Urn of the Tower PriestessA.W. Lockwood
6800 words The high priest stopped in the middle of the empty valley, picked up a stone in the palm of his hand, shook it gently, and lifted it to his ear. He closed his eyes. “Master,” Jeekwo addressed the high priest. The folds of her thick gray robe, which bore the sigil of the Cloud Gods, belied her form. She was scrawny like a jack rabbit and unblinkingly watched her companion. With the tent, both their sleeping rolls, cooking equipment, and food all humped on his shoulders, the high priest resembled an overburdened camel forced upright, and yet, Jeekwo slouched under the only load she had been tasked to carry: a brass urn, snuggly secured beneath her cloak by two wide leather straps. Her eyes narrowed, but a practiced, hollow deference controlled the doubt in her voice. “Does the stone speak of our way?” When she was first chosen to carry the urn, surprise and even wonder had pried through her haze of cynicism. Had the Cloud Gods decided to stop ignoring her? Getting to spend so much time with the singular attention of a temple master was a privilege sought after by any burgeoning novice. Yet only a few days into the journey, Jeekwo understood the silence she would have to endure. Each of her inquiries—no matter how banal or innocuous—was summarily met with a dismissive hoisted brow. His puffy cheeks concealed his eyes, and his mouth was guarded by the long, pointy bristles of his mustache. The high priest offered the stone to her. “What do you think?” His voice was as dry as her throat felt. Jeekwo took the stone and held it. Listening. Belief in the Cloud Gods and their mysteries was not a prerequisite to becoming an acolyte at Henbre Temple, but stolid conviction was necessary to remain there. Like all budding priestesses, Jeekwo had been taught to hear the song of the wind, the whispers of the trees, the laughter of the woodland animals, and the steady hum of the rocks—she spent her spring years tuning an ear to those unique voices. The rocks along the bed of the great River Ing, which wound through the center of the temple grounds, had the loveliest voices of all. However, as she grew, the responsibilities of being a ward of the temple drowned those voices out. This stone kept its secrets from her, too—if it had any to tell in the first place. The stone was cold and smooth against her lobe. She masked her waning disappointment as she had done many, many times before. “I hear nothing.” The high priest nodded, neither agreeing nor denying her assessment. Then he sniffed the air. As if he could smell anything beyond the reek of his hair oils. The top of his head had turned to desert long ago, so he took particular care of the forest above his lips. Not wanting to outright accuse him of getting them lost—and only moderately certain this scenting habit of his held no mystical merit—Jeekwo asked him instead, “How is it that the Tower Priestess could be from such a desolate land?” By regarding the contents of the urn aloud, all its weight was summoned to her attention, and she hooked her thumbs under the straps to relieve the pressure. “How indeed,” he replied and continued to lead them through the barren valley. The swish of their trudging steps among the dust ate away at Jeekwo’s patience. “Master, will it be long before we reach our destination?” The man dug the toe of his boot into the dust as if he were trying to rub off what clung to it with even more dust. He then looked to the horizon. “Not long. See those green hills and the boxy outlines among them? That’s Balnub. Beyond it, we’ll find the village of our Tower Priestess on the back of the following ridge.” She looked to those hills and felt a pang of absence. Her sketchbook was not among the few articles they had taken with them. It had been her only remaining connection to those who reigned in the skies above the temple. Though the Cloud Gods had stopped talking to her long ago, when she took charcoal in her fingers and pushed it across a blank page, she felt as if the conversation was still going, if only one-sided. Jeekwo cast her eyes down from those distant lines of civilization. She moved to hoist the urn further up her back when she realized she still held the rock the high priest had offered her. She shrugged and let the voiceless stone slip from her hand like a dandelion stem spent of all its seeds. 
With worn legs and deflated waterskins, they reached Balnub. A horse-drawn wagon clopped an intermittent beat past them on the lonely byway through the village, its rolling wheels echoing between the sparse buildings. The paving stones were worn, but they had once been placed with care, and sweep marks in the dry dirt spoke of genuine effort to keep the road ready for duty. The villagers were broad and hardy. They cast their eyes down at the sight of the sigil of the Cloud Gods. The teachings proclaimed that all revered the might of those who dwell in the sky, but where would that reverence be if not for the carts packed with food and medicine sent out from Henbre to all corners of the land? Jeekwo rubbed the sigil over her chest absently. These folk must know what will happen to such aid if flippant regard is shown to any temple representative. “The mountain pass may be precarious. Go. Seek aid from the locals,” the high priest said. His voice was full of unwarranted strain for how little he had spoken that day. He strode toward the nearby inn, leaving Jeekwo there alone in the middle of the street. Even back at the temple with its many priests, priestesses, novices, and servants, Jeekwo felt alone. The night before the high priest and Jeekwo left the temple, it was worse than ever. The quiet of the bunkhouse was oppressive. She absently pushed her hand under the flattened mattress of straw and gritted her teeth as she remembered her sketchbook wasn’t there. She then consigned herself to sleep when she heard the mid-novice in an adjacent bunk clear her throat. “I have no need for a lecture, Ipgress.” “Why? Why can’t you simply be content?” Ipgress said. The girl was a busybody, but she was one of the few who bothered talking to Jeekwo anymore. The well-meaning girl was referring to the perpetual grimace worn into the corners of Jeekwo’s mouth. No doubt put there by the sharp, heated voices of the Temple Mothers, whose hushing sticks reddened the skin of any novice willing to defile the silence of study with paltry questions. Most novices found the recitations of verse tedious and memorizing lists of provinces pointless. The long, endless days knelt in prayer along the walks of the outer cloister, which, like the daily shuffling that renews a path of yesterday’s footprints, had softly replaced the existence of any life before being brought to the temple at Henbre. Most novices kept their mouths sealed about such grievances. Not Jeekwo. She didn’t have a good answer for the girl. “They shouldn’t have burned my sketchbook.” “You should have known Mother Khalen was in a mood, being passed up for ascension like she was.” The Tower Priestess’s body was still being prepared for the cremation ceremony when the high priests gathered at Henbre from their appointed territories to choose who would ascend. Cloister Mother Sage was the obvious choice, but that didn’t stop discontent from rippling across the entire surface of the temple, even though all had witnessed the priests collect a rock from around the tower and listen to its wisdom. Jeekwo’s mind couldn’t be further from such pomp. “Ipgress, do you remember your actual mother?” Jeekwo said. Ipgress, like the rest of them, was a dedicated acolyte, and so there was little hope she clung to such sentimentalities. “That is ungrateful talk.” “She was nothing like these Cloister Mothers. She was warm. Or at least I think she was.” Jeekwo thought of the last image she had captured in the sketchbook. It was a smeared blur but familiar enough to draw tears when she looked upon it. “Why does it matter?” Ipgress said with the voice of one helplessly saying anything to stop a devilish child from a cruel act. “The rocks those priests collect tell them nothing. They hear only the moss scraping their ears. I sometimes feel like my mother is the only thing that matters.” “Keep your blasphemies to yourself,” Ipgress warned. Was it blasphemy if there was no one to offend? For Jeekwo, the cry of a swooping hawk lost its urgency; the rustle from a spray of fountain grass spoke only of the family of mice that surely made its home there; even the mouth of the river became more and more narrow, until it trickled no observable sound at all. Ipgress continued, “Tomorrow. They’re choosing a carrier tomorrow, and all your reprobate talk could ruin it.” Ruin it for her, Ipgress really meant. The Tower Priestess had become progressively feeble in the last year, and she had begun to instruct all the mothers of the rites and rituals for when the time came. Rumors trickled to the novices that the most promising among them would be chosen. All assumed it would be Yula or Preejun. Ipgress could be a distant third. By the time Jeekwo had prepared a perfect retort, Ipgress had rolled away. That was just as well. The moment had passed. 
Jeekwo’s fingers fell from the sigil on her robe as she stood on the Balnub high street, wondering how the contents of the urn were worth this much effort and why she had been chosen in the first place. The passing wagon turned down a side street and evoked one of the few memories from her birthland. The sound of wheels on dirt and rock raised the shadowy figures of her parents. A convoy of covered wagons circled a fire. One of the shadows touched her face. It was gentle. Not cold. Not dark. How many years had passed since she had seen her kin? And how many years would it be before her own body would be reduced to ashes and carried back to that place of true warmth and shadow? As if a skeptic could ever earn such an honor. She peered up and down the street for someone approachable enough to ask about the mountain pass when laughter rose from a nearby alley. It was sharp, nearly wicked, as all displaced laughter can be. On the edge of a nearby building, a set of vine-like fingers gnarled into being. Next came a face draped by ragged blonde hair, appearing greenish in the darkening alley. It was a girl, maybe a year or two younger than Jeekwo, whose countenance showed the wear of someone older. She laughed again, revealing a smile as discolored as the periodic paving stones along the street. “Wanna see somethin’ neat?” the girl called. “I-I am not sure.” Jeekwo’s palm rubbed past the sigil over her chest as she moved to adjust the urn straps. The action brought her no comfort. “Yer a temple kid, right? From down in yonder northern plains? One of yer kind came through last year and took a likin’ to this flower that grows ‘round here. I reckon you’d like it, too. It only blooms when the sun’s half-light. Like ’tis now.” Jeekwo thought of the lush red blooms of the horn vines, which curled up and down the five towers of the temple grounds. The smell of sweet honeysuckle dewed in her nose. The tall river lilies, which always come only when the currents are still swift enough to draw goosebumps, flashed royal blue in her mind. No catalog of flora had ever mentioned a flower that only blooms at twilight. She imagined it would be luminescent and swirling with hues of orange, red, and purple, matching the fading light of the domain of the Cloud Gods themselves. How would such a plant be pollinated? Fireflies? If only Jeekwo had been allowed to keep her sketchbook, she could follow this girl and capture the flower’s form. Would the temple scribes not want such a unique specimen to be documented? Even an anecdotal addition to their indices could prove beneficial. It would be prudent to witness such a flower firsthand, and the girl was so strangely forthright. She was no Ipgress. “I suppose a brief look would do. Is it far?” she asked, stepping to the mouth of the alley. “Name’s Kurinthe. What’s yers?” “I am Mid-Novice Jeekwo.” Exchanging names like this was a new experience for Jeekwo. Rarely did the temple host visitors. It felt strange, but she liked the familiarity of her name spoken in her own voice. “Do you know much about the mountain pass?” Kurinthe laughed and grabbed Jeekwo by the hand. “It’s this way. Not far. Not far ’tall. I’ll tell you all about the pass of Yormen’s Keep an’ which detours ta take ’round rock slides and such.” Outside the village, a trail snaked through the high grass of a meadow, tamped down by occasional use. It curved and wound its way into the nearby hills. Though Kurinthe’s face was friendly enough, there was a chill to her touch as if she had been dipping her arms in a cool spring. With her free hand, Jeekwo pulled on the edge of her cloak and tightened it about her. “My companion . . .” “That serious lookin’ feller with the mustache you came inta town with? I’s bettin’ he was yer pa,” Kurinthe teased. “He most certainly is not!” “Alright, alright, geeze-my-trees. Whatcha doin’ here anyhow? I reckon there’s not much temple business to be ’ad in these parts.” “We have been on the road for almost a month now, and . . .” Jeekwo was filled with a sudden hesitancy. She nervously hiked the urn higher on her back. While her journey was no secret, nor was she told to keep it as such, she couldn’t help but think it was a bad idea to discuss temple business with strangers. Ipgress would speculate on the many fiends and bogeymen haunting these hills and what those creatures would do with a prize such as the urn, but Jeekwo wouldn’t give credence to such nonsense. Besides, she was so tired of not having someone to talk to. While the Vault Mothers had entrusted her with the urn, they trusted her with little else. What harm could there be divulging? “. . . and our purpose is to deliver the cremated remains of the old Tower Priestess to her birthland, south of here. I am not certain where exactly, as my master believes it is to my benefit to withhold all the important information. He is just so stubborn and quiet. I can’t stand him sometimes.” Kurinthe nodded along to the tirade, and then, to Jeekwo’s relief, had her own gossip to share. Jeekwo learned all about how the village parson had recently been caught up in a scandal involving the blacksmith’s wife; that there was a blight going around in the hills to the west, and everyone was fearful it would make for a tough winter; that there were few other kids to talk to and fewer still to fawn over. The laughter between them sprinkled over the meadow in short but vigorous shakes. Jeekwo released her cloak, letting it hang loose as she continued to follow Kurinthe. “That the urn you got on yer back there?” “Yes. It’s horrible. I’ve only been able to take it off to change and bathe. It feels heavier than it should be, too.” Like there was more than only ashes within. Kurinthe eyed the hump beneath Jeekwo’s cloak. After some time, Jeekwo asked, trying to sound more curious than worried, “Is it much further?” Kurinthe, still leading, turned toward her with that patchy smile and winked. The hills were much quieter now that the village was shrinking behind them. The sun dipped its toe below a distant valley to the west. Crickets played the song of summer’s end, but Jeekwo couldn’t understand its meaning. Perhaps they had as much a strange way of singing as Kurinthe had of talking. Everything was peculiar here in the south. The trail undulated beneath the girls, and with each trough, the village would disappear beyond the boundary of sight, only to pop back up again at the next crest. Hours may have passed, but the sun was still there, only halfway to bed and hanging on like a sleepy child, not wanting to miss out on what this unlikely pair was up to. “Spy that line of trees up yonder? The flowers grow ’long there.” Over the next hillcrest a brook spoke of softness as it hurried along below the curving and swaying branches of unfamiliar trees. A path lay along the brook where fresh prints from deer, coyotes, and rabbits told of its purpose. Bordering the path was a patternless bouquet of what Kurinthe had promised. Jeekwo broke out into a run that only the child in her, nearly stamped out by ever approaching adulthood, could truly understand. When she came breathless beside the brook—knees pulsing as she bent toward a patch of the twilight flowers—she cried out. While there was no net of light cast from the blooms to lure fireflies or moths, Jeekwo was enthralled by the way each flower reflected the last quarter of the sun’s rays. Deep violet petals paling to sky blue toward the tips. The shape alone was a marvel. Longer petals crossed in front of glowing yellow stamens and wrapped the body of the flower like a sepulcher shroud. If the Cloud Gods had any influence on this world, this was manifest. Something touched lightly on her shoulder, like an early autumn leaf landing, and it startled her. It was Kurinthe’s hand, which had warmed from their leisurely walk. “See? Told ya,” Kurinthe said. Her voice crackled now like footsteps on dry leaves. “You might pick some if ya like. They keep in a vase fer weeks.” As Jeekwo reached toward one of the stalks that supported several of the majestic blooms, the urn shifted on her back. She longed for the feel of charcoal between her fingertips and the texture of canvas. “I think I better not. I have no way to preserve them, and I’d hate to see them wither.” The village girl shrugged and plucked a few for herself. Jeekwo’s fingers lingered on the base of the stalk, and she looked up to catch Kurinthe watching her from the corner of her eyes. Smiling. Observing. The strangeness of this place—of the girl—began to outweigh its wonder. While Jeekwo loathed feeling trapped behind the looming walls of Henbre Temple, the sigil on her cloak was no replacement for mortared stone. She shivered, feeling exposed to whatever dangers may rise from the water or descend from the hills. While she often mocked her fellow novices for murmuring monsters into existence at every twig snap or rustle of the wind at night, she did desire such fantasy to be reality. For though sleep comes easier when the voices of those creatures are dismissed for what they are—the shriek of a wandering fox or the howl of a wolf—it is a dreamless sleep. A fish tail scattered the speckling of stars on the wavy surface of the brook. Jeekwo pulled her hand back from the flower stalk and stood, massaging grass prints from her knees. “Thank you, Kurinthe. For sharing this. I fear I haven’t a thing to give you in return.” “Reckon you don’t,” Kurinthe said while twisting her hips back and forth to an unheard tune, pulling the flowers close to her nose. The petals fluttered to the cadence of her breath. “Then again, I think it’d be neat if . . . I s’pose it’s kind of an odd beg.” “Oh, Kurinthe, tell me what it is. I implore you,” Jeekwo said as she realized her time with the girl, away from the high priest, was drawing to a close. All that time on the road with only the whistle of empty wind to fill the silence had wearied Jeekwo more than she dared admit. Here, it was silent no longer. There was Kurinthe, the crickets, the splashing, the brook song. The sun had snuck below the horizon, dying the sky in purples and blues as Kurinthe asked, “Might I see the urn’s innards?” It was a simple request, really: to see the remains of a Tower Priestess. If Jeekwo were honest with herself, she was curious, too. “Um . . . That would be fine. Let me just,” she said, shifting the urn out from under the cloak—out from under the sigil. The hollow space beneath her cloak folded in on itself. Kurinthe gently dropped the plucked twilight flowers to the ground, keeping her eyes on the urn pouch. “I just need to get the . . .” Jeekwo balanced the urn in one hand while unbuttoning the pouch cover, revealing its brass head. It had remained sealed since the Tower Priestess was placed inside. Markings encircled the urn, etched by the singing of a tune smith. Or was it the brass smith? She imagined ashes on a cold dais shoveled into the urn by servants of Henbre but couldn’t visualize the heat that had created them. Can fire be stoked hot enough to reduce a body to the essence of its spirit? She moved to unscrew the top, but her imagination now bloomed with those late-night bunkhouse murmurs. Perhaps a phantasm would stretch from the cavity of the urn, shrieking and blindingly bright. Or a curse would unleash upon her, oozing an oily sap along her hand, which would envelop and suffocate all with its creeping thickness. But, no, these were the hauntings of novice tales, and she knew better. She knew better. The cap of the urn squeaked in its fitting under her shaking hand, and yet another thought trailed all the others, filling her with a dread of all things dark and sacred: Kurinthe desired to not only see the remains but to claim them for her own! Jeekwo was responsible for releasing the Tower Priestess’s soul to the Cloud Gods where they waited above her birthland, yet she couldn’t stop her hand from twisting the cap. Her own eyes must be as eager as those of Kurinthe, which glowed brown in the fading light and remained fixed upon the urn. As the cap separated from the urn, Jeekwo shut her eyes. She waited anxiously for the vile creature that Kurinthe had become—nay, had been all along—to seize the urn and suckle upon its spirit to the dismay of the Cloud Gods. Jeekwo dared not look. She had been secure in her accumulating doubts of all things mystical and magical, but her certitude had led her astray. She remained frozen, unable to move, as she felt pressure against the urn. Oh, to face the truth of such powers! They are alive. Corporeal. She searched her knowledge of the scriptures for the proper words with which to repent. The voice of the creature cut through the humming turmoil in Jeekwo’s mind, under which she already felt lost. “Huh,” Kurinthe said above the soft trill of cricket-song, “Nothin’ but dust. Powder. Crushed bones.” Jeekwo opened her eyes, and the specters of her imagination slipped restlessly back beneath the headstones of her disbelief. Kurinthe stood before Jeekwo, brushing a knotted clump of hair behind her ear to peek into the urn. Jeekwo looked too. Dust. Powdered bones. Devoid of movement and life. “Might I touch it?” Kurinthe asked. There was care in her voice. The girl was curious but not without empathy. The mid-novice of Henbre Temple shrugged. Still wet from the torn-up stalks of the twilight flowers, Kurinthe dipped a finger into what was left of the Tower Priestess. “Ooo, it’s so dry, it is,” the village girl said, wrinkling her nose and rubbing the Tower Priestess between her thumb and forefinger. “Doncha wanna?” It looked like the dust from the valley below, some of which still lingered on Jeekwo’s boots. She felt as if she were back there. Trudging. Feet dragging. “No.” “You can prolly touch it anytime you like, anyhow.” “Uh-huh,” Jeekwo said without eagerness. The walk back to the village was quiet. Kurinthe asked more about temple life and even bargained away information about the pass ahead, but after several attempts, it was clear her new friend from the north was done with idle chat. The village street was only visible by periodic torches. Jeekwo squeezed Kurinthe’s warm hand and thanked her once again for sharing the flowers. The two bid each other farewell with flickering smiles. At the inn, the proprietor said with sincerity, “May the Cloud Gods bless you.” He then crossed his arms over his chest and pushed them outward as if he were separating a fog. He directed Jeekwo to the donated room. There, she found the high priest deep in meditation. “Master Faln?” The three syllables rang from her tongue with a sharpness of candor that surprised her. His eyes opened. “Speak your heart, my child.” “Why do we bring the remains of the dead back to their birthland?” She couldn’t see his lips beneath the bristles of his mustache, but the wrinkles in his eyes rippled gently like the waters of the inner temple’s reflecting pool. “You have seen something this evening, child. I can hear it straining from your chest. Tell me.” “I . . .” Jeekwo wanted to recount the entire evening. The farm girl’s hospitable touch. The rolling meadows. The trees weeping for the beauty of the twilight flowers. But how? “I saw nothing, Master Faln.” “Hmm.” The rippling beside his eyes deepened. “Sometimes, there is a lot to see in nothing.” “And . . . I opened the urn.” She lowered her eyes and waited. Waited for him to yell, to scold, to abandon her here with few provisions. Or send her home to an inquisition. She waited for his fiery words to consume her. “I see.” He then asked carefully, “And what did you find there?” Hopelessness. “Ashes.” The bristles over his mouth swept his chuckle aside. “Did you expect anything else?” “No. Well, yes.” She paused to consider. “Master, you didn’t answer my first question.” “I could cite scripture. But you know all that. Truth is, I don’t know why.” There was a twitch in the man’s cheeks. He wanted to say more, but he didn’t. For the first time, Jeekwo was satisfied with his silence, and they both lingered in it for a while. Master Faln spoke again, “Tomorrow, we will come to the place we have been seeking. Now is time for rest.” Jeekwo dreamed of cloud petals spreading against an open sky, rubbed into existence by long fingers covered in gritty darkness. The fingers were not her fingers, yet she felt the sky parting under her touch. 
The next morning came with a chill. The high priest and mid-novice hurried their packing to afford time by the hearth. Later, as they made their way up the high street and out of town, Kurinthe waved to Jeekwo. The farm girl was leading a goat out of its pen, a most stubborn creature, whom she had to tug along by a harness, cajoling it with her sweet colloquy. Jeekwo was warmed more by the girl’s earnest smile than the fire by which she had heated her toes. The two travelers exchanged wide meadows for steep and narrow trails, which pressed in on them with clinging bushes and the thick aroma of sage. Jeekwo searched for the source of that familiar scent but found no visible trace under bush nor bramble. One final view of Balnub’s angular image came several hours later, before they descended the far side of the ridge. Jeekwo adjusted the straps on her shoulders and, finding no other way to express herself, whispered over her back to the urn, “I bet you remember those scents of sage from long before it thickened in the smoke of our festivals and ceremonies.” High Priest Faln was already footing his way down the winding trail ahead. If he had heard her, he acknowledged nothing. The valley below ran through the mountains with a swift river as its guide, well protected by sharp cliff faces and tangles of rhododendron. By degrees, Jeekwo let the high priest pull ahead of her so she could hold a private audience with her Tower Priestess. “It is a shame you couldn’t have died in the early spring. You may remember the bright yellows and pinks of the rhododendron that line the base of the towers better than I do, but I wish I could see these mountains alive with color. What colors are they? Not gonna tell me?” Then Jeekwo satisfied herself to match Kurinthe’s dialect, “Gonna keep yer secrets, huh?” Her giggles ran down through the thick foliage like a rabbit leaping soundlessly back to its warren, zigzagging without calculation. Her companion cocked his head, but whether the wrinkles near his eyes deepened again is anyone’s guess. At the valley’s foot, they navigated a moss-ridden rope bridge over rushing crystalline water. Jeekwo asked aloud if it had been there when the Priestess was escorted northward for her life of service. Faln shrugged and said, “I may seem old to you, but I wasn’t alive when she was brought to the temple at Henbre.” Jeekwo giggled again and nodded for his sake. On the river’s southside, they filled their water pouches and ate a lunch of cornbread and dried berries before attempting the final ascent. Faln picked a stone from the bank, pulling it to his ear as he’d done before. Jeekwo’s curiosity almost got the best of her, but she held her tongue. He did not ask for her opinion on the matter. He only nodded and carefully returned the stone to its place along the bank. She whispered to her Priestess again, “Do you think there really is a voice in the stone?” The urn remained silent, but a smile dawned in the corner of Jeekwo’s mouth. 
The village of the old Tower Priestess lay high along a southern peak, and the two travelers may have passed it if not for the many small paths diverging and converging, leading the eye upward. Above the low canopy, smoke trails mingled with a graying sky of gathering clouds. Though this place was neither like the northeastern plains where caravans ramble, nor like the dry halls of the temple at Henbre, Jeekwo could not stop herself from whispering, “We’re home.” The village chief was a cordial fellow. He rang a bell and sent the young boy who answered it to summon the village. “My grandfather told my father this day would come. We welcome and honor the return of our kin to the Cloud Gods,” the chief said, crossing his arms over his chest and pushing them outward, and sweeping his hands as if dusting a shelf. There was a shelter at the far end of the village set up with wood-crafted benches all facing a small altar. The chief left the travelers there to rest. Soon, the villagers emerged from between the mountain pines like awakened deer after danger had passed. The shelter was then full of pleasantries and chatter, and Jeekwo was at the center of it all. Those who came placed hands upon the urn, which was perched lightly upon her knees, propped against her belly. Some of these folk asked questions about ongoings at the temple, which was so far northward they had never, nor likely would ever see it in their lifetime. She told them with as much detail as she could. After a while, a woman came. Her walking stick—a gnarled alder branch—arched into a curl at its pinnacle. Her back had a similar bend. The crowd spread apart before her, and some even stepped by her side to support her awkward amble. With a grunt and a wave of that alder branch, she shrugged them off. In a younger hand, that alder branch would have made a formidable weapon, but hers did just fine to fend off those trying to undermine the last of her self-respect. “Ah, my sister. My dear sister!” the woman croaked as she quickened the last few steps between herself and the urn on Jeekwo’s lap. To Jeekwo’s surprise, the woman did not address the urn as the others had but stared eagerly into Jeekwo’s face. The woman dropped the alder branch and flung her bony arms around the mid-novice. “My little bird wing has flown home! I knew you’d come back. I just knew it. The flock always promised me so,” the woman said and embraced Jeekwo once again. Over the old woman’s shoulder, Jeekwo saw it this time: the skin astride Faln’s eyes rippled beyond doubt; there was a smile nestled under that thick copse of lip hair. The chief touched the old woman’s shoulder tenderly. “Thrush. This isn’t Chickadee. This is Mid-Novice Jeekwo from the temple at Henbre. She’s come to bring your sister home.” He motioned to the urn. Chickadee. Jeekwo’s stomach went aflutter at the name of the Tower Priestess. She had heard it before but rarely had she heard it spoken aloud and only with insipid formality. The tangles of gray rolling from under Thrush’s kerchief and the brittleness of her frame told of a life long-lived, but Jeekwo had never borne witness to someone as addled by age as she. Perhaps she could not face the truth of what lay inside the brass vessel. Either not hearing or choosing to ignore her chief, Thrush continued speaking directly to Jeekwo. “Remember how we used to catch chorus frogs in the bogs of the eastern slope? They still call there, my bird wing. They still call.” No one stopped the old woman from carrying on. Whether they did so out of pity or respect, Jeekwo wasn’t sure, but she was glad for it. The woman had story after story to share about the adventures of the two fledglings, Thrush and Chickadee, and Jeekwo reveled in the telling. Many of the conversations—from groups of standing folk, to those sitting on benches, to others kneeling around the altar—subsided, one by one, as everyone thirsted for hints of the village’s untold past. Her tales somehow lent truth to the speculation that the world had indeed existed before them, and likely would after. “You remember, Chickadee. Don’t you?” Thrush asked with a hopefulness that charmed Jeekwo with an acheful longing. One of Jeekwo’s hands remained on the urn, but she lifted the other from the urn’s smooth, shiny surface. It drifted like smoke rising from a smoldering page—imagination burning into reality—and touched Thrush’s cheek. “I remember, dear sister.” Tears fell along the channels of the old woman’s face, wetting Jeekwo’s fingers. The ravines on Thrush's cheeks deepened as she reached out. She touched the urn. Then, she backed away to sit on one of the benches, exhausted. Jeekwo sat silently from then on until the sun was gone and candles flitted all about, brightening the shelter against the gloom. The congregation soon became a procession, and the dim flickers of light from their candles moved like a slow, glowing worm along the trail to the summit. There, the clouds gleamed from within by moonlight high above and all around the peak. Atop the mountain was a flat, stony area bespeckled with cairns of various sizes and complexities. High Priest Faln, who had been leading the procession, waited near the far edge where rock gave way to sky, mist, and cloud. From among the gathering of candles—which quivered now, exposed to the wild air of that place—Jeekwo emerged with Thrush, who had taken her offered elbow. The old woman nodded to her and would go no further toward the cliff’s edge. High Priest Faln raised his hands before Jeekwo and lifted his head to the night sky. He called out the rites of the dead: those words that ever-fall from cloud to earth; that speak for the Cloud Gods; that call home the spirits of those who have lived in service to the sky. To look down below the cliff’s edge was to give in to the perils of that open space, that nothingness. Jeekwo kept her hands tight on the urn and her eyes fixed upon the luminous, silvery clouds above. There was safety there on the edge. Even though Faln stepped away to join the villagers, Jeekwo felt as if not just his, but all of their hands—even those shadowy wisps from her memory—were reaching out, wind-stretched, to hold her steady. She began to unscrew the cap of the urn. Strident squeaks resounded over the abyss and shouted back in a chilling chorus from those distant peaks. Those mountains on which, even if she tried—and had a thousand lives to do it—she would never set foot on them all. The cap was undone, but, holding a hand above it, she spoke so softly that not even the mountain below her could hear. “I’m still not sure.” The bitter breath of the mountain had been pulling warmth from her ever since the procession cleared the pine break, but Jeekwo felt a heat from the urn itself, as if the burning fires of Chickadee’s body were ready to spring forth and wing away into the sky. Her Priestess wasn’t really a bird, and even if Jeekwo so desperately wanted to hear her proud chirping high in the air—the trees, the stones, the sky—all were voiceless. It was then that Jeekwo cast the cap aside and—looking down into the blackness of the empty chasm below—poured Chickadee from her brass tomb. Jeekwo’s heart flew to her throat, for the darkness didn’t swallow her Priestess, but in defiance of desolation’s promise, Chickadee rose. The congregation began to chant. Jeekwo raised her face to the glowing clouds above. She saw them part, and the full brightness of the moon lit the ashes of her Priestess like embers stoked by purposeful exhalations. The nebulous wisp of her Tower Priestess shadowed the congregation briefly before rising further still. Into the clouds above. Jeekwo, holding the empty urn in her hands, turned back to the villagers with their dancing candles and began to cry without knowing what her tears were for. She fell to her knees awe-stricken and was then swept away by immediate fatigue. 
The village lay tucked under a blanket of mist the morning the two travelers packed for their return to Henbre Temple. “Heavier now, eh?” Faln joked as he tied her bedroll and some other supplies to her pack. Jeekwo smiled at him. She wondered if there would be time to rest a day in Balnub. She wanted very much to visit again with Kurinthe. Another thought occurred to her, and she swallowed hard before asking, “Master Faln, do you have any spare parchment I could use to make some sketches? I found a most interesting specimen of flower on the outskirts of Balnub.” He nodded and his smile could no longer be contained by his mustache. The chief escorted the two travelers toward the village entrance. The path was less winding than she remembered from only the day before. Jeekwo forged ahead as High Priest Faln and the chief speculated about growing hostilities between the lake tribes of the far east. She saw a small creature hop into the wet, knee-high weeds and was curious if it were a chorus frog when her boot caught underneath her. She had to step quickly to keep from tipping over her flailing legs. When she caught her balance and looked back, she expected to find a gnarly root to blame for her stumble. Instead, she saw an empty, pouch-like hole directly in the middle of the path. Further down the path, she spied the fist-sized stone her toe had carelessly dislodged. “My dearest apologies,” Jeekwo said to the stone as she picked it up. Its base was thoroughly dirt-covered, but it had a crown of moss. Absently, she walked it back to its abode in the middle of the path and, taking to her knees, planted the stone back into the earth, molding the soil around it with her fingers. “There,” she said with finality. The two men had passed her and were nearly out of sight. Yearning to tarry no longer, she abruptly stood. But she didn’t move from the spot. Instead, staring down at the mop of greenish-brown moss atop the stone, she knelt once again. With her palms in the path, she pressed her ear close to the stone and listened. |
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A.W. Lockwood
A.W. Lockwood is an emerging pan author. He lives in North Carolina with his spouse, dogs, and trained flock of assassin chickens. He enjoys teaching high schoolers how to play Dungeons & Dragons and occasionally how to read and write more gooder. You can find him on social media @a_wooden_lock.
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