The Long Night (I)

[Before, 31]

(Travelling around my country taught me a great many things. It instilled a great hope within me, too. When I'm done, I thought, I'll have what I need to follow my dream. When I'm done, I'll create.)

(So, I'd pick up a pencil in my lunch break and sketch and muse and write about my sketches. Characters, colleagues, friends, enemies, my mind was aflutter with activity and ideas.)

(An artist. No, a comic book artist. No, a game designer. The bubbling excitement brewed over into a fierce pursuit. My dream. I chased it. Like a starved wolf, drooling from bared fangs, I chased it.)

(And the more I chased it, the quicker I improved. My images sharper. My words clearer. My travel-buddies took notice soon enough.)

(Wow, they said. That's really good. You could sell that!)

(I simply shook my head, laughing.)

(No, I thought. It's not good enough. Not yet… Not yet.)

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I lay reading before an open fireplace, listening to the sizzling of fish in a pan.

Turning the page, I caught the warming scent of thyme and the rich aroma of garlic wafting in. My mouth watered. Ada, humming away in the kitchen, spooned melted butter over the fillet, basting it to keep it juicy. The skin crackled as it fried and, when it was done she plated two servings with boiled potatoes and a squeeze of lemon. With a pair of tongs, she snatched the sprig of thyme from the pan and plucked away at its charred leaves. Then, carefully, she placed the leaves overtop as garnish.

A ladle of liquid butter was spooned over the potatoes and fish.

"Kay!" She called. I was in the kitchen, salivating at the table before she could even finish my name.

"Here," she said, sliding the plate over to me. Then, she took the seat across from me.

"Thanks, Ada," I said, fork and knife in hand. I took my first, juicy chunk of fish and my senses went wild. "Salt!" I exclaimed, shovelling food into my mouth.

A welcome surprise. After all, there were only two things in this world that left me yearning for my old life: the lack of plumbing, and the rarity of salt.

It wasn't just about the exuberant price-tag attached to the mineral, either. Much of Sanktorere's salt production had been seized by the crown upon their arrival on the island. Of course, aside from its use as seasoning, salt was great for preserving food. Perfect for military rations.

Another reason, I thought, that the public have such disdain for the royal army.

Across from me, Ada stared down at her plate, moving the food around with her fork. She hadn't eaten a bite.

"What's wrong?" I asked, between mouthfuls.

Ada snapped out of whatever trance she was in and shook her head. "N-no," she stammered out. "Nothing's wrong."

A bad lie.

"Tell me," I said, placing down my fork and knife. A mistake, maybe.

"How dare you make demands of me!" she snarled.

Even after all this time, her attitude had barely changed towards me. No, it was probably masked for the sake of civility. I was foolish to think that mere time could heal the gap between us.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. "You seem distracted. I'm just worried, that's all."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, and shoved her fork into a fillet of fish. Then her expression softened. She was hard to read. "I… The, uh, fisherman, Kal, this morning he… He proposed to me."

My stomach dropped. The image of Kal burrowed its way into my thoughts. His gentle grin, his youthful vibrant demeanour. That square jaw and olive skin, too. Handsome bastard. Nice bastard, though. Did that make it better, or worse?

Still, with the churning in my gut, and the lump forming in my throat I knew there was a problem. I was jealous.

"Oh… I didn't know you two were-"

"We're not," Ada interrupted. "But… But, I just wanted to let you know that I'm considering it."

"I see," I said, nodding.

You stupid idiot, I thought. You idiot. Am I that wanting for company? This woman, whether I like it or not, she's still this body's family. My aunt.

I repeated the term over and over in my head until it lost meaning.

Ada cleared her throat. "Either way," she said. "I've been thinking it's a good time to leave this house, to move on. We… I… It's a good opportunity, Kay. I'll be twenty-seven this year. And, at that age soon it'll be too late. No-one's going to wan't a shriveled up hag. Hell, I'm just surprised someone was interested in me at all."

"No!" I snapped. I couldn't stop my outburst.

"What do you mean 'no'," she said, voice low. Her eyes burned with a simmering rage.

"I mean, that's not true," I said, falling back into my seat. "Plus, it'll be odd without you here. I… I feel that I have no-one else."

Ada's face lost all expression. She pushed a strand of her cherry-blonde hair behind her ear and turned her nose up. "Then you already have no-one," she said. "Because, I'm not here for you. I'm here because of you."

Then, slamming her hands on the table, she stood. "I've lost my appetite," she said, looking away. Ada stormed off, but as she neared the threshold of the door, she stopped. "Kay," she said. "I... I'm... Look, you won't really be alone. You know, the staff will be here. And, Lord Trigg seems to like you well enough. I just think it's time. It's time to move on."

And with that, Ada stepped out of the room, leaving me at the table alone. I took a chunk of fish and chewed it for a bit. For some reason, it didn't taste as good as before.

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Crock stepped through the streets, stumbling as he did. His breath, lined with ale, clouded in the bitter air. In his pocket, what little coin he had left jingled, and in his heart he felt only warmth. Then, his stomach grumbled.

Home wasn't too far, but he had no-one to cook for him. And, Crock, with his gruff simplicity, knew not how to feed himself.

"Hungry," he grumbled. He found himself at the foot of his house, a quaint bungalow near the town's front gates. A generous gift from Lord Trigg. Especially so when Crock considered everyone that came before. The jibing. The mocking. People throwing vegetables when food wasn't so scarce. The village idiot, the townsfolk called him. Child-brain.

But that all stopped when he came to the Boundary Coast. Where others saw his weakness, Lord Trigg saw Crock's strength. His huge, cumbersome frame boasted the strength of three men, and his simple mindset allowed him to be the perfect aide.

Crock turned away from his house and stumbled down the street.

"I wonder if ol' Horan's still up," he said, slurring.

Crock continued down the streets, occasionally passing a person stumbling home themselves. The infant moon, low to the east, provided scant light. Streetside shadows stretched across Crock's path, enveloping alleys and crooks in a blanket of darkness. It felt as if an unseen eye gazed upon him. Watching. Waiting. He shivered and picked up the pace.

Corner after corner, step after step, Crock's blurred vision began to sharpen. Fear made for a good equalizer. Then, he heard the sound of crunching and his body went cold.

It came from an alley, just to his left. And just ahead, Horan's Inn awaited. He saw the lights on, and heard the joyful sound of cheer emanating from within. And then once again, another crunch sounded from the alley.

Crock took a nervous step forward and peeked around the corner. On his knees at the end of the alley, and with his back facing Crock, Mikael Mulligan bit into something. Crock's nerves eased.

"'Ello, Mickie," Crock said cheerily. "You 'ungry? Let's go to Horan's, I'll buy you food."

Mikael said nothing, instead leaning forward to crunch into whatever he had in his hand. Crock shook his head.

"C'mon, Mickie," he said. "I gets being 'ungry, but m'lord won't be happy if you're eatin' on the streets. He told me off for that once, you know? Said, 'don't do that, you dunce!'. So I din't do it anymore, now you better stop 'fore m'lord sees you and calls you a dunce, too!"

Mikael stayed silent.

"Mickie," Crock said, stepping forward. Something niggled at the back of his mind, but he shook the nerves away. Nothing ever good came from Crock thinking too much. "Come, let me take you home to Becca, now."

Crock reached out to Mikael and the man on his knees went stiff. Mikael's head cocked slightly to the side, as if he were listening out for something.

That's when the niggling sensation at the back of his mind grew more potent. With great effort, the big man brushed it away once again. Crock leaned in further and Mikael spun, wide-eyed and silent.

In his hands, a half-eaten cat lay. From it, small tendrils pierced the air, waving wildly. Large growths covered what little body it had left. Mikael held it close to his chest, staring up at Crock.

"I-is that Mr. Salmon?" Crock mumbled. His stomach jerked and tears formed at the corners of his eyes. "Mickie, I'ma need to take you back to Becca, now. You ain't well."

Mikael twisted his frame and dove at Crock, arms outstretched, mouth wide. The big man stepped back, startled, and caught Mickie in his steel grip.

"Mickie," he shouted. "Stop muckin' around, I don't wanna hurt you!"

Mikael snarled, hissing, and bit at the air, aiming for Crock's throat.

"Stop it, Mickie!" Crock cried, the tears now flowing down his cheeks. "Please! M'lord won't be 'appy!"

Mikael snarled, snapping his jaws just inches away from Crock's throat. For a second, Crock let Mikael go and threw a great, right hook into his jaw. It snapped to the side, broken. Mikael dropped to the floor, still.

"Oh no!" Crock wailed, kneeling to meet his friend. "Mickie! I aint' mean to, but I asked you to stop!"

He wrapped his arm around Mikael and drew him to standing. Green ooze leaked from Mikael's mouth. It stunk. A stink that Crock knew well. The stink of death.

When Crock turned to step out of the alley, Mikael's wife, Rebecca Mulligan, and his neighbour, Buck Smith, were standing at the entrance, silent.

Crock's swollen eyes darted from them to Mikael hanging at his side. He twisted his body in a weak attempt to cover Mikael's broken face.

"I din't mean to," Crock sniffed. "I asked him to stop, Mrs. Mulligan, I asked him to stop."

Rebecca Mulligan stayed silent, watching Crock with her beady, dark eyes.

"I think someone ought to find the doctor," Crock said, still with his body covering Mikael's. Rebecca and Buck took a step forward. Crock took a step away. "I din't mean to, Mrs. Mulligan, I swear it. I-I think Mickie's sick. I din't mean it... I din't mean it."

The niggling feeling that scratched at the precipice of Crock's mind itched once more. He tried to push it away. Nothing good ever came from Crock thinking, he chanted in his mind: nothing good ever came from Crock thinking. But, it didn't work. The feeling wouldn't go away. So, he finally let himself think.

Through a runny nose, and tears, Crock said: "Mrs. Mulligan, Mr. Smith; a-are you sick, too?"

They both took steps forward, silent. Watching. To his side, Mikael began to twitch.

"No, no, no, no. I hope m'lord don't call me a dunce," Crock lamented. "I ain't never wanted to be a dunce."

He let Mikael drop to the floor as Rebecca and Buck charged. With all his strength, he planted a punch into Buck's face. The florist went flying back. Rebecca pounced, digging her fingertips into his back. Crock cried out in pain before delivering to the woman a furious headbutt. It smashed her nose in, bloodying her face. Rebecca's grip loosened, but only for a moment.

"Mrs. Mulligan! Ow!" Crock cried as the woman's supernatural strength seemed to multiply. Desperate to escape, Crock threw heavy punches at the woman, each one colliding hard with her head. She remained unfazed, digging her fingers in until they pierced his skin.

Meanwhile, at the entrance to the alleyway, Buck was once again standing. Crock's fear went into overdrive. Cold sweat beaded above his brow. His throat tightened.

He tried to step back, but Mikael's arms found themselves wrapped against his legs. Using the top of his jaw, Mikael sunk his teeth into Crock's leg.

"No!" He cried. "I don't want to be hurt again! I'm sorry, I din't mean it! I din't mean it!"

Crock's cries rang out through the night air, echoing through the streets.

It sent chills down the spine of those that heard it nearby. Even Horan's Inn, bustling with life and music, went silent. Some veterans even recognised the sound.

The unholy sonata of pain. Misery in its most agonizing form.

What they didn't know was that it was but the first movement in a warped, catastrophic symphony. One destined to play the whole night.