The old man leaned heavily against his gnarled wooden walking staff, panting and wheezing from exertion. "I'm too bloody old to climb these stairs anymore," he muttered to himself. He stood before the last flight of stairs, long and winding, leading to his living quarters at the uppermost part of an ancient stone fortress, centuries abandoned.
        Taking a deep breath, he began the long, laborious ascent up the staircase. "One," he counted as he conquered the first step. "Two." Counting the steps always made the climb seem faster and like some kind of great victory when he finally reached the top. "Three." He paused, breathing deeply before ascending the next step. "Four…"
        He could have easily sprinted up these stairs in his youth within a few seconds. But his younger days were far gone—so far gone that not a person alive would likely be able to remember them. Few even knew of his existence now. Oh, they still told stories of him around hearths and campfires, but according to those tales he should have died a long time ago. A very long time ago.
        "…twenty-one. Twenty-two…"
        This last flight of stairs was narrow and dingy, nowhere near the grandeur of the spiraling staircases on the lower levels. Up here the stone walls were crumbling with age, slick with a cold dampness and the occasional patch of furry green moss. Torches and candles tossed a dancing mixture of shadow and light on the corridor, contrasting sharply to the cheerful chandeliers and gilded lamps below.
        "Fifty t—" The old man stopped abruptly as a torch further up the passage flickered out suddenly from an unexpected gust of wind. A thin and frail wailing sound echoed through the corridor, wavering in and out of hearing as it slithered down the staircase. It was a haunting sound, a kind of bizarre aural marriage between a faint wind and whispering voices.
        The old man stood frozen on the steps, ears straining for another snatch of the sound. Heart pounding and blood racing, his entire body began to tremble. He had heard this sound before; he knew what it meant. "Fifty three, Fifty four…"
        He rushed up the stairs, finding somewhere an inner surge of strength. "Sixty-one, sixty-two…" As he drew closer to the top, the sound above began to transform. The sound of wind was now a chaotic mix of voices whispering, howling, laughing, shrieking. Some were human, some were clearly not.
        "…seventy-four, seventy-five…" Ignoring the pain in his aged muscles and joints, he hurried on, fiercely intent on reaching the top.
        "…seventy-nine, eighty…"
        The old man burst into the chamber, scanning the room frantically. The wind was at a high shrieking pitch now, its unearthly sounds echoing throughout the chamber.
        A dark shape darted through the old man's line of vision. The man gasped and turned around sharply, his eyes searching. Shadows moved in the corner, morphing into a translucent dark figure. The apparition could barely be seen; like a part of a dream just barely glimpsed somewhere between sleep and consciousness.
        "Show yourself, damn you!" the old man shouted. The figure vanished instantly while the wind picked up in both speed and pitch, hurling things across the room in a terrible tour de force of voices and tornado-like strength.
        He bowed his head, hands over his eyes. "Peace, peace, old man," he whispered to himself. His eyes flashed to a large wooden table against the far wall. It was made of oak, ornately carved with the characters and symbols from a hundred different tales and prophecies. Atop the table were two identical candles. One was lit; its flame had been burning nonstop for a little over three years now, the fire never waning. The other candle stood beside it, dark and lifeless.
        The old man walked over to the table, shoulders back and head held high with both dignity and determination. Stopping abruptly, only a few feet short of the table, he folded himself into a sitting position on the floor. He crossed his legs beneath him and laid down his wooden staff gently beside him, and just sat there waiting placidly.
        The noise and the chaos of the wind instantly died down to a rhythmic, humming chant as if it had been waiting for the old man to peaceably surrender himself.
        Suddenly, the shadows behind the candles began to converge, twisting, turning, and spiraling like tendrils of smoke into a dark unsubstantial cloud. The cloud began to wrap itself around the pair of candles, moving in perfect time with the unnerving chant of the voices. The flame on the lit candle began to flicker wildly. Behind the swirling cloud, a vapory human-like figure coalesced. It raised what looked like an emaciated, long-fingered hand above the unlit candle. Instantly, a soft light enveloped the entire candle and a thin tendril of grayish smoke began to rise from its wick.
        Suddenly, the candle burst into life, a hot, newborn flame madly dancing atop it. It stood there, flickering in equal brilliance and importance beside its partner. The old man breathed in sharply, throwing himself prostrate on the floor. "Oh great nation, beloved Areithos, thy time is near," he whispered in shuddered breaths. "May the Creator be with us all."

        The room was quiet now and the worn-looking woman was resting quietly on her makeshift bed. A calm serenity had finally descended and fresh-faced young girls soundlessly whisked this way and that, tidying up and tending to the many oil lanterns and candles.
        Isaac stood hidden in a shadowy corner, watching everything with a toddler's insatiable curiosity. He had first been drawn here in somewhat of a horrified fascination by the sounds of pained shouting and moaning. Carefully sneaking in during all the commotion, he had positioned himself in the far corner, hopefully out of sight of his mother's watchful eye.
        She would have punished him severely had she noticed his presence. "It's not proper for a man to be in the birthing room—even if he is the father," she had said. "Or even a wee'un like yourself." She had added that last part, anticipating the child's inevitable counter-argument. But now it seemed she was far too busy with the goings-on in the room to pay Isaac any notice. Or so he was hoping.
        The birthing room was a warm and surprisingly inviting place. It was paneled in richly colored wood from the forests of the northlands with thick wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling. An enormous stone fireplace built into the far wall, it's fire casting a radiant warm glow across the room.
        An unexpected wave of exhaustion overtook Isaac all of a sudden, and drawing close his ever-present blanket, he let his head droop and his eyes shut. Enclosed in a warm, drowsy feeling, he slowly drifted off, leaving the sounds of the birthing room seeming distant and garbled.
        "Aaaaa—aaaa-aaaargh!" The woman on the bed arched her back in a horrific display of pain. Her hands flailed beside her, searching for something to hold on to. She grabbed a nearby towel, tearing it in half, screaming, as another wave of contractions overtook her. The terrifying sound reverberated against the walls of the little room, jolting a dazed Isaac from his slumber. The whole room had instantly become a hive of frenzied action as half a dozen white-clad girls darted every which way, frantically obeying shouted orders from Isaac's mother.
        Scared and bewildered, Isaac charged out of his corner. What had started out as bubbling curiosity had turned into a confused fear, and now all Isaac wanted was to escape from the upheaval that had engulfed the room. He ran headlong into a crowd of scurrying girls, desperately looking for a way out, but his mind was still not yet fully awake as he stumbled around in a disoriented daze.
        A panicky looking girl suddenly rushed towards Isaac, tripping over him in her haste. She let out an indignant squeal as she fell to the floor, looking back at him and yelling furiously. It was just too much for Isaac; he slumped to the floor and buried his face in his blanket, sobbing uncontrollably.
        "Isaac?" Isaac looked up from his blanket, his teary eyes trying to focus on the figure before him. "Isaac! What on God's green earth are you doing here?" Isaac simply stared at his mother, unable to make a sound. Strands of red-brown hair had fallen around her face in all the chaos of the night. Her eyes were taut and weary. "How many times do I have to tell you that you have no place in the birthing room, child?"
        Isaac's bottom lip began to tremble and his eyes welled with tears, threatening to spill over again. She clapped a hand to her forehead, sighing exasperatedly. "Go find your Da," she said firmly, pointing toward the door with an outstretched arm.
        Isaac wasted no time as he raced out the door and across the thirty or so feet that separated his mother's modest clinic from the main house.
        "There's my boy!" Isaac's father exclaimed as the child sprinted in. "What's wrong, son?" he said as he saw Isaac's tear streaked face.
        Isaac didn't speak.
        "Ah—someone was where they shouldn't be, weren't they?" Isaac nodded remorsefully. "Oh Isaac, you know how your mother is about menfolk in the birthing room."
        All Isaac could manage was a weak, "Yeah."
        His father bent down and tousled Isaac's hair with large, weathered hands. "You still carrying this ol' thing around?" he asked, touching Isaac's ever-present worn blue blanket. "I guess it's high time we found you a playmate then," he said smiling. "Maybe that new baby that your mother's birthing tonight." He lifted Isaac onto his lap. "Considering all things go well. Let's pray all things go well," he added.
        Isaac leaned against his father's chest, listening to the steady beat of the man's heart. Isaac felt happy and safe—and tired. His eyes began to droop as he slowly began to slip into unconsciousness. Warm and happy.
        He slept for what seemed like an eternity. The lamps had all burned out and his father's breathing had taken on the slow, rhythmic sound of sleep.
        "Isaac. Isaac." Isaac stirred gently at the sound of his name. It had been whispered ever so softly from over a distance. He twisted around, gazing at his father, but the man was still asleep, head drooping on one shoulder. Isaac looked around the room, squinting in the darkness as he tried to find the source of the voice.
        He carefully slipped off his father's lap and ran to the window. The lights were still burning bright in his mother's clinic across the way, but everything seemed to have taken on a more tranquil appearance.
        "Isaac." The name was barely audible whisper now. The boy slowly turned around in a curiosity-infused state of confusion searching for the source. But the sound seemed to come from no one particular place. Or perhaps it was coming from everywhere.
        Isaac tiptoed to the door, turning to look back at his father once before disappearing into the night. He ran towards the clinic, all memories of the earlier events now replaced by breathless anticipation. The wind rushed in his ears, breathy catches of his name whispering in and out.
        The mood of the birthing room had changed completely. Isaac's mother stood to one side weary but satisfied as she watched the woman on the bed radiating with pleasure as she cooed softly to her newborn baby. The woman's husband and family—six other children ranging from age two to thirteen—crowded around her, all marveling over the newest addition to their already large brood.
        Isaac stood frozen a distance from the bed, gazing cautiously between people to the tiny bundled figure nestled within its mother's arms. "Isaac," his mother called softly. "Come here, son." She was smiling now, all hints of tension and stress gone from her face.
        Isaac felt himself being lifted from his feet by his mother. "See the new baby, Isaac?" She pointed towards the bed. "Do you see her? Her name is Eve." She was gently rocking Isaac back and forth in her arms, talking to him in a sing-song voice. "Isn't she pretty, Isaac? Isn't she pretty?"
        Isaac slid out of his mother's arms without replying. He crept silently over to the mass of people, carefully weaving between the many family members. He reached a small, chubby hand up to the bed's wooden rail and slowly climbed up one side, peering down at the newborn child. The new mother and her family watched Isaac with a patient curiosity, but he simply didn't notice them; his attention was focused solely on the wrinkled, bald-headed creature before him.
        Isaac stared down at her, breathlessly overwhelmed at the sight before him. He bent down low to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead, sighing contentedly as he traced a chubby finger down her cheek. "Beautiful Eve," he whispered softly. "Beautiful, beautiful Eve."

. . . r e a d  c h a p t e r  o n e  n o w . . .
c l i c k  h e r e