These Old Bones

11-1

11

He remembered this feeling as though it were only yesterday that he and the other boy entered the Hissing Marshes. The foreboding. The feeling of claustrophobia, despite being, for all intents and purposes, out in the open. That tight, ominous clutching at the chest as he breathed in the thick, fetid swamp air. He felt it then and he felt it now, only this time he wasn't a young lad on the cusp of adulthood, falling foul of the fears and and visions instilled in him from fireside ghost stories.

Now, a grown man who had seen more than his fair share of horrors, knowing that ghosts were not real and that fireside stories of horrors and evil seemed tame in comparison to the real horrors and real evil out in the wider world. He still felt the constriction of his throat, the dryness in his mouth. The uncontrollable shaking of his hands.

After only five minutes in the Marshes, they had seen the first signs of what the swampland had to offer. A lone skeleton, still articulated, reaching out from the marsh waters. Strips of ancient, desiccated flesh clinging to bleached white bone, a snake slithering between the ribs of its chest. An ancient, rusted sword remained forever out of the skeleton's reach, standing almost upright, rising from the waters as if teasing the skeleton with the chance to fight back against whatever deadly menace had taken its life.

Every so often they would pass larger pools of deeper water where large bubbles would rise to the surface, bobbing upon the still waters until it would pop, releasing a foul smell in a hiss, giving the Marshes their name. And each time a bubble burst, either Viriili, Tiera, the horses or all of them would flinch and jump at the sibilant sound. Even Brorzjav, himself, gripped Notch tight at every burst.

At one point, they passed a piece of ground, raised higher than the rest of the surface, where they found the remains of a cobbled road. An attempt to maintain a useable passage to the lands beyond and to the Akaean Sea. Now, a derelict reminder that the swamp brooked nothing of permanence.

"Old man." Viriili called, her voice flat and devoid of energy, the mists silencing everything. "I do not feel well. I should practice."

Indeed, the girl's face seemed to lose colour even as he looked to her. They could do nothing for her here. This was not the place to stop and play the dance of the sword. Not for her ability to fight, nor for her attempts to control the uncontrollable. He knew the training only put off the inevitable. He knew that now. No amount of practice, of learning control, could stop the emergence of the girl's 'invisible hand'. He had failed the girl.

"We can't stop here, girl." Although he did stop, taking the reins of the horse from the girl and tying them to the saddle of his own. "Just do your best. Concentrate on that feeling. Control it. It's your 'gift'! You choose when it emerges."

"Just focus, Vee. Let your legs do the walking. You have one thing you need to do. Just focus on that one thing." Tiera joined in, but the look she gave him said everything. She, too, feared they had not prepared the girl enough.

Brorzjav knew it wasn't the heroic thing to do, but he prepared himself for what he may have to do. If the girl showed any sign of her 'gift' emerging, she had to be away. Alone. He wanted to be there for her, to give comfort and support to a frightened child in her moment of need, but he also needed to care for his own life, and that of Tiera. Not to mention the horses. He remembered the priestesses and the cart horses from when he found Viriili. He didn't intend dying like they had.

Every so often, the mists would shift and they could see further ahead. The fog opening and closing, giving glimpses of what was to come. More twisted, moss covered trees. More tufts of long grass rising from the waters. And more water, stretching ever onward as far as the eye could see. And then the fog would close in again.