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“But where did he come from?” somebody else asked. “And what shall we do with him?”
“It’s as though his skin was tinted by the
sun
,” came the call of another. “He’s not from these parts.”
“Maybe he came from the sky,” Raulf cried out suddenly, jumping to his feet. “Maybe he was sent from the land beyond to give us hope!”
This statement was met with much enthusiasm and the crowd grew louder as Old Brice tried desperately to regain control of the talk.
“Now, please don’t all speak at once,” he warned.
“Is he an orphan?” someone asked.
“Why doesn’t he speak?” Maude Quigg called out.
“Where is he now?” Gamelin Turvey asked. “Can we see him?”
“Why is he being hidden?”
“Where are his parents?”
“What if he brings disease?”
“How did he arrive?”
“Why has he come here?”
“Something’s not right here,” a young man called out. Shallah couldn’t place his voice, but thought he might be the Fleete boy who’d married one of Old Brice’s older daughters. “You’re hiding something.
Where
is the child?”
A great murmur ran through the crowd and the room fell quiet. Old Brice, looking considerably perturbed, responded slowly. “The boy is asleep at the Carberry house, Petyr. That’s no secret. I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up.”
Now that she thought about it, Shallah seemed to recall that some tragedy had befallen the Fleete boy, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. As always, Raulf put an end to her confusion.
“That one hasn’t been the same since his wife died, or so my Mam says,” Raulf whispered. “She often goes to see how his girls are coming on, for she worries he isn’t equipped to care for them. Old Brice feels the same, and told him so, and they haven’t exchanged two civil words since, not until this moment.”
Of course, Shallah thought to herself. Sweet Marion, the beauty of the Blighton clan. She’d taken to her bed with a fever, and perished within a month. Not more than half a year had passed since her death.
“He’s been a right pain ever since,” Raulf said. “My Mam says it’s simply the way of grief for some, but I think he’s just hateful. Every time I speak to him he snaps my head off. Alys used to lend him a hand, keeping watch over Katie and Lilly while he worked the fields, but she’ll not go over there anymore. It’s Catin Carberry who took her place, but I’ve heard she’s near her wits end.”
Petyr Fleete strode forward to address the council, but turned his back on them instead and faced the crowd. Old Brice folded his arms at this defiance, but said nothing.
“My family’s seen hard times these past months,” Petyr said. A couple of women standing to Shallah’s left clucked sympathetically. “You all know of our loss. But of late the hardships have been mounting, and I know we’re not the only ones to feel it. I lost a calf last month, and this morning one of my lambs perished.” He stopped and looked around at the crowd. “It was just about the time that boy was found.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Here it comes,” Raulf whispered breathlessly.
“Do you think?” one person said.
“Can it be?” said another.
“I lost a lamb last night,” Syward Olney said.
“I’ve lost two in the past week,” said Botulf Quigg.
Amaria Hale got up from the table, knocking her stool backwards. “He was in the light!” she cried. “I found him sitting right in it. He’s brought the light with him. There’s something not right with him. He’s not right!”
Old Isemay Wray raised a shaking hand and pointed at Amaria.
“He’s a monster!” she said loudly, so none could be mistaken. “He’s withered our trees and done in our cattle. He brings disease, I tell you. It’s in the eyes. He’s
evil
. Turn him away. Send him off. Drive him out before he ruins us all!”
Young children buried their heads in their mothers’ laps at the riotous noise that followed. Half the crowd was on its feet, pointing fingers at one another, banging their fists on the table, denying, proclaiming, yelling to be heard. Raulf ran off amidst the excitement, but Shallah remained seated.
“We should just send him away,” a woman nearby said. “It’s the only way.”
Shallah closed her eyes.
At length, Old Brice’s voice could be heard over the rest. “Please,” he pleaded, “let me speak.”
Some of the villagers took their seats again, though others, Petyr among them, remained standing.
“I realize many of you feel strongly about this,” Old Brice said. “It seems the wise course is to send the child away. Keeping him here is too great a risk.”
Shallah sat very still as the meeting rolled on. The villagers seemed relieved that a decision had been made. It was the right choice, they all proclaimed. This choice would keep them safe. Shallah’s blind eyes searched the ground as she listened to their words, and all the while she thought of Amaria Hale’s claim about the child. She’d said he wasn’t right.
They say the same thing about me, she thought.
Rab Hale was speaking when she got to her feet. He was caught up in his own fantastic wordplay and didn’t notice the hush that fell over the room. Rab had always loved the sound of his own voice best of all.
Shallah hadn’t planned to speak that night. It occurred to her, as the room waited expectantly, that she’d never spoken in front of a large crowd before in her life. Instantly, her palms began to sweat, and she had an urge to flee the house at a run. What had possessed her to get to her feet? It was unnerving to know that all eyes were on her, every pair in the room, yet she couldn’t tell if the looked on her kindly, or with disdain.
“How can you be so cruel?” she asked softly, though none strained to hear. The room had gone so quiet you could hear a mouse squeak.
Somebody said, “It’s that blind girl talking.”
“You’ve no evidence linking this child with the deaths of the cattle,” Shallah went on. “You’ve nothing but your own fears to guide you. You’ve no solid proof.”
“Now hold on, young lady,” Rab said in an effort to silence her.
“No,” Shallah responded, holding up her hand. From across the room Raulf was astonished to see that Rab didn’t attempt to continue. Shallah had silenced him with her hand, a feat heretofore accomplished by none but his wife and Old Brice himself.
“He’s only a little boy,” she said. “How can you send him away? Where will he go?”
“Into the woods,” said Old Brice. A few of the villagers gasped, as though they hadn’t quite realized what would happen.
“A death sentence, in your mind at least,” Shallah said, voicing their thoughts. “You would have this child’s death on your conscience? For what reason? We don’t know anything about him.”
“We know he came from the light,” Amaria said fervently.
“I’ve been in the light,” said Shallah. “It took away my sight years ago. Do you wish to send me away as well?” Amaria did not reply.
“What harm is there in keeping the child here?” Shallah asked, turning her head to address the whole room, hoping one person would hear the sense in her words.
Naught but quiet greeted her. Her resolve began to buckle.
“It is a grave risk, my dear,” a voice finally spoke. It was Joscelin Guerin, Raulf’s father. Shallah was surprised he too had bought into the suspicion.
“Where is the risk?” she asked in exasperation. “Is anything out of the ordinary to be suspect of evil and devilry now? If your cows gave double the normal amount of milk tomorrow, would you throw it away for fear it was cursed?”
“You don’t think it odd that just as we’re in a crisis this child arrives out of nowhere, his eyes golden as though flecked by the very light that plagues us?” said Leland Goss, a young man, newly married.
Shallah was unimpressed. “I think it odd that a child barely old enough to feed himself is being blamed for the troubles of an entire village,” she responded steadily. “How do you suppose he managed it, Leland? Or did he have help in this dark business? Should we begin to name names?”
The villagers stirred and glanced at one another uncomfortably. Old Brice stepped forward. “Now Shallah,” he said, “that’s quite enough. I won’t have you working everyone up in this way.”
“Sometimes it’s necessary to get worked up,” she said. “I won’t stand by and let this child be condemned. He must be allowed to remain in Trallee.”
Old Brice Blighton looked over the faces before him. He’d known these people all his life. He’d watched them grow from children to adults, had witnessed the births of their own children, had advised them in difficult times. Now the village itself had fallen on difficult times and he’d be damned if he would allow it to worsen.
“No, Shallah,” Old Brice said, and there was a certain finality in his voice. “No. We can’t take that chance. The child has to go.”
Shallah’s shoulders fell.
“Who will take him?” a voice said. It was Petyr Fleete, though his voice was calmer now, softer.
“Who would wish to?” Old Brice asked. Nobody replied, but many bowed their heads. Though their fear was great, no one was willing to risk himself to save the rest.
Shallah felt a sudden chill and pulled her shawl about her shoulders. Once again she felt she was about to do something she hadn’t planned on.
“I will take him,” she said. There was a chuckle from across the room.
“You’re blind, my dear,” said Old Brice, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.
“I’m quite aware of that, sir,” she said. “I
am
blind and I know these woods better than any man here.”
“How can you say that if you can’t see it?” a woman asked.
“I feel it in my feet and my hands. I know it with my mind. I’ve walked these woods for miles around. I know them better than any seeing person, I assure you.”
“Walked these woods?” Rab said incredulously. “Who gave you permission?”
“I didn’t realize I needed it,” she said carefully, biting back a furious retort.
Rab’s wife Sedemay sat beside him, eyeing Shallah with scorn, her kerchief strings tied so tightly they bit into her skin. Sedemay was an imperious creature known to report unsuitable behaviour she observed about town to her husband. More than once she’d reported on Shallah, and more than once Shallah had refused to open her door to Rab’s insistent knocking, infuriating him beyond belief.
“Just like your father,” Sedemay commented in her low, rough voice. “He too was a rash and presumptuous person.”
“My father tried to save this village when no one else would,” Shallah replied, her face hard.
“He never returned, my dear,” Sedemay said coldly. “Do you wish to meet the same fate?”
Shallah took a moment to steady the emotion rising within her before replying. “I would be glad to walk in the footsteps of my father and end my days attempting to help another,” she said. “I have no greater wish.”
“This is ridiculous,” Rab Hale sputtered. “You act like you aren’t even afraid. You are blind and you will perish out in the forest with that child by your side, do you understand? You cannot possibly attempt this. Nobody enters that wood. It is forbidden. You’re out of your head, girl. I tell you, you simply can’t do it.”
Shallah’s voice was steady as a rock. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”
Old Brice stepped forward. “Where will you take him?” he asked. Rab let out a contemptuous sigh.
An image came to Shallah’s mind, a picture of herself as a young girl being chased down the lane by a group of children. She remembered how alone she’d felt in her newfound blindness, how she’d yearned with all her heart for one place, and one place only; her one safe place.
“I’ll take him home,” Shallah replied simply.
“How will you know where it is?” Raulf asked from his perch on a pallet.
“I don’t know,” Shallah said, and though her words were unsure, her expression was calm. She’d made her decision, and it was clear that none could sway her. Perhaps that’s why they let her go.
The room emptied quickly. Many seemed to feel that something horrendous had taken place and hurried to get away. Shallah sank onto her stool as the villagers passed through the doorway. At last, only she and Old Brice remained. They sat there for quite a while, listening to the silence.
As Shallah emerged from her doorway, a few weak rays of sunlight falling over her face, she felt her stomach heave. She steadied herself against the wall of her home, took a few deep breaths of fresh air, then swung her satchel onto her back and set out for the Carberrys’ toft.
Today she would meet the child.
Today their journey would begin.
It was an average summer morning in Trallee, the trees and bushes only dimly discernible in the gloom. Had she been able to see, Shallah might have noticed that her mood matched her environs perfectly, for her thoughts were overshadowed by the task before her, her entire being dulled with worry. Not one bright thought lightened her load.
The three days since her proclamation at the town meeting had passed in a tangle of apprehension. Whatever determination she’d felt that night had been replaced by an irrepressible fear the likes of which she hadn’t felt since her father had left. She’d spent her nights tossing about on her pallet, her dreams full of faceless beasts and panicked fleeing through the darkness. Over and over she’d wondered what had possessed her to volunteer for this undertaking. Though she prided herself on giving the impression of confidence and courage, inside she felt helpless as the child she’d chosen to adopt. In her heart of hearts she knew the truth: she was going to fail. She would return with her head hung in shame, and the villagers would all laugh. Who was she kidding? She was blind. She didn’t stand a chance.
To distract herself, she took a mental inventory of her provisions. She’d brought two loaves of bread, some cheese and boiled eggs, half a dozen oat cakes, some bacon, fruit, nuts, and a flask of ale which could be refilled with water. She dearly wished she could bring her cooking pot, for a nice pottage would be just the thing after a long day’s walk, but without a fire a pot didn’t do much good, and she knew she couldn’t take the risk of lighting one with a child about. Keeping the cold in mind, she’d worn her thicker kirtle and brought along two woolen blankets, her winter cloak, and what extra underthings the space would allow. She wore her sturdiest pair of shoes – her only pair – and left her pattens off for the time being, for it had been a dry month and she didn’t anticipate the need for them. She’d also brought the common healing herbs she dried herself, and had paid a visit to Sabeline for those rarer plants she’d never before had use for. Her dinner knife hung from her belt along with a small leather pouch she kept with her always, and in its own leather scabbard, a dagger. She didn’t want to consider why she might need such a weapon, but she felt the necessity of bringing it along. There was no knowing what they might encounter out there.
