Navarin, Thunder and Shade

by William Stafford

  There was never a wizard around when you wanted one.

  Eight

  While Broad dozed, Shade slipped out under the shed door. He floated to the farmhouse and an open window, which took him to the farmer’s bedroom. The man was snoring like a pig with catarrh.

  Lots of humans die in their sleep... The thought was tempting. It would be so easy to move that pillow over his face and push down. While I have strength enough to do it. If I don’t feed soon I won’t be able to do anything. The farmer could fart in his sleep and I would be powerless to waft it away from my nose.

  The farmer stirred and rolled over. Shade squeezed out between the door hinges and glided along the corridor to the girls’ room. Perhaps one of them was on her way out. A weak heart, perhaps, or a haemorrhage... They were easy enough to bring about and no one (by which he meant Broad) would suspect.

  Shade scolded himself for even thinking of such things. He had never taken a human life despite what his instincts urged him to do on a nightly basis. He had sworn to himself only to feed on those who were already dying, and he was not prepared to break that vow, just because there were no suitable candidates in the vicinity.

  But as my strength fades, so does my will power...

  It wouldn’t hurt to check the girls out. See if any of them had a terminal illness they perhaps didn’t know about.

  ***

  The girls’ room contained seven beds, six of which were stacked in pairs. The beds were hung with the occupants’ clothing, partly as a way to keep the garments neat and free of creases, but mainly to afford each sister a modicum of privacy.

  As they drifted off to sleep, the girls smiled; they were thinking of the handsome and muscular youth billeted in the turnip shed. Soon would come the Choosing when he would be called upon to select one of the farmer’s daughters to impregnate. She who gave birth would stand to inherit the farm - or rather, the offspring would. The lad would then have to perform the same office for the other six, for the farm must have hands to work it. Each girl was sure that she would be First Chosen, but none was more certain than Philomeny in her single bed. She grinned to herself and patted her pillow. She had something the others did not, something that belonged to the boy and which gave her bargaining power, should her looks and comely figure fail to single her out.

  She delved her hand under the pillow to clutch the thing now. It was velvety soft and her fingers revelled in it. No one knew she had it. She had filched it from the youth’s jerkin pocket when she was carrying out repairs. It was, at first, an unprepossessing object, a sack like any other, but it was lined with plush fabric of a deep crimson hue. It reminded her of the underbelly of the conies she would skin for stew.

  She could make such a stew for the youth! Navarin from the finest turnips. She added it to her arsenal of attractive qualities as sleep made her eyelids heavy and her thoughts floated away.

  Shade seeped into the room, listening to the steady breathing, whistles and snorts of the sleeping girls. He peered at each one; they were all robust and healthy. That’s what life on a farm does for you, he observed, more than a little annoyed. He came to a single bed tucked away in a corner and hovered over the occupant. Perhaps she was the runt of the litter and, being farmers, they would all know the life expectancy of a runt is often cut short...

  But no, she looked as hale and hearty as the rest of them and inordinately pleased with herself as though she were dreaming about winning first prize in a smugness competition.

  Shade was about to give up and go back to the farmer to see if his heart would stop, when he sensed something else was in the room with him. A thing of darkness himself, Shade did not have to rely on light to see in the gloom.

  The girl’s hand was under her pillow. She was holding something - something that was giving off an aura, almost as if it was calling out to him. Shade elongated his fingers and reached under it. He withdrew his hand as if the thing had bitten him.

  The wizard’s poke!

  He had forgotten Broad had had it on him and now the grinning ninny was keeping it for herself - the little thief! Well, we would see about that!

  He tugged at her pillow - my, but her head was heavy! (or was it because he was weakening?) - until it came free and he was sent crashing backwards into a dresser, knocking a pitcher and a washbowl clattering to the floor.

  Instantly, the girls were awake and screaming. Shade dropped the pillow and blended into the shadows. A couple of the girls struck sparks in tinderboxes and lit tapers.

  “Someone’s here!” cried Droosa in alarm.

  “Is it the boy?” clapped Gartha excitedly. “Has he come for me?”

  “Why would he come for you?” sneered Carpella. “I’m the tallest.”

  “Perhaps he’s not into lanky beanpoles,” countered Gartha. The girls were soon all squabbling among themselves, until the door was kicked open and their father came in, wearing his nightshirt and cap, his pitchfork at the ready.

  “What the hell is all this racket? It’s like a fox has got in with the chickens.” His eyes narrowed as they scanned the room. “He’s here! That boy!”

  “No!” the girls cried, to protect their beloved boy, even though they did not know the truth of it.

  Only Philomeny was not taking part. She was lying on her back, desperate to keep the precious sack out of sight. The farmer rounded on her.

  “You, girl! On your feet! What’s the cause of this commotion?”

  “I - I don’t know.” Philomeny did not move. A look of desperate anguish had knocked the smug grin off her face, Shade was gratified to see.

  “Get up!” her father menaced her with the pitchfork. “I’m going to turn your bed over and if yon youth is under there, I’m going to put holes in him like I’m preparing him for seeding.”

  “No! Daddo, no!” the girls shrieked. Philomeny did not move. Her eyes implored her father - the stars - anyone! - to come to her aid.

  “When I say get up, girl, you get up,” her father roared. He drove his pitchfork into the straw pallet. The girls screamed. Philomeny rolled aside. Quick as a flash, the farmer snatched up the sack and puzzled over it. Behind him, the daughters gasped in surprise.

  “Give it back!” Philomeny pleaded. “It’s not yours.”

  “Not yours neither,” said the farmer. He plunged his hand inside it. “Empty!” he sounded disappointed. “Is this what all the ruckus is about?”

  He peered into the bag and put his hand in it again. He pinched the bottom between his fingers and pulled it inside out, exposing the soft, velvet lining.

  “Well, now,” he stroked the sack’s new exterior, “Isn’t that all soft and warm? Reminds me of your mother - rough on the outside, soft on the in-”

  To illustrate, he put his hand in the sack, feeling its roughness. His expression changed. His face went rigid and pale. He took out his hand, only there was no hand to take out. The sleeve of his nightshirt ended in nothing - as though the hand had been sliced off.

  “Daddo?” said Gartha, venturing forward.

  The farmer dropped the sack. The girls sprang back but Philomeny stooped swiftly to pick it up. The farmer was staring at the space where his hand used to be, his face a mask of confusion and horror. Philomeny inverted the sack and shook it. Nothing came out.

  She put her hand in.

  “No!” cried her sisters but it was too late.

  Philomeny’s arm went in, up to her shoulder, even though her arm was longer than the bag. “Help me!” she screamed, as the bag climbed over her head.

  The screaming stopped.

  The sack yawned over the girl, swallowing her right down to her feet. It dropped to the floor, looking as empty as it ever did. The farmer’s daughters - now only six - squeaked in terror and jumped back.

  Shade floated down from the ceiling. The girls gave him a
wide berth, this man of smoke and shadow. He picked up the poke and turned it inside out again, pushing the bottom from the outside.

  “Ladies,” he saluted. He headed for the window but the farmer, roaring in anger, swung the pitchfork at him. The prongs went right through him. Holes appeared in Shade’s torso and then filled in again. The girls backed away, clinging to each other and muttering prayers.

  “Get out of my house, demon!” roared the farmer.

  “I am doing,” said Shade. “Give us a chance.”

  “And give us that bag back,” the farmer grabbed at the sack. “My daughter’s in there. And so’s my hand!”

  Even a one-handed man was too strong for Shade at this point. The farmer pulled the bag toward his chest and reached in with his remaining hand.

  “Daddo, no!” cried several of the girls.

  The farmer turned the sack velvet-side-out and tried to peer inside. “Philomeny?” he asked. His voice echoed back as though he had called into a chasm. “You in there, girl?”

  “Careful, Daddo!” cried Pethory, but it was too late. The sack snapped shut on the farmer’s nose. He struggled to pull it from his face. The girls screamed. Where their father’s nose had been was nothingness.

  The sack wriggled and squirmed itself free of his grasp. It sprang at the farmer’s head and soon that too was gone. And so was the farmer, down to his bare feet. The sack launched itself at Pethory’s leg, munching its way up to her knee, her thigh. A couple of sisters tried to pull the girl away but the sack gaped wide, for only a second, and swallowed them too. The bewitched bag backed the last three girls into a corner.

  Gartha appealed to the shadow man for help, but Shade was growing weaker. A draught from the window was making him flutter like a net curtain. The girl was gone, her cry cut off abruptly. Her sister went next, but the last girl, Droosa, was shaking her head. Her breath caught in her throat and she clutched at her chest as her heart gave out from the shock. Her eyes rolled back and she fell forward onto her face.

  Shade knew he didn’t have much time. He swooped on the dying girl and fed on her departing soul. The wizard’s poke dropped to the floor, still apparently empty.

  And that was the scene Broad Shoulders walked in on, in time to see his shadow companion feeding on a poor human girl, the rest of her family nowhere to be seen.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” said Shade, almost solid again.

  But Broad wasn’t listening. He picked up the poke and stormed out.

  “You need to be careful with that,” Shade called after him. “It’s not what it looks like either.”

  ***

  Lughor brooded over a tankard of mead in a corner of the Star and Donkey. The drink was sickly sweet, the opposite of his temperament. He considered asking the wench to exchange it for ale or porter but she seemed to be avoiding his table. Yes, the place was busy and she was hard pressed to fetch and carry for the men who hailed her and mauled her, assaulting her with their eyes and lingering, lecherous looks. The girl bore it all with good humour; she was a hard worker. Perhaps I’m imagining it. Perhaps she’s so busy she hasn’t noticed me - no, she’s too aware of her surroundings; her eyes are everywhere, beyond what might be necessary to make her a good serving wench. There is a haunted look in those eyes. Her smile doesn’t quite reach them.

  A twinge from the tiny sword pendant beneath his shirt pulled his attention from the girl. He sat up and scanned the bar for disembodied hands crawling toward him.

  Commotion across the room caught his attention. Men jeered and laughed; they parted to allow the serving wench to pass, backing off as though in fear. The girl’s face was like thunder. A lout pursued her. He grabbed her arm and spun her around.

  “Now, girly, nobody smacks Tagwort Frask in the chops and gets away with it.”

  He pulled her close to him. She stiffened in resistance and stamped on his foot. Frask cried out in pain but did not let her go. “I like them fiery,” he laughed. “Come here and let me douse your flames.”

  The onlookers cheered. The wench struggled as Frask’s puckered lips bore down on her.

  “I shouldn’t have slapped your face,” she cried. “What I should have done-”

  Frask doubled over as Gonda’s knee connected with his private parts. He dropped to his knees, his face a picture of agony. The spectators did not know whether to wince in sympathy or laugh at Frask’s discomfort. From the floor, Frask called to his drinking buddies to seize the wench.

  “That they shall not!” a stranger’s voice called out. Lughor put himself between the girl and the crowd. He swished his cloak aside to reveal the sword at his belt.

  “Now, now,” said the barrel-shaped innkeeper, “We don’t want no trouble.”

  “You’ve got it,” said the warrior. He turned to the girl. “Are you all right, Miss?”

  Gonda nodded rapidly. Her heart was racing, preparing her to flee at the first opportunity. There were too many men between her and the exit.

  Frask’s friends helped him to his feet but he was unable to stand up straight. Breathing hard, he scowled at the girl. “That little tart gave me the come-on,” he squeaked with as much indignation as he could muster. He appealed to the innkeeper for arbitration. “Girl like that is always asking for it; everybody knows that.”

  All eyes turned to the innkeeper. His forehead furrowed in thought. On the one hand, he had to keep his customers happy. On the other there was the girl: she was an excellent worker, he had no complaints on that score, but, well, she was a newcomer, and a stranger. Frask and his ilk had been handing money over the bar for years.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his shoulders slouching. “You’re sacked.”

  Gonda’s mouth was wide with injustice. She looked ready to jump onto the counter and launch herself at the innkeeper’s neck. The warrior adjusted his stance so she would be unable to get past.

  “You will be paying the girl for her work,” Lughor addressed the innkeeper. It was not a question.

  “He better!” cried Gonda.

  “Well...” the innkeeper wiped the back of his neck with his hand. “Once I’ve served these gentlemen a round of drinks for their trouble, there won’t be much left.”

  Frask and his friends laughed. Lughor drew his sword. All eyes traced the lethal length of the gleaming blade. Nobody moved.

  Lughor sought to control his breathing. The last thing he wanted was another bloodbath, another tavern reduced to a slaughterhouse, but he could feel the anger rising within him, could almost see a red mist forming before his eyes.

  Something in the warrior’s expression - or perhaps it was his weapon - softened the innkeeper’s heart. He grabbed some bread, cheese and other foodstuffs and wrapped them in a cloth along with a bottle of ale and a handful of coins. “For the road,” he grunted, tossing the bundle to the wench.

  Lughor nodded. He moved toward the door with the girl shielded behind him, keeping his sword trained on the men and on Frask in particular. They reached the threshold.

  “Go,” he told her.

  “Thank you!” Gonda shed tears of gratitude.

  “Just go!” Lughor snapped but the girl stayed where she was.

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  “What? No! I travel alone.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I don’t like complications,” he tried to explain. But Gonda the goose girl was gone.

  Lughor kicked the door shut behind him. He tossed his sword from hand to hand and beckoned to the crowd of men.

  “Come on then,” he said.

  ***

  Gonda hurried to the stables, cradling the parcel to her as she was wont to carry the boy. He would just have to walk, there were no two ways about it. He-

  The heap of straw was no longer a heap. It was spread across th
e floor and trampled. Gonda’s heart leapt to her throat. She searched for him anyway, knowing it would be in vain, before she started. Had someone found him and taken him away? People from the village? Were they here? Someone else? Or had the boy woken up and found himself abandoned, stashed away in straw like the prize in an egg hunt? Had he wandered off? Run away?

  All of these questions and more raced through Gonda’s mind, crowding each other out so that she couldn’t find answers to any of them. With panic heaving in her chest, she searched every clump of hay that might be large enough to conceal the child. Frantic, she checked every stall, making the horses nervous. They whinnied and snorted, stamping their hooves on the floor. She burst out into the yard and opened her mouth - but what could she call? She did not know the boy’s name, she realised.

  Probably a good thing, she closed her mouth again. No one is supposed to know we’re travelling together.

  Oh, where are you, boy? I’m sorry I left you on your own. Please be all right; please!

  Out here, there was only the tavern and the road. And the darkness. Overhead, thunder rumbled behind the clouds. If he has wandered off... If he’s been taken...

  Gonda didn’t know what she would do in either eventuality. She hoped the former scenario was the case. The boy had woken up, found himself alone, and had left the stables to find out where he was - where I am! - A pang of guilt pinched her stomach. I left him. I left him all alone. I shouldn’t have.

  She tried to picture the scene: the boy emerging from the stables, rubbing those big doll’s eyes of his, strands of hay clinging to his hair, his clothes. Where would he go? Off into the dark, the impenetrable shadows, where anything might lurk - anything with teeth and claws and a taste for young children. Or, would he go to the tavern, where there were lights, albeit dim ones, gleaming softly through the windows? Where there were people, loud, drunken people, but still people just the same.

  If I were him, that’s where I would go.

  But I’m not him. And he’s not like any other little boy I’ve ever known. Why would he go toward people when it was people that left him in a burning house to die?