by A. W. Cross
7
The arrow flew out of the crossbow with an incredible speed, and hit the practicing target straight in the middle, hitting bullseye. The bow reloaded itself, the mechanism I had devised for it pulling another arrow from the quiver attached to it. The quiver could hold up to twelve arrows and could then be refilled with another twelve arrows at once. Normally, a crossbow needed to be fired manually, but I had devised an engine for this one that handled the firing—all I had to do was pull the mechanism back, hold it and aim, and release it.
The second arrow popped into place, ready to be fired. I held the crossbow in front of me, closed my left eye and took aim. I focused on my heartbeat, the rhythm of the blood pulsing through my veins. Taking a deep breath, I let my heartbeat sync with the surrounding sounds of the trees in the backyard, the low hum of noises drifting in from the town center, the cries of birds in the forest outside the Wall.
Then, that strange moment came, a magical moment, where everything connected in synchronization: my heartbeat, nature, the world. In that moment, I breathed out, and then let go of the arrow.
It flung straight into the practicing target, shredding the previous arrow in half.
“Wow, that’s impressive.”
Startled, I turned around. Philippe. Because of me being completely concentrated on shooting the arrow, I hadn’t heard him approach. “What are you doing here?”
Despite trying not to sound upset, I did. Which was ridiculous, because a) Duncan hadn’t been entirely wrong, even if it was still hurtful to think about what he’d said and b) Philippe had defended me. So, it made zero sense to be mad at him, but I still felt annoyed—maybe because Duncan had said what he had in Philippe’s presence, and Philippe was the last person on earth, besides my family, who I wanted to think of me as being a freak.
“I wanted to talk to you, but now I’ve seen your shooting skills in action, maybe we should recruit you as a Hunter. I haven’t seen anyone shoot that well in ages, except maybe Richard.”
“The target doesn’t move, so it’s not that difficult.” Last thing I wanted was for Philippe to fake-sing my praises now and then potentially break my heart by telling me he thought Duncan was right. “Besides, if I’m supposedly one of the Tainted, it would be very dangerous to recruit me; what if I turned on you mid-fight and decided to play for the other team instead?” I made sure to let my voice drip with venom, sounding as sarcastic as possible.
“Duncan is an idiot,” Philippe said as he came nearer. “No one listens to him.”
“But no one tells him to shut up either.” The crossbow was growing heavy in my hands, so I let it rest on the floor. The system activated to replace the missing arrow, and another arrow from the quiver rolled in place.
“Huh?” Philippe raised his eyebrows when the crossbow made a clicking sound; the sign the next arrow was ready. “Did it just reload…all by itself?”
“Yes. It’s one of the contraptions Father and I have been working on.” I patted the wooden frame of the crossbow. “There’s a quiver underneath that holds all the arrows. When an arrow is shot, it reloads automatically from that quiver. Only problem is that reload is not instant; it takes a few minutes. No big deal when you’re just training or shooting for fun, but we’re trying to sort it out in case it’s ever used in combat.”
“I’m impressed yet again.” Philippe bent through his knees to inspect the device. “Is this an engine of some sorts?”
“Yes, it pulls back the bow automatically.” Part of me wanted to lean closer to him, explain in detail how the entire mechanism worked, and just act like we normally did. But the other part of me was still cranky about what had happened and worried he would see me differently now. “That way anyone can use it, and you don’t need considerable strength.”
Philippe stood up straight again but kept looking at the ground. “Listen, Belle. I’m really sorry for what Duncan said; he was way out of line, and I’ve told him that, and—”
“But what if he was right?” I wanted the take the words back the moment I said them, but by then it was too late. “What if… if I am Tainted?”
This time, Philippe did look up, and something shifted in his gaze, but not in the way I had expected. He…cared. Yes, that was what it was. Sadness mixed with caring. Maybe Clarice’s assessment had been spot-on, and I was a judgmental idiot for always assuming everyone thought the worst of me.
“I don’t care if you’re Tainted or not. It wouldn’t change a thing.” Philippe’s voice sounded raw, vulnerable. “You haven’t turned into a raving lunatic ready to kill the village, and you’ve been like this…” To my surprise, he grabbed my mechanical arm and linked his fingers with mine, “for years, so I doubt that you’ll suddenly wake up with a taste for villager.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, his joke made me chuckle. That was typically Philippe: he was good at defusing situations, at using humor to cheer me up when I felt down.
“No, I doubt it,” I replied. “Villagers just don’t seem that tasty to me.”
“So, my conclusion is that even if what happened to you…. With your arm… Even if that left you Tainted…” Philippe used his free hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “It doesn’t matter. You’re still Belle.”
I assumed he’d stop there, so I started to say “thanks”, but never got past the “th” because he continued talking.
“My best friend since we were toddlers.” Philippe grabbed my other hand now, squeezing it gently. It felt a little awkward to stand there with him, our hands entwined. I didn’t think we’d ever held hands before, not like this. “You taught me how to shoot a bow and arrow, do you remember? I was pretty bad at it at first.”
“I remember. You’re still only mediocre, though,” I joked, while I wondered what direction this conversation was headed in.
“You were the best in class in so many things,” Philippe continued, reminiscing. “You could read before any of us had even started to learn. And mathematics, half of us were still confused with how one and one could form two, and you were already dividing in the thousands.”
“Okay…” I wasn’t quite sure why he was signing my praises now; was he still trying to cheer me up for Duncan’s behavior earlier?
“If there were still universities, I’m sure they would’ve loved to have you. You’re by far the smartest person in town, Belle. In fact, this village…” He looked around, his gaze floating from the Wall to the direction of the town center, “it’s too small for you. It doesn’t deserve a person like you.”
I raised my eyebrows, not sure what he was getting at.
“I…” He licked his lips, as if he was nervous about what he was going to say next. “I want to give you the world, Belle. I’ve… I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while.”
And in that moment, when his eyes, sparkling green emeralds, met mine, I knew what he was going to say, and I realized what Clarice had meant when she said Philippe would not be interested in anyone like Amélie, this morning.
He was already interested in someone.
In me.
“I…” I half-feared he would stoop down on one knee and propose, and I desperately wanted to avoid that, but he held up his hand, stopping me from interrupting him.
“I’m in love with you, Belle,” he said, and it seemed like time itself stopped. Like the world was ripped from beneath my feet. Was this how it was supposed to feel to love someone? Did I love him?
For years, I’d loved him like a friend. But did I love him more than that?
In the books I’d read—the romance novels Francois kept hidden between his large volumes of non-fiction books—the heroine always swooned when the hero told her he loved her. Her heart would race in her chest, and her palms would be sweaty, and an army of butterflies would occupy her belly whenever the hero so much as looked at her.
My heart did race in my chest, and my palms were sweaty, and I did feel slightly nauseous…
“And I was ho
ping that… maybe, hopefully… you felt the same way?” Philippe gave me a half-smile, and I realized he was nervous.
“I… I…” I stammered, trying to find the right words. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“This is a lot, all of a sudden, I know,” Philippe said.
God, he was too nice for me, he’d always been too nice, too caring; I didn’t deserve someone like him, not at all.
“Maybe after the hunt today, we can go for a walk? Or if you think it’s too soon, maybe tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I blurted out quickly.
Philippe nodded. His thumb softly caressed the side of my hand, and while it felt pleasant, it also felt weird. As if he shouldn’t be doing that. He was my friend. My friend…
“I have to go now,” he said. “I hope I didn’t startle you too much.” He chuckled lightly, but he still looked a bit nervous. Maybe he had thought I’d react differently—that I’d be overjoyed, or dancing with excitement… Was that how I was supposed to feel, rather than this strange, almost out-of-body experience I was having at the moment?
“I will come to your house tomorrow morning,” Philippe promised. “Then, we can have our walk and talk…” He didn’t say it out loud, but I practically heard the unspoken words: And I hope you reciprocate my feelings, I hope you love me back.
But did I? How could I know what love felt like if I’d never felt it before? I did feel something for Philippe, sure, but was it just friendship, or was it something more?
“See you tomorrow, Belle.” Philippe let go of my hands, nodded at me, turned and left.
I remained standing in the field for a good five minutes, watching him leave. Only after he’d disappeared behind the horizon, did I feel as if I could move and breathe again.
He loved me. Or at least, he thought he did.
But did I love him?
8
“What was that?” Amélie ambushed me the moment I walked inside the house. She was holding a half-eaten apple in one hand, the other hand on her hip. In that moment, she looked exactly like Mother had, whenever she was ready to scold me for something I had done wrong.
“What was what?” I asked while I closed the back door behind me.
“Philippe. You. In the garden.” Amélie knitted her brows. “Was that what I think it was?”
“Were you spying on me?” I frowned at her. “And it’s… well, what do you think it was?” I didn’t really feel like giving her a lot of details; the moment was so surreal I hadn’t been able to fully process it myself. Had Philippe really just said what I thought he did?
“I wasn’t spying on you per se.” Amélie polished the apple on the sleeve of her dress. “Okay, maybe a little. I just happened to glance out the window, and I saw you. Then, I saw Philippe approaching and… maybe I kept on watching, yes.”
“That’s practically the definition of spying.”
“I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I’ve read enough romance novels to be able to guess his side from the story.” Her eyes grew wider and she seemed eager for me to share. “Come on, tell me!”
“He did say he had… feelings for me.” It sounded so strange, saying that out loud.
“Oh my God, I knew it!” Exasperated, Amélie threw her hands in the air. “You’re such a lucky girl, Belle. I’m jealous, and if it were anyone but you, I’d be angry as hell, but—”
“I didn’t know what to say,” I interrupted her. Even if she was my younger sister, I felt that I needed to talk about this to someone, and with Clarice having gone straight to Father’s workshop to talk to him when we’d returned home, Amélie was the ideal candidate. “I… I don’t know if I love him.”
Amélie stared at me for a second as if I’d spoken gibberish. “How can you not?” she said eventually, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “He’s hands down the most handsome guy in the village. He’s sweet and caring. He’s the closest thing to a Prince Charming that you’ll ever see in this town.”
Maybe that was the key. In this town.
“Who else would you choose?” Amélie continued. “It’s not like we have guys for the picking. Would you prefer stuck-up Charles? Or that drooling idiot, Duncan? There’s only a handful of guys of the marrying age, and Philippe is the best choice you could have from all of them.”
“But…” I wanted to tell her that there should be more to it than that. You shouldn’t fall in love with someone because that person was the best person available—you should feel something for that person himself, regardless of how he compared to everyone else. I struggled to find the right words.
“He’s your friend, right?” Amélie asked. “You could do worse than marry your friend. You could grow old alone, as a spinster, and die all alone with a spiderweb connecting your nose to a book. Or you could watch all possible guys marry someone else and be left with a person you hate and your only option is to either learn to like them, or end up alone. Maybe it’s me, but none of those prospects sound amazing.”
“They’re not.” I sighed and leaned against the kitchen cabinet, crossing my arms. “It’s just that… I think I’ve always imagined that there should be something more, you know?” A hint of sadness had crept into my voice, and it made me cringe to hear how whiny I sounded.
To my surprise, Amélie’s features softened and, with a wisdom far beyond her age, she said with a hint of melancholy in her voice, “That kind of love only occurs in romance novels.” It sounded like something Mother would have said, if she was still alive today.
“So, what do you think I should do?” I asked her.
“I think you should count your blessings. You like inventing and reading. Those are your passions. Half the guys in town would try to stop you from doing either of those. Philippe never would. Half of them would be disrespectful or at least consider themselves smarter than you. Not Philippe.” She shook her head. “Make a list of pros of Philippe versus all other guys in town, and you’ll see how long it is.”
Maybe she was right. If I considered Philippe against all other guys I knew, then he won, head and shoulders above the rest. But… was that enough? Was that what love should be like?
Amélie patted me on the shoulder. “You’re a lucky girl, Belle,” she repeated, and I wondered how many more times she’d have to say it for me to actually believe it.
Maybe I was, and maybe I was just being greedy thinking that Philippe wasn’t enough. That I wanted more—but what more could there be?
There’s nothing more inside these walls, that’s for sure.
I looked over my shoulder, through the window, at the Wall looming over us at the end of our backyard.
Beyond there?
But everything beyond the Wall was cruel and monstrous, and I had to accept that, and get those romantic notions out of my head, as Amélie had said. Romance was for books and fairytales, not for the real world.
9
Amélie had gone back to her room, and I had picked up a book to try and divert my thoughts. Today had been like a waterfall of emotions, and I’d tumbled from one mental state into the next, so distracting myself wasn’t easy. I kept on glancing at the door, hoping Clarice would come in after her conversation with Father, so she could tell me more about the nightmare she’d had, and so I could talk to her about what had happened with Philippe.
Then, a commotion outside startled me. Screams. People shouting for help. Someone shouting my name.
I nearly dropped the book on the floor as I jumped up from my chair.
A Blight attack? With most of our Hunters on the other side of the Wall? Someone getting hurt during the hunt?
Without hesitation, I grabbed the crossbow from its hook on the wall next to the front door and pulled the front door open.
It wasn’t a Blight attack, but it was just as bad.
I dropped the crossbow and rushed toward the scene in the middle of the road. The Hunters had come back, but not unharmed. Philippe cried for help while he supported a semi-conscious Duncan, w
hose leg had turned into a bloody mess of scratches and bitemarks. The blood flooded from the injured limb onto the ground. Charles supported Duncan’s other side, and the two of them dragged him onward.
Slightly behind them was Gérard, looking as white as a phantom, and carrying everyone’s weapons, but his eyes seemed to gaze at nothing at all, staring off into the distance.
The scene was so startling that I had already crossed the three steps down the stairs leading to my front door, before I realized Richard was at the bottom of the stairs, and I almost bumped into him. He’d probably run ahead to warn me.
“It’s bad.” He sounded panicked, and for someone as calm and calculated as Richard, that was saying a lot.
“Bring him in!” I shouted to Philippe and Charles, and then gestured for Richard to come in and help me.
Once we were inside the kitchen, I shoved the candle holders from the kitchen table, emptying it. “Put the chairs out of the way; we need room,” I ordered Richard while I rolled up my sleeves.
Amélie came dashing down the stairs. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
“We need water,” I told her without bothering to answer her question. “Fast”.
Without hesitating, she rushed outside to the well, to get a bucket of fresh water.
Before me, my Mother had been the town healer. When she was gone, Clarice and I—the last years also with the aid of Amélie—took over, but our knowledge paled in comparison to Mother’s. When I was small, she let me help her, and some of her books had also given me rudimentary knowledge of medicine. I’d seen that leg, though, and I wondered how much I’d be able to do.
I wish Mother was still there. She would know what to do. Was there a spell that could help us? I had some ointments, but nothing strong enough to re-attach a limb, and while I could do some healing magic, it wasn’t like I could magically close the wound back up. A Master Mage might’ve been able to do that, but not me, far from it.