Dragon's Met
Part Four
by peregrin anna
c. 2001


(Disclaimers and notes may be found on the introductory page .)






Chapter 24

Be well aware, quoth then that Ladie milde,
Lest suddaine mischief ye too rash provoke:
The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde,
Breedes dreadful doubts; Oft fire is without smoke
And perill without show.
      ~ Sir Edmund Spencer


The rectory was a bigger house than Morgelyn's, bigger by far than most of the village cottages.  There were rooms, curtained off in dark wool, at each end of the main hall.  The main room held a long trestle table, shelves and chests for storage, a few books, and a pantry area with food and cooking tools.  The window openings let in the afternoon light, but even the brisk fire in one corner of the room couldn't brighten the ominous mood that sat like a weight on Gary's shoulders.  Dirty rushes slid and crackled under his feet as he wandered restlessly from one end of the hall to the other, while the priest--Father Crumb, Gary thought with a shake of his head--sat on the far side of the table, wrapping a clean strip of linen around Morgelyn's arm.  Fergus slouched in the open doorway, glowering.

"Stop pacing, Gary."  Morgelyn let out a quick, stiff sigh as she turned back to the man who was bandaging her arm.  "Father, this is more than is necessary."

Shuffling to an uneasy halt, Gary heard an all-too familiar grunt in response to Morgelyn's protestations.  He turned his back on the pair and stared out the window at the little churchyard.  Cat had followed them into the rectory, and it rubbed against Gary's leg.  For the life of him, he didn't know what it wanted him to do.  He knew he was supposed to be unobtrusive here; he understood it even more, now--but after what had happened, he could not sit still.  He was having a hard time even standing in one place without unleashing a furious rush of questions.  Not that anyone here would have answers for him.  Morgelyn didn't seem to understand, any more than he did, why he'd come at this point in the story, this--this seemed to be the tail-end of the village's history, if things kept going the way they were.  And even if he could save what was left of it, what would be the point?  And why couldn't he have done more, known more, been better prepared?  That guy had hurt her and, except for the priest, no one had protested.  Things seemed to be going to hell in a handbasket around here, and he didn't have a clue how to stop it.

He turned back to the pair at the table as Father Ezekiel tied off the strip of fabric and sat back, asking, "Is Tolan Styles seriously ill?"

"He has the same cough and fever as his sister did."  Morgelyn pulled her sleeve down over the bandage, which showed through the rip the knife had made.  "I thought, because Anna came to me earlier this time, there would be some way to save him, but now--"   Blinking hard, she kept her gaze focused downward, and Gary couldn't read what it was she had left unsaid.  He moved to the table, placing both hands flat on the rough wooden surface as he leaned forward, trying to catch her eye.

"I still don't understand what that was all about."  It took an effort, but he kept his voice gentle.  "You were trying to help that man's son.  Why would he hurt you?"

Morgelyn bit her lip and bent her head even further.  Gary looked to the other men, but Fergus only shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, then twisted one big toe in the dirt.  Father Ezekiel rose with another faint grunt and went to tease the fire with a poker. 

"Somebody help me out here," Gary insisted, nearly growling in his frustration. 

"Tell him," Morgelyn said quietly, without looking up. 

There was another heavy stretch of silence, which Fergus finally broke.  "It is merely an old superstition," he said with a feigned shrug.  He watched Morgelyn rather than Gary as he continued, "They say that if a witch has cursed you, the only way to break the curse is by shedding her blood."

Gary's mouth opened and closed twice before he could get the words out.  "Wi--a wi--shedding her blood?"

Fergus raised an eyebrow.  "Pricking her finger might do, if you could get a witch to sit still."

Mark Styles had spat out the word, but Gary still couldn't believe that he had been serious, nor that Fergus was now.  On the other hand, no one was contradicting him, and Morgelyn continued to sit still as a statue, her face shadowed.  "But--what--"  Gary reached across the table to touch her arm, just to get her attention.  She jumped a little as he asked, "What does he mean, a witch?"

Morgelyn finally met his gaze, and he saw a shadow flit through her eyes, then disappear.  "You do not know what a witch is?" Fergus asked, striding over to join the pair.  At that moment, Cat leapt into Morgelyn's lap, and she stared down at it, then started stroking its head and back, tentatively at first, then with more relaxed movements. 

"Well, yeah, I think I do, anyway, but I mean, you--you believe that stuff?"  Gary looked from one to the other, but they were both serious.  Even Father Ezekiel, who had abandoned all pretense of ignoring them and simply stood near the fire watching, nodded slowly.

"You think people fly through the air on broomsticks and cast spells?"  Gary turned his incredulity full on Fergus.  "You think she does?"

"Of course not," Fergus said, pointing out the door, "but he does.  Mark Styles thought he was protecting his family."

"How would hurting her help his family?"

"It cannot Gary, of course it cannot."  Morgelyn's voice was steadier now, more like her own.  Cat turned to regard him with its trademark indecipherable gaze.

"That does not matter; what matters is what he believes," Fergus said, and Gary got the feeling this wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation.

"But you're not a witch," Gary said to Morgelyn, though not as firmly as he meant to.  Their eyes met, and he knew they were both thinking about that crystal ball back in her cottage.  But no one other than Fergus knew about that.

She blinked, and a ghost of a smile appeared.  "No, I do not suppose I am.  Neither have I cursed anyone in the village."

Fergus's jaw tightened.  He seemed about to say something, but Father Ezekiel cleared his throat and shot an arrow-sharp gaze at Morgelyn.

"We should have spoken of this sooner."  He still held the poker in his hand, and he tapped it against his leg as he spoke.  "What happened today would have come about sooner or later.  I am afraid Mark Styles is not the only one in the village who  harbors suspicions.  There are rumors flying about; I do not know who started them, but your behavior soothes no one's fears."

Cat leaped to the floor as Morgelyn stood, her expression startled.  "Father, what are you talking about?" 

"You should know these people; you have lived among them longer than I have.  You know how they think."  Although the priest's voice was calm, his brow was furrowed, his expression deadly serious.  He set the poker down on the hearth, and when he straightened he approached Morgelyn, one finger held up.  "First of all, you are an unmarried woman keeping company with men--and right now, I cannot tell which of your friends is stranger," he added, shooting a pointed glance at Gary, then at Cat, who yowled and darted out the front door.  Another finger came up.  "Second, you make no secret of the fact that you can read, and even write, more than one language."

"Wait a minute, what's wrong with that?" Gary wanted to know.  Fergus rolled his eyes.

"I am  a woman," Morgelyn answered.  "And here in this place, it is considered unseemly for a woman to read and write."  Her deliberate gaze told Gary that he needed to be careful with his questions; obviously what he thought of as normal wasn't going to wash here in the Fourteenth Century.

"Some would even say it is immoral," Father Ezekiel added, and Fergus nodded grimly.  

The thought seemed to startle Morgelyn even further, and she turned back to the priest.  "You have always encouraged me to learn."

"I did.  I think perhaps I was wrong.  Not that I agree with those who would have women ignorant of the world of words, particularly the word of God.  But there are those in the village who will see your talents and your learning as something to be feared, especially in someone who keeps herself separate and is--"  He waved one hand at Morgelyn.

"Different," Fergus filled in, and no one contradicted him.

"That is not the worst of it."  Father Ezekiel took a step closer, lifted another finger.  "There are the herbs you use to cure illness.  More often than not, they work.  You do better than some learned physicians, and many wonder how that is possible.  There is your sharp tongue--"

"I do not have a sharp tongue!"  One hand flew to her hip as Morgelyn's eyes flashed; Gary had to stifle a grin.  Anything was better than the quiet defeat of the graveyard and the past few minutes.

It didn't intimidate Father Ezekiel at all.  "Is it true that you told Simon Elders that his garden would never grow?" he pressed.  

"The man is addled in his wits--he had half his flowering plants in direct sunlight and the vegetables in permanent shade!  Anyone in possession of his senses would know that he would not succeed.  I was just trying to help him!"

"I realize that, but now he thinks it has failed because of what you said."  Morgelyn's eyes widened as he closed the remainder of the distance between them, putting one hand on her shoulder.  "I am trying to warn you, child.  Your behavior is causing suspicion, and while I certainly do not share Mark Styles's cowardly conviction, I have to admit that your healing abilities are uncanny, especially for someone your age.  Your grandmother said as much to me once; she worried over you, you know."  He paused; his steely gaze flitted to Gary and then to Fergus before he added, "As do I.  You must be careful about what you cause others to think, but be even more careful about where you place your faith.  Some of those books you read contain stories of the old times before people in this part of the world knew God and our Savior.  I would hate for your soul to fall upon evil."

Bemused shock changed to faint horror;  Morgelyn stared up at the older man with her mouth open.  "Father, they are only books.  I would never do anything--I would not--"  Shaking her head when the words wouldn't come, she finally whispered, "Evil?" 

The room went cold, as if they'd all been plunged into an icy lake.  Gary glanced at the fire, half-expecting it to go out.

"I know that your heart is in the right place.  But in your desire to help, you must take care that you do not cross the line between honest use of God's creation and enchantments that interfere with His will." 

"You think that I--that I would--"  As the normally quick-tongued Morgelyn fumbled for words, it was clear to Gary that his new friend was more than just surprised by what the priest was saying.  She was hurt by the warning, almost as hurt as she'd been by the knife.  She looked over at Gary and Fergus, pleading for support. 

"I think you got this all wrong," Gary told Father Ezekiel.  The older man dropped his hand from Morgelyn's shoulder and narrowed his dark eyes.  "She would never hurt anyone, and she's not the kind of person to go doing the kind of stuff you're talking about."

The frown deepened.  "Not intentionally," Ezekiel acquiesced.  "But the devil has devices that are attractive to those who long to do good, and he can warp a good heart to his own ends."

Morgelyn closed her eyes.  "Father, I promise you, I have done no evil."

"My point, child, is that you may do evil without knowing it, without willing it, if you let yourself be fooled by the devices of the devil."

Gary didn't even know where to begin arguing the theology of that one.  He could see doubt playing on Morgelyn's face, and he wanted to convince her that nothing she had done, not even bringing him here, could possibly have been evil.  Weird, yeah, but not evil.  Before he could say anything, however, the door opened and two imposing figures entered the room. 

"Father Ezekiel, I see you have guests."  The man who spoke looked younger than the Crumb-priest, dressed in robes that were similar in style, but woven of a cloth that looked, even from across the room, to be of higher quality.  Taller, trimmer, with hair that was deep steel grey to Ezekiel's white, he had an aquiline nose, which, combined with his self-consciously dignified bearing, leant the impression that he was gazing down upon a class of lesser beings.  His gaze flickered around the room's occupants as Morgelyn moved around the table, so that she was standing between Gary and Fergus.

Father Ezekiel drew the corners of his mouth in tight.   "Excuse us, Father Malcolm.  I did not intend to put you out.  Welcome, Lady Nessa," he said, with a deference that surprised Gary.  There was a strength underneath it, though, that was more like the Crumb Gary knew; it was just that he wasn't used to seeing it hidden beneath such a smooth veneer.

"I would not dream of missing the chance to meet such interesting people."  The woman who accompanied Father Malcolm stepped easily out from behind him, surveying the trio at the table as if they were a curiosity, or animals at the zoo.  She was miles ahead of any of them in the clothing department; the saffron dress she wore was trimmed with gold braid and swished when she moved; Gary guessed it was silk.  Her hair was pulled back under a wimple or a veil of some sort, and with her high cheekbones and sharp features, it made her look almost as severe as the second priest.  But then she smiled, and it seemed like a nice enough smile to Gary, especially since it was directed right at him.

When no one introduced him--and Gary certainly didn't know how to introduce himself--she turned the smile on his friends.  The lady's voice was clipped, precise, different still from all the others Gary had heard.  "Fergus, of course, I know--your reputation as a bard and a merchant proceeds you."  Fergus swept a half-hearted bow. 

"And Morgelyn."  The lady waited for a moment, but Morgelyn made no move, said no word.  She stood next to Gary as if frozen, clutching her arm against her side.  "I heard about what happened earlier.  You poor dear.  But perhaps you have found yourself a protector?"  The woman turned her smile back to Gary, and this time it reached her dove-grey eyes.

"And who have we here?"

"This is a friend, Lady Nessa."  Fergus pulled a Vanna White move, indicating Gary with a sweep of his arm.  "He was rescued from a shipwreck a few miles up the coast.  He travels with me, seeking his home and family, for he cannot remember who or where they are."

Open-mouthed, Gary goggled at Fergus.  Of all the soap opera clichés...

"Poor man, look at him, even in the presence of your ladyship, he cannot remember a thing.  Except his name, of course."  Fergus nudged Gary with his elbow.

He blinked away from Fergus.  "Oh, uh--Gary.  Gary Hobson."

"How very extraordinary."  Her smile didn't fade. 

Gary raised his hand, but then pulled it back when he realized that handshakes weren't done here, at least not between men and women.  "Bow," Fergus prompted through clenched teeth.  Gary did so, trying not to wince--his ribs still hadn't fully recovered from yesterday's extended spin cycle.  Beside him, Morgelyn went even stiffer, and Gary wondered if Fergus had steered him wrong. 

"Perhaps I can help you."  Light sparkled in Lady Nessa's eyes, like sunlight on the sea.  "I have many contacts throughout the country, and your family must be looking for you.  Your wife must be worried unto death."

"I'm not--uh--I don't think I'm married.  I mean, I think I would remember something like that."

"Of course you would," she said kindly, fingering the jewel-encrusted necklace at her throat.

"With all due respect, Lady Nessa," Morgelyn finally said, the emphasis on "due" so subtle that Gary thought he'd imagined it--until he ventured a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw the set of her chin, "we have other business to attend to.  Your offer is appreciated."  She slipped her arm through Gary's elbow and drew him forward, past the imposing woman and toward the door.  "Thank you, Father," she added to Ezekiel, who still stood at the hearth, watching them with an indecipherable expression.  "You have been very kind."

"I hope that you will take my words under advisement," he told her gravely.

After a moment of hesitation, she nodded.  "Thank you," she said again, and they left.

Morgelyn dropped Gary's arm as soon as they were clear of the rectory yard.  Tension and anger radiating from the stiff set of her shoulders, she strode off on her own, moving quickly down the slope, through the center of the village, and onto the forest path back to the cottage. 

Puffing to keep up, Fergus waited until they had crossed the bridge and were safely in the shelter of the trees before he said, "You could have at least curtsied to her."

Morgelyn whirled and came to a dead stop, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.  "I will do no such thing.  She is not my landlord, nor will she ever be, and she is most certainly not my better."

"But for the sake of appearances--"

"I will not grovel at the feet of that woman for the sake of anything ."  Moving farther down the path, she muttered, "The pair of you, bowing and scraping as if you were kitchen boys, appeared completely ridiculous."

Okay, that was it.  Gary had officially hit the wall.  "You know," he said, leaning against a tree and closing his eyes.  "I could really use a program, here."

"A what?" Morgelyn's voice, less irritated than curious now, came from the vicinity of his elbow.

Gary blinked at her.  "A program," he repeated.  One hand came out, then flopped back down to his side.  "You know, can't tell the players without a...never mind."  After another pause, during which he could feel their gazes but could not meet their eyes, he added, "I just meant that I feel like a fool, not knowing anyone and not understanding most of what's going on here.  This isn't supposed to be a--a spectator sport.  I should be doing something."

"You are no fool," Morgelyn said.  "We would feel the same in your world."  Fergus nodded.

But it had all become too much to figure out, and they weren't in Gary's world; that was the whole point.  "I feel foolish," he told Morgelyn as he sank down and sat on the forest floor, "not because of anything I've done, but because I have no idea what the hell is going on, or who any of these people are."  He took a deep breath, absently sifting dry pine needles through his fingers as he stared up at her.  "I still don't understand why that guy wanted to hurt you.  What was all that about witchcraft?  Your Father Ezekiel looks exactly like somebody else I know.  And that other pair, who were they, and why don't you like her, and why did he look at me like I'm a fish on his hook?" 

"Oh, Gary."  Morgelyn sat down next to him, her exasperation fled.  "I should have told you more.  If I'd had any idea what was going to happen, I would have, but I thought we would have more time."  She, too, leaned back against the tree.  "Now I know not where to begin."

"Well, try, would ya?  The beginning is always good."

"Do not tell her that," Fergus said, "or we shall be here until nightfall."  Morgelyn stared up at him for a moment, then drew her arms into her lap, covering the bandage and torn sleeve with her hand.  Fergus's scowl deepened, and when Morgelyn spoke, he turned away with a frustrated huff.

"That woman you met, Lady Nessa?  She is the lady of the manor."

"She seems nice enough--"

"For a tyrant," Fergus finished.

"She is beautiful, I will grant you that."  Morgelyn fingered the torn edge of her sleeve.  "But her beauty hides a heart set only on wealth and power.  If she was in Gwenyllan, she must want something.  She has been hovering around the village like a bee after nectar since her husband died.  Edward Tillman was not a bad man; he left us in peace.  But he died of the pestilence, and his widow is an ambitious, greedy woman.  For some reason I cannot fathom, she has set her sights on getting control of the village."

"But she can't make them her--her serfs, can she?" Gary asked.

"No, but they are free to become so, if they choose."

"Why would anybody want to do that?"  For a lot of the people Gary had met here, freedom seemed like the only worthwhile commodity they possessed.  He couldn't fathom why anyone would voluntarily give that up.

"For protection--from disease, drought, anything she can think of.  They are afraid.  The past few years have altered everything."

Things were starting to make a weird kind of sense to Gary.  "So, with those kids getting sick--that's more than just a virus to these people," he mused.  "They think it's a curse or something, and they don't just want someone to blame--you think they'll turn to her--"

"And give away all they have.  If I could only show them that the disease can be cured, that the true threat is Nessa's ambition, perhaps the village can yet be saved."

"And you think that's why I'm here, to save the village?"

"No!" Fergus said at the same time Morgelyn nodded.

"Yes," she said emphatically, and Fergus paced a few steps away, muttering under his breath. 

Great, Gary thought; just when he was starting to understand this, they'd started feuding again.

"I think you can help convince them not to accept Lady Nessa's offers of protection in exchange for their freedom--and the freedom of their children, for generations.  The whole village would disappear under her mantle."

"But they don't even know me," Gary said, thinking of the cold stares of the group that had gathered earlier.  "Why would they listen to me?"

"Because you are a good person," said Morgelyn, as if it was as simple as that.  Gary wrapped an arm around the ache in his side, his reward for being a good person.  He was about to tell her he still didn't understand when Fergus came to a stop before them, checking nervously over his shoulder in the direction of the village. 

"Could we do this in a safer location?  Home, perhaps?"

"The woods are safe," Morgelyn told him, picking a sprig of small yellow flowers from a scraggly plant that grew over the ground, here and all around them.  She twirled it between her fingers.  "St. John's Flower," she said with a faint smile.  "It has bloomed right on time."

It looked like a weed to Gary.  "What's that for?"

"Tomorrow, Midsummer's Day, is also the feast of St. John.  This plant always blooms this time of year.  It makes a salve for wounds and sunburn--"  Morgelyn stopped short, blinking up in surprise when Fergus reached down and snatched it away. 

"'Tis also used as protection against demons," he snapped.  "Against evil.  Against witches."  He tossed it away and stalked off down the path. 

"Fergus, what ails you?"  Morgelyn stared after her friend. 

"Let's go."  Scrambling to his feet, Gary offered Morgelyn a hand up.  Maybe getting away from the village wasn't a bad idea.  He didn't want any more run-ins with knife-wielding villagers.  "Home sounds good to me."  For a brief moment, his eyes met Morgelyn's and she looked stricken.  "I meant your home," Gary added quickly.  They hurried to catch up with Fergus, leaving the flowers behind.


 


Chapter 25

Witchcraft has not a pedigree, '
T is early as our breath,
And mourners meet it going out
The moment of our death.
      ~ Emily Dickinson


Fergus hadn't gone far before he'd stopped to wait under an oak that seemed, to Gary, like the Sears Tower of trees.  When they rejoined him, they walked a few more minutes in tense, weary silence.  Finally, looking askance at Fergus, Morgelyn murmured, "You might as well say it."

"What?"

"Whatever it is you are stewing about under that ridiculous hat of yours."

Gary swallowed a snort when Fergus readjusted his beret, brushing the feather off his shoulders.  They left the river behind, moving deeper into the forest.  Their feet shuffled through the remnants of last winter's oak leaves. 

"You do know, don't you, that Father Ezekiel is right?"

Morgelyn came to an abrupt halt.  "What do you mean?" 

Gary, too, shot a questioning frown at the shorter man.  Fergus stepped over a log and stood in front of Morgelyn like a lecturing older brother, both hands on his hips.

"You need to be more careful about how you conduct yourself, and beware of people like Mark Styles and their accusations."  He glanced up at the sky, or what could be seen of it between branches and leaves.  "There is something more than your cures brewing in Gwenyllan; I do not know precisely what it is, but I have a bad feeling about it."

"Do not be ridiculous."  Morgelyn brushed a hand in front of her, waving away his concerns.  "Mark Styles and Simon Elders are forever drinking too much ale and spreading silly rumors.  Last month they claimed they had seen a unicorn here in the forest.  You heard Father Ezekiel; he said it was nothing more than chatter and superstition."

"Out there he did.  In his own home he did not seem so sure, and that--" Fergus said, pointing at the torn sleeve peeking out from under her cloak-- "is more than mere chatter."

"But it is superstition," Morgelyn retorted, pulling her arm back into the folds of her cape. 

"And it leads to worse things, much worse."  Worry clouded his face.  "Morgelyn, I have heard stories, I have seen things with my own eyes, that would turn even your face white with fear.  I know what happens when superstition and rumors turn into people's truths."

"Truth?"  Morgelyn's eyes widened, and her voice sounded a little shaky.  Small wonder, Gary thought, after what had just happened.  "The truth is, nothing will happen to me, because they need me." 

Gary stepped closer, ready to intervene if necessary, but filled with a sick curiosity as well.  What was Fergus getting at?  Whatever it was, he was serious.  Serious--and maybe scared, Gary realized, as the man's brow furrowed.

"Another truth is, you need them, and you have never understood that.  You need to have them believe in you, and you are giving them cause to doubt you just by being who you are.  You should not add to their doubt by--by cursing gardens."  Fergus stabbed a finger behind him, in the general direction of the village, and Gary had to feint to the side to avoid being impaled by it. 

Morgelyn shook her head, shutting her eyes for a brief moment and completely rejecting whatever it was Fergus was trying to tell her.  "I did not curse Simon's garden."

"You said something that he took as a curse because of the way you said it.  Even Father Ezekiel--I saw the way he looked at you.  He is afraid for you, at the very least.  I could see it in his eyes, and it scares me too."

"But--but he was talking about witchcraft," Gary protested.  "There's no such thing as--"

"There is here," Fergus told him, not breaking eye contact with Morgelyn.  "It is an infestation, a sickness of suspicion.  And there are those who would cure it by the most violent means possible."

"You are being foolish.  Such things will not happen here."  Dismissing Fergus with another impatient shake of her head, Morgelyn would have walked around him, but he grabbed her right arm as she moved to pass him.

"I am sure they thought so in Poitiers as well."  He leaned in close, his face nearly twisting in its intensity.  Gary opened his mouth, but hesitated, unsure whether or not he should interfere.  Yeah, he'd seen Chuck and Marissa go at it before, but never like this.  Nothing they'd argued about had ever seemed to mean as much as this did.

"I promise you, I am being a realist."  Fergus's tight voice hissed like the breeze through the branches overhead.  "I have seen what's to come.  On the continent, fear of witchcraft spreads faster than the pestilence ever did.  'Tis horrible, the way people turn against each other.  And the--the priests, the inquisitors which the Church, in its infinite wisdom, sends to weed out heretics, they force the accused to confess to the most dreadful things."

"I am no heretic!"  Morgelyn's voice rose to near-panic.

"The accusations are all that matter.  Horrible things, Morgelyn--not just throwing curses at innocent villagers, but consorting with the devil, and drinking the blood of infants--"

"Oh, c'mon," Gary scoffed, sure that Fergus was exaggerating.  But he seemed to be alone in that opinion.  Eyes snapping with a mixture of anger and fear, Morgelyn was standing up straighter by the moment, recoiling from Fergus.

"No one would ever believe that of me!"

Fergus refused to release her arm.  "No one will have to believe it," he said.  "You will confess to it all."

She stared at him for a moment, her mouth slightly open, before whispering, "I would not--I could never tell such lies."

"They will force you to tell them."  Fergus took another step closer; Morgelyn backed away until her shoulders pressed against the wide bole of a tree.  "They will hurt you until you would deny your own grandmother just to make them stop."

Side-stepping so he could see both of their faces, Gary reached out a hand to stop--what?  What the hell was this, anyway?  He halted, hand still outstretched, when Morgelyn gave her head a toss and tried a little more bravado.  "This is not one of your stories, Fergus, and I am not a child you can intimidate with rumors."

"You do not understand.  I was there."  Fergus's fierceness softened, and he checked to see if Gary was paying attention.  "In Poitiers.  I saw what they did to her.  I came into town and there were crowds of people lining the streets, all headed for the center of the city.  At first I thought I had stumbled onto a festival.  Then there was a roar--I turned around and the--the cart bearing the woman they had accused of witchcraft was right behind me. She was not even properly dressed; there were--"  He shut his eyes and swallowed.  "There were marks on her skin, for they had left bruises, and--worse--and the people on the roads threw things at her--more than just harsh words.  Rotted food and rocks, and--and..."

"Fergus, please..."  Morgelyn tried to wrench her arm free, but Fergus didn't even seem to notice.  His gaze was focused between her and Gary, as if he could see the whole thing playing out again.

"She passed right by me.  I saw her eyes, and there were no curses in them, no evil--only terror.  I thought--I thought she was asking me to help her, but there was nothing I could do.  I cannot see that happen again."  He gulped, then turned his unfocused gaze back to Morgelyn.  "Not to you."

"It will not.  It cannot, not here," Morgelyn gasped, still twisting her arm in his grip.

"Hey, calm down," Gary finally interjected.  Morgelyn's eyes were wide, wild.  It all sounded a bit hysterical to Gary, but she believed what Fergus was telling her, even if she didn't want to admit it.  "C'mon, you're scaring her."

"I mean to frighten her," he snapped at Gary.  "She needs to understand what this means, and so do you." 

"I understand you perfectly well--" Morgelyn began.

"You do not!"

"She's had enough for one day."  Gary grabbed Fergus's wrist, squeezing it until he released Morgelyn's arm.  Fergus looked at Gary, then his own hand, in surprise.  Morgelyn pulled her arm back to her side and held the folds of her cloak closed over it with one hand.  She inched away from Fergus, still staring at him.

Blinking, he seemed to finally come back to himself.  "I--I am sorry, but Morgelyn, you need to believe me.  It can indeed happen here.  That woman, they carted her to the middle of the village and they tied her to a post and they--I turned and ran like a coward, but I could hear her screaming, and--"  Running a hand through his hair, Fergus looked down at the ground and said softly, "They did what the Church always does to heretics.  'Tis happening everywhere, more and more, and the Holy Father has given them permission to do it."

"To do what?" Gary asked. 

Fergus directed a sigh in Gary's direction, and in the split second before he turned back to Morgelyn, Gary saw something in his eyes, a haunted torment that was unlike anything Gary had ever seen in Chuck.  Damn, he thought as his stomach twisted around another cold, hard truth, these were real people, with a history of their own, one so painful and recent that it colored every bit of their lives. 

Her arm free, Morgelyn sidled toward the path until she was between Gary and Fergus, her back to Gary.  He couldn't see her reaction to what Fergus said next, except for a stiffening of her shoulders.

"The ones who bend, who confess--those they hang."  The bard's voice was quiet; the forest had gone still.  "Those who do not, they shatter, and then they burn what is left."

"B-burn--you're talking about burning people at the stake?" Gary asked, incredulous.  Had that ever really happened?  He thought, no, he knew that it had, but not to--not--"You--you think they would do that to her?  Just for trying to help?"

"People are confused nowadays."  Fergus started pacing the width of the path as he tried to explain.  "They live in fear of the next catastrophe.  They find convenient targets for the blame, people like--"  He stopped and bit his lip, fixing Morgelyn with an apologetic look.  "People like you."

Morgelyn stared back toward the village for a moment, then down at her arm.  "What are you saying, Fergus?  What is it you think I should do?"

Clearing his throat, Fergus scuffed his toe in the dirt.  "You--you are welcome to come with me, if you like."

"Leave?"  She shook her head emphatically and started down the path.  "Don't be a coward."

Fergus pushed past Gary, who stood paralyzed by confusion over the twists and turns the conversation was taking, unsure, as he had been for twenty-four solid hours, of his purpose here.  Meanwhile, Fergus grabbed for Morgelyn's arm again, but this time she darted out of his reach, her eyes flashing a warning.

Fergus drew in a carefully controlled breath.  "Morgelyn, please listen to me." 

Gary had been about to intervene for a second time, but the serious, pleading note in Fergus's voice brought him up short.  It stopped Morgelyn, too; she crossed her arms, frowning back at Fergus, but the set of her mouth softened.  She was listening.

"Four years ago, I could walk this coast from here to Dover, cross the Channel to Calais, and go all the way into Paris, and every night there would be a house that shone with welcome--friends who would take me in and give me food and company for the price of a story or a song."  Fergus lifted his hand, fingers spread.  "Now, I can count on one hand the number of those friends who remain.  Some of them I saw die, some I buried, some I found under grave stones, and some left no trace at all.  Whole families, whole villages, just gone."  He wiped his hand through the air.  "Now I walk through ghost towns, and the few welcomes that are open to me are more precious than gold."

"That is saying a great deal, indeed."  Morgelyn teased, but her sarcasm had no bite.  Gary saw an understanding pass between them, leaving him feeling more shut out and clueless than ever.

Fergus's mouth twisted into a wry smile, but then he continued, as solemn as ever.  "Forgive me, my friend, if what I say hurts you, but I feel that I must make you understand.  Something evil is afoot here.  It began today, and I fear where it might lead.  You can call me a coward, if a coward is someone who does not want to see his friend destroyed by that evil.  It little matters what you call me, as long as you listen, and take care with your words and your deeds."

Shaking her head, Morgelyn held out her hand like a question.  "What deeds?  Helping people who are ill?  That little boy was sick, and I will not leave him to die."

His jaw set, Fergus said, "You are not going back."

"As soon as I can get home and find the herbs I need, I most certainly am.  I can find a better cure in Grandmother's book and get it to Anna without Mark ever knowing."

"That will not absolve you in his eyes.  If his child recovers now, he will think it is because he drew your blood."  Fergus held out a placating hand.  "Please, this one time, let it be."

"I cannot--a child is sick, Fergus, surely--"  Morgelyn broke off, and Gary got the impression she was choking on her own weary distress.  "It must be God's will that I help Anna's only child.  Surely they will understand."

"And if they do not?"

Morgelyn turned a half-smile in Gary's direction, and what she said next nearly made him regret the encouragement he'd given her in the cemetery.  "I will still try to help."  With a flounce of her cape, she turned and started back down the forest path. 

"Damn," Fergus muttered under his breath.  He stared to follow, but stopped long enough to raise an eyebrow at Gary, who still stood staring at the smaller man.  "What?"

"Is that stuff--a-about France--you weren't making that up, were you?" 

"It would be a poor joke if I was."  With a shake of his head, Fergus hurried after Morgelyn.

Scratching the back of his head, Gary trailed in Fergus's wake, but though he wracked his brain for any tidbits from his history classes in high school and college, all he could come up with was the plot of a sitcom he'd seen in after-school reruns.  Something about Darren and Samantha..."Everything I needed to know about magic, I learned from Bewitched," he muttered. 

Neither one of his companions responded.  Fergus had caught up to Morgelyn again.  They were back near where everything had started yesterday, near the rapids.  Gary could hear the water crashing at the bottom of the falls, up around a bend in the river, and he veered to the forest side of the path.

"Everything has changed, you must see that."  Fergus was speaking to Morgelyn's back; she was busy picking leaves off a vine that trailed over the rocks and wiry saplings along the river bank.  "You cannot keep doing this."

"Doing what?"  Facing them both, Morgelyn held up her handful of leaves.  "What do you think this is, Fergus?  What do you think I am?"  Fergus blinked, taken aback, and she shifted her attention.  "Gary?"

"Well, no, I don't--I don't think you're a witch."  But it lacked the conviction that Gary intended, and he saw her shoulders droop a little.  He kept hearing the water, and thinking of falling off a pier and ending up an ocean and half a millennium away from his home--how had that happened, if not by magic?  What else could he call it? 

Still, that didn't mean...did it?

"Fergus, you said you were my friend.  Tell me you do not believe what Father Ezekiel believes."

"He does not know what to believe," Fergus countered.  "He was asking you to tell him, and you could not give him a clear answer, not the answer he wanted.  How could you, with Gary standing right there?  Where did he come from, if you are not--no, Morgelyn, wait--"

Throwing up her hands, she stalked off the path and stood on a broad stone facing the river. 

"What I believe does not matter," Fergus insisted.  "You can fly on a broomstick for all I care.  I know you are a good person, and however you managed...him..."  He waved his hand in Gary's general direction.  "However that happened, I would never tell anyone, and I would never think any less of you for it."

"I don't--I don't think she did it at all," Gary offered. 

Morgelyn whirled.  "What?"  There was no breeze, but the leaves in her hand shivered.

"I--I mean, I think you helped, but it wasn't you, any more than the paper is me.  Someone else is pulling the strings here.  And it isn't--"  Gary hesitated, then pointed down at the ground, implying someplace even deeper.  "It isn't him, either."  Morgelyn's eyes widened, but he held her gaze, made sure they were in agreement about that much, at least. 

"No," she whispered.  "No, not at all."

"What we believe does not matter," Fergus repeated.  "What I care about is what everyone else thinks, because that is what will get you into trouble.  You cannot return to the village right now.  Mark Styles will not allow you in his home."

"His son is dying, Fergus.  Do you not believe he cares about his little boy?  Do you not care?"  As if that settled the matter, Morgelyn again resumed the path.  Fergus, however, wasn't ready to let the debate end there, and their voices grew louder as he shouted at her back and she tossed replies over her shoulder.

"You are not going back."

"I most certainly am."

"You are staying home tonight, even if I have to chain you to the door post!"

"Ha!" she snorted.  "I should like to see you try."

"I'll go."

Poised at the rocky stairway that led down the waterfall's hill, they both turned to stare at Gary.  Fergus shook his head.  "They do not even know you." 

"Which means they might pay attention long enough to listen.  Besides, I have to convince people to listen to stuff they don't want to believe every day."

"'Tis a noble offer, Gary, but you would not know what to do," Morgelyn countered.

"You could teach me." 

She cocked her head at him, speculating.  Fergus scoffed, "He could not tell a cowslip from a cabbage!"

"Look, if you two would stop arguing with everyone in sight for a minute, you'd figure out that you're both right."  Gary turned to Morgelyn.  "You can't go back there, not right now, anyway."

Her chin tilted up.  "You cannot--"

"I can stop you, and I will if I have to--but you know he's right.  And you--" Fergus's smirk vanished when Gary turned a glare in his direction.  "You don't want that kid to die, I know you better than that."

"But if it means--"

"We are going to help him.  And I'm going to be the one to go."  Gary pointed at Fergus.  "Not you, either.  That guy nearly knocked you senseless, even before all this started."

"But his wife knows what to do--did you show her?" Fergus asked Morgelyn.

"It was only a makeshift cure.  I can put together better with these, and the supplies at my cabin.  Besides, unless she can hide it from her husband, she will not do what I showed her if Mark tells her not to."  Huddling in her cloak, Morgelyn shivered.  "He will surely assure her submission with his usual finesse."

Gary's jaw tightened; he'd seen the way Anna had cowered at her husband's bullying.  The news around here just got better and better.  "You mean he beats her."  It wasn't a question.

"She is his wife," Morgelyn told him hollowly, not meeting his eyes.  "It is a husband's right."

"Not where I come from."

"You are not where you come from," Fergus reminded him.

That was for damn sure.  There was more here than Gary could fix, and without the paper, he wasn't at all sure what he was supposed to do.  Save the boy's life?  Stop anyone from accusing Morgelyn of witchcraft?  Keep the dragon lady from taking over the village?  He had a feeling whatever it was that had really brought him here wasn't going to let him go until he'd done what it wanted, and wondered if the nameless entity was having fun watching him turn in hopeless circles trying to figure it out.  He looked up to find Morgelyn closer, scrutinizing his face. 

"What are you thinking, Gary?"

He sighed.  One thing at a time, isn't that what Fergus had said earlier?  Nodding at the collection of greenery in her hands he said, "Show me what to do."





Chapter 26

The miserable have no other medicine
But only hope.
      ~ Measure for Measure, III.i


They were all quiet during the ride to Kelyn Gillespie's home, even Spike, who curled up next to Marissa and rested his head in her lap.  Grounded by his weight and his warmth, Marissa leaned back against the seat of Chuck's rental car and closed her eyes.  Although it was early in the afternoon, the morning had been exhausting; it would have been even if she had slept well. 

Or at all.

Crumb had insisted on driving, which was the best indication of just how much Chuck must have had to drink.  The tension between the two men in the front seat was a fraying rope stretched taut, but in stasis, at least for now.  Aside from a stilted discussion about the best streets to take and Crumb's occasional comments about traffic and the weather, they maintained the silence of distance, distrust, and exhaustion.

She didn't know how to bridge the distances between them, any of them.  She couldn't even find it in herself to worry over Crumb knowing about the paper.  All she knew was that it was her job to find Gary.  They could deal with the side effects later, if he came back.

When Gary came back.  When.

She didn't realize that she'd whispered that part out loud until Crumb asked, "When what?"

Her fingers stopped their absent scratching behind Spike's ears.  "Nothing, I--I didn't--I was just thinking out loud."

Crumb's faint grunt wasn't entirely satisfied, but he left her alone.  She wondered why hope was such a fragile thing, and why it couldn't be shared as easily as fear and sorrow. 

"Here--the next house up on the right," said Chuck, and the car came to a halt.  Chuck helped her out and offered his arm.  With Spike there, she really didn't need any other guide, but Chuck's leading her up to the house was the first interaction approaching normal that they'd had.  He was wearing a thin cotton shirt, no coat or sweater, and his skin was colder under her fingers than Spike's harness in her other hand. 

"It's a pretty big house, one of those Arts and Crafts numbers.  If she's as young as you said, she must live with her parents."  Chuck's commentary was matter-of-fact, but Marissa heard his weariness and confusion, heard the lost little boy who, under all his bravado and prickliness, just missed his best friend.  She squeezed his arm tighter, hoping to reach and comfort that part of Chuck that hadn't frozen over the night before.  There was no response that she could sense, just a warning: "Three steps up." 

They crossed a broad, wooden front porch, their footsteps creaking the boards and echoing off the roof above.  Loud, bouncy music blared from inside, and it took two rings of the doorbell to get an answer.  The music stopped, and a door creaked open.

"Hel--oh."  Kelyn Gillespie's friendly greeting was quickly overridden with the same trepidation that had been there the day before when Marissa had met her in the office.  Her voice was slightly distant, and Marissa guessed Kelyn was staying behind her screen door.  "May I--may I help you?"

Marissa stood up a little straighter.  "Miss Gillespie, you remember me, don't you?"

"Of course I do.  But who--"

"Zeke Crumb."

"Chuck Fishman."

They sounded like the goon squad.  Marissa wondered if Kelyn would even talk to them at this rate.  "We're all friends of Gary Hobson's--"

"You heard what happened to him, right?"  There was an edge in Chuck's words that Marissa understood.  He didn't want to have to go through the whole thing again.

"What do you mean?" Kelyn asked, as defensive as she'd been the day before.  Chuck either didn't notice or didn't care, because he pressed further, his voice tight.

"You watch the news?  Read the paper this morning?"

"No.  I work at the library and I usually read the paper there.  What do you want with me?"

Marissa tried to suppress the shudder that coursed through her, whether at the mention of a newspaper, or from the chilly fall wind, she couldn't have said.  "Please," she asked, before Chuck could become more petulant, "may we come in and speak to you for a moment?  I promise, it's important."

After a heartbeat's hesitation, Kelyn said, "All right."  The screen door squeaked open.  "But I have to leave in just a few minutes.  They'll fire me if I'm late twice in one week."

Kelyn led them all inside, into vanilla-scented warmth and a room that, from the way their voices and footsteps echoed, seemed to be taller than normal, like the office at McGinty's.  Chuck stayed at her side, as did Spike, and the two of them kept Marissa's shins safe as they negotiated their way further into the room, stopping on a soft rug that covered the hardwood floor.  She felt like the filling in an overprotective sandwich. 

Kelyn didn't invite them to sit.  In the uncomfortable silence that ensued, Marissa tried to find a way to begin.  "Gary's--he's missing," she finally said.  "After you saw him yesterday, he--"

Chuck's arm grew hard as a rock under her fingers, and Marissa grabbed it tighter, surprised at how the words caught in her throat.  Behind her, Crumb gave a little cough, a sound that was an offer to take over the explanations.  Relieved, she stepped aside a fraction and let him do it.  He outlined, very briefly, what had happened on the pier the day before.  She distracted herself by gauging Chuck's reaction--she could have sworn he was getting colder, even inside the warm house--until Crumb said, "They're still looking in the lake today, but there hasn't been any sign of him."

"Oh...oh my God.  How horrible."  Kelyn's volume increased fractionally as she directed her words to Marissa.  "Miss Clark..."

"Marissa."

"Marissa, I'm so sorry."

There was no point in dismissing the sentiment; she was sure to hear it often enough in the coming days. 

Unless...no, until, they found Gary.

So she nodded, and, dropping Spike's harness, pulled the globe out of her bag.  "When it happened, he was holding this."  She held it in front of her, the metal base resting on her outstretched palm.  "The divers found it right where he disappeared, and just before he fell in, he said something strange was happening to it.  I was wondering if you could tell me anything more about it, other than what was in the letter that your grandmother wrote Lucius Snow."

In the suspended moment that followed, something hovered in the air.  Marissa couldn't name it, but it was there, real, weaving its way around her, around Crumb and Chuck, who stood close, suddenly expectant.  Whatever it was replaced their disbelief, just for a moment, with a flicker of hope, and threaded shifting possibilities into the air around them. 

Kelyn's hand was just above Marissa's; she could feel the warmth radiating, the fluttering of air with her not-quite touch.  Something in Marissa's heart stirred, a dream, or possibly a memory, but it was gone too quickly to be sure.  Just as she realized that she was trying to remember something, Kelyn's hand withdrew.  The spell was broken as soon as it was cast.  Chuck's arm hardened again under her fingers, Crumb backed away a step, and Kelyn's voice turned colder, her walls going up again, even higher this time. 

"Wait...you think...you think this thing--you think I had something to do with what happened to your friend?"

Shifting her shoulders, Marissa forced herself onto firmer ground.  "Not you, not on purpose, but your gift might have.  That's why we need to know what this is."

"But it's not...it's just a silly family thing." 

"That's not exactly what your letter says.  It hints at more.  Just before Gary fell in the lake, he said it was changing color.  Isn't there anything you can tell me about it?"

"N-no, there's not--I mean, all I can remember is that it sat in the hutch for the longest time, from the day my grandmother came to live with us.  When she met Mr. Snow, she thought--he was different, like Mr. Hobson, he--"  Kelyn hesitated.  "He spent a lot of time helping people," she finally said, with suggestive emphasis on the last two words.

Chuck sucked in air between his teeth, and Crumb cleared his throat.  "You know, I think I left the car unlocked.  I'm gonna go check."

"Good plan," Chuck agreed, lifting Marissa's fingers off his arm with the opposite hand.  "I'll go with--"

"You stay here."  Crumb's command left no room for argument, and his footsteps stomped away. 

When the door closed, Marissa sighed and told Kelyn, "Chuck and I both know all about the paper.  Crumb knows a little bit, but he doesn't really want to know more.  You can tell us anything, anything that you think will help."

"But I can't--"

"Don't tell me you can't."  While Marissa understood the younger woman's confusion, this was not the time for tea and sympathy.  She was tired of everyone telling her what they couldn't do, didn't know, and wouldn't believe.  Her voice rose of its own accord.  "This is a matter of life and death--and you know something about Gary, enough to know you can't just let this be the end." 

Chuck's hand was on her arm.  "Marissa."

"I'm sorry," Kelyn said in a small voice.  "I wish I knew more.  It really was just a knickknack.  You can't believe that I would do something--that I would give Mr. Hobson something that would hurt him.  I would never do that."

But she had to know more, there had to be more.  "No one's accusing you of anything," Marissa said, fighting to keep her impatience at bay.  "We just want to know if there's any chance this could be part of what happened, if maybe there's some way...some reason for all this.  And maybe...maybe some way for Gary to come back ho--" 

The word caught in her throat.  She hadn't meant to choke up; not here, not now.  Chuck's warning touch eased, and he rubbed her shoulder awkwardly.  The weight of the globe was beginning to pull at her wrist, and she shifted it in her hand, thrusting it out further in Kelyn's direction.

"Well, the light out on the lake is different," the girl said hesitantly.  "Maybe that's what your friend saw."

Marissa wasn't about to put all this down to a trick of the light.  "Kelyn, please, anything you can remember, anything at all, might help."

A slight pause, as if she really was trying, was followed by, "I'm sorry, there's nothing to remember.  Just stories about bards and dragons and magic spells, the kind of stuff you read about in little kids' books.  It's all mixed up now; Grandmother used to tell me bedtime stories, but they were just stories, just like...like lullabies or something."

Everything was slipping away; she was standing on that damn pier again, and Gary wasn't there, and he wasn't coming back, and she was fooling herself to think this was anything more than denial of the fact of what had happened...but Spike's tags jingled softly as he turned his head, and Marissa shook off the fog of doubt cast by Kelyn's words.

No.

No, this couldn't be over, not just like this; there had to be something that would help her understand what had happened to Gary.  Before she could frame another question, however, Kelyn said, "I really do have to leave for work now.  I'm so sorry for your loss.  I wish I could have been more help."

Half-numb, Marissa let Chuck steer her toward the door.  This couldn't be the end of it, it just couldn't.  "Please," she said, turning back, "if you think of anything, call us, even if it doesn't seem important.  Here..."  Fumbling with the harness, she put the globe back in her bag and pulled out one of the business cards they'd had made up for McGinty's.  "Anything at all."

Kelyn took the card with chilly fingers.  "Sure."  But her tone said that she was sure she'd never use it.

Marissa started when the door clicked to a close behind them.  Every step away from the house was harder, her stomach sinking like lead.  "I thought she'd be more help," she mumbled, the understatement of the year.

"Well, you practically accused her of murder," Chuck said.  "Three steps down."

Marissa stopped on the pavement; she heard the engine turn over, but didn't move to the car.  "Do you think she thought I meant--" 

"Nah, it's okay.  It's just a dead end, that's--"  Chuck broke off as Marissa wrenched her arm free.  "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

The unintended pun wasn't what had upset her.  "It sounded like you giving up."  She couldn't keep the accusatory edge out of her voice any longer.  In stony silence, Chuck opened her door, but left her and Spike to find their own way into the car. 

Inside, Crumb gave a short grunt of greeting.  The front door slammed, rattling the whole car.  "So?  What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Chuck said flatly.  "She doesn't know anything.  All we did was make her feel guilty over something that has nothing to do with her."

Marissa reached under Spike for the seat belt clasp, fingers tightening around the cold metal buckle.  "There's more.  She knows more, she just doesn't know that she knows it.  We surprised her, that's all, and she got defensive, and--"

"Stop it, Marissa," Chuck snapped.  "Just stop it, okay?  This isn't doing any of us any good."

"It's not about us, it's about Gary--"

"Don't start that--"

"Hey!"  Crumb's booming voice cut them both off.  "I've had about enough of playing kindergarten cop for today.  What is it with you two, anyway?"

Neither one of them had an answer.  Still fumbling, unable to fasten the seat belt that was right there in her hands, Marissa drew in one deep breath, then another.  Finally the latch clicked, and she settled into her seat as the car pulled away from the curb.  "This isn't over," she whispered, her eyes closed behind damp lashes, her teeth gritted. 

"Maybe not," Crumb acquiesced, "but for right now, how about both of youse give it a rest?  Give yourselves a rest, too.  I'm betting neither one of you got much sleep last night."

"I'm fine," Marissa muttered automatically, curling her fingers as she ran them over Spike's head.  But she didn't move from her slump against the back seat.  "Are we headed back downtown?  Chuck?" 

"Uh..."

"We're headed to your place," Crumb said decisively. 

"But--"

"No buts.  I'll go see how things are going down at the lake.  You get some rest.  Where are you staying, Fishman?"

"I--I don't know."  Chuck sounded as if he'd been cast adrift in a foreign ocean.  "I thought maybe the bar, the--the loft--but--"

"Well, not that you wouldn't be okay on the couch or something, but I think the Hobsons said they're planning on staying there."

Marissa swallowed hard at that.  She knew she'd have to talk to Bernie and Lois sooner or later.  Maybe taking Crumb's advice and getting some sleep was a way of chickening out of that particular responsibility, but right now she just did not have the stamina for their grief, their questions--even their kindness would be too much. 

Chuck's sigh told her that he felt the same way.  "I suppose a hotel...maybe the Blackstone," he said with a bitter laugh. 

Crumb didn't respond, and Marissa knew, right then, what he was trying to do.  She wasn't sure it was such a good idea.  But if she wanted to get to the real Chuck, the one who was hiding behind all this fear and loss, she'd have to keep trying, and she couldn't do that if he was off in some hotel.  Remembering the lost little kid she'd heard in his voice earlier, she affected a casual tone that didn't fool anyone.  "I have a guest bedroom.  You could stay with me."  He didn't respond, and she couldn't read his reaction.  "Chuck?"

"I--uh--I have to get some warmer clothes, and my shoes are...I need to go shopping..."

Marissa could hear him in the hesitant words that meant nothing and said everything; he was still there, her friend, Gary's friend, and she leaned forward, reaching out until she found his shoulder, and squeezed it once, just as Gary had done to her yesterday.  "It's okay.  Do what you need to do, but stay with me.  Please."

"Yeah."  She felt the muscles working as he nodded, and she released his shoulder.  "Okay.  Yeah," he whispered again. 

"Good," Crumb said.   

Once they reached her house, Crumb went into the kitchen to use the phone.  Marissa waited in the living room with Chuck, who was planning to drive Crumb back to his own car at McGinty's before he did his shopping.  Instead of curling up at his accustomed spot near the sofa, Spike paced between the kitchen entrance and the uneasy pair.  

"What's with him?" Chuck wanted to know.

"I think he knows something's wrong, and he's not sure if he's supposed to do something about it."  Marissa snapped her fingers, and Spike came over to have his ears scratched.  "Poor boy, you haven't even had a walk today, have you?"

With a listless chuckle, Chuck told her, "He just gave you a look that said, 'Duh, lady,' better than Bart Simpson ever could." 

They both went still for a moment at Crumb's exclamation, crackling with irritation.  "Well, then put someone on the line who knows what the hell's going on!"

After that, his volume dropped.  Chuck filled the ensuing quiet by telling her about his mismatched shoes.  Through the buzzing of weariness and confusion in her brain, Marissa tried to smile at his offering of humor, but mostly it just hurt, this sign of how hard this blow had been for the normally clothes-proud Chuck.

"Anyway, I'm not sure how long it'll take to find what I need, so maybe it would be better if...if I stayed somewhere else," he finished weakly, still apparently unsure of his welcome.  Shaking her head, Marissa decided to close the deal.

"I have an extra key."  She went to the desk where she'd set her oversized purse, and removed a few items, trying to find the spare key chain in the general mishmash of cosmetics, wallet, cane, and gloves.  "This way if I'm asleep or not here when you get done, you can make yourself at home."  Extracting the key, she held it out with one hand and rested her other palm on Gary's globe, welcoming its smoothness, not knowing why she needed it at that moment.  "You and Gary helped me move in here, so you should be able to figure out where everything is."

To her surprise, Chuck grabbed her hand along with the key.  "I'll only stay if--if we--look, Marissa, I don't want to fight with you anymore."

"Why not?" she asked, bemused.  "Because you feel sorry for me?  Or because you're afraid of Crumb?"

"What I'm afraid of is--is losing you," he said, with a raw honesty that she'd only heard a few times from Chuck, and it turned her heart over.  "I don't know if I can believe what you believe, and the way you're acting, it kinda scares me."

After a moment's pause to digest this, she said, carefully, deliberately, "I can't *not* believe this, Chuck."

"I know, and it's just...we're at an impasse, here, but I don't want it to be the end of--of us being friends.  And I don't want to be here and be...be in your way, if it's not--if I can't help." 

"You're not in the way, and it's not an ending.  That's what I've been trying to tell you all day."

"That's not what I mean.  I just mean...you and Gary, you were my only real friends."  Chuck's laugh was strange, a short, nervous clutch of air.  "I mean, nobody out in California is even sane, let alone sincere, and except for Aunt Gracie, my own family is nuttier than a can of Planters.  You guys were the only ones who ever...I just wanted you to know that I think you're...I--I should have told Gary, a long time ago, but now--now it's just us, and..."

This time, Marissa refused to let the past tense and the "just us" get to her.  "Gary knows, Chuck; I think he always has."  She squeezed his hand, releasing the key into his palm.  "I do, too."

"Yeah?  Okay."  Relief laced through his voice, Chuck took the key before he let his hand drop, and they both sighed at the same moment.  In the kitchen, cupboards opened and shut, and dishes rattled.  "Crumb's right, you know.  You look like hell.  Go get some sleep." 

"You sound like hell," Marissa countered as she went to find out what Crumb was doing, "and yet you're contemplating a run to Marshall Fields." 

"Just long enough to get a pair of shoes that actually match, and maybe a coat."

They entered the kitchen to the glurb of liquid being poured, to glass clinking on glass.  "There's no word yet," Crumb said before they could ask.  "The Coast Guard and Search and Rescue are still looking.  They'll keep it up at least through today, but there hasn't been any sign."

Even though Crumb sounded discouraged, the news left the faint hope Marissa had been holding onto all day fluttering anew.  "No sign at all?"

"It's a big lake."  Crumb pressed a glass into her hand.  "Drink this, then kick off your shoes and lay down for a while, okay?"

Marissa sniffed at the glass.  "Blackberry brandy?  I keep this around for coughs."

"Oh, only for medicinal purposes?" Chuck teased. 

"It works," she told him.  "My grandfather used to slip it to me when I was sick as a girl.  I thought it was terribly wicked, but I liked it a lot better than cough syrup."

"Sounds like an After School Special--'Marissa's Secret Addiction.'  I like it."

"Don't get any ideas," said Marissa.

"I have no idea what you two are talking about," Crumb grumbled.

"It isn't important--but Crumb, I don't need this."  She tried to hand the glass to him, but he pushed her hand away.

"You don't need to have your eyes popping open twenty minutes after you close 'em.  Take it from your bartender, you need a drink."

Marissa rolled her eyes at Chuck's muffled snort, but Crumb refused to leave until she'd taken a few swallows of the sweet, soothing liquid.  She finally got them out the front door, Crumb promising to call later, or sooner if there was news, but Marissa wondered if she'd even hear the phone ring.  She could already feel a warm haze spreading through her body.  That was the price to be paid for drinking on an empty stomach, but at this point the fog was welcome.  There was just too much to sort out on an overloaded brain and exhausted heart.  Surely, she told herself as she went up to her bedroom and curled under an afghan, surely she would be better able to help Gary, to find him, when sleep had restored her equilibrium. 





Chapter 27

Tavern-keepers were lumped with witches in folk belief.
      ~ Milton Metzer


A while later--well into the afternoon, if the slant of the sunlight was any indication--Gary's head was buzzing with words like "infusion" and "lungwort".  Sharp, earthy scents filled the cottage, and the table was buried under jars, bowls, dried and fresh plants, and more of those leather-bound, awkward books.  Their pages were covered in drawings of greenery and flowers, labeled and described with such slanty, curliqued calligraphy that he wasn't sure he would have recognized his own name if it had appeared.  One book seemed to be in Latin; Fergus assured him another was in English, but Gary couldn't make out half the words.  A third book, though,  was little more than a collection of small vellum pages stitched together with twine, creating a volume about the size of a composition book.  And while Morgelyn was mindful of all her books, taking care to keep them clean and dry, shooing Fergus away when he tried to touch the pages with sooty fingers, it was the last one, the least impressive of all, that seemed to inspire her most protective instincts. 

Apparently they all contained recipes for whatever it was that was brewing in the kettle.  Morgelyn kept referring back to them, first one, then another, as she mixed the leaves she'd picked along the river with a few of the stalks hanging from her ceiling and powders that she either found on her own shelves or directed Fergus to get out of his pack.  To his credit, the peddler only griped once about the amount of money he could have obtained by selling the stuff somewhere else.  Morgelyn informed him that the amount would just about cover a dozen bowls of rabbit stew, and he handed over the rest of the items without comment. 

Gary, who'd been scolded for blocking the late afternoon light when he'd sat down at the table, was perched on a trunk in the corner, as far away from the fire as he could get.  The one thing he'd been able to help with was encouraging the smoldering embers of the cooking fire into leaping flames, starting with fresh kindling and then progressing to bigger logs.  Now it was crackling nicely, and for the first time since his arrival he could claim to be more than warm enough.  That job done, he'd kept himself out of the way.  While he was curious about the books, and especially the one that seemed to be so important to his hostess, he decided it would be better to ask about them when she wasn't so preoccupied with measuring, grinding, mixing, and stewing. 

The crystal ball responsible for his journey sat on the closest shelf, and Gary absently traced the knotwork pattern at its base with one finger.  He blinked when something seemed to happen inside the glass, but it wasn't anything like yesterday's display.  Just a quick moment when he thought the swirling colors he'd seen before he'd fallen in the lake were back, but it was over so quickly that he was sure he'd imagined it.  With a shrug, he crossed his arms over his chest and watched the pair at the table.  Fergus was trying to read over Morgelyn's shoulder and drink from a pewter tankard at the same time.

"Keep your ale away," Morgelyn murmured, not even looking up from the hand-scrawled directions as she pushed Fergus's arm out of range. 

"I wish to help." 

"Bring me more rosemary; there is some growing in the garden out front."

"At your service."  Fergus performed a mocking, overdone bow, sweeping the tankard out to one side, then stood up, scratching his head.  "Rosemary is..."

"Spiky leaves and tiny pale flowers, bluish purple.  Out in the sun, closest to the path."  Fergus's dramatics were wasted on Morgelyn, who didn't even look up from her work as she pointed at the door.  He looked at Gary, shrugged, and went obligingly out into the garden. 

Gary eyed Morgelyn warily, trying to decide what to say.  She was preoccupied with more than just concocting a cure.  Once in a while her hands would slow and she'd zone out for a few seconds, then blink or give her head a quick shake and get back to work.  Finally, when she got up and walked to the back wall, only to stop in front of a high shelf with her hand frozen halfway to a large wooden bowl, Gary asked, "What's the matter?"

Her mouth opened, then closed.  "I am--I am trying to remember--thank you," she said when he came over and handed her the bowl.  Turning back toward the table, she didn't finish her thought.  Gary followed her, and was about to ask again, when she finally admitted, without looking at him, "I fear I may make the same mistake twice."

"You mean the boy's little sister."

Morgelyn nodded.  "What I did for her was not enough.  Or it was wrong.  I have these," she gestured at the books, "but they are not always a help for a disease I've not seen before.  I wish I could remember everything Grandmother told me.  I wish she had finished this."  Her hand rested on the small, clumsy book, and Gary understood now why it was so important.  "Sometimes it seems the cures we use just make things worse.  There is so much we do not know."

"But you're trying, right?  That's more than anyone else seems to be doing."  He sat down next to her, straddling the bench.  "I meant what I said this morning.  If there's anything I've learned about helping people, it's that you can't give up, because there's always a chance you can do some good.  The only way there's not is if you don't try at all."  For just a moment, he thought how strange it was for him to be pep-talking Marissa.  Probably she'd said the same thing to him at some point.  But then this other Marissa, who wasn't, looked him in the eye, and the feeling was gone.  The corners of Morgelyn's mouth twisted up. 

"Very well, dragon slayer."  With her short nod, the mood was broken.  She held out a small, thick bowl containing a handful of dried leaves, emerald green even though there was no moisture left in them.  Gary didn't know if he was supposed to stir it or eat it.  "Use the pestle," Morgelyn urged him, nodding at a thick cylinder of stone, about the size of his finger, that sat on the table between them.  "Powder these for me." 

Easy enough, he figured.  He did it, handed the bowl back to her, and was surprised to find her watching him thoughtfully.  "Did I do it wrong?"

She shook her head, her pensive stare unwavering.  "You said you knew him."

Gary looked around the room, half-expecting someone to materialize.  "Who?"

"Father Ezekiel."  Her eyes were shadowed, hard to read.  "You said you knew him.  The way you know us.  Not us, not him, but--"

"Oh, yeah.  He looks like my--"  Gary hesitated.  Calling Crumb his bartender, as if the guy's thirty years on the police force didn't matter, had always seemed disrespectful.  On the other hand, he could just about imagine the snort that would erupt if he called Crumb his friend in the other man's hearing.  "He's this guy who's helped me out before."  Gary didn't mention that he'd helped Crumb, as well.  Crumb had saved his life, and that tipped the scales beyond recovery as far as Gary was concerned.  "He's--or he used to be--kind of like a sheriff."

"He made sure people followed the rules?" 

Gary nodded.  "And that they were punished if they didn't."

Leafy stems in hand, Fergus came whistling through the open doorway, but stopped abruptly when he heard Gary.  "Who is being punished?"

"Not you," Morgelyn told him dryly, and he looked relieved.  He traded the plants for his tankard, propping one foot on the bench and resting an elbow on his knee.  Morgelyn got up from the table to ladle the kettle's contents into the larger bowl, then brought it back to the table.  Still standing, she stirred the leaves Gary had crushed into the liquid, watching it closely--for what, Gary wasn't sure.  "Do you trust him?" she asked without looking up.

Gary worried at one palm with the opposite thumb while he thought about that one.  Trust Crumb?  The issue had always been whether Crumb would trust Gary, not the other way around.  Difficult as it had been to get the guy to listen, though, he'd always come through in a pinch.  "Well, I--yeah, I trust him.  Crumb's okay."

Fergus choked on his ale.  "Crumb?"

"That's his name," Gary said with a shrug.  "Zeke Crumb.  Or Marion--depends on his mood, I think."

"Zeke--like Ezekiel."  Fergus's eyes widened, as he finally understood what they were talking about.  "No wonder he gave you such a turn."

"It's not just that."  Gary had picked up the pestle again and was trying to twirl it between his fingers, as he would with a pencil, but it was too thick and short, and it went rolling through the rushes on the floor.  "He looks just like the guy."

"And I want to know if he acts like Father Ezekiel," Morgelyn explained.  She picked up the pestle and wiped it on her apron, but her hands stopped in mid-action.  "Or perhaps it is the other way around?"  Shrugging, she set the pestle back on the table.  "The point is, Gary, you trusted us because we are like your friends.  I was just wondering if what you knew of this Zeke Crumb could help me to--to--"

"To know if you can trust the good father," Fergus filled in.  "I would not."

Morgelyn snorted and fetched a jug from one of the shelves.  "You would not trust your own mother if she appeared in this cabin."

"This is true," Fergus admitted with a nonchalant shrug.  "Of course, neither would I recognize her."

"You don't know your own mother?"  To Gary, the matter-of-fact way Fergus said it was more surprising than what he'd said.

"I was abandoned at the abbey as an infant."  Fergus spread his arms wide and plopped himself down on a bench.  "I am blissfully free of family ties, and the whole world is my home."

Gary waited for more explanation, but none was forthcoming.  Instead, Morgelyn asked, "So, this Crumb is not like your other friends, but you know you can rely on him, is that what you mean?"  She poured something from the jug into a tankard and handed it to Gary.  "Elderberry wine," she told him when he sniffed at it.  "It will strengthen your blood."

"I don't think I know anything anymore," Gary admitted.  Fergus went to the shelves and came back with bread, tore off a chunk and handed the loaf over to Gary.  "Crumb, he doesn't know about the paper, and he can be a pain in the neck sometimes, but I--I guess I always was to him, too, and we sort of..."  Trailing off, Gary imitated Fergus and tore off some of the coarse, dark bread.  "Yeah," he finally said, "I think I can count on him when the chips are down--when there's trouble," he added, when neither one of them seemed to understand.

"That is what I always thought about Father Ezekiel, but after today, I am not so sure."  As she spoke, Morgelyn stripped leaves off the stalks that Fergus had gathered, then squashed the little green spikes between her fingers and tossed them into the mixture in the bowl.  "We have had our disagreements, especially over these books, but still, I thought he was different."

"Different from what?" Gary asked through a mouthful of bread.  He washed it down with a drink of the wine, sweet and pungent and unlike anything he'd had at home--but he was getting used to that.

Morgelyn said, "From Father Malcolm, at least.  Father Ezekiel has not been here very long.  He was living near London, but when the pestilence struck, he came here to be with his sister, who lived in the village.  She died, but he stayed to make sure her son was taken care of, and he has yet to leave."

"Father Malcolm is the rightful priest of St. Columba's church, and of the village," Fergus explained.  "But some would say he gave up that right when he deserted those who needed him.  There were many, many people who ran from the disease, including the priests."  He halved his bread with a vicious rip.  "Father Malcolm did so at the end, under the pretense of escorting Lady Nessa to the north."

Recalling the cold, assessing stare that Father Malcolm had trained on him earlier in the day, Gary decided that he officially did not like the man.  "You mean he left while people were dying?  Isn't it his job to help everyone, not just the rich?"

"It should have been."  Morgelyn's mouth had gone tight, and she slapped the rosemary stalks on the table. 

"It certainly was not his job to help Lady Nessa," Fergus said.

"I hope God can forgive him that sin, for I certainly cannot," Morgelyn continued.  "He left this whole village bereft.  If not for Father Ezekiel, there would have been no one to give the last rites, to say the funeral masses, to comfort the dead and the living left behind.  'Tis hard to believe that Christ would have done the same thing."

Gary was hardly an expert in that department.  "I don't think he would have," he said simply, and Fergus nodded in agreement.

"Father Ezekiel stayed, through all the months of hardship, and he has been here ever since.  By rights, Father Malcolm could have asked him to leave by now, since this village hardly needs more than one priest, now that so many have--"  The bowl weighting her arms, Morgelyn stared for a moment into the fire, then shook her head.  "--have gone.  But Father Malcolm has grown so ambitious that a village like Gwenyllan can hardly hold him, and he is willing to let someone else continue the real work of the parish while he presides at High Masses and consults with her ladyship about matters of worldly import."  She poured the mixture in her bowl into a pitcher, then added wine and stirred. 

Gary thought about all the times he'd heard Crumb gripe about having to report to the mayor, and how it interfered with his real police work.  Maybe this Father Ezekiel wasn't so different after all.  "So that's why you trust him--or want to trust him?  Because he stayed through the trouble?"

Nodding, Morgelyn got that faraway look in her eyes again.  "He and Grandmother were often in the same homes, trying to ease suffering, even though they knew they could become ill as well, and then when she--when she left us, and I tried--he was always there, and he always tried to help, and he never breathed a word that what I was doing was wrong, that he thought I might be...what's made him change his mind?"

Fergus's expression clouded over and he clenched his jaw; Gary rushed to forestall another flare-up like the one in the woods.  "I know with Crumb, every time I need his help and need him to believe me, I have to convince him to listen to me all over again.  Maybe this is just one of those times."

"Perhaps.  There, that's the last of it."  Morgelyn poured most of the stuff in the pitcher into a green glass bottle--about the right size for a good old American beer, Gary thought longingly.  "It hasn't had enough time to stew and breathe together, but it should still do Tolan more good than harm." 

Gary sniffed at the concoction.  It smelled better than some of the stuff his mom had made him take when he was a kid.  "Is he supposed to drink this all at once?"

Fergus threw up his hands and dropped to the bench on the other side of the table with a dramatic sigh.  "This is useless, Morgelyn.  He will kill the boy."

"No, he will not.  Do not worry, Gary.  I will make this simple for you."

Fergus snorted.  "Simple is good."  When Gary shot him a glare, he raised a brow and widened his eyes.  "No insult intended, my friend, but you seem to know less about remedies than I, and I did not think that was possible."

"Just give me some Tylenol and Dimetapp, and I could take care of the kid for you."  Gary shifted on the bench, stretching his cramped legs.  "Where I come from, we don't make our own, that's all."

"Some what?" Fergus wanted to know, but Gary ignored him and stood, moving down to the end of the table so he could peer over Morgelyn's shoulder as she worked. 

"This one first."  Morgelyn stopped the bottle with a cork.  "One swallow each time he wakes.  When the fever subsides, Anna should give him this one."  She picked up the smaller vial she'd set next to the bottle, and, turning to the fire, ladled whatever was in the kettle into that.  Her movements were confident and steady now; the vial went down onto the table, and then she retrieved an even tinier container, this one terra cotta, from a high shelf, then bundled all three, with a candle, into a linen cloth.  "The smallest is one for a few days after, just a few drops in his soup or drink, to help him rest.  She may tell Mark that the candle came from Father Ezekiel, and by rights it did, since he gave it to me.  Mark never allows Anna any light, but she will need it to nurse the boy through the dark hours.  Tell her to keep the cloth cool with fresh spring water--not well water--and rest it on his forehead.  He should drink water from the spring, too, at least until the wells are blessed tomorrow."

Gary started to ask what that meant, then thought the better of it.  The last thing he wanted to do was to get even more confused.  Morgelyn made him repeat everything, and he tried to avoid Fergus's raised eyebrows and dubious stare as he recited the prescription.

When Morgelyn was satisfied, she tucked the bundle into a leather pouch and handed it to Gary.  She gave a little sigh as she watched the men prepare to leave  "Perhaps I should go along after all."

"No, you should not."  Fergus, who had apparently decided to forego his full pack of goodies, swung a smaller version of the canvas sack over his shoulders.  "We will take care of it, and everything will be back to normal in no time."

Yeah, like this is normal, Gary thought, settling the strap for his own pouch on his shoulder--two guys off for a night on the town with their purses.  But it stopped bothering him when he watched Morgelyn, deflated by Fergus's words, or by the end work she'd done, or maybe just everything, sit down at the table, her back to them, shoulders slumping.

"Hey."  He touched his fingertips to her shoulder, but it failed to get her attention.  She stared right through the back wall of the cottage with her hands clasped, elbows on the table.  "Hey, you said there was a reason I'm here, that it was me who showed up yesterday.  Maybe this is it."

"Perhaps this is how it all begins."  Heaving a sigh, she rubbed at her temples with the forefinger and thumb of one hand.  "What if Tolan is not the only one to fall ill?"

Gary started to say something reassuring, but then the image of the emaciated, blind beggar popped into his head.  He pulled his hand back.  "He--he isn't.  There was someone else."

"Not again," Fergus moaned.  He slumped against the door jamb.

Turning so she could see them, Morgelyn crinkled her brow in a wary frown.  "What are you talking about?"

Glancing toward Fergus for confirmation and waving his hand in the general direction of the village, Gary explained, "The man--there was a man, all in rags, he was sleeping between some of the buildings and we gave him our food--"

"Do you mean Robert?  An older man, blind?"

"Y-yeah, that was him."  Somehow, knowing the man had a name changed things, though Gary couldn't exactly say why.  "He's sick, too.  Look, do you have any extra of this stuff?"

"How do you know he is sick--how could anyone even tell?" asked Fergus.

"That-that cough, kinda--all from the chest?  It sounded like the little boy's."

"Oh, no."  Morgelyn stood and was across the room in one quick movement, reaching for her cloak.  "I have to see him.  I have to know if he is well."

"No."  Arms akimbo, Fergus blocked the doorway.

"I am the only one he trusts--he never even speaks to the rest of the villagers--he wanders around and does not speak to them and no one will even know that he is ill--Fergus, you must not try to stop me this time."  Morgelyn's words tumbled over each other in her rush; her fingers fluttered at her cloak pin.  "He will not take shelter in any home, you know how he can be."

"I don't."  Gary wanted an explanation, especially if it meant the plan was about to change.

"He had a wife and children--three boys and a little girl.  When the sickness struck, it took them all--all but Robert, and all within the same two days.  Can you imagine losing everyone you love at one blow?"  Her hand stilled over the pin, and her voice took on a tone of terrible inevitability that reminded Gary of those moments in the graveyard earlier.  "He went mad.  He bur--"  Morgelyn squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed; Gary noticed Fergus staring down at the ground. 

"He burned his own home to the ground," Morgelyn finally said, "with their bodies inside.  His eyesight had been weakening all along, even before the pestilence came, but somehow, it seemed that his grief accelerated his march toward blindness--he told me once, in one of the moments of clarity that sometimes come upon him, that the last thing he remembers seeing is the flames licking the roof of his house."

It was all more than Gary could take in at once, but the part he could manage was bad enough.  "Didn't anyone try to stop him?"

"They were all distracted by their own grief and losses," Morgelyn said, and she pulled her cloak tight around her, as if to shut the memory out.  "By the time anyone realized what had happened, it was too late."

"What about now?  Why won't anyone help him?" 

"Now, even though there are empty houses in the village that he could use, he refuses to go inside, anywhere, even on the coldest winter nights.  He speaks mostly inanities, but sometimes he can make perfect sense.  I do not understand it, but I do know that he will accept help, if not shelter, from me, when he will not go near anyone else.  His wife and I were friends, and perhaps that is why he trusts me.  He trusts me," she repeated, glaring at Fergus.  "I need to see what has become of him."

"It is not safe for you to go."  Fergus scowled ferociously, and he looked like an avenging leprechaun.  Gary would have laughed if it wasn't for the fact that he agreed with the guy.  There was a skeleton of solid steel in Morgelyn's determination, but the fact that she was right wouldn't protect her from a crazy man.

"I will stay out of Mark's home.  I just want to see if I can help Robert."

"Stubborn cailleach," Fergus muttered, then, more clearly.  "No.  Not tonight--"

Gary wasn't up for round two, not when he was finally on the verge of doing some good.  "Look, how about we bring him back here?"

Fergus stared at Gary for a long moment, then turned to Morgelyn.  "There are two of you.  I did not think it possible."  Fixing Gary with an exasperated look, he asked, "Are you deranged?  She just told you he will not go with anyone, and if he is sick, to bring him here would be folly.  What if  he dies here?  Then what will they think?"

"Fergus, I have to do something."  Morgelyn's voice had dropped, all the harshness of the quarrel gone as she faced her friend, one hand held out, asking him to understand.  "I could not save his family; I tried, but--"

"What if he truly is sick?  What if we breathe his contagion?"  Fergus shuddered.  "And what kind of existence are you saving Robert for?  Blind wanderings in the forest, begging for food, not even knowing his own name half the time?  What is the point of prolonging that, Morgelyn?"

She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes, and Gary knew that one had hit too close to home.  But before he could say anything, Morgelyn fixed Fergus with a determined glare.  "There is always hope.  Always."  She glanced at Gary.  "We have to try."

"Yeah, we do, but we have to be smart about it."  Gary put a hand on Morgelyn's shoulder.  "No one's giving up here.  Besides, what if he comes here trying to find you?"

"He will not."

"He might.  Look, we gotta get going.  It'll be dark before too long, right?  We'll bring him back."  He waited for her nod before motioning Fergus out.  The other man, however, couldn't resist one last shot.

"Stay home and mend your dress," he said, a note of triumph in his voice.  Gary pushed him out the door, preventing the spoon that came flying in their direction from hitting its mark.





Chapter 28

We drew our arms around the bastard sons
We never would drink to the chosen ones
Well you know the way I went was not the way I planned
But I thought the world needed love and a steady hand
      ~ Dar Williams


The woods were already half-drowned in dark when Gary and Fergus set off.  They walked in silence for awhile, each absorbed in his own thoughts, while the birdsong stilled and night insects took up their chorus.  Fergus hummed an aimless tune, but other than warnings against snapping branches and fallen logs, he didn't offer conversation. 

"You know," Gary finally said, hesitant as the early evening cricketsong, "you, uh--"

Fergus gave out a "hm" that was only half a question, but it was enough of an invitation to go on.

"You didn't have to be so hard on her."

"Morgelyn?"  The look the bard flashed him was hard to read in the shadows, but his tone was nonchalant.  "She does not mind."

"I think she minded a lot, earlier--when you started talking about--about France."  An edge that sounded a lot like his mom's crept into Gary's voice.  "She was already scared, and probably confused, and even if she didn't show it, you could have cut her some slack."

"Cut her some slack?  One gives slack to a rope, but--"

"That's what I meant.  Loosen up a little when you're trying to--to talk some sense into her.  Maybe then she won't throw things at you."

After a huff of a laugh, Fergus said, "I am not the one you should protect her from, Dragon Slayer."

Then stop acting like you are, Gary thought, but he knew that was too harsh; Fergus had gotten carried away with his warnings because he, too, was scared.  There were plenty of dragons to deal with here, and no one, least of all Gary, seemed to have a clue where to start.  He fell silent, Fergus resumed his half-hearted tune, and they kept going, the peddler's footsteps a light, shoofing counterpart to Gary's heavier tread. 

They crossed the bridge and stopped in front of a deserted hut at the edge of town.  There was still enough light, now they were free from the deep forest, to see the buildings and the few people who lingered in the falling light. 

"I will make sure Mark is at the tavern," said Fergus.

Gary nodded.  "I'll go look for the old--for Robert.  I promised her," he added when Fergus shook his head.

"Later.  The boy comes first."

"But we can't go up there until you check the tavern, so--"

"Stay.  Here."  For a moment Fergus looked as though he was about to say more, but then he clamped his jaw shut and stalked off.  Gary waited in the lengthening shadows, watching the figures in the distance, people he didn't know on errands he couldn't discern, coming and going from house to house, among the few shops, the church, and the well.  He wondered who among them he could trust--more importantly, who his new friends should trust--and who else might be a shock, someone from his own past.

No, not his past, his life. 

"Pssst!" 

Gary jumped.  Fergus's exaggerated whisper came from behind the house; he must have taken another route back from the tavern.  "All is well; Mark is in there consuming tankards of John's best ale with his mates.  He will not be staggering home for hours, not if the past is any indication."  He rubbed his hands together, then clapped them, as if he'd come to a sudden decision.  "Very well.  You go to Anna and give her the cures.  I will make sure the men stay put."

Some of Gary's resolve faded at the thought of going back to that dark hut, that forlorn woman, alone.  "You're not coming with me?"

"I thought you said you could do this."  Fergus fixed him with a frown that was equal parts perplexity and exasperation.  "I thought you said you do it every day.  Look, man, someone has to watch your back."  He waved toward the other side of the village.  "If Styles comes back and finds you in his home, alone with his wife, there is no guessing what he might do."  He started back toward the center of town, and Gary fell into step next to him.  "Very well, then," he continued, as the matter was apparently settled, "We need a signal."

"A what?" 

"A signal, so that I may warn you if necessary, and for you to tell me when you are done.  Can you hoot like an owl?"  Rounding his lips into a perfect "O", Fergus let out a couple of hoots that were too high-pitched to be believable.  "Stand outside the windows and hoot."

"You gotta be kidding me."  It seemed like a silly idea, but Gary decided it was best to go along and get this over with.  "Yeah, yeah, okay.  An owl." 

"Here is where we part company."  Fergus nodded Gary off in the right direction.  "I wish you luck."

"Same to you," Gary muttered at the other man's back.  Pushing what had happened there that afternoon from his thoughts, he crossed the village commons.  He walked with his arms pulled in tight, keeping a wary eye out for any unwanted attention.  This was the first time he'd been alone since the night before, but while the ocean had expanded his thoughts, Gwenyllan's dusky shadows contracted them, leaving him tense and jumpy.  Smoke came from more chimneys now, as the air took on the cool softness of a spring night.  Grateful that he didn't come within shouting distance of anyone at all, Gary ducked behind the bakery and climbed the hill to the Styles home. 

Shooting cautious glances from side to side, he approached the hovel, still wondering whether a large bear of a man was going to leap from the shadows.  When he was close enough to see past the branches of the tree before the house, he stopped short.  A large bundle of spiky yellow flowers, tied crudely with twine, hung from a wooden peg next to the door frame.  They were the ones Morgelyn had identified as St. John's flower, the ones that Fergus had claimed were some kind of guard against witchcraft.

Though he told himself that he shouldn't jump to conclusions in this strange place, Gary was sure that he understood what it meant.  Anger got the better of him, and he strode right up to the house.  He reached for the flowers, intending to toss them away--to stamp out this symbol of paranoia against someone who didn't deserve it, when a soft gasp from behind made him jump.

"No!  Please, he will be angry if you take them away."

Gary whirled, his hand dropping back down.  "Anna?" 

Clutching the water jug he'd dropped at the well that afternoon, she stood before him, fearful eyes round as quarters.  In the last, slanting light, Gary could just make out a bruise on her left cheek, about the size of a man's fist.

It took a moment before he could speak; he had to force his clenched jaw to relax, then open.  "I--I won't take it," he promised, to ease her fear.  "I was just--"  He lifted a two-fingered point at the morbid bouquet.  "You don't need this, you know."

She looked at the flowers, then at him.  "You were with Morgelyn."

"That's right, I--I'm Gary.  Here, let me get that for you."  Her arms had sagged with the weight of the jar, and she looked so tired and scared that all his irritation vanished.  Hefting the jar, he stepped aside to let her into her house, but, face-to-face with him, she paused. 

"How fares Morgelyn?" 

"She's fine," Gary assured her. "She's at home."

Darting a look down the lane, Anna stuttered, "She--she is my friend, no matter what he--I told Mark he should not have done that.  We had words, and he--"  Her fingers, gnarled with work, nails short and ragged, reached up to touch the bruise on her cheek. 

"He's over at the tavern.  He won't be back for a while."  Gary was about to say more, but a bout of weak coughing from inside the house brought his attention back to his errand.  "Morgelyn sent you some things for your boy." 

Anna stared at him for another moment, then pushed the curtain aside, held it open for Gary.  "Set the jar on the table."  She nodded at the crude slab of wood, supported by two tree stumps, then went to kneel beside the bundled boy on the floor.  It was darker than the forest here in the cottage; the pitifully tiny fire in the corner was too low to be much help. 

Fumbling with the strings of the pouch, Gary pulled out the bundle and found the candle.  He lit it from what was left of the fire and joined Anna. 

"Here, these should help."  Injecting as much confidence as he could into his voice, he held out the cloth and bundles.  Anna stared at his offering, but didn't reach for it.  Gary knelt, closer to her eye level.  "You trust her, don't you?  You--you want Tolan to live?"  They both started as another bout of coughing erupted from the little boy on the floor.  His shock of red hair glowed in the firelight;  it was the same color Anna's must have been before it faded, before she faded into the shadow of her overbearing husband.  A pair of glassy eyes met Gary's for a moment, pooling dark and confusion.  Maybe, in his fevered state, the boy thought this was a dream.  Gary knew that sensation well enough. 

Anna reached out and stroked Tolan's cheek, soothing and hushing until he closed his eyes again.  She took the candle from Gary, and the taper trembled in her hands, sending drunken shadows careening around the hut.  "Father Ezekiel was here earlier," she whispered.

Gary's spine stiffened.  He still didn't know what to make of the man.  "What did he say?"

"That we should pray."  Anna ran the fingers of her free hand through her son's hair.  "I have done nothing but pray.  When I found Morgelyn this afternoon, I thought she was the answer to my prayers, until Mark--"  She bit her lip, and the candle trembled so badly that Gary was afraid she'd drop it and burn down the hut.  Leaving the medicines on the ground, he fetched an empty, overturned stein from the table.  Anna didn't resist, didn't even seem to notice, when he took the candle from her and set it in the stein.  It fell against one side in a slant that would send the wax pooling to the floor, but in this place, Gary was sure no one would notice.  Better the wax than the flame. 

He took a deep breath.  "You're right.  Morgelyn is your friend, and she sent you help.  Look," Gary said, lifting the largest bottle, "they're small enough that you can hide them.  Your husband doesn't have to know."

"After what Mark did, you want to help?"  Anna's ragged whisper caught in her throat and stabbed at Gary's conscience--if he'd gone along with Fergus's side of the debate, what would have happened to her, to her son?

"No one blames you," he said gently.  "And no one blames your son, either.  He deserves to live, Anna."  She was blinking back tears now, but she reached for the bottle, fingers trembling.  Swallowing a sigh of relief, Gary conveyed Morgelyn's instructions, wondering if the simplicity hadn't been for Anna's sake rather than his own.  "If you need anything else," he finished, "you know where to find us."

Anna nodded, but she was already lifting her son's head to give him the first of the doses.  Pushing himself to his feet, Gary folded the leather pouch and stuffed it into his belt, since he had no pockets.  He was two steps across the room, halfway to the door, when Anna's soft voice stopped him again.

"Sir?"  She was still on her knees, but there was something straighter about her posture, something less defeated in her shadow, candle-dancing against the far wall.  "Tell her--tell her I know Mark is wrong.  And--and I thank you.  Both of you."  Gary flashed her a tight smile that he hoped was reassuring and went out.

The sun had set; a few last, lingering rays streaked the indigo sky.  Wondering how he was going to manage a convincing owl hoot, and how he was going to keep himself from giving Mark Styles a taste of his own brutality if he saw the man again, Gary made his way down to the commons.  He wasn't really looking where he was going, caught between twilight and his own dark thoughts, when raucous laughter erupted from the tavern, followed by loud voices, cawing like a flock of crows.  He couldn't make out words until he was just outside the open window; then he recognized Mark Styles's bass, booming over the others'. 

"Gave that little witch a taste of her own medicine, I did!  Put her in her place right quick."  The venom in his voice and the cackles of agreement that followed squeezed their way around Gary's stomach.  Before he knew what he was doing, his hand was on the door latch.

"Revenge is never wise, my son."  Whirling, Gary found himself nose-to-nose with a familiar face--if a Chicago cop in a priest's outfit could be called familiar.  The eyes, though, that piercing, "don't mess with me" glare--Gary knew that one through and through.  Father Ezekiel motioned him away from the door, and, staring, Gary let himself be led away from the entrance.  They stopped near the well, where the tavern boasts were once again indistinct, but the mocking tone still rang in Gary's ears, and anger had settled in his chest.

"Vengeance confirms their hatred and breeds more," Ezekiel said, steady and firm as the well stones.  Nodding at Gary's clenched fist, the priest added, "And if you were to succeed in humiliating him, who do you think would bear the brunt of his rage afterward?"

"I--I wasn't--"  Gary forced his stiff fingers open; he hadn't been completely clear about his own intentions, but he knew Ezekiel was right.  "I wasn't going to do anything."

His face cast in shades of twilight blue and grey, the priest lifted one bushy eyebrow.  "Then you are wiser than you appear."

"I'm just waiting for a friend."  Why he felt compelled to explain himself to this man, Gary wasn't sure.  He cast a nervous glance around him, his gaze coming to rest on the path to the Styles' home.  The commons was darkening quickly, and doors and windows were being pulled shut against the night.  Even so, he could see Ezekiel's jaw stiffen and grow more square, if that were possible. 

"Tell me she is not in that house again." 

Gary knew immediately what he meant.  "N-no, no, she--Morgelyn stayed home," he stuttered, then jumped when someone clapped him on the back.  When his heart started up again, he saw Fergus had joined them. 

"Gary, there you are."  His voice held barely-hidden relief.  "We should be getting home.  Not a good idea to walk through the woods at night, you know."

Gary frowned down at him.  "But what about Rob--"

"Father Ezekiel, good evening to you."  Taking hold of Gary's sleeve, Fergus tried to pull him away, but Gary wouldn't budge.  He'd promised to bring the old man to Morgelyn's. 

"MacEwan."  Ezekiel jerked a nod at Fergus.  Gary wasn't sure if that was a greeting or a dismissal, but then the priest pinned him with a loaded gaze.  "Listen to your friend there, stranger.  Get home before danger awakes."  With that, he turned and lumbered toward the church.  Gary stared after him, still trying to figure out whose side he was on. 

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Fergus punched Gary lightly on the upper arm.  "We must go."

Gary shook his head.  "We can't leave yet.  What about Robert?" 

"He is not in the passageway; I already checked.  We can tell Morgelyn we tried." 

"Tried?  We've barely even begun."  Gary narrowed his eyes at Fergus, who was acting more jittery than Chuck on a venti double espresso.  "What's gotten into you?"

"Too much talk."  Fergus shook his head, shooting an angry glance toward the tavern.  "That man is in there *bragging* about what he's done, and his companions are egging him on."

"Yeah, I know."  Gary's fingers flexed of their own accord.  "I heard him, too."

"It was all I could do to sit there and not--not--"

Recalling what Father Ezekiel had said to him, Gary said, "It's just as well you didn't.  C'mon, let's find this guy."

"I told you, I tried, but Gary--"  Fergus went still.  "Robert is just one person, one beggar.  A blind man who doesn't even have his mind left to him.  What in the world is the point?"

"There's always a point."  Though part of him understood Fergus's reluctance, Gary was also angry, angry at all these people who didn't seem to care.  Weren't communities supposed to come together after crises?  This place was falling apart.  "The point is, there is something we can do, and we're gonna do it.  Now, where would he be?"

Fergus shrugged.  "I haven't the faintest idea.  The man disappears for days and weeks at time, and no one knows where he goes.  We cannot go tromping around the village after dark."

"What about up there?"  Gary pointed at the northeastern edge of the village, beyond the farms.  There were buildings up that way, scattered, dark shapes on the moor. 

"No one lives there anymore."  Fergus started back toward the forest path, but Gary was not about to go.  He'd given in on every other issue this far, deferring to those who knew this place better than he did.  But not this time.  "What about his house?"

Turning so quickly he sent pebbles skittering, Fergus glared at Gary.  "What are you talking about?"

"Maybe Robert went back home."

"He burned his home, as Morgelyn told you.  With his family inside.  Why would he go back?"

"He--he's sick, he probably knows he could die."  Fishtailing his hand through the air, as if batting possibilities back and forth, Gary tried to find words for his half-formed thoughts.  "Maybe he wants to join them."

Fergus's eyes grew wide.  "Oh."

"So where is it?" 

"Gary--"

"Where is it?"

His shoulders sagging in defeat, Fergus tilted his head toward the same distant buildings that Gary had pointed out.  "This way, I believe." 

He led them out of the heart of the village along a narrow path, father up onto the moor than Gary had been before.  In the faint light of the first stars, they came in sight of the wild, grassy plain.  The few houses out here looked utterly deserted.  It was as if, after all the trouble, everyone left had shrunk in closer together--circling the wagons in fear of the next catastrophe. 

Except for the outsiders.  People like Robert; people like Morgelyn.  Gary wondered if she had any idea how truly isolated she was among these villagers.  Growing moreso by the day, it seemed.  He shook the doubts away, determined to do what he had to.  Maybe that's what he was here to do; give her room enough and time enough to help, so the others would see she wasn't a threat. 

A nearly-full moon was rising, orange and glowing on the horizon before them.  Farther still than the abandoned cottages, he could make out the faint lines of a much bigger structure, crumbling towers and jagged walls.  "What's that?" he asked Fergus. 

"The ruins of the old manor house.  It used to belong to a knight, I think, many years ago, before Gwenyllan became a free village.  'Tis rumored that the knight's descendants remained there for some time after,  living off his spoils, perhaps, or--"  He broke off, and they both came to a halt.  "Zounds, what is happening up there?"

Gary had seen the same thing.  There were lights moving through the house, flickering like gigantic fireflies from narrow windows.  He figured someone was up there, but doing what?  He also figured, gauging the ever-strengthening moonlight, that they wouldn't need the torches or whatever they were using much longer.  "Why would anyone want to check out a bunch of ruins at night?"

Fergus threw up his hands.  "Whoever it is, I am sure they intend no good.  Why does it matter to you?"

"But I just want to--"  Sighing, Gary filed the strange lights under the ever growing "things to worry about later" section of his brain.  "Okay, fine, where was Robert's house?"

"Around here, somewhere."  Fergus surveyed the houses along the overgrown lane.  "I never really knew him before, though his wife was quite well known as a beauty."  Gary shot him a suspicious look, but Fergus didn't appear to be leering, just honestly appreciative. 

The cottages around them were larger than Gary had expected, but they were all intact--no burned-out hulks that he could see.  There was no sign of life, no movement other than their own, and after what must have been twenty minutes of fruitless searching through abandoned yards and creepy dark corners, he was ready to concede defeat.  He'd opened his mouth to say as much to Fergus, when a strangled, guttural cry sounded up ahead, behind the next house,  which was separated from the others by an overgrown field. 

"Leave me be!"

Gary was already sprinting toward the sound when Fergus called, "Wait!"--too late, of course.  There was a response to the man's call, soft, too quiet to be understood, but Gary was dead sure it was a female voice--wasn't hard to guess whose.

He rounded the corner of the larger house--and stopped in his tracks.  The yellow-tinged moonlight cast everything in weird, elongated shadows.  There had been a house here once, but it was indeed gone.  Weeds had overtaken the foundation, and all that was left was a crumbling rectangle of stone.  The ground under Gary's feet became hard, and he thought he could smell charred wood, but perhaps it was just his imagination.  Just ahead, he could make out two figures, one skittering backward on his knees and the other bending forward, extending a hand from a sweep of cloak.

"Robert, please, I can help you."

"Get away from me, woman!  Leave me in peace."  The man swung his head back and forth like a wild animal, and now that he was out from under the mound of rags, Gary could see that Robert had long, white hair, scraggly and tangled like a huge bird's nest. 

"I will not leave you to die.  I--Who's there?"  Alerted by Gary's footsteps, then Fergus's, Morgelyn shot up, spun around.  Robert scrambled to his feet and lurched unsteadily away from her, toward the open moor.  How a blind man planned to get around this wasteland without guidance was beyond Gary.  He caught up with Robert in just a few loping strides.  Morgelyn was at his heels, cautioning, "Do not hurt him."

Gary grabbed the old man's upper arms from behind.  To his surprise, Robert didn't struggle; he went rigid, like a stone statue, stiff with fear.  Fergus hurried over from the remains of the house, carrying a basket.  He held it out to Morgelyn, but she didn't seem to notice him at all.  She came and stood before Gary and his strange captive.

"Robert?" she asked gently, as if she were talking to one of the village children.  She placed one hand on his still arm.  "Robert, this is Morgelyn.  I am your friend.  Do you remember?"

Battling his gag reflex at the stench of the man--sure, most of these people were a bit overripe, but this guy took the cake--Gary kept his hands wrapped firmly around Robert's arms.  Just as his feet were sinking in the springy grass, his fingers sank into layers of clothing as he tried to fasten his grip without hurting the man.  It was as if Robert had simply donned new layers of clothing over the old ones when they'd worn too thin.  Under all that decaying cloth, though, Gary could feel sharp shoulder blades and bones as brittle as the air they breathed.  Not a muscle twitched under his fingers, but Gary wasn't about to let go.  He was afraid Robert would just topple over, like a felled tree.  Gary wasn't even sure he was breathing.  Fergus, who was now behind Morgelyn, watched the tableau with a helpless expression. 

"Robert?"  Morgelyn stepped closer, reaching up to touch the old man's cheek.  When she did, the contact was electric; he jumped as if he'd been shocked.  His breath returned in rough gasps that became hacking coughs.  Soon he went limp, and Gary's hands were all that supported him. 

Easing the old man down as gently as he could, Gary knelt in the deep grass.  Robert coughed and coughed until there couldn't have been any air left in his lungs.  When he finally stopped, he reached out a hand; Morgelyn caught it in both of her own.

"They are sick," he groaned, tossing his head from side to side so violently that Gary was afraid he might snap his neck.  "They are dying, Tristan, Michael, little--little Breaca.  And Cordelia, my beautiful Cordelia--so much pain--"

"No," Morgelyn soothed, "All is well now, Robert.  They are no longer sick."  Gary heard the sorrow in her voice, but he couldn't catch her eye to show her he understood; all her attention was focused on Robert.  "I promise you, there is no more pain."

Robert relaxed, his head falling back against Gary's chest.  "No more pain," he echoed. 

Motioning Fergus to her side, Morgelyn reached into the basket and took out one of her tiny bottles.  "Take this, drink it."  She lifted the bottle to his lips, and Robert obeyed like a small child.  Gary finally relaxed his hold, and the old man rubbed his upper arms as he sat upright. 

"I want you to take this, Robert."  Morgelyn took one of his gnarled hands and wrapped it around the basket handle.  "There is more of the decoction for your cough in here, and bread.  Do you understand?  This is for you."  She searched his sightless eyes, his flaccid face, for some sign that he understood.  And slowly, to Gary's astonishment, the man nodded. 

"This is for me," he parroted, clutching the basket to his chest.

"Do you want to come home with me, Robert?  Do you want to sleep by a fire tonight?"

"Got a fire."  He stood, and tottered toward the stone rubble, pointing.  "My fire is here.  Built us a fire.  They are not sick, not sick, no more pain."

Gary sat back on his heels, contemplating the ruin.  He tried to imagine the fire, flames shooting into a night like this, a funeral pyre, the light fading from Robert's eyes as home, family, everything he knew, crackled into ashes.  The guy had a right to go nuts.

Still trying to help, Morgelyn had followed Robert.  She put a hand on his shoulder.  "If you need anything, send for me.  Send one of the children, or tell Father Ezekiel.  Do you understand, Robert?  I will help you." 

Another fit of coughing overtook the old man, bending him over double.  Scrambling to his feet, Gary covered the distance between them in a few long steps.  He reached for the man, but Robert straightened up, the basket still wrapped in his arms.  "Must go," he mumbled.  "Must go."  He tottered toward the stand of trees behind the ruins of his house.  Gary looked to Morgelyn for a cue; she shook her head. 

"Let him go."

"But--"

Gary's protest was cut short when Robert stopped, then took another lurching step, this time back in Morgelyn's direction.  He stretched one skeletal hand toward her, still cradling the basket with the other.  Something about his face had changed.  In the moonlight, clearer now and piercing, Robert looked more alive, more connected to reality.  His voice rose, taking on a note of urgency.  "Help you."

Morgelyn stared at Robert, her forehead furrowed in confusion.  "What?"

"Help you."  The command in the old man's voice chilled Gary to the marrow.  "They will come."

"Wh-who will come?"

The bony hand arced toward the ruined manor, and, as if he knew what Gary and Fergus had seen earlier, Robert intoned, "Fire."

No one moved; Gary couldn't have if he'd tried.  Robert's words were like a spell, rooting them all where they stood.

"Enora knew.  She told you.  Beware of fire.  The dragons will burn us all."

"D-d-dragons?"  Strangled, Morgelyn's voice seemed to come from someplace far away.  "Robert, I--I never knew Enora.  What did she say?"

"Dunna lie to me, Amalia.  Enora told you, she told you both.  Slay the dragon.  No more fire, not for you.  Fire is for the dead.  It takes them all away."  He turned and stumbled toward the trees, and this time no one made a move to follow him. 

"What did he mean?" Gary finally asked, but when Morgelyn looked at him, she had no answer.  If Fergus's awful stories about France had rattled them both, Robert's pronouncement had shaken them to the core. 

"Grandmother," Morgelyn said, her voice unsteady.  "Amalia was my grandmother."  She covered her mouth with one hand, staring over her fingers with huge eyes.

"Hey," Gary started, trying to offer some sort of solid ground, "it's okay--"  He didn't get the chance to finish.  A smaller figure, almost forgotten in the strange confrontation, pushed past him.

"What were you thinking, coming out here?  Did we not tell you to stay home?" Fergus hissed at Morgelyn.  Recovering the semblance of composure with a blink, she gave him a look that would have frozen lava, then stalked back to the path, headed for town.  "Morgelyn, stop."  She didn't, and Fergus hurried to get in her way, Gary at his heels.  "Listen to me--"

"Not another word, Fergus.  Not one."  Her eyes were focused somewhere else; distant, and she kept walking.

"You are not--"  Fergus reached for her arm, but she sidestepped his touch.  "Stay away the village tonight; we can take the path across the moor and through the woods--"  Gary could hear the crack in his voice.  "Morgelyn, please." 

She froze, didn't look back at them.  All Gary could see was the back of her bowed head, and she whispered his name.  "Gary?"

Somehow he understood what she was asking, what her priority would be.  "Anna has the medicine," he told her.  "I saw her give the first of it to the boy."  He wished there was more he could say, wished there was some reassurance he could give her.  The best he could do at this point was not mention the flowers at the door of the Styles home, or what he'd heard outside the tavern.  She'd had enough of that for one day--they all had, Gary decided.  More than enough.

Squaring her shoulders, Morgelyn turned in a swirl of cape and skirt, and walked off at a right angle to the path. 

She whispered, "Thank you," when she passed Gary, but she didn't look at him, and those were the only words any of them uttered in all the long walk home.





Chapter 29 

There is no divine intervention here,
Just a girl with bulletproof belief.
      ~ Julia Darling


"So it is..."

Marissa awoke to near-silence in the thick night air.  She was wrapped in cocooning layers of soft forgetfulness, and her first conscious realization was muscular--the deep, internal bliss of having slept with a soundness that could only be appreciated after complete exhaustion.  The sharper clarity of memory came gradually, not from inside, but from out, from the awareness that there was something different in the quiet rhythms of her home.  Spike was breathing evenly at the foot of her bed, as always, but there was another presence in the house.  The faint mumble of television voices issued from the heating vent across the room; it was okay, there was someone here she trusted...Chuck, that was it--Chuck was here, too. 

Why...oh.

Gary--the lake...

She didn't fight the events of the past two days; she let them come, the ache of loss and the spark of hope. 

And, from the night that was passing, the echo of a dream.

"So it is, and so it will be..."

Her mind reached for the words, but their meaning flitted away, tantalizing and elusive.  A rhythm remained, faraway familiar, entrenched in the distant past. 
Coming more fully awake, Marissa found herself curled around a pillow, cool air brushing her face and shoulders.  She rolled onto her back and stretched; reached for the alarm clock.  "Three twenty-five AM," the robotic voice intoned.

She'd been asleep for nearly twelve hours.  Had it really been only brandy in the glass Crumb had given her?  What if she'd missed a phone call, a knock on the door--no, she reminded herself, Chuck was here, and he would have woken her if they'd found...but no, she told herself firmly, no.  They *wouldn't* have found Gary, not the way everyone thought they would, anyway. 

The doubt and faith warring inside her had continued their battle while she slept, but they'd left no trace elements, no signs to help her decide which way to go.  She kept her mind relaxed, her breathing even, and tried not to clutch too tightly to the remnants of her dreams, knowing they would slip through her fingers if she did.  It was frustrating, because she suspected there was a clue, because there had to be a clue somewhere, to tell her what had happened to Gary. 

Pulling the covers up to her chin, she lay still and tried to match her breathing to the rhythm of the few words she could remember from the dream.  Her hands slid together, her fingers locked.  Her body remembered what her mind and even heart had forgotten, what her mother and grandmother had ingrained in her since she was old enough to understand--in times of trouble, say your prayers.  But every prayer she could remember seemed inadequate.  None asked for guidance in telling the difference between signs and wonders and the delusions of a grief-stricken heart.  Finally, she whispered, "Father, I don't know what's going on here.  I'm not in control.  You are.  If you can show me what to do, or help me figure it out, please...the sooner, the better.  Take care of Gary, wherever he is, and if you...if you want to send any miracles our way, they would be most appreciated."

She forced a deep sigh, hoping to clear her head.  It would be best to go back to sleep, at least until a more reasonable hour.  The distant television hum was strangely comforting, and Marissa curled onto her side again, relaxing back into the deep of the night, the arms of her dream.

"So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind..."

The words splashed ocean rhythms in her head.

"I am not resigned..."

Balanced on the precipice between sleep and wakefulness, she held her breath. 

"I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground..."

It wasn't a dream.

It was a poem, a real one, learned long ago and filed away, as if her subconscious mind had known it would be needed.  But time had splintered the memory, leaving shards and snatches in place of the whole.  She still had her high school anthology, she told herself; she could find it in the morning.  It could wait.

Marissa couldn't. 

Sleep had finished its business with her, and teasing phrases had taken its place.  The fragments whirred between her ears, each holding out its own combination of hope and despair, promise and denial.  Finally she gave in and sat up.  Spike's tags jingled the moment her feet hit the floor. 

"It's okay, boy." 

Her slippers were tucked precisely under the bed; her robe hung neatly on the door hook.  Everything in the room was controlled and ordered, except for Marissa herself.  Something warm would calm her down--hot chocolate or herbal tea.  Maybe even something to eat.  She couldn't keep going on zero fuel.   

"When was the last time you had something besides coffee?"

Her own words echoed back to her; she'd chided Gary about the same thing a few months ago, hadn't she?  Half a year ago; it felt like half a lifetime, when Chuck had been in the hospital and they all thought they would lose him...and maybe Gary, too.  She shuddered at the memory of how lost she'd felt at the prospect of losing both friends.  But they'd pulled out of that one, faith renewed, just as Father Dow had predicted.  They would this time, too. 

The bookcase in the upstairs hall held her Braille texts; she found the poetry anthology with little difficulty.  It was thick, its pages undersized.  Tucking it under her arm, she made her way downstairs.  Spike's soft, padding footsteps echoed her own.  In the living room, she could hear Chuck's steady breathing from the couch and the blather, very low, of one of the shopping networks. 

"This jacket is incredible, Mimi!  It feels like real mohair.  Can you believe we're offering it for only eighty-five dollars?" 

Marissa reached for the remote, but it wasn't in its accustomed spot on the end table, and she had to go to the unit itself to shut it off.  Holding very still, she waited for a reaction from Chuck, but there was only a brief hesitation in the rhythm of his breathing before it continued again, as deep as before.  She debated waking him and sending him up to the guest room, but decided he was just as well off here.  He'd probably used the television to drown out his own dark thoughts.

She stopped at the desk and picked up the glass globe, then went into the kitchen.  After setting the book and globe on the table, she filled the teakettle and set it to boil.  The click of Spike's nails on the linoleum reminded her that he hadn't had any dinner, and she filled his bowl and got him fresh water.  "Poor guy," Marissa murmured, scratching him behind the ears.  He rewarded her efforts with a few thumps of his tail against her leg before snarfing the dog food down as fast as he could.  Marissa sank into a chair, opened her book to the index of first lines, and found what she needed almost immediately: Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Dust motes sprayed into her nose as she shuffled the thick pages.  It had been a long time since she'd indulged in this, in the careening emotion of poetry.  Psych classes and running McGinty's didn't call for effusive language, but she needed it now.

The words were shapes under her fingers, hard-edged and defiant.  The embossed dots formed triangles, squares, defiant swords of cutting truth. 

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind....

She fingered the page over and over, letting the words tickle up her arms and down her spine.  Yes.  This was it.  Support, something to lean against when every other prop was gone.  It was a kind of proof, not one that Chuck or Crumb would accept, but proof that she was not being unreasonable; that at least one other person, at least one other time, had felt the same way, and fought back.  The teakettle's whistle was only a faint whisper against the power of the shapes under her fingers.  She pressed her whole palm against the page, over all the words at once, as if she could absorb their strength through her skin. 

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave 
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know.  But I do not approve.  And I am not resigned.

"Marissa?"

She started; the book slipped from her hands, landed with a thump. 

"God, Chuck..." she breathed.  Her heart was pounding out of her chest.

"Sorry.  I'm sorry, I just...the teakettle woke me up."

"The--oh."  The piercing whistle finally registered; Marissa hurried to the range and pulled the kettle off the burner.     

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"  Chuck's voice was gruff and muffled.

"I didn't mean to wake you; I didn't even hear it go off.  I was--I was reading."  Reaching for the cupboard door, she asked, "Want some cocoa?"

"Uh, no, no, I just...well, yeah, okay."  She wasn't sure why he'd changed his mind, or if he even really knew what he was saying.  "What were you reading?"  There was a soft slap of pages as Chuck picked the book up from the floor and leafed through it, but of course he'd have no clue what it was. 

Marissa ignored the question--safer that way, she decided.  "I've been asleep since this afternoon.  I didn't even hear you come in from your shopping trip."  She pulled out mugs and hot chocolate mix.  A chair scraped across the floor and Chuck dropped into it with an audible thump and a heavy sigh.  "Did you find what you needed?"

"Yeah--well, it was...it was weird, Marissa.  I mean, I took Crumb to McGinty's, right, so he could get his car?  Well, actually, he took me.  Said I shouldn't be driving, and he wouldn't let me have my keys until he dragged me into the bar and poured that sludge he calls coffee down my throat.  I gotta admit, though, it worked.  Kept me going until I got the shopping done.  But the thing was..."  He cleared his throat.  "The thing was, while I was sitting in the bar, the Hobsons came in."

Marissa's hand froze, just for a moment, in the process of spooning cocoa mix into the mugs.  "Oh.  Oh, Chuck..."

"It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but God, Bernie's more of a mess than Lois is."

"That's not much of a surprise."

"He was ranting and raving--right in front of Crumb--about why the 'stupid cops' couldn't find Gary, or figure out what had happened, and the thing was, Crumb let him."  Chuck's voice held a note of bemused disbelief.  "Like he understood, if you can believe that."

Guided by the sound of his voice, she set his mug on the table.  "I do believe it, Chuck.  Crumb's good at...at taking care of people.  It's all he's done for the past two days."

"Yeah, well, it's just--who would have thought it?  You should have seen Lois, though.  She didn't even say an entire sentence worth of words in fifteen minutes.  I always knew she was the strong type, but not silent.  Not like this."  There was another sigh in his voice.  "Man, I don't want to be around when she does finally break down."

"Very noble of you," Marissa said dryly, turning back to make her own cocoa. 

Chuck snorted.  "I never claimed to be a knight in shining armor.  That's Gary, remember?"

She remembered; how could she forget?  She herself had called Gary--

"Hey, watch out!"  Hot water spilled onto her hand, and then Chuck was right next to her, tipping the teakettle back upright and pushing the overflowing mug away.  "You're gonna burn yourself." 

She shook the water off her hand, then reached for a towel.  "It's okay, Chuck."

"What'd I say?"  Chuck sounded genuinely confused--had he really forgotten the letter's contents?  "You looked like you...like you just saw--or-or heard--a ghost or something." 

"No, it's just--"  Marissa gestured toward the table, where she knew he could see the crystal ball.  "It's that, and that letter, and yesterday--no, the day before, on the pier, I was teasing Gary about being a knight.  He said he didn't want to wear armor."

"But he was.  Don Quixote in the flesh, that was our Gar.  Here, let me finish this up."  Chuck elbowed her away from the counter, and, still running the towel over her hand though there was no moisture left to dry, Marissa found her own chair at the table. 

She could have challenged Chuck's use of the past tense--probably should have--but this new detente between them was far less exhausting than constant arguing, so she ignored it.  "What did you say to Gary's parents?" she asked after a moment.

"Nothing much.  I got out of there as fast as I could.  I think they're still pretty much in shock."  Another mug clinked on the table, and Chuck sat down across from her.  Spike came to lay across her feet.  "They--they asked about you, though.  Lois wants to talk to you.  You know how she is, she likes to get all the details and stuff--"  He hesitated, and then finished uneasily, "Marissa, I didn't know what to tell her about all this.  What you're up to, I mean.  I'm not sure if they'd understand."

What she was up to.  As if she were planning a surprise party.  Marissa tried to hide her wince, ducking her head to take a sip of cocoa before she answered him.  "I won't say anything to them right now.  I don't think it would be fair, and--well, I think after today I see more clearly how upsetting this is for--for everyone else."

"Oh, great, now you figure it out."  Chuck's grumble was honest, but the accusation was only half-hearted.  Still, Marissa felt as though she should apologize; after a night's sleep she was better able to see the other side of the story.

"I never meant to upset you, Chuck.  I'm sor--"

"No."  He cut her off with a tap of his spoon against the table.  "Don't say it.  You hate that word, remember?"

"Yes, but--it's just--I wasn't really putting myself in your shoes, was I?"  She set her mug down, exchanging its warmth for the cool smoothness of the globe, sighing as she ran her thumbs over the glass.  "What am I doing, Chuck?"

There was a heartbeat of silence before he replied, his voice gentle.  "According to Crumb, you're doing what you have to."

Pity?  Did he feel sorry for her?  That was the kind of sorry she hated.  Her jaw tightened; her chin lifted.  "This is not some bizarre form of grief therapy."

"I know that, Marissa, relax, okay?"

Her voice dropped to a whisper; she let down her walls just for an instant, revealing her loneliness in the tone of her voice.  "If you know, then why can't you believe?"

There was a long silence, and Marissa reminded herself that she had to get out of her own head and understand Chuck's point of view.  He was afraid--afraid he'd be hurt again if this wasn't real.  He was too afraid to believe. 

"You know, Chuck..."  She reached for words to offer him, to show him what he was capable of.  "You were there with Gary from the beginning, with the paper.  The way he tells it, you helped him figure out what it did.  And even though your motives were less than pure, you accepted it.  You believed that something completely impossible was possible."

"Yeah, well..."  His chair squeaked as he shifted around.  "You were the first one who understood what it was really *for*, and why it went to Gar."

"I don't know about that--"

"I do.  Gary did."  Chuck's spoon rattled in the empty mug.  "You know, out in California, it gets harder to believe it, the longer I'm away.  Even when I was pitching the whole thing as a television show--or maybe because I was--it didn't seem real.  I kept thinking there had to have been some mistake, or that Gary had been pulling one over on me...I know how that sounds, okay?" he added in response to Marissa's barely-audible gasp.  "I'm just telling you, you get away from this thing, and it's easy to see why most of the people Gary runs into think he's a kook."

"But--but Chuck," Marissa stammered.  "You've been through so much because of the paper.  Don't tell me you've forgotten what's happened over the past two years."
 
"I didn't forget anything, I just had a hard time...connecting with it, I guess.  Because it wasn't right there in front of my face, it stopped being real to me.  You have to understand, LA is a completely different world.  It's like everything out there is plastic, including the people.  I fit right in."

Marissa shook her head.  "You never could, not really, Chuck.  You're not like that at all."

"No, that's the scary part.  I am.  Without you and Gary around, plumbing my depths or whatever they call it, I'm one of them.  It's okay.  It gets TV shows made.  I just wish--"  His voice dropped; if he was a school boy, he'd be shuffling his feet.  "Right now, I wish I had your faith." 

She didn't know how to respond to that.  Faith wasn't like the crystal ball under her fingers.  She couldn't just hand it over to him.  He had to find it on his own. 

Finally Chuck said, "I think I can probably catch a few more hours of sleep tonight.  Are you gonna be okay?"

"Sure."  Marissa forced the ghost of a smile.  "I'll try to keep the kettle quiet."

He pushed out his chair and stood.  "Thanks for the cocoa.  The bed, everything.  I--I really hadn't thought anything through when I got on that plane." 

"What are friends for?"  This time her smile, though sad, was real.  "Get some rest, Chuck."

He grunted a good night and walked out.  Half-listening to his footsteps, the water running in the bathroom, and the soft-click of the guest room door, Marissa hefted the globe in her hands, her fingers moving again to trace the intricate pattern formed by the metal base.  Over, and under, and...hmm.

Her brow creased as her fingers, sensitive to the slightest variations in the metal, retraced their path under the base.  The bottom of the globe was open, and the metal strands weren't just carved on a flat surface, they were actually woven together, welded, she assumed, though she could find no trace of excess metal at the joints.  What had caught her attention was a difference in the texture of the metal strands inside the base; not everywhere, just in certain places.  Slightly rougher surfaces, as though...it felt as though something was carved into the metal. 

Slow down, she told herself when her pulse quickened; be careful.  Crumb, the police sergeant, the divers, Gary--none of them had noticed anything special about the underside of the base.  But they had been looking for switches and triggers, and they hadn't spent much time at it.

She took a deep breath and tried again, and her conclusion didn't change.  There was something there.  It felt like...like the letters she remembered trying to learn in elementary school.  Some of them were very definite, while others were thin as gossamer, as though centuries of fingers had worn them out.  In some places there didn't seem to be any carving at all.  If this thing was as old as she thought it was, it could be that the words, if they really were words, had been completely worn away in those spots. 

She thought about waking Chuck, but decided against it.  He needed his rest, and this could, she thought with a twinge of guilt, be a nothing more than a snipe hunt. 

Who could she ask to help her?  Well, of course, no one right now, but maybe in a couple of hours, if she could find someone who knew about...about old things, antiquities.  An archaeologist, maybe.  Surely someone at the university would be able to point her in the right direction, toward an objective pair of eyes that could help decode the message hidden under the mysterious gift.

Decision made, she finished the last of her hot chocolate, and then, resting her chin in her hand, read the poem one more time.  Maybe she'd remembered it out of anger--at the paper, at the universe, at God.  Maybe she really was just hiding in denial, the way Chuck was hiding in grief.  The ironic thing was, had Gary been there, he would have gone along and helped her, she knew he would have.  He wasn't, though, and Chuck couldn't, and Crumb's credulity was already strained to the breaking point. 

She would let them stay where they were and do what they needed to do.  She wasn't going to be accused of trying to hurt anyone.  She didn't *want* to hurt anyone. 

But even if she was alone, she couldn't let go of this.  She couldn't let it be the end.  In the pre-dawn quiet, her lips still a little sticky from the hot chocolate, Marissa made Gary a promise.

"I am not resigned."




Feedback:  'Tis a consumation devoutly to be wished.   peregrin_anna@hotmail.com


  On to Part 5
  Back to Introductory Page
  Back to GTA Stories
  Back to GTA Home