Chapter One - Enigmatic Reality
The world’s a puzzle, so a puzzle I wrote,
Two day-drawn pieces set-
Waiting—Still
-for the fateful hands move.
-The Mortal Sage
Y. 800 Before the Fallen Rise | E. Savagery
Scene One
Sixth Day | Third Month | 1820th Year | Era of Enlightenment
Northern Continent | Odonburn | Novina
—A beautiful palette of green and blue adorned mother nature, her golden hue—
—Rolling Lands—
Bold and lush, verdant hillslopes rolled, serene as an idle seascape, outstretched, far and wide, past swooping eagle-eyes, soft prairie grass tides swept aplenty. Then, as though a morning show, set with undue alacrity—day broke, dawn rose, and warmth flooded up spring-green hill slides. Fresh scents of low winds drifted down blissful dales, toeing the line between sweet and saccharine.
With the brush of a breeze through wispy mist seas, a new world drew clear, yawning masses gathered ‘round shifting steeps. Birdsong filled-bright southern winds, north-drifting, butterflies stirred; a flutter of transcendence bound all in existence—an elusive perfection none existing could grasp.
Upon this story-book drawn day, all but those blinded by their wandering minds appreciated what the present bore. On such a day, satisfaction was, in fact, in existence.
One such naive wanderer murmured, “too short, too short,” with a longing trace in step. “I’ve been through these Rolling Lands more times than I can count, but I’ve never seen the wild grass so shrunken and dried out.” As the young wanderer descended, bent at the waist to caress the barbed-like inflorescence, bursting out long blades of prairie grass—an all-too-familiar needly prick climbed up to meet flirtatious fingertips; from deep underneath the damp, bristled sheath, where forgotten memories lie.
Through the dewy, pearlescent sheen—burnt ember-orange by the glance of ‘morn—a sunkissed, youthful face reflected, a jawline yet-defined under golden curls and a smile, still ignorant in its simplicity. Deeper yet, obscured by the scarlet-dawned mask, a timeless glint of sadness pervaded. Deeper yet, beyond dark green eyes too blind to see, memories flowed past; dried tiers of adversity.
Inhaling the mildewed scent of a distant lake—his tender heart filled warm with wistful waves.
Lost, adrift in the fog of his whirling mind, the boy recalled an old fisherman’s hut perched high up on a quaint hilltop. So high, overlooking that distant lake where he splashed and played and worked and toiled. So far away, it seemed. He yearned for those simpler times long passed— until reality shattered the memories.
When a cold, emotionless voice broke the warmth of his reminiscence— he found himself thrust back into the present, grown from boy to man.
“Well, now, that’s quite unlikely,” a bell-like voice tolled. “The farmers of the Rolling Lands have not expressed their concerns to Novina. Your worries are always so needless.”
Irritated, the young wanderer skidded to a halt, swiveled back, and stared at his traveling companion; she met his eyes in tandem. Across their resentful exchange, intermediary dust clouds stirred. Staccato calls of prairie dogs echoed through the still, uncertain air.
The elevation beneath her feet did not detract from his physically imposing stature; however, when her sharp gaze pierced the mental shroud that concealed his insecurities, his spine tingled with a strange, hair-raising sense of intrusion. A sense further amplified by her mocking words.
“Daniel,” She said. “Perception is ever changing within our constant world.” She side-stepped him then, like a wayside stone, and continued east— indifferent to the rubble left behind.
Infuriated, the young wanderer glared down the lithe back that snow-white hair cascaded; down to her waist, an immaculate descent, broken only by a drawstring pack, swaying with her every step.
The hypnotic contrast between the eye-catching pattern on the dark cloth bag and the unique luster of her hair captivated his sight—but not his mind—which wandered to the pendulous tune of clashing metal. From her bag, clicks grated, clacks ground, and metallic echoes reverberated— in sway with her departure. On and on, relentless, like claws tearing apart his psyche, setting his wrath ablaze.
Still, high in that sun-soaked ocean sky, her frosty gaze burned bright; persistent, it reflected his true self; boundless, it revealed all flaws. With dampened fingertips, Daniel wiped the dirt from his eyes, inhaled a calm-dusty breath of spring air, traced the now-defined jawline, then lengthened his stride in pursuit. Yet, still, inescapable mockery ensued.
“I grew up here, Iona. I know these hills and their people like I know myself,” Daniel snapped as he stomped on the parted grass trail. “Do you honestly believe that people living for their next meal could leave their livelihoods behind for weeks, or even months, to travel to the city and give a meaningless report? And even if they could find the time, could they find the will to grovel at the feet of merchants who look down on and belittle them? Unless it was a matter of life and death….”
“All the more reason you needn’t worry,” Iona cut him off without wasting a glance. “I have suffered through this untrodden terrain only to confirm a rumor. Nothing more. Nothing less.” She paused to inspect an unfurled pocket map; with sharpened blue eyes, she continued. “But of course, you are welcome to return and tend to these country rubes at any time. You will not, however, waste my time in doing so. Are we clear?”
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White knuckled; Daniel squeezed his jaw to contain—cross retorts that bound up his throat and knocked against his teeth. No voice emerged from within the silence, solely a steady crunch. Carved out from the hide of a once-proud beast—now molded to conform; two pairs of black leather boots tread through the dirt as one, though, below this thin layer of uniformity, the disparate weight of their emotions clashed, in turns, unheard.
The youthful wonderer murmured, “too dry, too dry,” with a yearning trace in step. “I’ve journeyed through these Rolling Lands more times than I can count, yet never have I seen the wild grass so thirsty.”
All that responded was a sigh.
The travelers trekked over hillcrests high and low-down through enshadowed valleys. Spring bees waltzed and swayed with vibrant flowers. Cicadas chirped in tune. In rhythmic silence, they walked and stomped. Around them, nature bloomed.
At last, upon the zenith of midday, past shadows washed away; where countless oak fissures braved the ocean sky’s cloudless depths—the travelers stopped and stared. Here, the young man’s sweat-soaked face cracked a toothful grin. For the first time in years, he could almost feel—the enduring warmth of home—a cozy flutter that slipped past the present, accentuated by his recollection; over the hillcrest, a flood of memories flowed—a vine-clad cabin that bound a makeshift family without shared blood to tie. There stood no majestic palace, no mighty castle. Nothing could compare to his shabby home.
The mere memory made Daniel’s eager heart thump like a war drum.
“Old Man, I’m finally back,” the young man said.
In a flash, he burst forth with cyclone-like ferocity, rushing up the familiar slope to paint his visions true; weightless steps, free from worry, kicked dust plumes in his wake. As he dashed, the slosh and smack of the lake's rocky lips and the melodic chorus of ribbits and croaks brought back a long-forgotten smile. The carefree smile he left beneath the old oak tree. All those years ago.
Yet, as he trekked further up, worry distorted his bliss. I can hear the song of the lake, but the land ahead is quiet. Too quiet. Something is wrong. He cast his eyes back and forth, looking for something, a passing bird or butterfly, a mosquito, anything to set his mind at ease. Only when he craned his neck to glance through the looming oak branches did he see— a distant black speck—circling. I suppose sometimes nothing can be better than something.
Love and fear and zeal and dread, his heart pounded ominous emotions inside his head. Desperate before the weight of this spiritual tsunami—he slowed, closed his eyes, and prayed. “Please, Goddess of Order, bless our home. Please, Goddess of Order, bless the Old Man. Please, Goddess of Order…”
If the Goddess of Order knew of Daniel’s invocations, her response was cruel.
The moment he passed over the hillcrest, he witnessed the transience of mortal life through the withered grass rise; his inner turmoil lay bare. The lake lulled, the frogs croaked, and the old oak tree reached; yet alone, the hand of man lay, ruined. Where vines once shielded eternal warmth from heaven’s stormy wrath—all that remained was splintered wood, dispersed. All that remained was dread.
Hopeless, he cast a blank stare into the distance. Meaningless thoughts. Meaningful memories. Daniel’s downcast gaze traced the gloom. Deep within the depths of anguish, he fled into a dream, a drifting scene—an old fisherman, short but stout in a regal way, held the world above in firm dominion—all worldly worries cast away.
In the light of the scene, Daniel recalled, He always said it would’ve been easier to conquer the continent than to gather building wood in a treeless prairie. Next to the wooden shack, the short fisherman stood proud and tall—a king beside his treasured throne. Although, perhaps, he was even prouder; after all:
“Pride is born in creation,” the old man’s hoarse mumble stole the words right out of his head.
As the straight-backed old fisherman hooked a hair-thin line through his rusted-steel scepter, Daniel reached out to grasp the dream. “Sir, can you hear me?” he said. Yet, like puddled moonlight and all he held dear, it slipped through his fingertips and disappeared. His subconscious sank deeper into conscious gloom as laughter chimed up the lakeside slope.
Suddenly, his neck snapped back. He gaped at the chime, for it was a sound he knew. In that brief moment, through the shroud of false and true, he peered into a window where—clear as day—he glimpsed upon reality. Before his sight waned and the dark mist curtains closed, Daniel watched the old fisherman fade.
As his sun-splotched right hand gripped and raised the rusted rod, the years that wore his face stretched thin—a time-earned grin. The dying world seemed immortal for an instant. Then, he whipped the pole toward the laughter. “Danny boy, you’d better not spout off lies to me again. Tellin’ me you spent half a day’s work feedin’ old Bruno. He’d eatchu up first, the snapper.”
As soon as he knew, he didn't.
“Looks like the work of a rouge sorcerer; I'll investigate any clues left behind.” The inhuman chill of a tiny hand—and a whisper even colder—pierced Daniel's reverie. “Did he have any enemies? Or any possessions that could be useful to us?”
The pleasant ambiance of nature faded into a sluggish undertone as terse wild grass gave way to cracked soil. Barren from the roots that permeated the earth, an ominous swirl of decay rose below the leafless oak tree. Time-chiseled exhaustion etched its long, wrinkled arms—a deep weariness beyond the comprehension of short-lived mortals.
The brightest stars' ephemerality is but a blink in the eye of eternity, or so he mused at the desolate sight. I may have found my brother’s words rather dreary and confusing at times, but they are ideally suited to my current state of mind. Daniel’s lips crawled into a twisted smile as his thumb and forefinger pinched his blurry eyes. “He was just a strange old man that liked fishing up junk from the lake. If anyone knew more about him, it would have been my brother. And we can’t speak to him anymore.”
Dissatisfied, Iona asked, "Surely he's not dead?"
In response, he simply cautioned, “Be careful,” then walked away over cracked soil—toward the wide oak trunk—with practiced footwork.
He evaded snake-like roots and traversed the dried surface cracks. Then, once he reached the wide stretched trunk, he braced himself with a palm. Steadied against the wrinkled expanse, he craned his neck to see—a lone bristled rope swaying back and forth as if nothing were wrong with the world. Back and forth, it flowed as one, twirling with the soft spring breeze. Angelic sunlight streamed down through the shifty cloudscape and twisty branches and beamed into his eyes; as if, at that moment, even divine mockery rained down on him. Alone.
Though the rope’s bristles were sharp, he grasped it still. His dead eyes stared down a bloody trickle. The living and lifeless shared exhaustion, propped up by the old oak tree. When you were two, you swung with joy. So why? Why is it that all I desire from this world is taken from me? He wanted to scream and shout about these injustices, but more than anything, he wanted to rest.
His wobbly knees bowed down to the dry, broken landscape, but an unexpected pain propelled him back to his feet. Aware, for a moment, he stared at the ground in bewilderment. It was not a tree root like he had expected. Instead, it was the corner of a protruding stone, so out of place in the old oak tree’s domain.
Heedless to the oddity, something within, a feeling neither instinctive nor rational, drove Daniel from his self-pity to dig up that invasive stone. Perhaps it was a feeling of kinship between the living and the lifeless; each stuck where they did not belong. On the other hand, it may have been Daniel’s suppressed anger that compelled him to expel that meddling stone. Regardless of the reason, Daniel dug.