You will never be happy.
The trunk of the elk tree was furrowed and rough. It was quiet on
the sheltered clearing that overlooked the plain. As she was sprawled under the
pronged treetop, far from the curious eyes, Nera closed her eyes and welcomed
the pulsations of the ancient elk under which her mother lay.
The sound of the bristly
leaves rustling carried on a tune, trying to overpower the rattling of the
branches that vibrated through the trunk and into the ground.
You will never be happy.
Her resonant voice echoed in her skull. The tall figure of Alma
Bellgrove with her golden locks and glistening white teeth filled the darkness
inside her eyelids. Her wrinkles sniggered, but there was nothing joyful in her
mother’s words. Their poisonous blade stung too often and never missed its
mark. Trying to shake off that damn voice that wetted her eyelashes, Nera
opened her eyes as if waking up from a bad dream and wiped her sweaty palms
against the train of her skirt.
It had been a whole year since she had buried her mother on that
clearing. Yet it barely felt like only three hundred and sixty something days
had passed. She led an isolated life since her passing, burdened with guilt and
loathing directed mostly to herself.
And what have you accomplished in the past year since you had me
killed, little missy?, she heard her again, raising her voice from the depth of Nera’s
mind.
Imagining idle conversations with her mother was not how she would
spend the day, she decided in an instant. She spent enough time pondering on
her mother’s grave all alone. Kai should have been there. Her grandchildren.
Perhaps someone would have said something nice about her, something other than
memories of what a cruel and vengeful mother Alma Bellgrove had been.
Out of all the strokes of bad luck that Nera lived through in her
young life, she had always secretly wished to have been able to choose a better
parent for herself. If she could, she would have chosen Kai’s.
Leaning over her both palms, Nera slowly raised herself from the
ground. Her fingers brushed the bottom of her skirt. A few golden leaves
rustled at her touch and feel back onto the bed of dried, yellow grass that grew
into the tree. Beneath her feet, hundreds of meters down the mountain, lay the
Northern Plain.
The endless plains stretched towards the south, intersected with a
thick web of roads, wood fences and colorful rooftops of old farmhouses. The
mountain in the north closed in on the plains and suspended the further
sprawling of arable soil. It was clothed now in the autumn’s most sensual
fabrics of yellow and rust.
That is a splendid view, she thought as she caught glimpses of it through the thickness of
the trees.
It would take her half an hour to climb down and find her way to
the city under the mountain.
Her long coat flapped unbuttoned at her chest with a moss green
wooly shawl loosely hanging down her neck. Beads of sticky sweat dampened the
back of her shirt, as her palms grew warmer and stickier. She dried them against
her train as she stepped lightly between the trees, soundlessly like a fallow,
treading through the serpentine of dirty beaten tracks. She knew every rock and
tree by heart. The song of the thrushes and blue tits accompanied her on her
path, disturbed only by a random raven croaking from above.
A light leather satchel hanged from her shoulder, kicking her
softly on the left thigh with every step.
The forest led her to the Lake Road, paved with cobblestones four
meters wide and polished by the feet and hooves worth thousands of years. At
the other side lies Huron, an ancient city under the mountain. They called it
the architectural jewel of the Northern Plains. Robbed of its warmth, shaded by
the snow-peaked massif that towered over it protectively, the city surely was a
jewel. A cold, colorless jewel that glimmered in the sun radiating nothing but deadness.
Winter is a good month away, yet the nights are already becoming
colder and darker in the city. Nera was always baffled with the peculiar fact
that the city had an independent climate. The temperature inside the walls were
always a few degrees lower than the valley’s. It was the stone that was
responsible for keeping Huron cool and raw.
She never minded the coldness that came from the stone, or the
darkness of the forest in which she lived. It was nothing compared to the
hearts of the people of Huron. The frigidity must have rubbed off over the
course of thousands of years of dwelling in such a gloomy place.
The outer city walls were a gloomy-looking structure made entirely of stone. Ghastly,
brimmed with coal-black, gleaming metal and decorated with spikes and chains,
they were designed to intimidate and send away ill-bringers. The downside of it
was that it intimidated everyone else, too.
Having approached the gates for the first time ever, Nera’d wished
to turn back her horse and gallop back south. She had been only eleven when she
came to Huron, hoping to find her family, but at the entrance of the city she
met with the diabolical.
Yet the locals were utterly proud of it. The walls had been
standing the test of time for nearly a thousand years. The intimidating factor
worked.
She raised her eyes towards the defenses. Her dark blue irises,
ever-watchful, scrutinized the high stone walls that stood between the city and
the vast network of crop fields and orchards.
The sentinels in the watchtower on the Eastern Gate gawked
sullenly at her as she entered through the wide metal gate. Their faces turned
dark at the sight of her but as soon as she hurriedly went on her way, the two
men clothed in furs carried on their conversation. Nera was accustomed to that
sort of greetings. Some days, they wouldn’t even spot her from in the crowd of
busy peasants. On other less blessed days, they weren’t strangers to being
insolent and vulgar, but she nonetheless kept her head down, the hood of her
coat lowered over her forehead.
Only in Huron they found it particularly funny to cast spiteful
words and evil stares at her.
After she passed the long rows of military buildings, Nera turned
right through the alley of low houses on top of which heavy roof tiles hung. She
was headed for her favorite place in the city, the main city market.
Through the motley grey streets, the road swerved right to the
second grand gate that separated the first level from the second. The market
lay snuggled among the tall buildings and low street stalls in the east part of
the first, oldest level, the city core. Above her stood the sky-high fort, the
hefty symbol of Huron.
The city under the mountain houses nearly twenty thousand souls.
Surrounding hamlets and isolated farmhouses beyond the walls add to that
numbers in winter when they all retreat to the inner gates. The impassable
hillsides protect the both rears of the ancient settlement, tucked safely in
the arms of the nameless mountain like a newborn on its mother’s bosom, and the
walls stand guard over the frontal part. Buildings carved into the very
mountain, made of stone, wood and metal, nearly touch the clouds. Their peaks
melt away in the heavy fog. There is always the signal fire burning in them and
watching over the city.
Once she passed the rows of housing structures and entered the
city, there was a considerable drop in temperature.
The hood of her autumn coat was perched low on her forehead. It allowed
her to wriggle past the endless lurid march of farmers and workers in the
streets. A pretty, tall girl with children under her bony arms, housewives
providing for their families, strapping lumberjacks and miners with filthy,
sweaty faces, a blacksmith with his blistered, black hands passed by. She
dodged a pushcart and then another one packed with what seemed to be sacks of
powdery flour. A scruffy boy pushed it reluctantly, occasionally wiping his wet
forehead and grunting as he struggled to push it up the street.
A busy day at the main market. Buyers, visitors and curious eyes
strolled up and down the wooden stalls where the spectrum of goods was
displayed. The vendors exhibited the very best of their merchandise, be that
sweet or savory treats, colorful beads, decorative arrow heads, or fine pieces
of clothing. There wasn’t a thing you couldn’t find at Huron’s main market.
Two hefty vendors argued just up ahead. She heard their cuss words
and angry shouts before she lay eyes on them. In an effort to avoid them and
all the people that gathered around, she nearly bumped into an old man with a
crutch. She apologized, bowed her head even lower, and carried on. The man
simply grunted at her, too bothered to accept her apology.
With her face hid under the hood, it was an impossible task to try
to see everything. Her fingers itched to touch this knick and that knack here
and there. It was her favorite pass time, to search for new, fascinating, yet
equally useless bagatelle to buy. Her cabin had already been filled with an
array of junk but, as always, Nera needed more, and surprisingly, she could
find a place for every new purchase she brought home.
Just as she walked through the grand stone arch that served as the
main entrance to the market, the noise drew her in. It was earsplittingly loud.
A vendor shouted at people to come closer and take a good look at their stall,
assuring the customers they would like and buy everything he had to offer. Another
vendor screamed from the top of his lungs that his pans and pots were the best cookware
for cooking a duck, boiling a chicken, or preparing a delicious rabbit stew,
swearing on the honor of his maiden wife, the mother of his four children. Nera
enjoyed every second of it, taking it all in like a desperately dry sponge.
Everybody on that market had a story to tell, and she particularly loved good
stories of the past.
People here don’t live well enough to think about the past, missy, her mother used to
say.
She was right in saying it, yet the tone of her voice made her
hate every word coming out of her arrogant mouth. Her nose had once found its
way to the heights of heaven and decided to make it a home. Caring about the
past especially the one before her birth had not, by any means, been what Alma
Bellgrove had on her mind.
A long stall covered in all sorts of wooden ornaments appeared
before her. It offered delicately carved door pieces, small bird houses with
red rooftops, and fascinating candle holders with details barely discernable to
the naked eye. Nera approached one of the pieces hanging from a thread,
engraved with lilies and marigolds. There was a touch of paint on the flowers’
petals, just enough to stand out, but the rest of the bird house was the plain
color of mahogany with the exception of the dark-red roof.
Her first reaction to it was to touch it. Her fingers were
restless to explore the furrowed surface of the bird house. Her second reaction
was to buy it. In the privacy of her cabin Nera could feel every ridge, every
crease carved meticulously into the wood.
It would fit lovely into her display of improvised bird houses on
her back porch. However, she quickly ruled against it. The birds kept her
company only in the short summertime, and having another – tenth – birdhouse
hanging above her head would be daft.
Brie would like it, she thought. Her mother, not so much. Perhaps she could find
another fancy trinket for her niece, one that could fit perfectly in her
satchel.
Just as her thoughts turned to coming up with a suitable gift for
a little girl, something shiny caught her eye.
It wasn’t a big stand, barely her arms’ length, but jam-packed
with precious stones, pieces of corals and a myriad of curious pebbles. She
stepped forward and stretched her hand out. Her fingers playfully touched one,
then another, then another, all different shapes and sizes. Some she recognized
instantly, remembering vaguely of their origin and names. Only a handful were
completely unfamiliar. The colors of larger rocks resembling meteorites and
ores on the left varied from ink black to sapphire. Shining bright lines
permeated their skin. Nera picked one and inspected the light green veins
sparkling on the daylight. It felt like a piece of magic of the sky fell into
her hands.
Another rock lying right next to it could barely cover the palm of
her hand, but the network of shimmering veins was striking. For a moment there,
she suspected it was changing color and intensity – as if it was a living,
breathing organism whose lungs inflated and shrunk right there under her
fingers. It was going to burst into a shiny supernova any moment now, she was
sure.
The vendor standing behind the stall chuckled at her curious
expression.
“Nothing to fear, sweet lady. It is very old, found in a hole as
big as sky! See here, it changes color when you put it under sun.”
Nera looked at the man, then glared up. Barely any sun reached the
market, hidden by the multitude of intersected bars and cloths hanging from the
top of the stalls in a fashion of improvised rooftop, but she had no reason not
to believe him.
“You want?” he asked. His heavy accent tickled her ears. Wherever
his home was it was far from the Northern Plains.
“I was just looking.”
Her answer did not please him. He had hoped coins would rattle
from the customers’ purses, leaving theirs and blissfully acquiring a new home
within his pockets. However, his discontent disappeared the moment his eyes met
hers under the hood of her coat.
“Blessed be the gods,” he murmured softly, his obsidian eyes fixated on her. “Amara!”
His skin was pure bronze and his round, almond-shaped eyes
beautifully encircled by dark lines. He was dressed for warmth and comfort, as
local people usually were, but underneath his coat peeked layers of soft
antelope leather imprinted with tribal seals.
“Amara!” he repeated. The man left his post behind the stall and
coming to the front. She knew his excitement would draw attention, especially
if he wanted to receive a blessing from her. Everyone minded their own
business, and no one cared what a foreign-looking little man was up to.
The man took her hands placing his right palm on top of hers, and she
mirrored the same gesture with her left. Then, he whispered a prayer and Nera
responded with a blessing. He was at peace, closing his eyes and concentrating
on the touch of her hands, as he took time to pray in silence. Then, he let go.
His fingers floated in air just above her palms, afraid that if he touched them
they would break.
The prayer was finished with wishing for blessings from the gods,
protection in life and guidance in death.
“Thank you, thank you for your blessing, girl.”
Nera smiled.
“May the gods protect you,” she whispered in response. The vendor gently
pressed her hands together until her palms met, and lowered his head so his
forehead could touch them. Her benedictions were in place now. The ritual was
over.
The joy in his heart was immeasurable.
“Here!” he shouted. “Come, I give you something.”
He immediately returned to his post behind the stall, rummaging
underneath it. Then he took out a strange object, holding it with one hand and
pointing to it with the other.
Its shape was exquisite – a circle decorated with colorful braids,
beads and owl feathers. Inside of it was a network of thin spider web, forming
another small circle within it. Down the wooden loop long strings of beads hung
with feathers and beautifully woven braids. She spotted a small copper
arrowhead hanging from one of the strings, wobbling in the man’s hand.
“What is it?”
“It is dreamcatcher,” he replied delightfully. “You catch bad
dreams like this, see,” then he pointed to the small circle made of the delicate
strings inside the loop, “and good dreams stay, yes?”
A dreamcatcher. Nera had never heard of it, but the notion
of inviting good dreams to stay and banishing bad ones sounded awfully familiar.
If only she had a foolproof method of keeping the nightmares out. She thanked
the kind man for his peculiar gift, offering to give him some money in return.
The vendor, almost offended at her offer, waved his hand high above his head.
“No, no, you take it. It is gift, yes? You take it.”
So, she took it.
He wrapped the delicate thing in a piece of cloth and placed
clumsily into Nera’s hand. She put it in her bag and was just about to wave
goodbye to the vendor, her eyes locked on another attractive item on display.
She approached a small wooden box on the other side of the stall whose insides
were furbished with dark corduroy.
The box contained a single rock, similar
to the others she had previously inspected, not bigger than a copper coin, yet
its texture and color exhibited an unearthly quality. The prevailing shade of
onyx was intersected with barely visible strokes that bled through the rock. These
peculiar cracks in the rock allowed a strange light to shine through.
One amateur look and it was evident the
rock did not belong to this world. How it found its way to the vendor’s stand
was an altogether strange matter. It was alive, breathing and beating among all
the other dead rocks.
“What kind of rock is this?”
The vendor waved his hand and answered
dully.
“It is just rock. It came from sky.”
“What does it do?”
“Do? What do rocks do, huh? It do
nothing. It falls from the sky thousands of years ago. Very old.”
But Nera knew better. It wasn’t just a
rock that fell from the sky. Many of those she saw on that man’s stand were in
fact of celestial, other-planetary origin and upon entering the earth’s
atmosphere and reached the ground, they turned into a pretty, useless rock.
Not this one. There was something intense
about this very old rock that did nothing. That sit undisturbed in an ornate
box on the upper border of the Northern Plains.
There was something intense about this
very old rock that did nothing. She reached out for it, but faltered before
touching it. Dare she touch it? She hesitated. Her curiosity fought fear deep
inside. It wasn’t until she placed her fingertips on the rock that she
regretted bitterly. A new rival joined the fight.
A dark, forgotten magic gave life to
that stone. She sensed it through her skin, the faint murmurs of life inside it.
A strong voice called out her name, as the market faded into silence. The only
thing she could hear now was her own name, whispered through the teeth of an
unseen force that had lived in it for eternity.
Nera. Nera. Nera.
It screeched in her eardrums like
shards of broken glass. It played with her name and carried it around the
passageways like a feather in the breeze. It drilled into her brain, turning
all her weaknesses and fears inside out.
You will never be happy.
The owner of
the name pulled her hand back swiftly, stepping away from the stand. The man
gawked at her, but once the whispers stopped, Nera managed a few short words
out, thanked him for the gift once more, and left in a pressing urge to escape.
She wasn’t about to explain to the confused man how she heard her mother’s
vengeful voice coming from a millennia old rock.
Gracias por leer!
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