The Barbarian's Tale

“There was once a man, whose clan lived on a beautiful mountain. It was covered in a lush pine forest. On a summer’s day, the point where the peak met the sky shone a brilliant blue, and glistening clouds circled in admiration.

The forest held many great beasts: bears, wolves, deer, and dozens more. The people of his clan ate well every day, for the man was a mighty hunter. Every day, the people of the clan threw a great feast, and he supplied the meats of the forest. This was a time before clans had chiefs, before Dukes and before the Shak, but this man was the closest thing they had to a chief. All the men admired him, the women yearned for him, his elders doted on him, and the children respected him.

This was until, one long dark winter, the supply of beasts started to dwindle. It happened slowly at first, and the man put it down to poor luck. His traps lay empty, and there were no animal tracks no matter where he looked. When he finally found his prey, the beasts were so small and emaciated, they could hardly feed a single household.

The clan persevered, feasting on wines and jams made from berries foraged by a beautiful young woman. Soon, she was beloved by the people, and the man was forgotten.

For a while, the man tried to grow his own berries, but this didn’t suit him. He was a hunter, so he left his camp to search for new prey. He walked for many days, finding nothing. Soon, he was deep in the valley that lay at the base of the mountain.

The forest around the camp had been so bountiful that no hunters had travelled deep into the valley for several generations. But some elders said that a witch lived there.

The man feared nothing, no matter how vicious the beast was, he could kill it. Spending cold, moonless nights in the wilderness didn’t scare him at all. If the witch’s valley was where he would find food, so be it.

He descended into the valley and noticed the subtle changes in the flora around him. The forest grew darker, denser, and overrun with spines and brambles. Still, the man went on.

Eventually, he reached a river, fed by a tiny spring near his home, it was now a vast and impassable stretch of water. The hunter sat on the bank, for the first time feeling completely hopeless. If he couldn’t cross the river, he would have to return to his camp empty-handed.

It was as he was thinking that, when he saw a dark mass, shifting and twisting under the surface of the water. He stared at it for some time before he realised what it was.

A fish! The biggest fish he’d ever seen!

And as he looked, he saw more and more of them. He counted at least a dozen as he was making his plan.

He may not be a fisherman, but if he brought a fish feast back to his people, they would surely shower him in glory. After weeks of eating nothing but foraged plants, this would be the event of the year!

The man spent all day making himself a spear, and catching as many fish as he could stuff into his bag.

What the hunter didn’t know was that hiding in the shadow of the trees, someone was watching him.

The fish in the pond were the beloved familiars of the witch, and she shook with rage at the sight of the hunter slaughtering them. She hadn’t set eyes on a mortal in decades, but she hadn’t forgotten the ways of punishing the ones that overstepped.

She muttered a dark spell to herself, drawing on all the dark magic of the wilderness. Drawing on the storms, the shadows, the beasts, and the cold. The river, in which her magic was most concentrated, seemed to glow with otherworldly light.

The hunter, too happy with his catch to notice anything amiss, started his walk back up the mountain. Silently, the witch followed him, excited to see his terrible fate.

The journey up was harder than the way down; the terrain was harsh, and storms rolled in but the hunter didn’t let this lessen his good spirits.

When he arrived at the camp, the only person there to greet him was the fruit forager woman. Her beautiful face and gentle smile were much more welcome, now that he had a good catch the show her. When everyone heard what he had brought with him, everyone came out of their huts, and a feast was held. The elders praised him, the children listened attentively to the story of his journey, and the beautiful forager sat at his side. After the feast, he stayed up late, salting, pickling, and smoking all the fish that were still left over.

He went to sleep content for the first night in months and slept long into the afternoon of the following day. When he rolled out of bed and went to find something to eat, he was greeted by the forager woman.

“It’s a good thing you caught all that fish yesterday,” she said, her eyes downcast.

The man asked her what was wrong, and she said, “When I went to check my berry patch this morning, there was nothing left. All pulled up by the roots overnight! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

The hunter tried to reassure her that he would soon catch whatever beast might be responsible, but she continued, “-and that’s not all! Some pests found their way into my storehouse and they made a real mess. Almost all the jams and wine is ruined beyond repair…”

Of course, the hunter was no monster. He felt sorry for the forager and offered whatever help he could in helping her rebuild. But no matter what they did, her luck seemed to get worse and worse.

And that wasn’t all.

One night, a fire wasn’t properly extinguished, and a spark ignited the canvas of a storage tent. The fire spread and soon almost a dozen tents were ablaze. The men of the camp hauled bucket after bucket of water from the river, but despite their efforts, several people were killed and many more injured.

Once they had cleared the area, and the victims’ spirits were set free, another tragedy befell the camp. One that unfolded very slowly.

The children of the camp started to fall ill, one after another. The symptoms were mild at first, so although it was unlike any illness the elders had seen before, nobody was very worried. But soon the children became trapped in unending sleep. They could be kept alive by their parents carefully feeding them soup, but they couldn’t play, or even move at all. The camp, which was once a raucous and lively place, suddenly fell silent.

The elders were puzzled by the illness and wracked their old brains for any knowledge their own elders had left them. The oldest one of all, let out a cry of anguish when he remembered something his grandfather had once told him. The hunter, who had no children of his own to care for, heard the elder’s cry and went to tend to him. He was the first to hear the discovery.

“I fear we might have wrought the wrath of the witch,” the elder said, “I don’t know how, but our misfortune started when the little miss’ berry crops all failed. So many have died since then… I think a curse is the only explanation,”

The young forager was kindhearted and good. The hunter knew this, but he couldn’t defend her without fear of someone remembering that the misfortune also coincided with him returning with the fish. So he didn’t discourage the elder from bringing this matter up with the others, nor did he speak up during the meeting when they brought the issue to the rest of the camp.

The woman was out in the forest, searching for herbs that might help the sick, so her name was poisoned without her ever knowing a thing.

But the hunter wasn’t reassured.

When she returned, she wouldn’t just stand by and allow herself to be driven out of the camp. She’d argue, and she might even accuse him.

The hunter offered to go out into the forest and find the woman, ask her what she had done to offend the witch and maybe even help her break the curse.

It did not take long, the forager was much easier to track than beasts.

He found her weighed down by a satchel full of herbs, which he gladly offered to carry for her.

“Good sir, what brought you all the way out here?”

He told her that an elder had remembered an old rumour, of a miracle herb that grew nearby. He took her to a cave he had often used as shelter on long hunting trips. He led her inside, and before he could second guess himself, he killed her.

When her blood was drained, he began his walk back to the camp. He had planned out what he was going to say when he returned, but he never arrived.

The witch had watched all the misfortune that befell the camp with glee. She had sent her familiars to infiltrate the camp and observe the hunter’s life collapsing up close.

The witch might have been a creature of the wilderness, completely lacking in humanity, but even such creatures have souls. And all of heaven’s creatures know right from wrong.

When she saw him kill the woman, she was repulsed. She had almost exhausted the limits of her magic in torturing the camp, but there was still a little left…

That night, she crept into the minds of all the people of the camp and showed them the truth. She showed them the hunter breaking the ancient taboo and taking what was hers. Showed them the hunter staying silent when he realised the mistake he had made. Showed them the forager’s miserable fate.

It was the following morning when the hunter returned to the camp, and everyone was there to greet him.

The weakest threw rocks and shouted curses at him. The stronger beat him with clubs. He ran, and the best archer in the camp pierced his shoulder with an arrow.

He crawled through the brambles and mud, and at last, it seemed he was alone.

He bled. He cried. The beasts he once hunted found him and gnawed at his bones. At last, he died.

With this death, the curse was lifted and eventually, the camp recovered. The man and woman were soon forgotten, but all the people of the camp knew never to offend the witch of the deep valley,”

“Woah,” Rae said, “where did my mother hear such a story?”

“She never told me,” Nana said with a sad smile.

“But it must be a very old story… if something like that had happened in living memory, I’m sure people would still be talking about it…”

“Hmmm, you don’t hear much about people getting cursed these days, but it does still happen,”

Rae knew this, he had spent many a young night hiding under the covers after the elders had told old tales of when camp Kaolin had offended a witch.

“Is there anything he could have done to save himself?” Rae asked.

“Hmmm. It’s possible to break some curses, but I think the hunter was doomed when he killed the forager. There was no chance of the witch letting him go after that,”

“So what curses can you break?”

“There are curses which aren’t meant to kill, but only to subtly influence. They can control a person’s actions or even their emotions-”

“-like a love spell?” Rae asked. In truth, Rae had been wondering about this topic for some time but didn’t know how to broach it. Didn’t know anyone other than Nana who would give him a serious answer.

He had wracked his brain for an explanation for how he could feel the way he’d been feeling, grasped at any straw he could manage. Rae had never been a romantic, for him to have changed so much over such a short time… Some kind of witchcraft was his final hope for an explanation.

“Such things certainly exist in stories. But it’s impossible even for witches to alter a person’s heart. Spells have been used to confuse and befuddle many a man into making irreversible decisions though…” Nana said.

“How does one break such a spell?”

“The only way to overcome such a haze is to find a release for the built-up energy. Calm the frenzy without losing himself to depravity first,”

That’s what Rae was afraid of. He wasn’t sure where the line between a healthy release of tension between friends and true depravity lay. But he couldn’t very well ask Nana something like that.

“My child, why do you ask of this? Could it be you’re thinking about your father?”

Rae didn’t know what to say.

“My father?”

“I misspoke,”

“No, no. Please explain. What about my father?”

“I meant to ask, did you suspect that your father had been placed under a curse?”

“By the Shana?” Rae mused.

In truth, he had thought this once, when the Ashem Shana had been nothing more than an evil temptress from an ancient tale. Now he was older, he knew that men didn’t need to be cursed to betray the memory of their late wives. Nor to abandon their children.

That said, the Ashem certainly did have… their ways… if the effect Ven Ashem was having on him meant anything…

“I should never have mentioned such a thing. Please forget it,”

Rae was happy to do so. Nana left him alone with his thoughts soon after.

The only way to overcome such a haze is to find a release for the built-up energy. Calm the frenzy without losing himself to depravity first.

To Rae losing himself for the moment wasn’t such a horrible prospect. Especially if it would calm the pattering of his heart whenever he laid eyes on Ven Ashem…

It was getting late, and Rae was going to have one more glass of wine before going to bed when there was a thud on his roof.

Rae sighed. The first time Zott had appeared in his chambers unannounced, Rae had thrown a lamp at him. From then on, Zott had made a concerted effort to loudly announce his arrival with a few clumsy stomps.

“Any news?” Rae asked.

“Nothing momentous,” Zott said, “Young Master Ven sent me,”

Rae scolded his frantic heart, “What does he want?”

“He’s arranged a gathering at a nearby Ashem hunting lodge, tomorrow night. He wanted me to suggest you attend,”

“An opportunity to ingratiate myself with the local chieftains?”

“More like their daughters, local beauties, Dancers and cup-bearers. My lord, the young master is frivolous and foolish, please don’t feel any obligation to indulge him,” Zott said.

Rae pretended to consider the matter carefully, before saying.

“Even a humble cup-bearer knows more about the gossip in these parts than I do. I’m sure I have much to learn from them,”

Zott’s expression was sour, but he didn’t voice any criticisms. He climbed out the window he’d entered through and vanished into the deep gloom.

Rae sighed and poured his wine. He hoped it would help him relax before bed.