R. Prioleau - The Necromancer's apprentice

The Na'Darod manor sat forty miles south of the city of Lakis, in Caristan's sparse countryside. Laced modestly with withering ivy, the greystone structure was confined within the boundaries of a wooden fence which snaked a path through the trunks of the surrounding white birches. The fence showed much age, with many planks having been reduced to rotting wood over the years, rendering them useless.

In the early years of our family's history, the Na'Darod manor was a prosperous farm, producing the finest wheat and corn. Every mid-autumn for subsequent years, the manor's perimeters were graced with eloquent auburn tones of the foliage that painted a picturesque example of the season's hidden treasures. The temperate winds carried the scents of fallen seeds and a promise of another prosperous harvest.

This year, however, the autumn skies saw the Blood Moon more often than usual; thus, the harvests did not come. The farmlands surrounding the manor were mostly barren, dusty specks of voided life. Likewise, the birch forests around its perimeter were reduced to hollow, white-striped trunks protruding with death-tinged branches. The earth was dry and thirsted for the rains once more, but it had been months since the lands were graced with a single drop and everyone in Caristan felt its impact.

The nest of straw embraced my thin form as I lay on my back and stared up at the clouded, orange and crimson skies of autumn's dusk. The evening winds began to whistle through the fragile shafts of the dried wheat and eventually brush over my pale face. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when the sounds of my hungry belly were heard growling in protest of the meager dinner from earlier. I sighed and shut my slate-grey eyes, attempting to ignore my body's ever-growing demands. Since the drought, my body began to wither and many times I wondered for how long I would be able to endure.

Beyond the sounds of the wind and rustling wheat, I heard footsteps approaching. My eyes slowly opened, shifted towards the sound and gazed upon a feminine silhouette. The trim of her long, flowing dress flitted through the soft breeze of the impending night.

“Jasmine?” the young, feminine voice called out.

A thin smile crept upon my dry lips at the familiar tone of my elder sister's voice. I sat up from the nest of straw and gazed upon her slender form. The white, ruffled house dress she wore concealed her lithe frame. Slender, pale hands carefully smoothed out the excess creases in the soft, laced fabric before her amber eyes regarded me pointedly through the strands of ebony locks that draped across her young face.

“You know that Father does not approve of your being out here alone whilst the Blood Moon has risen.” Her voice was scolding, yet filled with concern.

I pouted at her words and averted my attention towards the horizon. As it were, the crimson-touched moon had already begun peeking over the distant hills of the countryside.

There were folklores and superstitions derived from the Blood Moon, which occurred very rarely over the course of several centuries. Its very existence was generally perceived as a prophecy of misfortune, affliction and death. Since the Moon's recent visit just two months ago, those ‘prophecies’ had apparently begun to fulfill all throughout Caristan.

I was neither one who believed in superstition or coincidence; I rather saw the Blood Moon as a beautiful work of art. When the Blood Moon rose, the skies were alive again, casting its copper-stained light over the drought-stricken country.

Father was a superstitious man who believed in such fantasies as creatures of darkness swooping down during the night of the Blood Moon to feast upon innocent souls. He had especially grown wary when Mother had fallen ill not long after the Moon's first sighting. Coupled with the season of drought, Father was completely convinced of the dismal future that we would all soon see.

“It is still early, Violet,” I replied wistfully, then shook out the excess straw that found its way into my snow-white hair. “I wish Father were not so paranoid of age-old myths.” Violet watched me and pursed her lips. The sound of wind rustling through the amber fields carried the illusion of footsteps approaching, which made Violet nervously glance over her shoulder towards the manor. When she was convinced of not being followed, she returned her attention to me.

“It is not just the Blood Moon he worries about, Sister,” she spoke quietly. “Mother's condition has worsened.”

I sighed softly. “Honestly, Violet, I cannot bear to see Mother's sickened condition any further.” I chewed on my bottom lip and envisioned the image of Mother's frail, skeletal body, bed-ridden and in a comatose state.

“But, you have not seen her all day.” Violet tilted her head slightly and looked rather surprised at my response.

“Something is literally eating away at her very soul and it is evident that none of us are able to help her.” I had not realized how cold my response truly sounded until I saw Violet's expression fall. She had always cried for Mother, but I could not. Those tears remained frozen since the night of the first Blood Moon and subsequently, ebbed as the months drew on.

The growing tears in Violet's wavering eyes were eminent when she found it harder to speak on the subject.

I frowned bitterly at the spectacle and warned, “No, Violet. Don't you dare cry. I hate it when you cry.”

She gazed at me pleadingly, trying to hold back her tears. “I'm sorry, Jasmine,” she choked. “I'm trying to stay strong, I really am. Please … Please go and see her for me.”

I could not help but comply with her innocent and distressful tone of voice. With a soft sigh, I reluctantly stood up and further brushed away the excess straw from my dark burgundy dress. “All right … I will.”

Violet smiled graciously and extended her silky, fair-skinned hand out to me.

I took her hand and we made our way back to the manor, following the narrow, shadow-inlaid path created through the wheat fields. A small, chilly wind whisked over the exposed skin of my upper back, which the silken strands of my snow-white hair had barely touched. I faltered in my steps, looking over my shoulder as if someone were touching my skin, only to find nothing but the dancing shadows of the wheat fields made by the coppery glow of the Blood Moon above.

The front door of the manor quietly creaked open as Violet led me into the house. The scent of leftover dinner — boiled cabbage — still wafted through the air, which was already heavy with despair. The house was quiet and dimly-lit by several candles which were placed strategically throughout each of the rooms. Cloves of garlic and silver talismans embezzled with the Goddess's holy symbol adorned the doorways of many rooms, including my own.

As I walked past my room, I hastily ripped away the damnable things with a frown of resentment towards Father's radical superstitions. Violet observed me silently as I carried them to the living room and flung them into the fireplace. After observing the flames consume the items, I heard Violet's footsteps draw closer.

“Come, Sister,” she whispered, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder in a subtle gesture to lead me upstairs.

I turned to her, still frowning bitterly, but allowed her escort.

When we ascended the final stair, she withdrew her hand from my shoulder and strode over to one of the closed bedroom doors, from which the flicker of a brighter candlelight could be seen beneath. She knocked softly to announce her presence then entered the laced-white room.

Once we were inside, we found Father standing at Mother's bedside, gazing over her sadly. He didn't seem to notice our presence at first.