Tales after Dusk 04

REPUGNANT

In the fleeting light of the sunset, Orane watches the figure of a man before her. He moves quickly, silently amongst the shadowy backdrop of the forest shrubs. When he reaches a large thicket of brush, he stops and crouches next to another man. Orane hunches over, slinking her way across the grass like a cat; coming up behind the pair, she takes a knee. The first man, her guide, looks at her over his shoulder. He holds a finger up to his lips. Without a sound he turns and points towards the clearing before them.

Standing alone in the clearing is a single stone tower; once it might have been white but now it is covered by the shadows of ivy. A jarring monument to the heavens, it reaches up high towards the sky. There are no doors to be seen, in fact there is but one window—at the top, near the roof, the bright yellow square of firelight glows against the invading darkness.

It is only a few moments before a small, hunched figure walks towards the base of the tower. Letting the hood of a cloak drift back, a pale, white face is revealed. The woman tilts her head up towards the tower's window, seemingly calling out to the heavens when her cruel, cold voice cuts the silence of the forest, "Repugnant, repugnant, let down thy golden hair!"

Orane's breathe catches in her throat. Despite the coolness of dusk she instantly feels the hot blood pulsing through her veins. She bites down hard, clenching the edges of her cloak to keep her body still, to prevent herself from running. With the conflicting fear and anger in her chest she is not sure if she would run towards the woman, or away.

In the frame of the window, the large shadow of a man appears. He loops a thick rope through a pulley, checking it twice before he retreats into the interior of the tower. Moments later, a soft metallic clinking sound accompanies the lowering of the rope. When it finally reaches the ground, the woman impatiently slips her foot into a loop, wrapping her arms around the rope. Slowly her figure ascends towards the sky, almost as if she is floating. Once she reaches the top she steps out onto a narrow wooden beam and disappears into the tower.

Orane peels her eyes off of the window, looking at the outline of her guide's face. Though he turns his head slightly towards her, his gaze remains on the glowing window. He barely speaks above a whisper, almost so softly that Orane cannot hear him, "Every seven days the woman appears just after the sun sets. She calls up to the tower, a man lowers the rope down then pulls her up. The amount of time she spends inside varies, but she always leaves while it is still night. Once she reaches the ground, the rope drops and she takes it with her."

The other man picks up the story, speaking just as quietly, "She takes the rope back to her house. I do not know what she does with the majority of it, but every week she braids a new piece into her hair. She leaves at dawn and does not return to her home until the next time that she gets a new rope. I think that it is the source of her power, but it must lose its potency after a week or she wouldn't risk being so exposed. Is she your witch, my lady?"

Orane's palms begin to sweat into the rough wool of her cloak. Her throat is dry, and though she desperately wants to cough to clear it, she refrains. Swallowing hard, she whispers, "Yes, I do believe she is." While the witch looks different, there is no doubt in Orane's mind. That voice—she will never forget it for the rest of her life. Half her years have been wasted searching for this witch, but soon she will get her vengeance. "Who is the man in the tower?"

Her guide shakes his head, "I do not know, my lady. He never leaves the tower—it appears that the rope is the only way in and out. He must weave a new one every week and the witch takes it with her. We've tried observing him from several different places, but since we must remain hidden we cannot get close enough to make out much detail. However, we do know the approximate height of the witch; when comparing her to the size of the window, then the man to the size of the window..."

The other man slowly shakes his head, "He must be a giant of a man. The best I have been able to distinguish is that he appears to be young and strong."

Orane nods slowly though it makes no difference as the men before her cannot see her agreement. Her eyes examine the tower, soaking in every detail that she can make out in the night. It seems like an odd structure to be in the middle of nowhere. As there once was a small village not that far from here, Orane wonders if perhaps this tower was at one point some sort of grain mill, but since the rest of the buildings and the people were wiped out almost ten years ago by a great flood, she has no way to confirm her suspicions. She was relieved at the time that her home, the town of Reddington, was far enough away from the great river that they were not affected, unlike their sister town of Waterford, which was completely annihilated.

She is snapped back into reality when the witch appears at the window sill. All three of them freeze, as she walks down the beam and slips her food into the loop.

"Lower me down," she says angrily. Just as before, the metallic clicking accompanies the dark figure being lowered down the length of the tower. When the witch reaches the bottom, she slips her foot from the rope and steps backward, her stance emanating the impatience with which she waits. A moment later, the rope appears to wiggle, having been let loose from its crank it drifts down from the window, coiling at the bottom of the tower before the witch's feet. She picks it up and without another word, she slings it over her shoulder and storms off into the night.

At the window above, the man leans against the window sill, gazing out into the darkness for a moment before sitting down and looking up at the stars. By his relaxed shadow, he appears to be at ease now that he is alone again. Little does he know that there are seven sets of eyes watching his every move. At this distance, Orane cannot distinguish hardly anything about him, but when she examines how much of the empty window he fills up, in comparison to the witch, he truly must be a massive creature. For someone so large to be afraid of a tiny woman, truly shows the wickedness of the witch that she hunts.

She watches him for the better part of an hour as he stares up into the heavens. Orane wonders what he is thinking, what horrible things he has done to become the accomplice of a witch. Finally, when the man retreats back into the tower and the lights inside slowly dim, Orane and the two men melt into the darkness, sliding along the shadows until they are a safe distance away where her horse patiently waits for her return.

"Five days," Orane says to the two men.

Her guide nods, looking at the other man. Both of them seem unnerved by her comment, though neither questions her, "Yes, my lady. In five days."

Five Days Later

As the late afternoon sun drops below the tree tops, a chill creeps through the forest on the back of the rolling fog. Orane's horse carefully picks his way through the untraveled ground, taking care to transport his rider safely to her destination. Though she has been on many missions before, this one is different as it is the one she has been waiting for, for almost twelve years. A decade of searching, training, scouring the countryside, will finally come to an end as she will be able to finally avenge her parents' death. Though the details are still a little unclear, she tells herself that she is prepared to face whatever she finds in that tower.

It was just after her twelfth birthday that her parents died. Though she spends every waking moment thinking about and searching for the witch, she has tried desperately to forget that night. Her father had just returned from a trip to the kingdom of Northhill. He didn't quite seem the same man that had left; though he smiled and happily greeted his daughter, his eyes seemed sad and dull. It was later that night that Orane had a bad dream. She had gone to her parents' room, seeking comfort, but when she opened the door, she discovered instead something far worse than any nightmare. Her father was on top of her mother, his hands wrapped tightly around her throat. Orane can remember that her mother's eyes were almost bulging out of her head, her own hand stretched out to her daughter, desperate for help. The witch was standing above both of them, a strange smile on her face. Just as mother's arm began to fall, the witched leaned down to her, kissing her on the lips, stealing her last breath before her body finally lied back, lifeless.

Before Orane could even open her mouth to scream, her father picked up a knife and plunged it through his own heart. As he toppled to the ground, the witch leaned down to him in the same manner, stealing his last breath. From his neck she removed a braided, golden rope. The witch was older then, with bright white hair and a well worn face, but her voice was as clear as day when she looked up and saw Orane standing there in horror. All the witch could do was smile and laugh her evil, wicked laugh. Then, as if her age wasn't an issue, the witch leaped from the window and vanished into the night.

Orane never understood why she was allowed to live; perhaps it was the witch's way of making her suffer even more in a life without her parents. But ever since that night, Orane has vowed that she will avenge them and she has never stopped searching.

She dismounts her horse, leaving it in the clearing next to the other one that belongs to her guide. It is a small group that she employs, six men in total. They are an outcast group of ruffians—two former farmers turned militia, a tracker, a criminal, a General and a sketchy priest who dabbles in the dark arts. Alone, one of them would terrify the best soldier—together they are enough to make up a frightening group of bandits yet each of them is devoutly loyal to Orane. Not only would all of them be willing to sacrifice their life to save her, but over the years she has come to feel the same way. Sworn to secrecy, they have been with her for the past ten years, searching just as fervently for the witch that killed her parents, the King and Queen of Reddington.

Orane lingers briefly in the shadows, trying to compose herself, steel her nerves despite the racing heart in her chest. Though a tiny part of her tells her to stop, to turn and run away as fast as she can, Orane takes a step forward, followed by another, towards the tower. With her black cloak on and hood fully drawn up she feels secure within the folds of fabric. Her eyes scan the darkness, searching for her men as each step takes her closer to the tower, closer to her revenge. In the shadows she detects the smallest amount of movement from one of them, allowing her to locate his proximity.

She comes to a halt less than ten feet away from the base of the dark tower. Taking in a slow, deep breath, Orane tilts her head up towards the glowing window. Sternly, she calls out with cruelty that is unfamiliar to her voice, "Repugnant, repugnant, let down thy golden hair."

The shadow of the man appears in the window. Though she cannot distinguish his features, his large body appears hesitant and reluctant. He calls down softly, "You are early, mistress, I wasn't expecting you until the day after tomorrow. The rope will be short," he says nervously.

Orane doesn't know what to say in response, so she crosses her arms over her chest, trying to emulate the impatience and irritation she saw in the witch five nights previous.

"Yes, of course, I'm so sorry mistress, just a moment," he says apologetically. The shadow disappears for a moment before returning with the rope. He drapes it through the pulleys before vanishing once more. Slowly, it cranks down.

Orane's heart pounds in her throat. She carefully bends over, keeping her eye fixed on the rope and the window. Concealed by her cloak, her fingers wind around the string of her crossbow. As she straightens back up, she draws it back, locking it into the ready position with her hand grasping the handle tightly and finger hovering over the trigger. Glinting in the poor moonlight, the rope stops four feet shy of the ground. Orane lifts her leg, slipping her foot into the loop before pulling herself up. She holds on tightly. Despite the coolness of the metal rope, her palm sweats.

As she is cranked higher and higher from the ground, she forces herself to examine the length of the building in front of her. She discovers that at one time there were windows up its entire length, as if it had an entrance, as if it were a building with a purpose, but now each opening has long since been bricked over.

It seems like both an eternity and a blink of an eye when the rough, wooden window sill comes into view. The two parallel beams both jut out from under and above it are barely the width of her foot. The top one, supporting two pulleys and the weight of the rope, is about six feet out. The lower one which she is meant to walk on is at least two feet from the rope. She can feel her whole body shake as she carefully reaches a foot out to it, trying to shift her weight onto the beam while untangling her foot from the loop, all while trying not to look down. Though she doesn't want to, she forces herself to release the death grip on the rope. Cautiously stepping forward until she balances on the steps leading down from the window sill, she discovers a tall, young man standing several feet away; she is surprised to note that he is about her age. His pale skin contrasts sharply with his black shoulder length hair and deep, worried brown eyes. The massiveness of his muscular frame seems hindered upon by his hunched shoulders and general cowering demeanor. He shifts nervously before her, wet skin soaking through his shirt as she has just caught him out of the bath.

"Please mistress," he all but whimpers. Unable to distinguish her as a stranger, he cannot see her face hidden deep within the shadows of her hood, "Do not be angry with me. The rope is not quite done yet—tomorrow I will have it finished—"

Orane raises the crossbow out from under her cloak. She catches the man by surprise. His handsome face is marred with confusion; despite his attractiveness and seeming stupidity, Orane finds herself growing angry at the man for consorting with the witch. "Quiet," she snaps, more harshly than she means to.

He slowly raises his hands to show her that they are empty. "I don't understand," he says softly. As he slowly comprehends that the woman before him is not his mistress, the fear dissipates from his voice, instead replaced by a calmness. He is less afraid of dying by the hand of a strange woman than he is of being punished by his mistress.

With her identity still hidden, Orane looks around the circular room. It is tidy and though it seems to be somewhat sparsely furnished for a home it has a certain warmth to it. Opposite of the window is a small stair case that follows the curvature of the room; it leads to a tiny loft, just big enough to house a bed. Below it is a small kitchen area. To the left of the kitchen is a large fireplace which provides the entire light for the room. Before it sits a small seating area made up of dated, threadbare furniture. A quaint dining table sits in the middle of the room, complete with four chairs, though Orane thinks it odd because she doubts the man has much company. Directly to the left of the window is a large wheel crank that the golden rope is fastened to, and just behind that a beautiful wooden, well used spinning wheel.

Orane's eyes quickly scan the room once again. Her heart begins to pound as she doesn't see a source of fiber for the rope. She begins to wonder if this was all a trick.

"Where does the rope come from?" She sharply asks the man. Her arm remains raised, arrow pointed at him.

"I spin it from fleece," he says. His hands slowly drop, seeming to drag his entire demeanor even further down with it. His brow crinkles and he quietly says, "You mean to take him from me, don't you?"

Orane pauses, examining the man curiously. She racks her brain trying to decipher what the man meant. As the answer dances on the edge of her thoughts, she lists to one side so that she may peer around him. She didn't see it before, as his large frame blocked her view of the opening, but behind the man there is an alcove set near the base of the stairs to the loft. Blocked off by a low wooden fence, a large shiny mass reflects the firelight. When it turns around, it sends shimmering light spots across the ceiling. It takes a moment for her to decode what she is seeing; peering back at her is a large, golden ram, munching on a mouthful of grass.

Of course, she thinks to herself, wondering how she couldn't have figured out the source of the rope before. She draws a long dagger from her belt, arrow still pointed at the man, "No, I mean to take him from this world." With purpose, she quickly starts towards the beast.

"No," he cries, rushing to block her, coming within inches of her knife. Instinctively her arm jerks the crossbow up, pointing it at his heart. Her finger trembles over the trigger, waiting for the first sign of eminent threat.

The man quickly steps back, keeping his palms out towards her, but his arms low. Though he cautiously backs away, Orane's heart quickens, prepared for any sudden movement. The man stops when his legs are finally pressed up against the fence.

"Please, don't," he begs. There is a sincerity that rings in his voice, instantly causing Orane to remove her finger from the trigger. "Please, don't hurt him. He is my pet. I beg you—take him with you, just don't kill him."

She breathes in deeply, trying to slow her racing heart. Lowering her arms, she sheathes her dagger so that she can push back her hood. "Are you a fool? As long as this beast remains alive, that woman will have power."

With her face finally revealed, the man's mouth opens slightly. He gazes upon her with such a look of awe that it causes Orane to blush. With deep, red hair and bright green eyes she has seen that look on many a man before but the innocence in his face betrays the genuineness of his fascination. It takes a moment for him to recover but he finally manages to stammer out his thoughts, "Please, my lady—I will help you get him out of here. I—I will vow my allegiance to you—anything that you wish—as long as I have your word that you will not harm him."

She appraises the man before her. Having grown up as she did, her environment didn't nurture a trust of other creatures. For his relationship with the witch alone she should kill him on the spot. As if he knows he is losing her, he clasps his hands before himself and gets down on his knees.

"Please," his small voice begs.

Orane inhales deeply, slowly. In her gut, she knows that he will not harm her. There is something about the amount of humility and honesty in this man—despite his massive size and handsomeness—that rings true to her heart. From his actions towards her when he thought she was the witch, she guesses that he isn't that woman's accomplice, but rather her victim.

"Fine," she says before turning her back to walk towards the window, "My men are down below, I will have them send up a rope."

His body finally relaxes, relieved. He gets up to his feet and follows her, taking care to keep a good amount of distance between them, "That won't work."

Orane stops as she reaches the sill; she turns back around to face the man, "Why not?" Though he stands several steps away, he still towers over her.

He shrugs slightly, trying to figure out how to word what he wants to say, "He's made out of gold. Your rope will break."

Orane sits on the window sill, considering this. For a moment she entertains the idea of killing the ram anyways—it is the easiest solution. She owes nothing to the man, not even her word. As her eyes wander up from the floor to gaze upon him, she knows that she doesn't have a choice. Even if she was cold and heartless enough to ignore his wishes, he could potentially prove to be a strong ally with his first hand knowledge of the witch.