by Peter Telep
Christopher began to answer, but his lips, which had dried together, stung as he pulled them apart. “We’re almost there.” His voice was barely audible, his throat so dry that it hurt to talk.
“Where? It doesn’t matter if we stop here or there.
Wherever there is, I’m sure it’s in the forest.”
“We’re not stopping now,” Christopher said, then hemmed, tried to gather some moisture in his mouth.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Doyle said. “Perhaps.”
“Let’s assume it is and stop.”
“For what purpose? So we can have a great banquet of roots and what’s left of that hare you shot?”
“It’s food. At least we’re alive.”
Christopher did not look back. “We’re going on.” “You want to go on because I want to stop,” Doyle said, raising his voice.
It had not happened all at once; it had come on gradually, much as the moon had grown full. When they ate, he noticed that Doyle took a little more food for him self. When they built a fire, it was Christopher who always gathered the wood while Doyle would work the stone, the other having argued that he knew how to get a fire started swifter than anyone. It was always Christopher who assumed the point on their trek, since, Doyle had once again argued, that it was Christopher’s bride-to-be they were after. Were they to encounter danger, Christopher would obviously be the first one to fall. Doyle could lead the way once in a while, but no, he refused. And then he was always preoccupied with his missing fingers. He incessantly scratched the scars until they were raw and bled, then had to be bandaged.
Those were the glaring and major irritants, and they were largely the source of Christopher’s growing resentment. But soon, the smallest things that his blood brother did set him off, such as his whistling; his point ing out of a particular bird that struck him as odd or colorful; his recalling the glory days of his first battle; and even his occasional snoring at night. In his mind’s eye, Christopher saw a pair of horns growing from his friend’s head, and he wanted to ram those horns into a tree and continue on alone with his journey. Then he would no longer have to listen to Doyle’s I-am-older and-wiser-than-you tone of voice. He would be able to end a day’s travel when he wanted to, not when Doyle said so.
I’m stopping here,” Doyle said.
Christopher neither turned around nor stopped. He heard Doyle mutter something to his rounsey, then noticed the sudden silence behind him. Somewhere deep inside, he had expected Doyle to resignedly follow him, not take up such a defiant position. After all, Christopher had resignedly heeded a lot of Doyle’s wishes, and now, for the first time, he wanted Doyle to listen to him.
Whether it was the cold that snarled up his back and bit his nose and cheeks, the anger that was the only thing that completely filled his stomach, the frustration that made his teeth grind every time he thought of Seaver and Marigween out there, out of reach, or the plain and simple fact that Doyle had insulted him, Christopher did not care. The only thing he knew now was the desire to let his friend know how he felt. Truly know.
He stopped, dropped his reins, then ran back toward Doyle, whose gaze was trained on the blanket he was in the process of unfolding. Christopher seized his friend’s shirt in his hands, just as the former archer looked up and realized what was happening. Christopher threw Doyle backward toward the hard, winter earth, and as he released his grip on Doyle’s shirt, Doyle seized his wrists and dragged him down. What little wind was in Christopher’s chest escaped with choking abruptness as he rolled off of Doyle and landed on his back.
“What madness is this?” Doyle screamed.
Christopher rolled onto his stomach, rose to his hands and knees, and crawled toward Doyle. “You’re going to listen to me from now on!”
Doyle sat up, and, with surprising ease, he thrust him self to his feet—even before Christopher had time to react. “It doesn’t matter if I listen to you or not!” Doyle replied, the whites of his enraged eyes igniting the darkness of the forest. “Nothing matters anymore. Nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing!”
Christopher stared at Doyle. He panted and felt his anger slip from him like sweat. He closed his eyes as the reality of what he had just done hit home. Doyle was right. Nothing mattered. Nothing. And nothing made sense. Doyle was helping him, yet he had struck out at his friend. Why? Why had he grown to despise the very person who had helped him for these past moons?
He shivered. The boughs of the surrounding trees rustled with a breeze, and he heard leaves swirl at his feet. Slowly, with his eyes still closed, he stood, drew in a deep breath, then opened his eyes. He looked at Doyle, whose countenance was masked in shadow. “I’m sorry.” Abruptly, Doyle turned, fetched his blanket then crossed to his rounsey. He took his reins in his hand, then began to trudge off in the direction of Christopher’s mount.
“Where are you going?” “There,” Doyle said angrily. “Where”?
“I don’t know, Christopher. You tell me.”
Fifth Moon:
It was a small inlet shared by three tofts. At the shore· was a single quay with two small rowboats moored to it. The main houses were set well back from the beach, with the bluffs at their shoulders and their snow covered fallow fields sweeping out like long, wintry doormats in front of them. Smoke rose from the vent holes in the thatched roofs of the houses. There was a windmill between the first and second house, but two of its blades were wrecked, probably having been blown off in a storm or having been so heavily weighted down by snow that they had snapped off.
The midday sky was of a color better forgotten. Had it been sunny, Christopher’s spirits might have lifted a little. After all, they were approaching a bit of civilization, could hopefully get something warm to eat, then perhaps find a warm place to spend the night. But the past score of days forging along the coastline had stripped him of nearly all of his happiness. Doyle’s words rang repeatedly in his head. Nothing matters. Nothing matters. He wondered why he even looked for Marigween and Seaver anymore. It seemed a fool’s quest now. Every part of his body seemed to hang too heavily from him. With each footstep he had to repress the desire to collapse. All he wanted now was to sleep. To sleep away everything.
They reached the first house, and Doyle knocked on the door. An old, rotund woman appeared from behind the door, and, after taking one look at them, her mole dappled jaw fell slack.
Christopher spoke to her in Saxon, but she frowned, drew her shoulders together and shook her head negatively. He tried a greeting in Celt. She smiled and returned the greeting. Doyle pressed their last two deniers into her palm, and she pulled them inside the house. In the moments that followed, they met the old woman’s husband, a man whose face had so many wrinkles there seemed scarcely room left over for a mouth, nose and eyes. Soon, the four of them sat down to the warm meal Christopher had been hoping for. As they ate, Christopher answered the couple’s questions, filling them in on his quest to find Marigween.
“What’s north of this inlet?” Doyle asked the old farmer.
“Not much,” the man admitted, ‘“less you go all the way on up to Ivory Point. That’s a Saxon port, to be sure though.”
Christopher and Doyle exchanged a look. Christopher asked, “How long would it take to get there from here”? “Better part of a moon. Providing it doesn’t snow.”
The man let his gaze lift to the ceiling. “And it will.”
They spent the night at the old couple’s farm, and left early in the morning before the two rose from their slumber. Halfway through the day, the old man’s words came to pass, but he had only mentioned snow.
Not a blizzard.
Sixth Moon:
If Christopher never saw the color white again in his life, he would not miss it. And if never the felt the cold or the wind again, he would not miss them either. If he never saw another snowflake for the rest of his life, he would still get along quite nicely. The storm had lasted nearly seven days, and at night they had dug themselves bur�
� rows in which they had slept. On the fourth night, Doyle’s rounsey had died, and on the fifth, Christopher’s had also fallen for good. By the time the sky turned blue, and the sun threw a blinding glare off the snowy land scape, it was already too late. Though the weather was with them now, their hearts rebelled. Christopher knew Doyle was ready to give up—even though his blood brother might never admit to the fact.
They would not be able to reach Ivory Point. They would be lucky to make it back to the inlet. He offered the facts to Doyle, who looked at him for a long time, then, as expected, turned his gaze away and remained quiet.
“Do you believe I’m wrong?” he asked his friend. Doyle kept his head lowered, staring at the snow,which rose up just past Christopher’s ankles. He cleared his throat. “Do you want to go back?”
“Do you?”
Turning his head, Doyle surveyed the towering drifts of snow that blocked their path, and Christopher could not be sure, but his friend looked to be as humbled by the snowscape as he was. “I’ll go on if you want to.”
“But you want to give up,” Christopher pried.
“’I’ll go on—if you want to,” Doyle repeated, a noticeable edge in his voice.
Christopher grimaced, for his skin was cold and tight, and it felt like it might crack and drop off of his face. He closed his eyes down to slits.
How can I give up?
You have to live. If you die, there will never be any hope for her. Hope lives with you.
What hope will there be for her now -if I abandon the search?
She’s strong. She’ll live. You’ll find her. One day.
Forgive me, Marigween.
Christopher blinked away his emerging tears, then turned back to the trail of deep prints they had left in the snow. “Come on,” he muttered to Doyle.
There was little sun around Tania now. Scarcely any light at all. The edges of the home she knew as Blytheheart had darkened and closed in to a point. She heard the baby she had found behind her toft cry one last time before there were no more sounds, no more point, only a sea of darkness where the only thing she felt was peace. The knives of the sickness were gone.
She floated toward a distant, shimmering island. From the shimmer, a glittering hand reached toward her.
4
Doyle and Christopher entered the Bove Street Inn. They stepped into the foyer that led to the main dining room, then set their sacks down. Doyle glanced at Christopher. There was a tiny light in the other’s eyes, and his cheeks bloomed a very pale red.
Twice during their journey home Doyle had tried to lift Christopher’s spirits by telling him that he had made the right decision. Doyle had assured his friend that another time would come, but Christopher had barely paid attention to Doyle’s words. His mood had gone from sour to nothing. He had worn a blank, emotionless stare and had spoken in a steady, almost whispery voice that had conveyed little feeling.
But now there seemed to be life in Christopher’s face. And Doyle felt a heat enter his own cheeks. He had waited eleven moons to see Jennifer. He needed her to be here, needed for nothing to have happened to her.
“Boy?” he called to a passing scullery lad who struggled with a stack of dirty plates. “Is Moma here?”
“She’s in the kitchen,” he cried, then hurried around a comer. “I’ll fetch her.” A second later they heard a crash of plates, then—
“You clumsy oaf!”
“It was an accident!”
Doyle flipped Christopher a small smile. Christopher’s return smile was wan, but there.
They stood there like guests waiting to be greeted, though Doyle knew they were not. The time away had brought back the formality of entering the place, as if for the first time.
Moma bustled into the foyer. She was as large and gaudy as Doyle remembered, though her hair seemed a tad grayer at the temples. When her gaze fell upon them she stopped, gaped, and then her gaze lifted to the rafters. “Jennifer? Monte?” she called loudly. “They’re back!”
She rushed to Christopher and hugged him as if he were a lost son. As Doyle watched, knowing the same was in store for him, he began to feel even more uncomfortable than he already was. Before he knew it, Morna’s too-ample bosom was squashed against his chest and her thick arms had his own arms pinned at his sides.
A shirtless Montague entered the foyer first. The wound on his shoulder had healed but had left a deep scar where hair refused to grow. He pulled his breeches a little higher over his sagging belly, then stopped, beaming.
Doyle politely pried his way out of Morna’s embrace, took a step toward the brigand, and returned the other’s grin. “I thought you wouldn’t be here, Monte. I thought you’d be chancellor of Blytheheart by now and living in the big house.”
The fat man embraced him as roughly as Moma had, slapping him on the back several times. He pulled back and answered, “I thought so too, laddie.”
Before they could speak further, Doyle spotted Jennifer over Montague’s shoulder. An imaginary hand rose up through the wooden floor of the inn, seized Doyle’s heart, and shook it violently. Noticing Doyle’s gaze, Montague cocked his head toward Jennifer, then took several steps backward. The fat man had cleared the path. Nothing stood between Doyle and Jennifer, not distance, not time.
But Doyle’s boots felt bolted to the floor. He watched her glide toward him. She brought a hand up and pulled on his beard, then ran a finger along the length of his hair, from center part on down. “You need a haircut,” she said softly.
Jennifer’s hair looked different as well. Her blond locks were longer, and maybe lighter than he remem bered them—or had his memory failed? He was not sure. The discrepancy hardly mattered. “Will you cut it for me?” he asked.
She leaned in close. “If you kiss me,” she whispered.
He looked at Christopher, who was trying to find something to look at other than them, then to Moma, and finally to Montague.
Moma hemmed, threw Montague a look that might have said, “Let’s leave them alone,” then considered Christopher. “Young man? It’s to the bath with you first. And then a feast. Sound good”? she asked.
Christopher nodded, then followed Moma and Montague through the foyer and into the main dining room.
“How come no one’s asked—” Doyle began.
“Because she’s not here,” Jennifer interrupted. “It’s obvious. If you had found Marigween, you would have brought her in here with you.”
“You are all wise,” Doyle admitted. “I think he appreciates that.”
“It must hurt Christopher enough already. He does not need us to remind him.”
Doyle nodded. He let his gaze fall quickly to her body and imagined her shift gone. Then he found her gaze. “About that kiss.”
She closed her eyes as she wrapped her arms around him.
And the many moons of waiting were truly over.
Montague talked himself hoarse during their meal. He told Doyle and Christopher that he had sold the Pict cog at the Port of Magdalene and taken the others back to Blytheheart on horseback, since sailing the stolen ship back to Blytheheart would have been—to say the least—bold and unwise. The journey from there to Shores had been swift and happily uneventful. Orvin, Merlin, and Brenna were safe and sound, and what was more, word had it that Arthur was winning back the castle from the Saxons. It was, however, a rumor since there had been no way for the brigand to get close to the fortress to have a look for himself with all of Arthur’s men cordoning the area.
The news from Blytheheart was not as uplifting. There was still no sign of Christopher’s son … and the search had long been called off, though the monks all kept a watchful eye when they were out. Marigween’s uncle Robert had been implicated in the theft of the Pict cog by the abbot, had been imprisoned for a short while, but was released because of the persevering arguments of his brother monks. The Picts had sent one of their battle lords to meet with the abbot to demand reimbursement for the cog. The abbot, under the threat of an
attack, had been forced to make the payment, and was now passing on that expense to the citizens of the port, levying higher taxes. Thankfully, the merchant trade was busier than ever, and the number of ships docking at the port had nearly doubled. The higher taxes seemed to be defrayed by the sheer volume of business passing through Blytheheart, and, Montague explained, a noticeable increase in the port’s population. The fat man was bold enough to add that their theft of the Pict cog had not really mattered, since the abbot would have raised the taxes anyway, according to the volume of trade. Doyle suspected he had said that for Christopher’s benefit, hoping to alleviate some of the squire’s guilt over having affected the lives of every one who lived at the port.
After the meal, Doyle and Jennifer retired to a room. She dragged a window chair away from the sill and gestured that he sit in it. She wrapped a linen towel over him, left the room for a moment, and then returned with a small pair of scissors.
“Do not make it too short,” Doyle warned her, his voice lifted by the fear that she might give him a pudding basin cut, a style he loathed. “And no bangs. Please.”
She giggled. “I won’t ruin you. I’m the one who has to look at you, remember?”
He sighed. “Go ahead.”
She clipped. He winced. This went on for a while, until she said, “I was beginning to believe you were not going to return.”
“For a time I believed the same,” he answered. A bit of hair fell onto his nose and made him itch. He swatted it away, then closed his eyes.
“I prayed you would come back.”
“Did you really pray?” he asked. “Do you get down on your hands and knees and ask God to bring me back?”
She withdrew her scissors and circled to face him. “What is that supposed to mean? You don’t believe me?” “No, I—I mean yes, I believe you prayed. But what about God”?
“What about Him?”
“Obviously you believe in Him,” he noted. Her frown deepened. “Yes.”
“You’ve had a rough life thus far.” “What does that have to do with—”
