Date: Sat, 7 Jun 2008 11:52:10 -0500 From: James Pettey Subject: Cradle of Life - Chapter 03 Cradle of Life Chapter 3 Strong winds stressed the long, yellow body while the heavy rain pelted at its white, beaked face. Twisting extensive, white wings with elegant precision, the Blue-Tailed Chestrin bird kept its lift consistently sturdy. Its body flexed in the rolling currents of wind, which provided aid for the drag caused by the attached scroll cases. Flashes of lightning illuminated the darkness, exposing the cold raindrops as they fell terrifyingly far below. It had been a dreadful week and a long trip as far as the bird was concerned -- one that she wished she could convey to her relentless human customers. Luckily, they were so reliant on her kind for their communication that they never dared to disrespect them, and she knew it. Great arcs of lightning angrily crossed the sky, revealing that the air was dangerously unstable. Suddenly, a large lump of falling ice whacked the side of her head, knocking her silly. Half plummeting and half descending, she cursed her carelessness while quickly scanning the approaching ground for suitable cover. There, coming like a freight train out of control, was a tree illuminated within the onslaught of hail. Timing became critical as her descent kept the massive lumps from wailing her to death, but the flashes of shadowy openings within the tree were uncertain at best. She made her choice and curved her body in an air-braking bend straight against the side of the tree. ... "Any word yet?" asked Tural. Glancing back from behind the counter, the elderly man gravely shook his head. "Not again," Tural muttered as his weathered face twisted with disbelief. "Be the second loss this week," uttered a customer from behind. Without responding, Tural rubbed his shaven face with both hands; his dark, combed-back hair fizzled with stress as his hazel eyes glared forward in contemplation. Upon noticing the four, half-inch rings sewn on the side of Tural's dark scarlet shorts, the customer began to grill him on the status of the war. Citizens, who now suddenly believe that they're experts, seem to think that it's okay to lecture officers or question them on matters of security. Eventually, his train of thought compelled him to face his interrogator. Tural's wet, leather cuirass glistened from the candlelight of the wall-mounted chandeliers. "As I said," repeated the gray-bearded man, "don't you strongly believe we should be sending more troops south to aid the Yellows? We have a duty to assist them, or did you guys forget?" Tural inspected the man, his face plastered with bold restraint. The man looked bedraggled, possibly a vagabond. His wet, upper smock was torn and filthy, and his red-violet shorts gave no sign of status, military or otherwise. Twisting the uncomfortable fittings of his leather bracers, Tural suspiciously eyed the man. With deep authority, Tural asked, "Arnell, will you kindly send word to my office as soon as you hear anything?" With respectful emphasis, the clerk responded, "I'll send Augmar over the second I get word, General." "Excellent." Feeling worried and uncomfortable, the bearded man humbly stepped aside as Tural moved to leave. It was rare for Tural to be on the receiving end of respect, and he certainly had no desire to spoil it by being overly aggressive. Fighting his vulnerability, he quickly glided out the door and into the blowing rain. Fort Klemal quietly rested along the Sablela River at the hilly edge of the Yalvel forest. Known as Klemal, the surrounding farming community transformed from a small village to a major city almost overnight. As the Blue territory pushed and swelled in size, the Reds had abandoned their northern forest communities and resettled there. Although it had been eight years, there were still hundreds of makeshift houses and shops surrounding the inner village. The exodus would have seemingly brought hunger and poverty, and for a short time, it did. Yet, the nearby river and fertile lands gave much contentment, offering new hope and opportunities. Cowering down against the rainy gales, Tural hurried up the cobblestone road toward the meeting hall. There was still much to discuss with his officers, who needed resolution despite the setbacks. Rounding the rows of tall buildings and shops, he reached the small courtyard of the renovated town hall. Several impoverished families sat huddled around fires underneath awnings that stretched along several buildings. Standing well above the adjoining wooden structures, the brick meeting hall rose elegantly. Though just a few bamblebeasts stood under the adjoining pens, the large, smoke-filled entry brimmed with lieutenants, squad leaders, and various elected officials, who were all engaged in heated discussions ranging from warfare to local sewage problems. As soon as Tural stepped through the double entryway, a thin, well-groomed man in red-rust shorts and a white military tunic quickly approached. "General Tural, thank Goddess you have arrived," said Corporal Malkan, the usual calm on his face slipping into distressed wrinkles. Upon closing the door, Tural stood as Malkan quickly padded him dry with a small towel. He was a very resourceful assistant, capable of astounding feats of management. Despite Malkan's short tenure as his assistant, Tural was already considering a promotion more suitable for his talents. With his mouth prepped to speak, Tural's voice lost strength with the idea of losing an invaluable assistant. Bending down to finish drying his legs, Malkan said, "There is a woman here to see you, General. A Madam Hermies, I believe." Tural turned his head towards him in helpless distress. "Not of the school?" Tural inquired. "She did have a school tunic, Sir," stated Malkan. Casting his gaze to a nearby wall, Tural sighed and glared into the candles of a wall-mounted chandelier. This was certainly not the time to be dealing with the school, especially regarding the issue that he suspected. In a quick flash, Tural looked down at Malkan, who was looking up at him expectantly. "Have Major Genvar and Captain Kelden arrived?" asked Tural. Finished drying, Malkan stood to answer with careful tact. "Major Genvar is here, General, but Captain Kelden is believed to be delayed on account of the storm." Tural turned his head to the side, his blank look desperate for suggestions. "Shall I send for the Madam, General?" added Malkan. Cursing under his breath, Tural glanced around anxiously search. Finally, he refocused his eyes back on his assistant. "Yes, Corporal. Send her to my office," he answered as though he was signing his own sentence. With an obedient nod, Malkan scurried around the many tables and chairs, happily ignoring the heated discussions of the crowd. Once he was out of view, Tural retreated to his office just a door away. It was fortunate that his choice of lieutenants had paid off, for most of them were quite capable of dealing with the countless problems at hand. Some of their expressions, however, clearly suggested to him that an audience was not far off. Richly decorated with the memorabilia from his former battle years, the dark wood-paneled room devoured the candlelight within, giving it a gloomy air. The flickers of lightning on the drawn curtains made the poorly lit room more disconcerting. With the door and din firmly shut behind him, he extracted two candelabras from a nearby wooden cabinet. Using the flames from the existing lights, Tural lit them to position one on each side of his desk. Made of a dark, rich wood, the desk was rather impressive. It had two red-padded, outer chairs and a grand main chair. His first fighting sword was mounted on the wall directly behind his seat. He stood and stared at the short sword as he was prone to do, envisioning the face of the long-dead man who had issued it to him. It was about four years ago, and it was his first real scout mission after training. Due to his stern build and mature mind, he was often encouraged to reconsider having left the archery division, but his agility and quick thinking coupled with his passion made him a formidable contender for the vacant scout position. It was not only his first scout mission, but it was the first official campaign united with the Yellows. His commanding officer, Colonel Ledric, a short-tempered tenacious archer with a menacing physique, diverted Tural's disgusted glare by tossing the short sword across the table. It was Ledric's belief that any man accepting of the alliance was a traitor worth killing. "Don't use it or you'll hurt yourself," Ledric said as he turned away. Tural seemed almost taken aback by the remark as he sheathed the short sword at his side, but he knew better than to exhibit surprise to Ledric, even if he was no longer under his command. Good as he was at archery, scouting was something he had always wanted to do, even if it meant that he would be forbidden a bow. After a final inspection of his new appearance, Tural left for his bamblebeast in preparation for a two-day journey. His destination was Fort Bikkens, a Red military post at the edge of his home province, Glandister. Since before the alliance, it had served as an important guard post along the Moranster River, which bordered Glandister and the Yellow province of Heckinshire. It was there that he was to meet up with a Yellow named Darval, a fellow scout assigned to collaborate with him for the duration of his tour of duty. Once he met up with Darval, they would travel across the Yellow province of Heckinshire to report to Brigadier Narvab. It was certain to be an exciting trip, because he would be the first Red assigned to a Yellow regiment. However, doubts and suspicions were high among his peers. As he galloped past them, it quickly became obvious that nobody valued his excitement, and he decided it best to keep it to himself. Of all the travels during his lifetime, and there had been many, none were as memorable as his trip to Fort Bikkens. Under normal circumstances, he would have easily forgotten it, mainly because it had been mundane and uneventful. But the idea of immersing himself in another tribal culture fascinated him so much that even the positions of unremarkable rocks on the trail became ingrained in his memory. Naturally, he was educated in the ways of his enemy, but this filtered knowledge came from a society of such extreme religion that unapproved viewpoints became treasonous. With each color believing that the other's avatar is of Luapus, many would rather die than befriend a Yellow. Knowing that the Yellows would be just as unreceptive, he constantly struggled to find the best way to walk the fine line of intolerance. It was coincidental that his first assignment as a scout brought him to Fort Bikkens, for it also was his first assigned station as an archer. Nothing seemed different as he rode the main trail until he turned onto the key road to the fort. Not one carriage, wagon, or single bamblebeast shared the widened dirt thoroughfare as he cautioned forward. He was still in the grasslands, but one with plenty of large hills for easy concealment. Tactics that took advantage of the landscape worried him as he continued around the twisting route, for the road could not be empty unless something was critically wrong. As Tural rounded the final bend around the large hills, he slowed his approach in readiness for battle. Familiar in his surroundings, he snuck his bamblebeast around the tall hill for a smooth and slow exposure of the main gate. When one of its two flag poles came into view, his heart distressed his body so much that he feared it would bring a humiliating death. "General, Sir?" prompted Malkan with a cautious peep through the crack of the door. Tural found himself sitting at his desk holding the end of a small amulet, which he wore around his neck. Like a child caught in the act, he quickly tucked the amulet back under his cuirass. "Ah, yes," Tural fumblingly said. Without taking notice, Malkan composed his question, knowing the person behind him was listening. "General, I have Madam Hermies here to see you." With his composure regained, Malkan gave a hesitant nod. "Madam," offered Malkan as he stepped aside. With a slow and contentious walk, a pale elderly woman in a black and red school blouse and light burgundy coddle-skirt entered the room. Her gray hair was full and kempt, and her powdered face carried restrained admonition. Overwhelmed, Tural stood from his chair in a failed attempt to entice her gaze. When Malkan left them alone, her wandering green eyes met his. "Mr. Tural," she said in a displeased greeting. "Counselor Hermies, I do apologize for the wait," responded Tural as he gestured to a chair. "Please sit down." "It's not the wait that's the problem, Mr. Tural," said the counselor as she seated herself stiffly. "It's getting you to involve yourself with your own children that's the problem." "I see," Tural sighed while carefully sitting. "More specifically," continued the counselor, "your youngest child, who has completely overstepped the lines of common decency and behavior." Her eyes darted back and forth between his. It was in the same manner as his scalding grandmother had done during his youth. The effect was most disconcerting. "Well I have -," stumbled Tural uneasily, "spoken to him - about it, and I -" "Mr. Tural," interrupted the counselor, "I taught for 35 years before becoming a counselor, and I know a problem when I see one. I realize the passing of your wife has been difficult for everyone involved, but you need to be playing a more active role." Tural stared in contemplation at the cabinet immediately beside her. Although a fortunate trick of diversion, his thoughtful expressions brought only painful memories. "Look, I've taken up enough of your time," continued the counselor, "but I want you to stop by my office and arrange an appointment." With his pensive trance broken, Tural respectfully stood as the counselor prepared to leave. "But," she continued, "You are to speak to him tonight about his problem. I cannot nor will not tolerate any more reports of him eating out of trash receptacles." With Tural still on his feet in a silent stupor, the counselor promptly made her exit. After briefly watching the closed door, he slowly sat to reflect on the situation. ... Violent waves of mist crashed along Happy's beachfront home, mixing the ocean water with the strong gales. Ignoring the scattered fragments of her home's dilapidated roof, Lara hopelessly stared through the living room window. Her eyes were wet, as she was beyond desperation. After searching all day, everyone involved decided to head home as the evening storm approached. In a strange, sinister way, Lara's anger felt gratifying as the storm ravaged the countryside. Her moment of satisfaction quickly retreated when Dalen's appeared behind her. Wearing only his shorts and sandals, Dalen stared dejectedly at his mother, soaking and muddy from the search. "Sweetheart, go ahead get cleaned up for supper. We're having soup," she said without looking back. Without responding, Dalen turned and ran upstairs. She felt desolate. After a long minute, she turned her attention back to the cooking broth. It was Happy's favorite, she said to herself. With a thunderous bang, the front door suddenly smashed off its hinges from the force of a blow. Before the fragments could settle, the invading soldiers kicked the pieces aside. Having thought it was caused by the storm, Lara's mouth dropped with disbelief. Dressed in metal cuirasses and helms, the two Blue soldiers waved their drawn swords in readiness. "RUN, DALEN!" screamed Lara when he started down the stairs. Equally shocked and horrified as his mother, Dalen swiftly retreated as a soldier in steel-blue shorts came after him. Grabbing a broom that was off to the side, Lara began waving it with violent swings. Sheathing his sword, the large soldier became amused by the display; his sky blue shorts looked filthy and torn. "GET OUT! OUT YOU BASTARDS!" she screeched. Having grown weary from her tantrum, the man grabbed the broom with one hand and thrust her forward. Once within range, a firm smack sent her reeling to the floor. Before she could regain her composure, loud rips frightened her as the man tore her coddle-skirt. He feverishly dismissed his battle gear as his wild, bearded face flashed intensely in the storm's lightning. Pinning her to the floor, the man's sky-blue cradle-lip horribly glistened as he positioned himself. Lara screamed, helpless from her exhausted attack, as her single egg rattled inside her coddle. "NO, I WON'T LET YOU HAVE IT!" she screamed. She hoped to gain strength from that yell, but it only invigorated him. She let out a frantic cry as the man sealed his cradle to her. Because cradles always dominate coddles, Lara began to feel her internal muscles moving at the command of the attached cradle. Fighting for control did nothing as her egg dislodged. "NO!" she screamed as the egg stirred. Her wild fists pounding on his back were a mere massage as he delighted himself. Lara feared for her future, because if she loses her egg to him, she can never have more children. With her coddle muscles moving at his command, her egg pressed against the narrow exit of her coddle-lip. With huffs and ravaged yells, Lara was stiffening her abdomen in defiance of her coddle's natural obedience. She knew that he only wanted the egg for his own heinous needs. After enjoying his half of the eight-month gestation, the child would never see the light of day, instead absorbed for excess cradle-skin. With her voice fading and her abdomen weakening, her amber-yellow egg passed tensely between them. Once down into the bottom crotch of his sky-blue cradle, his enthralled body firmly rested on her. As her protests trailed off, Lara became aware of Dalen's screams upstairs. Her mind was jolted with instincts as she lifted the man straight up and to her side. Shocked, the man lifted his shorts back over his delighted cradle. "Now that's my kind of woman," he said as she darted into the kitchen. Thinking it best to kill her, he collected his sword and prepared himself for an amusing fight. What she came out with, however, was nothing any sword can match. Screaming with fury, Lara pelted the man with the boiling contents of a pot. With his skin peeling from the burns, the man screamed wildly and ran from the house. Before she knew it, she was already up the stairs, her kitchen knife poised. The knife was already pointing at its target before she approached the door to Dalen's room. Stripped to his steel-blue cradle, the man was lying on the floor on Dalen, his bare back flexing in ecstasy. Before the sound of the kicked door dislodged his pre-occupation, the fatal wound to his back knocked him out. Dalen's loud inhales coming from underneath the solider gave her the added strength to push the bulky man off of him. With his distant eyes open and unfocused, Dalen's loud, deep breaths did not subside after the man's disposal. "DALEN! DALEN!" she screamed as she rattled his limp form. Dalen's body began convulsing, and his mouth drooled saliva. Lara ravaged her hands over him in desperation as steel-blue liquid oozed out of his cradle-lip. When the convulsions subsided, Dalen resumed his slow, distressed breathing. "MY BABY! OH, MY BABY!" she cried as she carried him from the room. "LARA! ARE YOU IN HERE?" came a familiar neighbor's voice from downstairs. "HELP ME, PLEASE! MY BABY!" Lara screamed as she collapsed in the hallway. Loud thumps on the stairs announced the arrival of some neighborhood men. Dalen's limp arms began to twitch as faces both familiar and not surrounded Lara. "We need to get her out of here," warned someone, "the house is on fire." Lara mumbled incomprehensibly as she and her son were hurried down the stairs. "There's a dead Blue soldier up here!" hollered a man from behind. "He attacked Dalen," Lara mechanically supplied. "Oh my Goddess!" the woman said from the top of the stairs, "that man attacked her son!" "Get her and the boy out of here!" yelled a man in the hall. "Go see if the doc is out there while we check things out. Go on! Hurry!" "Come on, dear," she said as she held Lara. "That's it, honey. You'll be fine." Though Lara was oblivious, dozens of people busied themselves with various tasks as the storm rolled in. When the house smoked beyond comfort, the rescuers collected Lara's necessities before heading out. "DALEN! WHERE'S MY BABY?" shrieked Lara as she became aware of her son's absence. Holding her firmly, the elderly lady tried to ease Lara's worries. "Just relax, dear," she said. "The doctor is here, and he'll take good care of him." Lying in the grassy barn a few yards away, Dalen continued his labored breathing while he was examined. "She said his father is dead and his only brother is missing," offered the elderly lady. Lara saw their blank faces looking down in the distance. Moving her head to the side, she was able to catch a glimpse of Dalen as he began convulsing again. As she broke away from her caretaker, she screamed, "DALEN!"