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Mara and Morok

1

I’m dragging my feet in his wake, doing my best to keep apace with him. For as soon as I slow down, he pulls the chains that are attached to manacles on my wrists and a metal ring around my neck. And if he does it with a jerk, then I’ll keel over right into the muck the road has turned into because of the recent downpour. And I wouldn’t like to stain my new, and so far, the only, clothes I have. Well regardless, this shirt and caftan are much better than the half-rotten rags they raised me from my grave in.

There is a crowd of curious onlookers gathered on the either side of the road. Even though they huddle together, especially when we walk past, they still can’t contain their curiosity – they haven’t ventured out to the middle of nowhere in these small hours for nothing, right? Thick, dark clouds have overcast the autumnal sky and it’s impossible to guess if it’s still morning or if the sun has already started on its way back to the horizon. I can literally feel that nip in the air that signals the upcoming winter. While they were pulling me out of the ground an hour before dawn, I saw my breath escape in tiny clouds of steam and heard the hoarfrost squeaking and crunching underfoot when I stepped onto the grass.

The faces of the people who see me show the whole range of human emotions: from curiosity, to awe, and even terror. But then again, why should I be surprised? I’m sure it’s not every day that they have an opportunity to see a creature from legends and old folk tales raised from the dead. But I have no intention of becoming an exotic beast shown off to entertain the audience, so I lower my head and hope my hood will allow me at least to ignore the prying stares.

Of course, I couldn’t escape those stares even if I tried. My scarlet cloak is too conspicuous against the pale background.

My lips break into a thin smile as I realize they have dressed me in these ritual robes on purpose, to remind people of my origins and what I really am. Yes, my sisters and I used to wear these to stand out against the winter landscapes and snow-white shrouds that our Goddess owned. But now I’m splashing through the mud, leaving stains on the hem of my cloak. It shouldn’t bother me at all but that nagging feeling of resentment has already extended its tentacles and is reaching for my chest.

There were seven of us, including me. Maras. This is the name people gave us. We can do things common people do: drink, sleep, fear, die, and scream with pain. The only difference is that we were all marked by Morana, the Goddess of Death, when we were ten years old, and have been destined to do her bidding ever since. You are special, some people said; your mission means more than life, echoed others while taking us away from our families to bring us up in keeping with their illusory higher cause. I wish they’d repeated that to my sisters, now that their flesh is decomposing in the mass grave. Or they might have been burnt and my body alone had the bad luck of remaining intact.