by K. C. Herbel
The boy held up his crooked hands. “Save your wind, I say! You’ll need your strength if you don’t want to be dead again by mornin’.”
“Again?”
“Aye.”
“I was dead?”
“Aye.”
“How is it that I am alive?”
“Do not ask me that. Please, rest now.”
Indeed, Hugh felt quite tired, and the pain in his innards told him that his scrape with death wasn’t over, but the quiet darkness of sleep was less inviting than ever before. It was a smoky reflection of death—a shadow, with only a flimsy barrier separating the two. It would be all too easy to fall asleep and then slip beyond it unaware. Hugh still felt little love for life, but having sampled the alternative, he was not yet ready to face it again. He remembered the cold emptiness and wondered if all men’s deaths were so lonely.
“What manner of disease has done this to you?” Hugh fought to stay awake.
The beggar shushed Hugh again, but then seemed moved to answer. “‘Twasn’t sickness what done this to me. Well, not the kind you’re thinkin’ of. The thing what done this to me walks among men on two legs. Two fat, healthy legs.”
“A man did that to you?” The very thought of such cruelty turned Hugh’s stomach.
“Aye, Sir Hugh. He were a man.”
“You know my name?”
“Aye.” The beggar looked away. “And I know his name too.”
The beggar’s words were as chalk. Hugh’s throat tightened as if he had breathed them in. His stomach knotted. He managed to keep its contents down, but the exertion was too much, and he succumbed to sleep. A restless sleep, fraught with dark, formless terrors that only a man once dead could imagine.
***
For two days, Hugh stumbled in and out of consciousness. Each time he came to, the nameless beggar was there by his side. With amazing consistency, the boy provided food, water, and even medicine. Hugh did not know why he was alive. He only knew that he should be among the dead. This knowledge rooted in his mind and grew into a compelling question. The same question he was told not to ask. This in itself added strength to the thought and forced him into a mental tug of war.
Hugh found his strength returning, but he wondered about the wisdom of his cure. Life—his life—hardly seemed worth living, much less saving. Yet somehow, while living in that wee dirty cave—which was literally a hole in the wall—he was recovering. Something in him, which he could not fathom, wanted to survive. It was in constant conflict with the dark part of him that had already surrendered.
“Why do you do this?” Hugh asked his ragged host.
The boy glanced over his shoulder but did not answer.
Hugh looked around him and observed that several items were missing. The large copper kettle had been replaced by a smaller one of iron. There had been some knives and cups as well. The small silver ring that had adorned the boy’s finger was gone.
Hugh saw a tremor in the boy’s hands. “You haven’t eaten since I arrived.”
The beggar’s only response was to hide his hands.
“You’ve sold nearly all your belongings to buy me medicine, haven’t you?”
“What of it?”
“Why?”
“I didn’t need those things.”
“You could have used them to help yourself. Why are you helping me?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me!”
“Why?”
“Because ... because you should have let me die.”
“I ...” The boy arched his back. “I could not.”
Hugh became frustrated. Stuck between his sudden anger at the beggar’s impassive philanthropy, his pain at being alive, and the braying melancholy that ruled his days. For an instant, the pain won out. “You should have let me die!”
The beggar turned to face him. His young, wise eye stared out through the bandages. An eye full of hurt, anger, and empathy—which reminded Hugh once again of the boy’s humanity and his terrible suffering.
He could not bear to look into the boy’s eye. He had often scolded himself because of his penchant for self-pity, but he had never felt such profound shame over it before. It cleaved down his middle like a great sword cutting him in two.
“I could not,” the boy said with some finality.
Tears fell from Hugh’s eyes. He closed them to suppress the flow.
“I couldn’t let you die, Sir Hugh, because of a boy who once looked up to you as the greatest of men.”
Hugh’s conscience would not let him sleep. All his anger turned inward. He was ashamed of his weaknesses and angered by his failure to perfect himself. His life was meaningless. He had squandered it. But what angered him most was that the wrong done to Billy, Myrredith, his mother and father, and to him, would never be righted.
The two of them sat in silence for hours. Finally, it grew dark. The boy stoked the small fire and prepared the evening meal.
Hugh broke their silence. “I’m sorry to be such a disappointment.”
The boy only shrugged.
“That doesn’t matter to you either.”
Again the boy shrugged.
“But you’ve helped me. And you said you once thought of me as a great …”
“It wasn’t me.”
“You weren’t the boy?”
“No.”
“The one who looked up to me?”
“No.”
Hugh took in the laconic beggar. “He was a friend of yours.”
The boy nodded. “And yours.”
A notion snatched Hugh from his melancholy. His eyes focused on the beggar, then on the fire and, for a moment, he saw a face. “Billy,” he muttered to himself.
The beggar’s head turned to look into Hugh’s face. “Aye.”
Hugh glanced up from the fire and caught the meaningful look in the boy’s eye.
“Billy! You knew Billy!”
The boy nodded.
“And you …” He paused for a moment to allow his mind to catch up with his mouth. “You are the boy who helped him. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
The boy’s eye shifted from side to side before he nodded.
“Did you also help Billy find his way through the Cyndyn catacombs?”
“Joukery-paukery if I knowed how, but he done that on his own. He’s one o’ two blokes ever done that, and him a green country lad at that.”
“Who was the first?”
“Only the single best burglar Dyven has ever known! Though he was in much better condition when he done it.”
“So only one man has ever stole into the old orchard graveyard, navigated the catacombs to Cyndyn Hall, and come back again?”
“More boy than man.”
“Yes, of course, but that is what happened, right?”
“That’s the shortest tale of it, aye.”
Hugh stared into the fire. “And is it possible … for this same person, and perhaps a friend, to wander into the old orchard one night, find themselves in the catacombs, and ... ?”
“Look, I know where yer goin’ with this, and it’s a bad idea, even if you weren’t half in the grave.”
“Perhaps, but is it possible?”
“Possible? Yeah, but you’d have more luck askin’ Billy to do it.”
“Billy is dead.”
Hugh pulled back his tongue, narrowly avoiding his teeth. He wished he could draw back his last breath and remove the words hanging so heavy on the air.
His companion stared into the fire. “I know.”
“You know?”
“Aye.” The boy’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “I heard it in the street.”
They watched the fire in silence.
“Stitch? Your name is Stitch.”
“It was.”
“Was?”
The boy held out what passed for his hands and said, “Before this, it was.”
Hugh nodded in understanding. “I too have a new name.”
&
nbsp; “A new name?”
“Now, I am only Hugh, nothing more.”
The boy, who had been called Stitch, considered Hugh with raised brows.
“I am no longer a knight. I have been stripped of all titles and land—everything.”
“Everything?”
Hugh nodded. “I am what you see.”
The former cutpurse and former king’s champion stared across at one another. They both had attained what they thought was something worth having, only to have it stripped away by another. They were without friends, family, or direction, and now even their homeland seemed lost. They each felt alone. In the silence, an agreement passed between them. They had no future, and no past that mattered now. They both had only the moment, and so they were not alone.
***
The next day, Hugh learned that Stitch now wanted to be called “Aeth,” a name he claimed his long-dead mother had given him, along with half a lover’s locket containing the picture of his father—a man whom Stitch had failed to find in seven years of searching the streets of Dyven. He also learned that his disfigurement was due to a spiteful man named Derian.
“After Derian caught me, he took me to the cells under the tower. It were there that he done this to me.”
“Tell me ... how did he ... ?”
Aeth paused for a moment to peek out of his little canvas door. A single raindrop splattered against it, and Hugh heard the scuff of a shoe in the street. Other than that, it was quiet. The sky had donned its dull grey raiment. Gwythian soldiers were scarce.
“First, it was the rack. He was desperate to find Billy. I told him I don’t know such a bloke and that he ought to look ‘round Apple Hill; if’n he wanted a boy instead of a girl. That really pinched him off, so he stretched me out a bit more. Again, I tell him that I don’t know any such bloke, but he already knowed that me and Billy was mates.”
“But you still didn’t tell him.”
“Naw. But then he gets the idea that I’d tell him what he wants if I knew that he knew I knew Billy, and that if I know what’s good for me, I better tell him you know what.”
Hugh’s brow creased in confusion.
“Well, it don’t matter.” Aeth shrugged. “What matters is that’s when he goes to work with his tongs and thumbscrews.”
“And you still didn’t tell him, did you?”
“Naw. It’s odd, but I actually laughed at him.”
“Laughed?”
“Yeah. It just sorta come over me. I think I went over the moon.”
“And that angered him, didn’t it?”
“Ha!” Aeth gave a chortle. “He’s got this little vein on his forehead what swells when he’s mad. ... Damn near exploded!”
Hugh chuckled at the image of the little tyrant with his red pulsing forehead.
“That’s when the other bloke hands him his hammer.”
“His hammer?”
“Yeah.” Aeth held up his hands. “His hammer.”
“He used a hammer on your hands?”
“Among other places.”
Hugh shivered. “Wait! There was another man present?”
“Aye. Stuck to the shadows, he did.”
“Who?”
“Just some bloke. Talked funny.”
“Funny?”
“Yeah. Foreign like. Derian called him ... Spaniard.”
“Don Miguel Scarosa,” Hugh muttered.
“You knowed him?”
“You don’t have to worry about him, ever again.”
“Dead?”
“Billy killed him.”
“Really?”
Hugh nodded, and half a grin crept onto his face. “With the Spaniard’s own knife.”
“I didn’t think Billy had it in him.”
“Neither did Scarosa.”
Hugh and Aeth fell quiet, remembering their lost friend. Finally, Hugh broke the silence.
“So Scarosa was there,” he mused. “And he’s the one that made Derian use the hammer.”
“But I still didn’t budge.”
“No?”
“No. I don’t know how I done it, but I kept my tongue and only tells ‘em lies. I was runnin’ out of oomph. I think Derian saw that then, and I realize that mostly he’s been playin’ with me, except maybe for the hammer. He would’a killed me with that damned hammer if Cap’n hadn’t come along.”
“The captain of the guard was there?”
“Well, he come in then. He was real upset at first, but then Derian tells him I knowed where Billy is and he shuts up. The three of them whisper for a minute or two. Not long enough for me. After Cap’n left, Derian brings out the fire and the coals.”
Hugh closed his eyes. “Please, no more. I’m sorry …”
“It’s awright. I still never told him the whole truth.”
“I know.” Hugh offered a half-smile.
“You know he’s workin’ for the Gwythies now?”
“Derian?”
“Aye. He’s in tight with them he is. He was once a great man, great burglar. Now he’s a pet rat. I seen him with them many times. Onced, he looks right at me, but he don’t even know it’s me.”
“How did you escape from the tower?”
“Well, after I tells them what they think is all I know, they takes me from the tower. The captain tells Derian to let me go, but Derian has his own plans. He tells me he’s gonna drown me in the bay and let the fish have my bones, but before he can get me there, I stomp his foot and jump from the wagon. Unlucky for me, there’s this other wagon comin’ by right then.”
“Unlucky?”
“Yeah, ‘cause the driver don’t see me and runs me over like a rotten melon in the road.”
“Ouch!”
“Yeah, ouch. Broke my leg, but then I gets real lucky, ‘cause Derian thinks this kills me.”
“He didn’t check … ?”
The voice of a girl outside their little shelter stopped Hugh short.
“Hello? Is there someone there?”
Aeth and Hugh exchanged glances and shrugs.
The girl continued, giving them a larger taste of her strange, melodic accent. “I need to speak with the man living there.”
Again, the two occupants exchanged a series of glances and rapid-fire gestures, the result of which was Hugh volunteering to speak.
“Yes. I am here. Who is it?”
“I am called Precilla.”
“Why are you here, Precilla?”
“I was told that I would find you living in a hole in the wall. I have been searching for a hole in the city wall since yesterday, and now here you are. May I ... come in?”
“Who told you this?”
“Oh, a voice!”
“A voice?”
“From beyond. May I come in?”
“Beyond? Beyond what?”
“I am Precilla. I speak with the world beyond this one.”
Aeth straightened. “You’re the spaewife—the Egyptian?”
“Who is that? Is there someone with you?”
Hugh and Aeth exchanged glances, but did not answer.
“Is there a spirit in there with you?”
“No. Just a … another man.”
“Oh. I did not expect to find two men.”
“What do you want?” Aeth asked.
“I have a message for the man who lives in the hole in the wall.”
“Which one?”
“I am unsure now, but he is a man who has lost much.”
“That’s you,” both men answered in unison.
“No, it’s you, Aeth.”
“I think it must be you, Hugh.”
A raven-haired woman with dark skin and a sheer, pale veil stuck her head through the opening. Her eyes were older than her voice had let on. “I’m sorry, but I can’t just wait out here forever. Show me your hands.”
Hugh and Aeth exchanged glances.
The seer persisted. “Show me your hands.”
Hugh and Aeth held out their hands. She glanced at Aeth
’s bandages, and then decided to examine Hugh’s hands first. Gently, she turned the palms face up and held them up to the light.
“Mmmm,” the spaewife murmured, examining the former champion’s left hand. “Yes, very promising.”
“What?”
“You have great passion, and Saturn favored you at birth with a gift.”
“Saturn?”
“Yes, you were destined for greatness. Now, let us see what the other says …”
Precilla rubbed Hugh’s right palm, then brought it closer to her. “Yes,” she said, running her thumb over the creases. “But such passion can sometimes interfere with greatness, can it not, my handsome friend? And here …”
Hugh blushed, but then noticed that Precilla had stopped. The caramel-skinned woman shook, her nostrils flared, and her eyes widened in the same manner as a green horse in battle. She dropped Hugh’s hand and turned to leave. Hugh lunged out and caught her by the wrist.
“No, no,” she screamed hysterically. “Del preserve me! Let me go!”
Hugh pulled her back into the little cave and grabbed her other wrist. Aeth snapped his hand over her mouth and begged her to hush. Precilla fought them—her face still contorted in equine-like terror.
At last, the woman stopped struggling, and Hugh released her wrists. His hands went immediately to his abdomen, which had begun to bleed again. The spaewife sat up and pushed Aeth’s hands aside to stare at Hugh’s wound.
“Then you are mortal?” Precilla remained cautious.
Hugh looked at the blood on his hands and said, “It would appear so.”
“I do not understand. I saw in your palm that your destiny had come to an end. That you were dead!”
“He was dead.”
Precilla’s nostrils flared again as if she scented danger on the air. She turned to Aeth. “How is that possible?”
Aeth didn’t answer.
“How is that possible?” Precilla placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I must know.”
“Adwythane.” Aeth hung his head.
“The wizard who lives beneath Cromllech Dunom?”
“The same.”
“What was the devil’s price?”
Again, Aeth didn’t answer.
“What was his price, boy? That one always has a price, and for this it would be very high indeed!”
With his one good eye, Aeth stared at Precilla and Hugh, then turned away.
Precilla released the boy’s shoulder and turned to face Hugh. Her face was grim—a thin veneer over her fearful core. Slowly, she backed toward the exit. Before Hugh could move to stop her, she spoke. “I will tell you the message I have for you.” She held up her hands. “But then you must promise never to seek me out.”