Jiggity
The Sinister Jigster
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 Posted: Mon Mar 24, 2008 1:38 am Post subject: Campfire |
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It's been three months since I wrote a short story, due to fracturing my wrist, so before I began again in ernest, I thought I should do a little warm-up excercise. This is it.
Campfire
Isan was nervous.
At thirteen, he was a small, dark haired young boy with light brown eyes and a calm demeanour. It was widely believed that he would be the next village wise man, with the passing of the current, elderly shaman. Isan had traveled three days distance from his home, to the foot of the mountain.
He was resting by a small fire, squatting in perfect balance and ready to spring up and away at a moments notice. The flames danced and spat, warming his bare limbs and taut stomach – his trial was at his hand, as it came for every boy at the threshold to manhood. The nightlife around him was quiet and diminished, but not dead. The very air seemed to thrum with tension, with expectation.
Isan closed his eyes, letting the darkness wash over him to listen with his other senses. His spear lay within reach, and his fingers itched to grasp it, to feel secure in its edge. The reassuring hoot of the night owl carried softly in the air, caressing his ears. He sighed; were this not such an important night, he might have relaxed into the familiar sounds.
It had been a long three days of privation, and he had stirred only to gather more wood, to keep his flame, the gateway of spirit, alive. It kept him warm and he in turn, let it burn. At times, he could almost swear he saw a miniscule spirit dancing in the whirl of sinuous flame and it was of these moments he was most afraid. He would leap up, slapping at his arms, letting the sting refocus his mind. Staring at it now, he found the figure easy to see, far more solid now then ever before. It was pointing behind him, mouth open, soundless in warning
Sensing the danger at last, he dived to the right, hearing the whistle of the thrown spear sail over the fire. As he rolled, his hand found the grip of his own weapon, and he came forward on his haunches, spear at the ready. His heart beat was thumping wildly in his chest and his blood sang in his veins as he scanned the darkness for his attacker. He was, he realized with sudden horror, on the opposite side of the fire. He glanced around with uneasiness written in every line of his body, uncaring of the mortal danger but afraid now for his soul.
The warriors of his village would be fanning out, even now, probably regarding him with contempt for not preventing his entrapment. The twelve other boys had no doubt done better in their time, some even returning from their Naming trip with the mark of a warrior who had killed. All of this and more flashed through his mind in an instant and was gone – his was a Name, a trial like no other and the certainty of that filled him with a sudden confidence.
Isan saw with perfect clarity, the six men stealthily approaching through the night, barely making even a whisper with controlled, precise movements. The sky, the light and world they walked in, was dark grey. In his haste to escape the thrown spear, he had crossed to the opposite side of flame, and into the darkness of the Otherworld. Every flame contains a spirit, and he had been foolish in not recognizing it and unconsciously seeking its aid. The tree line, only metres away had altered visibly. The nearest, a stunted withered old thing was glaring at him with an all too human face. Its limbs and those of its brethren began to thrash, desperate to rend and tear at interloping human flesh. The line of warriors faltered, ruffled by the sudden surge in movement, assailed by the scream of wind through leaves and the creak and groan of stretching wood.
At that moment, Isan struck.
He exploded into motion, straight at the widest placed, least protected man. His back was an open target, in a shocking and insulting breach of tactic; he was watching the forest nervously. He would pay for his mistake with his life. A shout from his left alerted the warrior, and he spun, but only to see Isan’s shoulder slam into his solar plexus. A rush of air, and muffled “oomph” were the only sounds to mark the man’s fall. He stumbled backward, falling into reach of the flailing tree limbs. Immediately, a stunning squeal rang through the night, as the tree creature tore the man to pieces, staining its bark a rich, glossy red.
The sound of crunching bones and satisfied munching filled the valley.
Isan had no time to think, to fully comprehend the horror of what had just occurred, or the consequences of spilling blood in the spirit realm for the other warriors had not been idle. Isan whirled away, dodging instinctively as another spear flew past, scoring a line of fire across his ribs. They were closing in, but with more caution and fear. Not wasting any time, Isan took advantage of the sudden space, and dived for the fire. The spirit within, easy to see now, cavorted in glee, its tiny red figure contrasting with its molten veins as it burned bigger and brighter, drunk on the violence.
Sucking in his breath, he loosed it in a rush, releasing the chaotic spark –it whirled outward, in a torrent of flame. The two nearest men fell, heads encased in riotous fire, and their screams were long and loud. For a moment, the scene was frozen, as the full horror of what was happening sank in. Isan didn’t show it, but he was deeply shaken and he fought the urge to retch as the smell of roasting flesh coated the air. Never had he heard of a man’s passage being so bloody and if he had been uncertain before, he knew now that something was terribly wrong.
A moment more, and in the clearer light of the larger fire, he saw the reason why. Earlier, he had not thought to examine clan markings, assuming they were the warriors of his village, come to test his skills and fitness for manhood. Now he saw the familiar blue and green markings were absent, instead replaced with the red and black of the hostile B’ra clan to the south. The four remaining warriors stood still, reassessing their quarry. To the last, their faces were contorted in hate – obviously expecting his death to have been easy and their raid successful. His survival was an unexpected obstacle that needed to be dealt with.
One stepped forward now, and spat,‘Puny puppy, step out of your spirit-circle and face us as a man.’ As he spoke the others circled round, like vultures waiting for the inevitable moment of weakness.
‘At least die with some dignity, little fly.’
‘Coward!’
‘Fool!’
On and on, the taunts flew at him, pricking him in a thousand little places till Isan felt raw and vulnerable. But they had played their hand too late, and too heavily. He was no fool and they had acknowledged his authority, and power, afraid to venture too near the flames. It had long been an issue he struggled with; his ability to see the otherworld and his destiny to become wise man of the village was at odds with his dream to become a respected warrior. His fate, it seemed, had been decided for him.
‘Words are cheap, B’ra scum, and the flames know you lie. Get you gone, before it is too late,’ he said, standing tall, and firm.
The leader snorted. ‘You are but one against many, dung-beetle. What makes you think you will survive?’
‘Have you not noticed? The were-tree’s have quieted, in fear, for something else approaches. Should you die here in the Spirit-world your soul will be forever lost. Think on this.’
It was as he said, and the men hissed and cursed at one another in argument. As they did this, Isan held a hand to the cut on his side, suppressing a wince. He glanced at the little spirit that had started this all.
Come little brother, dance on me.
The salamander, a good foot bigger then previously, stopped and stared at him with malicious eyes.
Come little brother, and we shall play a game.
Curious now, with the promise of mischief urging it on, it responded to Isan’s call. It leapt onto his knee and from there up again, to reach his shoulder. As it did so, Isan’s hand darted out and clutched the little creature. At contact it screamed, an inhuman shrill of rage and Isan gritted his teeth as his hand smoked and burnt, but spoke the binding still.
‘With the breath of life fanning your flame, and the blood of man in your veins, I bind you.’
Gasping with relief, tears streaming from his eyes, Isan released it. The enemy warriors were staring in fear, but it was not at him their eyes were directed. In the horizon, a front of stewing, boiling darkness was approaching. Funnels of black cloud, tinged with a sea-green glow, twisted out of it and struck the ground, tearing it up and flinging it about as a child would a toy. Fantastic creatures of legend and myth dived out and about, roaring their anger. It was still distant, but the horror of it left them all weak. Even as the B’ra hunters turned and fled, Isan turned to his new companion, mustering a weak smile.
‘That was some fine shadow work, you did there.’
He spoke to an empty circle of stones, filled with cold, dark ash. .
The nightlife of the forest surged back in, but he found himself feeling empty and hollow. With the last of his strength, he attempted to summon a spark of energy, but it was too much to ask. His body was trembling, nerves afire, and his mind was still reeling from the things he’d seen and done this night. Turning, he tottered, almost falling in his haste as he scrambled across and to the other side of the small, dead campfire.
His last thought, as he fell into the arms of his concerned friends, arrived at last from the village, was simply that his new name was most appropriate. It nestled comfortably in his mind, as oblivion claimed him.
Ash. |
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Last edited by Jiggity on Thu Mar 27, 2008 11:09 pm; edited 2 times in total |
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