TWO

"The crows on the walls,
eyes burning red,
tracked his steps
    and the gifts he spread.” 

                                                                                    —Song of the Stranger 

With her classmates, Arcadia trudged up the many steps of the temple.  Its exterior walls had been brushed with quick lime for brilliance.  The stone almost glowed in the sun.  She’d heard that when the priests died, they were not buried as common folk but had catacombs beneath the temple to rest in, shriveled and preserved by the same slacked lime used on the outside of the building.

They think they’re too good to feed the thorns and worms.

A bald priest with crinkled eyes, wearing a rusty-sheened black robe, met them at the top landing where fifteen-by-seven-foot doors stood open.  The dark-blue thornwood had a high gloss and was banded and hinged with brass. 

“This way.”  He led them inside. 

The inner floors also used thornwood, a reminder of the curse the valley lived under. 

There were cushioned benches inside, more of the thorn wood.  Only the many hanging oil lamps kept the space from being oppressively dark.  In a front corner, stood the Great Machine: a collection of bladders, gears, pullies, levers, pedals, and silver chains that opened and closed the throats of great pipes.  The chains dangled near a bench where the operator sat during services.

The priest led them from the sanctuary, down a side hall.  The first room off the hall held cleaning supplies and a tin tub where a pump handle could bring up water for cleaning.  There was a worker wearing leather gloves, dampening rags with fragrant oil.  Another worker handed out lye soap and buckets.  

“You will wash all surfaces in the sanctuary and apply the polish to the wood,” the priest said.  “The pipes of the Great Machine have their own polish.  This will be given you if there is time today.  Now get to work.  And remember, this is for the glory of the Storm.”

Arcadia’s class grabbed the supplies.  Bucket in hand, she was caught by the shoulder out in the hall, pulled away from the others.  A different priest with thinning, gray hair guided her firmly away from the sanctuary.  She was led through a door, into the forbidden area where priests lived their unseen lives.  A Great Hall lay before her with tables and padded benches.  There was a central fire pit for heating at night, where the ashes came from for making the soap.  One end of the hall held a kitchen. 

She was prodded to the other end where a whole wall was taken up by colored stones fitted together with mortar to form a series of pictures.

“You did a good job on this last time,” the priest said.  “It needs cleaning again.”

She knew this priest.  Morrimor was gruff but kind and had even travelled out to the chopper homesteads to bless the sick, bringing them medicine upon occasion.  He had a rare warmth missing in most of the other priests. 

She gave him a smile.  “Yes, elder, I’ll take care of it.”  But she stood there, staring, her eyes caught on one picture.  The central panel showed a figure walking on clouds.  The alabaster stones making up his flesh made him seem to glow.  What stunned her most was the resemblance to the Stranger.  The figure on the wall even had the same yellow star stone ring.

“What’s wrong, child?” the priest asked.

“Who is that?” she asked, breathless.

“Hmmm?”  The priest turned to look.  “Ah, caught your eye, did he?  According to the ancient writings, this is the Heir.  He is said to sky-born and yet also of the earth.  And one day, he shall come to the valley and all the impious will be thrashed with flames and scourged with terror!  Now go on; the fresco won’t clean itself.”

She hurried to work, cleaning with vigor, changing the water in her bucket several times.  Smoke from the firepit and grease-smoke from the kitchen had left a film.  She made sure to get the corners, then cleaned the tables.  Occasionally, the priest returned and looked over her work in silence.  Once she was done, he gave her a small coin.  It wasn’t enough to buy much, but she smiled and thanked him profusely.  He led her back to the hallway, and along toward the sanctuary. 

They passed a young, stern-faced man in a black hooded cloak.  His eyes seemed to shine with a crimson light for a moment.  A shiver went down Arcadia’s spine.  This was one of the crows that served the priests, carrying their instructions out across the valley, making sure the people weren’t falling into evil ways. 

His stare struck her.  He smiled but there was no warmth in it.  “This morning, you were talking with the Stranger by the fountain.”

She didn’t know why, but she felt as if she were being accused of something.  “I was waiting for the school to open.”

“Of course.  Did he ask you any questions?  What did you talk about?”

“I asked him why he didn’t wear shoes,” she admitted.

That didn’t seem to be an answer he’d expected.  It took him a moment to recover.  He cocked his head, red gleams of light played across his dark eyes as if they might be made of glass.  There was something dark and avian in his regard.  Something hungry.  “What did he say?” the crow asked.

“He likes the feel of grass,” she said.

“Grass?” the crow slowly mouthed the word as if testing its taste.

“And cold streams,” she added.

“What’s this about?” the old priest asked.

“A wanderer is in town,” the crow said.  “He came out of the Thorn this morning and has been poking around.  He smells of trouble, like the other one.”

“So, you’ve been watching closely,” Morrimor said.

Arcadia felt relief with those dark, glassy eyes off her.         

The crow nodded.  “It’s what our sect does.”  He looked back at her.  “He carries a big sack.  Do you know what’s in it?”

“Not really,” she said.

The smile came back as the crow studied her face.  “But you know something.”

She didn’t feel like she should be telling all this to the crow, but his stare left her afraid not to answer.  “He opened it at the fountain and let me reach in.”

“Why?” the crow asked.

She looked at the old priest.

Morrimor nodded his grizzled old head.  “Just tell the truth, child.  Truth hurts no one.”

“He gave me a gift.  I tried to refuse, but he insisted I was meant to have it,” she said.

“What kind of gift?” the crow asked.  “A talisman of some kind?  A trinket to bind you to his will?”

The priest looked at the crow.  “You think this Stranger is mage-born?”

The crow lowered his voice.  “I felt power in him, even from the wall where I watched.”

“It was only a flute caved from wood,” Arcadia said.  “He said he had many gifts to pass out.  That’s all I know.”

“Just a flute?” the crow asked.

She nodded briskly.  “Yes.  Can I go on to my work?”

“Go, child,” the old priest said.

She felt like running and had to hold herself back.  This was not the place for frivolity.  One out of the hall, back in the sanctuary, she could properly breathe again.  She joined the others in wiping down the surfaces.  Focusing on her labors, she was started when the great machine began to breath, its bladders filling as the billows were worked.  One of the priests sat at the machine, pulling chains, working levers.  He turned a few small valves and the metal tubes trembled, releasing breathy tones.  She’d blown into a glass bottle once to get sounds like these, but those of the great machine were much deeper.

Some of the priests in training were lined up.  They held thin booklets up in front of their faces.  It was practice for the next holy day.  As the great machine waum-whomped in different depths of voices, the young men chanted the hymns of the Storm, 

Fascinated, she listened.  And on her lips, a melody formed.  Not the one they made, but a counterpoint that danced lightly around their slow drone, bringing a touch of brighter sky.

Leah nudged her.  “What are you doing?”

“I-I just thought of how the sound could be made better,” Arcadia said.

“The Storm gives us all that we need.  Your help is certainly useless.  Stop slacking.  We’re almost done.  Work hard to the end.  It’s your duty to the temple.”

Chastised, Arcadia let the little tune in her heart settle into silence.  She knew better than to argue.  The priests were always saying that change was evil and only devotion to the old, changeless ways could save them all from the curse of Thorn and the wrath of the Storm.

Feeling the tones of the great machine in her very bones, she worked hard until they were all done and dismissed by the priests.  The buckets and brushes were gathered up and taken away.  Arcadia found herself almost dancing down the steps in her haste to leave the holy place.  She noticed that the crows—not the human ones—were gone from the city wall, having flown off about their business. 

That was unusual.  And unsettling.  It sometimes meant that trouble was out hunting for prey.  With a shudder, she turned toward the fountain and walked over to slack her thirst.  She cupped the water in her hands and drank, then splashed her face.  Turning she went to the schoolhouse, wanting to get her lunch.  There were other students doing the same.  As she got to her desk, she found Husk and Leah there.  Arcadia’s lunch was on her desk, unopened.  They’d put it out of the way so they could draw out the long bag with the flute in it.  Husk had the bag open, the drawstrings loosened.

“What are you doing!” Arcadia yelled at him.  “That’s my stuff.”

“We want to know what you’re hiding,” Leah said.

Husk shimmied down the covering and bared the polished wood of the flute.  He frowned at it.  “What is this?”

“It looks like one of the pipes of the great machine,” Leah said.

“It’s a flute, if you must know,” Arcadia said.  “Give it to me.”  She reached to take it from Husk. 

He jerked it away from her fingers, laughing.

“It’s mine!” Arcadia yelled.

“What’s going on here?” the teacher’s voice lashed them.

They jumped, not realizing he’d come in.  Arcadia turned to him.  “Teacher, they’re going through my things in my desk and taking what’s not theirs.”

Husk slammed the half-bared flute into her hands.  “We didn’t mean anything.”

“That’s a forbidden item,” Leah said.  “She shouldn’t have it.  Especially not at school.”

Arcadia stared at the other girl.  “Forbidden?  What are you talking about?”

“Forbidden?” Scrivens echoed.   He came closer.  “Let me see what you have.”

Arcadia held it up.  “It’s just a flute.  It makes a wind sound like the pipes of the Great Machine.  There can’t be anything wrong with that.  The priests know I have this.  They didn’t say it was wrong.”

“She’s lying,” Husk said.

“It’s true ,” Arcadia said.  “You can ask Elder Morrimor.”

“I will,” the teacher said.  “If he agrees, I will return this to you.”  He pulled the cover up and cinched the bag shut, taking it to his desk.  The bag went into a desk drawer.  Apparently, he wasn’t going to the temple for a while.  It might be the end of the day before Arcadia got her flute back.  She wanted to argue but knew it would do no good.  The teacher was unwrapping his own lunch, settling in at his desk.

Leah smiled in triumph.

Husk smirked just to be smirking.

Arcadia sniffed with distaste, picked up the cloth bag with her lunch inside, and slanted Leah and Husk dirty looks.  Arcadia left the classroom to eat her midday meal outside like the rest of the children.

It was the end of the day for the class.  The teacher dismissed them.  The children walked out quietly, saving their enthusiasm until they were out of Scrivens’ sight. 

Concerned about her flute, Arcadia lingered.  She reached into her desk for her lunch bag and found it—along with the flute bag.  She pulled both out of her desk, feeling surprise.  She hadn’t known the flute had been given back already.

“Arcadia!” the teacher’s voice was harsh enough to make her flinch.

She looked up at him.  “Yes, Teacher Scrivens?”

“Did I not take that away from you earlier?”

“Yes, Teacher, you did.”

“Then what is it doing in your hands now?”

“I just found it.  I thought you’d given it back already.”

“No.  You’ve been in my desk while I was out.”

A flutter of fear in her stomach, she stood up, holding her things.  “No, Teacher.  I wouldn’t.”

“That bag in your hands tells me different.  Come up here to my desk.”

She did as he asked, carrying the flute and her lunch bag.

“Tell the truth, Arcadia or I will have to punish you.”

“I told you the truth.  I don’t know how the flute got back in my desk.  I didn’t put it there.”

“Put your hand on the desk.” 

“But I.—”

This time his voice rasped the command.  “Put your hand on the desk.”

She did as he ordered.

His pointer stick struck her hand with a whack.  She screamed and reflexively snatched her hand back.  Tears brimmed in her eyes.

“Now, tell me truth,” the teacher said.  “You took the flute from my desk.”

“But I didn’t!” she wailed, tears spilling down her face.

“Put your hand on the desk,” he ordered.

“But I-I didn’t…!”

“Don’t defy me.  Do it.  Now!”

She stretched out trembling finger and set her hand on the desk.  The stick fell but she couldn’t move her hand.  He held her wrist with his free hand.  “You. Will.  Tell.  Me.  The.  Truth!”  Each word was followed with a blow until she slumped on her knees, head bent as she cried.

“This would have been so much easier,” he said if you’d just been honest.”

“I told…you…!”  She sobbed.

He released her wrist.  Her hand slid off the desk.  She caught her hand and cradled it to her chest.

The teacher came around the desk and knelt in front of her.  “Stubbornness always has a price.  He picked up her flute and striped the bag off it.  “If you want this, show me you’re not hurt.  Play something.”  He held out the flute.

She didn’t know how to play.  She hadn’t learned yet.  And some of her fingers wouldn’t work anymore.  “I can’t.”

“So, I should just burn this as firewood?”

She took the flute, hissing at the pain as she fumbled with it.  She got some of the bottom holes covered.  And blew a few breathy notes.  She wiggled a finger than still worked, then slid her hand on the flute, puffing in a few more breaths.  It was all she could manage.

“Good enough,” the teacher said.  “Go home now.”  He stood, went around his desk, and sat down.  Peering into a desk drawer, he pretended not to see her accusing eyes as she fought to her feet and carried her things outside. 

Arcadia staggered to the fountain, set her things down and plunged her damaged hand into the icy water for the comfort of numbness.

She heard steps behind her and flinched, pulling her hand from the water.  But it wasn’t the teacher.  The Stranger stood there.  He sat on the rim of the fountain and gestured for her to show him her hand.  Several fingers clearly broken.  The Stranger covered the ugliness, taking her hands in his own.  The pain went someplace else.  Her tears dried. 

He growled in his throat.  “To hurt a child.  Who would dare?”

“My teacher,” she said.  “He took my flute from me, but later, I found it in my things.  I thought he had returned it.  But he said I had stolen it from his desk.”

“How can someone steal what is theirs?”

“I told him I hadn’t been in his desk.  He hit me with his stick to make me confess.”

“But you could not give him the lies he wanted.”

“It made him angrier and angrier!  He looked like a savage beast.”

“And went much too far.” 

“And when he was done, he made me play.  He said I had to if I wanted the flute back.  Somehow, I did.”

“He had to get a lie out of you one way or the other.”  The Stranger released her hands.  They were whole again. 

Her breath caught in her throat.  The Stranger now wore her bruises.  His fingers were broken, puffed, and swollen.

Her voice softened.  “Why would you do this for me?”

“Because you could not do it for yourself.”

She could only stare.

“Run home,” he said.  “And in the future, do not share your gifts with those who will only trample them underfoot.  Those with power will always fail us; it’s an important lesson to learn.”

Arcadia backed away, stared a moment longer, then spun away and fled. 

The Stranger turned his back on the water song and stalked toward the schoolhouse.  As he went, his hands healed.  Going in, he slamming the door.  The teacher lay on the floor, writhing, his body covered with the cawing crows from the wall.  His hands clawed the floor.  His square lensed glasses were beside him, broken.  His mouth stretched wide as crow after crow plunged down his throat—choking him—while he couldn’t seem to move with any purpose to stop it.  After a good many more went in, the last few turned toward the Stranger, cawing, as if to drive him off.

“You have no power over me.”  He pointed away.  “Out of this place.  Go!  I have no need of your horrid songs.”

The crows flew at the wall with the windows.  A few feather’s lingered as the birds puffed into black smoke that passed through the glass without breaking it.  Outside, smoke became crows once more.  Their cries continued as they winged toward the closest village wall. 

Stomach tight and bulging, Scrivens rolled on his side and spat out a black feather.  He forced himself to stand and staggered to his desk.  His eyes were red.  The human was gone.  He’d played with darkness too long and it had consumed him, as it had the servants of the priests.  His hair was disheveled, his skin pale gray, corpselike.   Crow droppings splattered his once-clean shirt.  He leaned on his desk and it leaped away from his touch; his strength was now that of many. 

He looked at his thickening hand, then the desk.  “What is happening?” he asked.

“Judgement got here ahead of me,” the Stranger said.  “You are accursed.  The monster inside you is coming out.”

“No!”

“You had better flee.  When the village guards see you, they will drive you out, as will the priests.  Though they play with the same darkness, they will punish you to prove their purity.  It is an old game.”

“But where am I to go?”

The Stranger turned to walk away.  “To the thorns.  To the groves where darkness is thickest, to the shadows where evil loves to hide while watching for prey.” 

The Stranger left the school and the village.  He wandered past the gate and down the steep side of the rocky hill.  He had other places to visit, miles to go, and gifts to give while his time lasted.

Out on the path, the former teacher overtook him.  The twisted creature ambled past, snarling, clothes tattered, back bent, hair now matted down to his waist.  All that was once human, lost in his face.

The Stranger sighed. 

It is never wise to feed the inner beast; it has too much strength already.