Villő

 The castle keeps falling, day in and day out... What would you do to keep it up?

Fiction by Naoka Nóra Kádár-Todo

Déva Village, South of Hungary.

A fair land enshrouded between the wreathing green hills, slumbering dragons overgrown by the serenity of the earth they eternally rested on. The tang of the supernatural seeped into the air, the ancient rocks echoing of the years before the land was overrun by the rush of men.

A Boy stands in the square, his hand sticking to his mother’s patterned wool skirt. Awed from the still silence of the normally rushing market. His other hand gripped a simple doll, comprised of a corn cob and a rag wrapped around.

A Herald spoke.

The Herald held his head high as he bellowed, his voice a beacon, stark through the bobbing sea of surrounding people. Excited whispers began to ripple through the crowd, for the Herald was dressed wealthily in the fashion of the time, in supple boots, tight leggings and a beautiful mente – a thick, woven coat, fitting like a glove upon him. The plume on his hat shuffled slightly in the gentle wind, hinting at lingering winter weather. He snapped open a roll of parchment paper. The bustling square of Déva seemed to be lost in time, under the spring sunshine, the thatched roofs of the cottages wreathed in smoke. It was close to the noontime meal; customarily the women would be busy cooking at this time, yet even they came out to see what was happening. 

“The year is 1242 of our Lord. Listen closely, ye men and women of Déva. For the invading Tatárs that had ravaged our noble country of Pannónia are now gone.” A cheer vibrated across the people, for the invading Tatárs left chaos and destruction at their wake. They were rumoured to skin infants for mere entertainment and took turns in sharing women before cutting their throat. The Herald raised a hand – a hand with slender, almost girlish fingers – that demanded silence and attention. “But now, ye people, thou hast to prepare. For the savage Tatárs are to return, an adversary that may mean the end for us Magyars.” Shocked gasps were omitted, with the breaking rush of indignant cries and shouts. The hand was raised yet again. “Heed me now, ye people, for this is the command of thy noble and sage King. The mountainous land of Déva shall be part of the country’s chain of defence.” He raised a firm finger towards the hills, and the Boy swivelled his head around. It was a high hill, sticking out like a camel’s hump, overlooking Déva. “Thy King’s orders are for thou to build a stone castle, far mightier than anyone ever hast seen, upon the top of that mountain. Thy labour shalt be rewarded with gold and silver medallions in plenty if thou shalt complete it over the passing of twelve seasons.” The scroll danced shut in the Herald’s hand, before he mounted a bay stallion, galloping away from the awed crowd that launched into motion.

The Boy walked, still latched onto his mother.

---

The Boy looks up from the array of pots he set up around him. The bastion of a castle.

His mother stroked his smoky ash locks with the edge of her fingers as she strode by, busying herself in the kitchen. Her mane of hair, just as black as his, was tied back under a headkerchief – a married woman. Her smouldering brown eyes eagerly set upon the stew bubbling on the hearth, herbs and onions hanging on the walls beside the grand pot. She packed a massive loaf of bread into a rough kitchen towel, some bacon and onion set on the side, and handed it to her son to carry.

“Off we go!” she said eagerly, before peeking out of the door. “Look, Miklós is already here with the cart! Quickly now, your father must be starving!”

The Boy clambered away from the fortress he erected, rushing eagerly to his mother’s side.

“Do you think Father managed to build it this time?”

“We’ll see, darling, but up you go now!” The Boy squealed excitedly as he was lifted high into the canvassed cart by a great, pot-bellied man. Miklós the carter cast a smile underneath his shaggy, bristling moustache, and gently tapped his felt hat to greet the lady of the house. With a pudgy hand, he helped her up too.

“G’Morning, my lady,” he greeted, before cracking a long whip in the air. The carriage launched into motion.

“Good morning, Miklós – if it’s good at all,” she sighed, looking towards the hills. The jagged grey tooth of the half-finished castle scowled back at them. “Any news about the castle?”

“Well, my lady,” Miklós directed the horses skilfully onto the narrow village road. “Same as always. What Master Kelemen and the other stonemasons build up in the morning is down by noon, and what’s built after noon is nothing by the evening.” He shook his head mournfully. “’Tis a pity, ‘tis a pity. But I’m sure Master Kelemen will think of something to keep the walls up.” Miklós said no more, focusing on the gradually ascending road – for it was perilous and steep, and the forest engulfed them all. The horses twitched their ears irately, and sped up, keen to reach their destination.

The cart went on, rattling at a steady pace. It reached the gentle slope of a peak, where the trees were felled, and great stone walls towered over them. The plateau seemed to be stripped to the bone. The cries of the workers echoed across the clearing, coordinated and clear, and the cart stopped at a safe distance from the construction.

“Thank you, Miklós.” The Boy was lifted out, still holding the great loaf of bread in his hand. “Careful with that pot. It’s still hot.”

“Hey! Lads! Anna is ‘ere!” a tall worker cried, placing down his bucket filled with gravel. The mother and son walked past a great stone arch, unpolished, but sturdy. For now, the castle was a skeleton – for some parts were already set, with a courtyard and high walls and a well. Yet a section of the wall facing the village was still missing – the flesh and skin of the castle. Beside the great stone structure, some of the men were already sitting, eating eagerly. Many women were also carrying tubs and pots. Bacon and onion were being toasted above a campfire. “Kelemen! Coom over ‘ere! Yeh wife’s ‘ere!”

A short, heavily built man walked away from a table filled with papers. His open, bearded face lit up into a smile when he viewed his son and wife. He stretched, walking up to them slowly, scratching his short-cut nutmeg hair.

“You needn’t have come, love.” Kelemen said to his wife, stroking the head of his son who ran up to greet him.

“Nonsense – you men need the power to build!” the woman laughed, pecking him on the cheek. He opened the lid of the pot, his eyes glowing up.

“Beef stew,” he whistled, eagerly grabbing a bowl from a table. His wife ladled a large potion out for him. “You’re an angel, Anna.”

“Well, I’m no angel, but I will always cook for you. How’s the construction going?”

“As usual.” he sighed, taking some more of the stew. Another man waited beside Kelemen, hungrily eyeing the food, ginger and stout.

“Got any to spare?”

“Take as much as you want,” Anna said, ladling some stew for him.

“Thanks,” he said, gratefully. He squinted at the incomplete wall. “Well, it’s incredible, isn’t it? The twelve of us aren’t enough to finish this damned castle. The twelve of the best, too!”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to finish it. Don’t let your hopes down, Karuj!” Anna said.

“It’s hard not to, Anna, when the wall keeps breaking down every day,” another man chimed in, walking by them.

“You still have plenty of time to build. Over a year, Márton.” Márton cheerily waved as he walked off to his own wife, wiping his hands eagerly into his trousers.

“I swear, God himself reaches down and knocks the walls over,” Kelemen laughed. “With the tip of his little finger.”

“Well, he may, but you still need to eat up – you look famished.” Anna ladled some more food for his husband and handed him a slice of black rye bread.

“You’re spoiling me, Anna, I swear,” he laughed.

“You hit the jackpot, Kelemen,” Benedek the stonemason shook his head. “A loving wife, a beautiful son, all the brains you need.”

“Are you saying I’m not enough?” a blonde woman beside him reprimanded sharply.

“You are plenty enough,” the young man said hastily, fearfully glimpsing at his wife. “Sometimes a little too much!”

They all burst into laughter as she started to chase Benedek, wielding a wooden spoon.

“The Táltos existed since the dawn of time, my son.”

The broken moon beamed down upon the Boy, the fragments of light scattered into the floundering forest floor and beyond the crevices of the plateaus, sprinkles of smashed starlight scurrying down. He blinked to divert the droplets of light away from his eyes, skimming through the heavy mask upon his head, way too big for him. An ancient mask – a mare’s skull, padded from the inside with deer pelt, adorned with simple patterns. The smell packed with sage and incense, cemented in the mask from the years and years of ceremonies. Little bells tingled on the edge of a wooden staff, set beside his right, lightly placed on top of a tambourine drum on his left.  

His mother was sitting with him, slender arms shielding his shoulders from behind, a crackling fire his sentinel, sparking in front. A thick, wool blanket covering the two of them from the merciless cold around them. The Boy traced his finger across the smooth, polished ebony end of the staff, making the bells jingle softly. 

The Boy let the night, the Éj, engulf him. He was unsure how he got here, but he let everything be – the serenity, the beauty. All of it. The mountains wreathed around them, from all directions, the dolomite peaks illuminating from the moon, penetrating the heavy darkness.

“The Táltos,” his mother continued, breaking the great barrier of the Éj. Her voice was low and faery-like, seeping into every cell of the Boy. This was not her usual self, but her story-telling voice, when it was only the two of them. “The Táltos were the Spirits’ servants - the great deities of the Earth who gave them a holy power to see visions.” she raised an arm out of the blanket. The Boy could catch glimpses of a white tunic through the eyeholes of the skull, tinted with the rush of scarlet. Intricate string patterned into complex letters on the garment. Rovás letters. His mother told him of Rovás before, how during the mid-summer festival the Táltos would mark the letters onto the bark of many trees for a good harvest, or brand Rovás onto horses for them to be swifter and stronger.

It all went dark.

He opened his eyes, blinking confusedly.

The Boy sat by the fire, in the rocking chair, with the warmth of his mother seeping into him. The familiar, adorned whitewashed walls of the home watching him. He looked around, dazed, blinking tiredly. Anna smiled down upon him.

“You must’ve fallen asleep,” she laughed, a gentle sound trickling into his ears. The magic of the strange dream faded away from him, sinking to the back of his mind.

“I thought it was real,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t like a dream,”

“Maybe it was a vision,” his mother joked, “Long, long ago, the Táltos would dream too – and your great, great, great, great grandfather was one...”

“I know – you told me so many times about him!” he said. The Boy still felt the slightest tingle of cold in his fingers. “Was this a vision?”

“Nay, I doubt so – it’s from too many of my stories in your head! And look, your eyes are slowly glueing shut! Off to bed with you!”

---

“GET BACK! IT’S FALLING! BOYS, RUN!” Boldizsár yelled frantically at the men working beside him, leaping hastily away himself, his words forming mist in the bitter, icy cold. The men scurried desperately back, fleeing from the tottering walls, swaying like reeds. The quakes were hesitant at first, but were now intensifying, raging. A deep rumble echoed across the earthy ground, knocking the quill out of Kelemen’s twitching hand. He had been looking desperately through documents containing information on the types of stone and cement, in a desperate attempt to find an answer for the construction being unsuccessful. Half-asleep from fatigue, the stonemason looked up from his work inside a makeshift tent, only to see the wall tumble down like toy bricks, a messy heap assorted with a cloud of rising dust and snow.

“Damn it!” someone cried, frenzied, in the waking chaos. A worker threw his hat frustratedly into the slush beneath him, defeated. Another laughed, picking his sack up, nonchalantly walking away from the construction.

Groaning, Kelemen laid his head into his arms.

Failure. Again.

They only had half a year left to build Déva Castle.

12 stonemasons and twenty workers remained.

---

The mother and the Boy strolled beside the edges of the forest, picking wild strawberries. It was late spring, and the little scarlet berries peeked out between the long bladed grass in the clearing. Many women and girls strode around with wicker baskets in their arms.

The Boy and Anna went a littl0e further away, where the strawberries would grow plumper and riper. Soon enough, they were alone, the gossip and mirthful talk of the others dissolving behind them. Tall ferns brushed against their feet, for the forest was but a few steps away from them, and the black barks of the trees were specked with flowering moss. The Boy spotted a cluster of rich, velvety fruit, nestled on a little hillock not far from them by the trees. He picked his basket up and started to traverse towards the strawberries, but a firm, almost steely, grip on his shoulder stopped him.

“Careful,” she said. “Don’t wander off without me. You never know when something could get you. Like the Villő”

“The Villő? What are you talking about, Mother? You mean faeries?”

“No, no,” she replied, taking his hand more gently as they walked on. “The Villő are something much more ancient than faeries, or ghosts, or anything like that. They have been around before the dawn of time.”

“Where do they live?”

“In the heart of the oldest trees. They roam around the forests.” she explained. “Villő perceive far more than any of us. They are drawn to humans, especially ones with Táltos roots like us. They target little children like you, and victims who carry fear or sorrow in their heart.”

“What do they look like?”

“Nobody knows, for anyone who saw the Villő didn’t live to see another day,” she said. “They call for you. Once the Villő gets you, there’s no escape. You can’t outrun it.”

“What do you do if you do see one?”

“Just run. Run, as if the wind was chasing you. But come on now, we have gone way too far. We have enough strawberries to feed an army!” She proudly looked upon the basket, filled to the brim.

“Can we take some for Father?”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said. “I bet it’ll make him cheer up a bit.”

---

“You’re joking, Gyula.”

“Do you really think I am?” Gyula exclaimed, glaring at the others. “Damn it, Kelemen, I had enough. I’m quitting.”

The twelve stonemasons stood, despaired, by the almost complete castle.

Only a minute segment of the wall was missing.

It was two days till the deadline.

“Gyula has a point,” one of them noted. Sándor. An older man in his forties, rubbing his long beard irately. “It’s clear, Kelemen, we won’t finish this in time. I say we give up.”

Boldizsár stepped forward into the circle of men, his baby blue eyes burning.

“This is no coincidence. It’s a punishment of God,” he said, lowering his voice. “And He’s unhappy with us.”

“Unhappy, unhappy.” Gyula spat bitterly. “What should we do then, cry and pray?”

“Nay, that won’t appease God,” Boldizsár slowly said. “But a sacrifice would.”

There was a deafening silence as the stonemasons faced Boldizsár.

A spark in their eyes.

A spark of mingled fear, of hope, of disgust, of exhaustion. Of greed. They were revulsed by the idea, but they also wanted rest. They wanted to finish the work that was so close, yet so far from being complete. It was the final push to the finish, just by the tip of their fingers. The gold, the silver endless, if only they built the last wall.  

“Go on, Boldizsár.” Márton said. “Elaborate.”

“Well, I heard this from my uncle.” Boldizsár continued. “That in his village, they had a case just like ours. A castle that kept falling no matter what – it was from a curse sent by God. Well, they had a ‘draw’. The man who drew the shortest straw brought his son the next day, who they cremated into the cement of the castle. The castle’s still there.”

A stunned silence.

“I don’t even have a kid,” one of them said eventually.

“But we all,” Boldizsár put emphasis onto his words. “Have a wife.”

“Heck no,” Benedek stepped back. “I know where this is going. You’re all mad. God does not approve of murder – it’s against God…”

“God isn’t letting us finish, Benedek.” Boldizsár snapped. “Coward! You’re the youngest amongst us all, and yet you speak like you’re the wisest. Do you have any better idea?”

“But this is murder!” Benedek protested, fearfully looking at the placid faces of the others. It seemed as though Boldizsár’s words confirmed a nagging whisper at the back of their mind – that this was fated, God’s will. The words not sinking fully in yet, like a slowly spreading poison, but already moved them to act, no matter what. “You can’t be serious…”

Benedek turned towards Kelemen; a final, hopeful plea.

“Please.” He exclaimed. “Please – you can’t agree to this.”

“I see no other choice.” Kelemen said heavily.

Benedek said no more, bowing his head mournfully.

“Well, without any more objections,” Boldizsár said. “I suggest this. To make it fair, whoever’s wife comes here first shall be chosen. Now, let’s shake hands, to seal this promise.”

---

“My lady, it’s pouring today. I doubt anyone will go.” Miklós the coach driver winced as the rain pattered into his eye.

“Exactly – the poor men must be starving!” Anna said, pulling a travel cloak on. She turned to her son, hugging him. “You stay here, darling. I don’t want you to catch a cold. Be a good boy. Auntie Emese will be coming along soon to watch over you!”

“Send Father my love!” The Boy said, waving at the entrance.

“I will. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Are you sure…” Miklós asked, yet again, as he was packing the food onto the cart.

“Yes, I am!” Anna interrupted. “Come on, quickly, Miklós, before the soup gets cold! It’s the boys’ favourite today, too – some bean soup with sour cream on the side…” Before Miklós could object, she got on.

The two of them drove off in the sprinkling rain, the sky loaded with the mess and tangle of clouds. The forest shielded the cart from the moisture and the horses plodded cautiously on the slimy road.

“My Lady, I… I’m still against us going,” Miklós said after a while, when they were about halfway along the path. “I had a queer nightmare last night…”

“A nightmare?”

“Yes. The Master and the other stonemasons mourning, dressed in black. Because your son… Why, the little, sweet boy… He fell into the well in your garden and he… I can’t even say it, my lady, it’s so terrible, as though it was real. I feel queasy just thinking about it…” Miklós shuddered. “It’s as though… As though God Himself sent a warning.”

“Well, he’s safe at home,” Anna replied, though she too involuntarily shivered. “It must be this horrible weather that caused your nightmare, Miklós. Make sure you rest well tonight.”

“Thank you, my lady, for your concern. But it’s for you that I’m worried about…”

“You’re becoming superstitious, Miklós!” she laughed. “Don’t fear! Look, we’re almost there, thank God. The poor horses must be struggling.”

---

Kelemen blinked once, twice, then for the third time, out of superstition. Yearning for luck that would not come.

The cart was drawing nearer, inch by inch. It was almost by the clearing.

His cart.

The eleven stonemasons had their eyes intently locked onto their prey. The workers had been sent away to bring more rocks from the village quarry on the other end of Déva, bound to return by the early evening, spurred on with the promise of this being the final attempt to build Déva Castle. A large pyre of wood and leaves remained in a large, covered heap in a secluded part of the courtyard, waiting to be lit.

“Please, good God, don’t let her come. Don’t. Strike down with thunder, with a landslide… Anything, dear God – don’t… Please… Please not my wife… Not Anna…” His mind raced; Kelemen’s eyes goggled as the wagon reached the clearing. “Break the cart. The horses’ legs. Anything. Please. Please!”

The men cast the shadow of a pitying look towards Kelemen, who stood, unable to turn away from his approaching wife who dismounted from the cart, rushing towards them. Nausea overwhelmed him, head to toe.

Relief spread amongst the other stonemasons.

“Hello, I brought some lunch!” she flicked her hood off from her head. She smiled as she saw the approaching men, hanging their heads. Yet a determined glimmer flickered in their eyes, unnervingly set on every movement she made. Kelemen leant against the entrance of a doorway, hiding his face, unable to look at her.

“Kelemen! What’s wrong?” she ran up to him, concerned. “Are you ill? You must have caught a cold being out in the rain!”

“Anna – I’m… I’m sorry…” he wept, unable to stop himself. With quivering hands, he took the pot from her, placing it on the floor. He hugged her forcefully, as though that could save her soul slipping away between his fingers.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? It’s alright!”

“No, it isn’t. Oh, my dear God, forgive me.” He let go, choking on his sobs.

“What… What did you do?” Anna looked into Kelemen’s bleary eyes. The glimpse whispered regret, but also of a lurking sense of desperation.

“Anna… It’s my fault…”

“Anna, we have made an agreement,” Boldizsár stepped to her, his voice twinged with sorrow. “For the castle to be built, God demands a sacrifice. The sacrifice of the first woman who stepped between these walls. I’m sorry, Anna. You were the first.”

Anna looked, bewildered, at the men.  

All of them reflecting the same emotions.

Sadness.

Resolve.

Murder.

Anna was a sacrifice. She could not escape, no matter how much she pleaded or cried.

Anna squished down the instinctive urge to scream, to panic, to fight – it was miserably fruitless. She was going to leave the world with dignity… Or at least all strength she could muster.

“My heart breaks, knowing that I’ll never see my son again,” she said, surprised by her own calmness. “But an agreement must be kept. Kill me. Just do it as quick as you can, I beg. And Kelemen… Please be with me until the end…”

Kelemen was unable to reply, sobbing as his wife latched onto him. She kissed his lips slowly, savouring every remaining moment with her husband, his tears flowing onto her flushed cheek before she hid her head in his bosom.

Boldizsár raised the whetted, prepared knife.

---

And the castle stood by nightfall.

The last section of the wall built, completed just in time.

“Have you been cooking something?” one of the workers asked Boldizsár, sniffing intently around the ashen ruins of the pyre. “It’s smells like meat. Don’t say you left us out of a treat!”

Boldizsár did not respond.

---

The Boy sleepily cracked an eye open, as he sat up in his bed. The depths of the night, the Éj, surrounded him, held at bay by a flickering candle set on the kitchen table.

“Mother?” he said, uncertainly, catching a soft rustle beside him.

“It’s me, son, your father,” Kelemen approached him, his shadow elongated upon the clean, tiled floor of their home. “Go back to sleep.”

“Where’s Mother?” he piped. Silence.

“She’s…” his father’s still voice cracked slightly. “Wait for her till dawn.”

And the Boy obeyed, laying back onto his tall pillow, drowned in a deep slumber.

---

He woke from the first ray of sunlight peeking through the window, dreamily sprayed onto the table.

The Boy’s father sat there, slumped, bottles of pálinka liquor set in front of him. Plum pálinka, from last year’s harvest, emptied. A swelling bag of silver and gold coins spilling out onto the tabletop. The Boy had never seen such an immense amount of money before. The dazed man looked up, the black eyes glassy, shattered to smithereens.

“Where’s my mother?”

No reply.

The boy crawled out from the tangle of blankets.

“The dawn has come, Father,” the Boy felt a gnawing unease upon him. “Where is she?”

“Go out to the castle, and see for yourself,” he replied, emptily, taking yet another swig of the bottle. “She’s there.”

“What? Why would she be there?”

The man said nothing, keeling over.

---

The Boy braved the twilight forest, winding him gradually inward, the mud and grass a swirling mirage beneath his uncertain feet.

The first time he ever ventured out, alone.

He half-expected a monster, a mumus, to leap out from the unknown and gnaw him to the marrow of his bones. Yet it was silent, besides his panting gasp, as he clawed his way past a bunch of stinging nettles. Adrenaline thundered through him.

A small crack.

It.

It was behind him.

He didn’t know how far, but it was there.

“No need to run.” A sparkling voice shot through the air, penetrating his exhaustion.

A shiver slithered through his spine.

Don’t reply to it.

Don’t call it out.

Just go.

It’s the Villő. Don’t reply to it. Go. Keep climbing.

Yet he was rooted to the spot. Unable to move an inch.

“Where’s my mother?” his mouth articulated by itself. “Where is she? You aren’t her. You’re a Villő! You want to… Kill me!”

“Of course I do, child – we are the Villő, after all.” The voice reprimanded, as though he said something absurd. “Come with me. Come, little boy. Look at your sweet little eyes, all flustered.”

He launched a steady step back.

Towards the blissful sound.

This voice couldn’t lie. It was honest. It could only be appeased by harming him. It was brimming with kindness and compassion, sage, motherly. He had to obey. A tone far different from any other creature upon this Earth. A mirage of the ancient times, the shadow of a dream, like the Táltos. Nay, even older.  

He turned his head slowly.

He saw.

A hand. Lustrous red hair, matt in the sun that peeked through the unyielding canopy of leaves. Colours too stark to be human, too defined and real to be faery. Godly, radiating, terrible.

The forest was bleached around the Villő, or what the Boy could see of it – it was as though the trees and rocks cowered away, embarrassed by their fatigued pallor, shirking and grovelling.

And the Villő called to him.

The wind blew.

Stirring something within him. Fishing it from the depth of his consciousness.

His mother’s words.

“Run, as if the wind was chasing you.”

His mother.

The faint moment of the memory was enough. He was in peril. If he approached a step more, he would be dead on the spot.

“Anyone who saw the Villő did not live to see another day.”

The Boy ran.

Faster than the wind.

And the Villő disappeared, unmoving.

For now.

---

Déva Castle towered intimidatingly above him. The round bastions and walls and tiled roof shining down upon him, sweating from the cast of dew. Stunning.

The Boy had crouched down, leaning against the wall, out of breath, his voice raw, cracked. Every inch of his body shredded and filthy.

“Mother!” he called. For a final time.

---

“My son,”

The walls answered.

Disoriented and surprised, he slipped violently in the mud. Blindly rising to all fours, he crawled to the walls, squeezing himself against the stone.

“Mother!”

“My darling son!”

“Where are you? Where are you calling from?” he exclaimed frantically. His tears glistened from the growing light and his voice broke down into incoherent wails. “Mummy! Come here!”

“I can’t.” The voice of his mother reeked from fury, from regret, from yearning. He had never heard such a melancholy voice. “I am bound to these walls, wedged between the bricks, forever! Oh, I can never kiss you, never hug you again! Oh! Darling!”

“Mother! Come on! Mummy! Mummy, please!”

Both the wall and the Boy mourned, without hope. The emotions quaked relentlessly through the Boy, oscillating, vibrating, tearing the world around him…

But no, the quaking was… Real…

Under him, intensifying with the sob of the separated mother.

With a clean snap, a chasm opened, spreading beside the Boy. Radiating of pain and terror, of a motherly yearning and passion, depthless, endless, lethal. Of love. And the Boy’s feet shuffled by themselves, yearning for something unreachable.

The Boy took a step into the nothingness.

And he fell.

Morning rose over Déva Castle.