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Chapter Five. The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
by Ikaras
Ikaras could feel himself drifting about, light as a feather. Memories whizzed past, carrying with them sounds, smells, and images he had long ago forgotten. He could hear voices, shouting, whispering, and screaming a thousand different things that the wolverine couldn't quite make out, before everything finally boiled away into blackness.
He opened his eyes.
~-=~=~=-~
When Ikaras was very young, he had read a story in which a wonderful artist painted all the colors of the world. Using his brush, the painter would carefully outline every leaf of every tree in rich green, and wash the sky with pale blue. With great pains, the artist would give bright color to the flowers and plants. The world was his canvas, the book said.
If that was true, then the scene he now finds himself in must be the part the artist cleans the brushes on afterwards. What color exists here is mostly grays and browns splotched across the dirty mantle of snow with no apparent rhyme or reason. The boughs of the evergreen trees droop, sallow and bristled.
He remembers this place. He is home.
Aras' paws, the characteristically dark brown of all wolverines, kick up a fine spray of snow as he walks. Though the snow is shallow and the sun is out, the young wolverine breathes heavily with exertion. Frozen breath billows from his nostrils. It's always cold, here. Always.
The long trail of pawprints leads more-or-less straight towards a ramshackle assortment of boards. Viewed from the right angle, the boards seem almost to form a dwelling, albeit one constructed with neither skill nor pride. This monstrosity is the place that masquerades as his family home.
Aras stops on a large stone slab outside the sagging door. The wolverine's sharp muzzle furrows distastefully as he tries to wipe the clinging snow from his paws and shaggy tail. The dwelling is dank and empty. Water endlessly seeps through the roof, pooling on the stone floor.
In a corner, bracken and dead branches have been dumped in an ungainly heap.
Ikaras dutifully loads them into a thick metal trough. The wood is damp, but is eventually coaxed to catch flame. Aras drags a rickety armchair over to the crackling fire. The young wolverine settles deeply into the threadbare embrace, basking in the warm orange glow.
Time passes, and silence reigns. Eventually, the door slams open.
Narkus stumps into the room, trailing slush.
"Hello, Narkus."
"Aras," Ikaras' older brother snorts distastefully at him as he leans a longbow against the far wall.
A scrawny ermine enters, groaning under the weight of the dead gull strapped to his back. The slain bird's head lolls to one side, frozen in life's final moment of shock, eyes wide. For a split second, the bird's image flickers. It becomes a young female hare. The hare, blood running down her face, reaches pleadingly toward Aras. He starts, blinking in shock. The bird returns, one wing flopping awkwardly over the ermine's face.
A third beast enters. That would be Liartes, the runty youngest brother perpetually one step behind the older lads. His only aspiration in life is to emulate Narkus, though for what reason Aras could never begin to guess.
"Toss the carcass over there, Tysen."
The ermine scrambles to comply, shrugging off the avian's weight. The gull hits the floor in a flurry of feathers.
Without warning, Narkus, Tysen, and Liartes tear into the bird. Flesh is stripped, muscles shredded as three snapping muzzles and six sets of claws fight savagely for the largest share. Bones are snapped with sickening crunches, as the carnivores gnaw for marrow.
Off to the side, one mangled leg lies in the dirt. Most of the meat is gone, but a few pink shreds still cling to the bone. Aras eases off the chair, and starts towards it.
Narkus whirls, blood dripping from his fangs. "What in Hellgates are you doing?"
"I haven't eaten yet," Aras replies, trying to keep his voice level.
"So get your own bird, lazybones."
"What?" Aras snaps incredulously, ears flattening. "I pull my weight around here, plenty." He makes a grab for the bone, but the older wolverine stamps down, trapping it.
"How? By scribbling and reading books all day with Old Yuell?"
"I'm Yuell's scribe. He pays me."
"Bah, and if you save everything what he pays you, in three seasons you can buy an acorn."
Aras snarls. "Give me that bone, Narkus!"
With a nasty smile, Narkus picks up the bone. "This? Oh, you can have it."
Before Aras can react, the limb smashes into his face, followed instantly by a footpaw to the stomach. Strong paws slam Aras to the ground. His face is smushed into the dusty floorboards. The wolverine chokes, the gritty stuff filling his nostrils. The fire roars in his peripheral vision.
Aras can feel the air being crushed from his lungs. His gasps for breath, his throat ragged. The wolverine's vision goes red around the edges as his paws flail uselessly. Narkus' breath practically steams in his ear.
"You're weak, brother. We don't need you. And when the day comes, I'll kill you. You'll taste nice. All soft and lazy..."
"Mmm, soft..." Tysen parrots, licking his lips. Liartes begins sniggering, the parasite.
A female voice, unseen, shrieks at them. "Stop it, Narkus! Leave him alone!"
Narkus snarls at the intruder, foam dripping from his bared fangs. "Gerrofit, Jessika! This has nothing to do with you!"
The intruder cries out again, though with a distinctly nautical flavour. "Oi! The biggun's wakin' up!"
Wait, what?
~-=~=~=-~
Consciousness pounced, dragging Ikaras back to the present. Russet eyes blinked rapidly, trying to assess the current state of affairs. His paws felts heavy, trapped in the cold embrace of iron fetters. A cursory tug revealed that the manacles had been fastened tightly, in a fashion designed to limit movement as severely as possible. Evidently word of the filed bolts had gotten out.
The wolverine lay flat on his back, facing a wooden ceiling. Oak joists, swollen and worn with age. They vibrated slightly with the sound of rushing pawsteps from above. A ship?
An eerie sense of imbalance seemed to lend credence to this theory, as did the pungent scent of saltwater.
The prison brig, Aras recalled. I'm on my way... somewhere...
The back of the wolverine's head throbbed, sending pain coursing through his cranium. Hellgates, but those war hammers packed a wallop. Aras bit his lip, willing the pain back. It lessened briefly, pulsing in tandem with several bruises about his torso. Compliments of master Edgardeau Fleetpaw, no doubt.
The hare's mocking voice danced through his ears, hauntingly.
"In the morning a ship will arrive to take you far, far away, where you'll never harm anybeast again. But you won't be awake to see it..."
Ikaras snarled as his memory called up an image of the hare's mocking face. The hare who had drugged him, lied to him. One day, I'll carve that sly grin from your lips, and then I'll use your ribs for toothpicks, Fleetpaw. Just you wait.
"See!" squealed a voice. "I tole yer 'e was movin'!"
"Garn! I thought 'e were dead!"
"Nobeast cares what ye think, loafbrains," interrupted a stern third voice. "Shift yerself an' alert the Major. Me an' Wakehound'll bring 'im up."
The entire ship tilted slightly, and Ikaras began slipping. Unable to catch himself, the wolverine toppled from the edge of a crude wooden bunk to crash heavily to the floor. Shackles clattered against the deck.
With a horrid groaning, the iron door swung outwards. A pair of beasts stood in the doorway, slightly hesitant. Aras blinked in astonishment. Sea otters! His only knowledge of otters came from the old histories, but somehow he'd always thought of them as being a good deal smaller than these two. They grasped at the chains, trying to haul him upright.
"Hellsteeth!" groaned the younger one. "Might as well try haulin' a mountain!"
"Gah! Let 'im go, we'll have ter try somethin' else." The elder thoughtfully scratched a grizzled chin. "Wot if we tried unchainin' just his footpaws? Then he could stan' up by 'imself, an' we could just guide 'im."
The young otter grimaced. "Izzat really safe? Wot if 'e makes a break f'r it?"
The first otter cuffed the second, roughly. "We're in the middle o' the bleedin' sea! Where's he gonna make a break for?"
"Er... I dunno."
"Right. So unlock 'is footpaws, then. Can't keep 'is Militari-ness waitin'."
There was a light jingling of keys, and then a click.
Scuttlebutt in the ranks had it that the Long Patrol's oldest Major had been saddled with the unwieldy moniker of Jodhpur Perrigan Calderon as a leveret, but nobeast actually knew for certain. The auburn-furred hare preferred to simply go by his initials, and refused to reveal what they stood for. Not even the previous Lord Sharpstripe had managed to drag it out of him.
Major Calderon dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, careful to remove any trace of hotroot soup from his whiskers. Ordinarily the aging hare couldn't abide spicy foods, but the otters' pepper had a surprisingly soothing effect on his ailing stomach. He carefully re-folded the napkin and laid it beside an empty bowl. "Horrible times, these..." the Major murmured to himself. "A young twit of a badger rulin' the mountain, while an old buck like me gets to takin' to the waves..."
There was a timorous knock at the door, which opened slightly.
"Yes?"
A vole peered inside. "Afternoon, Major. The big 'airy un in the cells is awake, sir, so's Wakehound an' Shelldog are bringin' 'im to you, sir, as per yore orders, sir," he babbled.
"Mm, thank you."
The vole's head bobbed farewell, and the door closed.
Shortly, the door opened again, and admitted the captive wolverine and his two handlers. The sea otters deposited Aras on a sturdy bench, and were dismissed with a curt wave of Calderon's paw.
Aras took stock of the cabin. Despite the expected disorder that one encounters at sea, everything in the room was tucked away neatly. A few books stood proudly on the shelves, arranged from tallest to shortest. In one corner was an immaculately-made cot. The bedspread appeared to have been turned down with the edge of a knife.
On the table, a gleaming fork and spoon were laid perfectly parallel to a crisply folded napkin. A cup of tea sat delicately steaming atop a saucer. Oh, good gravy. Again with the tea?
Across the table, Calderon raised an identical teacup at him. "Long Patrol Major J.P. Calderon."
"Ikaras. Just Ikaras. No tea, thank you. I've had bad experiences."
The old hare chuckled. "Mmm, jolly good! I see your memory's getting better, then. Clever beast, you are. In fact, just the sort of clever beast the Patrol needs, as it happens."
Aras slid the saucer aside, intentionally spilling the tea. He half expected the hare to dive at it with a napkin. "With all due respect, Major Calderon, I don't know why I should do you any favors."
Calderon chuckled again. "Steady on, there. Hear me out. We'll be pulling in to port later today, wot, island by the name of Evnara. Place has been hit with a terrible storm, bunch of beasties killed, lot of buildings collapsed, that sort of thing."
"Wow," said Aras flatly. "Hate to be them."
The Major carried on, ignoring him. "And then, to make things worse, this bloomin' plague starts up, and beasts start going off the deep end. Then we've got this group of renegade woodlanders on a divine mission from Martin the Warrior tryin' to wipe out the vermin. An' that, Ike me lad, is where I'd like your help."
"Wiping out the vermin?"
"In a way. What I need from you, sah, is information. Who are their ringleaders? What're they plannin'? That sort of thing, wot."
Aras was incredulous. "You want me to be your... mole?"
"Hawhawhaw, good one! Wolverine as a mole, yes, jolly good wit, there."
"But, seriously, you want me to be an informant? What do I get in return?"
"Well, take a look at what I'm offerin', Ikaras," intoned the hare, from behind tented fingers. "You can help us out, an' you're essentially free t'roam the island as you please. Give us what we want, an' I can even see towards gettin' you jolly well back to whatever land you came from. All it'll cost you is the good faith of some beasts you've never met before, an' never will again. I'm offerin' you one incredible deal here, lad. So, what do you say?"
"What else can I do? Given that I'm on a prison brig, it's not very likely that if I decline you're about to say 'Well, if you don't want to help us, never mind, you're free to go.'"
Calderon leaned across the table. "That depends. Are you innocent?"
"Logically? ...Maybe. Fleetpaw said that some hares from the Long Patrol had been killed, after I supposedly killed one of their daughters."
Aras recalled the hare from his dream, her paw reaching out for help. For help. From him. He dismissed the memory, and continued.
"Why would I have fought them? Nobeast voluntarily instigates a fight in which they're outnumbered. If they'd caught me in the act of murder, why escalate things? It would have been far smarter to simply run away."
"Jolly good point. Tactics don't line up." The old hare's brow furrowed with thought. "Though, if you're innocent, why try to escape the bloomin' jail?"
"Instinct. What would you do, Major, if you suddenly awoke in a prison cell guarded by weasels, with no clue as to how you got there?"
The light went out of Calderon's eyes. "I don't know. Now," he snapped, "Will you take the deal, or won't you?"
"I guess I have no choice."
"Very good. Once we make port, I'll arrange with the local woodland beasts t'have you detained with some other prisoners. Make some friends, bandy about, see what y'can learn, an' we'll be in touch soon."
Aras grimaced. "Sounds delightful," he lied.
Aras rubbed idly at the metal band on his right forepaw. It itched. He was probably going to start losing fur there, before long.
Losing the shackles had proved a bit difficult. The chains had come off easily enough, and the manacles hadn't put up too much of a fight, save for this one. After they'd made port, Calderon had called in a smith. The ancient hedgehog had tried a number of things, but to no avail. The cuff had resolutely withstood the hammer blows, the grease, and the filing.
Eventually the hog had given up, leaving Aras still imprisoned just that one tiny bit. The irony was striking.
A pair of Calderon's lads had hustled him at spearpoint through the remnants of Evnakt, maintaining a healthy distance. They moved briskly, and Aras hadn't been able to see much of the devastation. Though the glimpses he had been able to catch had well reinforced the notion that things on Evnara were looking rather grim.
Crumbling, ruined buildings bordered the rubble-strewn street. High above, barren window frames had stared accusingly down at the trio as they passed. Splintered frames marked the point where doors had been forced from their hinges. Only the hollow openings remained, filled with a yawning blackness. It was all so hollow.
Clearly, the death toll of Evnakt had not been limited to flesh and blood. A thriving economy, an entire way of life, had perished here. This place had once been vibrant, thriving on the hopes and dreams of countless individuals. Now, there was only desolation and empty houses.
All this, in the name of good...
And then, they'd come to the bloody cell. Life, Aras reflected, was rapidly becoming nothing but a series of them.
It was almost laughable that the woodlanders considered this barren room a jail. Judging by the faint odors, this place had obviously been designed for storage of vegetables, not vermin. There was even a sagging set of pantry shelves set into the back wall.
The solitude had given Aras enough time to do some thinking. He was going to have to play the game Calderon's way. Truth be told, he had no other options. The thought of feeding the Patrol real information made the wolverine's stomach turn, and Aras bridled at the notion of being somebeast's pawn. But, Calderon was no fool. The hare would know if he was being given false reports, and he'd definitely have somebeast watching Aras. Playing it straight was really the only conceivable way to keep the hares at bay until he could devise some other plan of escape.
There was a muted conversation going on outside the door. By the tones, somebeast was rather upset.
First, I'll need to find some way of ingratiating myself with the others. Finding a common enemy in the woodlanders could definitely help...
The door was yanked open, interrupting his reverie. Somebeast was shoved into the room, stumbling. The rat stopped short, gawking at Aras. As the door closed, the newcomer seemed to shrink. "Well, as far as inns go, the food's not bad, but the service is terrible," the rat offered hopefully.
A scene from the past unfurled in Ikaras' memory. The wolverine stood lost in the scene, unaware that he was staring. Water, rushing everywhere. Screams. A rat, howling in terror. Smashing, splinters of wood flying in every direction...
The pregnant silence proved just a tad too lengthy. The rat quivered slightly as he pointed towards a corner. "Just gonna move on over here. Not doing anything. Just taking a sit down."
De-bloody-lightful, thought Aras, as the smaller beast slunk into the dark recess. Just how am I supposed to befriend anybeast when they all think I'm a walking nightmare?
Blast it all. Aras would have to figure out some way of making connections, and right now the sulking rat was all he had.
It was high time for some introductions.
"So," he tried, shifting nearer. "What a mess we're in, huh?"
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