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TOWERS OF ACALIA

THE REINCARNATED CORE VOL V

ATLAS KANE
 Illustrated by
ARINA CHAYKA
This is a work of fiction.
Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
TOWERS OF ACALIA: THE REINCARNATED CORE VOLUME V First edition.
November 03, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 Atlas Kane
Written by Atlas Kane
Created with Vellum
 CONTENTS

1. The River and the Wood

2. Falcon Takes the Fox
3. The Power of Purity
4. Lights in an Endless Night Sky
5. An Unseen Season
6. The Risk of Reputation
7. A Sickly Inheritance
8. City of Ages
9. Better than a Handshake
10. Cold as Sapphire
11. Between Gold and Jade
12. Like Living Jade
13. Seeds to Sow
14. Old Friends, New Rivals
15. More than a War Room
16. The Best Offense
17. A Crafter’s Trove
18. More than Awkward, Less than Sincere
19. A Crowd of Crows
20. The Past, and the Present Path
21. Brimstone
22. Bonding over Bloodshed
23. A City of Ash and Ruin
24. Within a Smoldering Blaze
25. When Conviction Fades
26. An In Between Thing
27. A Blessed Burden
28. Turning Up the Heat
29. The Predictable Twist
30. Soul of the Forge
31. The Cost of Ascension
32. The Wings of Justice
33. Speaking Stone
34. A Cultivator’s Burden
35. The Strength of Seven

The Sect of Kane

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MAP OF ACALIA
MEET PENDRI
1
 THE RIVER AND THE WOOD

“I ’m trying, Rin,” Brea hissed. “I wasn’t built for sneaking

around like Astra.”
Placing a hand on her shoulder, I gave the woman a
sympathetic smile. “You’re doing great. For the most part, you’ve
done exactly what Astra and Siobhan have suggested.”
“But?”
I chuckled quietly. It was hard not to enjoy the mild flush of
anger creeping up Brea’s neck. Her dark brown hair clung to her
forehead along with a single dead leaf.
“But,” I said carefully, plucking the leaf from her face and
dropping to the ground, “you stopped walking heel to toe again, and
you’re making too much noise, my love.”
Brea growled, eyeing the falling leaf with hatred.
Warrior that she was, however, it took her but a few deep
breaths to push the irritation away. “Fine, Rin. You’re right. Be
patient with me, though.”
I took her hand and kissed the heel of her palm softly.
She rolled her eyes, but I sensed the gesture comforted her
somewhat.
“Brea, I am not much better than you are. If I didn’t have a
rune-enhanced core, I doubt I’d be able to keep up with any of you!”
I punctuated the last part to let it sink in. “Seriously, you’re doing
well.”
My companion rested her elbows on her knees. Her green eyes
searched the trees around us briefly. She shook her head slowly. “It
still surprises me sometimes… all that I’ve seen, that is. Hunting in
the riverlands never came with scrounging through the brush like
this.
“And the towers? The mountains? I can’t imagine all we’ll see
together in our travels… I mean, what next?”
I watched her face closely as she spoke.
Her nose tilted up sweetly, her cheeks still round and soft despite
how our training and travel had thinned her body.
Brea was fascinating to me precisely because she had become a
fish out of water. All the others had pushed themselves all their lives,
braving the wilds, hunting, training to become vessels.
And though Brea was an amazing archer who had spent
countless hours perfecting that art, she was also just a woman
raised to bake bread every Sunday, good with a needle and thread.
Yet here she was.
Dressed in her meteoric mail armor, bow and tower-gifted quiver
slung over her back.
Deep in a southern wood so dense and unruly it nearly rivaled
the trees around the Forest Tower.
“What?” she asked, finally realizing I’d been studying her.
I shrugged. “Nothing. I agree with you, though. You’ve come a
long way, Brea. Not only have you gotten stronger, faster, and more
deadly, but the way you interact with the world has changed too.”
Brea’s green eyes flicked back and forth between my own. This
was her thinking face, impassive, almost devoid of emotion. Her
eyes betrayed a multitude of thoughts and emotions, though.
Glancing down, she brushed a few bits of soil from her thigh.
“How do you mean?”
I’d been hoping she would ask.
I paused long enough to give her the impression I didn’t already
have an answer for her. Then I told her frankly, “For one, how you
act among the girls is different. You used to be coy, pensive even.”
“I was not,” she muttered, her brow knitting in a frown.
“You were. And not just beside Astra. You were that way when
buying flour from Goran. Always sweet, always quiet, like you
weren’t comfortable asserting yourself.”
Before she could protest, I continued. “Now? Now you seem
more at ease. It’s a good thing, Brea, and it makes me happy to see.
A woman as good and honest as you has as much right as anyone
else in this world. More, in fact.”
Without warning, she leaned forward. Silent as a songbird on a
rainy day, Brea placed a hand on the ground between us, bracing
herself as she planted a soft kiss on my lips.
She held it for a few seconds, her breath blowing hot on my lips
and chin as she did so.
Then I felt her face contort into a smile. “Thanks,” she
whispered. “That was really sweet, Rin.”
As if she’d just received exactly what she’d needed to keep
going, the woman stood up from her crouch and nodded to me.
With no more communication, we resumed our hunt.
This far south, the pines, cedars, and oak trees I’d grown familiar
with all but disappeared. A dozen types of maple trees and white
aspens were common here, the combination making for a striking
landscape.
The aspens’ silver bark shone in the sunlight that filtered down
through the maples, the tallest of which towered well over fifty feet
high.
 Our sounds were muted by the soft forest floor, but we needed
to take care in where we placed our feet.
Dry twigs and the occasional newly dried leaf could betray your
position all too quickly.
I checked my map once more, pausing briefly to do so. It gave
little specific information, but Reshem had pointed out the canyon he
thought most likely to hold the foxes.
We were very close.
I tapped Brea on the shoulder and whispered as much in her ear.
She unslung her bow at last and pulled out an arrow. More
prepared now, she stalked down the game trail with even greater
caution.
Suddenly curious, I thought to ask Minh what she thought of the
Spirit Beasts we were hunting. Do you think they’ll be hard to kill?
Have you ever fought one?
Minh perked up immediately, buzzing with excitement. I’ve never
faced a three-tailed fox. But, one time, I did kill a powerful timber
wolf! He was nearly as large as I was!
A series of images accompanied her statement.
The first showed me the massive beast from her memories. The
wolf stood over a buck, several points on its proud horns indicating
how old it must have been. Yet the wolf’s broad chest spanned twice
as wide as the fallen deer’s.
Her second image moved in closer, displaying the crimson gleam
of the beast’s fangs as it growled. The wolf’s eyes projected absolute
authority, but Minh’s emotions attached to the image held nothing
but excitement.
Then a third image flashed in my mind.
The wolf lay twisted on the ground, its opened throat gushing
blood over two enormous, blue-furred paws.
He lasted quite a while! Minh told me enthusiastically. That was
one of the best fights I’d had, which says a lot, Rin!
Grinning, I replied in the best way I could, much like one
responds to a cat who has brought you an exceptionally large
mouse. Your bravery is boundless, Minh. I’m truly impressed. Still,
you didn’t answer the question. Do you know anything about the
foxes?
Minh hummed thoughtfully for a while.
The tower I was a part of after my death knew many things. It
had lots of information about Spirit Beasts. I didn’t pay a lot of
attention, though, sorry.
Minh’s sigh echoed in my head. It was hard to be excited about
much, Rin. The tower didn’t let me kill anything! I think you should
be careful, though. I do know foxes are known for their tricks.
I thanked Minh and focused on our progress again.
Reshem had told us much the same the day before. Apparently,
the great foxes were well respected. No hunter would ever track one
down.
Lately, a large number of livestock had gone missing however.
Even so, the southerners would have ignored such losses, honoring
the foxes for their prowess and wisdom.
Two days before we’d arrived, however, a woodsman’s camp had
been attacked. Ten men torn apart and half-eaten were enough to
warrant the hunt. And since Reshem was well regarded by the locals
in this area, they’d asked him to find the right cultivator for the job.
Brea stopped suddenly and pointed to her left.
The game trail continued on down the slope, but where she’d
pointed, a larger trail led up and disappeared through to densely
wooded hills.
That must be the canyon Reshem meant, I mused.
Giving Brea a thumbs-up, the two of us turned down the new
trail and headed into the canyon.
Suddenly, the bright green light and pleasant birdsong that had
echoed through the forest cut off.
The trees above clustered together, many of their crowded
branches dead and rotting. And there wasn’t a sound to be heard.
My skin pimpled with goosebumps, but still, we pressed on.
Along the trail, I noticed a darkness that clung to the tree trunks.
A blank and oily substance crept up the large maples. I wasn’t sure
if this was some organic disease or if Shadow Spirit might have
infected them.
 Either way, it was clear the grove was dying.
Brea paused and waved me forward. Standing beside her, I let
her whisper directly into my ear, “You sure our plan is a good one?”
I shrugged. Placing my mouth to her ear, I answered. “I trust
Reshem. As rude as he is, I doubt he’d steer us wrong. If we find
the foxes, we send up a signal and fight the beasts until they flee.”
Nodding behind us, I added, “From their position, they should be
able to intercept the foxes.”
“You sure they’re behind us?” Brea asked, her voice tense with
nerves.
I held up a finger.
Minh, reach out to Rael again. Make sure the others are following
along.
The coin shield buzzed in my pocket, and a few moments later,
she said, Yes, they’ve kept pace with you. Astra and Siobhan are at
the head of the canyon.
I told Brea the news, then asked Minh to tell Astra and Siobhan
to wait there. The foxes will likely head straight toward them, I said.
Should be an ideal ambush point.
As we moved ahead, I became more aware of a pervasive
presence. It hung in the air, seeming to watch us as we progressed.
More than ever was I grateful for the improvements Helias had
given to Rael and Minh. The fact that the two could speak to one
another, could feel each other’s location even at a distance, had
been news to Astra and I.
When chastised about not telling us sooner, Minh had replied by
vaguely telling me that she was a Divine Artifact. She deserved to
keep a few secrets.
No amount of griping could convince her otherwise, but Astra
and I did get the two to confess the full extent of their
improvements.
Not only could they speak and track one another, but they also
shared the same reservoir of Spirit. If necessary, either Minh or Rael
could draw upon that well, enhancing their abilities beyond their
normal scope.
 I stilled my mind, focusing only on my breathing and the steady
rhythm of my footfalls.
Sensing danger, I removed Minh and held the coin in my left
hand. To transform her into a shield now would be noisy, but I at
least wanted her ready.
With a thought, I summoned my Chasing Hammer.
Crossing over a rise in the forest floor, the trail descended rapidly.
At the trail’s end loomed a dark cave.
Before it, a wide patch of soil had been tamped down,
surrounding a pool of still water. Brea and I stalked to the water’s
edge and peered inside.
There, bubbling up from the ground, were thick strands of black
ooze, the same that now afflicted the trees.
“Rin,” Brea hissed.
I glanced up and stared into the wide and intelligent eyes of a
Spirit Beast.
The fox stood six feet at the shoulder, and its three tails writhed
in the air above its back. They were the only thing on its body that
moved.
Its coat held a rich luster that made the pale gray color appear
almost metallic. I would have found the beast beautiful—anyone
would have—if not for the thick, cloying black liquid streaming from
the corners of its golden eyes.
I used Inspect, curious to see what I might learn about the
monster.

T hree -T ailed W ind F ox

Rank: Major Spirit Beast
Monster Type: Mammalian
Disposition: Deranged
Elemental Affinity: Wind, Earth
D eranged , huh? That explains the death of the lumberjacks, I
thought.
Stepping slowly to stand beside Brea, I gave Minh the mental
command to transform. The clink and whir of the coin turning into a
shield reverberated in the heavy silence.
No sooner had I fixed the shield to the back of my arm did the
fox react.
Its coat fluffed up, its tail and the ridge of its back rising.
Growling, the fox backed away quickly and headed to the cave.
Taking careful aim, I whispered, “Ice Blade.”
The Spell Shard triggered, and a glinting sword forged of dense
ice raced from my palm.
Sensing the danger, the fox turned its head away to run. My
attack caught it just a few inches behind its heart. Instead of killing
the beast outright, or at least mortally wounding it, my spell sunk
between two ribs, punching a hole in the monster’s lungs.
A high-pitched yelp rang out, and the fox exploded away with an
incredible leap.
Brea’s bow twanged. The arrow would have missed, but she
redirected it with Frigid Shot Refocus. Tilting down at a sharp angle,
the glowing shaft careened into its target. Before the fox landed on
the ground outside the cave, a loud thunk sounded.
The beast tumbled into the darkness of the cave, already dead.
A fog of Spirit rose from its crumpled body seconds later.
Guilt and sadness filled my heart. We’d just put down something
beautiful. It had been deranged, but that didn’t completely alleviate
my mind.
The eerie rattle that echoed out from the cave, though—and the
two glowing eyes within—helped me regain my perspective quick
enough.
“Brea, back up. That one seems—”
 A massive fox jumped out of the cave and bounded toward us.
Easily twice the size of the other, this new threat came at us with
fangs bared and a nimbus of blue energy swirling around its head.
2
 FALCON TAKES THE FOX

B olts of Water Spirit shot up from the crown of the fox’s huge
head. Each projectile spun in the air briefly before veering
our way at great speed.
Brea dove to one side, firing an arrow as she did so. I recognized
the attack as Precision Geyser. It hit the fox in its chest with a splash
of power but did little to harm it.
“It has Water Spirit!” I shouted, blocking one of the bolts as it
came at my face. “Save your skills, Brea. I don’t think they’ll help
much!”
Another of the bolts landed hard against my thigh. It struck with
a loud splash, the liquid Spirit leaking through my armor and seeping
into my muscle.
Staggering back a pace, I kept my eyes open.
As painful as it was, I knew the attack was only a distraction.
What our enemy would do next, I could only wait to find out.
Coming to a sudden stop, the massive fox flipped its hind
quarters, swishing not three, but nine tails in our direction. Each tail
glowed a bright blue as energy converged, drawn directly from the
air. Then a rushing sound, harsh and vibrating, followed.
Each tail released the accumulated power, emitting a cone of
Water Spirit. All nine combined into a crashing wave.
The attack was far too broad to dodge.
I commanded Minh with Shield Shift, making her expand as wide
as she could go. “Behind me!” I called to Brea.
Thankfully, she’d already recovered from her roll and was
heading my way. She made it just in time to avoid the worst of the
assault.
A frigid blast of power crashed over me. Minh took the brunt of
it, but lapping waves splashed down over my head and shoulders,
bruising my flesh and burning me with their icy touch.
Thinking to take advantage of my battered state, the fox darted
in, jaws wide.
I formed the mental map for Buckler’s Bite and sped forward.
The clank of fangs on enchanted metal rang out. Our enemy
yelped in pain, pulling its snapping jaws back. Blood leaked from
between its white fangs.
I triggered Anvil Onslaught Explode.
Unfortunately, the beast was too quick. It retreated in time to
avoid the direct hit. Fragments of exploding Spirit caught it in the
face, however, and further stunned the beast.
Brea’s arrows peppered the monster’s hide, sinking into the soft
fur near its neck and chest.
The fox shook its head. Then it sat down on its haunches, and a
wall of Water Spirit emerged from the beast’s chest. Brea’s arrows
sank into the wall and stopped, hanging harmlessly in the air.
The beast turned back to its fallen kin briefly, then eyed the path
behind us.
 It’s going to flee, I thought. Just like Reshem said.
Activating Vindictive Vise Maim, I prayed my skill could get past
the ethereal wall of Water Spirit. Sure enough, two jagged plates
rose from the ground beneath the fox’s feet, hammering down on
one of its paws and forelimbs.
The Spirit Beast yelped in pain.
Its shield broke away, and before we could attack again, the
beast leapt clear over our heads and raced down the trail we’d come
up.
Quick though it was, the monster’s limp slowed it significantly. All
I could hope was that we’d done enough to blunt the monster’s
strength before it came upon Astra and Siobhan.
Minh, I said to my shield, tell Rael the beast is coming and that it
is bigger than we’d thought.
Collapsing Minh down to a manageable size, I ran ahead beside
Brea. I’d wanted to gather the Spirit from both beasts, but there was
no way I was going to leave Astra and Siobhan to fight this thing
alone.
I had a suspicion the fox had more than a few tricks left to throw
at us.
I ran as quickly as I could, but my legs and shoulders were
deeply bruised. Even after Brea hit me with a healing spell, my
progress remained slow.
No more than three minutes passed until we heard the sounds of
battle up ahead. Bearing down on the pain, I pushed myself to move
faster.
The trail leading to Astra and Siobhan’s position had only been a
half-mile or so. Creeping up this way, careful and all but paranoid,
had made that half-mile seem like a long distance.
But thankfully, the two of us were able to cover the distance in
time to support our allies before things got out of hand.
As we charged down the incline, a gust of wind poured up the
trail, kicking up a cloud of fallen leaves as it did so.
Siobhan. The avian was throwing around her spells.
Finally, we came within sight of the battle. The white fox danced
from side to side, dodging fiery slashes aimed at it by a redheaded
warrior with an oversized sword.
The fox backed away and flung the same cascading Water Spirit
attack from its nine tails, and Astra threw up Flame Bulwark to block
it. Her Fire spell winked out all too quickly, though, and the Spirit
attack blasted into her with great force.
Astra lost her footing and tumbled backward a dozen paces.
She looked hurt, but primarily—judging by the way her shaking
limbs were struggling to move—I thought she was simply freezing
cold from the blast.
Siobhan stepped in, pelting the beast with Howling Spear three
times in a row. The final use of the spell was her newly modified
version. Howling Spear Impact crashed into the fox’s hide, breaking
off its follow-up charge.
We were less than a hundred feet away now and had a good
view of the battle.
Our furry foe brightened as it gathered more Spirit to fuel
another attack. This time, the liquid energy coursed along its body,
healing some of its wounds and amassing into three large orbs that
rotated above its spine.
Brea stopped and drew her bow. As I passed her, an arrow
zipped down over my shoulder, piercing the fox’s neck.
Though it was only an ordinary arrow, since her Water-based
skills were largely ineffective, the woman’s aim made it a punishing
blow.
The fox reared back, startled by the sudden attack. It turned its
glowing blue eyes our way, a look of madness filling them. As I
stared into its burning gaze, the beast’s jaw fell open. It craned back
its head and emitted a chirping bark.
Then the spheres of energy flew out in all directions.
One headed my way, coming on so quickly I knew dodging it
wouldn’t be effective. I blocked with Minh, absorbing the impact
easily enough.
Siobhan cast Rebuking Gust and used her wings to push away
from the incoming sphere.
It erupted on the trunk of a nearby tree. The bark of the maple
boiled and peeled back, the pure energy eating it away rapidly.
 The final sphere swam up and over me, heading straight for
Brea.
I turned in time to see her react by casting Mist-Forged Shroud.
The protective spell enveloped her body in a shimmer of glistening
white and blue.
She dove down the trail at an angle, obviously hoping to avoid
the sphere.
It caught her on the hip, though, moving far too swiftly to dodge.
The spell boiled over her plate armor and sunk in between the
cracks. And even though she was protected by a Water Spirit spell,
perhaps the most effective in this situation, she still screamed in
pain.
Brea hit the ground hard, curling up in a ball, her legs shaking as
the spell ate into her flesh.
My stomach lurched.
More than anything, I wanted to sprint back up the trail and pour
a healing potion down her throat. To mend the woman and protect
her—those were my heart’s desires.
Our enemy hadn’t fallen, though, and I had others to protect as
well.
Facing the fox, I triggered Buckler’s Bite. The distance between
us vanished in a rush. I didn’t crash into the fox, but the skill had
brought me within striking range.
The nine-tailed Spirit Beast growled, its hackles rising high above
its back. It darted forward, teeth snapping as I sidestepped. My
Haste rune alone gave me the speed I needed to avoid the attack
and counter with one of my own.
I knew one of my skills couldn’t fell the fox outright. Not in a
single blow. It had already taken enough damage that anything less
than a Superior Spirit Beast would have died. My thoughts returned
to the roc we’d fought at the top of the Forest Tower.
Surely, the fox was its equal.
So I aimed for the back of its front-right leg, just above the
elbow.
Oaken Mallet Rend fell hard on the beast. White fur and bright
red flesh parted as the attack landed. Blood sprayed in the dark
forest air, filling my nose with the scent of iron.
The fox spun, flashing its tails at me as it did so.
No wave of Spirit crashed into me, but the tails seemed to
harden at the last second. They pounded into Minh with the force of
nine maces.
Falling to my knees, I had just enough strength to remain
upright.
Siobhan threw Howling Spear at the fox’s flank twice more,
drawing its attention from me.
I stood on shaky legs, amazed at the monster’s raw power.
As it closed on Siobhan, I saw movement in the corner of my
eye. It was Astra, standing again to rejoin our effort. Her teeth were
set in a grimace.
Despite being injured, she had too much of the warrior’s spirit to
sit this out. Not while one of us could be harmed in her stead, at
least.
Astra’s sword shifted forms, turning into a long swordstaff. Then
she activated Striking Star. The woman streaked twenty feet in the
blink of an eye and caught the fox unawares.
The tip of Rael punched deep into the fox’s rear thigh.
Good, I thought. We wear the monster down, wound it, and then
kill it when it is safe to do so.
Surprisingly, Astra didn’t pull back like I’d wanted her to. She
shifted Rael yet again and let loose with Seven Blades Blaze. The
streaks of Fire Spirit lit up the dim trail, each hissing as they struck
the fox’s hide.
Drawing on its power, the fox retaliated.
Still focused on her assault, Astra was too slow to avoid the fox’s
jaws. It dipped down and snatched up her boot. A crunch of bone
made me shiver as the fox bit down.
Astra cried out in pain, her sword coming down for another
attack on the fox’s neck.
The attack never landed.
The fox whipped its head, flinging Astra thirty feet into the air.
She landed on the ground, and her sword tumbled free.
She’s fine, Rin, I told myself. Finish the fight. Just finish it!
 Siobhan and I edged closer from two sides. The avian alternated
between Howling Spear and using her staff to smack the fox in its
muzzle when it darted close to bite her.
Conserving her Spirit? I wondered. Siobhan must be close to
running out. I’ll have to do something about that, then.
Try as I might, though, I couldn’t find an opening. The fox
seemed hardly slowed by its many injuries. A hazy aura enveloped
its body, and the beast sped up yet again, now becoming too fast for
me to effectively fight.
Cursing, I used Vindictive Vise.
The original skill proved more effective. Maiming a creature this
powerful was a solid tactic, but I must have underestimated the fox’s
natural healing powers.
As the vise clamped down on the fox’s rear leg, it shrieked.
The sound evoked a sense of fear more than pain, and it
thrashed about wildly to free itself.
I held my Chasing Hammer high, preparing to throw everything I
had at the monster. But the fox turned its head on me, and another
round of the Water Spirit bolts flew in my direction.
As I blocked them, waiting for my chance to attack, Siobhan took
the initiative. The avian opened her wings and a gust of wind swept
her skyward.
I recognized the spell at once.
Vaulted Skies Falcon.
The blackened markings on the avian’s wings were exposed as
she hovered above the battlefield. I recalled the Shadow Spirit net
that had scorched her, but rather than sympathy, I felt a sense of
pride welling up inside.
Siobhan had been scarred by the exchange, but her dusky wings,
alternating between pristine white, ash gray, and thin threads of
deepest black, could not have been more lovely.
When she reached a height of twenty feet, and her wings were
close to the branches above us, she swerved down in a streak of
white Wind Spirit.
The fox had time only to turn and see its downfall.
 Siobhan brought the point of her staff across the fox’s head. At
the same time, she channeled Wind Spirit from the staff, adding to
the impact.
A snap of bone and a piercing cry.
The fox stumbled back, the blue fire in its eyes suddenly going
dim.
I walked forward, time moving along sluggishly as I hefted my
hammer. Thoughts flickered through my mind. Wind evaporates
Water, I recalled, a line from my cultivation book that told of Water
Spirit’s weakness.
So beautiful, I thought as I stared into large, silver eyes that
reminded me so much of Siobhan—sweet yet pained, and so
intelligent I knew at once that the fox was aware of its condition.
Finally, I could think only, It is a pity, a terrible and unforgivable
shame.
Runic Vision changed the world I walked through.
Runes shone across the fox’s body. Among them, I saw the
telltale dark points of empty slots. One such slot sat on the side of
the fox’s head, three or four inches in front of its ear.
Peening Strike Sequence initiated, and my hammer hit the beast
with perfect precision.
Again and again, the attack targeted the fox’s weak spot. The
final one blasted through its protective skull and sank into soft brain.
The intelligence in the fox’s eyes retreated.
It stiffened then teetered off to its right side, collapsing on the
leaf-strewn ground.
Breathing hard, I spent only a few seconds appreciating the
beast. I tried to apologize, to comfort the fox with nine tails, the
Spirit Beast who had not only tried to kill me but that had also
mesmerized me with its magnificence.
Then I dismissed my hammer and ran up the trail to Brea. “Heal
Astra!” I shouted to Siobhan.
I pulled the vial from Minh’s storage and found Brea still writhing
in pain. She took the potion gratefully, swallowing it down in a
second. The woman’s muscles relaxed after a few seconds, relief
evidently flooding her system.
 Knowing the potion could only do so much, I used one of the
precious healing Spell Shards I’d made before our trip.
Brea got to her feet with my help and retrieved her bow. She
took aim at Astra and fired a Precision Geyser into the woman’s
chest. The healing powers of the skill soothed Astra further, and the
redhead smiled.
“We did it, huh?” she asked with a grin. “Well, that wasn’t so
hard.”
Siobhan laughed, her piercing voice echoing sharply in the
narrow canyon.
Brea scoffed, and I rolled my eyes.
Ignoring Astra’s bravado, I did the only thing possible to honor
the fallen beast.
I sat before its body, Spirit pouring out so thick it became opaque
in areas. Then I closed my eyes and began to cycle.
The process soothed me.
As the cool rush of power flooded my body, I remembered one of
the truths of cultivation. Yes, cultivators killed, but in so doing, they
furthered not only their own lives but those of the people they
protected.
I drew in the great fox’s life, pulling it into my core in a
seemingly endless stream.
And just as the fox’s power began to grow thin, I felt the
undeniable sensation of fullness in my chest and belly.
Opening my eyes, I smiled in satisfaction.
I’d filled my core yet again.
I was about to become a Level 6 cultivator.
3
 THE POWER OF PURITY

O aths sworn, eyes closed, and hands firmly pressed into

Tig’s, I selected Yes in my SI.
The bonding initiated at once.
Considering my previous experiences with the process, I
expected pain and perhaps a sense of physical pleasure. The higher
I ascended, the more easily my body and core could manage the
increase in power, and the more pleasure I felt.
But this time, I was confronted with something altogether
different.
Warmth flooded out from my gut, pouring down my legs like
overflowing bathwater. It rose to my chest and then filled my arms
as well.
Tig shivered slightly, the vibrations passing through her hands
into mine. A few murmured whispers told me the others had either
observed or sensed some change as well.
Curling my fingers more firmly around Tig’s hands, I held my
breath as the warmth slowly pushed up into my neck, mouth, and
finally the center of my brain.
Suddenly, I wasn’t in a tent on a hill some fifty miles from
Ferendell.
I existed in a white and featureless plane. This place couldn’t be
called a void, for an abundance of light and energy suffused
everything.
I sat across from Antigone, a wise and beneficent creature that I
had only begun to understand. She and I were unclothed, but our
bodies weren’t what mattered in this space.
The bright stars of our exposed cores shone like liquid sunlight.
Tig’s eyes met mine, and I found that I knew much more about
the woman. A series of impressions struck me, one at a time, at a
blinding rate.
I felt the fox girl’s hunger on some faraway morning, smelling
roast meat and porridge made with coarse grain.
I knew the feeling of wind coursing along, running its invisible
fingers through my tail fur and across the tops of my pointed ears.
The wind both comforted and frightened me. Little else in this life
had caressed me with such care, yet those who used its powers
were enemies of my people.
Finally, I saw the first of many books opening in my lap.
The tattered pages had been smudged by countless hands, the
cover replaced time and again. A heavy and implacable significance
formed around the book. I knew the words would not lie to me.
They could be trusted and found again, simply by returning to the
same page.
This is home, I thought to myself.
This is safety.
My perception jerked back, pulling me into my own ethereal body
once more. Tig’s eyes betrayed the same sense of awe and startled
wonder that I was feeling.
Has she seen and felt part of my existence too? I wondered.
What has she witnessed about my new and old life?
The warmth that held me shifted both in temperature and
texture. My body chilled swiftly. A rasping wind coursed through the
channels within me, scouring out pathways that would allow the
energy in my core to travel more easily and efficiently.
Pain came at last, though it wasn’t terrifying or overwhelming.
The heightened state I’d been elevated to allowed me to
experience it without judgment.
I understood the pain.
I accepted it.
Breathing it in and out, I felt a rushing, a rising onslaught delving
up from the depths of my core.
Tig and I gasped together, and my vision winked out.
My perception drifted elsewhere.
I smelled mud and reeds and heard the burbling trickle of a
sluggish stream. My webbed feet padded forward. There, just
ahead, I spotted the fat duck my family would dine on this very
night.
Drawing back my spear, I tensed every muscle in my hunter’s
body. Then I released.
The spear flew straight and true. It hit the duck with a thunk,
and even before I splashed out into the swamp, I craned back my
head and shouted in triumph.
Another of my tribe approached me. Kadpel, my older cousin,
thrust his spear into the air three times, cheering my victory. We
would eat well tonight.
Time and space blurred as my consciousness shifted violently.
As I moved from one place to another, I thought vaguely,
Gremdaw? Were those the gremdaw from the swamps just outside
of town?
No answer came.
Only a new reality, one far more strange.
I existed as a mote in a brilliant stream of Spirit. I coursed
through the veins of Teshrilnair, the place and being some called the
Forest Tower. Each moment here, I was at peace, existing among my
brothers and sisters, all of us waiting for our turn to be summoned.
Something had changed recently.
I sensed far too many motes floating within the stream. The
Spirit of Teshrilnair had grown thick and too potent. It sought
escape, for the pressure kept building, and the tower knew not how
to alleviate its illness.
My drifting worry evaporated as that thrilling sensation came to
me yet again. A sinking pull, like a chain tugging my mote with great
force.
I felt my body materialize, one fragment at a time.
In seconds, I joined the physical realm again. My body was
strong, the possibilities endless.
Tail whipping behind me, jaws working in anticipation, I stared
out at my opponents. A man wearing silly tin armor stood with a
hammer-shaped Spiritarm in his hand. Women stood around and
behind him.
These were mine if I was strong enough. I could kill and eat
them. Such were the rules given to me. And I would try.
I was a mushroom manticore, after all, fully grown and blooded
time and again.
Growling, I showed the newcomers my fangs and prepared to
attack.
The scene distorted and blurred. I recalled the first-floor boss
we’d faced in the Forest Tower, and, having seen what life was like
from its perspective, I knew I could never think of a tower monster
again in the same light.
Finally, my shifting consciousness landed in one last body.
Having gone through this twice before, I sensed the difference
between me and the creature whose body I was inhabiting. And
straight away, I knew what this beast was.
Pain wracked my borrowed body.
The poison ate deeper and deeper, each day eroding what little
control I had left.
Stalking out from my den, a growl rose in my throat. The
blackness seeped into my core at last. It sank in, whirling through
and among the Spirit I’d spent centuries collecting.
And as it did, an insatiable hunger came upon me.
Young one, I spoke with my mind. Come with me. We go to
hunt.
My kit brushed his nuzzle against my shoulder, worry in his eyes.
But we’ve just hunted, mother. I’m not hungry.
He must not be ready yet. Soon, the dark power would give him
courage too. I could wait for that time.
Stay here, then, I told my kit. Don’t stray from the den. I’ll be
back soon, and I’ll have something new for you to taste.
He whined and lowered his head.
Snapping my jaws, I quieted him. No need for that. Once you
taste the flesh of man, you will understand.
Then I darted down the darkened corridor of my canyon, heading
to find the foolish men who labored away a few miles from here.
They had taken enough of my trees over the years.
It was time to make them pay.
As if dredged up from the icy depths of a stream, I, Rin the
Runesmith, came back to myself, gasping for air.
Trembling, I faced Tig.
We were back. The sky was nearly black above our heads. And
we were sitting among my other vessels.
The bond had formed. Our little ceremony was complete.
“Oh!” Tig squeaked. “That was fucking insane!”
I blinked, trying to reorient myself. The process had indeed been
confusing, disturbing even despite the beauty and majesty we’d
been allowed to see.
Brea chuckled quietly. “Did you just curse, Tig?”
The fox girl scoffed. “You would have too if you’d…” Words
trailing off, Tig frowned at me. “Did you too, Rin? Did you?”
I shrugged. “If you mean, did I experience a bit of your life as
well as that of a gremdaw skirmisher, a mushroom manticore, and
the fox Spirit Beast we just killed, yes.”
She smiled at me nervously, then glanced around at the others.
I felt a bit sheepish myself. The profound nature of our collective
experience, though, was something I could never forget.
 “It was the same for me as well,” Brea whispered. A tear rolled
down her cheek. “It’s like the Spirit you absorbed, Rin, held
fragments of those monsters. Pieces of their lives.”
Nodding, I agreed. “I think this is meant to be a lesson for us.
Everything, even a tower-summoned monster, is alive.”
Siobhan sighed, folding her arms. “We should give thanks often
to those who die to make us stronger.”
“Agreed,” Tig said softly. “Sacrifice. It all comes down to
sacrifice.”
That thought reminded me of what Adan had said about Cormac.
If it was true, and the cultivator had rejected the idea of empathy
and sacrifice, it meant Cormac had experienced this too and
somehow turned away.
Only a truly cold-hearted man could be capable of that.
As the silence stretched, my thoughts organized themselves.
There was much to do, but I felt a pressing desire to touch the
women who had sacrificed so much for me.
Getting to my feet, I grinned at Astra. The redhead smiled at me
sympathetically.
Before I had time to ask, she moved in for a hug. When she did
so, I sensed a fraction of her own experience. It seeped through our
embrace, letting me feel what she was feeling.
We both gasped and pulled away.
Then Astra held up her hands. “Hold on, everyone. I think we
should hug. Come here, Brea. I think this ascension just changed us
all big time.”
The two women embraced, and they gasped in unison again.
Brea pulled back and pointed at Astra. “You… I felt your feelings!
Just a little, but… that was you, wasn’t it?”
Amazed and excited, our little group experimented for a time.
Even touching hands was enough to form a connection, it seemed.
And every time we did so, our newly enhanced bond allowed a
trickle of intuition to seep through.
I touched hands with Siobhan and felt a mix of sadness and joy.
She still grieved the loss of her white wings, but her heart sang
with joy for being a part of our group, regardless of the dangers.
 Brea gave off a feeling of eagerness. She wanted to push herself
harder than ever, to gain strength enough to stand shoulder to
shoulder with Astra and the others.
Astra’s heart overflowed with love. Beneath it, I felt an ocean of
determination.
Finally, I held Tig’s hands in my own again.
The fox kin smiled up at me sheepishly. A myriad of emotions
swam through our touch. Excitement, joy, an odd sense of loss, for
she valued her individuality greatly.
Below it all, I sensed something more intimate.
Desire.
Leaning down, I kissed the woman’s soft cheek.
Tig blushed, and though she didn’t say anything at all, I knew
she would come to me soon enough.
Astra broke through our chatter. “Hold on! I know this is exciting,
but there’s a lot more to talk about! We all have upgrades to discuss,
and Tig just got all of her skills unlocked!”
“But first,” Brea cut in, “we should help Rin with his core.”
“Exactly,” Astra agreed. “So, let’s sit back down, maybe pull out
some wine, and get down to business. Our cultivator needs to
upgrade his core.”
Five minutes later, our group sat around the little campfire we’d
dug out previously. With a small blaze crackling away and our spirits
soaring, we fell into an eager debate.
Minh, who’d happily joined the group, warmed her hands above
the flames. Her suggestions had been insistent but less insightful.
She pouted, angry nobody had thought her ideas good enough.
“If Rin has the rune of Might, then adding a second one would make
him the most powerful man alive! Twice the strength is always
good!”
I sighed. “Not sure it works that way, Minh. Honestly, I have no
clue what using the same rune twice would do. I don’t think it is
worth the experiment.”
“And there are more things to think about than raw strength!”
Astra insisted.
 Minh scoffed. “Okay, fine. Then is there a rune that will give you
claws? Or sharper teeth? Rin, I hate to say it, but without your
hammer, you would be harmless!”
Siobhan let out a piercing laugh that echoed through the orchard.
“He is not a lion, nor should he be. Though I admit, seeing Rin with
fangs would be funny.”
“What about something that would make you tougher?” Brea
suggested, graciously cutting through the pointless argument.
“Being able to take a hit is always useful, especially since you’re the
group’s shield bearer.”
Siobhan shook her head. “I might have once agreed, but Rin
cannot count on this. Tower monsters get stronger each time.
Something to help him avoid damage… better.”
I butted in. “Siobhan has a good point, but there’s something
else I should mention. Adan told me about my next ascension. Level
6 is broken up into three tiers. Each will give me a Divine Ability.
“At the first tier, I’ll also have to undergo something called Body
Tempering. Adan said it wasn’t going to feel good, but it should—”
“Provide you with substantial physical resistance!” Tig blurted.
The fox girl smiled sheepishly and apologized. “I read a few notes
about the upper ascensions, though there was little to be had, even
in the Ferendell libraries.
“Body Tempering is when a cultivator is intentionally harmed in a
very specific manner,” Tig explained, eyes ablaze with academic
curiosity. “Along with the application of Spirit, a more resilient body
can be attained.”
Astra muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot
like “bookworm,” but I ignored her.
“Thanks for making it sound so fun,” I told Tig with a smile. “But
yes, if that’s in my near future, I’d rather not waste this rune on
more of the same. What quality or attribute could help us all as a
team? That is what we should be after.”
Astra tapped her finger on her lips, elbows leaning forward on
her knees. “You already have speed, strength, potent Spirit and
more of it… What about something that enhances your senses?”
 “A rune of Sight?” Siobhan asked immediately after. “To help
better see enemies?”
Tig wrinkled her nose. “Or Smell might be better. Rin already has
Runic Vision.”
I chewed my lip, thinking about the various runes that might
encompass such an augmentation. Then an idea surfaced.
“Perception,” I said quietly. “The rune of Perception should,
theoretically, enhance all of my senses as well as how I use them to
perceive the world.”
Siobhan’s eyes brightened. “Sounds like wisdom to me. This will
help you guide our team.”
“Could make finding traps easier and also the weaknesses in our
enemies’ formations,” Astra added.
A grin spread across my face. Looking from one vessel to the
other, I told them, “It would help outside of the towers as well. Just
think about it… We’ll be meeting with Cormac soon. When dealing
with the world’s greatest liar, what could help more than
perception?”
4
 LIGHTS IN AN ENDLESS NIGHT SKY

I took my time, savoring the moment as I observed the miracle

that was my broken core.
It had been cracked, unable to hold enough Spirit to sustain
my life. Then Anya had come to me. With a single rune of Hunger,
she’d not only preserved my life but drastically accelerated the rate
at which I could progress.
Near Hunger glowed Might, my first chosen rune at Level 2. It
gave me boundless physical strength, enough to hold a shield
against monster attacks that would level any other man.
Capacity and Potency had changed my fighting more than any
other augmentations. With twice the Spiritual Reserve and stronger
hitting skills, I knew when I’d hit Level 4 and Level 5 that my abilities
surpassed my peers.
Only Adan and others on his level could defeat me.
But now? I was Tier 1, Level 6. My power had increased yet
again, and as I placed the Perception rune upon the sixth slot in my
core, I knew even Cormac would come to fear me soon enough.
The rune blazed to life, and rather than a rush of strength or
energy, my mind cleared like it never had before.
Clouds I hadn’t realized existed evaporated, leaving me with a
perspective that was both exhilarating and disturbing.
I opened my eyes and studied the flames dancing in the fire. I
didn’t experience an onslaught of thoughts. No sequence of deep
revelations overtook me.
Rather, I felt myself capable of sifting through my perceptions
with greater ease than ever before.
“What is it like?” Astra asked. “How does it feel?”
I wet my lips and looked into the woman’s blue eyes. Instead of
answering her question, I told her what she had needed to hear for
quite some time.
“Astra, you do not owe me or any of us an apology.”
My frank comment took her aback. She closed her mouth and
frowned slightly, confused.
“I am not the only one who has seen the changes you’ve made
since training with Caradas. You’re more dedicated than ever, and I
have faith that you’ll do all you can to protect us.
“And yes, your actions have brought us into direct conflict with
Cormac. That conflict would have been inevitable, though. Cormac is
a blight. He is at the very center of this world’s problems.
“He must be pushed aside or killed outright. The towers, and
Acalia itself, demand it. So please, do what you can to let go of the
guilt that’s strangling you.”
Her eyes slowly widened, and tears formed all too quickly.
Covering her mouth, Astra only had strength to nod.
I forced a smile. “Forgive me. I… I suppose I can see things
more clearly now.”
 Not wanting to quash the mood entirely, I added, “Hey, how
about I won’t make any more profound proclamations, and we can
all have a little fun showing off our new skills. Deal?”
Wiping her tears, Astra was the first to stand up. “Deal! But only
if I can go first!”
Scrambling to her feet, Brea said, “Is that really fair to Tig? And
also, should we wait till morning? That way we can see what we’re
doing?”
Astra shook her head. “No way. Think about it. It’s dark out, and
our skills use Spirit. It’ll be like a firework show, but even better!”
“Sounds like fun,” Siobhan said. “But what about Tig? She just
got her skills for the first time. Shouldn’t she go first?”
The fox kin waved her hands nervously. “No, not at all! Please,
just let Astra go first. I’m… a little nervous, I guess.”
With that, our group headed down the trail toward the forest. We
decided to stop at the top of the hill, where a patch of soft grass
grew evenly, just before the slope steepened.
Prancing out in front of the group, Astra unsheathed Rael and
waited.
Only when Tig herself nodded did the redhead act.
Biting her lip, Astra said in a soft voice, “Thank you, Rin… for
what you said earlier. I can’t tell you how much that meant to me. I
promise I’ll always do my best to protect you all.”
“Astra,” Brea replied, “we all know that. There’s no need for—”
“I know! I know,” Astra said sheepishly. “Just had to say it. But
now, get ready to be blown away.”
She shifted her weight, positioning her body away from the
group. “Wish I could use a mental map for this. Gonna be the first
thing I start working on in the morning. But for now, I hope you all
like the look of Sword Flare!”
As she spoke the final words, Astra lunged forward and swung
her sword down in an arc.
The blade lit up with a fire so hot it burned nearly white.
Streaking down the length of the blade, the Fire Spirit leapt from the
blade’s tip, forming a fiery dart.
Another random document with
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 Chapter X. “Peter One-Leg-and-a-Half”
and His
Optimistic Whistlers
BY the middle of the following winter, I had entered fully into all the
privileges that were mine by virtue of my labor in the mill. The
background of all my privileges was the spending money my aunt
gave me. She apportioned me money on a basis which kept me
constantly at work. I was given ten cents on every dollar that I
brought home. This made me ambitious for advance. It made me
keep at work even when I should have been at home on a sick bed.
It drove “loafing days” out of my mind entirely, for spending money
was the summum bonum of my existence. The kind of things I
craved, the only things I found real pleasure in, cost money.
I attended the ten-cent shows in the theater on Saturday afternoons.
I looked forward throughout the week to a glass of hot beef-tea at the
soda fountain. I would smack my lips long in anticipation of two-for-
five cream puffs or a five-cent pork pie. They meant fully as much to
me, then, as did the Horse Show or a Paris gown to the aspiring
daughter of one of the mill stockholders.
Intermittently, I used to go to the business section of the city alone,
and stop at Cheap John’s, the tobacconist’s, for a treat of second-
hand novels. There was a squat, gaudily decorated Punch standing
in front of Cheap John’s, with a handful of chocolate cigars always
extended to the passers-by. Punch’s jester’s cap, with the bells over
his left ear, his hooked nose and upturned chin, always with a fixed
grin on his shiny face, always seemed a human goblin, saying,
“Come in, and have one on me!”
The interior of Cheap John’s was like a country fair Midway. There
were weight machines, moving pictures, slot instruments, lung
testers, name-plate makers, guessing machines, card-wheels, pool-
tables, racing bulletins, sport scores, displays of sporting apparatus,
of tobacco specialties, of colored sporting posters, hat-cleaning
wheels, clothes-cleaning tables, shoe-blacking alcoves, and a long
counter on which were heaped rows on rows of highly colored,
second-hand Wild West, Sport, Adventure, and Detective romances:
a bundle of them for ten cents! A bundle of these I would purchase,
listen to the men’s voices that came from the dense clouds of
smoke, and then I would race home, a distance of a mile, to examine
more closely the prizes of the night.
The next day being Sunday, I had the privilege of staying in bed, of
having my breakfast brought to me, much as if I had been a
convalescent gentleman. My aunt would find me propped up in bed,
with the novels spread over the bed; and in the midst of a detective
romance, always read first, I would be interrupted by some such
words as these: “Well, his royal highness! Will he have bacon and
eggs and a hot cup of cocoa?” I would merely keep on reading, with
a suppressed, growled “Yep!” and after breakfast, though it would be
a pleasant day outside, I would sit there in bed and read until I
became satiated with thrills, disguised scouts, burgled safes,
triumphant, last-chapter endings of “Justice at last!” reunited lovers
and pardoning fathers, when I would dress, have dinner, and go out
into a slumberous Sabbath afternoon, to stand bored on a street
corner until dark, when the gangs of the city moved and planned
exciting escapades.
When my uncle saw me reading the novels, he interposed with,
“That’s cheap stuff, Al, and will never make you any better. You want
to read refining things, the great books. There’s many an exciting
one that is exciting without being cheap. I wish you would let me plan
for you.” I told him that I would—sometime, but I kept on reading
Cheap John’s bargain-counter literature.
The ten and a half hours in the mill, with its humdrum rattle, its high-
pitched hum, the regularity of its fixtures, the monotonousness of its
routine, bullied my nerves into a tamed, cowed state. Day by day,
day by day, day by day, at the appointed time, in the instructed way,
with the same broom or the same-sized bunch of waste, to do the
task! And there wanted to stir in me a schoolboy’s expression of
vitality, a growing lad’s satisfaction in novelty! But all through the
hours of light, from morning till evening, with the sun arising and
departing, I had to listen to, and keep time with, the humming of
wheels!
Consequently, when my feet felt the outside world at night or on
Saturdays, at the first refreshing feel of the pure air which took that
deep-lodged heat from my white cheeks, I always promised myself
some exciting pleasure ere the day passed, to stimulate my cowed
nerves and make me a boy again.
“Peter-one-leg-and-a-half” Led Us at Night over High
Board Fences
So I fell heart and soul into the scheme of a group of other boys who
worked in the mill and lived near me. It was my first membership in a
“gang.” It was presided over by a sturdy young Irishman, who,
because he had lost a leg below the knee, was nicknamed, “Peter
One-Leg-and-a-Half.” Peter worked in the mill, and examined cloth in
the weave room. He thrilled our jaded nerves very successfully. We
had ghost-play at night on the street, when he would spit fire, make
phosphorescent writing on a tenement, lead a line of sheeted figures
soberly in review through the night, and close the performance by
hurling a battery of bad eggs at us, his admiring audience. Peter was
King of the Night. He seemed to have the sight of a cat and the
cunning of a fox. He led us at night over high board fences, on the
other side of which, in the dark, we would almost choke ourselves
against tight clotheslines. He taught us organized play, and, wise
gang-leader which he unconsciously was, he changed our
adventures and diversions so often that no complaints were made,
and night time, with Peter in it, became the thrilling objective during
my winter work.
For a short season, in the winter, the whole gang joined the club,
which was kept for mill-boys and was supported by the corporation
for which I worked. There were work-benches, checker-rooms, a
poorly equipped gymnasium, seemingly always in the possession of
the adults, and every now and then an entertainment occurred, when
some imported entertainer with talent would be invited to come from
his or her aristocratic home—with a group of “slummers,” usually and
divert us. We thought most of them very tame, resented the manual
training department because we thought ten hour’s work sufficient
for one day, and got what pleasure we could from the
entertainments. One man told us, among other things in a
memorable address, to “whistle when you’re happy and whistle when
you’re in danger of feeling mad. Whistling gives courage, like yells at
a football game. Whistle, boys, whistle. It’s a sign that your courage
is good!” That point impressed itself on Peter, too, for when we left
the club that night at nine o’clock (to stay on the streets till ten), he
lined us up like soldiers in review, and thus addressed us, “Company
halt all ready, whistle!” We put our fingers in our mouths and
produced a profusion of vibrant whistles, which indicated that we
were the most courageous and happy lads in the world. Then Peter,
stumping ahead, led us militantly up a street, stooping every now
and then under a street lamp to call out, “All the happy ones whistle,
you!”
Chapter XI. Esthetic Adventures
made possible by a
Fifteen-Dollar Piano
 Chapter XI. Esthetic Adventures
made possible by a
Fifteen-Dollar Piano
IT was late in that winter that the trading instinct cropped out in my
uncle and aunt. They decided to open a candy-store in the tenement
where we lived. For this purpose the landlord was persuaded to
allow them to use the bow window for display purposes. The parlor
was fitted with a small counter, a large store lamp, and a various
assortment of sodas, confectionery and pastry.
That was a prohibition year in city politics, and the tenement thirst
was pronounced to be “something awful!” Desperate men were
compelled to go away on holidays and Saturdays to get what
refreshment they could. The police were on keen watch for illegal
selling. They were making daily raids in different parts of the city.
Liquors had been found in cellars, hidden under the floors, in flasks
buried in the bodies of huge codfish, water-pipes had been cut off
from the main pipes and tapped to barrels of whisky and beer; every
trick possible to the imagination seemed to have been uncovered,
yet my aunt undertook to let some chosen throats in the
neighborhood know that she planned to keep a supply of intoxicants
on hand.
I was asked, at night, to take a pint of whiskey here and there to
some shut-in woman like Old Burnt Jane, a cripple from a fire, who
always let tears fall in the food she was cooking as she said: “Wait,
wait, little boy, dearie. I’ll get my mon-ey when I’ve got this taste of
cheese off; wait like a good little boy!”
Our customers, who came for a drink at any time, had a secret sign
whereby they could ask for intoxicants without mentioning them by
name. On Sundays, our kitchen would be filled with men and women
having their thirsts quenched. My Aunt Millie rubbed her hands with
satisfaction over the prosperous business she did.
But one Sunday afternoon there came three plain-clothes men to the
shop. The alarm had been given, and Aunt Millie waited for the raid
with no outward traces of fear. There were some people at the rear
of the house, and they were engaged in a very busy, “manufactured”
conversation about “Charley’s throat trouble” when the officers came
in the back to investigate. If they sniffed the air for traces of whisky,
they only got a superabundance of “mint” and “musk,” “lozengers”
half thrown into the customers’ mouths by Aunt Millie. A “complete”
investigation was made, covering the back-yard, the cellar, the
kitchen, the counter, and the bedrooms, but no illegal wares were
found, and the officers left the shop in chagrin. As they left, my Aunt
Millie bent her fond gaze towards a row of black bottles that stood in
a row in the display window, marked, “Ginger,” “Spruce,” and “Birch.”
“You dear creatures,” she cried, “what a salvation you are!” Whereat,
she took one to the back room, uncorked it, and poured out a noggin
of whiskey apiece for each of her customers, and the “throat trouble”
gave way to a discussion of, “What tasty stuff it is, this whiskey!”
Shortly after this, my uncle was discharged for staying out from work
one morning, after a night of intoxication, and he finally secured a
new position in the South End. Rather than have the fuss of going to
his work on the street-cars, he rented a house, and we removed.
This house was a cottage, the first one we had lived in since coming
to America. It stood on a street corner, near a wide square, where
the thousands of cyclists came after supper for road races, “runs,”
and a circle around the neck of land which jutted out into Buzzards
Bay. Ours was the show place of that neighborhood; from the
branches of the rotting cherry tree in the front yard, I could watch the
crowds come and go, without the trouble of going away from the
house. Directly opposite us, buried in a maze of maple branches,
with a high-fenced yard back of it, stood an Orphan’s Home. The
street-car line terminated in front of our door. It was, to me, a very
aristocratic neighborhood indeed. I felt somewhat puffed up about it.
There were several saloons within a few minute’s walk. My aunt
regarded that as a feature not to be despised. She had explained to
uncle: “You see we can get it in cans, and not have to go and sit
away from home and all its comforts.”
This change of residence meant also a change of work for me. I left
the spinning-room, left Curley, Mallet, Mary, Zippy, and the others,
and went into the mule-room to learn back-boying with my uncle.
The mule-room is generally the most skilled section of a cotton-mill.
Its machinery is more human in its action than is a loom, or a carding
machine, or a ring-spinning frame. There are no women or girls in a
mule-spinning room. Men spin the yarn, and boys attend to the
wants of the machines as back-boys, tubers, and doffers.
One Saturday afternoon, shortly after we had settled in our new
home, aunt and uncle went cityward, entered a music store, and
said, “We want to look over a piano.”
The clerk immediately took them in the direction of the high-priced,
latest models.
“No,” said aunt, “them’s not the ones we want to buy. Mister, you
haven’t got something cheaper, have you?”
“How cheap?” asked the clerk.
“Well,” said my aunt, “I shouldn’t care to go very high. Say a second-
hander.”
The clerk took them to the rear of the store, to a dim corner. Here he
turned on the light, and showed a row of table-pianos. Aunt and
uncle stopped before one of them, a scratched, faded veteran, of
many concert-hall and ballroom experiences. Its keys were yellow,
with black, gaps where some were missing. One of the pedal rods
was broken off, while the other was fastened with thin wire. Uncle,
with professional nonchalance, whirled a creaky stool to the desired
height, sat down, turned back his cuffs, and struck a handful of
chords, like a warhorse in battle again, with a vivid reminiscence of
old English public-house days. There came from the depths of the
aged lyre a tinkling, tinpannish strain of mixed flats.
“It’s real good,” smiled my aunt.
“It needs tuning,” commented the clerk.
“How much is it worth, tuned?” asked my uncle.
“Fifteen dollars,” announced the clerk.
“On time, how much?” asked aunt eagerly. “We can only put in three
dollars on this at first,” she said.
“Fifteen dollars on credit, at your own terms,” said the clerk, after a
brief consultation with the manager in the office. “We need the room,
and will be glad to get it out of the way.” “It’s ours, then,” said my
uncle. “Send it down as soon as you get it tuned,” he directed.
When they told me about the purchase, uncle announced, “It will
keep me at home, I hope, and away from the saloons. It will be fine
to get to playing again. I miss it so. I must be all out of practise.”
When the piano did come, and it was established in the front room, I
spent a whole evening in fingering it. There was only one defect
about it,—when uncle played a tune, one of the keys had a fault of
sticking, so that he had to lift it bodily into place, and that somewhat
broke in on the melody he was engaged on.
“But what can you expect for fifteen dollars,” he commented,
philosophically. “When folks are singing with it, I can skip it, an’ it
won’t be noticed much.”
The advent of the piano made my days in the mill lighter to bear. My
uncle had proposed to teach me to play on it at night if I would
practise faithfully. He took pains to elaborate the truth that great
musicians, who had come to fame in the earth, had done so only at
the cost of infinite pains in practise.
“Never mind,” I responded, “I’ll learn, sure enough, and I may give
lessons some day.” So, during work-hours, I was given the scale to
memorize.
“F,a,c,e, is the name of the spaces,” he taught. “Face, it spells; you
can remember that.” Then he had me memorize the notes on the
lines, and then he let me try it on the piano, a night of joy to me. Day
after day I would plan for these practises, and in three regular
lessons, of two weeks’ duration, I had the joy of grinding out my first
real four-part tune. I had been practising laboriously, with a strict
regard for exact time, the selection he had set before me, when he
called from the kitchen, “Hurry up the tune a bit, Al!” I did, and I was
bewildered to find that the chaotic tangle of notes resolved itself,
when played faster, into the simple, universal melody, “Home, Sweet
Home!”
But I found not enough patience, after being in the mill all day, to
isolate myself every night in the house when there was fresh air to
enjoy outside, so I told uncle that I had better give up taking lessons.
I could not keep them up. I wanted the fresh air more.
But uncle was loath for me to do that. “I want you to do something
else besides work in the mill,” he remonstrated. About this time, I
became acquainted with Alf Martin, a back-boy, who was playing the
piano. His father worked on the mules next to my uncle. The two
men talked the matter over, and one day Alf told me that the woman
he was taking lessons from, a Miss Flaffer, had said she would give
me fifty-cent lessons for thirty-five cents! My uncle said he would pay
half of the cost, and in spite of my previous abandonment of music, I
succumbed to this scheme, secretly, in my heart, glad of the
opportunity of taking lessons from so fine a lady as Alf told me Miss
Flaffer was.
“When you pay for lessons,” said my uncle, “you’ll think more of
them. I could only take you as far as vamping, and you want to do
more than that.”
Previous to this, I had gotten as much joy, during the week’s work,
from anticipations of cream puffs, pork pies, and such minor
Saturday joys, but now I had a piano lesson, a real music-lesson, to
engage my mind, and that was a very cheerful week spent behind
the mules. Alf and I spent much time, when we could get away from
the eyes of the bosses, talking over Miss Flaffer, and I came to
understand that she was a fine woman indeed.
The following Saturday afternoon, then, I took my Beginner’s Book,
tied it in a roll and fastened it with twine, and went on the street-car
to a very aristocratic part of the city. It was the part where, on first
landing in America, I had gone on summer days, asking at the back
doors if I might pick the pears that had fallen to the lawns from the
trees.
Miss Flaffer’s house was a very small cottage, with a small piazza at
its front, and with a narrow lawn, edged by a low fence, running
around it. It was altogether a very pretty place, with its new paint, its
neat windows, and the flowers between the curtains. The front steps
had evidently never been trodden on by foot of man, for why did they
shine so with paint! There was not a scratch on the porch, nor a
pencil mark. I looked at the number, at the engraved door-plate, and
found that “S. T. Flaffer” did reside within. A great, cold perspiration
dripped from me as I put a trembling finger on the push-button. I
heard an answering bell somewhere in the depths of the house, and
then wished that I might run away. It seemed so bold a thing for me,
a mill-boy, to be intruding myself on such aristocratic premises. But I
could not move, and then Miss Flaffer herself opened the door!
Oh, dream of neatness, sweetness, and womanly kindness! Miss
Flaffer was that to me at the moment. She was a picture, that put
away my aunt and all the tenement women who came into our house
for beer-drinking, put them away from memory entirely. I thought that
she would send me home, and tell me to look tidy before I knocked
at her door, or that I had made a mistake, and that such a woman,
with her white hands, could not be giving thirty-five cent piano
lessons to Al Priddy, a mill-boy!
Oh, how awkward, self-conscious, and afraid I felt as I went across
that threshold and looked on comforts that were luxuries to me!
There was a soft, loose rug on a hardwood, polished floor, on which,
at first, I went on a voyage halfway, when the crumpled rug half
tripped me and I caught desperately at a fragile chair and half
wrenched it from position to stay myself, yet Miss Flaffer did not
scold me, nor did she seem to notice me. Then, as we went through
a luxurious dining-room (where they did nothing but eat meals!), I
found myself bringing my foot down on the train of Miss Flaffer’s
dress. Yet, when the confusion was over, she never made a single
reference to it, though I felt that I ought to ask her if I had torn it. She
led me to a little studio, where, in a curtained alcove, stood a black
upright piano polished like a mirror, and before it a stool, which did
not squeak like ours when turned into position.
When the preliminary examination was over, and I was seated at the
piano, Miss Flaffer asked me to play “Home, Sweet Home” as I had
learned under my uncle’s instruction. I had been so used to the hard,
mechanical working of uncle’s instrument that I naturally pounded
unduly on Miss Flaffer’s, until she politely and graciously said,
“Please do not raise your fingers so high,” and to that end, she
placed two coppers on my hand, and told me to play the tune without
letting them drop.
After the tune, and while Miss Flaffer had left the room to get her
notebook, I noted with chagrin that my perspiring fingers had left
marks on the snowy keyboard where they would surely be seen. I
listened, and heard Miss Flaffer rummaging among some books, and
then desperately spat on my coat cuff and rubbed the keyboard
vigorously until I thought that I had obliterated the traces of my
fingers. Then Miss Flaffer returned, and I tried to act unconcernedly
by whistling, under my breath, “After the Ball.”
By the time the lesson was over, it was raining outside, and Miss
Flaffer said, “I have to go to the corner of the next street, Albert.
(Albert!) I want you to share my umbrella with me so that you will not
get wet.”
I mumbled, “All right, I don’t care if I do,” and prepared to go. Before
we had left the house I had put on my hat twice and opened and
shut the door once in my extreme excitement. Then we went out,
and there rushed to my mind, from my reading, the startling
question, “How to act when walking on the street with a fine woman,
and there is an umbrella?” I said, when we were on the sidewalk,
“Please let me carry that,” and pointed to the umbrella. “Certainly,”
she said, and handed it to me. Before we had attained the corner, I
had managed to poke the ends of the umbrella ribs down on Miss
Flaffer’s hat, and to knock it somewhat askew. I found, also, that I
was shielding myself to such an extent as to leave Miss Flaffer
exposed to the torrents of rain. On the street corner, she took the
umbrella, and, as my car came into view, she said, “Good-by, Albert.
You did very well to-day. Practise faithfully, and be sure to come next
week.” I called, “So long,” and ran for the car.
I only took two other lessons from Miss Flaffer. I never had the
manners to send her word that I could no longer afford them. I was
afraid that she would offer to teach me free, and I could not stand the
confinement to the house after a hard day in the mill. But I had
learned something besides piano-playing with her. I had seen fine
manners contrasted against my own uncouth ways. I had seen a
dustless house contrasted against my own ill-kept home. I had been
called Albert!
Chapter XII. Machinery
and Manhood
 Chapter XII. Machinery
and Manhood
MY work in the spinning-room, in comparison with my new work in
the mule-room, had been mere child’s play. At last the terror of the
mill began to blacken my life. The romance, the glamour, and the
charm were gone by this only a daily dull, animal-like submission to
hard tasks had hold of me now.
Five days of the week, at the outer edge of winter, I never stood out
in the daylight. I was a human mole, going to work while the stars
were out and returning home under the stars. I saw none of the
world by daylight, except the staring walls, high picket-fences, and
drab tenements of that immediate locality. The sun rose and set on
the wide world outside, rose and set five times a week, but I might as
well have been in a grave; there was no exploration abroad.
The mule-room atmosphere was kept at from eighty-five to ninety
degrees of heat. The hardwood floor burned my bare feet. I had to
gasp quick, short gasps to get air into my lungs at all. My face
seemed swathed in continual fire. The tobacco chewers
expectorated on the floor, and left little pools for me to wade through.
Oil and hot grease dripped down behind the mules, sometimes
falling on my scalp or making yellow splotches on my overalls or
feet. Under the excessive heat my body was like a soft sponge in the
fingers of a giant; perspiration oozed from me until it seemed
inevitable that I should melt away at last. To open a window was a
great crime, as the cotton fiber was so sensitive to wind that it would
spoil. (Poor cotton fiber!) When the mill was working, the air in the
mule-room was filled with a swirling, almost invisible cloud of lint,
which settled on floor, machinery, and employees, as snow falls in
winter. I breathed it down my nostrils ten and a half hours a day; it
worked into my hair, and was gulped down my throat. This lint was
laden with dust, dust of every conceivable sort, and not friendly at all
to lungs.
There are few prison rules more stringent than the rules I worked
under in that mule-room. There are few prisoners watched with
sterner guards than were the bosses who watched and ordered me
from this task to that.
There was a rule against looking out of a window. The cotton mills
did not have opaque glass or whitewashed windows, then. There
was a rule against reading during work-hours. There was a rule
preventing us from talking to one another. There was a rule
prohibiting us from leaving the mill during work-hours. We were not
supposed to sit down, even though we had caught up with our work.
We were never supposed to stop work, even when we could. There
was a rule that anyone coming to work a minute late would lose his
work. The outside watchman always closed the gate the instant the
starting whistle sounded, so that anyone unfortunate enough to be
outside had to go around to the office, lose time, and find a stranger
on his job, with the prospect of being out of work for some time to
come.
For the protection of minors like myself, two notices were posted in
the room, and in every room of the mill. They were rules that
represented what had been done in public agitation for the protection
of such as I: rules which, if carried out, would have taken much of
the danger and the despair from my mill life. They read:
“The cleaning of machinery while it is in motion is positively
forbidden!”
“All Minors are hereby prohibited from working during the regular
stopping hours!”
If I had insisted on keeping the first law, I should not have held my
position in the mule-room more than two days. The mule-spinners
were on piece work, and their wages depended upon their keeping
the mules in motion, consequently the back-boy was expected, by a
sort of unwritten understanding, to do all the cleaning he could,
either while the machines were in motion or during the hours when
they were stopped, as during the noon-hour or before the mill started
in the morning. If a back-boy asked for the mules to be stopped while
he did the cleaning, he was laughed at, and told to go to a very hot
place along with his “nerve.” I should have been deemed incapable
had I demanded that the machinery be stopped for me. The spinner
would have merely said, “Wait till dinner time!”
Not choosing to work during the stopping hour, I should merely have
been asked to quit work, for the spinner could have made it
impossible for me to retain my position.
The Spinners Would not Stop their Mules while I Cleaned
the