Excerpt from Scheherazade's Box (a collection of short stories from various genres):
If Mad I Be
Rain trickled through the dense canopy, above the earthen house. Nathor stared out into the perennial gloom that was the Dark Forest. It never bothered him as a child. The people of the forest were usually immune to it. But during the past few years, there were weeks when the gloom encompassed his soul, only to be replaced by days of frantic activity. Little stones emerged from the dirt floor and danced around in complex patterns. Nathor forced a smile to his face.
“That was very pretty,” he told the earth. “Don’t worry so – I’ll be all right.”
It was a hollow consolation and the ground around Nathor knew it. Larger stones around him exchanged places with those near the fire. He really should contact Saylin, his Great Mage, and ask about this behavior. A mage’s region of earth was supposed act on the mage’s commands – not act on its own. But then he would have to admit his bizarre moods swings and risked being declared rogue.
Nathor pulled himself away from the small opening, letting the thick burlap fall back over it. Really, he thought to himself as he crawled back into his bed, there wasn’t any need to bother Saylin. The earth wasn’t doing anything potentially harmful. Between the rest of the Dark Forest and his duties in Clarstel, the Great Mage had enough to worry about. With that thought, Lesser Mage Nathor fell back to sleep.
A few days later, the franticness came back. Sitting still was a challenge. Concentration was almost non-existent. Sleep was a butterfly that fluttered just out of his reach. The world around him was a blur. Several times Nathor tried to step beyond the boundaries of his power, only to have the earth rise up to block him.
“You know,” he said to it. “You know that I am no longer sane and you are trying to keep me safe.”
A calming sense of warmth came from the ground, through the soles of his feet. For a short moment, Nathor’s mind cleared. He looked at the dirt wall and the forest beyond it.
“I am going to have to tell him,” he stated. “I will have to go to Clarstel and tell Saylin I am now rogue. I can no longer live like this.”
Drawing off the comfort of his region of land, Nathor carefully packed for the long trip to the City of Magic. Saylin had done his rounds of the Dark Forest a month ago and was now attending to his Clarstel duties. The earth did try to stop him, but in the end it obeyed him as its mage. He fought the panic that engulfed him as he stepped onto ground that would not obey him. Focusing on a tree in the distance, he forced himself onward, gripping tightly to a compass crystal he bought from a trader while still a teenager. All he needed to do was go north until he hit the Starton River and then follow it west out of the Dark Forest. Then the mesa of Clarstel should be visible to him.
When he reached the tree, he looked down at the compass and picked another reference point in the right direction. It was almost evening when he remembered to feed himself. He went as far as he could before the darkness of night stopped him. Huddled amongst the twisted roots of a large tree, Nathor fought the nightmarish images his overactive mind created from the sounds around him.
Morning came after a short bout of sleep. Aching, Nathor ate a small breakfast and continued his way northward. The second day went much like the first, as did those that came after. By the time he reached the Starton River, he had lost count of the days he had traveled. Watching a large branch float downstream, he sighed, regretting that his destination was upriver and taking a raft was not an option.
Two days later, Tymia, the Dark Forest’s only city, came into view. As he got nearer, he became painfully aware of people surrounding him. Their very presence seemed to smother him. In quiet panic, he retreated back into the forest. Hidden by the bushes, he sat on a fallen log and slipped into despair. How could he possibly reach Saylin, if he couldn’t make it through Tymia?
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