Marooned

by Travis Smith

  “Hellspawn!” one of them shouted at the boy.

  “He carries the Sormød!” another hissed.

  Patrick looked down at his open palm and marveled at the stone’s new form. Its black, glassy surface was now glowing with a deep purple power. “Where is Olivia?” he growled.

  “How came ye by that stone, boy?”

  “No more tricks,” Patrick spat. “No more talking. Give me my friend!”

  The witches stood in uncertain solidarity. None made a move.

  Patrick glanced around beyond the witches and saw his other friends scattered across the nearby desert. The Stranger, Brandon, Jake, Maria, Robert, and John were standing, sitting, and lying in various positions in the dirt. Ian and Gregoire must not have travelled far, for they, too, were standing, frozen in fear in the distance. The Sisters had separated them in their unnatural sleep and set to work at tormenting them each individually. Patrick raised his hand and squeezed the stone tighter. He felt a surge of power rush from his brain down his arm to the fingertips. Sparks of glowing electricity burst forth from his fingers, and an unseen wave washed outward from his push. The witches’ wiry hair wavered in the breeze.

  “You are exposed,” he promised. “Give us Olivia, and let us go in peace.”

  One of the nearby witches raised one long-fingered hand and pointed toward her Sister. She flapped her fingers in a dismissive gesture toward the Sister, and before Patrick’s very eyes, her grotesque form vanished in a puff of black smoke. In her place, Olivia was standing, eyes large and lovely and fearful.

  “Careful, young ’n’,” the witch snarled. “Somethin’ deadly burns within her.” In another flick of the witch’s wrist, she and the rest of her Sisters dissolved into the darkness.

  Olivia and Patrick peered at each other, mouths agape in shock. Brandon was hustling across the desert toward her. When he approached, her gaze broke from Patrick’s own and glazed over, staring off into the night. She received Brandon in embrace.

  “You’re alive,” he cried.

  “As are you,” she said, her voice shaking. She buried her head on his neck and allowed herself to weep.

  When the pair finished a passionate reunion, Olivia slowly approached Patrick. His eyes watered as he conveyed an infinite apology that mere words could not impart. She took him in a mechanical embrace, which Patrick returned in kind, but he could scarcely feel the warmth of her skin for the icy chasm that had grown between them.

  13

  The group travelled eastward through the desert for seven days before finding the Northern Pass. They journeyed in near-complete silence, wrought with unease and troubled reflection. On the ninth day, they saw Corina approaching in the distance, six horses in tow.

  “What happened to you lot?” she asked.

  The group was shell-shocked and tense. They shuffled and offered her half-hearted greeting and thanks, but no one answered the question directly.

  The ten of them shared the six horses and continued chasing the eastern sunrise as winter crept slowly down from her nearby mountaintops. The rickety fellowship that had grown in Mitten was now splintered and cracked, like the frozen surface of an early winter’s lake. It threatened to shatter beneath the weight of them all, and it would not survive the tragedy that would soon befall …

  Perhaps it was weary travellers’ fatigue that left them all so dazed and vulnerable. Or perhaps the long nights and cold mornings were dampening their moods and senses. Or perhaps it was fate that had brought them together and into those woods where the witches could seal their destinies so. Or perhaps there is merely a limit to the amount of light that can shine in a dark and dimming world …

  There is, after all—as Patrick’s mother would say—darkness on the both sides of the day.

  14

  The Stranger stood on Fordar’s rocky coast and looked out across the tumultuous sea. By the time the group made it to the northeastern corner of the nation, the first light snow had settled atop the earth, and the sky had grown grey with nearly perpetual cloud cover. Waves frothed and crashed against the large rocks and cliffs with icy foreboding. A small ship was approaching from the north.

  “The ferry comes every ten or fifteen days until winter,” Corina said, startling The Stranger from his muse. “Could be we made it just in time for the last trip of the season.”

  “Just in time,” The Stranger repeated without much inflection.

  “In Iskar, the winter never sleeps. It will be near impossible to travel …”

  The Stranger shrugged. “Unless you know where to find a ship sturdy enough to withstand the Great Sea, that icy land-bridge is my only path to my family.”

  Corina shook her head. “The Baron and his men have stockpiled all such ships in Reprise. We’ve been effectively marooned in Fordar since the beginning of this whole affair.”

  “Then it seems this ferry is my only hope.”

  The pair walked back to the nearby port city and entered the small sanctuary building where the rest of the group was huddled about a fire pit. In this weather, the port saw greatly diminished traffic, and there were only five others sharing the shelter space.

  The Stranger approached and spoke quietly—perhaps out of habit from being on the run—so as not to be overheard by the others not in his party. “The ferry is drawing near, and Corina tells me that it leaves after dawn on the morrow. It will take us north to Iskar, where we will have to travel on foot through the winter to find our way to Reprise. The horses have been a tremendous help, but the ship is too small for them, so we must leave them here with a tender.”

  Before he could continue and offer the others a final chance to opt out of his quest, a scuffle arose in the otherwise quiet old barn. As he turned, the rest of his group bolted to their feet and had drawn their weapons. The five others in the refuge had sidestepped them as they listened, and now two of them were holding Ian and Robert. They pulled the men upright from their benches and held guns pressed against their heads.

  “Ian!” Gregoire called. He stumbled backward off his bench while the others stood and took aim.

  “Now, now, steady!” one of the attackers warned. “No one needs t’ get ’urt.”

  “That’s not the message you send by snatching up our own at gunpoint,” The Stranger said, unarmed hands outstretched before him.

  “We only wan’ ’at boy,” the grizzly man growled, nodding toward Patrick, Brandon, and Jake.

  “What boy?” Brandon snarled.

  “Whichever one ’as the stone.” The marauder grinned maliciously as the group’s resolve palpably faltered.

  Those who had been in the Hoxar Woods and seen the display as Patrick fended off the witches shuffled nervously on their feet. None had asked the boy how he’d pulled it off, and none had inquired about what had generated such electric power. Even Corina’s eyes darted toward Patrick.

  “Looks like ’at’s the one,” the man jeered.

  John redoubled his grip on his weapon and aimed at the man’s head. He was peering around Ian’s neck from behind. “Ye’re vastly outnumbered to be makin’ such mad demands.”

  The man shook Ian’s thin frame for emphasis. “Won’ be so vast once we cut down two o’ yers! Jus’ give us tha’ stone an’ we’ll be gone.”

  “There is no stone here,” Patrick said. He looked to John, and the two locked eyes. “So just be gone!”

  They nodded in unison and fired. The man behind Ian and the man behind Robert dropped at once, blood spraying from the backs of their heads. Ian stumbled forward and dropped to his knees as the dim barn erupted in deafening gunfire.

  “Brother!” Greggy yelled as he leapt across the floor and toppled a bench that he and Ian then hid behind.

  The Stranger, too, flipped a bench onto its side and took cover. He was ill-prepared for the abrupt combat and was not carrying his weapon when he’d gone to the shore.

  Patrick, Brandon, Jake, Maria, and John crouched for cover as well but handily laid waste to the remaining th
ree men. Even Olivia fired a couple shots, but in the barrage of bullets, it was impossible to tell whose landed where.

  When the shooting ceased, The Stranger bolted to his feet. “Damn them!” he shouted in the ensuing silence. He rushed to the barn’s window, which was now cracked around a small, round bullet hole. “This uproar will set the townspeople against us! Get the bodies out of here. I’ll not be missing that ship tomorrow!” He peered out the window and looked around the quiet coastal village. No one roamed the streets, now dusted with light snow, and The Stranger could see no movement in the few nearby cottages.

  “No!” Ian called as The Stranger turned back to the group. “Noo!” he wailed again.

  The Stranger walked around the fallen benches to get a better look. Ian was knelt over his motionless brother. His hands covered a river of dark blood flowing from the left side of Greggy’s chest.

  15

  The Stranger knelt beside Gregoire as Ian continued to wail. He gently moved the man’s hands to reveal a bullet hole with fast-flowing blood before placing Ian’s hands back with as much pressure as he could apply. He swallowed hard and leaned toward Greggy’s face. He was still breathing, but shallow.

  “Ian?” the old man asked, breathless.

  “I am here, Greggy. I am with you. Do you feel me?”

  “I feel you,” he wheezed. “I’m sorry …”

  Ian squeezed his eyes closed. His tears fell forward and landed on the inside of his spectacle frames as he bowed his head. “Why, Greggy? You’ve nothing to be sorry about.”

  The Stranger watched Gregoire’s chest rise and fall, more slowly with each breath. As he looked on in silence, the movement slowed to a stop. Ian shook his head in defiance. As the moment dragged out, he thought of the musket ball that had burned within his chest on that island so long ago. It had been on the other side and must have missed everything vital that lay within. Such inelegance their old weapons possessed when compared to the deadly precision granted by these foreign guns. Just before he accepted that Greggy was gone and reached out to touch Ian’s shoulder, the white-haired man spoke again.

  “I can’t recall,” he whispered.

  Ian choked and continued shaking his head. “No,” he croaked inaudibly. When The Stranger reached out a hand to comfort him, he twisted his shoulder away and looked up at Patrick. “Give me the stone,” he demanded, brown eyes alight behind a shimmering sea of sorrow.

  Patrick swallowed hard, fighting against his own tears now. He shook his head minutely.

  “Give it to me, boy,” Ian pleaded. He removed his hands from his brother’s wounds now and held one out to Patrick.

  Patrick opened his mouth to speak while everyone in the barn looked on, but only a dry click came out. He swallowed again and tried once more. “There is no stone …”

  Ian’s chest heaved. “Before it’s too late,” he said. “It is his only hope. Please.”

  A long silence ensued as Patrick stared into Ian’s eyes. He willed himself not to look around at the others. He knew that if he did, their accusatory stares would stop him giving up the stone. It was Greggy’s only hope. Patrick had no understanding of its power, but if there was a chance …

  He reached into his pocket and drew out the black stone. Arm shaking, he extended it toward Ian, who snatched it out of his hand at once. Corina looked on with particular interest.

  Ian spared not a moment to marvel at the symbol carved on its surface. He crawled back to his brother and dropped the stone on the dusty ground to begin etching the symbols in the dirt all around it. As the group watched, his eyes rolled back, and his lips moved in unfamiliar ways as he mumbled hushed incantations in foreign tongues. Moments dragged out, and everyone watched with breath bated. Eventually Ian picked up the stone and ran his thumb along the symbol on its surface. He then placed it on Greggy’s chest, all the while continuing his rapid mumbling.

  After quite a while, the ritual grew monotonous. The Stranger sighed and walked quietly back to the barn’s window. He looked along the empty streets again and peered from window to window in each of the cottages that he could see. Still, no one seemed perturbed. He turned back to find the group still standing, watching in anticipation. From here, Ian looked deranged. His black hair stood in tufts in every direction. His hands moved in erratic gestures and symbols along the ground.

  “Stop,” The Stranger said at last, but no one looked up. He walked back to Ian and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Stop,” he repeated. Ian paid him no notice. “Stop this!” he said again, grabbing the man’s hand firmly.

  Ian opened his eyes and shot The Stranger a pleading glance. “I can help him.”

  The Stranger shook his head. “This is madness,” he whispered.

  Ian struggled weakly to pull his hand from The Stranger’s grasp before he acquiesced.

  The Stranger picked up the stone and tossed it back to Patrick without interest. “Get rid of them,” he said to Robert and John, nodding his head toward the other bodies in the barn.

  16

  After, the group travelled to a nearby grove away from the coast. The Stranger and John Tompkins carried Gregoire’s body. The earth near the trees was frozen, and they took their time digging out a neat, large grave. Ian knelt nearby and leaned against a tree. He removed his spectacles and allowed silent tears to flow freely to the tip of his thin nose.

  Maria approached as they finished replacing the dirt over Greggy. She lay a hand upon Ian’s shoulder. “Would you like to say goodbye to him?”

  Ian stood without a word and slowly walked to the fresh grave, his head bowed. His cheeks were still glistening with steadily flowing tears. He sat by the mound of dirt and lay a hand gently atop it. “He never harmed a soul,” he murmured. “He knew only kindness … and now the world will suffer for his absence.”

  “He’s not gone,” John said in a weak attempt to sound cheerful. “His spirit wanders on in the eternal realm to aid you … in the herbs you ingest … the water you drink.”

  Ian thought of that black, mystic veil and the horrors it concealed. “Tales for tykes,” he dismissed, head still bowed.

  “Your suffering betrays his memory,” The Stranger offered. “We must celebrate the departed. He is free now. Free from his curse.”

  “His curse?” Ian said sharply. He looked up from the grave and met The Stranger’s gaze with fiery eyes, alight with sorrow. “His burdens never belonged to him. The curse was mine and mine alone. It was and shall remain!” He removed his glasses and wiped tears from his eyes before lowering his head again.

  “We do not celebrate death here in Fordar,” Corina said to The Stranger. “We celebrate a happy life long-lived, but we are not always so fortunate on this side of the sea.”

  17

  “What do you know of that stone?” Corina asked Patrick after they returned to the barn.

  “Nothing,” he replied sourly.

  “Where did you come by it?”

  Patrick said nothing.

  “It’s power co—”

  “It has no power!” Patrick interjected. “You saw. You know not as much as you think.”

  “I know that that symbol was on vials carrying toxic concoctions,” Corina began. “That stone could be the key to fighting back against all this.”

  A colossal weight fell atop Patrick at her words. He turned slowly to face her now, teeth gritted, not quite able to process what she had just revealed. “Vials?” he asked.

  “Yes, vials.”

  “What vials?”

  “Vials with elixirs that The Baron’s men asked us to produce in an attempt to breed a more suitable generation for his gain …”

  A darkness fell over Patrick’s eyes as he stood to his feet. “Asked you to produce?” he demanded.

  Corina stood her ground but said nothing.

  “And you cooperated?”

  “I was complicit in trying to make a better life for my family,” she began, but Patrick approached her.

  “Your fa
mily?” he shouted. “What about all the other families?” Fresh tears were forming on his eyes now, a furious red flush rising in his neck. “What about my family?”

  He reached around his back and drew the long weapon strapped to his shoulder as his pace grew. John deftly stepped forward and plucked the gun aside before the boy could raise it at Corina, but Patrick missed not a beat. He allowed the weapon to be snatched away, and his fury carried him forward toward the woman. She accepted his momentum and allowed him to push her backward, his small hands pounding frantically at her chest.

  “You made me kill my family?” The first time he said it aloud, the words carried the inflection of a question. “You made me kill my family!” he repeated, lashing out with feral inaccuracy toward Corina’s face.

  John tossed the boy’s weapon to the ground and wrapped his hands around his waist, hoisting him easily off his flailing legs. “Come now,” he said.

  Patrick continued to thrash and spit fury at Corina, who accepted it without protest.

  “I knew not what destruction my actions would cause,” she said weakly once the boy had sputtered out.

  Patrick writhed limply in John’s grasp, head bowed. “Let me go,” he managed, now worked up and crying again. John set him down and released him from his grip. He rushed toward the barn door and out into the snow without looking at anyone else.

  Brandon and Olivia were sitting quietly against the far wall. Brandon made to stand up and go after his friend, but The Stranger raised a hand at him. Olivia watched through troubled eyes before curling her knees to her chest and bowing her head against them.

  “Let him go,” The Stranger said gently. “I will go speak with him.”

  18

  The Stranger gave Patrick some space but watched as he rushed out of the village and into some nearby woods. He followed at a distance and stood behind a tree for quite a while, allowing the boy to weep in private.