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| Chapter 73. Miracles and Madness | |
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hen Mog first heard Maeve speak his name, he did not know what to make of it. For a time he lay within the sweaty tangle of his bedding, too sore and exhausted from the day’s toil to stir. Without opening his eyes, he sensed her sitting over him, her long black mane cascading down around her shoulders and brushing softly against his bare shoulder. Vivid and insistent, her pang of desperation intensified his own feelings of longing and loss. He opened his eyes blearily only to see the dull gray shadows of the tent illuminated by the silvery light of the full moon. Two weeks had passed since his last moment with Maeve. She was not there. He was alone but for Ronan snoring softly on the other side of the tent. He seized instinctively at the hem of the strange dream, willing her to stay with him. Mog missed her. His every waking moment was an exercise in trying not to go mad out of concern for her welfare. His yearning caused him to open his mind and silently call her name. “Come back,” he pleaded, “I love you. I need you.” Closing his eyes, Mog found her once more. She was radiant, a creature of darksome beauty with the grace of a stalking tiger. “Do not worry”, she told him, weaving his name between words of adoration and promises of reunion. Guiltily he clung to the illusion of having her close, delighting in the way the shadows played over the fullness of her lips. He longed to kiss them. He would give anything to run his hands over the silky paradise of her breasts and shoulders. “Go home,” she pleaded with him, “I will find you there and I will shower you with kisses.” “I won’t leave you again,” he sighed, drawing her closer, the whole of him willing her to lie down beside him. “You must,” she whispered, “I am safe, you must flee. Promise me you will slip away.” “I cannot,” he moaned, hating that he was powerless to help her. Mog felt the sting of shame, knowing he had failed her and feeling undeserving of her love, “Akemi can find me, I can never escape her so long as she is alive. My love, do not risk your freedom for me.” “Akemi will never track you again, my Love. I swear this before Lyssa.” Mog could say nothing, his voice dead in his throat with anguish as Maeve rose. The warmth of her spirit faded with the dream. He reached out for her like an abandoned child, feeling a fool and yet no longer caring. His dignity counted for nothing now, he was at the mercy of Akemi’s will and a stranger among her allies. But she was gone. As he hovered at the threshold of consciousness, Mog debated rising and walking away his anxiety. When he realized his crepuscular activities might draw suspicion and unwanted attention, he sighed and rolled over, determined to find sanctuary in sleep. There would be more work in the morning. He needed his rest. Mog embraced oblivion, grateful that he still had the ability to sleep soundly at will. His rest was short-lived, however, for it seemed only moments had passed when he was drawn immediately awake by a piercing scream. Without thinking he sat up, the hair of his nape standing on end. His skin bristled with goose bumps. Ronan was sitting up as well, his eyes glistening in the twilight. “What is going on?” the man croaked instinctively but Mog ignored him and climbed stiffly to his feet. Draping a blanket over his bare shoulders, he pushed hastily past the door flap of the tent. He sensed Ronan rushing after him and he moved aside to allow the shorter man to join him and lead the way. Others in the encampment were already up and about, their tousled hair and lack of proper clothing indicative of their shock and confusion. Mog gestured toward Akemi’s tent, his mind ablaze with bright flashes of horror as he turned toward it. Ronan did not need urging and rushed immediately in that direction only to be brought up short by Maziba bursting out into the open. The muscular figure oozed revulsion and fear, his visage twisted by a rictus of grief and utter denial. He was so overcome with emotion he seemed not to notice that he was naked. Mog followed the man’s round-eyed stare as he held up his blood-stained hands before him. His mouth worked in silence, words lost to him. Ronan pushed past the inchoate figure, throwing back the door flap hastily as Maziba collapsed to his knees and let out a long anguished moan. Mog’s mouth was dry as the monk’s horror joined that of Maziba. Without thinking, he followed Ronan and looked down upon Akemi’s still form. She lay upon her back, but her limbs betrayed no struggle. The mounded clothes of the two lovers lay nearby and the metallic taint of blood mingled with sweat. Only her face betrayed alarm. Blood welled up from the depths of her right eye around the slim brass quillons of a dagger thrust deep into her skull. Already the widening pool encircling her head was thickening. Mog was transfixed by the sight of it. He could not be grateful that she was dead even though he had long wished for it. There was something unsettling in that one act of murderous violence where two people had lain together as lovers only moments before. It bore the unnatural taint of madness. He did not sense that others had arrived and were now crowding the doorway until he backed into one of them he let out a gasp of shock. The spell was broken and he turned away in time to see Maziba being wrestled to the ground as he thrashed and babbled insanely. No one seemed to notice Mog for all attention was focused upon the drama unfolding in Akemi’s tent. He winced as Maziba’s incoherent bellows drowned out the startled susurration of the gathering crowd. As if in a dream he went into his tent, fighting his desire to vomit. His dream of Maeve returned to him and he recalled her pleas to fly away. Numbly he gathered up an empty rucksack and thrust what few possessions he had into it. He got dressed. He slung the light burden over one shoulder and headed toward the mess tent as Ronan scurried after him. “What are you doing?” the monk demanded as Mog pulled down a string of smoked sausages and crammed a pair of sealed pots into his now bulging pack. “What does it look like?” “You can’t just leave…” “Watch me.” Mog kicked over a couple pots until he found a stoppered container that would make a decent water jug. He drew out the cork and smelled a particularly pleasant fermented fruit odor. He considered taking a long swallow of the brandy right then and there but decided he needed his wits about him and stalked away with Ronan in tow. “You’ll die out there! You’re mad!” the monk cried. “I’m not staying here,” Mog said, irritated that he had not managed to walk away unseen. “Fine, but at least let me get my things.” Mog paused at the edge of the jungle and gazed back at the stocky figure. Ronan glowered at him, his brows furrowed with hurt and anger. “I don’t have time for this,” Mog grumbled. “Suit yourself,” Ronan said with a shrug, “I guess you don’t need my help finding Maeve after all.” “Wait a minute!” Mog called to the retreating figure’s back, “You know where she is?” Ronan shrugged and continued walking. “Where is she?” he demanded, rage and desperation causing his limbs to burn with an aura of chaos, “Tell me!” “Are you taking me with you or not?” Ronan asked, “Make up your mind before someone decides they need to keep you around.” “Yes, show me where she is. Please,” Mog said, this time forcing himself to be calm. It would not do to attack the one person who had showed him kindness. And if Ronan knew where he could find Maeve he would do anything, a fact that the monk no doubt recognized given the sardonic quirk of his lips. Mog retreated to the edge of the ruins at Ronan’s behest and watched anxiously as the monk vanished inside the tent they had shared. The encampment was still in confusion and no one seemed to notice when Ronan also purloined supplies for their journey before stepping into the perpetual gloom of the forest. The monk set a brisk pace, leading Mog down a now familiar series of switchbacks carved into the karst and tangled foliage of the hill’s southern flank. “I thought you said you didn’t know where she was,” Mog said when they reached the bottom of the hill. “I don’t, I’m just guessing.” Mog swore at him, feeling both annoyed and used. “It’s an educated guess,” Ronan retorted, “I think, given how long Akemi’s cronies took to deliver her and return, they took her to Harnavi. There isn’t anywhere else of that distance near here and I don’t think Akemi would entrust Maeve to anyone else.” “Why didn’t you tell me that before? Is it safe there?” Mog demanded, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop himself. “I’m telling you now because it would not have done you any good to know before,” Ronan replied peevishly, “If Akemi thought you knew where Maeve was being held she would have moved her.” Before Mog could demand further answers from Ronan, the monk picked up his pack and hurried onward. The urgency of the stout figure’s gait suggested that he fully expected to be pursued once someone in authority realized the two of them were gone. They did not pause for more than a few swallows of water from Ronan’s flask until noon. By that time the sultry heat clung to them and the deep shade offered no relief. Drenched in sweat, Ronan lead him wearily down the narrow thread of a trail into a little canyon whose red sandstone walls were clad in ferns. A glistening sheet of blue green water shimmered below the slow seep of a spring. The two of them immediately dropped to their knees beside the pool and drank their fill before rinsing away the sweat and grime from their faces. Mog tarried a while longer to douse his head, momentarily forgetting his worries to delight in the water’s coolness while Ronan refilled the water flasks. “So when are you going to tell me why you wanted out of there so badly?” Mog asked. “That temple was abandoned for a reason,” Ronan replied darkly, “Personally; I don’t really care to find out why.” Mog considered this in silence as Ronan shouldered his pack and prepared to move on. “Lyssa and lunacy,” Ronan muttered, “Where there’s one you’ll find the other.” |
