by E. Hibbs
A pinprick of light suddenly appeared out of the fathomless dark. He jumped, and heard Pearl Spring spin around to face him.
“Is it a’comin’ back again?” she asked quietly, her voice trembling.
Silas didn’t dare tempt fate by answering. He just held up his hand, focusing intensely on the dot of light. Slowly, it grew, bleaching away the blackness into an overwhelming white – before settling down into the familiar beiges, browns, greens and blues of the tent interior. He turned his head, and saw Pearl Spring again. She stared, as she had the last time, but she didn’t run.
Instead, she raised her hand. “How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”
“Three,” Silas replied without hesitation.
Her mouth fell open and her hand dropped to clutch at her crucifix. “Sweet Lady in Heaven,” she breathed. “It’s a bloomin’ miracle!”
Silas pressed his lips together and turned away, staring at the mats on the floor. He marvelled at how they had been woven and the taught compactness of the fibres within the very strands: details that he would never had noticed three days ago.
Or a curse, he thought.
As though in answer, his left palm tingled. The demon’s words rang through his head.
He swallowed nervously, and then gently pulled on the fingers of the glove, loosening them from his skin, before slipping his hand out. Before he could let doubt overwhelm him, he turned it over.
He hadn’t been sure what he expected to see, but what met his eyes was almost like being kicked by the stallion again. He gasped in horror.
His palm shone like light on snakeskin, the flesh white as a pearl and misshapen with blisters – as though it had been passed through the flame in a blacksmith’s forge. But as he gently ran his fingers over it, he hissed and snatched away. The pain burned right through to the other side of his hand, but it was so cold that if he hadn’t checked his movement, he might have thought it had turned to ice.
Silas glanced up at the light streaming translucently through the canvas walls. The sun had just set. He imagined it disappearing behind the Western Ridge, throwing its last lingering glows over the great Lake, before darkness would come and swallow the Valley once more.
Pearl Spring got to her feet and muttered something unintelligible before running outside. A blast of fresh air wormed up Silas’ nose and he sighed, holding his hands up before him. He flexed his fingers, and then quickly pulled the glove back on, so that he couldn’t see his disfigured skin.
Instead, he occupied himself by inspecting Pearl Spring’s stitching of his tunic. She had pulled the torn material together with incredibly small stitches, but the thread she had used was bright red. Silas wondered if the Travellers owned any clothes that weren’t outlandish colours, and then marvelled at her handiwork once more. He was filled with as much simple awe and vigilance as though he was viewing something unknown.
He heard booted footsteps approaching the tent, and then Shadow Mask threw back the flap.
“She be a good seamstress, eh?” he said softly, and Silas looked up, barely startled.
Shadow Mask didn’t wait for a reply before entering fully. He had realised quickly that the boy was not much of a talker – but that didn’t mean he had stopped speaking to him.
“Yer heard me comin’?”
Silas nodded.
“Then yer’s got pretty good ears, me lad.”
Shadow Mask knelt before him and Silas let go of the hem of his tunic, pulling the garment over his head so his torso was covered.
“How are yer feelin’?” he asked.
Silas swallowed. “Well, thank you.”
“Good,” Shadow Mask said. He adjusted his weight and rubbed the hair on the back of his head idly.
Silas watched him intently, his brown eyes shining in the lamplight. Pearl Spring had lit a fresh wick a little before sunset for him, and it threw shadows across the canvas. Silas still felt wary of Shadow Mask, but the firm countenance that had faced him the night before had vanished. He became aware that he was almost staring, and quickly averted his eyes before the Peregrin leader could scold him for being rude.
“Sir?” he asked, and Shadow Mask seemed genuinely shocked that he had spoken unprompted.
“Yes?”
Silas swallowed. “I want to thank you honestly, for all ye are doing for me. I do truly appreciate it.”
The words seemed so strange to voice; he gave orders and took care of his family, and they were used to it in return. There were never any thanks between him and them, because they had learned to accept him for how he was. So to be thanking someone else for taking care of him was the complete opposite to what he was used to.
Shadow Mask smiled, and Silas blinked. It seemed so natural a gesture, and was surprising after his ruthless interrogation. He somehow seemed to be able to hold his position of respect and the knowledge of his leadership, and yet still be somewhat laid-back. When he had first met him, Silas thought he had seen some of himself in the man. But now, he was reminded – rather painfully – of Raphael.
“There be no need to be a’thankin’ us, Silas,” he replied. “We wasn’t about to just go on and leave yer lying there like that, now, was we? No, that ain’t our way. No matter whether he be Peregrin or not, he still be a man, and illness be unclean no matter who it decides to strike.”
Silas paused for a moment. “When will I be... clean, pray tell?”
Shadow Mask studied him, dropping his hand into his lap. His eyes lingered over the gash in Silas’ arm.
“Well, Irima tells me that there wound is a’healin’ up well enough,” he said. “To be truly honest, yer could leave us whenever yer want. I shall tell Irima that she be no longer needin’ to see to yer. Yer should be well and able enough to take care o’ yerself by now. Fanchlow is little o’er a league away so it should not be tough travelling. I only wish we did know what to do about that there mark on yer hand, and your strange eyes. So’s we could help someway.”
Silas looked at him, and stiffened at the mention of his eyes. His fingers curled into a loose fist inside the glove as Shadow Mask got to his feet and made to leave.
“Silas, yer be clean enough to wander about the camp now if yer wish,” he said over his shoulder. “Do not leave us just yet, though. I’ll arrange an escort to take yer nearer to Fanchlow, so’s we be sure you get home alrigh’. An’ that there tunic’s been sewn good enough but still needs a good washin’. Get out of it and I’ll fetch yer a clean one for now.”
He disappeared before Silas could even begin to say his thanks.
*
Merrin saw her father, alive and well and young, with the Bands around his wrists and a smile on his face. He called to her and reached out his arms. In that dream-way, she was both young and mature at once, and he swung her around weightlessly in the green water. The moonlight cast a million shifting patterns in dust.
A tremor shook the Lake. A splash sounded. He disappeared, back into a Remembrance, leaving Merrin alone in the Tomb Garden. Black nets with minds of their own came down and wrapped around her, pulling her away from him and up towards the Surface. A boat keel hung ominously overhead. Everything was suddenly lit up with the bright sun, and it burned deep like acid, peeling the flesh from her bones.
“Merrin, my darling...” she heard a voice whisper. Her scream tore through the air as she felt lips press against her jaw, planting a cold and loveless kiss. She was suddenly above the Lake, being hauled into the boat, and her father was shrieking from below, with no choice but to look on.
“You monster, let me go!” Merrin roared as she tumbled into the hard wooden bottom. Her hair fell out and pooled around her. “Traitor! Return me to the Lake!”
“Merrin, be mine...”
“Curse you!”
When she woke, the setting sun was like an angry wound slashed across the tops of the Mountains, seeping its light over the world and staining the Lake with red. She cowered silently and began to wait for twilight. She had moved further
south, covering as much distance as she could in one night, all the while keeping to the Surface so she could feel the comforting wetness underfoot. She had managed to find another cave and had settled down inside for the day, but the journey must have exhausted her more than she had realised, because she had immediately slept.
Following their disagreement, Dylana had left a carp to last her until the next night, and then disappeared without another word. Merrin had stormed off and hurled balls of magic through the forest until her rage had calmed. Despite the heat of their conversation, she soon wished with all of her might to follow Dylana – but of course, it wasn’t possible.
Merrin picked up the fish and absent-mindedly nibbled at it, but it did little to calm her stomach. Beneath the composed exterior that she had perfected over the previous two centuries, her heart beat furiously, and the anger was enough for her to almost crack one of the carp’s ribs.
In her mind, he still stared out: smiling, his hand caressing her face – apparently so in love. It was the last true memory she had. Everything afterwards was a mirage of hatred and violence. Merrin had so believed that whatever the two of them had was true. But it had been naivety and frivolity at their worst: in love.
She remembered the Brand: beneath the heavy twine, her hands flew out and grasped his; both of them searing and burning under her touch. His scream of agony in the air was like music to her ears. And, as she recalled the sound, she decided that it still was.
*
The night brought coolness to the air and a faint breeze whistling down the Valley, but when Raphael settled down in bed, he was too hot to sleep under the blanket. He even removed his tunic and hung it up with his cape. When he finally fell asleep, however, a horrid dream awaited him.
Selena sneaked a portion of decaying beef from the store. Mekina picked raspberries from a bush whose leaves were brown and shrivelled. Araena combed her hair with her fingers and it fell out in great yellow clumps. Uriel lay in his bed, bound in his own nightmare, yelling about the weech.
And Silas stood as a black silhouette, somehow staring right through him – staring from the other side of the Wall...
Raphael jolted awake with a cry and looked around frantically. He started at the unfamiliar surroundings, but then realised that he was in the Fotáni inn, in Ullswick. But it offered him little comfort. What he had learned the evening before still wracked his bones, like a chilled hand had grasped hold of his heart.
He hugged his knees to his chest and stared into nothingness, running back over the conversation. He couldn’t believe it. But the terrible thing was that the more he thought about it, the more it made sense – and the more he found he accepted it.
But to have dealings with demons...
Uriel’s thrashing form drifted back. Briefly, Raphael pondered over his cries in his sleep. Uriel didn’t have trouble pronouncing the letter L when he was awake; did his raving mean leech – like the demons sucking out the life of any who dared cross them – or witch?
But that was chased away with unbelievable speed, as his attention snapped back to Silas. In his dream, his brother had been on the other side of the Wall. Staring straight through him, as though he wasn’t there. Or as though he couldn’t see him.
Pah, he thought. Dreams do not mean anything! All you’ve done is taken what Abraham told you, and embedded it onto Silas, because he’s missing. Nothing more! Silas is perfectly fine, somewhere in these streets, and you will find him tomorrow and take him home!
But it was useless trying to convince himself. The dream had felt different than normal. There was sureness to it, so overpowering that if he hadn’t been sitting, it might have driven him to his knees.
His eyes were unfocused and darted around as he tried to piece everything together.
He would not have come this far south merely to fish, nay. But why else would he take a net...?
The dream-Silas carried on staring blindly, and suddenly, Raphael’s eyes took on a flat shine. He snapped around to stare at the door.
“Oh, nay...” he muttered.
Knowing there was no way he would be able to sleep again; he carefully swung his legs out from under the blanket and slipped his boots on. A sudden image of his father’s blanched face and watery eyes filled his mind, and he hid his head in his hands, biting his lip to keep back the tears.
He glanced at the sleeping figures of Abraham and Nalina, across the room in two of the other cots, and quietly grabbed his knapsack. He crept silently over to Abraham and left it there, along with the rest of the iron rings – as payment not only for his lodgings, but for the information. Without it, he would never have figured everything out.
He pulled his tunic on, tied his belt, and fleetingly touched the hilt of his knife. As he finally secured his cape in place, he fled the inn like a shadow. He followed the street out to the neck of Ullswick, and stood there, flanked on both sides by the oxbow lake. He stared out to the west, across the latticework of fields and the fast-flowing river, to the dark smudge of the Wall.
“You wouldn’t have, you fool...” he muttered under his breath. “You could never have...”
But deep down, he knew he had. The connection that Silas must have seen days before was now as strong in Raphael’s mind as a burning brand. The image of the missing net merged with the memory of Julian’s eyes.
Raphael slipped his hand down his tunic and fished out the blue holed stone. He clutched it so tightly that his knuckles cracked.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name.
By Kingdom come,
Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven...”
When he had gone in search for Silas that first morning, and knocked on the half-rotten door of the tiny privy behind the house, he had been shocked to not have heard his brother’s sharp remark in response. He had even peered through a hole in the wall to check, but had found nothing. He had searched the stable and the cart-shelter, and had gone to the highest point – the herb garden – to scan all of their land for him. But there had been nothing.
“...Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespassers,
As... as we forgive those who... trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation...”
And although Silas was sometimes outside before breakfast for one reason or another, he always returned in time to shake everybody else awake.
“...But deliver us... from evil...”
The Wall was a collage of grey in the night. Raphael ground his teeth, hovering between the family and new-found kin behind him, and the brother before him; hidden somewhere, in the land of the demons.
*
29th Day of Jyune.
To-day shows improvement at long last! Uncle has given Silas news that he is now clean and can wander about the camp. This relieves me of my duty to care for him, but despite the fact that I remain somewhat nervous around this strange boy, my days spent with him have caused me to become somewhat sympathetic and pitiful of him. I know nothing of what may have befallen him or why, and I do not mean to pry. But whatever it is has affected him profoundly, I dare say. It is unnerving for me to see, and it must be terrible for him.
Uncle gave me his tunic to wash after I finished helping Ida with little Sonja – Bless her – as although I have sewn it back to a mended shape from its tearing, it is still somewhat dirty. It does make me wonder exactly what the folk of the Elitlande must entail in their work, to suffer such roughness and filth. With all due respect to Silas, he does smell like a horse.
Regardless, I must say it is strange indeed to see him going about outside the sick tent! Uncle took him to-day to the lake nearby for a thorough washing of his body, to rid him of any lasting filth. I dare say he needed it. Uncle did stay near him, as the poor boy did become blind again this morn, but in keeping with his respectful ways, he allowed Silas privacy.
And now it is stranger still, as he is clad in one of Andreas’ olde garmen
ts and it is only his lack of a fringe of hair over his brow that may mark him as not one of the Peregrin to the unknowing eye! It is simple enough for us to notice, even if one had no knowledge of his business in our humble camp: he does not move or talk anything like his hosts, and his stature is much different. It is strong from his own work, but not in the way of ourselves: moulded from journeys and the wonderful Roade. And during the daylight, he now walks with a cane fashioned from a branch of a nearby tree, so that he may use it in the absence of his sighte to find his way.
Never before, have I wondered so much of the inside of another’s head. I am terribly intrigued about what he may think of us! I would hope to Heaven that he has not formed an evil picture of us: one that is unjust and incorrect. This is why I was startled so when he cryed out about us planning to sell him for meat after Tomas found him.
It seems to me that as it has been many years since we Peregrin have passed the way of the Elitlande, that any views of us are met with suspicion and wariness. I can understand this, however. There is nothing surrounding this wonderful, beautiful, strange place except mountains; rolling on for so long that if we had not traversed them, I myself would imagine they stretch on forever. Until the ends of the Earthe, perhaps – wherever that may be.
But in the same instance, I find such a notion as strange as Silas himself. To never know the open Roade: to never have the whole worlde as one’s home, and roam it as one pleases... how could anybody live that way, completely unknowing? And not allowing a care for it! I could never live such a way.
Yes, Silas is a strange one. And in a strange way, I shall be saddened to see him leave, as I know he must soon. And although he has spent only a handful of days with us, he seems to be somewhat at ease, and becomes even more so with every passing moment. I do wonder if he shall be saddened to leave us? And will he remember us, and our care?
Will he pause to remember me, I wonder?