EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (36 page)

I collapsed on the floor and curled my legs against my chest. Father would stand before the judging eyes of Borrelia’s townspeople. I remembered Mrs. Moferbury describing what happened when a grown man was hanged. Thinking about that made me stand up again and resume my shouting.

‘No,’ I said one last time and slumped to the floor again. I held my breath, waiting, because I knew what happened next.

‘Release!
’
the man yelled at last.

A gasp from the crowd was followed by an eerie silence. I crawled towards my bed, pulled myself onto the linen sheets, and wept.

The next day I awoke to the town crier giving the midday news.

‘Hear ye! Hear ye! Ardonian, patriarch of Mystoria, has been hung for committing the crime of murder on his brother, Garrad of Borrelia.’

The days blurred, and the nights were freezing as winter set in. I could almost feel the snow falling outside, and the icy winds seeped between the cracks of the walls around my window. A week after Father’s death, I turned eleven, but there was no celebration. Mother visited only to bring me food and to light my small bedroom hearth.

‘Mama,’ I said. ‘Mama, don’t go.’

She didn’t seem to hear me. I tried to get out of the room, but she was always too quick to catch me. My stupid blind eyes made me helpless. One day, I almost got out, but she pushed me back in the room and squashed my hand in the door.

‘I’m sorry, Adenine. I’m sorry. I can’t let them take you too,’ she cried.

Nursing my injured fingers, I said, ‘Mama, don’t leave me alone.’

But she had already gone back downstairs. And then I realised that Mother blamed me for Father’s death. She was angry at me. And she was right to be so. I was a bad person, an evil person, and it was my fault Father and Uncle Garrad were dead. If my uncle had not loved me so much, if I had not been born, my father and uncle would be alive. My parents’ kindness had protected me, but I was their mistake, not their daughter. I stopped eating, I stopped sleeping, and I stopped crying.

Mother began to visit more often. She would read me stories and put food into my mouth, but the darkness of my mind became a shield that I hid behind, protecting her from me. I had to protect people. I couldn’t let them love me anymore.

I knew that Mrs. Moferbury would no longer come. I was glad about that. She wouldn’t be hurt by me either.

Mother seemed to grow sadder and angrier. She’d pull me into her arms and onto her lap screaming, ‘Forgive me! Forgive me. I love you. Come back, Adenine.’

It was strange how at the beginning, I had needed Mother to say those very words. But I had discovered that silence was best.

Winter passed. I ate enough to live. I obeyed many of Mother’s instructions: stand, undress, bathe, drink. But I never spoke and was always happy to get back to my bed, to get back to imagining myself in a world far away.

One night, Mother brought me the usual evening dinner, but instead of turning to leave, she shouted and punched the bed. It scared me a little, and I wondered if she would start hurting me like Uncle Garrad had. I deserved nothing less.

‘If you do not live, Adenine, I will die. I will kill myself for I cannot go on without you.’ Her voice seemed miles away, somewhere beyond where I could be reached, somewhere that didn’t matter to me anymore.

Die? The word soaked into the thick nothing inside me
. No, I can’t let her die.
Father. He had told me to care for her, to look after her, and I wasn’t doing that. It was my fault he was gone, and I wouldn’t disappoint him by disobeying.

The smell of the hot wheat bread and spiced stew wafting up from the food tray alerted me to my hunger. My stomach ached, and my mouth was as dry as salt. As I surfaced from the depths of my mind, my thoughts swirled and raced. But one of those thoughts was steady and sure, and its glow put the others into shadow.

Mother wants me to live.

Her happiness was more important than my life or death. She had loved me, embraced me, and taken care of me, and all I had done was hurt her. I was no more precious than a piece of waste rotting in the streets, swarmed by flies and looked upon with disgust.

I moved my head in her direction. The bedclothes her face was buried in muffled her sobs, and I reached out and felt her plaited hair.

Her head jerked. ‘Adenine. Adenine. Talk to me.’

‘Mama,’ I tried to say, but the word cracked on my lips.

She gasped, scrambled up onto the bed, and scooped me into her arms.

Chapter VI

M
OTHER
MADE
REGULAR
VISITS
TO
entertain and nurture me. She brought me toys and told stories from the past. I liked being in my room. I worried less about washing my hands. No one could be made sick by me up there.

Across the Senya mountains were deserts that took months of travel to reach. Beyond the seas were other lands too, although Mother said they were not well documented. She did know that one of the lands had people who were shorter and wider than most. While my curiosity of the other cultures grew, my thoughts always returned to the healers. Mother hated to be asked about them and shut down most of my questions. On occasion, though, she would answer briefly, and the new information would excite me and send my mind into whirling action.

While Mother ran Mystoria, my obsession with the people of faraway lands distracted me. I imagined ridiculous animals with five legs, wings, and strange colouring. I imagined tiny people and giants. I also took to listening more to the town square. Over time the noises became louder, and I couldn’t tell whether my hearing had grown stronger or more people occupied the village. The longer I stayed locked in my room, the smaller my world became. I missed my picture books. And while Mother read to me most nights, it wasn’t enough to revive my dimming spirit. My silly fantasies became my life, and interest in anything else faded.

This room is my home
.
This will always be my home.

One day, three months into my thirteenth year, Mother didn’t visit me. When two more days passed without her bringing food, I was forced from the safety of my room. My heart pounded, and my legs trembled. I desperately tried to remember how to find my way around the old house.

Mother usually allowed me to leave my room one Sunday a month so I could bathe and wash my hair.

‘Things have changed. You must stay in your room now,’ Mother had said every night since I turned eleven.

But my hunger overruled Mother’s sensible advice. Maybe she wanted me to starve. And I would have done so if she’d asked. But I wasn’t certain, and a good daughter would make sure. A good daughter wouldn’t upset her parents.

The trembling in my legs spread to the rest of my body. Tears streamed down my face as if my nerves had rattled them loose. Finding my way down the stairs felt strange without my mother to guide me to the living room. When I reached the bottom, every muscle in my body screamed to turn back. I tried to focus on my surroundings, thinking back to the times when I had my eyesight. Only a few memories of the living area remained, and I strained to calculate where my parents’ room was in relation to the stairs.

But the living room brought one image to mind that overtook all others as if it teased me, laughed at me. The bathtub. I insisted I use a bucket of water for my baths. Mother fought with me maintaining that I needed to face those fears but I was afraid of the tub that had become a sign of my guilt and shame. Now, my mind framed the scene as if it were some sort of demon waiting to devour me, and the memories of my uncle’s death wiggled through my mind like worms.

My already fatigued legs wobbled under the emotions that the memories produced. I couldn’t stop the horrible scene from playing in front of me. My uncle pushing me down against the wooden tub. The blood, the knife, all of it.

I sank to the stone floor and struggled against complete collapse. No fire was lit; no cleaning had been done, which was apparent when my fingers found crumbs and dust on the floor. I squatted, unable to move, my bony body weak and tired. My skin crawled; my forehead felt cold. Eventually, the memory passed, taking with it most of my energy. I fought the fatigue by leaning on a nearby wall and hauling myself into a half-standing position. I followed the wall to the left and found the kitchen bench. I pictured parts of the room forming a half-complete puzzle and guessed where my parents’ bedroom might be.

I pushed on the bedroom door, and it swung inwards. I felt the heat of the afternoon sun streaming through a window. My eyelids glowed red as the light hit them, and I remembered fondly the exotic furniture and brilliant decorations that lined the room. The green clothes cupboard would be…

‘To my left,’ I said and put my hand out to check. I felt the scratchy hardwood.
And the bed would be in front.
I shuffled forward until my knees touched solid wood. I leaned down and ran my hands along the surface until my fingers traced individual toes covered by a thin layer of cotton.

‘Adenine, Adenine, is that you?’ Mother sounded weak.

‘Y-Yes, Mama.’

‘Adenine, I cannot get up.’

‘Why not, Mama? You have to get up.’

‘I cannot, my precious girl. You must fetch the doctor for me. You can do it.’

A doctor? That meant she was sick and not starving me on purpose. ‘But I can’t see. What if I get lost?’

‘It’s a small building by the council hall.’

‘I can’t remember, Mama.’ I started to cry.

‘Yes, you do. Do not rest until you see him. His name is Varago. Ask someone to help you. Tell him Capacia of Mystoria needs his help, desperately.’

‘I need to wash, Mama. What if someone touches me?’

‘You’ll be fine. You won’t hurt anyone. I promise.’

I hesitated. At one time, I had wanted to explore Borrelia, to walk the streets and listen to the sounds. But I was scared, terrified. What if I got lost?

‘You’ll need to wear this,’ she added and handed me a scrap of material. ‘Tie it around your eyes.’

I fastened the ends of the cloth at the back of my head.

‘Good. Keep it on at all times. Now, the big door is already unlocked and open. Quickly, go before the day ends.’

The guilt I felt for having cursed the people who loved me, for having been the cause of my parents’ misery, overtook my fear, and I clumsily made my way downstairs and into Mystoria. I banged my knees and broke several ceramic vases as I felt my way around. I followed the sounds of outside as a guide and eventually found the front door, undid the latch, and ventured into Borrelia.

Chapter VII

M
Y
HEART
HAD
NEVER
BEAT
so hard. I clutched the left side of my chest where I felt twinges of pain. Dusk was coming, and my feet were bare on the hard, rough ground. Having always lived inside, I had never needed shoes , but I wished I had some. Foul-smelling faeces squished up between my toes, and the bottoms of my feet were scratched on sharp rocks and debris that I guessed had fallen from the carts of passing townspeople. Afraid to bump into something or someone, I put my hands out in front of me, but as I shuffled forward, I felt nothing.

‘Look at that pretty girl. Have you ever seen her before?’

‘Nah, she ain’t from ’ere; that’s for sure.’

‘A blind girl, where did she come from?’

Even though the voices didn’t sound friendly, I called out, ‘P-Please. My mama, she needs a doctor. Please.’ I twisted my head in all directions, waiting for someone to respond. No one answered.

‘Well, I ain’t touching her,’ someone whispered.

‘Please,’ I said again. ‘Varago. I need Varago.’

Loud footsteps came from behind me. The person was much taller than I as the body blocked the afternoon sun. I shivered.

A man spoke. ‘He’s that way.’ When I didn’t reply he gave a snort. ‘Oh, right. You can’t see where I’m pointin’. Here, hold onto this.’ He moved in front of me.

I took two steps back, clutching at my body, afraid of what he might do to me or what I would infect him with.

‘It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.’