Author note:
The happenings of this book are entirely fictional, and should not be regarded as reality. This story is a historical fiction, with a fictional location, and a fictional ethnicity and a lot of spice (as in added fantasy elements). So, whilst taking inspiration from 4th century economics, architecture and clothes, this book does not reflect real life politics nor circumstances. There’s also a lot of hyperbole and exaggeration in the evil spirit department.
————-
Help… so beautiful. I slowly lose control of my thoughts, when suddenly a pebble is thrown at the creature’s mouth. I glance behind me, finally regaining my composure, though still trapped, there on the river banks is an aged bearded man, his hair still brown instead of graying, but old enough to be in his thirties.
“I command thee in Jesus name, come out of the girl, thou unclean spirit.” The man beseech and suddenly the sound departs. The woman touches her face as though it is burning. Her eyes which had been closed since the beginning turning black.
She shrieks, her hand around me tightening. I can feel it burning. I trash about, wanting to be set free. Her lips tries to form yet another chant, but she is in way too much pain, too much oppression to try another one.
“You will regret this, exorcist.” The mermaid like creature answers.
“Begone!” The man commands again and pushes me back to reality, my own feet caught in the torrent, and my hands, my hands which I thought are free, are right in front of my eyes, nearly poking it.
I look around, no woman, no song, no fishtail, nothing but a… I shriek under the winter moon, there is a hoard of skeletons right next to me. Fully decayed, just one with flesh barely remaining. What is this place? I hum to myself. What is going on?
“Come here child,” the mysterious man outstretches his arm and pulls me out of the unnamed grave. It still does not feel real. If not for the drenching of my stola, the water still clinging to my legs, and the bones right in the river. I would not be able to believe it. What had just trespassed.
“What was that?” I ask, unable to fully hide my fear, my eyes stalk the river, then the grasses in the periphery, then the man in front of me. I have no weapon, no powers, none like the man in front of me, “Will she return?”
The man in front of me pulls me behind him, covering my sight of the bones, I can feel his deep sympathy for the victims, “No. Not for now. Child. Do you know the way home?”
The way home… The forest out here looks unrecognizable, but it should take no more than a dozen or two dozen minutes to return home. Still, the skies have gone dark, and the howls of the night creatures make it all the more unsettling. I shook my head defeatedly, not having the courage to go back alone. The exorcist did not get mad, instead crouching down.
“Alright, wait for me a little then we’ll go back together. Do you remember the name of the village?” The man asks, and though he had a somewhat fearsome beard, that Creonians such as my father did not bother having, he looks just as kind.
“The village name…” I rummage through my memories, the villagers here, barely use the name of the village, occasionally, only when we return from the nearby town, and see the sign on the village, so we remember the name they remember us by, what was it…? The name on the sign back then, “…cliffshore?”
“I see,” The man nodded lightly, before putting his mantle on the ground for me to sit on, “Wait here for a second and we can go after I bury the bones.”
“Bury- bury the bones?” I stutter out loud, unbelieving of the bravery of this man, “Aren’t you afraid, it would come back?”
The man merely laughs before entering into the water, gathering a handful of bones before digging the soil, one by one giving the body a proper burial. He says in confidence, “Why should I fear the dead when I have the living word of God?”
Ah, I finally realize this. This man must be a pastor, or an exorcist, or both. Otherwise, why is he so sure of his safety? My mind scatters to the pastor in my small village, no, they don’t feel the same?
I watch him bury the bodies one by one, when he is done, it is almost morning. Still, I do not dare to take a wink of sleep, not even under the susurration of the wild, or rather, because of it, I cannot sleep. It makes me feel like a prey, these creatures out deep in the forest of deciduous downy oaks and towering stone pines.
The rush of water makes me fearful, the song of tree frogs, the night eagle-owl’s low toned hooting, the shifting figures near us, possibly attracted by the fire the man started, it all just feeds my paranoia.
A figure rushes in the periphery, could it be a wolf? I clench my off white stola which has slowly begun to dry. Please. Please. Let me go home. Out of nowhere, something grabs my shoulder, I screech, hitting it only to realize it is an arm, the man’s arm.
“Woah there, you must’ve been afraid,” The man chuckles, massaging his arms, and suddenly, the strong, intimidating impression subsides, “Sorry child, shall we go?”
By the time we return to the village, my back has started to break out in cold sweat. Stallus! How could I have forgotten? I rush my steps, taking larger strides one by one, jumping over the puddles on the semi-wet, unpaved roads, until I find the familiar stone hut we call home.
“Pardon my humble abode,” I say before entering, it is still the same, the fire, still running through, though almost dissipating. It is calming, the familiarity of home. This earthy and rustic scent, which is combed by the slight scent of grass. The sound of the rain dropping on my thatched roof. The mustiness of these ancient stone walls.
My own home, though filled with the winter’s coldness. The winter that pervades since my parent’s departure. This rain that never ends. Despite all my want to quickly climb up into the loft where my brother is sleeping, I still seated the man first, in the wooden stool we used to sit in.
“Please sit here, I am sorry, but I must tend to my brother.” I explain.
That one climb above the ladder causes my world to spin. “Stallus?” I call out, he is still, so unnaturally still, he does not appear to be alive. “Stallus?!” I shake him, his body not cold, but feverish still. I notice, the blush on his cheeks, the breath still flaring out of his nostrils and sigh in relief.
Remembering it is time for his medicine, I climb down the same ladders nimbly. Only to be met by the stare of the man from earlier. The face of a man who had enemies. I abruptly stand a bit taller, when his face softens somewhat.
“Is your brother ill?” He asks, and I end up nodding.
“He has been ill for a couple of days.” I answer a bit at lost, when the man cues me forward, “Bring him to me, no… bring me to him.”
Comments (0)
See all