The End of Never

by Tammy Turner

  In her bedroom, June unlocked the windows and hitched the glass panes from the sills. The storm shutters creaked when she threw them open. She wanted to see the wide swath of Atlantic Ocean, beyond the sand dunes buffeting her home from the sea. Holding aside the billowing, gossamer curtain, she stepped closer to the open window. A man’s figure in gray stood at the edge of the water, his face focused on the waves.

  June remembered that her binoculars were in the drawer beside her iron canopy bed. As she slipped her fingers inside the drawer, her skin shivered when she touched the cool steel of the revolver. She shivered. Hugging her terrycloth robe to her chest, she removed the gun and nestled the weapon inside the robe’s soft, deep pockets. Putting her hand back in the drawer, she withdrew the binoculars and returned hurriedly to the open window.

  The heavy, Army-issue binoculars had been a souvenir of war. When she brought the lenses to her face, they tugged at the fragile skin of her bony, sharp cheeks. Her arms wobbled, struggling to hold the lenses to her eyes.

  She considered who might be on the beach. Perhaps it was Joseph, she thought to herself, her dead brother. He had etched his name with a pocketknife into the side of the binoculars in Germany during the turmoil of war. Or possibly it was Captain Charles Peyton. As she thought of her father, the edges of her thin lips curled into a smile.

  Narrowing her gaze to the lone figure on the beach, she squinted. She rested her chest against the wooden sill while she poked her head through the open window.

  “Joseph, it’s you!” she whispered emphatically. June dropped the binoculars and wept.

  On the porch, Ian tapped his foot and crossed his arms, waiting for June to return, re-dressed. He spoke toward the empty staircase, “I’ll carry you down if I have to do so, June.”

  “Ian,” her shaking voice called from above his head. His name echoed through the house and through the trees.

  “June!” he answered, leaping up the stairs. His voice carried her name into the thick forest of oak trees and pines surrounding Peyton Manor.

  Outside, behind the curtain of wood and brush, there was a cramped, human-made clearing. The spot was hidden from anyone who might have been on the driveway or in the house. But it reeked of boiling rabbit. The stench had tempted a crow to sit on a branch above the grass while a brown, dancing woman laughed in the midday sunshine. Silently the bird gaped down at the humble cemetery, four flat gravestones aligned in a tidy row, while it finished swallowing the tail of a green snake.

  “Me tink dat root, dat moss, dat rabbit, dem feaders,” the dancing woman said, her Gullah voice breaking the silence of the smoky clearing. Her black eyes met the stare of the crow resting in the low branch above her head. “Dem feaders gonna make dis stew do right.” A shallow fire pit, dug hastily in the sandy soil, cradled an iron pot. Jasmine added dry pine needles and oak leaves to the burning kindling beneath the bowl. The kindling under the mixture hissed and popped. The mixture bubbled at a low boil.

  Dat Cyrus! she asserted. Dat Cyrus not dead. She leaned over the pot so that her wrinkled nose stopped inches above the wretched, frothing stew. “Dat sometin,” she proudly told the crow, which was still perched on the thin pine branch above her. “Smell it,” she told the bird, as she sniffed the air deep into her chest. Then she clapped her palms together, and suddenly the crow dropped, lifeless, to the ground, Jasmine’s shrill slap was still ringing through the clearing.

  At her bare feet, a white wolf pup whined, his empty belly growling eagerly for a meal. Jasmine stroked the wolf’s muzzle as she plucked a pair of black feathers from the dead crow’s back. “No done yet,” she told the pup and dropped the feathers in the boiling pot. With a heaving gasp toward the fire, she emptied the breath from her lungs. She grinned at the flames flaring up from the blazing kindling. Rancid, gray smoke rose from the pit and blanketed the clearing and the Peyton graves like a fog.

  “Me tink time now.” Jasmine grabbed the pot in her calloused hands. When she rested the iron bowl on top of a flat, white-marble grave marker, splashes of stew spilled on the name carved in the smooth stone. The raised letters formed the name Joseph Peyton. The letters soaked in the boiling broth, while Jasmine closed her eyes and spoke to Cyrus.

  “Cyrus, rize dem eyes, dem tooth. Da sky gonna fall on dat girl. Da ground gonna drink blut. Eat dat stew.” Her hands raised the pot toward the blue sky. Jasmine stepped on top of the gravestone and chanted: “Free, Cyrus. Fight.”

  Up in the attic prison at Callahan’s house, Cyrus was awakened by a stirring in his gut. Cyrus rose from his stupor. He had a hazy memory of the night before, a dream in which he was caught in the grasp of a winged creature. This unpleasant image crawled through his drowsy brain. He growled. His mind whirled without thought, fueled only by the instinct of hunger. He must eat. He felt pain in his belly. The house below him seemed quiet. He sniffed the air, but smelled nothing, no one. He was alone. Now was the time to escape. The sleep had brought him rest and the bruising across his battered yellow skin had faded. Breathing deep into his chest, his broken ribs rose, the fractures mended.

  He moved to a crawling position on his naked hands and knees. He bowed his head and clenched his teeth. A tingle rippled across his back and down his bony spine. The veins of his forearms disappeared under a thick brown coat of wolf fur. Abruptly a howl escaped from his throat and his hind legs propelled him against the locked attic door.

  The wolf hurled himself against the wood. Again and again, the animal used his shoulder to ram the door. A crack appeared on his third try. Cyrus grinned to himself, his black lips parting over his razor-sharp canine teeth.

  On the grave of Joseph Peyton, Cyrus’s wife—his master— shook with laughter. Freedom! Jasmine grinned as she raised the iron pot to her mouth. The rancid broth dripped from the sides of her mouth and ran down her chin. Freedom! she thought again, setting the pot down so that her wolf pup could slurp the stew.

  Jasmine cackled, her hands on her swaying hips. “Dat book gonna be mine,” she shouted into the clearing. “Da devil told me so.”

  9

  Nowhere to Hide

  Fury boiled in Kraven’s veins. Sparks of madness flamed and spat white-hot from his rage. The evil wizard—the spell caster—had brought his dragon to the doors of Kraven’s castle. The monster had come for them. While the people begged at the castle entrance for their prince to save them, the village behind them burned. His bride—his brave, beautiful Iselin— did not want to run. She begged him to let her stay. But instead, he wanted to send her away to the hills beyond the wide river, toward the sea. The wizard would not find her there, Kraven reasoned. To show her the way, her father would give her a map, one he had made from his journeys across the hills and valley of Kilhaven.

  Kraven did not want the people to suffer. Already, billowing clouds of black smoke rose from the pyres of their homes. He knew that he must face the wizard. But what would it cost him to save his realm?

  He urged Iselin to flee. He knew that she was afraid. Her eyes had betrayed her fear.

  “You must go,” he told Iselin, his hands wrapped around her shoulders.

  “Wait for me,” she said.

  “Forever,” he whispered to his princess bride, even as the rumble of thunder rolled across the darkened sky. The valley of Kilhaven burned, and above them, storm clouds swirled, mixed with plumes of smoke.

  “Save Kilhaven,” demanded Iselin, bravely realizing that with Kraven thus engaged, she would be unprotected.

  A roar reverberated across the valley and the walls of Castle Kilhaven shook. They both knew that she should run far and fast.

  The auburn-haired girl stood on the tips of her bare toes and planted a kiss upon her beloved’s forehead. “Forever,” she promised, hugging her arms around his broad shoulders. She did not tremble. But her embrace was frenzied.

  “Hide in the cave,” Kraven whispered into her ear as he stroked her long locks, his fingertips delicately entwining themselves with her curls, as if he coul
d not let her go.

  Embers of hate and vengeance sparred within her heart, but her emerald-green eyes revealed the innocence of her soul. She knew she might never see him again. Above her, heavy gray smoke swallowed the blue heavens. It was at that moment that he closed his eyes briefly to fight the swelling tears. When he reopened his eyes, she had vanished, off to the hills surrounding the valley.

  Dropping to his knees, he cried up to the darkening sky. His bride was running for her life into the forest and he must stay to fight. He could only hope that she would reach the cave in time. But he knew that it was so far away. He was seized by despair. The sound of his anguished cry echoed through the valley.

  Thunder rumbled above his head. He realized that the sound belonged to the dragon, not a storm. He rose to his feet. A violent wind whipped his raven hair from the tops of his shoulders. A cry from the bowels of hell rang in his ears. Darkness followed, as the creature blotted out the light of the sun. The dragon descended, kicking dust from the ground into Kraven’s face. He threw up his arms to shield his eyes. The beast’s wide wings retreated to his sides and, for a moment, the creature stood silent, bowing his head, while a lone rider, his body hidden beneath the folds of a hooded cloak, slid from the dragon’s neck. It was the spell caster, the wizard.

  From under his hood, the spell caster glanced at Kraven and turned to the glaring eyes of his pet. Rearing backward, the dragon roared. With a jab of his head into the air, the beast nastily spat a ball of fire at Kraven’s feet.

  The spell caster turned to face Kraven with an ultimatum. “Kilhaven shall be mine,” the spell caster spoke calmly, “or she shall die.” The fireball in front of Kraven sparkled in the wizard’s black eyes.

  The wizard’s hooded head turned to the trees into which Iselin had fled for her life. In the heart of the valley, the remnants of a kingdom smoldered. The spell caster laughed as he patted the bowed head of the black dragon.

  “Poor Prince Kraven,” he snickered at the enraged Kraven, who was waving a sword impotently in the smoky air. “My ultimatum was too harsh. Instead, I shall issue a wager. If you defeat my dragon in battle, you shall reclaim your lands. But you will give the girl to me.” He smiled crookedly.

  “Never!” Kraven howled back.

  Hearing this answer, the black dragon shook angrily, his thick scales a spasm of uncontrollable metamorphosis. Kraven, his jaw agape, witnessed the body of the dragon shrink into the form of a man—a giant and naked hulk of a man.

  The wizard shook his head disapprovingly. “Syrius,” he spat at the figure. “You disobey my command.”

  Drooping his head low, the naked man, his strained muscles bulging, sprouted a pair of black wings from his back. “Rest now,” the man said solemnly, stepping toward the fire of a burning cottage, his palms raised to the flame to gather warmth. Syrius motioned to Kraven and told the wizard, “He is nothing.” With his gaze turned toward the hills into which Iselin had fled, Syrius said, “She is nothing.”

  With an amused laugh, the wizard patted the creature’s broad shoulders. “Yes, rest, Syrius, before the games begin.” The wizard fixed his black eyes on the stunned prince. “You may run or fight.”

  Fear had found Kraven. A heavy burden rested upon his shoulders. He tried to outrun the beast, his mighty horse galloping full speed beneath him. He passed the wide river and entered the hills. He was sure he could locate her.

  The wooded slope rambled skyward. He climbed higher through the trees, past the ferns and ancient stones. The distant thunder of crashing waves told him that he was nearing the cliff’s edge and coming close to the vast, endless sea. He decided rashly that if he could not save her, he would jump. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the steep dive to the rocks waiting at the bottom of the jagged cliff wall.

  His thighs hugged the horse and his fists clenched the bridle. Hope pounded in his chest. He knew she was alive because otherwise, his heart would not still feel whole.

  A manic roar dropped from the heavens. Kraven turned his head to the sky. Above the towering treetops, a shadow moved across the sun. His horse neighed.

  “Bucephalas,” Kraven whispered into the still air to calm the midnight-black steed beneath him. The raven-haired rider spoke the name of the horse again into the frightened beast’s pointed ears. An overgrown briar bush scraped the mighty flanks of the towering animal.

  A primal cry bellowed from deep within Kraven’s soul. Fear had found him and it had lured him into a trap. His mind ached more than his weary muscles. He could not hide from the agony twisting within his body, but he could, perhaps, outrun it.

  The frightened horse was calmed by the familiar rasp of his master. The steed eased his panting breath and issued a long sigh of resigned fortitude. “Brave one,” Kraven told the stallion and patted his mane, as he dismounted and stepped to the forest floor. Bucephalas stomped his heavy hooves into the moss-covered soil and bowed his head for a whiff of the moist ground.

  Kneeling down, Kraven inspected the strewn leaves and scattered stones, finding a single drop of blood. “Iselin!” he cried.

  Above him, a shadow had been hiding the sun. The shadow rumbled and descended from the heavens. The crash of bending trees caused Bucephalas to rear up onto his hind legs. The terrified horse was neighing and whining for his master to retreat. Kraven realized that the spell caster had followed them. Snatching the horse’s reins, he mounted the beast and wailed, “Forward, Bucephalas! Forward!”

  Man and beast became a streaking blur of black mane and fury. Racing upward through the silent trees and ancient stones, they searched for the summit and the edge of the cliff. The prince feared the silence that had settled upon the forest around them. The caw of a crow perched high above his head drew his eyes to the sky. Blue, he thought. No smoke. No fire. Destruction has been contained to the valley, for now.

  A soft breeze stroked the mane of Bucephalas as he carried his rider—a prince clad in the leather armor of his long-fallen father—higher toward the edge of the sea cliff. He no longer heard the crow, but the roar of the ocean greeted his climb to the summit. With his heart racing in his chest, Kraven squeezed the reins and shouted into the black horse’s ears: “Faster boy! Faster to our Iselin.”

  Obeying, the horse neighed and stomped his legs harder into the moss-covered ground. Kraven felt her, smelled her; she had been here. Then suddenly he saw her through the trees, her body perched precariously on the edge of the steep sea cliff.

  “Iselin!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He could see her feet stumbling on the shifting pebbles beneath her bare toes.

  A hellish roar drowned out his cries, and a shadow blackened the sky above the treetops. Swoosh! The sound of flapping wings assaulted the air. Kraven rode full speed toward the edge of the cliff, tree limbs slashing at his face. When he looked up once more at the cliff, she was gone.

  He blinked his eyes, but he was not mistaken; she was gone. He reared Bucephalas to a halt. The horse came up quickly on his hind legs and shook his head.

  “No!” the prince wailed. Startled by the prince’s cry, the steed shook his rider to the ground.

  Scrambling from the leaves and moss, Kraven ran from the tree line to the edge of the cliff. In the sky, a black dragon flew high into the white, wispy clouds.

  “Iselin!” cried Kraven. He shouted to the heavens, but she did not hear him. He fell to his knees.

  When the princess felt the sharp talons of the dragon release her body, she grabbed the medallion dangling loosely from her neck. She swore her love to Kraven forever. Her fingers caressed the medallion, which had a figure, half-man and half-dragon, etched into the bronze.

  Kraven leaned against a boulder near the edge of the sea cliff. At first, he decided to follow Iselin into the sea. But vengeance overtook him with a powerful hold, whereupon Kraven made two promises. Louder than the surf below, he swore, shaking his fist at the clouds, “I shall only live to see evil die!” Then he brought his fist over his heart, saying softly, “And I
will love you forever, Iselin!”

  10

  Blood Stains

  Although Alexandra was sitting in the park with Jack and Kraven, her thoughts were miles away—in fact, many years away, riding with Kraven that fateful day to the summit.

  I’ve never felt more alive, she thought, so completely and wholly awake and thriving.

  A blur of images pulsed inside her brain; she was connected to Kraven’s memories. The frowning face of Kraven, frightened but brave, gripped her thoughts. His countenance was shrouded in smoke. Trees swirled by her eyes and the snapping of twigs echoed in her ears.

  Alexandra squeezed Kraven’s wrists more tightly, her ragged, bitten fingernails digging into his warm flesh. Her eyelids fluttered.

  “Alexandra,” Kraven whispered over the top of her auburn head. “Let go,” Kraven asked her calmly, although droplets of blood were rising from thin scratches she was making across the pulsing skin of his upturned wrists.

  “Sorry,” Alexandra stuttered and tried to focus her blinking green eyes on her companion’s face. He has not changed since that day—not a line on his forehead, not the terror in his blue eyes.

  Alexandra rubbed her tired face, trying to clear the haze of remembrance from her clouded mind. He saw me . . . her . . . me . . . on the cliff. He was there when she . . . when I . . . when Iselin . . . died.

  She knew. She saw. My gift or my curse? she wondered about her ability to see what others have experienced by touching them.

  Smudges of brackish blood stained her fingertips. Her head swooned. Her pulse beat rhythmically with her pounding thoughts. Smoke? Rain? Alexandra sniffed the thick red substance—Kraven’s blood—clinging to her pale hand.