“They always manage to grab a chicken,” she said to herself as she made her way through the already open gates, past the young guards scratching at their new uniforms, and on towards the church. She glanced over at the hospital as she climbed the stone steps. How quickly it has become the hospital, instead of the hall and school, she thought.
She felt a sense of peace wash over her as she stepped into the church. Perhaps it was just that it was a few degrees cooler and so much quieter than the outside, but it never failed to give her a sense of calm. It was an impressive structure, even more impressive when she thought about how quickly it had been built. High stone walls with expensive, leaded glass windows gave way to a vaulted ceiling. Rows of silent pews led towards the altar, with its beautifully engraved lectern, behind which stood a statue of a hooded figure depicting the Lord of New Days. The figure held one hand out in welcome, as if asking the viewer to take it.
Hannah walked softly between the rows of pews, heading for the altar. Even at this early hour, all of the tall thick candles were lit. A woman stepped out from behind the deep red curtain that concealed a doorway leading to the back. It took a moment or two for Hannah to recognize her as Sarah, the miller's wife. She stopped as she saw Hannah, and rested the broom on the floor. “Can I help you?” she asked, in a proprietorial manner.
Hannah cleared her throat, unsure of her own voice. “I...I was looking for Father Trallen, if he has a few moments?” she asked.
“I'll go and see,” Sarah said, looking her up and down with disapproval, though at what Hannah could only guess.
The church suddenly felt cold and Hannah hugged herself, rubbing her arms, as she examined the statue again. Despite the fact it was carved from white stone, it seemed sinister and a chill coursed through her. The figure was supposed to be asking to hold hands, to show you the way. To Hannah, however, it seemed that the figure sought to lead you astray, to lead you onto darker paths. She chided herself for being ridiculous, and then turned as the door behind the curtain creaked lightly.
“Hannah,” Trallen said with a warm smile as he stepped out to take her hands. “I didn't expect to see you until later on this afternoon. You were up so late in the hall.”
“I know, Father,” she replied, a slight quiver in her voice. “I wondered if maybe you might have time to talk for a few minutes?” Her voice was hushed and hesitant, and had none of its usual calm assurance.
His expression changed to one of concern. “Of course, my dear. Why don't we go into my office?” He opened the door and ushered her through. The back of the church was simple, a small kitchen and living quarters and a cosy study. She followed him silently through the narrow hall, ignoring the almost possessive look she received from Sarah as she passed.
Trallen went into the study and settled into a comfortable looking chair behind a large desk. He waved her into a chair and folded his hands on the desk. “Now, how can I help you, Hannah?” he asked, gently.
“I don't know where to start.” she laughed, suddenly nervous.
“Is something bothering you? I must say, you don't look yourself.” Trallen said, his voice full of paternal concern.
She looked around. The room was lined with bookshelves housing more books than she had ever seen in one place. Deep red curtains hung at the window and a large fireplace filled another wall. She wondered for a moment just how much wealth this church had. Trallen had certainly spared no expense since the day he arrived. She forced herself to meet his gaze and swallowed.
“Do you ever dream, Father?” she asked in a voice she hardly recognized as her own. It was small and broken. Desperate.
“Dream?” He looked confused for a moment. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. Don't we all?”
“This is just between us, isn't it?” she asked, as the thought occurred to her.
“Of course, Hannah. You needn't worry about anything like that. Now please, tell me what troubles you.”
It was hard to get the words out to start with and then, like a dam had failed, they flew from her mouth in a torrent. The strange figure in the kitchen, how he'd changed into that monster, and then the flash of blue sparks as she defended herself with the poker. The distance that had grown between her and Khorin, and finally the dreams that she couldn't seem to shake off. Trallen's face was impassive throughout.
“And so, when Khorin and Devin came in and found you,” Trallen prompted, “what did you tell them?”
“Khorin sent Devin upstairs.” Hannah pressed her palms together between her knees as her eyes pricked and she bit the inside of her cheek. “We talked and I told him that something had attacked me.”
“And what did he say?”
“He didn't believe me. He thought I'd had a walking dream.” She sniffed and rummaged in her skirts for a handkerchief.
“What do you think?” the man smiled. “Do you think it was a dream?”
“I don't know, Father. I mean, it was just so real. I had bruises on my hips from where I hit the floor, but I suppose if it had been a walking dream…”
She shook her head suddenly and spoke with conviction. “No. No, it wasn't a dream, I'm sure of it.”
“Sometimes, Hannah, dreams are sent to tell us something.” Trallen leaned back in his chair and looked up at the small window.
“Like what?” Hannah replied.
“I'm not sure, but the fact you keep having the same dream would seem to support this idea.” He stood. “Would you like some tea?”
He didn't believe her. He was being nice about it, but clearly he thought it was all a dream too. It was all too much and she stood in a sharp motion, clutching her handkerchief in a fist. “No. Thank you, Father, but no. I've wasted too much of your time already.”
“Now, Hannah,” he said, reaching out for her hands. “Don't take it like that. You've not wasted anybody's time.”
“Except perhaps my own,” she said, with some heat. “It's clear you don't believe me.”
“My dear, we all have dreams that confuse and even scare us sometimes…”
She cut him off, raising her index finger in front of him. “It was not a dream!” she said, biting off each word. She threw the door open and nearly barged into the mousy woman in the hallway, who tumbled away from where she'd clearly had her ear pressed to the door.
“As for you,” Hannah said, rounding on the woman, “you ought to be home with your husband instead of eavesdropping in here. He's just lost his only child, for pity's sake. It's disgusting the way you're carrying on. The whole village is talking about it!” With that, she swept down the narrow hallway, leaving Sarah with her hand pressed to her mouth and her cheeks flushed, as she exchanged guilty looks with Trallen.
***
He awoke, in some confusion, in a makeshift bed. It was little more than a pile of straw, well-covered with thick blankets and sheets, but straw nonetheless. Still, it was warm and the thick blankets under the sheets kept the straw from poking through and scratching too much. He rubbed his eyes and ran a dry tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to clear the stale taste as he looked around the room. It was well lit, with two large windows and a lantern burning in the corner. A large slate stood on a stand in one corner of the room, stained a paler colour with chalk dust. Tables and benches had been stacked in another, presumably moved to make room for the four beds. He tried to haul himself to a sitting position, gasping in pain as the movement pulled at the wound in his side.
“Oh good. You're awake,” a voice said, as he lowered himself back down into the bed with a grimace.
“I suppose I am,” he managed, in a weak voice.
“How do you feel?” The voice belonged to a red-haired girl of perhaps fifteen summers. She crouched next to his pallet, her plain grey dress pooling about her feet.
“Tired,” he managed. “Thirsty.”
“I suppose that's to be expected,” she replied. “Do you think you're up to trying to drink some water?” He nodded. She moved to a table in the corner and splashed
some water from a jug into a small bowl. Kneeling down beside him, she set the bowl on the floor. “Do you want me to help you sit up a little?”
“Please,” he said. His voice was a dry croak.
She pulled gently at his shoulders, forcing him upright, as she wedged folded blankets down behind him. He coughed most of the water out as she supported his head and held the bowl to his lips, but he managed a few sips.
“Is that any better?” she asked.
He cleared his throat and managed a weak smile. “Much,” he said. “What's your name?”
She laughed. “That was going to be my next question.” Her hand went to her long hair, which was tied back in a plait. “Erinn,” she said. “What can I call you?”
He frowned slightly at the strange way she'd phrased it, almost as if she were inviting him to choose one. “My name,” he laughed. “It's been so long since I've used it, I've almost forgotten.” She looked at him expectantly. “Obair,” he said. “My name is Obair.”
“That's a nice name,” she said, standing and crossing the room to check on the occupant of another bed, an older woman with dark hair. She seemed to still be asleep or unconscious. Erinn glanced back at him. “Are you having any pain?” she asked.
“Some.” He twisted in the bed, trying to find a position where the wound didn't pull.
“I can get you something for it, if it's bad. We have a tea.”
“Willow bark and birch?” he guessed.
She nodded and he pulled a face. “I think I'd rather be in pain.”
“It's not that bad,” she said, with an amused look.
He looked around, noting the sun streaming through the windows. “What day is it? Where am I?”
“It's Dawnings,” she replied. “The twenty-third. We found you five days ago and brought you back here. How much do you remember of what happened?”
“Is it full moon yet?” he asked, ignoring her question. She gave him an odd look. “Not yet, no. Not for three or four days, I think. Why?”
“That's something at least,” he said, softly to himself. He looked up at her. “Where is here, exactly?”
She flushed. “Sorry, I didn't think. You're in Widdengate, on the edge of The Wash.”
He nodded slowly. “What do I remember? I remember a strange man on the road.” His gaze slipped from her eyes and drifted around the room as if lost and seeking a place to settle. His forehead creased in thought. “He spoke a language I didn't recognize, which is a bit odd in itself really. He seemed upset about something, but we couldn't understand each other. I gave up in the end but when I tried to move past him, he attacked me.”
“What about the tower?” she said, with a catch in her voice.
“Tower? I'm sorry, Erinn, I don't remember anything about a tower.”
“That's where we found you. What were you doing there, anyway?” Her demeanour had changed. Her eyes were intent, but her lips were pinched. She was holding something back.
“Am I a captive here, then?”
“What?” She looked shocked and stepped back from him. “No! Of course not!”
“It's just your questions seemed...well...you know...”
“Oh, Obair, I'm sorry.” Her face crumbled, and her poise and assurance dropped away from her. For the first time, she sounded like a fifteen-year-old girl. “It's just that when we found you...when I found you...you were with someone who was...close to me.”
“Is he here?” Obair looked around at the other beds, but only one was occupied.
“No, he...he was dead when we found you. He'd been attacked.” She sniffed, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I'd hoped you'd be able to explain things and answer some questions.”
He lay back into the blankets and sighed. “No, Erinn, I'm sorry I have no answers for you. Only more questions, I imagine.”
“I've tired you,” she said, leaning in to look at his eyes. “I'm sorry. I'll leave you to rest.”
“No, please.” He reached out and caught her arm, but let go quickly as she looked down at his hand. “It's just that it's been a very long time since I've been able to talk to anyone.”
“Alright, but only for a little while, or Father Trallen will have my hide. If Hannah doesn't have it first, that is!” She fetched a chair, scraping it along the floor to his bedside. “What would you like to talk about? Where are you from, anyway?”
“A question first, if I may?” He waited for her nod. “What do you know about faerie stories?”
***
Hannah was still fuming as she walked into the hospital, but the sounds and smells of the place soon drove the thoughts of Trallen from her mind. The ever-present sound of crying, combined with the low hum of conversation, and the constant smell of boiling water and willow-bark tended to put things into perspective. There were people here who had far bigger problems than dreams.
A blonde woman, in her middle years, looked up from where she crouched next to one of the beds closest to the doorway. A young girl with a nasty cut on her leg, which had turned sour, lay in the bed crying as the woman applied a new poultice. She stood as Hannah approached, brushing her hair from her face with the back of her hand as she turned to face her.
“How are we doing this morning, Lyra?” Hannah asked. The woman had been a godsend really. She'd arrived with one of the first group of refugees, and presented herself as soon as they'd begun turning the school into an infirmary. Though not fully trained, she was a good stretch closer to being a hedge doctor than Hannah would ever be, and Hannah deferred to the woman's judgement as a matter of course.
“We're getting there, I think,” Lyra replied, as she stood. “Three more gone since yesterday.”
“Gone? I thought we hadn't lost anyone since the first day?”
“No!” the blonde woman laughed. “Gone as in able to leave. Not the other gone.” She laughed again as Hannah breathed a visible sigh of relief.
“Are you about ready to hand over, then?” Hannah asked.
“I think so. There's not much to report, really. Most are on the mend now. Oh, and the old man Erinn found at the tower is awake. She's in there with him now.”
Hannah raised her eyebrows at that. They hadn't expected him to live, which was one of the reasons Lyra had insisted on putting him in the back room. “People who are sick don't need to be watching others dying,” she'd said. “Getting well is as much in your head as it is in your body, and if you watch others falling by the wayside, it makes you lose hope.” It had made an odd kind of sense to Hannah, so she'd gone along with it. Besides, they'd been running low on space anyway.
“Right, well, get you gone then, girl,” she said. “You look all done in.” She didn't actually. She was one of those annoying people who always looked fresh regardless.
The woman gave her a penetrating look. “I'm fine, Hannah. Actually if anything, you look more tired than I feel. Is everything alright?”
“Yes, fine,” Hannah said, with a lightness of spirit that she didn't feel. “Just not sleeping much at the moment.”
“Well, don't let this place drive you too hard, okay? You're no good to anyone if you're falling down in the middle of the day.”
“Yes, Mother,” Hannah said and stuck out her tongue.
“I'm serious, Hannah.” she said without cracking a smile.
“I know. I'll look after myself, I promise.” Hannah replied. “Now go on with you.”
“Now who's mothering?” Lyra teased, as she left.
Hannah stood for a moment as she took in the room. The majority of the beds were filled with people who probably shouldn't be in them any longer, but there was no other place in the village to put them. The camp outside of the walls was barely fit for a dog, and she had problems sending anyone to it. She walked through to the back, returning waves from various patients and visitors on the way.
Hannah stopped in the narrow corridor as her fingertips touched the door of the back room, listening to the voices coming from inside.
&nbs
p; “...just stories for children, aren't they?” Erinn was saying.
“Are they, though?” asked the old man.
“Well of course they are, Obair,” Erinn laughed. “What else would they be?”
“I'll come to that,” Obair said. “Let me ask you this first. What do the fae do in these stories?”
“The fairies, you mean? Well, lots of things, really. They come in the night, and steal cakes and food. They pester farmers, and bother sheep and pigs. Oh, and sometimes they steal babies and replace them with a fairy child.”
“Hardly topics for a child's story, wouldn't you say?” Obair said. “Can you think of a single story where the fae are nice? Or friendly?”
There was a long pause before Erinn finally replied. “You know, I don't think I can. Isn't that odd? I never thought of that before.”
“So then these tales are not so much stories, as they are warnings, then.” Obair said.
“I suppose you could look at it like that.” Erinn giggled suddenly. “Are you saying that the fairies are going to come out from under their toadstools and get us all, Obair?”
“Did you ever play chase as a child and hold up your crossed fingers to stop someone from catching you?” the man asked.
“I suppose.” Erinn's confusion at the change of topic was clear in her voice. “We'd all shout 'fainites' and that would make you safe for a minute or two.”
“It's not 'fainites', Erinn,” Obair said softly. “It's 'fae nights'. It means that everything stops on the nights of the fae. All games and all foolishness cease because, on those nights, mankind must do everything it can to stay safe.”
Erinn laughed uncomfortably as he carried on. “What about the old skipping rhyme, 'Iron to Keep the Fae Away'?” He hummed a few bars.
“'I'm to Keep a Fairer Way'? I know that one,” Erinn said.
“Sing it for me?”
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