by J. J. Faulks
The field was divided into four neat sections by two diagonal paths of earth and gravel that intersected at the centre. From this central point soared a torch post that loomed over the field. The hefty wooden base was embedded deep in the ground, and from it projected a thick pole studded with metal spikes that spiralled round, forming footholds. Atop the pole sat two perpendicular planks, aligned to form a cross, with metal globes stuffed with kindling hanging from the ends of each plank. The four torches were always lit.
The handcart in which Orleigh slept, still concealed from view by a musty blanket, trundled along towards the corner of the field and onto the gravelly path. As Scorlan approached the torch post, a lightness lifted through his chest and shoulders. He had made it!
Halfway up the torch post, bare feet balanced on the protruding metal spikes as he hung precariously from the structure, was a young boy. Skinny, disheveled and towheaded, he looked little older than Orleigh.
The boy scrambled down the pole and, stepping towards Scorlan, he held his palm aloft in an open wave. “Welcome!” His skin was grubby from the dirt and sun, as though he had seen neither soap nor shade since his birth.
Scorlan set the handcart down at the base of the torch post. He rubbed his hands, slick with sweat and ridged with blisters from gripping the wooden handles.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I look after the lanterns,” the boy told him, gesturing to the four burning spheres. He spoke with a quick voice, as if his mouth couldn’t release the words fast enough. “It’s my job to keep them alight.” Constantly fidgeting, his shoulders shrugged, his hands waved, and he bounced from foot to foot. “I look after the border too. I warn visitors not to cross over into the Land of Gods.”
A shadow eclipsed the boy and the torrent of words hit a dam. Trancelike, his frantic movements ceased and his pale blue eyes bore into Scorlan. “You mustn’t cross the border.”
A chill shivered through Scorlan and he shrank back from the boy’s gaze. The life had drained from the child’s eyes, leaving them as desolate as those of the dead.
“You mustn’t cross the border,” the boy warned again, only his lips moving. “It’s for your own good.”
Like a mighty tree with roots tunnelling deep into the ground, Scorlan found himself unable to move. He could not take a single step. It was for his own good, a voice echoed in his mind, for there were diabolical creatures living in the forest just beyond the borderland and they feasted on the flesh of mortals like himself.
The warmth returned to the boy’s eyes and he was on the move again. “What brings you to the border?” he asked. “People don’t often come here. They might pass by the field, but they don’t come to the border itself.”
Scorlan glanced into the handcart at the blanket that covered Orleigh. “I’ve come to deliver a gift to Teymos,” he said.
“I could look after the gift for you, if you like,” the boy offered. His eyes followed Scorlan’s to the handcart, brightening with an inquisitive glimmer. “I’m good at looking after things.”
“No!” Scorlan snapped, adding after a hesitation, “No, thank you. It’s an important gift and I’m happy to wait.” He forced a smile so unnatural that it made his cheeks ache. Staring over the top of the boy’s head into the Land of Gods, he looked for any sign of Teymos’s arrival. There was only a single dose of the potion remaining and he needed to hand Orleigh over before she awoke.
The Great Forest abutted on the far end of the field. Its trees soared up towards the clouds, and they were packed like soldiers in close order formation. Little light penetrated the forest; all that could be seen beyond the outermost rank of trees was a shroud of black.
The forest began to move. At first there was no more than the swaying of treetops in the distance, but as it neared, the movement gathered momentum. The trees parted and bowed towards the centre, lowering their heads in respect. The wave of motion rippled closer and closer to the borderland. Scorlan’s breath stilled in anticipation.
Teymos emerged from the forest. Tall, athletic and handsome, he was godlike in every way, the image of power and strength. His long, golden hair glimmered like a halo in the sunlight. As he strode across the grass, the flowers curtsied at his feet.
Teymos lifted the blanket from atop Orleigh and scooped the girl up into his arms. He cradled the sleeping child as though she were a newborn who needed protecting from the world. Without a word to Scorlan and with only a nod to the boy, he turned and retreated into the forest. The trees bowed and swayed just as before, until the Great Forest fell quiet.
Scorlan’s mouth was dry and his head was foggy. All of the things he could have said to Teymos rushed back to him, but it was too late, in the moment his tongue had deserted him. Even the boy, a fountain of words, had found his voice quelled.
A tug on his sleeve hauled Scorlan back to the present. He recoiled before he had time to register the boy’s grubby hand against his arm. Dusting off his sleeve, he looked down at the child with a sneer.
“CanIkeepthehandcart?” The flood of words melded together so that Scorlan could not understand what the boy had said. The boy repeated himself, but slowly this time, exaggeratedly so. “Can…I…keep…the…hand…cart?”
Scorlan frowned and then shrugged. “Fine. I don’t need it anymore anyway.”
The boy’s face lit up and he seized the handcart before Scorlan could change his mind.
Scorlan took one last glance at the Great Forest, and then he turned to walk away. At the edge of the field, he stopped to pat his pockets down. He patted them down again, frantically this time, then shoved his hands deep inside. The vial containing the last dregs of potion had gone.
“Good thing I don’t need that anymore either,” he muttered to himself and let out a nervous chuckle as he stepped onto the path that would lead him home.
Piprin was in his bed, pretending to be asleep, when his father returned home. His eyes were shut, his breathing purposefully shallow, but his mind was racing. It would not quieten until he had heard news of Orleigh’s rescue.
Outside the door, his parents were talking. They had lowered their voices to little more than whispers, but they were loud enough that he could still hear every word.
“We didn’t get there in time,” his father said. “By the time we caught up with Scorlan, Orleigh was already gone.”
Piprin’s eyes flickered open and his grip on the blanket tightened.
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” his mother asked.
“He said that Orleigh was cursed, he said that she had to be sacrificed in order to save the village, he said that it was for the greater good.”
Piprin screwed his eyes shut. It was just a nightmare, he would wake up soon and it would all have been nothing more than a bad dream. Tears leaked through, running over the bridge of his nose and sinking into the pillow.
“What do we do?” his mother asked.
“What can we do?” his father said. “What’s done is done. She’s not coming back.” He paused. “You’d better tell the boy. The sooner he understands, the better.”
The following morning, Piprin’s mother came in early to break the news. Her eyes were puffy and red, and she wore a watery smile that quivered so much that it looked as though it would collapse.
“Piprin,” she said and sat down on the edge of his bed. She stroked his hair back from his face. He flinched. “I need to tell you a story. It’s about the Afterworld. It’s about what happens when people pass on from the world of the living.”
The numbing chasm in Piprin’s stomach yawned. “I don’t want to hear that story,” he whispered. “I want to hear the story of how the gods and the Guardians defeated the Hunters once and for all.”
“Another day, sweetheart. Today you need to hear this story.”
Piprin pulled the blanket over his head and when his mother teased it back down,
he clutched his hands to his ears. The words snaked their way between his fingers and released their venom. His friend—his protector—had gone, taking with her all hope of escape.
All mortals are bound by a common thread. They are all fated to die. Some enjoy long lives, and they live to see the threads that made them be passed on to their children and to their children’s children. Some expend no more than a single breath. Whether their threads are destined to stretch across the years, like a boat sailing towards the horizon, or to blossom in one beautiful burst, like a seed pod exploding, all mortals are fated to die.
The Creator made the Afterworld as a home for those whose time has elapsed. It is a place of peace and beauty, it is a place of opportunity and hope. When a person dies, the threads of her soul relax and unravel. These threads are caught by a spirit guide who summons her to the Afterworld. In the Afterworld, she takes the threads that she was born with and the lessons that she learnt in her life and she weaves herself anew.
Once in the Afterworld, a person cannot return to the realm of the living, but her presence can still be felt. Throughout her life, long or short, the threads of her soul intertwined with the threads of others. The friendships and memories that she wove will always remain, so long as the living tend to them.
Chapter Fourteen
The Seer nudged the miniature sunflower one final step, taking it across the border from the Land of Mortals into the Land of Gods. He scooped up the porcupine, but a brief companion to the sunflower, and placed it on the shelf that was cut into the base of the stone plinth. It joined the hoard of other figurines that waited to resume their parts in his machinations.
Everything was as it should be. One look in the mirror pool would tell him if his job was done, whether fate had been restored, and if he could claim his reward.
“The Sanctuary,” he whispered to himself.
The staircase wound down through the core of the mountain and then rose in a sharp ascent that delivered him to the water cave. He ran his fingers over the flasks and vials of potion that were clustered on the rack. Passing over the indigo poison, no longer of use to him, he plucked a different vial. The potion contained within was a lush green, the same colour as a spring meadow, vibrant and fecund. Just a few drops of this potion would undo the damage inflicted on the village over the last seven years, though Scorlan would not be welcomed back to witness the benefits of his sacrifice.
It was for the greater good.
Part Two
Ten Years Later
Chapter Fifteen
Piprin took refuge in the shade of the old oak tree. He remembered sitting in the same spot as a child, listening with the others as his mother regaled them with myths. The swing, its wooden seat now split and rotting, swayed in the breeze. He saw a flash of a smile and a smattering of freckles adorned with a burnished gold crown. Orleigh. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure up her complete image, but these glimpses were all his memory could muster, everything else was reduced to a blur. He scowled, screwing his eyes even tighter shut, but the image slipped away.
From his roost amongst the knotted roots he could see his two younger brothers loading up the cart and securing the horse. Dread wrung his stomach like his mother wrung out the washing.
“I thought I might find you here.” His mother greeted him with a sympathetic smile, and she took a seat next to him. If she found the perch uncomfortable, she didn’t let it show. “Are you ready to go? Best not keep your father waiting. Hmm?”
Avoiding her eyes, he looked at the ground and he scuffed his heel in the twigs and dirt. He wanted to protest, to beg her to let him stay on the farm and to send his brothers with their father instead. The words were there, dancing on his tongue, ready to plead his case, but he pursed his lips and held them firmly within the cage of his teeth. How childish he would sound if he voiced those words aloud! Besides, it was not a battle that he could win.
“I know that you don’t like going on trips with your father.” She rested her hand on his shoulder, her fingers curling in a reassuring squeeze. “But I need you to go…please?”
He nodded, his dark hair falling across his light blue eyes. Of course he would go; he always did. “It’s just…” he began, but promptly trailed off. The well of words inside him dried up every time that he opened his mouth.
“Go on,” she urged.
“It’s just, I know that Father would rather take them—"
His eyes flashed up to the twins who had almost finished loading the cart, “—He’s always saying how much stronger they are and how he wishes I would be more like them. He thinks that I’m useless.” He balled his hands into fists.
“You are not useless!” she told him, her grip on his shoulder tightening.
“Yes, I am!” he bit back. His usually soft voice was replaced with one much stronger, more defiant. “I can barely lift half the weight that either of them can carry!”
“Physical strength isn’t everything, Piprin,” she reminded him. She paused for a moment, her lips pursing the way that they did when she was deep in thought. It was the same expression that graced her every time she rifled through her catalogue of stories, searching for a suitable myth. “Remember the tale of the little water nymph and the mighty storm?”
He gave a noncommittal shrug, hiding once more beneath his mess of hair. He remembered the story; he had memorised every myth she had ever told him. It did not matter though, for she would tell him again anyway.
One by one the waterlilies opened, and out of the petals emerged the newborn water nymphs. They rejoiced to see their siblings and they set about exploring their home on the lake. However, one of the waterlilies was trapped in the shade of the the old willow tree. This flower was smaller than the rest, and when its petals burst open, the water nymph that climbed out was small too. She was tiny compared to her siblings, and weak. Whilst the other water nymphs jumped easily between the lily pads, the little water nymph struggled. The other water nymphs teased her for being so small, and they laughed when her leaps landed short of the lily pads and she fell into the water.
The little water nymph was sad. She felt that she did not belong, and so she decided to leave the lake and her siblings. On the night that she set out, a mighty storm was stirring. The rain began to lash down, and the lightning lit up the sky. On the howling wind, the little water nymph heard the frantic cries of her siblings. She ran back to the lake and looked out across the water. The other water nymphs were in trouble. They were trapped on the lily pads in the middle of the lake. The water was swirling and sloshing all around them, and the lily pads were beginning to sink. Her siblings cried out for help.
The little water nymph might have been small, but she was courageous and quick-thinking. Without hesitation, she boarded the nearest lily pad and using twigs for oars, she rowed across the lake towards her siblings. She welcomed the other water nymphs aboard the lily pad, and she carried them back to shore and safety. All the water nymphs were saved!
The little water nymph never grew to be as big or strong as her siblings, but that no longer mattered for everyone knew the strength that was in her heart.
“You are not useless, Piprin,” his mother repeated. “You just need to give yourself a chance to grow. Trust in the gods and you will find your way.”
“I know,” Piprin said. Despite his mother’s efforts, the heaviness in his heart refused to lift. “I wish that I fitted in now though. I wish that I was more like the twins…or that it was all right for me to be like me.”
“And I wish that I could make things easier for you.” She offered him a sad smile, one that echoed his pain. “One day things will be better. I promise.”
He turned to his mother, trying to smile, but his lips would not budge beyond a straight line. “Just not today?”
“It’s hard, I know,” she agreed. “But you are our eldest son. Your father won’t admit it, but he is getting ol
d and tired. We need you to take over the farm. When your brothers reach maturity, things might be different. You might choose to hand the responsibility to them, or by then you might see that strength isn’t the only quality of value. You are kind and caring, dutiful and inventive. Don’t underestimate these qualities. They are just as valuable, if not more valuable, than strength.”
Her praise passed over him as if meant for someone else.
“Think of your favourite heroes,” she persisted. “Not all of them were strong. Each of them was heroic in his own way.” She urged him on with a nudge. “What about Kastas? What was his strength?”
Reluctantly, Piprin answered, “Wisdom.”
“And Mitros?”
A little quicker this time, he answered, “Courage.”
“What about Theleon?”
A true smile finally broke through as he replied, “Perseverance. I get the point.” Not all of the heroes in his favourite myths were strong, but he held all of them in high regard and aspired to be like them. “Strength isn’t everything…even if Father thinks it is.”
His mother laughed and mussed his hair. “You have been blessed by the gods in many ways, Piprin. Focus on what you are, not on what you are not, and be grateful for your blessings. Look at your father—his strength has withered away with age. But your kindness, your determination, your good heart…those things will never fade.”
“Piprin!”
His father’s shout stretched out across the field, beckoning Piprin back to the farm. The cart was laden with crates of fresh produce, and the horse was cloffing its hoof against the ground in anticipation.
