Call of the Crow CH3&4

CH3: Cartea Mortii

Snow drifts gently from the sky, blanketing the high peaks of Wildes Meer in a serene silence. Ice and slush settle on sheer cliffs; everywhere except for the exposed and worn tiles of Domus Magorum.

Beneath the impossible building, deep inside the mountain, there is a man. A silver ring gleams on his finger, another on a chain around his neck. Restlessness marks itself in the hollow of his chiselled cheeks and the shadows under his dark eyes. His clothes hang somewhat loosely from his body: several days have passed since he had a proper meal.

He stands, purposeful and tall, yet dwarfed by the cavernous atrium. Enclosed on all sides by several stories of bookshelves, thousands upon thousands of tomes extend far into the distance, forming a sprawling mess of winding paths. Now and again, hooded figures bob between bookcases, navigating with ease. Great stone spiral staircases sweep down onto the slate floor.

A billowing black cloak floats soundlessly towards him, amber cat-like eyes peering out beneath a heavy hood. The childish figure stops before him, barely reaching his hips. "What does one need from us?" The librarian rasps.

He glances around the empty atrium. "The Cartea Mortii." His voice is low and soft.

A glowing yellowish orb materialises above his head, bathing him in its eerie light. He follows the unblinking librarian as they glide towards the slate steps. Both ascend, higher, then higher still, decanting somewhere frighteningly far from the atrium floor. He is led along a serpentine path, the dark creeping closer until he is entirely reliant on the globe of light above him. Unending rows of anonymous bookcases line the paths and forks in the maze of ancient tomes: he cannot find his way back alone.

They stop in front of a nondescript bookcase. With small hands, the librarian pulls a heavy tome nearly half their size from the shelf, handing it to him. Bound in brown leather, it has no title and no author, nothing to mark it from the hundreds of other books. He opens it gingerly. Lines and dots and symbols form alien lettering scrawled across its pages. Some words of this dead, near-forgotten language are familiar to him: it will be difficult, but not impossible to translate.

"Does one have something of value?" The librarian asks in a hoarse whisper.

He closes the book. Nauseas apprehension rises in the back of his throat as he pulls a black dagger from his coat. Carved from obsidian stone, it is surprisingly heavy for something so small. His fingers are wrapped tightly around the bone hilt: spiriting himself away from his post in the dead of night, and the lengthy journey here, are both actions which can be reversed, albeit with some consequences. But not this.

He places the dagger gently into the librarian's outstretched hands, their eyes eager and so wide they are nearly black. "Not enough." They whisper.

For a moment his heart is in his throat: all this way, for nothing? But then the librarian's gaze shifts down, hungrily fixating on the shining silver ring around his neck. Instinctively, he clasps it in his fist: no.

In his mind, he sees red hair, wild and thick, milky pale and soft skin, a radiant smile more brilliant than the sun. It must be done. Reluctantly, he pulls the chain off his neck, dropping it in outstretched hands.

"The book is yours."

----

CH4: Idols to Ashes

At the sound of the bell, students rush from the squat brick building like freshly freed convicts. Side by side, Reika and Amihan walk together, dried leaves crunching underfoot and heavy school bags slug over their shoulders.

"So there's this theory, that energy can't be created or destroyed. Like, whatever energy was present at the start of the universe is a constant. All it can do is change forms and move on." Reika says. Amihan smiles at her friend's bright and bouyant enthusiasm. "So all the energies that make you, well, you, were once part of something else. Like maybe some of you came from water, and some other part of you came from a tree or something."

"Huh. I've never thought about it like that." Amihan replies.

"So I guess that means when we die, we break down and the energy that makes us who we are moves on to different things." Reika says, absently brushing her hand against the rough bark of a naked tree.

"I hope pieces of me come back as a mushroom." Amihan says wistfully.

"A mushroom?"

"Or some moss."

"Why?" Reika asks. Amihan looks up into the dappled sunlight, eyes like glowing honey, hopeful but sad: and for a moment Reika cannot breathe.

"I don't know. I think I like the idea of being in a shady forest somewhere, peaceful and quiet. I can just be, and not have to be anything else for anyone." She turns to Reika. "What about you?"

"Hmmm, I don't know. Maybe a bird, so I know what it feels like to fly..."

"Aw! That's so sweet!" Amihan smiles; Reika is not often vulnerable.

"...and so I can poop on people I don't particularly like."

"Oh." Amihan shakes her head. "Ok well, maybe you can be a crow?"

"Why a crow?"

"Well, they're your favourite, aren't they? You've been drawing them everywhere lately." Amihan gestures at the crow etched in ink on Reika's bag.

"Yeah, I guess." Reika frowns. Momentarily she sees a mossy green door and hears an echoing and mournful caw.

She is jerked back to reality by Amaliah's shoulder followed by a curt "watch it!" Amaliah and her friend, engrossed in a giggling conversation, walk off ahead.

"Oh yeah, I'm definitely going to poop on Amaliah." Reika says flatly, Amihan scowling at their backs.

---

School friends drift away, leaving Reika and Amaliah alone until they catch up to Everett. To Reika, the road home without Amihan is tedious and long. The three siblings trudge along asphalt and brick, sparse and skeletal trees offering little shade against a blazing and unrelenting sun. Scant clouds in the wide expanse of the sky do nothing to lessen the glare.

"Don't walk so close to me." Amaliah barks at Reika. Reika raises an eyebrow, noting the space between them could fit at least two Everetts: for Amaliah, there will never be enough space between them. Reika thinks of her sister as a bitter old cat, swatting at anything close enough; don't breathe too loud, don't walk like that, don't eat like that...

"What? I didn't hear you!" Reika feigns playfully, edging closer. Everett sighs heavily.

"Dont. Walk. So close to me." Amaliah hisses through gritted teeth.

"Oh! Do you mean like this?" Reika skips closer still, so the fabrics of their sleeves touch.

"Don't! Don't touch me!" Amaliah whines, pushing Reika away. Reika is surprised she's resorted to violence already.

"But I didn't! I didn't touch you!" Reika says in the most annoying sing-song voice she can muster, edging closer again. Amaliah stares with a withering resentment reserved only for Reika. Reika grins, undeterred.

"Can you guys stop it?" Everett sighs, exasperated.

"Hey, she started it!" Reika says, shrugging.

"I said don't touch me!" Amaliah stops and shoves Reika back, hard, almost causing Reika to fall. Reika laughs, making Amaliah scowl deeper.

"I said stop it!" Everett says firmly.

"I would, if she wasn't such a bitch." Reika says, staring firmly at Amaliah. Everett mutters something under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Just.... come on." He says, gesturing for his sisters to keep walking. A pang of guilt tugs at Reika; she never likes upsetting her big brother. She trots to catch up to him, ignoring Amaliah's smug smirk. Their brick home emerges into view.

"What's that?" Reika asks, pointing to a boxy black object sitting out the front. They draw closer, the black box morphing into a horseless carriage: thin wheels with skinny rubber tires, with an elongated snout for the coachman, a steering wheel jutting out of its end like a dandelion.

"It's a motor car!" Everett says excitedly, quickening his pace, his long legs forcing his sisters into a jog.

The shining black metal gleams proudly in the sunlight. It's hot to the touch, surprising Reika. She stands on her toes, looking into a plush leather interior. She's seen motor cars before; first in a newspaper, then sometimes in the city; but never one up close. The excitement fades quickly and dread drops like a stone in her stomach. There is only one person this could belong to: Rozamond.

As if on cue, the front door to the house swings inward, Rozamond stepping out. She is a towering woman, the tip of her head nearly touching the top of the door frame. Her golden hair is clipped short and practical, matching her black no-nonsense pants and sensible shoes.

"Hello my darlings!" Rozamond's cheery and upbeat voice rings hollow to Reika: Reika wonders if they've ever had a real conversation. Rozamond embraces each of them in turn, only Everett matching her height. "Wow boy, you've gotten so big! You're going to be taller than me!" She says, clasping his shoulders, smiling widely. She releases him, stepping aside and ushering the children in. "How are we all?? Come in! Come in!"

"We're good! How're you?" Everett responds.

"I'm just going to go put my bag down." Reika says politely, walking into the kitchen.

Caden leans on the counter, waiting. “Hey dad.” Reika says, dropping her bag on one of the stools.

“Hello darling, how was your day?” He smiles, uninterested; Reika senses his restlessness.

“Good. How was yours?” Reika watches him carefully now. The sounds of conversation drift into the room.

“Oh Caddy! Do you know what I was thinking?” Rozamond says, as if this idea only just came to her. “I was thinking about taking the kids for a ride in that new motor car. What do you think, Caddy?” Everett and Amaliah look to Caden with pleading faces. Reika watches on, wary; something in their voices puts her on edge.

“Sounds like a good idea.” Caden responds stiffly.

“Oh but you know, there’s only room for two, so why don’t I take Everett and Amaliah first? You know, since they’re older.” The dreadful stone in Reika's stomach drops sickeningly deeper.

"Okay." Caden replies.

"Is that alright with you, darling?" Rozamond peers down with a pleasant smile, placing her hand on Reika's shoulder. Inwardly Reika reels; she doesn't know why she's being separated from her siblings. She glances at Everett and Amaliah's eager faces: they don't see what she sees.

"Sure." Reika replies, forcing herself to smile, aware that she has no choice.

"Okay! Very good! Leave your bags! Leave your bags!" Rozamond ushers the other two out the door. Reika slides onto the remaining kitchen stool, clasping her hands on the cool bench in front of her. Caden runs his hand over his dark stubble, hesitant in the uncomfortable silence. Reika knows something bad is coming, and she is alone.

Finally, he says: "You know that I'm going north for a while?" Reika remembers his bitter absences: long stretches of time for her angry and resentful mother to exact punishment on the shackles that are her children.

“Yeah.” Reika responds quietly. Reika is rarely quiet.

“I’ll probably be gone for about six months.”

“Okay.” Apprehension grinds Reika's thoughts to a halt.

"So, the other two will probably stay here - it's looking like Everett will get a job at the paper mill and Amaliah will apprentice at the bakery." He pauses, willing Reika to piece together the puzzle and save him from needing to say it out loud. But Reika is a blank nothing. For the first time her ever-absorbing mind is empty: she still believes in her father.

".... So, uh, you, you will be going back with your mother." He says it off-handedly, like a piece of news or did you know it's going to rain tomorrow? He turns his back to her, pouring water into a glass that he doesn't particularly want.

Reika goes numb. She is far away, watching herself, still and mute. She recognises this disconnect: shock, the kind that pre-empts impending and inescapable pain. Her immovable faith in her father is torn from her, a deadly faultline in her foundation; a collapse is inevitable. She watches Caden turn back around, watches herself rising to her feet. Her legs carry her towards the door. She doesn't know if he tells her to wait, but he makes no move to stop her.

Then she's out in the quiet hush of the street, her heartbeat thumping in her ears. She feels nothing; not the wind on her face or the warmth of the setting sun on her skin. Prickling hot tears blur the world around her, her heaving lungs struggling against an immense weight on her chest. A choking grief rises within and the more she holds it back the more it threatens to break the surface, so she blindly runs: away, away, away.

She runs until her throat is raw and she's starving for air, vaguely recognising the dry scraggly scrub that separates Mirros city from the rest of Mirros state. Her hands shake uncontrollably, bright white sparks humming angrily along her skin. She suddenly breaks: the choking grief pours out of her mouth in a harrowing and awful scream, shattering her apart like porcelain hurled into the ground. She can only see white, deafened by crashing thunder and the cracking sound of trees exploding from the inside out. Every moment she lay awake in hope, every daydream to escape her mother's alcohol-fuelled fury, every time she soothed and shielded herself from the ugly world, bursts out of her in violent and white-hot arcs of lightning until there is nothing left.

---

Finally, she is empty. She comes to, lying on her side, face in the dirt. She becomes aware of oppressive heat, thick haze forcing her to cough. Startled, she pulls herself onto her hands and knees: flames lick at dry bark, embers glow out of blackened branches, fire spews out plumes of black smoke. The ominous moan of fiery and buckling trees sparks a panic in her chest, but for a moment grief speaks to her: Why not stay here? Where can you go?

A sharp and panicked caw silences that voice, a crow landing right in front of her face. It caws again, urgent and almost impatient, flapping onto a nearby branch. In her mind, she suddenly sees a hollow tree like a screaming face, feeling soft spongy moss beneath her hands.

She scrambles to her feet, covering her nose and mouth with her sleeve, desperately sucking in air before coughing it back out again. Haze and heat press into her skin and sting her eyes, so thick she can barely see more than a metre in front of her. She runs towards the sound of the crying crow over the moan of overburdened trees. Fire and brush emerge suddenly from the black smoke, forcing her to weave and turn until she is utterly lost. Sharp twigs tear at her cheeks, hot pain gnawing at her left shoulder.

All she can do is follow the call of the crow.

----