Beyond the Blue Light

by V. Anh Perigaea

  Large, hot tears rolled down her cheeks as she looked up into his face.

  “It was my fault,” she murmured. “The girl who died, Nancy Pritchett. I killed her.”

  “No,” he said. “It would be more accurate to say that I killed her. My interference drew the attention of the powers that wish you harm. I have been watching you for some time.”

  “Was it you who sent the package?” she asked. “To my uncle’s house? The one with the clip?”

  “Yes,” he replied, nodding his head.

  “But why?” she asked, befuddled.

  “To learn if it was indeed you,” he replied. “When you touch an item that once belonged to you, from a previous life, a chain of events is set into motion, one that brings you to remembrance. So when candidates arise, an item of small consequence is sent to these parties in question. And when it is time, I pay visit. It is the only way. Left to your own devices, the chances of awakening to your true path diminishes greatly, and chances of survival become nearly nonexistent.”

  Annabelle’s eyes glazed over as she considered his words, trying to fully understand.

  “Consider,” he continued. “Where were you headed before this all began? Do you know?”

  A cold passed through her heart as she remembered what she’d heard her uncle and Mrs. Ackworth whisper in the darkness of his study.

  “To the factories,” she whispered. “To be one of the white slaves, the laboring children.”

  Valefar nodded.

  “And how would you have fared,” he continued. “Without protection, in such a way? Those around you, though ignorant, sense your singularity. And in heeding it, hatred is incited in their hearts. Alone in this world, your kind never fare.”

  Annabelle swallowed hard, trying to digest all this information and push back the fear that would overtake her.

  “When one such as you reaches a certain age,” he continued. “They begin to exude signs. Ones read by those who seek you across great distances - greater than you can imagine. Until you reach full maturity, you shall remain in danger. But once you reach maturity, they cannot touch you. Rather, they would risk much in trying, and would most likely fail. And so, they take great pains to extinguish your life now that this may never happen.”

  “Why was I sent to this particular place?” She asked. “By Mr. Daveye? What does this woman have to do with me?”

  A sadness flitted through his eyes before he looked back at her.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “I cannot tell you. You must find your own way to the great halls, and there, inscribe your name in the book.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The Northern Wastes

  April 15, 1795

  There wouldn’t have been a celebration anyway. Her family wasn’t of a social disposition. Her father was a rather stern man given to keeping long hours in his own company, usually studying the dusty books that filled their massive library. Her mother died when she was an infant. And she had no siblings aside from her brother Adolphus, who’d disappeared when she was rather young, run off soldiering as if to escape something. She remembered the day he left quite clearly, with a rucksack over his shoulder and a look in his eyes that seemed to accuse everything around him. She’d sensed that there was something wrong with her family that day, something that seemed to whisper at the edge of her hearing; something that made shop girls shy away from conversation and villagers cross the street when they saw her coming. Something that made brothers run away.

  She was seldom able to sneak away from the manor grounds and over to the village for some trifling reason, even though she eagerly sought out occasions to do so, usually out of desperation to see someone besides the housemaids and her own unreachable father. She’d noticed on one of these rare occasions, several years past, that others’ houses were not kept as her own. That other homes, while small, were bright, cheerful and full of color. Their tenants tended cheerful gardens and planted neat-looking flowers. They sang songs, held parties and caroused merrily with friends and neighbors. While her own home was surrounded by vast, forested lands, and seemed overtaken by a sense of the past, one that crept over it’s walls like ivy, enveloping her father in a dream. One with which he seemed always preoccupied, obsessed, as if with some ancient honor bestowed upon their family; one that put them above their neighbors, and that, to his mind, made mixing with others insufferable and irrelevant. While she didn’t understand him, she had learned never to cross him.

  Though they’d departed the day before her fifteenth birthday into the northern wastes, as her father called them, she made no fuss. She knew not to expect anything, nor to chide her father or complain. Her great-aunt had recently died a childless widow - a much greater tragedy than a young woman passing a birthday without celebration - and there was some question of a large package of land that she’d left behind. Father’s sister, Everild, had insisted upon him bringing her along so she could meet her only niece. And since pleasing aunt Everild meant gaining some advantage in the situation, her father had dragged her along on the northern passage, despite the fact that the roads on their journey were rough, lawless and riddled with wheel-stopping mud.

  They jarred on through the countryside, her head aching and her posterior pained. She sought distraction from the incessant rattling in the views outside, but all she beheld was an ocean of trees, never breaking in their stream of greens and blues. She wore one of her finer costumes, though sensible for travel; a newer gown of peach-colored silk that dropped down into a V in the front. It complemented her dark hair, which was pulled up and covered with a thin veil. Her blue eyes held father’s glare, one that’d waxed spiteful since their earlier roadside luncheon.

  “What’s that, girl?” He barked at her gruffly, “Sulking, is it?”

  Maryone flinched at the tone of his voice. Reprimands from him were always swift, scathing and unforeseeable; a sudden, jolting blow that came out of nowhere.

  “No father,” she replied as civilly as she could. She kept her voice level and just a touch cheery, the sound he reacted best to, hoping to placate his annoyance and hide her own alarm. Perhaps he would calm. But as she studied his swaying form in the seat opposite, it became clear that he was in a mood to punish someone for the vexatiousness of the journey, and for his drunkenness; and she was the only person readily available. She heard him mumble something nondescript under his breath and prayed that would be the end of it.

  “Many a young woman,” he continued suddenly, his voice stumbling. “Would be grateful to be sitting on her arse in a carriage, enjoying leisures graciously afforded to her by her family.”

  He took a generous swig of ale left over from their luncheon and belched like a dragon. Maryone’s stomach churned and her cheeks grew hot as she listened, considering the impropriety of ascribing graciousness to one’s own self.

  “I am grateful, father,” she said in a docile voice, feeling the last bit of peace ebb away as her father’s determination to be in a rage became apparent.

  His eyes narrowed and his mouth hung open, the wetness of ale glimmering over his bottom lip. He glared at her with the dumb, dizzy, bestial hatred that only a drunken man can; his pupils jumping haphazardly to and fro on her face, as if unable to hold a single spot.

  “No smart speeches from you,” he snapped.

  She backed against the seat, bracing herself in hopes that the swirling dread in her stomach might be assuaged, for it was clear his anger was turning into more than a passing whim. But just then, the carriage jolted to a violent halt, and all was forgotten. Her father’s dark grey wig shot down his forehead as he lunged forward, his mug flying out of his hand and colliding with a loud ping against the seat next to her. The horses whinnied, but little could be heard aside from her father’s impassioned oaths and the gentle chirping of birds beyond the doors. After scornfully shaking spilt liquid off his fine brocade jacket, he straightened his wig and cocked an ear to listen. No sound could be heard but wind through leaves.

  �
��Abney?” he called to the driver.

  No sound returned from above. He thrust his cane against the roof with fervor, knocking several times. She watched his eyes dance. He was clearly too drunk to deal with this properly, though the fright of the continued silence seemed to have sobered him up some. He looked her straight in the eyes, blame written in his features. Feeling spurred to action by his spite, she made to get up and look out the window, but he grabbed her wrist and held it roughly.

  “Foolish girl,” he whispered in a sharp, frightened tone; throwing her hand back at her. “Hello?” he called out haughtily to the driver once more. No reply came.

  “I see I shall have to inquire,” he slurred, stumbling as he rose. “As to the state of our driver.”

  Anxiously, Maryone grasped the hem of his jacket, holding him back.

  “Please father,” she said desperately. “Don’t-”

  He shook her off with disdain, brushing the front of his jacket with a wobbling flourish. His eyes retained their expression of contempt, the ever-present one that transcended all situations - drunk or sober - to tell her how he felt about her. It was the last thing she saw before he exited the carriage, his foot sliding off the step and jarring against the ground awkwardly, shaking the entire carriage. Rather than inquiring of the driver, he stumbled lazily toward the woods and relieved himself at the edge of the roadside, mumbling an inebriated rendition of Greensleeves.

  Relaxing somewhat, and knowing that her father would eventually need help getting back inside, she stepped down from the carriage, breathing deeply of the damp forest air. It felt intensely pleasant against her face after the long hours of arduous travel. It was a dark day, with fog rolling gently through the trees and covering the road. Her stumbling father had commanded most of her attention upon exiting the mud-splashed carriage, so when she looked to her right and beheld a group of men blocking the road, she started, her mouth dropping open in shock.

  Two men sat haughtily atop fine horses, fair-haired and finely dressed. They sneered down at her with hedonistic apathy, their eyes electric and mocking. Another sat on horseback behind them, simply dressed in dark garments. And at their feet stood many men, rough, angry-looking and armed to the teeth. The carriage was surrounded, and Abney - their driver - had an arrow shot neatly through his throat. She gasped as her father teetered at the edge of the forest, oblivious to their presence, slurring drunken verse.

  One of the finely-dressed men inched his horse forward, summoning a man armed with a crossbow to follow. His expression was particularly smug and cruel, his mouth twisting into an ugly smirk, his general air one of unbridled indifference. His colorfully gloved, graceful fingertip pointed at her father in a foppish manner, who was now fumbling with his breeches, still oblivious to their presence. The man with the crossbow raised it up and took aim at her father’s back.

  “Father!” she screamed.

  His head whipped around, his hands still tying cords. He saw the men then, as well as the crossbow aimed squarely at his face. Fear flashed momentarily through his eyes before his posture turned bitter and haughty, his stride swaying as he reached for an invisible sword at this side, then hid this fruitless action with a flourish that landed his hands upon his hips.

  “Just what is meant by this,” He yelled at their attackers. “If you do not leave at once,” he slurred, “I shall, I shall...”

  He was stopped short by the immaculately-gloved hand of the man on horseback.

  “Be silent,” he snapped. “Or these men shall shoot you, all of them at once. I doubt such a multitude of arrows would dissolve in your drunken guts.”

  The other finely-dressed man chuckled at this, his voice laden with the same puerile quality of his fellow’s. They looked to be closely related, likely brothers, possibly twins.

  “And what is meant,” her father barked arrogantly, “By molesting my person with such archaic weaponry? What kind of highwaymen be ye?” he said, mocking. “Are spears such as these the best ammunition available in these northern swamps?”

  Maryone’s eyes bulged and her whole body clenched. Her father’s unbridled conceit would not be seen as sagacity here, nor would it fuel a witty tete-a-tete. It would get him shot through the neck like Abney, whom he likely didn’t see slumped atop the carriage. She didn’t wish to contemplate what would happen if they shot her father dead and she was left here, in the middle of the wilderness, with a gang of armed renegades. Feeling faint, she inched toward the chaise and grasped it for stability.

  “Just be done with it,” mumbled the dark, deep-voiced young man on horseback.

  “Oh no,” sneered one of the finely-dressed brothers. “This one has shown much sass. You there!” he called out, signaling her father, whose eyes widened in outrage; for he was not accustomed to such disrespect. “You beg for my fellow to chalk you in the face with one of his ‘metal spears,’ do you?”

  Her father scoffed, raising his head, ever arrogant.

  “If you’ve the gall to assault a gentleman and peer of the realm with such preposterous ammunition,” he slurred haughtily, refusing to be humbled. “More the power to you, villainous cur.”

  Maryone could see the arrogance burning bright in his eyes. Behind the slur of the ale, he knew what he was doing. The man atop the horse signaled with amused nonchalance to the man with the bow. Maryone whimpered as he lifted it and took sharp aim once more, and the men finally saw her at the sound. They looked her over brutishly, unfeeling; cold monsters obeying their masters without heart or faculties of their own; servants who never bothered to think, who’d already damned her. The finely-dressed men atop the horses surveyed her mockingly, their pride the kind that revels in the degradation of others; while the darker man on horseback studied her circumspectly.

  And like a tear through her heart, the bow released with a curdling snap. She saw it hit her father in the stomach, right through the spine, and the sudden twist of his body as it absorbed the blow.

  ~

  The moment the girl fainted, the sky poured heavy buckets. It came down through the trees and covered the roads as if the gods were pouring out their basins. It was like the torrential storms of the west indies that sea-faring men went on about, that soaks you to the skin and hits the ground so heavily it bounces.

  “Get her in!” cried the man atop the horse. “Get the girl inside before anyone comes, idiots!”

  The men were all scrambling in the rain, while one of the finely dressed brothers turned circles, barking like children ordering toy soldiers.

  “You, Ascelin!” the brother cried, his flaxen hair soaked as he pointed to the dark man on horseback. “Drive the carriage!”

  His commanding tone softened a bit when speaking to the dark man, as if in doubt of his sovereignty over him. The man called Ascelin looked up with an intelligent gaze. His look was marked with a hesitant independence, one that gave allegiance to no one. He was tall, strongly-built and dark in a way that made him stand out from among the rest of the men. His hair was nearly black, and the lay of his eyes too exotic to fit seamlessly with the Anglo-Saxons of the region.

  “Wake up!” screeched the brother on horseback, for Ascelin merely stared at the fallen girl, as if entranced, as rain beat mercilessly down. “We’ll give father a bad report if you don’t do as we say!”

  The man spouted threats as he throttled his horse, agitating it like a fool. Ascelin rolled his eyes as rain soaked his hood and poured down his cheeks in thick lines. He wished he could beat his cousin as the fool was beating his the horse - with his own crop. He knew he could, but the consequences wouldn’t be worth it. Instead, he walked over to the girl, his hair dripping profusely as he leaned over her unconscious form. The rest of the men scattered about, seeing to the body of the girl’s father and their driver. He lifted the fainted creature, his expression numb as her cape hung down to the ground and her head fell backwards, revealing a milky-pale neck. He’d never seen a woman so fine before, not in all his uncle’s lands.

&nbs
p; The sky had grown extremely dark. Thunder rumbled on the horizon. There’d never been a storm like this on Lord Rypon’s lands, not in all his days of being raised by the man. Climbing inside the carriage, he dropped the girl on the seat, noticing the wet drops of rain his own hair had left on her pale chest. Her dead father was placed on the seat across from her, dropped carelessly in a pile, nearly falling on the floor where their driver’s body lay. He climbed from the carriage in one swift movement, pulling the curtains and jumping up to the driver’s seat. They travelled only briefly on the main road before turning off onto a private lane that lead to Lord Rypon’s old lodge.

  ~

  Maryone awoke to the sound of the carriage rattling over rough roads. Her head rode the waves of it’s movement, straining as she whipped and knocked against the hard seat over and over. It was dark within, confusing her senses even more.

  “Father, where are we?” she asked the darkness, expecting an embittered, hung-over reply.

  But as her eyes adjusted, memory returned. And what she saw then haunted her for the rest of her days. Across from where she lay, her father’s limp, lifeless body was sprawled, head bobbing as his blank eyes stared out from the seat across, reflecting pale moonlight; and at her feet lay the deceased form of Abney, their driver. At the sight, her face contorted, as did her mind, twisting into a form that would never fully unravel. It was more than she felt she could take; more than it seemed her heart could hold in. Her limbs quaked and every muscle in her tensed, as if poison was snaking through her veins. Terror on her own behalf struggled against a gut wrenching pity for her father and poor Abney, one that seemed it would shock her into eternal silence. Thunder rumbled in the distance and rain poured heavy on the roof as a stormed raged within her. Her father’s face bounced up and down as the carriage jolted on, his wig falling more askew with each movement. She had to shut her eyes.