Starmaker Stella (Dica Series Book 6)

by Clive S. Johnson

  “Oh, my daughter,” Falmeard cried out from behind them, “my only ever child.”

  They turned to find him on his knees, wringing his hands, tears streaming down his face, eyes fixed on the fire. “Oh, my God, I’ve failed you, my poor sweet child. Failed you ... FAILED!” and he collapsed forward, wailing into his hands as Geran sank down beside him. She gathered him into her arms, her face now that of a lost child.

  Prescinda turned back to the blaze, her heart hollow, about to break, but her mind grasped at Falmeard’s words. Something stirred deep within her that stung at the scar on her shoulder as she whispered, “Failed her?”

  The crackle and roar of old man Ditchwater’s ancient farmhouse somehow now stilled the evening, made raw the fragments of their shattered hearts.

  Prescinda frowned as her eyes welled, and quietly she sobbed, “Failed her, as I suspect we all have, Falmeard, each and every one of us. But how, eh, tell me that? How on earth?”

  Finally, as she sank to her knees, her tears flowed freely for her poor lost niece, hot and bitter tears against her cold and pallid cheeks.

  34 Two Promises at Odds

  Three charred walls, like an old smoker’s mouthful of worn-down teeth, braced a scorched gape in the steep rise behind, fringed by a stubble of charcoal trees. Haunting its jumble of blackened beams, smoky will-o’-the-wisps even now, days later, guarded the ashen mounds, laid sole claim on all legacy of the Ditchwater name.

  Before the lip of this gaping maw, standing on the yard’s newly swept flags, a lone earthenware pot held a spray of berries, of whitebeam, firethorn and rowan. They lent a singular splash of colour to the solemn pall: life’s promise set in memory of what death had so recently claimed.

  Geran stood before it, arms wrapped around her waist, head bowed.

  Quietly, Nephril drew beside, still and silent for a while before softly saying, “I am so sorry, Geran. Thou and all thy family have mine sincerest condolences.”

  When she didn’t answer, he turned his gaze to the remains of the farmhouse. “I know well that nothing I can say will ease thy pain, but I want thee to know I have thee in mine heart, that mine thoughts are ever with thee-and-thine through this terrible time.”

  Geran wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders and turned him the briefest of smiles. “I don’t remember all, Nephril – only you and Falmeard do – but I remember enough, enough to know she lived far fuller than we feared she ever would. But thank you for your kind thoughts, although ... my loss is made no easier by them.”

  They stood in silent thought as unusually leaden clouds rolled in from the north, bringing chill air to their backs.

  Geran presently sighed.

  “It was a shame it was her fever that brought you to visit before. At any other time, you’d have seen for yourself what a fine young woman she’d turned out to be, despite everything.”

  Nephril said nothing as a lone tear escaped his eye, bound for his tight-pressed lips.

  “I wish, though,” Geran then said, “that Mirabel hadn’t been with you.”

  “Mirabel?”

  “Was it her, Nephril? Was it Mirabel who finally gave Stella away? Like Falmeard believes.”

  “I doubt it, Geran. Speaking of whom, does ... does she yet know?”

  “She turned up this morning. I’d forgotten all about her coming.”

  “And she still be here, at the house?”

  “I was going to turn her away but she was so distraught.”

  “Distraught? Mirabel?”

  Geran narrowed her eyes, clearly about to speak when Nephril asked, “And Falmeard? How fares he?”

  “Ah,” and she looked away. “Not well, Nephril, not well at all, although he’s trying his best for me ... for us all,” but then she frowned. “I assumed you’d already seen him, that it was Falmeard who’d sent you over here.”

  “Oh, no, it was, err ... Greb, yes, Greb who broke the news and directed me here.”

  “Greb? Oh, you mean Grog.”

  “Ah, of course. Yes. Clearly a brave young man.”

  “Yes, yes he is, nearly too brave, but he’s strong. He’ll mend well enough in time.”

  “As thou fear Falmeard may not?”

  Geran tilted her head to one side. “What brought you all the way up here, this week of all weeks, Nephril?”

  He told her how the fire was now the talk of Dica, an unusual and prominent sight witnessed by most in the northern districts. Winifred, his housekeeper, had heard at market, the previous day. What he didn’t tell Geran, though, was the foreboding he’d felt at the news, how it had urged him to visit earlier than planned.

  “I had been meaning to call for some time now, to ... to plumb Falmeard’s knowledge over some aspect of an old text. So, when I heard, naturally I wished to allay mine fears.”

  “Please, Nephril, leave him to grieve will you?”

  “Of course, mine dear. I would never dream of...” but he felt the press of papers at his breast, copied texts held safe in his robes. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed at the parching of a nascent hope so recently nurtured. Time be but a dalliance, he reminded himself, and he could wait yet again, patiently once more.

  He coughed, respectfully. “I will leave thee to thy memories, I should not have intruded. Please forgive me.”

  “I’m glad you did, Nephril, and thank you for your kind thoughts. I suppose, in a way, I’ve been waiting for this day, breath held.”

  Now she properly gazed into his glistening eyes, a flash of a smile on her lips. “You’ll likely find Falmeard with Dobbin, in the stables. But, Nephril, remember your promise, hmm?”

  He nodded, took her hand in his own and pressed it reassuringly before silently taking his leave.

  As he retraced his steps towards the copse, its darkened stand beneath the overcast sky cast his mind back to the twilit morning of Stella’s departure. He saw the rainclouds trailing away beyond her smile, a warm and confident face that had glowed in the lamplight of his entrance hall. His steps now faltered at the memory and he had to draw breath against his sorrow.

  “Was it I, Stella? Did mine own weft and weave betray thee ... betray us all?” He gazed at her face, writ plain upon his sight against the darkened trees before him. “It should rightly not hath been so. The changes wrought within me by the ancient engers should have protected thee as much as they have mine self all these centuries. Thou should hath been safe in mine caring embrace.”

  He let tears trace down his face for fear a wiping hand would smudge her features. Those tears chilled in the cold air, though, like fingers of ice.

  “Thy wish was good, mine beauteous one. Thy gift to all Dicans noble and worthy, a gift I too have long wished upon our realm. But thou seemed to have seen a way of bestowing it without laying waste to Dica. If only that way does truly exist.”

  His image of Stella did not answer, although he thought her smile seemed yet warmer still before her face dissolved into the grey world now drawing out his heat.

  “I shall find out. I promise thee that, Stella, for in thy gift also lies mine own freedom, a casting off of an accursed immortality.”

  He gathered his robes about him and forged on towards Blisteraising, trying hard to curb his impatience, for Falmeard’s sake.

  When Nephril eventually approached the stables, raised voices briefly drifted out to his hearing, a woman’s quickly followed by Falmeard’s. Nephril quietened his step and came beside the door, where he paused and peeked in to a dim passageway between two stalls. He could see no one about.

  Mirabel’s voice drifted from further in. “But I loved her,” she was saying, to which Falmeard snorted then said something too quiet to be heard.

  Nephril slipped into the passageway and peered through the bars of the adjacent stall, towards their voices. A hay net obscured his view but he could hear clearly enough.

  “You might not believe me, but it’s true,” Mirabel said.

  “What kind of love is it that betrays li
ke yours clearly has?” Falmeard levelled at her.

  “I’ve told you already, there’s no way I would have harmed Stella. I would never have dreamt of doing such a thing.”

  “Whether you wanted to or not, your showing her your love like you have has been as sure a way as any.”

  Something hit the partition across the way from Nephril, Falmeard’s growl then setting hooves astir upon the cobbles.

  “There, there, Dobbin,” he cooed, settling his voice. “Don’t take on now. I didn’t mean to scare you, old lad.”

  Mirabel came into Nephril’s view, bent and picked up a grooming brush from the floor before stepping back out of sight.

  “Thank you,” Falmeard said, sullenly, the sound of vigorous grooming soon drifting through the dusty air. “It just seems a bit strange ... don’t you think?” he said between exertions, “that within short order ... of your taking up with her ... this happens.”

  “How could I have had anything to do with it. I wasn’t even there.”

  “Yes, I know ... but I also know ... you know more about ... Stella than you’re letting on,” and his grooming stopped.

  “What do you mean ‘more’?”

  “Come on, Mirabel. When I helped Nephril remove Leiyatel’s cask from Baradcar, all those years ago, I met Lady Lambsplitter when we got to the Farewell Gap, and again at the entrance to Leigarre Perfinn. From what I remember her saying at the Gap, and the fact she’d clearly prepared Leigarre Perfinn for Leiyatel, she must have known more than most. A lot more. And given you’re her daughter, I’m damned sure you do too.”

  Nephril pressed his ear against the bars.

  “But ... but...”

  “I reckon, not only do you know about folk’s wefts and weaves but you somehow know all about Stella’s.”

  Nephril strained harder to hear, but only the rasp of a comb against a grooming brush came to his ears. About to interrupt, to save Falmeard any further indiscretion, Nephril froze when Mirabel softly said, “Yes, Falmeard, I do know. I tasted it, as all my line have long been taught to do, but I still couldn’t give her away to Leiyatel, even if I’d wanted to,” and she paused. “Look, Falmeard, I shouldn’t tell you this, but...”

  Nephril held his breath.

  “...my kind have never possessed any weft and weave, none at all. We never have. Leiyatel could no more have felt Stella through me than through that brush in your hand. Not in a million years, however much I loved her,” and her voice faltered, a sniff on its tail.

  “Oh,” was all Falmeard managed as Nephril stifled a sigh, but then footsteps entered the yard and Nephril straightened.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Falmeard?” and stepped forward into the stables, the footsteps passing by behind, clearly on their way to the house.

  Falmeard stared at Nephril, blinking, but Mirabel averted her face, mumbled something to Falmeard and left without a further word.

  The two men faced each other, as though time lay in aspic, until their expressions softened and they finally embraced.

  “Oh, Nephril,” Falmeard almost wept, “my poor Stella. My poor, poor Stella,” and he sobbed against Nephril’s shoulder.

  Nephril slowly patted Falmeard’s back. “There, there, mine ancient friend,” he soothed. “There, there. I think perhaps we both need a stiff drink, eh? Just thee and me, and ... and perhaps a quiet word.”

  35 Eternal Grief

  The evening meal Nephril was invited to share turned out to be a subdued affair, quite understandably, their thoughts each in their own dark place. Geran had busied herself with the distraction of its preparation and serving, along with Prescinda’s help, but Falmeard and Mirabel had sat morosely at the table. Only Grog had seemed in any way illuminated but his gentle attempts to lighten the atmosphere had failed abysmally.

  The ensuing sounds of cutlery and crockery had seemed raucous and cutting, shouting down any nascent discourse as they’d all toyed with their food.

  “I’m afraid, Nephril,” Geran finally said as she collected their picked-over plates, “the only spare room left hasn’t been aired.”

  “It matters not,” Nephril assured her. “I have long since found sleep of little real use. I shall content mine self by thy fire if I may?”

  “As long as you’re sure,” to which he nodded.

  “Can I help with the washing up,” Mirabel rather tentatively asked, at which Geran shot Falmeard a quick look, a slight nod in return.

  She gave Mirabel a brief smile. “Thank you,” and deposited her stack of plates by the sink as Mirabel joined her.

  Falmeard rose and looked across the table at Nephril. “I don’t know about you, my friend, but I could do with a rum. Would you join me?” and without waiting for an answer, he turned to the sideboard behind him.

  Out came a bottle Nephril recognised from his previous visit, if not the one before, many years ago, along with two of the family’s best glasses. Falmeard liberally filled both.

  Geran narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Oh, sorry. Anybody else fancy a drink?”

  Only Prescinda took him up on the offer, a small bottle of pale ale and a tall glass soon placed before her. They were left untouched, though, her stare passing straight through them as she gnawed at her lip.

  “I think I need a pipe as well,” Falmeard said to himself, although loud enough for Geran to hear. He found his pouch which he slid into his pocket before lighting another lamp.

  “We’ll go through into the front, Geran, seeing you don’t take kindly to the smoke. I’m sure I can tempt Nephril to join me in a bowl,” and he looked pointedly across the table.

  The room Falmeard led Nephril into seemed dank and chill after the heat and light of the kitchen. Although cluttered with a sofa, three armchairs, a dark-wood cabinet along one wall and a low table at its centre, it felt hollow and neglected somehow.

  Falmeard placed the lamp on the table and turned the wick up high against the darkness. He slumped into an armchair and rested his head on its back as he sighed and wrapped a hand about his glass, warming it. Nephril stood for a moment, savouring his rum, before sitting on the sofa opposite.

  It was a while before Falmeard quietly spoke, as though his words were meant only for himself. “Oh, my dear Stella, how I do miss you,” and Nephril watched a tear course down his cheek.

  “I never thought,” he said more loudly now, “the loss of a loved one could be so painful. My body aches with it, Nephril, it truly does.” Nephril hadn’t a chance to reply. “In all my long, long life, over all its thousands of years, I have only ever loved twice. Do you know that, Nephril. Truly loved. And now one is lost to me forever. What hurts most, though, is that Stella never knew how much I really loved her.”

  “Thou may not believe it now, but thy pain will ease, believe me, Falmeard, mine old friend. In the first place, time is a great healer in itself, but in the second...”

  “But that’s precisely what I have so much of, Nephril, like you. What makes it so impossibly hard to bear, for I can’t imagine it ever easing, not ever, not in all the eternity I have coming,” and he groaned in real agony.

  “Thou must take comfort in Geran. I know her. She will be thy rock and thy balm. Thou wilt see.”

  “But that’s what makes it worse, Nephril, what tears at my already tattered heart. Don’t you see? I’ll have this pain to suffer all over again when Geran’s time eventually...” but he rolled his head to one side, lips quivering.

  “Ah, yes, now I see. One of the many spites of immortality,” and Nephril took up and drained his glass before placing it back on the table.

  “Falmeard?” he carefully asked. “Would thy pain be assuaged by a mortal life, dost thou think?”

  Falmeard raised his head and stared at Nephril. “What do you mean?”

  “Would thee bear it better if thou were to know thy life be a mortal span, that thee and Geran would likely shuffle from its coil but years apart, not millennia?”

  Falmeard sat up and peered at
Nephril. His strained face slowly gained a hint of a smile. “What are you up to, Nephril? I know you. There’s something hatching behind those implacable eyes.”

  “It may also ease thy pain to know that in doing so, if it be at all possible, thou might well fulfil thy daughter’s own wishes, make real a noble legacy of Stella’s short life.”

  Falmeard now sat forward on the edge of his seat. “How do you know what Stella’s wishes were?”

  Nephril lifted his empty glass and peered at it.

  “Wait there,” Falmeard said, “I’ll go get the bottle.”

  When he returned, pieces of paper covered the table.

  “I got a very dirty look from Geran, Nephril. What have you two said to each other?”

  “Never mind that, Falmeard. Sit thyself down and listen.”

  Falmeard did, but Nephril just stared into his eyes for a moment.

  “I cannot tell thee all, mine friend, for although thy weft and weave no longer be a danger to Stella, it may compromise what I hope to achieve in her memory. Firstly, however, I need to find out if there truly be the course I so dearly hope for.”

  “You’re doing it again, Nephril.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Losing me. Why do you do that?”

  “Falmeard?”

  “Hmm?”

  Nephril picked up one of the pieces of paper and placed it before him. “What do these words mean?”

  Falmeard peered at them. “‘Dockdis’, ‘maatrix’, ‘eyncaegadis’, ‘scinanute’,” he read aloud, blinked a few times then shot Nephril a narrow-eyed stare. “These are from my... How did you...” but his attention caught on some of the other pieces lying on the table.

  His eyes widened even further when he picked one up. “I’m sure I was careful not to let anyone read my Guider ac Eynstaelleten,” but then he frowned. “Certain in fact. How’ve you come across all these extracts?” by which time his voice had hardened.