by K.W. McCabe
Dreams Both Real and Strange I
By
K.W. McCabe
Copyright © 2011 K.W. McCabe and FantaFire Press
Published by FantaFire Press
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are product’s of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any printed or electronic form without written permission from this author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Other works by K. W. McCabe:
Dark and Light: A Small Collection of Poetry
Dreams Both Real and Strange I: An Anthology
Dreams Both Real and Strange II: An Anthology
Dreams Both Real and Strange I and II: The Combined Anthologies
Fantasies of the Waking Dreamer: A Small Collection of Poetry
Choices: A Free Short Story
Angel of Death: A Short Story (Thomas Lord of Death)
*The Dragon’s Call (Coming Soon)
DEDICATION
For Yve.
Dreams Both Real and Strange I
Book Description:
An anthology of short stories. A collection of tiny, flash fiction fantasy, horror, and dark tales of 1,000-8,000 words in length.
1
Choices (Part I)
The night seemed darker than normal as my footsteps echoed down the alley. Refuse snapped under my feet like shriveled twigs and dry old bones. I pulled down my hood as far as I was able. I needn't have worried though. The inhabitants of the passage, shriveled with hunger and poisonous pastimes, shrunk away from my dark form.
I ignored them. They meant nothing to me: Their souls were as wasted as their flesh. I continued on, my path echoing behind me with a sullen rhythm. Finally, I came to the door.
It wasn’t much of a door; it had once been pure white. Dim now, it was gray with age, cracked and peeling where the elements had worn away its vibrancy. I stood for a moment, rigid and averse to the pressures building within me. My hand rose, as it always did, clenched and bone white at the knuckles and I knocked.
Everything fell silent. After a long wait, there was a muffled noise behind the door before it slowly cracked, a pale fearful face peaking nose and eyes through the opening.
“Can I help you? What do you want?”
It was her: Her soul shone bright and translucent through her fair skin. Strands of her dark red hair clung about her wary grey eyes making her faintly bruised face look even paler. I tensed. I couldn’t help it. I never liked this part, but I had no choice. I hadn’t had one for a very long time.
“I have a message.” I held still. She would come willing or she would not.
“Go on.” Her eyebrows creased. She glanced behind her for a moment, I couldn’t see at what, then turned back, waiting.
“The dark master has called in the debt you owe him. You will come with me tonight.”
She sucked in her breath, her eyes going bright with sudden panic and despair. “But I thought—”
I sighed heavily. It would be the unpleasant way then. “You thought he would call in your debt at a time you were ready to pay it.” Her lips trembled as she closed her mouth, a muscle twitching slightly beneath her right eye. I waited one more moment before speaking the second time. “Will you come willing tonight or pay the forfeit?”
Her jaw tightened. It was the Choice. Always the Choice—and it had to be given.
“Who will the forfeit be?” She asked slowly.
I shook my head. They always wanted to know although they knew they wouldn’t be told. She had known the conditions when she had accepted the return of her life for a period of time. “All I can say is that someone you know will take your place as forfeit.”
She was silent except for the slight shuddering of her breath as she struggled to calm herself.
I spoke the words the last time. “Will you come willing or pay the forfeit?”
Three chances were all she would receive. Then I would choose for her. She shrunk in on herself, glancing back one more time at someone—I could not see who—before turning back. Her eyes were at once defiant, as well as dull and lifeless. I knew the choice she would make then.
“I will pay,” she said.
I nodded once. “You cannot, once it has been done, rescind your decision. Do you wish to rescind it now?” I could not leave without giving her that fourth chance. I would pay for it later. I always did.
“No,” she said, “I will pay the forfeit.”
I nodded again, heaviness settling over me. “Very well,” I said. I turned, seeing her flinch with my movement and began to walk away. A muffled groan and thud sounded behind her door. I heard her curse in exclamation, call out and then begin weeping inconsolably.
And I felt the pure brightness of her soul dim into grey and then a desolate black.
She should have come willing—everyone has their time. She would have escaped his grasp for all eternity if she had…Now she will be his forever.
To be continued…
2
Rebirthed
The dreams always start simple at first: the cradling and rocking of warmth, the glow and pulse of liquid and its life giving heat.
I float and dream.
I dream of ages long past, of lives lived and of deaths suffered.
While I dream, I begin to feel the flow change. The slow steady pulse of heat, rhythm, and movement begins to flex and push. Then I’m moving, upward or downward I cannot tell which. I shift, testing.
The heat grows warmer with each deepening, quickening thrum. As it grows, I start to stir and waken. Behind my fluttering lids, I see the warm glow of the liquid orange and reds that are pushing me faster and faster towards my birth.
Finally, I open my eyes. The heat intensifies one hundredfold—and I glory in it. It is rushing now. No longer thrumming, it is gushing and pushing me to my destiny: towards whatever waits.
As it speeds faster and faster, I lift my head, stretching my neck and reaching…
With a burst of light and liquid orange heat, I am reborn into fire and agony and a glorious beauty…and back into shining life into the world above. Spreading my wings, at last, after one thousand years of death and dreams…Rebirthed now, alight and afire in the skies once again.
The Phoenix.
3
The Lake
There was a lake by my mother’s house. It was only a short walk away—about fifteen minutes if you walked fast. It was pretty during the day, but during the night a dark mist would hover over it. We would laugh and call it “Shadow Lake,” although that wasn’t its name.
My friends and I would play there as children until one summer one of them had fallen in and drowned. For a long time after, no one walked there. Signs were put up, barring it off, and walls were placed as barrier against anyone attempting to swim its waters.
I moved eventually. Went away to college, and came back successful or, at least, not a failure. I took to walking around the lake again, sitting above the stone edge of the wall which still stood, barring swimmers. The signs which once stood around it were gone, victims of bored children, rowdy and hyper with mischief.
I went there one day, enjoying the sun and fell asleep. It happened often enough that I usually brought some food to snack on before I left.
Today was different, somehow.
I
went, taking my bag lunch and resting myself in the grass. I threw breadcrumbs to the few scraggly looking ducks wading in the water. Leaning back on my elbows, I let the sun warm my face. I fell asleep as I usually did, arms pillowing my brow.
I startled awake—to this day I’m not certain what woke me. There was barely any light to see by. Only the beams of the waning moon provided any illumination at all. I gathered up my things by touch, my heart pounding in my chest. I had never told anyone, but I had a terrible fear of the dark.
Feeling my way carefully, I edged along the bank, trying to find the path upward which would lead me away from the cold, misted waters behind me. I heard a rustle and turned, my heart pounding so hard I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. When I looked, I saw nothing.
I turned back again, my hands trembling, and stumbled a little on the ground. There was another noise. This time when I turned, I saw what it was.
The surface of the water was churning, mist leeching into the disturbance, and bubbles frothing upward. I could barely feel myself swallow as I stared. Up from the churning waters came the eerie sound of whistles, like the wind through trees on a moonless night. My hands went clammy and I stumbled backwards, but not quickly enough. A figure lifted from the parted ripples of the lake and stepped towards me, balanced on the waters as though walking on solid ground.
I reached behind me, my breath coming in shallow gasps and fell back hard on the ground. The figure continued to walk forward, until it overtook me as I scrambled backwards. Icy wet mist flowed over my skin and into my mouth and nostrils as I sucked in my breath, gasping. I had the sense of sadness, and hunger, and a terrible want before I was overcome. Then a voice whispered from inside me as though speaking right into my ear.
“Do not be afraid,” it said.
I blacked out.
When I awoke, it was morning and I was in my bed. I had no idea how I’d gotten there or what happened, but I ached in every part of my body. I got out of bed and took a shower, scrubbing myself until my skin was raw, wishing I could remember what occurred the night before. I’d had a dream…but no, it was too strange to be believed.
I went about my day, but many times my coworkers would give me looks. I never knew what the looks meant, but I was having a hard time concentrating. I would find myself nodding off at my desk at work. I would wake some thirty minutes later having done nothing productive…and, once again, aching in parts which should not be hurting. Not like that—not at work.
As soon as I went home, I showered again, feeling more and more afraid. Why was I feeling like this all the time? Was I sick? I went to bed hoping rest would help ease whatever was going on with me.
When I woke the next morning, it was worse. My head was killing me, I hurt all over, and my body was sweaty as though I had run a thousand miles. Something was wrong. This time I was certain, but I couldn’t understand what. I forced myself to think hard—this all started the day I had gone to the lake.
I had been certain I’d dreamed what happened there—but maybe it hadn’t been a dream at all. I gritted my teeth and went about my day. As soon as I left from work, I headed towards the lake. The sun was barely a sliver in the sky, and the mist would cover the lake soon.
By the time I walked to its edge, the sky was dark. The mist covered the lake, floating and moving as though it were a live thing. As soon as I came to the edge, the waters began churning as they had that night days before.
My heart started pounding, but I stood rigid, waiting. The figure rose out of the waters and came towards me. This time it stopped in front of me and I gasped. It was a beautiful woman. I looked into her eyes and felt her touch my skin with icy fingers.
“I have waited for you a long time, Thomas,” she said.
I stared at her and swallowed. “How do you know my name?”
She laughed, and her laugh was the sound of soft whistling on a dark night. “I know your name because you are mine. Don’t you remember? We came here once.”
As she finished speaking, I did. “Mara,” I whispered and she smiled. I could see her face now, the child she had been in the face of the woman she might have become.
Her voice was gentle as she spoke. “It’s time to pay now, Thomas.”
I nodded my head dumbly. It had been my fault she’d drowned all those years ago. It hadn’t been malicious, but I had tripped her in the water, and in my fear had not told anyone she wasn’t coming up for air.
She wrapped her cold, wet arms around my neck and kissed me, drawing me backwards. She was all around me and through me and her taste was like moonlit waters on a misty night.
And I went with her, down into the mist, where I could be with her forever.
4
Mourning
I held on a long time. There wasn’t much more to be done: I had called them all and they had come. They trickled in one by one, to settle around me, their faces caricatures of grief. I knew better though. I had not risen to where I was because of a lack of ability to read people.
It didn’t matter at this point. Oh, it hurt—no mistaking that—it did hurt. That it should, surprised me. I had never cared before. I had been too busy, too rushed, and too full of the knowledge of my own power to pay attention to what is now my greatest regret.
Bitter and ironic that.
Not even my wife would mourn me. Not truly. Oh, she was here, looking beautiful and grief-ridden just as she should. Sitting there surrounded by my children and looking as though she could be one of them. But, once again, I knew. There was a gleam in her eye. I don’t blame her though. I knew well enough what I wanted when I got her—and what she wanted when she caught me.
Still… it hurts. And it’s funny, now that I am in a place money cannot buy me out of, just how bitter the realization is.
I wish I had done differently. I wish I had loved more. I wish I had placed more value on my children’s lives. They are sitting there, watching me…waiting, just waiting for me to die.
The worst part of it all is that there is no rage. No anger that they do not regret my coming demise. How can there be? I know exactly how they feel. I felt it for my own father. And I had promised myself I would not be like him.
It is bitter to realize that the greatest promise I ever made to myself was broken over the lesser wishes for wealth.
And now, it is too late: I am fading…and I know there is no light at the end of the tunnel for me.
5
Wraith (Part I)
Anne’s heart beat in her ears as she stumbled across the dips and rises of the grassy hill. Her fingers searched and scrabbled through weeds and dirt, and her nails chipped against the hard edges of rock. She cast her gaze around. Dusk was the worst time of day to lose anything of value. She couldn’t leave without finding it though. Matthew, Sam’s son, had given her the bracelet the day before, and the gems in it were real topaz and hematite.
Her stomach sank as she glared at the grass once more: The sky was getting too dark—she wouldn’t find it tonight. Worse, the sheep had scattered with her frantic movements through their midst. She straightened, sucking in a breath as she looked around. The herd had scattered far and wide across the hillside. There would never be enough time to gather them all and herd them home before full dark.
Her chest constricted. It wasn’t fair. They’d finally been able to settle down in one place for longer than a year before it started all over again. It had caught up to them though. No one in the village stayed out after dark anymore. Already, she could hear the strange, wailing cries echoing from far off.
She stood, undecided, hands clenched into fists against the goose bumps which broke out up and down her arms. Nothing was safe outside after dark, not even livestock, and their herd was small enough as it was. Starting over repeatedly was hard and scraping together enough to afford the tiny herd had taken the better part of a year. With just her and her mom, every sheep was necessary for survival.
She bit her lip, cursing herself. She ha
dn’t wanted to take Matthew’s gift at first. She’d been saving up to purchase the bracelet herself. He was a very nice boy, but there was something about him that made her uneasy—she just couldn’t quite decide what it was.
So she’d scrimped and held back pennies from the sale of sheep’s wool in the market. Guilt had plagued her at the thought of holding back those few pennies. Her mother needed them to buy the herbs she used for potions she sold in the village. The guilt had not been strong enough to stop Anne, but saving up enough had taken so long. By the time Matthew opened his hand and showed her the topaz bracelet, shining with newness, every longing she’d ever had to own something pretty rose up to choke her. She hadn’t been able to push it away.
So she’d taken it with a twinge of guilt at the brightening in his eyes, and placed it around her wrist. She’d loved the feel of it and flaunted it to the other girls in the village, the same girls who’d taunted her for her worn skirts and faded ribbons. It had felt so good to have something new and precious. She hadn’t shown it to her mother in fear she would be made to give it back.
She’d worn it while herding the sheep, toying with it and twisting it around her wrist. Then, she’d fallen asleep, lulled by the warmth of the sun shining down and her fantasies of grandeur. When she woke, startled by the noise of the disturbed herd, she found it gone.
She cursed again. That was bad enough, now the sheep were at risk as well. It was possible some of the sheep would make it through the night, but not all of them—maybe not even most of them. Her mother was going to kill her. She stood a moment longer, aching with indecision, before another cry wafted in the air. She stiffened. She couldn’t stay out any longer: The sounds were moving closer.
She grabbed her skirts with one hand and held the other in front of her to balance herself and guard against the shadows of large boulders and bushes. The sound grew louder and her heart pounded as she picked up her pace. When one of the sheep bleated in alarm off to her right, she picked up her skirts in both hands and broke out into a full run. There was a flurry of alarm behind her, the sound of sheep scattering. She pushed herself to run faster.
Dodging around shadows, she sprinted down the hillside, gathering speed. She didn’t see the rock until too late. Her foot caught and the ground came up at her fast. She lifted her hands in a warding gesture, breaking her fall. Sharp pain scraped up her palms and wrists as she skidded and came to a stop, her skirts tangled around her. Stunned, she sucked in a breath. Sheep were bleating behind her amidst noises so awful she didn’t want to consider what caused them. With difficulty, she pushed herself to her feet, biting her lip against a sudden pain in her ankle. The death of the poor animal behind her had granted her a few moments of reprieve.
Hobbling, she began moving again and the noises faded away as she gained some distance. After a few moments, she crested a small rise. From just a little ways off, the brightened windows of her mother’s cottage beckoned her cheerfully. She let out a breath of relief.
The snap of a twig behind her broke the stillness.
She stiffened. Turning, she faced the creature, wincing at the pain stabbing its way up her leg. Shaggy black hair obscured glowing red eyes and the skin of his face was bone white, whiter than the teeth he bared in a rictus-like grin.
“So, the little witch’s daughter has gotten caught out at night,” he said. His voice was a dry rasp that felt like spiders crawling their way up her spine.
She hunched her shoulders, and took a limping step back. “What do you want?” Her voice quavered. She took another blind, hobbling step backward, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was edging closer to the cottage. The chuckle that wafted through the air sent the hairs of her neck standing on edge.
“What do I want?” He moved a step closer and she halted. She let out a shivering sigh of breath as she froze, terrified he would chase her if she moved again. Swallowing against the sudden dryness of her throat, she let her gaze slide to her left, gauging how far it would be to run the rest of the way to her cottage. There was a sound, a rustle of movement, and she snapped her gaze back to him. He was much closer than before and she tensed, her whole body quivering with the need to run.
“Hmm, what do I want?” he asked again, a sarcastic tone winding its way through the words in a way she couldn’t understand. He was just too close. She sucked in another breath as she moved backwards another step, reaching behind her blindly as she almost stumbled with the pain in her ankle.
“I want what I once had, little one.” He took another step closer and her heart began pounding harder. She stumbled backward again, falling as her ankle twisted underneath her. He advanced on her with a slow, steady gait. All she could do was look up, mute, into his glittering red gaze.
“I want what I once had, witch’s daughter. You are the key to getting it.”
The scream left her lips too late as he swept her into his icy hold. By the time the front door of the cottage opened and her mother called out her name in panic, they were gone.
She struggled against him, fighting to pull away, her scream strangled into silence by her need to get away now. He tightened his grip, his icy fingers pressing into the folds of her cloak.
It was hard. Much harder than he’d expected it would be: the smell of life beating at the dip in her neck and the hard pounding of her heart beating in fright. An acid ache began to burn from his clenched stomach to the back of his throat and he grimaced. He would have to put her down soon. He pushed faster and faster, the wind whipping by in whistles as he sped between trees, seeking the deeper forests.
She shifted against him, her struggles weakened by shock, and his skin went clammy with the rising burn of hunger. He had to get as far from the witch as possible. He had to put her down now. His grip tightened. She went slack in his arms and his throat constricted, but there was no way for him to stop and see if she still lived.
Stopping would be the death of them both.
The burn grew with each minute until it became a red wash of pain consuming him, and still he pushed on. He lost all sense of time as he sped faster; faster than he’d ever pushed himself in the entirety of his half-life. The entire world became filled with the need to consume and the equally conflicting need to preserve his existence.
He sped on through most of the night. The burn became so great, that at last he had almost resolved to consume her and die when the shadowed stone walls of the monastery came into sight.
Tension eased from his shoulders so suddenly he almost dropped her. He stopped abruptly, swaying with exhaustion and the terrible hunger. He almost laid her down right there, on the shadowed grass, desperate to get away from her before he gave in to the desire which would kill them both. He gritted his teeth and walked, slow and deliberate, through the trees and up to the shadowed, vine-infested entrance. The front gate was ajar as it always was: No one came here since the monks had fled. He carried her inside the gates, passing the homely courtyard, and through the opened doors of the monastery itself.
The holy ground of the monastery burned the soles of his feet as it always did, but he continued on, grim. The holiness of the place instantly banished the curse of his hunger; he could bear the pain of burned soles to be rid of the curse which plagued him. The tension eased from his shoulders, the reprieve from pain lightening her weight in his arms. He glanced down at her and was relieved to see she was still breathing. It wouldn’t do to have the only means to ending the curse die before she had ever proved her usefulness.
He passed through the large hall, stepping around fallen chairs and broken furniture, carrying her to the back rooms where monks had once done their penance. He came to the first door: He had prepared it once he found the witch. He kicked open the door and carried her inside, laying her limp body on the blanket covered cot against the side wall.
He watched her for a moment. Her hair was the color of chocolate and glossy against her pale face. Her eyelids looked bruised with the shadow of fear and exhaustion, and her lips we
re pressed together tightly even in sleep. He pressed his own lips together in a sudden anger he couldn’t explain.
He turned abruptly and left the cell, locking it behind him with a key the last inhabitants had left behind in fear and haste. He left her there, striding away to find something to ease the hunger which began to burn through even the dubious protection the monastery provided. He could deny it there, for a time, but even that was temporary; he could not deny it forever. But at least he would not die this night.
He exited the monastery and began to hunt.
Anne woke, throwing out her arms and thrashing with such terror she fell off the cot, cracking her elbow against the stone floor. She sucked in a breath as the pain blossomed and spread up her arm, and stilled. The pain seared through the fog of shock and sleep and she lay stunned, sucking in air, desperately trying to calm herself.
The pain receded slowly; once it was gone, she pushed herself up, weakly leaning her back against the cot and looking at her surroundings. The room was small, square in shape, and the walls were cold gray stone. There was one barred window high up on the wall; she had never been tall, but even if she had been, she would not have been able to reach it. A bucket for waste sat in the corner and a small cot with blankets stood at her back and that was all.
She began to feel her chest tightening again and steeled herself against the panic. She was alive, there might be some way to escape. She felt the first stirrings of curiosity. Why was she alive? It was strange that, after each village they had left, fleeing the creature which stalked them, she should so obviously be not dead.
It was what she had feared. It was what her mother had feared.
Each time they left a place, it was at the news of some girl’s disappearance in life, and reappearance as a corpse. And each time, her mother’s face when she had heard the news held a terrible weight of guilt and grief…and a terrible satisfaction. She wondered what look her mother’s face would hold now the worst had finally happened.
She heard the sound of rattling keys and startled. Her heart raced as she snapped her head to stare at the heavy wooden door barring her only escape from the icy stone room. It creaked open slowly, whining on its rusted hinges. Her skin prickled, goose bumps rising up and down her skin. She pressed herself back against the cot, bringing her arms around herself, and stared up at the figure that entered the room.
“You are awake, I see.” His voice was as she remembered it, the strange mix between a rasp and a whisper.
She swallowed hard and spoke. “Yes.”
He tilted his head, unkempt hair obscuring his glittering red eyes. “What is your name?” She stared at him, unable to understand his words. Her name? Why did he want her name?
He spoke again, impatience tinting his voice. “If I’m to call you anything, it must be something other than ‘girl.’ What is your name?”
“Anne,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He nodded. “You may call me, Wraith.”
She stared at him for a moment. Why was he giving his name? Wasn’t he going to kill her?
“What do you want?” She almost didn’t recognize her voice when she spoke; it was high and shaky with fear.
He raised dark eyebrows, mocking her. “What do I want? I told you already. I want what I once had.”
She shook her head, not understanding and not caring what he meant. “I don’t have what you want,” she said, fighting the panic which threatened to seep into her voice. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, I don’t have it in my possession.”
He smiled at her bitterly. She shuddered; corpse white and inset with eyes which glowed red, it was not a smile that belonged on his face. It was not the face of a human, not the face of a live person at all.
“Oh, but you do. The witch promised us an end to this half-life if we could but master ourselves. She swore we could break the curse with a girl willing to grant us what we had not seen fit to grant the first.”
She didn’t understand. Her mother had cursed him?
He was speaking, his red gaze going flat and distant. “Seven times we tried. Once a year for the last seven years, we followed the witch’s footsteps and tried to break the curse,” he stopped, his raspy voice trailing off as a strange emotion crossed his visage.
It shocked her; she would never have expected to see grief on his face.
He continued after a moment, with obvious difficulty. “Each year, for the last seven years, we would try to break the curse. And each year, for the last seven years, one of us would lose control of the hunger. The girl would die. The one who fed from her would die.” Anne felt a jolt of terror and understanding wash through her at his words. The girls that appeared dead, without apparent injury, drained of life without a bruise to show the cause. The look of guilt on her mother’s face and their constant moves from village to village, attempting to stay ahead of the deaths that trailed in their wake: the reason for the constant poverty and fear she had lived in for almost the entirety of her life.
“There were eight of us in the beginning. My two brothers, Liam and Doan, and the rest were our sworn men at arms. Seven times we tried. Seven times we failed. I am the last one left and it is bitter that my men...and my brothers…should have suffered and died for the deed I committed.” His voice trailed off as he bowed his head, staring at the floor in grief.
She dug her fingers into her arms, angry at the pity which rose up in her to mix with the lessening emotions of fear. Seven girls had died because of this monster and some deed he had done. Something terrible enough that her mother had seen fit to curse him to this existence.
“Why me?” she asked, but she thought she knew. How better to exact revenge on the witch than to have her own curse rebound upon her child?
He lifted his gaze to look at her, his eyes flat with an emotion she could not discern. “Why you.” He said it as though musing, considering his response. He shifted forward, going to one knee in front of her and she coiled back, fighting the spike of fear that lanced through her at his nearness. There was anger there in his look…and shame, and a desperation which needed no interpretation.
“I chose you, Anne, because the hunger is getting worse—and I cannot believe the witch would suffer you to die.”
There was no comfort in the warmth of the cottage. The shadows thrown by the blazing fire leaped out in accusation against her. Her daughter was gone. Lena swept her gaze over the cottage, her mouth dry as she catalogued everything she would need to take with her when she left. Tracking him would be hard. Earth magic was not her gift, not since the day she had spun the death curse that would change the course of their lives.
Dampness touched her palms and dried on the bundles of clothed goods as she picked them up. Her stomach ached with terror and fear. What could be happening to Anne right now? Had he given in to the hunger? He was the last, she knew, of the men who had borne the brunt of her terrible anger. He was the last—and the hunger would be at its worst.
She had not made the curse an easy thing to break.
She glanced one more time around the cottage, nodding a silent farewell. She would not return here, whether she found Anne in time or not. She turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind her. All she could do was search for Anne before he gave in to the hunger.
All she could do was hope he still desired life.
The hunger returned with a slow burn in the pit of his stomach. He left her shivering and silent in her cell as soon as he felt the ache. The monastery would lessen the effects of the curse if he did not push its limits. It was a terrible thing that his one hope for breaking the curse was also his greatest temptation and greatest peril.
His steps were muffled as he walked the width of the monastery: at the west end was the kitchen. The floor had been swept clean when he first made his residence in the place. Now, it was slightly dusty with misuse and a family of mice had made their nest in a potato sack in one corner.
The pantry had been filled with mea
ts and breads and pies when he had first come. They had molded with time and he had been forced to remove them. He couldn’t stand the stench of rot, half-dead though he was. All that was left now were some large sacks of rice, a couple bags of stubbly potatoes, a bowl of dried apples, and a small bag of sun-dried raisins.
He stared down at the fare. He had once sat down to night-long feasts. Now, an entire banquet-hall of food would not have satisfied the hunger which plagued him. He lifted one hand, ignoring the tightness in his chest, and picked up the bag of raisins and the bowl of apples. They were not a feast, hardly even a decent meal, at that, but they would be enough to feed her for a time.
He turned, food in his hands, and left the kitchen.
She was asleep when he opened her cell, balancing the food in one hand and unlocking the door with the other. It was the first moments before dawn and her fright had left her weak and exhausted from the night’s terrors. There was not much time left to hunt; he would have to go down to the cellar soon. The aching burn of the monastery’s stone floors against the bottom of his feet was nothing compared to the golden glare of the sun.
He walked towards her slowly, clenching his teeth against the burn that rose at the smell of her. He stopped a little ways from her and it intensified. Pain and fire seeped through him until he didn’t trust himself to move any closer. He set the bag of raisins on the floor alongside the bag of apples and turned, meaning to leave before the hunger could betray him.
“Why are you doing this? Why don’t you kill me?” Her voice was rough, but clear.
He stopped, rigid. “I told you already,” he said, his voice strained. He heard movement and turned slowly.
She pushed herself up to sit on the cot with her back against the wall, arms wrapped tight around her chest, and shook her head. “No,” she said, “you haven’t. You told me the girls your men fed on died. You said my mother cursed you to this existence. You haven’t told me why you didn’t just kill me.”
He stared at her. She was right. But she did not know the whole story. Anyone who did not might ask why he did not take his revenge. If the deed he’d done had been any less malevolent than it was, he might have considered himself justified.
He did not. He might have once. He did not now. Nearly a decade had passed since the act which had changed his life—all of their lives—forever. And he was not the same man he had once been. “I was not in possession of a conscience the year the curse came upon me. I was wealthy and young, and I was the son of a lord with power. I see now that he was pitiless in his rule, although at the time, I admired him. He was my father; I did not realize I could have worshipped him less. He died and the lands, wealth, and care of my younger brothers were left into my hands. And I became, to the people who lived under my rule, the image of my father.
“I went out after that and took, from the villages, a young woman. She was about the same age you seem—and I kept her. I did not know and did not care that she had a sister who would miss her. She got with child and died in the birthing, and the babe along with her,” he paused, forcefully ignoring the hunger which leaped up as Anne sucked in her breath, and waited for her interruption.
When there was none, he continued. “Her sister appeared, the very moment she breathed her last, surrounded by power, and magic, and light. She cursed me and all who had been with me the day I took the girl, to the existence of wraiths. The curse—the hunger—snapped around me, my brothers, and my men.
“The last thing we heard before the bright shine of the sun caused us to flee were her words, ‘You will live under the bondage of your hunger until you are able to master it—and until a girl shows to you what you did not show to this one, my sister.’” He lifted his head to look her in the eye. “So you see, I had done ill enough to your mother, witch though she was. I had done ill enough to afflict us all.”
She stared at him, silent.
He stood for a moment, wanting to hear her incrimination, her judgment, her disgust—but the hunger turned into an agonizing pain. He turned abruptly and left the cell, locking its door behind him. There would be no time to hunt. He could feel the air, it had warmed with the risen sun. He strode quickly to a place where he would be safe from the light, the burn, and the pain.
Anne sat trembling, eyes fixed on the door as he left. Her trembling eased as moments passed and it seemed he would not return. It was replaced by a slow tightening of her chest. There were so many things her mother hadn’t told her, so many things Anne hadn’t known or understood.
The silence was absolute and after awhile she lowered her gaze from the door to the food placed on the ground a little ways in front of her. She moved wearily, easing off the cot and hunching down to gather it up. Holding it to her chest, she climbed back onto the cot and began to eat.
The apples were dry and wrinkled, but the raisins tasted as they should. The tightness in her chest began to intensify and she fought against thoughts of her mother. Would there be a fire in the hearth right now? Would a pot of soup or stew be bubbling above its fiery heat?
She leaned her head back against the wall, staring upward, the tightness in her chest suddenly accompanied by the ache of unshed tears behind her eyes. She wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t been so taken with the stupid topaz bracelet. The herd was either dead or scattered and it was her fault… and her mother… She swallowed. Where was her mother now? Was she looking for her? Searching?
She felt sick all of a sudden and pushed the food aside. Her mother was probably out there looking for her and that, too, was her fault. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her head in her arms. Her mother had not told her all the things she had heard from Wraith this night…and he had brought back memories of that year. Strangely enough, while she remembered many things about that time, her mother’s sister was not one of them. She couldn’t remember her mother’s sister at all. That year had been the worst in her life: Her father dead in a hunting accident, and then her mother turning dark and moody and strange. Then, all of a sudden, they were leaving with no explanation as to why.
Much later, she understood the deaths in every village they settled in were connected with their subsequent departure. Some time after that she realized they were being followed by whatever caused those deaths. The very worst part, if he’d spoken the truth, was that he—the creature who’d been their nightmare for the last seven years—was her mother’s own creation. Her mother was just as responsible as he for the deaths of all those girls.
Hugging her knees, she lifted her head and stared up at the window. Golden rays of light were falling through. Out there, somewhere, her mother was looking for her.
Lena bent down and sought his trail, brushing the fingers of her hands against grass, dirt, and stone. The beating of her heart picked up, a constant warning against the dwindling of time. If he had managed, somehow, not to consume Anne the night just past, she would be safe for the day until darkness fell. But each subsequent night would be worse.
Lena found the faint pulse of her magic, twisted and darkened by the black magic she’d used all those years ago. Keeping hold of her magic was difficult; once a thing of light, love, and peace—it had rejected her after the casting of the curse. She held only the barest of abilities now unless she chose to sink all the way into darkness to acquire power. She shuddered, her skin prickling against the thought. The dark, once used, tempted the caster forever.
Wearily, she straightened and glanced toward the low hills where remnants of their herd still wandered. The dark edge of the forest lay just beyond the slopes. She pressed her lips together, her stomach sinking with fear. He would have taken Anne as far away from sunlight as he could.
Lena shrugged her small pack up her shoulder and began following the faint line of her tainted magic towards the hills and into the forest.
Time was running out for them all.
To be continued…
Dreams BOth Real and Strange II
7
Choices (P
art II)
