Page 28 of To Scale the Emerald Mountain
On one page was a small drawing of cattle grazing in tall grasses, penned in by a wooden fence covered in blooming honeysuckles. In the background you can make out a small house with smoke billowing from a stone chimney.
The picture is captioned as ‘The Great Plain of Dhystros.’ No artist’s signature. I’m enthralled by the picture, completely awed by the talent it took to get such great detail into such a small, colorless picture.
Finally prying my eyes away, I watch as the dawn sun crests the horizon. I stretch wide, the red leather book still in my hand with a finger between pages, marking my place. Rolling my neck from side to side, it gives a satisfying pop. Stealing one last quick glance at the picture, I close the book and carefully set it down.
I ponder on the differences between that picture and what the Great Plain of Dhystros looks like now, with a new name and no life, now the desolate Plains of Ire. Closing my eyes, I see them so clearly in my head, as if I’ve beenthere before. Nothing but littaweed for endless miles, so thick that you can barely walk through them.
The weeds inflame your blood vessels and the red cells flowing within. A nuisance in small doses, the thick concentration of the Plains of Ire is too much, making you go mad trying to scratch an itch you will never reach. Some people will scratch and scratch, creating holes in their own flesh, digging down to their bones trying to find some relief. The urge is far stronger than the pain of destroying your own body. Special leathers and masks are required to pass through those endless fields for even a chance to not succumb to the itch.
Most agree it’s not worth the trouble.
My eyes sting with tiredness, and I know I will regret not going to my cozy new room to get more sleep, but my racing mind would not have allowed it even if I had tried. After my perusal of the journal, my mind has slowed and calmed considerably. I think about laying back to rest my eyes when a heaviness takes my mind, and my upper lip breaks out in a sweat.
In a second, I know what’s coming and try to remember anything I can about what Nana tried to teach me about control—but the vision comes on too quickly.
Darkness takes me.
Ringing calls to me in the distance.
Chimes of the large bell atop a stone tower just visible above the trees sing in time with palm leaves swaying in the fierce wind. The bells are meant to signal the time, but tonight it’s more like an omen.
My red cloak whips around my ankles, nearly snagging on my stiletto heeled boots, as I walk with purpose. My stride is undeterred by the sudden energy of discontentment.
It’s as if the air itself has come alive in warning.
The wind picks up and briny sea spray makes it from the shore in the angry gusts. I increase my pace to match, hoping to reach the seedy tavern before the rain arrives. A bolt of lightning illuminates the ominous sky, immediately followed by booming thunder.
“Fuck.” My high voice cuts through the galing wind.
My quick pace becomes a sprint in a race against the storm. The shapes of short stucco buildings with scalloped roofs come into view as the rain starts to patter on and around me.
The tavern is on the outskirts of the city, the rickety sign readingSyren’s Covewaving in the wind of the oncoming storm. Long, rusted chains holding either end of the sign squeak. I reach out a deep caramel hand; my fingernails are painted as crimson as my cloak. I open the torn screened door, damaged to pointlessness for keeping the relentless mosquitos and horse flies out.
The bottom falls out of the sky as the pitiful excuse of a door slams back behind me, bouncing twice before settling in its rotten frame.
The tavern is busier than usual with patrons seeking to escape the storm and using that as an excuse to find their ‘syren’ to warm them. Five shoddily partitioned rooms are conveniently for rent by the half hour in the low-ceilinged attic upstairs for anyone willing to endure the stifling heat to find their momentary pleasure.
The place stinks of stale sweat, smoke, liquor, and sickly-sweet sex.
The feminine back of a cloaked person sitting at the end of the bar catches my attention. I roll my eyes exaggeratedly at the covering, black as the void, with the hood drawn. At the clasped hands on the bar counter, covered in equally dark leather gloves.
Making my way to the empty seat next to her, I plop down on the stool. “Really, all of that is not necessary, my dear—“
“Don’t,” a raspy voice cuts me off. “Don’t say my name.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes again “Even more unnecessary.” Signaling the barkeep, I tell him, “Rum,” when he hobbles wordlessly to us.
The keep wipes a glass, sliding it across the bar with flourish before reaching behind him for a bottle. He goes to pour when I grab his wrist. “Tut-tut. You know better. I’ll take the bottle.” I flick a gold coin at him with my other hand, and he catches it against his chest.
The keep nods and returns to his original post, closer to the door.
“A man of few words. Is that why you chose this place?”
Throwing back the contents of my glass, I relish the delicious burn of alcohol and the warmth of it hitting my belly before I turn to my companion and smile.
“A man of no words. He lost his tongue many years ago. And he can’t read or write. It would take a lot of effort to get anything of value from that one.”
Winking, I pour another drink.
