From Before the End- Gytha

You know the drill, all rights reserved, this is my stuff not your stuff don’t be a jackwagon.

The warm, tangy smell of the soup embraced Gytha from the moment she opened the door, bringing unexpected tears to her eyes. It was onion soup with wine and beef stock, and no doubt there was a good, crusty loaf fresh baked this morning that would go with it. Undoubtedly, it would be served at the broad table she could see from the door, a beautifully homey, polished surface with fabric covered comfortable chairs that didn’t match.

Just now, there was a fine white cloth upon the table, and a bowl of fruit in the center sending off a pungent perfume all its own. 

If the soup hadn’t made her mouth water, the thought of one of those firm, crisp fall apples certainly would have.

Margery had looked up from the stove as the back door opened, her crooked line of a mouth softening ever so slightly as she extended her hand for the message. “Who’s sent you this way on such a raw day, m’girl?” She peered out the window, as if she would be able to see the thoughtless individual that would send a child out into the wild, wet weather. “Get you to the fire, you have at least long enough to stop shivering whilst we see what’s what here.” The stooped woman deftly relieved Gytha of the threadbare blue garment given the generous name of ‘cloak’. She settled it on a hook for drying the family’s outerwear by the fire as the tiny girl climbed up on the hearth, putting her feet as close to the flames as she dared.

“Priestess, milady. Summat about the winter feasting, if I had to guess.”

The lady of the house made a noise deep in her throat that could have been acknowledgement or disapproval. “Sure they’ll be wanting the extra hands we can chivvy to help. Seems to me sending a little bit of a thing like you out in the weather… ah, well.” Margery frowned at the sealed missive before laying it at the head of the table and turning her full attention to the small page. Eyes narrowing, she began bustling about the kitchen. “Don’t happen to have hard coin about the house, wasn’t expecting a message.”

Gytha’s stomach dropped. There wasn’t much a runty girl in the city could do to earn honest money. Most folk preferred to let the fae runners deliver messages- thanks to being able to fly, they were much faster and able to navigate the teeming streets no matter how many people clogged them.

But the fae didn’t care for flying in the kinds of howling wind and rain storms as the one that was pounding at the windows.

And the fae didn’t know about the paths of the Undercity.

Seeing the little girl’s disappointed expression, Margery began bustling about the stove again. By the time Gytha’s toes and page’s cloak were warm and dry, she had bundled up a small basket, covered with a napkin. “Here, lass, I’ve got my plea in hand, you go on and run this home to your mother, quick like a bunny now. And see you stay there, lassie! It’s too raw for a little bit like you to be about.”

Used to following authoritative voices, Gytha was up and out the door at a trot before the woman could open the door for her. Though she glanced out the window at the lane, all she saw was the wind and rain, lashing against the panes. Poor mite, to be out in a day like this, and no real home to go back to. Margery shook her head sadly as she moved on to the next task, wishing she could banish the child’s weary dark eyes from her mind as easily as wiping the crumbs from the cutting board.

She knew the heels of the loaf wouldn’t be missed today, and she could stretch a soup as far as she needed to. Running a hand over her purse, Margery soothed her conscience in knowing that had she given the child the meager coins due for running a message, it still wouldn’t have gone to food.

“Please, good lady, watch over them. Watch over us all,” Margery murmured.

Going by the tunnels was doubly better today, Gytha thought, avoiding the storm and the people, as well as keeping the basket warmer than it would have been with the thieving winds blowing. It was dark, and smelled earthy and damp, but she didn’t mind. The Undercity let her appear and disappear as she needed to, avoiding the bigger pages who would try to steal her coins or take her jobs. Or just shove her to remind her that she was the lowliest of them all.

They wouldn’t dare come down here, even though they knew about a few of the entrances. She heard them sometimes, telling stories to scare each other about what lived in the dank and the dark. Demons, they said, monsters that would steal your name so that you must serve them before they stole your soul, too. Rapers and thieves, murderers and other unsavory types, too, finding society in each other’s company as the good people of the city would not tolerate them. Sometimes they said that the Swords of Erdu should clean the tunnels out, or the mages should seal the entrances shut, to allow all those unsavory things under the city to rot. Always in a sanctimonious tone, usually by the bigger boys and girls that were merely serving as pages for a season or two before moving on to bought and paid for apprenticeships.

Even running in the dark, Gytha rolled her eyes. As though living in the light made someone better than anyone else. As though the Swords or the mages could even find all the entrances. She’d been running them for years now and was still finding new sections all the time. She turned the last corner before home and instantly her gait changed to the softest tiptoe she could manage.

Mother might be trying to rest.

Drawing the heavy curtains aside, she held her breath until her eyes saw that the thin chest still rose and fell, and Mother’s eyes were open.

The small niche they’d made comfortable with a fine feather bed and as many quilts as they could keep stitched together was the coziest place in the burrow. It needed to be; Mother needed warmth and her lungs would not tolerate smoke from a fire.

The coins that didn’t go to the healers went for the hot bricks they tucked into strips of flannel in the back corners of the niche.

It was the first time in days Gytha had been home while Mother was awake, and she rushed to show her the basket.

“Margery Fishwife didn’t have the coin, so she sent me with this!” Gytha cupped the bottom of the basket and raised her hands, presenting the gift with an uncertain smile. If only it was Mother, and she had this good, hot soup in her to help her to get better and fight off the spirit. Even if it was just for a little while, they could eat together and pretend…

… that everything would be all right again, that they were in their snug little cottage with the warming pot on the hearth. They could pretend, for just a little while, that Mother had made this soup. They could share the feather bed, and Mother would rock her and sing in the lovely soft voice.

The sunken claw emerged into the dim light, snatching away the shielding napkin and casting it upon the floor. The same tangy aroma diffused into the small room, making Gytha’s stomach growl. She’d gone so fast that there was still steam rising from the heels of bread, now makeshift trenchers filled with the pungent onion soup.

“I didn’t send you out for soup,” Mother hissed, and Gytha’s head jerked backward as though slapped. “I need coin to drive this damned thing out!” The basket fell to the floor with an unimportant thunk, and Gytha held her breath as the little apple on top spilled from it. The voice became lower and colder, crooning in a child’s taunting singsong. 

”It won’t matter- find a fortune of coins and all the healers, no one will turn me out when I do not wish to go. But it does so amuse me to watch them fail. It makes the days less dull as I wait for you, whore.” The figure withdrew into the shadows, nestling deeper into the quilts, and Gytha was relieved not to have to look upon her mother’s face while the voice that wasn’t hers spat words at her.

“Those words, they don’t mean anything, little one,” her father had said. “It’s the sick spirit talking, not your mama.” The same words he’d said over and over, rocking his tiny dark haired daughter in his arms and feeling useless. Two seasons after Mother had changed, Papa had gone away, sailing on one of the trading routes to make their fortune or find a permanent cure, he said. It was said the people of the islands were never sick, and surely they knew of some treatment beyond the healers in the city if he could convince a captain to sail there. And so, he left, sorrowful but resolute. He could not bear to watch the bitter end, though he told himself the same lies until he nearly believed them and left.

Leaving an eight year old child to mind her spirit sick mother.

The comfortable cottage where Gytha remembered onion soup for dinner on the hearth turned out not to be theirs, and they were put out within the season. The temples wouldn’t offer shelter to the invalid for fear of the other ill spirits being drawn to them and infecting others. Erdu’s warriors offered their swords, the only cure they knew and believed in, and Gytha and her father had declined, horrified at the grim solution. As for Danu’s temple, they had no cure but prayer, which Gytha had come to feel was the same solution as Erdu’s, just slower. She was still grateful to the blue robed women though, for they offered parcels of bread and broken meats and it was the High Priestess of Danu herself that had given Gytha her blue pages’ cloak.

It was the greatest kindness to be done for the child, keeping her busy earning her bread while the situation resolved itself.  The priestess had expected to see Gytha at the gate to take orders within a year’s time. 

Spirits either gave up and moved on, or clawed the body of the infected to the grave within a year, two years at the most. This was known.

What was not reckoned upon by any was how far Gytha went in search of help and how hard her mother fought the spirit. From mages to witches to healers, the girl sought them out as soon as she had enough coin to tempt them to the Undercity, always hopeful that the next mage or healer or fae would be the one, and the spirit would be cast out. New discoveries were being made every day in the great towers that purported to be the centers of all learning. 

Years passed in this way. They had been four years in the Undercity, four years of Gytha never knowing who would speak when Mother opened her eyes. Four years of spending her spare moments at the quays, watching and calling to the sailors her father’s name, hoping to hear back on the wind that he was homeward bound.

She never had. But those days feeling hope leached away by the salt spray was better than sitting here, waiting for a miracle.

Biting on her lip to keep from sobbing out loud like a baby, Gytha bowed her head and scooped up the apple and basket while shuffling across the floor to a safe distance. She had lived with this spirit long enough to know how best to keep it calm. It was always easier on Mother when the thing was calm. Once, she had seen the scars left on her mother’s body when trying to burst beyond its confines during one of its rages. “I beg thee pardon, my lady. I know if thou couldst but have gone, the coin should have been procured in haste and bounty.”

The eyes shifted, glinting, as though trying to detect mockery. “It is good that you know this, whore’s child. It is good that you show respect, for once I am free, I shall remember those that aided and those that failed. There shall be a reckoning, yes, indeed.” The hissing voice was beginning to drift off, sounding worn and tired, and Gytha held the sigh of relief behind her teeth. 

“I shall have a stronger body, one that wants me and will do my bidding.” It went on, all words Gytha had heard a thousand times before.

“Yes, my lady.” She went to the furthest corner of the room, cradling the bread in her hands, holding onto it as the warmth leached away through her fingers. Just one more thing she could have, but not keep.

Apparently the words did not please the spirit, for it roused from the self pitying rant to become soft and silky, smooth and dangerous. “Perhaps….”

Gytha’s heart began to pound in alarm. She did not dare look into the niche, keeping her eyes on the bread in her hands. It was a long moment, and she could feel the silence growing. It was waiting. It wanted her to ask. She felt it want that from her as a physical tug on her sleeve. It needed her to ask so it could say something terrible to scare and hurt. Gytha knew that was how the spirit kept its power over her. 

And she was powerless. “Perhaps, my lady?”

The spirit laughed, a sound of rusty nails being pulled from rotten boards. “Why, my little darling,” said Mother’s voice, for all the world as if she was going to draw back the coverlet and take Gytha into her arms. The shape in the quilts lunged into the light, face contorted into a death’s head rictus as the demon cackled. “Perhaps I shall take yours!”