Mother and the Spirit
a Cadovis story (pt 1)
The year is 851 Post Judgment, that is 851 years since the War of the Spirits—in which Roda became forever changed—at last ended. The land is Praetia, a northern province in the nation of Noroc, a mighty kingdom of men, with the towering Taqua range looming to the west and the sea a rumor to the east.
This is where most historians pick up the tale of Cadovis Tûlortia-Rheys, for it is here that provides the incidence that drives his entire life. It is here that he is forever changed. It is here that he first becomes who he will someday be.
Read with caution, for this tale is not for the faint of heart. Rheys’ unique gift lends itself to many horrors and tragedies along the way. Take with you, dear reader, a kind word and a big stick, and be afraid to use neither.
--From Deep Histories of the Calair, Vol 1, Tirizh-et, 33rd Libor of Eyastu, Maegen of Ilstad, First Cafa of Frehv
Praetia, Year 851 PJ
The boy crawled forward on his belly to the edge of the precipice and propped up his elbows. He fingered a bow in one hand, string in the other. Below in the gulch, a stream meandered past. Beyond it loomed the forest, and, the boy would soon find out, an end to the life he knew.
Winter feathered the horizon, but here, in the sun, its heat cooking the boy’s spine, only the wind betrayed the changing season. The cold ground beneath him felt good with the hot sun pounding down and a chill wind blanketing it all. If he waited, meat would come.
He waited a long time. Patiently, as his father had instructed him. Any fidget or sound could startle away a month’s meal.
At midday, a doe stepped from the woods and nosed toward the stream. Several more followed her--lean gazelles with tight, looping antlers, among them half-grown young about to experience their first cold. Cadovis set an arrow in the notch and readied his aim. He waited for one to turn and give him a broad angle. They drank from the creek, facing him, not seeing him lying in wait high above. He pulled the string taut, every muscle following suit. Surely one would turn.
Movement played in his periphery, and his attention jerked toward it. The string laxed as he turned. A boy stood at the edge of the forest, his back to the dark undergrowth. He was naked and dripping wet, staring directly at Cadovis where he hid in the blades of grass, high up on the precipice, as if he weren't hidden at all.
The bow slid from his grip into the tall grass. The two boys stared at each other soundlessly, neither moving, the wet boy seeming oblivious to his nakedness.
The boy groped in his mind, lunged and scraped. It was like he searched for something inside Cadovis’s head. Cadovis squeezed his eyes tight against it. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run away. But the meat. He must get the meat.
Fleeting visions crossed his mind followed by hastily-whispered words. Cadovis felt cold from the inside out. None of the images or the sounds lasted, nothing stuck in his head except a premonition of doom, a dark feeling that something bad, something wicked and unimaginable was amiss.
Cadovis, the voice hissed in his head. It broke free from the babble, the first word he could understand. He broke into a cold sweat and gooseflesh, then returned to his senses, blinking rapidly. The other boy was gone, vanished in the woods. The boughs still quivered from his passing.
Cadovis thought to follow him and nearly jumped to his feet, but something inside prevented him. Meat, he thought again. He needed meat. His mother needed meat. Responsibility demanded he attend to practical matters. They would rely on this meat.
Something vague, unknown scratched at his mind, but he couldn't place it. The visions and the whispers were gone, almost forgotten, never properly felt except somewhere deep and impassable within him. It was a dream, he told himself now. I was lying here and fell asleep, I imagined the boy with dragon eyes.
Dragon eyes? Where did that come from? The sun, he realized, no longer felt hot, the wind no longer a comfortable breeze. It was cold on the sweat that glistened his skin.
Meat, he told himself again. He lifted the bow back up, steadied his hand. His wrist shook. His arms tremored. His fingers bobbed. He took a deep breath, then another. His fingers steadied.
The gazelles grazed below, some drinking from the stream. One of the females turned her head, listening.
He let loose. The string buzzed and the arrow lodged in the gazelle's neck. She stumbled, fell to her knees then to the ground, collapsing on the arrow shaft and driving it deeper. The others dashed away, tails up and eyes wide. Cadovis rose to his feet, eyed his prey from above with a sense of relief more than pride, then picked his way down the steep incline. The wet boy was nowhere in sight.
Of course he wasn't, Cadovis told himself. He never had been. But he couldn’t shake the feeling.
Cadovis stooped before the gazelle, wiggled and twisted the arrow loose, wiped it off and stuck it back in his quiver. He grabbed her by the antlers and started dragging her home.
This was always the toughest part. A gazelle, even a small female, was much larger than a boy and home was a mile away through forest, up hills, across streams. The sun, meanwhile, had slid just past its zenith, which meant that he had only enough time to drag her home before his mother would ring for dinner.
The forest grew cold, much colder than it ought to be at midday. Despite that, sweat clung to his pores, gooseflesh raised. He set the gazelle down and wiped his brow, then sat on a root and caught his breath. Nothing felt right. The trees were dark and sinister, the sky lost to him, the air tense and unnaturally silent. Something rustled, and he snapped toward the sound, but saw nothing. He panted, anxiety racking him. That sense--the whispers in his mind, the groping, the snapping images--hovered in his thoughts. Nothing specific made sense, no particular image or sound, just a rapid hash of darkness and squirming things and scraping and screeching...
As if out of nowhere, a man stood before him. Cadovis leapt up, swatted at the sweat beading on his forehead, and shot a glance at the gazelle.
The man smiled. "Thought you could use a hand with the doe." He knelt to the antlers and reached a hand to them before looking at Cadovis. "Mind?"
Cadovis shook his head.
The man gripped the antlers and slung the gazelle over his shoulder, then began walking through the trees, toward Cadovis's home. He seemed to know where he was going.
Who are you? Cadovis wanted to ask but didn't. He felt dumbstruck. The man carried a pack on his back, an old water skin by his side, a short sword by his other side. His boots and clothing were torn and old, but once of good quality. Fine threads and sturdy leather stitched tightly together, seamlessly.
The man made much better progress through the forest than Cadovis could have. Before long, they crested the last hill, and the barn rose into sight. Here the man stopped and set down the gazelle. Cadovis watched him without a word, glancing toward the barn. Why didn't the man take the gazelle inside? It was so close.
After setting the gazelle down and wiping his hands clean, the man kneeled before Cadovis and set a hand on his shoulder. "Cadovis," he said.
How did the man know his name?
"What happens to a man left alone?"
The question took him by surprise. It was an old saying, and the answer popped in his head before he even gave it any thought. That was a good thing, since all his thoughts were pressed into whys. Why is this man helping me? Why is he asking me about old sayings? Why does he know my name and where I live?
"A man left alone is a soul without bone," Cadovis said, toneless and rote.
The man placed a hand gently on Cadovis's chest, right over his heart. "Keep that here, and all will be well." The man stood up, stretched his neck and looked out over the land. Rolling hills and forests spread away from them. The roof of the cottage where Cadovis lived could be seen across the next hill, nestled in a cradle of the land.
The man looked at Cadovis one last time and smiled, then walked away.
Cadovis tried to cry out, but his voice croaked within him. "Wait!" The sound came out weak and scratched.
The man stopped anyway and looked back at Cadovis.
"Would you... would you like to stay for dinner? Mo'r can set an extra place, I'm sure, and we won't mind."
"Thank you, Cadovis, but I must be going."
"You look like a man alone."
A laughed popped out of the man, and his features softened. Who was this man?
"The least you could do is tell me your name," Cadovis said.
The man seemed to consider for a moment as he stared into the forest, then he turned around and faced Cadovis with a new sadness to his eyes. "Some call me the Wanderer, others--"
"Others?"
The man shook his head. "No matter."
"What does your mother call you?"
"Late for dinner, same as yours if you don't get going."
Not so much as a smile cracked Cadovis's face. The joke was old. He wanted answers. He pursed his lips. "Will we meet again?"
The man regarded him pointedly. "We have met already, and this is not the last."
Cadovis said nothing in return, his mind turning over all the men he had met. The man who called himself the Wanderer took the opportunity and was gone, over the crest and into the forest. For some time, Cadovis watched the spot where he had been, as if it might bear answers the man himself had not given.
Finally he stirred. Soon Mo'r would ring for dinner. He reached for the antlers and lugged the gazelle the rest of the way into the barn.
stay tuned for part 2, coming soon!