by R D Blake
In the weeks that followed as winter deepened, though the sun was observed to climb higher in the pale sky and stay longer every day giving faith and hope for a spring not far off, Marta came to understand the true price the witch was exacting for the curse. Something was wrong when her moon flow came not at its appointed time. Days went by, then a week, then another. Marta understood what this should mean, but how could it come upon her? She was not married — knew no boy or man in the way that this change should imply. She looked down at her middle — was she with child? What should she say to her mother? Who could she seek out for advice and counsel if it was true? And what of the babe — if there was one — who was its sire? And was it human or some vile creature concocted by that old crone?
More weeks went by and still her flows remained absent. But she felt nothing inside herself. Nothing. No change. But every day seemed an agony to her. What if her mother asked? What if it became known? Would the townspeople cast her out as they had done to her sister? Keeping her fears to herself, Marta went to the church more often, seeking, praying, begging that God forgive her sin and prevent this from happening — of bringing another curse into the world. But priest misunderstood, seeing her silent appeal to God as a sign of piety and of seeking the ways of the Lord. And so he spoke and encouraged Marta to consider taking holy vows. Marta heard him but in other ways did not. How could the church accept one as evil as she if they knew the truth?
As her despair rooted more deeply inside her, Marta came to care little for her appearance. Often days went by when her brush stood unused on her bedroom table. She hardly took the time to consider what she wore until her mother began to question her, fearing that her true daughter was breaking under the burden of her own grief for Ilena. Her enquiries only frightened Marta all the more, for she had not the strength to tell her mother the terrible truth.
Spring was in the air and the first birds from the south had reappeared singing, warbling, calling to each other and to the townspeople below the branches and the walls upon which they roosted. Though snow was still gathered in drifts throughout the town and the fields were only beginning to doff their white coats of winter, Marta made her decision. It had been five months and her body had remained unchanged. There was cold comfort in that truth, for through subtle questions Marta had come to understand that she would never bear a child. And if that became known would any man want her? Since the wretched advent of the curse, she had avoided all the boys in town, and in truth, most of the girls. They appeared to understand or be indifferent to (or so it seemed to Marta) her wish to be alone.
Perhaps the priest was right. He had spoken much of forgiveness in his words to her. Of a certainty Marta believed she would always be damned in God’s Sight, but she could try to make amends to a dead Ilena for what she had done. Marta did not wish to ask for God’s Forgiveness or from Ilena or her parents, but Marta would seek for the rest of her life — she would purpose to give good rather than evil, though evil she would remain. Not a penance for what she had done but only as a form of justice for Ilena.
So despite her parents opposing her choice, for they would now lose their only remaining daughter and one they loved dearly, though Marta doubted they would continue in their love of her if they knew the truth, she made her vows with the only stipulation that she serve the church and God elsewhere. Upon gathering up what meagre belongings the church would allow her and draping her single cloak about her, Marta gave her parents a final, teary farewell and left her home and town, and with the other acolytes who joined with her, she travelled by foot for several weeks to a city of the broader realm: a city serving many purposes. Not only of God’s, but also of those of men who governed and controlled great wealth. Gutenburg was within the earldom of Westhaven, the largest of all those lands that were ruled under the hand of the king.
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Ilena felt the change in the air as she hobbled among the broken battlements of her new home hidden within a broad vale at the edge of the last foothills of the northern mountains. Her old world lay upon their opposite side: one that was dead to her as she was to it. The animals and birds had led her here — to the verge of a kingdom long forgotten to the realms of the south. For in another age a vast nation had dwelt here in years lost in the mists of time. Now all that remained were the ruins, one of which Ilena now occupied. But this place had not been forgotten by the denizens of the forests or by God, if this was His Hand at work to guide her here.
Ilena had lost count of the days it had taken to reach this refuge, but the animals that had served her on the journey and entertained her in their own ways, had made her forget her sorrow at times, and she had laughed at their antics and danced with their song. And despite her first fears, she had come to enjoy the great bear and wolves that travelled with her and barred any danger (if there was in fact any) from reaching her. Each in their ways and natures had brought her foods to eat on their journey, also fashioning rough beds for her to rest upon until she had arrived here. When she had first limped out of the forest and seen ahead and below her this wide swath of open fields and the ruin of this ancient fort, her heart had leapt within her for its entirety was filled with flowers and colour.
Though the ruins were just that, there were rooms within that still held firm and dry and she found shelter within. And despite the fallow fields which were encroached upon by trees and brambles, there were still signs of old orchards, vines and gardens that had retained their vigour and fruit, and for those last remaining weeks before mid-autumn became early winter, Ilena gathered and gathered and it seemed the animals did as well. Multitudes of broken limbs and other woods were piled up by the animals, so that Ilena found herself amply provided for before the first snows fell upon this land.
Early on during those first days, a ferret had led her down a broken staircase and through almost closed-in hallways where she found chests still bound tightly. After much effort and several failures she managed to open a few and within, and as if time had not touched them, she found linens, blankets, pillows, tools, pots, and plate and cups: some so ornamented she thought them worthy of royalty. In another were dresses, and furs, and much other apparel. Few fit her. Ilena ripped and mended and altered as her mother had taught her. And in her solitary imaginings, she thought that these had been stored away, hidden, waiting only for her.
Though Ilena did not understand how God could allow her to be so ill-treated by fate or life — to made to bear such a terrible illness — she thought He had found a way to aid her, so that she could endure what she must — this place, these chests of treasure, these almost magical animals and birds that seemed to regard her as someone to serve.
Yet there was one thing Ilena forbade herself from doing: that of examining herself. Though the changes now only came slowly, still they were relentless. Once in the first brush of winter when ice had frozen upon the stone surface of the upper pavement she had caught her image upon it and saw a monster. Thereafter, she had fled from herself, fresh tears running anew down her warty cheeks and she had cried and sorrowed over many of the days that followed despite the efforts of the animals to give her comfort.
By springtime only ten teeth remained to her. Her tongue had thickened to match her skin and it bore growths just like so much else of her. There remained not a single smooth spot on her: all her skin wrinkled, warty, horny, bearing black tuffs of hair in far too many places. Her eyebrows had fallen out. Her scalp, the only part of her that had not changed over the last half year — still bore a ragged, thin, black bristle of pig-like hair. Her ears had become misshapen and enlarged and her nose — her once pert, small upturned nose was like an icicle, long, hooked and drooping loosely to hang before her lips. There was no girl or young woman left — only a hag — an inhuman one. Her limbs had bent further: her legs, arms, fingers and her back as well — with what disturbingly felt like a hump beginning to grow upon it.
Ilena had resorted to covering all of herself, donning a hood and having a silken vei
l tied tightly about her face. She did not wish even the sun to look down upon and catch a glimpse of her wretched appearance. One fear, one doubt above all she carried within her. One that she could not suppress when at times in the night she awoke to some new sound and became smothered in a mad panic, certain that this vale was not as abandoned as it first appeared — that some day men would find her and she could not bear the thought of that discovery.
The slow on-going changes in her body and appearance wore at her. And coupled with a loneliness that ate at her heart, knowing that there was no place for her out in the world where family and former friends lived, despair fought to win over her spirit. This was her fate: the life that God had chosen for her. Unless — unless some day His Will for her changed — but she had not the strength to hope for that.
Yet Ilena was not truly alone. The animals and birds kept her company and played such games among themselves and sang, chirped, roared or yipped such songs that they brought happiness to her despite her abject circumstances. The ruins spoke of a distant war, but it seemed at times to Ilena that one still was being fought here were she stood: battling within her.
Still, this very day, Ilena felt the warmth in the air and to her delight she discovered some snowbells — the first flowers of the spring season blossoming in a warm nook in a corner of the battlement. Plucking several, in a moment of forgetfulness she thought to put them in her hair. It took but a moment to remember and Ilena sighed — an honest one and not as completely full of pain as at other times when she gave out such an expression. She carried them back to her chambers and placed them in a vase. But the fresh air beckoned to her and Ilena returned to the outside and sat up on a mound of broken stonework and looked to the south, up to the white capped mountains and wondered afresh of her parents and Marta and thought upon how deeply she missed them.
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Chapter Four
Two years passed, the seasons coming and going, like the leaves falling, see-sawing down from the trees. Marta found herself ensconced within the church inside the firm walls of Gutenberg, only going out to help the poor and the sick, and giving aid where she was able when births were difficult, acting as the hands and feet of the matrons who knew much more of that aspect of the life of women and their babes. She found some irony in this act of kindness, being one who could bear no children. But dearest to her were her efforts at feeding and clothing the orphans of the city, doling out what the church gathered to those who possessed nothing. Often, Marta forbade herself her own meals, giving to those whose own small stomachs ached, disguising her thinness beneath her threadbare garments. For she only took the barest and the most worn of any such clothing that came to the church — for she deemed herself unworthy of any pleasure or kindness.
When Marta was not serving, she was in the vestry, praying: praying for the soul of Ilena and for the grief and pain of her parents. But she could not pray for herself. For how could she appeal to God to forgive her? Instead Marta prayed for His Mercy to be given to the orphans she fed, nursed, and clothed, for the destitute men and women of the city who were excluded from its wealth, for the mothers and their babes — that they would return to health and have their needs met under God’s Grace, that the rulers of this land would see with the same eyes she possessed and seek to aid those who could not help themselves due to circumstance or fate, and that peace would remain on this land, so that the church could do His Will. Thus Marta prayed each night — some times until the morning. And many came to believe her a saint sent to live among them.
But Marta knew the truth — that she was an evil that only wore the garments of a servant of the Lord. She disdained any praise from priest or sister or acolyte. She wanted none of it and deserved none. Nor did she wish the eyes of men to regard her. That was of her foolish past, though her beauty despite her willingness to forgo her own meals had not lessened; but in some fashion had only increased.
And as it happens in far too many places and far too often, there were certain men who came to the church or to its nearby streets not to glorify or seek God but only to catch a glimpse of His servant. Marta deigned not to acknowledge any of it. Each day was a day to give of herself for others only — to compensate in a small way for her great act of evil. To prove to herself that she remained unworthy of any mercy.
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Ilena prospered in the vale of the northern mountains, never hungry, each day full of song and animal mirth. Dogs and cats had somehow made their appearance. And now puppies and kittens, as well as kits and the babes of rabbits and squirrels and weasels and others followed her about the ruins and at times made her almost stumble in their frenetic desire to be near her. Each night, far too many wished to nestle in with her among her bedding, all eager to share their love with her.
In some ways, Ilena had begun to forget about her appearance. Her loneliness for her family and from being apart from all humankind had lessened though had not entirely disappeared. Her “family” now was so large, so great and seemed to fill the entire fort. The creatures all worked to amuse her, to feed her and to help her bring in the crops. During the past two springs a herd of wild pigs had come into the vale and torn up the unbroken sod with their tusks, staying for several days until the soil was turned and loosened and levelled, so that she could sow what seeds she had gathered from the previous fall. Other crops grew wild within the fields: wheat, oats, barley, cabbages, radishes, carrots and other such vegetables — seemingly all simply awaiting for her to harvest them. So life contained some good. Ilena no longer despaired that she could not run as she used to on her bowed and horny legs, or that her dancing (and she would dance at all times of the day) was less graceful due to the bent of her back and the slow growing hump. She had found a greater peace and contentment in the life God had granted to her.
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Marta’s and Ilena’s parents grew old faster apace than the years themselves. For now their house felt empty without the sound of their daughters’ gleeful and lilting voices. And though they left both bedrooms as if the young women would return at any moment, they seldom went into them, for memories were deep and to have them pulled out like teeth caused them far too much suffering. Seldom did they go about the village, choosing to seclude themselves, for to see their daughters’ childhood friends growing to adulthood only brought them another cruel reminder. And never again did they attend the fall festival. For their part, the townspeople understood their grief and gave comfort as they could; but as the seasons and years went by, Marta and Ilena were like seed puffs in the air: soon out of sight and mind but never, no never, to the cabinetmaker and his wife.
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The two friends, who had spilled into the muddy bog, followed their own lives and were found attending a ball in the honour of someone important though being the young men they were, they never thought to enquire. The larger one was now heads and shoulders above most other men and had filled out even more so. Those who disdained him (and they were few in number) called him a “dumb ox.” But they said this with care outside of Teton’s own hearing, for though often he proved himself slow-witted he was not as slow as many imagined.
The other was simply bored. Erick had no wish to be here, unlike his friend who proved himself more interested in the contents of the banquet table than with any girl or young woman who was in attendance. The slighter, smaller young man (but only in comparison to the giant beside him) wished he could be so lucky — that he could escape the glances of far too many eager, calculating and made-up eyes. These women were all of a type to him, intent on only one thing and Erick knew himself to be their quarry far too often. These balls and their attendant dances were all so constrained by custom and tradition. There was no freedom here, no spontaneity. All was planned — just as was his own life.
Erick had been ordered to make an appearance and so he had and he well knew what was expected of him. The smiles, the bows, the small talk, the seemingly impromptu meetings with the powers
that were in attendance here were all deemed necessary, but in truth nothing was left to chance in those encounters. He was expected to perform, to appear to listen, to sympathize and to agree that something must be done and that undertakings must be made; but all in the language of the court that said everything and promised nothing. He wanted none of it. Erick was cut out for something else entirely. The trouble was, as it has been with many young men over all the ages, he did not know what that was.
Looking across the ballroom, he observed Connor Eliason, the son of the Earl of Westhaven. Now there was someone who revelled in all of this — who wanted the trappings associated with power, not seeing it as the curse it was. And it was no secret that Connor’s father wanted more for his son. But what else was there for an earl’s son — there few other positions of greater power and esteem. Secretly, Erick wished he could trade places with almost anyone else in the kingdom. For he felt trapped, caged like a beast — fate only allowing him to pace within its confines forever.
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More sunrises, more sunsets, more glorious days of warmth, of bee-filled droning fields of flowers, of fire warmed rooms when the bite of winter blew outside with drifts of new fallen snow piling high outside the walls, of autumns full of colour blazing in might and glory singing their own song to the Creator, and of the yips, barks, woofs, meows, purring and sounds of happy animals and the fresh chirps, tweeting, and cheeping — the sounds of spring returning to this northern fastness; these were all the seasons of the hidden vale.
Six years had come and gone. And still Ilena lived. Her life was full now: full of much happiness and contentment and meaning and discovery. She had found yet another chest hidden within a secret room and there within it were books, using words, odd in script, which she had slowly learned to decipher and read; for it was in a language that preceded her own in some ways. The stories within made her hard, stubby, black taloned toes curl with each new page she read — of a world now long gone from her own — of a people who had left this mountainous region at the end of some ancient era and for reasons that still were only hinted at.