by Matthew Cook
I was not accustomed, then, to the hardships of the road, of living outside amongst the elements. Those first few days, struggling with the simple necessities of fire and shelter, nearly broke me. When I woke, huddled miserably beneath whatever rude shelter I had built, dripping with rain and shivering from cold, I felt older than the eldest crone in our town, a miserable, decrepit thing.
Thankfully, water and game were plentiful, available even to one as ignorant as myself. The lands through which I traveled were gentle, for the most part, with many chuckling, clear streams. If I were to look at that land with my new eyes, with the wisdom I have purchased, I would think them a cornucopia, with food only an arm's-length away, but I was inexperienced, then, in the ways of the wood. The thought of killing and dressing an animal was terrifying to me, so I ate berries and mushrooms. Some made me very, very sick. I grew thinner, until my clothes hung off my back like a scarecrow's.
If I had set out in wintertime, or if the land had experienced one of the droughts that occurred every few years, I would have perished. Even still, those first few weeks were among the hardest I have ever experienced.A month after I set out, I made a discovery. A cave.
Shallow. Drafty. But smooth-floored and deep enough to shelter me from all but the heaviest rain. A pool of clear water, fed by run-off trickling down the cliff walls, sat just outside the entrance.
I had spent days learning to use Marcus's flint and steel, and soon I had a fire crackling in a riverstone ring, next to the pallet of pine needles and moss that was my bed. I was comfortable for the first time in recent memory. I began to roam outwards, exploring and cataloging the places where useful herbs and roots grew.
My new home was far enough from the civilized lands that I seldom saw other people. The foothills and valleys north of my old home were rumored to be the haunt of any number of savage and inhuman beasts, but I saw no evidence of them. Still, I stayed alert, lest something come upon me unawares.
I discovered several homesteads within a few hours’ walk of my new home, places where hopeful families had built rude, thatch-roofed houses and cleared a small patch of land. Crops grew there, just enough to support them, supplemented by the meat that the menfolk could hunt. I never approached them. I feared that news of my crime might have reached them; feared how they would react to my disturbing, black-eyed gaze.
One day I came upon a homestead that was abandoned, the house's front door hanging open to the wind. Signs of violence were all around: picked-clean bones, human and animal; the thatched roof half-fallen into the walls; broken tools. Any tracks had been erased by months and years of weather. I searched with my secret eye, but the spirits of the dead had long since departed.
I was tempted to stay, to repair the roof and sleep once again in a proper house, but the circumstances of the previous tenants’ departure made me wary. What if whatever killed them returned? In the end, I decided to move some of the house's choicer goods—a chair and small table, a rusted but still solid cook pot, some wooden utensils and musty-smelling blankets—up to my cave. As I made the long walk back, I carefully erased my tracks behind me.
Weeks passed. Weeks of solitude, just my sister and me, alone and hunted. She had grown quiet as my strength ebbed away, but now that I was settled and comfortable, beginning to gain back the weight I had lost in those first desperate weeks, her voice grew louder and louder. Once more she shrilled and raged at me, calling me names most foul before lapsing into crying fits that could last for hours or even days.
I tried to reason with her. I tried cajoling her, or sometimes even singing to her, as I had sometimes done with her child when she was colicky, but nothing worked. When I looked at myself in a nearby pool's still water, I saw my eyes had become glittering, wet-black stones surrounded by bruised flesh, the legacy of so many sleepless nights.
One day I could take no more. As I sat, rocking in the plundered chair I had brought to my cave, trying to will away the chanting that filled my head, a thought occurred to me: If I die, there are none to bind me here. It will be like sleep; like endless, silent sleep.
Like a sleepwalker, I rose and languidly strolled to the water's edge. I looked down into my reflection, met my own black-and-green stare, willing my sister to see me.
My fingers wandered to the hilt of the Ulean steel knife, the wedding present that father had given me. My hand drew it out as if possessed of a will of its own. I held the blade to my face, the sharp point pressed to the hot skin beneath my eye. The blade's reflection sparkled, the chill glitter of violence casting jewels of light across the surface of the water.
"Look at this, sweet sister. Do you recognize it?” I whispered.
The voice, the maddening voice, went still. Then my mind was filled with a raging, a screaming louder than any tempest, soundless and deafening. I clenched the handle until my muscles knotted, lest the cacophony cause me to drop it.
I pressed, feeling the point pierce the tender skin beneath my eye. Blood ran down like tears.
Before me was the flat rock where I scrubbed my clothes, a table-sized plane of smooth, implacable stone. I whispered, “I shall fall, and the blade will be driven deep. Hopefully deep enough to reach you, sister. To cut you and silence you, even though it cost me my own life."
The screaming stopped, sharp as a rope snapping. I held my breath and counted my heartbeats. A dozen. Two. Silence. Such blessed silence.
Then, a whisper, barely heard through the ragged pant of my breath.
What do you want?
I let out my breath, but kept the knife where it was, a threat and promise.
"Peace,” I whispered. “What I did, I did for love. For love. I can no more live without you than I could if my heart were cut from my chest. Losing you would drive me mad. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for what I did. But it was a necessity. I need you. I love you. But I must have peace, or one of us must forever die."
My sister remained silent, as I prayed that my words were reaching her, that some part of her remained that was capable of hearing me. After a time, I heard her reply, so quiet that it might have been the sound of blood rushing through my ears.
I love you, but I can never forgive.
She spoke no more, and I could tell that, for now, I had mastered her.
Trembling, half-expecting her to begin her raving anew, I stretched out on my pallet and surrendered to sleep's grasping hands. They pulled me deep, deep into the black waters, deeper than even dreams could go.
* * * *
I woke to the tuggIng of rough hands and coarse, braying laughter. Men had come into my cave, my shelter, my rude sanctuary while I slept more deeply than sounds could reach. Faintly, far behind my eyes, I heard the sound of laughter, papery like the rustle of shed snake skin.
Bandits. Highwaymen. Led to my shelter, no doubt, by the smoke from my dying fire. I was always so careful to bank it, lest it give me away, but after confronting my sister
I had been so tired...
I opened my eyes a narrow crack.
"'Ello, poppet. Have a nice rest, did we?” one of them said, his face a stretched, humorlessly smiling mask.
There were four of them, dressed in tattered homespuns and rude, mended boots. Some of their garments were ill-fitting, as if taken from someone much larger or smaller than they. All were stained with the marks of a hard life lived outside, in uncouth shelter. Their hair was shiny with grease, wild as birds’ nests. Their unshaven faces were dark with dirt.
"See ‘ere wut we done caught, boys,” said the man who had spoken. He was no less begrimed or ragged than the others, but a single hoop of ruddy gold winked in one dusty lobe, so I labeled him as their leader. I tried to rise, but a second man, the one who had wakened me with his pawing hands, knotted his fist in the collar of my shirt, hauling me to my feet like a child.
"Wha's she doing way out here by her lonesome?” the third asked. He was young, barely a man at all, his lip fuzzed with the first scanty promise of a beard. He looked scared, glancing arou
nd the cave as if he expected to be ambushed. I looked at him and he flinched away from my gaze. “Lor'! Lookee that,” he breathed. “Lookit ‘er eyes. Is she sick?"
The fourth man, older, balding, sketched the warding symbol of Loran in the air. “She's possessed,” the unexpectedly pious one said, drawing his knife. “Put ‘er down and back off, Mick. I'll see to ‘er.” He moved towards me, averting his gaze from mine, as if he feared I could infect him with a look.
"Fuck that, Tendy,” the leader growled. “You wanna do off wit’ ‘er after, you can, but we's gonna have us a taste of'er first."
Tendy, his knife ready, looked as if he meant for a moment to argue, and I coiled. If the men were to squabble or, even better, to fight, I might slip away in the confusion. But he dropped his eyes a moment later and moved back, swearing softly.
"Best you leave her ‘lone,” he muttered. “I'll not be dirtying m'self with her."
"More for us then,” the leader said, his swarthy face splitting in a brown-toothed grin. “I've been meaning t'make young Karl into a man for quite a spell, I have. Tonight's yer lucky night, boy!"
Behind me, Mick twisted harder, and my shirt twisted tight around my neck. I gasped, batting at his rough hands, ineffective as a kitten in the jaws of a hound. The young man, Karl, smiled a sickly smile, nodding, but he backed away, turning his attention back to rooting though my simple cookware.
"Please,” I whispered through my tight throat, looking into the leader's eyes, pleading now, not defiant. “Please.” I could say no more.
"You want me hold ‘er down, Barrett?” Mick said. “I likes it when they struggle a bit. Makes th’ blood run hot, it does."
"The day I needs your help to rape a whore is the day I'll give over, you pocksy bastard,” Barrett, the leader, laughed. They seemed happy, jovial, their banter ringing like a mummer's rehearsed words. They had done this before. They would, doubtless, do it again. If I were lucky, and put up enough of a struggle to harm one of them, then they might kill me swiftly, in a rage, after they had taken their pleasure. If I were unlucky ... I did not know how many times they would violate me.
Makes th’ blood run hot, it does, Mick had said. Then I knew what I must do.
"Please,” I repeated, so breathless the words made no sound. My eyes pleaded. To my surprise, Barrett's smile faded, and confusion came into his piggy eyes. He shook his head, like a horse troubled by the buzzing of a fly.
"Let ‘er down for a shake,” he said, scowling. “I wanna hear wha’ she has t'say."
My captor grunted softly and hesitated. The blood rushed through my ears, muffling sound. A terrible swelling seemed to fill my face, and my vision began to dim, flashing at the edges with bright sparks. Then I was down and coughing, the awful pressure receding. I drew in the sweetest breath I had ever taken, thick with the smell of my cold campfire and the reeking tang of unwashed bodies.
Barrett's split boot toes came into my vision, and I looked up. I willed the coughing to stop as I met his eyes.
"I'll do anything you want,” I panted, low and quiet, so only he could hear. “Anything. But ... just you first. Over there.” I pointed over to a looming boulder, screened with undergrowth.
"Don’ listen to her!” Tendy, the pious one, said, repeating his warding gesture. “She's got something inside of her, behind her eyes, she does!"
"Wouldn't you rather have me willing? Eager?” I whispered, never looking away, holding Barrett's dog-brown eyes with mine. “Just you. And then, if you want, the others. I'll not struggle. Much."
And I smiled, all the while hating ... loathing ... myself for the words. My sister, hidden inside, in her secret place, chuckled as if at a dirty joke.
"Pack this shit up right quick,” Barrett said. “We'll be over there for a spell if you need me. I'll be back in a shake, then you can have a turn. Work it out amongst yerselves who's t'go next."
He grabbed my arm, tearing it out of Mick's loose grasp, then propelled me towards the shelter of the boulder. I stumbled, hands outthrust, trying to keep my feet beneath me, and he followed, his knife clutched in his fist.
No sooner had we reached the shelter of the leeside than he pushed me roughly down, panting, eyes rolling with lust, or fear. His stubby fingers fumbled at the laces of his breeches, trying to open them one-handed.
"Here,” I whispered, gagging down the screams I wanted to utter, trying to ignore my sister's rising cackle, “let me do that.” I reached up, pushed his hand away, and opened the fastening.
He moaned as my hands slid across his skin, the hair of his lower belly as coarse and bristly as a boar's. I looked over, saw that he still held the knife in a loose-fingered grasp.
My hands on his skin were all that I needed. I hesitated, appalled at what I meant to do. Then I remembered—
I likes it when they struggle a bit. Makes th’ blood run hot, it does.
The day I needs your help to rape a whore is the day I'll give over, you pocksy bastard.
My false smile dropped away as I reached inside with the phantom fingers of my power, twining them in the hot, wet tangle of his belly. Then, with a thought, I squeezed.
Barrettt's moans whistled to a stop as my power pulled the very blood away from his heart. I had been a good student and had memorized all of the wonderful diagrams in my mistress's books. I knew that, without the bellows beneath the lungs, Barrettt could not scream for help.
So I squeezed, my phantom fingers reaching up, up, wrapping around the small, muscled sac and collapsing it. Barrett's eyes went wide as his mouth flopped open like that of a landed fish.
His body spasmed, every muscle going rigid as the blood magic began to draw forth his life. I took away my hand, leaving behind the scarlet imprint of my palm and fingers, a weeping sigil that turned into a gushing, hot rush. I cupped my hands beneath the flow, my head dizzy at its hot spill. The blood filled them, and I brought them to my lips.
They were empty by the time I put them to my mouth, his blood absorbed by my flesh in moments. I laughed then, a throaty sound the likes of which I had never made before, strange and sensuous and alien to my own ears.
My would-be rapist stood, his pale face sheened with greasy sweat, his lips and fingers already going blue. Veins stood out in his suddenly translucent flesh like tattoos, his lips skinned back from his pale gums. The freshet of blood slowed, slowed, then finally stopped. He fell then, bonelessly, his sightless eyes staring from blackened sockets.
The second man, Mick, he who so liked a nice struggle to warm his victim's blood, died a moment later. Barrett's life still rushed through my veins, filling me with his bull-like strength. It was child's play to reach out, grab his head in my hands, and twist. The body was still falling, his startled face looking backwards over his shoulder, when I turned to Tendy.
He was ready, a crossbow trained at me. Behind him, the boy, Karl, crouched beside the fire. He looked up at the sound of the body falling, and his eyes went big as saucers.
I dove forward, the unnatural strength making me fast, terribly fast, but not fast enough.
I heard the flat snap of the string as I leaped forward, and I felt a distant, unimportant impact in my leg. Then my hands were on Tendy, my power reaching out, silently crooning a song of blood and pain only I could hear. His vitality rushed into me, and I laughed once again, throwing back my head as the red, salty rain misted my face and breasts.
I dropped the body, light as a child's now, dry and desiccated, and turned to Karl. I smiled, reveling in the sticky slide of my shirt across my breasts. He began to cry, but did not run. I stepped forward.
"Please,"hewhispered,"please,I didn't ... I wouldn't ... I didn't want to!” The smell of piss filled the air.
My sister howled at his words, screaming at the injustice of them. I reached forth to stroke the young face, for once in agreement with her.
"But, you would have,” I said, pronouncing our judgment. The blood sang in my veins, pushing away the soft call of mercy. Then, gently, I
bent, my lips fastening on the hot skin of his neck.
Chapter Seven
I wake to the sound of song.
I lay, eyes closed, the sweet melody rolling over me; it has been so long since I had the luxury of being close to anything beautiful. My body is heavy and languid, my head cushioned against a soft, warm pillow which vibrates softly in time to the music.
Sighing, I pry open my gummed lids, then wince as the early morning light stabs deep, calling forth pain that I had mercifully forgotten. I look up, and see that I am stretched on the dusty ground, head cradled in a woman's lap. She strokes my hair, her voice as soothing as cool mist, gentle as a mother with her babe. Seeing I am awake, she smiles down at me.
"What...?” I breathe and she stops singing, shaking her head gently.
"Don't try to speak. You're fine now, thanks to Brother Ato and the grace of Shanira. Just take a moment and come back to yourself; it was a very near thing."
Her voice is as lovely and delicate as she is, all airy consonants and bell-like vowels. I find myself, for just a moment, lost in her sapphire eyes. Her hair is chestnut, highlighted with ruddy bronze where the sun kisses it, twisted in a complex double-bun and secured with jeweled sticks.
Looking at her, I feel small and shabby, a discarded broken thing. My neck is coated with a residue of sweat and grime and I wonder, a part of me marveling at the absurdity of it, whether or not I am soiling her white silken leggings.
Vain! my sister's voice shrills in my head, the sound echoing in my ears like the flutter of raven's wings. Vain and wicked sister! See what you might have been had you not thrown all my plans away!
I try to roll to my feet and the ache in my head transforms into a spike of crystalline agony. I writhe in the dust, tears of pain leaking from my eyes. The singer's hand is cool against my fevered brow, stroking as she murmurs wordless sounds of comfort.