by A. Sparrow
“What is it?” asked Janos.
“An elixir to warm your hearts and minds. The children make it. Dodzi calls it liquid kindling.”
Janos took a swig, expecting alcohol but tasting something more like a muddy tea. He offered the flask to the cousins but none dared touch it.
“Could be poison,” muttered Tomas.
“Please! You dishonor our hosts.” Janos passed the flask to Wences.
Zaria smiled. “Not a problem,” she said. “More for the others.”
Piotr and Marek, bracketing the entrance, suddenly lurched back and reached for their quivers.
“Some things just ran past. Small things. Dark things.”
“Please, put down your weapons,” said Zaria. “They are only the children … of the wood.”
“That was no child I saw,” said Piotr. “It was … a creature.”
“Had a face like a demon,” said Marek.
“I’m not giving up my bow,” said Tomas.
“Then you must leave,” said Zaria, displaying no anger or impatience, simply resolve. She drifted away. Her feet barely touching the floor, as if she were floating. She climbed back into the lofts.
“Bitch,” said Tomas.
“Will you at least eat something?” said Janos as the men crowded a pair of cauldrons at the hearth. Some were already going back for seconds. “Looks like they have plenty.”
“I don’t dare,” said Tomas.
“Me neither,” said Piotr. “I don’t trust them.”
Marek and Georg shook their heads in solidarity.
“Why would they wish to harm us?” said Janos.
“Why would they prepare a meal for forty?” said Tomas. “How did they know we were coming?”
“They must have had spies, informers, to know we were coming,” said Marek.
“The hill tribes must have warned them,” said Georg.
“Or … the children of the wood,” said Wences.
“No such thing,” said Tomas. “Only in fairy tales.”
“Open your eyes,” said Wences. “We are not dealing with ordinary people here. We are in the presence of deities.”
Tomas chortled. “This old man looks like flesh and blood enough to me. Cut him and I bet he bleeds.”
“Please,” said Janos. “Do not speak like that in the presence of our hosts. If you don’t wish to supper with us, I’ll have the others pool their barley corn at least you will have something to eat.”
“You’re a fool to allow this,” said Tomas. “To put us at risk so close to home. The holy men of Eire say there are adversaries afoot in this world who employ such deceptions to steal men’s souls. It is clear to me that we are in the presence of such a deceiver.”
“What risk?” said Janos. “This is only a godsend. You would rather make your bed out in that storm?”
“I would. And I shall,” said Tomas.
“Me too,” said Marek and the other cousins nodded.
Janos sighed. “Fine. If you fools insist. Wences, gather up some extra bed rolls so they don’t freeze.”
Wences went off among the men to solicit extra food and bedding. The men were generous, their spirits high thanks to the hot meal in their belly, warm feet and that jug of incendiary elixir making the rounds. Janos unhitched his scabbard and laid it down in the pile beside the other weapons. This place felt like a home. He had no reason to expect any treachery.
Tomas glared but said nothing.
A steaming bowl and a hunk of bread finally made it to Janos. He offered it to the cousins, and while their eyes betrayed temptation, they refused to partake. Janis found the meal worth the wait, thick with bits of meat and greens and parsnip, herbed and spiced unlike any dish he had even eaten at home or abroad. It was everything a man could want after a long slog in the rain and snow.
Again, footsteps, small and quick, clattered on the planks overhead. Men stared up into the shadowy lofts.
“Don’t mind the children,” said Dodzi. “They are preparing your lofts with rushes and boughs of cedar. They are very curious, but shy. I doubt they will show themselves.”
“They’re like rats in the ceiling. I ain’t sleeping up there,” said one of the pikers.
“But it is much warmer off the ground,” said Dodzi. “The heat collects beneath the thatch.”
“Don’t care,” said the Piker. “I’m staying down here.”
“Where does your family sleep?” asked Janos scanning the rafters, which were wide open and seemed to offer no privacy.
“We won’t be staying here,” said Dodzi. “And neither will the children. Once you are all settled, we shall leave you.”
“Do you have … another house?”
Dodzi smiled sadly. “This is our last Yule in the Karpath. We are leaving the forest. The third age of men has come. People have no place in their hearts for us anymore, no patience for the old gods. Time for other gods, real or imagined, to take our place. We will cross the sea and pass to the north lands.”
“You are leaving tonight? In this storm?”
“Our task is complete. Snow and cold won’t trouble us. Nor will darkness.”
What did it mean when innkeepers abandoned their own inn before their guests had checked out? It sounded like the makings of an ambush. Was Tomas justified in worrying about foul play?
“Well … thank you … for helping us. We would have had a terrible night if not for your assistance.”
Dodzi cocked his head and shrugged. “It is what we do.”
“I should let you know that we will be posting a watch. A hill tribe attacked us earlier in the day.”
“No need. No tribesmen will trouble you tonight. They know better with the children about.”
“But the men are nervous. A watch will reassure them.”
Again the steel poured into Dodzi’s gaze. Gone was the kindly grandfather and in its place the visage of an unmasked executioner.
“You shall wield no weapons within the ring of stones. And mind the children. They are curious. They love to observe the ways of men. They will not harm you if you keep the peace. But they in turn must not be harmed. Or else, there will be consequences.”
Wences and several of the men came by with armloads of extra blankets and oil-cloth, along with a sack of leftover boiled barley with biscuit with bits of smoked sausage.
Tomas and his cousins accepted the offerings. “We’ll keep the watch for you all … out beyond the damned circle.”
“May the gods help you,” whispered Wences, as they went off into the stormy night.
***
Janos spent a restless night moving back and forth between the hearth and entrance, stoking the fire, checking on the storm, reassuring his men. Many could not sleep with all the chatter and scurrying about in the lofts. Most kept to the dirt floor of the chamber, crowding around the central hearth. Only the bravest dared partake of the more luxurious bedding in the rafters.
Dodzi and Zaria remained out in the blizzard, packing their boat-like sleigh with their strange belongings—carvings and crockeries and bundles of bark and root. Fat snowflakes danced in the light of the blaze, swirling into the open door.
They seemed oblivious to the storm, which only seemed to increase in intensity. Their horses stomped and snorted, loitering near the sleigh until Dodzi got them hitched. They seemed eager to be leaving.
Dodzi spotted him and came waddling over through the deep snow. “Why don’t you rest?”
Janos shrugged. “Someone has to do the worrying.”
“What is there to worry about? I assure you all is well. You are safe here. The storm will break by morning. And then you can do as you wish. Make for the pass in the morning, rest another day or wait till spring. The children will attend to your needs.”
“I am sorry, but I don’t understand. Why you are being so kind to us?”
“This is duty, not kindness. What is a god, but a steward of men? I have told you, this is what we do. There was a time men never quest
ioned our generosity, they just accepted it.”
He nodded his head and trudged back towards the sleigh.
“Happy … travels,” said Janos. It seemed such an awkward and inadequate thing to say to a god, steward or not.
“Peace be with you,” said Dodzi, as he clomped back to the sleigh and climbed aboard. He whistled sharply and the horses plowed through the drifts. Zaria turned and waved as they disappeared into the dark.
He shut the heavy wooden door and barred it. Nerves kept him pacing the chamber, making small talk with the men. At some point, he heard a squeal and some squawking outside. It sounded like goats or crows. He wanted to check on the cousins, but he wasn’t about to go blundering through the dark and snow looking for their camp. They were skittish and likely to mistake him for a foe and ventilate his chest with an arrow.
He went back to the hearth and found an open spot amidst the chaos of moldy blankets and stinky feet. At least a score of men now slumbered. Others chatted quietly about the people and places they missed the most and the first things they would do when they reached home. Janos pressed his back against the warm stone and wrapped himself in his blanket.
Exhausted to the point of stupor, he fell asleep almost immediately. He dreamed of feasts and feather beds.
He was awoken by frigid air seeping through the moth holes. He opened his eyes to find the roof and walls gone. Overhead spread a canopy of spruce boughs under broken clouds. Where the hearth had been, now stood a solid boulder.
The bedding that had been heaped in the lofts was strewn all over the snow. Snow several inches thick covered men’s blankets. Some of the men laughed. Others grumbled, thinking they had been pranked by their fellow soldiers. Janos got up and searched for Wences and shook him awake.
“The house. It’s gone. How do you explain this?”
Wences looked befuddled.
“I can’t explain the ways of men, never mind gods.”
Janos pulled on his cloak and went to the place where the door had been. Their weapons were gone. He kicked at the snow and found only bits of shredded wood and fist-sized pellets of slag. Where the horses had been tethered, the track of the sleigh carved a channel through the deep snow.
A man came wandering over, his expression confused. A solider not counted among the thirty-eight tallied in yesterday’s muster. A man who Janos had seen fall to a Paludin blade.
“Herman? I thought we left you for dead.”
“I was a captive in a Paludin camp. How is it now I am here with you?”
Cries erupted. Men rejoiced. There were ten new faces among them, comrades missing in action, presumed dead. Yet, here they were, scarred, but healed.
“A miracle?”
“Perhaps,” said Wences. “But a god is a god. And Yule is Yule.”
One of the pikers unstrapped his now bulging haversack to find it stuffed with gifts: Dried and salted olives and capers, apricots and figs, silks and soft woolens, even trinkets and pieces of silver in tiny cloth sacks. Every man among them found a similar array of gifts inside his carry bag.
“Now I am certain,” said Wences, grinning. “That man … er … god … was indeed Dazbog. The giver.”
Janos kept staring at the heap of slag near where the entrance had been, feeling uneasy about the strange sounds in the night. He trudged through the deep snow to the place where the archer cousins had erected a shelter of oil-skins and blankets beyond the ring of stones.
He passed a smear in the snow. It had the oily density of blood, but tinged green. Not human. Not animal.
He lifted a sheet of oil skin and found all four lying dead and frozen inside their shelter. Flaps of parted flesh under each chin gaped like second mouths. The snow was strewn with arrows from their empty quivers. The heads had been snapped off. Only shafts remained. Their camp was surrounded by scores of faint footprints that barely made an impression in the soft snow.
“They must have hurt one of the children,” said Wences.
“Get the men ready, quick as they can. This is not a place we should linger. The hill tribes are the least of our worries.”
***
They followed the path of Dodzi and Zaria’s horse-drawn sleigh up and out of the snow-encrusted firs, into the treeless barrens of the high pass. It would have taken them far longer had they not been able to follow the firm track pressed deep into the snow by the boat-like sleigh.
They crossed human tracks on the way up, most likely tribesmen on the hunt. For what game, who knew? But the men kept up a blistering pace, the prospect of home combined with the threat of an attack while disarmed creating a powerful incentive to keep on the move. The hearty meal and restful sleep had done wonders for their strength. Janos, exhausted, was fueled more by anxiety and the oppression of duty. He could not wait to leave these mountains and his responsibilities behind.
He tallied the muster on the march. What had been thirty-eight was now forty-three, even after the loss of Henryk and the cousins. While the holiday would prove tragic for some families of Turok, in sum, more than expected would now have a young man return from the war in time for Yule. And they would come bearing gifts that belied the miserable outcome of their expedition, but which would enlighten the spirits of Yuletide just the same.
Atop the pass, the snow glittered so brightly they had to squint. Hoarfrost tinkled like tiny bells as crystals tumbled off the ledges.
Before them spread a familiar view of the rivers and fields of their homeland, still bearing hints of green. Last spring some of the more pessimistic men had remarked that this vista might be the last they ever saw of Pom. For most, this was sadly true. But for the lucky forty-three, not two nights would pass before they would share their adventures and tribulations with those who loved them. And Janos would be free again to be just another peasant with a plow.
*****
Hell Hounds
Marsha and Joel unpacked boxes of her grandmother’s knick-knacks, the kind that made a house a home. It warmed Joel’s heart to see how fondly she gazed out the picture window. Leaving Ohio had not been easy for her, but she just adored their new environs. Courtland reminded her so much of her hometown. It seemed like the perfect place to raise a family.
Marsha screamed. Joel jumped, dropping and shattering a Hummel figurine. He followed her eyes.
A huge and hideous dog with clumped and mangy fur was clawing a hole in the neighbor’s lawn, sending clods of turf flying onto the sidewalk.
“I should call animal control.”
As he pulled out his phone, the giant dog perked its ears and bounded across the yard, clearing a picket fence in a single bound.
“Better keep the cats inside.”
***
Out in the garden, Joel took a break from the endless unpacking to put in a tray of heirloom tomato seedlings. It was already a week after Memorial Day. He had to get them in soon if they wanted to be picking ripe tomatoes by August.
The soil here was rich and loamy, a far cry from the shale-ridden nightmare they called loam back in Utica. Here they called it loess—such a lovely name for dirt—evoking the name of a goddess or the sound of the winds that spawned it.
Deposits in this town lay a hundred feet thick. Fertile too, judging from the size of last season's sunflower stalks still gracing people’s yards.
Joel set his seedlings two feet apart as he worked his way down the row. Their acrid resins wafted up in the warm, spring breeze. His trowel met little resistance as he settled into a rhythm. Dig. Put. Pat. Reach.
And then, before he had the chance to pack the soil around its roots a seedling vanished down the hole he had just scooped.
“What the heck?”
He lost his grip on the trowel and it too disappeared down the hole. The edges crumbled into a dark void nearly a foot across. What kind of rodent would dig such a burrow? He thrust him arm in, determined to retrieve the trowel. Feeling around, he could not touch bottom.
The trowel slapped firmly into his palm. He yanked
his arm out and sent it flying across the yard.
Flicking on the light from his key chain, he shined it into the hole. There was a cave down there, shored up with plywood and two by fours. A man in tattered clothing cowered in the corner, clutching a chipped and dented spade.
“What the heck? What are you doing under my garden?”
“Sorry,” said the man meekly. “I was just … just passing through.”
“You can’t just tunnel through my yard.”
“I have little choice. The hounds are after me.”
“Hounds?”
The man just shrugged.
“You get out of there right now, or I’m calling the cops.”
“I can’t.”
Marsha came strolling across the lawn bearing a glass of iced tea. She scrunched her eyes.
“Joel? Who are you talking to?”
“There’s a guy down there, digging a tunnel.”
“Say what?”
Martha got down on her knees and peered into the hole.
“Oh my God! Sir. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” said the man. “Just happened to dig a little too close to the surface. No worries, I’ll be on my way.”
“Joel, fetch him a ladder!”
“Oh no. I can’t come out. That’s impossible.”
“Why is that?”
“Because … I’ve been cursed.”
***
It took the man nearly two hours to tunnel up to their foundation. Marsha had Joel bash a hole into the concrete wall of the foundation with a sledgehammer.
The man clambered through the gap into the basement. His clothes were reduced to shreds and rags. Grime filled every crease and wrinkle in his face. His hair was a helm of clotted clay.
“We’d better get you upstairs and washed up,” said Marsha.
“I … can’t,” said the man. “That’s not possible.”
“Oh. Give it a try. Maybe this whole six feet under thing is only in your mind.”
“How I wish that were true, miss. I’ve questioned the integrity of this spell many a time, always to no avail.”
“Please? Just try.”
He sighed and heaved himself up to his feet, bearing a look of infinite weariness as he made his way to the staircase. He hoisted his scrawny frame onto the first tread. The tread creaked and bowed as if an elephant had stepped on it. He stepped off as the wood began to splinter.
