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  ABSENCE

  Whispers

  and

  Shadow

  by

  J.B.Forsyth

  Copyright © 2016 J.B Forsyth

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1530819806

  DEDICATION

  For Sarah, Jake, Leo and Sam, from whom I’ll never be absent.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Lindi for all your support. Without you, I’m sure this book would still be languishing in a dusty computer file.

  King

  He approached The Reader, feeling its heartbeat fill his body with an unearthly resonance. Time was short and his sanity; nothing more than a loose garment that could slip from him at any moment. Over the last month he had surfaced from his madness with lessening frequency, the way a drowning man might break the surface of a lake - each strangled gasp for air weaker than the last. And this was perhaps his last breath of sanity before he went under forever.

  He had dismissed the enclosure guards and ordered them to wait in the gatehouse until he returned. Nevertheless, he went forwards with haste. They had done his bidding without question, but their unease was palpable and it wouldn’t be long before they returned with some higher authority in tow. He scanned the walls as he walked. It was a moonless night and only the cold light of stars and the low flames of several oil lamps challenged the darkness. To his right Irongate Tower overlooked the enclosure. Two balconies jutted from its curved wall: his own and Lord Riole’s. He studied the lower of the two and was reassured to find it unoccupied. Lord Riole favoured his balcony when he had something to turn over in his mind and could often be seen there until late. Thankfully, this wasn’t such a night.

  To his left, beyond the north wall, loomed the Cragg - the last peak of the Joebel Mountains. Half way up its sheer face was the Caliste: the black fortress the exorcists had built into a natural cavity. There were no lights on its battlements tonight, but the green glow of mistlamps waxed and waned in several windows. He stared up at the brooding edifice; wondering if a pair of sleepless eyes was looking down at him now. A pair of eyes to bear witness to what he was about to do. But he decided he didn’t care. It was a risk he was prepared to take, had to take – for tonight was probably his last chance for a private reading.

  As he drew closer to The Reader he felt himself shrink. There were no changes in his physical dimensions - just a sense of miniaturisation that rendered him humble and weak. He stopped at the Threshold of Consciousness: the point beyond which The Reader’s eyes would be upon him and its mind inside him. Although tonight he was sure it was thinking about him already – that it began scrutinizing him the moment he set foot in the enclosure. Perhaps, he thought, it even knew what he intended to do.

  He looked at the jumble of rocks between The Reader’s feet and in particular the one they called The Reader Throne; for it was upon its seat shaped nook he was expected to sit in six days’ time. Fifteen times The Reader had deemed him worthy of the throne: on the day of his selection and on every anniversary since. But he didn’t think it would allow him to sit there again. He was a different man to the one who sat amongst the boulders nearly one year ago and as he stood there now, he felt shame break out on his skin like boils.

  He tipped his head back, sweeping his eyes up The Reader’s shadowy frame until they found the huge jewel that hung around its neck. It was a thing of impossible beauty – a flawless stone that shone with tiny specks of light and the iridescent mist that swirled between them. It was said The Reader had drawn the jewel across a night sky; capturing an ancient constellation. His younger self had dismissed it as a childish story, but whenever he looked into it from this close, he wasn’t so sure.

  The jewel took control of his eyes now, adjusting his focus time and time again; allowing him to see through layer after layer of superficial stars, to those shining at its heart. And as it drew him in, the mist filled him with its promise. What that promise was, no one knew. But it was always there; its understanding forever on the brink of crystallisation.

  His troubled mind was instantly soothed and he was tempted to just stand there and drift into an anodyne hypnosis. But he had a higher purpose here tonight and wouldn’t allow it. He wrenched his eyes from the jewel and looked up at the colossal jut of The Reader’s chin. Then, after several deep breaths he stepped beyond the Threshold of Consciousness.

  The Reader flexed its neck to look down at him and its face was a black moon, eclipsing a large patch of star studded sky. Its mind swept into his – a scorching scrutiny from which no part of him could hide. All at once he felt like turned earth – as if the deepest parts of his character were being dug up and spread out under a bright light. His legs buckled and his heart spluttered; his whole body urging him to flee.

  The reading felt like it was going on forever, though he knew from watching others his ordeal would be measured in seconds. The Reader sifted his mind again and again – separating it into finer and finer particles until he felt like a cloud of flour, floating through a beam of strong sunlight. When it was over and its mind withdrew from him, he looked up with terrible anxiety.

  A pair of blood-fire eyes ignited in The Reader’s shadowy face and glared down at him with fiery disdain. He was no longer worthy of the rocky throne and would not be allowed to sit.

  But it was no real surprise to him. The man he had once been was long gone and he was here only to verify what he already knew. His integrity and honour were threadbare and now his reading was over, it felt like he was unravelling. Madness was resurfacing, but it wouldn’t get chance to claim him again. With a suicidal resolve and a howl of despair he rushed forward.

  The Reader swung one of its great swords. It swished down through the night, cleaving him in two before he could set foot amongst the boulders. When the severed parts of him thudded onto the cobblestones it straightened up and settled back into its familiar vigil – staring out across the city with its swords by its side. The blood fire in its eyes burned out and its colossal visage fell back into shadow.

  Despite the King’s precautions there was one witness to his demise, though he wouldn’t have seen it in the strong light of day. It glided across the enclosure now to study the butchery. The poison had worked on the King as they expected, but they hadn’t foreseen it would drive him to a private reading. It would have been better if he’d waited until the official ceremony in six days’ time and his shameful rejection witnessed by a wall full of spectators. It was an unfortunate development, but it mattered little to their plans. Satisfied with what it saw, it drifted away and disappeared through the wall of the enclosure.

  Rusty Shears

  Della drew up when she saw the three girls slip out from behind a buckled dry stone wall and spread out across the lane. The giggles and backwards glances they gave her as they skipped away after school all made sense now. She watched them puff up - appreciating with no little dismay the effort they must have made to loop around the farmhouses to get in front of her. The way home was now a toll road and its levy, some quantity of suffering.

  She leaned on her crutch, grimacing against the pain in her right leg. It always felt like there was a snake coiled around it; but today it was gripping so tight, it felt like her bones were about to snap. If she didn’t purge the poison soon, it would rise to her stomach and set the sickness off again. She could barely lift her leg now and for the last hundred yards she’d been dragging it through the dirt, creating little clouds of dust around her ankles.

  Last week the girls humiliated her in front of the whole class, pinning her down and tearing her britches; exposing her bad leg for everyone to see. They all stared in a disgusted silence as she got up and hobbled away, bent to one
side in an attempt to hold the torn material together. But they soon followed, chanting abuse and forming a laughing ring around her. She cried in the finish; something she rarely did these days. But the whole class was cheering them on – even the ones she had started to be friends with. Now it looked like her tormentor had something else planned and all she could hope for was that they got it over with quickly.

  So with her heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer she adjusted her satchel and limped up to where the older girls waited for her. Ismara - the biggest of them, stood central, grinning inanely as she fiddled with something behind her back. Meldrum and Rhea flanked her – hands on hips and elbows jutting. They were scowling half-heartedly, unable to suppress the excitement that was leaking into their faces.

  She drew up before them, feeling like a sacrificial lamb. The day was easily the hottest of the year and damp ringlets of corn coloured hair clung in sweaty clumps to her freckled brow. She wiped them away and looked at Ismara - the undoubted instigator of this ambush.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ asked Ismara, puffing up in her cotton dress. It was a posture supposed to convey authority, but taken with her long black hair and hooked nose; she looked like a crow in a tablecloth.

  Della sagged – her damp shirt hanging off the sharp ledges of her collar bones. ‘Home.’

  ‘Not this way you aren't, Frogleg.'

  She had been teased about her leg by more children than she could remember and Frogleg was a tired insult. Originality, it seemed, had yet to evolve in bullies.

  Ismara stepped forward, brought one hand out from behind her back and shoved Della in the chest, sending her sprawling into a patch of nettles. Her crutch clattered onto the lane and her school books spilled from her satchel. The girls laughed and crowded over her. But Della didn’t try to get up. A bully’s pleasure was a storm that needed to blow itself out.

  ‘Told my father ’bout your leg. He says it’s likely gangrene you got in it. Gangreeen. Said it’d be best if we cut it off... Cut it off before it catches on us!’ In one slow, purposeful movement, she brought a pair of rusty shears out from behind her back. And as if on cue, her two accomplices leapt forward and pinned Della’s shoulders to the ground. ‘Nobody wants to sit near you in class, cos you make ’em feel sick,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘I told them all what my dad said about cutting your leg off, and do you know what they said?’

  Della had thought herself spent, but at the sight of Ismara manipulating the shears open she conjured energy from somewhere. She bucked and twisted in the girls’ grip, but they were bigger and stronger and they held on tight. Ismara loomed over her, eclipsing the afternoon sun. Between the open blades her gleeful face was surrounded by a corona of fire.

  ‘I’ll tell you what they said. They said my dad was right about cutting it off. And they begged me to do it - every last one of them. Even Lady Demia said it was for the best…’ She broke off when she realised Meldrum was losing control of Della’s right arm and spat some venom in her direction. ‘Keep her still! Better yet - get a hold of her leg.’

  ‘Eeow no,’ said Meldrum screwing her face up in disgust. ‘I’m not touching it. It might catch on me. You do it.’

  Ismara did no such thing. She followed Della’s kicking leg with the shears and as soon as it was between their open jaws, she pushed the handles together. Della felt the blades close on her shin and screamed, but the sharp pain she expected didn’t come. The shears gave up a rusty squeal, but were too stiff to close more than a few inches and too blunt to penetrate her skin. Ismara withdrew – her eyes blazing with black delight. She was soon joined by Meldrum and Rhea who took up position either side of her in fits of laughter.

  ‘Do you really think we’d cut your leg off and risk getting squirted with your gangrene blood? If you do, then you’re stupid as well as disgusting…We’re here to kick you off our lane. It belongs to the village and you’re not one of us. You can hop home along the river with the other frogs.’

  At this Meldrum and Rhea erupted with fresh laughter; as if it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Ismara picked up her crutch and hurled it towards the river. It landed in the mud with a splat.

  ‘Well. Go on. Hop to it.’ More laughter, but not from Ismara – behind her eyes wild animals strained their leashes.

  Della gathered her books, stuffed them back into her satchel and rose slowly to her feet with most of her weight on her good leg. There was a moment where she thought she was going to faint, but she took time to steady herself before hobbling over to the river bank and sliding down to the water’s edge. She retrieved her crutch from the mud and set off along the rocky shallows with cold water seeping into her boots. Her tormentor’s eyes burned her back, but only two of them were laughing. She could picture Ismara watching her with something like regret on her face – her hands absently working the handles of the redundant shears. She had dispensed her quota of misery for today and would sleep well tonight. But those of Ismara’s ilk were never truly satisfied with their work. One day soon, Ismara would go too far. One day soon, someone would find their pet hanging by its neck or their child floating in a pond.

  She continued down the river until the laughter faded into the gurgling of water then died altogether. When she was sure they were gone, she climbed back up the bank and stood in the lane to catch her breath. The ambush was behind her now, but the excitement had bitten deeply into her energy reserve. She had had it worse, but not by much. Black stars were spotting her vision and for the second time she thought she was going to collapse. If she did, there was a good chance she wouldn’t be able to get back up. She would have to sit in the lane and wait for help, giving the poison time to spread up her leg. If the mist sickness took hold, she would be weeks in its grip - tortured by nightmares full of green lightning, giant snakes and death. Her uncle would nurse her back to health like he always did. But she didn’t want to burden him again.

  She looked down the lane, judging the distance left to walk. The direct line to their house was obscured by a screen of trees, but she estimated it to be about half a mile away. Too far by a long way. She had to purge the poison before she got home - even if it meant breaking one of their rules. She saw a stand of sycamores on top of a bank a little further along the lane. She hobbled over, picked out some good footing and crawled up with her satchel in one hand and her crutch the other. Then, moving backwards on her behind she pulled herself through the trees and out onto the meadow at the other side.

  She rolled up the right leg of her britches and pushed down her sock. Over the years she had suffered a great deal of abuse on account of her leg; but this was the first time anyone had tried to cut it off. Luckily the skin wasn’t broken. The only evidence of the attack was three auburn rust smears on her calf - a colour that contrasted sharply with the corpse green spindle of her leg. As she dusted it off she wondered if there was part of her that would gladly surrender it to the shears. There were many people worse off than her: the blind, the deaf and the severely maimed. But those she met had learnt to accept their lot. She could never accept hers. Her affliction was something alien; a vile poison that glowed and pulsated at night and forever reminded her of the day she lost her parents.

  She looked around to check nobody was watching and lowered herself onto the grass. She felt several stones pressing into her back and sat up to throw them away. Her limp body would have to endure the ground while she was away and she didn’t want to end up riddled with sores. When she was satisfied all the stones were out she settled back and began her preparation. She drew the meadow scent through her nose in long slow draughts and relaxed; visualising the tension leaking from her body and soaking into the grass. She closed her eyes and scrunched them up, filling the backs of her eyelids with splotches of floating colours that drifted and merged - promising images that never quite materialised. Then she relaxed her eyes and imagined herself falling through the colours to the other side. For several seconds there was only colour splot
ched darkness and then she was rising into a blue sky - slipping from her body as if it was a gown.

  This was the secret she shared with her uncle. The secret they called Absence.

  She soared to the height of the tallest tree, turning a half revolution to look down at her body. It laid at peace beneath the foliage, nestled in grass speckled with clover and buttercup. Going Absent outdoors was dangerous and they had made it a rule not to do it. For without her soul, her body was defenceless. Her heart would continue to beat and her lungs to breathe, but the rest of her was passive flesh and bone at the mercy of anyone or anything that found her. With this in mind she searched the immediate area with a well practiced drill, dipping below the trees and spiralling around her body in an ever increasing circle. She found nothing of concern; the pocket at the edge of the meadow was populated only by butterflies and bees and a couple of blackbirds perched high in a tree. The nearest person was Farmer Fon and he was working his fields half a mile away. Ismara and her trolls were taking a shortcut behind his farmhouse and throwing stones at his sheep. She was safe for now, but she needed to be quick.

  She set off, gliding effortlessly among the trees and passing directly through those that happened to be in her way. Being Absent was like being a breeze that couldn’t be felt or deflected. She was an essence hidden upon the membrane that separated the living from the dead; invisible to anyone that might look in her direction.

  In Absence she could leave her body behind, but never its sensation. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her face, the shafts of grass between her fingers and the pressure of the ground beneath her body. The sensations were dull, but if she paused to give them thought, she could sharpen and amplify them. The pain of her poisoned leg went with her as well; but it was rapidly abating, evaporated like moisture from a billowing sheet. Absence loosened the snake she imagined coiled around her leg, but it never got rid of it altogether.