Ranthos didn’t understand what she was doing. He scratched his head.
She turned back to him, “How much of all this do you think we could take with us?”
Puzzled, he responded, “We’re not leaving now.”
“I know,” she said, and grinning madly continued, “It’s just that I’m simply so excited! Good Heavens!”
“We can discuss packing arrangements after I kill the thing.”
“How are you going to do that?” she said, “If it is immortal after all?”
“I have no clue,” he said, “All I know is that I can’t maintain my snares, bring in regular game, and hunt for both a way to kill the buck and the buck itself all at the same time.”
Bell’s eyes darkened, “That’s not good. How will we pay for anything?”
“I don’t know,” Ranthos said. “I asked Nosgrim for my pay in advance…”
“I’m sure he took well to you,” Bell said, already supposing the butcher’s response.
“As always,” Ranthos said sarcastically.
“You just need to convince him is all!” said Bell.
“How?” Ranthos said, brushing away the idea. It was plainly impossible.
“I don’t know…” Bell thought a moment, her brows coming together in deep ponderance. “I know!” she said, “You should ask Miss Cinnamon.”
“That’s absurd!”
“I’m serious,” said Bell seriously.
“You don’t believe in that nonsense, do you?”
“No… maybe.”
“Maybe?!” said Ranthos, shocked.
“And why shouldn’t I?” she asked indignantly, “I’ve never even heard a whisper of her leading someone astray, no matter their station. She’ll help anybody who—”
“Not hodges,” Ranthos said.
“Why not?”
“No respectable butcher would do business with me. What makes you think she’s different?”
“We don’t have any other option,” Bell said, “It’s worth a try.”
Besides hunting, Tatzelton was notorious for another trade: magicians, the tatzeltellers who use tatzeldeer brain matter to see into otherworldly realms, or the future, or your mind, or something or other. Ranthos never gave them much credit, few locals did, but plenty of foreigners visited for the sole purpose of being blessed with a reading.
Folk said that back before the Hacking, when there was a King of Eisenland, the Tatzeltellers advised him personally. Though it is a shame they failed to tell him there was a marauding army of berserk alfar coming for his head.
In those days, there were dozens of Tellers, but today only Miss Cinnamon kept up the old traditions. The tatzeltellers were reminiscent of their native country, Eisenland—as a whole, shrunken, humiliated, and dying.
But, it is true what Bell said, there are none who have spoken to a teller and have remained unconvinced of her magic.
“Fine,” groaned Ranthos.
“You’ll go?!” Bell exclaimed.
“I’ll go.”
She giddily fetched Ranthos again his worn cloak and his sweaty boots, telling him in way too many crazed sentences how excited she was to finally go to Miss Cinnamon’s.
He didn’t expect to be going that night. He would’ve liked a bite to eat first… but he was sick of disappointing his sister, so he tied her shoes (she still hadn’t learned how), and they were off.
6
The Abode of Miss Cinnamon of the Third Eye
A tall building with a wooden roof, rather than thatched, stood out like a black eye in the market district, it was the renowned Abode of Miss Cinnamon of the Third Eye, Oracle, Psychic, Auror, Diviner, Medium, Seer, Bone Caster, Palmist, Astrologist, Phrenologist, Tarot Reader, Automatic Writer, Awakener of the Subconscious, Speaker for the Fates, Voice of the Norn, Last of the Tatzeltellers.
When they were younger, Bell claimed Ranthos was too dumb to ‘ever remember anything in the whole world,’ therefore, he spent a week memorizing Miss Cinnamon’s titles, proved her wrong, and regretted nothing. The task was especially difficult since he couldn’t read the sign. He’d sit there and listen for Miss Cinnamon herself to shout it out to passersby at dawn and dusk, as she did, at dawn and dusk, every day.
Miss Cinnamon’s talents were dubious at best and probably not going to be helpful; he didn’t even know what he would ask of her, maybe she’d pay the advance so he could bring the buck’s brains back… but she’s probably got enough. Perhaps she could give a reading and help discern the future and how to persuade Nosgrim or something…
But Ranthos and Bell approached the door, tucking away any second thoughts. Painted across the ancient wood of the door, in bright blues, purples, and pinks, were motionless eyes, open and closed, gazing towards and converging upon a single, central, all seeing, eerie, three pupiled eye.
He knew it was only because of the eerie eyeballs, but Ranthos felt watched. The air was simply wrong; it tasted upside down. Which made no sense, but he couldn’t describe it in any other way. Bell seemed to agree; she held her arms crossed and often checked over her shoulder for any onlookers.
Neither of them had spoken to Miss Cinnamon before, and neither of them knew if they were allowed to.
But despite all that, he nervously held the door open for Bell, following closely after her.
They entered through a glimmering silk curtain into a square candlelit room. Pillows and cushions were strewn about on the floor, and hanging from the walls, ceiling, and atop shelves and bookcases were odd implements: jarred animal parts, bone chimes, tapestries, ornaments, and daggers without their sheathes. The walls were painted like the door with thousands of eyes, but all stared at an empty, unpainted bit of wall, which was at about waist height and three feet wide opposite him.
Miss Cinnamon must be asleep. It was pointless coming here.
“It was not, sweet flower.”
“Scut!” Ranthos cursed and startled back.
A single fluorescent neon blue eye blinked into reality on the unpainted wall, and there with the eyeball painted in the center of her forehead was Miss Cinnamon herself, as if appearing from thin air. Ranthos didn’t see her suddenly appear; it felt like he simply realized that she was there, sitting in the empty bit of wall the whole time without his knowing.
Her ambiguous voice came again in drawling rolls of syllabic mystery, “I did not mean to startle you,” she said, sitting cross-legged atop a few pillows and cushions, dressed in draping purple scarves and shawls embroidered with peering eyes. Her graceful fingers covered in jeweled rings and glowing blue nails gestured to the floor across her, then fixed her flowing dark hair back into its golden clasps and elaborately woven ribbons.
Miss Cinnamon looked as if she had never aged since Ranthos was a boy. Her face, young and ghostly pale, was painted with interconnected lines and dots along her cheeks and down her chin and across her slender neck, possibly charting the stars, leylines, or perhaps just for show.
“Miss Cinnamon, we’re here for… uhm…” he wasn’t actually sure, but she seemed to be the best person to consult, or perhaps the only. He looked to Bell questioningly.
She wasn’t there.
“Bell?”
“Please, child, do not fear,” said Miss Cinnamon, “I am speaking with her separately.”
“What?”
“She’ll be back in a moment… I needed this moment with you alone, and my moment with her. All is well.” She smiled softly beneath her glazed eyes. “Sit, please, sweet flower,” she said with a smile.
He sat, not quite put at ease, but Miss Cinnamon’s heartbeat showed no sign of deception.
“Do you read that which is unwritten?”
“No.”
“Do you understand the deer’s bones and how they fall?”
“No.”
“Do you seek what lies beyond the mist?”
“No.”
“The persuits of alchemy? The ink of atvyyrk? The leylines? Celestial bodies? The voice of the
Weird? The dimensions of the cranium? The heat of dragonfire?”
He tried to answer no to each question but barely had time as she rapidly spouted occulta at him until…
“The voice of things life detests and death ignores?”
“Perhaps,” Ranthos said reservedly.
Her eyes widened and her mouth pulled itself into a full smile, “Wonderful, my sweet little flower. Give me your palm.”
He did. But why was she calling him sweet flower?
She traced the lines in his dirty palm with her bejeweled hands.
“I see…” she whispered, “You’re poor?”
“Yes.”
“A hunter?”
“Yes.”
“You know the wild?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm…” she pursed her pink-painted lips and evaluated him, “What creature has the Lamb’s Head cursed and made immortal?”
“A buck,” he thought it was the right answer, “but what’s the Lamb’s Head?”
“You’ve heard its voice?”
“A shriek.”
“Ah…” Miss Cinnamon stood and let many of her wrappings fall to the floor softly to reveal a baggy-sleeved shirt which, on her gracile form, looked as if it belonged to a giant. A long eyeball dyed skirt with dangling gold and jeweled belts jingled as she stepped carefully over to a jar on one of her shelves and to a small black velvet bag dangling from the ceiling.
She opened the jar and revealed a bit of tatzelbrain soaked in embalming liquids. She shook it dry over the jar and placed it inside an incense burner along with odd-smelling minerals and herbs, then lit it with a long sizzling match. Placing the burner in her lap, she inhaled the wafting smokes.
They were pungent. The smoke and the scents clogged his nose and quickly drew the room into a dimly lit haze.
Miss Cinnamon sat on some pillows near Ranthos, leaning in so close so he could choke on her perfume, which obscured her emotions like the Stranger’s hair oil. Her two eyes and painted third locked onto his and peered deeply. Without a word, Miss Cinnamon undid the drawstring on the black velvet bag and placed it on the floor between the two of them, “Do you know what this is?”
“No.”
“Within this bag are the Old Runes. Letters of a language once known by alfar and men, but now perhaps only by me,” she said.
Ranthos gave a curious nod, “What are they for?”
“One,” she said and pulled one domino sized piece of wood out of the bag and placed it face down, “is the past, that which brought you to the present,” she pulled another and placed it after the first, “and finally a possible future as it will occur if you continue on your present course,” she placed a third.
“What do those say?”
“Nothing. These are blank,” she said and flipped each over with one fluid motion to reveal the other side of a blank tile.
“Then what—“
“Flip it yourself.”
He did, skeptically, for he was sure that she was wasting his time. And on its previously blank wooden surface was etched and inked a square rune imposed over a cross.
“Skamu,” She said, “the heart. You don’t yet know what is inside yours. Your past was nothing but heart, that’s all you had, my sweetest flower.”
Ranthos said nothing. But, she may have been right, in a vague way, almost.
“Next,” Miss Cinnamon said, “Next is the present,” and without delay she offered the second tile.
Ranthos flipped it; the rune was forked with three points.
“Ah, Gogadam. The strongman. You’re facing a challenge—alone, it seems, by your aura.”
“I have to do the impossible,” he said with defeat in his voice, “and I have no help from the one person who could help. Nosgrim, his name is. He’s the orphaned butcher who lives up the way.”
She nodded slowly, searching deep into his eyes with hers, uncomfortably so, as she seemed to remember that orphaned boy, Nosgrim. After a pause, she said, “Now the last tile, the future, requires some explanation.”
“Sure.”
“You’re a hunter.”
“I am.”
“Think of yourself as an arrow. The past is the bow, and the archer is the present. Follow?”
“I suppose.”
“Good. You are propelled forward by the past, and your aim in the present dictates the future, or where the arrow will strike. You decide now what future the past will shoot you into. Follow?”
“Yes…” He did not understand.
“Now this last tile,” she pushed it forward, “is not absolute. It only shows that which you will strike if you keep your aim in the present steady. Flip it, sweet flower.”
He did promptly.
Miss Cinnamon inhaled sharply, “…Now I suggest you shift your aim.”
“Why? What’s the rune?”
“Shee’mortem. Night’s kiss.”
“What does that mean?”
“Failure. Corruption. Darkness.”
“What does that mean?”
“That you’re aiming at your own heart, sweet flower,” she said, something like sorrow in her eyes, “Facing this challenge as you plan to, alone, will destroy you.”
“What does that mean!?”
“It means that this creature will unravel something wicked in your heart and it will destroy you. You will not only be unable to slay the immortal beast, but you will slay everything in yourself, everything that is, except that separate beast which hides within you, your vices, your inner potential. My sweet, sweet flower atop a flowing meadow, please do not hunt this beast…”
“But I have to, Miss Cinnamon.”
“Stay with your sister. Do not go gallivanting off into the wild chasing this nonsense.”
“But I have to kill it. For her.”
“No. For you.”
“What?”
“Your heart was set on killing this thing not because you wanted to leave Tatzelton, but because you can’t kill it. You’ve been told you can’t do the mundane, so you’re setting off to do the impossible. Shift your aim, sweet flower, nothing but pain will come.”
“Why can’t I kill it? Why is it impossible?”
“Because some things aren’t meant to be done.”
“Says who?”
“Fate, whom you trusted until she disagreed with you.”
“If I shift my aim, what will happen?”
“It depends on how you will shift it.”
“If I didn’t hunt it?” Ranthos said out of curiosity.
Miss Cinnamon seemed to breathe for the first time in a long while as she drew another blank tile and asked him to flip it.
The same rune, “Shee’mortem.”
“What? Miss Cinnamon, what does that mean?”
Her face lost all color, “Events have been set in motion that cannot be undone. Hunting it is the only option”
“What if Bell and I ran away?”
She drew again, and he flipped again.
“Shee’mortem.”
What does—Something must be wrong, right Miss Cinnamon?”
She didn’t answer.
“Miss Cinnamon?!”
Nothing. She looked as if she were in a trance.
“Miss Cinnamon?!”
“Shift your aim again. What is another future?” she said, eyes still glossy.
“Nosgrim pays me for the week?”
“You cannot change other people’s actions, sweet flower, only your own.”
“I steal the money from Nosgrim.”
She drew, and he flipped: “Shee’mortem.”
“This is a trick!” Ranthos shouted.
“If only.”
His ears flushed, “All this ambiguity and mystery and you can’t even give me a straight reading. Is there any way I can end up not corrupted, perhaps?”
“Think, sweet flower, think. What else can you do?”
“I don’t know! You’re supposed to be all-knowing!”
“I am not.�
��
He groaned.
“Think.”
“What if I blackmailed a hunter into helping me?”
“Shee’mortem.”
“Join a monastery?”
“Shee’mortem.”
“Sacrifice to the buck? Offer my allegiance?”
Miss Cinnamon didn’t bother flipping the stone, “That is the definition of corruption.”
“Kill myself?”
“Sweet flower—“
“What if I became Nosgrim’s friend, convinced him to help me?” he said without thinking, and immediately regretted it.
She drew, and he flipped a rune with three horizontal lines.
“Llelarmis…” she wiped her eyes dry, “Llelarmis! Nonsense!”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, my sweet, sweet flower, that if you make peace with this Nosgrim, you will achieve the nonsensical, the impossible, you will kill the unkillable.”
“No. I don’t want to.”
“No charge, my sweet flower,” Miss Cinnamon stood and helped Ranthos up, who protested the fates and each and every one of her eyes.
“Go. Put your differences aside. And do the impossible, Ranthos. I know you can. May your aim strike true!” she said, leading him to the door and outside, where Bell was waiting.
“Ranthos!” she beamed, “Miss Cinnamon said that I’ll soon meet a great king! Can you believe it?! A king! How was your reading?”
“Really, really bad. Just horribly terrible,” he said to Bell with a furious face. “Please no, Miss Cinnamon, I can’t—“
“You will!” she said, just ecstatic, “You’ve escaped the maws of doom, now go, sweet flower.” She kissed his cheeks and receded, blowing more kisses as she closed the door.
Ranthos returned to The Abode of Miss Cinnamon of the Third Eye again the next morning to renegotiate his fate.
Miss Cinnamon wouldn’t have it.
There seemed to be only one way to kill the buck: friendship. With Nosgrim.
Ranthos wouldn’t have it.
“Meow.”
“How’s it going, Remy?” Ranthos said lazily, chin on the table.
Enter the Lamb's Head (The Adventures of Ranthos Book 1) Page 7
