Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  She glanced into the chandler’s shop as she passed. Ferlin stood where his mother had once stood, behind a low counter. He was taking an order from a woman with a filthy child on her hip. Her other children scurried about the shop, snatching up tallow candles to jab one another, then replacing them in untidy piles and making a general mess. Phebe tried not to think of the slabs of scarred flesh concealed by Ferlin’s tunic, so she focused instead on the heavy scent of dried herbs wafting from Aspen’s shop and walked on.

  “There’s a choice bit o’ meat, and no mistakin’.”

  Phebe turned to see who spoke and to whom he spoke and came face to face with a broad, heavily-muscled young man. His hair hung lank about his bearded face, and he stank of sweat and stale beer. Beside him another man stood. He was smaller, with pointed features, and it was he who spoke next.

  “That one’s marked, Garmon.” His lip curled as his eyes traced her scar. “Ya don’t want ’er.”

  His argument fell on deaf ears. The larger man surveyed her from head to foot, taking in the flowing dark hair that hung loose to hide her face, the long, graceful arms and legs, the narrow waist wrapped round with a leather belt, and every curve of the shift as it fell over her body. Phebe shrank from his gaze and searched frantically for some break in the wall of people before her.

  “She’ll do alright, marked or no. I like the look o’ this one.” He took a step toward Phebe. “Get the ropes, Finch.”

  “Ya sure she’s come of age, Garmon? Ya don’t want trouble with the magistrate.”

  “Ah, we’ll have no trouble there, Finch. Emmerich’s got a woman fer magistrate. I’d like ta see ’er stop me.” He advanced two more steps and took Phebe’s arm with a thick, meaty hand.

  “No,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. “Please, leave me alone. Please. Ya don’t want me.”

  Garmon pulled her to him, taking a few strands of her hair in one hand. “Ya mustn’t speak so humbly. I do want ya.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “And if ya come quiet, I won’t hurt ya.”

  There was an instant, just one instant before she screamed when she thought about going quietly with Garmon back to his village. In that instant, she saw her life before her, an unchanging nightmare of drudgery and despair. And how different was that from the life she lived already? Then, she pictured Simeon’s grin, remembered the strength of his hands and the great depths of his kindness, and the spell was broken. She screamed his name once, twice before Garmon clenched a hand over her mouth, twisted her in front of him, and pushed her off the main street.

  As they moved farther and farther from the center of Emmerich, the lights grew fewer, the shadows longer. They were not ten paces from the last stone cottage, the northernmost point of light in the village. Beyond was vaporous darkness, and Phebe was convinced that once they plunged into that abyss, no one would ever find her. She heard footfalls behind them. It must be Finch, she thought, carrying the ropes that’ll bind me to this foul man forever. But no. The next sounds were the twang of a bowstring and the sharp whistling of an arrow’s flight. Garmon groaned, loosened his iron grip, and collapsed.

  So great was her relief that Phebe nearly fainted when she turned and saw Simeon rushing toward her.

  “Are ya hurt?” he asked, gripping her elbows to support her.

  “Simeon,” she breathed, leaning all her weight against him.

  “Phebe, please. Did ’e hurt ya? Are ya alright?”

  “Aye, Sim. I’m alright. I’m alright now.”

  Simeon scooped her up into his arms and made for the river, slipping into the magistrate’s hall from the back and avoiding Market Circle. Gently, he placed Phebe on his own cot, bringing a chair from the next room so that he might sit beside her.

  “It won’t be much longer now, Phebe.”

  She was quiet for a while. Then, she swung long legs over the side of the cot and sat up to face him. “’Til I come of age, ya mean?”

  “Aye,” Simeon replied, searching her face. “And ’til ya have a protector.”

  “It seems I already have one.” She smiled and laid her hand on Simeon’s.

  He took her hand in both of his, cursing the clammy sweat that broke out on his palms. “What I mean ta say is, it won’t be much longer ’til we can be married. If you’ll have me, that is.” And he saw how Phebe reacted to those words, saw the flushing of her cheeks, the racing of her pulse, the flashing warmth of her eyes. Wild with hope, he rushed on ahead. “I can earn a good livin’. We can have a cottage in the village. That way you’d always be close ta me. You’d be safe.”

  Phebe was lost in the pale blue of his eyes. Since Amos had gone, Simeon had seen to her every need. In eight years of solitude, she had not once chopped wood for her fire, had not once gone without meat or drink. The cottage never fell into ill repair. If Simeon could not patch the roof and mend the hinges on the doors, he had brought Orin to do so. And what was more, what was infinitely more, were the hours of quiet joy spent by the fireplace. Phebe could picture Simeon sitting in her father’s chair on countless nights through the years. In the beginning, the large wooden chair had dwarfed him, but he would sit with her, telling tales of his mistakes and misadventures at the forge. Later, he would prop long legs on the hearthstones and tell her of his travels with Orin. Through his eyes, she had seen the villages of western and southern Shiloh, and she had rejoiced with him over the success of his first kill. In the end, when he filled Abner’s chair and seemed quite at home there, he spoke of the challenges of his trade and of his dreams for the future. Phebe knew, sure as the endless night of that dark country, that she would have died like her mother were it not for Simeon. She loved him. With every fiber of body and soul she loved him. But she would never set foot under his roof and call herself his wife.

  “Simeon,” she began, with a slight shaking of her head that warned him of what was to come. He gripped her hand more tightly. “There’s no better man in Shiloh. None. A man like you doesn’t want me fer a wife. Not me, Sim. Ya want a woman who’s not been marked. Ya deserve that much, at least.” She turned her face away from him and tried to pull her hand free. He wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he gripped her wrists and drew her up with him as he stood.

  “Little nightingale. Phebe . . . this is the face I’ve always loved. Were one strand o’ yer hair altered, I’d know it, and grieve fer it.” He brushed her hair away from her face and let his fingers fall lightly to her waist.

  She didn’t know what to say. She wondered if Simeon could hear her heart pounding. “No one’s called me nightingale in ages.”

  “Ya don’t sing like ya used ta. But that’ll be different. It can be different. Everything can.”

  “That’s just it, Sim!” she said, jerking away and putting several paces between them. “It’s not only my face that’s marked! It’s my whole family, my whole life. Don’t ya see?! If ya married me, then you’d be marked as well. You’d bring my doom down on your head. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “No! That’s over. It’s done. Ya don’t have ta share in their fate.”

  “Don’t I? What proof have ya? And what has my family ever brought ya but misery? What have we ever given that wasn’t snatched away ten-fold?”

  He could see in her eyes that the door was shut against him. There was a finality in her words that filled him with dread. What desolation did she believe waited for her? And how could he ever make her see that he would risk any darkness to free her, to protect her, to hold her?

  “I should go,” she said, turning to leave. With a hand on the doorpost, she looked back over her shoulder. “Thank you, Sim.” The words felt so small. What was she thanking him for, after all? For eight years of companionship and care, for preventing her abduction, for his offer of marriage, his love? The iron shroud that was her constant adorning felt heavier than ever before. Her vegetables, her plans, her coming of age were all forgotten, and
the dim silence of her cottage felt like the very arms of death itself, opening wide to receive her when she returned.

  Twenty-Seven

  Orin shook his head in wonder. “It’s a marvel, Simeon. I’ve never seen anything like it.” It was not a lie, not even an exaggeration, and it had nothing to do with the pride Orin took in the young man who’d become like a son to him. The lantern was nothing short of marvelous.

  “Do ya think she’ll like it?”

  The older man just smiled and chuckled. He patted Simeon on the shoulder and walked out of the shop.

  Simeon stood a while, gazing at his masterpiece. He’d been working steadily for over a year, at times fearing that it could not possibly be finished before the celebration. But here it was: complete, beautiful, perfect.

  “I’ll know soon enough,” he said aloud. Then, indulging in the briefest of smiles, he wrapped the gift in a cloth and carried it home.

  That night Simeon dreamed again.

  In the dream he walked eastward, away from the village, and he held Phebe’s lantern in his hand. He glanced down as he passed the stone and plunged into the darkness that surrounded the lighted village. A sense of panic rose within him, for without intending to, he was taking the same path that he and Amos had followed on the night when they tried to steal Hadrian’s lantern. Why was he taking that path? It was madness! Yet his feet continued to betray him. He was being drawn toward something. To what, he did not know. By what, he could not imagine.

  There was a flash in the field up ahead, just the briefest flickering, as if someone had lit a candle and then snuffed it out in the same breath. To his left, another light appeared. It rose out of the tall grasses, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught another flash, this time to his right. He stopped walking to watch. They were everywhere! All around him, the air grew thick with dozens and dozens of tiny flames. They came together, assembling in front of him, organizing themselves into one body of light.

  The apparition had six wings. The highest set was pointed upward, high above the creature’s head. The rest were long and pointed, almost feathery, and all were a brilliant white. Arms and legs took shape, and a gown of luminous silver. Then a face appeared. It was not the face of a child, not the face of a woman. It was altogether different. The blazing light cooled enough for Simeon to look into the creature’s eyes. He was not afraid.

  “Simeon,” she said, and her voice burned up the air between them. “Dreamer, the time draws near.”

  In this dream, Simeon could find no voice. He could not question, could not answer. He stood silent and transfixed by the smoldering energy of the fiery creature.

  “The Shadow hangs heavy over Shiloh,” she continued, “and deep darkness waits at the threshold. Your threshold, Simeon. But the Children of the Morning are not forgotten. The Bright have preserved you for this day.”

  No words formed on Simeon’s lips, but his mind rebelled at the thought that he should be chosen by the gods. Amos had been the chosen one.

  “You see yourself through the eyes of the Shadow, Simeon. Do not be fooled. I am one of the Nelya, the Fire Children. And it is to you that I am sent. It was not by chance that Jada found you in the Meander, not by chance that Penelope blessed you with the gift of dreaming.”

  The edges of the Nelya were giving way. Little flecks of light drifted out in every direction until first her wings, then her legs, then her arms disappeared. Her silvery gown broke apart into innumerable fragments of light.

  “Others will follow. Step out of the Shadow, Simeon.”

  His mind raced with questions, but he found no voice, no time, to ask them. Her face was no more than a few points of flame that spread and settled down in the grasses. The night was once again utterly dark, and Simeon woke to find that Phebe’s lantern was lit.

  Her dread grew with each passing day. She wished that something might happen to delay the coming-of-age celebration. Any fate, even death, seemed kinder than what lay ahead.

  Ma, at least, should’ve been here, she thought. Nothing could have stopped her father’s death. Of that, she was certain. And as for Amos, she could only think that he had been driven to madness by his grief. At least he still lived, somewhere; at least he had not faded to nothing.

  A spark of rage long buried rose up in Phebe as she lay on her cot in the stretching twilight hours. Wynn had simply given up. A little voice echoed on the stone walls of the cottage, and it whispered to Phebe that her mother had found no reason to live, no reason to fight. Her children had not been enough. Her daughter had not been enough. In those, the darkest moments, Phebe felt the walls of the cottage closing in around her, pressing against the edges of the cot. The great wooden beams of the ceiling descended until they hovered just a fingerbreadth from her face. The air was close and hot, the weight suffocating, unendurable. Surely death would be sweeter, kinder than this, whether it truly brought her back to the light or only delivered her into oblivion.

  With what strength remained to her, Phebe clung to memories of the way her mother had smiled when she called her little bird, of their travels to the village, their work in the garden, the pleasant hours of sewing and spinning together. There was just the faintest shimmer about her skin and eyes, just a thread of hope remaining.

  There was a rap at the door. Phebe rose from the chair by the fire, wondering if one of the villagers had mistaken the date of the celebration and come a day early. Outside were Darby and a young girl from the village, one of Payne’s little daughters. The girl stepped quickly inside the door and scooted against the wall, while Darby took Phebe’s hand, crossed the threshold, and deposited a basket on the table. It was covered with a gray cloth.

  “Is everything alright, Darby? I’ve plenty o’ food and plenty o’ wool fer a while yet. Ya needn’t have troubled yerself ta come all this way.” She was unaccustomed to having guests in the cottage, apart from Simeon. She felt nervous and awkward at the presence of even so dear a friend as the weaver.

  With a sparkle in her unseeing eyes, Darby pulled the covering from the basket. “It’s not ta bring food or wool that I’ve come, child.” She lifted a bundle of white wool and ran her fingers over the cloth, feeling for something. “I know it’s breakin’ custom, but I’ve brought yer gift a day early.” She pinched a corner of the fabric between her thumb and forefinger and unrolled the bundle.

  Phebe gasped. Darby stood there, in her barren, gray cottage, holding the most beautifully and brightly embroidered coming-of-age gown she had ever seen. The white wool, so precious and rare, looked like palest candle flame, and the threads of yarn that bordered neck and sleeve and waist and hem dazzled the eye with every imaginable color. Bright green leaves and vines, bursting with jasmine in the softest of yellows wound their way around the neckline and down both sleeves. Every flower was woven as if in full bloom, and each had a rich golden center. At the wrists, the sleeves were loose, embroidered with nightshade that flowered in indigo and purple. The sign of the Fire Clan stood out in flaming red at the center of the waistline, and branches laced their way around the gown to form a kind of belt. On some of the branches, birds were perching. The hem was embroidered with night phlox. Their feathery leaves were worked in vibrant green, and their delicate flowers shone in blood-red and flame-orange.

  “Oh, Darby,” Phebe whispered. It was all she could manage. She had dreamed of such a gown since the moment she had first set foot in the weaver’s shop and seen the basket, overflowing with skeins of colored yarn. What this gift must have cost, what time it had taken to weave, she could not fathom.

  “We couldn’t have ya in gray on the day o’ the celebration, now could we?” Darby beamed at her, folding the dress in half and draping it over Phebe’s outstretched arms. “We’ll be goin’ on. Have ya everything ya need fer tomorrow? Enough ale? Candles? Wood fer the fire? You’ll need plenty o’ light. Most o’ the villagers ha
ven’t been out this way in many a year, ya know.”

  “Aye, Darby. I know.”

  “Alright then.” She clutched Phebe’s hand and drew her in to kiss her cheek. “Ya ready ta go, Willow? I’ll tell ya a story and you’ll forget all about the dark road.” The two made a slow start down the lane, the girl holding a lantern in her free hand and Darby already spinning a tale.

  As the weight of a man holds him down to the earth by some unseen force, so the weight of darkness over Phebe’s cottage drew all things to itself. Isolde was caught in that sweeping current.

  She checked the map as she rode into town, confirming the name with Willow and Darby as they hurried home. Emmerich. How strange, she thought. Didn’t the stories say that Emmerich was the home of Amos, Wielder of Fire? She shivered.

  Isolde listened for the sound of horses, and soon found the stable where Brand and Willa were kept. She tied up her mare, lay down in the straw, and fell asleep.

  Twenty-Eight

  The day of the celebration dawned foggy, and dim and gray as ever. Phebe got out of bed, braided her hair, slipped on the beautiful white shift, and lingered for a moment, admiring the embroidery work and running her hands over the twisting threads. This was a day for rejoicing. Not one day of her life before or after would be so celebrated, so honored. Yet she felt no joy. The woven vines around the hem of the gown might as well have stretched to the ground and rooted her to the soil, so great was the weight on her mind and heart.

  She straightened the cottage in preparation for visitors, sweeping the stone floor for the dozenth time, refolding and restacking the blankets on her cot. On the table, she set out every mug she owned. There were five, and they would be washed again and again today. Every guest expected to toast her health with a mug of beer or ale, and Payne had been kind enough to give her a barrel of each as his family’s coming-of-age gift. She sat down by the fire and fidgeted, wishing the time away. She wrapped strands of black hair around her fingers and tugged at them, like her brother had done when she was a girl. Then, hardly knowing why, she walked out the door and across the lane to gather a few sprigs of the night-blooming jasmine that covered the fence by the meadow.