Afeallan

"Chapter" One

Rýnelic could see his home. He was standing on the last hill before the last of the land gave way to the sky and prostrated itself to the walls of the city. His city. He smiled as if he had earned his sight and surveyed the landscape around him. To the east the hills sloped down like a woman’s shoulder until they became the forest of Eastanwind. The trees became more sparse as they sprawled south into the desert of Aemtignes. As he continued the turn of his head, he saw the land finally surrender to the grave, and drop off as if it were the edge of the world. West was the virgin canyons; nameless and vacant. As his eyes completed their circle, like a snake eating its tail, he looked to the northern hills of Néandún; the hills where Rýnelic now stood. All of this was on an island—Geargadas. Only Rýnelic knew it was an island, for only Rýnelic had set sail and circumvented the country. He grew weary of his surroundings, though, and instead focused his attention on the earthy road before him. As he traced the road with his eyes, he found himself looking down at the paradox in the center between himself and the world. Home.

 

Rýnelic had another fifteen miles or so to go before he reached his destination. He stood atop the hill resting, breathing in his surroundings. His heart fluttered. His chest swelled. He stood there like a light-post, bent slightly to the left against the wind. He was smiling. Rýnelic had been away for seven years and had done everything a man can before he repents. He had all the qualities of a man who had faced death—all except humility—and wore them on his person with a suicidal swagger. He had traveled the world and learned its ways; and it had made him cynical. He learned that the world grows as it dies. Like the floating bloated carcass of a drowned sailor forgotten at sea. For seven years, Rýnelic had been running.

 

He began his way down the hill, carrying a cloth sack slung over his left shoulder. Inside the sack was everything he had accrued over the course of his travels—all of it worthless and all of it his. It burdened him, weighed him down, and made all the more speedy and reckless his sprint down the hill. It beat against his back with every step as he ran. He had a long way to go, he thought beneath his sweat, but then again he had already come so far. Rýnelic was running. He ran the distance like a hunted animal, panting with exertion. His mind raced his legs with memories of the forgotten, the remembered, and the images in between. He ran unstopping until he had reached the northern wall of the city. The wall was made of stone gathered from the hills and encompassed the city as a barrier against the world and a sanctuary for its citizens. Rýnelic stopped to catch his breath before entering. He rested his hands on his knees and looked up at the wall, his long hair falling like a veil before his eyes. The ancient wall seemed smaller than he remembered. When enough time had passed, when he had caught his breath, Rýnelic brushed the hair out of his eyes and straightened himself. He took one final deep breath as he pushed open the doors of his city. He strolled through the opening as if he expected something. He stopped, stunned, as if an ominous prophesy had been fulfilled. He looked around. Decay.

 

The city had obviously grown since his departure. There were buildings he didn’t recognize and facades over the ones he did. The buildings were vacant. He wondered why no one was working, if today might be a holiday. He had lost track of days. He concluded that it wasn’t and continued walking. He saw cracked windows and paint crumbling on the walls like peeling waves of an incoming tide. He saw edifices that had not been tended to in some time. The city had grown in his absence, but it was clear that the population had decreased. Rýnelic thought of when he was young, complaining about how crowded the streets were. Now he prayed for one soul to cross his path, and his prayer was answered with cruelty. His prayers were answered as he observed a small herd of people walk in front of him from around a corner. They stared at him with a look of pity, contempt, and shame; as if they knew the truth and thought the truth was meaningless. They all looked purposeless and they all looked the same. The men looked as if they had not worked in years—their arms and legs were thin and gaunt, and their skin was nearly translucent. It was the women, however, that swallowed Rýnelic’s throat. Young and old, their faces were covered in powders and oils to make them flawless. Their masquerades were cracked in places, making them looks as if they were made of stone. It made them look as if they were perpetually smiling. No one was smiling.

 

Rýnelic walked on looking for some sort of comfort; some sort of familiarity. He frantically made his way down the weed-choked streets until he reached the center of the city. For a moment, he thought he was lost. At one time there had been a clearing, a reservation set aside for the earth. Now there was a platform. An intrusion. It was at least seven feet tall and made of unfinished cedar. Four sets of stairs rose parallel to each other leading to each corner. Rýnelic climbed the stairs, hoping for a better vantage point. He turned around, slowly, looking for something to hold onto. Looking for something he’d recognize.  Looking for anything. Instead, he found what he expected. Nothing. He hung his head. He saw on the floorboards a brown, rust-colored stain soaked through the bowed and bending wood. He paid it no mind. He somberly made his way back down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he leaned forward, pressing one hand to a supporting beam as he let the other hand dangle at his side. The city had grown as it died. He looked up and balled his hand into a fist. He looked down and spit: “Afeallan.”

 

Rýnelic straitened himself and looked around frantically. Helplessly. He resolved himself. He lowered his head, protruded his left shoulder, and began walking with purpose, as if he would ram through the next barrier that would confront him. Everything was the same. Everything decayed. He walked with unbridled determination across the city. His pant legs slapped against the back of his boots as he walked, with an emphasis on every second step: pflip, pflap, pflip, pflap. He began muttering to himself in rhythm.

          “The souls around here may go to Hell

          Ghosts or the living it’s hard to tell

          Forsake this place it’s just as well

          Pflip, pflap, pflip, pflap”

His heart was racing. His head was pounding. His ears were ringing. Miniscule bursts of light danced before his eyes. His pace quickened and with every step he hardened himself.

          “The rot of decay has begun to smell

          And the smell of it has begun to swell

          Forget the past it’s just as well

          Pflip, pflap, pflip, pflap”

Rýnelic was seething. This had been his last shimmering hope. He had wanted so badly to return; to return to the past. To return home. Instead he had returned to an endless chain of decrepit buildings and expressionless faces he did not recognize. He stopped for a moment. Stopped by a fleeting memory he tried to recapture. But the memory passed while rage and indignation crashed into the void like a wave. He continued walking. Generalizing.

          “Their minds and stomachs are an empty well

          Like everything else they rose and fell

          Forlorn—“

 

The Tavern.