The Second Bell

by Gabriela Houston

  “I’m not a striga,” Miriat interjected. Estancia gave her an appraising look for a moment and shot an angry glance at Abrik, though she seemed temporarily reassured.

  “I just suppose I will have to take your word for it. You might as well come in and make yourself comfortable, as gods know there will be no leaving this house tonight. Take your shoes off. Abrik, make yourself useful and bring down a blanket or two and some of my old clothes from the colored chest.”

  She looked Miriat up and down. “It will all come short on you, but it’s better than these wet rags. I will warm some water, you can wipe yourself clean at least.” While Estancia busied herself by the stove, Miriat pulled off her wet clothes and wrapped herself in a blanket. She looked around the small house. Its clean wooden floors and a brick chimney seemed palatial after years of living in the squalor of the striga village.

  She had almost forgotten what it was like to live not surrounded by the smell of goats. Her hand slid over the smooth wooden mantel. Good carpentry was just one more thing the strigas did without, and it made Miriat feel tired more than anything. There was so much that her daughter hadn’t known in her life, and so much she did without realizing the lack of it. Miriat turned around, suddenly aware of Estancia’s eyes fixed on her back.

  “Here’s some water to clean yourself with. I suppose you will be staying with us for supper. And I don’t serve food to dirty folk.”

  She placed the bowl of steaming water down and placed a tiny sliver of soap next to it. Miriat lifted it to her nose and smelled pine oil. She closed her eyes in pleasure.

  “My own recipe.” Estancia nodded with satisfaction. “The best soap in these parts. I sell them to the fancier townsfolk, though gods know cleanliness isn’t a priority for most of them.”

  “You’re too hard on them, Stancy!” Abrik’s voice came from upstairs.

  “And you would do well not to listen in to other folk’s conversations!” Estancia shot back, crossing her arms.

  Miriat sank her hands in the hot water and felt the cold leave her fingertips. “Are you from around these parts?” she asked carefully, washing her face.

  “With your Heyne accent you should know ours to not be local, I think.” Estancia said, narrowing her eyes.

  Miriat wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Oh, leave her be, woman! She’s just being polite! No, we’re not from around here, child!” Abrik called out from above. “I travel where my art takes me, you see, and my dear faithful wife comes along, with the greatest grace and forbearance.”

  Estancia rolled her eyes as if to say the latter was Abrik’s wishful thinking. “We’re from the westernmost edge of Prissan, a seaside town called Zamory. It’s a proper town, not like this ramshackle village. My family has a very nice little clothing business there, but my husband took it upon himself to drag us to these gods-forsaken, striga-infested mountains.”

  Miriat wiped herself with a towel and put on one of Estancia’s old shirts. Its sleeves barely brushed past her elbows, but she was glad for its warmth.

  “So, what is your trade then?” she asked the ceiling.

  “Well, you see, it’s like that,” a voice came through the floorboards. “I’m a painter by trade and a poet by nature, and there is precious little poetry to be found in a town which smells of fish and guts all year round. May I come down now?” Abrik asked. After Estancia grunted a reply he hurried down. “There are too many people in the west of our country, you see. Too much stink and dirt, not enough life as it was meant to be, in all of its simplicity and grace! Just the grind, grind, everlasting grind!”

  “Not that you ever participated in the grind, grind, grind of anything much, I’d say.” Estancia ushered Miriat into the chair in front of the fire and screwed up her face in disgust at the dirt and mud coloring the water in the bowl left by Miriat. She picked it up and walked off, leaving Abrik filling his pipe.

  “Pay my lovely wife no mind. She has a heart of gold, but it is not lined with the poetry of life, I’m afraid.” He shook his head in mock resignation. “Still, I would be lost without her, quite lost. And speaking of lost, would you like to tell me what you were doing tramping around the countryside in the greatest downpour of my long life?” He leaned forward as if to better hear. His intelligent blue eyes sparkled with interest.

  Miriat felt uncomfortable beneath his piercing gaze, even more than under the scrutiny of his wife’s questions. An answer was required, and silence would draw suspicion.

  “I’m looking for my daughter,” she said in the end. Some truth would carry her further than a lie, she thought. “We live on the other side of the Grim Sister and her trail led me to this town.”

  “Ah, say no more! A young girl, seeking adventure in the big city, no doubt? Following the dreams that lead as far from home as possible?” Abrik chuckled, to Miriat’s relief. She nodded, allowing him to fill the gaps in her story. Estancia brought in two steaming bowls of stew. They were clearly in the habit of eating their food wherever they wished, rather than at the table and Miriat found she enjoyed their easy manner. She accepted the food gratefully. She furrowed her eyebrows, thinking on Salka and whether she had found a shelter that night.

  “Don’t you worry about your girl. Children are resourceful buggers.” Abrik looked wistfully at the flames, leaning back in his chair. “I remember when I was a young man, so full of life and a desire to see anywhere that wasn’t here, and to reach anything that wasn’t ‘now’.”

  “And do you find much trade in the mountains? I haven’t heard of any painters making a living in these parts,” Miriat said, eager to change the subject.

  “Well, I won’t lie, it’s not an easy life. Still, I find a way to keep us comfortable enough. A small job here and there pays for the fine vittles Stancy treated us to this night,” he said, emptying his pipe into the fire. “I suppose you better be getting some rest. There is a bench over there in the corner.” He pointed. “I wager a good deal more comfortable than whatever you had planned for the night.”

  Estancia brought another blanket for Miriat, and bowed stiffly when thanked.

  As her hosts retired upstairs, Miriat lay down on the hard bench. She knew she needed to sleep but couldn’t help but think about Salka.

  It would be a smart move to go through town. No striga pursuit could follow her here. But what if she misunderstood Dola? What if there was no message meant for her and she was just following her own wishful thinking? Miriat turned to face the wall and listened to the sounds of rain and thunder outside until sleep came.

  CHAPTER 35

  The last of the striga search parties came in through the gates, drenched and covered in dirt, as the rain was battering their heads. Alma stood ankle-deep in mud watching them return. She pursed her lips when Emila shook her head silently – the last one through. The mood in the village was solemn. Though none of them relished the thought of punishing Salka, they would now likely have to face worse themselves.

  “Don’t celebrate,” Alma said to her son as he smiled from the shadows of their doorframe, hiding from the rain. “She will be killed as soon as the humans see her. There is no safety for stigois outside these walls.”

  Dran only moved his head in a way that could mean both yes and no. He felt someone’s eyes on him and turned to face Kalina, standing alone, watching him. She cut a sad figure that day, her hair unbrushed and her clothing hanging shapelessly on her, devoid of the small vanities she usually adorned it with. Dran rolled his eyes and walked back into the house without a word.

  CHAPTER 36

  “It’s fascinating…” Maladia said. She was watching Salka’s shadow as Salka went about preparing a modest meal. Dola had no appetite and was lying on her side facing the wall. “What can you make it do?”

  Salka looked at her surprised. She hovered her hand above the hot stove to check it was hot enough. Dola had a proper clay stove, the first Salka had ever seen, and she enjoyed preparing some flatbreads on a heated flat stone, once Maladi
a had shown her how to work it.

  “What do you mean?” Salka said, though she knew perfectly well what Maladia meant. She still found talking about her stigoi awkward, as if voicing all she felt would finally bring upon her some dreadful punishment.

  “Can you make it do things? Markus couldn’t, not quite,” Maladia said. She was leaning against the table, her hands propping up her head.

  “Shouldn’t you be resting?” Salka asked. She placed another bread on the stone and smiled as its creamy brown surface began to bubble in places. “I’ll be done in a moment.”

  “Come now, you don’t have to be shy with me, you know,” Maladia laughed. She wagged her finger at Salka. “We’re both outcasts now, you and I. The least we can do is embrace it.”

  “It’s not so easy.” The smell of the bread made Salka’s stomach rumble. She looked out of the window at the wet forest. The chickens were squawking loudly at a distant thunder. Salka peeled the bread off the stone with a flat piece of wood and placed it on a plate made of real tin. She traced its outline with her finger. The wealth of the Dolas seemed to know no bounds.

  “It’s not supposed to be easy.” Maladia shrugged her shoulders. “Do you know why Markus followed his other heart?” She raised her hand as Salka nodded. “It wasn’t because of the accident. I was going to heal myself. For the sake of a baby I didn’t seem able to carry. He caught me practicing. Made me promise I wouldn’t do it anymore if he learnt how to instead. His revulsion was great, but he did it for me. He thought he was polluting himself for my sake.” She leaned back in her seat and hugged herself, as if suddenly cold. Her shadow crept up over her shoulders, for warmth or comfort, Salka couldn’t tell. Both, probably.

  “Was it hard for him?” she asked. She put the final piece of bread on the plate and brought it to the table, sitting herself opposite Maladia.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Maladia shrugged her shoulders. “It took time and practice. He was like that with everything, Markus. Slow and steady.” She smiled at some memory and stayed silent for a while.

  Salka sighed and put her hands palm up on the table. She was surprised how easy it was, to reach into that place inside herself and let go. Her stigoi’s hands rose from within her own palms, picked up the plate of bread and held it in front of Maladia’s face.

  Maladia chuckled. “That’s little more than a trick. What else can you do?”

  Salka cocked her head to the side. “Anything more and I’d need to feed it from somewhere. Why not try this yourself if you think it so easy?” She half expected Maladia to say no, but instead, the woman placed her hands on the table with their fingers wide apart and stared intently at the plate. Her shadow rose behind her, but its tendrils withered and broke before they reached the bread. Maladia groaned with frustration.

  Salka couldn’t help but laugh. “It takes practice. Not to worry, just starve in the mountains for three months and you’ll catch up.” She thought for a moment. “How long did it take Markus? Before he could heal you?”

  Maladia took a sharp breath and fell silent.

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have to speak of it…” Salka said.

  Maladia shook her head. “No. It’s fine. In any case it was hard for him, but not how you might think. He hated his shadow. He starved it when he could, and near sickened himself in the attempt. He was ashamed of it. Until my child quickened inside me thanks to him. After that, the shame was gone. Still, he never meant to use it again. And he wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t broken my leg…” Maladia winced.

  Salka reached out and put her hand to Maladia’s elbow. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Maladia shook her off. “Of course it wasn’t. It wasn’t even Kalina’s fault. Or Alma’s. They thought he was a monster. As he did himself, in a way. But I never saw a monster. And believe me, I looked.” She wiped a tear quickly with her sleeve. Salka looked away, pretending not to notice.

  There was a moment of silence between them.

  “What happened to him?” Salka asked finally.

  Maladia stared at her for a moment. And then she told her.

  “Do you disbelieve us, love?” Dola rubbed Salka’s back, as the younger woman struggled to compose her breathing. “I know you and Dran… You were friends.”

  Salka shook her head. “No, it’s…” She looked up at Maladia, a plaintive look in her face. “I’m sure it was an accident. I’ve seen Dran angry, he doesn’t control it. But he’s not cruel, I’m sure of it.” She thought of how he held her after Munu’s death, the comfort he offered. “He didn’t mean to…” She was silenced by a look in Maladia’s eyes.

  “And do you think it matters? You think it matters to me, whether or not he meant to kill my man and orphan my child? I woke up to see Markus, my beautiful, kind Markus, reduced to a smoldering corpse. I don’t care why Dran did it. The greedy little shit was stupid at the very least, and that cost us. And did he pay for his crime?” Maladia scoffed, turning to the wall. “No, of course not. Not Alma’s precious baby, not the future leader of the Heyne strigas.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain of that…” Salka said, thinking of Dran’s shaking hands and the tendrils of sickness spreading across his body.

  CHAPTER 37

  A rough shove snapped Miriat awake.

  “Well, look here, it wakes!”

  She turned her sleep-bleary eyes towards the voice. Five men and women stood over her, with Estancia in the back, her lips pursed and her arms crossed. Abrik sat in his chair, his fingers drumming the side of the armrest.

  Miriat sat up and looked at the faces of the people gathered. They were older, but she recognized each and every one. Her heart sank. “Aurek?”

  A hand slapped her across the face. “It talks! But we know it shouldn’t talk, should it? Strigas have no call to talk to decent folk. Now, we heard your little spawn ran off, didn’t it? Don’t worry, if it passes by, we’ll be sure to give it a proper Heyne welcome.” Aurek screwed up his face in anger. “You had your chance to run. You should’ve taken it.” A hand on his shoulder made him pause.

  “Aurek, don’t give way to anger. Miriat will have to face her punishment soon enough.”

  Aurek snapped back, “She thought herself so special, so much better than us, to leave? Not so superior now, your majesty?” He pulled up Miriat by her shirt and pushed her against the wall as if she were no heavier than a rag doll. He stood looming over her, his face inches from hers. “No, no need, Tomlin.” He raised his hand as the other man moved to pull him away. “I know the rules, same as anyone. Rope.”

  A mousy woman standing next to him, her face nearly covered with blond hair, silently passed him the rope without looking up. Miriat’s heart skipped a beat. “Annie?”

  The girl didn’t look up. She stepped behind Tomlin, as Aurek roughly tied the rope around Miriat’s wrists.

  Miriat looked at Estancia, who stood with her face turned away. “Have I harmed you in some way that you would betray me? Did I ask to stay at your house? You brought me here, broke bread with me!”

  “Don’t blame her, love.” Abrik filled his pipe. “She wasn’t the one to call the hounds on you.”

  Miriat looked at him in shock.

  “Bless you, girl, your eyes are as round as the moon right now. Don’t be so surprised.” He smiled amiably. “Poetry feeds the soul, but the coin the townsfolk pay to any who might capture errant strigas feeds the belly. There’s been some thefts, I understand. Well, one man’s loss is another man’s opportunity, I always say. I could tell you were a woman out of place, soon as I laid eyes on you, child.” He bowed his head solemnly and smiled, as if Miriat was a friendly neighbor come to lend him a cup of sugar.

  Estancia shot Miriat an apologetic look.

  Aurek pushed Miriat ahead of him, and they left the house, walking into the still-pouring rain.

  They threw her inside the shop’s cellar, on account of it being the only one with a lock on the outside. Miriat tried to struggle, but without much conviction
. They had her now, and they were not going to let her run again. The last thing she saw before they locked the door was Aurek’s face and it made her momentarily glad he was on the other side of the barred door.

  She looked around her small prison and tears came unbidden to her eyes. There was an understanding that leaving Heyne Town for the striga village was a one-time offer only.

  Miriat put her forehead against the cold wall. The cellar was meant to keep the food from spoiling and a chill ran up her back, as the precious warmth was already leaving her bones. Raised voices above made her creep up the narrow stair and put her ear to the door.

  “Let me see her, Aurek!” There was a growl at the back of the voice, so familiar it made her heart pound.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Why the hell not? You think I will carry her off? Or that she’ll disappear in a puff of smoke?”

  “Well, I have no reason to think that’s your plan, seeing as you didn’t go with her when you had your chance…” Aurek’s voice was loaded with malice. “But we have no idea what powers she’s picked up from the strigas. A stigoi’s powers of persuasion can be rather impressive, so I hear.”

  “She’s not a stigoi, you idiot! You can’t catch it like a cold! All I want is talk to her, man. What if it were Kristin in her place?”

  “Don’t you wipe your mouth with her name! Kristin was a good woman! She did what your bitch should have, and didn’t have the guts to!”

  “Drowning herself and your baby in a well is not the work of a good woman; a mad one, maybe!” A loud crack and a grunt followed, with what sounded like a body landing heavily against the store’s well-stocked shelves.

  “Go.”

  “I’m sorry, Aurek, I shouldn’t have–”

  “Go!”

  Miriat heard a slow sound of footsteps and the slamming of the door. She leaned her back against the cellar door and put her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. Outside she heard a chair dragged across the floor towards the cellar. Somebody, presumably Aurek, sat in it heavily.