“Good night then.”
Mica made her way across the padded earth floor to her cordoned off bunk in the corner of the one-roomed cottage. She slipped off her sandals and wriggled her way beneath the goat hair blankets, shaping the straw mattress to her body.
“Make sure you take some broth before you go to bed.”
“Yes, Mica,” replied Agar, letting his mind slip back to that day on the battlefield.
He tried to recall every detail, every thought, the soldiers fleeing, the bodies, the cries for help from the depths of the mist as it shrouded the fields. The mist! That was what he had failed to remember. The day had been perfectly clear, bright sun and virtually no wind, yet, at the time of his escape the mist had surrounded him, aided him in his escape.
Since he was a small boy he had heard the tales, the stories of Shadow Walkers, of their magic, but to believe that one had been on the fields of Tursy and existed at this very moment was too much for his mind to comprehend. He tried to recall those stories from so long ago. The Shadow Walkers were supposed to have originated from somewhere in the vast inland territories high in the mountains. There was a tribe known as Manutes who lived there and still do even to this very day. Edmond’s mother had come from one of these tribes, a beautiful lady who was totally devoted to her family. He wondered if she managed to escape Darfor after the battle of Tursy. He also wondered if this was some sort of link to the past, through Edmond, through his mother, to those tribes, and finally, to the birthplace of the Shadow Walkers.
Agar began to cough, a deep rasping cough that pained his chest. Soon, he would join his comrades who had died on the field of Tursy. He still had one more task to complete, he must see to Mica’s future, for once he passed away he knew the villagers would turn her out.
He thought of the storyteller Mica had listened to, maybe, just maybe, he might be the person to take her from here. Storytellers were usually well versed in what was going on. They knew the places to avoid, how to make their way past the bandits, Lothian soldiers and those in the cities that would rob and take advantage of a young woman like Mica. He knew Mica was hardened by her past, hardened by the vow of revenge she had made with the sword for the death of her parents. She was no pushover, still, he would feel better if he knew she was traveling with someone who could add to her wisdom and guide her.
Tomorrow he would talk to Mica, explain to her it was time to leave, time to seek out her destiny. Agar leant forward and scooped a cup of warm broth from the pot. He sipped at it. Mica made a good broth, knew which herbs gave it flavour. He was going to miss her, she was like the daughter he never had.
The next morning, before Mica left with the goats, Agar told her of his plan, of his thoughts.
“No!” said Mica. “I’ll not leave you, not while you still draw breath in this world.”
“Stubborn, stubborn through to the bone you are,” he said with some frustration. “Listen to me, for what I say is true.”
“I know one day I will have to leave, but that time has not come yet,” said Mica, storming out of the cottage. She gathered the goats and made for the fields on the side of the mountain.
Mica didn’t stay on the pasture all day as she normally did. She wasn’t in a good mood, she knew in her own mind that this part of her life was coming to an end, would end with the death of Agar. While she never had any intention of staying in the village, it had been her home for the last fifteen years, a way of life that she had become used too.
On the way down from the mountain, with the goats being a little testy and somewhat reluctant to leave the pasture, she collected some more wild herbs. They would help ease Agar’s coughing.
When she arrived back at the cottage in the middle of the afternoon she noticed that there was no smoke coming from the stone chimney. This was unusual. Agar always had the fire smouldering away ready for the evening meal. She quickly penned the goats and went inside. The hessian over the windows was still drawn. Agar was in bed. He looked up at her as she entered. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin, even paler.
She said nothing. Her small hands drew the stiff cloth aside at the windows to let in more light. Then she lit the fire and boiled some water. She would make some more broth with the herbs she had collected. She would add some of the salted goat’s meat to the broth to give it some body. Agar hardly ate anything, he was wasting away.
It was then that Agar spoke; his breathing was short, almost gasping in fact. “Tonight you must go to the inn and ask the storyteller to come and see me.”
“Yes, Master,” replied Mica with some resignation.
“I’m not your master,” grumbled Agar.
It was a phrase Mica used when she was angry with him.
* * *
Elijah slept well, even enjoying the luxury of sleeping past the rising of the sun. In the end hunger drove him from his pallet. After a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs he went for a stroll around the village, nodding and bidding good morning to the folk as they went about their business.
Stalls in the market place were open, carts were rumbling over the cobblestones, workers could be seen in the fields where there was corn growing, smoke spiraled from the humble timber cottages with their thickly thatched roofs. The smell of cooking and baking wafted through the air as he passed close by some of the houses. It reminded him of a time long ago when he lived in a house, had a family; had a reason to work and goals to achieve. Now there was nothing, just the open road and the sky for his roof.
He left the town and followed a trail alongside a bubbling brook with trout basking in the sun, trout that would dart away when his shadow fell on the water. He strode past some waterfalls, climbing as he went. He came out onto a rocky outcrop, and sat down to admire the view of the purple snow capped mountains, the village below and the distant fuzzy horizon.
It was then he heard the bells, musical chimes pleasant to the ear. He looked up and across the small valley on the other side he saw a herd of goats. Some had bells around their necks making it easier for the herdsman to keep them together. There were fifteen or twenty in various colours of black, white and brown. At first he could see no one with them, then, he saw the nimble figure jumping from rock to rock as if searching for something. It was the girl from last night. For some reason he found it hard to believe this young woman was a mere goat herder. Her beauty, her carriage suggested more. He wondered if she would return tonight to listen to his stories.
That evening the girl returned. She said nothing and no one spoke to her as she sat on the floor, apart from the crowd. Elijah detected a more sombre tone in the girl’s demeanor. She seemed listless; her eyes strayed and flickered whereas the night before they were fixed and alert. It was as if she was distracted, as if she was here against her will.
At the end of the evening the girl lingered and then approached him when he was finally alone.
“My master wishes to speak with you.”
So that was it, her master had sent her.
“I believe your master is ill.”
She raised her eyebrows knowing then that he had inquired of her. “Yes, otherwise he would have come himself.”
“What does your master want with a lowly storyteller?”
“I will come for you in the morning,” she replied, ignoring his question.
Elijah was up early, had breakfast and was waiting when the girl turned up. He was intrigued by this young woman. She was dressed simply in billowing dark blue trousers that came down to her ankles, a clean off-white blouse that was far too big for her. The sleeves were rolled up and the shirt-tails were tied in front, revealing the smooth golden brown of her stomach. The men in the inn stared at her with lust in their eyes, the women with hatred and scorn. She ignored them completely.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes,” replied Elijah, following her out into the bright sunlight.
“You have no love for these people?” he said, hoping that she would respond in some way.
“These
are not my people.”
“That is obvious as your skin is different, darker. Where are you from?”
“That is what I hope to find out one day.”
He could only deduce that the young woman had no idea of her origins. The mystery grew deeper. She led him to the outskirts of the town, to a small rundown cottage, opened the door and ushered him inside.
It was a typical one-roomed cottage of the peasant, beds at one end, fireplace at the other, a wooden table and chairs in the centre. Sitting in a low chair in front of a fire was the remnant of a man. Once he would have been tall, broad shouldered and strong, now he was thin and bent. He still had the hint of broad shoulders but now they were rounded and his clothes hung loosely on him. His face was ashen, his eyes blood red. His voice was but a whisper when he spoke.
“Thank you for coming, my name is Agar.”
The girl turned and walked from the cottage, his eyes followed her as she left and then returned to stare at Elijah.
“She is angry with me.”
“Women are like that, pretending to be angry when they are not. They use it to cover their emotions.”
“I see that you are a man of experience in the ways of women.”
“No man can ever be fully versed in the ways of the opposite sex.
“That is very true, sir,” said Agar with a pain-filled smile.
“You wish to talk with me?”
“Your name is, Elijah, and you are a storyteller, a man who travels the continent of Islabad, a man who knows the country, its vices and its dangers?”
“Yes, I have travelled this land for nigh on twenty years.”
“Please, take the weight off your feet, excuse my belated hospitality,” said Agar, as he took in the dress and features of the storyteller.
He was short, solid in the body and gave the impression of strength. His skin was brown, tanned by the years of the sun and weather. He was clean-shaven and smelled of lavender; he must have just had a bath at the inn.
On his feet were good strong boots, needed for tramping around the countryside. He wore clean, neatly pressed black trousers, and a grey long-sleeved shirt. A wide belt held a knife in its scabbard. Over the top of his shirt he wore a warm vest of lamb’s wool that came down to the top of his thighs.
Agar guessed his age to be around fifty. He had long, wavy grey hair that hung down over his shoulders. His brown eyes showed a sign of wariness. Agar had noticed the subtle shift in them when he first entered the cottage.
Elijah sat down in the rickety wooden chair next to him. “The girl has rare beauty,” he said with an unexpected softness in his voice.
“If she could learn to tame her arrogance and her anger, she might make a fine wife for somebody one day. She is an excellent cook.”
“But there are things she needs to do before she considers marriage?” said Elijah, sensing an underlying current.
“Let me tell you what I know of her. She’s an orphan. Her parents were slain in a Lothian ambush when she was a child. I found her and brought here. She is a young woman of some bearing; her parents were merchants, maybe, or even royalty, but who they were or where they came from I have no idea.”
“Surely the girl remembers something?”
“If Mica has memories of her past she has never spoken of them.”
“She strikes me as having deep emotions and a sense of belief in herself.”
“You are right in your assumptions. You see, she has made a vow to slay those who killed her parents.”
“Does she know who killed them?”
“I believe so, though she has never confided in me.”
“She doesn’t have a chance. She is but a mere wisp of a girl.”
Agar laughed to himself. “Please, sir, take a look out yonder window.”
Elijah stood up and strode over to the window. Out in the wood-slatted yard he saw Mica. She was barefoot and had a sword in her hand. He watched, transfixed as she went through the exercises. She moved with the grace of a dancer but with lightning speed, so much so the blade of the sword was but a blur.
“For four hours every day, whether it be raining or snowing she has trained for ten years. She can’t be distracted.”
Elijah recognised the movements, he had seen master swordsmen complete these exercises before. “You have taught her this?”
“As much as I can, but I fear now she has out-mastered the master.”
“She must have incredible willpower.”
“Revenge can be a very powerful tool.”
“It can also be a burden.”
“Yes, but I don’t think its revenge alone that drives her.”
Elijah took one last look at the young woman and returned to his seat.
“You will stay for lunch?” asked Agar. “I have some fine wine and a good stew on the boil.”
“Yes, why not,” replied Elijah as he stretched himself out in the chair.
When Mica entered she saw them there, chatting like old friends and drinking wine. She placed the sword under one of the bunks out of sight, dunked her head into a basin of water and dried off her hair.
“You should not be drinking,” she said, pushing her way between them to attend to the fire, which had almost gone out.
“Elijah has consented to be our guest for lunch.”
“Has he now,” said Mica, lifting the lid on the blackened pot that hung over the fire. She gave the stew a stir with the wooden spoon. The aroma of the herbs and spices wafted through the room.
Elijah was pleased that he had stayed. The wine was excellent, the food exceptional and the conversation with Agar enlightening. Mica said nothing. She stayed aloof and did not join in the conversation. It didn’t seem to worry Agar that she was thus.
As Elijah bid his farewell, after far too much wine, he wondered why the old warrior had summoned him. He had given no reason for the invitation, except to tell him of Mica’s past, to show him her skill. And it was formidable skill the like of which he had never seen before. He had no doubt that she had the aggression and the ability to complete her revenge, but could she kill someone? She would also require other skills, skills of diplomacy, of cunning and ingenuity. He had promised Agar that he would return tomorrow, maybe he would find out more about this mysterious Mica.
“Did you ask him?”
“No, when the time comes he will know,” mumbled Agar who was nodding off in the chair.
Mica would get no sense from him now. For the first time in a long time he had eaten well, had smiled, had been like the Agar of old. To have some company had been good for him. But she knew in her own mind that Agar was struggling, that soon she would be on her own. It came sooner than she thought it would.
It was in the early hours that she was woken by the gasping cry of Agar calling her. She leapt from the bunk, almost falling, still half asleep as she stumbled to his bunk. She knelt beside him and took hold of his waving hand.
“Mica, my time has come. Take the sword and your book, leave this place,” said Agar in a whisper, his voice fading.
“No, not yet Agar, I need you.”
“It is time for you to move on, time for you to search out your past.”
Agar’s body went rigid his eyes reflected sudden pain. He shuddered and his life slipped away.
Mica rested her head on his chest, the tears flowing freely. She stayed like that until the dawn light began to creep through the windows. Then, she stood up, straightened her stiffened body and wiped the tears from her eyes.
With slow deliberation she gathered her sword, found some leather binding and wrapped it around the jewels on the handle of the sword. There were robbers and thieves out there and she didn’t need to give them any excuses. In her shoulder pack she stowed the book, her most treasured possession that she had retrieved from the overturned carts of her parent’s entourage, a change of clothes and some food. She slipped on a pair of strong calf-length boots.
Beneath Agar’s bunk she dug into the ground and retrieved th
e leather money pouch that was buried there. She poured the coins out on the floor and separated the gold from the silver, the silver coins she put back in the pouch, the gold she slipped into a hidden sleeve on the inside of her boots.
Then, she made her way outside, opened the gate for the goats to exit the yard. They milled about, waiting for her as they did each day.
“Go,” she yelled angrily, “you’re free.”
They continued to stare at her, bleating in confusion. She picked up some stones and threw at them and they took off, their hooves clattering on the stone pathway.
Returning to the cottage she found Agar’s sword and longbow, the sword she laid beside him, the long bow she decided to keep, along with its few arrows. Then she went over to the fire, stirred the hot ashes and added some fine kindling. Once the fire was blazing she took a bundle of grass, bound it together and placed the end in the fire. With the torch burning she proceeded to set the house alight.
She dropped the torch, picked up her belongings and strapped the sword to her belt. “Farewell, Agar, we will meet again some day.”
* * *
Elijah was eating his breakfast when a commotion outside attracted his attention, people were running towards the outskirts of town, yelling and pointing. He peered out the window to try and see what was going on. He saw black smoke billowing into the clear blue sky. It was a fire, something that was greatly feared in most villages as the houses were built from dry timber and grass. A fire under the right conditions could sweep right through a village.
He finished off his breakfast, went outside and watched the smoke forming into grey eerie shapes high in the sky. It was then he saw her striding toward him, wearing a broad-brimmed floppy hat, her stern eyes peering out from beneath its rim. She had a sword and dagger strapped to her waist and she carried a pack on her back.
“Gather your things, storyteller, I need a guide.”
Elijah was about to say something, to ask her what was going on when he saw her hand resting on the pommel of the sword. He also noticed angry eyes staring at Mica, and at him. Maybe it was time he left. He quickly gathered his own pack and they both left under the glare of the irate villagers.
The Orphan and the Shadow Walker Page 3
