The Wretched of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Easy, Lia. There is little to share.” He handed it to Colvin, who still glowered and massaged his foot, but took it anyway and sipped.

  “How did you find us?” Colvin asked, chafing his hands in the dark then put his boot back on.

  Jon snorted, breaking a piece of bread in half and handed them each a crust. “I am a hunter, lad.” The loaf was slightly stale, but soft enough inside to melt in her mouth, while the outside crunched with little seeds. It tasted like Pasqua’s bread. It was delicious beyond words.

  “You have no horse?” Colvin asked.

  “Easier to follow you on foot. Easier to hide your trail. You took no care to disguise it, so I have followed, concealing it. Almaguer has a hunter too. He is good, because he keeps finding the trail. They would have caught you by now if I did not meddle.”

  Lia reached out and grabbed Jon’s arm, just to feel that he was real. The leather bracer on his arm was damp, but it was reassuring. His bow was on the ground nearby. “The Aldermaston sent you?” she asked, daring to hope.

  Again, he nodded. “I saw you in the village, as you rode away. I called out to you, but you did not see me.”

  “I remember,” Lia said. “That was you?”

  Jon rummaged through his pack again. “Oats for the stallion. Not much, but he will not starve. Lia, the Aldermaston wanted me to make sure you were safe. Maderos told us you were taking him to Winterrowd through the Bearden Muir with the orb.” He glanced at Colvin. “There was a big argument about that. My duty is to see that you make it safely home when it is finished. If I do not, Pasqua said she would kill me.”

  Lia’s heart spasmed with joy. “I can come back? Even after what I did?”

  A half-smile and a nod was his answer. He was never very talkative. Her heart was so full, she nearly started crying again. She clasped her hands in front of her, thinking of it – savoring it. She could return to Muirwood instead of being banished forever.

  Colvin’s voice was dark. “Why?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why does the Aldermaston help me?” He tugged a tuft of grass from the earth. “Why does he forgive her?”

  Jon stowed the waterskin and cinched the pack shut again. “I do not begin to understand the Aldermaston’s reasons. He is far wiser than I will ever be. He sent me to find you. I found you. Lucky for you both. Your first day in the Bearden Muir went well. You went straight towards Winterrowd as if the Medium were guiding your steps. Then yesterday, your trail wandered to and fro like a pig drunken on spoiled cider until you reached the road. If you had stayed on the road much longer, Almaguer would have caught you. His horses are faster and his men are better riders. They do not spare horseflesh hunting a man. I thought they had you, but you came back into the swamp. I caught your trail before they did. Now they have to double-back and see where you came in. I disguised it as best I could. At least I caught you first. What happened? Did you lose the orb?”

  “I failed,” Lia said, ashamed.

  Jon stood to stretch his legs. “It stopped directing you?”

  Lia pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. “It is my fault. I have been too fearful.”

  He was silent for a moment as he considered. “I can tell you this. We will not make it through the Bearden Muir without it. We may not make it through the day. I, for one, do not want to risk being caught by them. Fear stops the Medium from hearkening to you.” He looked down at Colvin. “You are a maston though. Why did you not cure her fear?”

  Colvin looked up, his jaw set. “Only she can do that. I have been…I have been teaching her about the Medium…”

  Jon waved his hand. “She is not a learner! She cannot be a learner. But you are a maston. What about a Gifting?”

  Colvin looked shocked. “I have never done one before. I…I…it is not that…”

  “You are a maston. You can. You have the right to call on the Medium to lay a Gift on someone.”

  “But I do not know…the words…the right words…they are written in my tome. I do not have it…”

  “It is not exactly a riddle, lad. I have heard the Aldermaston do it. He Gifted me before I came to find you. Gift her with courage.”

  Colvin stood, his face twisting with anxiety.

  “How long have you been a maston?” Lia asked him.

  “Not very long,” he replied, sounding a little ashamed. “I have never done one before. I do not know the right words.”

  Jon snorted. “It is not about the words. You already know that. It is the Medium. Let it speak through you. She needs courage. Gift her with it.”

  “Give me a moment!” Colvin said harshly. He turned his back to them, his fist tight, his arm taut.

  Jon let him alone for a moment. “Lad, I can help you. I have heard the words. As long as you know the maston sign, you can do it. I cannot help you with that.”

  Colvin’s voice was strained. “I know it.”

  “Then come on, lad. You have the right, despite your youth. Use it. Or else the sheriff and his men will have us tomorrow. I tell you, they cannot be far behind us.”

  Colvin turned, his eyes strong like steel.

  “What do I do?” Lia asked.

  “Just kneel where you are,” Jon said. “Put one hand on her head. Make the maston sign with the other. Then you call her by her wretched name. Lia Cook. Pronounce the Gifting through the Medium. The Aldermaston says they come as thoughts, not words. You have to shape the thoughts into words.”

  The wind rustled the trees and the marsh grasses hissed. There was a chorus of cicadas somewhere nearby.

  Colvin’s voice was firm. “Close your eyes. Both you. You cannot witness the sign.”

  Lia straightened her back, though she was still kneeling, and rested her hands in front of her. She closed her eyes, which felt silly. Colvin’s boots trampled the grass near her and she could feel the warmth coming from his body. He knelt down as well, facing her. She could hear the sound of it, felt the shift of his weight. Her heart started pounding and her mouth went dry. She could feel his hand coming down, but not touching her, as if he dared not touch her. In the dream of Almaguer, he had touched her hair. His fingers had coiled in her hair like serpents. Shivering, she waited, barely able to breathe. The image of the sword plunging through her returned to her mind. The sweet reek of his skin. Smoke-shapes sniffing at her, nuzzling against her arms, her back, her legs. She wanted to scream. Please, do not touch me…do not let him touch me! Something terrible would happen if he did.

  Colvin’s hand gently capped the top of her head. It was gentle – yet firm. There was softness in the way the weight of his hand and fingers pressed down against her hair, bending the kinks, before resting on her scalp. His touch sent new shivers through her.

  “Lia Cook…”

  It was the first time he had spoken her name. In her ears, there was screaming, raging, cursing, but not from Colvin. It came from inside her. It was as if she opened another set of eyes, eyes that allowed her to look down on herself as a separate person. Colvin was in front of her, but there was a blinding hail of light coming from behind him. Smoke-shapes screamed and fled, loping away with a mist that receded from the hillock like water draining from a cracked keg. There was something still in her chest – something that had lodged there since her dream. It slid out and it was like breathing for the first time. Behind her, she could see Almaguer’s glowing eyes as he backed away from her, his face twisting with agony.

  Then she felt it. Each breath she inhaled brought a sob of recognition. The feeling was back again. Not the terrifying feeling, not the horror and shame and loathing, but the feeling of Muirwood. All her life she had felt it. The subtle feeling of safety, of belonging, of being home. She felt it again, even though the abbey was leagues away. She understood now. It was the power of the Medium. All her life, she had lived amidst it – breathed it with the very air yet had never really recognized it before. The same power that defended the abbey was with her, brought to her through Colvin’s warm ha
nd.

  She had not heard another word he had said, but it was over and he lifted his hand from her head. Deep inside, she did not want him to snatch it back. She wanted to feel that sense of haven forever. Opening her eyes, she saw him kneel in front of her. His eyes were full of tears.

  “They are gone,” she whispered. “The fog and the smoke-shapes. Almaguer. They are gone. I am not afraid any more.”

  “I know,” he whispered back, barely able to speak. “The Myriad Ones were all around you. I…I did not know. But they are gone now. They are all gone.”

  It started to rain.

  * * *

  The Cruciger orb led them northwest through the tangled paths of the Bearden Muir. The day was every bit as drab, colorless and uncomfortable as the previous day – but it was no longer soulless. She was still thirsty, but that was no longer a torment. Jon had brought food to share, gathered from the kitchen and assembled in a linen napkin by Pasqua herself. Pasqua, who was worried sick about her. Pasqua who had insisted on following Jon to the porter gates to hunt for Lia herself, only to be called back by the Aldermaston and threatened with dire consequences if she defied him. Sowe, who Jon said was hidden inside the manor by the Aldermaston while the sherrif’s men shouted insults from the gates. He told her how the villagers had finally warned the sheriff’s men with the threat of a riot to make them leave.

  “Bring Lia back to Muirwood,” the Aldermaston had said. “Whatever happens in Winterrowd, she must come back. Bring her home, Jon. Bring her home.”

  There was no way to describe how that made her feel. That she, a wretched, was worthy of rescue. That the Aldermaston would not only defend her, but continue to defy the sheriff because of her choice to steal the Cruciger orb and her choice to aid Colvin. All her life, she had never felt much in the way of affection for the old man. It was an alien feeling.

  The need for fresh water was paramount in the Bearden Muir, so Lia asked the orb for a safe path to Winterrowd that would put them in the course of fresh water. The spindles had pointed the way clearly and she waited with anticipation for the chance to slake her thirst again.

  When it came, before dusk, it startled them all.

  The orb led them into a thicket between stark hills. It was thickly wooded with black, mossy oaks, overgrown and filled with stagnant pools with floating clouds of gnats and choruses of frogs. Insects sang and hummed, filling the air with their confusion. Carefully, the orb led them into the midst of the thicket, choked with skeletal trees and brush that clawed at their heads, swatted at their arms, and seemed almost impassable at times, until they reached a boulder in the center. The ground was dry around the stone, and they circled it from both sides. It whispered with power. Sure enough, it was a Leering, with the carved side facing east towards the sun, the western side shaggy with moss and speckled with lichen. There were no other boulders nearby. It seemed out of place, imposing, permanent – lonely. It was as if the thicket had grown up around it.

  Colvin and Jon stared at the carving of its face, their eyes widening in unison. They looked at each other and then at her.

  “What is it?” Lia asked, staring at the image carved into the stone. It was a human face – a girl’s face fringed with long crinkly hair. She had seen many Leerings before. It did not seem unusual to her, except for the hair which matched her own.

  “Idumea’s hand,” Colvin said breathlessly.

  Jon looked equally shocked. “I agree.” He looked at it, then at her.

  “What?” Lia asked, starting to get angry. The orb pointed to it.

  With a grimy finger, Jon reached out and traced the eyes and nose and mouth of the sculpture. “This is the Aldermaston’s work. I swear I would recognize his hand. His waymarkers. The Aldermaston made this one. But when? How long ago?”

  “Look at the moss,” Colvin said. “It’s been here for years. Here – a single boulder in the midst of a grove.”

  “The Aldermaston made this?” Lia asked. “Is that what troubles you?”

  Colvin shook his head, also reaching out and grazing his fingers across it. “No. It is the face.” He looked back at her, his eyes open in wonder. “It is your face.”

  She looked at Jon.

  “It is you, Lia. Even the hair…”

  Her world began spinning. Like the games of children when they stand and spin around, arms waving out as they twirl until they are too dizzy to stand. The Aldermaston had carved it. Her face…or her mother’s face? Why could she use the Cruciger orb and Colvin could not? Why was she so strong in the Medium?

  It was a strange, sickly feeling, but her mind asked it ruthlessly anyway. Was the Aldermaston, then, her father?

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX:

  Trapped

  There were no mirrors in Muirwood, they said, except inside a secret chamber in the abbey. Mirrors encouraged haughtiness, and so they were banned throughout the grounds. Lia did not care so much about that. As most girls did, she had a companion like Sowe who could tame her hair or daub dough off her cheek. For the most part, Lia had only seen her reflection in the dirty trough of water at the laundry, or reflected in the duck pond, or off a gleaming spoon.

  The Leering bore her face. She ran her finger down its nose, under its chin, then stroked its cheek with the back of her hand. The stone was smooth, cold to the touch, yet power seethed within it. With little more than a thought, water gushed from the eyes of the Leering, bathing her hands. Water – fresh water. After scrubbing her fingers clean, she cupped the water and drank deeply. It was cool, clean and sent tingles down to her toes. The water puddled at the base of the boulder, then started down a worn track into the bushes, thick with sedge and decaying trees. She drank until her thirst was finally slaked. Colvin rinsed his hands then followed, and then Jon took out the waterskin and filled it to the brim. Then he drank.

  “Rest here, but only a little while,” Jon said after wiping his mouth. “I will cover our trail. Do not wait for me. I know how to find you.”

  He started to leave, but Lia caught his arm. “Why did the Aldermaston carve my face, Jon?”

  “I do not know, Lia.”

  She kept her voice pitched low. “Do you think…would he have been my father?”

  His eyes were serious. “He is the last man in the world who would father a wretched. No, I do not know how he knew to carve this. But I have seen his carvings before. This one looks like his.”

  “How did it come to be here then?”

  “Perhaps he knew you would be here someday and would need it. He knows many things before they happen because he is strong with the Medium.” He smirked. “Probably why he is an Aldermaston. Let me hide our trail.” He tousled her wild hair. “If Pasqua could see you now. Bathe your face ‘ere you leave. You are filthy.”

  “You are rude to mention it, Jon Hunter. I do not know what Ailsa Cook sees in you.”

  He suffered her insolence with a grin, shaking his head, then loped back through the twisted oaks the way they came, holding his bow close against his body with an arrow ready.

  She turned back and found Colvin kneeling at the Leering, his head under its gushing waters, nearly shivering while scrubbing the back of his neck with his hand. The stallion grazed at the stiff grass. With a thought, she brought a little fire to the water – not too much – not to scald him.

  “Hot,” he said, his fingers scouring through his hair.

  “Hot cleans better,” she replied with a grin, approaching the other way. Water pattered on the muddy ground, taking his dirt and grime away. She knew him better – knew of his jealousy, his impatience. Something had changed between them. His compassion towards her – the tears in his eyes as he stared at her. Something was different. But still she hesitated near him, afraid he might recoil at her again.

  “Here, it will go faster if I help you,” she said, scrubbing the top of his head as she did for Sowe. He froze for a moment, the water dripping down his face from his nose. It was warm water. What they needed was some soap.

&n
bsp; He hiked up his sleeves and scrubbed his arms while she combed his hair with her fingers and tried to chafe away layers of dirt, scaly skin, and chalky crusts from his neck. His shirt and tunic were soon soaked as well, hugging against the chaen beneath.

  “Let me see your eyebrow, Colvin.”

  He looked up at her, swept his dripping hair back, and he looked like someone else. A thin half-formed beard outlined his jaw and mouth. Using the hem of her cloak, she sponged up some hot water and then wiped at the scab along his eyebrow. He winced, clenched his teeth, as she cleaned the wound. It did not bleed, but it would scar. The woad had kept it closed.

  “There. You smell better too,” she said, smiling. “I am pleased it is healing. Your sister will hardly notice the scar when you return.”

  “She has a gift for astuteness. As do you.”

  “I like to think I am shrewd. My pride does anyway. I am filthy as well, so help me wash so we can go. We should not tarry long.”

  “Help you?” he said, swallowing. His eyes looked panicked.

  She coiled up her hair. “Hold this up. That is all. Sowe normally helps me, but you will have to do. If you are not too proud to serve a wretched girl.”

  The water was warm and pleasant, but she liked it hotter still and thought more on the fire. Steam rose from the Leering. Its eyes glowed red. Washing was something she was good at, and quick, and it did not take long to chafe her arms and her neck while Colvin held her hair up. She wiped her face furiously, hoping to get away the smudges and dirt caked in the seams.

  “Let my hair fall,” she said finally, enjoying the burn of the water as it ran down her scalp. She fussed her hair, smoothing it down with the water until the water dripping from the ends ran clear. Then fishing the ring from her bodice, she washed it until the gold gleamed and sparkled, then stuffed it away again. The metal band was warm against her skin.