The Weeping Books of Blinney Lane

by Drea Damara

  “Because my father was a jerk?” Ricky said, flopping back down on the pillow.

  She paused at the door, hearing the disappointment in his voice. “No. He wasn’t. He just fell in love with the wrong girl.”

  SARAH CAME downstairs before sunrise the next morning and found Netta baking bread in the kitchen. She asked the woman for some of Richard’s old clothing, having decided it would be better to dress like a man and give the impression she was a peasant or hunter to anyone she might pass on her trek through the swamp. Netta directed her to some old trunks that used to sit in Richard’s room but had been moved when the raids began. She'd kept them hidden in the cellar, its door now hidden under a mat.

  Sarah rifled through the clothing and found a pair of pants that would look baggy on her and give the impression that the muscles in her legs were larger than reality. She grabbed one of Richard’s old shirts and a leather vest, as well as a thin brown cloak that would cover her head and curves but not stifle her once the day grew hot.

  She took the clothing back upstairs to change and peruse her appearance in the shard of mirror that remained in her old bedroom. She carefully gathered up the clothing she’d worn on her arrival to Farwin Wood and set it on her bed. A last look at her new wardrobe and she was content—until she noticed she still wore her bracelet.

  Sarah unfastened it and placed it on top of her folded gown. She couldn’t risk losing it in the woods or having it stolen by the robbers Dergus had warned her about. As a child, her parents had cautioned her that she might never wake up if she didn’t leave Farwin Wood with everything with which she’d arrived.

  Satisfied that she’d discarded all her Blinney Lane apparel, Sarah slung one of her brother’s old holsters across her body. She loosened it enough that it wouldn’t press between her breasts and give away her gender on first glance. She sheathed Richard’s sword in the holster and slung his old bow across her back. She peeked in on Ricky and found him snoring. She shut the door quietly and went back downstairs to the kitchen to say goodbye to Netta before she set out in search of Shelby.

  Netta forced her to sit down and eat, although she was too anxious to have an appetite. She felt horrid for what Richard and Deronda had gotten mixed up in, for what had become of Farwin Wood and its people, and now for Shelby being taken. Moreover, she wondered what had happened to turn Vasimus as relentless as Netta claimed, even if he had thought her to be dead. She had known him to be a kind and loving man. Even if she had died, as he thought, killing for revenge wouldn’t bring her back. He loved his land and his people. Couldn’t he see that they were suffering because of this bitter feud? Part of her wanted to see him and ask these questions, but she mostly wanted Shelby back safe and to leave Farwin Wood without crossing paths with him at all. That would be the safest outcome for the two children she was now responsible for.

  “Netta? Does Vasimus ever come here?” she inquired.

  Netta sipped on some hot tea, sitting across from her. “He used to quite a bit right after you—were gone, but now only a few times a year and just to see how we are doing.”

  “That’s kind of him,” she said, feeling guilty that after all these years he still checked on Allister Hall and its workers.

  “Well, I fear the kindness in him is nearly gone these days. He’s not the man you once knew him to be. There’s a restlessness about him, a deep pain that fuels him.”

  “Netta, I have to tell you something. I would have told you a long time ago, but…I didn’t want to shock you.”

  Netta chuckled. “Oh, I could do with a little excitement around here that doesn’t involve the war. It’s been a dull twenty years other than that.”

  Sarah proceeded to tell Netta about the book and Blinney Lane. She knew she didn’t need to, but her guilt over not returning was eating away at her. Netta would never give the impression she begrudged her for not coming back, but she couldn’t take the twenty years of Farwin Wood history hitting her all at once, knowing that if she had just returned to soothe Vasimus things might have been different.

  She explained how they got to Farwin Wood and how they returned, how they slept at Blinney Lane while they were also somehow in Farwin Wood. She needed Netta to know how to send Ricky back in case she didn’t return. She only left out the detail that the book was written by Durley Allister. She didn’t want to insult Netta by saying that she and her world were merely the imagination of one of Sarah’s ancestors.

  “So that’s why everyone thought you drowned.” Netta gasped.

  “I didn’t think Ranthrop would release me to Vasimus and that would cause Vasimus to fight to save me. I thought if I could become Ranthrop’s vengeance, by letting him think he'd drowned me, then he would not place any demands on the Daundecorts for what Richard and Deronda had done, so I…went home—through the water. I didn’t know it would make things worse. Now I see it was the cowardly thing to do.” Sarah stared at the crumbs on her plate, feeling like she would vomit.

  “Sarah? How can you think that sacrificing yourself was cowardly? Don’t tell me it hasn’t hurt you these many years to have given up Vasimus! I see that Richard has a son, but I haven’t heard you speak of any children.” Netta clasped her hand.

  “No. No, I have none. I never married.”

  “All these years wasted over your guilt. Sarah, you were a lovely girl who has become a beautiful, intelligent lady with much to offer. Don’t be what Vasimus has become—a sad and angry empty shell of a human being, blinded by a love he hasn’t felt in years. Was there no one that made you feel again, even through your misery?”

  Sarah let a pathetic laugh out and shook her head. “Netta, have you not heard a word I told you? There’s no magic in this world, just as people believe there is none in mine. We have to keep it a secret so people don’t think we’re insane. Even if I wanted to meet someone new, how could I explain my life to him? There’s Henry—he delivers things to my shop, and he’s always been so kind to me. It reminds me of how I felt when I was with Vasimus, but I could never tell him about the curse or the books. He’d never come back, and then I would lose the only thing that makes me happy—seeing his face when he walks through the door.”

  Netta shook her head, hearing the complexity of it all. Sarah patted her hand and stood up. “I’d best get going. There’s young love that still has a chance,” she said reassuringly.

  Dergus met her in the courtyard and helped her up onto the rambunctious stroomphblutel. It shifted under the weight of her and the saddle and shook its head, ears flapping from side to side.

  “Hey, hey now. What did we talk about?” Dergus pointed a finger at the beast’s slobbery snout. The stroomphblutel let out a yowling yawn and snorted, looking away in defiance. Dergus patted its side, soothing it. He called up to her. “You’ll be fine. You remember how to get there?”

  “Southeast. Due southeast,” she affirmed.

  “Yes, just head out behind the hall and stick to the woods. Once you hit the thick of the swamp, you’ll know you’re close, then cut south to the road.”

  Sarah looked at Dergus and wondered if it might be the last time she would see him. Deronda had proved that people could die in Farwin Wood, violently for that matter. Would it be possible for an outsider, someone from another world, to do the same?

  “You’ll make sure Ricky stays here?”

  Dergus gave her a wink and said, “He won’t get past me.”

  Sarah steered the stroomphblutel out the gate and down the road. She urged him around the corner at the end of the hall’s perimeter wall where the woods began, and they headed into the forest. She scanned through the trees in the dim light of dawn and a fog that concealed the ground. There was no one behind the hall, and she continued on, only stopping once to take a last look back before Allister Hall fell out of view.

  As the fog dispersed, she could see patches of grass that struggled to remain green and vigorous, but those sites were few as she headed toward the swamplands. She could tell by the ravaged
appearance of the woods that many parts had been burned, timber had been chopped, and a drought had killed much of the vegetation she remembered. Dergus had told her that an ample amount of rain had come through over the last few weeks, flooding much of the land. The irony of the murky landscape unsettled her. Not enough nourishment had reached this place when it needed it the most, and then too much had come, stifling any new growth.

  As the sun rose and burned off the remaining fog, Sarah could see nothing but the black quagmire of forest floor turning to swamp ahead of her. The species of trees changed as she descended to where the woods turned into marsh. The trunks were twisted and black with spiderweb foliage lounging on the limbs, creating an eerie mythical view.

  She wanted to avoid the road for as long as possible, but she could feel her stroomphblutel struggle with each step as they ventured deeper into Ranthrop’s lands. The ground was saturated, leaving a slimy, black substance under her beast’s paws. She nudged his reins, turning them due south to avoid becoming stranded on the outskirts of the swamp.

  Her stroomphblutel clearly wasn’t enjoying the ride. It snorted and shook its head at the numerous reptilian creatures that inhabited the marsh. A foul stench crept into Sarah’s nostrils, and she discovered its source as they passed by a rotting wickrit covered in gooey black mud. The wicked beast had likely ventured too far into the swamp after being chased by hunters who sought its valuable meat. She saw stroomphblutel skeletons and those of other creatures she didn’t know, but suspected they had been victims of the war.

  Once she spotted the road ahead, she halted to survey it for passersby. Two shabby-looking women shuffled along, and Sarah waited until they were far from hearing distance before approaching.

  Sarah lumbered down the road to Ranthrop’s stronghold for a good hour undisturbed. She passed a young boy who didn’t pay her much attention, as she kept her head down and under the hood of her cloak. A few minutes later, she came to a small village called Naublock. She kept her eyes ahead as she rode through the village, but she could hear the few men mingling near the market whispering curiously. She pulled her cloak away from her waist and clasped her hand around the hilt of her sword. The whispering ceased as soon as she did. After she cleared the village, she glanced back down the road, grateful to see that no one had followed.

  She drank some water from a skin flask tied to her stroomphblutel’s saddle. She wasn’t sure how obliging Ranthrop would be once he discovered her identity. She assumed the next villagers she encountered would be less intimidated than the last because she was nearing his stronghold. As the morning sun rose, she began to sweat and wiped her brow. The road curved up ahead and she heard the sound of men laughing just in time to readjust her hood.

  The men quieted as Sarah neared them, which let her know they were watching her. She rode on, intent to pass them without a word, her eyes and head fixed downward under her hood.

  “What say you there, man?” one called to her. Sarah didn’t answer. There were three men and one stroomphblutel hitched to a rickety wagon.

  “Ye’ deaf, old man?”

  She was in line with them now but decided to continue her silence. Just forget about me, you thugs, she thought.

  “That’s a nice beast you’ve got there. Don’t think I’ve seen any as good except at Groslivo’s stronghold. Where’d you get a mount like that?” another man asked from the roadside. When Sarah still didn’t respond, she heard the dirt of the road scrape under the man’s feet as he approached. From underneath her hood she saw a filthy hand reach up to grab her stroomphblutel’s reins. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

  With a swift pull, Sarah drew her sword from its holster and brought its tip to the man’s throat. She turned her head to glare down at him as his hands went up and freed her reins. “Touch those reins again and I’ll cut you a new smile,” she said, seething.

  The man gasped upon seeing she was a woman. The other two men came up behind him but stopped a few feet away, probably to discourage her promise of slicing the man’s throat.

  “She’s…a woman,” the first man whispered over his shoulder, hands still in the air.

  “I see that,” the largest of the three said, giving Sarah an icy stare. “What is a woman with a sword, alone, doing on a fine-bred stroomphblutel?”

  Sarah shifted her eyes to the domineering voice and did her best to maintain a display of courageous determination. “I am delivering a message to Lord Groslivo. Perhaps you will take me there to ensure he gets it.” She nudged her sword ever so slightly against the cowering man’s throat as she gritted out the words.

  The bossy man took a step forward but halted at his comrade’s plea. “Lunkrot, no! She’s serious. I can tell,” he whispered.

  Lunkrot exhaled angrily and glowered at her. Courtesy toward the women of Farwin Wood had clearly dissipated in the last twenty years.

  Lunkrot crossed his arms over his chest. “And from whom is this message you’re so intent on delivering that you would slice poor Dony’s worthless throat?”

  “House of Allister,” she said.

  Dony’s eyes grew and Lunkrot uncrossed his arms at Sarah’s statement. “But…no one from House of Allister has been seen in Farwin Wood in nearly twenty years,” Dony said, sputtering.

  Sarah reached up and yanked the hood of her cloak back with her free hand. “They have now,” she said and glowered at the three of them.

  Dony staggered back. The other man did the same, retreating closer to the wagon. Lunkrot stood openmouthed, his arms limp at his sides. He gazed at her intricately braided hair running down over her shoulder.

  “Shall we go share this news with Ranthrop before any more hooligans find out? I don’t think he’d take too kindly if something were to happen to me.” Sarah arched her brow at Lunkrot, assuming he’d be more cooperative by acknowledging him as the men’s leader.

  Lunkrot’s stunned look was depleted by a hint of anger after being sassed by her, yet not with near as much hostility appeared as before. He simply waved her on and strode back to the hitched stroomphblutel by the roadside.

  “Follow us,” he said, grumbling.

  Dony backed away slowly, still staring at Sarah in awe. Did he know who she was? She sheathed her sword and pulled her hood back onto her head. Dony and the other man got in the back of the wagon, which was full of sticks and vines. Lunkrot sat at the front and flicked his reins hastily to move their homely-looking stroomphblutel forward. Sarah ignored the stares from the two men on the back of the wagon and followed them into and through the next village. The morning had found people out and about in the second village who stared at the procession as they passed through town.

  As they rode on, she worried less about being vigilant, content that her escort would get her to Ranthrop’s stronghold, and more about her impending meeting with the man. She had a plan to get Shelby back and leave with the girl unscathed, but she rummaged through her mind for an alternate solution in case that plan failed. Her display of ferocity had worked on these three bumpkins, but she knew it wouldn’t likely cow Ranthrop Groslivo.

  She was used to being pleasant, finding people the right book for a lazy afternoon of reading or a research project, not intimidating people. The closest she’d ever come to being intimidating had only been recently when she’d had to do battle with Ricky. What worried her most, as she followed the men in the rickety wagon up to the gates of Groslivo Stronghold, was that if Netta warned the years had made Vasimus, someone she’d known to be loving and pleasant, become dark and brooding, what had they done to a man like Ranthrop?

  RANTHROP GROSLIVO, Lord of the Southland Swamp and Groslivo Stronghold, let out a low growling moan as he slung his bare feet off the fur-covered bed and set them on the cool stone floor of his room. His brains felt as though they were swirling inside of his skull underneath his mop of long light brown curls. He rubbed one of his hands across the expanse of his chest and scratched at the thin layer of hair that peppered his pectoral muscles. He let ou
t a disgusted breath at the feel of his aging body and stood up, letting the breeze from the window flood over his sweaty nakedness.

  His heavy footsteps slapped against the floor as he trod over to a water basin at his wardrobe. He splashed several handfuls of water onto his face and brought his head up with a shake. His bloodshot eyes peered into the mirror as water dripped from the tendrils of hair at his temples. The ever-unenthused line of his mouth, beneath the light whiskers on his trimmed beard, remained fixed in frustration as he gazed at his rough appearance. When was the last time he’d drunk that much beetleburry ale?

  The night before was not as much of a blur as Ranthrop had hoped it would be. He stomped around searching for clothing, recalling what had surpassed. The arrival of a gift from the Wortwart brothers of Oedher yesterday had disturbed his entire state. The sight of the angelic wisp of a girl who called herself Shelby had unsettled him.

  The brothers had brought Shelby there to tempt him; he knew this well enough. Surely she would have if she were older, but there was something too hauntingly familiar about her to even think about what she would be like when she became a more fitting age for his forty years. He remembered becoming enraged when he realized how much she reminded him of Deronda Daundecort in all her young beauty. The innocence of Shelby’s age brought his mind back to a time when everything in his world was pleasant and promising. After having lived so bitterly the last eighteen years, these feelings did not settle with him naturally.

  He had tried to be polite to Shelby, but then his anger would creep up and his questions would mostly come out seething, leaving the girl cowering in silence. Seeing her fear only increased his temper, yet the sight of her at ease reminded him of the face he should have woken up to each morning for the last two decades.