Black Forest

by Shane Lee

  Terra nodded, calming down some, though tears were spilling down her cheeks. Delila stood again.

  “Monty was at Kettle’s this morning,” she told Judge Mullen. “He heard from Marie. It’s a shame. We were waiting to tell Terra.”

  “I see,” Mullen said, looking over at Monty. “So you may have been the very first to know outside of the family.”

  “Oh,” Monty said. “Well, I guess so. I didn’t—didn’t see anything. Marie came downstairs and told me.”

  “She was comfortable with you,” Mullen said. “That’s good. You probably eased her grief a great deal.”

  Monty thought back to how he had stammered through their interaction. “Maybe.”

  Judge Mullen smiled, narrow and grim. “We will be performing the final sending of Ma Kettle this evening after sundown. I am inviting all families to come, as Ma Kettle was a friend to everyone in the village.”

  “The final sending, so soon?” Delila said, rising up and holding Terra’s hand in hers.

  “This is a...special circumstance,” Judge Mullen said. “Dorella’s remains are in a precarious state. I felt it was best to ensure we send them as soon as possible.”

  What does that mean? Monty thought of Marie’s tear-streaked face, and what she’d said about Audrey lifting her mother’s body right off the ground. The final sending usually wasn’t done for several days.

  “It’s short notice,” Delila said. “I’m sorry to say that we may not be able to attend. And the children don’t need to see something like that right now.”

  “Of course, I am just here to provide the word,” the Judge said, unlinking his hands. “It would be good to see you there, if you can. I am sure the Kettle family would appreciate seeing you as well, Monty.”

  Monty’s heart swelled a bit. Judge Mullen was personally asking him to be there?

  “We’ll see,” Delila said, cutting in before Monty could say anything. “Thank you, Judge. We have to get back to the house, now. We were just about to eat.”

  “Please, don’t let me keep you longer.” Judge Mullen dipped his head again, as smoothly as he had done before. “I must inform the Gartens next.”

  Monty watched him move back the road and follow the path to the Gartens farm, rather than cut across their land to get there sooner. He turned to his mother once the Judge was out of earshot. “Mother, why can’t we go? We should be there.”

  “As I said, it’s not something that either of you should be seeing right now,” she said.

  Monty figured she was thinking of their own father’s sending, which had been very difficult to get through.

  Still holding Terra’s hand, she started to walk back to the house.

  Monty followed after her. “But Judge Mullen asked me to be there himself!”

  “Judge Mullen asks many things of many people,” his mother responded, not turning. “That does not mean they have to be done.”

  Monty let out a frustrated groan. “It’s not like it’s a favor to him. Why are you so cold with him all the time?”

  “I am perfectly pleasant,” Delila said. “Terra, go on inside. We can talk more about Ma Kettle later, if you want.”

  “Yeah.” Terra nodded, still hushed, before going up the steps.

  He waited patiently for his mother to round on him, which she did with deliberate ease. He crossed his arms. It hadn’t taken much to feel like he needed to go this sending, but now that he was stuck on it, he didn’t feel like letting it go.

  “I saw you give him the evil eye when he told Terra about Ma Kettle,” he said to her. “No one else would do that to Judge Mullen.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with that,” Delila said, hands on her hips, her dark eyes sharp. “Judge Mullen’s business with us should not cost you any sleep, Monty. Nor should you be worried what a man like that thinks of you.”

  She had hit the matter right on the head, as she was good at doing, so Monty went around it. “‘A man like that?’ See, you do have a problem with him.”

  “We are not going to discuss that,” Delila told him. Her tone was heavy; final. “You and I both know that bare cornstalks do not mean that our work is done. Tonight is just as important as the rest of the harvest. We have to go to town almost every day from here until the crop is sold.”

  “I know that,” Monty said, defensive. “I know how the farm works, I’ve been doing this ever since I was half Terra’s age, you know.”

  “If I didn’t know better,” Delila responded, “I’d say you’re half Terra’s age right now.”

  Monty flushed. “I’m not a kid anymore. I should be able to know—”

  “You should know when to stop.” She crossed her arms now, too. “No one is going to that sending, and that’s all I have to say about it.”

  “Fine,” Monty said. “I’ll load the cart for tomorrow, then.”

  “You have to eat.”

  “Not hungry anymore,” Monty said, and he turned and paced toward the shed before his mother could stop him.

  Whatever she called after him, he didn’t hear. All he wanted to do was be recognized and given some responsibility. He was his father’s son, and his mother’s son, and Terra’s older brother, but he was more than that, too. What was it going to take for people to see that?

  Mom’s never going to let me grow up.

  He flung open the wide doors to the shed where all the harvest was stored and began hauling bag after heavy bag to the cart by the barn.

  I’m going to be her kid forever. She hasn’t let me even look at the farm papers once, and dad’s been gone over a year.

  He grunted, tossing a bag into the cart. Some corn spilled out, rolling over the beaten wood. He ignored it.

  Everyone in Kettle’s just saw me babysitting Terra while mom handled the business, like usual.

  Sweat beaded on his brow as he hefted the eighth heavy sack of corn into his arms.

  I’m normally invisible to Judge Mullen, too, and when he finally asks something of me, she tells him that I can’t. Like I can’t even speak for myself!

  Monty heaved the last sack into the cart, filling it up about as full as it could be. He was still antsy.

  “I’m going,” he said. He snapped his fingers and leaned against the cart, looking toward Irisa. The decision, sudden and clear, made him feel better instantly. He nodded, reaffirming to himself. “I’m going to the sending no matter what.”

  10

  The days were shorter in winter, and the sun was finding the horizon by the time Monty returned from the cart. He shoveled down a dinner of cold eggs and bread and told his mother that he was going to sleep early, tired from his before-dawn journey into town.

  “Cart’s ready for tomorrow,” he said shortly to her. She was sitting at the desk in her room, and she turned in her chair.

  “I know you want to be more involved, Monty,” she said to him. She sounded a little pained and stressed, papers spread all over the desk. “After the harvest time—we’re just so busy now.”

  “Yeah,” Monty said, and he almost left to go back down the hall to his room. But he knew his mother well, and that she might suspect his evening’s plans if he stayed stubborn. So he told her, “I get it. I’m sorry about...you know, getting on you about Mullen and the sending and all. You’re right, it’s...not something I want to see.”

  He held his breath until she replied, “I appreciate that, Monty. Go on, get to bed.”

  She gave him a smile that danced in the flickering candlelight before he returned it and went back to his room.

  We’re just so busy now.

  It was something he’d heard before. Getting put off. He could see all the papers on the desk, and how she’d burned through candles every night working on things there. If she really was going to teach him, she’d do it now when she needed his help.

  Tonight, he’d be helping himself. He’d be the sole representative of his family at this sending. He’d talk to the Kettles, offer his condolences. Maybe be asked to say some
thing, or stand with the Judge.

  These thoughts, chaining together one after the other, kept him awake in bed until the sun was long gone and he knew his mother was asleep.

  The sending would be happening soon.

  Carefully, he slid his blanket off until it was rumpled at the foot of his bed. The house was silent; no scratching of quill or fidgeting, which just meant that Monty had to be as quiet as possible. He set his bare feet down on the floor and stood out of bed.

  He’d snuck out of the house plenty of times, and the floor hadn’t gotten any less squeaky since he was a child. He just knew the spots better now, and stepped easily around them.

  Monty eased the door open and slipped through the narrow space before. He had left his boots outside by the steps earlier, so he wouldn’t have to fumble with them inside. He slipped them on his feet, muffled by the grass, and crept carefully around the house to the road.

  The night was dark, and the horizon of Irisa was clear of light. He knew he would be on time for the sending, but it was still a relief to see it hadn’t proceeded without him.

  He made much quicker time to Irisa without the wagon in tow. The sending was to take place outside of town, in a northern plain just astride the village proper, and it was there he saw the people gathered—a great number of them, though it was too dark to truly tell how many.

  He approached with uncertainty. Monty had been to final sendings, of course, his own father’s fresh in his memory, but this was different. Should he seek out Marie, or one of the other Kettles? Judge Mullen?

  His indecision was snuffed by the approach of the Judge himself, moving with grace along the grass. Most of the villagers were gathered around the platform; the Judge broke away from that crowd, coming over to Monty on the outskirts.

  “Monty,” he said, quiet yet very easy to hear. “So you were able to make it, after all. Your mother as well?”

  “No, your Honor. It’s just me,” Monty said, and quickly decided that it was best the Judge didn’t know about his indiscretion. “Mother...couldn’t get away from the farm. But she—I understood that it was important for someone from our family to be here. For me to be here.”

  “It is too bad she couldn’t come,” Judge Mullen said, looking none too displeased at that fact, “but I am glad you are here, Monty. It will be nice to speak with another of the Bellamys about your farm.”

  “The farm?” Monty repeated. Whatever he was expecting Judge Mullen to say amid the sending, it wasn’t about their farm. “Sure, I mean, if you have were wondering about the harvest, we’ll be coming to town tomorrow...”

  Judge Mullen offered him a smile. “No, I am sure it was a good harvest, Monty. I wanted to ask about your mother. She does seem very stressed, the last few times we have crossed paths.”

  Monty shrugged. “I guess. The farm has been a lot of work this year, with...well, with my father passing.”

  “Yes.” Judge Mullen bowed his head. “A terrible thing. I worry about each and every one of my constituents, you know. It does not matter to me if your house is next to mine or your farm is miles from the village. I want to make sure that everyone is doing well.”

  “Right,” Monty said.

  “With the harvest ended and your selling to culminate over this next week, it occurred to me that a virile young man like yourself might have some free time,” Judge Mullen said.

  Monty just nodded. The winter after harvest was a fairly idle time, excepting the one winter where the roof of the barn had needed to be fixed. But it was sturdy now.

  “To put it simply, Monty, this latest messenger boy we’ve had among town has been...leaving something desired.” Judge Mullen cracked one of his knuckles. “Not that I wish to speak ill of the boy. He is kind and puts forth an effort...”

  Monty’s features lit up, eagerness hidden by the dark. A messenger position was about as low on the ladder one could be on the town coin, but it was still a position within the village. Something that could lead to more, and in the meantime, get him familiar with the operations of the town. The merchants and commerce; the farmers’ collective and their officials. In an instant, his mind filled with images of selling the farm and putting his family up in a nice house in Irisa, or of hiring others to run the farm while they reaped the profits.

  “...but I fear I am going to have to replace the lad, as the busiest time of all approaches in the wake of the traveling merchants and buyers.” Judge Mullen sighed, low and long. “Well, Monty, I have been impressed with your capability in handling the Bellamy farm work in the absence of your father. If you do have the time this off-season, I would be quite pleased to have you as the new recruit courier.”

  Recruit courier—the official name. The sound of it warmed him in the chill night.

  “Of course, if your mother allows,” Judge Mullen added with a small smile.

  “I would be thrilled to, your Honor,” Monty said immediately, and when Judge Mullen held out his hand, he shook it with a sense of independent purpose.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” Judge Mullen said to him, letting go of Monty’s hand, which had swallowed up his own. “Pay me a visit next time you are in town, then, and we can take care of the arrangements. It will be good to have someone so capable working for the village.”

  Mullen gave a farewell and disappeared into the black of the night, back to the sending. Monty let his excitement out in a big rush of breath, knowing he couldn’t walk into the sending with a big grin on his face.

  So Mullen had wanted to get him alone, away from his mother, to offer him the courier position. He appreciated the man’s savvy; Judge Mullen knew that his mother might not be as keen on the idea. But what he didn’t realize was that the decision was not his mother’s—it was Monty’s. And she would have no reason to be upset about it, anyway. The winter would bring little work and even less coin once the harvest was sold; meanwhile, he’d be earning more keep and making a name for himself within Irisa. It couldn’t be more perfect.

  The lighting of a torch nearby reminded him of where he was and why he was here. Monty quickly walked into the crowd of villagers gathered around the platform that held Ma Kettle’s body, losing himself among their count. It was warmer among the people. He didn’t know where the Kettles were, but that was quickly answered when he saw Judge Mullen, holder of the torch, pass it to Audrey Kettle. She and the rest of her family stood in the front, facing the Judge and the expanse. The torchlight lit them all orange, dancing in the soft breeze.

  Judge Mullen’s voice boomed, oddly powerful from his small frame. “I thank you all, as does the Kettle family, for being here at the final sending of Dorella Kettle. May she thrive among the saints.”

  Together with the swell of villagers, Monty spoke the prayer in gentle tones: “May she thrive among the saints.” He saw most of the Kettles’ lips move with everyone else’s, but not Audrey’s. She held the torch stoic and stricken. Her husband was reserved, his hands joined at his waist. Their children, all five of them, stood around him. Marie stepped toward her mother and put her hand on her arm; Audrey seemed not to notice.

  “We will now send Dorella to the beyond, where she will watch over us,” Judge Mullen said, his voice washing over everyone there. “Audrey, you may now commence the pyre.”

  Audrey Kettle moved stiffly, her daughter’s fingers falling from her arm. She approached the small platform, where, piled upon a neatly-arranged mass of dry branches and logs, her mother’s body rested in a simple wooden casket. The shiny iron handles adorning its sides would later be retrieved by Irisa’s gravekeeper when he came to bury the bones, but he would find only ashes when this sending was done.

  Her back to the crowd, Audrey dropped the torch at the foot of the pyre. The dry wood caught immediately, crackling. As the Kettles and Mullen retreated from the platform, it grew to a blaze, the licking tips of the fire reaching far above the three-foot height of the pyre itself. Light cast out over the field, followed shortly by the warmth of the sending flame.
<
br />   Monty looked around to see most of the village surrounding him, close to a thousand people, gathered here to bid farewell to Ma Kettle. It was a good thing to see, and it reinforced his conviction to be here; that it was important to be a part of this.

  “...from the Dromm...”

  His ears tingled at the word, and he looked back to see who had whispered it, but all he saw was half-shadowed faces.

  “...said she...just woke up there...”

  He looked around again, and now it seemed that everyone was looking at him, or was looking away when he turned. He did see some faces he knew, now; Meera Sand, off in the distance; a builder from the guild whose name was either Brice or Brick. But who was talking? No one? Everyone?

  “So sudden...”

  “...just like that, an’ she said...”

  “...they ain’t here, are they? Just him, and...”

  “...cursed.”

  Monty felt surrounded by whispers, soft words that roared louder than the fire before him. He turned around fully, now, daring someone to say something to him, but there was no challenge. It was the same it always was; behind his back, whispered; hinted; teased. Just enough to keep him at arm’s length, to make him feel like he didn’t belong in the village.

  Terra didn’t talk to anyone in town, really; she didn’t understand. He didn’t know how his mother was able to just cast this stupid stigma aside the way she had. When he heard the whispers, it always made his ears hot. It was never overt; he was never refused service or shooed away like he’d heard of happening to lepers and the like. But the whispers. The whispers were there.

  And here, they were louder. Turned away from the fire, he heard them from the people who were behind him now. Black trees, little girls, curses. Ma Kettle had told people what Terra had said, and those people had told people, and now he was sinking in a pile of hushed rumors he’d never hear told to his face.

  Monty pushed through the crowd, retreating from the noise of the fire and the voices and the light and warmth, into the cold and black embrace of the night that lied over everything else. Were people watching him leave the sending before the fire was burned out? Certainly, they were.