“See old man? I have proven the meaning of love. It is not vanity nor strength nor courage, but all of them and a dash of respect, dignity and patience. Thank you for the lesson, kind Bewkellor.”
“All you have proven, but failed to see, Pigboy, is that the true definition of love is the persistence of stupidity.” The old man regarded Ariana, then smiled at Redfern. “Still, the outcome is the same, is it not? Before you embark on your journey of marital bliss, I offer you one final gift.”
He handed Redfern a beautiful star-shaped bottle as blue as his sweetheart’s eyes. “Use it sparingly, for it will take away the bad times by speeding past them to calmer waters. One drop will take you a week beyond the worst of any argument. It will soften the pain of the path you tread, and you, above all, deserve that.”
Bewkellor nudged Redfern’s hand until a little of the liquid spilled onto the forest floor where, before it dried, he saw the sun rise and set seven times in quick succession.
“Remember Pigboy, use it wisely!”
They were married the next morning before a shocked and disbelieving village. Redfern spilled a drop of liquid in the church because he was tired of all the muttering. Within seconds a month had passed and the good people of Beldullin had grown used to the idea.
He sold his magnificent suit of armor and bought himself a farm. He even hired Morgan and made him feed his pigs. Although Ariana rarely spoke to him, and flinched when he touched her, he was content merely to gaze upon her, knowing that she was his.
One night, as Redfern rocked in front of the fire, he turned Bewkellor’s strange little bottle in his hand and thought of his triumph. It jumped from his clumsy paw and smashed on the floor, seeping quickly through the cracks even as he tried to scoop it up.
And so it came to pass, in that instant, Redfern and Ariana found themselves old and wrinkled, not knowing anything more about each other than they had when they first met; ignorant of each other’s hopes and dreams; sharing only the vague knowledge that something great had once passed between them, linking them forever. In short, they became a typical married couple.
She sat across from him, slumped in her rocker by the fire, her eyes sparkling with an inner light that sent the blood roaring through his veins, making him feel indestructible, that he could soar on the air if she but wished. There was an enigma buried deep within her, one that set his tired old heart galloping in a fruitless quest to solve it, filling him with a yearning as elusive and slippery as the swine he once tended. What bound them together was ancient, unknowable, and stronger than the magicks that plagued his waking thoughts.
“Ariana,” he said aloud in a cracked and weary voice; her name glowed in the air, seeming to him the very definition of love.
Redfern, although he could not remember making it, finally got his wish.
Fire Walker
Keith Gouveia
IGNIS WATCHED FROM THE SHADOWS as his mother and father performed for the gathering crowd. Light from the pyres refracted off the polished steel of his father’s daggers as he tossed them into the air with grace, catching them and returning them to the air with skilled precision. His mother, dressed in a red gown that glowed in the firelight, gradually added another blade to the collective until his father juggled six.
The rain had come and gone earlier in the day, but the clouds remained. Their presence almost blocked out the light of the red moon entirely, allowing the fires to burn brighter in their shadows. Though he preferred not to be this close to the savage land of the Oscura, he could not deny the brilliance of his father.
Not a bad turnout, he thought as the crowd settled around the performance square. Even the drunkards from the tavern had abandoned their ale to see. You were right, Father, they are indeed happy for the distraction.
Life in Cruor was tough enough without worrying about Oscura raiding parties, and what possessed these good people to claim their right to live so close to the cannibals’ borders was beyond Ignis’s reasoning.
His father tossed one of the blades toward the crowd. Screams of shock and surprise echoed as the blade harmlessly penetrated the soil at their feet. The panic quickly turned to laughter and applauds as, one by one, the daggers his father juggled hurled toward other sections of the crowd. Two young boys who had been sitting side-by-side scurried away from each other as the last dagger landed in the small opening between them. With their eyes wide and mouths agape, they stared at the pommel of the weapon, obviously fantasizing about the possibility of it killing either of them.
Soon Ignis would be introduced and then it would be his turn to perform. With his staves in hand, he dipped the wicking ends in the bowls of nujol oil and waited for his mother to ignite his entrance. All he need do is to not make a mistake, else face the harsh sting of his father’s whip. Even if the crowd failed to notice his left foot an inch off its mark, an erroneous error as that would not escape the critical eye of Darshawn.
“And now,” Darshawn said with his hands raised high, “good people of Fanguard, I introduce you to Ignis. My son. The fire walker!”
With a smile and a twirl, Ignis’s mother lit a torch in the nearest pyre and then bent at the knees to ignite a path of rocks that had been soaked in nujol oil. As the flames spread along the path leading to the back of his parents’ wagon, Ignis took a deep breath and waited for the cue.
A wall of flame burst forth as the fire reached the end of the trail where a heavy saturation of fuel lay dormant. The fire’s roar caused several of the on-lookers to lean back, and before the fire died down, Ignis jumped through. His staves instantly catching fire as he passed through the flames.
As his feet touched the hot rocks, his arms and hands went to work twirling the staves, surrounding his torso in an orange glow. He stood in place for a moment, circling his body with the fire, the heat intense enough to evaporate the sweat from his body as it formed. With fluidity in his movements, Ignis performed the routine his father had taught him. He’d been doing it half of his life now.
In the crowd, he saw the young boys watching him. Their eyes wide and lower lips drooped open in wonderment. Ignis wondered if they were ever going to blink.
I’ll show them something they’ll never forget.
He twirled the staff in his left hand horizontally, the flames kissing his cheek as he prepared for his next trick. Once ready, he tossed the staff into the air, then quickly jumped forward into a one-armed handstand. The crowd erupted into applause as the airborne staff came to rest on the soles of his feet. As he felt his balance waver, he kicked his feet upward. The staff hurled into the air as he righted himself in a flip, he then caught the falling staff and entered a new series of twirls.
The applause continued as he danced down the stone path. The flames licked his ankles and relayed the urgency that he needed to pick up the pace. Once off the flame-covered path and on soft, cooling soil, he tilted his head back and swallowed an ignited tip of his staff, extinguishing the flame.
As his mother took the first staff from his right hand, Ignis rotated the second staff in his left hand and proceeded to swallow the other lit end. He could feel his throat widen as the wick material passed over his uvula. His stomach tightened, but he overcame the instinct to gag and withdrew the now extinguished staff end. The second one always gave him trouble; he figured it was due to the irritation caused by the first. Fortunately, his father never asked him to do more than the two ends.
While his mother dipped the first staff into a bucket of water, his father coated one of his daggers with nujol oil.
“For our finale, my son requires complete silence from the audience. One distraction, one second of doubt, and my son’s life will be forfeit.”
Every time he heard the speech, Ignis found the words amusing. He didn’t need silence; he just needed to keep his eyes on the prize.
Ignis steeled his nerves as his father ignited the blade in fire. An eerie silence befell the crowd as Ignis’s father stepped in line with him and took aim. The blazing d
agger drew back and slowly sliced through the air as his father determined the proper attack point. He aligned the blade up once more and let it fly from his hand. The crowd gasped as one. Ignis’s mother screamed — all part of the show — as the blade came toward his face with precise accuracy.
With his hands pointing upward, he caught the blade between his palms — the sharp tip a hair’s length from the bridge of his nose. The crowd stood and erupted in thunderous applause.
“Ladies and gentleman…my son!” Ignis’s father started to clap, then bowed before the cheering crowd. Ignis followed his lead as, too, his mother.
“Bravo! Bravo!” said a man as he stood, his portly belly reverberating as he clapped. “Excellent show. What extraordinary feats.”
“Thank you, my lord is too kind,” Ignis’s father replied.
“Your son, how does he do it?” asked the bulbous man.
Ignis took that as his cue to return to the wagon. Without his gloves, the dragon scales sewn into his palms were visible. More often than not, the crowd demanded the opportunity to shake his hand and to share drink and food as part of the payment for the entertainment. He needed to mask his secret, else face his father’s wrath.
“Now, my lord, surely you know it is not befitting of a performer to reveal his secrets.”
“Ah.” The man waved his hand as if to dismiss the notion, but pressed no further.
Upon entering the wagon, all further conversations were out of Ignis’s earshot. He closed the door behind him to discourage any of the children from following him, and he took a moment to breathe and relax.
He rubbed the hard, course scale embedded in his right palm. When he was just an adolescent, he and his father came upon the decaying remains of a dragon on a plateau while foraging in the mountains neighboring the town of Mossdeep. Fearful of entering the accursed town and being afflicted with the black moss, his father refused to put on a show and trade for much needed supplies. Instead, his mother remained with the wagon as Ignis and his father climbed the steep rock face in search of rostrum eggs or malikboar to take with them on their journey to the next town.
The dragon had been long dead, its meat rotten and festering with insects. However, scattered across the ground, its blood-red scales were perfectly intact. At first, his father was more concerned with finding a rostrum nest, certain the carcass would have attracted a flock or two. But as Ignis explored the once majestic beast, and no rostrums were found, his father’s thoughts turned to profit, rather than food. After picking up a scale and feeling its rough texture, his father figured the dragon’s hide was too thick for the rostrums’ beaks to open and that they most likely sought more suitable food while hoping a larger scavenger would come along and penetrate the scales.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” his father had asked.
“What Father?”
“That even in death, these scales protect the beast. I can’t tell you when I heard of the last dragon sighting. It’s been so long, and this creature must have been atop this mountain for many darkenings.”
There was an unmistakable look in his father’s eyes that day — wide and glossy. One Ignis would never forget. He had looked upon Ignis not as his son, but rather another piece of his show. A commodity he could manipulate to his benefit. Father collected scales and moved on.
When they had reached the bottom of the mountain, to their surprise, a malikboar lay at his mother’s feet. A pool of blood gathered around its head and Ignis took notice of the dagger plunged in its neck. The silver quills on its back twittered as the wild-beast expelled its last breath. Ignis caught sight of the blood on the beast’s tusks before realizing his mother clutched her left arm. The flesh of her bicep spread apart in a crimson crevice, exposing ligaments and globules of fat.
His father rushed her into the wagon and Ignis had watched him tend to the deep gash. He gave her something to drink and she lay peaceful in sleep as the wound was sewn closed. Ignis still cursed himself for not inquiring how or what the concoction was, but he was just a boy stricken with guilt for leaving his own mother unguarded.
When his father was finished dressing the wound, his attention returned to Ignis. After pouring him something to drink, his father explained the significance of the dragon scales and the theory running inside his mind.
After the conversation, his memory was blank. That was the last thing he remembered before waking up with the scales stitched into his palms and soles of his feet. Even now, as a young man, he would often find himself scratching the scales out of habit. How they itched and irritated him. When his father had caught him trying to pull the scales from his flesh, his arms were tied to his sides until the outer-lining skin fused with the scales. While healing, he was fed by his mother as if he were a babe again.
Though he performed at his mother’s request, he still harbored a hatred for what his father had done. Not just at the deed, but the man as well. A hatred so strong, he felt as though he would carry it on, and it would keep his fire burning even in the next world.
It was selfish of you, Father, Ignis thought as he scratched at the edge of the scale.
“Ignis,” his mother called for him. “What’s taking you so long, dear?”
Ignis’s mind returned to the task at hand. His gloves and boots were by the door, right where he left them and he quickly slid them on.
“What were you doing in there?” his father asked as Ignis stepped out of the wagon. “Our host is waiting.”
“Sorry… I couldn’t find my gloves,” he whispered so as not to be overheard by the surrounding crowd. After what his father had put him through and the threats made against him should his secret be revealed, he had no problem lying to the man.
“But I thought I saw… ah, never mind.” His father put his arm around Ignis. “You did good today, Son. I’m proud of you.”
“Hear hear!” several of the men in the crowd roared.
Fools, Ignis thought. He knew better than to believe the farce. Just another part of the show.
“Come,” said the portly man, “we have prepared a great feast in your honor.”
They followed him to a large banquet table set up outside with a variety of foods from one end to the other. At the center, a large malikboar sat proudly — its fur draped over the cooked meat to make it look as if it were still alive. Potatoes, onions, and carrots circled the dead animal. Dozens of game birds were displayed much the same way; their colorful feathers lay atop them like a morbid garnish. Piles of bread, pitchers of ale, salted meats. Tonight, Ignis would eat like a king.
“Pinguis, you honor us,” said Ignis’s father as he slapped the fat man on the shoulder.
The man laughed, hands upon his reverberating belly. “I only wish it was more. Your performance has lifted our spirits.”
“And that is all the payment we desire.”
Ignis shook his head at his father’s lie.
The town folk gathered around the large table, but the food remained untouched.
“Please,” Pinguis said, extending his right arm, “guests first. Enjoy.”
Ignis’s father bowed, then approached the table. One of the town’s women pulled off the malikboar’s hide to reveal the evenly cooked meat lying in wait. While his mother and father grabbed a loaf of bread and ripped it in half, Ignis approached the once wild beast and plucked a piece off its shoulder.
He breathed in the meat’s aroma, then passed it over his lips and lay it upon his tongue. Delicious, he thought.
“Here honey,” his mother passed him the half a loaf of bread, “use this to gather what you want so the others can partake.”
The bread was partially scooped out, creating a trench so he could pile on what he wished and carry it away. While his mother made another trench for herself, Ignis ripped off a leg quarter from a game hen, grabbed a potato and onion, then tore off another strip of meat from the malikboar’s hind leg. As he left the table, he grabbed a smaller loaf of bread — a small, rounder loaf with a darker crust.
As he walked away from the table he noticed the wide grin on Pinguis’s face. He nodded as he passed the man.
“Enjoy lad, perhaps later you can teach me a trick or two.”
Ignis simply smiled and continued on his way. There was no way his father would allow him to tell anyone of their secret. He had refused a bag of gold coins once offered; a hearty meal and a warm smile would not be enough to persuade the stubborn man.
As the night carried on, the townspeople ate, laughed and forgot about the constant threat of living so close to the Oscura border.
“Now Ignis, I hope you don’t mind my pestering, but I have seen enough to know that your skills are the greatest in the land. I have studied the art...”
Great, he thought as the portly man continued.
“...and I know that the time of contact along with the thermal retention of the coals is the secret. Yet, you remain in one spot longer than anyone I’ve ever seen. How do you do it?”
“Sir,” interrupted a petite woman wrapped in a black shawl. She was carrying two trenches of food. “I’d like to bring the men stationed in the towers something to eat, but I need help. It’s only right they get to partake.”
Ignis stood, seizing the opportunity to get away from the interrogation. “I’d be happy to do it.”
“Pignuis, are you pestering my boy again?” Ignis’s father asked as he approached.
“Not at all,” the man lied.
“I was just going to bring some food to the guards,” Ignis said.
“Well hurry back,” his father ordered.
“Yes sir.”
With that, Ignis excused himself, taking one of the trenches filled with meat and potatoes from the young woman. She smiled and led the way. He followed her away from the cacophony toward the edge of town, and then broke away when she pointed him toward the right side tower. As he walked, he looked over his shoulder to see her approach the left side tower.
Neverland's Library: Fantasy Anthology Page 18
