The Gift of Volkeye (27 page)

“I asked
who
is responsible!” Phyllamon shrieked, knowing that he would get no reply. Truthfully, he already knew who the real culprit was. However, he was so angry that he just had to lay blame on someone, and it was his miners who took it.

Earlier that morning, he’d received messages from three of his most reliable subjects, telling him that his mines had been completely emptied of Arhyz. Unable to believe he had gotten identical stories, he visited all three mines and found each in the same state. The mounds of Arhyz that he’d discovered (which his malnourished miners had been killing themselves working on for several months now) had gone missing. Also, at each burglarized mine, there was a painted wooden sign, carrying a message for Phyllamon.

“Missing something?”
they said, taunting him.

Zynathian wasn’t laughing at him in private, but had
publicly
embarrassed him. Phyllamon was beyond livid over this, as those areas were new discoveries he had just began mining earlier in the year.

“Well?” He growled with his unibrow raised at both ends. “I was going to have a peaceful day with no blood on my hands for once, entertaining my guests, but the lying, thieving, pathetic lot of you has rendered that impossible!” Phyllamon said, maintaining his façade.

Hah! He knows they couldn’t have done it!
Murlach thought, sighing. He noticed that Phyllamon had picked the oldest, most arthritic and incapable miners possible, to blame. None of his young workers were there, because Phyllamon knew he needed them.

Though the miners’ innocence was obvious, Murlach still pondered the mystery. He was astonished at the amount of planning it must have taken for a number of highly skilled thieves with
extraordinary mining abilities to discreetly remove tons of Arhyz rock from each mine. Judging from the size of each piece, there could have been anywhere from fifty to sixty thousand pounds in all!

No machine in existence can accomplish such a deed, so that means there had to be hundreds of men to do it!
he thought, the truth yet unknown to him, for Zynathian didn’t consume his every thought as he did Phyllamon.

Zephranie looked puzzled, so Murlach explained the situation. When she fully understood, her eyes narrowed into little slits and her nostrils flared. The way she saw it, stealing from Phyllamon meant stealing from
her
, as he was the source of all their income. If anyone disturbed her monetary receipts, how would she be able to support her habit and afford a certain pleasurable substance she had recently discovered?

Just as Phyllamon was about to give the
‘fire at will’
signal, Zephranie approached Phyllamon’s four-armed Cyclops and took its shotgun. She then proceeded to do what none of them, until now, knew she was capable of. Walking to the first miner, she looked him up and down, seeing his genitalia shrink back in its excess skin.

Zephranie scowled. “Where’s our money?”

Without hesitation, she raised the shotgun to the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. At point blank range, the buckshot had the affect of a cannonball, throwing the innards of his body in all directions. Blood clung to her face and drenched her day gown. Zephranie ground her teeth together, furiously.

“Where. Is. Our. MONEY
?”
she repeated, slowly moving to the third man in line, being that the second was already dead, as he’d been maimed by several pieces of bone shrapnel from the first victim.

This one was skinny as a rail, bald, and toothless. Though shivering, he welcomed the end of his servitude with courage and spite. He hawked a lump of phlegm from his throat and spat it in her face. Zephranie returned this gesture of bravery by lowering the gun and blowing away his reproductive organs along with his inner thighs. She left him there to die slowly.

At this, some of the other miners turned to run, and Zephranie enjoyed picking them off, shooting large holes through their backs and watching their charred innards spew forward as the bullets exited the front of their bodies. At least they were dead upon impact, but to those awaiting their fate with the slightest bit of courage Zephranie did far worse, blowing away one body part at a time. The most fortunate of them purposely attacked her, knowing that she’d end his life quickly on instinct.

Although the miners were dead in a handful of minutes, it took Zephranie almost a half hour before deciding that she was done shooting at the corpses. Finally she tossed the weapon back to the Cyclops and sat upon an old tree stump, gazing at the sky and enjoying the pleasant effects of the drug as if nothing had occurred. As blood and bits of flesh slid from her face Zephranie thought she could hear the others cheering.

Murlach smiled with pride at his concoction’s effects upon her. Helena and Vlajdimir yelled joyously as if rooting for a favoured animal at a racetrack. Phyllamon, who was now holding his son, reveled with joy, admiring Zephranie’s gift for delivering death with such grace. Even Felix (who was far too young to understand what had happened) chortled, as he played with the body fragments that had landed upon his arm.

This would be long remembered as the “The Day Zephranie Slew One Hundred Men,” a story recounted at Xyecah family dinners and get-togethers. Everyone but Murlach would remain oblivious to the
aid, which allowed Zephranie to reveal herself. This particular aid (whose effects on her were so incredibly loved) would also be the conduit through which she’d inadvertently meet her well-deserved fate, some fourteen years in the future.

3

Murlach examined Zephranie as she lay resting. The paleness of her skin sharply contrasted the purplish blue of her lips. Fran’s addiction came to Murlach’s attention six weeks ago when Vlajdimir contacted him, saying that she was moody and violent. Murlach went to her aid, and (once she was done with her hellish spell of withdrawal) he was able to somewhat nurse Zephranie back to her normal ill-rested, sickly look.

More than half a year had passed since the arrangement was made and because of her current condition, Murlach saw fit to revoke Zephranie’s privileges. The drug proved to have far too powerful a sway over her. When he first explained how the substance worked, he finished by telling her that the drug was safe…but he meant so in the context of a particular dosage. Since he failed to warn her of the consequences of taking too much, she became a slave to it, drinking three vials a day as opposed to one.

“You’re looking better,” he said, “still a bit pale yet, so I want you to continue drinking lots of water and getting as much sleep as possible.”

Zephranie nodded, hearing him even though her eyes were closed at the moment. She preferred to sleep, because then she didn’t have to think of that which she desired so terribly but was not allowed to have, because Murlach was detoxing her. However, he promised Zephranie that she could reacquaint herself with her favourite treat over the next couple of weeks, as long as she showed continuing signs of improvement. This time, he would take no chances, ensuring her consumption of no more than one dose at a time, by administering it personally.

Although Zephranie was getting better, Murlach knew that it was far too late to save
another
. He addressed the issue.

“Fran…dressing in maternity clothing fools your husband, but not me. You’re seven months along and not even showing. Aren’t you the slightest bit worried?” he asked, positive that her habits were responsible for the lack of growth in her womb…
if
she hadn’t miscarried already!

At this, Zephranie opened her eyes.

“What goes on inside my body is my business!” she hissed, wishing that she could slit open her womb and pluck the child from her uterus.

Murlach lowered his head, quite sure that the baby was already done for. The remorse, however, was not for the child, as he lacked the capacity for such love. However, he did feel sorry for Vlajdimir, who seemed so excited about the baby.

(Being clueless about such matters, Vlajdimir thought that Zephranie’s fits were associated with her pregnancy. After all, they couldn’t have been related to stimulants, as she’d promised him to sober up for the sake of their child. For months, he hadn’t seen her indulging in anything that was the slightest bit hazardous to the baby, and this pleased him to the point of blindness, as he was still ignorant about the reason for Murlach’s frequent visits.)

“Yes, it is your business, but…wait…are you saying that you don’t want this child?” Murlach asked suspiciously, hoping that she actually didn’t care about the baby, justifying his continuous advocacy of the drug.

However, assuming that Murlach was accusing her of maternal inadequacy, Zephranie quickly rebuttaled.

“No, I’m not saying that. Of course I want my child!” she lied, knowing that she wanted that baby about as much as she wanted the stretch marks on her ass that would accompany it. “It’s just that…you needn’t be worried about it. It’s not your problem.”

He nodded in agreement.

“Alas, what’s done is done. I must be frank with you, Zephranie. At this point…there is little chance that your child will be viable at birth.”

He lowered his head, wanting to give the impression that he actually cared.

“Since hope for my baby’s survival is futile, I might as well keep using, right? At least the drug will help alleviate some of the pain I feel.”

With acting so masterful that one would’ve thought she’d been in the theater for years, Zephranie broke down. Murlach knelt beside her, giving his phony consolations.

“My condolences. It hurts me just as much as it does you…to think, I’ve lost my one and only chance at being a godfather.”

What began as amateur theatrics, became a major production of heaving sobs as they gripped one another, looking to the ceiling woefully.

“Oh, God, why have you taken my child from me?!” Zephranie prayed aloud.

“Have you no conscience? Damn you!” Murlach swore at the invisible cosmic deity, raising his fist to the air.

This incessant, over-the-top, nauseating grief lasted for half an hour, during which time the actors (though of novice skill level) gave award-worthy performances.

4

To the surprise of both, within four weeks Fran’s belly boasted not only faint stretch marks but also an ever so slight swelling. This time, their despair was quite real. They now feared the child’s birth, knowing that if it did live there’d be suspicions about its defects (of which there were certain to be
many
). Therefore Murlach and Zephranie set out to ensure that the child was born a corpse.

Of course, they resorted to the only possible solution—the drug. In its appropriate doses, it was safe for Zephranie but still lethal to an unborn child. This was accompanied by several hard punches in the stomach everyday, all of which were administered by Murlach.

However, their efforts were unsuccessful. Another month passed, and suddenly Zephranie found herself lying upon her sofa with her legs spread, panting and in labour. Vlajdimir was away helping Phyllamon scout for new mining areas and left the responsibility of the delivery to the midwife.

Murlach adjusted his scarf, pushing it higher upon his neck. The room was freezing. Zephranie had asked for the open window, claiming it was far too stuffy and the cold winter air would do her good. Zephranie gripped Murlach’s mitten firmly, whilst he assisted with her breathing. They heard the door latch disengage and glanced over.

The room was wide, crafted of the finest marble. The frames of the couch and bed were made of the same and draped with red silk. The window area was huge, partially covered with thick curtains made from a strange material, matching the colour of the room’s marble.

As the door (which was old and out of place for such a beautiful room) opened and the circulation of frigid air changed direction, the drapes and bed curtains flew about, relaxing again as the entrance was shut by a woman, mid-forties. She was highly experienced with respect to childbirth, and for fifteen years there hadn’t been a pregnant woman in
the Trio or Mashyuvah she hadn’t assisted through labour.

Sumi, her name, had no need for Murlach and was dismayed by his insistence on staying, as the fool was only in her way. Her leaving to
get more towels was necessary but also an excuse for escaping the abrasive dwarf, who was getting on her nerves. He interfered with her ability to attend the needs of Zephranie’s baby, and this worried her. Being strangely intuitive, Sumi somehow knew that the child wouldn’t be completely healthy.

Her main reason for mistrusting Zephranie with motherhood was the aura of sickness about her. It wasn’t the substance abuse, because Sumi had no way of knowing in the first place, as Zephranie’s colour had returned. Nor was it her unnaturally thin frame, seeming too fragile for childbirth. It was just the fact that Zephranie reeked of wickedness. Somehow Sumi knew that beneath this woman’s baggy-eyed visage (but beautiful, nevertheless) lay an abomination more horrifying than those of her worst nightmares.

“Excuse me, but I’ll be needing more space,” Sumi said firmly upon returning. She dumped the towels at the feet of the couch and knelt. “In fact, if you don’t mind…you can excuse yourself altogether. I know what I’m doing!”

Murlach stormed from the room. As he left, he concealed the scalpel he hid up his sleeve, which he had for the purpose of slaying what he thought was soon to unluckily be a viable infant.