Chapter 12

Aynia had been missing for a span of months and Thornacre had begun to turn to dust. The land was dry and brittle. What little of grass and weeds left crumbled under the feet of the frail man as he heaved himself up the slope of Cnoc Aynia. As he took a weary step, a cloud of dust erupted and he coughed as it clogged his dry throat.

A man of his age and weakened state found it hard enough to push himself up a hill, let alone heave a young boy on his crooked back after him. There was no wind, there hadn’t been for weeks and his long grey hair matted against his clammy face. He paused for a moment to cast his gaze upon his surroundings.

The sky was murky and devoid of colour. It had never been blue in Thornacre; even when Aynia was present, but the man did not think it had ever been this grey either. The sun was nothing but a dull coin glowing faintly through the mist, there were no clouds either. It had not rained and without Grainne and her icy powers, it would stay that way. They were left with Fenne, goddess of all things hot, and so heat is what they lived in.

Or, as it transpired, they did not live. Many had died over the course of a few weeks, the old, the young, the in-between. They were dropping like flies in winter. The water was vastly running out and only those with access to horses could leave with intention to find it and bring whatever they found to the village.

Many had gone to the Thorn King with the hope that the court had water that could be shared out only to be turned away by the guards at the doors. Nobody had seen the Thorn King or his daughter since it was let slip that Grainne was also absent. It made the villagers wonder if their King was still there and if he even cared what was happening.

The boy’s choking brought the man back to the present and he turned to look at him as his head lay limply on his bony shoulder. He was barely out of adolescence when he had picked up a disease from some unsafe water. The old man had warned him against it but the boy was young and unused to being so thirsty. It had broken the hearts of his whole family when he had taken ill.

Once the boy’s coughing had subsided, the elderly man resumed traipsing up the steep hill. He tried to clear his head of all memories of playing with the young boy as a child, when the man had been young and fit enough to run after him through the woods of Darkwell. He refused to let himself succumb to the happy memories of teaching the child, grazed kneed and scrawny arms how to climb trees. He refused to recall how they had all ended up in Thornacre as a result of showing him how to steal.

People came to Cnoc Aynia for two reasons: to seek healing or to die. The man dropped to his knees when he finally reached the top. The boy toppled over and landed in the arms of his father, coughing and spluttering blood from his mouth.

The boy’s father held the dying boy not as a father would hold his son but as a farmer would hold his cattle ready for slaughter. The disease was a contagious one, it had killed their family quicker than it was killing them and the elderly man did not wish to inflict more suffering on the people. It was irrational, really, that he wanted to keep them alive when they would die of thirst anyway but he did not wish to be responsible for more torture.

He did not look into his son’s eyes as he took out a tiny blade from his pocket. It had been the only possession he had been allowed to bring with him to this place; he never even conceived the idea that he would use it for anything other than cutting rope. He bent down to whisper into the boys’ ear though he knew he could not hear him. He was shivering like a lamb and his father had to refrain from holding him close

“May Gwyn show us the way” his voice was ragged and his throat ached for water.

In one quick motion, the man slit the blade in a clean line across the width of his son’s throat. Red blood spilled from the wound and his breath sighed through the gash, the blood bubbling like boiling water and the boy’s body fell still, his eyes staring blankly at the dull sun.

Sobs rattled through the man’s body as he held his son’s corpse to his chest but no tears came. The air was too dry and the frail man was too dehydrated. He cried not only for the loss of his son, but for the loss of Aynia, the loss of water and the loss of life itself.

With a heavy heart and heavier soul, the man brought himself up into a kneeling position. He looked up at the sky, seeking the light of the sun as he brought the blade to his own throat…

Reviews

[Jes' Pi]

Mmm...good work you have here..keep it up.

[E Hartfallow]

Thank you and I will!