In Sickness and in Hell
-a collection of unusual stories-
Stefan Barkow
Copyright © 2014 Stefan Barkow
www.stefanbarkow.com
Cover photo by Katherine Murray Photography, LLC
www.katemurrayphotography.com
Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design, Inc. www.gobookcoverdesign.com
All rights reserved. “Hi, My Name is Grace” may not be performed without the express written permission of the author.
FoxBo Books
Chesterton, Indiana
Print edition ISBN: 0692288333
Print edition ISBN-13: 978-0692288337
To those who encouraged me to explore, and to those willing to look at what I brought back. Thank you all.
Table Of Contents
Mystral
These Woods Are Dark
What Is Lucy for?
I Loved You Once and Forever, pt. 1
The Last Report from the Front Line
The Definition
I Loved You Once and Forever, pt. 2
In Sickness and in Hell
Jen, Now
Medium
Forgive Me, Father
Hi, My Name Is Grace
Mystral
When I wake, the drums have already begun. I sit up in my nest of furs to listen. There is a rustling from just outside my family’s tent, along the southern-facing side.
“Tuluk?” I say.
The sound stops. “I am here, sister,” says my older brother, Tuluk. His voice sounds strained, as though he regrets waking me. He must have hoped that I would sleep through the ritual.
I hear the sand beneath his feet as he comes around the tent, and then the flap of the animal skin that hangs over the doorway when he pushes it aside.
From where I sit, I hold out my hands to him. He comes to me and takes both of my hands in one of his, pulling me up.
“You came for your drum?” I say.
“Yes.”
“Let me touch it?”
He hesitates. I know that he doesn’t want me to, for fear the gods will be offended, but he presses it into my hands anyway.
I had forgotten how heavy it was. It is as big as the basket that holds my clothes, with tall sides and a round top three times the size of my hand. I rub the smooth deerskin, then the rough leather thongs woven over the thick wood of the drum’s body to keep the skin taut. I tuck the drum under my right arm and lift my hand, but Tuluk sees what I am about to do and catches my wrist. He pulls the drum from my arms, and I do not resist him.
“Is father at the idol with the others?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers. He is farther away from me now. Near the entrance.
“And mother?”
“I don’t have time, Mystral. I must go.” Another hesitation. Then, quieter, “They’re starting soon.”
“Please,” I say, “help me dress.”
But instead I hear a soft thunk when his drum strikes one of the thin tree trunks that give our tent shape, and the sound of the animal skin falling closed behind him, muffling the drumming from outside once more.
Alone again, I sit. Beside my furs I feel for the familiar texture of my basket. Carefully, I take each bit of clothing out one by one until I find what I want. Buried at the bottom, wrinkled but clean, the only dress I have ever owned.
I slip it over my head. The fabric is soft. It has no sleeves, and when I stand the hem grazes my knees. It was a gift from my mother. She tells me it is a vibrant green, like the broad-bladed grasses that grow to the north of our village. These words mean nothing to me, but I have never told her that.
Outside, I crouch low so that I won’t trip over anything. To my left there is the crackling of a fire. To my right, more drums have joined those of the elders. With one voice, the drums call to the gods, hoping to get their attention. Our sacrifice must not go unnoticed or else we will all die.
I release the waxy skin of my family’s tent and head toward the idol. Where the drummers are. Where the elders are. Where the sacrifice will be.
I shuffle forward with my hands in front of me, letting the coarse sand sift between my toes. The air is cold on my bare arms. Now that I’m away from my tent, I can hear the rustling of a dying field of wheat to my left. It is a thousand death rattles, the last painful moment of life that goes on forever as the dry wind tortures the stalks. Like my people, dying the slow death.
Our village is small. In just a few minutes I’m nearly to the stone idol of Yllin, god of rain. With their drums my people are calling with one voice to the gods to look to us, and they are offering our best as a sacrifice. They are not calling for me.
Yllin stands in our village as a pale white rock. In this form, he is taller than I am. I do not know how tall he is; I cannot reach above him, so to me it is as though he goes on forever into the sky. Perhaps he is the sky, and that is how he brings his waters. I do not know. Even under the hot sun, Yllin is cool and moist to the touch. In the moonlight, I am told that Yllin sparkles.
For three weeks, I have gone to Yllin and pressed my hand against his firm body. For three weeks, he has not been cool or damp. Now, they say the streams flow only with dust and sand. We have gone without water in offering to him, but he has not returned to us or answered our pleas. Tonight, the elders have said that we must make the ritual of offering.
It is meant to be a secret who the elders will choose, but I know the one that they have picked. Her name is Aethna, and she is the most beautiful girl I have ever touched. We are not meant to talk of such things, but Aethna tells me thoughts that she does not tell the others. I think she forgets that I can speak. To her I am an invalid, capable of nothing. She is my best friend.
I know when I have come to the fire’s edge because even over the pounding of the drums there is a murmur of disapproval from those nearest me. I heard my mother talk of this when my father was not around to prevent her. She said that some of the elders spoke of offering me to Yllin instead. I know I had heard pride in her voice when she said it, but that pride was so quick to fade I must remind myself even now that I did not imagine it. They would be free of my burden, the elders had argued. My mother heard only that they thought her daughter enough to satiate the god. But others said I was unfit for the task, that offering one such as me would offend Yllin. Those voices convinced the others, and now I hear them all around me, whispering.
A thin hand finds my arm, pulls me away from the warmth of the fires. It is my mother, sent hurriedly by my father to stop me from disturbing the ceremony. Though I did not see Yllin, I know he was there before me, somewhere, his stone skin dry in the fire’s light, but I am led into the shadow of the meeting hall so that I will not be in the way. I wonder if the moon is out right now. I wonder if Yllin is sparkling in the light he borrows from his brother.
The ground shivers beneath my feet. The drums beat louder. My mother’s warm breath is in my ear. “Stay, Mystral. Stay,” she says. She gives me commands as if I am one of the dogs, and I obey her. She leaves my side and goes to sit with the rest of my family.
Alone again, I crouch. I grip the smooth stones that are the foundation of the meeting hall, letting my fingers map their texture as I listen to the drummers. I pretend for a time that I can make out the sound of each man’s hands on the skins. I hear the powerful strokes of Iedneth the elder, and I hear Tuluk’s careful work. I hear my father’s violent blows as well, and I know without question that it is him because he has beaten me with equal passion.
In the sand and dirt and stone beneath my feet I can tell how badly the land hurts, how thi
rsty it is to drink of Aethna’s sacrifice. It seems forever before they bring her out.
I do not know where she is, but I know that she is unclothed and beautiful. The elders have spent the day preparing her, starting with the last of our water and then with the oils that will make her skin glow in the moonlight as if she were made of the same pure stone as Yllin himself. I wish that I could touch her, because I know that Aethna is afraid.
And I wish that I could take her place.
I hear the drums shift as a passageway is made through the gathered men. Aethna, naked and pure, walks in bare feet towards Yllin. Aethna, naked and pure, kneels. Her fine straight hair parts across her neck as she bows her head into her folded hands.
The drums call louder; the sacrifice is ready, they say, our best is before you, look on us and give pity, Yllin! Take from us and give back, as you promised you would to the fathers of our ancestors!
It is all a lie, but only I know this. Aethna and I. She told me, during a time when she had forgotten that I too had words, how afraid she was. She did not want to be offered to Yllin, she said. She did not believe in him.
The drums beat faster, my people’s need given form by the desperate rhythm. One man rises from the circle and crosses the smooth sand to stand beside Aethna. There is a knife in his right hand. I hear the clouds pause in their journey across the sky, transfixed by what is about to happen.
What if I spoke now? They put me in the shadows and pretend that they can’t see me, but they have called the gods, and the gods are listening. What if I were to scream out Aethna’s blasphemies? They could not sacrifice her then; it would surely offend Yllin. They would need another. Maybe they would pick me, and I would have my chance to serve Yllin, to be the savior my people seek. If it be your will, I pray to Yllin, give me the courage to speak!
But even with my mouth open I cannot bring forth the words. Instead, I listen. With all of my being, I listen. But Aethna is not crying.
My empathy becomes anger. Aethna lied. She told me she was afraid. She told me that I should be the one offered to Yllin. She knew how pure my faith and how great my desire. What was my sin? She had echoed my own thoughts when she said it, quietly and out away from the village where no one else could hear. “You have such beautiful eyes, Mystral,” she said, “pale and pure and white, as if you are always looking to Yllin.”
But Aethna was chosen instead of me. For her beauty, and for her value to our village. She will be missed. I am not worthy. I am not beautiful. I am a burden, able to give nothing to the village, not even my life. Not even my love.
I imagine the heavy blade swinging swiftly down through the dry air, the man behind it obscured by an intricate mask I have never been allowed to explore with my hands. He will not miss, unless Aethna moves. But I know Aethna now; her lie has revealed her truth, and I know that she is happy to take my place, to perform the sacred duty that would have been my only contribution to my family and to my village.
The drums are silent now.
It is a quiet sound a soul makes when it's freed from the body, and I wonder if anyone hears it but me. It is a peaceful sound a soul makes, not so much like a last breath going out as like a first breath coming in. It is the sound I hear Aethna’s soul make as it rises to plead with our god.
The drums begin again, but now they are not the drums of my people. They are the drums of Yllin, his strong fingers striking the dry, stretched surface of our world a hundred times a thousand around me. The sound of my people’s joy is in the air as they dance with the rains. The ground beneath my feet drinks with greed, just as it drank of Aethna’s blood moments ago.
I know now without question that the god of rain is listening. And I know now, without question, that to him I am nothing.
Alone, I stand as Aethna’s rain strikes me in the face. I pretend the drops are my own tears, but I know better; my eyes cannot make water, just as my soul cannot bring rain. I slip my dress off of my shoulders. It falls around my feet and I leave it where it falls, wrinkled but clean. Naked, I walk north out of the village. I do not know if anyone sees me leave, but if they do they do not try to stop me.
Aethna will live forever as the girl who died. But the blind girl? I will die alone, having never lived at all.
These Woods Are Dark
Timmy stood alone on the old wooden porch. A flicker of motion—the slightest sense of a leaf moving in the darkness or of a vine swaying in a stray breeze—brought young Timmy’s eye from the warm light of the cabin to the deep dark of the woods around him. Unbidden, a forgotten nursery rhyme came into his head:
These woods are dark,
These woods are deep;
Timmy crossed his arms, shuffled his feet, and leaned against a support timber. It was a rhyme he had read a few years ago. He couldn’t remember all of it.
These woods are dark,
These woods are deep;
He had never heard it spoken out loud. He had never given it the weight of speech. Still, the words felt as ominous as the pitch-press of night that only moments before had seemed like a welcome release from the noise of his family.
Timmy stepped off of the porch, lost in thought as he tried to summon the rest of the rhyme from memory. The words refused to come. Timmy tried it out loud:
“These woods are dark,” he recited. “These woods are deep—”
But again, memory failed him. Frustrated, Timmy threw a branch into the woods. He heard it land somewhere among the fallen leaves. He looked back over his shoulder at the cabin. He saw the sharp profiles of his parents projected as shadows onto the curtains that covered the cabin’s windows. In the next window over he could make out the shapes of his older brother and sister, who were further away from the fireplace, playing a game together.
Timmy turned back to the woods and a branch hit him in the face. Caught off guard, he fell backwards onto the dead leaves that carpeted the muddy ground. He felt tears in his eyes from the sting of the pine needles. Rubbing away the pain with a small, dirty fist, he got to his feet again and kicked the tree.
“These woods are dark,” Timmy repeated. “These woods are deep—”
But for a third time he couldn’t find the rest of the words.
Timmy tried picturing the yellowed piece of paper—no, it hadn’t been paper, it had been something thicker, with texture. Though the words themselves still wouldn’t come, the details came back quickly as he rebuilt the vacation in his mind: He had found the book on his first visit here with his parents. He had been six at the time. There had been a lock holding the book shut, but he had used his father’s pocketknife to jimmy it open.
Timmy pushed a low-hanging branch out of his face.
These woods are filled,
The quiet ones say…
Those weren’t the next lines in the rhyme, but Timmy was sure they came somewhere later. The print had been hard to read, written in curling letters of blue and red and gold, but Timmy recalled with pride that his six year old self had refused to ask anyone else for help. He closed his eyes shut hard and tried to remember with all of his might what the words on that single page had said:
“These woods are dark,” Timmy whispered. “These woods are deep—” Again, he paused. He strained his mind to uncurl the lines of the letters. Then,“—These woods grow closer when you sleep,” he said at last. His body shivered.
As those words left his lips, the next set came into his mind, as clear as if the book itself were spread before him.
“These woods are filled,
The quiet ones say,
With a spirit dark;
An ancient Fae.”
Again, the next set of lines sprang into Timmy’s mind as soon as the last had left his mouth and Timmy, remembering too late the warning they bore, clamped both hands over his mouth in terror.
The rhyme came back to him in full now. He had read it over and over and over and then forced the lock back into place and hidden the book in the dirt beneath the floorboard where he had
found it. He hadn’t told anyone else in his family about the rhyme. Fear had kept him silent, and by the next morning it had all seemed like a bad dream. Until tonight, when the memories came rushing back.
Timmy turned in a small circle, his hands still pressed to his open mouth, his eyes wide with apprehension.
At first, there was only the wind in the branches and the whisper of the leaves around him. But as he listened, he heard the voices of countless children in that whisper, and felt her arms reaching for him from within those branches.
“And if you speak these words so dear—” Timmy thought he heard the forest chanting around him, “Then, little child, these woods will hear.”
Timmy turned towards the cabin and ran as hard as his legs could carry him. It seemed much further from him now than when he walked outside to get away from his family. Around him, the forest went on with its litany:
“And come she will
To take you in,
And never more
Go home again.”
Timmy tripped on a root, flew through the air, and collided with the bottom stair of the old wooden porch. The door opened and his mother looked out through a crack of light. “Timmy!” she said, “Where have you been?” But Timmy was still listening to the voices of the lost children:
“So, little one,
Forget what we say.
Else you shall meet
Viktoria the Fae…”
“Timothy, I was worried,” his mother said as she picked him up and brushed him off. “Why are you out of breath?”
Nearly too scared to move, Timmy forced his head to turn back towards the forest. It looked just as it had when he had stepped off of the porch. Not a single leaf seemed out of place.
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