Piercing the Bleak Chapter Eight

Xacquan, heralded by the Mountain Clan as a deity, begins to discover the challenges she might face while being held upon such a high pedestal.

From that day on came the whispers.  Everywhere I went, they would flutter around me like some sort of huge, echoey wind.  Tiny, toneless sounds, they ruffled through my hair like a breeze through the Cray’s branches.

“She is the goddess,” tribesmen and women would say, crumpling to their knees at the mere sight of me.  Even when I would approach them for a simple conversation, they would bow and avoid eye contact, making ordinary conversations seem like a very formal event.

“I am not your goddess,” I would tell them.  “And I am not blessed.  I am, remember, just a Nuzwierc.  Found in the Greylands by the scout Ragmon Ebterstep.  There must’ve been a reason for the silver fire other than divination.”

Even while I feigned sleep in the golden tent-hammock set up just for me, the whispers would persist.  “They say her intelligence could rival that of the greatest Rymouth in the Aerilands,” I heard once.  “They say her radiance could outshine even the gilded crops of the Goldlands.” 

Perhaps my favorite was this one:  “They say she was conceived in the center of the earth and birthed from a tree, bearing within her the knowledge of the world.”  The several times I would hear it, my hand would drift to my pocket where I still carried my little shrapnel of Cray, which was more precious to me than any treasure in the world.

 

Ragmon got sick.  It was a major disappointment, as he was the only one who could speak to me in a normal way.  I grew to despise the obsequiousness the rest of the tribe would lend to me.  Ophithellos, who would also speak to me as if I was not a goddess, bore a rude and standoffish demeanor about him without Ragmon at his side.

“They say you’re a goddess,” he would spit at me.  “Peh.  You’re just about as much goddess as the rocks underneath my feet.  Sppphttch.  The gullibility of my people disgusts me.  I could just about throw up.  A scraggly Nuzwierc like you?  You don’t even have tribe-blood!  Why don’t they ‘goddess’ me, for once?!”

Nevertheless, I agreed with him.  Though I did allow myself to argue with him; this, I would tell myself, is how you develop humor.  “You are jealous because you are not a Nuzwierc female?” I would spit back, tilting my nose to the sky.  “Then perhaps you should sprout some breasts.”

It was not a good type of humor.  I understood I had a long way to go in its development. The amusing part was Oppy’s face; it would grow so red that instead of rivaling Ragmon, he’d rival the tomatoes.  That is exactly what I would say before swiveling about and treading back to Ragmon’s tent.  Ragmon needed to hear every one of my experiences with Ophithellos, as it was the only thing that could put a smile on his pain-stricken face.

One day, he wouldn’t speak back.  Instead, he just lay there.  Sweat covered his brow as he shuddered uncontrollably. 

“What is wrong with Ragmon?” I asked the healer who knelt at his side.

“He has the Air Sickness,” the healer responded, bringing me back to the days when Ragmon first found me, alone and uncertain.  “It’s not too uncommon among Scouts, as they journey into the Greylands so often.  But don’t worry.  More have gone, and they are getting a supply of bark for him.  They are good Scouts, and they will return soon.  But none have ever returned as quickly as this boy right here; he must have a map of the land in his head.”

“And what happens if they don’t return?” I asked.  “Then what?”

This question seemed to greatly unsettle the healer.  Her eyebrows drew together and her mouth pinched into a stern grey line.  “Then he dies,” she said.

“And death?” I asked.  “Please explain to me, for I do not know.”

With a single look at the healer, I knew that she would not respond.  Nobody, not a single tribesperson or the elder, would tell me the meaning of death.  Whenever I would mention it casually to a tribesman, his voice would grow hushed, his eyes would grow dim.  In occasional whispers, I’d hear it mentioned, but every time I joined the conversation, it would disappear.  “Such a naïve soul, for a goddess,” the healer said shortly.  She brushed a lock of hair from my forehead and returned to painting Ragmon’s forehead with water.  “You will find out one day, child.  You will find out soon.”

 

Some days, lightning would spark across the sky and thunder would roll across the clouds.  In the beginning, this used to frighten me, though with time, it only brought a sense of anticipation and sadness.  All joyfulness would drain from me when the mountain skies imitated those of the Greylands, and I would be reminded of the pain of not experiencing the world.

It was a day like this that Ophithellos tried to use his dagger against me.

I was standing beneath a tree, sheltered from the rains.  I had a bowl of meat in my hands.  The mountains were cold, but my bowl was still warm, probably the warmest thing I had encountered all day.  The scent of smoke drifted through the air, and I knew it was from the tented fires the Mountain tribe vainly gathered around in order to conserve heat.  Days like this, I would almost prefer cuddling up to the Cray, warmed by the orange flows sizzling all around.

I happened to look to my left.  Probably because of the sloshing noise of footsteps I was only subconsciously paying attention to.  But I caught Ophithellos in the act.  He was standing behind a bush with a readied dagger in his hand.  “Dammitall!” he yelped as we made eye contact.  “Looks like I’ve been red-handed.”

“What are you doing, Oppy?” I asked.  I held out my bowl of meat to him.

“I’m ridding myself of the scourge that befell my world,” he replied, ripping some meat from the bowl and stuffing it into his mouth.  For a moment, the dagger was pointed toward the ground.  “You know, Xacquan, that things never really got better when you came.  You’re just another mouth to feed.  Another useless baby for us to take care of.  You’re just making it all worse.”

He stepped up closer to me, tilting his head and peering deeply into my wide-open eyes.  “So I’m gonna make a deal with you, goddess.  Taste my blade.  Or show me a miracle.”  His voice cracks.  “Heal Ragmon!  Now.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve fallen prey to this tribe’s gullibility, Ophithellos.  You know I can’t do a thing regarding this,” I warned.

The blade pressed against my throat, and the boy leaned closer.  His nose was blocked with snot, and it dripped down upon his lip.  “They say goddesses hide their identity,” he hissed at me, “and that they only show it to nonbelievers.  To change ‘em.  Make ‘em pure and clean and believin’ and all.  I’m done with pretending.  I want it now, my miracle.  My life is a cesspot.  I deserve I believe, eh, I believe I deserve, just one golden moment.  One ‘ev ‘em will do.  So show me.”  He wiped his nose on his arm, not taking the dagger from my throat.  “Just this once.  Save Ragmon.  Or you’ll be a dead little goddess.”

“I’m not a goddess,” I insisted.

Suddenly, he dropped the dagger.  It glistened at my feet as spots of rain fell upon the lightly rusted blade.  “You gods, the whole lot of you,” he cried.  “Selfish.  Selfish, selfish, selfish!  Can’t give me what I want.  Not then, not now, not ever!”

In the distance, a tribesman stood and looked my way.

“You want it all to yourselves!” Oppy cried.  “The wealth, the food, the love, the power!  Never give it to us, for once.”

People began to make their way closer.  “Hush it, child!” a woman called from the distance.

I stood.  Began to walk toward them.

“Come back!” Oppy shouted.  “Don’t you turn your back to me!  Don’t you turn it!  Listen to me, witch!  Listen just this once!”

I continued forward, wordlessly. 

“No!” one of the tribesmen suddenly shouted, breaking into a sprint in my direction.

And then I felt it, a ripping pain in my side.  It felt as if a sharp rock had been driven into my side and then held there for what felt like an eternity.  Somebody screamed.  It wasn’t me.

Suddenly, the tribesmen came to a dead halt.  I could still hear Ophithellos behind me; it sounded as if his teeth were chattering loudly within his mouth.  Slowly, I turned to look, first with my head, and then with my shoulders.

Oppy was standing there, the dagger’s hilt pressed into my side.  But the blade itself hadn’t made a mark on me.  In fact, it had fallen clear off of the dagger, and was lying in a mudpuddle on the ground.  Oppy’s eyes were wider than my meatbowl, and his lips were quivering as if he could break into a sob at any moment.  “Amateur,” I said, smirking, and his face bloomed with red.

That familiar redness!  Such an embarrassed boy.  I don’t know what came over me in that instant.  I wrapped the startled boy in my arms, and laid my head upon his shoulder while he sobbed like a baby.  Ironic, I thought, as he had called me one not too long ago.  “Calm yourself, tomato child,” I whispered into his ear.  “Calm yourself and run to Ragmon now.”

I let him go.  He was pink from head to toe.  Even the tips of his ears weren’t spared.  With one hand, he wiped the tears from his eyes, which were indistinguishable anyways from the rain.  Then, he gave me a glare so dark it could cloak the daylight before speeding off into the forest.

“The boy.  We will find him and punish him tonight,” said the tribesman, who had finally made it over to me.  His head was bowed reverently, and he would not look into my eyes.

“No.  You should just feed him extra,” I said.  “He is looking quite scrawny lately.”

“Do you think so?” the tribesman replied, scratching his head.  “Hmm…  You could be right.  Ever since the diplomat’s boy got sick, he’s been a little down.  Maybe some extra food will do him well.”

“Yes,” I said.  “And make sure he is kept warm.”

 

That night, the whispers were different, much more optimistic than usual.  “She cannot be wounded by blades!” was one of them.  “She is a goddess of mercy,” was another.

That was the night that I gave up the Cray in order to make a concoction for Ragmon.  By the next morning, he was showing some signs of improvement, though I was told more was needed for him to fully heal.  I felt extremely guilty then, giving up my lifelong comrade, but for some reason, the gentle smile on Ragmon’s face seemed to justify the deed.  It was time to move on, I told myself.

The Scouts had not yet returned.