Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  “Welcome, bright daughters o’ the Fire Clan!” she said, without rising from her stool. Her fingers never ceased their movement.

  “Hello, Darby,” Wynn greeted. There was a pause then, and Darby imagined the woman nodding encouragement to the girl.

  “We came ta thank ya fer the colored yarn,” Phebe said. “I braided it, and Ma sewed it on my doll’s shift. She looks lovely.”

  Still smiling, Darby extended a hand in Phebe’s direction. The girl hadn’t been to the village in many days, and the weaver treasured the conversation and friendship that she and her mother brought. She would have liked to see them more often, but she understood why they stayed away.

  “Let me have a look at ya.”

  She took the girl’s hand and drew her close to the stool, her fingers moving up Phebe’s arm, over her shoulder, to her face. Darby searched her forehead and eyebrows and traced her nose. One thumb moved over the child’s lips and chin. Then, without lingering for even an instant in the hollow of the scar, she brushed the backs of her fingers over Phebe’s cheek and dropped her hand to clasp Phebe’s hand.

  “Ya grow faster than the nightshade outside my window,” she said, and though she could not see it, she felt sure that Phebe was smiling back at her.

  “We brought ya some peppers and potatoes from the garden,” Wynn said. Darby could hear the sound of vegetables thumping onto the table. It was a generous gift. By the sound of it, they’d brought enough peppers and potatoes to last her for weeks.

  “Many thanks ta ya, Wynn.”

  “I helped pick ’em. Did the weedin’, too,” Phebe announced.

  “Many thanks ta you, too, miss,” Darby said with a mock bow.

  Phebe giggled. She liked it here. The strange milky white of the weaver’s eyes did not frighten or disgust her. On the contrary, since the attack, she felt safer here than anywhere else in the village. Darby’s eyes never lingered on the red scar that marked her face. Darby never looked at her with pity. Darby never shuffled away from her, clinging to the other side of the street. In this shop, Phebe could sing and laugh and smile. Here, the light of two small lanterns seemed brighter than the brightest bonfire at the largest village celebration.

  “Have ya heard about the apron fer Rowan’s comin’ of age?” Darby directed her question to Wynn, who moved another stool to sit by the weaver. “They say the embroidery covers near half the fabric.”

  While Darby and her mother talked, Phebe made her usual exploration of the small cottage, lifting her lantern to gaze at the stacks of cloth. Most of it was gray, though some was of a finer weave. A few precious bolts of white wool were displayed on a high shelf. Phebe stared at these, imagining her own coming-of-age celebration. Perhaps she would even wear white on the day she became a wife. White sheep were so rare in Shiloh that their wool was reserved for such occasions. Phebe tried to picture the embroidery that would adorn her own gown. The sign of the Fire Clan would appear in the center of the elaborate border, of course. And I’d like birds, she thought, and jasmine.

  In a large basket, on a table at the back wall, was the most marvelous thing in the weaver’s shop. Phebe could have lingered at that basket for hours, fingering the skeins of colored yarn. There were deep blood reds and earthy brown reds. There were mossy greens and bright grass greens. There were rich berry purples and dark eggplant purples. There were rusty orange yellows and clear golden yellows. So many colors, Phebe thought, and sighed. She was clothed in gray wool, standing in a dim, gray room in a dim gray world. How she longed for everything to be as lovely as those coils of yarn. She knew already that the yarn was far too expensive to be used on every shift or blanket. Darby bought the colored skeins from a weaver in a larger village some ways to the northwest. Each color was marked with a small carven stone, and in this way, Darby could distinguish the different shades. But the dyes were rare and costly, and they traveled far to reach the little village of Emmerich. Phebe had little hope of buying any of the colored yarn until her seventeenth birthday approached. The little girl sighed again, replacing a coil of purple yarn in the basket, and went to join her mother.

  “Ya mustn’t be so melancholy, little one, or the night weavers will come fer ya.” The soft sounds of Phebe’s sighs had not escaped the weaver’s keen ears.

  “Please, Darby, don’t,” her mother protested.

  “I was only teasin’, Phebe. No need ta worry. Come, would ya like ta hear a story?”

  “Not today,” Wynn answered for her. “The light’s goin’, and we’d best get back.”

  Phebe was disappointed. The weaver was the best storyteller in the village.

  “Aye. Another time, then, but don’t stay away too long.” Darby squeezed Wynn’s hand and brushed a hand over Phebe’s cheek as they moved toward the door. By the time they crossed the threshold, Darby’s fingers had resumed their rhythmic work on the loom.

  Directly across the street from the weaver’s shop was the brewery, where Payne made beer and ale. Though he sold no food and kept no lodgers, his shop did boast a haphazard collection of tables, stools, and benches. Often, villagers who came to buy a mug of huckleberry ale or potato beer would sit to gripe or gossip with one another, and Payne’s shop was the best spot in Emmerich for hearing a good story. If you sipped your ale quietly and listened patiently, you might hear about the building of the Hall of Echoes. Or you might hear what the sons of Burke saw from their watchtowers before the Shadow Lord took them. On this particular day, the conversation centered around Abner’s family.

  “It’s a shame about the girl. She was a pretty little ’un . . . before. But I think ’er fool of a father brought it down on ’er ’ead.” Caedmon sat on a tall stool, spewing hatred between gulps of potato beer.

  “Abner? How do ya mean?” Payne topped off Caedmon’s mug for the third time.

  “Just think, Payne. Every time some daft fool gets it into ’is ’ead that there’s any power in Shiloh but that o’ the Shadow Lord,” here, he lowered his voice, “somethin’ goes awry. ’E brings down ’is own doom. ’E’s marked. Just look at Evander. That crazy mother of ’is starts dreamin’, and before ya know it, ’e leads ’is whole clan ta their deaths.”

  “Ah, but ya don’t know that. Nobody knows fer sure they died,” Payne replied. “Anyway, it’s nigh unto a thousand years since Evander went over the Black Mountains.”

  “Aye? Hundreds o’ people just up and disappeared, then, is that it? The shifters got ’em . . . if they were lucky. Or the wolves. But I’ve no doubt they were dead before the first night fell. And ’ere’s this wee girl, just gatherin’ a bit o’ firewood, and suddenly the cats are on ’er. The Shadow’s huntin ’er. Huntin’ all of ’em, I’d say.” Caedmon set his mug on the table, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle. “It’s a shame about the girl, but I say good riddance to ’em. We don’t need their kind bringin’ the Darkness down on Emmerich.”

  “And what o’ the boy?” Payne refilled the mug that rested in front of him and grabbed another mug for himself. He preferred the cherry ale, when it was in season, but the beer was good, too. Payne knew that beer was Caedmon’s preference. He knew also that the man could finish seven or eight mugs when he was in a temper. He’d keep the beer handy until Caedmon had his fill.

  “Amos?” Caedmon said, before drinking deeply again. “A strange boy, that.”

  “Heard he put Lark’s boy in his place not so long ago.”

  “Did ’e? Well, that boy could use it. Filthy brat. Always stealin’ dowels from m’ shop. Thinks ’e’s a great marksman.”

  Another man stepped into the brewery. He had unusually fair hair and dark eyes. Like Caedmon and Payne, he wore leather trousers and a long wool shirt, but both were partly concealed behind a heavy leather apron. Around his neck hung the sign of the Clan of the Builder. This was Orin, the blacksmith, and the mood in the shop changed with his arrival.

  “Jus
t the usual today, Payne,” he said, after giving a brief nod to the carpenter. Orin handed the brewer a jug and waited while Payne filled it with huckleberry ale. Apart from the sound of the ale splashing into the earthenware jug, the silence in the room was stiff, and only when Orin had nodded his thanks, paid for his ale, and left the shop did Caedmon continue.

  “Like I said, that boy’s a strange one. To ’ear some tell it, you’d think ’e was ’ammond ’imself.” At that, he slammed his mug on the table and stood. “But if ’e really did kill the Shadow Wolf, then ’e’s more dangerous than ’is father . . . much more.” He drew several edanna coins from the leather pouch on his belt and tossed them on the counter. “I’d keep an eye on ’im if I were you. ’E’ll bring down the doom on us all.”

  Wynn and Phebe had to pass by the brewery on their way out of the village. It was unwise to travel at the waning of the day, so Wynn had hurried her daughter along, past the stone, toward the southward path that led to their cottage. She had caught only a snatch of the conversation in Payne’s shop, but it was enough to put a chill in her blood. And as she walked into the gathering darkness, guided by the feeble light of her lantern, one phrase rang in her ears: The Shadow’s huntin’ ’er. Huntin’ all of ’em, I’d say.

  Five

  Not all the Lost Clan was lost. They kept to themselves, mostly, just a dwindling remnant tucked away in a village called Fleete far to the north. Yet even in the foothills of the Pallid Peaks, they had heard how Amos killed the Shadow Wolf. It was a story Isolde loved to hear, and Rosalyn told it often, but on this night, Rosalyn shared a different tale. “There were some who said ya must be a true daughter o’ the Fire Clan, for yer hair was red as flame, yer eyes blue as dragons’ breath. But there were others who knew better, who remembered the tales o’ Valour, the bride of Evander who led our people inta the Black Mountains.”

  Rosalyn drew another segment of silken red hair into her fingers and continued the elaborate braid across her half-sister’s forehead. They had sat like this, she and Isolde, for as long as Rosalyn could remember, and by now the story almost told itself.

  “Fer a thousand years we’ve waited, this last remnant o’ the Sun Clan. We few, cloistered in the foothills o’ the Pallid Peaks, could never make up our minds if Evander and Valour were more akin ta heroes or madmen. And so we’ve waited, frozen by indecision, paralyzed by fear and doubt, as if in some long sleep.”

  “And it is I who will awaken us.” Isolde interrupted, pulling away as Rosalyn tied a cord around the end of the braid.

  Rosalyn said nothing.

  “Because o’ my hair,” Isolde sighed. She loved to hear the story of her birth and her birthright. But there were days when she grew weary, when her destiny seemed as distant and unreal as the legend of the sun.

  “Yer eyes as well, fair sister. In all the old tales, Valour was described in the same way, with hair as red as flame and eyes as blue as dragons’ breath. The midwife knew it only too well. That’s why she spoke the prophecy.”

  Isolde spoke without emotion, absently pulling at her shift and gazing into the fire on the hearth. “‘Through ages o’ Shadow the tale will be told. Fair daughter o’ Valour, I name you Isolde.” It had been left to the midwife to name her, for her mother’s lifeblood had soaked the straw mattress of the cot where Isolde was born. With a cry of agony, that woman had left the world of Shadow forever.

  “I once thought the midwife foretold some great triumph, some escape. Now I wonder. What tale will be told, Ros? She never said what sort o’ tale.”

  Rosalyn stirred the venison stew that was simmering in the iron kettle over the fire. “You’ll do what Valour failed ta do, Isolde. You’ll find a way out. I know it.”

  “We don’t know that Valour failed. She may have found that great lantern, blazin’ in the sky.”

  “Without the glass, I can’t imagine how she ever found the sun. Besides, if she’d discovered somethin’ beyond the Shadow, she would’ve come back fer us.”

  The door of the cottage swung open and smacked against the wall. Their father, a lean, hardened man with dark hair and eyes, stepped over the threshold and tossed a heap of blood and fur on the floor. “Make some use o’ yerself, girl,” he said to Isolde. He settled himself onto the bench by the table and waited for Rosalyn to serve him while Isolde took the day’s kill and hurried out into the gloaming.

  She drew a dagger from the leather sheath on her belt. Her mother’s dagger. It was beautiful, its wooden handle inlaid with silver, its blade engraved with the sign of the Clan of the White Tree. Her mother’s clan. If only the dagger had proven its worth when Sullivan came to carry her away in the night. Isolde sighed again and spoke to the dagger, “You’ll serve me better when I get out o’ here.” She took her time skinning the rabbits, peeling away the gray-brown fur and setting it aside before burying the entrails. She cleaned the blade in the spring, where frigid water bubbled up to bite at her fingers. Then she carried the carcasses to the stable, where she placed each on an iron spit and leaned them against the wall in the corner.

  Resisting the pull of the cottage, of her father’s silent will, she stepped up to the new foal, Echo, and stroked her neck. Sullivan had traded a large doe for the little foal, hoping she would one day replace his aging stallion. Isolde smiled as Echo shuffled and stamped on her spindly brown legs, and finally pulled away, taking the rabbits inside to roast on the hearth fire.

  “It’s awfully close ta the Black Mountains, though, Da,” Rosalyn was saying, as she ladled another helping of stew into her father’s bowl.

  “Ya know nothin’ of it, girl. Some o’ the finest hunters in the north go ta that lake. No end o’ bull elk there, they say, grazin’ in the meadows and drinkin’ from the still water. I’ll be leavin’ in the mornin’. You’d best pack my things.”

  “Do ya mean Lake Morrison, Da?” Isolde asked as she settled the spits over the fire. “I’ve heard stories of hunters disappearin’ near the lake, of strange things happenin’. Melburn says it’s —”

  “Speak the name o’ that fool mapmaker once more. Just once.” Sullivan’s voice never rose. He spoke with complete calm, complete control. Isolde was tempted to challenge him, and she held his eyes with hers for the space of a single heartbeat. Then the moment passed. She took a bowl of stew and sat down at the table.

  “That man preys on ignorant men and silly girls. He draws ‘maps’ of he knows not what. Any fool can scribble on a parchment. I’d like ta see him brave the Hunter’s Paths through the Whisperin’ Wood. See what he’s made of.”

  Sullivan finished his stew and set the bowl aside. “I catch ya near his cottage again, Isolde, and you’ll be sorry.”

  The sisters exchanged the briefest of glances. They’d both been sorry before, Isolde more often than her sister. Rosalyn was always finding some way to make herself useful, even invaluable, to their father. But Isolde had never proven her worth.

  Before long Sullivan was asleep in his cot, and Rosalyn as well, on the opposite wall. Soft night sounds filled the cottage: the playful crackling of the fire as it died away into embers, the creaking of the cots as sleepers turned and tossed, the roar of the wind coming down from the mountains. Isolde heard none of them. For her, the cottage was filled with a ringing silence. It was oppressive. At times, it was unbearable. On many nights, she snatched a lantern from the hook on the wall and made her way to the only place in the village where she felt she could breathe.

  Fleete rested on a hill that, for the most part, rose gently from the surrounding landscape. But cottages, stables, and shops were scattered about in an erratic, disorderly fashion, for the village had no real center. Just before the hill reached its peak, it changed its character, rising steeply to a rocky summit. There, an immense boulder braved the icy winds that whipped down from the white spires of the Pallid Peaks.

  It was a hallowed place for Isolde. She loved the precarious
climb to the summit, the sting of the wind on her cheeks, the empty, open darkness that lay all around her. A faint golden glow of fires and lanterns floated beneath her in an ocean of inky black. And she was lifted above them, free from the terrible gravity of her tiny world.

  As always, Isolde was grateful for Rosalyn’s skill with braids. Her hair was tightly wound away from her face, and even this wind could not pull it free. She settled into her usual place and stared out into the void. Once in a great while, there were bursts of blue flame that appeared in the distant mountains. It had been a hundred years at least since any of the dragons had come down into the foothills, but they still lived among the peaks, waiting in snow and Shadow.

  I’d risk any fate if only I could go and see the dragons with my own eyes. Or the southern moors, or the western plains. Or the Hall of Echoes, or the Three Bridges. She thought back to the many cheerful afternoons she’d spent in Melburn’s cottage, hovering over his shoulder as he drew and redrew his maps of Shiloh. The mapmaker had perfected inks of several different colors, and perhaps it was those that most fired Isolde’s imagination. She could still envision the green of the Whispering Wood and the rich blue of the River Meander. At times, when Sullivan had been hunting in some far-distant clime, Isolde had sat with Melburn as he listened to hunters and travelers give accounts of their journeys. He hung on their every word, and he paid them in edanna coins, so they were always willing to share. Melburn had collected hundreds of accounts in the course of his life, and the best of these he had compiled into the Red Maps.

  If I had one of the Red Maps, I could search the whole of Shiloh. I could find Valour’s Glass. And then . . . then . . . perhaps . . . Her thoughts wandered out of the mapmaker’s cottage and up into the Pallid Peaks and down through the Whispering Wood and back through a thousand years to the tale of her forebear. And she envied the wind its freedom and wished that her father might never return from Lake Morrison and imagined all the places in Shiloh where she might roam, until her toes were stiff with cold, and she rose and hurried back to the cottage and the warmth of the fire on the hearth and the softness of her woolen blankets.