by E. Hibbs
Anyone can do his work, however hard, for one day.
Anyone can live sweetly, patiently, lovingly, purely, till the sun goes down.
And this is all life really means.
- Robert Louis Stephenson
CHAPTER VII
The Lightless Dawn
T he fury still held Merrin in an iron grip. Shot with fear and anger, she kept replaying it in her mind: crashing through the Surface, the air tearing her lungs. Her gills slamming shut, useless; the bright sky searing her eyes; feeling the hardness of wood under her back, and the net clinging to every part of her. She hadn’t even felt as though she was drawing breath – she had wanted to deafen the insolent, abhorrent human.
And then, how she hadn’t been able to return to the depths. When she had seen the coming sunrise, she had immediately gone to pass back through the Surface, but it had held her. Sure and impenetrable as it was when she passed through willingly, but also as futile as trying to swim into rock. Not daring to risk exposure, she had fled to shelter under the branches of a large hazel just off from the water’s edge. She had watched the red-haired boy stagger out of the Lake, and it had been only the imminent dawn that had kept her from running over and killing him on the spot.
She shrunk back from the light, further into the shadows of the trees. In the distance, she noticed a small cave, and quickly moved towards it. Luckily, it faced almost directly north, so it would be in shadow all day. Or so she hoped, otherwise it would be a death trap.
Stop thinking like that, Merrin, she thought sharply. Just wait for night and get back to the Lake. You will be able to under the moonlight, you know this. So calm down and just wait.
She got down on all fours and crawled inside, curling up at the back. Her skin pressed into the hard rock. The twisted roots of an ash tree had broken through in places, and groped at soil and stone like frozen fingers of wood. The musty smell of earth; of last autumn’s leaves trapped inside, wormed its way into her nose. The wind whistled past the mouth like the cry of some haunted beast. And all the while, the sun glared, as though waiting to catch her off guard.
A huge spider sat a few feet away, not moving. Merrin let her eyes rest on it, and it slowly came closer, crawling up onto her hand. She managed a small smile and then moved it onto one of the roots. A little while later, she fell asleep, exhausted from all that had happened.
The sun transformed into the moon, watching softly from the inky sky bejewelled with a thousand stars. High above, all of the creatures caught in their lights shone on forever: the ram, the crab, the swan. A real swan and his mate glided over the Lake, elegant necks bent affectionately. The reeds whispered to one another; the soft breeze sang as the trees, heavily laden with autumn’s bounty, gave it a voice.
And she stood upon the glassy Surface, her hair waving and wrists free from the Bands. Fifteen sparkles of age burned from her eyes. In the shallows, a white mare lowered her head to drink, long mane trailing in the water. Zandor was alive with light and the voices of the beautiful night.
“Merrin...”
There. That voice that was not of the Lake. That voice that she had loved so...
“Merrin, be mine...”
She woke with a horrified scream, back in the cave, back in the present century. The air was clean and crisp. Outside, twilight had fallen at last. And in the mixture of dying sun and shadow, Merrin noticed that the spider had spun a web across the mouth of the cave, and was sitting in the middle of it, keeping watch over the haunted Princess.
*
Selena awoke to the cockerel’s crow and the grumbling of her stomach. When she pushed herself into a sitting position, she noticed that Araena was already up, preparing a breakfast of pottage. Her mother pulled the iron pot off the hook above the fire, where it had been hanging for the past two days, and carefully shared out small amounts of the thick stew within. She left some, however, for the next day.
“Good morn, Ma,” Selena strained to say through a deep yawn.
Araena looked over her shoulder. The skin around her eyes was red and puffy from the tears that she had cried silently into her pillow during the night.
“Good morning,” she replied flatly.
Selena glanced around, rubbing her eyes. Uriel was awake, lying on his back and staring at the thatch overhead; Mekina tied a belt around her waist before smoothing out the woollen cloth of her dress. She didn’t notice Raphael or Silas anywhere.
Araena called over to them and the three approached to take their breakfast. On a flat, thin plate of unleavened bread, the pottage rested: filled with vegetables, grains, and the leftovers from the lamb they had eaten for dinner the night before. Selena sat back down on the end of her cot and licked up some of the salty stew.
“Ah, they’re awake,” Raphael said lightly as he came through the door from outside, shooting Selena and Uriel a smile. He took one of the breads from the hearth. “Thank you, Ma.”
“Was Silas out there with you?” Araena asked.
“Hmm?” Raphael stuck his finger into the pottage and then licked it clean before taking a bite of the bread.
“Silas.”
“Ah. Nay, I went only to check the donkey. He is most likely at the privy.”
Araena nodded and settled back to eat her own breakfast.
Selena blinked a few times, narrowly stifling another yawn, and looked across the room at Silas’ bed, tucked away in the corner. It was unmade, his blanket strewn half on the floor. A spider had spun a web above his pillow and was sitting in the middle of it, its black shape seeming to hang in midair.
Raphael saw it too and frowned to himself. That was odd. Silas always made up his bed, no matter how long he was leaving it for. Unlike any of his siblings, he was unbelievably tidy.
But Raphael turned back to his breakfast and licked up another mouthful of the pottage. Silas was sometimes awake and up before the others because he was such a light sleeper. He would come back inside any moment now.
“Did you sleep well, Ma?” Raphael asked. He had stayed close to her, leaning back against the wall with the bread near his chin.
Araena glanced at him, and gave a small grin. Even when Raphael wasn’t smiling himself, his face could bring it out in everyone else.
“Aye, it was nay too bad,” she nodded. “So what is there to be done today?”
Raphael let his head roll back slightly and he gazed upwards as he ran through the list of chores in his head.
“The stable must be cleaned – Selena can do that. Uriel, Silas and I will head back to work in the hay field and begin cutting it.”
Selena bit again into her breakfast. Raphael’s voice droned out as she let her mind wander. She looked up at the roof and saw faint beams of light filtering through the thatch, dust motes floating underneath them. A willow warbler sung noisily outside. The storm had definitely cleared the air and the humidity had all but disappeared.
She pushed the last mouthful of bread – now saturated with runoff juices from the pottage – into her mouth and chewed it slowly.
“Good Lord, Silas is taking his time!” Mekina stated.
The room suddenly seemed to come alive with the realisation that the quietest of them was not there.
“He will be inside in a moment,” Araena said stiffly. She pressed her lips together and glanced at the single, untouched piece of pottage-covered bread beside the fire. “His breakfast is cooling.”
Raphael swallowed the last of his own and pushed himself away from the wall. “I shall go and find him.”
As he strode back outside, Selena pulled her boots onto her feet – the leather still muddied from the journey home from the graveyard – and tied her long bushy hair back from her face with a strip of old cloth.
“Mama?” Uriel asked after a few minutes, spraying pottage juice from his mouth.
Araena looked up at him. “Aye, my darling?”
He pointed towards the opposite wall. “Where’s the other net?”
Mekina and Araena g
lanced at one another in confusion and then turned towards the wooden hook embedded into the wall. Two fishing nets hung from it, draped specifically to avoid tangles. But the third was definitely missing.
However, caught up in the thoughts for Silas, nobody answered him or paid any heed. Raphael’s voice sounded from outside as he shouted Silas’ name. When there was no reply, the door opened again and he burst back in. “I cannot find him anywhere.”
“He is not at the privy?” Mekina frowned.
“Nay, I have looked all around,” Raphael replied, but then he heaved a sigh. “Well, he’s a big lad. He can take care of himself, I am sure he will be around somewhere. He may be in the village,” he suggested. “Remember, we have yet not a charm to protect us when the sun will turn black? He may have gone to Father Fortésa. They were speaking yesterday, after all, aye?”
Araena nodded in agreement. “Aye, that must be it. He shall be back well before midday.”
Raphael smiled, and then turned to his siblings. “Let us get to work then.”
CHAPTER VIII
Lost and Found
T he air was heavy and saturated with a musky smell, and it made Silas’ head spin so much that he woke. He kept his eyes shut purposefully, but was shocked when he felt a very soft material tied around his head, covering them.
He went to raise his hand to touch it, but pain shot through to his fingers and he stifled a cry. It wasn’t the harsh, frostbite-like pain in his hand; which still felt as angry as the moment the demon had struck it – it was sharper and sore, in his arm. He carefully reached over, and paused when he realised that somebody had covered his burning palm with a leather glove. He turned back to his arm, and discovered that it had been bound tightly with a scrap of fabric.
There was a sudden rustle of clothing, and Silas jumped violently as he realised someone was near him.
“Uncle!” a girl’s voice shouted. “Uncle, he be a’wakin’!”
Silas went to sit up, but smacked his forehead hard on what felt like some sort of thin beam. The whole room shuddered and he yelped in shock.
“Ai, ai, now,” the girl said, her voice softer. “Be careful! Lie back down an’ still now.”
“What... where am I?” Silas barked, twisting his head around blindly. There was a very soft pillow under his head, stuffed with a fine down that must have come from several large birds to fill. The room – was it a room? – felt very small and compact, and the wind howled around the outside, seeming unnervingly close.
There was the sound of a heavy fabric being pulled back, and then of booted feet. Silas’ head whipped around in the direction of it and his hand brushed the wall with the movement. Only, he found to his surprise, it wasn’t a wall at all: it was a thick sheet of canvas. He realised that he wasn’t in a room, but a tent.
“How’s his arm a’doin’?” a deep male voice asked, and Silas felt a cool hand close around his wrist. Instinctively, he pulled away, but immediately wished he hadn’t as pain flared through both his arm and his bruised shoulder.
“Ai, ai!” the man said. “Calm yerself down! Yer’ll not do any good!”
Silas was baffled, the thick incense making him feel dizzy. Then there was the strange material around his eyes; the tent – who lived in a tent?
“Patrians?” he asked. “Are you Patrians?”
He went to kick off the overwhelmingly thick blanket that had been wrapped around him, but the man pressed him back down. It was a gentle movement, but a forceful one.
“Uncle,” the girl said, standing slightly further back. Silas heard her pass something to the man, and then the cool fingers curled around the back of his neck, lifting his head. A wooden rim was pressed to his lips.
“Drink this down,” the man told him.
“What is it?” Silas asked warily.
“Merely water.”
Silas hesitated, but then opened his mouth, and the man let some of the liquid pour inside. Indeed, it was water, and it was only then that Silas realised just how thirsty he was. Ravenous for it, he clutched at the man’s wrist, and swallowed before being allowed more so that he wouldn’t choke.
When the cup was drained, the man lowered him back down and tucked the blanket up to his chin.
“Keep an eye on him,” he instructed the girl, and then Silas heard him leave. There was a hollow tap of the wooden cup being put down on a hard surface.
“So what be yer name?” the girl asked.
Silas didn’t answer; he just repeated his last question. “Are you Patrians?”
“What in the name o’ Heaven be a Patrian?”
Silas faltered. The word ‘Raptors’ fleeted through his mind, but he bit his tongue and didn’t say it. She might not recognise the friendlier Valley-term, but he didn’t want to risk the derogatory counterpart. The way both she and her uncle spoke all but confirmed it to him: nothing in the words they used or the way they said them was of the Elitland.
“Travellers,” he said at last.
“Ah, yes,” the girl replied, and Silas had the idea that she was smiling as she said it. “Indeed we be. But we ‘ere do call ourselves Peregrin y’see.”
“Peregrin?”
“Meanin’ ‘Wanderers’,” she explained. “Now, what be yer name, lad? We’s got to ‘ave some name to call yer by.”
Silas pressed his lips together in hesitation. He wasn’t sure whether giving his name would be a good idea.
“Hmm?” the girl pressed.
“Silas,” he replied. He decided that his first name was harmless and common enough among Valley-folk, but his surname was too much of a risk.
“Right-ho,” she said. “Silas it be. Yer can call me Pearl Spring.”
Silas scowled in confusion at hearing such an odd name, but he didn’t say anything. “Where am I?” he asked again. Under the covers, he kept his hands on his chest; so that he could spring them out if need be. Despite the hospitality, his unease was like a stabbing icicle.
“Ye be in our humble camp,” Pearl Spring said. “Up on the mount’nside, a little o’er a league from Fanchlow.”
At the sound of his village, Silas relaxed a little, pleased that he had managed to move in its general direction.
Pearl Spring came to sit close to him. There was a tinkling as she moved, as though several small, hard objects had knocked together. Silas frowned at the noise, fidgeting away from her slightly – and then suddenly realised with alarm that his woollen hose were gone, as well as his belt and knife. His hand whipped down to his leg – he bit his lip hard against the pain of the movement – to feel that he was now clad in a thin material that resembled cheesecloth. He was defenceless.
“Where are my clothes?” he snapped.
There was a sound as though Pearl Spring had motioned towards an area of the tent, but then she must have remembered that he couldn’t see because she spoke. “They be a’dryin’. They was a’soakin’ when me cousin’s ‘usband found yer collapsed on the hill.”
“Why am I dressed in cheesecloth?” Silas went to sit up, and hit his head again on the beam. He cursed loudly for forgetting about it.
“Are yer alrigh’?” Pearl Spring asked.
“Ye abducted me to sell me for meat!” barked Silas, scuffling away from her until he felt the side of the tent against his back. “Let me go! I mean ye no harm!”
His pleas brought back the full memory of what had happened at the Lake in startling detail, and he cried out in horror.
“For Lady’s sake, calm yerself, boy!” Pearl Spring snapped. “By no means would we be intendin’ such a thing! So quit yer ravings and lie still, or yer arm will heal nowt, yer hear?”
Silas swallowed, but he quietened down, feeling the leather glove against his neck as he held his hand there. The Patrians – or Peregrin – had brought him to shelter, bandaged his arm, given him clean water. And for whatever they might have made of the strange mark on his hand, they had still had the decency to conceal it.
“That be better,” said Pearl
Spring.
Silas turned his head in what he presumed was her direction. “Who put the glove on my hand?”
“I did.”
Silas nodded once. “Thank you.”
*
As soon as the sun had completely disappeared, Merrin emerged from the cave. She crawled carefully under the spider’s web on her stomach, laying her fin flat so as not to disturb the creature. When she returned to the shore, the Lake opened up before her, and a small smile spread across her face. The night was open and dark, casting a beautiful majesty down onto Zandor. The human had left, and fled back across the Wall that his kind had built two centuries ago. She could go home.
She placed one foot on the water, and it took her weight with a shimmer of light. The feeling of it on her flesh felt glorious after confinement in the cave. The land was no match for the place beneath the Surface; down there, it was so soft and comforting, and wonderfully weightless.
“Your Highness!”
Merrin spun around, and her eyes fell on a head jutting above the Surface.
“Lachlan!” she cried, hardly able to contain her relief.
Lachlan stepped through and approached, his face taught with worry. “Are you alright, My Lady?” he asked, hurriedly checking her over for any injuries.
“I am fine.” Merrin assured.
“I saw what happened and sent out a search party, in case you managed to return to the Lake, but we found nothing. We feared the worst. You have been in Delamere all of the day?”
Merrin nodded. “Yes. I took refuge in a cave a little back from the banks.”
His mouth set in a perpetual line. “Were you harmed?”
“No,” Merrin replied quickly. “Please, Lachlan, may we depart from this place? I shall explain all upon our return to Lacudomus.”
Lachlan bowed his head in reply, and then stood aside to allow her to enter the Lake first. Merrin closed her eyes, and took a step forward, waiting to feel the water swallow up her leg – but it didn’t come.
She pulled back, and then tried again. Still nothing happened. Opening her eyes, she stared at the Surface. It shone at her touch, but moving deeper was impossible. Shock and fear clogged her throat like weeds around a stone.