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DargonZine Volume 10 Issue 07
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 10
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 7
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DargonZine Distributed: 10/25/1997
Volume 10, Number 7 Circulation: 676
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
The Night of Souls Alan Lauderdale Vibril 20, 999
Feather on the Wind Alan Lauderdale Vibril 30, 1015
Night's Touch Mark A. Murray Vibril, 1015
On a Night Like This Jon Evans Vibril, 1016
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 10-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright October, 1997 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories may
not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of
the author(s) involved, except in the case of freely reproducing entire
issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions
thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
Humankind has always had an insatiable curiosity about the world we
live in. Both individually and collectively, we are passionate about
learning and seeking out new knowledge. There is something about the
unknown which challenges us, invoking some primal urge that drives us to
seek out and transform that which is unknown into that which is known.
In every field of endeavor, from medicine to linguistics to the arts,
there are those who chase the mysteries of life, and in doing so blaze a
trail of understanding for those who follow.
But there have always been questions which man has been unable to
answer. We have never had a demonstrably genuine understanding of the
nature of life, intelligence, and death. Faced with the unanswerable,
man has often relied upon myth to explain that which we cannot. Myths
serve to transform those unanswerable questions into something the
average person can accept and deal with.
Death is perhaps the most elusive mystery of all. Since time
immemorial, mankind has sought knowledge and confirmation of existence
beyond death. For centuries, we have had to rely on superstition, faith,
and rationalization to explain what happens when the body ceases to
function and what follows. Even today, many of us accept that there is
something beyond our world of life, even though that world has
persistently remained beyond our ability to observe.
In Dargon, as on Earth, men and women ask these same questions. and
do what they can to explain what they do not understand. Like their
Earthly counterparts, their nature drives them to seek out what might
lie on the other side of the borderline of death.
But in Dargon, this is the Night of Souls; before you go seeking
out that which exists beyond death, don't be so sure that there isn't
something that exists beyond the veil of death which is even now seeking
*you* out!
========================================================================
The Night of Souls
by Alan Lauderdale
<lauderd@phadm1.cpmc.columbia.edu>
Vibril 20, 999
"Please tell us," Myrande Shipbrook asked, her baby teeth lisping
the words slightly.
"Yes. Tell us," Roisart Connall chimed in. Though less than a year
older than the castellan's daughter, he took her request and made it his
own.
"Tell us at once!" Luthias, Roisart's twin brother, agreed.
Morwyn Shipbrook smiled at the children over her needlepoint. She
had a very good idea what they wanted to know about, since it was only
ten days away and already there had been occasional scratches of
shrieking and argument in the late afternoon dusk and evening darkness.
"Tell you what?" she asked, nonetheless.
"Why we have the Night of Souls," Luthias burst out.
"Luthias!"
"What?" Luthias turned innocently to his brother.
"Sable was supposed to ask," Roisart reminded him. "She's *her*
mother."
Luthias shrugged. "She's our aunt."
"Not really."
"Is too."
"Roisart's right," Morwyn settled the latter part of the dispute.
"But if you all want to know an answer, it doesn't much matter who asks
the question."
"But I wanted to know *first*!" Sable complained, and pointed at
the brothers Connall. "And *they* don't know. Luthias says it's so that
brave young knights can go outside and fight demons and ghosts and other
things." She put her hands on her hips. "But if that's what it's for,
why does he stay inside with the rest of us?"
"Because our father orders him to," Roisart explained.
"Not this year," Luthias threatened.
"He did too!"
"I didn't hear a thing --"
"Luthias." Morwyn again decided to head off the impending argument.
"If you go forth into the darkness during the Night of Souls, who will
be left inside to protect Sable and me?"
Luthias gave her a quizzical look. "You have Sir Lucan," he pointed
out.
"And would you leave him to it all by himself?"
"And Roisart, and my father," Luthias continued.
"But if you bravely went out to do battle with the monsters,"
Morwyn insisted, "don't you think that they'd all want to go with you?"
"No," Roisart decided. "Not me."
Morwyn gave him a dirty look. "You're not helping me," she said.
"And Father wouldn't either," Roisart continued. Morwyn sighed.
"Sir Lucan might," Luthias admitted, considering the idea.
"And if you let anything happen to him, I would never forgive you."
Morwyn congratulated herself on managing to say this with complete
seriousness.
"But he's a brave knight and can take care of --"
"But what *is* the Night of Souls?" Sable asked.
"It's the night that we celebrate the ending of winter," Morwyn
told her quickly. "And we look forward to the coming of spring and
longer days and new growth in the fields and forests --"
"No it's not!!" Roisart exclaimed. "It's just as cold the first of
Mertz as it is the last few days of Vibril! Last year, it was colder."
"You remember that, do you?" Morwyn murmured.
"And it's not much greener the next morning, either."
"*He* says the Night of Souls is when all the dead people get to
come back again," Sable explained, pointing at Roisart.
"Uh huh," Roisart agreed. "And there's ghosts all over --"
"And ghouls --" Luthias added.
"-- and the bodies come crawling out of the graveyards --" Roisart
threw himself on the ground and began crawling.
"And then they catch rats and chew on them 'cause they're hungry,"
Luthias said, as Roisart grabbed a phantom rat and planted his teeth in
it. "And they dance around on the hedges like ..." He looked at Roisart
for help.
Roisart didn't move. "Go ahead," he said.
"I don't know what they dance like!" Luthias shouted.
"Then why'd you say they did?"
"What else do they do?"
"They hunt for people!!" Roisart shouted. "They look for us 'cause
the rats aren't big enough and they don't like us because we're still
alive and they wish that they were still alive too."
Sable turned from watching the boys and asked Morwyn, "Is that what
the Night of Souls is about, Mama?"
"Sure," Luthias said. "That's why people get together in their
homes and castles."
"Masters and servants all at one fire --" Roisart recited.
"And they build a big fire in the hearth --"
"And they make sure there's some green wood in the fire, because
that way, the fire is on the side of the living and not the dead,"
Roisart added again. "Cousin Clifton says so," he added.
"And we shut all the doors and lock them and don't let anyone in
once it gets dark," Luthias said. "Because if we did, it probably
wouldn't be a person after all. It'd probably be a monster who just
looked like a person but really wanted to get you!" He lunged suddenly
at Myrande.
But the girl just glared at him. "You tried that already," she
stated.
"Worked the first time."
Myrande turned to her mother. "And then in the morning, we make a
whole lot of noise, so the monsters know the night's over and they have
to go home?" she asked.
"It's at dawn," Roisart specified. "And we yell and bang pots and
swords and stuff in case the monsters are trying to be deaf --" He
glanced at his brother. "-- like Luthias."
"I sing that song just fine!" Luthias exclaimed, misunderstanding
Roisart's meaning. Perhaps a little tentatively about the pitch, he
launched the chorus, "Ohhh, get you gone --"
Roisart silenced him with a jab to the stomach and a wrestling
match began.
Myrande watched until the first fall and then remembered her
mission. "Is that what the Night of Souls is for?" she asked Morwyn.
Morwyn gazed at her daughter, deciding what the best answer to the
question was. She had never encountered a ghost herself, at least not a
hateful spirit that was alloted only the one night of the year to try to
unleash some long-festering rage. She doubted that the fields and roads
of Dargon were crowded with fell creatures on that particular night. She
was aware that the Night was treated more casually by braver or more
reckless sorts in the cities of Baranur. Like those sophisticates,
perhaps, she doubted. But she also allowed that to be alone outside on
that particular night was likely more perilous than on any other night
of the year. Something there was or some things there were that did
receive more license to sow evil or death on that night -- she couldn't
quite say that that was impossible and she had heard of some things that
had happened on that particular night. They were things she didn't want
to believe but couldn't say with conviction hadn't happened. Morwyn
watched her waiting daughter; she did want to encourage her Sable to
stay by the fire when the Night of Souls was passing.
Morwyn shook herself. "It's for keeping company," she suggested to
her daughter. "It's for enjoying the fire together and sharing stories."
"Uh huh!" Luthias agreed, he and Roisart having concluded their
bout when Morwyn finally spoke. "Ghost stories."
"And creeping things," Roisart nodded. "Slithering up your bedpost
with fangs that drip ichor." He pronounced the last word carefully and
Morwyn wondered just what young Clifton Dargon had been teaching his
younger cousins. Roisart smiled at Myrande. "And the highwayman that was
hung at the crossroads, but not quite for long enough and the dogs
gnawed off only one of his feet and now you can hear his step on the
stairs outside your room. Step, drag. Step, drag. Step drag, until he's
right outside your door and you hear the latch click because it's not
locked; not any more. And the door creaks open, creeeeeee --"
"Stop it!" Myrande yelled.
"That's an old one, Sable," Morwyn murmured. "I remember years ago
when my brother, Bernar, told it to me. I couldn't sleep alone for
months afterwards."
"Really?" Myrande asked. "Huh. It's not *that* scary."
"No, I suppose not," Morwyn agreed. "But try it by a fire late at
night with everything you can see dim in flickering light, and while a
toasted yam is sitting heavy in your stomach. And listening to the
teller's voice getting softer and softer and softer..." She fell silent.
"Until the end?" Roisart finally asked.
Morwyn nodded. "Of course," she agreed. "Until the shout at the
end."
"But they're all just stories," Luthias declared. "Right? We tell
them on the Night of Souls because it's fun."
"Cousin Clifton says it's also supposed to be a way of honoring the
dead," Roisart said. "Because we're remembering them."
"Who wants to remember a dead highwayman?" Luthias asked. "They're
just stories, aren't they?" He looked to Morwyn for assurance. "They're
none of them true, are they?"
She gave him a half smile and banished all the ghosts. "That's
right," she lied.
========================================================================
Feather on the Wind
by Alan Lauderdale
<lauderd@phadm1.cpmc.columbia.edu>
Rockway House, Vibril 30, 1015
The girl ran across the field. She ran full tilt, her cloak
flapping in the near-gale and sometimes trying to tangle itself around
her legs. Heedless of her swirling clothing, the girl continued to
sprint over the stubble and patches of old, thin, crunchy snow. She ran
straight, toward the bordering woods.
By the field was a small, tired house. The girl glanced at it
briefly, but immediately sped up again, resuming a pace that she could
not hope to maintain for very long. The house was winter-gray and
lonely, shuttered of course and motionless. On its behalf, perhaps, the
wind haled at the girl, urging her to get to cover there. But she would
have none of it and sped on.
The house was not empty. Behind a shutter, a man peered out at the
field -- his field -- and the running girl. Still as a spider, he
watched her trace her wild, fluttering line across his land. Only his
lips moved. Gently, he whispered imprecations against her. Softly, he
cursed her. Not for anything personal, anything specific to the girl's
history or beliefs, did the man wish her ill. Rather, he spewed out
zephyrs of hatred simply because she'd chosen to exist and to trace the
line of her life -- leave her footprints -- on his old snow. She'd
wandered too close to Tygalt and though she and he didn't even know one
another's names, her simple trespass that afternoon was more than enough
transgression for him.
Tygalt was crazy now. He'd always been taciturn, a farmer for whom
silent communion with his oxen and his fields could make for a full and
satisfying day. His wife, Charia, had loved him while she lived, in
spite of his quiet. She had given him three sons, though she'd died
bearing the last one. The infant had died also, leaving Tygalt two young
men to bring up. He'd done as best he could, training more by example
than with words. But the boys had grown up and left him. The elder had
fought him and finally left one day; the younger had fought in the war
and died. Tygalt had heard from neither one in a long while and the
silence eventually became more than even he found likable.
He talked to his oxen, but they were even more indifferent to his
remarks than he'd been to Charia's while she was alive. He talked to the
dog, Gally, who'd stayed behind when Tonily went off to the war. Gally
tried to look interested, but he was always preoccupied with wondering
when Tonily would get back. And Gally was getting on in years, inclined
to lie quietly by the fireplace whether or not there was a fire burning.
Tygalt was left with himself to talk to, when he needed to talk at all.
Himself and the stubble in his fields.
Still muttering, he turned from his shuttered window as the running
girl disappeared into the trees. Grumbling, he went over to the
fireplace, assembled some wood, scraped a flint, and eventually
persuaded a small flame to start up. The Night of Souls was coming on;
one was supposed to have a fire going. A steady stream of invective and
complaint dribbled past his lips as he coaxed up the smoke into flame.
His undifferentiated malice was strong enough that Gally shifted himself
slightly further away from both Tygalt and his fire.
Watching the fire build up and consume the wood, Tygalt continued
his speech. The words, the phrases, the sentences, the whole train of
his argument were all quite insane, if parsed for reason. But his
meaning was quite clear: Every sourness, every disappointment in all of
Tygalt's life he chose to blame on the girl whom he had seen but once,
running across his land at the end of winter. It was all her fault,
Tygalt declaimed again and again, and she ought to be brought to account
for it.
This he told his little fire over and over, for bell after bell.
The girl, whoever she was, somehow was behind all the harm and failure
Tygalt had suffered. This crazy argument he poured onto his fire like
oil and the weird anger and twisted rage went up his chimney with the
smoke. Both swirled up through the sky, whipped by their originator and
by the growing gale outside. And it was the Night of Souls; the mix was
very attractive to some of those who were out and abroad.
The sun was settling into the hills as Sister Hanala gasped into
the close and staggered up to the door of Rockway House. She collapsed
against it, but it had already been secured for the night. "Cephas'
boot," she wheezed, and then hammered on the door.
"Who's there?" someone called, but immediately corrected himself:
"Nor for all of Magnus' gold,
Nor for gems from Fretheod old,
Nor for kind words, clever or bold,
May you enter this safe hold."
"Now go away!"
"Cephas's other boot!" Hanala wheezed to herself. She rapped a
tattoo on the door, a long and two shorts. She repeated that pattern
three times, then paused.
"Oh. That you, Hanala?" the man inside asked. She rapped the
pattern one more time. "If it's you, you're late."
"I know that," Hanala panted, well aware that her weak voice
couldn't be heard through the thick door even when she wasn't recovering
her breath in a rising windstorm.
Nothing more happened for a mene. Hanala leaned against the door,
staring at the setting sun and hoping that Brother Martren -- it'd
sounded like Brother Martren -- had merely gone to find a burly brother
to stand with him, just in case, while he opened the door. Finally, she
heard returning footsteps.
"If you're not Sister Hanala," the voice that was probably Brother
Martren threatened, "you'd better run away now. Because we're only going
to let Sister Hanala in. Anyone else will get thrashed." Then Hanala
heard the bar sliding aside and the door finally opened. She darted in,
nearly colliding with the lantern that Brother Anthony was holding.
"Watch it!" he exclaimed. He lifted the lantern up higher and
leaned out of her way while Hanala tried to veer aside. She wound up
stumbling and sliding onto the floor. "Look out!" Brother Anthony added
unhelpfully. Hanala finished up sprawled on her stomach and mostly
covered by her billowing cloak.
"Best close the door now, Martren," Anthony suggested. "Everyone
else is already safely in. In reasonable time." He crouched beside
Hanala, who hadn't felt like trying to move again right away. "Are you
all right?" he asked. "Was something chasing you? What did it look
like?"
"No," Sister Hanala breathed.
"No?" Brother Anthony repeated. He looked up at Martren, who had
put aside the cudgel he'd held ready and was securing the door again.
"Which question is that an answer to?" Brother Martren asked. "And
where's the green wood you were supposed to bring back a supply of?"
"Dropped it," Hanala whispered.
"Dropped it, did you?" Martren echoed. "Don't you realize the
importance of having freshly cut wood on our fire tonight?"
"Yes," Sister Hanala whispered. She got to her feet. "Sorry."
"You weren't the only one cutting the wood," Brother Anthony told
her. "The others brought back a decent amount and we're all gathered in
the common room. Of course, since that's where the fire will be. Come
along." He led the way, still talking. "We'll be all right. What's
really important was getting yourself back here in time."
"Yes, of course," Brother Martren agreed gracelessly. "That's
important, too. But what happened to you? Did you lose track of the
sun?"
"The wind," Hanala said softly. "It blew me the wrong way."
"Yes," Brother Anthony agreed. "The wind has come up quite strong.
I expect we'll have it howling around the house all night, making a
dreadful racket and giving us excellent accompaniment to the stories
we'll all be telling. You have one ready, don't you?"
Hanala shrugged, but Brother Martren was dissatisfied.
"You're saying that the wind made you so late that you nearly got
yourself locked outside on the Night of Souls?" he asked doubtfully.
"And the wind made you drop your collection of green wood?"
"I left the wood because I couldn't run and carry it," Hanala
explained softly. "I was -- "
"Here we are, here we are!" Brother Anthony broke in, advancing
into the common room. "All present and accounted for. We're all here.
The food's prepared. The wood's prepared. The stories are ready and the
storytellers are all here. Let the Night of Souls commence -- Sister
Telea, would you grace us with a warding prayer to Cephas Stevene?"
Tygalt's fire burned no green wood at all. It was no different from
any other fire he burned when he wanted to warm himself and Gally. It
was no different, that is, except that he didn't always choose to mutter
doom and destruction upon a stranger while his fire blazed. That was
new, but the wood was all old and dried; it burned quite nicely. And the
smoke swirled up and out of his old, filthy chimney. It swirled up into
the howling wind and it didn't disperse.
The running girl had left a clear trail from Tygalt's farm to
Rockway House. Composed partly of panting and partly of fear, it
lingered long enough for the assemblage of Tygalt's smoky fury to find
and follow after it. Wind gusted through the woods, shaking the leafless
branches, while the vague form that smelled somewhat of old woodfires
and somewhat of old hurts shambled toward Rockway House.
Brother Anthony was the master of the entertainment, of course. He
decided the sequence of storytellers, doing his best to keep the thing
interesting in spite of the varied talents of the other residents.
Brother Gorim, always told the same story and always exactly the same
way. His tale was good, admittedly. But it was also repeated word for
word year after year. Brother Gorim, who was quite deaf now, would boom
his short tale out at a volume that kept spookiness far at bay. Brother
Anthony usually called upon him fairly early, in deference to people who
needed to nap later in the evening.
Brother Martren was another storyteller who tried conscientiously,
but could hardly be considered a success. His attempts to impart an air
of mystery to his compositions usually resulted in a low, dull monotone
that always put at least a few members of his audience to sleep. And, in
all honesty, the material was fairly pedestrian, Anthony thought.
Always, it seemed, Martren told of solitary men in the Port of Dargon
who'd committed rather mundane crimes years earlier, crimes that
involved irritating recitals of money and numbers. And now, finally,
these old criminals were being brought to justice by ghosts or whatnot
that took a terribly long amount of time to do it. Brother Anthony
sighed: Brother Martren should have had more experience with pirate
ships in his youth. But Martren did try, and Brother Anthony programmed
him later in the evening -- again in deference to people who needed to
nap.
Sister Anne was amazing. Year after year, she came up with an
excellent tale that was really fascinating in spite of the fact that she
always gave a prominent place in the story to mushrooms. Since she was
one of the nappers, Brother Anthony called on her early.
Brother Thibaud was a problem. He'd started a sea story his first
year at the House, but it had trailed off -- in tears, Brother Anthony
recalled. Brother Thibaud had never finished it and had refused to try
again ever since. Instead, he would sit quietly in one corner the whole
night, staring at the fire and hardly reacting at all as the others told
their tales. Brother Anthony sighed and removed him from his
calculations.
Brothers Anselm and Muskrat were both hardworking and reasonably
successful storytellers, in Brother Anthony's generous opinion.
Generally, one or the other of them was called upon to begin the
evening, with the other usually summoned to salvage the situation after
Rupert, the senior member had gotten himself bogged down again in
misremembered details of whatever long-forgotten tale he attempted to
recite. Rupert was always apologetic, but recovering from one of his
hashes was sometimes painful.
Anthony reserved the final spot for his own creation. He considered
himself more skilled than anyone else in the House at stretching or
compressing his material so that it would conclude just at dawn. Thus,
if imagination failed some other residents in performance, he could
always add a third castle or supplemental quest to his material and the
evening would remain full. Alternatively, if the muse tapped everyone
else with a bounty of inspiration, Anthony could also be magnanimous in
appreciation and brief in his own contribution. Brother Anthony
considered himself very flexible.
As the yams were being spitted and scorched on the fire and the keg
of Soulsbeer was spiked, then, he invited Brother Muskrat to begin the
sharing of stories.
Wind swirled old, dead leaves and small branches. Clouds scudded
overhead and only bits of starlight illuminated the figure that moved
across the close toward the door of Rockway House. But the door was
closed securely; the figure pressed against it but could not get in.
Curious to know what was going on within, eager to find a particular
resident within, it began to wander around the house.
The terror had been as delicious as usual. Sister Hanala had
listened with fear and trembling and happy pleasure as other residents
had offered accounts of the ghosts and creatures and creepers that
played out their fates in dark places. She'd shivered and gasped and
realized that the good thing about spending the whole night gathered
together by the fire was that you weren't expected to retire to solitary
nightmares after hearing some of these tales. Having heard the several
of them, and having prepared one of her own earlier in the month, Hanala
also wanted to offer a story. It was the first time she'd volunteered to
tell a tale, so Anthony was surprised. She went to the telling chair
close to the fire, seated herself and then paused to set the story in
her own mind.
"Once, there was a sorceress named Ariel," she began.
"Personal history, we're going to get?" someone close by muttered.
But he was drowned out by Brothers Rupert, Martren, and Gorim who all
complained that they couldn't hear.
"Her voice is quite soft," Sister Anne admitted. She'd roused
herself from a nap to have a listen. "And that wind outside doesn't help
matters any. Hanala, can't you speak up any more?"
"I'm already shouting," Hanala replied.
"Call that shouting?" Brother Anselm declared loudly. "I'll show
you shouting!"
"You don't have to bellow," Rupert told him acidly. "I'm not as
deaf as all that."
"All right, everyone," Anthony interrupted, calling the assemblage
back to order. "Hanala's doing the best she can, so everyone'll just
have to gather in close and listen up as best they can. I don't suppose
anyone here can do anything about the wind?" he added facetiously.
"Well ..." Hanala thought about saying more, and suggesting that
she was fairly sure that she'd had *some* effect on the wind earlier in
the day. But the experiment then hadn't gone that well and she did have
a story to tell. She waited for people to rearrange themselves and then
tried again.
The visitor from Tygalt's Farm had been drifting irritatedly around
outside the house. Even with the noise of the rising gale, the voices of
the gathered residents were audible. The outbreaks of cheering and
occasional laughter were a painful magnet to the miserable outsider. The
long periods of time when a single voice was telling a tale and couldn't
quite be heard through the walls of the house also tantalized the
visitor. The creature pressed against an unyielding wall -- and then
heard Anthony issue the invitation to gather in close. At the same time,
the green wood on the fire, which Brother Muskrat had been managing
before he nodded off, ran out. Pleased to have an invitation and the
means to accept it, the visitor flowed up the side of Rockway House and
down the chimney. From the fireplace, the visitor eased discreetly into
a corner while Hanala continued to tell a story about Ariel the
sorceress and the whispering wind.
The story, for those who were able to hear it, was well told. If it
featured a sometime resident of the House named Ariel who happened to be
off traveling at present, it was still entertaining even if it probably
hadn't *actually* happened to her. After the custom of the house, thanks
were voiced by the other residents when Hanala finished and yielded the
telling chair. Brother Anthony got up from his place and eased his way
forward.
"Is there anyone else who'd like to tell us a story?" he asked,
obviously expecting to get no affirmative answer.
In his dim corner, Brother Thibaud stirred. He wasn't alone back
there, he realized, and glanced over at the figure who was with him. He
frowned, not recognizing who it was. "Hey, um." Thibaud paused, feeling
awkward. He didn't know of any guests who were staying at the House at
the moment and was embarassed not to recognize a fellow resident.
Casting about for something to say, he asked "Do you want to tell a
story?"
"Me?" the other rasped.
"Sure," Brother Thibaud assured him. "If you haven't already told
your story and you want to, then now's the time to do it. Otherwise,
Brother Anthony there's going to fill up every mene between now and
dawn. I mean, he's good and all, but speak now or you'll have to hold
your peace for another whole year."
"Can't do that," the figure admitted. More loudly, his still-rough
voice declared, "I have a story to tell."
"Huh?" Brother Anthony was just getting comfortable in his chair.
"Who?"
"Me." The figure came forward into the firelight. "Your neighbor."
A shudder flowed across the room. The couple of residents who knew
what their reclusive neighbor looked like recognized a resemblance
between this person and that farmer. "Is that Tygalt?" Hanala heard one
brother mutter to another. But no other neighbors had come to visit
Rockway House this night. All had their own set customs and habits for
keeping the wandering evils at bay. How then had Tygalt come to be
present with them and how had he managed to go unnoticed all night?
Brother Anthony was vexed, of course. His time had started out on
the shortish side because of several good, though longish tales. Then,
Sister Hanala's story had taken him by surprise and chopped even further
into his final time. And now, there was this story. He tried to size up
Farmer Tygalt and guess whether the tale would be brief or rambling. He
guessed wrong.
"All right," Brother Anthony offered. "Have at the chair."
The dark figure of farmer Tygalt flowed into the center of the
group, gathered itself into the telling chair, and began to speak: "My
story," he said, "is about a man who had troubles and burdens heaped
upon him. While he grew up, always was he expected to behave perfectly
and nobly, ministering without fail to the needs of his parents and of
his lord. When his father twisted his knee, it was this boy who was
required to help him stand. When his mother fell sick, it was this boy
who was summoned to mop her fevered brow. When his lord needed to defend
the area from a fierce wolfpack, it was this boy who was required to
muck out the lord's stables while the lord's men were out on the hunt.
"When the boy grew older and the time came for him to take a wife,
his burden only increased. The wife he took only added to the demands on
this man, expecting him nightly to attend to her and keep off from her
frail shoulders the weight of the world's indifferent immensity. Always,
she seemed to be hacking away the sinews of this man's soul ..."
The story continued and, listening to it, Sister Hanala frowned. It
was a strange story and rather a longwinded one. And the attitude seemed
strangest of all, for the claim that the man it was about had suffered
great burdens and demands hardly seemed to match the examples this
Tygalt gave. What, Hanala wondered, was so burdensome about helping
one's father after an injury? Wasn't it instead a blessing simply to
have a father at all? And a wife who needed attention, where was the
burden in that? Surely, it wasn't these other people who were creating
burdens, but the man himself who chose to see everything in life as
wearisome.
And then Hanala noticed that the story was changing. She understood
it still, little as she cared for its viewpoint, but the syllables now
failed to make sense. The words cleaved the air harshly and seemed to
her to hurt her ears physically. And she couldn't understand them one by
one any more. But she still knew what the story meant. Incident was
being piled on incident and, through it all, this man was seeing
everything that happened to him as a travail to be complained of. It was
more and more of the same and the same and she wished it would stop.
Hanala glanced around the room. Everyone sat still while the
furious tale piled up. No-one else moved, not even an uncomfortable
fidgeting. Finally, she could stand it no longer. When the telling
Tygalt paused, apparently to take a breath, she asked, "But whose fault
is all this man's misery?"
Tygalt stopped. He looked straight at her. After letting the
gale-punctured silence thicken, he asked, "What did you say?"
"I asked," Hanala yelled, as loudly as she could. "Whose fault is
all this man's misery?" she continued in a more customary whisper.
"Whose fault?" Tygalt leaned back in his chair. He seemed to relax
some, but also seemed to look less like a neighborly farmer. "Whose
fault would *you* say it was?" he inquired.
"It seems to me that it's his own fault," Hanala said quietly.
"I'm not surprised," Tygalt said smugly. "Of course, you *would*
try to put the blame on him."
"*I* would?" Hanala cried out. "What do you mean, I would? Anyone
would. The man thought everything was a burden and it wasn't. Sometimes
you do really get burdened with troubles, but the examples you kept
giving -- "
"They're all your fault, you know."
"What are?"
"The man's travails." Tygalt rested his arms on the arms of the
chair. "They're all your fault."
"Mine?" She gaped at him. "How?"
"You know how. And he knows also." Tygalt grinned coldly. "He saw
you; he knows all about it."
"He saw me? When?" Hanala was on her feet, looking around the room,
trying to find some other listener who was as puzzled by Tygalt's claim
as she was. But everyone else was still and seemed only dimly lit by the
fire. "What did he see?" Hanala demanded of Tygalt. "What are you
talking about?"
"I'm talking about how you destroyed that man's life."
"But what did I do? I didn't do anything!"
"Don't give me that. He *knows* the truth."
"But that's not the truth. He's wrong. You're wrong -- "
Tygalt barked a short, mirthless laugh. "You're wasting your
breath, denying it," he said.
"But -- " Hanala clenched her fists in frustration, staring at the
horrible man who accused her so implacably and crazily of having done --
Actually, she wasn't sure exactly what he was accusing her of having
done. "All right," she said, with forced calm. "What is it, exactly that
I'm supposed to have done?"
"You know what you did."
"No I don't!" Hanala screamed, though the howling outside was still
about as loud. "What's your proof?!"
"Proof?" His elbows still on the arms of the chair, Tygalt clasped
his hands in front of him and stared at Hanala. "You want proof? You ask
me to tell you of evidence?"
"Yes."
He ignored her. "I give you truth and you ask for substantiation!
How pathetic you are, you eristic little witch." He stood up.
"But your so-called truth is wrong --" Hanala cut off that
argument. It was doing her no good. "That story you were telling, about
the man who knows the truth, that's your story, isn't it?"
"Of course it's my story. I'm telling it."
"No, I mean it's your own story, isn't it?"
Tygalt shrugged. "You'd know that already," he said. "You'd know
because it's all your fault."
"Yes, yes. So you've already said," Hanala said quickly. Her mind
raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. But also, she was
hoping that this was perhaps something like some of those peculiar
debates she'd gotten into with Martren. She started talking just to try
to keep the strange storyteller conversing. "And *you* know the truth
about the truth," she suggested. "But whether or not it's all my fault,
what are you going to do about it?"
"Consume you," Tygalt replied. His voice was calm, as if discussing
a plan for copying a three-volume manuscript. "I shall swallow you up in
choking flames of avenging justice."
"Well, that's clear enough," Hanala muttered, "except for the fact
that where there're choking flames there likely will be smoke --" She
stared at Tygalt, wondering about the possibilities in smoke. There was
a fair amount in the room, but that was to be expected. "You know, I
really do doubt that we truly invited you to come join our gathering --"
"It's too late to regret your lack of social graces," Tygalt
warned.
"That I'd call a tiger mewling over the mirror's teeth."
"Very well, then." Tygalt took a step toward the girl. "Prepare to
--"
"And now, you're becoming tiresome. Besides," Hanala continued
quickly, "I do not think you'd be advised to try to burn me."
"And why not?"
Hanala talked fast: "You want the truth? I'll assume you do. Let's
suppose that the truth is so and I am responsible for everything that
has happened to you. In that case, if you do burn me and I'm gone,
what'll become of you? You'll be nothing. With me, the source of all the
stuff in your life, absent, you'll be left in a void. Emptiness." She
tsked. "It won't be at all pleasant."
"It won't stay empty," Tygalt replied, but he sounded uncertain. "I
can fill my life -- "
"With what?" Hanala demanded. "Everything in your life I did to
you. That's your truth. It's all me. Take me away, consume me with your
righteous flame and what have you got left but solitary you?"
"Solitary me's not that bad." Tygalt sounded petulant.
"You don't believe that," Hanala declared, hoping it was so.
"Yes I do." Tygalt seemed to waver.
"Nope. You wouldn't be here if you did."
Tygalt's shape quivered around the edges, then steadied again.
"No," he decided. "That isn't how it is."
"But you said -- "
"The truth is that only *almost* everything that happened to me is
your fault," Tygalt declared. "So consuming you with sacred flame won't
isolate me completely. In fact, it'll heal me. I'll get well! I'll find
happiness! If I can just get rid of --"
"But you know that's not the truth," Hanala stormed. "You know what
the truth is: Everything that comes to you comes to you from me! That's
the axiom of your existence. Unrecantable. You know that, whether or not
you try to deny it now."
"But -- "
"I give you light -- "With a quick prayer to the Stephene for
comfort, she snapped her fingers, casting a simple spell. A glow sprang
up from her hand. She smiled and continued. "And I can take it away."
She shook her hand, the light died. All light died. That was more than
she'd expected, but she couldn't let herself worry about that then. In
the darkness she continued: "The very air that you breathe comes from
me," she claimed.
"No! That's --"
She ignored him. She had him adrift now, and not only that but her
small magicks were working and she didn't want to lose the thrill. "I
give it to you, but I can take it away -- or I can give you too much --
" With another prayer to the Stephene for support, she hazarded a
repetition of the experiment in the afternoon that had brought on that
gale. She summoned up serenity from the love of her god -- and held onto
it. She summoned up confidence from Tygalt's insane claim that
everything was her fault -- and held onto it. And she summoned skill
from the fact that her little light magics had just worked -- and held
onto that also. Then she pressed together the serenity, the confidence
and the skill -- and the wanting. A hurricane broke out.
The wind caught her up with a shriek -- she had no idea whose.
There might also have been another from Tygalt. She never knew. She
didn't need to know much except that her god did love her and that there
was more, much more, that she was connected to than Tygalt's little
everything. And that it was a true and good thing that Tygalt's private
universe was such a desolate place. She collided with nothing as the
hurricane threw and spun her across it. And, dizzyingly, it spun round
her and shrank from something very small into absolutely nothing at all.
Hanala heard a clattering of pots and pans, the noise that
traditionally greeted the dawn after a Night of Souls. Supposedly, it
warned the spirits who couldn't recognize the significance of a
brightening eastern sky that it was time to push along back to their
hideaways for another full year. It also served to rouse those who
couldn't last the vigil so that they could at least join in at the
celebratory morning meal. Hanala groaned and opened her eyes.
"Where's Tygalt?" she asked, but no-one could hear her. Brothers
and Sisters, armed with their weapons of clamor, were opening windows or
making for the doors in order to drive off the evil things more quickly.
Hanala got to her feet, expecting to feel bruised and battered
after the hurricane's mistreatment. But her body felt fine. Only her
mind felt abused. Behind all the clanging and banging, she thought she
heard a dog whine. The unhappy sound wasn't reproachful, though, simply
in need of help.
Hanala nodded and, following several brethren, trotted outside into
the crisp, calm, brightening air. Squinting her eyes at the rising sun,
she smiled and continued running toward the whining that she wondered if
she only could hear. It felt good to be alive and blameless.
========================================================================
Night's Touch
by Mark A. Murray
<mmurray@weir.net>
Dargon, Vibril, 1015
It was late afternoon in Dargon; the sun sank swiftly through
scattered clouds toward the horizon, and people hurried to get home to
the safety behind locked doors. The Night of Souls was soon to begin. It
was a night when ghosts and lost souls wandered the streets. People
without family gathered in the inns to drink and tell stories. Some
families even gathered in the inns; more people meant more safety.
A crowded inn meant long, hard working hours for the staff. This
eve, Eileen was one of the serving girls working at the Inn of the
Golden Lion. Even though she had started working early in the morning,
she would continue working well into the night, possibly until the sun
rose. In the brief periods of rest, she wondered about her son, Matthew.
Her friend and roommate, Rachel, was at home watching Matthew, and his
friend Ben. The two boys were spending the Night of Souls together.
"We should get home," Ben said as he walked down Traders Avenue
beside his best friend, Matthew. "It's almost dark."
"Are you afraid?" Matthew teased.
"No!" Ben replied emphatically. "Are you?"
"No. I'd like to see a wandering spirit. What do you think they
look like?"
"I don't know," Ben said while dragging a stick along the ground.
"Rachel said that they are all different. Some are good and some are
bad."
"Think there'll be dragon spirits wandering around?" Matthew
stopped and asked.
"Are there dragon spirits?" Ben asked, stopping also. "I hope so!
That would be great to see a dragon. Well, as long as he couldn't hurt
us, that is."
"Can you see a dragon trying to bite us and his jaws just going
through us?" Matthew said, giggling.
"His great big old sharp teeth snapping shut around us," Ben
giggled. "Can you imagine the look on his face when he finds out he
can't eat us?"
"Yeah," Matthew said starting to laugh, "and his eyes as he looks
down to see us still here?" Ben crossed his eyes focusing on the end of
his nose, and Matthew broke out in laughter. The two boys continued on
down the street crossing their eyes and laughing.
As they turned onto Thockmarr Street, they noticed that it was
getting dark quickly now, and they hurried to reach home before Rachel
got mad at them for being out late.
"Race you home!" Matthew said as he started running.
"Not fair!" Ben said, running to catch up. Both boys were running
as fast as they could when a man yelled at them.
"Stop!" the man yelled. Matthew and Ben stopped and looked. "What
are you two running --?" Suddenly, a light blinded all three and cut off
the rest of his question. Blinded, the three didn't see the light
coalesce on Ben. Ben jerked as if struck by something, and the light
disappeared.
"What was that?" the man asked, rubbing his eyes. When his vision
started to return, he noticed the sun shining in his face. "Must have
been the sun coming out from behind the clouds," he thought. Looking
around, he saw the blurred outline of a child in front of him. "Who are
you?"
"A light," Matthew said as he, too, saw spots and blurs. "And my
name is Matthew." His vision cleared somewhat, and he turned to point to
Ben, but saw his friend lying on the ground. "Ben?"
The man looked at Ben and quickly kneeled next to him. He checked
for signs of breathing and saw that Ben's chest rose and fell slightly.
"Where do you live?"
"Just up the street," Matthew pointed.
"Show me the way," the man said as he picked Ben up. Matthew led
the man to his home.
"Rachel!" he yelled as he opened the door. "Ben got hurt!"
"What?" Rachel yelled. "Where --" she started to say, but stopped
as she saw Ben in the man's arms. "What happened?"
"I don't know," the man said. "The lads here were running down the
street and I thought maybe they were shadow boys up to no good. I yelled
for them to stop and when they did a light blinded me. I think it was
the last light of the sun before it disappeared behind the buildings.
When I could see again, the boy here was on the ground."
"Is he alright?" Matthew asked.
"I believe the boy just fainted," the man said.
"Put him on the bed," Rachel told him, pointing to a bed in another
room. "And who are you?"
"My name is Jerid Taishent, and I was on my way to Dargon Keep when
the boys ran past me. The rest you know."
"Their names are Matthew and Ben," she said. "Taishent? Are you
related to Dyann Taishent, the mage?"
"That's my father," Jerid replied.
"Is he going to be alright?" Matthew asked again, interrupting.
"He isn't bleeding and he doesn't have any bruises that I can see,"
Rachel said as she looked Ben over. "He's breathing slowly, but
steadily. Maybe he did just faint."
It was dark all around the figure. This darkness pervaded Gitoth's
sight and he raged against it. For an uncountable, black time, he had
raged against this darkness with all his might. While his body had died
long ago, his spirit had lived on.
It was his spirit that raged against this black prison. He fought
against the blackness and felt it weaken. And then, suddenly, he was
free.
Yet he soon found that he wasn't truly free. He was powerless
without a body.
He could feel other souls. Where there were other souls, there were
other bodies. He could almost taste the power. Not caring whom he
possessed, he asserted his strength of will to find the closest body.
The blackness gave way and he spotted someone in an isolated coastal
town.
He saw a man walking along a street. Gitoth's sprang to attack but
collided with something. It was a soul, but not the one he wanted.
"No!" he screamed silently, and the body he inhabited fainted from
his spiritual assault. He raged against the blackness again, until he
realized that this time it was only temporary. The boy, and it was a
boy's soul he inhabited, would wake soon. Settling into the body, he
probed mind and soul. Ben, the boy's name was Ben.
Reaching out to Ben's mind and soul, he slowly began to place
restraints. It wouldn't do to have Ben take control again at some
inopportune time. Although the process was tedious, he eventually gained
control.
"Ben?" Rachel asked when she saw Ben stir.
"I am not Ben," Ben mumbled as he woke.
"Are you okay?" Rachel asked. "Ben?"
"I am not Ben," Ben said sitting up. "I am Gitoth!"
"Ben," Rachel warned, "quit joking around."
"I told you I am not Ben!" Gitoth screamed in a high pitched boy's
voice. He cursed silently that he was stuck in a boy's body. "I am
Gitoth and if you do not show the proper respect, I will give you pain
like you have never felt before!"
"Quit fooling around, Ben," Matthew said. "She won't let us stay up
all night if you make her mad."
"Make her mad?" Gitoth screamed. "Make *her* mad? You should fear
*me*!" Gitoth jumped up from the bed to land on the floor beside Rachel.
He pointed a finger at her while his brows crinkled.
"You look funny," Matthew giggled.
"And what? I'm supposed to be in pain, now?" Rachel asked.
"Although you do look funny," she added, giggling too.
"Stop it!" Gitoth shouted.
"Now listen! You stop yelling!" Rachel scolded. "Either keep your
voice down, or I'll make you sit on the bed." She turned back to Jerid.
"Thank you for bringing Ben here. Most people wouldn't have bothered.
Would you like some tea?"
"Don't ignore me!" Gitoth yelled. Rachel whirled around and slapped
Gitoth in the mouth.
"I told you not to yell again!" she yelled. "Get back on that bed
and stay there until I tell you otherwise!"
"How *dare* you speak to me that way!" Gitoth said in a lower
voice. He cursed silently again at the ingrained behavior of the boy.
The boy's behavior was so intertwined with the body that the body obeyed
this woman's commands. A slight ripple of fear ran through Ben and
Gitoth, as Ben's soul cringed at being punished. Gitoth crawled up on
the bed. "I will have you flayed alive --"
"Enough!" Rachel barked. "I don't want to hear another sound out of
you." Turning, she left Gitoth to sit on the bed in silence. Gitoth
cursed internally at the predicament he found himself in. He couldn't
stop the boy's behavior, he couldn't just kill the boy's soul, and this
situation wasn't much better than the prison he had just left.
Gathering his strength, Gitoth concentrated on moving his body to
the edge of the bed. Slowly he inched across the bed and put one leg
over the side.
"Put that leg back on the bed!" she ordered. His leg moved quickly
back up onto the bed.
"But I'm --" he began to whine.
"And no sound!" she said.
"-- Gitoth," he finished silently. He threw his hands up in the air
in frustration and plopped backwards onto the bed. His fists beat the
bed beside him, and he kicked his feet up and down. "I am Gitoth!" he
screamed silently. After a moment, he realized just how childish his
actions were, and it made him kick the bed again in frustration. "I'm in
a child's body, so why not use that to my advantage?" he thought
suddenly.
"Can I get up if I promise not to yell and be good?" Gitoth asked.
"I'll think about it," she replied.
"I *said* I'd be good!" Gitoth said loudly.
"I said no yelling!" Rachel shouted back. "Now be quiet and stay on
that bed!" Gitoth threw another fit on the bed before he remembered that
his earlier spell had not worked. She should have been writhing in pain
when he cast that spell, but instead she had punished *him*. He decided
that it was worth another look at this Ben's soul to see what exactly
was there.
He probed Ben's soul as it tried to get away from him. Being
connected to the body, it did not have anywhere to run to. Gitoth's
skill and power made it easy for him to find the answers he searched
for.
"This boy is magically inept," Gitoth fumed. "And his behavior is
so ingrained in body and soul that he fears retribution should he
disobey that damned woman. Will my cursed luck never end?" It took a few
moments before he realized someone was whispering Ben's name.
"Ben," Matthew whispered. "She says you've been on the bed long
enough. You can get up now if you'll be good."
"I'm allowed to get up?" Gitoth asked in disgust. In all his long
life, he had never needed permission to do anything. "This is going to
take some getting used to."
"What are you talking about Ben? What needs to get used to?"
"Never mind," Gitoth said, thinking about his situation. "Let's go
outside."
"We aren't allowed," Ben told him. Gitoth silently cursed -- in
three languages.
"I'm going outside anyway!" he replied.
"No, you are not," Rachel said, overhearing his words. "You will
stay inside and play with Matthew, or you can sit on that bed all
night."
"I can do whatever I want!" Gitoth fumed. He knew it was the wrong
thing to say as her expression changed and she stomped towards him. Fear
from Ben's soul spread and reached Gitoth. He ignored it and tried to
think of some way out of this situation, but it was too late. Rachel
grabbed his arm, spun him around and proceeded to whack his back and
rear with her hand. Pain lanced through his body, and he spasmed. Tears
started to run down his cheek.
"You can't do this!" he cried. "I'm Gitoth!"
"Well, whoever you want to be, you're going back on the bed and
staying there," she said as she tossed him on the bed.
Gitoth lay on the bed quietly as he raged internally at being
powerless.
He had never been in a position such as this, and he didn't like it
one bit.
"Magic," he thought. "I need magic to get me out of here. The boy's
soul may be magically inept, but I'm not. I'll find a way to use my
magic." Gitoth turned again to Ben's soul as he prodded, probed,
altered, and twisted it to suit his needs. Ben's soul fought back as
much as it could, but Gitoth was a master at what he did.
Bells passed as Gitoth worked. Rachel, Jerid, and Matthew sat in
the other room and talked the time away. Matthew would occasionally look
at Ben on the bed to see if he had moved, but he never did.
"He's never been like this," Matthew sighed.
"All boys go through periods of rebellious nature," Jerid said. "I
know my own daughter, Aimee, has been rebellious at times."
"Stevene help me if that's so," Rachel said. "I don't think I could
watch him for long if he's like that all the time. You don't think he
really could have gotten ..."
"Gotten what?" Jerid asked.
"You know ... gotten possessed," she whispered. Rachel looked Jerid
in the eyes, looked at Ben on the bed, and looked back at him.
"You really don't think ..." he started to say.
"No," they both said together. They looked at each other and
laughed. Another bell passed as the two of them talked. Jerid finally
decided to take his leave, and Rachel asked him to stay.
"It's not a night to wander around in," she told him.
"I've heard all the tales," he replied. "And I've not seen any
spirits or ghosts yet. It is a night just like any other."
"You're welcome to visit again," Rachel said, knowing he wouldn't
stay.
"I would like that," he told her. She walked him to the door and
watched him until he turned a corner out of sight. She shut and bolted
the door before going to the bed where Ben lay.
"Wake up," she said, shaking Ben.
"What?" Gitoth replied.
"If you promise to be good, I'll let you up to play with Matthew."
Gitoth studied her. His attempts at magic had all been failures. He
might as well play along with her until he thought of something.
"I promise," he said.
"Good," she said and went back into the other room to settle into a
chair with a cup of tea. She pulled a blanket over her legs and sipped
her tea as Ben got up off the bed.
Matthew brought over two sticks that were well worn and wanted him
to play war. Gitoth mentally sighed as he was forced to play a child's
game while he tried to think of a way out of this mess. After war,
Matthew wanted to play a game where he was a dragon and Ben was the
duchy's champion. As he played along with Matthew, he noticed that
Rachel was falling asleep.
If she went to sleep, he *could* sneak out the door. After all, she
didn't *say* anything about him not leaving the house. Matthew was the
one who said they couldn't, but Matthew wasn't in charge. He knew that
if he tried to leave while she was awake, she would stop him. But
asleep, she couldn't say anything. It was a technicality, Gitoth knew,
but one that would gain him his freedom. So he played the child's games
while he watched her fall asleep.
Finally, she was in the chair asleep. Now was his chance to escape,
and he moved to the door. Unlatching it, he threw it wide.
"Hey look!" Matthew said. "The sun's up! The Night of Souls is
over!"
"Night of Souls?" Gitoth thought as he stopped in the doorway.
"That is the reason I was able to free myself from prison?" Disgusted
with being in what he thought of as a second prison, he decided to leave
Ben's body and find another. He separated himself from the body and
surged upward into the sky.
As he broke completely away from Ben, he felt the tug of his
prison. Screaming, he searched for someone else to possess. Just then, a
great clanging and banging sounded as the residents of Dargon heralded
the end of the Night of Souls. Pots were thumped together, or against
doorways, to signify night was over and day had begun.
Gitoth could not concentrate with the clattering noise and gave up,
letting the pull of prison bring him back there. "There will be another
time," he thought.
"Huh," Ben said as his eyes focused on the morning sun. His blurry
vision quickly cleared, and he had to look away from the bright sun.
"What happened?"
"The Night of Souls is over, Ben," Matthew replied. "And you almost
ruined the whole night. I didn't think we were going to be able to stay
up or play at all with you acting bad."
"Acting bad?" Ben muttered. "I thought that was a dream. That
really happened?"
"Are you alright?"
"I don't know," Ben said, looking down into his hand. His palm
tingled, and he lifted it to look at it. A small ball of light formed in
his palm and glowed softly. He closed his hand over it, and it went
away. "I don't know ..."
========================================================================
On a Night Like This
by Jon Evans
<godling@mnsinc.com>
Vibril, 1016
It wasn't very dark, and the weather could hardly be described as
stormy. Still, the late Vibril weather of a riverside town could be
chill, and this night it was downright raw. The wind seemed to blow
through to the bone, and passing strangers held themselves bundled up
beneath their cloaks and coats. Andrew's hat nearly flew off in the wind
as he stepped into the Lazy Madame. He regretted that he had shaved his
beard, as the cold wind whipped at his face until his complexion was
ruddy.
The heady smell of burning tallow mixed with that of the soup
drifting in from the kitchen. It was enough to make Andrew even drowsier
than he already felt at the end of this long day. The tavern's only
customers were four individuals seated near the back, not the usual
crowd to which Kenneth's business was accustomed. All four patrons took
their warmth from the fireplace that popped and hissed with the sounds
of fresh wood burning.
Andrew stepped up to the bar, and sat at a stool. He nodded a
greeting to Sandy as she brought drinks to the other guests, and smiled
at Kenneth. "How 'bout some mead on this chill even?"
"Coming right up, sir," Kenneth said, smiling and winking to his
favorite customer. "How's business?"
"Still working the docks, for now. It's a long day, and the lifting
I do has a tithe all its own." Andrew placed his left hand at the base
of his spine and arched his back. "Still, can't complain about the
money." Andrew waved over to the small crowd of customers. "Speaking of
business, what's with yours, tonight. Scant pickings, isn't it?"
Just then, Sandy returned to the bar. "Night of Souls," she said.
"Everyone's home with their families."
Andrew chuckled. "Come on, Pumpkin, we're not kids anymore. Don't
try to scare me with wild tales. It's just a slow evening." Andrew
lifted his mead to his lips to drink, but Sandy stopped him.
"It's no joke, Slick. Night of Souls is real."
"You really believe all that? Pfah! I thought you had a better head
on you than that."
"Don't be laughing at my daughter, Andrew," Kenneth interjected. "I
raised her right and sound, and it's no joke. These few customers are
here tonight to keep each other company, and us, since we've no place to
go when the bar closes. We tell each other tales all night to keep
ourselves awake, and to remember the horrors that the dead can visit
upon the living on nights like this. And, of course, to chase away the
spirits at the dawn."
"You're chasing away spirits, all right," Andrew said. "Staying up
late nights drinking mead, you'll have to chase them away to recover!"
Sandy exchanged looks with Kenneth, and then returned to the table
of customers. Kenneth looked at Andrew. "Listen here, lad. Why else
would these people be here? George Kilgreen, a sergeant of the town
guard, has no family. Same with Smitty, the blacksmith. Old Kabula, the
widow. Tom McFarley. None of us has much of a family. And on the Night
of Souls, no one should be alone."
Andrew stared back at him. "You can't really expect me to still
believe all that, can you?"
Kenneth spoke up, including the rest of the tavern in his
conversation. "Then let me tell you a story," he said. The rest of the
patrons looked back at him. Several turned their chairs to face the bar.
"It won't be the last you'll hear, this night, nor the most gruesome.
You don't have to believe it, just listen to it. Because it was on a
night like this, that it happened, and right here in Port Sevlyn, about
twenty years back. The wind off the river was bitter, blowing the dead
leaves through the streets. The skies were overcast, blocking what
little warmth the sun provides this time of year. Old Man McCauley --
you know the old McCauley house up on the north hill? -- he came walking
in, looking like he'd been through a banshee drag ..."
The short old man stooped through the doorway, glancing quickly to
his left and right. When he reached the bar, he raised his head only
just enough to be heard above the low howl of the constantly blowing
wind outside.
"Give me something to warm my bones, Kenny." When he took his hat
off, his face -- usually the ruddy color of health -- was pale and
drawn. The lines on his face were like hand-carved grooves in the Duke's
chair.
"Stevene's blood!" I exclaimed. "What's happened to you? You look
like a banshee's gone and dragged you all the way down from your house
on the hill." I reached under the bar for a mug and a bottle of mead.
"This one's on the house."
As I poured the drink, I remember staring at the old man, wondering
what could have made him look so different in such a short time.
McCauley just sat there, watching the mead fill his mug. When I placed
it in front of the old man, he drank it down in one quaff. "More, then.
I've brought plenty of money with me, and I'll not leave until I've
spent it all." He reached into his pockets and produced several coins,
mostly minted pieces of silver, and spilled them onto the bar top.
"Something's coming after me, this night. And I want to be dead drunk
when it gets me."
I poured more mead, and McCauley lifted the glass to his lips
again. "It's the Night of Souls, Mr. McCauley. There's a lot of old
spirits out there, tonight. Stick around with us. We'll keep vigil with
you the whole night." I wanted to reassure him that he was safe with us,
you see.
The old man looked at me standing behind the bar. I had less than a
score summers in me. "There's nothing can be done about this one, boy. I
owe him. I'm going to let him take me, but not before I've had my fill."
He pushed his glass back toward me, and I began filling the glass again.
"You know my wife and I, we wanted children. The first three, they
didn't live. Healers told us my wife wouldn't probably survive a fourth
birthing, but some spiteful demon cursed her insides again, and she was
in labor for two days. Never heard such screaming from a woman. In the
end, everyone heard how the child died in the birthing. Martha,
thankfully, was spared."
I nodded, silently respectful of the old man's loss, and filled his
cup another time. It was well past sunset, and most of the customers had
gone home to be with their families for the Night of Souls. I didn't
have any family to speak of, but the man who owned the Lazy Madame,
Linus Tabbernathy, usually spent it with me. Linus was cooking the
evening meal in the kitchen, but would join me and the night's guests:
residents of the town who didnt have friends or family to share the
evening, but knew better than to spend it alone.
"But the truth is," he continued, "the demon-child didn't die in
the birthing. He lived. And I was ashamed of his surviving. I hated him
for living, when the other children had died. He wasn't a child I could
be proud of. He was twisted and deformed, obviously possessed by some
evil spirit. Constantly crying, and complaining. We hid the child in the
basement. We didn't want the townsfolk to know that he'd lived. I wanted
to kill it from the start, but Martha said no. It was her child -- the
only one that lived -- and nothing could convince her to spare us. I
should have killed it. Instead, we hid it in the cellar, where its
crying wouldn't be heard by passers-by."
He finished another drink. By this time, the color had returned to
his cheeks, or perhaps it was the glow of the lamplight reflecting off
his pale skin. I couldn't be certain, but the old man seemed to be
improving. Perhaps a bit off his main beam, from what he was saying. The
last time the midwife had gone to the McCauley's was almost ten years
earlier. To have hidden a child in the darkness for so long ... it
seemed inhuman.
"For years, we kept the demon-boy hidden. When he was six, we moved
him into the attic. Needed to have some sunlight after all, didn't he?
Well, he didn't walk so good. I told you he was deformed? His legs had
almost no muscle on them at all. His right arm ended at the wrist, with
no hand to speak of. His eyes were narrow slits, and his skin was almost
snow white. My wife kept nagging me, saying we needed to help the boy,
but it was no use. I knew he was beyond our help. What could we do for a
demon? But she nagged me. She kept at me until I couldn't sleep at
night.
"Finally, to make her happy, I decided to help the lad. My son.
Humph!" He sipped slowly out of his mug as he thought about it. "I
suppose I was a little mad, at that time. But the boy had no right hand,
and his left was twisted and almost useless. So, late one night, I got
an idea. I snuck up to his room and took him out back, to my forge. I
told him to shush, not that he understood a word I was saying. That I
was going to give him a new hand. One that would be more useful than
what he'd been born with. I fired up the forge and got it nice and hot."
He looked in my direction, but wasn't focusing on me. "Then I
heated a hook from an old oar lock, the type that you nail into the side
of the boat. When it was good and hot, I strapped the boy's arm to the
anvil and pounded the hook into his wrist."
I was in shock. "You ... pounded ..."
"You have to understand," McCauley said, "I needed to do something.
Anything had to be better than what he had! He screamed like a banshee,
and I tried to shut him up, but he wouldn't stop crying. So I hit him,
just once, in the back of the head, and he flopped over the anvil like a
sack." He cursed himself as he took another drink. "Would that I'd
killed the demon right there. But I only wanted to shut him up."
He had finished his drink, but continued trying to drink from the
mug, not realizing it was empty. I took it from him, poured more in, and
poured a glass for myself, as well.
"The missus, she wasn't happy with me. Wouldn't say a word. Things
got awful quiet around the house, after that. But I could constantly
hear the boy, tapping his hook against the wall in the attic. Day and
night. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. And Rinald, the cat that belonged
to the missus, always meowing, hating the noise. My wife kept Rinald
downstairs, away from the boy. She didn't trust him, anymore. He had an
angry look on his face, all the time. We brought a food tray up to his
room, every day, and he ate it. But every once in a while, he wouldnt
eat it -- he'd leave us the eaten carcass of some small animal, instead.
A rat, a mouse, or even a bird that had the misfortune of finding its
way into his room.
"Oh, the lad was evil, and we knew it. I told her again we had to
kill him, but the wife wouldn't let me. As much as she hated the boy,
she didn't want to kill our only child.
"Well, one day, the cat was missing. I told her I would go outside
to find it. She said she thought she heard it on the stairs, and went
up. I heard the upstairs door open, knew she was going into his room. I
told her not to go in, the cat was probably outside. Then I heard a soft
scream, and something heavy hit the floor above me. I raced to the
stairs, grabbed my cane along the way, and went up to his room."
My mouth was dry, and I quickly quaffed some of the mead. "What did
you see? Was your wife there?" McCauley also took a drink, then met my
gaze, again.
"Aye, it was her. And the cat. Rinald was hanging from a rope,
skinned and dripping onto the floor. The whole attic smelled of dead
animal and urine. And my wife was there, laying on the floor, face down.
I went to her, and rolled her over into my arms, and saw her eyes. There
was blood and brains seeping out one of the sockets. And when I looked
up, there was the bastard. Smiling for the first time in his life,
crooked, dirty teeth mocking me, narrow eyes glinting with mirth, and
Martha's eye stuck to his hook. He had enjoyed it. I screamed at him!
Asked him why! Of course, he didn't answer, just laughed at me. Little
bastard just kept laughing at me. Laughing at my pain, rejoicing in my
punishment. I couldn't stand it anymore. I hated him. I stood up. I took
my cane in both hands, and rapped him on the head with it. And again. I
still heard him laughing. I hit him again. And again. And still I heard
him laughing. For bells, all I heard was him laughing, and I just kept
trying to shut him up."
I stood with my jaw hanging open. I couldn't believe what I'd been
hearing.
McCauley reached over for the bottle of mead, and poured himself
another drink. "I couldn't stop him from laughing. Realized that all the
canes in the world wouldn't stop him from laughing, that I could keep
slamming my cane into his skull, and still he would be laughing." He
drank the mead down, and looked toward the door. "I can hear him, still.
Won't be long, now."
"McCauley stood up," Kenneth said to the room. "He was a little
unstable from the drink you see, and said he had to get going. I
suggested he stay here with us, but he wouldn't hear of it. Said his
wife was expecting him.
"Well, that relieved me to no end. He was playing a joke, you see.
On me! Telling me this big story on the Night of Souls. I started to
laugh as he walked toward the door, and he turned and looked at me with
a wild look. I'll never forget it: his eyes were wide with surprise and
his mouth was twisted into a weird grin. And then he rushed out of the
bar."
Andrew looked around the tavern. Old Kabula and George Kilgreen
were nodding in agreement -- they'd been there, that night. He sipped
his mead, and let Kenneth tell the rest of his tale.
"He wasn't out the door a few moments when we all heard this
hideous laughter ... like a little boy's, but not sweet. Malicious, more
like. Then this bone-crunching sound," Kenneth cracked the knuckles on
his left hand, "and then just the wind blowing. Not one of us went out
there all night. In the morning, they found his body back on the hill,
outside his house, broken and twisted. His wife and child were up in his
house, just like he said. Boy had his skull broken in."
"And?" Andrew asked.
"And, what?" Kenneth replied. "Since then, no one goes up to the
McCauley place. And when the wind is blowing on a night like this, you
can sometimes hear the laughter."
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