And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series)

by Blake, Bruce

  What happened?

  The flash had occurred at the precise moment her fingers touched the stranger. But how could that be possible? The man moaned again, and Ailyssa wondered if he did so in pain or an attempt to communicate.

  “I…” She licked her lips, swallowed hard, then whispered: “I won’t hurt you.”

  She reached out with one shaking hand, the other still covering her mouth. Her gut roiled with a nauseating concoction of fear, confusion, and excitement. Warm breath spilled between her fingers. The bird twittered overhead; her hand crossed the space between her and the stranger, came to rest on his ankle beside the metal cuff.

  Darkness flashed in her vision again, spinning her head with vertigo, but she kept her touch on him, wrapping her grip around his ankle to keep from tumbling backward. In the dark, lines formed again, then shapes. Her breath shortened, her heart beat fast.

  And she gazed upon the man’s face.

  XIX Horace—Dead End

  Horace hauled himself up the modest boulder, foot slippin’ once before he reached the top to sit for a rest.

  Thrice the sun’d set, and each time it rose the next mornin’, same as always, though the ol’ sailor hardly expected it to. Not a single wink o’ sleep did he get any o’ those nights, so far as he knew. Between the waves rollin’ onto the shore and rattlin’ the bones what he suspected might belong to men he’d known on the Devil, the wind makin’ whispery sounds like voices in the trees, and the painful ache in his belly, sleep were an acquaintance Horace weren’t sure he’d ever make again. His body ached for a night o’ rest and his gut were tight with hunger, but weren’t nothin’ to give them but sittin’ a spell for the one and suckin’ on rocks for the other.

  He stretched his neck to peek past the last rock he’d climbed and thought he caught the same glimpse o’ movement he’d noticed when he looked before. It were gone again quick as it came; quick enough the ol’ sailor weren’t sure he’d seen it at all. Might be someone else on the beach, or hunger and lack o’ sleep playin’ him for a fool. He hoped for the latter but didn’t have the sack to find out for sure.

  With a sigh a hair’s breadth this side o’ defeat, Horace glanced ‘round. The land had grown up alongside the shore into a reddish-brown wall o’ clay. Trees began part way up, their thick trunks sometimes tiltin’ as though the ground wanted to give out underneath them and twisted roots stickin’ out here and there.

  On the other side o’ him were the sea, just like the sea always were. The waves’d grown along with the land, no longer rollin’ onto the rocky shore but doin’ somethin’ much closer to crashin’.

  Ahead lay the cliff what Horace were makin’ for without knowin’ why he should.

  “Should’ve gone back the first day when you had the chance.” He raised his eyes and looked along the beach but saw nothin’ amongst the expanse o’ rock. “Now somethin’ might be after you. Dummy.”

  His shoulders rose and fell with a sigh what did nothin’ to improve his spirit nor his energy, but he made himself climb to his feet, at any rate. The sea breeze whipped at his sweat-dampened and stinkin’ clothes, makin’ him teeter atop the boulder and come near topplin’ off. He got his balance back, heart poundin’ against his ribs, and inched his way down the other side.

  Up the next boulder. Pause, glance back. Glimpse somethin’ followin’, real or imagined, climb down. Up, pause, glance, glimpse, down. Up, pause, glance, glimpse, down.

  The muscles in the ol’ sailor’s thighs ached and burned, knots bore into his calves. His grip slipped climbin’ a big rock and he tore a fingernail. The wound left a drop o’ blood on ev’ry spot he touched, makin’ it easier for his pursuer to follow. Ragged breaths only half-filled his throbbin’ chest, leavin’ him gaspin’ for air by the time he reached the top o’ his next climb—the biggest yet. He stopped there, this time without lookin’ back.

  The sheer cliff loomin’ before him made him forget somethin’ might be after him. Straight up toward the sky it went, up and up and up. From where he stood, he barely made out the trees at the top, each of them so far off they appeared no more than a blade o’ grass.

  The cliff protruded out into the sea, its edge full o’ jagged rocks on which the waves hurled themselves as though they wished to end their lives. White foam flew up in the air to the height o’ twenty men or more. Now he were closer to it, he recognized this bit o’ land; he’d seen it from a dozen diff’rent decks each time he’d made the turn. On a map, it’d be labelled the Goddess’ Finger, but men aboard ship always called it the Demon’s Cock. More’n one boat’d found its death on the jagged rocks.

  Horace’s heart sank. Even if he weren’t far past exhausted, he couldn’t’ve climbed the cliff. Even if the sea weren’t poundin’ against the fearsome rocks, they was too treacherous for him to traverse. Even if his arms and legs wasn’t ready to drop offa his body, the current were too strong for him to swim.

  “What do I do now?” he whispered, hoarse voice tremblin’.

  Horace shuffled his feet to turn himself ‘bout and caught another glimpse between two boulders not too far behind. It appeared dark in color and maybe covered in fur but, same as the other peeks he’d got, he weren’t sure if it were true or a trick.

  He hung his head, chest heavin’ and a throb o’ despair pumpin’ through his body with ev’ry beat o’ his heart. His blood felt heavy, threatenin’ to drag him down, and he were tempted to let it, but Thorn’s face swam into his mind, kept him from saggin’.

  He saw the Small God’s wide, flat nose, gray eyes, and grinnin’ lips. The little feller tilted his head, then gestured with his chin. The vision in Horace’s head and the shivers it gave him felt so real, he had to look to where Thorn indicated.

  To his surprise, the ol’ sailor spied a narrow trail leadin’ up the reddish-brown cliff and disappearin’ into the trees. He squinted at it, not trustin’ his eyes any more with seein’ this than he did ‘bout the thing what may or may not be followin’ him.

  Movement caught Horace’s eye and he jerked his head toward it.

  Nothin’.

  He blinked, thought he saw another flash between two enormous rocks, and it were enough to prompt the ol’ sailor offa his boulder and toward the trail.

  He sat on the rock and slid on his backside, the hard surface scrapin’ his flesh through his breeches, but he hardly noticed. His heart’d started pumpin’ energy through him again, givin’ him enough to scramble off and keep his feet, push him o’er the next big rock, then ‘round the next. He made his way past three more when he found himself standin’ at the bottom o’ the clay hill, starin’ up at the beginnin’ o’ the forest.

  The clay rise weren’t so steep as he’d thought, but steep enough for a man without sleep three nights in a row and no food in his belly for as long. He considered if it’d be worth the climb when a chill crawled up his back and he became certain about somethin’ creepin’ up behind him.

  Horace got his feet goin’ again, mud churnin’ under the soles o’ his boots as he blundered his way up the hill. He bent o’er, grabbin’ the ground with his hands, usin’ them to pull himself up toward the trees—a place he didn’t want to head to but didn’t know where else to go.

  Clay clogged the space under his fingernails by the time he reached the treeline. He grasped the nearest tree, leaving a reddish-brown hand print on its bark, and surveyed the beach below.

  He’d climbed higher than he realized and, from where he clung to the leanin’ trunk, the light and dark gray boulders scattered across the shore resembled the discarded building blocks of a child too large to imagine. Horace squinted, searchin’ between them for whatev’r’d been followin’ him, but he didn’t see nothin’ but more rocks. A shudderin’ breath rattled outta his lungs to signify his relief.

  “That’s well and good,” he spoke aloud, “but what now?”

  With a creak of wood and a vague suckin’ sound, the tree to which Horace’d affixed his grip leaned farther, readyin’ to t
opple. Its spiderweb roots pulled themselves free o’ the ground and the trunk tilted itself toward the beach.

  Horace scrambled to get away lest he be dragged back down the hill and dashed on the boulder what’d given a shot to bein’ the death o’ him. His feet slipped in the clay, spillin’ him on his chest as his handhold tumbled. The ol’ sailor’s boots dug in, pushin’ him up and away from the tangled roots reachin’ out to grab him and haul him along.

  The tree crashed down the hillside, knockin’ away chunks o’ clay and placin’ deep holes in the path Horace’d used to climb up. He dug his fingers in, pullin’ hard with his achin’ arms, then yanked them outta the ground again as he moved. He grabbed a knot o’ creepers what grew where the muddy hill turned to soil and the forest began.

  At the last possible moment, he threw himself forward, the chunk o’ clay under his feet fallin’ away to roll down the steep hill after the tree it’d spent years supportin’. Horace wrapped his arms ‘round the trunk o’ the next tree, paused long enough to draw a half-breath, then lurched forward again, followin’ the narrow trail what led him away from the beach and into the Green what’d always struck naked fear in his heart.

  ***

  Time’d passed, as it had a habit o’ doin’, but Horace couldn’t’ve guessed how much. The sun still hung in the sky, though the boughs thick with green needles hid it from his view.

  After the edge o’ the clay hill gave way under his feet and the threat o’ bein’ dashed on boulders below—not to mention there might’ve been somethin’ after him—he hadn’t bothered lookin’ back as he fled. Despite their unwillingness, he’d forced his legs to propel him on, grittin’ his teeth and ignorin’ the burnin’, the pain, the agony.

  Each one o’ them things was better’n endin’ up dead. Horace’d been close to dead enough times now to know he preferred livin’.

  The tree he stopped beneath struck him as outta place in the forest. Where the rest o’ its mates were thick-trunked, tall, rough-barked and full o’ needles, this one were stout and wide, with smooth bark and broad leaves.

  And fruit hangin’ from its limbs.

  Horace stared up at the red-skinned bounty, his stomach howlin’ and his mouth filled with spit. He’d seen this type o’ fruit before, o’ course—apples, without a doubt—but he’d nev’r heard o’ them growin’ in a forest amidst the evergreens. Tempted as he were—and demandin’ as his belly’d become at their sight—he didn’t even reach out to touch one o’ the tasty-lookin’ beauties.

  “You’re standin’ in the Green,” he mumbled, not fond o’ the off-kilter tone in his voice. “You don’t wanna be eatin’ nothin’ what grew in the Green.”

  His stomach growled loud enough it might’ve been an animal readyin’ to pounce.

  “But you gotta eat somethin’.”

  He rubbed his mouth, the earthy flavor o’ the clay stuck under his nails and in the grooves o’ his fingers and palms findin’ its way to his tongue. Doin’ so made him think ‘bout the hill and the tree crashin’ down it. He turned back to find out if it were still visible.

  The path were gone.

  Horace stared, concerned, but another groan in his belly suggested this might be an illusion perpetrated upon him by a lack o’ sustenance. He faced the out-o’-place tree again, mind and gut battlin’ o’er the right thing to do.

  “Don’t think I can reach, anyways.” Rumblin’ growl. “But I’ll give it a go.”

  The ol’ sailor reached up, stretchin’ as far as he could, but it weren’t enough. He tried gettin’ up on the tips o’ his toes, but the knots what’d tied themselves up in his calves weren’t havin’ none o’ that. One o’ the tasty-lookin’ apples hung no more’n a hand’s breadth beyond his reach.

  Growl.

  “Looks like it ain’t gonna happen, my friend. Looks like we—”

  The plump fruit fell right into his hand, smackin’ his flesh and interruptin’ his words.

  Startled, Horace lowered his arm and stared at the apple sittin’ upon his flattened palm. His mouth filled up to overflowin’ with hungry saliva and it tricked his nose into smellin’ the scent o’ apples baked with cinnamon and cheese what a ship’s cook’d made for a treat once many turns o’ the seasons ago. He’d never forgot the savory-sweet flavor or the spicy-sweet aroma.

  Before enough time’d passed to think ‘bout what he were doin’, Horace’s teeth pierced the tasty fruit’s red skin and tore out a chunk o’ the white flesh beneath. He chewed hungrily, spit and juice spillin’ outta the corner o’ his mouth. His belly growled its grudgin’ thanks when he swallowed the first mouthful, then he followed it up with another and another. Drops o’ juice rolled between his fingers, along the back of his hand and down his palm, leavin’ streaks in the reddish-brown clay and dirt caked on his flesh.

  He finished the apple, threw the core aside, and reached up for another. It dropped into hand with little effort from him.

  By the time he’d finished, eleven cores littered the ground beneath the apple tree and his stomach’d ceased its aching. With his belly satiated, other aches and pains clutched the ol’ sailor’s muscles, knottin’ them, pinchin’ them. He put his back against the apple tree’s trunk and let himself sink to the ground, tilted himself to the side to pull a juicy apple core out from under his ass, then settled in to stare back where the path what brought him here’d been.

  “Gone,” he said, his apple juice-lubricated throat doin’ a better job’n before. “Gone and ain’t no way back to the shore.”

  Horace stretched out his legs, pressin’ them against the ground to relieve the pain twistin’ through them. He crossed his arms, rubbin’ his hands o’er his achin’ elbow joints and shoulders.

  Weren’t more’n a dozen heartbeats before the ol’ sailor’s chin dropped onto his chest. The first snore squeezed its way outta his throat as Horace Seaman fell asleep under an apple tree in the land o’ the Small Gods.

  He slept deep and without dreamin’.

  XX Ailyssa—Sight

  “I can see.”

  Ailyssa’s gaze flickered from the man’s face to the barn’s nearest wall lined with barrels stuffed full of rusted tools and weapons, cockeyed shelves stacked with jars and jugs. The sunlight shining through the gaps between wall boards hurt her new-found vision; she directed her attention back to the stranger.

  He stared at her, head tilted the way a dog might do in trying to understand its master. One of his eyelids sagged where Juddah’s fist or boot had caught him square. Despite the damage done to the man by her rescuer, an unpreventable smile crawled across her face.

  “I can see,” she said again.

  “Why do you speak my language when Jud-dah did not?”

  The first words he spoke made little sense to Ailyssa. The smile brought to her lips by the return of her sight faded slightly. She raised one brow to show him she didn’t understand his question but he didn’t repeat himself.

  “What do you mean? Juddah and I speak the same tongue, as do you.”

  A confused expression creased his forehead, causing him to wince with pain. He shook his head.

  “I’ve been his captive for days and not understood a word spoken until now. How is it possible?”

  “You have been his prisoner?”

  The man nodded.

  In her joy over the return of her vision, she’d forgotten the chain she’d followed across the barn to this man. Sick dread rolled up from Ailyssa’s stomach and into her throat with the revelation: her rescuer wasn’t a good man out to keep her safe but a letch planning to add her to the collection she’d overheard the thief on the road mention. A collection which included a man chained to the floor. What else did it include? She swallowed hard around the lump clogging her throat.

  “How many sunrises have you seen locked in this place?”

  Her gaze moved away, finding the rafters above, the cow munching hay in one corner, a heap of bulging sacks in another. He shifted to a sitting position and cried out w
ith pain, pulling her attention back to him.

  “You poor man.”

  She took her hand off his ankle, intending to reach out and offer comfort, but her world went white.

  “Oh no.”

  She dug her knuckles into her eyes, rubbing hard, the pressure sending streaks of green and orange across the blank canvas of her vision. When she removed her hands and opened her lids again, the white haze remained.

  “What happened? Why have I gone blind again?”

  Her shoulders sagged and tears threatened. If the Goddess wanted to condemn her to a barn as her prison, she might accept it if her vision returned. But to give her a taste of sight then steal it again…could the Goddess be so cruel?

  She shook her head, her heart falling into despair. The man shifted again, groaned, but she paid him no attention.

  Until his hand found her arm and her sight returned.

  Her eyes widened and the man’s visage filled her vision, the shape of his face dispelling her anguish. She’d never been so happy to gaze upon anyone in her life.

  “It’s you,” she whispered. “You give me my sight.”

  “When you took your hand away, I couldn’t understand your words. You spoke Jud-dah’s foreign language.”

  Ailyssa continued staring at him. Could this truly be?

  “Take your hand away for a few heartbeats, then put it back.”

  The man nodded. “Speak when I do. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  He did as she said, removing his touch from her arm, and his face disappeared. The white haze overtook it—not creeping in as a fog falling across the land, but all at once. There, then gone.

  “It is true. I can’t see you anymore. Please, put your hand back.”

  For an agonizing time that cast an ache in her bones and felt much longer than it was, the whiteness remained. Panic squeezed Ailyssa’s chest; if his touch remained away too long, would it still bring her vision back when it returned?

  “Put your hand on me. Please.”