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

by T. Wyse

  “You? No, of course not.” Kechua chuckled. “You shouldn’t listen to strange and silly old men.” The ragged little creature must have had similar warnings of Wolf, or perhaps knew of Wolf’s teachings and shared them in some twisted way.

  The girl’s eyes knit together, and she collapsed with a wide-jawed sigh. Her hands glowed with white radiance, drinking in the blood and dabbing it away from her dress. He watched her hands try to move, and she whimpered as they failed her. He looked away, unable to watch, and sure she would heal.

  He took back his club from Wolf, having neatly penetrated its skull down the middle. Silver dripped off the shining black blade, and the club drank it in greedily.

  “Was a respectable shot to be certain, little Kechua.” The cat spoke with a dry and rattling tone, with an underlying musical knowing. His desperate puffed-up show deflated into a rather raggedy-looking cat.

  “You know my name.” He softly trod over to the thing and gazed into its face. “You feel familiar to me too, somehow.” The snubbed nose and lop ears screamed of something other than a feline, and yet some knowing washed over him like an unplaceable smell.

  “Your people know me, and I confess I have paid some attention to you as you grew.” A half smile crept into the lips. “I have dwindled, but so it goes. Do you know the name Enut, Qotsamosa; Kokopelli?”

  “I . . . ” Kechua squinted, thinking back to the times at the fire, trying to etch things into his brain as the Shaman droned. “The last one, I think I have heard.” He placed the familiarity. The fur felt just like the white pelt hanging upon the upper loop of the Black Tent. “Are you Xatl? Disguised and walking here?” He squinted.

  Kokopelli gave an exhausted sigh. “No, I am not he, and you have heard all of the names,” he grumbled. “I was being coy. Really, you do not recall?”

  The cat stared at the boy, lopped ears twitching, and his burning eyes ended with a dismissive roll. “I suppose some things are too subtle. Xatl couldn’t beat it into that granite skull. Kokopelli will do.”

  ***

  Kechua sat in silence across from Kokopelli, both staring at the sleeping girl. He wondered if his face could look even one tenth as mournfully concerned as the cat’s.

  Her arms radiated heat, which bit at him even through the cloth of her dress. Her lips moved as though attempting to speak without any meaning or wind behind. Her closed eyes flickered in the depths of the dream world.

  While he did wonder what occurred in her jaunt into the spirit world, he found himself glancing more and more to Kokopelli as the minutes went on.

  “You are one of the manifest spirits. One of our ‘gods’ or ‘Ushers.’” Kechua smiled, giving a slight and triumphant nod. “The shaman spoke of you, heralding the seasons, heralding birth and the soil’s fertility.”

  “A miracle indeed! Mothers and creators, noble warriors, gods of the land, rejoice one and all! The boy learned something from words!” The cat flung his arms loosely towards the heavens with a grandiose sarcasm, driving him momentarily on two feet. “Though I can only imagine Xatl continued his lip service on the matter. I care little for hearing my own story, especially when it is rife with holes.” He let out a long drawn sigh.

  “You’re here now though, finally, and you seem to know me.” Kechua stared at the creature sadly. “I was left with a question by one of the elders of Glalih, and having you in front of me gnaws my brain.” His face contorted into a scowl, which he squashed with a tranquil sigh. “She asked in essence for my understanding, having conceded to the invaders despite having the council of one or more of your kind. She asked me for my answer, how I would lead Glalih out of the despair entwined in its heart.”

  “We have never spoken directly, but yes, that sounds like her.” Kokopelli crackled softly.

  “Why are you not leading us then? You could have stopped this from happening from the start! You could pull us out from our pits! Why is it that—”

  “Bah, wasted words! They will bounce against your ears,” Kokopelli dismissed and spared a glance at Amelie. “Control. Speaking indirectly and to a chosen few gives us a measure of control and freedom to act. To be seen too much and by too many is to open oneself to change, to interpretation, and to lead in any sense would invite . . . unwanted attentions,” he paused thoughtfully. “In truth, I had tried once before, when my people fell from me, leaving me behind. The results weren’t what I wanted and were good for none involved. Then the greater change occurred, and we saw the people invaded. All of us took notice when the outsiders came.” He took a rattling breath.

  “You must understand, we did not see it coming, and in the beginning, those who felt it dismissed the invasion. To us, to creatures like us, the world stops where we are no longer known. We knew whispers of the invaders, mostly from our dealings with the southern gods, but we could never imagine . . . ” Kokopelli’s burning eyes were far off, slitted inside memories. “Change comes with the season. The greatest changes of the world have always been as such. Yet the newcomers arrived and caught us all unprepared, striking in such a way that we could not resist. It was . . . it was something larger than ourselves, something we could do little against.”

  “You could have rode with them, turned the tide; healed the sickness.” Kechua sat up, his excitement overriding his exhaustion.

  “It is complicated in that regard. Yes, we could have manifested. We could have ridden alongside you, but it would have worsened it for you. You see, they had gods of their own—their own Ushers, their own guardians. Their guardians were alien, focused in such a way as to give them power, their values and ideals twisted and warped. They were caught unaware. Eventually, we all parlayed in The Dark Heart. In the end, it was simply agreed that we would all refrain from the fight—newcomers and old, all domains and all regions—and simply let it take its course. It was something I confess we thought was stacked towards these lands, the warring gods thinking that your ancestors would sweep the incumbents away like dust.” The little god’s voice broke.

  “They kept to the agreement more than we, I fear. They withdrew from the waking form of these lands, after the treaty, while we tried to help in other ways, indirectly. We shared insight vague enough to not enrage the gods of the newcomers. It wasn’t enough.”

  “Did the . . . ” Kechua stopped. What were the ‘gods of Christianity,’ he wondered? “Did the others, the invading Ushers, did they fight back?”

  Kokopelli nodded slowly. “Strange as they were, it was stranger still that they did not raise their hands when wronged directly, only when we struck against their people. Even gone from the waking world, they still influenced things here, but that was enough. Perhaps they saw their victory infallible even with our trifling aid. Who can say? I have not spoken to any of them since that time in the forest so many years ago.”

  “What can we do when the ones destroying you do not come as an enemy? What can you do when they smother you with gentle hands, kill with words of mercy? I can only echo your elder’s words: What solution would you have proposed?” Kokopelli asked, each word drumming against his skull like falling nuts. “There is perhaps no true answer for The Merciful’s invasion, not one from our pithy means.”

  Kechua sat in silence.

  “Tell me your story, young man. We have time, and I do so like stories.”

  “I . . . I come from a place called Glalih.” Kechua’s words stumbled at first, but then they trickled out of their own volition.

  Kechua told the little Usher his story of the shaman and the staff, of the vision quest unfulfilled, and of Wolf coming to him. He tried to speak of his family, of Anah, and the way of life in Glalih, but he could remember little but the repetitions, with Talah and the Black Tent standing tallest in his recollection. His mouth opened into a yawning river of words as he told the story of Earth’s Cruelty, of the lost, of the Guardian, the hungry, and the thieves. He spoke of Rutger and the staff’s final fate, and he couldn’t help but notice the recollection ruffled the creature’s
fur. He spoke of the old man, the elders, the school and the man inside, the woman who knew the darkness, and the Aspect of the night itself.

  Kechua told his story—the events as he could remember them—and as he did so, he held his clubs, moving his hands over the parts already etched and adding etchings to commemorate the events not recorded. He spoke into the night with the little creature.

  ***

  He awoke with the coming of the dawn, having sloppily fallen into sleep while attending his vigil, hugging the pack for support. The change in the world around him struck him first with the fragrance of flowers and trees, and second with the new rhythm of life drumming below.

  Where the dirt before hummed with an anticipatory electricity, trees and grass gobbled the potential to feed rampant growth. The air hung heavy with pollen and flowery perfume, and insects cracking forth from eggs and cocoons filled his earthen sense, their growing buzzing and song filling his ears.

  He drank of his shrinking flask and gave a slow nod at Kokopelli, who perched over the girl, burning cinders of eyes just as attentive as the boy had left them. The cat offered only the slightest twitch of his limp ears in response.

  He rose to his feet, stretching his legs and finding them willing participants again. Roaming upon the grass, he gnawed a particularly chewy and salty chunk of his meat. He strode through the swaying willows, with their squared flowers, and felt a sense of awe tickling at him like the warm breath of the place. More than the lake or swamp, and even his own mountain to a lesser degree, it sang of the renewal of the Silent Season rather than despair and monstrosities. The breeze washed over him, soothing the ache in his shoulders, and even fluttered inside his shirt to massage the collected knots on his back.

  He came to a lake, shining and smooth as ice. He made to dip into it but recoiled, feeling foolish enough to ape the movement of one of the hosf. He glared accusingly at his recoiled hand. He would sooner run back to the river than be the first human hand to break the pristine surface.

  Not a single cloud pierced the sky—not a hint of the white fluff since he had begun—despite the growing water beneath. He gazed into the mirror of the girl’s lake, picturing somewhere on the silent soil lay some darkened beast rumbling with cloud and ice. Its form remained shrouded in clammy dark, with a pair of burning red eyes to frame it. He pictured the form of a human standing tall against the beast, finding some skewed perspective to defeat it, and weeping with joy as the rain returned to the world.

  In one way or another, it would all be back. Kechua smiled and marked the clear blue above in his mind while it lasted. A cloud of doubt fluttered in his heart, wondering for the first time if perhaps Sarah or the nameless boy would have conquered their creatures as Amelie had, and walking away from the lake let him at least forget the grinding feeling.

  He rounded his little stretching tour, into the tapping beat of tiny footfalls, attempting to stay out of his sight. They followed him with a marked curiosity, creeping almost silently within the undergrowth. He caught sight of blurred white bodies, darting from the slender trees to the foliage behind him, as he returned to the vigil.

  He felt her forehead and glanced at her arms. Her forehead was warm but not burning with any sort of fever, and her arms seemed to have healed. The dress shimmered and was clean, even the tears had mended themselves. Kokopelli didn’t so much as twitch his ears at Kechua’s inspection, though he offered no greeting from his fixation.

  Grunting and bass groaning came from nearby, and Wolf busied himself with squirming free of the foliage netting over him while he lay limp. He came to a laying sulk, face upon his paws, watching the three of them in the grass.

  “I trust you’ll behave yourself now, Old Man?” Kechua muttered at the sullen beast. The great grey wolf gave no reply.

  “He was attracted to the moment, out of instinct more than anything else.” Kokopelli dryly responded for Wolf.

  Kechua seized the break in silence to speak again. “You’ve been with her, at least since the season began? Or even before?” He watched as the cat’s eyes glanced back nervously, ears twitching slightly. “Her name is Amelie, right?”

  “Correct, Amelie Beren. I wonder how you know?” Kokopelli turned his head curiously. “I have travelled with her, yes, from the moment the season began. I was tasked with preventing her from arriving where she is as best I could, but ah, some things don’t go quite as we ask.” He trailed off.

  “He has betrayed the trust of those who know him, those he has allowed himself loose affiliation with,” Wolf grumbled.

  “Her name means nothing to you then? Was it spoken to you by Wolf? Perhaps someone else?” The cat crackled.

  “A man named M’grevor told me about her.” Kechua shrugged. “I hadn’t heard of her before then.”

  “Ah, then he is safe,” Kokopelli purred. “She will be happy to discover that I’m sure. You haven’t heard the names Lucas and Adele Beren?” he asked coyly, his eyes thoughtful slits digging into Kechua.

  Wolf gave a low chuckle, making the hairs on the boy’s neck tingle.

  “No . . . who are they?” Kechua asked, looking between the two creatures.

  “They know you, young one.” Kokopelli cackled softly. “You have met them, surely, though their names and intent would have been shrouded beyond your notice. They aspire to balance their anonymity with their pursuit of the world’s core truths.”

  “Parasites.” Wolf rumbled low. “Chasing old paths beyond their place.”

  There was a scuffling in the leaves, and a curious little creature jutted out from underneath. It was a white thing, wider than a squirrel, and it skittered towards Kechua with an uneasy zig-zagging indirectness.

  “Hello there, creature.” Kechua smiled, holding his hand out, and attempted to beckon it closer. It moved backwards, to the protection of one of the willows.

  “Much like the antlered ones were to you, they are the children of her creation,” Kokopelli offered.

  “I won’t hurt them.” Kechua followed the little creature toward the trees.

  “No, it’s not you they fear.” Kokopelli looked at Wolf. “She saw him in his attack briefly, and so she perceived him as a threat. As such, this land will seek to eject him in any way possible.” The creeping vines of the forest floor swirled tight around Wolf’s tail, and he let out an angry snarl, snapping it. He stood and paced the camp, his tail whipping back and forth with aggravation. “The little ones have no instruction, no guiding sentiment really, but also no method of attacking him.”

  There was a presence beside Kechua, just beyond Amelie’s head. It was one of the little creatures. Bolder than the others, it stood on its hind legs, attempting to get a better look at the mistress of the forest.

  “Well, come on then.” Kokopelli rolled his eyes, ushering the little thing in closer. Not utterly without caution, it stalked with a sauntering slowness towards her side, standing on its hind legs again and trying to see her better.

  “Oh come here. Looking is fine, but stay away while she sleeps.” Kechua grabbed the little thing and held it aloft above her. It wriggled spastically a moment before settling into a slight tremble, focusing on her face rather than the loose palms. The little thing had the loosened flaps of a flying squirrel, but it was larger and slightly burlier. It featured an elongated tail, not unlike a gerbil’s, and three stripes down it’s body; one of them yellow, and the other two an impossible blue.

  They were aping her dress in their very creation. The creature’s bravery fell away as Wolf paced closer, and it skittered up his arm, launching itself from his shoulders and back towards the forest.

  The rodent crept back immediately, bobbing onto its back legs only to steal a little progress towards the sleeping girl. Wolf grumbled and paced far enough away that the little blob returned to Kechua’s side, keeping the boy between it and the wandering Wolf.

  “Are you the first among your kind? I think the first among my hosf were the bravest as well.” Kechua smiled, though the litt
le one remained resolutely silent. “Blue on a mouse, funny.” The creature scrambled beside him, standing on its back legs to regard him better.

  “Blue is incumbency, the world anew, children born; change itself,” Kokopelli recited softly.

  “Blue is the colour of the west, the colour of loss; defeat.” Kechua corrected the little creature.

  “What is loss, defeat, but change?” Kokopelli said. “To fight is to resist change, whether it be in your culture or in yourself. Victory is red, and red is the colour of primality, the colour of refusing to change, of being unflinchingly strong.”

  Something stirred Kechua’s senses. Another creature’s feet drummed against the forest floor. It had a more even weight, allowing enough caution to be difficult for even him to sense. The thing moved carefully and with purpose, a creeping care to watch them without being seen.

  He squinted at the faint feeling of that movement, and it drew to stillness the second he turned. “More than mice out there, I think. Something is watching with care not to be seen.”

  “Hm. I imagine there was lingering malice when the Aspect was slain.” Kokopelli paused, offering a pensive hum. “I feel it too. Whatever they are, they won’t attack her, at least. They are still of her creation. I think you would do good to watch your step if you go back into the forest however.”

  “Snakes in the garden. Always.” Wolf chuckled, allowing himself to lie down again.

  Snakes in the garden. Kechua felt the eight-legged rhythm, ever watching.

  ***

  The day passed with enough ease. Kechua’s thirst grew, but the taboo of the lake remained. He instead rested for the first time in a long while, and he somehow managed to fall into sleep when the night came. In the end, he slept propped against a tree, his arms twitching and at the ready beside his clubs. Nothing alarmed him in the darkness, however, and the only intrusion was a black butterfly, resting upon his head a moment before fluttering into the night.