Dense, heavy fog hung low over the village the morning the Child was born. The air was completely still, as if it were afraid to disturb the fog from its rest. Even the creatures bedded down in the common pasture were silent, sheep and goat huddled close with cow and horse for warmth as daily squabbles were momentarily forgotten. No mortals were awake, save for the parents of the Child and the village midwife.
The woman stifled her pained cries, fearful that one of the Masters would discover her and her child. The man paced the floor restlessly, his tense footsteps muffled by the soft woolen soles of his slippers. The midwife bustled about, but quietly, oh so very quietly, while easing the forbidden birth. She swaddled the boy in warm cloths as soon as she could, in hopes of quieting his cries; to her surprise, he made none, though his sleepy blue eyes were open and curious.
The midwife made a brief sign against evil upon her breast, but she held the child gently as she inspected him for any signs of sickness or weakness. There were none; the child was perfect in the way that truly healthy children are, save for one thing. On the back of the newborn’s neck, nearly invisible and nearly missed, was the Sign, raised like a wing-shaped pale blue birthmark. The midwife, whose oral history training had given her knowledge of superstition and prophecy going back thousands of years, knew what the Sign meant. She also knew the reward for finding the Child with the Sign. Her family was devout: even when measured against a child’s life, the chance to Ascend won out. She returned the child to his mother, weary from the birth, who held him lovingly. His father looked on, fearfully, knowing the danger to the little family. Neither noticed as the midwife went into the back room to signal the Masters.
§ § §
Dense, heavy smoke hung low over the village the morning after the Child was born. The air was completely still, as though afraid to stir the smoke from its resting place over the dead. The cows and horses, sheep and goats, wandered freely through the fallen, sometimes still smouldering, timbers. Small piles of ash, laid out precisely in a mockery of the Sign, marked the resting places of the village inhabitants. All save one, who had been given her reward: Ascension. She had left her miserable existence behind for a better one, the gossipers might say. She had betrayed a good woman, others might argue. However, none were now left to speak of the events of the previous day. Only the remnants of a burning building, the free-roaming creatures, and large, deeply etched clawprints in the damp earth of the village square had any parts of the tale to tell.
Nevertheless, the tale was told, spreading in whispers from village to village: the Child has been born, we may yet be saved! Death followed in its wake, in an attempt to quell the tale. But the truth was riding on the wind, and it could not be destroyed. The Child who will save the Humans has been born. No one knew where he was or what could have happened to him, but not a soul believed he had been killed along with his village. He would return one day, a man strong, to lead his people to freedom.
