The Flower of the West (excerpt)

(The beginning of "The Flower of the West"--a fantasy story that began as a short story for a class which I took and developed from there. I haven't divided it into chapters, but I suppose this would be Chapter One...)

On the day the King died, I was buried in books up to my knees, choking on the dust of my failure to create a better way to grind chalkberries for the castle’s medicine store.

Neither I nor any of the people of Tyrmari had much time or inclination to grieve. The whole of the month behind us was a trail of grief, and as for me, my eyes were becoming painfully dry. There was altogether too much to be sad about to continue in mourning. And there was a great deal too much to fear that kept us on our feet, blazing about our days with a fevered desire to survive and save as many others as we could.

My only hope to do so was to grind chalkberries, and faster. Though young, I was one among six other castle healers, each specialized in an area of medicine. I was the herbalist, and generally the one who treated the majority of the cases that came to us--a scrape, a rash, an ache in the bones, a common cold. But there were fewer and fewer of those cases as the castle and its surrounding land became the base and medical station for Tyrmari’s armies.

The news of the King’s death came to me in the form of a wounded captain, far beyond saving. They led him into my messy workroom, choking a bit, as I did, on the dust and laying him flat on the low, cushioned table where I could look him over. I didn’t really need to though. I could tell from across the room that the vicious, jagged wounds that oozed in fetid brown all over his body could not be cleansed from the poison and sealed up in time--not by the chalkish salve that was my only remedy, and a poor one at that.

But my job was not to give people up for dead--it was to save them if I could. So I stepped over the piles of books at my feet and greeted the weary men who’d carried him to me.

“Can you save him, Miss?” one asked me with a pained face. I gathered from all their faces that they were loyal subordinates.

“I can only try,” I answered. No need to dash their hopes all at once. I could and would indeed, try, after all. “Get yourselves some water from the pitcher over there--cups are above the cabinet--and tell me what’s happening on the plains.” I tugged an apron over my head and rolled up my sleeves, dusting my exposed skin in chalkberry powder and doing the same with a clean cloth. The men had taken the captain’s armor off, so all I had to do was remove his tunic to see just how bad the wounds were and wipe them with the cloth.

“You’re not going to wash him off?” A curious question I’d received more than once before.

“No,” I intoned without looking up to see who asked, “Water will make the poison spread faster. The only hope is to let the powder suck up the poison and then wash that off. If it works, I’ll cover the wounds in salve and that should remove the rest of the poison and seal them.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

I dabbed the largest slash in the chest with the powder. The answer wasn’t necessary. If it didn’t work, the captain would bleed out, the poison would continue to spread, and then he would die.

“Tell me what is happening on the plains,” I commanded again, hoping both to distract them and to know exactly how close my own demise was.

“Have you heard nothing?” I glanced up at the surprised query and shook my head. “The King was killed early this morning--you didn’t hear?” I sucked in a breath and shook my head again slowly.

“I haven’t had anyone come in these two days. Few men come back from the battlefield, and the other healers are as busy as I am,” I paused, wondering what steps would be taken next, “How did the people react?”

“Badly, of course. But Piotr, the King’s nephew, has stepped up to command. They’ll crown him quickly tomorrow so we don’t have to wait for a new King.”

“A wise decision,” I let out a breath and continued working on the captain. He groaned once or twice in his unconscious state, but I couldn’t find it in myself to hope for him. “And what news of the rest of the Kingdom? How bad is it?”

“The Scissa continue to wipe out most of the armies sent against them. You were right in saying few men return. We’ve heard tell of entire regions devastated and up in flames. The Scissa’s efforts are focused on the plains now, though, where the King fell.”

“Thank goodness they only travel in one pack,” one of the other men muttered.

“Aye, let’s hope they keep it that way,” another answered, “It’s a hopeless enough business as it is, fighting creatures like that.”

I let them talk a little more, glad to hear some of the tension that had been focused on the captain’s fate turning in a different direction. I, too, had seen the Scissa before. A memory that still turned my stomach, a month later.

When the Scissa appeared from the north, the creature Tyrmari had known as myth suddenly stood at the threshold of the Kingdom. The “black demons” were ugly constructs of ashen bone and acidic flesh, hanging off of them like liquid, clothed in black shadows and armed with two-pronged swords that sported serrated, poisonous edges. An acrid smell followed wherever they roamed. Researchers had immediately delved into the depths of the castle archives, searching for any note of the legends surrounding the Scissa. Surprisingly unintelligent in every account, it was found that the creatures swarmed in a sort of mob mentality, burning the ground with every step, and leaving behind massacred homes and villages. Legend stated that the Scissa were controlled by an outside force--the same as supplied the demonic swords they swung about with all the skill of locusts.

I turned the whole of my attention back toward the captain, but after an hour of treatment, he died on my table. The men who’d brought him were asleep, exhausted by the efforts of the day and week and month. I didn’t have the heart to wake them yet, so I called in a few guards to take the captain’s body.

“Hana, you can’t let them sleep there,” one of the other healers came in to borrow some of my powder and commented as she eyed the disheveled group. I shrugged.

“This is a room where people come to get well. Let them sleep. They probably haven’t slept so soundly for days.” Rolling her eyes, the other healer left and I stepped once again over my pile of books, reached for another stalk of chalkberries and grabbed my old-fashioned mortar and pestle. Sighing, I went back to work.

Days passed yet again before any news came to me. The other healers would dash in to grab more salve or powder and then duck out again to treat the men down in the tents. I had become a last resort--the herbalist healer who would treat the worst wounds, or other serious ailments, and thus the healer who would bury the most patients.

On the day the King visited, I stood behind my pile of books, swirled about by chalky dust yet again. However, it was a living King that tapped softly on my door and entered the room.

“Your Majesty,” I murmured and dipped into a clumsy curtsy.

“Just Piotr,” the young King said with a tired smile, “I imagine I’m as mortal as any other man who comes to you.” As if I would call a King by his first name.

“Are you injured?” I avoided the address altogether, though I noted he was probably near my age. I had never actually seen him before, but that wasn’t surprising since my life in the castle was centralized in the very room in which we stood, and I ventured out of it but rarely--and only then to meet with the past King to report, or to collect books for research, or to gather more herbs and plants from the forest nearby.

“No, no. I have a favor actually to ask of you.”

“You might, perhaps, wish to ask one of the more experienced healers for anything involved,” I suggested, squashing my piqued interest for the sake of the favor being done right. The King laughed.

“Experienced or no, I need an herbalist--and preferably an energetic one. And I have been informed that you are the best in the castle, if not in all of Tyrmari.” I blushed at the praise--I’d worked hard to enter the castle as a healer, and even if the praise was exaggerated, I was certainly a capable herbalist. Though energetic was not a word I would ever have used to describe myself. Dour, maybe, on a bad day. Calm, serious, dry? Sure. Energetic? No. But my curiosity was greater than my desire to enlighten the new King about the finer points of my personality.

“What is it you are looking to have me do?” I asked. He smiled gladly now.

“Come with me,” he said, and I stumbled out of the room after him, hastily tearing off a dirty apron and wiping my hands on it, throwing it in a pile of other such articles before I exited.

I refrained from speaking as he led me down into the heart of the castle, where the library and archives were tucked away, directly under the throne room. I think it was a ploy of whoever built the castle, hoping the knowledge of ages would seep up into the important room and wizen the King in all his decisions.

As we entered, the overwhelming scent of vanilla and wood musk filled me with a secret joy. I loved the archives, and anywhere else where books and scrolls could be found. The dim lighting, the looming shelves colored with parchments and aged book covers, the exciting lure of the depths of the large room--all of these drew me. So much so that I failed to notice King Piotr speaking with another young man until he called my name--I suppose Kings must know the names of their castle healers--and gestured for me to approach the candlelit, book covered table over which he held his conversation.

My eyes darted to the tall, lean man next to him and I cringed inwardly while sighing outwardly for him to see.

“Hugh,” I greeted him. He scrunched his nose up at me enigmatically.

“Hana,” he returned with a sort of distaste. I glared and nearly bared my teeth before remembering the King was present. Hugh had entered the castle at the same time as I, though as a researcher. Unfortunately our topics of research often intersected in the need for a book or two. He took absolutely forever to read. Well, so did I, for that matter. Nevertheless it led to a great deal of tension between us on more than one occasion, and so often had we fought that simply meeting anymore was a battle in the making.

“Good, you seem to know each other,” King Piotr said cheerfully, completely ignoring the spark of conflict between us with a rather mischievous smile. Oh, yes, I was quite sure he’d noticed it.

“What did you bring me here for, Sire?” I asked. He nodded to Hugh and Hugh picked up a book and held it out--though not before raising an eyebrow at me. I took it.

”The Flower of the West,” I read off the cover and peeked into the pages.

“Have you heard of it?” the King asked. I gave him a half shrug, half nod.

“Yes, but only as a rather fantastic fairytale.” King Piotr and Hugh exchanged a look. I didn’t like it.

“We have reason to believe it is the only way for us to fight against the Scissa and prevail,” the King said bluntly. I opened my mouth and then snapped it shut. A fairytale. Really? He was expecting what of me exactly? To comment on its likelihood? Or to say I could use the plant, or...something?

“It doesn’t exist,” I finally said, just as bluntly.

“All historical accounts are against you on that one, Hana,” Hugh said smugly, “I’ve been researching for a while now. It seems the Flower of the West does exist, though only in a secluded valley, on the far end of the continent, just before the ocean shore.” Putting the book down on Hugh’s table, I took a deep breath and made the two of them wait for a moment as I stopped the sarcastic reply of “Oh, so that’s all” that was threatening to burst from me.

“So, here’s what I’m hearing,” I went with instead, “One, the Scissa can only be defeated by this plant, presuming it does exist; and two, someone has to be crazy enough to travel over the plains, where the Scissa currently are--in case you forgot--, and then over the Eksil Mountains. Which are practically a death trap. I think my questions regarding the second point are probably obvious, but please enlighten me--how exactly would this mythical plant defeat the Scissa in the first place?”

“The accounts are vague,” Hugh admitted in annoyance. I would have shot a smirk at him, but the King interjected.

“You may not know this, Hana, but there are no records of the Scissa ever actually being defeated,” he began. I didn’t know. It took me aback.

“It seems in every instance they continued to scourge the land, until suddenly they disappeared,” King Piotr continued, “They would reappear in a century or two and do the same. In the end, Tyrmari suffered excruciatingly for months and sometimes years before they would disappear. The people were decimated every time and the land was unfarmable for at least another year after the Scissa left, causing even more deaths. There is no explanation for why the Scissa leave, and we have no hope that they’ll leave anytime soon. In some accounts, it was a decade before they disappeared.”

“But why look for the solution in a myth?” I asked, sobered by his words but unconvinced nonetheless.

“I’m telling you, Hana, it isn’t a myth,” Hugh said again, “I’ve been researching it since before the Scissa attacked, and was sure even then that it was real. There are so many different descriptions of the place where the Flower of the West can be found--and every last one of them correlates somehow. It wasn’t until King Piotr came to ask about possible ways to fight that I thought of the Flower. It’s a brief mention in only two of the accounts of the Scissa. They say the researchers of the time were reading about the Flower of the West, hoping to uncover its whereabouts.”

“And you think it means that the Flower could possibly be a way, or present a way, to fight against the Scissa?” I asked. Hugh nodded.

“It’s unlikely that something insignificant would show up twice and specifically in accounts like these.”

“It isn’t much to go on,” I pressed, “And why are you certain you can find the Flower of the West, when these other researchers couldn’t?”

“The majority of the archives were still hidden at those points in history. You know how they were uncovered only centuries ago during King Eliron’s rule? The accounts that mention the Flower are before his rule, but after the time the archives are believed to have been lost.”

I sighed, ready to let him have his moment. If the Flower of the West wasn’t a myth, so much the better. Whether it was actually something that could be helpful against the Scissa or not, I couldn’t say. I wouldn’t believe it until the Flower was in my own two hands and had actually proven itself.

“And what is the favor you brought me here for, King Piotr?” I asked, suddenly on edge at the way the King’s eyes pierced me. He wouldn’t...?

“I would like you to find the Flower of the West.”

He would.

Dash it all, I wasn’t about to go on a mission of self-impending death for a plant that might literally just be another pretty flower.

But this King looked at me so earnestly, I felt bested by his love for his people--of whom I was one.

And only Heaven knows how I ended up asking, “Who’s coming with me?” instead of refusing point blank.

“If I was not suddenly King, I would be with you every step of the way,” he said, and I saw the sadness in his eyes and I felt at once that it came from his unwillingness to send others into danger that he himself would not be entering, “but,” he continued, “I am sending two of my most loyal guards with you. And Hugh will accompany you as well.”

Hugh started at that, looking at the King in shock. After an initial moment of irritation, I was pretty pleased with the announcement myself, as Hugh was completely and utterly taken aback to hear it.

“M-m-me, Sire?” he stuttered out. King Piotr nodded.

“Of course. You will lead them. It would be silly to send just a map when you can also send a man who can read the map better than anyone.” Hugh gulped nervously, but nodded in spite of his reluctance. It was just that way with this King. His intensity of purpose and his sincerity made it impossible but to respond in kind.

“Yes, Sire,” Hugh said aloud after composing himself a bit better.

“Excellent. You leave tomorrow,” King Piotr smiled gratefully at us both, “Pack whatever personal supplies you need, and I’ll have food packed for you tonight. You’ll come to the throne room at dawn and I’ll send you off with my two guards.”

“Tomorrow?” I blinked in surprise. So soon? Wasn’t this a thing you had to prepare months in advance for? Or at least weeks?

“Tomorrow,” the King said firmly, “It looks as though it will rain—and we should hope it does. The Scissa do not like the rain, and your best chances of crossing the plain without worry is to do it in the rain.”

“I need to go prepare then,” I said, mostly to myself, ticking off the things that would need to be done in my head. I needed to tell the other healers, show them the best way to grind the chalkberries, run through again with at least one of them how to make the salve...

“Please do,” King Piotr said, “You are both dismissed. Do what you must.”

What I must, he said. I scurried through the halls, powders and salves and a mess of laundry tucked into a corner all running through my mind. What I must, he said.

“Must I go, then?” I muttered to myself. I was quite surprised when my heart clenched and answered for me.

“Yes,” it declared, “you must.”

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