Kingdoms of Corruption

1. Dana (Kreon)

The body on the pyre had just begun to kindle when the woman appeared. The weather was not ideal - the strong wind brought with it a steady drizzle, making the tiers of wood difficult to burn. But Dana had not waited till morning, nor for the rain to subside. She had wanted to burn the body as soon as possible, not because she couldn't stand the thought of her great-uncle's corpse lying whole outside the house, nor because of the smell that would enter the farmhouse or the fact that it would be torn asunder by carrion birds if left outside. With the decay would come insects, flies and other parasites, ones that devour plants as fast as flesh, that would turn upon the crops and spoil the harvest. That was all she cared for these days.

He had been the last of her living adult relatives. And now he too was gone, claimed by a sickness Dana had been unable to treat.

"Have faith in the crown," he had said when he took Dana and her brother and sister in.

"Have faith in the crown," he would say as Dana's daily work increased.

"Have faith in the crown," he would say as they all starved.

"Have faith in the crown," he said, as the sickness ate away at him. An infection, rare but easily cured, had the treatment - the healing fruit of the Lonta bush - not been all cleared away several years beforehand. Dana had a small part to play in this – orders from the capital decreed that the trees of the Outer Forest gradually be cut down. So Dana had joined the other woodsmen and loggers of Kreon in felling trees, her own quota being 500 planks a month. At the moment, she was already way behind.

Damn the dear old man and his pointless patriotism.

She would have hurried along, stacking the final pieces of wood upon the body. But that was when she saw the woman, silhouetted against the horizon. Dana was annoyed at that. Who would dare interrupt a Kreonite cremation? It was a sacred ritual - the spirit needed space to escape the body and evaporate up into the sky. Any other living energy around during the moment of burning would draw the spirit back down and could prevent it from reaching the afterlife. Only the person carrying out the cremation was allowed to be present.

"Mother," she gasped.

"Hello Dana, daughter of Dokley" the woman responded. Although the words were eloquent and the voice like honey, Dana could hear the hint of a stammer. "I'm here now."

"How? Why?" was all Dana could manage.

"Don't worry, child. I'm here now."

"I... I can't believe it," Dana said, struggling for breath.

She hardly recognised her, so young had she been that day. There was another reason, too, one that bizarrely prevented her from noticing the woman's presence until she was standing but a few paces away. For an instant Dana thought she was a figment of her imagination, some malformation produced by her tired, grief-stricken mind. But no, she was real. The woman bizarrely resembled a tree, perfectly camouflaged in the fields of flowers, bushes and trees that made up the Outer Forest. She wore a dress made completely from dried leaves expertly sown together, coated in wax, with leathery tassels at the bottom that made contact with the ground like the roots of a great oak, behind which a glimpse of boots made from smooth, polished wood could be seen. The garment was adorned here and there with the wildflowers of the land. A row of golden sunflowers across her chest. A cyan riverlily at her shoulder. A pair of violet droopbells hanging from her ears. A wreath of blood-red passionbuds dotted around her wrists. A broadleaf umbrella sheltered her from most of the rain.

Yet no matter how ridiculous she looked to Dana, she was still at awe by her beauty. An unnatural glow radiated off her, adding to the light of the dying sun. Whereas Dana's face was plain and long, her mother's was perfectly shaped and proportioned, with no sign of any wrinkles or sun-spots, despite her being at least 15 years Dana's senior. Whereas Dana's limbs were oversized and muscular, the woman's were slim and smooth. Whereas Dana's brown hair was dark and dirty, her mother's flowed like a pure river, all the way down to the waist, magnificently braided and decorated with of course more flowers. Most people would hardly believe that the woman standing in front of Dana was her mother.

"You were only a child back when I... when we last saw each other. You were so young."

"Six years, three seasons and twenty-two moons," Dana intoned.

"You have an excellent memory."

"That day wasn't something you'd easily forget."

Her mother flinched at that, then she composed herself, stiff and polite. Her eyes glazed over once more. She had always been like this. Sometimes, she would just stare blankly into the distance when spoken to. She never seemed to truly acknowledge her other two infant children, Ley and Turi. She was easy to fool, as the many childish pranks Dana played on her would reveal. Dana's father claimed she was mentally afflicted.

"Your father always loved to bring me to this very glade." Her eyes shone as she gazed into the building fire. "He told me that the elderpines notice our presence, draw on our life energy to grow strong and tall. Yes, he said that. He also..."

Dana's hatchet slammed into the elm next to where her mother was standing, the sharpened edge burrowing into the damp wood.

"Don't you dare talk about him!" she screamed.

"I meant no disrespect," her mother said softly, her eyes bulging at the axe handle quivering right beside her. Though there was some distance between them, Dana's aim was solid. If her throw had not been hampered by anger and frustration, it would have no doubt been fatal. For years her father had taught her the way of the woods, how to fell trees, how to forage the right plants and how to hunt small animals. But Dana was not one for bait and traps. She liked the direct approach. Her father used to say that a marksman with a bow could not achieve a cleaner kill.

"Why are you here?" she demanded.

"It's been a long time, and I've done a lot of thinking," her mother babbled. "When I left, I was overwhelmed, confused. I had a lot on my mind, after all."

"Why are you here?"

"I missed you all the moment I left. I wanted to come back ever since, I really did. But it was so hard to get away in my position. For so long, I was alone."

"I don't care! I ought to kill you now for what you did!" Dana yelled, but then terror gripped her. "Do they... do they know you're here?

The memory of that day came to her vividly. She could still hear her own desperate pleas, her uncontrollable weeping and, worst of all, her father with his head bowed and eyes closed, denying nothing, shame visible on his sharp features, proof that the accusation had been true as they tied the noose around his neck. Dana did not even have a chance to cremate him. Now history would be repeated, except this time it would be her, Ley and Turi that stepped up towards the hanging tree.

"Then at one point, I realised we're not meant to be apart," her mother continued, completely ignoring her. "We should be together. A family!"

"You have to leave, you have to go back."

"But..."

"Get outta here!"

Her mother finally crumbled, fell to her knees and began to sob. Tears joined and melded with the raindrops on her dress.

"I just... wanted to see you children again," her mother said pathetically, her anguish somehow greater than Dana's own.

Suddenly Dana felt the same as she had when she scolded Ley or Turi. The heat of her fury was chilled with cold, shameful guilt. Was this just some twisted performance by her mother, as had been for half of Dana's life?

Dana sighed, walked up to where her hatchet stuck lodged in the tree and pulled it out from the bark.

"Come, I'll take you to them," she said as the flames turned the burning body to ashes behind her.

Eventually, the crying woman ­­­­- Tienea the IV, of the royal family of House Kanna, cousin to the king of Kreon - got to her feet and followed.