Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

“Yer a liar, Ferlin.”

  Ferlin lunged. Amos lifted his hand and thrust it forward. A ball of fire shot out from his palm. It flew toward Ferlin in an arcing stream, and his tunic went up in flames.

  Simeon was frozen by the boy’s screams, by the sound of the fire licking up the wool, and the smell of burnt flesh. He looked at Amos, who was already turning away. He looked at the man in the dark coat, whose features were now lit by the bright flames on Ferlin’s tunic.

  “You!” Simeon screamed, for the face of this man was the face of the man in his dream. And his eyes . . . those eyes. Beads of sweat appeared on Simeon’s forehead. His pulse raced and his breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he held the man’s gaze. Those burning green eyes challenged him, laughing, mocking. What will you do now, Dreamer? they asked. Then, as if Simeon had stepped into a waking nightmare, the man extended a long black tongue from his mouth. He flicked the forked end in the air, drew it back behind his teeth, and smiled. He’s mine now, boy. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.

  Only Simeon had seen. Only Simeon knew. His mind raced even as his muscles refused to act. Who was this man? What had happened to Amos? Had the gods gifted him with another warning only to see him fail?

  At last, Simeon moved. He could do nothing for the friend that walked away into the shadows, but he could do something for Ferlin. He ran to the boy, throwing all his weight into Ferlin’s back and knocking him into the river. The water hissed and steamed as the flames were quenched.

  Simeon made several futile attempts to drag Ferlin onto the shore. He cringed each time he touched the bubbling, blistered skin, each time Ferlin cried out in agony. Fortunately, the villagers nearest the river overheard the commotion. Men and women came running, and Ferlin was loaded onto a cot and carried home. Lark came undone when she saw her son. Simeon felt sick. Shaken and trembling, he slipped away from the crowd and ran to find Phebe.

  Twenty-One

  The light of the fire had dwindled, and the cottage was swathed, within and without, in shadow. Phebe sat in her mother’s chair, a rising sense of panic in her breast, sifting through Simeon’s words. How could it have come to this? This was the stuff of legend, of history; surely her family had not come to this end. Surely this was not her story. “But how can ya be sure, Sim?” she asked. “Amos would never . . .”

  Simeon added logs to the fire and used the iron poker to shove them into place. “I never thought ’e could do what I saw ’im do ta Ferlin.”

  “What’re we ta do? We can’t sit idly by and let the Shadow take ’im.” Tears welled in her eyes and spilled onto her shift, staining the gray fabric with dark blotches. “We’ve got ta find ’im.”

  Simeon reached for Phebe’s hand. As he did, the cottage door swung open and crashed against the wall. Amos stormed into the cabin, looking eerily unlike himself, and behind him, guarding the threshold, was Mordecai.

  “Amos!” Phebe and Simeon shouted together and sprang to their feet. He took no notice of them, pushing past the old wooden table and throwing open the lid of the trunk that sat against the back wall. Inside, neatly folded and wrapped, were Abner’s tunic and quiver, Wynn’s shift and spindle, even the blankets from the cots where the two had slept. He rummaged through the contents of the trunk, roughly handling the treasured memories of his past, and called out to Mordecai.

  “How much?”

  “All of it.” His green eyes flashed a warning to Simeon.

  There was a dull clanking of iron and groaning of wood as Amos closed the lid of the trunk. He lifted one end by an iron handle and dragged it toward the door.

  “What’re ya doin’, Amos?” Phebe demanded.

  He didn’t even glance in her direction. He only dragged the trunk across the stone floor and heaved it out into the lane in front of the cottage. Mordecai had preceded him. He stood smiling by the fence where the first tiny buds of jasmine were creeping from the vines.

  Simeon and Phebe followed them into the lane. They stood confused and terrified, unable to stop, or even quite believe, the scene that unfolded before them.

  “The other things as well,” Mordecai was saying, his eyes moving over Amos’s clothing and weapons. “You’ve no need of them now.”

  Amos laid his bow and quiver on top of the trunk. He drew out his dagger, removed his leather belt, and heaped them on the pile. Last of all, and with just an instant’s hesitation, he unstrapped the leather guard from his arm. There was a pause: a deep, still, silence when all the world held its breath.

  Then Mordecai whispered, “Go ahead.” And without a word from Amos, or even the faintest flutter of motion, the trunk burst into flames.

  “No!” Phebe screamed.

  Simeon grabbed her arm, pulled her toward him, and held her tightly. She pushed and fought, determined to run to the trunk and beat out the flames with her own hands if need be.

  “Amos,” she cried, “how could you?”

  He looked back at her then, his expression holding something like pain, something like remorse, something like love. For a second, he looked like the Amos who had killed the Shadow Cat to save her. Then his eyes clouded over, and he followed Mordecai down the lane and faded into the darkness.

  “May the light shine upon you, brother,” she whispered through her tears.

  “What’s happened to ’im, Orin? I don’t understand.”

  Simeon paced the floor. Orin’s cottage, situated just behind his workshop on the eastern edge of the village, looked much like Phebe’s cottage. There was a wooden table and benches, a cot, and a chair by the fire. If the ironwork on the walls and door was rather more ornate, it was no surprise, for Orin was a master blacksmith. The tongs and poker that stood by the fire boasted handles of delicate wrought iron worked into the sign of the Clan of the Builder.

  Orin’s clan, Simeon knew, had dispersed after the sons of Burke were taken by Ulff. The watchtowers had been abandoned, and families had spread, integrating themselves into other clans in villages all over Shiloh. The unfamiliar clan sign stuck out, drawing the eye away from the symbols of the Fire Clan that seemed to brand every other part of Emmerich. Simeon had noticed, during one of his visits to Orin’s cottage, a small blanket embroidered with the sign of the Clan of the Builder, folded on the trunk in the corner. He wondered at it, for it was far too small to be of any use to Orin. It looked like a child’s blanket.

  “And what o’ the man? I’ve never seen him in Emmerich before.” Simeon stopped his pacing to watch Orin, who sat at the table studying the grain of the wood. He had taken off his leather apron and hung it on the wall with his thick leather gloves protruding from the pocket.

  “You’re sure it was the same man ya saw in the dream?” he asked.

  “Aye.” Simeon sat down on the hearth. “I could never mistake those eyes.”

  “And you’ve not seen Amos behave in such a way before, not even once?”

  “No!” He remembered their foolish attempt to take Hadrian’s lantern. But that had been different. It was nothing like the display of cruelty and indifference he had just beheld.

  Orin released his breath slowly and straightened in his seat.

  “Sim, I fear ta say it aloud, fear what it bodes fer the days ta come, but I believe you’ve seen a shifter.”

  Simeon stared at Orin. He had heard of the shifters. Everyone had. They were Ulff’s most cunning servants, his most elite warriors. But no one in Emmerich, Simeon least of all, had ever considered the possibility of a shifter moving among them. Shifters were part of history and legend; they seemed no more of a threat than the spawn of Sirius, closeted in the remotest reaches of the Pallid Peaks. Shifters here, in Emmerich, now? He could not take it in.

  “A shifter?” he asked. “Do ya mean the same kind as took the Lost Clan?”

  Orin nodded, his face grave. “Aye, the very same. According ta legend, the shifters waited in the Bla
ck Mountains, disguised as trees. Evander’s men were surrounded, beset, before ever they knew they were hunted. If any survived, I don’t know how.”

  “But I saw an owl and . . . a snake. Can a shifter change ’imself into a tree?”

  “Anything, Sim. They can take any form, so long as it’s alive.”

  “But . . .” Simeon groped for words. “Why Amos? Why now?”

  Orin swung his legs over the bench and took his seat by the fire. He studied Simeon’s face.

  “Have ya ever heard anyone say that Amos or any of ’is family was ‘marked’ by the Shadow?”

  Simeon remembered Lark’s and Hadrian’s words with perfect clarity. He’d heard others make similar statements all his life. He’d seen some people avoid Abner’s family as if they carried the blue ague.

  “Aye,” he answered. “The villagers mostly.”

  “Have ya ever considered that they might be right?”

  “No!” Simeon threw back the words. “They just don’t understand. They don’t believe Abner’s stories. That’s why they’re afraid.”

  Orin rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at his hands. “Simeon,” he said, before looking back at the boy, “did ya know that Amos was born one thousand years, ta the day, after Evander? There are some few of us in Shiloh who still mark the days, who remember. Amos and Evander were both born on Midsummer’s Day, a thousand years apart. I believe that Amos is the true son of Evander.”

  The words didn’t penetrate. They swarmed in a mass around Simeon’s head. “I thought ’e was a son of Hammond, because of ’is gift with fire. Evander’s not even o’ the same clan.”

  “Clans don’t matter so much as ya might think.” With his thumb and forefinger, Orin pinched the iron symbol that hung around his neck. “Amos has a stronger bond with Evander than with Hammond, whatever sign ’e wears on ’is guard. And as Evander was marked, so, I believe, is Amos.”

  “But why? What has Amos ever done ta bring down the wrath o’ the Shadow?”

  “It’s not so much what ’e’s done. It’s who ’e is and what ’e believes.” Orin leaned back in his chair, hesitant to move into sacred ground. “Abner was a threat, Sim. Amos is a far greater threat. He’s known far and wide, revered by many. Men would follow ’im as they followed Evander. And Ulff knows it. He’d send an army o’ shifters if ’e had to.”

  Tears pooled in Simeon’s eyes. “Is Amos goin’ ta die as well?”

  Orin looked into the fire. “I can’t say, Sim. But ya don’t have ta die ta be removed as a threat ta the natural order o’ this world.” He glanced at the little blanket on the trunk. “There are other ways. Most merely lose hope.”

  The fire crackled and hissed in the hearth. Little tongues of flame licked the logs and lapped at the air as the men sat silent. Finally, Simeon spoke, his voice and his face pleading with Orin.

  “What can we do?”

  “I wish I knew. But if ya dream again, ya must tell me at once.” Orin rose and took a small jar from its shelf. “Fer Lark,” he said, handing the jar to Simeon. “It’ll help with ’er son’s burns.”

  Simeon nodded, heading for the door. He turned before leaving, struck by a sudden thought. “Orin,” he asked, “how do ya know so much about Evander, about Amos? Don’t ya think they’re mad like everyone else in the village does?”

  Orin’s eyes lit. His skin flared with a brief burst of light, and he winked at Simeon. “One day, Sim,” he said. “One day I’ll tell ya all ya wish ta know.”

  When Amos reached the Meander, Mordecai beckoned him onward. “Come,” he said. This time, he made no attempt to hide as he shifted into the form of a great owl and flew across the dark expanse of the water.

  Amos first knelt down to drink. The events of that night had picked at the scabs of old wounds. He didn’t want to remember Phebe’s words or her screams. He didn’t want to remember the anguished look on Simeon’s face. So he drank again and again.

  He looked down at himself, at his tunic, his leather trousers and boots. He looked like any other boy in Shiloh, stripped of everything that hinted of his former identity. Those things had been no more than leather and wood and string. Now they were nothing at all. Just ashes consumed by the power he carried with him, the power he carried within him.

  He removed his tunic. He lifted his hand, the tips of his fingers growing hotter and brighter, and burned the sign of the Wolf into his chest: a circle, incomplete, surrounded by five pointed claws.

  He jumped into the water.

  Beneath him, through undulating weeds and darksome currents, he could make out a pale luminescence. He dove deeper to get a closer look, and a wan face emerged from the riverbed, its eyes glowing a livid blue-green.

  “Welcome, Amos, Wielder of Fire.”

  A hand rose out of the weeds, looking much like a lank weed itself, and moved toward Amos’s face. It stretched across his eyes, grabbing him at his temples. First he saw nothing, then there was a flash of fire, and then the hand was gone. The pale face looking back at him was not the face of a single creature as he had thought, but rather a writhing, twisting mass of worms that only resembled a face. The Nogworms. Amos had never seen them, but they felt right at home with him. They felt at home in him, in nearly every person in Shiloh. They were the parasites that filled the waters of the river. They were the decaying remains of the beautiful creatures that lived in the crystalline currents before the world was unmade. They were the dulling, numbing, warping, forgetting power that had settled into every corner of Amos’s body. The mass of Nogworms moved in unison, drawing the blue-green lips into a feral smile.

  Amos swam the last stretch of river, emerged on the opposite shore where Mordecai watched from his perch high in the branches, and disappeared from Emmerich.

  Twenty-Two

  Eight hundred years and more have passed,” Darby began, “since the first was taken. In those days, Burke had not yet been born, and no Clan o’ the Builder had raised the Hall of Echoes or the bridges over the River Meander. In those days, the wolves roamed in packs, and there were as yet no Hunter’s Paths through the Whisperin’ Wood. Those were times of great hunger, for most feared ta enter the wood at all, and families survived on what little could be grown or killed near the villages.” Darby pushed her chair back from the table, raised unseeing eyes to the rafters, and took a deep breath.

  “In a village some ways west o’ the wood, there lived a man named Rider and his wife Mariah. Like you, child, Mariah was a singer. There was light and magic in ’er voice, and ta the people o’ the village, she was a marvel. Her daughter, Imogen, was much like ’er; she sang with a voice as high and clear as a bird, and she shone with a fierce light long after the other children o’ the village had faded.” Here Darby stopped, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “’Tis a dark story, Phebe. Why must ya hear it at all?”

  Phebe didn’t answer right away. She and Darby sat at a table in the back room of Darby’s cottage. The room was spare, just a cot in the corner and the two chairs at opposing sides of the table where they had eaten. She pushed back her empty plate and mug and stared at her wrists. They stuck awkwardly out of the sleeves of her shift.

  “I don’t know why. I only know that I must hear it, Darby. Please tell me. What happened ta the girl?”

  Reluctantly, Darby carried on. “The story goes that one day, Imogen’s father ventured inta the wood in search o’ game. The winter had stretched long, and the family was lean and hungry. So Rider took ’is brother and ’is nephew and braved the wood, and on the very first night o’ their hunt, the wolves surrounded ’em. Rider’s brother survived, but the others were taken. Lost and devoured. When the brother returned, wounded sorely by the claws o’ the beasts, he brought the awful news ta Mariah and Imogen. He stumbled through the door o’ their cottage and said, ‘Rider’s dead, taken by wolves.’ Mariah cried out and Imogen with ’er. And then the man
spat out one more bitter thought. ‘We’ll all go likewise, for no man can escape the jaws o’ the Shadow.’”

  “They say it happened in an instant, in the blinkin’ of an eye. Imogen’s light faltered and then disappeared altogether. She stood frozen, dull as iron, but around ’er, across the floors and down the walls, somethin’ moved. It was as if the walls and floors grew a thousand legs and gathered in toward the girl. They say the Weavers moved up ’er legs, ’er shift, ’er face, ’er hair. They spirited her away, cloaked in webs o’ Shadow. She vanished before ’er mother’s eyes.”

  “The Hall o’ Shadows,” Phebe said. “That’s where the night weavers took her, isn’t it? Ta the crystal teardrops. Is she there still?”

  “The tales say as much. They say the Hall o’ Shadows is the path ta the door o’ Shadow Castle.”

  “What happened ta Mariah?”

  Darby shook her head as though she spoke against her will. “She searched the wood, the Black Mountains, everywhere, until she found ’er daughter. There’s no knowin’ how she survived.”

  “Why didn’t she bring ’er back?”

  “She tried, it seems. The poor woman cracked under the weight of ’er grief. When she came back from ’er journey, she was wild, ravin’ about bein’ too late. The story and the songs were pieced together from fragments, really.”

  “She said she was too late? Is there more ta the story?”

  “Ta the song. I’ve heard the village children singin’ about the Hall o’ Shadows far, far away. But there’s a verse they don’t sing, a verse they don’t know. My mother sang it ta me when I was a girl.” She closed her eyes, remembering, and sang.

  “Turn, turn away from the gatherin’ darkness

  Erebus will still the cries and bind the hands

  Time slips away, and the days are fleetin’

  Come and take yer children ta yer arms again”

  Phebe shivered. “But, Darby, everyone in Shiloh fades. Ya never see a grown man or woman who shines still like a new babe.”