CHAPTER 1. THE BREAKING OF THE WORLD

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1. THE BREAKING OF THE WORLD

I remember when I was younger, which wasn't that long ago, Marika and I would sneak into her father’s hut. He was a village elder. He was the village elder. The man had no love for me, but maybe that is another story. Marika and I were probably head over heels in love with each other ….as in love as 7-year-olds could be, I suppose.

It was a rickety old place, that hut. Surprisingly small for the man’s stature. The two of us had long since oiled the doors to keep them from creaking. I don’t think the elder ever noticed the difference. Locked in one of the smaller rooms, the elder kept his scrolls. Parchments that formed the great book. He used to hide the key under the giant ale gourd behind the front door. There were hundreds of scrolls in that dusty room, worn with age. Scrolls that told us who we were, where we came from, and maybe where we were going. My favourites were the ones that spoke of the old world, about deities that pulled this world from the air by simply speaking the word. I imagined it would be the greatest feeling in the

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world to meet these fathers of old, to walk among them in their city in the clouds. Not that the scrolls said Nottingham was in the clouds. It didn't say where it was at all, only that you couldn't get there. Still, I imagined myself on those stone paved streets, with narrow meandering streets that rose and fell, caressing the gentle sloping hills.

The elders say the city isn’t there anymore. That nobody lives in those houses with the white-washed stone walls that could catch the golden sun like a deity’s skin. Truth be told, I’ve never believed a word those people say. They probably make up most of their teachings, anyway.

They say all that remains of Nottingham is the temple. Somewhere at the top of the hill, it stands a ruin, eerie and haunted. A dark and desolate place, dimly lit by rays of light slipping through cracks in the sandstone. There are engravings on its walls. Drawings that tell of a time long forgotten. Scenes so real you can hear them come alive in the silence. If you stood there in the great hall, amidst the shadowy columns, if you closed your eyes and listened, you would see it brought to life. A

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moment from the 400-year war etched in stone. The war that brought forth the world of men and the end of the age of the gods.

I know that temple as well as I know my own home. I have studied its drawings since before I could talk. I see it every night in my dreams. I picture that nave, lined with black marble columns the size of oaks, running from one end to the other. Etched into the first column is a drawing of the Caelemon cast into hell, the moment he fell, cast on a bolt of fiery glory. You can see the agony in his blazing eyes, you can see the terror, and you can see the heartbreak therein. The bolt breaks off and continues on the next column on the aisle end. It breaks off again, as if suggesting it came from nowhere. But, if you look at the statue of the god-king that all but fills the aisle, if you follow his fiery gaze down the white marble staff in his hand, you will see it is he who cast the bolt of fire at the Caelemon.

Etched into the aisle wall is a picture of a woman reaching for the god-king. A beautiful ebony skinned woman, dressed in long flowing robes. She is Rain to them; she is the mother to us. She’s is reaching for the

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god-king, but he is just beyond her. Held back by Chaos as he pulls her back, grabbing her around the waist. Her feet in the air as he pulls her back.

I find my thoughts straying more and more to that place lately. Maybe to escape the real world around me. Cold and desolate as the temple in my dreams. A deathly chill in the night. I close my eyes, and I’m back at the temple. But I do not find the hope I seek there. The light fades around me. The columns disappear in the dark, the aisle, the nave, all gone. It’s so dark I can barely see my own hands. In the darkness, I hear her sobbing. I can see her, the mother. I see her on her knees, broken, refusing to be comforted. Grasping her chest, a tall, slender, dark elfish looking woman, with her long flowing gowns, floral embroidery caressing the hem and sleeves. I cannot decide if her gown is green or grey. Tears ran down her cheeks, eye kohl running. She has a chain in her hand. A silver chain around her neck with an emblem of the world at its end. She’s pulling on it; it has cut into her hand. There’s blood running from her clenched fist down her arm. There’s bruising around her

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neck from pulling on the chain. I know this moment as the breaking of the world.

My horse reels around suddenly, pulling me from my dreams. I find myself back at the foot of the black mountains. “Shadow! Calm down!” I demand as the soot grey horse twists and bucks.

Her hysterical neighs reverberate into the cold night. I can hear howling on the wind. Wolves! They seem to answer shadows neighs. “Calm down girl. Calm down. There’s nothing there,” I lie. Shadow isn’t having any of it. She almost throws me off. Quickly, I swing a leg over Shadow’s back and land steadily, grappling with her bridle.

“Shhh! Shhhh....”

“Come Shadow!” I command, attempting to lead the still over-excited animal. The horse refuses to move, pulling back away from me, kicking wildly. The howling sounds louder, closer. I let go of the bridle as it cuts into my hand. The horse darts away from me, running towards the howling. She stops a few feet from me,

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clearly realising her error. She twists and turns around, confused.

This is a truly desolate place we have found ourselves in. Sands the colour of ash as far as the eye can see. Touched by black mountains that rise steeply towards the sky, like razor-sharp walls of coal black stone. There is a full moon out tonight, but its light dies suddenly before it hits the ground. On the horizon, we can see fiery chasms, remnants from the breaking of the world, shooting fire into the black sky. Shadow and I have worked our way up a narrow path through the mountains. We have fallen upon an opening into the mountain. There is a warning on the entrance scratched into the black stone in a language I should not be able to read, but still, its meaning is clear to me. “Seek not in the darkness a way beyond the hills, for none was made. May the darkness be your guide.

“May the darkness be my guide?”

I light a torch and throw it into the mouth of the cave. A strange gust blows out. It smells like death in there. The ground is covered in a film of grey mist. The

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darkness of the cave pushes back at the flame, eating into it as if alive. Smouldering it, it goes off. I can hear a wolf growling; it can’t be more than a few feet away, though I do not think it is a wolf at all. Shadow runs back to my side. I light another torch, adding more oil than I normally would. These are my choices, either the wolves or the cave. Grabbing Shadow by the bridle, I walk into the cave, pulling her behind me.

The village. A few days ago

Tucked on the sides of the greenest hills you could possibly imagine lay our village, a collection of huts splattered randomly across the hilly terrain that ran for miles and miles as far as the eye could see, hidden snugly between trees so old they had always been there. No one ever left the village, and fewer still ever came visiting. The truth is, there was nowhere to go and nowhere to come from. If ever you dared travel far beyond the hills, just past where the trees seem to touch the heavens, you’d begin to see traces of the breaking. Patches of scorched sky and tears in the earth so deep they touched the mountain peaks of hell. Endless

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stretches of land, where nothing dared to grow. It was like this in all directions, nothing but wastelands for days upon days as the crow flies. It was said that, before the breaking of the world, these desolate lands were deserts of water stretching out as far as east was from west. I imagined there were still places like that out there somewhere, where the waters hadn’t all poured out over the edges of the world.

If you climbed the tallest tree on the highest hill on a dark night, you could see fires in the distance, spewing from the tears in the earth. Far to the east, if you dared look when the sun was at its highest, just where the sky touched the earth, you would see what looked like black hills reaching toward the heavens. Most people said they couldn’t see anything. That it was just the sun playing its usual tricks, but I knew those where the fabled black mountains I saw perching on the horizon. Many stories were told of the black mountains, each one as terrifying as the next.

The nights at the village were always the best, not that I minded the days all that much. Every day would end as it began, with a gathering in the town square.

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Each morning before dawn, when the air was still thick with fog, we’d gather before the mother for prayers. She stood over ten feet tall, a statue carved out of black stone. Her face obscured by the hood over her head. The elders always led the prayers, asking for her blessings, asking for her mercy. I never made it for prayers. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe; it was just… looking up at that statue always made me feel so small. It was the way she looked back at me, always cold and distant, making me wonder what I’d done wrong. Maybe that was the point.

The rest of the day we’d spend in the fields, the men, that is. The women stayed behind looking after the children, fishing and preparing the night’s feast. It wasn’t hard work, or maybe we were too drunk to notice. We’d carry casks of ale with us in the morning, and by sunset, the casks were empty. The women cheered at our return, like we were coming back victorious from a long war. And so, the feast would begin.

Like every other night, the feast was at Marika’s house, a compound of huts clustered between trees that formed a courtyard laid with white coble stone. Like

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every other night, Marika and I weren’t there. Her father was the chief elder, so he always hosted the festivities. In the middle of the courtyard was a roaring fire. There were women braiding hair on the steps, children play fighting, men huddled around the fire roasting meat, and the elder at the centre of it all, telling stories. He always told the same stories, always from the great book. He’d begin at the beginning with the creation, skip over the songs, and end the night with the breaking of the world. The elder women would always usher the children to sleep when the elder got to the breaking. “The story is inappropriate for children,” they’d say. The children would protest, but protest while obeying. No story was worth getting a hiding over. They’d pretend to go to sleep, then sneak back and listen, hidden under every nook and cranny. Every night played out this way without deviation.

There was a path leading from Marika’s compound cluster to another cluster. Then another then another, each cluster made of stone huts complete with circular doorways, too low to walk through without bending your head, with flat roofs of large circular timber overhangs

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laid with thatch. The courtyards were the living and cooking spaces. Between huts stood black stone statues of deities and monsters forever on guard. In the trees, lanterns would glow long into the night, lighting our little mountainside village.

Marika and I had broken into the grain store that night. It was probably the largest structure in the village, with giant timbers holding the reed roof in place. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I couldn’t help but stare at her. I swear I remember the first time I saw her. I couldn’t have been a day older than two, but I remember looking up into those big blue eyes when they found me in the woods. I was transfixed, forever bewitched by her.

She was messing around as usual, always trying to make me laugh. People used to say she bore the image of the mother. She was short and plump, with ebony black skin and short white hair that never used to grow. I had always been fascinated by how short she was. And except for the fact that the statue in the village square was of a tall slender woman, it could easily have been a

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statue of Marika, which, seeing as how the statue was at least a hundred years old, was a curious thing indeed.

Every time I caught myself staring at her, I’d feel my heart breaking inside me, knowing her father would never allow us to be together. He’d kill me if he knew how much time we spent together. I was a lesser being to him. An outsider. Maybe he suspected, maybe that’s why his teachings always lingered around the banishment of the Caelemon whenever I was present for night festival. This always made me wonder…. if the god-king knew about the Caelemon and the mother. He must have seen it. Lingering stares, hushed laughs in the corridors, it was all there in the book. The 17th scroll; “have you ever wondered how we came to be,” it reads.

“What?” Marika asked, pulling me from my trance. “Nothing,” I lied, turning away from her, realising I’d spoken the words from the passage out loud.

“I was just thinking about …the breaking.

“You mean you where sulking about you and me,” she teased, moving closer. Hugging me so tight I could barely breathe. Obviously, when I was in her arms,

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breathing lost its importance. I would quite happily have stayed there forever. She had this power over me; whenever she held me, the world around me would quite simply fade away.

“It’s the saddest story. Could there be love more doomed?” I muttered, pulling away from her.

“Maybe it’s not about doomed love,” she said. “Maybe it’s about enduring love.” She recited the rest of the passage as if to make her point. “…she ran to her quarters that first time it happened, her face beaming with guilt like a child caught red-handed. Somewhere in those great hallways, there was and had been for a while now, undeniably, a fluttering in the air. Like a thousand butterflies of blue light that burned fiery orange on the breeze. A strange thing indeed had come upon Rain and Caelemon. A longing for each other that the god-king had chosen to ignore. Their essences had reached one for the other like souls entwining. The god-king has seen this, and there was a deep look of concern in his eyes that could not be denied.”

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The verse pulled my thoughts from the grain store. I found myself in Nottingham. In the great hall, for a moment, I was there at the breaking. I saw the mother on her knees, right there before me, grasping her chest. Her heart breaking inside her. Her tearful eyes haunted by a memory she couldn’t shake. For a moment, I was there, then I was in a library, with shelves so high you couldn’t see the top. I had strayed into the mother’s nightmares. I saw wooden shelves, with dark scorch marks in place where the books of light touched the wood. I could see forms from behind the bookshelf. Two human forms made of fire that burned a fiery orange and a cold blue, mingled, pressed against each other, pushing against the sizzling shelves, passionately, violently. Burning into the hard wood. Somehow, I knew who they were… Caelemon and Rain. The lanterns began to flicker with orgasmic delight, letting out streams of fiery light that echoed Caelemon’s essence along the walls. I could hear moaning coming out of the air.

Outside, far in the distance, on an open field, almost lost in the tall grass, the god-king lay on his back, a piece of straw in his mouth, sound asleep. He must have

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known. He knew everything; if he did, then he let it happen. If he did, he must not have seen what it meant. Yet still, the thought was there, stuck inside his head. A sense of unease. A storm was brewing above, fiery orange and blue light raging in the clouds, pulsating rhythmically to the tune of the flickering stars. The godking woke with a start. He’d seen it, the end that was to come. The end of all things, born out of rain. Instantly, he was in the library. Rain lay on the floor on her back, alone in the room, glowing fiery orange instead of the usual blue. Her knees pressed together, pointed to the ceiling. She was swaying in place, in a state of ecstasy, a light storm in her eyes.

The god-king grabbed Rain, violently flinging her across the room. The moment played out so slowly, like a dream, like the world had decided to delay what was to come. You could almost see her frozen mid-air. The strange thing was, she was still on the floor. A ‘her’ was still on the floor, still out of breath, still swaying with ecstasy. Meanwhile, the other ‘her’ was flying across the room. But the second ‘her’ wasn’t her at all; it was Caelemon.

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Time was frozen; time was accelerated. A thousand years’ worth of time could have passed in that one moment. All of time, forever and always in that moment. Caelemon flew through the stone wall, even as it shattered like glass. He fell hard on his side in the street, rolling over as the stone pavement broke under him like he was made of solid iron. He tumbled over and hit into the wall across the street, coming to a stop with a thunderous crash. The street was deserted, with the sun burning high and bright.

Caelemon staggered to his feet; failing to go all the way up, he fell back on his knees, all the strength gone from him. He tried to catch his breath. In Caelemon’s face, in his eyes, you could see Rain’s reflection through the opening in the wall. She was screaming, arching her back, suddenly pregnant and already in labour. The godking stepped out through the opening in the broken wall, obscuring Rain. “What have you done?” he bellowed.

Rain’s screams where deafening. Unable to contain the pain, grasping her stomach, reaching out to the air. The world around her faded to blackness. You could see her floating there, mid-air in the nothingness. She could

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see the god-king through the hole in the wall. There he stood, a silhouette menacing towards Caelemon.

A market place began to form around Caelemon. Suddenly bustling with life, there it was, a marketplace of beings that hadn’t been there before now. The air was suddenly torn apart with the sound of Caelemon’s name. The mother was calling to him. Cities continued to form around them, around the world, breaking out from the ground. There where men rising from the dust. Men that had not been until now. As she turned and twisted in the air, she clasped her ears with her hands, trying to drown out the sound of thousands of children crying out to her. Thousands of voices calling out to her, praying to her. The mangled prayers of all the peoples that had just come into being were deafening. She had given birth to civilisation.

The god-king was in a mad furore. He grabbed Caelemon by the throat, lifting him up into the air, while conjuring fire through his staff with his other hand. He turned violently, flinging Caelemon through a store, while disseminating the market place with the fire in his other hand. Hundreds of men turned to ash in the fire

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and flame as hundreds still scampered in terror. Caelemon staggered to his feet, standing upright with all the strength he could muster in the middle of the burning store.

Rain rose to her feet inside the library, sweaty, but no longer pregnant. The marble floor began to crack under her weight with every gentle step she took. Her feet were swollen, leaving water marks with every step. The sun no longer burned bright in the sky. Replaced by dark clouds swelling viciously up above and around the library. The blackness in the library was gone. Rain looked weak, barely standing straight. She began to twist her wrist in a circular motion, summoning a lightning charge from the air as the god-king raised his staff of white marble, charging towards Caelemon to deliver his final blow. Rain was about to shoot lightning straight through the god-king, but Chaos grabbed her by the waist.

“Rain, don’t!” he screamed, pulling her back, lifting her feet clear off the ground.

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The lightning bolt flew off towards the black sky, setting it on fire. There was a rumbling in the heavens as pieces of burning sky began to rain down on the world below. Some of the lighting charge had caught onto Chaos. It burned right through him. He fell back onto the ground as Rain tumbled over him. He lay there still as water, unconscious, maybe dead even. His garments singed as if by fire.

I saw the mother on her knees. Back in the temple. Back in my vision. With the story I had just seen etched into the walls. In the silence, I could hear her screams echo from deep inside the walls, begging her father to stop. I could hear her struggling to get free of Chaos, even as Caelemon was cast out of Nottingham. Through the ground, through an eternity of space on a fiery bolt of light. Cast down from the heavens into the depths of hell. I saw the emblem of the world in Rain’s hands break. In the darkness of space, I could see the world breaking too. Leaving fiery chasms in the earth that spewed lava into the dark sky above as it crumbled.

A scream pulled me from my daze, a shrill, screeching scream I hoped against hope was coming

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from my vision. But it wasn’t. I heard it again, a spine chilling cry from just outside the grain store. Marika jumped to my side, clutching my arm. We listened, wideeyed.

“What was that?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Dead silence followed. I edged toward the door. “Adam, wait,” Marika whimpered, her hands digging into my arm.

Another scream rang through the night sky. A terrible sound I had never heard before. I prayed to the mother I would never have to meet whatever was crying out. I heard a woman in the neighbouring hut sobbing, wailing. I grabbed a lantern from the wall, noting my trembling hands. I hoped Marika hadn’t noticed. I peered through the door, trying to look as brave as I possibly could. Marika followed behind timidly, hiding her face in my back.

We felt our way through the darkness, past a hut that had singed cracks running along its length. I noticed a peculiar looking mist, clinging to the ground and drifting towards us. I glanced at Marika. She too had frozen in

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her steps. I felt a sudden burn into my sandaled feet that made me let out a yelp of shock and pain. I pulled back quickly. The mist reached toward me. I dashed into the hut, pulling Marika behind me. She climbed frantically onto a table. I followed hastily, all traces of bravery lost. Within moments, the floor was covered with mist. Its ends reaching up the table legs like it had fingers on its end. Instinctively, I thrust my lamp at the smoke, as if the fog were some kind of animal. It pulled back, reacting as if it were alive. We sat there, crouched awkwardly like children, trembling in fear. It felt eerily silent outside. The silence only broken by the occasional scream. Our eyes were transfixed on the doorway.

Just as I was beginning to hope it might be over, a bony hand emerged in the doorway, clasping the wooden doorframe. The wood crackled like cinders on fire upon its touch. I could hear whispers, thousands of whispers coming from all around. Speaking some evil I dared not decipher. A dark form filled the doorway. A wraith, shrouded in a black cloak. Behind the fabric there was only darkness. I gasped in tandem with Marika’s shriek.

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Frozen for a moment, I remembered the fog. I threw the flaming torch at the faceless being, hoping it would have the same effect. It did. The wraith let out a shrill cry as it caught fire. The cloak disintegrated instantly, revealing the nothingness under the cloak.

I felt the table tumbling over from under me. Marika let out a cry. I saw her falling over. I was having some sort of out of body experience. I saw myself reach out to grab her, barely grazing her hand. I heard her ankle snap as she fell on the hard floor, instantly enveloped by the mist. Like a dream, I saw her open her mouth to scream, but the mist rushed into her open mouth, choking her. Stinging her, she let out a muffled cry, writhing on the floor. I saw myself throw the lantern into the mist. The floor burst into flames. The mist let out a shriek as it disappeared in the fire. I jumped beside her. Holding her in my arms, she coughed violently, tears filling her eyes, trying to catch her breath. The walls were on fire. The flames spreading into the roof.

“Are you ok?” I asked. Her breath less laboured, she slipped in a nod as I led her out from the smoke-filled hut, continuing to cough.

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I looked up and saw the once strong, emeraldcoloured trees had now withered and died, letting out constant cracking sounds that were alien to me. I heard Marika’s muffled sobs. Following her gaze, I glanced around the courtyard and saw the bodies. People touched by death littered everywhere, men, women, and children. All withered and grey. The huts were all on fire. The village was on fire. Like a dream, I saw forms running haphazardly around me in terror. I noticed a man fighting a wraith. I knew the man, but in that moment, I couldn’t remember his name.

A sudden movement caught my eye. “Marika, get behind me!” I shouted, seeing more wraiths in the courtyard gliding towards us. A wraith reached for me. I let out an embarrassingly loud cry of fright while swinging the torch wildly in front of me. The wraith swung around me, and I spun around just as swiftly, keeping the fire between us. I heard the sky growl and saw the clouds swirling above me. I kept one eye on the wraith as I looked upward, my mind swirled with images of the possible horrors that would come next. To my surprise, the wraith seemed equally concerned.

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With a sudden rush, the cloud swirled down to the ground behind the wraith, a hand forming out of it, reaching for the wraith’s neck and then revealing a man with fiery white eyes. His long robes blowing in the wind like the masters of the oriental east. The wraith let out a short shriek as the man pulled it into the sky.

“Who …was that?” Marika gasped. “What was that?”

I realised I was still staring up at the sky, where the man and the wraith had disappeared. “I think …. I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head, frowning in disbelief.

“I think it was…..the god-king?”

I became so engrossed by the skirmish in the clouds that I did not see the horde of wraiths descending upon us. This distraction came to a swift end when I felt a bony hand clasp my arm, sending a cold chill up my spine. Panic overtook me. All was lost. Black clocks obscured my view, smouldering me as I fell to the ground. I could not see a thing. Marika screamed my name as her hands slipped through my fingers. I struggled to get free. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of her. A wraith had her in what would otherwise have been a lover’s embrace, its

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black face melding into hers. The life began to fade from her. I watched helplessly as her skin began to wrinkle. Then I heard a rustling like that of a thousand winds. I knew it had to be the god-king coming back down to save us. Oh, how I prayed he wasn’t too late. I saw him ram his staff into the wraith, twisting around as if performing some sort of elegant swanlike dance. He sent the wraith clear into the air then rammed it hard back into the ground, sending dust clouds into the air and then, in a single motion that seemed a continuation of the dance, he grabbed Marika’s arm with his free hand, catching her as she fell. The life returned to her. The wrinkles on her skin began to fade as I watched in awe.

The horde instantly descended upon the god-king like a swarm of bees, circling around him, knocking him down, as I fought to catch my breath. As he fell to the ground, he gracefully twisted himself up onto one of them, holding it down on its back, glaring into its face, his eyes flaming white even as the other wraiths swarmed on top of him. The wraith under the god-king caught fire and began to twist and squeal desperately,

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but the god-king held the thing steadily in place. The fire in his eyes began to spread across his entire body. The wraiths burst into flames all around him, burning away into nothing until all that remained was that one being of light. Burning white, his fiery clock blowing in the wind.

I turned and saw a child crying in the middle of the courtyard, alone, hugging his knees and rocking himself as a cloaked figure floated towards him. Instinctively, I ran straight between them, flaming branch in hand. I pulled the boy behind me as I faced the wraith, thrusting the branch forward, threatening the ghostly being with the flame. It jerked forward menacingly, threatening as it edged closer and closer. We stumbled backward, now unconfident in the abilities of the fire. Another wraith appeared behind us, blocking our escape. I twisted and thrust the torch in both directions, while shielding the boy with my own body. The wraiths dodged the flame, attempting to close in. A third wraith appeared. Suddenly, I was overrun with fear. My heart beating so loud in my ears I could barely hear myself think. I was all out of ideas.

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I saw Marika rush to my side with a broken branch from a dried-out tree in her hand. She lit it on my torch. I felt like I was having another out of body experience. I saw her charge at the nearest ghoul and shove the branch inside its empty hood. It shrieked and burnt instantly to the ground.

Distracted, I smiled, even as I felt myself suddenly tugged backward. I was being pulled away and upward into the sky, shrouded by two cloaked spirits. I clawed violent at their ghostly hands as I realised what was happening. I called out for help. I watched my torch falling to the ground below. I was a done for. All hope faded. I felt one wraith caress my face with its cold bony hand as it leaned into my face. I tried to turn away, but my body was frozen. I felt it kiss my lips. I felt my soul being drawn out of me, sucked out by the wraith. My desperate hands began to turn wrinkled and grey. The world was fading away.

Then I felt a strange warmth. Suddenly jerked back into the world. The god-king was between us, glowing white as he pried the ghoul from my face. It shrieked as it caught fire. I felt his heat radiate onto my skin.

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As the ghostly figures burned, I began to fall, tumbling through the air.

Falling, falling towards my death.

Mid-air, I felt strong arms around me. The sky seemed to stand still. He had caught me, gently setting me down on the ground. I coughed violently. Ruby blood splattered onto the ground. I had almost died!

In the corner of my eye, I saw a wraith apart from the rest, standing there, watching. It was the same as the other ghouls, but different. Then it hit me, the thing had a face. And I knew that face. I had seen that face a thousand times before. Every day of my life. In the square. The statue I prayed to every morning. The wraith was ….Rain. The mother!!!

It inched forward, she inched forward, threatening. I watched the god-king raise his staff, threatening back, standing between me and the wraith. She hissed sharply, bearing her teeth as she inched closer. There was a look in her black eyes. I couldn’t quite tell what it was… Fear? Anger? Hate? Maybe even mercy? She took a step backwards, letting out a short threatening

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hiss before turning away and disappearing into the darkness of the night.

I didn’t understand what had just happened. I had seen it, but I just didn’t understand…what did this mean? The mother was trying to kill us. She was our mother. The mother of all life, how could this be?

The god-king stood there for the longest time. Staring into the night. He was a sight to behold. I’d never seen a human stand taller. As tall as the statue in the square. We should have turned to him, but we were not sure how we were supposed to feel about him. It was all quite overwhelming. No one had ever seen an actual god before…. not in recorded history. And now, here they were, two of them, and they were trying to kill us all. To be fair, it was the one who was supposed to be our mother that was trying to kill us. Meanwhile, the one that brought on the breaking of the world had just saved us.

Growing up, we had always been told, “Fear the godking, for he is quick to anger. Pray to the mother, for she is merciful and just.” And so we did. The only thing more terrifying than the thought of the god-king was the

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thought of the devil that lurked beneath our feet. Somewhere deep underground, a monster of brimstone and fire. No one had ever seen this ‘demon of the deep.’ I had always felt that the grownups just made him up to scare us. But now, I wasn’t so sure.

So, how where we supposed to feel about these deities of old? Who really broke the world? It was hard to say who was to blame. The mother broke the world, but it wasn’t her fault. She was the world, and her father broke her, though I don’t think he meant to do that either. Who was to blame? Who started it? It was all a matter of perspective.

The air was still stifled with ash. The sky black with smoke. I sat there watching him. He turned to me, nodding my way. I waved back. A half-wave that turned quickly awkward.

Then I heard a scream. A boy. Nioni, the boy Marika and I had…. Where was Marika? I felt my heart sink. Somehow, I knew what that scream meant. I ran toward the scream. And then I saw the thing I had dreaded the most. My whole world stopped spinning. I froze in my

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steps. The strength left me; my knees gave way as I fell to the ground. There lay my beloved on the ground, motionless. Her skin wrinkled and pale. Tears began streaming from my eyes. I tried to move towards her, falling back onto my knees with the first step. I felt the world around me fade. I saw myself crawling towards her. I saw myself take her in my arms. She felt cold and limp. I hugged her tightly, begging her to wake up. The god-king looked at me helplessly, with a look in his eyes that spoke volumes. Dead was dead. He couldn’t bring back the dead. My heart filled with an emptiness I had never felt before. The emptiness began to fill with darkness. A sense of loathing replaced the sense of wonder and awe I had felt towards the god-king just moments before. I was no longer confused about how I felt about him. I hated him so much in that moment. It was all his fault. He started all this. I didn’t care that he seemed to be trying to make amends. I heard myself let out a stomach churning cry that echoed long into the night.

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The black mountains. A few days later

Day one

It’s dark and lonely on the mountain pass. The mountainscape is a fairly odd one. Caves open up into mountains that suddenly turn back into pitch black caves. The place is devoid of all life. I have not seen even one insect or weed breaking out of the ground. There is a full moon out, casting beams of white light onto the mountainside. Shadow whinnies and stamps her hooves, nervous from the constant howling that simply will not cease.

“It’s okay, girl,” I whisper. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

As terrifying as it is, I can’t help but chuckle at the howling. It’s not that I find the thought of death by strange wolf creature amusing. It’s the reference to the verse in the poem, “For three black nights flee the devil at your heels, you will hear him singing in the wind, may the darkness be your guide.”

“Singing in the wind,” I mutter to myself, laughing out loud. My laugh echoes back at me. Shadow looks

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blankly at me, clearly not amused. The warning on the entrance worries me still, “seek not a way.” It said, “…none was made.” The same line from the poem. I’ve never been good with riddles. But I’m sure of what the second line meant. “For three black nights flee the devil…” I’d always heard stories about the mountains. The one thing that always stood out was this; you must spend no more than three days in the mountains, or you’ll never leave. “Three days in the mountain and it owns you,” the elder always used to say. “Three days and you can’t ever leave.”

Looking around, I notice something strange; it’s brighter now than it was in the daytime. It begins to rain, and I wrap myself up in my coat, though sudden gusts of wind try their best to rip it away from me.

“What?” I shout, perplexed, bringing Shadow to a halt as I examine the black wall of rock in front of me. The path simply dies into the wall. “How is this another dead end?”

I look to Shadow for council, but she only glances back at me sheepishly.

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Another howl breaks the silence. Shadow’s eyes widen.

“C’mon” I sigh, pulling her away. “We must’ve missed a turn or something...”

Day two

I wave my flaming torch around, but it has no effect on the darkness; the light seems to die within inches of the flame. This is not the first time I’ve done this. I simply can’t believe it still. I wave it around some more. It is as though I were in a space filled with nothing. In the sky, I see the full moon is still as bright as ever, but its glow refuses to make it all the way down to us. How I miss yesterday’s bright night, rain and all.

Another moon appears in the sky, also basking in its own radiance. That’s certainly new. I catch myself frowning. And then I realise a third. Now, this is getting ridiculous. The thick, inky darkness consumes the third moon. Then the second, then the first, spreading across the sky and down towards me. My heart begins to pound in my chest. The world is pitch black now. I wave my

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hands in front of my face just to make sure they are still there. I can’t see them. I cannot feel them when I touch my face. I cannot feel my face!! My heart is about to burst from my chest. I discern a growl right behind me...

I wake with a start, grabbing a burning log from the camp fire beside me as I jump to my feet. Swinging the flame around, I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank the mother that was just a dream. Maybe not “the mother.”

I hear a growl behind me. My stomach churns. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. I swing the log around wildly, unable to pin-point the growling. I am completely blind in the dark. I grab Shadow’s bridle, uneasily glancing around me. Where is that growling coming from? Shadow tugs me in one direction, her ears turning at the sound. I climb onto her back, terrified. She breaks into a gallop as soon as I land on the saddle. The wolf must be close, maybe right on our heels. Shadow turns sharply, grazing my forearm on the sharp rock of the mountain side. She’s running faster than she ever has before, madly bobbing her head to the ridiculously loud rhythm of her hooves.

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She’s running close to the sides of the wall of rock, too close, scraping against it and sending sections of rock tumbling behind us. I hear a yelp. I think a flying stone may have just injured the animal. Shadow doesn’t stop running; she runs down a strange track with oddly coloured rocks. Odd in that they are not black. She is completely in control at this point, and I dare not challenge her resolve.

Day three

Shadow drags her hooves against the rocky ground, her head hung low. I’m still on her back, arched forward, also exhausted and tired. She slows and stops in front of the remains of the camp from the day before. I drearily slip off the saddle and land on my feet. Exasperated and low, I yell out in frustration.

“‘May the darkness be your guide?’ I’m going around in circles! Three days and I’m back where I started!”

I furiously kick a blackened log from the burnt-out fire.

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“‘The darkness will be your guide’... How can it be my guide when I can’t see a thing? ‘Seek not in the darkness’...” Maybe I should just sit down and not seek anything!

I glimpse one or two especially dark openings in the mountain side and exchange a knowing look with Shadow.

Picking up my abandoned provisions, I accept that riddles aren’t supposed to be easy.

“Girl, I guess we’re going into the darkness!”

Day five

Thirsty, I open my pack to get my water skin. It seems as light as I expected it to be. Placing it to my lips, I tilt it upward.

Nothing comes out. I look down the neck of the water skin hopefully, tipping it upside-down to get every last drop. Nothing comes out.

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Day eighteen

We are both weary with hunger and thirst. I drop my empty pack. Shadow is just about crawling along at this point. We hear a howl. Neither of us cares. I begin to slip off the saddle, leaning more and more to the right. I fall, twisting my leg as it gets stuck in the stirrup. Shadow continues, dragging me along the rocky ground.

The village. A few days ago

The air was still thick with smoke, the night sky barely visible behind its dark grey mass. The silence was deafening, broken every now and then by the sound of a woman breaking out in tears. The crying was infectious, spilling out to the next person and then next, until what began with one person quietly sobbing would suddenly turn into heart wrenching weeping from scores of women, children, and even the occasional man. It would die down just the way it started. One person breaking off into silence, then the next then the next. Until the village was depressingly silent again.

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The elders had been trying to remove Marika’s body from my grasp for a while now. I wasn’t having any of it. I hadn’t even noticed that a large crowd had gathered around me, trying to pry her from my hands, trying to reason with me. I couldn’t hear a word they were saying. In hindsight, I think the whole thing may have gotten out of hand. Maybe I got a little agitated. There was, undeniably, a wildness in my eyes that night. A madness in my soul. Maybe the elder’s actions were justified. He’d been standing at a distance, watching me and the other elders fight over his daughter’s body. He walked over casually, cold and collected, like this was a day like any other. Like we were children fighting over a doll. I did not notice him towering over me. There was a club lying on the ground right next to me. Left over from the night’s attack. The elder picked it up and hit me over the head with it. The world turned to blackness.

I remember a field, with hundreds of wood piles littered all over. There were dead bodies laid on the piles, bodies with their faces painted white. I remember the elders chanting incantations. I heard weeping. I saw mothers mourning their sons, children mourning their

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mothers. It was all so dreamy. The light in the air looked a strange dark yellow light spliced with what could best be described as silver-white shimmers. I was clearly hallucinating. There was a dirty child in a torn dress, her face smudged and tear stained, holding onto her mother’s hand. Her mother was in a state of shock, so lost in a daze she didn’t even know her child was next to her. She was staring at her husband’s corpse burning in the flames on one of the piles of wood. Marika’s corpse was laid on the pile next to the woman’s husband. She too was burning in the flames. Suddenly, her eyes opened, with a look of shock in them. She lay there for a second, perhaps not yet aware she was on fire. Then she felt it. She let out a heart-wrenching scream, trying to get off the flames in a state of sheer panic.

I woke with a start, attempting to jump to my feet, which led to me falling face first onto the floor, eating dirt. I realised my hands and feet were bound. I coughed violently. My ears were ringing, my view was hazy, and my head hurt in ways I could not describe. I was in a hut. Not mine, it looked like… Mera’s.

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A form knelt beside me, sitting me upright. I could barely see her, but I knew it could only be Mera. She was a kind old lady with beady eyes. Maybe a little eccentric. She pressed a bowl of soup to my lips. I took a large gulp. I was starving.

Shafts of light through the half-open window drew long shadows on the mud floor. “It must be morning,” I thought. I remembered my vision… morning meant cremation!! I pulled away from the bowl, struggling violently to break free. The bowl shattered as it hit the floor.

“Calm down child; it’s just me,” the form whispered.

I regarded her for a second, but my focus was on the ropes. The woman moved closer, attempting to wipe soup from my chin. I struggled to get free, bumping into her, causing her to stumble backwards.

“If you don’t stop that nonsense, I’m leaving,” she screamed.

I looked around wildly, agitated, looking for a way out.

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“They’re going to burn her,” I begged. “They’re going to send her back to the mother.

Mera stood at the window, her gaze far off, looking onto a field laid with hundreds of woodpiles, ready to receive the corpses.

“The cremation is at noon; obviously, you can’t come,” Mera responded flatly.

I tried with all my might to break free from the ropes that had me bound so tightly. It was useless. I banged my head on the wall in frustration. Tears formed in my eyes. I couldn’t say why I was crying.

“Mera please,” I begged, almost bursting out in tears. “‘There is a healer in Nottingham,’ the book says so. He can fix everything. I just need to find him.”

Mera wasn’t interested in a word I was saying. “It’s just a song child; there is no healer. There is no Nottingham,” she said as she walked towards the door.

I was being irrational, I know. And all this kicking and screaming wasn’t going to help. A plan had been forming in my head. And it started with Mera setting me free.

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Kicking her in the face was not the way to get her to do this. The song was a riddle; the song was a map, and I was going to follow it to the healers’ home in Nottingham, and he was going to wake up Marika.

Traditions made the future predictable. There was going to be a procession to bring the corpses to the cremation field. Marika’s body was going to be at the tail end of the procession. On a horse, with her face painted white, just like all the other bodies. The elder would lead the horse by the reins on the left side. So, I would be on the right side, with my face obscured, hidden in the crowd. I would come out of nowhere, rush at him with a rock in my hands. He wouldn’t see me coming. I would hit the elder on the head while prying the reins from his grasp. He would fall over into the crowd, blood gushing from his forehead as I leaped onto the horse. I would jab my knees into the horse’s side, bringing it to a gallop, navigating my way through the confused crowd. The warriors would draw their arrows. In the chaos, they wouldn’t dare let loose an arrow. They wouldn’t dare shoot me. Or maybe they would, but then it wouldn’t matter. I’d rather be dead than live without her, anyway.

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But I know I’d get away with it. I’m sure of it. If a warrior had me in his crosshairs, if he meant to shoot me, someone would likely jump between me and him. Screaming reason into his ear. Waving his arms wildly in the air. That someone would save my life. Then it would be too late, then they would watch me ride off into the hills.

The elder would get up, bloodied face and all. He’d wipe off the blood with his hand the way you would sweat, irritated, shouting in a flat tone something to the tune of, “after him!”

This is the story I was going to tell Mera. She would stop in her footsteps, turn around, and walk back towards me. And I know exactly what she would say. “So now you have her. Now what? You can’t carry a dead girl all the way to the city at the edge of the world.”

I would chuckle to myself. Knowing she was hooked. Knowing she was intrigued. Noticing her beady eyes were beginning to twinkle with excitement. “I don’t have to get her to Nottingham,” I would reply. Then I would lay down the rest of my plan; I would lead the horse up the

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narrow path into the hills, by the reins, walking in front of it. The terrain would be rough and steep. Down below, not too far off, the elders and warriors would be trailing me. I imagine the horse may slip a couple of times, perhaps almost falling to its death. At this point, I would realise it couldn’t make it up any longer. The path would have become too narrow. But if my horse can’t make it up, then neither can theirs. I would remove Marika from the horse’s back, lift her up in my arms, and let the horse go back down, which would cause a little bit of an obstruction for my friends below.

By the time they caught up with me, I would be at the sacred cave. Their stomachs would churn as they watched me enter the cave, holding Marika’s limp pale body in my arms. Inside the cave, beyond the light well in the roof of the cave, beyond the waterfall of trickling waters that glow like moonlight, I would find the sacred pool.

At this point, Mera would cut me off, out of disbelief, realising what I was thinking. “The sacred pool!” she would exclaim.

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I would continue my story, a large grin on my face. “Yes, the sacred pool. The men would run after me, with the elder leading the way. I would jump into the pool with my Marika. The elder would reach for me, but it will be too late. The elders would let out screams of sheer horror. I imagine a supernatural gust of wind blowing through the cave at this point. The men would all stand at the edge of the water. Not one would dare set foot in the pool. They would fall to their knees and begin to pray, a look of terror in their eyes.

“I would swim to the middle of the pool, pulling Marika behind me. The pool is shallow in the middle. Knee high. I would wade through and lay Marika in the shallows at the centre. I would kiss her goodbye on forehead. The elder would be glowering fiercely at me at this point. But he would be on his knees. Glowering and praying. I just have to leave her where they can’t go.

I knew Mera. I knew what she would say. She would scratch her head. Thinking. Wrestling with the decision.

“It’s not a map, dear child. It’s a warning. Nobody makes it to Nottingham.”

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So I would respond;

“We can’t accept what happened. It’s too terrible. The gods have to take it back.

Mera would kneel beside me, a knife in her hand. Almost convinced.

“Promise me you won’t die on that treacherous road,” she would say as she cut the cords. And I would utter the words;

“I won’t die on that treacherous road.

So I laid down my plan, and the conversation went as planned. Except she asked me a question I did now know the answer to. “What do you think happens should you succeed? Are you hoping he will welcome you back with open arms?” Her words cut deep, though I pretended to brush them off. She threw in one final jab just before she cut the cords, “You are not one of us, child, and that is ok. One day, you will realise you don’t have to be.”

CHAPTER 1. THE BREAKING OF THE WORLD

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PROLOGUE