The Raie'Chaelia (Legend of the Raie'Chaelia, Book One 1)

by Melissa Douthit

  It was late afternoon, almost early evening, and eerily quiet. All she could hear was the wind in the trees and the slow clop of Sunny’s hooves on the cobblestone street. A strange sense came over her. It was too quiet.

  Where is everyone? she wondered.

  She halted Sunny in front of the bakery, dismounted, and tied his reins to the hitching post just outside. The door to the bakery was wide open as she entered. The aroma that met her nose was that of a hot stone fire oven and floured dough on a baking peel. Bags of baked bread lay in their baskets around the room, while sweets and pastries hid behind the glass case of the front counter. An old grandfather clock chimed five o’clock on the wall above the coffer and five pence lay scattered on the counter to the left. Everything seemed intact and normal, except there was no one in sight.

  She left the store and saw an old tavern to the right with a wooden sign outside its entrance creaking in the wind. On the sign was a picture of a rugged man dressed in a leather jerkin, his pockets full of iron tools. He was holding a tankard of ale with a horseshoe handle. The sign read: The Farrier.

  She stepped up to the swinging tavern door and pushed. Halfway in, the door stopped abruptly, blocked by something that lay on the floor. She shimmied through and found a barstool that had been knocked over by someone who apparently had been in a rush to get out. She stood it straight and placed it out of the way.

  The rest of the tavern appeared peaceful. A group of polished wooden tables and chairs rested in the left corner behind the billiards table, which was frozen in mid-game, queue sticks lying across it. To the right, on the bar counter, lay an array of tankards. Behind it, the wall was given to casks of ale, wine, and brandy, with spigots jutting out for a barman to serve the next customer. At the far end, lay a water pitcher on the bar and an empty bucket on the wooden floor. She glanced around the room, and again, saw no one.

  A tavern having no patrons at this time of day is passing strange, she thought. What is going on?

  She left the tavern and made her way back to the hitching post where Sunny was waiting. The silence was heavy and it weighed on her. She screwed up her eyes and peered around everywhere, still in shock. She had no idea what had happened here, but there was one thing she did know. If there had been people here before, they were not here now. Branbury was a ghost town.

  A Childhood Friend

  Chalice was lost. The thought of what to do escaped her. Think! she told herself as she closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and tried to concentrate. This was something she hadn’t expected. Where was everyone? By the state of the village, they must have had to leave in a hurry. She would have thought it had been an attack, like the one on Canton, but there was no evidence of that. Nothing was destroyed or burned, just emptied. Moreover, there were no tracks for her to follow, so she had no way to search for them.

  What to do? she thought. She knew she needed supplies badly and Sunny needed water. Take care of your immediate needs first, she told herself. After all, I have everything right here at my disposal, but I’ll have to leave coin near the coffers to cover the costs. She thought that if anything, it would be in hopes of the villagers’ safe return.

  After collecting the bucket and water pitcher from the tavern, she poured the water into the bucket and placed it in front of Sunny who lowered his beautiful head and drank deeply.

  “I’ll be right back, boy,” she told him as she made her way back to the shop to purchase what she needed. Arms full, she waddled back to the hitching post and fed Sunny the carrots and apples she had purchased. Bread, sausage, and cheese she tied in a sack to her saddlebags that she would offer Nathaniel later after she arrived at the farm.

  On her tour around the shops, she had decided that that was to be her next move — to continue on with her original plan. The town may be empty, but the farm may not be, hopefully, she thought. It was a long shot but she had to take it. What else was there to do? She couldn’t return to Canton. So she untied Sunny, mounted, and heeled him down the street. The light fluttering and singing cries of a flock of greywings drifted overhead as she and Sunny strode down Main, right onto Pine, and out of the village.

  A few minutes after passing the fork in the road where they had been an hour before, she could faintly hear the rush of flowing water of the Canterine and knew that they were drawing close. The Canterine River was a wide, deep river whose current moved rapidly from the downhill force of the mountain’s steep slope.

  A perfect source to refill my water skin, she thought.

  Just as she had thought it, a gust of icy wind pushed down upon her and cut through her cloak, which she had forgetfully left untied. This, she regretted as she shivered and pulled the lambskin closer to her body. It was growing colder as twilight approached and the dark purple shadows of the evening were lengthening.

  In the distance, along the line of trees that traced the left side of the road, the form of a russet, wooden stable with a tiled roof emerged, getting larger as they drew nearer. On the right side of the path, opposite the stable, the thicket of tall pines and dense vegetation came to an abrupt stop, blocking the view. From the gritty scent of the air, she made an educated guess as to what lay beyond it.

  Chalice dismounted at the stable entrance and opened the doors. The hall of the stable gave access to the horse stalls, four on each side, a tack room in the back, and a hayloft above it with an attached stepladder on the right side. Behind the stepladder was a door that led out of the back of the stable into the trees behind it.

  Chalice led Sunny inside and tied his reins to a hook protruding from a post that supported the center beam of the ceiling. She undid the girth strapped around his rib cage and relieved him of his burden. She placed the saddle on the wooden saddle horse in the tack room and hooked her bags on the wall. Then, she led the horse into one of the back stalls and removed his bridle and bit. After tossing him a couple flakes of alfalfa from the loft and setting a large bucket of water in the corner, she closed the stall door and latched it.

  When she returned to the tack room to exchange the bridle for her bags, a large cupboard in the left-hand corner near the ground caught her eye. Strange place for a cupboard, she thought as she tossed the bags over her shoulder. On her way back, Sunny stuck his head over the stall door as if to say: “You’re leaving me?!”

  She stroked his muzzle softly. “I’m just going to be in the house, boy. We can rest for now. Have a good night.” A deep, throaty grumble told her that he understood and his head disappeared behind the stall door. Then, she left the stable, gathering an oil lamp hanging from a hook beside the exit, and closed the doors behind her.

  Outside she had a full view of what had been blocked by the large copse of trees. In front of her lay a sizably fenced area of farm animals tucked away safely in their pens. Beyond that sprawled hectares of crop fields and orchards, which were watered by an irrigation system that she had never seen before.

  It was constructed of what appeared to be pipes, of a fireclay material, that extended from the river to the cultivated ground. A small vineyard grew behind an enormous storage barn that sat side-by-side with the house, along the waterfront. Between the two structures was a display of rustic carts and wagons for transporting goods. Behind them, a long, sturdy, wooden ramp stretched deep into the water and supported a huge waterwheel that rotated steadily by the force of the river current catching the wheel’s palettes. From a large, wooden box that grew out of the ramp, next to the wheel, ran two sets of thin pipelines, one set extending to the house, the other to the barn.

  Walking along the path of hard-packed dirt, she could see another, larger pier, made for boat docking, which lay a small distance ahead. There, a large ferry was docked on the right side of the pier. In the far distance, on the other side of the Canterine, stretched more crop-laden fields belonging to other farmers. There were quite a few farms scattered around Branbury, but none of them, it seemed, paraded a waterwheel or any of the other innovative farm equipment like that of the
Maehbecks. This farm employed tools unlike any she had ever seen.

  As she made her way toward the pier, she noted tracks in the dirt that looked fairly new. That’s a good sign, she thought. Then, without warning, she felt a stubborn, tingling sensation on the back of her neck. A screech pierced the air and she spun.

  SWOOSH. A red falcon had suddenly abandoned its perch atop the highest branch of the nearest pine and was gliding down swiftly in her direction. She could see malice in its crimson eyes as it neared. She carefully set down the lantern and her bags to poise for an attack. Fortunately, if that had been the bird’s original intention, it quickly changed its mind, leveled its flight and soared out toward the waterfront above the pier, then east along the river.

  A falcon?! Did that really happen? she asked herself. Not only were falcons not native to the area, they weren’t red either. Come to think of it, she had never seen a red falcon before. She had never even heard of one. Not in school or even during her evening firesides with Papa. Where did it come from? she wondered as she picked up her things and moved closer to the river.

  Walking onto the pier, she felt the boards creak beneath the weight of her footsteps. It seemed to be made of the same type of wood as the structures nearby, but much older, as if it had been built ages before the farm. At the end of the pier, she set aside her load and removed the water skin from her bag.

  As she bent low and opened the flask, she caught movement to the left out of the corner of her eye. A torn strip of black cloth swayed from a splinter in the wood that supported a bollard. A mooring rope, which was still tied to the bollard, floated in the water, trailing eastward with the current. It appeared as if someone had cut the line from a vessel that had docked here.

  Had a ship been here recently?

  After replenishing her water supply, she made her way back to the front yard of the house. Sturdy and strong, the house was built to endure like most everything she had seen on the farm. Two levels, with small windows on all sides, it sat boldly along the waterfront, daring the elements to challenge the safe haven it provided for its inhabitants and greeting its visitors with a large, enclosed porch.

  On the left side of the porch, sat two wooden rocking chairs and a small drink table between them. On the right side lay an open barrel of firewood, freshly cut given the condition of the axe that was propped up against the side of the house. This gave Chalice some encouragement. It was another sign that someone was there.

  Placing her foot on the first porch step, she noted that the front door was slightly ajar. At that point she also realized that not only was there no light glowing from the inside, which there would have been by this time if someone had been home, but also, no one had come out of the house yet to greet her. This was odd because surely they would have seen her by now.

  She ascended the steps, halting just short of the door, and moved to set down her bags and the lamp on the small porch table. Stamping down a shiver that she knew had nothing to do with the cold, she buttoned her lambskin cloak to the collar and pulled up the hood to keep her head and neck warm. She rustled inside her bag for her flint and steel and then lit the lantern. Proceeding to the door, she tapped lightly.

  “Hello? Is anyone home?” she called. Nothing. She was growing very alert now. Her imagination had gotten the better of her and she shuddered at the thought of what could be inside. She told herself, however, that the house was more than likely just abandoned like the village had been. So, she plucked up her courage and proceeded to enter.

  She stepped into what appeared to be two large, open rooms that were separated by a hallway to the kitchen in the back of the house. The room on her right side appeared to be a sitting room and beyond it stood a doorway that led to the other rooms. What caught her eye, though, were the stand lamps next to two love seats. They weren’t oil lamps. In fact, she had no idea which type of lamp they were or how they produced light, but it was obvious that they did.

  To her left, lay another set of polished rocking chairs and a small drink table. They were set between the window opening out into the front yard and an enormous fireplace and chimney worked in sandstone with a black pot hanging from a spit on a rotisserie and fresh cut firewood underneath. In between the backside of the hearth and the back window to the waterfront yard, stood a wooden kitchen table and four chairs. The kitchen itself lay on the other side of a decorated wall and was blocked from view.

  Chalice moved further in, stepping onto a homemade rug that she hadn’t noticed at first. Moving carefully, she glanced around furtively for any sign of movement. Then, she checked the surfaces of the tables, chairs, and floor. It was possible that they had left a note in case they had either been expecting her or wanted to leave a message. She found nothing.

  When she reached the kitchen, she gaped, not at the kitchen itself but at its strange features. Mostly, it was just like any other kitchen she had seen with a large worktable, a wood-burning oven, and a wooden countertop for prepping and washing. A portion of the countertop, however, was inlaid with three metallic wash bins, each of which sprouted a spout above, which she assumed provided water for washing.

  But how? she wondered.

  To the right of the countertop in the kitchen corner, protruded a tall, wooden cupboard that gave off a slight but steady humming sound. She didn’t dare go near it. She wasn’t sure what it was. In any case, she saw nothing that could be construed as a message, so she decided to return to the sitting room and explore the other areas of the house.

  Inside the sitting room doorway, a long hallway stretched from the front to the back of the house. At the end of the hallway, a staircase led to the second floor, where she assumed the bedchambers could be found. Before the staircase, the door to a washroom stood slightly open, the edge of a washtub just peeking out. The doorway in front of her was wide open and led to a long room that appeared to be the study, at the end of which sat a large writing desk in front of a window that faced the barn.

  She entered carefully and walked the length of the room, examining everything the light from her lantern touched. The two walls on either side of the room were entirely given to bookshelves, from the top to the bottom and each wall offered a sliding ladder that gave access to whichever shelf a person needed to reach.

  It was almost full dark now and Chalice began to feel very alone in the big, empty house. When she reached the desk, she carefully set the lantern down and turned to examine the books to her left. She was just about to reach for one, when she heard the creak of wood and froze. She realized, with a sudden jolt of adrenaline, that she was not alone. At that moment, she could sense a presence just a few steps outside the door.

  She waited, continuing to peruse the bookshelf, feigning ignorance. The stalker, whoever it was, was making a poor attempt at silence. She could feel the presence getting closer … closer … just behind her now. As soon as she saw two enormous, male arms enveloping her, she moved like lightning. Dropping her whole body toward the floor and seizing the side of the bookshelf for support, she delivered a firm kick to his middle with her legs.

  By the sound of it, the jolt not only knocked the breath out of him, but also sent him flying across the room, to collide with the opposing bookshelf and fall crashing to the floor. Surprisingly, the bookshelf held up fairly well. It only lost one thick book off the top shelf that unfortunately fell right on top of the intruder’s head, bounced off, and landed on the floor next to him.

  At this point, she regretted having delivered him such a hard blow for he was young and incredibly handsome, with fine, chestnut hair and chocolate brown eyes. He was maybe a few years older than she was, strong, tall, and sturdy, wearing modest attire, that of a farmer or a trapper — soft leather boots, light brown britches, and a thick leather hunting coat. By his appearance, it was plain that he was a peaceful villager, large maybe, but harmless all the same. He looked up at her with an expression of pure astonishment on his face.

  “Who … who are you?” he asked breathlessly.
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  “Didn’t anyone ever teach you it isn’t wise to sneak up on a Cantonese?” she said as she pulled her hood back and offered her hand.

  “A Cantonese?” he asked as he took it and rose from the floor, still gaping at her in disbelief. “You don’t look Cantonese.” It was true, the Cantonese were usually dark of hair and complexion and she was exceedingly fair.

  “Yeah, I hear that all the time, but I was born and raised there. I grew up with my Grandfather Sebastian, and my Grandmother Naelli.” As she said this, she saw a look of recognition in his eyes.

  “Chalice? Your family owns the old Inn and Winery on Canton Run, right?” She cocked her head in surprise and nodded. “I thought you were one of the Lost Ones. I couldn’t tell with your hood up. Wow, you have really gotten a lot bigger since the last time I saw you … and a lot stronger too,” he said as he rubbed his shoulder, hunching over slightly in a pained exhale of breath.

  “I’m sorry for that,” she said, gesturing toward his shoulder. “I don’t know my own strength sometimes.”

  He shrugged it off. “Well, I learned my lesson, didn’t I? I’m never gonna try that again.”

  She smiled and eyed him curiously. “You say you’ve seen me. Have we met before?”

  “You don’t remember?” he asked. “Ghost-in-the-Graveyard, in the wine cellar of the Inn? You cheated all the time.” He laughed. “You really don’t remember?” He sighed. “Ah well, you were pretty young then.”

  “Oh my gosh, no, I do remember!” she exclaimed, as the memory of it suddenly came rushing back to her. “Jeremiah?!” He nodded. “Jeremiah Maehbeck! How could I have forgotten?!”