Walk in darkness these days, and you became a crook, but pedlars found a way: tools wore out or pots broke, and pedlars skulked between villages with goods and whispered stories, so Caliper had matted grime over his overalls and stuffed trinkets into his backpack.
Twigs snapped ahead, and the distant owl fell silent.
If he stayed unseen for long enough, Christina would find him. He’d grab that thought: she always returned. If he gave her time, she’d show him the way as if she’d given him those candles.
Christina hadn’t heard of candles, but he’d choked back his surprise and explained their nature. They’d visited Leester’s henge, and she’d taught him how to use its stones as a forge, where they’d fashioned candles together.
‘You’re grinning, Caliper.’
‘I’m after more.’ He’d rubbed his neck and recalled boyhood dreams; there’d be no harm in the asking. ‘Candles last hours, but they’re dim. Can they be brighter?’
She’d smiled. Yes, she could make special ones that burned like a hundred candles while scrunching their life into thirty heartbeats. Christina had made the specials, and he’d wrapped them in a separate paper roll, since he’d no way of telling what tools he’d need.
A lantern flickered through the trees, and Caliper ducked. Two guards advanced and their pace quickened. He’d never outrun them: their feet punched through undergrowth, and shadows raced around the forest; he’d no chance to shelter under ferns. A voice rasped from the darkness.
‘Who’s there?’
A wiry face surfaced from the gloom and waited for Caliper’s words as a burly younger guard hulked in the shadows. Metal badges glinted on their leather jerkins.
‘Officers, can I help?’
‘What you doing?’
‘Just a pedlar aiming for Ferstus village by dawn. Yesterday at Leester; not bad trading, but we’re always after greener grass.’
‘A stinking pedlar.’ The thickset guard lunged forward to ram his stick against Caliper’s belly. ‘Whatever he’s carrying, there’s no night roving allowed. Darkness ends the day, and dark’s for sleep. We’ll arrest him.’
Arrest meant priests and questions shouted in a cell, and Christina wouldn’t come. The burly youngster bustled behind him. Caliper focused on the older man’s grizzled face, but the young guard’s hand tugged his elbow from behind. ‘I’ll take my thumbs to his eyes and make it night forever. What you peddling?’
The older officer shoved his face against Caliper’s. ‘Get him to the Ferstus guardhouse, and see what they make of him. Check his pack.’ The younger man tugged Caliper’s backpack from his shoulders.
Caliper glanced at the battered lantern in the older officer’s hand and its sulking stub of candle. Guards chased crooks all hours, but priests never doled out enough candles, and the need for sleep glazed the older officer’s eyes.
‘We always want glow, don’t we?’ Caliper said. ‘Just a few candles, scraps of light for evenings; sometimes work outlasts the day.’
The young guard spewed out more church words. ‘“Light scours; light blemishes; light carries evil to the eye.”’
A sigh drifted from the smaller officer. Some saw nature and religion everywhere, but others spent more time living; no surprise the older guy held the lantern. ‘Manage it, do you, Jero? You manage a whole night without glimmer?’
‘I use what I need, but night’s meant to be dark.’
‘Look what I’m carrying, Jero. Can we work in the dark? There’s lots of law, lots of “meant tos” and “should bes” all lined up and waiting. “Meant to” won’t finish our job, so let’s worry about what’s important.’ The older man lifted his lantern. ‘Still, let’s see these candles.’
Caliper swung his pack down and pulled oilskin away to reveal his normal candles.
‘What are those below?’
Caliper hesitated but opened his pack of special candles and fished out two waxy cylinders. The guard held them beside his lantern and ran his thumb over the wick, and Caliper stopped himself from wincing.
‘Feels weird,’ the officer said. ‘You dunk them in oil, or what?’
‘My dad peddled; said it stopped them crumbling. Dunno about that, but I enjoy sticking with the old.’
‘Tradition, eh? How many oily candles you got?’
‘A dozen.’
The guard’s lined face broke into a smile. ‘You shouldn’t carry that many. Why don’t we take the lot and arrest you anyways?’
‘Ah, but think where I got those.’ Caliper squatted beside his bag. ‘I’ll visit Ferstus village tomorrow with more. Same next day; it mounts up.’
‘Tomorrow?’ The older guard squinted at Caliper; the younger hissed, but a single glare silenced him.
‘At dusk by Ferstus crossroads.’
‘Well, three’s a lucky number.’
Caliper held back a sigh: an extra candle made an easy bribe. He’d have enjoyed watching the guards light these candles, but he’d bought safety, and he’d keep alive his dream of seeing Christina. The candles vanished inside the guard’s tunic.
‘Ferstus by dawn, eh?’
‘Going right there,’ Caliper replied. The younger guard glared, but Caliper ambled dawnward. Truth mixed well with an occasional lie, but next time he’d try comedy.
Sweat chilled his body: like a tightrope walk, every step on this journey had to end well. There’d be guards he’d never bribe and brigands he couldn’t fight. One slip or one bad dice roll, and Christina’s face would stay forever a drifting ghost, and he’d rot alone the rest of his days.
Chapter 5: truth carries a knife
Wisps of smoke curled up from the kitchen range, and Phos sat at the table and stared at the copper pans hanging from the crazed plaster walls. Mum gripped her sleeve, but Phos wouldn’t turn towards her even when Mum’s clammy fingertips brushed her cheeks. She’d already glanced at those watery eyes and their tears, and the unfairness choked her. Not her fault that taking two steps outside had snared her into a wild journey where promises of learning had blurred into threats of torture. Why should nudging limits injure others?
Mum had dressed in sash and belted tunic as if heading for church. Worry had drained the smile from Dad’s face, and he stood beside the range with his bony fingers clutching his waistcoat. The morning’s freshness had faded into this middle-aged day where light wheezed through the kitchen shutters.
Rastersen had dropped her half a mile away, and she’d scrambled home. Now she had to flesh out her story. Phos pressed her lips together: if her parents learned about the priest’s sweated threats they’d scream for help, and he’d know she’d talked – the woman’s cries still seethed through her mind.
‘I’ve said I’m fine, Mum, so don’t worry.’ Sunlight glinted over the spice jars on the shelf above the door, and the kindling stacked in the corner wafted out resin scents. Phos turned and wrapped her fingers around Mum’s wrists before drawing them to the table; her story needed to make them parents again. Other villagers must have seen the windmill’s lights or stumbled over wreckage, so did Rastersen plan to silence others, and had he talked with those priests from school?
Mum’s hands skittered back to Phos’s hair and pressed against her cheeks. ‘You’re our only child, Phos, so what sent you charging through the night? When we found your empty hammock….’
‘I’ve gone before and I’ve always returned.’
‘Last time you appeared before breakfast; today you missed lunch.’
‘Still under a day.’
‘I wanted to search Leester, but what would everyone say? “Shelaker hoards junk but can’t keep her daughter safe.” Did you think how they’d talk?’ Mum leaped up and rushed to the workspace to wipe a cloth over plates without looking. Fake housework, a dance driven by anger, and Phos waited.
‘Neighbours talk. They always talk. They run to church the instant they see strangeness.’
Whitewashed walls loomed above Phos; those splodges on the ceiling looked like lee
ring faces, and Mum slammed a plate and cutlery before her. Her parents knew she twisted words – they’d listen for gaps – but the truth would hurt them all. She still felt Rastersen’s hands pressing against her chest, and his demand for quiet still rang in her ears.
‘What possessed you, Phos?’ Dad’s voice kept quiet, his eyes hard and unblinking. ‘The last few harvests have been appalling. There are starving people wandering outside, and starving twists your mind. Meet them, and you’ll be a way for them to forget hunger…. I can’t….’
If Dad was too squeamish to finish his sentences, Rastersen’s threats would destroy him. She’d not ignore the priest’s warning, but a halfway path might wait for her; half-truths might help her avoid secrets while restoring her parents’ calm.
‘Did you see the windmill?’
Mum glared. ‘You disappear, so you think I’ll rush out to check the windmill? You mad girl.’
‘Last night it lit up like a church service, and light leaked through my shutters.’
Mum stared into her eyes as Phos’s story flowed. Reciting details from her forest walk was easy, and Phos added memories from earlier walks to spin her fiction. This story saw her hiding from churchmen before spending hours reading books scattered among the wreckage.
Mum sniffed. ‘Where’s your cloak?’
‘Left it under a sail.’
‘You didn’t pick it up when you returned?’
A single shake of her head, but Phos winced inside: details snapped at her words, and Mum’s eyes stayed motionless. Questions followed about the books, but Phos had sneaked enough looks at church volumes to knit her ideas into the story. Dad shifted in his seat.
‘I wanted to check the dawnward windmill, as it’s not far.’ Phos’s fantasy pranced through the wood’s far side; she’d rambled there weeks ago while needing time on her own, and the path had faded to let stalks burst through the gravel and snare her feet. Paths often died these days.
‘You shouldn’t spend so long on your own, Phos – you’ll reach womanhood soon, and people will think you’re—’
‘Men, women, people can talk as they please. I followed the southern path.’
‘So you reached the waterwheel near school?’ Mum stopped blinking and her voice strengthened.
‘Yes.’
‘I looked for you there this morning.’
Dad drew a long breath, perhaps air to start a sentence.
Phos kept still, but her mind lurched. Why had she assumed her parents would stay home?
Mum leaned forward. ‘Was the watermill’s wheel turning?’
Phos blushed. There was always maintenance, and she’d never know what Mum had noticed. Turning or not turning, she tried to choose, but her lips stayed shut as her story withered.
Thirteen was too young to weave a story that wouldn’t unravel, and how could she avoid becoming a wife when adults could twist her into lying? The quiet of her parents’ kitchen blurred her memories of Rastersen’s bloated face, and Phos stared at the rush mat beside the sink.
‘This isn’t you, Phos, is it?’ Dad sat beside her. ‘Outright lying is always your last choice. We’ll protect you from threats, but if threats are making you lie, you must talk.’
Phos stayed silent, and Dad took her left hand.
‘Remember when Lith threatened you at school and kept pulling your hair? You were small.’
Phos nodded.
‘We never told you, but their parents needed a loan to keep their farm running. I was lead counter, and at first I refused. Her father stared, his mouth open, and he pleaded. He kept thinking of his next meal, and once he understood what being a victim felt like, I told him about you. Afterwards I gave him the loan, and they spoke to Lith.’
‘And she left my hair alone.’
Rastersen was an overgrown boy, and perhaps he’d lied about hunting her. Were scared people more likely to obey? The earth-brown tiles under her feet had cracked, but they still fitted together; blows and threats shouldn’t change your nature. She’d have to mention Rastersen, but opening her lips meant she needed to seal theirs. Other fears teemed through her mind: would he visit her house, and could she resist the lure of his exploits?
Phos hung her head and remembered last night’s capture and her ride. She’d need to tell everything or her parents would winkle the truth from her, but she had to hear them promise to stay silent. She silently cursed the miller and his shimmering rays of light; he’d led her into this swamp of lies.
***
Caliper’s eyes watered. Ferstus scraped his nostrils and no arguing, but seeing Christina meant braving the stink. Marshes each side forced the world through this village, and travellers dumped their rubbish here. Today an extra taint shredded the air – rancid cat vomit, maybe – and Caliper breathed through his mouth as he slogged along the dirt track.
Two-storeyed thatched cottages huddled either side. Their shutters should have opened at dawn, but everything stayed closed, and silence throttled the air. Two cats waited beside the front door of a burnt-out cottage, and Caliper’s foot crunched against a broken fiddle.
He fought off sleep; his eyes smarted as the sun’s arch appeared, and he staggered past the outlying houses.
Where was Christina? Had she seen his signal? He’d eyeballed trees and leaves, expecting the greenery to distort itself, but there’d been nothing. She should speak before he reached the vast moor beyond this village, sweeping miles of waterlogged wilderness where he’d need direction.
Dawn lurched over Ferstus. Dingy alleys dribbled out a few villagers who stared at him, and cauldrons holding yesterday’s fat lurked below fish-head-covered carts. Two shoeless women squeaked water from a well as a boy dragged a braying donkey through mud. A hunchbacked herbalist struggled with her shutters and glared his way before rushing into her shop. He could treat wounds or spill secrets about pain-easing herbs, but he’d stay quiet.
Ferstus used to bustle, with children chasing each other around the shops lining the main road, but now cottages stood empty, and windows without shutters left eyeless sockets facing the central street. Caliper’s eyes closed themselves, and his body teetered before he jerked himself upright.
There on his right, a refuge: a cottage’s scorched shell with resin paper gummed across its punctured roof. He stepped inside and onto a small reed mat. Puddles pockmarked the muddy floor; a toy bear sprawled on a broken plate; a bed had been upturned and legs hacked from a table; and marks showed where pots had sat. This cottage should house six, so what had happened? Caliper flipped the bed upright and ruffled the bedclothes; he’d soak his body in dreams before stomping dawnward. Fatigue meant he’d not worry over the mud-smeared blankets, but would Christina’s arrival wake him?
Dreams: his body rose through billowing clouds as his eyes peered through mist and hunted for castles.
A hard jolt threw Caliper back into the stench as a hand slapped him awake.
‘Get your thieving arse up, you lazy beggar.’ A guard’s face snarled six inches above him, all screaming teeth and hair. ‘There’s work here – not dossing time.’ The guard grabbed Caliper’s overalls and pulled, but the guard’s fingers were spindly, and Caliper stayed in bed.
‘Get working, or I’ll call my mates.’
‘You do that.’ Caliper eased himself up to tower over the guard. The mud on his face cracked as he yawned. One slap would knock the guard out, but guards never worked alone, and a slicker escape route might appear later.
‘Pedlar, eh? Not any more: you’ll build our barn.’
‘You’ll want a builder.’ Caliper hauled on his backpack.
‘You’re a builder now, so come this way.’
Outside and early afternoon, and a tight squad of men stamped past – two black-robed priests with fluttering hoods led four guards. A trio of elderly women wandered across the road but looked away. His guard snarled and gripped his wrist. Caliper broke his grip but
followed down the road as two guards watched from behind. Christi
na never appeared unless he was single: he had to ditch his new friends and find some class of distraction or wait for the blanket of darkness.
They arrived at the Ferstus crossroads, where he’d offered to meet yesterday’s night guards. Most fieldworkers should have left for the fields hours ago, but they flocked here: ploughmen, seedmen and swineherds swarmed underneath a towering timber frame. Crude cuts of green wood strained against ropes and jumbled knots, and nails covered the earth. A monster barn, a freak; he couldn’t stop staring at the joints, even though staring brought danger. Design meant scripture as holy as any book; he’d handled scrolls showing allowed designs for nails and planks, and the church sent priests scuttling to new buildings to make sure builders followed the old plans. Fresh doors and shutters had to match ancient recipes.
Here carpenters had been forced into blasphemy: they’d wrenched down five or six houses to clear space for this mangled skeleton.
Orders pierced the afternoon air as priests goaded workers into hoisting beams. Labourers snatched and strained at tangled ropes, and three men hammered away while perched on rafters. Two men fought over a mallet while a priest screamed at workers heaving at a wheelbarrow.
His guard caught his arm. ‘Get your muscles on these ropes. We’re watching, so no mistakes.’ Two priests shadowed Caliper as he joined the crew.
Memories of apprentice work flooded back, and he nudged the other workers into steady rhythms: his strength needed hoarding, which meant holding back without letting the guards suspect. After a few words, his team fell into the flow he wanted.
He could manage this act, but Christina wouldn’t appear among these sweating workers, and these guards expected trouble, so staging an accident would be hard. He ruffled his hands through a box of nails and listened as two priests stared upward.
‘That’ll never hold – your gap’s too big.’
‘We’ll cover it.’
‘That gap needs filling, not hiding.’
‘No time – we’ve three days.’
Lightmaker Page 5