Common Noktoa
JAYHigh above the world below, encased in stone and marble, sleeps a little girl on a gilded bed, her dreams the words that make us crumble
The Oracle is asleep, and the masses that wait beneath her tower are grim and gaunt. The sentries guarding her are on high alert today. Already there have been four deaths this moon and the peasants were worried. Which one of us will be next? That was the question on the tip of every tongue; every nameless farmer and merchant in the square was at that very moment contemplating his or her own fate.
Adolfo Sith clutched at his crossbow and prayed that he would not have to use it. At the last Reading the wretches were in full revolt and he had to take a couple of them down. He did not relish this part of his duty. He guarded the tower every day, from the time the first moon rose until the sky turned pink and the stars fell. All of this chaos and uncertainty, the endless hounding and violence that preceded The Reading ritual, it was all because of her. And at any moment she would wake.
Here is what will happen:
The Holies will climb the 557 stone steps to the top of the tower and enter Her chamber. They will choke on the sweet perfumes and spices that linger in the air, the charcoal braziers burning cinnamon and cloves. They will have the Aroma prepared, a drop already saturating the Cloth of Consciousness. They will stand surrounding Her bed, all eight of them, and recite the chant. The cloth will then pass under Her sleeping nose, and She will awake with a start. The scribe will be at attention, his quill poised and moistened, ready to write. The girl will blink once or twice, confused and disoriented, and then She will open Her sad gray eyes very wide and begin to recite. The Holies will stand silently, hanging on Her every word, while the scribe's quill dances across the parchment playing catchup with Her lips. Then She will finish speaking and a silence will hang in the stuffy room. The Holies will wait a beat, and when they are sure that She has finished, one of them will produce The Drought. A bottle of poison, a clear purple liquid the colour of bruises, made from Agony extract. While the girl looks around the room, wild-eyed and confused, they fill a tiny goblet and bid Her to drink. She takes the goblet hesitantly, unsure of what is is and who they are, but The Holies look so kind and gentle with their grandfatherly smiles and words of encouragement. So She will drink and drift back into the sweet slumber that has become Her existence. She will not wake until the new moon fades into the subtle skies above.
The Scribe will fling his quill aside, take care with his parchment, and hurry down the 557 steps to where the villagers wait below. He will pass through the fortified door of solid oak, past the waiting sentries, and hand the parchment to The Grand Reader, while the crowd stands in silence. The Reader clears his throat, opens the scroll, and begins the solemn recital.
"Oh hear this, the good and gentle residents of Bliss. On this fourteenth day, in the moon of Hukh, in the time of the deities Fyona and Olyxandre, let it be known that The Oracle has spoken, and these are the things that She foresees:
Hanna Wynt, on the sixteenth day, in the moon of Hukh
Samos Howe, on the eighteenth day, in the moon of Hukh
Luce Dolliver, on the twenty third day, in the moon of Hukh
and finally, Seera Tittle, on the first day, in the moon of Aud.
Take heart, gentle people, for The Oracle is wise, and the deities are merciful. Lift up your spirits and give thanks to Fyona and Olyxandre. Give them your souls, and your tears, and most importantly your thanks. It is through them, that all things are possible. The Oracle speaks with the wisdom of the deities and they look down upon you with blessings and love. Go forth with their light in your hearts"
He then kisses the scroll, raises his hands in the direction of the Celestial Haven with his head bowed and sombre, as if in prayer. Without warning, he climbs off of the stone pedestal that had been built there for his very purpose, and turns to walk back in the tower.
The peasants do not leave the square. There were many names tonight. Hanna Wynt is standing off to one side with her mate and offspring.They clutch at her tightly, hoping to keep her in their hands before she slips away. Samos Howe is a young boy, not quite a man, and he has taken The Reading well. He is stoic and still, as if in deep contemplation. He has no one to weep for him, no outstretched hands are grappling with his drooping lapels. The orphans are easy, they do not leave much behind. Luce Dolliver is not in the square. Most likely back at the tavern, where he will be head deep in a barrel of grog, oblivious to the goings on of the tower. Only the barkeep will mourn him, and even then only for the coin he brings. Seera Tittle is propped up in a wooden chair, flanked by her brood. She has lived long and hard, but time is never enough. Her sons are beside her, and they are angry. They curse The Oracle and The Deities, and The Reader too for good measure.
All of those present know the names that were called. They are neighbors, friends, past lovers, and shoulders to lean on in these difficult times. They all grieve for the four, even though none have been lost yet. But only a fool would try to thwart fate.There had been some, the early ones, who had tried to run. They had heard their name on The Reader's moist lips and decided that death could not chase them across barley fields and brooks, or over snowy mountains and sprawling hills. They slept little, lest death come to them in their dreams. They ate sparingly, lest death come to them as a poison. They watched their feet as they ran lest death trip them up, and they carried weapons lest death try to antagonize them. But like all of the others; the names on the scroll; the faces of her dreams and her nightmares, they would meet death as he beckons with his crooked finger and summons them onwards just like he'd always intended.
A low, wailing cry breaks the silence. It is coming from the daughter of Hanna Wynt, a scrawny runt clad in rags and covered in dirt. Heads turn in the direction of the sound; a gut-wrenching sob that pierces through their insides and leaves a dull bitter taste in their mouths. The sound of a heart breaking, of innocence cracking like the shards from a stubborn glass.
"Mama, I don't want you to die......"
And upstairs in the tower...
Before she was The Oracle, she was Clarissa. Clarissa The Glum, is what her big sister called her. How funny to think of Rosary, of her flushed cheeks and the vitality that coursed through her veins and made her bolder and brighter. They had never been close, but it was Rosary that had taught her how to swim, how to read, and everything she needed to know about The Ages and Deities that had preceded their own.Yes, they had been poor, barely able to sustain themselves on the toads and fish they caught from the bog, but there had been a kind of simple happiness that settled and lingered throughout their childhood. Rosary. How long ago and far away that all seemed. A different world, from a different time, one where she was just Clarissa, and the dreams had yet to haunt her.
It is a rare moment, this. It is one of only a few where she is permitted to stay awake. Every couple of moons or so, they gift her with consciousness and allow her some moments of thought. It isn't for her own good that they do this;no, it is for The Deities, who call on her periodically to appear at The Celestial Haven sober and clearheaded so that she may tell their fortune. Though she isn't a fortune teller and has never Seen while awake, Fyona and Olyxandre were notoriously superstitious and vain, and had a whole troop of astrologers, seers, and holy men. She was not one to complain; she dreamed of these days where she could sit alone in her room and just be Clarissa. But only when she was not dreaming death. And Oh, of death did she dream.
She thinks back to Rosary and of the moss and peet shack that they built and lived in after Mama had been taken away. They'd lived in the woods for moons and suns, the shade of the Willows replacing mama's embrace. If only Rosary had trusted her, if only she hadn't gone to Bliss. Would it all have stayed the same? She wondered. Surely someone would have found out all the same, and maybe instead of the gilded bed, hers would be one of chains and spikes. It's no good to think like this. It was inevitable, every time she was permitted to wake, she thought back to the days in the shack, the days before Rosary had betrayed her and sold her to the traders for being a freak. She didn't want to think about what came next. She willed her mind not to wander to that dark place where kept her guilt and regret, locked in a trousseau and buried in folds of indifference. She could have stopped it, she recognized that. She saw Rosary in her dream one night, she saw her standing in front of the looking glass, admiring the jewels that glistened at her breast. And she saw that bad man rise behind her sister and put a dagger in her throat. She saw the blood and heard the screams, and still she did not try to stop it. She woke and made herself forget, and was not surprised when she heard about the murder 3 days later.
And so, this is how it happened...
Hanna Wynt was a loving mother and a patient mate, and had been hungry for as long as she could remember. She was caught in the rain as she was coming home from town one day, and came down with a burning fever. She was nursed by her mate, and her daughters brought her duck broth, but still she did not cool. They bathed her in damp cloths and sent for a priest, but still she did not cool. They sacrificed their only goat to Olyxandre, protector of women, and used their last coin at the apothecary to buy a poultice, but still she did not cool. She burned on and on until the sixteenth day of Hukh, when she gave in and danced into the fire, leaving her cold corpse behind.
And so, Hanna Wynt died.
Samos Howe was a clever lad, and growing up an orphan had taught him to be resourceful and quick. Ever since The Reading, he took to looking over his shoulder and sleeping with one eye open. Unfortunately, it was over his shoulder that he was looking while crossing Branaby Bridge on the eighteenth day of Hukh, and his foot caught in the hole that had been made there by a log that had fallen off a wagon not one hour before. The wood groaned and sagged under his weight, and he fell through the cracks and into the roaring river below. Samos sputtered and spat, but still he would not surface. He kicked and writhed, and slipped off his heavy boots and tunic, but still he did not surface. He fought with the raging current and tried to claw at passing reeds, but still he did not surface. He was hurled up and down the river, banging against the rocks until the breath in his lungs came out in a single gasp, and his body emptied of air and thought.
And so, Samos Howe died.
Luce Dolliver probably had a mate and several offspring somewhere in the South, maybe near Cyann. Though maybe the woman had died in that last war. He couldn't remember. If it didn't exist at Bilk's Tavern, then it didn't exist to Luce. He had been sitting in his favorite stool, drinking his favorite grog, and trying desperately not to look down the neckline of the serving wench's apron, when he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. He clutched at his side, scrunched his hand up in a fist and willed the pain to pass. He took a long swig from his tankard, adjusted his weight, and wiped at the sweat on his brow. He let out a belch and a very loud fart, thinking that maybe the radishes had been a mistake that night, and slumped down on to the bar. Pressing his hands to his swollen gut, Luce felt his intestines knot and his liver burst. His stomach contracted, and the bile seeped out of his pores, before the agony passed and a dull numbness bled into his soul. In that very instant, his mind cleared for the first time in some 30 odd ages, and he understood what was happening.
And so,on the twenty-third day of Hukh, Luce Dolliver died.
Seera Tittle was an old woman who had seen the sons of her sons playing in the fields and rivers of the town she had lived in all her life. She went to sleep on the last day of Hukh and didn't wake to see the first of Aud.
And so, Seera Tittle died.
Clarissa the Blue Kanis, owned by Jay.
