|
2026 Claymore Award Finalist for Best Sci-Fi/Fantasy |
Excerpt from The Watcher:
Taliya, Daughter of Dust
The Hills Above Gebal, Lebanon; Copper Age
Chapter I: The Stranger
The teeth of the limestone scarp dug into my hands as I clung to its face.
“I almost have you,” I whispered breathlessly to the vine. My pulse hammered through my limbs as I grasped the closest cluster of leaves, then slid my palm up the stem.
I clenched my jaw and wrenched its bulbous root from the crevice with a wet snap, nearly toppling my footing. Quickly, I shoved the tuber into my satchel, then clambered back up the bluff. When I finally hoisted myself onto the ledge, I gasped for air, the scent of cedar and alpine sage filling my lungs.
I grinned through my aching jaw. I had it, at last: Red Bryony. Two years I had hunted it, the only remedy that could burn the sarakhu, the wasting, from a bleeding lung.
My father would call this quest madness. But the true madness was standing powerless and mute beside my mother as her lips turned a chalky blue and she rattled her final breath. I had sworn to the gods that I would never again stand helplessly beside a dying woman with empty hands. The elders might be content to brew useless teas while Kanuel’s father coughed blood, but I was not. I refused to let the wasting suffocate him; he had always been so kind to me.
If this was madness, I embraced it. If the gods and the mountains wanted to hide their hoard, they would have to be as relentless as I was.
As I slipped my sandals back on, the ground shuddered violently beneath me. In a panic, I sprinted toward the goat path. The crumbling shale slipped beneath my feet, but I did not stop until my sleeping village appeared just beyond the lower ridge. My lungs burned. As I approached, the agitated sheep bleated. Doves flew hastily from the olive trees. Then, a deafening crack split the dawn.
My head whipped toward the ridge. A wall of black mud and broken stone hurtled down the mountain, swallowing the trees as it came, fast and merciless. It surged directly toward my hamlet, faster than any man could run. In a few moments, it would bury my sleeping village.
I vaulted over the low stone wall and darted through the plaza shouting, “Run to the western ridge!” Startled from slumber, my people emerged from their homes, then bolted when the threat rushing down the mountain roused them from their sleepy haze. Clutching my satchel with the forbidden root, I raced among homes and fields, imploring my neighbors to flee.
“Move!” I yelled above the rumbling mud. I shoved two dazed men out of the path of danger. The ground lurched beneath me, sending stones skittering past my feet. The largest rock struck a fleeing elder. As she toppled into the mud, the boulder sank onto her ankle, anchoring her to the earth.
“Help her!” I urged. No one stopped. I had an instant to decide: wade into the muck to free her, or flee the advancing mud.
I pivoted and ran toward her. I heaved my body against the boulder. It would not budge. I scooped the sludge out from beneath her foot as resolutely as I unearthed my roots, my fingers bleeding against the gritty earth. It was working, but not fast enough. The mud filled in as quickly as I could clear it.
As the sodden ground swallowed her other foot, she grasped my arm. “Do not leave me to die!” she cried. She would be buried alive. Alone.
I dug faster.
Then, impossibly, the stone lifted from her leg.
I grabbed her mangled ankle and freed her from the mud. As I braced her to stand, I turned, bewildered.
Towering over me stood a man of startling beauty, unstained and unafraid, palming the boulder as I would hold a loaf of barley bread. Strange sigils flickered like embers along his corded arms.
He glanced at the hole I had dug. His brows lifted.
For a moment, only a heartbeat, our eyes locked. He froze. His hazel eyes glowed like sunlight filtered through olive oil; they pinned me in place. Heat spread through me. My knees threatened to buckle. I locked them, securing the elder against my hip, but I could not look away.
The shouting behind me muffled to a hum until a man shrieked, jolting me back to the disaster at hand. A farmer was mired to his shins in sludge, unable to move. I tore myself from the stranger’s eyes and dragged the elder’s arm across my shoulders.
“Grab that man!” I shouted to the stranger as I moved the elder to safety.
He pivoted and hoisted the farmer onto his broad back.
This man had heeded me without any hesitation.
Just as I dragged the elder beyond the plaza, the slope behind where I had just stood collapsed with a cavernous roar. The first wave of mud rushed through the village square. I boosted the elder onto the rocky crag, then scanned the hillside.
The stranger was already at the olive grove with three girls on his broad shoulders, carrying them as though they weighed no more than sheaves of wheat. The smallest girl clutched his long mahogany waves between her white knuckles. Like a cedar among scrub pines, he dwarfed the muddied men struggling behind him. He showed no signs of exertion.
Unlike him, my chest heaved. Just as I escaped the village square with the last stragglers, the second wave of mud struck the upper walls with a resounding crash. Wails rose around me as the black tide toppled the homes surrounding the plaza. As the viscous river surged beyond the lower walls, it uprooted fields of emmer wheat and barley stalks.
But we survived. Because of me. Because of him.
I glanced toward the olive grove behind me. Where had he gone? I started toward the ridge just as the billowing dust cleared. The laments of my people erupted into chaos. A young mother yanked my sleeve, begging me to find her son. I turned from the grove and moved quickly through the havoc, helping families reunite, though my eyes kept drifting to the hillside. There was no sign of him.
I found my father and brother among the throng. I scanned them for fractures or abrasions the same way I examined my flock. They were not injured. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. “Taliya!” an elder called, “Please come. Bring what remedies you have.”
Her summons wrenched me from my fixation with finding the stranger. I shoved the Red Bryony root deep into the bottom of my satchel, concealing the taboo remedy, then counted my salves and clean linens.
I was not empty-handed.
“I almost have you,” I whispered breathlessly to the vine. My pulse hammered through my limbs as I grasped the closest cluster of leaves, then slid my palm up the stem.
I clenched my jaw and wrenched its bulbous root from the crevice with a wet snap, nearly toppling my footing. Quickly, I shoved the tuber into my satchel, then clambered back up the bluff. When I finally hoisted myself onto the ledge, I gasped for air, the scent of cedar and alpine sage filling my lungs.
I grinned through my aching jaw. I had it, at last: Red Bryony. Two years I had hunted it, the only remedy that could burn the sarakhu, the wasting, from a bleeding lung.
My father would call this quest madness. But the true madness was standing powerless and mute beside my mother as her lips turned a chalky blue and she rattled her final breath. I had sworn to the gods that I would never again stand helplessly beside a dying woman with empty hands. The elders might be content to brew useless teas while Kanuel’s father coughed blood, but I was not. I refused to let the wasting suffocate him; he had always been so kind to me.
If this was madness, I embraced it. If the gods and the mountains wanted to hide their hoard, they would have to be as relentless as I was.
As I slipped my sandals back on, the ground shuddered violently beneath me. In a panic, I sprinted toward the goat path. The crumbling shale slipped beneath my feet, but I did not stop until my sleeping village appeared just beyond the lower ridge. My lungs burned. As I approached, the agitated sheep bleated. Doves flew hastily from the olive trees. Then, a deafening crack split the dawn.
My head whipped toward the ridge. A wall of black mud and broken stone hurtled down the mountain, swallowing the trees as it came, fast and merciless. It surged directly toward my hamlet, faster than any man could run. In a few moments, it would bury my sleeping village.
I vaulted over the low stone wall and darted through the plaza shouting, “Run to the western ridge!” Startled from slumber, my people emerged from their homes, then bolted when the threat rushing down the mountain roused them from their sleepy haze. Clutching my satchel with the forbidden root, I raced among homes and fields, imploring my neighbors to flee.
“Move!” I yelled above the rumbling mud. I shoved two dazed men out of the path of danger. The ground lurched beneath me, sending stones skittering past my feet. The largest rock struck a fleeing elder. As she toppled into the mud, the boulder sank onto her ankle, anchoring her to the earth.
“Help her!” I urged. No one stopped. I had an instant to decide: wade into the muck to free her, or flee the advancing mud.
I pivoted and ran toward her. I heaved my body against the boulder. It would not budge. I scooped the sludge out from beneath her foot as resolutely as I unearthed my roots, my fingers bleeding against the gritty earth. It was working, but not fast enough. The mud filled in as quickly as I could clear it.
As the sodden ground swallowed her other foot, she grasped my arm. “Do not leave me to die!” she cried. She would be buried alive. Alone.
I dug faster.
Then, impossibly, the stone lifted from her leg.
I grabbed her mangled ankle and freed her from the mud. As I braced her to stand, I turned, bewildered.
Towering over me stood a man of startling beauty, unstained and unafraid, palming the boulder as I would hold a loaf of barley bread. Strange sigils flickered like embers along his corded arms.
He glanced at the hole I had dug. His brows lifted.
For a moment, only a heartbeat, our eyes locked. He froze. His hazel eyes glowed like sunlight filtered through olive oil; they pinned me in place. Heat spread through me. My knees threatened to buckle. I locked them, securing the elder against my hip, but I could not look away.
The shouting behind me muffled to a hum until a man shrieked, jolting me back to the disaster at hand. A farmer was mired to his shins in sludge, unable to move. I tore myself from the stranger’s eyes and dragged the elder’s arm across my shoulders.
“Grab that man!” I shouted to the stranger as I moved the elder to safety.
He pivoted and hoisted the farmer onto his broad back.
This man had heeded me without any hesitation.
Just as I dragged the elder beyond the plaza, the slope behind where I had just stood collapsed with a cavernous roar. The first wave of mud rushed through the village square. I boosted the elder onto the rocky crag, then scanned the hillside.
The stranger was already at the olive grove with three girls on his broad shoulders, carrying them as though they weighed no more than sheaves of wheat. The smallest girl clutched his long mahogany waves between her white knuckles. Like a cedar among scrub pines, he dwarfed the muddied men struggling behind him. He showed no signs of exertion.
Unlike him, my chest heaved. Just as I escaped the village square with the last stragglers, the second wave of mud struck the upper walls with a resounding crash. Wails rose around me as the black tide toppled the homes surrounding the plaza. As the viscous river surged beyond the lower walls, it uprooted fields of emmer wheat and barley stalks.
But we survived. Because of me. Because of him.
I glanced toward the olive grove behind me. Where had he gone? I started toward the ridge just as the billowing dust cleared. The laments of my people erupted into chaos. A young mother yanked my sleeve, begging me to find her son. I turned from the grove and moved quickly through the havoc, helping families reunite, though my eyes kept drifting to the hillside. There was no sign of him.
I found my father and brother among the throng. I scanned them for fractures or abrasions the same way I examined my flock. They were not injured. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. “Taliya!” an elder called, “Please come. Bring what remedies you have.”
Her summons wrenched me from my fixation with finding the stranger. I shoved the Red Bryony root deep into the bottom of my satchel, concealing the taboo remedy, then counted my salves and clean linens.
I was not empty-handed.
|
As I crossed the hillside, I assessed my people: forty were bleeding, three badly; dozens suffered severe contusions; eleven could not walk, one never would; all were dazed and distraught.
Dropping to my knees beside a young girl, I rubbed a gritty hyssop salve into the deep gash on her hand. She winced. “Do you smell that?” I asked, inhaling the minty loam. “The leaves are washing you clean.” I held the linen to her cut until the bleeding slowed. “You will be back to climbing the fig trees in no time.” With practiced composure, I tended one villager after another. I tore linen strips to bind limbs and wash dirt-encrusted scrapes. I worked until my hands were tacky with balmy resin and my knees were mired in mud. With every bandage I applied, the image of the stranger’s sun-lit eyes grew more distant. By the time I cleaned the last wound, his face had nearly dissolved into the comfort of my craft. But I did not forget that he had listened to me. I had lived nineteen summers, and in that time, men had argued with me and placated me. No man on this mountain had ever simply done what I had said. |
|
“And it came to pass when the children of men had multiplied, in those days were born to them beautiful and elegant daughters. And the Watchers, the sons of the heaven, beheld them, and they became enamored with them and were inflamed with love for them…
And they descended upon the summit of Mount Hermon … These are the names of their chiefs:
Samyaza, who was their leader, Araqiel,... Barakiel, Azazyel,... and Sariel. These were the chiefs of the two hundred Watchers, and the remainder were all with them.”
-1 Enoch 6:1-2, 6-7 (c. 300 BCE), attested in the Dead Sea Scrolls, 4Q201