The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  Torn with indecision, Bram ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the road beneath her feet, a path of sorts. He’d been warned to take the third fork to the left, not the first. Somehow he knew the reason Thistledown had not mentioned any exceptions to the rule was because there were none.

  “Please, sir,” the girl beseeched him, palms pressed together. “I fear this hesitation may have already made it too late to save her. We could not survive without my mother.”

  Bram looked into her pale golden eyes and found them strangely unmoved, considering her desperate words. “Have you any rope?” he asked suddenly.

  The question surprised her. “I suppose that we do.”

  “You’ll need a long piece, more than twice the length of the thickest branch nearest your mother,” he said quickly. “Throw one end of the rope over the branch, then tie both ends around the log that pins her. Establish a good foothold, then tug the rope sideways with all your might. The log should lift enough for your mother to roll to safety.”

  “But I told you I’m not strong enough to lift the log!” Her eyes were narrowing in anger.

  “The pulley will supply enough strength,” Bram reassured her, “but if you still have trouble, hitch the rope to a farm animal and let it help you lift the log.” Bram watched her closely. “It is all that I would be able to do, I’m afraid.” He thought for a moment. “I could give you some herbs that would ease the soreness your mother will feel, if you’d like.”

  The young girl stomped a rag-covered foot peevishly, her helpless demeanor gone. “What I’d like is for you to come and help me!”

  Startled by the change, Bram backed away. “I’m sorry, but I’m in a great hurry,” he said. Hastily wishing her luck, he nodded his head politely. When he looked up again, he saw something that nearly froze his feet to the stone path.

  On the dark and narrow branch to the left was an enormous, buglike creature with six legs that ended in razor-sharp hooks. Above its fearsome facial mandibles were eyes the color of shiny amber. The thing was at least twice Bram’s size. Beneath its yellow shell, its belly was incongruously pink and soft-looking.

  Bram turned and ran down the main path. He couldn’t be sure if the pounding steps he heard in his head came from the monster in pursuit or his own pulse pumping in his ears. He wanted to look back but dared not. Rounding a curve around a thick tree, he stole a half glance over his right shoulder. The fork was again obscured by shrubs, and the enormous thing was no longer in sight.

  Bram bent at the waist, grabbed his knees, and drew in great gulps of air to catch his breath and slow his heart. He had a stitch in his side, and beads of sweat ran from his forehead and puddled above his lip. He quickly reached for the coin in the pocket at his waist and sighed in relief to find it still in place.

  Bram continued on for some time. The road seemed to go on forever. The next bend was always just a few dozen paces ahead, holding out the promise of a destination. But around each bend was another bend, in a pattern that soon became monotonous, then tedious, and finally, downright irksome.

  Hunger began to rumble in Bram’s stomach, then slice clean through to his backbone. Without stopping, he pushed up the flap on his pouch and withdrew a rubbery carrot. Using his trousers like a strop, he wiped the root to remove the fine gritty dirt that hid under bumps and defied even a water washing. Bram wrenched off a too-soft bite of the root. It was tasteless and did nothing to ease the gnawing pain in his gut. He spit the mouthful into the shrubbery and tossed the rest of the carrot after it.

  Rounding another gentle bend, he scrubbed a finger to his teeth, wishing he had even a swallow of water to wash the grit and small, tasteless pieces from between his teeth.

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  Bram’s head snapped up, and he was instantly on his guard. He followed the voice to his right and blinked in surprise at the sight. A stout, apple-cheeked elderly couple sat on the stoop of a quaint little cottage. Their wrinkled and pleasantly weathered faces were ringed by long yellow hair that showed no signs of gray. Both wore simple but colorful homespun clothes, adorned with beautifully embroidered suspenders, waist belts, aprons, and stockings. The man appeared to be carving faces on the handle of a large serving spoon while the woman shelled peas.

  Bram stood in stoop-shouldered weariness and could not keep a jealous sigh from escaping his lips as he looked upon the food and the handsome cottage of neatly tuck-pointed stone and plaster. The thatch atop it was clean and yellow-new, with gentle arches above curved, stained-glass dormers. Before it, the shrubs had been cleared away to make room for beautifully tended raised beds of vegetables and flowers, with all the variety of Nahamkin’s garden and none of the chaos. Yellow and white moths fluttered above flowering sweet peas, lush, ripe tomatoes, and minty-green cabbages the size of small boulders. Climbing roses of every color scaled the walls to encircle the second-floor dormers. The air smelled strongly of sweet-burning cherry wood and meaty stew.

  “Hello, stranger,” said the couple in unison.

  “You look near to dropping,” the woman observed kindly. “We have plenty of stew, fresh-baked bread, and dark-brewed ale, though we are not blessed with children to share it. You would be most welcome to join us for a moment or an hour to ease your journey, wherever you may be headed.”

  “That’s very kind,” Bram said, “but—”

  “They say I’m a pretty fair cook,” the woman coaxed, a modest smile lifting her fleshy cheeks and crinkling shut her eyes.

  “Fair?” boomed her husband, patting his round stomach. “There isn’t a better one for leagues, I’ll wager. Actually, there isn’t another cook for leagues,” he confided with a chuckle. “This is a lonely stretch of road, but my Gorsha would be the best cook even if the path was littered with a dozen cottages.”

  Bram suddenly felt as if he’d been traveling without food for days. He shook his head sadly. “I can’t tell you how much you tempt me, but to be honest, I was told not to leave the path for any reason, and—”

  The man waved his hand as if to dismiss the notion. “That’s just a myth the brownies spread to frighten folks and make themselves laugh,” he said. “People leave the trail all the time. Unlike the brownies, who are always taking a person’s food, my wife and I ask for nothing but the pleasure of giving sustenance to weary travelers like yourself.”

  Bram was jarred by the man’s use of the dreaded “brownie” word. Suspicious, he looked back to where he’d come from, remembering the bug creature. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, so as not to offend the couple, “but I’ve had a close call myself, without even leaving the path.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” the husband said sympathetically, “but the world’s a dangerous place wherever you are.”

  “Why do you stay here, so far from everyone, if you’re lonely?” asked Bram.

  The man raised his shoulders and spread his hands to take in his homestead. “Who could leave such beauty as this, and why would we want to? We’ve made it everything we’ve ever dreamed. It suits us, and if the price is a little loneliness, it is a small enough fee.” The woman nodded silently by his side.

  Bram was sorely tempted, and it took every ounce of discipline he had to recall Thistledown’s words once more. He bit his bottom lip until it hurt, then forced the words from his throat, “Thank you again, but I must be moving on.”

  “As you will,” said the man. He and his wife regarded Bram with pity, lifted their shoulders in resignation, and stepped back into their homey and inviting cottage.

  No doubt to have some delicious stew, Bram thought, gritting his teeth as he continued down the path. They’d made no untoward move, neither mentioned his coin, nor turned into vile creatures when he refused them.

  Bram spun around and looked at the beautiful cottage, his eyes seeking some sign of the couple. His orbs were drawn, instead, to a bright whiteness in the yard behind the small building, previously screened from his view by the cottage itself. He blinked and focused again. The whiten
ess came from a pile of bones—legs, arms, and skulls—piled as high as the cottage itself, and picked clean. Bram broke into a run again, thankful he had withstood another deadly temptation.

  The young nobleman came to the second fork in the road just as a pack of unseen creatures, like enormous moles, burrowed under the path in lumpy waves. Instead of cracking apart, the brick path heaved up like a gently snapped rope, throwing Bram to his knees. He dug his fingers around the loose edges of a brick and clung to it to stay on the path. Breathless, Bram waited many moments after the rumbling and heaving stopped before he crawled back to his feet and hastened on.

  At a distance, the third path to the left looked the same, a little wider, a little brighter, perhaps, than the first two. The sight instantly renewed his flagging energy, for he felt certain it couldn’t be much farther to Wayreth after the fork. He approached the turn with lighter feet.

  Bram heard rustling in the bushes in the right V of the fork and he jumped back, instinctively putting a hand to the coin at his waist. Up popped a man, waist-high in greenery. Eyes on Bram, the man pushed his way through the bushes toward the fork. When he emerged, the nobleman could see that the man was actually a centaur. The man’s naked, muscular chest stretched back into the chestnut-brown body of a horse. Four hooves clattered on the cobblestones as the creature moved to plant himself in the middle of the fork. A sword was strapped across his back, and he held a staff before him defensively, his expression distrustful.

  “Which way will you go, stranger?”

  “Left,” said Bram, trying to get a better look at the oddly beautiful being.

  “You may not go to the left,” the creature said.

  Bram frowned at the centaur’s tone. “But I was instructed to take this fork to the left.”

  “You can only go to the right at this fork,” explained the centaur unhelpfully.

  Bram shook his head. “I don’t want to take the right fork. I was instructed to follow the left fork because it is the only one that leads to Wayreth.”

  “But you can’t.”

  Bram’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t go to Wayreth, or I can’t take this fork?”

  A corner of the centaur’s mouth drew up slightly. “It appears for you they’re one and the same.”

  “Look, Mr. Centaur,” Bram said with thinly veiled sarcasm, “the tuatha gave me a coin and said that it would allow me to go anywhere I wanted in the faerie realm, including to Wayreth.”

  “You have a coin?” said the centaur. “Then the tuatha spoke truly to you. Give the coin to me and you can go anywhere you wish.”

  “If you know about faerie coins,” Bram said evenly, “then you also know I can’t give the coin to you and still get safely to Wayreth.”

  The centaur shrugged. “Then you can’t go left.”

  Bram slammed his hands on his hips. “Who are you to tell me where I can and can’t go?”

  The centaur lifted a brow and looked over his shoulder to the weapon on his back. “I’m the centaur with the sword.”

  And I’m the man with the vegetable peeler, Bram thought ruefully, recalling his little knife. “Yes, I suppose you are,” he said instead.

  The centaur continued to look at Bram expectantly, rhythmically tapping his staff in his hand.

  Bram turned and stared back down the path he had walked. It looked the same behind as it did ahead. In fact, the intersection looked nearly identical from any direction. He paused, momentarily confused. He had come down the path and tried to veer to the left, which was now behind him to his right. An idea came; it was not necessarily a good one, for it interfered with his original plans somewhat, but it might pacify the centaur.

  “What if I go back the way I came and take the right fork?” Bram asked. “Would that be acceptable to you?”

  “I don’t care where you go,” said the centaur in a bored voice, “as long as you don’t take the left fork.”

  “Yes, I hear that’s not allowed,” Guerrand said as he turned around and set off down the path.

  Behind him to his left, the centaur shouted, “Where do you think you’re going now? That’s not the way you came.”

  The exclamation was punctuated by clattering hooves and a great deal of crashing and scraping, as the centaur bounded through the thick brush that hemmed in the Y intersection.

  “It’s not?” Bram exclaimed innocently, looking over his shoulder to where he had come from. “I guess I got all turned around and confused by your rules.”

  “There’s nothing confusing about any of this,” snapped the centaur. “You’re just simple-minded.” The centaur extended its left arm and pointed behind Bram. “Now turn around and go right.”

  Bram quickly spun about and retraced his steps. “Turn right here?” he asked, standing at the intersection again. Straight ahead was the path he had already traveled, and to the right was the path he had wanted to take from the start.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” exclaimed the centaur. “My, you humans are thick. I’m certain I explained all this to you clearly. You may turn right, just not left. Now do it and leave me in peace, before I have to get nasty.” To emphasize its point, the creature reached behind its back and placed a hand on the hilt of the sword slung there.

  “Try not to be so thick in the future!” the centaur called after him.

  Bram bowed his head in mock deference, then proceeded. He was scarcely ten steps down the left fork when he felt his vision shift and blur in a vaguely familiar way. He blinked once, twice, thrice; the magical path beneath his feet disappeared and he stood before wondrous gates of gold and silver.

  Lyim looked out across the awakening hillsides that sloped gently toward Thonvil, and he sighed with satisfaction. He had teleported to the eastern dirt road to give himself this view of the sleepy little burg. Despite its current run-down state, Thonvil’s half-timbered buildings with thatched roofs looked warm and inviting against a backdrop of greening grasses and cornflower-blue sky.

  It must have been a wonderful setting in which to grow up, Lyim thought, and not for the first time. Any place would have been better than the ugly and unyielding village of mud huts in which he’d lived on the Plains of Dust. The unfairness of the dichotomy was another entry on the ever-growing list of reasons to hate Guerrand DiThon.

  The first time he’d had such envious thoughts was when, as an apprentice to Belize, Lyim had traveled to Thonvil on behalf of his friend Guerrand. That had ended in the disaster that was Lyim’s hand. He’d come to Thonvil then to save Guerrand’s family. Now he was here to destroy it. It seemed somehow fitting to Lyim, a closing of the circle.

  Every hideous and pain-racked death occurring this spring in Thonvil was on Guerrand’s head. Lyim had no doubt about that and felt no guilt. Death knells rang here two and three times a day because of Guerrand’s unwillingness to bend the rules to help the friend who’d given his hand saving Guerrand’s life.

  Lyim adjusted the fingerless leather glove over his right hand and tucked it inside the overlong cuff on his coarse brown robe. It would not do, particularly considering the prevailing air of suspicion and fear, to advertise his profession by wearing his usual red mage’s robe or allowing anyone to see his snake hand.

  Lyim followed the road into the village. The mage kept his eyes averted and drew into himself so as not to attract notice as a stranger, a habit he had developed since the accident that had changed his hand. He could scarcely remember the days when he had sought the spotlight by both deed and dress. The man in the drab, dun robe had once worn the brightest, most flamboyant colors in the newest styles. He had once made it a goal to get to know the people in any small village he visited for more than a few days. Especially the ladies. Those days were far in Lyim’s past.

  Women still admired him, he had noticed with some small measure of pride. Lyim’s handsome looks had changed little in nearly a decade, with no care paid to them. His hair was long, dark, and wavy, though he no longer took the time to fashion his signature top braid. The r
igors of his life had kept his muscles toned and defined as only a strict regimen of exercise had before. Yes, women still looked at him with eager eyes, until they inevitably saw the snake that was his hand.

  Lyim felt the creature shift annoyingly inside the thick leather glove. He gave an angry shake of his head and turned his stride toward the village green encircled by Thonvil’s timbered buildings. Standing in the shadow of a tree, Lyim watched as two men dug a grave in the newly softened soil. He counted eleven fresh mounds of dirt in the square that until recent weeks had but two or three new additions each year. The plague was turning out to be as deadly as he’d hoped.

  Lyim could scarcely believe the luck of overhearing the whispered conversation of a sailor who had recently returned to Palanthas from the Minotaur Islands. The sailor spoke with horror of fleeing Mithas when a new and vile pestilence had sprung up among the smattering of humans there. “The medusa plague,” they were calling it, a disease whose arrival and spread they were blaming on the unclean living habits of the bovinelike minotaurs who inhabited the isles.

  Lyim had been struck by the plague’s similarity to his own situation, however different some of the symptoms. He had never shed skin, and he’d lived with the affliction for many years. But the snakes … it was too coincidental to ignore, and so he decided to travel to the islands northeast of the Blood Sea to see this disease for himself.

  En route, he had briefly entertained the hope that unlocking the secret of the minotaur plague might provide some clue to curing his own affliction, but that died when he saw the first victim. The man’s limbs had changed to three-headed snakes, not the single head that was his hand. What was more, the victims all turned to stone within three days and died, so Lyim realized there was no link to his own condition to be found here.

  But he was a mage with a bitter grudge to settle, and the random pestilence in Mithas gave him another idea. A more delicious idea, in that it would allow him to cure his hand and get the revenge that he had longed for in the handful of months since Guerrand had refused to grant him entrance to Bastion.