by Davis Ashura
“Welcome to your new home,” Dalton said, giving William an unhelpful shove into a single-room cottage. “This is where you’ll stay until you earn more.”
William stumbled across the threshold and took in the hovel. Anger, disbelief, and depression warred in his mind. How had he fallen so far, so fast?
“Good luck,” Dalton said with a derisive chuckle before he left.
William stepped farther into the shack, making room for Jake to enter.
The cottage’s rotted, thatched roof looked ready to fall in, and an air of dankness, of mold permeated the place. Cobwebs clung to the corners and rafters, fluttering in a breeze that swirled dust-bunnies across the stone floor. A small fireplace took up one corner of the room, and a rough-hewn table, a small lamp, and two chairs stood beside it. Twin cots, pressed against opposite walls and finished the furnishings.
Jake closed the door, and the cottage plunged into gloom. A single window, yellowed and sagging with age, let in some of the gray twilight. As William’s eyes adjusted, he noticed multiple cracks lacing the mortar binding the gray stones that formed the walls. Similar gaps surrounded the poorly fitted door, which barely hung from its hinges, and the wind soughed through all the various openings, moaning like a ghost and reaching with chill, insubstantial fingers.
“You see any firewood?” Jake asked with a shiver. “It’s freezing in here.”
“I saw a pile near those barracks where we had supper,” William replied.
“The one where all the single men live?”
William nodded. “I’ll go get some.”
“We’ll both go. I don’t think we should be separated around here,” Jake said.
Darkness had settled upon the island by the time they finished gathering the wood. A handy set of flint-and-steel atop the mantel quickly got a fire going, and they settled in for the night.
“How do you turn on the lamp?” Jake asked.
“I think you have to use asra,” William said.
“How do you figure?”
“There’s no cord or lightbulb. No place for oil or kerosene, either. It has to be magic.”
“Magic,” Jake muttered. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this will all be some terrible dream.”
“Same here,” William agreed. He flopped onto his cot with a groan of weariness.
“What do you think happens tomorrow?” Jake asked, dropping into his cot as well. “And why’d the sun set so soon? It was morning when we left Banff, and that was only a few hours ago.”
“We’re probably way east of Banff,” William said, “and I have no idea about tomorrow.” Truthfully, he didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to get what rest he could.
“No idea?”
“None. Serena lied to me about who she is, and Mr. Zeus and the others knew hardly anything about Sinskrill.”
“Will they be able to find us?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t want to talk about it now,” William said, irritation creeping into his voice. “Let’s get some sleep and see what happens in the morning.”
“All right,” Jake agreed.
William closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it eluded him.
Tedium and a sense of unreality had filled the long drive to Banff, but now, after arriving in Sinskrill and meeting the Servitor, reality settled in. The horrible, wretched truth proved impossible to avoid, and William’s mind swirled over the events of the past few days. Mostly, he tried to figure out what he could have done differently to avoid this, what signs he’d missed about Serena. Like Jake, he also wished he could wake up and find out it had all been nothing more than a terrible nightmare.
However, the rotted thatch above him, the chill air cloaking him, and the dank odor of decay underneath it all told him otherwise. This prison might be the place where he would live out the rest of his life.
William wanted to howl at his stupidity, his blindness. How could he have not realized the truth about Serena? Idiot.
Anger kept him awake, but eventually it faded, and a fitful slumber took over. He woke often, though, shivering beneath his thin blanket. While the fire helped, it couldn’t fully warm the cottage or banish the icy wind cutting through the various gaps in its construction.
Hours later, the door slammed open, and William sat up with a shout of alarm.
“Good. You’re awake,” said an old woman with an English accent. She clutched a lantern in her hands and wore the fur-trimmed clothes of a mahavan rather than the sturdy, tan clothes of one of the workers. Drones were what Dalton had called them after meeting the Servitor. A gold necklace hung around her neck, and a white cap perched upon her head. Her lips turned up in a friendly smile, and with her seamed face, she could have been someone’s kindly grandmother.
“Who are you?” William asked.
“Your instructor. Your Isha, if you will,” the old woman replied. She strode to the lantern on the table and somehow brought it to life. The cottage bloomed with light. “Your first lecture begins now.”
“What?”
The old woman chuckled. “Not too bright, are you boys? Stand up straight.”
William and Jake shuffled to their feet.
The old woman’s kindly face twisted into a scowl. Her eyes narrowed, and lines of fire surged along William’s veins. He screamed in pain, fell to the ground and curled around his knees. He thought his eyes might boil away. His toes curled, and his muscles spasmed, threatening to tear their ligaments. Jake thudded down next to him, also crying out in agony.
“Be quicker next time you’re told to do something,” the old woman said. “You’ll find me far more forgiving than a true mahavan, but my patience is not endless.”
The pain subsided, and William panted in relief.
“Stand up.”
William shambled to his feet as quickly as he could, with Jake following suit.
The old woman smiled. “Better. Now. The first one who can tell me who I am gets to keep their blanket tonight.”
“Our instructor?” Jake blurted.
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Telling.”
“Correct.” She gathered William’s blanket. He started to protest, but a single, cold glare from the old woman froze him to silence. “This is your first lesson. Never expect help from the person standing next to you. We’re alone in this world. Children, siblings, parents . . . none of them are as important to you as yourself. Take what you need, no matter the cost to anyone else. Am I understood?”
She wore an expectant air, and after a moment of silence, sighed in disappointment. “The proper response to those with greater status than your own—which in your cases is most everyone—is ‘yes, ma’am’ or ‘yes, sir’ unless you’re speaking with a female mahavan. Then it’s ‘yes, madam’. And the Servitor is always ‘yes, my liege.’ As I am essentially a mahavan, when I ask you a ‘yes or no’ question, your response should be ‘yes, madam’ or ‘no, madam’. Am I understood?”
They must not have answered quickly enough because once again fire burned William to the marrow. He writhed on the ground, and when the pain ended, he slowly stood up, face flushed with anger and humiliation.
“Now. Some facts. My name is Fiona Applefield. I was brought to Sinskrill in nineteen twenty-three at the age of nineteen. This island has been my home ever since, and this island will be my home until the day I die. Much like you do now, I once longed to escape, to return to my family in England, but in time, with great pain and loss, wisdom taught me the folly of those dreams. Now I serve. Save yourself the trouble by learning from my mistakes and accepting your fates. Put aside notions of home and family. Sinskrill is your home, and the Servitor is the only family you will ever require. Understood?”
“Yes, madam,” William replied. Jake echoed his words a split second later.
“Excellent. Perhaps you have brains within those craniums after all. More information for you to digest. Sinskrill was founded in sixteen fifty-nine B.C. by the fol
lowers of our holy Lord Shet—may his glory soon return. We will discuss him in greater detail at another time. The island currently contains one thousand and eleven souls—including the two of you—and is governed through the divine inspiration of Lord Shet by the Servitor.” She gave a mocking smile to William. “Do you wish your blanket back?”
“Yes, madam,” William quickly replied.
“Then repeat back to me what I said.” She held up a cautioning finger. “Miss even the smallest detail, and your clothes become forfeit.”
Despite the cold, William broke out in a sweat. The old crone wasn’t exaggerating. She meant every word of her threat. William wracked his brain, trying to ensure he remembered everything Fiona had told them.
He repeated her words as best he could, and when he finished he waited with a pounding heart for her response.
The old woman gave him a penetrating stare before tossing him his blanket, shutting off the lamp, and exiting the cottage without another word.
Over the next week, Fiona took William and Jake on a tour of the island, explaining what they were expected to do. During her time with them, she was by turns surly, jocular, distant, and friendly.
Today was a surly day.
“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” Fiona snapped when she picked them up from where they had breakfast at the men’s dormitory. “We have a long journey ahead of us: Village Paradiso. And to ensure your strength, we walk. No bicycles.”
William mentally groaned. Paradiso, the middle village of Sinskrill’s three habitations. He hid his complaint underneath a compliant, “Yes, madam.”
Jake parroted the phrase in unison with him.
Fiona doled out punishments in the same way as Sinskrill’s ever-present clouds doled out rain—randomly, but seemingly every hour of every day—and since his and Jake’s arrival, William had begun to unconsciously flinch whenever Fiona spoke. Her commands were never capricious, but it was impossible to tell what would trigger a punishment. An insufficiently obsequious tone could be enough.
“Keep up. I want to be at Paradiso by mid-afternoon.” Fiona set off at a mile-devouring pace, and William and Jake kept up with her, maintaining the five steps distance behind her that she’d dictated early on.
The journey passed in silence, except for their dull footfalls upon the stone pavers of the bombastically named Great Way, the rutted road connecting White Sun to Paradiso, and from there to Bliss, the northernmost of Sinskrill’s villages. William mentally snorted. The Great Way. Yeah, right. There was nothing great about it. It was just a broken, ruined path, barely wide enough for an ox-cart.
William skirted a large mud puddle, one big enough to threaten a wagon wheel. Many more of equal size, or greater, rutted the road, and given Sinskrill’s continual rain from its ceiling of perpetual gray clouds, the puddles never had a chance to fully dry.
Overall, the morning proved an apt metaphor of the whole island: crappy weather falling on a crappy road on a crappy island full of crappy people.
William even thought the scenery crappy. White-capped mountains towered to the north, their shoulders forested with alder, cedar, willow, and cottonwood, while stands of pines stood lonely sentinels amidst nearby fields of heather.
William reconsidered his thoughts about the scenery, and reluctantly concluded that other than the weather, Sinskrill could be considered beautiful.
But not her people. The denizens of the island were universally cruel and evil. Beyond the hundred and fifty or so mahavans and mahavans-in-training, there were a little less than a thousand drones. Every one of them was a lying snake, every bit as vicious, cunning, and cruel as Fiona and Serena. None of them could be trusted. All of them—mahavans and drones alike—sought the approval and attention of the Servitor, the Loving Servant. To further their ambitions, all were willing to go to any extreme, even happily selling out their own family members.
William shivered when the wind blew hard, and he gathered his thin cloak more tightly about himself.
It never really warmed up in Sinskrill, either. Even the summers were said to be cold. Cold and hardship were a way of life for these people, supposedly meant to harden them for war when their god, Shet, returned to reclaim his place as ruler of the world.
Lord Shet, William mused. More like Lord Shit.
Thunder rumbled, and minutes later the interminable rain fell. William grimaced as the cold water landed on his unprotected head. A hood would have helped, but on Sinskrill protection against the weather was considered a liability, a weakness. While the rain poured, William imagined himself somewhere far away and warm, on Arylyn, the island Jason had once shown him: a place of sunshine, rainbows, colored shadows, and happiness. For the thousandth time, he wished he was there right now.
Stupid, stupid jackass. Why had he insisted on returning to Cincinnati after defeating Kohl?
“What are you thinking about?” Jake whispered, too low for Fiona to hear with the splashing rain to muffle their voices.
“I’ll tell you later,” William whispered.
“Somewhere warm?” Jake guessed.
“Somewhere warm,” William admitted. The phrase had become their private mantra.
Ironic, William thought. He and Jake despised one another growing up, but now, on this island of misery, they were each other’s only friend.
A steady clip-clopping echoed over the sound of the falling rain, and William looked down the Great Way for the cause.
The Servitor rode toward them on a magnificent, white stallion. The reins and saddle were gilded and etched with fanciful geometric designs, like something from America’s desert southwest. They somehow shone in the dull light.
William and Jake immediately pulled off to the side of the road and knelt amidst the pooling water. One always knelt in the Loving Servant’s presence. Even Fiona and all the mahavans did.
“Rise,” the Servitor commanded before pointing to William. “I will speak to this one alone. Travel on. I’ll send him to catch up in due time.”
“Yes, my liege,” Fiona simpered.
Jake gave William a tight-lipped nod of support before setting off with Fiona.
William faced the Servitor with a leaden stomach.
The Servitor smiled. “You probably think you’ve fallen far in this world, that there is no basement below your current station,” he said in a friendly, conversational tone. “Believe me, you’ve yet to taste the depths to which I could cast you down if I so chose.”
“Yes, my liege,” William replied, the only acceptable manner by which to address the Servitor.
The Servitor laughed. “Your words are humble, but they have no relationship with your true emotions. Anger seethes within you.” He cocked his head. “Would you like a taste of my anger?”
“No, my liege,” William quickly replied, a flutter of fear working in his stomach. He knew Fiona’s pain, and imagining what the Servitor could do made his knees tremble.
The Servitor chuckled again. “Perhaps you’re not as stupid as I was led to believe,” he said. “That time your reply was humble, and it was also fearful. It is how you should always speak when addressing me.”
“Yes, my liege,” William agreed, a wave of relief washing over him.
“Fiona is instructing you in our ways of obedience and obeisance,” the Loving Servant said. “Do you think she has been a valuable instructor?”
“She has been an excellent instructor, my liege,” William lied, hoping that no hint of the disdain he felt was reflected in his tone.
He apparently wasn’t as successful as he’d hoped.
The Servitor wore a mocking half-smile. “I’m sure. And were she here, I’d be interested to hear Fiona’s reply to your words.”
William mentally cursed himself. When would he learn? To survive this shithole, he had to learn to hide any hint of defiance from his posture and tone. No other response but bland acceptance was permissible.
The Servitor smiled. “As to why I wished to speak with you . . . yo
u have two choices, William Wilde. You can either help me by becoming the raha’asra I require. Or you can refuse, and I’ll slowly destroy your friend.”
He spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, and William’s knees shook once again. This man would do exactly as he promised and feel no more regret than if he had snuffed out a mosquito.
“You believe me, don’t you?” the Servitor asked.
“Yes, my liege,” William replied in a truly humble, fearful tone.
“I believe you do,” the Servitor said. “I’m glad we had this chance to converse.” He heeled his stallion into motion and left without another word.
Later that evening, after an exhausting day in the fields of Village Paradiso, they returned to White Sun where Fiona left them to fend for themselves. William and Jake had supper in the men’s barracks before retiring to their hovel.
In the week since their arrival, they’d managed to clean it up. The cobwebs were gone, but the cracks in the door and mortar remained. Those they couldn’t fix, but after they got a fire burning, the cottage felt warmer than the miserable weather outside.
William flopped into his bed, utterly spent.
So far, their days on Sinskrill remained an unchanging struggle of hard labor followed by a tasteless supper and restless sleep. And during all of it, there had been no chance to clean up because of a typically stupid, arbitrary rule on this island of stupid, arbitrary rules. They could only use the baths in the barracks during the hours between sunrise and sunset. Thus far, William and Jake had yet to get back to White Sun early enough to make use of them.
As a result, their hair hung lank and greasy. Their clothes, boots, and every exposed piece of skin held a layer of dirt or drying mud. William could barely make out Jake’s natural skin color through the caked-on grime, and he didn’t want to imagine what the two of them smelled like. Thankfully, they’d gone nose-blind to their stink.
Jake fell onto his cot as well. “What did the Servitor have to say?” he asked.
William told him.
“He said the same thing to me when he rode up on me and the B—I mean Fiona.”
