The Fire Tree - Free read (3-chapters)
Prologue
The Tree remembered when the world was young, when fiery chasms riddled the landscape, their fierce magma reshaping the earth. It was just a sapling then, its blooms mere buds of what they were destined to become. The bark of the Tree was crimson and gold and its flowers were burning flames. The blooms shone like stars in the night and the valley where the Tree lived was filled with light.
Over the ages, many men sought the Tree to steal the fiery blooms legend claimed granted eternal life. Their bones were scattered as far as the eye could see in the valley where the Tree lived. Only one pilgrim hadn’t followed their fate. She had plucked a fiery bloom from the Tree and lived.
Chapter One
The window of the cramped alcove where Aidan slept was frosted this autumn morning, and looked like a pretty, white sunflower in the morning sunlight. Maybe it was a sign that today would be different. Maybe her prayers would finally be answered. She shivered under her thin blanket, and listened for the rattle of pots in the kitchen that meant Gran was awake. But the whisper of the wind through the tree outside her window was the only sound. For one wonderful moment she dared to feel joy.
But it wasn’t long before Gran’s gravelly bark crushed her elation. “Get up, lazy girl! Sloth is the Devil’s tool!”
Gran would beat her if she didn’t get up right away, so Aidan bolted out of bed, pulled on her threadbare dress, and hurried to the kitchen.
A bowl of watery porridge sat on the kitchen table along with a pitcher of sour milk. Aidan sighed, as she poured the milk on her porridge and ate the disgusting mess. It was the same slop every morning. Her mouth watered at the thought of the eggs and bacon Gran always made for herself, or the fluffy griddle cakes swimming in syrup her friend Griffin had for breakfast. But Gran had always insisted thin porridge was good enough for the likes of her.
Her grandmother hovered at the sink, tapping her fingers impatiently to the drip of the leaky faucet. Aidan had to bolt her food because Gran would curse if she took too long getting to her chores. It wasn’t as if she wanted to linger over the unappetizing food, but the kitchen was toasty from the woodstove in the corner and she relished the brief warmth before going out into the frigid morning. Forcing the last bit of porridge down, she washed her bowl in the sink.
“Wood needs chopping and garden needs weeding. After you finish that, go into the village and get a ham bone for the soup. And don’t let that shark butcher cheat you this time! Two pennies is highway robbery for a paltry ham bone!” Gran snapped. She took a tin can off the shelf and extracted a tarnished penny. Smacking the coin on the table with a loud snap, she continued, “and don’t dawdle! Get home right after!”
“Yes Gran.” Aidan said. She hated chopping wood, because she always got blisters and splinters. But at least the exertion warmed her.
Mist rose from the overgrown yard as Aidan stepped outside. She skipped every other stone on the path to the woodshed, pretending the stones she stepped on were really lily pads floating in a lovely lily pond with croaking frogs. A half-frozen puddle shone with a rainbow in the morning sun where the axe rested against the woodshed. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Gran wasn’t watching, she whispered a fervent pray, “Please, Magic, help me escape my horrid grandmother!” She always prayed for the same thing whenever she saw a rainbow, because rainbows were magical. Griffin said it was silly to believe in magic, but she didn’t care. It made her feel better to have something to believe in.
By the time the logs sat in a neat pile next to the door of the cottage, Aidan’s arms ached and blisters welled on her hands. She set the axe against the shed and looked at the garden patch with despair. Ragweed and dandelion choked the turnips and carrots. The only saving grace was the ground was wet from last night’s thunderstorm and the weeds came out without the usual battle.
Gran was perched by the warm stove, picking her teeth with a wood chip when Aidan came back into the cottage. An empty plate with smear of egg yolk, bacon grease and crust of toast sat in front of her. Aidan’s mouth watered at the delicious aroma permeating the kitchen. She stoked the fire in the woodstove and hurried back outside before Gran could snap at her.
The penny bobbed in her dress pocket as she opened the lopsided gate and ran down the lane to the village. On the occasions Gran sent her to the village to shop, she pretended she was meeting a secret friend who would buy her the roasted chicken and gravy on the sign outside the inn. Or maybe her secret benefactor would take her to the seamstress to buy her a new dress with a satin bow. She knew it really wouldn’t happen, but it cheered her to pretend. Anyway, at least she got to escape Gran’s meanness for a while. She ran all the way to the village, giggling as she jumped over the puddles.
Biddlebrock Village was much like any other hamlet, but to Aidan it was a thrilling flow of activity as carts trotted by and people chatted in the street. She stood outside the butcher shop and stared at the headless chickens and gutted pigs on hooks in the window. They always made her stomach turn. The scowl she got from Gunter, the butcher, because Gran only gave her enough money to buy scraps and bones, was nearly as unpleasant. She eyed the bloody carcasses with distaste, and wanted to run away, but she’d get a beating if she went home empty handed.
“Hey, what are you staring at?” A voice at Aidan’s shoulder made her jump.
She whipped around to the dirty face of Georgie, the blacksmith’s brat. “Why don’t you go bother someone else?” she said, and made shooing motions at him. Georgie had tattled to Gran the day he saw her and Griffin down by the mill. She still had the marks from Gran’s strap.
Georgie sniffled, wiped his filthy hand across his nose, and then piped, “Uncle says, ‘snooping will be your undoing.’ Uncle says, ‘curiosity killed the cat!’” His uncle was the village blacksmith who always offered advice, asked for or not, while shooing a horse or mending a broken axel.
“You should talk, you little snitch. Now go away and bother someone else!”
Georgie’s dirty face screwed into a smug pucker, as he jeered, “Bet you don’t know the Guard is in the village, smarty pants!”
“You’re just making that up.”
“Am not! Go see for yourself. They’re at the Black Goose Tavern right now!” He shouted, red faced with indignation.
Georgie was always telling lies, but Aidan decided to go have a look anyway. She went into the butcher shop and bought the ham bone from the scowling Gunter. Much to her annoyance, Georgie tagged along, making faces at her as they walked. She wanted to get rid of him, so when she left the butcher’s she ran as fast as she could down the street.
Seamus, the milk man, cursed as she darted by his cart and startled his pony. He shook his fist after her as the milk in the buckets sloshed over the rims and into the cart bed. Georgie tried to follow her down the street, but she got rid of him by heading for the blacksmith’s forge. His father spotted him and yelled for him to take a mended pot to Old Lady Crump.
Mavis Meriwether, the village seamstress, peered reprovingly at Aidan over her spectacles from behind her shop window filled with needles and thread. The silk dresses and blouses hanging behind her fluttered like colored moths around a flame.
The plump, red-faced baker’s wife, Emily, waved at Aidan from a cloud of delicious steam wafting from the baker’s shop. Emily was one of the few villagers who were nice to her. Most treated her with indifference, on account of Gran’s nastiness, but the kind-hearted Emily would give her goodies, so she detoured over to the shop.
Emily wiped the flour from her round cheek, and said with a smile, “I saved the tarts that fell for you,” and handed Aidan two flattened, but still scrumptious looking, berry tarts.
She wolfed down the tarts, and then gave Emily a warm hug before she ran out the door. Emily always smelled so good, of berries and sugar and buttery dough.
The multicolored beeswax tapers hanging in the window of the chandler’s shop always reminded Aidan of a rainbow.
She stopped to admire them, before ducking down the alley behind the shop. When she reached the end of the alley, she peered around the corner at the Black Goose Tavern across the street. My God, it is the Guard!
She was terrified to eavesdrop on the soldiers in the doorway of the Black Goose Tavern, but the Inquisitor’s Guard always brought grief for someone. Aidan just had to know who. Every autumn the Guard marched through the villages searching for the Chosen. It was supposed to be a great honor to be chosen, but the children they took away never returned. Their families never heard from them again. Gran would beat her for every chore she neglected because of dawdling. Georgie, the little, snot-nosed brat, would tattle on her, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the Guard. They were hard to miss in their scarlet uniforms and tabards bearing the black cross of the Inquisitor. Their eyes were cold as the rime coating the windows of Gran’s cottage this morning. She brushed the fire-red curls back from her cheek, and inched, silent as smoke, out into the street. The villagers kept their eyes on the ground as they hurried by the Black Goose with their carts and wares. She pretended to drop something in the street in front of the tavern and bent down as if searching. She could just make out what the two Guards said.
“The Chosen has to be a girl this time,” the taller Guard said to the other one.
The other man grumbled, “It’s no easy task with the peasant stock. They breed like vermin and scatter themselves over the countryside!”
“His Holiness told me this one would be easy to find.” He pointed to his chest, and continued, “She carries a birthmark shaped like a tree, here.”
Aidan stifled a gasp. She had a birthmark just like that! Gran had told her all of Satan’s servants carried his mark. She said the Devil took the flame from the Tree to brand his creatures before setting them lose on a God-fearing world.
“You take half the men and start at the north end of the village. I’ll take the south,” the taller guard continued. “Go to every hovel, every shop and inspect the adolescent girls for the birthmark.”
Aidan dropped the ham bone on a pile of trash as she fled down the street. Old Sadie, perched on a stool in front of the candy shop, eyed her suspiciously as she sprinted past the window display of spun taffy and peppermint twists. She knew she didn’t have long before the Guard found Gran’s cottage. She also knew Gran wouldn’t hide her. She would have to run away.
Gran was in the yard scattering grain for the chickens when she reached the stone wall of the cottage, so she darted around to the back door and hurried to the cramped nook where she slept. There wasn’t much that was hers. The lumpy pallet she slept on, the thin blanket Gran begrudged her, and the picture of the Flamebird that she’d torn out of the Bestiary her Aunt Estonia left behind when she came to visit. Aidan would never forget that day.
Aunt Estonia had arrived unannounced in her fine carriage with the matching chestnut horses when Aidan was five. The years hadn’t been kind to Estonia. She looked like a wizened apple doll dressed in satin and jewels. Her aunt peered reproving through pearled spectacles at Aidan as if she was a bothersome insect. Her curiosity satisfied, Estonia plopped her bag on the table, opened her purse and took out two silver coins. The coins clinked as she dropped them into Gran’s sweaty palm. Gran eyes gleamed as she examined them carefully and then she nodded. Aunt Estonia was in such a rush to depart that she forgot her bag on the table. She swept out of the cottage and back into her carriage without a word. A tear rolled down Aidan’s cheek as she ran outside and watched the carriage until it disappeared down the lane. By the time she’d returned to the kitchen, Gran had riffled the forgotten bag and found the Bestiary. She snorted scornfully at the beautiful, gilded illustrations of fantastic creatures, and railed about how the rich were the tools of Satan. The next day she took the book to the village to sell. But that night Aidan had crept into the kitchen to look at the Bestiary. She’d torn out the scarlet and gold picture of the Flamebird and kept it hidden under her pallet.
Thankfully, her grandmother was in such a hurry to sell the book she never noticed the missing page.
Aidan slipped the picture of the Flamebird carefully into her dress pocket and stuffed her blouse and a pair of trousers that belonged to Griffin into an empty flour sack. She’d promised to mend them for him, but hadn’t gotten to it yet.
She’d lied to Gran about the trousers, saying Griffin was going to pay her to sew them.
The animated clucking of the chickens and Gran’s “click, click” sound she made as she fed them, drifted in through the open window as Aidan hurried into the pantry. Cutting a generous hunk of cheese from the wheel, she grabbed a loaf of bread, a bunch of carrots and turnips and stuffed them into the flour sack. It was only enough food for a few days, but she hoped there were wild mushrooms and blackberries in the woods. Her heart felt like it would thud right out of her chest as she ran from the cottage and darted into the woods. She wished she could say goodbye to Griffin, but didn’t dare with the Guard searching for her.
Gran’s cottage was about a mile outside Biddlebrock Village and bordered Darkling Woods. Aidan had heard tales about Darkling from Gran ever since she was a child. According to her grandmother, evil fairies roamed the woods on fire-breathing, black stags, and carried wicked spears of salt crystal. They hunted at the witching hour and would steal human children out of their beds. Aidan had shivered in fear most nights, until finally she’d fall asleep from sheer exhaustion. She was terrified to go into the woods, but she was more afraid of the Guard.
The trees wore shaggy beards of moss and surrounded Aidan like reproving old men as she went deeper into the forest. Macabre tapestries of spider webs spun from their crooked branches. She didn’t see the huge web across the path until she’d plowed right through it and then frantically tried to brush the sticky netting from her face. She had no idea where she was going, but once when they were trapping fish by the mill, Griffin had told her about a mysterious lady who lived in the woods. He said his grandfather used to tell a tale about getting lost in Darkling years back and being injured in a fall. Then the lady appeared in a silver mist and led his grandfather to her cottage made of yew wood and water lilies.
His grandfather was convinced the lady must be a witch because the wild creatures came to her door and didn’t fear her. She wouldn’t tell him her name, so he called her “Lady of the Lilies.” The Lady mended his injuries but wouldn’t answer any of his questions. When he recovered, she guided him to a path that led to the village.
Aidan wasn’t sure she believed the story about the mysterious lady, but she’d never seen Griffin’s eyes shine like they had when he spoke of her. At any rate, she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Maybe, if the lady was real, and not just a tall tale Griffin’s grandfather spun, she would help.
A gnarled root Aidan swore hadn’t been there an instant before caught her foot and she tumbled into soggy grass. Wiping the blood from her scraped palm on the wet leaves, she peered into in the gloom. The woods had been dark even in the day, but now the sun had set and twilight shadows morphed into crouching monsters. She jumped up and peered wildly around, her heart pounding in her ears. She had to find shelter for the night, but where? Then she spotted a dead Elm whose hollow trunk was as big around as she was tall. It was swathed in moss and stood on a grassy knoll just ahead. The trunk had split on one side and the hole looked large enough to crawl inside. Clean, musty woodiness filled her nostrils as she knelt to peer inside the hollow trunk. A mouse scurried out as she squeezed into the space that was just big enough. The ground inside, padded by a layer of wood dust, was softer than she expected.
The noises of the forest grew louder as night closed in. Aidan jumped when something howled not far away. What was that, a wolf? At least it sounded like it might be a wolf. She set aside the bread she’d been eating with shaky hands and listened to the creaking trees and eerie rustles. Then she remembered a story her mother had told her when she was little about a wolf that fought beside a man against the Inquisitor’s Guard. According to her mother, the man, Caelan, had saved the wolf from the hunter’s arrows when it was a cub and the beast became his faithful companion. Griffin had scoffed at the story and said it was just an old wives tale, but her mother wouldn’t lie, so maybe not all wolves were wicked. Then again, the villagers grumbled how the wolves killed their sheep and even attacked Old Bearn outside his cottage one night, at least according to Bearn. But he’d been known to spin a tall tale or two.
Fog rolled in to blanket the forest in white as the night dragged on. Aidan huddled inside the hollow trunk, her blouse and Griffin’s trousers wrapped around her, but it didn’t keep out the chill. She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but she was so tired she finally nodded off.
A light bobbing and flickering in the mist jarred her awake. She barely breathed, as the light floated like an uneasy ghost through the trees as it came closer. It looked like a lantern and she wondered in panic if the Guard had followed her. Footsteps accompanied the bobbing light and her heart thundered. The approaching steps snapped a twig, and then the lantern lit the marsh grass outside the trunk where she cowered. She squeezed as far away from the opening as she could.
An eerily illuminated face appeared in the lamplight, and a voice said, “Thank Hunter’s luck, I’ve found you!”
“Griffin! What are you doing here?” She burst out in relief.
The dark-haired boy framed in the lamplight grinned. “I came to your cottage as soon as I heard the Guard was searching for a girl. I whistled the signal outside, but when you didn’t answer, I figured you’d already made a run for it. Your prints led from the back of the cottage to the game trail into Darkling so I knew you’d fled into the woods. I ran home, got a lantern and some food, and managed to sneak out without Father or my brothers seeing me.”
“I’m so glad to see you, Griff, but how on earth did you find me here?”
“Grandfather taught me how to read the signs. I was able to make out your tracks in the marsh grass. I got a little confused when you left the path, but when I doubled back, I spotted the hollow trunk and figured you might have taken shelter in it.”
Aidan looked into his eyes. “I’m not going back, Griff. Even if the Guard gives up and goes on to another village, they know about my birthmark. When they can’t find who they’re looking for, they’ll be back.”
His grin faded. “But where are you going to go? They’ll keep looking for you, like curs on the scent of a rabbit. They won’t give up until they find you.”
“Then I’ll just have to go somewhere they’ll never find me!” She insisted.
Peering at her as if she’d just grown a second head, Griffin clipped, “There is no such place.”
“Yes there is. You told me about it. I’m going to find the Lady of the Lilies.”
Griffin’s silky dark hair bobbed, as he shook his head in disbelief. “How are you going to find her? Darkling Woods extends for leagues and leagues. Only the outskirts have ever been explored. Besides, it’s said the Tree lives in Darkling and the Devil’s followers hold court there.”
“Well, I can’t go back to the village. The only other thing I could think of was to go to my Aunt Estonia in Stowe, but she hates me. The one time she came to visit she peered through her spectacles at me as if I was something unpleasant she’d stepped in.”
Griffin bit his lip, as he always did when pondering something. “Well, maybe I’m just as crazy as you, but I can’t let you go wandering around Darkling by yourself. I’m coming with you.”
“I’m glad for your company, Griff, but it’s too dangerous,” Aidan said, and clasped his hand. “I don’t have anything to lose with the Guard hunting me. I don’t believe the boys and girls they take come to any good end, though they pretend it’s a great honor to be Chosen. But you should go home to your family.”
“Guess my father was right about me. Always said I was a foolish dreamer. Told me I could draw on wood with charcoal all I wanted and it wouldn’t change anything. Only the sons of the wealthy get to apprentice to artists and learn how to draw and paint properly. So I guess maybe I have nothing to lose either. I have no money to buy paint, brushes or paper and I can’t apprentice to an artist. I’m doomed to spend the rest of my days making casks and barrels with Father.
Sometimes I feel I’ll go stark raving mad if I have to soak and bend another oak strip or bind another cask with hoops!
Father just might find me hanging from the rafters someday by one of his precious hoops! So I might as well do something just as crazy and go with you.”
“Thank you,” Aidan whispered, and leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Were both as crazy as sun-dazed calves,” he muttered, but didn’t pull away.
It was difficult to find wood that wasn’t damp, but Griffin managed to start a fire by striking flint in a clump of dead moss. They toasted bread and apples on a stick and watched them sputter and pop over the flames.
Licking the sticky apple juice from his fingers, Griffin sighed, “Guess we better try to get some sleep.” He pulled a blanket from his pack and handed it to her. “Here, you take this and curl up inside the tree. You’ll be warmer and safer in there. I’ll sleep out here.”
Aidan was too tired to argue so she wrapped the blanket around her and squeezed back inside the hollow trunk. She could just make out Griffin through the fog as he rubbed his hands over the fire. The trees made eerie, creaking groans in the night, and she was so grateful for his company.
Sunlight through a crack in the trunk and something multi-legged crawling up her arm jolted her awake. Aidan brushed the wood-beetle off her neck and watched as it landed on its back in the grass and kicked furiously to right itself. Griffin was perched on rock a little ways away, sharpening his dagger. He glanced up when she wriggled out from the trunk.
“Did you sleep?” She asked, with a yawn, and tried in vain to stretch the kink in her neck.
“Not much, but I don’t feel too bad. I found a brook over that knoll where you can wash if you want,” Griffin said, pointing through the trees. “Wish I’d thought to bring a flask for water.” He shook his head ruefully. “We’ll just have to hope we can find clean water when we need it. Have to be careful because Grandfather told me there are poisonous lime springs in Darkling.” He slid his dagger into the worn sheath and picked up a bundled cloth. “I found blackberries that were ripe and mushrooms we can toast.” He said proudly, and opened the cloth filled with purple berries and brown-speckled mushrooms.
Aidan looked at him with new appreciation. This resourceful woodsman was a side of Griffin she’d never seen before.
“I’ve got to wash before I eat,” She said, wrinkling her nose at how musty she smelled from the hollow.
“Hey, those are mine!” Griffin blurted out, as she unrolled his trousers and held them up to her waist.
“You don’t expect me to go traipsing around the woods in this, do you?” She counted, and waved the threadbare hem of her tattered skirt.
“Ah, no, I guess not,” he mumbled, blushing at the glimpse of her legs.
Pretty yellow crocuses dotted the banks of the brook and Aidan almost forgot she was in a treacherous wood as she stripped off her soiled dress and waded into the water. She spotted wild lavender on the way and crushed the stems with a rock to use as soap. When her skin and hair were scrubbed as clean as she could manage, she sat on the bank in a patch of sunlight to dry. Griffin’s trousers were snug in the hips and an inch too long, but she pulled them on and rolled up the cuffs. She slipped into her blouse, and then took up the knife she’d taken from Gran’s kitchen and cropped her hair. Long ginger coils dropped onto the mossy creek bank. Then she washed her dress and headed back to Griffin. She didn’t see the creature that jumped down from a tree to snatch the coils of shorn hair in its little, green hands. Its emerald eyes flashed greedily as it stuffed the treasure into a tiny sack made of nightshade leaves and scurried back up.
Chapter Two
The banks of the pool were lined with blood-red lichen and steam rose from the foul water to fill the hollow in Darkling Woods with crimson fog. A strange creature knelt at the water’s edge. It appeared to be a dog covered in matted, black fur, but the face beneath the fur was human. Canine teeth protruded over the creature’s black lips, and a long, white tongue shot out to lap the putrid water. Its head snapped up and its red eyes flicked to the brambles overhanging the pool when a dark cloud descended on it. The cloud swarmed and buzzed around the creature, sending it into a frenzy of snapping and biting. A terrible sound that was both a scream and a howl tore through the hollow, and then the creature bounded off into the brambles.
***
“Do you have any idea where we’re going?” Aidan asked, as she peered into the tangled wood. “I’m sure that’s the same stump we passed before. See, it has the knot that looks like Old Sadie’s nose.”
Griffin pushed his hand through his hair and glanced up at the patch of sky visible through the tangled canopy. “I’m trying to head north. I think it might be where the Lady’s cottage is, at least from what Grandfather told me, but it’s hard to tell which direction is north in this infernal woods!”
“Drat!” She erupted, and slapped her neck. “I swear the mosquitoes are as big as hummingbirds!”
Griffin grinned, to assure her that he wasn’t scared, but his gut was twisted in a knot. They’d been lucky so far not to encounter any of the nightmare creatures his grandfather said roamed these woods, but he doubted their luck would hold much longer. His hand squeezed the handle of his dagger. It was a child’s toy against the monsters his grandfather told him prowl Darkling, but he couldn’t let Aidan see how scared he was. He pointed to a mossy track that led into a grove of gnarled old willows. “Let’s follow that game trail over there. I think its heading north.”
Aidan peered doubtfully at the overgrown track. She had the sinking feeling Griffin didn’t know what he was doing, but she didn’t have any better ideas.
As the shadows deepened, they followed the narrow path further into the bog. Aidan slipped on the wet marsh grass and fell into a brackish pool. Griffin pulled her out, and wrinkled his nose. She didn’t blame him. She smelled as bad as the horrid herbal brew Gran forced down her throat whenever she was sick.
The shrouds of moss and lichen on the trees glowed with an eerie phosphorescence and roots seemed to reach up out of the ground to grab their ankles. The stillness of the wood was unnerving. She could hear Griffin’s shallow breath, and it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t heard or seen any animals in quite a while.
“It’ll be dark soon so we better take shelter,” Griffin said, pointing to an outcropping thrusting from the marsh. “That looks like as good a place as any. At least we’ll have cover on one side.”
A sputtering fire was the best he could manage from soggy branches and wet marsh grass. They toasted mushrooms and ate what was left of the bread and cheese. Lights winked and floated over the marsh like fireflies. Griffin said it must be phosphorus in the water, but they looked more like uneasy ghosts to her.
“I brought the picture of the Flamebird,” Aidan offered, in an attempt to cheer them both.
“Can I see it?” His face brightened. He’d seen the picture once before when Aidan’s grandmother had been away in the village.
Fiery plumes of scarlet and gold spread in the firelight as she unfolded the page.
Griffin’s breath caught, and his finger gently traced the exquisite feathers. “What an amazing artist, whoever drew this,” he whispered in awe.
“Mother told my brother Bran and me the story of the Flamebird when we were little.”
“You have a brother? Griffin interjected incredulously.
“Yes, but I don’t know where he is. We were separated after Mother died. Gran won’t tell me anything. She raged and slapped me when I asked about Bran once, so I never asked again. I don’t remember him well, because I was so young, but I remember playing together under an apple tree and sitting in the kitchen while Mother baked bread.”
Griffin didn’t know what to say, so he mumbled, “that must be tough. Sure hope you find him someday.”
She sighed poignantly. “I hope so, too.
They sat in silence staring at the fire. With her thoughts far away, she was startled when Griffin cleared his throat, and prompted, “You were telling the story of the Flamebird.”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot. Anyway, in the story an evil sorceress turned a handsome prince into a snow-white bird because he loved someone else. The sorceress was so angry she gave the bird-prince feathers of fire so his beloved couldn’t touch him. The prince’s beloved was so heart sick that one night she came into his chamber while he slept and embraced him.
His fiery plumes burned her, but she wouldn’t let go. The poor prince couldn’t save her. When the fire went out, there was nothing left of his beloved but a sprinkle of rose petals.”
Griffin gazed off beyond the firelight and didn’t respond. Assuming he was deep in thought, she nearly jumped out of her skin when he suddenly grabbed her arm, and hissed, “Something is coming!”
She peered into the shadows but couldn’t see anything. “It’s probably just the trees creak…” she began, but then the night tore open with terrifying howls and nightmare creatures bounded out of the fog to surround them. One of the creatures trotted up and sat on its haunches right in front of her. Its body was like a huge dog’s, but it peered at Aidan with a face that looked like Gunter, the village butcher’s. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Then, to her horror, the creature spoke in a rasping growl, “You, come with us!”
“Holy Mother!” Griffin swore, and stepped between the creature and Aidan. His hand shook so bad he nearly dropped his dagger, as he asserted, “She stays here, you filthy mutt!”
The creature’s horrible face contorted into a snarl and it bared long, pointy teeth. Its eager whine sent chills down Aidan’s spine as it crouched low to spring.
Chapter Three
The bell in the tower tolled six times as Bran, the young bell ringer, yanked its weathered cord. Rubbing the rope fibers from his calloused hands onto his cassock, he peered down at the city gates, and muttered, “His Holiness won’t be pleased with this turn of events.” The clanging of the huge, bronze bell had dimmed Bran’s hearing after his four years of serving it. But though his hearing might be going, his eyes were sharp as a kestrel’s. The Inquisitor’s Guard drove an empty cart through the gates. No one else would notice that the veiled cart was unoccupied, but from the belfry Bran could see they’d returned without the Chosen. The people would never know the truth. A young novitiate of the right age and sex would be selected to take the Chosen’s place in the Ascension Ceremony. Bran would never forget the other time this happened.
He’d just started his apprenticeship as bell ringer and was in the belfry when he saw the Guard return without the Chosen. Gesturing at the armored ranks riding through the city gates, Bran remarked on the absence of the Chosen to the crotchety old bell keeper, Brother Leo.
“Never voice such heresy, Boy!” Brother Leo shouted, himself near deaf from the clanging of the bells, and slapped him.
Bran noticed the novitiate girl selected to take the place of the Chosen one day in the piazza when Brother Leo sent him to the rope maker for a new bell cord. The girl was in a group of novitiates darting by him like a flock of giggling terns in their white robes. Bran stared at her as he’d never seen anyone so beautiful. She noticed him and flashed a secret smile before the others swept her away in a swirl of white. Bran couldn’t stop thinking about her all the way back to the bell tower. He didn’t see the girl again, until the day of the Ascension Ceremony.
Master Leo had grudgingly let Bran come to the ceremony. Cold black eyes glared over Leo’s hawkish nose as he elbowed a farmer and his wife out of the way to secure a prime spot to view the ceremony, even as he grumbled about the lack of manners in the common people. Bran was flushed with excitement as he followed in Master Leo’s commanding wake.
The boisterous crowd hushed and the air seemed to crackle with a coming storm, as the Inquisitor’s Guard escorted the Chosen to the dais. Bran’s mouth fell open in shock when he recognized the beautiful novitiate girl from the square. He tried to catch the girl’s eye, but she walked by him as if in a trance. Her lovely, blue eyes stared into space and she looked feverish. A shiver ran down his spine. The girl’s expression was like the vacant stare of the men stumbling out of the poppy dens.
A baby wailed in the arms of its mother as the Inquisitor, Julius II, rose from his throne on the dais to address the crowd in the piazza. His gold-embroidered, white robe and sparkling jewels reminded Bran of the Blessed Saint in the stained glass window of the church. The Inquisitor’s voice stabbed into the throng like a bare spear. Bran didn’t pay much attention to what he said, because his gaze never left the girl.
His attention came back to the Inquisitor, as Julius proclaimed, “The Divine descends on wings of flame to carry His Chosen to Heaven!”
In that instant the girl stirred out of her trance. Sheer terror filled her lovely eyes as they found Bran’s in the crowd, but she didn’t move. She was like a pretty doe frozen in fear as the hounds cornered her. Bran could have sworn he heard her scream. Then the fire engulfed her, and the crowd in the piazza gasped. When the smoke cleared, the girl had vanished.
Bran shivered every time he remembered the terror in the girl’s eyes. Even after all this time, he still woke up nights in a cold sweat, with her silent scream in his mind. He’d never seen the girl again. When he asked the other novitiates about her, they shouted that he was a blasphemer. He was so frightened they might report him to the Guard that he never asked about her again.
Twilight churned with storm clouds, as Bran’s thoughts returned to the present. He pulled his cassock tighter against the cold wind whistling through the belfry. Tragedy would come tomorrow on Ascension Day. He also knew the people in the streets below, hurrying to their shops and homes, would believe the tragedy to be a glorious miracle.
Bran toyed with the pottage on his plate that evening at supper in the refectory. After Vespers and supper, he’d returned to his cell and tried to read, but the lost girl’s face haunted him. He tossed and turned on his pallet as the crescent moon arched across the sky and set. Dawn bled rose on the plaster walls of his cell and he hadn’t slept. Shivering as he emerged from his blankets into the frigid cell, he hurriedly slipped on a wool cassock. The icy water in the washbasin took his breath away, but he splashed it on his face and tonsured head. An insistent “meow” came from the doorway of his cell and he turned to see a black and white cat trot in. The cat bumped her head against Bran’s ankles as he fastened his sandals. He fished a cloth-wrapped parcel from his cassock pocket and extracted a slice of lamb. The cat bolted the lamb scrap he offered, and then wound around his ankles. “Sorry, little one, that’s all I could manage,” he said, stroking the cat’s bony back. She gave a plaintive meow of protest, but then dived after the flutter of a moth in the corner. Bran watched her for a moment, and then knelt in front of the wooden icon on the wall. “Merciful Savior, I may be eternally damned for what I do today, but I can’t let another girl die in the flames,” he whispered, and made the Sign of the Cross. As the sun illuminated the icon in a brush of gold, Bran rose and turned to climb the narrow stairs to the belfry, with the cat bounding up the stairs beside him.
Prologue
The Tree remembered when the world was young, when fiery chasms riddled the landscape, their fierce magma reshaping the earth. It was just a sapling then, its blooms mere buds of what they were destined to become. The bark of the Tree was crimson and gold and its flowers were burning flames. The blooms shone like stars in the night and the valley where the Tree lived was filled with light.
Over the ages, many men sought the Tree to steal the fiery blooms legend claimed granted eternal life. Their bones were scattered as far as the eye could see in the valley where the Tree lived. Only one pilgrim hadn’t followed their fate. She had plucked a fiery bloom from the Tree and lived.
Chapter One
The window of the cramped alcove where Aidan slept was frosted this autumn morning, and looked like a pretty, white sunflower in the morning sunlight. Maybe it was a sign that today would be different. Maybe her prayers would finally be answered. She shivered under her thin blanket, and listened for the rattle of pots in the kitchen that meant Gran was awake. But the whisper of the wind through the tree outside her window was the only sound. For one wonderful moment she dared to feel joy.
But it wasn’t long before Gran’s gravelly bark crushed her elation. “Get up, lazy girl! Sloth is the Devil’s tool!”
Gran would beat her if she didn’t get up right away, so Aidan bolted out of bed, pulled on her threadbare dress, and hurried to the kitchen.
A bowl of watery porridge sat on the kitchen table along with a pitcher of sour milk. Aidan sighed, as she poured the milk on her porridge and ate the disgusting mess. It was the same slop every morning. Her mouth watered at the thought of the eggs and bacon Gran always made for herself, or the fluffy griddle cakes swimming in syrup her friend Griffin had for breakfast. But Gran had always insisted thin porridge was good enough for the likes of her.
Her grandmother hovered at the sink, tapping her fingers impatiently to the drip of the leaky faucet. Aidan had to bolt her food because Gran would curse if she took too long getting to her chores. It wasn’t as if she wanted to linger over the unappetizing food, but the kitchen was toasty from the woodstove in the corner and she relished the brief warmth before going out into the frigid morning. Forcing the last bit of porridge down, she washed her bowl in the sink.
“Wood needs chopping and garden needs weeding. After you finish that, go into the village and get a ham bone for the soup. And don’t let that shark butcher cheat you this time! Two pennies is highway robbery for a paltry ham bone!” Gran snapped. She took a tin can off the shelf and extracted a tarnished penny. Smacking the coin on the table with a loud snap, she continued, “and don’t dawdle! Get home right after!”
“Yes Gran.” Aidan said. She hated chopping wood, because she always got blisters and splinters. But at least the exertion warmed her.
Mist rose from the overgrown yard as Aidan stepped outside. She skipped every other stone on the path to the woodshed, pretending the stones she stepped on were really lily pads floating in a lovely lily pond with croaking frogs. A half-frozen puddle shone with a rainbow in the morning sun where the axe rested against the woodshed. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Gran wasn’t watching, she whispered a fervent pray, “Please, Magic, help me escape my horrid grandmother!” She always prayed for the same thing whenever she saw a rainbow, because rainbows were magical. Griffin said it was silly to believe in magic, but she didn’t care. It made her feel better to have something to believe in.
By the time the logs sat in a neat pile next to the door of the cottage, Aidan’s arms ached and blisters welled on her hands. She set the axe against the shed and looked at the garden patch with despair. Ragweed and dandelion choked the turnips and carrots. The only saving grace was the ground was wet from last night’s thunderstorm and the weeds came out without the usual battle.
Gran was perched by the warm stove, picking her teeth with a wood chip when Aidan came back into the cottage. An empty plate with smear of egg yolk, bacon grease and crust of toast sat in front of her. Aidan’s mouth watered at the delicious aroma permeating the kitchen. She stoked the fire in the woodstove and hurried back outside before Gran could snap at her.
The penny bobbed in her dress pocket as she opened the lopsided gate and ran down the lane to the village. On the occasions Gran sent her to the village to shop, she pretended she was meeting a secret friend who would buy her the roasted chicken and gravy on the sign outside the inn. Or maybe her secret benefactor would take her to the seamstress to buy her a new dress with a satin bow. She knew it really wouldn’t happen, but it cheered her to pretend. Anyway, at least she got to escape Gran’s meanness for a while. She ran all the way to the village, giggling as she jumped over the puddles.
Biddlebrock Village was much like any other hamlet, but to Aidan it was a thrilling flow of activity as carts trotted by and people chatted in the street. She stood outside the butcher shop and stared at the headless chickens and gutted pigs on hooks in the window. They always made her stomach turn. The scowl she got from Gunter, the butcher, because Gran only gave her enough money to buy scraps and bones, was nearly as unpleasant. She eyed the bloody carcasses with distaste, and wanted to run away, but she’d get a beating if she went home empty handed.
“Hey, what are you staring at?” A voice at Aidan’s shoulder made her jump.
She whipped around to the dirty face of Georgie, the blacksmith’s brat. “Why don’t you go bother someone else?” she said, and made shooing motions at him. Georgie had tattled to Gran the day he saw her and Griffin down by the mill. She still had the marks from Gran’s strap.
Georgie sniffled, wiped his filthy hand across his nose, and then piped, “Uncle says, ‘snooping will be your undoing.’ Uncle says, ‘curiosity killed the cat!’” His uncle was the village blacksmith who always offered advice, asked for or not, while shooing a horse or mending a broken axel.
“You should talk, you little snitch. Now go away and bother someone else!”
Georgie’s dirty face screwed into a smug pucker, as he jeered, “Bet you don’t know the Guard is in the village, smarty pants!”
“You’re just making that up.”
“Am not! Go see for yourself. They’re at the Black Goose Tavern right now!” He shouted, red faced with indignation.
Georgie was always telling lies, but Aidan decided to go have a look anyway. She went into the butcher shop and bought the ham bone from the scowling Gunter. Much to her annoyance, Georgie tagged along, making faces at her as they walked. She wanted to get rid of him, so when she left the butcher’s she ran as fast as she could down the street.
Seamus, the milk man, cursed as she darted by his cart and startled his pony. He shook his fist after her as the milk in the buckets sloshed over the rims and into the cart bed. Georgie tried to follow her down the street, but she got rid of him by heading for the blacksmith’s forge. His father spotted him and yelled for him to take a mended pot to Old Lady Crump.
Mavis Meriwether, the village seamstress, peered reprovingly at Aidan over her spectacles from behind her shop window filled with needles and thread. The silk dresses and blouses hanging behind her fluttered like colored moths around a flame.
The plump, red-faced baker’s wife, Emily, waved at Aidan from a cloud of delicious steam wafting from the baker’s shop. Emily was one of the few villagers who were nice to her. Most treated her with indifference, on account of Gran’s nastiness, but the kind-hearted Emily would give her goodies, so she detoured over to the shop.
Emily wiped the flour from her round cheek, and said with a smile, “I saved the tarts that fell for you,” and handed Aidan two flattened, but still scrumptious looking, berry tarts.
She wolfed down the tarts, and then gave Emily a warm hug before she ran out the door. Emily always smelled so good, of berries and sugar and buttery dough.
The multicolored beeswax tapers hanging in the window of the chandler’s shop always reminded Aidan of a rainbow.
She stopped to admire them, before ducking down the alley behind the shop. When she reached the end of the alley, she peered around the corner at the Black Goose Tavern across the street. My God, it is the Guard!
She was terrified to eavesdrop on the soldiers in the doorway of the Black Goose Tavern, but the Inquisitor’s Guard always brought grief for someone. Aidan just had to know who. Every autumn the Guard marched through the villages searching for the Chosen. It was supposed to be a great honor to be chosen, but the children they took away never returned. Their families never heard from them again. Gran would beat her for every chore she neglected because of dawdling. Georgie, the little, snot-nosed brat, would tattle on her, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the Guard. They were hard to miss in their scarlet uniforms and tabards bearing the black cross of the Inquisitor. Their eyes were cold as the rime coating the windows of Gran’s cottage this morning. She brushed the fire-red curls back from her cheek, and inched, silent as smoke, out into the street. The villagers kept their eyes on the ground as they hurried by the Black Goose with their carts and wares. She pretended to drop something in the street in front of the tavern and bent down as if searching. She could just make out what the two Guards said.
“The Chosen has to be a girl this time,” the taller Guard said to the other one.
The other man grumbled, “It’s no easy task with the peasant stock. They breed like vermin and scatter themselves over the countryside!”
“His Holiness told me this one would be easy to find.” He pointed to his chest, and continued, “She carries a birthmark shaped like a tree, here.”
Aidan stifled a gasp. She had a birthmark just like that! Gran had told her all of Satan’s servants carried his mark. She said the Devil took the flame from the Tree to brand his creatures before setting them lose on a God-fearing world.
“You take half the men and start at the north end of the village. I’ll take the south,” the taller guard continued. “Go to every hovel, every shop and inspect the adolescent girls for the birthmark.”
Aidan dropped the ham bone on a pile of trash as she fled down the street. Old Sadie, perched on a stool in front of the candy shop, eyed her suspiciously as she sprinted past the window display of spun taffy and peppermint twists. She knew she didn’t have long before the Guard found Gran’s cottage. She also knew Gran wouldn’t hide her. She would have to run away.
Gran was in the yard scattering grain for the chickens when she reached the stone wall of the cottage, so she darted around to the back door and hurried to the cramped nook where she slept. There wasn’t much that was hers. The lumpy pallet she slept on, the thin blanket Gran begrudged her, and the picture of the Flamebird that she’d torn out of the Bestiary her Aunt Estonia left behind when she came to visit. Aidan would never forget that day.
Aunt Estonia had arrived unannounced in her fine carriage with the matching chestnut horses when Aidan was five. The years hadn’t been kind to Estonia. She looked like a wizened apple doll dressed in satin and jewels. Her aunt peered reproving through pearled spectacles at Aidan as if she was a bothersome insect. Her curiosity satisfied, Estonia plopped her bag on the table, opened her purse and took out two silver coins. The coins clinked as she dropped them into Gran’s sweaty palm. Gran eyes gleamed as she examined them carefully and then she nodded. Aunt Estonia was in such a rush to depart that she forgot her bag on the table. She swept out of the cottage and back into her carriage without a word. A tear rolled down Aidan’s cheek as she ran outside and watched the carriage until it disappeared down the lane. By the time she’d returned to the kitchen, Gran had riffled the forgotten bag and found the Bestiary. She snorted scornfully at the beautiful, gilded illustrations of fantastic creatures, and railed about how the rich were the tools of Satan. The next day she took the book to the village to sell. But that night Aidan had crept into the kitchen to look at the Bestiary. She’d torn out the scarlet and gold picture of the Flamebird and kept it hidden under her pallet.
Thankfully, her grandmother was in such a hurry to sell the book she never noticed the missing page.
Aidan slipped the picture of the Flamebird carefully into her dress pocket and stuffed her blouse and a pair of trousers that belonged to Griffin into an empty flour sack. She’d promised to mend them for him, but hadn’t gotten to it yet.
She’d lied to Gran about the trousers, saying Griffin was going to pay her to sew them.
The animated clucking of the chickens and Gran’s “click, click” sound she made as she fed them, drifted in through the open window as Aidan hurried into the pantry. Cutting a generous hunk of cheese from the wheel, she grabbed a loaf of bread, a bunch of carrots and turnips and stuffed them into the flour sack. It was only enough food for a few days, but she hoped there were wild mushrooms and blackberries in the woods. Her heart felt like it would thud right out of her chest as she ran from the cottage and darted into the woods. She wished she could say goodbye to Griffin, but didn’t dare with the Guard searching for her.
Gran’s cottage was about a mile outside Biddlebrock Village and bordered Darkling Woods. Aidan had heard tales about Darkling from Gran ever since she was a child. According to her grandmother, evil fairies roamed the woods on fire-breathing, black stags, and carried wicked spears of salt crystal. They hunted at the witching hour and would steal human children out of their beds. Aidan had shivered in fear most nights, until finally she’d fall asleep from sheer exhaustion. She was terrified to go into the woods, but she was more afraid of the Guard.
The trees wore shaggy beards of moss and surrounded Aidan like reproving old men as she went deeper into the forest. Macabre tapestries of spider webs spun from their crooked branches. She didn’t see the huge web across the path until she’d plowed right through it and then frantically tried to brush the sticky netting from her face. She had no idea where she was going, but once when they were trapping fish by the mill, Griffin had told her about a mysterious lady who lived in the woods. He said his grandfather used to tell a tale about getting lost in Darkling years back and being injured in a fall. Then the lady appeared in a silver mist and led his grandfather to her cottage made of yew wood and water lilies.
His grandfather was convinced the lady must be a witch because the wild creatures came to her door and didn’t fear her. She wouldn’t tell him her name, so he called her “Lady of the Lilies.” The Lady mended his injuries but wouldn’t answer any of his questions. When he recovered, she guided him to a path that led to the village.
Aidan wasn’t sure she believed the story about the mysterious lady, but she’d never seen Griffin’s eyes shine like they had when he spoke of her. At any rate, she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Maybe, if the lady was real, and not just a tall tale Griffin’s grandfather spun, she would help.
A gnarled root Aidan swore hadn’t been there an instant before caught her foot and she tumbled into soggy grass. Wiping the blood from her scraped palm on the wet leaves, she peered into in the gloom. The woods had been dark even in the day, but now the sun had set and twilight shadows morphed into crouching monsters. She jumped up and peered wildly around, her heart pounding in her ears. She had to find shelter for the night, but where? Then she spotted a dead Elm whose hollow trunk was as big around as she was tall. It was swathed in moss and stood on a grassy knoll just ahead. The trunk had split on one side and the hole looked large enough to crawl inside. Clean, musty woodiness filled her nostrils as she knelt to peer inside the hollow trunk. A mouse scurried out as she squeezed into the space that was just big enough. The ground inside, padded by a layer of wood dust, was softer than she expected.
The noises of the forest grew louder as night closed in. Aidan jumped when something howled not far away. What was that, a wolf? At least it sounded like it might be a wolf. She set aside the bread she’d been eating with shaky hands and listened to the creaking trees and eerie rustles. Then she remembered a story her mother had told her when she was little about a wolf that fought beside a man against the Inquisitor’s Guard. According to her mother, the man, Caelan, had saved the wolf from the hunter’s arrows when it was a cub and the beast became his faithful companion. Griffin had scoffed at the story and said it was just an old wives tale, but her mother wouldn’t lie, so maybe not all wolves were wicked. Then again, the villagers grumbled how the wolves killed their sheep and even attacked Old Bearn outside his cottage one night, at least according to Bearn. But he’d been known to spin a tall tale or two.
Fog rolled in to blanket the forest in white as the night dragged on. Aidan huddled inside the hollow trunk, her blouse and Griffin’s trousers wrapped around her, but it didn’t keep out the chill. She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but she was so tired she finally nodded off.
A light bobbing and flickering in the mist jarred her awake. She barely breathed, as the light floated like an uneasy ghost through the trees as it came closer. It looked like a lantern and she wondered in panic if the Guard had followed her. Footsteps accompanied the bobbing light and her heart thundered. The approaching steps snapped a twig, and then the lantern lit the marsh grass outside the trunk where she cowered. She squeezed as far away from the opening as she could.
An eerily illuminated face appeared in the lamplight, and a voice said, “Thank Hunter’s luck, I’ve found you!”
“Griffin! What are you doing here?” She burst out in relief.
The dark-haired boy framed in the lamplight grinned. “I came to your cottage as soon as I heard the Guard was searching for a girl. I whistled the signal outside, but when you didn’t answer, I figured you’d already made a run for it. Your prints led from the back of the cottage to the game trail into Darkling so I knew you’d fled into the woods. I ran home, got a lantern and some food, and managed to sneak out without Father or my brothers seeing me.”
“I’m so glad to see you, Griff, but how on earth did you find me here?”
“Grandfather taught me how to read the signs. I was able to make out your tracks in the marsh grass. I got a little confused when you left the path, but when I doubled back, I spotted the hollow trunk and figured you might have taken shelter in it.”
Aidan looked into his eyes. “I’m not going back, Griff. Even if the Guard gives up and goes on to another village, they know about my birthmark. When they can’t find who they’re looking for, they’ll be back.”
His grin faded. “But where are you going to go? They’ll keep looking for you, like curs on the scent of a rabbit. They won’t give up until they find you.”
“Then I’ll just have to go somewhere they’ll never find me!” She insisted.
Peering at her as if she’d just grown a second head, Griffin clipped, “There is no such place.”
“Yes there is. You told me about it. I’m going to find the Lady of the Lilies.”
Griffin’s silky dark hair bobbed, as he shook his head in disbelief. “How are you going to find her? Darkling Woods extends for leagues and leagues. Only the outskirts have ever been explored. Besides, it’s said the Tree lives in Darkling and the Devil’s followers hold court there.”
“Well, I can’t go back to the village. The only other thing I could think of was to go to my Aunt Estonia in Stowe, but she hates me. The one time she came to visit she peered through her spectacles at me as if I was something unpleasant she’d stepped in.”
Griffin bit his lip, as he always did when pondering something. “Well, maybe I’m just as crazy as you, but I can’t let you go wandering around Darkling by yourself. I’m coming with you.”
“I’m glad for your company, Griff, but it’s too dangerous,” Aidan said, and clasped his hand. “I don’t have anything to lose with the Guard hunting me. I don’t believe the boys and girls they take come to any good end, though they pretend it’s a great honor to be Chosen. But you should go home to your family.”
“Guess my father was right about me. Always said I was a foolish dreamer. Told me I could draw on wood with charcoal all I wanted and it wouldn’t change anything. Only the sons of the wealthy get to apprentice to artists and learn how to draw and paint properly. So I guess maybe I have nothing to lose either. I have no money to buy paint, brushes or paper and I can’t apprentice to an artist. I’m doomed to spend the rest of my days making casks and barrels with Father.
Sometimes I feel I’ll go stark raving mad if I have to soak and bend another oak strip or bind another cask with hoops!
Father just might find me hanging from the rafters someday by one of his precious hoops! So I might as well do something just as crazy and go with you.”
“Thank you,” Aidan whispered, and leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Were both as crazy as sun-dazed calves,” he muttered, but didn’t pull away.
It was difficult to find wood that wasn’t damp, but Griffin managed to start a fire by striking flint in a clump of dead moss. They toasted bread and apples on a stick and watched them sputter and pop over the flames.
Licking the sticky apple juice from his fingers, Griffin sighed, “Guess we better try to get some sleep.” He pulled a blanket from his pack and handed it to her. “Here, you take this and curl up inside the tree. You’ll be warmer and safer in there. I’ll sleep out here.”
Aidan was too tired to argue so she wrapped the blanket around her and squeezed back inside the hollow trunk. She could just make out Griffin through the fog as he rubbed his hands over the fire. The trees made eerie, creaking groans in the night, and she was so grateful for his company.
Sunlight through a crack in the trunk and something multi-legged crawling up her arm jolted her awake. Aidan brushed the wood-beetle off her neck and watched as it landed on its back in the grass and kicked furiously to right itself. Griffin was perched on rock a little ways away, sharpening his dagger. He glanced up when she wriggled out from the trunk.
“Did you sleep?” She asked, with a yawn, and tried in vain to stretch the kink in her neck.
“Not much, but I don’t feel too bad. I found a brook over that knoll where you can wash if you want,” Griffin said, pointing through the trees. “Wish I’d thought to bring a flask for water.” He shook his head ruefully. “We’ll just have to hope we can find clean water when we need it. Have to be careful because Grandfather told me there are poisonous lime springs in Darkling.” He slid his dagger into the worn sheath and picked up a bundled cloth. “I found blackberries that were ripe and mushrooms we can toast.” He said proudly, and opened the cloth filled with purple berries and brown-speckled mushrooms.
Aidan looked at him with new appreciation. This resourceful woodsman was a side of Griffin she’d never seen before.
“I’ve got to wash before I eat,” She said, wrinkling her nose at how musty she smelled from the hollow.
“Hey, those are mine!” Griffin blurted out, as she unrolled his trousers and held them up to her waist.
“You don’t expect me to go traipsing around the woods in this, do you?” She counted, and waved the threadbare hem of her tattered skirt.
“Ah, no, I guess not,” he mumbled, blushing at the glimpse of her legs.
Pretty yellow crocuses dotted the banks of the brook and Aidan almost forgot she was in a treacherous wood as she stripped off her soiled dress and waded into the water. She spotted wild lavender on the way and crushed the stems with a rock to use as soap. When her skin and hair were scrubbed as clean as she could manage, she sat on the bank in a patch of sunlight to dry. Griffin’s trousers were snug in the hips and an inch too long, but she pulled them on and rolled up the cuffs. She slipped into her blouse, and then took up the knife she’d taken from Gran’s kitchen and cropped her hair. Long ginger coils dropped onto the mossy creek bank. Then she washed her dress and headed back to Griffin. She didn’t see the creature that jumped down from a tree to snatch the coils of shorn hair in its little, green hands. Its emerald eyes flashed greedily as it stuffed the treasure into a tiny sack made of nightshade leaves and scurried back up.
Chapter Two
The banks of the pool were lined with blood-red lichen and steam rose from the foul water to fill the hollow in Darkling Woods with crimson fog. A strange creature knelt at the water’s edge. It appeared to be a dog covered in matted, black fur, but the face beneath the fur was human. Canine teeth protruded over the creature’s black lips, and a long, white tongue shot out to lap the putrid water. Its head snapped up and its red eyes flicked to the brambles overhanging the pool when a dark cloud descended on it. The cloud swarmed and buzzed around the creature, sending it into a frenzy of snapping and biting. A terrible sound that was both a scream and a howl tore through the hollow, and then the creature bounded off into the brambles.
***
“Do you have any idea where we’re going?” Aidan asked, as she peered into the tangled wood. “I’m sure that’s the same stump we passed before. See, it has the knot that looks like Old Sadie’s nose.”
Griffin pushed his hand through his hair and glanced up at the patch of sky visible through the tangled canopy. “I’m trying to head north. I think it might be where the Lady’s cottage is, at least from what Grandfather told me, but it’s hard to tell which direction is north in this infernal woods!”
“Drat!” She erupted, and slapped her neck. “I swear the mosquitoes are as big as hummingbirds!”
Griffin grinned, to assure her that he wasn’t scared, but his gut was twisted in a knot. They’d been lucky so far not to encounter any of the nightmare creatures his grandfather said roamed these woods, but he doubted their luck would hold much longer. His hand squeezed the handle of his dagger. It was a child’s toy against the monsters his grandfather told him prowl Darkling, but he couldn’t let Aidan see how scared he was. He pointed to a mossy track that led into a grove of gnarled old willows. “Let’s follow that game trail over there. I think its heading north.”
Aidan peered doubtfully at the overgrown track. She had the sinking feeling Griffin didn’t know what he was doing, but she didn’t have any better ideas.
As the shadows deepened, they followed the narrow path further into the bog. Aidan slipped on the wet marsh grass and fell into a brackish pool. Griffin pulled her out, and wrinkled his nose. She didn’t blame him. She smelled as bad as the horrid herbal brew Gran forced down her throat whenever she was sick.
The shrouds of moss and lichen on the trees glowed with an eerie phosphorescence and roots seemed to reach up out of the ground to grab their ankles. The stillness of the wood was unnerving. She could hear Griffin’s shallow breath, and it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t heard or seen any animals in quite a while.
“It’ll be dark soon so we better take shelter,” Griffin said, pointing to an outcropping thrusting from the marsh. “That looks like as good a place as any. At least we’ll have cover on one side.”
A sputtering fire was the best he could manage from soggy branches and wet marsh grass. They toasted mushrooms and ate what was left of the bread and cheese. Lights winked and floated over the marsh like fireflies. Griffin said it must be phosphorus in the water, but they looked more like uneasy ghosts to her.
“I brought the picture of the Flamebird,” Aidan offered, in an attempt to cheer them both.
“Can I see it?” His face brightened. He’d seen the picture once before when Aidan’s grandmother had been away in the village.
Fiery plumes of scarlet and gold spread in the firelight as she unfolded the page.
Griffin’s breath caught, and his finger gently traced the exquisite feathers. “What an amazing artist, whoever drew this,” he whispered in awe.
“Mother told my brother Bran and me the story of the Flamebird when we were little.”
“You have a brother? Griffin interjected incredulously.
“Yes, but I don’t know where he is. We were separated after Mother died. Gran won’t tell me anything. She raged and slapped me when I asked about Bran once, so I never asked again. I don’t remember him well, because I was so young, but I remember playing together under an apple tree and sitting in the kitchen while Mother baked bread.”
Griffin didn’t know what to say, so he mumbled, “that must be tough. Sure hope you find him someday.”
She sighed poignantly. “I hope so, too.
They sat in silence staring at the fire. With her thoughts far away, she was startled when Griffin cleared his throat, and prompted, “You were telling the story of the Flamebird.”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot. Anyway, in the story an evil sorceress turned a handsome prince into a snow-white bird because he loved someone else. The sorceress was so angry she gave the bird-prince feathers of fire so his beloved couldn’t touch him. The prince’s beloved was so heart sick that one night she came into his chamber while he slept and embraced him.
His fiery plumes burned her, but she wouldn’t let go. The poor prince couldn’t save her. When the fire went out, there was nothing left of his beloved but a sprinkle of rose petals.”
Griffin gazed off beyond the firelight and didn’t respond. Assuming he was deep in thought, she nearly jumped out of her skin when he suddenly grabbed her arm, and hissed, “Something is coming!”
She peered into the shadows but couldn’t see anything. “It’s probably just the trees creak…” she began, but then the night tore open with terrifying howls and nightmare creatures bounded out of the fog to surround them. One of the creatures trotted up and sat on its haunches right in front of her. Its body was like a huge dog’s, but it peered at Aidan with a face that looked like Gunter, the village butcher’s. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Then, to her horror, the creature spoke in a rasping growl, “You, come with us!”
“Holy Mother!” Griffin swore, and stepped between the creature and Aidan. His hand shook so bad he nearly dropped his dagger, as he asserted, “She stays here, you filthy mutt!”
The creature’s horrible face contorted into a snarl and it bared long, pointy teeth. Its eager whine sent chills down Aidan’s spine as it crouched low to spring.
Chapter Three
The bell in the tower tolled six times as Bran, the young bell ringer, yanked its weathered cord. Rubbing the rope fibers from his calloused hands onto his cassock, he peered down at the city gates, and muttered, “His Holiness won’t be pleased with this turn of events.” The clanging of the huge, bronze bell had dimmed Bran’s hearing after his four years of serving it. But though his hearing might be going, his eyes were sharp as a kestrel’s. The Inquisitor’s Guard drove an empty cart through the gates. No one else would notice that the veiled cart was unoccupied, but from the belfry Bran could see they’d returned without the Chosen. The people would never know the truth. A young novitiate of the right age and sex would be selected to take the Chosen’s place in the Ascension Ceremony. Bran would never forget the other time this happened.
He’d just started his apprenticeship as bell ringer and was in the belfry when he saw the Guard return without the Chosen. Gesturing at the armored ranks riding through the city gates, Bran remarked on the absence of the Chosen to the crotchety old bell keeper, Brother Leo.
“Never voice such heresy, Boy!” Brother Leo shouted, himself near deaf from the clanging of the bells, and slapped him.
Bran noticed the novitiate girl selected to take the place of the Chosen one day in the piazza when Brother Leo sent him to the rope maker for a new bell cord. The girl was in a group of novitiates darting by him like a flock of giggling terns in their white robes. Bran stared at her as he’d never seen anyone so beautiful. She noticed him and flashed a secret smile before the others swept her away in a swirl of white. Bran couldn’t stop thinking about her all the way back to the bell tower. He didn’t see the girl again, until the day of the Ascension Ceremony.
Master Leo had grudgingly let Bran come to the ceremony. Cold black eyes glared over Leo’s hawkish nose as he elbowed a farmer and his wife out of the way to secure a prime spot to view the ceremony, even as he grumbled about the lack of manners in the common people. Bran was flushed with excitement as he followed in Master Leo’s commanding wake.
The boisterous crowd hushed and the air seemed to crackle with a coming storm, as the Inquisitor’s Guard escorted the Chosen to the dais. Bran’s mouth fell open in shock when he recognized the beautiful novitiate girl from the square. He tried to catch the girl’s eye, but she walked by him as if in a trance. Her lovely, blue eyes stared into space and she looked feverish. A shiver ran down his spine. The girl’s expression was like the vacant stare of the men stumbling out of the poppy dens.
A baby wailed in the arms of its mother as the Inquisitor, Julius II, rose from his throne on the dais to address the crowd in the piazza. His gold-embroidered, white robe and sparkling jewels reminded Bran of the Blessed Saint in the stained glass window of the church. The Inquisitor’s voice stabbed into the throng like a bare spear. Bran didn’t pay much attention to what he said, because his gaze never left the girl.
His attention came back to the Inquisitor, as Julius proclaimed, “The Divine descends on wings of flame to carry His Chosen to Heaven!”
In that instant the girl stirred out of her trance. Sheer terror filled her lovely eyes as they found Bran’s in the crowd, but she didn’t move. She was like a pretty doe frozen in fear as the hounds cornered her. Bran could have sworn he heard her scream. Then the fire engulfed her, and the crowd in the piazza gasped. When the smoke cleared, the girl had vanished.
Bran shivered every time he remembered the terror in the girl’s eyes. Even after all this time, he still woke up nights in a cold sweat, with her silent scream in his mind. He’d never seen the girl again. When he asked the other novitiates about her, they shouted that he was a blasphemer. He was so frightened they might report him to the Guard that he never asked about her again.
Twilight churned with storm clouds, as Bran’s thoughts returned to the present. He pulled his cassock tighter against the cold wind whistling through the belfry. Tragedy would come tomorrow on Ascension Day. He also knew the people in the streets below, hurrying to their shops and homes, would believe the tragedy to be a glorious miracle.
Bran toyed with the pottage on his plate that evening at supper in the refectory. After Vespers and supper, he’d returned to his cell and tried to read, but the lost girl’s face haunted him. He tossed and turned on his pallet as the crescent moon arched across the sky and set. Dawn bled rose on the plaster walls of his cell and he hadn’t slept. Shivering as he emerged from his blankets into the frigid cell, he hurriedly slipped on a wool cassock. The icy water in the washbasin took his breath away, but he splashed it on his face and tonsured head. An insistent “meow” came from the doorway of his cell and he turned to see a black and white cat trot in. The cat bumped her head against Bran’s ankles as he fastened his sandals. He fished a cloth-wrapped parcel from his cassock pocket and extracted a slice of lamb. The cat bolted the lamb scrap he offered, and then wound around his ankles. “Sorry, little one, that’s all I could manage,” he said, stroking the cat’s bony back. She gave a plaintive meow of protest, but then dived after the flutter of a moth in the corner. Bran watched her for a moment, and then knelt in front of the wooden icon on the wall. “Merciful Savior, I may be eternally damned for what I do today, but I can’t let another girl die in the flames,” he whispered, and made the Sign of the Cross. As the sun illuminated the icon in a brush of gold, Bran rose and turned to climb the narrow stairs to the belfry, with the cat bounding up the stairs beside him.