The Humanarium.

Chapter 2. Beyond the Sight

Chapter 2.

On further reflection, I believe the species to be from another planet; although how they came to be here, I have no knowledge. I am unable to comprehend their language.

Although worried, Harl didn't find any guards waiting for him when he arrived home. The cottage was silent and lonely. Shadows from the dark cycle clung to the walls like unwelcome guests and the only light seeped through the windows from torches in town, reflected in the sight.

Troy's family had taken Harl in after his parents were lifted, so no one had cared for the cottage until he came of age. The passing cycles had taken a toll, leaving the place desperate for repair. Rain had rotted the exterior, while wood worm had gnawed at the roof beams until the timbers had fallen in on themselves to leave a gaping hole. It looked as though the One True God had smashed his fist down into Harl's home.

He had intended to rebuild it, but the more time he spent there, the more the crumbling walls and rotting timbers seemed to whisper of his past life. He saw ghosts everywhere, ghosts of his parents, ghosts of himself, ghosts of the man he might have been if his parents had lived. The pain was too much for him and he had no wish to haunt the place until the end of his time.

He collapsed on the porch and cradled his head in his hands. Troy had tricked him into drinking far too much again. The world was a distorted mess and his fragile mind was struggling to make sense of it, but his thoughts kept running over events at the Spear. What would the priest tell the Eldermen? Would he tell them everything? Harl could well imagine him running to them and relating his tale in a breathless rant hoping to currying some favour. It seemed much more likely than him staying silent.

Or would a guard pay Harl a visit in the dark cycle and silence him forever? A quick slice from a cold knife and he'd no longer trouble the Eldermen.

Something rustled in the nearby shrubs. He stood, wobbling on drunken legs as he tried to see through the darkness and then staggered down from the porch, plucked a stone from the ground and hurled it at the bushes. A chicken squawked, flapping out from the shrubbery in a panic as it fled into the darkness. He sighed and retreated to the bedroom, tripping on a loose floorboard as he stumbled into bed. He lay there panting as the room spun around him.

It was too late to take his words back now. It was in the hands of the gods. Let them judge him and be damned.

Light was already beaming down on the world when he woke on the next cycle. He clamped his eyes shut as the light lanced through him and dragged the covers over his head, moaning against the agony of his hangover. His mouth felt like it was coated with coarse grit.

It was Gifting Day. He could hear the sounds of the feast in the distant town, the lively music and laughter ricocheting around inside his skull like a thousand discordant bells. He pressed a pillow against his head and lay there as the muffled sounds continued to assault him.

When he staggered out onto the porch some time later, he found Troy waiting for him.

Troy was leaning back in a rocking chair with his legs propped up on the handrail that ran along the edge of the porch. He waved and grinned. When he saw Harl wince at the light, he laughed and pointed to a small earthenware jug on a table next to him.

'I brought you a cure,' he said, tapping his head with one finger. 'A mug of Harkins will soon ease that delicate head of yours.'

Harl slumped onto a bench next to him and shook his head. Troy ignored him, poured some ale into the mug and shoved it across the table.