Ascalla's Daughter Read online

  Matt, damn your eyes. Anger mixed with the sorrow in her pounding heart called out to him, demanded to know why. If only they had not moved into the village with everyone else. She felt Ceri wriggle against her. One option left. If she couldn’t save them both, maybe she could save one of them.

  Chinera clamped one arm around Ceri. Her free hand covered the child’s nose and mouth to stop her breath. Ceri struggled and kicked in her arms. Terror, what a wonderful legacy to leave behind, she thought, and began running again. The destination lay close–a place she knew–secluded–overgrown with brush. Ceri stopped kicking and went limp. Chinera took her hand away and opened the shawl, such a beautiful little face, still now, so quiet. No monster will have you my baby–my little girl–my Healing Woman of Baline.

  She had to bend double to push her way inside the tight thicket. She struggled with the knotted shawl that held Ceri. Tied in haste the double knots fought her stiff fingers. One impatient tug after another finally opened them, and she laid the shawl on the ground over a pillow of deer moss. She must be far enough away when he caught her, so that if Ceri awoke and began to cry, the heavy thicket growth would swallow the sound. She held her close a moment more and then laid her on the woolen shawl and drew the corners together like a cocoon. “May the heavens see you safe, my little love. I pray the Mother protect you from harm. Sleep, sweet love, until I be gone.”

  Heavy footfalls signaled his approach. The distance between them grew shorter as he followed. Let him follow. Let him come. One more task, one last act. Farther and farther away from the thicket, she led him, away from Ceri and back toward the edge of the forest. How stupid he would think her, getting lost in her own forest, but Chinera knew the way. All those heavenly days when she followed Melendarius through the same dense growth, gathering roots and berries along with an assortment of pungent herbs he used to brew healing drinks. The wonderful stories he told, stories she promised to share some day with her children. Oh, where was Melendarius today. Why did he not come striding through the forest with his great staff? Her Matt gone, dead. Her father, somewhere back there in the smoke and burning. Her sister, her mother, where were they, dead too by now? But not Ceri, not her Ceri, her little Ceri was alive.

  Finally, she stopped. She felt him closing in and waited for the moment when he found her, he the hunter, she the prey. When he finished with her, would he seek his friends? Would he swagger in triumph? She sat cross-legged on the forest floor, arms folded against her chest. Whatever came, her thoughts held one image, the face of her baby daughter. Ceri did not exist for him. That certainty gave her hope. Her task complete, Chinera waited.

  2 - Melendarius

  Inside a mountain cavern miles from the village, Melendarius witnessed the death of Baline. Since the heat of that summer day when he placed baby Ceri in Chinera’s arms the Great Mother had forbade his presence in the village.

  “Why, oh Mother of the world? How have I dishonored you?” Prostrate on the stone floor of the same cavern where he now sat in wretched despair, the solemn resonance of her being shook his soul.

  Never have you brought dishonor to me, but I know your heart, my son, and without restraint, one day you shall meddle in events that must transpire despite their deplorable consequences.

  “Great Mother, leave my work unfinished? I cannot abandon my people. Whatever circumstance befalls them befalls me.”

  Your people? You take credit for what does not belong in your keeping. Press me no further on the matter. Your realm will not extend beyond these rock walls.

  “Take my life then, Great Mother, for I am as mortal as they and cannot live in darkness without even a cricket’s song or the sweet smell of a forest night. Stop my heart that I shall not long for the sights and sounds of humankind.”

  No, Melendarius. Your days on Earth are dearer than you know. When sufficient time has passed, all shall be restored to you.

  He had sighed heavily and turned inward. “You cannot deny me death.” He felt her caress his being with tender thoughts.

  I can and do deny your passing, she whispered in his head.

  “Then, if I must go on, I pray grant one indulgence, Great Mother, a window to the world outside these walls.”

  Such a thing may be more painful than seclusion, but if that is your wish, I grant it. When you close your eyes, the paths of Ascalla will open for you.

  He felt her sudden withdrawal, and from that day forward, his soul knew profound isolation. In time, doubt shook his faith. Did she really exist, or did the power he felt rush through him when he touched the bark of a tree emanate from his core? Did he alone bend the physical world to his will? He knew the language of the trees, knew how to slow the flight of a hummingbird. Perhaps age had weakened his ability to harness the might of his mind enough to escape the mountain. Ridiculous, he did not lock himself inside. Anutaya must exist.

  He shook his head. Doubt had sapped his concentration until creating even the smallest portal eluded him. He could imagine an opening in the rocky surface. He did that quite well. So well, he could smell the tangy scent of a scraggly pine that grew on the other side. Like looking through glass, he saw the trail that led into the valley–watched a winding stream meander along gaining momentum, until with foaming fury, it ground away at sharp-edged stones and left behind smooth, black, river rock. He watched the flow turn peaceful when it reached the valley floor–saw it gather in quiet pools full of flat yellow sunfish. It slowed to a trickle in the marshland where shirtless boys chased spotted frogs through the reeds. He traced its journey across the flatlands and watched it stream into the vast arms of the Ruby River.

  In dreams, he flew as an eagle, soaring above the land. Sometimes he perched in a tree, listening while the infinitesimal rustle of a leaf disturbed by a rabbit on the forest floor whispered to him. He imagined swooping low, capturing the creature in mighty talons that dug deep and made the skin along its spine pop. He knew the weight of the creature he carried, felt the warm body convulse as it died. Only dreams, but when he woke, the rabbit lay near the fire, and he knew he did not dream at all. His faith swept through him like rolling thunder, and he called out for Anutaya to set him free.

  He sighed. What did any of that matter now? Despite the strength of his ire, despite his prayers of penitence, not even when he bent low and set his boney old knees upon the cold stone, did she come to him. He could not save Baline or her people. Why did she give him the visions and no way to act upon them? He knew the answer to that as well. He had asked for them. He could not bear to be so alone, and so she gave him sight into his world and set him free in dreams. He saw everything that day–the women and children herded together as cattle and the men hewn like saplings. Chinera, too, such a valiant little soul, Melendarius saw her conceal the baby in the thicket and lead her killer back to Baline. She played such a clever ruse, enough to outsmart the Owlman but not wily enough to save herself.

  Now, on his knees, he wept, wept for the people of Baline, wept for Chinera and Matt, wept for Ceri, bright and alive inside that forest thicket. Finally, he wept for himself because he could do nothing–the wise man of Baline, as lost as the little village. Wrenching sobs full of desperation echoed through the cavern. He wished he might block the sight of the burning cottages from his memory. Was the ravaging of Baline and her people the deplorable event from which Anutaya barred him?

  ***

  Melendarius?

  At first he thought he imagined her presence, but when she spoke a second time, he could not deny the strength of her spirit.

  Melendarius, sweet son of Ascalla, a vast burden rests upon your shoulders.

  “The fires, the deaths, you come too late. Why oh Mother of the Earth?”

  Must you always question me? Very well, I answer you thus. All of Ascalla awaits Chinera’s babe. Carry her into the world, but hear me well. Guide not her path. That she must do alone. Go now my son, seek the child.

  The weight of captivity evaporated, and he rose from the floor
. His dusty staff leaned against the cavern wall.

  “Awaken Lunarey.” He extended a hand, and the staff rose and glided across the cavern. He flexed his fingers around wood worn smooth from years of service. He had selected the best Alder branch and strengthened the tip with fire and ice; the notched top held a bright crystal. He touched it with his thumb and remembered the day by the sea of Shadall far south of here, when a dwarf named Roland gave it into his keeping.

  “Lunarey, you serve me well, my ally in good times, my strength in dark. Serve me now, old friend.” He pointed the crystal toward the cavern wall.

  A wrinkle appeared and then a thin crack. When it grew large enough to accommodate a man, Melendarius stepped through. Below the mountain and through the valley, lay what remained of Baline. Fires set by the Owlmen smoldered, and the acrid stench burned his throat even here. He knew the raiding party made for home through these very mountains. Concentrating hard he scanned the village. Not a sign of life came to him. But at the edge of the forest, near Pine Water Creek, Chinera crawled along the ground. The image drifted in and out, fluttering through his consciousness and away again. With it, he sensed the flicker of another tiny soul, Ceri. Chinera, alive but weak, held the only link he had to her.

  In spite of his aching joints and considerable age, Melendarius made a speedy decent. He crossed the flatland and skirted the village. Business there could wait until later. He must reach Chinera. He tried to penetrate her thinking and speak to her, but her concentration acted as a mind bender. He read her easily enough, but her strong resolve kept him from placing his thoughts inside her head. He saw, through her, the agony she suffered. She bled profusely and death pushed ever closer. He knew when she collapsed, unconscious.

  ***

  Melendarius found her lying on the forest floor, her clothes torn and blood-soaked from a deep wound in her side, He gathered her into his arms. Her life had belonged to him from that day three years past when she and Ceri hovered on the brink of death, but their story started long before that. A wee slip of a girl, she had followed him everywhere, and in those fathomless eyes, he saw a hunger for knowledge so much more intense than the other women of her bloodline. He had taught them, too, but their healing gifts did not equal hers. When she had reached ten seasons, he centered her world deeper into the path of a healer. Oh, how quickly she learned, born to it, his child then and his child now.

  “Chinera, Chinera come back,” he whispered.

  From a far place, she heard him, felt his touch but resisted. She rested safe inside a cool half-light that masked her pain. No cruel images penetrated the cocoon like sanctuary–only blessed relief and a desire for sleep–endless, dreamless sleep. Something important beckoned. Let me go, she wanted to cry, but the voice that spoke her name persisted until she opened her eyes.

  “Ceri,” she said her voice a raspy whisper.

  “Chinera, where is she. Where is Ceri? I cannot find her without you. You must awaken, and help me find her.”

  Her skin took on a bluish hue and turned translucent in the growing twilight. He must act or risk losing both of them. Ceri’s life light, so pale, did not reach him here, and Chinera teetered on the edge of death. He needed a way to sustain her long enough to find the baby. The answer approached, padding silently on four feet. An amber-eyed she-wolf, its white coat, rich and thick despite a late fall heat wave, emerged from the trees and gazed at them. Melendarius beckoned and it drew near. A calm radiance lit the wolf’s eyes, and it lay down close enough for Chinera to bury her fingers in its fur. Melendarius lowered her to the ground and pressed the palm of her free hand over his heart.

  Her features turned serenely beautiful in the mellow light that drifted through the forest canopy. Beneath the trees, he spoke to her for the last time. Some part of her soul would remember the past, but not the way she did in human form.

  “Go, child. All is well.”

  A gold-flecked radiance lifted from her heart. It spread along her arm, through her fingers to where she stroked the wolf and disappeared into the fur that covered its chest. The wolf gave a surprised jolt and rose. Chinera’s hand dropped to the ground. The wound in her side had stopped bleeding. Melendarius did not need to search for heart sounds. He knew that she was gone and turned to the white wolf.

  “Find the baby,” he whispered. “Go Chinera.” Somber faced he stroked her velvety ear. “Find Ceri.”

  3 - The Foundling

  Marcus Cailin inched his horse along the ice-covered trail. He pulled a wool cloak closer, a futile effort meant to block the freezing wind that pierced every seam and made the hair on his tough hide stand at attention. Colder than a dead man’s bullocks, he thought and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Slow and steady, lads. Forward be a bit chancy.”

  The trail twisted around a sharp outcrop in the mountain wall. Wary of the drop on his left, he negotiated the turn, and lost sight of the six men who followed. He would feel better when he could see them again. The wind eased a bit, enough so that he heard the muffled swish-clop of the horses' hooves and the chunky clink of chainmail. He tried to let go of the tension that turned his spine rigid, but two inches of ice and a cover of fresh snow on the narrow path worried him. A well-seasoned lot, his men, but if one of the horses stumbled into the chasm that edged the trail–well, nary a doubt in his mind the outcome of that.

  He had watched it happen once in these mountains. Only that time horse, cart and driver, careened over the edge and smashed on the rocks below. Heavy laden with Pa’s stone cutting chisels and the rest of their stores, the whole thing had tumbled end over end. The horse’s scream still echoed in his memory. Thirty years ago, he reckoned, give or take a season or two, but the image burned clear as day. Ma, dead of the childbed fever, her body sunk in a peat bog and the babe with her. A boy child, a wee brother, he remembered, sunk deep into the murky dark. He and Pa pushed them under scared a patrol might find the bodies and recognize them. “Got to be sure boy,” Pa had said when he balked. Marcus knew Pa did it to conceal any trace of their flight from Lawrenzia, but leaving them like that ate at his soul.

  They didn’t account for much, him and Pa, just a scrawny eight-year-old and his sallow-skinned father but owned property be owned property, and Abram Daws owned them. His gut tightened, and he rubbed a hand across his face. He remembered clear as today’s sunrise, how Daws had caught him ambling along the creek poking a wee bit of a stick below the surface and stirring up the muck.

  “Your pa know you’re here, does he?” Abram edged his horse close enough to force the boy into the water. Marcus stood knee-deep in the swiftly moving current, afraid to speak or venture a look at Abram. “Answer me, you good for naught whelp.”

  Cornered, Marcus knew he must answer. If he said no, like as not he’d feel the sting of that big whip he saw coiled around Abram’s saddle horn. His mind had raced, trying to summon a feasible lie–something believable yet benign enough that Abram might let him go.

  “Pa sent me to check the fish traps yonder.” He turned and pointed up stream.

  Abram leaned over, grabbed him by the hair and dragged him across the front of the saddle. “Think mayhap your pa might back that story? Let’s find out. I warn you not a peep.”

  They found Pa scraping a deer hide clean of its last gory remnants. Pa didn’t turn from the work, but Marcus saw his shoulders go stiff and knew he had heard the horse approach.

  “Hard at it I see. Good man, good man,” said Abram. “I’ve fetched your lad along, Cailin. Tells me you sent him down the road to cut a bit of peat for your hearth.”

  Pa scraped the hide and nodded.

  “Then you be vouching for him?”

  Marcus had whimpered, and Abram jerked a fist full of hair to silence him.

  “Oh, aye, sir. Marcus be a good lad.”

  “You lied, didn’t you lad.” Abram gave his hair another vicious yank. “Got me a fine cure for liars.”

  Marcus saw Pa turn toward them. “I might be a bit off
my thinkin', sir. What did the boy tell you?”

  “Oh, never you mind, I be fixing to see he tells no more lies.” Abram hauled Marcus upright, took a dirk from a sheath at his waist and, with a single slice, split the boy’s lip from the nostril down. “Now then, I’ve marked you for a liar. Get from my sight.”

  A quick thrust had found Marcus on the ground at his father’s feet. He grabbed his mouth howling in pain. Blood from the fresh wound gushed through his fingers. Pa made a move toward Abram, but Marcus caught him around the leg.

  “Heed that snippet of a pup, Cailin. Halt your step if you value his life and that of that wrinkled whore you call wife.”

  Marcus’s memory clogged with images of that day. The look of abhorrence on his father’s face–the little muscles working along the heavy line of his jaw as he clenched his teeth–the sweat that beaded on his forehead and ran down his neck making curved streaks in the dust of his labors. Though he never spoke of it, Pa must have decided right then to get shed of the whole place one day. That day came not long after when Ma and the babe died. Pa had put both of their bodies in the cart and headed for the peat bog.