Shepherd of Thunder

The Weight of Ember

Calista groaned in pain as she awoke in her bed. Her family was considered lucky to own wooden frames raised off the ground, instead of sleeping on the floor as most of her fellow sheepherding villagers did. Still, the wool-stuffed mattress was uneven and gave her back annoying pains every morning. The sun was just beginning to shine through the half-open door, making her squint tightly. It was essential to let fresh air in at this time of year, otherwise the one-room home would grow suffocating to be in. She then remembered pieces from several hours earlier, in the middle of the night. Her father, Konlan, had woken her so Calista knew he was going to run after sheep that had escaped their enclosure. "He must have taken Tillan," she thought to herself. Her brother's bed stood opposite hers, the covers a mess. Their father never allowed them to go a morning without making the beds tidily. He always lovingly told them that owning such a luxury must he appreciated and cared for every single day of their lives. Seeing Tillan's messy bed told her he must have woken and left home in a frantic hurry, though she didn't recall hearing them leave. A hint of a smile crossed her face as she gazed at her father's hastily made bedcovers; something he surely would have scolded his children for doing. Some habits never die. 

She vaguely remembered protesting that she come too, but her father insisted someone stay to look after the farm. Calista indignantly retorted Tillan could manage it fine, but she and her father both knew he'd be as capable of doing that as a splintered broomstick. 

Calista slept so late but didn't know why. She slowly sat up and stretched her knotted back, suddenly recalling flashes of her dreams the night before. She shuddered. Her mind filled itself with vivid images of the monsters that had been inhabiting her nightmares for years. She never knew where such beings could possibly exist, or why these horrors lived inside her head. She'd never seen a monster before with her own eyes. Some of the nightmares followed the same patterns. She was a little girl in many of them, running and hiding from the black abominations assailing her. Some of them had no faces, others owned no eyes but had rows upon rows of teeth. Their bodies could open up and swallow prey twice their own size, paralyzing their victims with claws laced in painful venom. She had to strain to forget the banshee screams that they made, eager to devour her soul.

In other dreams, she was lying still on a table. She would always see the same man standing over her, wearing a doctor's mask over his face. She would hear the whir of some machine, though she never knew what it was. She'd look down, covered in her own blood. Body parts and organs surrounded her everywhere. Dismembered arms, legs, and fingers were strung up from the ceiling, while shelves against every wall were lined with jars of preserved organs: hearts, brains, eyes, intestines, and teeth. The smell of brine and pickling solution mixed with a combination of decay and purifying alcohol filled her head. She felt so scared, and the intense pain that always felt a little too real would make her want to scream, though something kept her from doing so. A man cloaked in shadow stood in the back corner, watching with great interest, his eyes haunting and hungry. Another man, very distraught, was crying uncontrollably.

She was used to having such dreams, as they had grown with her from the time she was a child. Calista knew to dismiss them as nothing more than her brain trying to protect itself and survive from a past that was long since buried. She placed both feet on the ruddy floor and scratched her arms, which always itched a little in the morning time. Her tattoo scars had healed years ago, but they seemed to relish nagging her even into adulthood. A constant reminder of who she had, unfortunately, been born to be. The precise patterns of lines and circles covered most of her body, never allowing her to forget the truths of her real parentage. She felt her throat tighten ever so slightly as the first prick of tears began to blur her vision. Calista resolutely stood up, refusing to uselessly ruminate on things that had no bearing on her current life. She walked towards the dresser with all her family's clothing. She'd spent most of her teenage years wondering how much of her dreams were memories, and how much of them were her brain supplying fictional details to help process the difficulties of her early life. She became frustrated never knowing how much of her own mind to trust when it came to such things, so the little shepherd knew to dismiss the dreams entirely. The truth is, she'd probably never know. What mattered now was the family that had chosen her– not clinging to the one that tried to doom her.