frankieboy55

[frankieboy55]

Who can attest for the greatness of a God? Who can affirm the kindness or the cruelness of a father? The gods have been much forgotten in our recent days. They forged and destroyed land we know, both with blood and fire. Yet, who now can recount the tale of the God’s Plague?     A howl pierced through the trees; the swamp was coming alive. Although the sun was setting on the bayou, the beasts were rising. Predators were on the prowl through the black waters.     Lyle knew the dangers of the twilight, but he also reaped its reward. The fish were always hungrier come nightfall. Most fisherman never ventured so far beyond these trees, let alone beyond daylight. Bayou Black, aptly named for the lack of sunlight beneath the thick canopy, was shunned by the residents of Adrianna.     Look for the great cypress where the birds roost. That was what he was told by the elder outdoorsman, Gabin. The man was known in his village as the wisest huntsman and fisherman, and practically family. He knew Bayou Black better than most, but still not nearly well enough.  Lyle was told to follow a small channel that broke off from Adrianna’s central river: the Merillion. There it would lead to the “unmistakably large tree” that many birds made their nests. Their white color would make the already unusually large tree stand out even more so. Gabin had been adamant of only two things: don’t stray from the channel and above all else do not stay beyond dark. Lyle wondered what had frightened the old man. Something in his eyes screamed to leave the notion behind, so Lyle had sworn off going past dark. At least from Gabin. Still he remembered how his wrinkled mouth quivered. What in Vectus’ name had his saggy eyes seen?     He pushed all his questions to the back of his mind. His small pirogue would surely dump him into the dark waters if he wasn’t careful, and he had to look for the channel. It was supposedly unmistakable, but he was searching in the twilight and he was unfamiliar with this edge of the Merillion.     After a sharp bend he spotted the channel. There was no doubt about it. The entrance was adorned with dozens of twig-woven shields. Some shields, carried by old twine, swayed melodiously, barely skimming the water’s surface. Others were hung higher overhead, or tied to tree trunks.      Lyle knew the symbol, as most everyone did. The Shield of Vectus. It was a protective sigil against the servants of Demudeas; a sigil that gave hope against all evil. It had been used for the thousands of years that followed the absence of Vectus: the god of triumph against destruction. Although Lyle knew this symbol as one of peace and safety, he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that gripped him. It seemed more ritualistic, he thought. When he crossed the threshold the light quickly faded and he was left only to the dim glow of his shoddy lamp.     Lyle pushed on. The black water seemed to reflect no light, but he was kept steady by the trees that sluggishly passed by. He could see nothing more than a half rod’s distance. Bayou Black consumed all light. He relied on a push-pole to narrowly weave and feel through this endless void. The occasional splash or hiss kept lyle on his toes. Owl’s hoots were amplified under the unseen roof and rang on for several heartbeats. Despite hearing these things, Lyle expected more. More mosquitoes and biting flies. More shrill calls of unseen birds. More anything. Everything seemed to be holding its breath. The calm before the storm.     Gabin sat alone in his home. He lived like most in the swamp; elevated. His shoddy shack hung a few feet above the water, held up by many thick logs that were anchored into the mud. Such was the Adrian style. It was the only way one could live on solid ground in the wetlands.     The shack was toward the edge of his village, or what could be roughly classified as a village. The locals called it the Southern Tribute. This was because the inhabitants' houses lined the southern banks of the Greater Merillion Tributary. It would have been a more lively spot for salt traders or fishermen if not for the distance from the true Merillion.     Gabin was thankful for his neighbors. Many seasons before, the Southern Tribute had few inhabitants; roughly five families. Now it boasted more than twenty. Each night he took comfort in looking out from his front porch and seeing the glow of the smoke-fires within the other houses.      A night fire was the only way anyone in Adriana could sleep without being harassed by the millions of mosquitoes and gnats. He could see six houses beyond, before the bend. All but one had a fire dancing visibly through the open doors and contrasting darkness.     Having known everyone, he knew that one-man shack belonged to Lyle. Lyle the lone fisherman. He had known him and personally taken Lyle under his wing since he inherited the small cabin from his uncle. Gabin had known his uncle for the majority of his life, so he felt it was his duty to take care of him. Lyle reminded Gabin of the man that once lived in that same cabin, the man he spent countless hours drinking with, and he had come to thoroughly enjoy his presence.      Like his uncle, Lyle also was a natural rebel. He took warnings as challenges, and even openly disputed the word of the wealthy land owners that ruled the vast wetlands. This was a dangerous act, but he and his uncle did it all the same.     Gabin, awoke from the dreams of yesterday to the present horror. Only one house was unoccupied, and Gabin knew why. That damn fool has gone to Bayou Black! He rushed to his pirogue but feared he was already too late. Seldom did the swamp show mercy.     Lyle noticed the current slowing. He had been riding the canal for only a short while when he saw something directly off the bow. Ominous white orbs manifested in the darkness. At first they were as distant and dim as stars, perhaps a trick of the eye, but as the fisherman drew closer they grew brighter. Images from stories of specters that prowled the swamp danced in his head. He was still growing closer.     A shiver traversed his spine. He began to paddle backwards but made little difference. The water was stronger than anticipated. Lyle inched forward at a painfully slow pace. Then the ghostly white lights were upon him. Only then did he notice that they were perched in a large tree, scattered across the many long branches. Upon further examination, the white orbs transformed into snowy herons. Vectus help my stupidity. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to ease his nerves. This must be it.     There was no doubt in his mind that this was the tree. The massive cypress towered above to unseen heights, but Lyle guessed it rose well above the canopy. The base of the trunk was almost an arm span wide and the lower branches ran parallel with the still water for several boat lengths. This was only apparent due to the white line of birds that ran its span.     "This had better be worth it" he muttered to himself. His voice echoed through the trees and carried on. Be Worth it… Worth it… worth it… marveled at how loud his voice had been amplified.     Lyle turned his attention to the deck of the pirogue. He fumbled in the dim glow of the lantern for the hook and bait. He grabbed a rancid liver of a fowl and began to slip it onto the hook. As he slumped over to focus, he heard a hoarse whisper in his ear.      "Worth it" said the voice. It bounced off the trees once more. The herons all took wing in unison and disappeared into the night. He turned, frantically looking for the source of the whisper but only found the vast blackness of the bayou.     Lyle was stubborn, even foolish at times, but he was not a complete idiot. He quickly used his paddle to push off the great cypress to turn himself upstream. Lyle paddled as quickly as the bayou permitted. His fear lit a fire underneath him and gave the young fisherman astounding strength.     He heard the chatter of birds overhead. Small branches fell around him. He was being pursued by something overhead. Trees creaked and limbs shook. The swamp came alive with the sounds of animals that sounded almost as frightened as he was. Almost. What in the name of the gods is that.     He was so preoccupied with the invisible canopy that he did not notice the cypress knees on the bank. They stuck out of the water like jagged teeth, waiting for the unwary. He glanced off one, caught another and became lodged between them. The force jarred the lantern loose from its pole and fell into the water. Darkness enveloped, and he still worked to get his small craft free.      Come on! In the name of all things help me! Please! He feared to give this silent prayer a voice or he may draw whatever it was to his location. He knew very well predators were attracted to the sound of struggling prey.      The chatter of birds slowly died out and he was left in silence. The only sound that remained was the thud of the paddle on the cypress knee. He was breathing rapidly. Lyle felt he could not fill his lungs properly and took shallow breaths. With all of his strength he gave a great shove and was dislodged. He almost wept tears of joy.     As he floated backward on a high of victory and fear one thing sobered him; he still heard heavy breathing, but slower and deeper. It came from just behind him. His blood ran cold. Before he had time to turn he heard it right up to his ear.     "Worth it" said the voice in a rasping whisper.     Gabin made exceptional time for his age. The only thing that was more taxing than the rowing was his own guilt. It was his own fault that Lyle went past dark because he had specifically forbade it. He should have known. Fear of Bayou Black had made him abandon reason. How could I have been so blind? I should have known. That boy is too stubborn.     He passed through the mouth of the canal, which he could have only found due to the hanging shields in the lamplight. No light seemed to penetrate the void ahead. He started to scan each bank but found it difficult.      As he peered into the darkness he was struck in the head. He reeled back and shook off his dizziness after a few moments to find a white bird flopping in the boat. It croaked as it writhed at his feet. It flapped its ruffled wings uselessly. More white birds whirled past, flying all around him against the current, croaking sporadically. Some were clotheslined by the lantern pole, or by low branches and joined their friend flopping in the small pirogue.      After Gabin found his wits he began to push the herons over the side with his paddle, afraid to chance their cursed touch. What is happening?     Before he had a chance to assess the situation, a shriek pierced the night. It was so horrid that Gabin almost mistook it for some wild hog or eagle. He knew however that it was human. It was then agonizingly cut short. Lyle! Gods no!     "Lyle!" he found himself shouting. "Lyle where are you?" he called down the canal. He found no answer, accept his own echo.     Ahead he spotted a small boat. It was hard to place the shape or color but it had to belong to Lyle. As he moved closer he realized he was too late. In the canoe, amidst the claw marks and splinters, lay shreds of a light tunic stained crimson.     Somewhere above him he heard a whisper. "Worth it."     He spun, lantern in hand, to barely make out a silhouette of a nearby tree. In it held a pair of large green reflective eyes and a toothy smile glinting in the lamplight.

#Fantasy #High Fantasy #Short Story