Chapter 6 - Fever dreams & muffled screams
Jarin
A new flaying of muscle and sinew instinctively drives me to clamp down on the stick. Needles flash. Blades passed from one ghoul to the next. Gossamer threads hang and drag over me. Sized up. Then pulled tight. Then sized up again.
I
dream of wyndlecain. Maze-like arbyrs rising from the sodden muddwoods. The upside-down tree. The topsy-turvy tree. A gaggle of roots spanning much farther than any network of branches above.
They’re clouded in the mists of the bog. The sweet pseudo-scent of mint drenches the air. The roots elevate from the water with such complexity that whole villages could reside within. But none dare. None, save the rootbois.
Lost souls who burrow into the arbyrs' loving arms – slowly becoming part of the tree, actively desiring to be one with the tree, until there is no distinction between the rooted and the wyndlecain itself. If only I could will myself there now. If only I could escape to those loving roots. If only this were more than a dream.
At some point, I subconsciously reach down to my longboots. I blindly grasp for the precious roots that only I know are there. But… they’re not there. The roots are gone. My longboots – are gone.
I’m damn near naked on this primitive slab. I can’t quite fathom where I am. And the riddle of exactly how I got here doesn’t quite click in my mind. But any attempt to survey my surroundings requires movement – and movement sparks excruciating pain.
The pain is a fire, engulfing my body, threatening to consume me. It’s a pain I could manage, if only I could reach one of those roots. The desire for relief drives me to reach to my lower leg – reaching to find the wyndleroot. But… it’s gone. It’s fucking gone. What have these savages done??
If only I could be amongst the wyndlecain now…
The rhythms are ever-present. They invade my hallucinations. They impose themselves on my peaceful surveying of the stately wyndlecains. They drone on, even as I observe those places where drums never beat, those places where the wyndlecains hold sway.
They are around me. They are in me. And all I can do is pray that some merciful hand will eventually make them stop. But they do not stop.
Faces haunt my visions. Painted faces. Fantastic faces. They dance between my sleeping and waking eye. Indistinguishable from demons. Or caretakers. Or spirits meant to escort me to the afterworld.
They’re not my arbyrkin. They boast broad features with powerful jaws. Buttressed by the puffy, kinky hair of those who favor night. Jewelry hewn from the wilderness. Their hands are swift and sure in their purpose. But their faces are obscured by bright – and terrifying – patterns.
I don’t know when I become aware that I’m bound to this table. I don’t entirely understand why I should be bound at all. Until they begin cutting. And I begin screaming. Or at least, I try to scream. But the acrid branch, shoved sideways within my mouth, muffles my cries.
A new flaying of muscle and sinew instinctively drives me to clamp down on the stick. Needles flash. Blades passed from one ghoul to the next. Gossamer threads hang and drag over me. Sized up. Then pulled tight. Then sized up again.
My chiseled teeth impale the paltry wooden gag and sheer it into several pieces. The remaining force drives my own incisors deep into the pulp of my gums. Blood gushes into my throat. My muffled cries are more akin to gurgles at this point.
A quickening of the ghouls’ pace tells me that they were shocked at my ability to destroy the branch. A commotion ensues, followed by the placement of a new gag. Broader. Stronger. Better suited to the assault of finely-sharpened teeth. The facial patterns change – evolve. They are painted anew with whimsical patterns of blood. My own blood.
The spatterings do not undermine the artistic integrity of the patterns. Rather, they seem to accentuate the artwork. They add a new, gruesome layer to the tribal stylings. My muted screams afford me no relief – but the faces continue unabated throughout their task – a task that is attacked with merciful efficiency, but I can’t appreciate any aspect of their skill until the cutting ends.
If only I could be amongst the wyndlecain now…
I am still bound. I can’t lift my head far enough to size up my restraints. Although I realize that, at this moment, I could easily be confined by the faintest threads of silk.
The pantomime faces are gone. Everything is still – except those goddamn drums. Everyone seems to have gone. But from my prone position, I swear I spy Montal laying across the room from me. Or… is that really Montal at all?? It’s someone – or some thing – that carries the vague identifiers of what I previously knew as my older brother.
He’s bloated and still. His long silvery hair drapes beyond the limits of his table. Tubes, of unknown material, plunge into various points of his torso.
He glistens with sweat – although the room feels no hotter to me than any other place in this suffocating climate. Every open centimeter of his visible skin lacks his proper, grey hue. He’s a jumbled tapestry of blues, and violets, and indigoes. And while I can’t properly trust my senses, I swear that he is somehow… bigger.
It’s more than just a swelling. His arms are motionless, but they seem to strain against his ties. His chest rises and falls with the rhythm of those infernal drums. But when his lungs fill, I’m alarmed by the height to which his chest inflates.
Even as he lays there, completely helpless, there’s something about him (my own brother) that somehow alarms me. At any moment, I’m paranoid that he’ll open his eyes, disintegrate those bindings, and run amok amongst any who stand in his path.
I call to him. But he offers no acknowledgment. And I’m not entirely sure if my words exist in real space – or merely in my own mind.
I want to keep calling to him – to get some kinda reassurance that this is still my brother. But the pain… It rises again. Like a conquering despot. The fire colonizes every iota of my body and burrows deep within my fractured brain.
Instinctively, I reach for my longboots. I just need a root. One single root to make this agony subside. But my hands are pinned to my side. My fingers can almost scan the top of my knee – where my longboot should be… But I feel nothing but naked skin.
There are no longboots. There are no wyndleroots. And I descend into an undefined period of despair, railing against my constraints, straining the stitching that now riddles my body, and cursing every face-painted piece of shite who ever had the nerve to invade my sanctity. But no degree of flailing provides even one smidgeon of comfort. Quite the opposite.
I am in hell. I am wallowing in my own private underworld.
If only I could be amongst the wyndlecain now…
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