Marek (Buried Lore Book 1)

by Gemma Liviero

*

  I woke suddenly from slumber, heart racing and out of breath, as if I had been running. Daylight was clouded. Steam rose from my speech. The snow feathered down to further dampen our clothes, except for Zola’s. Water and snow seemed to bounce off her. She was already up and boiling leeks and onions that had appeared from nowhere. I wondered how many hours I had lost to sleep. Zola whispered, so that Zeke didn’t hear, reminding me that over time I would not need as much rest each time I used the powers of healing.

  Fed once more we had energy to walk the rest of the day. Zola barely touched her food, something I had been noticing more and more. She was also walking faster and it was difficult for all of us to keep up with her. She was like a horse nearing its post, eager to see her home once again. There was also something peasant-like in her manner and contradictory: the way she cut tough meat with a blunt knife, while her voice and clothes suggested someone much finer. She was difficult to fathom.

  We crossed a stream. Thin sheets of ice had formed at different angles along its edge. Broken pieces of ice floated down its centre. I lifted Zeke onto my shoulders and crossed the water, which rose to just below my knees. It was so cold I could not feel my feet for several seconds. Above me, the branches of tall conifers had caught the snow, draped around their hardy winter needles like a fur stole. Between the lower half of the trees, where branches were almost barren, I caught glimpses of Zola’s town ahead. My skill had allowed me to hear the voices of its occupants long before sighting them – a strange medley of humming and rustling, which grew steadily louder and clearer. Once upon a time this was mistaken for the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

  Our destination was a town called Gus, which stretched neatly upwards from a river towards gently rolling hills. In the early hours only some of the townspeople had risen as we headed down the main street paved with round stones. Several women rubbed their cold faces with gloved hands as they stood by a well awaiting their turn to fill pails. A man pushed a cart of fur pelts, and Zola informed us that they were sable obtained from far in the north; the man had probably been travelling for weeks. He would set up his stall at the river markets and his pelts would be in demand with the arrival of winter.

  The main street of Gus was straight and narrow. At the end was a monastery, made from large white stone blocks, with giant columns and high arched windows and steeples. A large iron gate blocked the entrance formidably like bared teeth. As we headed towards it, it was like heading towards a giant mouth. Zola told us that it was a place for those who were touched or damaged in the mind. It was also a refuge for orphans. Before we reached the mouth of the monastery we turned another corner and Zola put a key in a small arched wooden door.

  Zola’s terraced house was cream-coloured with a terracotta roof. It looked very fine from the outside, sitting on two levels with a balcony overlooking the street and across to the hills in the north. Inside there were pieces of beautifully carved furniture gleaming with dark polish and seats with thick colourful upholstery. Large tapestries hung at the entrance depicting the darker people of the east and tall, pillared buildings.

  Glass-fronted cabinets were filled with silver and gold plated bowls. I ran my hand over a chair with deep engravings of animals, marvelling and appreciating the work. Someone with enviable skill had made this chair, lovingly planed and perfected over many weeks.

  ‘Not bad for a witch?’ asked Zola without expecting a reply. ‘People think we just hide away in covens but we can live amongst humans undetected. And if we are spied upon, then we have the power to remove the threat, now that we are growing in number. Proper order will soon be restored, Marek, for our kind is here to stay.’

  I looked at Celeste who appeared wan, her lips tight and teeth clenched, this time feeling relief that she could not speak. We would all surely burn from her accounts of what had happened so far.

  ‘I stole everything here.’ I pulled my eyes away from the furniture to see Zola studying me. ‘Is that what you’re thinking?’ she asked defensively.

  ‘Not at all,’ I reassured her, perplexed that she would ask.

  Celeste was transfixed by a sketch on the wall. I walked over to view a family portrait. Zola pointed out her father and mother. She sat at the front, the artist drawing her expression sternly shy, in contrast to the vastly confident smiling Zola who stood beside me. There were other drawings too of relatives and servants. At some stage this had been a busy household. In another, an older woman in a housekeeper’s pinafore sat at the rear of Zola and her mother. This woman looked remarkably familiar. Though of course that could not be, I told myself. I had never been here before.

  ‘Where is the rest of your family?’

  ‘My sister has married and moved to the west. Father died when I was young, and my mother was taken by the flesh eating disease.’ Zola explained the terrible affliction, which had spread to hundreds, causing parts of the body to blacken, rot, and, in many cases, had led to death.

  She took us on a tour of the house. I was surprised there were no galley staff there for our arrival. On the island, the wealthy had housekeepers, as well as people to care for their children. The galley had not been cleaned for some time. Several vegetables lay rotting in a basket. Zola followed my gaze explaining that the housekeepers were released when she stayed with Oleander, or visiting her old friend in the forest. Sometimes she was away for so long the staff left to find other employment.

  As we headed upstairs to the sleeping chambers, I was disappointed to learn that Oleander was not in this city, that she lived still miles from here. Zola informed us she had invited someone to dinner that evening, and that he was very interested in meeting me. I wondered how the guest would have learned of me so quickly. I had to presume that her friend was a witch also to whom she had communicated the invitation with her special skill, since she had not spoken to anyone when we entered the town. Before I had time to consider this, Zola grabbed my arm and her hand felt like ice. She led us both upstairs, Celeste reluctantly, staying close behind me like a faithful dog.

  More miniature portraits lined the stairs, again of Zola with her stern face, her bodice tightly buttoned up to her neck, her vibrant hair covered with a scarf. She did not look beautiful in these. At the second floor there were several doors leading from the landing and I was led to a room at the end of the hall. The furniture here was also magnificent and I wished my father could see it. The bed sat high off the floor and a battle scene was carved into the bed head. Beside the bed was a writing table with curved legs, so highly polished it caught all the light in the room. The floorboards were made from hardwood and covered with thickly woven rugs. This room had a large window overlooking the street, and from this height I could see several women over the high walls of the monastery in long white robes and black pinafores, their heads covered, walking the grounds.

  ‘There are clothes here that will fit you,’ said Zola opening a wardrobe. ‘My friend brought them here.’ I felt a stab in my heart as I thought about another man, similar to my size, sleeping here. Was it jealousy I wondered? I was attracted and indebted to Zola but I told myself that I hardly knew her. She was a mystery yet I wanted to know her more. Despite her plain dress, which was still far too elegant to wear in the forest, she looked sculptured and my eyes traced her tiny waist. It took me a moment to realise that Zola was examining me also, and I was suddenly aware of how I must look to her. I caught my reflection in a glass on the dresser: wild hair, dirty face, a coat thick with sweat and pine.

  Celeste was given a smaller room, the walls papered in powder blues and bright yellows, the furniture painted cream. On the dressing table was a mirror and silver-backed brushes. There was also a latticed partition placed for changing and the chairs were covered in patterned fabric matching the colours of the walls. Both rooms looked eager for their former occupants to return.

  Celeste didn’t look about her but headed straight to the window. Perhaps she was looking for the quickest escape route if she had to leave suddenly. He
r window overlooked a small barren garden and the spindly remains of fruit trees contained by high fences.

  ‘There is a dress in your wardrobe. Wear it for dinner,’ Zola instructed coolly. Celeste sat on the edge of the bed, with its white lacy coverlet, and stared into her lap. I pulled the dress from the rail hoping it would lift Celeste’s spirits. It was dark green with low shoulders and white piping. I was pleased for her clothes to be replaced; her skirts were tattered at the bottom, her front apron stained. There were soft black leather shoes also made for a dainty foot such as Celeste’s.

  On enquiry, Zola advised that her water basins were empty as the river water carriers had stopped delivering while she was gone. Celeste accompanied me readily and we took casks to fill at the town well. The marketplace was busy with people from all walks of life, from the wealthy to the beggars on the street who solicited passers-by. We were not approached by the latter as our clothes suggested that we did not fare much better in terms of coin.

  When we were alone, I took the opportunity to reassure Celeste that everything would be all right during our short stay with Zola. I also told her that I wouldn’t release her to the tin people until I met them. If they were unsuitable I would seek to enquire about other families for a temporary lodging. Then after I returned from my sister’s, I would help her find her family. I could see from her downcast look that she still had many doubts about her future. I questioned her melancholy but gained nothing from the occasional shake or nod of her head. Understanding her was like guessing the number of fish in a stream.

  I also suggested that she make an effort to be friends with Zola and take full advantage of her hospitality, which included wearing the dress. Then, I experienced a very odd occurrence. While holding Celeste’s hand to signify that she could trust me, an image appeared in my mind. It was of Zola, her face stretched into an unpleasant grimace, her small fingers pinching my arm. When I released Celeste, the image was gone. Had I perhaps conjured that up coincidentally or had I interpreted this through Celeste, who had somehow found another way to communicate her perceptions and dislike for Zola? Either way, I should have heeded this as a warning.

  Celeste

  I heard voices at the bottom of the stairs. It was a man with a thick and unfamiliar accent. Zola was there too, falsely laughing high and sweet. Her true self was vile and I vowed that I would keep an eye on her every movement. She was impure and unworthy of Marek’s infatuation.

  With cold water and a piece of linen I sponged my hair and body with jasmine soap that had come from the Kingdom of France. Zola told me the scent was the best in the world but it was nothing like the mild sweet fragrance of fresh water lilies, which my mother would crush and rub on my body as a child; the flowers, she told me, made our skin soft. I dried myself with another cloth then washed my undergarments in the same bowl and hung them over a chair.

  I stood naked before the looking glass examining my small body. I was barely a woman but neither was I the girl my mother had left behind. What would she have told me? Would she have said that my time to blossom will come, or would my mother have told me what I believed… that I would never be beautiful like her? Or perhaps she would not have said anything at all, too interested in winning the attention of another flighty street artist.

  I struggled with the new undergarments, which had been left with the dress: lots of strings and holes to thread. Unable to fathom this ridiculous article of clothing, I put it aside. I pulled on my old dress again but now that I was flowery clean, the smell of the soiled fabric was offensive, even to me. I removed it and for some time sat naked on the bed staring at the green gown, eventually succumbing to its brilliance. It looked slightly awkward and cumbersome on my frame and gaped at the front. The neckline was lower than I was used to. There were powders and brushes also left on the table but I did not know what to use. I left the room, and as I commenced the stairs Zola appeared like the stars in the night sky, so dazzling were the jewels around her neckline, her hair twisted high above her head.

  ‘No no, you mute child!’ she chided. ‘That will not do for our visitor.’ She grasped my arm and proceeded to lead me back to my room but I loosened from her clasp and turned from her.

  ‘Do you want to look ridiculous? This man could help you find your mother, Celestina.’

  She talked as if she knew my mother personally. I did not want to believe her but I felt compelled to stop a moment. Zola knew my weak point like she knew Marek’s was his tender heart.

  ‘Well? Where else will you go? You cannot speak, you have no money. Do you really think someone will hire you? I do not think so. You will beg for food. I want you gone, make no mistake. But Marek, you see, seems to care too much about the little things so we will make do, what do you say? Now come along. I do not bite children.’

  She was being provocatively artless – aware that I knew her secret. That she could kill a man with her poisonous kisses. I followed her back to my room. If there was anything I could agree on, it was the fact I had very few options. Zola proceeded to undo the dress far quicker than I had tied it. When she had finished with the laces, I still held the clothing tightly to the front of me for modesty, but she grabbed the dress and threw it on the bed, unconcerned with my discomfort at this exposure.

  ‘You’ve done it all wrong. First you will need an undergarment to allow the dress to sit well. Have you never had decent clothing?’

  I refused to give a response, which she did not wait for in any case. She instructed me to wrap the small bodice garment around my torso then she fastened it tightly at the back. She then slipped the dress over my head and laced it firmly to fit my body. The top of my small breasts sat just above the neckline. Next she pulled up my hair, and taking a silver comb from her own luscious red curls, she twisted my hair up and fixed it to the back of my head. She applied some powder to my face, and rouge to my cheeks and lips. I was transformed from girl to woman.

  Zola stood back to admire her handiwork, her dark eyes evaluating me as if I was to be sold. I felt embarrassed and ashamed of my simplicity, for I knew nothing of the womanly ways.

  ‘You’re ready.’ I followed Zola out. ‘Now stand tall, not all hunched over like a gypsy beggar.’ Another disparaging remark disguised in flippancy.

  We entered a large room, which I had not seen before. It was furnished with opulent lounge chairs and trays of food laid out on small tables. Marek stood next to a hearth wearing trousers fit narrowly into high leather boots, a clean shirt and a tunic in gold brocade. He looked incredibly handsome with his hair combed and pulled back from his face into a tail. But what dazzled me most was the man standing next to him.

  ‘Celestina, this is Jean!’

  Jean was dressed like royalty. He wore a long hooded white fur coat lined with satin, and his fingers were adorned with gemstones. He had piercing blue eyes and his fair hair appeared windswept, or neatly disarranged. His skin had a translucency acquired only by those of Church or wealth, or – unlikely in this case – sickness. It was the crows’ feet around the eyes that contradicted his wide-eyed child-like stare; and a certain bounce in his step gave the illusion of someone much younger. I was embarrassed that my staring would be noticed. I looked away too quickly.

  ‘We have already explained to Jean that you are mute,’ said Zola. And to Jean: ‘She is lovely. What do you think?’

  Jean circled me like prey.

  ‘Yes, most interesting,’ said Jean, and I found myself capturing every expression in his handsome face. ‘Perhaps one day she will find her voice again.’

  At the time, even if I could talk, I had limited vocabulary or understanding of life issues to successfully partake in adult conversation.

  ‘What sort of skill do you have?’ asked Marek, tearing Jean away from my company, and I realised I was perhaps now in the midst of three witches: three people whose dark arts were feared throughout the land. Though I believed there was still time for Marek to be freed.

  ‘Let me show you.’ Jean star
ed at a glass bowl on the table. Moments later it began to rise on its own, floating before our eyes, higher and higher. Then it stopped mid-air, before quite suddenly sailing high above us and smashing into the wall into thousands of tiny fragments. Zola laughed and clapped and I was surprised that she was not upset for glass was not so easy to come by. My mother used to say that one day she would make so much money that we could buy coloured glass from Venice to adorn our necks and wrists.

  As if he had read my mind, Jean fixed his disarming gaze on me: ‘One day all the money and pleasures of the world will be yours,’ he whispered before taking my hand to kiss it. His lips felt cold. ‘You are absolutely delicious, Celestina… No! Do not drop your eyes away. Let me look on you a moment longer.’

  It was awkward and foreign for me to stand there and be gazed upon like a side of beef in a stall, and I wanted to run from the room. I noticed too that Marek was uncomfortable with this episode, and even Zola no longer wore her false smile. ‘That is enough Jean,’ she said, lips pursed. I realised my hand was still resting in his and quickly withdrew it wondering how I had allowed it there for so long. He reluctantly moved his gaze to Marek.

  ‘In just a day from now you will meet others with the skill,’ Jean said. ‘And I can assure you that your sister’s hospitality will be like nothing you have ever experienced, so adept is she in understanding the special needs of our kind.’ Then, he turned to me. ‘And I would hope that you bring this delightful creature with you also.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Marek, cautiously. ‘But if we are to meet others of my kind I do not believe it would sit well with Celeste. She is frightened enough of our strange ways. I will be asking around the city to see if anyone can assist her while I am gone. I must at least settle her somewhere safe before we go, and that may take a few days.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Jean, raising his perfectly arched eyebrows. ‘She would be so useful…’