Dear Muse (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 1)

by Shawn Mackey

  The scoundrel had impeccable aim. Each stone struck every inch of my body, never the face after the first. I tripped several times, bloodying my nose on the ground, inches away from another exposed root. Fortunately, despite all my scrapes and bruises, running back made the trip drastically shorter. I was winded, and upon leaving the woodland path, looked back for any sign of my assailant. No yellow eyes or darting shadows. Not even a peep. Nothing.

  Back home, I immediately tore off my clothes to assess the damage. My back was especially sore, taking the brunt of the hits, but I could not get a decent view in the mirror. I drew a bath and did a remarkable job of tending to the worst of the wounds, though there was no accounting for my split chin.

  I almost avoided Aiden. As I finished dressing the wounds, searching for suitable attire, he clumsily stumbled into the room. Drowsily inspecting me for a few seconds, he seized my shoulder and got a closer look at my face. I told him everything. Kantos, the winged men, and Vern. He listened without word, sitting at the table, head tucked in his arms. I thought he fell asleep, but after a long silence, he lifted his face, revealing eyes swollen with tears.

  Since our wedding, whenever Aiden and I are together, the conversation always steers to how lucky he is to have married a beautiful woman like me. Meanwhile, here I am, cavorting into the dead of night with monsters and spirits. After the last month, he has every right to kick me out of the door. Everyone knows this, and when they see my wounded face, they will come to despicable conclusions.

  All this cost him a child. I did not think he cared, that he could always try again, though it was going to be different from here on. Aiden knew the truth: I did not want a child. Whether the miscarriage was deliberate was not up for discussion. I could not comfort him, for in that moment I was a scourge on his unfortunate life.

  No more ventures into the woods. What did I learn from all this? This island is full of monsters and it is only a matter of time before they come into our homes.

  Entry 37

  Seeing the children again brought the first moment of joy in weeks. Rather than clamoring during attendance, they were perfect models of good behavior, hands folded neatly on their desks and heads upright. I opened the textbook and skimmed through the pages, looking for the location of the last lesson, unable to recall the subject, let alone the right book. As I started to look through another book, one of the girls asked if I had a baby now. I merely shook my head, unwilling to touch the subject. Phoebe whispered that my child had died, and the girl let out a sharp gasp. Who killed my baby? I slammed the book shut and told Phoebe to sit in the corner.

  I hated to reprimand my favorite student, though I respected her ability to face the wall with an uncharacteristic steeliness. I mistook it for endurance for punishment. A few minutes into the lecture, she started to cough. Small and dainty at first, then loud and ostensibly obnoxious. I mistook it for defiance, and judging by the giggles from her peers, I was not alone. The coughs sounded hoarse, like barking, something that belonged to an old man and not a young lady. I beat my fist against my desk, unwilling to lose my brightest student to the vice of foolery, screaming that she turn around. Instead of doing so, she burst into tears, letting loose that awful sounding cough between sobs. I grabbed her shoulder and whipped her body around, far rougher than I intended.

  Two thin strands of blood dripped from her mouth, one in a corner and another down her lip and chin. It was quite a shock. My reaction caused the class to panic. I dabbed the blood from Phoebe’s face and sat her down at my desk, told the others to wait, then ran to the doctor’s house. He usually joined the others on their expedition, and fortunately it was not one of those days.

  Her mother later mentioned Phoebe coughing throughout the night, not nearly as severe as her current state. She was not running a fever at the time, so packing an extra layer of clothes on the girl seemed suitable enough. No one can begrudge her decision. Phoebe had been fine one moment and coughing blood the next.

  I visited the doctor a few hours ago and found out two more children are running temperatures, one of them with a similar cough. We have a decent supply of medicine, but the sickness is potentially lethal in children regardless of precautions. I asked for the odds and received a brusque shrug in response. If this turns into an outbreak, he will need assistance. Our other doctor is a glorified assistant, and the third a budding student before his arrival.

  I may have a penchant for the dramatic, but I am far too distraught to write more on the subject. There is a death sentence hanging over my beloved students, and unless a miracle graces this wretched island, I

  Entry 38

  Every one of my students has been afflicted by this plague. The symptoms are far worse than coughing; their whole bodies are covered in leathery red pustules that secrete a slimy, white substance. I remember the foul stink after the quake, and the emissions resemble the pulsing fluid from the webbings. Many of the residents suspect a supernatural sickness, contrary to the doctor’s insistence that such a disease is similar to many known cases. I am sure he has doubts, since the illness is isolated to the children, while the rest are at peak health.

  Now the entire community is at stake. A meeting was held in the town hall this morning, attended by anyone not caring for the sick. The excavation has not only been put on hold, but the vast majority wishes to leave the island. Some are more adamant than others. These went straight to the beach and started constructing a boat. Those uninvolved in the construction watched from a distance.

  The dissidents were led by a man named Clint. During the meeting, he claimed to have built hundreds of boats in his lifetime, and with his instruction, they could have one built by tomorrow night. They instantly ransacked the island’s wood supply and stole equipment for chopping. I say stole because there was no permission granted, though I am sure these men had every intention of returning the equipment upon finishing.

  For a few hours, they met no protest. The mayor stewed in his house while a quarter of the town’s population earnestly worked on their new project. They were ready to leave, and no one else could deny the fact, despite our golden rule. If not for their impatience, they may have succeeded.

  One of the men building the boat taunted the watchers. It started as an ill-humored plea, and as others joined, became full on insults. They were not invited aboard, nor were their sick children, without the sweat of their labor. Not even the women. This may have swayed many of the watchers, causing most to leave. The desperation of the workers bordered on madness. The beach was littered with hewn logs, and it was unclear if they were going to build a gigantic raft or some other structure. No one questioned Clint’s instructions.

  The insults stopped for quite a while, until one of the men renewed them out of boredom. They were not going to bring back help, he shouted, and were going to spread word of the island’s existence. The entire community was going to be swept overnight, and a rich man would come and claim the cave’s treasures.

  David’s father, his name also David, walked up to the build site and seized an axe. Either the workers did not notice or assumed the goading had worked. Instead, David planted the axe into the shouting man’s skull. The reaction was more remarkable than the murder. The watchers were certainly shocked, but the workers did not flinch. David simply tossed the bloody axe aside and walked away. The small crowd at the edge of the beach parted as he moved past, which seemed to catch the attention of one of the workers. He pointed at the corpse and shouted murder. After repeating it three times, he managed to rouse the others.

  The workers halted their labor, weapons in hand, and approached the watchers. We simultaneously fled in haste. While the others did not speed up their chase, it was clear that they wanted David’s blood. Unlike the rest of us, he walked his merry way back to the village, a crazed grin on his face.

  The two groups merged near the town hall, the closest building to the beach. A third group armed with rifles arrived before words could be exchanged. Clint explained the situati
on, much in the way I have just laid out. David murdered out of pure spite and should be punished accordingly. Not so, I interjected. The man threatened to spread the island’s existence. The killing was a preventative measure, not a murder. I said his son’s sickness had clouded his judgment, and with the mayor’s absence, David merely took the matter into his own hands.

  Many of the workers attested to the man’s threats. The mob diffused, and Clint resorted to pleading for permission to build the ship. The mayor promptly denied. Clint proved relentless, pointing out that the number of men with axes outnumbered the men with rifles. The mayor pointed his rifle at Clint, who raised his axe, more so to shield himself than to attack. Without hesitation, the mayor fired directly into Clint’s forehead.

  The mayor ordered the wood brought back to the stock shed. Guided by the armed men, the dissidents returned to the beach and started to gather wood. The work proved more tiresome than their previous task, so the others dropped their rifles and provided assistance. The whole thing was doomed from the start, someone joked by the night’s end. When every scrap of wood was back in place, the chief concern was refocused to the children. The whole day was a sordid affair, and they were lucky it only cost them two men.

  The image of the mayor’s cold and calculating countenance after he pulled the trigger still lingers in my mind. I am not alone in this observation. If he had carried it out meekly or tried to be diplomatic with the dissenters, they would have rioted. It required an iron fist, which he delivered impressively. I may not be an admirer of the man, but I gained a bit of respect for his actions. It helps that it curbed a violent struggle, one that involved Aiden, my uncle, and Father. I hope their loyalty has been duly noted.

  A rebellion of some sort is inevitable. What will it take? A mysterious illness has stricken our children, and it only prompted a minor setback. Or am I wrong? The night is young, and though Clint’s death may have turned some weaker stomachs, there must be a few harboring bitter resentment. An open conflict is doubtful. If I were the mayor, I would sleep with one eye open.

  I, on the other hand, as the brightest and best-looking female, shall rest easy knowing there will not be a dagger planted in my belly during sleep. It is the children that trouble me. The doctor’s diagnosis seemed less grim today. Their conditions have stabilized at a moderate fever, and the pox drip less puss. The fatality of such illnesses usually occurs in the first day, and two days have passed. With that shred of hope, perhaps I will sleep soundly.

  It is still early and I am far from tired, so allow me to ramble off a theory. It seems our community has been troubled since the earthquake. I may be wrong, since the decision to chart the caves preceded the minor disaster. It may not be a stretch to connect Kantos, the winged men, and the web with the cave. Surely it was opened by the quake. What sealed it? Perhaps the same thing that previously sealed it before the quake.

  One bit of anxiety I cannot shake. If all these events are connected to the plague, then I am responsible for them. My interaction with Kantos, the destruction of the webbing, and interrupting those human insects from their meal has agitated something. The sickness is a product of that disruption. Some think me a witch, causing these events through black magic and whatnot. Their belief may be a bit off, but they are not wrong to setting the blame. If I were to peruse past entries, my intent would surely reveal impurity.

  Do not judge me, friend, and do not pity me. Instead, pray for the children. Lady Luck may be incurably fickle, but I am sure she would see these children cured of their ails. Before bad turns to worse, I am sure an intervention will occur. Who could be as damnably cruel as to stricken these children with such a grotesque pestilence? Is their suffering not enough? Must you claim their lives?

  Enough prattling. Expect good news in my next entry. I will not accept the bad.

  Entry 39

  Our town is at war. There is nothing civil about it. No coherent factions or allegiances. Janice’s husband, Peter, saved my father’s life two nights ago. And then, a mere hour ago, he crept into our house with a knife, ready to plunge the blade into my belly. Somehow it woke Aiden, who managed to seize my assailant’s wrists and wrestle him to the floor. I stuck Peter in the back of his neck with a letter opener. It was not enough to kill him, but Aiden made sure to finish the job. I did not enjoy watching my best friend’s husband bleed out on our floor, even if he had intended on killing me in my sleep.

  I just finished bandaging poor Aiden’s hand, slice horizontally through the palm during the struggle. He is in the kitchen speaking to my uncle, their conversation focused on the state of my father. He is not well.

  It all started the night after the boat incident. My hunch proved correct: certain people wanted to make an attempt on the mayor’s life. One of them spoke a little too openly, and word quickly spread to the mayor. Six men were implicated in the conspiracy. They were fuming over the death of Clint and, like the last group, a man named Gordon held them together. Discreetly kill Gordon and the others would move on.

  Our cowardly mayor sent my father to do the deed. Father knew Gordon well enough to get him alone. The cause of death was strangulation, but I have not been made privy of the details leading up to it. Gordon was declared missing in hours, and according to his wife, last seen with my father. Though her husband had not mentioned his reason for leaving, she saw them headed into the woods together. The likelihood of her actually seeing this is nil, and if she were lying, implicating my father was the perfect target. Either way, it was the truth.

  There was no formal meeting, not even a discussion on the most civil approach to the accusation. A lynch mob came to my parents’ home, fired ten shots at my father and uncle, who were lounging outside. A few bullets pierced the house, one hitting a pot of boiling water on the stove and scalding my mother’s ankles. That may seem miraculous, considering their abysmal aim. One bullet hit my father’s shoulder and another nicked my uncle’s forearm. They were able to flee, and in the next volley, the assailants hit more houses in the crossfire.

  No one came to my family’s aid. They ran from house to house, crying for help, and did not receive a single reply. This eventually led them to my house. I was in the middle of cooking dinner when they barged through the front door. Aiden ran for the window, then dashed across the room and tackled me to the ground, practically grinding my face against the floor. Under the bed, he shouted, crawling for his rifle. My uncle took the spare, and for quite some time, he and Aiden each stood guard at a window, occasionally returning fire against the barrage.

  I hid under the bed, hands clasped firmly against my ears. Bullets pierced the walls of my room; one even took out a large portion of the bed post. I felt the impact, realizing I was just as much a sitting duck under cover. This was about an hour through the fray. Maybe less. The whole event felt like a really long minute. As I crawled from my hiding place, words were finally exchanged.

  My husband had killed four of the ten assailants, three of which were brazen enough to make a charge at the house. They were not getting in, my uncle easily convinced them, and if they left at once, the matter could be solved peacefully. They demanded my father. He was not here, my uncle said, so convincingly I nearly believed him. My father hid behind a dresser, clutching his wounded shoulder.

  They continued firing at the house, wasting bullets and putting holes in our furniture, until the cavalry arrived. The mayor finally stepped in to settle the dispute. My father will go on trial, and unless proof of the murder surfaces, four lives were wasted for no good reason. They dispersed, and the mayor got off his horse and walked into my house without invitation. I would be compensated for my losses, he said, quickly glancing over Aiden and my uncle before leaving. After declaring the four men officially dead, the doctor tended to my father.

  I asked about my mother and received no reply. It took some screaming, but Aiden and my uncle eventually went to check on her. They insisted on bringing her back, getting guns and supplies, etcetera. My house was located in
a more favorable part of town, for its view and my neighbors. The doctor left with them, insisting he would act as a shield, a jest that probably rang true. During their short absence, my father filled me in on the events leading up to the rampage. At the time, he truly felt indebted to the mayor and thought his actions would secure our place in this community. I saw no reason to argue. His intentions seemed sound, and it was only natural he bungle everything again.

  I had no privacy and very little sleep. The men took turns throughout the night watching the outside. Everyone had a gun, including me. If I had it my way, I would have shot the mayor and ended this whole bloody business. Let the dissatisfied leave. At this rate, we were going to cannibalize ourselves. I assumed the mayor would pardon everyone, realize the destructive potential of the dissidents, and allow them to leave next time Walter arrived. Surely they could last another three days.

  Father’s trial proved to be another disaster. The mayor explained the events to those present (more than half the populace) and asked my father about his whereabouts on the evening of Gordon’s death. Rather than answer the question, he immediately implicated the mayor, and after a solid minute of collective gasps and chattering, he went on to explain Gordon’s plot and named the others involved. Four of them were dead and the only survivor was not present. The trial was paused while a group went to his home and literally dragged him onto the stand.

  His name was Howard. The mayor went on to question him about the plot. Howard was surprisingly candid, personally addressing the mayor when describing their plan to kill him. “Do what Finney should have done.” Why go directly to my father? They were going to kill him before leaving. What about his family? No, as long as they did not get in the way. Why kill my father? He is a bad person. When pressed, Howard would not elaborate. He may have lacked the words, but his scornful eyes did not leave my father the entire trial.