*Scene 01* 16:05 (Mind Sight)
Grum-Blud and Shelberd huddled in a grotto cave–wet, cold and miserable. The commotion outside alerted them to the need to make quick work of their inquisitive probings, the raging storm notwithstanding. So with a rusted bow saw, pegged on the wall in the shack, they promptly took the only remaining part that was needed to conclude their study–the scorched head of their immolated companion.
Now they set brooding in the shallow cave, with the spray of rain and wind adding to their grudging misery. A horseman had approached from the west, and another had fled across the shallow stream into the stormy night towards the sea cliffs in the distance. Lightning had lanced across the sky, revealing a further fleeing figure on horseback. From an earlier sighting through his spyglass, Grum-Blud surmised that the two headed for the coastline were the two women he had spotted on the road when he and Shelberd has emerged from the forest carrying the charred remains of his brother’s body.
The Walker had been sighted in the forest, and he and Shelberd had fled, but they were not certain if they had entirely shaken the giant man from their trail. They had hoped to cut the women off, but the storm had slowed them as they skulked through the old remnants of Basia, coming across the hillside dugout cabin, just as the winds and rains began to gather fury and strength. They had cut away the mat of vines that covered the exposed side of the cabin and the doorway, breaking into the solace of the abandoned cabin to take shelter and continue their grisly work of seeking out the last images of sight, their companion had gathered before being set afire. Grum-Blud was determined to know who did the deed, by any and all means necessary.
When the riders came out of the storm, it inconvenienced Grum-Blud, but he would not be dissuaded. The large dark-cloaked man coming in from the west, along the stream bank, was distracted by the women, and he and Shelberd had taken that opportunity to slip away into the night, scrambling over the muddy hill and following the ridgeline, keeping an eye out for the dark-cloaked rider.
They debated moving back in and cornering the man when he entered the cabin, and drew their blades out for that purpose, before sighting the large lumbering shape, that materialized out of the wind and wet and converged on the cabin as well. A shape they recognized and wanted no further interaction with. The large man known as ‘The Walker.’
Miserable, they scrambled away seeking to find another place to shelter and wait out the storm. The rain had stung and the icy fingers of the wind threatened to push them out into the full fury of the cold night, but by and by they espied a shadowy grotto, inset into the hill, hiding under a short cornice of rock. The ground was wet all around, except for a few feet in the back of the cupola. Nothing dry enough to build a fire on, but enough to provide a meager windbreak away from the clawing reach of the fierce winds and blistering cold.
Grum-Blud glowered at the bag that held the lumpy remains of his brother’s head. His jaws quivered in rage at their plight, mad at himself for fleeing from the cabin like a rat from a prowl of cats.
He opened the bag and fished inside with his meaty hand, grasping the blackened thing by what remained of its scorched hair.
Shelberd shivered miserably in the corner, unable to look up, mumbling and wimpering to himself.
“It’s now or never,” Grum-Blud growled, pulling out a large knife from his belt sheath and carving into the shadowy orbs with a blade that disappeared into deeper shadow.
Shelberd looked up, half covering his face with his fingers, gawking at Grum-Blud.
Grum-Blud flicked something black away, and stabbed his knife into the ground, near the sack that they had borne the head. He lifted the head, now appearing more like a skull, towards his own face, and the pale gleam of the stormlight, seemed to fade from his shadowy countenance. His gritted teeth appeared feral and his meaty hands clamped on the sides of the head when the ears once hung. Grum-Blud looked deep into the eyesockets of that charred face, and his own eyes swirled in a matching blackness.
After a maddening moment, Shelberd whimpered again and hesitantly asked, “What do you see?” fearing the answer, even as he asked the question.
Grum-Blud grunted, but mumbled back, continuing to gaze deeply into the gaunt shadowy hollows of the eye sockets, his own eyes darkling even as they peered into the sunken holes above the rictus stretched slack jaw, and a gaping row of blackened-and-skinned teeth with a crooked tusk edging the side of the lower jaw. In life, Pogsley rarely, if ever, grinned without there being the underedge of menace in it. Now in death, the intent behind his tight, rictus grin was unreadable. Grum-blud had skinned back the desicated flesh of his brother’s occipital brow with his blade, carving away the remnants of the droopy eyelids that had made the living face of his brother look half-sleepy.
“I see a young girl standing in a circle with others. Pog is surrounded by others but he finds an interest in her. She cannot look away, and he senses it. She is holding a torch, but she is afraid. Others are with her, but Pog’s focus is fixed on her. I can see the fear in her eyes. Overcoming her. Pogsley is dark-eying her. Probing her memories, for things that are…useful. Her torch wavers, and her hand is growing slack. Others are shouting at her, but it is clear she is the weakest link in the circle of those fencing him in with firelight. There is much fear in her. Self-doubt and much pain. Many handles to steer her by. An easy mark. This is not the one who did what was done to him. She couldn’t be. This waif is too consumed by fear. Pogsley would have had her soon. He is stained her soul, with his markings. Twisting the hurting words inside her. She offers so much to be used. No, something else must’ve… There’s another. A man, he has a short beard, but he is worried. Feels responsible, somehow. He warns others to look away, but does not follow his own advice. Pogsley catches him too, in an eye sweep. Fear has weakened him…and compromise. He might be a weak link as well.”
Suddenly, Grum-Blud jerked back, almost dropping the burned head.
“What? What?!” Shelberd wailed, alarm raising the pitch of his already shrill voice.
“They pulled a bag over him. He struggles, through a gap I see another who is binding him. It is neither the man or the girl. The fingers on the edge of the bag are long and small. It seems his assailant is a woman. They fight, but the bag is pulled down over his arms, binding them to his sides. There are pinpricks of light through the mesh of the weave, but not enough to see clearly. Shapes of the others, ghostly smears. The woman and Pog are alone in the struggle. Pog should have easily bested her, but the bag has him hampered. He cannot easily get to his boot knife.”
Shelberd gaped, “They slipped up behind him! Figures! Pog would have gutted the lot of ’em, he would.”
“Yes. Yes.” Grum-Blud continued, still probing. There is no sound to the scenes, he is connected to. Only the images. A confusion of material. A cessation of the struggle, as the bag heaves under Pogs slow breathing. Nothing clearly can be seen through the waft and weave of the course sack. Only near scrub and gravel. Then a sudden twist and tumble of material. The a flash of curling smoke, and coiling flame. The sight is choked with yellow and orange light, but suddenly goes black. Nothing happens for a time. The electrical impulses, cool and bury themselves into the neural mass, enfolding into grooves of gray flesh. Then a dream-like image surfaces. Like a vision through deep water. It’s the girl. The girl that was stained by Pogsley. It is her sight. The spiritual stain binds the dead to the living.
Grum-Blud’s long silences chill Shelberd with a coldness felt deeper inside him. There is a warmth of connection even in the companionship of someone as grim and cruel as Grum-Blud. He had rather endure Grum-Blud’s insults and mockery than that of Grum-Blud’s silences. For Shelberd had traveled long enough with Grum-Blud to know that Grum’s silences were even more ferocious and dangerous. “Grum?” he ventured.
Grum-Blud cleared his throat, grunting, “I see a moonlit room. Glass. A window pane and rain outside. I see…” his voice trailed off.
“Pogsley?” Shelberd probed.
“No,” Grum-Blud retorted, “The other. The waif girl. Pog got a stain into her. She still lives. But is not here.”
“Where then?”
Grum-Blud lowered the head, fumbling for the sack they had carried it in. As he blindly tucked it into the bag, the blackness in his eyes swam away behind the hooded lids of his eyes, revealing the jaundices schlera framing his dark irises and narrowing pupils.
A faint moonwash of veiled light silvered his lumpy brow and bunched cheeks, reflecting off of the pearlescent drops of rain water that had been trapped into the tangle of his thick beard.
“She is in The Out-World. In some sort of cart, with strange wheels. she has locked herself into a dark box. I could see no further, but her fear there is strong and sharp. It clarifies what we can see through her.”
“What does that matter? It can be of no further use to us,” Shelberd pouted.
Grum-Blud rose from a squat, and slung the bag of his brother’s head over his shoulder, a blackened stain wetting its bulbous shape.
“Maybe not, but then again, maybe so,” Grum-Blud answered cryptically.
“What are you thinking?!” Shelberd rose up from his shivering crouch, only enough to back further into the shallow cave, and feel the coldness of the bare stone behind him.
“Mind-sights like these are valuable to a certain group obsessed with crossing back over into The Other.”
“You’re not suggesting…?!” Shelberd wailed, suddenly shivering uncontrollably.
“Exactly,” Grum-Blud grinned, his face seeming to mirror that of the rictus grin eternally cast upon the face of the dead head he now carried within its sack.
“No, Grum, please think this through! The Pan will kill us without a thought to it.”
Grum-Blud hefted the bag, black ooze dripping from its underside.
“Not if we give him something he wants,” Grum-Blud sneered. “Right now we have little to take back to Jahaza, that he cannot get from others. But to The Pan, we bear a sight into the world he and others like him have sought for centuries.”
“B-But what if he just takes Pogsley’s head from us and kills us off? What then?!”
“He won’t,” Grum-Blud growled.
“How can you be so sure?” Shelberd whined.
“Because delving is an insight only given to trolls. There is no one in his kingdom of Half-men that can do what our kind can do.”
“What about the dark pools?” Shelberd moved forward beseechingly grasping Grum-Blud’s forearm, cowering and shaking. “They say he has an entire wood filled with the dark waters, around an old stone temple. That he looks through those waters constantly and can see into that other world. Why would he need our Pogsley’s head?”
“Because he can see through a living person, that’s why!” Grum-Blud growled, freeing himself from Shelberd’s pleading grip. “Fear clarifies the vision. And if this connection still remains through my dead brother, that means this girl will somehow be coming back here. And if she does, we…and The Pan and his kind will all be waiting for them. Something of herself has been left here. Something personal. She will be brought back, and the group of outworlders that did this to my brother will find themselves wishing they had never meddled with the purposes of a troll!”
“What about that other man? The one you said Pogsley also dark-eyed?”
Grum-Blud’s lips pulled into a further grin and he clapped Shelberd on the back, but Shelberd winced, expecting that clap to be a blow, like the countless ones he had received from Grum-Blud before. “For once, you finally asked ‘the right‘ question, you numbskull!”
The rain just outside of the grotto cave had finally stopped and only the slow dripping from the stone cornice brow above remained. The wind had died down to a low but threatening whisper, implying a warning, but waning as it progressed further inland following the central strength of the storm.
*Scene 02* 12:05 (Dangerous Delays)
The armory in the Iron Hills proved to be a problem for Storm Hawk and her band of Lehi horsemen. They were suited and trained for hit-and-run short raids, but not for holding and capturing prisoners long-term. For that, they needed a larger body of regimented troops and guardsmen. In short, they needed the forces of the underground resistance. Tapping resources from that hidden reservoir had been difficult but not impossible. Begglar had proven to be the key. His clandestine relationships from years prior still bore fruit. His present whereabouts were known by very few, for he no longer plied the fjord waters of the lake chains of Cascale as a supply raider, causing the Xarmnians much consternation and grief. After marrying Nell and having reinvented himself as a baker and innkeeper far away from the Skorlithian shipyards, his influence and reach had shortened but had not entirely disconnected from the many old friends he had made in his days of piracy against the Xarmnian water fleets. His ship had suffered irreparable damage during its final sea battle with the leviathan that had once plied and plagued those bifurcated waters. His ship had run aground onto a sand bar in one of the hidden coves and inlets. Over the intervening years, the ship had been taken apart and used to refurbish those few remaining smaller ships that ran a sleeker, faster legacy fleet through the lake chain now that the leviathan’s carcass had been found and confirmed dead. Skorlithians now managed those legacy fleets. The newer boats no longer required armored sides now that the beast had been slain, and Begglar was still recognized as the brave captain that had led the charge to bring the monstrous creature to ground. As a result, the smaller, faster fleets could more easily overtake and evade the Xarmnian warships, increasing their effectiveness. Many of the former Mid-Worlder crew that had served with and under Begglar remained loyal but respected his need for privacy, now that the Xarmnians had identified him and put such a high price on his head. Many of those crew now ran small fishing operations with small or modest-sized fleets of their own. Some had retired from the cold waters, content to let the younger take their turn. The smaller boats operated with more shallow drafts, finding themselves now able to pass over “The Rakes”, underwater buttresses built by the Xarmnians to keep the former beast from invading their passage routes and plaguing their supply ships, as it had done with the Skorlithian fleets. The leviathan often chased schools of fish up to the edge of “The Rakes”, but turned back into the Skorlithian side of the water, allowing those fish to filter through the gaps in “The Rakes” only to be harvested by Xarmnian fishing boats operating between “The Rakes”. The death of the leviathan of Cascale did not serve the Xarmnian interests. In fact, it took away their advantage, making the downriver Skorlithian fishing industry profitable again. The influence of leviathan served to build Xarmnian power. A fact that was not lost on the coastal peoples. A fact that fed additional Xarmnian hatred and rage towards those responsible for bringing down the beast. The Xarmnian headwaters, within “The Rakes”, were closer to the eastern oceanic inlet and the eastern edge was more salinated, than the western Skorlithian edge of the Lake Cascale chain with more glacial freshwater fed off of the snow masses melting off of the frontal heights and shelves of the Nawsaw (נָסָה Exodus 20:20 word for ‘test’ [ref. Strong’s h5254] ) range running through the waterfront forests of Gacean.
The freshwater fish thrived, while the influx of oceanic fish sickened from the diminishing salts and something present in the fog-laced coastlands. The melted snow filtered through the stone breaks of the mountain and across the river stone of the brooks and streams that came down into the lake chain, purifying the water as it arrived and emptied into the lake basin.
Xarmni, thinking to situate itself in a position of advantage by dominating the upper east side of the lake chain, found themselves solely vested in an untenable and failing position, forcing them to take more desperate measures of extending their influence and power. What they lacked in their former market dominance of the independent fishing industry, they had to make up in forceful military actions. Desperation also drove the Xarmnian efforts making many more enemies among the Mid-lander communities who resisted being ruled by the mad successor king of the Stone City of Xarm.
Skorlithians were largely sympathetic to the concept of resistance against Xarmnian tyranny. Many of Begglar’s friends disappeared into the underground, forming its secretive organization, linking many communities and Mid-landers into its growing and restless army.
The problem with managing a grassroots underground network of dissidents across Mid-World geographies was the potential problem of infiltrators, and informants that threatened the whole. Xarmni and its agents were adept at finding leverage points, with the goal of bringing down the insurgent hidden network. The Xarmnians formed Protectorate Guard bands ostensibly to police the outer territories and exact taxation and tribute for their own “protection”.
Xarmni used these extortion tactics to, not only enrich their cruel leadership but also, to make up forshortfalls in their storehouses for feeding their own captive populaces and their armies. Loss of revenue could not be excused or tolerated for whatever reason. Xarmni’s leadership council lacked the ability to self-examine the consequences of their own policies. Rather they sought to obfuscate their own culpability by denials and casting blame for failure, often upon an innocent party with no discretionary power to influence the outcome of a leadership directive. Xarmni resented and sought to undermine any means of profitability and production that they could not control, manipulate or undermine. They demonized their competitors, attempting to spoil their methods and turn the dependent communities, with whom they had traded for generations, against them stating that the competitors’ privateering practices were unsustainable and irrevocably polluting the lake chains.
Outrage drove many further into the underground network, seeking ways to respond covertly to the Xarmnian encroachments, if not openly and overtly. Direct resistance was met with Xarmnian violence. But covert resistance was not easily ascribed to one party whose family or living means which could be directly punished.
The operations under The Son of Xarm were growing more desperate and violent. The monarch ruled by instilling fear for he could not rule by inspiring fealty or love.
Shimri, one of Begglar’s old crewmates, was still active in the present underground. Shimri was Begglar’s sole connection to the old network and the distant shipping fleets still in operation against the Xarmnian encroachments. Shimri had sent word through his connections for men to take charge of the Iron Hills armory, once word reached them that the Storm Hawk and her company had secured it.
Storm Hawk and her agents had secured a commitment from Shimri that men would arrive to relieve them from that responsibility but their arrival had been delayed. Xarmnian troops had been seen in the area and were riding in a company leading a pack of devil dogs on the trail headed towards the main road that would eventually descend from the highlands into the lower valleys. Speculation arose that they were seeking Begglar for questioning. A later towering column of smoke following the passage of a seasonable rainstorm coming from the location of Begglar’s inn revealed to all that the Xarmnians had been frustrated in that intention.
Now Storm Hawk and her Lehi riders were finally taking the wider, smoother low road that ran along the base of the old escarpment granary promontory through the lowland passage, wary that the Xarmnian troop was either ahead or behind them.
The relief resistance thought that the Xarmnians had gone up the long way towards the top of the escarpment, and they had watched for a time, fearing that from the upper rise, they would be more easily spotted riding towards the Iron Hills armory, only to see them descend the slope again, apparently frustrated from proceeding on towards the summit. The rain storm that had veiled the escarpment rise was finally thinning out, and the troop had turned their dogs and their horses back down toward the back trail that would eventually converge with the main road. Chances were probable that they would proceed to their stock stables along the hill road, to rotate their mounts for fresh horses.
Begglar and his party were supposed to meet them near the Xarmnian stables. Or that was the last word they had received before Begglar and his family had taken it out on the lam. Begglar would be wary, Storm Hawk told herself, but he would need to be warned that the Xarmnians were already hot on his trail.
Her team was suited and armored up, appearing much like a Xarmnian convoy bearing a routine shipment of weapons fresh from the Iron Hills forges. The wind was coming up from the southeast, pushing the former rainstorms ahead of its front toward the northwest. Her team rode in a diagonal phalanx pattern, moving obliquely along the road allowing the sulfurous scents of their equipment and garb to pass beyond them. A couple of teams pulled two wagons of wooden boxes holding stock of the weaponry and armor plating. They had hoped to use the cover of the armor delivery as a ruse to get close enough to the Xarmnian stables to refurbish their riding stock as well so that they could supply Begglar and the others with fresh horses. With the Xarmnian outer patrol ahead of them, Storm Hawk realized that that plan might prove to be too dangerous. There had to be some way to get word of warning to Begglar, but she had no way of knowing how far ahead Begglar and his party might be and her scout, Ryden, was on special detail and set to rejoin them later in Azragoth. She knew that once was agreed upon and set in motion, operating separately and with no contact, the most probable method for success was adhering to the original plan as much as possible. The delay of the relief personnel had already cost them half a day. A delay that may cost Begglar and his family their lives, if that Xarmnian patrol were positioned for an ambush.
As Storm Hawk and her team of disguised arms convoy soldiers, turned off of the branch road onto the track that approached the Xarmnian stockyard, high above, nestled and curved down the face of the rocky escarpment, appearing like stone, a large ice-blue eye opened on the outcropping, dotted by an ink black pupil and carefully rolled to follow the distant progress of their movements as they descended below the brow of the branch road. It had observed a prior group of armed men moving in that same direction before. Its other black eye slowly cracked open, appearing like a black slash along a bony rim of jagged rock. Its implanted agent’s signal no longer pulsed in its obsidian depth like a ripple in a dark pool, but its other senses were still sharp enough to scent and perceive that which might feed its growing hunger…and obsession. It would wait and watch. And at some point, it would claw down the face of the cliff… furrow into the ground, and follow.
*Scene 03* 30:54 (Banshee)
“The Banshee?” Begglar grunted, “Ah, lassie. Now that is a whispery tale to be told on a night of storms. Are you sure ya want ta hear it?”
The crew gathered around Begglar, eager faces turned toward him, as he settled himself on a bench, backlit by the flickering glow of the furnace firelight.
Christie nodded, and Miray answered audibly for all. “Tell it! Tell it! Mister Boogler!”
Nell broke out laughing, as did the others, grateful for the release and relief of the tension. Miray looked around with a puzzled look and shrugged her shoulders, not sure what the adults seemed to think was funny.
Begglar chuckled and wiped his face with a short handkerchief pulled out of one of his myrid pockets. From the kerchief, he had unrolled a short pipe and a cinch bag of dried and shredded tobacco, which he poured and tamped down the mix into the bell of his pipe.
“Dear, I thought you gave that up?!” Nell stood with her hands on her hips, gently reproving her husband with a light scold. Begglar looked down at what his hands were doing, realizing he’d unwittingly outed himself. To him, storytelling and piping, were once part of the same exercise. He had forgetton that he’d pocketed the pipe, and he now gave his wife a sheepish grin. “Now, Nellus, dear. You won’t begrudge a poor man his pipe when he’s been called upon to set forth a tale now will ye?”
Nell raised an eyebrow, but gave him a wink with it, “Well, now. Maybe just this once. It’s been a while since ye told yer tales with a fire agoin’ and good company gathered.”
“Thankee, dear one,” Begglar said, lifting a glowing ember to the bell of his protruding pipe, now carefully ensconced between his teeth, and hanging out over his beard. “I only kept this one fer celebratin’ Ash Wednesdays,” he said, giving the others a sly wink.
“Ash Wednesdays, indeed!” she said wagging her finger at him. “And, doancha think I didna know that ya had that pipe in them vest pockets, as if I’m oblivious to yer cunning ways, me luv! I’ve found it more times than I can count, doin’ the wash. Your as full of blarney as the day I met ya.” Here she touched a finger to the side of her nose, as others had seen Begglar himself do more than once, adding, “And I’ve ALWAYS been wise to it. Ye’re lucky I let you keep it for such as this, but don’t be blowin’ yer smokes at the wee ones, me darlin’.”
“Yes, dear,” Begglar said, drawing in his cheeks and building up a short series of puffs of the smoldering tobacco, now catching to the lit ember.
Begglar reached for the bell of his pipe, and took the end from his mouth. “Now where was I?”
“Banshee!” Miray said, laughing at the small puffs of smoke coming out of his nostrils.
“Banshee, it twas!” Begglar said lifting his pipe in salute and rehung it into the corner of his mouth.
I marveled watching Begglar settling into his natural element. A born story teller, if ever there was one.
“Well, now,” Begglar said, “Here’s to the truth of it. Banshees here are transitions.”
“Transitions?” someone in the crowd asked.
“Meanin’ that they are more than just one thing. They are the same essential, but take different forms. It is the dragons that do it. They add the earth and clay, and bring in the plasma to find a shape from a blood-born.”
Quizzical looks fanned over the pond of firelit faces like waves touched by a gentle breeze.
“Blood-born? Dragons?” one of the young men adjusted his posture, sitting up from a slouch.
“Aye!” Begglar answered fingering his pipe, looking around at the eager faces, bemused by something only he seemed to know. “Perhaps, it’d be best to start with me beloved green isle, back in the Surface. Ireland.”
“There are no dragons in Ireland!” a young man said.
“So, you’ve been there, haveya?” Begglar zeroed in on the skeptic.
“No, b-but…” the young man stammered, instantly regretting having spoken out.
Begglar raised an eyebrow, “Aye. Thought so,” He fingered his pipe bell, “There be more mysterious things in the old green isle and the thereabouts, than you’d be ken to, laddie. Hush now. And leave me to the tellin.”
Begglar took out his pipe and gestured with it, “Have ya heard the Scotts speak of kelpies, now?”
“I have!” Miray said with a big wide grin, raising her hand in response to the general question.
“Are you saying there is a dragon in Loch Ness?” one of the young women asked.
“That’d be in the land of the Scots. I am referrin’ to Ireland. Kelpies are not only the beasties in their lochs. They are better kept mum by the Irish, than the Scots. Give a Scot a draft of whiskey, and he’ll tell all his country’s secrets. Not so the Irish. Before nary a word is spoken of the beastie’s one must be prepared to get a clout, and a blackened eye. The Irish feel strongly about our fairy mysteries, and manys the man that held a handful of his own front teeth in his hand by bringin’ up what was a friendly discussion of the matters ta begin with.”
“D’ya mean like leprechauns?”
“Aye. The wee folks be part of it,” Begglar said touching the side of his nose in that characteristic fashion.
“Are you sayin’ these things are real?” the young man, formerly reprimanded, asked.
“To a point,” Begglar answered cryptically, “Legends are born out of experiences. But they often grow to a point that the truth of the real is no longer recognizable. Passionate people often drive tales into the stretching. For example, the Banshee, now. She is told to be recognized by the sound of her wailing. The beastie we witnessed now. Even now her terrible screech still rings in my ears. Back in Ireland she was thought of as both an angel and a demon. Her wails were a harbinger of doom. She appears fair at times and foul at others. In the legends in the land where I came from, she wanders the fells and moors. Her moaning foretells of an upcoming death in the family. For she is a mourner, you see? She mourns, but then she doesn’t now. It is not her own pain that she regrets. Its the misery she brings to others. She being a portentuous sprite and a woeful spirit. The wailing comes from a human tradition. A custom, it was. Some customs come from historical and biblical traditions. There were paid mourners whose job it was to wail over the dead and dying. Families would hire these women to make such a fuss. They’d come in like a flock of cave bats. A wearin’ black mourners clothes and beatin’ their breasts like just as if it were their own kin. The louder the wailing the greater the honor it was believed given to the dearly departed. Twas an old custom of culture but not just the Irish. Ancient Greece, Rome, Egypt, China and the Middle East, all had these customs, and the Romans brought these keening customs to the Celts.”
“Biblical?” others looked up.
“Aye. The Ancient Text, there. It tells of that custom, as well.”
Begglar turned to me, “O’Brian, lend me a passage now, will ye. Book of Luke, chapter 8, just the last part relatin’ to that Jairus fella.”
Begglar touched his nose and turned back to the group, “See I tole ya O’Brian was good fer somethin’.” And he winked and grinned. I had many times noticed that Begglar became a just bit more Irish when he talked of the old country, in both his manner and inflection. But I humored him anyway.
“Then a man named Jairus, a synagogue leader, came and fell at Jesus’ feet, pleading with him to come to his house because his only daughter, a girl of about twelve, was dying. As Jesus was on his way, the crowds almost crushed him. … While Jesus was still speaking, someone came from the house of Jairus, the synagogue leader. “Your daughter is dead,” he said. “Don’t bother the teacher anymore.” Hearing this, Jesus said to Jairus, “Don’t be afraid; just believe, and she will be healed.” When he arrived at the house of Jairus, he did not let anyone go in with him except Peter, John and James, and the child’s father and mother. Meanwhile, all the people were wailing and mourning for her. “Stop wailing,” Jesus said. “She is not dead but asleep.” They laughed at him, knowing that she was dead. But he took her by the hand and said, “My child, get up!” Her spirit returned, and at once she stood up. Then Jesus told them to give her something to eat. Her parents were astonished, but he ordered them not to tell anyone what had happened.” [Luke 8:41-42, 49-56 NIV]
“Thankee, O’Brian,” Begglar said with a bow, “that was nicely done. Now leave off with ye.” He said curtly, turning again to the younger ones with his arms raised, ape-like and then bringing them together in a loud clap to get their attention.
“Well, now, it was a Jewish custom in those days to have mourners come and pay their respects by these raucous expressions of grief. Some traditions live on from family to family and from culture to culture. My homeland has a blend of traditions. Some good, some not so much. A blend of faithful heritage with a turn and churn of myth and folklore mixed in. ‘Lump levening’, me dear sainted mother used ta call it. It is not often known where the rites of the orthodox ends and the pagan ritual begins.
“Some believed the Banshee was the curse of the women mourners who laughed and mocked and derived the Master when He said the child was only asleep. That the Banshee-kind were destined to mourn for eternity over their mockery. And were cursed to walk between this world and the next until the end of time. A convenient argument for those holding to superstition as piously as they claimed to hold to the tenets of the faith. Belief in such would seem to cast a nasty sort of vindictiveness upon the Lord, now wouldn’t it?” he rubbed his chin, fingering his beard thoughtfully. “That I should say so, now, gives to the question more weight to our myth, than to the right clear truth of the Ancient Varse. That it would. Since there being no mention of such a curse given, the connection is a mere fancy. Old wives tales, as ‘twas called in my day.”
He spun around again with his ape arms raised, to tease the kids, “The woman Banshee–since I don’t reckon there ‘tis a male variety– is what we in Ireland called the “Hag of the Mist”. The very word Banshee is formed from the Gaelic tongue for ‘mound’ and ‘fairy woman’ – bean sí, pronounced /bain-see/.
He cupped a hand to his ear and touched a finger to his lips.
“Hush now! Can ya hear it? Listen closely. What is that noise outside?”
Miray’s eyes went wide and she moved forward to cling to Begglar’s leg.
“Dear! Really now!” Nell interjected. “Don’t frighten the child!”
Begglar reached down and patted Miray’s head, and squatted on his heels before her taking her hand. “Quiet now, child. Tell me only what you hear.”
“The wind?” Miray asked, tentatively.
“Aye! Good answer! You’re the clever one! The wind can’t blow on you in here. Can it?”
Miray shook her head and grinned.
“No, it can’t,” Begglar patted her, “Now take a seat, and listen.”
Begglar rose and continued, “As you can tell, the outside wind makes strange noises as it howls through the breaks and around uneven surfaces and landmasses. Y’kin even hear it now, outside these doors. Hills and valley, moors and cliffs. And in Ireland we had all these in spades. Strong night winds would tear across the northern country, moaning and screeching like a keening woman. Some houses were not built as they should be, and often times the drafts and cold moist air would get into the house of an evening. And the fevers would come and pneumonia might set it and take a child or two from that world to the next.
Begglar, moved and sat on a tied sheaf of hay, closer to the fire, wagging his head. “Aye, tis the rational thinking man, might reason. But we Irish, now, we cleave to our superstitions like we take to the tune of a fiddle and a draught of Irish whiskey.
Here, Begglar took on the vocal affectations of two squabbling Irish women, playing to the younger ones, “‘Twas the Banshee, took the child,” says one. “Nay, ‘twas that sad sack of yer no good husband not stoking the fire in the hearth, nor filling in the cracks in the slat works wall of your house. But dainty is the fingers of yer worthless man. Can’t be workin’ in the mud and dauble to fix the cracks, now. Rather be a drinkin’ and a fightin’ at O’Mally’s Pub, says I, than attendin’ to his household.” But the woman of the opinion that it t’were the Banshee, she’s got the bigger fists, and louder mouth and she won’t be hearing the truth of it, from Molly McDonald, now will she? And to see to it, that she shuts her mouth about that perceived truth, she clouts her a good one, right in the eye she does. So, as far as the folks around that settle’s it. Best not be vexing the mourning woman with the big fists, say they. If she says, ‘twas the Banshee wailing that warned of the deaths, and snatched her poor child with the fevers then that IS ‘the story’ that stands. And stand it has for a good long time, now. Not even the rector in the local parish will deny it. He too enjoys continuing to see out of both his eyes.”
We all had a good laugh at that. Begglar always had a way about him that was endearing. His Inn was quite popular in its day, but it was mostly because of the man he was.
The others and I went back to their meals and dinner conversations, but I noticed that Begglar, slipped away to speak privately to Christie.
Dominic had ascended the inner stairs and had come back from the upper smoke room stores, and he and Nell had laid out cut meats and cheese along a large charcuterie serving board. As the others rose to go to the table where Nell, Dominic and a few helpers had set out the serving, Begglar took the opportunity to approach Christie privately, with a more sober expression and squatted before her, looking at her eye to eye.
“Lass, as there were young ones present in the hearing, I could not entirely answer your sincere question directly. And I do not wish to diminish the seriousness of your question. Do you understand?”
I stood behind and nearby, but did not call attention to my presence. Begglar’s demeanor had drastically changed in his approach to her, unlike the gregarious, affable front he had shone to others, there was a gentleness about the man that showed a sober humility in his manner that I had never witnessed before. Much had changed in him, through the intervening years, and I marveled at how a strong, boisterous captain of a former pirate crew, could shift into such a demeanor of tenderness. I could tell part of it was the influence that both Nell and fatherhood had on him, but another part was because of something much more ineffable.
Begglar took Christie’s hand and gently patted it in his large, rough paw.
“You have shone a great deal of courage, young lady, bearing all you have been through. You’ve come through much already. So it is wish the understanding of your courage, that I feel I can address personally your question more directly than I could with the others.
“The Banshee in legend, in my dear land in The Surface World, is a supernatural entity which visits fear on the superstitous. Fear gives the evil ones insight and influence on a world in which they cannot physically manifest. It also clouds what is real and it separates us from the One who centers us in our weakness. We need to stand on the rock of certainty, or we will crumble when the storms come and the waves are driven ashore. The young ones, they need the lighter touch of what is to be explained. But we need courage to be sober to threat, without letting the threat drive us into the enemy’s places of shifting sand. You mentioned you stood upon the hill and saw it for what it really is. A Tell. Think about that word’s dual meaning, for here you are in a world of dualities. Here, one thing may also be another and both aspects are coequal parts of the whole of what it is. Most times in this Mid-World there are three aspects making up the whole–a trinity. The most difficult part to see and experience is the mysterious third. It is because as a race we have been blinded to it. We see through a glass darkly. But that is where belief in the unseen is most important. Excavatia is the mysterious third of the three parts of reality. It is part of a promise, a hope and a legend. The presence of The Marker Stone is a mysterious guarantee in this world. A rock of certitude that is supernaturally protected. Many here have tried to destroy it, but cannot. It is a Word of surety, in a world bent on destroying it and burying its Truths. There are physical illusions in this Mid-World that attempt to make us think they are something else. But the one thing that secures us, is knowing and reminding ourselves of the nature and the revealed Words of The One. You are one of the few who have given your name to this journey. And I suspect, by doing so, you are now learning how important being named here matters. When someone asks you how you are called, you give them your name, your calling. That blue search light you saw, and little Miray saw, was a gleam from The Praesporous Stone–The Hope Stone. It is placed high in the distant mountains, in the heart of a dangerous place. A place we, who are all called, must eventually get to. Only those committed to the quest can see the light of Hope. Those who are called. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
Nacent tears filled Christie’s eyes as she nodded. The words she had heard in her spirit on the road came back to her.
“Yes. I think I do.”
“Are you secure in knowing that you are called–marked–by The Marker Stone?”
Christie lifted her head, gratitude showing through her tears, feeling warmed by more than just the fire burning in furnaces beyond her.
“Yes,” she said, brushing a tear and a strand of stray hair away with the heel of her hand.
Begglar studied her for a brief second, and then nodded. “Kelpies, Banshees, Leprechauns, and other fae creatures of my Surface World home, all have one thing in common in our legends, which is physically true here in this world.” He paused, and then met Christie’s eyes and finished off, “They are all creatures given to illusions to hide the truth. They are shapeshifters. As variable as the shifting winds of my dear Ireland. Here in this world, a Banshee is a wind spirit. It enters a body given to it by a dragon. I suspect there is one here in the Mid-World now. The experience of that family we hid–what they saw happen to Xarmnian pursuers in a wheat field–could only be explained by the presence of a dragon. A dragon can build is own army of mudlings. All it needs to do so, is a hosting wind sprite, a bit of injested earth and human blood to give this “body” an image. If this image is worn on a mudling, chances are high that the blood donor was consumed by the dragon that formed it. A mudling, often called a gollum, which means unformed substance, can shift into as many images as are present in the blood the dragon took into itself. This makes dragons more dangerous than even their physical might and savage nature might pose in direct combat. They can see through their agents. Each mudling they give this half-life, become their slavish agents, and informants. The Becca that was human, is no longer, I am sorry to say. The sword O’Brian bears does not just physically cleave at an enemy, but it also reveals and unmasks illusions. The sword was not used to kill a child, but only an illusion of one. The dust of the image still retains a memory of the blood by which it was formed. But it cannot reform itself into a golem without the aid of a dragon. It must return to the dragon. And that will give us time to get to a place beyond its reach. With this knowledge, you must not live in fear of those things that are dragon-formed. Fear will draw those things towards you. Find that place in knowing that you are named and take security in that hope. Evil cannot destroy or succeed in destroying those secured by The Marker Stone. They may seem to progress for a time, but ultimately, all will bow before The Rock. The Marker Stone is a conduit for The Logos. The three-part symphony twines and swirls around the scale time. It gives its gifts of word and deed. My word came in a life verse that references both my past and my future. It ties into the hope visible and invisible, and passes through the veil into Excavatia. Excavatia is a place of sanctuary and security. A place where no evil may come. It is a holy place, where all mysteries in the Surface World and this Mid-World will be revealed. My verse is in the Ancient Text letter of the Apostle Paul to his brethern.
We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain. [Hebrews 6:19 CSB]
“As I’ve told O’Brian, my confidence and security living in this place is, and has always been, being anchored in the awareness of the knowledge of what I believe about The One who occupies Excavatia. As such the beasties of this world will not separate me from the hope I have, no matter what storms may come. Banshees gain power by convincing others to fear them, and to making others think that it is they who hold the keys to life and death. But I know their hidden secret. If a Banshee wails in a threnody, ultimately, it weeps for itself. For its end is coming, and those of us moving forward into the promise of a Stone Quest, will not be silenced or stopped.”
“I think I understand more now,” Christie said, “I didn’t before. Thank you, sir. Brian… Is it Brian or O’Brian? I’ve heard him called both.”
“O’Brian,” Begglar said with a wry grin, “And don’t you let him forget it, now!”
“But, I thought he introduced himself as Brian.”
“He most likely did. Brian is a fine, strong Irish name. The name of an Irish king in the past. O’Brian in the Irish parlance simply means “Of Brian” the same as would any child or descendent of one called Brian. Brian means ‘strong one’, in the old Irish. And this here ‘O’Brian’ has a tendency to let things go to his head. He’s too much into his own thoughts, to be of much use, more’s the pity. So until he earns being called ‘Brian’ outright, I’ll be callin’ him ‘O’Brian’ in the interim. Understand?”
Christie smiled and nodded, “I suppose most of us are too much into our own thoughts, I guess.”
“Now don’t you be giving him a pass,” Begglar raised a warning finger, ” Leadership is upon him now, and it is a fair burden to be carrying, if you are not humbled by it to be a servant.”
Christie smiled, “When O’Brian… told us about beasts between worlds, none of us understood what he meant by it. He said something about a creature called ‘Hollywood’ being from a place called ‘Holy Wood.’ Does any of that make sense to you?”
“Aye,” Begglar rocked back on his heels and turned to sit on the bench next to Christie. “Makes sense that he would be fixated on that. It would be meaningless to the rest of you, but for him it was a place where he feels he had his greatest failing. What used to be known in the ancient times of this world as a ‘Holy Wood’, is a dark place now. The Pan and his kinds dwell there. He had claimed it and made it the seat of his throne. The trees appear dead there. The sky over it seems a bit darker everyday, as if night has decided to take away the memory of the day and hold its position against the progress of the sun. There is some connection there between the Mid-World and The Surface World, and The Pan and his kind are obsessed with finding it. Many pools of water are underneath the shadowy trees, hanging with moss and poisonous parasitic plants. It is a place of defilement now. This place would mean nothing to you all, but it was the place where he fled and lost Caleb, his friend and the brother of our then leader, Jeremiah. Feelings of failure tend to take shape and form, and the beast that stalks O’Brian hooked into him before he left here. O’Brian carried something supernatural with him into his life in The Surface World. Something he hangs onto and does not realize he can be empowered to shake. As long as he runs from the problem, it pursues him. He sees its reflection in him, and it scares him.”
“But how does that help us?” Christie asked.
“It doesn’t,” Begglar answered, clasping one hand in the grip of the other. “He regrets failing in the two parts of his existence. His Surface World, physical self, and his Mid-World metaphysical self within his soul. But mind that I told you there is a third part to each of us. An inner, unseen part anchored in Excavatia. At the end of our days, we will be rejoined fully to all parts of ourselves, and be completed in The One who makes us whole again. We will be perfected, not by our own efforts, but by what He has already accomplished for us. The third part of us will see The One as He truly is, and we will be enfolded into that eternal part, and fully embraced, not losing any of ourselves. Not even a single hair.” Begglar tugged on his beard for effect, and Christie chuckled.
“Why didn’t O’Brian just tell us that? You make it so much clearer to understand.”
“Ah, O’Brian tends to mix his metaphors. And he has never had children of his own. It comes easier to us who learn to adapt our words to train up a child. We don’t force feed a steak into a baby’s mouth, but learn to mash and breakdown their food into a spoonsized bite, once they are off their milk diet. O’Brian is a force feeder, and it is no wonder people tend to choke on his words. When he takes the time to know each of you better, he will begin to understand how to choose what morsels to serve and when. And speaking of morsels, I think it is time we went over there to eat something before it is all gone.” Begglar gestured towards the line of the others, gathered around the long table.
“I think I’ll just drink my tea for now. It has an odd berry and buttery taste, that burns a little but is soothing,” she lifted her cup to her lips and took a small sip. “It is warming, after being out in all the cold.”
“Chances are that ‘tea’ is not just an herbal blend. Nell specializes in serving customers in the Inn. She served in one in her home town of ‘Sorrow’s Gate’ when I first met her. Seems to be able to read what people need when they come in. She is an expert in wild herbs and ferments. If I were to guess, that tea you are sipping is a combination of Japanese sake and elderberry wine. Learned the sake recipe from an oriental fellow that was part of Jeremiah’s party when we came through. A rice wine. You’ll need more food in your stomach to be able to take the road ahead soon, so eat up.”
Christie laughed, and said, “I thought you faith folks were not supposed to be given to strong drink.”
Begglar stood and grinned, touching the side of his nose again, “To excess, aye. Or in the presence of stumblers, tis’ true. But consider what we do, is in moderation, and with temp’rance. There is a time when wine is meant for thy stomach sake, as well as for merriment. And tis’ true we also have a sayin’ here in the highlands. ‘There be no barman nor barmaid that can say they served water to a Xarmnian and lived to tell the tale.'” He winked, and took Christie’s hand raising her to her feet. “You get as good at making wines and ales as you do at surviving running an inn frequented by your enemies. Now off with you. Eat up.”
Christie walked ahead towards the table, and Begglar turned and spotted me leaning against one of the room’s support columns, my arms folded.
“Mixing my metaphors?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Serves you right for dropping at the eaves!” Begglar said, turning to head towards the crowd at the serving table.
“And I was just begining to like you,” I said aloud, following him, even as I heard Begglar chuckling to himself in response.
*Scene 04* 5:23 (The Burn)
Back in Basia, the large man named Hanokh and the Lehi scout, Ryden, stood outside of the dugout cabin, breathing heavily as flames and smoke curled and twisted upward into a gray, overcast sky.
The two men had upended the table and slid the headless, blackened, body off into the stone firebox, casting smoldering embers into the dusty room. The body, sizzled, swelled and smoked, forming black blisters that spewed a writhing liquid ichor across the hearth stone sputtering onto the hardpacked floor. The resulting stench was brutal and palpable. Lacking any form of liquid accelerant, both men searched for flammable items that might compensate for the reduction of the flame, dampened down under the smoking and seeping carcass.
Though the rain had stopped, all potential kindling that might be employed to feed the fire, had to be found from items contained within. Brush and grass, tree and limb, still dripped with evidence of the storm’s recent passage. The rotten cot and broken down bedframe fed some of it. The table, smeared with a black stain helped feed the rest, until the cabin began to fill with smoke. Even with the door opened, the two men could no longer endure the conditions within the enclosure to continue builing up the inferno. When they finally closed the door, they hoped they had done enough. Outside, a light breeze still carried a draught of dampness with it, and they could not risk letting it undo their hurried efforts. The interior would only burn if it was kept dry enough.
Finally, the rising flames could be spotted hissing through the dusty glass of the side window. They watched as tongues of fire extended higher and licked hotly at the support beams holding the ceiling and sod roof.
Ryden had secured his horse, Starlight, from a shady copse of trees and a grotto that had served as a partial windbreak against the storm, and he now stood beside Hanokh watching the cabin being consumed and its structure weakened by flame.
“How long should we give it?”
“When the roof sags, we will know,” Hanokh remarked quietly.
Ryden noticed that Hanokh intensely watched the bottom of the door frame as smoke curled up from under the threshold, and around the top of the lintel, rather than observing the slope of the roof line.
“What are you looking for?” Ryden asked.
Hanokh gazed at the smoking structure, his eyes continually searching the edge of its foundation and the edges of the doorframe.
“Making sure that nothing that is inside gets out,” Hanokh rumbled in reply.
“Can that living liquid survive the fire?”
Hanokh grunted, “We must ensure that it doesn’t. It must not reach the stream.”
Ryden pondered that a moment, “If the troll blood survives the fire, and escapes this cabin, how will we stop it from moving towards the stream?”
Hanokh took out a canister he had tucked into his cloak.
“I took the liberty of salvaging this from the cook shelves inside,” he said holding up the carved container.
“What is that?” Ryden said, turning to watch as Hanohk, cut away a wax seal.
“Preservation,” Hanokh rumbled, “provided it has not lost its savor.”
“Preservation?” Ryden asked, leaning over to view the contents of the canister.
Hanokh moved forward, towards the smoking door pouring out a crystalline substance along the bottom of the threshold, and a loud hiss arose, as the greyish power formed a powdery line along the porch step.
Hanokh, cleared his throat, standing upright and backing away from the smoldering door.
He answered, simply, “Salt.”
Ryden looked up towards the roof line and reached out to grab the large man’s arm, gesturing upward. “Looks like the timbers are weakening.”
Hanokh raised his eyes and backed up from the burning cabin as the roof began to pit and sag. Being much taller that the other man, his gaze commanded a higher perspective and suddenly he turned to Ryden.
“Mount your horse,” he pointed beyond the roof into the sky beyond the hill harboring the imploding cabin. “Look beyond the hills. That column of smoke shows this is not the only thing that burns today.”
“Looks to be coming from the upper hill near the village of Crowe,” Ryden said, swinging up and into his saddle. “We have contacts in that area. There may be trouble.” Ryden turned his horse towards the trail that led to the sea road. Holding his reins, he turned towards Hanokh.
“Do you have a horse?” he asked, as the steed stamped sideways, impatient to get moving.
“I am not called The Walker for nothing,” Hanokh responded. “I have a way of getting where I need to be, far easier than you. I was shone the way of it long, long ago. Ride fast, my young friend. When you arrive, I will be there waiting for you.”
Ryden’s horse stamped and turned, and Ryden pulled his horse’s reins to turn him back toward the giant man. When he did so, Hanokh was no where in sight.
*Scene 05* 4:28 (Xarmnian Need)
The enemy stables were set in a short-stepped valley, with surrounding pasture lands and the barn and shelter structures built along one of the sloped steps on the northwestern rise of the valley’s opposing side. A wide, shallow stream ran end to end through the bottom of the valley, watering the lowlands and pastures, ensuring seasonal and perennial green colored the lush grassland. Natural rainfall helped to water the valley and replenish the stream, whose level rarely rose above a low and wide bridge that spanned the watercourse along the descending road. Barn sewage naturally drained or was mucked into a short fissure ditch routed into what was once was a forked branch of the stream.
From the higher redoubt, Xarmnian conscripts could observe the approach of anyone passing through the intersecting valley, and quickly descend to the stables to prepare a mounted reception, if need be.
The upper ridge of the valley was capped by a precipitous rise of stone that formed a crested butte along the steeper northwestern ridgeline. The daily trek from the stables to the lower, greener pastures, ensured the stock horses, stabled there were in fit physical condition, and well-accustomed to traversing irregular ground. The stepped pastures were broad and long, allowing the horses ample room to run, gallop, cavort and graze. The valley served as a natural corral for the stables, minimizing the need for extensive fences, except in those areas in close proximity to the barns and to shield the stock away from the filth in drainage ditches.
The sporting field, was a field too often watered by the blood of “the disciplined” peasantry. Here, brutal soldiers “practiced” their “gallantry” on anyone with the temerity to resist the imprimatur of Xarmnian will.
As Storm Hawk and her disguised crew rode down into the valley towards the distant stables a line of horsemen left the structure and began to ride out to meet them.
One of the Lehi, rode alongside Storm Hawk, who had fallen back to a wing position, allowing one her more formidable riders to take point. It would be dangerous for her to speak during an encounter with Xarmnians, but from a seemingly subservient position she could watch and observe without calling attention to herself. Xarmnians expected the strong and formidable in appearance to lead a band, and rarely noticed those individuals they thought of as underlings and attendant footsoldiers.
“Why couldn’t we have ridden past this outpost? Those riders coming ahead are most certainly Xarmnians, and the inn keeper’s leaving will have them on high alert. We are taking quite a risk in doing this.”
“Not as much risk as would be, if we oddly bypassed a chance to procure replenishment stock, carrying a convoy of weapons to the battlefront. We’ve too few horses with us for an overland trek. This team will need relief horses. Xarmnian protocols must be followed, if we are to appear credible,” Storm Hawk answered quietly.
“How would they know?”
“They can count, can’t they? Any Xarmnian patrol would pay an obligatory visit to those stables before leaving the area, heading back down into the lowlands.”
“They will smell our armor and know we have come from the Iron Hills. They might be suspicious.”
“The smell of our clothing will ensure they keep their distance. They will be reluctant to examine us too closely because of it. We need to keep them off balance, and anxious to send us on our way.”
“Do you expect to meet that Xarmnian search party on the road ahead?”
“If they are not still here at the stables, then certainly. They suspect only the small family, not an armed contigent. An armory shipment provides good cover, until we are forced to reveal ourselves. There is unrest in the region. It certainly makes sense that the crown would requisition more battle gear from even the outposts. We have that to serve as our advantage. The appearance of a credible mission serving a growing Xarmnian need.”
*Scene 06* 12:13 (Unseen Wounds)
Darkness…
It was all enveloping. Its coldness reached through Laura, trying to take from her the only light she still kept kindled deep within her heart and mind. There was a simple phrase she learned long ago, that often gave her hope.
“What the darkness takes…God remakes…”
The confined space in the trunk was crowded with the miasma of stench and cold. The coalesced shadows pressed upon her, crowding her into a smaller and smaller place that demanded she shrink into a smallness that her body would not achieve, leaving only the shrinking that despair might bring.
She could feel and sense something looking through her. Something alien and angry. Or someone… Some cognizant and thinking being, at least. The invader had that same oily and creepy feeling that she had experienced in the terrifying thrall of the troll. She had a feeling the stain of that encounter still scarred and bruised an inner part of her mind, implanting its probing roots into the emotional open wounds she had suffered through her youth into her present.
Memories of her parent’s rejection, their aloofness, the isolation and resulting distrust that kept her closed off within, trying to protect herself from further pain.
Sobbing in that deep darkness, her mind sought solace in a vague memory. A time when her mom couldn’t find a “babysitter” for her. No place to put down “the anchor” freeing her to float away on a sea of alcohol induced oblivian, without having a little “needy, clingy” to think about. A chance glance at a local neighborhood announcement board at a local supermarket, gave her mom a temporary remedy to her “anchor” problem. A local church was holding a week-long “daycare” for kids Laura’s age called “V.B.S.” The church would pick up and feed the kids lunch and a snack, but more importantly, keep the little “snot-nuggets” from 9 AM to 2 PM, and bring them home after.
Laura found herself, roused from her bed the next morning, her hair quickly brushed by her mom, and her crying, because combing through the tangles pulled her hair. She was made to dress quickly, for the church bus would be there soon to pick her up at around 8:30.
Her questions seemed to annoy her mom, as she was told to put on her torn coat, and quit dawdling.
“You’re going to VBS,” her mom said curtly.
“Whatsa VBS?”
“VBS is where you are going while mommy runs some morning errands this week.”
“Are you going to be long?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“Daddy is on a business trip this week.”
“Where did he go this time?”
“He’s in Chicago at a conference.”
“Will he bring me something back?”
“That’s up to him. Now hush and go get your sneakers on. They’ll be here soon.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know them.”
“You’re sending me with people you don’t know?!” she asked with a rising note of alarm.
“Look, they’re nice people. Church people.”
“There are all kinds of churches. Some churches even lock kids up, away from there parents. I heard of this one kid…”
“Oh, hush! These are nice people, and you’d better be nice to them.”
“But you don’t know them…”
“That’s enough, Laura Jean! You’re going with them and that’s all there is to it. I don’t want to hear any sass.”
“Will I need money? What will I eat?” she asked timidly.
“I don’t think so. But the flyier said they’ll feed you. There was no mention of cost.” Despite this, she grabbed her purse and ruffled through it, retrieving a single dollar bill.
“Look, here’s a couple of bucks, just in case. Mind you don’t lose it. Now quit wasting time. They’re nice people. You’re gonna be fine. Might even have fun.”
“When will daddy be back?”
“Laura, you’re wasting my time. Now get your shoes on and go into the front room. The church people should be here any minute.”
Laura had many misgivings that day. Strangers were going to pick her up in a big white van. She imagined all sorts of terrible outcomes from such a prospect. Should she sneak a kitchen knife into her coat, in case they were not as “nice” as her mom assured her they would be? Laura debated, but her mom practically bum-rushed her into the living room and out onto the front porch. The broken pavement of their front sidewalk, signified the neglect and disrepair of their household, subtly advertizing their poverty to the people coming to get her. She couldn’t ride a skate down it’s path without falling on her bum. Joggers, passing through their neighborhood street, generally ran on the street in front of her house, rather than risk tripping over the uneven pavement slabs, pushed up by tree roots, and canted down into washed out soft spots in the ground.
When the “white van” did show up, it was not as bad as she expected. A woman that looked like what she imagined a “grandmother” should look like, climbed out of the passenger side of the van, helped down by an elderly man who had driven the vehicle. He stood by the open door and pulled back the side door, as the lady approached them. The name of the local church hosting the “VBS” event was printed on the side in large black letters, with a quoted phrase by someone named Mark and a odd, sort of military time set next to it “16:15”.
“Go ye into all the world…”
The van had other boys in girls already seated inside. She recognized a boy named Nathan who lived from two blocks over. He was a hair-puller. She hoped she would not be expected to sit in front of him.
Carmen, a little girl that she was friends with was there. Perhaps, this VBS thing might not be so bad, if Carmen would be there too.
The grandmother-lady approached the house, gingerly navigating the canted sidewalk, yet maintaining a friendly, open smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Freeland. I’m missus Daughtrey, from Wayside Church. Is this your precious Laura?”
“Yeah…precious Laura,” her mom muttered. “The flyer said y’all would keep her till 2 o’clock and feed her while she is there.”
“Yes, Mrs. Freeland. Very happy to have her join us. She will have lots of fun today.”
“So the flyer said nothing about the cost for this deal. How much will it set me back?”
“Oh, there’s no need for payment, Mrs. Freeland. It is no charge.”
“Really?! I usually have to cough up about ten bucks for Jenny to come over here and look after her while I’m out. Dad’s got the car, so I have to walk down to the corner and catch a bus to get into downtown. Y’all must be raking in the coin to be able to keep and feed so many crumb-munchers.”
The was a brief quiet, as the woman did not know exactly how to respond.
Thinking back on that conversation, made Laura wince at how curt and rude her mom was.
“Well, just have her back sometime before too late. As I said, her dad has the car and is on a business trip, and I can’t get up there to pick her up. I’ll got things I got to do, and I can’t be bothered with her today.”
Her mom then turned and went back into the house, leaving Laura alone there on the porch with the stunned lady.
Tears formed in Laura’s eyes, and her faced reddened. What must this stranger think of her and her mother?
The lady composed herself, and cautiously approached the step leading up to where Laura was standing on the porch.
“Miss Laura. I’m missus Daughtrey. My name is Laura too. Just like yours. You look like you could use a hug. Would you like sit up front with me and Jim? I have a feeling we’re going to become good friends before too long. That is, if you want to.”
“I’m not supposed to hug strangers…”
It was the wrong thing to say, but Laura didn’t know what else to say. She was embarrassed thinking back on it after so many years later, but Mrs. Daughtrey, was the first person that she felt a warmth from. She desperately wanted to hug the lady then and there, but she did not want to appear weak in front of the other kids in the van. The ones watching her from the side-window.
Mrs. Daughtrey did not react unkindly, but rather smiled at her with a warmth, that Laura had never felt from anyone else.
“You are a very wise girl, Miss Laura. That is a good practice. But hopefully, after today, we can get to know each other better and I will no longer be a stranger to you. Fair enough?” she asked extending her hand to Laura.
Laura quietly took the lady’s hand and descended the steps, walking alongside of Mrs. Daughtrey. Together, they deftly navigated the crooked sidewalk towards the open door of the van.
“Jim,” Mrs. Laura Daughtrey addressed the white-haired gentleman standing near the front passenger door, holding it open for her, ready to assist her getting back up into the higher bench seat. “This little lady and I have the same name.”
He squatted down, his knees popping, and came down to Laura’s level, “Well, I’ll be!” He grinned at her and extended his hand, “Hello, Miss Laura Daughtrey! You’re much shorter than I remember.”
“Nooo,” Mrs. Daughtrey, chided playfully. “This is Missus Laura Freeland.”
Laura remembered giggling a little as she shook the kind man’s large hand, feeling the same kind of warmth she’d experienced from the lady.
Mrs. Daughtrey and her husband, Jim, did prove to be friends, afterall. It was the first time, Laura could remember, ever feeling like there was someone who truly cared and “loved” her. It was they who taught her the song about someone else who loved her too. Someone who would always be with her, even though He was invisible. Someone who wanted her to be. Someone who had a reason and a good purpose for her life. Someone who had once died before, but came back to life and would never die again.
Mr. and Mrs. Daughtrey had both passed away several years ago. They had been taken from her to a place where they would never know sickness or pain again. A place that sounded alot like a place that Mister O’Brian had mentioned. If this place in the darkness was the last place she would know in this waking life, the chance to go to the place were the Daughtrey’s were, was the place that gave her hope. That week of VBS was the best time of her life, even though her mother spent the evenings drinking what she had bought while out on her daily errands.
Whenever she got scared, in the tumult of her life, she often quietly whispered the song that assured her that someone with her occupying the unseen realm around her, still cared. It was the song she quietly sang now, through sobs, that helped her clear her head and find a place of peace and light, in spite of the darkness. It was the name of that someone in the comforting song, that somehow lifted the oily touches on the emotional wounds in her mind, and filled the deep and unseen scars with a healing balm. That was why He had to be present in the unseen realm. To touch and minister healing to those unseen wounds.
*Scene 07* 7:00 (Lingering Questions))
In the warmth of the escarpment caves, after we had taken our fill of the food and drink provided, we settled down for a few hours’ sleep, using the grain bins as makeshift dormitories. We slept in our clothes, knowing that we would soon have to take to the open road again. After a few hours, which felt like only moments had passed, Begglar came over and roused me.
The air had cooled, and I realized that Begglar had dampened the flames in the furnaces, preparing to close down the granary operations entirely.
“The rains have stopped. We’ll need to be leaving directly.”
“What?” I yawned, trying to clear my head and perceive what Begglar was saying. “What about what Christie told us?”
“If the Xarmnians are in the area, it will take their dogs a while to catch our scents. They’ll need reference point. We have the moist air in our favor. It dilutes our trail. At best though, it will only delay the dogs.”
“We’ve travelled most of the way by wagon, surely the dogs could not follow us if we’re not on foot.”
Begglar muttered thoughtfully, “Christie still noticed the wagon ruts, even in the rain. You can bet the Xarminians followed them too. The ground only gets rocky enough to cover the ruts when it gets near the rise to the crest of the escarpment and granary.”
“You think that is why she came down the side road? Didn’t follow the trail up to the top?”
“No, there was something else.”
“What’re you thinking?”
“Something made her turn back. I’m guessing whatever that was, will also turn those Xarmnian hunters. She was desperate to find us. Our only trail, even if it was washed away and petered out on the rock, still led to the top.”
“The noise we heard coming in. You think that whatever made that sound is still up there?”
“I do.”
“Then we have to ask her.”
“We do. And that’s not all. You know, lad, I’ll have to be asking her the other question too. If the wee girl could masquerade so convincingly, why not her?”
Remembering our most recent trek through the riverbed and the test that had revealed the imposter in our midst, the statement suddenly clarified in my mind. “Oh, that.” I remained quiet a moment.
She had been through so much already. There was something she had not had a chance to tell about her journey and the degree of the storm they rode into.
“Go ahead but I don’t think we have anything to worry about with her.”
“Why not?”
“She saw the distance gleam of the Praesporous stone. No one could have told her about it. I highly doubt the Xarmnians can see it, if others in our company cannot. She willingly gave me her name and it conferred upon her that ability to see it, and I doubt that capability would transfer into a proxy.”
“I am sure you are right, but we must be certain. The others depend on it. It would not do for it to come out that an exception was made in her case, even as improbable as it might seem.”
“Should we go now and wake the girls or just Christie?”
“You’ll not be goin’ into the area where the women sleep. That would just aggravate the tension.”
“Are you going then?”
Begglar grunted, “And get my ears boxed? Not likely! Nell is a light sleeper. She will be in the corridor, guarding the way to the sleepers. I need only call quietly to her, and she will come. When traveling she sleeps with a blade close by.”
“Knowing you, I’m not surprised at all that she sleeps with a blade,” I quipped.
“I’ll pretend I did not just hear you say that,” Begglar growled.
We crept quietly forward to the adjoining hall and Begglar made a quick click-hiss noise from between his teeth. Momentarily, a shadow emerged, following the gleam and point of a raised blade.
“Are the girls decent?”
Nell lowered the point of her blade into the shadow, as she materialized into the dim glow of a flickering torch.
“They’ve only just been asleep these few hours. Is it time already?”
“Aye.” Begglar spoke in a low voice, “Best try to use what remains of the darkness to cover our way. Dom and I have turned the horses and loaded the wagon with what we may carry from here that won’t slow us overmuch. At some point, I may need you to drive the team since we did not get as much sleep as the others. Is the miss Christie resting?”
“She is troubled, that one. Thinks of the girl Laura. Worries about her. Is afraid for what she might’ve gone back to. Wonders if she did the right thing helping her to go back. She carries much in her heart. Cares deeply. We talked until she could no longer keep her eyes open. She finally seemed to rest more when little Miray came and curled down beside her and fell asleep. She’s a nurturer, and having the little one to care for, gave her a respite and a renewed purpose. Poor lass.”
Begglar sighed, “Then it will keep for now.”
“What concerns ya?” Nell probed gently.
“I’ve not asked her the question.”
Pssha. Nell clicked her tongue. “T’s not necessary dear. The answer’s as plain as the nose on yer face.”
“But how can we know? That Becca was a sly one.”
“I’m a Seer. Twas I who told you that there was something afoul with that girl, remember?”
“But..” Begglar protested.
“Leave her be.” Nell said firmly. “I’ll take responsibility if there are any questions to come of it.”
Suddenly there was a commotion in the hallway beyond. I drew my blade and Begglar gripped my arm, holding me back from rushing forward. Nell whirled, her stowed blade once again unsheathed from the shadows, and she bolted forward into the darkness.
Panicked voices came from beyond that I had difficulty making out, but one line clarified from among the sounds of distress and sent chills through me.
“Where is Miray?! She was just here!”
A low rumbling sound pierced the darkness, followed by a crash of stone, and a throaty roar that echoed and reverberated out of myriad dark tunnels above us. Whatever had been on the top of the escarpment above had finally found a way into the catacombs of the granary and was making it way down to us.
