From the window, Mahala had a decent view of the village of Pelebris.
A small complex of stacked squat houses carved out the side of a valley. Narrow streets and steep greystone staircases flanked the buildings, decorated with engraved wooden beams. The bleak colours were dressed by the trees, full of autumn's glow, glistening like gold against the stone. Ladders of green farm plateaus descended the mountain, full of blackpearl apple trees and white blossoms.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
Hacksaw shrugged as he changed the bedding on the cots.
“Do you get forktongues this high up the mountains?”
“Usually no. But this month, a couple passed by with wings. The Yarths dealt with them quick.”
She towelled her hair dry. Hacksaw allowed her to take a much needed shower, shedding the days worth of grime and grease. Her silky hair returned, her soft skin and pearly nails (regrown once more). She didn’t have her hair oils, her perfumes or couture dresses, but she at least smelt and felt clean.
Even her face returned. With every passing hour, the welts on her face faded some more.
“Apologies for the clothes,” Hacksaw said, scratching at his cheek. “I’ll arrange for my assistant to bring you more options later.”
Mahala was currently dressed in a plain shirt and men’s trousers, probably his.
The Lady of Pomolin wearing trousers… the press would have a field day.
What was unusual was the leather corset he offered to go with it. It hugged at her waist more than any of her dresses would. Hacksaw even wore a similar one with a long apron that looked more like a skirt. The idea of a man having such effeminate wardrobe features should have looked ridiculous to Mahala, but Hacksaw wore it effortlessly.
“Do all Shiran men dress like you?” Mahala asked.
Hacksaw rolled his eyes at her. “No, they don’t. My tastes are as boorish as a Pomolish man.”
“Pomolish suits are beautiful and the height of fashion,” she said stiffly.
“Shirt, jacket, trousers. How original.”
Mahala’s cheeks flushed and she glared at him.
“Either way, everyone dresses practically here,” Hacksaw continued. “I would offer to take you on a tour of the village but the Yarths rather you stay inside.”
For a place run by a criminal gang, the afternoon looked peaceful from her window. A flock of children with matching satchels rushed to a crepe stall. A young couple were cuddling on a public terrace, overlooking the escarpment. Rows of elderly women were planting herbs, maize, beans and radish in farmlands. Woolly cattle were herded through the street without anyone batting an eye.
“What are the Yarths doing here? This looks like an agricultural village,” Mahala asked.
“The Yarths were born here. They’re proud ‘mountain men,’” Hacksaw replied, with a hint of disdain.
“And what are you doing here? Are you a hostage too?”
Hacksaw looked surprised. “Oh, um, not all the time. I am the village doctor. A lot of the Yarths are my patients and I can’t exactly turn them away. You’ll find no other doctor on the mountains.”
“Why do you allow yourself to be imprisoned to treat criminals?”
“Pelebris may be run by the Yarths, but not every person here is a Yarth. A lot of them are just honest farmers.” Hacksaw stood next to Mahala and pointed to the women tending the farms. “Their children have moved to the cities for a better life. The Yarths make up the rare young blood that wanted to stay and preserve their home. They breathed new life to it.”
The couple on the terrace began walking away. They passed by the children and also stopped by the crepe stall.
Mahala let out an unladylike snort. “New life? More like soured it.” Wail flashed in her mind again and his stale breath. “Are you distilling alcohol here?”
Hacksaw turned away from the window.
“Are you people mad? Even if you paid off the constables, how can any of you be fine with breaking sobriety laws? After everything my father’s been through!” Mahala said sharply.
“The Lord Protector isn’t here though,” Hacksaw said. “This little village would’ve died years ago without the Yarths.”
Mahala wrapped her arms protectively around herself. “You’re creating a breeding ground for vice. Poor father would be horrified to see you all keep repeating the same mistakes of our history.”
“It’s not a vice, it’s a sickness. Your poor father has criminalised their illness, pushed them to fringes like here,” Hacksaw said.
“Illness? Is that your excuse for what that man did to me?!” Spicy heat flared up her throat. She saw smoke in her breath and quickly clasped a hand over her mouth.
“I told you, no one needs alcohol to impersonate a monster.”
Mahala considered if she spat at him, fire would come out instead. She considered it longer than she should have.
“You’re Shiran. What do you know of our people?” Mahala muttered behind her palms.
Hacksaw didn’t even look offended. “I am a doctor. You are not. Your father is not. I hear he was a fisherman before a politician.” He caught Mahala’s glare and laughed. His face wrinkled into a rare smile. “Pomolin complains that Shiran women are too brazen. Pomolin don't know the potential in their own.”
Mahala’s cheeks burned crimson. She hid her face from him and sat primly on her cot.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I-It’s the wyrm…”
“I didn’t say I disliked it,” Hacksaw said.
“Doctor!” A muffled cry came from downstairs.
“Chan. It’s my assistant. Of all the days to be early,” Hacksaw said quickly.
Heavy plodding ascended the stairs.
Hacksaw rifled through the drawers and produced a cheap plastic mask resembling her father’s. It landed in her hands.
“Put that on. And don’t breathe a word about who you are,” Hacksaw hissed.
Even this far up the mountain, it wasn’t unreasonable to think they would recognise the Lady of their republic.
“So not everyone’s been bought off by the Yarths then,” Mahala snapped back.
“Érk pyiaek oh. Haven’t you listened to a word I said? They’re simple farmers who let the Yarths do their business here to keep their home alive! Now if you don’t want us both dead by the end of the day, put that–”
The door burst open. A portly old woman emerged carrying a giant laundry basket, nearly knocking Hacksaw to the ground. A creaky prosthetic took the place of her right leg.
Without thinking, Mahala put on the mask.
The old woman took one look at her and smiled broadly. All the laundry was dumped onto Hacksaw, burying him alive.
“Pond—!” Hacksaw began.
“Oh, were you the poor duck Hacksaw’s been treating all mornin’?” the old woman cooed. She clasped Mahala’s hands heartily. “What pretty gold eyes. You must’ve been a fairy in your previous life!”
Hacksaw found his way out of the linens. “Pond, give her space.”
“My my, where’s me manners!” the old woman said, still holding Mahala’s hands. “All the young ‘uns here call me Nanny Pond, except for this little devil.” She thrusted her chin in Hacksaw’s direction.
A part of Mahala wanted to slap the old woman’s hands away. She was part of this poisonous village. But those hands were warm, wrinkled and just like gentle Sister Zvie’s. Nanny Pond did eventually let go of Mahala, so she could smack Hacksaw’s arm.
“And shame on you!” Nanny Pond said. “Don’t think I haven’t recognised that she’s wearing your old rags! Do I have to school you in how to treat a Pomolish lady?”
“But I—” Hacksaw spluttered.
“Shame on you!” Nanny Pond huffed. She spun back to Mahala with a sweet smile. “Don’t worry, duck. I’ll get ya something pretty once the day’s over!”
Hacksaw rubbed his arm, downcast. “Pond, this is my patient, Jewel. Jewel, this is my assistant. She mans the reception desk… when she’s not bullying me.”
“Jewel, is it? Such a precious name! Your mama must’ve adored ya!” Nanny Pond exclaimed.
Mahala’s eyes met Hacksaw’s. Oh. Jewel was probably the name he or Yarths gave her.
Nevermid Yarth’s gruff voice echoed in her mind. “A raw diamond’s fallen on our lap, and you’re worried it’s gonna nick your balls.”
It left a foul taste in her mouth.
“Yes,” Mahala said. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” Nanny Pond giggled. “Oh, no one’s ever called me that before! I can get used t’that!”
“I’m not calling you ma’am,” Hacksaw said.
Nanny Pond slapped his other arm.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Along with the clinic’s laundry, Nanny Pond had also brought food from her own kitchen. Lunch consisted of fried dumplings and spiced bean curry. After only two bowls of porridge, Mahala welcomed something so oily and rich.
“Eat up, doctor! You’ve been slavin’ away since dawn ta get Jewel at the table with us!” Nanny Pond said.
She pushed a generous portion of curry to Hacksaw. He accepted it, resigned to his fate.
A second bowl was passed to Mahala. She stared at it, the mask oddly heavy around her head.
“What’s wrong, duck?” Nanny Pond prompted.
“She injured her face, Pond. She’ll eat in the other room,” Hacksaw said with a mouthful of food.
Nanny Pond tried to slap him again. “Hacksaw! Ya can’t say that!”
“No, it’s fine, I would like to eat alone, if that’s not too much trouble,” Mahala said. She offered Nanny Pond a bow. “Thank you for the food.”
She scurried away with the bowl to the next room. Harsh whispers between Nanny Pond and Hacksaw followed her but she ignored them.
With a deep breath, Mahala tried to make the most of her hot meal. She positioned herself by a narrow window, with a heavy curtain hiding most of her away. She stared out into the picturesque autumn highlands as she ate.
Her eyes dropped to a small shrine opposite the clinic, Notho’s moon carved above the door.
“How can these people deserve such a beautiful view, Nothos?” she whispered.
The wyrm tossed in its sleep, sending flickers of flame through her veins.
“How can I…?”
To her surprise, she spotted a familiar face. The dirty-faced boy emerged from the shrine with a broom. He swept away the fallen leaves into a tidy pile.
She saw the children with satchels filtering into the street, laughing and playing, their faces sticky with the crepes they ate. One of the children deliberately kicked up the neat pile of leaves. Everyone else laughed and joined in, creating a storm of red and orange confetti. The boy stood still with the broom loose in his hand.
After the leaves were too scattered to play with, the children circled the boy. Mahala couldn’t hear what they were saying. One of the satchel children shoved the boy. He didn’t react. He was shoved harder and this time fell over.
The other children laughed again.
For a second, Mahala thought the boy spotted her.
The Lady of Pomolin loved children. She would wear soft clothes when visiting them, so they could feel comforting textures in her embrace. She let them crawl over her piano as she played their favourite songs. She volunteered to go to orphanages with a banquet of sweets and to read them stories.
Mahala didn’t feel like the Lady of Pomolin at the present time with her faded men’s clothes, her body a patchwork of healing wounds, an ugly wyrm ringed by nails over her heart.
But the boy knew.
I am the Lady of Pomolin.
She slotted on (the cheap copy of) her father’s mask and leaped out the window. Her feet slammed heavily on the ground. It didn’t hurt as much as it should.
“Oi, the hell are you going?” She heard a sharp yell behind her— Her Yarth guard?
Mahala ignored him and marched forward towards the children. One of the satchel children had taken the broom from the boy and raised it over their head.
Mahala caught his arm.
“Get off!” The satchel child jerked his arm away.
The broom clattered to the ground.
Up close to him and the dirty faced boy, Mahala realised something shocking. Behind the grime, the shorn-off hair and ratty clothes, the dirty-faced boy and the satchel child looked identical. The dirty-faced boy at first appeared younger, but his malnourished frame explained the reason. Otherwise, they had the same curly black hair, same eyes, same long upturned nose. Twins.
“Volunteering to clean up the mess you made?” Mahala said. She tried to sound stern like her father.
“Leave off! This got nothin’ t’do with ya!” the satchel child shouted back.
Someone jerked back Mahala’s shoulder. A Yarth man in work overalls got between her and the children.
His face flushed red and furious. “Get back to the—”
Wood snapped, and a scream followed.
All eyes were on the dirty-faced boy. With heavy breaths, the broom brandished in his hands, broken at one end. The satchel child who shoved him was crouched on the ground, holding his bloody ear.
The satchel child cried at the top of his lungs. The other children backed away, whispering and pointing. The Yarth man dragged Mahala back into the clinic. Hacksaw stumbled past her to find the source of the cry.
Mahala’s eyes stayed on the dirty-faced boy who met her gaze. There was no panic, no remorse, just calm.
The shrine priest emerged to grab him. He disappeared back into the house of Nothos, the god of justice and mercy.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The satchel child’s mother arrived in the clinic within the hour. In one arm, she hauled a five-year-old girl in a pretty pinafore. She used the other arm to barge past Hacksaw and Nanny Pond, embracing her sniffling son with his newly stitched up ear.
“I want that little bastard dead,” the mother spat.
“Your son should’ve known better than to mess with a jinsaéwo,” Hacksaw said, rolling his eyes.
The mother jabbed a finger at him. “Stay out of it, Shiran snake!”
Nanny Pond petted the mother’s arm. “Be reasonable, Kick. The boy belongs t’the shrine now. Besides, all mountain men get their first scars at this age.”
“I should’ve smothered him when I had the chance,” the mother muttered. Her eyes swept around the clinic and stopped at Mahala. “And who the hell are you?”
Mahala tried to make herself small in her corner of the room.
“Haven’t ya heard? Jewel’s a new guest of your family,” Nanny Pond said.
The mother’s narrowed eyes roamed over Mahala. “No one told me.”
“Enough frownin’! You’ll get wrinkles,” Nanny Pond said, prodding the young mother’s forehead. “And forget about the boy. I’m sure Father Slipshod’ll see to it he gets his punishment for bleedin’ your son in front of a shrine.”
“I’ll see to it. He won’t get away with this,” the mother said. She pulled the little girl into the cot next to her son. “Stay with your brother, I’ll be right back.”
“Érk pyiaek oh. This isn’t a nursery,” Hacksaw protested.
The mother ignored him and stormed out of the clinic.
Nanny Pond clasped her hands. “Well, duckies. How ‘bout some tea an’ cake?”
Hacksaw threw up his arms in frustration. Nanny Pond hummed to herself as she hobbled into the next room for the kitchen.
“What’s ‘jinsaywoe?’” the girl asked.
“Jinsaéwo,” Hacksaw corrected. “Shiran word for ‘Duskuhbon.’”
The girl didn’t appear to understand his accent.
“Duskborne,” Mahala said. “It means he is a child of Dusk.”
The girl’s expression remained blank. “That’s bad?”
“Mama doesn’t like talkin’ about it,” the satchel child mumbled.
Hacksaw shook his head. “Of course, she doesn’t. That doesn’t change the fact you should know.” He paused. “Though probably not from me… Pomolish children do not understand me so well.”
Mahala stared at the shrine.
“I can tell the story,” she said. She’s told it many times to children despite it being her least favourite. “It’s the story of Dawn, Dusk and the ikka.”
The girl cocked her head. “Ikka?”
“Man. It’s an ancient word for what we are. We are children of the second god Ikkurum. But Dawn and Dusk… they are the sons of the fourth god.”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The fourth god, the bold warrior Darlgin, was the only god to have fathered demigod children — twin sons birthed by an ikka mother.
Though they shared the same face, the twins couldn’t have been more different. Dawn was the older brother; smart, strong and a friend to all that knew him. Dusk the younger was cowardly, weak and dull.
As the twins grew older, Dusk tried to match up to his brother. He wanted to be a warrior that his father would be proud of and a champion ikka would worship. But whatever Dusk did, Dawn did better.
Dusk saved a priest in danger, and Dawn saved an entire city. Dusk slew a savage giant, and Dawn slew an ancient leviathan. Dusk kissed the hand of the most beautiful woman in the world, and Dawn married her.
It was as if Dusk was just a lesser version of his perfect demigod hero brother, a cheap homunculus wearing the image of someone greater than himself.
At Dawn’s wedding, Darlgin gifted his older son his own sword – a masterpiece forged from the steel blood of ocean beasts, in which one swing could split the earth. The ikka sang ‘Dawn, Dawn!’ in their adoration.
Dusk’s heart grew dark with jealousy. Why did his brother deserve everything? Didn’t Dusk also try just as hard? Yet he never received praise, he never received a single gift from his father, let alone something so precious! Dusk could stand it no more.
So he killed his own brother, stole the gifted sword and killed his father-god.
The ikka cried for justice and hunted Dusk down. Hundreds of mortal men died trying to stop the bloodthirsty demigod but the fury in their hearts kept them going until they tore the wretched Dusk apart. Even after killing him, Dusk would not be dead forever. Like the true gods, demigod Dusk will reincarnate.
And so, Dusk swore vengeance upon the gods and their worshippers. Dusk would return one day and slay all the ikka, not sparing even a single child. So the world must take vigilance, to prevent Dusk from gaining power once again.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
“It is believed Dusk would reincarnate as a younger twin once again. A long time ago, these younger twins would be killed at birth,” Mahala continued.
Nanny Pond bustled in with a heavy tray. She passed around cups of fruit tea and thick slices of butter cake.
“That was the old days,” she said. “Nowadays, they’re just given to the temple t’serve the merciful Nothos.”
The satchel child fidgeted in his cot, holding onto his wounded ear.
“Well, at least they’ll be able to tell you two apart now,” Hacksaw said. That earned him another smack in the arm by Nanny Pond. He spilt tea all over himself.
“It also means you’re a child of Dawn,” Nanny Pond said quickly. “You’ll be a great man one day! Just remember t’keep your dusk brother in check.”
“He’s not my brother!” the satchel child spat.
The girl had stayed quiet through the entire story. She slurped her tea and sprayed crumbs everywhere as she wolfed down her butter cake, oblivious to the horrifying elements of the story.
Most children didn’t understand.
In the corner of her eye, she could see Sister Zvie welcome families into the shrine. Mahala recognised each worshipper who came to pray and give offerings. Shoredon presented itself as a small town where everyone knew everyone.
Her heart would always stop when the Cavan family came in. Mr and Mrs Cavan were a well-groomed couple who always brought elaborate bouquets and generous donations. Their daughter as usual clung to Mr Cavan’s sleeve, in a fashionable chiffon dress and matching hair ribbons.
The Cavan girl caught Mahala staring.
“Papa, she’s looking at me funny again,” the Cavan girl said.
“Pay her no mind, sweetheart,” Mr Cavan said dismissively.
“But Papa, it’s creepy!” the girl complained.
Mr Cavan didn’t spare Mahala a glance. “Your Dusk sister can’t hurt you. Let her be.”
Mahala watched as her older Dawn sister skipped towards the statue of Nothos with their parents – a giant cloaked being with his face and body concealed. Little Dawn laid her flowers and prayed for a new pink coat and a puppy.
Mahala scrubbed the floors and prayed to Nothos for everyone to magically forget she was Dusk.
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