The blog has been quiet for too long. Keep an eye out for more horror short stories – an anthology of sorts, you could say.
oh, we watch those holes,
those wholesome moans.
the velvet breath.
rolling, washing through the grass.
the summer sun reflects
across our teeth.
we float with ease
and rise to disappear.
oh, that frothing mist awaits:
that great blue orb of the sky
Another lazy morning, another beautiful day. I’m sitting in a chair by the open window and a cool breeze is coming in, bringing all the smells of spring with it. I wanted to share something small, but something that bears a lot of weight with it for writers.
The importance of writing things down, that is.
Now, that seems obvious. As writers, this is something we do constantly. What I’m referring to, though, is writing things down immediately. As soon as they enter your head. From time to time lines or ideas drift into our knowing, uninvited but not unwelcome. More often than not it is these random thoughts which I find most inspiring, rather than the stuff I write when I’m focusing on writing.
For example, just this morning I was cleaning up around the house, and a line popped into my head without my anticipation: “pray the lock right off the church door.” I don’t know where that came from, but there’s something in there that has caught my attention.
I write these lines down as soon as I can, because if I don’t do it right away they’re gone. Forgotten. A maybe it was a little seed of a poem, or that description that my prose has been missing. Either way, if you don’t reach out and grab it right away, it’s lost. Inspiration is hard to come by, so it’s be a shame to see those little freebies go to waste.
On a side note, happy mother’s day to all you mothers, moms and mommas out there. Have that second cup of coffee, read a book. Relax, if you can.
That’s all for now. Happy writing.
The sound of horns came echoing down the cold stone corridor. Lhorrenhelm was opening its harbour to an incoming ship. There were voices too, but he couldn’t pick out what they were saying.
“How long will they keep us here?” Jamie asked his comrades. Felicia’s amethyst hung cold against his chest.
“Until they have decided what to do with us,” said Hektor.
“Until they hang us,” said Mavis.
“Until you die,” said the darkness. The man in the cell next to them was such a torment, Jamie wondered whether the guards had placed him there to drive prisoners mad. The man the voice belonged to gave a different name every time they asked it of him, and seemed to want nothing more than to dampen their spirits even lower than they had fallen. He spoke often of death.
The trio had been half-dragged, half-carried through the city square gates and up the steps to the High Keeper’s tower. There was a moment where Jamie thought the guards were taking them to the High Keeper herself, and he had smiled in relief. It had not lasted long. The guards took them down, down, over steps carved into the stone of the headland on which the tower stood. Their possessions were taken from them – food, tools, weapons all. The small bag of rings brought a grim expression to the guards’ faces when they seized it, and in a second of panic Jamie had cried “Shalsa! Shalsa and the raiders. The Oyen is with them!” but the guards merely stared at him and locked the bars shut. The darkness had laughed and welcomed them to his home.
It was the third morning since their capture, judging by the sliver of light that was poking through the slit of a window down the corridor. It was the only other light besides a torch that flickered a few cells down. Mavis had spent most of his time pacing. Hektor, bickering with the darkness. Jamie, staring into the barred hole in the center of their cell that plunged out of sight. He had no idea how deep it went, but at times he thought he heard waves crashing below.
“She wont talk to you. She don’t talk to crazies,” said the darkness.
“Shut your mouth,” said Hektor. His voice was hoarse.
“Hehe, you’re crazier than me. Crazier than old Yanny. They hung him,” said the darkness.
“Gods, would you shut it?” Hektor rubbed his eyes, clearly frustrated.
“Yanny-yilly, swinging silly, hanging in the wind, hehe!” the darkness sang. He clapped at delight when Hektor cursed him, his mother, and his mother’s mother.
“Lyca,” Mavis said. “Gods above and below, Jamie, we said we’d bring back help.”
“I know,” he said, staring into the hole. “But they have to let us out, they have to at least listen to us. We haven’t done anything.”
“Swinging, swinging in the wind. You’ll hang, you will, you crazy lot,” said the darkness. Hektor ground his teeth.
“He’s right,” Mavis said. “They think we killed those guards and took the rings. You saw, Jamie, they all wear rings. Every guard, man or woman.”
“Murder, murder, lies and flies,” said the darkness.
“They can’t,” said Jamie. “They have to at least listen.”
“It was a stupid idea.” Mavis looked at Jamie, his face flushed. “Your stupid idea.”
“Easy, Hunter,” said Hektor. “It’s bad enough with sing-song over there getting under our skins. We best not fight each other.”
The darkness laughed. “Sing-song, hang-long…”
“SHUT UP!” they yelled in unison.
“Well it was my stupid idea or what, Mave? Sit around and starve? Let Geoffrey die?” Jamie’s face felt hot.
“We could have persuaded Mikhal to be a little more generous, if you ask me,” Mavis said.
“Gods, Mavis, he saved our lives-”
“Your life,” he interjected. “It was you who needed saving. Your plan and your life. Whose fault is it we’re here?”
Jamie stood up, fists tight. Why is he being so damned idiotic? “My fault, is it? If you could’ve kept your mouth shut when those raiders showed up-”
“Lads…” Hektor said, helplessly.
“And what, Jamie? Huh? Let them kill us? Gods, at least I give a shit about making it back. I’d swear you were trying to get us killed, leading us here.”
“Of course I care. And what’s your big push? So excited to run back to Lyca and be the big hero for her, are you? Did you forget why we left in the first place?”
“I’m doing this for Geoffrey, you ass.” Mavis glared at him.
“You don’t give a shit about Geoffrey, you’re just-”
Mavis slammed a fist into Jamie’s face and sent him reeling backwards into the stone wall. “Fight, fight! Kill, KILL!” said the darkness. Hektor jumped to his feet and grabbed Mavis by the shoulders, holding him back.
“Say what you want,” Mavis said, through gritted teeth, “the only reason you wanted to do this was because you wanted to find Felicia. You selfish ass.”
Jamie rubbed his jaw, thinking desperately for something to fire back with, but he couldn’t find the words. Mavis’ words hit so close to the truth that he simply let them sink in for a moment. The two friends stared at each other. Slowly, their breathing quieted, and Mavis stopped struggling under Hektor’s hold.
“I’m sorry, Mave,” Jamie finally said. “And you, Hektor. I’m sorry I dragged you both into this.”
Mavis seemed to be suddenly fascinated by the ground at his feet. He stared down, rubbing his knuckles. “Yeah… well… sorry about the… you know…”
Hektor shook his head and sat back on the cold floor. “Y’lads got it out then?” They nodded. “Good.”
“Oh, why so quiet, friendly-friends?” asked the darkness. Nobody bothered to answer, not even Hektor. The three of them sat in silence, each awkwardly tending to some small, irrelevant task. In the distance Jamie could hear more horns, and some commotion echoing up through the hole in the floor.
“Two mice outside my cell. Squeak!” said the darkness suddenly.
“Gods, do you ever speak anything that isn’t nonsense?” asked Hektor. Jamie was convinced that if he rolled his eyes any farther, they might get stuck inside his head.
“Oh, I know lots, friendlies. Lots of good squeaky things. Ask me one question, and I’ll give you two answers, hehe!” the darkness replied.
“Oh gods, here we go,” said Hektor.
“Alright then, sing-song. What’s the Oyen? Make yourself useful, ’cause I’m dying to know.” Jamie asked.
“Oh, don’t encourage him, Jamie,” Mavis groaned.
“Hehe, I know lots of that,” said the darkness. “Two answers for you.”
“Go on, then. Surprise me,” Jamie said.
“It’s near and far away,” he said.
“That’s very helpful,” Mavis said.
“No no, I’m not done,” the darkness said. “It’s old and new to you.”
“Kill me,” said Hektor.
“No, better is…” The darkness paused. “No, never mind. Stupid question, friendlies. You asked it all wrong. Hehe.”
It looked as though Hektor was about to erupt into an insult session with the man, but at that moment voices could be heard coming down the corridor. “D’ya hear that?” Mavis asked. The others nodded. They walked cautiously to the bars and tried to peer out. It was a group of guards. Three men, two women. Each was armed with a short spear, and one of them was carrying rope.
“Yanny-yilly, swinging silly…” the darkness sang.
The guards stopped in front of the trio’s cell, and the man with the rope stared for a moment before speaking to them.
“You spoke of a name when you were arrested,” he said. “Speak it again, clearly.”
Jamie nodded nervously, and said, “Shalsa.”
The guard with the rope looked at his fellow guards. They each returned his glance with a short nod. Finally, he turned back to Jamie. “Very well. Hold your hands behind your back.”
“Where are you taking us?” Mavis asked.
“Quiet, prisoner. Hands behind your back. We’re granting your wish. You’re coming to see the High Keeper.”
“We’ll make landfall in a day, Ratt reckons,” said the captain of the Cormorant to his daughter. “I bet him a cask o’ black beer I’ll get us there before the sun rises on the morrow.”
“Isn’t the beer sour?” she asked.
“Don’t make a bet you don’t mind losing,” he replied, winking. “Ratt won’t know the difference anyways. That git’ll drink anything that makes his head spin.”
“Ratt’s not half bad, Poppa.”
“Aye, s’long as he keeps his mouth shut. Never heard so many lies come outta one hole before. Why d’ya think I keeps him up in the crow’s nest?” The captain snorted and spat over the gunwale, clacking his tongue when it hit the water.
“What about the things he’s been saying about our… passenger?” She glanced sideways at her father. “Are those lies too?”
“I wouldn’t worry too much ’bout what Ratt says about him, Rory.”
Rory squinted. “But he says we can’t trust men like the Iri’khul. Says they’re savage like. Says they’ve got no respect for regular people.”
The captain frowned. “Y’never been away from the shield for more than a week at sea til now. Y’never seen places I have, or people. I’ve been all over the south coast of Lhor. Seen the shores o’ glass four times. Been farther east than anyone I reckon in hundreds o’ years. I’ve sailed south to Iri’kh more’n once in my day, I’ll grant ye, and done a good deal o’ trading there. They ain’t so different from you or I. Might look different, believe in a few other things but that’s bout the size of it.”
“So, they’re not killers, then?” Rory asked.
The captain snorted again. “All men are killers when they need be. Don’t take a name to make a killer. Jus’ takes conditions.”
“I know.” The captain spat before turning away. “Killer or not, ye needn’t worry bout him til we get ashore. Bugger’s sick as a swile pup. Can’t handle the water.”
That much was a relief, at least. Rory hadn’t been aboard when the crew had brought the Iri’khul onto the Cormorant, and the mysterious passenger had been secluded to his cabin below deck since they left port at Koppet. All her father had told her was that the southerner was requested in Lhorrenhelm by the High Keeper. In Rory’s mind, it meant only two possible things: he was being brought to answer for some terrible crime, or he was a man of importance. After hearing Ratt’s talk of wild tree-men and the horrors committed in the dark forests of the south, Rory assumed that the former was more likely.
She squinted at the horizon ahead and thought that she could see a sliver of land, but it was too far to be sure, and dusk was approaching. Overhead, stars were winking into view. When she was still a little girl her mother told her that people had names for shapes in the stars before the time of the dark war. Heroes and monsters that lived forever in the night skies, coming and going with the turn of the years. Sometimes on clear nights she would lie on the deck of her father’s ship and look for the shapes in the lights above, but all she could ever see were specks dotted here and there. There seemed no more sense in the stars to her than in dust motes stirred from a musty blanket.
The water was unusually calm for winter, but the air unforgivably cold. This time of year, most ships north of the Shield would be staying at port, save for important runs. Their captains would spend the coldest months living off the spoils from the last season of ferrying, trading and smuggling. Rory’s father had more bravery than most, she figured. Then again, what choice did her father have but answer the call of the High Keeper at Lhorrenhelm? What consequence would have befallen her family had he denied and stayed ashore? It was ill will to say no to the powers that protect, and Lhorrenhelm was a city with a reputation for prowling on men of the sea. More of mother’s tales, she thought. Perhaps as foolish as the shapes in the stars.
Rather than take that chance, her father agreed and ordered his men to chop the ice away from the Cormorant with mauls and axes and they were on their way north the following evening. They were greeted by a blood-red sunset that deckhand Alto said meant safe sailing. He had been right, for the most part. The fourth day greeted them with snow, the fifth with wind, sharper than good steel. She had asked her father how long the blizzard would last, but he only laughed, spat, and said “This is no blizzard, girl. This is but a belch from the Further.”
The storm only lasted a night, but it was a long one. She busied herself in the galley, aiding the six-fingered cook, Rolf, with fish stew and listening to the Iri’khul retching in his cabin down the passageway. Once during the night Rolf bid her to carry him a bowl of broth to calm his stomach, but when she knocked on the cabin door the only answer was the sound of dry heaving and coughing. She left the bowl outside the door, but the rolling of the ship knocked it over, leaving only a cold stain on the planks. She didn’t mind though. Better to scrub floorboards than face the Iri’khul.
Leaning over the gunwale, she gazed north and thought she could see a faint light in the distance. Burning a deep red, not like the white light of the stars. Blood red. That would be the Lightkeeper’s tower, warning of the ragged reef on which so many ships had been torn asunder. Beacon of safety, she thought with a grimace. Drowning frightened her. For as long as she could remember, Rory would wake up in the night, cold and sweating and gasping for breath. “I’m drowning!” she would tell her mother, but her mother always said “Hush, child. You’re safe.” That was when she was younger. In those days she would scream in the night. Now she was stronger, harder. Now she refused to let anyone hear her cry or see her fear, but it was there all the same.
When her drowning dream came that night, Rory couldn’t bear to lie down again. She swore she could taste the salt in her throat, feel the deep, stabbing cold in her lungs. It was cold, though, damn cold. Curiously quiet, and still. She decided to go on deck for some air.
Outside the wind had calmed, and the Cormorant was drifting through the water as smoothly as a fish. The water was smooth as glass, and to the north she could see that red glow burning closer and brighter than before and tainted with flickers of orange from time to time. She could see other lights too, smaller and dimmer. And the stars, where had they gone? The sky was dark with thick, brooding clouds, and only here and there the moon’s glow sifted though in ghostly beams.
“A beautiful night for walking in dark,” said a deep, quiet voice behind her.
Rory spun round and saw that sitting on the deck, leaning limply against the mast behind her was the shape of a man. As he stood, he towered over her head. Rory thought he must have been at least seven feet tall, with arms that hung nearly to his knees. His long face was framed with a mane of brown hair (though in her mind she thought it was fur) that grew thick about his neck and hung over the front of his cloak. His brow was hard set, and his shoulders were as broad as a man and a half, but something about him seemed oddly frail.
“Are you afraid of me, young one?” the Iri’khul asked of her.
Rory shook her head. “No,” she lied.
He smiled. “Good. I have been alone for long, ulu’k. Too sick for talk for long.” He walked near to her, holding the gunwale for support.
Rory shifted a few inches away from him. “What did you call me? Oolook?”
“Ulu’k. It means ‘friend’ in my home tongue.” He made a gesture, brushing his long thumb over his heart.
“I’m not your friend,” she said.
“Uru’k is my friend. Ulu’k is friend to Iri’kh. Your people are friend to my people.” He closed his eyes, looking sad. “Were friend, I mean. Before the dark.”
Rory looked at the southerner’s face and felt suddenly unafraid. He was being kind to her. Ratt is full of shit after all. “Ulu’k,” she said, attempting to imitate the gesture.
He laughed weakly and shook his head. “Another word for me. But you understand. I can be ulu’k for you.” He looked into the water below and looked like he was about to be sick again, but after a moment regained his composure. “I am not good with floating on water.”
“I didn’t think so,” she said. “We’ll be there soon, though.”
“Good,” he said. He turned to her. “I am Krikka Kol I’khir. Maybe only Krikka better for you?”
“Krikka,” she said. “My name’s Rory Halk. My father is the captain.”
“Roooar-reee,” he said, sounding it out. “Your name is hard, ulu’k. I will practice.” He pointed at the red-orange light to the north. “I come to counsel the High Keeper. Bring many histories. Scrolls from the Hidden Hall.”
“The Hidden Hall?” Rory asked, intrigued. “What do you do there?”
“It is where we keep histories,” he said, shrugging. “In Iri’kh all histories are written, and we keep them safe in the Hidden Hall. All things, true or made up. We have histories of your lands too. And Lhor, also. Some histories that been not read for long time. Old things, from when these lands were young. Long before ulu’k or Krikka come into world. Histories the High Keeper wants.”
“So… you’re like a librarian?” Rory laughed. The idea of the great, hairy Iri’kh sorting through papers seemed absurd.
“This is who keeps histories?” Krikka asked.
“Yah, sort of.”
“Then I am a lie-barren. Good,” he said smiling. “You been to Lhorrenhelm before, ulu’k?”
“No, never, have you?”
“Oh,” she said. A glow was rising in the east. “You scared?”
“Some. Why do you come here, for first time?”
Rory looked to the north again, at the city flickering into life ahead. “I don’t know, Krikka.” Wish I did. “My father insisted I come with him this time, even though he never brings me to the capitol. I can’t help but feel something’s on his mind.”
Krikka gave her a studying look, before promptly vomiting over the gunwale. “Ahk’ik!” Rory supposed he was swearing. Then he said, “I hope your visit is good, ulu’k.”
“Aye,” said Rory, “me too.”
There was still smoke drifting from a few chimneys when they left. Rivermouth, for the first time in centuries, was empty.
She had been up most of the night, gathering what supplies they had that could fit in their three old canvas packs. Food stuffs and tools first. Then clothes – the warmest furs and cloaks they had. Next, Lyca gathered the things she couldn’t bear to leave behind. An old brass flute Mavis had given her. A belt hatchet, for whatever good it might do. The musty hare-paw charm that had once been her mother’s. That morning, she and Geoffrey had gathered their bags, Lyca’s alder crutch, and made their way to the ice to meet with the others.
It was strangely quiet with so many people gathered together. Very few spoke, other than quips about the weather or the necessary precautions. Most were stone-faced and quietly packing their families onto the huge sleds that stood waiting as the Riverfolk fed their moose and tightened harness straps.
Her leg was still far from healed. Each step brought a stab of hot pain that seemed to shoot from her thigh to her heart, and the wrappings were still coming off soiled and stinking. Yet, this day was better than the last, and that was a good thing.
The five massive sleds stood like strange, sloped huts on the ice. Lyca saw that smoke was spitting from slender chimneys in their roofs, which meant there must be stoves on the inside. She spotted Old Crewe leaning against the nearest sled and limped over.
“Morning to you,” she said.
“To you as well,” he replied. “It is good or bad?”
“Aye, that it is.”
Within the hour they had pulled away from Rivermouth. The cabins, the trading post, the stead all stood still as stones and empty as air. No axes splitting wood. No doors slamming shut with the wind. No voices, no songs, no secrets. Through driving snow and blistering wind they dredged on throughout the day. Men and women, bayfolk and riverfolk alike made turns walking and resting in the sleds. It took two people to guide the three pairs of moose hauling each sled, and more were needed to walk ahead and prod the ice with poles in search of weaknesses or holes. Lyca had been forced to remain inside with the old and the sick – those who were too weak or in too much pain to walk beside the sleds.
She felt guilty for not helping lead with the others, but otherwise she didn’t mind it in the sled. She sat with Geoffrey and Old Crewe and Missus Bekka, listening to the elders’ tales from wayback about people long gone and deeds that had mostly been forgotten. Below them, the great wooden skis slid on, grinding across edges of ice and swishing over pools of fresh-fallen snow. As the day wore on, Lyca kept pulling back the flap of the sled door to see where they were. By late morning they passed Quartz Cove, which seemed as empty and quiet as Rivermouth now was. The tiny stove crackled away. Fuelled by wet sticks and turpentine, fat and old rope. Between tales the silence became broken by Sherylyn’s whimpers. Every time the sled hit an upthrust ice pan she would moan with pain. Lyca wasn’t sure whether the older woman was awake or asleep half the time. Either way, she feared Sherylyn would soon join her husband in death.
The sun had just begun to dip as they approached Passer’s Point, and a team was sent to converse with the Lightkeeper about the happenings of the last few days. Lyca chewed her fingers with anticipation but was relieved to hear of Jamie and Mavis’ passing through. The word from the Lightkeeper was that the two men had nearly drowned in their attempt to reach the stead, and that Jamie had nearly been lost to the water. However, it seemed that they had left the stead in good spirits, if under prepared. She couldn’t lose hope now. Hope was all they had. Stranger still was that a message had been intended for Old Crewe from the High Keeper of Lhorrenhelm, but the Lightkeeper didn’t know what it was. Old Crewe didn’t speak of it, which Lyca thought was odd.
From Passer’s Point they cut straight across the ice to the western shore. The decision to do so had taken much contemplation, and no shortage of unkind words between Gerrik Hull and Mr Straulk. In the end, though, the old merchant gave in. They would be in the lee of the western cliffs, and the ice near to shore would be more solid there.
On through the evening and into the dark the great moose plowed, over the ice edges sharp as axes and snow drifts high as a man’s waist at times. The travellers supped on a thin broth that contained some oily trace of fish and wherein floated the sparse remains of a withered root or two. The Lightkeeper had spared them a small bag of salt, which helped. His stores were not entirely low, but he refused to part with more than the salt, insisting that his purpose was to maintain those who lost their way. There were always those who lost their way.
The first night, Lyca’s sleep came in fits. She would drift off slowly into some lofty dream, only to be awoken moments later by a jolt of the sled, or a voice crying out in the night. Once, she woke in a tearful mess, convinced beyond reason that they had broken through the ice and were all going to drown, but Missus Bekka brought her back to her senses with a swift slap on the cheek.
“Your leg will not bear your burden – let your wits do the walking.”
“But we’re drowning,” she muttered, breathless. To her surprise, the old woman laughed and patted her gingerly on the shoulder.
“Dear Lyca, we will not drown.”
“Aye,” came a deep voice from the flap of the sled door. Tiny, coming in from the cold to swap with another traveller. “We won’t drown. You’d freeze before any water got in yer lungs.”
That first night seemed to last forever. More dreams came and went. She was in a field, surrounded by the skeletal remains of houses. She was stabbing a giant lynx, over and over, blood splattering in her eyes. She was swaying atop a wall of stone, as an angry sea boiled a hundred feet below.
Daybreak brought some sense of relief. Missus Bekka assured her she must have been in a fever, as she had been mumbling and rolling about in her sleep. Lyca changed her wrappings and found that while they were still dirty, the smell was less strong now. Someone announced that they were in the shadow of the western cliffs and Lyca limped her way to the flap to look outside. The sight that met her was astonishing – a sheer face, reaching to dizzying heights and decorated in a forest of thousands of crystal clear icicles. A frozen waterfall. As the bleak winter sun crept higher and let a few blades of light through the black clouds, rainbows shot from the cliff face like flames. Her eyes watered as orbs of perfect blue, silver, red and violet shivered in the morning air. A moment later it was gone, and the ice became cold and still once again.
The day moved on as the one before had done, with the grinding, shuffling pace of their five-sled caravan. Once, near midday, a riverfolk boy in his teens came to check on Sherylyn and spent more than enough time confirming that Lyca was indeed well.
“The boy fancies you,” said Old Crewe with a devilish grin.
“The boy is too young to know what’s good for him. He didn’t smell my rags this morning,” she joked. “Still, I had been that young when Mavis first came knocking on Mother’s door.”
“Do you remember much about your mother?” he asked. “I knew never my own.”
“My mother…” she stopped for a moment, to think. “My father died when I was young, before squirt here was born,” she said, ruffling Geoffrey’s hair. “My mother was a strong woman. Hands like talons. When she’d be fletching I’d watch her fingers moving, zipping off vanes from feather, yanking twine so tight you’d think it’d cut through her skin. She used to say Father called her ‘hide hands’ when they first met.” She laughed. “Hide hands, can you imagine!”
“He must’ve got some tellings off from her for that,” Old Crewe chuckled.
“I’ll bet he did. She could be soft when she wanted to be, though. Hands like leather, but they were gentler than water.”
“I don’t remember,” Geoffrey said, his eyes welling up.
“Shush now,” Lyca said. She pulled him close. “Momma loved you, squirt. She’d be so proud of you.”
Nightfall came with whispers of torchlight along the eastern shore, but Tiny assured them it was too dark and blurred by snow to see anything for sure. It was probably hunters.
“What if it’s the men? Mavis and Jamie?” she prodded. “What if they got trapped, or injured?” Tiny only shook his head at that.
“They’d be farther south by now. And besides, it’s too many lights to be them, if it’s torches we’re all squintin’ at.”
“How many?” asked the riverfolk teen, now resting inside.
“Two dozen or more, I reckon,” he said, and squeezed his huge frame through the door and back into the freezing night. “Cursin’ wind,” Lyca heard a voice outside say.
Hours dragged on and the walking kept switching with the resting, the resting with the walking. Lyca dozed off, more deeply than the night before, and it was some time before she woke again.
“Beggin’ pardon,” Old Crewe said, sitting back down in his nest of furs and blankets. “Fire nearly went out. Had to tend to the stove.”
“Don’t beg any pardons, I’m glad you didn’t let us shiver. Bad dreams and such, y’know.”
“No more’n usual,” the old man said. Lyca had been dreaming again. Not of ghost towns or monsters but of her mother. Old Crewe must have seen something of it in her face. “Something botherin’ you?”
“It’s nothing, really,” she said. Old Crewe’s pondering expression made her want to tell all, though. The old mapmaker had been kind. There was a long pause.
“My mother,” Lyca started. “I lied to you, Mister Crewe, about Momma.” It wasn’t easy. “My father was dead long before I could remember him. Crushed under the weight of some tree felled by a careless young woodsman he was teaching. Happened just a couple of years after I was born. Momma was all I knew growing up. And Geoffrey… he doesn’t know.” She looked over at the young boy, who was snoring lightly in his sleep.
Old Crewe leaned in as far as his bent back would allow. “Doesn’t know what, Lyca?”
“Geoffrey’s not my true brother.” The words came out tasting sour. “Geoffrey’s father was a stranger. Some… man. My mother and him met when I was young. I never even knew who he was. I only knew he was the reason Momma would take a trip to Quartz Cove once a week for a summer. Must have been some miner, I suppose.”
Old Crewe’s mouth was in a frown, but his eyes were kind. “What became of him?” he asked.
“I don’t know, for sure. He disappeared a few months before Geoffrey was born. I didn’t care. I didn’t know him anyways. All I wanted was a little brother or a sister. But the day he was born, that’s when Momma…” Remembering was poison. “That’s when she died.”
“Lyca, Lyca,” the old man said quietly. “You must miss her very much.”
It was quiet for a long time. Lyca listened to the little fire crackling, and occasionally a moose snorted out in the dark. It was perhaps an hour before the mapmaker spoke again.
“Beggin’ pardon again, Lyca. You weren’t the only one who lied.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, confused.
“My hometown isn’t Greepetown, like I told you before.”
“No, not hardly. Didn’t you think it strange, that of all these riverfolk, none seemed to recognize me?”
She had thought it was strange, but she hadn’t given it much thought. “Yes, now that you mention it, I did notice that. Then where are you from, Mister Crewe?”
Old Crewe looked around the tent quietly, listening carefully to the sounds of snores and Sherylyn’s soft whimpering. “I’ll tell you all about that sometime soon, when there are fewer ears around.”
Lyca thought of something. “And the letter that the lightkeeper mentioned, do you know what that was about?”
“I have an idea,” he said, nodding solemnly. “But it’s best you get some sleep. Ask again when we reach the capitol, and I’ll tell you all I know. If anybody’s earned that much, it’s you.” The old man closed his eyes and the sled went silent.
But Lyca didn’t sleep. Her mind was alive with thoughts of the strange dreams, and of her mother. She pulled her brother’s blanket a little tighter to keep out the cold and leaned back in her furs, waiting for the sun to rise.
It’s almost noon, and I’m sitting outside with my coffee. Cars are driving by, there are ducks flying, and it’s one of the warmest days we’ve had this year so far. I really enjoy slow, lazy mornings like this one.
I figured since I’m not really doing anything productive, I’ll make a little update here about what I’m working at right now.
I posted yesterday about my new collection of poems that I’m editing and finishing, but I’ve got some other stuff in the works as well. I’ve been making an effort to post more chapters of my fantasy novel The Keeping of the Light lately, and with good reason: I’ve written more chapters. I’d been on somewhat of a hiatus from the novel since early last year, and have been focusing on other things. That changed a couple of weeks ago when I started reading over my progress so far.
When I stopped writing last year, my plan was to take a short break from the project to decide a direction for one of the main characters. However, a short break became a long break and that long break turned into a year.
Coming back to the project after all this time, and reading my work up until now, the direction is clear. Honestly I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out.
Now, I’m posting at least a chapter a day until I’m up to my current progress, and then i can finally start posting the new chapters. I’m really looking forward to seeing things how things turn out from here.
On top of that, I’m also prepping another book review, something I’ve only done once so far. Keep an eye out for that.
And hey, look at that: my coffee is gone. Damn. Should I grab my computer and get to work? Should I get another cup? Maybe I should just sit here for another hour and read for a while.
While I’m trying to decide what to do with my day, I hope you enjoy yours, wherever you happen to be.
Jamie closed his eyes tight against the world and bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. Gods, why did I have to look down? The rope around his chest seemed tight enough to squeeze the life out of him. He panicked and let go with one hand – tugging at the rope. He had to loosen it. He couldn’t breathe.
“Jamie!” Mavis said, above him and to his right. “Take a deep breath – slow. That’s it. You’re alright. You’re alright aren’t you?”
“Yah,” he managed, finally opening his eyes again. “I’m good. Lost my footing for a second.”
“We’ll rest when we reach the ledge,” Mavis said, “won’t be much longer, I think. Just take your time and don’t look down.”
“Think of fire, Jamie,” said Hektor from below. “Fire and hot stew and warm beer – that’s what’s over this cliff. Think about your friend. Lyca, right?”
Jamie nodded. “I’m good. Let’s keep going.” He focused as hard as he could on the rock face before him and Mavis’ choice of hand and foot holds above. We’re almost there, he thought. Finally.
It was seven days ago that they had been forced to flee to the west shore. Seven days since the grinning man and Shalsa and their band of tarred raiders had driven them off with spears and arrows, taking their only source of food. Or was it eight days? It was hard to remember. Jamie tried to count the meals he had eaten since – it was the best way to keep track of time. Each day they ate a ration chunk of swile meat – smaller than the palm of a man’s hand, and raw – and a bit of tack. The tack had run out three days ago, and Jamie was sure they had eaten tack four days in a row. No, it was five. Five days with tack, three with just meat. Eight days since their escape. Or is it nine?
Jamie had come to think of it as an escape but that was wrong too – they had been allowed to run. Forced to run. He remembered the spears and arrows singing through the air after them and Shalsa’s crazed taunting. The laughter. That horrible, amused laughter of the grinning man and his devils.
The message was still a mystery to Jamie and the others. The Oyen is with us? The nightmare only became more confusing when they opened the bag that had been given to them. Jamie emptied the contents into his hand, finding thirty-six bronze rings, many stained with dried blood. These people were murderers.
Now, it seemed, the nightmare was coming to an end. According to Hektor’s memory and Jamie and Mavis’ rough estimation, they should reach the capitol before sundown. The sky had brightened, the sunlight was stronger. If it would stop snowing for a damned minute, they might be able to see open sky. To their right, a sheer face of ice, toothed at the top by fangs of ancient frozen stone, ghostly in the clouds above. To their left, the Further faded into open ocean, and ice was spreading, breaking into pieces and being swept out along the shore by the ever-westerly winds. In their face and below their hands and feet lay the great stone cliff that they were climbing. Thirty feet up – maybe forty – the safety of the plateau waited, where the lands and city of Lhorrenhelm were nestled between the Western Ridge and the sea. Jamie dared not guess how many feet the fall was to the ground below.
The journey since fleeing to the western shore had been a treacherous one. On the eastern side, the Further sloped gently under the steep cliffs, leaving a belt of forest along the water’s edge. Here, the cliffs plummeted all the way down to the shore. No trees, no paths, just stretches of rocky till that threatened to give way to a slide into the water at each step. To cross the ice again was suicide – facing the raiders again would be certain death, and the closer they got to open ocean, the more erratic the ice conditions became. What should have been a few days hike had become a struggle to survive.
Twenty feet was all that remained until they were on level ground again. Jamie thought of the warmth of hot hearths and soup, stew, beer and strong, sweet wine. He could almost taste it. The thought excited him, but it came with an aftershock of guilt every time. Lyca, Geoffrey, the Straulks, the sisters… all those faces of home that were rationing out kelp and months-old root and scraps of meat at every meal. They would not have those luxuries for quite some time now.
By now no ships were moving in the bay. The journey back to Rivermouth would have to be by sled. The capitol had to have some tamers with moose or reindeer to spare. They had coin, but Jamie didn’t know whether it would be enough. He’d only ever traded a few coppers for traps in the past, and had no idea what a sled would cost, let alone beasts to haul it. Everything the people of their village had, or admitted to having, was in a tiny purse in his pack. Jamie didn’t want to lose it all on a bad bargain.
Ten feet above him, Mavis let out a cry. Jamie locked onto the rock face as tightly as possible – bracing his body against the shock when the line would go tight…
But then Mavis cried out again, and again. He shouted and whooped and started to laugh. He wasn’t falling – he was there!
“It’s beautiful!” he gasped. His voice was hoarse with cold and hunger. “It’s the most fucking beautiful field of snow I ever saw! Oh, Jamie-boy you’ll die when you see it!”
“Soon enough…” Jamie shouted back.
“Quit yer gabberin’ and help us up, Hunter!” said Hektor from below.
Hand over hand, foot over foot, Jamie made his way up, aided by Mavis pulling slowly from a few feet up, and then…
White! Everything was white. Blinding white. He was on the edge of the plateau, which stretched on and on for acres, rolling with gentle, low hills and specked here and there with brown where dead vegetable stalks jutted from beneath the snow. In the distance, Jamie could see buildings, towers, lights, and the brightest light of them all, shining like a red-and-orange star stop the highest lightkeeper’s tower in the north.
“Boys!” Jamie said, as Hektor climbed to his feet beside him. “We’re here.”
“You lead the way, lad,” Hektor puffed, slapping his hands together to get the blood flowing in his fingers. “But let’s get these ropes off first, yah?”
“Yah,” said Jamie, weakly. “To hell with these ropes.”
Beneath their feet the snow crunched and squeaked and their breaths drifted lazily around their heads in puffs of steam. It was colder up here, with no shelter from the wind, but their walking kept them warm, and the growing lights ahead of them kept them marching on. Hours later they were among huts, and then houses, and the buildings grew and grew. More and more were made of stone and they could feel the path beneath their feet harden from the spongy, half-frozen mud to slush-covered cobble.
Doors opened on either side as people looked out, astonished, at the strangers who had just wandered into their streets from the snowfield. A few greeted them, cautiously, but most stood behind their doors, and a few made it clear that they were armed. People were shouting to one another. Somebody was waving a torch in their faces…
Mavis was the first to fall. He tripped in his own feet and toppled in seemingly slow-motion to the snow. At first, he struggled, but then gave up and lay unmoving.
Hektor was next. They put his arms behind his back but didn’t get the fight they expected when he slumped lazily to his knees and closed his eyes – he was sleeping, knelt on the ground.
There were more around Jamie now, shouting something… why were they being so damned loud? And why did they all look so alarmed? He just wanted to sleep. And some food maybe… and…
“Help us?” he murmured, as a hand closed around his arm. There was a bronze ring on its finger. They all had bronze rings, these people. Jamie felt his knees buckle as they kicked him from behind and he collapsed in the road, face down with a mouthful of dirty snow.
Yesterday I found myself looking through old notebooks and found scribblings of old poems I was working on throughout the last few years. After spending so much time away from them, it was exciting revisiting those notes with a new perspective. I’ve been going through them casually, rereading and rewriting, and I’m looking forward to having a new batch of poems to release soon.
The first of these is “Whalesong”, posted last night. I haven’t had a chance to set up the link from my “poems” page yet, but that should come soon. Maybe I’ll group these new/old poems together in a collection of sorts. We’ll see.
It’s been interesting so far, coming back to those notes after such a long time. I feel disconnected from them, but perhaps also have a better understanding than I did when I started scribbling them out. It’s hard to explain, but it’s an interesting experience. I usually write poems very quickly, in a day or so, but I’m liking the results so far. Hopefully you do as well.
needles scraping bone,
heel and sole.
sliding cold inside your boots
you bear the weight of all you love,
while inches underneath
the giant gods of other worlds relay
their shepard songs.
empty aqua loneliness.
soaring softly into darkness and
deeper than the sky is wide.
their dreams are of a solid state;
the breath that leaves their backs a
force of nature,
strong enough to rent the field on which you stand that now,
seems still as stone.