Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Uncle Micael

They would die. The truth of it was obvious to them now as their own mother’s passing made clear to them with every door slammed in their faces, every look of derision they earned as beggars in the street. They had eaten nearly everything and anything they had come across: weeds, hay, wads of parchment they had wetted and balled into soggy, bite-size pieces. When they were chased away from the back of a tavern where they had tried to steal scraps and bones, they turned to eating strips of their own clothing.

Relief only came briefly when they would come to a stream and fill themselves up with so much water that their bellies would swell, but even this had worked against them as they had drunk some foul water that left them both with the runs. Weakened as they were, Sade and Vondales trudged onwards, westward across the island to familiar places. There were already new tenants in their old home and when they tried to sleep in the barn they were discovered and run off by the man of the house with a whip. So they found themselves back at Skull Point, overlooking the sea where their mother had disappeared from them forever. There was nothing left for them on this island, this earth. No one came up the hill to rescue them, no one had shown them kindness since their mother had passed. Illicaine was a cruel island and there was an even crueler world beyond its shores. But if there was no place for them on this island, where they had been born and raised, there was no place left for them anywhere. And so they had sought out the familiar, that place where the center of love and life for them had left them.

And they would follow.

Sade held his brother’s hand as they stepped close to the edge. The sea crashed in long rollers on the rocks below. Somewhere below the foam and swirling eddies lay their mother. What waited for them on the other side? Sade comforted himself with the notion that after impact and a brief struggle against the pressure of air in their lungs and the weight of waves, tossing and twisting their bodies, they would know. At best their mother would be waiting on the other side; at worst, the pain stopped.

His brother poised on the edge with him. It was a sunny day but the air was still unforgiving. Sade would not miss that, always being cold. Gulls hung in the wind, calling to one another. How jealous Sade was of them and their ability to persist, to feed themselves, to survive on what little the world provided for them. The birds were so much more suited for the world than they were. The lowest roach and rat were better suited than they were. Sade took in what he resolved was his last breath. He savored the view of the clouds towering over the blue sea, noted the play of white on blue that brought to mind the breakers below. That was enough. That would be his last vision, his last sight. He closed his eyes and waited for his brother to pull them over.

But the tug did not come, much less the rush of salt air, the dizzying sense of vertigo, and the all important impact. Sade focused on the darkness visible behind his eyelids, long after he had taken many more breaths beyond his last. He finally opened his eyes to see his brother looking up to him, eyes large in sunken sockets and hallow cheeks.

“I’m scared, Sade.”

In that moment, the sun shining on them, the wind playing in the grass at their feet, Sade realized that he was scared, too. More than that, he wanted to live as well. That indeed the world was full of riches, they would just have to take them. Nothing stood in their way but rules, conventions, and what were rules? You couldn’t see rules, couldn’t eat them. But they could be broken.

Sade stepped back from the cliff side and took his brother in his arms. “I’m sorry Vondales, I’m sorry.” He pressed his face into his brother’s hair. It was redolent and oily but he was at least alive, unlike their mother. And why should she be dead? Why should they, or anyone else be forced to die, especially when it was crueler individuals who lived. What had decency brought their mother and them? Nothing but ruin. Sade realized they had been feeble. It was time to be strong. Time to make their own rules. Like the birds of the sky, like the creatures of the forest. Otherwise they would die.

Tears no longer came to Sade’s eyes but he closed them anyway. He could see the remaining spell books on his uncle’s shelves, the bottle in his hand, the way the bread had rolled picking up mud before the hound had taken it in its teeth. Like pieces of a puzzle, truths were falling into place. Sade had the sense that the mysteries of life were opening up to him.

“Vondales, we can live. We can just never be weak again.”

The journey back to their uncle’s cabin was long but Sade was motivated by a righteous fire within, fueled by hate, a hate that had turned him against all those who had failed to help them, all those who were against them, all those who were not his mother or brother. There was no one left in the wind-blown-world who was not their enemy.

This morning was warm. It was the first day in the month of the War Moon and Sade thought it fitting. By now the trees were budding with green, the sun shone brightly in the sky, its light reflecting off the still in their uncle’s yard. The chickens were scrounging for food and Crystal, untethered, had wandered out of the stable. No smoke rose from the chimney but Crystal’s saddle was still on her back as she grazed. Likely they would find their uncle passed out from the night before. Sade tried the door. It had been left unlocked, as he expected. They stepped into the cottage and were greeted by the sounds of snoring. The hound stirred and began to bark but Sade kicked it. It must have been accustomed to such treatment for it went silent, put its tail between its legs, and slunk off to the corner.

Sade noted the spell books that remained on the shelf. There were not many, but the few were more than he had now. He told Vondales to wait while he went outside to the kitchen hut and returned with a dirty, bone-handled knife.

“Go unsaddle Crystal.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry. Remember I said we would never be weak again. This is the first step. There is no reason he should live and not us.”

Vondales’ eyes grew large and he swallowed, but he did as he was told, crossing back to the door and closing it behind him. Sade listened as his footsteps receded. He could still hear the chickens clucking outdoors and the melody of song birds. What a peaceful place their uncle Micael lived in. And it would be theirs, if only Sade was strong enough to take it.

Be like an animal. Take what you need. Make it yours.

His uncle was asleep in his bed near the fireplace. It was made from rough-hewn wood that still had bark in places. The corn shuck mattress was flat and gaping at the seams. The blankets were in a pile at the foot of the bed, soiled and reeking. Micael had passed out with his boots on and a bottle—empty now—on the bed next to him. His head was tipped backwards and his misshapen nose stuck up into the air, as if asking to be broken.

But Sade knew he would need to do more than break a nose. He had seen goats, lambs, chickens slaughtered. He knew the key was to let the blood from the artery in the neck. He moved closer to the bed, adjusting his grip on the knife and studying his uncle. His beard was draped over his chest and hiding most of his neck from view. Asleep, he looked harmless, vulnerable even. Sade visualized what would take place next and without understanding it completely himself, he covered his uncle’s face with the corner of the sheet. Micael’s nose and eyes twitched and his breath caught in his throat for a moment. Sade stood frozen, the knife poised. When he was certain his uncle was still sound asleep, he raised the knife. The blade was blackened with blood from the last animal it butchered. That was all he was, an animal trying to survive. His uncle was standing in between them and survival. He would do what nature had forced him to. He pictured the towering clouds over the cliff at Skull Point, seagulls silhouetted against the sun, waves crashing below, and drove the knife home.

He opened a red gash on his uncle’s neck. Blood rushed out and stained his beard but it was not the gush that came from an artery. Sade had missed.

His uncle sat up in shock, put a hand to the cut, coughed, swore, and threw the bottle at Sade. He ducked it. Even with his knife he felt defenseless.

“You little rat!” his uncle bellowed. Sade was stunned. He could not move. He looked at the blood dripping down his uncle’s shoulder but it was not enough so that he would bleed to death. Just enough to anger him. Micael picked up a fire poker and swung it down on Sade’s head. The world went bright, then dark. Sade saw strange shapes flash before his eyes. He raised his arm to fend off the next blow. It knocked his hand into his face. He felt as if his bone had shattered. His uncle was swearing and cursing and swinging. Sade realized why the blows were not worse. His uncle was holding his neck with his right hand, swinging with his left. Still, Sade could barely escape, his uncle chasing him around the cottage, his eyes murderous, the poker in his hand like a spear.

Sade swung the knife but its reach was too short. Micael brought the poker down on his fingers and the knife went flying. Sade tried to pick up the shattered bottle by its neck but he could not get to it in time before his uncle towered over him again. Sade rolled under a table, hurled a chair at his uncle, and ran for the door. He burst into the yard and darted behind the still. His uncle followed, stumbling over a cauldron and nearly falling into the pig sty. He lifted himself up on the tilting fence and heaved himself up towards the still. Sade had placed it between them and they both now circled. As if he was ripping at his uncle’s own entrails, he pulled at the hoses and pipes as he went by, yanking them free, breaking them into pieces.

“You little creep!” Micael yelled and lurched, but Sade circled to the other side. They circumnavigated the still in this fashion a few more times before Sade’s weakness caught up to him. Without food, with little water left in his body, his head spun, his heart beat off-rhythm in his chest. The pounding alone against his rib cage made him want to fall over. He leaned on the still for support. Micael sensed his weakness and swept around the corner. Sade made to run but with a loud ripping noise his sleeve caught on one of the very pipes he had twisted and broken. His uncle was immediately on him. His hand and beard were a bloody mess, but he raised the dull, sooty poker over Sade’s own neck.

The blow did not come, not to Sade. Rather, his uncle’s knee buckled in a grotesque angle and he fell to the ground. Behind him, a bloody wood ax in his hands, was Volandes. He stared, unbelieving, across his fallen uncle and the leg he had nearly severed. Micael swung the poker at him and Sade knew the ordeal had to end. He rushed around to his brother, took the ax, and raised it above his head. His uncle brought his bloody hand up, but it didn’t help him.

When it was done, they both sat unmoving, numb on the ground. Blood was splattered on his brother’s face. At the sight of it, Sade vomited. He wretched for a few minutes, coughing up nothing but bile. Vondales bent over him, his hand on his back. Sade could feel the blood on his own face—it was warm and running down like tears. His hands were shaking but the fire inside him had not subsided. If anything it had grown. He felt strong, powerful, overjoyed even, for death had come to this place, this yard, this afternoon, and it had come not for them. They, as weak and ignominious as they were, had found power over their uncle, over death, and over life.

Sade vomited once more, then collapsed on the ground. He was still dizzy and for a long time simply wanted to stay still and sleep. Was this what power felt like?

His brother’s words brought him back to more immediate concerns.

“What do we do now?” Vondales asked.

Sade rolled over, sat up, and hefted the ax up to his shoulder. In the corner of the porch the hound was cowering.

“First we eat.”