Wolf Moon Part 1
Heero Yuy gladly paid the price for a room at the Blue Bird Inn and four pence extra for the bathhouse. Wearily he trudged up the creaky birch board steps with his meager belongings then down the dim hall until he found door number seven.
The room's simple appointments consisted of a wooden bed with a feather tick mattress covered by a dingy cotton sheet, a pillow and downy duvet. A plain white pitcher, matching washbowl and two roughly woven towels set on a dresser with a cracked mirror.
If nature called there was an outhouse at the building's rear. Heero made a mental note to take care of "nature" before going to bed as he had no desire to stir from the warm coverlet and brave the night chill once he was settled in.
A straight back wooden chair set by a single window but the grim-clouded windowpane didn't permit a clear view of the street below. Heero felt reasonably secure in his second floor location. There were no outside stairs and the window's ledge was too narrow to stand on.
However, he didn't discount the fact that some creatures he'd been hired to eliminate were practiced in the art of levitation. Other mystic beings could transform into a hazy state that not only defied gravity but also allowed them to soundlessly slip through cracks and crevices.
Then there were the beguiling spirits that invaded the thoughts and altered the willpower of weak-minded people. Heero had long ago learned how to erect mental blocks against such influence. His unemotional detachment guarded is mind but the cold aloofness had numbed his spirit and all but destroyed his ability to love.
Heero was alone and often lonely. He couldn't afford to care; it was too dangerous for himself or anyone who got too close...especially close to his heart.
The heart is the center of life, the place were dreams dwell and love blooms. But the heart is a poor place to hide secrets because it can be so easily broken. No, alone was better for a Demon Tracker who had to traverse both the land of the living and the land of the dead.
*********
The cloak and dirk were left on the bed. Carrying a lighted lamp, small leather satchel and his loaded crossbow Heero made his way downstairs to the bathhouse. He secured the door and began to strip. When he was naked except for his breechcloth he debated whether or not to shed the last protective layer.
"If you're going to wash yourself, why not the breechcloth as well?" he decided.
Heero checked the tin tub's firebox, added another stick of wood to bank up the blaze and carefully eased into the steamy water. Heated liquid surged around his legs, over his buttocks and inched up his chest in sultry waves sending rippling rings radiating out around his body in ever-widening circles until they crashed against the tub's side.
With a content sigh he settled back allowing warm water to splash under his chin. Momentarily he remained motionless savoring the pleasing sensations and letting the heat soothe his travel-worn muscles.
But the relaxed state was deceiving. Senses were on full alert. Eyes scanned the shadows; ears picked up the slightest sounds...wind whining outside...rats scratching in the walls.
A Tracker never let down his guard, never took anything or anyone at face value. Ever alert, ever ready because one moment's inattention could be the last mistake he made.
Satisfied that no uninvited beasts lurked among the shadow images dancing in the yellow lamplight, Heero slid under the water to thoroughly soak his heavy hair. Like a great creature rising from the sea's black depths, he popped to the surface then smoothed back his wet mane and tucked stray stands behind his ears.
An amused smile flickered across his lips as he watched three fleas, no doubt acquired from sleeping in a barn the previous night, bob on the artificial waves. A chunk of hard-milled soap was worked into a frothy lather that soon covered his golden skin with a slick film designed to evict any fellow fleas or other undesirable creepy-crawlies that might have decided to tag along.
A mixture of softened soap and aloe oil was massaged into his hair then rinsed out by several more dunks under the water that had begun to cool with the firebox's dying embers.
The refreshed tracker wiggled out of his waterlogged breechcloth, held the dripping material over the tub and rung out most of the moisture. Hopefully if the crude undergarment were hung up in his room, the drafty currents leaking through the poorly sealed windowpanes would dry it by morning.
Encouraged by a shiver produced from chilly air on damp skin, Heero briskly toweled his body and hair. He dressed in a loose-sleeved nightshirt, tugged on
his battle-scarred boots and stuffed his soiled clothes in the satchel. Crossbow in hand he headed back to his humble room.
Heero made certain the door was bolted tight and set the lamp on the dresser. He hung the damp breechcloth on the chair's back. In the morning he would pay a washerwoman a few pence to wash the rest of his cloths.
"It's good the Regional Magistrate met my price." Heero mumbled as he mentally calculated the job's necessary expenses and perhaps a few that might provide personal pleasure.
Coating his face with oil he used a crude razor to scrape away three-day's growth of beard, pausing after each pass to wipe the stubble-covered blade off on a towel.
When he was clean-shaven, Heero inspected his wavy reflection in the dresser's cracked mirror, slipped the razor in a leather case and transferred the lamp to a bedside table. In keeping with his usual bedtime preparations, he hid the dirk under his feather-filled pillow and placed the crossbow within easy reach.
Pulling off his boots, the Tracker slipped under the duvet, used the pillow to cushion his head against the bed's rickety headboard and took his journal from his traveling bag.
The chronicle of adventures was bound in worn leather that was creased from constant use. Nearly every page, except for the three most recently added, were tattered along the edges and the ink had almost faded away.
Heero carefully thumbed through the brittle pages then, with equal care, flattened the spine until the book remained opened of its own accord. The last entries were easier to see on the newer paper, the ink brighter and clearer. Still in the flickering lamplight, he had to squint to read his scrawled handwriting.
Running his index finger over the hastily penned words the circumstances concerning their source was recalled in disturbing details.
*********
Seven days ago
Misty gray dawn clung to the watery horizon the morning the Demon Tracker embarked on his quest. His fateful journey began with a three-mile trek along a beach littered with pebbles, broken shells and driftwood deposited by a fearsome storm that raged the previous night.
The deep rumble of thunder was reproduced by pounding waves capped with white foam that would crash, fling up a fine salty spray then retreat with a hiss of frothy bubbles to again engage the shoreline in an ageless dance of surf and sand.
Sea gulls scurried in the breakers and flocked in groups squawking and pecking out the meat of decaying crabs that had also fallen victim to the storm surge. As the human ventured into the gull's feeding frenzy some the scavenger birds took flight, caught the updrafts and soared skyward making Heero envious of their freedom.
The journey continued with a laborious climb over craggy outcrops that slithered like black stony serpents across a steep, scrub brush speckled hillside. Hand over hand, boots digging into continually shifting grains that refused a foothold, his crossbow tapping against his back, Heero inched his way to the crest and finally stood atop the sandy mount.
As he faced the remnants of Covenant Hill Abby, the sporadic gale howling up from the sea shivered against his back and billowed out his cloak like unfurled sails swelled by the tidal winds. The gull's shrill lonesome calls echoed over the hill or was it the haunting moans of abandoned souls that wailed in his ears?
Twin skeletal spires of shattered stone thrust toward the overcast sky. The heavy wooden gate that once guarded the consecrated monastery had long ago been rotted away by relentless moisture and splintered by battering wind currents.
The bell tower had also surrendered to the ravishing of time and the sea's merciless elements. The pitted brass bell now lay on the gritty ground, its once gleaming surface tarnished with rust. Its broken clapper offered mute testimony to having been forsaken by a generation who refused to answer its call to prayer.
Heero followed a meandering path around piles of unrecognizable debris. He walked across the overgrown quadrangle, passed collapsed walls with crumbling mortar and threaded through two rows of neglected headstones inscribed with forgotten names.
But the Tracker was not rambling aimlessly nor was he lost. His excursion into the monastic sanctuary was aided by a map he had "acquired" from a nobleman of the House of Trent.
The unauthorized acquisition wasn't considered stealing but more akin to a contribution to a holy cause. Besides Heero had politely explained the map's importance and had offered Lord Warwick a fair price only to be rudely informed by the arrogant ass that he didn't deal with "daft shadow chasers".
With a sure direction fixed firmly in his mind, Heero kept to a straightway route until he stepped into the scriptorium. Like the rest of the Abby, the room set aside for copying manuscripts, books or other scared texts had been reclaimed by sand and wind and rain. However the Tracker knew that not everything had been reduce to rubble or all the secrets totally destroyed.
Attached to the rear wall three stone panels had survived the determined forces of nature and were in remarkably good condition. Although the Latin letters carved by devoted monks almost a century ago were sandblasted, their indentations and shapes were still readable.
Heero leaned closer to the tablet trio and used puffs of air to dislodge layers of grit clogging the weathered words. A sturdy brush with his fingertips removed enough of the finer particles so he wouldn't have to strain his eyesight.
From a cloth pouch hanging on his belt he took out his leather-bound journal, a quill pen with the feathers cut off and a small bottle of pokeberry ink that look more purple than blue when written on the unrefined paper.
Squatting down at the best angle to take advantage of the weak rays of sunlight punching through the clouds, the Demon Tracker set about recording the clues that could help him locate and defeat the Lord of Darkness and his depraved minions.
It quickly became clear that the engravings were not scripture or moral edicts issued by a higher authority either in church or heaven. The first tablet contained a directive of unification but a riddle had been employed to hide the true message.
"Holy symbol from the Land of Elon unite the quinque.(1) The lone hunter, wise to demonic ways. The duel spirit of earth and sky. A cleric who rules a tri-ringed rod. The fair manipulator of seasons. The perpetual beast that fools the eye."
The second tablet continued with another puzzling inscription.
"Upon the Vernal Equinox follow the river that runs in reverse where the Temple Keeper dwells in Deep World. He shall guide the united ones to righteous victory."
The last tablet held a single sentence written in bolder capital letters as if to emphasis its urgency...SUB ROSA---LEST THE DEVIL DISCOVER".
*********
Restless shadows crept along the bedchamber's walls. As Heero's thoughts returned from his remembrances, his finger paused on the final sentence. "Sub Rosa." he repeated out loud. "Under the rose." he translated from Latin to English. "In ancient times the rose was used as a token of secrecy."
Was he actually meant to find a rose, a sign in solid form that would help solve the mysterious clues? Or was the reference to a rose merely a warning, a call for caution?
With a sigh borne of both physical and mental lassitude, Heero set the journal aside, tucked the downy coverlet under his chin and blew out the bedside lamp.
"The riddle will be explained in time." he muttered in the murky gloom that quickly enveloped the room as the sullen moon refused to lend its glow.
"Patience." He whispered the virtuous charge of endurance.
Rolling onto his side towards the door, the solitary hunter reluctantly offered up his safety to fate's protective whims and dared to close his eyes.
Soon sleep would overtake his senses dulling their intuitive vigilance. Yet another night when dark dreaming would invade his soul and extinguish a bit more of his humanity.
Or perhaps the nightmarish slumber would open a portal to the next world and Heero could finally slip free from the mortal shackles that bound him to his isolated existence.
TBC...
(1) Quinque--Latin for the number five.
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