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

by T. Wyse

  None of the undergrowth snared his feet, not a single stone grazed his toes, and no roots reached out to snag him. His paths in Glalih’s forest had never felt so smooth and reverent of his presence. The forest flowed by him with a smoothed feel he tried to dismiss, but he arrived at the parting of the mountain’s wall just as the light of day shooed away the last of the dawn’s blue tint.

  The lake narrowed into a river at the cleft, and the quiet splish of the calm stream became the pouring rush of tumbling water. The white flow cascaded into a set of smaller lakes upon a stepped decline, dipping into distant puddles several times before slicing into the level of the brown silt. He strode to the edge of this mountain, his footsteps echoing in perfect synch with the earth below. His mountain.

  The jagged grey form of Wolf looked out on the plateau, fur licked by the whistling wind; tail waving slow and pensively. Kechua readied the staff, thinking of shoving the beast down the cliffs for the victory, and yet he paused and let it sleep in his hand.

  “Do we need to do this, Old Man?” he asked, gripping the staff tightly. “Have I earned your lasting respect?” His shadow grazed the slowly pacing tail.

  “No, but any battle here would be a forgone conclusion, and I so hate to waste energy,” Wolf rumbled pensively. “Bask in the moment, in your fought victory.”

  Kechua perched on the edge of his mountain and surveyed the world below in full.

  The stepping waterfalls continued about two thousand feet down, the river forming another childish lake at the foot of the mountain before forking outwards and going on their own explorations into the sands. The trees clung in certain spots to the cliffs and spilled out around the rivers, clinging mostly to the mountain’s base, but dotted saplings stretched out in an almost explosive radius from the grown trees.

  Other than these addendums, the canvas of brown remained stark, bleak, and empty as ever. Even looking so high up, there was little to see. Vague hints of things wavered in the rising heat from the sands, though his eyes fought to clarify their reality.

  “Isn’t that the end? Why isn’t anything happening?” Kechua demanded, glaring at the beast.

  “A mountain has sprung up beneath you—a forest, a lake, and creatures from your mind—and you claim nothing has happened?” Wolf regarded him with sideways curiosity.

  “I thought . . . I thought it would end. I thought when I had fulfilled my role, or my test, or whatever . . . ” Kechua bit in the words.

  “Fulfilled?” Wolf roared with laughter that spilled out the potted lakes below. “You earn a single victory and you think your trials at an end? You . . . ” Wolf choked on the bitter words, fire rising in his breath. “You thought you would slay the terrible beast, and the world would return to its former glory? Perhaps a lovely young girl for you to marry would fall at your feet? You thought the season would end, your fable complete, the earth to breathe, its heart to beat once more?”

  Kechua scowled at Wolf, narrowing his eyes. “Yes.” Though, he would have settled for Anah to be there, or Mana. Some kindly witness to this marked victory.

  “What a selfish and stupid boy you are. Your fable has just begun.” Wolf grinned, bearing his teeth. “You have taken your first step into a greater work, and you have a number of choices to make.”

  “If this doesn’t end this trial, what will?” Kechua demanded of the creature.

  “The earthen Aspect was hardly the only one in the world.” Wolf stood and paced behind Kechua. “You think your trial is the only one in the season? There is a term for your kind, yes? How can there be only one of you then?”

  Kechua looked at the empty and uncaring world below him.

  “Trust in my honesty, in my mercy. There is no simple way of ending this time, no clear conclusion that you seem to feel entitled to.”

  “Then . . . Then what do I do?” Kechua looked up, meeting Wolf’s eyes. His pleading eyes were met with scowling displeasure by the great beast, but he quickly shrugged it off, returning to a more neutral expression.

  “For now, let me show you what you will have missed.” Wolf made an ushering gesture with his head, back into the forest.

  Kechua spared a single sweeping look at the empty and fickle view, discarding it gladly. He shifted into the forest with ease, that blurred feeling washing over him, and the familiarity of moving to his own bed from the shaman’s hut radiating around him.

  “Slow yourself,” Wolf’s voice echoed from the bushes, and the blur smoothed out into a clarity of form around him.

  “Listen,” the voice growled.

  He heard rustling, small figures darting just out of sight in the obscuring foliage. A multitude of tiny feet pattered along the dirt, around the trees. The buzzing of insects hummed a joyous melody with the warbling birds. Larger footsteps echoed in the chorus, adding a lower drum to the symphony on his back, and the first of the creatures shifted through the bushes to present itself.

  The antlers announced themselves before the beast did, large and growing in a squared pattern like some mineral shield cleft in two, giving the creature a stern but thoughtful appearance. The antlers rose upwards with the girth of a moose’s pride, yet they tilted far more to the back.

  ““ The creature’s voice sang deep and spoke with a careful respect. ““

  “What language do you speak, creature?” Kechua asked, moving close to the strange thing and reaching out to touch its nose gently. “And what should I call you and your kind?”

  More of the broad faces appeared around the clearing, though they encircled the three and watched, bobbing their heads in that curious way. Certain members of the deer bore more demure horns, curling inwards, but equally as burly as the others—evidently female.

  “You have named us hosf,” the creature replied. “The language I speak now is that of the beasts. The language before is the one we share with only you, M’lord.” It made a strange gesture, bowing its head and kneeling on one of its woolen legs. The motion was mimicked by the convention of hosf circling him.

  “There is pride in the reward, and yet there is also another side to this,” Wolf declared, his eyes darting to something moving beyond the convent circle. He suddenly leapt over the wall of the hosf, who parted in his wake.

  Kechua watched, curious. His bestial convention silently regarded the wolf’s actions. Wolf trotted back, with an odd squirming thing in his mouth. The thing squealed and hissed.

  Wolf let the squirming package slip to the ground, slamming a paw down to pin it as it tried to scamper off.

  The thing resembled an armadillo, only where the armadillo’s head would be, there lay a suspicious hole. The shell was much thicker and less mobile than an armadillo’s, and the sharpened claws poking under it were jagged, thin, and barbed. The thing sported a forked, whipping tail, and Kechua understood what it was.

  “Beast, speak,” Kechua ordered. “Are you Earth’s Cruelty?” He leaned down, trying to see the thing’s head.

  The head, a misshapen, eyeless mass shot out at him. Its tentacled prongs tasted the air, testing for reasons unknown.

  “Speak, vile one.” The hosf, who had emerged first, glowered at the little creature.

  “Yes and no, Master Kechua,” the thing hissed. “I serve only you, gloried one.”

  “This thing was born of the lingering malevolence of Earth’s Cruelty. It, too, is bound to you and serves you, but it is not to be trusted in any measure. Beings born of malice and hate are what births cruel tricksters and worse. This is a burden you now bear.” Wolf lessened his lean upon the wretched thing, and it stood there, its blind tentacles sniffing the air.

  “What do you eat, little thing?” Kechua asked, already fearing he knew the answer.

  “Meat of the soil, oh glorious one. Supping on carrion and the buried and forgot. Glorious, tendered, rancid meat,” the thing hissed before scuttling into the shrubs.

  “Scavengers,
carrion eaters.” Kechua sneered with disgust, yet at least they would sup on no human flesh in the forest.

  Meat. He glanced back towards the building hiding behind the canopy. He wondered if he would find them all barricaded in the library when he returned.

  “Thank you for your fealty.” Kechua made a gracious bow to the hosf around him, though they made a further dimunation to retain their reverence. “Have you seen any other people in the forest?”

  “We have only lived this morning, Lord of Earth. We hide if set upon.” The speaker dipped again in a further bow.

  “I presume the others will do the same? If I’m your ‘lord,’ then let it be known that none are to harm or harass humans in the forest unless you are attacked yourselves.”

  “All of your creations hear your words.” The creature dipped once more.

  “Just until I figure out what we’re going to do about them.” Kechua smiled apologetically at the creature. He was saddened to see its face wracked with solemn curiosity.

  They seemed a rather humorless lot, though perhaps they would grow in time.

  ***

  The sun shone young and bright when he returned to the building. Happily, he traced the shallow memory of their steps to the cafeteria rather than the library. He could hear the murmur of voices intermingled with laughter, and the light embraced him as he opened the door.

  Susan gave a furious wave as he strode in. Though all present spared a glance at him, most of them quickly looked away. Even those who had helped him with the net averted their eyes after a quick glance at him.

  Tyran stood alone, leaning against the counter of the serving area, offering a muted gesture to bring him over. Kechua strode through the sea of nervous heartbeats, though all of them sung loud and hopeful enough to mute the ugly cacophony of the school’s rutted memory. He passed through them all almost as an uninteresting stranger.

  “Today, you aren’t refusing me.” Tyran grinned, passing another ginger beer to him, along with some overly sweet-smelling jerky and a pair of hard wedges of sweet-smelling bread. “Today is a celebration, and who couldn’t celebrate with a view like that!” He grinned, waving broadly to the trees outside the windows. Yet for all the man’s bluster, his heart beat just as nervously as the others. When he looked at Kechua, there was another uncomfortable twinge within it.

  Kechua chewed the meat and crunched the bread, sipping the bitingly sweet soft drink.

  “I was worried a bit, watched you a while.” The man leaned in, his voice lowering. “Nobody else came out. Only a couple even bothered looking back out there, and I think that’s probably good. I mean everyone gets that there’s weirdness going on, but don’t want them to get the wrong idea, right?”

  Kechua gave a slow nod but continued chewing, yearning for the musky taste of his berries.

  “I . . . before you talk to anyone, if you were going to talk to anyone, we’re leaving.” Tyran paused. “All of us.”

  Kechua searched for the correct words—that it wasn’t safe outside, that they were welcome so long as they were polite—but the sentiment tumbled together when Tyran continued.

  “We’ve been through a lot here, and what happened—whatever happened—was something alright. But we know that this isn’t for us anymore. You can feel it in the air, in the water.” Tyran nodded toward the fountain as it happily burbled forth clear water.

  “It may be hard to get down,” Kechua muttered. “I’ve been to the edge. It’s a long way down.”

  “Easier to get down than up, anyways.” Tyran chuckled. “Nah, someone went to the edge yesterday, just before the light was gone, and saw a way down. It’s all good.” He grinned.

  “Where will you go?”

  “Well, depends. We’ve all got ideas.” Tyran shrugged. “Got some going to the coast, got some heading northeast hoping to hit mountains. That bunch”—he motioned with his apple juice at a table of four—”are trying for New York of all places. Everyone’s got their own idea. I don’t know.” He smiled, but his lips trembled a little.

  “Me, I think I’ll head little southeast. Got a girl that I don’t see at night in the forest. I think, we all think, that means they’re still around. Still out there somewhere. You feel it too, right?”

  Kechua thought a moment and offered simply, “Sure.” He wondered what they saw in their dreaming worlds, but it seemed too probing to ask.

  “You would be welcome with any of us. The New Yorkers may need some explanation, since they were all . . . inside that thing, but they’d be glad to have you. They seem to think we’re much further east than we are. They could certainly use a guide.” Tyran leaned to the side. “Anyone would walk with you, but I have a feeling that . . . ”

  “Thank you, but no. There are more people like you—like you were here—out there. Hopefully I can find them in time for more happy endings like this.” Kechua sipped his bitter drink. “If you don’t find the person you’re looking for, or if you’re ever lost, you’re welcome to come stay here if you need to.” Kechua held his bottle and they clinked together in cheers. “Special deal for doers.”

  “Appreciate it. I hope you don’t mind we’re going to loot whatever we can from here. They’ve planted some of the potatoes somewhere out there. Marked it with a post for you. I’ve stashed the ginger beer and a little hoard of juice for you in the cabinets though.” He gave a wink. “We’re all doers now, but I’d like to leave you with more than rotting veggies and meat to remember us by.”

  “Wait.” Kechua slipped his bottle onto the counter, half finished, and walked to the group of four. They headed to the door and offered a glancing nod towards those assembled. “You’re leaving now?”

  “Yes.” The heavily-bearded man regarded him sideways. “We are.”

  “Let me guide you out. I know the paths already.”

  “All the way down?” He raised an eyebrow but held the door open for the boy.

  “All the way down.” Kechua followed the group into the dark and through the woods.

  And so Kechua escorted the travelers down and away from his mountain. The paths narrowed into single footfalls in parts, but they always formed enough of a stairway to ensure not a single ankle was so much as wrongly turned in their voyage.

  He led the other two groups out as well, ferrying them down. He lingered with Susan and Gregoris, sharing almost no words as they parted, disappearing into the forest below.

  The day grew dim and the school lay empty of all but Tyran. The man had been scarce, clinging to the groups as they left and offering goodbyes as they crossed over the school’s wall, but he returned to the cafeteria’s fountain each time.

  Kechua thought to invite him to walk in the woods, but the man’s heart had slowed over the day, draining of energy with each parting group. As the shadows grew, Kechua found himself alone again, his legs dangling off the cliffs of the open maw against the world. The rainbows cast against the mist slowly died into shy and drab colours. He spotted the shapes of white hosf stumbling out of the woods every so often, bringing a smile to his face.

  “How long does it take?” he asked Wolf, betrayed by his careful footfalls of claws dredging grass. “I mean, you must have seen this before.”

  “Time is meaningless in this season, as such is space,” Wolf growled low. “I have indeed seen many of these come and go. In the early days, they seemed to last forever; years upon years. As time has progressed, as you humans have grown to know one another and the world more, the seasons have shortened drastically. Yet this time . . . this time has a different taste. The material world has shrunk. Knowledge itself seemingly has shrunk.” A trace of sentimentality flickered in the otherwise taunting growl.

  “Each conflict must resolve, of beast and Blessed. Either in utter surrender or victory, these are what weigh upon the Silent Season’s scales,” Wolf muttered.

  The creature’s tone shifted again, the words laced with a gnawing snarl. “There is power to be had out there for those willing to grasp it; thos
e willing to seek.”

  Kechua kept his gaze towards the sunset, the rainbows slipping away into nothingness.

  “Or you could help them as they fall,” the softer tone chimed from behind him.

  Perhaps tomorrow he would set out again, following the rivers; seeing what he could find out there. Today, however, his legs were content; warm, and he basked in his gifts as the dark chased away the world below.

  CHAPTER 7:

  The Docile Aspect

  He found rest inside the forest that night, the gentle rhythm of the nocturnal creatures awakening pattered against him as he lay in the grass. The rushing of the water—somewhere beyond the trees—sang out to him, and yet the picture felt wrong; incomplete. The sky above yawned a simplistic black void, even as the night came into full life. He had heard of completely black skies like this, generally in the cities where the smog and humidity hid them, but they hid behind no shroud. They simply seemed gone.

  The moon remained, hovering mostly hidden behind trembling leaves, but it shone in the barest pallor. Some nights, he had crawled to the roof of his house, sometimes with Anah but more often alone. He would stare up and try to disconnect himself from the tugging rhythms below, to fall up into their company.

  Much like the spirits, they remained ever unwilling during his life. He remembered trying to find words when she was there with him, but he never once spoke. The times when she dreamed into the stars were when the rhythm of her heart was the calmest, the subtleties of her movements free of the knotted stress.

  There was time. There would be time, he assured himself. He opened his eyes, and the stars of memory faded away, lingering in his eyes a little while. She was there, they all were, somewhere beyond the darkness; beyond his perception. He needed to prove himself again, however many times it took, to remember them through his actions.