When What is Lost Would do Better to Remain Hidden
A druid's final sacrifice releases an abhorrent influence on the world
Anwin ran swiftly through the woods, ignoring the brambles and branches that grabbed at his clothes and tore his skin. In his need to escape, he had traveled beyond familiar terrain but knew he must cross three sources of running water before he dared to stop. Salty sweat stung his eyes and he feared that his heart might thump out of his chest, but escalating panic powered him onwards. The burning muscles in his legs were ignored in the face of abject terror, he denied the threat that they might fail or crumple under him. The rushing, whispering force was gaining on him, the druid was running out of time.
In the distance, he could see the outline of the cill and he redoubled his efforts to reach it. Anwin needed hallowed ground for his protection, but also to bury the chalice, which clanked dully in the rough sack slung over his back. Even now he felt the disquieting hum of evil emanating from the wicked object.
His breathing was so raw and labored, that he did not hear the tumble of water over rocks in time. Anwin’s body teetered at the ragged edge of the ravine, waving his arms as if, like wings, they could catch enough air to steady him. But his momentum took him over and he fell, limbs flailing hopelessly, to be dashed on the rough rocks and stones that comprised the river bed.
Anwin’s body landed in an unnaturally twisted shape, although death gave his face a more peaceful expression than any he had worn since he’d been elected to steal the sacrificial object from amid the standing stones, where dark rites were performed. A trail of bright blood tracked slowly from his dashed temple to drip off the rock. It landed in crimson drops on the cursed chalice that had tumbled free of the sack.
The silvery object now lay in a deep crack, hard to see and even harder to reach, yet its malevolence throbbed, seemingly fuelled by its dark purpose and the ichor that had been Anwin’s life essence.
The running water worked its old magic and Anwin’s aggressors halted their chase. They could not cross it to regain the chalice, yet its dark power had never been purged. The druid had been unable to bury the object in consecrated soil within the church boundaries, and sprinkle it with a fine layer of bones from two of his ancestors, before spilling some drops of his blood. Such a spell would have quelled its ability to conjure up wickedness.
Instead, the chalice’s purpose was simply paused. No longer under the control of the sect that had planned on using it to open a demon portal into our world, it remained in situ, undiminished, and unchanging until it was presented with a new soul to latch onto.
But time waits for no man. Autumn turned to winter and the seasons cycled through. The running water that had once carved this deep ravine, its thundering force eroding the bedrock, began to slow. The stony river bed was gradually widened by the water’s constant journey, until eventually, the villagers built a bridge further along the bank.
At the point where Anwin had fallen, farmers drove their cattle and sheep down the less steep bank. The livestock drank the water before moving along to graze in the shadow of the church, which now boasted a window and a bell tower.
Marcus was a tinker, carrying his wares strapped to his back: Ribbons and nosegays to charm the ladies, leatherwork for the young men plus tinctures. The pans he sold clanked as he walked, letting people know of his approach, plus he sang as he ambled. It was as easy to pick up new songs along the way as gossip, and people enjoyed them with equal appetite.
He clambered down the river bank, easing his pack off his aching shoulders to lay it on the grass before splashing his face clean and cupping water to drink. It was a beautiful spot, he tried to come this way in both spring and autumn.
As he stood in the flowing river, which darkened his shabby trousers, the glitter of metal caught his eye, and he stooped to investigate. The handle of something was there, partly concealed by the sharp stones that gathered at the foot of a fissured rock. He bent to dig with his hands, soaking his clothes in his efforts. He clawed the debris away, working until he pulled free an ornate cup on a stem.
Marcus experienced a burst of elation. A find such as this would earn him plenty of gold, he could either sell the chalice as it stood to the gentry or pass it off to a smith or craftsman who could melt it down and re-work the metal into smaller pieces
He examined the tarnished object more closely; its heft was too light for brass, more likely silver. It was etched with runic symbols barely dulled from its time in the river. After wrapping it in some dark fabric he had to sell, Marcus tucked it inside his undershirt so that his jerkin concealed where it nestled against his skin.
The tinker moved towards the village with more of a spring in his step, believing good fortune had smiled on him that day. He beamed, and sang loudly, inviting people to leave their houses and sample his wares. Marcus did a brisk trade. As he bartered he swapped news from the villages he had passed through and gathered new nuggets of salacious local information. He found himself delighted to hear about mysteriously sick sheep and villagers who were recently confined in the stocks. Without a conscious decision, he began to charge a little more for his trinkets than he usually would.
“They’re good for it,” he told himself. He surveyed the prosperous little market town with envy and experienced a sudden longing for a drink of ale when he spied the oast house.
“Where is your blacksmith?” he asked his next customer, eagerly accepting her overpayment for lace and buttons.
Marcus walked in the direction the goodwife had indicated and soon heard the metallic thud of the farrier’s hammer as it beat horseshoes into shape.
“Hail fellow, well met,” he called over the din.
The blacksmith turned his swarthy face in Marcus’ direction.
“Business seems good.” Marcus gestured to the three horses waiting to be shod and at the pile of items needing repair. “Would you be in the market for a trade?”
The smith set down his tools and briskly stepped away from the fire. He approached Marcus wordlessly, with a suggestion of curiosity on his face.
When the tinker drew out the chalice from beneath his jerkin, he felt a subtle pull from the ornate object, a faint tickle in his gut. While he was unwrapping it, his mind swirled with dark, distrustful thoughts about the smith, and he fought the urge to shove it back out of sight. But it was too late, the heavyset man had cocked an eyebrow and was watching him like a hawk.
“What do you think?” Marcus asked.
In his head, eerie voices chanted ‘It’s mine, it’s mine,’ which was strange and disquieting.
The blacksmith turned the cup in his hands, assessing its composition and the metal’s density. He made a low bid, Marcus frowned and suggested a higher figure. They haggled back and forth, emotions rising, until they finally settled on an agreeable price. The smith spat in his palm, holding his hand out for Marcus to shake.
As soon as he took the blacksmith’s work-roughened hand and sealed the bargain, the strange, internal chant stopped. In its absence, the tinker almost sagged with relief. He turned and walked away from the forge, leaving the silver object behind him, he sensed his mood lifting.
Some things which are lost should stay hidden, shrouded in the mists of time, consigned to hearsay and legend. The dark chalice, used by a secret brotherhood for nefarious spells and enchantments, was irrefutably such an item.
Once melted down, the blacksmith crafted three ornate rings from its precious metal. An influence he could not identify inspired him to use dark oval stones and he was drawn to decorate it with menacing designs of skulls and screaming faces. He secured the burnished rings in a drawstring bag and secreted them securely on his person before he traveled to Wrexham to trade at the market.
The blacksmith sold all three ornate rings for a high price and returned to his quiet hamlet, feeling like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. The distance meant he was unaware of the subsequent trail of avarice, rage, perversion, murder, and destruction the rings evoked in their wearer.
Each person who took possession of one of the rings became a twisted, venal version of their former self. After a spree of ghastly and shocking acts which seemed to burn their humanity to ashes, the wearer would meet a sudden and unsavory end.
The rings always survived, to find their place on the finger of a new hand, ready to work their insidious influence on the motivations of a new host.
This short story was originally featured in Redemption - the Medium publication for transgressive fiction
Love this story.
This was so incredibly written. You pulled me right into this world right off the bat.