Demon in the Whitelands

by Nikki Z. Richard

  “We stayed together. We were alone. I lived far away from the citizens, and the town was small. I was rarely called to perform the rites.”

  Samuel kept his face down. He couldn’t look at his father.

  “She was a better fisherman than I was. I was a greenlands orphan. The clergy picked me when I was thirteen, said I had an aptitude for learning. But she … she was much smarter than I ever was. She knew politics and science and music. She was a wonderful singer. She’d come from a wealthy family, I could tell. But she refused to talk about it. ‘That is my old life,’ she’d tell me. She said she only wanted to stay in the present. With me.”

  Samuel bit into his cheek. He shifted his bound wrists, the rope dragging across his tender skin.

  “We were happy,” his father said. “I was happy. She wasn’t afraid of me. One day, when I’d snagged my hand on a fishhook, she cleaned the cut and bandaged it. She touched me as if it was natural. I loved her for it. I forsook my vows. I wanted only to be with her. To … not be alone. She became pregnant.”

  Jax spat on the ground as he rummaged through more tools, the iron dinging.

  “A citizen, someone near the town, must have seen her wandering the beaches. They followed her to our home. I was away. I was out … ” His father looked up, almost as if he was searching for the right words. He pursed his lips, his eyes going wet. “The sheriff of Charos came. He took her. Took the child. Hours later, a group of patrolmen found me, threw me in a cell with her. We were judged the next day.”

  Samuel wanted to touch his father. But he couldn’t. His hands were tied, and he didn’t know how to embrace a man he’d always regarded as stone.

  “All men are slaves,” the foreigner said, his tone compassionate. “Slaves to the law, the earth, their own hearts. No one is free.” He paused. “Please. Continue.”

  Samuel’s father scratched his chin across his shirt. “Her father attended the hearing, Fernado Kuramo. He’d brought his younger daughter with him. She looked like a younger clone of her sister. She couldn’t have been older than six or seven.”

  “Interesting,” the foreigner interjected. “I think I recall that name. Yes. General Kuramo. Famed swordsman and brilliant military strategist, if I’m not mistaken.”

  His father nodded. “I listened to him advocate for the execution of his oldest daughter. By running away to escape her engagement to the son of a well-connected politician, she had disgraced her birthright. I remember him saying something like that to all the clergymen and politicians. He kept his younger daughter beside him the entire time. He made her sister watch.”

  “Pride is a man’s legacy,” the foreigner said.

  “Damn that man’s pride,” his father said. He turned to Samuel. “Damn my pride. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t fight for her. For you. I’ve failed you both. And I’m sorry.”

  Samuel nibbled on his cheek. His mother was the daughter of a general? She risked her life to run into the arms of a cleric? His eyes swelled. “Why? Why did she have to die?”

  “She didn’t,” his father said. “I deserved to die. She didn’t.”

  “Don’t say that,” Samuel mumbled. “You don’t. I love you. No one deserved to die. You’re my father. And you’re a good father.”

  His father sighed. “You’ve always been a gentle soul. You’re her son. Our son. I wish you could have met her.”

  The front doors to the blacksmith’s shop swung open. Samuel jumped up, his head nearly hitting the post behind him. Several hours had passed since his father wept himself back into unconsciousness. He must have fallen asleep shortly after. He was more exhausted than he realized.

  Mayor Thompson marched inside the shop, the stem of his pipe writhing in his teeth. His eyes darted back and forth wildly. Snow continued to fall outside, and an inch or so had accumulated on the ground outside. The other patrolmen kept their stations outside but peeked in until the mayor turned and slammed the wooden doors closed. He came forward, his feet smashing into the floor like hard bricks. He clenched his jaw tighter, the pipe sticking up.

  “Get out,” the mayor said with a snarl. He turned to Jax. “Wait outside. You as well, Mikael. I need to speak with the accused. Alone.”

  The foreigner bowed lowly, giving Samuel and his father a subtle nod before taking his exit. The mayor rubbed his chin excessively, his ears reddening. Samuel’s father squared his shoulders, the dampness from his eyes all but dried up. Samuel watched the shadows dance around the mayor as if they fed on his rage.

  “I told you,” the mayor said behind closed teeth, “that I needed you with me, boy. I told you to make sure your loyalty was with me. Have I done anything to you that would give you reason to doubt my graces?”

  Samuel couldn’t force the conviction. “No.”

  The mayor inhaled on his pipe, rolling his fingers on the table’s surface. He plucked the stem from his mouth before speaking. “The work you’re doing with that demon. Do you realize the potential? If that creature were trained enough to be brought onto a battlefield and comply with orders, can you image the power we would have? Greenland simpletons would run in fear once they heard tales of the demon in the whitelands. Northern lives would be saved. The whitelands can rise from the chaos. We can become the greatest nation these lands have ever known.”

  Samuel said nothing. His father kept silent as well, but he watched Samuel.

  The mayor came closer to them, jamming his hands into his pockets. “I am going to be frank. With the both of you. I have no idea if that child is a demon or possessed or some other form of altered human. It doesn’t matter. What I know is that it likes you, Samuel. And it has been more responsive to you than anyone or anything else. Keeping that creature chained up in a jail cell isn’t enough. Men must see it. They must witness its uncanny viciousness with their own eyes.”

  The mayor raised his right arm.

  “Don’t you understand?”

  “I don’t, sir,” Samuel said.

  The mayor stepped back. “What?”

  Samuel nudged up his glasses, gazing at the mayor through the cracked lens. “I don’t see it. I don’t see the demon becoming your weapon. She can’t be controlled.”

  The mayor’s belly rose and fell, his breaths deep and intentional. “Are you saying you are incapable of doing your job?”

  Samuel paused. “Yes. No one can do what you want. She can’t be tamed.”

  Samuel’s father shook his head. “Forgive him, mayor. The boy is upset. He doesn’t mean to be obstinate.”

  The mayor popped the pipe back into his mouth. “I agree with you, cleric.”

  His pupils widened. “But. I do think the boy needs to learn about respect.”

  Samuel sat beside his father, watching as the half-asleep blacksmith entered his shop. The large man pulled his coat tighter to his chest, covering his stained nightshirt and woolly pants that were bunched up near his ankles. He surveyed his shop, seeing the foreigner, Jax, four patrolmen, Samuel, and his father. There was hardly much room to move.

  The blacksmith bowed to the mayor.

  “Mayor Thompson. How might I serve?”

  The mayor grinned. “Tybel, you’ve always been a true citizen of our northern state. You work hard and fast.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the blacksmith said, his demeanor reserved.

  Samuel tilted to his right side, his elbow grazing his father’s arm. His father’s swollen eyelids made it look like they’d been burned with smoke.

  The mayor puffed on his pipe before waving a hand at Jax and another patrolman. The men stepped back, giving the mayor more space to maneuver. He sauntered over to the wall adorned with crafted knives varying in size and shape. His round belly jiggled as he grabbed a knife with stylistic line designs carved into both the wooden handle and the blade. He pulled it closer to his nose.

  “Your care and attention for detail is beyond compare.”

  The blacksmith bowed low once more.


  “You are too kind.”

  Bumps rose on Samuel’s skin. Something about the way the mayor held the knife made his chest tight. The foreigner stood by the furnace, his olive skin glowing in the light. He leaned his head back, forcing some of the bones in his neck to crack.

  The mayor dug inside of his suit pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. He motioned for the blacksmith to come, jingling the money in his hands.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said as the coins fell into his palms. “But this is far too generous. I can’t accept—”

  “I have a special job for you.” The mayor tapped the knife against his leg before turning to the foreigner. “Grab the lad. Bring him here.”

  Samuel’s throat swelled closed.

  The foreigner trekked to Samuel, his lips no longer grinning. He extended his hands. Samuel waited for a moment before lifting his bound wrists up. The foreigner helped him to his feet.

  “Please, mayor.” Samuel’s father rose to his knees. “I am the criminal. He’s only a child. He has acted childishly.”

  Samuel followed the guidance of the foreigner, his blood racing as he came to the mayor. He was somehow able to keep his composure, but he didn’t know how much longer he could.

  “Restrain the cleric,” the mayor said. “Now.”

  Jax got to Samuel’s father first and shoved him. His father bounced into the wall, but he immediately rolled back and dove into Jax. The other two patrolmen ran to aid their struggling comrade, all three of them taking hold of Samuel’s father. Jax got back to his feet, kicking his father in the ribs. His father doubled over, gagging for air.

  “No,” Samuel cried. “Stop.”

  The patrolmen tugged on his father’s arms, lifting him up.

  “Do what you must,” the mayor said sternly. “The old law doesn’t protect a traitorous criminal.”

  Without restraint, the patrolmen launched their assault, layering Samuel’s father with a barrage of kicks and punches. His father fought back, his body finding the strength to push itself up.

  “Stay down!” one of the patrolmen yelled as he rammed his elbow into Samuel’s father. The hit forced Samuel’s father to drop to his face, his nose smashing into the dirt ground. Blood leaked out from his nose down his thick beard.

  The foreigner tugged on Samuel’s restraints.

  “Don’t watch, lad,” the foreigner whispered. “They’ll only hurt him worse if you fuss.”

  Samuel closed his eyes, trying to ignore the violence behind him. His father was strong. He needed to hold on, bide his time until he could think of how to escape.

  “Put his arm here,” the mayor yelled. “Pull back his sleeve. Palm side up. You might have to unfasten his hands. One of you back there. Come here. Surely it won’t take four of you to handle a half-dead cleric. Help Mikael. Do whatever he tells you.”

  Samuel was guided to his knees, and he felt the foreigner untie the ropes binding his wrists together. He tried regulating his breaths to show the mayor that he would cooperate. There was no point in resisting. Not now.

  The jacket sleeve covering Samuel’s right arm was rolled up past his elbow. When his skin touched the cold iron of the metal, his hand involuntarily twitched. He decided he could no longer keep his eyes closed. He forced his chin down, staring at his own naked arm.

  The mayor stepped forward as one of the patrolmen came alongside him. “Old loyalties cloud your judgment,” he said in Samuel’s ear. “Today will forever be a reminder of what happens when you disobey my law.”

  Samuel dug his fingernails into his palms, keeping quiet.

  The mayor put his hand on the blacksmith’s shoulder. “You have an eye for artistry and the skills to match it. I want you to give the boy the mark of the clergy. Use the cleric’s arm as a frame of reference. Make it clean. Make it deep.”

  “No,” his father’s voice choked out behind him.

  “Shut his mouth,” Jax screamed. “Get a gag. Now.”

  “This is what happens to those who are servants of Azhuel,” the mayor said to Samuel. “Is it not? I think you’ve forgotten what liberties have been afforded to you on my behalf. I hope that now you’ll never forget.”

  Samuel could no longer contain himself. His breaths morphed into desperate heaves. He stared at the exposed skin through his broken lens, remembering all the times he’d imagined the inked roots on it. It was too much to fathom. He couldn’t grasp reality, his mind morphing into waves of panic. He instinctively tried to pull his arm away, but the foreigner had it pressed down in a way that immobilized him.

  The blacksmith stepped in front of Samuel.

  Samuel looked up, whimpering.

  The blacksmith swallowed hard. The veins underneath his dark skin were poking up slightly. “Sir. I am no artist with skin and ink. That job is better suited for clergymen.”

  The mayor straightened his back. “Use your own methods, Tybel.”

  “But, sir,” the blacksmith objected. “I carve my designs into smoldering metal. With chisels and heated picks. I don’t know how to replicate that sort of technique on skin. I could kill him.”

  The mayor chewed on the stem of his pipe. “You can practice on yourself, if you’d like. But you will do the job I’ve commissioned you for.”

  Samuel’s teeth chattered, his ribs pushing farther into the end of the anvil. Tears fell down his cheeks, and he tasted salt. He forced out words.

  “I’m sorry, mayor. Please. I’m sorry.”

  The foreigner sighed. He motioned to the blacksmith.

  “Get one of the picks. I’ve witnessed branding before. Heat the tip of the rod in the fire. You’ll put the point on the skin, press, then lift.”

  The mayor snapped his fingers at the patrolman standing closest to him. “Do as he says.”

  “Hold the lad,” Mikael ordered the patrolman. “Wrap your arms around him, like a tight embrace. Keep the other arm pinned. He will shake.”

  The patrolman obeyed, coiling his limbs around Samuel. His father’s muffled screams echoed behind him, and the sound of loud poundings followed.

  “He’s one man,” the mayor said with a growl. “And there are three of you. How hard is it to do your job? Get him here so the blacksmith can see his arm.”

  “Strike the back of the head,” the foreigner called out. “The bulge in the skull. Make him sleep. It will be easier that way.”

  The mayor nodded, and Samuel heard a hard thud. He bit hard into his lip and drew blood. His father’s muffled objections were silenced, and the patrolmen dragged his limp body next to the blacksmith. Jax pulled his father’s arm to the side.

  “Good,” the mayor said.

  The foreigner leaned his lips into Samuel’s ear. “If you move, you will make it worse. Do you understand?”

  Samuel couldn’t stop crying, snot dripping to his lips.

  He forced a nod. “Okay.”

  Samuel screamed.

  The blacksmith etched the intricate lines of the roots. After a few minutes, the metal pick lost its molten glow. The foreigner waved at Jax, getting him to retrieve another heated pick from the edge of the furnace. The blacksmith exchanged the cooled rod for a fresh one, continuing his work. Samuel’s unconscious father was outstretched beside him, and the blacksmith would occasionally glance at his arm for reference.

  After an hour of agony, Samuel knew the blacksmith still had much more work to do. The areas where the pick had grazed Samuel’s skin were dark red and blistered. But the design was clean. Lines thick and thin, entangling themselves into one another. The holy roots. It nearly looked identical to his father’s mark.

  The foreigner never lost control of Samuel’s arm, his sweaty hands holding the limb steady.

  “We’ll have to rotate the arm,” he told the others. “But we’ll need to cool the skin first. One of you. Go out and gather fresh snow. His pulse is too elevated. I can feel it. He’ll need a break soon or else his heart might stop.”

/>   “You truly are a gifted soldier,” the mayor said. He stood back, watching, smoking his pipe. “Your experience is invaluable.”

  The foreigner smiled wide. “I hope your pocketbook shows that.”

  Samuel quaked, but he was powerless to do anything. He was having so much trouble breathing. The patrolman behind him squeezed so tight it made inhaling all the more difficult, and there were a few times when everything went black. As his eyes rolled back, the foreigner would strike him across the cheek, forcing him to stay awake. Other moments, he could smell his own flesh roasting. He would’ve done anything to stop the pain.

  When the palm side of Samuel’s arm was complete, the foreigner had the patrolmen pile fresh snow onto the etched roots. The cooling brought instant relief, and Samuel’s muscles relaxed slightly. He tried to slow his breathing, imagining the moment when all of this would be over. The blacksmith drank some water, wiping sweat off his brows. He offered Samuel a drink from his cup, but Samuel refused.

  “You need to drink,” the foreigner said. “I don’t want to force you. But I will.”

  The blacksmith edged the cup closer to Samuel’s mouth, and he drank. The water cooled his burning throat, and some spilled over his chapped lips. He hated them all. The patrolmen. The blacksmith. The foreigner. All of them like the sheriff. All of them following orders. All of them. Evil.

  “Continue,” the mayor said. “I’m tired and would like to be done with this soon.”

  The foreigner lifted Samuel’s arm and dusted away the snow. He gently laid the burnt half of Samuel’s arm onto the anvil, putting a loose hold on his wrist. Samuel’s raw skin stuck to the anvil, and he groaned.

  “Try not to move as much,” the foreigner said. “If you must squirm, try pushing the arm up. Like this.” The foreigner locked his elbow, stretching his arm out and back. “It will hurt much worse if I have to press the old burns onto the anvil. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Samuel whimpered.

  The blacksmith got the tools ready, and when he came back to the anvil, he gave a consoling nod. Samuel took a deep breath before the smoldering pick touched his skin. He thought he’d be more prepared the second time around, but he wasn’t. He gagged on his own tongue, the hurt engulfing everything. It’ll be over soon, he tried encouraging himself after each new pressing. It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon.