Forsaken Island

by Sharon Hinck

  A baby lay on the damp ground, two small fists flailing weakly. His red blanket had fallen open, and he shivered and mewled again.

  Gasping, I scooped him up in one arm, bracing myself with my cane. “You poor thing. What are you doing out here?” I carried him back to the trail where a few fingers of sun offered warmth. Against my chest, he nuzzled weakly, lips rooting in hunger.

  Morra tapped his foot. “Put him back. The village waits.”

  I gaped at him. “He’s dying. We have to take care of him. How did a baby end up alone here?”

  Morra leaned closer to peek at the newborn but only wrinkled his nose. “Who knows? Not our business.”

  My warmth toward Morra cooled sharply, and I wrapped my cloak around the infant. “We’re taking him to somewhere safe. To someone who can care for him.”

  Morra’s eyes widened at the steel in my voice. “Bring it if you must. I be going.”

  He tossed his hair and stomped away. I continued bouncing and shushing the baby in one arm, hobbling forward with my stick in the other hand. He needed milk . . . from the mother if we could find her, or a wet nurse, or at least a herd animal if the village had some.

  I caught up to Morra and passed him. “Hurry! We need to find help for this baby.”

  He sighed and walked faster but didn’t match my urgency. Heat boiled up from my core, and my skin burned. I hoped the added warmth would help the infant as I held him. “Who would leave a child to die? Have you heard of a baby being stolen from its parents?”

  “Parents?”

  Honestly, talking with Morra was often like shouting into a cavern full of echoes. “The baby’s family.”

  “All are family.”

  “But the mother—someone gave birth to him. Where is she?” A new fear struck me. Perhaps the mother had died, leaving no one to care for the child. Yet that still didn’t explain the abandonment.

  Striding alongside me, Morra muttered under his breath. “You should camp back at the lake. You be needing more convening time.”

  My sense of horror built, not only at a baby left to die, but at how Morra brushed off an abandoned child as a common occurrence. I rounded on him. “More convening is the last thing I need. Or any of you need. You may lose a few cares, but apparently you’ve also lost your heart.”

  Morra wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as the path widened into a sun-dappled clearing. “Here we be.” Relief was evident in his voice.

  I felt immediate regret for taking out my frustrations on him. I tucked my cane under my arm and reached out to touch Morra’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming back to the lake. Thank you for helping me find my way here. Will you stay near?”

  He gave a heavy sigh that reminded me of a sixth-form novitiate sent on a shift to mortar walls. “Wherever you be from must be a strange place. You worry about small problems and be wanting no convening.” But a hint of sympathy flickered in his eyes.

  We emerged from the overgrown path to confront a tall pine trunk, stripped of branches. Above our heads, a cabin rested on wide boughs, tethered with ropes. A ladder fashioned from braided vines dangled from the other side. Bridges hung overhead, joining the little home to other cottages up in the trees. They swayed as the earth made familiar rocking movements.

  “Hello?” I hurried under the first cabin and looked up at the open doorway, desperate to find help for the warm bundle in my arm.

  No one answered. With Morra trailing me, I rushed farther into the village, peering up at the rough wood-and-vine cottages. All seemed empty, and none held the elegance of the green rain village. No ornate carvings or vibrant paint drew the eye. Yet their rustic forms created a simple beauty. Under other circumstances I would have loved exploring the swinging bridges and ladders and platforms scattered among the treetops.

  Right now, I had more urgent matters. “Where is everyone?”

  Morra grinned. “Suns be setting soon. Time to revel.”

  I groaned. More revels? I had appreciated the shared art forms at Morra’s village but couldn’t face another night of such festivities. Besides, a revel would be the last place Brantley would go. But at least I’d find help for the infant.

  Morra slapped my back. “Stop your worries. Not time for their star rain yet, so it be a short revel.” He led the way, and I urged him to move faster. The baby had stopped stirring and felt limp and weak in my arm. He needed help quickly.

  As we neared the far side of the village, sounds rose from the huge field beyond. The roars of a large group of men and women rumbled and growled as if a pack of forest hounds fought nearby.

  In the clearing a crowd surrounded an open area, cheering, shaking fists in the air. These villagers didn’t wear ornate fabrics of fine weave. Instead, leather and coarse wool were the clothes of choice, with tufts of animal fur adorning shoulders or pockets or cuffs. I took a minute to absorb the strangeness of yet another unfamiliar group of people. I’d expected another scene like Morra’s village. This snarling, shouting mob frightened me.

  But Morra grinned and ambled forward, elbowing his way through the pack. “Excuse me,” I said, following him, but no one heard me. I cradled the baby more closely to protect him from careless elbows and jostling.

  We reached the front. In the center of the rowdy crowd, two men crouched and circled, swords glinting red as the setting subsun touched their steel. Blades met, the crowd cheered. The men shoved away from each other. A giant of a man, with a fierce beard and bits of bone woven into his braids, bellowed. He swung his sword downward toward his much-smaller opponent. A roar rose from the people watching.

  I squeezed my eyes closed, unwilling to watch a man cleaved apart.

  Another thunder of approval punched the air.

  My eyes flew open against my will. The smaller man had rolled to the side and now sprang up, grinning and all too familiar.

  I gasped. Brantley, flushed with exertion and with a new scrape on his chin, raised his borrowed sword, a feral grin on his face, ready to plunge back into the battle.

  “No!” I cried.

  But a roar from the throng smothered my scream.

  I elbowed aside two burly men in the watching crowd, ready to dash into the middle of the duel. Morra tugged me back. “Be not interfering.”

  I froze. He was right. I didn’t dare distract Brantley. If he didn’t give his full attention to the man and his sword, the sharp tip could find his heart. Besides, I couldn’t endanger the babe tucked in my arm. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.

  Brantley charged toward his opponent. The larger man made a clumsy swing—too soon. While the giant was off balance, Brantley spun in from the side. He slammed the man’s sword arm with the flat of his blade. The weapon fell, and Brantley brandished his sword overhead.

  Relief whooshed out of me in a breath. The spectators cheered. The bearded man rubbed his stinging arm but gave a wide grin, then pounded Brantley on his back. Brantley swung the sword a few times from his wrist in a lazy circle. Then he switched his grip, offering the hilt to one of the villagers, as if he were an attendant serving a platter of saltcakes.

  “Well played,” the man said, taking the sword. “Who’s next?”

  Brantley’s eyes skimmed past me, pausing only a moment before he turned away, indifferent.

  My heart contracted.

  Two young women rushed forward with long branches and began a contest of aggressive swiping, jumping, and ducking. The crowd shouted encouragement and jeered mistakes.

  Staring after Brantley, I rolled my shoulders, coaxing life into my tense muscles, and leaned into Morra. “What just happened?”

  “They be playing.” Morra bounced on his toes.

  “Playing?”

  Reluctantly, he pulled his gaze from the battlefield. “Your people don’t play?”

  I pictured the Order, where novitiates walked with careful steps and moved with precise posture. Some of our dances were fierce and powerful, but always in controlled patterns
with focused purpose. The drills that the soldiers performed were no different. I shook my head. I’d never witnessed dangerous “play” like this. Weapons of battle had only ever brought violence, wounds, and death.

  Now that I knew no one was about to be killed, I returned my attention to my first priority. I stroked the infant’s head. “We need help for this baby. Don’t forget—”

  Too late. Morra bounded across the field to a man with a parchment and willow pen. He apparently planned to sign up for a turn at this “play.”

  I hurried along the edge of the circular field toward Brantley. He was blotting sheen from his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic and puffing up his chest as he received congratulations from bystanders.

  If the heart-numbing effects of the Gardener’s work were going to wear off, it hadn’t happened yet. Brantley barely managed to raise one brow. “Carya? You followed me here?” His gaze took in the bundle in my arms, and his brow lifted a fraction higher; but his tone was still weighted with indifference. “What is that?”

  I lifted back the corner of the blanket. “He was left in the woods. We have to get him help.”

  He made a wide gesture with his arm. “Plenty of folk here can give you aid. I have somewhere to be.”

  A woman with nut-brown hair sidled up beside Brantley, resting a possessive hand on his shoulder. “Well fought. A warm meal and warmer bed await.”

  He threw an arm around her and strolled off toward the village. My jaw gaped, my face burning as if I’d been slapped. What was he thinking? Had he forgotten everything about our mission to bring aid to Meriel? Had he forgotten me? What we meant to each other? We’d talked about our vision of life together, and now he dismissed me without a thought.

  Heat bubbled up from my core, purging my humiliation and pain until nothing remained but a white-hot blaze. I stomped after him, ready to pull him away from the woman who was still managing to twine around him like tangleroot as they walked away.

  The baby sniffled weakly and managed one coughing cry. I paused. Confronting Brantley had to wait. The infant’s needs came first. After scanning the bystanders ringing the field, I headed to a woman who looked promising. She was stout, with an ample chest, and reminded me of Ginerva. “I found this child in the woods. Do you know his mother?”

  The woman pushed me aside because I was blocking her view of the games.

  Not to be ignored, I dropped my cane and tugged her arm. “Please. Where does this child belong?”

  She glared at me. “Most likely in the woods where you found it. Folks only keep around the strong ones that can be trained for the games. Leave it for the welfen beast.”

  My stomach lurched as if I’d missed a step on the marble stairs back at the Order. “No. You’re wrong. This life is precious, and someone must miss him.”

  She stepped away, waving a fist and yelling advice to the women fighting on the field.

  I tried another woman, and another, and then several men. Their disinterest turned to annoyance when I kept interrupting their fun. I even approached a few unkempt children who scrabbled about in the dirt and dashed between the legs of the adults. Their young bodies bore bruises and scars. No one wanted to bother with the problem of a forsaken baby. Brantley had been right all along. This island was a dark and dangerous place.

  Holy Maker, why don’t they care? What can I do?

  Warm meal and warm bed. That’s what the woman with Brantley had said. Well, that was what the baby needed. I squared my shoulders, gripped my walking stick, and stormed toward the village.

  Although most of the houses among the trees still appeared deserted, lantern glow flickered from one of the cottages wedged on broad limbs above me. A rope ladder dangled beneath, but I couldn’t navigate that, not with an infant and a cane. “Hello?”

  When no one responded, I braced myself and shouted. “Hello! This baby needs care. I’m not leaving.” For good measure, I tossed a stone in the direction of the doorway. It struck the lintel with a satisfying clack.

  The brunette woman emerged, balancing on the jutting threshold above the ladder. “You again? Are you challenging me for the man?” Her gaze skimmed my cane and bandaged ankle, and she sneered. Another distant roar from the field behind me warned how these people enacted their challenges, but I wasn’t about to back down.

  “No, she’s not.” Brantley joined her on the landing. “I’ll deal with this.”

  The woman flounced back inside. Brantley navigated the ladder with ease, jumping down from the halfway point. The thump of his landing punctuated the irritation in his face. “Carya, what are you doing here?”

  I jutted my chin forward. “Help me find someone to care for this baby so we can resume our search for a way home.”

  He shook his head, his focus sliding to the bundle in my arms. Something in his expression softened. When his gaze lifted, I saw glimmers of affection—a familiar tenderness I used to find often in his eyes.

  And then dullness fell back over him, like a mist blocking the view of the suns. “The child’s not my concern. Not your problem either.”

  I glared at him. “Saying so doesn’t make it true.”

  He rolled his eyes. “If I help you, will you give me peace?”

  Not if he intended to set up camp with the woman in the tree cottage and forget our own world. But this wasn’t the time to tell him that. Instead, I nodded. “Of course.”

  “Fine. I’ll ask Reeya.”

  “No, that’s not—” He clambered up the ladder before I could stop him. I eyed the ground for more rocks to throw if it became necessary, but after a few minutes, he returned.

  “She said there’s a tender on the lakeward side of the village.”

  “A tender? Of livestock?” What help would that be?

  He shrugged. “Are you coming or not?”

  I took a few steps, leaning awkwardly on my walking stick while hitching the infant more securely in my arm, which ached from his weight, tiny wisp though he was.

  Brantley sighed. I had never tolerated pity from him, but he’d always offered concern or understanding. Now hints of disdain etched his face. My ankle throbbed with an ache that traveled to my heart. I saw myself through his eyes. Crippled. Broken. Annoying. He abruptly took the bundle from my arm, although certainly not out of kindness. He merely wanted to hasten this errand. Still, my arm tingled with relief when he carried the baby, and I was better able to keep up.

  He led us through the maze of trees, ladders, and ropes. How had he gotten so comfortable here in the few hours he’d had before I arrived? His skill at navigating harsh environments was remarkable, another glimpse of the true Brantley, the man I admired so much. Would I ever get him back?

  Not far from the trailhead where Morra and I had arrived from the lake, a cottage and paddock nestled under broad willows. At last, a building that wouldn’t require climbing to reach. “I wonder why this home isn’t up in the trees like all the rest.”

  Brantley snorted. “Perhaps because ponies can’t climb trees?”

  Ponies? I hurried forward. Sure enough, in the far corner of the paddock several sturdy ponies tore at tufts of hay, chewing thoughtfully. It was such a relief to find the familiar creatures on this strange island that ridiculous tears gathered in my eyes. I slipped open the gate and hugged one of their warm necks, drawing comfort from the gently pricked ears and snuffled greeting.

  “Here, you!” a woman called from the cottage doorway, her hair pulled back into a tufted shape that resembled a mane, with the sides shaved close. Her tattered dress hung to just below her knees. “What be you doing?”

  Brantley may have changed in many ways, but he still took charge before I could speak. “Reeya suggested we come to you. She”—he jabbed his chin my direction—“found this infant abandoned in the woods off the path.”

  I stepped away from the pony. “I don’t know how long he was left there, but he’s cold and weak.” Pleading made my voice shake. I couldn’t bear more indifference to this little
one’s suffering.

  Brantley thrust the bundle at her. “Will you find his mother?”

  She shook her head but gathered the baby into her arms. “The mother would only be leaving him again.” She pulled back the corner of the blanket, and her eyes softened. “Ah, poor lamb. You be needing milk. Lucky for you my nanny goat has plenty to spare.”

  Her response was so warm and normal that something in my spine melted.

  She turned a smile toward us. “May as well be coming in for a mite. The kettle just boiled.”

  We followed her into the cottage. She listed to one side, placing little weight on her right leg. A posture with which I was familiar. She waved us to stools beside a tiny table while she gathered a small linen scarf and a clay pitcher. The gamey scent of goat milk wafted as she settled in her chair and dipped the fabric into the liquid. She offered the corner of wet scarf to the listless babe. After she cooed at him and tickled his cheek, he made a small effort to suckle. As she continued soaking the scarf and offering it to him, I scanned the room.

  A tidy pallet rested near a small hearth, whose fire shared generous warmth. Pegs held a cloak, a few bridles, and a large basket. Open shelves contained other necessities: jars with neat labels, bowls of herbs and tubers, one plate, one mug, and surprisingly, a stack of parchment and pile of willow pens. Where the first village had used elaborate ornamentation on any spare surface, this cottage was almost stark. I welcomed the clean simplicity.

  “My name is Carya of Meriel. This is Brantley of Windswell.”

  “Strange names they be.” But she spoke with a smile in her eyes. “I be Jalla, the tender.” When she shifted her grip on the baby, her hem hitched up, and I could see her right knee. Angry purple swallowed the joint. No wonder her gait was uneven.

  “What happened?” I asked, nodding toward her knee.

  She tugged the dress lower and kept her attention on feeding the baby. “A rankled old nag kicked me.”

  “Do you have herbs? Compresses? Can I help?”

  Brantley sighed heavily, and his gaze traced the path to the door.