“He’s waking up!” Esther says, her relief obvious.
“Nathaniel, can you hear me?” my mother asks.
A murmur again and a flicker of an eyelid.
“You’ve had an accident, but you’re ok. We’re going to be taking you home soon. Can you open your eyes?”
Nothing.
A pressure on my hand and tiny shocks run over me again. “He squeezed my hand,” I gasp in surprise. I hold his tight and squeeze a little in return. Another murmur.
“They’re here,” my mother interrupts. On the bank, at the top where the edge becomes a drop, stands Jack and my father with Patrick and Conrad. They’re carrying bundles of fabric and long poles to make a stretcher. I watch as my father scrambles the side, using the roots as foot and handholds and lands safely on the stones of the riverbed. Reassured, I turn back to Nathaniel.
A pair of forest-green eyes stare at me and my heart flips and beats a little quicker.
Chapter Twelve
“Edie, love, could you get me some more cold water please?” my mother asks as she hands me the ragged cotton cloth, warmed with body heat since it was placed over Nathaniel’s wound.
“Sure,” I say as I take the cloth from her hand and dip it into the jug of water at my side. I wring it tight, squeezing the water out, the water cool on my fingers.
“You change it love,” she says standing, pointing to Nathaniel’s head. “I’ve got to go and see to Pascha and your dad, make sure we’ve got something to eat later.”
She’s going to leave me alone with him? “Oh! Yeah, sure,” I answer, trying to sound casual whilst I grapple in confusion at the fear and excitement I feel being near him.
“Is that OK, Edie?” she says, looking at me, quizzical. “He’s going to be OK you know. There’s nothing broken. It’s just a bump. The cold compress is just to take the swelling down. He’s had a shock to the system and is only sleeping,” she reassures me, stroking her hand across mine. “There’s no need to worry.”
“I know, Mum. I’ll be fine, honest,” I say, trying to hide my anxiety, placing the cold compress across his forehead, hardly daring to touch it to the swelling. It sits shiny, mottled red and indigo, as though a large smooth stone has been stuffed beneath the skin. As he lies there still, eyes closed, I can’t help but gaze at him; dark-auburn tinged lashes, curling against his honey skin, a slight flush on his cheeks. He’s quite beautiful. An urge to stroke his cheek, to tell him I’m here, that he’ll soon be well, begins to overwhelm me. A murmur from his lips, blushed pink, and a slight movement of his head as I lay it across his forehead, pulls me from my thoughts and I sit straight, heart flipping in my chest. Green eyes stare into mine, catching me and holding me to him. A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. I want to bend forward and kiss him there. Stop! I can’t do this. I can’t feel this way.
“You’re awake then,” I say brusquely, as I scrape the chair backwards, away from the bed, away from his smile. “I’ll get your mother.”
“Edie wait!” he says as he grabs my wrist. My skin tingles there.
“I should tell your mother, that you’re awake. She’d want to know,” I say, gently pulling my wrist from him, unable to bear his touch, not wanting him to realise the growing storm inside me. He holds my gaze, still smiling, but unsure now.
“I-,” he falters then turns his head to the wall. “Yes, she’d want to know,” he finishes, the smile fading, and closes his eyes.
A knife twists in my gut. What? Have I misunderstood? I’ve disappointed him! I’m a coward! Robin! I turn and leave the room, quickly padding down the wooden staircase to find Esther and tell her that her son is OK. Then I run to my own house to hide and think and feel.
Dust-laden shafts of sunlight are the only warmth in my unheated room and the covers of my bed feel cold against my body as I sprawl, head buried in my pillow. A deep, unbearable sorrow unfurls deep within me and spreads its cold fingers across my heart. Yearning, fear, guilt; all whirl about me as I think of Robin’s last kiss and Nathaniel’s gentle touch. How can I feel like this for Nathaniel when Robin’s death is still so painful to me? I’m sorry. Robin, I’m sorry. I push my head further into my pillow, hoping that the pain of my heart breaking again, will dissolve there into silence.
“Edie, come quick!” Pascha’s voice sounds up the stairs from the kitchen below. Other voices are there too and noises from outside. I push myself up from my bed, self-pity instantly forgotten, and step across the cold wooden boards to the window. Doors across the lane are opening, people are peering out, looking down the hill towards the noise. I follow their gaze. Towards the school house, gathered on horseback is a group of men, dark figures, dressed in black from head to foot. My stomach clenches and I dig my nails into the wood of the windowsill to push the fear down as I watch my father break away from the group of villagers gathered in the lane and walk towards these strangers.
“Edie, come down. There’s men come to the village!” Pascha shouts, an edge of anxiety obvious in his voice.
“It’s OK. I’m coming,” I reply, my voice calm, my stomach twisting.
Pascha darts for the door as soon as my foot hits the last step of the stairs and heads along the dark hallway to the open door and the bright lane beyond.
“Pascha! Wait.” I can’t let him run out there so leap forward, pushing hard against the step and grab the back of his waxed jacket, pulling him backwards.
“Hey, gerrof!” he grumbles as he regains his balance. “I want to see.”
“I know, but they could be dangerous.”
“Yeah, I know that!” he answers back. “I’m the one who told Dad they were coming. I saw them up on the moors.” He pulls away from me and I lose my grip on his jacket.
“Well, you know that they look dangerous then!”
“How do you know? They could just be refugees—like us.”
“They don’t look like no refugees to me,” I say, the black figures strong in my mind. “They’re on horseback for a start.”
“C’mon Edie! I want to see,” he implores, walking towards the door.
“Just stop at the doorway, no further,” I order, wanting to keep him back, desperate to see for myself.
At the bottom of the lane, next to the large School House, four men sit mounted, their horses stand bridled, edgy, sensing the tension. Villagers have gathered as a block further up the lane, spades, forks, axes, clutched in their hands. Jack stands shoulder-to-shoulder with my father as Patrick and Conrad stand firm against these new intruders, sensing their danger. One of the figures stands out from the rest. He wears the same black uniform, but at his neck is a short collar of ruffled white pleats and a long, dark cloak flows down to his legs, melding him to his horse. My father is the first to step forward. The cloaked man dismounts and steps towards him, matching his step.
I can wait no longer and walk quickly down the garden path and into the lane, falling in behind another group of hesitant villagers as they walk towards the men.
“What do you want here?” Jack shouts out from behind my father.
“We’re here in peace,” the cloaked figure replies calmly, “we’re merely passing through.”
“Pah! Passing through to where? There’s nothing beyond Bale,” scoffs Patrick.
“We’re making our way to Missendale, to spread the good news. Perhaps you could direct us?”
My father steps forward. “What news?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.
“Why the news of God’s love,” he replies, reaching inside the folds of his dark cloak, “and his word that is written in this book.” He pulls out a thin volume, bound in leather, tied about with leather straps.
Jack and my father exchange glances and the crowd seems to relax a little.
“So, you’re missionaries then?” asks Jack.
“Yes, indeed,” the man smiles, “I am Brother Malachi and I bring you His message.”
“Well, if you’re a missionary, why do you need those henchmen?” Nathaniel sho
uts beside me, his face pale in the sunlight, his eyes hard.
Watching the scene before me, I hadn’t noticed him walk to my side. Malachi’s eyes flicker and his mouth tightens almost imperceptibly before his face relaxes into a smile as he looks across the gathered crowd towards Nathaniel.
“The moors and towns are dangerous for travellers. These men are for my protection, my guardian angels if you like,” he smiles looking back at the stern faces of the bearded men behind him. A murmur of unease shifts among the gathering.
“We mean you no harm. We will be on our way, but first if we could have water for the horses and perhaps a warming drink for ourselves?” he smiles out to the crowd, his blue eyes benign, seeking acceptance.
My father leans in to Jack and then looks again towards Malachi. “We know what it is to suffer across the moors and won’t deny you a warm drink before you take to the road again.” He beckons to Patrick and Conrad. “Take your horses to the paddock, they’ll find fresh water there,” he instructs the other dark figures as the Protectors step forward. “Brother Malachi if you will come with me, you and your men are welcome to sit a while and drink with us.”
Brother Malachi hands over the reins of his stallion, book clutched firmly in his hand, and joins my father. As they walk up the lane towards our cottage Malachi smiles to the villagers, lines creased about sky-blue eyes, livered lips pressed shut, firm against his teeth. As he nods his greeting, dread fear drops in my gut like a stone; a black line sits behind the dark-blonde of his beard, tattooed across his cheek.
Chapter Thirteen
“Tell me again why we’re moving these tables and chairs out of here?” Nathaniel asks under his breath, his voice thick with irritation. “And why they are still here? They said they were just passing through!”
“Shh, they’ll hear,” I reply. “Brother Malachi has asked that we have a community room, so that we can all gather and listen to him teach,” I add, raising my eyebrows in disdain. The thought of having to be in the same room with this man makes my flesh creep. “My dad told me to come help.”
“Yeah, but why are they even still here? I don’t get it. They said they were passing through, going to Missendale to spread their rubbish.”
“Shh! I know. I don’t want them here either, but he’s managed to get some of the villagers on his side. They’ve asked him to stay.”
“Your dad should have chucked him out,” he grumbles.
“Well, he agreed to let them stay for a couple of days and they’ve agreed to go after that.”
“We’ll see,” he says, cynical. “Seems to me like they’re getting their feet under the table.”
“Clear it all. Make a wide space. All must be empty.” Malachi’s voice echoes in the emptying room as he gestures towards the walls. “Take those pictures down. When we’re learning about God’s word and the Rule we don’t need such distractions,” he says, grabbing at the paintings hung there by the village children.
Riots of pink and purple, orange, red and blue are torn and crumpled, thrown to the floor, leaving a blank expanse of marked white beneath. I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “But the children painted those. You can’t just rip their paintings off the wall and screw them up.”
“They are distractions from God’s word,” he turns to me, his face deadpan, his eyes steel.
I flinch under his cold stare, but as the others follow his instructions and continue to empty the room of its books, crayons and tables, I challenge him again. “But this is where the children learn. It’s their school!”
He turns on me, black cloak sweeping at the floor, a maelstrom of dust thick about his legs. “All knowledge is in this book,” he says, his eyes flashing, as he thrusts the leather-bound book at me. “Everything they need to know, everything you need to know, is in the Book of All Knowledge.”
He stares down at me, the black lines across his cheeks flushed about with red, his eyes intense, oppressive. Movement in the room has stopped, all eyes on us. The three henchmen, ever-present, step forward.
“Edie Fletcher,” Agnes calls from the back of the School Room, “have more respect. Brother Malachi is here to do sacred work, to speak of God’s word, to teach us the Rule.” A murmur of approval moves through the room. Malachi looks down on me, a gloating smirk sneaking onto his lips as he realises his victory. I look to Nathaniel for support. He stands behind Malachi, unsure and tense, a school chair half-lifted, clenched tight in his hands. Our eyes lock. He recognises my fear, mirrors it, and slams the chair down onto the wooden floorboards. Dust shifts in clouds above the floor. Henchmen draw closer around Malachi.
“Edie’s right,” Nathaniel challenges. “This room is for the children.”
“That is correct, Nathaniel,” Malachi concedes, his eyes steady. “It is for the children, when we have no more use for it,” he adds. “When we have served our purpose here, it can again be a place for you all to gather. For now, as has been agreed with the village elders, it will be a place for us,” he motions to the three henchmen, “to teach God’s word and the Rule. Now, boy, pick up that chair and take it out. This place must be empty, ready for us to fill it with His Word,” he finishes, holding Nathaniel’s gaze with steadfast determination. Again a murmur of assent from the other villagers.
Nathaniel is unwavering and stares back. “Edie,” he says, holding out his hand, “this is no place for us.”
I take his hand. My heart beats hard and fast and my legs are shaky with adrenaline as I turn my back to Malachi. We walk out of the dinge, through the heavy wooden doors, and into the sunlight. I’m minutely aware of each millimetre of skin that touches Nathaniel’s even through the chaos of my emotions and walk in silence to the end of the stone slabs that mark the pathway out of the School House garden to the lane.
“What’s going on with them?” he asks in consternation, turning to me as we reach the gate, our hands still clasped together.
“Who? The villagers?”
“Yeah. How can they let him do that?”
“They’re desperate I guess.”
“Desperate for what?”
“I dunno. Something to believe in perhaps.”
“I get that, but why rip down the kids’ paintings and empty the school? Your dad needs to know Edie. He needs to know what they’re doing,” he says, pulling at my hand before guiding me up the lane towards the houses there.
Jack is the first to reach the School House, his face flushed with running, broad chest heaving beneath his faded blue shirt. “What’s going on?” he asks catching his breath, wiping his arm across his forehead. Dark patches of sweat mark the fabric of his faded blue shirt. He notices my gaze, “I’ve been chopping wood. Hard work it is,” he adds with a smile, pushing back his dark hair from his forehead. “Tristan sent word for me to meet him here. Who’s inside?” he asks grasping the fluted door knob to the room. The knob twists, but the doors remain locked, shut against us. He puts his head to the door. “It’s Malachi in there isn’t it. I can hear him droning on,” he says rolling his eyes in disdain.
“Yes, it’s Malachi and his henchmen,” I say, returning his disdain, “and some of the villagers.”
He looks at me questioningly. “Oh yes, and what’re they up to?”
“They’ve gutted the room, ripped everything out.”
“What? Why would they do that? Who gave them permission to do that?”
“Malachi said it was to teach God’s word and about his stupid Rule,” Nathaniel replies.
“Pah! But who said they could?” he asks, irritated.
“The village elders. That’s what he said.”
“Who the heck are the village elders?” he asks, his frown deepening.
“I thought he must mean you and Dad,” I reply.
“Let’s go in,” says Nathaniel impatient.
“No. We have to wait for Tristan,” Jack insists.
Minutes pass as we wait for my father. Inside the droning continues until finally quiet descends, footsteps can b
e heard, and the door of the School House opens. Brother Malachi, his head held stiff by the short white ruff at his neck, chin high, eyes lowered in disdain, watches each pale-faced villager pass before him out of the dinge and into the sunlight. Their faces are sombre, eyes glazed. Agnes, her face flushed, eyes wide, looks with fervour at Brother Malachi. As she passes she takes hold of his hand. He flinches, but lets her hold it as she raises it to her lips and kisses the sharp edges of his knuckles. A grimace, then a forced smile, as she looks to him. He nods, as if in blessing. She steps over the threshold and onto the grass, trampling down the daisies and dandelions of early summer that grow there welcoming the sun, crushing their hopeful, yellow heads.
“Malachi!” my father’s voice booms loud from the iron gate of the pathway. “What is going on here?” he demands, striding up the path.
“Just spreading God’s word, Mr Fletcher,” he nods, obsequious. “The villagers requested that I teach them.”
“So I understand, but why did you take it upon yourself to empty the school? You were not given permission to do that!”
“Distractions, sir. The paintings are distractions from God’s word and the Rule. They are against the Rule and God’s word must be taught in a place of purity.”
“Purity? Ripping down children’s paintings and taking out desks and chairs makes it pure?” my father asks incredulous. “Nonsense.”
“But the Book-”
“Put that thing away,” orders my father. “There has been some misunderstanding. When we spoke, I agreed that you could stay a few days to recuperate from your journey and speak to the villagers freely.”
“The village elder-”
Burning (Dark Powers Rising Book 1) Page 8