Fate

by Mary Corran

  She walked slowly, listening out for any sounds warning her she was no longer alone; small creatures scurried away at her approach — the night-hunting wild-cats, the small corn-mice and predatory owls. But she was not afraid of them; on the contrary, their presence acted as a reassurance that no one else moved in the thickets and shadows around her.

  Two-thirds of the way along the path opened out, giving her a view of the farm. She stopped and looked, catching her breath. The years between then and now dropped away, and she could feel herself as she had been ten or more years ago, going home after one of her escapades, looking forward to warmth, and love, and safety, and all the promises conjured up by home.

  The trunk of the old oak that marked the edge of the common had been split by lightning at some time since she had seen it last, and its branches now hung low, laden with the weight of years. Asher remembered that she and Callith had once used it as a meeting place, leaving messages in a knot-hole for each other in secret exchanges that had pleased them while they were still young enough for such things. Feeling foolish, she reached in a hand, but the hole was empty, as she should have expected; those days were long gone.

  The final section of the path was more exposed, approaching the farm obliquely at the open end of the yard, and she wondered, belatedly, what arrangements had been made for the caretaker. Did he sleep in one of the barns? But the house looked reassuringly empty, the windows dark, the chimneys without their trail of smoke. She wanted to be alone when she revisited the past. ‘In what was ... ’ Perhaps the answer lay here.

  As she crossed the farmyard, she spared a glance for the old poultry pen; it was empty now, the gate sagging on its hinges, but it reminded her of the day of the invasion, when she had sworn she would never again be tempted to believe in the Fates, in divination or the Oracle, and she almost laughed, thinking how thoroughly she was breaking that promise.

  The house looked smaller than she remembered, a square building, only two storeys high like most of the nearby farms, but larger and more solid than the rest in accordance with its status, for Harrows had almost twice the acreage of its neighbours. On her left stood the big barn, behind it a second used to store hay and other winter feed; to her right lay the small stable where her own pony had been housed, for her parents had indulged her, an only child, in ways beyond the means of the other local farmers. There were no sounds of movement from any of the buildings, which felt wrong, for in her memories there were always people or animals about in the yard, and even at night she had been able to hear the snorting of the dray-beasts from the barn. Now, there was nothing.

  Uneasily, feeling oddly guilty, Asher fitted the key into the lock of the back door and turned it.

  The door opened stiffly and she stepped into the kitchen, feeling the dank cold strike through her tunic. No one had used the wide hearth for many a year, and the room, unlike her recollection of it, smelled damp and musty, and of something else less easily identified. The long table which had always gleamed so whitely lay covered with a thick layer of dust; Asher idly traced a design with her forefinger, thinking how shocked her mother would have been to see it in such a state, then sneezed loudly as she disturbed it. The sound was horribly loud and she stayed still, waiting to see if anyone had heard; but no response came from the silence.

  She had forgotten to bring a lantern, and the house was very dark. Cursing herself, and without much hope, Asher felt her way across to the larder and groped on the shelf where candles had always been kept, and was surprised to discover two long stubs and a tinderbox. With fingers that trembled, she struck a spark and lit the longer of the stubs, holding up the candle to reveal the worst.

  Unused and uncared-for, the kitchen floor was covered with mouse-droppings as well as dust and dirt; on one wall was a large damp patch, and the ceiling and corners were stiff with spiders’ webs. It was a very far cry from her memories of warmth and gleaming surfaces, but, surprisingly, it did not hurt. It was only dirt, nothing more.

  At last she brought herself to leave the kitchen and wandered along the passage that led to the front of the house, to rooms they had used only rarely, mostly when they had company. The main parlour was much as she remembered, although someone had put away the few items her mother had liked to display — the porcelain Gormese vase Callith had given her; the mirror, framed with a vine-leaf design which had belonged to her own mother; two silver plates — her dowry. Asher wondered where they were, and whether Lewes had taken them. It would be very like him.

  She found herself climbing the front stairs with some reluctance; they creaked noisily under her weight, and Asher felt suddenly like a thief in the stillness of the house, stealing through rooms made strange by emptiness and disuse. She paused at the door to her parents’ room, hand on the handle, but could not bring herself to go in; she knew an unreasoned fear that if she did she would find them as she had last seen them, both lying dead, laid out ready for their burning, and she passed on hurriedly down the passage and up the three steps that led to her own room, unable to cope with such a vision of horror. Her own door stood partially ajar, almost as if awaiting her return, and she pushed against it and went in.

  The bed was still made up. Unthinking, she sat down and sent up a shower of dust that made her cough; but she did not mind. This was her place, free from any taint of Lewes; this was where she had lain and dreamed on the long summer nights, of the future, of her hopes, her ambitions, even of the man she would marry — not, in those long past times, Lewes — and the children she would have. This was where she had planned her adventures: how she would run away to sea and visit foreign lands, and find a great treasure which she would bring back to her loving parents; how she would save Callith from drowning, and everyone would be proud of her; how she would be the one to rescue their country from the invaders, by some means as yet undecided — in this room, everything had seemed possible, nothing beyond her reach.

  But those were the dreams of a child; there was nothing here for a woman grown except the memory of hope, of a time when she had thought her sex no limitation to her ambitions. Now, whatever she chose, she knew that even dreams were not safe, that even a life of solitude did not offer complete security; there would always be people who would seek to use her for their own ends. The world was not the place she had believed then.

  Regretfully, Asher forced herself to get up and retrace her steps, instinct returning her to the kitchen which had once been the centre of life on the farm. In her present aura of nostalgia she could imagine the room filled with people, her parents, the farm-hands, even Callith and Mallory, who had often shared their meals.

  The back door stood open.

  Asher froze instantly; surely, she remembered closing it, putting the key in the lock on the inside? The hand that held the candle shook as she lifted it high, heart beating fast and noisily, trying to dispel the shadows which had held only emptiness but which now seemed to offer shelter to any demons of the night.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called out.

  No one answered. There was no sound at all other than her own breathing. The long room was still mostly in darkness, and she could see only within a small radius.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ she called again, more sharply.

  A shadow detached itself from the far end of the room, separating itself from the wall against which it had leaned unmoving.

  ‘I thought I’d find you here.’

  He came towards her with measured steps, finding his way in the dark without difficulty. Asher gripped the candle tightly, terrified of dropping it and finding herself alone with him, without light.

  ‘I’ll take that.’ He took the candle from her numbed fingers, and its light shone down on his still-blond hair, displaying the handsome features which had altered little with the years. His cheeks had grown puffy, as if he had taken to drinking heavily, but his tall figure was that of a labouring man, still well-muscled, without surplus flesh. The round blue eyes that stared into hers held the same hard, b
right colour she remembered all too well, quite lacking Mallory’s intrinsic kindness of heart and breadth of vision; they were the eyes of a man who knew nothing of the softer emotions, and cared not a whit for the lack.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ Asher asked coolly. ‘Were you looking for me?’

  She was not surprised to find him at Harrows; it seemed inevitable they should meet, for how could she conquer the ghosts of her past when he, of them all, was the one who haunted her most powerfully? ‘In what was ... ’ There was unfinished business between them, and the Fates had decreed it was time to be done with it —

  — or die? It was more a suggestion than a thought, and it gave her pause, for it held the same quality of warning she had sensed near the internment camp, an inner, intuitive certainty that could not be denied.

  ‘I could ask the same of you, and with more reason. And, yes, Cousin Elissa told me you were visiting at Kepesake — or had you forgotten she was up at the house? I knew you’d come here one of these nights; all I had to do was watch for a light.’ Lewes was still inspecting her face, as if seeking some overt display of fear, for she was, after all, at a strong disadvantage; several inches shorter, considerably weaker, and alone. She met his gaze squarely, but only pride allowed her to maintain a show of calm control, for she had forgotten one thing; she was still, as she had always been, afraid of Lewes.

  ‘I just wanted to see Harrows once more, that’s all.’

  ‘Checking up all was well on your property?’ Asher started at his tone, and was annoyed with herself, for he saw it and pressed his advantage, saying viciously: ‘But it’s not yours, it’s mine, and has been all these years!’

  ‘Take it.’ She turned away from his scrutiny, loathing the sight of him. ‘I won’t stop you.’

  He reached out his free hand to her chin and pulled her back to face him again. ‘You must take me for a fool,’ he said with contempt. ‘I know why you’ve come back after all this time. But you won’t take it from me. I swear it.’

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ She slapped his hand away, shaking with the force of her revulsion; surprised, he let her be. ‘Think what you like, Lewes, you always have. But I meant what I said. Take it. It’s yours. I only wanted to come home one last time.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t want to see me?’ The blue eyes clouded momentarily, as they did when he was in one of his more volatile moods. ‘Because you’re mine too, if I want you!’ He raised his arm and slapped her across the cheek with the flat of his hand.

  ‘And is that the mark of your possession?’ Asher demanded angrily, careful not to touch her burning face. In this mood, it was all too easy to provoke further violence from him. ‘You don’t own me, Lewes. You never did,’ she went on, more evenly. ‘You’ve got Dora, and you’ll have Harrows. Let that satisfy you.’

  ‘Why should I?’ He raised his hand again, and to her horror Asher found herself shrink as time flew backwards, and she was once again the old Asher of the year of her marriage, who had known there was no escape from her husband’s selfish moodiness; remembered fear crept through her, and she felt sick. Although she had known the risks she ran in coming to Harrows, she had thought herself sufficiently changed to be able to cope should she encounter Lewes — which had always been probable; she had not forgotten Elissa was a maid at Kepesake, a fact Mallory had overlooked but she had not. In the eyes of the villagers she was still Lewes’ wife who had deserted him, whatever the cause. She had not understood that the physical reality of his presence would sap her courage and return her to the past, where she no longer believed the Oracle’s prophecy offered any hope of protection. If the Fates intended her to die, she had aided them in the endeavour beyond all reason.

  ‘Lewes, I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I came here because there was something I had to do, and it’s over now. You won’t see or hear from me again. Let me go.’

  It was plain he placed no credence in her assurances. ‘Then why did you come back? To betray me?’ He paused suspiciously, waiting for a reply, but none came. ‘No one would believe you,’ he said, but with less confidence. He rallied, working himself up again: ‘You’ve made me look foolish, coming here with another man. I’ll not stand for that!’

  ‘Oh, Lewes,’ Asher began patiently, ‘you know that’s nonsense. I — ’

  There was no warning. One of his fists lashed out, knocking her squarely on the chin before she could fling up a hand to defend herself; she struggled against unconsciousness, fighting back an overwhelming dizziness as she sank to her knees.

  ‘We’ll finish this elsewhere,’ he whispered. Asher felt him bend over her and tried to push him away, scarcely conscious of doing so. His hands were on her arms, reaching for her, lifting her, and she went limp as her head whirled; kaleidoscopic patterns invaded her mind, writhing in the way she remembered seeing before, but this time they seemed to make some sort of sense, as if they were letters she was just learning to read. Danger; they all say danger, warning. She wanted to protest, but could not speak.

  The last thing her conscious mind registered was the solid sound of a door closing, and the grating of a key in the lock.

  *

  Omond woke, sitting up with a cry.

  He had grown accustomed, with age, to dozing off at any time, and at first he could not remember what time it was, whether day or night. Had he gone to bed? He blinked, reassured as his posture and coverings told him he had; the lack of light persuaded him it was still night.

  He experienced an unexpected surge of anxiety; something had woken him, something needed him. He took a few moments to calm himself, breathing in and out slowly and carefully, for his heart was racing in a way that caused him some unease; composing his mind, he waited until the cause of his distress should come back to him.

  ‘The girl.’

  That was what had roused him. The chain and charm he had given her were keyed to his sight as well as to her lifeline; it was an alteration to that lifeline that had triggered this waking. She was in some sort of danger, of the kind he had foreseen.

  Stiffly, he climbed out of bed and put on a warm robe against the cold; his joints protested at the abrupt movements, but he ignored them. This was what Mallory had feared and he must be told at once. Forcing his reluctant limbs into movement, he tried to hurry as he made toward the stairs, careful not to stumble and fall in his eagerness; an accident would be disastrous for him and the girl.

  He reached Mallory’s room on the floor below and entered without knocking first, shaking the sleeping form impatiently, willing the young man to wake. Mallory stirred, then sat up abruptly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something has happened to the girl. Get up, quickly!’ A sense of urgency propelled him to greater effort, and Omond knew an immense gratitude that he had gone against his conscience in watching over the child. ‘Hurry!’

  Mallory was already out of bed, groping for his clothes and swordbelt.

  ‘Come, up to my rooms, I will try to see her for you.’ Omond found himself fretting at even the smallest delay. ‘Now!’

  ‘I’m ready.’ Mallory buckled his belt.

  As he entered the attic and stooped to gather his bowl and pitcher, Omond found himself muttering charms of protection, for himself as well as for the girl, willing himself to find the reserves of power he would need for his search.

  The charm, it is a talisman that binds her to my sight.

  He wiped rheumy eyes as he poured the liquid into the bowl, stirring the patterns into motion. He sat and concentrated his will, staring at the patterns until his mind was fully engaged and he could open his inner eye.

  Show me, show me where she is. He looked deep into the circling patterns in his mind until an image formed, and he saw.

  *

  She was lying on a pile of hay with her eyes closed, arms loose. Her head was turned to one side, but as Omond studied her he saw the steady rise and fall of her chest; he had known her to be alive, but whether
asleep or unconscious he could not say. All he could tell was that she had suffered no serious harm, or so his mental bond informed him.

  Satisfied for the moment, he tried to extend the range of his vision to take in more of her surroundings; the place was dark, but there was a source of light somewhere in the room, and he could make out a wheeled vehicle of some kind — a barrow, he thought — and various tools hanging on a wall; shovels, a spade, and a long implement that could have been a scythe. So — she was in a barn.

  ‘But which one?’ Mallory demanded impatiently.

  Omond could not tell him. There was someone in the barn with her, a tall man, visible only in outline, but his identity was easily guessed. He described the man to Mallory, who caught his breath.

  ‘Tell me more — anything you can see,’ he urged. ‘A clue as to the location.’

  ‘It is north of Kepesake.’

  ‘But that could be either Carling’s or Harrows. Which?’

  Omond sought for his last reserves of strength, knowing that if he failed this time there were no more chances. He fixed his mind on the talisman round Asher’s neck and tried to pin-point its location — nearer or further? His heart began to pound in an uneven fashion, making him breathless, but he did not stay his efforts.