Salvation

Salvation is a short story I wrote in my Creative Writing class. I hope y'all enjoy it.

   “Illari,” called out the innocent Anastasia, “can you tell me what clan of thu…thu…” She struggled with her words. Illarion stood to his feet and walked over to his five-year old sister, sitting at a small desk, barely able to contain the little Russian’s hands.

            “Thundagon? Is that what you mean, little sun?” replied Illarion.

            “Yeah,” she sweetly said, “can you tell me what clan this is from?” she held up a small rectangular wooden board with a painting of a brilliant gray thundagon, its massive silver wings flapping in the imaginary wind. A large plume of searing red fire was shown fleeing the draconic beast’s giant fierce gray maw. Three long, black spikes extended from the forehead of the thundagon, coming to a jagged tip at the individual ends and curving downwards slightly as each spike progressed.

            Illarion grabbed a nearby candlestick and held up the flame to the drawing. He examined it closely and then made his verdict. “This, little sun, is of the Stormbringer clan, our clan, remember?” A tiny flicker of recognition flew across little Anastasia’s face, her hazel eyes lighting up like a volcanic eruption. “This certain one is Ryatunok, the goddess of defenders. She is our family’s protector.” That is, what’s left of our family. Illarion and Anastasia’s mother, Vikhyr, was killed in war. Their father, Merzkiy, was a lousy father figure. He laid around their small parish, Novogrod, incapacitated from all the imported vodka and brewski he wasted their last bit of precious inheritance on, leaving Illarion’s family in an inexhaustible debt.

            Anastasia’s eyes glowed with interest as Illarion described the mightiness of Ryatunok. “Is she real?” Anastasia asked curiously, looking up into Illarion’s dirt-brown eyes.

Illarion looked around the room peculiarly and then knelt close to Anastasia’s ear. He whispered, “She’s as real as the moon.” Anastasia squealed with excitement as she pondered on what she would do if she saw Ryatunok. But Illarion prompted her to finish her schoolwork, telling, “Remember what Mistress Dzhoanna said, ‘If you don’t finish your work, then you cannot see tomorrow.’” Ms. Dzhoanna always spoke in riddles, so her words could confuse even her brightest of pupils.

            “Ok, but can you tell me a story, Illari, when I’m done?” asked Anastasia inquisitively.

            “Ok, you win.” Anastasia smiled and turned around, readily finishing her last bit of work.

            The time was 9:57, two hours later than when Merzkiy said he’d be home. Illarion and Anastasia were finishing their story when a boisterous rambling startled them. It was their father, and, like so many other late nights, he was drunk. Illarion opened the creaky wooden door and helped his drunkard father in, the cold Northern Canadian snow blowing in as Illarion slammed the door behind him. Slurring every other word, his father began to loudly curse his son in Russian. Replying swiftly in the same tongue, Illarion tried to get his father in the living room to rest. But his father didn’t listen. He grabbed Illarion’s coat collar and slammed him against the wooden wall. He yelled loudly in a jumbled mess of words that made no sense. Anastasia was screaming. Their father dropped Illarion like an article of loose clothing and grabbed Anastasia by her wrist and threw her-literally-into her room, Anastasia screaming and kicking all the while. In the jargon that escaped his father’s mouth, Illarion could make out “shut up” and few other choice words. Then his vengeful father turned around, and proceeded to beat his 17 year old son…to a pulp. Yelling at each other loudly in some version of Byelorussian now, Illarion and Merzkiy verbally and eventually physically fought until midnight. Finally, after taking many hard blows to his body and face, Illarion defeated his father.

            Merzkiy lay out cold on the wooden floor. Illarion didn’t kill him, but he came close. Illarion peeked into Anastasia’s room. She sat on her cot, stray tears falling down her face. Illarion limped in and embraced her as she sobbed at the sight of Illarion’s injured face and sides, noticing his hot blood drip down from his nose and left cheek. “I’m alright, little sun. But we must leave now. You and I both know what’ll happen when he wakes up.” Anastasia nodded and grabbed a small satchel hidden behind her bed, containing items essential to their trek to Montreal. “Well you’re prepared.” Illarion closed and locked her door and opened the small window to the wintry night. “Come, you can hang onto my back.” Anastasia climbed onto his back and together they clambered out of the window. It was large enough to fit both of them at once. A small roof covered in snow lay before Illarion and Anastasia. “We must hurry to the bottom floor. We can make it to the next floor and then take the stairs the rest of the way.” But as soon as Illarion took his first step, the ancient wooden roof, weighed down by several feet of snow and now two living bodies, collapsed, sending both Illarion and Anastasia plummeting down 10 stories to the cold, snow laden ground. Anastasia gripped her brother’s shoulders tightly, hanging on for dear life. Illarion yelled out in Byelorussian, “Ryatunok, save us!” Then a loud thud echoed through Illarion’s fading memory, and the scenery went black.

            Illarion shifted, his eyes barely opening. They opened to the strangest sight, and he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Then it hit him, they were wings, The Gray Wings of Ryatunok, flying gracefully in the wind.      

Author's Note

Some words are in Russian, so if you don't understand some, that's why.