The Seven Thunders

                                  Prolouge



                                  NOW





  My head was pounding, though I couldn't recall why. The air had an unfamiliar smell, and a distant fear made it's first vibrations within. It was nameless, but felt like a warning. Something wasn't right here. Something was about to happen.

  This was the first time I'd seen the old man without his robe.  It wasn't lying next to his stool, although a part of me felt it had surely been there a moment ago.  The table at which we sat was not the shoddy oak or pine I'd been used to, instead our arms rested on a flawless marble slate,  void of any scratch or visible imperfection.  The walls in the small room were a resplendant white, almost too bright to widthstand with any amount of comfort. My squinted eyes darted swiftly but couldn't identify the light's source anywhere in the room, it was almost as if the walls were generating the intense luminosity themselves.

  "They are...in a manner of speaking," he said, with his eyes to the floor.  His pale skin was bare, I wasn't sure if he sat naked on his stool or not,  his mid-section was interrupted by the gleaming marble slab he rested his hands upon. The old man had a large scar on his right shoulder, looked like a burn. His hair was dirty white, short and chopped here and there with no regard, almost if forced. He looked different, but the same somehow.  I had not yet realized that my memory was already taking the first few precarious steps towards fading away completely. Almost completely, as it were. I remember forgetting what significance his words might have had.  He raised his head and I saw an arrogant smile form on his lips as he regarded me.

  "And here we are young man. One final meeting between you and I. Our time together has been short indeed, and although I must admit I despised every minute of it, I cannot with a clear conscience admit to having experienced any boredom during our journey as companions.  Never were we equals, no, but that is a question for men better than I, I suppose," he said, and he took his time with his words.  His expression changed immediately, his head tilted in a curious position, "Have you a name?"

  I was speechless.  The question was absurd. He resumed before I had time to struggle with it.

  "Answer later, for now, I have a final task."

  I was confused, and not about anything in particular. I felt like a numb limb after a full nights rest, who immediately remembers to move but is confused by the inability. As I regarded the old ruin, my heart told me I had fond feelings for him, his statement confused me, this was a man I felt had a great love for me. Why I wasn't sure, but I had yet to struggle for that answer. One who regards his mother with love does not immediately search for the reason why, it is given.  But I was starting to become uneasy; fear was being conceived somewhere in the hollows.

  "Speak, fellow wanderer, make me feel at ease with your situation," the old man said, with a suppressed giggle.

  I struggled. Not due to any physical ailment, I simply could not come up with anything to say. The questions swirling in my mind were adrift and incomplete.

  "Speak! Your house will be clean soon, I promise, but only after the furniture's gone!" he chuckled to himself, "Ask me a question! Utter a phrase!"

  I mumbled almost inaudibly.

  "A word then!"

  I cleared my head of its interrogative phantoms. I relaxed in my stool and closed my eyes. The old man's cackle was replaced by the calm sea of silence of my open mind. My lips formed one word.

  "Nero."

  The old man's laughter ceased immediately. His entire body was frozen, a pointed finger still suspended in the air. His eyes were now full of fear and wonder. The light faded ever so slightly inside the room, which finally broke his paralysis. After what seemed an eternity of uneasy quiet, the old man began to speak while simultaneously itching the scar on his shoulder with sudden urgency.

  "I won't ask you to repeat that, I heard it sure enough," he said with complete sincerity. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, sighed, and returned his eyes to mine, and spoke as if he were pleading, "Do not write it down. Obey the command."

  "I don't understand," I finally said.

  "You're going to have to get used to that..." he stalled, it seemed his upper hand on the situation was momentarily eclipsed, "Yes, you're going to have to make peace with that very soon. The other road lies madness, despite what people may say of mine...and yours I suppose. Ah, nevermind, you must have slipped too far by now. Now you are hanging on the precipice! I'm afraid I have no hand to lend you. You never should have..."

  "Why don't I know you Bard?" I asked.

  "Well at least you're hanging on longer than the others. Some I know would be pleased at that. I have respect for you fortitude; I will answer your question. You will soon be unable to remember anything, my son. Unfortunate but necessary I'm afraid. There's been so few of you, but this is a precaution that is not debatable. I apologize for speaking in riddles, but soon that's all you'll have. Yes, we were friends. We were close companions, you saw me as Teacher and I you as Student. And there is no closer bond than wanderers such as you and I. But as I look back, I do realize that I hate you. I hate you for everything. Once you are gone my sight can return, and don't ask the obvious, my eyes can see your bold features as clear as my own shit, God grant me a solid one."

  "Where are we Bard?"

  "Yes, keep saying my name as long as you can. I can feel your mind hooking onto it for dear life. Where are we? That's a difficult question in and of itself, but to satisfy what's left of you now, I shall say we are in a very old place, very rarely used. How many times I am not sure, though everything is numbered. This room is where your potential fire will be extinguished. It is a failsafe. Though even the great minds know there is no such thing in this universe. And you scare me," the old man replied.

  "What am I here for...Old Man," I asked.

  "You're here to resume, but with a piece of the puzzle very carefully extracted. I have no doubt you'll eventually reach the Avatar in time despite the doubts of others greater than I. That part is at least necessary. I have no idea why, even after years of pondering that question, but there is a task you seem to have been chosen to fulfill. It's been done before; an account was kept of it once by decree. You may well have read it, many and many have," he wiped his forehead again, the itch in his scar seemed to have been abated, "I, on the other hand, am here at last to leave you breadcrumbs. My old friend...have you a name?"

  The infrastructure of my thoughts began to collapse. Windowpanes and 2X4's hit the ground and stirred up the dust of what was once my memory. The sudden expulsion of my identity created a maelstrom of panic within me. I reached and grasped and stretched, but inevitably my once teeming sea of memory began to evaporate, my fingers waving in the mist desperately trying to find a solid form in the dissipating cloud.

  I screamed.

  The old man watched my seizure with no emotion. He waited patiently for my cries to subside, his eyes never leaving mine. I saw a mixture of pity and relief in his eyes. Also what may have been empathy, although I can't be sure of that?

  Eventually my frame became motionless. I was a ghost, an inanimate hunk of flesh, naked in the darkness of the void of my mind. Even after considering all that I've been through since, the moment I lost me was undoubtedly the most excruciating moment of my entire life. I felt like a hollow shell.

  The old man stood up. He was naked, as I was. The table was gone, when and where I could not tell you. He took two steps towards me, knelt down on both knees, and stared me solemnly in the eyes. He spoke in a deep, guttural tone.

  "Standing stones. Rivers of ink. 74. 74. The Lord of the Pit. Green eyes in the flame. The Fiddler's Foe. Cora, my love. The Catch of Ferns. Your Bowl. Mr. No-Flight. The Lord of the Pit, Scott, the Lord of the Pit!"

 

  Darkness came, and took me.



















                             Chapter 1





  The sunsets were otherworldly here.  The perfectly rounded hills topped with close cropped grass bent the fading light effortlessly, and poured the orange hues down the hillside like running water. The pink clouds were motionless; in awe of the ageless orb of light descending below the horizon.

  I stood and beheld this unfamiliar sight while the slow breeze sifted my hair. After a year of searching, I had finally reached the Isle of Boreans.

  I reached down and grabbed my battered pack, more than half of my belongings now lost to the winds of travel. The quaint cottage on the third crest to my left, the only structure on this small island, had a comforting pume of smoke rising from its chimney. I set off with the bag on my shoulder, and for once I had a reason to smile. I did not know what answers were waiting for me there, but this journey of mine was equally about finding the right questions as well as answers. I had only realized this recently, while Addie beckoned me at her stream not a month ago. That blood had yet to wash away.

  The short grass soon turned to a packed dirt strip beneath my feat, a narrow path leading to the cottage. I saw a wooden sign up ahead, but could not yet see its notice. I suddenly realized how hungry I was, my last meal had been that brace of thin field rabbits I purchased from the young native, when, two days ago? It seemed the impending enlightenment that awaited me, once I finally found the location of the Isle, had quited my stomach. And while my first thought when I saw the pillar of smoke rising from the small abode yonder was Someone is home, my body's first reaction seemed to be I hope they're cookin'!

  The sign was now in sight. It read:



  YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING

       

                                TURN



  I paused for a moment, and regarded this simplistic message. It succeeded in stirring some trepidation inside of me. Certainly not because it advised me to turn back, give up, go home! I had been told that before, sometimes with a knife to my neck or a rope stretched around my wrists. But no, this message, to me, seemed to be shaking its head in sorrow. It already knew the absurdity of what it was asking, any man who had come this far would sooner hang himself with a steel cable than cry off. Whoever wrote this disclaimer was pleading, not with threat of reprisal (from the writer at least), but as a last ditch effort to stop something from happening. I respected that, and even though I hadn't swallowed the truth of my plight fully yet, I knew that I was an addict. I wouldn't stop until I knew. I wouldn't stop until I knew it all.

  I tipped an imaginary cap its way, and continued down the slight downgrade of grass and brown earth leading to the front door of the cottage.



  The door was cracked open slightly, I grinned at this welcome. The house was made of a light whitish wood, Beech perhaps. The signs of age, cracked wood and crooked sills, were splendid indeed. This was a place of comfort, a respite in times of torrent, and a very important place; I could feel it. Not since my dying Father had set me on my path with his last words, while clutching his ballpoint pen as if it were a dear loved one, did I feel such a sense of rightness, of knowing I was where I had intended to be. Through all the roads, roadside taverns and disapproving glares, I had finally reached a place where the veil of confusion may be lifted from my eyes, maybe even taken off completely.

  I pushed the door open.

  The inside was darker than I would have imagined, the failing light from the outside had not faded completely, what I saw inside the cottage was almost black as pitch. As I stepped inside, I soon realized as my eyesight adjusted that there were no windows here. I hadn't noticed from the outside, I guessed? Seems like something that would have stuck out though. Had there been windows? Yes, there must have been. But inside, there were no boards nailed to hide the light. Only walls.

  My feet were obstructed by pieces if wood or God knew what else as I stepped through. This place was a mess, cob webs and dust permeated the near darkness. I had not expected this, and my heartbeat began to speed up just a little. I had envisioned a roaring fire, and perhaps a rocking chair holding a wise man or woman, reading an ancient book, who had been expecting me.  Instead I coughed up some grime I had breathed in, and felt a spider scramble on my neck. I slapped it and spit. I continued to maneuver inside the house. I saw a hallway to my left, and after nearly tripping on what seemed to be a broken rocking horse, I turned the corner.

  I was inside a kitchen, and only here was a small window, perhaps the size of a paperback novel, allowing a small stream of dusty light extending to the floor. It shone on a key.

  Without a moments hesitation, I bet to pick it up. As soon as my fingers touched the cool brass of the key, I heard a tittering giggle, very close to me. My head shot up and beheld a small girl standing in the corner of the room, maybe ten years old, with her hand held to her mouth, suppressing full on laughter. Her eyes were beginning to water, she found me so amusing.

  "I knew it! That's so funny!" she exclaimed, and began to laugh histerically, holding her hands to her stomach. I stood back up, leaving the key on the floor.

  "Hello," I said.

  She stood up straight, now trying her best to suppress more gales of laughter, and curtsied.

  "Hello to you too! How do you do! You smell like poo!" she said, and giggled once more uncontrollably. I was very frightened, and hadn't the slightest idea why. I let her finish laughing, she ended with a long sigh and a smile.

  "So sorry to be rude! I am Amanda. Princess Amanda, don't you know!:

  She extended her hand, and I grasped her fingertips with my own. They were very cold.

  "And your name is?" she asked. I believed that she honestly didn't know. I had half-expected her to already know

  "My name is Scott, pleased to meet you Am...Princess Amanda," I replied. She giggled again.

  "I suppose now we must be friends, yes? I know you, and you know me!"

  "How long have you been here Amanda?" I asked.

  "Not a good question Knight. You should be offering me your hand in holy matranony! You have slayed the dragon, yes?" she asked with a bright smile. I didn't answer, and began to survey the room. Nothing. Nothing but empy shelves, and empty sink, and the key on the floor, still laying in a pool of ever fading sunlight.

    I had no words to say that I could think, and was beginning to feel frustrated. I felt betrayed by my earlier hope that here might finally lie some answers. I might have a dialogue with someone ancient, who could point me in the right direction. I felt no interest in speaking with this rude little child. But despite how hollow my search had begun to make me, I felt pity for this girl. And I was still curious about her.

  "Have you any food in your pack?" she asked, with a serious tone for the first time.  I paused for a second to make sure she wasn't about to fly into another fit of laughter.

  "I do not. I'm sorry, if I had any I'd be glad to..."

  "Not for me silly! For you Mr. Scott. You need it, trust me. I can see it."

  "You're not hungry? When did you last eat? There's no game on this island...how...where did you come from girl? How is it you've found yourself here?" I asked impatiently.

  "Where?" she asked with a cocked head and a grin.

  "Here, goddammit, in this disgusting house, this island! Who lived here before? Do you know? I must speak to the former occupant, do you know of their whereabouts?"

  "I am the only one here, the only one whose ever been here."

  I shook my head. "Nevermind. I can see this is only a game to you. I must have made a mistake in coming here...I was positive though. All the signs pointed here..." my voice trailed off. I was defeated inmy shame. There was nothing in this house but dust and despair, "Anyway listen, I have a small boat three miles west of here on the beach. Come with me, I'll get you to the closest village, we'll both get ourselves a meal and press on."

  "There is no such thing as right, you know," Amanda replied. I was momentarily taken aback by the gravity of this remark by one so young.

  "Do you have anything you need to take with you before we leave?" I asked.

  She just stared at me, with that half-grin and cocked head, and said nothing. This time I held her gaze, and the longer I stared into those beady little eyes of hers, the more I began to fear this little girl. I had no idea why.

  "Amanda," I began, "What does the key open?"

  Nothing.

  "Princess Amanda, what does the key open?"

  Her smile widened a bit, but she still was speechless.

  "Okay darling, I'll be off then. You are welcome to come with me, I'll never leave a person stranded if I can help it, especially not a child, but I am no one's keeper. I am going now, follow me if you like."

  I bent down and picked up the small brass key and put it in my pocket, despite my feelings that it had no particular signifigance. Everything here was a joke.

  "What are you looking for, North Star?" she asked.

  I froze mid-step, paralyzed by the sound of the nick-name my father had given me so long ago, now spoken by a child.

  "What did you call me?"

  No answer from the child.

  I sighed. "I'm looking for answers. I'm looking for the meaning of..."

  "You'll only find riddles. I prefer to play games. Who in the end will be happier, do you think?" she interrupted.

  I took a step towards her, and bent down to her level to look her in the eyes. I saw no fear in her face, this action only seemed to amuse her further.

  "Can you help me, Amanda? Is that why you're here?"

  Her smile faded completely. What I was looking at now were old eyes, full of wisdom and sadness.

  "I help no one. Not in a thousand years before or the thousand to come. This house will never again cater to one who is fancied a prophet."

  "I hold no such delusion."

  "I never said you did. You are kinder sort, but that will fade I'm afraid, dearest North Star. I am not the one you seek."

  "This island, this house...this must be..."

  "Oh you dear boy. How foolish are you men! Always playing war while the girls play with dolls," she said, and crossed her legs and sat on the floor Indian-stlye. Her fingers trailed the tile floor painting an imaginary picture, "But I believed you when you said you would share your food with me if you had any. And I know that you would have seen me to a warm bed once across the sea; a hot meal as well. There is kindness still lurking about in your tortured soul. For that I will repay. I will NOT help you, there will be no offering made by me! But to repay your integrity, I will answer the question burning in your mind."

  "Which is?"

  "You've already asked it silly! You want to know why this island isn't your apex! Well I'll tell you. What happened on this tiny Isle happened long ago, to my mother's master no doubt. You've no idea I'm sure, but you will if your," she started to giggle again, but her eyes were not the eyes of a child anymore. They were witch's eyes, "If you heart is true! Hee hee!"

  She stood up, and grew before me with alarming speed. A ghostly old woman with a billowing shroud now floated above me. She was twice the size of a man, the skin on her skull was taut and stretched; pulled into an unchanging grin. The eyesockets were empty, but regarded me with glee. The threads of her darkened cloak flapped and blew without any wind.

  "Hear me now for the last time!" she cackled, "What you must seek is a bowl! A bowl was the catalyst for that vision so long ago! It was taken from this place, just as my mother was! There is no life here, and I have no games to play North Star! Find your bowl, and ask the Old Man who drinks from it! Now go before I play WAR with you boy! For that is your game! Shall we? Yes! LET US GO TO WAR!"

  She threw her head back and laughed uncontrollably, a dry raspy sound like crunching leaves. I fled as fast as I could, crashing into piles of wood and clay. Spiders flung down upon my face from their silken wires, I felt the pinches of their bites. The billowing cloak was turning the corner towards me, and I knew the old witch had lost her mind and her memory. She meant to have me, to play her games.

  I bolted towards the door, threw it open, and scrambled outside into the twilight. I feverously swatted away the spiders and cobwebs, my heart pounded like a hammer. As I reached the top of the hill, I turned to see a young girl, standing in the distant doorway of the cottage, standing in the moonlight staring at me.



  My small fire cracked and smoked.  I sighed at the thought of my next meal, which was at least one day away, maybe two.  I'd learned to deal with hunger fairly well, the need for it, but the exhaustion and weakness were beginning to set in.  And that combined with my harrowing experience with the Witch Princess had left me tired, demoralized, and worst of all even more confused. I twirled my small, charred pan in my hand. No sausages tonight, no greens. Only more mysteries to fill me up.

  I thought of my father; the brief moment we had shared. I had never known him, never known of him, until his life was drained by the tip of my own knife. It had been a misunderstanding which led to that murder. But I think he knew what was coming. I wish to this day he would have spoken up, and stopped me. The memory was still clear as ever:



  My knife retracted out of his stomach, only one drop of blood hanging at its tip. The drunkard's gut began to drown in red below me. I had been drinking that night too, perhaps this was too much. I could forever claim self-defense, but part of me knew I stabbed this wretch out of anger, not fear.

  The poor soul groaned silently, and desperately began searching his pockets. His eyes, which had always been full of foolishness and waste every time I had seen him sing his songs and drink his ale, now regarded me with a petrifying wisdom, and love. I was frozen by his glance, I had meant to move on and leave him to die in the street. It was what he deserved, I had seen him try to rape that old woman behind the bar, had seen him puke on the parlor mirror and laugh hysterically, I had witnessed this abomination of a man piss himself while standing upright in a crowd of people, laughing and farting.  Surely pity wasn't filling me? Perhaps I hadn't gone as far as I thought.

  "Thank you," he muttered. I regarded him closely. This wasn't the same man. You can see a lot in a man's eyes. I saw someone else. Someone better. Perhaps even someone great.

  "I...am sorry," I started, the knife shaking in my hand, "Where is the man who danced on the dead cat but a moment ago? Who just ran at me with a chair leg, shouting for coin? You aren't him, though the blood that stains this knife is his. I am no fool."

  "I am glad I didn't pass that trait, young one," he said, and coughed up a spurt of blood on his multi-stained vest, "How old are you now?"

  Love. I couldn't escape that piercing look of love in his eyes. I started to believe I had just made a very grave error.

  "Six past twenty, as far as I can figure. My mother never had an exact account, and she died the day of my first southern hair, if you get my meaning. The very same day. I must have been eleven or twelve then. I've been counting since."

  "Ah," he replied, trying to suppress his anguish. Very bravely I thought. This surely was not the drunken fool I had been annoyed with the past two weeks of my stay in this town. That man was a disguise. It was genius.

  "And you, sir, how old are you?"

  "This is the day of my death, I knew it would be today the first time I saw you walk into the tavern. And a good death it will be, at your hand. This is hard for you, things will be so hard for you, but I am a proud man at last to see such strength in your face."

  A tear began to form in my eye. I realized I had been looking upon him with the same expression of endearing love. I didn't know why, but I did deep down. The tears started to stream down my sunburned cheeks. I had been holing up in this town only to drown my failures in whiskey and whores, only to find out I had succeeded, if only for the next few moments.

  "Father?" I asked with trembling lips.  He smiled. A  proud grin.

  "You are my North Star," he replied. I shook my head to show him I didn't understand the meaning, "Surely your mother told you? The first time I held your tender body in my arms, I said 'Elizabeth, this child is my North Star, my Bearing. I will never lose sight of him in the sky' But I did, my son, I fled my pursuers to protect you and your mother. She never wanted you to know of my business. Or curse, rather."

  I wiped my eyes and bent to him. I grabbed his bloodstained hand and held it.

  "Mom had those very words engraved on an oak plank hanging above my bed. She told me it was an old family motto."

  "Then she told you after all, in her own way. Son," he said, gritting his teeth as he tried to sit up a bit, "Help me search these tattered cloth pockets of mine. I need to hold it..."

  I slid my hand into his inside vest pocket, the blood from his gash pouring and dripping from my fingers. He was right, this wound would surely kill him. Inside his pocket I felt a hard, cyndrical object. I pulled out a black pen; heavy and beautiful in its simplicity. I could feel how old it was, and loved. I placed it in his hand, which immediately squeezed shut on it. My father sighed in relief.

  "Father...Dad. There is so much I need to ask you," I said, choking back the tears, "So much I needed to say to you..."

  "Your eyes say it all Scott. And as for you questions, I beg you with my dying breath, let them go. Toss them to the winds of forgetfulness. Because son, that burden grows. You must let it go."

  "I have tried. I have tried with all of my heart. But I can't stand among the peasant drones of this world, working their way, feeding their stomachs, and asking nothing! I was born malcontent, I have to know why the world is, how it began, where it's going. I have to know if there is a guiding force."

  "Many have asked those questions..."

  "Father, I saw the stone ring. I went there, slipped past the natives and stood in the center."

  My father's eyes were full of dread.

  "And do you know what I saw?"

  "I think I do."

  "I saw three wisps of cloud in a dark void. They spoke to each other, they always agreed. Then I saw an explosion in the blackness. An eruption Father! Out of nothing came a blinding light, and a red cloud of ash and dust and rock shot through the void in all directions. The three wisps of cloud hung above, and regarded it.

  "Then I awoke, staring up at the plank boulders standing all around me. The sun was setting, and I was left with the memory of the vision. I have been searching for answers ever since."

  "Son," my father groaned.

  "I have spoken to many, almost all of them dullards convinced of their own superior knowledge, but not one of them knew anything for sure. But then I spoke to..."

  "The monk, the one with the monkey. Funny man, huh?"

  "Yes! And he told me you were alive. He told me to find you..."

  "I had to abandon that post son, the cave hid me only for a while. But my best hiding place seemed to be Gray, the man you just stabbed. But that miserable bastard is making me bleed for him!" he said, and chuckled.

  "Father, I am...so sorry. For everything. Hold on! Don't let yourself fade, I will send for the surgeon, we shouldn't be talking now."

  "Don't make me out for a fool, we both know this is my end. And like I said before Scott, thank you. They can't chase me anymore, not where I'm going." His eyes began to fade and roll.

  "Stay with me!" I yelled.

  "Always have been. My story will be at an end soon, in a matter of minutes, so please..."

  I wrapped my hand around my father's clenched fist, still holding the pen in desperation. He was dying. But I knew him, had always known him. I could see the unquenchable thirst that plagued me had been with him as well, his entire life. It would be quenched soon though. I loved my father.

  "Listen to me now, my boy, and listen well. My time is up, so if you would hear what I have to say, then speak no more. My warning will be in vain I know, but hear it nonetheless: Do not follow this path you are on. I want only light and love for you. You'll likely find neither. But if this strength I see in you is solid and true, you may yet be able to finish where many have failed, and even fewer have been tested. I have but a few words to guide you with, only pieces of the whole, I cannot place your feet on the straight path, but I can help you find your next steps. Across the Eastern Sea there is a monastery, it is on the hilltop outside the town of Arliss. Follow the spiral staircase down to the lower levels. The monks will not bother you there, they do not fear any leaks. But you will find what they've hidden. At the bottom, there is a library of ancient books. Take three with you, here are there names: Minx Cultures, Diary of Thomas Jane, and a cookbook called Meat and Soups. Bury them in your pack, do not let the monks see you carry them. Once you leave, I am afraid you must journey much farther, to the Western Passage of Asia Pente. Ask the people you see where to find the Aleman's inn. It is a small place next to a church in a fishing town. No one will bother with you there. Once you find it, rent out the third room on the third floor. Pry up the discolored board by the window. There you will find the key."

  I commited these words to memory, my father had spoken them as quickly as he could. I knew there was no time for questions. He reached out his bloody hand and held my cheek.

  "And now I can rest. So lovely to die, I have finally found the North Star in the sky once again, I've found my bearing at last.. I have been so lost without it. Be strong my son, be true, and dare not let the thirst taint your integrity. I love you."

  He died on the street. His hand never dropped the pen.



  I felt a tear begin to form, I reached up to wipe it away and found my eyes were dry. Tears didn't come as easily anymore. I frequently feared my fathers dying words, dare not let the thirst taint your integrity, were coming true. But as the little girl had said, there was still some kindness lurking about inside of me.

  "Have to hold onto it," I muttered to myself, and poked the fire.

  So where to go from here? I asked myself. Should I plod along once more, in search of a new place given only vague directions?

  "A bowl," I said with a snort, and chucked another small log onto the fire, "A bowl. What in the blue fuck does that mean, huh Diamond? Where do I find it? How do I even begin? I'd do better just to throw myself into the sea. Maybe if I sink deep enough there might be some bowls at the bottom, right? This is ridiculous!"

  I hollered and launched another log at the campfire, knocking over the teepee of burning wood sending sparks spiraling upwards. I stood and kicked the stump I sat upon and cursed. The small patch of forest around me was silent, indifferent to my frustration. I was furious, scared, exhausted and starving. I had even spoken aloud to my dog. Diamond had been dead for almost three months now, but it seemed she hadn't really left me yet.

  I collapsed on the dirt, my tailbone stung with my weight pressed upon it so suddenly. I gritted my teeth and laid back. Above me hung the dome of space, with its blanket of stars drifting slowly across the sky. I sighed. I knew no matter what I would press on. Tomorrow I'd have an idea, and I'd be convinced it was the clue to my next step. I scoffed at my own arrogance, but the veil of lights above me seemed to be calming my anger. Tomorrow would be a new day, the next in line. I slowly drifted off to sleep, unaware there were small eyes regarding me through tendrils of smoke and licks of flame.



















                                        Chapter 2



  The shovel landed with a dull clang. I brushed off the remaining crumbs of dirt from my shirt, and rubbed my wet eyes with my sweaty wrists. I stood and stared at what was now my father's gravesite.

  I chose the site under a broad willow, which was drenched in sunlight almost the entire day. It was a beautiful marker, better than any post or sign, and there were no roads leading to it. I bent down on my knees and sniffed, and decided to address my father for the last time.

  "Rest well...and stay with me."

  I turned and walked back down the hill. I never returned.



  I arrived back in town, a dull, dusty place called Bindowen. It really should have been a beautiful place. The small town with one main street rested in a valley between two vertical mountain walls of tan rock. At the end of the main street, which wasn't named Main street but Apple road for some godforsaken reason, was a towering waterfall where the two walls met, to form a horseshoe shape around the town. The water poured off the mountain wall endlessly; clear cool water bubbled into a shafted damn which redirected it around the left end of town, carefully walled as it passed behind the saloons and houses. The water's flow was slow and safe; and by God clear and fresh. But Bindowen was ugly. Its people were ugly. The street was muddy and rough, the buildings all a coarse dark brown, where one passing touch of their wood almost certainly meant multiple splinters. And it was always dark here, the shade from the mountains covered the village three-fourths of the day, and when the sun shone through it only enlightened the decay. Bindowen's inhabitants tended to stay inside with the curtains drawn when the sun blazed its few given hours.

  I had been staying in the HorseHead Nebula Inn, an odd name for this locale I had thought. I had been told in passing that the former owner had been a lunatic. Embarassed, I found I could relate.

  I opened the door to my room and was disgusted by what I had let myself ignore the past few weeks. Liquor bottles, loose change, dirty clothes and even a pair of whore's panties laid scattered on the floor. I felt ashamed, but at the same time grateful I was finally standing up and leaving. I unbuckled the chest in the corner and began to gather my things. I had learned to travel light, and vowed to travel lighter after each rest I took. I packed my leather bag with an assortment of clothes, my compass, three days ration of food which I would turn into seven after a stop in town, my knives, notebook, and medical kit. I had left so much behind; had forsaken any tokens of sentimentality I might have been tempted to carry. I decided it was best to keep my possessions as well as my mind clear of any distractions.

  Once outside I headed in the direction of the quaint general store at the forefront of town. The shopkeeper was an offensive, reeking fat man named Joey. He belched loudly upon my entry, and gave me an angry glare before returning to his cleaning.

  "Afternoon Joe. How's business?"

  "Stow it, you high-lining whelp. I see you're off then. Good riddance to ya, you always gave me a frightful squeeze in my gut. Come to stock up?" he said.

  "I always was fond of you Joe. You and no other. Why yes, I am here to partake of your generous selection."

  "Well then remember to pay me double for your trouble, curdless sack of shit."

  "I'll pay you what's fair. You can decide what argument to make afterwards. Now have you any clean waterskins. Clean ones, Joe?"



  And so I hit the road once more, the path leading out of Bindowen grew brighter and brighter with sun as I passed the great stone walls. In the end I had to grab Joey by the hair and slam his head on the counter to knock some sense into him, I was in no mood for his cajoling. But I paid him proper just the same, I may be a hard case but I'm no thief.

  And as the road led upwards and the grass became greener the farther I went, I started to feel that soft exhilaration I always felt when I was on my way to something new. The life of a traveler must be bound to that feeling. An open road. A new destination. And as always, an unsure fate awaiting. I figured I'd charter a horse-drawn as far as my penny could stretch, which when considering how far I had to go was not very long, but it would be nice to feel the wind on my face as the countryside rolled behind me. Wisdom told me to save the money for a cart after my feet had given out, not after two weeks of drinking and sleeping, but that traveler's high dimmed my senses. I'd find a wreck at the next town.

  For the next two days my head was clear, the questions inside of me were tamed for now. I thought little of my father, or my plight up to that point. I thought only of my next checkpoint, the monastery on the hill. I could not make sense of what I was to find there, a cookbook? But the miles that were ahead of me convinced me to leave such questions for later. For now it was enough to just have somewhere to go.

  On the third day I saw faint structures ahead wafting in the heat on the horizon. A small town; a traveler's rest.  Local commerce would be cotton and whiskey, just like every town around these parts. A bottle to sway ya and a bundle to lay ya, the locals were found of saying. Both sounded good, but my cravings for spirits were beginning to dwindle, I cherished a clear head once again.

  As I drew closer to the small village I noticed a tree up to my right with a swing. Something was on it, I couldn't tell what it was, but it was moving. It wasn't a child whatever it was. The ropes jerked and danced with the vague forms seemingly desperate movements. It became clear that whatever it was, it was tied to the swing.

  I soon began to hear a series of short, high-pitched barks. It was a dog, and in pain. My pace quickened, but not quite to a run. I couldn't see behind the tree, and logic suggested that whatever miscreant would tie up a dog to a swing would probably be spectating. That logic depressed me, but it didn't make it any less true. Cruelty grows only out of sick pleasures. Anyone who says different is lying.

  I was close enough to see the dog was a Husky, just a pup. Its nose was tightly bound to the corner of the swing with what looked like some kind of thin wire. I couldn't see it, but I knew there would be blood staining the pups nose in tightly wound circles. Its front paws were bound underneath the wooden plank of the swing, and its hind legs wer left free to kick. And kick they did, with painful desperation. The Husky's legs jerked furiously as it whined a yelped in anguish. I began to feel a rage brew inside of me. My fists clenched as I quickened my pace. I gave no heed to what danger might be waiting for me behind the tall tree. I envisioned a hunchback mutant with a twisted knife and a twisted smile. I would rip this man limb from limb. I would tear out his eyes from his sockets. Whoever could take such pleasure from watching a helpless pup deserved to die, and die slowly.

  I ran towards the tree with anger in my eyes. The dog stopped its groans when it saw me, and actually began wagging its tail. I passed the dog swiftly with my knife raised, and ran around the tree.

  There was no one. Not a soul, not a trace. All I heard were leaves rustling softly in the breeze. The only living creature within sight, other than the helpless mutt, was a small butterfly floating in front of me. I was disappointed, after only three days from my last kill, I was thirsty for blood again. I took a moment to reflect on this, then quickly turned to the dog.

  It was bravely trying to turn its head towards me. It whined softly while its tail wagged. I could see the wire cuts around its muzzle, and the wires were digging deeper as it tried to turn its face towards me. I rushed over and placed my hand on his head.

  "Shhh, hey, hey. It's okay pup. Shhh."

  I slid my knife delicately under the wires, made sure his neck was clear, then thrust the blad upwards slicing the thin metal wire in twain. The dogs head shot up immediately. I cut the bonds wrapped around its paws, and before I could grab the dog it flopped off the swing and landed in the grass. Its little legs scuffled about until it could stand, its tail wagging swiftly. The dogs face was bobbing about sniffing the air and elated. It jumped in my arms and began to lick me.

  "Ha ha, ok bub."

  I stroked its head. The dog was female, couldn't have been more than a month or two old. I held her in my arms and let her lick my face as I laughed. I tried my best to calm her excitement long enough to clean her cuts from one of my waterskins. I poured some water into my empty scabbard and tilted it to her to drink. After feeding her a few bread-cakes, she eventually drifted to sleep in my arms, her tail still wagging slightly.



  The next few weeks were a joy. That little bitch wouldn't stray farther than a few feet from me. I couldn't remember a time in my life so blessed as this. That little dog rejuvenated me more than any still river or warm hand ever could. I decided to avoid the town by walking around it. It may have been foolish, I wasn't sure how soon I would come across another one, especially on foot. But my supplies were plentiful for the moment. I tried to convince myself that was the reason I had elected not to enjoy a warm bed, but I knew deep down I didn't want to risk losing the dog. It might run off or be run over, or worse, stolen by a farmer. I wanted this time to share with only her. I wanted her to love me, and trust me, to hear only my voice.

  "You're going to help me now, Diamond," I said while she jogged at my heel, "We're going to help each other. We have a bearing now, you and I. Across the hills and across the sea, were going to a monastery, where we'll find the next piece."











READ MORE IN THE SEVEN THUNDERS PART 2