Midnight Runner: A Novel

by Marilee Jackson

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  For my parents, who always told me I could be

  anything I wanted; and for my husband, who has

  always pushed me to do so.

  Prologue

  Run.” The soft whisper in her ear sounded like a shout as it cut through the pitch-black hiding place. “On my word, you take off running east, find a safe place to hide, and then wait for me. I promise I will find you.” The masculine voice cracked with emotion.

  After the nightmare she had just endured, she knew he was the only person she could still trust. She waited; the silence surrounded her like a heavy blanket threatening suffocation. “Run!” he shouted, and they took off in opposite directions.

  She ran until her throat burned and her lungs screamed for air. She stopped to survey her surroundings. An ancient tree had fallen and a large crack ran all the way down one side. She wedged herself inside the narrow space and pulled fallen branches over the opening. She waited for what seemed like hours. Finally, footfalls broke the silence. Terror grabbed her heart, pounding as if it would explode in her ears. She held her breath and waited to be found by those who would end her young life.

  1

  It was a calm autumn morning, and the sun warmed the small island of Talamh Glasosh. Six-year-old Moira Agar craned her neck watching the horizon. On clear mornings she could just make out the neighboring Scottish Highlands from Trom, the small harbor town where she lived.

  In the night, her mother had gone into untimely labor. Sorcha, the local midwife, and the Bard woman from next door were inside tending to her. Moira had left the small one-room cottage she and her mother shared since her father left four years ago. Behind her, the door clicked loudly into place. She stood on the front stoop and surveyed the brown yard. She needed something to entertain herself.

  Brushing her straight black hair over her willowy shoulder, she bent to pick up a stick. She decided to practice drawing letters in the dusty parched earth. Her mother was teaching her to read, and she loved practicing at every opportunity. Moira’s mind wandered as she scratched out the letters over and over again.

  M-O-I-R-A. Her name took shape in the soil.

  What will it be like having a baby around? Will it be a boy or a girl? Where do babies come from? she wondered.

  She and her mother had been alone for so long, it would be strange having another person around. She knew nothing of her father. The only thing her mother ever said was that men were wicked and her father was the worst of all.

  Moira looked up from her doodling; the clouds above her billowed across the sun, covering the small yard in shadows.

  What’s taking so long? Does it always take this long for a baby to come? the little girl wondered. Prancing to the door, she narrowed her emerald eyes and placed her ear to it to listen.

  “Stillborn? You’re sure?” asked a female voice. “Sad, he’s a beauty.” There was a mumbled reply she couldn’t make out.

  “Too much blood,” the second voice said. There was a sudden shuffling of feet.

  “She’s gone,” the first voice whispered, full of sorrow.

  Moira heard more hushed tones but couldn’t quite make out what was being said. She pressed her ear harder to the door, trying to understand the whispers. Before Moira could move, the door flew open and Moira fell into the house. Gormal Bard took up the entire doorway. Moira shrank in fear. She was normally afraid of her cruel neighbor, but today Gormal’s hair was a tangled sweaty mass. It reminded Moira of an evil witch from one of Talamh Glasosh’s folklore tales.

  “Come on, girl.” Gormal grabbed the back of Moira’s dress and pulled her to her feet.

  “Where are we going?” Moira twisted around and caught a glimpse inside the one-room shack. Sorcha was on her knees scrubbing a pool of blood from the floor, and her mother’s colorless arm dangled limply from the side of the bed.

  * * *

  Three days later, Moira stood in a daze gazing up at the swelling wall of ominous gray clouds hanging sad and low in the sky. Moira jumped as thunder ripped through the air like the shot of a gun. It had been raining since the morning of her mother’s death. The weather seemed to commiserate with the miserable little girl’s mood. There were a handful of tear-streaked faces covered by black veils, and somebody was saying something about ashes and dust, but none of it sank in. Moira watched as four substantial men dressed all in black lowered the casket into a deep hole. Deafening thunder rumbled as icy drops burst from the clouds. A handful of soil slid through Moira’s tiny fingers to forever rest on top of the simple wooden rectangle in the ground. Unsure what was going to happen now, she felt a hand violently jerk her from the fresh grave.

  Artair didn’t let go of Moira’s slender elbow until they were through the front door of the Bards’ two-room cottage. Sighing deeply, Moira ran her hand over the mantel as she got to know her new home. The main room had a wood cookstove in the back left corner next to a wooden cabinet. A small round table with mismatched chairs sat in the middle of the floor, and on the right wall was a door to the adjoining bedroom. Curling up in a ball on her small mattress, she finally let the tears flow freely.

  “Oh, no you don’t. I’m famished. Food don’t make itself,” Artair barked, pulling her up by her long black braid.

  “Ouch! Let me go, let me go!” Moira screamed. “I’m not going to make you anything. You lazy—” Artair turned on his heel and disappeared out the front door. Whew, he’s leaving, Moira thought, rubbing her throbbing scalp. She lay back on her mattress. Suddenly, the door flew open again. Artair reentered with a long yew branch.

  “What’s going on out here?” Gormal emerged, bedraggled, from the small bedroom. “Who’s hollering?” she demanded.

  Moira couldn’t pull her eyes from the thin branch in Artair’s massive, callused hand. Without warning, he pulled back and whipped Moira across the back. Her thin dress split where the branch hit. She cried out in pain and jumped to her feet. Moira watched a thin strip of cloth fall to the floor. Anger distorted her face as Artair hit her again.

  “You gonna get my food now?” he asked, an evil smile revealing a crooked yellow row of teeth.

  “No!” Moira yelled. Artair pulled back the branch and caught her on the legs.

  “Owww!”

  “How about now?” His bulging belly jiggled as he laughed.

  “Yes.” Moira fought the tears welling in her eyes. She refused to let Artair have the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

  “When you’re done, Riona’s diaper needs a change.” Gormal chuckled with a twinkle of delight in her mud-colored eyes.

  Moira slowly walked to the wood stove. Certain the Bards couldn’t see her face, she used the back of her hand to wipe away the hot, angry tears on her cheeks. Despair caused Moira’s heart to sink when she saw her house through the dusty window. Why did I have to come here? she wondered. Longing for her mother’s loving embrace, Moira knew this place would never be her home.

  * * *

  Moira served the Bard family for three years. She washed their clothes, cooked their meals, cleaned up after them, changed every last one of Riona’s diapers. Moira couldn’t remember the last time she smiled. Misery was her only companion, and unfortunately, she was not quiet about it. Scars and fresh wounds from the yew branches offered proof. The Bards yelled, and Moira answered in shrieks; then the whipping would start. T
he Bards took great joy in her pain. When Moira cried they would throw their round heads back and howl with delight.

  On one warm summer day, Gormal and Riona were taking a nap and Artair was who-knows-where doing who-knows-what. Moira was pretty sure he didn’t work; all she had ever seen him do was drink. She had no idea where he got his money, but he always had some. Once a month, like clockwork, a middle-aged bald man with kind blue eyes and a warm smile and always dressed in expensive clothes brought a full coin purse. Moira didn’t know his name; she just thought of him as the coin purse man. So Moira assumed Artair must do something other than drink.

  The house was clean, so Moira was free to do as she pleased. Sitting on her small mattress, enjoying the rare moment, she searched the room for anything to amuse herself. Moira scanned over the mantel and her eyes caught sight of a large black rectangle. She stood on tiptoes to see what was there.

  “A book!” Moira exclaimed. “It’s a book.” Excitement filled her as she danced around the room holding it against her chest. The last thing she read was the sign on the local mercantile store over three months ago.

  Slowly, almost reverently, she removed the large, dust-covered book from her chest and took it to her mattress. She blew the grime off it. “The Bard Family Bible,” she read out loud and opened the cover. She squinted in the dim light to see the tiny handwriting. Artair Bard b. April 4 was the last line that had been written at the bottom. “I guess it’s a little out of date.” She snorted. She turned to the first page and began reading. Moira read for hours, drinking in the words like water for her parched mind.

  “So you can read?” Gormal’s voice, thick with sleep, made Moira jump. Quickly she shut the book and pushed it behind her, unsure why she was trying to hide it. “I asked you a question.” Gormal raised an eyebrow and tapped her toe impatiently.

  “Y-y-yes, my mother taught me.”

  “At least she did something right.”

  “Don’t talk about my mother like that!” Moira yelled. “You don’t have any right to talk about my mother.” She jumped to her feet to face Gormal. The branch was already in Gormal’s chubby fist. Pain radiated from Moira’s wrist. “Ouch.” Moira dropped the book on the floor and dust shot out from around it.

  “Now calm down. You know, you didn’t know her as well as you think. She was a floozy that couldn’t keep a man around, always at the pub teasin’ the menfolk. She couldn’t keep away from them!” Moira rushed toward Gormal and the yew branch split her forehead. When Moira pulled her fingers away, they were covered in blood. “Sit down, and wipe that blood away. I need you to go to market for me.”

  “You’re going to send me to market?” Moira’s face was pale from the pain in her forehead.

  “Why not? If you can read you can’t be that stupid, now can you?” Gormal dropped a few coins in Moira’s hand, and she ran out the door before Gormal had a chance to change her mind.

  2

  It was a balmy day and the sun felt nice on Moira’s chilled skin. Remembering the gash, Moira ducked into the shadows of an alley. Pulling up the ragged hem of her pale blue dress, she wiped away blood. Then she continued down the road toward the market.

  Calming her elated heartbeat, she forced herself not to run. The solitude was too good not to savor. For the first time in three years, she was alone. Moira sucked in a deep breath, holding the fresh air until her lungs felt like they would burst. Filling her lungs a second time, she felt weightless, as if she might float away. Moira had been to market before but never by herself. The only time she was left alone was at night, but even then the Bards were only a few feet away. Moira wandered slowly around the village smiling at the people she passed. The sky was deep blue, mirroring the ocean surrounding the island. The beauty of the rolling green countryside made Moira feel she was in heaven.

  A large crowd was loitering on one street corner, and Moira stopped to see what was happening. Ducking her head and shoving and elbowing, she made her way to the front of the crowd. She sucked in a breath when she saw why the crowd had gathered. There was a large processional parading through town. Women wore extravagant silks covered with diamonds, rubies, and other precious gems. Men in rich-colored tunics and thick stockings glided though the streets wearing rings and a wealth of fine jewels of their own.

  Moira stared, eyes wide in admiration. “Who are these wonderful people?” she said aloud.

  “That, lass,” an old lady with no teeth answered, “be the royalty and the nobility. They always pass through around this time of year on their way to Allail.”

  “Where?” Moira asked the grizzled woman.

  “Allail’s a beautiful city on the bank of the river Allt.” The old woman waved her crippled hand in the air and stared unseeing. “It’s a modern city, everything new. The streets are made of stone, the buildings large and spacious, with two and even more floors. There’s no end to the buildings; they go on far as the eye can see.” The old woman paused to cough into a white rag.

  “Where is this city? Do these people live there? What do they do?”

  “Allail be several miles south of here. I’m not sure how many, but it’s further than Oidean.”

  “Oidean?” Moira pulled her eyebrows together in confusion.

  “Aye, Oidean’s about halfway to Allail from here. Not all of them live in Allail. Some live at the castle in Dòmhail, some live in other castles or palaces. Most of Talamh Glasosh’s coronations take place in a magnificent palace that’s in Allail.” As the old woman spoke, Moira pictured the luxurious stone buildings with the green leafy vines growing up the sides of the palace. She saw the dignity of the gardens with their fragrant and colorful flowers. In her vision she could no longer see the Bards. She didn’t hear anyone ordering her to cook and clean. There were no yew branches for whipping.

  She imagined walking down the spacious cobblestone streets as people bowed low and gave her flowers. She imagined wearing costly silk apparel, riding in fancy golden carriages. She pictured herself twirling on grand marble floors, her gown swirling around her. In the vast dining rooms there was an endless supply of delicacies flowing from the kitchen.

  In Trom, people walked past her, offering sad smiles and empty condolences. Friends of the Bard family laughed as she passed and called her “house slave.” Some people even crossed to the other side of the street to avoid speaking to her. Moira looked once again at the priceless jewelry and fine clothing made of expensive materials and rich colors. She was determined to make it to the magical place called Allail where no one knew her story. She could start over and be anyone she wanted to be. There was hope in Allail; she could make a home for herself in that new place.

  * * *

  Ever since that glimpse of a new life, Moira had saved every piece of money she could find, whether she pocketed it from her weekly trip to the market for Gormal or stole it off Artair when he was passed out drunk.

  The year she turned eighteen, Moira realized she was close to achieving her dream. She had taken to staying up after the Bards had gone to bed to plan her escape. Her last escape attempt occurred when she was eight, but she hadn’t even gotten one mile when she was found and dragged home by her hair. Since then Moira knew her only chance was to leave in the middle of the night. Traveling as far as Oidean before stopping would put her roughly halfway to Allail. She would travel at night and sleep during the day. That would make the trip take about a week, but she hoped this would keep her from being discovered.

  Moira wasn’t used to traveling, so she knew she would need to rest halfway through and get more supplies for the second leg of her trip. Once in Oidean, she would find an inn and stay for a day or two. She would then go on to Allail, once again traveling at night and sleeping during the day.

  Once in Allail, it would be time to start the real work. New dresses were a must, and she would need to acquire some fabric. Dressmaking was her specialty; she was talented with a needle and thread. For years she had been making all the clothing in the Bard household
. She would find employment in a palace or even just a wealthy household. Years of serving the Bards had more than qualified her to work as a maid or housekeeper. Royalty was her goal, but she was no stranger to hard work, and working her way up in society would be fine. She smiled in anticipation, eager to be rid of her current life.

  3

  Moira was standing at the cookstove absentmindedly stirring a pot of gruel and reading the Bard family Bible, the only book available to her. She loved to read because it reminded her of her mother. The few memories she had of her mother were fading every day. She remembered that her mother wanted her to read and was very adamant about it. So she read the Bible and tried to keep it hidden from the Bards.

  A loud crash broke through Moira’s daydream, making her jump. She looked up from the pot of gruel to see a broken bowl of slimy breakfast all over the wood plank floor. I just cleaned that floor, she thought and gave a disgusted sigh. A wicked smile spread across the plump, unattractive face of Riona Bard. The twelve-year-old sitting at the table was a smaller version of Gormal, from her mud-colored eyes and round, pale, smashed face to her short, obese body. The only difference between them was their hair. Gormal’s hair was a nondescript light brown, while Riona had her father’s blazing orange hair.

  “Moira!” The shrill voice of Riona pierced Moira’s eardrums. “My bowl fell!” she whined, her oversized mouth turning into a frown.

  “What did you go and do that for?” Moira demanded through gritted teeth.

  “Ma, Moira threw my breakfast on the floor!” Riona yelled over her shoulder. Then she turned back with a sneer on her face, challenging Moira to do something. “And she’s reading again!”

  “You’re just jealous because I can and you can’t!” Moira raised an eyebrow at the younger girl.

  “Moira, why’re you so stupid?” Gormal asked as she lumbered into the room, rubbing her enormous pregnant belly. “You’ve been nothing but a pain since I brung you here twelve long years ago. Causing trouble an’ making us beat you, doing stupid things like reading. Do I need to get out the branch?” She nodded toward the corner by the fireplace where the long, thin yew branch used to whip Moira was kept.