Marked by Pedro Urvi

not force the matter any longer.” said Amtoko, looking at him warmly.
    “Before you go I would like to ask a small favor of you,” requested the Witch, softening her voice so it almost sounded as if she were pleading with him.
    Komir looked at her. “Yes, of course. What is it?”
    “You may find this request a bit strange but I beg you to consider it for a moment before you answer me.”
    “All right,” he agreed.
    “I would like you to allow me to carry out a ritual of spiritual union. It is an ancient rite that unites like spirits through a joining of blood and allows them to establish a bond of communication between them. It is one of the abilities my Gift has granted me, and it is of great value. It will allow me to communicate with you even though you may be a great distance away from me. At the same time it will strengthen our bond, which in turn will allow me to more clearly and accurately perceive what surrounds you.”
    “A rite... a rite of blood?” he questioned apprehensively.
    “Calm down, my young friend, nothing bad shall befall you under my care. The blood is necessary for sealing the bond. It is just a slight bit uncomfortable, that’s all.”
    “Well, all right then...” he hesitantly agreed, not entirely convinced.
    Amtoko pulled an ornately decorated, curved dagger from beneath her sleeve. With a mischievous smile she whispered in his ear:
    “Give me your hand. It won’t hurt... too much...”
     

Tragedy
     
     
     
    He could not sleep.
    Komir changed positions again on his rickety old bed but slumber was ever-elusive. Night had placidly descended on the small farm hours before. But his mind would not stop punishing him with countless images and thoughts. He felt tired, his eyes were heavy; he wanted to sleep. But rest would not come. He had spent the greater part of the day hunting and the rest doing chores around the farm, so his muscles were fatigued. But his mind was constantly jumping from one place to the next, from one thought to another. He concentrated on trying not to think about anything. But he could not keep the image of Akog lying dead in the town square from rushing back in. His heart was pounding in his chest as bile crept from his stomach to his mouth. He breathed in deeply, hoping to calm himself.
    He tried to stifle the images by focusing on the blackness, the perfect darkness. Nothing else existed; only the night, the emptiness. The images would stop for an instant, replaced by a shadowy veil. But that suffocating feeling, the anxiety that stayed with him constantly, would not let sleep come. He began to doze for a moment once when his discomfort eased slightly, but a new image immediately surfaced, slipping past the protective veil and putting him right back in the middle of the square, hearing the accusatory shouts of the entire tribe. A thousand condemning eyes bore into him with disdain. His anxiety swelled; his stomach turned. He rolled over once again trying to find a more comfortable position, knowing that if the images continued he had become even more distraught and would never get to sleep. He had already spent many sleepless nights, haunted by his demons. The battle for a bit of rest went on in his mind for hours.
    Finally, he fell asleep.
    And he dreamed.
    A pleasant, peaceful feeling enveloped him and he let it pull him into the depths of restfulness, guided by the promise of the much-needed repose. He dreamed he was lying on a blanket of wildflowers, sleeping. He was at the edge of the forest in the high prairies. A feeling of well-being came over him. A light, warm breeze that smelled of springtime flowers caressed his hair. Carried along by such pleasant feelings, he fell into an even deeper sleep.
    Slowly, a mysterious silhouette began to take shape at his side. Dressed in a long, black, wool tunic, its head was covered with a hood of the same color. The stranger’s shape eclipsed the sun which was bathing his body in light and blocking the pleasing