Litany of Wrath Page 2

  “See we’ve got some time left after all, eh Reuben? Must have brighter silver on your tongue than that there fire-pot,” she called out. Her son waved his hand toward her in greeting as he rounded the final corner. She watched him guiding the smoke from the censer. Sometimes he held it in place for a few minutes, letting the smoke gently spread. Other times he would pay particular interest to a spot, encouraging the smoke pool until he was satisfied at the result. The maintenance varied from heavy to light. She could tell when that happened for he would stop along an area of no more than a few paces and gently swing the censer back and forth, guiding the smoke this way and that with his arms and hands. He did so now, absentmindedly humming to himself an old house song for keeping time. Well pleased with his work, he carried on until he reached the bench and its island of warmth.

  Sitting down beside her to warm his hands, he said, “Try to sound cheerful, would you, Mother.” She scowled at him, but her blue eyes were twinkling. He threw one arm over her shoulder and hugged her.

  She laughed, “Leave me be, silly. You’ll have my blankets off. I’ve only just got them the way I like.” He let go of her and went back to rubbing his cracked hands over the coals. The heat seeped into them, tingling in his fingers and wilting the hairs that were exposed through the holes in his gloves. Leaning back against the rough boards he tried to make himself comfortable. Silence settled over the two, watching the coals and listening to the gentle sound of snow.

  “This may be the last time we sit here you know,” said Reuben. He tried to keep his voice light but still he caught the tensing through the bundles of cloth next to him.

  The clacking from the knitting needles stopped, “So, you’re saying your silver tongue wasn’t enough then?”

  Reuben sighed, “Whatever time I gained, you know as well as I do that this place is in shambles. Just look at it,” indicating the grounds, the broken roof of the cathedral, the tarnished silver of the censer.

  “Humph,” said the woman, “well if you say so.” Obstinately she tucked her blankets in further around herself.

  “We’ve done all we can do here. They won’t keep on giving us resources to hold this place. There’s nothing left to keep here,” said Reuben thinking back to the headstones. “Maybe we should have left last time,” he said.

  Gruffly the woman responded, “We’ve the responsibility now. Plain and simple, my son. I didn’t bring you up to give in to a little trouble.”

  Reuben’s shoulders sagged at the admonition. Pressing on, he replied, “This place though, look at it. It’s everything we can do to keep up the veil. When it falls…” The words trailed off, thinking about the final moments of the old holy place was only adding to the gloom.

  Elanor didn’t brighten anything with her reply, “You know well as I, you’ll be the one to continue on.”

  Angrily Reuben said, “It’s not right, to stay. What can you hope to accomplish with your bones resting here?”

  She responded, “So you say, sonny. But I’m old you see, and my time is up one way or another now, no matter how you’d have it. So you’ll do as I say. You hear me, Reuben?” He looked over, the blue in her eyes had taken on that flinty steel color, as it always did when she would brook no argument. Long ago he’d learned to obey that look, and it was hard to disagree now. But he had to admire her spirit, always so strong. She had to have been, and after his father passed in the first incursion she’d grown more resolute, not less. It made sense to him that she’d not leave his resting place, no matter the cost to herself.

  Since he could not persuade her from her course of action he decided a new tack, “Have you decided how you’ll do it?” he asked.

  That, at least, made the twinkle return to her eyes. They sparked brilliantly, reflecting what little light there was left in the sky. “Let’s just say, if they like fire, then I’ll give them some that they won’t soon forget.”

  Knowing that she had made up her mind, Reuben got up to finish his rounds. He patted her on the shoulder, “It will be soon now, I think. Will you be ready?”

  She smiled at him, “I’ve been ready for a long time now, dear.” He reached down and caught the drop as it rolled down her cheek. Her steely eyes dared him to say anything about it. He nodded at her, smiling grimly back. Picking up the censer, he finished the patrol, leaving behind the sound of the clacking needles.

  Red light reflected off of the ever present clouds of smoke and ash in the sky all around the outside of the barrier. Within the grounds however, the sky was a dark grey and blue above, and the clouds were thinning out. The mismatched weather made as much sense as the black soot and ash did being near the pure white of the fallen snow. This landscape of livid contrasts had been as such for five years now. Before that it had simply been a normal city, his home had been both peaceful and productive. He loathed the transformation, the cinder lands they were called. He hated both what they represented and how they had come into being. On the days when he was feeling more philosophical, he could view the ruined cityscape like a forester would the aftermath of a fire. It could be just the change of time. One part of an unending cycle of life, death, and renewal. From the ashes of the ancient trees, fallen and consumed, would sprout the seedlings that would in their turn tower over the land. Such was life. But for Reuben these moments of rationalization were few. Inevitably his eyes would find the row of graves and he would remember those that filled them. Those philosophical moments were short lived, for the brutal reality of the soot and ash would come into focus. Next, memory would supply the sufferings of those that had come flooding in, the refugees crowding the city, the veil being put in place, and the inexorable pressure that choked out all life. No, this was not a forest fire with a new beginning just waiting to sprout. This was a fire that razed the ground of all life, down to the cold, dead, stone. It had consumed everything in its course. Daily there would be another gap in the skyline as another tower finally crumbled. Each bastion falling heralded the smaller and smaller area that could be kept free of the flames, free of the smoldering transformation of the very land. Near to the cathedral the old magics had held for longer, but these too were giving out. The ruined buildings and stone held still a small amount of power, waning fast now near the end. Even this place was broken, but the veil had prevented the greatest incursion of the flames, the burning cinders, for five years. And now this season too was passing. When he and his mother were gone the cathedral would join the rest of the ruined city, destined for the ash.

  His living space was sparse, but there were still a few rooms that were intact in the dormitory. A generous heart would be required to call the overall structure a building rather than a heap of old brick and twisted wooden beams. Despite the damage, it was still serviceable. True, the roof was gone, as well as most of the southern facing wall, but one or two rooms on the ground floor, plus the basement, were still livable areas. Reuben tried to feel restful; it was quiet and he was by himself since his mother had retired to slumber hours earlier. Yet he sat upon his bed, arms supported his heavy head as he stared at the wall while going over his thoughts. It was always so strange, sleeping in this island land. Dreams were never peaceful, and whatever he experienced, it could only loosely be called sleep. But the protection that had been provided through his work at the veil meant he was at least safe for now. Not peaceful, never that here, but safe. He looked through his journals of the last few years. Scraps of parchment, margins of old prayer books, whatever was blank had been filled in. Did he want to take it with him? Would it be something he’d like to look back on, his time here? It was a hard job to decide what he really wanted to take. When the summons came there would not be the luxury of picking through his meager possessions.

  The last communication he had with the capital city, Entigria, had promised that there would be a final portal out for him and his mother. They had been frequent at first, to get the rich merchants, the nobles, those with connections, out of the city. After these important such folk had vacated
there had even been time to get the refugees out. Finally there had been only the military contingent and those that refused to go no matter what end. But at last, when all experiments had failed and there was only one end in sight, there had only been Elanor and Reuben. Their homeland, last city on the continent, succumbing to the flame. His family had lived there for generations. His father had died years ago when the flames first were encountered. That, and stubborn resolution that had always been a part of his family, were why they had stayed so long. Reuben knew that he was being used as a mascot by the politicians in Entigria, like a poster boy of the hope that he felt was not true or right. But if it meant staying here for a little while longer then he would do and had done the distasteful job of hope’s everlasting fool. He knew that the lords would want to get him back, both of them, before the end. Loathe to admit it but true nonetheless, they had both become symbols. And as such, they had value, though he despised being used in such a way. Soon though, the time would come, and he would be free of this place that had become a prison.

  He wondered whether to look forward to that or not. The years had changed his perspective quite a bit from his time in the military. When the call came for the brave to help with the outposts, he had volunteered to help the place of his birth. But as supplies dwindled, and requests for aid were not filled, his thoughts about those in charge, supposedly for the good of all, grew jaded. As outpost after outpost fell, and Entigria tightened its own defenses while leaving the other city-states to fend for themselves, he became angry. And he stayed angry. Then it was the sister-city of Entigria’s turn to be besieged. Braldoan, his own childhood city. The sudden flame, the ensuing siege and evacuation efforts, till at last he and his mother were all that was left to fight the slowly losing battle. It had taken years but finally, Braldoan would meet the completion of its utter fall. And while Entigria had not been silent this time, it was just as ineffectual. His training had done nothing to help him here; the forces they faced were not fellow men, but something else.

  Reuben blew out the candle next to his small bed. He tossed and turned as his mind went over and over the encounter with the sentinel during his walk. Seldom were his exchanges with the enemy, and today’s the most troubling. If they could realize as well as he how weak the barrier had become then how long could they really have? Closing his eyes brought only the memory of those fiercely glowing eyes of fire. A stab of uncertainty assailed Reuben about that old protracted contest of wills. He ought to have spoken with his mother, he thought, though he had refrained because he did not want to cause her more worry than she already had to deal with.

  After a time he felt himself drifting off, smothering the troubles of the day from his thought and remembering instead the old song his mother used to hum to him when he was a child.

  It was in the air when he awoke. It had been pressing in on his mind and even his dreams until sleep departed into the uncomfortable reality of consciousness. This would be his last day here. He knew it, though he couldn’t say how. The mixture of feelings surprised him. He hadn’t supposed that when the time came he would much care. It would be a relief, in a way, after so much hardship and toil to escape back to civilization. All these years here, though, had meant something, had changed him in ways he couldn’t articulate. Even if at first he had not seen the point, had even advocated that they leave, he had grown accustomed to the work. But his mother had always been unmoving about the necessity of holding on. She was the widow of a prominent man and who herself carried her own store of wisdom. Now her designs were coming to an end with a leadership that no longer cared about preserving this place. This home would pass on to the list of the departed, another loss in an unceasing struggle that did not permit the luxury of holding on to these last islands lacking strategic importance. And that also meant that it would be the last day he would spend with his mother. Over their last rations, the two sat in silence, each trying to find the words to say. Elanor tried a few sarcastic comments about not having to bother with the food, but she ate anyway, passing along the bread without looking into Reuben’s eyes. If Reuben guessed correctly that she was committed to her plans for the last day, then that would mean this would be the last meal they shared together.

  Before the time was up though, there were things to do. First, one last time at the pathetic hovel within the cathedral, but not for prayers of protection. Instead it was expletive-filled, profound and perverse, a litany of wrath. It did not matter to him that there was no sign, he said the words anyway. Afterward, he kept the robe on even though it was a little awkward. He didn’t want it to get left behind when the time came. Searching inside the hovel, Reuben saw the scraps of books and prayer scrolls that had survived the first assault. They were all precious, in their own way: the random scribblings of the children that had been there after the attack, the records that had survived the fire, the written prayers of pleading. Together the lot was too numerous to carry, and how could he chose which to leave behind? It didn’t seem right no matter how he thought of it. Was the writing of the abbot more important than the child’s? Or was it the other way around? Those that had died all left mementos in some fashion. Either they were the originators, or mentioned by those that had survived them into the uncertain harrowing time that had followed. Despising the task, he went through the stacks for the final time. He chose what he could: communications about the advancing cinders, the sudden attack, comments on defense strategies, all ultimately useless but stalling the inevitable with different levels of success. No point in making the same mistakes again. But also he grabbed a few of the documents made by the children. Here was pencil drawing of the survivors, in the ruined hall, but smiling as they shared a meal. Here was another one, made by strokes of an artist in a moment of clarity before his sanity broke, of what the city had been like before the ash fell. It was beautiful, maybe the only one like it in the world as far as he knew. That too was taken. But there was still too much left behind. He knew what he had to do next. All of this was bound for flame, but it would not be the enemy’s. No, if it had to go he would do it himself. He stood outside, adding soot to the already creosoted wall as the hovel burned in the flames. He would not leave it to be gloated over and consumed by those that would soon come. As he finished his final rite here he opened the censer which captured much of the smoke. His mother would need all that he could provide. He wanted her end to be worthy. If he had it his way, as smoke concentrated into grey spirals that were a nearly black ribbon at the entrance of the enclosure, it would be.

  * * *

  Reuben stepped out into dismal morning light of weak luminescence and stale air. His breath quickened as he surveyed the grounds. The time was here; hours, no, surely only minutes left. The forces of the enemy had revealed themselves, stationed around the veil. Even the dull witted ones of the cinder lands’ forces could tell that the veil was ready to fall. Instead of the clear window now there was a thin mist between the two worlds, snow already beginning to flash into steam on occasion as the temporary breaks appeared and healed at random. The enemy gathered around, without organization, the teeming masses assured of the victory, needing no march or fanfare for their triumph. There were the imps, small but clawed, jumping about excitedly. There were the armored knights as well, not numerous yet strategically placed so that there were always two or three in sight. It did not matter that there were only two people left here, they would do things as they always did and ensure that there were no survivors. Not that, if by some chance or miracle one escaped their heated vigil, there was any chance of survival in the lands beyond. How far the cancer on the land had spread was unknown, but there was no end in sight of the fiery ground, the pits of ash, smoking cinders, even the occasional pool of lava; the land was now totally uninhabitable or survivable by those who once called this place their own. It was not theirs now though, root and stem, home and hearth, all had been consumed and converted.

  Reuben rushed across the grounds, his knapsack swaying side to side as he sear
ched for his mother. Maybe he could convince her. It was a cruel thing to do, but he had to try. He raced through the dilapidated abode, but she was not there. He started calling out, “Mother!” But there was only silence. Not entirely quiet though, he could hear the faint jeering and stamping from the enemies, not far away. Taking as much speed as his shaking limbs could muster he dashed through the grounds, head turning wildly to catch sight of her. There she was, standing at her favorite spot in the corner of the ruined garden. He panted up to her. “Come with me,” he shouted, “you could still do it!”

  But she shook her head, “I told you Reuben, my time is over. Let me do this my way.”

  He looked on in grief but understood, the sickness was going to kill her soon enough anyway, but still to lose her, the last of his family, was much to bear. But since he must he straightened his back and said, “Here, it might help,” as he passed her the censer.