Chapter Thirteen: Torment
Tyruc travels to Zifa’s Farm alone. Asena and her avatar leave Tyruc as rain rolls in, but they are replaced by another Herald with a significantly different approach to guiding Tyruc. Tyruc arrives at the wreckage of Zifa’s Farm, and the Herald draws him into a vision of the past to see what unfolded there.
Tyruc watched it all in reverse. People running between the buildings from a figure wielding an axe. A shadowy creature flitting from roof to roof. Three militia members leaving, but four of them arriving. The sun and moon chasing one another backward through the sky to dip below the wrong horizon. The events passed by in a blur, bringing him into the past to a time well before he had awakened in Bodra.
Time stopped, then slowly ticked forward at its usual march. It began here, the voice said with none of its previous flippancy.
It was night in a peaceful, undefiled version of Zifa’s Farm. The river gurgled; the windmill turned lazily. A single light shone in the window of the small cabin directly across from the gateway.
Take a closer look.
Tyruc’s vision telescoped in, affording a closer view of the cabin’s inhabitant as though he was standing just outside.
The middle-aged woman wore work trousers and a loose, linen tunic. Both her build and her facial features were thin and sharp. Her eyes were large but squinting; her head was plumed by long, graying hair that nearly resembled feathers. She clutched a guttering candle with talon-like hands and stared through her window directly at Tyruc.
Is that Zifa?
Yes, Zifa Featherhart.
She’s an avian.
One of only two Skyfolk in Bodra. You have met the other already, Armek the merchant, but he is of the drake clan.
It has always struck me odd that two clans of the same tribe can look so different.
Jhabat, the Som-Fel of Wind, modeled his humans after the most magnificent creatures gifted with flight. First the drakes to rival Som’s dragons, and then the avians to counter all manner of birds. For a time, the skies were filled with winged creatures of every size and shape.
Tyruc’s head spun with all the information, confusingly conflicting with things he thought he already knew. The only coherent reply that broke through his thoughts was, But Skyfolk can’t fly.
Would that they could. The era of flight for Skyfolk ended millennia ago. Their wings were stripped from them by the fiend named Johz. The voice spat the name acidly.
The mention of “Johz” stilled Tyruc’s buzzing thoughts with a chill.
That name belonged to one of eight fiends which were collectively called the Cult of Nol. They were the Court of the Fel’s opposites, and every man, woman, and child feared them. Tyruc was no exception.
What kind of evil would drive something to do that?
Envy. Jealousy. The soul-numbing inability to withstand the joy of others.
A visceral imagination assaulted Tyruc of what it must have been like. The wind on his face, the limitless blue horizons his domain, the strength and confidence of absolute freedom. And then his wings torn from him, shackled to the ground to never experience those joys again.
A tear slid down his cheek as he asked, Do they know? Do the Skyfolk today know what they were robbed of?
The voice wept with Tyruc, Yes. They do not remember why or how, but every Skyfolk knows. They ache, body and soul, for the freedom they once knew.
Tyruc saw it in Zifa. Her posture, her stance, and her expression in the quiet of night as she stared through her little window all painted the picture of a bird in a cage, cramped and discontented.
That is what makes them such easy prey for Johz’s minions.
Tyruc’s vision pulled back from Zifa’s window to see her whole cabin, just in time to witness a large shadow descend from the night sky to touch down on the woman’s roof. It landed with a thud and scrambled for purchase, but once it gained its balance, it perched directly above the window.
Zifa, startled, dropped her candle and plunged her cabin into darkness.
Tyruc tried to move his hand to his sword, but his limbs would not obey.
No, Tyruc. This has all already happened. You are merely meant to watch so you may understand what is at stake and what you must do.
The creature precariously perched on the eave, slowly craning downward to poise its head, indistinguishable to Tyruc in the dark, to just above the opening. And then it sang in a cloyingly sweet voice,
Little bird made a home
Where she could be all alone
But soon the bird was overrun
By the folk that she had shunned
So little bird sat in her cage
Her jealous heart turning to rage
Then little bird took up an axe
And gave those folk a few good hacks!
“No!” came a shriek from the cabin, a scream of anguish, fear, and knowing.
The shadow retreated with a wheezing cackle, leaving the teetering song lingering on the wind. Three misshapen wings flapped asynchronously to carry it away over the river.
A portly figure trotted across the open way and pounded on Zifa’s door. “Miss Zifa, are you okay?” said the man in a hoarse whisper. “The missus and I thought we heard you call out.”
Zifa opened her door an inch. “O-oh, yes, I just d-dropped my candle and burned my hand.”
The man chuckled in relief. “Best be careful, Miss Zifa! Wouldn’t want to start a fire or nothing.” He stood awkwardly at the door. “I know you probably get tired of hearing it, but I have to thank you again.”
“What? Why?” she croaked.
“Well, for letting me and mine come and share this plot with you. We’ve made quite a little family for ourselves, and it’s all thanks to you.”
Even in the gloom of night, Tyruc saw the way Zifa’s eyes tightened and glistened. “A family?”
“Yes, ma’am. A right family. Anyway, if you ever need anything, just holler. G’night!” The figure trundled back to his home, and Zifa watched for a long moment before slamming the door shut.
Time skipped forward. The farming community bustled through its day in less than a minute. Tyruc counted three families of various tribes, each consisting of a husband and wife and two or more children. And then there was Zifa, alone and tending her chickens, ducks, pigeons, and other fowl.
When night descended again, so did the shadow. It clung to Zifa’s roof and warbled its song now in the tone of an elderly crone.
Little bird so very sad
She’s going to do something quite bad
Zifa slid her window shut, but the monster continued to sing.
She’ll take a knife and go to work
On her neighbors she’ll go berserk!
Zifa burst from her cabin door and turned to face her roof, but the creature had already gone, leaving behind a rain of feathers and its thick laughter in the air. She whirled around to the front gate and stared in the direction of Tyruc. She held a kitchen knife in her hand. Her eyes moved between Tyruc and the knife until she finally slipped back into her cabin.
I think I’ve seen enough.
I am sorry, but you must see this through. There is much you must learn here.
The pattern continued. The days shuffled past, but each night saw the evil visitor landing on Zifa’s roof and singing venomous songs to her in different voices. Zifa unraveled slowly, becoming increasingly erratic each following morning.
Zifa also looked directly at Tyruc at least once each night.
One night, Zifa sat at her window with a piece of parchment and a bit of charcoal, and she began to sketch something. Her gaze bounced between the gate and the sketch work, a frenetic energy driving her.
Zifa finished the piece and set it aside before the creature returned for its nightly routine. The woman no longer closed her cabin window nor hid under her blankets nor pushed her hands against her ears, but instead she leaned on the windowsill. She listened to the beast’s melody with eyes shut and head bobbing along.
The next morning, Zifa exited her home at sunbreak and moved to the pigeon cages on its southern side. One by one, she opened each cage and shooed out its dwellers, allowing the birds to fly off without caring where they went. Some immediately fled, though others simply flitted up to sit on her roof. She was about to open the last cage when a dark-skinned lux boy carrying a bucket stopped by.
“Miss Zifa, why are you letting the birds out of their cages?” he asked.
The avian woman rotated slowly to gaze upon the child. Her talons twitched at her sides, and she adopted a small smile. “They deserve to fly, Talfen.” She bent down and took one of his hands in hers. “We deserve to fly.”
The boy tried to pull back. “Miss Zifa, you’re hurting my arm.”
“It hurts to be restrained, doesn’t it? To be tied down?”
“Let go!” Talfen cried, yanking his arm away and yelping. Zifa’s talons had scratched him. Not deep enough to bleed, but angry welts were already rising on his arm.
Zifa’s hands rose to her mouth in horror. “Oh, oh, Talfen, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you—” she said as she reached out again, but the child flinched back.
“I-I know you didn’t, ma’am! I won’t tell nobody! If they ask, I’ll just say I was messing with your chickens again! I won’t tell nobody, I promise!” He darted away, sloshing out most of the water in his bucket along the way.
The woman leaned her forehead against the pigeon cages and sobbed.
This isn’t fair, Tyruc insisted. This isn’t right!
Correct. That is why you are here. To right this wrong.
When Zifa eventually calmed herself, she slipped two sheaves of parchment from a pocket and rolled them, using a leather strap to securely tie them into a tube. She then opened the last pigeon cage to bring out a large, gray bird, to which she attached the parchment.
“Take this to Bodra as fast as you can,” she said to the bird. The bird turned its head and cooed before fluttering off to the west.
It returned a day later with no replying message. Zifa regarded the pigeon for a long time before succumbing to a torrent of tears.
Zifa spent the next day shuttered in her cabin. When neighbors came to check on her, they were sent away. Her birds roamed the settlement, looking for food and occasionally pilfering it from the other families.
That night, the shadow came back, and Zifa listened to it while staring at Tyruc.
Coming up in Chapter Fourteen:
The vision continues to reveal the fate of the militia.