Against the Grain
The following was written for a friendly short story challenge posed in a writing discord server wherein participants were asked to write a story using a linked video as inspiration. It is loosely based in the universe of the novel I am actively building, Working Title: Long Live the Kings. While details between this and other world-building short stories overlap, the atmosphere of this piece is not representative of the story as a whole.
Inspiration Video:
Against the Grain
SJ Shoemaker
Word Count: 1,316
1/17/2023
He had done it!
Aesc had finally cracked the cryptic book of magic spells. It had taken months to track down such a forbidden text. And years more to interpret. Magic had long since been outlawed throughout the kingdom, and the ealdormen of his village were superstitious and zealous to the point of extremism. Caution was foremost on Aesc’s mind, but never at the sake of progress.
For the third year in a row, the harvest had been pitiful. The ground simply did not produce like it used to. And with the King fighting his wars in far-off lands, he took half of every harvest. What was left was not enough for the small village to live on. Aesc’s shoulders never ceased to ache from the digging. And he couldn’t rest them with the frequency at which he had need to dig another grave. It was a devastating way to live—to exist, perhaps. This wasn’t living. It was a prolonged death.
Aesc grew up on tales of men of magic. They conjured realities with their minds. Tossed spells capable of destroying towns like us mortals tossed rubbish. One man, Eadwinn the Wise, was famous for his magical charity. It took so little to conjure gold from thin air or sprout fruit from the stones he felt it reprehensible to withhold his magic from the poor. He would travel from city to city, seeking out those without possessions and inviting them to enjoy a magical feast that would make kings blush. Yet here were Aesc and his people, starving from three straight years of famine. And not one of them even considered magical aid. None but Aesc.
He spoke the magic words once more and a fresh stem of wheat sprouted from his palm. Glorious laughter filled the room. He plucked the stem, eliciting a mild sting, but that didn’t stop him from speaking the words again. Another stem sprouted, replacing the first.
It was a miracle!
It had taken him weeks of frustration to understand the trick of it all. His magic could only affect himself. Nothing worked on the large stone he had taken from the grave sight, no matter how loud he spoke or how much effort he put into perfecting the accent of the forgotten tongue. But his first attempt at altering his own body and… wheat sprouted again. He kept expecting to wake up and realize it was all a horribly realistic dream, but no, there it was. Food conjured by nothing more than a simple phrase. Their food problem was over. No one needed to die of starvation any longer. Their worries were over thanks to magic. How could anyone ban something so useful? Why let people suffer in poverty needlessly?
Aesc spoke again. This time, a different phrase. And his skin changed instantly to blue. He spoke again, and it turned red. He couldn’t stop himself from enthusiastically whooping. It was so easy once he got the hang of it. Another phrase and a tail sprouted. Another, and his eyes cast streams of light. He looked from darkened corner to darkened corner, dispersing the shadows within. Who needed the sun when they possessed their own? Work need not be restricted to 10 hours of adequate sunlight. Work could continue ceaselessly with a few words. His laughter heightened to hysteria. What possibilities were robbed of generations over superstition? Aesc began pantomiming the act of threshing wheat in the living space of his darkened home. He raised his left hand, spoke the words, and sprouted a bundled stalk of wheat. Then he raised his right, spoke another phrase, and it changed form into a sickle.
The pain was immediate and immeasurable.
His being cried out as if his hand had been severed at the wrist. And, in a way, it had. He fell to the floor, clutching the sickle. He cursed and screamed as he watched in brilliant clarity, his lantern eyes illuminating every detail. Blood meant for a hand no longer there burst free at the wrist and flowed down the sickle’s handle. He tried to speak the phrase to undo his mistake, but he found no voice between tortured shouts and labored breaths.
Then another scream echoed throughout, this one from a woman. He focussed his beams on the face of Carreen, his neighbor. She surely heard his cries and ran over to see what was the matter. But now…
Aesc managed to form the words at last, and his hand transformed back into its intended state before Carreen’s eyes.
“By the gods,” she whispered. Her lip trembled as she turned and rushed away, pleading for help. “A devil! The devil’s taken Aesc!”
Aesc tried calling after, but she was too far away, and his body still shuddered with the ghosts of pain. The ealdorman would be there in moments. His elicit magical book was mere feet away, clearly exposed to any who entered. A puddle of blood coated the wooden floor beneath him. His skin was red, he wore a tail, and his eyes glowed like suns. They would have him beheaded and burned before he could speak a word. There would be no explanations. There would be no demonstrations. And none would dare learn unknown phrases from a literal devil. Aesc let out another curse as the gravity of the situation washed over him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to save the village, but if he didn’t run now, the village would kill him.
His feet pumped even while his mind searched for an alternative that he knew it wouldn’t find. Aesc rushed down the main street and cut through the small field. He could hear the shouts building behind him. The flickering red of fire shone through windows. Fingers pointed in his direction. Then came the bark of the hunting dogs. Aesc ran faster, straight into the nearby forest. If he was quick enough—and Gadall permitted—perhaps he could lose the rabid beasts in there.
He thought to turn back or shout for the town to find their reason. The end to their famine was before them. Just so long as their zealotry didn’t blind them to the new possibility. Aesc cut off his thoughts there. So long was too long. They would never trust him again, no matter what he said.
The crunch of leaves and sticks beneath his feet called out his location. And while Aesc appreciated the lights of his eyes to show his path, they would lead any followers straight to him. He doused their lantern lights with a word. The sudden lack of sight caught him by surprise, and before his eyes could adjust to the darkness, his foot caught on a root. Pain found him once more as he felt the snapping of bone within his leg. He stifled another cry and cradled the broken leg. Now blinded by tears, he rolled to a seated position and pressed his back against a trunk.
The barks and howls of hunting dogs grew closer. Soon the leaves began to crackle under their paws. It would be mere moments before they were on him. He heard their frantic sniffing move closer and closer. They had his trail. But he couldn’t move. Without time to think straight, Aesc spoke one last spell. Had he thought a moment longer, he would have seen the folly of his plan. Skin became bark. Organs became wood. First his toes, then moving upward, he felt the transformation taking place. He would become the tree, and the dogs would have no way of finding him. They wouldn’t be able to distinguish him from any other tree because that is all he would be. They’d pass him by, and then afterward… afterward he would be nothing more than a tree. Unable to speak a spell to reverse his transformation. Unable to complete his thought.
Trees cannot speak.
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