Eternal Darkness (The Cimmerian Cycle #1)

Prologue

Prologue

The little girl was clutching her father’s fingers so tightly that the tips were red. She did this unconsciously however as she was concentrating far more on her breathing. Her narrow face was splotchy with colour and wet with snot and tears making her look miserable. And miserable was how she felt. Her hair was tied back simply and did not hide her wide eyes which were burning red with grief. Her father didn’t notice the numbness in the tips of his fingers because the black storm cloud that was death bore down heavily on his heart. You could tell from their elaborate clothing that they were not ordinary villagers.

Behind the little girl and her father followed his three sons. They had their heads bowed in sorrow and silent tears dripped down their quivering chins. They were walking towards the heart of the village, where lights beamed down from high above holding back the darkness that tried to seep in.

The girl’s eyes found the black box as she stepped into the square with her father. Inside, in the velvet lining was the little girl’s mother. Her hair was as dark was her daughter’s and was arranged carefully around her face. To anyone and everyone her eyes were her best feature and would now lay closed forever in eternal slumber. The father halted his children; he did not want them to see their mother’s pale face. Then went alone towards the coffin, slowly he leant over the open box and placed his lips on his wife’s cold forehead. The iciness clung to his lips reminding him forever more that death came as it pleased. He was past the point of disbelief. With trembling fingers he shut the box. He could not bear to look at her lifeless body any longer.

He went back to his children who moved closed and huddled around their father. The little girl stared at the box with watery eyes. Unlike her father, she couldn’t believe what was happening. Her mother had been perfectly healthy and happy a few days ago and then one morning she didn’t awake. The girl had waited at her door for days. She had that young curiosity that didn’t comprehend the pain. She had watched the doctors go in and out, hopefully, but they always slammed the door in her face. They had no time for children.

It was on the third day when the girl was allowed in. She crept towards her mother’s bed with weary eyes. She saw her mother, as pale as a ghost, not even able to lift a limb to help herself. She crawled into bed beside her mother and hugged her tightly as if she would be able to keep her out of the clutches of death. Her mother sang to her in a croaky voice that was so unlike her own that it scared the girl. What had happened to her mother dearest that had changed her so much? She told her daughter one last story before her husband came in and carried his sad girl away. He did not want to see his daughter witness anymore pain then she already had.

When the girl woke the next day she rushed upstairs to find her mother who would surely be much better by now. Instead, she found the bed made up and her father standing by the window, his shoulders hunched and his shaking hands resting on the sill. She ran over to him, her face falling into a frown.

“What’s wrong daddy?” she asked him, hugging him around his middle.

He stroked her hair, “Mother is gone,” he said with a hollow voice, “she has gone to a better place.”

The black-haired girl didn’t understand, “But she will come back won’t she?”

“Mummy’s not coming back,” her father choked.

He did not want to see his daughter cry, but he knew lies would hurt more than the truth. Tears ran down her pale face as she comprehended what he had said and he hugged her tightly. She was all he had left as a living reminder of the woman he had loved so much. Her black hair and wide eyes were almost identical to her mother’s.

Now she was standing with her father in the village square. Their neighbours and friends all paid their respects, throwing a flower on top of the box, before forming a circle around the coffin. Then the priest came forward, dressed in long robes of blinding white. He was carrying a white candle in both hands, held out in front of his body. He placed it on top of the coffin amongst the flowers at the end where the woman’s head lay. He lit it quickly and stood back.

The crowd fell silent. The priest stood in front of the coffin and gave a blessing. The little girl wasn’t listening; with red eyes she was watched the smoke from the candle rise. Then her father loosened her grip so that he could move into the centre of the circle to speak.

“Wife to myself, Mother to Kiayani, Joel, Wilhelm and Talos, daughter of Tredin and Flora. Rachia you will be remembered by all as a loving person who cared about everyone, no matter how young or old, or rich or poor,” his voice cracked slightly, “may you rest forever with the Ancestors.”

He bowed his head in grief and made his way back to Kiayani, his little girl. Hand in hand they walked back slowly through the shadowy streets. He took the little girl home and left her with her maid. She would be looked after. His boys hugged him before also walking inside. The eldest, understanding his father’s grief, tried to hush up his brothers. Then the father made his way back to the now empty square to sit by the cold corpse that had been his wife. There he would stay until the candle burned out, and the smoke no longer spiralled into the sky.

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