by Kevin Sands
We’d need to start shoveling. Emma’s bucket was still here; one of us could use that, and we’d need more tools for the rest. Wise began the trek back to the barn to get them. I went for the bucket.
Then I stopped. “Wise.”
He turned.
I pointed at Emma’s bucket. “You said this was just sitting there? Next to the river?”
He nodded.
“Did you touch it? Move it aside?”
He shook his head.
I went over to the bucket. I picked it up.
And there, underneath it on a stone in the circle in the snow, was the very same mark, written in blood.
CHAPTER
24
I PICKED UP THE STONE.
It was red sandstone, flat and heavy, though smaller than the one at Crook’s Hollow. The symbols here were clear, unsmudged, protected from falling snow by Emma’s bucket.
Wise and Robert were shaken, Robert especially troubled. I got the sense he was rethinking what he’d said about Sybil. And he didn’t like what it meant.
I didn’t, either. Because now we knew the children were not only taken, but stolen for some terrible purpose.
It was time to ask Sybil what it was.
• • •
Robert’s instructions were clear: Follow the river north and turn east when you see the tree that looks like a squashed giant. We did as told, and as we neared the place, Tom stopped so short I bumped into his back.
“Look at that,” he said.
Before us stood the tree. Its trunk was broad and squat, aged bark twisting in knots and gnarls, forming a wizened, bearded face right in its center. The branches split overhead. Two great limbs stretched from each side, arms with a thousand knobbled fingers. A dead, blackened patch marked the split, as if a lightning strike had burned the wood away. At its bottom, the tree’s roots dug into the ground, tortuously twisted feet.
We stared at the Squashed Giant—and the longer we did, the more it seemed to stare back. The branches swung in the breeze, the wood creaking, its fingers reaching for our necks.
We moved on hurriedly. Tom led us east, into the woods. Soon we came to a small clearing, where Sybil’s hut stood.
“Hut” was too generous a word. A ramshackle blend of cob, wood, and a handful of errant stones made Sybil’s home look less like a house and more like an animal’s nest. Smoke rose from the chimney, curling through the canopy of snow-laden trees.
I took a breath. “We should prepare before we go in.”
“How?” Tom said. “By coming to our senses and running away?”
“Maybe you should take out your sword.”
Tom lowered Moppet from his shoulders and pulled away the sheath covering Eternity’s hilt. He drew the blade from its scabbard, gripped it in both hands.
“What now?” he whispered.
There was nothing else to do. We went inside.
CHAPTER
25
WHAT SURPRISED ME MOST WAS the smell.
The interior of the hut was a simple affair: a straw mattress; a three-legged table, the fourth replaced by the sawed-off branch of an oak; a collection of ceramic pots stacked around the wall. Herbs hung from the ceiling, slung over strings drawn from corner to corner. A cauldron bubbled in the lumpy clay hearth, boiling over a crackling fire, and while I supposed a cauldron was what a witch’s hut should have, what struck me the most—and most confusing—was the scent that filled the air.
The herbs. The heavy, earthy smell of drying leaves and gnarled roots. It was . . . familiar. Warmth spread inside me, not from the fire, but from my heart. I reeled, dizzy.
Home
Master Benedict said.
Home
I thought.
Do you remember? came the whisper
and for the briefest moment, I caught a glimpse of a shadow by the fire: a lanky old man, absurdly tall, bent over the flame
then it was gone. The spinning in my head slowed, and I caught sight of the woman behind the cauldron. She was old, yes, but not tall. She was barely bigger than Sally, and frail, like a breeze would break her in two. And there was a weariness in her expression that made me think, in some way, she’d already been broken.
She turned to meet her intruders. Her gaze lingered on Tom’s blade, then Sally’s dress, and then, strangely, on my snow-stained boots. When she brought her eyes to mine, they were full of bitterness, so sharp it cut to the bone.
Her accent was Irish, a thick Emerald Isle brogue. “Did they send you to kill me?”
“We don’t wish anyone harm,” I said, cautious.
“So you always enter a home uninvited, sword in hand?”
Tom flushed and lowered his blade.
“What do you want?” Sybil said.
“My name is Christopher Ashcombe,” I said. “I’m the Baron of Chillingham. My grandfather is Richard Ashcombe, the King’s Warden.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“We’ve met before.”
I glanced at Tom, then Sally. “When was this?”
She smiled thinly. “You might not remember it. You were asleep at the time.”
I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “What did you do to me?”
“Depends. What’s wrong with you?”
I really wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “Robert said you asked me to come see you.”
“So I did. And now I’ll ask you, again: What’s wrong with you?”
I didn’t see any reason not to tell her the truth. “I can’t remember things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Everything that matters. I can’t remember who I am.”
She studied me for a moment. “Interesting.”
I knew she was toying with me, and though I was afraid, it made me angry. “Robert said you spoke to me while I was out. What happened? Tell me what you did.”
“Or you’ll do what?”
I stood there, surprised by the truth of her response. What would I do? What could I do?
Sally placed a hand on my arm. “Christopher told you: We’re not looking for anyone to get hurt. We just want him to get his memories back. And the missing children returned to their homes.”
Sybil didn’t answer right away. She plucked some holly from one of the strings overhead and held it over the cauldron, as if to add the leaves to the brew.
“The children,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “They’ve disappeared.”
“I know that.”
“The locals blame you.”
“Of course they do.”
“They say you’re a witch.”
“I am not.”
“They say you summoned the White Lady.”
She didn’t answer.
“Well?” I said. “Did you?”
“What do you know of it?” she asked.
“I’ve heard the stories. And I’ve found the marks.”
She looked up from the cauldron. “What marks?”
“The blood marks,” I said. “Where the children vanished.”
I pulled the cloth from beneath my coat and handed it to her. She stared at it.
“Do you know what it says?” I said.
She frowned. “Says?”
“Yes. It’s a word. I think this is an n and this an a—you see?”
She stared at it some more. “Where did you find this?”
“At Crook’s Hollow, where David Cavill disappeared. It was written in blood, hidden under a stone. I then found the very same mark at Robert Dryden’s farm, under the bucket Emma Lisle left behind.”
Sybil studied my face, her expression inscrutable. Then she handed the cloth back, turned away, and returned to her cauldron.
“You know something about what’s happening,” I said. “Don’t you?”
“I know many things.”
“Stop playing games. It’s not just my memories. These are children that are missing.”
“What do you care?”
&n
bsp; “You’re the second person to say that to me,” I said, frustrated. “What’s happened out here? Does no one care about anyone but themselves?”
She whirled, eyes blazing. “Forgive me, ‘my lord.’ ” She spat the honorific like it was poison. “Your kind serves no one but themselves.”
“You don’t know him,” Sally said.
“I know all I need to know, ‘my lady.’ You’re all the same.”
“Christopher’s never harmed anyone,” Tom said. “He helps people.”
Sybil sneered at him. “Oh, so the servant can speak.”
“Enough,” I said. “I told you the truth: We didn’t come here to fight. I just want my memories back. If you won’t help me, then at least help the children. Tell us what you know.”
She slumped, then, and turned away, defeated. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have nothing to do with missing children.”
“The villagers think—”
“What they always think,” Sybil snapped. “They come for my help when the sickness fills their chests, then come for my head when the rot takes their crops. I told you: I am no witch. I have nothing to do with this. You do.”
I blinked, startled. “Me?”
“That’s why you were brought here.”
“I came because Robert said you needed to see me.”
“I don’t mean my home. I mean here. To this land of evil.” She eyed me up and down. “You were in a shipwreck.”
“I—yes,” I said, unsettled. “Robert told you.”
“I knew it already. That shipwreck was no accident.”
“What do you mean?” Tom said, scared. “There was a storm—”
“Yes,” she said. “A storm. A storm that wasn’t natural. A storm carried by the thing that hovers over your master. Can you not see it? The hollow black bird that sits even now upon his shoulder?”
My mouth worked, but I could barely get the words out. “You can see it?”
“It was the demon that called the storm,” Sybil said. “It broke your ship and brought you to these shores. The demon clung to you, took your soul—your memories—and nearly took your life. Robert called me, and I saved you. But your salvation did not come without price.”
She threw the holly into the cauldron. “It was the Spirits of the Wood who intervened. Takes more than these old bones to wrench your soul from a demon’s talons, you see.” She smiled, but there was no humor in her eyes. “The Spirits agreed to help, but only if I bound you with a geas in return.”
My head reeled. Sweat trickled down my neck, ran down the back of my shirt. I had to grab Tom’s arm to steady myself.
“I don’t understand,” Sally said. “What’s a ‘gesh’?”
I knew. Sybil had used the old Irish word, but in my broken memory, I knew. “It’s a curse,” I said. “A geas is a compulsion. A vow, forced upon someone through magic.”
Sybil nodded. “You are remarkably well educated in such things, Baron. Now you will feel them.”
“Why would the Spirits do this?” Tom said, horrified.
“Because your lord has something they need.”
“What could he possibly have?” Sally said.
“Children are missing. The young baron here is the one that must find them. That is what the Spirits told me. It is him. And only him.” She turned back to me. “That is your geas. Find the children. Find them, return them, and your curse will be lifted.”
Tom raised his sword, and though his voice—and his hands—trembled, I think he really meant to use it. “Let him go.”
She spat at his feet. “Do you threaten me, or the Spirits? Do you think your magic blade will cut them down? Then go ahead, servant. Kill me. Then no one will be left to release your master. He’ll be lost forever.”
“But why?” I said. “Why did they choose me? And how am I supposed to work without my memories?”
She shrugged. “I’m just the messenger. As for your memories, those are not important. You have everything you need—in fact, only you do. No one else who lives here can do what you can.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Think about it,” she said. “Think of all the people you’ve met since you awoke. And you will have the answer.”
“But—”
“I have nothing more to say to you. The task the Spirits gave you is simple. Find out what’s happening to the children. Then save them. Do this, and the Spirits have promised they’ll return your memories. Fail, and not only will your past fade, so will your present. You’ll forget how to read. You’ll forget how to speak. You’ll end up no smarter than a tree.”
She laughed bitterly. “If that happens, my lord, come back to me. I’ll plant you in my garden and water you. Until then? Get out.”
CHAPTER
26
I COULDN’T STOP SHAKING.
I stood outside Sybil’s hut, boots sunk into the snow. Sally had an arm around me, a hand on my chest. Bridget kept walking over my feet. Tom and Moppet stood silent and helpless.
And I couldn’t stop shaking.
Lose my memories forever, I thought, and suddenly my stomach churned. I ran, stumbling, through the trees.
“Christopher!” Sally called.
I kept going. I heard the crunching snow under my heels, ragged breath in my ears, my voice in my head. Lose my memories forever.
My guts rebelled. I fell into the roots of a tree and vomited.
Then Sally was there. She knelt next to me, held me close. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “We’ll get you through this.”
And Tom was there, too, hand on my back. Bridget landed on my shoulder, nuzzling at my hair. I took her and held her, and now I couldn’t keep in the words.
“I’m going to lose everything,” I said.
“You are not,” Tom said. “We walked forever to find you. We won’t let you go again.”
“You heard what Sybil said.”
“She said if you solve the puzzle, find the children, you’ll get your memories back. So that’s what you’re going to do.”
He had such utter confidence in me. All I felt was despair. “I can’t.”
“You can,” Sally said. “In fact, you’ve already begun.”
I didn’t know what she meant.
“You recognized the blood mark was a word,” she said. “It was your idea to go back to Robert’s farm, and you found the mark everyone else had missed. And what happened in between? You remembered the names of Tom’s sisters.”
I looked up at her.
“You’ve started searching for the children,” Sally said, “and your memories have started to come back. Just like the Spirits promised. All you have to do now is keep going.”
I wanted to believe. But the question I’d asked Sybil still hung in my mind: How could I succeed without my memories?
You already have the tools you need, Master Benedict said.
What tools? I said. I don’t know anything. I can’t even tell what this blood mark says.
Who could?
His question made me pause.
None of the locals had recognized the mark was a word. Even Rawlin, who knew the entire story of the White Lady, had simply called it “the blood mark.” I’d assumed Sybil, at least, would know it. But even she’d been surprised when I pointed it out.
I didn’t think she was lying about that. At the very least, she did seem to genuinely want the children found, so if she knew what the word was, she’d have told me. And yet I recalled what she’d said. You have everything you need—in fact, only you do. No one else who lives here can do what you can. Think of all the people you’ve met since you awoke. And you will have the answer.
She knew something she wasn’t telling me. And I couldn’t understand why. No one else who lives here can do what I can. Tom thought that meant I was good at puzzles. But I couldn’t shake the feeling Sybil had meant something else.
Think of all the people you’ve met since you awoke.
And you will have the answer.
I did as she said. There was Robert and his family, Wise, Jane, and Moppet. Then there was Willoughby, his daughter, Captain Haddock, and Rawlin. In Crook’s Hollow, John Morrow and his daughter. And then there was Sybil herself. Tom and Sally, too—in a way, I’d just met them as well.
Was one of these people behind the children’s disappearance? Is that what Sybil had meant? If so, why not just tell me? Or better yet, do something about it herself? If the Spirits of the Wood could curse me with a geas, why not curse the actual villain instead?
I shook my head. I didn’t know enough about spirit magic to figure that out.
Think of all the people you’ve met. . . .
Other than the fact that they were all locals—except for Tom and Sally, and maybe Moppet—I couldn’t see the common thread between them. Robert was kind. Wise was a mute. Willoughby, servile. Haddock, self-serving. And so on, and so on.
This was getting me nowhere. And we had to go somewhere—literally. It wouldn’t be long before dark. Returning to Seaton was probably our best option; there I could ask Rawlin if he knew someone who might decipher—
“Of course,” I said.
“Of course what?” Tom said.
Rawlin had already given me the answer, last night. Go see Baronet Darcy. He used to be a witchfinder.
“The baronet,” I said. “If he hunted witches, he’s practiced in rooting out evil.”
“I’d imagine so.”
“So let’s visit him. His estate is just north of here. Maybe he can decipher the blood word—and he can put us up for the night, too.”
Tom frowned. “A baronet’s home is not an inn. You can’t just barge in and demand a bed.”
“Actually, I can. But I won’t need to. He’ll offer one. In fact, he’ll insist upon it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because I’m a baron, remember? I outrank him.”
• • •
Robert was right: The Darcy estate did look like a castle. The house was surrounded by a thick stone wall, fifteen feet high. The wall had seen better days; age had crumbled it here and there, collapsing it completely to form a hole in the stone twenty yards from the spiked iron gates. The gates themselves were closed, which made it unconscionably rude for us to use the gap in the wall, but we did so anyway. It was getting dark, and we were cold, and I’d rather beg a baronet’s forgiveness than freeze to death.