* * * * *
There was no sound in the house but weeping.
* * * * *
In a time of diabolical demons and weird weather, Myrken Wood prospered.
With the advent of winter, an early winter, and a break in the sudden snows -- nature, always a fickle mistress, had settled moodily on overcast skies and placid rain the last few days, and the sun had yet to make even a guest appearance -- the merchants and farmfolk were coming to Myrken in droves, their ox-driven carts and laden wayns rumbling and rattling on the cobbledstoned streets, their cries and curses audible over the general din. While they hated being rained on, merchants hated empty coffers and full wagons even more; and the farmers, while soured by the weather's dreary turn, trudged onward, whether on foot or on horseback or leading pack mules, occasionally stopping to chat or trade with the merchants, sometimes digging in their worn pockets or coin purses to buy a new cooking pot, a trinket for a son or daughter, sewing needles, boots that had seen better days but were in better shape than the pair they wore or had back at the farm. These and more changed hands, and among the glitter and splash of rain was the glint and jingle of coin. This was a time of ripe picking for the merchants and the peddlers: the smallfolk were holed up in their homes with aught to do but wag their tongues -- oh, a sock might need darning; a bed's frame might need reinforcement; the fire might need to be kept -- but when the merchant wagon's guttering lanterns came a-swaying into view, their light made somewhat vague by the persistent fog on the windows of each and every building, the people came, and they came in surprising numbers. Too, the shopkeepers kept vigil: the visiting farmers were potential customers, after all, and their coin was as good as any other -- provided they had the correct amount of coin, of course, or wits sharp enough to haggle with men whose love of business came not from money but from the game, the thrill of profit and loss, the nail-biting anguish and goosebump-spawning pleasure of risk, the exchange of words and information that could make or break a man; it was these facets of the game that true entrepreneurs scrutinized during their examination of the diamond of business, and those that didn't grasp the game's concept, much less enjoy any or all of its glory and appreciate its vanity, were obviously not cut out to participate in the endeavors of their betters.
Tension, too, prospered.
At night the streets belonged to the footpads, the cutpurses, the alley children whose hungry eyes glistened; at night the solitary man or woman was wary, even afraid, their steps short and quick, and those traveling in pairs had at least a cudgel or a dagger between them; at night the lamps illumined dutifully, yet queer shadows tricked the eyes, and sounds one might normally disregard transfixed the heart with a twenty-foot lance of fear; at night the crow called for flesh, the bell tolled for whomever, and the cold fat moon howled for blood to warm its pockmarked face. The sun's pale glow did little enough during the day, but it was enough -- at night, however, it was winter for true, the wind bitter and biting, the ground damp and hard, sometimes frozen. Some whispered that fell creatures wandered the cobblestones, disappearing whenever you so much as glanced; others, more fearful yet, spoke not of creatures but of men, men with furtive eyes and shining blades, men wanting for hearth and home, men whose faces were sometimes recognized but often forgotten. Women huddled in doorways, wrapped against the cold, waiting for their children to return at sunset, dusk at the latest; men stood before their homes, their shops, their carts full of various wares, and eyed all who passed with no small measure of suspicion, often while ostentatiously brandishing a cleaver, a large knife, a quarterstaff, and more -- one man even bore a scythe. At night fear lined every face like sweet silken sable on a fine cloak; at night the winter owl hooted, the mice trembled; at night the moon dribbled silvery saliva onto the earth's darkened face, and the stars, ever distant, always twinkling in amusement, simply watched, as was their pleasure.
Men and women alike spoke in hushed tones of evil in the black of vesper:
A girl of twelve found in an alley stripped, raped, and strangled;
an elderly man crucified to the backside of a building;
a mother decapitated, her corpse further defiled, and her infant son's head dashed against the cobblestones;
and more, and more, and more. The list grew with every passing night; the crimes grew more horrible just so.
Some spoke not of creatures but of men, unemployed men, the sort of men that poverty converted into victims of circumstance; the sort of men whose barren purses and rumbling bellies inspired them to undertake alternative methods of acquisition; the sort of men who did not allow petty, frivolous things such as morals and ethics to put their conscience to the question. The sort of men to whom conspiracy and treason meant aught.
The sort of men that, not so long ago, had wandered these very streets on patrol and protected Myrken's citizens as best as they could from the terrors that distended in the darkness.
Fear and wonder ruled the night in Myrken Wood, and every morning was like a purification: the sun took up its brush and painted the skies in shades of blood and gold, coloring the world with sacrifice, and a new day, a clean day, began.
But the night always returned, and with it came the fallen, the desperate, the iniquitous.
And then it started raining.
* * * * *
His screams were what woke the neighbors. Screams that reverberated grief, outrage, and blood.
* * * * *
The rain began unobtrusively. It was little more than a light mist, barely enough to stir the instinct to seek cover; the men ignored it, women took down their airing clothes, and children laughed gaily, frolicking in the haze -- often to the detriment of their mothers' sanity, as fog appeared not long after the rain. It was difficult to discern a small child from a fleeting shadow-shape, and in these wayward and wicked times one could never be certain of anything: a tendril of fog could be a tendril in truth, wispy, deadly; a shadow could spawn countless horrors, each worse than the last, each driven by a thirst for the blood of the innocent; the sky could open like a deep wound that rained fire, and mankind would reap as it had sown. Absurd; irrational; mad, even -- these and more were called out at those who gossiped about nightmares made flesh, yet no one spoke quieting words when those thoughts were voiced. If anything, the creases in their brows lengthened and deepened; their eyes tightened, involuntarily glanced at their surroundings; their bodies tensed, as if preparing to absorb the impact of some unseen blow. Day and night, fear and wonder -- in the mirror of the universe they were separate yet the same, polar opposites attracted to each other by the inexplicable magnetism of the worlds beyond the veil.
Too, the wind came into Myrken Wood calmly at first, soaring over its Wall and then the town's surrounding wall, weaving through streets and alleys, wriggling into open windows and cracked doors; but it seemed mere moments had passed ere the chill breeze transformed into a freezing gale that drove the rain before it, rain that in turn transformed into sleet, making the ground treacherous at best. There were more than a few reports of slips and falls that resulted in bumps, bruises, and broken bones -- and, in one case, death: a young boy lost his footing and cracked open his skull on a curb, much to the horror of his mother, who had been cherishing a moment's respite beneath a shop's awning. The bitter cold was worsened by the bitterer wind, and both were worsened further by the frozen rain that not only splashed on clothes and then immediately iced again but sliced through raiment and skin like a frore blade algid enough to glaciate marrow, to benumb the rushing heart. The Rememdium's business would flourish, much to the simultaneous joy and chagrin of its owner, the talented Doctor David D'rael, and the lives of Myrken townsfolk would continue as they tended to: normal, leaning toward humdrum even -- until the next catastrophe struck, of course.
