Robert Keller: The Eye of Divinity

Lannon Sunshield's father seemed worse than ever on this day, an aura of gloom and despair engulfing him like a poisonous fog. Lannon shrank back from that aura, but it seemed to reach from his father like dreary fingers that gripped the boy's heart and kept him from fleeing from the house. Lannon's mother didn't seem to notice, as she was lost in her usual evening rage.

"You're utterly useless," Lannon's mother snarled at her husband. "I work all day until I'm so tired I can hardly move, while empty ale jugs pile up around your feet. The least you could do is clean up after yourself."

"You know I’m sick," her husband muttered. For a moment the darkness thoroughly infested his gaze, a writhing shadow that hinted at the madness in his soul. "I can’t handle things like I used to. Otherwise, you'd never have to lift a finger to do any work. I'd do it all with a smile on my face."

She threw back her head and laughed mockingly (which was one of her favorite gestures). "You say some truly funny things, husband. But I know better. You were lazy before you got sick. No, the burden of work around here is mine to bear alone."

Lannon cringed. He hated it when his parents acted like he was useless. Even though his mother's words weren't directed specifically at Lannon, they made him want to sink through the floor. Unlike his father, Lannon was ashamed of his laziness, but he did nothing to remedy it. He would stand by and watch his stick-thin mother labor to carry in firewood, and then he would warm himself before the stove. He thought dishes somehow washed themselves, and he would kick something out of his way before bothering to pick it up. Tory, however, worked hard every day, gutting fish until her hands went numb at her job in town while the men stayed home and made messes.

Lannon's parents waged their war amid an ugly battlefield that came in the form of a shoddy cabin in the middle of nowhere, complete with a leaky roof, bug-infested logs, and a yard full of decaying junk. It was the home of a man who bore a dark illness of the spirit for which no cure seemed to exist. Lannon’s father spent hours glaring at bugs on the wall and making threats. He'd been arrested twice in town for splitting barrels open with an axe and insisting scheming dwarves were hiding within them.

Meanwhile, Lannon spent his days wondering when the madness would end. He had no friends, and every day was the same old thing. He wandered the forested valley that surrounded his home and then wandered it some more. He caught fish and then put them back so he might catch them again. He battled trees with sword-sticks and waited. And waited some more. He never knew for sure what he was waiting for, but he guessed it was adulthood and escape.

Lannon’s father was named Doanan, and his mother was Tory. The fact that they both had names was all they seemed to have in common. They fought so much that almost nothing in the home wasn’t cracked or broken. Yet their rage was seldom directed toward Lannon. Instead, the boy was treated with an odd sort of pity that was worse than being the target of rage (when he wasn't being completely ignored).

"I can do some stuff around here," said Lannon, already knowing what the result would be. "I'm fifteen years old and not a child anymore."

"Do you want me to get up and work?" Doanan said to Tory, not even glancing at Lannon. "What tasks shall I perform, your majesty?"

"Just drink your ale and be silent," Tory said, "like you always do. I don't expect you to do any work, Doanan. I gave up on that years ago. But the least you can do is keep your toothless mouth shut while I slave away."

On this warm summer afternoon, Tory had just returned from the fishery. As usual, her clothes were covered in scales. She continued bellowing at Doanan while she scrubbed her gnarled hands in a bucket of cold stream water. "I do all the work," she spat. "All of it." She looked like a spindly preying mantis rubbing its legs together. "And what do get for my troubles? I get to come home to you, Doanan-the sorriest sod in Silverland."

Lannon’s father sat slumped in a battered chair. His hairy legs poked out from beneath a filthy robe, and ale jugs surrounded his bony feet. What remained of his grey hair pointed skyward in dirty tufts. His skeletal face was covered in a map of lines, his brown eyes resting above dark spots. His mouth held shadowy gaps where teeth should have been. That mouth hung open in a huge, delighted (scary, certainly) grin. A dastardly twinkle shone in his eye, as he glanced from his wife to where Lannon stood by the door ready to escape.

"Oh, is that right?" Doanan said, still grinning. "So I’m the evil man here. This is truly funny. Isn’t it, Lannon?"

Lannon knew better than to reply.

Undaunted, Doanan went on. "Look at your mother, Lannon. Just look at her. She’s the big queen bee of this royal hive."

Tory raised an eyebrow and stuck her scrawny neck out toward him. Her short black hair was cut in a bowl shape with uneven edges, boyish like her gaunt face. Her left eye was open wide with bulging mockery. "That’s right. I am the queen bee. And don’t you forget it, husband. You know why? Because I’m the only one that does any work. If it wasn’t for me, this home would fall apart."

Doanan’s huge grin twisted into some kind of humorless leer. "Maybe so. But don’t forget that I saved you from working yourself to death on that farm. Your father would have had you slave away until your knees were ground into meal and your back was brittle like cornstalks from a frost. If I hadn’t come along to save you, your father would have-"

"Leave my father out of this!" Tory shouted. "He was ten times the man you’ll ever be. And if you speak ill of him again, I’ll tear your eyeballs out!"

Doanan spat on the floor. "So this is what I get for a life of sacrifice? This is what the gods have rewarded me with?"

"Be quiet, you crazy fool," Tory said, turning back to her task of scrubbing her gnarled hands. "Why don’t you drink yourself to sleep? It’s all you’re good for these days. Goodness knows I spend enough on your ale. You might as well use it up so I can go waste more money."

"Ale is all I have, woman!" Doanan growled, kicking a jug across the room and sending a frightened rat scampering for cover. "You know it helps fight my illness. Without my ale, I would decline swiftly."

Tory threw her back her head and cackled until tears actually streamed down her face. "Oh, tell me another lie, husband. You're not fooling me, and Lannon knows how you are. The boy is not blind."

"Yes, he is blind," Doanan whispered, "and so are you." He hung his head. "So is everyone in this world."

The gloom seemed to squeeze Lannon tighter, radiating from his father in nauseating waves. The sickness was soon to start making Doanan rant about things that had given Lannon countless nightmares. Lannon glanced at the door but could not bring himself to flee just yet. He felt paralyzed by his father's gaze.

"Don’t start your foolish talk," Tory said, turning away quickly (but not so quickly Lannon couldn’t see that her face had paled a bit). "You know that nonsense scares the boy."

"Maybe he should be scared," Doanan said. "Why not? The gods know I am. I told you, Lannon, that the shadow is the blood. Remember? It is too deep for you to see- the Deep Shadow . The dark beneath the dark. It is the blood, flowing beneath the skin of our world. I can feel it in my dreams. It chokes me." He gazed at Lannon crookedly. "Do you think you comprehend what fear is, my son? The Deep Shadow is fear itself. Larger than the heavens. It could eat our world just like that!" Doanan snapped his fingers. "Strip away our flesh, enslave our souls."