Pythian Games

A little bit of faery dust does go a long way. Me master makes me gather it, at the dawn of every day.

I am slow. I lack the rhythm that the High Court finds so fine. Yet I can catch these faeries with a bit of honeyed wine.

I set me traps out early, when the night rays start to fall. I toss in crusts of sugared bread, to appease the beasts I fears the most, kelpie queers, that leap about the loch.

Me master. He beats me. Uses a thick cord of birch I cut from a tree branch for me pa to use as a crutch after his leg was broke in that fall.

I dasn’t hurt the faeries, not even the uglier ones, the ones all covered in brown. Them don’t shines so much, but they sure do have plenty more dust. I has to shake them out over a pan. Sometimes I shake them senseless. But I always stand there and wait til they can at least get up, crawl back and away, back into the grasses.

There’s somes that knows me now. They throw things at me. Try to make me hide away. I am more afraid of me master than I am of any tricks they could try.

Others knows me troubles in this world. Theys knows I am a bit slow. They tries to help me. When they can. Helping catch the others. Sometimes more than one has offered up hisself to me for the prize his dust brings.

Guess thems the ones that seed the beatings himself gives to me should I fail to bring in the required amount.

Master calls on me ma to mix the potions up. I seen him beat her once.

That’s when me pa fell off his horse then. The horse died. I saw a great hole in his chest. I didn’t understand that. When I asked me ma about it, she stared at me awful hard before she smacked me good across me face. She ran away to cry into her apron, sitting facing the corner of the kitchen behind the stove. I don’t ask on it no more.

Pa don’t look nobody in the face no more. Since he lost that leg under that horse, one eye don’t work so well no more. I still don’t understand why, but I ain’t askin no more neither.

I watch ma make the potions. Lately himself has wanted something special, something sweet.

It is a bitter blue goo, thick in the pan, stinking to high heaven. It takes days and days to brew up each batch all on its own.

I watch her grind down herbs and herbs and plants and grasses. Sometimes she lets me follow when she goes to gather her goods out in the woods. Once she let me hold her knife and carve off bits of bark for her specials.

She grinds and peels and shreds this stuffs, dumping it into her special black pot that I’s not allowed to touch. I have to fetch up the waters for it too. Special waters that takes, from the well in the cave miles away. I am not allowed to stray too far from the farm, but when I fetch out these waters I am gone all the day long. I take with me the mule Hexa, to carry back the baskets full of sweet clear waters.

I dasn’t lay hands upon the waters once theys in the baskets, covered ups and over with the lids. I ties the lids on tight with the good rope me pa showed me how to strand up last winter. I never lose a drop. Ma says it’ll be more than me arse if I foul that up. Very clear she is on how I must do these things.

Ma pours in the waters little bits by bits. Uses her little silver cup. She sits and talks at it the whole while she makes it. I never hears for certain what it is she’s saying. Pa says she’s saying magic words, making the stuffs more powerful. Says I am to stay well away and let things be. Let ma work lest I get me hide tanned. I does what he says. I’m a bit slow. But I ain’ts stupid.

Ma says takes five days to make this stuff proper. Then she scrapes the bit of blue yuck into a leather pouch. Cinches it up tight she does before she hands it off to me. I gots to be the one who takes it to the Master. Usually to his workshop.

I hates that workshop. It smells of sour pig meat. Foul beans. Offal stench.

That’s where he keeps her. He does. My friend. Ariahn. She was so beautiful before he snatched her away into that workshop of his. Like a shiny goddess in the picture book ma has hid away wrapped up in white cloth. Such shiny red-brown hair. Such burning deep green eyes. Her skin so soft so white, like petals of roses floating on fresh creme. And she was clean. She was always so clean. And sweet-smelling. She smelled of the pasture hays and the wild flowers. She always smiled. Always. And laughed. All the time she was laughing she was. Sounded like bells ringing too. It did. She looked after me. She never turned from me after I got so slow. She never made fun of me. She always had time to stop and talk to me. She was so good to me. She is me cousin she. Me best friend.

Me they just beats. Himself just beats me. Beats and beats and beats. I am used to that.

Her he married he did. She was his pride and joy. Loved to show her off he did. What with all her skills and her talents.

I don’t know how it came to pass. One day he was all smiles to her. Then the Dark Man came. On his fine black horse. Then the world blacked out for us here. The Dark Man cometh. He stold away all our Sun.

Miss Ariahn. She bore the brunt of him. Had Master drag her off by the hair, that Dark Man did. Through the mud and the muck. Twas her screaming woke me up that night. I dasn’t go help her. All I could do was shake and watch. Pray she lived to see the new day.
It was near she didn’t. Those blood curdling screams of hers. Gods. They shake me in me boots every time I hear them. No day passes she ain’t made to scream now.

He beat her. He beat her and beat her and beat her. Worser than ever he beat me. But he never touched her face. Her pretty pretty face. He makes her sing some days. Loved to hear her sing for him, he did. Ma says she still sees he loves Ariahn. Says it still glows in his eyes. She says he’s the walking damned he is. I believes her.

I seen him many a day of late him leaves the workshop. Tears streaming down his face they are. But still he cannot quit himself. Lest the Dark man take to beating him. Taking away all his Power.

I gets to see her, when I take things into himself. I don’t know what he done or how he done it. I goes in and she is pressed tight up into the wall. I can sees clear the nails in her hands, in her wrists. There’s chains upon her. Wrapped tights around her throat. He keeps her in that fine red velvet dress she loved so much. The one she wore after theys was married. She wore it her first day her at the Node. It’s all soiled and in tatters it is now. Black with blood and muck. It’s tored loose and hanging above her waist. I dasn’t look there either. Himself has been cutting on her. I seen that too.

I has to go in there every morning, before anyone else stirs, and clean up all the messes in there. At first I tried to clean her up too. I tried so hard to wipe her face clean. Twas all covered with mud, smeared over. Only clear spots were where fell her tears.

Master beat me hard when he came in and found me trying to make her up tidy. I dasn’t try much, but I tries what I can. When no one is lookin.

He cut off all her hair. I smelt it all burning up one day. I dint know twas her hair til later after Master had gone to bed and I snuck in to feed her some. Master says I may give her water whens I’s there to muck up the floor. Naught but water he says. I am careful though. I takes her breads with sugars sweet. She smiles at me. She has no teeth anymore. I have to dips her breads in milk, soak them up soft and nice, and press them in between her lips. I have to force her to swallow it down. I see she wants to die, but I cannot help her there. She begs me so with her eyes. Never she says a word. Not one word. Still she smiles at me whenever she sees me. I makes her smiles I do. Just by me being there.

I knows he beats her hard. I know terrible things go on in theres. That evil evil shed. He keeps it too hot in the summer. In winter he allows no fire.

It was that evil Dark Man told himself about the faery eyes. Me ma she knows the old old ways. Pa says twas only a matter of time afore they fell upon her and set her to workin up the old stuffs.

The blue stuff goes into her eyes. Poor Miss Ariahn. I hears the Master screaming at her. All the time he’s screaming. Don’t look at me he shouts at her. Don’t look at me.

I seen him once. He grabbed out the bag from my hand and tore into it. He snatched up great gobs of the stuff and shoved it hard into her eyes. She screamed when it touched her. Screamed. Worse than befores. All the befores. So much worse. I got so scared I wet meself. Fell to the ground I did. There was sparks where that stuff hit her skin. Green sparks there was. Master he was screaming at her, screaming, the whole time. I nevers heard a word of it. Devils stuff, says I. I ran away. Took quite a beating the next day seeing as I hid out for a day and a night afore I could bear to go back. Himself beat me nearly dead. That after me pa beat me too.

Pa says he beat me trying to keep the Master from beating me. Tain’t do no good. Ma says she weren’t too sure she could patch me up. I don’t run away no more. I dasn’t try it. Me leg ain’t that good no more neither. Makes it hard to go anywhere. Always dragging on behind me it is now.

Poor poor Miss Ariahn. She’s doomed. As surely as the rest of us is here on this plantation. But the Master claims she’ll outlive us all and be damned too for all eternity.

I believe him. That man is the devil. If the Master ain’t the devil then that Dark Man is. And that makes the Master the Devil’s right hand man. And us all slaves to them.

by Raven TK

http://breakonthroughtotheotherside.wordpress.com/

She wants to come out. I know she does. I can feel it. Like some alien egg about to hatch deep within my chest, eating its way out through my heart, ripping my soul to shreds as she goes. She is in there. Not even biding her time. Rocking back and forth gently, as she sets fire after fire within my mind, teasing me with images that never come to be. Her soft sibilant tongue caresses my inner ear, strokes my cheek when I am dazed. She prods me on with promises, things only she can deliver. Oh, gods saves me, it’s true. I need her. With such an overwhelming urge I think I may take the knife to my chest to let her out on my own, loving every rip and tear and bit of shredding flesh as it peels away from the fright that lives within me. She has created an altar for me, to torment me, to display the gifts she holds just beyond me reach, entreating me to give in, to sell what’s left of my soul. The air inside is so thick, heavy with scents, perfumes, incense, choking me, strangling me, as swiftly as her fist as it tightens at my throat, driving the breath from my lungs, stripping raw my throat, leaving me unable to cry, to cry out. I am nothing, nothing but a willing shell, a husk of a creature, so deep is my need for her, my addiction. She chants, songs full of magic works and spells, weaving scenes of such intimate detail, of such immense fortune, the waves of her songs beat against my veins, humming along in my blood. I am nothing, nothing, nothing at all. She has me, right where she wants me, and this we both know. I am hers, as much as she is mine. My Muse. My most powerful weapon. My eternal guise. I am her slave, and she is mine. I have no control; she has everything. I am blind, and deaf, and dumb, except to that which she would have me notice. She is the Voice from Up Above and From Down Below. She is the animation of my soul, making my body go. I am humbled and contrite. I have nothing to give her, except the knife, which leads her yet again to the space of white called my empty page.

by Raven TK

She closed her eyes, pretending that it wasn’t just sitting there in front of her. It was such a small thing. A tiny, little silver thing, much like any other acorn, except for the colour, it could have fallen from any oak tree at all, fallen at her feet. Her father would be angry if she touched it. This she knew. It was a gift to her mother. This she knew. Her mother had thrown it over her shoulder with a laugh, saying should it grow then the tree would have no rival in the kingdom. Her father had laughed as well, muttering something about the power held within such a tiny thing. The power of the thing seemed to glow, to glower, in front of her, imprinting its image on the inside of her eyelids, burning her soul with its brilliance.

Trilla could not think of why something so mundane, so earthy could hold her attention in this manner. She opened her eyes, admiring the way the sunlight bounced off the smooth edges of the thing. Her lips curled upwards in a smile. The scent of her mother’s lilacs wafted over her, enticing her to other games. Yet, Trilla could not help herself. There was just something about that silver acorn. Something she just had to see, had to know, for herself. With a wicked little smile, Trilla snatched up the silver acorn and ran off towards the hillside with it clutched tightly in her hand.

The acorn itself gave off a tremendous amount of heat, scalding Trilla’s palm, though she refused to release it. Trilla, as she continued over the hill and down the other side, wondered if that intense heat was the reason her mother had so glibly tossed it over her shoulder in the first place. It felt nearly as if there were a hole being burned right through the core of Trilla’s palm. But Trilla was determined. She held on, and pressed forward.

It did not take very long for Trilla to come to the weeping willow tree by the old miller’s pond. The tree’s branches swept over the ground, providing a nice covered space for Trilla to hide in. A timid breeze ruffled the thin branches, causing them to whisper together at Trilla’s arrival. Trill hid beneath the great tree, happy for the respite as she dropped the acorn to the soft ground, taking a seat beside. Trilla held her palm up in front of her eyes, expecting to see cracked reddened flesh. She was surprised to see a small black mark dead center on her palm, but nothing more than that. There was no pain. There was no sensation at all. And after all that burning, this for Trilla was a blessed relief.

Trilla stared expectantly at the acorn, for surely it was an enchanted thing. Why else would her mother have thrown it so and said such things? Her father was well-known for his love of all things magical. Could he have bought this from some traveling gypsy or wandering minstrel? What was it for? What did it do? Trilla was delighted. The thoughts and ideas that raced through her mind dazzled her. Trilla decided to be like Jack of Jack and the beanstalk. She decided that she would plant the acorn, that a great silver oak tree, overflowing with bounty and goodness would grow up overnight. She decided that this was a magnificent thing, that her mother and father would be so proud of her.

Quickly popping out from under the willow tree’s protective screening, Trilla began to scout about for the right place to bury the acorn. There, by the kelpie’s rock, next to the end of the pond, was the perfect place. Trilla quickly ran over to the rock, standing well clear of the water’s edge on the off-chance a kelpie should appear, and began to pry up grass and earth in order to prepare a burial place for the acorn. Once she had a deep enough hole, Trilla retrieved the acorn from beneath the willow. Before dropping the acorn into its new bed, Trilla pressed her lips to its side, blessing it, and herself as well. Then down went the acorn, plop went the dirt over it. And all was done.

Time passed. No tree grew. Trilla came every day with her watering can. Nothing ever sprouted. In time, Trilla gave up her ministrations and moved on to other things, dismissing the acorn as quickly as any child would do, in pursuit of other more potent games and challenges. She never noticed as the black spot on her hand shifted and changed. It moved deeper along her palm, onto her arm, slowly working its way up into her heart, where it lodged, a deep dark stone, a pit, where there then did it begin to grow.

Like skeletal fingers, fibers spread forth from the spot, probing itself into every vital organ and trail of blood. The spot itself became a heart, pumping and throbbing in its delight as response to its new home, its new host. Carefully, the spot, now creature, took form, mimicking its host with perfect exacting care. Delving into the innermost recesses of Trilla’s mind, feasting upon her soul, until little was left of her flesh but a husk. It was not a long process. Merely an hour of play. Trilla’s mother stood at the doorway to the courtyard, calling to Trilla, as supper was ready and again Trilla was late. The beast heard the mother calling, knew time was growing short. It drew in the last bit of sustenance. And then closed its eyes and went to sleep. The husk of its husk lay like a trampled mass upon the ground, but with nary a mark on her skin.

This is how then the sheepherder’s son found her, not minutes later. Trilla’s body lay pristine, if not a bit damp, as if she had fallen. The boy thought perhaps she had hit her head. He ran off to fetch her parents. Mother and father came running. Father so tenderly carried Trilla back to her home, to her silk-enshrouded bed. The doctor was called, but once he was there he could find nothing at all wrong. Trilla’s chest rose and fell, as if with the breath of life. Her skin was warm to the touch, not overly hot, not overly cold. She was no longer damp, not clammy or sweaty. She seemed as if to be asleep. Only sleeping. Perhaps she had bumped her head during her play, although none could find the tell-tale lump or bump or bruise. Her parents thought it best to allow the girl to sleep. The doctor would return in the morning, to see that all was well. The family then retired, returning to their daily activities.

The creature within Trilla stirred as the moon grew fat in the sky. All around in the house, the creatures who lived there were sleeping. Only the mice in the walls, scuttling here and there, did the creature here. At a calm sedate pace, the creature began to unfurl itself. First it secreted a clear liquid that smelt vaguely of tea roses. This liquid dissolved the husk completely. From the gelatinous mass arose a viscous writhing mass of tendrils and cords and vitals that came together with a snap. In the blink of an eye, in the quickly evaporating goo, there stood a beautiful bird, clad in blackly purpled feathers, from his head to his ruffled tail. His black feet scraped at the coverlet as he felt his life reassert itself in his veins, as veins became knit together inside him again. Emerald green eyes burned out of his sockets. With great aplumb, the bird with head crest arisen, flapped his great wings to help them dry enough that he might fly. His great black beak snapped open and shut a great many times, realigning repeatedly until it fit together perfectly. With one great cry, the bird took wing, dropping something as he lifted from the bed. He sailed swiftly from the room, seeking the way out. He dove into and through a marble wall, disappearing into it as if it were nothing at all, leaving behind a pale green vaporous trail along with the odious smell of sulfur.

The next morning, when Trilla’s mother went to check on her, there was no Trilla to be found. Not even a trace of the great bird’s dissolving gel. All that was ever found again was a silver acorn, and nothing more.

written by Raven TK

 http://ravensinthewritingdesk.wordpress.com/

What’s In A Name?

She awoke with a burning sensation in her chest. A deep unabiding pain that would not leave her alone. She had to have water. It was not allowed at this point, she knew, but that didn’t change anything. Salia began to cough, choking on thick discharge in her throat. She spat and coughed and spat some more. The old man did not take pity on her.

This was her third trip to the Hinterlands. This was her final trip to the Hinterlands. Twice before she had failed, and failed badly. Neither time had she taken the results of her Journeys well. The harder she was on herself for her failures, the more she took it out on those who came to her for her help. The more she treated her People badly, the more they treated her badly, until many of the People were avoiding her all together. So she had had to come again, like it or not. Yet with this time, this would be her last attempt; this would be her last chance to make an attempt. If she failed, she would not be permitted to try again. She would be cast out as the Medicine Maker of her People. She would lose all rank. She would be a pariah. She closed her eyes against the tears of shame and fear that rose like crystal bullets, locking them inside herself tightly, baring the shards as they carved their way through her heart.

She had come to the Old Man, begging him for help. He had refused at first, telling her she was too weak, too frail, too unclear, for him to help. She had stayed at the foot of his door for three days, begging, weeping, sobbing, keening, until the Old Man had relented. He had warned her that she would not like his way. That due to her failures in the past, he would have to take measures to ensure that he himself was protected, even as he exposed her to greater and greater risk before the Gods. She had agreed, blindly, pleading with the Old Man to do what he must and what he thought best in order to ensure she could return to her People as Blessed by the Gods as a True Medicine Maker. The Old Man simply harrumphed at her and spat dismally at the ground.

He had allowed her to take one night, to feed both body and spirit. She slept upon a pile of pine branches, her head cradled against her arms, dreaming pleasant dreams of riding the back of the Raven King as He traveled from one Land to the next. She was unprepared for the shock of the icy water being thrown on her back to awaken her before the sun had even begun to rise in the new day’s sky. With a shriek she was on her feet, shuddering in the abrupt cold, peeling her clothing off, trying to move nearer the fire. It took less than a second for her to realize there was no longer a fire. It had been tamped out before her rude awakening. The Old Man glared. ‘Disrobe.’ He ordered her. He tossed an old skin, battered, filled with holes and clots of dust, at her feet. ‘Put this over you.’ He walked away without a glance towards her to see if she obeyed. With great care, she removed her clothes, spreading them out on the ground to dry. She wrapped herself in the skin, finding it smelled of age, of mildew. She stood waiting, afraid, looking in the direction the Old Man had gone.

He came up upon her from behind, frightening her enough to cause her to yip and jump out of his grasp, when he touched her shoulder to alert her to his presence. Again, with a look of disgust, the Old Man shook his head. He gave a long tired sigh. ‘Leave everything.’ He commanded. ‘Follow me.’ Salia gave no thought to her food, her blankets, or anything else she had carried with her. The Old Man had a small pack on his shoulder. Why would she worry? With trepidation still churning in her heart, beating in her stomach, Salia followed the Old man, trusting him to see her through.

They walked many hours that day. The Old Man did not stop to break his fast. He did not offer her food. He did not give her information. There was no talking. He merely walked on at a steady even pace, forcing his way through dense brush as it came up. Salia was expected to do the same. As they walked alongside a stream, Salia stopped for one breath to gather water in her hand for a quick drink, but she did not linger long. She rushed to catch up with the Old Man.

Afternoon had long since burned away into the evening. Dusk was nigh now. Salia paid no heed to the tears as they fled the corners of her eyes, staining her cheeks with white lines as the dust of the day dripped away. They came upon a clearing, at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Great Canyon of the River Queen. Throughout the clearing were poles. Non-descript poles, standing there with no rhyme, no reason. Salia shook her head. Some were close to the cliff’s edge. Some were further away, closer to the edge of the forest. Some were closer to the wall of rocks on one side. Others were in the centre of the clearing. Off to one side was a small hut. It seemed empty, deserted.

The Old Man strode forward. ‘Choose.” He intoned. Salia cast him a quick look, before turning her attention to the poles. Plain undecorated poles. There were no carvings, no stories, no rings. Salia squared her shoulders and walked to the pole that spoke loudest to her. The Old Man grunted in approval. He had assumed she would simply pick the one closest to her, out of sheer lack of will power. But no, Salia had chosen the pole nearly at the cliff’s edge, one where the other poles were farther away in all directions. The one most bereft, most alone.

Salia stood behind her pole, looking out over the chasm before her, seeing the steep walls of pure white rock reflecting back the pink light of the setting sun, setting the wee river afire as they did so. The heights were dizzying. The view immense, and powerful. Salia shut her inner eyes, allowing the last vestiges of the setting sun to sear themselves upon her vision. The Old Man had come up upon her. He removed her old skin and cast it aside, as if with disdain. He began to chant heavily and lowly in the Ancient Tongue, as he sprinkled her with a pungent dust from his waist pouch. Salia was unsure whether he was blessing her or cursing her, and at this point in her life she wasn’t sure which would be of better use. She offered up her own prayers to her own Gods, beseeching blessings from Them. Then the Old Man set down his shoulder pack, chanting louder, deeper now, still using the Old Tongue, and drew forth a heavy rope, blackened in places from who knew what, coarse and thick. With this rope, the Old Man bound Salia to the pole, facing towards the river’s gorge. She did not struggle; she did not pull away. Although her body betrayed her with its trembles, with her weak knees unable to support her, the Old Man tied her firmly in an upright position. The Old Man tied her securely, without tying her over-tightly. The rope pulled her to the pole and held her firmly in place. After the last knot was secured, the Old Man spat at the base of the pole, thus ending his chanting. He then turned, though she could not see it, and walked away. She could hear his steps as he retreated, but nothing more. She passed within herself and sat there to wait.

So deep was her meditation that she did not hear the Old Man as he piled sticks and branches and pieces of wood dragged in from the forest to create a large pile in the center of the clearing. She did not notice how he piled a circle of stones around his wood piling. The first physical knowledge she received was that of the acrid smell of smoke as he lit the wood, setting fire to the pile, and letting it burn. The flames licked and lapped and devoured; the heat cast warmth against her pole, and against her body. Salia drifted back into herself again, letting go, always letting go. Just had she had the last two times.

It did not take her long to fall into a deep sleep, even in her current position. Dreams came to devour her, from the inside out. This time, again, they did not succeed.

Morning came. The Old Man did not. Salia watched the world unfold from her perch. The fire behind her smoldered still, more quietly and more sedately, but still it gave forth warmth.

Night fell. Salia did not sleep. Her fear was creeping in, on kittens soft paws, into her brain, scratching at her heart.

Another morning. No Old Man. The fire burned lower, but the warmth was still a comfort. Huge black birds began to flutter by with an increasing frequency. They did not stop. They did not pry. But they did not bring comfort.

Night fell again. The cold came then, as the fire grew dim and small, having eaten through the wood and the debris.

A new morning. More birds. This time they came closer. They were not ravens as Salia had hoped. No. They were vultures. Salia had no more tears to cry.

Moon rose. Moon fell. Sun rose. Sun fell.

The fire had turned to dust. Cold, lifeless, dust.

The night came again, freezing her bones.

Sun up. Sun burnt. Salia’s lips were black from burning. Her body cried. The coughing fit began.

There stood the Old Man. Relentless in his distance. Once she was done spitting and coughing, he came closer to her. He offered her a sip of bitter liquid. Not water. Not juice. Something …else. Had Salia been in her right mind she might have recognized the ingredients he fed her. But in her state, she had nothing left anymore. He looked into her eyes, gauging her health, her tenacity, her ability to continue. The Old Man may have found her lacking, but he deemed her fit enough to continue. He had brought with him fresh rope. He did not untie the first rope, now grown loose and unsupportive. He simply looped the second over the first and tightened it, cleaving her anew to the pole. He uttered not one word to her. He simply did his job, then he left, abandoning her to her task yet again.

Neither time before had she been roped to a pole. Neither time before had she gone so long without food, or water, or shelter, or human contact. She felt as if she were losing her mind. She felt lost, untouched, unholy. She felt, unworthy, unclean. She reaffirmed her vow to her Gods that she was here to prove her fitness for her position within the Tribe. Then she screamed, and screamed again, for sheer exhilaration and enjoyment of it.

Thunder crackled from within the cloud cover. A low booming shuddering sound that loosened Salia to her foundations. Lightening shot out, streaking from one cloud to the next. Fingertips like silver bullets prying the heavens open, releasing the torrent of rains. The sky turned black, the sun swallowed whole by the swollen clouds. Salia laughed in the face of the storm, laughed hysterically. Storms terrified her beyond her capacity for normal thought. If she could have run, she’d have been long gone. As it was she stood her ground, rain drops pelting her like stones. Lightning licking at her toes. Thunder slamming her back harder against her pole, her beloved sacred pole.

In the midst of the storm, the animals began to attack. Ones that Salia had thought she was only imagining. Those creatures who brought out the worst of Salia’s dread. Rats crawled up her legs, toes digging roughly into her flesh, to nestle in her hair, ripping out hank after hank to be used to swaddle their own dread naked babies. Snakes coiled around her arms, weaving in between her flesh and the rope, pulling tighter and tighter and tighter until there was no feeling left, until the sensation of the rope disappeared completely. Wild dogs came, ripping and nipping, tearing off small chunks of flesh before running. Wild cats yowled, frightening away the others, before zooming in to scratch and claw and shred. Vultures dove in, swooping to avoid claws, tearing out their fair share of flesh as well. A raven, her beloved raven, fell like a rock from the sky, snatched out her eye, and was gone before she knew what hit her.

The screaming had long ago stopped. The pain was so intense, so brittle, that Salia did more than give in; she moved past. She stood outside her own body, watching as animals large and small came to garner whatever bit and bite they could manage. Until there was nothing remaining but bits of broken bone and slush dripping down the pole, staining the rope. The rain trickled off, soon to be no more. There was nothing left of Salia. She stood there staring at her own ragged remains, and did nothing. Did nothing for the longest time.

Then, she took her step back, and turned to walk away, along the trail. The trail that went alongside the rock, through the rock. She hovered above the water-gored dirt, her feet remaining dry and clean. Her spirit sweetly sang as it moved along, right into the arms of the waiting bear. The Bear. Mother Bear. The Great Bear opened Her mouth wide and swallowed the wandering spirit of Salia whole in one big bite.

The world went dark. Salia became a memory. It was over.

The Old Man saw the young woman grow old before his eyes as he stood there. He knew the time to release her was coming, but he could not do it too soon, lest he break the magic that held her. Yet if he moved to release her too late, the magic would indeed devour her as surely as would any other wild animal. That long brown hair of hers rapidly changed to a silvery white in the span of the blink of his eye. Had he turned his head even for an instant he would have missed the way the colour evaporated from the tips and ran back towards her skull, as if fleeing. The woman did not move, did not twitch, did not moan nor make even the smallest sound. The Old Man saw the Bear Spirit engulf her. He saw Salia disappear inside. Now it was time. She must come to this world, Rebourn.

He walked towards her, his old hips and knees stiff with the cold of the wait. He cut her free from the ropes that bound her, throwing the bits out over the cliff’s edge as an offering to the River Queen so far below them.

He carried the woman, limp as rags, into the hut, where he had built her a soft bed of pine boughs covered over with the softest of deer skins that he possessed. He had set a clean set of robes on the ground before the bed earlier. He laid the woman on the bed, covering her in the skins, and then he left. He left a package of jerky atop her robes, along with a bladder of water leaning against them as well. That was the extent of his job. He walked away, returning to his own home, leaving the woman to recover on her own.

He was not close enough to hear the words that pulled Salia from her trance-like sleep: ‘My name,’ Salia rasped through torn shady lips, ‘is Asaytiadenia.’ Her eyes drifted open, revealing shimmering purple irises. ‘And I am Medico to my People.” The Old Man heard the howl of laughter, and then nothing more.

written by Raven TK

http://breakonthroughtotheotherside.wordpress.com/

          I had had to find some way to entice the little cretin into my parlor.  I had waited for the right sign, the right opportunity.  And there it was, an obsession with baked sweet potatoes, right in front of my eyes.

I had to figure out all the other details as well.  There was that pesky detail of getting rid of the body.  I wasn’t actually certain I could do that all on my own, but I knew someone who could help.  Bonnie.  She was always so good with those things.

          So I made a phone call, set up some hypothetical questions and got some interesting answers.  Bonnie also put forth several questions of her own, which led me to believe she might be needing some help of her own at some point.  I’ll have to let you know if that turns up anything at some point.

          Next I had to gather my materials.  Not actually as easy as it sounds.  I had to first locate the appropriate place in which to carry out my so-called dastardly deed.  I personally think I am a very civic-minded person and I was just doing my duty by getting rid of that horrible pest.  In our city, it was very unusual to find an abandoned building that has been abandoned.  Usually squatters took them over.  Heck, I can understand their point of view and everything, but right then, I just wanted them to move along and be gone.  It took me nearly a month to find one, one so dirty and broken-down that not even the homeless would look at it twice.  And it was in a terrible part of town, where even the dealers were afraid to be out for too long lest they be carried off and done away with in some manner.  The good thing about this place is no one sees nothing, never.  So when I started bringing in the bits and pieces I needed to construct my plan, no one saw a thing, nor remarked upon it in any way.  I was merely another shadow, meant to be ignored.

          Then I had to order the fish.  Can you believe it?  A huge town like this and no one had piranha to sell me.  It was another three weeks before the fish got here from this guy in Texas who sells them on ebay.  Only one of them was dead when that shipment got to me.  Why, if he shipped them same day delivery, and I paid another $300 extra to expedite everything, did it take the jerk three weeks to get me my fish?  I guess we won’t know that this time around.  But if this trick pays off, I may be paying him a visit real soon myself.

          Now, I had to go find the venomous twerp.  She was known to frequent a certain café, with this rough looking hulk of a boy.  He must have been her age, of course, but he looks like he was fed steroids his whole life.  Sheesh.  I had to get rid of him too.  But that was fine.  Any friend of hers definitely deserved to die.  My day came, my day to shine, when I saw them walking, him a step or two out of sync behind her.  I bebopped up to them, ignoring his warning growl when I got too close for my own good.

          I smiled, that gap-toothed grin my mother had always told me was just so darned cute.  ‘Hi, Shari.’ I chirped, as if I was one of the brainless masses who worshipped her.  She just eye-balled me maliciously, while her incredible hulking dolt simply cracked his big fat fingers one by one.  I didn’t wait for my cue, because I didn’t think there’d be one.  “I am having a party at my club house,’ I so deftly informed her, schmoozing innocence and charm, ‘and I wanted to know if you and your friend here would like to come.’  I batted my eyelashes sensually at the brute; my sister had always told me guys went for that like fish to a worm on a hook, whatever that meant.  Knuckles stopped cracking and he almost smiled at me.  I kept my focus on her evil highness though.  I am good.  ‘I know you love sweet potatoes, so my sister made a big batch in the oven this morning.  Just for you.’

          Her majesty had not yet spoken.  I was starting to sweat then.  I didn’t think she was going to fall for it.  Then all of a sudden, wham, she bit, and bit hard.  She was going down.  ‘Ok.’ Shari all but snapped.  ‘We were going to go out for a movie, but this sounds like fun.’  She looked me up and down, her eyes harsh and critical.  ‘Take us there now.’

          Those idiots followed me over to Brooke Street, with not a warning thought in their heads.  They stepped over the trash, through the boarded-up door.  They followed me right in.  They never knew what hit them.  The silenced nine mil took them both out.  I even felt sorry for the big lout.  It wasn’t really his fault he was so stupid, but I couldn’t leave him lying around to get me into any trouble.  So, he got shot.  Three in the chest.  Two in the head.  Not one problem there.

          Her I took my time with though.  How could I resist?  She had been the bane of my existence for so long now.  I tapped her twice in the chest, just enough to let her bleed.  She screamed.  Oh ye gods, did she scream.  But no one cared, least of all me.  On a street where gunfire was more common than children’s laughter, no one even looked up from what they were doing.  It didn’t take her long to see that either.  She didn’t completely shut up.  She blubbered.  She begged.  She pleaded.  She finally shut up after the last round hit her bulldog’s head.  Then those insane blue eyes tracked my every movement, never flinching, even when I brought out those yummy sweet potatoes, covered with melted butter and a hint of brown sugar, the way I knew she liked them. 

          I made her eat four of them, smearing it all over her tidy round face.  I took handfuls of it, rubbed it in her hair, all over her trendy new store-bought clothes.  I made sure to poke as much as I could down into those bullet holes too.  I didn’t bother to tie her up.  I shot out both her knees the second she started to try to get away.  Then I had to reload.  Switching out the clips was not all that hard, I tell you.  I felt so good, so strong, as I dragged that craven harridan by the hair over to what I had dubbed the pool of madness.  I had spent so much time throwing all my mad into the thing, it seemed a fitting name.  It was full of my nice sweet piranha, which I had spent some time training to hate the scent and the taste of sweet potato.  I picked her up, with too much difficulty, and dumped her in.  I didn’t even stand there to watch.  I had to take care of the bodyguard too.  Him I just could not get into the pool.  I could hardly even drag him.  So, I didn’t.  I just left him there.  Dogs or something would come and carry him off.  Or not.  I didn’t care a bit.

          As the fish snacked at their leisure, after that initial feeding frenzy died down a bit, I cleaned up all my mess, making sure there was no hint of me at all anywhere.  I had been so careful.   I knew I had.

          I walked off, without even looking back.  I am telling you now, because you don’t have anywhere to go and you won’t be telling any tales, not by the time I am done with you.  It feels good to relive things like that, every now and then.

          Now, as for you…good-night.

written by Raven TK

http://ravensinthewritingdesk.wordpress.com/