Wanderers of the Silent Season (Heartbeat of the World Book 2)

by T. Wyse

  He ran his fingers across the surface, tracing the smoothly carved figures in the basest understanding of the grand story told. They marched across the staff in a spiral; a wrapping stage climbing ever upwards. Even upon the touch, he could feel the identities of each of the figures—taste the magic and meaning woven into each pose; each immortalized moment.

  “This is . . . impossible.” He gasped, leaning in as the staff gave a little shiver at his further scrutiny. What he had taken for simple recesses, in the darkness between the figures and the grand story, was another window to a world. A second story was woven just as perfectly underneath the first, winding to its beginning at the top of the staff, rather than the end.

  “I am sure you could admire it for days; revel in it, crafter to crafter, but our time is at an end, as I have said.” The shaman chuckled, a twinge of sadness creeping in.

  “Know that the second rule of a thing such as this is you must always bear it with pride, wear it and be worthy of it, and never let any other lay hands upon it. Not all you meet are the covetous, but it takes only one fool or demon.”

  Kechua’s eyes followed the story to the beginning of the staff. As the first basic shapes of humans flowed outwards, he reeled in and squinted desperately. A ringing sounded in his head as he tried to push his perceptions further back.

  The shaman’s staff came to strike him, but he found the staff rising to catch it; to bar the passage to his skin and bone. The two clacked, and the old man’s scolding whipped back through the fire, to his side.

  He gave another chuckle, and Kechua’s heart raced as the old man’s face took flight, his head rising into the halo of pelts. The old man stood before the fire for the first time, the ragged hem of a loose robe reveling in the red light.

  “Does this mean you’ll be getting your own cheese tonight?” The boy smiled, the staff trembling in his hand.

  “No use for anything in those walls,” the shaman muttered.

  “I—Mana said she would like to see you; that you were welcome to . . . ” Kechua stumbled on the words as the man walked beside him. “You were as welcome as you always have been.” He found the sentiment, and it stopped the shaman’s progress.

  “Perhaps I will take a walk. See where it leads.” The shaman strode flawlessly, without a hint of weak or watery legs, and disappeared beyond the flap of the tent.

  Kechua strode behind him into the night.

  “Do not follow me. Go to the circle of stones within the heart. Dance or wait, it doesn’t matter.” And Xatl—the outcast—strode into the night, without even a glance back or even confirming his name to the boy.

  ***

  The house felt emptier, even though the floorboards drew no memory of the old man’s footsteps. He sat there, his silly stool the perch for the knapsack he had been given. The gifts remained in their various pockets, the cloth and leather sitting at the bottom of the main cavity. The jacket slept tied to one of the sides, and to Kechua’s surprise, the ornate staff fit perfectly onto the twin ties on the other edge of the pack. The knife sheath easily clasped onto his current belt. Having never worn a knife before, he attached both sheathes on either side, being unsure which would feel more comfortable to draw from.

  Yet rather than boiling with excitement and anticipation, the blood dragged within his icy veins. The water skin gurgled merrily as he poured water into it, downing the entirety of one of the bottles in the fridge, and seemed thirsty for more. As Mana had declared, it still felt light and small somehow.

  One extra pair of pants; perhaps two? He mused on the remaining space in the engorged pack. Would his journey take months or years? How long until he found a ‘safe’ place for the seed? How long until he could sit and read the knowledge given?

  He sunk into the stool, his heart slowing to a base throb. Kechua sat in the darkness, and for the first time in a very long while, he was blind to his path. Forcing a final burst of energy, he slipped in two more pairs of his cleanest pants. He jammed as many shirts as would comply into his cloth ark and managed to fasten the strings before glancing at the gift box again. He pulled another handful of the fresh shirts out. The CD slipped onto his lap, the words shining at him, and he also slipped it into the pack.

  “Wwwow! You’ve gotta come, Ke’!” Anah swung wildly into the darkness, her voice unrestrained, though without any panic.

  “Anah!” He glanced back and realized the staff lay on the table between them. She wore a pair of puppets like mitts, the familiar wolf and a stranger of darker hue.

  “It’s crazy out there!” she said through the new puppet, a rabbit with its teeth affixed to the front. Its ears stuck out in an uneven jut. One reached to the sky and the other slumped towards the earth. Oddest of all, the thing had a pair of jagged tusks snarling from its bottom jaw.

  “That thing’s even creepier than the other one.” He turned in the stool, his heart beating faster, but still too weak to move.

  “He’s saber-toothed rabbit!” the wolf grumbled through trembling excitement. “I thought you were going to be dancing today, mister man! I was going to meetcha then as a surprise.” The bunny spoke with a half-interested jaw, the lower ear trembling in either laughter or wracking pain. “Turns out everyone else is dancing instead!” she squealed, staggering down and landing onto the couch. “Burning stuff too, like it’s millennial new year’s or something.” Her little helpers buried their faces in the couch as they tried to steady her.

  “New year’s, yeah.” He joined her on the couch. This anchored her from the giddy nervousness. “Is . . . something wrong?” She pursed her lips and glanced down at the table. “Ooh, did you carve this?”

  The two beasts lunged for it with open jaws, but the staff vibrated away from their hungry curiosity.

  “Huh?” The horrible hare locked eyes with her before reaching down on its own to try again.

  “Wow, too tired. Little more off than I thought.” She followed without any trace of a giggle.

  Kechua breathed deeply, trying to feel the pulse of the moment but finding nothing. Rare things, but right things, needed to flow from him.

  “New years, that’s right.” He leaned down to meet her eyes. For once, she shied away from his gaze, rubbing her nose instead and looking away. “It’s a time before a new beginning.”

  “Huh?” She blinked. “I think I need to lie down. Ran over here in the dark.” Her voice trembled.

  “Then lie.” He slipped beside her, but instead of leaning upon him, she jumped at his touch and peeled away.

  “I’m . . . ” He trailed off, the words hiccupping in his chest. “I’m going away again.”

  “For the ceremony? Another try?”

  “No, but it’s sort of like it.” He nodded, content in the half-truth. “I don’t know how long it’s going to be. It won’t be long.”

  “That’s a big bag for ‘won’t be long.’” She swayed, resting her head on the arm of the couch. “Are you seeing your parents? You can say. I understand.”

  “I don’t think so, no.” He glanced at the bag and back to her.

  “Then you’re just leaving. That’s what you’re—”

  “I’m not leaving. But when you see me again, I may not be the same person.” He stumbled on every word. “It won’t be long here, to you, but it could be to me.”

  “Then I’ll come with you,” she bit.

  He glanced at the furred puppets. “I don’t think you can.”

  She gave a trembling laugh. “I knew it would happen soon, but it seems so soon.” She choked. “I get it. I don’t know why you bothered to—”

  “Anah, I love you, as much as I can. I don’t know if I could have gone on without you; if I could have stayed strong through the pain. You keep laughing even when it’s wrong to; even when it’s so dark we’re both crying, but you’ve always been hope.” He grasped her shoulder, hand trembling and fingers reaching out.

  “You’re just with me because I’m the only one your age,” she mumbled. “It’s okay.
I’m surprised you stayed as long as you did,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “It may have started like that, but no, not anymore. Without you, I would have been crazy by now; just lost in the spiraling pain forever. I would have been nothing but a cutting board for a bully, a chore hound for the elders, and a slave to the shaman. Nobody else helped me. Nobody else even bothered to speak up against Talah. Nobody else’s footsteps echo in this place but yours and mine.”

  “You complete me, both of you.” The words slurped out like a clumsy snail leaving its shell, and yet it made her shine a knowing and sad smile.

  She leaned on the arm of the chair, pulling away from him. Her voice lowered to a near mumble. “Promise me something then.”

  “If I can.” He leaned back in the chair, but stared at her face.

  “Don’t come back.”

  “Anah, no,” he growled. “I will be back. It won’t even seem like much time to you. I don’t know how to explain it because I don’t understand it. I’m not sure any of them really understand it.”

  “If whatever place you’re going to doesn’t have green bruises and poisoned earth, then just forget me. Don’t come back in a day or a week or whatever ‘won’t be long’ means. Leave for the ones who can’t leave any more; leave for me.” Her voice slickened with tears. “You were beautiful too. You completed me too, but that just makes it harder to be here. It just makes it so I can’t be numb all the time.”

  “Anah, I . . . ” He stumbled on the words completely and slumped over her back, just holding her close, letting her tremble softly in chaos within him.

  The stars passed quietly above, and the staff trembled on the table.

  “I think I have to go,” he muttered. She pushed away from him, and her little puppets nuzzled under her as she leaned into the arm of the couch.

  “I mean it. If you’re going someplace wonderful, where the spirits dwell, don’t come back.” She lowered her voice to an angry pout. “This place sucks.”

  He gave a chuckle, having slipped into the jacket, and hoisted the bag over his shoulders.

  “You look good,” the rabbit said proudly. “Not quite a man though.”

  The wolf argued, “No, but maybe carrying all that weight will help.”

  The rabbit laughed back.

  The staff accepted his grip and towered over him, its carvings dancing unsure in the light.

  “You didn’t carve that.” She gave a viperish giggle.

  He followed her out the door and into the night, where she planted a parting kiss on his cheek. “Someone better make sure they don’t burn the place down. If the world doesn’t end tomorrow, they’ll be mad.”

  And so they parted ways, their steps pounding heavy and staggering in the red sand of Glalih.

  CHAPTER 2:

  Cicadian Rhythm

  Kechua sat upon the naked earth, having left long before the morning fully fell. The flickering light of the fire consuming the black tent had awoken him with false dawn, but instead of attempting to kill the blaze, he watched it go. He sat as he always did, the stars twinkling gems above; the pelts hanging somewhere in the sky, ever watching. The house replaced the old man’s face in silence, flickering with unsure flecks of painted red in the pitch black of the night.

  As dawn came, the fire completed its consumption, leaving the shaman’s world a withered and fallen balloon. As the last slim tendrils of smoke rose from it skyward, he placed one final offering of cheese and bread to its right.

  His attention broken from the pyre, the pulse of the wheel below trickled up his spine. Amplified by whatever magic dissipated into the world below, the pulse crept into his bones, soaking into and vibrating his very marrow. The beat throbbed and embraced his heart, slowing it, and enhanced his weakening weariness.

  He walked alone. Not a single rabbit followed the dragging rhythm of his progress. Not so much as a single bug came to drink of his face; to punish him for his sloth. He leaned heavy on the staff as the hidden path opened before him into the mountain. He turned in the final moment, having never looked from this place with his eyes, only his feet. Not a trace of the gathering; of the hundreds living there staring back, even the place where he had slept, ate, and lived hid in the curved paths in the sand beyond.

  The forest felt hushed, the leaves utterly still; the ground so chilled that when he broke into the circle of stones, his feet were numb to his ankles.

  The drums beat with a slowly gasping thrum, and any dance upon them would be met as a stranger. Each pulse stretched from one another in a forced and growing disgust, and each of their touches brought a sickening swirl about his head that slapped him away from his dozing spells.

  The sun shone high above in its midday climax, unmoved by the grinding of the machine below. Light poured through the gemmed leaves, bathing him in a searing downpour of heat, which pulled even the shadows respectfully away from the circle’s edge.

  He dared to gaze upwards, risen by the spectacle, only to have the moment hang and simply pass. The shadows crept cautiously forward and lazily stretched to tickle at his back.

  In the end, it was the dire—rather than divinity—that offered the only waking revelation.

  “Sleeping?” The slurred clacking woke Kechua from a longer stolen nap, but he didn’t need to bother looking up. “Hiding from something?” He could taste a bitter tinge to Talah’s breath.

  “Go away,” Kechua muttered, nestling his head back into his legs. “I can’t entertain you today.”

  He felt a chill upon his cheek and the tired and clumsy rhythm of the giant’s movements. He slit open an eye to confirm the touch of that obsidian blade, then closed it again, letting out a trembling sigh.

  “Whole place is asleep. Little wrecked, but not beyond repair.” Talah’s rare pensiveness woke Kechua to the light of the scene. The giant leaned above him. No startling coating of blood or clutch of severed heads accompanied him, the simple annoyance of his persistence the only offense.

  “I don’t care. Just go,” Kechua mumbled. The knife bit into his cheek with an almost playful swipe, just enough to burn.

  The boy rolled begrudgingly to his side, away from the pack. The cut flowed with purpose, a level of skill tasting subtly different to the boy. The booming rhythm of the giant’s steps trembled on the edge of the familiar, the furious swipes of the knife forming a new harmony.

  He rolled to land on his feet, his calves dull, but the ache mostly subsided. “I don’t want to do this today. Just give me a couple, and . . . ”

  The knife swiped, making a new nick in his shirt.

  “Going away, are you? Leaving all of this behind, are you?” The giant clacked and snarled, falling against one of the stones. The knife screeched across its face, leaving the rune untouched.

  Kechua’s feet embraced the familiar rhythm. His body shed the sloth of the dying world in time to sweep to the side as Talah charged, causing him to crumple to the earth with each effort.

  His steps flowed beside his pack and the staff nudged itself happily into his hands. It rumbled and shifted, helping his hands into the holds as he swayed from foot to foot, trying to place it within his dance.

  “Made that for yourself, did you?” A chorus of ponderous clicking.

  Kechua swung the staff in a circle, testing its weight more than showing any warning. It shuddered in his hands, feeling one with his bones and muscle.

  The knife attempted to slash his chest, a more specific attempt than their dance usually allowed, but it caught the staff instead. The wood hummed as Kechua swung it again, trying to understand the rhythm.

  “No, not yours, is it?” He rolled his jaw. “Something else.”

  Several stabs cut towards Kechua, and he moved the staff to block each of them. The first two parried attempts aimed at his eyes. He gave a chastising strike to the giant’s side, and he landed, kneeling on the ground.

  For this, he caught Kechua’s calf once with the blade before attempting to topple the boy, receiving another s
trike on his back for the attempt.

  The staff swung merrily at Kechua’s bidding, guiding less as he felt the shift of the thing within his hands. He pursued the bully into the edge of the ring, moving with the rhythm of the giant’s steps and trembling with excitement of the waking elder wood.

  He read the swings, predicting the angle and scope of one coming, and knocked the knife high into the air. Talah fell to the ground, his back scraping against one of the stones. Kechua raised the staff to Talah’s face, exposing only the little dot to him, and held him there as the knife fell into the darkened soil at the other end of their sparring grounds.

  “What now? No more games?” Talah glared at Kechua, a wide grin on his sharpened muzzle.

  “Do you swear you’ll leave everyone alone while I’m gone? Everyone?”

  “Gone?” Slurred laughter trembled in the drum below, drowning out the dying heartbeat and punctuated by a chorus of clicking teeth. “No.” The grin widened. “Oh, the tasty things I’m going to do when you’re gone.”

  “Then . . . ” Kechua curled his lip and reared the staff above him. He paused, hands trembling, and swung. His feet twisted under him, his timeless rhythm abandoned in cold vengeance. The staff’s weight swung from the wrong side. Talah bowed onto hands and knees and bounded forward, gnashing through the pants like they were nothing and sinking his teeth into Kechua’s calf.

  Kechua screamed, his grip loosening. He let the wobbled swing send the staff leaping away from him like a javelin. The wood sunk into the earth beside the blackened knife. Talah shook his head furiously from side to side, ripping and clawing. Slick blood decorated his face, mingling with the shadow as he rose to show his prize to the boy—a chunk of muscle dribbling red. He spat it into the earth, swiping at Kechua’s face with his dirt-caked paws.