by Karen Dales
Notus watched the young man carefully. White brows tensed in thought, large expressive eyes averted to the grass. He had expected the boy to take this hard, as many did when they were Chosen without warning. Many went mad and were killed. Those that Chose another without consent usually did so out of selfish need, and to Notus, such an act was tantamount to rape. Would this young man see it as such? If he did, he could understand. Notus had been given a choice, but had not understood at the time. “Do you understand what I’m saying, my son?”
The boy sighed and lowered himself to properly sit on the grass. No, he did not fully understand the implications, but if the night was no longer fraught with unseen dangers due to darkness, then this man was the one who had gifted him. Gazing into those deep brown eyes, he found he could not say anything.
Concern crept up Notus’ spine. Throughout this whole time the young man had said not a word. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep up his end of the one-sided conversation, so he tried a different tactic.
Closing his eyes, he focused on the link that now bound the two of them, and followed it back to find a solid wall blocking him. He heard the boy grunt, but astonishingly the barrier remained. Giving up on attempting to read this young man’s mind, Notus opened his eyes and saw the boy rubbing the centre of his forehead, obviously in pain.
This was unprecedented! Never before was there one Chosen who could not be read by their Chooser. Even Notus had been an open book to the one who had transformed him. It had taken decades and hundreds of leagues of separation to sever that link, and he doubted that if his Chooser came back he would be able to block him from entering his mind.
“Who are you?” implored Father Notus.
The sharp pain receded enough for the young man to see the stranger staring at him. The look on his face made him uncomfortable. It was the same he had seen on others. One of disbelief mingled with fear and he turned his face away. It hurt too much to see that look.
It was not the reaction that Father Notus had expected to his question. Long straight white hair fell, masking most of the young man’s face, but not enough to cover the fact that he could see the crimson eyes fill.
In the moonlight the young man seemed to glow, as pale as he was, and Notus could well see that many would see a very attractive, dare he say beautiful, young man. He tried again.
“What is your name?” he gently asked. “I already gave you mine – Father Paul Notus.”
Not having spoken in over two years, he barely managed to whisper. “I – I don’t have a name.”
It was Notus’ turn to sit confused under the tree. Everyone had a name, and he said so.
The boy just mournfully shook his head, sending white strands of hair floating in the breeze.
Notus sat in stunned silence before asking, “Surely your parents must have called you something.” He instantly regretted his words as the crimson eyes fell on him once again, this time the profound sadness made him close his mouth before asking his next question.
“I don’t have parents,” the boy managed, his voice becoming a little stronger with use. Before he could repress the feelings back down to where he had buried them for so long, he had to wipe the tears that ran down his cheeks.
“I’m so sorry to hear that, my son.” Notus wanted to go to this young man to give him comfort, but respected the distance and the safety it provided. “How long have you been living here?”
The boy cleared his throat and answered, “A little over two years.”
Stunned at the revelation, Notus blurted, “How old are you?”
The boy blinked. He had not expected such a question and he had to think about the answer. Truthfully he did not know for certain. “Eighteen or so.”
“Dear God!” exclaimed Notus. “So young!” The full impact of what he had done to this boy finally hit. The boy may be a grown man, but he will never now be able to have a home and a family.
In one night’s folly he had taken away the boy’s future. Sure many who are Chosen are young, but many had lived a life before choosing the transformation. Some had been old enough to have children. Some, like himself, had been well into their lives.
Here was a young man with no life experience. The weight of his responsibility to this young man grew heavier and the night was wearing thin.
Rising, he glanced down at the young man. “Come on now. We have a lot to discuss before sunup.” And he held out his hand.
Uncertain, the boy hesitantly grasped the outstretched hand, noting its coolness, and allowed Father Notus to assist him up until he was standing over the shorter man. Brushing dirt from his kilt he followed the little man into the woods only after he had ran back into his cave for his knife, just in case. He did not know why he trailed after the man called Notus, but it seemed the natural thing to do and hoped it was not some sort of trap.
“What am I to call you?” ventured Notus, his voice ringing in the night ahead of him. Brown wool robes caught in the underbrush, but were ignored.
The boy shrugged.
Not hearing an answer, Notus stopped on the trail and looked up expectantly at the white figure behind him.
After a moment of silence Notus realized he was not going to be graced with an answer. Turning around, he continued along the path. “We’ll figure something out, my son. In the meantime, walk beside me. I like to look at whom I’m speaking with.”
The boy lengthened his stride and fell in beside Father Notus. He found he was starting to like this man, but trust was still a long way off. Listening in silence to Father Notus, he was fully aware that he had been called my son. No one had ever called him that and a part of him warmed at the thought that finally someone had.
“The bond between one who is Chosen and the Chooser can be very strong,” explained Notus as he moved a skeletal branch out of the way, allowing the boy to catch hold before moving onwards. “Especially if the two are in close proximity to each other. The connection will dwindle if they are parted by distance and will grow again once they come together. The only way the connection is severed is if one of the two, usually the Chooser, severs it, or if one of them dies.”
Notus stopped, put his cool hand on the white flesh of the young man’s arm and peered intently into blood red eyes. “Yes. Even though we are immortal, we can die, and only through three ways: immolation by sun or fire, decapitation or, and mind my words on this, drinking from the dead. Never ever drink from the dead.”
The boy regarded Notus with disgust. Drink from the dead?
“We sustain our immortality by drinking the blood of the living. I do not know why this is so, but it is,” said Notus in all seriousness. “It is their lives that uphold ours. Never forget that.”
He watched Notus gaze at him from head to foot and back again before turning to continue down the path. Confused and a little more than disturbed by what was just imparted to him, the boy hurried to follow.
They rounded a large tree, and the boy realized the speed at which they were walking made the forest blur. Strangely enough he was not getting tired from the pace and he only half listened to Notus. “One of the aspects of a strong connection in our kind is empathy. The second is telepathic. I have a feeling we are going to have to work at that.”
Again the pain grew in the centre of his forehead, forcing him to attempt to rub it away with the heel of his palm. Slowly it dissolved into a tingling, until that too disappeared.
“Yes, definitely we are going to have to work on that,” said Father Notus, none too pleased. “In time, I hope, you will be able to read my thoughts and emotions as easily as I will be able to read yours.” Notus tromped along the path, and a sense of doubt as to whether this was possible began to grow. Along with that came worry.
“At this point –” Notus ducked under a large branch. The boy had to crouch to navigate the obstacle. “– I do not think it wise if we went our separate ways for some time. There is much I need to teach you so that you can live the life I unfortunately gave y
ou.
“Ahhh, here we are.”
The trees released their embrace and they found themselves in a small area surrounded with large oaks that blocked out the stars and moon. In the centre of the clearing stood a small domed hut covered in hides. Beside it, resting on its long arms, a cart stood with bundles carefully wrapped in oiled leathers.
“Welcome, my son, to my humble camp.”
The boy stared, watching Father Notus shuffle through the desiccated leaves to the tent and bend to enter it. He could hear the movement of the man in the tent and then he saw the man’s rear as he backed out with something in his hands.
Emerging from the tent, Father Notus stood with a bow-stave in hand. “I believe this belongs to you.”
The young man could not believe what he was seeing and carefully took the yew bow in both hands, examining it, feeling its smooth wood. It was no longer strung, but the string was wrapped neatly around the top of the stave. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I had thought I’d lost it.”
Notus smiled and nodded. “You are most welcome.” Then his smile faded. “I think we may have a slight problem.”
The boy pulled his gaze from the expertly cared for long bow and cocked his head to the side, waiting for the man to continue.
“My shelter is too small for the both of us,” continued Father Notus. “I do not like the idea of leaving you alone at this crucial time. I would not forgive myself if anything happened to you because you were ill prepared.”
Uncomfortable under the intense searching gaze from those brown eyes, the boy studied his bow, feeling the unspoken request. A part of him still feared this man, but he had given him back his bow and had said nothing about the knife he wore tucked in his belt. He had also apologized.
Silently groaning, the boy knew exactly what he was going to do, and it went against everything Auntie had taught him. “The cave is big enough,” he whispered, praying that this bit of trust was not misguided.
“Can sunlight enter it?” asked Notus, dubiously.
Clearing his unpractised voice, the boy replied, “Only for the first few feet. The back remains untouched.”
“Good. Good,” exclaimed the man and with a clap of his hands turned back to his hut to begin the chore of lifting the hides and folding them before placing them neatly into the cart.
Not liking to stand and do nothing while watching someone work, the boy walked over, laid his bow across the carts arms for safekeeping and went to help dismantle the tent.
The two worked silently in the night, each watching the other. As Notus smiled and hummed through the task, the boy began to doubt his own misgivings about this man and surprisingly grew more at ease in his presence, his shoulders relaxing their tension.
“You seem to be taking this well.” Notus folded a deer hide in half so that it hung neatly over one arm before handing it to the young man.
Taking the hide, the boy folded it once again before laying it into the cart.
Notus noted the young man’s quizzical look. “What I mean,” he explained as he took the last hide from the tent, leaving the skeletal arms of the branches of wood that made up the tent’s frame, “is that when I was Chosen I had many questions. I would imagine that you have at least one question to ask me.”
The boy walked over to the tent frame, studying it, after placing the last hide in the cart. Did he have a question? He frowned, picking at one of the leather thongs that knotted vertical and horizontal branches together. The knot was well made and complicated. How was he to even come up with a question when he did not even know where to begin? He pulled out his knife and went to slip it under the thong to cut it.
“No!”
The man’s hand on his own halted his cutting, and he looked down to see horror in Notus’ face. Unaccustomed to the touch of another person, he let his hand drop away.
“Don’t cut them. Untie them,” explained Notus, picking and pulling apart the knot with deft fingers. “Cutting them would be wasteful. Time, patience and perseverance will allow them to be used again.”
With a sigh, the boy sheathed the knife and picked at the knot, but only found he was entangling it even more. He glanced at Notus to see that five strings lay over his hand, when he could not even get one. Frustration grew at the simple task.
“So ask.” Notus held up the sixth untied thong with a triumphant smile.
Distracted by the task of getting at least one knot undone, before the man finished the rest, the boy said nothing.
“Ask me a question. You must have at least one.” He stood with another one undone. He did not remark on the young man’s inefficiency with tied things.
The boy stopped picking at the knot he had been working at and pulled his knife. “Why do you make these knots so difficult?” Deftly, before the man could stop him, he cut through the leather, and held up the string with the knotted ball in the centre before handing it to the man.
Notus’ face fell at the sight of the leather string all bunched in its centre, sitting in the palm of his hand. “You did not have to that,” he said, meekly.
The boy ignored the remark and proceeded to cut the rest of the leather strings that held the tent together. Creaking and cracking, the frame collapsed into a large pile.
Notus continued to stare at the little brown ball in his hand.
Ignoring the little man, the boy picked up one of the tent beams. “How do you want these packed?”
“What?” Notus glanced up, noticing the fallen poles. “Oh, yes. You can leave them. Others can always be found if needed. It’s the hides that are important.” He looked back down to the knotted string and with a sniff and a shrug he washed his hands of the thongs and the knotted ball, letting them fall to the grass.
Checking to see that the cart was properly packed, Notus took the bow from the arms and laid it on top of the folded hides before moving to stand behind the cart.
“Let’s get going.” Father Notus spat into his hands and squatted to get a grip under the cart.
Despite being unschooled in the ways of the world, the boy knew well enough that a cart was pulled, not pushed, so he stood there, staring at the man, his jaw slack.
Releasing the underbelly of the cart, Father Notus stood and noted the incredulous gaze on the young man’s face. “No,” answered Notus. He did not need to read his mind to see what this young man was thinking. “We are not going to push it. That would be ridiculous, especially over this terrain. We’re going to carry it.”
The disbelief in the young man’s face grew to the point that Notus could almost hear the words asking if he was crazy. Sucking his bottom lip, Notus shook his head and drew upon hundreds of years of experience with people. “Yes. Carry,” he authoritatively instructed, all humour gone from his demeanour. “Now that since it is your turn to lead the way, you lift the front, by its arms.”
Finally, the young man put voice to his sceptical gaze. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am. Now do as I say. The night is wearing thin.”
The boy let out a huff, shaking his head dubiously and went to the forefront of the cart, turned his back on the man, and experimented with the best way to grasp the arms before he found what would be most comfortable.
A new thought popped into his mind as he looked back to see if the man was ready. How did the man get the cart here in the first place?
“The other path is much more manageable,” answered the man. “It was quite easy to pull it along.”
The boy whipped around to face Notus. Could this man really read his mind?
“Strangely enough I can’t. I should be able to,” explained Notus. “But, my boy, you are quite easy to read. An open book, one might say. Now, if you please?” He gestured for the young man to turn around to get back to the job at hand.
The boy grasped the extended arms of the cart and at the count of three, lifted it. He could not believe the ease at which the wheels left the ground, the cart supported only by four hands. A littl
e push from behind was all it took for him to start moving forward. The weight of the cart was minuscule to what he had expected.
“Which way to the cave?” asked the man from behind.
“That way.” The boy absently lifted the cart, trying to hold onto it and point at the same time.
“Whoa!” cried Notus, trying to stabilize the swaying wagon. “Do not do that again. Just start walking and do not let your long legs take large strides or you will be carrying this on your own.”
Abashed, the boy, surprised by the lightness of his burden, lowered the arms in his grasp and made sure to take smaller steps. It was when he heard Notus chuckling that he realized that he had taken this man too seriously and a hint of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth, finally understanding that it was not meant as a reprimand, but a jest. He was surprised at how quickly he was beginning to like this Father Notus.
“I guess I should teach you a lesson or two.” The monk let out a grunt. “The reason…Dear God! Try at least to keep it balanced!”
“Sorry,” he muttered, the grin spreading to the other side of his mouth as he led the way down the track that would bring them to the grove.
“That’s much better,” continued Notus. “Now where was I? Oh yes. I remember. The reason why we can lift this heavily laden cart is that we have exceptional strength. It is another of the gifts that come from the transformation. I don’t know why this is the case, but there it is. From now on you are going to have to be careful and watch your own strength, for you are now stronger than mortal men. Without thinking you could easily crush a man’s hand into uselessness by a mere handshake. We cannot tire from exertion except if we are unable to find proper nourishment. And yes, we can starve, but not to death. I wouldn’t recommend trying. We do, in fact, find our strength grows as we age over time. We do not grow old, but, in a sense, we grow in power. The last time I tested how strong I was, I bent an iron sword in half. Nevertheless the poor mercenary was non-too pleased and… well… that’s another story. With the strength comes the ability of great speed. Our bodies don’t work the way they used to, and if you are to pass for a normal human, we’ll have to work on moderating these new found abilities.”
