The Secret of Elektra Read online

  TITLE

  The Secret of Elektra

  ORIGINAL TITLE

  O Segredo de Elektra

  Cover: OliviaProDesign

  Translation and line editing: FreedomRun

  ProofReading: Susana Costa and Roxana

  A Flying Ideas AKA Ema Alves production

  since 2009

  Republic of Portugal

  Portuguese Edition © 2003 - 2018

  1.st English Edition 2019

  Translated from Portuguese by

  FreedomRun

  Flying Ideas

  THE SECRET OF ELEKTRA

  EMA ALVES

  Translated from: O SEGREDO DE ELEKTRA

  Copyright © 2019 by Ema Alves

  All rights reserved. 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 publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  1.ST English Edition, February 2019

  Kindle version – www.amazon.com

  ISBN: 9781795155878

  EMA ALVES

  Figueira da Foz, Portugal

  To all those who were born different;

  To all those who have secrets; to those who are forced to hide them, and those who, albeit unashamed of what they are, cope with the most harmful consequences inherent to social decay.

  To all those who love and do not harm anyone because of it.

  To those who criticize and are judgmental, because they do have something to hide as well.

  To all those who live behind a mask ... all of US.

  Ema Alves

  1

  The child

  In a rustic wooden hut, heated by a tiny stone fireplace, a child is born.

  The father, a simple man, whose face is marred by the strenuous attempt to extract something edible from the land, was next to his mother. He was holding her hands, trying to subside a difficult birth.

  The mother, a modest peasant, unleashed earsplitting screams that echoed throughout the sunlit valley, one crowned by the vast mountain range.

  The midwife, an influential person, had quickly reached the poor hut, located far above the village where she lived.

  Amid the painful growls, a small head burst out into daylight. After a rapid tear of flesh, a gush of blood dripped on the pristine floor, clearing the way to the rest of the child’s body, now shivering in the enwrapping cold, dry air. The cheerful smile on the midwife’s face had now vanished without a glimpse of happiness. The woman’s sudden outburst of fear astonished the parents. The father courageously asked:

  - Is there anything wrong the child?

  But silence was far from a valid answer. A fit of warmth took control of the man’s face. Letting his spouse’s hand go, he ran to the midwife, who was motionless with the newborn in her arms. He looked at the small, beautiful baby, who hungrily sucked his own hands, and he too felt petrified by what he was seeing.

  The pain subsided. Breathing was almost normal. Her mother, drenched in sweat due to her physical effort, looked at them as they mesmerizingly stared at the little creature who had just begun to cry.

  - Bring her to me!... What are you waiting for? What is the problem?

  The petrified midwife started trembling and, in a quick fit of rage, she dropped the child on her mother’s lap and yelled:

  - That’s the devil, such thing can only be the devil’s work! This creature must die, otherwise we will all be damned!

  Terrified, she went out the door and ran hurriedly to the village, leaving that woman between life and death, still with elements of a poorly concluded birth inside her.

  The woman softly embraced the baby in her arms, not knowing if she should feel joy or sadness. But there was a legitimate feeling, the disgust, for having to breastfeed such a beautiful child.

  Her father, approaching an old kitchen table, grabbed a knife and took it to the newborn. With a cold, empty stare he held with the other hand that blood-greyish cord. The knife dropped abruptly, cutting the only link between mother and child.

  Although she had given birth to a majestically deformed being, he was still a helpless baby, and the feeling of disgust was easily toppled by the endless maternal love.

  The child slowly and tenderly sucked on the exposed white breast. The mother, who was holding him in her arms, dropped one hand on the bed. Life was fading away. The remainders of the sac, which before had enwrapped the fetus, were rotting inside of her. Although the infection was spreading itself quickly, corroding her guts, the blood that kept flowing would give her a quicker death.

  Before she stepped into unconsciousness, she turned to her husband, who was kneeling beside her, and, among other imperceptible words, asked him:

  - Save her!... s.... they... are going to kill her!

  The man grabbed his wife’s hand, who already emanated an icy death feeling and, before he could say anything, amid the hurtful sobs, he saw the woman closing her eyes for the very last time.

  As if sensing the departure of his mother, the child shuddered, enveloped by the arm that, losing its vital force, dislodged the tender mouth from the succulent breast.

  Unaware of all that, his father wept against his consort’s hand, damped by the effort, the pain, the overwhelming touch of death... the tears.

  The quiet solitude was short-lived. All over the mountain, resonant echoes left their mark through a darkest, taciturn humming. The modest hut was no exception.

  The farmer heard the shouting of a wrathful mob approaching quickly. He knew the intents behind the uproar but he remained where he was. Mourning consumed the man’s head, who felt too weak to take measures. He wanted peace, quietness. He wanted to mourn his loss, his dismay. But the roar continued to grow louder and ever more dangerous. The weeping had to stop, his wife’s wish was his own. The child had to be saved.

  Looking at the open door, he stood up abruptly. He grabbed the baby, laid him in a small carrycot made of wicker and bitumen, properly padded with tiny linen bits. He ran out of the hut and headed towards the small stream that split two towering mountains. With strong footsteps, he stepped into the water, trying to reach a safe depth, preventing the carrycot of getting trapped in the gravel bottom. He kissed the child and released the cradle on the water, which the current dragged away quickly.

  For a moment he looked at the river. An ephemeral joy had momentarily flushed his face. The wish had been fulfilled, at least for now the little girl would be safe. But his action was questioned by his conscience, which only then had awakened to remind him of the child’s warrior. What chance would she have to survive? Who would welcome her like that?

  Regretful, he covered his face with his hands. Running away with her would have been the best option, instead of leaving her helpless. He still attempted to run to reach the carrycot, but the water prevented such action, causing him to stumble and fall. He did not manage to do it, his act had been consummated and now it was time to face those who persecuted him.

  He stepped out the water and walked to his hut. Through thick pine trunks, he could watch the neighbors who, with their spikes and mattocks, looked for the little devil. Extremely quietly, he kept walking, staring into the emptiness beyond the ground. The men saw him, ran right to where he was and, surrounding him, asked:

  - Where is the child?

  - It was no child! It was a monster! A devil’s work – the midwife replied even louder, leading the mob.

  - She died!! Now leave
me alone! – the man replied, hardly able to think after the last tragic events from his life. It all had been too fast, and he would need time to mourn his losses. His head had been shattered, there was a feeling of emptiness in it. His bones were soaked, but all of that had met the purpose and, with a clear head, he could now face the rebellion, shifting their attention so that they would not go after the baby along the river.

  He tried to pass by the men who were thirsty to kill, to destroy what they could not understand but, when they blocked his way, he found that they did not seek only the child.

  - Where did you hide her? – the woman asked yet again.

  - I threw her poor dead body into the river – he coldly replied, pointing to the creek nearby.

  - You appear to show some affection for the monster you brought to life! Perhaps you're guilty. You have established a demonic pact to put an end to your poorness and the birth of that child would be your part of the deal! – the woman proceeded, pointing a spike towards his chest.

  - Yes. That could only be it – the others said simultaneously, affirmatively nodding at each other.

  - It's a lie. Look at me! – he said, grabbing their attention to his rags – how could I have made a pact with the devil?

  The men appeared to agree with his point of view. But the midwife could not admit such an easy retort.

  - Don’t let yourself be influenced by the devil. See how clever he is and how he tries to deceive you.

  After hearing that, the men again pointed out their working-tools-turned-weapons to the man who, in their eyes, had made a deal with some nefarious entity.

  In the beginning, the unfortunate man thought that the whole threat offered no real danger, but that woman had such an influence that she turned the most positive feelings into something murky. Friendship, for instance.

  Feeling angry, he turned to some of them and then continued: - Aaron, Kafhar!... you know me well... how can you...???

  Embarrassed, they looked down, but kept their weapons pointing forward. The poor man realized that they would never hear whatever he had to say. Aware that he had nothing left to lose, anger consumed his mind. Death no longer frightened him. His head was filled with questions for which he had no answer: “How far can human stupidity go?”, “How can they be so blind? Blinded by the fear of what they deem different!!”. He stopped acting defensively. He would die, but not as a coward.

  - Do you consider yourselves to be God’s executioners? Do you want to kill in His name? How foolish all of you are! – he yelled, taking a few steps back. For years he had lived amid many of those. They had worked together, many times they shared the same table, eating and drinking. And, now, he realized that he did not really know them, after all they paid no mind to his honorable word and friendship.

  - Kill him, before it’s too late! – the woman shrieked.

  His chest was pierced by a fork, tainting the thick flannel shirt with a mishmash of rust and blood. The man dropped to his knees, staring at his murderer. His eyes had no glimpse of mercy. Those were the eyes of his best friend, Kafhar, the one he cherished as his own brother.

  Painful and sorrowful tears were shed. He lowered his head and stared at the cold metallic spikes that, at the slightest movement, plunged his head into earsplitting pain.

  He looked up and, looking into the frantic eyes of a fuming village, he cursed them:

  - I shall be avenged one day. My daughter will return and that will be your demise.

  The words were fueled by the blood that had climbed from guts to his mouth.

  - How dare you call daughter to that monster? You have just denounced yourself! Did you all hear this?? – the woman triumphantly said, as she looked to everyone. – After all, you have a pact with the devil indeed! Your words were your confession, your judgment and your condemnation.

  - No... – the man cried, as Kafhar buried his fork.

  The woman, who had just condemned him, contemptuously laughed at the act and, preventing the possibility of hearing yet another word from his man, thrust his spike into his guts, which stirred up the animals.

  The farmer, consumed by a choleric brutishness, fought against them with supernatural strength. He grabbed the spike and, pulling it out of his body, threw it away under everyone’s frightened stare. Before that scene, they stepped back, except for the one who held him by the fork.

  - I will die by your working tools! But you shall remember that, as of today, they will never extract anything good from the land. I now curse this iron so that, whenever it plies the land, it will bring death, as it has brought to me.

  - Kill him. Quick! Can’t you see he is a necromancer and he is now cursing us?

  Incited by the woman’s order, powerful wooden handles pierced the air. The blades of the hoes, shovels, spikes and forks fell furiously, following their owners’ hysteria.

  A bloody river flowed from the good man’s corpse. A thin trickle of warm blood cooled for good, when he felt the icy waters of the nearby stream.

  Far already from that dreadful murder, a child cried, taken by a current of sadness sealed with her own father’s blood.

  2

  The Wizards

  Meridian was walking through the enchanted woods of Sybil. He longed for the right moment to come, when he could collect an oak branch at last. According to tradition, in order to obtain a magic rod, such has to be gathered on a spring night, on the sixth day of the new moon, that was the only way through which he would have the plant in its full might.

  He was a beginner in magic. The short seventeen years of his life had been spent studying it.

  On that day, his mentor had sent him to the woods to collect the very last of his magical objects: the magic rod that would allow him to master the aspects attached to the air element.

  It was still early. The sun had just glanced on the forest’s green-laden horizon. The fresh dew had now completed its remarkable odyssey, rising from the damp earth until finding its place in the form of sparkling droplets of water, located at the tip of the weeds, challenging the most basic law of gravity.

  Meridian’s long and placid strides touched the fresh shrubbery, forcing the fragile, heavy droplets to surrender and fall to the ground, with his feet getting wet in the process. Such a morning freshness invigorated him.

  Albeit alone, apparently, he wanted to be heard by every single being in the forest, his tone of voice owed nothing to the silence of his surmises. This was the way he partook of nature. While talking to her, he attempted to have answers that only she could give him.

  Lowering himself, he grabbed from his waist a small scythe with a white handle and pressed the blade, made of the purest gold, against a tiny branch of fennel that grew next to a docile subdivision of water. He asked permission from the plant to take it from the earth but, instead of listening to the consent echoing in his heart, something made him lose his concentration. Amid the monotonous and comforting sound of the water, a noise taken as odd in the context of nature become graciously evident: the weak and uninterrupted cry of a child.

  For a couple of moments, Meridian remained motionless, doubting his own ears. What on earth would justify the presence of a child in that place?? But the weeping did not seem to stop, forcing him to stand up promptly, allowing himself to be guided by his trained ear. Distraught, he shook aside tiny bushes that leaned over the water like small, thirsty animals.

  Lying near the bank, and attached to dead bits of oak branches, was a small alcove, partially destroyed by the fierceness of the water. Without wasting any time, Meridian jumped into the riverbed and, grabbing the poor child shivering in cold temperatures, he was dazzled by what he saw.

  With a fast movement, he took off his tunic and wrapped the baby with it.

  - Who did abandon you, my little one??? – he said, looking around, hoping to see the child’s parents.

  With determined steps, Meridian, the aspiring wizard, left the water and, bearing witness to the condition of the alcove, the parents were p
robably not anywhere near.

  “She was abandoned! How could they do such a dismal thing?” He pondered.

  Laying the child down on a cozy and fluffy lawn, now warm by the morning sun rays, he stared at the mountains and focused his thoughts. Answering his request, a small herd of mountain goats emerged through the foliage of the enveloping forest.

  Then he grabbed a cup from his rucksack. It was his own magical instrument, representing the water element, which granted him access to all the purification spells. But, this time around, the purpose would be more physical than something related to the ethereal and magical realm. He placed the cup underneath a female goat and started milking it, until the receptacle was filled. He then took it very carefully and, trying not to lose the tiniest drop of the precious nectar, poured the milk into a small leather bag that he carried around his waist. Using his scythe, he punctured a tiny hole in the bottom of the leather and, through the improvised breast, he fed the little one with the valuable virgin milk.

  Starved, she drank it voraciously and, when the bag was empty, the cry reemerged, forcing Meridian to extract more milk. When she was finally satiated, she fell asleep warmed by Meridian’s arms. “Who on Earth could have abandoned such a beautiful and fragile child? She is the most beautiful child that my eyes have ever seen! She is an angel... yes, it can only be an angel, what other creature could have these angelic traits?” he thought to himself.