Within

by Aaron Bunce

  Henri followed the priest around the large statue of J’ohaven. He saw piles of trinkets as well as shiny bowls of scented oils left as offerings. He marveled at the statue’s detail.

  The old man had been chiseled in extraordinary detail, down to the hair of his beard and the creases in his robes. He ran his hand over the statue's foot. The stone was flawless, not pitted and aged like that of the ancient buildings. If the ruins of Dedpit Barrows were thousands of winter thaws old as they believed, then the dalan statue had been well protected during that time.

  The temple spanned high above, ending in an elaborately painted dome. The light from the afternoon’s failing sun cascaded in like ghostly pillars from high windows, illuminating ghostly figures soaring through a cloudy backdrop. The painting was faded and cracked, but he swore that the figures had wings.

  Father Jeremiah led them to the back of the cavernous room and through a doorway, after a left turn the old man pulled a torch off of the wall and descended a smooth set of stairs.

  “There are an impressive number of tunnels and chambers beneath the city. Did you know that?” Father Jeremiah asked, his voice reverberating up the stone passage.

  “I didn’t,” Henri replied simply.

  “When those first souls settled in the city, many of those tunnels were filled with cave rats, hordes of the chattering creatures,” Father Jeremiah continued.

  “Did they attack the people? Were they able to drive them off?” Henri asked, sliding and stumbling on a broken step.

  “Kill them, oh heavens no. They were peaceful enough, and they live to trade. In return they keep the tunnels and underground chambers of our city safe,” Father Jeremiah laughed.

  Henri masked his surprise. He had only limited experience with goblins, but would be the first to admit he was severely biased. Henri grew up on stories of monstrous goblins sneaking through windows to steal babies from their cribs. Most of those stories were simply that, stories. But the damage was done.

  Henri felt his sense of unease grow knowing that goblins resided beneath his feet, only added to the knowledge that flesh eating monsters prowled the city at night, stealing people from their homes.

  For my little ones, he thought, stealing his fear with thoughts of family.

  At the bottom of the stairwell Father Jeremiah turned, and Henri followed him into the crypts. A most peculiar statue stood just inside the crypts. It was that of a woman, but her elegant dress changed as it flowed down her body. It changed from smooth fabric to that of silken feathers and beneath that the claws of a large bird. Her arms, slender and long as they left her dress, ended in the paws of a large cat. From the statues back sprouted eagle wings that opened wide behind her.

  “Who is she?” Henri asked as they passed the strange statue.

  “Don’t know…I have poured over the ancient scrolls and texts, yet could find no mention of her anywhere,” Father Jeremiah replied, huffing slightly from the walk.

  “You said they found these two down by the river, north of Shale right?” Henri asked curiously, “what were they doing that far south?”

  “Just because we live separated from everyone else, doesn’t mean we shun civilization entirely. We trade with select people in Shale and other towns that are close, plus we fish the rivers and hunt the hills. We have hungry mouths to feed. Our fishermen found them. They hooked one of them and pulled him out of the river, and found the other a just a stone’s throw away in the woods,” Father Jeremiah said.

  The broken railing on the bridge. Did they fall in? Am I about to see what remains of Luca and Hunter? Henri felt his stomach go sour.

  “Quite lucky you are…your timing that is. If you’d been another sunrise later we might have already put them to rest,” Father Jeremiah said as they passed ancient remains set into pockets in the walls.

  “That is good of you. So many would simply pass them by, leaving their bodies for the crows and beetles,” Dugan said, taking in the skeletal remains.

  “We follow the teachings, the dead must be shown respect,” Father Jeremiah replied simply, leading them further into the massive catacombs.

  Father Jeremiah led them to side cavern, well-lit by clusters of scented candles. There were no pockets of remains set within the walls, only a large slab table. Two figures lay side by side, their bodies covered with a modest drape.

  “This is the preparation room, where we clean, honor, and prepare the dead for their journey into the afterlife. I warn you once more, one of the bodies is in a poor state. More of it was eaten by animals than remained. I tell you only that you may guard yourself against its appearance,” the priest said.

  Henri nodded but remained a few lengthy paces from the table. His legs started to shake his palms grew sweaty. The air, thick with scented candles and sacramental oils made his head a bit fuzzy.

  He managed to shuffle his feet forward, his resolve threatening to give at any moment as the faces of his children spun relentlessly in his head.

  Do I want to see them…if they are my babies? Or, am I better living the rest of my thaws with the happy faces of my memories? Henri thought, struggling with the horrible choice.

  His knees buckled, threatening to give out beneath him, but someone stepped next to him and lent him their strength. Henri heard Dugan’s strong voice in his ear.

  “If you don’t want to do this you don’t have to, Henri. We can still leave.”

  “N-n-no, I need to know,” Henri stammered, trying to bolster his conviction.

  Henri walked up to the table with Dugan’s help and slowly pulled back the first sheet. Father Jeremiah’s warning was for good reason. More than just time and decay had wracked the poor soul. Much of the flesh and muscle had been eaten away by animals.

  The body was nude save for a small cloth laid across where the man’s genitals had been. The smooth skin of the neck and face was mostly intact, save for several long gashes that ran from the hairline down past the jawline.

  Henri looked long and hard, but when his gaze drifted up near the man’s hairline, his uncertainty kicked in.

  “Hunter was born with a birthmark, just on his hairline. It was a fiery red spot that never fully faded when he grew,” Henri said, desperate for confirmation, yet dreading and hoping against it at the same time.

  “Here?” Father Jeremiah pointed, indicating one of the large gashes creasing the dead man’s face. “I sewed the wound closed, but there was enough skin missing that it is possible that it was torn away.”

  “It doesn’t look…Henri is this Hunter?” Dugan asked softly, his strong hand resting softly on Henri’s shoulder.

  “I…I, don’t know,” Henri muttered, almost unable to speak.

  Father Jeremiah pulled back the sheet on the second body and Henri automatically for what he was sure would be his little boy, Luca. His mind recoiled, rejecting his need for affirmation. But he couldn’t look away.

  The body beneath the second sheet wasn’t Luca, but it wasn’t his daughter Eisa either. This man, as Father Jeremiah had explained, was alive when their men found him, but only barely. His face, even after hours of cleansing and ritual oils was indistinguishable. Bruised, bloated, and discolored. The young man, whomever he was, was a grotesque mockery of his former self.

  “Were they together?” Henri asked, swallowing the lump in his throat. “My children disappeared as spring turned, surely if Hunter had…” he paused, unable to form the last word.

  “They found this one in a rag-tag camp, just north of Bairlend’s Bend on the Bear Claw. The other was in the river a short distance away, snagged in the crook of a tree. They think they were holed up there for some time. There were perhaps others too, judging by the size of the camp, but these two were all we found. Do you see these wounds, these gashes here…?” Father Jeremiah asked, pointing to several long and serious-looking wounds on the man’s body. Henri nodded sourly.

  “They are closed, mostly healed. These are not what killed him,” Dugan reasoned.

  �
�This is not my son! My children are not here,” Henri interjected forcefully, and Father Jeremiah froze, looking at Dugan.

  “Are you sure? He is in a very poor state,” Father Jeremiah asked softly.

  “My children are still out there. This is not my boy. These are not my kids,” Henri spat, tears falling heavily over his cheeks.

  He turned away and promptly walked back out of the chamber. He couldn’t stand to look at them anymore. The longer he stared, the more they started to look familiar.

  Henri shook his head, trying to clear away the images of the two dead faces, doubt riddling his thoughts. His wife would be able to tell. That’s just how she was, always good with a face. Henri wiped tears from his eyes, a tic starting to pull at the corner of his mouth.

  “So where is my baby boy? Where are Eisa and Hunter?” he whispered, but neither Dugan nor Father Jeremiah was close enough to hear him.

  Henri feared it was a question he wouldn’t be able to answer, and that realization bore a weight too significant for him to bear. After searching for so long, Henri felt a crack forming in his resolve. The little voice in the back of his head was getting louder. The one telling him to give in, to accept that they were gone. Henri’s complicated latticework of hopes and expectations were beginning to fall apart, threatening to topple his whole world down around him.

  Father Jeremiah led Dugan out of the crypts, Henri following in humbled silence. Part of him wanted to ask about the young men, specifically what would happen to them next. He hoped they would find peace in the next life, if not this one. He thought about their families. They were probably living in pain and despair just like him. And just like Henri, they would always worry, and doubt and they would wonder. It would drive them mad, never knowing the truth of it.

  Just like me.

  Henri ascended, the stairs feeling cold and dead beneath his feet. Even the noise of his boots seemed to die in the crypts. His legs felt weary, and his feet became heavy with despair.

  Father Jeremiah did all he could to aid Henri once they returned to the sanctuary. He quoted passages of hope and lit a candle each for Hunter, Eisa, and Luca.

  The elderly priest first lit a tall candle, “a father’s hope for his eldest son.” He set the candle down at the feet of the watching statue.

  Next, he lit a shorter candle, “protection for a daughter.” As he pulled the flame away, the wick flickered as if disturbed by a gust of wind, and went out.

  Father Jeremiah reapplied the flame. “J’ohaven grant protection to the daughter…” he started again, but once again, the candle flickered and went out.

  Father Jeremiah pressed his finger to his forehead and finished his prayer, then lit the shortest candle and asked for Luca’s protection and keeping. Next, the priest dropped to his knees and offered prayers to the eldest, asking once again to take the children under his care, and grant Henri peace in his life.

  Dugan stepped forward and helped Henri drop to his knees before the statue, where he choked out a prayer of his own. He had never been a spiritual man. Prayer was his wife’s way, but he felt compelled nonetheless.

  “J’ohaven, please give me guidance, I need your wisdom. I can, no. I will change, whatever you want me to do. I’ll do it. Please, I am just so lost. Guide me to my young ones, or at least, to peace.” When he was done, Henri put his hand on the bare foot of the statue and wiped the tears from his eyes.

  Henri thanked Father Jeremiah for his support, but nothing short of his three children running into the room safe and healthy would change his condition. He took a deep breath and turned to leave.

  “Mourning is natural, and healthy,” Dugan said, falling into step behind him.

  “I am not mourning my children. That would mean I have to admit they are dead, and that is something I can’t bring myself to do,” Henri said quietly.

  Dugan nodded, scratching his chin. He took a breath to speak but stopped to consider Henri for a moment.

  “It grows dark, we shouldn’t linger on the streets, it would be best if we returned to our room straight away,” he said finally.

  “Afraid of the strangers…hmm, brave Dugan the Hunter?” Henri said mockingly. His mood was turning quickly from sadness and grief to helplessness and anger. If Dugan was stung by the quip, he didn’t show it.

  “Locals say this place is cursed! Monsters, ones that prowl the streets, and hunt its people like wild game. Is this place any safer than out there? Where my children are right now?” Henri asked, his voice rising.

  Dugan spun on Henri, holding his finger to his lips, “quiet your voice, Henri. Your anger is just…but remember that I brought you out here to help. I didn’t tell you about the strangers because I didn’t think it mattered. I’d hoped our stay in Dedpit Barrows would be only a short stop off, an afternoon at the most, long enough to inquire, and be off again.”

  Henri waived him off, hardly in the mood for excuses, and pushed through the doors and walked outside. The Dedpit Barrows that greeted him when he stepped outside was much different from the one he left earlier.

  Torches burned atop the extensive perimeter wall while iron lanterns glowed warmly along the avenues. There weren’t any people lingering in sight, and every building appeared locked and shuttered up tight.

  “Best be off the streets, not safe after the dark sets in,” Father Jeremiah said quickly.

  Henri turned and gave the wrinkled old priest an honest smile, but something behind him flickered and flashed brightly. The candle Father Jeremiah had previously tried to light for Eisa flared to life.

  The candle flame danced and arched, forming strange shapes in the air. A heartbeat passed, and as the bright smear faded from his vision, Henri felt the strange tug pulling at the corner of his mouth once again.

  “Thank you, Father, for everything,” Henri said as the priest pulled the door closed.

  He heard a heavy bar fall into place, locking it closed from the inside. Henri turned to Dugan, the two men now along in the quiet solitude of the cold night.

  Henri’s anger bled away now that they were outside. In fact, he didn’t know why he was mad at the old hunter. It wasn’t like him. He decided to apologize and turned, but found that Dugan was already walking away at a brisk pace. He pulled his coat tightly around him and set off to catch up.

  The sparse warmth from the mid-day sun was gone, already replaced by stinging cold winds from the north. Stars glimmered overhead, but thick, murky clouds were building.

  Those clouds look like snow, or worse, ice, Henri thought, dreading the idea of trudging into the wilderness as winter set in.

  He noticed the moon. It was old in its cycle, now barely a sliver of light in the dark sky. It formed a crescent glow of halo clouds, and then it too was consumed by the dark clouds. With it gone, the night grew uncomfortably dark.

  “Do you think the strangers are real? Or just scary stories they tell to keep travelers away?” Henri asked in a low voice, as he rushed to catch up to the vibrant old hunter.

  “I think the people here believe they are real, and that is good enough for me, I guess,” Dugan said simply. They had to cross the length of the city to reach their room, and unless they wanted to skirt the entire city, they would have to walk directly past the Dedpit itself.

  “They tried to fight the strangers off at first, posting armed men on the walls at night and more men walking the streets. But they were never able to catch them at the walls, somehow they slipped into the city unnoticed, and the following morning a single person would be missing,” Dugan said.

  “Maybe they are already in the city, or they come up from the tunnels underneath?” Henri proposed.

  They turned a corner, and the Dedpit appeared before them. It sprawled like a dark, jagged mouth, open and hungry. Lanterns swayed in the breeze all the way around the massive opening, their light unable to penetrate its black depths.

  Henri looked to Dugan as a strange noise echoed quietly out of the pit. The old hunter tilted his head, listening
carefully to the night. They both stood still, waiting and listening. A heartbeat later they heard it again.

  “A bat?” Henri whispered.

  Dugan’s eyes widened, and he grabbed Henri by the jacket, spinning him around and yanking him back between the buildings. The old hunter pressed his index finger to his mouth as they ducked down behind a stairwell.

  They crouched in the shadows, watching and waiting. If the noise was bats, as Henri first thought, then the flying creatures were in no hurry to leave the darkness of the pit. Dugan’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and he turned to Henri.

  “I heard that noise and something you said bothered me, I thought what if you are right, and they come up from below the…” Dugan started to say but stopped as Henri dug his fingers painfully into his arm.

  Henri stared over Dugan’s shoulder, choking on his breath, watching a head appear over the lip of the Dedpit.

  “Ouch, damn Henri,” Dugan growled, but Henri’s look silenced him instantly.

  The steely-eyed hunter turned and immediately started to push back into him, driving them both further into the shadows. Henri watched as the creature materialized from the Dedpit, chirping and clicking eerily.

  He almost thought it a man at first, for surely that is what it looked like. It had a round head with human-like features, atop a narrow neck, and then boney shoulders. Its movements made it appear more like an animal. It sat up, looking around as another appeared behind it.

  Dugan whispered something. It might have been “men,” but Henri didn’t dare tear his eyes away. Something crashed from the other end of town. It could have been a door closing, or a lantern falling over. Henri was too busy trying to swallow his own heart back down to be sure.

  The creatures reacted to the noise, unhinging their necks and craning their heads in a grotesque display. With their necks elongated, the creatures swiveled their human shaped heads, listening and tracking the noise. Then they were gone, clicking softly and running on all fours into the quiet of Dedpit Barrows.

  Dugan didn’t hesitate. As soon as the creatures were out of sight, he hauled Henri off the ground by his shirt. They took off at a run, bowling haphazardly through the darkened alleyways. Not towards their rented room, but away from the strangers, away from the hunters of men.