Into the Raging Mountains Read online

  “I do say, Madam, have you no curiosity? This is a singular occasion and you must indulge yourself with a taste of the deep north. One never knows when you may get the chance to do so again. ‘Tis such a delicacy. Come, come, at least enjoy the succulent sample?”

  Imposing himself sinuously upon her attention, he motioned her to follow him, leading her away from her captured prey. Reluctantly, she nodded to One and Two, and followed the insistent innkeeper. The thugs squeezed so tightly on Ilion’s ribcage that almost all breath left, not to be easily returned. In the corner of his vision, she stood talking with the innkeep and a few other lingering customers who were trying to get a second free sample.

  Ilion did not squander the moment to think while she enjoyed a bite of the delicacy. He took his one chance to maneuver. Clutching the staff, he closed his eyes and gathered in, looking for an answer to his predicament. There was a small mix of desperation in his silent prayers to anything or anyone who could save him and somehow make the situation right itself.

  As he focused inward, on the farthest edge of his awareness he could feel the emergence of a minuscule opening, for lack of a better term to describe it. This perception was completely new to his experience. It was as if there were a keyhole burrowed into his meditative state, a tear in the canvas of awareness that allowed him to glimpse a vast realm of knowledge and light, as if he weren’t alone anymore, even within himself. Right at the edge of his rational thought bloomed a bud of exquisite beauty, its roots flowing out of the tiny hole and forming into the shape of a small flower.

  Under his internal gaze, each petal formed and grew. Every detail was defined, each part fitting into the others, forming a complete image. As the matured flower bloomed, each petal folded back, arching downward, still curled at the tips. In the midst of the flower seemed to be an energy that matched the sun itself at the brightness of midday. The sunlight and the power of its orb was so intense and yet it did not hurt his inner eyes to look upon it.

  His personal flaws stood as markings on his skin, plain as tattoos. He was revealed in his basest nature. Yet, he was not uncomfortable. A distilled drop of pure knowledge was suspended from the middle of the flower’s center, translucent as water. Lit with power, it hung there, floating in the abyss of the middle of his gathering. There was no time or location to the moment.

  Contemplating the vision as he perceived it, knowing he saw only part of the gift, Ilion chose his path, the only one offered to him. Reaching his hand as far to his side as possible within his meditation, the captive reached for the flower of light and felt it living, pulsing with a caught rabbit’s heartbeat in his grasp. With a gentle pressure on the stem, he plucked the flower as it glowed full of its splendid beauty. Lifting from the very side of his vision, Ilion brought the dream petals to his face.

  They filled his perception, each a vein of power, each part of the puzzle. The faintest hint of perfume followed its arrival, a scent that was indescribable and completely desirous. Ilion breathed in deeply, both within his meditation and physically. He breathed in the scent of the flower and the translucent drop of light. It permeated him, glowing but a moment and then the light ceased.

  Ilion’s conscious awareness of the physical world around him returned. Perhaps a blink of an eye had passed. Not much longer. He was certain it had been a true gift he had just received, although he had no idea who had sent him the flower. He found he was still attached to the wall by the brute force of the thugs’ physical might. Stuck like a fly in dried molasses, certain to suffer a very unpleasant end. Smashed against the wall, there he waited for the gifted power to manifest, to emerge and somehow save him.

  The Green Lady finished her sample and with much politeness managed to finally peel herself away from the obsequious innkeeper’s fawning. She had not once glanced in Ilion’s direction since tasking One and Two to guard their prize. Turning away from the man, she looked back to her guards and furrowed her brow, slightly confused. Shading her eyes from the bright sun, staring at them, she looked suddenly worried. As she walked and then jogged and then ran to her hired helpers, panic seemed to blossom on her cheeks. Panic, and rage?

  “Where is he! Where is he!” she demanded, screaming. “You have let him go! Where is the thief?”

  One looked at Two as if to say with a glance that apparently all women were a bit eccentric. He tightened his grip on Ilion’s wretched arm, clamping down enough that all blood flow to his fingertips stopped.

  One objected, “Are you confused? The man is right here. We haven’t moved since you stepped over to eat a bit with the pesky innkeeper. We have not failed in our bonded duty to you. We hold him ready for you to judge and deal with, as you like.”

  Looking a slight bit strained, the Green Lady snapped, “An awful lot of good the two of you are. I could have easily kept him under my own power. Can you at least tell me where he is? Did he re-enter the inn?” Searching the ground for footprints, her eyes saw every detail of the buildings, the yard and the road beyond. She searched the landscape for a man who stood right in front of her, still pinned to the wall.

  “I tell you, Madam, we have not failed in our charge. The thief is right here!” And with that, he dramatically emphasized the last words of his protest by pulling Ilion’s shoulder almost out-of-socket and throwing him to the ground in front of them. “See? Right here. Now, no more joking. Let’s be about our business and my brother and I can collect our well-earned wages and bonuses.”

  Relieved at his release from the confinement of the wall and sweaty captors, Ilion caught himself falling and managed to land with one knee planted. His free arm still held the staff. He crouched dazedly, almost as if he intentionally knelt in front of the Green Lady. In his mind, the image of the flower flickered for just a moment and then returned in full brightness as he waited for the orders for punishment. He was not certain if it would be a terrible beating or impending death, nor how to alter the outcome either way.

  Two looked confused. Looking at One, he said bluntly, “Where is the captive?”

  One was incredulous. “Right here. What is wrong with you two, anyway?” With a growing scowl creasing his hairline, he looked at his partner and continued, “Is this some kind of prank to tease me about? Like the ghost woman in the mountains you kept saying you saw last season? Now you gonna pretend that the prisoner isn’t sitting right here?” With that remark, he looked down finally at his captive, still imprisoned in his powerful hand.

  As wonder dawned in One’s eyes, Ilion yanked his remaining captive arm as hard as he could down and away from the fearsome grip. In the same movement, he viciously stabbed the end of the staff into an obliging knee cap. A distinct pop was heard followed by an intense scream of pain. Chaos ensued.

  The howl of deep agony resounded around the partially empty courtyard and echoed off the building structures. Like a fancy invitation to a scandalous wedding, the noise garnered instant attention. The customers of the inn not already outside poured out of their rooms and dropped their current activities to discover the source of the scream. Thug Number One clutched his knee in misery, unable to even speak.

  The Green Lady stood there, shocked. To her eyes, her hired incompetents had stood like idiots after losing her prize, and then spoken a jumble of insubordinate talk, and now one of them had fallen down and was moaning on the ground. Two seemed flabbergasted initially and then knelt on the dirt to check on his partner. Little patience was left in her for this kind of theatrical exhibition.

  Expertly scanning the yard, rooftops, and plowed under fields, she could see no trace of the cunning weasel Ilion. Duplicitous as always, no man was as good as his word in her experience. How would he be any different? All of his exaggerated protestations about his innocence and such, all just another example of the conniving nature of men.

  Turning to her uninjured hireling, she said. “Well, you have good and lost him, then. Leave the useless one here to recuperate. We must spread out to locate the trail Ilion left in his hurry t
o escape. You search behind the barn and into the fields beyond. I will go opposite.”

  With a look of disgust, she stormed off. Nodding his compliance, Two stood up. Whispering something guttural and brief to his companion, he left the incapacitated man. With piercing eyes, he searched the immediate area and headed off to the barn to search Ilion’s abandoned quarters and the back areas.

  One continued to lay on the ground holding his smashed knee. Some of the gawking bystanders were shoved aside by the innkeeper, who brought some stout sticks, rope and cloth. Kneeling by the injured man, the proprietor expertly bound the leg top to bottom in a sturdy brace. Then he instructed four stout men standing off to one side speculating to load up the injured man and bring him into the common room. Initially, they resisted his request and showed no inclination to help a stranger. The shrewd innkeep then sweetened the required assistance with an offer of another free sampling of the incredible jelly.

  Suddenly bright eagerness bloomed on their faces.

  *

  Chapter Nine

  At the Edge of Sight

  From the mists of memory, she was called the Roach. So fast did she disappear when the lights shone, so furtive was her thorough scavenging, that most people figured she had something to do with the insects in her very bones.

  It wasn’t that she lurked around in any sinister way. She simply came where the dropped, discarded, and partially rotten food was left. Never speaking a word, she scuttled in and out, accepting help from no person, and saying no thanks in return. A frequenter of garbage piles and refuse dumps, she wore an odd collection of dull-black rags assembled from many, many overlaying pieces. The torn bits of her clothes left behind were not unlike the sloughing of outer skin by certain iridescent-green beetles of the far south.

  Like a roach, she cannily avoided direct contact, and her activity out of sight was largely ignored. Every villager had seen her scuttling at the edge of visibility, carrying off her pilfered treasures and scraps of food. When people saw imagined shadows in the doorway, they attributed it to the Roach. Adults did not fear her, for she was harmless.

  But when exhausted parents had run out of bribes and threats against rear ends and lost privileges of their impish, misbehaving children, they were not above offering the cautionary fable of Sneaking Roach around the after-dinner fire to instill fear and obedience. Supposedly a moral tale about the protection of good behavior from bad ends, in the simple minds of many little ones, Sneaking Roach became the greatest of childhood fears. Because as they understood the story, Roach did not just take discarded foods and things, but would take them away as well. Then they would be forced to live like her, scurrying in the shadows, ignored by all, alone in the world, and worst of all, abandoned by their parents.

  Oblivious to her myth, Roach continued day in and day out on the bitter edge of society, never speaking, never acknowledged. If half the stories were true, Roach had always been a part of the village’s life. Her presence went back into the forgotten mists of memory. Her interactions, though minimal, were grudgingly allowed. If anything was misplaced or “borrowed permanently” by a neighbor, the disappearance was always attributed to Roach and her raids.

  She went on scavenging, regardless of the stories, ill wishes, and ignorance. She went on surviving. Every day she performed the same tasks: to feed, to clothe, to protect, to breathe. Every day had been the same, every rising sun until this one. Roach heard many things in her travels through the village’s back streets and false walls. She knew all the secret lives of the villagers, although she didn’t desire to know them personally, nor particularly care.

  The first time she realized a growing animosity towards her actual presence was almost too late to spare Roach’s life.

  Simmering under the conversations and polite interchanges between villagers was the constant and growing mystery of the Rat Thief. The evolving stories and speculations only increased the villagers’ apprehension of imminent danger. They began as a whole to notice the scurryings and scuttlings of Roach’s passing. Each time they heard the noises or saw the shadows move, they felt fear, rational and defensive. Then, they would see her scamper off or disappear into the shadows of walled walkways, and breathe a sigh of relief that it was only little Roach.

  The strain on their emotions began to grow as the mooncycle moved on and the vanishing rats, cats, and smaller animals brought on a deepening, darkening feeling, welling up from within their hearts and fed by the gossip of wives. They felt besieged. And in the midst of all their worries, Roach scampered in and out.

  Soon the general relief that was felt upon discovering that it was only Roach at the side of the doorway, in the window, and around the corner, became anger at the continuing false alarms. Irritation at Roach’s incursions moved to anger at her behavior and then to a general suspicion. Could all this uproar be Roach’s doing?

  No one bothered to look at the fact that Roach had always been with them, benign and skittish. All the fears of the little children’s imaginations took hold in the adults and spread throughout the village within a sunrise of church services. Roach was the Rat Thief. Roach was the problem.

  Rapidly, the consensus grew that Roach must be killed or driven out of the village, for the town’s safety. If Roach were gone, the Rat Thief would leave too.

  *

  She had been wondering lately, in the back of her mind, why the villagers were so scanty in their discards. When the little altars appeared next to the rubbish piles with dead rats laid on them, she was disgusted and fascinated at the same time. Roach knew everything about the villagers, everything except any threat of their direct anger. The recent offerings of rats seemed odd to Roach’s mind and offensive to her nose, but she gave the items little consideration and less thought as they were not edible nor would they keep her warm.

  With the growing cold coming each rise of the distant sun, Roach’s main concern was still the survival of every day. As the cold hard season came on, she had a constant need for more discarded clothing. Wrapping her feet repeatedly in rags and then dipping them in old grease meant some help from the icy feeling invading her toes. Her head was covered with five scarves tied together, binding her little remaining warmth inside her skin.

  The first time she was hit, she was stunned, like a child in confusion and wonder at the infliction of unexpected pain. Her wound was not deep physically but terrible in its pain of heart. She knew the boy that had hit her, she knew Cethel well. She had seen all his lurking and spying on the bakergirl.

  When he threw the wooden spoon at her disappearing back, it caused a shock of pain, arching her body forward. Roach fell to the ground and rolled. She scampered and ran away, not looking back.

  From a safe distance, she considered the boyman and his actions, watching him stride angrily across the enclosed yard of his parents’ house. Not particularly vindictive, nor given to taking note of any one person within the village, Roach’s survival instinct demanded she guard herself against that specific boy.

  The second time she was hit, she was still stunned. The growing confusion and pain of the maltreatment hurt more than the landed blow. With some amazement, Roach saw that the whip that hit her across her back, causing stinging pain, was held by a younger man of the sheepherding families. Clutching her pocketed, half-eaten apple in one hand, she had just walked away from the large feed piles when agony licked her retreating form. Puzzled and hurt, with a minor wound and a warning, she noted the danger of that place and moved on.

  The third time Roach was hit, she collapsed. Wiry but not significantly strong, she was brought down by the power-filled blow to her thigh. Even the air in her lungs deserted her. Only by a shallow intake of breath and turning away did she avoid the second murderous swing.

  She fled on her hands and knees, falling and limping. She dragged her injured body away from the sudden infliction of pain. Once she had fled far enough, she turned and hid behind a clump of bushes, the soft ground deeply hollowed out in the growing season fo
r a safe retreat. There, she watched the village, uncertain and afraid.

  *

  The men were coming. The monsters were streaming towards her. Drawn by the smell of the fresh pies, beckoning them from every nook and corner of the compound, without reservation the farmhands were compelled by their noses and grumbling stomachs and gladly followed the invitation to feed. Even though it was midday, even though there was always too much work at a farm to be done in any given daytime, they abandoned their assigned projects and came to the source of scrumptious, mouth-watering, spectacular smell.

  Alizarin watched them come. She knew the outcome and her options. She stood, courageous, calm, and collected, removing her works of culinary art one by one from the spacious oven. Each dish was placed, perfection in flaky crust and chosen ingredients, softly onto the sill of the window, where the breeze wandering by pushed the flavors even more strongly into the eddies of air.

  The summoned men gathered. The torment of the smell tickling their noses, making their tongues salivate, quickly caused a minor riot while they waited for the bubbling from within each pie to cease. The most eager, the most reckless, and daring hands simply could not wait any longer, and impulsively grabbed a knife and spatula. They cut up one pie into four steaming pieces, divvying the oozing juices. The men spooned the still bubbling, sweet, flaky, burning-hot pieces into their eager mouths.

  It was almost comical to watch them blow air across their tongues as they hopped up and down. Their faces reflected pleasure and pain, in equal portions.

  The rest were very amused by the show of greediness. Happily, they jeered the gluttons as the overeager dessert stealers waved their hands around and around, searching for relief for their burned tongues. The distressed men managed to find, and drain, large mugs of cooling water. After watching the pained delight of their comrades, the other farmhands did not have to be told to wait a bit longer for a sensible bite to eat.