Soul Keepers

****Please note: This is just the beginning of a story I intend to unravel.  There are of course ends that need to be tied, unanswered questions, and a slight sense of being left in the dark!  Rate this as if you were reading the BEGINNING of a story.  Thanks!!

         Tents popped up in the valley once a year for the Festival of Changing. In the Nyriad culture, fall symbolized change and was a cause for celebration. Children grew into young adults. Young adults became young working men and women. They aged further, until their skin hung heavy and their hair silvered, then they died. Their children grew into fine young adults, and so went the cycle.

         The Nyriad of the valley were one with nature. The valley was full of lush and colorful trees in the summer, but there were three distinct differences amongst the trees that grew there. The Sappa was a small, flexible tree that grew no taller than a man's chest, and in the fall the leaves turned a mustard yellow. Long ago they began calling children "Sappa" after the trees. This means "Yellow-little", or more accurately "Little Yellow Thing".

         The Hish trees that grew in the valley reached high into the sky with their stout branches, and were the main source of firewood for the village. Those who climbed the strong reaching limbs of the taller Hish trees in the valley and looked afar found themselves staring down a vibrant, rolling carpet of green that went on for miles before diminishing into a flatland. In the fall their deep-orange leaves hung precariously until the cold came to steal them from the branches. The adults of the valley did not often refer to each other in this way, but the elderly would beckon them as "Hish" and the embarrassed individual had to respond.

         The Govat tree was by far the most impressive tree to Nyriad eyes. These trees often grew in pairs, and twisted together into the sky. The trunks of these trees were a smoky black, and the leaves turned from a beautiful brown to a blood red that fell long after the snow has fallen, speckling the harsh white with what seemed like drops of blood. Not a single Govat tree had ever fallen in the valley, and the Nyriad didn't dare upset the spirits that protected those trees by chopping them down.

         It was on certain nights, a cool breeze pulling the Nyriad closer to great Hish fires about the village, that the elders would tell of life, legend, and history.  Held by fear, wonder, and anticipation, the villagers listened intently.

         One elder spoke of demons that posed as trees, using dark magics to fool those who passed by into overlooking their sinister appearance.  He warned that the rotting black evil that seeped from the trees themselves went unnoticed, and seemed to be a beautiful mix of earthy tones instead. When the demon trees did not shed their leaves, the magic made it seem to be nothing out of the ordinary. The elder even swore that with his own two eyes he saw a govat tree move, even leer, but he was only scorned for scaring children.

         The village was shaded orange by the dipping sun.  As the merchants began to close up tents and pack up merchandise, a buzz of excitement started. This was the best part about the Festival of Changing. In the evenings everyone gathered at the multiple bonfires around the festival. At each of the fires was entertainment for the night. Jugglers, musicians and dancers performed, the shadows mimicking their every move.  And then there were the storytellers. They wove tales so well that the villagers almost felt that it MUST be true. Children imitated their favorite heroes, cloak whipping in the wind and stick-claymore at the ready.

         Near the merchants' corner of the festival, a little girl was looking for her opportunity to escape to the bonfires. "Jess, come." Her mother beckoned. Jess was tired of following her around all afternoon, the taste of dirt was drying her mouth, and at six years old she felt she was quite capable of taking care of herself. They stopped at a merchant who hadn't packed up for the night yet. As soon as her mother turned to do some last minute haggling for a jar of Govat sap, Jess dashed away. Once safely hidden in the crowd that moved between fires, she slowed herself down to a walk, surveying the different events happening around her.

         Her mind jumped from thought to thought as she walked around the dusty camp, briefly wondering how her mother could like the sharp smell of Govat sap. At the very edge of the festival there was a storyteller, shaking a stick in the air. The children around him were laughing gleefully at whatever story he was telling. Jess walked closer, interested.

         The man's hair was a tangled gray mess. Bone thin, he seemed very frail. The stick was actually a broom, and his long fingers gripped it ferociously as he re-enacted his supposed encounter with his shadow. His voice was weak, his eyes dull, but the more he told his story the more lively he became.

         Jess surveyed the group, and then sat down next to a boy she recognized. "Where are Hish? Only see Sappa."

         He seemed entranced. "Shhh!"

         She pouted, but watched the storyteller.

         "And so," said the storyteller, "as you can see, my shadow and I have come to a truce. He is there, behaving, and I am here." The children clapped. The storyteller's eyes seemed to gleam.

         No, thought Jess, his eyes glow.

         Scared, she shook the boy next to her.

         "Do you see eyes? Need go, now!" But the boy just pushed her away. She looked across the firelight at the other children. They had vacant expressions as they clapped.

         Her heart was pounding. She started to panic. Something was different about the kids, and it was happening to them one at a time. The fire grew higher, illuminating their vacant faces.

         She looked at one of the girls in the group as the firelight brightened, and watched the girl's eyes turn black. Jess was frozen with terror. It was like a light switch had turned off in her eyes. One after another the eyes around the campfire went black. Jess tried to scream, but it caught in her throat.


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         His neck bulged with strain. His arms, with strength that was rarely matched, tightened. Sir Orin, last of a proud line of knights, had given up on having a quiet life. The gardens in the castle courtyard had been beautiful that night as he was reflecting upon his life--until movement had caught his eyes. In the moonlight it was difficult to see the features of the two men he had captured. The man he held by the throat with his left arm had a scar across the bridge of his nose. He was kicking and grabbing at Orin's strong hand, trying to pry himself free. The man he held with his right arm... his deeply pockmarked face was red and his eyes were bulging severely.

         Orin couldn't focus anymore. The life of a royal guard was wearing on him, and at fourty-some years old he wondered if retirement would ever be granted to him. Sure they need me for tactical advice during campaigns, but why this? It was his reputation. The king knew that Orin could settle an uprising in a village by just slapping some sense into a few peasants. He snapped back to the matter at hand.

         "Please, good lord!" the one to his left croaked as his face turned bright red, "we on'y but wanted a few turnips to feed our chil'drin!" Orin loosened his grip slightly. The other peasant, who was blue in the face, had passed out. Orin dropped him.

         "Where doth thou hail from, peasant?" His voice was rough, but his dialect was as noble and superior as he himself appeared. His shining breastplate, with a golden coat of arms on the chest, never went a day without a polish.

         "Fr'm the farm down th' road. We's indentured serv'nts, milord." He croaked once again. The knight knew about this farm, and knew of the harsh treatment peasants suffered. But still something did not settle right for Orin. Strange things had been happening lately around the castle, and rumors were stirring of strange evils awakening in the most peaceful of places. He scoffed at some of the more superstitious rumors that were getting around. Some were even saying that the Nyriad were being attacked by Govat demons from their own forest. Hah, if ever there be an angry tree spirit, those tree loving natives would be the last to worry!

         Orin relaxed his grip, and set the peasant down. "Stealing from the castle grounds is punishable by death. Now go". As the peasant smoothed his clothes down, thanking Orin for his kindness, the knight's keen eyes caught the edge of a marking on the scarred man's forearm that was previously concealed by his clothes.

         Orin's hand darted out and grabbed the peasant by the wrist, his other hand pushing up the sleeve of his shirt. "Assassin!" The man tried to wrench himself free, but to no avail. "Speak thy name, assassin!" The assassin reached quickly for a dagger, concealed beneath his clothing, but Orin smashed his head into the assassin's face, tossed the dagger away, and shook him like a rag doll. Orin had a newfound appreciation for king's decision the previous month-- all who left the protection of the castle's inner walls must be escorted or be capable of fighting, and everyone had to wear some form of protection.

         Orin had a distinctly vile hatred for assassins, feeling them to be the most evil dishonorable bunch to ever walk the lands. And there were many, many more of them recently, both skilled and not. Orin backhanded him across the face, his gauntleted hand slicing the dazed assassin deeply. The assassin laughed, blood coating his teeth and running down his chin. "I will see you die slowly and miserably, knight!" he spat.

         A sharp pain shot through Orin, then a deep burning sensation starting working it's way up from the back of his thigh. As he turned with a growl he found that the other man had stuck him with a dagger, between the plates that protected the back of his leg. The wounded Sir Orin smashed his fist into the man's face with a sickening thud. Before Orin had a chance to retaliate, another dagger had been stuck in him between the steel plates of his left arm, the one holding the other by the throat.

         The assassin tried kicking, punching, and different grappling techniques to loosen Orin's grip and escape, but even with two daggers in him and poison burning through his veins, the noble knight's grip would not weaken. On the outside Orin's eyes burned fierce with hatred as he squeezed the life out of the assassin, but on the inside he fought back the darkness that was taking him. His vision wavered, and his heart was unsteady.

         "Sir Orin!!" The knight turned his head to the sound of the voice to see his squire running towards him.


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         The storyteller's eyes snapped to her, lulling her. Comforting her. Her heart stopped pounding so hard, and her fear melted away . This man is not bad. He tells stories. And he looks just like grandpa.

         The storyteller's smile returned, warm and comforting, as if he sensed that her guard was down again. She saw something behind him move. She blinked, trying to focus. Something told her this was wrong, but her thoughts were muddled whenever the old man talked to her, or even looked at her.

         The storyteller tried to hold her attention. "What are you looking at, dear?" His voice was stronger than it sounded a minute ago. He tried to step between her and what her little eyes were focused on, but it was too late. She saw the leg of one of the boys fly through the sky and gasped, her eyes wide with terror.

         "Midda! Midda!" she called for her mother. He caught her eyes with his. Were his eyes brown a minute ago?

         She couldn't remember why she was so terrified.

         Or if she even was terrified. It all seemed silly now.

         Like a silly game.

         Those eyes were so deep--so beautiful--so relaxing.  Her shoulders droped in a satisfied sigh.

         She was sure she couldn't have seen... what she thought she saw.  She couldn't even remember.

         The storyteller approached her with a look of kindness on his face. He had a sharp penetrating odor that she recognized.

         "Come here, young Sappa…" he cooed. She looked down at his feet, shy and uncomfortable. She blinked. Blinked again. The fire was burning higher, but he had no shadow. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes again.

         "Shhh… shhh… It's okay, little girl."

         Her breath caught as she looked over his shoulder. His shadow was near the other children, completely detatched from the storyteller. The shadow had taken the form of some large demon, all but transparent in its shadowy form. Around it were the shredded remains of most of the children.

         The boy she was sitting next to only offered a vacant stare. His eyes were completely black.

         She screamed. The storyteller's eyes had gone blood red, and his skin a smoky black. She ran, and he allowed her to. The fire shrunk behind her as she escaped. Jess stumbled over a root, falling to her hands and knees. She looked around. Still no adults.

         The storyteller laughed, and as his laugh grew louder other voices joined it, as if hell itself were laughing.

         She looked back to find his eyes still on her as his body contorted into a mass of muscle and sharp spines that shredded his clothing. The storyteller grinned with a mouth full of teeth as long as her arm, and ripped the boy into pieces.

         His stare once again trapped her, but not for long. She broke away from his gaze and turned to run. With a sharp scream, she came upon his shadow. Her scream was cut short as it ripped her throat out.

         Another scream, that of a woman, pierced the cold night as panic spread through the camp.  The last thing Jess saw, in the waning moments of life, was the storyteller shifting into a tree--a Govat tree.


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         John, part-time mountain guide, waited at the base of the mountain where the road narrowed into a faint trail.  Trees leaned over the path from each side, shadowing and protecting it from the elements.  He lightly ran his hands over the tall grass on the side of the road, the dew from the grass collecting on his fingertips.  Flicking the droplets off of his fingers, he turned.  "You sure you want to do this?  Summer would be a better time to climb mountains."

         An elderly man waved him off from the passenger seat of the car, tossing a heavy backpack out the door.  "Never felt better, Hish."  He jumped out of the car.  Not gracefully, but for man pushing seventy it was impressive.

         John looked ahead, up the mountain trail.  "You know, it isn't too cold down here, but--"

         "Nevermind that, Hish.  Old men may be well one day, and the next day our souls are returning to the great planet.  And our bodies--food for it.  I have to do this now."  The old man shouldered his pack and walked up the road to John, the damp fallen leaves squishing between his toes.

         "Eijahya, you can't climb the mountain like that.  You need to wear a coat, and shoes.  You'll die if you don't, no matter who you are."  This man is suicidal!  What have I gotten myself into.  This crazy native is probably looking for death in the mountains, and I'm going to be the matchmaker!  "And my name is John, I don't know why you keep calling me Hash."

         Eijahya chuckled, running his gnarly hand down the trunk of an equally gnarled tree.  "Very well, John.  The gear is in my packs, I will wear them when we travel higher up and I need them."  He plucked a flower from the earth, near the base of the tree he leaned against.  His face had quickly lost it's humor.  "This is a bad omen, John.  There was a time many, many years ago, when I was but a small Sappa.  These plants started growing.  When the beasts that roamed my valley ate them, they died.  Or worse, they turned violent.  When the spirits get angry, they seek their vengeance through these plants.  But that is not their only way."

         Eijahya stored the plant in a pouch he kept under his vest.  "My family left the valley, our native grounds, in fear.  We then lived in the forest outside the town called Arbos, but it was not home."  Eijahya looked at John gravely, then.  "John you must watch out for yourself when you return.  Things may be very different, and if they are", the old man paused, searching for the right words.  "You would be wise to start believing in demons."

         The mountain guide was unsure how to respond.  Yeah.  Demons.  "Well ... thanks for the warning, Eijahya.  I'm sorry you had to leave your home."

         "Me too, Hish.  Me too.  Let us be on our way."  The old man picked up a sturdy long branch that rested in the moist pile of leaves.  He smiled at the tree, almost as if he were thanking it.  "I'm ready to go, John, what are you waiting for?"  Eijahya walked ahead of him, eager to get going.


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         "Keep thy distance, William!" William ignored him, closing in on the assassin that Orin had knocked aside. The pockmarked man was taken off guard by William, whose sword cleaved through the air, but missed. His body slammed into the assassin hard. Both of them fell to the ground, wrestling for control.

         Orin had just begun to train the squire on the use of a sword, there was no chance for him. Orin's heavy fist smashed into the helpless and weaponless assassin again and again, while his grip tightened ever more. The knight's jaw clenched as he put every ounce of strength into squeezing, until he felt a pop under the skin of the assassin's throat, and his body went limp in Orin's hand.

         He heard the grunts and growls of William and the pockmarked assassin. Daggers still protruding through him, Orin's blood burning from both wrath and poison, he stumbled to the fight. The pockmarked man had gained advantage, and had William pinned down with his body.

         William grunted with effort, sweating from the suffocation of heat and the heavy man on top of him. The pockmarked assassin's face dripped blood steadily as he put his strength and weight into pushing the dagger down.

         Orin reached them finally, grabbed the assassin by the back of his clothing, and tore him off of William. The assassin elbowed him in the face, threw a knee into his stomach, struck him in the throat, but the knight held strong.

         He heard William whimper, and glanced toward's the young man's voice. he was too late--William had the dagger buried deep into his chest. William's voice was weak, and his eyes stared into the sky, as he called out to Orin.

         A growl escaped Orin more fearsome than any beast could muster. Orin tore the dagger out of his arm and slammed it into the assassin's neck, down to the hilt. The assassin's mouth sputtered bubbling blood as the knight tossed him aside, running to William. Cradling William's head in his lap, he weeped. William was the closest thing he had to a son, he had even planned to leave him a large field of land for his own when Orin's own time to pass had come. "Why?" He cried. "Why?!" He cursed at the body of the pockmarked man.

         His head lowered, pressing against William's rapidly cooling body, and he sobbed. Darkness tried to take the edges of his vision, tried to weaken him, but the hatred running through his blood was a poison far stronger than anything someone could dip a dagger in. He had the poison of passion running through his veins and that would protect him, for now. He carried the boy to the castle grounds, cursing himself for leaving his sword at the armory during his evening walks.

         There was nothing anybody in the castle could do for William, he was long gone. They told the distraught knight of the poison that coated the daggers. Koth venom, which was the mixture of snake venom and Kothas oil, was very illegal in the Paelos Empire, and very dangerous to handle. The Kothas flower was abnormally large, the tallest coming halfway up Orin's thigh in height, and looked much like a sinister thorned stalk with roots that were rumored to reach down into the depths of hell. Only in the last two years had the Kothas plant begun to grow in Paelos, and many took it as an ill omen.

         Orin recovered quickly, though none believed it was possible. Most of the servants around the castle just summed it up to luck and Orin's sheer body mass. But Orin felt inside that it was much more. It was just not his time to die yet, and he still had a purpose left to fulfill.

         "Where dost the assassins lie? I must inspect their bodies." Orin inquired.

         "Milord, we found no bodies. We thought you disposed of them."

         Orin did not respond, he simply gathered his things and stormed away from the castle, not sure where he was going but positive he was going somewhere.


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         Reaching the peak of the mountain would take over a week, longer if the weather was unfavorable.  "How are your feet, Eijahya?"  John asked him this every few hours, insisting that the old man was out of his mind.  "I'm wearing boots and my feet are freezing!"

         The old man smiled at him, holding a finger up.  "Hold on, Hish.  Let me enjoy the feel of the earth beneath me for a few more hours."  He tied his long silvery hair back into a ponytail.  "How important is your life, John?"

         John was speechless again, unsure how the old man wanted him to answer.  "How important is my life?  Well ... as important as everybody else's, I guess."  It seemed to John that all this man did was question things that did not need answering.  "Why do you ask?"

         Eijahya scooped some snow from the ground, then resumed walking beside John.  He walked with an extreme sense of direction, though he was not looking ahead.  Instead he stared into his cupped hands, watching the snow melt.  "When I look into my hands, I see looking back at me an unfinished life.  I have no children, and I know nothing of what happened to my village after we escaped."

         John thought about his life more deeply then.  He had no children, no wife, no lover of any sorts.  As a child, when all the other boys were spending their meager savings on little sweets to woo and charm empty-headed girls, John was climbing trees, or hunting.  He looked at Eijahya, wondering if the old man was done speaking.  He didn't care, he was content to mull over his new thoughts.

         After choosing his next words, Eijahya continued.  "The planet gave us life, John.  It gives yet again, day after day, by providing us with food, water, and shelter.  What have we done for this land?  What have I done to return the favor to the earth, for it's gift of life?"

         John said nothing, but Eijahya's words rang true somewhere in his head.  Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, where thoughts went untouched, a light bulbed flickered, daring the right thoughts to come by and give it that last little push towards an epiphany.

         That night they camped under the shelter of a rock shelf, its lip jutting out into the sky in defiance to the world.  John had no trouble getting a fire started.  As soon as the fire was steady and strong, he speared two fish with a stick nearby.  He looked across the fire, the orange glow of firelight flickering across Eijahya's dark skin.

         John hadn't realized it until now, but he liked this old man.  Eijahya's tendancy to think and contemplate vast amounts, yet choose his words so carefully--and share even fewer words ... it spoke of wisdom so deep that John didn't dare delve too far into understanding.

         John offered one of the fish to Eijahya.  "No", the old man said, "I cannot eat on this Journey.  In respect for the spirits, not only of all people but all living, I will not take the life of any other to keep my own."  Eijahya studied the man's face, seeing that John felt guilty about eating the fish now.  "Do not feel sorrow, Hish, for it is how we are made.  I only do this as a token of gratitude for this beautiful world."

         John's face relaxed, but he still worried for the old man.  "You won't eat anything at all? Nothing?"

         Eijahya shook his head slowly. "Not until this journey is over, friend."  John thought this over, quickly counting the days it would take to reach the peak.  At least a week.  If the weather is good, we can do it in a week.  People can live without food for a week, right?

         "Eijahya?" John took a bite of his fish.

         "Yes? Speak of your thoughts, I will listen."  The wise old man had a depth of knowledge behind his dark eyes, humbling John as their eyes met.

         "What does Hish mean?"