Red Death

by Jeff Altabef

  Is it red because of rust or blood?

  “I’m gonna spike your head,” growled the tribeless man, his breath stinking of rotten meat. He was a weird-looking person, with a long horse-face, rotten teeth, and an odd bald patch in his hair that looked as if someone had ripped hair from the side of his head.

  Eamon pushed hard with his hands, but he might as well shove against one of the stone walls back home. The spike continued to slide toward him, and he felt the tip against his eyelashes.

  He didn’t want to die. He had to save Jillian and Dermot. He steeled his resolve and the spike paused right before the tip would have punctured his eye.

  A black blur swooped by his side, and he knew Aaliss had joined him. He heaved against the club with all his remaining strength—one last shove that bought a couple of inches of separation—all she needed.

  She struck quickly, her short sword slicing into the man’s neck.

  Hot blood splattered across Eamon’s face. Shock filled the tribeless man’s eyes, and for just a moment he looked young, younger than Eamon, before falling lifeless to the ground.

  Eamon fought back the urge to vomit as he sucked in air and tried to stop his hands from shaking. He had survived his first real fight, yet he couldn’t decide whether he should feel elated or sickened. He had never seen death up close before. It didn’t look anything like the songs the singers sang about victory and battle and glory. It looked sad and final and pointless.

  Still alive, the first outlaw Eamon had faced groaned and clawed for Aaliss’s boots.

  She knocked him unconscious with a stomp of her right foot. “Some people don’t know when to die.”

  Eamon grinned despite his unsettled thoughts.

  At least Aaliss had no doubts about death or battle. Sword in hand, blood splattered on her suit, face flushed with color, she looked as if she were born a warrior.

  When her expression changed—her face turned tight and the color drained from her skin—he knew something was wrong and spun to look upon Jillian and Wilky.

  The wild woman held the boy by the neck, the point of her spear pressed against his side. She screamed a wild cackle, and tear tracks ran down both sides of her face, creating little streams through the dirt on her cheeks. Her hair resembled a tangled bird’s nest with pieces of carved bone used to push it from her face. A bolt from Aaliss’s crossbow jutted out from her chest, yet she seemed unharmed and shrieked, “Come near me and I stick ‘im!”

  Aaliss lowered her sword and spoke calmly. “No one is going to come near you. Everything is fine.” She started to edge away from Eamon.

  “Everything’s not fine! You killed Bobby!” The woman nodded toward the bear of a man whom Aaliss had shot with a bolt.

  Aaliss continued to circle away from Eamon, making it difficult for the woman to keep an eye on both of them.

  Clever.

  He followed her lead and moved in the other direction, then added as much hope in his voice as he could muster. “Maybe he’s not dead?”

  Spit flew from the woman’s mouth. “She shot ’im in the heart. Look at ‘im.” Sadness, more than anger, weighed down her voice.

  “She shot you in the chest and you’re not dead?” he offered, thinking he had made a strong rebuttal.

  A new batch of tears sprouted from her eyes. “That’s because of Bobby! His love protected me.”

  The bolt had pierced a small, decorative wooden pendant that draped over her neck on a worn leather strap. The other colors and dirt made it hard to distinguish, but now that she pushed it from her chest with the point of her spear it was plain to see. “You see how he loved me!” Her sobs came in a typhoon.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Eamon noticed Aaliss grab the small knife she kept secreted inside her ostrich suit.

  I’ve got to distract the woman and give her a chance to throw her blade.

  “It sounds like Bobby really cared about you. If you kill Wilky, we’ll have to kill you, and then what would happen to him?”

  “He’s already dead! I don’t wanna live without him.” She gripped the spear tighter, her knuckles turning white as she twisted them in anguish on the wooden shaft. A light breeze rustled her tangled hair.

  Aaliss was still too far away to throw her blade, but Jillian rose from the ground with Bobby’s curved knife in her hand. A small red stream dripped from her arm and splashed the grass, her expression vacant and otherworldly, as if she had been transformed into a ghost.

  “If we have to kill you, we’ll just leave him where he is, and he’ll be food for the firefoxes and the wolves. I’m sure you love Bobby more than that.” Eamon grasped for straws. “He would want to be buried properly and honor whatever gods he served. We can bury him for you if you want. Just put down the spear.”

  Jillian rolled toward the woman like fog over a meadow, silent and graceful.

  A blackbird squawked at the ragged woman, and her tears stopped. A look of calm spread across her face as an eerie smile twisted her lips upward. “Bobby wouldn’t care what happened to him after he was dead, but he would want blood. Blood for blood!” She pulled back the spear, readying it to plunge into Wilky’s side.

  Wilky closed his eyes, but Jillian slid directly behind the woman and slashed the knife across her throat with one smooth stroke.

  The woman dropped the spear and clutched her neck, blood gushing through her fingers as she fell face-first into the dirt.

  Jillian collapsed to her knees.

  Eamon sprinted to her. “Are you all right?”

  She looked at him with unfocused eyes and did not respond.

  After a moment he said, “Let me see the arm.” He gently removed her leather cloak and ripped open the sleeve of her shirt. The gash appeared deep and nasty and bloody. He did his best to stifle the gasp that threatened to sneak past his lips.

  Aaliss and Wilky moved next to him.

  “Get my medical kit from my satchel,” Aaliss said, and Wilky ran off toward the horses. “It looks bad.” She sounded feathery. “She’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “She’ll be fine.” Eamon fixed his eyes on her arm, and all that blood—Jillian’s blood. “I should never have let her come with us. This is my fault.”

  Aaliss grabbed him roughly by the shirt. “Listen to me. I can sterilize the arm and bandage the wound, but we’re going to need something to close that cut. The bandage will only work for a few hours. We need a needle and some thread or something else. Do you have anything?”

  Wilky skidded to a stop and handed a small black pouch to Aaliss.

  “No, nothing like that,” Eamon said.

  “To give her a chance we must close that wound soon. In a few hours she’ll lose too much blood, and it will be too late.” Aaliss applied a salve from the bag to Jillian’s arm and wrapped it tightly with a white cloth bandage.

  “We’re too far from the Stronghold. There’s only one place I can think of where we could go.”

  Jillian snapped awake, her gaze focusing suddenly. “No, Eamon, it’s too dangerous! There has to be another way.”

  “What is it?” Aaliss turned to face him.

  “A red witch lives off the ancient road not far from here. She’s supposed to be a healer, but I’ve heard stories. She’s dangerous.”

  Aaliss rose. “So are we. Let’s go see this witch.”

  ***

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  Chapter 29 – Jonas

  Jonas strode into the High Priest’s office, his shoulders swaying aggressively, his gait limping and otherwise slightly off from the half bottle of Sacred Drink he’d swigged upon returning to Eden.

  The High Priest stood with his back to him and gazed out the windows at the setting sun. A decorative green robe loosely embraced his great bulk like a tent. Cool air swept through the cracked-open windows, adding a chill to the air.

  Jonas paused, feeling trepidation about his meeting with the High Priest. All had not gone well in the Zone, and the High Priest didn’t
take bad news well. He didn’t want to find his head on a chopping block.

  The High Priest glanced over his shoulder at him and sounded somber. “Where’s Gabriel? Were you successful? Is the deed done?”

  “No, your Grace. A tribe of Soulless devils captured the girl and boy. Horsemen from the Butcher tribe surrounded them at the last moment. The Viper went after them.”

  Jonas left out how Aaliss shot him with a poisoned bolt and how the Viper strung him up in his hammock until the poison wore off so the wolves wouldn’t get him. No need to bother his Grace with details. After all, he was a big picture type of guy.

  The High Priest’s face pinched together. “You allowed them to be captured by Soulless.”

  “There was nothing we could do.”

  The High Priest sighed. “I am disappointed. Too much is at stake for failure now.”

  “Gabriel went after them. He’ll find a way to end them. He’s never failed before.”

  “I hope so. We’ve spread the story that Aaliss killed Samuel and his team. If they somehow make it back into the Zone, any Guardians they’ll meet will dispatch them. You’re in charge of the unit for now. Make sure any who might be sympathetic to Aaliss stay in Eden until Gabriel returns.”

  Jonas nodded. He didn’t want to be responsible for the Guardians. All he wanted was enough Sacred Drink to drown himself. He’d have someone else do the schedule and make it sound like a promotion. Maybe he’d find a bright side to this assignment: he could trade favors for more apple wine. Favors were valuable.

  “Soon we will fulfill Jacob’s true calling.” The High Priest turned from him and faced the window. “I love the way the light sparkles off Eden River, don’t you? It looks so divine, as if God created the river and sunlight just so I can see its beauty from this window.”

  ***

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  Chapter 30 – Kalhona

  Kalhona traced the outline of the scarlet fish with her fingers and then glanced behind the tree. A worn path led off into the distance. If she had not stopped to inspect the ornament, she would never have noticed the trail.

  Someone keeps it up.

  Convinced P’mina would have taken the trail if she had seen it, Kalhona took one last look at the old road, found it as foreboding as ever, and followed the new path, stumbling slightly over a tree root as she started out.

  The trail meandered through heavily wooded forest, and just as she started to think she had made a mistake, she turned a corner and found a small stream and a stone cabin in the distance.

  The roof, originally made of slate, looked in disrepair with thatch replacing missing tiles. An ill-fitting red door hung crookedly on its hinges, and wood boarded all the windows except for one. A simple red fish that matched the ornament was painted on the wall next to the door.

  A thin gray finger rose from the chimney and reached into the sky, beckoning her forward. Someone must have lit that fire, which meant someone lived in the cabin. She stared hard at the small building, and for the first time in ten harvests, she thought about seeing her mother again.

  During her trek she had thought exclusively about P’mina and bringing her home for the Renewal Feast. Usually, she imagined hauling her home with her hands locked around her throat. Now that she saw the cabin, other thoughts rifled through her mind.

  After all these years, will I really see my mother again? Will she even recognize me? Does she ever think about me?

  She shook her head to chase those childish thoughts from her mind. Lingering on them would do her no good. No longer a child, she’d made herself into the best Artist in the tribe, and she had a toddler of her own. She had already mourned her mother, and whether she lived here or not, Kalhona had forged an independent life without her. Nothing she’d find in that cabin would change anything. All she needed was her sister.

  She warily crossed the stream on an old wooden plank that bent as she stepped on it, and headed for the front door. The sounds of a goat braying tempted her to turn back, but she stiffened her resolve and took another tentative step forward.

  The door seemed far away, and at her current snail’s pace it would have taken her half the night to reach it, but as she inched forward, an unfamiliar voice called out, “State your business!”

  Startled, Kalhona jumped forward and almost pitched onto the ground.

  A witch had crept from behind an oak with her bow drawn.

  Kalhona trembled, her eyes wide with terror. Words stumbled out of her mouth, as if uncertain that they should make the trip at all. “I’m looking... for my... sister.”

  The Witch kept the arrow trained on her. “You’ll have to speak up! I can’t hear like I used to.”

  Kalhona summoned her courage, straightened her back, and lifted her head. She tried to see the Witch clearly but the shadows cloaked the woman’s features. All she saw was the bow and the pointy steel tip on the arrow. “I’m looking for my sister. She came here searching for our mother.”

  The Witch lowered the weapon and stepped from the shadows. “You’re looking for your sister, you say?”

  The Witch wore a loose-fitting, black-hooded robe that sagged over her shoulders. The last rays of sunlight lit her face and a spider web of lines stretched over her cheeks and forehead. She shuffled forward with a stooped back, and her hand shook as she used the bow as a walking cane. Bits of red speckled her eyes, but a pasty film covered them and dulled their shine. Her long, lush, and blood-red hair afforded her the last vestige of youth.

  “Yes, my sister. She’s looking for our... mother.”

  “What’s the problem?” The Witch cackled. “Am I the first witch you’ve seen?”

  Kalhona dipped her head not sure what to say. She had never seen anyone older than twenty-three harvests before, and the Witch did not look as she had expected.

  The Witch spoke with a coarse, raspy voice. “We better go inside before the stew boils over.” She shuffled past Kalhona and into the small cabin, leaving the door open.

  Kalhona followed a step behind.

  A short, fat bulldog ran up to the Witch, wagged its tail, and licked her hand. “So you decided to come out from under the table. Some guard dog you are. I should add you to the stew.” She reached down and rubbed the fur on its head.

  The fragrance of rabbit stew wafted from a kettle hung above the flames in the fireplace. A small, round, wooden table with a thin crack down the center stood near the fire with two stools.

  “Sit down while I check on the stew,” the Witch said.

  Kalhona sat and dropped her satchel by her feet.

  A red and black finch, which must have snuck into the cabin through a hole in the roof, began tweeting loudly.

  The Witch paid it no attention and joined Kalhona at the table—her face gaunt, her cheeks hollow and lined from age.

  “Is my sister here? Did she come to see you? “

  “A sister, you say. No, no one’s been here for a week.”

  Kalhona dropped her head into her chest. “I was hoping she would’ve come this way. I need to find her and bring her back before the Renewal Feast.”

  “What’s so important about a feast?”

  “It’s the Renewal Feast.” Kalhona stared at the Witch, expecting recognition to dawn on her face, but found none. “Once every ten harvests we have a special feast with the Orion Tribe, where we swap girls of age.”

  Kalhona expected the brief explanation to have cleared everything up, but the Witch just nodded her head and said, “Oh, so your sister was supposed to be swapped and ran instead?”

  “Yes, and if I don’t get her back in time the family name will always be a disgrace. It’ll be terrible all over again.” Moist tears brimmed her eyes and stood dangerously close to falling.

  “It sounds terrible to me. She has to leave her family and friends to join a new tribe just because of her birthday. I see why she ran away.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s a great honor to be swapped, and w
hen our mother became a witch it was awful. Everyone shook their heads at us and thought we were bad luck. I trained to be an Artist, but no one wanted me to paint them. I had to work twice as hard as the other girls. When they played, I’d stay behind and work the needles until my hands ached. Even then only a few people risked getting my tattoos, and I had to do them for free.” Pride swelled in her voice. “Now I have the longest lines, but it’ll be ruined if she doesn’t go to the feast. Things will go back to the way they were. I’ll have to start all over again.”

  This time the tears fell in a quick rainstorm. When the storm passed, Kalhona wiped the remnants away with her sleeve.

  The Witch returned to the fireplace and stirred the stew. She clanged the wooden spoon against the sides of the pot harshly. “Why did your sister come looking for your mother here?”

  “Last year a trader told me that a red witch lived off the Ancient Road. I told my sister about it the other day. She must have gone looking for her, but you aren’t the witch that the trader described. She looked... different.”

  The Witch grinned. One of her yellow front teeth was missing, which caused an unattractive gap. “By different you mean young, don’t you? Not old and rotting like me?”

  Kalhona nodded her head solemnly. She did not want to insult the Witch, but the truth was plain for anyone to see. If she lied, the Witch would surely know.

  “Let me tell you some things about witches. We don’t age like everyone else. Sure, there are minor changes over the years, but they’re small and barely noticeable, until one day when everything changes. There is no predicting when that day will arrive. Some Sisters live for two hundred revolutions before they change, and others make it only thirty. Last moon I could have been your sister, appearing only a few years older than you. Now look at me! My back has bent, my eyes have clouded over, my face has these ugly lines in them, and my hands have knotted up like the roots of an old tree.” She lifted her hands, which were indeed knotted and twisted and scarred with age spots. “I’ve lived sixty revolutions and now my body’s given up. I could barely draw the bow.”