Vega of the Wastes
By Century Robot
“To my audience, I demand something of you. Not your love, time, or presence. I demand that you will challenge the sky and the earth. The sun and the moon. All bodies known and fantasy. Criticism, well performed and genuine. No feigned effort.”
Chapter 1: A Ghost with no Host
Vulgarity appears more rampant in secluded places, just as a corpse would in the fields of life. Unremarkable in a graveyard, a form existing beyond is frightening. Not because of the viscera, that’s silly. But the order, or the lack thereof. Fools of this time would describe it as unjust. Like how one would shutter at a mother consuming their child or the sun bringing blinding black. It shouldn’t and mustn’t be. Those disturbing images are more disruptive than common.
It leads to the idea that morality has faltered and been replaced with ersatz. But, peace isn’t quiet. Tranquility isn’t order. And vulgarity, in its ugliest forms, is chaotic, turning calm into a combustible tinder that ignites panic. The people of Iozia believed a peace of a hundred years, until a few cheats rode through the night.
A slumbering night sky ago, a calm village named ‘Cold Cavern’ resting by the sea was awoken to the cry of a child. A family gasped and fainted. Their daughter had been taken away. The sound of horses came from the cove, the vehicles of a gang of outlaws. The local guard mounted, equipping their spears and shields, and began a pursuit to their hideout in a cave. As they entered the smell of hay poured out. Their movement was silenced by the bandages on their sandals.
They stepped through the underground expanse. It was a maze of whirling tunnels and confusing paths. All with the increasing closer echo of the girl. A man with a bronze helm was at the center. His face was hidden and guarded by a bearded mask. He held the group together. Armed with a sword and a series of flickering candles. This Captain was a veteran of two tours, but his colleagues were young to combat.
His hand was held close to his comrades, to keep them steady. He was prepared, his allies weren’t. Their senses were weak here. Each crack threw their hearts off beat. Minutes pass, but they discover the girl in the clutches of the fat brigand leader, a round and bloated man. Ragged, he smiled at the guards. The Captain catalogs a couple outlaws, armed with shivs and frayed clubs. They’re hardly a threat, the Captain thought.
The saviors felt a faint hope rise. But their hope died as their Captain became horrified. The brigand held out his gnarled hand, more resembling a warped branch toward the temple of the prisoner. His shrill voice demanded the guard to stand down or worse will come. He’ll command his construct to kill this daughter if they don’t follow his instructions. The men stared at the dark surroundings, seeing an awful creature emerge from it.
A construct, made without love. A golem that resembled a twisted scarecrow. The brigand threatened that it would drown the girl in a storm of rotten wheat and thorns, goring this precious child. He would let her go if they provided him with all their coins as ransom. The men shiver at the image.
“Attack!” The Captain commanded, unfreezing his men.
The guards charged forth, hopeful that they’ll reach the girl before the golem executes her. The outlaws race to meet the guards. A fierce flurry of blows separated and broke their formation, as men began to duel each other.
The Captain darted and ducked the knives thrown at him, as he struck a bandit with his shield, knocking him out. He struggled to get close to the golem. The bandits form a shield wall, blocking any entry. He attempted to pierce through the gang but he and his men were stopped. He closed his eyes, knowing soon what was to come. It was too late, as the brigand beckoned forth his thrall and whispered.
“Destroy the child.”
The blistered scarecrow nods and responds.
“Aye, aye. Sir-sir.”
And then in an instant, it walloped the brigand in the face with a pickaxe. Stunning both the brigand and the men fighting. The girl that had been captured remained in a state of duality, both confused and curious that the construct chose to attack its brigand master. Maybe it was misunderstood.
The scarecrow smiled a toothy grin and she turned to the others and shouted to the earth and sky.
“Yay! I killed a girl!”
An hour later the local guard drove the bandits back, recovered the spooked but alive girl, locked their leader away, and considered this new… person.
Despite disobeying her supposed leader, she appeared to be alive. A bit too alive. The Captain interrogated the brigand but all he would state was that she was found and he thought it was the ‘royal flush’ his group needed. An unthinking automaton of unknown origin. The group had it for some time and decided this would be its first use in combat. How unstoppable he’d be.
“I thought it would be an easy win. But that thing is dumber than ants, it messed with our plans.” The sore man spoke. “Don't ask me where it came from. One day he came and asked if we needed any help.”
The Captain, a red skinned barrel, brushed his black beard through his hands. This was something the town had never encountered before. Perhaps this was a spirit.
Of course spirits don’t tend to take joy in ‘killing’ young girls, nor do they get coerced by scum sons. Also they know the difference between a fat criminal and a girl. He turned to the outside to see the humanoid.
Some kids were dancing around her. She was a simple feminine shape, black linen wrapped around short yet strong wood. Hair composed of long dried grass with some straw jutting out. Gloves worn and with stitched digits and a tunic with flannel pattern. And her head is a brown sack tied with a cow tail. She appeared to be bowing to the kids hat in hand. It was horror on the streets, he thought.
The girl the guard had rescued stood by the scarecrow. She remained perplexed by it, with two thoughts coming to her. One, it was happy to kill if ordered. And two, it had no idea what a girl was.
“So you know nothing about her? Not a scrap or idea?” The Captain pressed his small peach lips together, beckoning the man to respond.
“Vega. She had said she was Vega.” His voice stuttered as he laid on his back on the prisoner bed.
Vega wasn’t bright, but she was glowing. Intensely social, she always pursued others. Her company was tolerated but questioned. The clergy of the town had promoted the belief that she was a lesson against alcohol, for her speech was slurred and erratic. Not only this, but a sign of gambling being a vice, as the girl abducted was tricked via the offering of gambling.
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The merchants used her to market the town to visitors, already organizing for a summer fair. ‘Welcome to Cold Cavern, home to the mysterious monster from the depths of the moonlit cave.’
The village guard felt she was too dangerous to be left to her own devices, for she had the habit of taking hay from the farmers, mining equipment from the station on the mountain, and constantly asked people if they needed help. Like… way too much.
The Mayor with the advice of the Captain decided to put her through schooling. The Priest disagreed but the Captain responded with a knife thrown at his butt. Holding him by the neck, lifting him off the floor, he bellowed.
“You are going to take care of that girl because she ain’t a ghost. He pressed his nose to the face of the Priest “It's worst! She's an idiot.”
Education in the province was sparse, aside from the traveling fairs or wisemen, there was only the temple. It was a stone obelisk flanked by several wooden houses.
These Iozians were a monotheistic people worshiping the god Recor and his kin; the spirits. Vega accepted this readily, hungry to know more about this powerful being. The clergy fed her a supply of state propaganda in the form of parables.
One was about the clans of Tripolians, the rivals of the Oligarchy of Ioz. For generations, the Tripolians struck and consumed the borders of their blessed lands. Barbarians were their title, so the Priest spoke. Vega yet again accepted this just as one would take in a breath of air. Vega was enamored. What do these weird words and sounds mean? Over the course of many seasons Vega was becoming literate. Well, a better term would be sub-literate.
The village saw a change in her demeanor. No longer a sack of dumb wheat, she had become an investigative sack of dumb wheat. Peering cracks on the brick, wading through the swamps, and climbing the tallest trees. Vega gained possession for the village. She took in these scripts and voices and enjoyed them.
One day, the Priest was preparing the rites of worship, only to discover a sculpture of Recor. It had been a smooth carving of their god, him in an enchanting joy of the human form. It was soothing to the touch. It was the most beautiful act of worship he had seen in his sixty year life span. The Priest was at a pause, as he had noticed an engraving at the bottom. It was a rough cant that had read…
“Faur Mista Piiest,
Reecar soands cewwl, seww eye maay tis faur u. Laave u.
Framm,
Vagaa ta Scairrcrow”
His lips raised to curl, and a cackling escaped his ruined teeth. He strolled over to the bay and promptly dunked the art into the sea. The Priest exclaimed to the messy heavens.
“Ghosts can’t love! She really is a idiot.”
Seasons crawled by for everyone except the creation, as they were plagued by her uninterruptedly asking them if they had heard about Recor and have felt his love. It took a few sessions of the Captain screaming at her to cease this. One month the Priest could tolerate her no longer and had decided she had ‘graduated’. This was promptly answered by the Captain to recruit her into the guard and the Priest oddly rubbing his rear in pain.
She acted as a mascot to the town rather than a force of the law, but this was a welcome change. Vega would aid in arresting thieves and the return of stolen animals. But she was forbidden to participate in fire drills due to… well, her being a scarecrow.
One afternoon, she sat in the fort, staring out to the ships pulling in the fish the people would feast upon. It was a hill surrounded by stakes. It was coated in plaster to prevent fire, which was a comforting thought. Her eyes gazed at the waves, she saw birds coming in. A storm was to meet the town. She rested her head on the window sill.
Vega began to recount her few feelings, she could see wisps of the ocean beyond, her fingers could feel the splinters in the wood. Yet she wondered. Wondered how it would feel to smell or taste. Curious, she thought, how to experience something without the apparatus to do so. After all, she could hear the chorus of exhausted guards around though she had no ears. Or real teeth to smile. Just a head made from a bag.
For an instant, not a moment longer, she had discovered something. A quick pain in her head. A pressure like her skull being flattened in a single point. Then it evaporated. She wondered, then began to wander.
A few years had passed and Vega had events, sessions, times she started to sense the world around wasn’t correct. Helping out in the town was a charm but she felt incomplete. Wherever she went something was off. Like a shadow that's malformed, a wrong color. Or a carving with no name. A hatred that smiled. Like a voice was calling out to her, from the road. From the hill, and the hill over. From the spray of the emerald sea.
Vega had heard… her voice. That wasn’t right. She wasn’t talking, at least she held the belief that she wasn’t. It wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The Priest knew what was right, but this isn’t. A horror encountered her. She… felt. Not with her hands or eyes, it was something beyond.
Her grin began to frown into a neutral expression, as her asymmetrical eyes tried to figure out what caused this event. It had evaded her, it was too fast and intense for her to comprehend. She began to collapse onto the ground that held her up. She sat, and started to massage her form. Her health recovered, but what about that voice?
The scarecrow rose, an unceasing smile along with it. She knew what it was. It was a cry. A cry for help.
Having packed up her things (two crayons, a stack of paper, and a stone someone told her was a silver coin) and started to walk on the rain soaked ground. She turned back to the town and waved it goodbye. Vega had believed the town was a person and attempted on unlistable occasions to speak to its paper guts, its tile colored hair and its mortar flesh. She had come to know the town as her best friend. And now she would be going off to meet new friends both real and imagined. If she had a heart it might have fluttered at the moment. Perhaps forcing her to turn back. But Vega had no organs to revolt against her mind, so she whispered to her friend with no being.
“Thank ya Calvin.” A raspy, wobbly sound came out. “Ya are my best friend. I think ya might be sad-sad at me leaving so please, don’t cry. I’ll be alright.” Her eyes, animated with scribbled chicken scratched pupils, widened. She flexed her non-existent muscles.
“I’m real strong. Because the Captain taught me-me how to fight and think good. So I’m ready. Maybe we can wander together sometime later. See ya, best buddy.” The wind blustered past her hair. She reached out and gripped onto it. It was a cozy scene, her feeling the last warmth her friend gave her.
“I’ll miss ya.” She released her hands from the gust spawned hug and proceeded to wander. Wander. Wonder. Wonderwander.
Mayor Dismas was a taut man. His hands always sore from sending men to sea or counting tithes to award the mercenaries. His palm was glued to his scabbard from sunrise to sunset. Of higher status, he felt less than a peasant. They held tracts of fertile imagination. His eyes were unhealthy orbs darting to coins and shelves. A farmer could look at the grass and imagine a field of olive trees or a new irrigation house.
All he could see was bile colored plants and nothing beyond. Peasants created paintings of the landscape while he could only imagine a room with a chair and desk. He rose up from his bed. Dismas thought of anything to change the pace of this town. He held the belief then in just a few instances that a knock followed by a scratch, a sign from the hay girl to ask him if he needed help. He would respond no and shut the door and continue on his uninteresting manner. He waited. And waited. And his face and body began to relax. This was different.
“Curious," Dimas spoke.
This felt good. But he soon reminded himself that perhaps he should open the door. After all, she could be waiting on him this time, and only this time. He pinched and twisted the door knob. He saw rain pounding the town in what could only be described as a way to rip apart the village. He relaxed again, exhausting air onto his thick hide-like mustache.
This was new. Something had caught his eyes and he saw a piece of paper. It appeared to be a yellow pulped paper wrapped in a cow’s tail. He unglued his hand from his weapon and raised it his eyes and wonder began to take him. He pressed the message to his nose and took in the scent. It was the revolting smell of dust mixed with hay. What an awful thing. It was perfect!
The oddity was a treatment for his physical system. He did not know how long this pleasant event would last. He closed the door and reclined onto his desk. A wondrous change, no longer melting into the bed alone, he had a companion. Delicate to preserve this piece of history in this town, so he unraveled this ugly sheet and opened it. The mayor was at first understood, then confused.
“Der Mista Mayear
Amm goang too geets a jaop. Bee bacc reaa suunn. Eyee wheel saend coins bacc. Laave u.
Framm,
Vagaa ta Scairrcrow
PeeS.
A voice. I heard a voice.”