The Second Bell

by Gabriela Houston

  They walked the narrow path, the houses on their left, and a steep hill on the right. Dran moved as quickly as he could, though Salka noticed his foot was clearly causing him pain now. The lamb on her back kicked and she lost her footing, nearly tumbling down. She let out a cry.

  Dran turned around in a fury. “I told you to shut that thing up! They’ll find us!” He suddenly grabbed the lamb on Salka’s back, pulling at it with a force which made Salka spin. He swung it against the wall and with a savage blow broke the creature’s neck. The bones cracked with a sickening noise and the lamb let out a squeal.

  They stood over the lamb’s small body, twitching on the ground. Salka saw Dran’s face blanch with the horror of what he’d just done.

  “No! What did you just…?” Salka grabbed the lamb and pushed Dran away.

  “I’m sorry, I…” He raised his hands as Salka lunged at him, her fist drawn back, cradling the lamb in her left arm. Dran ducked a blow meant for his face, and the sudden movement made Salka lose her footing. “Watch out!” Dran, panic written all over his face, tried to catch her, and missed. She fell on her stomach and slid down the hill to the untilled rocky ground some six yards below the path.

  She looked up and saw Dran’s face, looking down at her with his arm still outstretched. They stared at each other for a moment as the voices were getting louder. He grabbed handfuls of his hair as if he would tear it out, and shut his eyes tight. “I’m sorry,” he said looking away. Then he turned around and ran.

  Salka watched incredulously as he hobbled away as quickly as he could manage. But there was no time to think on that. The angry shouts were getting nearer, and she was painfully exposed. She looked around and spotted a string of four houses, each with a small vegetable patch in front. There was a large barn to the side, large enough to be shared by all the four households. She made for it as fast as she could, the lamb hanging limp on her back. She stifled her tears. The poor creature was dead because of her. What had possessed her to take it? Leaving empty-handed would have been preferable to this sorry result. She pushed the barn door open and slid inside. She could hear the noise of people turning their houses upside down looking for thieves. Looking for her.

  She looked around for a hiding place. There were no good ones. The barn held several, rather poorly-fed, cows and sheep along with two farm horses. Below the rafters lay bales of hay on an elevated platform, and there were tools hanging on the wall. She sat down behind a crate of apples, each one carefully wrapped in hay. She’d only seen an apple once before, when Dola brought them a small basket one year.

  Salka took the lamb off her back and gently put it in her lap. A sudden fluttering of the animal’s eyelid gave Salka a start. The poor creature wasn’t dead after all! But it was dying, and in pain, and she didn’t know how to help it. “I’m so sorry…” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. She wondered where Munu was; she needed him now. Her fingers stroked the lamb’s head and along its small neck. The lamb’s eye looked at her intensely as it struggled for breath.

  “We’re done for, you and I,” she said. Her own death was inevitable. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The voices outside were getting closer. She could feel her own two hearts, beating so loudly they were ringing in her ears. Were the people outside deaf that they couldn’t hear them? She held the lamb in her arms and listened to the three heartbeats, one slowing, and two beating so fast.

  It suddenly felt so hot, unbearably so. She tugged at her scarf and pulled her jumper off, the lamb in her lap staring at her silently. Salka started sweating and, as the anger inside her burned, she could feel her fingertips tingle. She looked at the lamb and took a breath. She touched the animal’s neck again, where Dran’s blow had broken the bone. She felt for the wrongness and sought to right it. She drew a breath and the chill turned to heat inside her lungs. So hot. So hot it was unbearable, so much heat she would never be able to hold it inside. And so she didn’t.

  The lamb took a sharp breath, as the heat worked its way through its body, pushing and pulling, savagely and without remorse. Salka’s jaw slackened, her expression blank. She felt nothing but the surge of heat rushing through her body. She wanted to shake it off; she wanted to rip her own skin off to stop feeling it. But it continued to steadily flow. She felt that if she could only let go, she could make the whole world burn.

  She held on, letting a mere trickle pour out around her. And then, all at once, it was over. The lamb in her lap wriggled out, reveling in the departure of pain. Salka opened her eyes. As she breathed out, a cloud of steam rose from her lips. Frost had painted a pattern on the wooden planks of the barn walls and her eyelashes were coated in ice.

  With a start, she became aware of another’s presence. A large man was standing next to her, watching her in silence. He had broad shoulders used to hard labor and a worn face that might have been handsome once. He held a miner’s pickaxe in his hand. It would have taken him less than a moment to crush Salka’s skull.

  But the man wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at her worn-out, patched-up cloak in which she still held the lamb. Without meeting her eyes, he turned around and called out, “Nobody here!” and left.

  Salka sat very still, cradling the lamb in her arms. It could have been a trick, a ruse to get her to leave the safety of the barn. But the hours passed and nobody came for her.

  When the night fell, she crawled out of the barn, the lamb asleep in the cocoon of her cloak. It seemed comfortable with her now, as if she had not made the clearest possible display of the evil lurking inside her. Salka looked down at its face and a pang of guilt and shame shot through her chest.

  She walked along the path to the fields, stopping to listen every few yards. A sound of footsteps on the main road stopped her in her tracks and she clung to the wall. A narrow path joined the main road to where she was, and she judged it safer to wait till the unseen traveler had gone rather than make a dash and risk discovery. The sound ceased and she peeked out down the alley.

  A Dola stood there, staring into the darkness. The woman carried a staff with her pouches tied to its head, and with the other hand she held an oil lamp, the orange glow illuminating her face. Salka didn’t know her. She was much too finely dressed to attend the striga village, clearly favoring those who could pay for her services in more than skeins of wool and the occasional meal around an open fire. The woman wore a thick woolen skirt, richly embroidered, and a fine leather bag hung across her shoulders.

  The Dola paused and kept staring in silence. Salka reminded herself that the Dola couldn’t possibly see her. Salka was too far for the light to reach her. And yet Salka was certain the Dola had seen her. After the longest time, Salka heard footsteps once more, this time growing fainter.

  Once she was sure she was once more alone in the night, Salka moved quickly and managed to get across the field to the safety of the forest. As she reached the Hope Tree, she saw a fire burning between the trees. She walked up to the makeshift camp quietly, and stood there, watching Emila and Dran as they slept by the fire. Emila’s eyebrows were furrowed and tears marked her face. Salka knelt beside the two and touched Emila on the shoulder. Her friend stirred but it was Dran who woke first.

  “Salka! You’re alive! Thank the gods!” He seemed genuinely happy, which would have pleased Salka had she not remembered the savagery of the blow he had inflicted on the lamb. He opened his arms as if he would hug her but one look from Salka made him lower them and look at his feet in embarrassment.

  She shrugged. “No thanks to you.”

  Emila opened her eyes. “Salka! Salka, are you all right? I can’t believe you’re back! How did you get away? Dran said he saw you take a wrong turn and we were so sure you were captured!”

  Salka cast a quick look at Dran, who had the decency to look ashamed.

  Emila grabbed Salka by the shoulders and hugged her tight. “Oh… What is that on your back? A lamb? In the autumn!” She opened her eyes wide.

  “Yes.” Salka shifted
uncomfortably. “I hid in the barn after I… ‘took the wrong turn’… They didn’t find me.” She could feel Dran’s eyes on her.

  “The lamb!” he said suddenly. “I mean, it’s lucky it wasn’t hurt during the escape.” He stroked its head gently and Salka pulled away.

  “I think we should stay here for the night,” Salka said, brushing hair from her face.

  “Oh, but you must warm yourself!” Emila said suddenly. “Look at you, you’re drenched from the marshes and you’re not even wearing your cloak.”

  “I’m fine…” Salka said. And she really was. She felt perfectly warm and comfortable, in spite of her wet shoes and trousers.

  “Nonsense,” Emila decided. “Take your boots off and put them by the fire. They will be dry by the morning.” She started fussing with the fire, blushing and roughly refusing Dran’s half-hearted offer of help.

  Salka wondered briefly what words of affection had passed between Emila and Dran when they thought she was dead. But she decided she didn’t care. She just wanted to sleep. The lamb was bleating loudly now and nuzzled her tummy. “Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you,” she said awkwardly.

  “Here. We can boil this in water. It will have to suffice until we can get back and feed it properly,” Dran said, unfastening a small pouch he had tied to his wide leather belt. “I’m not sure about lambs, but this would do well enough for a kid.”

  Salka took the pouch from his outstretched hand, avoiding his eyes. She moved closer to Emila, who was picking up hot stones from the fire using two sticks as tongs and gently putting them in her waterskin to heat the water. Salka could feel Dran staring at her back, and she wished she could disappear into the fire. She felt the flames would burn less than his gaze.

  As she studiously avoided looking at him, Salka didn’t notice Dran was hungrily staring at her shadow, as it moved and writhed on the ground. Every few heartbeats the dark shape would rise a finger’s width above the wet soil, as if struggling to take form and sit next to Salka. Sometimes a dark hand would rise gently and rest on the lamb’s head, leaving the slightest imprint on the soft wool, before melting back into the night.

  CHAPTER 6

  Dola stared at the polished pebbles scattered on the floor. Each had a symbol on it, painted carefully by her own hands. Each Dola had a different set, with different symbols painted. The symbols were for each of them to dream up and interpret themselves and no Dola would touch another one’s stones within her lifetime.

  For the third time that night, Dola cast her stones, hoping for a different answer. She stretched out on her polished wooden floor and placed her fingers on her growing belly. She rested like that for a moment, trying to still her mind till all she felt was the rise and fall of her chest. It often worked to calm her, but not this time.

  She knew what she had to do. And the worst thing was she knew she would not hesitate, not in this.

  Dola turned to her side and wept, ashamed of her strength.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Are you mad? Risking yourself like this?! And this animal you brought with you! It still needs its mother’s milk; it can’t be more than three weeks old. A spring lamb in the autumn… Did you bring it here to watch it die in the winter months? If only this wasn’t our goat’s first pregnancy…” Miriat was fuming. She seldom got angry but when she did, Salka knew to let her talk. Her mother’s fury burned high and fast but she could already see Miriat turn her mind to the practicalities.

  “Well, Trina’s goat is pregnant but will still give milk for another two months or so. Though heaven knows if she’ll accept a lamb for the nursing.” Miriat rubbed her temples. “Spit and bile, girl, why don’t use your head more. And your cloak! It’s a rag now, with the new one still unfinished.” A thought struck her then, and she made an impatient gesture at Salka. “Well, get out of these clothes and under a blanket. I won’t have you catch your death of cold before you finish all the extra chores you’ll be doing as punishment. And don’t you think you will get away with this. I’ll put you to work, make no mistake. I’d expect this of that empty-headed friend of yours, but not you, my girl!”

  The last words made Salka pause, with her shirt half over her head.

  “And why not me?” she asked. Her mother turned towards her with wide eyes, and Salka felt a shiver of fear run across her back. Her mother had never struck her, but Salka knew there were times when her anger had carried Miriat within a hair’s breadth of it. Still, Salka couldn’t feel shame without feeling anger also, so she pushed on. “Why should I not want to go and explore farther than a couple of hours’ walk away from these gates?” And from you, were the unspoken words hanging between them.

  Miriat looked at her hands, before letting them fall limp by her sides. “Because you could die, Salka. And I have given up my own self so you might live,” she added, so quietly Salka barely heard her.

  Salka changed her shirt, quickly, without once looking up. The room felt suffocating, even with the fire burning low. The peat and logs they used for fuel filled her lungs with smoke and her eyes with tears. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have,” she said finally.

  Miriat’s tall frame swayed a little, as if she’d been struck. “That’s a foolish thing to say. Go fetch the water now. After that, go to the eastern slopes and gather as much black persimmon as you can carry in a basket. I don’t wish to lay eyes on you before nightfall. And ask your aunt Trina if we can impose on her and deprive her of some of the milk for the lamb. You were stupid enough to bring the creature into our house so try to make sure it doesn’t die before we can have some use of it.” Absentmindedly, she let the lamb sniff and nuzzle her hand. “Tell Trina you will do trap hunting for her over winter. I intended for you to do it in any case. Gods know she will feel the loss of Maladia in her belly as well as her heart once the cold hits. Now go.”

  Miriat sat down heavily on a stool and faced her loom. She stared at it blankly, as if not quite recognizing her own work. Miriat had positioned herself by the door so she would have the benefit of daylight without the fear of the rain should it fall without warning, as it often did in the mountains. Salka squeezed past her, keeping her eyes down. She hesitated by the door and quickly planted a kiss on her mother’s cheek. Miriat nodded. She reached out without looking and squeezed her daughter’s hand before waving her on her way.

  Miriat was holding onto her anger. She knew once it abated she would have to face the terror she’d felt the entirety of the night Salka was gone. She ran her fingers across the half-finished cloth of Salka’s new cloak in front of her, noting with satisfaction the even weave and the deep green of the wool. She closed her eyes briefly and turned her face to the sun, as it made its rare appearance between the autumn clouds. Her fingers touched the loom weights gently, causing them to knock against each other with a faint hollow noise. She exhaled and went back to work.

  She knew she’d have to talk to Alma about the children’s excursion and she dreaded it. While Alma was fair in most things, her boy could do no wrong in her eyes. But this time it was too serious. If a striga was caught in the town they would be summarily executed. She had never seen such an execution, but she’d heard stories. She could feel a cold sweat run between her shoulder blades just thinking of it. A striga would have the second heart cut out of their chest to prevent them from coming back as shadows to haunt the living.

  It was a nasty way to die and Miriat couldn’t understand what would possess Dran to drag himself and the two young girls into the path of such danger. She looked up briefly from her work and nodded at a neighbor passing by, her fingers never stopping their labor. It was a beautiful morning, probably one of the last ones before the winter came in earnest, but she could not calm herself enough to enjoy it. A shadow fell across her face and she looked up to see Emila’s father standing between her and the sun.

  “Good morning to you, Miriat. May I sit and speak with you a moment?”

  She nodded curtly and gestured towards the other stool. He brou
ght it up close and sat, wringing his hands. Miriat sighed and put her work down. Emila’s father was a kind enough man, slow and precise in his movements. He had a very handsome face and wavy auburn hair, which his daughter inherited, and a sense of calm, which she did not. Miriat liked him, though he was not the cleverest of men, just as much as she disliked Emila’s mother, with her constant complaining and her greedy disposition.

  “I’m listening, Tolan,” she said.

  “About yesterday’s business… Rida wished to speak to you of it, but I thought it might be best if I did instead.” The poor man looked miserable for a moment and Miriat understood instantly that this had come at a great personal sacrifice to him.

  “You see, we went to see Alma this morning. Rida was frantic with worry when the children were gone, and then fuming once Emila was discovered safe and sound. So, you understand, we meant to have a stern word with Alma about it. And well, I wondered what Salka had told you about their trip.” Salka’s lamb approached Tolan and optimistically stuck its nose into his pocket. He patted the animal’s head. “I see your daughter brought something more than pretty ribbons and beads, at least,” he said, almost smiling. “Though it was still hardly worth the risk.”

  “Yes,” Miriat said. She was deathly curious about Tolan’s talk with Alma, but she knew the man was not to be hurried. “Salka told me they all decided on this adventure together, though I blame Dran. He’s the eldest and should know better. What did Emila say?”

  Tolan nodded, more to his own thoughts than in response to what Miriat had said. He stroked the lamb’s head and said, “Emila’s story is much the same, though she did include a great deal of flowery descriptions of Dran’s bravery and daring…” He made a face.

  “Alma’s story was different, I take it,” Miriat said.

  Tolan nodded. “The long and short of it is, she said it was Salka’s fault. That Salka was the one who’d suggested it, daring Dran to take them. And when he refused, she set out on her own. Dran went along to keep her safe and Emila was not to be left behind.” He shifted uncomfortably and avoided Miriat’s eyes.