The Silver Claw
By Erik Williamson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Erik Williamson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected].
First paperback edition 2021
Images provided by Getty Images
ISBN 979-8-5739-9943-2 (paperback)
For Abby and Molly
Dream big
Year 287 after the Great Divide
I - Lake Winnepaca
The quarter moon’s dull reflection on the glassy water offered the only hint of life along the still, dark lake. Even on a cloudless night, the immensity of Lake Winnepaca seemed to swallow up every speck of light the moon bestowed. Down near the southwest bay, the dry dead root system of an upturned oak clawed high into the open sky. Huddled in its shelter, a solitary man strained his eyes across the shallows of the bay for any sign of activity along the nets he’d labored to place that day. But, no. The lake mirrored the man’s empty despair right back at him.
He’d stumped along, alone, for two weeks just to get here. First on the mainway through the eastern end of Longarvale and then through the increasingly difficult terrain of the northern wilds. Despite the scattered tales of incredible bounties of fish, nobody in his lifetime nor his father’s routinely traveled from the Khuul up to Lake Winnepaca.
This only fed Ben’s determination—manufactured as it was. He was desperate to get something right. As he tromped through the winding remains of trail, he whacked back the encroaching forest to widen the path; a grand attempt at convincing himself he could soon be carrying nets teeming with fish back along this way.
Ben had spotted the lake that morning, and the monolithic hallmark of legend and superstition forced on him a wavering pause. It wasn’t the sheer vastness of the lake that disturbed him. Ben grew up along the great heartland lakes. He felt more at home on the water then he did on land. But the lakes he knew radiated life. Winnepaca spread out before him silent and unyielding.
Ben shook off his doubts and secured his nets. He simply couldn’t return empty-handed. At sunset, he nestled himself into the outstretched root system to eat—once again—what little dried fish and hard tack he had left. The thin moon peeked over the mountains and towering trees that encircled the lake like an amphitheater, and Ben stared across the eerily still water, seemingly weighed down by the same heavy emptiness that lived inside Ben.
“Never heard of silverfish running this time of year.” Ben rubbed his forehead with his calloused hands. “I should’ve known better than to trust the ravings of some will-o’-the-wisp madman.”
Although he listened to his intuition less and less as the years dragged on, this time he’d followed his gut reaction. The other fishermen at the tavern that night had laughed at the drifter’s stories. At first, Ben was inclined to laugh along. Yet something about the strange young man—hunched in the shadows of the tavern fireplace, his hood pulled low over his brow—intrigued Ben. The traveler spun tantalizing tales of silverfish schools thick as a pre-dawn spring fog bank. The catch of a lifetime—and the man locked his crystalline grey eyes on Ben—awaited anyone bold enough to take the chance.
Ben had set down his drink, squinting into the man’s piercing eyes through the duskiness of the tavern. If not for his dark chin-beard, those grey eyes might’ve convinced Ben he’d met his first northerner. Point of fact, Ben had pondered, his cloak, his movements, everything about him, seemed marked by a kind of shimmery ethereal grey. As the traveler spun his tale, something unexplainable hooked Ben’s imagination. For the first time in years, Ben allowed his intuition to persuade him.
And now. . . he was alone with his intuition, with a seemingly empty lake.
“Wouldn’t be here if I still had Lydadawn,” Ben muttered. At the mere mention of her name, Ben was consumed by the heartache of his wife’s death.
Devastated from watching disease slowly ravage Lyda’s health and vitality, then claim her life, for seven years now Ben had allowed darkness to take root in his soul. He gazed unseeing across the lake, indulging himself in sorrowful memories: stargazing over the lake with her ever-present mug of coffee, nestled together in front of the fireplace, laying down to sleep satisfied and content.
“Wouldn’t be here if Lydadawn was alive.”
Ben’s heavy eyelids drooped closed. . .
Sitting on the prow of his skiff, Ben watched the moon over familiar treetops of golden birch leaves; hot coffee in hand, waiting for the sun to rise over the eastern shore of Birchdown Lake.
“Trying to see through the trees, Benny?” Lydadawn cradled her mug, smiling her wry half-grin at him.
It could’ve been any crisp autumn morning over their twelve years of marriage. Ben readied the skiff, Lyda brought two hot cups of coffee, and before the fishing day began, they watched the sunrise. Sometimes over meaningful conversation, sometimes in silence. . . always together.
“Well, if you’re not trying to cut through trees with your saw-like vision, what’s that old mind of yours stewing on?”
“Uh, thinking of hitting the north bay today,” Ben heard himself say. “Perch are running.”
He scratched his head. That didn’t sound right.
“You are not,” chided her even-keel voice. “Your mind’s been a dark, stormy place for seven years. Where’s my Ben gone?”
Memories of coffee and sunrises immediately shifted to Lyda in bed moaning with a raging fever, the doctor looking helplessly into his eyes and whispering, ‘I’m sorry.’ Their last night together, under the stars, as she slipped away. The light flickered off in his life. Only darkness remained.
“This is so real. Us. Like it used to be. Like it should be.” Ben’s voice cracked. “But you’re gone, aren’t you, Lyda?”
“Yes, Ben,” she answered softly. “But you are not.”
“I wish I was.” An admission he hadn’t made to anyone; Lyda was his confidante, there was nobody else to tell.
“I know, dear. It breaks my heart to know that urge has such a strong hold on you.” The grey, shimmery Lydadawn set down her coffee and slid closer. “You have so much love to give. It’s dying, locked inside you.”
“It’s already dead.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.
“No, Ben!” Lyda snapped, then sighed. “You didn’t choose for me to die. Neither did I. We have little choice in what the world throws our way. What we can determine is how to forge a life from what we’re given. To turn whatever we’re handed, into something beautiful. You did that for me—those last hard months.”
“You bore it with grace and dignity to your final breath”
“I did because you fought for me, every hour of every day.” She touched his forearm. Ben’s arm hairs stood on end. “That man is still there.”
What good had his fight done? Lyda was gone. That man was gone.
“Benny?” She waited. He slowly turned towards her and the face that met him felt so real. So alive. “It pains me that more and more you are choosing death.”
Ben nodded because, well, she was correct.
“Open your heart for someone else to come in.”
“I could never replace you.” Ben’s jaw set. “I can’t. I won’t.”
“I’m not asking you to.” Lyda laid her head on his shoulder. Ben tingled—feeling more alive than he had in years. “Our love will never die. But love is
not finite. Our love doesn’t have to diminish to find love to give another. Someone out there needs that love, and you need to give love—and receive—to live again.”
“I’ll try.” He would not marry again. But he couldn’t say no to Lyda.
“You MUST love again. And trust your instincts. They are so rarely wrong.” She leaned in and kissed him, then whispered, “Start choosing life. Today. Here and now.”
They shared a few sweet moments of silence.
“Love again, Ben.”
He awoke covered in cold sweat, grasping a thick root where it tore loose from the ground, tears streaming down his face. He had an urge to run from this place. But, no. Maybe he’d stay here at Winnepaca forever, if he could have Lyda back, even in fleeting, dreaming moments. Now wide awake, Ben sat up straight against the oak, plunging himself back into the dream, clinging to her memory.
‘Start choosing life. Today. Here and now.’ A solid hour passed with Ben stuck on that thought, staring, unmoving, even as the dull moon sank closer to the tree line.
Suddenly Ben’s conscience pricked with the awareness of movement. He shrank back into the shadows of the tree when he caught sight of a slim beam of light slowly creeping across the west side of the bay, not more than 200 yards off. It slowly illuminated the shore. Then two figures silhouetted behind the lantern.
“Let’s kill it and be done,” a sharp hissed voice cut through the night.
“What? The sacrifice? You can’t simply kill a sacrifice.”
“You scared, Kelebis?” the first man mocked.
“You know the old tales,” Kelebis’s voice rose. “A sacrifice to Winnepaca and shedding blood here are different beasts entirely. Even if you don’t actually believe them, you should give the old tales their due respect.”
“Your only concern ought to be the witch’s wrath,” the other man responded. “Believe me, your old fears have nothing on her. I say kill it. Leave nothing to chance.”
“You’re a fool, Danzius. You’ve no—”
“Shut up, you dogs.” A woman’s voice abruptly cut off Kelebis’s as a third figure emerged in the lantern’s light. “All this noise when you know—full well—that silence and reverence are paramount.”
“Silence?” Danzius’s voice rose to a shout. “There’s no settlements for miles. Nothing to hunt in these woods, and the silverfish won’t run for months! No chance of even a stray fisherman.”
Ben grimaced and silently cursed his ‘good intuition.’
“If it’s speed what you want, let’s end it,” concluded Danzius. A knife rung as it was unsheathed.
“Fool. . .” hissed the woman. Followed by a hollow thud.
Ben peered out of the corner of his eye. The tall woman had Danzius pinned to a tree, her hand around his throat, his toes scraping the ground for support.
“The time for bloodshed was back on the road, when we butchered those people as they deserved. Fool that he is, Kelebis is correct: a proper sacrifice must follow ritual. If anybody dies by the knife here, it’ll be you, Danzius.”
There was another ring of a dagger being drawn.
“I misspoke, General,” Danzius sputtered in short bursts. “Won’t happen again.”
“General, please,” Kelebis pleaded. “The sacrifice is prepared. Launch the ark. We should complete the ritual before sunrise.”
In the long moment of silence that followed, a sudden flick by Ben’s nets nearly stopped his heart. He held his breath, grasping his fillet knife in one hand and hatchet in the other.
“Yes. We should be halfway back already,” the woman said. “Push it in. It won’t stay afloat more than two hours, and odds are the sharpnies will take it sooner. If you didn’t overdose the sedative again, she’ll be awake in time to feel it all.”
Ben could all but taste the woman’s smug satisfaction.
“May the sacrifice mark the end.” She inclined her head skyward. “I leave the body to you.”
“Nothing but empty air,” Danzius growled.
There was a faint splash. The beam of lantern light slunk off the lake and faded into the forest. Ben’s muscles stayed tensed and his grip on knife and hatchet did not loosen. He was a fisherman, from the Khuul, guided by seasons and tides and practical matters. Ben’s mind raced to process what he’d heard, his breaths coming short and shallow. The people must be some branch of northerners, he guessed, long since divorced from the Westerlunds central peoples. Their floating ark and superstitions and such were a mystery to Ben. This seemingly was a ritual sacrifice to some force or god beyond his imagination. What that force was, what the ark contained, or who those people were, he concluded, he did not want to know. At the first sign of sunrise, he’d yank out his nets, and weeds, fish, and all, stuff them into the catch sack and run.
Yet. . .
Ben couldn’t take his mind off the little box bobbing in the slight waves. Something was alive in it—cast aside to die by vile people. His gut instinct was to fetch it; to defy people like that was worth a risk. But no, he told his gut instinct: you put us in this mess by coming here in the first place. You’ve lost your right to express an opinion.
When the sun peeked over the tree line, Ben scampered into the frigid water, his noisy movements seeming to echo across the expanse of the lake. He began yanking his nets in a rushed, haphazard manner. Stuffing the netting into the catch bag, he counted thirteen fish. If he rationed well, that might be enough food to get him home. Doubtful, though.
Then, as he reached for the last net, he heard a faint whimper from the box. Ben froze, mouth open and hand submerged, and stared at the little box now slowly sinking, some 50 yards from the shore. He swallowed. A lamb maybe? Cat? Could be any number of smallish animals. Ben squeezed his eyes shut. Couldn’t be a child. No.
“Stick to your business,” Ben mumbled. “That’s what you’ll do.”
He shifted his attention from the box to the net, to give it one last tug, when he caught a glimpse of a flicker of movement. He jumped, ripping the net out with him, and severed the remaining ties with his fillet knife.
The patterns of the surface ripples indicated sharpnies. Far down to the east, a whole mess of them was slithering towards the box. For a seasoned fisherman, a sharpnie ripple is as unmistakable as it is alarming. A full-grown sharpnie—long and thin like an eel, yet rounder and fishier—can reach four feet, and looks more like a burly snake as it cruises just beneath the surface of the water. Ben had witnessed sharpnies attack in packs, and with many small bites bring down deer, wolves, and moose. They could easily drown a full-grown man in the water alone. He stuffed the last net into his bag and clambered onto shore.
Then, once more: a whimper from the box. This time unmistakable.
It was a child.
Ben’s mouth went dry as sand. He squinted across the dancing waves, alive with early morning light.
No. Forget it. Ben squeezed his fillet knife, shaking his head. All those sharpnies. Those people, still somewhere in the woods. You’re no hero, Ben. Run away like the washed-up old fisherman you are.
But clearer and more compelling than his fear or doubt or the sight before his eyes, Ben’s mind filled with the one voice he could never ignore, pleading: “Trust your instincts, Ben. Choose life. Today. Here and now.”
The morning silence shattered as Ben dove into the lake.
Fillet knife in his mouth, arms and legs frantically churning, Ben cut the distance between himself and the bobbing box. He’d knew he’d reach it before the sharpnies, but the swim to shore would be a fight all the way. In one motion, he transferred the knife to his hand. Gripped between his middle and pointer fingers, the blade struck the water first, an extension of his arm.
When he reached the partially submerged box, he batted it with his left hand, propelling it to shore, then wheeled around it to push. The first sharpnie reached him within ten yards. He hacked off its head. Then Ben was swarmed. Sharp teeth bit at his feet and legs. The body of one sharpnie after another roll
ed against him. The box rode lower, sinking, a muffled cry audible from within. He was pulled under. His vision blurred. His lungs filled with water.
This is it. . . Lyda, I’m coming. . .
Ben resurfaced and grasped the box, gasping for air. The water was his world, he’d not drown. He slashed with his knife and kicked, trying to gain some space. The shore was not getting any closer and the box was riding lower. His only hope of getting it to land was to forego defending himself, grasp it with both hands, and opt for speed alone. His flailing legs actually made for a more elusive target. Soon, though, he could once again feel smooth sharpnie bodies gliding underneath his own, their teeth biting into his wrists and neck. Ben closed his eyes, and kicked until he reached the shallows where, staggering, he dragged the waterlogged box to shore.
He collapsed on the beach, fighting for air, pushing down nausea, feeling blood seeping from tiny wounds all over his body. With one glance at the wooden box, his own pains were suddenly forgotten. It was a little coffin. Ben wiped blood off his neck, scrambled up, and wrenched off the coffin’s lid.
Shivering in inch-deep water was a haggard toddler, fitfully unconscious. She wore what had once been a fine linen dress, ill-fitting and grubby on the pathetic little girl. A leather cord was fastened across her mouth and jaw, muffling her labored whimpering. Her hands and feet were bound cruelly tight with rough twine, bruising her limbs and turning her fingers and toes blue. Her petite hands clutched two purple velvet packets.
She was filthy and ragged and reeked from suffering neglect for who knew how long. Obvious even through the grime, her matted golden hair marked her as a northern child. Her kind, the Bandu, were despised as vagrants and beggars throughout the Khuul and Vale. In spite of all this. . . no, for Ben, in no small part because of this, his heart broke all the more.
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