Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 30 – Veris

Note: I wrote this in four sittings, and struggled in each. One of the sittings I was pretty tired and sort of buzzed. I've tried to catch the typos. I've been stuck at 130 votes for a couple days, hopefully I am not stalling out. I am at 30% still. The other story is at 41% at 107.

Disc 2
Track 8: Wild West Show – Big & Rich

“There won’t be a witness if we both fall”

In the Sorna there were days the wind whipped so hard that fragments of sand could penetrate skin, upturning raw flesh in an instant. You stayed hunkered down in the tower those days, not bothering to keep watch. Not even a demon like Salama ventured out in a sandstorm.

Standing below the black iron arch at the start of the road the boy called “Veris,” Nestor recalled those sandstorms and thought they’d be a welcomed sight to what was before them. The snow was not falling. Instead it was blowing parallel to the ground in a gale that froze spit before it hit the ground. Ahead the path rose sharply for miles unknown till it reached the doors of the old palace called Metahischoo and neither man knew what waited for them there.

Nestor doubted they had to worry about what ghosts haunted yonder palace. If the cold did not do them in through the skins the boy had fashioned for him from the hides of goats killed along the mountain pass, the road, which was badly drifted over and only as wide as a man was tall, would accomplish the task. Off each side, there was nothing but a bank of rocks. As the road rose higher, the slope of the banks grew steeper and the drop longer. The boy thought it’d take three days from the base of Veris to reach Metahischoo, which meant at least two nights sleeping where one slight roll meant oblivion.

“What did you say that word “Veris,” meant?” Nestor asked. He could barely see the boy standing before the arch, his hands shielding his eyes, likely trying to make out the words above. The arch was made of iron, there were five words spelled out in the old language around a triangle with an eye captured in a chamber near the top point depicted at the peak. Nestor did not need to study the arch.

“Edge of bliss, according to the witch,” Oan answered without looking back.

Nestor grunted, finding the irony immediate. The old ones had a sense of humor unlike folks today. Sometimes Nestor enjoyed it, but looking at their destination, he did not find this jest so funny. He scratched under his arm reflexively, stopping before the boy took notice.

Oan still wore the thin blue shirt with a hood to block the whipping snow. Nestor often wondered if the boy would handle the heat of the desert as well he did the cold of the mountain. Of course, if they reached the Sorna, the heat would be the least of the boy’s worries. The boy was strong, no doubt. The witch had cursed him with uncanny talents, but it was not enough. The Lord of the Sorna would bring the boy to his knees before draining him of that precious blood.

The boy was enamored with the arch that reached up beyond the height of three men, with a series of letters from the old tongue bent into shape across the top. In the middle was the ancient symbol, its meaning lost in time, of an eye entrapped in a cell at the top of a triangle. The boy was studying the old words, trying to make them out in the blinding storm.

Nestor did not need to look up more than once at the arch to know what they said. He had seen this arch’s twin in the Sorna. The words at the top were the same. The boy obviously could not read them.

“How well do you know the tales of old?” Nestor walked beside him, eyes remaining on the road ahead. “Not just of the last age, but the times before the seven kingdoms, before Tarek Grandar or Salama (the last name came out as a whisper).”

“I know little of this land and nothing west of the Belnor,” the boy’s eyes dropped.

“Would you believe that before the Sorna was a waste, it was a paradise? “ Nestor clawed at his arm without thinking. The boy did notice that one. “Plush and green with waters that flowed over cliffs forming beautiful waterfalls that fell into quiet pools where children played and beasts drank in peace.”

Oan’s eye stayed on Nestor’s hands. The boy was a natural hunter and he did not allow many movements to get past his sight. Nestor had to control his urge to claw at his skin, which throbbed and tingled constantly.

“Why are you telling me this?” Oan turned his attention back to the arch. Nestor ignored the question.

“They say it started with a small pile of sand somewhere in the vast, rich jungle of life,” Nestor continued. “Over years and years, it spread out draining the water, the life from the region till one day it was all gone and nothing was left but the great waste.

“There are spots in Sorna today where you stand on the golden sands and you can hear the water fall from high above a cliff down into a sparkling pool. The ghosts of the paradise still hide in the arid soil and, sometimes, they appear to the man lost or wandering long out in the desert. It’s there, my boy, dormant and waiting my boy. One day, it’ll return and all of us that have stood guard on the waste shall be awarded paradise.”

Nestor sighed. It was a children’s tale, at best, to those Nocnil, but one that still struck a chord in his heart. If only all the decay of the Sorna could be washed away in a sea of green.

“You forget, Nestor, your watch has failed,” Oan said. “Paradise is lost to you and your kind.”

“No!” Nestor raised his hand for a slap, but the boy caught it without a flinch. Heavens, Nestor was getting old. There was a time no man could have reacted in time to stop his strike. How can this be? Oan released his arm, and Nestor’s fingers longed to dig into his flesh in armpit. He refused to give into it. Oan’s attention went back to the arch.

“What do you think it says, “ Oan asked? He was shielding his eyes again from the snow. “I can’t make out the letters.”

“The old ones knew much, my boy,” Nestor regained some confidence. He may be losing his physical control over the boy, but he could still hold some intelligence over him. A man with answers was always valuable. “When the land that was a paradise turned to waste, they put up an arch the image of this one where the heart of the jungle once pumped. Every man raised to the watch was required to journey to it before he could claim his rank. Each man was taught what the words meant.”

“Enough with the tales,” Oan twirled his right hand, a gesture to accompany the sentiment. “What does it mean?”

“It means we are damned, my boy,” this time he caught the boys collar and pulled him close. “We are all damned.”

The boy’s eyes were cold and calm. They were the eyes of a killer. Nestor could feel the sword, like a vibration. He’s changing too! Nestor recoiled and the boy pushed him away, not with much authority, but enough to let Nestor know not to touch him so again. It was the sword changing the boy. It was taking hold. Once it does, the boy will be bent on battle, and there was one particular battle a sword like that strapped to a boy like that would want to go. That path is death, Nestor thought, and eyed Veris once again.

“Perhaps the Sorna is damned,” Oan started, “But this is the Kingdom of Marek, the home of the first. What do the words above mean in the old tongue.”

Nestor swallowed and took a step forward. If a long drop awaited him, he did not want to delay it any longer. He never expected all of this to be so damned hard, but he had lived through the desert, the ritual, the river, and if nothing else, he’d make up this mountain road.

“Nestor!” Oan called, not moving from below the arch.

Nestor stopped in a drift that reached his knees and rubbed the empty socket where his left eye once resided.

“What once was may be again.” He said the word clear, and the wind died while he spoke so they reached Oan’s ears. “That’s the meaning.”

They did not speak for some time and Nestor stayed still letting the wet snow dampen his face. It soon grew numb to the point he forgot all his deformities. He was thinking of standing there for all eternity until he heard the crunch of snow under feet approaching. Oan stopped at his shoulder.

“What of the design with the eye?” Oan kept his focus forward up the road. Nestor turned his head to truelly see the boy.

“It’s the eye of time,” Nestor said. “It sees all and waits.”

“Waits for what?”

“To close.”

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 29, Section 5 - Erased

Note: We're at 122 votes and sitting at 31 percent. Staying consistent. The other story is at 40 percent at 101 votes, so doing a little better. I thought I'd write this section from Hatala's POV, but it turned out that this worked better this way, I hope at least.

“Oh don’t look surprised – erased”

Gadrel Bedrick exited the mayorial mansion through the back patio doors that led to the gaudy garden that Cortobrane had had planted. The strips of tender flesh crisscrossing across his shoulderblades stretching down his back throbbed simply from the thought of the man. It had been a long time since Bedrick had received a lashing, but it was hardly his first beating.

Gadrel’s father, Pan Bedrick, had been a laborer in the Building Guild, and a man that spent his evenings carousing from tavern to tavern. When he stumbled home, it was his frail, gentle son that the brute took his drunken anger out upon. During those long, terrifying nights, Gadrel determined that one day he’d be behind the fists and belts. No one was ever going to humble him to tears, to broken bones, to a shape unspeakable among civilized company.

Being the son of a laborer qualified him for the guild, it was his sense with numbers and figures that allowed him to move up when it was obvious that he was not going to be able to lug around blocks and hammer up walls. From there, he befriended, blackmailed and deceived every brute, every laborer, every chairmen, he could, slowly amassing a small majority of entanglements and debts till he was strong enough for an overthrow. As was often the case, the former tsar of the builders did not wake up one morning and before noontime meal, Gadrel was raised to the seat.

Any of the old entanglements or debts that had potential for future trouble, he gradually cured with well-placed daggers in busy streets or pillows over the face in dark rooms. The brutes loved him. He was from them and promised to have their best interests at heart. So enamored they were, that they hardly noticed when Pan Bedrick disappeared one fine day. Of course men sometimes took up missing. That was the way of the world, dark times or not.

For the better part of a decade, he had consolidated power in the Building Guild to the point that he was going to have a very long rule. While it was not complete control of Stra, it was good enough. The Building Guild held considerable sway in the city and had excellent relations with the Horsing and Civil Guard guilds, which were of equal footing in the old system.

“How did he do it?” Gadrel cringed dropping into the seat where the mayor dined each night when he was in the city. When Cortobrane had arrived in Stra, he was perceived as a joke. When he designed the gardens and tore down the servant’s quarters, the guilds laughed thinking the man was only tyring to establish some sort of authority. Never had Gadrel believed the man was capable of dismantling the entire guild system. “How did he do it?”

When common folks started disappearing in the night, the guilds thought little of it, till numbers began to mount. The Civil Guard was helpless against the shadows with teeth that gnarled bodies into pieces. When the beacons of Omet were lit, Gadrel wondered if the heart of Satar was under the same dark siege. It was Vedder that bowed first to Cortobrane, who, as it turns out, appeared to be able to offer refuge from the terror.

Gadrel knew beyond any doubt that Cortobrane was somehow responsible for the evil in the night, but he could not figure from where he was getting his aid.

The sun was descending low upon Stra, the garden was quiet and the mansion was nearly empty. Cortobrane had taken every servant with him when the army, now calling itself the Fire of Isa, left that very morning inexplicably by the east road.

“Why the east road?” He spoke to the blowing grass and the puffy shrubs.

The final perplexing piece of the entire puzzle was that Gadrel was left here in Stra, and left in charge by Cortobrane’s own proclamation. Of all of Cortobrane’s new subjects, Gadrel was the least loyal, and he had made no great effort to hide his displeasure at his current position below the mayor. Yet Cortobrane trusted him with the city, albeit without enough guards to protect the city walls much less lead an uprising.

“But why me?”

The words had barely left his lips when a screech sounded off in the distance then was cut off at its peak. Without yet seeing the cause of such a disgusting screech, Gadrel had the answer to all his questions. He felt the blood drain from his face, but he found the strength to rush from the garden, back through the extravagant mansion, to the main entrance that sat high above the street. A wide white column of steps led up the doorway that Gadrel opened with one sweeping motion.
In the failing light, he made out men and women crawling in the street, crying, pleading, until they were stopped by figures that darted in and out of the shadows. He could not make out the forms of the attackers, only they did not seemed to be armed, instead they looked to be feeding upon the citizens of Stra like predators of the wild upon its prey.

Off in the distance, smoke rose from the city’s market place. Regret settled into his bones, some of the those markets had been passed down from one generation to the next within families stretching all way back before the creation of Satar. While histories were always tight-lipped, especially between those in guilds, Gadrel would not be surprised to find that some family’s claim ran all the way back before Isa, when Stra was no more than a stop on the ancient trails that cross the land from east to west and north to south.

He hoped that the fire was set by people to defend against the evil washing into the streets of the city. Maybe the flames torched a few of the crawling, bloodthirsty beasts. If Stra was going to fall than let it fall with a good fight. He felt for the sword, a thin blade with a hilt that curved to fit his grip.

Drawing the sword before him, he descended three steps, the heels of his boots clicking, echoing across the dead night air.

“I am Gadrel Bedrick, son of Pan,” He barked. On the wind, he heard similar proclamations made around the city. Perhaps a few were inspired enough to stand with him as well. “Tsar of the Building Guild of Stra that stands in the light. Evil abound, show thyself and receive thy sentence!”

Taking two more steps, he stopped, the iron of his stomach dissolved into a sponge. On the stone street below, a single file line of black-robed figures marched before him. In each of their hands were the tainted black blades stolen an age ago from the armory of Rion. Each blade had been dipped into the coals of a fire terrible rites had been performed. The stories claimed the tips were like poison to a man that walked in the light. Those of the black robes had long avoided Stra. The penalty for those that tried for entering the city was worse than death.

“Dinar.” He spat. This was whom Cortobrane had hired to overthrow the guilds. The man was even more of a fool than Gadrel had ever suspected. The Dinar did not give back that which they took. They walked in the dark that swallowed all. “I should have known.”

The line of figures started to ascend the stairway, their faces always hid underneath the hoods that drooped and sagged on their heads. Behind them the other hideous creatures involved in the invasion stalked, he even thought he heard a hiss. It was low and constant.
As they approached, he stumbled backward, his sword flailed out to keep them back. It shamed him to panic so, and for the first time since he was boy alone in the house with a monster every night, Gadrel felt powerless, scared and shamed.

Before long, they were within arm’s reach and his back was to the manison’s outer wall. Forming a semi-circle around him, the Dinar cut off any chance for his retreat. He lunged forward once, his blade aimed at a tall, emotionless figure to his right. The figure easily dodged the attack, matched it with his black blade and sent Gadrel’s sword clanging away.

They stood there a moment, not attacking, not speaking. Gadrel thought his heart might explode before they finished him. Part of that thought satisfied him. At the very least, it took the power from them and placed it back into his body before he met the light.

Then the line of figures opened wide enough before him for a slender purple-robed figure to pass by. The newcomer also wore a hood covering its face, but it glided more gracefully then the others. Gadrel thought this must be some form of Dinar not known to the world outside of the cult.

“I am Gadrel…” he began in a voice that could not conceal the quiver that was rattling his teeth.

“The butcher need not know the swine before the slaughter,” the purple-robed figure spoke, its voice obviously feminine. She pulled back the hood revealing a mane of red hair, a pale face and a pair of piercing green eyes. At once, Gadrel was aroused and terrified. Below that, he thought he recognized this woman, but he could not place a name with her face.

“A woman!” he nearly spat, but held back.

“Oh, don’t look surprised,” a smile nearly touched her pink lips. “The time of man is fading away.”

With that she walked passed into the mansion and the Dinar followed. For a second he thought he was saved, but then remembered those that lingered behind. He could not see them, but he heard the clicking of paws on stone and the hiss rose to a new level as he saw the glow of red eyes. Turning his face away, he caught a glimpse of his sword laying a few feet away.

He took one step, lunged, but was caught in midair by a pair of jaws that jerked him away. His body never touched the stone steps of Stra again.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 29, Section 4 - Cloud bursts

Note: A few things, one we surpassed 50,000 words here, making it just over 115 single spaced Word pages in 12 pt. font. Can't wait to have to go through and edit all of this someday :). Second, we start painting the house tomorrow, which means we're on the downward side of things. It may leave without a computor or, at least internet, for a time. We'll see. Third, I sitting at 31% to move up after 114 votes. It's be consistently in that range for awhile now. Hope it's enough to get through. One more part after this before we move onto next song.

“Maybe the rain stops following me; dripping the colors; running the daylight; over the cloud burst; hoping they don’t burst”

A horse whinnied from somewhere behind, may have even bucked, as Ewam peered ahead at the sort of cloud formation that his father always called heaven’s fist because the full, rounded clouds where stacked with ridges like knuckles and when they approached it was with a thunderous punch. The clouds were moving fast from the west. Off to the north, a pocket of sun burned a hole in the dark expanse, a half rainbow danced on the glistening golden rays.

“We’ll not be able to ride through it, my lord,” Banik said. The man from Nocnil had rode beside Ewam the entire week since they had left Omet. Behind them were seven thousand strong on horseback, trailed by ten thousand infantry and five thousand archers. Farther back was the endless caravan of supplies that no doubt still reached back to the city. It was a good force for such short notice, but it still lacked the contribution from Stra. Ewam was not surprised that the force from city in the northwest of the kingdom had not made it to Omet in time, but he had been sure they would have met on the road by now. He had sent two riders ahead already, but neither had returned.

“Pull all off the road, spike the tents well and be sure none of the swords and such get wet. We cannot fight with rusted weapons.” Ewam answered Banik, but spoke the words directly to Commander Robare Lews, an aging fellow with a clean face and a rounded stomach. Commander Lews spun his gelding around and barked the orders to the set of generals and lieutenants following them. The long line of the army sprang to life as horsemen galloped down the ranks repeating, and often adding tasks.

Ewam followed Banik off the ancient stone road that led toward Stra and beyond that to Nocnil and the city of Noce. The man from the desert had spoken more about the demon awaiting the army, but even now, Ewam had little idea on how to attack a city controlled by the soulless. “What if it uses the women as shields?” Eden had asked before they left. “What if it uses our own sister?”

Ewam had opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Eden’s eyes glazed over and he turned away. It was like his brother had forgot he had asked a question or he did not care to hear the answer.

“You are thinking of King Eden again, are you not my Lord?

Banik had already dismounted and his steed was whisked away by a servant. Ewam copied the action, standing before a tent that was already entirely assembled. In the week since leaving, Banik had become Ewam’s closest confidant. Since the man had bathed, trimmed the tangled black hair so that it barely touched his shoulders and shaved clean, he had assumed a new, more trusting look in Ewam’s eyes. Once they started really speaking to one another, it was apparent they were both the kind of men that preferred action, so long as it was for the right cause.

Banik wore the sword Duna, grudglingly at best, at his waist. Every day he asked that Ewam take it as his weapon, but Ewam refused to touch it again. Even without actually holding it, Ewam still felt its pulse of life near. Best to keep it away, he told himself every day when the question came.

“We are twins, Banik, I believe we are always somewhere in each other’s mind,” Ewam said, stopping at the flap of tent. The storm was still several minutes away.

“Then what does his mind tell you?” Banik brushed a strand of hair away from his face.

“He’s disturbed, I can describe it in no other terms,” Ewam lowered his eyes and removed his riding gloves. “He’s not himself, not the man I share everything with.”

“Dark times, my Lord,” Banik shrugged. He always kept up the formalities in public. In private, they both had grown used to calling each other simply by their names.

“Aye,” Ewam agreed, but that did not dismiss the worry from his mind. Eden was the one meant to rule, but Ewam could not shake the fear of leaving him in charge of the city much less the kingdom. They had left him a force of ten thousand strong to defend the city in case Ewam were to fail. It was a sturdy number, but when they left Eden seemed disinterested in preparing the city for siege and Ewam did not think it was from being overconfident about his chances. Eden was distracted by his wife and daughter’s ailments. That had to be it.

Yet he never mentioned them and recoiled anytime that Ewam asked upon their condition. It was like Eden was isolating them completely from the world.

Ewam sighed, and was not surprised that Banik offered a comforting pat on the back. Banik had his own share of guilt and worry weighing him down. That was part of their bond.

Thoughts of Kendra always followed those of his brother. He had stood outside her door nearly an hour the day before he left, but could not muster the courage for a knock. Goodbyes were not things easily said, and for their part, they had said goodbye to one another a long time ago. The words really did not need to be said again. It wasn’t the words he needed to hear. It was her face – the one she wore in private, with no paint, no powder – that he needed to see.

When they were young, her face had been a smooth, firm convass waiting for life to paint the wrinkles from a million smiles at the corners of her eyes and lips. He remembered kissing that spot beside her right eye, thinking it would taste better after a lifetime together. It was a summer night, Old Moon’s pale light glistened in her eyes, the beauty of it all was more than his knees could handle. He was still too young to be so bold as to kiss her lips, but he brushed her face that night and knew then that there was no other face for him. He determined to propose to her the night of Reap Ball, in front of everyone including his father and mother. It was against tradition for the man to ask, but he was not one to bow before tradition. Besides, he sensed that Kendra might have the same idea. Later that very night, when he came scurrying back to the palace, he even told his mother of his intentions when she caught him sneaking in. Kendra was going to be his, he told her. It was the lifetime he was meant to have. Of course, that lifetime had never happened.

He never knocked that day a little over a week ago. The door to her was forever closed. Instead, he scribbled down a letter saying everything that he had always meant to say. He sealed and gave it to Meriam to deliver, when he found the serving woman in the hallway. Meriam had wanted to say more, but Banik arrived and drew him away to another meeting to prepare the army.

Now he carried with him the most lasting image he had of her. It was of her her in that slim, purple gown and starry mask from the Reap Ball. She was dancing and twirling around the room. He had missed the start of that particular dance to retrieve a single purple rose. The flower had been his mother’s idea, a perfect way to seal a proposal she had said. He ran off to the garden before the song began and when he returned she was in his arms, dancing like a petal on a swirling wind. She was never more perfect than at that moment. Then they kissed, and the flower in Ewam’s hand slipped to the floor. It was smashed under his heal when he turned and ran a few seconds later.

“Let’s get inside before this breaks, my Lord,” Banik touched his shoulder again before entering the tent.

Ewam looked back to the north. The sunlight was gone, knocked out by heaven’s fist. The rainbow was receding back up into the clouds. The colors dulling, then draining then disappearing into gray before the black clouds devoured them completely.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 29, Section 3 - Reap Ball

Note: This was not what I originally intended to write about here, but it seemed to fit in with this part of the story better than what I had been thinking about. I am at 107 votes now, with 33% wanting it moved up. The other one I am at 87 votes, with 42% wanting it moved up.

“Another Moon on an everyday night; Thinking the morning looking for alright; warming the blood flow with poison I don’t know why”

Below everything the music played, harps, horns, a periodic drum and a steady strum from a nine-stringed bandolier, and that was how she knew it was not real. Nevertheless, Kendra strolled through the motions of that night from so long ago over and over in her otherwise dismal dreams. None of it was real anymore, but there were segments where she wished that if she dawdled long enough that she’d somehow stay and never return to the torn and bruised heap of her body.

There was the part with Ewam standing bare-chested before the mirror in his old room with a shaving blade pressed tightly against his soft, young face. The short red hairs of his chest curled like flames buried deep inside a fire. Everything about him was constricted and tight; his muscles rolled smoothly up his pale arms and down in circles on his back. Butterflies spread their wings in her stomach and flew in all directions just at his sight. She stood in the doorway a long while, taking him in, before mustering up enough courage to speak while praying that her voice did not crack.

“Doth Ewam Perde, son of Rudan, Prince of Satar, Dawn of Man, believe trimming that baby fuzz will make him a man,” Kendra asked from her viewpoint in the doorway? The truth of the matter was that she stole away from her father earlier and escaped to the corridor in secret desire to see him. As bold as the boy was among his male peers, he was quiet and nervous around her. She was much the same among her young lady friends, but could barely look directly at him. Despite that, they both made excuses for crossing each other’s path.

He flinched at the sound of her voice, and she glanced away not to meet his eyes as he glared over.

“I nearly cut my nose off,” he put his hand to his face and then pulled it away holding it up for her to see the blood. “A lady should not sneak so.”

Putting the blade down, he fumbled around the basin below as red drops started to spot the marble top.

“Mercy boy,” she rushed across the room, pulling a kerchief from a loop at her waist. “Have you not the sense to keep a cloth or such around when you’re shaving.”

She titled his chin without a second thought and pressed the kerchief to the long cut running from beside his nose about a finger length up the right side of his face. A red stain quickly soaked through.

“You know I never do things like this,” he covered her hand holding the kerchief and pressed it more firmly against the wound.

“Why are you doing it now then?” She frowned meeting his gaze.

“It was Eden’s idea mostly,” he kept his eyes squarely leveled on her. “For the Reap Ball, you know, the one this evening.”

“Of course boy, I am not daft.” She had been mulling over gowns to wear for the last month. That morning she settled on an elegant purple gown made by a renowned seamstress from all the way in Nocnil. It had the straight, understated look common among those of the sand. “But there will be masks, so what’s the need for shaving.”

“I said it was Eden’s idea mostly,” a smirk curled at the corners of his lips. “Mayhap, we’ll play some tricks in each other’s guise or something of the like.”

“Ughh, boys,” she slipped her hand away from the kerchief. It stuck to his face long enough for him to catch it. “Just when you start acting like men, you play games worse than boys.”

She turned quick enough for her wide skirt to swish in the air. Walking away, she could still feel his eyes on her.

“Mayhap,” he called from behind. “I’ll put the games away long enough for a dance.”

Stopping only briefly enough to collect the strength back to her knees, she squeaked out enough of an answer behind a big smile.

“Mayhap.”

If life were not made of creulities, she would be allowed to linger in that feeling of youthful bliss longer. Instead, it sped up to the ball later that night and the music, that was faint throughout her scene with Ewam, picked up to a defeaning tone.

Union Hall, sparkling from a week worth of cleaning and decked out with bright gold and purple cloth streamers that glistened from the hundreds of candles alit in the huge glass chandelier hanging from the peak of the ceiling in the middle of the vast room, was filled with nobility. The King and Queen sat on the thrones above all, peering down with fingers barely touching.

She noticed all that while spinning and spinning from one masked partner to the next. The masks hung over the top half of the face. They were each painted differently, but all had a long, hooked nose. She had spent the last three days painting a hundred tiny stars on top of a dark blue background to decorate her mask.

The music found another decibel level aided by shouts and laugther. Children sat on the edges sucking on candy while pointing and snickering at those lost in the dance on the floor. She was dizzy and scared, like one false step was going to send the entire room spiraling off into chaos. She trusted her steps and she knew when to raise her arms and to clap after every sixth beat. There was not anything to it, no entanglement of romance. Just a dance among allies, till the music stopped and he stood before her.

His mask was golden with purple whiskers like a cat pointing out on each side. Under the eyes were purple teardrops and the nose was a grotesque black with red nostrils. His thick red hair stuck out the back in a short ponytail and his little chest hair poked out the collar of his shirt.

“Perchance a dance,” she said, raising her hand to his shoulder while he clasped on gently to her other. The music still blared, but everyone else stopped, watching ancient rites play out. He did nothing, but grin back to her.

The song slowed and the dance lasted an eternity, but she did not mind. It was euphoric. He was so fluid, so precise. Never would she have guessed that he could handle himself so on the dance floor. If it were a swordfight, she would have expected it. But this? He was flawless in his steps, even better than she. All the while he led, making her feel guided into postions for purpose of beauty, not prodded like a dumb animal into a pen like most boys their age.

As the dance slowly came to a close, the room filled with applause and whistles. The music was still loud. It was always loud during this part of the fantasy. In real life it had all but stopped as she leaned in. The cheering was loud, and she wanted to be sure he heard exactly what she had to ask. Every year at Reap Balls across Satar, one heart was to be given freely and either accepted or rejected on the spot. It was an old custom, but one that every village, city and grand hall still followed. Acceptance was an engagment for all practical purposes. Rejection. Well, rejections were rare since most of the ball’s organized the couple ahead of time to assure a positive outcome.

This was not preordained.

“If I give you my heart, my lord,” she stopped to swallow a lump of doubt, “will you accept it and keep it safe.”

The mask lifted slightly revealing two very smooth cheeks as his smile broadened. A rush of panic flooded her stomach, but she could not figure out why. She dismissed it, at first as worry over his answer, but then he spoke and her mind went numb.

“I will keep it, my lady,” he spoke enuciating each syllable. That was not like Ewam, at all. “I will keep it and guard it from all others.”

It was the answer she hoped to hear, but not from lips she intended to get them from. Before she could stop him, those same lips were pressed to hers. Some mixture of gasp, swoon and sigh passed around those gathered.

When they pulled apart in reality, the hall had been so quiet she could hear a pair of heavy steps running away. In the dream, the music played on, but the steps were even louder, echoing into her deepest recesses. She never knew a person could be singled out by their footstep, but she knew those by heart.

The man in front of her removed his mask, his clean, square face brimming full with a smile. She even made out a tear of joy gathering in his eye.

“Eden,” she spoke in a whisper, her heart plummeting into her stomach. Over and over again, she repeated the name in shock and dismay until finally the music came to a stop and he answered.

“See, you’re dreaming of me now.” His grin contained none of its former joy. She struggled to open her eyes, both of which were swollen and crusted over. “My methods are curing you.”

She did not have the strength to cry much less fight back as he pealed back her sleeping gown and lowered his fist between her legs.

Through it all, she fixed the back of her mind on a point. Part of the dream that never came quick enough, but always vanished too soon. It had been the night before her wedding. Ewam wore a soft blue shirt that buttoned down the front and Old Moon’s cracked face made it look like it was smiling. That was last time she really felt the full face of joy in her heart.

Legacy Project - Section 7: The Office

“You lied much too much, and you lied again” Songs Like This – Carrie Underwood


“I want you! I want you so baaaaaaaad, babe.” John Lennon’s proactive vocals seep out the small, black stereo speakers as if he were standing behind my chair, bent over to sing sweetly into my ear. The image lingers, glowing in the back of my mind like a lighthouse beacon through the ocean fog. The radio serves as my oasis in a sea of computers, vacation requests, phone calls and boxes. In fact, the newly painted putrid, pea-green walls were beginning to make me nauseous as my eyes continually go in and out of focus. The natural light from the window behind me helps, even if the usual lackluster view of rail cars is now blocked by an extremely proud, leafy bush.

The music suddenly ceases, the dramatic song ending in which Lennon asked the tape to be cut before the band had finished playing. My heart stops with it, my ears search for noise to fill the void. Lost thoughts race back into my mind like mobile homes and lawn furniture sucked into the vortex of a tornado. The gravity of the situation hits me, reminiscent of a slap across the face. What trouble am I in for?

A quick glance out the door confirms the fears. The light of the conference room shines out with the foreboding sense of prison lights at night. The auditor was still in there, likely going back over the books and accounts double checking the figures one more time. They had passed previous inspections, everything was always OK. But this auditor, ‘Karl Stevens’ his business card read, looked sharp. He gave me an uneasy feeling with his well placed questions and adeptness with numbers. Speaking to him gave me the sense he could be my equal in this battle of accounting and protocol.

No previous audit had taken this long. No previous auditor had the wits of Karl. No one had ever caught on. Maybe that is why the company went out and got Karl. Perhaps they know things are fishy, but no one ever had the skill to prove it. I still doubt they do now despite Karl’s impressiveness. All anyone can ever prove is that I over spent on this or not, a truly quantifiable issue. My response, however, always hits back to a very unquantifiable attribute of quality. It was always harder to measure and would require much more time to do so than any self serving auditor would ever dream of investing in a single audit.

The pictures of Karl’s kids on laptop screen easily lead to the conclusion that time would be his motivator as well. With the time pushing noon on this Friday, he would now be pushing the limits of making his flight home. That is the mistake the company has continued to make with their auditors. They always have families to get home to or bars and parties to whoop it up at. Being an auditor for the glory of discovering the largest book cooking, skimming operation in the company was a dangerous gamble, for the auditor and the company. The ramifications to both were highly unpredictable.

Still as the minutes continue to click, my confidence begins to slide. I quickly flip through the next block of songs looking for the right one to cut my mood. Why do I have so much crap on the IPod?

“I feel hot and cold way down in my soul.” Roger Daultry strikes me perfectly. Instantly my brain is freed of the stressful scenarios. I am left wondering why there are five pens laid out on my desk in alternating directions. The ends of four are cracked and broken, a result of repeated mauling by my teeth. The plastic spoon left over from yesterday’s lunch was my current chew toy. It was stiff allowing for recurring tooth aggression without breaking.

“I’m all finished up.” Karl’s voice knocks me out of the stupor as if someone just dumped a bucket of cold water over me. “Getting ready to head out now.”

The spoon is quickly tossed into the small garbage can under my desk as I rise out of my chair. Karl is standing in my doorway with his thick glasses, failed attempt of a mustache and cheesy smile. “Good to hear, wouldn’t want you to miss that flight.” I pulled it out of me in the best ass kissing manner I could muster; it was the part of audits I hated the most. Still, it was a better option than pissing them off at any time. Get them happy, get them finished, get them outta here. The mantra of my mentor ran back through my head.

“Yes, I am sure the kids will be glad to have dad home for the weekend.”

We shook hands in the polite fashion customary of two opponents who had just finished a tennis match. Looking casual and calm was the key to my walk as I escorted Karl to the door. The cubicle wall by the door served as a good leaning post as Karl signed out on the guest log.

“I’ll send you the report by Monday afternoon with a list of recommendations.” There seemed to be a pause at ‘recommendations’. No doubt some would be more than just a recommendation.

“Very good, we’ll get on those as soon as we get them.” Courteously, I waved as Karl went out the front door and off into the parking lot to his fancy, black rental car. After he sped off down the road, I turned around beginning a slow saunter back to my office.

My chair seemed too low as I plopped back into it. I almost feel sorry for it, supporting all the weight pressing down crushing it farther into the floor. With the auditor now gone, I am free to turn the volume up on my stereo.

“You take a mortal man and put him in control.” Dave Mustaine growls at me. 13 e-mails wait in my inbox. A few from customers, but most are pointless updates and CC’s from people around the facility. Slowly I spin around in my chair to face the single window. The bush seems larger than ever before. The bright, blue sky peaks in over top of it. In the gaps betweens leaves I can still make out a few rail cars sitting out on the tracks beyond building grounds.

Swiveling back around, I click the necessary buttons to shut down my computer. Whatever work is waiting can continue to do so until Monday. No sense in wasting my energy if Karl is as clever as he seemed to be. I’ll know before Monday morning. They wouldn’t want me back on the premises if Karl comes through.

“Good night my darling, good-bye my dear.” Geddy Lee seems to be wishing me well as I click off the radio. Lights off and door shut, I take the walk out to the parking lot ready for the weekend.