Sparks of Light

by Janet B. Taylor

  During the day they read together or took long walks in the garden, where she memorized the names of all the plants and flowers. At night, they stood beneath the clear sky and he pointed out the magical beings that made up the stars.

  Riding in front of her grandfather on his great horse, the girl was sad their visit was over, though she had missed Mother and Papa. The veered off the rutted forest road and trotted down a sun-dappled lane that wove through the trees. As the last leaves of blazing autumn drifted down to crunch beneath the gelding’s hooves, the girl breathed the brisk morning air and blew it out in a pleasing cloud of white.

  “I like the way the forest tastes today, Poppy,” she told him.

  “Tastes?” She felt his chuckle rumble against her narrow back. “You can taste the forest?”

  “Of course I can.” She giggled. “Can’t you?”

  Her grandfather filled his lungs as the girl instructed, holding his breath until she gave him leave to release it.

  “Ah,” he said. “I believe I understand. But tell me what you taste, so that we may compare.”

  “Well,” she said. “I taste oak leaves and green moss. Rose hips and hazelnuts that the squirrels have hidden away.” She sniffed at the air, smacking her lips to make her grandfather laugh again. “There are juniper berries and holly, and ice that hides in the shady spots. Now you go.”

  “Hmm,” her grandfather mused, smacking his own lips, hidden as they were beneath gray whiskers. “Why, I believe you’re right, child. There is all that, along with a sweet bouquet of white ash and beech, and mulch that covers the forest floor. That thick layer will protect tender seeds as they sleep away the cruel winter. This part of the forest is old. Very old, though it shrinks each day as more and more people rob its precious bounty.” Her grandfather leaned down. His beard tickled her cheek as he whispered, “I smell snow coming, and if I don’t get you home before it arrives, your mother shall take a strap to the both of us.”

  They laughed together at the thought of her mother with her quiet voice and soft hands, chasing her own father around with a shaving strop.

  The girl’s grandfather pulled in a huge breath. “Ah,” he said. “And if I’m not mistaken, I believe there is a hint of venison stew with turnips, new-baked bread with butter and strawberry preserves on the air today.”

  The girl giggled again. “That is silly, Poppy. How can you taste stew when we are so far into the . . .”

  The tiny cottage appeared out of nowhere, as though it had sprouted like a mushroom from the crackling forest floor. The house was seated a ways back from the trampled path, and blended so cleverly among the huge trees and massive, moss-covered stones the girl had to squint to make out the walls of speckled river rock and the slant of its thatched roof.

  “It’s a fairy cottage,” the girl breathed.

  Her grandfather chuckled again. “No, child, though I will grant that the lady who lives here was once as lovely as the fair folk themselves.”

  He slid from the horse and helped her to the ground. He tied the bay’s lead to a branch, then took her hand in his, whistling a tune as they followed the narrow path of flat stones that led to the cottage.

  At the edge of the clearing that surrounded the home, the girl smiled, charmed by the neat little structure with its tidy herb garden and green shutters. “Who lives here, Pop—?”

  Her grandfather’s hand clamped over her mouth. He yanked her back into the trees. “Hush,” he whispered, as he shoved her behind him.

  Kneeling, he peered around a large trunk and scanned the clearing.

  “Is something amiss?” the girl whispered. She did not care for the look on her grandfather’s wrinkled face. And when he only put a finger to his lips in reply, she pressed her doll harder to her chest.

  She did not laugh this time when her grandfather sniffed at the air.

  The sweet, nutty breath of the deep woods carried a scent of smoke. Nothing strange in that, she thought. The day is cold. The owner likely lit a fire to ward off the chill.

  But why was her grandfather frowning so? And why had the forest gone so suddenly silent? Even the birds had stilled their chatter.

  A horse whinnied, the sound rolling out from somewhere behind the cottage. A sudden crash from inside made her jump. Her grandfather went rigid. The girl edged over so she could peek around the tree. The door of the sweet cottage hung ajar and at an odd angle, half ripped from its hinges. Through the open doorway, she saw an orange light as flames bloomed inside. Shadows moved against the wall. Several rough-looking men stepped out, followed by a broad man clad in the Spanish manner.

  The girl’s grandfather stiffened as he muttered, “The Spaniard.”

  Fire began to eat through the thatched roof, spreading quickly to send a plume of white smoke into the sky.

  “Poppy?” she whispered, but he was already tugging her back through the trees.

  “We must leave,” he said. “Now.”

  He tossed her onto the saddle and pulled himself up behind her. The gelding raced down the rutted path, faster and faster, until the wind stole the girl’s breath and she had to duck her head to keep from swallowing air. Her grandfather’s urgency as he commanded the horse to hurry, hurry, hurry twisted her stomach into knots.

  Her fists tightened in the coarse mane when she heard a faint shout behind them. The gelding’s powerful muscles strained, and her grandfather’s long beard brushed against her cheek as he leaned low, shielding her body with his own. “Hear me well, child. A village lies just ahead. I am known there and I believe its people will shelter us. When we stop, do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

  The girl nodded. She wanted to ask who they were running from, but fear had frozen her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

  One, two bends in the path and they were racing through a collection of several dozen thatched huts set around a stone well.

  A group of young boys played a game with sticks and a rock on the dirt-packed village square. Near the well, apron-covered women gossiped over a large community trough as they scrubbed wads of soiled clothing. Others teamed up to twist out the excess water and drop the damp cloth into buckets for hanging. An old woman, in the same colorless dun of the rest, plucked a beheaded fowl on a leveled stump. She chuckled to herself as she watched three little girls skitter about, trying to catch the blowing feathers.

  As the girl and her grandfather skidded to a halt, a bloody feather floated down to land on the back of her clenched fist.

  “Madeleine!” her grandfather cried, breathless. “Madeleine the Healer?”

  At their approach, the boys stopped their game to gape at them. One, a thin, black-haired lad only slightly older than the girl, took a few steps in their direction, shading his eyes as they fixed on her face.

  Aided by a tall staff, an elder with a crooked back had begun hobbling toward them. He called up to her grandfather. “Good day to you, Doctor. Our healer is not here just the now. Called away to tend an injured man in the next village, she was. I know not when she will return. Are you ill?”

  Before answering, the girl’s grandfather muttered a quiet prayer of thanks. “We are not,” he said. “What of Madeleine’s daughter, Margery?”

  The elder squinted at them for a moment, then angled his long stick at the black-haired boy. “Lad, go and fetch your mother. Quick-like.”

  The boy tore his eyes from the girl and disappeared among the cluster of cottages. The girl’s grandfather surveyed the villagers who had begun to gather around them. Women. Babes. Small children, none older than five or six years. The elderly and infirm.

  “Where are your men? Your older lads?”

  “Out cutting wood, same as every day,” one of the washerwomen said.

  As her affable grandfather slid from the horse’s back, the girl was appalled to hear him snarl a word used only by the rough drivers who delivered wagonloads of her father’s cloth.

  He took in a deep breath, then raised his voice as he addressed the murmu
ring group. “Heed my words, all of you. You know me. I’ve visited your healer and her family for many years. Just now my granddaughter and I witnessed a group of men ransacking Madeleine’s home. When they do not find what they are looking for, they will come here next. You must hide. Now. Take the children and flee into the forest.”

  Gasps and confusion erupted from the gathered villagers. “What mean you by this, Doctor?” called the elder. “Why harm us? As you see, we have little enough to steal.”

  Before her grandfather could answer, the black-haired boy flew around the corner of a nearby cottage with a pretty woman on his heels. Their breath steamed up into the chilly air. The woman’s long dark braid bounced against her back as she lifted the hem of her brown homespun and raced toward them.

  “Doctor,” she gasped, breathless. “What is amiss?”

  Her grandfather explained what they’d witnessed back at the fairy cottage. When he leaned in, whispering urgently, the woman drew back in dismay.

  In a voice gone hoarse with horror, she replied, “But my mother is not here. And in any case, she has not seen nor touched that cursed jewel since the day she fled the sisterhood. She—”

  “Margery,” her grandfather interrupted gently. “This I know. But it matters not, for they believe she knows its location. When they do not find it or her, they will come for her here. These men will not give credence when you say you know nothing of the jewel. The only option is to run. Now.”

  The boy moved to his mother’s side and took her hand as she tugged on a leather thong strung about her neck. Weak sunlight glinted off the round silver medallion as Margery worried it against her lips.

  “How many men?” the elder asked.

  The girl’s grandfather shrugged. “I saw eight men at the cottage.”

  “Nine,” the girl reminded him. “There were nine men, Poppy.”

  Margery and the elder exchanged a long look.

  “No, Doctor,” she said, finally. “We shall not hide. This village is our home and we have defended it before when our menfolk were away. We are many and they are few, and though we may be but women and the old, helpless we are not.”

  The girl’s grandfather tried to protest, but Margery stood her ground. With rapid-fire efficiency, she ordered the able-bodied to arm themselves as they had done in the past. The older children were commanded to take the small ones and hide in the forest root cellar.

  “Your granddaughter may go down into the cellar with the others. My son will see her safely there,” said Margery, turning her face up to the girl’s grandfather. “But what of you, John Dee? Will you stay with us? Will you fight?”

  Chapter 16

  IN A SPACE OF TIME BOTH INSTANTANEOUS AND INFINITE, the memory pierced my heart in a dozen bloody places, threading barbed hooks through every vein and artery. Then, like dust whipped through a screen door, even that memory scattered as each individual molecule that had ripped apart was shoved through the barrier that separated past and present.

  I’d somehow allowed myself to forget the part that came just before: the gray lassitude that whispered, “Give up. Give in. Let go and rest a while.”

  And wasn’t it easy to float, serene and quiet, in that great shroud of oblivion? Wouldn’t I give anything to avoid what came next: bone and nerve and flesh knit together by a force greater than any that had ever existed?

  Oh God, the pain. Hurts. Please. Help. Pain. No-o-o . . .

  Stomach roiling, eyes shut, I felt the scratch of grit beneath my cheek as it pressed against the cold earth.

  Nearby, someone heaved up their guts. Someone else groaned and muttered, “What—”

  “Get up!” Mac’s urgent shout penetrated my fuzzy hearing. “All of you, get up! We have to run! Run!”

  I was hauled upright, and I began to stumble along on numb feet. As my lungs recalled how to inflate, I sucked in a great draft of musky, fetid air. Then I felt it, the earth shuddering beneath me.

  “Hope!” A shout near my ear. “Open your eyes, for God’s sake! The cattle are stampeding! We have to run!”

  Shoved from behind, I tripped as I forced open sticky lids. Just ahead, Phoebe and Doug bolted side by side down a long tunnel that was lined at intervals by swaying oil lanterns. Dirt rained down on them from the wooden support beams that kept the shaft’s low, earthen ceiling from collapse.

  Collum’s hold on my sleeve propelled me onward as the rumbling grew intense. “Cattle in the tunnel behind us,” he panted over the racket of moos. “Heard it just as we arrived. Something spooked them.”

  “Us, most like,” Mac shouted from just behind. “Don’t stop. They’re out of control. Go!”

  The tunnel. Cattle.

  “Here!” Doug thrust Phoebe hard into the wall. She cried out, but as we darted past, I saw it was but one of several man-size declivities built into the sides of the tunnel.

  “There’s more ahead! Hurry!” Doug waved us on frantically as we hurtled toward the other indentations we’d spotted.

  The cattle were upon us now. Hot breath raked across the backs of our necks. With a whip of his arm, Collum pitched me face first into the nearest bolthole, slammed his grandfather into the next, and waved Doug into the last spot on that side. With a leap, Collum cleared the tunnel and burrowed into the empty space opposite, a millisecond before the horns and tawny backs of the herd thundered past.

  Dirt and dust and wood particles shivered down. The musk of dozens of animals enveloped me as I pressed myself harder into the tiny space. Behind me, I felt my skirts billow out on the breeze created by the cattles’ passage. I tried to snatch them back, but a hoof or horn snagged in the thick wool. Pain as my fingernails dug into rough planks. Splinters burrowing beneath my nail beds. An inexorable force pulling me, pulling . . .

  With a final rip, the material gave. My face slammed hard into the wall as I gagged with relief.

  The shouts of angry men followed the hoofbeats. I didn’t look, didn’t turn as the cattle drovers raced past, apparently too engaged in chasing the animals to even glance our way.

  After what felt like an eternity, Mac spoke. “All right. I think it’s safe to come out.”

  Badly shaken, the five of us emerged from our hidey-holes, Mac blessing the engineer who’d thoughtfully provided the emergency escapes. After a quick jog back to see what was left of the belongings we’d abandoned when the stampede began, a dejected-looking Collum and Doug returned with one tattered carpetbag and a handful of stomped-on and ragged clothing.

  “Oh no-o-o,” Phoebe mourned. “Not the watered silk.”

  Taking the remnants of the smoky blue ball gown from her brother’s arms, she squeezed it to her. She and Moira had worked long into the night, fitting it to my measurements, embroidering the bodice and neckline with whorls of shimmering silver thread.

  The dress was ruined, along with nearly every article of clothing we’d brought and . . . I gasped as I realized the doll was no longer tucked beneath my arm. “Oh, no. No. No. No.” Relief spiked through me when I saw her crumpled on the ground, safe inside the bolthole where I’d hidden. I snatched her up and brushed dirt and wood particles from the yellow silk.

  “So your wee dolly survives, but not my spare boots?” Collum eyed the toy with distaste. “Aye, that seems fair.”

  Phoebe quickly inventoried the rest, which had been shredded by hundreds of sharp hooves and ground into the dirt-packed floor. There wasn’t much left.

  “Think we can salvage this,” she said.

  This was a huge-brimmed hat of mauve velvet with clots of garish yellow flowers sewn around the crown.

  “Of course we can,” I groaned.

  Mac’s shaving kit had been pulverized. Hats and coats and shoes all trashed beyond repair. The only things that made it were in the carpetbag. Hairpins, a diamond hair clip. A silver-backed brush-and-comb set, though the matching mirror was shattered—​an ominous sign.

  Only one real bit of good news. Mac had managed to hold on to the black leather case t
hat contained all the bank notes and gold.

  “Well, Phee,” Collum said as he clapped a hand onto his dejected sister’s shoulder. “One good thing came of this, aye?”

  Grumpy, she snapped, “Oh, yeah? What’s that then?”

  “You get to go shopping.”

  A few hundred yards down the tunnel, ramps branched off from either side. Filtered sunlight and mooing sounds drifted down, so we deduced that the ramps led up to the cattle pens and instead chose a set of narrow stairs set into the very end of the dark, smelly passageway.

  Coated in grime and dust, we ascended into a very different sort of nightmare.

  “Holy crap.” I slapped a hand over my mouth and nose as we crowded through the small door. “What is that?”

  The smell that met us at the top of the stairs was unspeakable. An entity that inundated the senses, saturating our pores with the stink of blood and death. A cavernous space stretched out before us, lit by skylights that pocked the ceiling two stories above. As far as the eye could see, a riotous assembly line of horror spread out across the straw-covered brick floor.

  Through a wide double door set into the left-hand wall, we could see men in gore-spattered aprons heave now-headless bovine corpses onto gleaming metal hooks that swung from overhead wires. A pulley system brought them here, into the massive main processing area. At the first station, hides were stripped away and piled into bins. Hooves like those that had nearly run us down only moments before were chopped off and dropped into buckets. Coiled entrails plopped onto wooden tables and were sorted by grim-faced workers. Blood spattered or dripped or gushed into troughs that ran with a congealing, clotting mess.