ULTIMATE FANTASY (I - III)

by J. G. Cuff

  The large storage chest, now being carefully inspected in the middle of their sitting room, had belonged to Marcus Sr. Darius had finally dragged it out of the cellar and heaved it onto a wagon to bring along as a gift. An old friend of his father's had been storing it for him and had forgotten about it after Marcus died. It was rediscovered later when his property changed hands within his family a few years back, and he had the chest delivered to Darius.

  It was heavy; stuffed full of not only books, but journals, notes, maps and charts. Some old, some new, and some of them were entirely written and drawn by Marcus Sr. himself. The eccentric had spent most of his life hunting down old legends in search of riches. It was as much of his obsession as it was his work. Sadly, he found little in the way of treasures, and in his last days he deeply regretted not investing more time with his family. All of his profit as a merchant trader had gone back into his various expeditions over the years.

  Now, his great grandson eagerly rifled through it on the living room floor, pulling out and opening each book and paper, glancing at all the pictures before he tossed it aside and reached in for a new one. Atticus had considered asking Alina about naming their son Tiberius, but the awful memories haunted him still.

  Atticus missed his brother very much. Some days were harder than others and he was ever thankful that he had his son to keep him steady. A week after they had buried Tiberius, Atticus was still sleeping in his bed. It gave him small comfort. Darius had hardly spoken in seven days. He came to visit Atticus in the loft one night, just before he had settled into sleep. He sat down beside his son on Tiberius' bed and kissed him on the forehead.

  “Atticus, I am so sorry. After all that has happened, your mother and I forgot all about your birthday gift. We've had it here, it's just....”

  Atticus patted his father's back gently.

  “It's alright. I'd forgotten as well.”

  Darius reached into the front pocket of his wool shirt and said,“Guess what it is,” and managed a smile.

  “I don't know Father. There's nothing I need.”

  Darius pulled a small and very beautiful,

  cherry-handled folding knife from his pocket and handed it to Atticus.

  “I picked it out for you in the village last week on your birthday. I know you always wanted to carve like your brother.”

  Along the handle, his full name was delicately engraved into along the grain.

  “I had your brother carve your name out for you, so you'd never lose it.”

  Atticus hinged open the blade and carefully felt its sharp edge.

  “I won't. It's a good knife. Thank you Father.”

  “Don't thank me, thank your mother. It took some convincing to get her to agree. She imagined you cutting yourself.”

  “Is she still awake?”

  “No, she's finally fallen asleep in her chair and I intend to see her rest for as long as she needs now. I think we all need sleep and rest.”

  Atticus frowned and nodded. It had been the longest and hardest week of their lives so far.

  “Son, we have a life to get on with and I know your brother would absolutely hate to see us crying for him when we should be enjoying our lives until our own times come. Do you understand?”

  The words had come easily, but they were only words. The truth was, Darius was very angry that his boy had died so horribly and so young. He would always grieve for him, every day for the rest of his life. It had taken three whole days before he had finally built up the courage to wrap the mangled body that lay under a canvas in the barn. The wolf had torn so much flesh from the bones that most of the insides had flushed out in the stream's current.

  Atticus and his father had dug the grave together in the cold rain, at the north end of their property while Aunna collected flowers to place on him. She had promised herself that she would not cry, but she could not keep it in. None of them could. They had loved him too much. His disfigured body, wrapped in a shroud, was lowered into its final resting place. Darius put his arms around his wife and son, and said few words.

  “Tiberius is on the other side now, and there he waits for us. We'll hold our heads high, remembering him as he was, and we'll be proud he was ours.”

  He could say no more. Darius tried to be strong, but his heart was bleeding. The strong man fell to his knees and wept with all he had. Now they were three.

  Atticus would spend many years working hard alongside his father and equally as hard to forget. He never told anyone about the cavern or the box inside. He made sure that Darius and Aunna believed that a rabid wolf attacked the brothers at the streams and that was all. When they asked him why he and Tiberius were gone so long after dark, he told them that they had hiked downstream and had lost track of the sunlight before they made their way back. When Darius asked about the spears, Atticus told him that they had dropped them in the water when the wolf charged them in the dark. He did not feel bad about telling the lies. It would protect them from having to worry any more than they already had to. Besides, he had given Tiberius his word and he intended to take it to his own grave. As far as he was concerned, the events of that day died with his brother, and the Void was cursed, along with everything in it. Atticus swore to himself that he would never set foot in those woods again. He decided then that it was all just a nightmare and that it belonged with all of the other horrible things; pushed away and buried back into the dark places of the mind. It was the only way for his traumatized mind and broken heart to survive.

  Young Marcus was now surrounded by a pile of old books and unfolded papers on the floor. His proud father smiled to himself. After all that he had lost in his life, and for all the grief he bore, he felt truly blessed in that moment. Atticus closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, listening to the crackling fire. Just as he was thinking of how happy he was, Marcus said something that took the wind from Atticus' lungs.

  “The wolf has white eyes.”

  Atticus opened his eyes and looked over at his son who was holding a small leather-bound book, opened in his lap.

  “What did you say?” Atticus asked shaken.

  “The picture,” Marcus said, and held up the book.

  “Marcus, bring that over here.”

  The little boy stood and walked over to his father and handed him the book. From the dried corners and deeply yellowed pages, it looked to be very old. Atticus closed it tightly in his hands and asked Marcus to go back to what he was doing. He was more than happy to continue his work, sorting out the contents in the old chest. Atticus looked down at the book in his hands. There were no markings on it, only a black leather cover, no wider or longer than his hand. He slowly opened and thumbed through the first few pages. The writing across the pages was a language that he had never seen before, and there were black sketches of many odd an indiscernible creatures. They were poor drawings with little details.

  A bestiary

  He had seen one before; a story book with proper illustrations, but this was different. It did not appear to be intended for telling stories. Atticus skimmed through the pages and then stopped. There it was on the left. A wolf's head with eyes of white was clearly drawn covering the entire page. Beside it, on the right, a black raven exhibited the same hideous feature. Memories of watching Tiberius in the moonlight, being torn apart in the shallow stream, made Atticus' hands begin to shake. He thought he had this under control. The nightmares had gone and he had finally found peace. Now, he was unraveling all over again.

  Marcus had his back to him on the floor, busily mumbling and sorting through a new handful of papers. Atticus looked over at the fire in the hearth beside him, and without another thought, he tossed the old bestiary into the flames. The leather stretched and popped, twisting open and fanning the pages apart while the flames took them. He watched, glad to see it burn. And then, he saw something. Something he had not seen in over 16 yrs. Atticus jumped from his chair and lunged forward with his hand and snatched the corner of the burning book, jerking it out from the
coals. He winced in pain, but the burns were only surface. The book was now smoldering with an awful smell. The flames had gone out when it landed on the floor.

  Marcus watched in surprise.

  “What are you doing Father?”

  Atticus did not hear him.

  He was knelt on the floor, flipping quickly through the burnt pages to the back. He knew what he had seen in the flames. On the last page, he saw it again.

  Unbelievable

  In heavy black ink was the same marking that he had seen on the box in the small cavern. A circle made of small links, like those of a chain, and within it, an eagle's claw, gripped onto an eight-point star was drawn in detail. Below the sketch, written in his own language, were the only four words in the book he could read:

  ILIA KARA ILIA KUHN

  The words made absolutely no sense to him. Atticus looked inside the book cover and found nothing. He checked the inside of the back cover and there he found, in faded black ink, the name F. Grayling. There was only one Grayling that Atticus knew of; an old friend to his grandfather; the same man who had delivered the chest to Darius years earlier. With any luck, he still lived in Solarium village. Atticus looked up at his son.

  “Marcus, get your coat, quickly. We're leaving.”

  OF RAVENS AND WOLVES

  9

  T had taken them the afternoon under an overcast sky. Marcus climbed down from the padded seat of their old, one-horse wagon and gave Autumn the bay, a pat on the side to thank him for the near three hour ride through the countryside on the cart road. Atticus let go of the reigns and stepped down beside him. They had stopped at the first inn at the south entrance. It was a two-story stone building with a large wooden sign carved: The Wanderer's Rest, hanging beside the door from a large iron bracket. Atticus had passed by here a few years earlier with Darius, but they had never stopped.

  His mind was racing, trying to imagine how the book was tied to the box, or if the symbol was just a common shipping stamp. After all, he had grown up on a quiet farm and knew very little of the world outside of the vale. But that didn't explain the

  white-eyed wolf and raven in the bestiary. Farm boy or not; he had met one of those before.

  Atticus knew that certain things may be better left alone. But he could not just throw away the book; not when there was a chance to find some answers. He had always felt that Tiberius had died for nothing, and he was still no closer to understanding what killed him that night. The two wolves weren't just animals. That much was certain. Someone knew more than he did and Atticus knew that if he didn't ask, it would slowly eat away at him. He was now more curious than ever.

  They stepped through the large wooden door and into a small lobby humming with the sounds of low chatter and the crackling of a fire. A young couple was seated to the left of the room in leather chairs beside a fireplace. Above its half-log mantle hung a red silk banner, embroidered in silver with the royal crest of a griffin and a serpent, coiled together around a shield. The lobby was decorated with long book shelves, lined full with many volumes, and the walls above them were covered in various colorful tapestries of scenic areas and family weddings and other historical celebrations.

  To the right of the large hearth, was a wide wooden staircase that went up and out of sight. Beside the stairs, stood another heavy wooden door with the word: Tavern, carved into the frame above it. Straight ahead of them, against the far wall, was a thick wooden table with large, unlit candles in holders. Atticus noticed a small silver hand bell resting on the corner.

  There was no one else with them other than the couple by the fire. He stepped forward and reached for the service bell. Just as he lifted it, he heard a friendly voice call out to him from the stairs.

  “Hello there! Please, don't ring that dreaded chime.”

  Atticus turned to see a tall, gray-haired man in his sixties, coming down the stairs wearing a long, white apron, stained with all sorts of spills that had never washed out. He had a small towel over his left shoulder and looked like the bartender, cook and keeper all in one. He was too young to be the man that Atticus was looking for. Atticus smiled and put his hand out to greet him.

  “Hello,” said the man as he wiped his hands on his apron.

  “Need a room? For two?”

  “No thank you. Actually, I'm looking for Mr. Ferran Grayling. He was a friend of my family, or more so, to my grandfather, Marcus Sloane.”

  The man smiled instantly and very warmly.

  “Hello Atticus. I have heard of your grandfather many times over the years. My name is Harold Grayling. I am Ferran's nephew.” Atticus was relieved that his search had begun with a strong start. He hoped the man was not dead like his grandfather.

  “And, is he...?” Atticus asked cautiously.

  Harold chuckled and placed his hand on Atticus' back.

  “Yes. He is still very much alive, I assure you. Although, he's in no condition to work here any longer. Lost most of his sight I'm afraid,” Harold said with a pitied look.

  “That's very unfortunate,” Atticus said, sincerely empathizing.

  “Such is life,” Harold said with a shrug. “My wife Catherine cares for him now, at his home near the western bridge. You can visit with him there if you like. He doesn't leave home these days.”

  Harold then looked down at Marcus with a big smile.

  “Who is the young one?”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” said Atticus, “This is my son, Marcus.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Harold said to the boy; as he bent down to shake his hand.

  “Pleased-to-meet-you-too,” Marcus said, looking at the ground with a half-smile.

  “You are a nice boy Marcus. You and your father here may have whatever you like from our kitchen tonight, no charge. Would you like some grub? We have a fat swine roasting for supper.”

  Atticus had only one thing on his mind and it was not food. He was quick to politely excuse them.

  “That does sound very tempting Harold, but if it's all the same to you, I should first like to visit your uncle. Perhaps Marcus and I could come back here and have supper on our way home.”

  Harold smiled and raised his hands.

  “Suit yourselves. There'll be plenty left when you come back. Now, to reach the blind man, just head straight north, through the village and turn left at the last lane. When you see the bridge, cross over and on your left again, you'll see a narrow lane with a large oak at the entrance. It's the old mill with red shutters beside the pond. You can't miss it; it's the only mill house in the North End. Oh, and when you see my wife Catherine, please let her know that I have found a girl from Amicitia to work for the winter. She'll be pleased to hear that.”

  Atticus nodded.

  “Certainly Harold. Thank you, we'll see you for supper then.”

  Atticus and Marcus made their way back outside to the wagon in the cool afternoon air. The gray clouds had nearly vanished and the yellow sunlight felt wonderful to their faces. The old bay that had been their trusted animal for four years looked to them and whinnied. Autumn did not like standing around unless he was eating.

  They passed by many shops and colorful little houses. Busy people walked or rode their horses through the muddy street; all gathering and collecting, heading to and from somewhere or other. Atticus pointed to the many sights around them and explained all he could to the boy. Atticus was very proud of him. He enjoyed teaching his son about their world and Marcus always listened intently. He loved his father very much.

  After a short ride, the bridge could be seen ahead. When they had crossed, the bright red shutters and the stone mill were a dead giveaway. Atticus felt for the small burnt book in his coat pocket and stopped the wagon in the lane-way. He helped Marcus down and they walked to the door where they were greeted by a pleasant older woman.

  “You must be Catherine,” Atticus said with a smile and then passed on the message from her husband. She was friendly and invited them in happily. Humble as it was, the old mill house had
everything a man could need. Beside the doorway on their right, stood a spiraling wooden staircase that coiled once around the circular room and stopped at an upper level. Catherine hung an iron pot, filled with fresh water, over top of the flames in a large hearth built into the stone wall across from the front door. She then tossed in a few sprigs and berries for tea. Once their gracious host had seated them in the open room on comfortable chairs around the fireplace, she went up the stairs to fetch Ferran Grayling.

  She returned a moment later, and on her arm, was a very frail man with frizzy white hair and a long, white beard to match. He wore a brown robe, tied at the middle with a cord. The robe had been patched at the elbows many times over. A red fox fur was draped around his shoulders. The old man squinted, peering down at his guests, and then he raised his hand in a polite wave. His voice was hoarse, yet he had a soothing tone.

  “Catherine tells me that there are two men here from the south vale to see me, and that we are old friends. Ha!” Ferran Grayling seemed delighted to have company. After years of working at an inn, Atticus imagined that the man surely missed the long chats with travelers by the fire in his old lobby at the Wanderer's Rest.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Atticus stood. Catherine led Ferran toward the fire to meet his visitors. His blindness was obvious.

  “May I touch your face?” he asked Atticus humbly.

  “Yes, of course,” Atticus replied.

  Ferran reached out and gently felt the shape of his face with soft finger tips, and then he smiled and said,“Ah, yes, you look like him. I do miss that ol' bastard.”

  Ferran removed his hands and Catherine led him by his arm toward young Marcus.

  “This is the boy,” she said. Ferran bent down very slowly and Marcus looked away nervously, as the old man spoke to him.

  “Catherine tells me that your name is Marcus. If you're anything like the Marcus I knew, you must be quite the bantam.” Ferran smiled and patted the boy's head gently. Catherine stepped in and offered to take Marcus outside to see the pond and the ducks, so that the men could speak freely.