Hoof beats
drummed hard on the packed ground as the silhouette of a horse moving
at an easy lope emerged from the tangled thickets at the edge of the
forest and began crossing the downs, rapidly accelerating to a heart
pounding gallop. Sarna was on her way home to visit her family, half
rising in the stirrups, her hair and cloak streaming behind her. She
loved the rushing feeling of the wind pouring over her, the feeling
of power in the muscles that bunched and stretched beneath her and
her greater power in guiding them along the best and safest route,
the thrill of speed and the sense of danger, even though she was wise
enough to only go at full speed here where the ground was firm and
relatively smooth. Joyous excitement poured through her from more
than the ride. It had been over eight moons since she had last been
home and she missed the familiar sights, sounds, and smells that had
been a source of comfort since before her earliest memories. She
missed knowing where every item was in the kitchen and in the tool
shed, missed sleeping in her own bed, where the mattress sagged in
just the right places, molded to her exact shape over more than a
decade of nightly sleep. But most of all she missed the warmth of
her mother's cooking in her belly and the warmth of her mother's arms
around her. As the years has passed, their relative heights had
reversed so now her mother's chin barely reached Sarna's shoulder but
this in no way changed the overwhelming aura of boundless love and
comfort that still flowed from the now bony embrace.
Her sword slapped hard against Sarna's
back as she urged the horse into a leap, clearing a small creek that
cut through a low spot on the downs. The impact momentarily winded
her but she was used to such things and managed to keep a firm hand
on the reins as she recovered her breath. Normally, it was men who
left home to fight or to travel far in search of a fortune. Women
moved away in order to marry but, unless they wed a man from a
distant village they would probably be able to return home
frequently. For a daughter to not have visited home in eight months
was highly unusual. But then, so was Sarna. She had started
learning the ways of sword and bow from an older cousin soon after
she could walk and, while he had probably seen it as no more than a
passing entertainment at the time, she had taken to it at once and
retained her interest long after the age where other girls would have
forgone such things.
Other parents, wiser but less caring,
would have tried to induce her to give it up, pushed for marriage,
but hers did no such thing, even paid for her to train under the
local sword master with the other boys, caring only that she was
happy and following her spirit's call. Of course, they had worried,
and still did, about her being lonely and, of course, she was. She
had always had few women friends. What could they possibly talk
about? And, while most men who knew her were more than happy to have
her at their side in a battle, most behaved coolly towards her at
other times on account of her strangeness and, certainly, any other
sort of companionship was and had always been completely out of the
question. She had wept and raged against the last ever since she had
been old enough to know what she was missing and her mother had been
party to many such incidents but, while they hadn't always seen eye
to eye on the topic at least, Sarna could give her great credit for
the fact that she loved and understood her daughter enough that she
never tried to change her, no matter how much she might worry or
disapprove.
She smiled slightly to herself,
feeling a warmth within at the thought as she came racing up to the
edge of the downs and pulled her horse in sharply, looking at the
land spread below her. To the left lay the lake, shinning in the
light of the midday sun. She could even see the dark shapes of some
of the village fishing boats gliding across the waters. One or two
of the houses where the fishermen lived were visible near the shore
but most of the farms and homesteads of the region were hidden in the
hollows and copses away to the right and in the distance, beyond, she
could see the dark, dead expanse of the heath where the reya grew,
where the hydra roamed. She had to slow her pace now as she made her
way down the steeper trail from the downs to the lowlands around the
lake. This was her least favorite part of the journey for she hated
looking out at the dreary heath. It had always been there, a looming
shadow in the back of her mind since her earliest memories. Though
she had never seen the hydra, like all the people in the village, she
knew it was real. On a few occasions, she had heard whistling and
roaring noises in the distance and, while there was no way to prove
they had been made by the hydra or, indeed, anything more than the
wind in the stones, they had made her blood run cold and still
haunted her darkest nightmares.
The hydra was like a plague, striking
without reason or logic. There were those who said it was a mystical
spirit guarding the reya plant and there did seem to be a
correspondence between how often one picked reya and the likelihood
of becoming its victim, but some went to the heath every day to dig
for reya and lived to a ripe old age, never catching sight of the
hydra. Some went only occasionally and were brought down while still
young and there were even a few deaths among those who had never
touched reya at all, only gone to the heath to aid their loved ones.
Sometimes two would travel together, pick the same reya, and it would
murder one and completely ignore the other. The attack was not
always fatal. A few would manage to stagger back to the village,
burned, wasted, and disfigured. Of those few, most would never fully
recover and, for all, the hydra's venom lingered in their blood and
could suddenly spring to life and carry off one who had seemed
healthy but a short time before.
Considering the danger, it was a
wonder that anyone would take the risk to go pick reya, small firm
balls of dull grayish-green. The thick rubbery skin could be easily
pierced with a knife, revealing paler succulent flesh which could
then be chewed and the juices sucked out. And it did not even taste
good. Truly, Sarna had never tried it but the bitter smell of the
juice alone was frequently enough to make her feel ill and she could
only imagine the taste would be fouler still. It was true that plant
had some ability to induce calm and to provide relief when tensions
were running high. But that was hardly enough to risk one's life
over. The problem lay in the fact that using reya created a craving
for more. Usually how it began was that one would begin using it to
help them through a particularly rough time, thinking “just this
once,” or even be offered it by another in such a situation. But,
apparently, the relief it provided was so soothing that it became
easier to turn to when the next, less serious, crisis came along and
then the cravings began, the desperate gnawing emptiness that would
drag one back to the heath again and again, even when fellow
villagers were still mourning the hydra's most recent victim.
Sarna knew all of this well for her
mother was one of those enslaved to the plant. Although she was not
insensible to the danger, her need for the reya was too strong.
Several times, she had tried to give it up, weaned down her
indulgence to almost nothing. But it took all she had and, as soon
as something else came along that required her will and strength, she
would lapse to allow herself to focus on the new crisis. Sarna
harbored a deep guilt inside herself, remembering times she had
fought with her mother, times she had been reduced to despair over
her lack of acceptance as her warrior spirit emerged. Had one of her
outbursts, the extra strain and worry she caused, ever been what
drove her mother back to the reya? If she'd held her tongue, kept
her feelings inside, would they all be free now? Even as a young
child, she had envied other children whose parents did not indulge in
reya, wondering what it was like to live without the constant fear
every time she smelled the bitter odor of the roots on her mother's
breath and knew she was breathing the smell of death.
“I wish I had never started,” her
mother had cried in her own defense on more than one occasion. “Back
then we didn't know it was dangerous. No one had ever seen the hydra
in living memory. We thought it was a legend. All the adults took
reya. They'd leave a little offering to placate the spirit of the
plant and we thought that was all it was. Then the deaths started.
But, by then, I was already bound.” It was easy to be complacent
as the years passed and nothing happened but, always, in the back of
Sarna's mind there was the knowledge that something might. When she
rode home this time, the sense of foreboding had become so habitual
she almost dismissed it, until she saw the inky smear of smoke across
the sky. The muscles of her legs flexed, squeezing the horse with
her thighs and urging it to faster speeds. Bowing low over its neck,
she felt the wind strike her in her face and her hair snap behind
her. The same wind brought the smoke towards her, twisting it in
ragged threads, and it did not smell like burning. It was a heavy,
putrid smell, like smoldering rot, reminding her of when her father
burned leaves that had been left out in the rain too long or that had
lain on the ground from the previous winter, only far, far worse.
She gagged on it and almost reeled in the saddle but held her steed
steady so as not to undercut her speed.
All the old, familiar landmarks came
racing past her. Here was the wide field where she had learned
archery, there the dark, leaning rocks she had once believed were
haunted, until she discovered the buzzing sound come from the bees'
nest they sheltered, after which she had taught herself to steal
honey from it, and now she was ducking under the branches of a group
of trees she had played beneath as a child. The little creek raced,
chattering over its rocks, the clear water, foaming around her
horse's ankles as she forded it and then only the final rise of the
ground hid her home from view, feeling, despite her worry, as she
breasted it, the same sense of warmth and welcoming she always felt
upon seeing it again. No matter what happened out there in The
World, here she was welcome, here she was loved, here she could
return and be at peace.
In the open space between the wings of
the house her father had a kettle over the fire and was stirring it
with a long pole. It was from here that the stench came, not from
the burning itself, but from the steam rising from what bubbled in
the pot. As she rode up, he raised his head and smiled at her, but
there was unease behind the smile and, as he could not leave his work
to come embrace her, she went towards him, fighting down the stench
induced nausea with difficulty. Then she saw the green black ooze in
the pot and the pit of her stomach knotted so tightly she forgot the
odor. This was anti-venom with which victims of the hydra were
doused to give them the faintest hope of survival. Sarna had never
seen anti-venom brewed, though she had heard horror stories about the
stench, but she had known for as long as she could remember that her
father kept a ready supply of the herbs used in making it in the
cellar below their house.
Once or twice, when her mother had
been gone on the heath for a particularly long time, she had seen him
take out the herbs, the pot, and begin to arrange them to start the
brewing. The solar eclipse that had made the other children cower in
fear she had faced un-phased, but the sight of her father laying out
his brewing tools like this had made her howl in abject terror.
Never before had he gone so far as to actually brew the concoction.
Do that too often and your neighbors might descend on your farm in an
angry mob after their cattle started dying from the fumes. Always
before, her mother had come stumbling back, looking dusty and weary,
with some story of how she'd slipped down a trench or gotten lost out
on the heath, heavy with the bitter odor of reya but no trace of any
other smell, of the dark, sick odor, like old blood, that some
whispered clung to the hydra. The situation must be dire indeed if
he had already mixed the foul liquid.
Sarna's warrior training shot up her
spine like a cord of steel. She vaulted from the saddle to stand
before her father. “How long?” she asked, her eyes hard. There
was no need to explain. They understood one another without words.
“A day.” His face was lined with
worry and his shoulders slumped forward. It was plain he had not
slept in that day but had spent it preparing and stirring the pot.
“We know it's not just an accident. We heard the hydra roaring out
on the heath.”
Sarna felt dizzy. Hope waned with
every hour. Even if there was another reason for the delay, the odds
the hydra would find her increased the longer her mother
remained on the heath. “Has anyone gone after her?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No one dared.
They're all afraid the hydra will turn on them. And I can't go. The
anti-venom must be ready if she ever makes it back.”
“But I am here now.” She rushed
forward to embrace her father, then leaped back into the saddle and
spurred her horse towards the heath as swiftly as she could. Past
the homestead she raced and past more homesteads and farms, some
where friends or schoolmates had once lived. No one was out now and
she was glad of that for she would have felt nothing but overwhelming
hatred for those who had abandoned her mother out of fear for
themselves. After less than an hour hard riding, she was already
leaving behind the familiar places and crossing into the realm of her
nightmare. The ground began to climb steeply and she had to slow her
steed for fear of laming it on the dark scattered stones all around,
but seethed at every second of the delay. She had never been on the
heath before. Her mother had been careful never to expose her to
that immediate a danger and, when she became older and some of the
youths her own age had fallen prey to reya, her very oddness had
protected her. Others, weaker, might have been taunted into visiting
the heath, the desire to please and the fear of being thought a
coward eclipsing their better judgment. But it was well known she
had no desire to please or be accepted. The very fact of who she was
proved that.
But, though she had never seen it with
waking eyes, except at a distance, the black, blasted expanse of the
heath was known to her, having been described in countless cautionary
tales and haunting the dark places she visited on the other side of
sleep. The ground was cracked and broken like dried mud, but harder
as if, somehow, a liquid had been solidified into hard rock. There
were loose stones as well, irregular, jagged, sharp enough to cut
easily, scattered over the ground and she could not tell clearly
where the solid ground ended and these rocks began. Were they pieces
that had broken off from the earth itself or something else? It was
impossible to tell, but the scattered stones made footing very
treacherous, as did the wide ruts cutting through the ground, like
water courses carved deep into parched earth. But Sarna thought this
unlikely on the harder surface of the heath. Rather, she imagined
with horror that these grooves had been cut by the corrosive slime
than oozed from the hydra as it dragged its serpentine body across
the heath.
Even as she thought this, she heard an
echoing bellow that, despite her years of battlefield experience,
sent cold racing down her spine. It was coming from the west, deeper
into the heath and, despite the fact that every instinct she had
screamed for her to flee in the opposite direction, she spurred her
steed towards it, but dared not urge it to full gallop on the
treacherous ground. Once she had found her mother, she needed the
horse un-lamed to carry them to safety. Clenching her teeth, she
willed herself to think only of that. She would find her
mother, would escape with her, and she would be cured
by the potion Sarna's father was brewing. This was only a nightmare
she would wake from, as it had been so many times before. Everything
would go back to normal and, years from now, they would look back on
this and smile over how worried they had been. Her mind distracted
by these thoughts, Sarna almost rode directly into one of the wiry
stunted bushes scatted across the ruined land. At the last second,
she managed to pull up on the reins and veer sharply to the side to
avoid its clinging branches. The horse scrabbled to maintain its
footing, sending a stone bounding down in to one of the nearby ruts,
but managed to stay upright and, after a moment's pause, they went on
again.
From the legends she knew these bushes
were one of the only things that grew on the heath, clutching for
life, their leaves black and brittle from the poison in the land.
The branches writhed and twisted in sinister knots and, said the
tales, were resilient and pliable as vines but far far stronger so,
if you tumbled into one, you could get tangled up and never manage to
pull free. The only other thing that grew in the desolation of the
hydra was the cursed reya itself and this she saw as well, the only
spot of color in the endless grayness, bulges of pale green that
reminded her of plague sores. Bitter rage welled up inside her at
the sight and then she found herself struggling to fight back tears.
She had been so happy an hour ago, with no thought of any misfortune
and, such a short time later, she was facing the situation she had
feared more than any other. She had ridden directly past the refuge
she had spent the last fortnight dreaming of, a refuge that might
never be able to return to. No, no, no, no! That could not happen.
It was impossible. Her mother was the first thing Sarna had known,
as if the world had come into existence with her and its life were
hers, as eternal as the earth and the lake and the sky.
Heart hammering, she crested another
ridge and now she could hear the growlings and roarings, the dragging
of the heavy body. The horse shied under her and she felt its skin
shudder as it rolled back white eyes at her and Sarna was afraid as
well. All her life, she had feared the Hydra as she had feared no
other of the denizens of the wilderness. She was a warrior by blood
and by training and any foe she could face with her sword and have a
chance, even a long chance, of defeating she did not fear. But the
hydra was no such creature. There was no known way to destroy it and
her blade would only make it more dangerous. Every head that was cut
made more until, even the best fighter would be overwhelmed by the
number of foes and that was the true horror of what she had always
feared, the crushing magnitude of the hopelessness. The choices were
either to surrender at once or to fight until the very act of
fighting brought defeat, both almost certain routes to death. One
just took a little longer than the other but was likely to be far
more painful. Even those few who survived an encounter were forever
marked, their skin and hair singed away by its burning breath, their
bodies withered and warped by its venom.
Cresting another barren and blasted
ridge of stone, she saw it, a vast black shape, shining wetly, its
skin utterly smooth, supple, and mucus coated like a salamander or an
eel, and its necks, currently three, flexed and twisted as if they
contained no bones. The heads were flat and earless, like snakes'
heads, but the jaws were longer and they had wide, leathery nostrils,
flexing and sniffing the air. Hooked fangs hung from the jaws,
yellowed and stained with venom and the eyes were red and rolling, a
burning madness of destruction. As she watched in horror, it made a
wheezing sound, sliding one of its great flat feet over the ground,
the discolored claws scraping against the rocks. At the sound, her
horse panicked and bolted. Only her well-honed reflexes allowed her
to leap from the saddle before she was carried away with it and it
wasn't a clean landing. The dismount had been too sudden for that.
Though her training had enabled her to avoid breaking any bones, the
rough ground still left her badly bruised and scraped. But, far
worse, her escaped rout was gone. How would her mother ever find the
strength to flee the monster on foot? But that did not matter right
now. First, she had to find her. Springing to her feet, Sarna drew
her sword and took off as quickly as she could, clambering over the
rocks towards the beast.
Drawing closer, she could see all the
heads were focused on one point and her heart withered at the sight
of the pale, bone thin figure she could now make out against the dark
rocks. One of the heads came swooping down and Sarna screamed in
involuntary terror, her voice sounding shrill and alien in her own
ears. The figure staggered back awkwardly, just out of reach, and
Sarna redoubled her efforts to reach the place. A short distance
more and she could see the woman in front of her was, indeed, her
mother, but so changed that Sarna felt her stomach turn, almost sick
with the shock of it. Her mother's hair had been singed off by the
hydra's breath with only a few dried and broken strands remaining.
Her face was swollen and reddened by the heat and venom. She swayed,
disoriented by the poison and the jerky movement of her limbs showed
how weak she had already become. Tears began to form in Sarna's eyes
but she took a deep breath, forcing them back. Now she could not
afford the liability. Her vision must be clear to fight.
Even as she struggled to process the
damage that had already been done, another of the heads was already
descending. Vaulting over the final rock, she swept her sword up,
catching the hydra across the chin. It withdrew with a hissing,
gurgling sound. But, as it did so, drops of black blood leaked from
the wound, clinging viscously to the stones and secreting acrid
fumes. Her mother coughed as the harsh vapors caught her throat, a
raw dry cough that Sarna observed with concern as she moved forward
to stand between her mother and the beast. But she was allowed scant
respite for worry. The head she had cut may have drawn back
momentarily to nurse its wound but a mere breath later the other two
were descending on her. She stabbed one in the side of the muzzle
and it recoiled with a snarl, but the other weaved sinuously, evading
her stroke, drew back slightly and struck again while she was pulled
off balance with the failed swing. This time Sarna calmed herself
and aimed slow, waiting until the slick, gleaming neck was at full
stretch. Then, she made a level cut and the head fell to the ground,
blood leaking from it like dark wine. Beside her, she felt her
mother clutch her arm to steady herself and made a broken sound as a
wave of nausea swept through her at the foul odor. Sarna took her
sword one handed and used the moment of rest they had won to put a
comforting arm around the frail shape beside her, shuddering at how
thin and papery the skin felt. “It's all right. I'm with you,”
she whispered, holding the bony shoulder as tightly as she dared.
“My Sarna,” the other replied, “my
little girl.” But Sarna's attention was snapped away as her eyes
caught the motion of the Hydra reeling closer. It was happening now
as, in her heart of hearts, she had known it would. An oozing,
writhing sack was emerging from the bleeding stump where she had cut
the head. Larger and larger it swelled, like a pustulant sore, until
it burst, spraying dark ichor, to reveal the two new heads within.
Even though she had not been weakened by its poison, Sarna felt
dizziness surge up inside her. She felt faint, confronted by the
reality of the task before her and almost gave way to despair. For
what hope could there be when battling the creature only made it more
dangerous? This was her nightmare in the flesh before her and she
felt her limbs go numb with the impossible enormity of the task,
becoming dull and heavy as if weighted down with layers of black mud.
But, as one of the heads made a sudden
snap towards her mother, her body roused itself even though her brain
still felt empty. The tense and release of her muscles in the sword
swing brought some awareness and sturdiness back to her. No matter
what, she would fight to the bitter end. And so she fought on, hour
after weary hour, doing her best to spill little blood and, at all
costs, not to sever any more heads, striking with the flat of her
sword whenever possible. But, in time, her arms ached from lifting
the sword over and over. She had been trained for endurance, to last
for many hours of battle, but not while fighting five opponents at
once, all larger than she so each stroke necessitated lifting the
full weight of the sword above her head. Now, the blood in her veins
seared like fire as it forced its way through muscles pulled ever
tighter from the strain. Still, Sarna gritted her teeth against the
pain and raised the blade again. But will could not sustain her
forever. When her arms began to tremble, her next stroke went wide
and she knew she must have a respite, if only for a moment, and there
was only one way to achieve that. Rousing her energy for one final
effort, she lifted her burning arms and leveled her blade to slice
off another head. As it fell to the ground, she let her sword fall
also, ringing on the stones, then, immediately crumpled down over it,
her forehead to the earth, taking great, heaving breaths as every
muscle screamed in relief at no longer having to make the effort to
support her. Yet it took only a few moments for the new heads to
emerge and then she was back defending against them with all her
strength. But, because she had an extra opponent to fight, she tired
all the sooner and could see no way to halt the brutal wheel now in
motion.
She had thought at first that they
might escape by retreating beyond the edge of the wasteland. But,
now, Sarna saw that this would be near impossible. Her mother had
never been strong and now the Hydra's venom had further sapped her
energy. She could not run and, over the rough ground they had to
travel, even walking would prove difficult and slow. Step by step,
they staggered back. But her mother was obliged to stop frequently
to rest and, when she did so, Sarna saw her gasp for air as her
seared and withered lungs struggled to take in sufficient breath.
But she was helpless to aid her mother,
could only stand and hold back the
hyrda. Given how far they had to go, there was little hope they
could reach safety before the number of heads grew so vast that Sarna
could no longer hope to beat them back. Worse, the acrid blood from
every head she did sever only increased her mother’s coughing and
made her have to rest more frequently. Shortly before sunset, she
had a particularly harsh coughing spell that drove her to her knees
and there she knelt, head bowed, her sleeve pressed across her face,
as her body heaved, draining more of her valuable strength. Just in
front of her, Sarna stood, still holding doom at bay.
She felt her mother’s hands knot in
her tunic and braced herself to take the full force of the other
woman’s weight as her mother used her as a ladder to climb back to
her feet. Fortunately, the weight was slight, but Sarna still had to
lock her knees with all her strength to keep from swaying and risk
upsetting her mother’s fragile balance. But, even as she did so,
she still had to wield the sword, to swing her arms while her body
stayed rigid. She felt the bony fingers lock hard into her sleeve as
her mother struggled to pull herself up but, at that very moment, the
hydra lunged at her and she had to lean to the side, then swing her
body back around to strike at it and, in the sudden movement, her
mother lost her balance and fell against her. Sarna felt her
mother's face pressed against her upper arm and her arms wrap her
torso and she could feel both the weakness and the wild desperation
in their grip. Fortunately, at that moment, she was able to beat
back the hydra sufficiently to win the space to steady her mother and
for them to take a few more hesitant steps back. But, later, she
happened to look down at her arm and saw a dark rusty smear across
the faded brown of her shirt where her mother's face had pressed. At
the sight, Sarna felt sick and had to fight hard to avoid giving way
to despair. If her mother was coughing up blood the venom must be
deep within her now and, almost certainly, had already done
irreparable damage. What was the point of all the fighting if they
had already lost? Another head swung forward and instinct moved her
to intercept it, even if her heart was not in it. Do not think, do
not feel, only fight. She was a warrior and a warrior did not
surrender until the final shadow fell. If there was no hope, she
would fight without hope.
But, thought she tried to keep her
focus wholly on the battle, other thoughts came leaking into her
head, like water through a roof when it had not been re-thatched in
months. These very arms that now clutched her desperately, relying
wholly on her for support and protection, were the same that had
lifted up and guided her when she took her first faltering steps.
They had held her close in a circle of safety as she sobbed over lost
toys and cuts and bruises from playing in the woods and, again, when
she was older, they had held her the same way, when the tears were
for the loneliness and hurt she felt when the others around her
ostracized and mocked her for what she was. These hands had washed
dirt from skinned knees, guided her hands as she learned to draw and
write, and brushed her long, flowing hair, her only claim to beauty,
for more years than she could remember. She had given up such
childhood pleasures long since, when she had left home to train. But
now it came over her like a cold wind that such things might never
again be and, at that, she felt a wild panic rise in her, crushing
her throat like a strangling hand. She was not a grown warrior with
years of battle experience behind her. She was a lonely, lost little
girl who needed her mother, needed her with every fiber of her being
to brush her hair and sing her to sleep.
After many hours, when
Sarna was almost fainting from exhaustion and the fading light made
traversing the rough ground of the heath far too dangerous, they
crawled into a crack in one of the great ruts, too small for the
hydra to fit into and there they squeezed, shivering, while the beast
paced back and forth outside, sometimes drooling foul saliva on the
stones at the entrance which only made her mother's cough worse.
Sarna let her mother put her head in her lap to shield her from the
worst of the rough stones. She would have to sleep sitting up anyway
as the crevice was too narrow for them to both lie down. Overhead,
the sky was a dark velvet blue, and a cool wind somehow found its way
into the crevice bringing air less stale than was normal for the
heath.
Sarna felt a pang,
thinking of how they were in a mirror of the pose they had adopted
before bed when she was a child while her mother would read her
bedtime stories. “Do you remember?” she asked softly, “when
you read the Lay of Artigan to me?” The bald, ruined thing
beside her cracked a smile and, for a moment, in the shape of those
lips and the light in those eyes, she saw her real mother again,
shining out through all the oceans of pain and suffering piled upon
her.
“I do remember.” The voice was weaker, more harsh and
raw, but still recognizable…just. “Artigan’s right general was
such a joke, how they said he could perform the work of four men but
at one point said he was alone because he only had three servants
with him.” They both laughed and Sarna felt a warm glow spread
through her even as she took a firmer grip on her sword, seeing the
hydra lumbering towards them again. “But that’s not as funny as
The Quest of the Brothers.”
“No.” Sarna
giggled, even as she raised her arm slightly, testing the weight,
thinking how soon she would have to ready it for the first blow on a
fresh head. “What could possibly top how they kept pretending to
be poets and reciting the same bad poem over and over again to try to
get every item for their quest?” As they spoke they could hear the
hydra nosing at the mouth of the crack but it was far too big to fit
in and soon it shuffled away. Sarna felt the warmth of her mother’s
skin against her arm as she looked up at the blue-black of the
cloudless sky above. Two silver stars could be seen in its majestic
vault, a reminder that beauty and peace existed beyond the ruin of
the heath and Sarna felt stir again in her heart a hope that,
somehow, they could win back to that place. She felt her mother
shift slightly in her lap and heard her murmur something about
another of the stories they had shared before her slow even breathing
told Sarna she was asleep. Trying to match the rhythm of her
mother’s breathing to help sooth her, as she had as a little girl
when she was woken by a nightmare, Sarna soon drifted off as well, in
circumstances so like yet unlike her earliest memories of sleep.
She woke the next morning refreshed
despite her lack of sustenance. There was no food and she took no
water herself, saving the last few swallows in her flask for her
mother. But they both set to with a good will. Sarna wrapped her
left arm around her mother, took her sword in her right hand and,
together, they staggered up out of the cleft and set off again
towards home, taking their direction from the newly risen sun. The
heath was silent all around them and while the faint undertone of
stale smoke and wet ash that mantled everything in the wasteland
still lingered, it was much fainter than normal. Almost she could
believe that the hydra had abandoned the pursuit, as it did sometimes
for no discernible reason. Hope wild within her, she set out with
renewed energy but was soon brought up short by her mother’s lack
of energy. Although the other woman smiled happily at her and seemed
to share her optimism, she was unable to move faster than a cautious
shuffle. Sarna supported her as best she could, trying not to be
frustrated by the delay, her heart in her mouth the entire time.
But their reprieve did not last long.
After they had been on their way for less than an hour, the Hydra
found them again. It came racing up, as fast as it could on its
great ungainly body, making a gurgling and whistling sound, venom
dripping from all its maws. A weight of black despair settled on
Sarna at the loss of the chance that had seemed so bright in the
morning. Fighting back tears again, she took a firmer grip on her
sword and raised her weary arms once again to the endless task of
fending off the beast. Then, sometime late in the morning, her
mother lost the strength to stand. When Sarna next released her to
turn and keep the hydra at bay, she crumpled to the ground, her bony
hands splayed over the biting rocks. Sarna had to steel herself
against the pain the sight caused so she could focus on the fight at
hand. Over the course of the last day and a half, the number of
heads had grown to ten and she had to ward off attacks from three
sides at once. It was only by being careful to always keep to ground
where the beast could not gain enough height to bring some of the
heads to bear behind her that she had managed to survive this long.
It was said that, with lack of use, the heads would atrophy and drop
off, which must be true for it was often seen with fewer heads than
it had had at the previous sighting. But that could take months or
years, certainly too long for it to be of any use to her. She could
hope for no such reprieve and, very soon, the number of heads would
become too great for her to fend off, even with her careful use of
the terrain and that, combined with her mother's dramatically
increasing weakness forced her, at last, to face the possibility,
even the probability, of failure and it took everything she had not
to crumple to the ground in despair herself.
Even in the abject
terror of the first mad gallop, it had seemed so simple. Yes, things
might look dark at the moment but, soon, they would be riding for
safety and look back at this ordeal from a place of relief and
contentment. The idea that her mother might actually die was a
thought her brain had been unable to grasp. In a way, it still was.
That the world could be so fundamentally altered and still exist
seemed an impossibility. But, at the same time, there was a feeling
of hollow helplessness, growing stronger each time her mother coughed
at the poisoned air, which told her that, in the natural course of
things, this was exactly what would happen. Humans could not defeat
the Hydra. They could only drive it back for a time and, even this,
was not a guaranteed success. She wanted to scream until her voice
broke, run wildly in circles, fling herself upon the blade-sharp
edges of the rocks. What was the point of anything when all was
doomed to fail? A black madness swirled in her brain and she could
feel the world coming apart at the seams.
And yet…and yet…her
proud heart would not admit to utter despair. This foe could not be
overcome by human strength, but divine strength could conquer all.
She could not kneel with bowed head and clasped hands, could not
close her eyes and lift them to the heavens. But, as she fought on,
she prayed harder than she ever had before. With grim determination,
she steeled herself against weariness and against despair, thinking
no longer of gaining ground nor of accomplishing anything by her
actions alone. Her only goal was to stand her ground, stand and
nothing else, to keep her mother’s spirit in the world if she must
cling to it with her teeth and nails to do so. Every second longer
she could hold out was one second more in which a miracle could take
place.
And a miracle did take place for when
the hydra drew back briefly, when she was forced to sever another
head, she turned to look and saw that, despite her weakness, her
mother was moving, crawling, using every last drop of her remaining
strength to drag her body over the rough ground. Sarna's heart bled
at the sight, almost able to see the throb and ache in the withered
muscles as they strained to their limit with each tiny movement. The
fingers, shrunken almost to skeletal claws scrabbled desperately
against the hard stones, raw and cut from their jagged edges and
Sarna felt sick and filled with awe at the same moment. She had
always thought of her mother as sweet, meek, modest, only a caring
nurturer, even looked down on her a bit for being weak, for not
understanding the warrior call in her daughter. But this, this,
was strength and courage far beyond anything Sarna was capable of,
she knew. Beneath the softness and love was a core of stone and
steel great as in any of the legends Sarna had idolized. Here was a
hero who would fight to her dying breath and, even as her heart
shuddered with pain at the understanding that that dying breath could
not now be far away, she felt a rush of burning pride to know she
carried the blood of such a one.
And so she fought on, even as her
tears ran, she being now powerless to stop them. Her vision blurred
and, often now the hydra's heads were only black blobs rushing at
her, sometimes barely discernible against the dark gray of the rocks
but, somehow, she still kept fending them off. Her arms burned and
she could feel her breath rasping through her throat, tasting of
blood, but she kept on in blind, numb agony, spurred on but the
thought that the wasted, ruined thing behind her was striving and
suffering far more and this was the least she could do. An eternity
seemed to pass in this raw fiery emptiness though, by the position of
the sun it could only have been a couple hours, and they had moved
less than a dozen yards, when another miracle occurred. Off to the
left, no more than a stone's throw, there was a shallow gully with an
overhang and cleft between the rocks, just barely space for them to
shelter from the hydra and rest. Rallying herself, she hacked off
another head and, half lifting her mother in her arms, made for the
meager shelter as fast as their failing legs could go, scrambling to
fit into the narrow cleft.
The stones bit and bored into them but
she hardly noticed, so relieved was she to no longer have to expend
energy to lift the sword, to hold her body upright, to keep her eyes
open. Cheated of its prey yet again, the hydra paced back and forth
on the edge of the gully, bellowing in rage but the noise barely
registered to Sarna. Certainly, in her dead weariness, it no longer
held any fear for her. This time, there were no embraces or laughter
or memories, there was no strength left for speech or unneeded
movement. Sarna made sure her mother was laid in the smoothest part
of the cleft and gave her the final drops of water in her flask, most
of which she was unable to swallow so they dripped out of her slack
mouth. Then she eased herself down into a far less smooth depression
and did her best to ignore the rocks digging into her back, the
gnawing hunger in her belly, and the acid ache of fatigue in every
limb. But, as it turned out, like the sounds of the pacing hydra,
these were things that simply no longer mattered beside the numbing
blackness of exhaustion and she was asleep, or at least insensible,
in a matter of moments.
Sarna saw herself wandering in some
hazy land, wandering over rough ground she could not see, her feet
buried in the clinging mist. But she could tell it was not the
heath. There were no loose stones and, though the ground was uneven,
there was nothing like the great ruts on the heath. This was
fortunate as she knew she was looking for something urgently,
struggling to reach it as soon as possible, and the direction she
knew she must go lay on an upward slope. The weariness of her body
had not been soothed at all by the brief rest in the rock cleft and,
at every step, she felt ready to drop from exhaustion, her feet
scrabbling for purchase on the incline and her breath ragged, burning
her throat. Where was she going? What was she looking for? She
could see nothing in front of her or anywhere around her. She could
hear no sound so it was doubtful there were foes nearby but, in the
cursed fog, she could easily pitch into a hole or over a cliff
without the slightest warning. She had no idea where she was or why
she was here. All she knew was that she must go on and up and that
it was vitally important.
At last, the broken slope began to
level off and, at the same time, the mist gave way so she found
herself emerging into an open area like a flat mesa on top of the
rise. The mist still swirled around her in high walls so it was as
if she were at the heart of a dark whirlwind but, looking up, she
could see a circle of clear sky above her with a full moon like bone
looking bleakly down on her. A few whip thin, twisted trees, their
bark silver gray and gleaming as if wet, were scattered about the
table land, roughly in a circle, their branches, like serpentine
tendrils, reaching towards the sky as if in prayer. In the center of
that circle lay a low flat stone, plainly an alter, and it was this
that called to her with a throbbing pull like the vibrations from
plucked harp strings.
Staggering the last few yards to the
stone she found there was a body laid upon it for sacrifice and that,
as she should have known it would be, it was her mother's body. The
legs were set straight, side by side, hands crossed on the chest,
ready for coffin or pyre but, in no other way had the body been
prepared. She still wore the same old clothes, filthy and rent
beyond recognition from her final desperate struggle over the stones
of the heath on her belly like a worm. Her face had not been washed
with no attempt to hide or wipe away even the stains and burn marks
of the hydra's black blood against her pale withered skin. But, most
horrifying of all to Sarna, her now bald head had been left naked,
the wrinkled skin laid directly against the hard, cold surface of the
stone slab for all to see. Rage rose inside her at the blatant lack
of respect, so violent it was as if a hand had seized her by the
throat, choking her. But, even as she felt the tears start to well
in her eyes, she saw, beyond hope, the faintest shiver of movement.
The ruined body on the altar still lived but only barely. She could
feel the life force inside it, somehow, like a silken strand between
her fingers, a shining cord that slid like water, impossible to hold,
slipping away, running out between her grasping hands, evading her.
Clutching desperately, Sarna found
there was a knife in her had. She knew its purpose, what was
expected of her. The rites were to be honored, the sacrifice killed,
even if there was no need. But she had learned her own lesson to not
obey. Even when there were parameters impossible to circumvent,
there were still ways to obey that were not what was desired, that
made the obedience displeasing. And so the wound she opened, the
blood she poured on the stone, did not come from the intended victim.
Weary as she was, it was her own arm that supplied the offering and,
as it dripped down on the altar and on the body there, she saw a
change. The shallow, straining breaths became deeper, easier, the
skin was washed clean as it should have been before the laying out
so, at the sight, her tears began to fall, mingling with the blood.
And then, most amazing of all, a white silver down began to form on
the bare scalp like fine powder. Wild hope sang through Sarna, her
heart pealing like a bell as, under her eyes, a miracle took place,
and the fresh locks of hair began to grown longer and longer, flowing
down from the scalp until they touched the altar, pooling there, not
the everyday steel gray of her mother's normal hair but with a
luminous sheen on it like moonlight, far more wholesome than the grim
moon above her. The shinning puddles lapped against her mother's
cheeks and shoulders before overflowing the altar stone and beginning
to drip down to the ground below. Billows of it began to form around
Sarna's feet like drifts of snow but far softer, sweet and
comforting, just the right temperature, like being lapped in the most
delicate of baby blankets. She felt safe, loved, cocooned in wonder
as she wept rivers of tears and the beautiful reprieve that had been
granted.
Then, most amazing of all, her mother
opened her eyes and they were clear. “My Sarna,” she said, her
voice soft but not raw and strained from coughing as it had been on
the heath. Her mouth turned up in her own smile that also had seemed
lost forever. “You've taken all the pain away. Now I can go in
peace.” Go! Go! No, there was to be no going anywhere. They had
found one another again and, after the terror she had experience,
Sarna meant never to let her mother be apart from her again.
“Farewell, Sweetie.” There was another perfect smile as the eyes
closed gently, and the slow, even breathing leveled into nothing.
The luminous glow faded from the coils of hair, leaving her daughter
utterly bereft in a world of darkness as the skeletal trees groped
suddenly in a frigid wind and the mist came racing up to swallow her
as she stood uncaring, the horror within far surpassing the horror
without.
Sarna woke from her nightmare as evening was falling.
The last faint glow of the sun was fading and a single star, hard as
white ice, could be seen through a cleft in the rocks where they had
sheltered. For a moment, she felt overwhelming relief that it had
been a dream. But, then, something in her warrior’s sixth sense
twinged. She knew what she would see before she turned around. She
had dreaded this moment for so long and now her dream had left her
dead and without feeling. The Hydra was more terrible than she had
always imagined. Part of her could only feel relief that it had
taken someone other than her and the other part of her was ill with
shame at this thought. She was a warrior and not afraid as long as
she could defend herself. But how could one fight the pestilent
breath, the hideous wasting of the body? In a struggle where she
could fight back, Sarna would never flee, but a panic of terror
gripped her if there was nothing she could do to resist.
Her
mother lay where she had gone to sleep the night before, carefully
fitted into the smoothest patch between the sharp stones. Her
expression was blank, with no sign that her last moments were either
of peace or suffering. In some ways, she was now more like herself
than she had been during her struggles. The redness and swelling had
gone from her body, leaving only the delicate skin and bones. But, at
the same time, the figure who lay there seemed utterly alien to her,
as if it were really the soul Sarna had seen all along and, now that
it was flown, there was nothing left to recognize. But how could she
say now what was like or unlike? With a growing horror, she now
realized she had all but forgotten what her mother used to look like.
The strain and suffering of the past days has so filled her mind and
soul that there was no longer anything else left. She tried to
imagine the empty skull flowing with hair again as it had in her
dream, the cold lips parted in laughter, and could not. She had lost
more than the reality of her mother, she had lost her memories as
well.
She had expected to feel her heart torn from her body, to
weep until she could no longer see. She had thought to raise her
hands to the sky and curse the Gods who had chosen such a fate. But
now, it was all too great an effort and useless as well. To grieve
would do nothing except prove Sarna’s own helplessness yet again.
And, in some ways, there was relief as well. She hadn’t know it
was going to happen, hadn’t had to tell her mother farewell, nor
hold her hand and look in her eyes as the light faded. Despite her
prowess on the battle field, Sarna knew that, in some ways, she would
always be a coward. She reached out and took the cold, stiff hands
and crossed them over the body, as she did so, seeing clearly, as she
did so, how the joints stood out and the fingers were bent at an
unnatural angle, curling in on themselves like bird claws. No tears
fell. Sarna looked in her mother's face, looked on the reality of
death, and felt only a dull emptiness, and, even as this was
happening, she felt a wild panic that this lack of pain was not
right.
Sarna was startled out of her thoughts
by the sound of scraping and pawing on the stones above. For a
second, she was frightened that the Hydra had returned but that was
impossible for none of the rotten reek was to be smelled anywhere.
Sensing its victim was no longer available for further torment, the
creature had wandered away to hunt for some other unfortunate
creature. Raising her head, she saw her horse standing at the edge
of the ravine, its hooves echoing against the rocks. Sarna could not
even bring herself to feel resentment towards the beast for
abandoning her, then returning as soon as it was too late. But that
was beyond reason, for it was the Hydra's departure that had allowed
it to return. Slowly, she rose and moved to climb out. But,
immediately, she felt all the weariness and the aching in her
muscles. With no will left to sustain her, she felt barely able to
stand. The horse made a concerned noise and stretched its neck down
towards her. Weakly, Sarna reached out her hand, straining to touch
its nose but not quite able to make it. Then, behind the scraping of
the hooves, she heard other sounds, more horses and voices. They
were coming closer, alerted by the horse that had noticed her.
“There she is,” a voice yelled out
and then a hand was being stretched out towards her and she took it,
finding herself pulled to her feet by Gordon the blacksmith. “Your
steed came back to the outskirts of the village and we followed it,”
he explained almost apologetically. “We knew it was safe because
no horse would ever go towards the Hydra, especially without a
rider.” There was a pause and he looked away. “We also knew
what it signified that it was willing to return, what it meant must
have happened.” She nodded numbly, no longer having the energy
even to be angry. Then, her knees buckled and she reeled and would
have fallen to the floor, if he had not caught her waist and then,
with the aid of two other villagers, whom she was too far gone to
recognize, helped her onto her horse. She swayed in the saddle, the
world a gray haze around her, and the voices of the rescue party
faded to a dull buzz. There was some milling, the horse shifted
nervously, and then she saw two men carrying something long and heavy
in a sagging sack between them. In an agonizing moment of hyper
clarity, she realized it was her mother's shrouded body they were
loading onto a pack horse to take back for burial. She should be
glad of it for the remains of the hydra's victims were not always
recovered. For a brief moment, she realized the full horror of what
had happened and crumpled forward, almost toppling from the saddle.
The man holding her bridle, probably Gordon though she was long past
caring about such things, put out a hand to steady her and that was
the last thing she was aware of before she plunged in to the escape
of empty blackness.
Gradually, the black dizziness abated
and her eyes focused on the dark cross-beams of the ceiling. Her
blanket, woven with deer and rabbits, was snug under her chin. On
the bed-side table beside her was the old, pierced metal lamp shield
and a copy of the Lay of Artigan. The window on the far side
of the room was thrown open so she could hear the chatter of the
stream beyond and the rustle of the leaves on the mulberry bush
which, she could now see, were edged with flame and gold. She was in
her own room, waking under the same ceiling she had opened her eyes
on at least half the days of her life, the refuge that had the power
to wash away any fear and sorrow. For a moment, Sarna felt
completely safe and at peace, then memory rushed back over her. This
room was a haven no longer. It was only an empty shell, the presence
that had made it warm and secure gone forever.
On the wasteland, the hurt had been
less. Since she had never been there before it had no connection to
her normal life and she could almost believe that the terrible things
that happened there would not persist beyond the bounds of the heath.
Now the loss was written on everything. The blanket wrapped around
her was the very one those hands, now empty, had drawn over her so
many times. There was the stool on which she had sat to read to
Sarna in the evenings by the flickering light of the brass lamp. One
of her mother's shawls lay, half folded on the windowsill, as if she
had just been called away as they watched the birds out the window.
But she would never come to pick it back up. “She must have been
standing there, thinking of me, only a few days ago,” she mused,
feeling all her years of future loneliness well up inside her.
The door swung open and even the
familiar creek as the hinge caught partway rung her heart. Her
father stepped through the doorway and came towards her, holding out
a steaming bowl. Sarna suddenly realized she was very hungry, as if
she had not eaten in days, and reached for the bowl eagerly. It was
beef stew, her favorite, with chunks of meat and potatoes, carrots
and peas, floating in an herbed broth. In her vulnerable state, she
felt so touched that her father had remembered and was afraid she
might cry. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He looked relieved, but still
concerned. “Eat it,” he said, as he pulled up her mother’s
stool and sat down on it. “You’ve been ill for some time and
need the nourishment.” Sarna dipped the spoon into the soup, blew
on it, and swallowed, then forced a smile through her shock. The
broth was dull and bland, the vegetables half cooked, and the meat
chewy and tasteless. This was clearly not her mother’s stew. Of
course not. She had had years to perfect that delicate, flawless
balance of flavors, whereas her father had almost never cooked
before. There had never been a need and, now that there was, he had
tried his hardest. And this was the only beef stew she would ever
have now. Sarna swallowed again, the taste in her mouth nothing
beside the bitterness in her heart.
“You said I’ve been ill for a long
time,” she said as she felt her strength return. “Does that
mean…?”
“No, we all agreed to wait for you
to be well enough to attend,” he reassured her. “The elder wants
to bury her in…”
“Bury,” cried Sarna. “No,
never. I want her laid in a boat and given to the lake and the
fire.” There was a silence as he allowed her to recover her breath
to speak again. “She died in battle as much as any of those in the
blessed hall of warriors. When she could no longer walk, she crawled
to escape.”
He gave her a wan smile, like watery
sunlight through rain clouds. “I knew she would,” he said
quietly. “It would not have been possible for her to do otherwise.
After so many years, I knew that about her without consciously
realizing it. You’re right and, if the elder will not agree to it,
we will do it ourselves.” Sarna threw back her head, her long hair
flying, and raised eyes that smoldered with gratitude. Again, they
were met by that sad smile. “You’re so much like her…inside
and out. Your intelligence, your patience, your practical side,
these came from me. But your mother, she gave you her warrior’s
soul.” At these words, the depths of Sarna’s feelings
overwhelmed her at last and she threw herself into her father’s
arms. In this closeness, her tears were finally loosed and her
weeping poured out in a torrent. Gradually, she could feel a wetness
spreading over her shoulder from her father’s tears as well.
©Amanda RR Hamlin 2025
