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by Shayna Krishnasamy

  “No, Shallah,” Old Brice said, and there was a certain finality in his voice. “No. We can’t take that chance. The child has to go.”

  Shallah’s shoulders fell.

  “Who will take him?” a voice said. It was Petyr Fleete, though his voice was calmer now, softer.

  “Who would wish to?” Old Brice asked. Nobody replied, but many bowed their heads. Though their fear was great, no one was willing to risk himself to save the rest.

  Shallah felt a sudden chill and pulled her shawl about her shoulders. Once again she felt she was about to do something she hadn’t planned on.

  “I will take him,” she said. There was a chuckle from across the room.

  “You’re blind, my dear,” said Old Brice, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

  “I’m quite aware of that, sir,” she said. “I am blind and I know these woods better than any man here.”

  “How can you say that if you can’t see it?” a woman asked.

  “I feel it in my feet and my hands. I know it with my mind. I’ve walked these woods for miles around. I know them better than any seeing person, I assure you.”

  “Walked these woods?” Rab said incredulously. “Who gave you permission?”

  “I didn’t realize I needed it,” she said carefully, biting back a furious retort.

  Rab’s wife Sedemay sat beside him, eyeing Shallah with scorn, her kerchief strings tied so tightly they bit into her skin. Sedemay was an imperious creature known to report unsuitable behaviour she observed about town to her husband. More than once she’d reported on Shallah, and more than once Shallah had refused to open her door to Rab’s insistent knocking, infuriating him beyond belief.

  “Just like your father,” Sedemay commented in her low, rough voice. “He too was a rash and presumptuous person.”

  “My father tried to save this village when no one else would,” Shallah replied, her face hard.

  “He never returned, my dear,” Sedemay said coldly. “Do you wish to meet the same fate?”

  Shallah took a moment to steady the emotion rising within her before replying. “I would be glad to walk in the footsteps of my father and end my days attempting to help another,” she said. “I have no greater wish.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Rab Hale sputtered. “You act like you aren’t even afraid. You are blind and you will perish out in the forest with that child by your side, do you understand? You cannot possibly attempt this. Nobody enters that wood. It is forbidden. You’re out of your head, girl. I tell you, you simply can’t do it.”

  Shallah’s voice was steady as a rock. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

  Old Brice stepped forward. “Where will you take him?” he asked. Rab let out a contemptuous sigh.

  An image came to Shallah’s mind, a picture of herself as a young girl being chased down the lane by a group of children. She remembered how alone she’d felt in her newfound blindness, how she’d yearned with all her heart for one place, and one place only; her one safe place.

  “I’ll take him home,” Shallah replied simply.

  “How will you know where it is?” Raulf asked from his perch on a pallet.

  “I don’t know,” Shallah said, and though her words were unsure, her expression was calm. She’d made her decision, and it was clear that none could sway her. Perhaps that’s why they let her go.

  The room emptied quickly. Many seemed to feel that something horrendous had taken place and hurried to get away. Shallah sank onto her stool as the villagers passed through the doorway. At last, only she and Old Brice remained. They sat there for quite a while, listening to the silence.

  Chapter Four

  As Shallah emerged from her doorway, a few weak rays of sunlight falling over her face, she felt her stomach heave. She steadied herself against the wall of her home, took a few deep breaths of fresh air, then swung her satchel onto her back and set out for the Carberrys’ toft.

  Today she would meet the child.

  Today their journey would begin.

  It was an average summer morning in Trallee, the trees and bushes only dimly discernible in the gloom. Had she been able to see, Shallah might have noticed that her mood matched her environs perfectly, for her thoughts were overshadowed by the task before her, her entire being dulled with worry. Not one bright thought lightened her load.

  The three days since her proclamation at the town meeting had passed in a tangle of apprehension. Whatever determination she’d felt that night had been replaced by an irrepressible fear the likes of which she hadn’t felt since her father had left. She’d spent her nights tossing about on her pallet, her dreams full of faceless beasts and panicked fleeing through the darkness. Over and over she’d wondered what had possessed her to volunteer for this undertaking. Though she prided herself on giving the impression of confidence and courage, inside she felt helpless as the child she’d chosen to adopt. In her heart of hearts she knew the truth: she was going to fail. She would return with her head hung in shame, and the villagers would all laugh. Who was she kidding? She was blind. She didn’t stand a chance.

  To distract herself, she took a mental inventory of her provisions. She’d brought two loaves of bread, some cheese and boiled eggs, half a dozen oat cakes, some bacon, fruit, nuts, and a flask of ale which could be refilled with water. She dearly wished she could bring her cooking pot, for a nice pottage would be just the thing after a long day’s walk, but without a fire a pot didn’t do much good, and she knew she couldn’t take the risk of lighting one with a child about. Keeping the cold in mind, she’d worn her thicker kirtle and brought along two woolen blankets, her winter cloak, and what extra underthings the space would allow. She wore her sturdiest pair of shoes – her only pair – and left her pattens off for the time being, for it had been a dry month and she didn’t anticipate the need for them. She’d also brought the common healing herbs she dried herself, and had paid a visit to Sabeline for those rarer plants she’d never before had use for. Her dinner knife hung from her belt along with a small leather pouch she kept with her always, and in its own leather scabbard, a dagger. She didn’t want to consider why she might need such a weapon, but she felt the necessity of bringing it along. There was no knowing what they might encounter out there.

  Shallah felt moderately satisfied by her supplies. She’d done all she could to prepare, none could fault her on that. She elected to focus on the task before her, to take the day one step at a time, and to try to forget that the whole village was watching.

  Not many of the villagers had been to see her since the town meeting had taken place. Perhaps they feared she might ask them to accompany her, or worse, try to convince them to make the journey in her stead – two options that hadn’t so much as occurred to her. No matter her desperation, she wasn’t the type to foist her troubles on another.

  The only visit of note had been that of Raulf’s father, Joscelin Guerin. He came to her door in the evening, just as she was sweeping her hearth clean. Joscelin was a good man who’d lost his wife of twenty years at about the time Shallah’s mother had died. He and Shallah’s father had spent many an evening sitting around the table, drowning their sorrows in ale. It was a fine day when Joscelin remarried, though none had expected him to win lovely Sabeline, a maid fifteen years his junior, nor that he would sire three children by her. He was an old man now, and an old friend, and much as Shallah would have liked to close her ears to his concerns, she couldn’t turn him away.

  Long into the night they sat at Shallah’s worn table, the candlelight flickering on the walls, as Joscelin beseeched her not to go off into the deep woods.

  “You know I’ve no choice, Jos,” Shallah said as she covered the hearth coals. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Damn you and your morals,” the old man muttered, gripping his empty wooden cup. Shallah had hidden the jug of ale an hour before. “Though it pains me greatly to agree with Sedemay Hale, she’s right about one thing. You’re just like your father.”

&nb
sp; “Is that such a bad thing?” Shallah asked quietly. She felt her way along the wall until she reached the table’s bench. “My father was a good man, wasn’t he?”

  Joscelin bowed his head sadly, his rumpled tunic sagging on his thin shoulders. “And we lost him,” he said. “We can’t keep losing all the best ones to the wood. We can’t leave the village to the Rab Hales and Maude Quiggs of the world.”

  “Maude’s harmless,” Shallah said.

  “Maude’s mindless,” Joscelin replied fiercely. “You’re the only young one left with any sense. Look at that Fleete boy – completely off his rocker.”

  “What about Raulf?” Shallah asked, hoping to change the subject. “What about your own son?”

  “Oh, Raulf’s but a pup, yet.”

  “He’s in his twelfth year, thirteenth soon. It might be time for you to stop thinking of him as a pup.”

  “Don’t go into those trees,” Joscelin said, seizing Shallah’s hand. His face was grave. “I fear you won’t return.”

  Shallah placed her hand over his. “And if I stay,” she asked gently, “what will become of the boy? You yourself told me he has to go.”

  “He came from that forest,” the old man said. “No good can come of him. That forest has brought us nothing but pain.”

  Shallah recalled that Joscelin’s first wife, though she’d perished of a terrible pain in the chest, had fallen while chasing a pig through the wood. She laid there for hours before she was found.

  “None return,” he murmured, shaking his head. “None return from those woods.”

  Shallah didn’t want to lie to Joscelin Guerin. She wished with all her heart she could soothe him with words of truth, but the truth was too miserable to face.

  “None return,” Joscelin repeated, his voice falling to a whisper.

  “But I will,” Shallah whispered back.

  Jos Guerin’s kind concern lifted Shallah’s spirits as she came upon the hedge enclosing the Carberrys’ toft. She was on the pathway leading to the front door, her walking stick in hand, when she heard laughter coming from behind the house. Betta Carberry had birthed five children, a rambunctious lot. Shallah hadn’t expected the children to be home today, for the older boys would be sorely needed in the fields. Already Betta, an energetic worker, would be arriving late. Shallah had offered to meet the family there, but Betta had insisted she come for the child at home. The harvest would certainly be late this year.

  Rab will be in a terrible temper, Shallah thought to herself. Then she recalled that she wouldn’t see the harvest come in this year, nor hear from Raulf what fun the harvest feast had been. Village life didn’t concern her any longer. She had to keep reminding herself of that.

  Her brighter mood fading, Shallah was about to announce her arrival when a breathless child came careening around the side of the house to the sound of cheers and nearly bowled her over. Shallah cried out in surprise as the little boy fell on his back, skinning his elbows.

  “Are you alright?” she asked the child as she helped him to his feet. He was light as a feather and couldn’t be older than five. She patted him on the head and said, “If you mean to win the race you’d better keep going. They’re surely right on your heels.”

  Shallah had assumed she was addressing one of the Carberry boys, but when the child didn’t reply it dawned on her that Betta’s youngest was in his seventh or eighth year. This child wasn’t a Carberry.

  Shallah crouched down before the little boy. He regarded her contemplatively, his golden eyes reflecting the meager sunlight. He had an inquisitive face, and though he spoke not a word, his expression was one of understanding – an expression much too full of wisdom for one so young.

  But Shallah couldn’t see his face. She could only imagine.

  “We meet at last,” Shallah said. She took his hand and got to her feet.

  From within the house she heard Betta Carberry calling. “Liam, where are you?” she cried. “Liam!”

  Shallah lifted the child onto her hip and whispered into his ear, “Liam, I’m glad to meet you.” Holding him close, she caught a whiff of his scent, that particular smell each person possesses. His was somewhat salty – a familiar scent. It reminded her of her childhood.

  The Carberry children came around the side of the house and halted in their tracks at the sight of Shallah, the younger ones looking up at their siblings in confusion. Moments later, Betta appeared in the doorway and froze as well, a look of bewilderment passing over her face. Liam looked from the children to the mother as Shallah shifted him in her arms, feeling their stares. She hadn’t prepared herself for this, though she might have known. Her presence had put an end to their games and brought dread into their hearts. For all her good intentions, she might have been the grim reaper coming to claim one of their own. They hated the sight of her, and she knew it.

  In an instant Betta strode forward, shooing the children away, her usual smile spreading over her face.

  “Oh, you’ve found him,” Betta said as she took Shallah by the arm. “And you’ve come at last. We were wondering when you’d be by.” They stepped into the house. Betta took Shallah’s satchel and hung it by the doorway.

  “Milo is in the fields, of course,” she said. “He did so wish to see you but that Rab’s been kicking up the greatest fuss. He practically ordered me to send the children to work, even the youngest ones. He was here not ten minutes ago.”

  “I had a feeling,” Shallah said. “I can hear his hoarse screams echoing in the air.”

  “I told him, ‘Rab Hale you’d better hightail it out of here before I take to you with a switch. If my children want to see Liam off today, then that’s what they’ll do, and that’s that.”

  “Did you use those very words?” Shallah enquired innocently.

  “Well, perhaps I didn’t speak quite so strongly,” Betta admitted, tickling the boy under his chin. He giggled gaily, burying his face in Shallah’s neck. “To be honest, I told him the children would be along within the hour. I detest that man.”

  Shallah smiled inwardly. Those might be the sternest words Betta Carberry had ever uttered.

  “Did you name him Liam?” Shallah asked. “He didn’t have a name when he arrived, did he?”

  “None he would reveal, that’s sure,” Betta replied. She offered Shallah a stool and went about setting out some bread and ale. The little boy sat calmly in Shallah’s lap, watching the fern branches pressing through the window. “I took to calling him Liam after my last boy, the one I lost, you know. Not that I think he’s mine, you understand. But it is a comfort to have a little one in the house again. And he has that quiet way about him like my Liam did. It just felt right.”

  Betta took a seat just as her youngest girl, Mirabel, came running into the room. Suddenly shy in Shallah’s presence, she whispered something into her mother’s ear and Betta pointed to a pile of sewing by her pallet from which the girl retrieved a crude doll carved of wood and ran off with it.

  “Liam is a good name,” Shallah said. “I’m glad you picked it for him. I’m sure I wouldn’t have known what to call him.”

  Betta nudged a cup of hot ale into Shallah’s hand and its warmth ran through her body, giving her strength. She wondered when she might feel warmth like that again.

  “How ever did you find your way here?” Betta asked. “The path does wind so and without your sight … why, if I were blindfolded ten paces from the house I’d be lost in an instant.”

  Shallah smiled. She’d been asked this question many times before, and knew she’d never be able to answer it to Betta Carberry’s satisfaction. More times than she could count she’d tried to explain to a concerned neighbour how she’d gotten from the village green to the Klinks’ to explain to a concerned neighbour how she’d gotten from the village green to the Klinks house, or how she’d maneuvered her way through the maze of paths to her own cottage. Somehow she could never properly explain that she could see the path – the mossy trees towering over the Olneys’ close,
the lane dipping slightly in front of Old Brice’s place before bending to the left, bypassing the enormous trunk of a redwood. She was never anxious about losing her way in their village, for she could picture it all in her mind, every tree and bush, every home.

  Her blindness was, in some ways, more a gift than a hindrance. Though her natural sight had been taken, it had been replaced with a wondrous awareness she would never have experienced otherwise. She knew the world better because of it, had been forced to learn it better in order to survive. And she had learned it. She knew the forest like the back of her hand. Shallah flushed with relief as she made this realization. Maybe she would succeed, after all.

  Naturally, she told none of this to Betta. She claimed to have found their home by following her children’s gay laughter.

  “They can be a rowdy bunch,” Betta said with a grin. “They’ve so enjoyed having a new child to play with.”

  Shallah could still hear the children through the open doorway. Their voices echoed through the small room. It seemed such a shame to take Liam away.

  “It’s Toly I feel the worst for,” Betta admitted. “He was so glad to have a boy closer to his age to play with.” Betta’s gaze lingered on Liam’s face. “He will miss him.”

  Shallah could think of nothing to say.

  “He’s been waiting for you,” Betta said and Shallah raised her head. “He was restless all night. It’s almost as if he knew he’d be going home.” Liam blinked at Betta and put his thumb in his mouth. Though Shallah couldn’t see it, Betta was staring straight at Liam as though entranced, staring at his peculiar eyes. “There is something … that is, you ought to know …” she trailed off.

  “Betta?” Shallah asked, puzzled. Betta wasn’t one to leave a sentence unfinished. “What is it?”

  Betta shook her head and rearranged her skirts. She seemed to have decided against something. “When will you go?” she asked abruptly. Shallah didn’t miss the quiver in her voice.