The Tale of the Rikity Tig (rough draft)

The bonfire was burning red hot, and I could feel it seering the fuzz off my cheeks. It was much better than the winds that came off the sea though, I knew all too well how raw it can turn a person. After so many long months onboard, I had almost forgotten what solid ground felt like. I felt steady, yet I was uneasy at the same time. Having grown used to constant motion, this stillness unsettled me.

All around me, large bodies move back and forth, shuffling between themselves until they begin to look like a vast forest stretched out before me. I stared blankly into the fire, and within it I could hear screams and panic, worlds falling down, lives coming to a halt. I don’t know how the others can go about and not hear that within the flames.

“You are looking at that fire as if you know her.” A voice reaches me, seemingly coming from the flames. I turn slightly, seeing a man sitting near me. His head is bowed as he looks over his stringed instrument. Long, elegant fingers bring cords into the air, covering the screams within the flames.

“It is keeping me from becoming too agitated.” I shift in place, wrapping my coat around me tighter. I do not know where this man came from. He appeared as if out of nowhere, but considering how lost I had become in the fire, it is no surprise someone did.

The man strums slow, keeping my mind focused on his presence rather than anything else around me. The forest of men appeared to still and the fire cast its glow upon the man.

“How long have you been gone?” His eyes focus upon me, beautiful and haunting all in a single glance. They are as dusky as the morning sky, a heathered shade that looks hypnotic. Does he know me and I have simply forgotten him after all this time away?

“Long enough for my children to have forgotten me,” I answer. 

He brushes aside his long dreadlocks then continues to play. “You have children?”

“Not any more,” I murmur.

The man looks up to the fire. “I am sorry to hear about that.” He starts playing a song, something unfamiliar yet nostalgic all at the same time. “These are not the nights for children anyways.”

I don’t reply, I just look straight ahead at the fire.

The man’s long fingers gracefully pull music from the strings. It soothes me, and my head begins to bob as exhaustion lays upon my shoulders. “There are things in this world much worse than man these days.”

I sniffle and raise my head, blinking sleep away for now. “What do you mean?”

A smile comes to the man’s lovely face. “Surely there must be something in the dark that you fear.”

I scoff and shake my head. “You’re talking about children’s stories.”

“Stories begin somewhere. Sometimes they begin with truth.” He lays his palm flat over the strings. “So tell me, have you heard of the creature called the Rikity Tig.”

The bonfire flickers, hissing loudly and crackingly. It causes a stir and a silence in the forest of men I had never witnessed before.

“The Rikity Tig?” I stare down confused at the man. “What sort of language is that?”

“It is no language,” the man says with a sort of smile. “It existed before all that, and will stalk us long after.” He plucks a single cord. “Have you ever seen lights out in the darkness with no explanation as to what they are? Noises that you have never experienced before, coming from corners that should hold no sound?”

I bite at the edge of my tongue while meeting his smile with a sneer. “Are you trying to scare me?”

His lovely smile grows. “Is there something to be scared of within your answer?”

I look away from him and return to silence.

He chuckles, strumming away again. “It is alright to be afraid of things in the dark, that is where fear often starts for us. The shadows and the unknown are the birthplace of most stories. I have learned many of them.”

“You’re a storyteller,” I chuckle to myself. “That explains it.”

“Most of it.” He places his instrument between his legs. “One of the first I ever heard was that of the Rikity Tig.”

“That again,” I roll my eyes. “If you want to tell me something, then tell me. But do not go in thinking that you will receive anything from me.. I have nothing. No coin. No home. Only what you see before you.”

“I do not tell stories for the joy of a coin. I have many reasons to share the tales I know.” At this point, the forest of men have taken notice and begun to crowd all about us. “Stories are important, and they should be shared with everyone.”

The crowd starts to gather thicker around us. They want to listen to this man’s tales while all I want to do is be left alone to gaze into the fire. I have no use for his songs, his words, I just want to go back out to sea where none of those things matter.

“Why are you trying to lull us into this false sense of security?” I point into the trees. “Do you have friends out there waiting to take our skin and sell our bones?”

“I am alone, aside from you.” His smile is surprisingly serene. “Once, long ago, there was a woman like you who lived alone in the woods and held onto the things that made her miserable.”

The forest of men is too close for comfort. “Let me guess, this Rikity Tig thing ate her her alive but spit her up because she was bitter.”

The aman stills and shrugs, returning to strumming. “No. It does not eat flesh.”

A lump forms at the back of my throat, causing a tension that makes my whole neck stiff. “Then what else is there?”

“I’ll tell you, but you must listen. It is important that you hear this story. Can you promise me that?”

I nod in silence.

The man looks deep into the woods, and thus, he begins his story.

Long ago, a woman lived alone in a house her husband built. He was gone, their children were gone, and she let that weight sit upon her shoulders. She never took it off, she simply let it bend her over time. 

She kept to herself, wishing for company when her door always remained closed. She lamented her life, bemoaning the time she had left to her. It was always too long, too much, too heavy, yet she packed all of her burden onto her back without a second thought.

The woman was haggard despite still lingering in some of her best years. Grief had tried many times to escape her, and yet she clung to it like a lover. She needed that pain, needed her suffering, and sometimes it was as if she addicted to it. 

Not many people came to visit her, many who knew her were long gone, and others came to be frightened of her. She was not a witch, but her loneliness and anguish made people believe she was one. She didn’t fight it either, just more for her to hold on to.

There came a day that a young man in the village passed away. It was a shock to everyone, no one could understand what had happened. He was so young, so vital, and yet he was found dead in his own home.

His wife spoke about some strange behaviour he had been showing in his final days. “He complained of a light in the woods,” she said. “He said he saw something out there moving around. But anytime I looked I didn’t see a thing. Just yesterday, he said it felt like something was breathing on him. So he left the house to look. He came back to bed when I was asleep, I thought it was him, but I guess I was just dreaming, because when I woke, he was slumped by the window.”

The sad woman came to pay her respects to his family, but her welcome was long over stayed as she pulled their grief into her.

“It is best he died now rather than suffer the years he has before him.” She said these things almost proudly. “What is there for men these days? I ask you honestly? What did he have to look forward to? War? Famine? Illness? The plague is due back again, there are far too many of us and it makes the powers out there unhappy. He had much more to suffer had he been alive!”

“This is not the time to be speaking of such things!” Someone hissed at her. “The family is sick with grief, and yet you can see to only say things that placate you.”

“I am telling them the truth!” The woman gasped. “I am preparing them for the harness of this world. I am trying to make them happy.”

She is grabbed by the arm and forced closer to the door. “No one wants your truth! No one wants to hear horrible on top of horrible.”

“People need to know!”

The woman is shoved from the door. “You complain and you whine about your life, but I bet if you knew how long you really had, you would bemoan that too!” The door is slammed in her face and she stands there, believing she is right.

“You will all do much better seeing things my way. You know I am right and you all would rather remain blissfully in your ignorance! That is no way to live!” She shuffled off, leaving the town behind to return to her home.

“I would be happy to know my time is short!” She scoffed. “I would celebrate it. At least I would know.” Going into her home, she locked the door and sat herself own before the hearth. The embers were dull, but she made no move to stock the fire. There weren’t even any logs by the fireplace for her to use, she would have to go outside to get them.

As night began to settle over the mountain tops, the woman’s house was growing cold, so mumbling and complaining, she went outside to fetch some wood for the fire. She went to the stockpile, grabbing from the top. As she pulled a log away, she noticed something in the distance. At first, she thought it was a star, perhaps a sliver of moonlight, but even then, it seemed far too bright and far too close for that.

Continuing to take logs, she tried to ignore whatever this light was, until she felt as if something was watching her. She looked around, seeing nothing but the growing darkness of the forest. There were no more shadows, just shifts of light within the distance, and that one bright spot that appeared even closer than before.

The woman watched it, wondering who was in the woods at this time of night. It better not be anyone looking for help, she had none to give. The light moved erratically, sometimes shambling close to the ground and then high up in the trees. This made the woman convinced it was a firefly who had no clue what season it was. She returned into her home to stoke the fire. 

As she sat in her chair, watching the logs catch fire, she could not shake the feeling of being watched. After having been alone for so long, it was no longer a sensation she was used to. It felt unfamiliar on her skin, almost creeping along like the little legs of insects. It was sometimes on her arm or cheek, and she would touch knowing there was nothing there, except a gaze she could not find. 

She went to the window, peering outside into the darkness. There was nothing to see this night, no stars or moonlight to illuminate the land and cling to the backs of trees. Merely a deepness that was unending, something she was familiar with.

Then, in the deepest distance, she saw that lonesome little firefly again. It swung into the air, going back and forth, up and down, then stilling to where it was a pinprick. It didn’t move, but the light it exuded flickered out into strange finger-like beams. 

The woman leaned towards the window so that he breath fogged the glass. She watched as the light flashed brightly, burning her eyes and making her look away. She dropped the curtain, rubbing at her eyes as she decided someone was playing a trick on her. None seemed too happy about her presence that afternoon when she paid her visit. It would not be the first time some arrogant children had tried to frighten her either. She was used to that after all, it was a right of passage these days. 

She sniffed and bit her thumb at the window. “Childish. I see your game! You will not frighten me tonight nor any night.” She turned on her heel quite sharpley and took herself to bed. Yet, that feeling of eyes upon her still clings to her skin, making it difficult for her to find peace, let alone sleep that night. She tossed and turned in bed, almost feeling suffocated by the presence. There were a few times she felt breath on the back of her neck, but she blamed it on her long hair.

This feeling persisted, even as the morning turned into noon. All the while, she felt this moist warmth on the back of her neck. She tied up her hair, hoping it would alleviate the sensation. The longer the day went on, the more frustrated she became. It became a grating constant, slowly wearing away her nerve and energy. Every sound became a threat, every breeze and enemy.

She stayed in her home, cautious of every step she made. Each creak of the board sounded like someone speaking, so she would stop and turn to look out the window. The eyes, the breathing, it all gathered and collected upon her, adding to the weight she already clung to. It became another part of the burden she felt she needed. 

That night, from her window, she saw that light again. It hit her eye from the corner, and when she turned it burned through the curtains. 

“I see you,” she rasps under her breath. A laugh bubbles up in her throat.  “I see you. So do not worry, your little joke does not fall on deaf ears, but it falls uselessly on an unfearing heart.”

She says this, but her eyes remain focused on this light. Like the night before, there are fingers coming off it that flicker and stretch out. The fingers hold onto the trees and ground, clawing away as it brings itself closer. Rather than burn anything, the light seems to burrow into whatever is around it.

The light danced in the darkness, swinging around before it stilled again. It hung there in the air, it’s fingers digging harder into everything around it, even pulling away her curtains. The light was ripping away at things, creating holes all around it where darkness flooded, thickening the air so that a halo hung around it.

The woman stared so long, she began to see shapes in the light. No doubt the horrible pranksters. She came to her senses momentarily to scowl, gazing at the figure in the light with an angry scowl.

“I know you are there! I can see you. Whatever trick you are pulling. Cut it out now.”

“You can’t hide forever,” a man says. “I found you once. I will find you again.” 

The woman can’t breathe from shock. The voice is so familiar, but the owner of it has been gone all these years. He had vanished during a storm, swallowed by the sea he used to love. 

“It cannot be!” She wailed, clasping her hands about her ears. “It is not possible.”

The man stood there in the stillness of the light. “I’ll find you,” he says again.

“Darling!” The woman ran from her house. She stood at the end of the light, seeing the shadow of the man walking forward. “You’re alive!” She trips over a branch, falling flat on her face and into the dirt.

The hot breath beats down on the back of her neck again. She moans in pain, rising from the ground as it beats down on her. The light is gone and with it, her husband. She stares into the darkness with a pitiful moan.

She places her hand around the back of her neck where that hot breath beats and she feels a pair of lips. Whipping around, lashing out her arms and hands, there is no one there. Only the darkness and chill of the evening. She returned to her home, leaving the fire out and sitting by her window all night.

Breathing onto the glass, watching for any signs. She knew she was being watched, one does not simply feel this way for no reason. She was no fool, and she would not allowed anyone to make her feel this way. She knew the truth of things, and if they wanted to harm her, they should have been more direct about it. 

The voice was the only thing she would admit to being bothered by. It sounded just like her husband, exactly like his final words said to her on the dock. They had bored inside her so that, when she received word he vanished, they would never leave her. 

She went into town to the market to buy a few things she needed at home. Nothing was different from the many times she had been there before, but to her there was a change all around her. The people all were guilty of something, of watching her, of being in on the joke. She cast glances on them as if cursing them all. They were all laughing at her.

As she was heading into the store, she noticed an axe out front. She took hold of it, looking down the blade and sneering.

“They’re making fun of me.” She snarled under her breath. “Always calling me a witch. Always mocking me.” She squeezes the handle of the axe in her hand. “This is another threat towards me. Well it won’t work. They don’t scare me so easily.” She grumbled away, unaware of the man approaching her from behind.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He put his hand on her shoulder.

The woman screamed, whipping around and striking the man with the axe. She hit his shoulder with the blade, then his head with the blunt side. “I am not a fool! You can’t scare me with your tricks!” She screamed, hitting him again and again. Blood splattered and it did not stop her. The man cried out and it did nothing to assuage her rage. They were all in on it, this was all a joke to them.

A child screamed and the sad woman raised her head. She looked around, rushing away as people came towards her.

“It was a trap!” She jutted out a bloody finger. “You all did this. You can’t blame me. All of you wanted this!” She ran again, dodging those who tried to capture her.

She hid in the woods until nightfall, sneaking back to her home. But someone was still watching her. She stumbled into her home, watching out the window. 

“They did this. They shouldn’t make fun of me. They know I am right.” She turns to her fire, seeing it has gone out. She went back outside, gathering firewood, when yet again that light shone in the distance. It was bigger than a pinprick now and was swinging from side to side. 

In town, the man she attacked with the axe died, and already, it was being discussed what to do with her. It was agreed, due to the amount of witnesses, there was no need for a trial. The woman would be hung after her capture. 

Unbeknownst to her, already men were coming through the woods to her door. She remained by the window, watching this light outside. Maybe her husband would return and he had this light to look for her. He knew where their home was though, how could he be lost? 

Her breath fogged the window, and the light looked like the flicker of a candle. It moved as if in someone’s hand walking through the woods. The candlelight glows brighter when she focused upon it, but then it faded away as soon as she blinked. Whatever was moving out there waved through the dark trees, but it could just as easily be the wind.

She could hear breathing just behind her. It blew down her neck in a ripple. She wouldn’t turn around at all, all of her attention was focused outside. 

“Why would there be candlelight out here?” She murmured sleepily. “Why a candle at all?”

She pressed herself closer to the glass, looking for someone that didn’t exist. Her breath continued to fog that window, dripping down as it built up. The window showed no reflection, so she did not see what moved behind her. 

No. It’s not your breath.

Suddenly, she could see the candle. It sat in an empty socket of a skeletal head, wax dripping down all over it’s strange, grotesque face.The old bone is dry and cracked, filled with moss and dirt between the teeth. The candle is dripping, the flame is burning. The candle doesn’t have much longer left. It’s breath fogs the window, not her’s.

The woman stared, horrified by what she saw. “Is that me?” Her voice croaked as she clasped her hands around her face. She could feel the wax on her cheeks and under her eyes. It drips like a clock, so slow, so fast. The candle is so short. It drips. 

The hot breath on the back of her neck began to feel like fire. As the face in the window breathed she was suddenly snatched from behind. The woman screamed, struggling and fighting against the men who grabbed her. She was dragged from her home, seeing the candle still burning inside her home.

She was taken into town where she was thrown into a cell. She laid there with nothing but darkness all around her. Taking slow breaths she filled the silence. She then heard a small splat. Opening her eyes, she saw wax on the floor. Looking up, the candle at that monstrous face hung above her from the ceiling.

“I found you,” her husband said.

“I knew you would,” the woman relaxed back down upon the floor. “I knew you’d come to me eventually. I’m so happy.”

“Mama, it’s cold,” her son whispered. 

“Come close to me,” she stretched out her hand across the floor. “My baby, come here. I’ll keep you warm this time.”

A cold, shriveled thing slipped into her palm. Wax hit against her cheek and the light began to dim. 

“I found you.”

“I wasn’t hiding.” She looked up and the candle began to flicker out. “No!” She sat up like a shot. “No! Don’t go!” She stood up, reaching for the candle. “You can’t go out! You just can’t go out!”

It was breathing on the back of her neck again, this time it felt like her husband’s kisses pressing hard upon her spine. 

“You can’t go out!” She grabbed hold of the candle and the wax burnt her fingers. “I’m not ready! It’s not enough!”

The kiss became a fist that struck hard at her neck. The candle snuffed out and her feet dangled in the air. Dead eyes stared at the ground, while the eyes of the entire town focused upon her hanging there. 

She complained that her life had gone on too long, and yet, when the candle was snuffed out, it wasn’t enough time for her, at all.

I stared at the man, and the forest of men seemed to shift closer to one another, becoming a mountain range. I let out a shuddering breath, but I am far from cold.

“But what about the Rikty Tig?” I ask. “Was it her? What was it?”

The man looks at me with those lavender eyes and he hums. “The Rikity Tig is what we give power to devour us.”

I swallow hard. “But you said it didn’t eat flesh.”

“And it doesn’t.” He smirks at me. “It devours us, and we are not flesh.”

“But that woman-” I grab hold of his hand so he cannot move. “She was hanged right? That’s what happened to her?”

The mountain range shifts, slowly becoming a forest again.

“She was, but had she not let the Rikity Tig inside her, she could have saved herself.” He holds my hand, rubbing his thumb into the center of my palm. “All those years of grief she held onto, collecting burdens like sticks into a bundle, she never let go of her suffering. She never sought to relieve herself, only to add onto it. She made her Rikity Tig, and it hung her in the end.”

I release his hand and catch my breath, clutching onto my chest. I look back at the bonfire, but I do not let myself stare. I turn back to the storyteller with tears in my eyes. “How do we get rid of it?”

“It will always be there, you just can not let it grow.” The storyteller picks up himself and his instrument. “Have a good evening.” He vanishes into the forest of men, much like how he appeared before.

I take a deep breath and look up into the sky. I feel a breath upon my neck.