The Temple

by Cameron Mitchell

  “Ale?”

  “Something good and cheap.”

  “Cheap is good. I can do cheap.” Desmond hurried off. Halas and Cailin were still on their second pint when Garek finished his fourth and Desmond his fifth. Garek burped. His ale sloshed out of the glass and over his hand. Garek didn’t seem to notice. Halas watched him, bemused, his arm slung casually over Cailin’s shoulders. Desmond’s mother was distantly related to some king or lord or duke. He was in the process of trying to explain the complexities of this relation when Rufus entered. Halas saw their friend standing at the bar and waved him over.

  He greeted them each in turn. “How much has he had?” Rufus asked Halas, indicating Garek.

  Halas shrugged. “I haven’t been keeping count.”

  “Next pint makes five,” said Cailin.

  “You’ve been paying attention?” They all laughed.

  “What? I may catch him eventually. I want to be sure.”

  “Of what?” Halas asked. “He’ll be long dead when you reach those numbers.”

  This time it was Cailin who shrugged, holding the pose and looking innocent, adorable. Halas wrapped her in a hug. He couldn’t get enough of her. She laughed into his neck. “May not be a good idea to hold me here much longer,” she breathed so that only Halas could hear. “Who knows what I could do?” Cailin stretched her own neck a bit and began to nibble on Halas’ ear. He glanced at his friends, but none seemed to notice. “I’ve got liquor in me.”

  “Hardly.”

  “You never know.” She pulled away, giggling. “You may be blessed, Halas, but you’re not that blessed, birthday or not.”

  “Well in that case, I’ll need more liquor. Anyone for whiskey?”

  “Shots!” Garek and Desmond cried in tandem. Rufus nodded, handing Halas a stack of coins.

  “That should pay for the round,” he said.

  The shots were pleasant fire in Halas’ gut. He had one, but when Desmond insisted on a second round, Halas declined. Garek took two instead, and wobbled in the booth. Spittle began to pool down his chin. “Halas,” Des warned, but Halas was already up, taking his brother by the arm. The three hurried into the street.

  “I’m fine,” Garek muttered, but shortly after he retched. Halas and Desmond got him to the nearby sewer trench just in time. Garek leaned over the side and vomited. Halas held his shoulder so he would not fall in. It had happened before.

  Halas and Desmond waited for Garek as he expelled the alcohol from his stomach and into the trench. Two drunks out for a smoke of something heavier than tobacco watched, burping raucous laughter. Desmond shouted some very rude things to them, but the drunks had already moved on.

  Garek, finally done, rolled on to his back and groaned, wiping the back of a sleeve over his lips. He looked up at Halas and Desmond. “Ready for round two?” he asked.

  Halas rolled his eyes. He looked to Desmond. “Have you ever seen Garek be drunk this early in the evening?” he asked.

  Desmond pursed his lips. “A few times, yeah. He’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so.”

  They hauled Garek back into the tavern and settled him into the booth. Halas knew his brother would regret everything come morning, but for now, he had no intention of aggravating the situation. Garek was known to become unruly when drunk, to say the least. Once he’d even flung a glass at Halas for suggesting he pace himself. Halas had nearly knocked the younger Duer unconscious that night. They’d fought often, but that was in their younger years. Now Garek was bigger, and Halas afraid their fights would not be so one-sided as they used to be.

  Rufus had a third round of shots ready. Garek downed his instantly. He sank a little on the bench, and belched. Halas was ready to rush his brother outside once again, but Garek recovered. “Come on, new round,” he said.

  “This never gets old,” said Rufus.

  They were rushing things, and no good ever came of that. Halas found he did not wish to deal with Garek in such a state, not on his birthday. “Cailin, I’m suddenly feeling a walk. Care to join me?”

  “If we hurry,” Cailin said, “we can catch the sunset.”

  Halas smiled and took her hand. They stood. “Leaving so soon?” Desmond asked.

  “I’m afraid so.” He turned to Rufus. “Try not to kill him.”

  “No promises.” They were already having at another pint.

  “Where are you off to?” Desmond asked, half-rising from his seat.

  “We’re just going on a walk.”

  “I could join you?”

  “No, thank you Desmond,” Cailin said, smiling sweetly. “That’s quite all right.”

  “All right then. Bye.” He hiccupped and lowered himself.

  “Good night, Desmond,” Cailin said. “Ready?”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  They did, running through the Gate and toward Jim’s Forest. Their favorite knoll wasn’t far, and they settled in, Cailin curling up in the crook of Halas’ arm. The sun cast an orange and purple glow over everything. It was a beautiful sight, the land a cascade of red and orange in the fiery ball’s last moments. Combined with what was in his arms…

  When darkness had set in, Cailin turned to face him. Their lips were inches apart. The smell of her favorite mead was strong, but no deterrent. She leaned in and kissed him. Halas had come to like the taste of it on her.

  “Happy birthday.”

  The sun was but a faded memory when they raced toward the Gate. Halas didn’t know quite how much time they had until lockup, but he knew it was soon.

  They skirted the forest closely, too closely for Halas’ liking, but Cailin didn’t seem to mind. She ran along the edge, dipping in and out of the foreboding timber. Halas was worried; he continually glanced toward the dark veil that seemed to cover the woods from within, terrified that something would come out of there and take them both.

  His worry seemed to make Cailin want to go even farther in. Halas managed to pull her away, and they ran for the Gate. He and Cailin reached the two guards. “Cutting it a bit close, are we?” one said with a reassuring wink.

  “Good night,” Halas told Cailin, giving her a chaste peck on the cheek.

  “G’night.”

  She disappeared into the city. “You too?” the guard asked. Halas shook his head, pointing toward his father’s cottage and explaining that he lived there. The guards took on a surlier demeanor then, dismissing him with a curt grunt.

  “Wait!” All three men turned toward the voice. It was Desmond, supporting Garek with one arm, leading him along. Halas grinned. “He lives out there, in the cottage over yonder,” Des explained. “Howdy, Halas.”

  “Hello Des. You two have fun?”

  “We always do. Take him from here?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  It was an awkward exchange, as Desmond was still slightly drunk, but they managed to shift him around without dropping him. Garek is heavy, Halas realized, practically dragging him home. When did he get so fat?

  Halas had settled down in the kitchen to read a book by Nathanial Asselin. It was his telling of Aeon the Great’s story. Halas owned many different versions of the same tale, but Asselin’s was his favorite. The bard earlier in the day had piqued his interest, and he’d wasted no time in tracking down the book when he was finished putting Garek to bed. He was nearly to the Fields of Shankhara when his father returned. Halbrick did not bother to stomp his boots clean of the mud or hang up his traveling cloak. He walked quickly to the back of the house, snatching his poke from the table as he passed. “Where have you been today?” Halas asked.

  “Happy birthday,” Halbrick mumbled as he disappeared. Something was wrong.

  “Father?”

  Halas followed him into the yard, where Halbrick was busy trying to light a cigarette. His hands shook, chasing the cigarette around in little circles. Most unnervingly, he didn’t seem to realize he was doing so with an unlit match. Halas took a careful step forward. He had never seen his father like this. Halb
rick was deeply perturbed. He was scared. Seeing him so made Halas feel frightened. Something gripped at the inside of his chest. So far as Halas could remember, his father had never been afraid, not like this. Halbrick continued to chase the cigarette.

  Halas struck a match for him, igniting the tobacco. Halbrick inhaled deeply, and almost immediately seemed to relax. He would move quickly to the pipe, likely before Halas even left him.

  “What’s the matter?” Halas asked.

  His father said nothing for a while. They stood like that in the yard, Halbrick smoking and Halas anxiously awaiting a response. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Go to bed,” Halbrick finally told him. “I’ve a present for you in the morning.”

  Disturbed, Halas obeyed. He lay awake for a long time, watching the glow of his father’s pipe in the corner of his window. What had happened? Deep down, he did not wish to know. It frightened him to think that something could affect the man like that. Halbrick was indomitable, and it must have taken something truly terrible to upset him in such a way. Halas could not even begin to imagine the horror, but he tried to all the same. His curiosity was as powerful as his worry. He wanted to go to his father and make sure things were all right. Maybe Halbrick would explain.

  Right, and maybe he will buy a goat to help him tell the story. Halas knew the idea was silly. Halbrick kept his own counsel, and even if that were not the case, Halas would never expect him to confide in his sons. Halas rolled over and looked at the doorway, hoping to see his father pass by, into his own bedroom, but Halbrick was still outside. How long had it been? There was no way of telling in the dark. He frowned. What seemed like several hours slipped by, and Halbrick remained outside, relighting his pipe every so often. When the match flared, Halas would catch a momentary glance at his face, and each time it shocked him. Halbrick looked gaunt and pale. Something was truly wrong in the world, and Halas did not know what it was. He only knew that it had frightened his father, and that was the worst thing of all. Eventually, Halas forced himself away from the sight. Garek’s loud snoring interrupted his thoughts, allowing him to find rest.

  A week passed, and then two weeks. Each morning, Halbrick would leave before Halas awoke, and return well after the sun set. To make matters worse, Conroy would have nothing to do with him, citing various excuses occasionally, but more often than not he would just shut the door in his face.

  One day, Halas awoke to find that his father had not left. It was time to dig up the potatoes. Halas thought it would be his chance to find out what was happening, but Halbrick spent the day keeping his two sons busy. Whenever Halas attempted to ask him about what he was doing in the forest, Halbrick would dodge the question, sending Halas to do a more laborious task than the last, and often the menial things he often set Garek to.

  He soon quit asking.

  Halas became so lost in his work that the day passed him by quickly, and after supper his thoughts caused the night to do the same, the sun edging its way into the corners of the sky as he pondered. He stood up and went to the window.

  There was Halbrick, hurrying away from the house as if he didn’t belong there in the first place, a burglar in the night. Instinctively, Halas ducked down, peering just over the lip of the window, watching his father. Where was he going?

  The forest.

  He watched his father walk into the trees, apparently unafraid once he disappeared from the view of every house except his own. Is he mad? Halas thought. I have to go after him! He bolted from the cottage, grabbing his own cloak and boots, pulling them on along the way and accidentally stomping a few potatoes in the process. They were stored in piles and barrels in front of the cottage, waiting to be sold. He tripped on one of these, and they tumbled into the grass like stones from a barrow. Halas ignored them.

  There was something in those woods, something wholly evil. Halas knew it. Everyone in Cordalis knew it. Jim’s Forest, unofficially named for the first boy who had foolishly ventured into it hundreds of years before, never to return, was not something people dealt with lightly. Everyone had their own personal tale of what happened to poor Jim. Halas thought he’d been devoured by spiders; Garek figured he’d been swallowed up by a hole in the ground; Des reckoned he was lost in the trees and went mad; Cailin was of the opinion that the whole thing was a farce. Now that Halas thought about it, he realized that Halbrick had never spoken of his beliefs on the matter.

  Halas reached the Treeline (like the Gate, its status as a proper noun had never been contested by the citizens of Cordalis), and the frozen fist of fear gripped his heart and squeezed, becoming a tendril of fire somewhere near his groin and legs. It took a mighty effort for him to will his feet forward. Then he was past the first spruce, standing in a thick moss covered with the remains of rotten leaves. He drew in unsteady breath, took a few timid steps forward, and leaned on a knot as he looked for his father. It was cold to the touch. The feeling of the bark against his skin made him think of corpses. Halas had never actually seen a corpse before, much less felt one, but the trunk reminded him of one all the same. He pulled his hand away, looking at the tree. A feeling of revulsion rose in his gut. The knot remained indifferent. He forced himself away.

  “Father!” Halas called. Nothing, only the far-off hooting of an owl. He contemplated turning back. The owl certainly seemed to beat this message into his head. The call was a warning; surely no normal birds lived in the wood. Surely. He was so positive that this was the case that he realized his legs had carried him back out of the trees, into the fields again. Halas glanced back at his cottage; it dwindled in the distance, but it was there. It was safe, and the idea of hiding under his covers for the night was not an unappealing one.

  No. His father was in here, somewhere, and thus was in danger. Halas had to do something to help him. He swung back toward the forest, walked forward, cried out again.

  But Halbrick had many years of experience under his belt, years that Halas did not possess. It would be foolish to think he could rescue his father from anything. He remembered a story from his childhood.

  There had been a terrible Fire. Whole cities, whole worlds had burned. Fire raged for many centuries, until brave young Sea decided to put it out. Sea knew that he alone could extinguish Fire, so he set to work. But Sea’s friend Forest had tried to save him, saying that Fire could not be defeated. Forest had nearly died, but Sea had extinguished Fire just in time to save his friend.

  He felt like Forest, and the irony was not lost on him. But irony aside, what could he do against this menace that Halbrick could not?

  Something. Perhaps just being there could save his father’s life. Perhaps he could serve as a distraction long enough for Halbrick to get them both to safety.

  “But if Father needs to be saved, why did he go in there in the first place?” Halas wasn’t aware he spoke aloud until the word did. The noise startled him, and he threw his hands over his face to protect against whatever had come to protect its territory. The rest of the sentence slopped out of his mouth.

  But there were only the trees, wavering slightly in the breeze. Their leaves rustled against each other, sounding like a million bugs scurrying across brick. Halas could almost feel them on his flesh. He scratched at his arms. They’re not real, he reminded himself. It is just the wind. They are not real. A light mist swirled gently about the ground. It reminded Halas absurdly of a fence.

  But the more I watch it, maybe the idea is not so absurd.

  He took a step. One step and he was through the Treeline. The mist covered his ankles, and for a moment he was sure that something would jump from it and take him. A gnarled creature of the undead, perhaps, his skin patched in scabby growths and his teeth worn down to brown stumps of nothing. But no creature did, so he took another hesitant step. Then he was clear of the mist, surrounded by the springy moss. A third, and he collected the courage to call for his father. It took every ounce of willpower Halas had.

  Now even the owl was silent; even the tree’s leaves had stopped rustling
. All that remained was the wind, and that was rapidly dissipating. The crushing silence swept from the forest, urging Halas to make himself hidden. He felt a million eyes settle upon him, watching his every move, waiting to strike. His skin crawled, and the lump in his gut solidified even further.

  Halas Duer walked farther into the forest and tried to retain his courage, for his father’s sake. Against all logic or reason, he pressed forward into the dark.

  There. A flitting movement in the trees to his right. Halas spun to face them, and caught a quick glimpse of something large moving through the brush. It grunted and began to paw the ground. This was no imagined creature, no monster of the mind. This was a living, breathing beast, with teeth and claws and a taste for warm blood.

  Any shred of bravery left Halas then, dissipating into the thin mist that had begun to reach from the border and gather about his knees. With a high scream, Halas ran. He vaulted over a high root, scrambling to keep his feet. The creature, whatever it was, followed, a series of guttural noises still coming from it. Halas screamed again. He could see what appeared to be the Treeline. Safety. Salvation. Home.

  But his foot snagged on another root, and he fell face first into the moss. Immediately, he began to feel weary, as if all the will was drained from his body. He was more tired than he had ever been in his life, and he happened to be on a very comfortable surface.

  Halas closed his eyes, and his breathing began to relax. Nothing could hurt him here. Not while he slept. The moss was far more comfortable than his bed had ever been. Why not sleep here? He was so tired, in any case. Why am I even awake? It’s late. I’ll just lie down for a bit and rest.

  Something moved past his head.

  He bolted for the Treeline, clearing it and running toward the cottage, slamming the door and throwing himself down in his bedroom, covering his head with a blanket, shivering madly and not from the cold. The old boyhood rule came to him then: blankets protected you from monsters. It was silly, especially with Halas so recently becoming an adult, but now it seemed to make all the sense in the world. As long as he could not see the monster, it could not see him, and he was safe.