Dear Muse (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 1) (7 page)

I almost camped atop the craggy hill overlooking the beach. The mysterious scent may have overpowered the salty sea, but I could hear the hypnotic clash of waves batter the rocks below. If I were to ever leave this town, I would live in that very spot. It seems right that the ocean should lull me to sleep each night.

I need to find a way to venture during the day. As Aiden’s wife and the future mother of his child, I cannot do this with consent. He would not oppose, I am sure, but the others, including Father and my uncle, would likely confine me under strict supervision. Even in the process of rearing children, I am treated as a child.

Though I long to see the wilderness by light, I do prefer the darkness. It conceals my surroundings and myself, and makes mere wandering more of a game. Turn the wrong corner and find yourself squaring off with a hungry bear. Let your eyes wander from the ground and step into a steep hole. If not for the thrill, I would grow bored within minutes.

The island is not large, and I fear my exploration will be finished soon. Aiden tells me they have walked every square inch of the western section countless times and are now in the process of finishing the maps and mining for resources. The mayor claims to have found a deposit of coal near the craggy hill I mentioned earlier. We would need miners, which would provide an influx of filth to mingle with the populace. Call me a pessimist, but this island does not need more people. Cut it in half, and it is still able to sustain itself without trouble. Trim some more fat, and it will flourish into a paradise.

Fortunately, I am not in charge of this community. My superiors have deemed me fit as a teacher, though I may argue otherwise. What other role could I fill? I suppose teaching is as fine as any. I am simply a malcontent. Such is the problem of you and me, dear friend. We should be thankful. If I had stayed in the city, you would never be, and I would be a pickpocket. Iniquity is hereditary, so I heard. I have Father’s blue eyes and crooked nose. Why not his sins? I surely hope not. I can bear his petty wickedness, but I cannot inherit his mediocrity.

The past is best left buried, and the present as well. Rather than grumble about the community, I will go into greater detail of my adventures in the wilderness. When I begin to grumble about that, I will find a new hobby to stir my discontent. Perhaps fishing. The ocean is so vast that I could never run out of topics to complain about.

Back to wandering around the woods like a brigand in the night. I have a task to fulfill, and henceforth, will double my efforts. Or is that the problem? Perhaps I am trying too hard. That is a notion worth mulling over in the future.

Entry 18

I have not made an entry in three days because the village has been bedlam. In short, Finney and two men attempted to kill the mayor in his sleep. They failed due to the intervention of my father and uncle.

The best place to start is with the scream: blood curdling, more horrifying than a banshee, echoing across the entire village. I was still tossing and turning in bed, trying to muffle the sound of Aiden’s snoring with a pillow against my ears. Even he woke from the shriek, leaping out of bed and fumbling through the dark for his rifle, calling my name. The twit thought it was me.

In those initial few seconds, as the echo continued to carry, the same scream rang fresh, cut off at the height of its pitch, which could only signal a life-ending terror. I doubt a single inhabitant did not realize a woman had been murdered. Everyone congregated outside the mayor’s house during the fray, and a few armed men, including Aiden, were ready to charge inside when my father was seen carrying Arthur, both covered in enough blood to arouse suspicion. Indeed, guns were pointed directly at my father. If he had not paused, he would have been killed by an itchy finger. Until my uncle dragged a hogtied Finney through the front door, many false assumptions had been muttered.

Though the mayor refuses to go into gruesome details, my uncle told me he and Father dashed to the house upon hearing the first scream, kicking the door in during the second’s shrill pitch. The moon was bright enough to make an instant assessment of the scene: Gwen dangled from the bed with her throat slit, fresh blood dripping onto the floor, mixing with another pool. One of the assailants lay next to the bed with a candlestick through his eye. In the corner, the mayor stood atop his desk, fending Finney and another off his chair. Father shot one between the shoulders, while my uncle hit Finney in the elbow. He was aiming for the heart, he later told me under his breath.

While there was some movement from Gwen when they entered, by the end, she had gone completely still. The mayor, body covered with a half dozen gashes, repeated her name as Father handed him off to the doctor. As people poured into the house, my uncle informally announced that Gwen had been killed, as well as Bruce and probably Dennis.

I tried consoling my mother, who had lost her best friend in this community. Rather than sorrow, she snarled and pounced on top of Finney, managing a few blows before being torn away. Her loud sobs converted the last of Finney’s supporters, quashing any thoughts of leaving, let alone a coup. If he had picked better men, maybe things would have turned out differently. My uncle was the only one to keep the mob from tearing him to pieces on the spot.

The next day, there was a long meeting. I spent most of it with Mother, since class had been canceled. We waited more than an hour for the others to return with a formal announcement of Finney’s clear guilt and inevitable execution. I certainly looked forward to it. The assault was all too familiar to my family, a comparison my mother confided to me in her grief. My uncle finally came to the house, and before either of us could ask, he told me I was needed at the hall. Rather than question it, I wasted no time following him. On the way, he told me to be brave.

Finney requested my aid in his defense. I was the best with words, and according to the mayor, we were obligated to honor this request. They left us in private.

I cannot deny his cunning. Finney was to be flayed, drawn, and quartered. This was beyond his request, but he figured I could get it changed to beheading. That would be simple, I assured, if I had not wished to see his flesh torn strip by strip. He then spoke at length about the war, the price of treason, and my father’s crime. High treason to the crown, he called it. Without a perpetrator to execute, the crown had no choice but to wreak vengeance on the populace. All those deaths because my father could not face judgment.

But why kill the mayor? According to Finney, we were stranded on this island, a haven for war criminals. His insistence we stay, despite the instability, was nothing short of tyranny. With his death, anyone could unconscionably leave.

I gave this explanation, colored with a bit of fancy rhetoric, under the plea that Finney should be killed by beheading or his own doing. I slipped in the latter, and the audience broke into a collective nod of approval. Finney was given a draught of poison, and if found alive in the morning, subject to a public flaying. He immediately dumped the liquid and cursed me for my trickery. I did not add the possibility as suicide to be cruel, but as a reasonable alternative for both parties. Finney would rather bear the pain than damn himself to hell.

My uncle praised my fairness and half seriously remarked that I would likely be called in during future situations. This sparked a thought: could I have gotten Finney absolved? I did not doubt that, given a boat, he would have left this island never to return, and due to his stubborn nature, would have never given up our community, even under the pain of flaying. I nearly brought up the question to Aiden, but knew better. I had never seen him in such a pleasant mood.

Despite the end of Finney’s conspiracy, this is far from over. There are still twenty disgruntled citizens, a number that is certain to climb during the winter. If a small hardship was enough to ignite an assassination attempt, what would a genuine catastrophe cause? Leave those questions to the men in charge. For now, I have an execution to attend.

Entry 19

No matter how accustomed to the prospect of death, I take comfort knowing torture will forever turn my stomach. Judging by the long discussion this morning over who should be the one to flay Finney, I am not alone in my disgust. In the end, the deed was done by the mayor, my uncle, Gerald, Bertram, James, Ned, and Vern. The last three were previously on Finney’s side, taking part to assuage their guilt and show where their allegiances now lie.

Before pronouncing the sentence, the mayor thanked my uncle and Father, especially Father. He went on about his eternal gratitude, how he had made a new lifelong friend, and despite his past, there was no doubt he was a brave individual. There were plenty of nods of agreement and applause. Somebody even pat me on the shoulder.

The entire town was forced to watch, including the children. The girls huddled around me, crying and wiping their tears on my skirt. My sweaty palm clasped tight to Aiden’s hand. If I had let go, I was sure he would have taken part in the gruesome slaughter. Then again, Father promised my uncle he would partake, but silently declined when it was his turn. I could not blame him. At that point, Finney’s howling had become as draining to the soul as the sight of flaps of skin hanging off the rack, amassing hundreds of flies. After the executioner peeled back a layer of flesh, he would swat the meddlesome insects swarming around his sweaty face, buzzing around their prospective meal.

They dragged the corpse to the edge of town, the body a slimy red husk of a human. Since they had taken the ceremony this far, it would have been a waste not to tie its limbs to horses. Most people turned away when the mayor sent the animals running, myself included, though I heard the wet cracking of bones over the whinnying and clattering hooves.

The walk back was solemn for all. The execution succeeded. There was no talk of leaving. On the contrary, a few murmurs were subjected to exploring the caverns before sundown. They spent the day marking trees and checking soil, and by night, according to Aiden, someone had cracked a joke about Finney’s cock being split in two. The laughter dissolved any uncomfortableness, I assume. Tomorrow is business as usual.

Meanwhile, I had a distressed classroom to deal with. To my surprise, the children seemed to comprehend the situation, at least on the surface. The bad man had to die, one of them said. I was spared the task of explaining the ludicrousness of justice; however, the method stirred their fascination. A bit too much. David’s excitement caused poor Phoebe to break into fresh tears.

Hailey talked about the time she pricked her finger, and all the blood that came out, and how badly it hurt. How does it feel across your whole body? I assured her, she would never have to find out as long as she continued to behave. Did Finney go to heaven? What about Gwen? Why did Finney kill Gwen? Why did people think my father killed her? Why did the mayor speak so highly of my father if he tried to kill his wife? Why do their parents hate my father?

I was savagely berated with questions. There was only one way to stop them. I simply told them to go home and walked away. If their parents wanted to know why I gifted them with such bundles of joy so early, they had my weak stomach to thank. The mayor and my uncle had words for me later, but I did not register a single one.

The obnoxious stench has returned, with its tinge of sweetness, like the aroma of decay. Did they bother to bury the body? No doubt the howling wolves will keep me up, fighting over the maggot ridden limbs of Finney. And to think, tomorrow’s dinner is roasted pig on spittle. These rustic fools sure have a bizarre appetite.

Entry 20

Phoebe, still my favorite student, had more questions than usual today. Most of these concerned the island and its history. For violating our prime law, children are given severe beatings instead of executions, having no real understanding of the offense. The thrashing prevented public breakdowns, besides the occasional plea to return home, which clearly indicated their old country. My students have become so comfortable and candid, they come to me with questions, and I am always eager to provide an answer in most cases.

Today was one of those exceptional cases. Phoebe asked if my father’s name was Charles or another that her parents mentioned in a conversation last night. I did not wish to curb the girl’s inquisitive nature, no matter how much she pressed the question, nor did I appreciate the carelessness of her parents, specifically her mother, who had unkind words for me, as well. I was influencing the town’s people with my charms in a bad way, according to her. Something about witchcraft and whatnot. The accusation was laughable, though her gossiping nature grates my nerves. The hen was already rubbing off on her poor daughter. Unless I intervene, she will grow to be a sour scandalmonger.

These children will believe anything. I knew it from the start and made frequent sport of their ignorance. Why not take it to another level?

I was from a magical land, an otherworld beneath the Earth. My father was a king, my mother a queen, and my uncle a regent. As a princess from the otherworld, I needed their solemn vow to keep my origin a secret; else the evil monsters will come to the island and kill everyone. This simple explanation was enough to keep them under my trance. They had never been so enthused. For a moment, I relaxed in the silence before continuing.

The monsters stormed our castle and ate all our soldiers. Before they could attack the throne, we were whisked away by a wizard. In our exile, the monsters stole the castle and ruined the land. Without an army, we could never return.