Like all towns, Ash settled into a deep slumber after a slight drunken commotion. No one traveled after dark. During the hot season, the sun would bounce across the horizon, never quite setting before rising back up to the sky again. This time of year however, the sun spared them by falling just below the crest of the sky, casting the horizon in brilliant shades of crimson and amber. Maybe once or twice a year, the gods would bestow a forgiving breeze. Those who slept in Ash tossed and turned in their cots, never quite getting a good night’s rest. Still, many looked forward to their few hours of reprieve from the sun. Rich and poor; travelers and settlers; drunk and sober; all were alike in this manner.
The northern end of the town was completely silent, except for moans emanating from the condemned jail cell. At the far south, the town was slightly less hushed. This was mostly due to the traders who slept in and outside the town in various yurts and tents and huts. Animals bunkered down in the dirt, snoring beside their traveling companions. Appo’s elephant and Jere’s camel shared a stable alongside a herd of yak, exhausted after their arduous trek in the desert.
The exception to this uniform quiet was the presence of a lone woman traveling to her tent right outside the walls of Ash. She wore a beige robe common among the desertfolk, which covered her head-to-toe apart from her face. She wiped the sweat from her brow; she found herself profusely sweating despite the slight drop in temperature.
The woman opened her tent just one more time to check on her children. The tent was littered with items, as everything they owned was crowded inside. Yak jerky hung from the linings, and bags upon bags of spices surrounded the sides. Her two boys were still fidgeting in their bedrolls, but she was sure they were asleep. They hadn’t seen their father in moons, and she didn’t want them to endanger themselves traversing the city at night.
Or worse: find their father in the state that he was in.
Quietly reaching into the tent, the woman grabbed several items: a rag, a pouch of water, and a bag of herbs. Before darting, she grabbed her knife and stowed it away under her robe. She knew her best years were behind her, for her face was becoming sullen and puffy and would nary be the target of prowlers of the night. Still, she knew better than to underestimate the debauchery of men. She was not afraid to kill to ensure that her family would be safe.
She crossed through the gates up into Ash. She was completely alone. She could see well, guided by the reddish horizon and the full moon above her. The guards remained at their posts, but most of them had nodded off by this time. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, as the woman’s destination was far from the main street and away from the guards. She took a left at the gate, traveling west until she reached a derelict portion of the city.
She had traveled this path thousands of times. Many years ago, the woman and her family called Ash home. They made their living as traders, selling spices and jerky and water and whatever else they could profit off. They did so until the Urash family cornered the market on spices, which removed much of their livelihood. Unable to afford even the most basic living conditions, they were forced into the desert, trading spices here and there and praying to the desert god Ati to provide them with means to collect water. The family had become used to suffering, but they were pious and dutiful. They prayed to their god whenever they woke, whenever they ate, and whenever they drank. They survived, but just barely.
Almost a fortnight prior the family returned to Ash, like many others, to benefit from the Day of Akkavan, which brought reliable crowds from across the steppe and the desert. They prayed to Ati that they would not be forsaken for profiting off of the holiday of another god. It seemed to have worked, for their time in Ash had been the most profitable they have had in years. With the coin they had saved, it was likely they could afford to move on to another city along the Thorne, preferably one where they could sell their spices in comfort.
As the woman recalled her trials, she reached the dilapidated house that had once belonged to her family. Despite what crowds suggested, Ash truly was a dying town. It was impossible to make a living there, as the rows upon rows of abandoned settlements proved. There was not a soul on this side of the city, it seemed. As such, she felt no concern as she passed under the shredded curtains that covered the entrance. The house was dark, but the woman’s eyes had long been adjusted to the dim moonlight. It was the fourth moon she had returned to her former abode, and her movements had become routine. She passed through the parlor to the bedroom, obscured by another curtain. As she approached, the moaning she became acquainted with made itself known.
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In her bedroom was her husband, tied down to the bedpost and blindfolded. He was straining against the binds that tied his arms, neck, and hands. He had been struggling all night again. The binds held as she expected. The gag around his mouth had nearly been torn through, but considering he was unchanged from the other days, the woman figured he had yet to be discovered. She abhorred his scream and would hate for anyone else to come across it.
The woman looked over her husband. He was looking worse with each moon; he had somehow lost more weight, as his legs and arms were now as thin as walking canes. His elongated fingers were blackened and bruised, and his fingernails crusted with blood. He had been scratching at his hips and palms, evidenced by the ever-growing pool of blood around the bedpost. The hair around his scalp and beard had become white and was falling in clumps around his head. She knew by now not to look under the blindfold, knowing that his once beautiful green eyes were now as crimson as the sun.
She wordlessly moved over her husband, knowing by now that he was past the point of speaking. She muttered a brief prayer and pulled out her rag. With a deft hand, she loosened the clasps of the gag and pulled it out of her husband’s mouth. The husband was able to let out a light yelp before she shoved the rag into his mouth and fastened it against the clasps. She was getting good at it. No one had heard them yet, and the yelp was the quietest she had been able to keep him. She examined to see if any of the binds were in danger of loosening and they were not. Finally, she went to work rubbing herbs against his wounds, hoping they would lessen the blood loss, though she could tell they were doing little.
Seven moons ago. That was when she first noticed that something was wrong. Her husband had come home feeling as though he was hungover. He had been to the taverns many times, but he had never returned drunk. He couldn't rest. The pain in his stomach became unbearable. She remembered how silent he had become, always seeming doubled over in pain. He refused water and couldn’t hold down the meals she cooked. She brought him to this room once she realized how bad he was. She treated him with her herbs and rest. None of it seemed to work. Then he started screaming. She was able to get him restrained, but not without great difficulty.
She was okay running the stands; their bartering skills rivaled one another, after all. Still, the children asked about their father frequently. Then there was the matter of the curse that appeared to be spreading through the town. The trader Heads were quiet, but signs of the accursed was still the talk of the merchants. The lack of sleep. The inability to hold down food or drink. The screaming. It was clear that her husband was cursed. But it was also clear that they had found the witch that had caused it. She hated that witch, more than anything. During the day she would travel to the pillories and curse at the witch, occasionally throwing rocks and hoping that they would crush her skull.
She wanted to get help, but she feared what would happen if he was discovered. Curse aside, her husband burned all his bridges when he left Ash years ago. He could get in trouble even if he were healthy. No, she could only hope for the best. She prayed that once the witch died, her husband would return to his normal self. She couldn’t bear to live her life without him. He had sacrificed so much for her.
The woman stayed with her husband for most of the night. She then did what she had done every night before: scrubbed his body clean and removed the putrid flesh that piled between his legs. As she got up to leave, she thought the words “I still love you,” before kissing him on the forehead. He thrashed his head in response, his howling muffled by his rag.
As the woman returned to her tent, her thoughts raced with increasing intensity. She wiped more sweat from her brow. She kept thinking about the pain her husband must be going through and pondered what the kids would think if they knew what became of their father. She was worried what would happen if she were discovered. Would she be thrown in the pillory along with the witch? Or worse, exiled?
The woman was not destined to be caught tonight. She opened the flaps of her tent as she returned, carefully placing her water pouch and the knife back where they once were. She placed herself between her two children, kissing both on the forehead before laying down with the youngest. During the last three nights, she had cried to herself in her tent, unaware that her children had been awake the whole time and could hear her sobs. By the fourth night, she had stopped crying. Her feelings had become harder to grasp. She lay down assuming that this was the way of grief. Her husband was not dead, after all. He would get better, she knew it.
Still, her fears were not assuaged as she looked across to her oldest child. His eyes were not closed, and he looked at her with fear. He was sweating too. She held her youngest as her stomach rattled within her abdomen, the pain intensifying. She lay her head down as she anticipated yet another sleepless night.