Forts: Endings and Beginnings

by Steven Novak

  Dreams and visions are poor substitutes for such things. She knew that now.

  Sliding her hand behind him and wrapping it around his rail-thin waist, Zanell tilted her head in Pleebo’s direction. “You’ll need to go with him.”

  Still attempting to process the happenings near the castle and what they might represent, it took a moment for her words to register with the silent Fillagrou.

  “W¬¬-what are you talking about?” Pleebo responded while subtly shaking his head and leaning toward his sister. “Go with who?”

  “Tommy Jarvis.”

  Tommy Jarvis?

  Stepping away from Zanell, Pleebo turned to face her and placed his hands on her boney shoulders. “Tommy Jarvis? What about Tommy Jarvis? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Zanell smiled. She couldn’t help it. She admired her older brother so very much. She always had. For years he kept her at his side and kept her safe. After their parents were taken from them, Pleebo made her his first and only priority. When they were hungry, she was the first to eat. When they were in danger, her life always took precedent before his. When things were at their darkest, he always managed somehow to make her smile and make her forget, even if only for a moment. He was a parent as much as brother, and a protector as much as family. And yet, through it all, he never truly understood how important or special he truly was. Not once had he fully comprehended his role in the larger story. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he never would.

  Maybe that was the point.

  Reaching up, Zanell placed her hands atop her brother’s, intertwined their fingers and whispered with a bittersweet smile: “You’ll need to go with him to the fire caves. That’s where all of this will begin.”

  Fire caves?

  Pleebo was more confused than ever. “The fire caves? What are you talking about? I don’t know anything about fire caves.”

  “Don’t worry big brother; there will be another. He’ll lead the way. Just as he was always meant to.”

  His confusion rapidly turning to anger, Pleebo pulled his hands from his sister’s shoulders and pressed them against his temples. She was doing it again. She was giving him a headache.

  “Stop it. I’ve had enough of this crap! I can’t take anymore of these stupid riddles and double-speak!”

  Grabbing Zanell by the arms, he pulled her closer with just enough force to let her know he was serious. “Tell me what’s going on, Zanell! Tell me like my sister and not my grandfather! Speak to me like the jerky little brat that used to steal my Fluto Root! Just tell me something that makes sense, just this once!”

  Zanell paused, studying the expression on her brother’s face as if it held the secrets of the universe, because in a very real way, it did.

  After wiggling free from his grip, she shot forward, wrapped her arms around his waist, and mashed her head into his chest. It was the tightest hug she’d ever given him, and she’d given him many. Startled, Pleebo stood motionless for a moment, his baby sister’s head wedged into the space just below his chin, her wiry hair blowing softly against his face. Her movement was so determined, her arms so insistent. She wasn’t going anywhere. She needed a hug and she was going to have it.

  With a slightly contented, slightly mournful sigh, Zanell inhaled her brother’s familiar sent and mumbled into the filthy fabric dangling from his shoulder: “I love you so much.”

  Despite his frustration, Pleebo closed his eyes and hugged her back. It seemed the right thing to do.

  He was so engrossed in the moment that he barely noticed the jerking of her body, or felt the slightest prickle of pain just below his chest. When Zanell’s arms slid awkwardly from around his waist and her legs went limp, Pleebo opened his eyes and tightened his grip on her torso. Her mouth hanging low and her massive eyes opened wide, Zanell’s neck went as loose as her arms. Her head flopped backward. It was at this moment that Pleebo saw it: an arrow. There was an arrow protruding from her chest.

  Entering from behind, it passed cleanly through her body and nicked the skin just under his ribcage. As Zanell’s body collapsed to the ground, her older brother fell with her. Pleebo’s arms remained wrapped around her. He struggled to pull his sister up as if it was all some sort of mistake.

  “No! No Zanell! Noplease no! Zanell!” These weren’t words. These were a series of unorganized emotions spewing from his lips. They were entirely without meaning and they were meant more for himself than Zanell.

  After laying her on her side, Pleebo cupped his sister’s cheek. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine. I’m going to get it out. I’ll get it out and you’ll be fine. Justholdon.”

  With one finger, Pleebo reached for the rear of the arrow protruding from her back. At first he missed it completely. His hands were shaking too much, so much they were useless. He was struck with an idea. It was a novel idea: to simply pull the arrow from her chest. It was also an unrealistic one. It was the first thing that popped into his mind, and in his current state it seemed to make sense. Bubbling up from around the arrow, blood was already beginning to seep from the exit point in her chest and drip into the dirt below. In a moment of awful clarity, Pleebo suddenly realized that pulling it out would make no difference.

  Her lips jittery and her eyes far away, Zanell twisted her head painfully in his direction. “It…it’s okay.” Her voice cracked and she inhaled. Though Pleebo couldn’t understand it, for some reason, she smiled.

  Reaching up wearily, Zanell wiped the tears from her brother’s face and smeared them across the scarred, chilly flesh of his cheek.

  “This whole thing, all of us…”

  Her voice was growing softer with every word, every syllable slurring into the next until the point where one ended and the next began became indistinguishable.

  When her hand slipped from his face, Pleebo captured her wrist and held it in place. He didn’t want to let it go; not yet. Not ever.

  “It was…it was always about you.” When Zanell inhaled next, there was no exhale. The words that came afterward were her last, a breathy mysterious whisper that emerged from her lips, floated past her tired eyes, and evaporated into the cold.

  “You were his first.”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 39

  FROM THE DEPTHS

  *

  In the darkness he could feel their hands. Fifteen, maybe twenty hands of varying shapes and sizes pawed at him, squeezing and poking at his bruised flesh. It was almost as if they doubted his existence, as if they needed to touch him before they could accept the reality. Only half aware of where he was and what exactly was taking place, Donald Rondage made no attempt to struggle against the curious appendages. A chilly paw nearly the size of his face pinched the skin of his cheek between dulled and worn fingernails. Another filthy digit opened his mouth and slid against the enamel of his teeth, leaving behind an indescribably foul aftertaste. Though he could see nothing in the pitch black of the pit below the slave hut, Donald could hear the voices of the half-dead creatures surrounding him. They were all speaking at once, their sentences jumbled, whispered and incoherent. More than a few among the hidden were simply grunting. The sound of an explosion from above halted their hurried chatter, and for a moment, everything went silent. After a second explosion and then a third, the hushed babbling returned, far more insistent and worried. It took only a few seconds for their wonder to transform to dread. Staring into the murmuring blackness, Donald’s mind rolled backward, recalling the events in the courtyard, and, more specifically, the look on Walcott’s face as the Ochan soldiers split him in two. He’d never be able to forget that look, no matter how badly he wished he could. It would hurt forever.

  Further ahead his mind wandered to the bizarre blue flame, the milky white eyes and the awful chanting creatures reaching into him and taking what wasn’t theirs. He recalled his family and especially his mother. He remembered once when he was just a little boy, woken in the middle of the night to the sounds of her sobbing in the oth
er room. The carpet felt soft against his feet as he shuffled cautiously down the hallway and into the kitchen. It was there that he found her weeping into her hands at the table. She cried a lot back then. She cried a lot in general. Peeking through the blinds on the cracked window behind, the reflections of the moonlight danced across the brownish glass of the bottle in her hand and reflected off his face. She looked so broken and crumpled, like a piece of paper that had been tossed in a trashcan and forgotten, scribbled with useless words that no longer held meaning or importance. Though he’d seen her in a similar state before, it wasn’t until that very moment that Donald truly understood what it meant. It wasn’t until that very instant that a more adult form of reasoning, understanding, and comprehension set in and he wished it never had. Donald Rondage would never look at the world through the same eyes again. He would never see it without the murky haze that walks hand-in-hand with age and knowledge. He would never again know the touch of innocence.

  In the darkened pit, someone or something had moved extremely close to his face. He could hear it sniffing and feel the faintest hint of its warming breath across his face. It smelled awful, like decaying carcasses and rotted food. It seemed that everything in the pit below the slave hut was slathered in the same offensive odor.

  The warm, acidy breath moved from his nose, to his ear, and whispered just an inch from the canal. “Are you one of them?”

  Though Donald very clearly heard the words, he had no interest in responding. What was the point? None of what was happening mattered anymore, and questions mattered even less. The incredible strength he once had was taken from him. He’d known this was the case for some time. He felt it float from his body when the ugly cloaked creatures chanted their way under his skin. When it left, he was empty. The moment it was gone, he felt useless.

  Again the uneven voice coughed into this ear. “Are you really one of them?”

  Again Donald ignored the query.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you? I know you are. I can tell you’re one of them. I can smell the color of the blood caked on the cut across your cheek. I’d recognize the odor of that color anywhere. It is such an intoxicating scent.”

  Boney fingers pressed against Donald’s face. After first sliding over the cut of which the voice was speaking, they moved up his forehead then through his hair and down the back of his head. From somewhere deeper in the darkness came a steady stream of half-muffled sobs. Donald was surprised he even noticed them through the growing chatter and worried speculation of what was happening above.

  “You’re so beautiful,” the nearby voice breathed directly into his ear. “Just as I pictured you would be. Just as I knew you would be.”

  Donald angrily shook his head and placed his hands against his ears. “No.”

  He wanted the whispering thing to shut up and go away. He wanted to be left alone. He wished the whole world beyond the stream at the base of the Jarvis brothers’ fort would be swallowed up and washed away forever. If it happened, he wouldn’t have shed a tear, not a single tear for any of the monsters that called it home. It was best for them anyway. It would put them out of their misery. It would end their suffering. Again the sobbing rose above the rest, and again for some reason Donald’s ears continued to focus on it. Why was he so focused on it?

  The voice near his ear piped up once more from the surrounding nothingness. “You can’t do any good in here. No, this isn’t where you should be. This is no place for a savior. You should be out there. Out there is where you belong.”

  Why wouldn’t it just shut the hell up? It needed to shut the hell up!

  A set of hands wedged themselves under his armpits, attempting to lift his limp body into a standing position. “Nothing will ever get done with you down here. There is much work to be done above. You must return above.”

  The sobbing in the distance was getting louder and the hands under his arms more insistent. Donald had enough.

  After slapping the arms of the whispering thing away, he leapt to his feet and screamed into the nothingness: “Enough already! I’m not your damn savior and I don’t want to be! Why can’t you all just leave me alone!”

  The sobbing stopped. The blackness turned quiet.

  Through clenched teeth, Donald paused for an instant before continuing, his face on fire and his arms shaking. “It’s my fault he’s dead! It’s my fault! I just stood there! I stood there crying and watched it happen!” The muscles in his shoulders pulled taut, his eyes screwed shut. “Who do you think I can save? I can’t save any of you! How the hell would I even do it? With what?”

  Hands coiled into fists and his body stiff, the words spewed from Donald’s mouth unedited and without an ounce of pretense. They were filled with an openness and honesty he hadn’t let loose in years. His breath was so hot it warmed his face. His nostrils puffed the remnants of a fire deep within. The veins in his neck bulged against his skin from the inside out, discoloring the flesh above and turning it into something bluish-green. He was conscious of what he was saying and fully aware of what his words implied. Now they would know. Now they would hear and they would all know. Now they would understand what he really was and see him for his true self. Then, as quickly as it rose, the volume of his voice dropped. He was out of breath and out of ideas. He was out of patience. He couldn’t lie anymore.

  “I couldn’t help him and I can’t help you. I couldn’t help my mother.” His pause lasted forever. “I’ve never helped anyone.”

  The voices in the darkness responded with silence. Donald could hear the whispering thing closest to him slide away. Somewhere above, someone screamed and something collapsed. Dropping to his rear against the dirt wall behind, Donald pulled his knees to his chest and buried his head between them. From above came yet another scream; they were dying, all of them.

  “It’s alright.”

  A different voice emerged from the void. This one was free of the stinky breath that accompanied the last. In fact, quite strangely it came with no breath of which to speak.

  “It’s alright, my child. Everything will be okay.”

  A pair of scary-thin arms wrapped themselves around his body and pulled him close. Unlike everything else in the pit below the slave hut, whatever was holding him was without an odor. Leaning into him, the creature laid its head on his shoulder and began to rock gently.

  Though it could hardly be called a conscious decision, Donald wrapped his arms around it and held back.

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 40

  GIVING IN

  *

  After whizzing past Pleebo’s head, an arrow wedged itself in the dirt just to his left and wobbled back and forth wildly. Through watery red eyes, the weary Fillagrou glanced in the direction of the forest in the distance. It’s there that he spotted them: a pair of Ochan soldiers. More specifically, they were the very same Ochans from the work camp where he’d abandoned Walcott. They never gave up, and they eventually found him. They’d been tracking him the entire time. On the ground at his knees, the inch and a half long lashes on Zanell’s eyelids swayed gently in the breeze, small piles of the black snow already beginning to pepper her face. Her head felt almost weightless in his hands, dainty and frail, barely existing at all. Though he could scarcely believe it, she looked like she was smiling. The expression was unsettling. It hurt his eyes and he turned his head. Another arrow flew past and still Pleebo did not move. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Both his body and mind were stuck, cemented in the prickly dirt below, unable and unwilling to move. To his left, the female conjurer flopped to the ground with a wail, an arrow protruding from her upper chest cavity and blood already pouring from the freshly open wound. The very instant she hit the snow, another sliced through her dusty cloak and the wrinkled flesh of the leg underneath. The Ochan soldiers were getting closer, moving through the dead trees and the fog with heavy, determined steps. One of them grinned in Pleebo’s direction and loaded another arrow—another in a series of unsettling ex
pressions.

  They didn’t give up, Pleebo whispered to both himself and no one in particular. They were following me the entire time.

  Lightly soaked in the tears rolling from the deep-set pockets under his eyes, Pleebo’s lips began to shiver. The shivering spread outward, moved across his face, down his neck, over his shoulders, through his arms and into the broken fingers tenderly cupping the head of his deceased sister against his lap. Beside him, the female conjurer screamed in pain once more, clawing at the dirt as another arrow sliced into her lower back. By this point the blood from Zanell’s wound had progressed across the whole of her chest and down her neck. She felt slick, slippery and difficult to hold. Narrowly missing the meat of his skull, an arrow sliced through the lower part of Pleebo’s ear, taking with it a chunk of flesh the size of a fingernail. He barely felt it. The time for feeling had not only come and gone, but had been choked from existence. Pleebo was done feeling. He’d had enough of it and it of him. The Ochans killed Walcott. When they were done, they tracked him through the forest and killed his sister. Before that, they murdered his parents, buried his grandfather and ravaged his home. Zanell, his little sister—his sweet little sister, his reason for carrying on those many years—was gone.

  Zanell was dead, and so was he.

  Pleebo’s eyes narrowed. With his forearm he wiped the moisture from his face and stifled the jittering muscles of his body. The Ochan soldiers were less than a hundred feet away, both reloading and preparing to take aim.

  He had to move. He had to move now.

  Pleebo’s body leapt into action before his brain had time to consider the repercussions. Suddenly he was charging in their direction. In this instant, the broken bones in his feet and legs were of no consequence. His shattered wrist, his fractured ribs, and the throbbing pang in his head ceased to exist. For this singular moment, he became exactly what his parents feared he might, and exactly what his father would have despised most. There was no coming back, not from this. He was a machine now, a hatred-fueled engine of vengeance, and nothing more. He was exactly what he needed to be and exactly what the situation required. He was exactly what it made him.