[Story] Day 11 - The Tribesman

(You can find the entire saga so far (Day 1-11) by "chapter" here: http://ryukaki.com)


When I awoke, it was from a dreamless sleep. The pounding and thumping of mangled arms against the heavy, tarnished metal door behind me had dissipated sometime after the rain had stopped, and before the sunlight had sliced through the clouds like so many brightly colored threads through a fabric of rolling gray and black.

As my eyes mustered the strength to crack open, they stung and watered, touched by the brightness from the sun as it hit them. I blinked evasively at the warm yellow orb sitting at a low angle over the horizon, illuminating the narrow pathway on which I had emerged from the prison onto.

I could feel the slow, irritating pulse of sore, damaged tissue sneaking up from my leg that had been assaulted twice now, below the knee. It was a dull, thudding sort of pain that woke up with me, earning my contempt and ire. I tried to move the foot, and it responded by wiggling at the ankle. As I expected, the pain was blinding, and I bit down on my tongue to keep from crying out. Whatever consolation it was that the break was not complicated had been drowned out by agony. It took several minutes to compose myself, but I did, begrudgingly.

Before me stretched a long, stony walkway of muddy gray brick, and small dunes of sandy dirt that had blown in on the wind. To my left and to my right, ancient stone walls of darker colors, that belonged to the prison. They were mossy and still slightly damp from the rain. At the far end of the walkway, sat an archway, which had on each side of it two carvings of old angels that I had seen in textbooks telling stories and older myths.

I rubbed my head, to clear out cobwebs that had collected while I slept, and blinked several times, taking in all that surrounded me, illuminated by daylight. Near me, at my side, my sword still lay at rest, at a crooked angle. Its polished steel was still wet with raindrops that the sun had not chased away, and above me a steady stream of water droplets continued to splash onto the hilt from the stones that made up the doorway.

Solomon was not there, so I called out, “Solomon!” as if he was a pet and not a companion; the response I received was nothing more than wind and warm silence.

“Solomon!” I said again, somewhat louder, and began to glance around worriedly. There was an irritated clicking sound in the distance, and a tiny figure appeared between the archways in the distance. I could hear the snapping of a claw, several times, and see him shuffle back and forth.

“Right! Sorry!” I called out to him, watching him scuttle towards me not unlike a crab would, and waited calmly for him to arrive at my feet, where he snipped his smaller claw.

“I said I was sorry,” I said, sticking out my tongue. “How long was I sleeping for?”

Solomon clicked several brief clicks at me, and I nodded in kind. “You were keeping watch, weren’t you? It’s not good for me to keep owing you my life.” I said with a small grin, and reached over with a hand, beckoning him closer. He obliged, and I patted him gently on his shell.

Solomon purred, a curious, clicking sort of purr from beneath his stone armor that made me laugh, and he snipped his large claw just once, to say ‘yes.’

“Right.” I said, repeating myself. “I don’t suppose you know anybody in these parts that can mend broken bones.” The ribs in my chest were beginning to cry out at their mistreatment, and the pain from all angles was winding its way into my head. I had to fight against it, unwilling to let my triumph over the Prison and Brutus be wasted on such petty things as broken bones.

Solomon responded with two clicks, the smaller claw this time. That meant ‘no.’

I sighed, and hung my head. “I did not imagine you would.”

For a time I simply sat there, with Solomon silent near my side, the heat of the day warming my still slightly damp clothing, having long since dried away the puddles that had formed from the rainstorm. I spent a few moments securing my belongings, and said a silent thank-you to the man or woman whom had manufactured my bag. The rains had beaten it and given one side a slightly appealing look of being aged and worn, and the contents, especially those three books, had remained almost completely dry.

I lifted my blade up from the ground where it sat beside me, and deposited it back in the black sheath I had found. My fingers ran along the polished black surface and touched upon the carved, silver fittings through which a single, leather strap bound it to my hip. The winged creatures that composed the fittings were strange and curious, and I had fancied them lucky.

Tenderly, I rose to my feet, keeping weight off of the injured leg. I tested it only once I was sure I had my balance, and it agreed with my assessment that I should not be walking on it, for a time.

Solomon followed as I took slow and hobbled steps away from the heavy metal door, and the doorway in which it sat. I could still feel the cold, smoky fingers of something evil and heavy there, and when I left the looming stone archway, my mind felt more free, and refreshed, like a veil had been pulled away and I could think again.

“Those necromancers,” I said with a faint shudder in my voice. “That was something else. I’ve never felt so helpless or small before.”

Solomon looked up at me from behind one of my legs as I walked, sympathetic and small. I smiled.

At the end of the walkway, beyond the arches and the carvings of angels, cages sat; two on each side, rusted and brown and full of old bones and scraps of faded, tattered cloth that might have once dressed the bodies within. A small staircase led downwards to dusty, light-brown dirt and a landscape of large boulders dislodged from the cliff sides, in which the prison sat. Wheat grass and cattails grew in clumps along the staircase, as did piles of dirt blown by errant winds, and there were small weeds that had cracked the stone and wormed their way up to the surface over the long years; I had to brush them out of my way as I descended. A cobblestone road wound directly across the ground some twenty meters distant from the foot of the stairs, and I blinked a few times as though I were seeing some trick of the light, or an illusion created to deceive the weary and the worn.

I approached the road with caution. Each footstep was soundless against the dusty ground, and when I reached the neatly arranged stones and probed them with my damaged foot, they were solid and real. I exhaled a breath that I had taken in, and Solomon skittered in tiny patters onto the road and began to walk back and forth, as though assuring me there were no dark things waiting to attack.

“It’s a road.” I said. Solomon looked my way, and snipped at me. I could hear the voice in my head that spoke for Solomon, when translating his little dances into what I assumed he was saying, mutter “well of course it’s a road!” as though I should not have been surprised.

I tore my gaze from the assorted, smooth rocks that composed the pathway as it wound away from me, and my eyes happened by chance across a large, upturned wagon farther down the way, headed west.

Hard-packed earth on both of my sides, and a hopeful pathway underneath my feet, I walked with slightly hobbled steps towards the wagon, and stopped when I heard a voice and felt something large and imposing behind me.

“Can I help you?” The deep, smooth voice said.

“I am not an enemy.” I said both in alarm and with haste, raising both arms up slowly to reveal no weapons that could do harm.

“I saw you come from the direction of the prison.” The stranger said. “Only two things come out of that place,” he continued, “the cries of tortured souls and dead things being tossed from the windows by the monster that lives there.”

I swallowed, and slowly began to turn towards the voice that was like heavy silk or large, soft blankets, soothing but sturdy, articulate, and resolved. “I can safely say that I am neither of those things.” I said as I was turning, and that I was not struck down led me to believe that he accepted my story.

He was a large man, and wore muscles like one would wear a coat or a jacket, large in the shoulders and along the arms and chest. He had tattoos that wound along his face, and he had a shiny, bald head that was dark like the rest of him, a deep brown one could not get by tanning, only by heritage. The strange man had a large nose, and was pointing an enormous sword at me, that looked like it should have been held in two hands. He needed but one.

“If you are not one of the dark things of this island’s making, why is that thing following you?” His stern tone asked, eyes momentarily glancing at Solomon before returning to me.

“His name is Solomon.” I said with slight indignation, furrowing my brow. “And he’s not a thing, he’s my friend.”

Solomon looked pleased with himself, proud as a peacock. The strange man and his tribal tattoos did not seem to see things in a similar light.

“That thing,” he emphasized again, as though to annoy. “is one of the creatures that hunt with the hellions and the goat men, they do not make friends, and certainly not with people.” He adjusted the direction of the massive splinter of metal in his hand, so that it was pointing down at Solomon, who protested with a click.

I stepped between the sword and Solomon, and did not flinch when I pressed weight down onto my injured ankle. “Well this one did.” I said. There was a pause while we measured each other up, and then I said, “Look, I just fought my way through the prison, I barely escaped with my life, I am not your enemy, and nor is Solomon.” I even used my most disarming and diplomatic voice to say it, heaving a sigh.

The large man and his large nose and his careful demeanor stared, for a time, through brown eyes, strong and judgmental. He watched as though he might have been an executioner, tempted by my pleas to stay his blade while the Magistrate sat behind him and urged him on.

Finally, he said, “You’re not lying.”

I said, “No, I’m not lying. Solomon and I have been together for many days now. We fought against Brutus and narrowly escaped with our lives. He saved me in there.”

My eyes had gone from being cast downwards in defeat, to looking at him with sternness, and a resolve that I had not felt in many days. He met my gaze, and lowered his weapon.

“What is your name?” He said walking forwards and extending one steady hand to me, and I did not hesitate for more than an instant before reaching out and clasping it in my own. His skin was warm and his hand calloused, it felt like an old leather glove that had been baking in the sun, and dwarfed my own.

“Senophostria,” I replied, “of Evinsvale, on the Isle of Records.”

“Galet’ka.” He said. “You may call me Galet.”

I nodded to him, and released his hand. Without another word, he walked past me, and skirted the fallen wagon and its tattered, white covering. I followed without being beckoned, unsure if I had been invited but without any other place to go.

It was a brief walk to a campsite, where one lonely tent sat. The tent was made of a single white sheet, draped over a skillful configuration of debris from the caravan we had left behind. There was a small wood fire, whose embers still crackled audibly underneath a blanket of white ash and burnt wood. There was a large chest, ornate, wooden, with iron fittings and a single, over-sized lock on it, forged of iron as well.

A large length of driftwood sat on the side of the fireplace opposite out approach, and the large man gestured for me to sit. I did so obediently, and Solomon went to make friends with the locked chest, sliding up next to it and settling into the dirt. From there, he could see the whole camp without missing a thing.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked after a long silence. He had disappeared into his tent, and was searching for something.

His response was short, and gruff, and disinterested. He did not seem to relish discussing the matter. “We,” he said. “of my tribe, spend time beyond the haunted shores to hone our instincts, and to find strength in survival.”

I swallowed. “The haunted shores?” I asked curiously, and his large head with its tribal markings running down both sides peeked out from the tent.

“You are new to this island.” Galet said, looking out at me. “You must be one from the encampment beyond the Prison. I have not ever met one of your kind before. You are smaller than I had expected.”

I did not feel complimented. Brushing some dirt off of one of my knees, I said, “This whole island is crawling with the undead and stranger things. Why would you call one particular shore haunted?”

“It is where the spirits of the dead gather. The divide between the living world, and the afterlife, is thin, and brittle.” He said darkly, emerging completely from the tent with a bowl of something that even from a distance smelled foul when the air carried over its scent.

“And there’s something beyond it? That’s where your people live?” I asked, mouth slightly agape at the prospect.

“We are strong.” He explained simply, and were it not that he was large, and made of muscle, and carried a sword meant for two men in his one hand, I could still have told that ‘strong’ was an understatement just from the way he said the word.

I paused to consider, for a moment, looking at him while he concentrated on the malodorous sludge in the bowl, grinding at things that cracked and snapped in the mixture. Finally, I said, “I am looking for something,” which did not provoke a response from him immediately.

It was not until after I said, “People distant from here, people from the main lands, they are sending innocent men and women to this island by force, to search for something. I want to find out what it is.” That he finally acknowledged me, and looked up.

Galet’s face was considerate when he spoke, somehow sharper, as though I had stumbled across a secret and he could not tell me what it was. “Do you wish to die?” he asked me.

“What?” I said, surprised.

“There are things on this island that are older than us. Older than the natives, older than the oldest ruins that were here long before my people. Before the prison was built.” He said. Then he said, “Whatever they are searching for, whatever you are searching for, they will not find it, and you will not find it, if it does not wish to be found.”

“It sounds like you know what it might be.” I said suspiciously.

He did not respond, and handed the bowl to me. I accepted it, but kept my gaze affixed to him, wishing that my eyes might bore into him and extract the information I desired. I was met by an unmoving resolve, and though I stared, no secrets were revealed to me.

“Eat it. All of it. It will help you to heal.” He said, being very short and to the point now that I had intruded where it seemed I should not have.

“It smells foul.” I replied, face screwed up and uninterested in the mixture.

“That is part of the healing.” He said unconvincingly, and somewhere behind his stony face I read a small bit of humor that carried itself away fleetingly.

We did not speak again for some time; while I carefully and slowly consumed the bile that bubbled ominously in the bowl I had been given. It was several times that I wretched and almost spit up what I had thus far eaten, but when it had all been consumed, Galet’s voice carried with it a degree of curiosity.

“Beyond the haunted shore,” he said, “you will find a cave hidden beyond the skeleton of some terrible, monstrous beast that died there long ago.” A stick he had been using to prod the last orange fragments of the dying fire was snapped in two, and tossed into the pit. “There is a creature in that cave you must avoid at all costs, but if you search long enough, there is an exit into the jungles on the far side. My people have an outpost there. Tell them that Galet’ka has sent you to speak with Eramir.”

I cocked my head to the side, and stared at the man, his tattoos, and his faded brown leather armor which covered one shoulder and left the other bare. “Why help me?” I asked.

He said, “We will talk no more, Senophostria. I am tired, and have no more answers for you. Rest, and in the morning you will leave, and you will seek out my people, or you will die and the island will claim you as I suspect it will.”

Galet kept his word, and did not speak to me again. Twice more he made me drink that foul tincture from the same bowl that he would take and brew it in, and twice more in silence I braved it, and rested, until the sun had vanished, Solomon abandoned his post beside the chest to keep me company, and the fire had been brought back to life from its embers to warm the cooling night and ward away a damp mist that had rolled in from below.

The tribal man sang songs for himself as the day ended and the sun retreated away from encroaching twilight. I pretended, selfishly, that they were for me, and closed my eyes to listen. They were a haunting sort of melody that carried far, and seemed to want to make the colors behind my eyes dance with excitement. His tone was low, and it resonated through the stones on the ground beneath me, head at ease, reclining against the old driftwood that I had been relegated to. The music of his voice as it chanted filled the air with an electric feeling, and I could swear I felt tiny pinpricks crawl from the soles of my feet all the way up to the crown of my head.

As slumber and exhaustion caught up to me under his serenades, I drifted to a place warm and familiar. A bed, with white linens and fluffy pillows full of bird down, illuminated by the snapping of wood in a fireplace nearby. I recalled the stone hearth in which the fireplace sat, and bookshelves lined with old novels and sagas told by bards and by storytellers alike, of adventure and far-off places. In the memory, there was the Headmistress, Eliamoor, with freckles baked into her cheeks and a long, flowing blue dress that she wore in private. Recollections of her own alto melodies mixed enchantingly with Galet’s baritone at the edge of my senses, and it all swirled together like a magic spell, and then I was asleep.

-- Senophostria.

It looks like it won't be long before we have a novel based on poe. Good writing. Keep it up. ;)

Man I love your stories. It really is a shame that you make such big Chapters! I think most of the people would read it all if it wasn't that big. Awesome work!

Currently the whole story is 25,000 words, give or take. So yes, it'll end up being a novel when I'm done, most likely!

It is a shame that most people will not bother to read it all (internet age, tl;dr and all of that) but I write it to write it. It's just a bonus to have it read!

Thank you both for the compliments, however.

"

Ryukaki wrote:

Currently the whole story is 25,000 words, give or take. So yes, it'll end up being a novel when I'm done, most likely!

It is a shame that most people will not bother to read it all (internet age, tl;dr and all of that) but I write it to write it. It's just a bonus to have it read!

Thank you both for the compliments, however.

Just to clarify something:

I am not saying the story bigness (LOL) is bad, I am saying that if the chapters weren't that big, it would be cool. But don't take me wrong, I LOVE YOUR STORIES!

It makes me very sad how people growing up now have so much less exposure to literature than they did when I was a tyke.

Fortunately, there are still people who enjoy sitting down and reading something novel-length. I've read more of them than I can count, time to give something back!

"

Ryukaki wrote:

It makes me very sad how people growing up now have so much less exposure to literature than they did when I was a tyke.

Fortunately, there are still people who enjoy sitting down and reading something novel-length. I've read more of them than I can count, time to give something back!

Yeah, I like to read something time-to-time. Also, check out your message box and reply to my message please.

Responded! Now, back to Day 12.

A marauder appears!

Including them in the natural lore of the island seems like an interesting move, I'm curious about this new fellow, seems like there's more to him than first meets the eye.

I look forward to the next chapter!

Thanks a lot, glad to have people following me intently. The new website has helped a lot, too, I think.

Day 12 is in the works!