by Ted Neill
Sade stepped back from the cliff side and took his brother in his arms. “I’m sorry Vondales, I’m sorry.” He pressed his face into his brother’s hair. It was redolent and oily but he was at least alive, unlike their mother. And why should she be dead? Why should they, or anyone else be forced to die, especially when it was crueler individuals who lived. What had decency brought their mother and them? Nothing but ruin. Sade realized they had been feeble. It was time to be strong. Time to make their own rules. Like the birds of the sky, like the creatures of the forest. Otherwise they would die.
Tears no longer came to Sade’s eyes but he closed them anyway. He could see the remaining spell books on his uncle’s shelves, the bottle in his hand, the way the bread had rolled picking up mud before the hound had taken it in its teeth. Like pieces of a puzzle, truths were falling into place. Sade had the sense that the mysteries of life were opening up to him.
“Vondales, we can live. We can just never be weak again.”
The journey back to their uncle’s cabin was long but Sade was motivated by a righteous fire within, fueled by hate, a hate that had turned him against all those who had failed to help them, all those who were against them, all those who were not his mother or brother. There was no one left in the wind-blown-world who was not their enemy.
This morning was warm. It was the first day in the month of the War Moon and Sade thought it fitting. By now the trees were budding with green, the sun shone brightly in the sky, its light reflecting off the still in their uncle’s yard. The chickens were scrounging for food and Crystal, untethered, had wandered out of the stable. No smoke rose from the chimney but Crystal’s saddle was still on her back as she grazed. Likely they would find their uncle passed out from the night before. Sade tried the door. It had been left unlocked, as he expected. They stepped into the cottage and were greeted by the sounds of snoring. The hound stirred and began to bark but Sade kicked it. It must have been accustomed to such treatment for it went silent, put its tail between its legs, and slunk off to the corner.
Sade noted the spell books that remained on the shelf. There were not many, but the few were more than he had now. He told Vondales to wait while he went outside to the kitchen hut and returned with a dirty, bone-handled knife.
“Go unsaddle Crystal.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry. Remember I said we would never be weak again. This is the first step. There is no reason he should live and not us.”
Vondales’ eyes grew large and he swallowed, but he did as he was told, crossing back to the door and closing it behind him. Sade listened as his footsteps receded. He could still hear the chickens clucking outdoors and the melody of song birds. What a peaceful place their uncle Micael lived in. And it would be theirs, if only Sade was strong enough to take it.
Be like an animal. Take what you need. Make it yours.
His uncle was asleep in his bed near the fireplace. It was made from rough-hewn wood that still had bark in places. The corn shuck mattress was flat and gaping at the seams. The blankets were in a pile at the foot of the bed, soiled and reeking. Micael had passed out with his boots on and a bottle—empty now—on the bed next to him. His head was tipped backwards and his misshapen nose stuck up into the air, as if asking to be broken.
But Sade knew he would need to do more than break a nose. He had seen goats, lambs, chickens slaughtered. He knew the key was to let the blood from the artery in the neck. He moved closer to the bed, adjusting his grip on the knife and studying his uncle. His beard was draped over his chest and hiding most of his neck from view. Asleep, he looked harmless, vulnerable even. Sade visualized what would take place next and without understanding it completely himself, he covered his uncle’s face with the corner of the sheet. Micael’s nose and eyes twitched and his breath caught in his throat for a moment. Sade stood frozen, the knife poised. When he was certain his uncle was still sound asleep, he raised the knife. The blade was blackened with blood from the last animal it butchered. That was all he was, an animal trying to survive. His uncle was standing in between them and survival. He would do what nature had forced him to. He pictured the towering clouds over the cliff at Skull Point, seagulls silhouetted against the sun, waves crashing below, and drove the knife home.
He opened a red gash on his uncle’s neck. Blood rushed out and stained his beard but it was not the gush that came from an artery. Sade had missed.
His uncle sat up in shock, put a hand to the cut, coughed, swore, and threw the bottle at Sade. He ducked it. Even with his knife he felt defenseless.
“You little rat!” his uncle bellowed. Sade was stunned. He could not move. He looked at the blood dripping down his uncle’s shoulder but it was not enough so that he would bleed to death. Just enough to anger him. Micael picked up a fire poker and swung it down on Sade’s head. The world went bright, then dark. Sade saw strange shapes flash before his eyes. He raised his arm to fend off the next blow. It knocked his hand into his face. He felt as if his bone had shattered. His uncle was swearing and cursing and swinging. Sade realized why the blows were not worse. His uncle was holding his neck with his right hand, swinging with his left. Still, Sade could barely escape, his uncle chasing him around the cottage, his eyes murderous, the poker in his hand like a spear.
Sade swung the knife but its reach was too short. Micael brought the poker down on his fingers and the knife went flying. Sade tried to pick up the shattered bottle by its neck but he could not get to it in time before his uncle towered over him again. Sade rolled under a table, hurled a chair at his uncle, and ran for the door. He burst into the yard and darted behind the still. His uncle followed, stumbling over a cauldron and nearly falling into the pig sty. He lifted himself up on the tilting fence and heaved himself up towards the still. Sade had placed it between them and they both now circled. As if he was ripping at his uncle’s own entrails, he pulled at the hoses and pipes as he went by, yanking them free, breaking them into pieces.
“You little creep!” Micael yelled and lurched, but Sade circled to the other side. They circumnavigated the still in this fashion a few more times before Sade’s weakness caught up to him. Without food, with little water left in his body, his head spun, his heart beat off-rhythm in his chest. The pounding alone against his rib cage made him want to fall over. He leaned on the still for support. Micael sensed his weakness and swept around the corner. Sade made to run but with a loud ripping noise his sleeve caught on one of the very pipes he had twisted and broken. His uncle was immediately on him. His hand and beard were a bloody mess, but he raised the dull, sooty poker over Sade’s own neck.
The blow did not come, not to Sade. Rather, his uncle’s knee buckled in a grotesque angle and he fell to the ground. Behind him, a bloody wood ax in his hands, was Volandes. He stared, unbelieving, across his fallen uncle and the leg he had nearly severed. Micael swung the poker at him and Sade knew the ordeal had to end. He rushed around to his brother, took the ax, and raised it above his head. His uncle brought his bloody hand up, but it didn’t help him.
When it was done, they both sat unmoving, numb on the ground. Blood was splattered on his brother’s face. At the sight of it, Sade vomited. He wretched for a few minutes, coughing up nothing but bile. Vondales bent over him, his hand on his back. Sade could feel the blood on his own face—it was warm and running down like tears. His hands were shaking but the fire inside him had not subsided. If anything it had grown. He felt strong, powerful, overjoyed even, for death had come to this place, this yard, this afternoon, and it had come not for them. They, as weak and ignominious as they were, had found power over their uncle, over death, and over life.
Sade vomited once more, then collapsed on the ground. He was still dizzy and for a long time simply wanted to stay still and sleep. Was this what power felt like?
His brother’s words brought him back to more immediate concerns.
“What do we do now?” Vondales asked.
Sade rolled over, sat up,
and hefted the ax up to his shoulder. In the corner of the porch the hound was cowering.
“First we eat.”
Chapter 6
Omanuju
Voices fighting over her. They used her name. They debated in whispers. They invoked the gods, pleading with them for help, for guidance. Gabriella could not open her eyes to see or her mouth to speak, but after a time she could follow the thread of conversations and recognize some of the voices.
“She’s uninitiated … she should have never been possessed.”
“Perhaps it was just fever.”
“No, she spoke with the voice of our ancestors. The dead channeled through her.”
“Impossible, the gods had already dispersed! How could they call upon the dead?”
“If she was possessed truly, then she should be immediately initiated.”
“She must recover first.”
“Please, please,” a new voice, her mother’s voice. “She is my child. Can I see my own child?”
Then, closer, the soft sound of her mother speaking to her, telling her that she loved her. Her father joined, too, calling her pumpkin. Gabriella could feel his calloused palm cradling her head. The other voices had not retreated completely. She could still hear them arguing.
“There is much dissention about what to do, even what happened.” Gabriella knew the voice, even if she did not know the speaker well. It was the voice of Jacob the Elder, the high priest, master summoner, the same man who had conversed with Savay-Mael. He spoke in a regular voice now, without projecting, without the elaborate words of the summoning, but his voice was nonetheless unmistakable, low, gravelly, firm. A man accustomed to being heard.
“So it was not a fever?” her father asked.
“Even I think it is unlikely. That was the voice of the dead she spoke with.”
“But why not speak through the dancers as the dead always do?” her mother asked.
“The dancers were all mounted by the gods. Our ancestors were missing their accustomed channels.”
“But the gods left,” her mother said, a note of desperation in her voice as if with every word she was pleading for some explanation that would return everything back to normal.
“They did indeed leave,” Jacob said. Gabriella could not see him, but the shame and uncertainty in his voice were unmistakable. The first full summoning in decades had ended in disaster.
“What do we do now?” her father asked.
“Wait. Keep her warm. I’ve sent for an old friend to consult.”
“Who is that?” her mother asked.
“Omanuju Ant.”
“Old man Antler?” her father said, his voice ending in a question.
“Yes, you know him?”
“Aye, as a child. But I have not seen him in years. Does he still keep an elk as his companion?”
“I do not know. But I do know that if anyone will have an answer, he will.”
When Gabriella finally opened her eyes, her lids were heavy, like the rest of her body. It felt as if she had been in bed many days, and instead of recovering, her body had grown used to being immobile and was resisting her efforts to shift, to pull back her covers, to lift her head and sit up. But sit up she did, the room spinning with her effort. She was not in her familiar room at home. She was in a small bed in a room with smooth walls painted a soft sky blue. She knew only one building on the island had such walls: the House of Healing. She had been there before to visit family members and neighbors. Even her brother had spent many a day there when he was younger while healers plied him with herbs, potions, and incantations. Nothing had ever worked.
A small window let in light through a gossamer curtain, but most of the light and warmth in the room came from the hearth where a lively fire crackled. A man she had not seen before was seated in a chair next to the fire, his feet in worn leather traveling boots set on the edge of the hearth. His trousers were darkened around the bottoms as if he had been riding through tall, wet grasses, the knees reinforced with matching patches. A shiny leather belt with a large, practical buckle held a knife as well as pouches and cases. A cloak hung on the back of the door, an assortment of gold and grays, perfect camouflage in an autumn forest but otherwise gaudy and loud. His tunic was the opposite—sturdy wool, thickly woven with thread that was a dull gray-green, like the sea on a winter’s day. His hands were plain, without rings or bracelets, but the fingers were long as they curled around a cup of red tea. His head was in profile to the fire, and against its light, Gabriella could see he had a narrow, pointed jaw glinting with gray whiskers, an aquiline nose, and a high forehead with salt and pepper bangs resting across it. The rest of his hair feathered out behind his head in silver tufts that, despite their color, had a boyish, windswept air.
He spoke to her without moving his eyes from the fire, alerted only by the sound of her stirring in the covers.
“What do you remember?” he asked.
He was not young, nor was he old like the elders and priests. Although he had clearly traveled many years under the sun and moon, it was clear he still had many before him. He spoke with an authority and presence that she had known few people outside of Chief Salinger and the high priest Jacob to possess naturally. She did not ask him his name nor did she offer hers. She simply answered his question as best she could.
“Felt hot, then cold. So cold. I heard voices, like whispers through a well. I saw things too.”
“Like what?”
“Nothing that made sense.”
“Tell me anyway.” His eyes were still on the fire.
“A skeleton, wearing many rings holding a chalice of gold. Vultures circling a peak, oceans that were far away. Dra . . .” She paused a beat before finishing. “Dragons.”
“All the signs of a true vision.” He sipped his tea.
“True? What does it mean, true? That it comes from our divine ancestors or my imagination?”
“Could they be one in the same?” he asked as if thinking aloud.
“I saw a treasure house, full of gold. With shelves and shelves of coins and plates, and cups. Jewels as well, the size of my fist. And dragons, I saw dragons. But they aren’t real.”
“They aren’t?” He turned to her now. His eyes twinkled in the firelight. She didn’t know him but she realized she liked him, whoever he was. “Who told you that?”
“Everyone knows.”
“Everyone on Harkness.” He turned again to the fire and settled into the back of his chair. “That is hardly the entire windblown world.”
She was quiet. The fire popped. A burning log hissed.
“Do you remember saying anything?”
She did recall a voice, one that was powerful and had seized her throat like a constricting serpent. She had said something. But the words, the meaning escaped her.
“No, I don’t.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said, leaning forward and moving the kettle off its hook over the fire. He made tea and brought her a cup, which was warm in her hands. She sipped the tea, savoring the taste of cinnamon and ginger, a special blend of the House of Healing.
“You wouldn’t,” he repeated. “Because either you were too feverish or truly lost in possession.”
“What do you mean? Which one was it?”
He stared at her, narrowing his eyes, the skin alongside them crinkling with his smile. He had deep lines on either side of his mouth. “I don’t know, I’m not a priest. Maybe it’s all fantasy. How can we tell where imagination ends and the divine begins?”
“You are Omanuju,” she said, a statement, not a question.
“That I am. And you are Gabriella Carlyle.”
“But the gods, the dead, they are real, aren’t they?”
“Well, what do most people of this island say?”
“Most think they are real.”
“And didn’t you just tell me Harkenites did not believe in dragons and their like?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we Harkenites must be quite the au
thorities on such matters, so it seems.”
She felt frustration growing in her. She felt like the conversation was going in circles, and she still lacked a crucial piece of information. “What did I say?”
“You said nothing. If things are to be believed at face value. It was the dead that spoke a prophecy though you.”
“Through me? But I thought only dancers . . . .”
“And the initiated could be possessed. But it was a very unusual summoning, and these are unusual circumstances.”
“What did the dead say?”
He looked straight at her now, his face now empty of the sly mischief that had been there just moments before. “If a worthy Harkenite goes in search of Nicomedes’ treasure and returns, the price will be paid and the Servior will trouble Harkness no more.”
A hollow formed in her chest. The floor was sinking beneath her like the deck of a ship in turbulent seas. “I said that?”
“Or the dead. It depends on what you believe,” he said, serious now.
“What do you believe in, the dead, dragons?”
“Yes, I believe, enough at least to fear them.”
The clouds shifted outside, and the light from the windows, already weak, dimmed. The curtain moved on a cold breeze, and a shower of light rain drummed against the window.
“Come.” Omanuju offered his hand to help Gabriella out of bed. Her wet clothes were gone, replaced by layers of warm sleepwear. They sat down before the hearth. It felt so pleasant to be close to the heat of the fire that she could nearly forget the bone-chilling cold of the previous night.
“What concerns me more than these prophesies are these Servior.” Omanuju said, his brow creased with worry.
“The gods said they are treacherous,” she said.
“They serve treacherous powers. The tower cannot fall into their hands.”
“So it would be good if the prophecy were true?” Gabriella asked.
