break your wrist.”

  A trickle of warm blood flowed from Piers’s nose. He let the knife fall and heard it clatter against the floor.

  The Monk spun him around and stood close, his beady black eyes glimmering dangerously. “What are you doing so far from your quarters, Priest? I guess you didn’t notice the J on the door.”

  A second Monk stood behind him. She had red hair and a face full of freckles, which did nothing to lessen her hard edge. She stood a head taller than Piers and looked to be in her late twenties.

  “So what are you looking for?” she asked.

  “I-I ju-just wanted a photograph of my brother and sister. A keepsake. I’ve got it in my pocket.” Piers smiled, trying his best to look contrite, hoping the Monks would let him go. As a Priest he usually enjoyed some privileges, although he suspected those days were gone forever.

  The male Monk shoved him into the bedroom and swept his flashlight across the room. “I hate traitors. You know what I would do if I got my hand on those traitors, Sarah? I’d burn them good and crispy.”

  Sarah chuckled. “Not bad, Mark, but a fire would be too good for traitors. They’d die too quickly. I’d bleed them and leave them in the pigpen. Let the pigs have fun with them. It would take all night, and it wouldn’t be pretty. They’d happily go to hell and join the Dark One to get away from the pigs.”

  Mark poked Piers hard in the chest. “I hope you get the idea, Priest. Now what did you find? You wouldn’t want us to think you were a traitor.”

  “Really, I was just looking for a keepsake.” Piers glanced from one hard face to the other.

  The beam from Sarah’s flashlight stuck on the loose floorboard.

  Piers had forgotten to replace it when he heard the door open. What a fool!