Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  Wynn stood up. Tears spilled from her eyes as she spoke. “Yer da’s gone, Amos. Burned ta nothin’ on that mound out there. There’s no one left ta care fer us but you. Would ya send yer sister inta the wood, then? Would ya send me?”

  Simeon wanted to run from the cottage. He looked first to Phebe, whose tears gathered in the groove of her scar and dripped onto the cloud of wool in her lap, then to Amos, whose hand was clenching in and out of a fist, causing his arm guard to move up and down.

  “Five years, Ma.” Amos’s voice was low, his anger just restrained. “Five years ’til I come of age. Ya know how Da felt about me huntin’ without him. Ya sat at this very table. Ya heard what ’e said.”

  Wynn sat down and continued her work. The spindle dropped low, twisting the length of wool into smooth yarn. “What choice do we have, Amos?”

  Amos rose, sending the blade and branches clattering to the floor. “Ya weren’t there, Ma! Ya don’t know what it was like. Ya didn’t see the gashes or feel ’is heart stop its beatin’!” His voice had risen to a strangled scream. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Ya don’t know. Ya don’t know anything!”

  Wynn stopped her rocking and gazed into the bright embers of the fire. Dark skin cracked away from bits of wood to reveal the orange glow beneath.

  “Ya think yer da wasn’t afraid o’ the wood?” she said. She looked over her shoulder at Amos. “He did what ’e had ta do.”

  Amos kicked his sister’s cot and sent it crashing against the wall. In three long strides he reached the door, and he turned to his mother before leaving. “I’m not afraid,” he spat, and disappeared without another word.

  Simeon could hardly bear the tension. This was not the cottage he’d grown to love as his own. This was not the family that had welcomed him into their midst, asking nothing in return. Abner had been their solid foundation, and without him, everything was reeling, tumbling. Simeon longed to leave, to run for the door, but he could not force his legs to move. He looked toward Phebe, who still sat methodically carding her wool. He watched her square her shoulders and take a deep breath. Then she stood from her work and asked, with as much cheer as she could muster, “Will ya stay fer some venison stew, Sim?”

  He glanced at Wynn again, sure she took no notice of him now, then nodded to Phebe. He would stay, for a little while. He would press down his grief and horror and linger here in this dying house, not for Wynn, not for his dearest friend, not even for the man he had loved as a father. He would stay for Phebe, the scarred girl who sang like a nightingale and offered him stew while her world fell to ruin.

  There’s no knowing what wild inclination drove Amos to the river that day. At any other time he would have honored his father’s wishes. He would have run for Linden Lake. But whether it was grief or rebellion or the seeking of oblivion that brought him, on that day Amos found himself seated on a bank of smooth, black stones, looking out on the dark expanse of the River Meander. All things seemed to end there, at the river. The other shore, however far it lay to the west, was obscured by mist and darkness. From this vantage point, the whole world was floored with rippling black and walled with shapeless shadow. And somehow that seemed fitting.

  Why him? Amos thought. Of all the men who set out on the Great Hunt, why did Da have to be counted among the dead? He was a warrior, strong and skilled, wise to the ways of the wolves. He shouldn’t have died.

  Amos relived every detail of that final day with his father. Again and again he saw the bared fangs of the wolf. Again and again he saw the pool of blood on the forest floor. But his mind could no more make sense of the tragedy than his eyes could make out the opposite shore of the river.

  Day after day, he sat by the river, staring absently into the void. The black dark of early morning faded to pale gray and darkened to pitch again. And still he sat, thinking. He thought about his father’s story of the Great Cataclysm. He saw the story in a whole new light, now that his own world had been unmade, and nothing could ever restore it to its former beauty, its former innocence. He thought long on Evander and the sons of Burke. Visions of sun and stars had given them hope, and that hope had sustained his father in the face of immense opposition. Truly, it was wonderful to imagine that something better, something lovely and unblemished, lay just outside the skin of their world. Amos’s earliest memories were bright with that possibility, and he had never questioned his father’s words.

  But Evander and his entire tribe were lost a thousand years ago. The sons of Burke were taken and defiled by the Shadow Lord. And Abner was dead. Had any of them ever set one foot firmly on the soil of a sparkling new world? Had any one of them broken through the Shadow? If Evander and Abner and the heroes of old had not found the strength to survive, to triumph, where did that leave him?

  “Never thought I’d find ya here,” Simeon said, some days after Amos had stormed from the cottage. “Ma said she saw ya by the river, and I told ’er she was mad.”

  Amos glanced briefly at Simeon, who was settling himself onto the black rocks.

  “I never got ta tell ya,” Simeon said, after a time. “I’m sorry, Amos.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry about yer da.”

  Empty words, Amos thought. They meant nothing, changed nothing. Abner was dead, and sorrow couldn’t bring him back. Amos understood, though, that Simeon grieved Abner’s death almost as deeply as he did. He managed a weak “Thanks.”

  “There’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ ta tell ya.” Simeon fidgeted with the rocks beside his feet, lifted one as if to skip it across the water, then thought better of it and dropped it back to the ground. “I think . . . well, I might’ve had a warnin’ . . . might’ve known . . .” His voice trailed off.

  It was one of those moments when Amos longed for silence, when his friend’s nervous questioning grated on him.

  “What’re ya talkin’ about, Sim?”

  “I had a dream, the night before the hunt.”

  “A dream? What do ya mean? A real dream, while ya slept?”

  “Aye. I was sleepin’, but it felt like I was awake.”

  Amos tried to make sense of this new revelation. He knew of Dreamers, knew that Penelope, Giver of Dreams always chose the fair-haired and fair-eyed, but until now he’d been sure that Simeon was an exception to the rule. Much as he loved his friend, nothing about Simeon, save his unusual coloring, suggested that he’d been specially chosen by the gods.

  “You are a Dreamer, then?” Amos could scarcely conceal his shock.

  “Aye. Seems so.”

  “But ya said ya had a warnin’. What did ya see in the dream?” A thought hit Amos with the force of a penetrating arrow. Perhaps Abner wasn’t supposed to die after all. Hadrian’s words hadn’t been so clear. Lark might only have been tormenting the family she loathed. What if Simeon had known what was coming, had had the chance to stop it? “Did ya see Da? Did ya know ’e would die?”

  Simeon retreated from the intensity of Amos’s questions. “I didn’t see Abner. I don’t know what I saw.”

  “Ya said it was a warnin’, Sim! Ya must’ve seen somethin’. Tell me!”

  “I saw the wolf,” Simeon answered, beads of sweat breaking out on his pale skin.

  “The wolf? Ya saw the one that killed Da?”

  “The eyes were the same . . . I don’t know. It didn’t do anything in the dream. I didn’t know what it meant, Amos. I swear by all the gods.”

  Maybe Simeon really hadn’t known. Maybe he wasn’t responsible. But the idea that someone was to blame besides himself, that some force besides the relentless cruelty of the Shadow had been at work . . . it was too appealing for Amos to discard just yet.

  “Why didn’t ya tell me, Sim?! How could ya not say? We could’ve done somethin’!”

  Simeon sat shaking his head, his face a picture of desolation, before whispering, “I’m sorry” once more and walking back into the village.


  Amos rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. Almost, almost, he ran to catch Simeon. Almost, he begged forgiveness for his senseless cruelty and restored the bond he held with the person who knew him best in the world. Almost. But he didn’t. He sat on the shore, unable to discover what power lurked in the deep places underneath his grief and rage, unaware that someone had been watching as he brooded by the river. Someone was hunting him even now.

  Sixteen

  A pair of glittering green eyes surveyed the riverbank. They swiveled in a wide arc from left to right, waiting for the moment when Simeon disappeared into the magistrate’s hall. Slowly, the bird spread its wings and flapped them once, twice, three times. Then it leapt from its perch high in the skeletal branches of the tree and began its descent. Broad wings stretched to an impossible span, the tips of the bird’s feathers hardening, shifting, molding into fingers. Thin legs lengthened and thickened. Gray-brown feathers fused into a black leather coat. The fiery light of the creature’s gaze held Amos in its grip until it stood on the bank, a man. Wild waves and curls of black hair hung around his face. His skin was fair, cheeks and chin covered with short, stubbly hair. And his eyes . . . his eyes were bright, the savage eyes of a wild animal.

  Amos had seen nothing but the rocks at his feet. He had heard nothing but the haunting cry of an owl. Until someone spoke in a deep, lilting voice.

  “Can it be?” The man in the black coat stepped up beside him. “Are you . . . Amos?”

  “Aye,” Amos replied. He looked the stranger over from head to foot, wondering at his odd style of dress, the peculiar sign branded into his belt (it didn’t belong to any clan that Amos knew of), the strange make of his dagger. This man was certainly not from Emmerich.

  “I’ve heard tell of you, even in my village,” the man continued. “The boy who slew the Shadow Wolf.” The man’s voice was laced with wonder, awe.

  “Aye,” Amos answered, feeling not a hint of pride. “As how many others in Shiloh’ve done?” He turned to face the water.

  “Not at seven, lad, and not as you did. Not with fire from their own mouths. They call you the true son of Hammond.” The man sat down on the bank a few paces from Amos, his eyes fixed on the boy’s profile.

  “There’ve been others in the Fire Clan who could do the same. I’m no hero.” Amos chucked a stone into the river and watched as circle upon circle rippled outward.

  “Not so many as you might think. Not one in a hundred years has your gift, Amos.” The man hesitated. “Could it be that Amos, Wielder of Fire, has yet to discover the full extent of his power?”

  Amos looked back at the stranger. Who was this man? Where had he come from? And how did he claim to know so much about Amos’s “gift?”

  “Who are ya?” Amos asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Mordecai,” he said, extending a hand to grasp Amos’s forearm.

  “Ya said you’d heard o’ me in yer village. Where’s that, I wonder? Do the tales tell the shape o’ my nose and chin? How did ya know me from any other boy in Emmerich?”

  “It was the guard,” Mordecai said, pointing to the wide band of leather strapped around Amos’s left arm. “They say it was strapped to your arm, already branded with the sign of the Fire Clan, when you came from your mother’s belly.” He laughed softly. “Is it true?”

  Amos relaxed a little. “No. ’Course not. Besides, some o’ the other boys wear ’em.”

  “True. But then, none of the other boys lost their da in the Great Hunt, did they?”

  Amos flinched as if he’d been struck. It took him a moment to realize that the story of his father’s death would have traveled back to dozens of villages on the lips of the hunters who’d seen the attack. A wave of nausea swept over him as he imagined the tale being told again and again to anxious listeners in homes and alehouses all over Shiloh.

  “Isn’t that why you’re sitting by the river . . . alone?” Mordecai asked. And in his voice, Amos heard something like compassion, something like understanding. He looked down at his knees to hide the tears that came to his eyes. He didn’t trust his voice, so he made no reply.

  “What will you do now?” Mordecai asked. “Your family’s looking to you, I imagine.” He sighed. “Can’t be easy for a boy of twelve to take on such a burden . . . to go back there, into the wood.”

  Amos’s chest ached with the hard beating of his heart. He struggled to hold back the tears, to play the man.

  “Your family’s not much loved by the villagers, I’ve heard. There’s no one here who might help you . . .”

  Whether Mordecai’s last statement was meant as a question, Amos could not tell, but his mind went immediately to Caedmon’s mocking voice and Lark’s cruel cackle. He did not think about Orin, or Jada, or Darby. He did not even consider that Simeon would be willing to brave anything for him, that that boy would endure any darkness by his side, even the deep dark of the Whispering Wood. No, Amos saw only hopelessness and desolation. All the world was a great iron door, clanging shut against him.

  “I could help, you know.” Mordecai lowered his voice. “I could teach you.”

  “Teach me what?” Archery? Amos wondered. Or gardening, perhaps? What could this man possibly teach him that would change anything?

  “To conquer the fear.”

  The words were like a splash of cold water on his face. There had been a time when Amos had not known fear, had not understood its crippling power. Could it really be conquered? Could he regain the bold, easy confidence he once had?

  “How?” he whispered.

  Mordecai’s green eyes flickered, and he smiled a broad smile. “With fire,” he said.

  “Fire?”

  “Yes. You don’t yet know how special you are, Amos. You have yet to use your gift to its fullest extent. But I can teach you. And then . . . then, you will fear nothing.” Mordecai stood to go. “Meet me tomorrow, northeast of the village, on the border of the wood.”

  “The wood?” Amos asked. Surely, Mordecai wouldn’t ask him to go there. Not so soon.

  “You can go home and starve with your women, if you like.”

  Amos was stunned by his words. They flew in the face of everything he thought he knew about this stranger. Yet he couldn’t deny the truth in them. What else was he to do? He raked a shaky hand through his hair and drew in a breath to give his consent. But when he opened his mouth to speak, Mordecai was gone. Amos sat alone on the bank of the River Meander. There was nothing to see but the rippling black of the water and the darkening gray of the sky, nothing to hear but the sloshing of the waves against the rocks and the hooting of a distant owl.

  The next morning, Amos had crept from the cottage before the women woke, stealing through the dark toward the southern border of the wood. He had carried his father’s lantern with him, but he marveled now that he had ever had any need of it. It sat, forgotten, on the floor of the wood, and a golden ball of fire hovered above Amos’s palm. As he curled his fingers inward, the flames shrank, drawing in, fading, until he closed his hand and they disappeared altogether. Then, slowly, he opened his hand again, spreading each finger to its fullest span. As he did, the burning orb appeared and grew, tongues of fire stretching up and up.

  “Good,” Mordecai said, his once-green eyes reflecting the orange glow of the firelight.

  After only a few hours with Mordecai, Amos had learned to call flame out of nothing. He needed no breath, expelled in the heat of an attack, to summon it. Whether it sprang from his mind, his muscles, or some unseen power of the gods, he could not tell. But it was obedient to his will, and the sense of power it gave him was exhilarating. From this day, lanterns and candles would seem mere children’s toys, the tools of lesser men.

  “Thirsty?” Mordecai asked from his seat on a fallen log. Amos dropped his hand to take a leather skin from Mordecai, and the ball of fire disappeared.
Though he had hardly noticed the passing of time, the day had already ripened to a pale gray haze. His body was weary with the strain of the morning’s instruction, and he was desperately thirsty.

  Without thought, Amos lifted the skin to his lips and drank. The water was unlike anything he had ever tasted. It was so sweet that, at first, he thought it must be some sort of ale, some exotic offering from Mordecai’s village. “What is this?” he asked, before drinking again, more deeply, from the skin.

  “Miri’s blood,” Mordecai replied.

  All the rich color of Amos’s face, gathered from the morning’s labor and the warmth of the flames, drained away. He knew the story only too well, knew where Ulff had spilled his daughter’s blood.

  “It’s water?” he choked out. “From the river?”

  “Yes,” Mordecai said. “What of it?”

  “I don’t drink from the river!” Amos felt he’d been poisoned, tainted somehow.

  “Why not? It’s good water.”

  “Da forbade it! He said there’s evil in the water.”

  Mordecai laughed as if Amos had made some joke. “Evil, eh? Every man in Shiloh is raised on Miri’s blood. It’s mother’s milk to us.”

  “He said it makes ya forget,” Amos pressed.

  Mordecai let out a sharp breath and drew his dagger from its sheath. From another pouch on his belt, he took out a small stone that shone liquid-black. He drug metal over stone with quick, precise motions, sharpening the blade, and in the flickering light of the lantern that rested on the ground at Mordecai’s feet, Amos caught a glimpse of the symbol on the hilt of the dagger. It matched the one on Mordecai’s belt. There was a circle, incomplete, with five marks around it. Little flames, perhaps, or claws.

  “Forget what, Amos?”