Someone placed a warm cloth on Indenuel’s forehead, and his eyes snapped open. He turned to see a much older gentleman he’d never seen before in white robes. He had kind enough eyes. They were green, the defining feature of all Santollians in the world. He tried to sit up, but the gentleman placed a strong hand on his shoulder to keep him down.
“Rest, Indenuel,” the man said. “You went through quite the spiritual journey, from what I heard.”
Indenuel stared at the man. “Are you Martin the Healer?”
“I am. You may call me Martin.”
“My village? The supplies?”
“All taken care of. You have a healthy, happy village here.”
He allowed himself to smile before another realization came to him. “How long was I asleep?” Matteo’s mattress was empty, and sunlight filtered through the small window.
“Almost three days,” Martin said.
Indenuel stared at him.
“You completely altered the weather of this village for a while, my boy,” Martin said. “Your body needed time to heal.”
Indenuel looked down for the first time. The devil’s sleep. When someone used too much of the corruptive powers. Now a High Elder was here to take him away. His clothes were cleaned and lying folded on the floor. The only thing covering him was the many blankets on him, not all of them he recognized.
Martin handed him a clay bowl filled to the brim with broth. “Drink this. You need your strength. You haven’t eaten in three days-” He sat up and took the bowl, drinking it greedily, “-on top of the weeks you were destitute.” Martin said this last part slower as he watched Indenuel with a curious look.
It was a blessing to finally feel something in his belly after so long. He didn’t notice Martin trying to take the bowl back from him. He tightened his grip over it. It wasn’t empty yet.
“I need to make sure that broth stays inside you before you drink anymore,” Martin said.
He was right, but Indenuel still struggled to get his fingers to give up the bowl of broth. Martin placed the bowl in his lap. “They say your name is Indenuel, son of Lucia.”
“Yes, sir.” He braced himself for the judgement from a High Elder about the evils of being born with no one to call his father, but Martin said nothing. With the silence stretching on, Indenuel felt the need to fill it. “My mother had an Oraminian grandfather. She loved him. Sometimes when I do something that reminds me of him, she calls me by his name instead. Eskmenmar. She only called me that when I did something wrong, so my Great-Grandfather must have been a stubborn fool.” Indenuel was rambling. His fingers turned cold in embarrassment.
“That is indeed an Oraminian sounding name,” Martin said. “Lucia must not have gotten the blue eyes of an Oraminian, though.”
In the three days Indenuel was asleep, Martin clearly asked around. Hopefully he didn’t believe too much of the gossip. “It would have been so much worse if she had blue eyes.” He didn’t mean to say that out loud, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Martin gave him a sad, almost knowing look. “Indeed, your village doesn’t seem to be forgiving of different people.”
Maybe Martin would rise above the gossip. “May I have more broth?”
“Of course. Drink in sips.”
Indenuel took the bowl back, distracting himself with enjoying the flavor of the broth. He hadn’t had much meat in his lifetime, it came from being the poorest family in the poorest village of the country of Santollia. But this simple broth with a slight flavor of meat had to be the most delicious luxury he had ever received.
“And your father,” Martin said.
Indenuel swallowed the broth in his mouth. It hurt as it went down. He hadn’t avoided the conversation like he’d hoped.
“My mother always told me I was a gift from God. The rest of the villagers figured that meant I’m a bastard.” It wasn’t until he was done speaking that he realized he had used a harsh word in front of a High Elder. His fingers went icy again as he distracted himself with sipping the broth.
“Did your mother give you any clue as to who your father might be?” The harsh word must not have bothered Martin as much as he feared.
“No. It’s a secret she kept close to her.” He stared at the bottom of the bowl. “One I fear she will keep even past the grave.”
Martin didn’t say anything for some time. Indenuel forced himself not to fill the silence again. He finished the bowl of broth, but still felt quite hungry.
“How many years has God given you on this world?” Martin asked.
He handed the bowl back to Martin. “Nineteen, sir. Twenty on the fifth day of the first month of the year.”
Martin’s fingers twitched as he counted before he gave a smile. “A birthday in the first days of Spring, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
A smile grew on Martin’s face. Indenuel couldn’t help but feel confused. Not a lot of people smiled after he told them he was conceived by a man his mother refused to tell him about.
“How many God given powers did your mother have?” Martin asked.
“One. She was a tree talker.”
Martin leaned back in his chair. “I have been in this village for three days, Indenuel. I have heard the gossip about your mother, I’d like to hear it from you. Either she had more than one power, or you did.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Indenuel couldn’t help but feel like a cornered animal. For the most part, Martin hadn’t reacted negatively to the discovery of his heritage. He didn’t know what kind of a reaction Martin might give to this. To have more than one power was impossible, even for High Elders. It was only possible through deals with the devil. Lucia’s instructions were to always place the blame on her. It was for his protection. But he couldn’t defile Lucia like that now that she was gone.
“You can obviously see I didn’t sell my soul,” Indenuel said. It had always been a superstition. Sell your soul, get the devil’s mark on your chest, receive not one, but two powers of a more corrupted nature.
“That wasn’t my question,” Martin said.
Martin continued to wait as Indenuel remained silent. The silence was as damning as if he stood up and proclaimed to the village exactly how many powers he had, but Indenuel still couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lie to a High Elder, and he couldn’t bring himself to reveal himself.
“I have seen destitute people, Indenuel. Some so starved you could see the outline of their entire skeleton. It is what your village should have been,” Martin said. “Yet many of them went straight for the dried meats with no consequence.” Indenuel’s stomach groaned at the thought of something other than broth. He was so hungry. “Now, I have been on this earth for sixty-two blessed years, and I have never seen a starved group of people act like this.”
“Thanks be to God,” Indenuel whispered, because it was all he could think of to say. He was sitting up, holding some of the blankets around him to keep them covering him, but he tried not to drop his gaze. He’d look guilty if he dropped his gaze, even as the guilt already played across his face.
Martin didn’t react to Indenuel’s whispers. “And there’s the entire villages testimony of seeing you bring the sun back. By yourself. With the storm I saw, it would have taken fifty weather changers to reverse it, let alone bring back the summer sun.”
Indenuel finally dropped his gaze. “Could you bring me any more food?” His voice was quiet. “I’m still hungry.”
Martin gave him one more glance before he took the bowl. “Of course. I’ll be in the other room. I’d like your reply when I return. I want to emphasize you are not in trouble.”
Indenuel watched Martin go. Lucia always said the same phrase right before giving him a good smack for his foolishness.
He needed to say it, to get it off his chest. Even with Lucia’s permission to use his powers in front of everyone, he still hesitated. She ingrained in his mind how much he needed to hide. If the villagers knew about his powers, they would try to kill him. And yet, her advice was to continue to be nice. When he was ten and one of the other children spat in his face after calling him a bastard, he had wanted nothing more than to make the trees grab the bully by his ankles and make him hang there, but the trees didn’t comply.
“Don’t feed the trees your anger, because one day they will answer, and you won’t like what they do,” Lucia said once they were alone. “It’s a lesson we should take to heart. We must never do things out of anger.”
“But that doesn’t mean we let them be cruel to us.”
“They are cruel, yes, but do not be cruel in return. It is not something God wants you to do,” Lucia said.
Her advice was pointless. In her mind they needed to be so kind that they all simply changed their minds about the woman who raised a bastard child. It didn’t work. The villagers had almost twenty years to change. Even now, after Lucia’s death, Andres still believed she was a witch. If Martin agreed that Indenuel sold his soul to the devil, even with no mark on his chest, the villagers wouldn’t rest until he was out of Mountain Pass. Or worse. Indenuel couldn’t stay and wait for that judgement. But could he leave Matteo, Emilia, and Isla? He needed them as much as they needed him. He couldn’t leave without a word. Where were they?
He got dressed in silence, then cracked a door open. It was too quiet in the home. Martin hummed in the other room. It was the afternoon, but he couldn’t hear them playing outside.
Indenuel slid the door open to Emilia and Isla’s room. It was empty.
“The other villagers are watching them so you can recover,” Martin said way too close.
He gasped and turned, holding his hand out, ready to punch Martin before his mind talked him out of the instinct. It would be blasphemous to punch a High Elder, even by accident.
“Forgive me,” Martin said, placing his hand over Indenuel’s. “I did not mean to startle you.”
He tried to control his breathing. “No, no. The fault is all mine. I did not expect-”
“Nothing to worry about. The villagers are some good, God-fearing people here. Matteo, Isla, and Emilia will be just fine.”
The villagers, he was sure, were wonderful to Martin. But would they show the same kindness to the children?
Martin placed a small pack of food in Indenuel’s arms. There was a large assortment of fruits, vegetables, and dried meats. Indenuel grabbed a carrot and started eating. He didn’t care that Martin was watching. In the back of his mind was Lucia’s teachings, about how he should say a prayer of thanks for it, but he just wanted to eat.
“Come sit down.” Martin motioned toward two stools in the small hut. Indenuel continued to gnaw on the carrot as they walked over to the stools. He carried the pack of food like it was a precious baby. “Do you have your answer for me?”
Indenuel paused in his chewing. “Am I going to be arrested and tried?”
Martin looked surprised. “For what, dear boy?”
“Because I used the devil-corrupted powers of weather?” It was easier, somehow, to admit he used the devil’s powers rather than how he could use all four. Martin studied Indenuel while keeping his own thoughts hidden.
“How many powers do you have?”
Indenuel finished the carrot and picked up a tomato. “My mother only had one.”
“Again, that wasn’t my question.”
Indenuel slowed his eating. He glanced at Martin, taking in his compassionate if not anxious face before looking back at the tomato. “I have weather control.” Martin said nothing, simply waiting. “I’m sorry I brought the summer sun. I know it could only be done by the power of the devil. The village was desperate. I’m sorry.”
Martin smiled, which should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. He leaned forward, motioning Indenuel to keep eating. He did at a slower rate. “When a weather controller has a loved one pass away, rainstorms are common. A reaction from grief. Snowstorms, however, are not.” Indenuel refused to look at Martin. “Snowstorms were only recorded before the Great Flood five centuries ago, when everyone had all four powers.” He stared at the tomato, doing everything possible to keep chewing. “So I will ask again. How many powers do you have?”
He swallowed, finally looking at Martin. “I didn’t mean for my village to suffer. I’m sorry, sir. I… I have them. All four of them. I’m sorry.”
He tried to clean his chin to hide the trembling in his hands. Martin gave him a confused look. “Do you really think you’re in trouble?”
“Aren’t I? It’s unnatural. No one else has more than one, let alone all four. Not unless…” Indenuel started to say.
Martin leaned back, a smile on his lips. “You really don’t know, do you.”
Indenuel stared at him, not enjoying being in the dark, but it was a feeling he grew up with. The villagers never associated with him in any form, so he always had to guess what was happening.
“Forgive my interrogation, Indenuel, but I needed to understand the extent of your knowledge. Do you have a minister here? Someone to preach to you the good word of God?” Martin asked.
“We have the traveling minister who goes through all the villages in Mountain Pass and farther. We have services about once a month.” Indenuel finished the tomato and grabbed some dried meat. Now that he was eating, his body was telling him not to stop.
“Ever heard of the Warrior?” Martin asked.
“Yes, one of the ministers talked about him when I was a young boy. He sounded incredible. A legendary figure from before the Great Flood. His victory in the great battle brought unity to all Santollia.”
Martin’s face was neutral, except for a light shining in his eyes. “My dear boy, he wasn’t a historical figure.” Indenuel stopped chewing. “He’s someone who has been prophesied will change the tides of the war. This war we are currently fighting with the Kiamese people. A boy, born of a desperate woman who will raise him on her own. So desperate he grows up not knowing the prophecy of who he is. A boy who will have all four God-given powers when such a thing has been unheard of for generations.”
The pack slipped from Indenuel’s fingers, and the food spilled out, rolling in the dirt floor.