The Seer's Curse

by J. J. Faulks

  Terla fell silent.

  Ormoss was trudging towards the gathering, glaring at the ground ahead. A hush consumed the villagers and the crowd parted. No one attempted to address their leader as he ploughed onwards to reach the fire pit. As Meila followed him through the crowd, she heard the murmurs and whispered words. Dreadful. Scripted. Cursed.

  A hand caught her elbow.

  “Here, let me hold Piprin,” said Pityr, Meila’s husband. He clasped Piprin as if he were wrestling with a newly birthed lamb instead of cradling an infant, but Meila appreciated his offer to help.

  Ormoss was staring into the fire and Meila had to say his name three times before she managed to draw his attention. When he finally turned around, his eyes distant and bloodshot, she suggested, “Would you like to hold Orleigh?”

  Ormoss hesitated before opening his arms to his daughter. With his tense, awkward movements, he made Pityr look like a natural father.

  “That’s it,” Meila encouraged, “Just support her head like that.” Her hands hovered behind Orleigh, guiding Ormoss. As Orleigh found herself in unfamiliar arms, she awoke and began to cry. Meila rubbed her back, trying to soothe her, but her cry grew to a high-pitched wail.

  Ormoss thrust her back into Meila’s arms. “She wants you, not me.”

  As Meila held Orleigh close and swayed her body back and forth, the cries settled to sobs and then to nothing more than the occasional snuffle. She moved to pass Orleigh back to her father, but Ormoss rounded his shoulder, recoiling from the child like a wounded animal, and took a step closer to the fire pit.

  The hungry fire crackled, waiting to be fed. Small pouches of grain, sprigs of laurel, cut heads of flowers and resinous incense moulded into the likeness of animals lay at the base of the stone circle that housed the flames.

  “We gather here in sight of the gods to seek their blessing of these children.” With his back to the villagers, Ormoss addressed the fire. His words were low and rushed, lacking the grandeur normally associated with the ceremony. “We give these offerings to the mightiest of the gods.” He stooped down to collect the offerings and toss them into the flames. “Teymos, god of Earth. Retsa, goddess of Water. Onea, goddess of Air. Efrinon, god of Fire.”

  Ormoss beckoned Pityr forward. Pityr took half a step and then hesitated. He frowned at Meila with a certain confusion, as if he knew that something was not right but he could not say what.

  In a voice soft enough that it would only be heard by the first row of the crowd, Meila prompted, “We give thanks…”

  Ormoss glowered but completed the customary phrase. “We give thanks to the mother goddess Nestra for bringing these children into this world.”

  With a nod from Meila, Pityr proceeded towards the fire pit. “I present Piprin and ask that he be blessed by the gods.” Pityr took the twine doll that Meila had woven and cast it into the fire. The pit flared with white flames and the blessing was complete.

  When the flames settled, Meila stepped forward, swapping places with her husband. “I present Orleigh and ask that she be blessed by the gods.” She took the twine doll that she had helped Alea to make and she dropped it into the fire.

  The flames blazed green and leapt up out of the pit with a thunderous roar, the heat surging over her and gnashing at her skin. She shielded her eyes and, stumbling backwards, she found Pityr’s arms. They huddled together, the two infants cocooned between them.

  The sound faded and the light dimmed, but her ears were filled with ringing and with every blink the lick of lurid green reappeared. When she dared to peek at the fire pit she saw that the flames had died out, leaving behind only ash.

  “What happened?” she asked. She looked to Pityr and then to Ormoss. Both men stared at the fire pit but found no answers there. “The fire,” she said. “What does it mean?”

  A chorus of whispers escaped from the crowd and washed over the village. Though many of their words differed, they were united in their proclamation. “Cursed.”

  Chapter Four

  Seven Years Later

  "Father! Father!” Orleigh burst into the living room. Her breath was fast and heavy, having run all the way from the school. The door slammed into the wall, bounced off it and shuddered back. Her father’s gaze shot up from the parchment in his hand, his eyes dark beneath his frown. “Be careful!”

  “Sorry!” Orleigh said. Her fingers found the hem of her shirt, tugging at the frayed material. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just—” her father had turned back to the parchment, the flash of annoyance drained from his face. “It’s just,” Orleigh tried again. A thrill rippled up from her stomach, dancing across her lips and pulling them into a wide smile. “School wants me to make the offerings to Teymos in the festival this year.”

  “Good.” Her father nodded but he did not look up. He did not smile or congratulate her. He showed no sign that he had heard, that he had truly listened to her news.

  Her smile faltered. “Will you come watch me?” she asked. The question hung in the air, as invisible yet as tangible as a gust of wind sent by Onea.

  “No.”

  The thrill burst, leaving behind an emptiness in her stomach. “Why not?”

  Her father flapped the parchment in his hand. “I’m busy, Orleigh. Go play.”

  Orleigh pulled the front door shut, guiding it back into the frame without a sound. She scuffed her sandals on the dirt track as she walked away from the house and towards where Meila and Piprin were waiting.

  Meila’s smile shone with such warmth that the Creator might have woven a ray of sun into it, ready to beam down upon everyone that she met. “Was your father excited?” she asked.

  Orleigh looked down at the ground and shook her head. Long spirals of strawberry blonde hair fell into her face. “No,” she said. She swept the curls back over her shoulder and forced a shrug. “He’s busy.”

  Meila’s smile passed behind a cloud before returning with full brilliance. “Well, I’m excited for you.” She enclosed Orleigh’s hand in her own, giving it a squeeze. “Making the offering is an honour. Something to be proud of.”

  “Like when Efrinon gave Argentus the honour of bringing fire to the first men of the borderland!” Piprin exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Meila said. “That was an honour too.”

  They ambled across the land towards the farmhouse, walking the narrow paths between the crops. Young shoots tickled at Orleigh’s ankles. There was a time, she had heard Pityr say, that the plants grew to the height of a man, but she had never seen them reach beyond Meila’s knee.

  “My father doesn’t like the gods, does he?” Orleigh said.

  “What makes you think that?” Meila asked.

  They came to a stop beneath the shade of the old oak tree that stood defiantly in the middle of the farmland. Meila let go of Orleigh’s hand and sat down upon the roots that clawed up through the earth. Orleigh sat cross-legged in the dirt, side by side with Piprin.

  “He never gives offerings,” Orleigh said. “And he doesn’t come to the ceremonies or festivals like everyone else does.”

  “Sometimes grown-ups lose faith in the gods,” Meila said. “And that’s what happened to your father.”

  Orleigh frowned. Faith was like belief, their teacher said. How could someone not believe in the gods when they were as real as the tree that they sheltered under? She looked to Piprin for an explanation, just like she would at school, but he had nothing to offer.

  “You know how sometimes you fall out with your friends at school?” Meila said. “And you feel so angry and upset with them that you don’t want to talk to them?”

  Orleigh nodded.

  “It’s similar to that.”

  “But why is Ormoss angry with the gods?” Piprin asked. “Won’t the gods be angry with him for not making offerings?”

  “The gods won’t mind,” Meila insisted. “They recei
ve so many offerings from everyone else. And when Ormoss is ready to talk to them again, they will be waiting.” She held Orleigh’s gaze, warming her with her smile once more. “Now, would you like to hear a myth before we go home?”

  “I want to hear about Argentus and Efrinon and the first fire!” Piprin said. He jumped up, his arms swinging wildly through Argentus’s Dance of Fire.

  “Again? You’ve heard that myth so many times.” Meila sighed and rolled her eyes, but she sent Orleigh a conspiratorial wink. “All right then.”

  In the days of the first men, when the world was newly formed and the gods were still in their youth, there was a magical being known as Fire. Fire was an orange spirit who danced in devotion to the god Efrinon. So passionate were his movements that when he spun and twirled through his dance he gave off a brilliant light and blazing heat.

  The first men had never looked upon Fire nor seen him in his dance until the day that Efrinon left the Land of Gods and ventured into the Land of Mortals for the first time. It was written in the Script that Efrinon would deliver Fire to the heart of Mount Lema and that the orange spirit would dance upon the lake at the mountain’s core. When Efrinon stepped out of the Great Forest and began his journey through the borderlands, the first men were astounded by his magnificence and they lavished him with gifts so that they might witness his companion’s dance.

  At Efrinon’s request, Fire danced with more strength and beauty than he had ever done before. His feet threw off flames that dazzled the first men and kindled desire within their hearts. When Fire ceased his spinning, the borderlands grew dull and cold once more, but the desire that he had ignited still burned inside. The first men knew that if they ever wished to possess such warmth again, they must capture Fire.

  Argentus was a respected man, a leader amongst the first men. He too had felt the overwhelming love for Fire and wished to keep the spirit in the Land of Mortals, but when he overheard his fellow men conspiring to steal Fire from Efrinon, he knew that they must be stopped. Fire’s beauty came from his devotion to his master and though man might capture Fire and make him their prisoner, they would never see his dance again.

  On the night that the men planned to strike, Argentus went to Efrinon and warned him of their treachery. “My fellow men are bewitched by Fire,” Argentus told the god, “And they will not stop until they have him in their possession.”

  “But it is in the Script that I must deliver Fire to the heart of Mount Lema,” Efrinon protested. His face was torn between anger and panic.

  “Then you must leave at once!” Argentus insisted. “You must head to Mount Lema and do not rest until your part in the Script is complete.”

  Heeding Argentus’s advice, Efrinon and Fire immediately left the borderlands, setting out on the road that would carry them to Mount Lema. Efrinon was strong and fast and he was confident that he would not be caught by his pursuers, but it was his duty as a god to ensure that the will of the Creator was carried out and so he did not stop until he reached the shores of the lake within the mountain.

  Just as it was dictated in the Script, Efrinon set Fire down on the surface of the lake and the spirit began his dance. The dance was slow at first, the spirit performing graceful leaps across the water, but it built with time like a solo voice being joined by a choir. Fire twisted and turned through elegant pirouettes, each kick of the foot and flick of the hand sending sparks raining down upon the lake. The embers took hold and soon the lake was alive with flames.

  With his role in the Script complete, it was time for Efrinon to return to the Land of Gods with his faithful friend. Efrinon knew that he could not have completed the task without the help of Argentus and so he decided to bring the man a gift. He lit a torch from the flames on the lake and carried it with him back to the borderlands. There he found Argentus and presented him with the torch. “Please accept this gift as a token of my gratitude,” Efrinon said. “I wish for you to have the honour of bringing this warmth and light to your people.”

  Argentus was enthralled by the beauty of the flames. The way that they flickered and licked the air reminded him of Fire’s dance. “Thank you for this blessing,” Argentus said. “I shall call it ‘fire’ in honour of your friend.”

  Though the first men never saw Fire dance again, they were grateful for the blessing of the flames. Argentus had saved them from their own greed and had delivered them the loving warmth of fire. Every year, to remember his role in completing the Script, they celebrated Argentus in a twirling dance of flames that came to be known as Argentus’s Dance of Fire.

  Piprin’s brow furrowed, the way it did when something was troubling him, casting a shadow over his pale blue eyes. It was a look Orleigh often saw when he was lost in thought, puzzling out a solution.

  “The Script said that Efrinon would deliver Fire to Mount Lema. That was his fate,” Piprin said. “But what happens if fate goes wrong? What happens if the Script isn’t completed?”

  “Fate can’t go wrong: it’s fate!” Meila exclaimed.

  “But what if something happens that stops fate from following the Script?” Piprin asked.

  “Fate always finds a way of working itself out,” Meila said. She reached out, threading her fingers through Piprin’s messy crop of dark brown hair. “There’s no need to worry.”

  The pinch of Piprin’s frown did not lessen, though he asked no more questions. As they walked home together, Orleigh sought out his hand and Piprin offered her a flash of a smile in return, but he remained consumed by his silence.

  Chapter Five

  The children had set up a single table outside of the school. It was scattered with knots of bread and freshly fallen fruits, the display bulked up with sun-withered flowers and mottled branches. Meila arrived early and found herself amongst a clutch of other mothers who had come to see their children take part in the festivities.

  Terla wandered along the path towards them, her young son balanced on her hip. Meila caught her eye and waved, and Terla’s pace livened to a bustle.

  “Where are the twins?” Terla asked as she approached. Her voice was loud, attracting the attention of the mothers already gathered.

  “Helping their father,” Meila replied. She cast a glance towards the farm, but could not see the boys in the fields. “Pityr said that he would meet me here. It’s still a little early yet.”

  “That’s a poor sight.” Terla nodded towards the makeshift altar. She shifted her son on her hip. He was big for his age, a hungry boy just like the twins had been, the opposite to Piprin. “Remember when we were young? The tables would always be overflowing.”

  Meila nodded. “But times are different now,” she said.

  “Times are hard,” Terla agreed. She hesitated.

  Meila reached out to lay her hand on her friend’s arm. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Terla said, turning her eyes to the ground. “Well, it’s not nothing.” She paused and then let out a deep breath, the torrent of words flowing past her lips. “We’ve decided to move away from the village.”

  Meila withdrew her hand as if scalded. “You’re leaving? Why are you leaving?”

  “Times are hard,” Terla repeated. “We haven’t had a decent harvest in so long now, and I’ve got this little one to think about.” She bounced her son upon her hip.

  Meila swallowed, trying to ease the tightness in her chest but, like an incoming tide, it would not abate. “I understand,” she lied. “We’ll miss you.”

  “Mother!” The twins bowled their way through the growing crowd and threw their strength at Meila. They were covered in dirt and dust, but Meila wrapped them in her arms anyway. She squeezed them as tight as she could, so tight that they would never leave the village, but like eels they slipped free and pushed their way to the front of the gathering.

  The older children filed out of the school, led by Orleigh. Though they kept thei
r order, they were buzzing with excited smiles and quick whispers to their friends. Each child wore a crown of laurel and their hands were continually reaching up to stop the wreaths from slipping. Piprin was in the middle of the procession. He found Meila in the crowd and sent her a shy smile and half-wave. Her younger boys clamoured for their brother’s attention and Piprin offered them the same bashful greeting.

  The murmur of a single voice snaked through the crowd. “She shouldn’t be giving the offering, Ormoss should.”

  The villagers surrounding Meila turned their heads towards its direction, but the children were undisturbed, protected by their bubble of excitement.

  Meila looked around, her eyes narrowing as she studied the crowd, but she couldn’t see who had spoken. She returned her focus to the children, who were forming a line behind the altar in preparation for the offering.

  “It’s her fault that we have bad harvests.” A second voice disseminated its poison. “She shouldn’t be involved in the ceremony at all. She’s cursed.”

  Meila’s eyes jumped from one person to the next. Everyone was watching the children, all except Scorlan who stood at the edge of the gathering, set apart from the other villagers. He was scanning the crowd just as she did, in search of the same voice.

  Orleigh stepped forward. Her wild curls shimmered golden red in the sun, the flyaway strands framing her face with a glowing aura. The other girls wore their hair in neat plaits, scraped back and fastened with pins, but Orleigh’s hair, like Orleigh herself and her mother before her, was untameable.

  “Today we give thanks to Teymos, the mighty Earth God,” Orleigh proclaimed, “For the many blessings that he—” her smile faltered and she glanced over her shoulder. Piprin’s lips moved, his voice too hushed to reach the crowd. She faced the front again, her smile restored, her cheeks tinged pink. “—that he bestows upon our lands. We give him these offerings—” she opened her arms to the altar before her “—as a show of our gratitude and we pray for the health of the harvests to come.”