Festival of Storms

By Lockland

The city of Tormid is the last vestige of life on Earth. Surrounded by nothing but ruins, trapped by endless lightning, deadly hurricane-force winds, torrential downpours, and life-choking dust clouds. The people have come to accept their lot. Every thirteen years, a child must be offered up in order to appease the Storm King, a malevolent God w

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Oct 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636764672

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Festival of Storms

Festival of Storms

Avery Lockland

New Degree Press

Copyright © 2021 Avery Lockland

All rights reserved.

Festival of Storms

ISBN

978-1-63676-465-8 (Paperback)

ISBN

978-1-63676-466-5 (Kindle Ebook)

ISBN

978-1-63676-467-2 (Ebook)

This is a book about motherhood, among other things. To that end, I’d like to dedicate this book to two women who have been supportive of me since day one. They supported me right from the first moment this book was conceptualized. And they supported me long before that too.

To my mom—

There were probably many times you felt like throwing me in the ocean during my early years—with good reason. I was a real bastard—literally and figuratively. But you didn’t. There were times when we yelled at each other when we couldn’t help but fight. It’s who we are. We’re both wild, crazy lunatics and neither of us has the ability to hold back our opinions. But even during those times, you were always on my side in the end. Being an adult now makes me appreciate how hard you tried. You did your best with what you had. I know you would burn cities for me, and as thanks, I am going to try and stay out of trouble so that you never have to.

To my nan—

I don’t even know where to begin. You’ve always been one of my biggest fans and my most generous supporter. You always see the best in me, no matter what. You’ve given so much love and support my whole life. You always made me feel like I mattered. I always felt heard around you, and as a person who says very little, that meant the world. When I have doubts, I remember that you are proud of me, so I must be doing something right. I’m grateful for every little moment we’ve had together throughout my life.

Love,

A.L.

Table of Contents

Prologue. Eleven Years Ago

1. Bonfire

2. Choices

3. Motherhood

4. Storm Mother

5. Secrets

6. Return

7. What Matters

8. History

9. The First

10. Black Gold

11. So Little Time

12. Storms

13. The Festival

Acknowledgments

Eleven Years Ago

Alison stood in front of the vanity mirror while her mother aggressively brushed the knots and kinks out of her messy, tangled brown mop, occasionally running her bony fingers through as well. Alison fussed over the bow on her blue dress, trying to get it just right. Satisfied, she looked at the vanity and studied the nine tallies carved into the wood—one notch for every birthday she’d had. Finally, her mother set the brush down and marched away. Alison walked to the window, looking at the crowd in the cobblestone street below. When she looked up, she could just begin to make out the stars in the orange sky, visible through a large break in the storm clouds above.

Honey, hurry up! It’s already crowded! Alison’s mother yelled. At this rate, we’ll be lucky if we can even see Rena!

I’m ready, waiting on you two! Alison’s father shouted from somewhere below.

Allie! Come on! her mother called to her from the doorway.

Alison followed her down the narrow, creaky steps and through a thin panel door to a big workshop filled with tools and devices half-assembled and strewn about with no rhyme or reason. Alison walked to a small radio with dials all over the front. She flipped the switch and played with the dials, listening to the static, until her husky father came over, a lit cigarette hanging in his mouth, and switched it off. He’d pulled his stringy hair back in a ponytail and tied it up, exposing the bald patch atop his head.

Everything in their home felt old—though timeless was the word her father used. The white paint on the walls was chipped and cracked. The floorboards were splintered and sighed mournfully from even Alison’s light footsteps. The lights were simply exposed bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

Alison looked around the workshop. Big wooden crates full of old equipment her father had been stripping for parts sat lazily against one wall, and the length of the room was lined with shelves, boxes, and barrels full of cogs and gears to fix old clocks, copper wiring, dials for old radios, sewing kits, metal fittings, hinges, and other tools. Sealed buckets of strange liquids sat beside them, collecting dust. Just beyond that, she spied her dad’s office—a tiny room in the corner barely bigger than a closet with a tall iron safe built into the wall. All around the rest of the room were more shelves full of every tool imaginable—dozens of different screwdrivers of every shape, hammers, screws, and plenty of things she couldn’t even begin to imagine a use for.

Her father picked the radio up from the workbench—a wide wooden table with lights built into it, which held an untamable mess. He sat it on another little table by the door where all his current works in progress lay and motioned for Alison to follow him through their storefront, where her mother was waiting.

Alison followed her parents into the cobblestone streets, lit by dull street lamps. They walked through a maze made up of rows of two-story, dilapidated, narrow wooden houses, many of which had a storefront as their main level. As they reached the more open town square, Alison noticed the tall spires of the Cathedral over the tops of the building that lined the square, and far above them, she saw the impenetrable ring of clouds that surrounded their walls, occasionally coming alive with flashes of distant lightning. They followed the crowds toward the city’s heart.

The Cathedral sat atop a hill with two towering spires at its front and other shorter ones lining its sides. At the far side sat the bell tower, a great stone tower that stood taller than even the walls that surrounded the whole city. And from the giant wooden door, there were large, wide steps leading down to the great plaza where Alison stood.

Around the edges, all kinds of cloth booths and tents were set up with performers and stalls, whilst in the center, a group of robed men and women piled timber on top of the altar around the plinth the Church symbol stood upon, a tall stone post with what looked like outstretched wings and a crown at the top. The symbol was scorched thoroughly, utterly pitch black and permanently stained with soot.

They doused the altar with a stinking brown fluid as crowds began to form around it. Alison’s parents guided her away from there and to a tree around the edge of the plaza, and her dad boosted her up to one of the thicker branches so she could see over the crowds.

All of a sudden, the front gates of the Cathedral swung open and a group of robed men and women marched out, led by a man holding a golden staff with the crown and wings at its tip.

A young girl of thirteen walked in their midst, wearing beautiful ornate black and gold robes, with a bird mask and a long-feathered headdress covering her head. The mask had red and gold patterns and a crown of antlers. Alison knew it was Rena, and she watched keenly, wondering what kind of expression she had beneath the mask.

Rena walked stiffly, her arms crossed and her posture perfect. She strutted down the stairs with the procession, and they parted as the staff-wielding man, two clergymen, and Rena climbed the altar steps. The two clergymen helped her climb the timber and press her back to the plinth, and there they fiddled with the back of her robe, then they took two jugs and doused her in the brown liquid, stepping back from the altar.

The older man who led the procession raised his golden staff high so that it was in the dead center of the giant ring of storm clouds that surrounded the city.

On this day, the Child of Storms, Rena Harlaown, has reached maturity, and so she is called back to the skies to be one with the Storm King! Tonight, she will rise again from the ashes as the Storm King’s ward, and our town shall be saved through her!

The crowds cheered as the last person in the procession stepped up to the altar with a lit torch. He cast the torch into the pile of lumber, igniting the stinking fluids and the masked person.

Alison watched as the fire raged and consumed everything in its path—both the lumber and the person who stood atop it. She seemed to dance and writhe with the rhythm of the flame, but she made no sound. Eventually, Rena slumped over and fell to a sitting position as the mask and robes turned to ash and revealed charred flesh beneath.

The people of the town watched, and many clasped their hands and bowed their heads in prayer. Not one person left the plaza until the flames turned to a pillar of smoke and glimmering embers. Finally, the bells of the Cathedral’s main tower rang out for the first time in Alison’s life, signaling the birth of the new Child of Storms and concluding the festival.

1

Bonfire

Alison stretched atop her stool and straightened out her spine and arms, allowing relief to wash over her whole body—a welcome experience after hours of hunching over her workbench to tinker. She stood up and let out a long, vocal yawn and rubbed the dark circles under her eyes. She surveyed the battered radio that lay in pieces across her workbench and shook her head.

It was quiet, though it was always quiet since she had inherited the shop. It was lonely in some ways but peaceful in others. Time passes differently when one is isolated. The days all seem to meld together; it becomes difficult to separate one moment from the next. Her twentieth birthday had come and gone recently, but she hadn’t noticed; it was a blur. She certainly didn’t feel any different.

A distant chime caught her attention, and Alison wiped her hands on her patchy, stained pants, wandering to the empty room furnished with a simple counter and glass windows. A filthy young man covered in dust and muck stood in the doorway, carrying a long object covered in burlap and with a large worn pack on his back. He pulled back his tattered hood and goggles, smoothing his auburn hair back with his leather-gloved hand.

Alison’s breath caught in her throat, and she smiled from ear to ear.

Jacob! she breathed, as she rushed around the counter and threw her whole body at him, hugging him tightly and ignoring the irritation of his short, scraggly beard against her smooth cheek.

They parted, and a toothy smile spread across his face.

It’s good to see you, Allie.

When did you get back?

Jacob stepped into the store, placing his goggles into her hands. Just an hour ago. Haven’t even had time to check my gear in, but I just couldn’t wait a second longer to see you.

Alison inspected the goggles, trailing her hand along the leather strap and the crack in the right lens, then she looked back at him expectantly. Yeah, right. So you need me to fix your goggles; what else?

Don’t be that way, alright? I promise I didn’t just come to get you to do some repairs, I really did want to see you. Besides, I come bearing gifts!

Alright, come in, she said, turning on her heels and leading him behind the counter to the workshop. It was even messier than it used to be—Alison evidently shared her father’s lack of organizational prowess, as every shelf overflowed with parts and tools and discarded wooden furniture filled the space in the middle.

Jacob dropped his pack and mysterious item to the wood floor, and as the obnoxious thud kicked dust into the air, he shrugged off his long olive coat, his gloves, and his patchy brown scarf.

He gripped the axe on his belt, which hung lazily beside his brass-knuckle-handled knife sheathed on his hip, and gingerly pulled it out. He placed it on Alison’s workbench.

We got caught in a storm; we had no choice but to bust through a wall to get to shelter, but the brickwork was still pretty solid. The handle’s been loose ever since, and it’s begun to splinter.

Alison looked it over, inspecting the rust stains covering the pick and running her fingertip along the axe’s dull edge. Alright, I’ll clean up the head, sharpen the blade, and make you a new handle. Leave your knife. I’ll sharpen that too.

My coat’s looking pretty rough these days—

Jacob! Seriously, just get a new one! That coat is old enough to enlist, and it stinks of sweat! It’s been patched up more times than you have!

Jacob chuckled. Get a new one? No way, this is the coat that the Militia gave me when I graduated from training; it’s the only one I’ve ever worn. And I seem to remember you thinking it looked pretty good on me back then.

Alison shook her head. Well, that part is true. You looked like a true militiaman back then, so handsome in your long coat and your clean boots and that same ratty old scarf around your neck.

She caught him smiling as if he too was lost in the distant memory. Oh, I’ve got some really neat little prizes. First up is this!

Jacob dug through his bag and flicked a small, tarnished coin to the workbench. Concealing something from Alison behind his back, he sat on the edge of the bench with his package in hand.

She picked up the coin, turning it over and over. A corroded lump of metal, just what I wanted.

Jacob rolled his eyes. That’s Old World currency! You know, lots of people collect those; you could trade it for a lot!

It’s so corroded you can’t even make out the symbols! she said, dismissively tossing it back onto the workbench without looking.

Alright, alright, I also have this! Jacob showed her the small toy he had hidden.

It was shaped almost like a beetle with four eyes, except it was hollow inside and had wheels in place of legs. It was missing one of its four wheels, the wood was old and brittle, and the paint had mostly chipped away, but still, Alison smiled as she took it from him.

It’s just a model, so it doesn’t have any of the mechanisms from a real one, but I thought you’d like it.

What is it? A truck like the ones at the church? Alison asked with the excitement of a curious child.

A car. The captain says they were smaller than trucks. He thinks they were built for families. We see a lot of shells for these guys around the outside, but we haven’t found any we can restore yet. Captain says we probably never will.

I’ll restore it as soon as I can! This is a cool find, Jacob. Well done. Got anything else?

He shrugged. A couple of flashlights. The Militia will pay to have them restored, as always. Oh, and while it isn’t quite as good as the coin, I also have this!

Jacob slammed the package down on Alison’s desk and untied the leather straps securing the burlap around it, opening it up and unveiling the long device. The wooden butt narrowed into a slender frame that housed blackened metal rods and a metal trigger underneath. The end of the main metal piece was open, revealing it to be mostly hollow, and there was a missing mechanism where the metal was swallowed by the wood.

Alison stared in awe, touching the rusted metal and brushing the dust from the wood.

Jacob… is this what I think it is?

Jacob nodded. "Remember how I said we had to bust down a wall? It was a house of some kind. Most of it had collapsed, but there was this staircase leading down. The ceiling was caved in when we got there, and the piece blocking our way down was bearing the weight of the floor above us. The whole expedition team huddled in that little room, and I sat right by the stairs, just staring into the darkness all night long.

We waited out the storm in that little room for four days before I had a bright idea. I asked the captain, and he gave me the go-ahead. I took Old Faithful there, he gestured to the axe, and on instinct, I stuck it through the floor. Took me all day long, but by the time night fell, I had made a hole big enough to squeeze through. I climbed down and there it was, in the corner, covered in cobwebs and dry as can be. Three skeletons. Two of them were small, probably belonged to kids from the Old World. But the third one was a man, no doubt about it. And in his hands sat that rifle.

A look of panic washed over Alison’s face. Are you mad? A coin or a toy is one thing, but an Old World weapon like this? If the Church ever found out I had it—

Relax, Jacob replied. The captain gave me the all-clear. Said it was busted all to hell and wouldn’t fire, even if you did restore it.

I can restore it?

Restore it, part it out and use it for firewood, melt down the metal and make a dinner plate, or just use it as a weird walking stick for all I care. It’s yours.

Jacob! I don’t know what to say! She stood with it, turning it over in her hands, looking down the barrel, getting a feel for its weight, handling it as gently as one would a baby. This is amazing! Dad would have loved it!

Jacob smiled and dug into the pocket of his well-worn brown serge trousers, pulling three, pointed metal pieces out. They were old and dull but in shockingly good condition. He handed them to Alison, who inspected them.

7.62 mmR, she read off of the engraved base of the pieces. What are these?

Those are a secret. There were a lot more but most of them were damaged. I did manage to steal these ones though. Those little guys are the real magic behind the Old World weapons. The captain calls them bullets. Even if you restored that gun to operational condition, it wouldn’t be much more than a decorative piece for the shop, but with these things, it becomes the most dangerous weapon in the city.

Jacob, you should turn these in, I don’t know if I should accept them…

It’s not a big deal. We actually find them all the time, guns too, though most of them are far too damaged to actually fire. Between you and me, most of these things don’t even fit the guns we could restore, and we don’t have the materials to build our own, so we just chuck them in the museum and let ‘em collect dust.

Alison stood up and set the rounds down beside the gun, then hugged Jacob.

Thanks, Jake, this is amazing!

I should go check in with the church and hand over the artifacts I didn’t steal, but if you’re not busy tonight, I have a 200-year-old bottle filled with some mud-colored water that made my nose burn when I smelled it. Wanna drink it together? he asked with a silly grin.

Alison let out a childish laugh. Sure, I’ll meet you at the usual spot. I’ll bring some wine just in case your little bottle turns out to be vinegar like last time.

Jake left the shop, and Alison took the bullets and walked to a back room—a small, musty office with dusty shelves full of trinkets.

She walked over behind the wooden desk with the peeling paint and made her way to the large stand-up safe, whose black door was almost as tall as she was. She turned the dial right twice, stopping on ninety-one, then she spun it all the way around left once and stopped at thirty. Finally, she turned the dial back to the right until she hit three, and the safe clicked loudly, allowing Alison to pull the stiff iron door open, though she struggled with its great weight.

Inside the safe was a collection of ancient books, strange devices, odd and worn tools, and a small box of aged jewelry. She put the three bullets on the top shelf, right beside some books, so aged and worn that the covers were torn, faded beyond recognition, and as rigid as wood.

Alison heaved the safe door closed and left the office.

Later that night, Alison changed out of her stained shirt, throwing on a clean white cotton top, with a long, belted coat that was easily flared up by the winds that came over the wall from the great storm and ripped through the streets. She slipped out of her shop, locking the door behind her.

The streets were still lit