The Kraken Lore | Short fiction | Fantasy
The Whisperer
His favorite part was casting life into wood.
His favorite part was casting life into wood. In the scorching sun or in the dim light of the moon, he worked on his creations to get to that blessed moment of resurrection. One time it had taken him merely hours to turn a chunk of wood into a replica of a dead newly born of a sobbing mother, then revive him. Most of the time, it was a matter of days until a lost spirit rejoined the world.
They called him the Whisperer. He’d never taken a day off, never left his workshop or his creations. He lived by the meals and fine wine the people were willing to pay him — the price of seeing their loved ones resurrected. Some still bestowed him gifts years after their loved ones had rejoined the world.
But with every soul yearning for the resurrection of someone dear, a deal was made. They could offer him the world or no payment at all, but the location of his workshop must stay hidden. Because to him, it was more than a cramped workshop. It was his entire world.
Decades passed in a blur and the scrape of the chisel on wood. His back had long since shaped itself as a bent rod. The Whisperer didn’t complain. His fingers had become calloused over the years. He didn’t complain. Not when his hair had turned white, wild and unkempt, and not when his muscles fatigued. He didn’t complain. The resurrection of a lost spirit still sent tingles down his spine. Still awakened his senses, even now, in his frail body.
A firm knock sounded. The Whisperer rose from his hunched position over the tender face of a girl whittled into wood. He put down his tools and limped his way to the door. He threw it open, inviting the guest in.
The gangly figure of a boy greeted him. His cheeks tinted from the cold, his tunic coated with rain drops, the boy looked around before fixing his eyes on the Whisperer.
The Whisperer gestured to a chair behind his work table. “Please, take a seat.”
“Is it true what they say?” the boy asked after sitting down. “Can you truly whittle anyone with such accuracy that even their own mother wouldn’t recognize the difference between wood and flesh?”
“It is true.”
“Is it true you can cast souls into wood and resurrect them?”
“It is.”
“And can you…” he swallowed, “can you cast the soul of one into the body of another?”
The Whisperer didn’t let his surprise show. “I’m sorry, boy. I’m no longer doing that.”
“But you can do it.”
“I can, but I won’t.”
The boy shook his head. “You don’t understand. It is a matter of life and death.”
“Boy,” the Whisperer said with a chuckle, “it is always a matter of life and death. Unless the spirit is meant for that body, I cannot help you.”
“But you can save the world!”
“I have no doubt,” the Whisperer said quietly. “Every resurrected soul saves someone’s world.”
The boy took a deep breath. “Have you heard of Bolton the Great?”
His brows furrowed. “I can’t say I have.”
“Have you heard of the resistance?”
He’d heard plenty of the resistance, but more importantly, he’d heard about the reason for the resistance. Sometimes, when people couldn’t afford to pay him, they shared information. The Whisperer had never asked to know anything in particular; every piece of information they saw fit to share with him was more than enough. They were his eyes and ears, and more often than not, his only connection to the outside world.
For the past few years, no good news had been passed to him. Scared, deformed people had been visiting his workshop, pleading with him to save their loved ones who had fallen victims to the horrors of Galivender the Mighty. They said he had taken over their land after butchering the monarchy. They cried over his bloodthirsty battles, the slaves he had taken, the women he had raped.
Never had so many desperate souls knocked on the Whisperer’s door. Never had death been prominent in the land like an incurable plague. He had never heard more horrid stories, or seen deeper scars on people’s flesh.
“Of course I’ve heard of the resistance,” he answered.
“Bolton the Great is — was,” the boy choked out, “our leader. He was killed in a raid two years ago. But thanks to you, we can bring him back into Galivender’s body. The resistance may finally win.”
“I’m not sure I am following, boy.”
“Have you ever wondered how Galivender’s men stay loyal to him? With every town he wrecks, every person he enslaves, his army only grows.”
The Whisperer watched the babbling boy, waiting patiently for him to finish his explanation.
“He bewitched them,” he blurted. “His men can only be loyal to him or someone that looks like him. No man will ever be able to replace him and gain their support. No one, unless he looks like him.”
Realization dawned, yet the Whisperer kept quiet, and let the boy finish drawing that awful picture in his head of how his people’s lives had turned upside-down.
“When the resistance found out about it, we knew that was our chance. Bolton should be our king instead of Galivender. He can restore this land to its days of peace and glory.”
The Whisperer scrutinized the boy before him. “Are you certain Bolton is the right man to rule this land?”
“Yes! He saved me from my burning house when I was a boy, trained me — trained all of us — and rescued thousands of people since.” His pleading eyes bored into the Whisperer’s, whose defiance was crumbling. “I understand you don’t cast spirits into different bodies anymore, but what if a spirit was never meant for the body to begin with? Galivender doesn’t deserve to be king. Please.”
The Whisperer sighed. His decision had been made. “Very well. But I would have to sketch Galivender. My memory is not what it used to be.”
“I have everything you need in here.” The boy pulled out a stack of papers and a chipped tooth from his tattered sack. “Drawings of Galivender, and Bolton’s tooth. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?”
“It’s perfect,” the Whisperer said with a small smile, sensing the boy’s nervousness.
“Good. Good.” He slammed a fat satchel on the table. “If this isn’t enough, the resistance has more — ”
The Whisperer lifted his hand. “I don’t need the resistance’s money. Nor do I need your gifts, food, or wine. I have everything I need here in my workshop.”
The boy gaped at him, looking even younger. “How are we ever able to repay you?”
The Whisperer thought for a moment. “What is your name, boy?”
“Salison, sir. Felic Salison.”
“Well, Felic, your name would be more than enough.”
He started whittling Galivender the moment Felic left his workshop. He was a bulky man, this tyrant, with broad shoulders and a lengthy beard. It would take a lot of time and dedicated care — he knew. Yet he didn’t complain, and plunged into work.
Weeks transformed into months. Through day or night, heat or cold, the Whisperer worked on his greatest creation. His hands were trembling more and more with each day, slowing him down. He didn’t complain. His eyesight was starting to betray him slowly yet steadily. He didn’t complain. He couldn’t. For he had little time left — he knew.
It had been a year when a knock on the door startled the Whisperer. He opened the door with a groan.
Felic marched in, his expression frantic. “He knows,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Someone sold out your location. Galivender’s men are on their way. Take whatever you need to survive a week in the mountains and let’s go. I’ve arranged a place for you in a nearby camp. The resistance will keep you safe until — ”
“What about Galivender’s body?”
Sorrow flashed in Felic’s eyes. “It would be a burden in the mountains. We have to leave it here. If you’re willing, the resistance would like for you to start again. This time in a safe place.”
The Whisperer caressed his filthy beard, deep in thought. “I will stay here. I have a creation to complete.”
“You don’t understand! Galivender’s men are hours away from here! I cannot protect you!”
“I don’t need protection.”
“He will butcher you,” Felic whispered, his shoulders slumped. “He will torture you, and when he’s done playing games, he’ll butcher you.”
“It is all right, Felic,” the Whisperer said warmly. “It is a risk I am willing to take.”
The Whisperer didn’t sleep that night, nor did he take a break. His hands worked tirelessly, creating curves and valleys into wood. Beads of sweat cascaded down his furrowed forehead. His muscles burned from the prolonged effort. His body yearned for a break. Not a short-lived one, but an everlasting break. But he couldn’t afford one. For he had little time left — he knew.
Gallops of horses — hundreds, thousands judging by the noise — echoed among the workshop’s walls. The Whisperer’s hand stilled on the chisel. He dared a glance at the door, fearing Galivender’s men were closing in on him.
With a tremor in his heart, he quickened his pace, fixing the last unyielding edges. His hands were shaking badly, taunting him to demolish a year’s worth of hard work. He pushed the dread aside and made the last few needed changes. He was putting the chisel down when his door breached, rattling the workshop. The rising sun peeked behind the heavily armed man at the entrance.
The Whisperer picked up the yellow tooth of Bolton the Great as the knight approached him like a predator getting ready to attack.
“Whisperer, you have betrayed your king.”
He brought the tooth to his dry mouth, feeling life fading from his body steadily, surely.
“I am here to escort you to Galivender the Mighty so you’ll pay for your crimes.”
With his last ounce of strength, he whispered, “May Bolton the Great live,” and let his breath engulf the tooth.
The last thing he saw before death claimed him were the blue eyes of Galivender the Mighty flying open, and the knight kneeling in surrender, not knowing it was the resistance’s leader before him.
