As quietly as possible he donned his robe, gathered up his sandals, and slipped out of the dormitory into the cloister. From there, the postern door was only a quick and shadowed walk around the porter’s lodge. He’d planned to sit in the garden beside the infirmary, but his feet turned in the opposite direction, to the cemetery between the church and the outer wall.
Beyond earshot of any late-night wandering monks, he slipped on his sandals and made his way along a twisting path to the upright headstones. A lump of disturbed dirt marked Dom’s grave. In a week or so, he’d get a flat stone, no higher than the grass, at his head to mark his passing. Until then, he had only a loose mound of soil to indicate where the monastic community had laid him to rest. That pile would gradually flatten beneath the spring drizzle that helped Brother Luke’s herbs grow.
Nick thought maybe a clump of herbs or a flowering bush should be planted at his feet since Dom loved working in the fields more than tending to his lessons.
He’d never heard of flowers marking a grave and smiled at the thought. He knew precisely the clump of St. John’s wort, a healing plant, in the herb garden that he should transplant. The stuff grew everywhere and would find fertile ground here.
Nick crossed himself and turned his steps toward the shed with garden tools.
A misty figure, vaguely feminine, wavering from one to three silhouettes, stood in the center of the path he should take. She held up a lantern so that it spilled a soft glow. His hand instinctively went to the fold of his sleeve where he kept Elena. The little silver pitcher remained in place.
Not knowing exactly why, Nick knew that he needed to place the pitcher on the grave. He knelt and noticed a little moisture gathered in the bottom of the cup. He tipped it so that a tiny puddle formed. Then he rested the silver piece beside the gathered water in the center of the mound that was now all that was left of his dear friend. Then he rose to complete his chore of transplanting a bit of greenery.
Elena pointed with her glowing lamp back toward Dom’s grave.
Nick transferred his attention from the pitcher and the tiny puddle to look for who might menace him.
A cemetery is the ultimate crossroad, Elena said.
Sure enough, a pale echo of Dom stood atop the mound of loose dirt without disturbing the granules. He looked about in confusion. Then he spotted Nick. His puzzled expression brightened. Dom opened his mouth and formed soundless words.
Nick took a moment while he figured out the shape of the question. “Yes, Dom, you have to go. You have to take the path.” He thought those were the right words to whisper into the night.
Dom spoke a silent protest. His mouth shaped a single word, Hilde.
“She can’t join you yet,” Nick replied.
Dom looked as if he’d protest more. Help her. The words formed in the back of Nick’s mind along with a deep sense of urgency.
“I’ll do what I can. I promise. Now it is time for you to find your own path.” He stepped aside, not caring that his feet rested upon the flat stone of another grave. A shaft of gentle light flowed outward, seemingly into nothing. It should have stopped at the outer wall. Instead, it continued into more light through the wall.
Elena lifted her lamp, its light joining the shaft along the pathway. Your time has come.
Reluctantly, Dom set a single step upon the trail. He looked back at Nick, hollow eyes pleading for another choice. His mouth again formed a single word: Hilde.
“I’ll look in on her, Dom. I promise,” Nick said.
Help her!
“I will. Now, please, Dom. Go, be happy. Share a good laugh with St. Peter.”
Dom threw back his head as he did when he laughed. His steps lightened and skipped as he nearly danced onward until the light winked out and only the stout wall remained.
Nick choked back a sob. Then he looked up at Elena. She had not faded with her chore complete. “Thank you, my lady. I think. I needed to see him whole once more, not the broken corpse.”
“Not all deaths are so easy for the soul. Your friend needed only a slight nudge to set him upon the proper path.” Elena became more solid. “Some fight the choice and linger in the half-death of a ghost.” She pointed again with her lamp.
Five misty figures wandered around the gravestones, looking right and left, up and down in confusion.
“They weren’t ready to go,” Nick whispered.
“They left something undone,” Brother Theo replied, coming up beside him.
Nick jumped at the sound of the real words, spoken by a living man.
Elena winked out.
“You’ve said your prayers and seen your friend on his way. You can rest easy now. Time you went back to bed. Dawn comes early this time of year.” Brother Theo touched Nick’s back and urged him along the solid and moonlit path back to the cloister and the dormitory.
“A moment more, please?” Nick asked.
“A short moment.”
As soon as Brother Theo turned his back, Nick ducked to retrieve the little silver pitcher of the three-faced goddess. “Thank you,” he whispered to her as he tucked the vessel back into the fold of his sleeve.
* * *
Prepare! A voice echoed through the halls of Faery.
Jane looked up from mending the torn hem of Queen Mab’s favorite pink gown, her body still and alert. She’d been promoted from scrubbing floors when Queen Mab noticed that the pile of mending grew and her human slave who had skills with a needle and thread was washing floors. Jane had been mending and embroidering the queen’s fine fabrics for . . . a long time before Mab actually became aware of how much nicer her clothes were now. And how many needed mending.
Queen Mab took no notice of the voice that had echoed in Jane’s mind. Her Majesty continued to play a mindless game of matching tiles, standing the clay squares on end when she had four of a kind that took them out of play.
Her ladies and courtiers concentrated on the best way to lose the game even when they held winning groups of the designs painted on the tiles.
No one else took notice of the resounding voice either. But it wasn’t the deep tolling sounds of doom. No. This one sounded bright and cheerful.
A thrill of anticipation jumped from Jane’s heart to her mind, making her a bit breathless.
She felt no sense of wariness or caution in the voice.
“Prepare for what?” she muttered to herself, retuning her attention to her tiny stitches with gossamer thread and a needle finer than anything she’d seen before her time in Faery.
Soon. This time the voice came to her in a whisper.
Jane knew that the words were meant only for her. The royal court of Faery was excluded from the hope of something special coming.
“What do I need to prepare for?” Jane asked herself and the unusual voice that intruded into this ensorcelled palace beneath the Faery Mound.
Prepare to run. Prepare a weapon.
A numbness around and inside her ears told Jane that the voice had nothing more to say today.
She plied her silver needle carefully while her mind spun with possibilities. What did she have that would threaten or damage Queen Mab? The sovereign was a faery and immortal. Jane had nothing, certainly not a knife or scissors. She had to bite her threads clear of a finishing weave when she completed a mending chore, as she did at home. Though the threads available to her before she’d fallen into a faery trap were much bulkier and sturdier, as befitting farmer’s clothing. And her single needle then had been large and clumsy, made from rough iron. She had carried it with her always, woven into a fold of her shift so that she wouldn’t lose it.
Here she had a silver needle, stretched so thin it might bend if she looked at it strangely. The faeries supplied her with cobweb-fine threads, but only this one needle. They never touched the silver. Mending was beneath their dignity. And they never quite managed the embroi
dery.
Jane thought furiously back to the day when Queen Mab had first told her to mend a rent in a fine silken gown. She’d pointed to the sewing supplies. She had not touched the needle.
She didn’t touch the needles because . . . because . . . she couldn’t.
One of the tales the courtiers told of a long evening related how the magicians had withdrawn from Faery long, long ago. Queen Mab had insulted an easily-overlooked goddess, of only minor power, because . . . she had been unworthy of Mab’s notice. The unnamed goddess had cursed this band of faeries to live underground for as long as Queen Mab lived. The faeries had to rely on their own magic, which touched only themselves, and maybe their human slaves, not ordinary objects brought in from the real world.
Mundane silver repelled Mab, and there had not been a magician with sufficient power to bespell the needles so that a faery could use them for a long, long time.
Jane hummed to herself, satisfied with her conclusions.
She had a weapon. Now she just needed to gather the courage to use it.
Fourteen
Prepare!
Hilde sat up straight in her bed, clutching her shift close at her throat where the chill night air invaded and raised gooseflesh on her skin.
Her gut still hurt from where Sister Marie Josef had slammed her rod into her. Her chest still felt tight from whatever fit had seized her in the garden.
Just the act of sitting up felt like she’d be ripped in two.
And all of the girls in the dormitory had shunned her since Sister Marie Josef had punished her. The nun had ordered them all not to talk to her, approach her, or offer any kind of solace.
“Who?” Hilde whispered, fully aware of the dozen girls who slept nearby. Dawn crept around the edges of her awareness. One of the novitiates would come soon to wake them all for morning prayers.
A friend, young Hilde. Trust that I am your friend. You must prepare yourself for the one who comes for you.
Hilde blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the misty form hovering at the foot of her bed.
“Lady, is Dom coming to take me away from here?” The moon phase was not yet right for him to come.
You must prepare for a new phase of your life.
The mist began drifting apart, losing the rough outline of a human form.
“Please.” Hilde reached a desperate hand to stay her leaving. “If you are indeed my friend, please tell me . . . tell me . . .” She didn’t know what she wanted to know. She just wanted . . . no, she needed a friend. Someone who did not want to hurt her or deny her. Or was afraid of Sister Marie Josef.
“Lady, you could only be our Lady, mother of our Lord Jesus.”
The figure coalesced, taking on delicate features and a suggestion of pale hair and skin, with little more color than her flowing moonlit gown. Only there was no moonlight, or even starlight penetrating this dark interior dormitory.
The lady flickered, and her solid form drifted into three.
Hilde blinked, and she became a single outline once more.
I have been called many things. If that title suits you, you may use it.
“I . . . have a sense that I am utterly alone, with only you to accompany me into this new phase of my life.”
You will have another at your side soon.
“Another. Dom. My twin brother is the only one who wishes my company.”
There is another. But you must be ready. And prepared.
The figure dissolved before Hilde could think of any words that would keep her there.
* * *
Little John embraced his tree and willed his body to merge with the ancient oak. Gradually, his fingers and toes twisted and lengthened into twigs. His arms and legs shifted next, absorbing the bark and inner layers of wood. A sense of peace he rarely knew in his human form spread outward from his torso. Bit by bit, he blended with the other half of his soul. Heaviness lifted from his shoulders and spread upward into the crown of the tree, a momentary dizziness and then . . . he sighed in contentment.
He’d needed this rest for a long time. But worry about Jane had kept him striding among people for too long. He hadn’t rested properly since May Day, when Tuck had confirmed that Elena, the key to opening the ensorcelled door into the Faery Mound, had chosen a new student and emerged into the upper world once more.
Without Elena, he knew he could not free Jane. He had to persuade young Nick to part with the silver pitcher long enough for the goddess of crossroads, cemeteries, and sorcery to do her work. Tuck had been too young and inexperienced, too uncertain of who he was and where he belonged the last time the moons aligned, and they could have freed John’s love.
Hopefully, Nick could do better.
They still had the full passing of a moon before they could even try.
He closed his eyes and drew upon the strength of the forest to restore him. A robin redbreast had made a nest in his upper branches. He listened to her chirp to her young while they waited for her mate to return with fat and tasty worms to feed the hungry bellies of chicks just coming into their feathers. He smelled the musk of a fox on the hunt for an unwary hare. Then he felt the itch of an aggressive bit of ivy sending out rootlets to anchor itself in his bark. Mentally, he scratched the itch and banished the intruding vine.
Ah, he sighed. No matter the turmoil of mortal souls, the life of the forest continued.
“How fare you, Green Man?” Ardenia asked. She caressed his bark with her moist human hand. Of late, she’d been spending more time outside her spring-fed pond and arguing with Herne less often. And now she comforted the leader of the Wild Folk.
Of all the creatures of the wood, she seemed to be the center, the anchor, the one they all sought to spill their troubles and toils. No wonder the Christians had made her a saint—even if they did change her name from Ardenia to Anne. Not so big a transformation.
The Green Man sucked in the little bit of moisture left from her greeting. The momentary refreshment brought him out of the deep sleep he’d prepared for. He rustled a single branch close to her, inviting her to sit at the junction of the secondary trunk.
“Thank you,” she said. “But I do not linger today. I have an appointment with Herne.” She smiled, and her touch warmed with pleasurable anticipation. “When I noticed you in residence, I thought I should stop and greet you. You have not sought respite in your tree often, or for long, since May Day.”
He rippled his bark beneath her hand in thanks.
“If you do not need me close by, then I shall go about my business and let you rest.” She stepped back, her silvery gown glinting in dappled patterns where the light filtered through the shade of his branches. And then she was gone.
Little John let himself relax and shift deeper into his tree.
Before the Green Man could sense the passage of time, an uproar of shouting men, galloping horses, and baying hounds roused him. He gathered his energy, preparing to step free of the tree to see who disturbed the peace of the forest.
New leaves in his crown and outer limbs sought more light and moisture, as much for the need to survive as curiosity. That was the thing about oaks; they needed to see and hear everything. They even occasionally moved around until they got too big and cumbersome and their tap root grew deeper and deeper to support the weight above.
Little John let his eyes nestle within the outthrust leaves. Bit by bit, he followed the shafts of light toward the Royal Road that cut straight through the forest. Dogs led the hunters, smaller dogs with long noses and raised tails bred to scent prey along the ground. They bayed in a high pitch. Then the larger dogs, with coarse brindled fur and wide, strong jaws, belled deep and long. Their long sight followed their prey. They stayed close to their masters, ready to help take down the boar or deer at the end of the hunt.
Beside the big hounds came the main pack of mounted hunters, wearing leathe
r jerkins and trews. They all carried bows, spears, and swords. Knights and nobles, for no one else could afford a sword or a horse. And then a wink of bright red glinted from the pommel of the sword sheathed at the knee of the lead rider. Only one man in the district boasted such a fine weapon: Sir Philip Marc, Sheriff of Nottingham.
Hunters. A common enough intrusion. Nothing to worry about.
Little John went back to sleep.
* * *
Nick looked up from his pages of scribbled notes to check on Brother Luke. The old man had fallen asleep mid-word on a repeated dissertation on the properties of applewood smoke for killing fleas when even fleabane failed to banish them from bedding.
Just talking about the pests made Nick’s skin itch. He scratched intently at an imaginary bite on his ankle. Then another itch between his shoulder blades grabbed his attention. He couldn’t reach it, so he rubbed it along the edge of Brother Luke’s bench. Ah, that helped.
Thankfully, he and the other boys took the time every equinox and solstice to change the rushes inside the mattresses and wash the linens with harsh lye soap and scalding hot water. He had a faint recollection that the abbey bedding was cleaner than where he had slept in the hut with his parents.
“Brother Luke?” Nick shifted to his knees and touched the old man’s elbow. His head dropped as he whuffed a gentle snore.
“Ah, well, you deserve your rest.” Nick rolled his parchment and stowed it in its round leather case. His quills, ink vial, and sealing wax went inside his sleeves and scrip.
He debated for a moment if he should help Brother Luke back to his bed or let him sleep in the sun like a contented old cat.
“Nick!” a voice whispered from the top of the wall, right beside the overhanging apple branch. The limb was lush with blossoms beginning to set fruit, so he had a hard time picking out the face within the greenery.
The face appeared slowly, like trying to let the squiggles of a drawing coalesce into a hidden figure in his illumination of a sacred text.
Walk the Wild With Me Page 11
