Call of the Wraith

by Kevin Sands

  “This coin is French,” I said. I dug through the purse, turning the coins over. “Most of them are.”

  Robert studied it, curious. “Maybe that’s where your ship was coming from. You were returning to England, and you got caught in the storm.”

  Or maybe it was the other way around. I’d known what the coins were immediately: gold louis d’or, silver écu, copper sou. I also clearly spoke Latin; which meant at some point I’d had some education. But what if . . . ?

  I tried thinking in French. Et tout de suite, je me suis rendu compte que je parler couramment.

  My breath caught in my throat. Was I French?

  I didn’t feel French. Then again, I wasn’t sure what being French should feel like. Really, I didn’t feel like much of anything at all. Just . . . blank. On a whim, I tested other languages in my head and found to my surprise I spoke several: Spanish, German, Italian; the classical languages of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew; and a smattering of words in others.

  Robert had said that during my fits, I’d been babbling in tongues. Was it possible my ravings weren’t caused by an evil spirit? Was it just me after all?

  I wanted to believe it. But knowing other tongues wouldn’t have accounted for my seizures. And none of this told me who I really was. Regardless, seeing this purse filled me with gratitude. What I held in my hand was a fortune. Robert and his family hadn’t just nursed me back to health, they’d passed up enough money to feed their family until Margery was an old woman. And, judging by the plainness of their home, it wasn’t as if they didn’t need it.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Robert smiled, satisfied. “You also had— Mary! Where’s his lordship’s . . . belt?”

  I motioned to the chairs, where Wise had placed my clothes. “It’s there.”

  “No, you had something else. Mary?”

  His wife called through the door. “It’s in the barn.”

  “Why would you . . . ?” He shook his head. “A moment, my lord.”

  He left the room. In hushed voices, he and his wife exchanged words—not entirely peaceably—and then he hurried outside.

  I looked more closely at the clothes. The pigeon flapped down to march across them. I ran my hands over the cloth in her wake, hoping I’d feel . . . something. Anything. Anything that might tell me what my broken mind couldn’t. But nothing came.

  Robert returned, shutting the cold behind him. “This was with you, too,” he said, and I moved to see what he’d brought.

  CHAPTER

  6

  IT WAS THE STRANGEST THING I’d found yet.

  Robert had called it a belt, but it looked more like a sash of some kind. It was broad, made of leather, stitched with dozens of narrow pockets. Inside most of them were glass vials, stopped with cork. They held a dizzying array of powders, grains, liquids, herbs, and pills—all the colors of the rainbow.

  I pulled them out one by one. Each vial was labeled. On some, the ink had smudged, but to my surprise, I found that even for those half-illegible, I recognized what was inside. Some were basic ingredients: sugar, salt, charcoal. Others were more exotic. Sulfur powder. Oil of vitriol.

  You remember them, the Voice said.

  “Remember” wasn’t quite the right word. I couldn’t recall ever having seen them before. But I knew these ingredients: what they were, what they could do. Aloe was good for healing burns. Oil of vitriol had many uses, the most remarkable of which was to dissolve metals. Coltsfoot, mixed with honey, would make an effective remedy for congestion.

  There were other things in the sash, too. Not ingredients, but tools: a silver spoon, a knife, a magnifying lens, a pair of iron keys.

  And a mirror.

  I paused, holding the mirror between my fingers. Slowly, I turned it toward me.

  A stranger stared back. Hollow—that’s how I felt as I looked at my own reflection. It was a boy completely unfamiliar. I studied his face, and I’d have said he looked friendly, if he hadn’t looked so scared.

  I put the mirror away, unsettled. Trying to shake off the empty feeling, I focused on the one thing in the sash whose purpose I didn’t know.

  I held up the keys. “What are these for?” I asked Robert.

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. This was all you had. Any of it familiar?”

  “No.” The sash had two long straps with buckles; it was obviously intended to be worn. A belt, Robert had said. I wrapped it around my waist, but somehow that felt wrong. Light-headed, almost dizzy, I lifted my shirt and buckled the sash on, the leather soft against my skin.

  “That’s it!” Robert said. “That’s just how you were wearing it. Under your shirt. You remember.”

  I didn’t. Yet this felt right. I couldn’t explain it. It was almost like . . . as stupid as it sounded, it felt like a hug.

  I unbuckled the sash and looked it over again. On the back, I spotted two initials scraped into the leather.

  B. B. Was that me? My name? I tried to recall, but all that got me was the same old dizzy spell. The pigeon flapped over to the table while Wise steadied me.

  “I’m all right,” I said. “Just pushed myself too far, I think.”

  “You should rest,” Robert said, and he pulled the chair out for me to sit.

  His wife’s voice came from behind us. “You’ll have these in the cob house, then?”

  Mary stood in the doorway, lips tight, holding a pair of steaming bowls. She kept looking at the pigeon.

  “He can eat here,” Robert said sternly.

  I didn’t want to start a fight. “The cob house is fine. I should lie down, anyway. And we still have to feed the girl.”

  Wise took the bowls from Mary while Robert grabbed mugs of ale. As we turned to leave, I saw the woman cross her fingers and flick them—not at me, but at the bird. Robert noticed it, too. He flushed, and we returned to the cob house in silence.

  The girl huddled in the corner as we came in. Wise placed her lunch on the floor beside the palliasse. She waited until the old man backed away. Then she stretched a hand out, hooked a finger over the edge of the bowl, and dragged it under the blanket. I heard slurping.

  Sounded like a good idea to me. I slurped my own dinner down, and when Wise went to collect more, Robert’s smile faded. “I apologize, my lord,” he said.

  He meant his wife. That gesture she’d made: She’d thrown a ward against evil at my pigeon. “She’s worried it’s a familiar,” Robert explained.

  Now I understood. A familiar was a demon spirit that took animal form. They were said to be companions of witches. The bird marched along the table, pecking at stray drips of gravy. She saw me watching her and cooed.

  Did demon spirits coo? “You’re not afraid of her, are you?” I said.

  “No,” Robert said, hesitant. “The way she is with you, I’m sure she’s just a pet. But strange things have been happening here of late, my lord. Dark things.”

  He’d said something like that before. It made me think of Wise. “What happened to him?”

  Robert looked at me blankly.

  “His tongue,” I said.

  “Oh. That.” He scratched his chin. “Been that way my whole life—it just seems normal. It was corsairs what did it.”

  “Corsairs? You mean . . . Barbary pirates?” They’d plagued English shipping for centuries, taking ships, raiding coastal towns.

  Robert nodded. “My grandfather told me the story. When Wise was twelve, he signed on as a deckhand on an English merchantman bound for the colonies. After he served his two years, he found another ship—English, Dutch, Spanish—didn’t matter. He just wanted to sail around the world. Never made it, sadly.”

  Robert sighed. “Happened when he was sixteen or so. He was on a Venetian silk ship when they were attacked near the Barbary Coast. Their boat was captured, and the crew sold as slaves. Wise tried to escape, but he was caught. As punishment, they cut out his tongue.”

  I shuddered.

  “Wise did get free, eventually,” Robert said. “Sto
le a small boat and made his way north to Spain. An English spice merchant found him, ragged and starving, in a market in Madrid. He took pity on him, and arranged for passage back home.

  “When Wise returned, there wasn’t anything left for him. The Lord High Admiral granted him a permit to beg in Exeter, but Wise didn’t want to be a beggar. So he went looking for work. Most turned him away, but my grandfather gave him a place at our farm.”

  “That was kind of him,” I said.

  “He was a kind man. Though he liked to pretend he wasn’t. Claimed he took Wise in so he’d finally get a farmhand that wouldn’t yap in his ear all day. Said he’d be fine tending to the cattle—‘Yer dinna need ta converse wi’ a cow, do yer?’ ” He laughed. “Wise helped raise me. Now he helps raise my children. He’s a good man.”

  I had as much reason as anyone to believe it. “It’s a miracle he found me.”

  Robert looked at me speculatively. “Maybe for us, too. I’d asked you before . . . I know you’re not yet well, but could we plead for your help?”

  This time, I understood why he asked. As a lord, I’d have the power to make his life easier. “What can I do?”

  “Just speak for us.”

  “Is someone giving you trouble?”

  “Not someone. Something,” Robert said. “One of our children has vanished.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  I BLINKED. “YOU’VE LOST A child?”

  “Not me,” Robert said. “The widow Jane. Works here, on the farm; her daughter’s gone missing. May I bring her to see you?”

  “I . . . all right.”

  I sat there, confused, as Robert left the cob house. How would my being a lord help him find a missing child? And speak for him? About what? To whom?

  Never mind my missing memories, all these questions were making me dizzy. I heard shuffling behind me and turned to see the little girl slide her bowl out from under her blanket. She’d set the deerskin on her head, so it hung over her like a shawl.

  “I don’t suppose you know what’s going on?” I said. When she didn’t answer, I tried the pigeon. “How about you?”

  The bird walked over my fingers and sat in my hand.

  “You’re pretty friendly for a demon,” I said. “Any chance you know my name?”

  She cooed.

  “I can’t call myself ‘Coo.’ People will think I’ve gone mad.” I paused. “Then again, I’ve lost all my memories, and I’m talking to a pigeon.”

  Plus there’s a voice in your head, the Voice said.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe I’m mad after all. What do you think, moppet—?”

  I stopped. The girl had half risen from behind the palliasse, the blanket fallen to the dirt behind her.

  “What is it?” I shifted in my chair and noticed her eyes following, not me, but the bird. “Would you like to see her?”

  I stood. The girl hunched back. She looked so small, so scared.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “She’s very sweet. See?”

  Slowly, I knelt in front of the palliasse. The girl’s eyes flicked to the opposite corner.

  “This bird saved my life,” I said. I set her down on the palliasse and stepped away.

  The girl waited until I was safely back in my chair. Then she reached out a grimy hand, palm up.

  The pigeon looked at her curiously. Then, with a grand flapping of wings, she hopped up and landed on the girl’s wrist. Gently the girl began to stroke her feathers.

  The pigeon cooed. The girl leaned back and held the bird to her chest. She stayed like that, head down, as the pigeon nestled into her arms and closed her eyes.

  Well, look at that, I thought. Perhaps the pigeon was the way to get the girl to speak.

  I didn’t get the chance to try. The door opened, and the girl dove back behind the palliasse as Robert returned. Wise was with him, carrying two more bowls of stew. Behind them came a short, squat woman, long black hair knotted in a braid. She squeezed her fingers together as she shuffled in, not quite daring to meet my gaze.

  “This is Jane Lisle,” Robert said. “She helps tend our fields. Go on, Jane, ask him.”

  In her own way, Jane seemed as frightened of me as the girl behind the palliasse was. I tried to put her at ease. “Would you like to sit?”

  I offered her the chair. She didn’t take it.

  “Robert says your daughter’s gone missing?” I said.

  That broke her shell. “Oh, not missing, my lord. Not missing. She’s been taken.”

  “By whom?”

  For a moment, she didn’t speak. When she did, her voice was so low, I could barely hear it over the crackling of the fire. “The White Lady,” she whispered.

  Robert frowned. Wise’s expression didn’t change, but I noticed he crossed his fingers.

  “Who’s the White Lady?” I said.

  “She steals children, my lord. She steals them to eat their souls.”

  And despite the warmth of the fire, I shivered.

  “She sent the demon child,” the woman continued. “I don’t want that thing. I want my Emma back.”

  I was confused. Robert nodded toward the palliasse. “She means the moppet.”

  I turned. The girl had burrowed back under the deerskin. The blanket twitched as Jane’s voice rose. “I want my Emma back!” she screamed. “Oh, please, my lord, help me get my little girl back.”

  I floundered. “What can I do?”

  Jane flung herself at my feet and grabbed my hands. “This is all I have. Please, my lord: Offer it to the White Lady. Offer her my soul in exchange for Emma’s.”

  She pressed four coins into my palm: two pennies, ha’penny, and a farthing. This had to be everything the woman owned. My purse weighed so heavy on my belt. “I . . . no. Keep these.”

  She wouldn’t take them. “Oh, please, please, please, my lord. Just give those to her. Promise her anything. Please.”

  Her desperation broke my heart. I couldn’t bear to tell her no. “I’ll . . . see what I can do.”

  She sobbed in gratitude. She bent down and kissed my feet. “Thank you, my lord, thank you,” she said, until Wise escorted her from the cob house. I stood there, lost, miserable, and ashamed.

  “I thank you, too,” Robert said quietly after she was gone.

  “What is it you think I can do?” I said, face still burning. “Who’s the White Lady? A local noblewoman?”

  “No,” he said. “She’s a ghost.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  I STARED AT HIM. “WHAT?”

  “It’s a legend,” Robert said as Wise returned. “The White Lady was a woman who lived long ago. She committed a terrible crime, and in punishment, God cursed her to walk the River Axe for eternity.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You want me to speak to a wraith?”

  “Not I. I think you should talk to Old Sybil.”

  “Who?”

  “Sybil O’Malley. She’s one of the cunning folk.”

  Cunning folk were wizards, diviners, practitioners of white magic. “I should go see a conjurer?”

  “Actually, my lord, she asked to see you.”

  A chill ran down my spine. “Why?”

  “We called for her when you were sick.” Robert nodded toward the entrance. “She’s the one what marked the door. She cut your hair to make the charm at your feet. That’s what chased the demon from your body. That’s what made you better.”

  “Why does she want to see me?”

  “Don’t know. But she sat with you while the demon was raving inside. She channeled the Spirits of the Wood, and through them, she spoke to it.”

  My chest tightened. “What did it say?”

  “Apologies, my lord. Don’t know that, either. You were speaking some strange tongue.”

  Wise touched Robert’s shoulder. He pointed to his mouth, then made his hands into a cross.

  Speaking . . . with a cross. Holy words? Did he mean . . . “Latin? Was it Latin?”r />
  Wise nodded.

  “Did you understand it?”

  He shook his head.

  Robert explained. “Wise only picked up a bit of language while he was crewing ships.”

  Even a few words might help me figure out what I’d said. “Could you write down what you heard?”

  Wise spread his hands helplessly.

  “He can’t write,” Robert said, apologetic. “None of us can. Don’t have much call for the scholarly life round these parts, my lord.”

  I slumped, disappointed. “And she didn’t tell you anything about what we spoke of?”

  “Not my place to ask. All she said was that I should send you to see her when you recovered. But if I had to guess, I think she might know who you are.”

  I practically leaped from my bed. “I’ll go now.”

  Robert stopped me. “Apologies, my lord, but that’s not possible. Her home’s too far, and it’s too late in the day. With this snow, you’d never make it before dark. Tomorrow—”

  Wise touched Robert’s shoulder again. He gestured, Robert watching him until he understood. “Wise says Sybil’s gone to the market at Lyme, for ingredients for her spells. She won’t return until Tuesday.”

  I wanted to scream with frustration. Robert had said today was Sunday. That meant I’d have to wait not one but two days to find out who I was—assuming that was, in fact, what the cunning woman wanted to tell me. “What about Exeter?” I said. “There must be a local lord. He might know my family.”

  Robert shook his head. “Take days to get to town in this snow. The roads have disappeared. Quicker to just stay until Sybil returns.”

  I needed to do something. “There’s no one else?”

  “Well . . . you might try down at Seaton. A fair bit of local trade passes through there. The port’s fallen on hard times, but if you landed this close, maybe that’s where your ship was going. Someone in the village might recognize you.”

  “How far is that?”

  “A half-day’s journey, with the snow. You could go there tomorrow. Wise’ll show you.”