Skull of Oghren

by Tuomas Vainio

  She climbs higher and wanders around, until she finds herself in the third floor, staring at the giant pigeon made out of black cloth. The fabric does not stop moving, it flows and twists without an end in sight. It dances around the shape of a once dead bird, mimicking its feathers claws. Sitting in the room it was created, pecking and throwing things with its beak of cloth. Loge scratches her head as she stares at it. It had taken some effort to convince Mimas not take it home with her. At least not yet.

  But as observing the giant bird turns out to be not quite as interesting as watching the four boys work and sweat around the fireplace, Loge decides to climb right to the top. To see what her brother Pan is doing, or at least drag his butt down from the roof before it takes root to the tiles.

  What awaits her in the fifth floor is a whimpered cry for help under wines and branches filling the attic room. Under the coat of leaves a single hand tries it best to reach out and grab a hold of anything. Loge simply bursts out into laughter, before she grabs onto the lone hand to pull her brother Pan out of his predicament.

  It is not an easy task, so Loge's feet press against the door frame and the thick branches the circle the room. She pulls with her face red as the Pan groans held in place within the green prison of his own making. But eventually the wines let go and the boy flies out as the girl slips and falls on her back. Both moan from their bruises at first, but burst into joyous laughter soon after.

  Loge gets up first and ask; 'What happened?'

  'Um...' Pan begins as his face turns to a shade of red. 'Pandora raised all the buckets and flower benches simultaneously... So, I thought about making all the seeds grow at the same time. It got bit of out of hand.'

  'A little?' Loge laughs as she stares towards the room filled with overgrown and misshaped plants. 'Have you thought how we are going to clear that?'

  'A saw and big scissors?'

  'Going to be a bother and take forever.' She turns towards Pan and makes an exaggerated bow to present a thin strip of fire rising from the palm of her hand. She spins her other hand around it, weaving and twisting it to a string wrapped around her hand.

  Loge chuckles, and carefully spins that string around the nearest branch and tightens it as if to tie a knot. The branch spews out smoke on contact and the bark surrounding the string leaves turns charred and blistering. As for the middle of the branch, it cannot cannot resist or withstand the heat, it just melts away and so the left side of the branch falls down.

  She smirks. 'Would you like me to take care of this? I think it could be be good practise for me.'

  Pan hesitates; 'It is my mess, I cannot have you clean it for me.'

  'Oh, you can carry all the pieces and logs downstairs later. I'm just going to cut them to pieces.' After a moment of consideration. 'Do you you think you can?'

  'I can.' Pan says without hesitation, regardless of how pained his body still feels. 'Just watch out for the buckets and benches.'

  'Fine-fine.' She flicks her fingers to get rid of the string of fire, and flares out the fiery whips from her finger nails. With a wave of her hand the the whips sink through the vegetation, twist and curl over the branches and vines, tearing it all into shreds. Pieces and chunks fall down. Leaves churn out of the way of Loge's strikes and the cracks of her whips.

  Behind her Pan grabs a hold of one half-burned leaf, and spins it before his eyes. 'Please try not to burn the house.'

  'No worries, I wont!' She smirks over her shoulder as the whips continue to lash out on their own. 'Oh.' She stops. 'The cellar is starting to be little empty.'

  With the mention of empty cellar, Pan's stomach growls as a reminder that it refuses to live on just sunlight for nourishment. 'Right. Okay.' The boy scratches his head, and he cannot lie how carrying a purse of coins would be lighter than the strange logs. 'Sorry, I think I got to go away… I'll be back for evening.' The boy scratches his head. 'So you can go buy what you want for us tomorrow morning.'

  'Oh. Okay.' Loge looks towards the logs and she kind of begins to regret having mentioned the state of the cellar. She glances at Pan, and takes a good look at the boy. 'One more thing, stay perfectly still.' The fiery whips shrink back to her hand and just gently kindle on at the tips of her nails.

  'What, why?'

  'Your hair is long and leaves are growing out of it.' Loge wiggles her fingers towards Pan's head, and the fiery whips lash out from both hands. Pan's hair crackles as it burns and shrivels up, and the nasty stench of burning hair seeps into their noses. The boy leaps backwards and pats his head to put out the fire, but it is already over. 'See, you do look better now. With shorter hair. And without those strange leaves.'

  Loge chuckles and returns to clear out Pan's attic with her left hand. Pan gulps, and pats the cut hair off his shoulder and back. He picks up one the leaves and indeed, the strands of his hair had melded together to form a leaf. Pan spins it before his eye, and decides to stuff it into his pocket before he finally heads down.

  Once he reaches the ground floor, the other boys do not say much, but judging from their looks it becomes clear that he was not the first boy whose hair Loge had cut with her fire. They exchange few words, Hip particular gives emphasis how exciting working with the finger bones is. But it is not without its problems either, for example how they had to fix the anvil after their first attempt. It certainly slowed down their rate of work, but they are placing the finger bones between two slaps of metal. One as a base to shield the anvil, and the other as the hammer. How they are even coming up different ways of weaving enchantments. The three others nod in approval and Hip goes through his notes for their next attempt. Pan leaves them to it and heads down to the cellar where he disappears into the sewers below.

  It has been some time since he last opened the floor hatch. It creaks as it shifts, and as the boy stares down to the darkness below, he does his best to get used to the dank moistness that oozes upwards. Sitting on the roof under the glare of Sun as the wind caressed his face has left its mark on Pan's senses. His face wretches, but he dives down and little by little pulls and nudges the hatch back on its place.

  The boy stands in the darkness. He breathes in and out waiting for the darkness to transform into rough shapes he can somehow recognise. The boy admits to himself how the company of the rat would make things easier for him, but he has not yet forgotten the correct path to run. Pan takes his first step with his right hand against the sewer walls. He recognises the rough bricks under the algae and so he begins to move faster, counting the bricks his hand slides past. And when he reaches to the brick number 671, its rough edge, he takes the turn to the right. What greets him is a line of distant storm drains high above the canals running in the middle. The boy smirks, and lets his hand fall off the wall in order to wipe his fingertips clean of the muck.

  The sounds of the street above echo down into the sewers. Random passages and idle words, the screeching of wagon wheels, and how an army of boots stomp ever onwards. The sheer volume of the sounds guide Pan onwards, guiding him to find the largest mob, the place where the people of the city gather today. Which street. Which avenue. He listens for the right words among within the echoes of the sewer. He wanders on as if caught in trance.

  He travels ever onwards trying to find the right echo that grant him the hint of accents for how wealthy the people above are. In addition to the right rhythm of boots, the one of multitude of idle people standing around without a care in the world. He is looking for a place of people and wealth. So wealthy they are almost uncaring when it comes to loosing few coins. They of course object to becoming victims of outright theft, but often willingly pay way too much for simple goods if the merchant carries enough social standing. So Pan doesn't feel exceptionally guilty about what he is to do.

  Thus when Pan reaches the place he needs to be. He climbs up with his toes and fingers stuck in the gabs between the bricks. He has found what shall act as the thieves' ladder, a forgotten and torn wall covered with brick plaster.

  He hits th
e stone slap over his head. It creaks and shifts with dust and dirt falling down. The boy clings on the wall, and finally the stone square jumps up and it can be slid aside with a sharp kick or two. Thus Pan finds himself within a narrow dark space forgotten between the street and the nearby courtyard. Both ends appear to have been walled shut with walls of hastily layered bricks and a crooked wooden fence. No has bothered to paint the inside of either fence.

  Therefore, the boy rests his back against the other wall, and raises his feet against the other. It is a slow process with his back sliding against other wall, but the boy climbs towards the roofs. He tries to glance upwards, as he aims his progress towards the ridge that looks the most promising.

  Once Pan's head goes past the corner tile of roof, he swings his arms backwards to grab a support from the hot roof tiles. Fingers twitch, the heat feels through his sleeves, but he nevertheless balances his hold. After careful mental preparation and flexing his muscles as well as he can; Pan kicks his feet off the opposing wall and shoves his entire body upwards with his arms. After recovering, the boy sit over ridge as if he had sat there the whole day.

  The wind pushes against his face, changing the trajectory of the sweat drops on his face. A moment of rest, a moment of just looking down to all the people walking down below on the streets. To the people gathered to see the market stalls on the nearby market squares.

  Colourful cloaks. Sparkling silver halberds waving among the feathered hats. The wealthy of the city clearly had gathered there to celebrate something. Thus Pan takes another look around. He sees other children like himself scurrying behind corners and walking amidst the people. Some had also climbed onto the roofs armed with tiny shards of glass for communication. Servants of Capra and Anguis based on their ash red and green coloured cloaks. Pan snorts to himself, as he realises exactly how far he has wandered from King Sus' domain. It is lucky for him that his own patchwork cloak reveals no allegiances. He is but a lonely thief, and hence often ignored by the servants of the Rat-Kings.

  He sinks his hand to his pocket to draw out a tiny hook and a long thin string. He gets up and tiptoes along the ridge of the roof. The boy almost skips to the other side, and with a glance down he sees the few merchant stalls with people walking and stopping by. There is plenty of fish going about, thus Pan just has to lower his hook and string to see what fortunes he can manage to pull up.

  At least that is the underlying theory when it comes to fishing within the city. The act itself is a whole lot more complicated as the string can be swayed by wind, it can latch onto something unintended, not to mention how the string itself could snap under weight. Or how at any moment someone could notice something dangling in front of their very noses. Especially should the hook take a hold of those noses.

  Thus Pan gets down on his belly and begins to slowly untangle the string while watching how the wind plays and tosses it around. His eye wonders around the people, looking for a pouch or something similar to swing down and yank upwards.

  Hats and cloaks, ears and noses. Clothes fine and tarnished. People wave their hands as their mouths roll on to haggle for the goods or as they exchange news and rumours. Pan's eye glistens as he sees a stocky woman spread out her crossed arms, the hook drops and swings, and as Pan yanks it up it latches on but not on the intended pouch. The hook digs into the dress and refuses to let go. The hem of the woman's skirt gets yanked slightly upwards with every pull, and so the gazes slowly turn to look up. Pan decides to let go of the string and scuttle away as fast as he can.

  Yet what he sees standing behind him is a ginger girl donned in the ash red cloaks of King Capra. That freckled face of her smirks, and Pan tries to smirk back in an attempt to charm his way out. But he is still at least five years too young for his smirk to be of any use. 'Wrong turf, boy.' She proclaims while whipping out a dagger from under he cloak.

  The steel blade glistens under the sun and it is pointed way too close to the tip of Pan's nose. Yet under the girl's raised arm, under the cloak, Pan sees a pouch that appears to be within his range to grab. A chance to reclaim the earlier failure, especially since the girl chose to draw her steel.

  This ginger daughter of Capra raises her eyebrow as the boy's smirk ever widens. It causes her to second guess, to a blink and a gaze elsewhere to spot the boy's possible help. A moment of unawareness that allows Pan to sharply kick the dagger hand, and to shove his head into her gut. The girl tumbles over and groans. She curses the moment she notices the young boy running away with her purple pouch in his left hand.

  'Stupid-stupid-stupid.' The boy mutters as he runs towards the gab between buildings from which he rose before. He should have realised how his greed has landed him on more trouble than he was in before. Thus he makes the jump to fall right in between the buildings. He hits the wall, and bounces against the other, his body spins and bounces all the way down, but it also slows down his fall. Although bruised, the boy's feet land firmly. His entire body aches, moans, but he is only few steps away from the loose flat stone and and his escape into the sewers. Before diving in, he looks up and she sees the ginger haired and freckled face stare down towards him. The boy decides to taunt. He performs a grandiose court bow with the pouch barely staying in his left hand, and to finish it off he blows a kiss with his right hand. Then he leaps down.

  Pan's knees and ankles protest as he lands into the sewer passages as they had not truly recovered from his earlier drop. The pouch falls from his hand, and spills out some coins onto the sewer passage. Some of which roll all the to the canals to be washed away. The boy groans and grabs what he can before continuing his escape.

  Inside his mind he is not following any particular path or route, he is just determined to get somewhere he recognises well enough, before turning to head towards his own home. He makes haste with his steps as he fears how the servants and vassals of Capra could follow his trail in the turf they know.

  Pan flies through the series of passages veiled in both darkness and illuminated in light. He runs until the bruises and strain grows too heavy on his young body. Until his steps stop and he must lean against the sewer wall for support as he breathes in and out. He turns to look behind him, and what greets is but empty tunnels for as far as he can see.

  He turns to count the handful of coins he managed to gain, it is enough for a while, and so he shoves the coins back to his pockets and drops the velvet pouch.

  His journey towards back home begins by identifying where exactly he. To do that, he once more listens to the voices whispered and echoed within the sewers or by trying to come across the hidden landmarks to guide his passage. Thus little by little Pan builds up an image of where he stands, where to head next, and when to sneak onwards with care.

  Yet he cannot help but to notice how the sewers seem somewhat empty. The pockets of residence seem barren and quiet, with the few patrons and thieves being wary and silent. There is no dance nor song among the coloured lanterns, there are no carts being dragged between the hubs of the underworld. The boy senses the anticipation in the sewer air, past all other smells. But the exact reason continues to elude with the tied lips and suspicious eyes. Something has unnerved the folk under the streets. And it is something big.

  But as our boy has no way to find out as he does not feel safe enough to linger long enough to hear a word or two in passing. His only only choice is to walk onwards, through the corridors of old streets and passages dug through the rubble. Wade through the sewage water, and hop across chasm until he stands before an old statue of an armless lady in the middle of a forgotten market avenue.

  The boy recalls the rat's stories of how the people of the city used to come to visit the lady for a boon in love. How they would squeeze the behind for luck while their other hand was entwined with the fingers of the of the statue. A position where the statue would look straight back into their eyes. According to the rat, the day when the arm fell off, was the day when the whole avenue fell down.

  Pan looks around and does not see a sing
le shadow move. Thus he carefully approaches the statue and stands right in front of it. He looks up to the face looking down. There is not a smile, the lips are just oddly puckered, almost as if the statue was trying to pretend to be a duck. He scratches his head while he tries to understand why anyone would wish to touch the butt.

  Pan blinks, something irritates his ears. Past the distant sound of gushing water, he recognises the sound of tiny claws scraping against the stone and brick. Yet it is not the old rat he knows, there are far too many legs. In the corner of his eye, he sees how a billowing swarm of rats rushes over almost like a tidal wave in the sewage canals. Glowing eyes surround him, rats standing on each others backs, rats hanging on the walls and ceiling. A legion surrounds him.

  Pan gulps and bows. 'King Sus, what do I owe this honour.' He keeps his stare down.

  The Rat-King begins to laugh like two rocks were smashed against each other. Repeated bursts of sound that almost shatter the boy's ear drums. A sound that forces Pan to cover his ears. A sound that makes him feel as if his very head was ready to burst. Until suddenly the silence falls. A single voice speaks out, a feint feminine voice. 'Tsk, tsk. I am not that bore obese and greasy Sus. No, I am not. You may address me as your Queen Capra.'

  Pan blinks. 'My queen, what do I owe this honour?'

  'Oh, little boy you wandered far and you got tangled with one my daughters in ash-red.'

  'The covenant of...'

  'Indeed, the covenant of the twelve, well eleven. Thieves, muggers, and never-do-wells are free to roam the world above and below. But only as long as they honour the domains below and follow their best wits above.' Pan raises his head little, just enough so that his eye can glance up to see the female rat standing on its hind legs over a throne made of other rats. That rat keeps her front paws crossed over her chest as it continues; 'And wits you certainly followed, but...'