Shara and the Haunted Village: Illustrated Edition (Bryanae Series Book 1)

by Jeffrey Getzin

  Now in her twenties, skinny, destitute, with nothing of her own but her mother's prized sewing kit (which Shara had so cleverly hidden from her mother before she could sell it for drink), Shara recognized D'Arbignal and his friend for what they were: her first—and last—opportunity for adventure.

  “Shara?” Concern was evident in Gil's voice. And guilt.

  “I think I'm going to do it,” she said. “I need this. I really need it.”

  Then a large shadow loomed over her.

  “That's a nice box there,” the giant was saying, pointing at her sewing kit. “Looks expensive.”

  Chapter 4

  “You'll have to excuse my friend, here,” D'Arbignal said, coming up behind the giant, chuckling nervously. “Gianelli's got a keen eye for value and is … um … unusually forthcoming about such matters.”

  Shara put a protective hand on her sewing kit.

  “But he understands that no harm will come to you or to your belongings,” D'Arbignal said pointedly, “and that you are under my personal protection.”

  Without waiting for an invitation, Gianelli pushed past Gil and sat in the booth opposite Shara.

  “Oi!” objected Gil, but there was a quaver in his voice. Shara wasn't sure what had startled her more: Gianelli's brusque manner, or the fact that he intimidated Gil.

  “Of course,” Gianelli said, paying Gil no heed. “No offense was intended. Is it true, though, that you've been to the village?”

  Gianelli reminded Shara of a statue that stood watch over the graveyard in which her father was buried. It was mammoth and impassive with enormous stone hands grasping the hilt of a downturned sword. Gianelli's physique was very similar to the statue's, but if anything, his face was less expressive. His head was almost perfectly round, with black curly hair crowning it. His face had a dark olive complexion partially obscured by a thick black beard and mustache. His eyes, like the statue, seemed made of stone.

  Gianelli drummed his fingers on the table, beating out the rhythm of a panicked heart.

  Shara noted with alarm that he could probably fit her entire face in the palm of his hand.

  “Shara?” Gil asked, seeming to be nearing the end of his enormous reserve of courage. “You all right?”

  “She's fine,” Gianelli said without taking her eyes off her. They were cold, those eyes, but oddly enough, they didn't seem malicious. They seemed … well, indifferent, as though she were not so much a person as she was a task that needed completion.

  “I'm … I'm fine,” she said. “And yes, I've been to the village.”

  “My friend,” D'Arbignal said to Gil, placing a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, “I give you my solemn vow that no ill shall befall her. I give you my word of honor (or what remains of it) that all we desire from her is the location of the village in question. Once she has led us there, she shall be paid as agreed and return home unmarked, without so much as a scratch upon her.”

  “How much are we talking about here?” Gil said.

  Again, Gianelli didn't look up. “Five gold.”

  “You have that much coin?” Gil asked in a reverent whisper, his eyes wide.

  Gianelli's monolithic hand fished under his black mantle and returned with a sack the size of a grapefruit. He placed it onto the table and his thick fingers worked at the ties. Almost against her will, Shara leaned forward to see.

  The sack was brimming with gold. Shara's eyes were fixed on Gianelli's hand as he extracted one of the coins and placed it in front of her.

  “An advance,” he said. “You'll get the rest when you lead us to the village.”

  Shara could not take her eyes off the coin. Her hand shook as she reached forward and palmed it. Even though she felt its weight in her fist, her mind was convinced it was a trick. There was no way she held a gold piece in her hand.

  She opened her fist and gazed at the golden coin resting on her palm. It was more money than she had ever seen at any one time in her entire life.

  “Caparanaut's balls,” muttered Gil.

  “I think that for this kind of money,” Gianelli said, looking at Gil for the first time, “we ought to be able to get a little privacy, don't you think?”

  “Uh,” he said. “Yes, sir!”

  “… and some drinks,” added D'Arbignal helpfully.

  “Yes,” Gianelli said. “And some drinks.”

  “Right away, gentlemen,” Gil said, and scurried away.

  For a few moments, nobody spoke. Gianelli sat across from Shara, looking at her with that impassive stare of his. D'Arbignal's eyes were narrowed as though in concentration, like he were performing some calculations—or formulating a plan.

  “So, the village,” Gianelli said.

  Shara looked again at the gold coin in her hand. She pressed it between her thumb and forefinger, almost hoping it would prove insubstantial and false. But the coin was as real as anything she had ever touched, more so in fact.

  She sighed and committed herself to this dangerous path that lay before her.

  “Yes,” she said. “The village.”

  Chapter 5

  “Is it far?” Gianelli asked once the drinks had been served and Gil had made himself scarce.

  Shara shrugged. “I don't know exactly. Gil and I only found it by accident, and that was years ago.”

  “But you are sure you could find it?”

  She shuddered. She hadn't realized it until now, but she had been actively trying not to find it again ever since that summer evening, so long ago. She didn't remember exactly where it was, but she knew with the certainty of the fated that she could find it again.

  “Yes,” she said. “It might take me a day or so, but I'm sure.”

  “We'd best start in the morning then,” D'Arbignal said. “Would that be acceptable, Shara?”

  She nodded, stricken mute by the enormity of what she was about to undertake. There was still time for her to back out. She could—

  “Excellent, fair lady,” D'Arbignal said with a flourish. “Then I suggest we part company for the evening and meet here two hours after sunrise.”

  Gianelli extracted his enormous mass from the booth. He shoved the purse with the copper coins towards her. “For whatever provisions you'll need.”

  “Fare thee well,” D'Arbignal said with a bow and flourish. “I look forward to seeing you on the morrow with great anticipation.”

  “Wait,” he added upon reflection. “That's redundant, isn't it? If I'm looking forward to something, then of course I'm anticipating it. Hmmm.” He scratched his head, and headed for the exit. Gianelli turned to follow.

  “One thing,” Shara said. He stopped and looked back at her with those empty eyes. “Why do you want to find the village so badly?”

  “I imagine that five gold buys a lot in this town,” he said. His face remained expressionless. “I should think it would buy no questions asked, wouldn't you?”

  He departed, leaving her alone in the booth. She studied the golden coin for a few moments and then clutched her sewing kit to her chest. Her heart was pounding.

  What had she done?

  Chapter 6

  She slept at the less expensive of Cerendahl's two inns that evening. It was not especially lavish, but it was palatial compared to her former room above the carpenter's shop. It was so comfortable, in fact, that she overslept; it was well past dawn when she arose.

  In panic, she collected the only things she owned in addition to her clothing: her sewing kit and the remnants of the mutton. She stopped briefly along her dash to the tavern to pick up a traveling sack of sufficient size to hold those two precious items.

  Gil was waiting anxiously for her at the door to his tavern when she arrived. A thin sheen of perspiration blanketed his forehead.

  “Where you been?” he asked. “Those men have been waiting for you, and the big bloke looks none-too-happy. I'd hate to think what he'd do if he'd thought you'd robbed him of his gold coin!”

  “I'm sorry,” she said, still exhausted
from days of starvation. “But look, speaking of the coin, I need you to hold onto it for me.”

  She tried to press it into his hand but he resisted.

  “Shara, luv, it's your money. I don't want it.”

  “No, you don't understand. If these guys are … if they're not what they claim, they may try to take it back from me. If I'm not carrying it, they can't.”

  “Ah,” came D'Arbignal's voice from within the tavern. “And now we are a complete set!”

  She greeted him, and then Gianelli appeared behind him.

  “I'm glad you showed up,” he said. “I would have had to take that gold piece out of your hide otherwise.”

  The scary thing about his threat was how impassive his face remained as he made it. He might have been talking about the route they might take or the weather they would likely encounter.

  “Now, now,” D'Arbignal began, “there's no need for—”

  “That's it!” Gil said. “Shara, I've been worrying about you all night. This is a bad idea. You shouldn't do this.”

  “It's all right, Gil,” she said. “I want—”

  “Keep your nose out of our business,” Gianelli said, turning on Gil. Emotion was finally creeping onto his face, and it wasn't pleasant to look at. His dark black eyebrows formed an almost pantomimic “V” and his face darkened to a dark red.

  “I'll stick my nose where I choose,” Gil said. “And I think it's time for you to leave now.”

  He reached into his pocket where Shara knew he kept a short billy club used for belligerent customers. It was about as long her forearm, and made from heavy wood.

  Gil never managed to retrieve it from his pocket.

  Gianelli's enormous hand shot forward and wrapped around Gil's throat. Gil emitted a mangled croak. Then Gianelli lifted Gil off the floor with a single hand. Gil's eyes goggled.

  D'Arbignal's hand went to the hilt of his sword, but Shara wasn't sure who he'd use it on if he drew it. He called his friend's name hesitantly, but Gianelli paid him no heed.

  “You're starting to get on my nerves,” Gianelli said, his voice getting louder. “I've been looking for this village for a long time and I'm not going to lose this opportunity because it's your time of the month.”

  Gil was gasping. His fingers clawed at Gianelli's rocklike fist. Shara looked about wildly, searching in vain for someone who might come to her aid.

  “We're going,” Gianelli said, his face close to Gil's. “And that's that. If I have to—”

  “Come on,” Shara said, her voice uncharacteristically loud. She turned away from the tavern. “I'm heading for the village. Are you going to stay here being a bully, or are you coming with me?”

  For a moment, the four of them formed a static tableau. Then Gianelli returned Gil to his feet, where he bent at the waist and choked and coughed. D'Arbignal sighed in relief but his hand didn't leave his sword. His eyes flitted back and forth between the two other men. A smile appeared on his face, but it seemed forced to Shara.

  “I'm really starting to like her,” he said in a stage whisper.

  Gianelli's eyes were still fixed balefully on Gil but the red began to drain from his face.

  “Come on,” Shara said, a nervous tremble in her voice. “Are you coming? We have a long distance to cover.”

  Chapter 7

  “Well,” Gianelli was saying. “Is it?”

  Shara peered through the thickets along the side of the dirt road. It seemed familiar to her, but so had the other five locations at which she had stopped. In her mind, she held an image of what it had been like that time as kids. There had been a steep drop-off from the side of the road that had ended at what might have been a dried streambed or might have been a faint footpath.

  Her muscles ached, her feet ached, and the relentless sun beating down upon her was giving her a headache. They had been walking for several hours. She had only been nine years old when she had found the village. Surely, she couldn't have strayed this far from home, could she?

  “Well,” Gianelli said again. “Is it?”

  “Be patient, my friend,” D'Arbignal urged, standing several yards back with Gianelli. “She journeys not along a road but backward in time. She travels the corridors of her memory to find what she seeks. Pressuring her will not avail you.”

  She shook her head and sighed. “I think we've passed it. I think we need to go back.”

  “What?” Gianelli said. She heard his heavy footsteps approach. “Again? Are you twisting us around? If I find out that you lied about having been there …” He let his voice drop off menacingly.

  “You won't,” D'Arbignal said, joining them. “My friend, I can always tell when someone is lying to me, and this woman is no liar.”

  She stared through the shrubs in the thicket, trying to will the view to be the correct one but it was no use. She shook her head again. “It's not the right place. I think we've passed it.”

  “Or maybe it waits for us ahead?” D'Arbignal said.

  “I don't think so. I was nine. I can't imagine coming this far in a single day.” She mopped her brow with her sleeve. “I think we need to head back.”

  “What I think we need to do,” he said, evaluating her with his eyes, “is take a rest. This heat is oppressive and it's been hours since we've eaten.”

  “No more rests,” Gianelli said, squaring off to D'Arbignal.

  D'Arbignal stuck his fist in front of Gianelli's face, who took a step back, his eyes narrowing. D'Arbignal covered his fist with the lace of his other sleeve. He swirled his hands about and when he separated them, the hand that had been in a fist now held an apple. D'Arbignal tossed the apple to Shara, who fumbled at it but managed to catch it.

  D'Arbignal grinned. “Just a few minutes. Then we'll move on. If you beat your mule to death, it can't haul any more.” His mouth made an alarmed “o” then, and he said to Shara, “Not that you remind me of a mule.”

  She smiled faintly. “I know what you meant.”

  She looked at the apple she held, but her vision seemed to swim before her. She found herself unsure of her balance and the brambles of the thicket seemed to lunge at her. D'Arbignal leapt forward with astonishing speed and caught her in his arms.

  “That settles it,” he said firmly. “We rest.”

  D'Arbignal helped her walk back along the road and Gianelli followed in stony silence. After a few minutes, they reached a section of the road shaded by a gnarled tree. He helped her to sit down with her back leaning against the tree.

  She tried to take a bite from the apple but her teeth ached. She turned it in her hand, looking for a soft spot, but the apple wasn't fully ripe yet and there were no such spots.

  D'Arbignal seemed to sense her predicament. He did another one of his sleights of hand and produced a small, thin knife. He gestured towards the apple. “May I?”

  She handed him the apple and he began to cut pieces from it, handing them to her one at a time.

  “Was that real magic?” she asked, hoping not to sound like a rube.

  “Yes,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “No,” said Gianelli at the same time.

  D'Arbignal looked at him indignantly. “Was too!”

  Shara chewed on the piece of apple. She was starting to like D'Arbignal and couldn't for the life of her understand why he was friends with Gianelli. She said, smiling, “Well, I think it was magic.”

  “Thank you,” D'Arbignal said with a grateful bow. “But what truly is magical is that lovely smile on that pretty face.”

  Gianelli snorted.

  “Neither of you have ever seen real magic,” he said. “At least, not yet.”

  Chapter 8

  Shara must have dozed off for a few minutes; when she opened her eyes, she saw that D'Arbignal and Gianelli had moved a little distance down the road. They spoke in hushed tones. D'Arbignal pointed to Shara on more than one occasion, but Gianelli did not react in any way.

  She felt a little better now that she had rested and eat
en a little. She was still frail from being hungry for so long. Her joints ached and she felt old.

  Come on, pipsqueak, don't sit around all day!

  The memory startled her. When had she heard those words spoken? She sat up straight. Why, it had been Gil who had said them to her on that day they had discovered the village. But why?

  She had been sitting, like she was now, and he standing before her, arms akimbo, his voice taunting.

  “Come on, pipsqueak,” he had said to her. “Don't sit around all day! We need to hurry to get home before supper. Me dad will tan me hide if I'm late.”

  The memory swum and evaded her, but she clutched at it. It seemed important. He had been standing over her. She had been sitting. Sitting. Sitting against what? Sitting against … was it a boulder? No, it was … it was … it was a tree. Yes, it was a tree. Why, it was …

  Shara leaped to her feet and spun around, her aches and pains forgotten in her excitement. It was this tree. She was sure of it. True, it was bigger now, but she remembered the odd way its branches seemed to wrap in on itself, like it was giving itself a hug. It was this very tree she had sat with Gil, and she believed, it was right before they had found the path.

  “What is it, Shara?” D'Arbignal called. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Shhh,” she said, holding up a single finger.

  “Why? What is—?” Then realization reached his eyes and he fell silent. He cautiously approached, keeping silent.

  “Come on, pipsqueak,” she said softly, trying to jog her memory. “Don't sit around all day.”

  He had been facing her, standing a little bit to the right of where D'Arbignal stood now. What had she said then? It seemed important. She could remember the cadence of the words but not the words themselves.