Wicked King Wicker, Part One

Wicked King Wicker, Part 1

Approaching Bald Mountain



There was blood under his fingernails, and no scrubbing or scouring with a knife blade would get it out; he had stopped trying. Now the tips were black, and he could tell people it was dirt. He wore black because any other color would show the stains; the last time he washed them, the water had turned dirty burgundy.

The sun was burning red between the trees, letting go of its hold on the hills. He found a yew tree and sat under it, laying the bundle from his back on the ground. He pulled up his sleeves. A single, long scroll of silk was wrapped around his arm, curled under his armpit, across the back of his neck, then around the other arm. Even in the dusk, Jakob could read the writing on it. Some of it had faded, but he had memorized the story a long time ago. With care, he unraveled the scroll and laid it on the ground, then opened to its full width. With a sharp breath through his nose, he began to read. As the familiar words coursed through him, they enveloped him, and the memories came drifting back into their places, and he was warm again.

-

He was sitting on the roof, listening to the party below, all the clinking of plates and glasses, all the fancy clothes rustling, and the false manners. He had take up a leg of chicken and some jo, and a flask of warm wine. Over the wood-and-earth walls of the dun, the fields of half-harvested barley were shades of grey under the weak moon. Inside the gate, there was the courtyard, with its stone walkways, and the garden, mostly pools and rosebushes and soft grass. He checked his longjack’s slide, then the fields, then the moon. He was glad he had worn a hood; the wind blew in a series of cold crescendos that never seemed to die completely.

He’s coming. Tonight or tomorrow night.

One of the servant entrances groaned open, and he watched a young man, about his age, and two women, also his age. The girls wore the dresses with the impractically large skirts and the loose, lace-up blouses that Jakob had always been wary of.

You wear it to look fashionable, or you wear it to conceal a weapon.

The man wore a fancy satin samla and a sash, with short pants and long socks, also impractical. Jakob watched them all sit and nuzzle under a tree near the path, and he clenched his teeth. He grimaced and stood with the help of his jack. After buttoning his lime jacket with cold fingers, he slung his satchel over his shoulder and began to climb down.

He’d jogged about half the distance to the tree when he turned his head and looked over at the gate. Behind the walls, a fog was rising. The wind dropped. Jakob broke into a run.

Damn, damn, damn!

“Get out of here! Get out of here now!” He hissed at the people under the tree.

Their heads jerked up, looking guilty. One of the blouses had been partly unfastened. Jakob wrenched the girls up by their thin wrists and swung them toward the keep’s doors. The man stood quickly and reached for something in his belt. Jakob pushed him back down and crouched behind the tree.

“Lie down and don’t lift your head,” Jakob whispered. The man sat up and pulled out a grey flashjack.

“Fut that. What’s coming?” he whispered back. Jakob nodded, face obscured by the hood.

“Just keep quiet. Get up and stand behind the tree here.”

They waited. Jakob held his breath for minutes at a time, so the breaths wouldn’t cover any of the night-sounds. The wind brought faint whiffs of pine needles to his nostrils, vanishing before he could be sure. He wanted to take the little iron balls from his pocket, but he could not bring himself to move.

After his tenth breath, he thought he heard hissing on the edge of his hearing, but it faded away quickly enough to make him doubt it had been there. Snatches, traces of voices and pitches, blew in with the wind, and for one, brief moment, Jakob was sure he heard the notes of a song.

“When those doors open, don’t listen to the music. Listen to me.” he whispered.

“It’s him, isn’t it? He comes tonight? With all these people?” the man whispered back.

“No, not him. Don’t listen to the music.”

“Did you tell the watchmen? They could-“

“This one thinks he’s caught us by surprise, arriving on the honeymoon, during the party. We need not contradict him.”

“We’re going to fight it alone?”

“What’s your name?”

“Patros.”

“When the gates open, listen to me. When I say so, you fire at-”

There was a dull thud and a crack as the timbers barring the gates snapped in half. The twin doors swung open. Outside, a shadow rose from the ground, clutching something shiny in its hands. Music filled the courtyard like water, quiet and soothing. Beautiful chords and winding melodies flowed in, and Jakob sat on the balls of his feet, frozen. He wanted to sit. He wanted to listen. Jakob began to rock backwards.

He felt a hand on his back. It felt warm, and he knew it was Patros. He looked over at the panic behind the man’s eyes and stepped from behind the tree, onto the path. Ahead, the shadow’s harp hummed on, whispering to him. Jakob could hear its voice, fading in and out of chords.



Lie down, lie down forever

Close the windows to pain

Let go, cast away the endeavor

And here, remain

Forever and always

Until the sun goes out

Forever and all days

And the stars come out



Jakob took his longjack in one hand and held it like a walking stick, the butt resting on the ground. With painful slowness, he raised it up and brought it down, making a solid thump. The song wavered. Jakob raised the jack again, and brought the butt down. Each thump brought life back to his body, beating the sleep out of him. Again and again he brought it down, until the thuds were regular, like a primeval drumbeat, old as the thing with the harp.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The tempo was too fast for the music, and Jakob felt a weak urge to slow, but the steady thumping seared the thoughts from his mind. He knew that if he let go of his beat, the music would get him. In his plans, he was to shoot the thing from the roof, with balls of iron in his ears, but Patros and his girls had come, and Jakob couldn’t watch anymore people get boned like fish.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The black silhouette was inside the walls now, wandering ever closer towards him. The music grew louder and sharper; the beautiful notes fell into screams and long shrieks, deafening Jakob. He lost track of the seconds, and began to count beats instead. Each one brought the shadow and the tempest of screeching closer, angry at his conflicting tempo. Jakob’s fingers had lost feeling, clutching the cold iron of the longjack.

Thump. Thump.

He stepped backward.

Thump. Thump.

His fingers were pure white now, and he gripped the pipe with all his strength, lifting up and forcing it down. The shadow edged ever closer, until it was within Jakob’s reach. A few yards behind him was the door to the keep and the party within. They couldn’t hear the screams of the harp, not if the thing didn’t want them to.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The bride and groom would be smiling and laughing until the doors opened and they heard the harp, and Jakob would not be there to hold back the music. He felt the wood of the main doors on his back. Wavering shrieks, all different pitches and all happening at once, pierced his ears again and again. The music was still there, distorted and stretched.

Thump. Thump.

Patros, whatever the hell your name is, don’t you kill me…not now, you womanizing tosser…

“Now.” he choked out; his mouth felt withered and dry. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Patros rise from behind the tree and raise his violently shaking flashjack.

“Now.” Jakob rasped, between beats. “Now. Now!”

Thump. Thump.

Patros’ head began to slump.

“Now!”

Thump. Thump.

The music stopped, leaving overwhelming silence. The shadow’s hand wrapped around Jakob’s neck.

Thump.

Crack.

Smoke rose from Patros’ flashjack. Shadows fell from the harp-player like water. Beneath the patina of black was a pale man, wearing only black trousers. Silver glinted on the straps of his suspenders, and a dark stain grew on the side of his head, darkening the snow-white hair. His gold eyes were wide, and blood trickled from his mouth. Jakob had seen the look before, on the faces of the dead.

He knows he is already dead.

He took his longjack in both hands, pulled back the slider, and raised it to his shoulder. The pale man’s mouth opened a sliver, but nothing came out.

Crack

The harp fell from the pale man’s hands.

-

Jakob rolled up the scroll slowly and slipped it into his black robes. His eyes burned from sleep and tears, and his hand wrapped around the pipe of his longjack. Sleep weighed him down like water, making his body heavy. Jakob’s other hand found the bundle on the ground, always close by. He slipped his hand inside the wool wrappings, feeling the cool bones wrapped in careful bundles. It had been eight years and thirty-three days since the evening in the courtyard.

-