MAREK
by
Gemma Liviero
Copyright © Gemma Liviero 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity in any form or by any means, or stored by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
Florence Publishing
Email [email protected]
PO Box 547, Spring Hill , Queensland, 4004
Typeset & Graphic Art:
Talk Turkey Print & Design
Cover art based on original portrait
by Bronzino
The characters and their activities are fictional.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance
to actual persons is unintentional.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Prologue
I am bathed in the last streak of light from the sun. The white gold bounces across the ripples of the sea, illuminating the scar on my forearm. This scar like a lifeline stretches from the little finger of my left hand, across the back of the wrist where it is jagged and broken, then in a straight line running off my forearm. The rest cannot be seen for it finishes an inch into my chest.
It is not an extraordinary scar for I have seen worse, but my wounds go far deeper than they appear. They tell of a betrayal.
When I set out to discover the truth of my heritage I had no idea that I would be delving into a world so dark and treacherous, and so finely balanced between good and evil. I could not have foreseen that my own kind would strip away everything I believed good, leaving nothing but a miscreant: a creature far deadlier than those predatory forest beasts that tear out the beating hearts of their weaker prey without conscience.
But I digress into self-pity, for my real intent is to warn that beneath the layers of our society lies an ancient evil that has threatened the land for centuries. And, in order to preserve your belief in the goodness and virtues of many of my kind, there are things that I can never disclose in detail. For beauty and greed can sway the holiest of souls, and even witches like me.
My father had been hoping that I was ordinary, that I had not inherited my mother’s witchcraft, and he kept my past a secret. By accident I discovered my healing craft, later acquiring more undesirable skills such as the ability to determine the life-and-death fates of others and the darkest of arts – immortality. As I was to discover, this last one comes with a hefty price.
One year on, the nightmares persist. Images of creatures so hideous with sunken yellow eyes, skin hanging from their gaunt frames, and blood and saliva dripping from their sagging jowls. They chase terrified villagers through misty wooded lands. One beast in particular recurs in my dream, fiercer than the others, the leader perhaps, tearing at human flesh with rapture. Sometimes when I look closely, that creature is me.
One year earlier I was still a boy at heart, yet sometimes called a man. From the events that happened, it is easy to question whether I am one now.
Chapter 1
1309–Anonymous
A most extraordinary thing happened. I was visiting the markets with my maid when a man in a long white coat approached me to suggest which figs were freshest, much to the vendor’s dissatisfaction who wished to sell his older fruits first. The stranger, some years older than me, wore an alluring orange-blossom perfume, with a face so beautifully pale. His luminosity of skin and clothing made him appear ethereal and it was this quality that left me overawed and lacking a suitable response. However, I composed myself enough to nod my thanks.
He asked if he could walk me some of the way. I protested of course because it wasn’t proper. My maid would most likely gossip and then I would be the talk of our staid society. With just a whiff of impropriety, consummated or not, Uncle was the type of man to send me off to an abbey to “calm down”.
Before the white man took his leave he purchased a bunch of crimson roses and handed them to me. I had never had this much attention from a man before, not one that I wanted anyway, and my aunt would frown upon such forwardness and spontaneity.
I went away and could not stop thinking about the handsome stranger. Even when I closed my own eyes I could still see the silvery blue of his, so appealing and bright like the crystals in my aunt’s jewellery. I pressed one of his gifted roses between the pages of a book, as this was indeed a memory I wished to keep.
I would go to the markets every chance I could but without further sighting of him. Just when I thought he would never return, and I would settle down once more to mediocrity, he suddenly appeared at my side. He kissed my hand and whispered that he had been thinking of me often. I nervously enquired whether he might call upon my uncle to legitimise our friendship. He frowned and thought about this a moment before replying that his father was dying and that he should perhaps wait a while before any formal introductions were organised. He said that he wished to learn the value of his inheritance and be financially prepared before calling on a girl of such high standing.
My disappointment must have been evident for he tapped my nose gently. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Have I upset you?’
I could not admit to it of course. How foolish would I have looked?
‘There is another way we can perhaps spend some time together,’ he said in his thick and sensuous foreign accent.
‘Tell me,’ I said shamelessly, forgetting that my aunt often scolded me for such exuberance. She said I was prone to being foolhardy like my mother, and my tutor once referred to me as flighty.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘My friend is planning the grandest of feasts and you can come as her guest. She lives just a day’s journey from here.’
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘My uncle would never allow it.’ I pictured my uncle’s disapproving face at the suggestion of attending an event outside our own dull establishments. ‘I warned you about her lack of good judgement,’ he would likely say to my aunt.
‘Oh,’ said the man. ‘No matter.’ And he was gone before I learned his name.
I couldn’t sleep for several nights. I snapped at my maid and the housekeeper and refused to come down to the hall for dinner. Life was incredibly boring in this house where my aunt invited old ladies to dinner, while my uncle attempted to entertain their husbands with uninteresting stories, and boasting about his business profits. I thought about the man from the markets, praying for another chance.
Then one evening there was a tap on my window. In the street below, my mysterious friend from a faraway land stood waving from beside a carriage. Caring little for correctness this time I prepared to meet him with much excitement. My aunt had refused me paints and powders so with a hairpin I pricked the tip of my finger with a needle and rubbed the ball of blood across my lips making them appear plump and shiny. I quickly dressed, pinched my cheeks for colour, and with my hair still loose around my shoulders I ran downstairs. My guardians were too busy entertaining to hear me. In fact, they would not have noticed me gone until late morning the next day if it came to it.
The man took my hand endearingly, carefully assisting me to the plush black carriage seating, while gazing at me constantly. I believed he was smitten and I blushed.
‘You are incredibly beautiful, Mademoiselle,’ he said staring at my lips. ‘You truly are a most delicious find.’
We journeyed
for what seemed like hours and there were moments of discomfort as the carriage rode along some deeply rutted forest tracks. My friend amused and distracted me with stories from his past though admittedly my memory of the journey is clouded in part, as I may have dozed. It was still dark when our carriage arrived in front of a castle of all places.
‘Is this where your friend lives?’
‘Yes,’ he replied as he lifted me from the carriage. It was terribly bold but I couldn’t help but enjoy the feel of his hands around my waist.
‘Now my little flower, follow me!’
I did so obediently, looking forward to the dancing he had described. We entered a ballroom and I was surprised to find it empty. There was no party here but I saw that at some point there had been; half empty glasses and used napkins sat on serving tables.
‘Where is everyone?’ He did not seem to hear but led me further into the vast stone building with its high domed entrance. There was such extravagance as I had never seen before, with elegant silver candelabra, much glassware and plush velvet, and gilded chairs with legs inlaid with precious stones. We entered a long hallway passing many rooms, and I was curious about the occupants behind those closed wooden doors. It was here that trepidation began to creep in, taking over from my excitement, and I thought of my poor little dogs back in my room and how they would be missing me. I began to question my decision to accompany the stranger and wondered for the first time how he had known my address.
I could not remember his name and asked again, possibly for the third time. It was as if the name magically vanished from my thoughts each time. Again, he did not hear and I found I had to walk very fast to keep up with him.
We entered another room with marble columns though without the extravagance of the main ballroom. Someone else was there. As I moved closer I saw that it was a girl, not pretty, but striking with a narrow brow and high cheekbones. While I was distracted the man grabbed my arm.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, suddenly wary.
He answered with a smile, though in the dimness of the room, it looked more like a leer.
‘Since there doesn’t appear to be a feast I should be going home,’ I suggested weakly.
‘Oh no, ma chérie! There is no need to rush. You would miss out on all the excitement.’ The stranger held my hands, and turning them over in his own he bent his head to kiss my open palm. I experienced a brief stinging sensation when his lips touched my skin and then a feeling of coldness passed through my body.
When he lifted his head I saw that his mouth and teeth were smeared with blood.
No-one heard my screams beneath the castle hidden in the forest, far from everything and everyone I knew.
Marek
1309, the coastal island of Gildoroso, off the shores of Syracuse...
I woke to a late afternoon sky with a giant fireball suspended just above the sea. While my eyes adjusted to my surrounds I lay in the thick soft grass on the hills, brushed a bee off my arm, and listened to the gentle lapping of the water.
Like every day at this time the glinting water below beckoned me. The shoreline was littered with colourful shells. These were made into some of the most beautiful necklaces ever seen, and I wore a band of tiny black shells around my neck given to me by one of the fishermen’s daughters.
I climbed down the cliffs to wade into the cool blue, tasting its saltiness as it washed away the wood dust and sweat of a day’s work; then swam a long distance from the shoreline until my island was just a small golden mound on the horizon. Our stone house could be seen from the middle of the sea. It was on the highest point of the island backed by woodlands. Below our dwelling and down to the shore, limestone houses lined the hills in tiers overlooking the sandy coastline.
As I swam back to Gildoroso, the smell of gutted fish greeted me, inviting the gulls to circle, swoop and collect their easy prey, the remains of the haul. My father, Ricco, was one of those men, though not a fisherman, who gutted his fish in the fading light of day so that it was fresh for the cooking pot. He purchased the fish when the men came in with their nets. Their greetings were warm towards my father but there was an element of guardedness that never made them bond as brothers, as men from the same town often do.
Gildoroso was remote from the mainland. We were mostly self sufficient and apart from several wealthier merchants who took their business offshore, the islanders kept to themselves. Anyone who made their way here by boat generally ended up bartering to stay for it was like discovering a precious gem or gold, so peaceful was our community and so beautiful were our shores. It was a place that most dream about.
Ricco, my father, was big and gruff. It was thought that I would imitate him in size but at seventeen I was a head taller. Ricco could read and write, having learned these from my mother I later discovered, and these gifts he passed on to me. I was fortunate with this knowledge for only the merchants on my island were educated, and so many others my own age were never shown such skills.
Writing, however, was rarely required for our line of work. As apprentice to my father’s carpentry trade, our combined strength and skill put us in demand from the townspeople. Ricco seemed to think that it was the widows and their young daughters who were keenest for our services and he often teased me that my looks were good for business. This I failed to see. Being so much bigger than the small pretty girls on the island, I could not see how anyone could love a gangly hulk like me, especially one who had a secret as large as mine.
At fifteen years, I discovered my special gift or rather it announced itself on me. One day, while mending a roof, I accidentally hit my finger hard with a hammer. I was so angry from the pain that I threw it. The tool sailed through the air across the water, disappearing into the sun. My father had stopped work momentarily. He had looked at the departing hammer, then at me, and then back to his work as if nothing extraordinary happened.
The day after my father still said nothing. I accepted that perhaps I did not realise my own strength. Though upon reflection, I recognise my attempt to mask this strange occurrence with logical excuses.
Then came the day when my father’s knee gave way and he could no longer stand. His knees had gradually been failing him over the years, the joint pain crippling him in the colder months. He could no longer bend without wincing. And although I offered many times to do the harder work he resisted. It would mean he was ailing, something he did not care to admit to. This time, however, his limbs had finally given up. He leaned on me as we returned home from our work.
I applied warm cloths to his knees to ease the pain but it was clear from the sweat on his face and his shortness of breath that the pain was unbearable. I massaged his leg to which he did not object. I think at this point he would not fight anything I did. As my hands rubbed over his damaged and swollen knee I felt a tingling in my fingers, and the palms of my hands felt like they were burning. As the massage continued, my father’s breathing became more relaxed and he began to doze. Following this episode a feeling of weakness caused me to lie down. I slept for nearly twelve hours.
When I awoke my father was bending over the fire. The swelling in his leg had disappeared and he was more mobile than I had seen him for years. He said I had healed him and I was my mother’s son after all. But it was not so much gratitude, rather a statement of regret and an acknowledgement of my art. His next words shocked me.
‘Do not ever tell anyone of this and never do it again.’
I was confused. ‘Why? What exactly did I do?’
‘You were born with a gift Marek, inherited from your mother. Though, it is more of a curse.’ And there it was. That’s how I was told I was different. My father never talked about my mother and up until that time it was one of the few things I had learned about her.
My mother died shortly after my birth. I have no real memories of her, only pictures conjured from my imagination. From the time I was old enough to ask questions, my father refused to talk of her. It was a subject I had learned to avoid for
the very mention of her stirred him to anger. When I spoke of her, my father would shout and shove me hard. Like a horse regularly whipped for rearing, I learned quickly that mentioning her name was synonymous with hurt.
There were other unexplainable happenings too, which suggested I was not like others. Looking back I can see the risks I took as a small boy jumping from the cliffs. Bruises would disappear within hours. When someone knocked at the door I could often guess who it was, and there were conversations taking place in the privacy of homes that I could hear. Then there were the wounded animals. Though, this curing magic was done in secret in the woods behind my house. My father would not have approved of it at the time.
My power was not something I asked for. It is an ancient art. This I discovered from a book when we delivered a dining table to a wealthy merchant in the centre of town. I was good with a small knife, carving flowers around the table’s rim, and we were paid well for that job. The master of the house was not home when we made our delivery, and it was an opportunity to seek out his collection of books.
Here I found a thick holy book with a cross on the front. Inside were stories of fairies luring humans to their death, and writings about witches who cured the sick but only to seek souls for the devil. There were also pictures of women being tied up and tortured, their heads pushed into water pails. It said that anyone with such folly must be given up to the Church. It was hard to read and my stomach lurched at the drawings. It also revealed that this wickedness was being phased out with each generation as more of these demons, witches and fairies were revealed. The writer boasted of these captures, documenting various punishments in detail.
I understood then why my father did not want to recognise this craft. If superstitious islanders suspected that I carried magic, I would be handed over to the Church and my fate would be banishment or death. Such dark arts, as it described, went against the Christian teachings. This I will never understand since who I am does not alter my faith.
Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) Page 1
