This is the story of the sons of Animus Letum.
1
Haren was a girl of seventeen years with a soul aged five decades more. Within her village, Haren’s wild dark hair and bronzed skin attracted more attention than she desired. However, close up, it was her violet eyes that captured the stares of her peers. Within her lilac eyes there was a faith most mistook for stubbornness. It was not a faith in God or religion, but a faith that she mattered like no one before her. Somehow, Haren knew there had to be something more to her world. As she learned about the world that man had made, she felt like an outsider. She found that religion obscured her view. Haren had sought out every religious text she could. She had hoped to find a creed to subscribe to, but she was never satisfied. Worship seemed wasteful, guilt and penance even more so. It was as if a compass lay within her and no matter what factors pulled or dragged or deceived her, her heart always pointed to what was right. Her compass was also influenced by a very particular and very frequent phenomenon. Haren often heard a voice – a booming voice that spoke to her soul – that made her believe that there was a world behind the one she could see. The voice, the best friend that she had never met, always announced his arrival with the smell of bergamot. When the rain would fall, Haren would smell the powerful aroma, and although she didn’t know why, in those moments she knew a purpose awaited her. The voice only ever said two words: “Hold strong.” They were simple words, but they were potent – potent enough to promise a young girl that greatness would come.
Within her small village, Haren was the victim of her mother and father’s dishonor. Her father, Losik, was a soldier who had retired because of bad health, and her mother, Yila, was a housewife who had been deemed mad and unfit for society. Haren’s mother had once been highly esteemed within the village, but after giving birth to Haren’s only brother, she experienced a very public depression that never healed. It was in this crisis that Haren’s father was measured poorest. Against the slander of his wife, Losik remained silent. Betrayed by his failing body and dishonored by his early retirement, Losik chose to remain agreeable in the public sphere and continuously chose beliefs that the village mob perpetuated. This included ostracizing his wife. He became a broken man, trying to rebuild himself with another’s bricks.
While the supposed pillars of her family cracked, Haren had to begin construction on herself. Instead of mortar, she had her mind. Instead of brick, she had her body. Haren sacrificed her ambitions and health to support her family, and in doing so, she became the rare miracle that builds itself. The miracle was simple: Haren followed her inner compass. For her, there was no need to debate or second-guess her actions and responsibilities – her compass pointed to what was right, and her heart followed. Haren suffered hunger and nearly every other depravation she could to benefit her family. She endured food-famished shifts in the village infirmary and performed many meagre deeds to care for her crumbling kin. Such a weight, at such an age, should have surely drowned her. But in the form of her brother, Haren had reason to swim. Morello was eight years younger than Haren, but his appearance was that of a shorter doppelganger. He shared Haren’s wild hair and eyes, and as he aged even his meditative posture and sauntering walk matched his sister’s. Haren and Morello had been paired by dire circumstance, but they had been bonded by something far greater. When the voice told Haren to “hold strong,” Haren knew it was just as much for her brother. Because of her mother’s illness, Haren began as Morello’s mother, but soon, she became his sister and great friend. They were two staffs perfectly balanced against one another, strong on each other’s shoulder, but if one were to shift or fall, the other would do the same.
On a spring evening, weeks after Haren’s seventeenth birthday, she lost her balance.
Each year, years that are now centuries in the past, Haren’s village gathered for a feast during spring. It was the rare occasion where invalids like Haren’s mother were able to congregate outside the house. However, in the revel of that spring evening, Haren had lost track of Morello. Her young brother had been absent at least an hour, and this sort of disappearance was more than rare: it was unprecedented. As the feast carried into twilight, a worried Haren began to search. Half an hour later, a scared Haren had still not found her brother. With night falling, Haren made a frantic plea to the villagers for help. But a girl of her caste – the village decided – should receive none. No one knew and no one cared.
“He’ll be back around,” Haren’s father assured her once the crowd had lost interest. Losik was a tall man, but his body had been beaten into a beleaguered hunch.
Haren’s purple eyes stung him as he tried to shuffle past her. “You’re just going to wait?”
As some of the villagers watched the exchange, Losik hushed his voice to drop their attention. “Yes,” he replied, “as should you.”
“I won’t,” Haren asserted. “This is not right. It doesn’t feel right.”
Losik shed an irritated shrug. “Maybe he went to the stables.”
Haren grinded her teeth to subdue her scream. “I’m sorry I have troubled you with the disappearance of your son,” she said. “I’ll check the stables again.”
As a furious Haren left and shouted Morello’s name over the cobblestone roadways of her village, she saw the village’s cleric make a slow exit from a nearby barn.
“Tholyk!” she called to him.
Tholyk’s fat and balding head twisted nervously until his eyes found the approaching Haren.
“Have you seen Morello?” Haren asked as she grew close.
“Is he missing?” Tholyk asked with an unsteady voice.
“For too long,” Haren replied. As she approached him, Tholyk’s drunken breath hit her, and Haren flinched, craning her neck away from the cleric.
Tholyk seemed ashamed, and after he hid his hands under his black robe, he nodded his head down the road.
“You know, I think I saw him walking that way. I figured he was headed home.”
“Thanks, Tholyk,” Haren said. “That’s the most help I’ve had all night.”
“It takes a village,” Tholyk said with an awkward smile. The fat cleric then began a quick walk back to the feast.
“If you can’t find him in an hour,” he shouted from up the road, “I’ll get some of the villagers to take a look.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Haren called back as she squinted down the dark lane. “Hopefully it won’t be necessary.”
As Haren began a furtive survey of the road to her home, something about Tholyk seemed suddenly and sickly wrong. For as long as she could remember, Haren possessed a sixth sense that allowed her to read situations beyond the ears, eyes, and nose. As she looked back to the barn Tholyk had exited, her sense was ringing. Something horrid was pulling her back towards the barn.
As she grew close to the barn door, a intense sensation began to overwhelm her mind and she braced her hands on her knees. She began to inhale the horror of an unfolding heartbreak. Tholyk’s drunk preaching was always at the center of village feasts – so much so that you noticed when it wasn’t there. Haren’s jaw slacked numbly as her thoughts crashed like a sequence of earthquakes: Tholyk had been absent from the feast just as long as Morello had. Rumours had followed Tholyk from the last village he lived in. It was true that he had always shown an interest in the village’s young boys.
As Haren’s trembling hand pushed through the barn door, horror escaped from her mouth.
“Morello!” she cried.
Morello lay naked, bloodied, and barely alive on the barn floor. As Haren’s screams filled the barn, she quickly knelt next to her broken brother and cradled his head.
No one should meet such terror.
As Haren’s violet eyes bled tears over her best friend, her heart fought vainly to damn the accuracy of her senses. It was no use: by the sight of Morello’s concaved chest and the sound of his tortured breath, Haren knew that his lungs were collapsing. As an apprentice in the infirmary, Haren had seen enough to
know when death was certain. As her brother’s anguished wheezes wrung the whole of her mercy, Haren, at age seventeen, drew a dagger from her belt and chose to break herself beyond repair. With Morello’s innocent eyes pleading for help, Haren gave the only aid she could.
“No monster will ever ruin us,” she whispered to her brother.
With a swift stab, Haren plunged the dagger precisely into Morello’s heart, and as he fell dead into her arms, she cradled him and rocked slowly in the silent hell of a mercy kill.
Tragedy has a way of its own. It can numb both the heart and the senses. It can be so greedy that it stops time for the sake of playing out its own torture. Tragedy is the drunkard who wastes not a drop. Haren felt its greed.
It was twenty minutes before the raucous din of the feast reminded Haren that there was a world outside of the hell she found in the barn. With her brother’s blood soaking her burgundy gown, she heard her village with fearsome ears. After closing Morello’s eyes, she stood up upon hatred and then ran out of the barn upon vengeance. With her dagger white-knuckled in her grip, Haren sprinted in murderous pursuit of the village’s holy man. Her fervent strides and furious breath became the rhythm of a monster, and as her back curved forward like a hunting predator, her amethyst eyes scavenged the crowd for the villain.
However, it was he who found her first.
“There!” Tholyk shouted as he pointed five soldiers to her.
The soldiers reacted immediately, and with spears drawn they cut their path on top of Haren’s and then circled around her.
“I told you!” Tholyk yelled as the soldiers and Haren stood at a combative stalemate. “She killed her brother! She’s mad!”
“Don’t you dare!” Haren screamed as she pointed her dagger. Her voice was shrill. “You killed him! You took him from me!”
As the crowd circled around the scene, Tholyk knew he could use them as the mob they were.
“Look at her gown!” he accused arrogantly. “Soaked in her own brother’s blood! A murderer!” he shouted.
Haren had no choice but to try and claim the mob.
“It was him!” she yelled as she stabbed the dagger wildly in his direction. “It was Tholyk, I swear! I told you all that Morello was missing! Tholyk stole him and killed him! I found him in the barn!”
As if expecting a rebuttal, the mob turned back to the cleric.
“We’ve heard this lunacy before,” Tholyk said as if he were burdened by his memory. “Haren’s mother fell into this very state years ago. I hate to voice logic amidst this tragedy, but people, we must see the heredity of this sickness.”
After receiving the only fact they could verify, the mob seemed to pledge an allegiance. At first the murmurs and whispers sounded individually, but soon the mob made the slight shift into a jury and – without trial – announced a unanimous verdict.
“Lashes and mark!” they shouted. “Lashes and mark!”
Lashes referred to the whipping punishment that was dealt onto the village’s criminals, and mark referred to the hot coal brand that was pressed onto the faces of criminals who would henceforth be outcasts.
For the crime of murder, Haren would have to suffer ten lashes.
“Damn you all!” Haren cried. As she held her dagger, she scanned the crowd for support. There was none. “I will not be punished for this!” she cried. Haren was trying to remain fearsome, but her voice was cracking and breaking against the mob’s accusing stares.
“Apprehend her,” Tholyk ordered. “We have had enough spectacle for now. We will whip and brand her tomorrow.”
As the soldiers advanced, Haren knew she couldn’t miss what might be her last chance. She drew back her dagger, and after savouring the fear that rose in Tholyk’s eyes, she launched her blade at his chest. It was to no avail. The ferocity of Haren’s pitch defeated its accuracy, and the wayward blade cut only a minor shoulder wound into the cleric. Haren’s vengeance had been rendered bitterly inert.
Indeed, that was Haren’s last chance. In the minutes after, she was arrested, beaten, and then thrown into the village’s lone jail cell.
The cleric, however, sought one more blow. He needed to avenge the intimidation that Haren had struck into him. With the natters of the village crowded in front of Haren’s cell, Tholyk approached and flaunted his political brawn.
“There is news, Haren,” he said, his voice projected purposely to the gossip mongers. “I have laboured to lighten your sentence. The punishment you’ve incurred does not reflect the crime. The brand was non-negotiable, but I’ve worked your lashes down to five. No less, no more.”
As Haren sat on the cell’s stool, her purple eyes burned through the cleric. Arrogantly, Tholyk circled in front of her, tapping the cell bars to further illustrate his victory. Then, as if to twist the blade he had struck into Haren’s heart, Tholyk explained the logic that had emended her sentence.
“You see, although you’ve hurt your family, we believe you’ve done the village no injustice. Your brother was a beggar. It was unlikely that he would rise to any promise. Be thankful that –”
In an instant, Haren’s hands and words shot through the cell bars.
“If you think for one second you’ve won,” she seared, “you are coldly wrong. If you think five, or ten, or fifty lashes will stop me from ripping your heart out, you have not met my stare. You should kill me, cleric, for there has never been a hatred like the one you’ve unlocked in me.”
Tholyk coiled back from Haren’s words like a threatened snake. With his body cringing backwards, his eyes and head dropped under Haren’s certain and steady stare. It took him several moments to remember that there were bars between them.
“I see now that my labour was extraneous,” Tholyk said as he tried to feign his calm. “Five lashes are not enough to curb your insolence. I will see to it that you are served twenty.”
Haren made no reply. She instead looked on Tholyk with such cold and callous eyes that the cleric stumbled back.
After catching his steps, Tholyk had to make another conscious grab for his wits. “You will be broken,” he promised as he slowly stepped away from the cell. But as Haren’s eyes continued to cut into him, Tholyk’s returning gaze suggested that even he didn’t believe it was possible.
“A lunatic,” Tholyk mocked as he turned back to the village. “She is her mother’s daughter. A lost cause.”
“I assure you,” Haren called after him, “I have found a new cause and it is far from lost.”
After Tholyk made an intimidated shuffle out of sight, the natters collectively noted his honorable conduct and then began to leave. However, as Haren’s mother and father began to approach the jail cell, the mongers cancelled their exit and stealthily attuned their prying eyes and ears.
With a deep exhale, Haren looked intently onto her approaching parents. She expected their support and understanding, but as she read Losik and Yila’s sunken posture, she realized neither would come.
With her gaze focused down, Yila’s words whispered weakly towards the cell.
“How could you? How could you do this to our family?”
“Do this to our family!” Haren blurted. “How mad are you? I would never! I would never hurt Morello!”
Yila lowered her gaze even further and then hid herself in Losik’s shoulder.
“You didn’t hurt him?” Losik challenged grimly. “Haren, his blood is still on your hands.”
Haren’s heart broke for the second time that night.
“I have given you everything I could,” she said with a fierce stare. “I would never take – I never took. I sacrificed everything for your survival, and when I need you, you give me this? I didn’t kill him. You know I could never.”
Losik looked sternly at his daughter. “You have ruined who we are in this village. The brand you receive tomorrow might as well be on our family.”
Haren’s eyes bulged with anger. “The village!” she screamed as her hands wrenched the cell bars. “Your son was murdered a
nd you care about your public standing!”
“Accept your punishment,” Losik said with repulsion. “Accept it and then leave our village. Both of my children died today.”
As Haren’s eyes conveyed her heartbreak, Losik turned pitilessly from her, wrapped his arm over Yila’s shoulders, and then ushered her away from the cell.
After Haren’s parents had left, the crowd did the same. They had claimed what they had intended. Soon the village would know of poor Haren and her even poorer plight. A cleric had beaten her, and an ignorant village would applaud him.
After she was alone, Haren could not bear her pain any longer. She had hardened her heart for her pride’s sake, but now, after being dammed for too long, her pain surged out in a stream of sobs and tears. As her body crumpled over on the stool, there was a fracture growing so deep within her that her mind and heart began to seek Death. Amidst her hell, it was only the grimmest of reapers who could offer a next move.
When the heart breaks this way, the scythe seems to promise less hurt than breathing does.
In the midnight hour, Haren removed her gown and tied it into a noose.
As her shaking hands fastened the garment to the bars above her, she felt numb inside and out. However, just as she stepped onto the stool and placed the loop around her neck, the smell of bergamot filled her cell. Seconds later, a gentle rain began to fall onto her village. For most, rainfall would not have impeded a suicide. But Haren was not most. Haren had an inexplicable relationship – almost friendship – with the rain, and the moment she heard its patter she removed the noose from her neck. Every time the rain fell on her village, Haren would inhale the scent of bergamot – a scent that she could not trace to any visible source. When the aroma came, Haren would need to find somewhere to remain still, because every time the scent came, Haren was soothed to the point of trance. Although many noticed her trance, Haren never disclosed the mechanics of it. The truth was that the voice – the booming voice Haren had heard her entire life – always spoke in the rain’s drops. Like a letter, Haren could read the rainfall’s patter as if it were written specifically for her. It was as if the voice penned the rain, and let it fall solely for her.
The Sons of Animus Letum Page 3