Tag: Fantasy

The Toymaker

~ Yanagi Studios

By Thomas Caterer

The Toyshop

Theodore’s meticulous hand-crafted works did not crowd but cosily populated the warm, welcoming workshop he now called his home. Made of a colour spectrum of soft and hearty browns, the room was lit by a natural fire glow. The aroma of coffee suffused the air. Theodore was holding a magnifying glass up to one eye, a wooden beefeater guard gripped in one heavily veined, old hand, as the other held a paintbrush and applied detail to the guard’s eyes. He heard the door open from behind him with aplomb, and little footsteps tracked their way towards him.

“Mr. Patterson, sir,” a small, high voice called.

Theodore turned in his chair, and his eyes widened as he beamed a brimming smile. His cheeks flushed rosy red.

“How can I help you Violet?” Theodore enquired, softening his voice.

Violet, a girl of 6, stamped her foot on the ground, and raised her head to look Theodore full in the face. She raised her eyes above his white beard, his smile, and up to his eyes which were tucked behind his glasses. She held his gaze and folded her arms before replying with a sharp, and authoritative tone.

“There is a man, Mr. Patterson. At this time of night, I shouldn’t wonder why he needs to buy a toy now!”

“It’s quite all right young Miss Violet! Once you’ve worked here a little longer you’ll come to understand that we can get customers at all hours”.

Theodore held the bannister on his descent to the room below. As he reached the foot of the stairs he noticed the man Violet had spoken of. An ashen-faced fellow. He stood amongst the shelves of wooden toys, stuffed animals, and mechanical gizmos. The glow of the fireplace embers contrasted against his dark expression, as the shadows danced upon his face. Once shocking blond hair was greying, and once vital blue eyes were strained and bloodshot. Theodore chuckled to himself as he observed the man was wearing a black jacket, black trousers, and a black tie. All the colours in this world and the man clearly had no time for them! He had known the type so many times before. Perhaps he worked in insurance, accounting, or even, heaven forfend, wealth management!

“I apologise for the hour of my visit, I noticed your light was on, but I don’t expect you usually get customers at this time,” said the man, skipping introductions.

Theodore stepped behind the counter and held the man in his gaze, in his consideration. The blond man looked at him half-frowning, he furrowed his brows and crossed his arms in a manner reminiscent of Violet. Finally Theodore broke the silence.

“Ah, so you’ve come then…”

“Umm yes, I have, I’m looking for… umm well something, something for a boy…”

“You should listen to her you know. Do something that makes you happy. Not something so grey.”

Slowly the man’s confusion was turning to irritation. This appeared a quaint enough village, and the snowfall made it feel almost like he’d walked into the homely image of a Christmas card. However the old man’s mutterings were unhelpful and increasingly disconcerting.

“Look, I’m thinking maybe a toy car or something…”

Theodore nodded knowingly.

“Ahh yes… we have plenty of those.”

“Oh good.”

“You know I felt like there was a motherly vibe from her,” Theodore mused aloud. He was still processing the images from his dream the night before.
“But it’s not often a black woman will birth a white, blond son after all!” he continued, whilst beaming a smile that hinted at familiarity, kinship with this man he’d never met.
“Either way young man, her advice is good advice.” Theodore spoke these words gently, intending them to sound reassuring.

The ashen-faced man crinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes. A frown came across his face and he made no effort to hide the tone of irritation entering into his voice.

“Look mate, I think you may have lost the plot, sorry to have bothered you at this time, you clearly need your rest…”

“Your wife’s black?” interjected Theodore. A statement yet intoned as a question to be polite.

“Uhh… yes,” replied the man, raising his folded arms higher up his chest.

“Ahh the mother-in-law then! Yes well she’s a wise woman, she’d be worth listening to!”

Theodore reached his hand forward and rested it momentarily on the man’s exposed skin on the back of his hand. Just for a moment, just long enough to learn something.

“Oh I see, a grey job but an important one. I misjudged you, figured you for a salesman, a marketing exec, or a social media type” Theodore’s smile grew until he finally broke out in laughter much to the younger man’s chagrin. Theodore turned his back to him and rifled through the shelves behind the counter. Finally he produced a beautifully hand-crafted T-rex. He placed it on the counter in front of him and then turned away again before returning with three wooden velociraptors.

“I suppose they should have feathers but once a tradition sticks… it’s like the toy Vikings we have here with the horned helmets… print the myth eh!”

The ashen-faced man picked up the T-rex and toyed with it in his hands. The years fell off him as he inspected the dinosaur, and gradually the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile as he did so.

“I thought I’d better give you some raptors too so they can have a tussle. Little boys do love their violence!” offered Theodore cheerfully.

The man laughed at this, but then slowly replaced the T-rex, and lowered his head, his shoulders hunched, and he began to sob. First it was slow and then suddenly a torrential outpouring. The man’s broad shoulders heaved with the weight of his cries. Theodore took in a deep breath, and then released it slowly, a tear formed in the corner of one eye. He knew this was tough for the poor bastard. It was never easy for them. He reached out a hand to the man’s shoulder and gripped it tightly.

“You’re doing well lad. You’re doing really well.”

After a time, the man gathered himself up and lifted his head. As he did so Violet had climbed down the stairs and upon seeing the crying man, she had procured a tissue from the box kept behind the desk and offered him one wordlessly. Her face was red and she looked ready to cry herself.

“Oh… thank you… sweetheart,” said the man, taking the tissue from her hand and then proceeding to wipe his tears. “Robbie loves dinosaurs. When me and his mum took him to the museum, he spoke about it for weeks after and he always got us on the ground with him to have dinosaur fights… ahh but too often I was too tired for it… you know…”

“We can only live in the present young man, no need to punish yourself. There’s plenty we can’t see coming and you feel how you feel in any given moment.”

“’Don’t fight yourself’ Mr. Patterson taught me,” chimed in Violet. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes moist as she smiled brightly at the ashen-faced man.

The Jazz Singer’s House

Adrienne stirred their cups in the kitchen. B. B. King played on her record player. The sun spilled in through her net curtains casting patterned shadows about the floorboards. She stepped back into the living room, holding a tray, with two cups of tea and a saucer of gingernuts.

“When do we cease to be amazed, I wonder, by all the shapes and patterns in the world?” She said this as she placed down the tray and took a seat opposite Jamie.

“What do you mean?” Jamie leaned forward to pick up his cup and retrieve a biscuit.

“Oh I was just looking at the shapes the shadows make when the sun’s filtered through the net curtain. We lose something don’t we, when we get old and take everything for granted, everything as normal?”

“I guess it’s like the day you realise when you see snow and you no longer think ‘yay let’s build snowmen’ but rather ‘oh great I’ll need to fit the chains and buy more de-icer’.”

“Ha, yes exactly, sad isn’t it? Still at least it gives more of a reason for death. It eventually becomes necessary to hit the reset button to find wonder again.”

“Aye but there’s some who die long before the wonder’s dried up,” replied Jamie catching a lump in his throat. He raised his cup to his mouth hoping to chase it away.

Adrienne nodded her head as a soft and wistful smile played on her lips. She ran her fingers through her thick dark curls of hair and hummed a tune to herself. One her daughter had always liked. As she did so, Jamie sipped on his tea, and he felt peaceful; his once tight grip on his cup slackened and he felt himself become lighter as Adrienne hummed one of Maria’s favourite songs.

Adrienne turned to Jamie and asked “Are you happy at work? I worry it doesn’t make you happy. And all truly smart people only do jobs that make them happy.”

“Well I know you and Maria were both talented enough to make a living off what you loved, but I don’t think it’s so simple for me. Not as much of a market for Black Metal I’m afraid, and I was a shite bassist, not like your hubby! He was the real deal!”

“Ha, you’ll give him a big head with all that, and we didn’t buy a coffin big enough to accommodate that!”

They both laughed, and Jamie dipped his gingernut into his tea, swirling it about in the cup, enjoying the sounds of Completely Well as they drifted into the room.

“No,” said Adrienne shaking her head as she gathered her thoughts. “What you do is important and it helps people. I can’t deny that, it gives people a great deal of peace and they appreciate their chance to say goodbye. But boy I just want you to be happy and maybe that means picking up the bass again…”

“Oh goodness, I’ve been embalming so long now, it’s my life. Christ that’s funny; death is my life!”

“Wasn’t it like that playing Black Metal?”

“Ha, well actually our lyrics and cover art weren’t all that morbid! It was more about nature, spirituality, some angry political ones…”

“Sorry I don’t know better love, it wasn’t exactly my cup of tea.” Adrienne smiled as she said this, knowing Jamie didn’t mind at all and actually enjoyed being niche.

“Oh we certainly weren’t for everyone,” Jamie laughed.

The Park in the Village

Jamie had trudged his way to the toyshop with lead in his boots. His car parked beside a quaint green park with a children’s playground and duck pond. He had breathed through heavy lungs, the snow falling on his face, laying icy kisses upon his rough-hewn cheeks. His eyes were heavy lidded from a lack of sleep. He’d seen Maria in a dream and awoken in a cold sweat. His prematurely greying hair soggy wet with perspiration. His sheets had clung to him like Robbie once had after a nightmare. He’d had a nightmare of his own. He loved her fiercely but had not wanted to see her, to reopen the just closed wounds.

With his waking, he grasped hold of what she had told him. One last chance to say goodbye. And an address for a charming English village. One with an inn, a park, an old timey sweet shop, and, a toyshop. Next she’d tell him it had a bloody candlestick maker, and a cobblers!

On his return walk from the shop, the lead had been gladly extricated, and for the first time in months he walked with something close to a spring in his step. However, whatever Maria may have said in that dream, the details of which were increasingly obscured by mist, and whatever clues could be found in the old man’s ramblings at the shop, nothing could prepare him for the truth of it.

His feet came to a sudden halt. His eyes widened. His jaw dropped. His heart leapt. The last time he’d seen him had been on a coroner’s table. He couldn’t do the embalming himself. And he demanded there’d be no open casket. He’d seen his son; once full of life and the promises of human experience, laid out like a hunk of meat, awaiting the worms. The cold lifeless visage that no child should wear. Yet he’d seen it many times before. Senselessly worn by many children. Children with the life and awareness snatched from them by nature’s cruel, reaching grasp.

Here now, in this moment in time, which had frozen like the tears on his cheek. A moment solidified. A moment you could hack with an axe, and take a chunk home with you to place on a wall. Here in this endless moment stretching into the void of the infinite stood a little boy of 6 years old. With wild, curly brown hair, cheeks red from the cold, a broad dimpled smile. It was his son. No mistaking it, it was his son, alive and well. Alive and moving, and smiling at him.

“Ro-Robbie!” Jamie almost choked on his words. His voice broke, and he started to run to him.

“Dad!” called out Robbie, smiling at his father.

They ran to each other and embraced. Finally after some time, Jamie released him. To Robbie’s utter delight and excitement he presented the lovingly crafted dinosaurs. For an amount of time, unmeasurable, for it was frozen in the village’s landscape, they played together. One last time Jamie could play with his son, one last chance to make up for all the absences; literal or otherwise. They enacted several encounters between the combative dinosaurs but also roleplayed their daily lives of hunting, feeding, drinking from the shore. The ducks of the pond stood in for fierce creatures of the sea. Eventually after much play, Robbie’s form became increasingly translucent as did the toys. Robbie looked up to his father earnestly.

“I know we don’t want to say it… but…” Robbie examined his fading hands. “I think we need to say goodbye now.”

Jamie lifted himself to his feet and placed all the dinosaurs in his son’s hands.

“I know. Can’t stay here forever I suppose.” Jamie thought of Maria, and knew he couldn’t be selfish. Robbie shook his head in agreement.

“Keep them, give them to another kid.” Robbie placed the fading toys back into his father’s hands and as he did so they solidified once more. “Do you know where I’m supposed to be going?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea son.”

“Well, I’ll know soon, won’t I?”

“Y-yes.”

Robbie faded into the evening mist, mouthing a goodbye and waving as he did. Jamie held the T-rex and raptors tightly to his chest.

As he was driving back home, he passed the toyshop once more and saw a haggard, dishevelled woman approaching the storefront, her eyes glistening in the snow. He smiled to himself confident the old loony would help her like he’d helped him!

The Toyshop

Violet scrunched up her face, her eyes narrowed and her arms folded tight around her waist. She looked from one stuffed monkey to another, inspecting them closely.

“What’s the verdict then, Violet?” enquired Theodore, raising a cup of coffee to his mouth.

Violet spun around on the spot, her eyes alight with fire. She held a finger in front of her commandingly. It demanded a minute’s peace.

“Please Mr. Patterson, you’ve given me an important job here, I don’t want to let any of the children down!”

“No of course, I understand!”

“Actually Mr. Patterson, now that I’ve been working here a little while, I have a few questions.”

“Oh well please fire ahead!”

Violet put her head to almost a right angle as she considered Theodore, and then slapped one of her fingers to the palm of her other hand.

“Firstly! Why am I 6?”

“Well I suppose you decided to take a form that would be helpful, your 6 year old self will probably know more about what toys children like than your 40 year old self.”

“Okay very good, Mr. Patterson. Now how long must I stay here?”

“Well you’re here out of choice. After losing Samantha, you wanted to help others in the same situation, like I helped you. You can leave anytime you like. Once you’re ready to move on, you will simply go to sleep that night and awaken as part of the game once more.”

“How about you?”

“I forget how long I’ve been here Violet! Maybe hundreds of years, and maybe I’ll stay hundreds more! I’ve no doubt I’ll re-join the game one day. And when the time comes I’m sure others will take our jobs. Things always change after all, such is the nature of life.”

Violet had put her finger in her mouth, and sucked on it as her thoughts formulated. She finally pulled it out again to point at the macaque doll. “This one Mr. Patterson. This one’s the cutest! You’ve given him big human eyes! It’s not scientifially…”

“Scien-tific-cally.”

“Yes, it’s not scien-tific-cally accurate, but it’s the most relatable, and kids will find it cute! Good work Mr. Patterson!”

“Oh well thank you, and good work Violet!”

Company

~ Yanagi Studios

By A. O. Wallat

Gordon sauntered along the giant green bamboo that he had decided was his favourite viewing spot. The landscape never changed from other vantages but at ninth hour the light from where he now stood streaked through the canopy turning the dull wooden city into the many shades of sunset.

Although the cityscape reflected reds and yellows quite cheerfully he didn’t feel the same. Sad wasn’t exactly what he felt because he never felt it like this before. The wooden folk were always too busy to think or even worse talk about feelings.

Gordon sat down with a clunk. The giant bamboo had no backrest, and he had clearly forgotten about that. His wooden frame tumbled backwards from the canopy end after end, clonk after clunk, and with a dull thud he hit the floor. His bark was split, his head was cracked. Little pieces of splinter embedded the soil and all manner of sap was dripping onto his head.

Gordon woke in pain. Wincing, he crawled towards the nearest tree as though an anchor weighed him down. He had no memory of the moments just passed and looked down in search of the missing time.

Fear trickled down into the pit of his stomach.

Two standard log lengths before him was another body slumped in the same way he was. It looked just as broken as he did. In fact he looked exactly the same. Bathed in an orange glow, the two Gordons sat facing each other. He wasn’t sure if he was dead. But when Gordon tried to leave –

“Don’t go,” it said.

Its frame hadn’t moved, its eyes didn’t move but it had definitely spoken.

The shadows turned from orange to red. Gordon had managed to sit upright. While he rested, the sap in his cracks and breaks hardened and slowly healed. He looked at his double. The corners of its mouth were turned down. Gordon spoke without thinking.

“Come on. Let’s get home.”

In the Shadow of the Sun God

~ Yanagi Studios

By Thomas Caterer

Tamil watched his father unload their pack beasts with a fierce determination in his eyes. He was nine years old now, almost a man. The night before they had set out, their donkeys loaded, their horses watered, he had wandered off from the camp and made a little bonfire. He had thrown his wooden horse upon it along with his archers and spearmen. His brow furrowed, his eyes looking on intently. He smiled broadly, proud of his own commitment to becoming a man, and throwing away all such childish things.

Bagdor, a broad shouldered man with a long black beard walked over to Tamil, a proud smile set in his face. Today was an important day for a father and a son. The wind swept sand into Tamil’s eyes, he lifted his hand to his face and squinted as the merciless sun beat down upon him. Hator, the Sun God was with them today, this most sacred of days; the start of their pilgrimage. The first step to Tamil becoming a man.

As Bagdor reached his son, he offered him a wooden bowel to drink from. Tamil greedily lapped up the mixture of ice, milk, and honey that had been offered to him. So sweet, so refreshing. Bagdor’s men started to prepare the camp, set the yurts into the ground, lead the horses to water. Bagdor and Tamil sat upon a rock together, Tamil continued to drink. Bagdor looked to his boy, his eyes brimming with warmth.

“The gods have given Man countless gifts” intoned Bagdor. Tamil turned to meet his father’s eyes. He always enjoyed hearing about the gods, even the stories he already knew.

“But among them there are six which are considered the ‘great gifts’. Do you know what these are, Tamil?”

He shook his head. He thought he knew at least three, but didn’t want to interrupt.

“The ‘great gifts’ are women, horses, water, fruit, mushrooms… and music” he said the last word with an especial reverence. “What do you think of that Tamil, do you agree?”

“Of all the many gifts the gods have given us, it surprises me these should be the ‘great’ six, father” replied Tamil. He spoke slowly, considering his words carefully. He wanted his father to look to him for support and advice, and for assistance in combat, the way he did with his warriors; Hagar, and Tagudai. As such he always took care with choosing his words when speaking to his father.

“How so, son?” Bagdor beamed a wide smile with his mouth opening to reveal the missing and crooked teeth that make up the smile of a warrior.

“Well I can understand why we need water; to live, and horses are what make us warriors and conquerors. Fruit is sweet and nourishing, and music unites the tribes in merriment. But I don’t understand why women and mushrooms are important”.

Bagdor laughed uproariously, rising to his feet as he did. His face flushed red in the midst of Hator’s kiss. “Well son, the importance and joy of women may become clearer to you, when you are older. I think you would understand more of their importance now, if your mother had survived your birth. She would have loved you so dearly, and been so proud to see what a brave, and wise man you are growing into. As for the mushrooms, well they are the food of the gods, which they deign to share with us mortals. Upon eating them we can dream whilst awake, and we can see the realm of Hator, and his seven sisters, and of all the gods and goddesses”.

Dream whilst awake. His father’s words stayed with Tamil that night.He wondered if his father had simply been referring to daydreaming. But he knew he must have meant something different, something special. Tamil lay in his yurt, his woollen blankets covering him. He still felt the crisp cold of a night spent sleeping on the steppe as the wind caressed his face. The winds passing through the yurts made the sounds of wolves or other such howling creatures. Tamil closed his eyes and saw the form of a great wolf, the wolf reached its claws to pull off its own face, and beneath it was the face of a woman; young, beautiful, and enchanting. In a flash, with the blink of his eyes, her face turned old and wizened like that of a crone. But not a witch Tamil thought. No, she is a wise woman, beautiful in a different way. Tamil’s eyes closed and without any effort at all sleep overcame him.

The pilgrimage to the Red Temple of Hator would confirm Tamil’s passage into manhood. He would finally be allowed to braid his hair. On the day of his ceremony, his wrist would be emblazoned with the tattoo of his tribe; two green serpents copulating on a field of blood red. Only the very vilest of criminals and traitors had their tattoos burned off. Most men would sooner be castrated than lose the mark of their tribe. Tamil had no intention of suffering such a fate. He would be a fierce warrior, a fair leader, and a kind father and husband. All the things his father was and which had made him respected amongst all other warriors.  The six great gifts his father described all had a part to play in the pilgrimage. The journey was by horseback of course. The Red Temple was surrounded by a great moat which you could bathe in. Everyone would eat blackcurrants, strawberries, and cranberries whilst drinking wine as Tamil was tattooed, and the ritual performed by a high priestess. There would be the playing of strings, and drums, and there would be singing and dancing.

The sun was high in the sky, as Tamil and Bagdor rode at the front of their caravan. Bagdor drank water from his flask lustfully. Every little thing he did, he seemed to relish, everything was there to be enjoyed. Tamil observed him coolly. He knew his father made the people around him feel good. It was a gift he hoped he might have too one day but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t know yet how his father always smiled. Even when talking about mother, he was never sad. He would always make some jest of how lucky Hator and the other gods were to have her now, and simply move on.

“So how will the six great gifts be represented in the ritual? Do you know?” Bagdor turned to Tamil, his eyes wide, his brows arched.

“Well, we are riding horses now, the moat is for the water, the berries and wine for the fruit, musicians will play for my ceremony, and the high priestess is for women. I just don’t know about the mushrooms”.

“Hmm very good. You guessed more than I did when I was your age. And you’re smarter than your uncles too!’ laughed Bagdor. ‘However though it is true this temple has a high priestess, some have high priests, so she does not represent women in the ritual. You guessed four out of six. But the mushrooms are simple. After the ceremony you will eat a Dream Mushroom for the first time. The part which represents women however… well…” Bagdor’s face broke out into a huge infectious grin. Hagar and Tagudai who were riding close by started chuckling too. Tamil flushed red. They all know something.

The Red Temple of Hator finally came into view after many days of riding. It shimmered like a mirage but solidified as they drew closer. The red bricks of the temple were like nothing Tamil had seen before. And the moat was clear and inviting. As the horses were tied up, many young girls aged between eight and twelve came scurrying up to Tamil and his father’s men offering them plates with berries on them. Their mothers and older sisters watched from the distance, waving and smiling. Tagudai grinned broadly and winked at one of these older sisters, who covered her mouth to hide her laughter as she buried her face in the shoulder of another of the women. Tagudai turned red and Hagar slapped his back jovially. Tamil laughed and took a handful of blackcurrants from a plate offered to him by a girl with feline features. Well she kind of looks like a cat.

“May the gods bless you this day, Tamil” said the cat girl, blushing as she spoke.

“Thank you, what is your name?”

“Amarte”

“Which tribe are you from Amarte?”

“Please Tamil, don’t worry about the tribe, you should pick a girl who has fire in her eyes!” she exclaimed before pausing as Tamil returned her look with narrowed eyes, biting his lower lip. Finally she added “and I do Tamil, I do!”

Tamil didn’t understand what she was talking about, although for a split second he did feel that he saw flame burst in each of her pupils. Maybe Hator was trying to tell him something?

“Pick a girl for what? I don’t dance anyway…” Tamil shrugged his shoulders and shovelled more blackcurrants into his mouth. Amarte raised an eyebrow in curiosity. He was a strange boy after all but… not bad necessarily.

Tamil winced with pain, his flesh burned. The high priestess stood above him speaking the tongue of their ancestors which he could not understand. She was more singing than speaking now. The transition had been seamless. Naked men and women danced around the fires in the centre of the temple. Stringed instruments were plucked as drums were banged, and countless voices lifted into the sky to join the chorus of the priestess’s song. Tamil’s head was thick with pain. He couldn’t cry or scream. He would never dishonour father like that. Never!

But it did hurt, as the tribe’s sigil snaked its way up his wrist until finally he was made a man. In the corner of his eye he could see Hagar and Tagudai eating berries and drinking wine with the warriors of other tribes. And finally he could see his father smiling and nodding at him. He fell to his knees; he felt strong, he felt free.

The part of the ritual which represents women soon became clear. Today Tamil was expected to choose the girl who would be his first wife. As Hagar and Tagudai smiled encouragement at him, his father lead him by the hand to where various daughters of other tribe leaders and proud warriors had been assembled in a line in front of him. He recognised many from that morning, when the greeting gift of fruit had been presented.

“A word of advice from an old man” said Bagdor. Tamil looked up to his father.

“We all feel strong at times, weak at others. A strong body, wealth and treasure, youth and beauty, these are all forms of power. And they are all dangerous to become addicted to. They are all blown around like sand in the wind, they all fade, or rot like meat left on the bone. None of that lasts. The greatest power is found in love, wisdom, kindness. The real treasures of Hator”.

“Why did you choose mother?”

“For the same reason I never took another wife… the fire in her eyes” Bagdor squeezed Tamil’s shoulder as he said these last words.

Tamil looked up and found he was looking into the feline features of Amarte once more. She smiled back at him.

A dream mushroom tastes much like any other mushroom, Tamil concluded upon finishing his that evening. Although as time went by he felt himself begin to swing unwittingly in time with the drums and the strings. He felt like he was really hearing the music for the first time. Like he had never heard it before. It felt wonderful, he didn’t know how to describe it, it was just different somehow. And everything looked and felt a little more… more real, more vivid. As Tamil watched the naked dancers, they began to shapeshift before his very eyes. Some took the forms of foxes, or wolves, others were horses, or antelopes, some became birds, and others fish. Soon the dancers were embracing each other, some started to make love, others sucked upon the manhood of other’s as though drinking from a fountain. Some licked in between the thighs of women, and some bit deep into the flesh of their dancing partners, so as to draw blood. And where blood spilled upon the floor, all those who saw it threw themselves to the ground to lap it up as if it were honeyed milk. Tamil stared on in wonderment.

Once more he saw the old crone, she was stood calmly leaning on her stick in the heart of all the chaos. She smiled at Tamil, and he felt relaxed like everything would be fine if he just held her gaze. Before his eyes her face transformed again, into the young woman he had seen in his dream. She had feline features and her brown eyes burst with flame. Lastly he was looking into the face of a great wolf. He reached his hand to the plate by his side and filled his mouth with blackcurrants. He looked down at his wrist and the two serpents. He felt an immense rush of pride and joy.

He was sad to leave Amarte behind but the day of their wedding would not be until after she had bled. Reluctantly he bid farewell to the Red Temple, and it’s clear and brilliant moat. In the cool, crisp morning sun, Tamil dutifully rode behind his father, back to their home. But the final test had not yet been passed.

“A man must know how to feed himself. A man cannot live off fruits and seeds alone” Bagdor told him. “Today you will kill your own dinner”.

They had hidden amongst the bushes, after tracking a herd of antelope. Tamil was nestled beneath his father’s arm. Bagdor steadied his bow and readied his aim. Only to demonstrate. Tamil followed the example. He had always been a quick learner. The antelope he had chosen was in his sights. He pulled back on his arrow and felt the bow tense. He released, and the arrow flew through the air, cutting a path to the antelope, and finally burying itself in the creature’s neck. As Tamil and Bagdor approached it, Tamil felt faint, he felt outside of his own body as if he was watching himself from a distance. As they approached the antelope, Tamil let out a wail in shock. He was looking down at his own maggot infested corpse, his manhood was pointing up, his bum and hips drowning in his own excrement, and a vulture was pecking out his eyes.

Bagdor looked at him concerned, he had no idea what was troubling his son.

Then the image he saw changed, he saw a woman’s face, half was the beauty from his dreams but the other half of her face was that of the wise crone. Her body was gone, and replaced with the body of a wolf. Dead and rotting wolf cubs suckled on their mother’s nipples.

Finally the dead antelope was back where it should be, and Tamil saw the bright and fiery eyes of Amarte in his mind’s eye. He turned with an expression of fierce determination to his father. His father who was always laughing and smiling, always the joker, he turned to him and finally he asked…

“Is mother really with Hator, father? Is she not just gone, is she not just nothing now?”

“I don’t know” replied Bagdor. “I don’t know if she’s with Hator, but everything changes, like how this antelope will change into our energy, and how flames change into ashes. So I don’t think she is nothing. But I don’t know for sure”.

It seemed strange to Tamil that after trying so hard for so long to appear strong in front of his father, the first time he ever cried in front of him was after he became a man, after the tattoo, after the ritual, and after he chose a bride. The tears rolled down his cheeks, and into his mouth, they tasted salty.

Salt, why isn’t that one of the great gifts?  thought Tamil.