The room was cold, a window poorly lit the interior of the room. John sat on a wooden chair with no adornments, just a plain blocky wood chair. The room was empty except for John and a similarly plain blocky wooden table, on which a glass of tea Helper had poured for him sat in a plain white cup. The room felt like his room back home, thankfully with far less mold and the constant leaking of water to soak him while he sat. The tea had gone cold and untouched before the cries from outside finally stopped. He couldn’t understand why the boy would choose a far worse fate than the lashings. His back ached as he leaned in the chair. Maybe he couldn’t control himself, John thought. But the stance and eyes weren’t those of a person out of their senses. That left John with only one explanation; he had wanted to be banished or killed. The sun had reached its peak when Helper returned to collect John from his thoughts.
Helper led him out of the empty room and up the stairs into the priest’s personal room and escorted him through the door into a large room adorned with religious paintings in honor of God. Preacher sat in a large chair on the far end of the room, intricate scrollwork wrapped around the wooden back and arms, a style he knew was his father’s. A wooden stand held the large tome he read from at head height of the holy man. Preacher looked up as John entered.
“Wonderful, you’re here!” Preacher exclaimed, not rising from his seat. “Thank you, Helper. Would you go into the fields and pray over our crops? I need to tell our young martyr of the demon that haunts the town.” He asked politely to the brown robed man, who nodded without a word and left the room, closing the heavy door behind him. As soon as the door closed shut, the Preacher's smile turned into disgust and his attitude darkened at John. “I’m sorry you had to see that unpleasant situation.”
“It isn’t my place to judge.” His response was trained but not believed. Preacher stood from his chair and paced along a wall lined with paintings of hellfire and demons. The holy man chewed over his thoughts before eying John, a shred of fear and pain loomed in the back of his bewildered eyes.
“I’m sending you on a pilgrimage.” He stated flatly. The declaration took John by surprise, a Gov taking a pilgrimage meant he was either being banished or offered a place amongst the community. Either way, the Gov could finally be free of the stifling watch of the community. Preacher caught the spark of hope in Johns’ eyes, his face soured. “This isn’t your pilgrimage, Gov; I’m sending you after my daughter’s.” Preacher turned his back to John and took in the hellscape on the wall. John knew of preacher’s daughter but had never actually seen her. She spent all her time studying the word of God as the holy pillar of the community and was regarded as highly as John had been detested. “She left at the beginning of the growing season and hasn’t returned; I can’t risk letting the village know of her absence.” John couldn’t understand how the pillar of god's holy might could go missing on a pilgrimage to prove her faith. But understood well what it could mean if the rest of the faithful found out. He sensed something was wrong but kept quiet.
“She isn’t the only one to go missing,” He stated after a moment of silence. “Three other groups of pilgrims have gone missing on the same path in the past two seasons. No one has heard from or seen them, one search party who was sent out after them never returned.” John felt a tightness in his chest. Preacher was knowingly sending him on a suicide mission. “On top of that, rumor from a recent traveler is that a drifter camp had been found with,” preacher searched for the right words, “unusual circumstances regarding the state of the remains. Needless to say, I need to ensure my daughters safety.” Preacher peered over his shoulder at John. “I’m sending you to the cursedwood in search of her. Take the path south then head east away from the river at the pilgrims alter. She was traveling with Small Helper and Breader’s youngest son. Then find out what happened to the others.” John had never met the man called Small Helper, but the youngest of Breader’s children was born the same season as John and was a stocky boy who was often lent to the various farmers to help till the soil. He was notoriously clumsy, and his hands couldn’t handle the delicate task of kneading dough, his loafs of bread often ended up in John's satchels of food. Waste not want not, Preacher would say.
John wasn’t pleased with the idea of chasing his daughter down, let alone on a pilgrimage through the most dangerous forest in the valley. Rumor said that demons possessed anyone who dared enter if they weren’t strong in their faith. John knew it was superstition, but he also knew a majority of the faithful who entered didn’t return and those who did, never came back the same. Preacher would say it was the result of seeing the true nature of the world, in all its darkness. John wasn’t convinced. The other missing faithful had probably suffered the same fate at the hands of a hungry animal, he would be risking his life for nothing but bringing Preacher peace of mind. Even if it was a device from the old world, the likelihood of all of them interacting with it was low, a pile of bodies in front of an odd device should be a clear message of danger.
“If she hasn’t returned then maybe she wasn’t strong enough in faith.” John regretted the words as soon as he said them.
Preacher was in John's face, staring into him. “This isn’t a request; I’m telling you to do it.” He dug a finger into john’s chest, “This is your family’s fault anyways, so it’s your responsibility to find her.” His eyes boiled with rage; his finger dug deeper into John’s chest. John rocked back as the man pressed into him, the priests untrimmed beard and hair swayed as he shook with anger. John’s mind flashed to the blade hidden in the coat, but immediately dismissed the thought. The young Gov looked into his eyes with confusion. Preacher stood straight, the anger in his face subsided but the fire in his eyes roared like the flames of the paintings behind him.
“How is it my fault?” he asked, his back pressed against the wall as he looked for a way out of the temple from the corner of his eyes. “You sent your daughter there; I had nothing to do with that.” The fire in his eyes flared but his face remained emotionless.
“Your ilk was responsible for the dark time, their machines left nothing but barren ground and evil wherever it went. Your family brought down the fires of judgement upon us. Now we do what is asked of us to survive and reject the evils of Babylon.” John recalled the scene outside, all that to survive. “We send our children into the world to prove their faith because your forefather’s greed forced us to. So, it is in fact your fault, and you will fix it.” The Preacher's eyes glowed as he spoke and twitched with anger. John knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter, however an unspoken threat hung in the air like a scythe pulled back to separate the chaff. “Leave now.” Preacher turned his back to John and sat in his ornate chair with a thud and continued reading from the holy tome. The Gov took the opportunity to leave, any objections he had were useless. Either he searched for Preacher’s daughter and the lost faithful or he found himself in a worse situation than the now branded and banished boy. He grasped the handle of the door. “Gov,” Preacher called from behind him. John didn’t turn around. “Don’t come back without her. Your mother’s final wish won’t protect you. Do not expect mercy if you fail.” A whip cracked from behind him, sending a chill and an echo of pain up his spine. “There will be no penance for you.” The bile words drove into his back like a dagger.
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He reached the small camp just after sunset but found nothing but tattered cloth and ash scattered in the remains of his shelter. The smell of rotten fish and the large flies that circled his camp told John it was Fisher's handy work, the man evidently not satisfied with his previous sabotage or the exchange of words early that day. He salvaged a long stick from the bones of his lean-to, a number of charcoal pieces, and loose dry bark. He tied the charcoal and bark in shreds of the cloth that hadn’t been soaked through by fish blood and secured it to the end of the stick. He produced a small bottle of oil from his satchel and dosed the bundle before sparking it into flames. He left the ruined camp behind him; thankful he hadn’t wasted his time repairing it that morning.
The torch glowed bright in the darkening valley, casting shadows along the well beaten path that wove beside the river as it bent and flowed from the mountains. Most of the faithful refused to be out at night, which meant he was safe from anymore harassment for the time being and could safely return to his workshop sanctuary. The chance of predators was low in the area too, thanks in part to Johns’ traps and Hunter’s family that patrolled the outskirts of the village. Hunter was the one that had taught John about making traps, a secret that had been passed down to him from Johns’ own father.
The moon was overhead and the sky bleed the first rays of orange when john arrived at the barn. He was relieved to find that everything was as he had left it, the chains and size of his home deterred any would-be thieves from attempting to gain entry. He chuckled lightly, it was occasionally a blessing to be a Gov around the faithful, fear of evil spirits and demons kept all but the bravest and spiteful away from him. He was less relieved to see that the rain which had dampened him the night before hadn’t reached his barn. The bloody letters clung to his wall, more brown and black than red, whether from the drying process or the flies that clung to it John couldn’t be sure. The rotten smell of fish guts assaulted him as he threw open the barn doors. He had forgotten to clean the contents of Fisher's bucket before he left for the village. He considered cleaning the forge and attempting to experiment with a design he had thought up while waiting for Preacher’s audience, as much out of boredom as it was to drown out the boy’s cries. He decided against it in favor of the mat in his room.
Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t find his way to sleep. The whipping sounds echoed in his mind. He still couldn’t understand why the boy would choose death over the whipping. Maybe it had been a lapse of judgement, John doubted that explanation. The boy was defiant, a last jab at the father that refused to defend his son perhaps. John could certainly understand that sentiment. He lay in the dark damp abyss of his mind, the journey ahead of him loomed as a dark omen. Maybe the boy was defying the god that put him in that situation, a rebellion against a cruel god and its blessed father. The cursedwood called to him like a siren, the sweet invitation hiding the darker intentions of the herald of death. The many stories of a drifter echoed in his head as he passed the time.
The man had no name, at least that’s what he had told john. “Names have power ya know.” A thick accent pitched his words low and caught in the back of his throat. “If ya can name something, ya give it an existence in this world. And if it exists, then man can tame it.” The drifter often told tales of the old world, the sparkle in his eye was bright when he spoke. “The world was beautiful; ya didn’t need to worry about anything. Food was plenty, water was clean, people were shite.” He chuckled at his own words. “But the world was great, we even managed to find a way into the stars.” He stared into the night sky; a terrible sadness shook the wrinkly man. “Evil people will always exist to take advantage of the vast riches of someone else. But that was long ago, way before ya were even thought about,” he paused and looked at John, “before the world went up in flames.” He would stop before telling John how it happened and would instead tell him about the spirits and creatures that inhabited the shadows and forests of the world he longed to see again.
He would tell stories of the sirens, beautiful women that sang a song of death to any man that heard it. “A murderous mermaid.” He’d call them. “Though I’d try my luck with them before I’d face the likes of a pooka.” He would eye John to push him to explain the story, even though he had done so many times before. John would ask him to tell the story anyways, they both enjoyed the shared company and legends of old.
“The pooka is a shapeshifter, ya wouldn’t know one until it was too late. Tricksters they are and mean as they come. They toy with men who travel too far off the path into the fay folk’s realm. A sure sign ya’ve gone too far is the faerie fire, will ‘o wisps, as my da called them. They lure ya into the waiting clutches of a bored pooka or a hungry banshee. But once the pookas found ya, you best pray to whatever ya believe in, you’d be meeting him soon.” He would tap one shoulder across to his other shoulder with two fingers, then tap his head and cross the fingers down below his chest. He’d smile, “I once seen a pooka not far from here, just down south off the road. Took the form of a person, and stalked me across the valley, I could feel its eyes waiting for me to sleep.” He’d lift his head high in pride while tapping the side of his head. “It never did though, but as I turned my back to take a piss, it stole my bag and left a trail of food back into the woods. I almost fell for it, thinking it was one of them savage folk. But then I saw the will ‘o’s, and my da rose a fool but no dunce. I took off on the road and never looked back again.” He’d eye John as the young gov listened with a smirk on his face. “Sure, I never actually saw the thing good, but I knew no savage or drifter could move that quick in the forest. No eyes could see in that dark.” He’d meet John's doubtful gaze before taking a long drink from a tin, the smell of alcohol on the wind. “Believe what ya will boy, but there are things in them dark woods that no man has any desire to find proof of.”
John knew it was just a story, a tale of mystery and the supernatural in the old world of machines and knowledge. The cursedwood was just a forest, the pooka just a figment of people’s fear of the dark, a story to warn young travelers of the danger of the night. A wise story to tell, John believed, but not something to take seriously. The soft wet rhythm of his room’s leaking walls finally lulled him to sleep, the question “what if?” hung in his mind as he drifted into the dark forest of his dreams.