by Shawn Mackey
Guided by the same tune as the other night, I found myself at the craggy hill within an hour. From there, it was only a matter of skirting around the base’s circumference.
Though I brought a lantern on this venture, the moon has been my guide thus far. I am afraid it is in cahoots with the night, casting fearsome shadows and providing light where it is unnecessary. There are nooks and crannies untouched by its gleam. All sorts of nastiness burrow through these crevices after sunset. I am sure a few manage to avoid the daylight altogether.
I intended to pierce these impenetrable cracks. The rocky hills form strange archways that must be descended to view. These gateways are less craggy than the surrounding area. If one were to misstep, one could easily snap their ankle in two between the gaps, seemingly set up like a vast array of traps by nature itself.
The lantern flame danced with each chilly breeze. The wind’s gentle touch contrasted to the tempestuous sound. This was the first sign of danger. The sweet scent seemed to coagulate under my nose, taking on a musky quality that meant the source was near. It no longer smelled inviting. Only a human would wander into a lion’s den with no comprehension of danger.
Whatever lay in those hills did not wish to communicate with me. I ignored my better instincts and continued to tread under the archway. I would have walked into the mouth of a dragon if it would mean one glimpse of the mythical beast.
I hugged close to the smooth rocks as my torch flickered. A strong gust that whistled, as though exhaled between a giant’s lips, extinguished the flame. I tossed the lantern in disgust, smashing it onto the pebbled path. It was far too dark to climb up the rocks. Since I had no way of returning until day, and little fear of the relatively inviting passage (discounting the ominous scents and sounds), I went further under the archway.
It did not take long to realize this was no mere archway; it was the mouth of a cavern. The darkness became an unbearable pitch. I considered going back and waiting at the hill’s bottom. Then I heard the familiar melody.
As a tall figure approached with a hopping gait, my body froze in a mixture of fear and awe, yet my mind was as rational as ever. Here was a hermit. Why was he here? Did he know of our town? Was he beckoning me with that song? Could he even see me in this darkness? My eyes began to adjust, and other questions crossed my mind. Will he harm me? Is he human? Am I going to die?
A curved bone jutted from the side of his broad forehead, his eye sockets illuminated by two yellow dots. He held some kind of instrument to his mouth, his long fingers dancing across holes as he blew into the hollow end. It was a horn, and when he came closer, I noticed it was identical to the one protruding from his skull.
He stopped a few feet in front of me, lowered the instrument, and nodded his large shaggy head. I reciprocated the gesture with a small smile. Surely something capable of a friendly nod does not dine on humans.
The creature circled me with a bouncy sort of trot. Each hop was like an amphibious spring, and I half expected to be pounced. He suddenly ceased, blew a few notes into his flute, then nodded once again. I clapped with a smile, and asked for an encore. He took a quick step back, tripped over a log and fell onto his rear, shocked that I could speak. His voice was throaty and hoarse, though easy enough to understand. He told me his name was Kantos, and he tipped his head back with a cackle. He sounded like a mean-spirited sheep, if that makes any sense. I did not like it one bit.
Yet I cannot deny his friendly demeanor. We spoke for quite some time as he sipped away at a bottle of wine. Kantos, whether man or beast, or perhaps both, was more candid than necessary, leaving the conversation more one-sided on his end.
Kantos comes from the cave’s other side, on an island much like this one. The entrance does not open on his side, leaving him an exile. The white wine bottle, which he continued to gulp down, is responsible for his lost wits, causing him to drunkenly stumble into the cave and wander into the other side. The bottle was a gift from Lefnir, his black-hearted brother, and had been cursed to never run empty. Kantos had plenty of mean-spirited words for his sibling.
The bottle truly was enchanted, for he drank enough to empty it at least a dozen times over. I was parched, and curious about the taste of otherworldly wine, so I asked for a sip. He was not hesitant to share. Though it looked full, the bottle felt empty. I tipped it back, feeling the flavorless cold liquid run into my mouth and turn to air as it hit the back of my throat. The last drop felt like ice stuck to my tonsils. The chill gradually dispersed, sinking down my throat and chest, settling in my stomach.
Kantos was so pleased, he started to toot on his horn while hopping circles around the campfire. After playing the short song, he grabbed the bottle for a sip of wine. Upon finding it empty, he angrily tossed it into the cavern. The bottle disappeared into the darkness without a sound.
I asked Kantos to tell me about Lakustria. He merely shook his head. I asked about Vern and Caleb, garnering the same response. As I opened my mouth to ask about the winged men, he started to shake his head. Now angrier than he, I stood and kicked dirt into his fire. He flinched with a squeal. Return tomorrow, he said, with a bottle of wine. I was left with a cramped stomach and no answers.
I managed to climb back with the help of sunset. The beast’s final words rang through my thoughts like an ill omen. What did I drink? It churned in my stomach like thick syrup. During my sprint home, I expected to vomit at any moment. Until I reached the grassy fields near my parents’ house, I did not question the reality of the night’s events. It started to fade like the memory of a vivid dream.
People saw me return. When Aiden wakes up in a few minutes, I will have to account for our missing lantern, as well. Perhaps I should feign sleep. I am exhausted, yet my aching belly will not allow me to rest. It is the only proof of this outlandish experience. Did I hit my head, or is there truly some hermit beast man in the hills? It is too soon to contemplate such madness. Sleep will renew my mind and alleviate my gurgling stomach.
Entry 33
My troubles are no more. I will not dwell on much in this entry, for it shall merely serve as an introduction to the next. I would rather skip it altogether. Never say I did not consider you, friend. It is rude to skip around without the audience in mind.
I was woken up by a shriek. As I wiped the sleep from my eyes, the sound of inaudible chatter nearby conveyed something had happened. For a moment, I was baffled by the screaming and the voices I could not understand. I soon realized that I had slept well into the day, and those people were both inside and outside my house. I slowly recognized them as my family and the mayor. He and Father were pacing outside my door. My uncle was comforting Mother, who was weeping right by my window.
Was I dreaming my own funeral? I opened my mouth to speak, but the words would not form. I had nothing to say, nor did I care for my mourning family.
I awoke again to Father softly calling my name. When we locked eyes, I noticed he was crying. This was cause for alarm. I swiped away the sheets and attempted to leap out of bed. Father seized me roughly by the shoulders and pinned me back down. Judging by the flare in his gaze, it was more out of fear than anger. His fury was too icy for expression.
His outburst was the jolt I needed to regain hold of my senses. The situation presented itself, though I was far more baffled than scared. The sight seemed utterly removed from reality.
A red trail passed from my bed sheets to the doorway, curving a sharp right to the kitchen. I looked down and found my legs drenched, as well. I reached down to feel my scabbed thighs and realized the lower half of my body was numb. I pinched as hard as I could and felt a mere semblance of pain to reassure myself that I was awake.
Father explained the situation in fewer words than usual. When I did not show up for class, a few parents went to the mayor to complain. While looking for me, they noticed a trail of fresh blood that led to my front door. The trail passed through the town, and the mayor and a few others were following it. What lay at the end would determine my fa
te. I was seen running from that direction last night by numerous witnesses he would not name. Aiden was tied up in the town hall for going berserk. He would not elaborate on my husband’s actions or his current condition.
My uncle walked through the doorway with his arms crossed. He would not look at me. After an awkward minute of silence, he asked Father to check on my mother, who was still outside crying. As he left, my uncle took the seat at my desk and pulled it up to the bed. He asked me why I had left town in the middle of the night and if I had eaten or drank anything in the wilderness.
I told him about Kantos and the cursed wine bottle. He nodded every few seconds, never taking his unblinking eyes off me, considering every detail with the utmost seriousness. When my story came to an end, he stood and walked out of the room. I expected him to return in a minute or so. The numbness gradually left my limbs as hours passed, and the day came to a close.
I heard the mayor talking to my uncle outside. I rushed out of bed and to the window. Though their tones were hushed, I heard every word. The trail led to the hills and abruptly stopped near the entrance to a cave. My uncle mentioned that I had been there and asked the mayor if he had seen anything out of the ordinary. The trail’s arc pointed towards the cave, rather than away, confirming that it originated from my room. The blood left behind was more akin to a slug’s slime than leaking from an open wound. This bizarre detail, no matter how baffling, saved Aiden from any hasty and irrational justice. I was to be confined for the night, after the doctor asked a few questions.
I was not permitted to wash off until the doctor fully examined me. He had followed the expedition to the hills, frequently mentioning the impossibility of it all. No one could lose that much blood and live, he said. Coupled with the trail’s movement pattern, there was little room for doubt:
My child, born prematurely, crawled out of my womb and slithered into the wilderness. All this happened in broad daylight, right under our noses. Even more unbelievable, I did not feel an ounce of pain. Not even discomfort! Has a woman ever slept through childbirth? Then again, has any given birth to something so foul? I cannot imagine an abomination that secretes blood like slime. Surely my mind will conjure an image at the most inconvenient moment and haunt my nightmares until the day I die. Let us hope it stays in the confines of my imagination.
The doctor asked enough questions to fill these pages ten times over. Most pertained to my mental health, as well as Aiden. He could not answer my questions. I was not ill. He knew it and I knew it. I will not go into details on the examination. His only concern was my health, and as far as he could tell, I was as well off as yesterday.
Aiden was probably getting the brunt of it. They would not allow me to see him, let alone pass a message. There seemed to be some conspiracy, though I suppose it was more than warranted. I was taking the whole ordeal better than anyone else. They were stern faced and wary, while I was preoccupied.
After all, I had an appointment to keep. I refused to be upstaged by that beastly Kantos. No doubt he planned this disaster. I will not allow him to have a laugh at my expense. I intended to return and smash that bottle of poisonous wine over his disfigured skull.
My escape was spontaneous and sloppy. My uncle sat outside my house in a rocking chair, swaying up and down to keep awake. I armed myself with a frying pan, and as I snuck beside him, he turned his head in time to see me rear my arms over my head. Before he could reach, I swung with all my strength, bashing him in the temple. He slumped off the chair with a grunt, clutching the spot my masterfully aimed blow had struck.
The whole trip to the cave is a blur. I can recall looking over my shoulder quite a few times and tripping once or twice. I tossed the frying pan at some point. When I reached my destination, I caught my breath and climbed down to the archway. At the pitch-dark entrance, a scratchy echo greeted me. I wandered like a blind woman until my eyes finally adjusted.
Kantos sat on a smooth boulder, wiping his instrument with his shaggy arm. I approached slowly, hoping to at least startle the wretch. He didn’t budge, so I walked up to the campfire and sat on the log. He remained seated on the adjacent stump and stared directly into my eyes. The fire caused his pupils to gleam white hot. I had to look away.
“We are not alone,” he said. I did not look past his grisly face.
I noted a marked difference in his cadence, a sort of sophistication drowned by his beastly voice. He pressed the horn against his black lips, blew a note, then put it on his lap with a leery gaze. I did not like those eyes.
And so he told me of the battle between Vargrim and Lefnir on the island in the center of Lakustria.
Entry 34
Alas, I am imprisoned in my home, literally chained to my bedpost. I can wander around the room, under close guard by my uncle, who is quite lax considering I nearly killed him. He insists on believing my story, but I know he is merely humoring my sick mind. Mother is frightened to death of me, and Father is ashamed. I am not permitted to speak with Aiden. My actions have threatened their status in the community. We may be exiled.
Do these rustic halfwits think I will leave this island on their command? They seem to have forgotten the terms of their own customs. By marrying Aiden, I am bound by him, not my parents. Unless they intend to also exile him, I will remain chained to this bed until I decide to chew through my leg.
Should I feign sanity, even if I am not insane? I require one more trip to Kantos. I will not accept less, nor ask for more. I need the third act. Is that asking for too much? I will bend to the town’s will for now. I will be the teacher and the devoted wife. They may keep their watchful eye on me. It does not matter. All I need is for them to blink. They may know these woods, but they do not know its secrets. I have heard its song, and when the time is right, I may share it with them. This can only be made possible with the third act. I need it!
As I put word to paper, I contemplate the cost of the all great stories. How many children died by their own folly before the first fairy tale? How many murders for the sake of justice before the birth of tragedy? How many broken hearts before the first poem put to meter? One could probably fill an ocean with the blood spilled in an epic. Taking account all the world’s stories, it’s a wonder we aren’t up to our noses in metaphysical gore. The bones of our ancestors are mere sprinklings of filth under the earth’s flesh. The musings of its inhabitants count for even less. Until today, all of mankind’s suffering, whether experienced or imagined, was for naught.
I suppose the battle between Lefnir and Vargrim should be recorded. It is something of a prelude to the third act, not quite part of the second but something in between. All that matters is the violence. I hope the brutality spills from these pages and slaughters my captors.
They believe I am mad, only because they do not know this island is mine, bought and claimed through blood and pain of a war long over, inherited by me through the victor’s birthright.
The lake’s waters gently crashed against the island’s tiny beach, barren of life and almost tranquil. Vargrim dragged the boat onto the shore. Talon, his eagle, perched on his shoulder and Tooth, his wolf, crouched at his feet. He proclaimed his arrival with a booming shout, a formal challenge to Lefnir. A duel was preferable, but if it went unanswered, he would have no qualms annihilating life from the island, from toad to behemoth, even the vegetation left unsated.
Until the coming of Lefnir, Vargrim saw the island as a matter of sport, sometimes bordering on filial piety. His father, Gar, taught him every method of combat, passed down from their ancestors. It often felt as though the entire island and its spawn were a gift entrusted to Vargrim in exchange for continuing the Hunt.
Vargrim’s companions were as valuable as his arms. Without them, he would be at a disadvantage to the island spawn, which were doubtlessly in league with Lefnir. Nothing on legs was a match for Tooth, and Talon was the master of the sky. His companions were well versed in the art of combat. Vargrim procured a bone from his pocket. The tip of Lefnir’s claw had
lodged inside, a piece so small it was hardly visible. Trusty Tooth was able to pick up the scent and darted toward the trees, while Talon launched into the air to scout the skies. Vargrim, sword in hand, followed closely behind his companions.
They traveled quite far without being attacked. The usually hostile menace either waited in ambush or had been made docile by Lefnir’s presence. A few soldiers mentioned this odd behavior during the last battle, having been attacked assumedly out of desperation rather than the usual malice. Something was amiss. Vargrim smelled it. His nostrils had never wafted a scent so foul. Whatever this new presence actually was, its rank odor permeated the air, which had become so thick it was difficult to breathe. He tore off his cloak and went deeper into the woods.
A hungry lion leapt at Vargrim in a fit of ferocious desperation. It went straight for the throat and was about to clamp its slavering jaw around its target, but Tooth struck first. The wolf’s fangs tore a chunk from the lion’s neck in midair, and the beast was dead before crumbling to the ground in a scrawny heap. Tooth stared proudly at his master, a tuft of yellow hair hanging from his bloody maw.
Talon let out a shrill screech. The alarm was too late, for Vargrim was not quick enough to unsheathe his sword. A large figure had jumped from the treetop and battered into his side. In one swipe, it sent Tooth hurtling into the sky. The split second distraction allowed Vargrim to get on his feet and face the newcomer on even ground. He expected his foe Lefnir, and instead saw an albino gorilla, hairless and red eyed.
It squatted down with a growl, flashing a mouthful of white fangs. Vargrim brought his fist upward as the gorilla pounced, striking right beneath its chin, shattering its pearly white teeth and sending it sprawling into a tree. The gorilla barely managed to rise, spitting out chunks of splintered enamel. In a furious daze, it charged Vargrim, who wished to end the battle barehanded. He sunk his fist into the beast’s gut. The blow knocked the air from its lungs, but was not enough to fend an attack. The gorilla wrapped its long arms around Vargrim, locking him tight and leaving him unable to breathe. It chomped on his shoulder with bloody gums, causing more pain to itself than Vargrim. When it let out a cry, Vargrim bashed his forehead into the creature’s nose. It let loose its grip with another roar. As the gorilla turned to flee, Vargrim leapt onto its back and wrapped his hands around its neck. Before the beast could break free from his grasp, he clenched his fingers until they snapped muscle and bone. He released his adversary, dropping the body into a stiff heap.
