The Cloud-Capped Towers .:I:.

by ~veritaslux

I - A Simple Life

Cysagh arose groggily, looking around bleary eyed in the half-light for his shirt. He stumbled time and time again, wading through the assorted things that littered the ground.

When at last he had found it, Cysagh stripped his pyjama top off over his somewhat messy brown hair, and pulled his fading blue shirt over his wiry torso. The shirt was old and getting smaller, but it was good enough for a day’s work in the mill.

He darted through the house warily, and out of the open front door; where his father had most probably exited half an hour ago.

It was cool outside, the morning air gently nibbling at his bare arms. The sun was peeking from between two hills, which lit everything with a blinding glare. There were light, feathery clouds scattered amongst the brilliant blue sky, but bringing no threat to the glorious day that was promising to unfold.

The streets of Épyren were empty but for a few early market sellers, and young children playing games of Chase in the alleyways. Cysagh walked briskly, so as to avoid lateness by engaging in conversation and committing himself to chatter. He quickly came to the end of the road, and climbing a steep, muddy hill, was in the long, dark shadow of the Épyren mill.

The main room was big and spacious, with only the huge grindstone taking up any room in the centre. Underfoot, the familiar sound of creaking floorboards echoed as Cysagh walked over to the spiral staircase.

He climbed the eighty-three steps, taking care not to touch the splintered and rough banister. Cysagh reached the top, and ventured into a small side room, where the mill’s manager was waiting for him.

“Cysagh,” he began, in a deep rumbling tone. The light caught his bale face as he turned towards Cysagh in the cramped doorway.

“I’ve plenty of work for you today. Get it all done and you won’t have to return tomorrow, unless an emergency happens.”

Cysagh smiled at the prospect. He barely ever got days off; he would devote this scarcity to scavenging and treasure hunting.

“Firstly, you’ll need to load some corn into the grinder down there, and then start grinding away. Paleum should be here soon, he’ll take over after you. Then, go harvest some of the ripe ears, and haul them inside. Report back to me later, and then you’re done for the day. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Cysagh said obediently, with determination in his voice. He immediately dropped the three bags of grain from outside the office down to the bottom floor, and then jogged down the stairs himself. Loading the bags into the basin, he ran over to the stone lever, and started to coerce it into moving.

It was back breaking work, for sure. Getting the long, wooden handle to work was one thing, it was another to grind for an hour or two. Yet Cysagh was not feeling the pain as he normally would. He was already planning his route through the forest, and thinking about where some good treasure troves would be found.

Time seemed to fly past, and it was only when the sun was so hot on the back of his head that it was causing him a slight headache when he realised that he had been at the grindstone for nigh on two hours now. Wiping the layer of sweat from his brow, Cysagh suddenly realised that Paleum was standing there in the doorway.

“How long have you been watching me for?” asked Cysagh jokingly.

“Only ten minutes. It was rather amusing to watch you mumble to yourself, oblivious to the fact that I had already got here,” responded Paleum, with a chuckle at the end of the sentence.

“Alright then. Here you go, it’s nearly done. I take it that the Boss has told you what to do?”

Paleum nodded in an answer, and took the now sweaty lever from Cysagh. With a brutish push, Paleum was away, working his stocky upper body as he pushed the grindstone around at a steady pace.

Cysagh stared absentmindedly into space for a minute, before walking out of the open back door into the corn fields. He felt as if he was boiling in his skin, the sun was so hot.

The corn was perfectly ripe, yellow and plump inside the rough and papery casing. It was a simple job of picking the ears off of their stems, although made hundreds of times more difficult in the sweltering heat.

His arms and legs laboured though, and in automatic motion, he picked a quarter of the field. Finally calling it a day as the sun began to fall from its position at the top of the heavens, he hauled two sacks of corn inside, and lay them down next to the doorway.

Paleum was still working away at the grindstone as Cysagh walked in. He could hear a grunt coming from the labouring man, but not unkindly, he quickly walked up the staircase so as to be dismissed for the rest of the day.

Cysagh’s boss grinned when he saw Cysagh, and immediately read his mind.

“Go on,” said the man. “Go out and do what it is that you did on a free afternoon.”

Cysagh smiled, and inclined his head, before scampering down the stairs exuberantly. He pushed open the wooden door at the front to find that the shadow of the mill had shortened slightly; it was early afternoon. He decided then and there that he would venture into Ab-Foretya, and see what he could find around the Old Oak. He should be back in time for a long rest.

Attempting to walk down the now bustling High Street,  he got stuck between a crowd leaving at the crossroads. With no choice but to go with the crowd, he carried on and walked down the cobbled path.

He had never really been down this alleyway before, and it was strange. There were houses scattered down the street, often with big gaps in between, and there was the odd shop. But one place in particular drew Cysagh’s eye. It was a house, and it was painted bright purple. Drapes were hanging off of the balcony, and the doorframe, with sequins and beads lining the cloth.

Using a gap in the crowd to get away, Cysagh trotted into the shop, pulling back the drapes as he entered. Panting from the effort of breaking away, he bent over, hands on his knees, and stared at the floor. The pungent smell of burning incense caught his senses, and looking up, he could see that the air was palpable with some heavy, purple mist.

Glass balls of varying shapes and sizes were hanging from the ceiling, and dusty cobwebs seemed to be in every corner of the room. Shelves upon shelves of dusty old books seemed to line the walls and take away the majority of the space in this particular room.

Cysagh shut the door behind him, and looked cautiously into a different room.

A silhouette of a woman could be made out amongst the perfumed mist, and she appeared to be dancing to an inaudible song. She suddenly stopped, and seemed to notice that somebody had entered the door.

The woman skipped over into the room where Cysagh stood, and let a broad grin stretch across her face as she saw him.

The woman who stood before Cysagh was a short, slim woman, with mousey brown hair. Most of it was tied up in braids, and she wore seemingly hundreds of shawls and neck scarves, making her seem like somebody dressed up for winter. Her eyes were dark brown, and her face was pale, but full.

She gazed up at him with odd, protuberant eyes, before waiting a second and bursting into laughter. She giggled and she giggled, tears in her eyes, before looking once more at Cysagh, and stopping abruptly. Clearing her throat, she began to speak.

“Good day,” she said in a high-pitched, sing-song voice. “My name is Sarah.”
She hovered around him for a few seconds, measuring him in her head. She was an inch shorter than Cysagh, and had to look up at him. Yet while moving around him speedily, she tripped over his foot, and lost part of her mania.

“Ow, ow…” she muttered, checking that her knee was not bleeding. Cysagh bent down, and took a look at what had happened.

“Only a graze,” he returned, smiling.

Sarah grimaced, and stood up again, her face restored to its previous look, as if she was about to burst into laughter at any time whatsoever. Yet her face seemed to falter, the wide grin turning into discontent frown.

“Gah, drat this,” she said, dropping the height and strangeness of her voice. “Anyway. My name is Sarah, that’s real. I’m a fortune-teller, but not the type that you hear about in fairy-stories. To tell a fortune correctly, you have to drink a precise amount of hemlock mixed with rose petals. It shows you your own future, without it being pried in by me or anybody else.”

She frowned at the thought, and bit her lip, staring at one of the dusty crystal balls stacked on a shelf. When she looked up, she saw Cysagh alarmed. “Don’t be worried! It’s not dangerous, and I’m not forcing it on you!”

He faltered for a moment, and then started making up an excuse. “I… I would, but I don’t have any money on me at the moment…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that!” exclaimed Sarah. “You helped me when I fell I guess. Have a gaze into your future for free!”

She smiled, seeming to think that Cysagh had agreed. She shoved past him over to a shelf where bottles in different glass containers were stacked. She took off a dark purple one as well as a bright green one. Picking out three rose petals from the green vase, she poured a few drops of liquid from the purple container into the remainder of the contents of the green. Swilling it around for a few seconds, she grinned again, looking at the swirling mixture.

Sarah proffered the bottle to Cysagh, who tentatively grasped it and brought it closer to his mouth.

“Oh, no, no! Don’t drink it yet! Sit down, so if the potion is slightly too strong you won’t faint to the ground,” chimed the fortune-teller.

She pulled out a dusty, wooden chair, which Cysagh slumped down into. Then, glaring at the bottle as if it was some enemy which had just beaten him, he took the draught from it, the rose petals sticking to his front teeth as he swallowed.

Everything seemed very still and silent for a second, and then it started. A searing pain in his stomach, and the room was reeling around him in nauseating motion. Everything seemed to dissolve in the thick purple cloud that was hanging in the room, and pink lanterns popped up from nowhere. He was hallucinating; there was no doubt about that. But was he looking into his own future? Somehow, Cysagh believed every word of what Sarah had said, and began to be very afraid. Cold racked his limbs and he watched the lights fold out and become pictures, moving pictures of different events. He suddenly realised that this was his future; he was watching his own life unfold.