The Shadow of the West Gate

Belly rumbling uncontrollably and the cold, icy winds of the north slicing through my cloak, I make my way as quickly as I am able toward the small village ahead of me. I have come unprepared for such harsh weather and my horse, acclimatised to the warmer, wetter regions of my native lands in the south, has long since succumbed to the sickness that wracked its starved body. For eight days I have trudged alone and on foot through some of the harshest, driest terrain I have ever known and in that time I have eaten but twice.

My expedition to the north is, in retrospect, quite possibly the single most stupid of acts I have ever committed in my twenty-two years. Months ago, when this expedition lay in its infant stage of preparation, it had filled my head with thoughts of discovering giant, gleaming veins of gold in the northern ranges, of returning to Tara with sacks of glittering wealth to the cheers and 'well dones' of my fellow peers. I had romanticised the physical stamina needed to complete the mission let alone complete it successfully, and insisted that I would not require the added supplies my father had tried to include in my train. Now, as I miserably battle the ferocious winds, the bitter ice of those winds and try to still my roiling stomach I can't help but admit absolute, humiliating defeat.

A particularly strong gust of wind unsteadies me and I rock precariously. I know that should I fall to the muddy, slick ground beneath me, I will not be able to rise again. Crouching against its strength, I wait the gust out sending silent prayers to any God kind enough to listen. They do and I regain my footing once again. I can't help but feel that this wind is against me, that it wishes to keep me from the warmth of the village ahead.

The first of the wind-blown homesteads comes into view as I crest a particularly steep rise in the road. A smile, the first in weeks, graces my haggard, peeling features as my eyes fall on the sight of wood smoke rising sharply from a stone chimney. As my feet shuffle through the mud - the soles of my soft, leather boots worn to merely a thin wafer of protection - I try to call out for aid. My voice scratches against my dry, tender throat and barely a croak manages to escape my chapped lips. Conserving my strength, I decide to walk on and hope that my obviously dismal circumstances are noticed by somebody.

As my foot falls on the first, weathered stone step of the homestead, the strong, oak door, bound in brass hinges, squeals open in welcome. I lift my eyes to meet the face of my saviour when a harsh, guttural sound followed by a rough tug behind me pulls me to the ground. I cry miserably in protest, but my throat does not allow the sound to escape.

'I take no trav'llers 'ere. Off wit'ch 'ya now, else I'll be forced to set Mongrel on 'ya.' The callous tones of the north filter down to my ears but the man's words become lost in my muddled mind. The world suddenly disappears behind black and red blotches and my mind feels as though it is falling, sinking into my body and out through my feet. The ground suddenly vanishes and I remember nothing else.

The inviting sensations of heat and comfort sift through the heavy, cloudiness of my mind. A distant ache in my feet pulls my attention away from the feel of feather and down and wool but I ignore it. The hiss and crackle of wet wood on a fire fills my ears and I slowly drift out of sleep and fully into consciousness. I open my eyes with a smile on my face.

''E's awake, Molly, see that 'e gets some stew into 'im then see 'im on 'is way.' The strong voice of a heavy set man sounds from my left and I slowly lift my head enough to make out his form. He is sitting in a roughly, but sturdily built chair, smoking from a gilded pipe and he seems'¦impatient. For a moment the smell of the pipe smoke suddenly fills my head and I reel with the headiness of the strong tobacco. As my senses adjust to the smell, I begin to feel better, but an uneasiness settles in my brittle, tired bones. That man does not enjoy my presence.

'Cob, 'e's near death's very door,' a feminine voice pleads on my behalf, 'the least we can do is see that 'e's well afore we turn 'im out.' I turn my head to my right now. There stands a woman, as short and stout as her husband but her accents are kindlier, gentle even. She wears a selection of thickly woven shifts and a bearskin stole but her feet are bare. She turns her attention to me. 'There, lad, you get some 'o that in'tya.' She smiles and reveals, to my horror, a collection of broken, yellowing teeth. 'No need to be scared, lad, it's just peas and a bit'a beef broth.' She smiles again, no doubt trying to reassure me, but I find nothing reassuring about the sight of ill-tended teeth. Her breath is horrendous, the smell of rotting flesh wafts into my nose as though it wishes to live there permanently.
I endeavour, however, to thank her.

The soup is as good as can be imagined - the vegetables are dry and stringy and the beef stock has an odd, sharp aftertaste - but it is warm and filling and I again thank the goodwoman, more heartfelt than before. She nods and begins to rifle around behind me while I drink generously from the skin set on the bed of pillows and blankets around me. Her husband, however, shoots impatient, dangerous looks toward me when his wife is not aware. He wants me out of his house, but why, I cannot begin to imagine. I merely nod amiably in return and attempt to shake off the bone chilling uneasiness his glares instil.

When I have finished with the skin, I place it beside me and begin to settle back into my blankets. Cold, calloused hands suddenly grip my shoulders and the craggy, broad face of Cob looms up in front of me. 'I want you an' your t'ings out'a my 'ouse, you 'ear!?' Incapable of anything else, I nod dumbly in reply.
'Good! Now up!'

Roughly shaken into a standing position, my meagre belongings are shoved unceremoniously into my bare arms. A bearskin, warmed by the fire, is hung over my shoulders and Cob frogmarches me toward his door. As my left foot touches the floor with each, forced, step, needles of pain shoot up to my hip. I look down, horrified, at the sight of my blackened, frost bitten foot. The shock sends any sound of fear running back to my belly and suddenly, as though the sight of the source of my pain somehow intensifies it, I find that I am unable to place any weight on the ruined appendage at all.

'Cob! 'E's not well, Cob! E'll die out there!' The goodwoman screeches her protests, but Cob will hear none of them. Mongrel, the large shaggy protector of Cob's land, rears its ugly, grey head as I am thrown out the front door. He growls threateningly and makes as though to attack my leg.
'Mongrel! Down wit'ch'a!' Cob waves a hand in the dog's direction and the mangy mutt regrettably snaps shut his jaws. As I turn to voice my protests at the poor treatment given me, I am faced with the menacing figure of Cob, now armed with a heavy bludgeon. I promptly close my mouth and attempt to hobble hurriedly back out to the road, resisting the urge to cry in misery. I can think of no reason why Cob would take offence to my presence nor why he would insist so forcibly that I leave as though I were no more than a common braggart.

The torture I endure as I stagger toward the muddy road is unbearable. My head swims and a small part of me believes that I will indeed die, right at this very spot, and for no other reason that the agonizing pain piercing my foot and legs. I stumble at the roughly hewn gate, catching myself on a rotted timber post. Sounds of marching feet and a faint tinkle of silver gently floats down the road. I lift my head in curiosity but the movement is too sharp and sudden. Black spots dazzle in front my eyes and I try to blink fiercely through them. As my vision clears, the image of a glittering, embossed litter carried on the shoulders of two, burly men slowly emerges through the morning fog. I shake my head believing, at first, that the image is some measure of a mirage, a trick of the light, or possibly my mind beginning to lose its grip on reality. However, none of this is so. I wait, my jaw dropped in disbelief, as the elaborately adorned litter approaches.

The sound of fearful whimpers draws my attention back to the homestead and once again I reel from the shock of witnessing something most entirely unexpected. Cob and his dear, sweet wife have prostrated themselves in the muddy, uneven ground before their house. Mongrel, even, lies as though dead on the moth eaten blankets given him as a bed. That uneasiness begins to settle in my bones once again.

I am not aware of any royalty, indeed anybody of any worth, who lives this far to the north. Yet here, before me, is the most demonstrative example of the extreme wealth afforded only a royal.

As the litter stops a bare pace from where I stand, I watch as the thin, satin folds of the litter's drapes are pulled back to reveal the most beautiful specimen of femininity I have ever before laid eyes upon. The voluptuous form of a truly gorgeous woman slowly materializes from behind the glittering fabric. Her eyes, the most peculiar shade of green, roam my figure and suddenly gleam with genuine sympathy.
'You poor, poor young man,' she motions with soft, perfectly formed hands for me to come closer. Her voice is as heavenly as a child's innocent tones raised in song and her lips mould the words with their generous, teasing flesh. 'Come hither, dear man, for I fear you will catch your very death.' Her tongue savours the syllable of her last word and for a moment her eyes gleam with a sudden, intense flash. But I blink and once again the concerned, stunning, features of this mysterious woman beckon me forward.

She gracefully allows room for my presence beside her and her breasts, full and gloriously round, linger against my back. For a moment my breath leaves me and I sit gasping for it back. She orders her bearers to continue, the roll and lilt of her words as wondrous and elegant as any musical note. I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend Cob and his wife's fearful response to this breathtakingly kind and beautiful woman's presence back at the homestead. To me she is the epitome of womanhood and her maternal care for my well-being only serves to enforce this view.

'You are, indeed, the most comely of fellows.' Her hands begin to roam my body beneath the suddenly stifling bearskin stole. 'These shoulders, so broad and strong,' her fingers playfully pinch the sensitive skin of my neck, 'and this throat, so long, throbbing with thick, corded muscle.'

I shudder under her touch and she laughs. As she traces the frame of my jaw with a single, manicured nail it scrapes against the stubble of my chin and I hasten to apologise for my appearance.
'I had not expected to entertain the likes of such beauty, my lady, and I fear that I have not the appropriate dress for such an occasion as this.'

She laughs again at my expense, but I would kill a thousand virgins for her to do it again. 'My dear man, you're brutish exterior only further serves to endear you to me.' Her full, gloriously full, lips brush against my ear as she speaks. Her proximity is intoxicating and I feel my body respond to her touch. She but laughs once again. 'So young, so full of life.' She smiles warmly. But there is something there, however, in the light of those eyes. Something odd and I am put in the mind of a predator watching its prey.

I open my mouth to ask what she means when the litter suddenly stops. She announces that we have arrived and suddenly her elegant, sensual demeanour disappears. With strength I would not attribute anybody, let alone expect from a woman, she lifts me by my throat. Those fingers, earlier so enticing, so gentle, now prevent any air reaching my lungs. Those long days without sustenance of any kind have taken their toll on my muscles and I am as weak and as vulnerable as a newborn. I can do nothing save gaze, confused. Her beauty still dazzles me, but a light in her eyes, just moments ago holding promises of ecstasy, now instils fear of the strongest sense.

'Let's see just how long you last, little boy,' she hisses, her tongue slithering out from behind her teeth, now pointed and fierce. Her mouth, for but a moment, seems to widen more than should be possible. Like a snake, her jaw seems to unhinge then replace itself just as quickly - so quickly that I wonder if I ever saw it happen.

She throws me from the litter then steps out after me. The sun has not long to reach its zenith and, slowly, makes its way over my shrivelled, terrified form. As the woman steps down from the litter, she, for but a moment, walks through a western cast shadow of a looming building. In that one instant, she becomes something completely different. Her long, pale legs, sculpted as though from the Gods' hands themselves, merge together to form a sinuous, unified body, and her head, adorned with falling ringlets of the blackest jet flare to form a hood behind a smooth, pale snout. Not the snout of a dog or bear, but the sleek, oily snout of a viper.

As she steps back into the light, she once again becomes her beautiful female form, but the horror of that momentary image haunts my earlier thoughts of desire. She steps closer and I recoil from her looming, snarling figure.
'Perhaps I should take pity on you, engulf you now and save you the trouble of believing that you will live.' That horrific light reappears in her eyes once more and they seem to glow, casting her features in a sickly green light. She steps closer, once again falling under that western shadow. 'You misssserable little man,' the shadow casts her into her true form and she, impossibly large for any viper, slithers over my body. 'Have you never heard of the Wesssst Gate or itssss shadow? Thissss city, for thousssssandssss of yearssss has been sssssaid to hold the likesssss of a bassssilissssk that will engulf the formsssss of any young, handsssssome traveller.'

Her blood red, forked tongue flitters over my body. The haunting sound of her melodious laugh rings in my ears as I watch her jaws slowly, inexorably open to reveal a vast, black chasm that I have always pictured death to be. My last thoughts are of what I will miss while I am dead and I berate myself, uselessly, for my self absorption. Warm, sweet breath rolls over my face and I close my eyes, trying for all I am worth to hold onto the image of that beautiful, sumptuous woman. To believe that I am but dreaming in her litter, that she will shake me out of this nightmare.

Pain grips my heart. My thoughts reel and I remember nothing else, nor will ever do so again.

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