Bittersouls, p.1
Bittersouls, page 1
L.A. Morton-Yates
Bittersouls
First published by Synthesis Press 2022
Copyright © 2022 by L.A. Morton-Yates
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
L.A. Morton-Yates asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 979-8-9866022-0-2
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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To my wife,
my love and my Warmth…
Contents
Acknowledgement
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgement
Like most great endeavors, making a book is rarely the result of only one person’s efforts. This book is no exception. Below, I attempt to express my gratitude to those with the greatest impact on the completion of this work, but there are many others whose contributions were less noticed but no less consequential in reaching this point.
First, I must thank my lovely wife, Julie. You were with me from the first spark of inspiration through my eccentric process of designing the world. You read and advised me on draft after draft, and rooted for me through the difficulties of trying to get my work out there. You encouraged me through the process of looking for an editor and a cover artist, and a hundred other smaller steps. Without you, this book would never have existed.
I would like to also thank my editor, Ceara Nobles, for her dedicated efforts ironing out my at times clumsy attempts at using the English language. Until you laid your hands on this book, I thought I actually understood how punctuation worked. I am eternally grateful for dispelling that notion.
I would like to thank my cover artist, César Pardo, without whom this book would not have been quite so beautiful. Thank you for working so hard to bring my artistic vision to life.
I would like to thank my alpha reader, Amanda Klein, for reading each chapter as I finished them, even in their utterly unrefined state. Thank you for pushing me to finish this book and for calling me out when I made my most notable blunders. Without you, there might have been some really weird stuff in this book.
I would like to thank my father, who was so excited after reading one of my early drafts that he was shopping around for manufacturers to make merch to sell alongside the book. You never know, Dad, it might still happen. But even if it doesn’t, your support has been monumental for me. I could never thank you enough.
I would like to thank my sister, Grace, who has believed in me as a writer since we were kids and never gave up on me. Your constant encouragement over the years has mattered more than you know.
I would like to also thank all my other family and friends who have supported me over the years. You have helped make me who I am today.
Lastly, I would like to thank my son, Tiber, who was due three months after I began the first draft of this book, and pushed me to finish it before the looming deadline of his birth. Without that hanging over me, I don’t know if I would have had the drive to push through the harder parts of that first draft.
Prologue
The first time Dela saw the Jackal, it didn’t try to kill her. It was a chilly night, but the little girl didn’t notice. She was young, still so full of Warmth. The wind blew snow flurries around the camp, shimmering like stars in the firelight. She giggled as she kicked a smooth stone from snowbank to snowbank. The older snow had melted and frozen on the surface just thick enough for the stone to bounce instead of sink.
Her laughter was accompanied by the sounds of merriment behind her. The adults of the congregation were still hard at work on the fifth evening of the Festival of Three Flames, and Dela was long supposed to be tucked away with the other children in their beds. They couldn’t hear her over the noise of their lively conversations, pumping bellows, and roaring flames. She didn’t spare them much thought; they wouldn’t even notice she was gone. She could watch as long as she wanted, then slink back to bed. No one would be the wiser.
She wasn’t sure why she was awake. The other children didn’t wonder about it, apparently. A feast involving weeks of arduous labor, held once every five years in this very spot. How could she not be curious? After all, she was practically grown up at almost five years old. It was right for her to wonder what this occasion involved, and why her parents and the others were so adamant about its importance.
But she hadn’t wondered about it for long. She’d found the stone, then chased it as it skipped and slid through the snow-washed darkness. The fire was only fifty feet behind her, but in her mind it was already a world away.
Dela snickered as she kicked the stone again, pointing as if it had told a joke when it skidded to a stop. She skipped toward it, beaming as brightly as the moon high above the concealing clouds. The stone was glossy in her hand, shaved smooth by time and ice. She stared into it, her grin bubbling over into another giggle.
A warm wall of whiteness rose above her, blocking the wind and snow.
Dela looked up slowly, marveling at the creature’s angular grace. It dipped its head, sniffing at her midnight hair. She gasped at the smell of its breath, like smoke and rosehips. It examined her with keen eyes, tilting its head slightly.
“Pu…” The word was lost in her wonder. “Puppy?”
She raised a hand to touch its snout, but it leaped away. Its limbs were sharp as bones, its ears pointed as knife blades. She’d heard rhymes about the creatures they called Jackals but had never seen one herself. It was beautiful.
She didn’t wait for it to go. The adults would want to see it. It was so pretty. So regal. They had to know it was here to visit them. Maybe they would want to pet it.
She ran for the firelight, the rock she’d been chasing long forgotten. She hollered and laughed, plunging past the tent line and into the writhing mass of the congregation. The cold of the night fell away like a discarded cloak, replaced by the dry heat of the furnace at the center of it all. Some eyes followed her, but most were still too busy with their work. The bellows wouldn’t pump themselves. Even for the interruption of a child long thought to be abed, the work could not be stopped.
A hand caught her arm, and the little girl whirled to find her father frowning down at her. “Adelaide,” he growled, crouching to her level.
“Papa.” Her smile widened. “Puppy!”
She pointed past the people and their festival, out into the dark and the cold of the night.
“What are you talking about, Adelaide?” her father asked, the quiet sharpness of a deep-seated worry taking shape in his voice.
“It’s pretty, Papa.” She jumped up and down, trying to get him to look where she was pointing. What if it moved? What if it left before he followed her? She lowered her voice, as if conferring an important secret to the man. “It’s a Jackal.”
“Oh, Rolf.” Her mother appeared as if out of nowhere, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You know she’s just making up stories, trying to find a reason to join us out here.” She crouched beside the little girl, who pouted back at her. “Isn’t that right, Adelaide? All the light and the noise and the excitement?”
“No, it’s—”
“It’s okay, Adelaide. I’m not angry.” She smiled, warm and genuine. The girl almost folded at that. She loved her mother, and she knew the woman loved her, too. “Don’t you think we should go back to bed?”
“But the Jackal,” Dela whimpered. “It’s so pretty. And nice!”
“That’s nice, Adelaide.” The woman picked her up, carrying her gently back toward the tent. “I’m sure it will still be there in the morning. Maybe we can meet it then.”
“No, Mama!” The little girl fought against her mother’s hold. Didn’t they believe her? They had to believe her. “He’s nice! He’s come to be my friend.”
“That’s good, little cub.” The woman stooped through the thick leathery flap of the tent, fastening it behind her. She set the girl down on the deep plush of her fur sleeping mat, wrapping her carefully in the extremities of the pelt.
“Don’t you want to meet my friend?” the little girl pleaded.
Her mother’s caring expression slowly grew stern as she studied the girl’s face. Now she believed her, Dela could tell. So why wasn’t she excited, too?
“How about a story, little cub?”
Dela didn’t give up her pout, but nodded meekly. “What about?”
“Well…” Her mother tapped her chin. “You wanted to know about the fe stival, didn’t you? How about a story about that?”
The little girl considered for a moment, then nodded again. “Okay.”
“All right. Get comfortable, little cub.”
She did so, wiggling and squirming until she’d found just the right position for sleeping. “Ready, Mama.”
“Hmm. Have you heard anything about the Three Flames?”
Dela shook her head. “Not a lot, Mama.”
“Well, long ago, the world was a beautiful, warm place. People lived together in camps that never moved, hundreds upon hundreds of them. The herds were always plentiful, and snow only covered the ground a small portion of the year.”
“When, Mama?” The girl shook her head. “Was it like that when you were my age?”
The woman laughed. “No, little cub. This was a long time before that. A dozen Warmthtimes at least before I was born. There’s been… I don’t even know if they count anymore. Thirty Festivals since then?”
The little girl nodded.
“In those days, there was only One Flame that burned high and bright in the sky, uncovered by clouds and snowfall. People should have been happy, but they were not grateful for what they had. The great deceiver, Bale the Omnivolent, promised them they could have more. That if they followed his instructions, they could have not One Flame, but Three.
“The people of the world were foolish. They took his offer, not questioning what it meant. No light or life comes from nothing. Bale split the One Flame, giving to each man, woman, and child a Flame Within.”
“But Mama,” Dela said. “Isn’t that where our Warmth comes from?”
“Of course, little cub.” Her mother nodded. “Such a smart girl. But you have to remember, the world wasn’t frozen in those days. We didn’t need Warmth to live. But now, with the One Flame spread like ashes in the wind, every one of us must clutch at every bit of Warmth we can hold on to. That’s why we need the Congregation.”
The little girl nodded. “‘We share our Warmth, so none may go cold.’”
The woman’s smile widened. “You’ve been paying attention to your lessons, haven’t you?”
Dela giggled, nodding.
“Well, that’s good. Do you know what happened to the rest of what Bale stole from the One Flame?”
The little girl shook her head.
“He seeded the ground with the black salt of the Flame Without. Not everywhere, though. Only a few places have the salt, like the one we’re camped around right now.”
“But what’s it for, Mama?”
“You know the blacksticks that all the grown-ups have?”
“The ones that help them start fires?”
Her mother nodded. “That’s the third Flame. The Flame Without. This whole festival is our way of showing penitence for the mistakes of our ancestors. And by the mercy of the One, we can make the blacksticks here as part of our worship.”
The little girl nodded slowly, then frowned. “But Mama, you said there were hund… hundre… lots of people. What happened to them?”
“That’s why I’m telling you this story, little cub.” The woman sighed, eyes falling to her lap. “The deceiver gave one more thing to some alongside the Flame Within. The Ministers have it mentioned in their texts as the Shadow, but most people just call it madness. When the Bitter Wind came and nature itself was changed, the people and creatures of the world grew frightful. Twisted. Corrupt. Not everyone found safe ways to live like we did.”
“Mama?” Dela pursed her lips. “This doesn’t seem like a very good story.”
“It’s not,” her mother admitted. “But like most stories, it’s told for a reason.”
“What’s that, Mama?”
The woman leaned close to her daughter, whispering carefully into the little girl’s ear, “You need to understand that Jackals aren’t animals. They aren’t something you can turn into a pet, nor even something truly wild. They are his, Adelaide. Do you understand? They are mad, and they bring madness. If you ever see one, you must tell no one.”
Dela shivered. She understood completely, so far as a little girl could.
“And if you see anything after,” her mother added, “that is a secret you must keep until the day your Warmth runs out.”
Chapter 1
It didn’t feel like madness.
They all had them. Each and every member of the congregation. The entities glowed with a deep inner fire, blue and orange and alive. Every man, woman, and child was enshrouded with them, one for each, wrapping ethereal arms around their clothes like a clutching child. They were always there. Always holding on. And Dela couldn’t say a word because no one else could see them.
Well, almost.
She’d grown used to them after fourteen years. To her, it was no different from seeing the color of a person’s eyes or the cut of their hair. It was a part of every person, simple and consistent, and each was as unique as a face. Some were small, some wide, some dim, some bright. In the quiet of her mind, she had a name for them, but she dared not let it see light. If she grew careless, she might say something. Let something slip. And then…
“That’s what he said, Dela.” Freja raked her fingertips through her thick sunset hair, “You know what that means. You know we can’t keep quiet about it. The Ministers must know.”
Dela glanced up at her, tucking a handful of mushrooms into the sack at her hip. They’d been foraging for the better part of the afternoon, cleaning out the last of what there was to reap on the southern ridge of the Winterlines. They’d be moving on in the morning, across the pass and into the Frigid Lands for a handful of weeks to take advantage of the last of summer’s warmth.
“Okay.” Dela bit her lip. “Tell me again how it happened. What brought this up?”
Freja smiled faintly, happy to finally have her friend’s full attention. She was a couple years younger than her counterpart and was finally coming into the womanly beauty that Dela had gained several years prior. Dela had been half-ignoring her all morning—perfectly reasonable, on account of how much she talked—but the situation clearly had her shaken. It would only be right for Dela to treat her seriously about it.
They moved carefully in the shade of the Wretchthorn tree, dodging its wide, twisting roots that reached out to guzzle all the moisture it could manage from the bog. Like other plant life this far north, it had only a precious span of weeks to sup on liquid water, so it had to do so quickly. Much as the Ministers used them to embody greed in their teachings, Dela could only see in them a simple and ferocious will to survive. They were the only tree that had found a way to live this far north.
“It was the night before last,” Freja started again. “Everything was abustle in the camp in preparation for dinner. Mama Greygoat was working the cauldron, as she always did. I was helping to prepare the bay grass, and Nolam was fetching the boar flank from the drying tent.”
They stooped under the last tree in the floodplain, squinting at the sudden darkness of the shade. These trees protected the mushrooms from the wind out here. It was the only place they grew, and the two only ever grew as a pair.
“When he came back, he suddenly got a strange look in his eyes. Couldn’t stop looking at the Mama.” Freja scowled suddenly, crouching to examine something more closely. “By the One, these are ruined. Something must have gotten to them.”
Dela nodded solemnly. Most of the troop of mushrooms had been bent and chewed. For that to happen, one of two things must have gotten to them. She stooped around the tree, studying the ground for other signs. She sighed when she caught sight of a small pile of scat.
“Faerat.” She pointed toward it and Freja nodded. They were mole-like creatures, about as large as a man’s forearm. Not particularly dangerous, but they had a nasty bile that mixed with their saliva. Anything they’d gotten into wasn’t safe to eat, no matter how you cleaned, cooked, or treated it. “Think it’s still around?”
“We can look for its hole.” The other girl shrugged. “Not sure it’s worth it unless you plan to mete out the One’s judgement.”
“At least it’s not a total loss.” Dela approached the scat casually, reaching over her shoulder for her scatbag. She untwisted it and held her breath as she collected what she could. Come winter, when there was no grass or wood to burn, things like this could mean the difference between living and freezing. “You were saying?”
