The Long Scar

Otto weaved among the corn stalks of the little farm, small puffs of dust and soil plumed up under each step as the worn boots bunched around his ankles. His parents were not rich, but they were fortunate to own the small plot of land on which his father, Tarven, had built the small three-room cabin as well as the long rectangular barn to the west of the house which held the family’s one horse and cow. Their half dozen sheep and four goats wandered the property, bleating and chewing as they went about their business. Otto’s mother, Deanna, had probably already rounded up their handful of chickens with the help of his younger sister, Seffa, and locked them up in the coop behind the house for the evening. They may have even tried to wrangle up Doodle, the proud strutting rooster who never crowed at dawn but also never shut up at dusk.

Otto glanced back to Jerren’s Rest and wished, not for the first time in his life, that they lived in a small apartment like his friend Enok. It must be so exciting to live in the bustle of the town even if it was as small as Jerren’s Rest. The little town sat opposite the Long Scar, supposedly in times far ancient, and probably more myth than fact, the Long Scar had been a beautiful paradise. A living garden of tranquility and plenty, but now the Long Scar was barren and empty. It was a bleak stretch of land that, as far as Otto knew, stretched the length of the world. Sand created mirages for those foolish enough to go to the border and stare into the waste. These illusions often lured the victims out into the parched terrain, where they would find no shade, no water, and no way home. No one he knew had been alive when the Long Scar had been beautiful, and no one knew why it had become so desolate. Sure, everyone had their theories. From being punished by Manarah, the goddess of fertility, for some slight against her, to some hero whose vanity led him to challenge the god of war, Baskarret, to a duel in single combat for immortality. Of course, the hero died, but what does one expect when challenging a god?

Otto realized he had been standing in the cornfield

for a while as the sky was now a deep red, slashed with orange and purple. A cold wind blew in from across the Long Scar and sent a chill straight up the young boy’s back. His sandy brown locks shook slightly at the tremor as he turned his equally brown eyes off to the north where the Long Scar lay hidden behind the rising and dropping moors of the country around Jerren’s Rest. How is it that a place supposedly so hot could produce a wind so cold? He bundled himself in his faded blue and many-patched jacket, trying to tuck his head under the collar of the cotton material.

Otto almost stepped past his sister without even noticing her, if it hadn’t been for the squawk that Doodle made as he scooted out of Otto’s path. “Don’t go in there.” Seffa sighed as she leaned back and watched Doodle flap up and over the railing on the porch. The rooster puffed out his chest as he strutted toward the old rocker that Tarven liked to spend his evenings in. Tarven’s pipe sat unpacked on the armrest of the sun-bleached wood. “Mom and Dad are having a talk.”

Otto couldn’t overhear the argument; the thick wooden walls of the cabin held more than heat. “I thought I was going to be late. Enok and I lost track of time, our fort is almost done though.” He took a seat next to Seffa on the two steps that led up to the porch. The wood creaked slightly under the additional weight but held firm despite its protests.

His sister wasn’t interested in their fort, and she decided to talk about the more pressing issue at hand. “This is the third time this week, in just as many days, that they have argued about Dad leaving. Ever since the letter came from the Jerren’s Rest captain, Doven.” Seffa sighed again, watching Doodle peck about at the bare wooden planks that served as the porch’s floor. “Do you think Dad is going to go? Do you think he is going to march out into the Long Scar, to fight an enemy that is supposed to come out of that barren waste?”

The siblings didn’t know what the letter had said exactly, but they had talked with enough of their friends and heard the rumors that Ellara, the high priestess of Manarah, had seen a vision of doom marching from the Long Scar. She was demanding all able-bodied fighting men to meet at Formane, a massive spiraling tower that stood far to the east. Supposedly, this was the first dwelling of humanity since before the Long Scar had formed; it had long since been abandoned as it sat just inside the boundaries of the desolate land.

The door opened behind the siblings, and they both spun to see their father’s sullen but resolved face and their mother’s upset but exhausted expression. Behind their father was his hunting bow and a quiver full of arrows; some were freshly made, others slightly bent with frayed feathers. A small wooden shield with a hide face was leaning against the wall behind the bow and quiver. Peeking out from the satchel that would be stuffed with food for his journey with the rest of the men was the hilt of a short, curved machete that was used to clear the tall grass of the moors. “Come, we have a lot to discuss.” Tarven’s voice was firm and left no room for debate. His dark brown eyes though were brimming with moisture, and he seemed frail despite his strong posture. “I am going to need to leave…” The door clicked shut, leaving them one last moment together.