by Terry Brooks
His parents and the village healers nursed him back to health. No one could identify the boys responsible or say why they had chosen to make an example of him. No one seemed to know anything about what had happened. His father went door-to-door and spoke to everyone who would listen. He did this for days. One man told him he’d heard it was a mistake, that the boys thought he was someone else. Another man said he thought it was something Reyn had said or done. Nothing came of any of it.
Months went by. He recovered from his injuries, and the details of the incident dimmed in his memory. Life returned to normal.
But all too soon the boys came again. They caught him coming home after an afternoon of fishing. It was night, and he was alone. They came at him in a clutch, whispering what they were going to do to him. Terrified, he screamed. And something happened. His voice slipped out of register, the level of intensity shifting dramatically. He lost control of what he was doing. All at once his scream had an impact to it, a punch that struck his attackers like a physical blow and sent them sprawling. Many were left unconscious. The others picked themselves up and ran. The boy stood staring after them. He had no idea what he had done.
Several days later, a couple of them found him again. But this time one of them had brought his father. The man was big and mean and drunk, and he was carrying a knife.
“Gonna carve you a new face, boy!” he hissed. “Gonna cut that wailing witch tongue right out of you!”
Reyn Frosch never hesitated. He screamed again, but this time with dark intent and terrible purpose. The big man slowed, dropping to his knees, hands over his ears. He screamed back at the boy, then scrambled to his feet and lurched toward him anew.
And then he simply disintegrated. His body blew apart; separating at the joints, bones breaking, blood emptying out, he turned into a lump of raw, shredded meat.
In that moment Reyn seemed to lose consciousness. He didn’t fall, didn’t collapse; he simply lost track of what was happening. He stood there in a daze, his mind gone somewhere else, and it was several long minutes later before he even realized where he was.
By then, the boys who had brought the man had fled. Reyn stared at what was left of his attacker, appalled by what he had done. Even to save his life, he shouldn’t have done this. But the power of his voice was new to him, and he had been frightened so badly by the size of the man and the presence of the knife that he had simply reacted. He ran home to tell his parents.
The boys who had attacked him had run home, too. But they still weren’t finished with him. Over the next few days they revealed themselves, telling everyone what he had done. A black haunt, they called him. A wraith of darkness and destruction. He’d killed a man for no reason. He was possessed and should be stopped before he could hurt others. No mention of their intentions toward him; no mention of the knife.
Eventually, they stirred up a response from the already superstitious townspeople. They came for him then, dozens of them, men and women from the taverns and ale shops, intoxicated and angry, their courage emboldened by numbers, a mob made wild at the thought of a creature in their midst that was inhuman and capable of doing great harm. The family of the dead man was among them, fueling the flames of fear and rage, knowing only one way to deal with things they didn’t understand.
A miller from the next town over, a friend of Reyn’s father’s who did business with the bakery and had stopped in one of the taverns for a drink before heading back, rushed to tell the family. Reyn’s father persuaded the miller to hide the boy in his wagon and spirit him to safety until matters settled down. The miller, an older man with grown children and better sense than those who were hunting for the boy, agreed to help.
So Reyn was hiding in the miller’s wagon beneath an old canvas covering, rolling down the road leading out of town when the mob surged past, heading for his home. He never saw what happened after that, but he heard. Just hearing was enough to imprint on his mind the scenes that followed. The mob breaking into his home and dragging his parents out. The destruction that followed as his home was torn apart by those searching for him. The deaths of his parents, whom the mob decided quickly enough were likely the same as he was, creatures of the netherworld who spawned this demon that had escaped them, and so should be stoned.
Soon enough, the miller and his wife had decided Reyn could no longer stay with them. The townspeople who had killed his parents were still hunting for him, obsessed with their task and consumed by their fears. Already, the search was widening to the surrounding communities. The boy would have to go. The miller would take him to one of the cities, far enough away and sufficiently populous that he would not be found.
Thus, at the age of eleven, he found himself making his own way in the world and discovering just how badly equipped he was to do so.
And all this had happened because of his voice, because of a magic that caused him to do terrible things. There was no escaping the truth of the matter, though he tried for years to deny it, arguing in the privacy of his mind that he had only done what instinct and fear had driven him to do. Had he known the truth about the sort of power he possessed, he might have been able to change the way things turned out. Had he known, he might have been able to save his parents’ lives.
So he believed, and the belief hardened into certainty and became a weight around his neck that would not release itself. He carried it everywhere, and after another few incidents in which he reacted spontaneously and foolishly with similar results, he needed no further convincing that it would always be there. If not for adopting a regimen of strict control over his life that mostly separated him from encountering the extreme emotional moments that would cause the dark side of his voice to resurface, he would have remained cursed every waking moment for the rest of his life.
But it was the singing that saved him, too. The discovery that he could infuse listeners with whatever emotions he chose to stir, just by modulating the sound of his voice, provided him not only with a way to make a living but also with the realization that he could control his own fate. Now his voice became a gift as well as a curse, and he employed it to good advantage. A sense of self-confidence followed, his growing skill and experience in using his voice providing reassurance that he needn’t go through life afraid that he was without hope.
Of course, there were still lapses. And there was that odd and troubling disconnect he experienced each time one happened, a going away from himself that left him empty and vulnerable…
“Well, well, look what we have here.”
His thoughts and memories scattered, and the night closed in about him, its silence suddenly oppressive. He glanced over to find Borry Fortren standing only a few feet away.
“He looks a little surprised, don’t he?” Yancel, moving up beside him, laughed. “Guess he thought he could slip out the back door, and we wouldn’t know.”
“That what you doing, chicken-boy?” Borry Fortren pressed, his smile an ugly sneer. He made a rude gesture and spat. “You trying to get away from us?”
Reyn shrugged, fighting to remain calm. “Staying away from you two is a lifelong ambition.”
“Oh, listen to him!” Yancel clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Clever with words, ain’t he? Does all that singing, and now it turns out he thinks he can be clever, too!”
“He ain’t so clever.” Borry was cracking his knuckles and moving to cut off any attempt at escape, which Reyn could already tell was not going to happen in any case. “Else he wouldn’t have let himself be caught out alone like this. You want to try us now, boy? Or do you just want to take what’s coming to you and be done with it?”
“Yeah, maybe that. Just take your punishment for that smart mouth. We won’t break too many bones.”
“ ’Course, you won’t be playing those pretty songs for a while. Or maybe never, once we’re done with you.”
“Singing, Yance. He won’t be doing much of that, either, I don’t expect.”
“Well, I’m sick of his singing in any case. Best if we don’
t be hearing him at all after this. You know what he’s gonna sound like? Like a chicken head after it’s been twisted off, throttled good and proper, all croaking and slobbering. No one gonna understand him anymore. Not a word.”
So there was no avoiding this, no way to keep it from happening. Reyn thought momentarily of trying to dash back inside fast enough that they couldn’t catch him. But if he did that, he would be a marked man and they would call him a coward. There would be no end to their mockery. Better to try to stop it here and now. He was strong enough to take either one alone. He might have a chance against both if he kept his wits.
And if they didn’t use knives.
Then he saw the iron bar that Borry was holding down against his leg. So much for that.
“You really don’t have much confidence in yourself, do you?” he said, taking a step toward them. “If you need that iron bar, you must think you’re in trouble.”
Borry laughed. “Don’t need it, chicken-boy. I just like the idea of it. I don’t want to hurt myself more than I have to on pig slop like you. Come on, step a little closer.”
Reyn unslung the elleryn and leaned it back against the wall of the building, searching as he did so for something he could use as a weapon. He saw a washtub and a clothesline. Useless. Some wood was stacked against the back wall. He moved over quickly and snatched up a four-foot length. Better than nothing.
“You sure about this?” he asked them, advancing a few steps.
The brothers exchanged a quick glance, and then both grinned. “Sure enough,” Yancel spat at him.
“Gonna hurt you bad,” Borry added. “Real bad.”
They came toward him, separating slightly so they had room to maneuver. Reyn kept his eye on Borry and the iron pipe, letting Yancel think he was free to act. As he expected, Yancel came at him first, charging in a sudden rush that surprised his brother and caused him to shout out a warning.
The big man paid no attention, however, and threw himself at Reyn in an attempt to overpower him using his superior size and strength. But the boy dropped into a crouch, braced himself, and jammed one end of the piece of wood deep into his attacker’s stomach. Yancel gasped, retching uncontrollably as he dropped to his knees. Reyn was already leaping up to meet Borry’s attack but to his surprise found the other Fortren just standing there, staring at him.
“You’re so tricky, ain’t you? Just think you can make us look like fools, but I ain’t stupid, chicken-boy. I ain’t my brother. I got something else in mind for you.”
Borry backed toward the tavern wall. “See, hurting you ain’t just about breaking bones. It’s about breaking your heart. By doing this.”
With inexorable purpose he moved to where the elleryn rested. Several violent swings of the iron pipe smashed it to pieces. Reyn stared in shock as his instrument was reduced to broken bits of wood and severed strings, ruined beyond any hope of repair.
Borry turned back to him. “How do you like that, you pissant? How do you like your pretty plaything now? Why don’t you play something for me? Why don’t you make your pretty music?”
Reyn felt the rage building in a slow, steady boiling that worked through him like a fire given life by kindling and air. He started toward Borry, gripping his piece of wood.
But Borry was ready for him. He had discarded the iron pipe and now held a long knife in its place, the blade glinting in the moonlight. “Oh, you think you’re ready for this, do you? Come get it!”
Fighting down the urge to run, Reyn braced himself, ready to block the other’s knife. But suddenly arms wrapped about him from behind as Yancel, having finally regained his feet, came to his brother’s aid. Reyn thrashed and twisted, but Yancel was strong and his grip solid and unyielding.
Borry howled with glee, then lifted his knife and charged.
Reyn, all chance of escape or defense gone, howled back at him in response.
Instantly the air seemed to change color, even in the darkness, and the faint silvery light of moon and stars seeping through the departing rain clouds took on a crimson blush. Borry Fortren felt the impact of the magic as he slammed into its invisible wall, not two feet away. The knife blade shattered. Reyn screamed louder, any attempt at control lost. Yancel’s arms released their grip on him, and he tumbled away.
Borry, still fighting to get close enough to grip the boy with his bare hands, simply exploded. It happened spontaneously, with a shocking and terrible suddenness, pieces of the big man flying everywhere. Reyn stumbled back, shielding his eyes, trying to stay upright. But Yancel snatched at his legs from where he lay on the ground in an effort to topple him. The boy reacted instinctively, all hope of ending this any other way gone. His scream came from somewhere deep inside. It felt as if it came from somewhere else entirely, the intrusion in his own body harsh and raw. Yancel was flung backward, his arms torn from his shoulders, his blood flooding out of his body as he lay gasping out the last of his life.
Then Reyn Frosch felt the familiar disconnect, and he was tumbling into that familiar dark hole in which there was no light or sound and from which he could not extricate himself.
Everything around him disappeared, and his thoughts ceased.
SIX
When Reyn woke again, it was morning. Bright light streamed through the gap in the curtains of his room, though the light was gray and hazy rather than sunny. He lay in his bed in the loft room over the back half of the tavern, listening to the sound of voices coming from below. He remembered right away what had happened, and he took an extra few moments to check himself over, searching for injuries.
There were none.
Not to him, anyway. But two of the Fortren brothers had suffered the sort of injuries from which you did not recover. And he was the cause. Reyn closed his eyes against the visions that suddenly thrust themselves to the forefront of his mind—Borry, torn into pieces of bone and slivers of flesh; Yancel, armless and bleeding out; his elleryn, its broken remains lying scattered on the ground; himself, falling out of the world, tumbling down into the pit of non-being, everything he had brought to pass left behind.
He closed his eyes. So it had happened again, just as he had feared in those last moments when he faced the brothers. Just as it had happened all those other times. He had been provoked, had lost his temper and composure, had given way to his emotions, and had vented through deadly use of his voice. In an instant’s time he had ruined everything.
Conflicting questions rose in a rush. Why couldn’t he have prevented it from happening? Why couldn’t he have found a way to stop it? If he could control the modulation of his singing, why couldn’t he do the same when he screamed? A light and a dark side to his voice—shouldn’t he be able to manipulate both instead of only one?
He reached for the glass of water by his bedside and drank it down. He felt bereft. Two dead; two more ghosts that would haunt him forever. It didn’t matter that they had hated him and that he cared nothing for them. It didn’t matter that they had provoked him in a way that had effectively removed every other option if he wanted to stay alive. Nothing mattered to ghosts save that they haunted until they found peace, and there was no peace to be found for Borry and Yancel Fortren.
Nor any for him.
He was finished in Portlow. He would have to leave now. There were Fortrens everywhere, and they would be hunting him. And even if they weren’t, the townspeople would be appalled by what he had done. It didn’t matter how much they loved his music or admired his singing. Doing what he had done, killing two men in the manner he had—even if they didn’t know exactly how he had done it—would be beyond their understanding. In truth, it was beyond his. He couldn’t explain it any better than they could. He could barely accept it as a part of who and what he was.
He had risen and was dressing when Gammon came through the door. He saw the wariness in the other’s eyes immediately and felt ashamed.
“Feeling better now?” the tavern owner asked, closing the door behind him. “You don’t seem hurt.”
/> He shook his head. “No, I wasn’t hurt. I killed them before they could do anything.”
“Self-defense, though. Found Borry’s knife. Everyone knows it. So no question about what happened. But the knife was shattered all to pieces. How did you do that?”
“Rock.”
“You used a rock on him and his brother? Looked like they’d been sent through a shredder.”
“They were. In a manner of speaking. Look, Gammon, I won’t talk about it. I just won’t. I know I have to leave, and I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t like those two, but I didn’t want it to come to this. I liked being here. I liked singing in the tavern. I wish I could take it all back.” Reyn sighed. “You’ve been good to me, and I appreciate it.”
Gammon came over to him. “Look, Reyn, your business is your own. Even with this. You were attacked, and you defended yourself. They smashed your instrument, tried to take your life. Everyone knows it. No one likes the Fortrens, so losing Borry and Yancel won’t cause much loss of sleep.” He paused. “But it’s the way it was done, don’t you see? If you could just offer something…explain it a little…”
The boy smiled. “I can’t do that. I can barely explain it to myself, and trying to explain it to anyone else won’t help. I have to leave. It’s best for everyone. The rest of the Fortrens will be coming for me. That’s a given. If I’m not here, there can’t be more of what happened last night. And there will be more, Gammon, if I stay and try to explain.”
The tavern owner nodded, a resigned look on his face. “Your mind’s made up, I see. But you might not find leaving so easy. There are Fortrens already watching the roads. They know what you intend, and they will try to stop you. So don’t do them any favors. Stay a bit longer. Give this a little time. You can keep your room here. Some of us like you enough that we’ve agreed to watch over you until we find a way to sneak you out. What do you say?”
Reyn finished dressing, then picked up the remainder of his clothes and stuffed them in a travel sack. “I say you are a good friend, and I’ve found a home in Portlow that I hate to leave. But I won’t risk you and those others you’ve persuaded to help you. I’ll have something to eat and be on my way. Come now, tell me who found me last night. Was it you?”