WHISTLECOMBE

"Whistlecombe."

That is what had been uttered by you. Nothing more, nothing less. A callous, taut display to be beheld by all eyes upon you. An affront to what you thought would be your triumph.

"So be it."

In your clasped palms now lay a single ear of an oblong, deep-orange seed. Timid lines of silver and stone flow through the surface of the seed, ornamenting it with an almost liquid complexion of shine and soot.

The featherweight remains inert between the creases of your palms, simply there.

You smile.

This will be enough.

You lift yourself up to your feet, your limbs harmonically rising and lowering with each breath that you force through. You blink. The ebony forest arises all around you from the brown, peat-like soil, sticking out of the Earth like sharp strokes of a brush. You clench your fists, knowing that the Whistlecombe is in one of them. The air sifts its way through your loincloth - the only covering over your soot-covered body. You labored for this. You tarnished your life for this. You riddled your very soul with sin for this.

Slowly, you close both of your eyes. You open your left palm slowly, unfolding your fingers in order from smallest to largest. The Whistlecombe weighs down the tip of your ring finger.

You freeze.

That’s not where it’s supposed to be. Supposedly. Your eye lightly twitches before you shut your eyes as hard as you can. You can no longer feel the Whistlecombe on your ring finger, but you can feel something else.

With a leap of faith, you hold the Whistlecombe in your left palm. You close it, slowly, this time folding your fingers by the total number of creases on their joints. Then, you snap.

Nothing happens. But this time, you can feel an unfamiliar weight on your thumb.

You immediately smirk. You slowly open your eyes. The Whistlecombe has chosen your Envy this time. It sits atop your thumb. This is good. And the night is still windy.

Bundled wisps of midnight breeze ripple past the branching leaves of the ebony trees, capturing the Whistlecombe with a wispy, audible whisper as it flows away first into chunks of silver ichor and stone, before bleeding into a simple clump of a homogenous, dull-gray clay. The wind accepts it.

You shiver with the rhythm of the moon’s pulse as you let out a slow sigh. You can only hope that the Whistlecombe was the right calling - lest it be otherwise. The ebony forest surrounds you peacefully now, as you stand taut upright amongst the peat-soil. You lock your legs upright like stockings as you await the Whistlecombe’s requisition.

…

Your body is strewn forward in a submissive form, your patterned leather cap held in place by the angling of your right palm off of the pestled floor. Your eyes lit up with the inertia of your envy, binding desire to action everywhere you look. You know you are here - the Stillow.

It is your envy that you now seek to quench. Around you are tracts of soil, pits of brown empty with nothing but seeds, seeds all planted beneath the damp, packed retreat of the soil. You know that you cannot tread anymore than what is envisioned of you - anymore and you risk these seeds sprouting inside the pastures of your soul. It is a coveting of which you had never felt before.

“What is your tithe?” a voice whispers, an intimacy almost inside your head that makes you shiver involuntarily.

“What binds my pain to my kith and kin.” you mumble, knowing that the voice will hear you nonetheless. You know that this sacrifice will be accepted, and won’t mean much to you. You already know what binds you, after all.

“Stand.”

You slowly stand up, your body clad inside your old merchant’s parka and Stekking tunic. You await your next command.

“Open your palms.” you hear, your nerves trying to scurry away at the very idea of opening yourself to It.

You can only see the tip of your nose between your eyes and the staggered cobblestone floor beneath you when you now find yourself at the exit of the Stillow, this time standing. You look for your pouch - and you feel Its surface. It’s there.

The air behind you has thickened, and you no longer feel the presence of It - at this point, you only feel the faint warmth of burning thatch and wood.

As you proceed away from the Stillow, the air begins to heat up. You feel a great disturbance inside your body, like you had just forgotten something vastly important.

You ignore it.

Right now, you must escape from the rising heat. You must proceed forward, as a precession. A bearer of a triumph contained solely within an object of great mystique.

Your feet drag forward, capturing harsh strokes against the firm peat beneath you. You advance under the flames, forgetting to hold your loose cap in place. It drops behind you as you continue to pace forward, presumably to be consumed by the inferno.

Then, you take off your parka.

The air continues to warm. Warmer than a summer sun presiding right before a bountiful harvest. You decide to take off your tunic. You’re only wearing your leggings and your sandals now. But wooden sandals can catch fire.

So you ditch them too.

The bottoms of your feet momentarily ache, before the fraying heat floods your senses again.

You suddenly stop, your squinted eyes now wide open. The fire will follow you until you fulfill the tithe. You have to commence. Now.

Hastily, you take off your leggings, this time solely in your loincloth. It is soiled. Should've washed yourself the day before.

The heat slightly falters, almost concurring with your actions in an almost empathetic way.

It is time for you to Envy. It is time for you to End. And all that it took is the time it took for you to complete this journey.

Fifty years.

You hastily open the pouch. But you know it’s still in Its hands. The heat slightly retreats. You drop the pouch to the floor, careful to make sure that it won’t obstruct you.

You open your palms. You’re nearly naked now.

“Whistlecombe.”