by J. Thorn
Kelsun stopped several paces away. He glanced at the flap of the tent where Brinton and Shella had taken refuge. He nodded at their wet eyes.
“The Ways are wicked, and I cannot let you perpetuate them.”
“Those don’t sound like words from your lips.”
“Whose lips might they be from?”
Jaithe shrugged as he remained seated on a rock. He held his hands over the flames, turning them to keep his fingers from becoming stiff. Kelsun stood while falling snow accumulated on his shoulders.
“I can’t let you harm Master Jaithe. You know this.”
Kelsun turned to face Aiden. He looked into the man’s stern face and nodded his head slightly.
Before Aiden could step between Kelsun and Jaithe, the boy lunged. His dagger tore through the chilled air like the folded wings of a falcon. Aiden turned in time to deflect the blow and send Kelsun sprawling into the powdery snow. He jumped on the boy’s back and felt the wind rush from his lungs. Jaithe jumped from his seat and pushed Brinton back into the tent with one hand.
Kelsun spun his torso on the frozen ground and brought the heel of his right palm in a wide arc that met the side of Aiden’s face with a wet thud. The momentum of the turn carried Kelsun overtop of Aiden as he tumbled sideways with foggy eyes. Jaithe stopped short of the tussle when Kelsun brandished his blade.
“Step back, Jaithe,” he said through labored breathing and possessed eyes.
Jaithe held both palms up. Aiden used his arms to pull his body up the trunk of a sapling and spun to face Kelsun. His world teetered back and forth as if he walked the deck of a ship.
“You must go, the Left Hand.”
Aiden stared blankly at Kelsun and shook his head. Blood trickled from the left corner of his mouth. Kelsun lunged forwards again, this time driving the blade deep into Aiden’s chest. The boy twisted the hilt and raised his victim off his knees with the thrusts. Aiden’s eyes shot open, and the blood from his abdomen ran down his pants. Kelsun pulled the blade out and pushed Aiden in the shoulder. The man turned and fell face down in the pink snow as the life drained from his body.
Jaithe squatted and picked the amulet out of the snow, where it had fallen from Kelsun’s cloak. He closed his eyes and held it towards the sky. Jaithe felt the rush of the amulet and the peace it brought to his body. He smiled and kept his eyes closed when speaking to Kelsun. “You will not harm me. She will not allow it.”
Kelsun’s face contorted into anger, and he released a howl of pain that shook the crows from the trees.
“I have Okine now. I have no need for the useless charm.”
He raised the dagger and took a step towards Jaithe. Jaithe held his ground, one hand clutching the amulet and keeping it high. Brinton and Shella crawled from the tent.
“Why did you forsake the Ways, my son?”
“Okine of the mountain is the true way, not the false idols you worship. He holds the power and will bring reckoning on the invaders.”
“You are an invader, Kelsun.”
“I am his vessel.”
Jaithe opened his eyes and brought the rawhide string over his head until the amulet rested on his chest. “The Naturals fear Okine and his manipulative ways. That is why they turned to the amulet for protection.”
“Like it protected the werowance and his daughter?”
Jaithe laughed and shook his head. “You do not understand, young one. You fall prey to empty promises.”
Kelsun shrugged and raised the dagger to Jaithe’s chest. “I must,” he said.
“Do what you must,” replied Jaithe.
Kelsun dove at Jaithe, and an echoing report ripped through the forest. The crack of the firing rod brought Shella’s hands to her ears. Kelsun floated through the air until the force of the projectile pushed him past Jaithe. He landed in the snow next to Aiden’s body, and the dagger landed at Jaithe’s feet. The boy remained face down and unmoving.
Jaithe looked past the floating blue smoke to a nearby tree. Captain Russell stepped out from behind it.
“Shame the crazy boy killed all the Jaithes. Good thing I got my iron lit ‘fore he took me too. Bein’ locked in the mountain by Toman musta scrambled his senses. I’ll hafta make sure the council writes it up and sends it along to King and company. Sure to be a sad day in the Commonwealth, mourning the death of the Jaithes.”
The captain winked at Jaithe while holstering the firing iron. He turned and walked down the trail that separated the Commonwealth from the wilds beyond.
Revenant
By J. Thorn
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Revenant
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Copyright © 2011 by J. Thorn and Threefold Law
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Ah, make the most of what we may yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!
--Omar Khayyam
Earth
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Earth
He cursed the sun’s searing grin as it slid underneath the horizon. The night surged forth like a carrion crow picking at the carcass of the day. The man bent low and dusted sand from a satchel. An acidic pang gnawed his abdomen. He turned to the camel while undoing the hemp drawstring on the pack.
“You will serve me in a different manner should the next kingdom fail to crawl over the dune.”
The beast snorted and spit as the man tended to the night’s fire.
Flame leapt from the parched splinters of wood which he handled like dead children. The first light of the celestial guardians poked through the black canvas.
He pried open the leather pack protecting three dates that survived the trek across the desolate waste. The man lifted one and felt the rough edges scrape his cracked lips. He squeezed the last drop of water from the skin before fastening the top out of habit alone. The beast folded its legs with a sneer, shaking its humps in wicked ridicule.
“Hold the water inside like an expectant woman. It is all you have left.”
He picked up the last date and forced the sweet fruit down a throat lined with thorny barbs. The burning sandalwood spread a heady scent through the evening, masking the desperation. He tossed the empty satchel into the pyre.
“Custom dictates a song for a weary traveler.”
The beast put its head to the sand and whined with indifference. The man squinted into the vacuum towards the disembodied voice.
“Custom also dictates a proper greeting.”
“So be it,” came the reply.
The air behind the blaze shimmered. It flitted with dancing diamonds of sand before coalescing into the silhouette of a man. The stranger wore customary head coverings adorned with simple jewels and iron hasps. His robe reflected the light of the fire and sandals stuck out from beneath the hem exposing manicured nails. The stranger’s beard dropped to his chest in streaks of grays and blacks. He held a staff in his right hand and a golden plate in his left. On the plate sat two biris, moist and pinched on both ends.
“Two souls on the edge of darkness. Two burns to ease the passage”. The stranger bowed slightly and met the man’s gaze.
He squinted through the haze, shook his head, and looked over a shoulder at the beast. The creature’s raspy breath released foul plumes of moisture.
“I have not counseled with any but that miserable camel for more than a fortnight.”
“All the more reason,” replied the visitor.
The man nodded. He unfolded his right hand in a
supplicating manner, neither an invitation nor refusal. The visitor nodded in return and sat to the left of the man. He straightened his garb, stroked stray wisps of his beard, and inhaled the fragrance of the burning sandalwood.
“The camel dung will burn longer.”
“It is still camel dung.”
The visitor smiled for the first time. His teeth bit the gloom with an alabaster glow.
“Surely you do not travel without your caravan?” asked the man.
The visitor did not reply. He held the golden plate towards the man, his eyes offering the smoke.
“It is my last. It could be your last.”
“And you bring counsel too?”
“I bring what I was ordained to bring.”
The man shook his head and reached for a biri on the golden plate. He felt the cool moisture of the leaf as if it had just been harvested and rolled by the hands of a master. He placed the tip between his lips and tasted the bittersweet tang.
“You recognize the variety. A most uncommon plant.”
The man nodded in affirmation. He bent into the flame to light the smoke before the visitor could retract the offer. He drew a long, even, drag and closed his eyes. The man felt the bottoms of his feet tingle and heard the distant whisper of the desert wind.
“I have dreamt many nights of such an indulgence.”
It was the visitor’s turn to nod.
“I believe our palaver has begun.”
The man chuckled, feeling as though his exhausted limbs had been wrapped in soft cotton. He shook his head left to right and waved one hand in the air.
“If you approached to stab and rob me of my meager coin, do so now before the comfort of the burn departs my weary bones.”
Before the visitor could reply, the man spoke again.
“Eromenos?”
Stoicism crawled across the visitor’s face.
“Sultan?”
An affirmative nod.
The man chuckled again, this time lightened by the vapor in his lungs.
“Sultan. I would not degrade any of my brethren by associating them with the Macedonians.”
“As you wish,” replied the visitor.
The cool oppression of night smothered the sun’s final flares. More stars appeared overhead, dancing in the smoke of the fire.
“You?”
The man smiled. His tongue slithered over blistered lips.
“I am of the Earth, of which I will soon return.”
The Sultan shook his head.
“Not yet. I suppose,” said the man.
The two sat in silence as the moist leaf transformed into enchanting smoke.
“You are the Sultan of my mind, the last vestige of a sanity blown across the land like the fine grains that cover it.”
“Am I not in your presence this very moment?”
The man waved a finger at the Sultan and took a deep breath before replying.
“The same can be said for visions of sleep. Couldn’t one testify that they were alive in the moment too?”
“The argumentation of the ethereal versus the tangible is not the purpose of my visit.”
The man sprang forward with a dagger in his right hand. He grasped the Sultan by his shoulder and placed the blade across his throat. He smelled jasmine and sage on the visitor’s garments.
“I will spill your blood into the sand where it will lie forever.”
The Sultan looked into the man’s eyes, sitting as if wrapped in meditation. “Do it,” he replied.
The man stood and tossed the dagger at the inky blackness. He screamed and threw himself to the ground, sobbing into the harsh sands.
“I shall cross before the morn, staggering through a debate with the remnants of my mind.”
The Sultan guided the man back to his place by the fire. He brushed white powder from the man’s robe and took another leaf off of the golden salver. The man looked at the plate that replenished the biri as soon as it left the surface.
“Your mind cannot provide the comforts my smoke can.”
The Sultan snapped his fingers and the coals obeyed. New flames leapt up to fight the encroaching chill. The wood which had burned and withered to ash reignited like seasoned fuel.
“I will not supplicate myself to the dark lords. I will not serve an eternity for a moment of fleeting relief.”
“I offer no such deal,” said the Sultan. “Accept my gifts in your time of distress.”
The man shuddered.
“A sentinel. Sent to entrap the soul at its most vulnerable moment.”
The Sultan shook his head from left to right.
“I am bound by my own contract, not to the powers of which you speak. My salvation lies in your future.”
“My future?” the man asked through gritted teeth. “My future extends to eating the beast with the rising sun. Not much beyond that foul exercise.” The camel lifted its head and spit.
“Your future extends past your ability to see it.”
The Sultan waited as the man clenched his fists.
“I fear you will not comprehend what must be shared. I had hoped the leaf might facilitate it, but it did not. You must lay your head to the roll and let the images play before your mind’s eye.”
“I may not awaken. And if I do, there is no certainty that you will continue to exist.”
The Sultan paused and nodded his head back and forth. He stood up and shook the sands from his robe. The fire drew back to a meager flame, shamed by even the most paltry candle.
“In which case you have no decision. Fate must take you where you must go.”
The man fell to one side. He pulled a tattered garment underneath his head and moved as close to the fire as he could.
“So say fate. I cannot continue to argue with delusions of my own demise. I will close my eyes and allow the ether to penetrate my thoughts. I will succumb to the powers of this desolation and will very likely provide sustenance for the vultures that have followed my path since I departed the last kingdom. Will you let me die in peace?”
The Sultan bowed.
“I have no dominion over your passing. I come to fulfill my duty.”
The man shot upright with the last vestiges of energy encapsulated in his sick bones. He shook his head and dropped a single tear into the bitter sand.
“Revenant. Messenger.”
The Sultan nodded and spread his arms wide.
“Our time draws short. Take comfort in your bedroll and welcome sleep into your waiting arms. The night shall reveal the knowledge you seek before the sun breaks the dawn.”
The man nodded and closed his eyes. He heard the ragged breathing of the beast and thought that it might outlast him yet. He listened as the Sultan recited a quatrain.
“If my coming were up to me, I’d never be born.
And if my going were on my accord, I’d go with scorn.
Isn’t it better that in this world, so old and worn.
Never to be born, neither stay, nor be away torn?”
The man paused, thinking before speaking again.
“I search for one truth.”
“What is that?” asked the Sultan.
“Crossing the Chinvat. What awaits me on the other side?”
Fire
“It is not a matter to be taken lightly.”
The man shook his head while looking up into the cosmos.
“My heart is deserving,” replied the man.
The Sultan sighed and turned to fetch his pack. He pulled at the drawstrings and removed a worn, faded manuscript. Delicate fingers drew the pages open and tilted the top towards the light of the campfire.
“The Avesta speaks of man’s fate. The journey beyond Chinvat is a pilgrimage of declaration. The twin brothers demand the allegiance of all souls. Ahura makes the Chinvat wide and comfortable like a stroll through an orchard during harvest. Ahriman, however, shrinks the Chinvat to the edge of a razor from which the wicked fall headlong into the eternal abyss.”
Th
e man’s sunburnt face spread into a reluctant smile.
“Of that text I am familiar,” he said.
The Sultan bowed, offering a non-verbal apology for the assumption.
“Perhaps I should begin with a tale of Ahura and the struggle of light over dark. You have heard only derivatives of the story.”
The man pulled the frayed bedroll to his chin and nodded for the Sultan to begin.
“In the days before our fathers Ahura broke the darkness with light, truth, and all that was good. He extended his magnificent hand and with a sweep towards the horizon he brought forth the Way of the Light. However, his twin would not allow Ahura’s forces to exist unchallenged. Ahriman bore the harbingers of destruction. He coaxed lies, vermin, disease, and demons from the Forgotten Place to do battle with Ahura’s agents of compassion. The two brothers bickered and fought like brothers of our kind, using the world as their battlefield. In ages lost to generations of men, Ahura and Ahriman fought without gaining permanent advantage. However, Ahura knew the fate of his brother. He acquired knowledge that Ahriman had not. Ahura allied with the purifying force of righteousness.
As the ages passed the twin brothers found the task of eternal conflict to be consuming. They recruited others to the fight, to stand proxy during the struggle. Hosts of angels known as the Yazatas fought on Ahura's side, determined to overpower the forces of darkness in the world. Ahriman spawned an army of demons and devas. The dregvants waged war on Ahura’s sentries and gorged on the flesh of the unborn while devas played the role of succubus and poisoned humankind. Mortals chose to follow the truth or the lie, the light or the dark, the forces of good or the forces of evil.”
The man fought through the haze of his own exhaustion.
“Being forced to choose is not a choice. What of those that did not wish to fight?” he asked the Sultan.
“According to the Avesta even the trees and the lichen must choose to align with Ahura or Ahriman. No living creature has the luxury of abstention.”
The man nodded and motioned for the Sultan to continue.
“Traetaona swore loyalty to Ahura and came to be the most competent demonslayer of the kingdom. Ahura trusted his warrior with the task of confronting the three-headed demon known as Azhi Dahaka. Azhi Dahaka was the most wicked supplicant of Ahriman. The beast feasted on human brains with an insatiable lust. It had three heads known as pain, anguish, and death. Its wings were so vast and dark that they hid the stars from the heavens. Ahura knew that if he did not contain the demon it would devour what remained of the righteous.”
