(Note- there is an error in this episode where I speak the same line twice. This sort of thing is usually caught while editing, but I've had a busy month. I deleted the extra line and reuploaded the audio file, but it seems like each podcast player maintains a cached version of the bad copy. I guess you just have to forgive me).
If you would like to support this podcast you can do so by writing a review on Apple music or the podcast player of your choice. This story was written and recorded in New Jersey on Lenapehoking territory. Intro music is 'Shoulders Of Giants' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.au
Episode Transcript:
A Bird for a Heart
Part One - On The Road to Aurelia
The girl with a bird for a heart walked alone on the road to Aurelia. After days of travel, the bottoms of her bare feet had grown blackened and calloused until they were as hard and brown as the ground on which she tread. Her blue dress hung torn and dirty from her bony frame. Her skin looked as tan and tough as the walking stick she carried. She was a young girl, but the elements and fatigue had worn her face ragged and her hair as tangled as the dry weeds that dotted the landscape.
A cart drawn by two paksi approached from behind on her left. She did not so much as glance toward it. A Boy her age drove the cart, its bed filled with barrels. The sweet smell of Aurelian wine wafted from them.
“Ho there!” shouted the Boy. “You there! Hop in! I’m headed the same way! I can take you if you like!”
She did not turn to look at him.
“Do you not hear me?” said the Boy as he came up beside her. He yanked the reins that steered the paksi and the enormous birds walked in step with the girl. They were beautiful specimens with black feathers and crowns of white and blue and ivory colored beaks. Each stood a head taller than a fully grown man, dwarfing the girl beside them.
“I’m trying to offer you a ride, you filthy hen!” the Boy said to the girl, frustrated at her silence. He peered down at her from his cart. Through her torn bodice he caught sight of something on her chest. It looked like a semi-spherical box of black metal. “What’s that you have there?” he asked.
She did not reply.
The Boy gave up and urged his paksi to move on and put distance between him and this uncivil mute girl. He was busy making an important delivery and had no cause to be wasting time helping some unappreciative outcast. He took one more peek at the object poking out of her dress and recognized it, not a box, but rather a small metal cage protruding from a bloodless cavity in her flesh.
His jaw dropped open and he made a sign with his hand to his chest- a gesture his grandmother had taught him to ward off curses.
“I beg pardon of you. I see now that you have been hexed.” said the Boy. “You must be seeking the Muck Witch.”
The girl did not even seem to hear him speaking to her.
“Well,” the Boy continued, “I know the rules. You cannot accept any help. I understand now why you are playing mute. Just so you know, you are on the right path. Just a few miles then turn up Thornhollow Bend. From there you’ll see her hut on the edge of the bog. I’ll be leaving now, wanderer. I wish you good luck on your journey. It is almost over, I hope.” He smiled nervously and urged his birds to move on quickly.
Before long he was a speck in the distance.
The girl continued with no aid besides her stick.
Part Two - Not the Vintner’s Son
The Boy reached the estate soon after his encounter with the outcast girl. He wheeled over to the great hall and spoke to the doorkeeper.
“I bring casks from Madora, the vintner. They were ordered for the wedding.”
“The vintner usually sends one of his sons. I don’t know you.” said the doorkeeper.
“I am a simple servant. The vintner’s sons are away on business elsewhere. The vintner sent me instead.”
“Bring down a flask so I may sample the wine, Boy.” said the doorkeeper. He was an older man, but large and imposing. His long droopy mustache suggested a lifetime of military service. He was unarmed, but carried a horn that could summon the guards of the estate in an instant.
“Sir, my instructions are to bring the casks into the great hall. They are for the wedding feast, not-”
“Do as I say child or get the back of my hand!” the man bellowed. The servant Boy shut his mouth and scrambled to the back of the cart.
“You understand that breaking the seal will ruin-”
“I count seven barrels.” said the doorkeeper, “I reckon we can spare one.”
The Boy set to the task of applying the spigot.
“I don’t have a glass for you, sir.” he said once the wine was ready to be poured.
“Use this.” the man said as he extended a small drinking cup.
The servant took the cup and filled it. He would have considered it an insult to the vintner to serve his wine in such a filthy vessel. Rather, he would have if it had actually been the vintner’s wine and if he had actually been the vintner’s servant.
The doorman sniffed the wine and took a swig. After a pause he gulped the whole cup.
“More.” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. The Boy refilled the cup and once more the man downed it.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” asked the Boy.
“What would you know? You’re just a dirty child.”
“May I complete my delivery now, sir?” asked the Boy.
“Very well. Be quick about it.”
The barrels were quite heavy, but the Boy managed to get all of them into the wedding hall. After he finished the Boy tipped his cap to the man and urged his paksi to leave upon the same road they had come. The doorman closed the door and set the lock.
Once well away from the estate the Boy whispered to himself, “It’s done. Enin is inside the hall. I’ve done what he asked. I’m free.”
Within the great hall one of the casks rattled.
Part Three - The Muck Witch
The girl approached the hut as if it were a slumbering beast that may awaken at any moment. The conical structure seemed to grow out of the ground itself. It stood just before the place where the dry land gave way to bog. The sun shone above but the dense tree cover ensured that the domicile remained constantly in shadow. Beside it stood a small pen that housed a few blue swamp hens. There did not seem to be a door at all, just an opening.
Silently she padded up to the building. The great toothless mouth of the doorway revealed only solid darkness. She peered into the black, expecting a wrinkled crone to stare back at her cackling and covered in warts.
When her eyes adjusted to the dark she saw no one- just a straw bed, a table, an iron pot and shelf upon shelf containing a massive collection of bottles and trinkets. The girl walked around the hut and found no sign of the witch. Perhaps she had the wrong hut or maybe its owner was out doing whatever witches do. The hens looked well cared for so the girl assumed the latter.
She found a dry stump in the clearing before the hut and decided it would be a good enough place to rest while waiting for the witch. After an hour or so of waiting someone approached.
A young man and woman walked cautiously toward the girl. Their rough clothing and lack of shoes marked them as peasants. Each had the brown skin and hair typical of the local people. The woman’s belly swelled with child.
“Muck Witch!” called the man, “My wife is not well. She carries our son! Please aid us!”
The girl stood up but did not speak. The couple drew closer and she saw that the woman leaned heavily on her husband, unable to support herself.
“You’re just a girl!” spat the man. “Where is The Witch?”
The girl said nothing.
“Who are you? Where is the Muck Witch? Can’t you see my wife needs help?”
Even if she could have spoken, the girl would not know what to say. She had no knowledge of healing and no idea where The Witch had gotten to.
“Well, if you cannot help me and The Witch is not present, then I shall have to do it myself!” said the man as he strode to the opening of the hut.
“Husband, no...” said the woman weakly, but he did not seem to hear and dashed inside The Witch’s home. The girl looked at the woman. Torrents of sweat washed down her brow and her breath was heavy and pained.
Seconds later the man returned with an armful of bottles.
“Maybe one of these is the medicine you need, dearest.” He held a flask out to her- small and opaque with a glass stopper. He put his hand over it to open the bottle before a voice from the bog interrupted him.
“I would not do that if I were you.” said the voice. “Cacodaemons are frightfully difficult to bottle up again once they are released.”
The man turned toward the bog and said, “Is it you? Witch? Show yourself! I come only seeking your aid!”
A white skinned woman stepped into the clearing. Younger than one would expect, no more than thirty years with her long red hair kept in tight braids. She wore an outfit of green and brown cloth with fine leather boots. Her face and clothing remained perfectly clean even though she stepped forward from the direction of the bog.
She ignored the couple and approached the girl.
“You,” she said, “you have traveled a long way to come here.”
The girl did not reply.
“Ignore her.” said the man, “She is just a dumb child. My wife is ill. We need-” The Witch raised her hand to silence the man without taking her eyes off the girl.
“Let me see it.” said The Muck Witch, poking her finger toward the girl’s chest.
“Witch, I beg of you...” at this The Witch turned around. She looked at the pregnant woman for a moment and then to the collection of bottles in the man’s arm.
“The blue one. It is filled with dried leaves. Make a tea from them and have your wife drink every last drop. Then she should rest.”
“That’s it? Asked the man, “And that will save my child?”
“No.” said The Witch. “The babe is already dead.”
“But...”
“There is nothing that can be done about that, man. Do as I say and your wife should live. Perhaps she will even be able to bear another child.”
“M-my child...” stuttered the man.
“Do as I say and leave me, man. And be thankful. If you had come any later you would have lost both child and wife.”
“Thank you.” breathed the pregnant woman.
The man dropped all of the bottles, save the blue one and the couple left The Witch alone with the girl.
“As I was saying, girl, show me what you have there.”
The girl lowered her blouse enough for the witch to see the tiny iron cage. It resided in an almost perfectly round hole in the center of her chest. Inside it sat an even tinier bird- some sort of finch. Its foreparts were a sooty grey with flecks of yellow, and its wings darker, but similarly unremarkable. The bird would have looked quite plain if not for the brilliant tuft of vermillion feathers above its forehead.
“Dear creature, be not afraid.” said The Witch. “Sing for me your song.”
The bird chirped. Timidly at first but then stronger and with what sounded like joy.
“Titihihihihihi!” sang the little creature.
The Witch clasped her hand over a delighted smile. “Yes! Dear friend! All will be well, I am certain.”
She picked a bottle from the pile the man had discarded. She unstopped it and placed the tip of her small finger inside the neck. A dark yellow pigment coated her fingertip. She brushed it over the girl’s throat, making a tiny amber mark.
“Now you, child. You may finally speak.”
“My name is Tula Petek!” she gasped, “I was cursed by a horrible man! He stole my heart and replaced it with a bird! He took my voice!”
“Who? What man? Why did he do this thing?” asked the Muck Witch.
“I do not know his name.” Tula Petek told The Witch. “He was a stranger. He said he needed my heart for a ritual. He said it was perfect for his needs. He told me that as long as the bird resides in my chest I will remain alive, even until the end of the world, but I would not be able to speak to warn anyone of his plan.”
“The end of the world?” asked The Witch. “Did the man happen to mention when that is to come?”
“Yes. In eight days time.”
Part Four - Beneath the Estate
Enin had work to do and a world to end.
A tall man from the north, as a Boy he ran away from his small village to see the world. As he grew to manhood, Enin traveled the realms in search of wisdom. He discovered the magic of the stone men and the craft of the hidden people of the Red Valley. Enin had unlocked secrets he’d never expected and been struck with curses he’d never imagined. The worst of them all was the curse of life.
He opened the lid of the barrel which had allowed him into the wedding hall and got immediately to work. He passed the beautifully carved columns of kordwood and did not pause to admire the ornate reliefs of Maj, the Shaper forming the world with sacred fire out of the raw material of the void. Enin glanced briefly at a depiction of Mur, the Destroyer sucking the breath from all living things at the end of time before moving on.
Enin held a hammer and wedge. With them he pried apart the floorboards. It took several attempts before he found what he needed- an opening. Once he located the correct spot, Enin swiftly tore a hole in the floor, wide enough to climb down into a tunnel beneath the structure. Cool, dank air rose into the hall.
The estate had been built on a very old parcel of land. Long before the worshippers of Maj and Mur ruled Vatrus the world had been a much different place. The land had been tamed over the ages, but in some places could still be found the breaches- openings between this world and the other.
Most breaches were hidden deep underground. A few, such as this one, could be found closer to the surface. To this day the locals told tales of the tunnels beneath their lands and the dreadful things that dwelled there.
Enin took in a lungful of the cavern air before dropping into the hole, the wet earthiness of it filling him. Though only a few feet deep, Enin could sense that the tunnel extended far and led to where he desired to be. Ducking on all fours, Enin entered the dark passage and crept forward in the blackness.
The further he went the narrower the tunnel became. After several minutes of crawling Enin could barely move. After several more his hands felt the lip of a ledge. Reaching down, he could not feel the bottom. Enin carried no light with him because he knew the caverns were not empty. He knew that a light in such a place would be like a bloody chunk of meat in a lion’s den. He climbed down leg first and hung from the ledge. Still, the bottom of the cave eluded him. Clinging to the ledge with only his fingers, Enin kicked his legs below himself in search of a cave floor but found none.
Worrying that he had come to the wrong place, but having no other choice, Enin released his grip and slid down the rock wall.
He fell longer than he had expected, but the wall sloped slightly and he reached the bottom with minimal injury. Scratched and bruised, but largely unharmed, Enin groped around in the black pit, searching for A Door.
Several times he scanned the pit with his fingertips. Several times he found nothing but the cold stone of the cave.
Enin stood and fumbled in the dark. He measured the pit at roughly twenty feet in diameter. For at least an hour he ran his fingers along the walls and floor of the cave but found nothing. He had surely come to the right place. The scroll he took from the Temple of Aina led him here. The opening, the tunnels, the pit - all were as predicted. This must have been the correct place, but The Door was nowhere to be seen.
An ocean of time seemed to pass over him. Enin’s thirst and hunger gnawed at him. He carried no tools except the hammer and wedge, no provisions save one. That was the rule. In such matters, the rules must be followed. The darkness does not offer its secrets to those who come cautiously.He knew that. He knew that he needed to cast off the needs of the mortal world before he could enter the breach. He had fasted for three days before coming. He had become as clean and pure as humanly possible. The only impure part of Enin was his heart, but he had prepared for that.
From the black tunnel above him, he heard unsettling noises. Chittering, scratching, breathy sounds of something or several somethings moving about unseen in the cavern.
Enin reached into his pack and retrieved a small sack. He opened it and removed an object the size of a pear wrapped in leaves. Through the wrapping he felt it pulsing and warm.
In his life Enin had committed many sins. He had wronged many people, but always, he said, for good reason. Here in the dark pit he discarded the leaves that covered his prize - the wet and beating heart of Tula Petek. He felt her pain when he stole it from her. He carried her cries in his ears every day since. Enin did not wish to harm her. He did not wish to harm anyone, but he knew this was the only way. Without a pure heart he could not open The Door.
Many more hours passed. Soon the preparers of the wedding would discover the hole in the floor. Enin doubted any would dare investigate the tunnel. He would never be found. The legends regarding the dark things beneath the estate still haunted the minds of the people. They would most likely cover the hole and act as if they had seen nothing. Or perhaps they would burn the hall to the ground and lay heavy stones over the spot where it stood. Perhaps they would salt the land and place wards and totems around it to prevent any from ever suffering the fate of the fool who ventured into the darkness.
But Enin would not die. Enin could not die.
That was his greatest gift and his greatest curse.
He could suffer and starve and wail and scream until the end of the world, but before that time he would be doomed to sit in a dark dark hole clutching the heart of Tula Petek.
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