“My turn,” Mel said softly.
She looked up, attempting to shake off the shackles of fatigue. She partially succeeded, but maintained that glassy haze, her words slurring slightly. “S’okay… I can stay…”
“Sleep,” Mel demanded, less softly this time. That got her moving a little quicker. She shambled down the deck to the pile of thick blankets, augmenting Mel’s image of the drunken mariner. Her smile widened.
“Keep ‘er true.” July tossed the garbled words over her shoulder, sitting with her back to the boat’s hull. She began to arrange the blankets into a cocoon of her own––preparing for a short winter’s hibernation, from which she could emerge fresh and revitalized, like the beautiful but somehow unearthly butterfly, floating on paper wings. Mel wondered what larvae dreamed of through their metamorphosis; if it was anything like her own dream, she pitied them in spite of their latent beauty.
Her nostalgic smile began to fade as she looked out over the busy tides, but even as she gripped the tiller with white knuckles, the shaking in her hands would not go with it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DUST ON THE HORIZON. REFUGE.
To her surprise, it was a layer of sweat that stirred July from her sleep. She punched her fists through the layers of wool, freeing herself from her pocket of heat, which escaped with the wind. She pulled off her jacket as well, wiping her forehead with it and tossing it aside.
“The cold spell passed,” Mel’s voice floated over from the stern. She sat up, working the stiffness out of her neck as she reoriented.
“I hadn’t noticed.” She peered over the side of the boat at their surroundings. On their port side, only blueness, tranquil and immeasurable; on their starboard, the dark, craggy shore of Zelan. Clumps of stone poked out of the water like jagged teeth, some only kissing the air and some tall enough to rip the sail into pieces. Beyond that were vast dunes of rosy sand––an emptiness of an entirely different sort to the strait. Occasionally, the sea breeze kicked reddish cyclones of sand into spiraling dances, lonely spirits on a desolate stage.
“How long have we been along shore?” July called. She trotted back to the stern, hoping to get a better view of that pink tundra. It was mesmerizing, in its own dead sort of way.
“Since sunrise,” Mel answered. “Probably a few hours.” She looked a little mesmerized herself. July grabbed the dull copper spyglass from her knapsack, under the tiller. Extending it and holding it out, she felt supremely nautical. There was not much to look at––nothing at all, in fact––but it was a romantic feeling. She could practically touch the long blue sailor’s uniform, brass buttons and lining gleaming under the perfect sun. A man’s uniform, she noted, but romantic nonetheless.
“Anything but sand, Captain?” Amelia joked, her words stretched by a long yawn. July started to respond with a hearty ‘no’, but paused. In the distance, the sand seemed to waver. She fixed her eyes on that long pink line, watching for movement.
“I thought there was something, but maybe not,” She said. “The sand sort of moved a little? I don’t––there it is again!” She held out the spyglass to Amelia, pointing far out into the dunes. Mel took it, looking a little amused; but her smirk slowly turned into a curious scrutiny, then settled in the territory of dread.
“Map says there’s a cove ahead––we should dock there,” Mel said. Her voice had dropped to the low tones of a military general, planning a risky maneuver. “Cover up the ship.”
July felt panic jump up in her chest. “What? Why? What is it?”
“Sandstorm.” She stood up. July took her place next to the tiller as she grabbed one of the main lines. “Guide us in smooth, Captain Casperan.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
July kept her head down, masking her eyes from the grit of the wind.
The cove was a streak of good fortune. Its wide mouth was almost devoid of sharp rocks, and the land at its sides rose into tall cliffs, sheltering the inlet from the wind. July had coerced the ship in as close to the sandy shore as she could, then dismantled the sail. She couldn’t lower the mast in any way, but with the lines tethered to the ground, and no sail to catch the wind, she figured the boat would survive in relatively good shape.
“Sand,” July had groaned, lowering herself from the ship’s railing. “We’ll be sweeping sand off her deck for days.”
“Better than picking wooden planks off the shore,” Mel pointed out. “Come on. We need to find shelter––preferably the type that can’t sink.”
July glared at the doctor, then turned and patted the ship comfortingly. “Don’t listen to her, darling. She’s just grumpy.”
She pulled at the strip of fabric on her head, adjusting its grip around her neck. It covered everything but her eyes, preventing the sharp sand from burning and scraping her skin. It was also uncomfortably warm under her layered cloak, which Mel called a ‘wind sheath’.
None of this appeared to faze Mel. She marched headstrong into the tundra, keeping a consistent pace and saying nothing. She slowed only once to hitch her knapsack up her back. The image called up memories of a story July read once as a child; a man who travelled the desert for a hundred days, alone, looking for the face of his god; a stout figure, dark brown against the pink desert; a single flower in a field of dust.
July realized she was falling behind. She jogged up the slight incline to keep up with Mel, closing the distance in a few seconds, but stopped when she crested the hill and saw the other side. In the deepest point of the huge bowl of sand formed by the surrounding hills, a battered, win-worn building braved the storm. It was tall and narrow, built mostly of stone, and tinted pink by years of the the shifting desert dunes. Built anywhere but that low valley of dirt, shielded from the brunt of the wind, July doubted it would’ve still been standing.
“A chapel?” She strained to shout over the whistling current.
Mel nodded and pointed. She skidded slowly down the slope of the hill, leaving long narrow tracks. July followed, careful to keep the plumes of sand she kicked up away from her face––by a conservative estimate, she had already gotten a third of the desert lodged in her mouth, and she wasn’t savvy to increase that figure.
The chapel looked much newer up close––the details of the stonework, although worn, were well-cared for. The windows had no panes; instead, planks of wood carefully blocked all the frames, leaving only tiny crevices to carry light inside. The planks, like the stone, were imbedded with grains of sand, but looked as if they had been replaced recently.
“Someone lives here,” Mel said, stepping into the doorframe.
“Should we keep walking?”
She shook her head. “Not unless you want to walk as far as the Pink Hills.” July didn’t know exactly where this was, but surmised that it was too far. Mel knocked on the massive wooden door three times. The sound carried deep into the chapel, deeper than she would have expected. There was no response for a long time.
Finally, a crack opened up in the enormous doorway, which shrieked on aged hinges. A face peered out, heavily dressed in shadows. July’s right hand retreated into the folds of her cloak, tracing the pommel of her short sword.
“We seek refuge from the storm,” Mel started. “I’m a doctor. If I can be of assistance somehow, I would be happy to lend a hand in exchange for a place to rest.”
Although the man made no visible response, July sensed he was considering their value. She wondered if anyone else sat in the pews of this chapel, fording the sandstorm. A congregation of sorts, she thought.
“Yes,” He said. She noted that his voice was high and smooth, like that of nobility; the gravel of smoke and labor was distinctly missing. “Yes, of course. All are welcome here, stranger.” July wondered why he took so long to consider them if this were really true, but said nothing. He opened the door wider, and they stepped into the decaying church.
With the howl of the approaching storm cleanly severed by the closing door, July felt slightly disorie
nted in the quiet murmur that replaced it. This uneasy feeling was only heightened by the sight that awaited her; the church was teeming with people.
“You come in fortuitous timing, actually,” She could hear the man say quietly, as if from far away. “There are a handful of towns on the eastern shore that come here to wait out the tempest.” His words continued, but July’s ears stopped grasping the meanings as she felt a dreadful heat settling in her stomach, robbing her breath of its depth.
Everything is fine, you’re okay. Everything is fine, you’re okay. Her chest rose and fell in rhythm with her thoughts. Clear your mind. It’s just like Lin told you. The heat forced its way up, a hideous plume of acid in her throat. She closed her eyes, pushing the anxiety back into her stomach. The smell of incense wafted over from the front of the dark room, and she tried to focus on that and nothing else. She singled out that scent, trying to identify it. It was a hopeless endeavor, but moving categorically through all the scents of her tenure on the farm helped take her mind off the heaving crowd of bodies.
“July?” Mel’s voice wandered into her ears. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” She responded. But even as she said it, she realized she wasn’t––not at all. The moment her focus wavered, her anxiety spilled into her chest like water, filtering her breaths through a pinhole. Tears threatened to crest her cheeks, and she turned away from the sound of Mel’s voice. “It’s the incense, I think. Making me feel sick. I’m just… I’m going to…”
She didn’t finish; just pushed through the crowd to the edge of the room, where she slipped through a flimsy door and deeper into the dark, into the halls of the church, where nobody could hear her panicked sobs but her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE SLUMBERING GIANT. QUESTIONABLE COMPANY.
“July?” Mel called. She looked out over the crowd, but spotted no sign of the young woman. She wished she had given her something more distinct to wear on her cloak, dark and common as it was.
“Is your friend alright?” The man asked from her side. She gave the crowd one last scan and then turned back to him. July was a fighter, after all; a bunch of scared villagers shouldn’t give her too much trouble. “I can send someone to look for her, if you wish.” She met his eyes, which were a dull green, and saw something resembling care and hospitality.
“It’s alright,” She sighed, shaking her head. “She’ll be fine.”
“It’s not as if she can leave,” The man agreed. He guided her to a pew at the edge of the crowd, where she could take the weight off her weary feet, and introduced himself as Father Pacifica, of Suna’s Holy Melody.
“I’m not familiar with that branch of the Word,” Mel admitted.
“Most aren’t,” Father Pacifica waved her admission away. “It is born out of necessity, as so many creeds are. This may be the only church of Suna’s Holy Melody in all of Zelan––all the world, perhaps.”
Mel took in the church itself as she listened. Its walls were relatively bare, but in places were hung simple tapestries; white cloth, depicting crude drawings of a fantastically large man surrounded by worshippers. Shelves full of candles illuminated the room in place of sunlight, which only extended a foot from each boarded window. The pews were mostly empty, pushed back against the walls to make room for what appeared to be a prayer circle. The image cradled a pleasant feeling of sanctity.
“Are you spiritual, doctor?” Pacifica asked. Mel surprised herself by nodding. “You belong to a church in your land?”
“Not exactly,” She confessed. “My faith is a more… general sort.”
“There is no shame in an open mind.” He pondered this thought for a moment, watching the prayer circle. “In times like these, the circle is always closed. One person stands, and another takes their place. Do you know what they pray for, doctor?”
Mel shook her head, which felt oddly heavy. “Forgiveness?”
Father Pacifica chuckled, then grew serious again. “Not so. They know in their hearts that the storm is nobody’s fault. No punishment from a higher power. They pray for sleep.”
“Sleep?” Mel began to listen to their chorus of prayers. The word sleep did appear quite often.
“Yes, sleep.” Father Pacifica repeated, his even voice growing quiet and contemplative. “Sleep for the Giant. That is the mantra of Suna’s Holy Melody; ‘To Soothe the Slumbering Giant’. They say his footsteps cause the tempest that batters these very walls.” He gestured grandly to the stone brick on all sides.
“That explains the incense,” Mel said, piecing together the components of the ritual. “It’s symbolic. Lavender and murkwood treat insomnia.” She thought there was also a third scent in the mix, but she couldn’t place it. Something local, she figured.
He nodded. “You have a very astute nose.”
“I learned aromatherapy in Amora, as part of my medicinal studies,” She explained. “Top of my class. I had a knack for figuring out scents.”
He nodded again, as if she’d confirmed his suspicions, then continued. “There, doctor, in the symbolism, is the root of the matter. We are happy to let you stay here for as long as you need…” He trailed off, looking for the right words.
“In exchange for participation in your prayer,” She guessed.
“Not ‘in exchange’, per se,” Pacifica amended, “but it would put our minds at ease if you joined us. It is entirely up to you, of course.” Mel looked out over the crowd, contemplating. Something was bothering her, but like the third aroma in the herbal incense, she couldn’t place what it was. She decided to let it pass; if it was important, it would return.
“A little prayer is a perfectly reasonable price for your hospitality,” She said.
Father Pacifica smiled, bearing a set of faultless white teeth, which contrasted deeply with the heavy bags under his eyes. “I was hoping you would say that. Follow me––the words are very simple.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A faint, rhythmic banging floated down the hallway at July’s folded form. Initially, she hadn’t noticed through her labored breaths, but as she began to calm down, it became harder to ignore. Her red, swollen eyes pried at the shadowy hall, but could only tell her that there was light around the corner––a window or candle, likely. Beyond that, her sight abandoned her, leaving her with only the texture of the aging wood, the over-rich smell of incense, and that violent rhythm, coupled with the ever-present bellow of the wind.
She stood up on shaky legs, unable to shut out her curiosity, and pulled herself free of her wind sheath, resting it in the corner of the hall where she had nestled. The door she entered through was visible to her left; to her right, a stretch of featureless hall and the vague impressions of light peeking around the corner. She began to walk in that direction.
In the next arm of the hall, her thoughts about the light and the sound were answered in tandem; a single window with no boards flooded the dark with intense sunlight. The window’s shutters caught the gusts of inhospitable air like a sail, smacking themselves against the walls to either side.
“Maybe they forgot to board this one?” She asked to nobody in particular, her sob-swollen throat strangling her voice. For reasons she didn’t understand, the lone window put July ill at ease. She edged closer, carefully stepping around the fragments of splintered wood illuminated by the shaft of sunlight, then brought the shutters together and latched them. This replaced the banging with a more constant shuddering rattle, and dulled the bellow of the wind, revealing another set of sounds––quiet ones, shapeless but clearly vocal. They reminded her of the mangy dog she had put down on the side of the highway, what felt like years ago.
The darkness, which seemed to be the quiet’s constant companion, suddenly felt imposing to July, and she put her back to the wall, leaving her periphery wide. One hand fluttered near her waist, playing at the pommel of her sword nervously. She sidled further into the hall this way, cautious as an elk in the wood, until she reached a chipped woode
n door. The knob rattled uselessly against the lock, only serving to further excite the vocal noises, which now reached into the register of whimpering children.
July stood for a moment, eyes fixed on the doorknob, caught between the intense foreboding of the church’s bowels, which increased with every minute, and her mingled curiosity and concern for the owner––or owners, she thought––of the guttural moans behind the door. She stood in the dark for a moment, stretched out in perfect stillness, one hand on the knob and the other on her sword.
“Hello?” She called through the door, “Is someone there?” The voices abruptly quieted to whispers, almost indiscernible from the whisper of the window, which was now a good distance behind July. She tried once more. “Hello?”
After a long pause, a weak, reedy voice responded, “Father?”
“No.” Her heart quickened. She somehow hadn’t expected the voice to form words––only agonized, animal shapes. But it was quite clear to her now that there was at least one person behind this door, and if they were in pain, she would have to find a way in.
“Are you one of his disciples?”
“No,” She repeated. “Do you need help?”
The voice pressed on. “There is a hook next to the door with the key on it. It’s only supposed to be opened from the outside. He doesn’t––he…” It trailed off into deliberation. July traced the wall around the door with her palms until they found the short head of a nail, on which a rusted key ring hung. In the almost perfect blackness, she never would’ve seen it without guidance. She urged the largest key into the misshapen lock and twisted, producing a loud clack, and turned the knob, pressing her way into the room.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mel was aware of Pacifica’s voice droning in her ear, repeating the words of the couplet he asked her to recite, but her mind couldn’t grasp the specifics, leaving them vague, meaningless tones. She felt her thoughts growing sluggish and abstract, her eyelids drooping, pulling the world out of focus.
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