Cursed

by R D Blake

  CURSED:

  THE TALE OF

  NO ONE, NOBODY, AND NO WHERE

  R.D. BLAKE

  imotifbooks

  Kitchener, Ontario Canada

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  First published in Canada in 2015

  imotifbooks, 39 Askin Place, Kitchener, Ontario N2A 1K9

  www.imotifbooks.com

  Copyright © R.D. Blake

  Cover illustrations by Greg Hoekstra copyright © imotifbooks.

  All names, characters, and related indicia within are copyright and trademark imotifbooks.

  R.D. Blake has asserted his moral rights.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  R.D. Blake

  Cursed: The Tale of No One, Nobody, and No Where

  ISBN 978-0-9879826-2-9

  1. Title

  Chapter One

  A wedding occurred in the small town of Torburg where a widower and a widow were married in a simple ceremony in a simpler and plainer church. Few were gathered to observe the rites officiated by the local parish priest. Of course, as one would expect, there were the usual old men and older women present, sitting upon the unadorned wooden pews: those whose busy village lives had reached their apex decades earlier and had begun their long descent into the peace and quiet of their elder years. In addition, two children were also in attendance standing by the sides of this couple who were swearing their oaths of fidelity and troth to each other, for the adult members of this union had each brought a young daughter into their new family. After the exchanging of their vows and being anointed and blessed by the priest, all such rituals duly witnessed by these few of the small town, the man and the woman with their progeny retired to their unpretentious home thankful that the Good Lord had blessed them with each other after the heartache of losing their first loves.

  From the first, the two girls enjoyed their new sisterhood. Both were precocious, full of that early joy in life, spending as much time as they could together, helping their mother at home as was expected in that age and time: cleaning, cooking, learning to mend, washing, spinning fabric, drawing water from the well, and going to the parish school once they were old enough to learn their letters and grasp the essential fact that a world existed far broader and wider than the uncomplicated village they lived within. They played and slept together sharing everything. Inseparable, many of the townspeople would whisper when the two girls skipped by their homes. Neither one was favoured over the other by either parent, so much so, that other than by their appearance, one would not know which was the daughter of whom.

  But as they grew older, though both girls were fair to look upon, with smooth complexions and grace to their movements, Marta showed herself to be the quicker-minded, apt to see to the root of matters more swiftly, and willing to speak first and hold firm to her opinions. She was the older of the two by near a year and those traits were deemed natural due to that simple fact. Some of the other girls of the town, unfairly, though again it is normal for children of a certain age, once or twice called Marta flame tongued, as if to offset her darker complexion and the deepness of the colour of her brown hair and eyes. That accusation, to those of a greater maturity, had little merit; for Marta was also both caring and considerate of others.

  As the years passed, Ilena came to reveal another nature. She was avid to play any game involving chance and strategy to the point where Marta would refuse to join in; for it was rare, despite her greater intelligence, to win out over her younger sister. Only the affection for any animal surpassed Ilena’s love of games. She befriended all manner of the small creatures that crossed her path; birds; mice; woodchucks; rabbits; and of course, dogs and cats. And if on some day she was out beyond the walls of the village, it seemed there was always some animal nearby, if not already about her feet or on her lap. Yet, the greater part of Ilena proved to be her quietness and gentle thoughts. Kindness was as much a part of her as was her blond hair. And her natural gracefulness flowered into the love of dance and she moved always to some inner tune within her mind. In those earlier years, the boys thought her dreamy, perhaps even somewhat simple-minded in their own yet premature understanding of girls; but as they all grew closer to their mature years, the prancing and skipping and soft movements of Ilena caught their attention in new ways.

  From then on, Ilena found that as she travelled from school or was out on errands for her father or mother, one or more of the village boys would join her along her path. In her innocence, she welcomed their company and joined them in their laughter though she seldom understood their jokes. Their wide, wild grins she returned with quiet, gentle smiles of her own. But as most young girls of her age, Ilena understood less than these young lads, the growing swell of their hearts and the shoots of attractions that had begun to wrap about their inner longings. In most ways, she thought them silly and felt a silent glee when the boys all fled from the front of her own home if her father made a sudden appearance.

  Not one to mince words, the cabinet maker would speak sharply to any lad if ever he caught them lingering by his dwelling. Their growing attention and the drift of their eyes whenever he was out with either of his two daughters had not escaped his notice, or if truth be told, that of his wife. As an older man and as a father who loved his daughters with the fullness of his entire heart, he thought it far too early for such happenings to occur. “Not for years yet,” he grumbled within the confines of his own mind. Though, if his wife had openly shared her gentler thoughts, recalling the short years of her own long passed youth, remembering only how her own heart had fluttered at the chance occurrence of some village boy catching her eyes and gleaming a smile at her, she would have pronounced a slightly different judgement on the matter.

  But another had noticed as well from an upper window of their small abode, experiencing a different set of emotions. Yorges had been among the boys who had followed Ilena home that one fateful day: Yorges who had caught Marta’s own eye some months ago. That nigh on full year of older age which Marta possessed over Ilena was surpassed by a greater physical maturity, and in lock-step with that, was the blossoming of a young woman’s fancy; none of which had yet begun to bud in her younger sister.

  From her high vantage, Marta burned to see the desire that Yorges had for Ilena. She was not blind to it, as in truth Ilena was, though Marta did not know or understand this fact; for she pictured Ilena in possession of the full range of sentiments as she herself held. If Marta desired Yorges how could not Ilena as well? And that longing so evident on Yorges’ face was what Marta wished with all her heart to see him have only for herself. So it came to be that the first small root of bitterness found rich soil inside Marta, though she never knew of what it truly was for long years afterwards.

  Yet despite her growing jealousy, Marta still loved her sister and her family. But as the days and weeks and months passed by, Yorges did not cease in his attentions toward Ilena. If the two sister were together it seemed to Marta, though she smiled prettily at Yorges and fluttered her lashes and moved invitingly and lifted her head and her lips upwards to him, he ignored her yet amateurish ways of wooing and only spoke to Ilena, who more often than not blushed and coloured at his words and darted glances toward her sister seeking her aid to end his now seemingly constant attentions. Marta’s envy only came to simmer more hotly inside her. Was she not the older, the more mature, definitely the smarter, just as pretty, if not more so? Was her hair not thicker, her skin, if just a shade yet darker, not as appealing and smooth, and her hands and fingers quick and supple? Why would Yorges not see these in her and desire her more than her sister? And yet this son of
the town’s miller only had eyes for Ilena.

  Now, there comes a time in every town like this one when the bright sun of the summer has departed, vacating the land to make room for her weaker, more distant and less luminescent brother. The crops have been harvested and gathered in: the fruits, the grains, and the last of the hearty vegetables. The excess cattle and their ilk have been sold or traded and the larders filled. It is in such a season, when the work is done and all await the full advent of the winter, that the townspeople and its few officials celebrate with a festival. God’s Blessing upon their village was felt and believed in by every resident of Torburg and it was deemed only proper to give Him their thanks.

  And as everyone is well aware, this was also the time when the young girls and women of the town and from the surrounding countryside would all gather and be invited — some for the first time — and others, if not yet married or pledged, to attend and to dance, and within the proper forms and traditions of the duchy, to be so wooed.

  Still, as yet young not only in body but in mind, Ilena was unsure if she wished to join in this tradition of the festival. The love of her heart was still fixed only for her parents and for her sister. Marta, however, possessed no similar uncertainty as did her sister, and was determined more than ever to win Yorges for herself. Plotting and planning, she had saved and she had scrimped and she had sewed to make a dress that she believed would capture his heart and all of his affections. To enhance her charms, secretly for many hours within the confines of her own room, Marta had practised the festival dances: not quite as nimble footed as Ilena, but she believed far more gracious than most, if not all, of the other young women of the village.

  That fateful day finally dawned upon the hamlet. Ilena, at the encouragement (and the discouragement of her sister) came apparelled in her best dress, still full of doubts if she should join in or not with the other girls. But when she heard the music and saw the dancing of the others already there, Ilena lost her uncertainty and voiced her agreement to participate. This did little to please Marta, who to this moment, had counted on having Yorges entirely to herself. She frowned, but what could she say? With rekindled purpose, she simply pushed ahead through the crowd to where the other young girls and women of the town had gathered. There she saw Yorges prowling along the sides of the square with a few of his friends, catching her breath at the sight of him; for he too was wearing new clothes: garments that showed off his growing brawn and the strength in his shoulders and back. Truly there could not be a fairer young man, a better prospect than he in all of the town, the ducal lands, in fact in all of the entire world — or so Marta thought within her own young imaginings.

  Putting aside any doubts she might have carried, Marta walked boldly up to Yorges and flaunted, delicately, but firmly, her new outfit and with a flick of her hips and a warm inviting smile, communicated that she would welcome a request. Sheepishly, Yorges looked about at his companions who, with a not so gentle nudge from behind, pushed him toward her and by their smirks and open grins, egged him on. Marta scowled momentarily, not enjoying their mirth or what their twisted smiles might signify; but as Yorges turned back to her, she moved her lips into a smile again and hoped that her dark eyes were dancing in front of his. After clearing his throat, his blue orbs finally alighting on her own, he mumbled a request to dance though it seemed to Marta there was an absence of the eagerness that she had dreamed of and had hoped for. Yet after she had graciously acceded to his invitation, Yorges’ head twisted here and there about as if he was searching for another. Well, Marta had every intention of making him forget about any other girl including Ilena.

  It seemed she led Yorges to the dancing circle, more than he, her — his attention still elsewhere. Had Marta not washed and scented her body and woven fresh flowers into her thick, loose hair? She knew other boys were regarding her with interest even as they entered the dance circle. As they began to join in, Marta made certain she moved in a manner that would catch Yorges’ attention, and at first it worked; for his eyes forgot all but her, drinking her in and Marta saw that desire she had long coveted flow from him to herself. Now, it seemed at long last her dreams were going to be fulfilled. And Marta danced in a fashion that promised much more to Yorges before this night was over. Her lips quivered at the thought of his on her own. So the dance and the next and the next came and went, and still Yorges did not want it to end with her. Perfect — it was so perfect. And it was — until Ilena joined in the dance with their father.

  But the cabinet maker had no skill in this particular festival ritual. Soon, it came to be that Ilena danced with only her inner muse as her partner. But she minded not, for the music had filled her and the spirit and the mood of the community about her moved her and Ilena danced for joy. And that pleasure spread and overwhelmed many at the celebration and in its wake caught up Yorges, who until that time had been filled with Marta — only Marta. Now, the miller’s son was reminded that he had come to the festival seeking out not Marta but her sister, and at the sight of her nimble feet and the soft movement of her arms and legs and the warmth and glow of her face amidst her bliss in the music, Yorges let go of Marta and stopped his dance with her and watched with growing fascination — of only Ilena.

  Within only a few heartbeats, this proved all too much for Marta, who could no longer hold back her tongue; for the blackness that had been nursed and tended to over the last several months erupted, and she spoke sharply to Yorges gripping his jaw in her clenched hand. Yet the miller’s son could only regard Marta in a bewildered manner, not understanding her protests. Drawing her hand slowly away from his face, he mumbled a “thank you,” and then pushed through the intervening crowd to stand close to where her sister danced.

  When the music had ceased, Ilena slowly came back to herself and only realized as the crowd clapped that she had been in some other world as she had capered about, free, unfettered, like the birds she watched in the fields and the woods. Her face reddened as she looked about for her father, but he had somehow disappeared. Now only Yorges was standing in front of her saying something she could not hear for the applause of the villagers and for the music that was beginning once again. He motioned with his head, and bowed and moved to take her hands. But Ilena wanted not to dance with him. That would mean something else entirely, and Ilena dimly understood that if Yorges was reserved for anyone, it was only for Marta. No, not her, never her! Ilena pulled her hands away and shook her head and fled, flying on quick steps to search for her parents; but all whom she found was Marta and her look was as dark as her hair, furious as Ilena had never seen her and to her deep dismay, her sister’s rage was directed solely and only at her. In a frantic movement, Ilena glanced backward to see Yorges’ eyes still upon her.

  “Oh, Marta! I do not know why he looks at me like that. I do not wish it. Please forgive me if somehow I have wronged you!”

  Saying nothing, Marta cast her eyes once more at Yorges and then coldly back at her sister. Then in continued silence, she marched away from the crowds, a black plot forming in her mind as she left the celebration field with its revellers, its music, its laughter, its drinks and hot foods, its young children gambolling about around their mother’s legs, and its officials smiling warmly to one and all. No such heat remained within Marta other than the fiery pyre of her anger.

  Now, there was one person who was not at the festival and none would ever have considered inviting her. And she herself would never have wished to attend such a celebration. An old woman lived deep in the fetid swamp some distance away from the village. No matter how the ditches were dug, the murky marsh never dwindled in size; no efforts of man or nature could seemingly alter it. A severe drought of a few years ago had done nothing to lessen its extent and depth. “As lived the swamp, so did this woman,” were the whispered utterances of the villagers.

  Marta left the festivities beating out a fast tattoo with her feet upon the cobbled stones that led out of the village. So Yorges only wished for Ilena. So he would ha
ve her! But not the girl he so desired. He would have something else! Marta had heard much of this witch, this odd ancient woman over the years. The village was full of the rumours of the strange things she did and of the mishaps that blighted others in the town and its surrounding lands. How else to explain the unlikely accidents of bad luck that occurred from time and time beyond any logic or possibility or of the foul weather that damaged only the homestead of one family rather than them all? When those occurred, there was always someone who would attest in hushed murmurs within the secluded corners of the town that “so-and-so” had been seen going in or coming out of the fens.

  The gate out of the town was unoccupied: the gatekeeper himself attending the celebration. Marta scurried out unmindful of the time of day and the distance she would have to travel. She cared nothing for who might note her absence or what might happen to her festival clothes as she travelled through the swamp. Marta was determined to find out the truth about this old woman and seek her aid.

  Night was closing in by the time Marta stepped off the road onto the dirt path that the townspeople said led to the home of this witch. After a journey of several hundred steps along the trail, the woods closed in about her and a heavy silence deadened even the sound of her footfalls. Then, as if in some mystical manner, she was within the broad sweep of the swamp — and not just broaching its edge. Ignoring how peculiar this was, Marta pushed on along the thin, muddy path. Slowly, mists began to rise up out of the ground, to curl and swirl up about her ankles reaching at times upwards for her waist. For the first time Marta stopped, doubting her purpose; but then images of Yorges and the desire she had seen in him for Ilena, convinced her to press onwards

  Even days later, Marta could not recollect how long it took to travel that final distance to the hovel of the old woman. It had felt like hours and hours in one sense, yet in another, only a few minutes. All she would recall were the guttural moanings that soon rose to surround her on all sides, the encroaching stunted trees whose scabby-armed branches seemingly reached out to grab at her, the movement of the otherwise dead air about her rising to pull at her clothing in sudden gusts, the eerie calls of nocturnal flying creatures that to her muted senses seemed like no bird Marta would ever call by that name, and a smell that spoke of slow death and dark and terrible things that no one ever wished to contemplate.