by Scott Hale
“No, wait.” Elizabeth pointed at the river. “See it?”
R’lyeh went ahead and searched for the spot she had picked out. There was a white strand coming off the surface of the Divide, and it connected with the woods on the shore. Seeing that, R’lyeh then saw other strands running off the Divide, into the trees. And the surface of the river was strange, too. It could’ve been frozen, but the water was still moving beneath whatever covered the surface.
“That’s not snow,” Elizabeth said.
“Those are spider webs.” Miranda twitched; something had just bolted through the woods ahead. “Son of a bitch. Those are Arachne webs. King Edgar has an army after all.”
CHAPTER XIV
Every time Aeson looked away from The Blood of Before, Vrana was there, waiting for him, blood-drenched and blood-drunk, Worm-enriched and Witch-transformed. Every time Aeson stopped deciphering the text, the flesh fiend was on him again, slamming her lust into his crotch and sopping up his seed. To escape the present, he had to slip into the past. There was no place for him here, in this dark forest, under this dim moon; he needed to be a ghost amongst ghosts, until this skin was his again.
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Aeson could tell Bjørn was trying to get his attention, but he ignored him. Up until this point, every entry after Adelyn’s that Aeson had read was by his father; this one, however, had been written by his mother. Discovering this was like discovering a small, forgotten wonder. It warmed him when nothing else could, and made him forget when nothing else would.
“We need to talk,” Bjørn said. He had gathered kindling into a pile, but not the courage to make a fire out of it.
Intended, Aeson thought. He took out his quill and parchment and wrote the alphabet vertically and horizontally, and then wrote it again and again, creating more rows and columns until he had a table. In the previous entry, which had detailed the efforts in Eld to increase fertility amongst the Night Terrors, portions of it had been written in someone else’s scrawl—his mother’s. Together, the portions formed the word ‘intended.’ He hadn’t spotted it at first, and had spent the last hour trying different decrypting measures as a result.
“It’s a Vigenere Cipher,” Aeson told Bjørn.
Bjørn sighed and buried his face in his hands.
“Across the top—” he flashed the table at him, “—is the Key letter row. Intended is the Key. This first column going up and down is the Plaintext, or, you know, what’s written in the book. In the middle, you have to repeat the alphabet over and over again. So A, B, C… and then below that B, C, D… and then you start over if you need to.”
Bjørn grumbled. “Just stop for—”
“You match the Key letter row with the Plaintext column and the letter they meet at in the table is the actual text.” Aeson nodded, smiled. He started scribbling his decryption. “Make sense?”
Bjørn didn’t say if it did or didn’t. And that was fine. After a few minutes, it didn’t matter, because Aeson had what he wanted.
He read: “The secret laboratory has finally been breached in the basement of Ødegaard's hospital. One hundred homunculi were found inside. Most of them were still connected to the Mokita machines. Five of the scouts were killed waking the creatures. The homunculi refused to leave the hospital because they were ‘disappointed in what we have become.’
“See, it’s hard to keep track of these events because the Archivists didn’t date the entries,” Aeson said. In a phantom flash, he felt the flesh fiend’s run-off on his thighs. “So—” he choked, “—I don’t know where this one fits, but—” and then he shook, “it’s right before the entry about Eld and the fertility project.”
Something howled in the woods. Something panicked in the trees. The dark lifted for a moment to the illuminating chemicals of dread. Aeson dropped the parchment, dropped the book; he grabbed his sword and stabbed the air, the image of the flesh fiend having just been there.
Bjørn stared at him from across the dead bonfire. They had run south for hours out of the Dismal Sticks; if something were hunting them, it would have hunted them already. It had to have been three or four in the morning; besides the moon, the only company they kept were the demons their minds kept propping up in all the shadows and trees.
“Homunculi,” Bjørn started. He waited until he had Aeson’s attention and then: “What are they?”
I know what you’re doing.
Aeson let go of the sword, and it clanged against the ground. His eyes tightened as his mind narrowed in on the image of Vrana—his girlfriend, his best friend—mutated and mutilated. Would it have been easier if the Witch had changed her completely? If there had been nothing left to recognize, he could have lied to himself; he could have convinced himself it wasn’t her, or that she was dead. The mask… her neck… the way she stood, so full of herself, even when she was full of someone else. But it was the eyes that got to Aeson now. He had seen those eyes almost every day of his life, in every state of happiness and hurt. He would know them anywhere, despite any masks that might cover them, or deeds that might darken them.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Snot running down the back of his throat, he muttered, “They’re from the Old World, before the Trauma.”
He stopped; his words were wavering, and so was his strength. Even when he wasn’t thinking about Vrana, he was thinking about Vrana; she was in his cells, in his subconscious—everywhere but in his arms.
Bjørn leaned forward. “Aeson?”
“Frederick Ødegaard is credited with discovering the homunculi, or creating them. The sources are contradictory.”
Aeson smelled the musky heat of the female flesh fiend, and recoiled.
“They showed up about the same time the s-stories of the… flesh fiends did.” He clenched his teeth. “Ødegaard is sometimes c-credited with discovering them, too.”
Bjørn mumbled something that sounded like, “Screw it,” and put his hands into the kindling. He started chipping at the starters he’d brought from Caldera, until, at last, a tiny flame was born in that dry, dead nest. “What the elders want the homunculi for?” he finally asked.
“They outlived the Trauma. They weren’t supernatural, like a lot of the things that came out of it, but things made from science.”
Aeson scooted closer to the fire; tiny ropes of orange and red shot through the kindling, creating smoke and heat where they went. Warmth and light grew out of the heart of the nest, and although it would attract attention, right now, even though Aeson’s nerves said otherwise, it was worth it.
“The Blood of Before isn’t an exact history. It’s backwards. I have to read it from present to past to be able to break the ciphers. There’s no reference to the previous entries, either, other than the hidden codes to crack them.” Aeson saw the female flesh fiend at the corners of his eyes; he blinked her away. “It’s like… our people are reluctant to write their history, so they only do the bare minimum. I think it was the homunculi who tried to tell us how to reproduce better.”
A giant flame ripped through the kindling, setting the entire thing ablaze. Satisfied, Bjørn fell back on his hands and said, “Homunculi were disappointed. In us, or themselves?”
Aeson shrugged. “I… I don’t know.”
“Stories say the Night Terrors were much more violent and savage back in the day. Seems a strange thing to be disappointed about.” Bjørn reached for one of his bags and took out a piece of dried meat. “I know you’re disappointed in Vrana.”
“Man, I… I can’t… talk about that—”
“You stood here not an hour ago talking about Death and getting help from It. You need to talk.” Suddenly, across the fire, Bjørn’s massive frame seemed so m
uch smaller, like that of a wild animal who had finally given in to a trap. Reluctantly, he muttered, “I need to, too.”
The fire shivered embers into the cold night air. Throughout the woods, boughs creaked and branches broke, and the smallest, weakest things spoke in the loudest, most desperate voices. The wind kicked up, casting rattling waves across the crumpled canopy. Those that couldn’t bear the change broke off and fell to the ground. And it was there they lay and decayed, in the faded grass, atop the hardened soil, waiting to be reduced, and dreaming of rebirth. It was the season of dying.
Aeson twitched; he could feel the silence between him and Bjørn reaching its crest. Soon, it would break, and he would break, too. I don’t want to talk about it, he said. You didn’t see what it… did to me. He stared at Bjørn blankly, as if the Bear could hear the conversation going on inside his head.
Vrana is a monster. He rolled his eyes, clenched them shut. His throat filled with saliva and sorrow.
She is a monster, he told himself, now whimpering. She’s gone.
His teeth started to chatter as memory after memory of her hit him like a fist. He remembered the first time he had met her—it had been outside the garden of the elders, and Blix had crapped on her head—and the first time he had made love to her—in her room, the night before she left for Geharra; two minutes of action, forty minutes of warm sighs and comfortable silence. He remembered their future and saw that it had passed. He had wanted more than he had told her, and felt more than he had shown her. Marriage, children; warm sighs and comfortable silence; kisses that didn’t mark departures like death sentences. He had wanted to himself, and to himself he now wanted.
“Seeing her like that tore me to pieces,” Bjørn said, shivering in the fire’s heat. “I swear to god, if you hadn’t been there, I would’ve got myself killed.”
“We shouldn’t have run,” Aeson whispered. “You ran because of me.”
“I ran because we aren’t any help to her dead.”
Aeson’s mouth was so full of spit he had to spit, but he swallowed it, instead. He knew what he looked like to Bjørn right now. He looked exactly like any Archivist would.
“I’m sorry,” Bjørn said.
Aeson knew what was coming; apologies were apocalyptic in situations like these. He grabbed his sword and reached for his mask. No, he wasn’t ready—
“I didn’t realize what the flesh fiend was doing to you ‘til it was too late.”
Aeson stopped; the sword fell first, and then his head. He felt hands on his legs, hands on his wrists, and again, he was crumpled and reduced, in the faded grass, on the hardened ground.
“I’m no good at this kind of thing.”
Aeson snapped. “That would be a first, wouldn’t it?” He hurried to his feet. “You made me d-do this. You g-guilted me into this. Why didn’t you take someone else?” He kicked dirt and leaves at Bjørn, but the fire caught them midway.
“You’re scared.”
“Fuck you.”
“I brought you because—”
“Fuck you.” Aeson picked up his mask and, holding it against his chest, said, “She’s gone. And I’m not—” he dropped the mask as he tasted the female flesh fiend. “Fuck. Fuck!”
“She will still love you,” Bjørn said.
Aeson stared at the Bear, his face not far from a snarl. The blood pumping in his ears was making it hard to hear anything, anymore.
“She still loves you.” Bjørn rose to his feet, now much larger than he had been before. “She tore the flesh fiend apart, not you.”
“I—” Aeson grabbed his chest, “—I… what the hell can I do?” He threw back his head, covered his face with his hands. “I can’t stop seeing it. I can’t stop seeing her. Every… fucking day… everything… it’s always been out of my control.” His face was tight, twisted—misery-chiseled. “I haven’t even… cleaned it off.” He laughed, coughed up phlegm, and dropped his mask. “Vrana saw everything. I was supposed to save her. Instead, she saved me. And then I fucking ran. I’m pathetic.”
“Then what’re you doing here?”
“Don’t, Bjørn. I’m only here because of you. Alright?”
“All of us are somewhere because of someone.” Bjørn stepped closer to him. “You don’t go through shit like this alone.”
“That means a lot coming from you.”
Bjørn chewed on his lip. Twigs and branches snapped inside the fire; it caved in, but even then, there was still some life to it.
“I don’t know why I thought I could be different,” Aeson said. He exhaled slowly and looked around the woods. “I don’t know what to do.” Crying, shaking, he pleaded, “I don’t know what to do. I just want her back. I’m so fucking scared.” He dropped to his knees. “I’m so fucking stupid.” And punched the ground. “What they’ve done to her…” He glanced at Bjørn, trembling. “Vrana… I can’t… I can’t…”
“I brought you, Aeson, because I knew you would do anything to get her back, and you’d stop me if I went too far.” Heavy tears were pouring out of Bjørn’s eyes. “I never meant for this to happen to you. I thought we could suffer through this together. It didn’t seem right bringing anyone else. I will… never forgive myself for what happened to you, but I am… glad you are here. You saved me on the lake. I will kill myself every day for not… saving you. Always… too late with you.”
Aeson lifted his head. Sniffling, he said, “Too late? What… what are you t-talking about?”
Bjørn stepped closer to Aeson until he was near enough to touch him, and then didn’t. Instead, he sat beside him and focused his attention on the heart of the fire, where the dead gave life when they had none of their own.
“I met Death once,” he started. “The story is true. I met Death once at midnight, on an empty road, on my way home to Caldera. I was thirty years old, and I haven’t celebrated a birthday since.
“After I killed Quentin on Lacuna, Adelyn, Mara, and I left with Vrana. We stopped at Traesk on the way. Adelyn wasn’t doing good. Quentin’s death and giving birth to Vrana… it was too much for her. We were going to stay, wait until she got better, but then Anguis sent a letter, demanding we bring Vrana to Caldera immediately. He wanted to see her, start going to work on her. She was their very own Child of Lacuna. He was… excited.” Bjørn spit in the fire. “He made threats, and Adelyn got scared. She didn’t want to take any more risks. She didn’t want to lose Vrana, too. So she asked me to take Vrana to Caldera, while Mara helped her get better.
“I love Adelyn. That’s no surprise to no one. And when she asked me to take little Vrana home, I knew she loved me, too. Maybe not in the way I wanted, but it was a better way.
“We left Traesk the next day. I took the long way, the safe way. I changed her and fed her every chance I could get, because I wasn’t taking no chances. She was perfect, Aeson. Fat, quiet little thing. Wouldn’t have known she was there if not for the stink of her drawers. For all my boasting and battles, I’ve never felt more like a man than when I had her in my arms, and she had me wrapped around her damn tiny, fat, pink finger.”
Bjørn cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “We were outside Nachtla—this was before it was completely abandoned—and I got a bad feeling. Too much movement in the forest. Too many Corrupted nearby. I bundled up Vrana and broke down camp and started for home. I took the back roads. Didn’t see a soul. Moon was bright; the light was good. And then there was Death, standing in the middle of the road, waiting for us.
“A man knows some things. It’s instinctual, primal. I saw Death, and knew It was Death. Everything inside me sank. Would’ve lost hope, too, I have no doubt in my mind. But I had Vrana. I had to be better for her. Something so new doesn’t know what it’s like to end.
“I kept walking down that back road. I held Vrana as tight as I could and kept at it. I walked straight at Death. Either It was going to take us both, or It was going to get out of the way. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t feeling. It was instinctual, primal. Death i
s my god, but even god needs to know when it’s time to give. So I walked straight at Death, and when we were about to touch, Death stepped aside.
“I don’t know why It did, and I didn’t stop to ask. I didn’t stop at all. I walked for hours, in shock, and then I ran for days, in relief. I never stopped moving, not until we were home, in Caldera, and Death was days behind us.
“After a while, I got stupid again. I got jealous and selfish and did a shitload of self-loathing. I told my story about Death. Left Vrana out of it, of course. Did it, I think, to taunt Death. To see if It would change Its mind. You see Death enough, you start to miss It.”
“Does anyone else know?” Aeson asked, his lips chapped and raw.
“Just Death.” Bjørn sighed and shook his head. “I hate to lay this on you now, but I got to.”
Aeson shifted uncomfortably. “W-what?”
“I stopped telling that story when you were six. When your parents killed themselves. When they tried to take you with them.”
“What!” Aeson’s eyes went wide and he grabbed Bjørn by the shirt. “What the hell are you—”
“Didn’t know why they did it until tonight at Gloom when you read that book to me. Now it makes sense.”
Aeson sat there in silence, hanging on his every word.
“I found your mother and father hanging from that tree. You know that. I cut them down. You were up there, too. Hanging. Choking. They hadn’t tied your rope right. And you were hanging onto them, trying to stay alive.
“I cut you down before anyone else saw and hid you in my shack. Then I went back for your parents and cut them down, too. By that point, the village had heard what was going on.”
“My d-dad’s last entry in the book was about the Ossuary and how there was something in it and—”
“They knew what was coming,” Bjørn said, “and they didn’t want you to have to go through it. No one really knew your parents well. They were recluses because of their position. They were just… trying to save you the only way they knew how.”
