"Kren" Part 21: Madra

For years Kren would have sworn that he had no memory of his mother. But his heart gave a shattering cry of recognition as he looked at the tossing, groaning Morgess thrashing under the patched blanket that barely covered her body. He ran eagerly to her side but stopped just short in fear.

Her clothes were crusted with sweat and her skin seemed to be weeping blood. Her raddled hair was writhing and twisting like snakes on the straw with each spasm that shook her head, red-rimmed eyes rolling wildly. Even from where he stood, he could smell the foul odor of her panting breath, the stench of the soiled bedding beneath her.

But what stopped him was not disgust, but a wave of pity that suddenly overwhelmed him, the feeling that he dared not touch her lest he somehow add to her agony. He stood there transfixed for an instant, when suddenly the old Morg’s voice came rumbling from behind him, stern but not without compassion.

“Boy, behold your mother. Be her Witness.”

The words caught the sick one’s attention and her eyes suddenly focused on Kren as if seeing him there for the first time. Looking on him, he saw, brought her into a shuddering, supremely harrowing mastery of her body, which, while still wracked and twisting, contracted into a feverish restraint.

“Kren, my krach.” Her voice was hoarse, nearly a whisper. She stretched out a trembling, yearning claw. “Come take Madra’s hand.”

Still, he hesitated.

“Do it, boy,” came the elder Morg’s voice. “All the damage is already done. You’re in Great Mora’s hands now.”

Kren stepped forward and took her claw with both hands in an instantly desperate clasp. It felt like a bundle of twigs inside an old leather glove, and it seemed to him that even his apparently childlike strength might break her fingers. But he held it as tight as he dared. She raised her head.

“Kren, my beautiful boy.” Her hoarse voice was still tender, her rasping tongue dry in her muzzle. “When … when this is all over, go back to Morg City. Find your aunt there. She will care for you.” Her red eyes brimmed with tears. “But never as much as your Madra does. Remember, child. Love reaches out even over the Great Dark. My love, and yours.”

She turned her head away wearily and collapsed back into the straw.

“Take him away now,” she whispered. “And do not bring him back until it is finished.”

Her claw suddenly vanished from his grip and the room was plunged in darkness, closing in all around him. Kren cried out, a great bellow of pain and grief, and suddenly he found himself back in the old carpenter’s house, the candle still flickering and the wizard boy looking at him curiously.

“What did you see?” Koppa asked.