Shocked, he found Prospero staring at a strange patch of mushrooms. Tristan hesitated to ask what was amiss. Surely a clump of mushrooms wasn’t important enough to garner a god’s undivided attention. Without warning, the god darted off the trajectory of their journey. “Wait,” Tristan yelled, chasing his spiritual guide. Does he intend to leave me behind now?

  Prospero didn’t stop to see if Tristan followed. He continued his impromptu detour. It made no sense to Tristan. What was it about the mushrooms that drove the god to such erratic behavior? As his legs pounded against the earth, he caught glimpses of similar fungi dotting the ground. Prospero didn’t bother stopping to admire them. His goal, if he had one, was out in the distance. As his muscles and lungs burned from the pointless race, Tristan hoped that their destination showed up sooner rather than later.

  His wish came true when a wooded grove came into view around a hilly rise. From their starting point, Tristan doubted he ever would have spotted it. Prospero floated outside the grove, his eyes twinkling with a warm fondness. “When was the last time?” he mused. When Tristan stepped closer, he said, “Boy, do you feel it?”

  “Yes,” he answered. Tristan didn’t need the god to elaborate on what it was. There was power in the air. It left his skin tingling as if a cold numbness washed over him. At the same time, it pulled on his heart, drawing him closer to the grove.

  “This is a sacred place,” Prospero explained. “The world is full of them. Even the most spiritually dead cannot deaden their ears to its siren call.” He floated closer. “They existed from the creation of the earth, serving as testaments of the might of the mighty force that guides all toward their destiny. Mankind has built shrines to honor the gods while deities and spirits frequent them to rejuvenate their hearts.” Exhaling deep, he whispered, “How long I’ve desired to bathe in a gentle pool.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Tristan asked. After dragging him this far, it was a waste to stand outside. Prospero nodded. Together, they moved underneath the shady canopy.

  Before going too far, the god halted his companion. “That reminds me. We might meet other spirits here. Remember this. Whether they address us or not, try best to act as if you cannot see them. I believe I do not have to explain that reasoning again.”

  Tristan nodded. He understood this as best as he could. A mortal with divine eyes, seeing what only spirits could, was an anomaly. He was a being that should not exist. The instant another was aware of his power. Who knew what might happen? They might snatch him up, so that they could pursue why he was unique, or so that they could snuff out his life. It was a worst-case scenario, but he couldn’t ignore it. There was a paranoia that accompanied this line of thought, but Tristan agreed that being cautious was the best course of action.

  The grove took his breath away. Though the sun stood high overhead, it was as if the grove existed on the edge between day and night. The trees enclosed everything, creating an isolated world of refuge. Still, darkness didn’t reign inside the grove. Faint lights floated in the twilight, letting Tristan see every detail. A gentle spring rested in the middle of a garden of elegant flowers of blue and purple. At the far end of the water, a large stone rested. Faded runes lay etched into its face. Littered at the base were various altars and statues, all made of stone or wood. No doubt, many devout followers left some form of memento for their chosen god.

  Prospero breathed deep. “It is good to see mankind give the holy places the honor and respect that they deserve.” Gesturing to Tristan’s feet, he ordered, “Take off your shoes. Don’t separate yourself from the divine ground.” His upper lip trembled in growing excitement. “Enjoy deep drafts from the spring. Let this place nourish your weak body and allow your spirit to soar.”

  As Tristan followed Prospero’s list of commands, something caught his eye. Out from the edges of the trees, small winged women darted around. They wore garments of grass and leaves. Each had long silver hair shimmering in the faint light. Stifling a cry, Tristan backed away. “Don’t mind the fairies,” Prospero instructed as the tiny creatures drew closer. “They’re harmless creatures. All they wish to do is dwell inside the holy place. Be kind to them. Perhaps one might grant you a boon.” Tristan felt an uncertain shimmer course up his weak spine. He doubted he’d let any of them get close enough to find out if what Prospero said was true. Besides, his accursed new vision was the last boon he wanted from the divine world.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  Once Tristan’s bare feet were placed firmly on the ground, an unfamiliar sensation prickled his skin. It was as if his feet stepped into a warm pool of water filled with sharp rocks threatening to break the skin. He tried to ask Prospero if this feeling was common among the devout, but the god was too busy giving out further directions on proper etiquette. “Be on your best behavior. Certain behaviors are forbidden in such places. No swearing or vulgar displays. Don’t blaspheme against any god. Avoid any oaths, no matter your sincerity. In holy places, those are cemented in stone and terrible curses follow those that break them. Oh, and watch your step. You never know what enchantments loom nearby.”

  “Perhaps it’d be best if I wait outside,” he said, taking a tentative step back. A queasiness possessed his stomach. He couldn’t place his finger on it, but something was very wrong with this place. A sudden pain tore into his lower right arm. “Oww,” Tristan cried out, eyes snapping toward the source of the pain. A fairy clung to his skin. Fresh blood ran down Tristan’s forearm while the little creature drowned her face in the tiny current. Spying the stream, dozens of fairies darted forward, teeth gnashing in anticipation. Rage surged through his chest. “Get off,” he barked, slapping the troublesome little woman away. The retaliation drove the swarming creatures dashing around, circling for their next chance to strike.

  “Tristan?” the god shouted in surprise. Wheeling away from the spring, any form of possible chastisement vanished from his eyes. He looked on in stunted horror as he watched the ravenous spectacle. “What have you done?”The god’s rage burned so hot that Tristan’s heart quivered in instant terror. Every fairy froze in place, unable to move in the god’s furious presence. “This is a holy place. The blood of mortals disgraces this hallowed ground.” He gestured to the ground at Tristan’s feet. Dark blood stained the earth. It was only a few drops, but it was enough.

  Tristan had no words. Would some curse fall on his head? As if he didn’t have enough problems on his plate already. As if answering his unspoken question, a reddish glow overshadowed the dim twilight. The clear water blackened. Small white bones floated to the surface. “Get back,” Prospero shouted. At his command, Tristan took a step back, away from the bloodied grass. “I have to act fast if I’m to reverse the curse.” A flash erupted from the god’s hands to reveal a strange book. Odd red briars crisscrossed around the cover, binding the pages together. Opening the book, he placed his hand on a blank page. “Oh Book of Cursed Hecate, remove this stain on this holy place. Take away the blot and bind it within the pages of this tome. Let peace be restored.”

  As he finished the incantation, the empty page glowed. The blood droplets vanished in tandem. Before Prospero shut the book, Tristan noticed a dark spot appearing on the page. When the task was complete, the dark water cleared, bones vanishing from sight. The red light faded and they stood in the peaceful twilight once again. “That was close,” the god sighed, wiping his brow. Glancing at the tome, he slapped the cover with a short chuckle. “Knew swiping this would come in handy,” he whispered.

  “What was that?” Tristan murmured.

  “My apologies,” the god said, turning away from the spring. “I forgot how fickle fairies can be. Most times, they are sweet creatures, but at times, they can exhibit hostile behaviors. Should have spotted it at once. I was foolish. Too pleased with myself for finding this place, I believe.”

  Tristan had stopped listening to the god. Looking past him, he found something resting at the water’s edge. As soon as he saw it, he felt his stomach twist in revulsion. “Prospero,” Tristan gasped, pointing past the god. Huffing, his guide turned around to find the terrible thing the lad spotted. Amongst the symbols of devout homage, a blasphemous altar rested in the hollow of a man’s skull. Ugly dead flowers, pelts decaying, twisted together to form a vague resemblance to a man. Long cruel needles stuck through the body, each dipped in blackened blood. An aura of wickedness radiated from it.

  Neither said a word, but Tristan felt Prospero’s rage, disgust, and sorrow. The swirl of emotions was enough to make him sick. It was all he could do to avoid emptying his guts on the ground, cursing what Prospero tried to hallow. Would it matter if this desecration existed? Deep inside the emotional vortex, the god’s voice spoke, crying out what he felt in his heart of hearts while his lips remained frozen in horror. Lamenting, as one of Herodotus’s kings at the destruction of his kingdom, the god’s voice bellowed, “Not again. Not again.” As to what he meant, Tristan would not find out for some time. For now, all he wanted was to be free of this dreadful place. In his heart, Prospero agreed.