Fiction Friday: Blood's Kiss (Part Two)

By Rachel Marks

In Case You Haven't Read PART ONE go HERE

I run through the brambles, thirty yards, past patches of blood, following the red streaks in the snow, and come the stump of a burned-out tree. I catch-up to the source laying over a bed of black ash, and—

It’s not a wolf’s body. Not a wolf at all.

It’s a man. Naked. Trying to pull himself into the hole of the tree stump. 

My mind registers details so strange, I wonder suddenly if I’m still in bed, curled in my dream-quilt, playing out a wish in sleep. A wish to find my wolf, a wish that’s turned twisted and wrong.

He’s choking, gasping, blood running from the wound in his shoulder. The flesh there is torn in a jagged gash, the arrow is lying beside his hand, like he’s just torn it out. There’s markings all down his back in a green and blue pattern that look similar to the weaving that wards against storms.

I step back. Close my eyes. Open them again. 

He’s still there.

He’s whispering through the choking, a strange language. He grasps one of the large roots of the tree, and pulls himself forward. I hear, “Please,” in all the muttering, and then he coughs, spraying out a mouth-full of blood.

He’s not human, though. He may look it, but he’s not. His hair is too clean, too golden like the sun. His skin is pale as the moon goddess herself with markings of spells coloring him in the strangest places. And his ears. Humans’ ears aren’t shaped to a point at the tip like that.

I stumble back, knock into a tree, get my bow tangled in the brambles. 

“Please,” he says again. And his eyes meet mine. A golden promise of horror. They lock me in, like a giant’s fist. “Come closer,” he pleads. A genuine asking in his voice, desperation and pain. 

And I should nock another arrow, strike him through the chest, in one of those golden eyes. I should run.

But nothing in my head can make my hands move to grab a weapon, or make my feet whisk me back to safety. 

I’m stuck. Terror rises in me, swift as a storm. He’s golden, just like the stories.

...just like the sun.

“Come closer,” he says with more authority.

I step closer.

Bile rises in my throat. “No,” I grind through my teeth. But my body isn’t listening, it’s only able to obey him.

“Closer,” he hisses. Blood is now running over his shoulder, down his arm, and pooling in the snow between his fingers. “Just one small task and I’ll leave you in peace.”

I have no idea what he means. I have no idea what’s happening to me—will I be whisked off to the Hidden Places, like Jimmi? Am I to be the toy of spirits, tormented and held captive between life and death until I plead for the later? 

My will battles with his, and my insides become a tug of war. He’s stronger, so much stronger than I could’ve ever imagined. Control belongs to him, over my body, my limbs, as they betray me, taking me to his side, forcing me to kneel at the head of a beast. 

I clench my jaw, hold in a cry of rage, and feel tears freeze to my cheeks. “I’ll gut you if you touch me,” I say.

He rises a little, coming up to meet me, so close, his misty breath brushes at my cheek. “You shouldn’t have tried to kill me, little bird. It may have lead you to a new path, one you won’t cherish.” 

His hand rises and he touches his finger to my temple, beside my eye. A caress, light and delicate, sending a shiver over my skin, my body being coated with his power. It spreads, growing warmer, the shiver turning to buzz. The buzz turning to heat. So hot. A fire in my flesh. 

The snow beneath us melts and steam rises into the air.

I gape at him, getting a full view of my end, my wolf, a creature of myth and fire-stories, as lovely and terrifying as anything I’ve ever seen. The fire fills me, burning my core, blurring my vision, pulling me under. Until a sudden white flash bursts behind my eyes and the fire is gone. But there’s something new left there, inside me.

He touches his nose to mine. “Be quick, and don’t forget.” Obvious pain and fear echoes in his voice.

And then he kisses me. Gentle, delicate, a whisper of lips to mine. But with the kiss comes the knowledge of what I have to do. The white fire is gone as I open my eyes, seeing him, his eyes full of tears, resignation in his shoulders. He’s readying himself, telling me to act. Now.

My hand moves to my belt, to my dagger, pulling it free. I grip his neck from behind. Feel the chill of his skin. The rapid pulse beneath. 

And I strike. Shoving the blade straight through his heart, twisting it, hilt to chest. There’s a stillness that settles, his last breath coming out in a hiss. His eyes stay on mine, going dull, from gold to copper before they close. Tears spill out, running over his cheeks and chin. And he’s gone, that spirit of wolf in him drifting away like misty air.

The control on me releases but I can’t seem to move. I can only stare at my work and feel sick. 

What’ve I done? What’s just happened? 

I killed a man.

No, he isn’t a man. 

His body goes limp and he slumps down onto the steaming forest floor. 

(To be continued...)

Rachel Marks is an award winning author and artist. You can read more about her and see her artwork on her webpage: Shadow Of The Wood

Fiction Friday: Blood's Kiss

By Rachel Anne Marks

The hare is tough to spot in the snow, white against soft white, but I see her. I have this sixth sense, an awareness of them, these little creatures that seem so scarce now. But so vital. My brother Jimmi was a trapper. The best.

Was...

The hare nestles just at the base of a tree about ten paces off. It’s white-grey fir shivers as I raise my bow. The sound of snow shifting in the early dawn crackles at the air. Mist drips from the dead branches above me onto my shoulder.

I let the sounds of the forest sink into me and look down the shaft of my arrow, aiming at the hare’s tender spot, below the front leg, and wonder if she has a knowledge like me. That it’s almost the end.

I breathe out and release the arrow.

It hisses through air and finds its home in flesh. Instant kill.

I take a weaving from my pocket, a small one. It’s just an offering of thanks for what’s being taken. Thread is scarce and needed for mending and patching the warn clothing supply, but as the Crone would say, if the ways of give-and-take are left behind, then what remains except chaos? 

I pick the limp body up, place the weaving of thanks on the ground, in the blood, and then pull the arrow out. It goes back in my quiver. The hare goes in my bag for later. It’s my second kill this morning. One more and we should do well enough for our supply of dinner and breakfast tomorrow, even though they’re boney things, living off bark mostly, maybe thin ailing roots beneath the constant blanket of snow. 

We all do what we have to, to survive.

Like me.

I should be apprenticing with the Crone, finishing my learning of runes and medicine, of bone magic and weaving spells. But when Jimmi went missing, someone had to take his place in the trap—to find the meals and fir to trade. And there was only me and Nessa left. It certainly wasn’t going to be Nessa. 

Has it almost been a year now? Nearly. Beltane came and Jimmi went out after the feasts—after the seven-day fires had turned to embers and ash—he went into the wood, a simple hunt, as always. But he never returned.

I watched him walk into the bone trees at the rim—I always did, it was tradition, good luck. Nessa stopped once she had the first baby but I still followed ‘til that last day. I stood at the wall, and watched his form fade into the shadow of the forest. 

I sat with the radio by my bed for weeks, hoping to hear his voice. Still, every time I come out here, I stop, click the signal on it and listen for an answer. Or try to see if I can find a strip of cloth left behind. Any clue of him. Anything would set my heart at ease. It’s the empty nothing, no information, the void, that keeps me awake in the night. That makes me imagine I can feel him pulling at me—begging me to save him.

I’d woven a blessing of return into his coat and everything. I’m not sure why it failed.

But I know he wouldn’t have abandoned us for the Hidden Places. 

He loved us. And he wouldn’t have left me like that, without a word, unless he didn’t have a choice in it.

The sound of a wren chatters in the far off brush. I walk on the path and listen to the trees. Dark limbs reach to grey skies against stark white backdrops, with silver briars speckling the underbrush. The branches moan and creek and I have to keep reminding myself the trees are dead—the way they sound off, it’s like they have souls. But they’re supposed to be green, not all sharp edges and colors of ash. I've only seen a few living trees, here and there, by the river, where the rocks hold enough warmth for the willows to take root. But once they were all green. Long ago, in the Before.

Mamma told me the tale, passed from her mother and her mother before, of thick emerald canopies and rich dark earth, of flowers speckling the valley in a blanket of violet and orange, of fruit that tasted of sunshine. There were even buildings full of so much food it could feed a whole village for weeks. 

Not now. Not anymore. 

Now everything’s rusted and threadbare. Ancient objects fill the barn behind The Great Kean’s hearth-home and no one can decide what the point was for half of them. The other half are useless.

One more hare, that’s all I need. Then I’ll take them to Jimmi’s hunting cave, skin and gut them, before heading home.

If only I could find a wolf. One of their pelts would be very useful for when Nessa has her new baby. I’ve been trying to track one for weeks and haven’t had any luck, though. I thought I found a trail yesterday, but it went off too far into the Deep. And it would be stupid to break a vow for comfort later. Certainly a pelt isn’t worth the danger of what might be that far into the forest. Where the briars and silver underbrush thicken even more, blocking any path, tricking the eyes. Where the trees seem to whisper and warn you to turn back. Where spirits of the dead guard the Hidden Places. And no human returns with their mind in tact. 

The Crone tells bone-chilling tales of the beings in the Deep that even I’m not desperate enough to follow those pathways. “If we leave them be, Nora, they leave us be,” she says. “They’ve got their own trials. But don’t be believin’ that poking at their boundaries won’t leave them sore. They’ll come for reparations. They always does.”

And so I steer clear of them. 

Okay, I admit, I might have ventured close before. Only once. I took a thin path a few feet—a few yards at the most—and I called out to Jimmi.

But he’d just gone missing, and I hadn’t been straight in the head. Mama kept weeping, saying he’d betrayed us. And the rest of the clan...all they could do was sneer and spit on the ground when I passed. I couldn’t take it anymore.

So, yes, I stepped closer and closer, I pushed the thick silver brush aside and once I saw the speckles of moss, the places in the trees where the life seemed to magically appear, I called out. “Please come home! We need you!”

And then I turned back and ran to the dead places again. Where it was safe. Nothing followed me. I didn’t hear the trees hiss or feel the spirits tug on my coat. There were no golden eyes in the mist. The only thing that I saw that matched the tellings of the fire-stories was the moss, orange and gold and green, in the crevices of the bark. 

Otherwise it was a wholly disappointing venture.

But I wouldn’t go in for a wolf. That would be nonsense.

Instead I slink my way through to the west end of the forest and look for more signs of life in the underbrush. It takes several minutes, maybe an hour, before I find something. A rubbed-on branch here, a scratch in the snow there. A tuff of fur.

But not rabbit fir.

I pick the tuff up and study it, smell it. Get a whiff of that heady oil smell.

My heart speeds up in excitement. 

What’re the chances? My wolf?  

I scan the trees, then, excitement tinging in my numb toes. All I need is a small sign, just a broken branch, a paw print. I listen with that other place inside me, I reach out, hoping to catch the feeling of warmth, breath, the pulse of blood. I reach into my pocket and rub my thumb over the weaving I made after Jimmi left, the prayer in criss-cross blue and knotted green, that asked for me to earn his gift, asked the trees to favor me, like they did Jimmi—well, at least they had until that last day—

A streak of grey moves to my right, in my peripheral. 

I stay utterly still, not even moving my head to look. I know it’s there. Like I sensed the rabbit, I feel the beast’s slick energy in the ground, distant, faded, but it’s there. And this time it’s not getting away. 

Oddly enough, it doesn’t seem to have noticed me. 

I breathe out, slow. And then I pick a tree, press myself against it, take up my bow again, notch an arrow, and allow myself a look beyond, into the trees.

The form blends into the surroundings like it’s made of them. If it weren’t for the puffs of breath in the cold air, rising from the briars ahead, I wouldn’t see it at all. And this is the same one. A male, I think. He has a thick line to his shoulders, but his nose is narrow, ears regal and tipped in silver. 

He’s going to look lovely on Nessa’s bed.

I raise my bow and aim. 

At the neck.

The wolf’s rhythm slinks over the ground.

And as I release the arrow a thought passes through my mind: the energy feels off. 

Not animal. 

But before the idea can take hold the silver arrow-tip hits its mark and a yelp echoes off the trees. 

Cont. in PART TWO

***

You can read more from Rachel Marks and see her artwork at:

                www.RachelAnneMarks.com

Fiction Friday: Finding God in Popular Fiction

By Jane Wells

While Bird on Fire isn't technically fiction - it does have a very strong tie to someone else's fictional work. One of the most popular works of fiction in recent years in fact!
If the title of my book doesn't give you a big enough clue, the subtitle is a dead giveaway. Bird on Fire: A Bible study for understanding The Hunger Games arena, Catching Fire flame and Mockingjay bird.
Yeah. I totally rode Suzanne Collins wave, and for good reason. As a Christian, the books read like a parable of Christian compassion in a world rife with sin and selfishness. Like many best sellers, the Mockingjay trilogy resonated with a society terrified of the social injustices rising around it.
Here is the finale (and my favorite) chapter of Bird on Fire.

***

In Mockingjay, Katniss must make a difficult choice. Will she accept the role she’s stepped into – that of the Mockingjay leading the people of Panem in revolt against the capitol – or will she sit back, and let things unfold without her?

An ancient queen from the bible has a remarkably similar dilemma. There are only two books in the Bible named for women, and one of them is Esther.

But before we get to Esther, we have to start with Xerxes. Xerxes the Great ruled the Medo-Persian Empire – which stretched from modern day India east to the Mediterranean and then as far south into Africa as Somalia. This is the same Xerxes portrayed in the (slanderously incorrect) movie The 300. But before Xerxes marched against the Spartans – and won, btw – there was some palace intrigue, starting with a queen who refused to cooperate.

I can understand Queen Vashti’s point of view. Xerxes was hosting a banquet for all his buddies and decided they all needed to see just how beautiful his wife was – so he demanded she come out and strike a pose. But she was busy hosting a party of her own and really didn’t want to be subjected to the critical gaze of all her husband’s cronies. As a result of her refusal she lost the crown, demoted to just another member of his harem. After a while Xerxes regretted his decision, but not enough to rescind his order.

So, he orders a reaping.

Beautiful young women were gathered from all over the Persian nation. Esther, “lovely in form and feature”, was among them. As a Jew, she was a member of a minority already subject to discrimination, so her cousin Mordecai (Like Gale, maybe? Or Haymitch?) told her to keep her ethnicity a secret. Hegai, (Esther’s Cinna, Perhaps?) the man in charge of the queen-recruits, placed all his bets on her making sure she had everything she needed to win the king’s favor.  When Esther entered the arena – otherwise known as the king’s chambers – she won the crown.

So, Esther won her first Hunger Games – without drawing a single arrow. But like Katniss, this only seemed to make the stakes in the game even higher.

A little later Haman, an Agagite, is promoted to a position second only to Xerxes. Agagites were ancient enemies of the Jews, and Haman was especially sensitive to the fact that Mordecai the Jew would not bow to him. Seeing a chance to wipe out all of his ancient enemies (including Mordecai, of course), Haman hatches a plot to have every Jew in Persia killed in one swift attack. Withholding only a few key details, Haman presents his plan to Xerxes as a chance to rid his nation of a bunch of troublemaking dissenters. Xerxes apparently trusted Haman implicitly, because he signed the declaration without bothering to find out just exactly “who” these dissenters were. The residents of Persia were baffled by the decree, because Jews as a whole were good neighbors and citizens.

Inside the palace bubble, Esther is clueless until she hears of Mordecai’s public display. He is dressed in rags and at the palace gate, wailing loudly for himself, his people and his cousin. She had no idea what was going on until Mordecai tells her the complete story of Haman’s plot, providing a copy of the edict for their annihilation. Mordecai begs Esther to plead her people’s case to the king.

The problem with this otherwise foolproof plan is that one does not simply walk into the king’s presence without being summoned, unless you want to be killed. And in Esther’s case, she hadn’t been summoned in a month. She is pretty sure the honeymoon has ended.

Mordecai asks just one question in response to Esther’s fear, ”Who knows but that you have come to royal position for such a time as this?”

Esther agrees to try. She asks Mordecai to fast and pray along with her and her maids for three days. “When this is done,” she says, “I will go into the king, even though it is against the law. And if I perish, I perish.”

But, she doesn’t perish. Xerxes is pleased to see her and agrees to have dinner with her the following evening - and agrees to bring Haman along. Esther promises then she will reveal to the king the question that is on her mind. When the night of the dinner arrives, Esther reveals all: her ancestry, her relationship to Mordecai whom Haman hates, and the threat to her life that Haman has brought about through his personal vendetta and deceit.

Xerxes is furious and storms out of the room. Seeing a chance to sway Esther’s mind, Haman collapses at her feet and onto the couch where she sat. At that moment Xerxes re-enters the room.

“Will he assault the queen while she is with me in the house?” Xerxes exclaims.

Haman is carried away and executed that night. The Jews are given permission to not only protect themselves from anyone that would harm them, but even plunder and attack their enemies in return.

On the day Haman had set for the destruction of the Jews, they instead destroy their enemies, all because Esther was willing to stand up.

Like Esther, Katniss has to answer a question: Has she become the favorite of the nation for a time like this? When she alone can be the symbol uniting a divided nation? Esther made up her mind when it became clear she was the only one who could make a difference. Katniss becomes the Mockingjay when she realizes the same thing – only she can lead the rebellion, and only she can insure Peeta survives.

You may not be a queen, like Esther, or a leader of a rebellion, like Katniss, but we all have power to change things around us (even when it’s risky).

What do you have the power to change for good, because of who you are and where you are?

What moves you to action?

What can you do today to begin making a change in your world?

From another point of view, where do have influence that you might be overlooking?

What changes are you trying to avoid taking responsibility for?

***

Bird on Fire is available on Amazon (both hard copy and Kindle), Nook and iBook.

Jane Wells has always gravitated toward reading material that pushed other people’s buttons. In 2nd grade it was a dinosaur book that upset her teacher at a Baptist school. Now it’s vampires and dystopias that catch her imagination. In them she finds parables and allegories illustrating God’s ancient plan in a language that is uniquely modern – and easily understood by people who may have never set foot inside a church. Glitter in the Sun and Bird on Fireare the results.

Always a writer, Jane’s “real jobs” have included newspaper journalism, youth ministry, sewing machine sales and marketing for a publishing house. Currently she is back to “just a writer” again, while juggling all the typical domestic duties of wife and mother, homeschooling two boys, managing two needy Golden Retrievers and answering to one very demanding cat.