by BC Powell
My hands began to tremble and cramped out of my control around the steering wheel. When halos of red from the brake lights in front of us blinded me, I slammed my foot on the brake pedal, pushed with all my might, and heard the loud screech of rubber against asphalt.
“Chase!” my sister screamed from far away.
* * *
“Murkovin!” a roaring male voice echoes through the hills.
Rain plummets from the sky, blackened storm clouds churn in place, and my eyes try to adjust to Darkness. I spin to the shout behind me, immediately knowing I’m on the same hill as I’d been when I was twelve. There’s not a doubt in my mind.
Needles race up my spine when I see the shirtless creature crouched at the base of the hill. Tall with black veins bulging from ghostly white skin, the beast of a man scans the terrain. Wearing only black leathery pants, firm ridges of muscle lining his stomach and chest, he wildly swings a metal spear in one hand.
His head snaps to me. Long black hair twined with white whips across his face while his empty hand slashes the air in front of him. When his eyes touch mine, shadowy sockets flare blood red. The brute charges up the hill at me.
I lurch the other way and sprint into the meadow below. A torrent of rain slams against my skin as deafening creaks pierce the air. I see the flailing tree in front of me and try to stop, but my bare feet slip across the slick wet grass.
A glowing red limb lashes at me, slams into my chest, and hurls me to the ground. As the branch smashes into me again, I jerk my hands up in defense. Blood instantly spurts from gashes torn into my face, neck, and arms. Rolling across the grass, I frantically try to get out of its reach.
When I stop a few feet away, landing flat on my back, I stare straight up. A monstrous bough high above flexes into a fisted hand. I try to jump to my feet but a blur scoops me from the ground. As we speed away from the tree, silky wisps of black and scarlet brush across my face. A thunderous slam vibrates from behind us, the wooden fist pounding into the ground where, a moment earlier, my body would have been.
Into the valley we race until we’re outside the range of groping limbs. After we slide to a stop, I’m gently set on the grass. I look up to see the girl I met when I was twelve standing over me—the girl called Sash.
Her thin arms are barbed with muscular detail as she tightly grasps her spear. Metallic points, steel spikes sticking out the top of a pack slung over her shoulder, flash from behind her head. She peers down at me through radiant amber eyes.
“Are you injured?” she growls, silver raindrops beading down her hair.
“A few cuts and bruises,” I answer. “I’ll be fine.”
Her head jumps up and mine follows. On top of the hill where I stood, a man in the black clothing of Krymzyn, vibrant green hair glittering in the dark, battles the creature. Their steel spears clash before the green-haired man twists away. With a sudden lunge, he plunges the tip of his weapon into the muscular, white chest. A wail of agony tears through the hills while black blood gushes from the wound.
A woman leaps from behind the hill, trails of neon green behind her head and a steel point leading her soar. Rays of light burst around the shaft as her spear rams through the creature’s skull. The vile specter collapses to the ground.
“Are there more?” Sash screams at them.
“Only this one!” the man yells back.
“Stay here,” Sash says calmly, her eyes returning to mine. “You’re safe now.”
I’m scared, shocked, fascinated . . . a barrage of emotions race through me. I don’t feel any physical effects from the seizure I know I’m in the middle of back on Earth, but I honestly can’t assess my feelings at being here. Except one overwhelming reaction—I’m finally amazed.
Sash charges through the rain towards the tree. Branches split the air around her as she sails off the ground. I sit up to watch, instantly hypnotized by her spectacular acrobatics.
A limb sweeps harmlessly below her feet. With the long spear grasped tightly in both her hands, she blocks another branch at the apex of her leap. She lands, tucks into a roll under one more swinging limb, and finally launches off the grass to the trunk. Flexed arms of wood whip inward but have to stop as cracking sounds fill the meadow. Sash kneels safely by the base of the tree, the branches unable to reach her.
She pops a hand behind her head, snatches one of the short spikes from the pack on her back, and forcefully stabs it into the tree. Twisting the metal point deep inside the bark, she locks the three-foot-long spike into the trunk. In a flurry of motion, Sash stabs and twists again and again until all seven metallic stakes are anchored into the wood. Minutes pass while she protects the spikes from the limbs overhead, amber ferocity constantly burning in her eyes.
A hint of orange pares the edges of the clouds, and the rainfall thins. The limbs of the tree slowly reach outward, some up to the sky, others drooping to the ground with their tips digging into the turf. The swirling clouds slow until idle masses of dark gray return. Once the rain stops falling and it’s fully light, the tree remains perfectly still.
Sash slowly removes one stake from the bark, twists the steel tip, and slips it into the cylinder on her back. She gently leans her face to the trunk, resting her forehead on the exact spot the spike punctured the tree. Both of her hands reach outward and she presses her palms to the bark. As seconds pass, she stands in reverence to the tree.
One by one, she removes the spikes. Each time she does, she repeats the moment of silence with her hands and forehead pressed to the bark. When the last metal stake is returned to her pack, Sash crosses the meadow to me.
She’s grown taller—maybe five foot six now—slender and toned. Her face is my age with no lines or blemishes on her smooth, pale skin. Her fiery amber eyes, infinite black pupils, and rich burgundy lips look ageless and wise, like she’s seventeen and twenty-seven and ninety-seven.
I try to stand but wince from a twinge of pain in my back. Crouching on my knees, I glance at my arms. Water may bead and run off me in Krymzyn, but my blood still scabs and stains my skin. I finally rise to my feet with a grimace.
“I’m sorry if the tree injured you,” Sash says when she reaches me. “For your own safety, never be in reach of the branches.”
“Thank you for helping me,” I say. “I really appreciate it. You’re a lot stronger than you look.”
Talk about an understatement. I’m in absolute awe of the speed, strength, and agility I just witnessed from Sash. It was more astounding than any special effects in a movie I’ve seen or any character in a video game I’ve played.
“I’m honored to provide aid to a visitor of Krymzyn,” she humbly replies.
The man and woman who killed the creature walk down the hill towards us. The man drags the corpse by the hair. Even though I’m almost six feet tall now, they’re both much taller than I am. A younger man walks by their side, also with black and green hair. Rugged and stocky, he looks no more than a year or two older than I am and he’s about my height. The three stop when they reach us, studying me intently.
“We’ll escort the Teller to the Disciples,” the woman says to Sash.
“No,” Sash replies. “I’ll attend to his needs. The Disciples will be busy because of the Murkovin.”
“Tellers should only meet with the Disciples,” the younger man hisses.
“He’s injured and covered in blood,” Sash says loudly, turning towards the young man.
“That’s not your responsibility,” he snarls.
“Balt!” the green-haired woman barks. “Never speak to another in that tone. She’s only trying to help a visitor.”
Sash doesn’t respond, instead staring at the young man with an intensity and ferocity I’ve never seen in any creature anywhere. Her muscles flex until they’re as tight as the band of a slingshot stretched almost to the breaking point, ready to release in an instant.
Even the eyes of the two older adults widen at the unbridled surge of energy that seems to surround her, the
outrage flowing from her eyes. Balt tries to hold her glare but finally looks down at the ground.
“Sash,” the green-haired woman says flatly, “you need to maintain control.”
After another moment of tension, Sash relaxes her stance and turns to the woman. “I apologize,” she says, bowing her head slightly. “I’m upset by the intrusion of a Murkovin.”
Sash kneels to the ground, sinks her fingertips into the dirt beneath the grass, and whispers something. A few seconds later, she stands.
“Eval is aware of his presence,” Sash says in a soft voice. “I told her that after the Teller has healed, cleansed, and rested, I’ll take him to Sanctuary.”
“Of course,” the green-haired woman replies.
The three people with green hair nod farewell to Sash. As they walk away from us, the one named Balt looks over his shoulder. He fires a nasty glance at me, then at Sash, but quickly turns away. I lower my eyes to the muscular, hideous corpse being dragged behind the other man.
“What do you call that thing?” I ask.
“Murkovin,” Sash replies. “They dwell in the Barrens.”
“What was it trying to do?”
“It wanted sap from the sustaining tree,” Sash says with a hint of pain in her voice.
“Why sap?”
“Tree sap is our only sustenance in Krymzyn.”
“Is that why you stabbed those things in the tree?”
“The spikes fill with sap,” she replies, nodding.
“No offense, but why don’t you do that when the tree isn’t trying to kill you?” I ask.
“The sap only flows during Darkness, when the tree is aware,” she explains. “The tree only tries to protect itself.”
“That seems pretty fucked up to me.”
The tone of my voice fully reflects the intent of my statement, so she doesn’t bother to ask about the word that doesn’t translate. She narrows her eyes slightly and I can feel the teeming anger cast in my direction. For the second time in a few minutes, I sense the extraordinary power that resides inside her.
I suddenly wish I’d bitten my tongue. But strangely, it’s not from fear. After feeling so safe with her, I don’t ever want to upset or hurt her in any way.
“Follow me,” Sash says sharply. She spins to the valley and briskly walks away.
Chapter 6
“Sash,” I call to her.
She stops walking and slowly turns to face me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, holding her eyes. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just a little freaked out right now . . . scared. I really appreciate you saving me, and I’m sorry if I said anything wrong.”
Her face softens with understanding at my apology. I’m sure she knows how frightened I must have felt arriving in the situation I did.
“You remember me from when you here before, when we were smaller,” she says as a statement of fact.
“Yes,” I reply. “It’s strange. I remember everything about being here. I’m Chase, by the way.”
“I know who you are.”
I start to walk towards her but wince from pain. Sash immediately steps to me.
“Are you able to walk?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I answer.
“We’ll go to my habitat,” she says. “I can heal your wounds, and you may rest there.”
Side by side, we slowly stroll deeper into the valley.
“Do you live with your family?” I ask.
“Family?” she questions.
“Your mother and father,” I say before I remember how “parents” never translated when I was younger. Apparently “mother” and “father” have no meaning here either.
“I don’t understand,” she replies.
“Who gave birth to you?”
“A woman who was chosen to carry me.”
“How was she chosen?” My curiosity is soaring.
“After Darkness passes,” Sash replies, “if a new child is needed in Krymzyn, one man and one woman are given the sign of fertility. They know of their choice by amber sparkles in their veins and golden light in the fertility hair that grows on our bodies. It’s a great honor to be chosen.”
“Your parents—sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “The man and woman who make you are just chosen randomly?” I understand now that any word that hangs in the air for a long time never translates, so I can quickly correct myself.
“Nothing is random,” Sash answers. “They’re chosen because they have something inside them worthy of being passed on. As soon as they’ve been given the sign, the two meet at the Cavern of Grace and engage in the Ritual of Balance. The woman then carries the child until birth, her only purpose while she’s pregnant to protect the child growing inside her. After she gives birth, she nurtures the child through the seventy periods of Darkness that follow.”
“What happens to the baby after that?” I ask.
“The child is then presented to the Keepers at the Naming Ritual. The Keepers sustain and educate the child in the ways of Krymzyn until the height of purpose is reached. While the Keepers attend to the needs and education of the children, all of Krymzyn is responsible for their upbringing.”
“You don’t know the woman who gave birth to you?”
“It’s not necessary to know who she is,” Sash replies.
“Or the man who . . .” I have to pause to try and figure out a word that will translate since I know “father” won’t, but Sash answers before I come up with one.
“The man who provides the seed for growth,” she says. “Again, there’s no need to know who he is.”
This time, I bite my tongue to hold in my response, one I’m certain she wouldn’t appreciate.
“So what happens when the child reaches the height of purpose?” I ask.
“The child is taken to the Tree of Vision for the Ritual of Purpose. Once the sap of that Tree is consumed, color is given to our hair and our purpose revealed through that color. The child then becomes an Apprentice in the ways of their purpose. My hair streaked with scarlet, the color of a Hunter, and I served as an Apprentice with a Mentor named Yoni. While an Apprentice, I dwelled with the Keepers and other children. When Yoni met his death, I ended my Apprenticeship. I was given my own habitat, and now I serve my purpose to Krymzyn.”
“Who were the green-haired people?”
“Watchers,” she replies. “They protect the walls around the Delta. The youngest of the three, Balt, is an Apprentice.”
“So you live your whole life alone after you leave the Keepers?” I ask.
“All of Krymzyn exists as one, but each dwells in solitude.”
“So what if someone’s never chosen for the Ritual of Balance?”
“Then their purpose is fulfilled until the height of death is reached. Hunters are never chosen because we need rest after Darkness and must always be available when Darkness falls.”
“You never have, like, a boyfriend or husband or partner?”
“I don’t know the meaning of those words,” she says.
“You never have sex?” I blurt out, but wish I’d bitten my tongue again.
“I don’t understand.”
“Whatever goes on in the Ritual of Balance. Mating maybe?” I ask, happy that “mating” translates.
“Only if one is chosen for the Ritual,” she answers.
Sash walks around the base of a hill and I follow. I’m still confused and want to ask more about how hair color defines purpose but decide that I have enough information to absorb for now. What she told me explains why, in my mind, she always seems to have such a sad, lonely expression on her face.
We walk into a narrow gorge of grass-lined ridges. An oval door constructed of black granite stone is tucked into the crease at the foot of the hill. She leads me to it, grasps a brushed-metal knob, and opens the door.
“Follow me inside,” she says.
I crouch behind her as we enter a dark, narrow tunnel of black crystalline stone. Darkness surrounds us when she clos
es the door.
“Awaken,” Sash calls out.
At the end of the long tunnel, soft amber light slowly illuminates an opening. We slink towards the light, and I gasp when we enter the spacious cavern.
My eyes are instantly pulled to a high-domed ceiling, a sprawling crystal garden like the inside of a geode. Sharp spikes refract pinpoints of gold light from within. I stare at tiny bright spheres that seem to float like gravity-defying flakes of snow inside the fragmented crystal.
“Swirls,” Sash says, seeing my dazed expression. “Tiny creatures of light that dwell in the stone.”
“How do they live in there?” I ask.
“They feed on minerals in the crystal. The proper sound from my voice causes them to illuminate or darken.”
Sash walks across a smooth dark-blue quartz floor that dully reflects the light from overhead. The floor is polished but doesn’t feel slippery beneath my bare feet as I follow her into the cavern. The walls are the same quartz as the floor, rich blue-gray with dull red and amber veins. A gentle rush of flowing water echoes through an opening at the far end of the cavern.
She slips the pack from her back and hangs it on a metallic rack fastened to the wall. Another pack filled with the short stakes hangs beside it. She leans her spear against the wall, locking it into a clasp beside the rack.
I glance to the other side of the oval cavern. A large mattress-like pad lies on the ground by the wall across from us, longer than a king-sized bed but about the same width. It’s covered by white fabric that looks like brushed cotton with two large, well-stuffed white pillows on top. I don’t see any sheets or blankets for the bed.
“You live here alone?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies. “This is my habitat.”
“It’s really incredible,” I say.
“I hope you feel comfortable while you’re here,” she answers sincerely.
The air in the room feels exactly like the outside in Krymzyn, void of temperature. In this world, no one ever shivers from a winter chill, bundles in soft wool blankets, or warms themselves by a fire. In Krymzyn, the temperature just is.