Briok circled back and came down to fly near James.
“Lad you are a conundrum to me. On the one hand I am grateful to you for following that old woman and freeing me, but then I remember that you are in fact flying by means of those wings on your back and that knowledge leaves me shaking with certain dread. How is it you came to have wings and what is this tale of my daughter?”
Briok cleared his throat and as they hurried along the road, he began the story of his people and how Gwenth had come to be involved.
James raised his hand to cut off Briok. “So I’m supposed to believe that you are a Fairy?”
Briok stopped mid-air. He had not realized that anyone would doubt him if he told the truth. “Sir I tell you only the truth. I am here and alive because of your daughter and we came on the sea of all time to your world from my world,” he said bowing to James.
James weighed the boy’s story and felt the youngster’s sincerity. “Alright I will believe most of your tale, as long as my daughter backs you up. I can feel no deception in you and I would know if you were lying,” James conceded looking over at the boy, “but I must warn you, there is at least one piece of information I cannot agree with! My wife was no witch; you are wrong about that lad, no matter what you say.”
Briok looked over and saw the scowl on James features and he could hear the anger in the man’s voice.
“I don’t know what to say sir, this is the story that has been told to me and I tell it exactly as I have heard it,” he said his hands open before him. “Can I ask please sir, why are flying and witches seen as so bad in this world?”
James considered the boy’s question as he trotted along the dark road. “If what you say is true, that there is more than one world, I guess I can understand your questions. Here people believe that magic is not possible unless you are a very bad person to get it. People believe that magic can only come from the devil and that anything with wings if it’s not an angel, which by the way, most would undoubtedly deny seeing must then be from the devil.”
Briok nodded his head and he tried to understand. “So this devil is the only way to get magic?”
James looked at the young lad, it was such a complicated idea, and so hard to explain to someone who clearly was in some part magical himself. “Let me ask you something Briok are your wings magical?”
Briok’s wings skipped a beat and his progress forward took on a hiccup like appearance, so that he dropped an inch lower as he flew. “My wings, no they aren’t magic,” he said, shaking his head vigorously.
“Then how do you explain them,” James asked?
“I can’t explain them; I don’t know how they happen, they just are. All Fey are born with them.”
“Well that is how it is for me to try and explain how humans view magic. It’s hard to explain, it’s just something most humans agree on. Magic is wrong.”
Briok flew through the star filled sky mulling over what James told him about humans’ fear of magic. It worried him that this tribe of people would not welcome the Fey to their world, and he knew the Fey were counting on being welcomed. What did that mean for his people? Would these people hunt and try to kill his tribe? Each question his mind raised brought a new and worse fear with it; soon he looked down and realized he was barely flying above the ground.
“What’s happening to you?”
“I don’t really know,” Briok answered. “I think that my thoughts are weighing me down and the fear is driving me closer to the ground.”
“Has this happened before in your world?”
“No, well not like this anyway. Sometimes young Fey do have trouble staying up, but as we age we get better at staying up and once the awakening happens, I have never heard of the trouble continuing.”
James considered the information, “So are you saying this awakening thing hasn’t happened to you yet?”
Briok hung his head in shame. “No sir, I was to have my awakening the day your daughter brought me here.”
“Well while I don’t know what this awakening thing is, perhaps that is the only thing causing you trouble now. Do you think an awakened Fey would have this issue of flying so low?”
Briok wasn’t sure and he said so.
“Maybe you should experiment, try to think happy thoughts?”
Briok brought up memories of his childhood, of laughing with his friends while they played among the tree’s roots. He let himself think about his parents celebrating his milestones, as he grew and he heard his mother’s laughter ring out in his mind. He looked down and found that his buoyancy had increased. He was flying high up in the clouds. He zipped back down to fly once again beside James.
“Well I guess you solved that problem for now,” James laughed.
Briok smiled.
“What will you do, when you get home?”
James frowned. “I see no choice but to flee as fast as possible. Maybe hide higher up in the hills, for a while. Eventually we will have to leave Scotland. The authorities will confiscate the croft, of course. There won’t be time to get the sheep away,” he said, his eyes falling as they walked along.
“I can see something dark up ahead.”
James looked around him at the landscape, “Yes, that will be the cottage; we have made very good time. No one’s raised the alarm yet. I feel bad for the trouble this will bring on the old woman, and yet I feel only too happy to have a chance to save my family” he said, as he stretched his legs into a lope.
Lost Keys
The cook woke at first light. She had worked for the magistrate for many years and had come to appreciate her job. The hours were easy and rarely required cooking for more than a few mouths each day. Often there were no criminals in the cell and the magistrate would be off on his circuit around the county. It was a lonely job though, people either despised her or feared her, but it kept her belly full and the magistrate was an easy man to feed. There was never a need to rise early and she had a soft pallet and would never need to worry about her keep. She shuffled across the kitchen and made ready to go out, to relieve herself, but when she reached down to take her keys from around her neck, she found they were not there. The piece of braided leather hung empty. The old woman shuffled back to her bed. Occasionally, over the years the keys had come loose and she had always found them lost among her bedding.
She leaned her thick body down and pushing her arthritic fingers through the blankets, rummaging for the keys, but after several minutes she did not find them. Her concern rose somewhat, mostly from the growing necessity to go outside.
Bending down further she went to her knees, she struggled, tearing at the pallet, pulling the blankets and straw ticking apart, strewing it across the floor of the kitchen. Still there were no keys. She was flummoxed. The old cook crawled over to the fireplace and used its rough stone face to pull herself back up into standing position. She turned and looked about the room, could they be on the table? She could see the clean empty table top before her; clearly there were no keys hiding there.
Scratching her head, she rubbed her deformed fingers over her dry grey locks. She pulled out the heavy chair from the table and sat down; she needed to think a minute. Where had she last had the keys? Did she have them when she had lain down? Her mind tried to conjure a clear memory of last night, she sat in the chair staring into the tamped down fire for many long moments. Finally she stood up pushing the chair noisily across the stone floor; it was no use there was no memory of anything. She had as usual taken some brandy before turning in. She rose and shuffled slowly across the kitchen, making her way back and forth, searching each cranny as she made her way around the room. Desperate now not only to go out, but to find the keys and restore order before the magistrate arrived. Finally it became apparent even to her that the keys were not in the kitchen. Her scabby nose was wet from crying and she snuffled and wiped at her eyes as she realized that for the first time in her life she had lost the precious keys. She began to fear she would be turned out by nightfall, destitute
. Looking around the now sacked kitchen she cried all the harder, surely the magistrate would come and now this mess would also be on his mind, as he heard her story.
She sighed and wiping her eyes, and went off to use the hated chamber pot. She was an ugly woman; she knew that, having been born that way. Her father had kept her till her youth had passed. Only after it was clear she would never marry, he’d pointed at the door of their hut one day and told her to clear off and not return. Maybe if she hadn’t been born with that squared off face, rough and twisted he might have seen his way to keeping her around, but he had grown tired of looking upon her. He had called her a burden, just another mouth to feed. She had gone from his house with its squalor and walked down the road crying. She begged food those first weeks, from their neighbors and slept out of doors, under the warm night sky, until the magistrate having heard of her predicament had road out to find her. He proposed she come and cook for him at the council house. It might be dangerous, living with prisoners, but she would be fed and clothed by the magistrate. She had of course leapt at the idea.
Sighing again, but being a practical woman she took up her broom and began to straighten the kitchen. Perhaps she would find the keys in doing so. If they were still not here, she would walk through the great room, though she felt very little hope of finding them out there, for she rarely used the front entrance or even bothered to track the comings and goings of the citizenry, unless it affected the number of places she served at mealtime. Then if the keys were still not found, she would make a good breakfast for the prisoner and the magistrate, at least then maybe he would remember her years of faithful service and her good food when he leveled the punishment against her. She hurried about her chores. She decided she would pray as she worked, perhaps God would show mercy.
The Magistrate
John Malcom, the traveling magistrate, liked to rise early and after completing his absolutions, he would sit and read by the fire. He was a God fearing man, but he was a well-read man as well. He believed in the new-fangled idea of science, though he rarely shared those ideas with anyone. Such beliefs could get a man hung, or at the very least whispered about behind one’s back. Life was dangerous enough, and bringing any threat upon himself held no appeal to him, and so he was by nature a careful and solitary man.
Each day he would take up whatever treatise he had fallen asleep with the night before and he would begin again in his unquenchable thirst for knowledge. He had never married and had never desired marriage, it wasn’t so much that women didn’t turn his head, for they did, but the books and the reading was of far greater necessity, than love or even comfort. Over the years he had watched as his friends one by one had each succumbed to the wiles of a woman, or gave in to the wearisome pettiness of being alone. He had stood by and watched as bachelor after bachelor took brides just to curb their loneliness. Few marriages seemed to be made of heaven from what he could observe. An intelligent man with plenty of time to consider the full range of possibilities, he was willing to concede perhaps more went on in a marriage then what one saw in public. Perhaps the best of a marriage was the secret one that went on behind closed doors, or perhaps other people required less from marriage, much less than he could have accepted himself. He couldn’t say which was closer to the truth, but he understood himself enough to realize he wasn’t really interested in trying to find out. He had always liked his aloneness. He didn’t fear it, and as for company, well the books he traded for were always by far the best company. His years had passed easily in this way and he was a congenial and happy man. Even now in his late years, he looked younger than most of his contemporaries, because he followed the rule to do what was right and he listened to his own joy only, never allowing fear, or lack of self-confidence to muddy his thoughts.
John munched on the cold bun; his cook had given him upon his leaving last night, as she had every night for the last 30 odd years. He washed his face and hands and dressed neatly and then taking up his book he sat down by the freshly stoked fire and began to read. Before long he was completely engrossed and he did not bother to look up for several hours.
Finally, lifting up his eyes, he realized that he should be going to the council house; the sun was now high in the morning sky. He sighed, and laid the book aside. Standing tall, he diligently adjusted his clothes; made sure his boots were clean and strode out the door into the village street. Looking up he noted the cloudless blue sky over head as far as he could see. The wind was low and even now he could tell it would be one of those rare perfect days. He turned and set his feet in motion in the direction of the council house. It was an easy walk as the village was small and he liked spending the last few minutes by himself, clearing his mind, bringing it back into the present, for once he arrived his day would be fraught with all manner of decisions, as people brought their concerns for his judgment.
He pushed against the front door of the council house, but it did not give. He pushed again. Nothing happened. His surprise took over momentarily, and then he remembered and removed the bundle of keys from his pocket. Sorting through them he at last located the correct key for the front door. Unlocking the door, he went inside. The scent of cooked food greeted him, meat frying and of bread baking, so he followed his nose to the kitchen. Adella stood before the fire, searing the pork for his and the prisoners breakfast. “Oh good there you are,” he said. He crossed the kitchen making his way toward his cook. Adella turned and he could see from the blotchy discoloration of her skin she had been crying. He was on alert instantly. “What is it? Have you taken sick,” he asked, as he moved around the table to stand near her.”
“Nay sir, it isn’t me, but I’m afraid, I’ve gone and lost the keys.” And with that her face broke open once again, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
“What? Lost the keys? Have you looked everywhere,” he asked, as he moved past her over to her pallet?
Adella turned as well and shook her head. “Of course, I’ve torn the kitchen apart and they are not to be found.”
“Did you lose them in the privy?”
Adella hung her head, “No sir, I wasn’t able to use the privy this morning, and had to use the chamber pot.”
John looked at the old woman in shock. He had known her long enough, to realize that for her, the chamber pot was an embarrassment better left unmentioned. He considered the news, for exactly one minute, and then rushed across the kitchen towards the cellar door. Quickly he unlocked it and made his way hurriedly down the steps and ran the length of the room. He stopped at the cell door and pulled open the watch door, his heart fell. The room was empty. On the floor, the leg iron lay open. He unlocked the door and searched the room thoroughly. Leaving the door open, he ran to the stairs; and bounded up them to the kitchen like a man possessed. No one had ever escaped on his watch. Though he had no hope of saving James’s life, he would not let the man escape proving his innocence either even when the proof would in fact, take the man’s life.
“The prisoner’s gone,” he yelled, as he raced past the old woman out into the great room. He raced up into the rickety gallery and grabbing the rope he strained until he heard the first toll ring out. He stayed at it, pulling the rope letting the bell’s sound peel out over the countryside. The sound would draw half the county, that was what he wanted right now, to draw in all James’s neighbors, he would draw them altogether in a man hunt and he would see James and his whole family back in the cell before night fall or be damned, he would die trying.
A Piece of the Whole
The women stood gathered under the rafters, staring up at the ceiling.
“I don’t see why we can’t use magic to bring it down?”
Hectain pulled the chair over to the wall and stepped up onto its seat. From her vantage she regarded first the object and then looked down at her sisters. “What? Why are you all staring at me?”
Reval and Meredith’s smirks turned into laughter. “While it really isn’t funny sister, it is a bit refreshing to see you managing so sp
lendidly, without magic,” Meredith said, between giggles.
Hectain scowled. “Now do you see why we can’t use magic to get it down,” she said. “Every time we get near this thing or it feels threatened we forget we even know magic.” She climbed down gingerly from the chair.
“Dembys says that it is part of her.”
The sisters turned towards Gwenth.
“What did you say child,” Meredith asked, as she made her way over to where Gwenth lay resting in the bed?
“Dembys says, that what is in the rafter is part of the Dembys. It is from her world.”
“Her world,”Hectain’s face had a startled look. “How is that possible? What is it?”
“Better yet, does Dembys know how to remove it?” Reval breathlessly lowered her bulk onto the now empty chair.
Gwenth cocked her head as she listened to Dembys reply. Turning her attention to the sisters she shared what she had learned. “Yes, she knows what it’s for and it can be removed, but only by the one who set the Dembys in place.”
Meredith stared at Gwenth and Dembys. This news changed everything, but something just didn’t feel right. They were missing something, something important she could sense it. Suddenly Meredith snapped her fingers, “I’ve got it! Dembys wouldn’t the spell have come to an end, when the witch who placed it died?”
Gwenth listened to Dembys. “She says yes, it may end, when they pass.”
Hectain looked at Meredith. “That means Gwenth’s mother didn’t set the spell.”
“Exactly,” Meredith said, turning back to Gwenth. “Ask Dembys if she knows who set the spell.”
Gwenth spoke to Dembys in her mind and listened as Dembys replied. Gwenth turned back to the three sisters. “Dembys does know and you are right it wasn’t my mother. In fact,” Gwenth said, swallowing hard. “She says mother had no magical powers at all.”
REALM'S END (BOOK OF FEY 1) Page 24
