The Storm

Sayblood's Children: Part Four

Sayblood’s Children is a folk horror/romance novella, serialized in twelve parts. This is Part Four.

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Previously, Othniel sought to send Sayblood on her way and out of his life forever, but something gave him pause.

In this chapter, the island rebels against Othniel’s decision and leaves him lost, wondering if he made the right choice.

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Photo by Didier Bn on Unsplash

Thanks to the death of my mother, my hands were very well suited to the rites and skills. And I learned quickly how to defend myself, to bring death upon those who sought to slay me before Sumble willed it. I used my hands, yes, and blades sometimes. Twin blades, quick and nimble, forged for me as gifts from my father: Kysiel for my left, Vaziel for my right.

Dread Lady became more than a whisper, but a shout: all knew me. They knew me! I was known throughout the caverns. I was seen, and I was feared.

Death-dealer, they called me. Shadow-slider.

But my hands, while deft and agile at their crafts of death and wielding of blades according to the will and whims of Sumble, did not perform so well in the creation of music. And I craved music. I craved it more than food. I craved it more than breath.

There was a place blocks away from the towering house with the glittering spires where I lived as heiress to my father’s city; it was a ballroom far below the streets, down a flight of hidden stone steps. It was a throbbing, thrumming place. The doors would open and painted people, braided people, would saunter in, wearing masks and colors and tattoos on their gray skin. They would come to dance in the dark with its cold lights, the deep hum of infernal instruments striking deep into the chest. There were tinctures and drinkings there and everything of that nature, whatever you wanted to help you nestle further into Sumble’s navel, smell His breath. There were games and gambles and coins all over the floor, and sometimes things to eat. It was a sumptuous place. It was mine.

I would go there every night, escorted by my father’s tongueless guards, and I would sit on the stage enthroned on a red couch, red paint on my lips and a black dot drawn above each eyebrow where they knitted above my nose. I wore red, too, pooling about my bare feet like blood, and I would flick my fingers up and down to the music. And oh, the music! It was rapture itself, it was favor and fraught and fervor all in one. I would sway and curse and flick my fingers up and own, up and down. Circles and circles. Delicious.

The dancers disappeared, occasionally, into little secret corners and silent rooms in pairs and triples, where they did things that no one would explain to me. I never disappeared with anyone. I attribute it now to the red couch, the red-painted lips, the white hair tangled with gemstones, the crimson. I see now that I was untouchable. That I was protected, not just by my father’s tongueless guards but by my name. Sayblood, Dread Lady, Death-dealer.

They knew who I was, and they were all content to dance for me, and play for me, and pour my drinkings and bring my tinctures, but they would never disappear with me. Their lives were worth more to them than that. I see that now.

Most nights I sat alone, surrounded by what might as well have been a tableau of living statues overtaken by the music. Sometimes I was joined on the stage by honored guests, dignitaries my father hosted, luminaries from families as deeply rooted as my own. We made polite conversation, shared news, chatted fashion and gossip. A rare few were truly congenial, and an even rarer few were at all interesting.

But one night…I met someone that changed everything.

He wore a piece of artwork on his face, a mask in the shape of a strange animal’s visage. It was a bird, I know now: flourishes of black and charcoal, beak open in a silent scream, a perfect mess of feathers and fine filaments of silver. This—this man, this mask—was magic of the highest order, higher than the invocations, higher still than the rites and appeals. His skin was not gray but blushed, strange: warm and brown. His hair was not white, but dark as shadows. Dark as the depths.

His eyes. His eyes…they were green. I know the color now, though I had never seen it before. There is no other green in Sumble’s belly, not in any shade or hue; only in those eyes.

The whisper passed through the crowd, keeping pace with his footsteps as he approached the place where I sat. The whisper of his reputation rippled through the dancers because he was known in that place.

It’s Shrike, the whisper fluttered, reaching my ear, my flicking fingers. It’s Shrike, dear Shrike, the illustrious poet.

The dignitary on my left leaned down, the smell of tincture heavy on her breath and the shuddering wings of Sumble dreamlike in her eyes, and asked me, “What blood did you have to spill, cousin, to be blessed with such an honored guest?”

*******

Othniel had prophesied it and it came: a storm. A true maritime storm, born somewhere to the west over the ocean and sweeping in over the islands, bringing the full force of Pacific rage with it. As soon as Sayblood sat down in the little rowboat and Othniel turned it for home, wind howled up the strait like a herd of sharp-hooved beasts and the rain fell in great sheets. It was the type of rain that flies needle-like into the face, seeking out eyes and stinging against cheeks.

With the oars, Othniel fought against the pull of the waves as the sea churned below the boat and Sayblood clung to the side, terrified into silence at the power of the weather. Othniel tried to call to her over the howling, tell her that all would be well—though he could hardly promise this—but his words were whipped from his lips as soon as he said them and carried away into the empty air, useless.

There were shapes in the water. Othniel tried to ignore them, but they were real. Shadows flickering under the boat, rushing past. And through the haze of the rain he thought he could see dark beings on the far shore, watching them battle the water. Bone-gleam faces and small, black eyes.

He knew, then—though he didn’t know how—that he had angered something. By bringing her back, he had offended someone. The sky? The sea? The very land itself?

He had heard tales. He had heard stories of the woods on these islands being full of eyes and teeth and strangers, and he knew that the world was alive with spirits. He had seen much in his lifetime, sailing and fishing and trapping and hunting. But in five years on this island he had never felt the wrath of this place like a true enemy.

Until now.

The strait pitched them down, the current dragging Othniel’s boat away from its intended target, pulling north and up the coastline. No matter how hard he pushed against the oars the boat would not obey, as if the dark shapes in the water were dragging from below, turning the boat this way and that, spinning them in place.

The terrible thought flashed through his mind that perhaps the ferrymen of The Tern were not wrong to be afraid of Sayblood. That maybe she was the bad omen they claimed.

She sat in the bow of the boat, pregnant belly swallowed by the oversized coat and pale eyes hidden by the wide-brimmed hat, white hair whipping, gray skin visible on her strange hands. She was a witch. She was a demoness. There could be no other explanation.

But then she turned to look at him, and the fear in her eyes as all too human. This storm—this weather—was foreign to her. To her, this was hell. Her mouth was slightly agape in a silent scream of horror. If she was indeed a demoness, it was of no use to her here.

Othniel pulled harder against the oars, harder still, and closed his eyes against the rain. And it seemed an eternity before the bottom of the rowboat scraped against pebbles.

When Othniel looked, they had finally landed on the little island. Blown off course, north by quite a few miles and soaked through to the skin, but whole.

*******

Othniel beached the boat, pulling it as far up as he could so that it wouldn’t get swept out by the unnatural tide, and led Sayblood up the rocky shore to the treeline. This stretch of the little island was unfamiliar to him. In his time living here he had explored every corner at least once, but many he had abandoned once he had discovered his own patterns and routines. This place on the northwestern coast of the little island was not part of his frequent travels, and he did not know its terrain.

The storm still whistled and the rain still fell, but once they had entered the safety of the trees the deluge was diffused by the heavy branches above. Othniel found a place under a thickly-skirted cedar and helped Sayblood to sit down on the soft duff beneath it, and he sat nearby. His arms and shoulders were still screaming with the effort of rowing and his throat was dry and sore.

As she settled against the tree Sayblood removed her hat and spoke first, her voice cautious. She had been wary of him ever since he dragged her away from the ferry.

“This falling water,” she said, “is this usual?”

“Rain,” Othniel replied, still trying to catch his breath. “And yes, rain is quite usual around here. Although this is more of a storm than I’m used to.”

“Storm,” she repeated, softly.

“Indeed. The best part of a storm is being inside the cabin, sitting by the fire with one’s pipe and a cup of tea,” Othniel said. “Not our luck, sadly. We’ll rest here for a moment, and then be on our way.”

He did not tell her that he was unsure of where they were. It was not a large island, but still possible to get turned around.

She was quiet, staring out at the vast expanse of dripping trees before she asked, “Why did you not send me away? I thought you had bought me safe passage, but then you pulled me back.”

The way she said safe passage was with a twist of irony, and he knew that she had sensed the malice in the hearts of the ferrymen, even if she did not understand their terror of her.

“I did not trust their intentions,” he said, after a moment. “The people of this world are fearful of new and strange things. And sailors are among the worst. When they are afraid, they have a tendency to…remove the thing that frightens them.”

He saw the vision again, of her sinking into the sea. It made him nauseous and he swallowed. “So I thought perhaps we would look for another way. A safer way.”

“Remove,” she said. “So you mean they would have killed me.”

He nodded, slowly. “I think they would have, yes.”

She made a noise, and he thought at first it was a sob, but when he turned she was laughing, a dry sound, an eerie glint in her eye.

“Is it not odd,” she said, humor pulling at her voice, “that Sayblood should be at the mercy of such men? It was not always so. There was a time when a crew of fearful men would have been no trick at all, no trouble.”

She sighed, leaned her head back against the cedar trunk. “But if I had hoped to avoid oddity, I would never have left home. So it seems that oddity is what I am stuck with.”

Othniel felt the question hover between them, the one he had avoided asking ever since they met the day before. But he asked it now, under the shadow of the ancient trees that seemed to demand honesty, to demand truth:

“Sayblood,” he said, “where is it that you came from? How did you cross the sea with no ship?”

She closed her eyes. “I did not cross the sea,” she replied. “I climbed up under it.”

He paused, considered that. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“The land of my people is a place where yours do not tread often.” She shrugged. “Only poets and thieves know how to get there, from what I hear, and all the others fall in unwilling. But it is not across. It is below. And I climbed up out of it.”

He let that sit, unremarked-upon. The answer frightened him. If it was not true, she was either lying or inflicted with madness.

But if it was true…

Othniel stood, held out his hand to help her up. “We need to get home,” he said. “Back to a dry place, or we’ll catch our deaths out here.”

She nodded solemnly and put the hat back on her head, slipping her hand into his.

“Onward, then,” she said.

*******

They were lost. Othniel knew it immediately, but felt it seep into his bones like a panic as they stumbled through the thick woods. Keeping the white-capped water of the strait on his right-hand side, he knew that they were heading south, but that was all that he was sure of. The very trees seemed to breathe out menace, the rain fell only harder, and the feeling of being watched had intensified from a curiosity into a deep, abiding, long-standing malice.

Sayblood had noticed it, too. More than once, Othniel caught her peering over her shoulder as they walked, pale eyes more clear-sighted in the gloom than his, watching something slump out of view that he could not see.

“Something watches us,” she said, finally, after they had walked for near an hour. “And they do not mind that I can see them.”

Othniel paused, looked down at her. “What do they look like?”

“They are large things, all hair and bone.”

The hulking shapes, watching him for weeks. He shuddered. “Do you recognize them? From your world?”

She shook her head at this. “Oh no, these are not creatures of my world at all. These are residents of this place, this land. These belong here.”

She smiled dimly and added, “I think I am unwelcome.”

Othniel was at a loss for words. Disembodied voices whispering in his ear, cold hands on his shoulder. Hulking shapes watching from behind the trees, angry with him for a crime he did not know he was committing. And now lost, lost in a place he thought he knew well. Lost with either a denizen of an underground kingdom, or a madwoman.

He was not sure which prospect was worse.

“Are you unarmed?” Sayblood asked.

The question surprised him. He shook his head, indicated his belt. “I have a knife here,” he said, “enough to wound, should it come to that. But let’s hope it doesn’t. We should keep moving, pray we reach home before we reach trouble.”

Something in his voice was not as confident as he wanted to sound, and Sayblood caught it easily.

“Are we lost?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not lost. But not where we ought to be, either.”

She accepted this, and stayed close as he walked on.

In truth, there was something else bothering him. A sound that he had been hearing for a little while during their hike through the woods. What he thought was simply the slithering of rain through the underbrush or the passage of a deer had clarified into something else, something more unnerving.

Footsteps. They were not just being watched, but followed.

He pushed on, hoping beyond hope that soon they would enter a patch of woods that he recognized, or cross one of the many paths he had cut and worn in his daily rides. But if anything the forest only grew less and less familiar, fog rising between the boughs as the day tipped, the sun obscured.

Othniel began to despair. Normally he was prepared to camp out in the open if he needed to, wait things out, but not in this weather. Not with the attention of the land itself on his neck. And not with a pregnant stranger.

Suddenly, a stick snapped somewhere behind them, and everything happened at once.

With a strange, fluid motion, Sayblood shoved him backward out of the way, whipped the blade from his belt, and tossed it with deft aim into a spot between two trees. It did not sail so much as fire like a bullet and the thunk it made hitting its target—the trunk of a tree, Othniel thought—was loud enough to echo through the rain.

“By hell!” came an offended voice from the shadows where the knife had vanished. “What need is there to skewer me, Brack? What need indeed? What crime has your friend committed to be treated so unjustly?”

Othniel put a hand on Sayblood’s rope-tense shoulder to calm her, relief flooding through him, as Bill the wild man emerged from the shadows of the forest, blue eyes wounded with the insult. He had pulled the knife from the tree trunk where Sayblood had aimed it and now held it harmless in his hand, grumbling.

“Bill,” Othniel said, laughing. “You have no idea how good it is to see you.”

But the wild man was staring at Sayblood, scowling.

“You let it in, Brack,” he muttered, darkly. “Let it in to skewer Old Bill. What injustice it is, to be skewered in my own home by a white snip of cheek-chinned gossip.”

Othniel stepped between them, apologetic. “I’m sorry, Bill. Can you not lead us home, and out of the rain?”

Bill sighed, handed Othniel the knife, and passed them. Sayblood watched him, wary.

“Follow then,” Bill said. “Out of the rain and into the trouble. You let it in, Brack. I told you that you would. And here again, the doom of Old Bill: always right, and never righteous.”

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