The Woven End Page 26

  The Illess opened the door and walked out. Story followed. They took several hallways and turns before reaching the exit. The sharp wind slashed at Story's face. Red and orange dots flickered in the distance.

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The snow under their boots filled Story's ears. Even the wind, though active, seemed silent.

  The Ilians waited for her by Nat's cellar with hundreds of torches. It was no small cult hiding away in rubble, but a thriving faith of many, young and old.

  The darkness progressed quickly. The torches were blazing stars on a coal-gray sky of snow. They were waiting for her, and they would leave her there. She would be left alone with one—two— men, assuming there was a savior in that cellar. If the Guardian assigned to her failed to protect her from harm, she would be so far from the camp that no one would hear her scream or come to her aid.

  One day in this haven for believers and the only thing that brought her joy was a room with hot water. The barren wilderness of snow was a bad dream that she could not get out of.

  Story looked back at the camp. The dark, hole-in-the-sky, hulk of her new home, and the small, dark snow house mounds of the Guardians just beyond it, symbolized anything but the peace and contentment of home.

  She and the Illess were close enough to see the people, though most of their faces were buried deep within generously cut hoods.

  The Illess stopped and whispered an order, "Stay here."

  She continued to walk and join the crowd of onlookers. Story stood alone for a few moments before Hadate approached her and placed her hands on her shoulders.

  "This is the first step toward fulfilling your potential, girl," Hadate said, softly. "It is not to everyone that I say this. Do you understand what is expected of you tonight?"

  Story looked up at the darkened face within the red hood. She nodded her head slowly, hesitantly, then with confidence. Hadate gave her arms a gentle squeeze. She stood beside Story and turned to face the crowd. She lifted one pale arm to the sky, her fingers outstretched.

  "Our future sister!" She shouted.

  The brides did nothing, but the Guardians responded like a short crack of thunder, each thrusting a single fist into the air.

  "Stah!"

  Story recognized the Slytian word for 'Yes'.

  "Now go. We will watch as you descend. You may go as far down as you wish, but you are not to stand any higher than the third step from the bottom," Hadate said, giving Story a gentle push.

  Story walked through the trampled snow to stand at the mouth of the staircase. A snow lined moat surrounded the cellar—courtesty of Il's friends in their attempt to rescue Nat many years ago.

  Snow covered the first few stairs, but Story could not see beyond that. She stepped onto the first of the snow buried steps. Even in this cold, her palms sweated, and heat from somewhere inside her body blazed a trail up to her face. Her limbs tingled. Her knees buckled.

  She regained them.

  It's only darkness. There's no one down there, nothing in there, and nothing to fear from the darkness. Don't be a silly girl.

  Because they were only dusted with drifted snow, the next steps were easier. She took the next two or three steps. Hereafter, she was blind. She reached her hands out and touched the walls of the staircase on either side. Somehow, closing her eyes in darkness seemed better than walking into darkness wide-eyed. She stepped down until she felt that there were no more stairs. She stepped up three and sat down. She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face into her knees.

  She heard the swishing, crunching and quiet chattering of the Ilians leaving her alone. She took a deep breath and shuddered it out. The sound died out after several minutes. A man's voice called down to her, "Everyone else is gone. I'm here. Don't be afraid."

  The wind snatched some of his volume, but she could tell the man sounded kind, gentle and trustworthy compared to everything and everyone else. She regretted what she had to do. She had to. She had to.

  Home.

  She hadn’t resolved on this until the din of the quiet Ilians passed and she realized that the fight would be fair. She was as strong as any man, and she had his complete trust and forthcoming shock on her side.

  She stood to her feet and inched her way upward. Her eyes, open now, looked up toward the outside. It was very dark, but she made out the body of her Guardian in the charcoal gray moonlight. He stood only a few feet away and didn't seem to notice her. The last few steps would be the challenge. The crunching snow would give her away, no doubt.

  The man shifted on his feet and then, giving in to tiring legs, he sat down, wrapping his cloak around him.

  A weapon. He must have a weapon. They can't expect a man to fight a wolf with his teeth. He would keep a weapon on his waist or in his boot. It's best to break his hand. Flatten him to the ground and stomp them.

  She took the last few steps and threw herself on him before his head could turn to inspect the noise. She splayed him out, face down on the ground, and gave his head a good shove and grind into the icy, firm snow, muffling his initial protest. He lifted himself onto all fours, heaving her off his back and tried to stand. She stomped his right hand before he made it to his feet. He shrieked and grasped his wounded right hand with his left, but he was promptly tackled by the crazed female yet again.

  Her hood fell back, her dreadlocks splayed out from her head as she threw herself toward him and gave his face a good solid blow.

  He stretched his right hand. It hurt, but it wasn't broken. While she scrambled back to her feet in preparation to stomp his other hand, he grabbed her ankle with his screaming right hand and pulled her down. He clambered through the snow and straddled her on his knees, clamping his hands around her wrists. She managed to kick the back of his head, but now that he decided to treat her like the half-man she behaved as, she was manageable.

  She dare not make much noise, but she growled, fumed, and spat enough. Her energy was boundless.

  The Father would never understand or accept his excuse and she, like a woman, would feign innocence.

  He let go of her and jumped off and away in an effort to preserve his pertinent parts from female vengeance. She sprang to her feet and they began circling each other.

  "What do you think you're doing?" He asked.

  She grabbed a fist full of snow and threw it at his face and ran. He blinked it away and shrugged his shoulders.

  "Did she have to go and crush my hand to do that?" He muttered.

  He ran after her. He had longer legs than she and quickly overtook her. She heard him coming and dodged his grasp. He got a grip on her cloak sending her to a hard, sharp landing on her rear end. He pulled his knife out of his boot and stood, holding her cloak, waiting.

  "Let's be sensible," he said, breathless, turning the knife around and around in his hand, "You will die out here. Three days at the most. Most likely, as it is with all of us, you don't know the way home.”

  "It's an island," she answered with tremulous voice."This is my island. I will find the edge and go about it. My complex is not far from shore. I will know our fishing territory."

  He frowned thoughtfully.

  "That's reasonable, but it's still much colder than you're accustomed to. You have, I daresay, never had to feed yourself. Think on it."

  "I have hunted and fished. That is all I need to know."

  He huffed, frustrated. "Why are you doing this?"

  "Because this place is awful. I don't believe in Nat, and I am cold, alone, and friendless. What reason is there to stay?" She shed her cloak and stood to face him. The chill stilled her. She grasped her arms and shivered. He handed her cloak back to her.

  A wolf bayed at the dark moon, startling her as much as a baby's scream bursting out of the distant forests would.

  "We need to go back. Come. You may be able to fish and hunt, but no one stands up to the white wolf without numbers. A lone girl is nothing to one of those monsters."

  He was right. The white wolf was something she d
idn't think of in the frenzy of her emotions. She thought of survival and warmth, but not predatory animals. She wiped her eyes. He put his knife back into his boot.

  He was just a dark mass in the night, but he extended his gloved left hand out to her in the gesture of a protector offering the safety of his companionship. She took it. He plodded on through the snow, back to the cellar.

  "You'd think they'd let me have a torch at least, wouldn't you?" He grumbled as they approached."You should go back down there," he said. "When they say ‘dire consequences’ they mean dire. It is in your best interest to return and finish this initiation.”

  Story sniffled.

  “Again…" she groaned, looking toward the dark hole.

  "It's okay. There's nothing down there except for an immortal prince," he said with a laugh in his voice. "I'll walk you down.”

  A single, small drum sounded in her mind. She let the feeling go. They went down the stairs together.

  "There. Third stair up. You'll be just fine. I'll be right up there if you need me. I have to get back up there quickly, though. The Father will come to check on us frequently because I'm still in my initiation phase.”

  "What's your initiation?"

  "I have to be put in close contact with the females on a regular basis and control myself. My dad thinks I have a problem.” He chuckled.

  "Your…"

  No, it couldn't be. She wouldn't believe it.

  "What's your name?"

  "Creed. Yours?"

  She thrust her hand out and felt his face; that dreadful long nose, jutting chin, floppy hair, and wide set eyes. She would know it anywhere. How did she not hear the voice? See the form? She just didn’t expect to see or hear him here.

  "You!" She said.

  "Frosts woman! You've gouged my eye!"

  "Creed! Going to be a hunter are you? Apparently your dad's as insane as mine are, you arrogant prowler!”

  "Story?"

  She mimicked his voice stupidly, "Story?"

  “Oh, slap me. I'll suffer for this forever," he grumbled, stomping up the stairs.

  He sat down at the opening of the stairway.

  "I won't tell them you tried to beat me up," he called back.

  "You lied to me!" She called up the stairs.

  "Remember that revenge I said I'd get for the pop on my nose?"

  She said nothing.

  "Well, here you go, served on a platter of stupidity with some insanity and cluelessness for garnish. I didn't plan it this way. I'd nearly forgotten about it after getting whipped and thrown around for a few days."

  "Whipped? Thrown around?"

  "Oh, yes. The Father thought my dad's story about me reason enough to punish me at the start. Whip it out of me first before I work with the women. He didn't want to take me because of my supposed reputation but—you know my dad—he has a way with people."

  “Truth wouldn’t subject you to beating.”

  “Well, if the cause be great… the sacrifices must be greater.”

  Story was quiet. She looked around her in the darkness at nothing more than her thoughts. Then she answered, "What cause?”

  She heard him take a deep breath and sigh. He didn’t answer, and she didn’t feel like pushing. She was worn out.

  #

  "You didn't tell me she was here now. Why?"

  The blue-gold soul came close by the wine-gold.

  "Once you knew she was there, I was certain you would approach me," wine-gold said, standing up to face his visitor. “They came early. Hadate has something up her sleeve.”

  “What should I do, dad?”

  “Just do your best. Reality is preserved in the Great Soul’s mind. Even if humanity messes this up, you have to trust it to be merciful to humanity and release it again. This will require a great sacrifice on the Great Soul’s part… This is why it is better to prevent the Ilians from accomplishing their task.

  “I know that the Great Soul desires nothing more than humanity’s existence. It is full of love that is unrequited and long bottled up. It cannot express it through a human soul, it cannot find an outlet that is appropriate to the quantity it contains. It can express it through offering itself to birth life, instead of death.

  “Just remember, even if they succeed, there is still potential for something great. Trust the Great Soul’s wisdom. Have hope. Do your best.”

  Blue-gold stared at his father's soul. He turned his soul's awareness to the left where the unwitting soul of Story sat, shivering.

  Rich, warm, brown, glittering with flecks of silver and gold like the stars of the sky. Brief flashes of red, like a dying ember reacting to a breeze, surfaced from within her. Just beyond her, in the cellar, he could see… He shuddered and looked away.

  "Remember, Creed, I will be joining you very soon. I don’t know if that will help much, because Hadate and the Father don’t trust me, but I hope it will.”

  Blue-gold scoffed at this. "Well, Hadate trusted you enough to share a bed with you at least once!”

  "She's trusted a lot of men over the millennia, I’m just the one she hates, but can’t stand to stay away from," wine-gold said, laughing. "And it wasn't a bed it was a—"

  "Stars alive, I don't know want to know!"

  Wine-gold laughed heartily.

  Blue-gold gasped. "The Father—“

  "Go."

  #

  Shielded from the cold wind by a cloak of gray wolf pelts, the Father approached on silent feet. He looked Creed over with a suspicious glare.

  "Do you know the ways of the Sálverøld as your kin?"

  "I know something of it," Creed replied.

  "Your soul was absent. Where were you?"

  Creed swallowed hard and resisted the urge to look at his feet. "I went to see my father."

  "Hm," he said, with a nod and a dark rumble in his throat. "How is your charge fairing?"

  "Well. A little scared, but she's doing well."

  Angry, he spat as he shouted,"Frost bites! How can you know, when you weren't here?"

  “I am still in touch with my senses if I want to be. I can hear and see—"

  "You are better than you say if you have the ability to sense my physical presence while in the Sálverøld. I think you ought to check on your ward rather than justify your failures to me."

  "Story?" Creed called out, looking back over his shoulder.

  "Arrogant poop!"

  "She's just fine," Creed announced.

  "Expect a flaying tomorrow… for your absence."

  The Father left.

  He approached the camp, deliberating. Did this need to be addressed now? He didn’t feel like talking to her, but she should probably know. He wentered the Bridal Ward and walked into Hadate's room without knocking.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you brought Story?”

  Hadate was awake, but laying on her mat. She turned to look at him. “What do you mean? Who else was I going to bring?”

  “You don’t usually go to that complex first.”

  “Silly, you knew I was going to bring just her.”

  “I did? I think you imagine things, my dear. Don’t you think you’re being obvious?”

  “What do I care? I have it all in hand.”

  "He's planted that boy here for a reason besides ours," the Father whispered, pulling his hood back and crouching beside Hadate.

  Hadate sat up on her bed. "What do you mean? We wanted him here."

  "Yes, of course. But he is trained in weaving. There’s something…He's here to do something. I don't know what. I have wondered for a long while whether or not Truth has completely turned against us. We have not trusted him for awhile, but we still maintained the plan for your son and Story."

  She scowled. "My own son? You think he would turn my own son against me? You think he would completely turn against us? What could he possibly do? We get rid of Creed when the time comes. Until then, his presence is perfect. She’s just that kind of weak-minded person. I see it in her. Have no fear,
Cova."

  "Why wouldn’t he turn his son against you? He's never respected or cared for you. He's shown you nothing but the utmost disregard and contempt."

  Hadate rolled her eyes. "That's a façade, dear. I have made him my own. He wouldn't cause trouble. He's always acted contemptuous, but he likes what he g—“

  The Father whispered fiercely, "But nothing! I tell you, he's up to something. I wish I could understand what. I suspect he's rather certain he's made a conquest of you, my dear. He's abnormal, he's not like us, he's—"

  "Bah! He's just a man, and the basest of them, if you ask me. Frosts! You are certainly expressing yourself today! We would see it in his soul if he were something else. What else could he be? There are souls, spirits, and slytes. He has a physical manifestation, so he is not a slyte. His soul isn't even very complex."

  He stood up to pace, pointing his finger in the air and twitching his arm about, hoping to bump into the invisible answer.

  "But there are human souls, animal souls… There are different souls, and his…" He shook his finger in the air. Had it bumped into the answer? "I wonder if it is a part of something greater. Something like the slytes and the blackness, but—“

  "Why would you think such a silly thing? Go away. You're boring me," Hadate said. She laid down and closed her eyes.

  He turned his head to her abruptly, and he dared…

  "Have you ever looked at the spirits in the soil?"

  "No," she said flatly.

  "I did, long ago, before the snow took over. It's too hard to get through the snow and ice to see the soil now. There are so many components, organic and inorganic: rocks, worms, minerals… One day I crouched down and I looked. I pulled out the pieces for hours and sifted through them—"

  "It must be pleasant to have so much leisure time."

  "—and I created one small patch of nearly bare soil. Do you know what color it is? It's not brown, as it appears upon a cursory glance through the spirits on top of it. It is a deep, deep burgundy, shimmering with gold." He paused. "Like clabbeline wine. Like someone else we know."

  Hadate's eyes opened wide. Her short, sharp intake of air alerted the Father to piqued interest. He smiled.