DRAMA NOVEL ONLINE Chapter A Silent Witness
(Modi)
The smell of blood permeates the early morning mist. ’Savage’, they’ll accuse in hushed tones if they discover the remains before I do.
The pre-dawn light strains my eyes, and anticipation floods my veins. As I march past the empty bakery, my heavy boots strike loudly against the cobblestones. Hurriedly, I scan the darkened doorway. Soon, the ovens will be lit, and the crooked chimney will replace my only lead with the smell of freshly baked bread. I’m running out of time, but I know I’m close - that distinctive metallic tang is strong here.
My abruptly rounding the corner of the grains store startles a scavenging vixen. With a warning yip and enviable agility, she darts the short distance to the tree line. Once she reaches the large oak tree that marks the start of the trailhead, she slows to a stop and raises her hackles.
There, crudely disembowelled and nailed to the trunk, are four muntjac deer. The fox noses at the congealing blood among the roots, and I cast a furtive look around before jogging toward her.
The market square of Central Asgard runs flush along the westernmost edge of the Aesir hunting grounds, where I live and work. It was chance that I chose this particular trail and straight luck that a gentle breeze carried the stench of death over the damp ground. This morning marks the eighth gruesome discovery in the last two moon cycles. This time, at least, I found it before anyone else.
Bundled in my thick woollen cloak, I drag the corpses deeper into the forest and away from prying eyes. This forest has been my home for as long as I can remember. Each fallen branch and every sodden patch of peat is mapped inside my brain with the same familiarity that I know my skin.
Hefting the shameful load onto my shoulder, I swing it up a sheer quartz ledge and heave myself up after it. The bog on the far side will make the perfect instant burial site for these unfortunate creatures. I could leave them for the crows, but I can’t guarantee they aren’t poisoned. There’s also no way I could have left them where they were, waiting to be found just like the others. No, that would only further fuel the rumours that already exist.
I’m not ignorant of how other Asgardians perceive me. Of the behaviours and mindset they assume I possess. The wildman of the woods hunts any who stray too far from the trails.
The sun struggles to push through the cloud bank as the hours slowly pass, but it’s light enough that I can detect a safe route through the bog. Ankle-deep in peaty water, I pendulum my cloak back and forth to gain momentum before releasing it into the heart of the dense soil.
Tipping my chin briefly skyward, I silently ask for the deer’s safe passage to the spirit realm. The unstable ground bubbles under their combined weight, slowly sucking them downward, and I watch until the edges of my cloak are no longer visible before carefully making my way back to the nearest trail.
The water in my flask has warmed, but it’s better than nothing and soothes the ache in my dry throat. This morning didn’t turn out at all like I planned. Down a good quality cloak and several hours of daylight, I pick up pace in the direction of my hús on the outskirts of the forest. The simple but sturdy structure used to be a hunting cabin for the elite Aesir family, but it wasn’t built to be a permanent dwelling. It took years for me to fix it up. I learned on the job, having never been provided with a formal education or apprenticeship.
As an infant, I was abandoned on the steps of the Ritual Temple. A scandal that defines me to this day. Never before has a child been born that was left unclaimed and shunned. Children are revered and held in esteem across the entire Nine Realms. An ironic laugh works its way up my throat. No new births have occurred for a long time - I am the last Asgardian born.
This is why the recent spate of animal mutilations on Aesir hunting grounds is so worrying. Initially, the slaughtered bodies were left on my threshold. Later, I found them scattered in the meadow beside my hús, and now they’re being displayed in more public settings such as the market square. They’re being used to target me, but why? My brow furrows as a headache blooms across my temples.
Finally, the edge of the clearing comes into view, and I relish the chance to get out of my head. No good ever came from spending too much time alone with my thoughts.
Stooping to grab hold of the heavy axe where it leans against the siding of my wood store, I set to splitting the large pile of felled logs. The change in season is harsh this year, and my breaths spill out in visible puffs. With each swing of my arms, sweat trickles down my spine and my mind slowly clears.
Long before I was appointed its custodian, I would often seek out the peace this vast forest offers. Stretching from Central Asgard in the west to the mighty Himinbjörg Citadel in the east, it’s a solid day’s hike from end to end. A prospect most can live without, and yet it’s a route I enjoy making a few times a week. Sometimes, I take the equally taxing north-south trail that culminates in a mountain range at either end. Valkyries doggedly patrol the southern range as it borders their home district of Sessrúmnir.
A shudder wracks up my spine at the memory of my last encounter with one of the over-enthusiastic, winged militia, and I bury the head of the axe in the chopping block. A tangle with a Valkyrie is always best avoided.
Mopping at the sweat that covers my face with the hem of my cotton tunic, I take in the darkening sky. Gathering an armful of logs, I trudge inside my hús and deposit them before the hearth. Dropping to my knees, I rake over the ashes and set about lighting a new fire to heat yesterday’s leftover stew.
While I wait for the fire to take, I shuffle the few steps to the pantry and begin a mental inventory of my supplies. I’m low on venison, boar and rabbit jerky, but as I make those myself all I need to do is set aside some time. But I’m also low on bread, eggs, and fruits. With a loud sigh, I resign myself to heading to the market tomorrow.
Social interactions are barely a tolerable experience. Many see me as too far removed from society to be at ease, and others simply don’t trust me. But ever since disembowelled animals started showing up nailed to doors, some have become openly hostile.
Being spat at by the fishmonger when I queried the value of crab, is the most recent example. Luckily, I’ve mastered how to conceal my emotions behind an impassive facade, but even with my nails stabbing into my palms, I struggled not to feed him his teeth. Sometimes, it would be all too easy to give into the image of me they craft with their poisoned words.
As the purplish hue of dusk descends, I tug on my spare cloak and refill my water skin from the pot by the hearth. I need to check my snares and reset my traps before it gets too dark to see. Absently, I rub over the litany of scars on my hands and arms that document the steep learning curve.
The forest is quiet as I step outside, broken only by the casual hoot of an owl and the call of a fox as they wake from their slumber. The nearest of my traps is a short walk north, and I set off across the meadow for the tree line.
Between checking the second and third snares, with a brace each of hares and wood pigeons strung over my shoulder, the sound of a twig snapping pulls my attention. There’s someone out there. Leaving the trail, I seek cover in the thick underbrush as I strain to locate them. It could be a wolf, but I haven’t heard their scouts calling out their location.
A heavy footfall sounds moments before a bird takes flight, and my neck whips to the right. Listening, I tilt my head - due west, not far. Silently, I stalk closer. Whoever it is, they’re minimising their tracks, telling me they’re no stranger to spending time in the forest. But no one is as experienced as I am.
A crushed sapling and the fibres from a dark blue cloak that snagged on a thorn creeper are easy to spot. But they’re not where I’d expect them to be. It’s as if someone has cut across the main trail and back again to confuse me. The trespasser has changed direction in favour of moving closer to my hús.
A break in the canopy allows the light to filter through, and I have the briefest flash of dark golden hair before it slips silently behind a thicket and back into darkness. The edge of my lip tugs up in a smile. Fjolnir of Vanaheim, Heir to the House of Vanir, often detours into the forest when he’s in Asgard.
It’s reckless behaviour for someone of his station - he’s witnessed the recent mutilations. Yet still, he roams the forest as if he knows no harm will befall him. When he leaps a downed tree, his numerous rings catch what’s left of the light, and I’m reminded of how far apart our worlds are. He’s everything I’m not - wealthy, desired, and spoiled.
As the distance between us lessens, I can detect the rich fragrance of the scented oil he favours - toasted nuts and cardamom. The gentle sounds of the glass and bone beads woven into his hair clank softly with each footstep.
He makes a terrible predator but an all too alluring prey.