Chapter One: The Accidental Plague

“Now look Stew,” Da said, “You ain’t the best. You ain’t the brightest. And you ain’t even listening to me are you? I swear, you’d be dead and still not know it.” The middle-aged man, that is to say early thirties, said to his teenage son. Stew was a chubby, rotund, boy, who had a habit of not paying attention to what his right and proper Da had told him. Stew had just turned eight and, as was his right of manhood, was to pluck the first grape of the Autumn harvest. This would then be squelched, boiled, and bottled before Jericho’s father would come and buy the bottles to take them to the city.

‘Ah, Jericho.’ Stew couldn’t keep his mind off her recently, coming of age and all. Her name was the only word above three syllables that didn’t make his head hurt. His Da felt this was entirely appropriate, as long as Stew kept his feelings to himself and business stayed business. Stew snapped awake as his Da clipped him over the back of the head.

Out the corner of his eye, Stew spotted Jericho. She was walking down the road to the house in that nice dress she always wore. “Now look Stew,” Da said again, firmer this time, “Picking the first grape is a fine old tradition. An important tradition. Now the tricks to a good grape son, are three little things. The size,”

Stew definitely agreed the size was important, continuing to watch Jericho flaunt as she passed them with a small wave.

“The colour,” His Da continued.

Tanned skin, the colour of glazed and browned sugar.

“And the shape.” His Da finished.

Healthy, lean, well-fit, all those things would describe her perfectly.

“Understand Stew?” Da said, watching him uncertainly.

“Yes Da. Big, colourful, round and juicy.” Stew said, looking beneath his father’s arm towards the house, where his older brother Hand had just swept Jericho off her feet, taking her inside. A cold feeling that Stew had not felt before wormed its way inside his stomach. He didn’t like that feeling about as much as he didn’t like Hand and Jericho together, he realised.

Stew didn’t mind Hand, he wasn’t a bad guy. Handsome was a good older brother, Stew felt, and was sad that he would be leaving for the city soon. The farmers life didn’t suit him as much as modelling nice clothing and living the high life did. Not that Stew knew what the words ‘Modelling’ or ‘High-Life’ meant. If he wanted to get high why didn’t he just climb the hills near the Reaches?

“Stew. Stew. For Avelli’s sake Stew.” Da said, shaking him. “You need to stop drifting off. You’re a man now Stew. Act like it. Now come on, let’s go find your grape.” They walked together, up and down the many rows of the Vineyard, searching for the perfect grape. Every now and again, Da would stop and point out one that looked particularly nice. He would make comment on the heat coming early this year, as he did every year. And how the frost from last winter had burned his best plants, as he also did every year. Nothing much changed around here.

Not that Stew was paying him too much attention anymore. Jericho was walking up the row towards him, carrying a wicker basket covered in a patterned cloth. Stew swore he’d never forget that sight. Except, maybe, he’d blur out the fact that Hand was holding her free hand. And that she was leaning against his shoulder slightly. And his arm was pressed between her, well, hills. A thought struck at Stew faster than a Sapsnake. ‘Maybe that’s what getting high means.’ Stew was sure there were more pretty girls in the city. Obviously, none would be as pretty as Jericho.

He began to sweat and grow nervous as she approached. That was weird. That never happened before. They used to play in the mud together by the stream, Jericho and him. And Hand. Jericho smiled at Stew. He couldn’t meet her eye.

“Hello, you two.” Da said happily. Stew sulked. Da never talked to him that way.

“Hey Da.” Hand said, his voice deep and proud. “Hey Stew, you found your grape yet?” Hand stood a good two feet taller than Stew, he was almost fifteen, and he'd be having his day tomorrow. They’d been born two days apart, only Stew had been born seven years too late. Jericho would be turning fifteen at the end of Autumn, Stew knew this because it was the only thing about Autumn he liked.

Hand stood awkwardly as he waited for Stew to reply, then realising that Stew was lost to the world once more, turned to Jericho and tilted his head toward Stew. Jericho knelt by Stew’s side. Feeling the heat rush to his face, Stew turned away and studied the grapes with the fervour of a pious man. The only difference was, his thoughts were far from holy.

“Steward,” Jericho said, she was the only one who called him by his full name, “I’ve got some bread and cheese for you and your Da here.” She looked up at him. “It took us a while to find you guys, so your Ma will be needing me back soon to help cook dinner. We’ll be making your favourite.” She smiled.

Stew continued to inspect the bushes. The vine here was not healthy, its plums had begun to rot on its stem, and they had barely been in bloom a month ago. Stew fancied he saw a maggot wriggling its way through one of them. Something soft, tender, and loving, pressed against the side of his face, snapping him back to reality. The three adults chuckled at him as Stew wiped away the earthy paint on the side of his face, the same colour that adorned Jericho’s lips.

“Happy Birthday,” She said, “That’s a good luck charm. Be sure to use it.” Straightening her dress, she looped arms with Hand and strolled away in the warm autumn day.

Stew stepped backwards, hand landing against the vine. A grape came free in his hand. Looking down at it, a rock sank in his gut. It was from that plant. The sick plant. The grape was shrivelled, almost as ancient looking as his Grandda (who at the time had just passed away at the ripe old age of fourty-five. Not that Stew knew this. Stew had been told that Grandda was looking after the cows in the field out back, and he had never gone to check. Grandda was as prone to the bottle as he was to the belt).

The grape pulsated in his hand, a rhythmic heartbeat of pestilence and plague. Stew didn’t know what those words meant, and he didn’t know how they got into his head, but he was sure they were bad.

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“Let’s see, let’s see.” Da said, trying to catch a peek at his son’s prize. Stew shook his head and stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers.

“Nu-uh. Surprise.” Stew said, hoping his father would buy the weak excuse. Da contemplated for a second, then patted his son on the shoulder.

“I’m proud of you, boy. Or should I say, Man. Come, let’s squash it.”

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Four weeks passed as the grapes were harvested, crushed, pulped, and fermented. When Jericho’s Da had returned from the city, he stopped by to celebrate. Jericho helped Ma cook, roasted lamb with harvest vegetables, and seasoning that Jericho’s Da had brought back from the city. Stew had never met Jericho’s Ma. He didn’t know why.

“Mr Jericho’s Da,” Stew said between bites as portions of lamb were heaped onto surrounding plates, “Why do the seasons look like little bits of grass?”

“What do you mean, Stew?” Jericho’s Da said, confused. He took a sip of ale that he had brought back in a cask from Verdante for the men to share. Stew was only allowed a small amount in a small glass. The Men, the real Men, drank from wooden flagons that Da’s Da’s Da had made from when his ale shed was burnt down by Verdetian knights.

“I mean, why does Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring look like little bits of grass?” Stew had stopped eating at this point, and for the rare occasion, had his attention focused. Between his fingers that he had outstretched to Mr Jericho’s Da, small sprigs of rosemary sat.

“Oh no, dear boy, they aren’t the seasons, that’s different. What’s on your hands there is Rosemary. It’s a type of Seasoning. Not as Season. Spiran’s up to their old word tricks again I’m afraid.” Mr Jericho’s Da said, shaking his head. “Never trust a Spiran. Their heads aren’t screwed on right.”

Da and Hand nodded sagely at the advice. “You’ll need to be careful son,” Da said to Hand, “You never know what those freaks will do to you.”

Ma and Jericho rolled their eyes at this, Jericho scratching at her arm absently. Rising from her seat, Ma called a toast. “Family and Friends, and Friends who will soon be Family, tonight we gather for the breaking of the first bottle of Winter. Stew, if you will.” Ma reached across the table, handing Stew a purple coloured bottle.

He’d been dreading this moment; the secret had been festering in his stomach ever since he had thrown it amongst the other grapes to be squashed. The wine was a deep reddish-purple. That was good. It looked normal. He held it up to the firelight. There was nothing floating in there, no maggots or flies or worms.

“Hurry up Stew, we’re parched over here.” Hand said, the other men laughing in great drunken guffaws. Lining up the flagons, as well as his own small glass alongside the women’s, he opened the bottle. He took a long sniff. It smelt normal and had that sort of punch to your nostril. Elated, Stew set to work, pouring large glasses for everyone. After he had finished ferrying the flagons and glasses back to the eagerly awaiting owners, he grabbed his own.

They watched him with expectant eyes. Too young to remember his brother’s speech, which he had been told was a good one, Stew tried to come up with something. “Um, to long, happy, lives?”

Silence quieter than the silence already present descended in the room. Stew looked to Hand with pleading eyes. Getting the message, Hand clapped and whooped, downing his share of the Wine. The adults, upon realising that the speech was in fact over, did the same. Stew raised his own wine to his lips when a knock came to the door. No one moved to answer it, in fact, no one seemed to notice.

Sighing, Stew laid his glass down untouched, walking to the door. As it opened by itself, Stew came face to face with a man dressed in rags. “Hello.” Stew said. Something was strange about this person. He wasn’t sure whether it was the fact his face seemed to be painted on, or that the blue and white eyes were quite the opposite of where they should have been. Or the fact that the stranger was floating at least a foot of the ground. None of this bothered Stew, living so close to the Fel’Reaches one tended to see strange things that were never altogether, but only sometimes, there.

No, no. What was strange to Stew, was the fact that the newcomer was armed with a large knife on a long stick. A Glaive, he believed it was called. Not that he’d known the word more than a moment prior. “Hello.” Stew said again.

The stranger did not reply, simply electing to float there.

“Hello?” Stew tried. “Look if you aren’t going to answer…”

It was about at this moment, if Stew had have looked down, he would have seen the glaive pass through his chest, and out the other side. Fortunately for him, he did not. The stranger seemed perturbed about something, worried even. Stew thought it would be a good idea to get his Ma’s opinion on the matter, except she was drunkenly slumped over the table. As was everyone else in the room. Da, Hand, and Jericho’s Da were all asleep in their chairs, Jericho lied in a very unladylike way, her hair was matted with the supper soup.

The stranger pushed past Stew. Well maybe not pushed. The movement was more like a mist passing through a forest. Sure, the trees were there, but nothing was going to stop it from moving onwards. The stranger raised his Glaive above Jericho and prepared to strike. Stew did the only thing that a reasonably overweight boy who was lovestruck with a girl much older and far out of his league would do when faced with such a situation.

He stepped in front of the glaive.

“Huh.” Stew said as he looked down without pain. This time, he did notice the glaive sticking from his chest. No blood came from the wound, no pain, not even a slight tingle. He didn’t feel a thing. The stranger looked perplexed again, pulling the glaive back through Stew and testing the edge against a wooden beam of the house.

“Oi. Don’t you be messin up me Da and Ma’s house.” Stew said in a much braver voice than he felt.

The stranger sat Jericho up in her chair. He sat down in Stew’s seat at the table. The stranger pointed for Stew to sit opposite him, in his Da’s seat. Stew shot a cautious look at his Da. No one sat in his seat, other than Da. Quietly, Stew pulled the seat out. He sat down next to his sleeping Ma, who would also have belted him black and blue if she knew, then sat in the seat herself. 

You see, Ma and Da loved the Verdetian way. They hated each other’s guts at the best of times, and hated the rest of their bodies at the worst. Stew could hear the shouts and pained moans coming from their bedroom next to his most nights. His father would punish his mother constantly, calling her a “Bad Girl” or “Naughty Girl” before smacking her repeatedly. Ma never gave in though. She would always demand he “hit her harder.”

The stranger took Stew’s untouched glass from the table. Mouth falling open from where their chin should have been, they threw it back, glass and all. “Oi, that was mine.” Stew said. The Stranger made a sound like thousands of grains of sand falling through an hourglass. Stew didn’t know how he knew that, he just did. What even was an hourglass?

A very thin finger drew characters in the air that Stew could not read. Then, as if realising an error, the stranger turned the characters around.

It read:

I am the Warden.

I require your services.

Come.

Reality tore behind Stew, a rough crack in its otherwise seamless complexion. It roared like an angered beast, tearing at its surroundings. Stew looked into its depths, the otherside showing only blackness. 

Then the Warden pushed him in, floating along after. 

The room returned to its quiet with a subtle Shizzleflam. The next morning Mr Jericho’s men would impatiently await his arrival – which would never come. In a brilliant move by a man named Johan, he seized leadership of the convoy of casks headed for Verdante, taking on the role of Mr Jericho masterfully. The wine was then bought and sold amongst countless dealers and suppliers, mixed into larger vats and redistributed at a lower price for an almost endless quantity.

This event came to be known in the country of Versailles as:

The Bottled Death