EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (33 page)

‘I won’t leave, Mama. You can trust me,’ I said.

‘I don’t worry about you, my dear Adenine. I worry about… well…’ And there was no need to for her to say more. She worried I would spread the plague.

‘I won’t leave. I promise,’ I repeated but felt a little thrill knowing I had lied. Soon, Uncle Garrad and I would venture outside together.

Mother leaned over to kiss me.

I flinched. ‘Should I wash again? I may not be clean still.’

Mother tickled me and kissed my hair. ‘You smell only of soap! Say goodbye to your papa.’

I threw my arms around Father, inhaling his familiar scent of linseed oil and beeswax. ‘Goodbye, Papa. Bring me back a picture book for my lessons.’

Picture books were my favourite. Mrs. Moferbury had taught me the basics of reading and writing, but she could only visit once a month. Sometimes, Uncle Garrad helped me with my homework. Mother and Father were far too busy with Mystoria to give me that kind of attention. Sometimes Mother complained to Father that they needed a maid. That conversation always ended the same.

‘We have to think of Adenine.’ What they really meant was, ‘We don’t want her infecting people.’

I’d learned much about the world, along with many merchant tricks, from listening to my parents tell of their adventures. Through the picture books, I could see the world.

‘Have fun,’ she whispered taking the second lantern off the shelf and leading the way downstairs.

On the third step, they turned and blew kisses at me. I waved at them until they disappeared around the corner.

Uncle Garrad finally shut the door. ‘They’ll be back before you know it. Now. What’ll we have for dinner then, eh?’

‘French toast and spiced custard with dates and raisins,’ I said and my stomach rumbled, pushing away my sadness at my parents’ departure.

My uncle pushed the key Father had given him into the lock and turned it. After it clicked, he faced me and sighed. ‘Cheer up,’ he said, touching my shoulder.

He led me to the kitchen. I sat, put my elbows on the counter, and rested my chin in my hands. I tried to ignore the heaviness in my chest by watching Uncle Garrad cook.

He cracked two eggs into a pewter bowl, mixed them with a wooden spoon, then retrieved two satchels from the pantry. One contained raisins and the other dates. He took a skillet from a hook and sliced a small piece of butter to oil the pan. I loved to watch him cook, and Uncle Garrad knew many recipes. It interested me that he always prepared our meals as though handling a small bird with a broken wing—something delicate, something to love.

He tipped the eggy mixture over two pieces of bread, walked to the hearth, and slid the skillet onto an iron rack suspended above the fire. He poked at the embers and added more wood. Flames illuminated the dark corners of the room. The dining table was still dim, so I lit the wick of a beeswax candle. The light pulsed for a moment, casting long oval shapes across varnished wood.

‘Can we go to the hill shack tonight?’ I asked.

He checked our frying bread, and took the pan off the rack. He placed it on a cooling base and pulled out two wooden plates. ‘Not tonight. Got to look after your parent’s shop, don’t I?’ He faced me, and white teeth peered from between where his moustache tangled with his beard.

I frowned and folded my arms. Mother and Father would murder my uncle if they knew that he let me outside. But he took care to give me a double dose of medicine before we departed, and I never met with
anyone,
let alone touched them. We always snuck out from the house at nighttime, and I would hide in Uncle Garrad’s cart drawn by his horse, Gobbler.

My uncle tightened his lips. ‘None of that pouting or I’ll eat your portion of our dinner.’ But his smile reassured me of his teasing.

‘No!’ I said, making fists at him.

He swatted at one and snorted. ‘End of this week then? Got to harvest the rest of my strawberries before autumn brings the frosts.’

I nodded. ‘Yum,’ I said, thinking that the ripe berries would go well with our french toast.

‘I got some business after dark tomorrow. You able to keep yourself happy for the day?’

‘You’re seeing that lady friend, aren’t you?’ I’d heard him and Father having a discussion about it a few months ago. Father had advised Uncle Garrad not to see the woman lest he spread his illness to her. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for my uncle. I knew how he felt because we both had to stay away from people in case they caught what we had.

His eyes sparkled. ‘That’s none of your concern now, is it?’’ Suddenly, the joy on his face faded, and he became lost in some haunting thought.

I felt bad. Not wanting to ruin the chance of visiting the hill shack, I made sure not to utter another word on the subject. Uncle Garrad owned a portion of land nestled at the base of the Borrelia Mountains. The hideaway was perfect, and I only got to go maybe once or twice a year. Thinking about the outside made me look at the long window high up the wall. I couldn’t see the usual twinkling of stars and knew it was cloudy outside. Heavy rain would make my uncle hesitate about going to the hill shack, lest the river rise and keep us from returning. Mother and Father would miss any monies lost from Uncle Garrad not getting back and trading for a day.

‘Here we go,’ he said, transferring the egg-covered bread to our plates. He placed them on the table.

‘Don’t forget to wash before you leave tomorrow,’ I warned him. ‘You might have bits of my sickness on you.’ I tucked into my food. I didn’t want anyone to die or be hurt because of me.

Uncle Garrad became quiet, and when I peered up at him, I saw his displeasure with me. He didn’t like that I carried the plague.

We ate our dinner in silence.

Chapter II

T
HE
NEXT
DAY
,
THE
SUN
glimmered off the roofs of the houses I could see through my small triangular window in my cosy attic bedroom. The town square bustled with life. Market stalls stood side by side, ladened with supplies. I recognised many of the people who came to the square to spend their coin. Most were residents of Borrelia, while others were from outlying properties or visiting from the south. Borrelia became the last stop before South Senya ended and North Senya began. Once, on a rare occasion when Mother mentioned the healers, she told me that many people fled to Borrelia when the healers took control of Meligna, the great northern city.

One of those seeking refuge from Meligna was Ms. Black Bonnet, so named for always wearing a black hat. Every day, she would visit the fish stall, the cloth stall, then the trinket-maker’s store and finally, after buying nothing, would drag her feet to the doctor’s house. I knew it belonged to a doctor as the sick flocked there. Most coughed, others limped, and some arrived on stretchers. Some left on stretchers, too. People seemed to get sick a lot, but not me. Well, at least I never seemed to get what others got such as fluid in the lungs, a dripping nose or swollen eyes – sicknesses common to a snowy climate. Mother said that my blood wasn’t susceptible to the illnesses of others and that trait was an inherited one. But that confused me because both Mother and Father fell ill many times a year and seemed cautious of being around my uncle when he fell ill with his usual sores and cough.

I watched Mr. Fat Man, the vegetable seller, flirt with Ms. Big Chest, who seemed to like the attention. Some days, she ignored him or chased him off with a broom. Her moods were as fickle as the weather.

And then came my favourite part of the day, when the town crier, wearing his funny hat, shouted the midday news. Borrelia happenings were fairly boring, so in my mind, I replaced the town crier’s mundane news with my own fantastical tales.

‘Hear ye! Hear ye! A witch flew into town today. She’ll brew you a nasty potion for a silver coin or two.’

A long time ago, I’d asked my father to take me outside. I’d wanted to be like the other children playing in the streets.

‘Absolutely not,’ Father had said.

‘But I want to see the market, Papa.’

‘There’s something you need to know…’ That was the first time I’d learned about what brewed inside of me.

Tired of watching the world outside, I went downstairs and lit a small fire. I checked the washbasin and saw it held clean water. Uncle Garrad hadn’t washed, and I fretted over the chance he might spread traces of my disease.

I picked at my breakfast—a portion of bread and some honeyed drink—then began reading one of my favoured books about the animals of Bivinia. A few pages in, I became distracted by the barricade door. I thought about Uncle Garrad bargaining with customers and recording inventory downstairs. I walked over to the door and put my ear against it; the house seemed unusually quiet. There were no thumps, scrapes, or voices. I didn’t dare check the door lock. I couldn’t trust myself with the freedom if I found it open, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone.

I washed my hands.
Not clean.
I washed them again. I wiped down any surfaces I’d touched and resumed my reading. The day passed slowly. I tended to other chores, sweeping, dusting, and darning a torn apron. When the daylight passed, and the living room darkened, I lit a lamp. My stomach rumbled, and I looked at the food Uncle Garrad had laid out on the kitchen bench.

The fire in the hearth had just ignited when I heard a thump downstairs. There were several more thuds and the sound of things being knocked over. I spun around to watch the door. My heart raced, and I wished I’d checked to see if the door was locked. I hoped it was my uncle and not a thief or criminal. I’d learned about thieves from Mrs. Moferbury who lived in Juxon City, the capital of Senya, a place she called Pilfers’ Paradise.

Hearing the scrape of a key in the lock, I relaxed. Uncle Garrad stumbled through the door, swaying under the influence of too much liquor.

‘’ello there,’ he slurred, making an exaggerated waving gesture. ‘What’s my wittle princess cookin’ her favourite uncle this evening?’

I noticed a festering sore on his left hand. I scanned the rest of his exposed skin, desperately searching for more wounds, troubled by the possibility that his illness might flare up and see him bed ridden. Without Mother and Father, I would have to care for him.

There were no more sores that I could see, but Uncle Garrad managed to catch my gaze as it fixated on his hand.

He put his arm behind his back. ‘Tsk tsk, it’s rude to stare.’ A hint of drool came from the side of his mouth. Clumsily, he pulled the key from the other side of the door lock, shut the door, and then relocked it. He took four uneven steps forward and fell into a lounging chair. He swung his legs up on the side of the armrest, and his head drooped as his eyes closed.

I tried to calculate how long Uncle Garrad would be sick and whether I’d have to call for a doctor. My thoughts raced, and I tried to quieten them by focusing on cooking. I dropped pork into the boiling water and pulled out the rest of the ingredients. I unhooked the skillet and began to oil it. When he began to snore, I closed my eyes and breathed out with relief.

A few minutes later, he grunted and peered at me with bloodshot eyes. ‘You’re so lucky aren’t you? Parents that love you. A whole future of life. And to finish off
that
mountain of luck, every man will want you. They won’t turn away in disgust like women do to me.’

Uncle Garrad rubbed his eyes and then put both hands out in front of him and spread his fingers. He pointed at the mark on his hand. ‘See this? It be a curse on my life! Loneliness. Rejection…’ He trailed off, his head slumping back again, and the snores resumed.

The key fell and clanked on the stone floor. Slowly, I stepped toward it, crouched, and picked it up. I held it as if it were a porcelain ornament. I placed the key on the table next to my uncle, forcing my fingers to let it drop. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the desire to unlock the door and go down into Mystoria.

The sizzling of water brought my attention back to the cooked meat. I took the pan to the kitchen bench and scooped the meat from the water. Droplets sizzled on the sides of the iron pot. Uncle Garrad had been so sick once before that he’d spent a month in his home. Mother said when the sores were fresh people could catch the sickness. Neither of my parents had ever worried I’d catch it, but
they’d
been careful not to touch him.

I squashed the hot meat and herbs into balls and placed them on a cloth. I’d lost my appetite and decided Uncle Garrad would appreciate the ready-to-cook edibles in the morning. I found some apples in the pantry and placed two of them in a large pocket in my apron. They would see me through until morning.

I retrieved my parent’s quilt and spread it over Uncle Garrad, being careful not to wake him. I tipped the water I’d used to boil the pork over the fire to extinguish the flames. I picked up a candle and held it in front of me to see my way upstairs.

As I passed Uncle Garrad, I paused and inspected the sore again. Two other red circles were beginning to form on his skin close by. Tomorrow, more sores would appear, and soon, they would spread to his face and body. I only hoped the fever would be mild and short lived.

Chapter III

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
,
RAIN
PATTERED
against my windowpane, and my room felt colder than usual. I threw back my covers. Remembering the night before, I jumped up and sped downstairs to the living room. The lounging chair was empty, but my parents’ bedroom door sat ajar. Two large feet poked out from underneath a blanket on my parents’ bed. A small mound of lifeless coals sat in the hearth. The key had disappeared from the table, yet the barricade door sat wide open. I put my hand over my mouth in shock and ran to it, using all my strength to force it closed. With shaking hands, I went to my uncle and found the key on the bedside table. I took it back to the door and locked it.

After emptying the dirty water from the basin into a nearby bucket, I refilled it from our water barrel and added sage, lavender, rosepetals, and almond flour. I took the soap that sat nearby and wiped the scratchy block over my fingers.