Marek (Buried Lore Book 1)

by Gemma Liviero

  Although I was anxious about my adventure I fell into a heavy sleep that night beside the hearth. Fresh of mind in the morning, I began to think that I might be chasing ghosts, yet to go back now would cause me much regret that I did not try at least to learn the truth.

  I set out along a small track that guided me across farmlands. The lands here were rich with trees and good soil. Never had I seen so much countryside, passing many large farms and lakes. It was open and the trees expelled a tangy scent. I stopped only once for a refreshment of bread and figs, and a small skin of water.

  I reached the large oak woods where there were no more tracks. The map indicated that this was the way but I needed to be sure. As the light faded, I headed back to the nearest house to confirm my directions. The closest farmhouse sat on sparsely grassed fields and many of the cattle looked malnourished, much different to others I had passed. It was evening and candles had been lit inside. I knocked at the door and heard commotion from within. A woman answered warily. With my sun-darkened skin and my height I must have seemed frightening. She headed back in to find her husband. When I showed them my map, they pointed in the direction of dense woodland.

  ‘There are no tracks in there. You just have to keep looking up to know which way to go.’ The man seemed to think this was amusing and his two sons, around my own age, laughed. I had missed the joke and did not sense much charity from these people. The woman of the house, addressed as Esme, offered me a bowl of soup for a piece of silver.

  I took it with much gratitude but wondered how long my coins would last after so much spending. Two daughters with small beady eyes watched me eat with fascination. For another coin I could sleep in the barn with the animals and their farm dog.

  This suggestion brought with it more laughter and again I did not understood their humour. Only the woman did not seem to find their comments amusing.

  I was led out to the barn with a candle and two giggling girls beside me. One asked if I wanted to walk with her. The other fought her sister and said she wanted me to walk with her instead. One even offered to steal my silver back from her parents if I gave her a kiss. I told them I was interested in nothing but a good night’s sleep. This upset them and they snatched their candle from me and ran back to the house. I was left at the door of the barn with no light.

  It was pitch dark inside and I could hear the rustling of animals and the clucking of hens disturbed by my presence. I felt my way along the wall until I reached some hay and crawled across to wriggle into a comfortable position. As I nestled on my side, my hand brushed skin. The touch awakened whatever was lying in darkness and I felt something rush hard against me. Hands then circled my neck clutching tightly. It was a moment before I realised it was just a child who held me and I grabbed his wrists, freeing them from my scratched and bleeding neck.

  ‘I am not here to hurt you,’ I shouted, while the small person tried to wriggle free. I figured that the only way to stop this was to pin him down with my legs and arms. It did not take long to constrain the small frame and presently there was calm.

  ‘Now, if I let you go will you stop trying to attack me? I am just passing through and wanting a bed for the night.’ The child scurried back into the darkness and I backed up against a wall in case of further attacks. I did not want to hurt him.

  Light fell from the doorway where Esme stood with a candle. ‘Nights are cool here,’ she said, and passed me a woollen blanket, a washcloth and a bowl of water. At the same time I noticed the child. He sat hunched over his knees, his face buried between them, wearing a long cotton sheath that scarcely reached his feet, black with soil.

  ‘Now you behave, Celeste,’ said Esme.

  Just as I was thinking that it was a strange name to call a boy, Celeste looked up. I took a breath for I was wrong. Her eyes were large and brown, peering through masses of dark curls that framed her small face. She looked fearfully from me to the woman. There was something vulnerable about her that put me instantly at ease.

  I introduced myself to the girl but she did not respond.

  ‘Celeste was sold to us by her mother when she was nine. She’s mute but a good worker. My husband said to tell you, Marek, that if you help him mend some fences tomorrow he will give you back your coins. Our sons are as useless as he is.’

  I was amazed that a woman spoke so badly of her family, but I agreed to do this. I asked if I may keep the candle. The woman shrugged, put down the light and left.

  Celeste’s fingernails were caked with dirt and her sheath was grubby and torn. She looked young, perhaps thirteen years; it was difficult to say, as she was so thin.

  Slaves were not heard of where I came from, and I was saddened by her appalling living conditions. Although the islanders were bad tempered and suspicious at times, they would not have allowed a child to remain in this condition. Someone like Silvia would have taken her in.

  I told her about me, and the island I came from. The girl did not look at me but remained curled up into a ball. I knew she was listening to every word; what I caught in her eyes was understanding and a desire for further knowledge. She perhaps had seen much of the frailties of people – something I had still to learn.

  Eventually I fell into a deep sleep and woke to a rainy day. There was no sign of Celeste in the barn.

  Back at the house the girls were bickering and the sons bullied their mother. The man grunted a greeting with a strong smell of beer on his breath. I followed him out to the cattle pastures, catching a glimpse of Celeste in the distance carrying pails of slops to feed the pigs. One of the sons yelled out to her. I could not repeat such vulgar words, and Celeste either didn’t hear or chose to ignore it. The father did not reprimand his son; instead, the man’s sniggers seemed to encourage further yelling.

  I agreed to work late into the day for another night under a roof and another meal. Though I was eager to get away from this family without heart.

  At the end of the day, I sat whittling a circular piece of wood with my knife. I carved the image of a rose into its centre. One of the boys offered me a beer and I declined. He sat next to me, much to my disappointment, and boasted of winning many fistfights, of getting away with petty theft, and other things that only bullies and thugs can relate to. Only when he got to the subject of Celeste was I interested in what he had to say.

  I discovered that Celeste was fifteen years of age. When she was nine, her mother, travelling with a singing and acrobatic troupe, knocked on their door and asked if their father wanted to buy her. They bargained a price and she had since proved useful.

  ‘She can be a handful at times,’ said the boy, a couple of years younger than me yet talking the brash talk of some men. He described how in the early days Celeste had to be taught a few things. He held up a baton and I could only imagine the beatings she endured to become a submissive, pathetic creature, treated no better than the animals on their farm. She was not allowed in the house except to wash the floors. She had a small cooking pot in which she had made her own meals since the first day she arrived. Given a small sack of oats, few vegetables, and occasionally an egg when they were plentiful, she was to make these last a week, sometimes longer.

  I ate my meal with the family. When it was over I rushed to the barn preferring Celeste’s company, even though she didn’t speak.

  In the barn I caught Celeste resting her head against a horse and stroking its neck, finding that animals were better company than humans. She had a gentle hand and the creature nuzzled her responsively.

  I told her what I knew of her past and wished things could have been better for her. She walked around the barn checking each animal and pretending not to listen to me. When she finished her inspection the light was just fading and she returned to her pile of straw ready for sleep. I handed her my own woollen blanket and she accepted it without thanks.

  My palm was open to show her the carved rose. She looked at it distrustfully, but I placed it beside her and relayed my plan to find my sister. I talked for over an h
our until the candle had nearly burnt down, describing the town of Valona and suggesting it would only take her a day to walk there where she might find other work, and likely be paid for her services.

  While telling her this I noticed that she lay very still, her face turned away. At first I thought I had bored her to sleep but when I held my candle above her there were tears on her face that had turned patches of dirt into mud pools. The carved rose was missing from where I had left it.

  With my washcloth I cleaned the mud from her face to reveal a smooth, youthful olive complexion. I handed her the cloth to clean her own hands and feet. She did not object, so used to instruction, but she would not look into my eyes. It was then I noticed the bruises up and down her arms, evidence of her beatings.

  ‘When I return from the north, I will stop in again and check that you are in good health, if you are still here,’ I said. Her tears ceased and she once again lay down to face the wall.

  I did not sleep well. I had been slow in my years to learn of the laws and injustices of people, and in just a few weeks much of these had come to light. These injustices coupled with the treatment of this child left me that night feeling restless, frustrated and angry. In the morning, Celeste was gone again, no doubt to do her chores.

  I did not go near the farmhouse to say my farewell or collect my coin fearing I might lose control and beat one of the sons with my fists. Instead I wandered the fields in search of Celeste. She was nowhere to be found. I hoped that she had run away to Valona after hearing my description.

  I entered the oak woods, given enough information from the low autumn sun to know which direction to take.

  The oaks were huge inside the woods, blocking out much of the light, and their long shadows added to the gloom. As I walked, I felt that I was being followed. Several times I stopped to listen but my spy was stealthy. I was far into the woods – creating a deep wall of trees behind me – when I heard the rustling of fallen leaves. This time I hid waiting and was about to rush at the human shape emerging from behind a tree when I saw that it was Celeste.

  She stood holding a water skin and a small sack, presumably her only possessions. The question in her eyes was clear. Would I take her with me?

  ‘Celeste, I fear this journey is not something you should attempt with me. Although the weather is mild now it will change. You do not have warm clothes or shoes. You will freeze and I do not have enough food for both of us.’

  She looked down at her feet in the damp earth but did not move to leave.

  ‘Go back. I will find you on my return.’ I turned to continue my journey in thick woodlands.

  ‘Wait!’ yelled a voice behind me.

  Esme ran towards me, her large chest heaving from exertion, and she carried two knotted linen bags. My first instinct was to ignore her, as I still struggled to forgive such negligence; however, her effort with this task forced my attention.

  ‘Take her,’ gasped Esme, still trying to catch her breath. ‘There is nothing for her here. My sons cannot rest whilst she is around. They are young bucks with other things on their mind, and as brainless as the sheep on the hills. I do not want to see this girl become their plaything, presuming I am not too late. Though, you cannot tell with her. She gives nothing away.’

  I had not taken much notice of Esme before. She had perhaps lived unhappily with an unkind husband who had run her ragged. It was clear he had taught his children no respect. And Esme, who was probably a good woman once, with dreams of marriage and healthy children, was left with a family of disappointment.

  ‘Celeste deserves another chance. I promised her mother and I have not honoured it. I have packed you some food, a shawl for Celeste, and some leathers for her feet. Perhaps you can find her some winter boots along the way. She knows the woods. She can lead you northward.

  ‘I’m sorry Celeste,’ said the older woman, before setting down the bags and turning back to her joyless home. Celeste watched her go without expression.

  Celeste

  Esme left. Good riddance to the lazy cow. She had stood by and watched her sons beat me, spit on me, her daughters kick and mimic me. And all the while she did nothing. This was no act of kindness. She was glad to get rid of me – to clear her conscience. I had a new master. His carving hung on a strip of leather around my neck hidden under my dress, a token that I belonged to him.

  Marek looked at me as if I might bite him before retrieving the bag. I commenced our departure to show the route and he followed, his head bowed slightly like a lost lamb, deep in thought, wondering how he could take care of me. He needn’t have worried. I was not like the girls on the farm who needed constant attention.

  I wasn’t always mute, and I have another name. My real name is Celestina, the one my mama called me. Mama could no longer find the money to feed me so she sold me. It would only be a short time, she said, and this family was kind with plenty of food to help my bones grow. Later, said Mama, she would come back for me and buy me back.

  For six years I had waited for her. I had endured the cold, the loneliness, the constant feelings of hunger, the family of bullies, all with the hope that Mama would return for me. It was not until Marek came that I knew she wasn’t coming back.

  My mother was a singer. She and others of her troupe would camp at the edge of towns beside creeks. They would dance and sing, performing in town centres or for wealthy homeowners. It was exciting because sometimes we would meet up with other travellers and all perform together. At these times I got to play with others the same age.

  Mama had several lovers who came and left the troupe. I never knew my real father. Each time my mother found a man I would be asked to call him Papa. Sometimes they were kind, sometimes they were not. Sometimes my mother would argue and scream at them; sometimes they would argue and scream at her.

  Mama’s last boyfriend was Sasha. His name is etched in my mind, and I will never forget that he is the reason I was abandoned. I dream of finding him one day and putting a dagger through his heart when he is sleeping. Sasha performed acrobatic tricks in the troupe and women always smiled at him. When the weather turned bad one year we headed for the sun in the south. Halfway there Mama got sick and couldn’t sing for weeks. Sasha resented me even more when he had to pay for my food while my mother was ‘confined’ as they called it. There was little to eat, and while Mama and I remained in our tent, the others performed. They came back often with no coin. There were few people out and about, preferring to stay indoors beside their fires.

  We performed mainly in busy towns, since villagers were often too poor to pay for entertainment. Some threw rocks at us and called us names like gypsies and beggars. But we were more than that. My Mama said so. We were talented entertainers, she would say, who earned an honest living.

  It was a difficult and hungry time. We resorted to begging at convents and church doors occasionally receiving bowls of gruel with milk, or sometimes onions and beans, which Sasha said were not good enough for their own tables. My mother seemed to survive on air, so bad was her illness. She would drag herself around, her face grey, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, all the while shivering and muttering. I tried to take care of her and bathe her forehead like she did me sometimes. I would brush her hair and plait it around her face. I would scrub her clothes in the creeks. The men stayed away from us. Sometimes after we slept I would wake in panic to see if they had abandoned us completely.

  Eventually though, Mama recovered, threading silver loops through her ears again, and wearing her blouses off the shoulder. She was a lot scrawnier than she once was, but she was back to singing. The weather got warmer and for a time Sasha was happier after suddenly coming into some coin.

  Then the arguments between them started. At first they were over another woman who had joined our troupe. My mother accused Sasha of cheating on her. Then my name came up in their arguing, which seemed to last for weeks. Sasha would complain that I took too much food, and that I was always at Mama’s heels – that I gave them no room to brea
the. ‘I will leave you for her if you don’t do something about your brat,’ shouted Sasha one night before storming from the tent. I tried to lock out their shouting so many times by covering my ears. So often I would go down and sit by the creek with the others in our troupe. They would whisper among themselves whenever I was around, though they were kind enough. To distract me they would make me sing for them. They said I had a fine voice like my Mama. This pleased me. The girlfriends of some of the men – new ones in each town we visited – would paint my lips the colour of bright red cherries and fuss about me.

  When we were just days from reaching the coast, we found the farm of Jon and Esme, and their four screeching children, around my own age. Even now I can see that house on the hill and remember those feelings of dread before I was told what was about to happen to me. I remember looking at the children curiously and knowing straightaway that we would never be friends.

  My mother told me that Jon and Esme were kind people who would need help running their farm. She told me to be strong but I screamed and kicked and stamped the floor. I would not be left without a fight. My mother sat on their front porch patting and rubbing my back until I had calmed down. Finally, when I had no more tears, I lay my head on Mama’s lap.

  Then she went away and I tried to call out to her but no sound came. My voice had been taken, most likely stolen by the demons that had locked away Sasha’s heart. Mama never turned to look at me, just clutched at her scarf pulling it tightly around her head and running straight into the arms of Sasha. I will never forget his face. It was the face of a winner.

  That was the last time I saw her. I scratched an image of my mother in a piece of bark so I would not forget what she looked like. For the first few years I would pull it from its hiding place when the memory of my mother’s face started to dim. Then it became just a bitter reminder of a time I would never see again.