Go west, to the Theta vale.
Whispers traverse through my ears, pleading with their hushed voices. The playful spirits that live in the wind always have good intentions, but this time their suggestions sound more commanding. The spirits have come to my help in the past, from finding prey to warnings of ambushes. Is it finally time to repay them?
I pack a few days’ rations, water, a cloak, and the sword on my back. Mother gifted me this sword when I joined the knighthood. I vividly remember her telling me that she was so very proud of me. It sparkled with that righteous glow back then, but it quickly faded. I could not stand the hypocrisy in the capital where rules were enforced on the weak and bent by the rich. Perhaps Mother would cry if she saw me now.
I walk out of the cabin, and I look up at the sky to see the sun setting over the realm. It sets in the west which means I should head in the opposite direction since Theta is in the east. But what is in Theta? It is known as the Valley of Death for even the highest sun does not shine in its deep vale. Spirits rarely linger in places that lack the touch of life. Still, some people seek refuge in such dwellings. A place away from the god’s gaze.
I mount my brown mare Val and steer onto a wide gravel road with the sun on my back.
Why walk when you can run?
My muddy boots press against the horse’s sides, and we take off. The wind blows coldly from behind despite our speed and autumn leaves whirl around Val’s hooves. The sun has now set, and the cold of night begins to creep in. I put on my mantle to warm my sweating body.
That’s when I heard it. My hair stands on end by that sound. It is the first time I heard rage from the spirits. They sing in howling voices, overlapping in different tones, like a choir in dissonance.
At their feet, flowers sprout,
At their touch wounds heal,
Their blood is golden,
Their tears pearls,
They cry for your greed.
The road splits and the voices quiet down. I can finally breathe. My hands cramp as I have gripped the reins for dear life. What could have possibly angered these spirits of freedom? As gods’ eyes on the ground, they usually watch as events unfold, however fair or unfair they may seem. All life is the creation of the gods, and therefore they cannot be valued one above the other. They always watch, slaughter or benevolence, with their indifferent “gaze”. Only a few are blessed with the ability to hear their voices, and on their whims, perhaps favored in minor matters. There is a rule: not to change the overall outcome and for creation to walk alone. What could possibly have happened for them to interfere with this destined path?
I ride close to the crossroads’ guidepost to be able to discern its letters. Thankfully the full moon shines with its kind yet cold light.
Vierlun or Falón? Both paths go around Theta vale, but Falón should be closer.
There is no time to be foolish.
Spirits of nature, born from the gods ought to have a better understanding of nature than human maps. I steer towards Veirlun, and then finally break off from the main road. It is a small intricate trail leading downhill, with rocks and mud. Val seems happy that our speed has slowed down. Fir branches slap me in the face as we push through, but the trees are getting fewer and barer as we descend. The clear sky has gotten brighter, perhaps even the sun has risen, but high mountains block the rays.
Then, a cacophony of crazed and pained screams can be heard in the distance. I instinctively pull the reins closer to me, slowing us down. I can see the forest thinning out. We have arrived. My heart beats loudly in my chest. It feels like I am at another crossroads, one that I will not be able to turn back from.
Move.
The chilling voice echoes in my head. Wind moves like snakes around Val’s back hooves, shooting her forward out of fear. A bare field spreads out before us, and I pull the reins, finally halting Val, before taking in the scene.
That holy body lies still on the ground. A mass of people, with their thin and tattered bodies, crowd around it while trampling on others caught by the mass. Their daggers pierce its skin, and the world’s wealth pours out. Golden blood flows down into the bloodied mud and hardens into gold nuggets. Rib bones are hacked off and turn into diamonds. From its closed eye falls a single tear. A pearl hits the mud, shining for a moment before a greedy hand snatches it and stuffs it in filled pockets.
I snap out of my daze. It is alive. Even though it should be dead, its torso still rises and falls with shallow breaths. It is crying. It is in pain.
Humans and gods,
Inferior and superior,
No one should disturb what has been decided.
I understand what they have called me for. The world goes quiet. I dismount from Val and release the reins. I do not even think to fasten her to a tree. She runs in the opposite direction, away from the smell of death and I unsheathe mother’s sword with trembling hands. What to do? What to do? What to do? I can see spirits trying to save it, pulling people’s weapons away from the body, but to little avail. Wind pushes my back, blowing me forward, towards the mass.
Go forth, soldier.
Written by Ebba Oseroff.
Cover photo by Merle Emrich.