Mara and Morok

1

I’m dragging my feet in his wake, doing my best to keep apace with him. For as soon as I slow down, he pulls the chains that are attached to manacles on my wrists and a metal ring around my neck. And if he does it with a jerk, then I’ll keel over right into the muck the road has turned into because of the recent downpour. And I wouldn’t like to stain my new, and so far, the only, clothes I have. Well regardless, this shirt and caftan are much better than the half-rotten rags they raised me from my grave in.

There is a crowd of curious onlookers gathered on the either side of the road. Even though they huddle together, especially when we walk past, they still can’t contain their curiosity – they haven’t ventured out to the middle of nowhere in these small hours for nothing, right? Thick, dark clouds have overcast the autumnal sky and it’s impossible to guess if it’s still morning or if the sun has already started on its way back to the horizon. I can literally feel that nip in the air that signals the upcoming winter. While they were pulling me out of the ground an hour before dawn, I saw my breath escape in tiny clouds of steam and heard the hoarfrost squeaking and crunching underfoot when I stepped onto the grass.

The faces of the people who see me show the whole range of human emotions: from curiosity, to awe, and even terror. But then again, why should I be surprised? I’m sure it’s not every day that they have an opportunity to see a creature from legends and old folk tales raised from the dead. But I have no intention of becoming an exotic beast shown off to entertain the audience, so I lower my head and hope my hood will allow me at least to ignore the prying stares.

Of course, I couldn’t escape those stares even if I tried. My scarlet cloak is too conspicuous against the pale background. My lips break into a thin smile as I realize they have dressed me in these ritual robes on purpose, to remind people of my origins and what I really am. Yes, my sisters and I used to wear these to stand out against the winter landscapes and snow-white shrouds that our Goddess owned. But now I’m splashing through the mud, leaving stains on the hem of my cloak. It shouldn’t bother me at all but that nagging feeling of resentment has already extended its tentacles and is reaching for my chest.

There were seven of us, including me. Maras. This is the name people gave us. We can do things common people do: drink, sleep, fear, die, and scream with pain. The only difference is that we were all marked by Morana, the Goddess of Death, when we were ten years old, and have been destined to do her bidding ever since. You are special, some people said; your mission means more than life, echoed others while taking us away from our families to bring us up in keeping with their illusory higher cause. I wish they’d repeated that to my sisters, now that their flesh is decomposing in the mass grave. Or they might have been burnt and my body alone had the bad luck of remaining intact.

A while ago they may have been right, we might have been special. But everything’s changed.

I died a long time ago and now the world is a far cry from what it used to be.

He finally tugs at the chain and I stumble forward staining my boots even more. If it were anyone else, I would just hiss my curse and the person would bolt, scared out of their wits and worrying that the few words that have escaped my lips might bring bad luck to his whole kin. But with this man, all I can do is look up in terror and see that black-and-gold mask that hides his whole face, partly covered by the shadow from his hood. The mask reminds me of some beast, probably a jackal, with black holes where the eyes should be. Anyone would wonder if there even is a human being behind the mask. Though whether he is human is also a big question. There’s a rumor that there’s no face at all, just the darkness itself or a bare skull. No one can say for sure as no one has seen it and lived to tell the tale. Creatures like him are called Moroks. They serve the Shadow, which has no beginning and no end. It’s nothing but emptiness, silence and endless loneliness.

I drop my gaze and ask for forgiveness. Then, I awkwardly pull my foot out of the mud with a mortifying squelch, to be able to continue walking. I don’t have the guts to look up at him again but I can feel the pressure of his unwavering stare. Two platoons are accompanying us so as to hold back the crowd and prevent them from getting their hands on me. But it all seems a bit excessive, as no one would approach me, even at knifepoint, while Morok is in the vicinity. If I could, I myself would put as much distance as possible between us.

“How can we be afraid of anyone, we, marked by Morana herself?” I remember asking one of my sisters. Well, somehow, we can.

Absolutely everyone is terrified of Moroks.

And it was a Morok who raised me from the ground three days ago and by enabling me to walk and talk, magically tied me to him. I can breathe only while he is breathing. And it’s only the creatures like him who are capable of such sorcery. No one’s offered me a mirror, so I have no idea how I look, though during the first night I surreptitiously touched my face here and there and didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary, except for the hollow cheeks. While examining the rest of my body I just noticed that my skin had a cadaverous look to it and my long, black hair has turned grey. It doesn’t look silver now, just plain grey, like a mouse’s fur. I look at my hands with disgust: the fingers are too thin, like bones wrapped in a bit of skin, and I dread to think what my face looks like right now. Though people are not scattering away in repulsion, which I take as a good sign.

“The skin tone will get back to normal in a while,” Morok croaked a few hours ago when I kept scratching the skin on my wrists hoping I could rub that bluish tint that reminded me of death off my hands.

I froze, horrified. The sound is distorted because of the mask but I suppose it’s the voice of a man, though it’s impossible to tell his age or even if the voice is pleasant or not. I just had the time to register a cold and empty feeling spreading in my chest while he spoke.

“And my hair?” Why do I even worry about that?

But he replied, for the last time during our journey, “Your hair will stay as it is.”

I didn’t probe further.

“We’re here!” I hear the prince announce in a loud voice. He pulls on the reins and his horse comes to a halt. The road stops here. I see that we’ve reached the edge of the woods.

“HALT!” thunders the captain, also pulling on the reins.

All the soldiers, Morok and me come to a standstill and the common people stay fifteen yards behind, not daring to come any closer.

The prince faces me and smiles. He must be happy with the place though I still have no idea why they have dragged me all the way out here, so I don’t rush to join in his cheerfulness. I turn my gaze to the gloomy woods ahead. The trees are mostly leafless and their bare, gnarled limbs stick out in different directions. The further my gaze penetrates the gloomy darkness, the more the fir trees try to block it, and it becomes impossible to make out what is hiding there, in the shadows.

The prince dismounts gracefully and sets off in my direction. Unlike the other men, he hasn’t got any armor on. He’s wearing black trousers and a buttoned-up black coatee with long tails, which fits his well-shaped figure perfectly. The gold-thread embroidery and epaulettes highlight his high status and position of power, though his proud bearing and confident gait could do the trick just as well. He walks past Morok without a flicker of fear on his face, and my guard follows him with his gaze.

“Well, Mara, now, I hope you can show us what you can do.”

The prince speaks gently and the smile reaches to his warm, hazel eyes. He says it as if he is actually asking for my help, but he isn’t. He doesn’t look older than nineteen, the same age I was when I died. But he’s a prince and I’m his prisoner and a walking corpse. He nods to the captain, who hands him a sword, which the prince, in his turn, offers to me.

“Do you want me to chop some wood for the fire?” I ask indifferently.

“Watch your tone when talking to His Royal Highness!” the captain roars.

“It’s alright,” the prince chirps with the same gentle smile.

I may be afraid of Morok, but this Prince Daniel and his soldiers – please! The worst they can do is kill me, and to me that’s not even a threat. The prince takes another step towards me and leans forward so that his voice doesn’t carry.

“Let me repeat, Agatha. I would love to see what you can do.” I try not to reveal my surprise at the sound of my name, I wonder where he knows it from. “It took me a lot of effort to convince my father that your revival is in our own interests. Please don’t make me regret that. You may be dead but don’t forget that I can say one word and you will be sent to a place far worse than where you are now.”

The words make me break out in a cold sweat. I cast a sidelong glance at Morok, who must have heard everything as he’s standing closest to us. Prince Daniel is right. He can utter one short word and Morok will send me to the Shadow. And it’s not death, it’s worse.

“What shall I do?”

“Good girl!” The prince is pleased. He grabs my hand, pulling me closer, and gestures towards the woods. “People say there’s a ghoul dragging young women off to his den, and he’s hiding there. Ghouls are your specialty, right?”

“Right.”

“There are not many evil spirits left in this area, but according to the folk legends, it was Maras and Moroks who used to help people get rid of them,” he goes on, taking no notice of my reply. “Unchain her,” he orders to Morok.

“Your Highness, are you sure it’s safe?” the captain butts in, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Stop worrying, Dariy. You’ll get yourself more silver hairs,” the prince brushes him off. Dariy frowns. “Don’t you know the powers a Morok has? These chains are just props, so that the crowd feels safe. Otherwise, we don’t need them.”

Morok steps closer and starts unfastening the manacles on my wrists, and then from my neck too. I try not to jerk nervously when his long fingers in black gloves brush my skin. Morok is a head taller than me. I can’t guess at his build as his body is covered in black armor and wrapped in a black well-worn cloak. But the shoulder-straps under the cloak make him look broad-shouldered and intimidating. When he’s standing close to me, I want to crouch down and stay as inconspicuous as possible.

“She’s magically bound to Morok and can’t get too far. And even if she attempts to escape, he will track her down in no time. He will follow her trail like a hound. Is that right?”

Morok nods in response and I sigh with relief when he finally steps away from me. I barely have time to rub my neck, sore from the metal ring, before the prince takes hold of my arm and drags me to the edge of the woods.He’s either mad or just stupid. The others at least have the sense not to touch me.

“Agatha,” he sings out my name with something verging on fondness, “I must admit that a lot of time has passed and people have forgotten about the true powers given to you by Morana, and what is left are silly tales to frighten little children and a bunch of fools.”

“And what do they say about us?”

“Hm, for instance, that in winter, you walk among the houses in the dark and call out names. Whoever answers – dies. And some people say that after you die, you continue roaming the earth but carrying your head under your arm.”

I gape at him wondering if he’s just made it all up or if people have really turned us into spooky fairy-tale characters.

“But I was brought up on ancient legends,” the prince goes on completely unperturbed, “about you, Maras, ridding the world of evil, severing the lifelines of tyrants and bestowing the gift of longevity upon the noble monarchs who were good to their subjects. About your scarlet cloaks standing out against snow-white landscapes, your ivory skin with rosy cheeks and ruby-red lips and flowing jet-black hair.”

I’d say he’s mocking me, if not for that dreamy look in his eyes when he runs his fingers through his fair hair, which only barely covers his ears.

“I heard each of you was young and beautiful, a mirror image of Morana herself.” The prince finally turns his gaze back to me and his awe is replaced by condescension, a shade of pity in his smile.

I can hardly keep myself from cringing when he sympathetically pats me on the wrist and holds on to my hand. I want to pull it away but he keeps it tightly in his grasp.

“It’s such a shame I never had a chance to get to know you and your sisters at the peak of your power. I wish I had lived when all the fairy tales were real. But we’ll have time to chat. I’d love to hear some exciting stories about your life. But now, please get rid of the ghoul.”

Prince Daniel stops somewhere between his guards and the edge of the forest. This time I take the sword out of his hands and stand motionless unsure what to do next. The prince folds his arms on his chest and looks at me expectantly.

“Would His Highness like to step back a little?” the corners of my mouth twitch when I see he understands that what I’m really saying is that he’d better clear off.

“He wouldn’t.” His smile becomes even wider, showing his snow-white teeth. “I prefer watching from the first row.”

“Have you ever seen a ghoul?” I’m trying to put him off his stride.

“I’ve seen colorful pictures in the books,” he retorts, obviously not taking the situation seriously at all.

“Then, would you be so kind as to lend me your dagger, too?”

The prince cocks an eyebrow, realizing that if he does, he will be unarmed. He doesn’t have a sword on him. I’m trying to keep a straight face watching his hesitation. I suppose he didn’t read his fairy tales carefully enough if he thinks his dagger could protect him from me. Though even to attempt to kill him would be a stupid thing to do.

“This dagger is my lucky charm, so I hope you’ll give it back to me soon,” he says offering his weapon to me.

“By all means,” I reply stiffly, taking the dagger and heading to the edge of the woods.

Ghoul.

The prince’s information might be incomplete and partly distorted but most of what he was mumbling is true. It only sounds sinister that we were marked by the Goddess of Death, in reality we often did more good than harm, though maybe in an unexpected form sometimes. We can lay to rest something that has been dead a long time but has been clinging to the past life, reluctant to leave this world. That includes ghouls, demons, ghosts, souls of drowned people and other evil spirits. To kill a ghoul, you have to be fast. You have to know that you must cut off the creature’s head and hands, that you need to keep away from its teeth, and that the first spot where it will try to bite you is your neck. And even if you kill it, you have to burn the remains right away, otherwise all your effort will be futile. And that’s only a ghoul. For different spirits there are different rules, and very few people know how to deal with them. But Maras or Moroks can do it all on our own.

Maras have the power of seeing and touching things people can’t see. I only need to touch the spirit to sever its lifeline and give it another chance to move on. That’s exactly what we used to do with my sisters. We would send lost souls on their way to the next world.

It was the primary task of all Maras, but then we got dragged into politics. We started severing the lifelines of the rulers who had brought devastation on their land and people, the tyrants who had nearly destroyed their own countries.

There was a rumor that even before I was born, my sisters bestowed longevity upon two kings. This was also one of our powers but no one knew back then that you had to keep this information a secret, otherwise it would become the thing that’d destroy us. And that’s exactly what happened.

We are not immortal and our mission is dangerous, so a lot of sisters died in the process of cleansing the world from evil. And even if a Mara manages to live a full life, it will only be one and a half times that of a regular person’s lifespan. Before, there was a balance, there were always seven Maras. If one Mara died, another ten-year-old girl would be marked by Morana.

But now I’m the only one left and I can’t see any point in doing people good in return for the evil they have caused us. But first things first, I need to free myself from these ties with Morok, which means I’ll have to behave myself for a while. And in the end, I’m also curious why they risked so much to revive me. Somehow, I don’t think they did it just to get rid of a ghoul.

I throw back the hood and sniff the air trying to smell the ghoul. He’s sleeping in the shadow of the fir trees, waiting for dusk, when the sunlight won’t disturb him anymore. The stench of rotting flesh is easy to distinguish from the fresh fragrance of the woods and the smell of damp soil.

Prince Daniel wants a show, so why not.

And I strike up a song, a quiet ritual prayer set to music. My lips break into an involuntary smile when I hear the prince and his soldiers let out a collective sigh of admiration. It’s not only Maras’ faces that are beautiful, our voices, too. We need these to summon the evil spirits, which come running as if hypnotized. It makes hunting easier but there’s also a side effect…

I notice that Morok has got it all. He’s admiring neither the voice nor the tune, instead he unfolds his arms and starts walking towards me with an intensity that wasn’t there before. But I raise my hand and surprisingly, he freezes, probably deciding to give me a chance.

To be honest, I’m taking a huge risk. Maras only used to attempt a summoning song if at least three sisters had their back. But my own death made me somewhat reckless.

I keep singing for another few minutes. The sound vibrates in my chest, my lungs fill with oxygen and sounds are being pieced together in familiar words as if on their own.

I can feel them waking up. Just as I anticipated, the ghoul is not the only spirit that can hear me. I can feel a low hum spreading through the earth and vibrating in my legs. The birds fall silent terrified by the creatures that are hijacking their home. I finish the song and cast away my cloak, which would only constrict my movements. Under the cloak, I’m wearing plain black trousers, a simple shirt and a buttoned-up caftan in a shade of burgundy. None of it is going to protect me from a blade, nor fangs or claws, but at least I can move quickly. I tighten my grasp on the sword and the dagger, my spine prickling with the anticipation of the on-lookers behind me. I breathe out and start counting to myself, sensing each of their steps.

Nineteen…

Twenty…

Twenty-one…

“Dear Agatha…” the prince starts, he’s already tired of waiting.

Twenty-three…

“Are you going into the woods or do you need some help with that?” He’s almost sneering.

Twenty-four…

Twenty-five…

The first one springs out of the woods earlier than I expect. A foul creature, which looks more like a demon than a human being, but of course he’s neither. He has thin arms and legs with long, deadly claws, greyish skin with an obnoxious green tint is wrapped tightly around his bones, and the mouth is filled with razor-sharp fangs. I block his way when he’s trying to dart towards the soldiers. I dodge his claws diving under his outstretched arm and thrust the sword from behind between his neck and his shoulder. The sword enters his body and I hear the revolting sound of his skin being ripped apart and his collarbone being shattered. The creature trips and falls down in a heap. Everything happens so fast that no one lets out so much as a squeak. But I can see the prince’s face turn white when he glimpses the wrinkled skin of the ghoul, now lying prone in the withered grass. It’s an old ghoul who’s been treading the earth for a long time and his shriveled skin and rare patches of shaggy hair look sickening. I lean in to finish the job and to show them some real magic. To thrust a sword into the creature is no big deal, anyone from those standing around me could do that. I touch the ghoul’s neck lightly with the tips of my fingers and grasp them, sparkling, iridescent, pale golden threads stretching along his spine. Threads of life.

This is our special power. We see these threads of life and can either strengthen them or if we want to, sever them. There should be three of them but the spirits have only one or two left, the others already torn. This ghoul still has two whole ones. I straighten up, holding the glittering threads in my fist, like a trophy, and stretch them as far as possible so that common people can see them too. And then, locking eyes with the prince, who doesn’t even try to hide his admiration, I tear them by jerking my hand upward. The ghoul’s body shudders and becomes still, now for good, and the threads disappear.

My palm is sore, there are two deep cuts where the threads cut into it. But there’s almost no blood as my heart doesn’t work, it doesn’t pump that red liquid through my veins anymore. I hide the cuts by balling my hand into a fist. I should have just cut the threads with a dagger like we always did before. But I put on a show in front of Prince Daniel on purpose, so that he knows that, if need be, I can cut off his life threads just as easily. I’d hoped he would be terrified, but there’s a glint of keen interest in his eyes and an almost happy smile lights up his face. The smile of a person who’s found a diamond instead of a quartz. But I don’t have much time to dwell on the thought as another ghoul jumps out of the woods. I turn to him now only clenching the dagger in my hand and wait for him to attack me. But the creature ignores me and makes a quick about-turn. I have just enough time to swing around and throw my dagger into his head before he jumps at the prince. The ghoul collapses right at Daniel’s feet.

I’ll give him that, the prince doesn’t pass out. Just takes a few steps back. There’s no trace of a smile on his face anymore.

“Oh, my Goddess…” I sigh, realizing my mistake.

I exchange quick glances with Morok. I can’t see his face or guess at his emotions but I have a feeling we are thinking about one and the same thing. I had expected all the spirits to attack only me but forgot that I’m a walking corpse myself. The creatures are attracted to warm blood. I run up to the second ghoul, pull out the dagger and cut off the threads before he can get up again.

“Should I be worried, Agatha?” the prince asks with some tension in his voice.

“Of course not, Your Highness!” I lie. “Or would you like to swap the first row for the last?”

He doesn’t have time to retort as there are new creatures rushing out of the woods. Though it’s only one ghoul and three ghosts. The latter are easier to deal with. I guess these are the souls of people the ghouls have dragged into their dens. But what surprises me is Morok’s behavior, he steps forward and puts some distance between himself and the prince so that the spirits see him first and Daniel later. He probably could finish off these four spirits with his bare hands but instead he turns to me and nods, waiting for me to…protect him? Or is he actually helping me by letting me deal with those on my own?

Maybe he has a fraction of sympathy for me, a Mara who has to prove her usefulness to the royal offspring so that he doesn’t think he’s revived her in vain.

My guess proves true when I see that the creatures dash to Morok and he doesn’t even turn to them, just keeps staring at me. If he weren’t that dangerous and terrifying, I would yell at him calling him every single, filthy swear word I know, but I only have time to rush to him to catch the first ghost stretching his long fingers out to Morok. The ghosts are easier to deal with because their bodies are not made of flesh and blood, instead they seem to be created from something soft, like concentrated energy. They don’t leave physical wounds but one touch of their fingers is enough to make you go mad. Their powers are useless against Maras though, so I stick my dagger-holding hand inside the ghost’s body and cut the threads stretched along the spine.