by E. Hibbs
If Araena meant to respond, it was obscured by a whimper so pitiful and desolate that Raphael almost unpacked.
“Raph? Mekina?” Uriel said suddenly, his head tilted slightly onto his shoulder.
Mekina glanced around at him. “Aye?”
Uriel pointed at the net hook, frowning. “Why would Silas go fishing?” he wondered aloud, idly chewing on his thumbnail. “I thought we had enough fish?”
“We do, we do,” Mekina replied quickly with a small toss of her head. She looked at Raphael again. “I cannot see why, but perhaps that is where he’s gone? To fish?”
Raphael’s brow furrowed as he thought about that. It made sense; it would explain the missing net that Uriel seemed so determined to keep reminding them about. He ran through the Elitland’s geography in his head. If Silas had only gone to the river to fish – the nearest body of water to Fanchlow – then he would have returned by now. The nearest lake that he would have gone to was Bowmere, near Cedarham – and if not there, then to the Ullswick oxbow.
A thought of the lake in the corrie nearby stole into his thoughts – but he chased it away almost as soon as it came. There would be next to nothing to catch in there; and besides, he had noticed that the Patrians from the Fayre had pitched their camp up on its banks. Silas would not want to – and would know better than to – disturb the strangers.
As convinced of his direction as he would ever be, Raphael gently prised Araena away from him and handed her over to Mekina. On his bed, Selena had approached Uriel and the two of them were standing close together, their typical well-meant squabbles forgotten. Knowing that there was now no way of convincing Raphael to stay, she offered up the knapsack.
Raphael smiled and took it, gently stroking her cheek and then ruffling Uriel’s hair. Despite everything, Uriel giggled and shook his head so that his thick locks fell back about his face. Although all of the Atégo children had inherited Julian’s red colour, Uriel’s was the only one whose hair was a shade lighter; carrying a subtle hint of his mother’s blondeness.
Raphael gave Mekina and Araena a final kiss before tying a thin brown cape around his neck, swinging the knapsack over his shoulder, and making his way outside. The humid summer air hit him like a wall, and if he weren’t used to eighteen years of living and working in it, then he would have broken out in a sweat immediately.
Julian’s face flashed before him, shortly followed by Silas’ – and he shuddered, quickly forcing the nightmare image away.
Nay, he told himself. Nay.
He gave one final look over his shoulder, trying to overcome his mother’s tearstained face, and then set off into the streets. He passed the square, glimpsing the hen coop and church in the distance, before turning onto the road. The miles fell behind him steadily, and he met no-one on his travels: everyone too busy working in the fields. The route was long and lonesome – and for as well-worn as it was, it was hard on Raphael’s feet as he made his way along its route. Every step took him further away from his family, and he fought the urge to turn back.
But nearer to Silas, he reminded himself. And then we will go home.
After a full day’s walk, he still hadn’t reached Cedarham, so he climbed an ancient oak towering close to the river, wedged his knapsack in the fork of two branches, and then settled down as best he could with his back against the trunk. He and Silas had sheltered beneath it with the donkey and cart on the way to the Fayre.
The branch he was sitting on creaked alarmingly, so he quickly moved to the next one, which seemed sturdier. He wasn’t afraid of bandits – they were almost nonexistent in the Elitland – but his sleep was still broken, and he spent more time staring through the boughs at the star-studded sky.
The air was clean and crisp with the height of summer, and the surrounding acorns fat and healthy in their cups. The wind carried a wonderfully cool, earthy smell; laced with pollen and the sweetness of eddying water. The hours of darkness were brief and an eerie twilight glow never truly left, but as midnight drew near, the sky seemed to become heavier, as though it was slowly sinking to earth.
When dawn truly arrived, Raphael jumped down from the oak, refilled his canteen at the river, and continued on his way. At around midday, he reached Cedarham with a sigh of relief. It was a larger village than Fanchlow: whereas his home community only housed eleven households, Cedarham was over twice the size. Its position atop a terrace of land that jutted out above the Valley flat made it seem bigger still. Just before the river split to fill the nearby lake, it tumbled over the terrace in a small waterfall – and Raphael smiled as he remembered him and Silas getting showered with spray passing the village.
The streets, however, were as empty as they usually were in Fanchlow, as most people were working. Raphael wasted no time and knocked at every door to ask after his brother – ignoring the occasional wistful glance of a young girl – but was dismayed to find that nobody had seen a fifteen year-old with red hair and a net.
By the time he had managed to speak to everyone he could find, the men were returning from the fields and the sun hung low in the sky. He managed to persuade one of the richer families to let him spend the night in their cart shelter when he handed over some of the iron rings, and although he barely managed a better slumber than the night before, the donkey kept him company.
Early the next day, after eating one of his apples and half a loaf, Raphael left and found the road again. It was more worn between Cedarham and Ullswick, because most people lived towards the southern end of the Valley, and any business to be done outside their homes usually only encompassed the nearest village to their own. Not long after Cedarham fell behind, the even larger bulk of Ullswick loomed up before him for the second time in a fortnight. There was where the road would end: the last place Raphael could possibly find Silas.
The mountains flanking the Valley were larger this far south, and held in the Elitland like great, impenetrable walls. At the very end, marking due south; stood Primoris Midpeak. Viewed from Fanchlow, it was only a blurred silhouette in the distance – but now the vast four-sided giant rose up over all. Its summit reached so high that it was hidden under a blanket of snow all year round. From halfway up its magnificent flank, Elizabeth Falls roared over the rocks in a violent torrent of white water, crashing down to form the source of the river.
It hurt Raphael’s neck staring up at it, so he turned his gaze to the west, and his eyes found the Wall. All the way, it had followed alongside him like a grey snake, silent and ever-present. Although he had passed this way before, it always struck him whenever he looked, just how far away it seemed. Here, the Valley floor was much wider than it was further north, so the Wall had been built further back than it was to Fanchlow. In some small way, that offered a shred of comfort.
It was dusk by the time Raphael arrived in Ullswick, and the village lantern at the mouth of the lake was already lit. For the first time that he had known, the streets were alarmingly quiet, and not thronged with Fayre-goers. But he knew that it was far too late to begin enquiring about Silas, so he busied himself with finding somewhere to bed down for the night. His first thought was a house like the one he had sheltered with the evening before; but he was surprised to find a slightly larger building with a cartwheel painted on the door: the sign of an inn. He reminded himself, though, that he was in Ullswick: the largest village in the Elitland; home to the Fayre. This place would have several inns.
Too exhausted to care how much it would cost, he knocked on the door. He was answered by a young woman in her early twenties, with an angled face and striking hazel eyes.
“Aye?” she said. Her voice was high-pitched and sounded as weary as Raphael felt.
Raphael gave her a smile. “Good eve to you, Miss. I wonder if I might stay the night if there’s room.”
In reply, she swung the door wide and tossed her head. Raphael hesitated, surprised at her abruptness, but quickly entered, passing her with a small nod. She led him inside a spacious room, furnished with eight cots
and a large fireplace.
“Meodu?” she offered.
Raphael suddenly realised how thirsty he was and nodded eagerly. She went into a neighbouring room – at which Raphael was a little taken aback, since it was very rare for a house to have multiple rooms – and emerged after a few moments with a leather tankard. He thanked her and then took a deep sip of the honeyed contents.
“Odd season for travelling,” the woman remarked, taking his knapsack and placing it on the cot nearest to the fire. “You have missed the Fayre, I’m sorry to say. Did ye know that?”
“Aye, I know,” he replied. “I’m not here for the Fayre; I came to it this year.”
She frowned, but didn’t say anything, so he went on.
“I’m here seeking my brother. He disappeared a few days past and has not returned home.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, but Raphael wasn’t sure whether she meant it or not. She pulled her hair – bound in a long dark brown plait – over her shoulder, and played with the tips as she studied Raphael’s features. Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry; I think I have seen him not.”
Raphael nodded and took another sip from the tankard, not allowing his spirits to dampen. Ullswick was large; it was less likely that everybody would know if a lone stranger was in their midst.
“Where do ye hail from, Sir?” the woman asked.
“Fanchlow.”
“A long way for your brother to have travelled, I must say.”
“He took a net with him, so I presume he went to fish,” Raphael explained.
“I would have thought that Cedarham’s lake would have been a better distance if travelling from the north,” she stated.
“So would I. But I have searched there.”
The girl nodded and tossed her plait back over her shoulder. “Would you like anything else?”
Raphael glanced up at her. “Nay, thank you, Miss...?”
“Fotáni,” she replied, smoothing out her skirt. “What’s your name, Sir?”
Raphael felt a little flattered at being called ‘Sir’, but he didn’t say so, and answered her question with a friendly smile. But he was shocked when her face suddenly went white.
“I beg pardon,” she said, “Atégo?”
Raphael nodded, a confused frown creeping across his brow. “Aye. What of it?”
She gave him a reproachful stare, and backed away slightly before muttering to be excused, and hurrying into another room. In almost no time at all, however, she returned, and walked quickly past Raphael towards the door. She was followed by an older man with a receding hairline, and a nose that looked as though it had been broken too many times to count.
“You say your name is Atégo?” he said in a quiet voice.
There was the sharp rasp of a bolt being drawn and Raphael spun around. The woman turned her eyes on him and held them warily.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he snapped.
“Fear not, fear not,” the man said, holding out both hands. “We mean you no harm, lad. I swear to God.”
Raphael glanced back at him, and was met with the same hazel gaze as the woman’s; although sheltered beneath a heavy brow, and much less critical. On the contrary, they seemed amazed.
“I am Abraham Fotáni, and this is my daughter, Nalina,” he said, motioning at the two of them. “We are the innkeepers here; our family has been for many decades. But I never imagined that we would have dealings with any of your name again.”
Raphael stared at Abraham; and Nalina as she returned.
“Do not worry,” she assured him, but her words sounded as though her apprehension was stretched thinly across her father’s welcome. “I locked us inside only so that others may not hear anything that may be exchanged between us.”
Raphael found his voice. “I’m sorry, Sir –”
“Call me Abraham. Please.”
“– Abraham. I do not understand.”
At a small nod from her father, Nalina hurried to the meodu room and brought in two fresh tankards. She gave one to Abraham, and set the other one down beside Raphael’s bed – although he still had half of his original helping left to drink.
“A simple courtesy allowed to our guests,” she said.
A guest behind a bolted door, Raphael thought drily; but curiosity overwhelmed his unease, and he accepted Abraham’s invitation to sit, perching on the end of his cot. Abraham settled down opposite him on another bed, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his thighs.
“We are kin, my lad.”
When Raphael didn’t answer, Abraham nodded slowly. “Aye, indeed. Not for many generations, but it is a bond that has not been forgotten. The Fotáni line is the product of a daughter born almost two centuries past, to one Adrian Atégo and his wife, Elizabeth.”
Raphael frowned, his mouth hanging open like a fish. He clutched his tankard loosely in his lap.
Abraham gave a small smile. “Why do you appear so confused?”
Raphael swallowed. “I have never heard of this,” he replied. “I... Merry meet to thee, now that I know that we are kinfolk, but I did not know before now.”
Abraham regarded him silently, and his bright eyes saw the basis behind Raphael’s ignorance immediately.
“You have forgotten,” he said, with a certainty in his voice that sent a shiver through Raphael. He took a long drink from the tankard. “Your whole family have forced it down so that they cannot remember. Aye, but I suppose it makes no difference; thou is still looked upon by all others with apprehension, am I correct?”
If his stare could deepen any more, then Raphael felt it do so instantly. It was as though this stranger had been watching his family all his life.
“What do you know of this, pray tell?”
Abraham smiled again. “I know only because it is what my family also has endured,” he explained. “But unlike your family, mine has not allowed any of our bloodline to forget. It makes matters with others no easier, but luckily, they also forget. All they remember is like a dark stain where a carcass once lay: they cannot name it, but it is always there with every sight of us.”
Nalina sat down beside him. Raphael noticed that whilst he and Abraham had been talking, she had fetched herself some meodu and she took a great swig that would have made any man gawk. Abraham glanced at her fondly before turning back to Raphael.
“Do you wish me to tell you what I know?” he asked.
Raphael pressed his lips together anxiously, and then nodded. But nothing could have prepared him for what Abraham said.
“Your ancestor – the father of my own ancestor – had dealings with the creatures on what is now the other side of the Wall, before it was built.”
Despite being only the three of them present, Abraham dropped his voice – and the spark that came into his eyes hinted that this subject was hardly discussed.
“It disgraced his young family so that his wife did climb the face of Primoris Midpeak, and throw herself off the Falls after his death. That is why it’s named what it is, after her. But I did always believe that it was only Fotáni who survived through the years. I have not heard of the Atégos since that tale.”
As he spoke, Nalina drained her tankard in two gulps. Raphael was aware that he was staring again, and he mentally kicked himself for being so rude. But Abraham’s words had struck him deep inside, and Abraham seemed to realise and excuse him for it. To be connected to Evertodomus, where demons dwelled and slinked in the night...
“I...” he croaked, but then trailed off, words lost to him.
“You understand now why I am wary of most,” Nalina said, dangling the tankard by its handle from her thumb and sending a small stream of golden droplets spilling over the upended rim.
Raphael glanced at her, and swallowed. His throat had suddenly turned as parched as though he had drunk nothing all day. He quickly downed the remainder of his own meodu – suddenly tasting much more pickled than before – and then turned for the second without pause, silently thankful that Nal
ina had brought it. When he was finished, she silently collected both and took them, along with her own, back into the other room.
“What dealings did he have with... them?” Raphael breathed.
Abraham raised his eyebrows softly. “No-one knows.”
Nalina returned – this time without any meodu – and sat back down. “All we do know is that he bore a strange mark upon his hands, like a terrible burn; and with every sunrise, he would become blind and wretched. His sight would be restored under the night, but at first light, it would vanish once more.”
Abraham nodded. “And in his later years, a cursed illness came down upon him and took him slowly, draining him like a leech, and leaving him as weak as a drowned man – drowning in air. They killed him.”
CHAPTER XIII
Red Sky at Night
S ilas barely moved for the whole day. He sat, stiff as a board, against one of the tent’s thin vertical beams, with his eyes wide open. It had unnerved Pearl Spring so much to see the white globes staring sightlessly into nothing that she had moved to sit beside him rather than opposite.
The two of them hardly spoke, but each could feel the other’s wariness and fear like waves of sickly heat. Silas knew she had guessed why he was trying not to even blink if he could help it. His sight had returned once. If it did again, he wanted his eyes to be open at that very moment.
The day was one of the longest he’d ever lived. He hated the feeling of there being no difference whether his eyes were open or not. The world was a black hole into which he fell and swam and wallowed; constantly surrounded by its choking embrace and limitless boundaries. Everything unseen came at him and ran invisible fingers over his skin.
He felt Pearl Spring hand him a wad of material freshly dipped in cool water, and he thanked her with a nod before holding it up to the back of his head. There was no cut, but a lump was forming under his hair. The action of pressing the cloth against it not only brought relief, but helped the pain in his shoulder die down, too.