Raspberry Delight

by J.F. Pringle

Chapter 1

Gail enjoyed the cool breeze underneath the shade of a maple tree on the edge of Vanishing Forest. She was seated on a comfortable cushion of orange, red, and golden leaves that she had quickly gathered after she had been certain that no one had followed her. Taking a break from her work in the cake fields was surely frowned upon by her unaware peers. Especially since it was her in particular—Gail had grown increasingly unpopular of late with most villagers. And this little break, could be the last straw for some.

One might raise the question: who would want a break from the cake fields with all the gooey goodness and chocolatey satisfaction? Even though, once upon a time, she’d sneak a prohibited nibble here or a forbidden taste there, she’d grown quite sick of it—given the fact that not all workers on the fields were Freemen. This and it was actually toilsome labor with all the scraping and shoveling and just forget about the clean up! She felt that her reprieve was well deserved, even though it pricked lightly at her conscience. But her conscience was overcome by drowsiness. So, though chilly out, a sleepy warmth began to surround her as she reclined.

Noise from above roused her lightly. Her eyes had trouble focusing where an angry crow had taken chase at a squirrel which had ventured too closely to her nest. Gail witnessed the mamma crow return from routing the little furry, clumsy beast. Upon which time, an incessant chirping began.

“Must’ve broken an egg,” said Gail. “Much too early, I suppose.” And the premature fledgling chirped and chirped. And mamma crow began to nervously fret at all the noise. Gail tried to ignore all the ruckus, instead focusing on the autumn wind rustling through the remainder of the leaves. She felt as if it had the power to lullaby her. However, the relentless distressed cries of the little bird pierced, obtrusively, through the cold peace. If Gail and the mamma crow had something in common, it was that the chirping annoyed the both of them. She wished the little chatter box would just hush so she could get some shut eye before returning to work. Alas, a break in the chirping permitted Gail to slip into the beginning of what was to be a pleasant dream. But she was awoken, just as swiftly as she fell asleep.

“Will you forever trouble me, girl?” asked a gravelly voice.

“Father!” said Gail in surprise. She hurriedly arose to her feet and stood before him with her hands crossed in front of her and her eyes gazing down. She noticed some leaves still sticking and unsuccessfully tried to swat them off of her garments before repositioning her hands.

“Outside of our home, you will address me as Elder,” he said. “Or Elder Damascus.”

“Forgive me, I was startled,” said Gail softly. Damascus sucked his teeth as he peered down at her through his eye slits.

“Why aren’t you in the fields with the rest of the workers? Seeking reprieve, it seems.”

Gail was about to respond when she heard frantic chirping closing in; then a splat next to her foot. Mamma crow must have grown weary of the noise, finally, and cast the chirping, premature newcomer from the nest, she figured. Its little beak had cracked on the ground near Gail.

“Hmph,” growled Damascus, only momentarily averting his gaze away from Gail and onto the fledgling. “Off you go. And do act with some stealth. How embarrassing it is that the daughter of the Elder is derelict of her duties.”

Gail had successfully snuck back to her workstation—a plot of cake near the small dirt road that surrounded the fields. It was not long into the “good work”, as it was called, before her mind began to drift. As she tried to smooth out the imperfections along the dryer edge of the top layer of chocolate cake, she noticed a splashing sound. Red liquid began to bubble from the dark slab. Her spade had furrowed far too deeply. Panic threatened to seize the girl, but it struck her: she’d never seen so closely the raspberry part of the Raspberry Delight, much less had she the opportunity to taste. Tasting was strictly forbidden, but especially tasting the sacred raspberry filling.

Even so, her curiosity weighed on her with the weight of one of the giant, black ovens her village would use to bake the long, wide, and deep sheets of Raspberry Delight—ovens she’d only heard about. And the smell of it from five and a half feet up was simply intoxicating. So, she bent over and impulsively plunged her pale index finger into the red gooeyness. It was still warm, as the slaves had just planted the pan of it that morning. She looked around; all the other workers were busy. Not even the guards noticed her—nor would they. For Gail was the daughter of the Elder and the guards were not there for actual villagers, but for the slaves. So, with no one to witness, she brought her finger to her nose and sniffed.

Amazing! I could almost taste it, thought Gail.

Gail’s finger ventured towards her lips, but she hesitated. Apprehension caused her to scan the area again for witnesses, which proved to create more anxiety. The sticky, red goodness was pooling around her feet and had dripped down her finger to the slight web between her knuckles. It shimmered in the light of the low sun, making it all the more tempting. To add to the enticement, the gentle autumn breeze carried the whispers of disembodied voices all beckoning her to take the slightest taste. Her head spun as she looked for where the voices were coming. Gail became dizzier the more she searched so that she was convinced that the only thing to remedy her was to taste of the sacred filling.

“Just a taste,” whispered Gail. The point of her crimson, drippy finger touched the dainty tip of her tongue. The acidity and sweetness were immediately noticeable. And the aroma was just so exquisite that it caused her eyelids to flutter. She sank her finger into her mouth and suckled, eyes closed as she anticipated an explosion of flavor. But the flavor was not what she expected.

“Yuck!” she said and began spitting all around as she wiped her hand onto her trousers of the awful concoction in which she had so regrettably partook. The sweetness was some sort of trick on her senses as bitterness overwhelmingly came through. Moreover, it was rancid and there was something familiar about the taste that she couldn’t quite decipher. While her head had stopped spinning and the voices had subsided, nausea overcame her nonetheless and she vomited.

Her reaction did not go unnoticed. When she looked up, she saw Elder Damascus standing outside of the Commons observing her as she retched so vehemently. An angry sigh proceeded his short walk to her place on the field’s edge near the road. Gail tried to recover but couldn’t. To her dismay, whispering councilmen observed her as well. The shortest, fattest among them alerted the rest of Damascus’s coming. Only the bravest of eyes dared venture beyond the corners and look directly at him with acknowledgment and customary bows. Damascus grumbled low and glared as he passed before he arrived at Gail.

“What ails you?” he asked. Gail made no reply. Her mouth was sullied with the fetid bitterness of the scarlet sludge and dry heaves abounded. “Speak now, girl.” He added staccato to his words.

“I-I was suddenly overcome with illness. Clumsiness had caused my spade to go too deep, and the raspberry filling began to pool around my feet. You, see?” asked Gail. She pointed at her feet which had the mess of the filling up to her laces. “I was overcome by the smell and..and…it was then that I began to retch.” Another dry heave doubled her over, barely allowing for her to speak her last word.

“Is this so? What of the redness on your hand that grips your knee?” He pulled out a white cloth from a pocket in the liner of his jacket and used it to grab her by the wrist to examine his findings. He bent down to whisper. “Did you taste of the sacred filling?”

“No, Elder Damascus; such an act is forbidden. I am, of course…” said Gail, pausing to dry-heave. “…your daughter, the daughter of the Elder, and would never transgress so. To taste of the Raspberry Delight is to choose death.” Damascus scanned her pryingly.

“It is indeed,” he replied. He looked around and found a man from within the group of councilmen looking at them with consternation on his face. Damascus grunted before whispering. “Icarus.” He turned to Gail. “You seek to create trouble for me at every turn, don’t you?”

“Of course not, fa—I, I mean, Elder,” said Gail.

“Yet trouble abounds,” he said as he yanked her soiled hand up in display.

“Forgive me, Elder Dam—” she began.

“Icarus,” Damascus called out. “Come here.” The scrawny man in oversized clothing did as he was told.

“Yes, Elder, how may I assist?” asked Icarus.

“Tell me what you saw,” said Damascus.

“The girl tasted—” said Icarus but was cut off.

“You saw nothing,” said Damascus matter-of-factly as he stood upright. Damascus towered a full foot over Icarus with a frame twice his size. Icarus squirmed and seemed to become even smaller. “And what of your other fellow councilmen? What did they see?”

“One of us noticed the girl retching and pointed it out to the rest. I—”

“Eh hem,” growled Damascus.

“…we—looked over and saw Gail working when she slipped and fell. She then made haste to cleanse herself of that which is sacred,” said Icarus. “Nothing more was seen.”

“Well then, Gail,” said Damascus. “Make. Haste.” Gail needed no more prompting. As the pale girl scampered off up the hill towards her home, she looked back. Damascus took Icarus by the arm and placed the soiled, red-tinged cloth in his palm before finally looking up at her. His startling gaze caused her to stumble. Before she got up and ran the rest of the way, her father grinded his crooked, yellow teeth and murmured something undiscernible to Gail, but that she knew was full of hate.

Chapter 2

From the darkness of the hallway, a few feet behind the cracked-open hallway door of her home, Gail had been listening secretly to the conversation her father was having with Icarus. Damascus sat in his favorite chair stroking his salt and pepper beard on which he had balanced a hand-made pipe full of fresh tobacco. The brim of his hat overshadowed his face, yet a round nose and knobby cheek bones dimly reflected orange and red from the glowing hearth. Additionally, every draw of smoke from the pipe caused the cherry to brighten and illuminate his weathered, contemplative brow.

Icarus stood by amid the smell of burning oak and tobacco smoke. The pops and cracks from the fire and the crackle of the cherry-hot tobacco filled the otherwise quiet room as he waited for Damascus to respond. Gail was nervous for Icarus when he decided to ask again.

“Elder, what will you do?” asked Icarus, sheepishly.

Damascus broke his statuesque disposition, switched his crossed legs, and pushed himself further up his chair as he looked at Icarus. Damascus took another moment in silence before he began shaking his head, looking again into the fire, as if he were awaiting a message or a sign. Finally, he sighed long and spoke.

“If it weren’t for her constant bickering, we wouldn’t be in this position,” he said. “I have told her—warned her—of what could come if she would not keep silent. I don’t understand her—her love for these slaves.”

“It seems that your words, however grave, have fallen on deaf ears,” said Icarus. “And not without consequence.”

“Consequence? What consequences other than embarrassment on my part?” asked Damascus.

“It has been said that some villagers are sympathetic to her ideals. It is said that, among the guards, the slaves grow bolder every day. And, unfortunately, some in the Council speak of…” Icarus swallowed audibly. “…perhaps changes in leadership.”

“So, then…the Council speaks in my absence.”

“Merely rumor, Elder Damascus,” quivered Icarus.

“And you, Icarus, would be what? Their leader?” asked Damascus with a smirk. Icarus was already looking down but drove his chin further into his chest.

“I could never take your place, noble Elder. Nor would I ever desire it. However, Paul has been robustly vocal in regard to this change.” He peeked up and met Damascus’s eyes briefly before looking away again. Damascus stroked his beard and puffed his pipe as he continued to stare at Icarus. He uncrossed his legs and spread them wide as he leaned heavily onto his left elbow.

“What I will do is deal with my daughter. Assure the Council of this and inform them that she will be making an announcement at tomorrow evening’s festival after the lighting of the pyre.”

“I will,” said Icarus.

“Take your leave,” said Damascus dismissively. Icarus bowed, then shuffled towards the front door.

Gail remained quiet in the dark hallway as she anxiously watched Icarus make his way out of their home. Damascus had remained seated but rotated his chair so that only the shadow of his back was visible to Gail. She had to change her angle in order to watch Icarus as he stepped out into the windy, cold night and shut the door behind him. When she looked back at her father, he was standing. Because of the fire and the shadow it cast, Gail thought he was looking away towards the hearth.

“Go to sleep, Gail,” said Damascus. Her heart raced right up to her throat, and she held her breath at the sound of his voice. She took a step backwards in the darkness but remained as still as possible after that, hoping he didn’t actually know she was awake and that maybe she’d misunderstood him and that somehow her anxiety was causing her to hear things. Again, Damascus spoke, calmly and clearly. “I said, ‘go to sleep’. You’ll need your rest for tomorrow.”

She walked backwards slowly a few feet into her room’s doorway. She stared again at his silhouette against the backdrop of orange glow, hoping he didn’t actually see her. But then she realized he was, in fact, looking right at her. As he drew in another crackling puff of his pipe, the cherry waxed brightly and illuminated his scowling face in a shadowy red hue.

Chapter 3

“Where are we going?” asked Gail as she gripped her arms. She was cold even with the fur coat she wore over her working garments. The sun had another two hours before it would rise, and a front had blown in overnight. Damascus held a lantern which flickered in the strong northerly winds. “And why do we leave so early? And what’s in the sack you carry? Elder?”

“So many questions. Not enough trust. Alas, you will see in time. Now quiet yourself,” said Elder Damascus with a snap.

They descended the hill, by way of the main road, through the still-sleeping village. Only dim, flickering reds and yellows were spotted upon the walls within the homes—the light from fireplaces that had been loaded with wood and abandoned for the night. Long past the houses and the cake fields, they came to a fork in the road, which either went west towards the raspberry fields or east towards the creek.

“Why are we going to the raspberry fields, Elder?” asked Gail. “The berries have already been harvested.” Damascus looked at her silently before stepping to the east. Gail didn’t follow. “The creek? I am forbidden to even step foot in that direction.” Damascus looked over his left shoulder, making no effort to turn and face her.

“Yes, you are forbidden,” he said.

“Then why must I break such a rule? What must be seen in the creek?”

“Not the creek, Gail.”

“Then the ovens? For twenty-one years, you’ve made me swear to never venture there even in thought, much less in person; and you’d have me go there now?” asked Gail. Damascus finally turned around.

“What do you remember about your mother?” he asked. Gail cocked her head at the randomness of the question.

“That…that she was kind, mainly. Not much else. Alas, she passed when I was but a young child. I don’t understand why that—”

“Your mother was a peaceful, submissive, lovely woman who lived a chaste life and allowed her beauty to shine through her quiet spirit.” Gail smiled at this. Damascus, however, grunted annoyedly. “She charged me, before she passed, to take care of you the same way I took care of her. And I deeply desire to fulfill my promise.”

“And I am very grateful for that,” said Gail. “I’m humbled by y—“

“You misunderstand, girl. It is purely my love for your mother that drives me to do so. You see, you are nothing like her. You constantly meddle and question and, thus, cause trouble for me. The village, in which I am given charge—our people, grow weary of your racket, though some sympathize with your foolish idealism.”

“I simply wish to be gentler and fairer with the slaves. Perhaps, in time, grant them free—”

“Still, it gushes like an infected wound, spilling forth its purulence in the form of foolish, nonsensical, poisonous racket.” Gail took a deep breath, sighing as she rested her head low and crossed her hands in front of her. “Alas a glimpse of wisdom in your silence. It is obvious that my derision towards you has not convinced you to shut up. Perhaps, a healthy dose of reality will. To the ovens.”

They crossed the small bridge over the creek and went down a well-worn, wide path surrounded by brush. After a sharp turn, the path became paved with large, cut stones. Footprints of red dirt slowly faded the further they went. Another gradual turn was covered with a thick canopy of low hanging brush. The wind whistled through the branches and leaves as they entered the tunneling portal.

On the other side was an open field of grass with three large, black metal buildings. Each building had massive, steel barn doors on the front ends between two regular-sized doors, no windows, and a singular, large smokestack coming out of the center of the gambrel roof. They found clothes littered in the grass along either side of the path leading all the way to the entrances of the buildings.

“These are slaves’ clothes,” said Gail. “Is it because of the sanctity of the work within the ovens that they must change into holy garments?” Damascus didn’t reply. They finally reached one of the smaller doors. From inside, Gail heard a clamor of voices and clinking sounds. Damascus produced cloaks from the sack which he carried.

“Take off your coat. Put this on,” he said. Gail did so hurriedly, as the sting of the cold nipped at her bare skin. “Cover your head.” She obeyed.

“Why must we wear these?” she asked.

“It is a uniform, meant to disguise and to distinguish the Freemen from the slaves who enter.”

“We are here in secret then?” asked Gail. Damascus chuckled.

“No, girl. I am the Elder. I need not act in secrecy. I do as I please in the plain light of day. We are here at this hour because this is when the last batches of the Raspberry Delight are made.” Damascus reached for the door handle but paused before swinging it open. “What you see here must never be repeated to anyone.” Gail nodded. “Swear it.”

“I swear,” she said. Seemingly satisfied with her oath, he opened the heavy, creaking, metal door.

Chapter 4

A wave of stifling heat accompanied a strong aroma of sweet chocolate and raspberry. Immediately, Gail’s eyes felt dry and sticky causing her to blink continuously. Fire from the immense furnace in the center of the building provided glowing red light, while the absence of lamps and torches created long paths and corners filled with shadows. Pale, eyeless faces seemed to stare and move towards her, but second glances proved otherwise—specters within the shadows, ever fleeting the harder she searched. Yet the specters weren’t as frightening as what she could actually behold.

Naked men, women, and children toiled at various tasks. Other people, donning the same vestments as Damascus and her, oversaw the slaves—some had whips, while others simply guided or performed simple tasks. Dozens of men and older boys, whose bodies were badly abraded, threw into the furnace whole tree trunks. Some other men and women pulled on chains that operated gears which drove the large pans of uncooked cake batter inches at a time along a belt into and out of the oven above the furnace. Gail stayed the urge to cry, but had no control over her quivering, sympathetic bottom lip.

“Follow me,” said Damascus.

They ascended metal stairs to the second level where it felt even hotter. Here the naked slaves turned and mixed the chocolate batter with large, heavy, and wide wooden paddles suspended from the shadowy ceiling with ropes. A half story above, others poured off-white flour along with other various dry ingredients into the gaping mixing bowl. While from another platform a similarly composed group carefully poured wet ingredients into the same bowl. When the mixing slaves slowed their vigorous circular motion, cloaked Freemen would let their whips fly until performance improved. On the other side of the building, Gail could see a similar process, but the slaves were tipping the contents of the bowl, halfway filling a large rectangular pan below with the batter, which then made its way into the oven. She felt a tug at her shoulder.

“You musn’t linger, girl,” said Damascus. “Stay close.”

“These poor people—even young children—are made to do the worst of labor in this heat. It is no wonder they have all stripped naked.”

“It was not of their own accord, you fool. You will see the true purpose of their nakedness. Come.”

As they went to the back of the oven where the half pans of cake came out, the smell of raspberry became much stronger. So did an unusual smell that seemed so familiar to Gail. From a large oval-shaped vat, through a sizeable spicket, the raspberry filling poured on demand upon the freshly baked half-cakes. Further up, men tipped whole cooled cake pans over onto the raspberry filling. The steaming sludge splashed onto the bare skin of some, but the whips proved more a sting when their grips faltered. From here, Gail didn’t see where the cakes went, just that it was further into the darkness, away from the oven.

“There,” said Damascus as he pointed to a door that opened up to a staircase leading to the third floor. It was eerily quiet in the ascending corridor, save their footsteps clanking upon the metal stairs. The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs caused them to both stop. Only, no one was there. A sudden chill made Gail’s hackles rise. He looked over his shoulder at her.

“A draft,” he said. Gail swallowed.

“What’s up here, Elder?” she asked. Damascus ignored the question as he led her upwards. The noise of the work being done on the first two floors became distant. At the same time, muffled cries grew louder and louder to a whisper right below the landing. Gail grabbed her father’s hand, but he retracted from her grip and turned towards her suddenly. He stooped down and whispered with great ferocity.

“When we pass through that door, no matter what you see, crying out, screaming, any sort of commotion whatsoever, is forbidden!”

“I-I don’t want to go up there…please don’t make me,” said Gail in a pleading, quivering, crying whisper.

“You must and you will. Now compose yourself,” Damascus said as he led onwards.

When he opened the door, the muffled sounds intensified as if a whole group of people were crying in the distance. Then that awful, familiar smell overwhelmed Gail, so much so, that she stopped to prevent her vomit from spilling. When she had gathered herself, she stepped in behind her father.

At first, Gail didn’t know what she was witnessing, but it soon became clear. A line of naked slaves of all ages, all bound with chains and shackles with gagged mouths were being forced to walk one at a time towards a chamber. The red-headed man she witnessed walking up next tried to resist the tug of the chains but couldn’t. It was apparent that they were connected to the same system of pulleys and chains that drove the belts of cake pans down below.

As soon as the man stepped in front of the chamber door, flashes of flame shot from pipes near his head. In short bursts, flames covered him from head to toe. He writhed backwards but the rattling chains that bound him supported his weight as he flexed and quaked in agony. When the flames stopped, a hooded person, using something like a long-handled brush, scrubbed at the burned man, removing what was left of the singed, red hair all over his body along with loosened sheets of skin. The burned man retracted from the bristles unsuccessfully.

Gail felt the warmth of the urine that she suddenly had no control over. Her entire body shook as she tried to grab her father’s hand, but he struck her hand away and glared at her from his hood, from where he shook his head no.

The pain-riddled man finally cleared the doorway to the chamber. It was shut closed and locked tightly with several pins. One of the cloaked and hooded Freemen by the chamber signaled another who stood by a chain that dangled from the shadowy ceiling. He yanked it. Steam poured from the seams of the chamber door. It lasted minutes. Gail heaved breath after breath as she resisted the urge to scream, remembering the stress in her father’s voice earlier and the fervor in his gestures just moments before. Unconsciousness loomed as her head spun faster and faster the longer the steam hissed.

The chamber door opened, and the next person stepped forward—a young blonde-headed girl this time. But before the flames that were sure to come, Gail covered her ears and hid her eyes. Damascus roughly nudged Gail’s shoulder startling her. With her hands still over her ears, he signaled for her to follow.

Through a small corridor they made their way to another portion of the third floor. When she felt she was far enough away, she released her ears. The muffled, collective cry could still be heard, but not the distinct screams of the child who was next to step under the flaming pipes. Gail, though shaken, was grateful that she did not have to bear any sort of witness to that. The tart smell of raspberry intensified as they rounded the corner and entered a space with a large oval shaped pool to which Damascus pointed.

“Have a guess at what this place is for,” he said.

“Is-is this where,” she stutter-breathed as she refrained from crying, “the raspberry filling is made?” she asked. Damascus nodded.

“I know you’ve tasted of it, Gail.” She looked at him with denial on her teary and sweaty face. “Don’t try to hide this from me,” Damascus barked. His cloak flailed as he spoke, as if he were flexing violently underneath. Gail couldn’t veil her guilt. “Yes, you have.” She nodded. “Well, how did it taste?”

“Just awful,” she said with a grimace. “Sweet and sour and…and like rotten meat. There was something else to it as well. Something I couldn’t quite figure out but horrible. I can still taste it.” Damascus smiled slightly. “Elder Damascus, what I just saw… I wish to go now…p-p-please.” Her voice cracked as she wept. She couldn’t see his face clearly under the shadow of his hooded cloak. But she could feel his eyes peering at her in the moments of silence following her plea as he stood motionless. It seemed like an eternity to her before he spoke finally.

“It must be stirred, now,” said Damascus. “Take the paddle there. Stand at the edge and begin.” Gail reluctantly did as she was told. Her small frame struggled with the large, polished, wooden paddle. “Make sure to go deep.” She almost lost her grip on it as she plunged the flattened end into the oval vat. As she stirred the scarlet liquid, the gelatinous top layer broke apart, releasing steam. Though her strokes were small, a stronger scent of raspberry filled the warm, humid air. “Deeper!” She pushed and pulled harder and even bent her knees to go as deep as she could, whimpering as she struggled. The wooden handle began to slip on her sweaty hands. Tangible thumps on the submerged end caused her to pause.

“That’s it. Keep going,” Damascus urged almost laughingly. He stepped closer. “You must agitate the dregs.”

“It feels lumpy,” she said. He grabbed over her hands and forcefully helped her stir.

“Like this, damn it!” said Damascus. Pieces of sediment began to float upwards and break the surface. A few larger pieces with it; one of which seemed peculiar to Gail. “Look closely, girl. There!” He let go to point as he chuckled.

Gail stooped down to investigate and discovered a flat, leathery piece with five holes. Then it became clear what she had dredged up from the bottom: a human face. Its lips seemed to move with the churning liquid, as if it were trying to speak. No amount of self-control could prevent her from screaming and stumbling backwards. The paddle clanked the metal floor loudly until it settled halfway over the edge of the vat.

As she screamed, a door slid open, and the gelatinous corpse of the man, whom she had witnessed enter the chamber earlier, fell out into the large pool of red sludge. Flames began to jet upwards from the sides sending the liquid into a full boil. Within seconds, many other corpses and pieces of men, women, and children roiled to its surface and back under again. Gail’s toes curled and her teeth chattered, and somewhere in the recesses of her cognizance it became clear to her—the taste she couldn’t put her finger on when she had so regrettably sampled the raspberry filling was the taste of singed hair.

She began to wretch and within seconds she vomited.

“You’ll defile it!” said Damascus as he grabbed her by the nape of her neck and dragged her to a corner of the room. Gail vomited. She also cried—more like whimpered. “Now you know the truth. Now you see why the Freemen are free and why slaves are necessary. Now you see why I must insist that you cease this foolish talk of making them equal with us!”

“They suffer so!” said Gail in a sob. “Why did you bring me here? Other than to steal any peace of mind or sound sleep I would have for the rest of my life!”

“He Who Comes to Bless or to Curse simply demands the Raspberry Delight!” snapped Damascus. “And he pays no heed to how it is made. Whether with Freemen or slaves. It matters not to him.” Gail finally looked up at her father through teary eyes. “But it matters to me and to everyone else who dwell in the village.” He grabbed her by the face. “I did it to show you what’s at stake, you fool! You must renounce your stance regarding the slaves.”

“He Who Comes to Bless or to Curse has not been seen in neither your nor my lifetime nor in the lifetimes of any in the village. No one has seen him or heard his voice. Yet we enslave, torture, and murder these poor people without regard even to their age in order to satiate his lusts!”

“Blaspheming apostate!” yelled Damascus as he slapped her teary face sending her to the floor. He heaved over her recumbent form. “I would torture and murder legions of slaves to satiate our lord! Say such things again, girl, and regardless of my promise to your mother, not even I will be able to save you from your fate at the hands of the Council over to whom I would gladly give. Do you understand, Gail? Do not test me in this. Do you understand what it will take—what you must do?” She whimpered as she wiped her face of the tears, sweat, and now, blood-tinged spittle. Then she looked at Damascus square in his shadowy eyes and steadied her voice.

“Yes, Elder Damascus, you’re right. Now that I know the truth, I know what I must do.”

Chapter 5

Crescendos of distant thunder rumbled across the village. Frigid air from a steady northerly breeze threatened to become a wind and then more. Quickly approaching storm clouds, by which the late afternoon was made chillingly darker than normal, provoked heightened excitement among the people. That and the preparations for the Holy Raspberry Delight Festival had just been completed with the erection of a tall, rectangular pyre. It casted a phallic shadow that spanned across the cake fields then disappeared as the sun set. With the work completed and the festival about to begin, the slaves were sent to their pens and locked up for the night—provisions scant for the oncoming storm.

When darkness finally overtook the waning light of day, the Council of Freemen formed a circle in the middle of all the villagers between the cake fields and the Commons. Elder Damascus took his place in the center nearest the pyre with a torchbearer by his side. Several harmonic hymns were sung by all until the Elder raised his hand to silence the crowd.

“Let us begin,” said Elder Damascus with a shout. “Let us begin with the lighting of the Signal.” He nodded at the torchbearer who bowed and tossed his torch into the pyre. It lit up with a roar and the villagers and Councilmen clapped and cheered with newly alighted jubilant faces. “Every year, we Freemen celebrate the Holy Raspberry Delight Festival and have done so without exception for as long as its establishment by our fathers’ fathers. And we will continue to do so without fail so long as He Who Comes to Bless or to Curse demands it!”

“And may it always be!” said the crowd in unison.

“But there is some talk amongst the people of change,” said Damascus. He grunted annoyedly before continuing. “And while we should welcome change that benefits our people, we should seek to condemn the change that does not!” Shouts of approval along with uncomfortable squirming from some interrupted Damascus. He quieted the crowd. “To be clear, Freemen will remain free, and the slaves will remain enslaved and any speech to the contrary from here forward will be considered blasphemy!” Some in the Council nodded in approval while some stood stoically analyzing the crowd. Still others in the council seemed troubled.

“And what of the Blasphemer Premier?” asked councilman Paul, a slender man, taller than Damascus, but whose stature was not nearly as physically threatening. “What of your daughter, Gail?” Thunder rumbled and the breeze picked up speed. Damascus curled his lip and sucked his teeth as he glared at Paul.

“Hmph,” Damascus grunted. “I’m happy that you ask, Paul—Chief Inquisitor.” Paul shuffled at the threatening tone within the Elder’s sarcasm. “After much counsel and—let’s say—a healthy dose of the truth, my daughter has finally come to her senses. And she has something to say to you all. Come forth Gail!”

A few silent seconds passed but there was no Gail in sight. The crowd stirred in search of her. Damascus, however, looked steely at Paul, who couldn’t hold eye contact. However, when it was apparent that Gail wasn’t there, Damascus’s countenance waned from confidence into angered annoyance.

“Icarus,” said Damascus. “A word.” Icarus broke rank from among the circle and hastily approached. Damascus went straight to his ear where he whispered sharply. “Where is Gail?” Icarus shrugged sheepishly. Damascus’s jaw tightened before he turned his attention to the villagers. “My daughter Gail, the ‘Blasphemer Premier’, as she was so eloquently called by councilman Paul, is ready to renounce her previous folly. However, it seems she is not in attendance at the moment.” Damascus turned to Icarus once again. “Gather men. Find her.”­­­

By way of moonlight and occasional lightning bursts, Gail made her way along the edge of Vanishing Forest until she was close to the enclosures where the slaves were kept. She paused as she listened for soldiers and observed the pens, hoping all the guards had attended the festival. To her relief, no one patrolled.

Gail crouched as she slowly went through the field. The breeze had picked up slightly causing the needles, leaves, and branches of the forest to rustle and whistle. The noise encouraged a faster pace from the stealthy girl. As she approached the pens, the pyre was lit, the light of which aided in her unlocking of the first enclosure. She immediately went on to the second pen and unlocked it as well—then to the third, the fourth, and so on. To her dismay, Gail looked back and saw that the doors were opened, but none of the slaves had fled.

“Take heart! You’re free! Run! Run into the forest!” Hesitance gripped the slaves. Until finally, a brave few took the first steps out of the pens. Their eyes became alive with wild vigor and they began to run, straight to the forest as they were instructed. “Run! All of you! You are doomed if you stay here! Go!” Lightning flashed followed by an explosion of thunder.

“I can’t leave,” said one of the men. “My wife and daughter haven’t returned from the ovens yet.” Gail turned to him and grasped his face gently as tears filled her hollow, bloodshot, empathetic eyes.

“They will never return from the ovens,” she said through a whimper. “Go! All of you! Before it’s too late!” Some slaves tarried, helping to free others by way of breaking the pen doors. But before they could finish, village men approached bearing torches.

“The slaves have escaped!” said one.

“Stop at once!” said Icarus with a cracking voice.

Freed slaves ran into the forest. The mob of villagers split, some after the slaves, others to the pens to make sure the rest were secured. There Icarus and three other men foiled Gail’s final attempt at unlocking a pen. She fought, but they dragged her by the arms to the festival and brought her before Damascus. The breeze was now a strong wind; so strong that it made the flames flicker violently from the burning pyre. More lightning flashed followed by thunder crashes.

“She was found, freeing the slaves,” said Icarus. “Half of the pens were already empty.” Damascus picked her up by her hair only to slap her back to the ground with a singular, heavy blow across the face. Paul whispered into the ear of another councilman. The Elder’s face turned noticeably red even with the scant light of the pyre.

“Council of Freemen and Freemen alike, gather around me!” said Damascus. They all did; Paul included. “There will be no renunciation tonight by this Chief of Blasphemers. Instead, she shall die!” Paul raised his eyebrows approvingly. The crowd was torn, most jubilant at the announcement while others groaned or otherwise verbally dissented.

“No!” said Gail with a desperate scream as she flailed against her captors.

“Tie her to a post!” Damascus said demandingly.

But before they could carry out the command, the wind died down suddenly. So still was the air that it caused everyone to look around in confusion, save Gail who persisted in trying to free herself. Thunder from the northwest seemed to grow louder and louder, continuously. Although lightning still illuminated the tumultuous skies sporadically, it became clear that the thunderous sound was not from the storm.

All at once, hundreds of hooves and padded feet stampeded from out of the forest. Wild animals of all kinds, both predator and prey alike, ran around the Commons building straight through and beyond the fields where the crowds had gathered for the festival. The villagers braced themselves for the impact of them, but the animals ran around them, leaping over the cake plots as they went.

“They’re…they’re fleeing!” said Icarus from a cowering position.

A different sound came from the direction of the forest—a great singular boom. Another followed shortly after, closer. Yet another followed the last, closer still, but this time with a rumble that was felt by all.

“Thunder from the storm,” said one of Gail’s assailants. Gail had finally stopped her flailing.

“No,” said Damascus, curiously.

“Something approaches,” said a villager.

Another boom, louder than any before it, shook the ground enough so that even a few people lost their balance. Then all the villagers saw it. As a long, bright showing of lightning set the darkness alight with ghostly blue and white, a massive, towering shadow was revealed against the sky.

“It’s him,” said Icarus.

“He Who Comes to Bless or to Curse,” said Damascus with a delirious grin. He fell to his knees with hands lifted high above his head. Many followed suit. “We are here, oh Powerful One! Your people! Your faithful servants! Come and eat to your fill of the Holy Raspberry Delight which we have so loyally prepared for you!”

Another cluster of lightening lit up the sky followed by a boom of thunder that was quickly overpowered by the sound of the beast’s foot crashing down onto the Commons building, destroying it effortlessly. Debris exploded outwards as the violent quake shook those left standing off of their feet. The wind from the explosion toppled the pyre, practically snuffing it, burying a few villagers underneath. Their anguish-filled screams quickly fell silent. Gail, loose of her captors, fled along with most of the village. The more devout stayed, however.

Hidden in shadow, the beast bent low towards the remaining villagers and glared at them with eyes blacker than the surrounding darkness, hollow and tumultuous. Its teeth glinted in the remnant of light from the fallen pyre. Each tooth seemed as long as the men directly below who’d lost all control over their bowels. It roared, sending a hot, sulfurous gust of breath down upon the devotees from its ever-widening mouth. The darkness of which was the last thing any of them ever beheld.

The storm followed the advent of the beast, though it was a light rain mainly, with much thunder and lightning. Those who remained hidden in the village didn’t know if the thunder was from the storm or from the footsteps of He Who Comes to Bless or to Curse. Eventually, the night grew quiet, but all awaited the light of day. At dawn, some of the braver of the lot were the first to go out to assess the damage.

Only the Commons building had been touched and it was completely smashed. Oddly, no massive footprints from the terrible being were found. This was strange to the remnant of villagers as it was agreed upon by all that what they’d seen was, in fact, real. A search of Vanishing Forest to the northwest showed no signs of the beast’s footprints, neither coming nor going.

Gail had vanished and none of the slaves were ever discovered. They had all broken out of their pens and had fled. Damascus was missing; along with Icarus and Paul and many from the Council of Freemen and a handful of villagers—all renowned for their devotion. There was no sign of them. The ground, where they were last witnessed standing, was now an eight-foot-deep hole with long, sharp grooves along the edge of it. And to the surprise of the survivors, not one cake field of Raspberry Delight was disturbed—not an edge broken, nor a surface scratched. None of it, whatsoever, was taken. Almost as if He Who Comes to Bless or to Curse hadn’t the least bit of interest in the consecrated confection.

A few days later, the smoke from the ovens stopped rising, which was a relief to those who’d performed duties there. Their secret would be well-kept as they tried to carry on with normal life in the village. The notion was quickly dismissed, however. An attempt to transform the cake fields into more practical crops led to some members succumbing to a mysterious illness that caused painful boils to cover their bodies for weeks before finally killing them. New land was plowed, in response, and the cake fields were never touched again. After a few years, many of the children began to complain of being visited late at night by naked, hairless strangers who would stand in the shadowy corners of their rooms, staring at them with hollow eyes as they croaked and endlessly vomited what was reported to be blood. Some speculated that it wasn’t blood at all, but the consecrated raspberry filling.

Eventually, the sparse years were too many and most survivors would abandon the village to find peace in the northlands beyond Lake Shallow. Along the way, as they traveled past the empty, black buildings where the Raspberry Delight had been made, those who knew of its horrors hung their heads in shame…others, in dread. But even with eyes tightly shut, clanking footsteps and muffled cries were heard echoing within the cold, black, metal walls.