Chapter 4: A Reason to Laugh
Ayla Rúth Harya
As we traverse the desert under blistering sun, the human stares at the horizon like a man who sees things no one else can.
In point of fact, I believe he does.
It is impossible for me to determine how he finds his way sometimes. I know we are moving east because of the position of the sun. Even that is unreliable at times, when the wind and the dust clouds block both the sun and visibility for kilometers around. I know that I could not find the way on my own. And still, the human leads us unerringly to the next point on the map. I know this, because he takes his map out only when he reaches the next dot along the red line he’s traced on it, and only once do I see him make a correction. He confirms the landmarks, which often look very similar to me, then reorients us to the next point on the map.
The human is methodical and careful. Also, he is considerate of me. It is infuriating.
Early in the day when the sun starts to wear on me and become unbearable, he offers his wide-brimmed hat. I refuse. Instead of returning it to its rightful place on his head, he ties it on the side of the saddlebag, where it bounces around for hours, mocking me for my pride. I decided that if he won’t wear it, then why should I suffer in vain?
It does not take the human Jace long to learn my limits. Once he does, he does not exceed the pace I can handle. When he notices me beginning to show signs of weariness—which despite my best efforts, I fail to hide—he pauses to take a drink of water and hands me a skin. Every time we come upon shade, he breaks for us to cool off.
I know he must be suffering under the sun because of me. I wear his enchanted cloak, which not only warms in the cold of night, but works to keep my body temperature cool. If despite this enchantment I still find the heat unbearable, how much worse is it for the human? Not once does he complain. If he feels any animosity for my having stolen his Lóke and caused its demise, or any frustration at having to endure this endless walk at my expense, he never shows it.
On our breaks, when he takes his eyes off the horizon, I catch him staring at the rift in the sky. His expression is an enigma. He is at once stoic, sad, angry, and in awe. I did not see the rift often in my last enclave, where we lived in a network of caves illuminated by sun stones. Now it is impossible to ignore. For me it is a symbol of death, and yet, though unsettling, it is disturbingly beautiful.
When night falls, we stop only when the veil of darkness makes it hard to see past a few strides. From the way he looks at the stars, I suspect the human could find his way by reading them. I wonder if, again, he stops on my account. I almost open my mouth to ask him. But close it before he notices.
I must not forget that he only wishes me to lead him to an enclave. This is all a ploy. He is not worth speaking to. Doing so could only lead to folly.
The human attempts to explain to me why he does not light a fire: without proper concealment, a fire can be seen from a far distance and draw enemies to our location. I pretend not to understand and brace myself for a cold night.
Our camp—if you can even call it that without a fire—consists of our leaning against the slope of a shallow hollow of cracked hardpan. The idea is that in some small part, the slope will shelter us against the frigid wind.
We eat, drink water and the human spreads the bedroll and blanket he’s carried all day along with his saddlebags. It occurs to me that he has moved well despite the extra burden he must carry without his mount. The human scrubs his face with his hands and sighs. “I know you’ll hate it. But the best way to do this is back to back. A bit of body heat goes a long way when it gets cold. The Bedroll should help keep some of the warmth from the baked hardpan, but not all night.”
He scrubs his hair. “Damn it. I still can’t tell if you’re being stubborn or if you really can’t understand me.”
The human tries a few elvish sounding words that are nothing but gibberish before giving up and resorting to gestures once more.
He puts his hands together, first pointing at one hand, then himself. Then switching hands to point at the other and then at me. Then he awkwardly puts the backs of his hands together and looks at me expectantly. The face he makes is stupid.
Perhaps tonight is the night he will finally be overcome with his lust. I have already stolen a small knife from the saddlebag when he wasn’t paying attention. When he mounts me, I will drive it through his eyeball and into his brain.
I nod at him, pretending to have comprehended his ridiculous pantomime. Can he see the hate in my eyes? Or has he just become accustomed to it? It does not seem to phase him.
I begin to lay down, contemplating thoughts of murder, when suddenly from everywhere at once, I hear the sounds of a thousand keening wails. I sit up wide-eyed and search the darkness, nearly raising my knife in defense and revealing my only weapon.
“They won’t harm us.” The human points upward, where from the rift, surrounded by its aurora of greens and purple, a serpentine cloud of undulating wisps emerges, beginning its languid dance across the night sky.
I look at him. Not feeling at all convinced of the veracity of his words. If the rift is unsettling to look at, this eerie stream of ghostly shrieks and howls are a nightmare. They are countless banshee announcing a reaping of souls.
How do their voices even reach us from all the way up there?
“They’re wraiths.” The human says, his eyes trained on the looping river of wraiths. “In Valenheim, the Sky Watchers think they have something to do with why magic doesn’t work right anymore.”
The human shakes his head. “That isn’t what they are.”
I wait for him to finish. I’ve never seen or heard of these wraiths and the longer I listen to their wailing, the more anxious I become.
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The human’s sigh is heavy with weariness.
“They are the souls of the restless dead. The spirits of those killed in an endless war that has no sense and yields no victor. Their cry is one of despair. God is dead and there is no heaven where we may sleep.”
Though I do not believe his words are true—God is not dead, merely biding her time—when he speaks, it is with a sadness so bottomless that something in the chasm of my being echoes his grief. My anxiety abates, and so does my heart stir for the ghosts in the night sky, whose cries I hear differently now. They are the voices of a dirge, a requiem.
I shiver, and it isn’t from the cold.
I turn my back to Jace, lying still, waiting for him to join me. My muscles tense, anticipating the moment he'll move, drape an arm over me, or reveal his true self. But that moment never comes. For sometime, sleep eludes me as I dwell on the warmth of his back against mine, and the lingering ghosts of his words.
The next day went the way of the first. The night had been long and restless. The wind, cold and brutal. Despite my reservations, Jace’s heat had been welcome. He made no attempts to take me.
During our ceaseless march, the human deviates from his mapped course after watching a group of birds in the distance. Then he follows signs and tracks only he can see. He even uses his nose to scent the air. When we are close, even I can see the prolific animal tracks, as well as how the ground turns from dry hardpan to moist dirt.
The human Jace leads us right to a watering hole. It is a hole about twenty meters across. The water is still, reflecting the sun and the cloudless azure skies. Lush greenery thrives all along the water’s edge, defying all odds and reason in this lifeless desert. There are even small animals and large insects around the edge, though the human shouts at them to scatter. He does not hesitate to jump headfirst into the hole, clothes and all. Neither do I. The water is wonderful, and the chance to wash so much grime from my body overrides any thoughts I might have of dignity or pride.
As night falls, I decide I cannot wait any longer. Humans are monsters, and their ways are devious and evil. If I should wait any longer, the human will sink his barbed claws of empathy too deep under my skin for me to dig out. His acting thus far has been too perfect. For the fallen bastion of De’danaan, I must murder him even before he makes his first move.
I devise a plan to both catch him unawares, and reveal his true nature just before I ventilate his windpipe. The fact that I had the chance to bathe today is serendipitous.
We make camp in a well-ventilated cave and the human builds a proper fire this time. I bask in its warmth and stare into its flames, steeling myself for the bloody task ahead. After a scant meal and water, I know the time is approaching, and I can’t help but look out in the direction of the mouth of the cave.
Though I can’t see the sky from here, I would rather not try my plan while listening to the dirge of wraiths again.
As if he reads my mind, the human says: “The wraiths won’t come tonight. They’ve gone west.” Then he smiles wrily. “Maybe to haunt Valenheim for a while.”
A shred of doubt skirts the outskirts of my consciousness, only for me to squash it ruthlessly. It is imperative that I retain absolute focus.
Finally, the time comes, and the human lays down to rest. I take a deep breath and relax my facial muscles. I make a tiny whimpering noise, which draws his attention. Then I crawl on all fours, making my movements languid and sensuous, drawing attention to my breasts and the swaying of my hips.
I let my robes, which I’d already loosened, spill over one shoulder, exposing the pale, smooth skin of my breast, and the shadow of a nipple. I sway with every movement I draw close to him, until I am close enough to touch.
My hands touch his arm, my face draws close to his. I swing a leg to straddle over him. I let the rest of my robe fall to my waist and my chest is fully exposed. I rest one hand on his shoulder, as I reach back with my other hand into the folds of my robe for the knife.
I lean forward for a kiss, and brace myself to strike the killing blow. Only then do I meet his thoughtful, narrowed eyes.
I realize that the human has not stirred, nor moved a centimeter since I began my approach.
His pupils are dilated, heart rate elevated. He is aroused, yet his lips are pressed into a thin line. He looks more like someone with a question rather than one eager to answer.
When he lifts me by the shoulders and moves me aside, I am too startled to react. His hands are strong and firm, his movement decisive. His eyes are still fixed on mine when he says gently: “I think you’re a beautiful woman. But this is not something you need to do. You don’t owe me anything.”
The human stands, and I watch him visibly shake off the effect I’ve had on him. He…turned me down?
It is such an absurd thing that I forget that I have vowed not to speak to him. “Why!”
The bastard’s eyes widen at hearing me speak, but he quickly adjusts. He nods, smiling faintly. “Because you hate me. There’s no reason for you to defile yourself to pay…a debt.”
His voice trails off as his eyes catch the glint of firelight off my knife blade. I follow his line of sight and curse my twice damned hubris.
I reflexively crouch on my heels and point the knife at him, ready to jump at any sudden movement. My eyes flicker to his rifle, leaning several strides away next to the saddlebags. His revolver hangs at his hip, but he makes no move toward it. On the contrary, he folds his arms over his belly and laughs.
He laughs!
Though we have not traveled together long, this is the first time I see him express genuine mirth. Not once has a single smile she’d seen on his face touched his eyes. Yet here he is laughing with a guileless candor that makes him age in reverse. The abhorrent stray thought graces my mind that his face is appealing; this thought reminds me I need to be angry. “Are you mocking me? Am I such a small threat to you that your first response at seeing that I mean to kill you—is to laugh?”
The exasperating man wipes a tear from his eye and shakes his head. It appears to be a monumental effort for him to settle his laughter down. “No. I am not mocking you, lady. I am glad to see that I was wrong. The fight hasn’t left you at all. It burns just as bright as ever.”
I stand there, knife in hand and bare chested, watching as the human Jace finds a spot by the fire to lay down. He turns his back to me as he has every night I’ve shared camp with him.
What just happened? What kind of human refuses a willing elf? For a while, I cannot fathom it. Neither did he take advantage of me, nor did he respond to my assassination attempt with violence.
By all logic, he should kill me. Or, at the very least, disable me, tie me up, beat me. That is what humans do to elves. Why doesn’t he? Instead he laughs and turns his back to me, daring me to kill him. I could walk up to him right now and stab him in the neck, take his rifle and shoot him in the heart.
But I don’t. Instead I cover myself and tie my robes. I tuck the knife into the folds and sit across him on the opposite side of the fire. I watch Jace take a deep breath that somehow sounds more relaxed than any other I’ve seen him take. Still with his back to me, he says: “Now you’re talking, maybe you can tell me your name.”
I sigh, resting my chin on my knees. “It’s Ayla. My name is Ayla.”
“Well met, Ayla. Call me Jace.”
“I’m still going to kill you, Jace.”
Jace waves the thought away over his shoulder. His voice still holds a tinge of humor when he says: “If you don’t do it tonight, then I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”