Sephtis

27. A curse hangs upon this village.

The water is warm from the sun, and churning with mud and bubbles. I feel the canoe bump against my hand, and then I move upwards towards the light, He grabs me from behind, pulling me back into the water with him. I struggle, and when he bring me up with him he is laughing. He bites my ear, not as gently as the wolves, before kissing it. We stand, our toes buried in the soft mud, watering running off us like liquid bronze.

"Seven days you have, is that fair wolf-woman?"

"It is fair." I say nodding, though wondering if it really is. He lets me go, and I start looking for the canoe. It is floating near full of water, and the paddle is no where to be seen.

"Do not worry, I will rescue it later. In the mean while lets cool off and kiss some more."

"Your kisses will hardly cool us off," I reply.

He swims over to me, wrapping his arms and legs around me and pulls me back into the water, where no prying eyes can see us.

The men come out of the village, and one of them calls to Eleutheros. He releases me and walks up and out of the moat, the lengthening shadows caressing him, nearly swallowing his milky white body. The children appear, running through the gates laughing and teasing him, so he does a crazy dance in front of them, making them scream with laughter. He has disappeared through the gates by the time I come out of the moat, dragging the canoe. The children stare at me in silence, and their fathers tell them to go inside, the women too, are outside, watching me. Eleutheros and I are the last home, but no fires have been lit yet, and no smells of cooking hang on the air. Suddenly I am afraid. I jog past the staring people and go into the kings house.

It is dark in here, for the fire is dead. Horiki and the priest stand silently, a part of the shadows that cling to the walls. I look at Droug's bed; it is empty, his furs lay in disarray, dragged across the earthen floor. Then I see Him. He is collapsed forward, on his knees, and the ground all about him is bloody, and the blade of his sword comes through his spine.

I sit huddled in my sleeping furs, tormented by the smell of moldy fur, hunger and thirst, and sufferings far worse. It is late in the night and as I sit at the top of the stairs I see the fire roars and Droug lays beside it, straight and calm and with his sword, cleaned and now shining, laid along his body with the hilt on his chest. He is naked, like a warrior gone fearless into his last battle, his bearskin cloak covering his lower half, hiding his undoing. Jewelled bands are about his throat and arms. Black fur is underneath him, and his hair is clean and streaming like silk. His hands are folded upon his breast, resting on the hilt of his sword. Splendid he is, with the fire light dancing over him, dancing over a king about to embark on his last great journey, his eyes open, seeing things beyond what we could ever comprehend.

They have forbidden me to touch or be near him, so I say farewell to him in my thoughts while others sing laments and tell great stories of his time upon this earth. Eleutheros sits between two aged warriors, and does not come to me. No one speaks with me, and when they glance my way, it is with bitterness and contempt.

They sing a triumphal song, telling of a world beyond the funeral pyre and flames, a land of beauty and peace where people dwell side by side with the gods. In that place there is no death, only continual life - without suffering or grief. I look at my fallen father who's eyes, gaze so steadily and tranquil, and imagine that my mother too lay like that, staring so steadfastly into the beyond, those so many seasons ago. The song finishes, and Taaroko stands, preparing to speak.

"There is a solemn business to be done," he says, "Before we utter our last words of our king, and sing our last farewell. There has been a great shadow cast upon this place, a shadow that has grown unchecked over time, a curse which we must deal with before we bear our king to the funeral pyre, before he rises in the wind and spreads his ashes over us. We cannot receive that honor, nor his blessings until we rid ourselves of the evil in our midst."

People begin to mutter, and a great terror seizes me. Taaroko is handed a leather bag, from which he takes a small hanging bowl of incense, and charms made of human hair, and threaded with the teeth of wolves. He lights the incense and waves it over the people. The smoke is sweet and sickly, and as it creeps towards me up the stairs I cannot breathe as it surrounds me. I watch him pace back and forth, reciting secret words that will protect the village, and all the people whisper their agreement as my ears strain to pick up what is being spoken. My heart bangs like a drum; there is a ringing in my ears and my throat is dry like sand. Then he stops at the foot of the stairs, and calls to me. The house is silent as death, and my body moves of its own will, moving low to the stairs until I crouch before him. I look to Eleutheros, his head is bent, and he gazes at his hands. My eyes then find Merikh, his face is alight with a foul grin, the light cast by the fire is dancing through his hair, and shadowing his eyes, creating a dark pool of nothingness, a pool which I feel myself being unwillingly pulled into.

"I have identified the wickedness, the evil that curses us," Taaroko says. He has put down the swinging incense, and only the charms are in his hands, which he is waving over my head. "The evil of the wolves has tangled with the spirit of our own, it has touched our king and caused his death. The curse is here in the slave."

"That is not true!" I sign. "The kings tragedy was no doing of mine! I went out that night because Morag ordered me to. She knew where I was, knew where I had gone, yet she lied to our king. There was no need for him to come looking for me, but she never told him that, and so he went, and all this grief has come of it." My limbs are shaking, my eyes itching and burning from the smoke that still hangs heavily in the room.

"You say the fault is Morag's?!" The priest cries, "but she loved him!"

"She loved him when he was well and strong, not when he was sick and ailing. That is not love."

There is a disturbance in the back of the room, and Morag stands. Her voice is high, passionate as she points at Droug's body, her hand shaking. "I loved a warrior!" she cries, tears pooling in her eyes. "I loved this man- this man who lays now wrapped in black and gold! I loved him, and when he was injured, weak, and weeping like a child, I grieved and could not bear to look upon him. It was my grief that drove me away, not a lack of love! And how dare you, wolf-woman, sign of love? Your love is dangerous. You said you loved our king, yet look what has befallen him! Your love is a love that wounds, it is fatal, and deathly close to the savagery of the wolves."

"It is also devious," says another woman, also moving to stand. It is Sehara. Eleutheros looks up, his face lined, his brow tense. Sehara is not emotional; she speaks very softly, and it is her voice that chills me, more so then Morag's.