Читать книгу Wind - Daniel Mello - Страница 3

The traveler shivered from the cold evening breeze as he gazed upon his future. At first glance, the small wooden cottage seemed remarkably unstable, as if it would crumble over with only a minor gust of wind. Decaying wooden boards lined the sides and the top of the cabin, while a covering of soggy thatched hay draped over the roof. On a rickety, splintered door hung a sterling silver pendant in the shape of a seven-pointed star. And inside the perilously rotted cottage were the answers he was seeking.

Uncertain, but unfaltering, the traveler advanced.

Pushing open the unsteady wooden door, the cabin creaked with every step as he moved cautiously inside. Behind a rather unsightly oak desk, through the smoke of a pungent incense billowing from an intricately carved container, the traveler discerned the shadow of a small person scuffling about. Slowly, stepping as lightly as his heavy boots would allow, the traveler approached the desk, weaving slightly to dodge some rusty cages that hung from the leaky wooden ceiling. An assortment of candles scattered throughout the cabin cast a flickering light that dimly illuminated the room just enough for the traveler to notice a raven perched on the top of a small wooden staff leaning against the decrepit desk.

“Oh, shut up, you stupid bird,” croaked a grainy, high pitched voice from behind the haze an instant before the raven bellowed a silence shattering “caw”!

Startled by the bird, the traveler ripped his sword loose from its sheath and turned, poised to permanently silence the crow.

“You won’t need that,” said a small, old woman as she came hobbling through the curtain of smoke. With a quick swing of her thin arm, she smacked the raven right off of the stick, and it flew away with a clamor to a crossbeam overhead. The hilt of the traveler’s sword hit the top of its sheath with a metallic tap as he tucked it away.

The old witch shuffled up to the rear of the table and slumped down into an old chair, which puffed of cloud of dust in protest.

“I know why you’re here, of course, but do you,” the witch asked, “Lythina?”

Suddenly, a pair of young, elegant hands rose up to throw back the traveler’s hood, revealing not a man, but a lady underneath. Fair skin framed calculating emerald eyes, and her soft, slender features were accentuated by the peaks of her pointy ears poking through her dark, wavy hair.

“I’d ask how you knew my name, but it would be a waste of time,” Lythina replied. “You must be the Oracle of Meaden.” She found herself mesmerized at the woman’s weathered face, which seemed to be wrinkled from many lifetimes of wisdom. Her balding head gripped tightly to the last few strands of gray hair it had left. In fact, she almost looked older than the rotting cottage itself.

“I am,” the old woman answered simply, allowing her eyes to take in Lythina’s thin frame. “And you’ve traveled thus far to seek your answers, so ask.”

She didn’t know where to start. Of course, she’d love to know what the future held in store for her kingdom, secretly hoping for a miracle to save them from the oppressive reign of their king. Plus, that would be a courageous, insightful reason to wander the coast at night looking for a forsaken prophet. Once one of the lads back home caught wind of her adventure, she was sure to hook someone.

After all, that was the real reason why she’d traveled miles from her home village seeking the mysterious Oracle. What she truly wanted was a solution to her deficient love life. No one seemed remotely interested, so maybe there was a spell or something that might work.

Dreading the appearance of looking completely shallow by wasting her trip asking selfish questions, she decided a more abstract approach might coax an answer from the mystical woman that might possibly, inadvertently, reveal the location of her future husband. No one would be the wiser, and she could still get the answers she wanted.

Out of all the questions that raced through her mind, Lythina picked the one that seemed to sum it all up for her. “What’s ahead?

“Despair,” the Oracle croaked.

Wait, What? Was her future really that grim? “He’s got to be out there somewhere, right?” she pressed.

The old witch glared confusedly at her for a moment before continuing, “your friends will die, Lythina. You will lose all hope. You will meet your destiny in darkness where you find the Legend.”

The witch stumbled out of the chair and grabbed the walking stick to steady her gait. Hobbling around the desk to the other end of the room, she reached an archaic wooden hutch and threw open its doors. She began to sift through the various objects inside, pushing aside tattered books, dusty glass jars filled with a dirty liquid, and some small metal crates whose occupants had clearly expired.

For a moment, Lythina stood rooted to the spot, stunned by the prophecy. But she quickly snapped back to the moment and inquired further.

“That’s it? My friends are murdered and I die alone in darkness with the legend?!” She could feel the tips of her ears beginning to burn, her fists beginning to tighten. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be! “Do you know how far I travelled to get here?!”

Immediately, the old witch stopped sorting through the items and turned to Lythina with a cunning stare. “I didn’t say you’d be alone.”

Turning back to the hutch, the old woman snatched a small pouch from inside and shut the rotting wooden doors. Then, with a difficult turn back around, she hobbled over to the young lady and thrust the pouch toward her. Lythina raised a flattened hand underneath it.

“This will help you when the time is right,” the Oracle said as she dropped the small bag onto Lythina’s palm.

“Okay, how will I know when to use it?” Although she was still angry after hearing the vague prophecy, Lythina felt like she had a little more time to learn everything she could from the Oracle. She took the pouch and tied it to a strap on the inside of her waist bag.

“You’ll know when all hope is lost,” the old woman advised. “Know thyself, and the rest will follow.”

With some effort, she managed to hobble back over to the aged chair and slide into it. From an old, tarnished urn atop the desk, the old witch shoved in a boney hand and grabbed a handful of dust, dumping it out upon the tabletop.

“These are the ashes of fallen kings,” the oracle spoke as she waved her dusty hand over the remains.

Lythina couldn’t help but comment. “That’s disgusting.”

Offended, the Oracle retorted back, ”Not disgusting, respectful. Always give a king his due respect. Always!”

“Okay,” Lythina surrendered, “Okay, easy.”

As she closed her eyes and started to chant to herself, the witch waved a pointed finger over the ashes. Instantly, as her hand hovered above them, the ashes began to move and spread apart from each other as if the old woman was writing in sand.

“The kings tell me many things,” the witch rasped. “Some say you will not make it. Some say that you will return peace to the land.” She paused, allowing Lythina to absorb the echo of her words, the stillness in the cabin. “What do you wish for?”

Just then, the Oracle’s eyes snapped open, solid white.

Lythina jumped.

“WHAT DO YOU WISH FOR?!” the Oracle bellowed.

Rushing past all of her other desires, past peace, past freedom, her one true wish flew out of her mouth before she could restrain it. “I wish for love!”

For a moment, there was silence. Lythina could hear her heartbeat thumping in her ears.

And the Oracle screamed, “MATHIAS!”

Instantly, a huge squall erupted out of nowhere inside the cabin as the witch howled, her voice echoing around the rotting walls. The raven in the crossbeams cawed and scrambled to fly away from the clatter as Lythina squinted her eyes and turned her head to deflect the pitch of the witch’s scream away from her ears. She braced herself against the gale, her cloak flapping wildly behind her, dust and straw and pieces of rotting parchment flying around the room as the storm of wind blasted over them, blowing out the candles.

As quickly as it had come, the witch’s echo vanished and the storm disappeared. A few moments of gloomy silence followed the shriek, leaving Lythina stunned from the sudden quiet. The hovering debris floated back to the floor, and the smoking candles instantly burst back to flame.

When the Oracle spoke once more, it was in her usual creaky voice. “Seek the Righteous Warrior.”

The old witch closed her eyes, relaxed her body, and slowly ceased to wave her hand over the ashen kings. Underneath her finger, untouched by the raging storm, a pattern of lines had formed. Instantly, Lythina moved closer to inspect them. Strange symbols she had never seen before surrounded a main line that twisted like a river. The symbols were made of straight segments and jagged angles, and the line had small branches shooting from its stem. Quickly, she pulled out a quill and some parchment.

“The kings have spoken,” the Oracle said as she opened her eyes to reveal normal human irises. Lythina was scribbling down the pattern of lines onto the paper when the witch scooped up the ashes and dumped them back into the urn with one fell swoop.

Luckily, the young lady had finished copying down the drawing. She folded up the parchment and pushed it, along with the quill, into a covered pocket on the sleeve of her shirt. Afterward, she knelt in front of the desk, taking a moment to calm her breath.

“Oracle, is there anything else you wish to tell me?” Lythina asked appreciatively.

For a moment, the witch sat breathing peacefully in the chair. “I have seen many happenings in my life, and I am sorry to tell you these things, but I speak only truth. I know the real reason you sought my knowledge, but there are greater forces at work, and now is the time to act. The kingdom as we know it is fouled with the corruption of evil generations. This age of Hyrendell is at an end, Lythina, and the Legend of a time long past will come to reign again. Your destiny is intertwined with the coming age; it was decided long before you were born.”

The Oracle searched the young lady’s face. “Once again, the fate of the Island hangs in the balance. To free the land from oppression, the people will need someone strong enough to lead a revolt against the entirety of Hyrendell’s armies. However, whether you choose to follow the signs in your life is wholly up to you. Oh, and if you sincerely desire love, then believe in it, for you are destined to have it only once in this lifetime.”

With one last word, the old witch reached out a shaky hand. “Remember: light protects you.” Lythina grabbed the boney hand and stared at the old face before her, seeing now a deep compassion glimmer from behind those ancient eyes.

“Thank you, Oracle, for everything,” the young lady said. “Thank you.”

“Go in peace, my dear,” the old woman smiled. “And good luck!”

Closing the rotting entrance door behind her, Lythina walked away from the cabin and away from the Oracle. As she walked back up the trodden roadway, her head spun with the challenge of tying the prophecy, the pouch and the drawing together.

“And who is Mathias?” she wondered. The walk back toward the ramshackle village was hard on her legs, and she could feel the exhaustion in her body begin to creep into her mind. All she wanted to know about was her non-existent love life, not some end of days fortune. And, okay, she got the hint, but how could she be the one to lead a revolt against the entire kingdom of Hyrendell? That would require a hero, or at least a soldier; she, however, was just a simple gardener who studied spirituality as a hobby. If she had gone straight home from the village Monastery like she knew she should’ve, instead of stopping by her favorite bookstore afterward, she might have avoided this life changing mysticism altogether. Then again, she never could just pass by the bookstore…

The Oracle was right. The kingdom was extremely corrupt, and she was tired of the king always raising the taxes or imposing some new ridiculous law. The tyranny had to stop, but she knew that the people of the kingdom were too scared to revolt against the king and his army. What they would need was a true leader; someone strong and wise to give them enough courage to cripple the army. If everyone in Hyrendell gathered up their collective strength, a revolt against the king might have been possible.

And there she goes, thinking like a revolutionary already. The idea of ending the king’s oppressive reign was enticing, no doubt, but it was not going to be her that led the people against an entire kingdom. Besides, who would rule afterward? A newly liberated Hyrendell would probably want their leader to be their quee… No! Their king. They would want a king...

She needed sleep, needed to rest her thoughts. Quickly, she remembered seeing a small hostel as she passed through a ruined village during the day on her way to the Oracle. It had an ancient charm to it as the brickwork walls were almost completely covered with ivy vine. A creaky sign had hung between two torch lamps above the front door, which read The Flowerpatch Inn.

“God be with me,” Lythina whispered, realizing it was her only hope for shelter within miles. Squeezing her cloak around her shivering frame, she headed back toward the ghostly village seeking the decrepit Inn.