by M.F. Soriano
humans. Humility is the key to a caprine’s survival.”
“Yes, father.”
“For us to improve ourselves,” his father continued, the words growing hard again, “we must work hard, we must be humble, and we must not provoke the humans.” Krathan took up the rag he’d set aside, and resumed his polishing of the figurine. “If you are not able to do these things, you will not be able to stay in this house. Do you understand?”
Athemon looked at his father, but Krathan’s eyes remained on the figurine. A silent moment passed. Athemon’s father put the rag down, and said again. “Do you understand, Athemon?” He did not look up at his son.
Athemon watched his father holding the figurine. Even for a young caprine, Athemon was small in size. Looking at his father now, Athemon decided that his father might be even smaller.
“Yes, father,” he said. “I understand.”
-
That night, as Athemon slept, he heard a voice. It was a quiet voice, deep and calm. It sounded like a breeze blowing through river reeds on a moonless night. Athemon, the voice said. Listen to me.
Athemon stirred in his sleep, but did not wake.
Athemon, you must not be humble, the voice told him. You must not mind your place. There is no future in being humble. There is no future in minding your place.
Athemon turned onto his side, brought his knees up toward his belly. He did not wake.
Athemon, the voice said, a caprine should not be humble. A caprine should be powerful. A caprine should not bow to the humans. A caprine should rule them. With an iron fist.
Athemon grimaced in his sleep. He turned to his other side, buried his head beneath the rag-stuffed pillow. He did not wake.
Athemon, the voice said, do not fight your anger. Claim it. Do not hide your pain. Embrace it. Your anger is power. Your pain is strength. Use your pain and anger to fuel your rage. Cultivate your rage into hatred. Focus on your hatred, and draw greatness from it.
Athemon rolled onto his stomach, held the pillow over his head with both hands. He did not wake.
Athemon, the voice said to him, do not seek to cohabitate with humans. Do not act humbly in the presence of your enemies. Your enemies, Athemon...
Athemon rolled onto his back, knocked the pillow aside. He opened his eyes and looked up into the darkness.
Your enemies, Athemon, the voice said. Burn them.
-
The room was dark. He could hear the sound of his younger brother breathing nearby, and though there was no light in the room, when he turned his head he saw the faint outline of his brother’s sleeping body. He could not hear the sound of his uncle, nor see any sign of him. The voice he had heard had also gone quiet.
He got up from the bed, felt on the ground for his leather cap, and put it on. He found his clothes and put them on too. He fumbled his way across the room, around the stacks of things awaiting repair. He found the door, and went through it.
Athemon’s uncle Ciranon was a quiet man who spent some of his time harvesting items from the dump, some of his time repairing them, and most of the rest of his time reading books. Periodically he disappeared, usually during the night, and when he returned from this excursions he never said a word of where he’d been, or what he’d been doing. Krathan considered Ciranon flawed, somehow, as if he did not possess the correct drive to be successful. But Ciranon contributed enough to earn his keep, and was therefore allowed to stay in the Arnmakh household.
The alley in front of the shop was quiet. There was no moon in the sky. A feeble oil lamp out in the street provided the only light. But Athemon felt at home in the dark. He had never understood why caprines did their business during the day, like humans, when they could see so much better than the humans at night.
Come to think of it, that was only one of very many things he did not understand. Why did caprines bow and scrape to the humans? Why was it Athemon’s duty to be humble, when fat oafs like Hanswerth were allowed to act like petty tyrants? And where did his uncle Ciranon go at night? Perhaps that last question, at least, he could try to answer.
The streets of Hovelton were mostly deserted at that hour. Anyone walking about was a target for thieves, or worse. Normally Athemon made sure to stay indoors after nightfall, but tonight, as he left his house, he felt drawn to the darkness. It was almost as though something were calling him forth.
He walked down the main avenue, sticking to the shadows where he could—not too difficult, since the street was poorly lit. For a while he watched the motion inside of an ale house, and then continued on. Farther down the street was a brothel, with two women standing outside, one a dwarf and one a caprine. Athemon felt his face flush with embarrassment, and he looked away as he passed them.
A ribbon of fog crept up the street from the opposite direction, drifting into Hovelton from the Bonnaire river. It made Athemon think of a monstrous tentacle rising out of the river’s black water, reaching into the town, probing and searching for something. He shivered, but had no thought of turning back. The farther he walked down the street, the more compelled he felt to continue. Something was bringing him this way. Shoving his hands in his pockets to keep the wet air off them, Athemon walked forward into the mist.
There were no oil lamps this close to the river, and no sign of any sort of life. The buildings on either side were dilapidated wrecks, the wood rotting from the constant moisture in the air. Athemon had walked this way many times during the day, to fetch water from the river, and never paid the buildings much attention. But now, in the black of night, they looked mysterious, even ominous.
One of the last structures on the street was also one of the most rundown: a small wooden shack that leaned at a precarious angle. It didn’t look big enough to house anything of interest, but something about it drew Athemon close. He stood in the street watching it. The swirling fog seemed to close in, so that there was nothing in the world but Athemon and the shack. It had no windows, but the door stood slightly ajar, and the darkness inside called to him.
Athemon quickly walked up to the shack, opened the door, and stepped inside. He shut the door behind him with a bang. The shack was empty but for a pile of trash in the corner, and a moldy rug on the floor.
He walked across the wooden floor, the planks creaking under his feet, to the pile of trash. He scattered the trash with his feet. Nothing. He turned and looked at the rug. It looked soggy from the moisture in the air. It would probably come apart in his hands. He walked up to the rug, crouched down near it.
He could smell something rich and smoky. Incense. Athemon flipped the corner of the rug up, saw a metal ring fastened to the floor. He gripped the metal ring and lifted. A section of the floor, exactly the same size as the rug, came up, and a thick waft of incense hit him in the face. It was a trap door.
Athemon threw the door all the way open, saw a rusty iron ladder fixed to the wall of a narrow shaft dropping down into the earth. His heart started beating harder, filling his ears with a rhythmic thudding. He reached for the ladder with one hand, set his feet on the rungs, and climbed down into the dark.
-
The shaft went down for about ten feet and ended in a small room. The air in the room was so thick with incense smoke that it made breathing difficult. Athemon stood facing the room, waiting for his vision to adjust to the lack of light.
“Welcome, Athemon,” a quiet voice said. Athemon recognized its mournful tone. It was his uncle, Ciranon.
His vision began to clear, though the thickness of the smoke made things hazy. The walls, ceiling, and floor were made of rough stone blocks, and moisture slicked all surfaces. A stone shelf, covered with items, was built into the far wall. In the center of the room there was a low wooden platform, large enough for a man to lie down on. His uncle was kneeling on it now, dressed only in his skullcap and a loincloth. At every corner of the platform an incense censer spewed smoke, and the smoke washed over his uncle
in a thick current.
“Uncle, what are you doing?” Athemon asked.
“I am trying to purify myself,” his uncle said. “I am trying to cleanse myself of sin.”
Athemon stared at his uncle. He shared a room with the man, but how long had it been since he’d really looked at him? Ciranon was bone-thin, pale, and sickly. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and along his shoulders and chest. He pulled smoke toward himself with both arms, inhaling deeply, and then started coughing violently. The coughing fit lasted for several minutes, until Athemon grew alarmed at how his uncle’s thin frame seemed to shudder and shake. Finally the fit passed, and Ciranon’s breathing reverted to a shallow wheezing.
“Uncle, this is not healthy. The smoke is making you ill.”
“My body is marked by sin, deformed by sin.” He locked eyes with Athemon. “The caprine body is sin made flesh. We must punish the body to fight the sin.” He pulled another armful of smoke to himself, breathed it in, and succumbed to another coughing fit.
Athemon thought of what Hanswerth had said about shepherds and their goats. He looked down at the floor. “Uncle,” he said, “is it true that caprines... is it true that we come from goats?”
A sudden change came over Ciranon’s face, and for a moment he looked like he might laugh aloud. But the moment passed, and the sorrowful look returned to his eyes. “If only we