Doom: Beyond the Veil of Shadows

2

HARBINGER

As my mother and I retreat from the bustling town square, 'how-ye-dos,' goodbyes, and Cyrican blessings are exchanged all around, as routine and accustomed as the ticking of a clock. The faith-fearing men linger in the tavern all afternoon, while the women flit between parties like bees to blossom, some discussing the execution, others the local happenings and weekly gossip. But most have better things to do.

"Divine light protect you," villagers mutter their praises homeward bound. The road back is frozen hard in the cold, and the church bells are heard from as far away as Silmouth, sounding across the waters of the bay. The voices of townsfolk ripple around me anxiously: One must pray our soul-path leads to Heofon, Mrs. Cobb says. Will death finally bring the Elder George peace? The blacksmith mutters. Firenlust, sounds like fairydust! Timothy Dawes delights, while his mother beseeches, Oh Cyric, protect me from evil, morn' til night!

"May that grimy hen's teeth rot, no clod will be ensnared by her wicked wiles now." My mother surmises—very tall and robust in her tight-laced court frock—walking up ahead in the company of Matron Briga and the Widow Demelza Morris. I hang back to regard the trio.

It is curious how, after a stoning, the townsfolk's expressions lighten in relief of delivered justice. I consider the tightness of my chest and my fatigue before flicking my eyes to my elders. The relief will do little to ease Demelza Morris, who I fear may not have long left. More than once, I have asked my mother about the woman's age, but she is not exactly certain either. One need not look at Demelza for long to conclude she is very old. Old enough that time now seems beneath her notice, and she'd spend a good deal of it doing whatever nonsense she pleased.

"Ha! A smile full of gums won't stop a fool from falling headfirst into a maidens' thighs. Best they charm while they can, teeth or no teeth!" Demelza replies. Don't be mistaken, the Widow is the churchly sort, in a sense, but unlike those seeking enlightenment; she seeks the Sandman. On occasion, you can hear her soft snoring within the pews, or—in quietude—her daughter nudging her just to ensure she is still alive.

"Is that how you snagged your late husband?" Mother asks with a smirk, flashing her gums, all bawdy.

"Aye," she replies deadpan. "That, and chains. Man never stood a chance."

"Come now, enough of your tall tales." A voice interrupts.

Matron Briga, in comparison, is well-abled, meticulous, and strong, practically a religious paragon. She works respectfully within the Cyrican, keeping books on the villagers' tithes, attendance, and scripture handling in the vestry. Her mouth is startlingly small and downturned, causing her to appear perpetually discontented and disparaging. However contrary her exterior, the matron is kinder than most.

I eventually sink into step beside them with a polite smile. "Good morrow," I chirrup, knitting my fingers in front of me respectfully.

"A good woman, your mother, Maeve," Matron Briga says, eyeing me with a solemn nod. "First to arrive. Why, the Heofonweard was pleased to have such a fervent following amongst you both."

"Is that so?" I respond with polite indifference, casting a brief glance at my mother, considering the former truly.

"Well, what of thos' doddering? Donning my Cyrican best, lookin' churchly and serving." Delmeza presses, a saucy smile, "I've fashioned a beaver shawl, does that count for nought?"

"Hm. A fetching colour of boot wipe." My mother gibes. 

Matron does well to ignore them both.

"Amel has blessed us with another fine day. It might still be midwinter, but the chill has eased," Briga smiles, squinting up into the cloudless blue afternoon. The sun blushes the entire rim of her bonnet, as if the celestial realm is within touching distance.