Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  Three brilliant flames floated along the Hunter’s Path. Abner and Amos carried torches; Simeon, a lantern; and though they could not see far beyond the walls of trees on either side, they could at least see one another and the path clearly.

  “How much farther?” Simeon asked. His voice hardly carried. It was eaten up by the walls of night that surrounded them. Their leather boots made no sound on the damp, mossy earth, and even the torches burned in silence.

  “Few hundred paces, I think,” Amos answered.

  “Is it true what they say, that the trees talk ta ya?” Simeon hoped the sound of his own voice might slow the racing of his heart. The further they pressed into the Whispering Wood, the more loudly the blood beat in his ears.

  “Don’t know,” Amos replied. “Maybe only the white ones.”

  Later in the year, the boys, now twelve, would participate in their first Great Hunt. They would carve new bows, don leather trousers, and set off with the seasoned hunters to prove themselves. For all his practice, Simeon was still awkward under the weight of his bow, still weak on marksmanship. And he was still smaller than Amos. This hunt should have been a chance to focus, to prepare for the challenges ahead. But Simeon’s mind kept drifting to the sons of Burke. Abner had told them the tale around the campfire only the night before.

  “They were great builders, the sons o’ Burke,” Abner had said. “Some say their father could shape stone with naught but ’is hands.”

  He had sat with one knee up and an arm resting loosely on his trousers. Golden firelight and shadow had moved across his face in a curious dance.

  “And though the clan they founded is known fer its skill, these seven were the greatest, the most skilled. It was they who oversaw the buildin’ o’ the Three Bridges that cross the River Meander and they who built the great watchtowers, fashioned from gray stone, atop their mighty fortresses. They even ventured inta the Black Mountains ta build their towers, for from those heights they could see somewhat o’ the land around ’em, and they could better defend their families.”

  “The Black Mountains?” Simeon could hardly believe it.

  “Aye. There was a time when men lived in those mountains, though it’s many years since.”

  “Could they see the wolves movin’ in?” Simeon had asked. With the Great Hunt fast approaching, wolves were foremost in his thoughts.

  “Perhaps,” Abner had responded. “But it wasn’t downward or outward that they looked, after a time.” He reached to the pile of firewood nearby and chose a handful of thick branches, adding them one by one to the campfire. “None can say when it first happened, or how, but the sons o’ Burke began ta see lights in the sky.”

  “Lights comin’ out o’ the Shadow?”

  “No, Sim.” It was Amos who’d answered. “They saw above the Shadow. It pulled away like frayed cloth, and they saw lights beyond it.”

  “What kind o’ lights?”

  “Little ones, like candle flames far, far away.”

  “What did they do?” Simeon knew some history of Shiloh, but his mother had always been reluctant to share certain tales, and he knew little of Evander or the sons of Burke.

  Amos had looked to his father, handing over the telling.

  “Fer a time, they waited in their towers,” Abner had continued, “watchin’, hardly believin’ their eyes. Some thought they’d gone mad. But slowly, each came ta tell ’is wife and children what he saw, and soon they told each other. They knew then they could not be mad, not if all seven brothers had seen the same lights. So they spoke of it openly. They even changed the sign o’ their clan.”

  “All o’ them?”

  “Not all, Sim. Only some took the sign o’ the Star Clan. There were many who scoffed, among them at least one traitor. Whether man or woman, none can say, but one o’ their clan sent word ta the Lord o’ Shadows.”

  “It could’ve been a shifter in disguise. One of Ulff’s spies,” Amos had said. “They mightn’t’ve known ’e was among them.”

  “True enough, Amos, but it matters little in the end, for Ulff took them.”

  Though he sat close to the fire, Simeon shivered, and the tongues of the flames flickered blue, just for a moment.

  “The Lord o’ Shadows took the sons o’ Burke and cursed them. He changed their bodies, warpin’ and reshapin’ ’em inta hideous winged things. He sent them back ta their watchtowers as emissaries o’ darkness, and their flight struck terror in the hearts o’ their families. Their wives and children fled from the towers forever, and even today, the Clan o’ the Builder is dispersed among the other clans, livin’ in this village or that, workin’ at their trades. The watchtowers remain empty, crumblin’ ta ruin. And no man will go ta seek the lights that the sons o’ Burke saw, for the towers are guarded by those servants o’ the Shadow. The stargazers, they’re called.”

  They had sat in silence for some time, listening to the hissing of the fire as Abner replenished it with branches and the scraping of metal on stone as Amos sharpened his dagger.

  “What do they do ta ya? The stargazers, I mean,” Simeon had asked.

  Abner’s gaze had not left the fire. His eyes had glowed strangely in its light.

  “It’s time you boys got some rest. I’ll set up the torches,” he had said, and Simeon was left to imagine a hundred monstrous possibilities. Those phantasms had not left him, and now, as they moved deeper into the Whispering Wood, they seemed poised to burst into life. He glanced anxiously back and forth, alert to every breath of wind.

  “Amos, are we near the Watchtowers?”

  This time Amos didn’t answer. He and Simeon had rarely been apart for more than a few days at a time during the last five years. They had chopped wood and carried water for Wynn. They had delivered messages and run errands for Jada. They had practiced their aim, hour upon hour. They had skipped rocks across the glassy black surface of the lake, until the light was so faint that they had to judge their progress by the sound of little popping splashes on the water. And they had hunted together, though never this deep in the wood. Simeon knew his friend. He knew that his questions had begun to irritate Amos. But he couldn’t help himself.

  “What about the shifters? How can ya tell ’em from the other animals?”

  “Hush, Sim! Wait.” Abner hissed. He stopped, and the three stood silent, their eyes searching for some break in the impenetrable darkness.

  Behind them there was a sound, a low, heavy rolling. It rose gradually, growing and spreading, until they were surrounded by the insatiable thundering growls of many wolves. They had been marked.

  The air grew colder and, suddenly, their lights went out. They stood in almost total darkness, isolated for an instant from everything but their own thoughts.

  For Abner, that moment was like the coming of doom. His darkest fears had come upon him. They would surely be devoured by the Shadow. He had failed to protect his son and Simeon, and his wife and daughter would be alone, vulnerable. He was overcome with a sinking despair.

  For Simeon, the extinguishing of the lights by some nameless dark in the heart of the wood was almost more than his frail heart could bear. Panic overtook him. His pulse raced, and his skin was covered with clammy sweat. He trembled uncontrollably.

  But the darkness was not complete. Not quite.

  The people of Shiloh were born with a certain incandescence, a certain radiance about them. They shone. Though they did not know it, this light was the last remnant of the glory that belonged to them before the world was unmade. Babes came wet and shining from their mothers’ bellies, and they lit their parents’ cottages as well as any lantern. But the Shadow took its toll. Children learned too quickly that no shining dawn ever came to that world. Too quickly, they learned that they were hunted, always hunted. They saw the faces of hunger and death. They felt the fear. Their glory faltered and faded and finally vanished.

  It
was rare indeed to find a child of five or six who radiated any light at all, rarer still to find a man or woman come of age who still possessed some hint of their glorious birthright. But they could be found. Orin’s skin glowed faintly when he worked at the forge. Abner’s face shone, just slightly, when he marveled at his son’s skill with the bow. Wynn was luminous when her husband stepped through the door of the cottage, and Phebe fairly blazed when she sang.

  Amos’s pulse had quickened too, when the darkness fell, but not from fear. Unlike the others, he felt remarkably alive. His mind was clear, his senses acute, his muscles relaxed. He let out a long breath, fixed his eyes on the cold torch in his right hand and spoke one word: “Burn.” A red-orange flame shot up from the oiled cloth.

  All at once, the menacing growls of the wolves ceased.

  The hunter’s path was warm and bright. Amos whistled a little tune. “By the gods,” Abner swore, turning and staring in awe at his son. Amos burned brighter than the torch, and it was he who filled the wood with radiance. Abner raised a hand to rub his chin, then dropped it again.

  “Are we goin’ on?” Simeon asked.

  “’Course we’re goin’ on. We’re almost there, right Da?” Amos replied.

  Abner paused a moment before nodding. “Aye. We’ll go on.” He turned and led the boys down the path. Not half a hundred paces ahead, they came to a broad meadow. Where the trees opened up, the dark was thinner, and the hunters could see a dozen deer, scattered across the tall grass, grazing.

  Abner laid aside his cold torch, drew an arrow from his quiver, and fitted it to his bow. Guided more by the gentle rustling of the grasses than the clarity of his vision, he shot an arrow into the meadow and heard the thump of an animal falling to the ground.

  One day, I’ll be able to make that shot, Amos thought. He didn’t yet have the strength to make a sure kill from such a distance, but he knew he would, and he marveled at the easy power with which Abner moved across the meadow, retrieved the deer, and slung it over his shoulder. They wasted no time there, hurrying back to the path with their kill. On the return journey, Abner took up the rear, slowed not at all by the weight of the beast he carried. Simeon traveled ahead of him, full of thoughts and questions. And Amos led the way, carrying the torch high and looking, for all his twelve years, like the warrior he knew he would become.

  Nine

  As usual, Rosalyn had forgotten nothing. Sullivan’s best bow was slung over his shoulder, and his quiver as well. His packs were laden with dried venison and bread, his skins filled with water from the icy spring. He had returned from Lake Morrison that first summer, despite Isolde’s secret hopes. He’d made a good haul, good enough to draw him back year after year. On this particular morning, he rode into the gloom without a word, lost from sight in only a moment or two.

  “I’ve a mind ta clean the cottage while he’s gone,” Rosalyn said as she stepped inside. “It’s been an age since I scrubbed the floors.”

  Isolde groaned. “Oh, please. Will ya leave the cursed cottage and come ride with me? The cherries are ripe.” She took Rosalyn’s hand and tugged. “We’ll make a pie fer supper tonight. Please come.”

  Rosalyn smiled at her, squeezed her hand, and let go. “You go, Isolde. I’ll make ya a pie when ya get back. Take Da’s other bow and get us somethin’ fer a stew as well.”

  Isolde could see from her expression that Rosalyn would not budge. Sullivan might be gone as much as a week, or as little as a couple of days, and she knew Rosalyn would not risk his returning without her having done something to appease him. Both girls feared their father, but only Rosalyn could bend that fear to Sullivan’s will.

  “Alright then.” Isolde slung the bow and quiver over her shoulder and made her way down into the valley. The branches of the trees hung low, burdened with clusters of fruit that shone faintly red in the dim light. Isolde filled the pouch that hung from her belt before helping herself.

  She was leaning against the trunk of a tall tree, her mouth stained a deep blood-red, when she spotted a doe nibbling at the grasses beneath the trees, sniffing out the ripe cherries that had already fallen to the ground. Her white-spotted fawn followed cautiously behind. Isolde shot them in the next breath, loosing two arrows with marvelous speed. The blessing of the gods must be upon me today, she thought. It’s enough to feed us for weeks. More than enough. And then an idea struck her. She struggled up the hill with the animals over her shoulders. She went directly to Melburn’s cottage, laid the doe over his table, and said, “I want one o’ the Red Maps.”

  Melburn was a man of many years, with white hair and stooping shoulders. He looked up from his work, his eyes bright with amusement. “Fer the doe?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  He ignored her, returning his attention to the parchment stretched beneath his hands.

  “Ya need the meat, Mel. Ya can’t listen ta travelers’ stories and sketch on yer parchments if you’re dead o’ starvation.”

  Melburn smiled. “I know ya have ’em all memorized by now, Isolde. Why do ya need it?”

  Isolde didn’t answer. She merely looked back at the old man with her jaw set.

  “If yer da finds the map, he’ll destroy it.” His face and his tone had hardened. “He thinks little o’ you and less o’ me.”

  “He’ll never know.”

  “You’re leavin’, then?”

  Again, Isolde gave no answer. They both knew she would . . . one day. Melburn moved to a large cabinet on the back wall of the cottage and opened the door. Inside were dozens of rolled parchments. He pulled one from the top shelf. It was tied with a red cord and marked with red ink. He handed it to Isolde carefully, almost tenderly, his eyes holding it a while before looking away.

  “Ya could’ve at least dressed the doe,” he said to Isolde as she left.

  She slipped the parchment into her shift and tightened her belt, hardly breathing until she pulled it out and spread it on the table in her own cottage.

  Rosalyn shook her head. “If Da finds out, Isolde, he’ll —”

  But Isolde pushed the words aside, running her hands over the map, taking in every inch. “We’re not so far north o’ the wood, ya know.” Her fingers ran down from the village toward the vast darkness of the Whispering Wood. What if Valour’s Glass was there? What if it had lain in wait for a thousand years, just for her?

  “Do ya think it’s really there?” Isolde asked.

  “The glass?”

  “The sun.”

  There was a smile on Rosalyn’s lips that never reached her eyes. “A flame in the sky so bright and so strong that it sets all the world ablaze? I hope it’s real, Isolde. I hope.”

  “A fool’s hope, some say,” Isolde remarked, “but I’d hate ta think our people died fer so little.”

  “You’ll come back fer me, won’t ya, Isolde? If ya find the way out?” Rosalyn asked.

  “Ya know I will, Ros.” There were so many things unspoken between them, years of secret knowing, of intimate understanding. Though born of different mothers, though different in nearly every particular, these two were as dear to one another as life.

  Their father returned from Lake Morrison without any strange tales or any meat. He did well enough during the summer months, but before the year was out he was forced to trade his aging stallion for what he hoped was enough food and ale to last the winter. He saw no trace of the map.

  Ten

  There was something about being twelve that made Amos want to jump out of his skin. His world had gotten smaller, and it chafed.

  What he needed was an adventure.

  “Sim,” Amos said one day as the boys skipped rocks across the lake. “I’ve been thinkin’ about yer family heirloom.”

  “What?” Simeon had found the perfect stone. It was wide and flat and light. With this stone, he might be able to beat his record of six skips.

&nbs
p; “Yer heirloom,” Amos went on. “If ya don’t have a father ta pass on an heirloom o’ yer family, ya can’t come of age, can ya?”

  “I don’t know.” Simeon took aim and flung the stone at the perfect angle to the surface of the water. It smacked once, twice, then again and again. After the fifth splash, the rock slipped beneath the dark water and Simeon plopped to the ground with a sigh. “They can’t stop me comin’ of age, can they? I can’t help it I don’t have a da.”

  “I know ya can’t, but it’s tradition, Sim. The clansmen have done it that way fer centuries. Besides, I’ve been thinkin’. Remember the lantern we saw at the stone house on the edge o’ the wood?”

  “’Course I do. Everyone knows about Hadrian’s Lantern. What of it?”

  “What if that was yer heirloom?” Amos asked, as if it were the simplest answer to all Simeon’s problems.

  Amos knew nothing of Hadrian, but Simeon and the villagers knew a little. They knew that Hadrian had always lived in a large stone house northeast of Emmerich, just on the edge of the wood. Aspen, the apothecary was the oldest woman in the village, and she could not remember a time before Hadrian had come. Truth be told, Hadrian had waited and watched for many long years before the four eternal laws of Shiloh were carved into the stone. Before the mosaic was laid in Market Circle and the village of Emmerich was founded by the Fire Clan, he had been there. No one thought much about him. He existed on the fringe of the villagers’ knowledge and understanding, little more than a shadowy unknown.

  Only one thing about Hadrian shone clear in the minds of the people. His lantern. In a world all but drained of light and color, a world where firewood was vital, candles were precious, and lanterns were more precious still, this lantern was a wonder. At its top and base were bands of exquisite edanna filigree. The rest of the lamp was faceted with panes of colored glass in green, gold, and purple. It was lovely to behold, even when the lantern was dark. But when the oiled wick inside was lit, the light of the fire danced through the filigree work and awakened the panes of glass into brilliant color.