by Shawn Mackey
Upon seeing this objector, all hands reached for their swords. It was Gar, unblemished by the destruction of Nemesis. Too swift to fall to the collapsing sun, he had heard the entirety of Yod’s proclamation. He promised to visit their kingdom each generation to teach the young of their ancestors. The lesson would be sure to sting the elders just as well, in case their memory had gone faulty.
But none would believe such, Aggripa argued. The children would think him some wrathful god, not a mighty warrior to whom some could claim heritage. Gar did not fail to see the mockery in such lofty praise, letting loose a strange sounding laughter strained with joy. He left the Yod for Lakustria, leaving them more unnerved than relieved.
As their new city saw fruition, they let go of their worry and took pride in their labor. In regard to fortifications, it failed in comparison to Nemesis, but in regard to beauty, there was nothing comparable. When the kingdom had finally been completed, the Yod were satisfied with the outcome, though universally agreed it was imperfect. There would always be time to improve, King Yod reminded, for warfare was at an end.
The Kay did not falter at the arrival of Gar in Lakustria. They had become so despondent in their shame that to die by his hands seemed a proper death by many. A few trembled in silent fear, recalling the gruesome deaths of their sisters and Gar’s especially cruel wrath. Matralina dismissed the cretin with a bluff, stating that his bloodlust had been sated. He would rather spend the rest of his life among the Kay than die in battle as a Kel. Gar seized Matralina by the neck and asked for one greater than he. She swat his arm and freed herself from his loose grip.
“Vinitus. Rammot and Panagon. Yuravein and Dramacus. Naramov. Surely you have not forgotten Naramov? He was an especially weak Kel, suffering a broken neck to another much larger and stronger. His killer was Zanus, a name you certainly remember, judging by the glimmer in your eyes. Zanus held Naramov by the throat, and it was very much like you and me a moment ago. I am sure the difference in strength was the same, so easily did Naramov die. You do not remember this day? Strange. The weakling had thrown himself into the enemy’s arms, thinking he would wrestle his rival and win through valiant struggle. I recall him making an ostensible display to teach his newborn son the power of the Naramov Clan. Pity it was their final hour. You truly do not remember? I could never forget such a laughable attempt at valor. I suppose if my father had been the brunt of a cruel joke, I would never let the memory resurface.”
Gar could not recall the death of Naramov, though he remembered Zanus with the utmost clarity. He had spent much time in his clan and was proud to consider it his point of birth, even after the crushing defeat by Prunnoc.
“I can trace my lineage back to the beginning of the Zanus clan. I did not gain the name Matralina without birthing many powerful Kel. Did I not serve you well during our time together? You appear cross. I am sorry your father was a good-for-nothing weakling. Must you measure worth by strength alone? Fortune favored you above all, Gar, and fortune is something greater than you and me. You are the son of Naramov and Janatrix, a Kel and a Kay of no significance. Naramov had a clan, but such was common during this period. Zanus played a part in culling the weak. I am sure you understand how this led to the Clan Wars. To emerge from this slaughter was a truly honorable feat, Gar. Fortune and I cannot wholly humble you. It would shame many of my braver sons, though I suppose that matters little, son of Naramov and Janatrix, Kel and Kay of meager birth. Countless have died since our inception, nearly all more worthy of mention. Their ancestors, Gwell and Verapel, Drax and Paradonna, were far greater in might and mind. Have you heard of Gwell’s battle with the Matuis? Their rivalry stemmed from conflict during their youth, a digression that neither could recall, though their hatred boiled from the mere sight of the other. Would you like to know how Gwell, father of Naramov the weak, grandfather of Gar the supreme, utterly defeated his enemy Matius? Yield to the living, so that we may celebrate the dead.”
Gar marveled at Matralina’s words. She went on to tell of the events, making so many digressions, the story did not end at the death of Matius; it was more of a minor occurrence during an even larger conflict on an incomprehensible scale. The briefest tales seemed grand, and the grandest sometimes brief. This was testament to Matralina’s oration. She made the tiniest skirmishes, whether a duel between clan leaders or a valiant death, seem tantamount to the entirety of Kel warfare. She placed no special emphasis on Gar’s feats, though never glossing over them either, titling this particular Kel “Fortune’s Favorite.” She did not exclude the Kay from her stories, where many of them originated. When phrasing their retellings, she was careful to maintain their wording as much as possible. Gar did not let a single detail escape his exploits and told many stories to impress the younger Kay.
This was how Matralina subdued Gar, allowing the Yod ample time to flourish in their new kingdom. Countless generations passed since the end of the War on Nemesis. The Yod adapted to their peaceful life, content to be rid of Gar, who in turn, was content in the Kay’s company. When all of Matralina’s stories had been exhausted, she started from the beginning, shedding new light on old events in fresh wording. Whenever Gar seemed impatient, she kindled a new fire, and in these flames, related events that could have happened. She took care not to tell the future, for it would remind him of his true purpose.
I ended the second act on a happy note for the sake of my students. I had lost their attention at some point during the siege on Nemesis, but they perked up a bit when the sun fell on the city, but soon after, they were full of all sorts of criticisms. The Earth was a speck of dust compared to the sun, and this world was not even on the surface. I tried to explain that it was a different sun. But what is the real sun made of? I suppose the past two days were an escape from the usual drudgery.
Drawing on the children’s evident distraction, I told them how Gar had also grown tired of Matralina’s stories. He impregnated her, resulting in a son named Vargrim. I caught their attention when I told them the next child was female. Gar killed Matralina, then set his sights on Yod, who had forgotten all about his old foe, as well as all his fighting prowess. So, Gar snapped the neck of Yod. Before he could finish off the rest, monsters poured out of the cave in Lakustria.
For what reason? I am too mentally exhausted with this whole tale. The monsters pour out of the cave, and only Gar is strong enough to keep them at bay until his son comes of age. Yes, Gar is killed in battle and it is up to his son to protect the kingdom of Yod. The story ends there because he is still battling the hordes today. With that, the children get their monsters and the second act comes to a close.
Enough babbling. How much ink has gone to waste? I am down to my final bottle, and Walter will not arrive for another eight days, which leaves three weeks. Fortunately, I am tired of writing. If I have a thought worth recording, I will return. Until then, I must use ink sparingly. My rambling has wasted away my supply.
Farewell, my dearest friend.
Entry 22
Phoebe’s mother tried to start quite the scandal over the contents of the past few days. Consider this an epilogue to that drivel.
The children meet me at the schoolhouse each morning, sometimes accompanied by their mothers. A few stopped this practice after the first week, having better things to do than escort their children to the second largest building in an already small and compact town. Some appear more frequent than others out of distrust for their children. Phoebe’s mother is the best example, strutting into my classroom each morning to make sure her little angel is seated in the right desk. Once, when it was occupied by another girl, the fat cow made a scene.
Though her mother is wrong about most things, Phoebe is a little angel. However, the resemblance between her and her rotund mother is a bit too uncanny for my liking. Phoebe is a stingy girl, but fairly lackadaisical as far as physical exertion is concerned. Unceasingly flapping her lips will not retain her good figure. I have already introduced this pig of a woman, and with my lack
of ink, it is best to not tarry.
She, my nemesis whose name I cannot recall, politely asked me to speak in private. This was already an inconvenience because the whole class had been gathered, and even a brief absence is enough to let loose the floodgates of misbehavior. However, I could not decline her sweet tone, which sounded remarkably like her daughter’s.
Right outside the door, she started hissing like a viper. Why am I imparting my uncle’s heathen ways? Why am I slandering the lord Jesus Christ with my lies? Did the mayor suggest I mix devilry with my lessons? How could I wear the holy cross around my neck and glorify the realm of hell? I have been harangued a few times since arriving here, but this was the first time I was not accused of inheriting my father’s insidious nature.
It was a harmless story, I assured her, no different than any other fable or folktale, more akin to The Iliad than the bible. She shook her head and insisted I told the children otherwise. I accepted the blame, reminding her that the children were keen enough to discern fact from fiction. Adding false authenticity was a cheap way to spice it up. My explanation did not suffice. Her anger subsided, but she left to visit the mayor with her complaint.
When I returned to the classroom, Thomas was pulling on Hailey’s hair. I smacked him across the cheek with a ruler. I rarely exhibited such brutality, usually responding with unflinching defiance. Thomas was a lean boy, likely acting on the spontaneous urge to commit something wicked. Stern words would have sufficed, but like poor Thomas, I acted rashly, causing him to break out in girlish sobs, much to the amusement of his peers. After apologizing profusely, I managed to curb his weeping.
To avert disaster, I decided to heed the pig woman’s suggestion and read from the bible. Random verses, focusing on none in particular. After class, I saw the mayor, expected another scolding, but was met with only a smile and nod.
This entry ends my spare ink bottle, leaving me with the last and the smallest of the five. Unless there is an emergency, I will use my spare time for much deserved sleep. Since the death of Finney, the townsfolk have been far too compliant to return to the woods. Aiden mentioned that today was their most productive day. Let us see if it lasts.
Entry 23
Two men disappeared today. Despite the confusion among the townsfolk, I managed to find Walter and ask for another order of ink bottles. Free of charge, he grumbled. I do not think he was as bothered as he sounded, and I am sure he will make the delivery two weeks from now. Though I miss you dearly, my time has been spread thin between tending to children and my despondent husband.
One of the missing men is his closest friend. Since early childhood, long before their arrival on the island. They are like brothers, he repeatedly reminds me whenever he is not scouring the woods on his own with a lantern. An extensive manhunt took place that night, as well as a fairly large search party during the day. Not even a trace.
Aiden has gone over the story enough times for me to give a decent account. I think it is worth going over in detail after the strange discovery a few hours ago. If not for his delirious behavior, I would be with him searching the spot right now instead of telling you about it.
The group finished surveying the entrance to one of the caverns at the western edge of the island, near one of the more stable cliffs. Gerald confirmed a few mineral deposits that provided evidence for coal, a resource we are lacking. Vern’s group, consisting of Eric, Quincy, and Caleb, were in charge of measuring the cavern’s circumference. By nightfall, when everyone was packing up, the absence of this group was quickly noticed. A short search found Quincy and Eric. For the past hour, they had been scouring every inch of the vicinity for the other two.
The ten-man party searched for hours, along every nook and cranny of the rocky hills. No evidence of them entering the cavern existed, nor evidence of them venturing farther than its mouth. They quite literally disappeared, and when some of them began to blame superstitious causes, the others were wise enough to continue in the early morning. Unfortunately, a daytime expedition proved equally useless, and the majority had the misfortune of convincing the rest that it was cutting into work hours. After all, their discovery proved this barren rock had a precious resource.
Aiden led another search party that night. They exhausted all charted territory, and in their desperation, continued into the largely unknown northern section. Considered an extension of the woodlands, we have avoided it out of presumed uselessness rather than danger. It’s an ideal location where we can expand our town when it becomes too cramped, and for now, it’s the primary source for chopping wood. The foliage is particularly thick in that area. It is somewhat dim during the day, but the canopy utterly blots out the moonlight. The search was a worthless endeavor, and much of the search party quickly turned back. With no time to look during the day, Aiden was particularly desperate.
The lantern was little more effective than a match light in the pitch darkness. It was enough to see the ground, which was enough to satisfy the explorers. Unlike the trees, the grass was sparse, and the ground quite muddy this time of year. The tracks would make tomorrow's expedition easier, Aiden insisted, unfazed by the oddity they came across. I have only his description, and vague as it is, I am intrigued:
A silky web wrapped around two tree trunks glimmered in the distance like a string of pearls. Even without a light cast, the substance intermittently shimmered. They carefully approached the web, expecting a large and hungry exotic spider. Aiden poked at it with a stick, gently, as though destroying the construct would invoke the arachnid’s wrath. The strings were tough as rope, and when he rubbed the stick with a bit more pressure, it scraped the bark, leaving the web unharmed.
They were too tired to go on, though Aiden knows they were spooked. He admits it, insisting on going during the day tomorrow. He has no doubt the mayor will allow him to continue the search, since his presence is not necessary for the cavern survey. I am certain this will happen, and if I can convince Aiden to delay his trip until later morning, I will assist him.
Caleb is a peer and a good friend, and Vern is a friend to my uncle and was an ally to my father during the Finney debacle. The thought of them rotting in the wilderness is troublesome. My curiosity also requires satiating. I despise spiders, but if my intuition is as dependable as usual, that web was not formed by any known arachnid. That would be an immense comfort, for nothing is more loathsome than insects and their ilk.
Until I see this marvel myself, there is no use speculating. I only hope for something out of ordinary, just for a little spark of excitement. Anything to dull the pains of drudgery, even if it is a wooly rainbow-colored spider.
Entry 24
My wish in the last entry was granted. A waning ink supply leaves me no choice but to choose my words carefully, though my mind is brimming with thoughts.
Despite Aiden’s urgency, we were able to set up a picnic at one of the glades he told me about earlier. It was a temporary respite from the problem at hand. For almost an hour, we chatted and laughed, waxing nostalgic on events that occurred two years ago. Aiden had arrived on the island only weeks before me, a humbling realization on my part because I assumed everyone here had simply always been here. He spoke frankly of his childhood as something of a farm hand, until his family’s livestock was slaughtered and territory occupied by soldiers. His father enlisted, leaving him and his brother and mother to live like scavengers on their own property. His brother and mother died of cholera shortly before the war ended. Upon returning for the war, his father mistook Aiden for a crazed brigand and nearly killed him. The poor man had received a letter notifying him of his family’s death, including Aiden.
And for the next year, he and Aiden did become brigands. It was during this period he befriended Caleb and a few other government insurgents. Though Aiden claims otherwise, I believe my father fell amongst this group, and his actions left him in their poor graces. These rebels made up a small portion of our community. To call them such is unfair, for our presence on this island makes
us all mutineers by default. I suppose such labels no longer matter, since we are not an extension of our homeland, but rather something else entirely. At least we hope it so.
Our pleasant lunch is not important. Afterward, Aiden had taken on a grave tone and insisted I return. This angered me quite a bit, so much that I left our belongings behind. Nothing of value, merely a blanket and empty wicker basket. This leaves me with a thought: we came back the same way, right through the glade, and these objects were nowhere. Perhaps I was too preoccupied to notice.
The trip was strange from the start. The muddy footprints were easy enough to spot, but Aiden claims the trees were all wrong. For instance, he remembered resting on a large rock to refresh his lantern right under the hanging branch that kept rubbing against the back of his neck. The branch was still there, as well as the tree, only a dozen paces to the right. It had switched places with a tree with a thin trunk, about as tall as either of us and flimsy enough to snap with a wrist flick. We saw a few more of these younger looking trees, none of which Aiden recognized.
And of course, there was no crystalline web where there tracks ended. Fortunately for Aiden, I still believed his testimony, which had been punctuated with an angry outburst that could not be feigned. My husband is not the whimsical type, prone to fabrications and dramatic displays. That would be his wife.
Since it had only been a few hours, we continued along, marking the trees with carvings. Either out of anger or to be more precise, Aiden hacked the thinner trees with his machete, lopping them in half with two or three swift swipes. I did not attempt to assuage his sour mood, too busy soaking up the sights. I had never traveled so far from civilization on foot. It may have been a few miles, but it felt like an empty continent lay between us and home. Not so much the lack of anything discernibly manmade as the lack of sound, other than crunching twigs and the sucking mud under our heels. I did hear an occasional bird chirp, and much later, the sound of rushing water.
