Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) (2 page)

My
mother died shortly after my birth. I have no real memories of
her,
only pictures conjured from my imagination. From the
time I was old enough to ask questions, my father refused to talk of her. It
was a subject I had learned to avoid for the very mention of her stirred him to
anger. When I spoke of her, my father would shout and shove me hard. Like a
horse regularly whipped for rearing, I learned quickly that mentioning her name
was synonymous with hurt.

There
were other unexplainable happenings too, which suggested I was not like others.
Looking back I can see the risks I took as a small boy jumping from the cliffs.
Bruises would disappear within hours. When someone knocked at the door I could
often guess who it was, and there were conversations taking place in the
privacy of homes that I could hear. Then there were the wounded animals.
Though, this curing magic was done in secret in the woods behind my house. My
father would not have approved of it at the time.

My
power was not something I asked for. It is an ancient art. This I discovered
from a book when we delivered a dining table to a wealthy merchant in the
centre
of town. I was good with a small knife, carving flowers
around the table’s rim, and we were paid well for that job. The master of the
house was not home when we made our delivery, and it was an opportunity to seek
out his collection of books.

Here
I found a thick holy book with a cross on the front. Inside were stories of
fairies luring humans to their death, and writings about witches who cured the
sick but only to seek souls for the devil. There were also pictures of women
being tied up and tortured, their heads pushed into water pails. It said that
anyone with such folly must be given up to the Church. It was hard to read and
my stomach lurched at the drawings. It also revealed that this wickedness was
being phased out with each generation as more of these demons, witches and
fairies were revealed. The writer boasted of these captures, documenting
various punishments in detail.

I
understood then why my father did not want to
recognise
this craft. If superstitious islanders suspected that I carried magic, I would
be handed over to the Church and my fate would be banishment or death. Such
dark arts, as it described, went against the Christian teachings. This I will
never understand since who I am does not alter my faith.

My
father did not have the gift. As written, he was born of the sun and from God
in heaven. Whereas those like me were born of the night sky – a term used
to infer that my art comes from the dark depths of hell, with powers strongest
when the moon is full. I did not want to be different. It had been my ambition
to live the simple island life I had then.

‘
Marek
!’ My father called me from the beach. He was carrying
a branch. He held it out to me proudly. ‘White wood! Perfect for building
boats.’

Ricco
had
higher aims for me. He believed that boats were being built with unsuitable
wood, which failed to withstand rough seas. It had been his dream that we could
sell ships to the north and profit from it, and perhaps purchase some land of
our own on the mainland. He did not see our island surviving. He said that one
day there would be an earthquake so big that our island would crumble and fall
into the sea.
Gildoroso
would be wiped off the
charter maps. Once he said this to other men and I believe it was one of the
reasons why some of the fishermen avoided us. They did not like this talk. They
were superstitious of theory and
prophesy
and anyone
with the audacity to speak these opinions out loud.

Ricco
,
realising
he had drawn too much attention from such a
speech, took me to the public drinking house once a month to take part in
conversations and eat with the men. It was important that we do that, said my
father, because people always make up stories about those who do not mix, and
the longer we are away the more exaggerated the stories. It was also a good
opportunity to enquire and gain more work.

‘Did
you hear me, boy?’

‘Yes,
Father.’

‘Your
head is not here. Are you off dreaming again?’

‘Yes,
Father. Dreaming of pretty dancing girls in flowing skirts in faraway lands
– the ones the men talk about at the
osteria
.’
I lied for I wanted the fear and worry in his eyes to go away lest he know I
was dreaming about my craft. ‘And I was thinking that what you’re holding is
the healthiest looking piece of dead wood I’ve ever seen.’

Ricco
smiled. It was exactly what he wanted to hear. ‘Then let’s go, boy.’

We
went to an area of island where this wood was plentiful, and we chopped and
carried timber back to the workshop behind our house.

That
night we dined with Silvia, a middling woman and a friend of my father’s. She
had become a mother of sorts, always stitching me new clothes from some of the
linen she spun to sell.

Silvia
updated us on the goings on in the town: which wife had run off with which
husband, who had eloped, difficult births,
who
had
lost all their coin to drink and gambling. However, the gossip was very
different this night. Something very strange had happened and she whispered as
if it might have been bad luck to say it out loud, or worse, someone might have
overheard her. But what I noticed most of all about her news was the fact she
was directing it at me and not my father, her eyes never leaving mine.

‘You
know, very rarely do we get visitors but our latest has caused much concern.
The fishermen in the cold dead of night found a woman, a sea hag they are
calling her, just off shore floating on a raft. They caught her just as the
waves did. She near drowned but the fishermen
are
regretting their find. They say they wished she’d sunk.’

‘Why
is that?’ my father asked but Silvia continued to answer to me.

‘Well,
she is near dead anyway and covered in disease. She keeps whispering things to
the air around her as if she is talking to unseen people. They say it is eerie
speak.
No-one
wants to be near her, not even the
apothecary to whose house she was taken. He wants to get rid of her though
no-one quite knows what to do.’

I
hated the injustice of such talk. ‘But surely she is just an old woman who has
lost her way or lost her mind. What harm can she do? Everyone has a right to be
treated and cured.’

‘I
would expect you to say as such for you are too young to understand that not
all share your own good intent. The men and their wives say that she talks
witch speech.’

My
father laughed but I could see through it. He wanted this conversation over
with.

‘Tell
me more Silvia,’ I urged. For the subject of witches seemed to dominate my
thoughts since I saw the book.

‘They
say she should be dead. She has travelled far from the north with
Gildoroso
in her sights. She planned to come here.’

‘Does
she have a name?’

‘You’re
an inquisitive boy,’ she said jovially, and with much affection, viewing me
curiously over her beaky nose.

‘He’s
not a boy anymore,’ said
Ricco
interrupting the
conversation and keen to turn the subject. ‘Why, look how tall he is getting!’

‘Yes,’
said Silvia kindly. ‘He is a man-child but still a boy to me. See how he
reddens with such attention.’

I
was embarrassed but I could not let their words distract the main story here.
‘So can we see the woman?’

Silvia
frowned and shook her head. She looked almost regretful and I witnessed a
worried glance between her and my father. We finished our peppered fish pie,
and Silvia laid out small honey cakes. I wolfed down several, which were hot
and buttery and burst in my mouth.

As
we headed back home, Silvia called
Ricco
back. I was
told to head on home and felt offended by this gesture. If I was a man and
could enter the
osteria
, then why was I still
being sent away from certain grown-up discussions?

Later
that night I asked my father what was said. He grunted for it was clear he did
not want to discuss anything.

‘Am
I a witch, Father?’ I asked, expecting a slap across the ear. But the response
was even worse than I imagined. I was met with only silence.

I
went to bed restless and dreamed of my mother. She was grabbing my arm and
pleading with me. However, it was moments before I
realised
that it was not a dream but my father who was pulling at my arm to wake me. The
hearth had burnt down to just a glow, illuminating the room in flickering
shades of orange.

He
was reluctant to speak at first as he stared at the light, his eyes rimmed with
red, and watery.

‘It
is the woman. The one they found in the water?’ From the way
Ricco
pulled at his short beard anxiously, it was clear he
was tormented of mind and unsure whether to voice his thoughts.

‘I
thought she was talking gibberish.’

‘Yes,
she does, except she keeps repeating a name.’

My
stomach tightened for I feared that it would be something I did not want to
hear.

‘She
says your name repeatedly,
Marek
. She asks for you.’

I
would have considered it a mistake except that my Eastern name is distinctive
from others on the island.

‘For
me?’ I had just reached seventeen years and failed to see why anyone would want
to speak to me. I was nobody, a son of a carpenter. Though even as I thought
this I knew it was not entirely the truth.

Ricco
confirmed. ‘She knew you’d be found sooner or later.’

‘Who
are you referring to? What do you mean found?’

My
father could not talk. He left my bedside agitated. There were things he wanted
to say but could not bring himself to it. Why all the secrecy? I decided that
the only way to get my father to talk was to threaten. ‘I will go then.’

He
stood in front of me blocking the doorway. ‘I do not think it is a good idea.
She will be dead soon and it is best you do not know her. It is best you do not
know anything.’

‘Then
why wake me to tell me what she said?’

‘I
do not know.’ He rubbed his head. I had never seen him so erratic. His manner
until that day had always been deliberate and purposeful. ‘I am torn.’

‘You
have held so much from me already,’ I stated angrily. ‘Isn’t it best to get to
the bottom of this? It will probably be nothing. And, if I go, I can tell
everyone it is just a mistake. That she is indeed talking gibberish and looking
for someone else; otherwise, if I do not go, there will always be suspicion
since no-one here shares my name.’

My
father thought for a moment then stepped aside. He indicated for me to follow
and we headed down the grassy hills towards the town. Curiosity was quickly
replaced by foreboding, along with the belief that should I wish to turn back,
fate would not allow it.

The
apothecary’s house was on the far edge of town. It was sometimes used as a
place of quarantine for people with disease or sickness. The apothecary greeted
us at the door with some reluctance before passing us each a cloth mask.
Tonight his infirmary had one patient and we were met with the overpowering
stench of
sulphurous
concoctions, burning
fibres
, and rotting flesh. I suspected that if there had
been others who were sick here, they would have been removed.

The
woman lay facing the wall. Her breathing was shallow and I noticed her bare
forearms were blistered from the sun. Her shabby skirts were high enough to see
her skinny ankles and withering feet. When she turned, I was pleased to be
wearing the mask for I would not be able to hide my revulsion.

Her
face was bloated and purple, covered with weeping, pus-filled sores. The lower
lids sagged so that raw flesh showed beneath her blood-soaked eyes. It took her
a moment to focus
on me and then those pools of blood widened
.

‘
Marek
.’ Her voice was raspy and she said my name with a
thick accent. I felt like the walls were closing in on me and we were the only
ones in the room, and if I had not seen her lips move, I might have sworn she
had been speaking in my head.

‘Who
are you? Why do you ask for me?’

‘I
was asked to come. I have travelled a long way to find you.’

‘Why?’

‘Your
sister needs your help.’

‘I
do not have a sister.’

The
woman laughed with a high-pitched squeal and my eardrums felt as if they would
burst. ‘Humans lie! They have been
lying
to you your whole life. I can see your father did not
even warn you that you were special.’ She looked over my shoulder. I followed
her gaze to see my father standing still and expressionless. He was focused on
something on the wall. At the time I thought him to be angry, though later I
would learn why he did not step in and take control, as he usually did in
difficult situations.