Nyal's Story (The Oldest Living Vampire Saga)

by Joseph Duncan

  She had fallen to them while bathing in a stream. She had gone down to bathe with her eldest daughter that day. The stream was close to the village, and generally deemed to be safe, but Ainana was very unlucky that day. A raiding party had rushed in on them while they were naked and helpless. Ainana had sent her daughter running and then lunged toward the clothing she’d left piled on the bank. She snatched her knife out and plunged it into her own heart. Her daughter, who escaped, had told the tale of it-- how Ainana had thrust the blade into herself, cursing them with her last breath even as her life’s blood sprayed across the grassy embankment.

  They had taken Ainana anyway-- to devour at their leisure, Nyal supposed-- but Ainana had escaped them, escaped into the Ghost World, which was the only option she’d had, and that was a far better fate than what she would have suffered had she lived.

  Nyal was looking after her grandchildren when the Foul Ones raided the village.

  She was with three of them that day, all girls, down near the river, teaching them about the local flora. It was the duty of the elders of the village to train the young ones while their parents were hunting and gathering and making more of the little ones for the elders to look after (when they had the time and inclination to do so).

  Nyal enjoyed caring for the young ones, though she was usually very stern with them. And they loved spending the day with their grandmother, despite the fact that she was very old and could be brusque with them at times. Nyal was a very attentive caregiver, and she spoke to the children as if they were adults. It was the very two things that children crave most -- attention and respect—but it was nothing Nyal did deliberately to curry favor with her grandchildren. It was just her way.

  There was Korte-Anthe, who was the oldest of the three at eight years old, then Ganni, who was seven, and nervous little Maia, who was five. Nyal had helped raise more than a dozen of her grandchildren, not to mention a few nieces and nephews, too, but for now she had only these three to look after. The rest had either graduated to adulthood and assumed their grownup responsibilities, or were still unweaned, too young to go to the Siede.

  Three was enough, though. Three young ones to look after was exhausting.

  Still, she enjoyed looking after them. It helped to ease her loneliness. It had been nearly four cycles of the moon since Eyya passed into the Ghost World, and Nyal still missed the smelly old Fat Hand. It was something she would never admit aloud, but there it was. She had very little affection for her fellow elders. They never failed to annoy her with their gossip and complaints. But Eyya’s absence was a like a missing limb, a thing that could still jar her whenever she went to use it.

  Ordinarily, Nyal kept the children near the Siede. She tired easily, and did not feel comfortable for the children’s safety when they ventured out too far. When she was younger and could defend the children, they had roamed all through the forests and hillsides surrounding her people’s settlement, but she could no more defend them now than she could defend herself if something were to attack them, like a wild dog or a hungry cat. But it was a beautiful, balmy spring afternoon, the trees budding, flowers blooming, and all the snow finally melted away. Nyal was feeling spry for a change, and she wanted to teach the girls the different plants that grew around the village, so she grabbed up her walking stick and told her granddaughters to follow her down to the river.

  She took her time, pointing out the various plants with her staff, telling the girls what their names were and what use they might have as food or medicine for the People. The girls would squat down to examine the plants, repeating her words back to her and asking her any questions they might have.

  “And this one is called araboris. It has a long, stiff stalk about the thickness of your pinkie finger when full grown, with jagged leaves and clusters of little yellow flowers at the top,” Nyal said.

  “Araboris,” the girls repeated back. Little Maia called it “arborth”, but that was close enough. Some of her baby teeth had fallen out and she was having trouble making her S sounds.

  “Do any of you know if this is a plant that we can eat? Has your mothers ever prepared this plant for supper?”

  The two older girls shook their heads gravely. “No,” they said, nearly in unison.

  “Is it poisonous?” Korte-Anthe inquired. She believed every brightly colored plant was poisonous. Nyal didn’t know how she had gotten that idea into her head. The People very rarely sickened from eating poisonous plants. Just the children, sometimes, when they weren’t too closely monitored. They would put just about anything in their mouths, foolish little things.

  “Actually, the stalks can be cooked and eaten,” Nyal said. “But they have a bitter taste, and will give you diarrhea.”

  All three girls cackled, even Maia, but she only laughed because the older girls had done so.

  “Laugh all you want, but if your bowels ever get bound up, you’ll thank Old Nyal for telling you about this flower,” Nyal intoned, giving them a stern eye. “And if your husbands ever smack you upside the head for being sassy, you just make him a nice rabbit stew with some araboris mixed into it. He’ll be too busy running to the ditch to give you any trouble!”

  She had done just that thing to Gon once, when he pestered her too often for sex one afternoon. After racing for the midden about ten times in one day, he wasn’t feeling too amorous anymore!

  They continued on.

  Nyal pointed out a halfax, whose milky sap could be cooked to a powder and used as an analgesic, then some bristlegrass, which made a very tasty tea if mixed with some honey. Bristlegrass tea was good for swollen joints, too-- not that these young girls would have to worry about swollen joints for a while. Their days of singing bones were still many cycles of the seasons away!

  Nyal paused at the edge of the river to watch the men fish. There were five men standing knee deep in the gurgling river that afternoon, their muscular bodies naked and moist. They were fishing with spears and woven nets, placing their catches into the reed baskets two younger boys were carrying for them. Strong, handsome men, not yet tan, their flesh still pale after a long winter spent bundled up in their fur-trimmed buckskin clothing. Nyal was old, but she was not so old she couldn’t appreciate their attractive, masculine forms.

  “When I get bigger I’m going to mate with Halberthe,” little Maia announced loudly, and Nyal looked at the child in shock. Maia was usually a very reserved child.

  But she could sympathize. Halberthe was a very fetching man, with thick auburn hair and a finely sculpted physique.

  “Halberthe is much too old for you, little one!” Nyal scolded her, while the older girls shrieked with laughter.

  The river here was broad and shallow, the stones of the shore round and smooth as eggs, quite comfortable to walk on with bare feet. Nyal headed east across the smooth gray and blue rocks, the girls following behind her like a trio of baby ducks. To her right, gray and hazy, were the mountains. Nyal took note of Gon’s peak, the one they called Old Stone Man. She still could not make out a jutting nose and chin! Perhaps Gilad had invented those things.

  Nyal followed the curve of the river, walking until she had come to a shady spot, then sat down to rest on the grass embankment. The girls sat on the stones at her feet, gazing around happily. A cluster of willows and birch arched over the bank here, their leaves shifting in the wind with a soft rustling sound.

  “What is this plant called, Grandmother?” Korte-Anthe asked, holding up a piece of honeydrop vine.

  Nyal told the girl its name, and explained how they could suck a drop of nectar from the blooms after the vines had flowered. It didn’t have any medicinal properties, she explained, but the nectar was a tasty, if miniscule, treat.

  They sat there in the shade, talking about the nearby plants for quite a while. Nyal was conscious of the passage of the sun through the heavens, the way the shadows shrank and then began to stretch out in the opposite direction, but she did not care. She was enjoying herself too much to return to the Siede. T
he girls were behaving themselves very well today, and her bones were relatively free of pain.

  We shall stay just a little while longer, she thought.

  She was telling them how to make a poultice with moss and willow bark pulp when she heard a sharp cry in the direction of the village.

  She looked over her shoulder with a faint frown, but she didn’t think too much of the cry. The village had grown quite rapidly in the last ten years or so. There were children screaming and crying and laughing all the time now.

  “But how do you get the poultice to stay in place?” Korte-Anthe asked. She had gathered a bundle of moss and moistened it in the river. She wanted to be a medicine woman someday, was pressing the soppy wad to her sister’s upper arm.

  “What?” Nyal said, turning back to the girl. “Oh! Well, you could cut an old rag into strips, but if you don’t have any rags to spare you could—“

  Another scream from the village. A young girl, by the sound of it.

  Nyal rose, concerned now. That was no playful cry. Someone had been injured, or frightened very badly.

  “Grandmother?” Korte-Anthe said, dropping the ball of moss. Her eyes had grown very wide. She was looking up the river.

  Another scream, and then a whole chorus of them.

  “Up, children!” Nyal hissed. “Get up and follow me!”

  “Grandmother!” Korte-Anthe shrieked, and Nyal pivoted, her heart leaping into her throat.

  Too late, she heard something splashing through the water to her left. She turned, had just a moment to recognize a pair of Foul Ones racing through the water’s edge toward them, their bare feet shooting up little geysers with each footfall, and then the nearest one threw his arm straight out in front of him and knocked her off her feet.

  Nyal didn’t even have time to cry out. The blow lifted her entire body from the rocky shore. She landed on her back in the river with a great splash. If she had landed anywhere but in the water, she might have broken some bones, but she landed in the river and the water absorbed her fall.

  She surfaced immediately, coughing and trying to clear her eyes. Her wet hair clung to her face, blinding her. She could hear her granddaughters’ screaming, the guttural animal-speak of the Foul Ones.

  “No!” Nyal howled, floundering to her hands and knees. “No! No!” Desperate and horrified, it was all that she could shout.

  She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes, managed to climb to her feet-- and there was her walking stick, twirling in the current!

  She snatched it up and swung it toward her assailants.

  Korte-Anthe struggled in the arms of the raider, kicking her legs and twisting back and forth like an eel, her eyes swollen with fear. “Grandmother!” she squealed. “Grandmother, help me!”

  The second Foul One had already made off with Ganni, but the one who was trying to take Korte-Anthe was having trouble holding onto her.

  “Let her go!” Nyal howled, and swung at the Foul One’s head. She put all her strength behind the swing, but she knew it would not be enough. She was too old-- too old and weak! And where was little Maia? Had she been taken as well?

  The Foul One took the blow to his temple. He tried to duck his head at the last moment, squeezing his eyes shut, but he could not dodge her staff. Nyal’s walking stick made a comical whonking sound against his skull. As Nyal stumbled forward, losing her footing on the river’s slick bottom, the Foul One’s eye flashed wide, and he bared his teeth at her—his hideous, filed-down teeth.

  “Braa-shu’u-DOH!” he snarled.

  He reached for the knife sheathed at his hip, glaring at her with murderous rage.

  Nyal regained her balance, wheezing raggedly, and cocked back her stick. “Let her go, you foul thing!”

  Before the Foul One could draw out his weapon, however, Korte-Anthe wriggled from his grasp. She splashed into the water at the Foul One’s feet, and he bent forward at the waist to snatch her back up.

  Nyal saw her opening.

  While his hands were occupied with her squirming young granddaughter, Nyal let out a warcry and tried to crack his skull.

  She missed, and her momentum sent her stumbling toward Korte-Anthe’s enraged captor.

  The Foul One grinned triumphantly and brought his right foot up.

  Nyal reeled into the Foul One’s foot, and her hideous assailant kicked her in the abdomen as hard as he could.

  Nyal splashed into the river again.

  He stepped forward before she could resurface, planting his foot in the center of her bony chest. Nyal wrapped her fingers around his ankle, tried to push him off of her, but he was too heavy, or she was too old and exhausted. She held her breath, feeling along the riverbed for something sharp to stab at his leg with, knowing the Foul One was going to kill her, drown her in the river, but unwilling to give up. Not so long as there was a chance to save her granddaughter.

  No! No! she thought, and then: Ancestors, save us!

  Her lungs burned from lack of air. The Foul One pressed down on her and her muscles gave, a trail of bubbles streaming away from her lips.

  And then the pressure was gone, and Nyal lurched up from the water, gasping and coughing and flailing her arms about, reaching for her attacker, her granddaughter, anything to save them!

  Running footsteps all around her. Angry voices shouting in the tongue of the River People. “Another one over here!” and “He has Korte-Anthe!” and “Hurry before he gets away!”

  A hand on her shoulder. Gilad saying, “Grandmother, are you unhurt?”

  Nyal sputtered, “Don’t worry about me! Go! Save the children! They have Ganni and Korte-Anthe!”

  Nyal tried to gather herself together as her tribesmen chased after the raiders. Her soul felt as if it had been shattered into countless tiny shards.

  Ganni and Korte-Anthe were gone!

  And it was all her fault!

  The thought crossed her mind to kill herself then. Drown herself in the river that swept so coldly past her. She deserved no less. She had exposed her children to danger, allowed them to be captured by the Foul Ones.

  Then she heard a quiet sob.

  “Maia?” she called, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Maia, where are you? Come to Grandmother. It is safe now.”

  Maia was crouched beneath the weeds and tangled roots hanging off the river’s embankment. Her face was streaked with mud, her eyes swollen and red from crying. She had hidden herself well, though. She was a smart little thing.

  Nyal crawled to her, back and limbs aching. “Come here, baby. Come to Grandmother,” she croaked, crying herself, insomuch as Old Nyal could cry, which wasn’t much. “It’s safe now. Our men have chased all the Foul Ones away.”

  Maia peeked cautiously from the overhang, her entire body trembling, then launched herself at the old woman when she saw the scary men were gone.

  Nyal wrapped the youngster in her arms, squeezing her tight to her breasts. “It’s all right. It’s all right. They’ll catch those scary men. They’ll bring your sisters home.”

  She struggled to her feet, still holding Maia tight, and began to limp toward the camp. She had told the child that the scary men were all gone, but she didn’t know that, not for certain, and she wanted to get her grandchild back to her parents safely. She didn’t care what happened to her, but the children must be protected.

  She hurried as fast as she could, trying to look in all directions at once. Halfway between the river and the village, she passed a bloody figure lying motionless beside the path. It was one of the Foul Ones, its filthy body pierced a dozen times. Maia hid her face in her hands at the sight of it, wailing, and Nyal comforted the child as best she could. The Foul One was just as hideous as all the rest, teeth filed to points, flesh caked with mud and human waste, body adorned in bone and rotting skins. It stank of shit and death and depravity. She wanted to cover her face just like little Maia, block out the sight of the thing, but she didn’t.

  Instead, Nyal kicked its body as she passed.

&
nbsp; She spied another corpse before she got back to the village. A little boy this time. One of the River People. He was lying face down in the grass, his head twisted unnaturally, obviously broken. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew whom the child belonged to. It was young Hulthe, nasty old Ypp’ham’s grandson, barely five years old. A good boy, with a quick laugh.

  Not one of mine, thank the ancestors! Nyal thought, and she immediately felt ashamed.

  The camp was still in chaos, men and women rushing about, shouting out names, trying to get organized. All the elders stood outside the Siede. They had gathered the children into the cave for protection, stood in a rough circle in front of it, armed with knives and spears-- a miserable barricade with all that sagging flesh!

  “Have you seen my Alden?” Hora cried as Nyal drew near. “Oh, ancestors, where is he?” Nyal shook her head and hurried past the woman.

  Nyal tottered to the Siede and passed little Maia to one of the younger elders, then collapsed onto the ground, exhausted and shaking.

  “What happened? Did you see them? Have they stolen any more children?” the other elders questioned her, but Nyal was too weak and shaken to answer them. There was, in fact, only one thought rattling inside her skull: Where is Gon?

  And looking toward the mountain, the one they called Old Stone Man, a second thought sprang into her mind, a bitter and despairing one: And why did he not help us?

  7

  She told little Maia that their men would bring back her sisters, but they did not. The men managed to save three of the tribe’s children, and returned them in relatively good health—and they brought back the heads of three Foul Ones, which they planned to place upon spears at the perimeter of the village to deter any further raids-- but not Nyal’s granddaughters. Not Korte-Anthe and sweet little Ganni.

  When Nyal learned that her granddaughters had not been saved, she fell to her knees. She didn’t shout or cry or beat at her breasts with her fists, but the strength went out of her legs. All she could think of was the unkind thought that had flashed through her mind when she saw Ypp’ham’s grandson lying dead beside the path—Not one of mine, thank the ancestors!