It drew me on into the thick air of the night. No moon. No stars. Just pitchy dark. The carriage trembled its way through the gloom, as though directed by some sick and ancient General. I fell to brooding my fate. Heir to a poisoned kingdom. Heir to a curse.
I had tried lovers. I had tried the church. I had turned to games and philtres and potions of every kind. Diversions, all. Sometimes happy diversions. But the truth that stalked me was unceasing. And it would settle for nothing less than everything.
Did I sleep, or was it that time turned its back on me? I knew only that there was a before and an after.
The carriage had arrived at the Place of All Corpses. And Oh, how I longed then for the dark. Because, for leagues around me: piles and hills; mountains of them – emaciated, wretched and disfigured. Every size, every shape and age. The dead bodies lay like the unwanted catch of some dread fisherman.
And winding its thirsty way through the mounds; the wide, sick crimson course of Fawl’Awfen, River of Blood.
My conveyance touched its clattering wheels to the ground and it crawled onward along the bank of the river. The land opened out into broad plains where a strange pale wheat grew in abundance. I saw teams of crouching figures who knelt to sheave the fallen stalks left behind by the scythe-men. And in the distance, a tall grey mill, wheeling slowly to the unyielding procession of the river.
The wagon halted at the mill. I knew to enter.
Inside amongst the creak and rumble of metal and stone, I climbed a flight of stairs and found a frugal table set. A glass of water. A breadboard and a knife. A gleaming cob of fresh bread.
I heard the voice of the river: “The fruit of thy throne. Know thyself and eat.”
I tasted. I ate. I know that most would not.
I turned then and looked out over the fields towards the grim hills. And even from that distance I could see through my trembling… that slowly, one by one, the bodies were getting to their feet.
Fergus Deffely - Author 