The Arterian

Steel javelins from the Padmoor outpost’s ballista rocket toward the creature. From this distance, the sharp slivers of metal are no bigger than the size of a child’s arm. But up close, they’re as tall as a doorframe, with multiple sets of metal barbs lining its column. Several of the javelins sink into the red webbing of the dragon’s wings. The beast screeches, and I clap my hands over my ears as its high-pitched cries reverberate within me. The dragon falters mid-flight, the flap of its wings becoming erratic as it careens toward the ground. It slams into the earth, rocks and dirt bursting into the air on contact, and the ground shudders underneath my feet. The dragon attempts to rise, its thick talons sinking into the ground for leverage, but with its wings punctured, it’s unable to maintain balance. Soldiers close in, swarming around the beast, their weapons raised and aimed on their target. I look away as a strained roar dies, and triumphant cheers ring out across the land—confirmation of the soldiers’ success. I’ve always wondered what they do with the bodies. It would take at least two dozen men to drag something of that size, but to where? By the next day, there will be no trace of the animal. It will be as though it never existed. The only remaining evidence will be the crater left behind where it landed, and the char marks in the streets of Padmoor. And the empty bed where the dead man used to lay. My heart sinks. He was probably someone’s father, brother, husband, or friend. He could have been me. Or Cole. My heart tumbles at the thought of Cole. Memories crash and swarm around me, drowning every other thought aside from him. I force my steps forward, walking west toward home, one foot in front of the other. It’s been months since I’ve seen or heard from Cole—the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking. Knowing we may never speak again pains me. The military doesn’t allow correspondence except from family members or spouses. Had I agreed to his proposal, I would have fit in that latter category. I shove the thought away. I have too much to do and too many worries to spend additional time or energy thinking about Cole or what could’ve been. In fact, I’m more pissed off than sad—at least that’s what I tell myself. The ground beneath my feet rises and falls as I trek through the hills. The sun warms my back, and the wind picks up, brushing against my clothes. As I near the familiar angled roof of my home, free of any flames or scorch marks, I loose a shaky breath. The doorknob squeaks in my hand as I twist it and open the front door. “Mother?” I call out as I enter. My gaze sweeps across the kitchen with our rickety wooden table and chairs, to the makeshift fireplace in the opposite corner of the room. Despite the season nearing fall, the room is uncomfortably warm. Flecks of dust fall like snow in the rays of light streaking through the windows across the room. I walk toward the windows, cracking them open to admit fresh air. My gaze catches on the distant speck of the dragon and the swarm of soldiers. I glance toward the sky and breathe out a sigh of relief. No trails of smoke nor flares of orange block out the sky. The city Padmoor will survive another day. I set my satchel down in my room then walk across the hallway to my mother’s bedroom. I stare at the doorknob, debating whether to disturb her. I turn the knob, achingly slow, hoping she might be asleep. The door squeaks open, and I peer through the few inches of space. Mother sits on the edge of her bed, back facing me, and her attention focused out the window at the forest behind our house. She’s still, animated only by the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders. I wait a second, maybe two, then walk toward her as she lifts a hand and points one finger toward the window. As I turn the corner of the bed I scan her face. Her skin is pale, the sockets of her eyes deepening with each passing day. Even her long, blonde hair has lost its luster. But what haunts me most is the glazed vacancy in her eyes and the way she fixes her gaze at the window. The first time I discovered her this way was terrifying, her body so eerily still and quiet, yet somehow a warning. I lay my hand on her outstretched one, then crouch in front of her. “Mother.” My voice is only a hair louder than a breath. Her gaze remains focused on an invisible something in the distance, and her hand trembles, the shaking rising up her arm. “The one son,” she murmurs. I shake my head and brush my fingertips over the back of her hand, hoping the sensation will break her concentration. “Mother, I’m here. It’s me. It’s Katerina.” “The one son.” Her voice grows louder. “Chosen to lead them all. Wasn’t a son but a maid.” I cradle her face in my hands and stare into her blue eyes as I brush my thumb over her right cheek. “It’s okay, it’s just a dream. I can get your medicine. Did you take it this morning?” “Until binds of death did that grave deed bade…” With each word, her tone tips toward hysteria. I turn toward her nightstand and pull open the top drawer and retrieve her bottle of medicine. The cork is missing and nothing but droplets are left inside. “In death blood is shed!” she screams. I bolt for my room, bursting through my door and dropping to my knees near the bed. My chest tightens as I rip out the wooden crate stashed under my bed. I rake through other empty vials until I find a full one. Swiping it, I race back to my mother. Standing near the window, now she splays her open palms to the window, her forehead pressed against the pane. Her wide blue eyes stare outside. “But from blood there is life!” She explodes into maniacal laughter then rears back and slams her head against the glass. “Mother!” I jolt forward, grabbing her shirt. Once again she rears back, slamming her head into the window a second time before I can stop her. Wrapping one hand over her forehead, I pull her back toward me. A warm, sticky substance drips down my forearm. “No!” She thrashes against me. Bracing the back of her head against my chest with one hand, I clench her cheeks between the fingers of my free hand, forcing her mouth open and pouring the liquid inside. I hold my grip until she swallows. “Restored by air and night to end allll ssstrifee.” Her words slow and morph into a slur. Her body slackens, and relief floods me. I shift my attention to my forearm where blood—my mother’s blood— stains my skin crimson. Mother’s eyes flutter closed, her jaw relaxing into a lazy grin as a trickle of blood drips down her forehead toward her chin. I grab a handkerchief from her nightstand and press it to the wound on her forehead. Swaying her back and forth, tears well in my eyes. My gaze moves to the cracked window and the dark green pine trees of the Northern Forest it frames. It’s over—for now, at least. Though she’d begun pounding her fists with her last few episodes, she’d never done this kind of damage. A shiver shoots down my spine at the realization of how her episodes have escalated and how much more she might still spiral. When I was a kid, her episodes consisted of her singing as she watched the distant clouds roll by, swaying to whatever had entranced her. At the time, I thought it was an exaggerated song of the sun and night. My older brother told me to ignore it and not to interrupt. But then I got older, and the episodes got worse. It wasn’t until recently that I realized how bad they had become. In the deepest parts of my memory, before she sang, she laughed. But laughed with a slow, warm clarity at my childish questions like where clouds came from or why some deer had sticks on their heads. Back then, she was the one who held and rocked me, the one who cared for and comforted me. We shared with each other our wildest dreams. We skipped through the snow in the winter and shouted into the night sky how much we missed my father. Somewhere between then and now everything fell apart, like the threads of an old blanket unraveling until there is nothing but a heap of string. Now, I’m the one holding the threads of what she once was between my useless hands with no knowledge of how to knit her back together. All I can do is hold her and yearn for the mother she once was. After several moments, I lay her on her bed and pull the sheets up to her chin. Removing the bloodied handkerchief, I survey the gash on her forehead and breathe a sigh of relief that the wound is crusted over. Inching out of her room, I close the door and sink down to my heels with my head leaning back against the door. I have nothing left. Nothing left to eat. Nothing left to trade for more medication. That vial was the last I had.