TALES OF THE WIDE DOMAIN

1.

Beast in the Meadow

Jeronimus sped along the path to the meadow, hardly feeling the ground under his feet. Up the long incline from the village into the forest he went, around the big curve with the massive craggy boulder, across the little burbling brook, then the continuous gentle zig-zag through the grove of towering cedruses until he reached the great bluenut tree on the eastern edge of the meadow. 

The sun was just setting as he arrived—he was a little early—and as he crossed to the far side he slowed, admiring the vivid streaks of orange, green and indigo splashed across the western sky. Redlings clicked and buzzed in their amiable voices as they leapt between the trunks and branches of the trees surrounding the meadow. The two-note chirp of grass crickets, kree-UP, kree-UP, sounded above the redling’s chatter like notes in a forest song. It was, truly, almost a perfect evening, the meadow one of Jeronimus’s favorite places of all. 

But just as that thought came to him a shudder ran through his body, prickling the skin on his forearms. Was there, maybe, something…

He shook his head and steered his thoughts—for the hundredth time—to earlier today, when one of his classmates had pulled him aside after school and told him that Fleera Landor (Fleera Landor!) wanted to meet him in the meadow, alone. The classmate had made him swear an oath to Hom not to tell anyone, not even (especially not, she’d said) his best friend Danior. He’d had no problem with that, because when Danior found out that Fleera had asked to meet Jeronimus somewhere in private, he would absolutely fall over with stupefaction, and jealousy—and of course happiness for Jeronimus, because Jeronimus had been hopelessly blinded by Fleera for years, even though she’d never quite warmed up to him, even though she sometimes seemed to think he was invisible. He couldn’t believe his luck had finally changed; but, on the other hand, it could really be a case of hard work paying off, a reward for all his patience and loyalty. It was bound to happen, sooner or later. 

But…his arms would not stop tingling. There was something else, he knew it. And, if he was being honest with himself, it had been there all day, gnawing at his thoughts like a wood rat on a grain bin. The girl who had given him Fleera’s message—her name was Brina Tamm—had never liked Jeronimus; in fact, she didn’t like most of the kids at school. She was the leader of a group of three ruffians who were constantly prodding and provoking—and sometimes beating—a lot of the other kids. He wondered why Fleera had chosen her to give him the message. But then again, it had surprised Brina too.

“I don’t know why Fleera asked me to tell you this,” Brina had said to him. “And I don’t know why I agreed to do it either. It’s daft. But anyway, here it is.” And she’d told him. And made him swear the oath, and then walked away.

The thought had occurred to Jeronimus that Fleera might’ve concocted the whole thing as a joke, just to torment him. He wasn’t an idiot, after all; he knew that kids sometimes did stupid and cruel things to each other. But he didn’t think that was Fleera’s way. She might not be very…demonstrative,but he’d never seen her do anything truly malicious. And lately he had noticed that she seemed to have been looking at him more than she usually did—or at least not looking through him. No, he was sure she wouldn’t twist his sight like that. 

But, Brina…Jeronimus knew she was capable of all manner of meanness. Would she—maybe with the help of the other two thugs in her little pack—go to that kind of trouble to trick him? It was possible, he had to admit, but…why? It wouldn’t make much sense. Especially since he, unlike most of the kids at the school, didn’t really blame those three for the way they were. He even felt a bit sorry for them—though he kept that entirely to himself. Their parents had all worked at the mines at the Jespo Plain, and no one who went to the Plain came back happy. In fact, after their six-month shifts, nearly all the miners returned full of a dark, simmering rage, which they took out on their kids, who took it out on other kids. It was as simple as that. Jeronimus had always secretly believed that underneath their mean exteriors, those three were…well, just like him. 

But the more he thought about them the more uneasy he became. Fleera, wanting to meet him in the meadow? And Brina being her messenger? It just didn’t seem right…

He glanced at the sky above the trees on the west side of the meadow. The colors were beginning to fade, the orange growing dustier, the darkness in the east creeping across the indigo like some wraithlike creature of the night. 

The realization came to him with a slow, terrible certainty: he shouldn’t be there. He should be home, or with Danior, anywhere but in that meadow. He turned to leave, his heart thumping in his chest; but just then three figures emerged from the shadows beneath the great bluenut tree. Though he could not see their faces in the dim light of twilight, it was easy to recognize Brina and her two friends, Bronnor Holl and Jolen Loreen. She was in the middle, with the solid shape of Bronnor on her right and slight Jolen on her left, as always walking a little behind. 

A hot wave of adrenaline shot through Jeronimus, and for a split second he thought about running. But he knew how he would appear to them if he did that—a weak, spineless coward—and he also knew they would eventually catch him. So he waited as they crossed the meadow and lined up in front of him, trying to keep still, blood coursing through his body.

For a moment no one said anything. Jeronimus noticed that the redlings had gone silent. Only one or two of the crickets still sang, projecting their two notes high into the evening air. 

“Fleera? Truly?” Brina sneered, finally. “You are amazing.” Jolen snickered beside her. 

Jeronimus shifted from foot to foot. “What do you mean?” He thought he knew exactly what she meant, but he felt he had to say something, not just stand there like a petrified animal.

“You’re an idiotic piece of shad, that’s what I mean. Fleera would never ask to see you. She barely even knows you exist! These two thought you wouldn’t fall for it, but I knew you would. You’re as dumb as a toad.”

“Ha!” Jolen snorted derisively.

Jeronimus cursed himself for being so stupid. She was right—he was an idiotic piece of shad. How could he fall for this—Fleera? Truly? He should’ve known better! But…why would they trick him, just to—to do what? Three of them and one of him, it would be too easy to beat him. It had to be some kind of joke.

Bronnor’s low, clipped voice came out of the growing darkness. “We’re tired of your chirpy little attitude,” he said. “And we’re going to show you how to get rid of it.”

“Yey,” Jolen piped in, speaking much faster than Bronnor. “And we’re truly sick of your jecking father. It was bad enough when he was just a cripple, but now, for jeck’s sake, he’s worthless, he’s a freak, and he should just get out of Winnowin. All of you should!” 

His da! They couldn’t—they wouldn’t—

“Not my da,” Brina sneered, and Jeronimus realized he’d spoken the words aloud. “Why notyour da? He is a freak. Why should everyone just let him be? Our parents all think he should be expelled. You tell him that, or tell your mum, your da probably couldn’t even understand. He’s a fouler lump of shad than you. Tell them you’ll keep getting this until you’re all gone.”

Jeronimus, this time, kept his mouth closed. He was angry and ashamed at once—it was his father, they had no right to talk about him that way!—but he was also afraid of the truth in their words. The accident had changed his father; he was different now, unlike anyone in Winnowin, unlike anyone Jeronimus had ever met. Maybe he was a freak. And maybe being his son made Jeronimus a freak too. 

Still, he didn’t understand why the three of them were so angry, just because of his father. They were only fourteen, like him, still youths. How could they already be so filled with hatred? Especially now: fourteen was the time of the Farthering, the beginning of the Telestic years. It was meant to be a time of mystery and enchantment; rare and wondrous things, it was said, happened to Telestics. He and Danior talked about it all the time. It was by half and sum the biggest and most exciting thing in their lives. 

An idea, a feeling, began to rise through the fog of his fear. The three of them didn’t truly hate him, or even his father. Their hatred was covering something up. He couldn’t quite get what it was, but he felt it, some confusion, some deep fear of things they didn’t understand. He remembered how he’d always felt sorry for them, despite their cruelty and taunting. 

“Hoy, listen, you don’t have to—” he began, but in an instant he was doubled over, clutching his stomach. He knew it was Bronnor who had hit him—only he was strong enough to deliver a blow like that. He gasped for air, feeling as if he’d never breathe again.

A torrent of dread drowned his sympathy. He knew the three of them were going to attack him, all at once, and he knew there was no one to hear him, should he cry out, nothing to stop them. Would they beat him senseless and leave him? Would he be out here all night in the meadow, exposed to the gliders, his mother and father expecting him, worried, searching for him? They wouldn’t kill him, not on purpose…but what if they accidentally beat him to death? 

Because now the blows were raining down on him from all sides. His head, his stomach, his face, his chest. He’d never been hit with such force, and the first few hurt terribly, like the strikes of hammers; but then, all at once, his mind blocked out the pain and focused all his energy on surviving. He hunched over and covered his head and face as best he could, pushing his feet into the soft ground of the meadow. He still had not taken a breath, though he was gasping, trying to suck in a mouthful of air. There was blood on his lips, and with each impact of their fists he saw a flash in his vision, heard a thudding crackin his ears. Finally, after what seemed like minutes, his lungs opened and oxygen flowed in, as if he had surfaced from a deep pool in the river. 

He wanted to fight back, to show them he wasn’t as weak and pitiful as they thought he was; but the blows were coming too fast, he couldn’t get away from them, he couldn’t even raise his own fists. And in the end he knew he had no chance against the three of them, no matter how hard he might try: he was fairly short, a little stocky, not very strong. He had never been a good fighter. 

But still, he did fight to stay on his feet. He wanted, at least, to rob them of the satisfaction of seeing him fall to the ground, where they would use the hardened toes of their leather boots to kick him with even more force than they could manage with their fists. He heard grunts of frustration and felt their blows grow stronger, more directed, as they tried to knock him over.

“You jecking freak!” Jolen shouted.

There were two more blows to his head, one on either side, and Jeronimus’s hearing became muffled, as if balls of wool had been stuffed in his ears. He began to drift away from his body, rising above the meadow…no, he was not drifting, he was blacking out! He felt himself staggering, like the ex-miners he’d seen stumbling around Winnowin, drunk on root cider. He struggled to keep his balance, to stay awake. He must deprive them, at least, of that one victory of watching him fall to the ground. 

And then, abruptly, the blows stopped. Jeronimus wondered why—perhaps he had fallen, and was on the meadow floor, hallucinating. But he could still see, through the slits of his eyes, the three of them silhouetted against the dark forest. He must be awake…and as he waited for the blows to start again the smell hit him. It did not arrive as other smells do, joining the scents already in the air, instead immediately obliterating all other sensory input. His eyes and nostrils burned, and he buried his nose in his forearm. 

“Ugh, what the jeck is that?” Jolen said. “That is disgusting! Did you jecking shad yourself? You are so—”

“Hush,” Brina said. “Listen.”

The other two were instantly silent. Jeronimus was not so dizzy, and his hearing began to clear. The first thing he noticed was the absolute stillness of the air, no sound, no movement, as if all life in the forest had been erased. It was an unnatural, perverse feeling. His whole body was tingling, vibrating, and he had a desperate urge to run home, faster than he had ever run, faster than he could run, and lock himself in his cottage with his mother and father. 

And the smell: he could not place it, could not connect it with anything familiar. It was brimming with decay and death, but it was beyond the stench of a garbage heap, or a rotting animal, or even the putridity of an overflowing latrine. It seemed to be a new smell, carrying a force or energy of its own, snaking its way into his heart and stealing all his courage. He was left with nothing but empty terror. Now he could not move, even if he tried. His legs were two pillars of stone. 

“I don’t hear—” Bronnor began, but then they all heard it: a rumbling, growling vibration, so low it traveled through the ground and reverberated in their bodies. Its source seemed to be in the forest near the bluenut tree, but it could have been coming from the other side of the meadow, or the distant hills, so pervasive it was. 

“What is—” Jolen said.

“Hush it!” Brina hissed. There was another rumble, louder, closer—definitely, now, somewhere near the bluenut. And Jeronimus knew it was something alive, despite the stench of death. He could feel its life, and, beyond that, its hunger.

“Oh, Homming,” Jolen squeaked.

“Shad, it’s—” Bronnor said.

“Quiet!” Brina cried, and her voice shot out over the meadow and into the forest. 

Instantly the rumble came—it was surely the snarl of some kind of creature—and the smell thickened, blanketing them with filth. A massive dark shape entered the meadow, moving with incredible, impossible speed.

Jeronimus knew it was coming at them, for them, but none of them had time to react. It flowed across the meadow, soundless, no movement of legs or wings, the things normal animals use to propel themselves. Jolen screamed, all his pent-up fear—not just of this thing, whatever it was—bursting forth in a pitiful high wail, and Brina gasped twice, two quick little intakes of breath, with a small helpless whimper at the end. Bronnor was silent; but, just before the thing hit them, he fell to his knees. 

Jeronimus stood and watched. 

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(Publishing date TBD)