Absence_Mist and Shadow

by J. B. Forsyth

  But even though it called, she was still subjected to the Wakening and it struck her as she stepped over the Threshold of Consciousness. It spread through the enclosure and there were gasps and wails from all those in its field. They looked up with bloodless faces, fearing an imminent plunge into the liquid terror that had only just left them. They saw a girl standing beneath The Reader and most assumed she had been injured on the wall and had wandered towards it in a daze.

  The faces of the Wakening appeared in Della’s mind and she welcomed them. She brought her shame into her thoughts, wanting them to see the terrible things she had done and the person she had become. Tears streaked her face as they judged her, but in the end they simply withdrew; taking the Wakening with them. For some inexplicable reason, she had been deemed worthy – free to walk upon the sacred ground beneath it.

  She went to a colossal foot and stroked her hand along its rising arch, noticing the deposits of soil and dead leaves that were accumulated beneath it. Her fingers found what she was looking for behind the hard swell of its ankle bone: an artery as thick as her forearm, pulsing visibly beneath its skin. She pressed her hand to it and closed her eyes. She had heard its heartbeat as she approached and now she felt its soothing thump travelling down her arm and through her body. The Reader’s blood was the blood of her people and as it flowed beneath her hand she heard their voices – the same ones that called her from the wall. And as the people in the enclosure watched, she gave herself over to them.

  For a time, it was like floating and when she opened her eyes she was outside her old house in Joebel. It was bright and early and her parents were having breakfast on the lawn. Their talk turned to laughter and they leaned over their plates to kiss. Her father’s fingers disappeared into her mother’s long hair and the necklace of wooden animals he had carved for her swung free of her shirt. She called to them and when they turned, the picture froze. It was the perfect image: her father’s wry smile, his cheek bulging with a crust of bread – her mother’s freckled face and shining eyes. It was the last time she saw them alive together and they were happy – expressing their love in a wash of warm sunshine. She had gone to The Reader in need and it knew where she needed to go.

  She blinked and was by her mother’s side, painting rabbits on a bed board they had brought out into the garden. She turned to her mother and insisted with a six-year old’s concern that the mummy rabbit should have one ear pointing up and one pointing down - so it could listen for owls as well as its babies. Her mother laughed, swung her around and tickled her tummy.

  Another blink and she was creeping up on her father as he dozed on a river bank – a sloshing pail in her trembling hands. She emptied it on his head, delighting in his gasps as she ran barefoot through soft grass to scale a tree, squealing as her foot slipped his fumbling grip. She looked down, giggling at his feigned anger and the wet hair plastering his face.

  And so it went on - a string of sweet and cruel memories: making fairy breath perfume with her mother, learning to swim with her father and playing hide and seek with them both. The Creator Stone drew her most treasured memories, adding colour and details to those that had faded to grey. It was like an infusion of sunlight and each one added a layer of warmth to her empty heart.

  Aftermath

  Beyond the enclosure the stricken city reeled.

  The cobbles of Irongate were strewn with the debris of overturned stalls and people staggered and crawled amongst it. Some simply stood and looked around, unable to comprehend what was happening. Fires blazed in various places – some fought and others ignored. Bereft mothers pushed through masses of dazed citizens, calling for the children they had abandoned, while others were reunited with tearful embraces. The frothing horse that pulled its rider across the city had drawn up with wide eyes, its hooves clocking as a boy cut the battered man free.

  Visitors bled from the gates in a steady stream, but they didn’t converse in the excited tones that usually possessed those leaving a Reader Ceremony. They left in a hurry, huddled together with family and friends and if they spoke, their talk was hushed and clipped. And as they went they looked over their shoulders at regular intervals, assuring themselves The Reader was still in its enclosure.

  Ormis pushed through the melee and out of the gates, his face ashen, his eyes fixed and terrified. He was waking up to a new reality with streamers of a cruel nightmare boiling off him. His bond with Izle was broken, but he was coming to his senses with the knowledge of what happened to him intact. And it was a single image that set him running from the enclosure wall and kept him running now: Suula gripping her wounded side - her dark eyes looking up at him in confusion. He ran with fear and self-loathing, two unfamiliar emotions that gripped him like an illness.

  He sprinted through the graveyard, but when he arrived at the steps leading down to the mausoleum he stopped and stared at its open door with rising trepidation. Was he too late? He almost froze – too frightened of what he might find. But he hesitated only a second before lurching forward, knowing he had to go there if there was even a chance she was alive.

  He rushed into the tomb and another pang of self-loathing struck him when he saw the stone coffin. He threw his shoulder against the cover, pushing it so far in one grunting effort that it pivoted over the far edge and toppled to the floor. Suula was curled up inside, but she wasn’t moving. He climbed in, crunching old bones with his boots and fumbling for her pulse. His fingers were shaking, but he eventually detected one. Weak, but definitely there. He scooped her up and climbed out, then hoisted her onto his shoulders and ran back to the city.

  He carried her all the way, his breath heavy and his heart burning in his chest - guilt and urgency driving him through the pain. He fought through an exodus of thousands and set her down in a line of people who were being attended by a surgeon. Her wound had bled onto his neck and one side of his shirt was soaked with blood.

  ‘Quickly,’ he said grabbing the surgeon as he was bandaging someone’s head. ‘This one’s dying. There’s a deep wound in her side and she hasn’t much time.’ There was a whiney desperation in his voice which he neither liked nor recognised. The surgeon glared at him in irritation, but he accepted Suula’s greater need and went to her. Ormis backed away, jerking around when Hayhas grabbed his shoulder.

  ‘Ormis! Are you hurt?’ he asked, frowning at his blood soaked shirt.

  ‘No. But Suula is.’

  ‘What happened? We felt the Wakening in Market Cross. Was this Izle’s doing?’

  ‘The girl stopped him.’

  ‘Then we are in her debt,’ he said, looking up at The Reader. ‘Is she safe? ... Ormis, is she safe? Are you sure you’re alright?’

  He was far from alright, but nodded anyway. ‘I left her in the enclosure with the boy.’

  ‘Then you must go back and get them. Take them to the Caliste, it should be safe now. I saw Izle’s men running down the Cragg on the way over. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can, but I need to find Beredrim first… Ormis?’ Hayhas shook him hard. ‘Ormis are you listening to me? Ormis!’

  ‘Yes, I hear you. I’ll get them safe.’ He took one last look at Suula and raced off to the enclosure.

  Kye stood in the fractured courtyard, watching Della from between two guards. She hadn’t moved since placing her hand against The Reader’s ankle – as if some magic was fixing her in place. The sight had inspired the Royal Artist to reset his easel and he was working quickly to capture the scene in the dying light. He was nearly finished and was just refining the details of her face.

  The walls were clear of people now. The enclosure guard were among the first to recover and had worked quickly to remove the dead and wounded. When one of them asked Kye to leave, he pointed to Della and said they were together. The guard gave him a sceptical look and was about to throw him out when the one he had helped to splint a broken leg strode over to corroborate his story. After that he was allowed to stay. When one of them asked what Della was doing, he just shook his head
and shrugged his shoulders. The three of them had watched in silence ever since and it was only when Ormis ran up behind them that they tore their eyes away.

  ‘These two are my charges,’ the exorcist said. There was blood all over one side of his shirt and Kye thought he looked terrible. His face was white and there was a jittery shine in eyes. His authoritative poise was gone and his fingers worked nervously against each another.

  ‘Walked right up to it she did,’ said the guard, ‘Right after the Wakening, or whatever it was… And without a care in the world. I don’t know what happens now, but we’ve sent word to Lord Beredrim.’

  Della lowered her hand from The Reader’s ankle and sauntered over. She smiled at Kye and lowered her head to study the ground, as if simply waiting for them to finish their business. The guards soaked her up with their eyes. She was an enigma to them - a twig of a girl who had walked up to The Reader right after it vented its wrath on the city. They looked at each other for inspiration, but when they saw the others blank face they went back to staring at her again.

  ‘I’ll take them to the Caliste,’ said Ormis.

  The guard puffed up, remembering his responsibilities. ‘Hold on now. She can’t just leave after what she did. Lord Beredrim will decide what happens next.’

  ‘Lord Beredrim sent me,’ he lied.

  The guard narrowed his eyes. ‘Why would he send an exorcist and not one of our own? Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t even be here. She’ll remain with us until I get confirmation through the chain of command. She’ll be safer here than in the city right now.’ He had just finished a report on the late Lord Riole’s trespass of the enclosure and wasn’t keen to start another.

  Ormis swelled, summoning a little of his old self. ‘What crime has she committed for you to detain her?’

  ‘She wasn’t authorised for a reading.’

  ‘That may be so, but she was judged worthy. Doesn’t that count for anything? As far back as I can remember the enclosure guard served all who have been accepted. Surely now this girl has authority over you.’

  The guards exchanged looks of discomfort. ‘But this is different and you know it.’

  ‘Barely. She was judged worthy and a reasonable man would say that trivialises an infringement of the protocols. Lord Beredrim asked me to take her to the Caliste and that’s where she’s going.’

  He beckoned to Kye and Della and started leading them away. The guard’s face worked and his hand gripped the pummel of his sword - weighing the consequences of letting them go against forcing them to stay. But as they got closer to the gate his motivation for the latter drained away and he relaxed his grip. He shrugged at the other guard and watched them go; already thinking about his next report.

  Ormis led them from the calm of the enclosure and into the chaos of the city. Bodies were laid out either side of Reader Way and covered with silk taken from a toppled merchant’s cart - fine shrouds of red, green and blue hugging the contours of the dead and shinning in the lamp light. Dozens of people were working their way along the lines, exposing dead faces and hoping not to see their loved ones staring up at them. The injured were there in large numbers, huddled in doorways, propped against walls and bleeding onto the road. Calls for assistance filled the air, but there wasn’t enough help to go around. More casualties were arriving from the side streets all the time – one man with a broken leg was being pushed in a barrow and another with a bleeding head carried over someone’s shoulder. Further down the street two tradesmen wandered the debris, recovering carved models of The Reader and trampled wicker baskets. Beyond them, a group was gathered around the cleft made by its sword, shaking their heads as they tried to make sense of it all.

  Ormis took them right by, turning a corner at The Moon and Cobbles. There was a dazed barmaid leaning heavily against the tavern’s doorway and two children leaning out of an upper storey window, crying for their mother. The exorcist ignored all calls for assistance and even shrugged off an old man who grabbed his tunic. Kye stopped to help a number of times, but Ormis pulled him away with increasing irritation. In contrast Della just walked on; seemingly oblivious to what was going on all around her.

  They took a quiet street to the arched jawbone at the foot of the Cragg. They hurried up the steps, passing beneath the beastly skulls fixed to the rock face. The city dropped away and it wasn’t long before Kye and Della were tight to the handrail and the sounds of the stricken city reduced to an occasional whisper on the breeze. They were puffing hard when they reached the top and entered the Caliste.

  The gatehouse was open and the courtyard beyond festooned with shadows. A single green mist lamp glowed in the far corner of the cloister. Ormis signalled for them to stay at the gate, did a quick survey of the immediate area then called them inside. He took the mistlamp and led them through the cloister and into the black dormitories at the rear of the cavern. In a sphere of mist glow, he took them down a long dark corridor and ushered them into a room, placing the lamp on a table between two beds. ‘Wait here for a man called Hayhas. He knows where to find you.’ Then he left, closing the door behind him.

  Kye listened to him striding away. ‘Do you think he’s alright?’ he asked Della. But she didn’t even look at him. She was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall. Something profound had happened to her during her contact with The Reader and he could see she was still in the grip of it.

  He looked back at the door; biting his lip.

  Demons

  Ormis staggered along the corridor with only the weak light from the high windows to guide him. He had held himself together long enough to fulfil his responsibilities, but now his charges were safe his demons set about him. His life was a lie; his character contrived and implanted by Izle Rohn - a loathsome garment he had worn for over twenty years. Now Izle was gone that garment was becoming unstitched and the bitter winds of reality were rushing in through the seams.

  He heard Izle’s laugh echo up the corridor and turned, expecting to see his ghost floating up behind him. The corridor was empty, but he felt a terrible subsidence in his mind and fell to the floor. There was nothing but sand in his foundations and everything he had built on them was beginning to topple. He turned onto his hands and knees, gasping; his eyes huge discs of despair. His ring scraped the floor and he raised the throbbing mist stone to his face; seeing it now as a symbol of the foul arts Izle had used to poison his young mind. He jerked back and tried to yank it free. At first it wouldn’t come, but after several brutal tugs it tore over his knuckle, taking a ribbon of skin with it and slicking his finger with blood. He threw it down the corridor and it clattered along the wooden floor. It came to rest beneath a bench, looking back at him like a poisonous eye.

  As he stared back, he was overwhelmed with the memories that once plagued his nightmares: smoke rising from a bakery; his mother’s screams and the smell of her charring flesh; his father’s dead eyed reprimand and the excitement of his mother’s killers. He bore the images as if he was a boy again and it was crushing. He remembered everything now: his orphan wanderings towards Irongate; sleeping in barns and stealing scraps; the whipping he received for stealing a farmer’s eggs; being found shivering in a ditch by the merchant who took him to Irongate orphanage where he didn’t speak for three months, except in the rantings of black dreams.

  He wailed at the memories, rocking back and forth with wild streaming eyes. Superimposed on the images was Izle’s gloating face and Suula’s hurt eyes, staring up from a stone coffin. He vomited – three violent retches that were his body’s attempt to purge his crime. But what he had done, couldn’t be undone. He pushed himself to his feet and propelled himself down the corridor, tears and spittle streaking his face.

  He ran through the cloister and up onto the ramparts, veering and staggering as if his legs had become wise to his true nature and were refusing to serve him. He heaved himself onto the castellated wall and looked out – the tips of his boots overhanging the sheer face of the Cragg. Below him a city of ants s
curried around. He looked down at them, feeling none of the heady fear it should have raised. All he felt was a gathering force behind him – the vanguard of an insanity that would drag him off babbling and drooling. But there was a crop of jagged rocks at the foot of the Cragg that would spare him that fate. He inched forward until all his weight was on his heels; putting himself at the mercy of a capricious breeze. He ripped his bloody shirt open and looked at the oath tattooed on his chest:

  I swear to observe and uphold

  the constitution and protocols of the Calista.

  To discharge the duties of office

  without fear or prejudice.

  And to execute the five disciplines

  with honour and discretion.

  As he glared at the words he was stirred by a new wave of bitterness and bawled his anguish across the city. Izle implanted the idea for the tattoo, but it was just window dressing to put him beyond suspicion. He clawed at his chest until his skin was in tatters and the words streaked with blood. And when he was finished his arms dropped to his side. He closed his eyes and felt suddenly at peace – the image of his parents alive and happy frozen in his mind. The rocks called up to him now and he stepped into the column of air above them…

  But instead of falling he pivoted back on his other heel – grabbed by his belt the moment he stepped out. He twisted and flailed and came down hard; cracking his head on the stone. There was just time before he lost consciousness to see Kye’s frightened face leaning over him.

  Second Chance

  Ormis leant back in the wagon as he contemplated the events of the last month. The 51st Reader ceremony had cast a shadow over the city. Two hundred and thirteen people perished on the night of Izle’s Reading, but all who were touched by the Wakening had been affected in some way. Irongate was now a place where people struggled to sleep; the nights continually broken by those surfacing from black dreams. People still drunk in taverns and bought goods in the streets, but laughter and levity were rare commodities. The people were guarded and twitchy, eschewing idle chit-chat to brood in their own dark thoughts. The Reader had shown them just how tenuous their self-possession really was and how quickly they could abandon their children and turn on their neighbours and friends.