whisperwind

AQILLE DID AS SHE DID EVERY MORNING, no matter how bleak, brisk, or beautiful a morning it was—she whispered to the sea.

Sometimes it responded foully, sloshing gruffly against the pier, shredding its posts of its long-tenured barnacles. That was typically if the wind spent the night whipping it into a frenzy. Other days lashed out with a mere grumble of bubbling seafoam. That day, however, it was tepid. The moon’s watchful gaze had stifled any rambunctious urges.

“Good morning, dear sea. You slept well, so it seems.” Aqille’s words were always like a goodbye-kiss—short, sweet, and to-the-point. In her life she had met many people who took their voice for granted, dallying on every word. She could do no such thing. “But now, gentle giant, may you please stir just a tad for me?”

She waited a tick before sticking her finger into the frothing foam, wanting to make sure the ocean wasn’t just playing kind. The sudds fizzled and popped, clinging to her skin, but she made no move to shake them off. Underneath were a bundle of fish trying their best to stay hidden, and she knew better than to make a mess of somebody else’s home, especially such a friendly lot as them.

The littlest one, a munchkin named Boop, was slender and silver, not the kind of thing to make a meal out of, and the fattest, Porridge, had teeth that told everyone he kept their waters clear of unwanted buggers. Each one played their part in the sea, some predator, some prey. But every morning she was here and so were they and they never seemed to get in each other’s way. You’d except a chomp, a scurry, a whole lot of worry when enemies such as they mixed. Yet, peace was kept.

She couldn’t help but wonder if they were more than simple sea-dwellers.

Emissaries of the sea, perhaps…

What a curious thought that was. The ocean was a mystical place, sprawling and scarcely explored , and who could say it wasn’t birthed by some unseen goliath? It could have been down there now, dispersing bundles of messengers to every island, trying to parse out just what they were doing up there. Gosh, did it listen to her prattle on every time?

She let her mind wander.

But not too long. After all, she had a job to do, and it might have been the most important job there was on the Isle of Ide, one only she could do.

She took a deep breath. Her next words had to be carefully cherry-picked, for a single slip of the tongue could spell ill-omens for many lands she knew not of.

“O’ endless sea, you are clear as the sky above and mighty enough to never be wronged. But might I request you let the wind give you a gentle push toward the northwest bush? That hamlet of trees nary a soul live upon.”

Aqille waited.

To the average eye, nothing had occurred other than the dispersing of fish, who cut away with great haste like there was someplace important for them to be. But already there were tremors in the sea beneath her, so deep they couldn’t be spotted. The nautical world was awakening from its slumber.

“Do this for me, and I will be quite pleased.” She leaned close to the water and spoke tenderly. “Do this for them and they will revere you as their greatest friend.”

They were fishermen, who lined the coast of the isle in droves, crust caking their eyes because, despite rising every morning before the sun they never quite got accustomed to it. Some sat in coracles, rounded fishing boats fashioned from willow rods interwoven with bark that had bullock hide tarred onto it. They deftly braided silken strings into their fishing rods, or checked their paddles for cracks, or simply chewed tobacco, trying to keep themselves from dozing off. Others rummaged through the grass, digging their fingers into the dirt as they searched for mealworms to use as bait.

The bearded men wore flat-brimmed hats stitched by their mothers that were littered with patches, and hefty fur coats their wives refused to replace that stunk of fish guts, baked-under-the-sun-sweat, and sea salt. They lacked the strength to be lumberjacks, the diligence to be hunters, and the knowledge to be scholars. But patience they had plenty of. Put them on a boat and give them a rod and they’ll wipe away their grogginess with some grog and regale each other with heroics they dreamed up themselves.

They patiently watched Aqille. Though she was more mystery than friend, they trusted her wholeheartedly and respected her more than even their own Lord. He was off somewhere in the cosmos, a puppet-master pulling strings they knew not of. She was right here every day, performing miracles.

The water began to shudder; ripples traveled through the sea, splitting the seafoam into different blankets of white that rolled away from the shore one-by-one. The first few were soft with some seconds of pause between—but when it ramped up, it did so quickly, knocking the coracles’ wooden hulls against one another as the current swam in the other direction, away from the isle and out into the wide world. The fishermen cheered. Aqille sighed with relief.

Another morning without incident, she thought. These days most mornings were, but that hint of worry always kept her careful.

With the sea bent in their favor, the men hurriedly unhooked the coracles from the stone moorings their grandfathers had laid down a century ago. As usual, it was a madhouse of movement, with some watching their boats sail off on their own and others struggling to keep theirs upright. She waved them goodbye. Tonight, just when the sun was starting to grow shy once again, she would whisper to the sea once again and it would reverse course, pulling back toward her, bringing them all home.

She was set to walk off when a meek voice sneaked over her shoulder. Bunched into a tiny box and afraid to step out its boundaries, she didn’t have to guess who it belonged to. “Thankyousomuch!” it said. Then, after a series of frazzled breaths: “Wecouldnotdothiswithoutyou!”

Behind her stood Marly, the youngest fisherman. Only two years her senior, they had grown up together and he often followed her around like a puppy, tried to speak with her, and when she wouldn’t respond, left notes professing his interest in her. Currently he was trying to figure out what to say next, scratching his blushed cheek as he fluttered through a series of uhms. Much as he wanted her to talk, he wasn’t too good at speaking himself.

She bowed to him and he jumped like she had rung her hand across his cheek.

Then he took a deep breath, so deep his tomato cheeks looked about to explode, and bowed as well, sun-stained blonde hair hanging in soaking wet clumps. Unlike his peers, he enjoyed a bath a week and often went swimming to clean the dirt off his skin. She had wondered if he did it for her sake. She wanted desperately to tell him she appreciated it, his cleanliness made him rather handsome.

“I promise to catch you something amazing today,” he said, letting out his breath in a big gasp. “I’ll try for a fish. A real fish.”

He kept his body hunched forward but lifted his head to look at her. His eyes were that of a hopeful child pleading for a gift. She wondered how many times she would break his heart before he stopped caring about her altogether?

Though guilt ate at her, Aqille did nothing more than smile and bow.

Marly didn’t look bothered, not even a bit. After all, it was she who had begged the winds to spare him when all those years ago a storm turned his boat over, sucking his father into the abyss and leaving him stranded in darkness. He had returned on nothing more than a plank of driftwood with one eye ruined, sliced through, and fell straight into her arms. Ten years had passed since then but never once had he forgotten her kindness.

Every day he repaid it little by little, bringing back gifts from places she couldn’t see. Because of his impaired eye, he wasn’t much able to catch moving things, so he often brought back shells or vibrant seafloor rocks, always promising next time he would return with a fish. She eagerly awaited the day, even if she couldn’t tell him so.

He reached out and took her hand, giving it a firm shake to seal this promise, then took off down the pier, loose wooden planks rumbling underneath him as he called for the others to wait up.

As she watched him plunge into the water and paddle after the boats, her heart knotted up. Marly was more than a good man—he was a good human being. He deserved someone who could give back the same smile he put into the world every day and though Aqille treated every gift he gave her like gold, lining them up on her shelves at home and cherishing them dearly, she couldn’t admit that just being near him gave her butterflies. That word, that precious word, often popped into her mind whenever she was around him but the truth of the matter was that if she didn’t bury it she would bring him nothing but sadness. Much as she wanted to love him, to do so would be a terrible thing. Their lives could pass by one another, but never entwine.

For Aqille was a Whisperwind—one whose every word was laced with magic.

***

Whisperwind: a person not of a human birth, but rather magical one. Their every word is blessed with sorcery, allowing them to compel the world around them to do their bidding.

In our realm, magic is a constant. It persists in even the further corners of the world, from the small-town baker who enchants his ovens to cook bread just a tad quicker to city-folk who endlessly brush shoulders with one another, conjuring up umbrellas to keep the rain from soiling their respectable suits. There are even beasts who travel through shadows unseen, terrorizing the innocent—golems, gorgons, basilisks and the like. But there is no greater oddity than that of the Whisperwinds.

To define them as uncommon would be an injustice. They are remarkable and rare, astoundingly dangerous when untrained, and something most should pray to never encounter. The words of a Whisperwind are volatile. If they sob, so does the sky. If they rage, so do the winds. Some can harness this power for the greater good but most are not so fortunate. As such, they are pariahs in our civilized society, where magic must be believed to do little wrong less everyone be afraid of controlling it.

Here, in this text, I will compile all the known facts about Whisperwinds, of which there are not many. Born out of nothing, scholars still have not deduced what their purpose is, or why (…)

Excerpt from “Around the Magicking World,” by Levius Lorrain, Magistrate of the Seventh Quarter of Pineterria.

Aqille’s birth had not been intended, predicted, nor even known of. She burst into the world like a sudden flash of lightning, arisen not of a womb but instead the magma bubbling within the crust of the Isle of Ide. She announced her arrival with the wailing screech of a toddler who knew not where it was or why it had left its mother’s embrace but desperately wanted to return to it, calling forth a storm of insurmountable proportions.

Rain torrented the Earth as wind swept up any debris it could grasp. The hills of the isle were soon muck that avalanched down the cottages below. While their roofs, fashioned out of tar, were sturdy and could handle a beating, their walls were not. The mud swelled around them, then forced their way through, stripping the timber of their stone reinforcements. Some people fled, stumbling, slipping, swimming, while others clung to their timber tighter than their own children. One could make a baby in minutes, but even the simplest home took a hundred felled trees, an entire summer’s work.

As they gathered in the grim rain, bunching together for warmth, they caught a glimpse of a sphere up north, near the peak of the mountain. It was radiant, beams of gold chopping through the clouds with ease. A murmur rose about the volcano’s belly finally erupting and soon boots were stamping the ground as everyone ran for the water, ready to sail anywhere to escape a fiery doom.

But it was the leader of the isle, Elder Rufus, who wrangled them all. A stern man, he barreled into the crowd on his stallion and barked the orders they needed to hear, directing his people to safety. Down the shore was a cove that would shelter them from the storm. He convinced them the volcano wasn’t going to burst and they believed him because he always spoke with logic and was seldom wrong. Then he headed north, toward the blinding light, to satisfy a curiosity that demanded answers.

Something had come to Ide, something that frightened even an old man like him. He had tangoed with boars and ran from bears and once, when he was younger, warded off an invading swarm of goblins. Yet as he approached the orb, its presence threatened to never let him walk again. Ligaments ripped free of their resting place, taking chunks of bone with them, and his stallion collapsed, never to rise again. He crawled the last leg of the journey, following the whimpering, until he discovered the cause of it all—a newborn baby girl.

Beneath her, the volcano bubbled. The magma had indeed risen, pulled by her frightened cries, and if she were to keep doing so it would swelter over and wipe away everything he loved in life. His land, his people, himself. He scooped her up and her cries heightened. Down below, the melting pot of the isle’s core had started to splash like the waves of the sea. If she didn’t stop, neither would it.

He knew well what she was—a learned man, he devoured literature from all walks of life whenever he could, trying to know a little bit about everything so that he could tackle anything. This little girl wasn’t merely human. She was a Whisperwind.

Just the thought left him half-tempted to toss her into the lava below. It would condemn his soul to eternal damnation, yes, but would also ensure his people lived in peace. Raising a being such a this…it was a tall order for even the grandest sorcerers of the world, and he was a mere hunter who had grown into a leader who had not raised a single child of his own!

Yet, in the end, he simply pressed her to his barrel-chest, letting her listen to his heartbeat. His skin was calloused, littered with scars from the tusk, tooth, and hoof of every animal on the isle. But a little comfort was all she needed and soon she was asleep. The rain subsided shortly after, the magma sunk back down into the crevices it had so often filled, and disaster was averted.

Down at the chapel, one of the only structures still standing, folk packed themselves in so tightly they were having to lean through door and window just to catch a peek at the newcomer. She was passed from person to person, and each whimper, yelp, burp, or giggle spurned on a new problem. But they paid no mind to what was happening outside. The people knew they had been blessed and that every blessing came with a little bit of a curse. She was christened Aqille after much hullabaloo and it was determined that Rufus, with all his wisdom, would be the one to raise her.

Her earliest years were spent tumbling down a road of maladies most uneven, uncertain, and at many times unwelcome. Sickness was entwined with her soul, maybe a burden from the overwhelming magical presence dividing it, and the elements did not understand that she did not understand what her baby-babble meant. When she jammed random phrases or sounds together, the world around took the mere feeling of them and ran amok. Rage brought homewrecking storms, giggles brought skin-tanning sunshine. The world became tumultuous—the people of Ide became accustomed to sudden changes.

Rufus poured his entire being into raising her. He had missed his chance to have a child of his own, never finding the allure of a woman preferrable to the thrill of wrangling one of the forest’s beasts. But, despite his fondness for her, he never once forgot he was duty-bound to all people in Ide. Those misfortunate days could not spiral on endlessly, and once she started to walk and talk with purpose, figuring out that her words held meaning, it was time for something to be done. At the age of three, a meeting was held.

Curious folk packed the chapel, all wanting their say about three years of enduring the Whisperwind, but only Rufus spoke. He had spent countless nights gazing into the fire or wandering along the moonlit shore, prying at the innerworkings of his mind, seeking an outcome that satisfied everyone. But Aqille suffered in each of them. If she spoke when compelled, the people would one day grow weary of her antics and tragedy would befall her. If she didn’t speak at all, however…

In the end, he plainly decreed:

“As a Whisperwind, Aqille can bring our Isle fantastic fortune or terrifying tragedy. To mitigate any chance of the foulest possibilities, I believe she must not be allowed to speak out of turn. Her words are magic and thus her voice must only come to life when it is time to cast a spell.”

And that was that.

***

As one might imagine, Aqille did not understand. Her mind was still forming, a collective of thoughts that held consciousness, yes, but little individuality, still trying to figure out just what the world around her was and who she was meant to be within it.

Adjusting to this life of silence was a trial—years passed at an alarming rate and as she grew taller, she grew curiouser. She wanted to know everything about everyone. But the other children steered clear of her, unsure how to talk of someone who couldn’t talk, and most parents just gazed at her in dismay, saddened by her affliction but also daunted by the problems it wrought. It wasn’t long before the nightly tantrums struck, forcing Rufus to snatch her up and calm her as she lashed out at the world which bore her.

One night when no such thing would subside the storm raging in her heart, he spoke to her like the adult she would become, not the girl she was.

Many whine about the hand they have been dealt and there are few more deserving of such a right than you, he said. But doing so will only make your life a greater challenge than it is already destined to be.

You must think of yourself as a Balance, Aqille. Not quite human like I, not quite beast like those lurking in the forests. You are flesh and blood but come from no womb. The world spawned you, for what purpose I know not. But I am certain of one thing—to be accepted in the way you seek, you must work harder than any soul on the isle, for yours bears within it the weight of two torn realms.

With each word, the pieces of the puzzle of who she was clicked into place in her burgeoning mind. Aqille wanted desperately to be normal because all she saw around her was normal. Other children were grasping at life with both hands, trying to decipher something new every minute of every day. They were amateur humans, unskilled and unsure of everything. But she was the Balance. Her duty was wrangle the twisting vortex of spells which flowed freely through her mind. To channel that chaotic energy into something succinct—something with purpose.

And so, from that day on, Aqille muted herself.

In time, she forgot what her voice even sounded like.

By age five, she and Rufus had developed a routine to keep her honest. She responded with a nod for yes, a head shake for no, a bow for thank you, and kept a scroll and lead pencil in her satchel at all times for more complicated inquiries. By age ten she had begun fulfilling her village duties, using her talents to aid any way she could. By twenty-two there wasn’t a soul who didn’t respect her miracles.

Sending out the boats, as she had done that morning, was only the start of a laundry list of tasks to complete. Every day was a busy day—it had to be, lest she wouldn’t get done everything that needed doing. Ide was expanding endlessly, adding more buildings (and babies) with each turn of the calendar, and as their faithful Whisperwind that meant one thing: more work.

The sun hadn’t even poked its head over the mountains yet and already she was on the move, scuttling through the dense forest which ran up the hill to the north of the isle. The grass here was mossy and uneven, patched over dirt in a random flurry and speckled with ankle-threatening rocks. Fell a tree here and it would crash into another, often leading to catastrophe, so most reserved this place for foraging.

She poked through the bushes, searching their branches for weakening limbs or dying sprouts. Out here you didn’t just have just have berries, which were vibrant enough to spot even from a distance, but also pawpaws, beans, and even nuts. Some were decayed, not picked with enough haste, and that was fine. They would return to the soil and help to bear new fruit. What she wanted to see was which ones were losing their edge, deprived of the nutrients they needed to survive. She found more than a few, which was disconcerting.

I’ll make it a point to come every other day, not just once a week, she told herself. It would eat up a few extra hours, but it was a necessary deviation from the norm. If too many withered, there would be little have with their fish or cattle, and the laborers needed more than just protein to get them through a job that kept them moving all day.

Every bush she found she blessed with her gift, pressing her hand into the soil and calling to the water dormant down below. Sometimes it took a little bit of goading, but in the end her hand always dampened, and while the bushes still sagged sadly in front of her, she knew it wouldn’t take long to restore them all.

Then she headed down toward the farmland, which filled the gap between the trees and the buildings with well-tended fields of eggplant and asparagus and, some months, if merchants had came through the season prior, tomatoes and squash. The soil was harsh, but they made the most of it, and the man who oversaw it all knew his stuff—Rory had been picking crops out of the dirt since before he could even walk.

Along the way she passed a bundle of women clutching straw baskets draped with woolen clothes. Some, unable to leave their children at home, had their babies slung around their backs, snoozing in satchels stuffed with hay to keep them warm. These were the Gatherers and they were headed to pick from the very bushes she had just tended to. Using her scroll, she wrote of the plight she had encountered and the women nodded. They would not pick from the perishing plants.

Rory met her at the gate of the farmland, where he lounged underneath an oak tree, slobbering mastiff slung across his lap, his jowls caked with runny string of mud and grass. He was a good boy and Rory loved him so. He stirred the dog out his lap and stood up, offering his hand to Aqille. She took it. Last night he had sent word to Rufus about needing a touch of her magic and he didn’t hesitate to explain why—the insects. The rootworms were digging holes through the soil and the ants were covering his stems and don’t even get him started on their pesky lanternflies and their endless appetites!

And so, on the day went, normal as any other day…

***

The sun was setting when she whispered to the water once again.

She did not wait around for the fishermen to return. When they did, they would flock into town bearing a grand feast and there would be much hullaballoo about what to whip upon. The Gatherers would sort through their pickings while the those with a touch for cooking would devise a meal to feed every belly, but Aqille had food at home and, truth be told, had pushed exhaustion back one too many hours and was paying the price.

When she spoke too much, her throat rubbed raw, causing every word to sound like a whimpering wheeze. The sight of her walking her, with a gait that resembled someone risen from the dead, would have alarmed anyone who saw it.

And yet, she smiled.

The day had been pleasantly productive.

She had helped Bonnie and Dillard, Clyde and Matteo, Wilton the Blacksmith and Jessup the Bride. She had spoken to the yeast in Baker Darret’s dough, convincing it to rise, and even convinced Leatherworker Martin’s hides to dry. There was always more to be done but her cot was calling her name, and soon Marly would be too, as the boy often flagged her down to give her his gift.

Marly…

She shook her head. She couldn’t think of him now. When she overexerted herself that knot tied tight around her heart came just a little bit undone and it was easily to lose sight of her principals, to let her mind wander in ways that would do nothing except harm her. She closed her eyes, slamming the door on those thoughts, and made her way into Rufus’ cottage. His home was not near the rest of the village—rather it rest upon a short cliff overlooking it, built by his grandfather, expanded by his father, and left exactly the same by him.

Inside she shrugged off her cloak and whispered into the pipes, calling out enough water to flood the iron kettle, which she dumped a lump of teabags into before setting it upon a simmering fire. She then visited the herbs growing on the windowsill, asking them to grow just a tad faster because their use was imperative to her. She started to make her way over to the cobwebs in the corner, wanting to ward off the spiders, but her body rejected any further exertion. She collapsed into the rocking chair in the nook and sat around the many stacks of books she had finished, a collection of texts her father had amassed from the merchants.

Finally, whether she liked it or not, it was time to rest.

Bubbling tea. Crackling fire. All the little squeaks and creaks that come with a home well-loved and lived in. Soon, her muscles eased up. Yes, it was time to rest, and she needed it dearly. Without some relaxation she wouldn’t be able to get back at it tomorrow.

If there was one joy Aqille permitted herself to indulge in, it was reading. Like the man who had raised her she had an insatiable hunger to learn as much as she could about the world and especially the magic lurking within it. Every night she sat here, often trying to finish one of these tomes in a sitting, and because of that, she knew a little about a lot, and tonight’s read was one that had been sitting for a while—she blew the dust off it with one heaving wheeze.

Around the Magicking World by Levius Lorrain. A sorcerer who had spent his life traveling the world and recording anything strange he encountered, Aqille had a great admiration for him. She and him weren’t so different, both devoted to furthering others but in different ways. She cared for her Isle, all that she knew, while he tried to move the entire world ahead, even if just a notch. If she ever met him…

What a silly thought.

Within minutes of opening the book, she was asleep. Her drool dribbled across the pages, smearing the ink, something she would be most upset to see.

She was shaken from her slumber by a man with a gaunt face who was getting tougher to recognize with each passing day. She jumped up at once and he took her seat, slumping down into the rocking chair with a wheeze of his own. She wanted to scold him like a mother bearing down on a child, but by the time she finished scribbling into the scroll, the moment would have passed her by.

It was Rufus—what remained of him.

A lifetime of running against the wind had whittled his body to the bone and now, sitting here, it seemed even a zealous breeze of wind could steal the rest of him away. His cheeks, riddled with pot-marks, hung off him like tattered rags, and his eyes lacked the fire that had given her so much courage as a child. As she held his hand, she struggled to stay composed.

Yet, like her, he smiled through the pain. “You look to me as if I’m already dead.”

Aqille shook her head; the old brute chuckled.

“Deny me all you like, but sadness is a lasting ailment. Other emotions come and go but look into anyone’s eyes and they tell the truth—you don’t think I’ve got long to live, and you’re wondering what you’re going to do without me.”

She drew in a deep breath and wrapped her other hand around his as well.

“You’re going to do just fine,” he said. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do—just fine.”

The kettle whistled and she hurried over to it. She fixed him a cup with a glop of honey and a few diced up herbs from the windowsill. What was killing him was simply old age—he was not plunging downward into a sickening spiral but rather inching away from the living every minute of every day.

His hand shook as he raised the tea up, but he waved her off. He didn’t need help to take a drink, he was the man who wrangled two steeds at once and only walked away with one broken rib! He still found strength to laugh when he spoke. She dearly wished she could laugh with him. She always had.

When he was finished, she lifted the scroll from her satchel, ready to write that he needed to rest, but he caught her wrist. “I didn’t bumble out here without reason. You know as well as I do that I’m no fool—I shouldn’t be moving and I wouldn’t be moving if I had naught to say.”

She lowered her scroll and cocked her head at him. What could he mean?

He let out a deep huff as he shifted his weight in the chair. Even with how much he had shrunk it still struggled to contain his broad frame, arms bulging as the screws struggled in their seams. “Something terrible has visited our precious Isle,” he said. “Something that, if not stamped out with great haste, may just swallow everything we love so dearly about it.”

Her eyes widened. Again she went to write something, wanting to ask questions, and this time he took hold of her chin, directing her head up at his eyes. He looked to her with that same care from all those years ago. “Whatever it is, I fear it grows mightier with each passing second. Somewhere down there I feel it clawing at the fabric of our realm, trying to tear everything apart. But much as I want to scurry down there and play hero once again, I can’t even stumble across this wretched room—do you understand what I am saying?”

She did and it terrified her more than the thought of any boogeyman.

Stopping this…whatever it was…was solely up to her.

She looked at the scroll but made no move to write in it. Asking a question was just a way of delaying the inevitable and she understood the bigger implications here. Much as he protested the thought, Rufus would pass on soon, and how could he do so if he wasn’t sure there was someone who could protect the Isle he had devoted his entire life to?

She tucked it into her satchel, stood, and gave him a firm nod.

His smile returned, creasing his wrinkled cheeks.

She ran.

***

Where there should have been a feast, there was silence.

When evening settled and the moon swapped places with the sun, everyone in Ide normally got working, skinning the day’s catch and simmering vegetables in cast-iron cauldrons. The children would dance to the beat of the drums while the adults chuckled over jugs of ale and sometimes one of the oldest folks would hunch low by coals and tell a story that snagged everyone’s attention. The boats were back—the faint glow of their lanterns burning through the last of their oil lit the shore—and yet there wasn’t a sound to be heard except the whistling wind.

Aqille stumbled down the cobblestone roads, looking at the locked doors. Darret the Baker had left his ovens running, scorching pastries and chuffing harsh smoke out his chimney. Wilton the Blacksmith’s tools were strewn across the grass, abandoned and stamped over. Even Cedric, the town’s calligrapher, who sat outside on his porch and often stayed up until the Devil’s hours scribbling letters to the neighboring islands, had disappeared, papers whipping through the breeze. One sat on his desk, weighed down with a few stones. His inkwell had been tipped over, spilled across it.

Everyone left in a hurry…

…but where would they have gone?

Just then, a knife sliced through the silence—a screech came, the howl of a wounded beast, and something else, too. Aqille’s soul was snatched up by the claw of malice and it dug itself deep, trying to crush her. She fell against the stone-laden well, heaving as it stole her breath away. The screams faded, the feeling did not. She dove within herself, clutching as her tried as she tried to pry it free, but in the end…

“Leave me be!” she shouted.

All at once, like a blanket snatched off her heart, it was gone, leaving her with nothing but the bitter bite of the ensuing cold—rain came flooding down, causing the well next to her to overflow, and she thanked heaven for her exerted state. If she hadn’t pushed herself so mightily earlier, if she wasn’t so exhausted…things could have been a lot worse.

Rufus’ body was atrophying, but his sixth sense was keen as ever. Ide had been invaded but something truly terrible and she had caught its scent. She sprinted out of town, through the forests, not dodging the rosebushes, letting their thorns drag at her skin, until the first glimmers of the chapel’s torches came into view. She didn’t smudge the blood from her arms. She just kept moving.

Inside was an uproar not different from twenty-something years ago, when her name had been handed to her here, everyone bickering. She pushed through the crowd without warning, picking up fragmented pieces of conversation. It came with the boats, a frazzled voice whispered. Others: One of the men…? Consumed… Blackened like mold, eyes like a spider’s…growled at us…

She escaped the grasp of the pews, jumping immediately into the grasp of one of the fishermen. He tried to say something to her but his words got all jumbled together and when he pulled his shaking hands away, he just shook his head like it was indescribable. At the front now, near the podium, others were noticing her and, desperate for answers, directed their inquiries toward her as if she knew all. Aqille fled into the back of the chapel, pushing through the velvet curtains, before being stopped by Father Mulder, who plunged a hand into her chest and knocked her back.

“I’m sorry, but it truly is too terrible a sight! You need to—”

But, upon realizing who he was talking to, his shoulders eased. In his hands he held a tome, likely the Lord’s book he always preached from, and he put it to his chest for comfort. “Aqille,” he said. “Your arrival is a blessing.”

Father Mulder was a man whose hair had long-since grayed, but he kept himself moving so often that his age was scarcely apparent. He was wise, maybe wiser than any man she knew, and didn’t mince words: “But you’ve come to meet a curse.”

Tears beaded on his waterline. A man of true faith, he somehow always fought with positivity, never letting even the damnedest days get him down. Yet here he was, about to break down. What had he witnessed?

Reaching out, he gripped her shoulder. “Beyond me lurks something not for the faint of heart,” he said. “Stomach it only if you must, please, for it will tear you apart if you cannot. I—”

Mulder covered his mouth as his cheeks bloated. His retching was swallowed by the clamorous crowd. This was a man who had spent his life tending to the sickly, amputating deadened limbs, picking spikes of wood out of skin, and burying those who lost their lives to a scourge. He had seen all manner of awful things, and yet…

Aqille’s curiosity tore out of her. She hurried into the back where, after bursting through another set of curtains, she found herself in the dimly lit room where the sick were housed. The stench of death clung to it, though masked by the sweltering scent of herbs—all around her burned sticks of incense braided with medicinal leaves, feverfew, yarrow, sage and lavender. She hadn’t ever come here before. Often Mulder and Martin were the only two allowed. As holy men, they believed the Lord kept them free of affliction.

But this room, like the other, was packed. In front of her stood a bundle of sobbing women, all bunched into each other’s arms. When Aqille put her hand on one of their shoulders, they all snapped around to look at her, then Ms. Aplum, Marly’s mother, broke free and gave her a hug. “My buh-buh…” She was struggling to breathe. “My buh-buh-baby…”

Ms. Aplum tried to fight out another few words, but when the tears running down the widowed cracks of her cheeks dripped onto Aqille’s chest she buried her head into it, so overcome that her weakened legs gave out. The Whisperwind caught her, and the other women tried pulling her away, but she clawed like a cat, still sputtering out drowning words. It took the might of everyone involved, but finally they got her across the room, to a chair, where she fought to get back, yelling and shoving at everything.

Aqille paid her no mind—her attention had been stolen by the swelling mass clung to the cot in front of her.

It wasn’t human…

…but also, it was.

She held her breath, gripped the footboard of the cot to keep upright, and pulled closer, studying every inch of…this.

Of Marly.

The boy’s body…it was undergoing some sort of metamorphosis.

She put the back of his hand flat against her palm and inspected his calloused skin. Years of straining against a fishing rod should have toughened it up, but it was crumbling away like wet mulch, revealing tendons the color of smoke and tainted with fuzzy white tadpoles that wriggled back under his skin and traveled up his arm when exposed. She pulled up the blanket a tad and saw his veins filled with thousands of these creatures. His flesh bulged as they swam through it.

Poking one caused it to pop in half but did not kill the tadpole. Rather the two slivers sprung to new life, zig-zagging off in opposite directions. She did this again and again until, frustrated by her antics, they began well up in one spot, swelling into a boil that stretched his skin so far it became translucent. Through this bubble, thousands of tadpoles raced like minnows in the sea.

“Get away from him!” Ms. Aplum screeched. “You’re going to hurt him!”

She was right—if Aqille let this pop, he would certainly lose his arm.

But she sought to calm the tadpoles, not rile them up. Putting both hands on it, she closed her eyes and listened to their many voices, their many pleas. Their language was foreign to her but she caught glimpses of the feelings behind everything. She had expected a rage like a tornado and instead got the whimpers of a child. These tadpoles…they were a festering fear.

Already her mind was racing, scouring the hundreds of texts she had devoured, snatching up keywords as she tried pinpointing just exactly what this…thing was.

Marly, who had always been so kind…

Marly, who spent his days trying to make others smile…

Marly, who had already lost an eye, his father, and now this…?

Her whole body was quivering. She pressed her knees into the mattress, which had been soiled by a few tadpoles who had escaped his skin, rummaging around through the blankets and leaving smears of tar-like goop. She slung one hand underneath him, not caring that they nipped her skin, trying to dig into her as well, and took in full view of the boy’s face.

It had been swallowed by a nightmarish amalgamation of flesh stitched together but not properly formed. Two skulls were rooting out of his own, fighting to be the first birthed into the world. One was a puffball, made of snowy fuzz and spiked with plaque-riddled teeth which poked out haphazardly. The other was gelatinous, comprised of a viscus sludge which seeped down his chest. It had a hundred eyes and they all blinked curiously at her.

She knew now exactly what this was, for she had seen it mentioned before in one of the many books she had consumed. But could such a thing really be true?

This beast—it was a Lout.

An uncouth, parasitic creature lingering out in the cosmos, drifting between realms and searching for lands to sneak into. They are often considered make-believe, a fearful story to drive the youth to caution. It is said that when an unsure magician tries to wield their power in a way unknown to them, sometimes a Lout will cut through the fabric of the universe like a dagger, seizing hold of their power. Once they’re finished, they leave behind not a human but a husk with no soul and venture out into a world they have no right to be in.

Few believed them real, and Aqille certainly had not. But Marly did have a penchant for performing the unexpected, and furthermore what lay in front of her was exactly as Levius had described—a beast of many bodies, all from different realms. Think of them as stars from the galaxies above, all fighting to shine the brightest and catch your attention.

Only this time two were escaping from Marly, gobbling up his soul as, with each passing second, they inched out of his body. If they got free, Marly would live, but not truly. His eyes would stay forever languid, his body frozen in time. Others would age around him, but he would lay dormant forever, until one day everyone who remembered his name had faded from the land.

Father Mulder appeared on the opposite side of her, soaked in sweat and clutching a pitcher of river water. He didn’t seem to have fully recovered, still shaking all over, but nodded to Aqille like he knew she was going to make it all right. The gelatinous being blinked its many eyes at him while the fuzzy one continued uncurling its warmish body. Mulder gave them a thousand-yard-stare.

He opened his mouth but what was there to say?

Ms. Aplum wailed, she wanted to do the same.

Instead she drew in a deep breath—Rufus’ strength came from his ability to remain stoic even when his back was against a wall. He didn’t think about the scope of a problem rather just the solution to it. One could dwell on the rising tides and be swept away or they could find a path to safety, he said once. Life is made up of many troubles. We either succumb to the fear of them or find a way to fight through.

She looked down at the Louts. Smudged against one another, they struggled for attention, the fuzzball biting into the gelatinous goop, trying to tear its brethren apart. It pawed at its eyeballs with its teeth, squishing them, ripping them free, gorging itself as the other suffered. Could they sense the power within her? Did they know she alone was the roadblock on their path to freedom?

They wanted to weaken her resolve. Strike enough fear into her heart, get her running, and they would be given free reign over this new land.

She clenched her hands against the rungs of the bedframe as all the noise in the room seemed to fade. She traveled back in time, through her memories. Suddenly she was sitting on floor, by Rufus’ hearth, listening as he recounted tales from the many books he had collected, bellowing out hearty laughs for the heroes of the story and low, menacing grumbles for the sinister villains. She was stifling her giggles, and questions, and scribbling in her notebook. She couldn’t talk, but he sated her desire for companionship by taking time for her, having conversations with her, teaching her.

Nobody else in Ide treated her in such a way. They respected her and she knew much of their lives due to her constant involvement in them, but they seldom sought to connect with her in any friendly way. To everyone, she was a mere onlooker who stuck a helping hand in from time to time, nothing more.

Everyone but Marly.

Marly, who was always too nervous to say anything worthwhile but chatted her ear off each and every day.

Marly, who always tried to dig more into who she was and how she was feeling, asking questions and wanting to know more.

Marly, who always told her of the things he saw, the many wondrous fish and islands, and brought her back countless gifts in hopes it help her experience just a little bit of the wide world out there.

That thought got her wondering…

She slipped her hands through the folds of a blanket now sticky with ooze. Tadpoles were swimming onto her skin, gnawing at it and trying to squirm into her pores. She shook them off as she sneaked her fingers into her pocket, finding something with some heft to it. Grabbing it tightly, she yanked her hand free, slinging tadpoles across the room, causing them to splatter against the wall.

What she held was a salt rock with an orangish hue. Streaks of white ran through its chunky body, coalescing on its rough edges in a way that she bet gave it a sparkling outline when the sun bore down on it.

Her gift…

It was beautiful…

Had he seen its shine from above and dove into the sea to acquire it? Had he gone too deep, been too overwhelmed by the pressure of the water around him, and…

She raised it to her heart. Had the Louts seized him because he wished so desperately to get this for her…?

The room began to spin as her mind slurred into a sloppy mess of mush. Guilt began to tear at her from the inside, ripping down all the defenses she had spent her entire life forging. Once again she was that little girl, but she wasn’t by the hearth with Rufus. She was standing out in the forest, looking at all the trees she had felled, listening to the cries of those she had hurt. If she hadn’t ever been born…if she just hadn’t ever been born…

A hand reached out from the darkness, yanking her free before those nasty thoughts could blossom. The gaunt figure of Rufus shadowed her, breathing heavily as he gazed straight into her eyes with the utmost sincerity. In a quick burst, he said: If you had not come to our island, the boy would have been killed all those years ago. Maybe your purpose is this very moment—saving him, bringing peace to Ide once again.

But when she opened her eyes, nothing about the room had changed. Rufus was nowhere to be seen, and Mulder was next to her, hand on her shoulder, muttering something about her needing to take a break, her looking pale as death. She realized then that those words…they came from within.

That courage…it came from her.

She looked back to the Louts consuming Marly and knew what she had to do.

Reaching out, she took the boy’s hand into her own, pressing the stone into the wounded flesh of his palm. She wrapped his fingers around it so that he held it tight and ignored the tadpoles trying to poke into his nails. She leaned close to his face, to the Louts.

“Who are you?” she whispered. “And why have you come to take Marly from us?”

A pang of pain shot through her stomach—her previous labors of the day were catching up to her. She could not afford to even the slightest misspeak.

The fuzzball Lout’s skull split open, revealing innards which swirled into a vortex of squelching gore. The teeth sunk towards its core, fusing with cartlidge that wound itself around the yellow bone, and a sloppy forked tongue stretched out, licking at her nose before turning itself on its poor gelatinous partner, who it tore a chunk out of. Eyeballs went flying, and when it turned by to her, it chewed in an obnoxious way.

It was determined to terrify her.

She was determined to comfort it.

Taking a risk that drew a gasp from the rest of the room, she plunged her fist into the creature’s mouth, letting those fangs sink into her fragile skin. Searing pain shot through her arm as it pulled tendons straight off the bone but she sucked in a heaving breath and didn’t even grimace—it tried to tug away, but she didn’t let it, and kept her eyes glued on the beast.

“You hurt because you have been hurt,” she said. “Not because it is what you want. Let me be blunt—tear from the world and it will tear you into a runt. Of this land, you do not belong, little one. Intrigued you might be, but also dangerous you are. Staying here will bring everyone harm.”

A rounded bone was molding itself underneath its teeth, morphing into a jaw which would give it enough strength to lop her hand right off. But its grip was loosening. It was listening. Her words were honest. It was killing Marly, though she sensed it didn’t know it. This Lout and the others, they bore no malice, only a desire to be safe. The world had rejected them and the cosmos had sent them spiraling. They needed a home.

Again, she spoke.

“You all reside within the body of a boy,” she said. “I’m not being coy, but it isn’t a toy, not something disposable or reposable. He is alive, much like you are, and already you have left him with many scars.”

This riled the tadpoles into a frenzy—that bubble on his arm sunk inward as hundreds of them poured out, smudging their gooey bodies against one another as they raced to get up onto Marly’s chest, closer to her, and even the gelatinous one was shrinking, reverting to his smaller self. The only holdout was the fuzzball, who budged not an inch.

She opened her mouth but found her breath stolen away. It was like an anvil had been dropped on her lungs. Blood flooded her mouth, seeping from between her lips, and her sinuses filled with the overbearing stench of iron. Her insides were at war, her mind pumping out commands her mortal body couldn’t match. If this drug out much longer it would be all over for her—her next words needed to fix everything.

She peered deep into the fuzzball and through it saw a world she wouldn’t ever know. One far unlike her own, a sea of stars, a cosmos rife with chaos intent on pulling the good out of everything. She saw thousands of creatures just like these tadpoles, floating along this endless realm, poking their heads into every crack they could, searching for an escape. Their fate…she might have suffered the same had she not had Rufus guidance. A lost soul with a confusing talent and an uncertain purpose, manifesting a peace through the only thing they truly understand—their power.

She put her other hand atop the creature’s fuzzy head. It was nightmarish like a conjuration dreamed up by some twisted necromancer, but it was no foul beast. It just wanted somewhere it would be safe.

I can save everyone, she thought.

“I will save you,” she said. “If you all save the boy.”

It started with a tremor—much like the sea, his body awoke not all at once. Spasms coursed down his bones, first causing his toes to wiggle, then his fingers, his arms, his legs, even his head. The tadpoles, they all swarmed on his chest, glowing as they poured their magic into him, healing him. Soon his gashes were strung back together, stitched back into their natural resting places, and most surprising of all even his left eye, which for so long had been scarred and deadened, healed over. When he awoke, he would open both eyes to a new world, one full of possibilities he never imagined, and she would be there to help him through it every step of the way.

But she did not pat herself on the back. Though even staying conscious was a tough act, much less upright, she had made a promise and intended to keep it. The fuzzball had slipped free of his face, dragging its gelatinous friend with it, and soon they were both swimming through the flock of tadpoles, only standing because of the eyes ones one bore and the teeth the other bore. Soon she guessed even those would fade, making them no different from the rest.

She took one of the jars filled with herbs meant for the incense and dumped its contents out onto the table. When she turned toward them they waited no for her to even sat it down—they leaped through the air and straight into it, flooding it so densely they could do little other than squirm around. She sealed them in and their scattered cries filled her mind but with a brief hush, she told them everything would be all right. Later she would take them back to Rufus and somehow they would create a life with them. But for now…

Her legs gave out.

She toppled over onto the boy’s chest, heaving out blood onto the already soiled sheets. Even opening her eyes brought such a rush of pain that she kept them closed, listening to Marly’s heartbeat as it steadily climbed. He would be awake, soon, and she would be asleep. He would worry, and ask a million questions, and when they next saw one another, their lives would be entirely different. He would ask and she would do more than listen—she would teach him the ways around his powers and he would, somehow, do what he had always done.

He would make her smile.

She reached down, wrapping her hand around his, letting her nails scratch into the sea salt stone he had scavenged for her, and somehow mustered the strength to say one final thing:

“Everything is going to be okay, Marly. Tomorrow is another day.”

And with that, she slept.

THE END