“This is true,” Novus said, shutting down any further second-guessing. “But he is dying nonetheless. So, we look to you, Jack. What do you think we should do? Do we plunge a knife into his chest and allow him a peaceful transition to the afterlife? Or do we wait, refusing to interfere while allowing him to persist in great pain?”
It was a test. Any idiot could see that.
“Why ask me?” Jack said. “I figure Pash likely has some thoughts on the matter.”
The gathered elders laughed, and Canus managed to look embarrassed.
“This is not possible,” Novus said. “If you went inside the hut, you would see why.”
Jack gritted his teeth. He did not like being laughed at. They were clearly trying to back him into a corner, but they didn’t need to get their rocks off in the process. “Maybe I’ll do that. Then we’ll decide what’s possible.”
A general murmur of discontent rose amongst the elders, other than Novus and Kaeso, who looked at him with great curiosity. They glanced at each other, and after a moment, Novus nodded.
“Very well,” she said. There was an explosion of indignation from the other elders, but Novus silenced the crowd with a gesture. She looked at Jack with an intensity that would have put a younger version of him on edge. “I will allow you to enter, Jack, but know this: Our custom dictates that only an elder, the caretaker, or a Chian’dir warleader may cross that threshold. If you choose to do so, you will be bringing the shadow of death down upon you.”
Jack couldn’t help but laugh at her choice of words, his sharp outburst catching Novus by surprise. “Lady, word on the street is that I already walk in the shadow of death.” He gave her a wink. “Better luck next time.”
Ignoring the shocked expressions of the gathered elders, Jack pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the room.
Jack expected Pash to be in a coma-like state when he entered the room, or even encased in some kind of cocoon. Instead, he found something still vaguely humanoid but covered in a semi-transparent, grub-like sheath that completely encompassed the Chian’dir scout, oozing puss and generally stinking up the place. The smell wasn’t helped by the warmth—far warmer than anywhere else in the village. There was no fire to account for such an uncomfortable temperature, but Jack noted the thick black bags placed in a circle around the room. Two of them sat on either side of the door, and Jack nudged one of them with his foot.
Not hot, but warm enough that you couldn’t carry it for long. Hot coals stuck in sandbags if he had to guess.
Jack turned his attention back to Pash’s writhing form. The pallet beneath the grub-like Chian’dir was completely soaked with pus. “That much oozing can’t be a good sign.”
“No. It is a sign the transition is failing.”
Jack looked into the shadows where the low voice had come from. He hadn’t noticed anyone when he entered but then saw an old Chian’dir warrior shuffling out of the darkness. From the girth of his arms and chest, the old warrior must have been gigantic in his youth, possibly even larger than Canus. Somewhere along the way, he had lost both of his legs, and the rest of his body was a tapestry of scars. If landmines were a thing in this world, the warrior looked like he had stepped on one.
The old warrior dragged a basket and small drum behind him as he made his way to Pash’s body. Once there, he pulled a hunk of thick, fatty meat from the basket and dipped it towards Pash’s white head. A round, tooth-covered hole opened up and devoured the flesh, beckoning for more.
The old warrior saw Jack looking and nodded to Pash. “During Rebirth, the body constantly hungers for food. It is more reflex than desire.” He paused and shook his head forlornly. “Even as he is dying, the body hungers still.”
“You’re the caretaker?” Jack asked.
The old warrior nodded. “Yes. My name is Sextus.” The warrior caught Jack’s glance at his missing legs and gave a wan smile, waving at the missing limbs dismissively.
“Our warleader’s time had come and gone. He knew I would depose him soon, so he took us into one last battle against a wyvern, hoping to remember the excitement of his youth. It was ill-advised, and the hunt did not go well. Had I ordered a retreat, he would have been killed and I would have become warleader, but I chose not to.”
“Why not?” Jack asked.
“It wasn’t what was best for the tribe,” Sextus said simply. “Hatha was a brilliant and strong warleader, and the tribe needed him as an elder more than it needed me as a warleader. So I charged the wyvern while one of my fellow warriors ordered the retreat, taking Hatha with them.”
“Lemme guess, he became warleader instead of you?”
Sextus laughed, large canines flashing. “It is our way. I bore him no ill will, mind you. My only goal was to allow Hatha’s escape. I certainly did not expect to kill the beast. But when the new warleader returned hours later to recover my body, they discovered the wyvern dead and me not far behind. Both of my legs had been destroyed beyond repair in the beast’s death throes, but before falling unconscious, I somehow managed to break my spear in two and use the leather from my sword’s hilt to tourniquet my wounds. Somehow, I had survived.” He smiled. “Hatha had the honour of consuming the wyvern during the Rebirth, which was nice.”
Jack cocked his head. “Shouldn’t the attempt to depose Hatha have failed since you still killed the wyvern?”
“No,” Sextus said. “Hatha followed the order of a challenger. If that happens, the deposition is always considered to have succeeded.”
“Seems like a pretty raw deal for you,” Jack noted. “Jumble up that order a bit and you get to be warleader for a few seconds, come back a hero, then get your legs back when you’re Reborn as an elder. Hell, if you ask me, you sound like exactly the kind of guy the elders want producing the next generation of Chian’dir.”
Sextus chuffed out a laugh and leaned towards Jack conspiratorially. “You and I are old and wise, human. Do you honestly believe the mating habits of an entire tribe could be as simple as our customs claim?” He grinned heartily. “Just don’t tell Canus. He’s an idealist.”
That was when Jack realized the resemblance between this old warrior and Canus. He couldn’t help but laugh. “That why you’re doing this job?”
“No, nothing of that sort,” Sextus said, shaking his head. He gestured to his legs. “The caretaker is always an elderly warrior who watches over a Chian’dir as they pass through death and into a new life. What warrior could be better at that role than one who has walked that road twice?”
Jack gestured to Pash’s writhing body. “Except that sometimes…”
The warrior nodded somberly. “Sometimes I fail in my caretaking. Pash is at the point where his heart must stop beating if he is to proceed, but his body resists.”
“His heart needs to stop?”
As a response, Sextus reached over and poked a finger into Jack’s chest. “The heart of a scout,” he said. Then Sextus took Jack’s hand and placed it on his own chest. “The hearts of a warrior.”
Jack could feel the beating of two hearts, one on either side of the powerful chest.
The old warrior released Jack’s hand. “There is a point in the Rebirth where the scout’s heart stops beating, and the warrior’s hearts begin,” Sextus said. “At that moment, between beats, we die. When we die, we enter the realm of Nochd, the god of the dead and our patron deity. Only through his blessing are we allowed to leave and experience Rebirth. In doing so, we grow stronger as a people.”
Sextus placed one palm on the slick surface of Pash’s bloated form. “Sometimes, the scout’s heart does not stop beating. It lingers, and with each beat, the chance of returning from Nochd’s realm diminishes. I fear that is what is happening to Pash.
“It is too bad. Pash was a strong scout, and as a warrior he may have risen high. Now we will never know.”
Jack watched Sextus’ face as he spoke, reading the compassion this old warrior held for a fallen comrade. While Jack could sympathize with Canus’s
role based on his own experiences during the war, and understood the elders’ place in the tribe from a logical standpoint, this old warrior was the first Arenian Jack had met who felt like a peer. If for that reason only, Jack wanted to help Pash.
“You seem like a good man, Sextus. I’m sorry your boy here ain’t doing so well,” Jack said. “From what you say, it sounds like he was a good lad when he wasn’t trying to kill me.”
Sextus smiled.
“That said,” Jack continued speculatively, “why don’t we chalk that up to a misunderstanding and see if I can’t help out.”
“I don’t understand,” Sextus said.
“Can’t rightly say I do either, but it seems I’ve got a couple tricks up my sleeve. It’d be a shame not to at least give them a shot.”
“You have tricks in your sleeve?” Sextus asked, confused.
Jack’s eyebrows pinched together. “Yeah, guess that wouldn’t make sense. Doesn’t matter. Shuffle over. I’m gonna try something.”
Sextus reluctantly moved off to the side, his robust frame and long arms allowing him to walk on his hands with ease.
Positioning himself at the top of Pash’s head, Jack sat down cross-legged—it was still a marvel that he could contort his body in such a way—and placed a hand on either side of the scout’s head. The thick, translucent skin was rubbery, not to mention slippery thanks to the mucous oozing from cracks in the flesh. It was empirically disgusting, but Jack had held worse things in his hands during his life.
Alright. How do I do this?
Fortunately, it wasn’t the first time Jack needed to teach himself how to do something without the benefit of a manual—it’s not like they had the internet in 1952. So he did what he always did: Try, fail, learn, and repeat until successful.
“You there, kid?” Jack said. “Not sure how you’re supposed to answer me with just that meat hole you got there.” He looked at Sextus. “Can he talk?”
“He can’t even chew,” Sextus said, looking extremely skeptical. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Does it look like I do?” Jack said.
“It does not.”
“Well, there you go, answering your own question.”
Jack frowned at Pash’s writhing form. Then something occurred to him, and he produced his Tome again to double-check the description of his Speak with the Dying Ability.
Yep, there it was: “…allows you to commune with a dying creature even if they are unconscious.” Apparently, this was not going to be a normal conversation.
Jack closed his eyes and focused his mind on Pash. Where are ya, kid? You’re just about at death’s door, and I need to talk to you.
Even with his eyes closed, Jack could feel a change in the sensation across his skin. It was cool. Like a foggy morning by the ocean, and with the same feeling of ambiguity; where you never knew if the fog was going to burn off or thicken into a full-on storm.
Opening his eyes, Jack found he was no longer in the hut. Instead, he was sitting in some kind of twilight mistscape. It obscured his vision somewhat, but not so severely that he couldn’t see a reasonable distance through the mist.
He shook his head in annoyance. “Really? I gotta deal with some kinda bull-crap dreamworld?”
Impatient to get the whole experience over with, Jack stood up and looked around for Pash. Sure enough, the young scout was sitting on the ground nearby, staring at a simple arch made of black stone. Within the arch, the mists seemed to pull together and thicken until they formed an opaque wall.
Jack walked over and nudged the Chian’dir with his foot. “Just what the hell are you waiting for, boy?”
The scout scrambled away in terror at Jack’s unexpected appearance, his expression turning to one of confusion when he realized who was standing there.
“Human? Why are you here? Are you a dream, come to torment me for my failure?” Pash said.
“I’m not a dream, but I’m opening to tormenting you for your failure,” Jack said. “Just go through the dang arch! I’ve been in this place for a hot second, and I already know that’s what you need to do.”
Pash shook his head. “It is not so simple. Through that arch lies death! What if my Rebirth is not successful? You were there when Elder Kaeso agreed to my warleader’s request. She did not think I was ready; it was written in her eyes. If I walk through that gate, I will die.”
“Ain’t that the point?”
“I mean that I will die forever!”
It was all Jack could do not to shake the young scout. He wanted to shout at him that he was clearly going to die unless he did something, so why just sit there? The kid had even acknowledged that the only reason he was being allowed to try the Rebirth was because he had been so heavily wounded that it was his only chance at survival.
But Jack restrained himself.
This was life and death, not logic. Logic in the face of death was easy when it was someone else’s life you were talking about. But when it was your own? No, the kid was paralyzed by fear, and logic had left the building. It was a condition Jack knew all too well.
“Crap…” Jack muttered under his breath. He knew what he had to do, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to be easy.
Jack walked over to Pash and sat beside him. The scout was once again facing the stone arch, so Jack watched it with him.
“There was a war where I’m from,” Jack said. “A bad one. They called it a world war. Can you imagine that? Practically the entire planet fighting each other at once?”
Pash shook his head.
“Well, that’s what happened,” Jack said. “I signed up to fight for the good guys, barely more than a child. The war had already been going on for a while, but my country was just starting into it, and I enlisted in time for D-day. That was a hell of a show. We attacked from the water, the beaches exploding all around us. I thought we were dead when our way outta there was blocked by artillery fire, but some of the airborne guys took out the guns and we made it off that sandy strip of hell alive. Through the whole thing, I never hesitated. Me and my buddy Barty even took out a machine gun position together. Got ourselves a medal in the process. If you’d asked anyone, they’d have told you I was a hell of a fighter.” He nodded at Pash. “The same kind of thing they say about you.”
Pash bared his teeth briefly in acknowledgment of the compliment.
Jack continued. “That wasn’t the last battle. Not by a long shot. Things were going pretty well though, and we picked up a good string of victories.
“Then came the Battle of the Bulge.”
Even now, after all these years, Jack shook as tears welled up in his eyes. Damned Well-Aged Trait. Some memories get buried for a reason. He took a breath and composed himself.
“It was hell,” Jack said. “Do you have hell here?”
“I don’t know what you speak of,” Pash said. “We have the planes of torment, where those who have made pacts with demons go if they should lose control and be claimed.”
“That’ll suffice,” Jack said. “It sure felt like someone made a pact with a demon. But instead of hot, that place was cold. Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. And every day, you woke up wondering if that was the day you’d be blown to pieces by the artillery. Practically every day, someone was. We churned through recruits, but we held on. Dug into our foxholes and prayed to any god who would listen that a shell wouldn’t hit us.
“Then one day I snapped. I was cold, tired, and sick. I’d barely slept, and I’d been working war for so long that I couldn’t remember what civilian life even felt like. And when that artillery started whistling and the trees started exploding, something inside of me broke. I just sat down on the ground and started rocking back and forth, sobbing. I was so goddamned afraid of dying that I couldn’t even move to the nearest foxhole.”
“But you lived,” Pash said. “You overcame your fear and survived, or you would not be here now. You have the soul of a warrior.”
“I didn’t
overcome shit, kid,” Jack said. “I survived because Barty, the man I’d met in basic and fought an entire war with, the best friend I’ve ever had in my life, got out of his own foxhole and dragged me back with him. Most heroic thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and you know what his reward was?”
Pash shook his head.
“He got his goddamned face blown off,” Jack said. “The last moments of his life were spent bleeding out on top of me in that foxhole. The brave one died, and the coward survived.”
Jack climbed to his feet and inspected the stone arch.
“Why do you tell me this?” Pash asked.
“Because fear is inevitable, kid. And being terrified of dying is something that happens to all of us. Some of us are heroes who push past it, like Barty, and some of us aren’t, like me. But after that moment, I never shied away from death again. It wasn’t an homage to Barty or anything ridiculous like that. It was just that I’d realized life isn’t fair. You can be terrified, or you can be heroic. You can be a good mother, or you can be a bad one. But that’s got nothing to do with dying. I cried in the snow in Ardennes and lived. My wife was the greatest woman in the world, got cancer, and died. So, making a decision based on fear stopped mattering to me. I just saw what needed to get done and did it, whether that was taking out a German sniper or raising a daughter alone.”
Jack waved at the stone arch. “I get that you’re terrified of this thing, kid. I really do. And that terror is real because you don’t want to die. None of us do. But you’re labouring under the delusion that you have a choice. You don’t. Walk through that arch, and you’ll either die or you won’t. And sure, be terrified when you do it because it doesn’t matter if you’re brave, or scared, or ambivalent, or whatever. All that matters is getting the job done. Hell, most of life is about getting the job done, not how you feel when you’re doing it.
“Speaking of which, I’m pretty sure my own job is done. Hope we meet again.”
Arrival: Legends of Arenia Book 1 (A LitRPG Story) Page 25
