CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  Barebranch stepped forward, the Teller flexing his wrists as he raised his hand up towards the lad’s forehead. When the Teller’s fingertips touched his skin, Cloak stood his ground and tried hard not to shake. ‘What now?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Two words young Cloak, ‘tell me'……….’

  The word filled his mind before forming in his mouth. When it did, a shock of static crackled across his forehead, his legs lost all strength, his knees folded and he dropped like a felled log onto the reedy bower. One Button knelt at his side, unfolding Cloak’s trapped arm and laying his head on a nest of reed fronds. Barebranch stood rigid, his hand remaining in an outstretched position, his fingers blistered and red.

  ‘What happened?’ Button’s voice held both concern and wonder.

  ‘I am unsure, but I think the fates have just taught me a lesson. It would appear today is not the boy’s day and my enticing of him here was not their will. I should not have forced the meeting, I did it to keep us safe, give us an opportunity to slip away but all I saw were the briefest of glimpses, grey images of things to come within the next moon cycle. It would appear that to see further ahead I will have to put my neck nearer the sword than I had hoped. Such appears the wish of the fates.’

  ‘Do we wait until he recovers his senses or are we to leave the boy here?’ asked One Button. Barebranch did not look down, his eyes staring into the distance as he rubbed his swollen fingertips. Without a word the tall teller lifted his cloak and strode over to the edge of the clearing before disappearing into the sedge wall, his voice half lost between the wind and the sigh of the tall fronds. ‘We go, I no longer have an appetite………whether the boy likes it or not, or comes willingly to me or not, we walk the same path.’

  ---

  Waking with a start, Cloak lashed out, his arms thrashing the fresh air, his feet snagging in the folded reeds on the ground. He was alone, the sun was almost mid morning high and both Button and Blacksky were gone.

  His legs still shaking, Cloak retraced his steps, the lad roughly parting the reeds ahead as he angrily forced a wide trail to the muddy edge of the islet. The tide had turned, fresh sea water fast filling the deeper channels, if he was to avoid a swim he must move fast, time and tide were not on his side. After recovering his catch and flat sandals Cloak waded across the first channel, the incoming tide pulling hard on his legs as he waded the thigh deep waters. With some effort Cloak wound his way back to the hide, the lad wading far upstream in order to safely cross the deeper rills. His route from the hide to the Wharf Road crossed open waters, his walk across the wide shallows starting off knee deep but ending in a waist deep wade his laden basket, satchel and sandals held aloft. Safely on dry land Cloak turned and cast his eye over the delta, no one followed, and with the tide now running high and fast, and without a boat, no one would.

  Cloak fumed at his own stupidity and greed, worse, the two coppers were gone. His face red and his resentment high he worked his way across the narrow piece of scrubby ground that separated the fast filling flats from the raised roadway. As he approached the road Cloak stopped at a narrow side channel stripped off his jerkin and washed away the rich heavy mud that still clung to his skin, the mud melting and mixing with the tidal waters.

  The stalks of the cropped reeds scratched at his legs as he jogged passed, the sharp cut ends leaving thin scars on his damp skin. The soft sounds of dawn had departed, the shadows of early morn receding as the sun rose higher in the sky. From the direction of the Wharf Road, Cloak heard the squeak and creak of a laden wagon making its way back towards the town's Market Gate.

  The barge wharf on the main river channel lay just over a mile away, the cargo from the deep draught barges that plied the river carried on carts up to the warehouse district of the town or taken by dray to the outer harbour where it would be loaded onto a sea going ships for transportation to destinations along and beyond the Inner Sea. The road to the wharf was well used and well maintained, the broad artery wide enough to let two laden carts past as they trudged to and from the town laden with goods and livestock.

  A long low cart stacked high with bales of bleached wool trundled across the pontoon, the crouched figure of Ditch seated aloft, the old man loosely holding the reins. Cloak jogged forward and haled the old carter before lightly leaping up onto the bench beside him. Conversation with Ditch was always limited. Today of all days this would be a blessing; the colour of the ebbing tide water, the smell of delta mud, the taste of road dust. Cloak smiled inwardly as Ditch pointed to the fast moving clouds in the sky above. Today’s conversation with Ditch would be a familiar one, the shape of clouds.

  As the cart approached the Market Gate and entered the warehouse district, Cloak retrieved his bucket and basket, cried farewell to Ditch and wound his way through between the weaving mills before turning south into the tight packed tenement area of the old town. It was mid morning and he was late for school but on this morning, his heart and his head were elsewhere.

  ---

  Mad Crook's Barn was near derelict, a squat tower of un-coursed stone with a timber frame and lapped lining on the upper two floors. It had not been used as a barn in living memory but the name had stuck. For most of Cloak’s life the barn had been a store for baled wool but when part of the roof collapsed during a flash bang storm two winters ago, the old building had finally fallen into disuse. The barn stood no more than two streets back from the academy and thanks to a loose door frame it was now Cloak’s secret haunt, a place he did not share with his newly crested friends, a hideaway of his own, particularly after schooling and scripture lessons.

  The two upper floors had small sash windows, the missing panes now acting as convenient doorways for the many coo coo doos that nested in the rafters. The top most floor was Cloak’s hide, the north easterly window offering him a view straight up Horse Hill, the route his mother guardian would take as she returned from the store where she prepared and sold herbs and simple medicines. If pressed, he could leave the building from an open first floor window, drip down onto the roof of the ale house privy next door and from there jump across the narrow passage onto the top of the broad wall enclosing the back yard of Miss Charm’s vegetable garden. From there he would exit into Gum Lane, sprinting the last short half mile to home with time to spare.

  Today, the rain fell so heavily that even the short dash from the academy to the barn had left Cloak soaking wet. Although the roof had all but collapsed, Cloak's haunt remained dry, the twisted sloping remains of the roof causing the rain to cascading down through past the open stair onto the stone slab some floor twenty feet below. Cloak carefully avoided the curtain of rain and climbed the ladder to the first and then the second, sitting himself down on an old sack filled with scraps of musty wool. The window was small, the glazed panes missing and the cill thick with droppings. Facing north east and protected from the west wind and driving rain, Cloak had a clear view down and over the market court at the foot of Horse Hill. Cloak rubbed his eyes. There, approaching through the rain walked Barebranch and Button, bold as brass, their route cutting diagonally across the small court before disappearing into Shearers Close, a route that would bring them out just two towers from the barn. Cloak’s heart began to beat harder, had he been espied or followed? Did they seek some form of satisfaction from him, to murder him and forever buy his silence or did they want to nap him for the slavers?

  The creak of the loose door frame being drawn aside followed by the unmistakable sound of two sets of footfalls caused Cloak to freeze. Holding his breath and straining his ears for any little sound he held his breath but the noise of his own heartbeat soon filled his ears, deafening him to the sound of any approach.

  ‘Cloak, I have come to apologise, we should not have left you so. Please,’ plead Barebranch. ‘Our actions on the delta were borne out of fear. The laying on of hands was a success but the flow overcame you and you fainted. Cloak, I swear lad, we mean you no harm, indeed, the contrary is true, at this point in time we are
more afraid than you are.’ Cloak held his breath and remained silent. ‘Cloak, we need to talk, I have things to tell you and our time in Delta Crossing is short, we leave the second day after High Moon day, the coaster Spray Horse bound for Goosey.’

  One Button’s voice filled the silent seconds. ‘Cloak, please listen, Barebranch is telling you the truth. We have little time, it’s not safe for us to dwell much longer in Delta Crossing, have some trust, please.’ A southern lilt, an accent Cloak had heard before from the folk crewing the South Island trade ships, their distinctive speech with its almost musical rhythms making it easy to identify. ‘I am an engraver,’ said One Button, ‘I engrave charms, script and symbols of power onto gold and silver rings and make crest charms and fetishes for those who can afford them. I met a man in the Troopers Cuss, it’s an ale house on the far side of the Harbour Quarter near the Broken Wall. It houses no good types, mostly common, some clan and the occasional other looking for special services not available at the high day market if you’re old enough to know what I mean.’

  Cloak drew a shallow breath, his heart still pumping hard and fast.

  ‘The man I met wore a crest charm of silver and tusk ivory, it was a very powerful charm but it was also very old, the ivory brittle. The charm had split along its full length and he wanted it repaired quickly and quietly, but the damage was such that parts of the charm had to be made from new. He was not a pleasant fellow and told me he would know immediately if I had failed to make a perfect match, if I did, I would not be paid. The charm was engraved in an ancient high script, one called Achid’s Web, a form that has not been used for many a hundred years or more. I suspect given my age he thought the script would mean nothing to me and that I would only copy the markings. He was wrong, I could read it. The charm was over a hundred characters long, the script written in miniature. I had to use a see eye glass to make out the detail but once I was able to write out the charm in whole, it was clear to me that it was in fact two charms, one known as a suppressor, the other a buttress. Both are spells designed to affect our deepest emotions or feelings like love, anger or pain. These were designed to suppress cruelty and lust and to enhance patience and celibacy. Hidden inside the cone was another spell, a charm that I do not even think he knew existed, a charm that was designed to suppress specific memories, lock them away until triggered by an event.’ One Button paused momentarily ‘Cloak, can you keep a secret? Am I safe to put my faith in you?’

  Cloak frowned, he knew the tavern and the man they were describing. His name was Echo Grave, once a trapper, now a raving drunkard who smelt of piss and sour ale. If he had coin, most of his day would be spent nursing a jug in a cheap harbour tavern or sitting on the steps of the square swilling homemade seaweed brew from a black bottle. By night he slept in the First Fathers Graveyard, his abode, the old morthouse, a fitting place for a man called Grave. He had been known on occasion to set traps in the low hills and earned pennies by killing rats and vermin for the town councilmen. Grave had a fine crest but showed no great talent, his life given over to nothing more than swelling his own liver. Yes, he was a drunkard, but he was never violent and never a threat. Unconvinced by Button’s tale Cloak considered his options. He could easily make for the little first floor window and escape over the outhouse roof or he could sit tight and listen. His head cried flee, it was the logical option, these were not true men, they were charlatans, dastards and deceivers yet despite this, his heart cried for him to stay.

  ‘Why should I believe anything you say, and why oh why would I trust you? Once bitten they say. You fry my brain, knock me unconscious and leave me lying on an outer isle, I wake to find the tide is half on the rise, my two penneth is gone and to cap it all I near drown crossing the flood tide back to dry land. Let me tell you something Master Blacksky, unlike some, I am honest and true. I care not a whit if you or your prentice place your faith in me I place my faith in the book of God and King. Listen well, I do not like or trust either of you. Bide where you are, do not come closer and should you be foolish enough to climb the ladder, I’ll happily cast it and you down. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes we hear, and we promise not try to climb up,’ replied One Button.

  ‘Then tell me this secret and be gone,’ said Cloak as he moved closer to the top of the ladder, careful to remain out of site but close enough to kick it over should he need.

  ‘Cloak,’ said One Button ‘I have been blessed with a special talent. I can sense the hidden emotions of others and am sensitive to what is preying on their mind. I need to touch the person’s skin for it to work properly, a hand would do but ideally their crest. When I made the mould and measured the spine on this man’s crest for the new charm, I touched his crest, sensed his emotions and dormant thoughts that the charm had suppressed for god knows how long………… and I felt the torments plaguing his mind.’ One Button hesitated, Barebranch's shill allowing time for the words to settle. ‘Cloak, he is not what he appears, this man no ordinary trapper or trail-finder. You see, in order to make the compulsion work day on day, it needs two things; a constant feed of blood and a bone carved charm. Blood feed charms are rare but not unknown. However, the carving of a bone carved charm requires the use of deep majic and is the preserve of high talents, lords and royals. We see him as a drunkard when in fact he is actually a high lord’s rogue, a man addicted to a spell and compelled to obey.’

  ‘Lad,’ Barebranch’s voice was soothing, ‘One Button thinks the spell that binds Grave's will is failing and that soon his mind will be set free once more.’

  ‘And what’s that got to do with me?’ replied Cloak sharply.

  Barebranch hesitated, the Teller exchanging mumbled whispers with Button. ‘I read him, he was so drunk he did not know it. There’s the truth of it. He hails from somewhere within The Great Soulless Forest, I sensed he was akin to a Bounty Wolf, a man who tracks and captures the vile for coin. We believe you are his quarry and I sense he would kill any who dared step in his path.’

  Cloak’s heart pounded even harder than before, his breath quickening, the short pants hurting his chest. Lies, Grave's was not vile, he was no renegade to be hunted down. All the children who played around the inner harbour knew Grave by sight and smell. He had never passed two words of hello to any since his arrival in town more than three years ago. But, why lie, why spin such a fishy tail. Not knowing whether to run or stay Cloak chose the middle path, the lad edging closer and closer to the ladder, ready to listen, but also be ready to kick it down and run if the dastards started to climb. Try as he might to stay calm, Cloak’s nervousness betrayed him, the lad blurting out his questions one after the other without pause for a reply.

  ‘Why are you pursuing me? How did you find me? Why did you follow me here? Why are you telling me these tall tales of things you cannot know? Who are you working for? Do you taunt me because of my guardian father? Do you do this to fool me and to shame him?’ Out of breath and with both his heart and his head pounding, Cloak forced himself to recite the Silent Prayer of Balm, calling on god to calm his blood and ease his mind.

  Barebranch spoke. ‘Let me tell you some truths boy, this moon you are no more than a crestless boy, a smooth moon. It irks me to admit that you are special, indeed you are unique and your guardians knows the truth of that. Within a moon you will crest and within another you will learn some of the truth of it yourself, you will travel far Cloak, see things of wonder and learn of your true past……..’ As if he had said too much already Barebranch stopped suddenly.

  Cloak leaned closer to the hatch. ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing,’ replied Barebranch sharply. We must leave now, it’s far too dangerous to spend much time with you particularly this near the keep. If you want to learn more, meet us on the flats just after first prayers on High Moon Day, out on the islet we breakfasted on earlier today. When you come I promise I’ll reward you with a silver threepenny, two pennies to replace the lost coin and another for your wet walk home.’

  Cloak
stayed still and silent for some time. When he heard the door frame being pushed back into place he breathed more easily but remained still, waiting for some minutes before moving over to the window to check the street. Sure that the Teller and his Shill had indeed moved on, Cloak let loose a string of barge oaths that would have ended in a beating and no supper had his guardian father or mother heard him. The book of God and King told that the only sure tell in this world was that the seasons would pass, the sun and the moon would transit the sky and tides would rise and fall. Until this morning he had been a loyal and faithful student of the book, now he was no better than an outlaw. Their tale was full of holes and contradictions. He had been a fool to nod and a fool to listen to their boasting talk of majic skills and talent. If it was a lie, why pick on him as their ninny. Perhaps he was just their fool and this was indeed just a ploy to shame his guardian father. Perhaps Barebranch and One Button were in the employ of a dastard with a grudge who wished to shame the Sword of the Keep by embroiling Cloak and exposing him as a lawbreaker. Cloak felt the teeth of the trap and true or false he felt snared. He could not expose their tale or their black talents without fear of being tangled in their lies. They had told a merry tale, they had though greed was his measure and had promised more coin. They were fools.

  FOUR: The Second Tell

  High Moon Day dawned, sodden and grey. The steady rain of the previous day had put paid to Cloak’s afternoon on the fens and as the cloud base dropped further and the grey enveloped the low hills, Crest’s sense of frustration increased.

  Every high moon day differed from the one before, the form of the day dictated by the ebb and flow of the tide. High Spring Moon was a High Holy Day, a day of rest and worship, a day of mixed blessings. It was a holiday in name only. In reality, it was a day that offered Cloak little free time as at high tide and low between the hours of dawn and dusk the day was devoted to prayer and god praise. Today was the last week of the fourth moon. With first dawn at five in the morn and dusk at seven, the day brought with it three tides, two low one high. Like it or not, today he would have to attend the temple three times.