No Rest, No Peace

We posted guards. We checked the perimeter. We even poled the edges of the water before we allowed ourselves the luxury of drinking.

I did not go with the first group to slake my thirst. Instead, I backtracked a ways to make sure we hadn’t been followed through the storms of the morning. Finally, satisfied, I went to the small pool, knelt at the water’s edge, and as I leaned in to scoop the water up to drink, I heard the sharp bark of a rifle and the slamming of a round into my left arm.

It was a through and through shot. Painful as all hell, but nothing I hadn’t experienced before.

My friends dragged me back as everyone took cover, and they called out to one another as they tried to pinpoint where the shot had come from.

None of them could tell. Whoever the shooter was, they had a perfect hiding place in the underbrush, one which enabled them to conceal the muzzle flash as well.

After several tense moments, Bram decided to risk his life in an attempt to get the shooter to reveal himself. So, despite my furious disagreement, Bram stood and stepped out from his cover.

Nothing happened.

Not even a warning shot was fired.

Several others stood up, weapons ready, and they too were unmolested.

A sigh of relief rippled through the Akatuyians, and I stood up only to have a second round put through my right shoulder.

If my words could kill, my assailant would have died.

As it was, everyone took cover again, and then, as I peered out over the water, I saw the slim shape of a young man rise up. He was unarmed, but a moment later, he let me know he was the shooter.

“This is my water, Duncan Blood. You cannot drink from it.” His voice trembled, hovering on the edge of adulthood and thick with emotion. “If I do, our mother will poison the water and force me to drink of it. Your friends may have their fill, but you may not.”

He disappeared a moment later, and all looked to me.

I shrugged, painfully, and said, “What the hell. Drink up.”

End Jan. 11, 1890 

Begin January 12, 1890

My wounds from the previous day had healed, and I was angrier with my mother than usual. Yes, I had killed her in my youth, but which of her did I kill?

Gods’ Hollow had already revealed that it was the nexus of an apparently infinite number of realities, realities in which I did not necessarily survive.

As we walked, I reflected upon the eccentricities of my mother when I was a boy. There were times when she would come home with different clothes on than when she left. When she spoke with an accent when she had none before. They did not strike me as odd when I was a child. Why should they? I knew few other mothers, and so I assumed that all were the same behind closed doors.

Was the mother I killed my own birth mother? Had my own birth mother ever returned from a trip to the Hollow? Why did she go there in the first place? From my earliest years, my father warned me to stay away from it, and I did my best to heed his warnings.

All these thoughts troubled me until we prepared to find a camp. Whilst looking for one, we discovered a watchtower, long abandoned.

I climbed the ladder up into it and saw a small icon, the face in it causing me to hesitate before advancing any further.

I found myself looking upon the stylized image of my mother, the arched case around the painting faded and notched a thousand times.

Below the image, there was a legend written in several languages I could read, and others I could not.

What I read was simple and direct.

Mark Here, Mistress Blood, and Kill Your Son.

For a moment, I sat and considered the statement. Then, smiling, I took out my own penknife and carved an inscription of my own.

I’ll kill you all, Mother.

I pricked the tip of my thumb, spread the blood around the pad of it, and then sealed my words with an oath.

“Yes, Mother,” I whispered. “I will kill you all.”

And humming, I climbed down from the tower.