Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) (4 page)

Our
last night together was meant to be a happy one for my father. I had been
secretly building a replica ship from his boat drawings: revolutionary designs
that would carry boats faster and cut through stormy seas. For my replicate, I
had built a long hollow base with a mast made of linen and twine. I painted it
with tannin, his name written on the side.

When
I presented it to him he handed me a glass of wine and made a toast to my
success, then he broke down and wept.

Ricco

The
sun had not yet risen when I watched my son leave. His tall frame was almost
above the top of the door. Only two years earlier he was smaller than me. There
was a time when I thought he might not grow at all.
Marek
was long limbed and awkward, still learning how to work his arms and legs. The
girls did not notice this. Instead they saw a handsome marriage catch as they
vied for his attentions.

His
long dark hair, drawn into a tail at the back, was thick and shiny, and his
skin was
coloured
brown from the sun. His loose
cotton shirt sat open at the neck, wide sleeves drawn in with cord at the
wrists, and tails tucked neatly into his trousers. I was so proud to call him
my son. Silvia spent much time making his clothes since she had no children of
her own to tend.

I
felt ashamed. I did not tell him everything about Marissa. Circumstances that I
felt his young mind would not cope with, such as the way his mother was killed.
There were other things too that I
felt
he need not know
about, including his mother’s ability to
see into the future.

I
exaggerated when I said someone might steal him away, for I wanted to scare
him. In prison, Marissa’s actual words were that
Marek’s
blood will be needed one day to help restore order and I must help him look for
the signs. I did not understand this but it was perhaps the reason I allowed
him to see the crone, that in some way she was the sign his mother spoke about.
I did not tell him what his mother also said: that it must be up to him to
decide his own fate. I believed the less he knew of Marissa the safer he would
be, should he ever be discovered and questioned by inquisitors. Though now, I
curse myself for my ignorance.

Marek
left me a note but I already knew what it said before reading it. They say
parents know their children without the use of speech, by their expressions and
gestures, and I am no exception. I knew of his plans in the weeks before he
left but after many a sleepless night I decided there were things that men
needed to learn
themselves
. I am only a father after
all, not his jailer.

I
walked down to the shore as the sun slowly spread its tentacles of early
morning light. At the edge of the water was a small boat
Marek
and I had been commissioned to build. He had done more work on it. I ran my
hand along the freshly planed wood. It was smooth, and still covered in a fine
layer of dust. He had a good hand for such work. I looked across the deep
water. There was a strong wind during the night that had rattled the windows.
The same wind would have carried
Marek
to the
mainland without any effort. I smoothed the note scrunched in my hand.

Father, you have been there for me
but I must find out the truth. Please do not be angry that I have made this
choice alone. Please trust me and do not try to follow.
Your
loving son,
Marek
.

His
mother had cruelly been taken from him and I had seen the pain in his young
boy’s eyes of never knowing her, never feeling her warm breath on his cheek,
and her long arms around his body on cold nights. His quest to find his sister
would hopefully free him of the emptiness he had felt these past years. I never
saw Oleander’s body and had also wondered about the truth of it over the years.

With
my cupped hands, I scooped up some seawater, for at that moment it was
something we shared. I said a silent prayer for
Marek’s
safe return and watched the water trickle through my fingers. The hollowed
palms of my hands reflected the void I would feel without him and tears flowed
in rivers to my chin. ‘Come back,’ I whispered, hoping the same breeze would
carry these words to my son.

Chapter 2

Zola

It
was only an hour before sunrise and the air was still. Winter was coming.

I
followed Jean, his cloak floating like bat wings behind him as we ran through
thick forest
untravelled
by humans. Jean knew a place
he thought would be amusing. His idea of amusement usually accompanied danger.
But I didn’t complain. He made every journey exciting.

We
reached a house – a wealthy man’s house at the end of a busy street. Jean
liked to be daring and often hunted in populated towns just for the thrill of
being seen or chased, even though this action was breaking code. Jean had been
watching over our unsuspecting victims, and I was told the man beat his workers
with iron bars and sometimes didn’t pay them at all. His wife was also vicious
and cruel to her maids. They offered no charity to the poor.

I
nodded my consent. Jean gave me a mischievous grin and a kiss on the cheek,
leaving behind his floral scent. He casually swept one hand through his hair,
which fanned around his shoulders in waves, fully aware of his appeal. Once
upon a time I could not wait for his attentions in the days of my infatuation.
I was not his true love as he once professed – I saw many other girls
come and go. Though I still felt love towards Jean, I had learnt to mask my
heart with feelings of friendship where I could.

We
glided over the stairs leading up to the porch and stood facing tall windows.
Jean rolled his eyes back into his head as the window latches snapped open
without hands, and the glass panels flung outwards. We followed patterned rugs
up another set of stairs and to a doorway at the end of the hall. With our
combined forces this time, the double doors flew open themselves and we stepped
into the bedroom.

The
woman sat up on the bed and drew a lace coverlet to her modestly. The man was
slower to wake and felt on the bedside table blindly for his eyeglasses. The
woman was about to scream when I moved fast to cover her mouth with my hand.
Her attempts to wriggle free from my arms were useless.

The
man was much older than his wife, and had the look of a mole with tufts of
white hair protruding from his face and ears. Jean stood in front of him, hands
on hips, balancing daintily on his toes, his plump ruby lips stretched wide,
grinning like a lunatic. In the dimness of the room the man fumbled several
attempts to successfully light a candle, in order to examine the peculiar
creature poised unlawfully by his bedside. Those moments of waiting were long
enough to complete our task but not Jean’s style. The kill itself was nothing
without the melodrama.

Once
focused, the man paused – befuddled perhaps by Jean’s apparent playful
demeanour
– before speaking. ‘Do not come any closer
you filthy piece!’ he commanded.

Jean
said nothing, still smiling,
his
shadow large across
the wall behind him. I was not sure which Jean liked more: to feed on his
victims or to play with their minds.

The
woman I held had calmed to some degree. She
realised
her struggles were useless against my strength and was now fascinated with the
other intruder who had engaged her husband. Even though she was trembling with
fear, a fact that strangely made me anxious, I had to wait for Jean. It was
best to do our feeding simultaneously in these situations so that the victims
did not witness the fates of their loved ones and draw attention with their
screams.

‘How
do you do, sir?’ asked Jean breaking the silence, and in a low voice that sent
chills up the spine of the woman.

‘Get
out of here!’ he yelled.

‘Why?’
he asked provocatively. ‘We have only just met.’

‘Is
it money you want? Well, you’ll get nothing from me!’

‘Oh,
that’s disappointing. Everyone usually likes me,’ said Jean with the fake
melancholy of a child.

In
the next instance the man produced a sword from beneath his bed. ‘Stay back!’
But Jean didn’t. Instead he laughed and stepped closer, goading.

The
sword entered Jean’s side.

‘Oh,
dear,’ said Jean. ‘I only wanted a few coin to feed my starving family.’ He
twisted and fell on the floor with the exaggerated grace of a street actor.

The
man stood up tentatively and prodded Jean with the tip of the sword to see if
there was life. When there was no reaction he turned the sword to me. As he
lunged, a strong hand gripped his arm. Like a bolt of light from the sky, Jean
bit down on the man’s neck. The man’s arms flailed and his sword fell with a
loud clang as Jean drew blood. Jean’s mouth was red and dripping from his
victim’s ruptured vein, and his lids were closed in rapture. Already his side
wound was sealing itself. Jean was well
practised
at
treating himself and his appetite would restore his health almost immediately.

I
too acted quickly as the woman’s eyes were now wide with terror. The woman’s
neck was soft and her skin still youthful, and, when I broke the skin, her
blood burst into my mouth. I was one with her for a moment and saw what she
saw: a privileged life, kindly kin, playing with siblings, weaving tapestries,
ceremonious dinners, but none of the cruelty that Jean described. I hoped he
was right about the man. When there was nothing more to drink we wrapped their
lifeless bodies in bed linen.

Jean
took the gold coins from the man’s purse and wandered around the room filling
his jacket with silver.

As
we commenced to leave, a small girl of around four years stood at the entrance.
I looked at Jean and his expression lacked surprise.

‘You
knew about the child didn’t you?’ I accused.

‘Oh,
Zola.’ he said with a condescending sigh. ‘Why must you always think so ill of
me?’

‘You
know you cannot have her. She is too innocent.’

‘Hmm,’
he said. ‘But what is to become of her? What sort of life could she have
without parents to guide her?’

I
ignored his comments and picked up the child. She protested but with my hands I
closed her eyes putting her into a deep sleep on my shoulder. Jean followed me
to a church carrying the linen bundles. I placed the sleeping child on the
front steps. In a while the church bells would toll and the doors will open.
She would be safe and the memories erased of what she saw in her parents’
bedroom.

We
buried the bodies deep in the forest and as we walked back to the castle I felt
a subtle change in the air. I could not picture him but I sensed one of our
own.

‘He
is coming,’ I said to Jean, unable to hide the resentment that flashed across
his face.

Marek

There were moments when I set out
that I doubted my motivation and good sense, that I should take the word of a
hag over the advice of my father. Why the need to find out the truth? I could
not say. Again, I felt this path had already been chosen, led by instinct or
something greater.

The
sailing between two seas was uneventful. I was completely drenched from the
high waves but alive. I did not fear the water like some. My father was an
exceptional boat builder. Though the boat I sailed on had two square sails, my
father had been working on drawings of other vessels. He believed that by
making the sails more triangular, boats could travel faster, along with a wood
that was more flexible and able to withstand the constant battering of waves in
deeper waters.

I had
travelled
north-east
, bordered by mainland not visible
on the horizon. With star guidance, my geography was sufficient to get me to
this point, but the places I would go to
were
not
mentioned in any book I had so far encountered.

Valona
was busy with activity, its port filled with sailing vessels and fishermen.
This was a place where much trade occurred and I was barely noticed as my boat
glided into the shallows and onto the pebbled shore.

Having
nowhere to safely stow the boat, I could not trust that it would still be there
upon my return. I enquired of the fisherman along the shoreline if any wished
to buy the boat. Several men examined the sturdy craft. One commented on the
strength of the mast and the underside. He offered me a sum and although it was
low I took it, since the man also offered me the purchase of his old vessel
when I returned. My purse, at least, had gained some weight for now to purchase
food and other items I would need.

Men
in this town dressed differently from me with fitted shirts tucked into tight
leathers. The houses were not like the ones of
Gildoroso
.
They were tall,
light-coloured
stone structures, in
pinks and yellows, built into the rocky hills above the shore. Well-paved
passageways between the buildings provided easy access to the town
centre
, noisy with activity.

I
passed a tannery where the air was pungent from skins being soaked in crushed
bark. There were many shops here with leather hides and clothing,
jewellery
, tin and meats. Men here were used to traders and
did not look at foreigners suspiciously.

Descending
into the town, I was met with the smell of roasting nuts and meats, which made
my mouth water and stomach rumble.  At a public house I ordered a glass of
wine, some hot soup, and a generous portion of bread.

The
owner of the
osteria
offered me a room for a
small price, where I could dry my clothing and rest for the night. I asked the
owner if he knew of any map sellers and he was curious to know why I was
heading north, especially since the cold and wet change was due in a few weeks.

I
told him that I was going to visit my sister who was married and living with
her family in that region.

He
looked at my open toe sandals. ‘I hope you have some warm clothes in your pack.
Those winters will freeze you solid.’ He directed me back to the marketplace.

The
stalls were open late and I bought a thick
woollen
coat with a hood, leather pants, vest, and boots. While the description of my
destination was vague, a mapmaker was able to draw part of the route I should
take, though he left me in some doubt as to my wisdom. ‘With the Black Forest I
can’t help you,’ he said. ‘It is not a route most right-minded men would take.’

Although
I was anxious about my adventure I fell into a heavy sleep that night beside
the hearth. Fresh of mind in the morning, I began to think that I might be
chasing ghosts, yet to go back now would cause me much regret that I did not
try at least to learn the truth.

I
set out along a small track that guided me across farmlands. The lands here
were rich with trees and good soil. Never had I seen so much countryside,
passing many large farms and lakes. It was open and the trees expelled a tangy
scent. I stopped only once for a refreshment of bread and figs, and a small
skin of water.

I
reached the large oak woods where there were no more tracks. The map indicated
that this was the way but I needed to be sure. As the light faded, I headed
back to the nearest house to confirm my directions. The closest farmhouse sat
on sparsely grassed fields and many of the cattle looked malnourished, much
different to others I had passed. It was evening and candles had been lit
inside. I knocked at the door and heard commotion from within. A woman answered
warily. With my sun-darkened skin and my height I must have seemed frightening.
She headed back in to find her husband. When I showed them my map, they pointed
in the direction of dense woodland.

‘There
are no tracks in there. You just have to keep looking up to know which way to
go.’ The man seemed to think this was amusing and his two sons, around my own
age, laughed. I had missed the joke and did not sense much charity from these
people. The woman of the house, addressed as
Esme
,
offered me a bowl of soup for a piece of silver.

I
took it with much gratitude but wondered how long my coins would last after so
much spending. Two daughters with small beady eyes watched me eat with
fascination. For another coin I could sleep in the barn with the animals and
their farm dog.

This
suggestion brought with it more laughter and again I did not understood their
humour
. Only the woman did not seem to find their comments
amusing.

I
was led out to the barn with a candle and two giggling girls beside me. One
asked if I wanted to walk with her. The other fought her sister and said she
wanted me to walk with her instead. One even offered to steal my silver back
from her parents if I gave her a kiss. I told them I was interested in nothing
but a good night’s sleep. This upset them and they snatched their candle from
me and ran back to the house. I was left at the door of the barn with no light.

It
was pitch dark inside and I could hear the rustling of animals and the clucking
of hens disturbed by my presence. I felt my way along the wall until I reached
some hay and crawled across to wriggle into a comfortable position. As I
nestled on my side, my hand brushed skin. The touch awakened whatever was lying
in darkness and I felt something rush hard against me. Hands then circled my
neck clutching tightly. It was a moment before I
realised
it was just a child who held me and I grabbed his wrists, freeing them from my
scratched and bleeding neck.