by Robin Trent
"I know you know of what I speak." Abigail's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. She looked from side to side to make sure no one else was listening. Of course, they were alone, so this was unnecessary. "Elizabeth Merkova is a witch."
"I was there the day you accused Elizabeth out on the street, Abigail. You can stop whispering. No one is here." Pastor Poole took a deep breath and a slight pause, as one would before explaining something difficult to a child. "I am not at liberty to discuss Mrs. Merkova with you, but suffice it to say, she has had some... complications... since giving birth to her children. She is under the doctor's care, and he is giving her health his utmost attention. You do not need to concern yourself with her, Mrs. Young."
Abigail did not like the pastor's tone. She sat up straight and adopted an indignant air. "Pastor Poole, I happen to know that you, yourself, suspect the woman of witchcraft. You have said as much to the doctor! Now, something must be done to protect the parish."
Pastor Poole's face turned beet red. "Madam, I assure you, I have said no such thing. I believe you should now be satisfied. Good day to you, Mrs. Young." The Pastor rose from his seat and began walking to the front of the church.
"Why are you lying?" Abigail whined. She couldn't believe the pastor denied what she had heard with her own ears. "I know what you think!"
The pastor came back to Mrs. Young, quickly grabbed her by the elbow and escorted her to the door, which he swung open with more force than he had intended. "Mrs. Young, I do not know what you think I know or don't know, but as I have said, I assure you that I do not think Elizabeth Merkova is a witch! Good day, madam!"
Before she knew what had happened, Abigail Young was staring at the rectory door as it slammed in her face. She sputtered and gasped in indignation. "Why I never!" If the pastor could not admit to what he knew, she would force him out in the open. No one talked this way to Abigail Young.
Rhys was still reeling from the information he had gleaned from the journal. Had his child lived? Why didn't he know this? Who kept it from him? He needed more information, and he needed to finish reading the journal. He was also determined to have a discussion with a certain changeling.
Rhys stopped walking and sat down on a nearby fallen tree. He needed to collect his thoughts from his racing mind. Rhys thought he had lost all of his family. He did lose them; surely, his son was no longer alive being half-human. But his son had lived, and he had never known. Relief that his son survived and grief that he never got to raise his child or be with him hit Rhys all at once. The hollowness that he carried in his chest seemed to expand and contract at the same time.
Fresh wounds opened as his memories surfaced. The villagers showed Rhys the charred remains of his family, and his response was the desire to torch the entire village. He decided the best way to settle the score was to infiltrate the minds of the humans who had killed his family. He turned them against one and another, resulting in the eventual slaughter of everyone involved. Rhys let them believe awful things about each other, the way they had appalling thoughts about his wife and son.
That was how the whispering campaign had begun. It was now part of Sidhe history. Now it was not uncommon for his fellow Sidhe to whisper foul things in the ears of humans to torment them and watch them destroy each other. It was so easy to corrupt human hearts and minds. It was why Rhys enjoyed the battlefield. He could, to this day, kill humans to dull the pain he still carried with him, but he chose to do it in times of war.
But now he knew his child had lived. Someone had saved him but didn't tell Rhys. What was the purpose? Why did this happen and who was responsible? It didn't seem real. It didn't seem possible. He had carried the belief his son had died for so long, it was challenging to adjust to this new-found knowledge.
Leaves rustled from up above Rhys in the forest canopy. The difference in sound registered with him, but he didn't care. He already knew who was up there and that they would come down to talk. That was why he went this way in the first place. Scuttling and the scratching sound of nails on bark echoed as his visitor descended. Rhys sat with a heaviness in his chest as he waited for Strakx to finish sneaking up on him as if the phouka could ever really succeed in doing so.
"Hello," Strakx greeted cheerily as he plopped himself right in front of his friend. One look at Rhys and Strakx smile disappeared. "What ho? Out with it. What's going on?"
Rhys didn't have much to say, so he handed the journal to Strakx. "What's this?" Strakx opened it and peered at the pages as if he could read them. Reading was something the phouka had never bothered to learn. "It's a book, all right, that has a bunch of funny writing in it. So?"
"The journal has my name in it and my wife's and our son," Rhys said.
Strakx waited patiently for the punchline.
"And then it goes on to list my son and his wife and his family. His family, Strakx." Rhys was near tears.
"That's not possible," Strakx said.
"He could if he had lived. If he lived and I never knew about it," Rhys said.
"Well, that's just barmy. Are you serious?" Strakx now shared the pained look on Rhys' face. He reached out and put a comforting paw on his friend’s knee. "Where did this come from?" Strakx lifted the journal in the air.
"The Merkova house."
"What? Do you think this is their family history? How would they even know about you? Everyone in that village died." Strakx was incredulous.
"I don't know what it is, who recorded it, or what it means. I've barely read it. I just know my son lived." Anguish came out as Rhys spoke. "I will find out, and whoever kept this from me will pay. That much I can guarantee."
"You need my help?" Strakx was always loyal. It was one of the things that endeared him to Rhys.
"I made a promise to Maeve. I am supposed to be watching the Merkova house as a spy for her."
"Great. And we see how that is turning out." Strakx added in a little sarcasm.
"Old friend, I need you to watch the house," Rhys said.
Strakx frowned. He hated sitting in one spot for a long time. It was not in his nature to do so. But for Rhys, he would do anything. "All right."
"I know how hard this will be for you, but I have things I have to do. I need to know more about this; I need to read this journal, I need to investigate. I need to know how the Merkova's fit into this and why both queen's are interested," Rhys said.
"That's a lot to figure out," Strakx remarked. "Where are you going to start?"
"The Merkova house itself. I'll feel better if you are outside keeping watch. Warn me if anything comes?" Rhys' countenance softened a little. "I will not forget this."
"That's what friends are for, mate."
The next morning saw John Barlow saddling up his brown mare and riding off into town. He didn't talk much about where he was going or why, but Rebecca could guess well enough. Too many wolf sightings too close to the house. It was getting downright dangerous to walk out into the yard as the young mistress had done.
The general store was a hub of activity as usual. People were picking up purchases and dropping off deliveries. John felt at ease with all the hustle and bustle of ordinary life. He only wished he had more of it at home. He spent time looking around the store and waited. John knew who he needed to meet, and he was confident he would see his neighbor soon enough.
Hunter Mekes was a tall, blond, blue-eyed man of Scandinavian descent. His name suited him, for he was known as the best hunter in the parish. His family owned a large farm on the other side of the county and had dairy cows that were known for producing creamy milk that made excellent butter. Dairy farming was safe from overseas competition, and the Mekes family had not been affected by the farming depression that had brought low many corn farmers. Currently, they were expanding into making cheese. Hunter came into market every Thursday, bringing milk and butter to the general store, and today was no different. John had known Hunter since they were children, and he knew he could count on Hunter to help him out.
&nbs
p; He walked up to Hunter as he entered the store. "Hey Big John." Hunter grabbed him by the forearm with one hand as he shook John's own hand with the other.
"Hunter. Good to see you. You look to be fit and fine." John grinned.
"Oh, yah. Very much so. And you, how is your lovely wife, Rebecca?" John and Hunter drew smiles from the other shoppers as they continued to exchange pleasantries. After about ten minutes of going on about each other's lives, John got to the point.
"I have a problem I was hoping you could help me out with." He looked Hunter straight in the eye. "I need someone to go hunting with me."
Hunter just laughed. "When has that ever been a problem. You know I am always up for a hunt."
"I need you to help me hunt wolves." John's countenance darkened a little at the mention of the beasts. "There is a large pack of them out near the Merkova's, and they keep coming right up to the property. Mrs. Merkova almost got attacked. Twice." This announcement brought everyone in the store to a halt. Wolves were everyone's problem.
Sam Stainton overheard the conversation and decided to join in. "You're not the only ones. We've been having problems too. A couple of my sheep have gone missing."
Other people began to speak up, and pretty soon a crowd had gathered around the two men. "Well, I guess it looks like we are going hunting. I would be available a week from now," Hunter said. Several other men, including Saul Wintere, also volunteered. John and Hunter shook hands on it, and everyone departed with an agreement to meet at sunset in six days at the Merkova property.
It was late evening when Rhys finally made his decision to go see the changeling. He wasn't overly worried about being caught or seen. If Rhys didn't want to be seen by humans, he wasn't. He just wanted to make sure that he hadn't been followed by his own kind. Rhys had taken the necessary precautions, backtracking on his steps, using a piece of a tree with leaves on it to brush over his tracks, not taking a direct path to the Merkova house. In the end, it seemed all these precautions were unnecessary because not only did no one stop him or follow him, but he was definitely, completely alone. Well, sort of.
"Psst." The sound was coming from above. "Psst." Rhys rolled his eyes heavenward to see the phouka sitting in the tree overhead, his glowing yellow eyes peering out from the leaves. Strakx waved. Well, at least he knew Strakx was doing as he had asked. Rhys did not bother waving. It seemed counterproductive to give the phouka's position away.
Rhys went back to focusing on his surroundings and the Merkova house. It was a cloudy night, so he didn't have to worry about being seen. As Rhys was about to move out into the open, he heard a voice speak over his left shoulder. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." He practically jumped out of his skin. He'd slap that phouka silly if he weren't always saving Rhys' hide.
Rhys regained his composure and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and why is that?"
"Wards. Just thought you'd like to know. The hob has put up wards all around the house. I've seen a few small beasties try to get in. They practically evaporated on the spot." White teeth gleamed from a smile in the dark.
"Well, it's good to know, but I think I can handle a few simple wards from a house brownie."
"I don't know. Titwell seems to know what he is doing. Not like most fools who try this stuff. He's keeping her safe." The phouka nodded his head sagely.
"Keeping who safe?" Rhys questioned. "He cares about a human baby that much?"
"Oh, not the babe, although I believe he watches over the child too. No, the human female. The mother. I think old Titwell has taken a shine to her."
"How do you know that?" Rhys looked doubtful.
"You hear things sitting up here in these trees all day and all night. Sidhe talk. There's more than one being that is curious about this particular house and this particular family, although no one seems to know why." Strakx sounded nonchalant as he spoke, unaware that he had found out quite a bit all ready.
Rhys' brow furrowed as he tried to put the pieces together. Maeve wanted him to watch the house, but Oonagh placed Titwell there, and the house was obviously under her protection. And yet there were Sidhe that were trying to penetrate Titwell's defenses. Rhys spied the hob coming out of the house and around the side. He hit on a perfect solution to his problem.
"Stay here. I'll be right back."
"Okay. Don't say I didn't warn ye." Strakx scrambled back up to his post.
Rhys approached Titwell calmly, trying to make some noise to alert the hob to his presence. Titwell's eyes grew large at the sight of the Sidhe warrior approaching. "Rhys. You have no business here. None at all. Now go away." Titwell's voice shook as he spoke.
"Oh come on, Titwell, old friend. I am not here to harm you." Rhys tried to sound non-threatening.
"I know you, all right. I know you are usually up to no good, and I know you have no love of humans." Titwell stood with his arms folded across his chest. This intrusion into his evening was not what he wanted at the moment.
"I heard you have a special assignment. Working here for Queen Oonagh, eh?" Rhys smiled his toothy grin, which unfortunately came across as a little too feral.
"That's right. I am here by royal decree. You don't want to go messing around with that." Titwell felt a growing alarm as he watched Rhys prowl around the house testing his wards.
"I have a proposal if you are willing to listen," said Rhys as he idly tested a ward and only got a soft zap.
Titwell snorted. "You have a proposal? One that will involve me getting my head chopped off when Oonagh finds out, no doubt."
"No, I am here to help you." Rhys grinned.
"Help me? I don't need any help. I am doing just fine on my own." Titwell felt slightly offended.
"I'm sure your wards are more than adequate. I just thought I could offer some reinforcement." Rhys was trying his level best to remain diplomatic.
"What kind of reinforcement?" Titwell liked the sound of it but still wasn't sure he could trust Rhys.
"I can make the wards completely impenetrable to Unseelie Sidhe. And I promise to remove the nightmare." Rhys was staring up at the windows.
"How do you know about the nightmare?" Titwell felt his suspicions grow.
"I just saw it pass by the window."
"Oh." Titwell was disappointed at so mundane an explanation. On the other hand, Rhys was offering something that would make Titwell's life so much easier, and it would ensure Elizabeth stopped being bothered. But he knew Rhys wasn't doing this for free. "What do you want?"
"I just need to get inside to talk to the changeling for a moment." Rhys dropped the hammer.
"What?" Titwell began to sputter. "Have you lost your mind? How do you know about the changeling? What on earth could you possibly need with that nasty sprite anyway."
"He owes me a debt. And since he is living in the lap of luxury, I figured he could pay me back." The Sidhe had precise rules about debts. You couldn't deny someone the right to collect one. Ever. This let Titwell off the hook, even though he wasn't one hundred percent easy with the answer.
"And you promise me you will leave Elizabeth alone? You won't harm her or the child in any way?" Titwell asked.
"I promise I will harm no human in the house. None, whatsoever. And I promise I will remove the nightmare, permanently.”
"All right. And then you'll help me to strengthen the wards?" Titwell pinched one eye shut as he looked sideways at Rhys.
"Maeve herself won't be able to enter," Rhys promised.
Titwell was satisfied. All he did was nod his assent. He touched one of the rocks and let Rhys through the wards. He was pretty sure Rhys could get through on his own anyway, but Titwell didn't want anything he had worked on destroyed. Before he could say anything else, Rhys was gone inside the house.
Pastor Kristopher Poole sat alone in his rectory, a half uneaten sandwich on a plate, pushed off to the side. Ever since his discussion with Abigail, his stomach had churned and roiled. If he were a layperson, he would consider Abigail Young to be a most odious person. Ho
wever, as a pastor, he was obligated to have a more charitable view. As a member of his flock, Abigail had taken an overly burdensome interest in the parish. And she was leading them astray.
Yes, he had thought maybe witchcraft was involved with the Merkova woman, but after long conversations with Dr. Barrett, reason had prevailed. But he could not get Abigail to see reason. In fact, she seemed to be lacking it in every respect. And why did she suspect witchcraft? How did she know? It was almost as if she could read his thoughts. Did the doctor betray him? That could be answered simply by confronting the man, something he was intent on doing.
But more important to him was the divisiveness within his flock. Abigail was talking in the street, trying to turn the parish against him. She was causing his congregation to doubt him. How was he to be a spiritual leader here in the village if Abigail continued her campaign? For the sake of his flock, he needed to stop her. Regardless of her purpose and what she thought she was doing, Abigail Young was causing problems that directly affected him.
The problem was, what to do? He could call her out and denounce her, but what would he be doing to a member of his own flock? If he did this to her, would anyone else ever trust him? It was no longer like the days of old when a minister could point a finger and be taken seriously with impunity. As far as he knew, no one sincerely believed in witchcraft, as the good doctor had pointed out. And then there is the Renaissance that was happening all over the country. People were even questioning the validity of the church and, indeed, its power.
There were secret societies and occult and metaphysical studies and people exploring other options. And no one saw the harm in this. People were turning away from the church, and the need to keep people on the right path was more important than ever. The pastor was not unaware of what was happening in this time, but he believed in his church and in his calling, and he truly believed he needed to save his flock from this nonsense that he may have inadvertently, somehow, started.
