By: Herenicus Posted on: October 30, 2004
The priest and his daughter lived alone in a comfortable, one-room house on Fish
Street. Though painfully quiet at night, during the day the sounds of the
bustling street outside made the house feel like home again. On those long
nights whilst the priest would sit at his desk, deep in thought, his daughter
would entertain herself beside the fire, playing make believe. Since becoming a
widower, her stifled giggling and bright eyes were his beacon, guiding him
through those lonely nights and giving him hope for better days to come. One
day his normally healthy girl stumbled up to him wan and pale. Seeing his
concern, the girl asked, "Father, what's wrong?" A mixture of fear and
confusion gripping at his heart, the father replied, "My dear, look at you.
You're not well, you must lie down and rest." Her brow knit with youthful
indignation as slumped against the wall and shot back, "I am -not- ill! I am
perfectly fine!" Fear and anger mixing in his tone, the father ordered his
child to bed and called for a doctor.
Within the a matter of minutes, a local doctor arrived at the house. After
looking over the girl, the doctor paused for a moment and glanced up at the
father, suspiciously. Taking him aside, the doctor said, "I don't understand.
Why did you call me here?" Surprised, the father replied, "Just look at her!
She's getting weaker with each passing day!" The doctor lowered his voice to a
terse whisper and cursed, "There is nothing wrong with her! Now you've
interrupted her rest and wasted my time." With that, the doctor gathered up his
things and stormed out. The father stepped back to his child's bedside and was
dumbstruck by the weakness he saw. Her bright eyes had become glossy,
listlessly casting about to random corners of the room. Worst of all, the
father thought to himself, was the fatalism that permeated her every move, from
the way she began to weakly resist the food he would offer her, to the blank
stares she would drift into for sometimes hours on end. At night, he stayed up
with her, keeping a vigil at her bedside, uttering prayer after prayer in hopes
of her renewal.
The girl remained in bed for the next several days when the father decided to
call for a bishop. Ruminating upon the doctor's harsh words, the father
wondered how this spiritual healer would respond. When the holy man arrived at
his door, the father gathered up his courage and let him in. The bishop stepped
inside and his eyes were immediately drawn to the bedridden child. With
measured steps, the bishop approached the girl, and with smile asked, "My
child, how are you feeling?" The girl turned her eyes up to him and replied
flatly, "I'm a little tired, m' Lord, but I feel fine." The bishop placed his
hand upon the girl's fevered brow and nodded, smiling. Stepping away from her
bedside, this faint smile twisted into a scowl as a small vein rose up and
throbbed at his temple. Taking her father by his arm, the bishop hissed, "What
was the point in this? Your daughter is perfectly well; her symptoms are not
uncommon." A wave of despair passed over the father's face as he returned, "But
you've seen her face, you've touched her skin. Please, sir, you must believe me!
Surely you see how ill she's become." With a shake of his head, the bishop
countered sharply, "Nay, it is thee who is ill! You lack any faith in your
child's recovery." Muttering angrily to himself, the priest snatched up his
things and stepped out into the warm night air.
The hours turned into days, and still his child showed no signs of improvement.
Desperate for aid, he decided to take her to Ashtan the following morning, where
he hoped he might finally find a cure for her wasting disease. Stepping to her
bedside, he hardly noticed the thick, rotting smell of stale sweat that had
soaked through her bedclothes and into the mattress. "Get up!" he ordered,
looking down at her pathetic form, "We're going after help." With enormous
effort, her feeble arms shaking violently, his daughter managed to lift herself
up off the mattress. Once he had dressed her for the road and arranged their
gear, the father put his arm around her waist and held her upright. In this
fashion, the pair stepped out onto Fish Street and started walking.
It wasn't long before the girl began to stumble, tripping over even the
smallest obstacles. Her father stooped to support her, trying to keep her
standing, keep her moving. Friends and strangers stopped them in the street as
they made their way towards the gates. "You fool!" they cursed at him, "You'll
ruin her recovery! Have you gone mad?" With grim determination, he acknowledged
this possibility to himself, but thought, this last chance at redemption was
better than standing by hopelessly, watching his child fade and die.
As they made their way up the Raphaelian Highway, their uneven footsteps caused
the small clouds of dust to swirl upwards into the air, where the gentle breeze
would mold them into intricate, flowing patterns before falling back into the
dirt once more. His breath coming in sharp, ragged draws, he struggled to guide
his child moving forward until, with a groan, she slumped to the ground, her
eyes lolling back in her skull. Panicked by fear, he stooped down and lifted
his daughter up and slung her across his shoulders. His eyes locked ahead, he
started staggering forward, putting one exhausted foot in front of the other as
the weight of his daughter and all their equipment pressed him tight to the
ground.
As he pushed down the lonely road, he tuned his ear to the sounds of her raspy
breathing. His mind sought comfort in distant memories of his wife, standing
beside one another as they lowered their girl into her bassinette. Stumbling
onward, his thoughts would drift between these pleasant memories and the
uncertain future. His parched lips cracked into a smile as he pictured the
woman she was to become: strong, beautiful, and resolute, just like her mother.
He shook with fright when his daughter violently convulsed, falling from his
shoulders to the ground below, her stomach heaving in a vain attempt to expel
food that was never there. With horror he watched as she turned her jaundiced
eyes upon him, her blood-flecked lips drawing back into a sanguine mockery of
her innocent smile. "Don't be afraid," she mumbled, "I'm feeling better..."
Tears filling his eyes, he seized hold of his child and put her across his
shoulders once more. Frantically racing against time, he left most of their
supplies laying in the road, hoping to cover more ground. He soldiered on, her
uneven breathing echoing in his ears as his weary muscles strained against the
torture he was putting them through.
Making their way north, the distant sound of children and the splash of water
became audible. The father mumbled to himself, "I must be nearing Delos," as
the sounds of the rushing river grew louder. Within a matter of moments, he was
standing on the bridge, gazing out mournfully at the beauty surrounding them.
Children were frolicking in the shallows, striking their hands against the
surface of the water, causing it to leap forward at their friends on shore.
Sunbeams glinted across the ripples on the water and reflected off the smooth
stones lining the bottom, the hypnotic interplay of light drawing the man into
rapt attention. The moments passed until he came to his sense with a jump and
began moving west towards Ashtan once more.
As he trudged onward under the beating sun, the sounds of the river slowly
receded, replaced by the plodding sounds of his own footsteps. Stopping for a
moment to adjust his clothing, the man was struck by the oppressive silence
hanging in the area around him. His hoarse voice came in a whisper as he turned
his head back to where his daughter was splayed across his shoulders, "My child,
did you enjoy the water?" Not expecting a full answer, he waited patiently for a
groan, anything. The man continued walking in the silence, broken only by his
labored breathing and his heavy footfalls. First ten seconds passed, then
twenty and he trembled, his heart racing in his chest. After thirty seconds
with no response, the man began shaking, his knees buckling as he fell forward,
his daughter tumbling onto the ground.
He could tell from the way she fell. She landed at an awkward angle, her small
hands making no effort to break her fall. Like a sack of potatoes, the child
fell forward until her face smashed into the earth, the small stones tearing at
her face. With a numbness creeping across his body, the man reached out to
gingerly turn her onto her back. The man gasped with horror as she rolled, her
head tilting back and her mouth gaping open. Her eyes gazed out from her skull
with a lifeless expression, her brow torn raw by the force of her fall.
The heated voice of the bishop rang through his mind as the man stood there on
the road. "Lack of Faith!?" he screamed out at everyone and no one. The light
of his life had flickered and died on his shoulders, and no amount of "faith"
would bring her back. The man could feel a primal rage beginning to grow within
him as the noonday heat beat down upon his weary shoulders. He thought of the
doctor, of the townspeople, of everyone who accepted her slow decay as
normalcy. He thought of their simple expressions and simpler platitudes and
thought to himself, these bleating fools are more like sheep than men. How
could they be so blind?
As his soul raged with fury, the heat of the sun seared his mind, causing an
intense, even affectionate, expression to cross his face. Bending down, he took
hold of his child's lifeless arm and pulled her to her feet before throwing her
corpse across his shoulders. His eyes roving madly across the landscape, the
man cried bitterly to himself as he tenderly caressed her cool cheek. A thought
broke in upon his madness as he started walking again, "Since she stopped
struggling, she's become so much easier to carry."
Thus he continued down the road, making his way slowly towards Ashtan. His
child's corpse hung down from his shoulders, her head bouncing gently against
his arm with each step. The hours turned into days, as the man finally drew
near to his destination. The air around him hummed with the eager, beating
wings of a thousand flies. Vultures circled overhead, attracted by the pungent
smell of decaying flesh. Brave crows would land upon his daughter's corpse,
tearing away bits of flesh in their sharp beaks before taking off into the air.
Turning his face to view his daughter, a deranged smile upon his face, the man
said tenderly, "Don't worry, dear, we'll find someone who can restore you."
A cold gust of wind brought the man back to reality. As eddies of frosty air
whipped past his body, he pulled his tattered robe tightly around him. The man
gazed about him as if for the first time and realized he was completely alone,
sliding into madness, and holding the rotting corpse of his dead child in his
filthy hands. Falling to his knees, the man began to weep bitterly, his
shoulders shaking with emotion and despair.
With a start, he heard a stranger's voice echo nearby. "Cast her down," came
the booming voice from the roadside.
He cast his eyes about, looking for the source, when a cloaked figure slowly
materialized before him. The figure gestured towards his tear-streaked face
with a bony finger. "You have suffered long and it is time you sought strength.
Your sentimentality betrays you. This girl is dead yet you permit her to burden
you."
The man quivered as he turned his head to face his daughter's corpse. Where her
flesh was exposed, strips of had been gnawed away, revealing gleaming white
bones underneath. The polished gleam of her skull haunted the man as he
recalled a similar hue on the bishop's robe. The man began to laugh with pain
and anger, feeling a spark ignite within his being. The laugh turned into a
scream as this spark grew and kindled within him, the fire smoldering deep
within his soul. With a sneer, the man threw her body to the dust. Seeing this
the cloaked figure smiled, placed his hand upon the man's shoulder and pointed
westward, to Mhaldor.