For those without e-readers, here is the text of the story.
The Soul Shepherd
The center of the lush meadow was so peaceful, with daisies
and yarrow barely waving in the soft morning light; unaware of the roiled and
bloody muck they would soon become. Atal sighed, gathering with the others at
the sideline. He could see among the war-clad men and women milling at the rise
to his left, a number of his kind mingling unseen with the warm-blooded.
There was a stir and a shift in attention as boats hove to shore at the river
that edged the bottom of the meadow. Dark figures like Atal’s were also among
them on the boats, and waiting on the stony shore.
A female voice spoke from behind him. “There are too many of
us here, Atal. That means you haven’t told us everything.” Atal turned slightly
toward Jahl, a slight crooked grin completing the crooked angle of his long
nose.
“You’ll see.”
The warriors at the top of the rise began dinning their
spears on their shields and chanting as the ones at the river disembarked and
formed tight knots. They crouched and began their own low invocation, staring
up the hill from eyes painted to look dark and fierce.
Some of Atal’s tribe were already unhurriedly placing
themselves around the meadow. In a few hands, the curved blade glittered in the
early sun. Atal’s friend, Hurk, spun and caught his dagger idly. Atal heard a
snicker from Jahl. “Show off,” she said, grinning.
The battle lines were coalescing, the black-clad army at the
river’s edge into vanguards and the green army to Atal’s left into one long
wall of death. The drumming began and the army at the left poured down the hill,
screaming. Birds exploded from the grass and flew toward the trees. The armies
met with a clang, and the chanting ceased, replaced by grunts and shouted names
and shrieks of pain. Already those of Atal’s kind were at their work, cutting
here, gathering there. Already, some of them were working their way to the edge
of the meadow, daggers bright with ichor in their right hands, their left hands
leading the dead; who invariably looked surprised and confused. Some were
women. One of them was led by Hurk, who carried the soul of the woman’s unborn
child gently in the crook of his arm. As they passed Atal, the baby looked at
him with knowing eyes, the umbilicus trailing off into light against Hurk’s
dark robe. In moments, it would grow to stature and Hurk would set it down to
walk the spirit road with its mother, Atal knew.
The battle was slowing down, the warriors tiring. Atal
turned to Jahl. “Follow me, with your followers.” She nodded and turned to the
dark figures behind her. Atal nodded to Hurk, who remained behind on the field
of battle while the bulk of Atal’s people moved over the rise toward the
village several furlongs beyond.
Atal could see the small town first by a smoke rising from
between green hills. As they approached the clay tiled roofs were apparent, and
individual vegetable patches. Beyond the village were the pastures, but the
livestock had been gathered into the common enclosure and the open fallows were
empty… except for a dark crowd of warriors, just emerging from the cover of
trees, on the opposite side of the village. There was plenty of time, no reason
to hurry. Atal and his following rambled easily over the fields, arriving just
as the painted warriors descended upon the hamlet with fire and blade upon
those too old or young or ill to fight.
Atal entered the home of the chieftain’s family. This one
was not fired; the aggressors knew there was treasure within. The doors were
barred, but that meant nothing to Atal. Even before he entered, he counted the
souls inside. Numerous children, two very old people, two pregnant females. One
stood tall over the others, and was clearly the chieftainess. She bore a sword,
ready to defend all within—but the mark was already on her. As Atal waited
while the screams and shouts outside grew closer, and a banging began on the
strong oak door, this woman’s eyes swerved to meet his. Atal felt chilled to
the bone.
It happened occasionally. It was usually someone very old or
very young, or gravely wounded, who hovered on the edge of life. This woman,
though, was strong and vital, standing bravely over her house. As Atal’s eyes
met hers, he saw in her everything he was sworn to protect—life, humanity, a
strong spirit free from the terror of death and the dead. For a long moment, he
took in her green eyes, her dark-blonde braids, the red gown crisscrossed by
gold and beads, the shield she clutched in front, the sword she held pointed to
the ground at her left—she was left-handed, he noted—the unusual folds in her
ears, the curve of her shoulder and the deep and seething breaths she took.
Atal turned to view the men hammering at the door. Their leader,
a vast and tall man, stood just behind, ready to charge into the door once it
fell. Atal knew men, saw in his eyes the violence and mercilessness he savored
in his mind. The prurient cruelty. The contempt for life.
The door hinges shattered and the oak fell inward, thudding
on the floor. Atal did the unthinkable.
With the swing of the chieftaness’s sword, Atal reached with
his curved blade and severed the silver cord at the heart of the man with a
deft flick; the man’s limbs splayed helplessly in mid-strike. The woman’s sword
swung upward, catching the artery beneath the jaw line. But as his blood
sprayed out, his soul already stood weaponless and bewildered in the dark of
the room as his insensate corpse fell forward onto the shattered door.
The woman didn’t waste a moment, but jumped up on the back
of the huge man whose corpse filled the doorway and shrieked fiercely at his
shocked followers. It was only then that more of Atal’s people appeared within
the house, their faces just as confused as those of the men outside; who were
now backing away from the door.
But the moment did not last, for the remnant from the battle
in the meadow were now returning to the village, screaming revenge. The painted
men turned to face this new onslaught while the woman stood berserk at the
door, swinging her sword about her. Atal moved away, but not without a backward
glance. The mark was still upon her.
Hours later, Atal walked from the village to a nearby
hilltop. From there, he could see the spirit road stretching away into the
evening sky. A few still walked it, but not in numbers like earlier. He himself
had helped many to find the road, and helped with those who stubbornly refused—out
of jealousy or unforgiveness—to leave the living and go their way. Atal knew
where the road led, and of the fork far away, out of sight; and that none
returned who walked it. He knew that their journey was appointed. He knew that
a house in the village was filled with living souls who were marked for the
road, but there they were.
A figure was approaching—Hurk. He came and stood by Atal and
gazed down at the houses.
“Did he at least have the mark upon him?” Hurk murmured.
“You know the answer.” It had not been the big warrior’s
time.
“Then he will bring his rightful anger to the Throne. He
will be heard. I am sorry, my old friend.”
“I know how far outside the bounds I stepped. I…” Atal
sighed deeply. “I am not even sure I can say that I am sorry. I know…” His
words fell apart with mixed commitment and regret. Hurk reached over and
squeezed his shoulder for a moment before turning away.
For some days, a few of Atal’s people lingered around the
village, reaping the souls of those whose injuries were mortal. Some followed
the invading tribe on their boats, for the same reason. Atal went to find the
one who had been there longer than any of them; Kirkal, the local soul shepherd.
Kirkal had arrived more than a century before with the settlers of the area.
For generations, he had needed little help overseeing the departures from the
tiny farming community as it grew into a town. Kirkal was expecting Atal’s
visit, and showed no surprise at his approach. The two bowed respectfully. Kirkal faced Atal squarely.
“Surely you saw that the mark was upon her.” It was a
statement, not a question. But then he surprised Atal. “What about the unborn
child? Did he bear it?”
Atal was stunned. In the moment, he had not taken notice.
The mark was no more than a shadow upon the crown of the head, a smudge as if
of ashes, a shadow of an unseen hand. Atal closed his eyes and brought the
memory back to mind of that moment in the front room of the chieftainess’s
house. Try as he could to see it, there was no shadow beneath the woman’s
heart. Instead, two bright lights. Atal’s eyes flew open. How had he not seen
it? “Twins, Kirkal! The woman bears twins. And no mark.”
Kirkal nodded knowingly. “Erigal, the woman—her father was a
twin, as was his grandfather, and that one’s grandfather—he it was who led the
people here from farther south. It may be that she is destined to die, and very
soon. But perhaps it was not to be by your hand. No healer here has the skill
to be sure of delivering a child from a dead mother’s stomach.”
Atal nodded gratefully. He took a deep breath, perhaps his
first in days. “Still, there is the warrior. There was no mark on him. And I
cut his silver cord. And others in the house bore the mark. A price will be
paid.” He looked at the ground, his face pinched with pain. “How I wish it were
mine to pay.”
It was deep in that night that he knew. A celebration had
gone long into the night, and one young couple had met in the barn. A lamp had
been kicked over and a fire spread in the straw. Meanwhile, Erigal was in
labor.
Atal led his people into the flames where children and old
people were overcome by smoke. Most of them were led out before the tongues of
flame could reach them. Erigal was being led out from the house by the chief,
her husband; both of them were badly burned. Every few steps, Erigal stopped
and clenched, involuntarily pushing. The mark was very dark upon her now.
Atal followed her closely. Jahl stepped up beside him. They
shared a brief gaze, and Jahl nodded. Erigal stopped and clenched one more
time; she crouched down, pulling her robe to her waist. Souls were passing by,
escorted by Atal’s dark people. Their faces turned towards Erigal, but they did
not pause on their way. The woman pulled a shawl from her shoulders and lay it
between her feet and with a final scream, her newborn slid onto it.
Her husband supported her by the shoulders while a younger
woman wrapped the child in the shawl. The cord still connected the baby to
Erigal, whose blood pooled around her feet. She was collapsing, and the second
child was not delivered. Kirkal stood at a short distance, watching.
In a few minutes, Atal himself cut the cord connecting
Erigal’s life to her magnificent frame, while Jahl waited a few moments for the
unborn twin. Erigal stood gazing down upon her former self. Jahl stood up,
holding a tiny slip of soul to her chest. Erigal watched her husband trying to
revive her, while fruitlessly the village healer attempted to retrieve the dead
twin from her belly, pushing down on her flaccid stomach. The living newborn,
its cord now cut, mewed in her cousin’s arms.
Erigal then nodded to Atal, and they turned to go. Dawn was
breaking over the river, and the spirit road led above the smoke and the terror
and the mournful cries.
After some time, Atal was aware that the dead twin was
walking beside his mother. Atal looked at the twin, and saw the cost of his
impulsive choice. This boy was to be a delight to those who knew him. He would
have shot arrows with such piercing accuracy; sang with such a heavenly joy.
The girl he would have loved would have been blessed, and their children
beautiful. But even now, all that was changing; erased from the future. The
bride and children were his brother’s. And his brother would always carry the
loss of his twin, a sadness no one could fulfill. His choices would be
confused. Within generations, his line, the line of Erigal, would fail. Future
paths shifted, this one ending in darkness.
Atal grieved. It suffocated him. Erigal and her people
continued on the spirit road, but Atal staggered to a halt. The curved dagger
weighed heavy in his hand. He stumbled down to the river’s edge and stared into
the water as the sun rose higher. Smoke from the village soured the loveliness
of the morning. Atal held the dagger over the shining water, and let it drop.
But it would not. It returned to his hand, where it
belonged.
Hurk, Jahl, and the others stood by him. Their faces did not
judge him. It was time to go for now, but they would be returning in numbers to
this place, he knew. Before they moved away toward their next appointment, Atal
looked back up the meadow. From the crushed grasses and dark places where
warriors had struggled and spilled blood, from a rut where a body had been
dragged away for burial, a daisy had raised its head to the morning sun.
