The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  As she considered the peaking tops of the temple, Lillian wondered if the priestesses could provide her with the answers she sought. Determined to find out, Lillian decided to follow the cobbled road that led to the sanctuary.

  The road continued for a few hundred more feet before rounding the furthest edge of town. On the far side of the path was a barren plateau, where once lush green grasses grew amongst a sea of violet, red and white field flowers. Lillian paused for a moment, looking out over the field where once she chased Jakob. Now it was a land of cracked earth, where only brittle golden weeds remained. Blackbirds and sparrows once sung their song in the field, but now the incessant drone of crickets and cicadas filled the air.

  The emptiness of the plains reminded her of death as she withdrew a small, silk kerchief. She dabbed the build up of sweat from her brow, wondering how much longer the damnable heat would last. Lillian returned the small piece of fabric up her sleeve before continuing on her way, putting the desolation behind her.

  Soon, the rising path leveled out as Lillian reached the summit of the hill. Large steps of limestone greeted Lillian as she rounded a final, short bend at the top of the rise. The stair led to a field of solid concrete, littered with raised gardens, recessed pools and statues of famous religious heroes. Beyond the paved gardens stood the wooden, tri-towered temple of Del Morte.

  Carved over its walls were wonderful frescos of the high lord administering to his people, smiting beasts of ill repute and weeping for his lost children. Large windows of stained glass effigies broke the monotony of the high reaching roof, whose shingles were of the same colouring as the rest of the building. Directly across from Lillian was a wide yawning entryway, flanked by two silent sisters.

  Lillian took her first, almost hesitant, step towards to the looming building.

  Despite being early in the morning, the paved gardens radiated with a stifling heat. It took all the strength in her to push onward, feeling as though the very eyes of Del Morte searched her soul, judging and condemning her sins with every step. By the time Lillian made the trek across the gardens, a new sweat had formed and dripped from her nose. Before entering the temple, Lillian removed her kerchief and, again, wiped the unwanted moisture from her face.

  Returning the small article to its secret confines, Lillian strode past the two wardens of the door, whose veiled eyes followed her every step.

  Upon entering the building, she was greeted by a wall of heavy burning incense thick with spice, vanilla and a lingering aroma Lillian knew but could not quiet place. With small, almost frightened steps, Lillian entered the main worship hall.

  The room was large, bereft of furniture. A cacophony of splendid colour filtered over the sanctuary from the stained windows above. Veiled priestesses of Del Morte lined the perimeter of the hall, always watching those who entered their hallowed space. From beyond a hidden cistern, a humble woman approached with an eager step. She wore a similar veil as the surrounding sisters, but where theirs hung pure and white, her’s was rich and red.

  “Del Morte blesses you madam,” her voice was soft, distant almost. “What brings you to his Lord’s High Hall?”

  “I…” Lillian paused, unsure how to answer. “I don’t know.”

  The woman’s head bobbed, as if in understanding.

  “The Lord knows, even when we do not.” She reached for Lillian’s hand. “Come, walk with me madam.”

  The priestess guided Lillian back the way she had come, leaving the sanctuary behind.

  “You may not come to his Lordship’s hall for prayer,” the woman continued, “but we know of you madam Rhume.”

  “You do?” Lillian’s voice squeaked, surprised.

  “Of course dear.” The priestess smiled. “Del Morte knows all.”

  As they approached the yawning entryway that led back to the stifling heat of the gardens, the priestess turned to the two sisters who stood as silent wardens. She took a moment to bless each of the sisters before relieving them of their duty.

  “We have been expecting you for quite some time madam.” The woman admitted. “You have suffered great loss.”

  “Jakob…” Lillian’s voice cracked as she recalled the still form of her son in her arms.

  “Yes, your son.” The priestess gave Lillian’s hand a comforting squeeze.

  “How could Del Morte let this happen?” Lillian asked, perhaps with too much bitterness. “How could he take my beautiful, darling baby boy?”

  “I cannot answer you that,” the priestess admitted. “All I can say is to be strong and take heart in knowing Del Morte, our Lord and Saviour, always has a greater plan in mind.”

  “A plan involving the murder of an innocent child?” Lillian snapped.

  “It seems cruel madam,” the priestess’ voice remained surprisingly calm, as if she had known this conversation were to happen. “You can rest easy knowing your son rests with the High Lord.”

  “But he needs to be with me!” Lillian jerked her hand from the priestess’ grasp. “I am his mother, not Del Morte.”

  “I understand your heart hurts madam.” The priestess said, ignoring the insult. “Yet you must learn to let your heart trust in Del Morte.”

  “How?” The question was fruitless and meaningless, yet it was all Lillian could manage to say as a surge of emotions filled her. “Sister…I can’t.”

  “You can madam.” The faintest sign of a smile revealed itself through the priestess’ veil. “Else wise you would not have come to our Lord’s house.”

  “Perhaps.” Lillian smiled, meek as if she were a child herself.

  “Come,” the woman offered. “Walk with me for awhile.”

  For the rest of the morning, and into the later half of the noontide, Lillian walked the concrete gardens with the priestess. The woman revealed her name was Anna, and as a cardinal within the church, was permitted to speak with the common folk.

  The pair spoke of idle things such as the weather and the fretful state of the season’s harvest; their conversations would in turn become more thought provoking as Lillian sought condolence and guidance to deal with her loss. The whole while, Lillian felt a calming peace fall over her heart, burying her pain.

  An hour or two after the break of noon, the pair enjoyed a cooled herbal tea infused with citrus fruits to chase the day’s heat away. They nibbled on light wafers topped with wild honey, crushed walnuts and sprigs of fresh mint. Feeling full, and content with herself, Lillian thanked Anna for her company and insight before departing.

  Not realizing how long she had spent among the paved gardens of the temple, it came as a surprise to Lillian when she noted the sun moving into its final descent. Ultimately, she did not mind for her soul felt light, almost weightless after spending a day confessing all her worries. It seemed to Lillian nothing could spoil the joviality building in her chest. Not even the desolate field Lillian found herself staring out over again could dampen her spirits.

  Lillian paused for a while watching the gnats flitter over the brittle stalks of grass. The sun seemed to hang heavy over the distant brambles of the lower Narn Wood. The trees were dark and twisted, naked and solemn clawing for the sky.

  On the distant horizon, a dark splotch of a cloud seemed to move in pursuit of the village. To Lillian, it looked like the telltale signs of a heavy storm cloud, coming to release Le Clos Noire from the clutches of the drought. She strained her eyes, trying to determine how large the cloud might be, curious to know if it would be but a sprinkle or a violent torrent. Somehow, the harder she looked, the more obscure the shape became; almost losing its cloud like shape and taking on the visage of dozens of smaller specks.

  Lillian shook her head clear, figuring it was an illusion caused by the strain on her eyes mixing with the heat of day. She put the approaching storm out of her mind and continued back down the path.

  Before long, Lillian departed the press of the condensed street and entered the market again. At this time of day the market was busy and bustling with all t
he vendors trying to out do the others while citizens browsed the wares. Lillian let her eyes return to the colourful booth of the eccentric wine merchant, hoping him to be available to call on. Lillian smiled as she saw the top of Druxan’s pate sitting behind his stall, waiting for a customer to deal with.

  “Evening tide, ser.” She said on approach.

  Druxan poked his head over the stall, smiling from ear to ear. His smile revealed a mouth full of gold and silver teeth.

  “Ah, my most favourite madam in all of Wynne.” He said with his thick, Pozian accent. He took Lillian’s hand with his own, kissing her fingers over his stall. “Druxan is very sorry for madam’s loss. When he heard, his heart wept for days. No child should be taken from this world so young.”

  “Thank-you, ser, for your kind words.” Lillian smiled.

  “Thank not Druxan,” he said, jutting his jaw into the air. “In mother Pozo, children are sacred. Woe comes to those who harm them. The Stonefinger was too kind by taking the bastardo so swift.” Druxan slammed his broad hand against the stall, shaking the whole structure. “If it were Druxan, that paestichos would have suffered many times.”

  Lillian felt her smile fade, saddened by the bitterness in the Pozian merchant. Her heart screamed the same as he, but she also knew the blonde boy was someone’s son and that was a pain Lillian did not wish to share with any mother.

  “Please, my dear Druxan, let’s speak no more of this.” Lillian’s tone was flat, emotionless almost, trying to maintain composure.

  “Druxan is sorry madam. We Pozian’s are a feisty bunch!” His laugh was coarse, loud and yet, somehow, very comforting. “But you know this and is why you come to Druxan for your vintages.” He gave her a wink from under his bushy brows.

  “I do.” She couldn’t help but laugh herself. “Do you have something to chase the heat from my blood, dear Druxan?”

  “But of course madam,” he said proudly. “Druxan has the most perfect rosé for the lady.”

  With a quick step, the stout Pozian disappeared into a nearby cellar.

  As Lillian waited, she watched the market gradually empty as the patrons drifted back to their homes. The great bell tower of the town hall rose as a silent warden in the distance, watching over the denizens of Le Clos Noire. All Lillian saw was a brooding watcher waiting to toll its screaming death knells again. Every night she went to bed Lillian feared the call would rise from the shadows again. Thankfully, the bells never took up the call.

  “Ah, madam,” Druxan said as he emerged from the cellar with an elongated bottle with a soft, pink liquid inside. “This is the most perfect vintage for the most beautiful of ladies.”

  He grasped the bottle by its neck with one hand and brought it to rest upon his forearm, displaying the contents to Lillian.

  “This vintage is from south Ynoux, gently aged in young oak from the Great Eerie Wood.” Druxan turned the bottle slightly, letting the fading sun catch the glass. “The makers of this most wonderful drink infused the juice with field berries, wild honey and added sugars from the Far East. It is most marvelous, light of body and fiendishly sweet.”

  “Sounds absolutely delightful.” Lillian leaned close, examining the pink hues in the fading light. “How much?”

  “Ehhhn…” his mouth curled into a deep frown as he considered the vintage in his hand. “Druxan sells this for fifty gold.” Extending the bottle towards Lillian, he said; “But for madam, I give at no charge.”

  “You will do no such thing ser!” Lillian backed away from the stall, reaching for her hidden coin purse. “Fifty gold is far too much to squander.” She trifled through the contents of the sachet, counting the coin as she spoke. “Even for feisty Pozian’s like you.”

  “Druxan squanders nothing.” Druxan said, puffing his chest in defiance. “Take it as condolence for your loss.” He extended the wine again. “In mother Pozo we give our very best to those who’ve lost kin.”

  “Ser,” Lillian bit her lip, trying to contain her emotions. Lillian was deeply touched by the eccentric wine merchant’s kindness. “My dear Druxan, you are too kind.”

  She could not help but smile as the sun gleamed off his gold and silver teeth as he grinned ear to ear. “Thank-you.”

  “Not a worry most lovely madam. Like Druxan always says…” the merchant’s voice trailed off, cocking his head and furrowing his bushy brows as he noticed something of interest beyond Lillian.

  “What is it Druxan?” Lillian turned to see what her Pozian wine merchant stared at.

  Lillian’s heart froze as the sound she feared most reverberated in the air; panic caught in her throat as the call of Doom and Death rang out from the town hall once more.

  In the distant sky the thick dark storm cloud had grown larger. In fact, it had approached at an alarming rate. The skies began to darken and the speckled dots of the formation became frightfully clear. What she thought was cloud cover quickly proved to be something worse, something more dangerous. The sky still carried a storm, though this storm came on the heels of a fleet of airships flying a black flag.

  Doom! Death! Doom! Doom!

  Ropes descended from the ships as they moved into position over Le Clos Noire. Dozens upon dozens of men in black military uniforms slid down the ropes to the cobbled streets. The town militia poured into the square, squatting to take aim at the intruders. Their aim proved true as many of the invading force fell away from the ropes as the Valvian bullets found their mark. Yet still the foe came.

  As the intruder’s numbers made landfall, they turned their own weapons against the militia, setting the stage for fierce gun fighting. More and more men slithered from the heavens, landing atop their fallen brethren, filling the growing ranks of their ground forces. The gunfights turned to fierce and bloody melee as the militia ran out of ammunition.

  As the last men trickled from the decks of the ships, gouts of fire and bolts of raw electricity shot from the heavens, adding to the carnage; buildings erupted under the blasts of the combined energies of kinetic air support. The bell tower buckled and fell away as two large balls of electrical might destroyed the masonry, silencing the incessant song of Doom and Death.

  Lillian stood amongst the carnage, frozen with terror, or waiting for her own doom to join her son. She did not know which compelled her to stay, but there she waited. She had not noticed Druxan disappear into his cellar, nor did she notice his return. Her heart skipped a beat as his broad, rough hands pulled her behind his stall as a furry of bullets sought the pair. Lillian fought him, confusing Druxan with the foe, as he dragged her to his cellar.

  “Madam must be still!” He shouted over the cackle of battle and destruction. “It is only Druxan.”

  “Druxan?” Lillian’s cheeks burned bright as she realized the truth.

  “Yes. Only good dear Druxan.” He said. “We must be fled to my cellars. Druxan can keep most wonderful madam safe there.”

  Lillian understood his urgency and descended into the depths of her own volition. Her legs were heavy, sluggish even as she took the steps two at a time. An explosive roar burst from the roof of the neighbouring house just as she reached the safety of the cellar. Chunks of debris followed Lillian into the wide space below.

  The air of the cellar was heavy with mildew, spilt wine and the lingering odor of aged wood. Lillian’s shoes scraped hard against the smooth, stone floor as she let Druxan lead her deeper into his stores of wine. She was surprised by how quick and nimble the short, stocky wine merchant was; it was hard for Lillian to keep pace with the Pozian as he led her past barrels and wooden racks filled with bottles of varying varietals.

  Sounds of fighting filtered through the floorboards in the building above. The sound was intense as men cursed; pistols or rifles released their rounds, and the sharp howl of men in pain. In a few places, blood dripped through the wooden beams, and small holes blasted into existence by stray shots.

  “Madam must stay here.” Druxan said as they rounded a corner. The space before them was s
hallow, filled with an ungodly amount of barrels. Some were young and light, while others were old and stained by years of fermenting wines.

  “Here?” Lillian was not so sure she felt safe here, but with the constant reminder of the turmoil without, it was the best she had.

  “Yes madam.” Druxan took her hand and led her to the back of the room. “Here Druxan can keep most wonderful lady safe. Here there is only one way in or out.” The Pozian puffed his chest with pride, reaching into the folds of his vest to reveal two beautiful, clockwork pistols.

  “This is Night and Day.” He said, pulling both out to show Lillian. “Together, no man can stop them. Just as no man can stop the sun from setting and the moon from rising.”

  “Druxan, they are lovely.” The wonderful ebony surface of one and crisp ivory surface of the other took Lillian’s breath away.

  “Yes, they are.” He smiled. A sound in the other part of the cellar caused Druxan to snap his round. “Madam, go behind the barrel on the far right.” Druxan said, quiet, never turning his gaze from the source of the sound.

  Lillian needn’t be asked twice. With a new desire for life driving her, Lillian found herself darting behind a young, pale cask. She sat down heavily, just in time to catch Druxan turn to face a group of black clad men. Even though she knew Druxan could not see her behind the barrel, Lillian smiled as her favourite merchant grinned from ear to ear one last time. From her hiding spot, she could almost sense eagerness in Druxan’s Night and Day.

  Druxan was not about to let his prized weapons wait.

  He twirled with a finesse Lillian had never seen in any man before, let alone a robust wine merchant. As Druxan twirled, turning full circle, he raised his weapons and fired into the approaching foe. Perhaps the intruders were as shocked by his speed as Lillian, for by the time the ringing of his first shot faded, the whole group lay lifeless on the cellar floor. Druxan spat onto the floor as the sound of more men entered the cellar.

  Druxan looked to Lillian’s hiding spot, one last time. A proud, defiant twinkle sparkled in his eyes.