The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (22 page)

Torplug looked up from his horse, then scanned the horizon. The trees were changing from large, healthy evergreens into smaller scrub, jack pine, and balsam. The smell of snow filled the air, and the sky remained a leaden mass of clouds moving with extreme laziness across the sky. “We are close. Another day perhaps.”

Zhy smiled to himself. It was as if the cold weather had quickly burned any remnant of the fine spirit from his body, and even the horrible memories of Zhy’s childhood seemed to have been temporarily smoothed over by cold air, instead of strong spirits. For he again felt free and refreshed without the need for any ale or brandy. But then again that could be the consequence of breaking his abstinence from time to time—a sense of peace and contentment that was temporary. Deep inside he knew that true freedom meant an utter break from any strong drink. A permanent break.

As they grudgingly made camp in the harsh climate, he sighed with relief that the world no longer spun or bobbed or dipped or lurched every night. The hopeless feeling of having lost a firm grip on anything solid was no more. When he laid his head on his bedroll, the stars did not change into a spinning kaleidoscope, nor did the trees pick up and fly away, and his bedroll did not go spinning down into the deep earth below. His stomach was even. There was no burning deep inside and no violent urge to vomit at each breath. Freedom from ale and spirits had its advantages.

Qainur and Torplug tossed restlessly, but he found an inner peace and was soon in a natural oblivion. Peace would not last for long, however, as his consciousness forgot the cold and his deepest thoughts and emotions were given lease to roam.

Once his brain realized it was free from the thick blanket of alcohol, it began to churn, ever so slowly. Dreams were fleeting at first: memories of fields, pumpkins, large harvest feasts, and his father smiling broadly. This snippet of a memory of his father triggered something, and his mind started traversing a path even his subconscious thought he had drowned. The dream started innocently, with his father laughing on the porch, looking out over a harvested field and a crisp fall day, then grimacing suddenly. Grimacing from a terrible disease.

Then the dream transported Zhy to a field. A field in full-summer bloom—green and bursting with life. Before him was the body of his father. He was on his back, mouth open, eyes unfocused at the stars. His father’s face showed no pain anymore. It was as if he had attempted his signature smile before passing into the spirit world, for he seemed somewhat mirthful. The sobs from Zhy were a mixture of sadness and relief, for his father was free from the crippling and soul-wrenching pain. Yet there was anger, too, a bitter resentment at his father for choosing this path—for his father lay in a pool of blood, a dagger thrust into his own heart. Zhy knew that this was a release of another type of pain as well—the pain of his wife’s untimely death.

In the dream, anger, sadness, pain, and emptiness swirled above the field, each an entity of rotting, festering essence which bubbled and stewed; having been buried deep in mire by countless gallons of ale and brandy. Slowly, they merged in an achingly loud squeal, emitting a smell worse than the dying
gherwza
, as the mixture of emotions coalesced into a tangible and gelatinous ball of wanton depravity and despair. Slowly the mixture oozed down upon and over Zhy. It consumed him utterly and doomed him to a life of alcohol and misery.

He awoke screaming.

Qainur was again lightning as he jumped to his feet, his sword jabbing at the dark night air. The firelight was dim but not gone, and the mercenary looked comical as he fought his invisible foe.

Torplug came awake slower and looked open-mouthed at the warrior.

“Sorry, sorry, that was another dream,” Zhy said shakily. Abruptly, he turned away from his companions and wiped away a stream of tears. He wished he had a bottle, a drink, a cluster of pine leaves—anything to stuff in his mouth and stuff away the emotion. It was too much. He had spent the last few years burying everything, and now it surfaced with a vengeance. It had to go back; it had to return to the deep ground from which it arose so terribly. With great mental effort, he focused on a dead, spindly branch of a birch tree—focused until it blurred into the landscape. The effort slowly, painfully, pushed the emotion into a manageable state.

Qainur spun and looked at him. He looked confused for a moment, but seeing the slickness on Zhy’s face, he hurriedly sheathed his sword.

“I’m sorry,” the mercenary said. It seemed like they were in for another restless night, so he tossed another log on the fire.

“Care to tell us about it?” Torplug asked. He didn’t sit up but lay back on his bedroll and stared up at the night sky. There were no stars. An empty void—black as death, black as he wanted his soul to be.

Zhy’s mind still whirled, and the images from the dream still played out before him. He struggled to focus on the fire and his companions.

After several minutes he stood and looked up at the sky.

Something seemed to snap in another plane of existence, and suddenly, stars were visible. Zhy wiped away his tears and furtively searched for the star he was looking for—and quickly found it. He pointed and spoke aloud, “I miss you, Father.” After a few moments, he lowered his arm. Then something came to mind. He gathered more wood and tossed it on the fire.

“What’s that for?” Torplug asked, yawning. The mage kept his reclined position, but his eyes strained out to look at the now-blazing fire.

“An apology. And a story,” he said curtly, sitting before the fire.

“What do you mean?” Qainur asked. He met Zhy’s gaze. Then he looked curiously at the stars then shifted his gaze to the fire. After a moment, he looked up at the night, searching for the stars. They flickered momentarily beneath the cloud cover, and when their tiny pinpricks were in view, a sudden flood of memories returned. They were still somewhat hazy and clouded by time and alcohol, but they were there for a brief moment, brief enough, however, to latch on to.

“I remembered something from my childhood, and for once it isn’t painful,” he said quietly. “And it is a story. A story handed down from some old-timers father used to know.”

“Perhaps they were called Wights—but father only called them old-timers.” Qainur cracked his knuckles and sucked in the cold air. Zhy continued:

“These folks had no knowledge of the written language, so they carried their tales down by word of mouth—this is the story of Akeeten.

“It was getting close to dusk, and a group of boys were playing a game with sticks and a ball. Nets were affixed to the ends of the sticks, and the objective was to toss the ball to the other players and then toss the ball into another net. This net was guarded by another boy. They had been playing for hours, and the score remained tied—as soon as one team scored, the other team would score immediately. As the sun set, their parents called them to supper and then finally to bed. They grumbled, but agreed, unable to play in the dark. Tired from the long day of play, they all were fast asleep in their deerskin huts.

“In the middle of the night, one of the older boys, Akeeten, was awoken by the sound of a deep, booming, male voice. ‘Akeeten! Come out! Come out!’

“Akeeten was confused, but got up and exited his hut. The moon was out—so full and bright that it could have been daylight. Before him stood a runner—a messenger of types. He was glistening with sweat, his bare chest—full of muscle—and long black hair slick and shining in the moonlight.

“‘Akeeten…you must wake your friends and play by the light of the moon. Finish your game!’

“And with that, the runner took off again, disappearing into the wilderness. Akeeten was confused, but roused his friends anyway, and they started playing. Again, the stalemate. But then the ball suddenly spun off the field and started rolling. Laughing, they chased it, but it seemed to have a life of its own as it raced down a narrow deer trail. It kept rolling! Eventually, it transformed into a rabbit and spoke in high-pitched voice, ‘catch me if you can!’

“Eventually they came to an opening in the woods and found themselves at the shores of a large lake. Exhausted, they let the ball continue on and collapsed. Some drank deep of the cool water. Akeeten took a drink, then let his friends sleep. He kept watch. For what, he had no idea. Then suddenly, he saw a boat out on the water. A canoe. And inside, two men paddled furiously, churning up the water. They were coming straight for them quite fast.

“‘Hide!’ Akeeten yelled at his friends. They bolted awake and scattered to hiding spots. One buried himself mostly in the sand. Another hid in the deep brush. One dove in the water and breathed through a reed. Akeeten stood tall and proud as the canoe swished up against the sandy beach.

“‘What are you doing here?’ asked the largest of the warriors in the canoe.

“Ever the brave young man, Akeeten barked back. ‘Well, what are you doing here?’

Zhy paused and cleared his throat—forcing away a sudden welling of tears. No wonder he had not told this tale since his father’s passing—he had not gauged how emotional its telling would be, even for its seeming innocence.

“With that, the warrior grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him into the canoe. ‘Get the others,’ he said to his companion. It didn’t take long to find the boy in the brush. Digging with a paddle, they found the boy in the sand. Likewise, the other in the water. Each was thrown into the canoe, and off they paddled furiously out into the lake. While traversing the lake at high speeds, the warriors speared several sturgeons but threw many back, only content with the ones as large as the canoe itself…they strung them behind them on ropes made of human hair.

“Eventually they came to a small island. The warriors pulled the boys out of the canoe and flung them ashore, then paddled off. But before the boys could protest, the island shook violently. Then pieces of the island flipped upward, and they found themselves surrounded by low walls. Suddenly there was another rumble, and the island started to rise up into the air. The boys had never been higher than the tops of trees and eagerly watched as they ascended into the sky.

“There was a booming voice from above which shook the whole world. ‘I am Nasso, god of the Sun. Do not look down!’ Some of the boys looked down against this warning and saw their people fall over from the sickness of the sun. Akeeten yanked them away from the edges. ‘He said don’t look down!’

“The voice of Nasso boomed again, ‘I will give you each a wish and then send you home.’

“So each boy made a wish. One wished to heal his people. One wished to be tall and lean. Another wished to be big and strong. Akeeten wished to be a leader. So the island set down not far from their home, and they got out. Alive, but confused.

“As they started home, one of the boys stopped in his tracks. He bent over, his head over his feet. Then he rolled slightly forward, and before their very eyes, he turned into a rock. This was the boy who wished to be big and strong. Not soon after this, the boy who wished to be lean and tall stopped. His toes started growing in a hundred different directions and burrowed into the ground. His arms stretched up, and his fingers became branches. He became a tree. They continued on without further incident.

“When they returned home, the boy who wished to heal his people became a Healer. Akeeten lived a normal life. But when he died, his soul raced up into the great path of stars.”

Zhy paused there then pointed up to the night sky.

“And he became the Guiding Star, a guide for all who are lost. If you find yourself lost in the darkness, and the stars are out, seek the Great Cross; then you will find the Guiding Star that points north always, and it can guide you home.”

Zhy stopped, tears streaming from his cheeks. He had not realized how much emotion that had cost him. Looking at his companions, he saw only himself as a small boy, sitting with his father before a campfire and listening to his deep and soothing voice relay the tale.

His companions turned their gazes from the fire to the sky. The Guiding Star seemed to glow bright. Torplug leaned back on his bedroll and smiled. “My friend, that was a perfect story.”

Qainur cleared his throat, but said nothing. Zhy swore he saw tears on the great mercenary’s cheeks.

“Let us hope we lead full lives,” Zhy said quietly. He glanced up at the sky, but already new clouds had obscured the stars.

Each man stared into the fire for several hours. Unmoving. And every so often, one would look up into the sky, trying to find the Guiding Star beneath the clouds. And Zhy hoped only that by following the North Star, the Guiding Star, north into Welcfer, he was not leading himself to an early death.

Chapter 19 — Passing into the Void

The brightest day can be your darkest hour.

Unknown, IV Age

“G
reat grinding goats!” Qainur blurted.

Zhy and Torplug looked up, fearing a Knight of the Black Dawn, demon, or
gherwza
. Instead, Qainur had simply stopped his horse and was staring at the trees. Or the lack of them. The large pine and balsam trees suddenly ended, as if a giant scythe had sliced the earth and decided that trees should grow no more.