Renaissance--Part IV

Sigeas's mother prepares to give birth, but the heroes of our story find themselves in a dreadful situation.  As the journey nears its end, Sigeas is faced with an important decision.  Emotion and a fateful battle await you in the final part of my short epic, "Renaissance."

They attacked in the night.  Fulfilling the roles of midwife and lookout was not an easy task for Sigeas, but even as he monitored his mother’s labor, he observed their surroundings from the corners of his eyes.  There was neither sound nor shadow for the first hour of her intermittent contractions, save for her occasional cries and groans.  He imagined packs of hunting wolves fleeing upon hearing the agonized screams of, as far as they could tell, some crazed shaman or demon wandering the land.  Small military caravans might hear her and make for the nearest civilization, believing that a wailing specter haunted the dunes.  But as these protective fantasies circled Sigeas’s mind, he felt a sharp wind slice by his ear; then he heard two stony surfaces grind together.  He averted his attention from his mother and watched an arrow glance off the boulder that served as a wall for their shelter.  Someone was firing upon them.  His eyes burned as the memory of Faseton’s fall assaulted his mind.  The bloodied earth, the severed limbs, the rain of arrows, the flaming homes, the shrieks of the murdered.  Not now.  Not again.  He would not allow that dreadful event to repeat itself.  He did not know who came for them now, but if they sought to dissolve a family, they were no better than the imperialists who had devastated his hometown.  He stood, brandished his sword, and turned around.  On top of a hill to the east, beneath the dawning sky, were three men dressed in the red leather armor of Thalnon.

“Sigeas, what’s happening?” asked his mother.

“A Thalnon caravan.”

“No.” Her voice trembled as she began to weep.  “No, not now.  Sigeas, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to slaughter every one of them,” he replied, his voice unwavering.  “I love you, Mother.” He marched across the grass, surveying the difficult battlefield his enemies had prepared for him.  A steady uphill charge led to his three opponents, and there were perhaps more members of the caravan concealed behind the fold of the hill.  He roared, “For Faseton!” and tore across the earth with such unexpected speed, the men above took a step back to provide extra space to ground themselves.  The desire to protect his mother and exact vengeance on these harbingers of death drove him across the slope as if it were level earth.  Two arrows whistled through the air from bowmen hidden behind bushes on either side of the group of swordsmen ahead.  One arrow plunged into the grass beside him, while the other darted past his shoulder.  He increased his pace and made directly for the marauder on the left; when he reached the man, blade met blade with such momentum, he knocked the marauder flat onto his back.  In the same swing, the tip of his sword cleaved the side of his center opponent’s leg.  He raised his weapon immediately, catching the steel from the same man’s weapon.  Then he launched his foot upon the area he had carved, causing the man to shriek and his leg to buckle.  Sigeas dodged a blow from his third opponent and finished his second with a deep swipe across the torso.

One of the bowmen surfaced from the left with a saber drawn, and the other a moment later wielding an elegant broadsword.  After dodging the blow from his third opponent, Sigeas propelled his blade toward the sky and smashed against his sword with tremendous force.  The bludgeon staggered the man, presenting Sigeas with an opportunity to parry a frenzied strike from the first enemy he had floored.  He spun to his right as the man’s blade was deflected, and swept his weapon through his legs with the energy from his spin.  Now painted in blood, his sword rose up just in time to halt the downward slash of his third enemy’s blade toward his head; at this moment, the saber from one of the bowmen lanced down his back, cutting from his shoulder to his hip.  Fortunately, the attack had been inaccurate due to the fact that he was nearing the end of his spin when it was made.  He kicked his third enemy in the stomach, launching him against the shoulder of the bowman with a broadsword.  Then he whipped around, smashed the first bowman’s blade aside, and removed his hands from his arms.

The third swordsman and second bowman charged toward him, declaring the name of Pavius.  They only succeeded in enraging Sigeas, who returned the charge with an unintelligible, bloodthirsty cry.  He forced his blade against that of his third enemy when the bowman’s broadsword pounded into it and hurled him to the grass.  Before they could strike at him, he hurried to his feet and shook off a pain that had risen from his left wrist.  The broadsword tumbled toward him, and he managed to block it, though the strike shook his bones.  The third swordsman’s weapon sliced horizontally toward Sigeas’s neck; he ducked beneath it, disengaged his sword from the bowman’s, and drove his left fist into the swordsman’s jaw.  His knee then rose into the left side of the man’s abdomen, and his blade glided through the right.  A swift hop to the side separated him from the severance of his arm by the bowman’s broadsword.  He raised his sword to block the subsequent flurry of attacks, but one of them tore his weapon from his hands.

The bowman roared and struck toward his left shoulder.  Sigeas, not expecting such speed, moved aside but was grazed by the wide blade.  He sent one foot into the man’s hands and grinned when he saw that the power of the kick released his hold on his weapon.  He then lunged forward, the full weight of his body slamming his adversary to the moist turf.  The man had not expected such a move; in the moment it took him to recover, Sigeas’s fist crashed into his cheek, into his teeth, and into the bridge of his nose.  Knuckles and facial features were draped with blood before the Thalnion marauder found the strength to fling the young man from his body and stand.  This was no mere toss; Sigeas soared onto his heels, then collapsed to his bottom, and finally slid across the hilltop and toppled over.  A pointed stone pierced the wound on his back and brought his sliding to an end.  The bowman disregarded the numerous blades sprinkling the battlefield and clamped his hands around Sigeas’s neck, wrenching his life away with every obstructed breath.  Unable to break free of the firm grip, the young man thrashed his arms in desperation and managed to land a solid punch in the center of his enemy’s throat.  The man’s hands hesitated.  Sigeas grabbed the stone beneath him.  Before the marauder could reinforce his hold, his young enemy pummeled him with the pointed end of the rock and wrecked him to the side.  Sigeas turned over and reached into the grass.  His opponent stood, swayed, and lurched toward him.  Sigeas spun with his sword in hand and finished the Thalnion with a lacerating slash across the stomach.

They were gone.  Five men, elite soldiers who had served beneath the famed King Pavius, had fallen beneath Sigeas’s blade.  He surveyed the site with a sense of pride, but the pride was soon replaced by nausea, the nausea by repulsion, and the repulsion by numbness as the gore-drenched battlefield became a blur in his vision.  He looked at his blade, which seemed to be crafted of blood rather than steel.  He looked at his clothes, sponges for the blood the earth and his sword had failed to find.  Then he turned away.  His feat bestowed on him no joy, but he had to kill them.  There had been no other choice but death.  He could not have surrendered and allowed them to add to the number of innocent lives they had already taken.  He had to do it.  With a sigh, he began to walk down the hill and gazed toward the camp.  And there rested an image that stayed with him for the remainder of his days.  His mother, his sole family, still ripe with child, lay against the boulder behind their camp, an arrow lodged in her chest.

He hurried to her side and watched in awe as she wept, one hand seizing the area of her new wound, and the other beneath her round belly.  Her eyes found him, but never remained there for long; she seemed to see something beyond his ability to see, something that granted her one last scrap of strength before her life fled from her.  He shook his head, threw his sword onto the grass, and embraced her.  Tears burst from his eyes as he said, “Mother, I’m sorry! I’m sorry I couldn’t stop that arrow! I tried to save you! I tried to protect you from them.  I’m so sorry.” He released her and dropped into a kneeling position, examining the arrow.  “There has to be something….Mother, I have to save you! There must be a way.”

“Sigeas.” Her voice was weak, but firm.  “I’m dying.  You—you did what you could.  But I’m dying.  I will give birth to this—child with my last breath.”

“No, Mother, you can’t,” Sigeas insisted.  “You can’t leave.”

“Sigeas, the—” She winced, and her fingernails made indentations in her surcoat as her hand closed tighter around the arrow.  “The blood of your enemies covers you.  You—you got your revenge.  You can become a new man.  Begin a new life.  But—the choice is yours.”

Her son bowed his head, and his tears dotted the blanket.  He said nothing.

“And the choice—Sigeas, the choice is yours to take or leave the baby.  If you take the baby, remember what I taught you last night.  Remember—” Her teeth ground together as they had earlier, and a short whine left her throat.  “There’s no time.  Be—prepared.  Now, Sigeas.”

His chest heaved, and his eyes skipped across the camp.  “What? Mother, you can’t—I can’t—You don’t have the strength to do this.”

She released her hands from her wound and stomach, and placed them on either side of his head.  “I love you, my son.  You are a great man, and will become greater.” Then she closed her eyes, returned her hands to their position, and said, “Now help me one last time.  Will you do that for me?”

He nodded and moved to his designated spot, hardly able to see beyond the wall of his tears.  His mother pushed, and pushed, while he prepared to accept the new child from her.  With each surge of energy that she brought forth, he knew that she was one moment nearer to death.  She pushed, and pushed.  Although she had specified his duty well the previous night, he could only focus on her face, for he realized that there would soon be no animation in it.  The thought of losing her pained him far more than his thoughts of his lost home, and of Pavius’s abuse of his mother, and of the many lives lost during Faseton’s fall.  She pushed, and pushed.  If only his father had urged him less in the practice with a sword, and educated him in the mending of wounds.  Then he could give medical attention to her chest while she focused on her labor.  She pushed, and pushed.  He turned his attention to his duty and saw a head surface.  Then, with a final, victorious cry and push, she released a new life into Sigeas’s hands.  Her head rolled back against the boulder, and there was no more tension in her hands.  A warm smile spread over her face, and she breathed no longer.

Sigeas observed her passing in horror.  How she managed to seem so at peace as she departed, he did not understand; indeed, she appeared to be more welcoming toward her end than he was.  He continued to look at her for some time, now weeping, now stunned.  He believed he might awaken and find himself in his bed at Faseton, refreshed by a long sleep, and recalling the events of the past nine months only as one recalls a dream.  His mother would be awake, also, and lively as ever, busying herself with the household chores of the day.  But she was still dead, and he still mourned, and this new baby wriggled in his arms, groaning and crying.  He took his clean dagger and cut the cord that connected the child to its deceased mother; he forced a pained laugh as he remembered thinking his mom was joking the previous night when she mentioned a fleshy cord reaching from her to the baby.  Sitting down, he looked carefully at the child and noticed that it was a girl.  The blood of birth marked her skin.  He looked at his bloodied clothing and hands and then back at the baby, and grinned.  “We’re not so different, really,” he said to her.

After spending more time mourning, thanking his mother for all that she had taught him, and praying for her safe passage into the heavens, he used one of the shelter’s stakes to dig a grave for her beside the boulders.  It was still early morning when he finished.  He kissed her forehead, placed her in the soft earth, and turned his attention to the baby, whom he had wrapped in a clean cloth and placed on a corner of the camp blanket.  He stared down into the grave and muttered between tears, “I will protect her, mother.  I swear to you, I will look after her.  You said I’m a great man.  She will be a great woman, just as you were.  I love you.” He shoveled the earth into the pit, lifted additional prayers to the Gods, and disassembled the camp.  After leaving behind what could not be borne on the way ahead, he scooped the baby into one arm, shouldered his pack, took his sword from the grass, and made for the stream he had used to sanitize his dagger.  The watercourse ran from the southeast to the hazy western land, and in this region it curved around the base of a hill that dwarfed the knolls around it.  He rounded the hill and found that the stream pooled at its southern slope, so he set the baby down and submerged himself in the pond to wash the blood from his body.  Then he cleansed the baby by moistening her cloth and rubbing the blood off her skin.

Sigeas climbed to the crown of the hill and turned toward the northwest, his heart heavy.  The boulders where he and his mother had camped rose from the earth ahead, marking her grave.  A tear rolled down his cheek as his mind lapsed into the replaying of her death, but something on the horizon shattered his daze.  The Eternal Flame of Harvidol leapt up again, small but visible, growing to eventually become the blazing fire that had burned the night before.  A warm smile spread over his face, and his eyes fell to the baby in his arms.  “The day is young, my sister,” he said to her.  “Let’s go.”  Then he turned and began his journey toward Ai-Tizuj as the sun climbed the eastern sky.

Renaissance--Part III

So begins the third section of Sigeas's tale.  The story nears its climax in this portion, after various significant discussions between mother and son take place.  Also, the mythology and geography of the world of Emlenor are emphasized.  I suggest that all readers take the time to see the appropriate map in the post below to avoid losing a sense of direction, as a few important cities and countries are named.  This is likely the most controversial part of "Renaissance," so I hope to see a few (more would be better) comments on the subject matter.  Enjoy!

The shelter was complete.  Pinioned to the four stakes was a blanket that acted as a roof; a larger blanket was laid across the grass beneath; and a third blanket was rolled up against a boulder, sandwiched between the stony surface and Sigeas’s mother’s back.  She seemed exhausted and years beyond her age.  As Sigeas observed her, he decided that he would postpone their eastern migration for a day, no matter how fervently she debated with him.  With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he trudged to the opposite side of the tall rocks and gazed out at the western grassland, toward Harvidol.  After a while he leaned against a boulder and watched, mesmerized, as the distant flames of the city’s fire licked the cooling air.  Then the thoughts returned to him.  The images of the burning city and dying citizens returned to him.  And though he had not seen it, he imagined the red-bearded, black-caped man forcing his mother onto the ground.  He attempted to press it out of his mind, but it fired back at him with greater intensity.  He should have stopped him.  He should have stopped all of them.  He should have altered his footwork and slain his second opponent, and struck the king down an instant later.  There was no punishment too gruesome for what they did.  They deserved to die.

He tore his sword from his sheath and plunged it into the earth, then collapsed onto the grass and began to weep.  He wept until the faint sea breeze turned his tears into frosty darts, and at this time he raised his eyes and noticed that that last sliver of the sun’s light was disappearing behind the mountains.

“Thought-evoking, isn’t it?” his mother asked from across the boulders.

He wiped the tears from his cheeks and made an effort to compose himself. “What—what is thought-evoking?”

“The Eternal Flame of Harvidol,” she replied, the drowsiness of her voice carried on the wind.  “In the year one hundred twenty, Crel the Wizard, the protector of Emlenor, cast a powerful spell outside of Harvidol over wood transported from the magical Laindren Forest.  The spell took him a month to conjure.  A fire arose from the wood, small at first; but as time passed, it became larger and larger.  Five hundred years after its creation, it died.  But not long after, it rose up from the ashes of the wood.  Thus, it is believed that every five hundred years, the flame reignites.  Crel cast this spell to honor the five hundred people of the Koritsu tribe who died while traveling through Glaciath in the winter.” The drowsiness of her voice departed, and she began to speak as one reminiscing.  “The Koritsu were a pure, righteous people who started out as a small band of like-minded, moral men and women; but as time passed, their group grew larger and larger.  They traveled through Glaciath while seeking a homeland, though they never found it.  All but a few Koritsu perished, but the good that they displayed lives on with the Eternal Flame of Harvidol.”

Sigeas set his back against the boulder nearest him.  “The Koritsu died while traveling through Glaciath in the winter? Why do you want to live here if it gets that cold?”

A low sigh escaped his mother’s lips.  “Even though it’s near the coast, Ai-Tizuj has some of the finest weather in Emlenor.  And you missed the point of the story.”

“No, Mother,” Sigeas replied, hugging himself and staring at the fire.  “I didn’t.”

During one of their biweekly lodgings at a roadside inn, early in their journey, Sigeas overheard a small caravan of armor-clad men talking amongst each other in the dining room.  They spoke of the fall of Faseton, exchanged fables of Pavius’s latest campaign against the country of Sorj, stated their caravan’s objective (to observe the leaders of Dolcinth and discern whether they were favorably, unfavorably, or neutrally disposed toward Thalnon), and discussed the possibility for improvisation in their mission.  They were not to harm the citizens of the villages they inspected, even if they were caught; but in Pavius’s document of orders, there was no prohibition of violence in the empty regions apart from the cities.  It was at this point in the conversation that the men lowered their voices, and Sigeas alerted his mother of their purpose.  She heeded the news and directed their route toward Dolcinth’s coast the following morning, informing her son that the country did not hold a prominent coastal city.

Three months later, the family drew near to the border between Dolcinth and Glaciath.  It was midday, a time ripe for traveling; but Sigeas’s mother was beginning to find that her body wearied quickly and often.  They rested beside a stream that slithered toward the blurred eastern coast.  The young man helped his mother sit on a puff of grass atop a balding dune, and he plopped beside her.  While they sat in silence and took sips from a rigid waterskin, Sigeas scanned the territory around them.  He always feared and anticipated the appearance of a Thalnion caravan on the horizon; he feared for his potential failure to defeat his enemies, and anticipated the brawl so that his thirst for vengeance might be sated.  Not a soul drew his gaze, but to the northwest, he espied a fortified city with granite buildings.

“Mother, do you see that? What city is that?”

She glanced over her right shoulder, though it was obvious that she did not need to look.  “That would be Eclam, my son.”

“Eclam?” His eyes widened, and he turned his attention to the city again, as if to assure its existence.  “Wait, you mean, the Eclam?”

“Yes, the Eclam,” she replied, her voice hesitant.  “You know, I think I could go on another—”

“Why are we sitting here when Eclam is a league’s walk away?” Sigeas’s entire body adopted an animated quality, and his normally droning voice became lively.  “Eclam is the city of the Birthender Mages.  We can go there, Mother, and you can rid yourself of that wicked thing in your stomach!”

“Wicked thing?” Her eyebrows furrowed, and she set a hand on her stomach.  “Wicked? How can you judge this baby so quickly, Sigeas?”

He turned to her, astonished.  “How can you not? Mother, a wicked man destroyed our town.  His people wrecked our home and knocked me unconscious.  And he took advantage of you.  There is no good in him; there is only a lust for control.  He got everything he wanted, Mother, including you.  And now you are carrying his baby.  If you go to Eclam, you can get rid of this reminder of him, once and for all.  I’ve heard that the spell they cast does no harm to the mother.”

“So you would destroy this child’s life, simply to spite a man?”

“Of course not!” Sigeas stood and began to pace.  “This baby, he can become like the man who did this to you.  He can murder, and steal beautiful memories, and dominate as many women as pleases him.  If Pavius fails to accomplish his purposes in his campaign, then this baby of yours, Mother, can continue in his stead.  He can become more evil than his father ever was.”

“Or,” his mother said, rising to her feet with some difficulty, “or, the child can save the nations.  The child can reverse everything that Pavius has done.  The baby can grow to be a hero, and can bring hope to the hopeless.  My child can refuse to walk the path of the wicked king, and can become a model of compassion and love.  These are possibilities as well.”

“Why would you take a chance, Mother?” Sigeas’s eyes were now frantic, and his gesticulations emphasized.  “With such an evil father, how could he be anything but evil? Even though you’re a great mother, malice runs in Pavius’s blood.  I’m not sure this baby, your son, can resist something like that.”

The woman shook her head, and a grin came to her lips.  “You refer to the baby as ‘he,’ though you do not know the gender yet.”

“That’s of no matter.”

She looked at him closely, as if seeing into the deep canals of his thoughts.  “Is it of no matter? You’re certain?” She waited for a response, but her son continued to pace, avoiding her eyes.  “Sigeas, would you leave me?”

He halted at these words and turned to her again.  “What?”

“A simple question, really.  Would you leave me, if trouble beset us?”

“Mother, I would never leave you.  Why would you ask that?”

She approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder.  Her eyes, fixed with seriousness, met his.  “That is how I know that this baby does not have to be like Pavius.” Tears squirmed to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, creating a trail in the sand plastered against her skin.  “At a difficult time in our lives, your father left me.  He had many commendable attributes, and I loved him; but he was also selfish.  And he left when he found the trials of our lives too taxing.  You have your selfish moments, Sigeas, but you are naturally a selfless person.  You protect others, and you help when you can.  And you do not flee when misfortune comes, but rather, you defend those assaulted by it.”

Sigeas blinked, awed by the revelation of his father.  “Father left you?”

His mother wiped her eyes.  “Come.  The day is young, my son.  We will speak of this another time.” She stepped down the side of the dune and continued south, toward Glaciath.  Her son, now in a stupor, took one last look at Eclam before following her path.

All light from the sun had disappeared, and Sigeas shivered.  He stood and dislodged his blade from the earth, then sheathed it and looked again at the Eternal Flame.  It continued to mesmerize him and draw him toward thought and memory; but then, in an instant, there was a flash and it disappeared.  He was taken aback by the abrupt blackness, and so he rounded the stones and found his mother drifting into sleep in the shelter, sitting before a small fire she had made while he was away.  He sat beside her and said, “Mother, the Eternal Flame just vanished.”

She nodded, her eyes overlaid with a web of sleepiness.  “Crel cast his spell in the year one hundred and twenty.” She roused herself by shaking her head and propping herself higher against the blanket.  “The fire disappeared and returned in the year six hundred and twenty.  This is the year one thousand, one hundred and twenty.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Sigeas admitted, baffled.  “Either it’s coincidental that we’re here, or someone above wanted this to happen.”

His mother chuckled.  “Indeed.”  She stared into the dark of the night, and then looked at her son.  “I’m going to give birth soon, you must know.”

“I do, Mother.”

“I know you don’t want this baby to live, but I’m giving birth soon, according to nature’s course.  And I hate to ask this of you, but you’re the only one who can help me when the time comes.”

“I’ve wondered when you would tell me this,” Sigeas responded, his voice uneasy.  “You’re right: I don’t want the son of Pavius to live.  But I know birth is complicated, so I’ll help to make sure you survive the process.  Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Very well.  I pray that your memory aids you when it is time.” She then proceeded to explain his duty as a midwife, listing some details he had hoped never to hear, and others that filled him with a sense of relief that he was not a woman.  They spoke late into the night, laughing at times, shuddering at others, and enjoying the company as the heavens became specked with stars of many hues and intensities.  The moon, matron of the night, radiated icy silver as it clambered through the sky.  As it neared its zenith, its round figure seemed to grow brighter and more prominent.  Soon it would cascade through the navy sheet and fall behind the mountains, giving rise to the warm colors of dawn.  The grasslands were layered with dew, and the land became so cold that Sigeas increased the size of the fire, and his mother put her support blanket to its primary use as warmth for herself and her son.  Their conversation on midwifery ended, and so they folded some spare shirts and placed them beneath their heads in preparation for sleep.  As they began to doze, Sigeas’s mother said, “Thank you for agreeing to help me, despite the way you feel about the baby.”

“You’re welcome, Mother,” he replied, drawing the blanket over his shoulders.  “You try and sleep now; you need your rest.  I love you.”

“And I love you, Sigeas.  Sleep well.” She managed to find a comfortable position and fell immediately into slumber, followed closely by her son.

It seemed that his eyelids had just closed when his mother released a cry that startled him. He leapt from the blanket with his sword drawn.  All was darkness beyond the fire, and there was no one to be seen.  He remained in a defensive stance for a moment, peering into the darkness; when nothing caught his eye or ear, he turned to his mother, who had thrown the blanket aside and had her hands clenched against the bottom of her stomach.  She breathed methodically, and her entire face was moist with sweat.  Her hair was more tousled than usual, and her eyes had grown large in reaction to blatant pain.  She stared at her son and nodded at him.  “It’s time.  The baby is coming soon.” She ground her teeth together so fiercely that Sigeas feared they might split to their roots.  “Listen to me.  Remember what I told you about your dagger?” He nodded.  “Go!”

He grabbed their traveling bag, raced around the edge of the boulders, and tore a gnarled branch from one of the young trees nearby.  He laid its tip in the fire for a moment, his feet fidgeting as his mother screamed again.  When the branch had accrued a small flame, he left the camp behind and dashed to the southeast.  She had told him of a stream wending between the hills somewhere in this direction, but he could scarcely see anything over a yard beyond his torch.  He had gone some distance when his mother screamed a third time; the fact that she could be heard from this distance worried him.  Any predator, man or beast, within a mile would not find it a difficult task to follow the trail of cries to the helpless woman.  Sigeas’s heart drummed as he pictured some fiend coming upon her in the night, an image that sent him back to that evening nine months ago.  He charged on, faster, until he heard a gurgling sound to his right.  He whirled toward the din and nearly tripped over a cord of stones that lined one side of the stream.  Then he sheathed his sword, knelt down, wielded his dagger, and dipped it into the frigid water.  The current carried away the muck that had bonded to the blade; once it was clean, Sigeas took one of the few unused rags from his bag and further sanitized it with several meticulous strokes of the cloth.  He rose, turned from the stream, and sprinted back toward camp.

Following the sporadic cries of his mother, and the route he had made in the previously untrodden grass, he found his way to the shelter.  The woman had not been disturbed as he had feared; in fact, amidst her pain, she had managed to ready the surroundings, and herself, for the deliverance of her child.  He fell to his knees on the blanket and cast the torch into the dew-covered grass; then he set his dagger well away from them, but within reach.  He turned his attention to his mother, took a breath, and asked, “How long have you been like this?”

“About two hours before you awoke,” she muttered between her teeth.  “It didn’t get very painful—until the moment I yelled.  Short contractions here and there.  But—they became longer.”

Sigeas sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded.  “Yes, then it sounds like you’re ready.  I hope you told me everything I need to know.” He looked at her face, red with strain, and his heart throbbed in sympathy.  “You can do this, Mother.  You’re strong.  It’s time to have your baby.”

Maps

This post is devoted to maps that may be useful for my various fantasy fiction stories.  Click on the titles to see each story's respective map.

Renaissance

The Prophecy: The Quest for Vengeance

Remember: These maps were drawn (poorly) by Kory Labarga.  No one is permitted to claim them as original to himself or herself, except for the aforementioned artist.

Happy Halloween! 1

Here is a story I wrote in 2005.  Please forgive the immaturity of it all, as I was only 16 when I wrote it! So begins the first tale in a series that should reach its conclusion in 2019.  There are footnotes throughout the story, as there are several references to my childhood or to pop culture.  Enjoy!

CHAPTER 1 

Jonathan Legcheese yawned as he awoke.  The golden light that rained heavily through his window nearly blinded him, and he grimaced beneath its glow.  He blinked his eyes, allowed his other four senses to kick in, and then he smiled.  Today was October 31^st, and everybody knew what that meant.  Elated, he slid off the side of his bed gracefully like a snake, as if he had no bones in his body.  He just lay there for a few minutes, grinning and planning what he would do today.

When he finally rose to his feet, he examined his surroundings.  His walls were pink, but he didn’t care.  When his friends laughed at him and called him a fruit, he demanded that pink was by far the coolest color in the world.  Nailed into the walls were numerous shelves painted bright purple, aligned with toy ponies that had long, glistening hair.  He liked ponies.

Jonathan yawned again and walked to his mirror.  He was only 15, but a full beard drooped from his chin like an icicle.  He thought it was the awesomest thing ever.  His nose was huge; indeed, people often asked if he kept his spare change in there.  Above his honker, stretching across his lower forehead like a long strap of Velcro was his massive unibrow that he was so fond of.  His hair reached up, up, ever upward toward the sky, like expiring rosebushes praying for one last drop of water.  And his ears….Well, his ears will be left alone for now.

He left his room and entered the family room.  Now what he expected to see was his family hovering around numerous boxes of Halloween decorations.  It was a tradition of theirs to get up early on Halloween morning (even if it was a school day) and put up decorations in their front yard.  Instead, he found his mom reading the newspaper (upside-down, I might add) on her recliner while the news blared on the TV, spouting some nonsense about a talking horse in Oklahoma.  The smell of muffins wafted out from the kitchen, but the scent was not of the Annual Pumpkin Muffins for which his dad was so famous; the smell was that of regular, boring muffins.  His dad walked into the family room from the kitchen, saying something about having misplaced his apron.

“What the heck?” Jonathan remarked loudly.

His dad turned and looked at him.  “‘ey, Johnny boy!  You’re up early for such a normal day!”

Jonathan frowned.  “Did I oversleep? Isn’t it Halloween?”

His dad raised an eyebrow—well, his entire eyebrow.  “What in your great uncle Horace’s name are you talking about?  Hittin’ the shrooms again?”

Jonathan peered out the front window.  “What the mother? It looks like any other average day!”

“Didn’t I just say that?” His dad began to fume.  “Are you callin’ me a liar?” “That’s it, I’m gettin’ the belt.”

“No!” Jonathan’s mom shouted, restraining her fuming husband.  “Johnny’s just playing, right Johnny boy?”

Jonathan looked at his parents helplessly and then turned away and ambled back to his room.  On the way there, he glanced at a calendar hanging on the wall.  It was clearly the month of October.

When he reentered his room, something felt different.  He grabbed a bazooka hanging on his wall and loaded it with a heavy shell.  “All right,” he said.  “Whoever you are, get the heck out of here.”

“Dang it!” yelled a voice.  Jonathan cocked his head to the side as Michael Jackson crawled out from under his bed.  “You have to ruin everything, you know that?” asked the plastic black-white man.  “We’re through, you hear me?”

Jonathan shrugged and put the bazooka back on the wall while Michael Jackson left his room.  He sat down at his desk and turned on his computer with a 42” screen.  After bringing up the correct program, he visually-called[1] his best friend, Stanley Pharmacist.  When Stanley answered, the computer showed his face.

“Hey, Stanley,” Jonathan greeted him.  “What’s today?”

“Ith October 31tht, you thilly gooth,” the kid replied with a terrible lisp.

“Exactly! And October 31^st is…”

“Oh, ith your birthday?” Guilt swept over Stanley’s face.  “Dang it! I can’t believe I forgot again!”

“No!” Jonathan’s brow furrowed.  “It’s Halloween!”

“Hollow-what now?”

Jonathan punched the screen, and blood began pouring down his hand like a waterfall.  “What’s going on here?  Today’s Halloween!”

“You’re juth being a thilly gooth, thilly,” giggled Stanley.  “Did you take thothe Prozacth again?”

“No, Stanley,” Jonathan drawled.  He clicked the Esc button and stared at his bleeding hand.  “What is going on?  I know it’s Halloween!  How can everyone forget the best holiday ever?  I have to figure this out.”

He tapped his fingers on his desk, spaced out for a moment, and then returned to the family room.  “Mom,” he said, “I want you guys to stop this.  It was funny for about one billionth of a second, but then it just got stupid.  I think including Stanley in your little joke was going a bit too far.”

His mom looked at him with disappointment.  “I thought I told you to take your pills last night.  You know you can’t function properly without them.”

Jonathan sighed.  “Mom, this is really dumb.” He laughed.  “Ok, I laughed.  Happy?”

His mom raised an inquiring eyebrow.  “You really don’t think it’s just another normal day?”

Jonathan nodded.

“Well, walk around the neighborhood and check for yourself,” his mom suggested.

Jonathan cursed and left his house.  It was slightly cold, just as it was every year on Halloween.  Leaves were scattered across peoples’ front lawns and the streets, and the sky overhead was unambiguously blue.  The rising sun’s light was creeping over some hills to the east, flushing into the Vacaville Valley and creating a beautiful panorama.  As Jonathan walked, ice crystals were emitted from his mouth with every breath he took, dancing around like mists in a thin fog.

He soon came to the house of his former girlfriend, Awana Humphfree.  When he rang the doorbell, she answered the door, and he was taken aback by her beauty.  Her spiked hair had been dyed as red as blood.  Her face was long and furry like that of a Cocker Spaniel.  Facial hair jutted from above her upper lip.  One of her eyes was green, the other blackish-hazel.  Her ears were festooned with heavy earrings shaped like walruses.  She was extremely emaciated, not weighing a pound above 75 pounds.

“Johnny boy,” she breathed, blushing.  “It’s so nice of you to drop by.”

“Aw, shucks,” replied Jonathan, averting his eyes to a pebble on the ground.  He toed it without thinking.  “I like your hair.  It’s…red.”

Awana laughed, snorting in the process.  “Can I help you with something?”

Jonathan chortled pathetically.  “Um…what’s the date?”

“It’s October 31st, you silly goose.”

“Yes!” He got excited.  “Yes, October 31^st! And what holiday falls on the 31^st of October?”

The girl scratched her head.  “Um…what? There’s no holiday today, Johnny boy.  Believe me.”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes.  “Did my family make you do this?”

“Do what?” Awana asked innocently.

Jonathan shook his head.  “Never mind.”

 CHAPTER 2

On his way back home, a lady in her 80s approached him.  He tried to dodge her, but she had the speed of a wildcat and blocked his route.  She seemed to be very determined to halt him.

“What’s the problem, lady?” Jonathan asked.  “I need to get home, so move.”

“Is that the way you teenagers speak to your elders nowadays?” the lady asked with a slurred voice.  “In my day, elders was looked up to, like they was something special.  Now they just cast aside like spare pennies.”

“I keep my pennies, as a matter of fact,” Jonathan retorted proudly, puffing out his chest.  “One day, they’ll make me rich.”

“In my day, 200 pennies could make you rich,” stated the old woman, her voice still slurred.

Jonathan smirked.  “How long ago was your day, anyway?”

The lady smiled, revealing her radiant, toothless gums.  “In my day, we didn’t ask our elders how old they was.  If we did, oh boy, we’d get the whip cracked on our back.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes.  “Look, I really need to go, so if you have nothing important to say to me, can you please move?”

“Shut thy mouth and hearken unto me!” shouted the lady, her words suddenly controlled.  “Thou hast sensed these eerie change of events.  There is a reason for this.”  She pointed to the top of a hill in the east, where a black mansion stood below pregnant clouds and jangling lightning.  “If thou travel thither, then the solution to the problem thou seek will be thine.  Thither dwells the man Cornelius, and yea, he will deliver the answer to thee.”

“Two questions,” said Jonathan: “what the heck’s with the Old English you just decided to start speaking; and how do you know about this Cornelius guy?”

The lady scowled.  “In my day, we younglings didn’t ask so many friggin questions.  Now leave me, you silly goose!  Dang kids get in my way twenty-four-seven, I tell you.”

After he walked past her, Jonathan heard one last “in my day” behind him as he made his way home.

When he opened the front door, his parents were playing hopscotch with invisible squares they had drawn on the floor with their minds.  As soon as they heard him walk in, however, they stopped and looked at him with questioning eyes.

“What?” asked Jonathan.

“Oh, admit it,” his mom demanded.  “It’s just another normal day, and you know it.  Now stop acting like a silly goose.”

Jonathan pointed a dreadfully threatening finger at her.  “I’m gonna figure this out, or my name isn’t Colonel Sanders.”

“It isn’t,” his dad reminded him.

“It’s a simile.”

He strode into his room again and sat on his bed.  Somehow, his computer was on again, still showing Stanley.  The lisping kid apparently didn’t realize that he was being watched, and he was doing the salsa and singing, “It’s a Small World” through a fork/microphone to his pet goldfish, Dennis.  The goldfish’s name had always sounded familiar to Jonathan, but he could never quite recall what cartoon he had heard the name from.[2]  He shut off the computer and gazed out of his window.

The black mansion sat there, shuddering as thunder bellowed above it.  Lightning lashed at the black clouds, as if attempting to force them to cry onto the building.  Jonathan thought about what the lady said, and it slowly started making sense to him.  But his thoughts were interrupted when he heard: “Ith a thmall woold after all.  Ith a thmall woold after all.  Ith a thmall world after all!  Ith a thmall, thmall wooooooooooooooold!!!!!!!”

He turned off the volume on his computer and thought deeper about the ancient lady’s words.  Could it be possible?  Could this Cornelius guy have a solution to this strange event?  He was thinking about traveling to the hill, but then he realized how stupid he was being and said, “Crazy woman just wants me to run all over the place!  Well, I’m not gonna do it!”  He crossed his arms, sat for about 10 seconds, and then cursed and decided to talk to Cornelius after all.

After about 27 hours of walking from his house and up to the very top of the hill, he arrived at the mansion.  He knocked on the door wearily, and it opened by itself, creaking heavily.

“Dang Scooby Doo doors!” he yelled.  “They all open by themselves after you knock!”

He sauntered in, holding his bazooka at the ready.  He had one rocket loaded and another five sitting in the backpack on his back.  If anything tried to kill him, he was taking it down with him.  He made his way down a dark hall with many doors on either side of him.  All of a sudden, a door at the end of the hall opened, and a rugged man sprinted out, looking around in panic.

“Come back here, Saddam!” shrieked a voice.

George Bush dashed out of the same door and reached for the former tyrant of Iraq.  Unfortunately, Saddam opened another door and entered.  George Bush followed him, holding an AR34 Assault Rifle.

“I knew he was hiding in Vacaville all this time,” Jonathan muttered.

He looked around him, trying to decide which door to enter.  Finally, he picked a pink one and proceeded.

 CHAPTER 3

When he entered, he found a broad staircase that led up for as far as he could see.  Already tired from the 27-mile journey from his house to where he was now, the ascent seemed to take forever.  But when he finally reached the top, he was in a small, dark room on the top story of the mansion.  He staggered to a window and peered out, looking down upon all of Vacaville.

“It looks a lot more beautiful from above, doesn’t it?” asked a voice.

Jonathan swung his bazooka toward the voice and fired a rocket.  He noticed an old man on a rocking chair, who held out one hand with his palm—marked with a red “S”[3]—and muttered something.  The rocket disintegrated before it could hit him.

“Who is you?” Jonathan asked, frantically groping for another rocket.

“Stop making yourself look stupid,” ordered the old man, rising to his feet.  “If you keep shooting at me, I’ll just reverse the rockets’ paths.”

Jonathan loaded the bazooka.  “I-I’ll kill you!” he threatened, heaving the weapon onto his back.  “No old man’s gonna tell me what to do!”

“Apparently, you like listening to old people,” the man reminded him.  “Some of them are very smart.  Many young people just overlook their intelligence.”

Jonathan aimed.  “You say one more word, and I’ll put a circle the shape of Canada in you!”

The man rolled his eyes.  “Canada isn’t shaped like a circle, you idiot.  I can’t believe I have to help you here.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” Jonathan demanded.

The man sighed.  “I know what’s going on out there.  I know why you’ve come.  I can help you, and I guess I have to, since that’s what I do in my book.”

“What book?” Jonathan shouted.

“Put the bazooka down, Jonathan.  This isn’t World War II.”

“How dare you insult me!” cried Jonathan.  “Die!”

Another rocket was fired toward the old man, but he suddenly pulled a pendant[4] from a pocket and held it up.  Lightning lanced out of it and struck the missile, disarming it.  The same lightning zapped the bazooka from Jonathan’s hand and cast it outside a nearby open window.

“How long are we going to do this?” the man asked wearily.  “I think you should just accept that I’m going to help you, even if you don’t like it.”

“Fine,” Jonathan acceded reluctantly.  “But how do you know my name?”

“Because I made you up,” the man replied.  He hesitated.  “Forget I said that, and just listen to what I have to say.  Not many people live in the Vaca Mountains.  There are a few people here and there, but much of the land is unpopulated.  Also, there are numerous, uninhabited caves up there, but few know about them.  This one man, Professor Aponowatsomidichloron[5], realized this 10 years ago, and he journeyed into one of these caves with evil intentions.

“He found a spot at the end of one cave and started building this lab.  Using Einstein’s equation of energy equals mass multiplied by the speed of light squared[6], and some other equations that had nothing to do with what he later found, he managed to find how to make every person in one city or town think the way he wanted them to think.”

Jonathan gritted his teeth.  “I think you’re lying,” he accused.  “I’m gonna tell Grandma!”

“You have no grandma.  You only have two parents and a sexually confused half-girlfriend.”

“How do you know?” Jonathan jeered.

“Because I wrote you.”

“Screw you, old man, screw you,” said Jonathan, “and your flopping feet.”

The man looked down at his feet.  “I think they’re kind of nice.  Except that one with the toe that’s a little green around the edges.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened.  “The Man With The Green Toe![7]  Kory Labarga?  What the heck?  Everyone thought you had died in that plane crash!”

Kory sighed.  “No, people are just ignorant.  I even announced on Animal Planet that I wasn’t going on an airplane until I had finished all of my books.”

“No one watches Animal Planet anymore, just like hockey,” Jonathan noted.

“Some people watch hockey,” said Kory.  He rubbed his chin.  “No, never mind.”

“I’m sorry I shot those rockets at you,” Jonathan apologized.  “If I had known who you were, I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger.”

Kory was still staring at his feet.

“Are your feet really that interesting?” asked Jonathan.

“No, I just can’t stand your face.  Why did I make you so ugly?”

Jonathan sulked.  “So why did you tell me about that professor?”

“You’ve noticed that it’s October 31^st, and that people think it’s just a normal day, haven’t you?”

Jonathan nodded.

“Well, Professor Aponowatsomidichloron used his invention to make everyone think that.  And since you’re the only one who knows that today is Halloween, you have to go to that cave and destroy—well, whatever is making people think the way they’re thinking.  You’ll know it when you see it.”

“What about the old lady?” Jonathan inquired.  “She knows what day it really is.”

Kory looked at him with a confused countenance.  “Old lady? What are you talking about?”

“An old lady told me to come here.  She said I would find the answer to why everyone thinks it’s just a normal day.”

Kory’s expression transformed from confusion to fear.  “That is rather disturbing.” There was silence for a few moments as he fell deep into thought. “Whatever.  What’s important is that you fix the madness that is going on in the town below, before it spreads.  Look, you can’t succeed on this mission by yourself.  You’ll need companions.”

Jonathan hopped up and down.  “You’re coming with me!” he exclaimed joyfully.

“Are you stupid?  I can’t come with you!  I have to finish my current book.  Plus, my hips aren’t what they used to be.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jonathan remembered.  “So who are you talking about?”

Kory whistled sharply.  “I’ve written so many books that I’m now able to take some of the things I’ve thought up and bring them to life.  See, this red ‘S’ on my palm is just like the one on Sage’s when he pulls the Sword of Legends from the slab of limestone.  And the pendant in my hand is the actual pendant from that book I wrote with my friend in middle school.  On your journey, you’ll need companions familiar with traversing through caves and mountainous terrain.  And so to you, I give these allies.”

Strangely, six creatures walked into the room from a door in response to Kory’s whistle.  The first in line was a pumpkin with arms and legs.  The second was an actual ghost wearing a blue button-up shirt.  Behind him there was a witch with green skin, hovering on a broom.  Fourth in line walked Frankenstein’s monster, his arms held out menacingly as usual.  A pitch-black cat followed him, its tail flicking here and there.  And last in line was a dark bat with sharp fangs, fluttering its wings elegantly.

“These are the Halloween Friends[8],” Kory introduced.

“Oh, I remember them!” Jonathan cried.  “I actually read this book of yours before!  What was it called again?  Oh yeah: ‘Happy Halloween!’  I loved that book when I was a kid! You wrote it back in 1997, if I remember right.  Oh, that was a good book.”  He looked at the six friends.  “But please, forgive me.  I’ve totally forgotten your names.  What are they?”

“Pumpkin,” said the pumpkin.

“Ghost,” said the ghost.

“Witch,” replied the witch.

“Frankenstein’s monster,” responded Frankenstein’s monster.

“Cat,” said the cat.

“Bat,” answered the bat.

“Good names,” Jonathan lied.

The Halloween Friends stood behind him.  Kory looked at them proudly.  “Seven companions,” he said.  “So be it.  You shall be the Fellowship of Halloween![9]”

The companions cheered wildly.  But Jonathan stopped early and looked at Kory.  “I have one more question before we leave, Mr. Cornelius.”

“Go ahead,” Kory permitted him, trying to avoid the boy’s ugly face.

“Why has everyone been calling me a silly goose lately?”

Kory was startled by the question.  “Well, just look at you!” he said.  “You are a silly goose.”

 THE

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[1] At the time of this writing, things like Skype and Facetime were new or nonexistent, respectively.  “Visually-called” was my attempt at capturing the idea of two people communicating on a visual level between two computer screens.

[2] This is a reference to a popular children’s cartoon that began in 2001, called Stanley.  In the show, the main character  has a pet goldfish named Dennis, with whom he often consults about matters that confuse him.

[3] This is a reference to a novel I wrote in 2005, called The Prophecy: The Quest for Vengeance.  In the second book of the trilogy, the protagonist, Sage Zaedrum, ascends a mountain filled with numerous trials that he must overcome.  When he reaches the top, he pulls a sword from a small island in the center of a mountaintop lake.  Power surges through his body, and he falls to the ground.  Proof of his empowered status arises when skin on his palm is magically removed in the shape of an “S.”

[4] This is a reference to a novel I wrote in 2002, called The Pendant.  In this book, the two protagonists—Blare and Chris—find a pendant that is imbued with awesome and terrible powers.  One of its abilities was to use lightning to defeat its user’s foes.

[5] Note that this long name ends with “midichloron.” Though misspelled, this was intended to reference the microscopic midi-chlorians from the Star Wars universe.  These tiny life forms, if existent within a person, permitted him to channel the Force.  That these life forms are present in the name of my story’s antagonist implies that he has access to power.  But just as is true of the Force, any individual can use power for good or for evil.  Our antagonist chose the latter.

[6] Also known as “mass-energy equivalence” in the special relativity branch of physics.  In this concept, the mass of any given system, multiplied by the speed of light squared, is equal to that system’s energy content.

[7] My “green toe” was a senseless joke that I told to my friends around my neighborhood when I was a kid.  I often said things like, “I don’t know, I think I’m a pretty cool guy…except for my green toe.  That thing is a problem.” I assure you, all of my toes are perfectly normal in color.

[8] These characters are from a story I wrote circa 1997, called Happy Halloween.  In the story, the six companions face various random adventures such as getting lost in the mountains, stumbling into a cave full of bears and advanced technology, being rescued by birds on the edge of a cliff, and escaping from the house of their next-door neighbor (who so happened to be a kidnapper).

[9] This is a reference to the movie, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring.  In the movie, Frodo chooses to travel to Mount Doom to destroy the evil Ring that Sauron (the story’s antagonist) crafted.  After meeting with a council in the safe haven of Rivendell, it is decided that Frodo shall travel with eight companions.  The lord Elrond, a sort of leader-figure in Rivendell, says, “Nine companions.  So be it.  You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!”