‘She followed him to his farm and spent two days walking amongst the crops that prospered under her touch. Within the month they were ready for harvesting and the crop was the best the farmer had seen. That piece of scum!’ There was much venom in his voice. ‘That man collected a reward the same year, a large sum of gold, for revealing Marissa’s whereabouts. It wasn’t enough for the coward to have a full harvest and profit from it, his ambitions were much higher.
‘The inquisitors came for your mother whilst she was giving birth to you. Several others from the village, who loved her, begged them not to take her until she had safely delivered our child. Then you birthed with the help of Irene, your mother’s friend. Your mother was still bleeding when they took her away with your half sister in her arms. For a daughter was instantly considered to have the same black arts. As you were a male, you were spared and I can thank God that the inquisitors at the time were ignorant.
‘I begged for your mother’s release but it was to no avail. I was allowed to see her only once before…’ Ricco faltered.
‘Even living in a filthy dungeon with rats she did not complain. She said she knew it would happen this way but had no regrets. She asked me to watch you closely, believing that you had inherited her gift, and when the signs were there, to encourage you to use them. It was then I realised that her daughter, your half sister, Oleander, wasn’t there. Marissa told me that Irene had made a brave attempt to help her daughter escape, but both had been killed. I brought you here where we were unknown.’
We sat staring in silence for some time. Though what my father had told me had satisfied my curiosity after so many years, my heart was still hollow and yearning for something beyond my island and imagination. Something inside me said that this story did not yet have an end and my father had only a small piece of a much larger puzzle.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Father.’
‘And yours, don’t forget, for you are without a mother. Your sister doesn’t live. The crone was lying,’ said my father with repulsion. ‘She is demented, and playing with your mind.’
‘But Father,’ I argued. ‘It is too coincidental.’
‘Did she once mention your sister’s name?’
‘No, but…’
‘Then she is dead,’ my father retorted. ‘There is no more talk on this. You have to accept that they both are dead, that the crone was sent to misguide you. Your mother said there would be those of her own kind who might try and seduce you or steal you away for their own evil purposes.’
That night my dreams were restless. I pictured bat-like demons flying through the sky and into our chimney to suffocate my father. I dreamed of my mother screaming for me, her hand outstretched as she melted into a fire pit.
The next day, the body of the hag from the sea mysteriously disappeared from the infirmary, and several goats were found, their necks broken and twisted, their bodies mutilated and bitten. For several days afterwards the townspeople were curious and gossiped, spreading new stories by the hour. Some said she was one of the undead, that she had taken their blood like the demon she was. Some said that islanders may have dismembered and buried her body, then slaughtered the animals to rid the island of any evil spirits brought there by the crone.
Many, however, believed she never died but attempted to return to whence she came, and more likely drowning in her endeavour. And that the slaughtered goats were the work of wild dogs. Suspicious as they were, the people just wanted easy answers for any strange occurrence so they could continue with their simple lives. Most believed that talking about such things would bring bad luck or even heresy. She was no longer spoken about outside the home and years hence the old crone disappeared into the stories of men, whispered among small groups at the osteria.
One morning, I woke with a clear plan in my head. I worked fast and furiously over the coming weeks. I took to my tasks quicker than normal and finished jobs that were not due for weeks. Sometimes I worked into the night. My father watched on curiously but did not query my unusual behaviour. After revealing my past he was back to sharing little more with me than discussions on the weather, people in the town and instructions on our building projects. He still talked of his boat building and his ambitions for me but it was with less gusto.
Our last night together was meant to be a happy one for my father. I had been secretly building a replica ship from his boat drawings: revolutionary designs that would carry boats faster and cut through stormy seas. For my replicate, I had built a long hollow base with a mast made of linen and twine. I painted it with tannin, his name written on the side.
When I presented it to him he handed me a glass of wine and made a toast to my success, then he broke down and wept.
Ricco
The sun had not yet risen when I watched my son leave. His tall frame was almost above the top of the door. Only two years earlier he was smaller than me. There was a time when I thought he might not grow at all. Marek was long limbed and awkward, still learning how to work his arms and legs. The girls did not notice this. Instead they saw a handsome marriage catch as they vied for his attentions.
His long dark hair, drawn into a tail at the back, was thick and shiny, and his skin was coloured brown from the sun. His loose cotton shirt sat open at the neck, wide sleeves drawn in with cord at the wrists, and tails tucked neatly into his trousers. I was so proud to call him my son. Silvia spent much time making his clothes since she had no children of her own to tend.
I felt ashamed. I did not tell him everything about Marissa. Circumstances that I felt his young mind would not cope with, such as the way his mother was killed. There were other things too that I felt he need not know about, including his mother’s ability to see into the future.
I exaggerated when I said someone might steal him away, for I wanted to scare him. In prison, Marissa’s actual words were that Marek’s blood will be needed one day to help restore order and I must help him look for the signs. I did not understand this but it was perhaps the reason I allowed him to see the crone, that in some way she was the sign his mother spoke about. I did not tell him what his mother also said: that it must be up to him to decide his own fate. I believed the less he knew of Marissa the safer he would be, should he ever be discovered and questioned by inquisitors. Though now, I curse myself for my ignorance.
Marek left me a note but I already knew what it said before reading it. They say parents know their children without the use of speech, by their expressions and gestures, and I am no exception. I knew of his plans in the weeks before he left but after many a sleepless night I decided there were things that men needed to learn themselves. I am only a father after all, not his jailer.
I walked down to the shore as the sun slowly spread its tentacles of early morning light. At the edge of the water was a small boat Marek and I had been commissioned to build. He had done more work on it. I ran my hand along the freshly planed wood. It was smooth, and still covered in a fine layer of dust. He had a good hand for such work. I looked across the deep water. There was a strong wind during the night that had rattled the windows. The same wind would have carried Marek to the mainland without any effort. I smoothed the note scrunched in my hand.
Father, you have been there for me but I must find out the truth. Please do not be angry that I have made this choice alone. Please trust me and do not try to follow. Your loving son, Marek.
His mother had cruelly been taken from him and I had seen the pain in his young boy’s eyes of never knowing her, never feeling her warm breath on his cheek, and her long arms around his body on cold nights. His quest to find his sister would hopefully free him of the emptiness he had felt these past years. I never saw Oleander’s body and had also wondered about the truth of it over the years.
With my cupped hands, I scooped up some seawater, for at that moment it was something we shared. I said a silent prayer for Marek’s safe return and watched the water trickle through my fingers. The hollowed palms of my hands reflected the void I would feel
without him and tears flowed in rivers to my chin. ‘Come back,’ I whispered, hoping the same breeze would carry these words to my son.
Chapter 2
Zola
It was only an hour before sunrise and the air was still. Winter was coming.
I followed Jean, his cloak floating like bat wings behind him as we ran through thick forest untravelled by humans. Jean knew a place he thought would be amusing. His idea of amusement usually accompanied danger. But I didn’t complain. He made every journey exciting.
We reached a house – a wealthy man’s house at the end of a busy street. Jean liked to be daring and often hunted in populated towns just for the thrill of being seen or chased, even though this action was breaking code. Jean had been watching over our unsuspecting victims, and I was told the man beat his workers with iron bars and sometimes didn’t pay them at all. His wife was also vicious and cruel to her maids. They offered no charity to the poor.
I nodded my consent. Jean gave me a mischievous grin and a kiss on the cheek, leaving behind his floral scent. He casually swept one hand through his hair, which fanned around his shoulders in waves, fully aware of his appeal. Once upon a time I could not wait for his attentions in the days of my infatuation. I was not his true love as he once professed – I saw many other girls come and go. Though I still felt love towards Jean, I had learnt to mask my heart with feelings of friendship where I could.
We glided over the stairs leading up to the porch and stood facing tall windows. Jean rolled his eyes back into his head as the window latches snapped open without hands, and the glass panels flung outwards. We followed patterned rugs up another set of stairs and to a doorway at the end of the hall. With our combined forces this time, the double doors flew open themselves and we stepped into the bedroom.
The woman sat up on the bed and drew a lace coverlet to her modestly. The man was slower to wake and felt on the bedside table blindly for his eyeglasses. The woman was about to scream when I moved fast to cover her mouth with my hand. Her attempts to wriggle free from my arms were useless.
The man was much older than his wife, and had the look of a mole with tufts of white hair protruding from his face and ears. Jean stood in front of him, hands on hips, balancing daintily on his toes, his plump ruby lips stretched wide, grinning like a lunatic. In the dimness of the room the man fumbled several attempts to successfully light a candle, in order to examine the peculiar creature poised unlawfully by his bedside. Those moments of waiting were long enough to complete our task but not Jean’s style. The kill itself was nothing without the melodrama.
Once focused, the man paused – befuddled perhaps by Jean’s apparent playful demeanour – before speaking. ‘Do not come any closer you filthy piece!’ he commanded.
Jean said nothing, still smiling, his shadow large across the wall behind him. I was not sure which Jean liked more: to feed on his victims or to play with their minds.
The woman I held had calmed to some degree. She realised her struggles were useless against my strength and was now fascinated with the other intruder who had engaged her husband. Even though she was trembling with fear, a fact that strangely made me anxious, I had to wait for Jean. It was best to do our feeding simultaneously in these situations so that the victims did not witness the fates of their loved ones and draw attention with their screams.
‘How do you do, sir?’ asked Jean breaking the silence, and in a low voice that sent chills up the spine of the woman.
‘Get out of here!’ he yelled.
‘Why?’ he asked provocatively. ‘We have only just met.’
‘Is it money you want? Well, you’ll get nothing from me!’
‘Oh, that’s disappointing. Everyone usually likes me,’ said Jean with the fake melancholy of a child.
In the next instance the man produced a sword from beneath his bed. ‘Stay back!’ But Jean didn’t. Instead he laughed and stepped closer, goading.
The sword entered Jean’s side.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Jean. ‘I only wanted a few coin to feed my starving family.’ He twisted and fell on the floor with the exaggerated grace of a street actor.
The man stood up tentatively and prodded Jean with the tip of the sword to see if there was life. When there was no reaction he turned the sword to me. As he lunged, a strong hand gripped his arm. Like a bolt of light from the sky, Jean bit down on the man’s neck. The man’s arms flailed and his sword fell with a loud clang as Jean drew blood. Jean’s mouth was red and dripping from his victim’s ruptured vein, and his lids were closed in rapture. Already his side wound was sealing itself. Jean was well practised at treating himself and his appetite would restore his health almost immediately.
I too acted quickly as the woman’s eyes were now wide with terror. The woman’s neck was soft and her skin still youthful, and, when I broke the skin, her blood burst into my mouth. I was one with her for a moment and saw what she saw: a privileged life, kindly kin, playing with siblings, weaving tapestries, ceremonious dinners, but none of the cruelty that Jean described. I hoped he was right about the man. When there was nothing more to drink we wrapped their lifeless bodies in bed linen.
Jean took the gold coins from the man’s purse and wandered around the room filling his jacket with silver.
As we commenced to leave, a small girl of around four years stood at the entrance. I looked at Jean and his expression lacked surprise.
‘You knew about the child didn’t you?’ I accused.
‘Oh, Zola.’ he said with a condescending sigh. ‘Why must you always think so ill of me?’
‘You know you cannot have her. She is too innocent.’
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘But what is to become of her? What sort of life could she have without parents to guide her?’
I ignored his comments and picked up the child. She protested but with my hands I closed her eyes putting her into a deep sleep on my shoulder. Jean followed me to a church carrying the linen bundles. I placed the sleeping child on the front steps. In a while the church bells would toll and the doors will open. She would be safe and the memories erased of what she saw in her parents’ bedroom.
We buried the bodies deep in the forest and as we walked back to the castle I felt a subtle change in the air. I could not picture him but I sensed one of our own.
‘He is coming,’ I said to Jean, unable to hide the resentment that flashed across his face.
Marek
There were moments when I set out that I doubted my motivation and good sense, that I should take the word of a hag over the advice of my father. Why the need to find out the truth? I could not say. Again, I felt this path had already been chosen, led by instinct or something greater.
The sailing between two seas was uneventful. I was completely drenched from the high waves but alive. I did not fear the water like some. My father was an exceptional boat builder. Though the boat I sailed on had two square sails, my father had been working on drawings of other vessels. He believed that by making the sails more triangular, boats could travel faster, along with a wood that was more flexible and able to withstand the constant battering of waves in deeper waters.
I had travelled north-east, bordered by mainland not visible on the horizon. With star guidance, my geography was sufficient to get me to this point, but the places I would go to were not mentioned in any book I had so far encountered.
Valona was busy with activity, its port filled with sailing vessels and fishermen. This was a place where much trade occurred and I was barely noticed as my boat glided into the shallows and onto the pebbled shore.
Having nowhere to safely stow the boat, I could not trust that it would still be there upon my return. I enquired of the fisherman along the shoreline if any wished to buy the boat. Several men examined the sturdy craft. One commented on the strength of the mast and the underside. He offered me a sum and although it was low I took it, since the man also offered me the purchase of his old vessel when I returned. My purse, at least, had gained some weight for
now to purchase food and other items I would need.
Men in this town dressed differently from me with fitted shirts tucked into tight leathers. The houses were not like the ones of Gildoroso. They were tall, light-coloured stone structures, in pinks and yellows, built into the rocky hills above the shore. Well-paved passageways between the buildings provided easy access to the town centre, noisy with activity.
I passed a tannery where the air was pungent from skins being soaked in crushed bark. There were many shops here with leather hides and clothing, jewellery, tin and meats. Men here were used to traders and did not look at foreigners suspiciously.
Descending into the town, I was met with the smell of roasting nuts and meats, which made my mouth water and stomach rumble. At a public house I ordered a glass of wine, some hot soup, and a generous portion of bread.
The owner of the osteria offered me a room for a small price, where I could dry my clothing and rest for the night. I asked the owner if he knew of any map sellers and he was curious to know why I was heading north, especially since the cold and wet change was due in a few weeks.
I told him that I was going to visit my sister who was married and living with her family in that region.
He looked at my open toe sandals. ‘I hope you have some warm clothes in your pack. Those winters will freeze you solid.’ He directed me back to the marketplace.
The stalls were open late and I bought a thick woollen coat with a hood, leather pants, vest, and boots. While the description of my destination was vague, a mapmaker was able to draw part of the route I should take, though he left me in some doubt as to my wisdom. ‘With the Black Forest I can’t help you,’ he said. ‘It is not a route most right-minded men would take.’
Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) Page 3