by Travis Smith
“I can tell ye stories,” John chimed in. “This time yesterday I’s right set upon endin’ my own life.”
The Stranger closed his eyes and tuned out John’s ramblings. He simply couldn’t bring himself to care about how extraordinary the man thought his own tales. Let him babble and revel proudly in his rebirth, so long as their new friends were there to nod and ask questions and leave The Stranger to his own thoughts.
A need to begin his quest burned inside The Stranger, nearly as intensely as his fever. Every moment wasted lying in this hot sand introduced his wife and son to greater unthinkable peril. He writhed uncomfortably in the sun, trapped immobile with his own tortuous thoughts and concerns, unable to act upon every paternal instinct and inclination. If his wounds didn’t heal soon, the mental torture would become too much to bear.
At last John had brought his heroic tale back to present, and Maria rose to stir her medical concoction and present it to The Stranger. He rolled on his side and gingerly took the steaming saucer in his hands.
“Have care, now,” Maria warned. “Sip slowly.”
He took a small sip and found the brew far less satisfying than fresh, cool water. Maria nodded to him, urging him to continue, and he choked down the hot preparation as well as he could.
“May the sacred spirits of our passed guardians who inhabit these leaves soothe your ailments and find peace in the afterlife, so that we may find peace in our own lives,” she seemed to recite.
The Stranger slowly finished the drink as Maria sat back in the sand with her lover and began to share her own tale. He found some interest in spite of himself in hearing about the state of civilization in Fordar, from whence Maria and Robert had fled their old lives. As frightening and frantic as life in Reprise had become, The Stranger couldn’t help but imagine that life in Fordar, where the influence and protection of the White Kingdom had ever been less ubiquitous, was far more uncertain during the transition. Based upon Maria’s accounts, news of The Baron’s seizure of power had traveled fast—impossibly fast—as though Bernard already had followers in the distant nation who believed without doubt in his success.
Much of Maria and Robert’s story after they fled Fordar in the stolen ship was lost on The Stranger, however. Once Maria’s herb took effect, he slipped into a deep, invigorating sleep.
7
The Stranger awoke long after the sun had disappeared behind the trees, taking the day’s intense heat with it. The fire crackled softly in its attempts to burn itself out. John was snoring erratically, and Maria was sleeping silently upon Robert’s chest. No one seemed to think it prudent to maintain a watch through the night, likely correctly enough. The Stranger doubted if those two bumbling pirates would chance a confrontation against three armed individuals and one useless cripple.
He inhaled slowly and found that his chest was able to expand with much less resistance than before. He was even able to sit upright without getting light-headed and passing out. He felt so fine, in fact, as he sat beneath the cloudy night sky, that he considered standing up and stealing away in the night. It would mean a clean, easy break from his rescuers. It would also mean that his quest would begin far sooner than he’d resigned himself to believing previously possible. His wounds would continue to heal while he travelled, provided that he didn’t get himself into any danger. And he did his family no good by lying around sleeping off his injuries and illnesses. All he needed to do was find a ship to escape this island, and he would be able to rest while he sailed.
Lightning flashed in the distance, and a low rumble of thunder slowly rolled its way to The Stranger’s ears. He glanced at John, deeply asleep with his mouth agape beneath his unkempt beard. It seemed his predictions had been correct after all. The man deserved more credit than The Stranger had given him, all things considered. Perhaps in another life The Stranger could have seen him for the noble man he was.
The sky was momentarily lit by lightning again, and Maria nestled herself closer to Robert in her sleep. The large man may very well have been holding his breath. He didn’t appear to move at all.
If The Stranger were to seize this opportunity, he would have to make haste, before the storms rolled in and woke his party. He stood slowly to his feet for the first time in over a day and found that, though stiff, he had little trouble moving around. Maria was clearly more proficient in potion making than he had expected. Either that or there were more souls on his side than he cared to think about at this moment.
He’d had no belongings with him when his burning vessel had washed upon the shores and he’d been forced to flee empty-handed and alone into the jungle, so he picked up John’s canteen of fresh water. Surely the man had another in whatever cottage he’d been living in on this island. He tipped the canteen in silent thanks and bent to pick up the pirate’s sword John kept beside him. Given that this was the second occasion it would be stolen from him, The Stranger thought it time the man found another spot for it. He slid the blade in his waistband and wondered briefly what would happen if the two pirates did come back to finish the job. Could this one blade be the difference between life and death for the man who had gone to such lengths to save him? Surely not. With Maria and Robert in his company, the three of them had enough courage and steel to triumph over two bilge rats.
The Stranger sighed. He needed the sword, in any case. His quest would be long and dangerous, and from this point on he would have no one by his side to protect him.
Without another thought to his three sleeping protectors, and without a backward glance over his shoulder, The Stranger slinked off into the darkness.
8
Before long, The Stranger was running through the dark forest with a seemingly endless store of energy. The farther he ran, the more powerful grew his need to reunite with his family. To kiss his beautiful wife, Laura. To hold his laughing son, William. When his chest began to pulse painfully beneath his tourniquet, he ran through the pain.
Determined to put enough distance between himself and the campsite to ensure no one would find him if they set out searching, his jog turned into a full-fledged sprint through the forest toward the island’s distant shore. But would his protectors come searching for him when they realized he’d fled? Or was he merely flattering himself? The question was of no consequence. If they searched, they’d find nothing. If they didn’t, he’d be unhindered in his flight back to Reprise.
At last The Stranger stopped to catch his breath and take a large draught from his canteen. Already he could feel the ghostly fingertips of his fever struggling to re-establish their grip on him. He looked to the sky and observed the distant storm-head that still hadn’t quite made it above the island. Surely he was far enough away to be able to slow his pace a bit. The storm had not yet arrived to wake anyone up, and they had no idea in which direction he’d fled anyway. Better to take it easy now than to have his infection come back full-force with the sunrise.
He continued walking through the night as the thick clouds drew ever closer and eventually blocked out what little moonlight there had been. Soon The Stranger was bumping painfully into trees and limbs, and he wished sorely that he’d thought to bring a makeshift torch of sorts. Frequent flashes of lightning simultaneously helped to guide his way and to hinder his vision. Each flash left an imprint of what was before him, but once he’d travelled a few steps by memory, he was functionally blind yet again, forced to await the next lightning strike. This sightlessness, coupled with the rolling thunder that was no longer distant but directly overhead, rendered The Stranger uneasy, as he would be unable to identify anything that may approach, neither by sight nor by sound.
When the lightning flashed again, the image that burned and persisted in The Stranger’s eyes left him frozen in shocked terror. A small girl dressed in loose, white sleeping robes stood amidst the trees perhaps three body-lengths away. The Stranger’s vision slowly faded, but the image of the girl remained—long dark hair hanging from a pale, melancholy face. She appeared to be complete
ly drenched, despite the current lack of rain falling from the clouds. Gooseflesh broke out all over his body, standing his hair on end and sending a painful chill down his spine. He held his breath and listened, but only crackling thunder could be heard.
“H—hello?” he asked, holding onto a tree to keep him from sinking completely to his knees. He slowly brought his free hand forward and held it in front of him in a gesture that was half a display that he was harmless and half defensive.
The girl didn’t respond.
“Are you all right?” he asked, not daring to move until he could see again, or at least until he heard something that made her presence less inexplicable.
Finally another flash of lightning lit the dark forest. The girl was gone.
The Stranger frantically darted his sightless eyes from side to side, searching desperately for anything, but seeing only the image that had just been burned into his retinas.
When the shock subsided and several more lightning strikes confirmed that he was indeed alone, The Stranger decided he’d simply spooked himself by considering his blind and deaf helplessness. After standing stock-still with his heart pounding painfully against his tattered lung, he began to breathe slowly and deeply in an effort to calm himself as he began moving forward again.
The first drops of rain finally began falling as The Stranger stumbled upon a small cottage in the woods. The facade was in shambles. Every window appeared to be shattered, great plants and vines grew up and snaked their way all over the building, and large patches of the roof were collapsed in. But it would still serve as a practical shelter from the rain.
The Stranger approached the door, which was hanging askew on its hinges, and thought it may be best to call out. Given that there were at least two rogue pirates and perhaps a small child also on the island, there was no telling who he may encounter inside even a building as decrepit as this.
“I’m coming in!” he called, pulling the crooked door open.
Standing in the doorway, he tried to make out what was inside, but the building was even darker than the jungle, so he waited for the lightning to flash again. When it did, he could see that the former foyer was in ruin. Overturned pieces of rotted wooden furniture littered the den area, and there were plants growing up the walls even on the inside.
Beyond the den was a small room that may have once served either as a dining area or a kitchen. Now the only remnant of its existence was either a low wall or an expansive stone table. When lightning flashed again, it illuminated nearly everything in the foyer and den, but the small room behind the half-wall was left in shadow, as the window was higher than the wall separating the rooms. The Stranger was paralyzed yet again by a certainty that he had made out two glowing eyes near to the floor in that shadow. His body trembled at the eerie sight, and his imagination carried him places that made it impossible to turn and run away from the cabin.
He waited in silence as the rain came down harder and harder on the patchy roof. It began pouring down from the holes above the den. Moments dragged on impossibly as he waited for the next lightning flash. When it finally came, it was accompanied by an immediate crack of deafening thunder. The bolt may very well have struck the roof of the house directly. The suddenness of it made The Stranger jump painfully, but the image he saw before him made him stumble backwards against the wall.
The girl in white robes sat curled in the dark corner across the cabin. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, and her wet hair was draped over them. The nearby lightning strike seemed to have no discernible effect on her whatsoever. In the momentary light, her eyes were locked upon The Stranger’s, probably were still locked upon The Stranger’s, despite the chasm of crippling darkness separating them.
“Are—are you hurt?” he stammered over the sound of the rain, which was thundering steadily down into the cabin now. The girl was beyond hurt. Her eyes were listless and dead. Her skin looked gray and decaying. If she were an apparition, she was unlike any of which The Stranger had ever heard. Lost souls roamed the living realm unseen, unheard, and unable to directly impact the environment. This was something else entirely.
“Help us.”
The Stranger heard her small voice just barely over the roar of the rain. “Wh—what?” He struggled to wheeze, but no sound would come out.
“Please help us.”
Louder now.
The Stranger stood back upright in spite of every sensation that was ripping through his body. “I can’t,” he sobbed, stumbling forward into the flooding den nonetheless. Not even a full night in, and already distractions from his quest were appearing. But to not help a small child in peril …
Lightning flashed once more, and the girl was gone.
9
The Stranger stumbled back out the door of the cottage and into the rain. Before his terror could even sink in or subside, a thundering crash erupted from behind the ruined building. He wheeled around in the rain but could see nothing beyond the front of the building, which was somewhat visible now that the moon had peeked around the thicker of the clouds overhead. The crash did not seem to be a tree falling, but a tree being uprooted and thrown to the ground. Even in the rain and thunder, the sound was out of place and startling, as there were no strong winds.
His fear doubled and then trebled as the clicking growl he’d observed on the previous night grew into a mammoth roar from deep in the jungle. He turned and stumbled away from the building and away from the source of noise. Infrequent flashes of lightning provided glimpses of his route as he tripped and bumbled painfully through the dense trees. His heart throbbed miserably in his wounded chest, and the feverish stiffness had worked its way back into his core yet again. He found more and more difficulty in each breath, and his face and ears burned in intense agony.
At last The Stranger stumbled out of the trees and onto a clearing at the top of a rocky cliff. He buckled unceremoniously onto his hands and knees, and the combination of every negative emotion he’d ever felt finally collapsed in upon him. The unadulterated terror from the girl in the woods, the physical tortures of his chest wounds and infection, the mental anguish of not knowing where his wife and son were or whether they were doing okay, the emotional agony of having witnessed the murder of his parents and the abduction of his loved ones.
For the first time since his departure from Reprise, The Stranger let these emotions in. After countless days on the run, never knowing what peril would threaten his life and the lives of his family members next, never knowing who was searching for him or how many men or when they would finally find him, The Stranger begrudgingly succumbed to the stress of it all. After keeping his emotions and concerns at bay for the sake of his family for so long, The Stranger let down his guard, and the stoic wall he had built came crumbling down in an instant. The wall would be rebuilt. After sunrise, he would have the wall built back and stronger than ever—he would have to, for his family needed him now more than ever—but for now, he finally let the caustic tears come.
10
His tears flowed freely from his eyes and mixed with the rain that coursed down his cheeks. He had fought against them long enough, and his energy to do so was completely drained. He didn’t even attempt to stay the choking bray of a sob that erupted and finally relieved the tension in the lump in his throat, which he’d held since nearly the day his son was born.
The Stranger wept until the thunderclouds were far off in the distance over the open sea and the red-orange dome of the sun began emerging over the horizon to the east. The rain had become a drizzle that beaded and dripped under his eyes, concealing and washing away the last of his bitter, childlike tears.
The new day’s sun turned the hazy skies above it into a vast rainbow of subtle colorations. Purple to green to yellow to red on the horizon, blending seamlessly with the dark, colorless skies above it. The Stranger found himself unable to look away from high atop his coastal cliff. The crown grew into a bright orange semi-circle on the horizon, surrounded by an orb of the day�
�s heat that was effortlessly pushing the darkness of night away to the opposite horizon. The Stranger felt that orb simultaneously pushing away the night’s woes. With the darkness that faded slowly out of existence, so too did his fears and pains and concerns. The only thing that remained as he slid dripping wet out of last night’s womb and into a fresh new life was his conviction.
His conviction and his new life’s mantra: I have to find my son.
11
Once the sun came to full view and became too blinding to behold, The Stranger breathed a determined sigh that brought his composure back into focus. He turned back toward the jungle he’d hurried out of last night and braced himself to face it yet again. He would walk the coast of this entire island if he had to, searching every beach for a docked vessel or a pier.
He placed his sword and canteen on the ground and wandered over toward shade to tend to his wound and tourniquet before setting off. Utterly composed, refreshed, and determined, he didn’t even notice the small patch of out-of-place sand just before the tree line. Had he noticed it, he would never have thought twice about plodding right through it on his way to the shade.
When The Stranger stepped onto the sand, however, a nearby tree cracked and whipped, setting into motion a series of hidden ropes and pulleys that launched a large mesh upward from underneath the sand, effortlessly hoisting the man into the air and tangling him uncomfortably in a net that bounced and swayed beneath the trees.
Chapter 6:
Stora
1
The sun beat down on the dusty streets of Onton. The still, dry air was silent, save for the soft rustling of many feet at once. The brain-dead inhabitants of the town shuffled mindlessly about the streets, their shirts loose and tattered and their trousers either completely gone or dragging along unheeded behind one foot. Their skin had grown ashen and cracked from prolonged exposure to the hot sun. All but the basest of instincts had been wiped out by whatever was in that vial Patrick Oliphant had found. The townspeople were slowly dying of their collective illness, existing only to eat—sometimes each other—and spread their seed to reproduce. Patrick had observed from afar the remarkably swift gestation of many of the females, who spent the majority of their time wandering from man to man and lying silently beneath the writing bodies of each partner. Their bellies grew impossibly fast until they collapsed in the streets, from exhaustion, malnutrition, and whatever other diseases were coursing through their bodies. Patrick had watched one botched birth with revolted fascination until the partly-formed child had slid out from between the unconscious mother’s legs and screamed itself to death in a pool of blood and birth fluids while the rest of the townsfolk shuffled about apathetically. He’d lost what little lunch he’d managed to scrounge and decided to never again bear witness to the abomination of birth.