Marysvale (4 page)

We can’t keep this up much
longer,
I thought. I was cold, tired, hungry, and bleeding.
The miles were taking their toll. To make matters worse, my best
friend, Smoke, was tiring. He could run long distances and was the
fastest horse I’d ever seen, in my—now all too short—22 years of
life. And although he was an extraordinary animal, there were
limits to his amazing abilities. I could feel the strain in his
thunderous gallop as he began to slow. His dark gray coat dripped
with sweat as we struggled up and down the valleys and hills. The
gigantic, snarling monsters pursuing us were closing the gap. If he
collapsed now, we’d both be dead. One way or another, it would soon
be over.

I wished I had stayed and taken my
chances in the village of Syre, with its hard-packed dirt roads,
small shops, and cottages. If I had kept my mouth shut as planned,
when I had arrived two years ago, I wouldn’t be running for my life
now. If only I had hidden my gifts better and not asked that
fateful question there in the center of the village…but there are
some things I can’t ignore, even if it means trouble for
me.

“
Mrs. Martin, does he whip
you…and Thomas?” I asked concerned, unsure of what her reaction
would be.

Tears moistened her eyes, glittering in
the sun like little pools of diamonds—held back momentarily, before
breaking loose and streaming down her cheeks; out of fear or
relief, I couldn’t tell. Either way, someone else knew her
husband’s hideous secret and his hidden pleasure: the way he felt
powerful and satisfied when he put “them” in their proper place. It
infuriated me and I desperately wanted to help.

“
How do you know?” she asked
with a quiver in her voice.

Choosing my words carefully, I replied,
“I’ve seen the marks on your wrists, the faint blood stains on the
backs of your shirts, and how your son sometimes grimaces in pain
when I pat his back.”

All of which was true…what I didn’t say
was the way I could see through her foul husband’s eyes, past the
flesh, and deep down into the core of his soul—not his alone, but
everyone’s. I only needed to look into their eyes for a few moments
and I could comprehend their fears, hopes, wants, and desires even
better than they could. I knew what would motivate them. I could
feel what they felt and, occasionally, if I pressed hard enough, I
could pull thoughts from their minds. Right now, Mrs. Martin’s
personal purgatory was overwhelming, and I knew she would never ask
for help.

She said nothing, but tried to wipe
away the evidence of any emotion with her apron. She was a slight
woman, frail and bent in her brown cotton gown. Her blond hair was
pulled back from her face and tucked under a white linen cap. I
looked at her haggard face. She was, perhaps, only ten years older
than me, but looked forty. Under other circumstances, she would
have been beautiful; but a lifetime of physical and verbal
beatings, at the hand of a cruel man, had taken their toll and
broken her will.

“
Mrs. Martin,” I continued,
“please, I want to help.”

“
You have helped,” she said
quietly. “You’ve been a friend to Thomas.”

Her son, Thomas, had been one of the
first to welcome me to Syre...well, not really. Actually, I was the
one to approach him initially, but there was no losing him after
that. In the beginning, I thought he was just an annoying,
temperamental adolescent; but I quickly saw a brightness and keen
intuition that were missing from most boys his age—qualities that
endeared him to me.

“
That’s not hard,” I said
with a smile. “He’s liked by everyone.”

“
Yes, but you understand him
like no one else. Before you came here, he was quiet and withdrawn;
he wouldn’t talk much at all. You’ve changed that. Even my husband
has noticed a difference in him.” She hesitated momentarily, as if
debating what she could really tell me, and then added timidly, “He
hardly gets a beat’n anymore.”

I looked into her tired eyes and said
bluntly, “But you still do and that hurts Thomas more than anything
he’s had to endure. He hates his father for what he’s done; I can
see it in him.”

It didn’t take anything special to see
that, and it looked as if Mrs. Martin already knew what I was
telling her.

I continued, “You know Thomas doesn’t
even call him Father? He won’t refer to your husband by anything
other than
Him
.” I hesitated and then added cautiously,
“Thomas is waiting for the day when he’s big enough to stop him and
punish him for what he does to you.”

Silence and more tears.

If you can make it that long
,
I thought.

There had been a time when her face was
so black and swollen that she could only see out of one eye, and
her nose had been broken. She said a horse had kicked her; but
anyone with a pebble of smarts could see that it would have taken
multiple kicks to do what had been done to her. Bruises could also
be seen on her neck, and she had a slight limp after that
particular incident. Typically, Mrs. Martin didn’t leave her house
much after a beating. Thomas usually told me what happened; but
only after we had known each other for several months, and he had
gained enough trust to know I wouldn’t tell anyone else.

“
What can you do?” she asked
hopelessly. “He’s the magistrate.”

“
I know. I’ve thought about
that. He values his position in the community?”

She nodded slightly.

“
If this knowledge became
public, it couldn’t be ignored—it would ruin his reputation and
standing in the village. I’ll threaten to do just that if he
doesn’t promise to stop.”

It wasn’t much of a plan; but with him
being the magistrate, there weren’t many people we could turn to…in
fact, none that I could think of.

“
No, you can’t!” she cried.
“I couldn’t bear the disgrace.”

“
You have no shame in
this!”

“
He’ll destroy you. He would
falsely charge you with a crime, and I will not have that on my
conscience.” She shook her head and whispered, “I couldn’t bear to
know that I was the cause.”

“
He’s accused innocent men
before, hasn’t he?”

Avoiding a direct answer, she continued
softly, “He especially hates you. Thomas isn’t the only one you
bring out the good in; others in the village are drawn to you, and
he can see that. I think he’s afraid you will challenge him for
power someday.”

“
How absurd!” I scoffed. “I
have no desire for such a position. Besides, who in this world
would ever choose me as a leader?”

She looked straight into my eyes, as if
she were the one now boring into my soul, and said, “More than you
realize. I’ve heard him talk to the other elders and village
counselors, and some of them believe the same.”

Surprised by her answer, I replied, “It
doesn’t change anything.”

She took another approach. “Can you
protect us all day, every day?”

I looked down and said nothing. She
knew I couldn’t.

“
If you tell, sooner or
later he will take it out on us. Maybe even…” Her voice caught and
she couldn’t finish, so I did.

“
Kill one of you,” I added
glumly.

“
I wish there was something
you could do, but there isn’t. Now, I have to go. I shouldn’t be
seen talking to you.”

Unfortunately, it was already too
late.

“
YOU!” bellowed a commanding
voice.

Mrs. Martin jumped. Her faced turned
ashen as her eyes went wide with fear. She began to
tremble.

I cursed silently. He wasn’t supposed
to be here now. Thomas had told me he would be gone for a few more
hours.

I turned around to see a red-faced Mr.
Martin, striding up from the direction of the town hall. Although
not as tall as my six-foot frame, he was built like a bull, with
broad shoulders, thick neck, and a square jaw. Atop his large head
sat a powdered wig, which hung in rows of curls down his back. His
long, black robe flapped angrily behind him.

Pretending like nothing in the world
was wrong, I said, “Good day, Mr. Martin. I hope you find yourself
well?”

He glared at his wife, who raised her
hands as if to ward off an attack.

“
I’ll deal with you later,”
he hissed.

Then, turning to me, he snarled, “Do
you think I’m a bloody fool?”

“
Well…” I said, but caught
Mrs. Martin shake her head slightly. Mr. Martin caught it too, and
this infuriated him even more.

He swung a fist at me.

It seemed to take forever for the blow
to connect; everything moved so slowly. Even more amazingly, my
body didn’t seem to be locked within the same slowness as the world
around me. I’m sure I could have bent down, picked some
wildflowers, put them in his fist, and step out of the way before
he would connect...perhaps that is an exaggeration, but not by
much.

However, experience had taught me not
to act in any way that didn’t seem normal. If I did, every bully in
the village would try to prove himself by picking a fight, while
others would grow nervous and become scared of me. In the end, I
decided not to move. Maybe he wouldn’t take it out on Mrs. Martin
if I let him beat me.

So, I braced for the impact the best I
could, and was greeted with momentary blackness and stars when his
fist finally crashed into the side of my head, which sent me
sprawling in the dirt. An instant later, a heavy boot slammed into
my chest, knocking the wind out of me and connecting the throb in
my head to the newly acquired one in my chest. Pain washed through
my body. Again and again, he kicked me in a savagery I didn’t think
possible.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun,
it stopped. Confused and dazed, I simply lay there. I heard voices,
but it took a moment before my mind recovered enough to understand
the words.

“
You made your point; he’s
had enough,” growled a gruff, deep voice.

Cautiously, I looked up and saw the
huge frame of James Shepherd, the blacksmith, standing over me.
Sweat dripped from his short, matted hair and ran down his
blackened forehead, and into his red, graying beard. He clutched
what looked to be a very heavy hammer in his large hands, which
were attached to even bigger arms. He was a man no sane person
would dare to challenge. It looked like Mr. Martin was thinking the
same thing, because he just stood there, scarlet faced, with his
cold eyes glued on me.

“
This is far from over,
boy,” he spat.

He turned and, with a hard kick, sent
Mrs. Martin weeping up the road.

I hated him! I would have taken the
beating for Mrs. Martin and let it go at that, but that wasn’t
enough for Martin; he had to show that, because of me, his wife
would pay the price.

I leapt to my feet, but the strong arms
of Mr. Shepherd wrapped around and restrained me like a great
vice.

A toothy grin spread across Mr.
Martin’s face. “That’s right, boy; you learn your place,” he
purred.

In vain, I struggled to free myself
from Mr. Shepherd’s iron grip.

“
Not now, lad,” he
whispered, in a slight Scottish accent. “The time will come, but
not today.”

He lifted his head to Mr. Martin. “And
you,” he yelled. “If I see you harm her again, I won’t just
restrain young John here—I’ll join him!”

Martin’s grin faded. “That would be a
very grave mistake. You know what I would do, if you
tried.”

Mr. Shepherd paused, as if
contemplating the threat, and then replied coolly, “Yes. But when
I’m done with you, you won’t be around to tell.” This time, he
grinned.

Mr. Martin looked murderous. I was sure
that no one ever spoke to him that way. I gazed into his cold eyes
and saw his dark soul turn even darker. Indeed, murder had entered
his heart. Neither I nor Mr. Shepherd would be safe now, I was sure
of it. I wondered if he would take us in cold blood. I gazed a
moment longer. No, I didn’t think so. His soul was so filled with
anger, that it was difficult to pull individual thoughts out.
However, in that brief glimpse, I could see it wasn’t enough for
him to merely silence his enemies—he had to make them suffer.
Beyond that, he wanted them to know that it was he who was
inflicting the torture, so they could see his power over them and
know they were completely defenseless. I suspected he would use his
position, as the magistrate, to take his revenge.

A crowd grew, and with it, so did the
potential witnesses. Realizing that there was nothing more he could
do to intimidate us, Mr. Martin, still shaking with anger, abruptly
turned and strode up the road without saying another
word.

Mr. Shepherd let me go. I whirled,
ready to yell at him for holding me back; but he raised his hand
and gestured toward the small group, cautioning me to be careful
about what I said. Some wore scornful expressions, but most had
ones of understanding. A few even looked encouragingly at
me.

“
Are you hurt?” he
asked.

I hurt all over, but replied, “I don’t
think so.”