Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  A frail boy stood against the wall. His hair and skin were so pale, they looked almost white, and his eyes, wide with fear, were the lightest of blues. This is what Amos noticed first. The second thing he noticed was that the boy’s arms were tied behind him with a coarse rope. His ankles were bound as well. And not a dozen steps away, a larger, darker boy stood with an arrow at the string. His friends stood nearby, shouting instructions.

  “Get ’is ear! You can make the shot, Ferlin!”

  “’Course I can make the shot. I could part ’is hair if I wanted.”

  “Not ’is ear . . . ’is eye. That’s where the danger is. Ya never know. ’E could be a shifter.”

  “No, ’e couldn’t. They’ve got green eyes, Dorian, ya blockhead. I ought’a kill ’im straight out.”

  “Don’t, Ferlin. They’ll take ya ta the magistrate.”

  “And what if they do? No woman can spill my blood, whatever ’er title be.”

  “Come on, Ferlin. Let’s see what ya can do!”

  All this Amos heard as he approached, and before the boys noticed his presence, he could see, even in the meager light, beads of sweat breaking out on the face of the boy against the wall. In a flash, Amos had strung an arrow. He stepped out, blazing with purpose, between the group and the boy.

  “Drop yer bow!” he commanded.

  Ferlin and the others were taken by surprise. One of the boys slunk back into the shadows, but to Ferlin’s credit, he stood his ground.

  “Out o’ the way,” he said. “This is not yer fight.”

  “I told ya ta drop yer bow,” Amos repeated. He drew the string along his jaw, closed one eye, and prepared to loose the arrow.

  “You’re askin’ fer trouble. I’m the best shot in the village, and everyone knows it,” Ferlin fired back.

  “Aye. It takes a great marksman ta hit a bound target.” At this, one of Ferlin’s friends snickered. “Why not try huntin’ somethin’ that fights back? Then we’ll see what kind o’ shot ya really are.”

  Ferlin, whose rage and injured pride had almost driven him to release his arrow, finally realized the identity of the intruder. His mouth went slack, and his bow sank to his side. This was Amos. He had killed a Shadow Wolf in the deep dark of the Whispering Wood. It was a feat that many boys in the village dreamed of accomplishing. Some even boasted that they had done it. But here, in the flesh, stood a mere boy of seven who had actually killed the most feared predator in all Shiloh. This boy was a legend . . . already. And if he could shoot a Shadow Wolf in the blackness of the wood, he could shoot a boy on the edge of the village. Ferlin threw a quick glance at his remaining friends before turning and melting away into the darkness.

  Amos dropped his bow slowly, releasing the muscles held tense during the encounter with Ferlin. Then he slung his bow over his shoulder, and, using the dagger he carried in his belt, cut the ropes of the captive. Now the boy’s eyes were wide with awe instead of fear. His mouth was open and tipped up on one side.

  “You’re Amos,” he said.

  “Aye. And you’re welcome,” Amos replied with a broad grin that told the boy he was only teasing.

  “I’m Simeon,” he said with a shy smile. “Thank you.”

  “Have they done this before?” Amos asked.

  “A few times, but they’ve never got up the nerve ta shoot me.”

  “It’s a good thing. I’m not in Emmerich enough ta keep an eye on ’em.”

  “I wish ya were. But I understand. They’re none too kind, are they?” Amos’s brow furrowed, making him look like his father in miniature.

  He wondered what Simeon had heard about his family. Did he, like everyone else, think they were mad?

  “What do ya mean by sayin’ that?” he snapped.

  “Nothin’,” Simeon retreated. “Only, they don’t take well ta anyone who’s different.”

  Amos looked at the boy carefully. His fair hair and eyes were certainly different. In Shiloh, the overwhelming majority of people had dark hair and dark eyes. The fair ones stuck out. No doubt Simeon had experienced his share of cruelty at the hands of the villagers.

  “You’re a Dreamer?” Amos asked.

  “That’s what they say,” Simeon answered, “but I’ve never had a dream.”

  Amos nodded understanding. “Who’s yer da?”

  “Don’t know.” Simeon looked at his feet. “Jada’s my ma.”

  Oh. The magistrate. Simeon’s plight seemed more wretched than ever. “Would yer ma let ya come ta our cottage? It’s not too far from town.”

  Abner’s voice rang through Market Circle. “Amos!”

  “I’ll ask,” Simeon said.

  “Good,” Amos replied. He reached out to grasp Simeon’s thin forearm, in the usual gesture of greeting and farewell. “May the light shine upon you.”

  Simeon hesitated, and Amos realized he’d never heard the phrase.

  “It’s just somethin’ we say.” And with that, he turned and ran to meet his waiting family.

  Somethin’ who says? Simeon thought. He stood a long time in that spot, hardly aware of his chaffed wrists and ankles. In the short space of a few moments, his world had changed completely, and his loyalties had been decided forever.

  Three

  Tell us a story, Da.”

  Phebe sat on the edge of the fire, braiding the colored threads Darby had given her during their visit to the village. Amos and Simeon sat nearby on the rug, hungry for one of Abner’s tales. The two had become fast friends, spending four of the past five days together, but this was the first evening Simeon had spent at the cottage with Amos’s family. He was fidgety. Again and again, Simeon would glance at Wynn, spinning wool on the drop spindle, or Abner, oiling his bow as he sat in a chair by the fire. So this is what it’s like, he thought.

  “What would ya like ta hear, tonight, little bird?” Abner laid his bow aside and leaned back in the chair.

  “The Tale o’ Grosvenor!” Amos shouted. The story of the great and fearless hunter, Father of the Clan of the White Tree, was one of his favorites.

  “No, the trees, Da! Tell about the trees in the Whisperin’ Wood!” Phebe pleaded.

  But before Abner could respond to either of these requests, Simeon asked, in a small voice, “What about the other stories?” Every eye turned to him.

  “What stories do ya mean, Simeon?” Abner asked.

  “Well,” Simeon hesitated, afraid to spoil his newfound friendship, “in the village they call ya mad because o’ the stories ya tell. Caedmon says you’re ‘mad as Evander.’ What does he mean? Do ya think there’s a great lantern in the sky . . . somewhere outside the Shadow?” There, he’d said it. He couldn’t believe he’d strung so many words together, dangerous words at that, on his first evening with Amos’s family.

  “‘Mad as Evander,’ eh?” The creases in Abner’s brow smoothed, and he gave Simeon a smile. He liked this boy. “I’ve been called worse than that, worse by far. ’Tis an honor ta be named with Evander and his Lost Clan.” Abner rested his head against the swirling grain of his chair and looked up, thinking. “Perhaps, Simeon, I should begin with the story o’ the Cataclysm, when the world was unmade.”

  “Unmade?” Simeon asked.

  “Aye, that’s a good one, Da,” Amos said. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. Phebe curled up in Wynn’s lap, and Simeon held his breath. For a moment, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the soft bleating of the sheep.

  Abner closed his eyes and began:

  “There are some who say that a High God ruled all Shiloh many, many years ago. Years beyond count. They say that the land was filled with light and color; that even the water sparkled and flashed like a thousand candle flames dancin’. They say that everything was alive and beautiful. And they say that Man and Woman were great and powerful, that their voices moved the world. Thi
s was before the comin’ o’ the Shadow Lord, before the Shadow fell.”

  “But I thought,” Simeon was whispering to Amos, but Abner stopped and waited to hear his question.

  “Go ahead, Sim.”

  “I thought that Shiloh was the Shadow Realm, Ulff’s Realm.” He spoke the name in a whisper, his eyes darting to and fro as if Ulff himself were present in the cottage.

  “It wasn’t always so. Shiloh was different once, but that world has been all but forgotten.”

  “Ya said there was light,” Simeon continued, a little more boldly. “Were the lanterns larger, the candles brighter?”

  “I don’t know. But I think, perhaps, they had no need of lanterns and candles.”

  “They had great fires, then?”

  “No. They had no fire at all.”

  “But how could they see?” Simeon could not understand.

  “Well, Evander’s mother dreamed of a great light, brighter and hotter than any candle or fire, hangin’ high in the sky. It lit everything in Shiloh, and there was no need of other lights.”

  Simeon’s mouth hung open. He tried to imagine such a light, but his mind refused to create an adequate picture. He had never seen more than twenty paces distant. He could not form an image of even the whole village of Emmerich, much less the whole landscape of Shiloh.

  “Tell the rest, Da.” Amos had heard the story many times, but his eyes were lit with anticipation.

  “Where was I?” Abner muttered to himself as he rubbed the knee of his leather trousers. “Ah, the comin’ o’ the Shadow Lord . . . yes. Man and Woman were great and powerful, and their voices moved the world . . . until the comin’ o’ the Shadow Lord.” The crackling of the fire stilled, and its light guttered.

  “Did ’e wear the darkness like a cloak when ’e came?” Phebe whispered. “No, m’ nightingale,” Abner replied. “He came robed in shinin’ light, beautiful ta behold. Man and Woman were deceived, for they chose the Shadow. Ulff lured them inta the heart of ’is realm, and they became ’is captives.”

  “What happened ta the world then?” Simeon wondered aloud.

  “There was a tremblin’ and a swellin’ and a shakin’ that drove the mountains inta the sea. And other mountains were thrust up from the depths o’ the earth. The Black Mountains, we call ’em. The waters rushed and foamed and roared. The River Meander, which used ta flow down inta the Sea of Forgetfulness now flows down from it, so great was that Cataclysm. That’s why they say the world was unmade. Did ya know, Simeon —”

  “Abner, wait,” Wynn interrupted. Her eyes were narrowed, and her head was tilted to one side. Her chair sat nearest to the window at the back of the cottage, so she heard it first. They all stopped, waiting, and then the sound came again, louder and clearer. It was a dreadful sort of screaming bleat.

  “The sheep!” Amos shouted, leaping from the floor to grab his bow and quiver. Phebe’s eyes followed Amos’s every move. She was trembling.

  Abner had already reached the door when he turned to his wife. “Keep ’er near the fire!” he said.

  Outside the cottage, Abner stepped past his son, whose arrow was already notched, his bowstring tense. They crept around the edge of the house to get a look at the sheepfold. There, south and east of the cottage, their small flock waited, protected only by the torches that burned at each corner of the fence. The fires kept the wolves away, more or less, but only because wolves preferred human prey. The cats would take whatever they could get. They were a constant danger, stealthy and cruel, with slanting green eyes and dagger-sharp claws.

  Abner could see sheep stumbling blindly around the fold, bumping into the fences, their eyes streaming blood. Other sheep were bleating and moaning. In the flickering torchlight, it was difficult to see how many of the cats had come. He could make out the shape of one, crouched over the belly of a dead sheep, tearing away at its entrails. Another peered through the grasses outside the fence, ready to pounce.

  Abner stepped into the circle of torchlight just a second before his son. He put a hand on the top rail of the fence and vaulted over. He thrust his arrow into the oiled cloth at the base of the torch, catching fat and flame on the tip, and strode toward the feasting cat. Phebe’s face flashed before him as he shot the beast through the back of the head.

  He turned to see how Amos fared and found him locking eyes with the other cat. Its mottled coat faded almost entirely into the rocks and shrubs of the landscape, but thick tufts of white fur came to sharp points at either side of its mouth, and white showed in its tall, pointed ears. For Amos, they were like the four white corners of a target. The boy blew softly on the end of his arrow, setting it alight with red flame, and sent the shaft straight into the cat’s forehead. It disappeared with a scream just as Abner reached him.

  All this time, Simeon had stood peeking out from behind the cottage. He couldn’t bring himself to stay inside with the women, but he had no weapons to fight with the men. It makes no difference, he thought. Had I the White Bow itself, I couldn’t have killed the cats. He hovered there in the eerie silence following the attack, his forehead beaded with cold sweat, until Abner came back to check on the family. Even then, he could not raise his eyes to look at him.

  “It’s alright, Sim. Only two this time.” Abner rested a hand on the boy’s pale hair. “Would ya check on the women while we tend ta the flock?”

  Simeon’s chest felt tight, his eyes hot. Abner had not been angry, had not shamed him. Instead, he had given him a small task, something that gave him a sense of purpose in his wretchedness. He nodded assent and rushed back into the cottage where Wynn waited by the fire, rocking gently back and forth and stroking Phebe’s hair.

  “Shhhh. ’Twill be alright, little one. The men’ll protect us from the Shadow. They’ll come back. I’m sure they will. ’Twill be alright. Shhhh.”

  “It’s over,” Simeon announced, and Wynn’s whole body relaxed. She let out a slow breath and moved Phebe to her knee. Simeon noticed that tears rolled down the girl’s cheeks. She made no sound, but the scar on her face stood out in vivid red. Somehow, the room seemed filled with the sound of that scar, of the fear and anguish it held.

  He sat down on the bench beside the table, wondering what to do. He wanted to be strong, like Abner and Amos. But what could he possibly do now? A few moments passed in tense silence before it came to him, and he turned to Phebe with a question.

  “Amos says ya can sing. Is it so? I’ve never heard ya.”

  Simeon’s distraction was just what she needed. Phebe’s eyes brightened at the challenge, and when her mother nodded she answered.

  “I can sing,” she said with shy pride. “I know a host o’ songs.”

  “Don’t believe ya,” Simeon teased. “You’re too little.”

  In defiance, Phebe hopped from her mother’s knee, squared her shoulders, and began. Her voice, at first soft and tremulous, steadied and strengthened with every note.

  “Come, little nightingale, rest in the willow

  Sing me a song through the darkening night

  Come as I lay with the shadows my pillow

  And sing me a song o’ the light

  Come, though the darkness around ya is deepenin’

  Sing, for yer song is a flame burnin’ bright

  Come, though the Shadow before ya is creepin’

  And sing me a song o’ the light

  Come, for yer music will ring out the clearer

  Brightest when darkness is all but complete

  Come when the nightfall would threaten ta take me

  Show me the path fer my feet

  Come, little nightingale, rest in the willow

  Sing me a song through the darkening night

  Come as I lay with the shadows my pillow

  And sing me a song o’ the light

  Come, sing me a song o’ the light”


  Outside, Amos rubbed salve into the gashes of the wounded sheep. Abner cut the gray wool from the dead and gleaned the sinew from their bones before burning their remains. Both tasks were filthy and bloody, and father and son knew better than to relax their guard. As they worked, their ears were alert for the sounds of predators; their weapons were ready. Outside, the darkness was closing in. But inside, the sound of Phebe’s voice was like the ringing of bells, and the cottage was filled with a fierce, golden light.

  Four

  Darby sat at her vertical loom, humming softly to herself. Her hands moved delicately over strips of yarn, interweaving the gray strands to the rhythm of her song. There was a dull clinking sound as the stones at the base of the loom bumped together. It was like music to Darby, for it meant that her work was progressing. Today, she would weave perhaps half a square yard of fabric. Slow work, to be sure, but Darby owned the only loom in the village of Emmerich, and a few square yards of fabric was immensely valuable. What’s more, she spent none of her earnings on candles to light the shop as she worked into the black hours of the night. One lantern hanging outside the door and one resting on the table in the center of the shop gave customers all the light they needed when they came to sell yarn or buy cloth. During the cold months, she kept a fire burning in the hearth, but even that cost her nothing. The villagers kept her well stocked with firewood. Perhaps they pitied her. Or maybe they were simply kind. It didn’t really matter. In a brutal world, with no father or husband to protect and provide for her, she had everything she needed. And she was content.

  She heard voices in the street and turned her head to listen more carefully. There was a woman’s voice, mild and low. It was a pleasant voice, but Darby could hear a tightness in it, a strain that someone less perceptive might have missed. Then there was the higher, brighter sound of a child’s voice. It made Darby smile, for she knew these voices. Wynn and Phebe were coming.