Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  The air was pungently sweet, saturated with the rich fragrance of the blooms. Phebe took a moment to arrange the flowers in the braid that wrapped her head like a crown. She remembered how her mother had woven them into her hair when she was young, how Wynn had loved the sweet scent of the flowering vine. She remembered the first night of the Great Hunt, when her father had carried her on his shoulders and Simeon had spun her in a wild dance that whipped the blooms from her hair.

  The tears rose in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. I mustn’t think of all that, she thought, else I’ll never survive this day. Instead, she steered her thoughts to more practical matters, reviewing again the list of preparations to be made. That was when she remembered. Firewood. Simeon had not come in several days, and it was he who had always chopped wood for the fire. The few logs that remained in a stack on the hearth would not be enough to last the day. She could only hope that he had left some store of firewood beneath one of the trees in the glade. She grabbed the small torch that hung in its iron brace beside the doorway and made for the chopping block.

  A chill wind blew from the north, drawing the mist in its wake. Phebe had not gone ten paces before the light of her torch was all but lost in a sea of gray. The torchlight could not penetrate that thick fog. Once, it would not have mattered so much, for she herself would have cast a light across the path. Now she shone only faintly, with the memory of glory.

  She stumbled past the garden and the old sheepfold, into the stretch of woods that bordered Linden Lake. A stiff wind began to blow, and the fog lifted. In the weak mid-morning light, she could see the chopping block, and nearby, a sizeable store of firewood. She sighed her relief, and took one step into the glade before stopping again. The familiar landscape felt distinctly unfamiliar. Something was wrong with the trees. Fog still clung to their branches, weaving them together in webs of hazy light. Webs.

  Phebe stifled a scream. In the breath before she turned and fled toward the cottage, she noticed something moving on the trees. Did the bark itself crawl, or did something move beneath it? She didn’t wait to find out. Not until the door of the cottage closed behind her and she fell against it, panting, did she let herself wonder. Could it be? Had they come for her at last?

  Phebe jumped when she heard the knock. She opened the door, just a crack, and found Simeon standing on the threshold with a bundle in his hands. She flung open the door and threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him desperately. He smelled of fire and wood and clean earth. He was solid and good, and she relaxed into the strength of his arms and chest.

  “It’s just me, little bird. What’s frightened ya so?”

  He never got an answer. Before she could reply, Orin’s voice sounded from the lane.

  “I see you’ve beaten me ta the door, Sim.” He gave the young man a sly smile. “And I wanted my gift ta be the first.” He turned his smile on Phebe, then, and presented her with a new kettle.

  Close behind him were a handful of villagers, carrying candles, baskets, and woven rugs. Many were eager to offer their best wishes, and all were eager for a mug of beer. Simeon was shuffled to the corner of the cottage, where he leaned against the window, watching her.

  He thought about the first time he saw her. She was four years old then, just a slip of a girl, just the sister of his friend. And then she had sung, a haunting song about a nightingale. Her voice had been like a beacon, like a rip in the fabric of darkness. From the moment she’d opened her mouth she had captured him. He thought about her singing at her father’s funeral pyre. He remembered the choking sound in her voice as she willed her way through line after line of the lament. He thought about the countless evenings he’d spent with her in this cottage. He would bring meat or bread or some trinket from the village. She would cook for him or sing for him or sit with him in easy silence before the fire. She would listen and encourage him as he told of his progress at the forge or his success in the latest hunt.

  Looking at her now, his heart was so full of love for her and so broken for her. He saw her loneliness and pain, even as she forced a smile, greeting villager after villager. He knew she hadn’t wanted to face this day, but she’d done it all the same. There was strength in her that she knew nothing of. But Simeon knew. He had always known.

  The day was drawing to a close when he was alone with Phebe again. Soon, the procession would arrive. The celebration would begin. He had so little time.

  “What’ve ya got there, Sim?” she asked, falling into the chair beside him.

  “Do ya remember the night I told ya I was goin’ ta be a blacksmith?”

  “Aye.” Phebe laughed at the memory. “Ya thought you’d never amount ta anything, that you’d be stokin’ fires fer the rest o’ yer days.”

  “Ya asked me then if I’d make ya somethin’, when I learned how.”

  “I was naught but a silly girl, Sim. Ya owe me nothin’. ’Tis I who am in yer debt. A thousand times over.”

  Simeon brushed the statement aside and continued. “There’s somethin’ I’ve wanted ta make fer ya . . . well, always. Took years ta learn how.” He was hesitating, a mixture of anticipation and embarrassment. He wanted the moment to be perfect. At last, he pulled the cloth from the bundle in his hands and dropped it to the floor, revealing an exquisite lantern.

  Here were no glass panes bordered by crude iron bands. No, this lantern was made entirely of tiny vines of wrought iron that twisted and curled in a hundred directions. Little iron leaves adorned the vines here and there, and on one side of the lantern, nesting among the leaves, was a small bird. Phebe knew without asking that it was a nightingale.

  He picked up the lantern then, opening a hinged door on one side, and blew into it. From nowhere, a dozen small lights appeared, circling each other like bees around a hive. The lantern’s warm light filled the cottage.

  “What are they?” Phebe whispered.

  Simeon never got to explain. Again the two were interrupted, this time by a knock at the door. It broke the spell. Their moment was gone.

  Phebe and Simeon went to the door together and found Jada standing on the stoop. Behind her, some hundred people waited with torches and lanterns and baskets of food. Several men were already preparing the bonfire and setting up tables and benches.

  Phebe found comfort in the familiar faces that dotted the crowd. These were people for whom her scarred face held no surprise, no horror. Darby was there, and Aspen. Payne and Cora were there, with their children gathered around them. Orin stood at the front of the group, and Caedmon hovered near the back, scowling. Many other faces she knew, but could not name, and there was one face in particular that caught her eye. It belonged to a young woman not many years older than her. Her hair flamed red in the torchlight, and her eyes were as blue as Simeon’s.

  It was understood that Phebe would walk out of the house and stand with Jada while the people circled around to hear her blessing. Without anyone to offer a blessing, however, she was uncertain of what to do. She glanced back at Simeon, who was carefully placing the lantern on the mantle. He knew that Jada planned to offer a blessing for Phebe, so he smiled, motioning her out to the waiting assembly. She squared her shoulders and went, Simeon closing the door behind them and standing in the shadows to the side of the group.

  There was a hush, and Jada began.

  “Phebe, daughter of Abner and Wynn, we have come ta celebrate yer comin’ of age. From this day, you are a woman of Emmerich, free ta take a husband and bear children. Since yer mother is not here ta offer a blessing . . .”

  “I’ll offer one instead.”

  The voice came from the darkness beyond the crowd of villagers. Every eye turned to see two shapes moving closer, silhouetted against the firelight. One appeared to be in motion. Its edges were indistinct. Only its green-gold eyes never wavered. The other walked with long strides and a familiar confidence. And though he had changed markedly, several people
in the crowd recognized him. Simeon was the first, and he rushed to block his path.

  “Stay away from ’er,” Simeon said.

  “Amos?” Phebe stared at her brother over the top of Simeon’s shoulder, then pushed past him to get a better look. The man before her stood taller, with a broad chest and muscular arms and legs. He wore no arm guard, carried no bow or quiver. But his red-brown hair was still boyish and untamed.

  “Did ya think I’d forgotten ya, sister?”

  A dam of pent-up emotion gave way in Phebe’s heart. She wanted to touch her brother, to be sure he was real. She wanted to scream at him, or slap him in the face. She wanted to embrace him. She wanted to weep. But everyone was watching her, waiting. What should she do?

  “What blessing do ya offer, brother?”

  Amos gave a half-smile and raised a glass vial full of black liquid. “The blessing of forgetting.”

  A low murmur ran through the assembly, for the villagers thought it a strange blessing. They all drank the black water from the River Meander. They always had. Still, they feared the worst from Amos and his companion. Maybe some darker power was at work in the water he offered.

  He held the vial to his lips, took a sip, and offered it to his sister. “Drink, Phebe.”

  She stood motionless, taking in the bizarre and unreal scene before her. The light from the torches did not flicker. The air was still. No one breathed. Phebe looked into her brother’s face, struggling to piece together the mystery of his disappearance and his dramatic change. Until now, she’d never seen him drink from the river, but she remembered clearly enough her father’s warnings.

  She looked at Simeon, who shook his head, his eyes urging her not to drink. He was burning with an intensity she had never seen.

  “No,” she said at last. “It’s not a blessing ta forget, Amos.” She wished she could sound more convincing. There were so many painful memories, so many black days.

  He sneered and flung the water from the vial at Phebe. Before the inky liquid reached the precious white fabric, Simeon exploded into action. He pulled a dagger from his side and held it to Amos’s neck, catching him off-guard. But Amos merely looked at the arm that held the dagger to his throat. A bit of skin reddened and bubbled up. Simeon screamed and dropped the knife, but he stood his ground.

  Orin moved in, and other men of the village stirred.

  Then Phebe spoke, and everyone stilled.

  “Remember the first time ya shot a rabbit, Amos? You were so proud, but I cried the rest o’ the night because I wanted ya ta bring it back ta life.”

  Amos stared back at her, unmoved. There was no life at all in his eyes. “Ya must remember the cat, Amos. I’d have died were it not fer you. Ya wore the claw ‘round yer neck fer ages.”

  Still nothing.

  “Remember how Da used ta tell us stories by the fire?” Her voice broke. “He’d come through the door and greet his ‘dear ones’. Then he’d sit in ’is chair, oilin’ ’is bow, and tell us tale after tale.”

  There was a flicker of recognition. Amos clenched his jaw. “Why are ya doin’ this?” he asked, warning.

  “Remember how many times Ma had ta mend yer shirts when ya were little? Ya kept hangin’ ’em from the trees and usin’ ’em as targets.”

  Out from the deep well of Amos’s pain poured a river of hurt and hate.

  “Ya want me ta remember Ma? You? Of all the people in Shiloh —”

  Phebe stopped. She’d been moving toward Amos almost imperceptibly. “What do ya mean?” she asked. But she already knew. He was raising the same question, making the same accusation she had been making in the silence of her heart for years. Only a thread of hope remained. It was so very, very fragile.

  “Does it really bring ya comfort ta remember a worthless dog who didn’t even love ya?”

  Everyone heard his words. Everyone saw it happen. From every direction, the ground began to crawl. Or something under the ground was crawling. In the deepening dark, it was hard to know, but it was utterly silent, utterly terrifying. It looked as if the earth and the grass and the stones had sprouted legs, and all of them were rushing toward Phebe. The dreadful rippling movement reached her feet, crawled up her legs. The embroidery on her shift danced, and the white wool was alive with motion. Up and up it worked its way, distorting her face and finally reaching the crown of jasmine on top of her head. Thread upon thread of darkness was woven around her. Her gown, now stained with the deadly black water, was disappearing behind strands of gray-black web. It happened so quickly. Simeon had only time to scream her name before her light was snuffed out and the night weavers took her.

  Twenty-Nine

  Simeon’s was not the only voice that rang out in the night. There were other screams as well. But while Simeon reached out to grasp the emptiness where Phebe had been, the villagers pulled away. They were grieved, horrified. The void left by the night weavers, that black hole hanging before them, had a gravity of its own. They feared they would be sucked into its grasp, and their fear aroused their rage.

  Everyone had heard his words. Everyone had seen it happen. And the law was clear. After a breath of perfect silence, Caedmon’s voice filled the air.

  “Let’s take ’im, lads,” he said, and spat on the ground.

  Women snatched up their children, holding them tightly in their arms, and the men moved as one to take Amos to the stone, where his judgment would be meted out. The first villagers to reach him hesitated, fearing his awful power, but he didn’t fight. His eyes were fixed on the void where Phebe had been. They wrapped his wrists in a leather cord, led him through the darkness to the edge of the village, and placed him directly in front of the stone. Jada stood facing them all.

  “Amos,” she said, “you have broken the greatest o’ the eternal laws o’ Shiloh. You’ve stolen yer sister’s light . . .” Her voice faltered, and she looked down at the ground. When she raised her head she looked at Amos with fiery eyes and spoke with unquestioned authority. “You are hereby sentenced ta exile, now and forever, from all the villages o’ Shiloh. Messages declarin’ yer fate will be sent ta the farthest reaches o’ the land. Any man who attempts ta aid ya will fall under a sentence o’ death. There is no safe place fer ya. We consign ya ta the darkness. Be gone.” The people murmured their approval, and the air was tight with tension, with waiting.

  He could have burned the village to the ground, could have killed every last person assembled at the stone. Instead, Amos looked at Jada, then scanned the faces in the crowd until he found Simeon, whose light was surging erratically. He locked eyes with his former friend. There was something in that look, some unspoken message. Only Simeon and Mordecai, perched on a nearby branch, read it clearly.

  Caedmon and a handful of other men stepped forward, expecting that Amos would have to be physically forced from their presence. They were wrong. Without a word, he walked away.

  When the crowd at the stone had thinned, Simeon cut a path to Orin. He grabbed the man by the arm and directed him past the forge and into the cottage.

  “I need yer help,” Simeon whispered.

  “Anything.”

  “I need ta take Brand and Willa.”

  “Ya mean ta go after ’er, then?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ll go with ya.”

  “Orin, wait. I’m goin’ after Amos as well.”

  “Amos?! It’ll do ya no good, Sim. I don’t even know if ’e can be killed. Look what ’e’s done ta ya already!” The heat blister on Simeon’s arm was still bright.

  “I don’t plan ta kill ’im.” Simeon struggled to explain. He knew only that he must go after him, that Amos was the path to Phebe.

  “But ’e can’t be trusted!” Orin’s voice had risen almost to a shout when he heard a scuffling outside the workshop. He looked at the young man next to him, suddenly aware of the greatest danger of Simeon’s
plan. It wasn’t Amos. “They’ll kill ya, Sim,” he whispered.

  The latch on the door rattled, and there was a soft knock. Orin’s hand went to the hilt of his dagger, and he stepped softly behind the door. An unfamiliar voice spoke through the wooden planks. A woman’s voice.

  “Please, I must speak with ya.” Orin sent a warning glance to Simeon before opening the door a crack. A striking woman slipped inside. She was outfitted for battle, with a dagger hanging from her belt. She carried her bow and quiver with easy grace. And she was very bright, blazing with purpose and determination.

  “I hope you’ll forgive my intrudin’. I followed the procession. I saw what happened ta yer girl.”

  Simeon and Orin were too stunned by her strange dress and her sudden appearance to comprehend what she said. It was as if she had materialized in the air outside the door.

  “Isolde,” she said, reaching out to grasp each of the men by the arm. “I mean ta go with ya.”

  Simeon found his voice. “Go with us? Where?”

  “Over the mountains, ta find yer girl.”

  Simeon looked to Orin, but the older man only blinked at him.

  “I’ve spent years in search o’ somethin’ ta lead me out o’ this cursed darkness. Too many years. I’m tired o’ waitin’ and wanderin’.” She looked from one man to the other. “And if ya take my advice, I think we should follow the Wielder o’ Fire. Seems the most likely person ta lead us ta the Hall o’ Shadows, doesn’t he?”