"The Night Mother" - A Short Story by Brian Blackwell

Gradations of gloom marbled the hallway leading to the destined chamber. Why anyone would choose to inhabit such a dwelling was beyond his reckoning, but the caprice of his host was ever-appalling and not to be questioned. She was the most dreaded and revered of his order. In all matters, the will of the Night Mother was to be made manifest.

The rhythmic din of his footfalls ricocheted off the barren walls, assaulting his ears with machine-like repetition. Compounded by the oppressive atmosphere of the narrow passage, he felt increasingly ill at ease. Beyond question, his present discomfort surpassed all he had endured through the miles of trackless wilderness that had brought him to this accursed place. Such torments were well worth enduring, however, for in mere moments he would complete the task for which he was born.

Nigh unto eleven years of emotional solitude - this was his plight as infiltrator of the witches’ coven. To be amongst such villains was a disgrace to one born of his high lineage, but the words of his birth mother, the Queen, had carried him through the seemingly endless trial. “With your father’s death, your brother will sit by my side as King; but it is you, my son, that will decide the fate of the realm.”

With this sentiment, she sent him reluctantly into their midst. There he lived the deception of kinship with these devils, passing the waning years of his childhood, his adolescence, and now breaching his adulthood. Every bitter moment of the estrangement had been in preparation for this day.

Trudging the final paces of the dank corridor, he set sight upon the door. Unnecessarily large it seemed, stretching across the entire expanse of the far wall and leaving no border. Its color was indistinguishable in the pervading dimness, and it came into his awareness that he knew not the source of what little light there was. Then, upon arm’s reach of the door, he wavered.

The hesitation was not of fear, but of the perverse reluctance to carry out a task long-devised. Indeed, the thought of failure came upon him, but this troubled him for little more than an instant; for it was quickly overshadowed by an even more pervasive anxiety -- what should be the result of his success?

Paralyzed by an unwillingness to open the door, his mind fled the present, and he was thrust into contemplations that commanded the whole of his attention. It was the work of half his years to gain the witches’ trust. He had performed unspeakable acts of depravity to prove himself worthy of coming before the Night Mother. Now, she had invited him to her remote dwelling – and he had come. With false gratitude, he would reward her trust with the oblivion of death.

Once deposed, her coven would assuredly fail. In the absence of her wrath, chaos would destroy them, and the kingdom would henceforth be free of a long-festering evil. This gift he alone could bestow upon his people, for it was bought at the expense of his youth, his innocence, and even his eternal soul. He would undoubtedly return as a hero, amidst much pomp and praise. However, beyond this homecoming, his foresight failed. Bred for this one purpose, he could not imagine what future would be contrived for him by fate. Bereft of the errand, he was nothing.

The home of his early childhood now seemed remote, and utterly without promise. For a brief passage of time, he indulged in the lamentations of despair. However, his vexation soon gave way to resolve. Fate may yet send him whirling helplessly into uncertainty, but for the present he was at-task, and so, complete.

He noted the circular door handle resting loosely upon its hinge. Taking it within his grasp, he was struck by its peculiarity – it was cold, gnarled, and unpleasant to the touch. “All speaks of her foulness,” he uttered in thought, not risking a spoken word; for he knew that the Night Mother heard all. He tugged at the handle, and in a dreamlike cascade of perception, the door opened, he moved through, and it was closed behind him – all without further incentive of his will.

His mind awoke suddenly to utter darkness. Reaching behind him, he felt not the door. Then, extending his arms outward – not daring to uproot his feet – he twisted to both sides, seeking a touchstone. He felt naught. Diffused, and filling the full expanse of the chamber, a soft light grew from a faint nothingness to a low glare. He saw the four walls - about twenty paces in each direction - and he was disquieted by the fact that he stood in the exact center of the room.

Turning his attention upward, he saw that the upper limits of this space extended beyond the reach of the pale light. He now noted the sound of swirling winds above him, though his skin was untouched by even the slightest breeze. Indeed, even his breath - now heavy with anticipation - did not seem to flaw the perfect stillness of the air. He lowered his gaze to eye-level and spontaneously recoiled, as he was now met with the ghastly visage of a woman, gaping at him in utter silence.

Instinctively, he composed himself, relaxing his shoulders in an effort to appear unperturbed. Then, the woman spoke in soft, even tones. “Have you traveled over stone and stream to cast insult upon your beloved Night Mother?” He paused for a moment, confounded by her meaning, and indignant at the implication of intimacy. Not daring to delay his reply further, he retorted humbly, “How have I offended?” The woman moved in closer, glaring with wide, empty eyes. “Most presently…” she volleyed sternly, “…by parrying my query with one of your own.” With curt dismissal, she turned away.

Measured paces carried her gingerly toward the far wall. He was rendered stunned by the realization that no image of the woman’s face remained impressed upon his mind. The nature of her countenance - wholly perceived a moment before - was now utterly lost to him. As she moved, he saw that there was substance to her form; she was not an apparition, as he had begun to suspect. Strangely, her gait seemed to shift from that of a hobbled old woman to that of a proud queen of elder days, though neither apparency endured long enough to inspect.

Approaching the wall, she spoke again. “For what have you come?” His response sprang forth without deliberation, “For you.” At this, the woman halted. There was a long silence. He saw that she held a ragged tapestry in her hands, though he had not noticed it before. She pondered aloud, “Your words wear the shroud of ambiguity… You are indeed your mother’s child.” This second reference to the wretched creature as his own kin perturbed him greatly, and he addressed her without caution, “I am the son of another!”

The woman, undaunted, gesticulated awkwardly as she raised the tapestry above her head and placed it upon the wall. It held its position, though by what means it was fastened he could not discern. She stepped backward and gazed upon it with reverence. It depicted the embroidered image of a bird – a dove, he thought – sitting atop a pointed blade, with the hilt half-buried in the ground. He found it curious, though his every perception raised new questions in his mind, shattering the continuity of his thought. As he viewed the newly laid hanging, he struggled to recall the last words spoken between them.

The weightless tone of her voice gently brought his attention back to the present, “So often are causes named in error, and effects misunderstood.” She spoke abstractly, still gazing upward at the wall where the tapestry hung. “Is it not the end that gives birth to the means? Does not the arrow owe its very existence to the target?” He stared blankly at her back and did not answer. She had long hair of an indistinguishable hue, though he now felt that he could see through her to the wall beyond. Confounded by the tricks of his eyes, he became frustrated, and resolved that he would no longer give heed to his sight while in this place.

Focusing within, he met with an even deeper dissatisfaction, as his mind was enveloped in a dense fog. It took great effort, and an indistinguishable amount of time, to recognize that she had asked a question; though her long silence suggesting the necessity of a response. He made the attempt in earnest, but his thoughts were utterly without form. The effort failed in silence.

She turned, and moved toward him with halted steps. Her gaze now met his own, and he was captivated by her unfathomable features. What there did he look upon? Was it Beauty? Hideousness? No, indeed, this was some third quality that married the two in perfect union. He gaped at her expression. She wore a smile that seemed to blend both love and malice. She spoke more forcefully, though her mouth made not a shiver. “You are loyal, my son. Your heart is full with my intent. You are the best of my children, and fidelity is your only creed.”

Upon these words, his heart plummeted. His face drained of hue. His breath halted. He felt the shame of one who, through grave disappointment, had shattered the heart of a beloved parent. He knew not the wrong, nor the means of redress. Entranced by her stare, he shuddered as her expression shifted to one of wide surprise. “Where is your sword, my love?” she asked with mock concern. He looked to his side and saw the empty sheathe. His vision went dark. A thought struck his mind with such terrific impact that all other contemplations were sent violently reeling into obscurity. As loud as thunder, though unspoken, a single word filled his world – “Unburied!”

As abruptly as it had come, the thought was gone. He raised his gaze to look again upon the woman, and stood aghast to see his own sword plunged through her abdomen. Blood, blackened by the gloom, trailed her frail white garment and pooled beneath her feet. “Mother!” The word burst forth without a thought. He reached for her, but as he did, she fell sidelong into a richly adorned chair, tipping it backward as she collapsed upon the floor beyond. He ran to her, and gasped in horror to see that the chair was, in fact, a throne. The impaled form lying at his feet was that of his true maternal parent.

As though from a dream, he awoke to a world of vibrant detail. His full awareness returned to him in a crashing wave of lucidity. He now saw that he stood not in the chamber of the witch, but in the Royal Hall of his youth. The banners of the kingdom flew upon the wall, and his beloved mother lay motionless upon the floor. Then, a cry from the far side of the room arrested his attention, and he turned to see the mature form of his brother – adorned in kingly garb – rushing toward the fallen Queen.

His actions became clear, and he recoiled abruptly, falling into the grasp of two palace guards. Seizing him, they offered words of astonishment to their tormented King, “He appeared from out the ether, my Lord! We saw naught before the Queen was felled!” In his despair, the King heard them not. He knelt hopelessly sobbing into the cloven garment of the slain.

Seeing the grievous state of their Lord, the guards did not await command, but sought to remove the offender from the hall. As they did, he wailed in anguish, “It cannot be! Mother, I have returned!” These words the King heard well, and silently he rose, turning to meet the gaze of the receding assassin.

Rendered helpless by the armored limbs of the Queen’s bewildered protectors, the derelict son ceased his struggle. With tears about his eyes, he viewed his royal sibling, and upon his face saw not the faintest recognition. For this betrayal, too, was the ineludible will of the Night Mother.