The Bellringer

by William Timothy Murray

  "You must keep the house and the silver," she said at last. "I do not want them."

  "But, Sheila—"

  "No!" she stammered, her face contorted with conflict. "I want no part of that man!"

  "I cannot keep the silver, by law," Mr. Ribbon said. Though he did not expect this reaction, he immediately understood it. "An' the house I only acquired for yer sake."

  "For my sake? I do not mean to sound ungrateful, Mr. Ribbon," she answered sharply. "I cannot pay you for the house, even if I wanted it. And the thought of profit coming to me from that man, by any means, makes me sick!"

  She clutched at the edge of the desk with her hands, as if to keep herself steady, and Mr. Ribbon smiled painfully and nodded as he put his hand on hers.

  "It is not profit, dear lass," he said. "He took from ye more than all the lands an' silver could ever repay. An' it is not as a friend to yer uncle that I pass these things to ye, for he had no friend in this house. Ye must take these coins 'cause thar rightfully yers. A small amount of what he kept from ye all them years. Give it all away, er use 'em as ye wish. If yer uncle whar still alive, these things would do no one any good. But, at least with ye, they might. Now, I never knowed yer folk, never met yer parents, that is. But I went down to see Mick Tatty, the ol' ferryman down at New Green Ferry, 'cause the tavern keep said Mick whar kin to yer uncle somehow. Turns out that ain't so, but Tatty knew somethin' 'bout yer kinfolk, from bein' raised in the same parts way south, in Tracia, an' from some dealin' with yer uncle some years back. Tatty told me he heard yer mum died, an' then yer father took sick, or else got into some kinda trouble. Tatty couldn't remember exactly. Anyhow, he told me that when bad things befell them lands, yer father set up his stepbrother with the farm here in Barley, as a way of gettin' ye away, an' on condition that Steggan take care of ye, protect ye, an' keep ye safe. Tatty's still got kinfolk down that way, but it's a long way off an' he's not even sure of his own folks' situation anymore. An' he couldn't even remember yer father's name, 'cept that Pradkin didn't ring a bell to him. Tatty thought the fever took all yer folk like it did so many of his own down thar an' so many others in them parts. So, the long an' short of it is, I don't think nobody's left to make any claims on yer uncle or on yer own self."

  He could see that Sheila knew nothing about any of that. Great, glassy pools formed in her eyes as she stared at Mr. Ribbon, and he sighed as his heart broke for her, and his soft, chocolate eyes stung, too.

  "I am so sorry not to have made it me business to learn these things long ago," he said. "It is me own shame an' the shame of all us folk in Barley an' Passdale not to have helped ye. We oughta knowed, at least after a bit, that yer uncle was no good, an' it was right apparent how much he cared 'bout yer keepin'. I guess we minded too much of our own business. Anyhow, yer uncle warn't the only one what didn't treat ye fair, the shame of it on all us other grownups for breakin' our faith to the children an' our oath to the King. So now all this ain't gonna change the past, this here silver an' that run-down house out yonder in Barley, an' no one's to blame ye for cursin' us all an' wishin' us to soak in hell."

  The dams holding back the pools in Sheila's eyes broke, and tears fell hard on her lap. Her breathing was short, and she kept swallowing but remained silent, now looking at Mr. Ribbon pleadingly.

  "But mebbe," he went on, daring to glance back at her as she put her other hand on top of his and squeezed it between hers, "mebbe it'll help ye do without the likes of weak-willed neighbors such that we are."

  "I cannot repay you for the house," she managed to say. "And I can tell you that I will never wish to live there again."

  "What ye do with the house, then, can be decided with time," Mr. Ribbon said. "An' I'll be yer helper in any way ye'll let me. Perhaps we'll chat some tomorrow about all this, an' ye've had the time to sink it in, as it were."

  • • •

  Later that day, Sheila and Robby at last had a real conversation about things that mattered. They worked together rearranging items from the fresh shipment. It was fairly busy in the store, as it always was after new goods arrived, but, between customers and chores, they did speak.

  "Your father has done me a great favor," Sheila said to Robby as she handed up some bolts of canvas to put into the high racks. "I mean, how he managed my uncle's property, and how he has passed all of that on to me."

  "He has a head for business," Robby nodded, climbing down from the ladder. "And for doing the right thing."

  "I suppose so."

  "How do you feel about it all? You looked a bit upset for awhile this morning."

  "I was. I'm pretty bitter about Steggan. How he treated me. The things he did. I still feel strange about it all. I mean, he is the last man I would ever want to give me anything."

  "Even though he, among all men, probably owed you the most?"

  "Yes, even though."

  Robby pushed the ladder out of the way and rolled a keg of oil out of the narrow aisle and into the space where the cloth had been stacked.

  "What am I to do with the place? I hate it! I surely don't want to live there. Those days I spent out at Tulith Attis, with Ashlord, there were times that I felt truly free of my uncle, free of that place. Like I never felt before. If it had not been for Ashlord's instruction to come back here with you, I don't think I ever would have. And if Steggan was still alive, I would have stayed away."

  "I can understand that. But, look, he certainly is dead, and I for one am as glad of it as any. I mean, now you really are at last free of Steggan. So, don't you think this is your chance? Didn't you go to Ashlord wanting to make something more of yourself?"

  "Yes, I suppose. But—"

  "Well, now you have some means to do more. If you want to. To live a little more comfortably, perhaps. As far as the house goes, you can sell it, or rent it, a lot of things. You don't have to live there. And you don't have to decide anything right away. Maybe if Ashlord ever shows up, you can talk to him about it."

  "Maybe. Maybe I'll sell it. I'm not sure I want to keep it. I'm grateful to your father, for all that he has done. I shouldn't have acted like such a child this morning. And I'm grateful to you and Mirabella, too, for putting me up here, and, well, for putting up with me."

  Robby smiled.

  "I can't think of another soul I'd rather put up with."

  "You sweet man," she said tenderly. For a moment they shared eyes as they had not for months, drawing closer in heart, if not in body. The spell was broken by the sound of Mirabella's light footsteps on the stairs.

  "Robby," she said, as she emerged around a shelf, "don't forget your errands."

  "Oh, yes. I had altogether forgotten."

  "Errands?" Sheila asked, her face resuming the steady but blank expression she commonly wore these days.

  "Yes," Robby said, pulling off his apron. "The store agreed to pick up some pickling cider from Carth's farm. I'll need to go get the wagon from the livery and head on out there. Wanna come?"

  "Oh! Well, no. I think I'd better stay. I promised I'd help put away things."

  "It can wait," suggested Mirabella.

  "No. I'll stay."

  "Very well! I'll be back by supper!"

  "Be careful!" Mirabella called after him just as several townfolk entered the store to make their purchases.

  • • •

  The rest of the afternoon was busy. Between customers, Mirabella showed Sheila how to use the measuring scales and how to count out nails by the pound. Sheila watched carefully how Mirabella waited upon the people who came into the store, making each one feel at home and answering their questions patiently. Around mid-afternoon, Mr. Ribbon popped in for a bite to eat, took care of a few accounts while he ate, and then left again to do more mayoring. Business slowed to a lull, and the two women sat behind the counter watching the occasional carts roll by outside, each to her own thoughts for a long while. In one of the passing carts was Mrs. Greardon and her little boy, riding alongside a worker as they brought more lumber to t
he mill. Sheila watched her go by, and she could not help but wonder how the widow was coping after the loss of her husband.

  "Mira," said Sheila at last, "I don't mean to pry into things that are not my concern, but what would you do if anything ever happened to Mr. Ribbon?"

  Mirabella looked at Sheila thoughtfully. "Well, I would miss him terribly. But I would keep all of the memories I have of him."

  "Do you think you would ever marry again?"

  "Ever is a long time to some of us," Mirabella replied, knowing what Sheila was asking. "Until I met Robigor, I had no mind to ever marry at all. But I wanted to be with him, and when he asked for my hand, he had already won my heart. He knew what it was that he asked, but he asked out of his own heart and cared not for the dowry. He knew I would not age as he, and I knew that I would someday be parted from him just as I have been parted from others that were dear to me. Our lives are together, now, even if our bodies are apart. He is with me now, even as he goes about his work, and I am with him. And so we are bonded."

  Sheila turned away, absently watching some workmen ambling along the road, their shovels and other tools over their shoulders, laughing with one another.

  "What would become of me?" Mirabella mused aloud. "Would I ever marry again? Hm. I have met those of my own kind who have had many spouses over the years. But I do not know them well enough to know if they..."

  Sheila turned back to Mirabella and saw by her creased brow that some profound thought confounded her. The Elifaen lady turned her green eyes searchingly to Sheila.

  "I think that maybe love is not everything," she went on. "But maybe, in its many forms, it is what makes everything else bearable. And even the loss of the one you love may somehow be made less of a loss, if one may bear it. My mother died of grief over her sons. And I nearly sank into oblivion. The love of my husband and the love I have for him lifted me away from all that. I hope to honor his love—our love—by never sinking away like that again. I will not know if that strength is within me, shall I? Until faced by that circumstance."

  She smiled at Sheila.

  "But we are all still young," she said. "There is some bond between you and Robby, too, is there not?"

  "Yes," said Sheila awkwardly. "Although I am not sure there ought to be."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "It is hard for me to explain. He has done so much for me. He taught me to read. You know about that. He taught me about other things by being my friend. With me he is...gentle. I don't know how to say it. I know Robby's that way with everyone, but especially so with me. I asked him not to tell anyone about us, but we have been secretly meeting and, well, favoring each other with our attentions for over two years. I made him promise not to tell. And he honored that promise, even though he argued and argued against it. I think he is braver than I am. When it comes to people, that is. But he and I are so different. And the closer we became, and the more I..., I mean, the more we grew to like each other..."

  Sheila was now blushing as she struggled to explain. Yet she could not bring herself to say aloud to Robby's mother those things she feared most, that the Wild Girl would always be only that and no more. That Robby was too fine for her, too much of a gentleman for her. She faltered under Mirabella's studied gaze.

  "Anyway," she struggled on, "to answer your question, yes, there is a strong bond between us."

  "I have suspected something of the sort," Mirabella nodded. "And I suspected even more when Robby became so anxious over your whereabouts this summer. I overheard him questioning Billy about you one day when the boy came to fetch some tinctures for Frizella. I wondered why Frizella needed them since she is always so well-stocked. But Billy said no one had been injured on the farm, as far as he knew. There was your uncle's death, too, which alarmed everyone, even though his demise was a relief to some, I must admit. The day after Robigor and Robby discovered your uncle's body, Frizella came to town. She told Robigor and me about what your uncle did."

  "So you knew all along I was with Ashlord?"

  "Yes. Frizella cautioned us not to tell anyone, not even to send for you when it came time to dispose of your uncle's property. I hope Robigor managed that to your satisfaction?"

  "Yes. He did, of course. But Robby didn't know?"

  "We said nothing to him. We didn't try to prevent his looking for you, except to keep him as busy as we could around here. Frizella said it was what you needed. Time away. She said that Robby and you were very fond of each other and that Robby might question us."

  "So you knew that he would find me when he came out to Ashlord's."

  "Yes, but that couldn't be helped. There was no one else to go. We could not refuse Ullin. We only hoped that by then you wouldn't mind too much. I'm sorry if that was not so. But, as things turned out, I am grateful you were there, when Robby was in need. I only wish we had been more helpful to you when you were in need."

  Sheila nodded just as the blacksmith arrived with more nails and hammers to deliver.

  "Affernoon, ladies!" he greeted them heartily, dropping the heavy keg on the floor with a thud and putting the box of hammers on top of it. "Thirty pounds of medium nails. An' some fine hammers hot off the anvil, complete with sturdy ash handles."

  Chapter 13

  Robby Takes His Walk

  Day 44

  201 Days Remaining

  For his part, Robby agreed with Mr. Bosk and thought a militia would be a good idea. The memory of how the intruders had fought, unhesitantly taking on more than four times their number, was still keen. And he remembered the Dragonkind, in particular, who had fought in the most ferocious way. A few days after Mr. Bosk's visit, Billy himself, on an errand into town to pick up a few things, came by to see Robby. Billy told Robby how the head of the Dragonkind, still piked over the gate, had become something of an attraction in the area. With typical enthusiasm, Billy related in the most gruesome terms that he could muster how the other heads rotted right away, turning black and pecked to shreds by crows, dripping with maggots, and filled with swarms of flies.

  "But old Lizzerd just sits thar turnin' redder 'an scarlet with ever' passin' day," he said. "Not a bird er bug'll touch him, an' his teeth're sharp an' white. Folks come from all over, I tell ye, only to lay eyes on the sight! An' some from as far off as beyond Janhaven. I've been tellin' me ol' man we oughta take a pence for every sightseer, but he'll have nuthin' of it, sayin' it's good advertisement on what happens to bad folk what come marauderin' in our parts."

  Billy was soon satisfied that these descriptions filled Robby with a similar morbid fascination as his own, though perhaps Robby was not as enthusiastic as could be hoped, and Billy was delighted to be able to share such disgusting detail with his friend. But, alas, he had to take his leave of Robby, pleading a short leash and saying that his parents hardly ever allowed him out of their sight since the flood.

  So the days passed quickly, yet, to Robby, they did not seem to go anywhere, each day seeming very much like the one before. His wounds healed steadily enough, and since returning to Passdale he had not experienced any further fever from the bites. He no longer needed bandages, and he no longer felt any pain, though the scars might always be with him.

  Sheila came and went, but mostly stayed nearby, helping Mirabella and sometimes Robby. Though he always looked forward to seeing her, they rarely had a chance to speak. He wondered how much his mother knew, whether Sheila or Frizella had since confided to Mirabella her true condition when she showed up at Bosk Manor that awful night. Robby was careful never to bring up the topic of the lost child with Sheila, for fear that it would just be too upsetting. As for whether and what Sheila shared with Mirabella...well, her business was, after all, her own.

  As for himself, he followed his mother's advice and stayed busy, and he told his father no more after the night the strange coins arrived. He continuously pondered everything—Sheila, the Great Bell, the wolves, the stone soldiers, Ashlord—and in his scarce spare time, he mulled over his father's maps more than
ever, read and re-read all of the books he could find of tales and histories, borrowing many from Mr. Broadweed.

  Along with these activities, he had lately taken up the practice of going on long walks in the evenings after supper and before sunset. While Sheila and Mirabella washed things up, he would check the store one last time for the evening, and then, leaving by the back stairs of the house, he would cross their little backyard, cut along the path through the town wood, and then across the grassy Passdale Green, following the old trail up and into the hills behind Passdale. He usually made it to the top of Knarley Knob, about two miles west of Passdale, nearby to the broad, open ground of Wayford Common where the townfolk had many of their festivals. He would arrive on the heights overlooking the Common just as the sun was setting, or sometimes arriving just after sunset, now that the days were getting shorter. Sometimes he sat and smoked his pipe and watched the stars come out as he tried to think things over. Beyond Wayford Common below, he could just make out through the trees the lights of Passdale as folks lit their evening lamps and even, much beyond, some of the fields of Barley rising away in the distance. Most of the time, he looked west, where the not too distant Thunder Mountains swallowed Sir Sun's cape, turning the thin clouds of his hem first to pink, then rosy to deep purple as it receded, leaving shy Lady Moon, her face only a line of light from behind her fan, to follow her husband, allowing the evening stars to have their dominance over the coming night.

  He knew that his mother and father worried about him being out after dark. They said as much, but they realized that Robby needed some freedom away from the store and time on his own. Rather than fuss, they only admonished him to be careful. Robby agreed that there was good reason to stay close to Passdale, after what he had been through. There could well be more unsavory characters about, perhaps the likes of those caught and killed near Boskland. And, too, there was the one that got away. These and many other things Robby thought about, and he wondered if his own behavior was one of denial, defiance, or foolishness. Perhaps, roaming by himself, alone and vulnerable, he was just asking for trouble, or even secretly wishing for it, for anything to break the pensive monotony of these days. Maybe he just felt a little crowded, with so much left unanswered, so much to wonder about. He came to no conclusions, puffed the little pipe that Billy had made for him, and pulled his cloak about himself. Like most nights, his thoughts covered the same ground, came to the same ambivalent conclusions, and circled back through the same questions.