Re: Offerings to the Dead
Posted: Tue Jun 11, 2019 6:24 pm
The Ghost Town • Brunnhold
in the afternoon of the 9th of bethas, 2719
The effort of concentration was wearing at his unpracticed, already-strained attention span. Being honest, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could make it. He felt something different and new – something like a presence, a sense of weight, something he imagined was somebody else’s mind – but couldn’t tell much about it; he’d expected that something else would happen, something more concrete and accessible to his own senses, and felt faintly disappointed. And hungry for lunch, come to think of it.
Then he began to feel that something was wrong. Just focusing on the ant was becoming a labor worthy of a Magister, and so he squinted, grunted, shifted in his seat – then found himself shutting his eyes, massaging them with his fingertips. There was something familiar about this feeling, but he couldn’t pin it down well enough to examine it.
Tom reckoned it was like if you’d been holding onto a thing for months, for so long that you’d forgotten you could put it down, and then somebody tried to pry your fingers off of it one by one.
He swallowed against a wrench of nausea in his gut, trying to force himself to move. Stop, he tried to say, call it off, call the little stopclockers off, but his jaw was locked, the muscles twitching; he managed to squeak something garbled between his teeth, but his throat felt paralyzed. Everything that was holding him upright had turned to water, and he sank to his side, shuddering.
Vrunta, he thought, I ain’t going to be outside, I ain’t going to forget – when I lose this one, I’ll just take the lad’s and go from there—
But he thought less and less.
He knew the watery, smeared place that was calling him back. The dormant, bare-armed trees, the little ants and skinny-legged birds, the still-blooded frogs burrowed deep in sleep – shivers of warmth in the sightless dark. If he touched them with his heart, they’d begin to die. But he’d want them, he knew; he already did. He’d need to draw everything warm into him, to embrace it until it was dead to the roots and could give him nothing more. His borrowed blood had become as sluggish as the frogs’. There was something else warm in the phasmonia, something that breathed and thought and possessed a soul, and he coveted it suddenly with a starving man’s rage.
But then the pressure ebbed. He wrangled himself back around his stranger’s body, fist full of dead grass, hissing between his teeth. As he tightened his grip on his old bones, he could feel his muscles relaxing, twitching. Becoming his again. And it was as if he’d crawled back into his own head – or somebody else’s – and he wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking about, or why; he wasn’t sure of much of anything.
His ears were ringing, and he wanted to keep his eyes shut, but he heard a voice calling for him. How long had it been calling? He pushed himself up and looked around him, but it was like looking through a dirty pane of glass. His right eye wouldn’t stop twitching and fluttering.
Silhouetted by the bright sky, a blurry, dark shape swam into focus – a young man’s face, framed by black hair. “Ezre?” The name came out slurry. “What’s the f-fuckin’—what’s happened—?” Slowly but steadily, he dragged himself upright, sitting with his back against the tree. His stomach lurched, though, and he braced himself, clamping a clammy hand over his mouth. The dirt and the stones and the bushes, the little round houses, all seemed to melt underneath that impossibly bright sky.
Tom swallowed, trying to calm the nausea. He waved a hand. “S’fine, I’m fine,” he grunted, “fine, ’s’all—clockin’ Circle. Don’ need help. Jus’ goin’ t’go back t’the Stacks an’ then—” He gagged on the word, swallowing thickly again. He blinked owlishly up at Ezre, wiping a tear away from his right eye.
“Ezre, an’ what about – are y’ all righ’?”
Could’ve sworn there was something different, some anxious susurrus stirring underneath the skin of the moment. It was a hell of a moment, though, and to him, the whole air sang of shock; if he felt anything, it was swallowed up by the thunder of his pulse in his ears.
Then he began to feel that something was wrong. Just focusing on the ant was becoming a labor worthy of a Magister, and so he squinted, grunted, shifted in his seat – then found himself shutting his eyes, massaging them with his fingertips. There was something familiar about this feeling, but he couldn’t pin it down well enough to examine it.
Tom reckoned it was like if you’d been holding onto a thing for months, for so long that you’d forgotten you could put it down, and then somebody tried to pry your fingers off of it one by one.
He swallowed against a wrench of nausea in his gut, trying to force himself to move. Stop, he tried to say, call it off, call the little stopclockers off, but his jaw was locked, the muscles twitching; he managed to squeak something garbled between his teeth, but his throat felt paralyzed. Everything that was holding him upright had turned to water, and he sank to his side, shuddering.
Vrunta, he thought, I ain’t going to be outside, I ain’t going to forget – when I lose this one, I’ll just take the lad’s and go from there—
But he thought less and less.
He knew the watery, smeared place that was calling him back. The dormant, bare-armed trees, the little ants and skinny-legged birds, the still-blooded frogs burrowed deep in sleep – shivers of warmth in the sightless dark. If he touched them with his heart, they’d begin to die. But he’d want them, he knew; he already did. He’d need to draw everything warm into him, to embrace it until it was dead to the roots and could give him nothing more. His borrowed blood had become as sluggish as the frogs’. There was something else warm in the phasmonia, something that breathed and thought and possessed a soul, and he coveted it suddenly with a starving man’s rage.
But then the pressure ebbed. He wrangled himself back around his stranger’s body, fist full of dead grass, hissing between his teeth. As he tightened his grip on his old bones, he could feel his muscles relaxing, twitching. Becoming his again. And it was as if he’d crawled back into his own head – or somebody else’s – and he wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking about, or why; he wasn’t sure of much of anything.
His ears were ringing, and he wanted to keep his eyes shut, but he heard a voice calling for him. How long had it been calling? He pushed himself up and looked around him, but it was like looking through a dirty pane of glass. His right eye wouldn’t stop twitching and fluttering.
Silhouetted by the bright sky, a blurry, dark shape swam into focus – a young man’s face, framed by black hair. “Ezre?” The name came out slurry. “What’s the f-fuckin’—what’s happened—?” Slowly but steadily, he dragged himself upright, sitting with his back against the tree. His stomach lurched, though, and he braced himself, clamping a clammy hand over his mouth. The dirt and the stones and the bushes, the little round houses, all seemed to melt underneath that impossibly bright sky.
Tom swallowed, trying to calm the nausea. He waved a hand. “S’fine, I’m fine,” he grunted, “fine, ’s’all—clockin’ Circle. Don’ need help. Jus’ goin’ t’go back t’the Stacks an’ then—” He gagged on the word, swallowing thickly again. He blinked owlishly up at Ezre, wiping a tear away from his right eye.
“Ezre, an’ what about – are y’ all righ’?”
Could’ve sworn there was something different, some anxious susurrus stirring underneath the skin of the moment. It was a hell of a moment, though, and to him, the whole air sang of shock; if he felt anything, it was swallowed up by the thunder of his pulse in his ears.