Steven Campbell - Hard Luck Hank - Basketful of Crap

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Whatever you want it to be,” she said.

I scratched my head, uncertain.

“Besides, what do you know about farming?”

The priestess finished inscribing the protective symbols at the mouth of the cave.

The tree, the horse, the sun, the stream.

Menfolk congregated nearby out of curiosity. They held their spears tightly, the sounds of the woman screaming from inside the cave making them uneasy.

The priestess picked up rocks and hurled them at the men. Saying their presence was a bad omen and would anger the spirits.

The men departed. They gave insults when they were clear of hearing range.

Inside the cave, two acolytes tended to the woman giving birth on a flat, fur-covered stone. One acolyte daubed the mother’s head with water while the other chanted prayers.

The priestess washed the paint from her hands and adjusted her rough tunic.

Kneeling by the birthing woman she lent her voice to the prayers, beseeching Sre, Goddess of Nature, to allow the baby to pass through the Deathlands and enter the world of the living.

The birthing began and the priestess assisted. The acolytes raised the sound of their prayers to match the screams of the mother.

The priestess was sure the baby had tripped and fallen in the Deathlands because it did not cry nor make any sound at all when it was free.

She instructed the acolytes to help the woman as she carried the babe to a nearby stone to prepare it for burial. She made thanks to the Goddess for attempting. She knew Pattoeb, the Deathlands hunt master, did not let souls escape easily.

The priestess gasped and backed away from the child. The acolytes stopped their activities and looked to her. The priestess made a sign of protection and asked for guidance from the Sky Father.

The baby was not dead.

The fact it did not cry wasn’t what frightened the priestess. It was the baby’s solid black eyes.

It seemed to be looking around the cave, at those present. As if it were not concerned it had just been born and escaped the wolves of the Deathlands.

Finally, as if realizing where it was and what it had been through, the baby began crying. It was not the bawling that newborns usually made.

It was the mournful sob of someone who could not escape his destiny, and knew it.

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Cover Art by Tariq Raheem

All images and content Copyright © 2014 Steven Campbell

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