Die to Live

TMWWD S01E05 – Flash Fiction [#18]

Stoer Lighthouse during the next Ice Age | Substack Image Generator

There’s nothing there. Bee slammed her fist on the map.

Samson, a burly man past his prime, stopped polishing the glass in his hand and looked up at her, hunched over that tattered piece of paper on the counter like every night for the past ten years.

“It’s a fool’s errand. Let it be,” Samson smiled, flush cheeks framed by a proud red beard, his bald head shone in the dim light.

A group of regulars slurred their goodbyes as they staggered to the door and waddled outside into the cold night, a stiff breeze howling across the cliff, heavy with salt and the promise of snow.

In the corner sat a hooded figure, busy with supper and the only remaining guest. The fire in the hearth had died down to its embers. A clanging and banging of pots and pans could be heard from the kitchen.

“Samson!” Del shouted.

“Ach.” Samson rolled his eyes, put down the glass, held up a finger, grinned and vanished into the kitchen. Bee studied the map. 60-23-44. She had to go. Even if it was in the middle of the ocean, out on the ice. Even if there was nothing there. It mattered not. She had to go.

Samson came back, face in a twist, stoked the fire and put on another log. The flames crackled. He watched a while, the stranger’s spoon clanked, followed by a slurp.

“Stay. Ye can’t go,” Samson turned to Bee, eyes pleading. “We need ye.”

Bee shook her head. I have to go, she signed.

Samson looked at her as she fidgeted with her silver spoon. He stroked his beard, picked up the glass, spat on it and continued to polish.

“I know, that monster hurt ye real bad. But how do ye know you’ll find anything there? No one ever comes back, Bee.”

She glared.

“Alright, alright. Let’s say ye make it there. Then what? Hack yer way into the ice with a spoon? Dive down?”

I have to try. That monster—He killed Zed—He… Every night… I wake up smelling his stink on me!

She swallowed hard, hand on the scar across her stomach where they had cut her open.

Even as that child grew in my belly… Every night… Bee stopped, her eyes narrow, teeth clenched, nostrils flared.

Samson gently put down the glass on the counter.

“I remember the day ye fell through that door, a wee hunter lass, bloodied, freezin’ and starvin’, more dead than alive. Ye screamed all through the night, I remember. The fever almost took ye. Aye, some wounds run too deep, but ten years, Bee—Ye have to let go of that hate.”

They are all dead because of me! Bee gripped the spoon as she signed, that pit deep inside her, a gaping mass of fury and sadness.

“Zed sacrificed himself for ye. And Vee, she gave her life so ye could escape, so ye could live.”

The stranger called for another pint. Samson waved back, took the glass he was cleaning and poured a pint of stout. “That bloke over there, he may know something. Shall I ask?”

Doubt it. She glanced at the stranger and shrugged.

“That a yes, then?” Samson topped off the pour, winked at Bee and left.

In the still of the moment, emptiness drowned her anger, filled her with indifference, a stranger in her own body, drifting apart, further and further, her hand reached inside her pocket, the rough fabric of an old sock, the trace of threads, stitched to form a face, the last remnant of a life long gone, a father lost. Murdered. A pang of hate—of guilt. She withdrew her hand.

“Cor, that bloke is no bloke. Says she knows ye. Says she has a message for ye. She’s got a funny smell on her, don’t care for it—but she paid for the night, can’t say no to that.” Samson washed the dirty glass and wiped it with his stained towel. “I’ll close up, and we’ll have a wee chat with the gal, alright?”

The stranger removed two long knives from the folds of her weather-stained cloak and laid them on the table, her face hidden in the shadow of her hood.

Pretty steel. Bee signed, silver spoon in hand.

“I’ve heard the story of that spoon,” said the woman with a nod, her voice a deep rasp.

“Then ye know she’ll take yer eye before ye can blink,” warned Samson.

The stranger held up both hands, covered in scars. “I don’t doubt it. But she took more than His eye ten years ago. She escaped the inescapable. Mad with rage, He slaughtered all in His path, always searching, always looking for the Bee that stung Him.”

“Tell us something we don’t already know,” said Samson.

He sent you. Bee pointed the spoon at her.

“True. He is waiting for you—so is your daughter—Isabeau.”

A slight flutter overcame Bee as she heard the name. You came to kill me.

“There are not many of us left. It would be a shame to kill one of our own,” she slowly removed her hood, revealing the hunter suit beneath.

Bee jolted, face ghostwhite.

“Hello, kid,” said the black-eyed hunter, a scarred smile on her lips.

Vee?

“I never should have let that monster take you—that day.”

How? I saw you die.

“Zed wouldn’t have. I—I failed you.”

“Oh, dear me,” Samson exhaled.

Vee told them how the Unmaker brought her back from the brink of death to do his bidding, her mind enslaved, his power over her absolute. A Titan, conceived by those who had made the Hunters. A weapon forged against the Maker, his hunger insatiable, devouring all—until he met his match in battle. Defeated. Like a scared animal, he fled, licking his wounds and the chains that held his creatures crumbled. Little by little, his army faded.

“And he just let ye go?” Samson scoffed.

Vee held out her hand, a blood-encrusted chip in her palm. “I cut it out when I heard about a fierce red-haired hunter protecting a village up north in the Highlands.” She smiled. “I knew it was you.”

I thought you were dead. Bee signed, brows furrowed, her heart racing.

“I’ll soon be. The things I’ve done—” She coughed.

How long?

“Long enough for one last hunt.”

Bee’s knuckles turned white as she squeezed the spoon.

“Die to live, kid.”

No!

“It’s OK, Bee. I made it.” She took a silver disc from her coat pocket, an empty slot in the centre covered by a screen. “For your daughter. Place this on the back of her head, and the device will deactivate the chip. It’ll only take a few seconds, but you must do it quickly while she’s asleep.”

Why didn’t you use it? I won’t let you die!

“One charge only, kid.” Vee put the device in Bee’s hand.

“Oh, dearie me. I need another pint. Ye all do.” Samson stroked his beard, murmured, and went behind the bar.

“You look well, Bee. I’m glad.”

There must be a way. We’ll find a way.

“It wasn’t your fault. You know that.”

Bee spread her map out on the table, pointing at a spot on the ice plains off the coast, east of Brae.

“The Origin? I’ve seen many maps like this. It’s a death trap. Many have tried. No one has ever come back. And Brae? A ghost town. Don’t go there.”

I have to.

“Save your daughter.”

My daughter…

“She’s our last hope. She’s the—”

The what?

Not now, Vee signed quickly to her.

“Here ye go. Best stout around!” Samson put down the pints, took a large gulp, wiped the ale off his beard with his sleeve and cleared his throat. “Not to sound disrespectful, Madam V, but—how shall I put this—yer presence puts us all in danger. And with Bee here heading for Kirkwall on the morrow, we must take precautions. Prepare for the worst.”

“Your people are safe. For now. I got rid of the two scavengers that followed me here. Buried them under the snow near the village border next to the road.”

“Alright, then. Dead bodies. Precautions. I’ll have a word with Del. We best leave before first light.”

We?

“Ye think I let ye wander off on yer own, did ye now? Oh no, I’m coming, and that’s that.” He looked at their stern faces. “Don’t be too excited! Besides, Black Betty runs a bar over in Kirkwall. She owes me a favour.”

“It’s not Brae we’re headed—”

“No matter. I’m coming.”

“To Fossá Icefalls,” said Vee.

“Aye. Wait. What? That’s… that’s more than—”

“Five hundred miles, give or take.”

“Have ye had a caber tossed on yer wee head? The ice will take us.”

Snowflakes as fat as cats danced in erratic gusts as three huddled figures headed out onto the ice at dawn under the watchful eyes of the Old Man of Stoer.

Bee’s Map

Author’s Note

This is a continuation of The Man Who Wouldn’t Die.

On April 15th, 2017, I overheard a conversation during lunch about methane bubbles and the next ice age. An idea formed, and I wrote down a sentence and some coordinates later that day.

For years, it collected dust in my Scrivener Ideas folder. Until now.

About the coordinates

It’s degrees, minutes, seconds, Latitude, no Longitude (0). Suddenly, I realised that those coordinates were about 42 miles east of Brae. Not that Brae. Funny coincidence, Nathan? A magic trick? Everything is connected.

Travel East, always into the East...

60-23-44 Origin.

Here’s that Maker’s Verse again.

Off the coast
east of Brae
across the ice
where none shall pass
there lies
what can't be found
all those who went
gone under
never to return
never to disturb her slumber

What do you think about the final episode? Is this the end of the story? Let me know your thoughts in the comments below.

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And as a little bonus, here are photos I took in 1998 of the Stoer Lighthouse and the Old Man of Stoer.

Stoer Lighthouse and Old Man of Stoer, Scotland, 1998. Alexander Ipfelkofer

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