The Auburn Prince
THE AUBURN PRINCE
Copyright © 2020 by Adam Zmarzlinski.
Monotreme Press is a trademark of Monotreme Press LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission from the copyright holder. Names, characters, places, and events in this publication are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, events, institutions, or locals, without satiric intent, are coincidental. The Lamentation of Cin’Céline™ is a trademark of Adam Zmarzlinski.
Cover art by Lindsey Jachec
Author photograph by Juliana Ejsmont
The Lamentation logo and maps designed by Cedo Medjed
Book designed and formatted by Damonza
ISBN-13: 978-1-951326-00-5 (Paperback Edition)
ISBN-13: 978-1-951326-88-3 (Hardcover Edition)
ISBN-13: 978-1-951326-01-2 (Digital Edition)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019911862
First printing: March 2020
Monotreme Press
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MP 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my father who taught me perseverance and determination
Contents
Acknowledgments
Affirmation
The Overture
Chapter One
The Rumor is…
Chapter Two
A Stranger in a Shiny Suit
Chapter Three
Midnight Wanderings
Chapter Four
Colors from a Clown
Chapter Five
Knowing not to Know
Chapter Six
Reluctant Allies
Chapter Seven
Conversations between Shadows
Chapter Eight
Reminiscent Memories
Chapter Nine
Through the Threshold
Chapter Ten
Arguments and Reconciliations
Chapter Eleven
The Gecko and the Hound
Chapter Twelve
A Visit from a Trickster
Chapter Thirteen
The Color Poachers
Chapter Fourteen
A Caged Bird
Chapter Fifteen
When Shadows Come Knocking
Chapter Sixteen
The Town of Tears
Chapter Seventeen
The Olm
Chapter Eighteen
A Path through the Peaks
Chapter Nineteen
Bertrand Cosigneon and the Soundsmith
Chapter Twenty
Into the Abyss
Chapter Twenty-One
Tears
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Türul
Chapter Twenty-Three
There are Always Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Thank You, Friend
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Foxhunt
There is a House on Vulpes Hill…
Acknowledgments
Many thanks go out to Paul Bauma, Sean Blaha, Claire Haga, Emily Istic, and Lindsey Jachec for being the first people to read and critique this story. I owe a great debt to Eileen Minahan for her wonderful editorial pointers, and the folks at Damonza for their cover and internal format designs. A “thank you” also goes out to Jack and Felicia Madura for their help. I would be remiss not to mention Patsy and Louis—my most honest critics. Finally, I thank you, dear reader, for picking up this heap of paper, ink, and vision. I hope you enjoy it.
Affirmation
I write The Lamentation of Cin’Céline —composed of 215 tomes—to let my soul, heart, and mind converse among themselves. I fear, as most do, that when I die all that I’ve learned and experienced shall perish and disappear into the void. I wish for this story, and all that follow, to be a part of an allegory that builds off the people I’ve met, read, listened to or watched on screen. I write The Lamentation for myself, simply to show that I existed, that I was alive and that, when the time comes, I died, not as ether-swallowed chaff but as a flesh and blood Man made one from two.
The Lamentation is a story about the world of Orbheim and the immortal beings who inhibit it. It spans twenty Dreams and billions of years. The book that you are reading, The Auburn Prince, was written while I reflected on the importance that my father had on my life. I dedicate this book to my father, Tadeusz Zmarzlinski, because I love him and feel blessed for all that he’s done for me.
This tome takes place in 1975 AD during the Ninth Age known as The Age of Static. It is an appendix to chapter six of The Lamentation, Zenith’s Fall: A Bizarre Prophet. This tome is important to the grander narrative because the Arcenciel Chaplet is rediscovered. While Cin’Céline and Amengion are not present in this tale, the Legion is and it is through its manipulation of the main characters that the Chaplet returns from its banishment.
Thank you for purchasing this tome. Thank you for reading it. I hope that you find in its pages as much hope, reflection, and character as I have put into them myself. Life is short. We spend half of it asleep. I do not want to waste the awake half doing what others want, expect and command me to do, and neither should you. I do not know you, dear reader, but I know one thing—there lives within you a divine, infinitely boundless eternity engulfed by radiant hope and all of it claws at your soul, heart, and mind, demanding its time in the echoes of being. Be present, tell fairy tales and always do good in the face of evil.
Adam Zmarzlinski
Lemont, Illinois
2020
Every great story begins as a fairy tale and ends as a tragedy.
“There is the you and the I, the known and the Other, and nothing else besides that.”
Pazuz, the Wondering God
It began and ended with a foxhunt. In two separate hunts, two separate foxes—one auburn like the leaves of deep autumn, imperfect yet noble, a prince; the other pitch black like night embodied, flawless yet vile, a fragrant of doom—spent sweat, shed tears, and drawn blood. There was also the girl…
The Overture
The embers fled through the woods and darkness followed. From a steep embankment, a dozen men scanned the shadow draped forest below. Weatherworn bows hung from their shoulders and goose feathered arrows rose skyward from their quivers. Two dozen vicious hounds—eager to sniff out their prey—uneased the slate horses. A white canary observed them from atop a high branch.
“There,” one of the men said, pointing at a flicker of auburn slowly moving between the trees.
The hounds descended. Their barks echoed through the air as a harsh warning. Aware of their pursuers’ presence, a fox pair dashed through hollow logs, under barbed shrubs, around trees, over hills and past shallow ponds, and the hounds followed. The riders, too, trotted behind.
“Can’t wait to get me a fine fox pelt,” said a man with a scar slashed across his face.
“It will make a fancy rug to wipe your boots on,” joked another.
While the riders enjoyed themselves, the foxes were on the brink of exhaustion. Tongues hanging, hearts pounding, chests heaving, the auburn duo sprinted on, side by side, never looking behind, focused only on that which lay ahead.
“I haven’t had so much fun since Uggie’s bachelor night,” a porcine rider said.
“Cheers to that,” said another before taking a pull of wine from his skin.
“T
his huntin’ business the Lord’s got us doin’ ain’t no brothel duty, but I ain’t ditch diggin’ either,” said another.
While the riders’ spirits were merry and glad, a physical shadow lay over them. They were pale and colorless, their armor dull; even the horses lacked their usual vibrant sheen, and the deeper these King Consort’s men ventured into the woods, the more everything around them became blanketed in a mundane grayness.
The hounds wailed in the distance.
“I’ll bet ya’ll ten golds that I pierce both them foxes with one arrow,” bragged a rider.
“You couldn’t hit your feet with your own piss,” replied another as the others laughed. “I’ll take that bet.”
“Have you caught them?” a cold voice sounded behind the huntsmen. Startled, several of them chose not to look back and hurried off in pursuit of their prey. The three that remained sat silently, anxiously looking down at the ground.
The porcine rider steered his horse to face the speaker: a deathly pale man garbed in all white with jet black hair slicked back from his high forehead. He sat atop a dark horse. His eyes were slits of shadow, deep and unkind. A scarlet pin in the shape of a tear clung to his white breastplate.
“If I must repeat myself one of you loses a tongue,” the Pale Rider said.
Nervously, they swallowed.
“We’re right on their tail, my Lord,” the porcine rider said. “The hounds have caught their scent.”
“And yet here you are, cracking jokes,” the Pale Rider said.
“My Lord…”
“Give me your bow,” the Pale Rider demanded, stretching out his hand. The porcine man obeyed. After grabbing four arrows out of another equestrian’s quiver, the Rider trotted off and disappeared behind a copse of gray evergreens.
The porcine man felt relieved. “Let’s go catch those foxes.” The others nodded and the trio galloped off.
As the foxes descended a steep hillside, the hounds’ cries resonated behind them, drawing closer. Leading the way, the emerald-eyed fox urged the limping vixen along. They zigzagged through low shrubs and over fallen trees. While crossing a stream, they glanced at one another. Their eyes met, and in the chaos of it all they smiled, reassuring one another that all will end well.
Upon reaching the bottom of the hill, a large bloodhound surprised them when it burst out of a patch of ferns. Seeing the smaller vixen first, it lunged at her. Instinctively, the fox sprang forward and like a trapeze artist, rose high into the air, spun sideways, and landed with an incredible force on the back of the bloodhound’s head. He knocked the dog out of balance, and it ran face first into a fallen tree. As they continued their escape, the vixen gave her companion a quick kiss on the cheek.
At the bottom of the hill they followed a narrow gully when they came to a large fallen tree. The fox jumped over it effortlessly and turned to check upon the vixen. She jumped atop the tree’s rotting trunk but as she landed, her face contorted and she gave off a plaintive whimper. The fox noticed her injured front paw.
“It’s not far,” he said. “You can make it.”
An arrow zinged through the air, pierced the vixen’s injured paw and, with a crack, lodged itself in the fallen tree trunk.
“Delicata!” the fox shouted as the vixen gave off a cry. The second arrow nicked her tail but the force of it knocked her down. The fox jumped up on the fallen tree, bit the arrow and pulled at it with all his strength. Unfortunately, the arrowhead had lodged itself too deep in the wood. No amount of pulling or tugging would dislodge it.
“It’s no use, love,” the vixen said and gently slid her nose across the fox’s face. “It’s time for you to go.”
His eyes shimmered. “We’re so close.”
“You must go,” she said. “Otherwise, none of this will matter. It’s not about you or me anymore, love. It’s about fixing all of this. It’s about doing…”
Before she finished, an arrow pierced her back.
The fox’s eyes quickly filled with tears as the vixen took in her final breath and silently closed her eyes. Fury awoke in him. He looked toward the top of the hill as the Pale Rider and his steed slowly descended. The Rider pulled back another arrow, smirked and fired.
The fox quickly dashed out of the way, but not fast enough to dodge the shot completely. The arrow flew by and sliced his cheek open. After landing, the fox watched as a dozen hounds began their descent towards him. He ran up to the fallen vixen, and before sprinting away, rubbed her nose with his own to say a final goodbye. As he ran, tears struck the gray ground beneath him, exploding into tiny rainbows.
The Pale Rider stopped next to the vixen’s body and observed it.
“We got her,” he said to the arriving huntsmen. “But still need him. Preferably, alive.”
“Yes, Lord Ecilám,” they said and rode on. The Pale Rider dismounted and from underneath his robe pulled out a white silken satchel. As he slid back the top flap, an infinite whirlpool of bright colors swirled around inside. He snapped the arrows off the vixen and placed her inside the bag, where she faded into the swirling color.
“From one to many, from many to one,” Ecilám said. He hid the satchel and after mounting his horse, trotted off toward the sound of the hunt.
It was not because of the hounds’ lack of trying that they failed to catch their prey. The fox was much too agile for them. Each time the dogs were upon him, he out maneuvered them with his cleverness. One can only appreciate cleverness when there is someone clever to be clever around; unfortunately for the fox, he had an audience of lesser minds.
Upon emerging from the woods, the fox encountered a large canyon with a dancing river far below. With hounds approaching from all sides, to stop running meant certain doom. The choice was self-evident. He raced on and with one leap, sealed his fate. A few witless dogs followed. The fox and his dim companions fell into the embrace of the rushing current, which mercilessly dragged them below.
Above, the huntsmen arrived.
“Well that’s that,” said the porcine man. “They’re goners in that current.”
Others joined in, staring down at the rapids. Sauntering out of the woods, the Pale Rider steered his horse to the edge of the precipice and examined the river.
“Well this has been an exciting hunt, hasn’t it Lord Ecilám?” the porcine man said. “Now what?”
Looking up at him, flames flickered in the Pale Rider’s dark irises. He grabbed the man by the neck and with one flick of his arm, unseated and tossed him down into the rapids. Then he turned towards the rest of the hunting party.
“Follow him. Find the fox.”
Chapter One
The Rumor is…
In the small town of Dusty Ripple, in the blue house on Vulpes Hill, there lived a girl by the name of Clementine Aurelius. Once upon a time, she lived there with her parents: Alice Aurelius, a first-rate archeologist, and Bellany “Bell” Aurelius, a jubilant historian. But that was ages ago, and now Clementine lives with her aunt, Dahlia Teadmatus, Alice’s father’s uncle’s step-daughter’s cousin, twice removed. How that came to be is a mystery to the people of Dusty Ripple.
Miss Jane Hearsay, the neighbor from the yellow house next door, says that she knows, from a rather reliable source, that Alice Aurelius abandoned her husband in search of some ancient treasure in the sands of the Egyptian Sahara. Or was it the Cambodian jungle? Nevertheless, it was someplace odd, and he, being deeply in love with her, gave chase.
“That’s all wrong,” Mr. Paul G. Ossip, from Fifteen Notter Street on the other side of town, often argued. “I know for a fact that it was Bell who left Alice. He became romantically involved with a former student from that university where he taught. They’d run off together and Alice, hell bent on revenge, gave chase.”
“The truth is that they grew tired of each other,” Father George Fábula, of the Saint Cyril and Methodius Church, often said when conversing with another pair of ears. “I know, through official channels, that they simply skipped town. She w
ent to the Bahamas, he to Venezuela. Why? All because of that terrible daughter of theirs. It’s common knowledge, of course, that she’s the reason behind their failed marriage. She was such a deranged and lackluster child, they just could not cope. I’d do the same and flee.”
“I agree, Father,” Mrs. Daisy R. Umer, a parishioner, exclaimed. “My precious little Ila is in the same grade as that wicked Clementine. You know Ila, Father. She’s as kind as a saint; never said a bad thing about anyone. But even my little angel says that that Aurelius girl is wretched, thick skulled and as odd as a lighthouse in the desert. Then again, her parents were weirdos too.”
“That’s an understatement,” Mrs. Ann Gerücht, a local part-time schoolteacher and fulltime flatterer, often said. “They’d listen to strange overseas music and talk of the oddest things. Have you ever read Seneca or Niche-aye? Bell would say, while shabby Alice would spin the most monstrous tales. Fairy stories of trees as tall as mountains and tasting outlandish foods in foreign countries like Vivéret, Bösh or Cameroon. Odd people breed odd children.”
“The things I had to deliver to them!” exclaimed Mr. Ryan T. Rykter, the local mailman. “Letters in strange languages, books from made up places like Lithuania. Ancient manuscripts written by some Žemaitė woman, odd masks—one was made of real teeth! She’d get all these odd figurines from far off places. In all honesty, by leaving her, they did that strange child of theirs a favor. Now that Dahlia, she’s a good woman. She’ll raise that troublemaker right and proper!”
Everyone in Dusty Ripple had an opinion about the Aureliuses. Besides the weather and taxes, the family was the most popular topic of discussion. It is a shame really, as there are so many pleasurable topics to discuss besides other people. Nevertheless, ever since the Aureliuses moved into the house on Vulpes Hill—some ten odd years ago—rumors, much like clock hands, began to circulate.