Doom’s Gatekeeper – Part 3
Life has a nasty habit of kicking you in the balls in the exact wrong moment.
“Oh, I see you’re neck deep in moving, trying to deal with your allergies, and combating recent weight gain. Would sure suck if the job which just gave you a bonus two weeks ago were to fire you.”
Now, I haven’t been fired. Yet. The meeting which will determine my fate was pushed off until tomorrow. HOWEVER. Having that worry spawned mid-week last week did de-rail a lot of this here writing that I had to do.
Nothing for it but to get back up into the saddle. No matter how many times I get thrown out, nor how roughly I land, I just have to keep getting back on. That’s all I can do. That’s all I need to do.
Meatsuit Reroot: I have fallen out of the habit of this particular piece of my posts. It’s hard for me to sit here, after losing so much weight last year, to admit that I’ve gained a significant portion of it back. It’s not uncommon: Your body treats weight loss as a traumatic event, and tries everything in it’s power to put the weight back on. My diet isn’t simply a diet, it’s the way I have to eat for the rest of my life.
It’s hard, sugar is a horrible addiction to kick, and I’ve fallen back within its sway completely. I thought I was out, but it turns out the drug that is more addictive than heroin is hard to quit. Plus, it’s just in effing everything. Hard to cut it out when it is omnipresent. But I’m trying. And really, that’s all that I can ask of myself. Just like writing, the whole key is to never, ever quit.
So, having gotten my weight woes (and my diet woes) onto paper, I can honestly say that I will consider today a success. Yes, the post is late. Yes, I didn’t finish my editing goal of getting Karyn the edit back today. But you know what? I’m trying. I’m putting one foot in front of another. And I’m proud of that.
Without shame,
Doom’s Gatekeeper, Part 3
Hayoan stood in the clearing, eyes shielded against the dazzling sunlight reflected off the mirror smooth surface of the tiny pond. For a moment, she couldn’t do anything but stare at the unmoving surface of the water as a light breeze ran fingers of wind through her hair. She approached, as timid as a young dartmouse, until she stood at the edge of the pond.
The rough hewn stone which made up the raised basin of the pond barely came to her mid-thigh. Hayoan would never be mistaken for a tall woman, and the very innocuous and tiny stature of the pool made her stare in awe. Whatever created this has powers beyond imagining. Such a subtle and reserved display of magical ability belayed enormous power and even more prodigious wisdom. Even the most learned of human sorcerers would never be able to create something of such beautiful focus.
Almost involuntarily, Hayoan’s hand went to the surface of the pool. Her hand went to the mirror smooth surface, and found it as unyielding as tightly stretched mudmug hide. Her hand dipped into the surface, never breaking it, never disturbing the mirror smoothness. It felt cool under her hand, and wet as water should. Yet when she withdrew her hand, there was no moisture upon it, and the pool had instantly reverted to it’s mirror sheen.
Hayoan was just considering what she should do when the much at the bottom of the pond squirmed. Wriggling and frothing, the much churned with inhuman will. Suddenly bursting forth, a gigantic semi-human form emerged from the pond. It broke the surface in a riotous splash, yet not a single drop of water left the pond. The creature, a hunched over giant, with six fingered hands on either side of the pond as it loomed from the opposite side, peered down at Hayoan with eyes the color of dull jade.
“What foolish mortal is this, which seeks to disturb my vigil” came a rumbling voice from no discernible direction. Hayoan didn’t quail, but it was a near thing. Back straightening, chin lifting, she looked the monstrosity square in the eyes. “I am Hayoan, one who is banished, one who is damned, one who is dead.”
The creature arched an oozing mucky eyebrow as it regarded the small woman at the opposite end of the pond. “The dead do not speak man-child. Where there is life, there is hope.” Hayoan bit back a sharp retort, noting that although the pond’s guardian was inhuman, it looked at her with genuine interest and concern. The words spilled forth unbidden, coming as though a damn had burst within her.
“Yet I may as well be! My father gone, my mother dead in my birthing. Made to serve as a slave to my father’s killer, banished for refusing to cuckold the wretched creature. I have no clan, stripped of my last name as I was cast from among them. Should I leave this forest, I am condemned to die!” Hayoan held up her left hand, showing the creature the brand which had been pressed into her flesh by the shaman her father’s murderer had brought with him.
The brand, a large plainfisher bird with talons and beaks extended, was a mark of death. No clan would take her in, no clansman or woman would offer her sanctuary, for fear of receiving their own doom. “There are none in the world of men who would treat with me. If I am not dead, creature, then I feel that death would be a kindness in comparison.”
“That” mused the deep basso rumble of the Keeper’s voice “could be arranged.”
To be continued…
Muckfully,
Justin
