A Solitary Journey (11 page)

He let the map furl as he released the corners and went to the tall windows to gaze over the palace grounds. Beyond the walls were the lines of the rooftops—red tiles and wood—and thin lines of smoke at the furthest reaches of the city where the Kerwyn had pillaged buildings before Cutter arrived. He was the king now. Every person in the city and those surviving in the lands beyond were his subjects, compelled by his station to obey his law. But they were also his responsibility. He existed to serve them, to keep them safe from the barbarians, to lead them with strength and with compassion as Jarudha demanded.
This was something he had never fully understood in all the years he spent fighting his mother for his divine birthright. He thought about it from time to time, in moments of quiet reflection, especially during his exile in the northern kingdoms, but he never comprehended the enormity of the role of king. It was more than opulent power—much more. He had to give his life for the people, just as they were expected to give theirs for him. He made the vertical sign the disciples of Jarudha made before and at the end of prayer, running his left hand from his forehead to his heart and sweeping symbolically outwards before placing his hand across his heart and closing his eyes. ‘You have blessed me with this gift and this burden, oh mighty Jarudha,’ he offered up, ‘and I will serve You and Your people with my life and my power. This I promise.’ He opened his eyes again and gazed over the rooftops into the distance, wondering when the heavy rains were coming.

M
eg brushed the curl across Magpie’s forehead and smiled at the boy, and he smiled back before he ran down the slope into the camp, heading for the circle of children playing football. The brown leather sack, packed with feathers, oscillated through the group of children amid shouts and laughter as the game unfolded, and Magpie dived in and out, embroiled in tackles and kicks. Meg watched the children, but especially Magpie because she was pleased to see that he had no lasting legacies from the cruel wounds inflicted by the Kerwyn barbarians. Her healing had worked its miracle and she was all the more confused as to who she was and why she could make magic.

The season of Fuar had passed well into Doyanah and the cycle of Alun was reaching closure. Cold winds were sneaking down the mountains, chilling the forest and lowlands, and the skies were a dull grey with soft rains intermittently dampening the hills and forest. The refugee camp, a ragtag conglomeration of cloth and canvas tents and hastily built wood-and-brush structures housing more than a thousand people and growing daily, spread along the foothills crouched
under the mountains on the eastern fringe of the Whispering Forest. Meg and Magpie had joined a small group they encountered as they wandered southward, and the group grew as more and more people escaped the war in the kingdom’s heartland to seek refuge in the forest. News that the Kerwyn were methodically burning every town and village and farm, and slaughtering people mercilessly, and pushing deep into the forest in their pursuit, drove the refugees eastward until they reached the mountains where they believed the Kerwyn wouldn’t come. Water was plentiful from the creeks and streams that fed into the upper tributary of the River of Kings, but food was diminishing as the increasing camp population foraged and hunted to survive.

Meg headed down the slope into the forest to her favourite place for contemplation. She climbed a bent bough of a pine tree onto a ledge that erupted from a jumble of granitic rocks and sank into a smooth recess where the stone was cool and pulled her thin coat tight. They’d been at the camp for three days, listening to the multitude of tales of narrow escapes and horrific slaughter, the loss of families and homes, hunger and thirst, and offering comfort to the terrified, the sick and the wounded. Meg was troubled by every ill person she saw, knowing that she had the power to heal them but being afraid to use it. Her fear, she knew, was unfounded. What did she have to hide? But her dreams held her back—vivid dreams of men in blue robes pursuing her because she could heal people. She dreamed of them every night after healing Magpie—dreamed that they wanted her dead and would go to any measure to kill her. She was meaning to ask someone in the camp if they knew of men who wore blue robes, but shyness and uncertainty stopped her. What if the dreams were just dreams? There was one
other dream that recurred less frequently—the dream where she was walking towards the rising sun, heading east. Was she meant to keep going east? What did the dreams mean?

She stared through the branches and pine leaves at a small tan wallaby with an orange patch along its snout hopping up the rocks, oblivious to her presence, and was afraid for the little animal. Somehow, so far, it had escaped the fate of its clan, but if someone from the camp saw it they would kill it to appease their aching hunger. At the idea of warm meat her mouth watered.
I’m sorry,
she thought, staring at the wallaby, wishing it could know she meant it no harm. The wallaby stopped and stared in her direction, ears alert. She kept still, surprised by the little animal’s reaction, and wondered what it had heard or smelled. The wallaby lowered its ears a little, turned and hopped quickly down the rocks to vanish into the undergrowth. Across from the rocks a small black animal scampered through the bushes and disappeared like the wallaby, but its brief appearance made Meg gasp because she imagined it to be a bush rat—
the
bush rat that seemed to be following her. The idea, of course, was absurd, she told herself—a series of coincidences. Still she stared at the last bush where the rat had gone, expecting it to emerge. It didn’t.

She relaxed and listened to the forest, the soft breeze stirring the trees, birdsong. The world was peaceful. That was what brought her to this place. She could escape the nagging guilt that she should be healing the people who needed her attention. The grey sky seemed dirtier than normal when she stared up through the tree canopy, as if tainted with dust—or smoke. Like the wallaby she was alert. She scrambled from her loft and walked quickly up the slope until from the crest of the low hill she could see smoke drifting through the
treetops. The entire western horizon was smeared with a churning white cloud and a dirty brown pall drifted on the breeze towards the mountains. Others joined her on the hill and someone said, ‘The whole forest is burning.’

‘It’s not natural,’ said a man, one of the few who’d reached the camp. ‘The Kerwyn are burning the Whispering Forest.’

‘It’s still a long way away,’ another suggested, ‘at least three days’ walking.’

‘Look!’ someone yelled, pointing southward where a large crowd was emerging from the forest.

‘More mouths to feed,’ a woman muttered.

‘We’re not going to be safe here,’ the first man warned. ‘The forest isn’t going to stop the barbarians.’

The big man among the new arrivals awoke memories for Meg when she saw him with the handful of men in the refugee camp, and she studied him as he told his story to the others and bargained for the right for his group to join the camp. When the talking was done, the big man headed for his people to share what he’d learned. Meg couldn’t hear what he told them, but it was obvious that they were staying because the people spread out and began setting up shelters. When the big man spoke to a woman and two children and went with them to build their shelter, Meg headed for the men with whom he’d spoken to learn his identity. ‘Says his name’s Burrows, but likes to be called Wombat,’ Goldfield Haymaker told her.

Meg thanked Haymaker and withdrew. She knew that name. He was a link to her past. She had to talk with him. Magpie ran towards her so she waited for the boy who slid to a halt and asked, ‘Is the fire coming here?’

‘Not yet,’ she replied.

‘When?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m going to have a look,’ he announced, and jogged towards the hill slope.

Meg started for the camp area of the new arrivals, but she halted by a shelter where a crying woman was kneeling beside a child. She squatted and asked if she could help. ‘How can anyone help?’ the woman sobbed. ‘My daughter is dying. Not even Jarudha hears my prayers.’

‘What is wrong with her?’ Meg asked.

The woman wiped her cheek before she leaned across her daughter and pulled aside the cloth sheet covering the girl’s chest to reveal a weeping infected wound. ‘The barbarians stabbed her because she tried to stop them from raping me.’

Meg stared at the wound, remembering Magpie’s brutal injuries, and struggled with her dilemma. ‘Can you boil some water?’

The woman shook her head. ‘There’s no point. I’ve kept the wound clean every day. I thought I’d beaten the infection, but it’s come back and now I can’t save Sky.’

‘Please do as I ask,’ Meg said gently. ‘I will have a look.’

‘Are you a healer?’ the woman asked.

Meg looked up, tears in her green eyes. ‘I don’t know. Please let me try.’

The woman hesitated, as if unwilling to trust her dying daughter with the red-haired stranger, but she saw the genuine request in Meg’s eyes and acquiesced. ‘I’ll bring the water.’

As the woman left, Meg carefully uncovered the skin around Sky’s ribs where the knife had struck and it reminded her of a wound she’d seen in her past. By taking this risk she would have answers to her
questions.
Am I a healer?
she wondered.
Why am I scared of this
?

News of the miracle raced like wildfire through the camp and people crowded to see the girl named Sky whose putrid wound was cleansed and healed by the red-haired woman. Meg retreated to her secret place in the forest, exhausted from the effort and astonished by the ease with which she had cured the child. She was a healer. She could make fire at will. She was filled with magic. And still she did not know who she was. She had her name and she knew that she was once a wife and a mother, but she still did not know the name of her village or how old she was, or whether any members of her family were still alive. She didn’t know Emma or why she dreamed of men in blue robes. And there was the other recurring dream of the pale figure in the green light crucified on the black dragon statue that made no sense to her.
Who am I?
She curled up on the flat rock, wrapping her arms around her knees, and tried to fathom the wonders and the mysteries that held the answers to her identity. The sky was still dirty with the drifting smudge of distant smoke. How long before the barbarians came again?

A man’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Meg!’ She sat up and listened. ‘Meg Farmer!’ Her name wasn’t Farmer. It was Tailor. ‘Red! It’s me! Wombat!’ Through the pine boughs she saw the big man who’d arrived earlier. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled again. ‘Meg!’ She watched him. He was a scruffy creature with an unkempt beard and a stained lightgreen tunic under a massive tan coat. Baggy brown trousers completed the ensemble. He carried a big pike. ‘Meg! It’s me!’ he yelled again.

Against her instinct to stay hidden, she climbed from the ledge onto the pine bough and descended. ‘I’m here,’ she said.

The stranger turned to her and a big grin spread across his features. ‘Well, I’ll be. How much has my little bird grown up?’ he exclaimed and approached with his arms open for a hug.

‘How do you know me?’ Meg asked, stepping back from his embrace.

Wombat dropped his arms in confusion. ‘You can’t have forgotten me? Wombat? The Battle of the Whispering Forest? I saved your life,’ he said, and laughed as if he’d made a joke.

‘You called me Meg Farmer,’ she said. ‘My name is Meg Tailor.’

Wombat scratched his messy hair. ‘Well, you look like Meg Farmer. I wouldn’t mistake that beauty anywhere, even if you are ten or so years older than when we last journeyed together. And I heard about you healing the girl—like you healed me after the battle. You can’t be telling me there are two like you.’

‘I healed you?’

Wombat squinted at the young woman. ‘I nearly died, but you healed my wounds and saved my life. How can you forget that?’

She shifted her feet, revealing her discomfort. ‘I—I’ve forgotten a lot of things,’ she admitted warily, uncertain as to whether or not she should be confessing anything to the stranger who acted as if he knew her. What if he was only acting?

‘Can you remember killing the Marchlord?’ Wombat asked.

‘What’s a Marchlord?’ she asked. Wombat stared at her. ‘You honestly don’t remember?’

She shook her head. ‘I woke up in a river in a village where everyone was dead. I don’t even know where that was—only that it was somewhere north-west of here.’

‘Summerbrook,’ said Wombat. ‘You lived there.’

The name sparked a rush of memories. She saw a woman and a little fair-haired boy. ‘Peter,’ she whispered.

‘What?’ Wombat asked.

‘Where did you live?’ she asked in return.

‘I used to live in Quick Crossing. That’s where we first met—in the gaol.’

‘Gaol?’

He laughed and shook his head with his mirth. ‘You were arrested for apparently stealing one of the Queen’s horses.’

‘I was a thief?’ she asked.

Wombat stopped laughing to look at her and seeing her serious expression he laughed again. ‘Oh, now this is a tale for a song if you can’t remember what happened.’ He stared at her again to see if her expression changed and saw only confusion on her face, which brought more laughter from the big man. ‘Meg Farmer was no thief,’ he said, and snorted as he tried to control his laughter, ‘but she was definitely a surprise to a lot of people.’

‘I want to know what I did,’ she said. ‘I have to know who I am.’

Wombat caught his breath as he registered her earnest plea and held out a giant hand. ‘Well, I don’t understand what’s caused this memory loss,’ he said, ‘but I’m happy to give what I can back to you. Come and join my family at our fire. I’d be honoured.’

‘I have a boy,’ she said.

‘Bring the lad as well,’ Wombat offered generously. ‘There’s not much to eat, but we’ll make a feast for ourselves on good company and some fine tales tonight, and I’ll help you retrieve an old and dear friend of mine. Can you remember how to sing?’

‘Sing?’ she queried, and then remembered what she had said to Blossom Beekeeper.

Wombat laughed. ‘A minstrel and a warrior and a healer and a thief and a beauty,’ he listed, grinning. ‘No wonder you wanted to forget.’ He took her arm with surprising gentleness for a big man and escorted her up the slope towards the camp.