Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Damasio interrupted his thoughts. “Does that smile mean that you accept?”

  “Yes, I do. Thank you, my pontiff. I’m very grateful for this opportunity.”

  “Argbralius, it seems that you’re happy about going to San San-Tera. Do you understand that it’s a dangerous place? It’s destroyed, and your work will be extremely demanding.”

  “I understand completely. I’m grateful for the second chance the Perfect Pontiff and all of you, my instructors, have granted me. With no parents, no family, and no… friends, I feel that religion is all I have left. I’ll be a faithful sacristan who’ll do everything possible to restore life to that village.

  “And in any case, ever since I heard that story, I’ve been intrigued, and I’d like to see those lands and their people.”

  “Good, then we’re agreed,” said Damasio. He was intrigued. The fact that the young man was happy to go to San San-Tera made him uneasy. “You’ll start tomorrow at dawn. It’ll be an intense, tough month. Remember that afterward, you won’t have either a celebration or honors. You’ll leave, that’s all.”

  Argbralius’ face shadowed. Nobody would know of his departure.

  “Follow me,” Damasio said. They went along a corridor to a small alcove, not much more than a cupboard.

  “This’ll be your room. You’ll wake every day at five in the morning to prepare that oratory.” Damasio indicated the opposite corner of the alcove. “You’ll also prepare the morning mass and pray for all sinners. After an hour, you’ll make breakfast for me. I like fresh fruit, so you’ll have to go down to the garden. Once a week, you’ll go to the central market of the Décamon Mayutorum to buy cured meat for my lunch.

  “At seven in the morning, you’ll start on your books. Three hours without stopping, a recess of ten minutes, and then another three hours’ study. You’ll have an hour for lunch, in which you’ll have to cook for you and me.

  “Then three hours’ study, a ten-minute break, and two more hours at your books. At the end of the day, you’ll go to the Regolen Garden, where you’ll be given instructions about the Emanating Rose. After that, you’ll come back here to study for three more hours and practice the Conjuring Arts, particularly the spell of the Emanating Rose.

  “Until you’ve charmed one rose every night, you won’t be able to retire to bed. And so every day until the month is over. Is that clear?”

  Argbralius was left staring at that cubicle, which Damasio had improvised quickly to make it into something like a bedroom.

  Here, he would spend thirty days without his friends, laughter, or amusements. He felt like crying, but he controlled himself. He had to appear strong before Damasio. How much he missed his old room and his roommates.

  He smiled. “I understand, my pontiff,” he managed to say.

  “Whatever you need is yours. You can take whatever you want as long as you put it back. Good night, Argbralius. May the Gods be with you.”

  When Damasio left him alone, the young man put his few belongings on the floor. He sat on the wooden board covered with dry hay, which would be his bed from now on. He opened his satchel and took out the book Orolio had given him in exchange for a heap of tobacco and went on reading with infinite dedication.

  ***

  That night, Argbralius could not sleep. Damasio’s words echoed in his head not as something special for a special pupil but rather as a disgrace for a disgraced being who had been allowed a chance out of favoritism. He felt utterly hopeless.

  Life had separated him from his mother, his godfather, and now, his friends. He remembered Délegas, his old rival, who had revealed himself to be a companion he could confide in. He took comfort, thinking that Délegas’ situation was worse because he had been forced to study and could not escape.

  He also remembered the attackers. It was he, and nobody else, that had stopped them with the power of his mind. He had connected with that black seed he carried in his soul, and once again had controlled the elements. Will I be able to use that gift when I choose someday? the boy asked himself, feeling a sweet tingle.

  He could already see himself acclaimed as a great hero, a savior, a maker of good fortune. It would be on a grand scale. He would defeat the enemies of the Empire and bring peace. Argbralius the Great.

  The boy went on threading together those dreams of prosperity as, little by little, he fell asleep.

  He dreamed. And among those dreams of glory, other, less pleasant ones filtered in. He dreamed he was on fertile land—the garden of his soul—planted with white, pink, and blue flowers, all radiant.

  He felt happy in this little garden of his soul. But inside that earth was a black seed. He was aware that it could only produce sinister forces, but also that this same evil had saved his mother from Trumbar and his fellow pupils from the bandits. He knew, too, that someday this seed would blossom openly.

  Argbralius began to dig in the fertile soil of his soul, careful not to spoil the beautiful flowers, so he could find the evil seed. He could not find it. Then, he came across a very different plant. Within a little creeper, there was a twisted tree-trunk. It rose out of a deep black hole, twisting like the slithering of a snake. The seed had to be there.

  He bent over to examine the hole better and saw it. It was down at the bottom, surrounded by a faint reddish light. He felt the impulse to dig, to pull out the twisted trunk, to take out the seed and destroy it. He took a spade from nowhere and got down to the task eagerly.

  He unearthed the twisted trunk and went on taking out soil until he reached the seed. He took it in his fingers and was surprised by its weight, which was greater than he had imagined. It had neither scent nor texture. It only emitted red light and dark power.

  Within the black seed was a memory that began to unravel. It was a great black shadow that fixed its attention on the boy. Argbralius watched this in awe and, at the same time, filled with curiosity. If he was a mere spectator, nothing could harm him. He went closer.

  “Who are you?” asked the being of dark energy.

  “I—I don’t know who I am. Yes, I do! I’m an abused child, and I want to kill my father. I can’t stand being in my house any longer. My mommy suffers because my daddy is a demon.”

  “Interesting,” the being replied in a cavernous voice. “I might be able to help you a little. Here.”

  A finger penetrated his mind, his soul. Something had been deposited inside.

  “Whenever you need to respond to violence, resort to the seed of black energy I have implanted in you,” the being said. “If you wish to do so, you can make it germinate. If you learn to handle it, we might be able to work together.”

  At that moment, Argbralius could not have known that the God of Chaos was about to lose a war he had started against the other gods for the power of the universe. The war had taken place eons ago, but the malevolent god was somehow bridging the gap between past and future in the dimension of dreams.

  A part of Argbralius’ soul wanted to get rid of the seed, but he could not forget that it had been his savior on other occasions. He put it back into the hole and covered it delicately with earth, wishing to see it sprout, develop and ripen.

  ***

  The following day, he woke up diligently at five in the morning with the rooster’s crow, as he had been told.

  He began to prepare the small oratory, forgoing his personal hygiene, which would only delay him in his tasks.

  He placed the Book of Life open for the mass and the day’s reading, made the appropriate arrangements, and prayed for the sinners, deserters, traitors, murderers, rapists, the violence in the world, and the evils that innocent people suffer.

  When he had finished, he cut fresh fruit for Damasio and put it in a bowl. He began to wonder whether he could have breakfast himself and decided to fast until Damasio told him otherwise. From there, he went to the stable and asked a soldier to take him to the Regolen Garden to meet with the ones who would teach him to cut an Emanating Rose to charm it afterward.

&nbs
p; Chapter XXXI – Breezes

  Luckily, Alac remembered the labyrinth of Kanumorsus, which he had already visited as Manchego. Since then, he had not seen Luchy or Lulita, and the yearning to see them again clutched his heart. Now, walking through those tunnels more confidently than in those days, he was able to admire the perfect structure of the walls.

  It was here, Alac thought in recognition when he reached one particular point in the labyrinth. Here’s where I was born, where my mother was murdered. It was here that Eromes found me when I was newly born and where those beautiful evil beings, the dethis, finished off the mercenaries.

  It was here, Teitú. It was here we found Ramancia when she gave me the potion to heal my wounds. Those loathsome beings, those evil ones, already had access to Kanumorsus even then.

  Could they know about the existence of the Interim, the dimension between the living and the dead? Could they know about the portals to other worlds? Do you remember the Grim Shepherd Feliel? That loathsome creature said there were more like him in Némaldon. Do you remember? Alac was visibly affected. His emotions were reflected in Teitú, who was glimmering with a melancholy purple light.

  I, too, was born here, Alac.

  My dear Teitú, that’s right. You were born here too. We share so much…

  We’re close to the exit. I can feel the outside air.

  Alac did not feel anything, but he trusted the talents of the Naevas Aedán. It makes me nervous, Teitú, to go back to the village where I grew up and see it destroyed. I feel like crying. The thought of finding my home in ruins makes me anxious. What will have happened to Lulita? To Luchy? I miss them so much! The farms, the estate of my—the family of my savior Eromes, the Holy Comment… so many memories! Oh, how my heart grieves!

  Alac broke down. He knelt on the ground and stayed like that for a while, his wings folded closely around him. I can’t get used to so much suffering. I know it’s inevitable; ever since I was born, I’ve been suffering. But I have to pull myself together.

  Don’t go over it again and again, Alac. You’ll suffer even more.

  Stop protecting me! I’m grateful for the comfort, but—hell! You have to let me grieve every once in a while, Teitú.

  The Naevas Aedán warrior turned a deep blue. Alac realized he had offended him. It was the first time they had ever argued.

  “Forgive me!” Alac apologized out loud, testing his vocal cords, which he had not used in a long time. “I didn’t want to make you feel bad. Will you forgive me?”

  Teitú’s color changed to a pure white. Of course, I do. I’m your faithful follower, your protector at every moment. I understand that sometimes, a person can feel overwhelmed by life. If one day it should happen to me, I hope you’ll be equally patient and that you’ll listen to me.

  “Of course.” Alac was feeling more comfortable testing his voice, with the walls of the tunnel returning deeper echoes than he had remembered. They left the cavern following Teitú’s intuition.

  Outside, it was night. He could make out the Marsemayo volcano in the distance. He was glad to see it again and to be, once again, in this landscape, which for so many years had been his home. How many years will have gone by since my absence, Teitú? Alac had gone back to his taciturn mood.

  I don’t know, Alac. Three years, I would guess. The fact is that things have changed very much. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. This land has suffered. The resurrection of Legionaer outraged it, and evil goes on spreading. Unless somebody stops it…

  Rage, passion, and revenge vied with one another in Alac’s heart. He knew that as a god, he must learn to control those impulses, but at that particular moment, he could only think about repairing the harm done to him and his people. He spread his beautiful, feathered wings and, with a leap, left the ground, soaring to fly over the world he had once belonged to.

  ***

  On the top of a hill known as the Observatory in the estate of the Holy Comment, a beautiful young woman with silken skin and lips like rose petals was watching the night as she leaned against a huge tree, the Great Pine.

  Enveloped in the darkness and peace of the night, she was thinking sadly about her best friend, whom she had not stopped loving with all her heart despite the time that had gone by.

  One day, the girl repeated to herself with the hope that she found ever difficult to keep up.

  Lulita was getting ready for bed. The new estate was smaller but considerably more pleasant. The important thing was that she, Lulita, had been able to start a new life. She put on her cashmere scarf and her new pajamas that she had knitted with Little Ounces’ wool. The ram, together with the mare Sureña, were the only animals to have survived the disaster.

  She picked up the candle and went to her bedroom. As she passed Luchy’s room, she noticed that the girl, now a fully-fledged young woman, had not yet come back. They were both alone, and now, they were like grandmother and grandchild to one another.

  Lulita knew Manchego would never come back, but she still kept all his things in case one day he was to appear.

  ***

  Alac was flying, followed by his faithful Naevas Aedán warrior. They were fast approaching the village. In the distance, he saw his family’s estate, the Holy Comment, and began to descend. Below, the land was a wasteland.

  There was no trace of the house where he had grown up, but a short distance away, another one had been put up. It was smaller, square, and had a gabled roof. It looked a little ramshackle as if put up by inexperienced hands, but strong enough to withstand the worst weather.

  It was night, very late. Perhaps that was why Alac was not expecting the door of the house to open. His heart stopped when he saw an old lady with a weathered, golden face, and a scarf around her neck. Lulita! It had to be her!

  He went down like a leaf torn from a tree, in a slow spiral dance. He landed on the Observatory and the branches of the Great Pine. He was so quiet that the beautiful girl sitting under it, against the trunk, did not notice. She was sighing. Those eyes and lips unleashed a whirlwind of feelings in his heart.

  He was not ready to present himself before the love of his life, but he was going to do it. He descended from the tree beside Luchy and knelt. Now, he could gaze in leisure at the beautiful face of the girl of his dreams, his childhood, and his heart. He went closer; they were nearly touching. But she was not aware of it. He was still in his insubstantial state.

  Before you can love others, you must be able to love yourself, Teitú said.

  The God of Light collapsed, beaten by his own emotions. He came close to Luchy to be as near as possible to her.

  I never want to move from here again, Teitú. This is my home, and this is where I’m going to stay.

  But we can’t, Alac! I can understand what you feel perfect, but we can’t flee from our fate. We have a duty, a mission.

  Leave me in peace! Even if it’s just for a moment! Don’t you see I’m with Luchy?

  Teitú shivered. He turned blue.

  Forgive me, Teitú. It’s just that I miss her so! I don’t want to leave. I don’t want her to leave. I don’t want us to be apart anymore.

  Then, he understood. If he insisted on following this spiral of emotions, he would lose his wits and remain trapped in the world of ghosts forever. Although Luchy’s eyes were making him fall in love all over again, that love would never be real if he did not find himself first. He spread his wings and rose toward the sky. He had to rip himself apart from the young woman and her lost gaze on the horizon. The difficulty of separating himself from her let him know he would succumb to this feeling if he stayed here too long. With great sorrow, he soared in the air and cried openly.

  Chapter XXXII –Turi the Crafty

  Memories assaulted Mérdmerén as he strolled through the noble city. He saw himself as a teenager, courting the girls and trying to steal a kiss from them. He saw himself as a young adult, following the byways of corruption to make his fortune. He felt nostalgic. He had forgotten his parents.

 
He had never thanked them for the life they had given him. He was so worried about running away from poverty that he had turned his back on them as well, and now here he was again with no news of his parents. They were probably dead.

  They were passing through a neighborhood full of drunkards, prostitutes, and criminals. They were near Chauncy’s bar called The Fuckup. Mérdmerén looked at Ságamas, who was looking green around the gills. They dismounted and tethered their horses to a wooden lamp post, whose light the night watchman had not yet lit. A boy of fifteen or so slid between them with surprising agility.

  “My name is Turi, my function to look after your horses,” the lad said with the air of both a poet and a trickster. “My esteemed gentlemen, for a crown apiece, I’ll look after your mounts and stirrups, and of course, I’ll make sure you’re well served.”

  The youth made a bow, bending deeply at the waist. His torn, dirty rags marred the elegance of the movement. The boy certainly showed both audacity and brightness; they were visible in his eagle face and swift owl’s eyes.

  “Turi?” Mérdmerén said with an air of self-importance. “No other name?”

  Ságamas had to muffle a laugh at his affected tone of voice.

  The boy drew himself to his full height quickly and gave them an amiable look. “I, my lord, am Turi the Crafty. That’s what they call me around here.”

  “Crafty, eh? How crafty are you?”

  A mischievous grin appeared on Turi’s face. He showed them a leather pouch stuffed with coins. The sailor was stunned as well as humiliated.

  “My money!” he shouted furiously. “You little thief, I’m going to wring your neck!”

  Turi smiled and threw him the pouch. “That’s how crafty I am, my lords. But you’re fine under my protection. I’ll take care of your horses if you pay me.”

  Mérdmerén and the sailor looked at one another, shrugged, and gave him a crown each. It was better that way. Otherwise, the lad could do them out of more than their money.