Chapter 0: A Glimpse
“Why do women even bother keeping these urchins in their stomach for 9 whole months when it is better to fill their tummies with food?”
The speaker was looking at the happy children passing by, who were screaming with joy while having their pinkies held by their fathers who pointed out different wares to them.
There was a remarkable brand of scorn and disdain in her dark eyes, and perhaps these families felt it, for they avoided her like the plague.
“You wouldn’t be here if your mother thought like that.”
“I wish she had, then,”
“I wish someone in this world would disagree with you”
“Well, if there is that someone, I don’t know them or even if they exist”
“I wonder what your parents did to make you feel so venomous towards them”
The failed hero cast a surprised but quick glance at her companion clad in darkness.
“Normally people tell me how cruel I am to think so bad about my parents”
“I don’t know about them, but perhaps they hear the cruel derision on your face before seeing the sad curiosity in your eyes when you look at kids with their parents”
The grim reaper moved on ahead, forging its path through the market crowd, unflinching of the people in its path. He passed right through, giving them the worst chill shock in their lives. The failed hero was left to zigzag through the crowd to catch up to it.
Intently looking at the reaper’s expressionless face, she asked, her voice lowered and quivering (either with suppressed rage or melancholy or both), “I am sad, not curious.”
“Aren’t you curious to know what a parent’s love feels like?”
The creature stopped in front of a blacksmith and turned to look at her, its bizarre existence invisible to everyone in the world except her.
“We are here”, it drawled.
—
At sunset, the girl sat on a rock on the top of a mound overlooking the golden wheat farm.
“I wish I had someone keep me warm in the fire of his love,”
The hellish creature moved closer as if to embrace her, thought better of it and glided away.
The girl who was always failing made a movement and stood still, as if waiting to be absorbed by the thing visible only to her. He tried moving away, but the little girl appealed, her voice cracking with the weight of her emotions, “Don’t you dare. I finally have someone who cares and I intend to embrace him while I still can,”
“But the death chill will soak your spirit,”
And yet the failed hero stood stubbornly, her body shuddering with the icy coldness of its being, shaking through the waves of horror its presence was supposed to bring near a live human.
It had its skeletal claws in the air, unsure of whether to accept or reject her. It hesitated from wrapping her in it, desperate to return to her the warm embrace she had showered it with.
“Is there supposed to be one? I can’t feel it at all. You need to try harder,”, she buried her head in what was supposed to be its rib cage.
Maybe the warm coldness of the people who resented her all her life and its warm, comforting tones, had mellowed out its ice cold presence just like that.
It was what she had craved for all her life.
The owner of the claws didn’t hesitate any more, it wrapped those bony ‘hands’ around her, her body trembling with its every touch. Maybe it was not just the horror of being near the death envoy all creatures feared, maybe it was also the warmth she felt for an underworlder whom she couldn’t feel with her senses.
They stood there together like that until around evening hit and darkness enveloped the sky, when the farmer who was about to return to his not-so-humble abode for dinner saw a lone young girl, vulnerable at the worst place for her to be alone.
“Let us go teach that young woman a lesson”, he thought as he smacked his lips, his brain ripe with thoughts of how he would deflower a ripe girl tonight.
And with such not-so-benevolent thoughts in his mind, he sent forth his pack of most obedient dogs with instructions to bring her to him.
What he didn’t know that he would return at *vesperdark to find his pack killed in a most cruel manner at the base of the mound, their hearts wrenched out of their beastly bodies and placed in a heap while their bones lay bare on the skins soaked with whatever blood was left.
He didn’t know that if he made the mistake of calling out for the criminal who killed his ‘poor’ dogs so heartlessly, his own heart would be wrenched out of his chest over a matter of few hours, that the villagers would find the man without his heart and penis, both of which would be near his body torn to shreds by some supernatural force.
And that no one would know about the presence of the suspicious girl that evening there, at least not now.
—
*vesper- Evening prayer offered just after starlight was called vesper in the medieval ages
Chapter 1: What Happened at the Village Died with the Village
“And you, who came to take my life, will save me?”
There was a scorn in her voice that revealed her distrust of humankind, and of all -kinds there may be.
“Don’t think you are special, little girl. I am just morbidly bored and want to spend some time having fun. Boredom brings death, as they say”
“Aren’t you death itself?”
“Are you coming or not?”
The cold reaper had already used a swift, cutting motion with his scythe to kill the guards in-charge of her cage. He couldn’t physically kill, of course, but if he passed his scythe through the necks of people, they would fall to their deaths even if they couldn’t see it. That was the power of the death chill its presence brought with it.
The girl clad in light armour felt the chill too, of course. But perhaps her constant brush with death, the horror of the pain she went through helped her bear the chill better. The creature was also very careful with not letting the scythe go anywhere near the girl, so that may have helped as well.
The unusual duo crept quietly between the camp and the ruins which had been plundered many times over. The girl kept glancing to the west, the direction opposite to where they were headed. The grim reaper noticed.
“Leave something behind?” He asked, gliding ahead, turning only to spare her a glance.
“My grandmother died a few days ago. There were so many things she wanted me to take care of, for her.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Well, there was this small key she wanted me to always have with me.”
“Then why don’t you have it?”
“The villagefolks decided my whole lineage was pagan, so they threw everything I had except this armour into the hut, it was to be burned at the same time as I did on the pyre.”
“Funny they left the armour on.”
“They were too scared to touch me. They carried me to the cage with the steel of shield and piercings of their iron spear.”
That would explain the darkened blood splotches on her armour and skin, the reaper thought. I don’t know what he thought next, but he turned and started gliding in the opposite direction.
“Hey, the woods are that way!”
“But your home was this way, wasn’t it?”
The failed hero scrunched up her eyes in suspicion and confusion, then turned to follow it, being extra careful and moving twice as fast even when crouched.
She kept looking left and right to look for any guards that might spot her, then she would turn to look at the creature in black and repeat the routine.
“Why is your hut so far away? It takes less time to cross the mighty Styx.”
“I was to be burnt on the outskirts of the town next to the posh area. I am taking you on the shortest route to avoid the huge farms. We are now in the merchant's area, and my house is in the scummiest area for the poorest residents.”
Her voice dropped a note.
“Were you happy?”
The creature didn’t look back when asking. The failure of a hero hid between the tall grass for a moment to let the guards pass through, then continued to follow it.
“Our house wasn’t really livable but it was a home my grandmother made. She was always smiling and helping everyone, and she taught me how to use herbs to cure ailments our village doctor couldn’t. That’s how she kept me safe from the plague.”
The hut finally loomed into view. It was a sorry sight to see, and the reaper couldn’t imagine how even livestock could live there.
The roof was half-destroyed, with the loose part dropping to the ground, the ground near it was muddy and some vessels were strewn around outside. All of these were worn out and some were chipped away in places. One had a hole in it.
The reaper shook itself free of the daze and looked about. There were two guards standing, one on the other side of the hut looking in direction away from the hut door. Something felt off.
“I will sneak in there and get the key. The guards won’t know, don’t worry. My grandmother taught me stealth as well.”
Before it could warn her of it being a trap in its hoarse scratchy voice, she leapt out of the bushes quietly and crept towards the hut. The guards seemed oblivious.
She crept into the hut, and a smirk came from behind it.
An evil-looking captain of the guards came out from inside a tent. The men had a not-so-well meaning look on their faces as well.
“The wench, they are all the same. They will throw away freedom for useless trinklets.”
Muffled sniggers from the men.
“Well, it benefits us so no harm done. Men, we have a private feast to us finally, a reward for our long hours of work. And afterwards, the villagers will have a feast of a witch trial too. We have a day full of merriment ahead.”
“And all it took was a rumour too, and I heard it was the doing of a French spy. These villagers brought their own undoing-”
What he wanted to say next was never heard, for the dark underworlder glided between the hut and the men, invisible to the world, turned its back to the hut, and made a wide sweeping motion with its scythe.
A wave of death rose forth and a village teeming with laughter, conversations and the sound of children playing went deathly still. The only sound that was heard after it was the sound of over 300 bodies falling lifelessly to the ground simultaneously.
Chapter 2: It Wasn’t Really Necessary, Or Was It?
“Was it really all that necessary to kill EVERYONE in the village?”
“I was bored of waiting for you.”
“Then shouldn’t you have come in and asked? Or screamed for that matter, no one else can hear for God’s sake. That’s what any normal human would have done,”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I am not a ‘normal’ human being.”
The ghost glided off ahead, leaving the girl staring after him, appalled.
It had just barely managed to hold off itself on adding “anymore”.
WItnessing the girl’s hero complex triggered a flashback in its mind-
Prisoners’ of war bound in chains were made to kneel all around, as far as the eyes could see. A king, a noble and a young man in a light armour and cape stood in the center, with the occasional guards here and there keeping a watch on the spoils of war.
“Hmph. So it is true that these Romans have nothing.”
The king walked over to one of the young girls who was watching him with a slightly defiant expression.
“And when will the Ottomans be here, the messenger said?”
“By dawn, sire. They are on their way with a 1000 of their men and the biggest cages they have,”
“Cages?”
The hero was puzzled. He couldn’t fathom what the king and the minister were talking about.
“To hold the slaves, Sir.”
The king was examining the aforementioned peasant as one does to a market ware, roughly jerking her face with the chin he had grabbed, staring at him from all conceivable angles, the greed in his soul shining in his eyes.
The hero felt something inside his chest drop dully, as he zoned out for a moment.
He hadn’t counted on it. He hadn’t counted on being a perpetuator to their crimes.
There was a crash only he could hear next, and suddenly his whole world was blooded red with rage.
“Why do we have to sell these people? Have you no humanity?”
“The war has bled our coffers dry. They had nothing for the war reparations. And they are anyway going to be looted and sold by the corsairs, what difference does it make if we do it?”
The minister stood there, speaking with the practiced ease of someone who was habituated with this way of the land.
The sight of the minister standing there haughtily, stroking his goatee with one hand, playing with the hilt of his ruby-adorned sword whose scabbard had hints of gold in its material, served to anger the hero further.
“That gives you no right to sell them away! These are people with families, just like you and me!”
“We have no right to drive them to a life of iron under those sadists! Half of these people will die before they can even reach the kingdom,” the hero was practically screaming at this point. He couldn’t have suppressed his rage any longer.
The king gave the minister a stern look, a silent warning to be quiet and let him take the lead.
“Vesta, why wasn’t I informed of these evil schemes? Tell the men to uncuff these folks and respectfully escort them back to their daily lives.”
The king was looking at a young girl scared stiff, his eyes bright with gentle kindness.
“Ensure the people are released respectfully and served with a hearty meal. And sir, you are always so thoughtful, so upright! You are the true hero who fights for God,”
The hero visibly calmed down and looked starkly more approachable than before.
“In the meanwhile, I will ensure our hero is treated like one. Join us at the feast later after taking care of the logistics,”
The minister bowed while the king put an arm around the knight and led him away to the aforementioned meal. The king and his men made merry with the hero all night long.
The hero returned a few hours before dawn to thank the village headsman before he was released for being the clever challenger he had been to the hero’s skilled sword, only to find his body in the cage where he had been captured earlier.
An axe coloured with what used to be bright red life force of the man who lived for, fought for and provided for his village was stuck into the ground. The hero watched from the shadows, hiding both his presence and his tears.
The executioner walked towards the cage, followed by a soldier he was talking with.
“And so this man never made a squeak, even when I gouged his eyes out. It was kind of boring.”
“Was it the king’s orders?”
“Yes, he didn’t want to risk trouble with the Ottomans. They offer the best rates for these riffraffs, you know,”
“But what about the hero? Wouldn’t he be mad if he finds out? Raphael told me he didn’t even know they were being sold off, described how he was as angry as a bull which had seen red, and stubborn as a mule on being the upright saviour,”
“The king treated him to a royal feast and gave him laudanum. The royalty can really profit from this man, what with the heroes being celebrated and even worshipped all over. Already the hero has amassed a bit of wealth, the minister’s sword was gifted to him by the king from these spoils. They can’t let the hero find out. But personally, I think it doesn’t matter. They all throw a hissy fit for starters, but end up eating from the same plate in the end,”
The men walked past the hero, whose sadness had already melted into a righteous fury that could no longer be contained only in thoughts.
He crouch-ran to the nearest straggle of villagers, who weren’t being hawked over by the guards, untied the hands of a few villagers and whispered the directions to their village furiously to the young people he had untied.
The girl who shook her head and refused seemed familiar, but he had no time to think. He urged them urgently to run, but no one moved. Defeated, he went back into the bushes and was about to head to his tent but a blood-curdling scream made him stop dead on his tracks.
He slinked back into the nearby empty tents.
“And you, you dare try to run away, huh?”
The king had grabbed that same familiar-looking girl the hero had earlier untied, pulling on the ponytail of the girl. He pulled her hair roughly, spitting in her face as he spoke and giving her a backhand across her face occasionally, trying to make her cower before him.
“Slaves like her will give us a bad name in the market. Burn her and her lot she freed, as an example to the others,”
The hero watched the orange flame flicker on the visage of the king and the men he was making merry with, including the minister and the executioner, sipping wine and feasting on the supplies of fresh livestock the soldiers had rounded up from their village, to the music of their chilling screams.
The hero crept back to his bed, but he couldn’t sleep. There was something inside him that slept that day, though.
“Why would I trust the liar who deceived and killed my fathers and brothers?”
The words of the 16 year old continued to haunt him today as it haunted him then.
“I just said this because killing all those people wasn’t really necessary. So anyways, where do we go next?”
“Brackensleigh.”
“Never heard of it. Where is it?”
“Three and a half league to the west of Portsmouth.”
“And why are we going there?”
“To get your armour repaired with the blacksmith and buy a new sword for you.”
“Are there really any blacksmith in Brackenleigh? Shouldn’t we go directly to Portsmouth and seek out their best weapons master?”
The apparition halted its glide mid-way and abruptly turned to face the girl.
It was a very odd and creepy site, a skull face peering at her from a tree trunk. Despite all her records of bravery, even the failed hero was spooked out.
“Do you have money for either?”
The girl was startled. The question subdued her spirits, her composure drooping in response.
“That’s what I thought. Hurry up, little girl. We must be there before sundown,”
Chapter 3: The Herb That Saved Her Life (But it was not the way you think)
Failed hero: “I am tired, how far is it?”
Grim reaper: “Not far from here. I told you not to stop at the church, Christ knows what ghosts could have been there,”
Failed hero: “Aren’t you like, the king of ghosts or something?” The failed hero gave her unusual companion a side eye.
It wasn’t yet ready to tell her about the departments it managed in relation to ghosts.
“Maybe if we hadn’t frilled around at the haunted church”, the reaper persisted.
Half an hour after leaving the village
“See? This is why I told you to come this way,” The failed hero chirped, she was excited to be visiting the local church, abandoned for ages and overtaken by nature since times unknown.
“Yes, you did, but what is the point of this detour?” The reaper cold, emotionless voice made no attempt to disguise the annoyance even with its uniform tone.
“For a haunted Church with nothing in it?”
“For this St John’s Wort outside it”, she had kneeled down gracefully in front of a small, unassuming plant full of flowers with bright yellow petals dotted with small, black dots.
“Girls and their obsession with flowers.”
If the reaper had eyeballs in its skulls, he would have rolled them hard.
“Your species’ insane obsession is popular even in the underworld.”
The girl stood up, looking aghast with the cold-blooded (did it even have blood?) apparition.
“Not all flowers are for decoration.” She reprimanded him, looking around in each corner she could stick her nose (and herself) in.
“The St John’s Wort has many medicinal uses. It is said to keep spirits away, and is so potent that it can even calm a crying woman down in her difficult days of the red.”
The reaper only heard about the spirits and thought to itself, “So that’s how they haven’t entered the premises despite the air in it overcome by the stench of regret”.
This was the last stream of thought the ghost had before its mind entered an usual state of zen.
Back in the present
“I guess your St John’s Wort protected you from possession”, the reaper would chuckle if it could.
It got no response to its clever remark.
It instinctively looked back to check on the girl. She lay a few steps behind him, collapsed out of exhaustion.
The reaper turned, not a pale bone in its skull face twitching.
No, instead it glided gently to her side, made a movement as if to bend alongside her and cradle her head, seemed to remember something crucial and glided away.
It put a fair distance between itself and her.
Agnes, a peasant from Brackensleigh, had coincidentally set out that same evening to look for herbs in a bid to save her young, dying daughter.
The woman had already lost her man to the plague, and couldn’t bear to live a lonely life even if it meant exposing herself to the dangers of the dark searching for herbs she knew nothing about.
Agnes stumbled through the forest near her village, clutching her frail chest in her trembling hands.
With her nonexistent knowledge of herbs, she had zero chances of saving her daughter.
Undeterred, she trudged over the roots and under the fallen tree logs, beads in the other hand and hope in her heart.
She was praying so that Christ’s angels could come and show light, and help her save her daughter.
That was exactly when she walked into the reaper.
The woman passed through the dark veiled shadow, feeling the death chill hugging her bones but still moving forward doggedly. She was heading, unknowingly, in the direction of the girl.
The situation suited the underworlder well.
And so the woman continued walking till she found the collapsed failed hero. She halted.
Agnes had been a simple peasant girl, and this girlhood of hers had continued even after her marriage with her former husband.
She had lived a carefree life with him, working hard on the farms during daytime and brightening up her home at night. They were a doting couple and a loving family.
But the death of her husband marked the end of her girlhood. She evolved from the simple, foolish peasantwoman she had been into a shrewd yeoman* with some 16 acres of land.
*yeoman- A free tenant
She had a daughter to feed, after all.
Her experiences throughout her life all came together to teach her one lesson.
Everything needs to be earned. And if you can’t earn it, buy it with the shillings you earned. Don’t expect anything for free.
Even kindness.
And with the thoughts of the poor girl being too poor to earn her kindness almost making her leave, the ghost made its move.
In those times, the peasantry often whispered:
“Where the Reaper lays his eye, the will of men goes cold and dry.”
Although some more clever, radical elements suspected the Church manipulation the peasantry folks with these words into submission to the not-so-virtuous pastors, it was partially true.
And the grim reaper shows us how.
If the woman leaves her here, she will be discovered by the inquisition for sure. I need to make this woman help the girl, it reasoned.
He dug through the dark swamps of her mind to find something to use. It prided itself on how negative and dark its thoughts were as the feared grim reaper, but this woman’s memory banks made it rethink its pride.
Just as she was about to leave though, it chanced upon the memory of her daughter who lay dying.
“This girl might be a herbalist”, it whispered in her mind.
“All the reason to not get involved in her sad life”, she retaliated.
“She might save your daughter.”
The woman froze.
Coincidentally, a gush of forest breeze rushed through, making the plant bend to its will and the herb pouch the failed hero had been using to collect St John’s Wort came into the woman’s field of view, and she glanced at the green leaves of some herb sticking out of it.
The devil was not able to stain her will. But the possibility of this young girl being able to save her daughter did.
“If she can’t save Matilda, I will just have gained a cheap working hand around the farm. Those oats need tending to”, she was attempting to convince herself and hope against hope with these unbiased arguments.
Even if this possibility was unbearable to her.
Reflections