by M. Woodruff
The Embroidered Serpent
M. Woodruff
Copyright © 2018 by M. Woodruff
Published in the United States by Butter Beard Publishing
ISBN 978-1721770489
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in book reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover art: Watercolor snake © stereohype/iStock
Prologue
In the vast empty chasm of nothingness, there emerged a tiny eruption of liquid substance. It began to trickle slowly, wending its way out into the great expanse with no beginning or ending. It traveled in a small steady stream until it took on an inner glow, fused with light—it became a moving prism. Slowly eroding the blackness of space as it continued on its journey, the dark canvas it traveled on became a sieve through which tiny droplets began to depart from the stream to find their own way through the dark and lonely terrain. As the prismatic stream continued to grow and expand ever outward, the embryonic drops remained fixed, suspended in the void until the spark of creation searched the depths to find and reunite them once again, so they might flow freely within the crystalline rhythms of the eternal source of light.
1
Nels felt the first light of morning before he ever opened his eyes. He nestled down into the soft comfort of his fluffy mattress, wrapping the white sheet and downy coverlet closer around his body. He burrowed his head deeper into his rose-scented pillow. The smell filling him with warm thoughts of Mistress Whiten, who had been like a mother to him for almost thirty-five years now, after taking him in to her own childless home when he was but a runaway lad of fifteen. She still used the same rose-petal wash to clean all of their linens, even after all of these years.
He was lying with his eyes closed as the wispy tendrils of sleep still tried to stir, keeping him attached to the dream world that he wasn’t yet ready to leave. There had been something he could almost remember. The pull to the far reaches of that imagined space—if only he could grasp it again. He wanted to keep dreaming. To keep walking in that mysterious land that could be so tantalizing in its absurdity, so clear in its revelations, or so dark in its gray-shadowed fear.
He had felt a drawing towards something just out of reach—a place, a person, some long-lost wisdom he should possess—that try as he might to capture it, continued to flee with the lightening of the sun as the faint aromas of breakfast cooking took its place. The dwindling memories of sleep replaced by the solidity of the awakening to a new day.
Nels stretched aching joints that he refused to acknowledge existed, letting any hope of returning to the dream world fade. If it had been important, he would dream of it again, he was sure.
Sitting up, he fully adjusted his eyes to the familiarity of his bedroom. The same heavy wooden bureau with the large mirror on top greeted him as it did every morning. He always surveyed his reflection with increasing wariness over the years. Subtly, the signs of age had shown their presence, reminding him ever-increasingly that time stood still for no one. His once dark-brown hair had now faded mostly to gray. The smooth boyish face, long gone into the weather-beaten countenance of haunted memories. Brown eyes that had once shone with possibility, now dull with resignation.
After leaving his birthplace on the Black Mountain, he had always imagined he had had the whole world laid before him. Escaping the dark confines of the mining town, he had felt alive and free for the first time in his life. He had imagined a life other than working at the ironworks or digging deep into the mountain. No one else in Black’s Hand had ever left. They had always remained chained inexorably to the life in which fate had bound them. Never once even conceiving there were other choices out there away from the blackened haze and heat of their daily lives.
But Nels had dared to dream of a different life. One that involved clean air and fresh breezes. He overheard a merchant, once, that had come to the Black Hand’s market to buy the most sought-after ironwork in The Kingdom. The man had talked of towns with cobblestone streets and buildings three or four stories high where he sold his wares. The man had been dressed in such finery Nels had never seen: a tailored jacket and trousers of wool with delicate stitching and gold buttons. The merchant’s black polished boots had gleamed in the sun as he stepped into an ornate carriage pulled by a team of horses. Nels had wondered from that moment on why he couldn’t have a life like that. He hadn’t even known such a life existed up until then. And the thought had festered and grown in him with no hope of ever being realized that he could foretell.
No one ever left the Black Mountain. But, even so, he had. With the price still unpaid.
He shuddered momentarily at the distant memories, taking in the stone walls of his bedroom. He had painted them white some time ago to soften the stony harshness that sometimes melded too closely with his own dark thoughts. The sunlight was streaming in, now, through the window, shining on the freshly polished wooden floor. Mistress Whiten was a stickler for cleanliness and order, which Nels had always appreciated since growing up in black soot and mud.
He was surprised, then, when his eyes rested on a small pile of black stones in the corner. He got up slowly—and not from the creaking in his knees—eyeing the rocks warily. He certainly hadn’t put them there, and he couldn’t imagine Mistress Whiten would have either. She had been known to engage in small superstitions even though she wouldn’t talk about them outright. She would place various bundles of herbs or flowers over the doorways depending on the feeling in the air—sometimes to mark the seasons or express joy in celebrations. But, there were other, darker times—ones that even he could feel—where she would place the dried flowers and refuse to say exactly why.
Reaching down, he picked up one of the smooth round stones, confused by the emptiness he felt in his hand as he stared into its smooth depths. The stone seemed to suck in the light from the sun—it was as if his very palm was being devoured by its darkness, pulled into a great abyss of nothingness.
He threw the stone quickly back into the corner pile. Absently wiping his hand on his smallclothes, he gave his head a small shake. It was just a rock after all, no need to overact, even if it was curious as to how that pile had gotten in his room.
A familiar knock sounded on his door as Mistress Whiten entered bearing his breakfast tray full of hot sausages, eggs, and toast with watered-down ale to drink. The same morning meal he had eaten every day for all these years.
“Good Morning, Nels,” Esther Whiten said with her warm smile. “You’re up already, I see. Well, get back in bed. I won’t serve you standing up.”
Before Nels complied, he pointed at the stones. “Did you put those there?”
She gave a slight frown. “No. Of course not. Why would I do that?”
Nels shrugged before quickly getting back in the bed. Mistress Whiten was like a mother to him, but he still didn’t feel comfortable with her seeing him so undressed. She was only around ten years older than he was—he knew better than to have ever actually asked her age—widowed in her twenties, she was now at least sixty. Never having children of her own, Nels had filled the gap, and continued to do so. But he still had enough modesty to feel uncomfortable, even under that grandmotherly gaze.
“I didn’t think you
had, but…” His words trailed off as she set the heavily laden tray on his lap.
After tucking a cloth napkin into his undershirt, she shuffled around the bed to the corner to pick up one of the stones. Nels saw her hold it up to the light, so smooth it seemed like it should be gleaming in the sun, but instead it remained a circle of complete blackness.
“Strange, that. I’ve never seen a stone like this. It…it feels like its trying to pull me deeper within…like it’s trying to tell me…or show me something I want to know, but—“ Letting out a sharp gasp, she dropped the stone to the wooden floor. It didn’t make a sound. “Oh, this is no good, Nels. No good at all.” She looked around his room, finding a pair of his worn leather gloves on the bureau; she donned them before reaching down to pick up the fallen stone. Placing it carefully in the folds of her flowered apron, she picked up the remaining stones and added them gently, as if afraid they might explode into fireworks.
“What are you going to do with them,” Nels asked around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
“I…I don’t know, yet. But, I do know they should not be in the house. I will not have these things in my house!” she added emphatically. “I don’t know where they came from—“ She eyed Nels suspiciously. “But, if you did bring these in, Nels, as some kind of prank—I don’t think it’s very funny at all!”
Nels almost smiled at Mistress Whiten’s admonishment. For her to still think of him as playing boyish tricks—well, maybe he still did sometimes, but this was none of his doing. What had she seen in that stone that had upset her so; he hated to think of anything that would cause such unease in a normally gentle woman.
“I didn’t bring those stones in, Esther.” He rarely called her by her given name, but it seemed somehow appropriate if he was to soothe her rattled nerves.
The corners of her mouth tilted slightly up in fondness. “No, of course, you didn’t. But, what with that Illusionist in town—“ She shook her head in exasperation. “There’s no telling what kind of tricks you could get into. The whole town feels poised on the edge of fear and madness, or bubble-headed delight. Why, that Lisbet Calhoun has started squeezing into dresses I haven’t seen her wear since before she was married. She’s walking around like a stuffed sausage, giggling and fawning over every young man in sight. And then there’s old man Syle. He’s taken to walking around with an axe instead of his cane. Muttering there’s bogeymen in the wind and they won’t take him without a fight. Really, Nels. I’ll be glad when that Illusionist leaves. Hopefully, he’ll be gone tonight after his show, and it won’t be too soon for me.”
Nels laughed. “What makes you think this Illusionist is so bad?” Every Illusionist he’d ever seen had been nothing but a smarmy-looking charlatan with a pompous air. He’d found their spectacles fit for only children or dull-witted adults.
She looked down at her apron full of stones, her look of unease returned. “I don’t know. There’s something different about him. He’s…young, I think. It’s hard to see him clearly, like he’s standing somewhere between the shadows and the sunlight at the same time. He’s very handsome, I believe—debonair in his grace and manners. But still…you shouldn’t have anything to do with him, Nels,” she said, fixing him with a stern gaze. “I mean it! Tricks or not, there are some people better left alone, and for no good reason other than I said so!” She spoke as if she was sure he was going to contradict her. He had no intention of it.
“Don’t worry, Mistress. I won’t be going to any Illusionist’s show anytime soon.”
“Good. See that you don’t. And the sooner these are out of my house the better. I’ll be back after these are safely outside. Now, if I can only think of the best place…” Her voice ending abruptly as the door closed.
Nels put his finished breakfast tray on the foot of his bed, grimacing at the prospect of the day set out before him. He was going to be meeting a new client at The Rickety Inn—named with an attempt at humor by the proprietor—it was two floors of solid stone with a slate roof and a walled-in yard, enclosing a stone stable and a small pleasure garden.
Nels had styled himself as a hunting guide from almost the first moment he had arrived in Parker’s Town. After fleeing the Black Mountain, he had spent months wandering the Deadwood forest before he worked up enough nerve to be able to enter the small town, and walk on the cobblestone streets that he had always dreamed of finding. The young Mistress Whiten had been the first to see him standing in torn and dirty clothes with a bow and rucksack draped over his shoulders. He had plunged his head into the strange fountain—a half-woman half-fish statue in its center—trying to clean his face and hair while drinking in the cool water. The young widow had looked at his skinny, bedraggled appearance with such sympathy that he had almost felt tears spring into his own eyes. She had taken him into her empty home, feeding and clothing him with motherly comforts which had eased both of their fears at being alone in a new world. He being faced with the newness of a young boy not accustomed to town life, and she a young widow facing a new life without a husband she had planned to hold for years.
She had taught him the basics of reading, writing, and simple mathematics. After such lessons she would give him chores to do that would last all day except for a break for lunch. Soon though, he had grown bored of tending gardens and washing walls. He would find himself lingering in the Deadwood forest long after he had finished chopping the wood Mistress Whiten used to heat her fireplaces. She had never spoken a word against his staying away for hours at a time. She had known where he was, and was content with it. Eventually, she had encouraged him to take up being a hunter’s guide as a trade, which he did. His reputation had grown to make him the premiere guide for the Deadwood forest throughout all of The Kingdom.
Today, he was to meet, Langard Turkand, from The King’s City. He knew what to expect from these city types, and wasn’t looking forward to it. The only thing surprising about it was that the man wanted to traipse through the woods alone. Usually, a group of men would get together and have a time of it, away from their hectic lives and nagging wives; re-enacting acts of slaughter they’d love to commit in their everyday lives but were unable to because of laws or moral restrictions. So, Nels could just hang in the background while the men shared private jokes and told bawdy stories, and that was just the way he liked it. But, with a lone man, he’d probably be expected to interact with some puffed-up city fool who’d probably never even seen a forest before let alone tried to hunt in one. No, he wasn’t looking forward to this at all.
“Well, there’s no help for it,” Nels muttered to himself as he got out of the bed. He paid Mistress Whiten rent every month, which she had dutifully accepted since he first started working. He paid her more than would be normally expected because she refused to accept coin for any other reason. Even when he had offered to replace some of the forty-year-old furniture, she had sniffed haughtily and told him if he thought he could find better furniture elsewhere he was welcome to move there and live, with her blessings. He had started paying her extra rent after that.
Putting on his fur-skin robe, he made his way to the bathing room at the end of the hall. The room had been Mistress Whiten’s idea. She had wanted a dedicated room upstairs where she could bathe in peace. She had been tired of having to tromp all the way downstairs and then have the indignity of having to bathe in the midst of all of her cooking utensils. Nels had suggested she splurge and buy a real porcelain bathtub like the ones they supposedly used in The King’s City and put it in the upstairs spare bedroom by the fireplace. She had acquiesced more easily than he would have expected, especially when he told her of his plan to rig up a lift so she wouldn’t have to carry buckets of water upstairs.
As it was every morning, Nels’ hot bath was waiting for him with more water heating in the fireplace if he needed it. He hung his robe on the peg next to the fresh smallclothes Mistress Whiten replaced daily, and threw the dirty ones in the basket. He glanced briefly out of the window to see the widow in her garden c
arrying a pail with a cloth over it, walking hurriedly from one corner to the next as if in the midst of some indecision.
He slowly lowered his left foot into the tub as he always did, not too quickly in case the water was too hot or in case he already needed a touch more of the fire-heated water. Just right, today.
His foot continued its descent when his eyes caught something not right. The normally porcelain-white tub bottom was somehow gone. Instead, it was replaced by a flat-black hole that seemed to convey endless depths while still holding the bathwater in the tub.
Nels’ realization was too late to stop his trajectory. He quickly locked his arms and threw his hands against the other side of the tub as his foot met…nothing. It only took him a second to throw his weight back against his right leg as he pushed himself off the tub edge and back onto his right leg. In his fright, he fell back onto the wooden floor with a slapping sound.
He stared at his left foot. It had gone in there. He knew it. He could feel an absence about it now, even though the foot looked normal—it felt as if he shouldn’t be able to see it. He pulled the foot up closer to his face—happy he could feel it firmly in his hands. Everything seemed to be in order. He wiggled his toes and stretched out his arches, feeling the sensations. Getting ready to put it back down on the floor, the very tip of a toenail caught his eyes. Along the edge of it was a solid black line, as thin as the nail itself. Quickly checking his other toenails, he saw they didn’t have any markings. His big toe with its too-long nail—he knew he should have trimmed his nails before now—had entered into that blackness far enough to bring some of it back. At least, he hoped that’s all it was. That it would come off just like mud.
He hurriedly found Mistress Whiten’s toiletry kit containing a small pair of scissors and began hacking that toenail down to the quick. Letting out a sigh of relief, Nels gathered up the clippings in his hand so he could throw them back into that bottomless pit where they belonged. When he looked down, though, he saw the bathtub was just a regular old porcelain tub again, waiting for him to step in and take a nice hot bath.
