Strands of Starlight (13 page)

“I don't know how to dance.”

“Or to laugh, either, I imagine.” Charity pulled the comforter off Miriam. “I'm not leaving you here. You're coming out, and you're going to sit with my family and me, and maybe father will dance with you. He's very good. And you don't have to be afraid of him.”

“I'm not afraid.” Miriam was looking strangely at Charity. Varden saw her thoughts. The Leather Woman. What had happened to the Leather Woman? What had she to do with Charity?

His heart was cold. A thought, and the house vanished. The stars were about him. He went toward the blue-white flame that called, threw himself into it, stood then on a grassy plain that went on forever. The starlight tingled through him, and he went down on one knee before the Lady who stood there.

“I do not know what to do,” he said simply.

“I cannot tell you.” Her eyes flashed with the depth of a million universes: past, present, and potential.

“I cannot read the future. There is too much of it. Who is Miriam that she brings so many futures with her?”

“She is on a path, Varden.”

“But where is she going, My Lady?”

She shook her head slightly. “You know I cannot answer. Miriam makes her path as she lives. You will counsel, and I will love, but she will decide.”

“And if she asks me?” He spread his hands slightly.

“Then that is your own path. And you will decide.” She touched his head. “My child.”

After a while he opened his eyes to the fields around Saint Brigid. The stars were clear and bright, and he felt their light merge with that of the shimmer about him.

“
Elthia Calasiuove
,” he murmured.

The letters and words Miriam learned from Kay were helping her, but not in any way that the good priest had intended. By mid-June, she had filled several wax tablets with her clumsy writing, setting down a record of the hidden working of Saint Brigid: the tales no one would tell directly, the stories that filtered to her only in bits and snatches.

She sat up into the night and went over what she had. The weather was warm, and the windows of her room were open to let in air. A moth fluttered about the flame of the candle on the table, and the letters danced with the flickering light. Miriam read slowly, quietly, her voice a steady whisper.

The Leather Woman had been first. She had lived in Saint Brigid for nearly eighty years, a crippled, embittered, leather worker who practiced magic against those she hated. She killed most of a flock of sheep when its shepherd made fun of her. She withered crops. She caused sickness.

Andrew the carpenter tried to help her. Francis assisted him, and lost his hands as a result. Varden healed Francis. Around Christmas of 1343, the old woman disappeared. Her house had been left deserted, her belongings untouched. No corpse. No explanation.

And then, again around Christmas of 1343, Charity had been found by Andrew in the bracken near the Leather Woman's hut. The carpenter and his wife adopted the homeless child.

Miriam leaned back in her chair, her eyes following the moth for a moment. Coincidence? Chance? She wondered. Varden had said that he had helped Andrew, who in turn had helped Charity. But Andrew's efforts had been directed at the Leather Woman, not at Charity, and Varden had healed Francis, not Andrew. How had that helped Charity?

Inscribed in wax, the words made her suspicions take on shape and substance; but they also kept her alert to contradictions, whether in the stories of the villagers or in her own theories. 1343 . . .

And then Jaques Alban. 1348. Varden's story about David and the crucifix had been corroborated by several villagers, including the woodcarver himself. David was a thin man with a sharp nose, whose hands seemed always to be groping for a chisel and a mallet. His earnest blue eyes had bored into Miriam's face as he had told her his story.

But he said that he did not know what happened to Alban. And just then, his earnest blue eyes had shifted a little. Dissembling was not easy for the honest carver.

What Miriam wanted was someone who would stand before her and say straight out:
Yes, Alban became a pig. And Charity used to be an old hag who cast spells.
Only then could she confront Varden and demand that she be given consideration and help.

The moth fluttered and danced about the flame.

Miriam watched it. “Change me, Varden,” she said slowly, whispering still. “Change me. Make me strong. Make me bigger. Make me able to fight.”

The moth flickered about, circled the flame, and dived in. It crackled and hissed as it was immolated.

***

Charity came to the priest's house clad in a light blue summer gown, an empty basket on her arm. “Blessed be, Kay! Is Miriam home?”

Miriam was sweeping the floor. Kay swung the door wide. The scent of a midsummer morning spilled in.

Charity stepped across the threshold lightly. “Can you come to the forest with me, Miriam? I'm gathering flowers for Roxanne.”

“Flowers? You mean herbs?”

“No. Flowers. It's the solstice, and we both want flowers.”

Kay laughed. “I don't hear any of this, of course,” he said. “Hmmph. Godless pagans.”

Charity wrinkled her nose at him. “Hmmph. Goddessless Christians.”

“Will I be seeing you at Mass anymore after tonight?” The priest's voice was hearty, but Miriam heard the underlying sadness.

Charity smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Of course you will, Kay. All paths lead to the same ending. Just be sure you leave the statue of the Lady right where it is.”

“Have no fear.” He bent and hugged her. “And good luck to you.”

Miriam had doffed her apron. “What's tonight?”

Charity blushed, but her lake-blue eyes sparkled. “Tonight I become a priestess. Roxanne will lead me through the Mysteries.”

Kay smiled fondly. “As I said, I don't hear any of this.”

Miriam turned to the priest. “Aren't you worried at all, Kay?”

He shrugged. “No. Not at all.”

“What about the Inquisition?”

“I carry the knowledge I have to my grave,” said Kay soberly.

“Or to the stake?”

“If it's God's will, yes. Sometimes we have to suffer and die to save something precious.”

Charity spoke. “Roxanne and I would do the same for Kay.”

Miriam remembered her suspicions. Could it really be? She peered into Charity's eyes for the hundredth time, trying to see some trace of another life there. The Leather Woman? Miriam had asked once about the girl's earliest memories, but Charity remembered nothing of her life before Andrew found her in the heather and snow. And her eyes were clear, untroubled, loving.

Innocent.

Miriam felt a pang and looked away. How could she think such a thing? Could she not leave Charity to her youth? Was she going to sacrifice that innocence and love to the revenge she sought?

“Miriam,” said Charity. “Can you come?”

“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “Yes. Just a minute. A memory, nothing more. It'll pass.”

Charity put an arm around her. “Poor Miriam. Find peace, please, Miriam. We all love you.”

Miriam's eyes ached, but tears were a long time gone. She could not weep anymore. But neither could she pursue Charity's past. Leave it, she told herself. Charity is as she is. Leave her alone. Just enjoy her for what she brings to everyone.

They went out toward the forest together, Charity singing as they walked. Miriam did not recognize the language. Italian?

“Elvish,” said Charity. “Varden and Roxanne taught it to me. You can do it as a hocket, where everyone alternates singing the words and the song goes round and round.”

The sun was bright, the crops head-high or higher. The road opened out, turned, and they saw the forest. “I'd think you'd get dizzy,” said Miriam.

“Oh, no. It's fun. Roxanne and Varden and I sang it last Beltaine, and when we got it up to speed, we were holding a circle of starlight in our hands.”

The road north skirted the trees. Miriam noticed a small house in the forest and wondered that she had seen it at all, for it was carefully carved and decorated so as to resemble the leaves, trunks, and branches around it. “What's that?”

“You must be getting used to Saint Brigid, Miriam.” Charity laughed. “Outsiders usually don't see it. It's David's and Charlotte's house. David built it years ago when he wanted to be a recluse.”

Miriam stopped in the road.

“Is something wrong, Miriam?”

She would not touch Charity, would not mar the sanctity of her youth and love with her own soiled heart. Alban, though. Maybe Alban would be enough. “Could you go ahead, Charity? I think I'd like to stop in on David a moment. I'll catch up with you.”

Charity shrugged. “All right, Miriam. Don't be long, please. I want to show you a patch of wood roses I've found.” She gave her a kiss and went off down the road.

As Miriam approached the door of the house, she heard the sound of singing from the back. She recalled that Charlotte had been in the market square that morning. Good fortune: David was alone in his workshop.

She went around to the back of the house. David was still singing:

“
Alma redemptoris Mater, quae pervia caeli

Porta manes et Stella Maris, succurre cadenti. . . .
”

She knocked at the back door and the hymn stopped. She heard tools being laid down, and the carver opened the door. “Miriam! Blessings! How are you today?”

“I'm fine, David. I was passing by. Might I stop in for a moment? I've heard so much about your carvings.”

He waved her in. “I'm just doing some fine finishing on a piece for the church. You're welcome to sit a bit. Charlotte's gone to market. She'll be back by noon.”

Off to one side were two panels, faced just now away from her. Wood chips and dust were scattered around them.

It was a tidy, well-designed workroom, with tools arranged neatly on shelves, a large table, and plenty of light. Near one wall was a carving in high relief of a cityscape. David saw Miriam looking at it.

“I did it for a nobleman in Maris,” he said. “It's a view of the city from his window. He had a charcoal sketch sent down to me. I think it's a good rendering.”

David was innately modest. Miriam could almost see the river move and the ocean sparkle in the sun. But in the distance, at the tip of a rocky headland that reached out and sheltered the city's harbor, was a small hamlet. Merely a jumble of houses and barns. Her birthplace. She turned away quickly. “It's lovely.”

David snorted. “And it'll probably stay here in Saint Brigid. The man died just as I finished it, and his heirs are so busy fighting over his lands and holdings that they don't have time to send someone to collect it. I'll keep it for them.”

Miriam was a little shaken. “I hope . . . I hope I'm not interrupting your work.”

“I needed to put down my tools for a minute, anyway.”

“You said you were doing something for the church. Some panels?”

“Oh, yes,” said David.

“I'm surprised you want to have anything to do with the Church after . . . after your dealings with Alban.”

David looked a little uncomfortable. “Kay isn't Alban.”

“But it's the same Church, isn't it?”

“Actually,” said the carver, “it isn't. That statue of the Lady wasn't there when Alban was priest in Saint Brigid.”

“Does that make a difference?” She tried to sound as though her questions were prompted only by friendly curiosity, but the effect was strained. She did not have the skill.

“Haven't you looked at it?”

“Of course I've looked at it. I've been in there once or twice. Actually, I'm surprised you can stand to be in the church at all. After what I've been through, I usually stay away from churches. I don't believe in it anymore. How do you do it?”

David pulled up a stool and sat down, fiddling idly with the hem of his coarse tunic. He shrugged.

Miriam watched him for a moment. “What really happened to Alban?”

“He went away.”

“You're lying, David.”

The carver lifted his head and glared at her. Miriam wondered if she saw a shimmer in his intense blue eyes. “What's so important about what happened to a fat priest?”

“The Elves changed him, didn't they?”

David went pale.

“They turned him into a pig, didn't they?”

David gritted his teeth. After a while he said: “Alban vanished.”

“It was Varden changed him, wasn't it?” Nervous, she crossed the room to the window and looked out, half-afraid that the Elf was listening.

“Why are you asking these questions?”

“Because I want to know for sure,” she cried. “I keep hearing all these hints, all these whispered half-truths. I want to know what they add up to. I need to be certain, because . . . because . . .” She turned back to David and was confronted by the tall panels, intricately carved and partly burnished now with all the skill of a master carver. The pictures leaped out at her. The figures were almost alive. The water almost—no, did indeed move. The clouds floated in the sky. Varden and David stood together as a fat priest ran off into an interlacing of forest trees. Stags, foxes, birds . . . all creation looked on in surprise. In Varden's hand was a staff, and it was pointed at the priest.

And the other panel was much the same, save that the figure of the priest had been replaced with that of a pig.

Miriam stood, frozen. “It's true,” she whispered.

David had buried his face in his hands. “Yes, it's true. All of it. Varden tried to persuade Alban to give up his demands, but Alban was too stubborn to back down. Elves don't like to take life, and it seemed more appropriate for Alban, anyway.”

“Why didn't anyone just tell me?”

“Not everyone knows. Many people in Saint Brigid think it's just a story. I felt safe doing the panels because of that.”

Miriam looked at the panels again. The world had just changed. Everything had just changed. “I'm sorry I'm so mean, David,” she said. “But I have to kill a man. And you've just given me a key to a locked door.”

She left the house. If she was quick, she could find Charity and ask the girl to take her to Varden. The thought of what she might do then made her giddy with both anticipation and fear. Alban had felt the touch of those elven energies. What had been in his mind when, of a sudden, his body had been seized and reshaped. What was it like? Where was he now?