by Bobby Adair
Chapter 10: Ella
It had been a cold night in the forest, and none of them had slept well, constantly squirming beneath blankets that were too thin to keep out the chill, always worrying that the sounds in the forest were the demons coming to eat them or soldiers collecting them for the pyre. When the sky gave the first hint that it was changing from spangled indigo to morning gray, Ella, Bray, Melora, and William rose in silent consensus, gathered their things, and started out, following a game trail through an early morning fog.
In most places the trail was muddy. In others, the mud was frozen in ridges squished up from the relatively warm ground by passing animals. At least most of the snow had melted away.
Ella spent a lot of thought on breakfast. But those thoughts always turned to her daughter. After so many days hoping to get to Melora in Davenport, and then in those days after, trekking through the forest on only the thinnest hope that she might be alive, they'd found her. Still just a day after stumbling upon her near that smoldering settler's house, Ella kept glancing to look at Melora, half expecting her to disappear as her mind gave up on the delusion.
But she was always there.
Ella found herself staring at her daughter, tears pooling in her eyes. The fact that Melora was alive—that they'd found her—was a miracle. Ella had last seen Melora as a toddler. Through the years as she imagined what her daughter might be like, she couldn't help but remember Melora as she was on the day they parted, a child with two little white flowers in her hand and a smudge of dirt on her face, trying to understand why Aunt Ella was going away. Now Melora was a beautiful young woman with an inexplicable strength that showed through the bruises and stains.
Trying to reconcile that toddler with the resilient girl beside her, Ella couldn't forget all the years she'd missed in between.
When the forest grew bright enough and the fog grew thin enough that they could see a good distance through the trees, Ella started to talk to Melora, continuing their conversation from the day before. They talked about the Davenport massacre, the death of Melora's friends, and the settlers who had taken Melora in. Then they fell silent, bound together by grief over the countless dead and their sorrow for the ones they loved. Things Ella wondered if they'd ever be able to talk through.
As their morning hunger set in, Melora traveled with her head down, keeping pace with her mother and sibling. She clung to a sword and a bow she'd taken from the dead soldiers. Her face was streaked with soot and tears, but she trekked without complaint, seeming to immerse herself in the journey to distract her from what she'd been through.
In spite of the awful, tragic things that had happened, Ella felt a sense of rightness, a sense of purpose with the three of them together. The reunion of her family was like a potent drug, filling her with strength she hadn't had before.
She vowed to hold them, protect them, and keep them together.
If only Frederick and Jean were alive to see us.
They walked out from under the shadows of the trees and into a meadow of tall grasses poking out from the snow, turning gold and brown with the coming of winter. Melora said, "I always knew Frederick and Jean were hiding something." Her voice wavered. "A few times they started to tell me things, but they always stopped. When I asked for more, they said they'd tell me when I was older."
"They were good people," Ella confirmed.
"They sure were." Melora swallowed.
"I should've been there for you. I should've told you."
"You don't need to explain again." Melora smiled grimly through her cuts and bruises as she stared at the trees across the meadow.
Ella watched her with concern. "I know you miss your friends."
Melora sniffed. "I do, but I understand why we had to run away so fast. I understand why we couldn't bury Rowan. It wouldn't have been safe."
Ella hung her head, wishing there were something they could've done for Rowan. For Cooley. If only she could assume some of her daughter's pain. But all they could do now was move forward.
They followed Bray's lead through the forest, winding up and down several small hills, weaving through trees that looked like they'd been standing forever. Rocks and roots protruded at odd angles from the snow as if they'd fallen from the sky and stuck there.
After awhile, Bray called over his shoulder. "In all this time, I haven't seen any evidence of the settlers you were staying with, Melora."
"I bet they're covering their tracks," Melora suggested. "Either that, or they had an escape path planned. Roger was intent on getting his children to safety. He knew Rowan couldn't run. That's why I wouldn't leave him."
"That was a brave thing you did for that boy, pulling him out of the fire like that," Bray said, bowing his head. "I wish we could've done more for him."
Melora nodded silently.
They walked up a steep, snow-covered hill, their bodies fighting the terrain and gravity. When they'd reached the top, they didn't halt, and they didn't slow. Ella noticed William peeking over his shoulder at Melora as if his sister might disappear.
William smiled sheepishly.
"She's my sister," William said to Ella as he tested out the word. "Saying it sounds strange."
"It sounds strange to me, too," Melora admitted.
"I never thought I'd have one," he said.
"I didn't either. Well, a brother, I mean," Melora said.
William furrowed his brow. "Most of my friends had brothers. One had six. I used to pretend I was the seventh. We played Lord of the Mountain whenever I went to his house."
Ella laughed. She recalled the family William was talking about. The Millers. They'd joined them for dinner a few times while in Brighton. Would Ella and William ever see the Millers again?
She doubted it.
William ran to catch up to the Warden. Ella looked over at Melora. It'd been difficult discussing William's condition while William was around.
In a hushed tone, one she was getting used to using when William was far enough ahead, Ella said, "He's gotten pretty good at tracking while we've been out here."
"He seems so energetic," Melora noted.
"He always has been," Ella said.
"I'd think he was perfectly healthy if you hadn't told me different."
"We've been keeping a close eye on him over the past few days," Ella reiterated. "He's had a rough time. I keep hoping things will get better, but they've been getting worse."
"I've only just met him…" Melora bit her lip and looked away. "I saw the lump on the back of his neck that you were talking about. It caught on his shirt when he was walking." Melora turned her eyes down to the forest floor. "Before that, I could almost imagine it was a mistake. What do you think will happen?"
"I don't know."
"Surely people can live with the disease…" Melora tried. "I've heard people discussing it in town."
"It's progressing quickly. Someday soon, we might have to make a decision."
Melora reached over and took Ella's arm, and in that moment, Ella felt certain that Melora's concern was genuine.
"I'm sorry this happened," Melora said. "No one deserves this."
Ella looked into the distance and bit her lip. "I'm glad you're with us, Melora."
"Me, too…" Melora's voice trailed off.
"I'll admit it's difficult knowing what to say to you, after all this time. I'd rehearsed it so many times when I was alone, figuring out the words."
"I heard stories about you. In some ways, I felt like I've always been with you and William in Brighton." Melora smiled. "I used to imagine what you both looked like when Frederick and Jean spoke about you. Sometimes I thought about running away there to meet you."
"I thought about Davenport every night." Ella dabbed her eyes. "I never forgot you. I need you to know that, Melora."
"I do."
Ella reached over and pulled her daughter close.
"I don't blame you, Aunt Ella…I mean…"
"You don't have to call me Mom if you don't want t
o."
"I want to," Melora said. "I will. It'll just take some getting used to."
Chapter 11: Blackthorn
Not usually one to second-guess himself, General Blackthorn was doing just that as he crossed the square with four of his men following behind. All of Winthrop's fearful sniveling about hoisting his blubbery butt onto a horse and riding out with the army was starting to wear at Blackthorn's resolve.
Now, he was wrestling with whether to have Winthrop put on the pyre, leave him in Brighton to be dominated by Tenbrook, or take him along. All choices had their merits and their pitfalls. The only clear drawback in Blackthorn's mind was having to listen to Winthrop bemoan his predicament from astride his horse while riding along with him and Minister Beck all the way to the Ancient City.
Blackthorn's time outside the circle wall had always been spent among the brave and the silent, men who never cried or complained, men who rode to victory or death. Those were Blackthorn's most beloved memories. Those days out on the horse meant something. Those were days of clear purpose, bravery, and glory. Winthrop's vociferous cowardice promised to taint all those memories.
As Blackthorn approached the temple, he saw Winthrop's Novices, Franklin and Oliver, sullenly heading off with their shopping basket in the direction of the market.
Women's work.
Blackthorn liked nothing of the way Winthrop managed his clergy. If Winthrop treated his Novices like women, they'd grow into women, just as weak and useless as Winthrop.
One of the soldiers hurried ahead and opened one of the temple's giant old doors.
"Wait out here," Blackthorn told his men as he stepped into the musty Sanctuary. He walked up the center aisle, but saw no one else in the cavernous space.
He'd only been in the Sanctuary a handful of times in his life, always for formal occasions. The whole building made him uncomfortable, from the sound of the echoes, to the odd overcast feel of the light coming in through the small high windows. And the smell was disgusting. It reeked of musty old crones and sheep dung.
Blackthorn spotted two doorways leading into halls at the back corners of the Sanctuary and realized he had no idea where Winthrop kept himself when he wasn't on the stage, haranguing the peasants with his ancient fictions.
What he did know was that he wasn't going to wander through the warrens behind the Sanctuary in search of Winthrop.
Damn Winthrop. If he didn't intend to preside over his pretentious space, he should at least have left one of his womanly Novices inside to accept visitors.
Blackthorn's anger started to simmer as he reconsidered the purpose of his visit. Perhaps he'd leave and refuse to listen to any more of Winthrop's whining on the matter of going out with the army.
A noise from one of the halls caught his attention. He looked to the right just in time to see a rapturously beautiful young woman walking into the Sanctuary with a load of linens in her arms.
Blackthorn started to speak, but his words caught in his throat, and his breath froze in his chest.
The girl looked exactly like Emma, his first wife, the only one of the three wives he'd loved.
"I beg your pardon," the woman said, immediately looking at the floor and turning to go back the way she'd come.
"Wait," Blackthorn ordered, silently chastising himself for his severe tone of voice.
The woman froze in her steps, still facing away.
Going to great effort to make himself sound kind, he said, "Come here."
The woman turned, fear written on her face.
"Don't be frightened," said Blackthorn, wanting only to get a closer look at her. "I mean you no harm."
The woman walked slowly toward him, skirting the stage and coming up in front of the pews.
He watched her with longing eyes. Each step she took encouraged the ridiculous idea that she might be Emma, reincarnated or magically come back to life.
Maybe by some miracle of ancient Tech Magic. Could it be?
By the time she came to a stop two paces in front of him, he had to wonder if she was a memory turned into a ghost come to haunt him.
He shook his head slowly, denying to himself that the woman was a ghost. "What is that you have there?" he choked.
The woman looked down at the bed sheets. "For Father Winthrop's bed. I was going just now to change them."
Blackthorn pointed at a pew. "Put those down."
The girl hesitated for a moment, stuck between two bad choices. She drew in a deep breath, quickly placed the stack of folded sheets on the front pew, and went back to her spot a few paces in front of the General.
Seeing the full shape of her without the laundry to keep her hidden, Blackthorn dared not attempt to speak. He raised a finger in the air and made a swirling motion.
Nodding her understanding, the girl raised her arms half way up and slowly spun in a circle, coming to a stop and facing the General once again.
"Smile for me," he said.
She did.
Blackthorn shook his head and stared, wishing that he'd found this woman before his manhood had fallen into uselessness. Looking at her brought back old feelings buried so deeply he'd thought they were forgotten.
"Shall I bring you something, General? Water? Wine?"
In the habit of turning down any offer of drink, Blackthorn shook his head. It occurred to him that he didn't know how to address the woman, a thing he seldom thought of. He had little need of names. Nevertheless, he asked, "What do they call you?"
"Fitzgerald," she answered.
Blackthorn nodded as he foundered for something more to say, feeling a kind of nervousness he hadn't felt since he was a young man.
He looked around the vast Sanctuary. The ornate cushioned chair sitting on the stage caught his eye. In all the years over which his few visits were spread, he'd never seen anything in that spot but a lectern behind which the clergyman of the day bemoaned man's plight to the pew-sitters. He pointed at the chair. "I've not seen this before."
Fitzgerald turned toward the chair as though it were first being pointed out to her. "When Father Winthrop receives guests and petitioners, he sits there."
Blackthorn nodded. "Is Father Winthrop in the building?"
"I believe so," she said. "I've yet to see him leave."
Taking great pains again to remember his manners, he asked, "Would you be so kind as to fetch him for me?"
Nodding, Fitzgerald leaned forward to pick the laundry up off the pew.
Blackthorn got a glimpse down her threadbare dress. "Stop."
Fitzgerald froze, looking up at the General.
"Leave those."
She nodded and straightened up again.
"Why does Father Winthrop dress you like a Barren Woman, in what might be the most tattered dress I've ever seen?"
In a voice shaking with nerves, Fitzgerald said, "I don't ask such questions."
Blackthorn nodded as though he understood, but he didn't. The state of the woman's dress devalued his already low opinion of Winthrop. "Go and fetch him."
Fitzgerald hurried off in the direction of the other hall.
Blackthorn walked up to the stage and looked at the ridiculous chair. He thought about having one of his men come in and haul it out for firewood. Only the workmanship that went into the chair's construction at the hands of the Ancients, along with its obvious age, prevented him from doing so.
Instead, he climbed the steps that led up to the stage and stopped in front of the chair. As he looked down on the thing, he decided it wasn't so grand. Blackthorn turned and seated himself.
He waited.
Chapter 12: Blackthorn
From far down the hall in which Fitzgerald had disappeared, Blackthorn heard a series of knocks. A heavy door creaked on old hinges. The indistinct pomposity of Winthrop's voice berated the girl. When the bellowing fool's voice stifled itself with a sudden pinch, Blackthorn knew Fitzgerald had delivered the news of his presence.
For the first time in more years than he could remember, Blac
kthorn smiled. The expression felt out of place on his face. But he enjoyed the thought of cowardly Father Winthrop being so afraid of earning his ire that he wouldn't even scold his servants, knowing that Blackthorn could hear the anger in his voice.
A little while after the voices stopped, he heard Father Winthrop's door close. The rotund Bishop shuffled and wheezed his way up the hall. He finally emerged from the doorway, looking at his feet and grumbling rebellious curses. Winthrop turned and planted one foot on the stairs as he prepared to climb. Then his eyes fell on Blackthorn, at home in the ornate old chair.
Winthrop's sturdy bones startled themselves to immobility. His fat flowed forward under the womanly robe until it reached the limit of his stretchy skin, nearly throwing him off balance. He caught himself against the wall.
Winthrop's face settled into an expression of spoiled sadness that Blackthorn had only ever seen on the faces of merchants' fat children.
Winthrop stopped. He didn't move.
Blackthorn watched him stare, happy to leave him stuck between cowardice and indecision.
Fitzgerald made her way through the gap between Winthrop's voluminous butt and the front row of pews, heading across the walkway on the floor in front of the stage. She picked up her linens and cast a quick glance around.
Blackthorn raised a hand to let her know to remain. "Stop," he said. Tired of the game of Winthrop's paralysis, Blackthorn pointed at the pew at the foot of the stage and told Winthrop to sit.
Winthrop choked on words stuck in his throat, and his face reddened. He didn't protest. He huffed and turned away from the stairs. He waddled along in front of the stage and came to a stop, standing on the floor, looking at Blackthorn sitting in the special chair. Blackthorn pointed at the pew again.
Winthrop's face turned to silent anger, and he turned to vent it on Fitzgerald. He hissed, "Go and finish your chores, useless whore."
"No." Blackthorn clenched his jaw as he felt a spark of inexplicable anger. It wasn't Winthrop's repressed insolence that had prodded him. No, that was just a product of Blackthorn's choice to toy with him. It was what Winthrop said to Fitzgerald that tweaked Blackthorn.
