Airel (5 page)

Chapter IX

1250 B.C. Arabia

A tall, cold marble god stood in the snow-driven wind, wrapped in fur and leather. He did not shiver or move as he gazed out from the precipice of a stone cliff that dropped dizzyingly below him. The frozen landscape moaned in protest as the wind pushed stiff tree branches and pulled on strands of long dead grass. It was as if he was not present in that moment—or perhaps he was dead on his feet—frozen in the standing position, only a statue; a carving of someone once strong and brave.

He inhaled the icy air and let out a cloud of vapor that was quickly carried away. His eyes were dark and sparkling under his thick eyebrows. His face was pale, smooth, almost white. Even in the frigid morning light he seemed to be quite comfortable.

A feather of smoke hurried from the top of the small hut behind him. Across the wooded hills, through the trees, a thousand more huts sent up their own smudges of smoke, signifying that life was still smoldering in the little village. Even with the long winter only halfway gone, the people took heart in the simple fact that they were not alone in the dead world. They would not suffer through it in miserable solitude. The human heart could endure much in the company of others who shared the same plight. 

The powerful man cocked his head when he heard a woman’s pathetic cry escape from the hut behind him. He turned, walking toward the rough door, his easy strides giving him an air of self-assurance. He ducked inside and lashed the door shut with a leather strap. 

The one-room hut was drafty, even with the door shut. Cold air pushed its way through cracks into the room. A makeshift bed sat in the corner and a fire crackled in the center of the room where it jumped and leaped, fighting to displace the cold with its warmth.

An uncommonly beautiful woman lay in the bed, in labor with child. She was covered with a blanket made of skins. Her face was twisted in pain, but even in her anguish she was stunning. The fire filled the room with an orange light that danced off the walls.

The man pushed the hood from his head and leaned down, placing a gentle kiss on the beautiful woman’s cheek. His wife forced a smile, then arched her back and bit her lower lip as another contraction wracked her body. The contractions were getting stronger and closer together. The baby would soon arrive. All the pain of labor would be forgotten, if only for a little while. 

Taking a black pot from the fire, he placed it next to where she lay and let his coat fall to the floor. He wore rough hand-stitched leather pants with a white woven shirt that tied at the chest. His skin was hard and stony. 

Even in the dim light, faintly visible markings could be seen on his forearms and on the side of his neck, winding their way in and out of his skin. They appeared to be tattoos, but were more like a birthmark. They appeared in the firelight and disappeared with the shadows. 

The man took a cool piece of cloth, placed it on his wife’s forehead and smiled with concern hidden behind dark eyes.

He hummed a soft melody and worked with skilled hands, tearing strips of warm cloth with which to wrap the baby when she came. She…he had a feeling the baby would be a girl. Something deep inside told him that she would be special, too. He longed for a daughter, longed for the child to be a girl. His wife cried out again and looked directly into his eyes. He knew: it was time.

Pulling the blankets back, he waited as she pushed with a shattering scream. The wind answered her with a burst, shaking the room. She was in her second day of labor and the effort and strain on her body was beginning to show as her strength faded. He wondered how much longer she could endure, but he said nothing, praying for it to finally end for her sake. 

She hunched, pushing so hard that she could not breathe for a moment. Then…cries… sweet, soft cries. The baby’s voice filled the small hut as mother and father looked into each other’s eyes, smiling. The baby looked impossibly small in his huge arms. He gently wrapped her in warm cloths, giving her to his exhausted wife. 

It
was
a girl! She was beautiful, with her mother’s dark wispy hair and the same dark eyes as her father. She ate for the very first time, then the little family gathered together under the warm blankets by the fire to sleep, glowing with the spark and joy of new life. 

For that one night in their little world, everything was perfect. 

Chapter X

He stood out against the morning sunrise. The tears that fell from his eyes took hold of the sunlight and sparkled like crystal. Looking down at the bundle in his arms, he pulled the smooth woolskin blanket back and looked into his daughter’s eyes. She was perfect. Her skin reminded him of his beloved bride. It was smooth and olive-colored. His grief came in a fresh and powerful wave again. Now she had her place amongst the stars.

He knew that even in his own village, he was an outsider. He still remembered how his kind used to be part of a civilization, a culture, a society. But they had been required to disperse, separate and scatter—because of the Brotherhood. 

They harbored the deepest hatred for anyone or anything different from them. They would hunt down and destroy anyone who resisted them. Everything about him and his kind was always exactly opposite to the Brotherhood.

The man had a name, but none could pronounce it in human tongue. The people of his village knew him simply as Kreios. 

The cold wind was whipping but dead, along with his wife. He felt all of it was forced on him with equally outrageous swiftness by the cruelest winter he could remember. He wished only to honor her, not to compare such empty things to one so full of life, warmth, and beauty. 

He dug a shallow grave in the rock hard frozen earth under the very oak tree where they had proclaimed their love for one another only five years earlier. He could still feel her heart in his memory, fluttering with anticipation. He had gotten down on his knees, poured out his soul, and vowed to love only her forever and into eternity. 

Now he poured out his soul once again, drowning it in her grave—and he felt the unjust spitefulness of a life lived in subjection to reality. He placed her cold body into the colder ground. Now, the snow made everything look clean and fresh, providing a bitter irony in contrast to what would be the last thing he would do for her. 

The baby cried and wriggled in his arms. Kreios turned and went back inside his mud hut, and shut the cold out with a
thud
. He wrapped his daughter tighter in the warm skins, put her in his own bed and lay down with her. When she fell asleep he rose again, restless. She would need milk soon. He knew where he had to go to get it. Two days walk from his small village was a town called Gratzipt. His brother lived there with his wife and she was with child. She would have the precious mother’s milk his daughter would need. 

Crouching down, poking at the fire in the center of the small hut, he tried to think. No matter how he looked at it, he would have to take her there. Milk was the only life source for a newborn child—nothing else would do. But there was not one mother in this village who would give suck to his little girl. Not in the winter and not for someone like Kreios. This village had written him off years ago. They were scared of him and his odd skin color. His strange ways. Even under the scorching summer sun his skin always kept its pale tone; never burning or darkening. Local myths cast him as a wizard or worse. 

Brother will take me in or I shall die myself. I will not let my sweet girl starve to death.
With the sure and steady hands of a warrior, he pulled on his thick heavy coat. He gathered all the scraps of dried meat, putting them, along with his few worldly possessions, in a leather pack. He took a sling and placed the baby into it, then hung it around his neck, carefully tucking her close to his chest under his heavy coat.

He tightened the thick leather belt around his waist in preparation for his journey, and walked out the door into the crisp winter air. The howling wind had subsided now, and he reflected on the change now undeniable in his life and that of his little girl, and felt an overriding peace—if even for a moment.
It is you and me now.
 

He thought about the long walk that lay ahead and the chance that the Brotherhood might be watching the roads. She had no chance of making it for two days. She needed to eat within the next few hours. He knew she would be dead by the time he reached his brother’s village if he delayed any longer.

It will draw out the Brotherhood and would violate the pact.
“I must,” he said simply, into the thinning winds. In this statement, the future, with all its potential for good or evil, seemed to be encapsulated. 

Kreios shook his head heavily and padded silently through the snow toward the road with the village to his back. In about one hundred paces he would be in the woods, under cover.
They will know—they have eyes everywhere.
He did not bother to argue with himself further. There was no use fighting nature. For his beautiful child he would risk his life, as well as that of his brother, if that was what was required.

Kreios reached the edge of the wood. The forest had been named for the small and remote village it hemmed in, the place he had called home for ten years now: The Whispering Wood. The Storytellers had said that God would whisper truth to travelers there if they had a pure heart. But no one had ever claimed to hear the voice of this God. In this world, no one had a pure heart.

Looking around him, Kreios turned from the crude dirt road and trudged off into deeper snow, through the dormant undergrowth, into the forest. He could feel his baby girl breathing softly as she slept next to his skin. He knew she would be warm. The cold would not reach her there. 

DO NOT DO IT!
His inner voice screamed at him, warning him not to provoke the Brotherhood.

He stepped into a small clearing. Kreios shut his eyes, calmed his nerves, forced himself to be at peace. He listened carefully and looked around once more for any watchers, scanning the bleakness of the wood for a lone traveler, perhaps a merchant caravan traveling on the road far behind. After a moment, he satisfied himself and was certain that he was alone. 

He looked down at his hands. They began to radiate; an internal glow cast itself against the bright snow behind. Turning his eyes upward, he bent into a crouch.

Kreios shot straight up into the sky and turned west, speeding as fast as a shooting star. All around his body the air waves formed the appearance of wings. Light trailed him as he shot across the sky.

Chapter XI

The wind was bitter cold. It sliced, knife-like, at the thick coat that covered the baby girl Kreios was holding tight to his chest. He touched down, soundless in a heavily wooded forest. He was just outside of Gratzipt, his brother’s village.

Stealing a glance at his daughter, he couldn’t help but smile and breathe her scent in deep. He was relieved and his heart calmed some when he saw that she was sleeping soundly. 

It had felt so good to get back into the air! Flying was like a drug–with every draw the feeling grew stronger and more intense. With each flight, he could feel his need and hunger for the experience grow and, unlike any drug—it filled him with power.

He could feel a thousand chilling stares arrayed around him like weapons. His flight to Gratzipt was like a torch in the night to the Brotherhood, and he knew that he would be followed.
What choice have I been given? Am I to watch my daughter perish? Am I to bury her in the cold ground as well?
He did not know how they knew when his kind took flight. He did not know what mystic connection his kind had with the Brotherhood, but it was deep and unbreakable. He could feel blackness coming for him. 

The Brotherhood had one goal—the destruction of the Sons of God. 

Kreios remembered having lived in peace, walking the streets, dodging happy children’s games, listening to the sounds of their laughter. It had been safe. He and others like him were able to live unhindered, free. It had been so long ago…the memory was a vapor in his imagination. He sighed heavily. 

He walked through the trees with smooth steps. His eyes closed partially as he looked around using his senses, aware of every creature that moved about the forest, every breeze. His ears heard the icy, subtle movements of the air and the muffled hard-packed crunch that his moccasins made in the snow as he walked.

Quaking aspens and ancient redwoods loomed above him as he came to the natural boundary of the woods. Beyond, the sky opened up into a long valley. In the summer it would have been filled with lush grasses, teeming with life. But winter held it firm within its clutches and nothing stirred; it was deadly quiet. 

He scanned the small village of Gratzipt. It was not much different than his own. Quaint mud huts with thatched roofs dotted the valley randomly. Smoke rose from every one of them; the only hint of life or movement. At the center of the village, there was a much larger structure with a spire piercing the sky. It was the temple. 

The temple, the marketplace square, and some other town buildings were built from hewn trees that were stripped, cut to length, and shaped. They fit perfectly together. This construction method had been proven in the most adverse conditions. The town would come together whenever it was time to erect a new building, laboring together. The small huts that surrounded these meticulous buildings were far less glamorous.

Kreios was a family-oriented man and to him, that was all that mattered. His brothers and sisters, grandparents, uncles and aunts had settled in places far from here. He never saw any of them, though, because the danger was too great. That was the difficult part.

He made his way out from the forest to the main road that ran through the center of the village. Stones had been spread on it by the villagers to keep mud to a minimum in the rainy season. Since it was so cold, not many townsfolk wandered outside. The few that were outside cast a glance at him and hurried on through the cold, looking away. This answered his unasked question: no one here was willing to help a stranger.

“We are almost there, baby,” Kreios whispered. “You will love your uncle. He is not as strong and handsome as I am, but he is a good man.” Straight ahead, the temple spire rose into the sky. It had large wooden doors set with heavy bronze handles that put a strange face on it. Glass windows were built into the walls, which were a radical innovation to the humans at that time. 

The people of Gratzipt had discovered a large deposit of iron in one of the valley walls some distance from their village. Lightning strikes were a regular occurrence in that spot during summer storms and with that regularity they tested all kinds of materials against it. Soon after they discovered what the intense heat did to sand and they began heating it in their brick ovens to make glass without the aid or limitations of lightning, shaping it at will. Glassmaking became a viable trade, and Gratzipt the merchant hub for the various products that could be made from it.

Kreios knew his brother had been involved in the discovery of this process. He was the chief glassmaker artisan in the village. Kreios, in his own turn, was the master of wisdom in his village. The people would come to him in much the same way the people from the old tales had come to Solomon. Because of his enormous past, he, like his brother, knew things no human could know. They had to be very careful as to how much of their gifts they would reveal. If the people saw too much, they would become frightened. Soon after, rumors of witches or seers always spread–like wildfire.

The baby wriggled against his body and cooed, cutting him right to his heart. He loved her more than he could have imagined possible. She was only a few days old, but the love he already felt for her seemed to be as old as the earth. He hurried his steps. She needed to eat, and soon.

Kreios saw the medium-sized hut to the east of the temple and walked directly to the door. Before he could knock, it opened and a dark haired man with the same features as Kreios stood in the doorway. There was a smile on his face and a hint of concern in his eyes.

“Welcome, my brother, and come inside. I have been waiting for you.”