It walked towards her, and she screamed uncontrollably as horror ripped through her body. Before she could get a sense of what form it took, it was inside her. Nails as sharp as knives dug into her neck, intent on ripping out the bloodcurdling sound emitting from her throat. She reached up a hand to stop it and saw salivating, pointing teeth chomping at her, determined to get what it wanted.
White light shot into her eye sockets, intense pain blinding her as it washed out all she knew of sight. Black spots danced, blurred by streams of painful tears that squeezed out of her eyes, as sobs choked in her throat. Panic rose from the depths of her belly, constricting her hearing and cutting her windpipes off from air. Shaking fingers curled like claws around her dry throat as her eyes rolled sightless back into her head. Tumbling off the tangled sheets of her bed, she landed with a muted thump on the patchwork of reeds that covered the cottage floor. Relentlessly the white light poured into her brain, changing into bright, colorful blobs. Tirelessly they drove forward until she was nothing more than a wilted lump on the floor. Cold. Still. Lifeless.
5
Nightmares
Phyllis woke with a jolt, her heart pounding as she sat up. Almost before she was fully awake, she found herself out of bed. Her bare feet tripped across the uneven floor before she flung herself down beside her sister. Ilieus lay face down, her legs still trembling beneath the white night dress she wore. Her long hair was tangled on the floor from jerking violently across its surface. Kneeling over her, dark eyes wide with concern, Phyllis reached out a hand to touch Ilieus’s shoulder, afraid of what she would find.
It seldom happened, but it happened enough to scare Phyllis each evening that she dared to close her eyes to sleep. The dark dreams of the night would wrap their broken arms around Ilieus’s mind and pull her into their realm. The possibilities those nightmares revealed drove her body to shake and convulse. As of late, the episodes had increased, monthly fears turned into weekly realities, and Phyllis knew one day she’d wake to find her sister’s soul gone, stolen into the dark shadows only night can bring.
Now, placing a hand on her sister’s cold shoulder, she gently turned her over. Ilieus lay frozen with her pale eyes open in fright, so wide that the white circles around each iris could clearly be seen. Her slim nostrils were flared, and her thin lips were blue, as if she were still battling for air. One hand was up around her fragile neck, curled like a claw, and Phyllis could see where her nails had dug into skin, leaving it red and raw. Phyllis brought her dark head close, resting it on Ilieus’s bosom, listening for the faint heartbeat that would calm her nerves, for now at least.
The heartbeat pulsed against her ear, and Phyllis pulled back, her momentary bravery giving way to shaking sobs of relief. She backed away, pressing her hand to her mouth to stifle her tears, lest Father hear and discover them out of bed. His mood was unpredictable, particularly after a long, hot day in the fields and a few ales afterward. He had turned ferocious and bullish after Mother passed away three years ago. Her death had stolen the loving presence away from the household. It had all happened so quickly: the dream, the death, and the words of warning. They had ignored them all, and now, in the middle of the night, Phyllis felt unhappier and more alone than she ever had in all of her seventeen years. Tucking her feet underneath her thin, ragged nightdress, she wrapped her fingers around Ilieus’s free hand, her solace turning into frustration at everything life had dealt her thus far.
Phyllis lived in a village called Haitiar in the Rolling Hills of Ithinguard with her father, Antharn, and twin sister, Ilieus. Since Mother’s passing, the village people tended to ignore them, superstitiously believing the unluckiness would pass on to them should they venture too near the broken family. Indeed, it did seem as if a bad luck possessed them. Shortly after Mother’s death, Ilieus had taken ill with an ailment that left her pale, thin, and weak. Meanwhile, Antharn, sinking further into grief, cared less for his daughters and, more often than not, could be found at the local inn, drinking and creating a ruckus. Even with that, Phyllis was the only one who noticed the way the villagers treated her family. She saw the mothers push their children away when she walked to the market. The barters avoided eye contact when they traded with her, giving no thought to the lowest price, only hoping she’d leave as quickly as she came. She remembered the years when mother was alive, and it was different. The children of Haitiar were her friends, and the Crons of the village did not judge those who blended the lines of the people groups.
As the first hints of dawn began coloring the sky, like a giant beginning a painting, an idea pushed its way into Phyllis’s disjointed thoughts. Letting go of Ilieus’s hand, she slid her arms underneath her sister and deposited her on the bed again. Ilieus’s eyes had closed now, yet her body still appeared to be held rigid in a frozen trance. Phyllis sighed as she covered her up. Mother had known exactly what to do during the rare occasions when Ilieus descended into nightmares. She knew what herbs to use to comfort her and bring clarity to her visions (she had learned this from Grandmother). Phyllis had seen Grandmother at the market, an old lady, often bent over her wheelbarrow of herbs, whispering to them like small children that needed consoling. Although Mother’s last words had encouraged Phyllis and Ilieus to go to Grandmother and heal the broken relationship, Father forbade it after the funeral. Even Phyllis’s memories shed Grandmother in a negative light, and she was disinclined to believe Grandmother would be anything other than poisoned against them. But Ilieus was growing weaker with each episode, and perhaps if Phyllis begged, Grandmother could provide a remedy that would soothe Ilieus’s visions.
Phyllis peeked out of her bedroom into the dim light of the hut, letting her eyes adjust. A chair lay on its back, legs sticking up in the air in a wordless cry for help. A broken mug perched on the edge of the table, begging to be put out of its misery and dashed into pieces. Thankful for the quiet reeds of the floor, Phyllis dashed across them, barefoot, to the front door. Placing her fingertips on the handle, she peeked back to her father’s room, but the shut door and gentle snores told her he was out cold. She shuddered to think what he would do if he discovered she was disobeying his directives. Before she could change her wavering mind, she opened the door and stepped out into the night.
The air was dense and warm as she ducked back around the hut, heading for the fields. In the light of the day, she’d be able to see the nearest neighbors’ homes, dotting the countryside while the cobblestone road wound its way past them. Wagons drawn by horses and single riders, farmers, and traders could be seen going back and forth constantly down to the square, four miles away, where the trading took place. Yet in the predawn hours, all was silent, and for that, Phyllis was thankful as she ran through the fields toward the edge of the village.
The village of Haitiar, in the Rolling Hills of Ithinguard, was mostly filled with the people group called Crons. They were well-known for their lighter complexions, shorter statures, and adventurous mindsets. Crons were unwilling, nay, discontented to stay in one place for the entirety of life. If there was a mystery to be solved, a fight to be had, or an adventure to go on, they were off and into what was, most likely, the biggest mistake of their lives without a second thought. It was quite contrary to the people group, Trazames, who lived in the country Nungus Des-Lista. Trazames were taller and broader with darker complexions, for they loved feasting and farming to their hearts’ content. A family of Trazames would live on their farmland for hundreds of years before daring to vacate it, while every ten years Crons were uprooting themselves and searching for a new adventure.
Phyllis herself was half-Cron and half-Tider, which brought an air of disapproval from the villagers. Tiders were tall, quiet beings who tended to live in high elevations. They were rarer in the Eastern World since there weren’t many mountains, aside from the ones in the North Forest. Tiders got along well enough with Crons and Trazames, remaining neutral in the political ongoings across the world. They lived their lives calmly, refusing to heedlessly jum
p into unnecessary adventures, such as the Crons, or stew at home in fear, like the Trazames. Phyllis could feel the sway of both bloodlines in her; the recklessness pulled her in one direction, while the voice of reason tugged her in the other. Sometimes she did not understand her Tider father at all. According to common knowledge, he should be firm in his doings and in his thinking. He should be ruler of the family, and yet he had come unhinged. She resented that and the fact that it seemed up to her to decide what would happen to her and her sister next. As she ran, barefoot, through the fields to the edge of the village, the wide-open lands seemed to hold out their arms, welcoming her to explore them.
There were pink streaks in the dawn sky when she arrived at the last hut at the edge of the village. It perched like a morning mushroom, white topped and moldy. It looked as if the next strong wind would buffet its roof inward. Long, overgrown grasses waved in the early morning whispers of dawn, holding their secrets close before the light burned them away. Two oak trees grew dark and heavy on either side of the hut, like guards, offering shelter and safety beneath their boughs. Phyllis slowed from a run to catch her breath, hesitantly placing one foot in front of the other as she walked up to the frowning entrance. Pausing, she racked her fingers through the tangles of her dark brown mane of wavy hair. She braided it deftly, like the country folk, and made her way to the doorstep as sweet and poignant fragrances floated to her nose. Unsure of what she was smelling, Phyllis wrinkled her nose, yet her tense shoulders relaxed and calmness slid through her body. The hem of her oversized, white nightdress was soaked and muddy from running through pastures, and her tanned feet were bare. Despite her shoddy appearance, she fixated her large, brown eyes on the door and boldly stepped up, lifting her fist to knock. Before her fist could make contact, the door swung open, and a voice called out, “Come in, child. I’ve been expecting you.”
6
Midnight Conversation
“You’ve been expecting me?” Phyllis questioned, a hint of disbelief creeping into her high-pitched voice. The door slid open a bit further as Phyllis stepped inside. Despite the calming fragrance of the herbs, she shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of how to explain her actions.
Candles hung in metal cases and chains from the ceiling, giving a flickering, orange glow to the hut. Bundles of green hung upside down drying, a safe distance away from those flickering lights. A fire hummed greedily in the hearth while a basin of water sat beside it and a kettle puffed out smoke above it. Phyllis swallowed hard as she stared, a sudden memory of the home she used to have blurring her vision. She blinked and raised her chin just as Grandmother waved her hand.
“Shut the door, child; what I have to tell you is not for others’ listening ears.”
Confused yet curious, Phyllis pushed the door shut gently, the latch falling behind her as she moved forward into the spacious room. She could see colorful, woven baskets, bright reeds, and green plants covering the corners and walls of the room. A bed was neatly tucked into one corner, but it looked as if it hadn’t been slept on recently. A chair beside the fire rocked back and forth, bereft. Grandmother walked toward Phyllis, her tall figure commanding the room.
“Where are your clothes, child?” she asked, her deep eyes taking in Phyllis’s appearance and judging her accordingly.
“I…I…there was no time,” Phyllis stammered, feeling flustered as she dropped her eyes to the floor. Her feet were black with mud and dust while her hair was still tangled and her quick braid bunched and uneven. New clothes were not a priority, and it was all she could do to run the hut, take care of Ilieus, and avoid her father’s temper. Fussing about what she looked like came last. Besides, Ilieus was the beauty of the family; she resembled an angel with her pale skin and fragile bone structure, as if she would shatter into a million pieces at any moment. Phyllis was boisterous and boyish in a way; she had more of the spirit of the Cron within her, while Ilieus leaned toward the quiet ways of a Tider.
Grandmother moved closer and lifted Phyllis’s chin with her thumb and forefinger. Forced to look upward, Phyllis recoiled in surprise. Grandmother stood only a few inches taller than Phyllis, yet even though her hair was pure white, she was not as old as Phyllis expected. The resemblance to Mother was there, almost hidden, but what drew Phyllis was the silver circlet Grandmother wore braided into her hair. At the end was a four-point amulet with a small, circular stone shining on her forehead; it was much like the ones Mother used to hang about the house, yet this one had a real stone, glossy and shiny, that caught and reflected the hues the fire tossed at it. Grandmother’s eyes matched it, glittering with deep pools of knowledge.
Intimidated, Phyllis stepped back, taking in the lady’s regal, dark purple gown, which swept to the floor. “Grandmother?”
“Yes.” Grandmother’s voice was calm, soothing even, like a hot bath after a long day in fields. She dropped a hand to Phyllis’s arm and guided her toward the round table in the middle of the room. “You must have come because you need something. I was wondering how long it would take one of you to come to me.” Her voice was mirthless and matter-of-fact. There were none of the hints of anger Phyllis recalled from long ago, but nor was there the expected sadness and regret of a daughter’s early passing.
Wordlessly, Phyllis let herself be guided to the table, regretting that she had come, and Grandmother poured hot water into cups for both of them. Plucking leaves from one of her hanging boughs, she dropped them into the water along with a spoonful of dark honey. “Tell me, which one of the twins are you?”
“I am Phyllis.” She straightened her shoulders, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap.
Grandmother sat across from Phyllis, pushing a steaming mug toward her as she nodded in remembrance. “Do you know who I am?”
Confused by the trick question, she shrugged. “My grandmother?”
Grandmother cocked her head at Phyllis, reading her before answering. “Oh, but that is only a title. Let’s start with you, child. Why did you come to my home?”
Avoiding Grandmother’s intense gaze, Phyllis stared over the table into the fire, reaching for her cup of tea at the same time. The scent of lavender filled her nostrils, and she took a deep breath, letting the calming sensations flood through her body. “It’s my sister, Ilieus,” she began. “She has strange visions which cause her to shake violently and fall on the floor. She lies in a deathlike state until she comes to, weak and scared. Whatever she sees in those visions frightens her, but she can’t ever remember them. She keeps saying the words ‘Clyear’ and ‘they are coming’ and ‘shadows’ over and over. But I don’t know what it means, and neither does she. I want to help her; I want to make them stop, but I don’t know what to do. When…when Mother was still alive, she used to come here, I think, to get herbs that helped. But I don’t know what to do. Will you help me?” Her story escaped her lips in a rush, and as the last word dropped away, she felt a burden roll away. She lifted her eyes to find Grandmother gazing back at her, and there was unreadable movement behind her dark eyes.
“Yes. As blood calls to blood, so I will help you, but you must know why. Child, tales of old detail the brave and heroic deeds of the Five Warriors: Crinte the Wise, Marklus the Healer, Alaireia the Lightfoot, Starman the Trazame, and Legone the Swift. During the days of conflict and war in the Western World, up rose the Watchers. They are the ones who watch of over this world and stop the rise of the immortals. You may not know this, but there are immortals in each of the Four Worlds. Some of them are peaceful creatures who keep to themselves and can only be found if they wish, often in deep forests where it is easy to hide. But there are those immortals who seek to take over the world and to turn it into a paradise for immortals, because like calls to like, and even immortals are not immune to the desire to connect with each other in communal ways. There is a certain pause that takes place when the mortals inhabit the world. See, there is a paradise waiting for all of us on the other side of death. It is not the end, only a step to the next worl
d, where conflict between the people groups is only a mockery of a past life. The immortals in the Four Worlds have been banished from that life, and so they seek to recreate it here, but first the Worlds must be cleansed of the mortals.
“Before the days of the Five Warriors, there was a line of Wise Ones, called the Order of the Wise. As you may remember from the stories, Crinte the Wise was the last. After the great war in the Western World, he went to a kingdom in the sky, called Spherical. It was there he married the King’s daughter and his decree for Watchers became known throughout the land. Thus, his companion, Marklus the Healer, took up his position as the first Watcher in Zikeland. Those Watchers with great powers are called Dunithairs; rumor says they are immortal themselves. This would be true in the case of Marklus the Healer, for he stood between life and death and had the right to choose. There are many Watchers across the Four Worlds, and most of them spring from the bloodline of Crons, because Crons are not afraid to seek out, understand, and take action. It is the other people groups one must be wary about.
“Child, you may wonder what these words have to do, personally, with your history. It is because you come from a line of Watchers. It is our birthright, passed from Cron to Cron as long as there are Crons in the family. But your Mother forsook the sacred calling of the Watchers and, in turn, married a Tider, one outside of our bloodline who will never become a Watcher. She upset the delicate balance in the world, and it was wrong. If she had not come from a family of Watchers, it may have been different, but she was always willful and disobedient. I can only blame myself for letting her disregard go as far as it did. But now, you will have to pay for what she had done; you are cursed with something I have not seen before. I have searched for the past ten years, hoping to find the answer, and I think I have. Only it is too late for me to go forward. Even now they watch my home, they know when I come and when I go, and all I can do is protect you. There may come a time when they come for your Father, and then, if he does not have the answer, you will be next, so you must go while there is still time.
The Complete Four Worlds Series Page 39
