His mother stood where the paths of the orchard forked. When she saw him hurrying towards her she put her hands on her hips. “There you are. I’ve been waiting for that gyman root, young man.”
“I’ve got it here, Mama.” Eiland pulled a long, gnarled brown root out of his satchel.
Her frown remained in place. “I know you can’t have spent half the day looking. You’ve a sharper eye than that.”
Eiland pressed his lips together. He’d always been a bad liar. “I wanted an apple,” he said finally, holding up the fruit in his hand.
“Eiland, the miller’s son has been ill for two days! They came to your father for help, it is unkind of you to keep them waiting while you go climbing about—oh, good day, I did not see—”
She broke off, staring past Eiland with wide eyes. Turning, he winced when he saw that Charon had followed him out of the apple grove and stood in the middle of the trail.
He didn’t look at Eiland, though. His gaze was fixed on Eiland’s mother. All warmth had fled from his blue eyes.
Fingers closed tight around Eiland’s upper arm, and his mother jerked him away so sharply that he stumbled. The apple slipped from his hand.
“Mama,” Eiland protested, struggling to keep his feet as she pulled him down the path toward the village.
“Hush,” she said without turning. Her face looked deathly pale.
When they reached the fence between the orchard and the wheat fields, she darted a quick glance back over her shoulder. “Every name of the gods. Did he try to talk to you?”
“What—he just—asked me my name.”
“You didn’t tell him. Eiland!”
“He heard you calling me!”
They drew up short and she grasped his shoulders with both hands, her expression wild. “Did he touch you? Did he hurt you? All the gods, did he Curse you?”
All the blood in Eiland’s body went still at once. The Cursed ones. He’d heard about them all his life. Every child had heard the story of the first sons and how the elder had killed the younger for jealousy. As punishment the gods had laid a mark upon his brow.
A mark that became the Curse, the great sickness that had darkened the land since the beginning of time itself.
Yet unlike any of the illnesses his father treated in the village, this Curse did not pass by touch or chill or poison.
It was given.
The Cursed ones had the power to wish their misery upon others. All it took was three words: I Curse you.
Eiland had never met a Cursed one before. They were wanderers, traveling the land, stealing what they could and threatening for what they could not. It had been years since one had come to Summerton, though the children kept the memory alive in their own games, pointing fingers at one another and shouting, “I Curse you!” then falling to the ground, their legs kicking in imitation of the terrible Agonies.
It had never occurred to Eiland that a Cursed one could be young, or handsome. In his mind they were always old crones, twisted with age and disease, glaring out at the world with hateful eyes.
There had been nothing hateful or cruel about Charon—yet suddenly Eiland remembered the bits of cloth wrapped around his fingers and how slowly he had clambered up the tree, as if his clothes hid some terrible wound.
A wound that maybe Eiland had pressed against. Crickets, he’d kissed a Cursed one! He felt sick.
“No,” he said finally. “He didn’t Curse me.”
Relieved, his mother put a firm arm around his shoulder and rushed homeward, chiding him all the while. Despite everything, Eiland couldn’t stop himself from looking over his shoulder, back through the low boughs stripped of fruit.
If Charon was still watching them from among the apple trees, Eiland could not see him anymore.
Chapter Two
Eiland never expected to see Charon again.
When his father heard of his misadventure—or Eiland’s highly edited version in which he and Charon had merely spoken a few words in passing—his displeasure was inaudible but still overpowering. Eiland’s only defense was ignorance, and that had never excused much in his father’s eyes.
Despite his taciturn nature, his father’s disapproval always rang loudest in Eiland’s ears, squeezing his heart tight with a single, frustrated look. For how much he hated to disappoint his father, Eiland seemed to be better at it than most anything else in his life.
They forgave him eventually, though his mother kept a tighter rein on his forest walks, forbidding him from venturing beyond their family plot alone. Eiland had a feeling that they would find an apprenticeship for him sooner rather than later. Or a marriage.
The prospect of becoming a proper man of the village left Eiland feeling strangely panicked. He’d expected it, of course—but he’d thought to have a little more time in the forest and the fields before the rest of his life closed in around him.
The whole town buzzed with news of the Cursed boy. Eiland found himself telling the story of his encounter again and again, straining to keep the details consistent and wincing under the weight of his repeated lies. Mothers fluttered nervously about their children, herding them close. Some of the more rambunctious young men in the village vowed to drive the Cursed one off and had to be taken sternly in hand by the elders.
Killing one of the Cursed without becoming Cursed in the process was a nearly impossible task. It required taking them completely by surprise and striking a blow that left them without so much as a dying breath to Curse.
Usually such a thing could only be achieved during the Agonies and the Cursed tended to keep well clear of civilization during those times.
The village elders prepared a cachet of food and goods in the hopes that the Cursed boy would be appeased and move on quickly. But beyond a few sightings in the fields and some missing chicken eggs, Charon seemed to keep to himself.
Then, almost a fortnight after that day in the orchard, Eiland and his parents were sitting down to supper when there came a pounding at the door, hard enough to shake the hinges.
No one startled—many people pounded at their door in strange hours with news of a strange ailment or an unfortunate accident. Eiland’s mother rose from the table and opened the door with a greeting on her lips.
It died in the first syllable. After a moment she stepped back and Eiland could see Charon standing on the doorstep.
He wore different clothes than the last time Eiland had seen him. They looked like some of the garments the elders had included in their “gift,” so he’d obviously made his way into town at last. His pack was not on his shoulders and his hair curled damply around his ears as if he’d washed it before coming here.
His gaze lingered on Eiland a moment before settling on his father. “I’m looking for the healer,” he said, his voice low.
Mama looked at Papa, her eyes round. Papa only cleared his throat and confirmed, “I am the healer. Won’t you come inside?”
They let him in. Of course they did: the Cursed ones were unholy in the eyes of every god, but they had the power to sicken whole villages. No one would dare deny them anything or reproach any of their actions, at least not to their faces.
Eiland’s father rose from the head of the table and offered Charon his seat. Charon took it. At his place on the other end of the table, Eiland twisted his fingers together in his lap.
Knowing that he knew what to look for, he could see the faint, telltale scars around Charon’s neck. He didn’t know how he’d missed them before.
Those blue eyes flicked in his direction again and Eiland flushed, dropping his gaze to his bowl.
Charon acted differently as well. Gone was the shy playfulness he’d displayed in the orchard. Now he sat straight backed in front of the hearth, ordering Eiland’s mother around like a king’s soldier.
She obeyed as if he were, her head lowered and her face blank. She fetched him soup from the pot, giving him her portion. Eiland’s father moved to sit in his mother’s place at the table, answering Charon’s
questions with as few words as possible.
Most of them were about draughts to ease the pain of the Agonies, or lotions to soothe the skin afterward. The Curse had no cure; there could be none. To even attempt to make such a thing would be a defiance of the gods.
Eiland’s father did have a salve that might help, which he quickly fetched from the shelves in his workroom. Charon rolled up his sleeve; Eiland’s eyes ran over his pale forearm then darted away when he saw the open sores on the insides of Charon’s elbows and the strange, thin scars that covered his skin like spider webs.
As Eiland’s father began to apply the salve, Charon hissed through his teeth. “It stings.” Then his expression cleared and turned to wonder. “Now it doesn’t. There’s no pain at all. How—how did you do that?”
“Gyman root numbs the pain,” Eiland’s father answered, smiling. He was always most comfortable in the dispensing of his profession; these were the only times that Eiland saw any laughter or joy in him. He went on describing the various ingredients and how they were mixed. Some of the tension eased around the table.
Until, that is, Papa mentioned numeria leaves as the other main ingredient.
“Those were the leaves you had in the orchard, weren’t they?” Charon said to Eiland, who promptly choked on his soup.
He sat there coughing while they all stared at him. When he could breathe again he looked to his mother and father for direction. Failing to discern anything from their tense expressions, he finally admitted, “Yes?”
It was difficult to see Charon’s face clearly with the fire over his shoulder. “Do you often help your father in his work?”
Eiland licked his lips and fiddled with his spoon. Out of nowhere he remembered the sensation of Charon’s hand on his back as they kissed, the way it had made him shake. It took an effort to blink himself free of the memory. In public he’d always avoided the boys who he’d met behind the mill; he’d certainly never had one come to the table with his parents.
“Sometimes,” he said.
Charon gazed at him until Eiland’s father distracted him with an explanation of all the salve’s properties.
“It can heal all but the worst sores overnight,” he assured Charon.
“Then I’ll wait overnight and see if it’s as good as you say,” Charon answered, his voice returning to the clipped tone.
He declined to sleep in Eiland’s parents’ bed or take any of their food, which surprised them all. Usually when one of the Cursed darkened a doorstep the best anyone could hope was that they didn’t take every last bit of gold to the family name.
But Charon only said, “I’ll return at dawn.”
That night Eiland lay awake for hours. He had a room all to himself, inherited from a long succession of siblings. Whenever any of Eiland’s brothers or sisters came to visit, Eiland inevitably wound up having to share with all their children.
He didn’t really mind, though. Being overcrowded by small elbows was nowhere near as bad as lying alone in the dark, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the distant howl of wolves.
Did wolves fear the Cursed, or did they shy away like the dogs in town? Should Eiland be hoping right now that they did? Being torn apart by wolves seemed like a dreadful way to die—but what if the morning came and the salve hadn’t worked for some reason? Would Charon punish his father? Would he punish Eiland?
His mind went back over the events in the orchard, worrying at every detail like a teething babe. He couldn’t help but think that if only he hadn’t kissed Charon, none of this would be happening. The priests said that men lying with men and women lying with women was anathema to the will of the gods and a blasphemy on the holiness of family; Eiland had never thought much of it before but now he couldn’t help wondering if he was being punished.
If so, then the gods had chosen a very strange avatar for their will.
Somehow he slept. When he opened his eyes next the sun was slanted across the wall above his bed. Usually Mama rousted him out in the mornings, as Eiland had always been a shamefully late riser.
Now he kicked his blankets back and pulled on his trousers, hurrying downstairs with his hair still askew from sleep.
His parents sat at the kitchen table, speaking in low tones that ceased the moment Eiland walked in. Mama fetched him some porridge that Eiland did not eat, and Eiland asked questions that Papa answered in terse half sentences.
Finally, a knock came at the door. Eiland startled badly, spilling porridge on the table and earning a quick glance of censure from his father.
Papa sat up as stately as a king. “Show him in.”
Mama opened the door. Charon was wearing the same clothes from last night, though they looked slightly wrinkled. There were dark circles under his eyes and he was shivering even though the summer morning already felt quite warm.
“Would you like some breakfast?” Mama offered.
“No.” Charon held himself strangely, as though tensing to receive a blow. Rolling up his sleeves, he held out his forearms. The elbow that Papa had treated last night looked much improved when compared to the other, which still festered and burned. “You’re as good as your word.”
“Of course I am,” Papa retorted sharply. “I have this jar of salve and another set away. If you want more it will take two days to make.”
“No need,” Charon said, his eyes on his forearms. “Eiland can show me how to make my own.”
A brief silence fell on the room. Eiland, who had been hunched over his bowl of porridge, straightened slowly. “What…what do you mean?”
“Oh no,” Mama said. She put a hand over her mouth.
Charon lifted his head, fixing Eiland in place with his gaze. “In the orchard you said you were better at finding herbs and roots than anyone else.”
“I did?” Eiland murmured. He might have. He babbled a lot. Everyone said so.
“You did. You will come with me. Today.” Charon’s eyes were cold and blue as a lake in winter.
Eiland swallowed hard. He was being taken. It happened sometimes. Usually it was Cursed men taking young village women; sometimes they came back months later, exhausted and battered, with child, weeping.
Sometimes they didn’t come back at all.
For Charon to be asking for him…Eiland could see the implications in his parents’ horrified expressions.
Charon was watching him, too, with an unspoken challenge in his eye. All along he’d given no sign that he remembered what else had happened that day in the orchard, but now the memory rose up between them.
There were other implications that Charon could make in this moment, ones that might turn his parents’ horror and revulsion on Eiland as well.
Just as Papa was opening his mouth, Eiland sucked in a breath and blurted out, “I’ll go. It’ll—yes, I’ll show you how to find the salve. I mean—find the root. To make the salve. I’ll go.”
“No, no,” Mama protested. “I will go. I know better than him. Take me instead.”
Charon made no response to her pleas until she pushed close, seizing his hand and falling to her knees in front of him. At her touch Charon shied back, his eyes wide.
Papa snapped at Mama, stepping forward to catch her under her arms and pull her roughly to her feet. She was still pleading, tears pouring down her face.
Eiland sat at the table, watching the tableau in a state of numb shock. Eventually Charon’s gaze found his. He regained that cold haughtiness so smoothly that Eiland wondered if he ever truly saw it break.
“Be ready to leave by noon,” Charon said curtly then walked out the door.
Eiland’s mother collapsed at the table in tears. It was terrifying to watch, so Eiland went to his little room and sat down on his bed.
His hands shook. He stuffed them between his knees and bit his lip hard. Nothing seemed real; it was all so impossible. Crickets, a fortnight ago he’d never even seen a Cursed person and now he was being…taken by one.
His mind twisted into dark corners filled wi
th hushed gossip. Six summers before Eiland’s birth, another Cursed man had come to the village. He’d eaten a lion’s share of the harvest and took one of the smith’s daughters with him when he’d left. She’d never come back.
He found it hard to believe the boy from the orchard was capable of such things, but the one who had been here just now…yes, Eiland could believe anything of him. But which one was real? And which would damn him more: the boy from the orchard with his sweet smile and sweeter kiss or the one at the door with his hard voice and cold eyes?
The door to Eiland’s room opened, and he quickly dashed the back of his hand across his eyes. “You must not keep him waiting,” Papa said.
Eiland swallowed down the lump in his throat and rose quickly. Taking up his little satchel he began stuffing things inside of it at random. He had no idea how much he should pack. Perhaps Charon would let him go after only a few days. Perhaps he never would.
Eiland swallowed again and again. Papa watched him, standing still and tall in the doorway. He had a bundle of cloth in his hand but he made no move to hand it to Eiland.
When Eiland could not abide the silence any longer he burst out with, “It’ll be okay. Better me than you or Mother, right? I’ll go, and I’ll teach him how to make the salve—Mama taught me that one. I can do it. I’ll teach him—and then he’ll let me go.”
Shouldering his pack, he stood in front of his father, searching that stoic face for comfort and finding none. “Papa?”
His father pursed his lips then steps forward and held out the bundle in his hand, pulling back the cloth to reveal a knife half out of its sheath.
Eiland gaped down at it. One side of the blade was jagged, made for hacking through gristle and meat, while the opposite edge curved like a wolf’s tooth, deadly sharp.
He lifted his shocked gaze to his father’s face. It was stern and pale as he pushed the knife back into its sheath and secured the strap.
Placing it in Eiland’s slack hands, he said, “If the chance comes.”
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