Demon of the Black Gate

Cerra listened to the sound of the swallows chattering outside her window. More than one pair had nested in the eaves of her cabin, and the small barn had at least a dozen more. She listened to their flutterings and chirps. The birds had the most delightful language and it was easy to imagine their industrious activity. She set down the pestle and tapped the rough powder into a earthen jar. She deftly reached for the cork and stoppered the container.

A ribbon lay next to her, sewn with Standish Knots. There were three runes stitched into the ribbon, marking the contents, and in this case, warnings. Jessanne had taught her the symbols as part of her schooling. The runes were common with the traders, and dated back to ancient times. They were not generally used in the local communities with their own scripts and written words. But Jessann knew that for Cerra, the simple lines of the runes would be perfect for her sensitive fingertips. And with the words came the language, and so Jessann had taught her the trader’s tongue as well.

She tied the ribbon about the jar and set it aside. She heard the flip of the leather flap that guarded the open pane in the kitchen. Kamir had returned. She was about to reach for the next jar when she heard the fluttering of little wings flap into her workroom. The bird came to rest just above her head on the curtain rod. The pad of quick feet followed, the cat jumping up to her lap and threatening to reach her table. She quickly held it back.

“Kamir, you naughty boy, you’ve let that sparrow loose in here again.”

He had done that enough that she was beginning to suspect the bird was in on the game.

Kamir was a tall and graceful cat. His eyes were colored as the lightest jade and shone with intelligence. The cat had found Cerra, or so it seemed to her, one or two days after a few vagabond potters had stayed at the lake on their way to Scotts Mill. It wasn’t the usual route, but the potters were notorious for traveling under their own notions. They had stayed a couple of nights and invited Cerra up for some music and dance. She had a chance to play her fiddle with others, and though she didn’t think she was very good, they were encouraging and nothing sounded truly bad.

He had announced his presence with a persistent yeowl at the front porch when he arrived, a kitten barely littered. The voice was louder than anything so tiny should hope to have.

“Well, were’d you come from?” Cerra had said. “Those potters I suppose. Too late to chase them down. Well, come here, come here.” The kitten did so promptly, and let Cerra capture it in her hands as though it expected to be accepted. The purr was immediate.

”That’s your name then … Kamir … “ using the simple expedient of the request and making it a name.

That was seven years ago. He had been a constant companion to her ever since. It was he that insisted on riding with her to town. His first jump to the saddle had irritated Sugar, so she had made the knotted length of cloth. Kamir would always walk with her if she went anywhere further than the porch. She was certain the cat had connected on her blindness. It rarely twined her legs and was very vocal about letting her know where he was.

They had many games they played together as well: ‘hand through the flap’ and ‘hide and seek’ were the cat’s favorites, variations on tag. She’d been swiped many times by the cats quick paws, though never scratched. She was grateful for his claw control. She could be just as quick. Locating him became an art for her that she enjoyed very much.

“Well, I’m going to have to let it out ... again. But not now. I have these powdered mushrooms to get into jars.”

She set Kamir back down on the floor. She heard him settle, but knew he was intently watching the little sparrow, and would follow the bird if it went to another room.

She had just finished putting up another measure of Woodear when she felt the nature of the air change. A stillness had come over the meadow outside. She carefully set aside her work and rose to go out side. The bird flitted from perch to perch in her wake and flew out of the door as soon as it was opened.

Her ears felt as though they might pop. She’d not felt that sensation since she’d rode up to the mine road over a year ago. She took a deep breath. She was wearing an ivory colored blouse of nubbed raw silk; her light skirt married shades of maroon, tan and brown in scarved layers. The blouse had the scoop neck that she favored as she liked to keep her throat and sternum open to the air. She didn’t like constriction, a reaction to the restriction of her sightlessness an unconscious response. It had bloused sleeves that gathered at her wrist. Loose sleeves could inadvertently catch things or spill a jar as she worked. The skirt was silk and light. While color may not be the garments draw for Cerra, texture certainly was. The silk was airy, even keeping her legs warm on a chill morning without seeming to be there at all. She was grateful that the plateau cultivated the silk, for the seamstress had a lot of material to work with.

The air was changing, teasing warms washed through the mid-morning air that still lay cool against the mountains as the sun had yet to crest its peaks. It felt thicker, and a trace of cedar, burnt like a coal was in the scent.

Her mind painted the picture of the small field between the cabin and the front lake. The trail curved in a large ‘S’ to a rock shelf that she favored for fishing and the sun baths that felt so energizing when the rock warmed. The vision she kept of the lake often added the hawks and eagles that were many times heard to cry from the heights. But today there were no cries. A shade seemed to pierce the darkness. A degree from black.

“The sun is out, of that I’m sure, but a fog is about and a strange one at that. Kamir. I think we’ve got company.”

Cerra reached for her walking stick that she kept by the door. She didn’t need it inside, her sense of the cabin so complete. Though she could not see it, she had felt correctly. A thin grey-brown vapor pushed against the mountain and drew over the vale like a hazed awning. It was pinned there by spires of the Dragon’s Teeth that soared from the valley floor.

She put on a pair of doeskin leather slippers and took the three steps down from her low porch.

“Meow” came from Kamir in front of her. He was on the lake path already.

“Yes, little lion. The lake. Lead on.”

She walked quickly, faster than she normally would, light taps to grass and trodden dirt kept her on course. A large stone marked a slight turn and step before reaching the flat grass in front of the rock bench that bordered the lake. The lake embraced the air, filling its space with the scent of its waters, fish, grasses and silts. The water didn’t stir. The air felt like remains of a steamed pool, the warm wisps too weak to ruffle its surface.

A flat rock had been placed long ago as a bench and Cerra felt for it, sitting.

The atmosphere about her shimmered as a dusting of light, enough to shade the dark of her sight. The warm zephyrs of air shifted and sifted in their steam, gathering over the lake. She watched as the grey coalesced, shading itself a little brighter. Kamir paced back and forth beside her, mewling rumbles of concern came with his movement.

“Shhh.” she let her fingers trail over the cat as it brushed beneath them. Her calm settled him, though he stood alertly at the edge of her fingertips, tail erect, staring at the lake.

As the grey coalesced in her mind’s eye, the smokey fog thickened over the lake, the weight of the miasma causing it to sink. The air over the lake felt thick, and air from without began rushing in as the fog finally gave way to a deluge the sounded to Cerra as though every fish in the lake had jumped at once. The effect on her dark vision was spectacular. A cast of blue radiated and limned the surface of the water, glinting and glistening as though under a noon sun.

The swirling blues and platinums gathered in currents near the shore where she sat on the rock. She felt vibrations from the ground beneath her as the lights coiled and evolved. The shape of the young man grew from the lights, a cape rising off the waters.

The demon shed the airs, letting the grains of moisture draw him down to the lake. The earths and silts gathered to him, rocks and pebbles shifting to his form and the ground shook as it emerged from the lake. She felt heat, and weight, and height that surpassed the glowing form that broke the blankness of her sight. The confusion of earth and stone in front of her lost its distraction as she watched his shimmering approach.

“You’re back.” she said.