(TLO) Chapter 67: The Cursed (Patreon)

Seth thought about the question and couldn’t say he was interested. The blizzard was still blowing outside but it wasn’t as heavy anymore. It was slowly running its course and it sent his mind back to the nest that he hoped would still be waiting for him when it was over.

“Sure,” he answered.

He wasn’t doing anything else right now. A story was one way to kill the time. He was also hoping the story would enlighten him a bit more on the man.

“Ever heard of the Javalti tribe before?” Dazda asked.

Seth took a moment to think. His minds scoured his memories and found nothing. “No.”

“Well,” Dazda went on, he didn’t sound surprised. “The Javalti are an enigmatic tribe of people that live just beyond this forest.”

Seth doubted that. He’d come from beyond the forest. The only thing there was a shadow of civilization. Unfixed destruction and a cobblestone of people surviving with rules he did not understand. They could have been a lot of things. But not a tribe.

“Somewhere beyond this blasted blizzard is a group of people who have made a home for themselves here,” Dazda continued, turning to lie on his back and stare at the colorful ceiling. “They’ve walked these woods for countless years, farmed its fertile parts and hunted its animals. They’ve lived off its generosity and grown from its benefit. They were more than comfortable. Then one day the air broke and the world trembled.

“Monsters crawled out of lines in the air like devilish things in horror stories. Not all were big, but all were grotesque, cruel and terrifying. They shirked away from these beasts, held their numbers and bid their time in hiding. Their leader had thought it a wise move. Their followers had done as followers do: followed. So they huddled up for a while, until they realized the error of their ways.

“Winters came and went. Spring thawed snow and autumn shined with the blazing sun. Seasons passed them by. The world did not revolve around them, so while they stopped, it did not. By the time a few followers had evolved to be something more, it was too late.

“The few followers who were followers no more broke rank, defied their leader and ventured out of the tribe’s cocoon. The world was evolving without them. It was a sin they could not allow to continue. But they were too late. The world had already left them behind.

“It was not long before they learned the forest could no longer be cultivated. The animals could no longer be hunted. The forest they had spent so many years living off would not care for them any longer. In it they were now the hunted. The plants now thought them nutrients for their growth. The world was no longer what they’d known. The creatures that had spilled from the cracks in the world had made it their home. A home that had no place for the tribe.

“So those who’d left the fold returned to it with bowed heads and fallen shoulders. They had faced the world and the world had found them wanting.

“In this way more seasons passed. Their values weakened and their numbers dwindled. The old died of illnesses and the older simply died. It would be nice to say it was of natural causes but nature had since abandoned them. Their bodies were given to the fire, but not all of them. It pains even me to say it—to think it—so I’ll say some were used for other purposes and leave it there.”

Dazda’s voice, since slipped into that of a story teller, was softer now. Quieter. It embodied a solemnity that told of a sadness to come. Odd, since the story was already sad enough.

“Then they came.” Sadness kissed anger and birthed disgust. “Men from beyond the forest approached the tribe with offers and promises. Stones that would make them less. Abominations. They claimed it was the only way to survive now. The world had evolved and they had evolved with it. They promised them the ability to walk on water, to bend vines and grow trees with a single word. They promised them a power no human should have. Tempting as it was, there was a price—as all things have a price. It would entail that they leave their humanity behind.

“It was not an offer. It was a lie. A lie none in their right minds should’ve ever taken. You see, to leave your humanity behind is to sin against yourself. Do you know what it is to sin against yourself, child?” Dazda asked, quietly.

Seth did not know. He thought of his momentary acceptance of his relationship with Natalia mere moments ago and doubted his friendship had been a sin against himself. He thought of his hatred for Derek, some of it justified. He thought of the lies he’d told. The moment at the docks he should’ve taken just to return home but had not. He thought of the things he’d done in the seminary and the things the seminary had done to him. Ultimately, he still did not know.

So he said nothing.

“It is a sin unforgivable,” Dazda said, as if the question had been rhetorical. “A sin the leader commanded his tribe commit. The same leader that had allowed the world evolve without them. So each able bodied man, two out of every three, offered their aid to these men that were men no longer. They took their stones, gained its powers, and gave up their humanity. But the number of stones were lacking, and not everyone was allowed to discard their humanity. Not everyone gained the curse of the fragments.

“As time went on, the tribe grew in their new found powers. The cursed wielded them like weapons and brandished them like gods brandish their divinity. They forgot their gods and thought themselves greater than men. In the early months after, they raised the efficiency of their curses then joined those who had given them these curses to venture into the forest.

“In the beginning it was good. They once more became the hunters. They cultivated the lands and hunted the animals. Even the twisted beasts that had scared them once bent at the sight of their strength. It was peaceful. Until it was not.

“The seasons passed. The old grew older. New life was brought to the world. And the cursed of the Javalti grew greedy. No one knows from whence the idea came. Even the stories so good at embellishing and gathering lies to fill in holes never did. It could’ve been the leader of the tribe or the first follower to rebel. It could’ve been a child’s curious words or the berating of a baleful wife. It could’ve been a whisper in the breeze or an outsider’s word. All that matters is that it happened. The cursed of Javalti grew drunk on their power and decided they did not need the help of the visitors.

“So they rebelled. On a gentle night and a voracious hunt, they turned on their guests, fought against allies, drew blood, and slayed them. When the elder heard of this he raged and rumbled, spat and grumbled. The cursed had given up their humanity and he had allowed it. For the sake of the tribe.

“But he’d thought they would at least hold on to the values of humanity. He’d believed they would not forget the honor of the tribe. He had been wrong. Monsters could never be humans. He was a leader that was proving always wrong.”

The old man sighed now. It was a tired sound, a fatigued sound. It was the sound of a man running a marathon he would rather not. Telling the story was taking more from him that a story should.

Then why is he telling it? one of Seth’s minds asked. No one asked him to.

So that we learn, another replied.

Learn what? That leaders can be wrong? Jabari killed an entire ship for no reason. We know leaders can be wrong.

Their bickering was short lived as Dazda took another breath, prepared himself. There was a satisfaction in it, or perhaps it was resignation. Regardless, it sounded like the story was coming to an end.

Seth couldn’t bring himself to care for the burden the man was putting himself through. Still, he didn’t like it.

Everyone was burdened by one thing or the other, no matter how insignificant. But the man had chosen this burden tonight. Placed it upon himself. And adeptly so, at that. It was strange to find a man go through pain he did not have to go through. To find a man subject himself to something he did not like without reward.

He didn’t care for how Dazda felt. The man was a stranger to him. But he cared for the fact that it brought a part of him discomfort.

He was not uncomfortable about the man’s burden. He was uncomfortable about his discomfort.

“For a while the Javalti went back to ruling their lands,” Dazda continued. “Beasts and plants were at their mercy once more. They cultivated the earth and brought food to the tribe. They raised their curses, reveled in their power. They were rulers of themselves and the forest once more. But their rule did not last. In time, more of the cursed came.” Dazda wiped a heavily clothed forearm across his face, and Seth noticed he was actually lying on a cloak of fur. It explained how he’d survived the blizzard, partially. “There were no negotiations. No mercy. Their new guests were the wrath blazing in Anda’s left hand where the old had been the benevolence in his right. Their arrival was bloody and arrogant. They brought all to their knees. Men and women. If a person bore the curse, they were arraigned. They brought a savagery with them and left the silence of the dead behind them.

“But like the punishments of Anda, they showed the littlest of benevolence. They let those without the curse live. They left the Javalti tribe untainted again. But,” Dazda balled a tight, angry fist, “they took their forest. Banished them from it for the crime of the cursed. Didn’t even give them a chance to bargain for a portion of it. Not a slice, not a sliver. But the Javalti existed along, for it would take more than that to end an entire culture.

“They strived and sought life elsewhere, survived hunger and starvation. Now, they are no more than a shadow of themselves. A far cry from the great people they’d been during the times when Great Anda walked amongst them. But they exist.”

He turned his face and looked at Seth. His eyes were red. Seth did not see anger in them. He saw sadness.

“And,” the old man muttered, “they are friends to all who come to them in good faith. Unfortunately, after the death of their cursed, some of them left the village, vowing to purge the world of the cursed stones. Those men and women made a name for themselves and continue to this day. Their actions have garnered them the title of…”

“…Negare,” Seth said, his voice soft, drowsy. His eyes were heavy with the weight of sleep.

Dazda focused old eyes on him, wrinkled from age and strain. “Yes. Negare. To deny. The world calls them deniers because they deny the curse of the stones when every one else seeks it out so fervently. So greedily.”

The shelter lulled into a solemn silence after that. The blizzard outside had calmed itself, its rondo of insanity ended like a particularly advanced waltz. The silence was of two kinds. The silence of the sentient stood a company to the silence of nature.

In both silences, Seth’s breath deepened, then steadied. Its cadence slowed from its usual speed. He drifted softly into sleep so that all else was left to the background of reality.

“That,” he heard Dazda say softly, “is the story of the Negare.”

Seth was carried into the final moments of sleep. A dreamless sleep took him. And at its genesis, he thought he heard a few more words. They carried disdain and retribution, a bitterness no one man should have. It came in an old voice, but his sleep was so deep he couldn’t be sure. For all he knew, it could’ve been wrong. Yet the emotions in them were too strong.

“…Or so it is so inaccurately told.”