Eramane (19 page)
Authors: Frankie Ash
I want to give up. I offer myself to death and await release from the pain, but death does not come for me. What does come is a familiar face; it appears at my side. “Father?” I look at the figure, trying to gain a better focus. It
is
my father.. “Father, why are you here?”
I begin to panic; the thought of my father being harvested disturbs me beyond measure. My father does not belong here. He leans close to me and says, “I am not here, Eramane.” He places his forefinger on my heart. “I am
here
, my child. You must survive this; your mother and brother need you. We need you.” His soft whisper comforts me as he strokes my bloody hair. “Use your gift; you are very powerful. I love you, my child,” he says, kissing my forehead, and then vanishes into the nothingness.
Can I summon the power to escape this madness? Do I really have the strength to force these atrocities off me? Adikiah told me I had a gift too. I recall forcing the crack to widen; I remember Adikiah’s flesh cracking across its surface. Did I do that? I close my eyes and take in the pain. I tense my body and focus; my surroundings begin to quake, and the air ripples like water when a stone has been thrown into it. The ground or my body—I cannot differentiate—begins to tremble, and one at a time the souls cease their assaults on me. More violently the ground shakes, and then, in a swift exhalation, the souls flee from me.
Silence; there is no more shrieking and wailing—no more pain. Here I stand in the passage, alone. How do I get out of here? There must be a way. In all directions, there is only murky vastness. I have no choice but to walk until I find a way out, and that is what I do—walk. Hours pass, or eternity—who knows? I have not seen or heard anything; nothing accompanies me here. There are no doors. Doors … doors … then it occurs to me—doors! Adikiah can open the Gate; maybe I can too! I imagine myself exiting the Gate, freeing myself from this purgatory. I stare out into the black, and my vision tunnels, forming a soft white hole in front of me, and just that easily, I am sent soaring down the passage. Unfortunately, I did not take into account where the Gate would open, only that I wanted it to open, and I realize that I am falling from the heavens above. I close my eyes just before hitting the ground; it is not going to feel good.
The rain falls to the earth relentlessly. I lie motionless on the ground. My mouth is full of mud, for I cannot lift my head. Maybe I will die tonight. My body suffers greatly from wounds inflicted in the Gate. I feel immense pain, which is welcoming, since I have caused much pain for others. My face burns, and I am sure the gashes on my body are taking in as much mud as my mouth is. All I can taste is blood and wet earth. I am covered in my own fluids, gashed worse than a warrior who fought an entire army by himself and lost. My body trembles from the forceful impact of hitting the ground, and I know that I do not deserve to live.
“It Is She!”
DESPITE THE NOISE FROM THE
torrential rains, I can hear what sounds like an old boat hitting the rocks at the bottom of an ocean cliff. Past the sound comes the smell. It is the luring sweet smell of humans. I know they have to be near, for they smell strongly, even with mud in my nostrils. I hear the hard breathing, the sure sound of tired livestock; it is likely to be several horses pulling a cart. The source of the noise is drawing near. In the dark, with all the rain, the horses might trample me. Then I hear a voice.
“Whoa!” The driver of the wagon shouts to the horses. “There is someone in the road,” he yells. “I think it is her!” Another man steps down from the wagon, sinking ankle-deep into the mud. He approaches my defenseless body, leans down, and starts to roll me onto my back. The pain is agonizing, and I scream out, hoping he will cease moving my mutilated body. Then the man leans in close to get a good look at me. He is old, with long gray hair. His face is wrinkled and worn, and he has only one eye. The socket where his other eye should be is just skin and scars. “It is she!” He yells back to the man in the carriage, shouting above the rain. “Limearsy, I cannot lift her. You must get her onto the wagon. She will die if we do not hurry!”
The wagon driver jumps down off the wagon and lifts me from the mud. I cannot see him very well because of the muck that was forced into every orifice of my face, but I can tell he is strong, and if he were not helping me, then he would have been the one to end my life, out here, alone in the dark. The brawny Limearsy places me on the wagon, and the old, one-eyed man yells again above the rain, “We must give her the elixir!”
“I will give it to her, Derkumon,” says Limearsy, taking a small leather pouch from the one-eyed man. The young man holds my head up and pours a loathsome concoction down my throat. It is hot and bitter and not something I have ever tasted before. It has to be a healing mix, because even if someone wished to end their life, they would not drink this.
“It is down; let us be on our way,” orders Limearsy, and the old man grabs the reins, commanding the horses to move. Soon after I consume the bitter drink, I lose consciousness and leave my fate in the hands of the strangers.
Lightning cracks, waking me, and we pull up to a stone cottage surrounded by trees. Limearsy gently lifts me into his arms and carries me inside the stone house, into a room lit with a few candles. A stumpy woman with frazzled tufts of hair falling out of their pins scurries past Limearsy and turns down blankets so he can put me to bed.
“Oh, the poor child,” the housemaid exclaims, and they begin to look over the wounds on my body.
“What happened to you?” Limearsy asks, as though he expects me, lying almost dead, to answer him. Though I hear his words, I cannot respond to them. All I can do is remain at the mercy of these people.
“Who on earth could survive such an attack?” the woman asks herself before leaving the room for a washing vase.
Derkumon bursts into the room, his long, tawny cloak flowing behind him. “Derkumon, she needs more medicine; she suffers greatly,” Limearsy exclaims with concern. His concern seems peculiar. Why would a stranger feel concern for me? I am a horrible being, and it seems as if they know yet are undaunted by that. The housemaid returns with a washing vase and sets the warm water next to the bedside. She pulls up a stool and begins cleaning my gashes. The cloth soaks in my blood and colors the basin water red after its first rinse.
“I will have to change this a hundred times before she is properly cleaned,” she says.
“Let us go, my son. Maladine will clean her up and give her some more of your elixir,” says Derkumon, noticing Limearsy’s concern. “I am sure she will pull through, my son. She has made it this far; she will be all right,” Derkumon finishes. The old man grabs Limearsy’s hand and pats it as if to comfort him. He puts his hand on Limearsy’s back and escorts him out of the room. Derkumon glances at Maladine just before closing the door. “Take care of her Maladine. Stay with her throughout the night. If she wakes again, fetch me quickly. I do not want her leaving in the night.”
Eramane’s Search
IT IS MORNING. THE SUN
is beaming through an aperture above the bed I lie in. The light wakes me from my dreams of home, and the tightness and soreness of my body welcomes me back to my life now. Other than the stiffness in my muscles, in my core, my body has healed almost completely. Why will my mind not do the same? What I went through was horrible, yet I survived. How, though? Those wounds should have killed me. I have not harvested, yet still I live; now I must end him, the one that stole my life from me, the one whose presence resonates in my bones. I hear him in my thoughts. Something happened when I entered the Gate and bade it open; a path connected between Adikiah and me. Can he not hear me? It seems as though he does not; each emotion that comes through from him seems to stem from my loss into the Gate. Will he be with me always, raging and mourning in my thoughts? Is this the price I must pay for
becoming
?
I hear someone coming toward the door. It opens, and in comes the woman who helped me the night before. Maladine walks in and stops at my bedside. I sit up slowly; my stiff body objects. Humans hate and fear Adikiah, so why are they helping me? I do not know this woman, yet she tended me throughout the night. My body is hungry for a harvest. I look at the vulnerable housemaid. It would be an easy harvest, but as quickly as the thought enters, it leaves. My body heats at the shameful thought. Maladine puts her hand on my head. Her eyes widen and she jumps back in astonishment.
“You have a fever, child!” she exclaims, running out of the room, mumbling something about cold rags and onion paste.
I rise from the bed and put on the garment that Maladine left next to me. It is a solid black, leather piece that fits me like my own skin. It looks like something a thief would wear, not having anything loose on it, so as not to be caught by even a stitch. I look around and find a pair of boots beside the bed. Maladine, I guess, has braided my hair back. It must have been tangled, because it has been sheared several inches.
I leave the room and walk cautiously down a long passageway. There are no openings, only torches along the walls for illumination. I imagine the darkness of it at night, when the torches are extinguished. It would look much like the palace halls, dark and cold.
At the end of the corridor, I see the door to the galley, where cooks are buzzing around like a bunch of pollen-seeking bees fast at work to make their sweet honey. I walk pass the galley and head toward another door; apparently it leads outside. I see sunlight coming through a large crack at the bottom of the door, and as I reach for the knob, a hand grabs my shoulder. I turn and meet the gaze of the man touching me, fighting the urge to take his life. It is not a difficult fight; the man’s stare calms me, lulls the rage that consumes me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Images of my two victims race through my thoughts—I grimace.
“Are you all right?” Limearsy asks. I am up against the wall and breathing so fast I feel like I am going to run out of air. I can feel their pain. It is just as torturous as the pain I felt when I passed through the Gate. “Are you all right?” he asks again. I come back to myself and look up at him. I regain my composure.
“Yes, I just need some fresh air.” I say, flinging open the doors that lead outside.
I pause and let the sun shine down on my face. It is welcoming, as if to say, come outside, breathe the air,
live
! I have done such horrible things, and I believe I do not deserve to live at all. I feel guilt rise as I stand there letting the sun warm my body, my thoughts. I do not deserve to feel any pleasure or joy, because my victims can no longer feel pleasure or joy.
Although the sun is shining, the air is cool. Winter approaches and I am not looking forward to the cold. Past the bright shining sun, when my vision adjusts, I see a small gathering of rugged men, about twenty or so. They look like they are preparing for a battle. No wonder the bees in the galley are so busy. There are three of these men to my left, sharpening swords with a flat stone. One of them looks up at me.
“Is that her?” he asks Limearsy with a disappointed look on his face. “She looks about as tough as a three-legged dog,” the man laughs as he spits at my feet. “She’s no powerful thing at all,” he continues on. “She does not look like she could hurt a dying beggar,” he finishes with a sarcastic grin, turning to rally the other men. The crowd of brutes begins to laugh.
“Mind your tongue, Monte; she could kill all of you if she wanted. Now finish up; we need to move out soon,” Limearsy commands.
“What is going on?” I ask.
“We have been waiting for you. We need you to help us find him,” he says.
“Find who?”
“The Nameless One, the one who took you, the one who takes from us,” he replies.
“Adikiah?” I interrupt. “These men, they know who I am? All of them?”
“Yes,” Limearsy replies. I begin walking swiftly toward a horse. Limearsy grabs my shoulder. “Where are you going?” he asks.
