Rogue Beyond the Wall

by Giselle Jeffries Schneider

  He gave the owl a quick scratch on the head, letting him know how grateful he was, and then peeled open the flaps.

  Father,

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

  Isaiah laughed, the sound nearly escaping him so loud it would have filled the entire forest. But he caught it with a swift clap of his hand over his mouth. Then he mentally shook his head. His son knew he didn’t celebrate, yet every year was always made special.

  Thought I forgot, didn’t you? Well, I could never forget. I even made sure to send this off so you would get it at breakfast.

  The fire crackled and popped, and a tear escaped to fall onto the sheet. He blinked to clear his sight and looked ahead into the flames before him, remembering the previous year when his son turned up at his bedchamber door with breakfast on a tray.

  Anyway, the letter continued as he looked back down. I hope you are doing well. I miss you severely. I am also hoping nothing bad has happened as I haven’t heard from you. It still kills me to think you are under house arrest and all alone. If I could, I would rush right over and get you. But the monks say I can’t. They say you want me here, so here I stay.

  Speaking of me, I started lessons with the monks.

  Isaiah had to give that last part another read. Lessons? And then a third read. He forced himself to resume to see if there was an explanation.

  That was part of what I wanted to talk to you about before I left. I am here for enlightenment lessons. I lost myself somewhere in all the chaos of this past year, although I feel the life I left behind is over now. I am trying to find me again, or a new me. I need this to heal, to change for the better. I am not sure how long that will take – maybe a few months. A year. More is possible.

  Don’t fret. I will return one day, strong like you.

  But anyhow, my first task every morning is to run the circumference of the sand garden because Salbatzaile says I have too much energy. I am very much restless, I have to agree with that. Then, after I am tired, I rake around one of the three rocks with a rake that isn’t a rake…

  His brows furrowed as he moved onto the next line.

  I am letting you take that in.

  And he sure was. That made no sense at all.

  All right. The rake is not a rake because it is “strength of mind.”

  HAHAHAHA!

  Nicholas’ laughter rang in his ears. So pure and lively. It was like he was next to him.

  It is fun to think about, but I haven’t figured it out yet. I am trying hard to understand.

  Isaiah let a smile escape when the idea behind the rake clicked. It made perfect sense.

  That leads me to meditation with Ángelo. After running and raking, I am calm enough to clear my mind. I am not pleased about counting myself into silence, but eventually I will be taught the other ways. I must be patient, though. Patience is hard.

  Isaiah believed that to definitely be true in his son’s case. His son had never been patient.

  And then, at last, my day ends with Sanctus and the live garden. You should visit some time and see it. There is a live garden and a greenhouse. Everything is amazing and like nothing you have ever seen before. I swear.

  Oops! Out of space. Love you.

  Nicholas

  Isaiah turned the letter back over, returned to the top, and scanned it over. He couldn’t help but smile wider at the little details his son included. But that part about why Nicholas left got him deep and he reread the entire paragraph with fresh new tears that dripped onto the words. He was both happy and sad. Happy his son wanted to change, but sad his son thought his mind unwell enough to do that at home.

  Then he folded the letter back up in the way that Nicholas intended. It was a heart, he realized when done. And into his coat pocket it went, along with Brida’s doll.

  Observations (Isaiah)

  A rustle of fabric, snow crunched. Isaiah twisted with his hand still in his pocket to find Theodosia stepping up behind him, and she had a grin that was both beautiful and terrifying. Her hands were also behind her back and she swished side to side playfully.

  Manfri was gone.

  “I hear today is a special day,” the gypsy woman began in that voice that couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else’s.

  His head shook. “Oh, please don’t.” He turned back to the fire as he pulled his coat back together and hugged himself. He could feel the doll at his side, and he could see it hugging the letter for him.

  “And why not?” Theodosia stepped over the log with that and sat at his side. She was much too close for his taste, but he brushed it off as usual. These were gypsies.

  He shrugged. There honestly was no reason for it.

  “Was that a letter I saw you reading?” Theodosia seemed to sidetrack. “Was it from Sir Nicholas?”

  “I am sure,” Isaiah grinned, corners of his lips twitching in unbreakable amusement, “that my son has told you this, but it is just Nicholas. And I am just Isaiah. But yes, it was from him.”

  “Did he wish you a happy birthday?”

  He sighed. “He is my son. He does so every year.” Then he frowned. This was the first birthday without his family. And I don’t even deserve him.

  “Why so sad?” And her hand appeared on his back. “Today is your day. Smile.”

  “I think, sister,” came Manfri’s voice, and Isaiah looked over to see him, “that Master Isaiah needs time to himself.” And he extended a plate of rabbit and bread. It was a bit less than the night before. “Am I correct?”

  He nodded. “I didn’t think so until now, but yes.”

  “Forgive me,” Theodosia replied as she slipped her hand to his shoulder and used him to rise. “I didn’t think.”

  “It is fine,” he assured. “I never turn down company. Particularly from someone as pleasant as you and Manfri.”

  Theodosia smiled once more in that wonderful way.

  “That is good to hear,” Manfri responded with a grin of his own, yet something about it was sad. Strained. It wasn’t that the gesture was fake – it was very much real. It was just that the action was also a lie. “Come, sister.” And he guided Theodosia away.

  Oh, no. He didn’t mean for his words to be taken so poorly, so he set his plate on the log and stood despite the aches in his muscles. “Wait.”

  Manfri and Theodosia paused and turned.

  “I didn’t mean to insult you. You and your family have…”

  Manfri held up a hand, his eyes now holding that sadness. “You haven’t offended us, friend.”

  That was new. Manfri hadn’t called him friend before.

  “I can tell you need time to yourself. Take it and don’t feel guilty.” He strode away then, Theodosia at his side.

  Isaiah mentally nodded. There were no lies to the gypsy’s words, but something was absolutely wrong. So he stole a look at the eight wagon caravan as he reclaimed his plate and sat, mind going over what he observed since he joined this family.

  One, there was a prophecy involving his son. Two, half the caravan and all the children were missing. Three, Manfri was hiding something from him, which led him to wonder what gypsy magic involved and why he couldn’t see it. And four, which he just realized. Manfri had been waiting for him. They hadn’t met by accident.

  Normal Human Being (Isaiah)

  Isaiah stripped off a piece of rabbit and slipped it into his mouth while the fire danced in his eyes. There was no longer a thought in his mind, he couldn’t deal with those as each one trailed him back to his son’s misfortunes. And when he thought of that, he thought of the empty nightstand, the single blanket and pillow, the clothes.

  He stripped off another piece, except his eyes caught a crumbling, blackened log poking out of half-burned ones and paused at his lips. His head tilted there, body seemingly drifting closer to catch how the flames licked the wood.

  The log collapsed, the others shifting into new places.

  His stomach growled with that and he slipped the mor
sel into his mouth and proceeded to chew as he directed back to the crackling fire. And that was when he caught sight of Manfri and Theodosia from between the flames. Their sad, knowing eyes watched him as they whispered.

  Isaiah turned away, curiosity about that prophecy burning its way to the forefront of his thoughts once more, and landed on a group of gypsies huddled on the next log over. They briefly made eye contact with him, and then proceeded to whisper. He turned the other way, another group sitting and whispering there as well. At last he twisted, but all were around the fire.

  “Are you all right, friend?”

  He flinched and snapped right back around to find Manfri hovering over him. His neck tilted back uncomfortably just to meet his face.

  “Sorry.” The gypsy man took up the spot at his side with that. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you again, or to disturb your thinking.”

  Isaiah shook his head. “Not a problem at all.” And he found himself rather relieved. “I am glad you did. Disturb my thinking, that is.” Then he offered a welcoming look he hoped showed he didn’t want to be alone anymore. “Sometimes I shouldn’t be left thinking.” Or not thinking.

  Manfri frowned. “Talk to me. What is wrong.”

  Isaiah looked down at his food, it was barely touched, and went for his bread this time. He broke it in half.

  “Are you not happy to be meeting up with your son?”

  He bit his lip, and then Manfri’s hand slid over his and stopped his attempts to make a sandwich. “I am a horrible father,” he finally replied.

  “Now that cannot possibly be true,” Manfri replied. “I have met Sir Nicholas, and he clearly was raised well.”

  That almost got him to smile. Both the title and the comment. But he just couldn’t get the action to come out this time as he now knew the truth. And thinking about it, the compliment didn’t even make sense. His son had grown up a rogue. Good at heart or not, his son had been a rogue. Manfri, Theodosia, and Sanctus were just being nice, so he met the gypsy man’s gaze, his own filling up, and explained. With no interruption as Manfri listened intently, nodding when needed.

  And then Isaiah burst into a sob.

  “It’s all right, friend,” Manfri finally spoke up as he scooched closer. And then Isaiah found himself in a hug. “I know for a fact Nicholas loves you. You are his prized possession. Nothing else matters to him. And he is more than he appears, trust me.”

  Isaiah shook his head and sniffled. Oh how he wished those words were true. Then he pulled away. “Even if all that is true. I don’t deserve his love. I gave him nothing to earn it.”

  “Now don’t say…”

  He snapped around “You don’t have children, Manfri,” his words came with a bite. It wasn’t intended to be rude, but it was too late now.

  The gypsy closed his mouth, face going white.

  “Children need clothes, bedtime stories, things to fill their space. I gave my son nothing. It was like he didn’t exist beyond what I saw of him. What I thought of him. He was a rogue, so I treated him as such. Then he stole money for alcohol and drugs and I gave up on him. I didn’t think he may have needed me.”

  No response came, so Isaiah rose.

  But Manfri grabbed his wrist. “This caravan is my family,” came a choked reply at last.

  Isaiah sat back down with a thump, catching the gypsy man begin to tear up.

  “And I don’t mean because we are all gypsies. Everyone here is my flesh and blood.” A tear streamed down. Just one. It vanished under Manfri’s chin. “Everyone I left in Roupan – the children, the mothers, the fathers – are my family. I would have done anything for them if they simply asked it of me. So don’t tell me I can’t possibly understand because I don’t have children. Family is like having children, and I let half of mine go to protect them.”

  Protect them? That prophecy came back. Is that why there are only eight wagons? And his own features paled.

  “What happened to your son is not your fault. You loved him the best you could, and he loved you the best he could. That is a kind of love that doesn’t require things. Material items that fill no space in one’s heart. So believe me when I say you are Nicholas’ prized possession and deserve that role.”

  And Manfri rose up this time and walked away, swiping at his eyes like a normal human being.

  Insulted (Brida)

  Brida’s eyes were wide as Manfri burst through his tangent, his hand grasping her father’s wrist firmly enough to send him back into his spot. The calm, carefree gypsy man had lost his temper. Then he simply got up and stormed off toward the wagons, cloak swishing around his legs.

  She looked back to her father with that, and she witnessed his slowly aging face fall. Her father was alone and hurting. He had just spewed out what weighed on him and gotten yelled at instead of comforted.

  Her brows snapped together at the sight, a peculiar heat rising through her being, and she stomped from her spot by the trees. If only her shoes could leave a trace as she blew past the fire.

  “Hey!” she hollered at Manfri.

  A log audibly crumbled and collapsed, sending sparks just past her face. Then her father turned up paces away, still seated on his log, and she stumbled sideways to avoid drifting straight through him.

  The gypsy man didn’t reply.

  She brought up that desire inside her to be heard as she regained her balance and trotted up faster to get on Manfri’s heals. “Hey!”

  A tingle. She shivered. Then Theodosia appeared in front of her.

  “Brother,” the woman breathed.

  “Not now, sister.” And Manfri turned toward Theodosia’s wagon and stepped to the back.

  Brida came to a stop, startled. Manfri had never gone into his sister’s wagon before. But now he was stomping up the steps, ripping the door open, and making his way right on in. Theodosia stayed on his tail so he couldn’t close the door on her.

  She twisted, confused on what to do now, and found her father where he had been left. There was no sign he had even tried to move. No sign the other gypsies cared he had just been insulted.

  Then her father stood up at last. “Excuse me,” he spoke steadily, but she could hear the restraint behind his tone.

  The gypsies all nodded, only briefly looking up at him with pitying eyes.

  Her father turned from the communal area from there and made his way toward her, arms hugging himself despite the fact his coat was magically warmed and he had just been sitting before a fire.

  It was difficult not to shake her head and sigh uselessly. “Don’t worry, father,” Brida spoke up, and then she twisted back around and fell into step with him. “I will be with you. You can talk to me.”

  And together they made their way to Manfri’s wagon.

  Nightmare (Isaiah)

  The dark of the snowy forest engulfed everything. Isaiah could only see the trees that surrounded the sleepy wagons, making it just him and the clearing. Nothing and no one else appeared to exist.

  “Father,” came an omniscient voice.

  Nicholas? Isaiah twisted, thinking it kind of sounded like his son, to find just Manfri’s wagon behind him.

  He remained alone, though.

  “Father,” came the voice again, this time more desperate. “Over here.”

  Isaiah twisted back around, and at the center of the clearing, in the middle of the cold fire pit, stood Nicholas. His son was bathed in a moonlight that hadn’t been there earlier, and it revealed heavy lidded eyes, dark circles, and sunken cheeks.

  A gasp escaped, and he nearly screamed out and rushed toward his ill son. But then he remembered the last time. His son had vanished on him, so he caught himself and cautiously stepped forward instead. “Nicholas,” he ventured as steadily as possible, “please. Let me help you.”

  “You can’t, father. I am dead.”

  His feet faltered. What? That didn’t make any sense. His arm dropped with that, a heaviness gripping it, and he re
alized his hand was inside his coat and he was holding a note. He pulled the paper out, Nicholas’ writing all over the heart shape it had been folded into so carefully. Then he looked back at his son and shook his head. “Let me help you. You are not dead yet.”

  Nicholas nodded and stepped back, arms outstretching to show the arrows that littered his body. “I didn’t make it out of Haven.”

  The world cracked, the moonlight faded.

  “Master Isaiah!” boomed a male voice, making Isaiah’s nerves rattle.

  The moonlight vanished, and now he stood in the dark, with just the silhouette of Nicholas before him.

  “Master Isaiah!”

  He turned at the voice, but now he saw nothing behind him.

  “You are dreaming, father,” Nicholas spoke up once more. “You know this isn’t real. I am not really here. I am dead.”

  “Master Isaiah, wake up!”

  His pupils darted about, trying to see into the forest. Then he returned to his son only to see he was alone again.

  “Master Isaiah!”

  “He’s sweating, brother,” entered a female voice.

  “He doesn’t have a fever. Master Isaiah, can you hear me?”

  The black of the forest swept across the clearing at last, snuffing out the wagons and the fire pit. He breathed in, preparing to join his son. His son had to be in the darkness. And he closed his eyes.

  “Master Isaiah,” the male voice resumed softly this time, and it was next to him. Right in his ear.

  Suddenly he was on his back. He could feel the fabrics of the wagon around him. And with that he groaned and opened his lids to face the gypsy siblings.

  “You were screaming,” Manfri explained as he came into view. He sat to the right, palm on Isaiah’s bare chest. At some point, the gypsy had unbuttoned his shirt.

  Isaiah drifted his attention to Theodosia from there, who was stroking back his sweaty hair from where she sat above him.