The Cripple's Game

By Jonathan Birdsall

The Cripple, is a preadolescent demon, summoned from his home realm to replace the soul of a peasant's still born son. While in the world of man, he sets out to educate himself on the ways of exploiting and manipulating others. He discovers humanity to be an inferior people to his way of thinking, leading him to underestimate those he seeks to control.
    He sets out to manipulate a nobleman, through convincing him a local tavern maid possesses the ability to transform straw into gold. The Cripple then makes a bargain with that maid to turn the straw into gold on her behalf, in exchange for the things he requires to grow up and return to his realm as an adult demon. His pact with the girl however, may lead to the failing of his efforts and cost The Cripple his way home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Birdsall
• Release date: Aug 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536500585

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THE CRIPPLE'S GAME

Jonathan Birdsall

Copyright © 2016, Jonathan Birdsall

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

Cover design by Red Umbrella Graphic Design

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To the loving memory of Heather. You were a rare and unconditional sister, friend and teacher, who supported me in so many aspects of my life. Without you I would not be who I am today.

I'd also like to dedicate this book to Pat, Andy, Peggy, Liz, Sam, Rick and Carol, all friends that showed great love and support during one of the most difficult times of my life.

There are numerous people deserving of my thanks and appreciation during the writing of this book. I sincerely apologize if I have forgotten anyone.

To Amy:

your encouragement and support are greatly meaningful to me, and aided me through the final steps of finishing this book.

To my editor and fellow author David Viau:

You do a fine job editing my work, and served as a sounding board for my ideas and numerous portions of this book. Your advice and endless encouragement enabled me to keep slogging on through the long journey of this story, even through those many times I doubted myself.

To Erin Arbogast:

You cheered me all along the way and gave me endless support and encouragement.

To Ali Winters, author of Star Dust and The Reapers:

You gave me endless invaluable advice and are a knowledgeable and patient mentor for me and my writing career. Many thanks to you and all your guidance as well as your fantastic work formatting my manuscript and doing my cover.

My family and friends:

Thank you, to all of my friends and family who encouraged and supported me through my writing journey.

Finally:

In 1991, I lost my vision due to medical complications. While I was recovering in the Toronto Sick Kids hospital, someone, I never knew who specifically, left an audio book copy of a certain fairy tale in my room, upon which this book is based. I listened to that tape countless times, and it forever sparked the love of a timeless and classic story in a little boy's heart. I can say that child's heart still lives strong in me, even as an adult, and that audio book has always held a special place in my world.

Jonathan Birdsall

PROLOGUE

Near silence lay its hand softly over the valley as Yoneth stood on its lip, peering hesitantly down into the dark depression below. Little disturbed his surroundings, save for a slight, icy breeze that occasionally lifted the tailing corners of his cloak. He suppressed a shiver that prickled his skin, and not for the first time adjusted the small, lifeless bundle he clutched protectively to his chest. He hesitated before placing his foot onto the beginning portion of a sandy path that coursed feral and snakelike down the wall of the valley. Uneasiness formed in his heart and burgeoned into fear that caught his blood and crept through his muscles, exacerbating the shiver brought to him by the restless air. He moved cautiously down the first few paces of the path, listening to each rustle of the heather surrounding him,  and every minute rattling of the pebbles underfoot.

The path suddenly and unexpectedly steepened, and caught mid-step, Yoneth lost his balance and fell, head forward. Sand and rounded fragments of rock acted only to send him slipping down the slope, carrying his middle-aged body down with ever growing speed. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of agonizing, tumultuous moments, he came to a halt and lay gasping, more than a score of scattered hurts afflicting his person. A few bruises and minor scrapes accented his facial features, and the

skin was torn entirely from the tip of his nose. Ignoring all else, he explored the precious bundle he carried, a hold on which he had somehow managed to maintain. He found it relatively  unharmed, and only somewhat disturbed. Breathing a sigh of relief and assured of its safety, he examined his moonlit surroundings.

He lay before an odd rock formation, which bore a shape something likened to that of spreading legs. To either side of him rose a crest of rock, vaguely roundish, and worn smooth by the passage of time.  Where the two  ridges of stone united at the apex of the formation, lay a higher mound of rock, about twice the height of a man. It too was caressed smooth by the touch of wind and water of many centuries, and sloped gradually away out of sight. Visible at the mound’s base, a stand of brush, thick and tangled, was the only foliage clinging to life on this strange formation. When he peered through the plant growth, he could make out a vertical slit slightly more than a pace in width.

As Yoneth lay there, the moonlight grew dim, and then faded as a haggish figure, features covered by a dark, dung colored cowl knelt over him. The hooded face came within a finger’s width of his own, and his ears were assaulted by a barely audible, crackling wheeze. This scraping breath continued for several moments, unbroken by interruption. Each exhalation reluctantly clawed its way to the outside world, punctuated by the filthy Odor of decay, uncleanliness and an undertone of stale pipe weed.

Filled with revulsion, Yoneth tried to wriggle away, but a pair of hands clad in filthy gloves materialized from the dusky gloom and seized his face in a painful grip. They paused for half a heartbeat, seeking greater purchase and then twisted his head savagely to the left, stopping to hold his jaw and cheek in that awkward and uncomfortable position. Claw-like finger tips, apparent even through the rough hide of the gloves dug into the flesh of his face. It felt like having one’s head gripped between the jaws of a massive and brutish predator. A voice, wraithlike and serpentine emerged from deep within the cowl.

Ye be now mine, Yoneth ap Yect.  Make no attempt to evade me, lest I grow further displeased.  Ye be comin to the Sacred Mother afore the hour appointed.  Indolence be costly, and that which ye beg be brought forth this night shall be much crippled.

With that utterance, the hands released Yoneth’s face, and the figure clambered laboriously to its feet amid various grunts and moans of discomfiture. It stood stooped over his form for several moments. The cowl had shifted a little and a few strands of greasy and grime encrusted hair fell from its depths. A silent hand reached down, and clutched the throat lacing of Yoneth’s cloak. With unexpected power it gripped the garment and hauled the quivering man roughly to his feet. The gnarled fist did not relinquish any of its hold as the haggish figure pulled him towards the narrow crevasse before them.

Just in front of the opening into the rock mound, the hag paused. Rest, she commanded in a vile hiss as she pushed him roughly to the ground. She then twitched a finger, and a small, ragged figure, also hooded and cloaked, appeared from the undergrowth. This secondary creature proffered a small clay pot of cloudy fluid, baring a faint, yellowish tinge.

Sip of this, dog, the hag ordered as she took the bowl and pressed it to Yoneth’s lips.

He spluttered and tried to speak as a measure of the fluid caressed his few remaining teeth, but was cut off by the crone. Speak not, as the Mother abides not the words of ye uninitiated.

Reluctantly, he took the commanded sip, and watched the decrepit woman as she took the bowl to her own mouth and too sipped of its contents. She then restored the vessel to the possession of the smaller figure, dragged the man to his feet once more and thrust him a head of her towards the opening.

Brambles scratched and pulled at Yoneth’s hair, face and clothing as he was forced through them into the passage beyond. Inside, it was damp and there lay a thick covering of grayish mold or moss along the floor, sides and top of the opening. The foul growth squelched unpleasantly underfoot and released a faint musky odor with each step. The rasping crone slithered up behind, and crowded in, leaving no choice but to push forward into the tunnel.

Ahead, the passage narrowed from top to bottom, presenting a diminishing amount of head room. Yoneth stooped slightly to keep the crown of his head from brushing the higher layer of moss, which dripped a clammy and filth laden slime upon their heads. He did the best he was able to tolerate the drippings, but it was at the least a difficult task. Each drop oozed thickly down his forehead, and seemed to seek out the scratches and bruises he had obtained during his fall, where it would then attempt to penetrate the injury it had found as though it hungered for whatever hurts lay there. He wished he could wipe away the foul fluids, but his arms were occupied for a greater purpose. A minute measure of relief came soon though as he and the hag stepped suddenly from the tunnel into a low roofed cave free of any unwholesome growth.

Flickering light, emitted by tall candles formed of soot-blackened tallow, permeated the chamber. Each candle was placed about two paces from its neighbors, along the circumference of the cave. Their light lacked sufficient reach to provide adequate illumination, but at the least it was possible to make out the form of the hag standing in the entrance, and that of her minion lurking half a pace behind.

Unswaddle the babe came the hissed command.  He must be as was he the moment of birth so he be well open to the Mother's touch. Lay him then in the bowl of the Mother's Womb at ye feet.

Nervously, Yoneth obeyed, pulling back the folds of the cloak that covered his bundle. He next unwrapped the woolen shroud from its tiny form, revealing the lifeless body of an infant. He held his stillborn son for a few moments. The baby’s body was minute and fragile, its size so insignificant that it left the impression of holding only the weight of a fist full of pebbles. Its arms were crossed over its innocent heart, and the lids of its eyes were closed. It looked to be peacefully sleeping, free of the troubles of the world around it, resting in the quietest of serenity. The heart broken father stepped into the floor’s hollow in front of him and kneeling, reverently placed the body of his baby in the center of that earthen indentation, pausing momentarily to stroke its cheek before shuffling backward to the nearer wall.

Anticipation sent a shiver coursing through Yoneth's body. Long had he desired a son and had been consumed by joy at the birth of the boy child he had brought this night. Tragedy though soon usurped his elation as the infant's soul slipped from its body and fled this world. Now, this old hag, though wretched and revolting, offered him the hope of a resurrected son.

The crone moved forward, pulling the urchin-like figure of her servant along with her. She then roughly stripped the cloak from the smaller figure’s person, revealing a whisper-thin girl of perhaps five winters in age.

The girl bore a feral look, her eyes wide and nervous. Her hair was long, tangled and matted. It contained such measures of dirt and grime as to suggest it had never been washed, or even combed. An over large and thread bare

tunic of great age clung to her body, upon which several rips resided in its fabric, all crudely repaired. Her narrow waist was encircled by a clumsily woven belt formed from a thick lank of her own hair, knotted tightly to draw in the excess folds of her garment.

There was something familiar contained in the girl’s facial shape, but before Yoneth could fix in his mind what that could be, the hag pushed her towards the form of the baby. Take up the babe, she growled.

The girl meekly obeyed, placing herself cross legged upon the floor and gathering the baby’s body into her arms. She resembled a pitiful waif, lost, hungry and abandoned, holding a doll as though it were the last vestige of sanctity left to her in the world.

The hag drew from beneath her cloak, a black handled dagger. She slowly paced about the rim of the impression in the floor, in an anti-clockwise

direction. Each placing of her foot was carefully set, so that each footfall was equally distant from that which fell before it. As she moved, she emitted a dull, wordless humming from her diaphragm that lifted the hairs upon Yoneth’s flesh and aggravated a strange, light headed feeling that was beginning to steal through his person. She completed one full circling of the girl and without pausing in her motions, shed her cloak, leaving it to fall in a heap upon the earthen floor. Once more she