Viper

by Bex Hogan

  The Floral Island has only a small population, so I manage to avoid meeting anyone else for the remainder of the day, and though the quiet is ominous I can’t help feeling grateful for it. I’d as soon forget about the encounter I’ve already had. But I am discovering the island isn’t quite as lacking in resources as my father believes. He doesn’t value plants or flowers in the slightest, so he wouldn’t have taken the time to notice, but among the fields of colour I’ve seen the pale pink of the duskal plant, the seeds of which can be used to treat a cough; the small white moonflower, which powdered down can be used to create a burn remedy; and the tall distinctive catkins of silverbud, which has many uses, including being a potent sedative when added to a tonic of eldercress and mistlewort. I feel certain the island is brimming with ingredients that are sold to healers all over the East, and if that’s not a vital resource, I don’t know what is.

  When night falls I find a sheltered corner of a meadow to lie low in, taking the opportunity to eat some of the food I’ve brought with me, but even in this beautiful place with my knife in my hand I allow myself very little sleep.

  I’m back on the road again before the birds are awake, every step away from the sea feeling like a small victory. I slowly allow myself to believe that I’ve done it; I’ve escaped my father’s clutches.

  It’s only when I stroll through a field awash with lilac wildweed that my skin prickles at some unseen danger, the birds falling quiet, the air growing still. And that’s when I hear the cocking of a pistol I’m certain is aimed straight at my head.

  Instinctively I raise my hands in surrender. If the pistol belongs to one of my father’s men, it won’t matter; I’m already dead. But if not, then I don’t want to give the person cause to shoot.

  Nothing happens.

  Sensing the attacker’s hesitation, I begin to lower my arms.

  ‘Keep them up!’ an unfamiliar male voice booms across the field from my right, and I turn ever so slowly in its direction.

  ‘I’m unarmed,’ I say, hoping he can’t see my knives from his distance. ‘Lower your weapon. I mean no harm.’

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ The man is still uncertain about me, but I can sense the immediate threat has gone.

  ‘My name is Marianne. I’m just passing through, looking for somewhere to shelter.’ Instantly I regret my honesty. I should have used another name.

  Another pause. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Finally my would-be assassin emerges from the hedge. He’s a middle-aged man who has a kind face that’s currently etched with fear, and nervous eyes that dart around, checking for trouble.

  ‘You’re a long way from anywhere. What brings you out this far?’

  I smile. ‘Trying to get a long way from anywhere.’

  ‘Running away, huh?’ He weighs me up now that he’s come close enough, taking in my bruised face, and raises an eyebrow when his eyes rest on my daggers. ‘Unarmed?’

  I shrug sheepishly. ‘Just something to skin a rabbit with.’

  He brushes faded hair off his forehead as he works out what to do with me, then reaches a decision. ‘Why don’t you come on home with me? My wife will be happy to feed you, and you can tell us where it is you’ve travelled from.’

  I stare back, wondering if he can be trusted. The people here are supposed to be peaceful, but my experience with Old Tatty was hardly testament to that fact, and I certainly didn’t plan to stop moving for another day or two at the very least. The eerie absence of people warns me that I shouldn’t lower my guard. And yet a safe place to rest is appealing, not to mention some companionship. If he turns out to be trouble, then I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.

  ‘Thank you. If you’re sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?’

  ‘No more than you trespassing on my land.’ But he says it with a twinkle in his eye and instantly I warm to him. ‘The name’s Joren.’

  I shake his outstretched hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

  He gestures towards a line of trees and I start to walk with him. ‘I’m sorry I crossed your property,’ I say. ‘I didn’t realise anyone lived out this far.’

  ‘You’re not from the Fourth, are you?’

  I don’t deny it. What would be the point? ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be out wandering alone if you were,’ he says sadly, which only confirms my feeling that something’s not right. What has happened to this place?

  Though it’s tempting to ask, I suspect Joren is the kind of man who won’t reveal too much to an outsider and so I don’t push the conversation as we amble out of the field and into the adjoining woodland.

  ‘It’s just through here,’ Joren says and then I see it. Nestled in the heart of nature, a babbling stream running past, is the prettiest cottage I’ve ever seen.

  He leads me in, the smell of fresh bread causing my stomach to dance with excitement.

  ‘Clara? We have a visitor!’

  Joren gives me a reassuring smile as his wife hurries in, her face not able to disguise her displeasure.

  ‘Joren?’ Her voice wavers with uncertainty.

  ‘Found her out on the top field. Damn near shot her too.’

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude, ma’am,’ I say, hoping to assuage her misgivings. ‘I’m Marianne.’

  ‘You one of those bandits?’ Clara thrusts her hands on her hips and it’s clear she’s angry. ‘Come to steal what little we have?’

  ‘No! Wait, there are bandits here?’ Like my father, the bandits don’t usually tend to bother with the Fourth. What is there to take other than a nice bunch of flowers?

  Clara and Joren exchange looks.

  ‘Perhaps we should start on supper,’ Joren says. ‘Talking’s always better on a full belly.’

  It takes Clara a moment longer to agree, her eyes lingering on the burn on my wrist, but eventually she nods. ‘Take a seat,’ she says to me, still slightly scowly. ‘Tomas! Dinner’s ready!’

  Joren shows me through to the kitchen and as I’m about to sit at their chunky wooden table a small body brushes past mine. I look down to see a pair of big brown eyes staring up at me from behind a curtain of hair that’s as red as his mother’s. From his height I’d guess he’s seen no more than seven winters.

  ‘Who are you?’ The question has no malice, only a child’s curiosity.

  I give the boy a smile. ‘I’m Marianne. Are you Tomas?’

  His eyes widen, as though I’m magical. ‘You know my name?’

  ‘Good grief, the girl heard me call for you,’ Clara says, affectionately pushing her son round to his seat and out of my way. ‘Nothing more exciting than that.’

  But common sense doesn’t matter to Tomas. I can tell I’ve made a little friend for life.

  The meal is more delicious than anything I’ve ever had before, though it’s modest in quantity. Accompanying the fresh bread are vegetables pulled straight from the ground, roasted until sweet and crisp, along with a bowl of mashed potatoes. Hunger I hadn’t realised I had roars to take over, but manners slow me down, forcing me to take small portions and even smaller mouthfuls. Clara’s eagle eye never leaves me, and I sense that both she and Joren have many questions for me, but they’re waiting for their son to leave the table.

  When the plates are empty and the table cleared, Joren suggests Tomas goes outside to play.

  ‘Can Marianne come with me?’

  Joren kisses the top of his son’s head. ‘Maybe later. Your mother and I want to talk with her first.’

  Tomas turns and gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Don’t worry, I get into trouble all the time, but they still love me.’

  I laugh, strangely comforted by the boy.

  Once he’s gone, Joren leans back in his chair to consider me, while his wife places a mug of ale in front of him.

  ‘So, Marianne, we’ve already established you’re not from this island, so where is it you have come from?’

  Clara makes a pretence of ign
oring us, busying herself at the sink, while clearly listening to every word.

  I pause before answering, trying to decide the safest response. Both for me and for them. ‘You’ve been so kind to me and I don’t want to lie to you. I can’t tell you where I’ve come from. Trust me, you don’t want to know.’

  Joren frowns, so I continue.

  ‘But I can promise you I have no dishonourable intentions. I simply need to start over. I’m after a quiet life.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have come here,’ Clara says, before remembering she wasn’t supposed to be listening.

  ‘Why don’t you join us?’ Joren says to his wife with a smile. She puts down the dishes and takes a seat opposite me.

  ‘Why not?’ I ask Clara, wondering if there’s a reason she doesn’t want me here. ‘I always understood this to be a peaceful island.’

  ‘No such thing any more,’ Clara says shortly.

  I look to Joren, hoping for more of an explanation. He takes a large gulp of ale. ‘You’ve come from a ship, am I right? A sea-girl? Trader, perhaps?’

  I nod. That’s as close to the truth as I want him to get.

  He watches me closely. ‘You catch many rabbits at sea?’

  My mouth gapes open, caught in my earlier lie, but then I see Joren’s smiling at me and exhale. He’s not angry; he just wants me to know I haven’t fooled him. I give an apologetic tilt of my head, which he acknowledges, and then the moment is swept away.

  ‘Makes sense,’ he says, continuing with the matter at hand. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t know what’s been happening in that case. Poverty and hunger are growing, not just here, but on every one of the six islands. All these accidents on the Rock Island mean the mining has virtually come to a halt. Without the crystals they can’t trade with the other islands; the moneylenders have panicked and closed the vaults on the First, and the knock-on effect is feeding its way down through the Isles’ economy. Bandits are running wild, unchecked, and fear of them has sent people even further inland where there are still fewer resources. And all the while the King does nothing.’

  I think about the delicious meal we just ate. ‘But you’re safe here?’

  Joren sighs. ‘We’ve fared better than most, mainly because we grow our own produce and are away from prying eyes. But in time we’ll be discovered and all that we have left will be taken from us. Even if we manage to survive that, I’m a flower farmer. If the traders won’t come any more to take flowers to the First, eventually my coins will run out.’

  ‘And the King hasn’t sent his Fleet?’ An image of a dead man on the Maiden’s deck flashes unbidden into my mind.

  ‘He’s sent no one.’ Clara’s eyes are dark with sadness. ‘I’ve already lost one son to bandits; I won’t lose another.’ And she stands up, turning her face away from me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I had no idea things were so bad.’

  ‘You’ve been at sea,’ Joren says, reaching his hand out to comfort his wife. ‘Have you seen anything? Are the King’s Fleet aiding other islands before ours?’

  I don’t even have to answer for him to know I’ve seen nothing that’ll make him feel better.

  ‘He’s probably recalled them all to the First,’ Clara says bitterly. ‘Protecting his own skin.’

  Joren nods. ‘I’ve heard rumours that those who can are fleeing to the First for safety.’

  I fall silent, thinking of Torin. Did he know the Isles were suffering so greatly? My father has certainly kept me blissfully unaware of the islands’ plight. But now the incident at the mine on the Sixth makes so much more sense and I’m furious with myself. I’ve been so preoccupied with my own situation that I’ve completely failed to notice what’s been going on around me.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Hollow, useless words, but they’re all I have.

  ‘Think you could help me plough a field?’ Clara gives her husband a horrified glance as he asks the question. ‘Could do with an extra pair of hands getting next year’s harvest planted.’

  A nagging voice in the back of my head tells me to get up now, leave this place and never come back.

  ‘As I see it, you’ve got nowhere to go, and it’s not safe out there. We can offer you a bed and food in exchange for work.’ Joren ignores his wife’s falling face, and urges me to accept his offer. ‘Just until you figure out what to do next.’

  I silence the voice now screaming at me to go, and smile. ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’

  Joren is delighted, Clara less so, and I continue to ignore my instinct that I’ve not run far enough. I can run again another day.

  The sun rises differently on land than at sea. When I lived on the Maiden dawn would break in a fiery blaze burning across the water, turning all the world around us to blood. Here, though, the ground swallows up the sun’s intensity, leaving only a soft glow to coax us into the day ahead.

  Every morning it takes my breath away. I’m nearly always in the same place, walking with Joren down to the meadows when it happens – the light suddenly spills over the horizon, flooding the fields with an amber hue, each flower reaching up to the warmth of its splendour.

  I stop to drink in the beauty, and Joren walks on, chuckling to himself at my childish wonder. To start with, Tomas would join me and slip his little hand in mine, and we’d watch the world come alive together, but even he’s grown bored of the sight now and tugs me along to catch up with his father.

  ‘Come on, dreamer,’ Joren says without fail. ‘There’s work to do.’

  And I follow on, eager for the opportunity to spend any time here with these people.

  Joren works me hard, but he’s good company and I’m finding it unexpectedly fulfilling tilling the land, hoeing stubborn earth until it surrenders its secrets and allows us to plant all manner of seeds, so that by early spring this field will be awash with colour. And I no longer have any intention of leaving. To start with I convinced myself I would just stay for a few days, that I’d go eventually. Now I’m done pretending. I love it here. If nothing else, I have to stay and see the fruits of my labour.

  Joren tells me how he believes the last remnants of the old magic dwell in the Isle’s earth, and credits this for his stunning crops. When I push him to tell me more he says, ‘Would be a fool to deny it. It’s in the roots of the trees, the colours of the flowers. Nature is magic, Marianne, even the alchemists would have nothing without it.’ He stoops to run the soil through his fingers, and presses a warm clump of it into my hand. ‘People say the old magic is lost, but I say they just aren’t looking hard enough.’

  I can almost feel the buzz of magic as the earth rests against my skin, hear the air crackle with unspoken secrets waiting to be discovered. I’m ready to start looking.

  Tomas – adorable, wonderful Tomas – helps us while we work, entertaining me with stories of creatures he’s discovered, animals he’s rescued. He has a healer’s heart, always wanting to mend broken legs or cure disease, but his parents are less than happy about his affinity. They tend to want to eat what Tomas brings home to nurse.

  The relationship between Joren and Tomas has taken some getting used to. One morning, when the sun was fierce and our labour intense, Joren had asked Tomas to fetch us some water. Ever obedient, Tomas had run home before returning dutifully with a full pitcher, but as he raced towards his father, eager to complete his mission, he’d tripped, falling forward and emptying the pitcher’s contents over the earth.

  My heart had leapt to my mouth, fearful of the repercussions. Would Joren take his strap to little Tomas? Or would the punishment be worse? I knew what my own father’s reaction would be towards such careless behaviour.

  Joren had sprung to his feet, but not in anger. In seconds, he’d been by his son’s side, helping him up, brushing the dirt from his knees.

  ‘Are you hurt? Went down hard enough to break the ground.’ His voice was tender, but light. Concern concealed behind humour.

  Tomas had smiled. ‘I’m OK. Sorry about the
water.’

  Joren had thrown his arm round his son’s shoulder and squeezed him tightly while I had stood frozen at the sight of them laughing.

  My father would have forced me on to my hands and knees to drink the spilled water from the ground like a dog.

  I’ve only ever known one family. It had never occurred to me there was another way of being, and the open affection between Joren and Tomas continues to astound me. What’s more, Joren has extended the same kindness to me: when I make mistakes I’m not punished, I’m educated; when I fail, I’m picked up and encouraged on. He’s folding me firmly into his family so that I’m beginning to believe I’m part of it.

  Even Clara is slowly warming to me. I know she’d never admit to it, but she can’t disguise the fondness in her eyes when she talks to me, or more often scolds me, and I wonder what my life would have been like if she’d been my mother.

  There is so much joy and love in this small corner of the world.

  And still the voice tells me to run.

  I ignore it. After all, I’m useful to Joren. And if bandits find their way here, I can defend my new family better than they could possibly imagine. I’m going to stay. I want to stay. I’m happy here.

  Why would I ever leave?

  The only rest I get is when Joren travels to the nearest settlement every week to deliver crops to the tradesmen. When I first arrived he offered to take me too, but I was reluctant to risk being seen by unfriendly eyes, and since then he’s not asked again.

  Of course, it’s only rest from working the land. Clara always has chores for me to do – today we’re baking bread – and we work together in a respectful, easy silence. I think she likes having some female companionship and passes her wisdom to me as though I was her daughter. Her exterior may be all prickles, but beneath it is such wit and warmth, and teasing a rare smile from her is worth a thousand treasures.