The Telltale Sign by mserrur
"I'm afraid it's already begun," Francis said to his wife. They'd been discussing the matter all night. Neither had slept a wink.
"Are you sure?" she asked desperately.
"It's all there, Abigail: the dilation of the pupils, the fingernails, the hair loss..."
"—But what about the skin?" she interrupted. "The Seeker said that's the telltale sign! Don't you remember?"
He looked at his wife. Her eyes sat sunken and dark, and her hair fell messily across her face, a few wet strands matted to her forehead. Such a difference from only a month ago. Today, in the hazy light of the coming dawn, she stood in front of him, feeble, cold, and wrested of hope. He pitied her. Edward was her only son, and Francis could recall in lurid detail how hard she labored to bring him into this world. For a full day she screamed in agony. The midwife told him after it was all over that she had never witnessed such a difficult birth.
"I remember what the Seeker told us," he said quietly.
"So you think there's still a chance?" She spoke frantically now.
"Yes, there's still a chance."
Abigail stepped closer to him. "You know I'd do anything for Edward," she whispered.
He nodded consolingly. He so badly wished to tell her the truth, so they could suffer and grieve together, but he simply couldn't find the courage. The last time he went to check in on the boy he noticed something—an almost-imperceivable dot of green. The telltale sign.
He gently touched his wife's shoulder. "You should try to get a few minutes of sleep. The Seeker will be here soon."
She swatted his hand away. "I'm not tired," she said woefully. "And how am I supposed to sleep? My boy is locked away alone in a ramshackle hut without even his mother to be by his side." She let out a sob. "I just want to tell him everything is going to be okay—that his mother would never let anything happen to him as long as she has breath in her body."
"I'm sure he knows," her husband said as delicately as he could. "But it's out of our hands."
Abigail continued to stifle her tears.
"We should put the kettle on the stove," Francis said. "The Seeker always appreciates a cup of birch-root tea. And I wouldn't mind a cup myself."
But she didn't acknowledge him.
"Abigail?" he asked again.
"Yes?"
"The kettle...the Seeker should be on his way."
"Oh, yes. The kettle." She drifted languidly to the corner of the cottage where all of the pots and pans were kept. Francis watched her for a moment before turning his attention to the fire. He noticed it getting low. He grabbed his big woolen coat and shrugged it over his broad shoulders as he stepped outside into the frigid winter sunshine. The swirling wind stung his cracked lips and he tasted a dribble of blood on his tongue.
Francis surveyed the woods around his property, hoping not to see any of the neighbors. It was common knowledge that where the Seeker traveled, unfortunate events followed. And this poor village, this community located a three-days carriage ride from civilization, was no stranger to tragedy. It was founded on it.
Francis picked up the heavy woven tote bag and walked toward the wood pile. He grabbed log after log, stacking them horizontally in the carrier. One slipped from his hands and landed awkwardly across the top of his foot. He let out an involuntary howl, causing the birds to scatter from their roosts in the nearby branches. Gritting his teeth, he finished stacking the wood and limped back inside.
When he returned, he found his wife sitting on the floor, the unfilled kettle by her side. Tears stained her pale cheeks. In her thin, spindly hands she held a tattered picture. Francis knew the one. They didn't have many. It was of her and Edward on his first birthday. The whole village had come to celebrate, and she had prepared the most elaborate feast anyone had seen in years: platters of roasted guinea hen, griddle cakes, a half-dozen savory lamb pies, elderberry compotes, and a pumpkin pudding topped with sweet cream for dessert.
Francis put down the wood and approached his wife. He sat down beside her, hugging her close, and the two of them rocked together in quiet for god knows how long. He stared up at the ceiling and prayed to the heavenly deities to protect their baby.
A knock at the door shattered the silence.
Roused from his daze, Francis stood up and walked languidly across the room. He quickly glanced back at his wife. She hadn't stirred and remained leaning against the wall of the cottage. For a moment he hesitated, a ghastly thought flashed before him, but he shrugged it off and opened the door.
The Seeker stood in front of him. A dark man with a weathered face, he wore a faded deer skin jacket adorned with colorful beads and knotted tassels. Cascading over his shoulders and down his back were three thick, long ropes of braided black hair, and his pants appeared as if woven from some fibrous material. But the man's most noticeable accessory had to be the circular amulet of bone, inlaid with shimmering purple gemstones, metals, and thin strips of shell.
The Seeker bowed. Francis bowed back.
"Where is the boy?" His words boomed through the tiny space.
"Alone in the hut, as you instructed."
The Seeker stepped inside. "And you administered the tincture?" he asked in a manner that was more command than question.
"Yes. I provided ten drops in the morning and ten drops just before bed."
"Did he regurgitate?"
"Yes."
The Seeker grunted. "The body yearns to purge itself of the poison."
Abigail had finally gotten to her feet. She shuffled over to the doorway and bowed to the Seeker. He bowed back.
"Would you like to sit?" she motioned towards the chairs around the fire.
"There is no time to sit," he replied. "Bring me to him immediately."
The couple nodded. They both grabbed their coats and led the Seeker outside to the hut a few dozen yards behind the cottage. No one uttered a sound as they trekked over exposed roots and fallen tree limbs. The only sound was the breaking of withered leaves beneath their feet.
A plume of smoke rose from an opening in the hut. Francis looked at his wife, then at the Seeker, who nodded at him. He pushed open the door and the three of them stepped inside. Francis had constructed the modest dwelling by himself to avoid unwanted attention. In the corner sat a tiny pot belly stove that hummed away as it burned through the last of its embers.
Edward lay situated in the middle of the hut on a makeshift bed of straw and feathers. A coarse blanket covered his entire body, leaving only his tiny head exposed. As Francis had observed the day before, most of his son's hair now sat in patches around his pillow. His breathing was shallow. His finger nails now resembled claws.
Abigail couldn't control herself; at the sight of her boy, she burst into a fit of tears. A muddy green splotch crept across Edward's neck.
The Seeker held up his hands. "I need silence!"
Francis gripped his wife by the shoulders and held her close.
"It has spread faster than I predicted," the Seeker said, pulling down the blanket and revealing an eerie green shade from his shoulders down his chest. "But the boy is not yet lost."
Abigail muffled a gasp.
"However, I must treat him immediately." He looked at Francis. "Fetch me some water purified by flame. I will also need cloth." He turned his attention to Abigail. "And your sharpest blade."
There was no time to debate. Francis and Abigail quickly fetched their items and returned in minutes. The Seeker had already removed his deer skin coat, revealing lines of markings up and down his arms. He soaked the rags in water, before removing a vial of syrupy blue liquid from the pocket of his coat. He poured the vial into the bucket of water and thrashed it about with his hands.
"The mark," the Seeker announced, dunking the pieces of cloth into the bucket "is nothing more than an infection of evil. It targets the pure and the innocent, feasting on the soul as we enjoy the tender flesh of the calf."
He pressed his thumb against the blade, nodding in approval of its edge. Francis looked on helplessly.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"To purge the infection, we must reacquaint the evil with the forces of piety and virtue. Now, please hold the boy still."
Francis wanted to discuss further, but he only nodded and stood at the head of the bed with his hands pressed down on his son's shoulders. Abigail buried her face in her hands and turned away.
For a moment, all was hushed. Then the Seeker arose and approached the bed. He gripped the boy's exposed arm, and in one confident slash, brought the knife down, cutting deep into the skin. Edward's face quivered, but his eyes stayed closed. The Seeker removed a piece of cloth that had been soaking in the bucket and pressed it against the gash.
Immediately Edward's eyes sprung open. Francis gaped in horror. Staring down at his once sweet boy, he saw the unrecognizable gaze of a monster staring back. The wide black pupils were surrounded by a sickening shade of yellow. They rolled around in their sockets, darting back and forth, analyzing their unfamiliar surroundings. Then Edward gave a deep, bellowing roar that sounded as if evil itself nested in his throat.
"Hold him down!" the Seeker shouted.
But it was too late.
Edward jumped from his makeshift bed, throwing his father to the floor. The boy stood in front of them, hunched yet powerful, glaring menacingly, his mouth contorted into a terrifying grin, his naked body completely green. He lunged at the Spirit Seeker and slashed him across the belly. Blood gushed across the floor. Edward raised his arm for the killing blow, but just before he raked his claws across the man's throat, the Seeker ripped his amulet from his chest and held it in front of him.
There was a shriek. Edward crumpled to the ground, his grotesque, spindly hands now covering his eyes. Francis sat up and watched the Spirit Seeker back the boy into the corner near the potbelly stove. As he moved closer the shrieking grew louder and more unbearable.
"Stop!" Abigail howled. "You're hurting my son!"
But the Seeker ignored her.
The screams continued as Edward writhed in agony, his yellow eyes bulging in his head to the point where they looked like they'd pop at any minute.
Francis stared on in horror. And then he saw Abigail, her face oddly calm amidst the panic. She drifted behind the Seeker and brough the knife down fast and true between the shoulder blades. The Seeker's body went rigid and she stabbed again. And again. He fell to the floor, his fingers still wrapped around the amulet.
Edward stood up. He swiveled his head, looking at both of his parents, and smiled. Then he burst out the door. Abigail crumbled to the floor. Francis put his hands together and stared up into the heavens and prayed that one day he will have the courage to leave this cursed place.