by R N Merle
As Darklin explored the perimeters of the old orchard, secured within a natural barrier of woods and hills, she discovered the ivy ridden ruins of an old building, and tried to remember when she had seen them before. The ghost of a floral scent filled her nose, and a dark memory awakened inside her.
One summer night, Gressyl had bid Darklin to follow her through the woods. The warmth of the day had not yet subsided, and the leaf-trapped air was thick and clinging. Darklin felt stifled. Her skin itched and prickled with heat, and she wished she could peel off her heavy black cloak and leave it hanging on a tree. The heat did not seem to bother Gressyl, she kept moving at an energetic pace that had Darklin struggling to keep up. Gressyl eventually came to a stop under a breach in the canopy, in a place Darklin had never been before. Through the darkness, Darklin could make out a small stone ruin, wrapped in the possessive arms of bindweed and ivy.
Gressyl ushered Darklin to a broken wall, and gestured with her cane towards a bank of bushes. As she neared it, Darklin breathed in and inhaled the fragrance of flowers, drawn out and sweetened by the warm summer air. The scent was invigorating; like a lovely potion sweeping the clouds from her mind, making her feel for once fresh and alive. Her eyes flickered through the blackness to learn the source of the perfume. It was a wild rose bush, resplendent with a profusion of white briar roses. Gressyl picked off a single rose and handed it to Darklin.
Darklin took the rose in her hand and held it up to the moonlight. Her starved eyes ravenously examined the flower. She found pleasure in looking on its form; its white purity contrasted brilliantly against the inky sky, the intricate arrangement of the pink-veined petals framing the honeyed centre, how the forming dew drops reflected the moonlight like crystals. She traced its softness with her finger tips, and couldn’t resist breathing in the scent again. She wished she could somehow absorb it, to keep it alive inside herself.
‘What do you think of it, Darklin?’ Gressyl asked softly. Darklin answered without thought.
‘It’s beautiful.’ she declared in an awed tone.
‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ said Gressyl. ‘And you must learn to be wary of it. Darklin, I want you to pick every last rose from this bush. We will not leave until it is done.’
Darklin looked uncertainly at Gressyl. The bush was taller than Darklin and much wider than the span of her arms, and the flowers grew in clusters all over. She did not understand the purpose of the task, but realising she would get no further instruction, quickly seized the first stem within her reach. Her hand closed around it, and she let out a cry as several thorns sank their razor teeth into the flesh of her palm and the thin, blue veined skin that covered her bony fingers. In the light of the full moon, she looked in shock at her bloodied hand, and then examined the branches to see what had caused her injury. Tiny hooked daggers stuck out from the stems, and long, sinister thorns grew on the branches.
‘Thorns,’ said the witch. ‘You will find all beauty has its thorns. Sometimes it may take longer to pain you, but it always will, eventually. Now finish what you have been asked to do.’
Darklin dropped the rose in her hand, and slowly began tearing off the flower heads, careful not to come in contact with the armed stems. The blossoms came apart in her hand, the petals detached and fell away, floating softer than snowflakes to the ground.
To reach the roses growing above her head, she edged her arm gingerly amongst the stalks and leaves, carefully took hold of a stem between her finger and thumb, drew it towards her, and with her other hand pulled off the rose head. She succeeded in picking several this way, without being scratched or pricked.
‘I want you to hurry, time is pressing,’ called out Gressyl.
Darklin looked up at the clearing. She could not detect any change looming, the sky had not been touched by a single ray of light. She looked over at Gressyl in confusion, but taking in the witch’s steely expression, knew better than to argue. She turned back to the bush and tried to be quicker. Haste made Darklin careless. She grabbed the stems in the wrong places, and the thorns dug into her fingers. She drew her arm away in pain, and caused more injury as the thorns clawed and dragged across her skin. She was hot and agitated, and felt like crying. Her fingers were raw and violently throbbing, and there were still countless roses that she needed to pick.
‘Hurry!’ Gressyl growled, ‘Hurry!’
Darklin looked over and saw that Gressyl had raised her cane. Darklin knew exactly what it meant and panicked. She attacked the flowers in a heedless frenzy, snatching frantically at the leaves and petals; ignoring how scratched, splintered, pricked and torn her skin became, only knowing that she must be quick or else…. The heat and the fragrant air made it hard to breathe, she felt sick and faint. Soon, the white roses could not be touched without receiving a pattern of crimson fingerprints. Mounds of wounded petals covered the ground at Darklin’s feet.
When the last rose had been picked, Darklin collapsed to her knees in exhaustion. She hardly dared to look down at her shaking hands. Her skin was blood drenched and ragged; deep scores of red trailed up and down her white arms. Movement was agony. She closed her eyes and waited for the bleeding to stop. She wished she had never even seen the wretched roses; that she had never been drawn in by their treacherous scent. At that moment, she made a deathless vow to herself, never to take pleasure in beauty again, never to trust what attracted, to understand that all beauty was the same as a rose bush; deceiving and loaded with cruel thorns…
And here it was, the same bush. Darklin looked down at her scarred hands and wrists, and held back a wave of nausea. Determined not to be afraid, she crossed the open space and stood in front of it. The flowers were not yet out, but the buds were developing. Darklin pulled at one of the hard spheres, severing it from the stalk. She could see the thorns clearly in the daylight; the warning menace of their barbed edges.
Anger boiled in her blood. She wanted to destroy it. She stepped away, picked up the first long stick she could find, and beat the bush with all her might. A rain of old leaves and feeble twigs fell to the earth. When she stopped, Darklin could see that little damage had been done. She was about to turn away defeated, but then realised; she had more power than was simply human. She could use another force of destruction, one far more effective.
The next day, Darklin returned to the rose bush, bringing with her a vial of vermillion coloured potion. With a smile of satisfaction, she sprinkled it over the branches and buds, watching the red droplets burn holes clear through the fresh green leaves. She repeated the process each day until all that remained were blackened, broken stems. She joyously stamped them down with her boot, and they crumbled into a pile of black ash. Something between a laugh and a shout of triumph escaped from her throat, and she jumped up and down in an ecstasy of revenge upon the rose bush’s grave.
After that, the old, forgotten orchard quickly became her favourite haunt. The open spaces were a good place to feel the sun without the impediment of too many leaves, and if it rained, she found there was a convenient den of hollow undergrowth surrounding an old cherry tree that kept her warm and dry. But there was more to it than simple practicalities. The orchard had an atmosphere of its own; it was not full of dark shadows, like the denser parts of the woods, it was full of light, somewhere she felt tranquil and free.
On a Sunday in mid-April, Darklin woke intuitively knowing that the outside world was bathed in unbroken sunlight. Rushing from the house and running to the nearest clearing, she soon found that she was right. The sky was violet blue and cloudless, the sun high and climbing.
As she darted through the trees towards the orchard, Darklin felt a wave of pleasure, knowing she had the whole afternoon to herself, that didn’t have to be filled with worrying about what Gressyl had planned, or working to please Vardyn. She was free to think and do whatever she liked.
Her legs were weak and her heart hammering by the time she reached the orchard. She came to an abrupt halt under an ancient oak, where undeterred beams of l
ight rested brightly on the trunk. She collapsed against the bark, gasping for breath. Darklin was still careful not to be seen, and draped herself in her cloak each time she left the house. But today, she was so hot that she removed it and placed it next to her on the mossy soil.
She looked around. Bluebells covered the ground and she avoided brushing against them; mistrusting of their fragrance and delicate beauty. She listened for birdsong. There was an almost constant murmuring in the woods, an on-going melodic conversation held between the different species, which Darklin was able to tolerate. But if their songs became too loud, or too close, their intensity unsettled her, and she would scare them away by shaking branches. Today, she could only hear twittering away in the distance. She closed her eyes, and basked in the sunlight.
Darklin passed the afternoon lazily napping in the soft heat. When eventually she rose, her legs were still tired from running. She had stayed out as long as she dared for one day and was suddenly cautious. What if it was today Gressyl noticed she was gone? As she hurriedly stretched her limbs, her ears caught the sound of a voice in song. It was not the voice of a bird, but a song of words; sung softly and lowly by a man. She listened more intently. The music drifted through the trees filling her mind and taking her over. Compelled beyond thought, her feet moved toward the sound. She crept over fallen trunks and squeezed between branches. The nearer the voice got, the more she hurried, fearful that it might stop at any moment, and she would never learn its source. At last she saw him. She almost rushed straight into the clearing, almost revealed herself, but caught hold of a branch to stop herself in time.
On the far side of the orchard, he stood under a dome of buttercup light, his hands on his hips, his face tilted to the sun, a carpet of glowing dandelions at his feet. She studied him, unconsciously learning every aspect of his appearance. His face was ruled by strong features; gently arched brows framed a pair of large, lash guarded eyes. He had a straight, freckled nose, his mouth rested in a peaceful expression, and the curve of his chin extended into a defined jaw. It was a handsome face, but it was his colouring that made him beautiful. His hair hung in truly golden waves, his cheeks warmed to a delicate pink, and his eyes were green.
He bent down and picked up his axe from where he had rested it against a tree; its blade glinted in the sunlight. Darklin noticed that a pile of cut branches lay by where he was working. He went up to a young ash tree, and ran his hand softly down the length of the bark in a meditative way. He gracefully swung the axe over his shoulder and plunged it down into the tree.
The sound of the axe biting into the wood, snapped Darklin out of her fixation. She shook her head, dazedly realising what she was doing, and how she should have already returned by now. She closed her eyes and opened them again, almost expecting the boy to vanish in the time between. But he didn’t. She turned away, stumbled, then ran from him as fast as she could. She did not stop until she reached the witch’s house.
She slipped back into her room and lay down on her bed. She immediately thought about the boy, remembering each of his movements, how the light struck him at every turn. She wondered who he was, and why he was working so far into the wood. She didn’t understand why he so fascinated her. She had seen many people when she had visited Fallenoak, and had hardly given any of them a second thought. He was just someone going about his business, he did not matter. Nothing had happened, he had not seen her. There were no consequences. But as she tried to think about something else, his image would not leave her. Whether she opened her eyes or closed them, he was all that she could see. She grew frustrated. She concentrated with all her strength to block him out of her thoughts, but it was impossible.
Hours slid by and Darklin became seriously worried that something had gone wrong with her brain, that it had become stuck or frozen somehow. For a moment, she studied the image behind her eyes, noticing how it made her heart quicken and her stomach flutter, her face grow hot to the touch. Like a kind of fever, she thought, now believing herself to be unwell. I need to rest, she told herself, closing her eyes, assuming her fixation with the boy was caused by some kind of delirium.
That night as she sat down to eat her meal, Darklin was even less hungry than usual. Another symptom, she thought, as she took in tiny mouthfuls, trying to stick to her routine as normal. She did not like the idea of Gressyl noticing her illness, and being put under her scrutiny. She cleared away her bowl and prepared to fetch the water. She went to the nail by the door where her cloak always hung, and realised with horrifying clarity, that she had left it under the oak tree where she had sat that afternoon.
With very slight turns of her head, she subtly looked over at Gressyl, desperately hoping that Gressyl was not watching her. Gressyl was staring into the fire as usual. Darklin slid over to where the bucket lay, soundlessly picked it up by the handle, and slipped out of the door, closing it softly behind her. She was aware that for the first time she had not announced her departure to Gressyl, and that Gressyl had not responded in kind, though she was sure Gressyl would have something to say when she returned.
Darklin headed toward the forgotten orchard as fast as she could. All the while, she realised that there was nothing she could do to escape a punishment. If she was lucky enough to find the cloak, if it had not been picked up by that boy; she was sure that Gressyl would still know something was wrong, because it would take her an age to get to the orchard and back, far longer than it should to fetch the water.
Breathing hard and gasping for air, she eventually reached the forgotten orchard. She found the oak tree and saw her cloak, still lying there. Feeling weak with relief, she pulled it around her shoulders, noticing how it had become damp with evening dew, and instead of carrying the fusty, smoky odour of the witch’s house, it now smelled of the fresh greenery of the woods.
She made her way back to the water pool, dragging her feet as she walked, not only through tiredness, but also her reluctance to return and face Gressyl. She filled the bucket and headed back to the house. As she crept silently into the room, she saw that Gressyl was still looking down at the fire. Darklin’s heart pounded in her ears. Her hands shook as she crossed the room, unsettling the water, sending it over the sides of the bucket and onto the stone floor. She sidled up to the bucket by the cauldron and awkwardly poured the water in, waiting for Gressyl to speak. But Gressyl did not even look up. Darklin was surprised by the witch’s silence and also disconcerted, wondering if Gressyl was waiting for her to finish her chores before punishing her. She quickly left the room and went straight back to the water pool, sure that this time when she returned, the witch would unleash her fury. But again, when she timidly walked back through the door, Gressyl did not say a word.
Darklin took up the axe and went out into the wood, feeling extremely confused and not a little astonished. Gressyl had not even noticed that she been gone for an unusual length of time. It was not like her to be so inattentive. She wondered if she too had the illness, and that was what had distracted her.
The next day as Darklin lay in her room, she began to wonder if she was really ill at all. She understood that people with fevers were not generally able to run, as she had, through the woods last night. If she was not ill, what was wrong? Why was this boy’s face still haunting her? She trawled through her limited knowledge of the world in search of an answer. She remembered how she had been drawn by his voice. Was it possible that the words of his song had been a spell? Had she fallen under a curse? She did not know if there was such a thing as a male witch, but he had definitely done something to her. Then she recalled the warning from the rules of Vardyn:
“Beware the trap of beauty. Beauty is alluring, and you must be mindful of what it lures you to. Nature has its own beauty and it too is full of traps. The sunlight may dazzle you with its shine, but it will also expose and betray you. You might take delight in what daylight conjures; a sparkling stream, a bank of colourful flowers; your ear may have a liking for birdsong. But these are all distractions, designed
to put you off your guard and make you vulnerable.
Nature may even make some humans beautiful, and that too is a hidden force made to draw you. You must beware of these people; they hold the power to attract and are dangerous to you. You must take extra care that these people are punished; their life has been made easy because of their beauty, and they are vain and conceited.
No good can come from beauty; it is the bait for an unseen trap. Turn your eyes from beauty. Remember, it is an illusion, and if you try to gather it, it will always bring you pain.”
He was without question beautiful, his bright, golden hair, and eyes the colour of…Darklin thought a moment trying to pin down where she had seen the colour before. Darklin grew very still. ‘Rose leaves,’ she murmured. His eyes were the exact colour of a rose leaf.
CRASH!
Gressyl’s cane thundered against her door, and Darklin let out a short shriek of alarm. She flattening her back against the cold wall and waited for Gressyl to burst in and scold her. But when the cane sounded twice more upon the door, she realised the sound was only meant to wake her, not frighten her. Darklin steadied her nerves, taking in deep breaths, and went out to eat her meal.
As she chewed on some gristle, Darklin considered what she should do about the boy. She was drawn to him, and knew now it was his beauty that had her enchanted, just as the rules had forewarned. His rose-leaf eyes should have been a warning. He was so beautiful, he must indeed be a fearsome threat. How could she put an end to it?
When she had finished her chores, Darklin commenced her studies, and was grateful to have something else to focus on. Instead of the details of spells, Gressyl now tested her knowledge of Fallenoak; who lived where, what their weaknesses were, what spells had been used on them, their level of suspicion and awareness, and the places where she would have to be most cautious. At the back of her mind the boy was still there, but she did her best to ignore him. At the end of the test, Gressyl paused before returning to her chair and said the words that Darklin had been dreading.