CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk (The Wish trilogy)

by Russell Thomson

  Cloak walked respectfully behind his guardian father his hood pulled tight over his smooth moon dome. His twin step sisters walked with their mother guardian, the pair skipping and giggling, happy to obey any call to heel. Cloak’s long jerkin and embroidered breeches were overly large. They had belonged to his older brother as had his boots which, although well polished and smart, hurt his feet. By the time they reached the doors of the temple, the incessant drizzle had soaked through his cloak and had left wet stains on the shoulders and back of his good jerkin. Inside, the temple was already full of worshipers, the heady scent of burning incense mixing with the smell of warm damp wool.

  Throughout Master Rush’s sermon, Cloak remained moody. He was fidgety and impatient for the sermon to finish, singing the songs of praise half-heartedly and barely mumbling the required response to scripture. The sermon over, Cloak followed his guardians out of the temple and into the large vestibule. With the rain still falling steadily, many high families remained, congregating in small groups for social chat whilst waiting for their covered carriages to arrive. Cloak fumed, time was against him, indeed, if they dallied much longer at the temple the tide would be against.

  With the rain still falling, the walk back to the house was thankfully brisk. Hanging his clothes to dry, Cloak swiftly donned his well worn chore clothes, gathered up his satchel and mud sandals and headed for the delta. He was late. The old punt moored at the second pontoon was half filled with water and the makeshift baler was nowhere to be seen. Unable to turn the craft over, Cloak rolled up his sleeves and started to bale by hand, scooping the peaty water out of the punt until it was light enough to push up on its side and pour out the silty water that remained. As Cloak punted down the channel, the muddied water from the fens mingled with clear salt waters of the sea. Despite the push of the incoming tide, the fresh water flow fed by the heavy upstream rains pushed the small craft swiftly along. The rain had all but stopped, the clouds had risen and with them so had Cloak’s spirits. As he poled the punt between the islets, he found his thoughts returning again and again to the words of the teller and his prentice. He knew there were more questions than answers but found no way to stop his mind mulling over every word, deciphering and dissecting them in a vain attempt to reveal either some hidden inner meaning or the depth of their lies.

  The flow in the river waters slowed and stopped as the tide and the flood balanced each other out. From Swan Mussel Gully, Cloak punted across the soft waters, past the islet where the hide stood, and out towards the isle where he had first encountered Blacksky and Button. The islet was set on the far side of Spider Channel just upstream from a long narrow bar known locally as Deadlog Inch. As he approached, Cloak scanned the reeds. The narrow ring of exposed mud that still surrounded the tiny isle was free of footprints but to Cloak’s relief, the tall wall of sedge and grass on the north side of the islet showed signs of recent damage, bent and broken fronds marking someone’s passage into the centre. As he drew closer, the waters shallowed markedly, forcing him to don his mud sandals and wade, dragging the little craft behind him until he could secure it in the reeds. The lack of footprints in the mud should have told its own tale but it was not until he entered the isle and found the clearing unoccupied that his heart sank. At the centre of the isle, a broken reed stalk had been pressed firmly into the ground, a small note tucked securely into the split end. From the looks of the paper, the scrap had been torn from the margins of a book, the message read ‘Not safe. Come again tomorrow.’ No apology, no explanation, just ‘Not safe.’ Cloak turned the slip over and read the tiny script on the other side hoping for an explanation but the words were meaningless ‘When you meet him, ask the one eyed warrior if he can see beyond your veil.’ Cloak cursed, pulling the reed angrily from the ground, snapping the stalk apart again and again before throwing it high into the tall grass. ‘Not safe,’ shouted Cloak, ‘for who, and who was this one eyed warrior you dirty stinking godless dastards.........tomorrow indeed. Stick a crab up your arse Master Blacksky I will not return tomorrow.’

  Cloak left the islet in a rage, cursing loudly as he retraced his steps, his eyes searching the numerous approach routes for any sign of Blacksky and Button. As the tide rose higher, the long shanked wading birds finally fled the delta, taking to the air in vast flocks, retreating to higher ground, defeated yet again by the tide. Cloak’s anger fuelled his efforts as he poled the narrow punt across the flooded flats. Working hard to counter the press of the tide and with the waters steadily deepening, Cloak struggled to cross the deeper gullies, his efforts leaving him ruddy and sweating. By the time he had tied the punt to its mooring, the sun was just shy of mid morning. Behind him, the sea had now reclaimed the vast flats, its near flawless surface glistening under a clearing sky. Fed by melting snows the silty spring floods that swelled the river were a powerful force, nevertheless, in the daily fight for supremacy, the river would lose, bettered by the irrepressible flood of the moon tide. It was god’s will and Cloak knew it would ever be so.

  Being a High Holy Day, the Wharf Road was unusually quiet, the carters who regularly plied backwards and forwards from wharf to warehouse enjoying a short but welcome rest. Angry beyond words, Cloak slapped his mud caked sandals down hard onto the wooden jetty, the impact only serving to spray his face with spots of black mud, an action that triggered a string of meaty oaths. His High Moon Day morning had been wasted, he had been a fool to trust the Teller and his Shill, they had lured him, used his lack of a crest to abash him and had in his eyes deliberately sought to wound his pride.

  As he jogged back towards town, the clouds returned, the puffy clouds replaced by a grey blanket. With the East Tower Gate only half a mile away the rain started in earnest, the fine drizzle quickly replaced by blinding downpour that stung his face and bit into his exposed skin. As he dashed for the shelter of the gate, his wet clothes chaffed his skin, the discomfort fuelling Cloak’s ire and turning it into hot squall of anger.

  Those dastards would be drinking seaweed ale in some tavern near the inner harbour, conning a berth from some barge trash pirates, tattling how they duped the moon headed son of the Delta’s High Blade, collecting a wager no doubt for their lark. He had been taken for a fool. Blacksky and Button were just as he first thought, crooked theivers and folk of low talent. They had lost their catch out on the flats then had failed to hook him in the barn. This time the bait had been cast out and he had foolishly swallowed it again. How they must have laughed as they played me, thought Cloak. Well, one thing was sure, this little fish had sharp teeth and would bite back.

  Cloak increased his pace, running hard up the avenue towards his home tower. He was too late, the temple bell was already tolling for the Full Tide Sermon, he had cut his time too tight, so tight that by the time he reached the house the family had already departed........this was a bad sign. With no time to clean and change Cloak raced for the temple. Heart pounding and muscles burning he was barely a hundred yards from the threshold when the bell stopped tolling. Gasping and sweating Cloak slipped onto the end of the rear pew, his wooden sandals clacking noisily on the tiled floor. Further forward high heads turned, a number scowling and mumbling their disapproval. He was a mess, stinking of black mud and clad like a common crest he looked more like a half drowned barge rat than the stepson of the Sword of the Keep. He had shamed his family in public and his punishment would be harsh.

  Cloak had sung and prayed fervently all through the High Tide Sermon but to no avail. Frogmarched back to the house he had barely crossed the threshold when the first blow fell. The haranguing that followed was over quickly, the birching was fierce and when he failed to answer or respond satisfactorily the backhand swipes to the side of the head knocked him to the ground. When his father guardian finally returned to duty, Cloak breathed a deep sigh of relief and left the tower house for the solitude of the old barn. Although the rain had stopped and the clouds had risen Cloak’s mood remained thunderous. He had had planned to spend the noon on the fens, p
unting the brackish channels fishing for eels to sell for his own gain. The low lying lands east of the Wharf Road had been cut, banked and drained many years ago. The new fields grew no crops, the recovered lands capable only of bearing coarse grasses, salt tolerant, blue green, sharp edged and for now only fit for goats to graze. The straight channels dug out to drain the new land held few fish but teemed with red clawed crayfish and eels, slimy and silver backed, a bounty worth a copper ha’penth a foot from the smoke house. Cloak had only three ha’penth to his name and the extra coin would have been welcome. He had lost both his pride and the proffered coppers and the taste of defeat left him feeling cheated and bitter.

  ---

  Each step of Cloak's climb up the ladder to his haven on the upper level of Mad Crook's Barn made him wince in pain. The debris from the collapsed roof lay scattered over the ground floor, the fallen timbers split and mouldering, the old thatch sodden, blackened and rotting. He knew the ruins held their fair share of vermin but the upper floor where Cloak sat alone offered no food or forage so was seldom trespassed. Cloak gently rubbed the welts on his arms and legs in a vain attempt to ease the hot pain. The raised skin remained very tender, the back of his thighs in particular feeling as though they had had been branded rather than just birched. Cloak eased himself down onto the small bale near the window, cautious to avoid his worst hurts. Outside, the sun finally broke through again, its eternal vigour tearing holes in the blanket of cloud that relentlessly pressed in from the west. The sunlight brought Cloak no joy, his mind full of angry hate. Hate for his father guardian, his hard hands and his inflated importance. Hate for the dastard teller Blacksky and his scummy little runt of a prentice and hate of himself and his crestless dome.

  Cloak froze mid breath at the faint sound of the door frame being eased back. As he twisted his body round to face the ladder the birched skin beneath his vest burnt red hot, the pain from his beating fuelling his already sharpened concentration. One Button climbed the ladder first followed by Barebranch Blacksky. As they stood momentarily at the top of the hatch, Cloak contemplated rushing them, pushing them down to the floor below before escaping the tower by the window to Miss Charm’s Yard. Button and Blacksky remained silent, their heads bowed, their expressions apologetic. Both were soaked through and dishevelled, both looked pale and wan but their appearance cut little ice with Cloak.

  ‘Go to the devil you pair of dastards. Go back to from where you came and stay there. I trusted you and ended up taking a beating because of it. I don’t want any more of your tales or tells they’ll just lead to more lies and lashes.’

  Barebranch bowed his head and raised his hands, a gesture of submission and homage. Button followed suit, both holding position, acceding to Cloak like a slave to their bonded master. ‘Cloak, on my life I meant no harm to come to you,’ said Barebranch. ‘My full role in this tell remains hidden to me but I know for sure that if I do not tell you what lies beyond the veil both my life and your life will never fulfil their promise to god. I misjudged the powers directing my actions, they are profound and I find I am as compelled as Echo Grave. I tried to leave, to buy passage on an up river barge or inshore coaster but never reached as far as the harbour wall or inner wharf before my will was bent and I turn back. As the day wore on my heart told me I was wrong, I need not run because it is fate that is forcing the pace and fate is an insistent force and cannot be denied. I have reconciled myself to the fact that this tell is the last I will make as a free man, it will condemn me and I do not regret it’ Barebranch and Button relaxed their pose and straightened both standing silent and still, both awaiting Cloak’s response.

  ‘Don’t dare come over all ‘bow me down’, you are devil dastards and I know your game. You play on my crestless head and lure me to evil to the discredit and dishonour of my guardian father. Go forth,’ Cloak pointed a shaking finger first at the teller then at One Button before pointing firmly down at the hatch.

  ‘You think me a bad man with hidden purpose, so be it,’ said Barebranch throwing his hands up in exasperation. ‘Let me tell you something young Cloak, whether I like it or not, or whether you like it or not, I am not leaving hear without completing my telling because there will be no other chance. My first touch barely split the veil and left me with blisters but I believe that with each passing day more of your future will reveal itself. All you need to do is grant me leave, say the word, mean the word and I’ll tell your future. Be brave Cloak, make the brave decision. I promise,’ pleaded the Teller, ‘the second tell is always painless. On my crest lad, you’ll look back in years to come and wonder why you had these worries at all.’

  Cloak’s mind raced, the truth in Blacksky’s words burning his heart and eroding his resolve. He was learned, schooled in the academy, he knew wrong from right, knew a glamour or faerie tale when he heard it. If Blacksky felt compelled then why deny him the opportunity, at worst it would rid him of the man, at best it would entertain and if put to the question in days to come he could say with all honesty he had been deceived by a glamour.

  One Button’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘Cloak listen, for your own safety let Barebranch complete the tell. If we are right, and if Grave’s does intend you harm, surely it is best you find out now rather than later.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ replied Cloak. ‘You read Grave, surely you know what is going to pass?’

  ‘Unfortunately tells are not perfect and when we look beyond the veil, god often only reveals to us what god desires us to see. The telling may reveal no more than a week ahead, a month or years, it may focus on events or milestones in our lives but there is no connecting string, no clear explanation as to how time and events flow in between. That is why it is important to use what you learn wisely’.

  Cloak’s anger slowly dissipated replaced with a growing conviction that he was in control of events. Master Flimflam and Prentice Fleece would not dupe him again. ‘One word is all that it would take,’ said Cloak ‘one word to the town wardens and you will find yourself crestless and hanging from shackles in the keep. If I see or hear from you again, if I see one print in the delta mud or a footprint on the barn floor I will clype on you faster than you can say God and King.’

  ‘Agreed, I swear,’ replied Barebranch.

  Having made his point clear Cloak swallowed hard. ‘Agreed, on your word. Now tear the veil and be damned Teller.’

  Cloak could not help but wince as Blacksky gently laid a hand on his head. Just as before, the word ‘tell’ filled Cloak’s mind before forming in his mouth causing a shock of static to crackle across his forehead and down his spine. The pain was white hot, searing spears that drove a mute scream from his mouth before he tumbled into unconsciousness. As he slumped to the floor One Button raced forward, catching Cloak’s head, bearing his weight and slowing his decent.

  ‘He will remember the lie Master Blacksky, and the agony from you tearing at the veil so violently. Did you get what you needed?’ asked Button. ‘He will expect a good tell to make up for the sore head, will I wake him?’

  ‘Dearest Button, neither you nor the boy are destined to know more. This tell will never be spoken, it is but a catalyst and now it has been done it will quickly stimulate other events.’

  The look of shock and hurt that crossed One Button’s face pierced Blacksky’s heart. ‘Why? Why lie to him and more to the point why keep secrets from me when you know I can help?’ The teller remained silent. ‘I thought he was the whole reason for us coming to this end of the world, risking our lives, spending all our coin,’ said Button. ‘Why the deceit and why keep me in the dark?’

  An errant tear ran from the teller's left eye, the bead brushed away with swollen fingers. ‘Button, I could not love you more even if you were my own child. You have to believe me when I say I have never lied to you. We came here along a twisting path, some would say a crooked path. I thought the boy would lead us to fortune, that the tell would bring us rewards or spoils but in truth we were lured here and manipulated from af
ar. Now I find we are only minor game piece in some great design. Cloak is blessed, unique beyond anything you could imagine. He is however also our curse. The future I saw was as much mine as it was his, I know now that there is no escape for me, but there is for you.’ Tears welled again in Blacksky’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. ‘The boy is safe here in the barn, we are not, come, there is much to do before we depart.’

  ---

  Stunned and disorientated by the teller’s touch it took some minutes for Cloak to regain his bearings. As his mind slowly cleared and his memories returned, so to did a stark realisation,...........it was dusk and for the second time that day he was late for temple. Cloak rose gingerly, his limbs aching and stiff. The pain from climbing down the ladder brought tears to his eyes, anger and shame mixing in equal bitter doses Yet again he had been left in the dust, duped and tortured. He had been tickled like a trout, fed comforting words then taken for a fool. His own fault, but this Teller’s trick would lead to retribution and would see both of the dastards in jail. It was low tide, no vessel or barge would be leaving the harbour or wharf this night, the pair would not escape his wrath.

  The final sermon of High Moon Day was the most important of all. The Lord of the Keep and his retinue would grace the front rows, their high crests adorned with charms or laced with fine gold chains. As Sword to the Keep, his father guardian’s rank brought privilege, a family pew just five rows from the altar, a prominent position that placed the family directly behind the high lords and ladies of the town. Cloak’s absence would be noted, it would be viewed as a lack of self discipline and , moral fibre and worse, a his lack respect for both the Lord of the Keep and his father guardian, The Sword. His penance would likely include a period of fasting and a sound beating, a prolonged leathering that would last from low tide to high water, maybe more.