‘Hop on,’ the old man said, patting the wooden bench beside him with one hand.
Erris looked at him and the boy, at Marmot, at the books in her hands. She looked around at the village around her; the empty houses, the lifeless bodies of church soldiers lying in the street. She looked at her brother, lying broken, battered, and unconscious in the street.
Erris shrugged, nodded, placed her books on the bench beside the old man, and hopped up, turning to sit on the bench, the boys jacket now loose around her shoulders, and open at the front.
The old man smiled and clucked at Marmot, ‘Lets go horsey,’ he said as he tugged on the reigns, pulling Marmot into a turn, pulling the wagon back the way Erris had come not an hour earlier.
She was about to ask why they were headed back; where they were going; when she spotted something on the ground.
‘Wha!’ she exclaimed wordlessly, jumping off the wagon and running to the object in the road. She picked up the soldiers’ sword, still in its scabbard, the sword that Marmot had carried all this way; the sword that had caused so many problems, and ran back to the wagon holding it to her chest.
She hopped back onto the wagon wordlessly as the old man clucked at Marmot again, and they set off on the road. She didn’t know why she grabbed the sword; it should be something terrible, something that brought about horrible memories. But somehow, it reminded her of her family, and she wasn’t going to lose that.
The three of them; Erris, the old man, and the boy, were all silent as Marmot hauled them and the cart through the barricade and out of the village.
***
Silence reigned for the first few minutes of travel. It wasn’t until the cobblestone road changed back to hard packed dirt, ‘till Erris’ stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten in days, that she spoke up.
‘Do you…do you have any food?’ she asked timidly.
‘There should be some in the back of the wagon with Gel,’ the old main said, pointing back over his shoulder with one thumb. ‘There should be some bread and cheese in the canvas sack back there. If not, let me know, and I’ll get you some.’
Erris was confused about where he would get food as they headed slowly away from the only town within hours, but said nothing as she turned and knelt, leaning over into the wagon bed to find the canvas sack the old man had pointed out.
The bag wasn’t hard to find. There were only two things in the back of the wagon, and it was the only one of them that was a bag.
The other being a boy.
Erris glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as she grabbed the bag and started to rifle through it. It seemed full of parchments, paints and brushes, but she ended up finding and dragging out a napkin wrapped around some bread, slightly stale, and a piece of cheese.
She watched the boy, Gel she supposed, as she began to throw the bread and cheese into her mouth as quickly as she could swallow it.
He sat with his back against one of the sides of the wagon, a lute in his arms. He was clearly trying to do…something…with it, but she couldn’t tell what.
‘What’re you doing?’ she asked in between mouthfuls.
He looked up at her, glaring, ‘I’m trying to fix this stupid thing,’ he said, hefting the lute, ‘it broke when your brother threw me.’ The rise in his voice at the mention of her brother laid bare what he thought, laid bare his anger.
He continued glaring at her, picking idly, absently, at the lute in his lap as she swallowed another mouthful of bread.
‘How’s it broken?’
‘The head’s cracked,’ he said angrily, holding up the lute so she could see, ‘which means the pegs don’t stay tight, which means the strings won’t stay in tune, which means I can’t play.’ He tossed the broken instrument at the other side of the wagon, a hollow thumping note echoing from it as it landed.
Erris was going to try to apologize, or say something, when the old man spoke up, ‘Don’t worry Gel,’ he said, looking back over his shoulder, ‘I’ll draw you a new one when we stop.’
Gel crossed his arms and slouched against the side wall of the wagon as Erris turned back around and sat on the front bench again.
‘What do you mean you’ll draw one?’
‘You’ll see when we stop,’ he said, pulling a pipe and a box of matches out of his long jacket, striking them as Marmot continued to plod along.
Erris supposed she would have to wait till they stopped. She had questions, sure. Where were they going, what he meant when he said he’d draw a lute; how he had pulled fireballs out of his jacket earlier.
Important questions, she knew as she picked up the book of dissertations that had so distracted her earlier, brushed off its cover, and folded a few bent pages back to normal, but important questions could wait. She had nowhere else to go anyway.
Of Endings
I
As the three unlikely companions sat around a fire that night, the setting sun slowly lighting tendrils of smoke across the darkening sky, the colours of the sky and of the fire in front of them matching eerily, one lighting up the night as the other disappeared, Dan’r drew.
Erris had waited patiently, distracted by her books during the day as they travelled, distracted by the worlds they created; the thoughts they espoused. But now Marmot was unhitched from the wagon, grazing quietly, and the three travelers sat and watched as the old man drew.
He was hunched over his parchment, his left hand scratching rapidly with the piece of charcoal held between his fingers, his brow furrowed and his eyes squinting as the last of the daylight slowly disappeared. His vision depended more and more on the fitful, flickering firelight. Both the old man and the boy had been recalcitrant about what he was going to draw; about why it would matter, and Erris found herself curious.
The boy, he lounged on Erris’ right. His feet were stretched towards the flames; ‘His shoes will burn,’ she thought, though she said nothing. It wasn’t her place. Besides, stretched out like that, his arms angled behind him, forming a triangle with his back and the ground; his head bent back, staring at the sky; he looked peaceful. His hair fell back away from his face when he sat like that. In profile, the scar over his right eye was hidden, and…and he seemed almost normal, and Erris couldn’t take that from him.
Erris herself had pulled her knees in close to her chest, pulled her shift down to her ankles, and she sat; Gel’s jacket folded underneath her, her legs drawn up with her arms wrapped around them, her chin rested on her knees, watching. She wriggled her bare feet in the cold, hard grass, and just breathed The smell of the wood burning, the crackling of the fire as pockets of sap spat and burst, the scratching of the old man’s charcoal against the rough parchment, it was wonderful. The red of the fire, the sky overhead a war, half a bright, wavy orange, half a deep, dark blue, with soft specks as the stars came out. It was beautiful.
For a while, Erris was glad no-one spoke. For once, she felt no desire to read herself to sleep in the flickering candlelight. The night was too peaceful.
‘I’ll start with clothes for the girl, then food’ Dan’r said to no-one, ruining the perfect, silent moment, and snapping Erris from her reverie.
Erris watched as the old man took the parchment he had been working on, folded it to a smaller size, then crumpled it in between his hands. She wondered why he would destroy something he had drawn without even showing her them what it was.
She saw Gel sit up, cross legged, and lean forward, a grin starting to split his face, and then Dan’r grunted.
And something happened.
Whether it was a trick of the air, Erris didn’t know, but the air around his hands, it…shimmered. It shimmered and grew longer; grew translucent.
And then it stopped, and the old man was carrying a bunch of fabric in his arms.
Erris didn’t know what to say as he breathed deeply, shook his head, stepped over to her, and held the fabric out to her.
‘Here, get changed,’ he said as she took the offered material from him. ‘I have to s
tart on food before the light goes completely.’
‘Isn’t it awesome?’ she heard the boy say as Dan’r sat back down, pulled out another sheet of parchment and started to draw again, and she finally looked at what she held.
A green, long sleeved dress, and white leggings.
‘Magic?’ she asked, looking at Gel, who was still grinning.
‘Art!’ he said, grinning wider.
‘Just go change behind the wagon, girl,’ the old man said, not looking up from his parchment, ‘I’ll explain when you get back.
And she did, getting rid of the old, soiled shift; pulling on the leggings, tugging the green dress that somehow fit over her head, hidden from the fire by the wagon. In seconds she was back by the fire,
And then he did.
‘I come from far away,’ he started, taking pauses between his sentences to sketch more on the parchment. The sounds of the charcoal scratching against its rough surface lent a gravity to his words somehow. ‘Where I come from, well, Art is magic. Some of it anyway. Writing, Music, Art…they can all do something, for some people. Me? I Draw. And the things that I draw, well, some of them I can bring them to life; make them real. Like that dress.’
He put down the charcoal pencil, shook his hand out briefly, then knelt.
‘I can also make,’ he grunted, and the air shimmered in front of him again, ‘food.’
And then on the grass in front of him was bread, cheese, some chunks of what looked like dried meat, and a water-skin.
He sat back down again, pulling out yet another parchment, and motioned to Gel, who hopped up, grabbed the food from the grass, and parceled it out, some to Dan’r, some for himself, some for Erris.
She stared at the food that sat in her lap for a second, unsure, then glanced over at Gel. He was in the middle of ripping a piece of meat apart with his teeth, and when she caught his eyes, he shrugged, and continued.
Erris smelt at the cheese, then took a small bite, as Dan’r continued. It tasted…normal. There was nothing special about the cheese; anything she would have eaten back home would have tasted better.
‘I can’t make everything,’ he continued as she swallowed. It was…it wasn’t great, but it was food, ‘Some things are too complicated, or too big, and if I try to make too much I get exhausted.’
Erris started to eat more voraciously. The meat and bread were the same as the cheese. Edible, but far from delicious.
‘That’s what Artists do; we create. Musicians, they change things…’ The old man was interrupted by Gel, his mouth full of bread, ‘I’b a busician,’ he said, small bits of bread flying from his mouth before he shot up a hand to cover it, his cheeks quickly reddening from embarrassment.
‘Yes, well, Gel’s right, ‘Dan’r continued, still sketching, ‘He can change the weather, change how people think, with his music. Musicians change.’
‘And writers?’ Erris asked, her eyes wide. It all seemed so…so fantastical, so magical, but…but she had seen it happen. Dan’r had pulled a dress, and food, edible food, out of thin air. It couldn’t be real, everything she had grown up knowing said it couldn’t, but…
‘Writers, well, writers are a bit more difficult to explain. They…I suppose they modify things,’ Dan’r said before he stopped, putting down his charcoal and eating some bread before continuing, ‘They can tell things how to be. I, I suppose I never paid much attention in school, but…think of it this way. I can’t make anything that’s alive. If I draw an animal, I can make it appear, and it will look right, but, well, it won’t live. If I draw a seed and plant it, it won’t grow. Art imitates life, it can’t create it. A writer though; a good enough writer can give something a form of life. A good enough writer could take a puppet, and make it speak, or walk, at least briefly. Writers give life to things, to ideas.’
He put down the charcoal as he finished speaking.
‘Right, this is the last one for the night, so watch closely,’ he said, holding the parchment out then crumpling it between his hands.
Once again, the air in front of him shimmered, wavered and then…and then he was holding a lute. Erris couldn’t even tell when it appeared, it was just…there.
‘Here, kid,’ the old man said, his words tired as he handed the lute to the boy.
Gel took the lute with visible pleasure, sat, and began to play with the pegs, tuning the lute slowly, expertly, by ear. When he seemed done, be closed his eyes, breathed in deep, lifted his hand to begin to play, and stopped.
He opened his eyes, looked at Erris.
‘What do you want me to play about?’ he asked, his eyes wide and staring. Erris thought she saw Dan’r smile on the other side of the fire.
Erris stared back at Gel, but didn’t take long to think. His eyes were so blue…
Looking up, she gestured with one hand.
‘That,’ she said, looking back at the boy.
He looked up, took in the battle taking place in the night sky in all its glory. Then he nodded, looked back down, and began to play.
Erris had wondered at first. Dan’r and Gel had said he could play, but it was just music. She knew of church hymns, and she had once seen a parade, all drums and trumpets, loud and bleating.
She had thought nothing could make the silence, the introspection that she had found earlier while curled in her shift, any better. But then the boy started to play.
In the sky, the night fought a winning battle against the last, retreating remnants of daylight; a vast, sweeping blue wave slowly beating back and covering an ever shrinking, ever darkening orange beach.
In front of her, the camp’s small fire fought the same battle; a lone spot of light in an ever darkening landscape.
And when the music started, she could hear it as well. She could hear the quick, bright tenor notes fighting against a calm, slow, unstoppable bass, as unstoppable and unyielding as the night. She could feel as the bright, fiery beach of orange, those quick, high notes, the last resistance of the day, slowly darkened, deepened, faded into the low drone of the night.
And she thought the boy was done, and she was astounded. She had never before heard something so…so complex, so beautiful.
And then he made the stars come out.
She wanted to ask Dan’r more questions; a thousand of them had been living, growing in her head. But as Gel played, they all disappeared. None of them mattered.
The sky darkened as Gel played, and Erris couldn’t say when she fell asleep.
Intermission
The march was exhausting, and Othwaithe was tired. Tired, and in pain. His feet dragged with every step, his large frame was hunched over. He kept wanting to stop on the side, to lie down, to sleep, anything but keep walking.
‘I can’t’ he told himself as he shook his head, straightened his back. He was at the front, and he had to walk tall. He was still the Mayor, and he still had a town to lead. What was left of a town anyway.
He looked back over his shoulder, past Maerge who walked with dead eyes. The loss of Gel was hard for both of them, and she still grieved. Othwaithe had not yet had time.
The villagers trailed behind, ragged and exhausted, dirty and unfed. But they still followed, most of them. The ring of Church soldiers, pristine in their red coats, threatening with their wooden muskets, Fulhar Chaeveh at their head, the ring of soldiers kept the villagers moving, kept them walking south along the dirt road.
Othwaithe still wondered why that night had happened as he looked quickly over the villagers, doing as much of a head count as he could. Sheane and Mae were shuffling along behind Maerge, arm in arm. He would have to adopt them, after their parents… He and Maerge had always hoped one of the twins would join their family, now, with Gel gone… Othwaithe hoped the two of them could help give Maerge some solace.
They were all still there; everyone who had made it out of the village alive. Satisfied, Othwaithe turned his eyes forward, his frame beginning to stoop as he remembered once more.
***
�
�We will have to move the village soon, Maerge’ he said quietly as he and his wife sat together at the large wooden dinner table. ‘The Fog is coming, and we are running out of time. But where do we go?’ He had his head in one hand, a glass of strong drink on the other, and his wife’s hands on his back as she tried to console him, to comfort him.
‘The Church will come for us soon, and we will go with them.’ Maerge had said. ‘They will come for us, and they will protect us.’
It made Othwaithe want to laugh, now.
He was lifting his glass to his lips when the first hit to the door sounded. Louder, heavier than a knock, he was standing and pushing back the chair when the second hit sounded. He could hear splintering, muffled shouts from beyond the door.
He was pushing Maerge behind him, stepping forward to the door when the third and final hit sounded. The door splintered, tore away and fell violently inward, hanging on by one hinge. Bits of wood flew towards Othwaithe, and he raised one arm quickly against them.
And then there were Church soldiers with clubs and swords pouring through the door, and Maerge screamed.
Othwaithe charged wordlessly, knocked one soldier backwards, took an angry sidewise swipe with his right arm at another, and then he was being clubbed to the floor, kicked, as Maerge’s screams were muffled behind him.
***
He had tried to struggle, but there had been too many soldiers for him. They had pulled him out of his house, forced him down the hill to the square, where they were slowly collecting the surviving village members. They eventually brought Maerge down as well. They left Gel.
The Fulhar, their spiritual leader for years, was given command of the soldiers, and their long, arduous march began. They still would not tell Othwaithe where they were being taken, but he would do his best, he would be strong for his village.
The Fire and the Fog Page 23