by Travis Smith
Eugene only placed the plate of food on the floor and slid it to The Stranger with the bottom of his cane. He shuffled back up the stairs as his prisoner collapsed on the floor in furious, miserable, impotent tears.
9
At last the old man nestled himself into his rocking chair after bringing down a plate of food. The Stranger, who wouldn’t venture to guess how many days he’d actually passed in captivity, was lying on his cot, trapped with his tortured thoughts and depraved fantasies about his family’s fate.
“Please,” he begged in a hoarse whisper, “just kill me.”
“I’ve no intentions t’ kill ye,” Eugene said.
“Then what do you want from me? Why do you keep me here, locked away like a criminal?”
“’Tis for yer own good.”
“What good?” The Stranger demanded. He stood up from his bed and lunged himself at his cage door. “What good comes of this?” He seized the bars and shook himself violently against them. “Kill me, you sick old man!” he screamed. “Fucking kill me now!”
“Swear off yer quest,” Eugene said again.
“I have to find my son!” The Stranger roared.
“Ye have t’ find yerself!” Eugene said with a fierceness The Stranger would not have thought possible.
The Stranger closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall against the bars. “I have no quest,” he admitted. “What quest have I to swear off? I have been stuck in this dungeon, and I don’t even know what time of day it is!”
“It’s midday.”
The Stranger looked at Eugene, who wore a snarky grin, and scoffed. He closed his eyes again and let the laughter come.
Soon the old man was cackling, too. “I mean ’t when I say I mean ye no ill.”
The Stranger sat back down on his bed. “Then please, Eugene, I beg of you, let me go try and save my son.”
“I will,” Eugene said, “but only when I know yer not s’reckless.”
“What difference does it make to you whether I let my emotions get the best of me? What difference does any of my story make to you?”
“No diff’r’nce. But I live m’ life t’ see’t I ’liminate ’s much darkness ’s I can from this world.”
The Stranger stared in silence, completely unable to believe that he had become mixed up in this crazy old man’s glorified holy mission.
“Ye cain’t destroy evil with more evil,” the old man continued.
“I can damn well try,” The Stranger said stubbornly. Would the man truly let him go if he just pretended to give in?
Eugene sighed and began his struggle back to his feet. “Y’ want anythin’ special t’ eat?” he asked.
“No,” The Stranger said somberly, “just the usual.”
10
Afterward, Eugene made his way slowly and painstakingly down the stairs more often than he had been. He talked with The Stranger and assured him that he’d never meant the man any harm.
“I truly want t’ help ye,” he said, rocking back and forth in his chair and looking completely at ease. “If I’d offered ye me ’elp, ye’d’ve been righ’ off on yer way, bleedin’ straight from yer ’eart ’til ye keeled over.”
Perhaps it was true. The Stranger couldn’t deny that he may have left the company of his previous protectors a trifle prematurely.
“Even when I thought ye’s a slaver, I only aim t’ talk t’ ye. Talk some sense, I’d ’ope.”
“Then why did you so often refuse to talk?”
“’Twas clear t’ me ye wer’n’t ’n the righ’ state t’ talk yet, me sonny.”
The Stranger considered his well-meaning urgency and conceded that he may have come off as a bit frenzied at times. “Do you have any children?” he asked.
Eugene looked at him severely but said nothing.
“My son had scarcely come into this realm before Bernard took everything from us. He was only an infant when we lived on the run until The Baron ripped him from my bleeding arms.” He had to fight the familiar burning of tears at the backs of his eyes. “You must forgive my hastiness and brashness. I only ever aimed to save my son.”
Eugene nodded and rocked slowly for a while in silence. At last he stood and walked back up the stairs. For several moments The Stranger sat in suspense, wondering if he’d finally convinced the old man to set him free. He squeezed the bars impatiently and listened intently for the thump of the cane at the top of the stairs. For the first time since this harrowing, extended imprisonment began, he could feel the possibility of freedom lightening his feet, which were restless and eager to begin their journey. But Eugene didn’t return that night, not even with a plate of food.
11
The Stranger often considered what he would do if Eugene actually did let him out. Could he simply shake the man’s hand and set off on his way? Or would his pent-up desperation get the best of him? The man must know how severely he’d tortured his captive by so selfishly and stubbornly delaying his mission. The man had stood in his way for far too long. He’d kept The Stranger from pursuing the only thing left that he’d ever again care about. Given the chance, The Stranger would not hesitate to kill the well-meaning old kook for no other reason than being a meddlesome nuisance.
That chance, however, had yet to come. He sat in bed and planned all the things he would say during their next encounter. Clearly he had struck a nerve when he brought up Eugene’s family and how young and vulnerable and innocent his son was during this whole ordeal. If he could only coax the old man into arm’s-length of his cage.
At last Eugene came downstairs with The Stranger’s daily meal. He sat upon his bed and pretended to weep silently in his hands as the old man approached. Hoping Eugene would initiate a conversation so he wouldn’t appear desperate, The Stranger refrained from saying anything. Eugene, however, placed the food and water by the bars and turned back to the stairs stubbornly. The Stranger cursed the man silently and quickly formulated a new plan. He stood and walked to his food but intentionally knocked over the cup of water.
“Eugene?” he called just as the man mounted the steps. “Would you please get me more water? Mine has spilled.”
Eugene blinked and nodded and slowly made his way up the stairs. When he finally returned and made it back to the bottom of the stairs, The Stranger was still sitting in the floor, morosely leaning against the bars and picking distractedly at his food. Eugene shuffled across the basement and stopped a safe distance from the bars. He placed the cup on the ground and proceeded to slide it forward with the tip of his cane, as he always had.
The Stranger bolted upright with desperate speed and managed to just barely seize the old man’s bony fingers at the top of his cane. He redoubled his grip and pulled the man closer by his bony arm, which felt fit to snap like a twig under The Stranger’s determined grip. Eugene stumbled forward, dropped his cane, and fell painfully against the cell bars.
“Get me out,” The Stranger commanded through gritted teeth. “Now!”
Eugene gasped and wheezed and struggled to stand up straight. “Stranger, I’m sorry I’ve drived ye to this state.”
“Damn your sorries,” The Stranger growled. “Just let me out!”
“Ye cain’t harm me, boy,” Eugene wheezed painfully. “The cellar keys are atop the stairs.”
The Stranger’s grimace slowly faded back to blank hopelessness. He stared into the old man’s face, desperately hoping that he was lying, but the graveness in his eyes told him all he needed to know. He didn’t even bother checking Eugene’s smock pocket before pushing him angrily backward onto the ground and screaming himself hoarse.
12
The next time Eugene limped his way slowly down the stairs, he held the keys in his hand. He was also accompanied by four men wearing not the garb of rag-tag pirates but of high-ranking maritime government officials. One of the men struck The Stranger as frighteningly familiar and out-of-place …
“All right, lads,” the man in front said merrily, his expensive purple clo
ak bunched up in his fists so as not to drag across the dirty ground, “let’s load ’im onto the ship ’n’ be off.”
Chapter 8:
The Desert of Dask
1
The Stranger looked out over the expansive sea, a gentle, limitless promise of a new beginning. The sun was beginning to set on the western horizon, and he was lost in his troubling thoughts about how to handle his family’s dwindling food supply.
Robert Vaga climbed the stairs from his cabin and leaned against the edge of the ship with him. “What pains you, son?”
The Stranger looked solemnly at his father and sighed. “You’ve seen the state of our provisions. We left in such a hurry, not one of us stopped to ponder the best course of action when we finally run out.”
Robert clapped his son fondly on the shoulder. “There is no best course of action now, I’m afraid.”
The Stranger eyed him disconsolately.
“We’re on our own now. We must take things day by day. As long as we possess the will to live, we shall find the means to do so.”
The Stranger lowered his head and dropped his gaze back to the slowly rolling waves beneath the ship. “Is this any sort of life for young William? For Laura? I can’t help thinking that we should have tried harder—”
Robert turned his son gruffly around to face him. “Listen to me, son! We did everything in our power to prevent this outcome. Our family represents the ancient White, and we have never faltered in our struggles to keep the darkness from descending upon these lands and devouring all that is good and just. What has happened is far beyond our control, and the life that we’ve chosen—this life—is and will forever be far greater than any such that would be awaiting William back in Reprise.”
The Stranger bowed his head obligingly to his father before turning back to examine the waves. “I know you speak truly, father. It just seems so unfair to me. To have lived such a privileged life, and now to watch my son come to age knowing only flight and fear and uncertainty.”
“When your son is old enough to learn of the true nature of our situation, I am sure he will honor you for your noble decisions. Until that time, he will grow knowing love and family and friendship. We will find a way of our own out here. You’ll see.”
The Stranger never told his father of his last interaction with Bernard before fleeing Reprise, and in the end he might have felt a great deal of guilt for not properly preparing his family for the dangers that could befall them, had his mind not been so otherwise occupied.
“Set the course back eastward,” Robert told his son as he turned to head back below deck. “We’ll find a safe place to dock before our food is all gone.”
2
His father was partially correct.
Before sunset the following day, The Stranger spotted a large, old pier along the desolate coast he’d been approaching since that morning. They docked the ship on the abandoned pier without encountering a single other person or vessel.
“I believe it will be best if everyone stays aboard while I go investigate yonder village. It seems a bit queer that there should be no one around with the amount of daylight still remaining,” The Stranger said.
“Darling, we’ll come with you,” Laura said. She walked closer to him with William in her arms and leaned into his embrace.
“Nonsense,” he said, “we haven’t the slightest idea of what or who resides in this town. I won’t put you or William in any more danger than we’re already in.”
“Oh, bunkum!” Robert shouted. “We’re refugees in need of supplies. What dangers could any kind townsfolk present to us?”
“You know as well as I,” The Stranger reasoned, “that the dynamic of the world is changing. Grant me this peace of mind and stay aboard the ship. Watch over Laura and mother for me.” He wrapped one arm gruffly around his father in a brief hug and turned to kiss his wife on the cheek.
“Oh, I don’t want you to leave us,” she pleaded. “I can’t bear to lose you.” It was at that very moment that William began to squirm and whine in his mother’s grasp.
The Stranger took the boy in his arms and kissed his nearly bald head. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he cooed, allowing the boy to squeeze his index finger lightly. He gave his son back to Laura and kissed her again on the cheek. “I’ll be back before sundown,” he said. “I promise.”
Robert stepped forward and produced the large sword of the White King of yore, the only relic of his fallen kingdom that had been salvaged in their escape. The Stranger reached out and grazed his fingertips across the mighty blade’s hilt. Its priceless scabbard was adorned with ancient markings and patching that signified a virtuousness so pure that even the likes of he would never come to feel it.
“Take this,” his father said, suddenly grave and reserved. “If you insist upon going alone, at least know that you are protected by the White.”
The Stranger didn’t know how to respond. The blade had sat upon the castle wall since long before he was born. Never in his life had he imagined that the time would come that the blade should be used to battle darkness, but alas, here he was about to do just that.
“Thank you,” he managed lamely.
After fastening the scabbard to his waist, he climbed down from the moderately sized slave ship and set out along the pier toward the town. Small, rundown clay homes lined the streets ahead. The Stranger first walked through a tiny market that wasn’t a tenth as large as the one in his home city of Krake. His own lodgings within the kingdom had even been larger than this town’s market. A small, straw-roofed pavilion stood long forgotten in the center of the dusty square. Overturned tables and empty baskets lay scattered about, all covered in dust and cobwebs.
The houses were equally deserted. Windows were broken; doors were kicked in or entirely missing from their frames. The Stranger passed slowly through the streets of the ghost town, his hand massaging the hilt of his sword, his eyes wandering cautiously back and forth.
When he reached the end of the street and the last of the houses, he had seen no movement, nor anything resembling food or human life. The sandy street became a sandy expanse of desert that went on as far as his eyes could see. In the distance he could make out a sole hut standing alone amidst the sun-scorched nothingness.
The Stranger turned and observed how far he’d travelled from the ship and from his family. He hadn’t walked too far, and there would still be some daylight yet by the time he reached the hut. With still nothing to show, he figured he’d investigate at least the one last building before heading back.
3
As he approached the hut, The Stranger’s spirits steadily sank. The building was as decrepit and forgotten as the rest of this town. How had he ever thought there may be something here worth seeing?
But just as he prepared to turn and make his way back to the ship, The Stranger spied yet another building on the distant horizon. This one appeared to be much larger than the ones he’d seen thus far, and the indistinct backdrop looked as though it may even be another village. He stepped slowly around the hut to get a better view of the distance, but he was startled out of his observance by a body slumped over in a wooden porch chair.
A hoarse cry escaped him before he steeled himself and looked closer at the body. The elderly man was dressed in dirty overalls and nothing else. His skin was dry and discolored and smelling decisively foul. Long gray hairs dangled in moist clumps from the sides of his mostly bald head. As The Stranger looked on in disgust to determine what had happened to the man, he heard a coarse grunt and nearly fell to his knees in surprise.
The man wasn’t dead at all; he had merely been sleeping. Now he raised his frightening head and blinked blearily. One eye was milky and sightless while the other danced ceaselessly side to side. He opened his mouth in a toothless grimace and smacked his wet jowls discontentedly.
“Why are ye here?” he demanded, strings of thick spittle blowing from his swamp of a mouth.
“I mean you no harm,” The St
ranger said, extending a hand in a gesture he hoped would be calming.
The old man struggled to both hoist himself out of his chair and shake his fist at the same time. “Be gone, interloper!” he squealed incomprehensibly.
“All right,” The Stranger said, backing away. “I’d not disturb your peace. I only seek food and supplies for my family.”
The man blew a derisive, wet raspberry, his sagging lips and cheeks fluttering like those of an aging hound. Mucousy saliva dangled from his gums. “Ain’t naught here!”
“So I’ve discerned,” replied The Stranger as politely as he could manage. “But have you any knowledge of yon villa?” He pointed to the distant community on the horizon.
The man’s eyes rolled and his mouth sagged open, making him look more deranged than ever. The Stranger had an inclination to write him off as insane, as his babblings were clearly the products of a sun-addled brain. “Dare ye enter the Desert of Dask?” he called rhetorically. “Be gone!” he roared, his tone and voice changing dramatically. “If ye’d live to see another day, be gone!”
The Stranger had seen and heard enough. He made his hasty apologies and backtracked as swiftly as he could manage without fully running.
4
“Rubbish,” his father proclaimed when The Stranger announced that they would have to set sail empty handed.
“The place is a ghost town,” he explained.
“And you saw nothing of value? No person of interest?”
“There looked to be a city far off on the horizon. And an unhinged old man in a cabin on the outskirts of the town, but he very clearly stated his desires for our involvement in his affairs.”
“Rubbish,” repeated Robert.
“Father, I won’t bring Laura and William around that deranged old fool. We’ll sail to the next village and hope for better luck tomorrow.”
“Not when there’s a perfectly good city not half a day’s walk from here! We could sail for forty nights before finding the next dock. It is only wise to cover our bases while we’re here.”