PodCastle 833: This Wooden Heart from PodCastle

Before you were born, when you and your brother were still seeds tucked deep inside your parents’ bodies, your grandfather dreamed for a while: of grainy bark, of sun-kissed leaves, of sweet purple fruit and of milky poison sap.

Your grandpa: you knew him for a while. He had the eyes of someone claimed by something bigger; the eyes of someone who has known secrets that take root deep below.

He had the eyes of your brother.

Your brother: you knew him for a while. His fire burned too bright. And everyone who shines brightly is sent to exile. To this day, your mother thinks her son — your only brother — is imprisoned on a faraway island.

She doesn’t know that your brother dreams of grainy bark and sun-kissed leaves. She doesn’t know that what started with a seed in her father’s beard has grown wiry roots and curly tendrils around this family’s hearts.

She can feel the thorns. She can hear the faint beating. She will clutch at her chest with every long breath. But she doesn’t know.

It starts like this.

The story of your grandmother goes like this — or so they told you.

Rumour had it that the fig grove surrounding the church of Saint Yerasimos in Tholaria could hide one from human eyes. When the Ottomans and the Moors raided, people took to the grove. They knocked on the trees and the spirits of the trees answered. They welcomed them, one trunk now holding two souls.

In the thick shade of the fig trees, with no birds singing, no cicadas trilling, no bees buzzing, the priest eyed your grandmother with a smirk on his goatish features. The irreverent call priests he-goats, but he truly was one: shiny horns and black jewel eyes, part of the beastfolk of Yerakari. He was the spitting image of Dark Father, one of the Cruel Saints that are honored only in Messara Valley. No doubt this chilling resemblance made him, ironically, popular with the pious. Goats have herbivore eyes; his eyes were a predator’s.

“It will cost you,” he said. “The church has needs, you know that, child.” He stroked the heavy cross hanging from his neck. The little jewels tucked in the insets must have cost a fortune. Among them, rubies shone bright red. Rubies were a sign of someone who had traded with the Ottomans. Someone who herded the serfs for the sake of the master.

She clenched her jaw. Of course. The beastfolk of Yerakari cared about one thing only: money. Sometimes it took the form of business, sometimes of sheer thievery. When it came to the church, the beastfolk were a natural partner to the biggest thieves in the country.

“Name the price,” she said.

The he-goat went silent for a moment to briefly weigh the odds. “Forty aiyes. With interest.”

That was a year’s income for a spinner, in good times. Your grandmother was resourceful; she could find a way to pay the instalments. “Expensive, but you have a deal. I have an upfront of ten.”

“Splendid. Dark Father thanks you.” His goaty eyes shone with greed, and his long-fingered human hands,

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