It was night, and Beatrijs snuck out of Nia Khera and set off down the highroad.
She'd been preparing for days, in secret, ever since Maxwell and her party had returned to town. The villagers greeted them warmly, but Beatrijs knew in her heart that it would only be a matter of time before the group set off again on some mysterious errand. So, hiding her intentions from her friends and family, Beatrijs hid a rucksack under her bed and filled it with what she'd need to go on a journey. Dried fruit, yak jerky, canteens of water, rope, a bottle of jenever, and, of course, strapped to her back was her late father's goedendag. To anyone who asked she explained that she was going to go hunting in the Floodmeadow. All that remained was to leave the letter she'd written for her mother to explain her sudden disappearance, and the animal hide parchment was stained with tears.
A little ways south of the village, the highroad abruptly disintegrated into a sandy beach. As a child, Beatrijs had been strictly forbidden to go anywhere near the sea, so naturally she and Ivar snuck off numerous times to play on the rocky shore. She knew the paths by heart, at least to a point, and the moons shone brightly. Beige light reflected off a sleepy tide pool, showing Beatrijs to herself as others saw her. Her dishwater blonde hair framed a face still touched by the faintest hint of puppy fat, not yet burned away despite her strenuously agricultural lifestyle. Small breasts that hadn't quite filled in, propped up to give her the illusion of possessing cleavage that was still a year or two away. Green robes of Nia Khera, the traditional dress of the SpiritVillage. Beatrijs was barely fifteen and this was the beginning of the most daring journey she'd ever taken. Her heart thundered in her chest.
Beatrijs clambered up a nearby boulder, weathered by the salty air and slick with seawater and lichen. Her grip was sure on rough stone, and in moments she was on top. Off in the distance, she thought could see the faintly flickering flame of the campfire burned by Maxwell and her party. She'd given the group an eight hour head start and they'd covered a lot of ground, and she would have to struggle to get close enough to follow the next day.
What am I doing? the girl asked herself once again. My mother will be furious.
The answer came to her as it had come every time she asked, ever since Maxwell's return.
You're following the Goddess.
Beatrijs' great grandfather had been a rancher. Beatrijs' grandfather had been a rancher. Beatrijs' father had been, and her mother was, a rancher, farming vegetables and raising livestock on their ancestral plot of land on the outskirts of Nia Khera. In all those years, each generation had come into life, worked, given birth to the new generation, and eventually died; nothing ever changed. But here was an opportunity to do something no one in her family had ever done. To go on an adventure, to protect Maxwell from the shadows, and, perhaps, even save the world. Beatrijs was taken by another wave of religious vertigo, and she clung tightly to the porous stone to keep from being driven to her knees by dizziness inspired by awe. A Goddess.
One outcrop to the next, Beatrijs walked, climbed, and leapt across the rocky shore. It was difficult to navigate even with the illumination of a bright moon. She also kept as much rock between herself and the party as possible, to prevent them from, perhaps, seeing her as a flickering shadow moving against the face of the moon. Every now and then, she stumbled. Relying on long experience, each time she started to fall she dropped to her knees and braced herself with her hands to keep from sliding down the slick edges and down into the sea. It was tough going.
On one spur, she found a powigle nest, and without a second's hesitation or remorse she brought the spiked end of her heavy goedendag down on the sleeping creatures. After a few rapid blows she was convinced that none of the verminous creatures would be stealing vegetables from Nia Khera's farms any time soon. The life of a rancher was hard, and an infestation of powigles could mean the difference between a full belly or hungry children come winter. She wiped gore off the green metal ball and carried on.
A Goddess. How amazing was it that a Goddess lived alongside the people of Nia Khera, as one of them, in their village? Even the word was enough to move Beatrijs almost to tears. For some, devotion to Maxwell was rote, whacked into them with rulers from an early age until the child knew well enough to at least pretend to treat the idea of religion with reverence. For others, it was a social obligation, and they adhered to the traditions of their elders with neither belief nor doubt. But for Beatrijs, it was love. Love beyond love, love that was at once soothing and heart wrenching. Not romantic love or love shared by family for their kin. Beatrijs' love for Maxwell was like her love for the warm sun shining on her tanned skin; like her love for cool barley tea after working through a hot summer day; like her love for the slow, mysterious chants that made shivers crawl up her spine from her tailbone to the crown of her head during worship services.
Beatrijs' love for Maxwell was like the love for Rieze Maxia that drove meteors to immolate themselves in the planet's sky.
She stayed low to the ground after climbing the next boulder. Under the brilliant light of the setting moon everything was illuminated. It wouldn't do to get caught, especially this soon after setting out from the village; no doubt Maxwell would just send her back home. Beatrijs crept along the rocks until a pile of gravel slid out from under her and sent her crashing to the ground. She tried to grab a nearby shrub to slow her descent, but missed, and she gave a quiet cry as the treacherous gravel carried her to the edge of a small cliff and threw her off.
She fell – Beatrijs fell for too long to land without injury, and yet for too little time to try to break it – and she smashed into the sandy shore with an audible crack. Agonizing pain blossomed like a lotus made of fire. She didn't need a medical degree from the University of Fennmont to know that her leg was broken. Blood flowed freely from a deep gash in her broken leg, and she quickly rifled through her pack for gauze to staunch the wound. Muttering a quiet curse, she bound her broken leg as best as she could, though the pain was agonizing. Quiet knowledge made her heart thunder in her chest – Mandragoras were attracted by the scent of fresh blood.
"Help!" Beatrijs cried. "Someone!?"
But there was no reply. She was now too far from Nia Khera to be heard by the villagers, despite her voice echoing off the steep cliffs that loomed over the shoreline a few hundred meters back from the beach. But she was not yet close enough to be heard by Maxwell and her party. Cursing herself and trying not to panic, she realized she'd have to crawl across the sandy beach. Tears streamed down her cheek as she cried without making a noise.
It was only a minute or two before the Mandragoras came. Beatrijs tried to shoo them away with her goedendag, but more and more of them popped up from behind nearby stones or crevices in the rock.
"Hyah!" Beatrijs threatened, waving the spiked club at the end of her staff.
The ones that had crawled nearest to her briefly drew back, and then advanced once again.
She killed three before she felt the first bite. Mandragora venom was both a painkiller and a strong somnifacient, and after the first sharp pains Beatrijs found herself fading into a sleepy, trance-like state. She was surprised at how little it hurt; it was as though it were happening to someone else, far away. Her jabs with the goedendag became increasingly half-hearted, and then her fingers released the weapon of their own accord. Beatrijs saw someone lying on the beach, surrounded by feasting monsters, and realized with sudden amazement that she was looking at her own stricken body. And then, there was a light.
"…so… so beautiful… Maxwell…"