Ascalla's Daughter Read online

  Just as Chinera bent to refill one of the cups, Franny grabbed her arm.

  “Look,” she blurted in a ragged whisper and pointed toward the commons where a group of men had converged on the women.

  Old Lily Dandridge saw them first and shouted a warning to the others. That shout marked the last sound Lily made. A stubby legged fellow grabbed her from behind and slid a dagger across her throat. Lily’s daughter screamed and started toward her, but two of the men cut her off. Astonished, Chinera’s jaw dropped. Not twenty minutes before, she was scrubbing clothes and chatting with those women.

  Across the distance, she caught her mother’s terrified expression. “Mama!” she cried. One of the men seized her mother’s arm. She saw the club in his hand, saw him raise it and slam it against her mother’s head. Twice more he hit her. Fury turned Chinera’s blood hot, and she started toward them. Before she could go more than a few steps, Franny stopped her.

  “She’s done for, Chinera. Hide yourself! “Hide them!” She nodded toward the children.

  Chinera knew the girl was right. She snatched Ceri into her arms and reached for her sister’s little boy, Timmy. A year older than Ceri and big enough to run, she took his hand. Alarmed by the sudden screams, he squirmed to get free. She dragged him a few feet, but he sank his teeth into her thumb and broke away. She made a grab for him, but he dodged and ran straight for the women. He wanted his mother and knew he would find her somewhere in the mix. Hot tears stung Chinera’s eyes and spilled over her cheeks. If she left Ceri to go after him, she risked capture. She couldn’t let that happen, not for Timmy, not for her sister.

  The cottage was close. She stumbled on the stoop, raked her foot against the edge of a rough-hewn board and ripped a sizable chunk of skin and flesh from her ankle. She clawed at the door, flung it open and hurried inside. Blood rushed from the wound like the hurtling petals of a crimson rose caught in a high wind. She caught its odor, a little sweet, heavy like hot iron. She knew that tang. The same thick smell had hung in the air outside their cottage in the forest when Matt had butchered a deer. She had sickened from it that day and thought she might sicken from it now. She put Ceri down, closed the door and lowered the crossbar. The sharp crack of a whip sent a shiver along her spine. Frantic to protect Ceri, she started to secure the shutters then stopped. Would closing them draw attention that someone hid inside the cottage?

  “Ooh,” Ceri called. “Mama, hurt. No play hanky game more, Mama? Bad.”

  Chinera glanced at her ankle. It stung as if she’d walked through nettles. Blood from the scrape ran into her shoe. It had already stained the soft deerskin and seeped through the bottom enough that whenever she took a step, she left a bloody track behind. She ripped a rag lengthwise and bound the ankle to staunch the flow more because of Ceri’s wild-eyed expression than anything else.

  “All better, Ceri. Mama’s all better.” Her voice sounded wrong, shaky, too shrill. Ceri searched her face for reassurance, and she tried to smile. The expression probably looked as false to the little girl as it felt.

  She shrank against the table for support and bit the inside of one cheek hard enough to clear her head. Distance and the thick log walls of the cottage muffled part of the sound. She bent close and squinted to see between the planks of the door. One intruder had turned the cattle out of the milking pen. Two others forced some of the women and children into it. She saw Franny and wanted to scream. The girl staggered toward the other women. She bled from a gash across her forehead, her pretty features dark and dreadful. The growing ooze ran down the side of her face staining her bodice. Behind her, a man armed with a mace gave her a shove that sent her sprawling. She scrambled to stand and stumbled in the direction he pointed. That look on her face, what did it mean? Terror erupted in Chinera’s belly. Where were the rest of the children, the babies?

  She didn’t wait long for an answer. One of the men swaggered toward the pen swinging a small body by the leg. He had hold of her sister’s child. Timmy’s leg swiveled away from his body at an impossible angle, dislocated at the hip. In his other hand, the man gripped a little girl by her honey-colored curls. He herded the rest in front of him kicking the stragglers into compliance. He swung his arm in a wide arc, and Timmy landed in the dirt a short distance from the women. Patiently almost, he waited to see which woman would claim the boy. In an insolent manner, he unsheathed his scimitar and held the little girl up high until her mother rushed forward. Chinera could not hear what the man said to her, but the woman fell on her knees in front of him. Finally, he dropped the baby. The little girl was Tilly Bender. Her father had taught Matt how to work roofing thatch. Chinera sat beside her mother in sewing circle all summer. She knew everyone in the village, every face, every name. Today she wished they were strangers. Why did she have to recognize Tilly, think of her parents, know them so intimately? She didn’t want to think about their lives. She stared, uncomprehending until their faces turned molten like candle wax and fell away, no eyes, no mouths, ghost faces without expression or need.

  Ceri sobbed beside her. The sound seemed magnified, loud enough for those monsters to hear. Chinera picked her up and shoved her tear-streaked face harder than she intended against her chest. Ceri stiffened and howled louder.

  “Down Mama. Ceri down.”

  “Shush, Ceri, Mama’s sorry. Shush. Please! By the gods, please. You must be quiet.”

  “Me down!”

  “No, Ceri. You can’t get down now. Please, stay quiet.” Chinera’s body stiffened, rigid with fear. She took a deep breath trying to bite back a rising hysteria and sought safety in the only place she could think of−under the floor. She held Ceri with one arm, lifted the trapdoor to the root cellar and scrambled below. The door thudded shut above them. It was dark and cool here. The air felt good against her hot skin. Only a tiny bit of light seeped through the floor. She huddled in the small space and tried to comfort Ceri. Gods, if she’d just stop crying, had to stop before one of them heard her. But Ceri wailed louder with every breath. She clenched her fists and struggled to get free.

  “Aye, all right then, baby. Sit here by Mama. Please, please be quiet. Let’s play a whisper game. I’ll whisper a word and you whisper back to me,” said Chinera.

  She let go and patted the ground.

  “Dolly,” Ceri sniffled and looked at Chinera through her tears.

  She was sure Ceri had the doll when they came into the cottage, but it wasn’t here now.

  “Dolly’s sleeping, Ceri. We’ll find her later.”

  “Now,” she squealed and started to cry again.

  Chinera took her by the shoulders. She knew her fingers pinched. “You must stop, Ceri. Bad men will find us and hurt us if you don’t.” Silent tears washed over her cheeks and dripped onto Ceri’s arm. The little girl touched the wet place.

  “Mama, cry?” Her own tears ceased in that moment.

  Chinera nodded.

  “Bad men come, Mama. Shush.”

  “All right love. Play the whisper game with Mama. Then I can stop crying.”

  Intrigued with the promise of a game, Ceri sat down. They crouched among the potatoes and carrots and onions across from the barrels of pickled cabbage in the space under the floor while she whispered nonsense words, and Ceri mimicked them. The space afforded little comfort, and the pungent, earthy smell she thought welcoming at first, now made Chinera think of an open grave. Horrified shrieks from outside penetrated even here, and she soon realized she had picked a bad place to hide. Every family had root cellar. If they stayed here, eventually those men might find them or burn the place over their heads. They had to move.

  From the time she was Ceri’s age, Chinera had heard tales about Owlmen who came from the land across the Blue Mountains ̶ how they struck without warning, killed those who resisted and took the rest prisoner. Some said they tortured their captives. Others whispered about slavery and degradation worse than any death. Today, in the gloom beneath the floor, she believed every tale. The men, clad in dark
feathered mantles and black helms shaped more like the head of a hook-beaked vulture than a round-faced owl from which they took their name, left little doubt in her mind about their identity.

  Ceri quieted at last. Chinera picked her up, lifted the trapdoor and climbed out of the root cellar.

  “Gingerman, now?” said Ceri.

  “Here love. Here's your gingerbread man.” Her voice came in edgy chirps.

  She knew she had to get both of them out of here. So far, luck had kept the raiders from her door. If she could slip outside and make it across the clearing, they might be able to escape and hide in the forest. The plan had to work. Already the Owlmen searched the cottages, setting them ablaze as they went. Smoke lay so thick in the air that it choked Ceri, and she began to cry again. She clung to Chinera’s skirt, the gingerman a crumbled heap on the floor.

  “Me up, Mama.”

  “Aye, sweet love, only stop crying now. Mama needs to think.”

  Ceri wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and put her head down.

  “Fraid.”

  “Mama has you, Ceri. I’ll keep you safe.” Could she? She didn’t know.

  “Papa is?”

  “In the fields, Papa’s safe in the fields. Now hug tight to me and please, please baby be a wee mousy.” Ceri wiggled her nose, another game they sometimes played, and Chinera captured it between her thumb and finger. “There, nosey’s gone."

  “Billy took Ceri nosey. Get Billy, Mama. Debon taked away.”

  She knew Ceri meant Billy Runderly. He must have eluded his older brother and come to play with the children. Where were they, Billy and Devon? She hadn't seen them with the others. Safe she hoped. Oh, she did hope so.

  “Nosey's safe. Mama took it back. Head down now, love, and keep quiet.”

  Why couldn’t she make her voice stop shaking? She meant to whisper. Yet every word came out a gasping squeak. She lifted the cross bar and opened the door a crack.

  The village cottages circled the commons. From here, Chinera could see the small pens that housed chicken coups, and other fenced enclosures. Beyond the pens, lay neatly tended family gardens. Baline was a pretty village. Climbing ivy and sprinklings of wild roses, periwinkle and buttercup adorned the flowerbeds that surrounded the cottages. But today mayhem ruled. Trampled flowers, broken shutters, pens ripped apart, and nearly every cottage set ablaze. Chickens screeched and ran in every direction, some mere lumps of bloody feathers, stomped into the earth. Frantic cattle bawled in distress. A squealing piglet darted across the open ground and raced toward Pine Water Creek.

  Chinera could see the women and some of the children. Devon was there, Billy too. She watched while three Owlmen conducted a kind of selection. They shoved the women into a ragged line and ordered them to come forward one at a time. Boys and girls of ten or twelve seasons moved to the left. The younger ones, including the remaining babies, clung to each other in a small group on the right. Billy broke free and dashed toward his brother. She saw her sister, Brinny, far gone with child, among the women. Timmy still lay where the Owlman had left him. Brinny tried to go to him, but before she could, an Owlman threw her to the ground. She turned in time to see his booted foot aim for her belly and cried out before the kick ever landed. Chinera knew her sister’s unborn infant would never take its first breath. The Owlman grabbed a fistful of Brinny’s hair, lifted her from the ground and shoved her into line. Timmy crawled toward her dragging one useless leg. The same Owlman raised a club to stop him, but distracted by a shout, he turned away. The little boy reached his mother and Brinny folder him in her arms.

  The men roped the women and older children together. Chinera could not see the babies but knew well the vicious outcome the Owlmen planned. Tortured cries from the women told the rest. Her own terror exploded. She gathered Ceri close, tied a shawl around both of them to make a carrying sling that would leave her arms free. They must go–now before the Owlmen finished their selection. Only pillaging the cottages to the south, where she and Ceri hid, remained. Somehow, she had to get them out of here, away from Baline, across Pine Water Creek and into Curling Wood Forest.

  Before she could think more about how to escape, the village men returned. One glimpse at the devastation and their angry shouts exploded into thunderous roars. They ran straight for the commons. The smoke, she thought. Of course, smoke from the burning cottages had signaled them. Hope surged through her but dissolved when she saw Matt. He bellowed like a wild beast, and crashed into one of the Owlmen near the center of the commons. His fists beat against anything he touched, but the effort proved fruitless. The Owlman spun, axe raised high. He brought it down hard. The heavy blade, honed deadly sharp, sliced through Matt’s skull. Matt took a step and then another and another. Chinera could not say what kept his body moving. She knew he was already dead. He dropped to his knees and heaved forward in the dirt. The Owlman wrenched the bloodied axe from his skull. She heard the bone crack or imagined she did. Vomit that tasted of morning porridge and raisins spewed from her stomach.

  “Mama sick?” Ceri started to cry again.

  “Hush, love, I’m fine now. No tears, baby.” She squeezed her eyes tight, seeking the silent place–the one Melendarius insisted she find when he taught her to meditate. Inside that hazy vapor, sound stopped. Daylight turned to shadow. His scratchy voice pierced her memory.

  Remember, Chinera. Think of your lessons. Owlmen, what do you know of them. They are but men. A monstrous evil consumes some of them beyond salvation. It is they who strike fear in your heart, but my sweet girl they hold no mystic power. Only men, Chinera, they are only men.

  No more than a few seconds passed before her head gained rule over emotion. Deadly calm, Chinera closed the door and let the crossbar drop. She gathered Ceri close. Time to mourn later; right now, she did not have the luxury.

  A new resolve born of desperation gave her strength. She carried Ceri into the bedroom and opened the shutters. The other cottages had only one main window. Matt insisted they have two. Their bed faced east, and the window let in the morning sun.

  “Your husband is frivolous,” Brinny had told her. “In summer the sun will warm you, but when winter winds whip through the cracks in those shutters, you will be sorry.”

  Chinera never regretted the window, and now she hoped having it would save Ceri since it faced away from the commons. She prayed the Owlmen would not notice it at all.

  Ceri struggled against her.

  “Down.”

  “Can’t get down now, baby,” she whispered. “Hold on to Mama.”

  Chinera looked outside. Satisfied no Owlmen patrolled the outer circle, she climbed onto the sill, swung her legs through the opening and dropped to the ground. Their best chance for escape lay behind the burning cottages. She prayed all of the noise in the commons combined with the smoke and confusion would cover their escape. Nothing must stop her; not thoughts about Matt or the others; not the sound of crying children. Pine Water Creek was close and beyond that, thick groves of fir, oak, maple and beech. Brambly bushes she had often cursed for their thorny fingers that snagged her skirts, now seemed welcome friends. Yes, reach the creek and Curling Wood Forest would hide them. If not for the continuous din from the village, she might have heard water trickle over the stones in the creek bed. Instead, sounds of despair silenced that gentle music. In a minute, though, she would feel the water, cool and clear, swirling around her legs as she crossed.

  ***

  Above the clamor, Chinera heard the steady beat of heavy boots. She held Ceri tight and ran. Only one of them followed. Maybe he would give up once she crossed the creek. She slipped on a moss-covered stone but kept her balance. The thirsty folds of her long skirt drank enough water to lay heavy against her legs. Cold water bit through the rag bandage, stinging her wounded ankle. Might just as well stop, she thought. Give up. Maybe he would let them live. What must she do to live? If he would spare Ceri, she would do anything. Whatever he wanted, nothing mattered except staying alive. But he
would never tolerate her flight. No witnesses, she remembered. Owlmen leave no one behind. Did he know about Ceri? Perhaps not. Was there still a chance, a chance for Ceri?

  Her waterlogged skirt slowed them. She had to get rid of it. Don’t think. Just act. She stopped running, untied the shawl, set Ceri down, stripped off the skirt and threw it into a clump of thorny bushes. Ceri whimpered and stuck a thumb in her mouth. Chinera picked her up, secured the shawl and started to run again. Easier now, lighter, she thought.

  She knew when the Owlman started across the stream. She heard him splashing through the water, heard him fall, curse in pain, then nothing more. Her own breath came hard and fast; it roared in her ears, seared her chest and made every other sound shrink to nothing. Where was he? Did he give up? Did he drown? Did he crack his filthy skull on a rock and drown? She hoped so. Don’t stop! Don’t think! Don’t look back! He might be there just over her shoulder, waiting to pounce. Grab her. Slit her throat. Kill Ceri. No! Not Ceri! Where was he now? Bushes rattled. She heard his satisfied grunt. He’d seen her skirt caught in the clump of thorny bushes and thought he had her cornered. Good! Good! She hoped the thorns clawed his eyes and turned him blind. Her hearing so acute caught the sound when he broke free of the tangle, clamoring and crashing about, cursing.

  Just past the tree line, Chinera entered the heaviest part of Curling Wood Forest. Here, rich vegetation covered the forest floor. Primrose, prickly pear and loops of veil-like vines obscured all but a dappling of sunlight that filtered through the canopy above their heads. She ran straight for a thick growth of cat briar. Any other time she would have skirted the area to avoid its thorns. Today she plunged ahead, mindless of the deep bites it took wherever it grabbed her skin. A Paw Paw grove stood on the other side. Here, too, she let the forest work for them and sifted her way through the overgrown tangle. The old trees embraced them. Moss dripped from low branches like fairy veils that opened and closed as they passed. She pushed on. Her chest ached. Gods, it was hard to breathe. Every inch of her body quivered. Was it fear, fatigue, or both? She could smell her own sweat, not the kind of sweat brought from toil on a warm day. No, the smell was animalistic, raw. She choked on the stench. Her skin felt odd, tingly, and oh, so cold. The heavy forest growth closed around them like a welcome blanket, and she paused to catch her breath. A branch cracked in the distance, and then the scuffling sound of a forest creature. Escape seemed impossible. Even if she matched her footfalls with the sound of his, he would overtake her. His stride measured twice as long, and she carried Ceri. She knew then. Realized with cold certainty, he would never give up. He would keep coming until she could not take another breath, until her lungs exploded. What else could she try? She must find another way.