The Executioner's Cane

by Anne Brooke

  Ralph touched him on the shoulder, and Simon felt a flare of intent, crimson and blue, flash between them both. Ralph let go at once. He was frowning. “What do you mean? What has she told you?”

  Simon brought the cane up to his chest and took a strange kind of comfort from its warmth. At the same time, he heard a piercing note of song and the snow-raven fluttered down from the skies in a dance of clear whiteness, causing Annyeke to look warily in the bird’s direction. Knowing her instinctive dislike of the bird, he stepped between the First Elder and the snow-raven, swallowed and spoke.

  “While we fight for survival here,” he said, softly at first but gaining confidence as he continued, “Gathandria is also fighting to rebuild its great city and to rebuild our land. Our destinies are linked. The powers of rebellion given to your former cook are helped by the enemies of Gathandria in ways I struggle to comprehend. The dead spirit of the wife of one of the elders dwells in Jemelda, or so Annyeke tells me and so I believe. Perhaps this is why we have struggled to overcome her. But there is a way out of the pain of battle. Stories helped Johan and me survive on our journey to Gathandria, and now the elders believe stories can bring a lasting peace, and make our earth and air flourish again as they should do. They believe the purity of them will overcome our enemies and invigorate the land, so true peace will be restored more quickly.”

  Ralph’s response was instant, as Simon had expected. “If this is right, then we must do it. Show us how, Lost One.”

  Simon raised his eyebrows at Ralph’s use of his given title, surely the first time he’d said it, but did not comment. “You do not understand. The stories, so Annyeke says, must come from me, but I have already told those I know and I don’t think the land can use for survival and growth what has already been used for safety. Besides, in the First Elder’s dream, the parchment leaves which appeared to her were clear, which points to something new. But I am, or I was, a scribe only, a man who writes other people’s stories and the legends of the past. I am not someone who creates them from nothing. This is madness.”

  The First Elder stepped forward. “No, it is not madness, and you must listen. You have skills you do not entirely know and which have not even been thought of yet. The legends tell us so and we see it in your fellowship with the mind-cane and the snow-raven. Your powers and those gifted to you brought you back to life from the dead, which surely means you are a legend in the making, if anything can be in these day-cycles. The Book of Blood has given power to those who fight us with its emptiness. So we must fight like with like, and create something where nothing exists also. I do not exactly know how you will do it, but I know you must. Please, Simon.”

  Simon couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Each time I have any dealings with you Gathandrians, you ask me to do the impossible.”

  “Yes, that may be true,” Annyeke cut in before he could continue. “But have we ever failed you, Lost One, or in the end have you ever failed us?”

  Simon grew quiet then, the truth of what she said filling his blood and memory. He needed to think.

  Finally, he looked down at the cane and heard the low note of the snow-raven once more, but whether that was aloud or only for him he could not say. “So, you wish me to make a new legend. To make new words out of my silence. Is that it?”

  Annyeke closed her eyes briefly and then she smiled at him. “Yes. It is time for our lands to have a new story, even as we fight to give it room to grow. You must make a decision, please, Lost One.”

  Simon swallowed.

  “Then I will do it,” he said.

  Jemelda

  It didn’t take her long to plan the day-cycle for her people, and soon the women were heading to the woods nearest the village to destroy what sustenance they could find. Jemelda was determined to drive the scribe into the open where he would be more vulnerable. She and the rest of her small group would take the trees on the furthest side, near where the mountains used to be. It was important to rid the land of its remaining food, berries, roots and such like, now the earliest of the field-crops was gone. They would take enough to store for themselves and any who decided to join them, but the rest would have to starve until the murderer was dead. So be it. Her purpose was clear.

  It was hard work however, as she had known it would be. The wind chilled her through the tunic she wore and the occasional flurry of late snow froze her skin. Whenever she could, she checked how those around her were coping with the conditions and, for the most part, they looked well enough, under these circumstances. Still, she would have given all the sweet venison in the land to have strong gloves for them to wear, as the briars and thorns tore at their fingers while they plucked the berries and nuts from the branches. Not that the fruits of the season were rich in shape or abundance, but they were sustenance and must be dealt with.

  Finally they had stripped the trees in that area of their food, and returned to the cave, to meet with the women who were there before them, fresh from their similar mission of destruction. Because of this, the Lammas Lord and his men would soon be searching for them, she knew it and, even without the murderer’s mind-powers, the cave was the obvious place to start. They would need another refuge.

  “Thank you, all of you,” Jemelda said. “You are good people, and together … together we will restore our fortunes. Thank you.”

  Unexpected tears filled her eyes but she blinked them away. She felt a brief touch on her arm. It was Thomas. She squared her shoulders and nodded at him, knowing she had to show leadership or this mission would never succeed.

  “Come then,” she said to all. “Let us go beyond the furthest edge of the woods, to the place where nobody ventures. There we will be together and can give each other strength, and there it will be most difficult for the murderer and his allies to find us, until we are ready for him.”

  She waited for a ripple of agreement, albeit reluctant, to flow through the small group and then she turned and began the journey, knowing in her heart the people would follow her. What other hope did they have?

  The path from the cave would lead them away from the village and round to the south-west, skirting the winter fields and the edge of the wood, but this would take longer. Something in her blood told her they needed to hurry. The jaggedness in her head drove her onwards. They would need the quicker way, though the depths of the trees, and the perils which lay there would have to be faced and overcome, by the gods and stars above. This, therefore, was the direction she took.

  “Wait!” It was one of the night-women who called her back. “We can’t go that way. It will be full of danger.”

  Jemelda nodded and stretched out her arms to her. “I understand, please believe me. But there is so much danger everywhere we look that a little more will be only as crumbs at a feast. Besides, Tregannon’s men and the murderous scribe will soon be seeking for us after last night and there will be more danger again. Yes, there are wolves in the woods, we have heard them often enough in the past when we slept safely in our beds. Those time-cycles have gone and, though there are wolves, we also have each other, and no wolf would attack a group of people. Provided we stay close, we will be safe enough. We do not have time to take the more secure route.”

  “But what about the unknown terrors in that part of the trees?” the woman persisted, and Jemelda shook her head.

  “Those are but legends,” she said softly, reaching out to take the woman’s cold hand in hers. “They have no truth in them. If they did, do you not think that whatever lies in the woods would have been roaming our land by now, with the real terrors and loss we have lived through?”

  The woman made no reply to this, and the rest were silent also, although some of the men shuffled their feet and glanced away. Jemelda herself wondered at her words. In the recent past, she had put good store by the legends and believed what many told her, but now her life was different and she could not be that woman again. She would never be so. Then something changed in the air and she understood the people had yielded to her. />
  “Come,” she said softly. “Follow me, keep together and we will all be safe enough.”

  This time, she heard them follow and did not look back. Thus far had the power of what she had said brought them, and she was determined she would lose none of her people today, whatever they might face.

  As she walked, something puzzled at her mind, but she could not grasp it fully. It felt as if an unseen presence was nipping at her skin like a young puppy. She kept glancing around, half-expecting to glimpse a stranger alongside her on the path but there was nobody with them beyond those she already knew. Once, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a white flash in the undergrowth but when she looked fully there was nothing there. She was being foolish, and she had no time for fantasies. There was work to be done.

  Thomas stepped alongside her.

  “Did you see it, Jemelda?” he asked her. “The white streak tracking our every move.”

  “Yes,” she said, realising she should have paid more attention and focused more closely on the journey than the destination. Perhaps this was what leadership might be about, and for the first time she found herself feeling some sympathy for her former lord. Not enough though, not by many fields, oh no. “Yes, I saw it, but only a glimpse.”

  “It was like parchment,” Thomas said, eyes shadowed in the gloom. “Such as the murderer used to take for his stories, but nothing was written on it.”

  Jemelda shook her head. She could make no sense of what they had seen and therefore could not think on it. Still the jaggedness within leapt up in a flare of black and red, and she had to take several deep breaths to come to terms with the strange and rising sense of triumph.

  “No matter,” she said quickly. “If it does not harm us, there is no need to concern ourselves with it. In the end, it may even bring our purpose closer. Who knows?”

  Not waiting for any answer, she continued her journey with a greater confidence. Still, even though she had denied the power of the legends, they still lurked at the edges of her understanding and in her blood. At the corner, the wood began with oaks and elders, their branches snagging at her threadbare cloak and the remains of snowfall sliding onto her hair as she brushed past. She could smell the earthiness of bracken and bark, and the breeze’s dank chill made her shiver. In the weak winter sunlight there had been some kind of warmth, but here she found none.

  Behind her, she heard someone stumble and cry out but, by the time she swung round to help, the woman who had almost fallen had recovered. She nodded at Jemelda who smiled, briefly, and continued their journey.

  “Be careful,” she whispered, “and keep as close to me and each other as you can.”

  Once again Jemelda did not wait for an answer as the need to forge a path through the woods to what she trusted would be a refuge on the other side was almost overwhelming. She could feel the tension in her neck and rubbed her shoulders to try and ease it but it did no good. It was so dark, darker than she had ever imagined. If she let the lurking fear of the legends overcome her, it might feel as if she and her people would never see daylight again. No wonder the Lammassers never travelled here, and no wonder the wolves made their home in this place.

  How she wished the murderer had never come to them and the war had never begun. Soon the stars would surely turn and shine more kindly on them once more. Until then, all she had to do was guard her people and bring them quickly to the safety beyond the wood. Surely the gods would allow her such a small request. There, perhaps, the day she longed for would come upon them. The stars knew she was ready for it.

  So she kept on walking, fighting her way through the undergrowth, praying as she’d never prayed before that they would soon reach the safety and completion she longed for. Her heart was beating fast and her skin was hot, even in the coldness which assaulted them all. Her hands and arms were scratched with the effort of beating down the thorns and stray branches, and she hoped she was providing some measure of protection to those behind her.

  They must have been nearly halfway through the woods when the strange flash of white appeared again, this time directly in front of her. For a moment she thought it was a wolf and, in spite of all her determination, cried out and came to an abrupt halt. She spread her arms wide as if to protect them from its sharp jaws and only then did she see it was no animal. Neither was it anything she recognised but simply a flow of whiteness drifting through the trees. It made her heart rise, and she blinked and tried to see more clearly in the gloom.

  “That’s it,” Thomas whispered in her ear. She had not realised he had been so close behind her. “It’s the vision, the blank parchment. It must be some evil thing sent by the murderer. See, we must destroy it and then perhaps the murderer’s power will be gone.”

  Before she could stop him, the blacksmith pushed her aside so she fell against the roughness of bark, and then darted towards the vision, flailing wildly in an attempt to seize it. The shimmer of white separated and flowed over him so for one long moment Jemelda could no longer see him at all. She heard him scream out and a wave of anger pushed her forward, shouting, as if any of her words might drive away whatever it was which had been sent to attack them.

  A heartbeat later and the whiteness surrounded Jemelda too. She thought she might have cried out but couldn’t be sure as her voice was nothing but emptiness and air. Every thought, every wish, every hatred and every love was sucked from her as if she were nothing but vapour, as if she had never been born.

  Beyond this, however, something stronger than her very self, that wilder presence she could not begin to name held on to her. A rush of sound in her ears, like water, then she stretched out her hands and met the softness of cloth and the warmth of skin. She would save this man from his own foolishness; he was necessary for her purpose.

  Thomas?

  How she longed to say his name but her tongue was trapped and she could not speak. Thomas. In her grasp he was suddenly a dead weight and she could barely hold him, and herself, upright. What was happening? This was her time, her mission and she would allow none to thwart it. Thomas’ foolhardiness would ruin all her plans and desire. He might even kill them all.

  She could not allow him to do this evil. And she would not: from inside her in a place she didn’t know she had, a scarlet rage exploded. It filled the blankness of her blood and mind, gave power to her skin and flesh so she could reach for Thomas’ head, open her mouth and breathe that same fire that filled her over him also.

  That fire was words: angry, bitter ones which terrified her to feel but thrilled her too. The flow of them through and over her was like being plunged into the baker’s ovens when the heat was rising. When, in her life at the castle, she had passed by the place where the corn-bread was made where the fires were hottest, they had all but scalded her skin. This was a hundred times more powerful and more fulfilling. The bitter heat made Thomas jump and groan, and she felt him struggle to stand. And suddenly, because of the fire or because of whatever dwelt within her or perhaps both, Jemelda found her voice again.

  “Let it go, Thomas!” she cried out, holding him fast to her. “Let it go. Use the rage I’ve given you and find your words and your mind again. Come back to us and do not ruin what we have so bravely started.”

  She didn’t know if she’d reached him, or if she ever would, but then he groaned again and this time she recognised the ramblings of speech, though she could make no sense of it. She felt as if the ingredients were there, in her very grasp, but she could not blend them together to make anything good. Because of this, the strange anger flared up out of her again and plunged once more into the man she held. He opened his mouth – she could see it this time – and she heard words. Real words. She was not going to lose what she’d come here for by all the stars above.

  “Jem-el-da?... What …?”

  “Come back to us,” she said, realising how hoarse she sounded, as if she was learning to speak for the first time. “You have been a fool, Thomas, but we can still salvage the power we ha
ve, if you come back.”

  As the sheer brightness of the vision loosened its hold on them, and the white emptiness began itself to disappear, Jemelda kept on murmuring any words that came into her head. They were a barrier against the whiteness whose strength had been summoned too soon. They drew back Thomas’ soul from wherever it had been taken and made things right again.

  Gradually, the trees and the bracken shimmered into view and she could smell the dankness of grasses and wood. Thomas breathed more steadily against her but he was quiet and she knew she alone couldn’t return things to where they should be. Anger flared within her again, but then she saw the rest of the people on their knees or clinging to branches around them.

  “Speak,” she said as clearly as she could. “Please, say anything at all. The vision has taken our words and lives away, when its purpose is surely to help us not to fight us, and we must bring ourselves back if the scribe is to truly die. So speak, as I do not have words enough for the task.”

  For another moment, silence. And then the words began to come. Meaningless and uncertain at first, but still that pure melding of thought and sound. It reminded her of the delicious moment when a new recipe came together and she knew it would be good. It kept the darkness at bay. Her people’s words grew stronger and Jemelda began to recognise prayers and old tales, and the names of loved ones, both dead and living.

  Finally Thomas shuddered and opened his eyes. He stared right at her as if he had no idea who she was, and then she saw the glimmer of memory and life come back to him. “Jemelda?...”

  “Thank the stars and gods,” she whispered, words coming to her from deep within where the glorious darkness lay. “You are with us once more. You had, I think, almost destroyed our mission, but we are ourselves again. Some things we fear might actually be for our greater good, Thomas, and you must learn to trust me for this. But, no matter, now we are safe again.”