The Sweetest Spell (16 page)

I stumbled as the path steepened, the holes in my wool socks collecting small stones. Three dwellings stood on the highest section of beach, built of wood that had washed ashore. The dwellings looked abandoned with their gaping roofs and caved-in walls. A ring of stones that had once held fire lay half-buried in sand. Who had lived here and where had they gone? Then I spotted the answer. Built from piled-up rock, nine graves lay in a row at the base of the cliff. In the Flatlands, it was often said that the wind carried the souls of the dead. As a breeze tickled my neck I shivered, imagining ghostly fingers reaching for me.

The trail flattened, and we stepped onto the beach where a massive tree trunk had washed up on the shore. It must have been part of a building for its ends were cut square and four holes had been drilled into it. Peddler opened the crate and pulled out a long chain. Then he threaded the chain through one of the holes and secured it with a padlock. My heart nearly stopped beating. “No,” I begged.
“Please, no.” He was going to chain me to this haunted place. I grabbed a rock. “No! I won’t let you. You can’t leave me here.” I threw the rock, hitting his shoulder. He spun around and pushed me to the sand where he quickly slid the chain around my waist and locked it in place with another padlock.

“I hate you!” I screamed. “I swear I’ll kill you. Do you hear me, old man? I swear to God that one day I will kill you for what you’ve done!”

He wasn’t paying any attention. He’d stepped away and was looking down the beach. I wiped sand from my face, then squinted into the distance.

A woman stood where the beach curled around a rocky outcropping. Her skirt hung to her ankles. A knit scarf covered her head and wound around her neck, hiding her mouth. Had she seen Peddler chain me to the log? If so, she was in danger.

Peddler picked up the crate and headed toward her. “Run!” I screamed, trying to warn her. “RUN!” But the woman stayed put. What would he do to her? Would he chain her, too? Kill her? Why wasn’t she running away?

When Peddler reached the woman, he dropped the crate. They spoke, words too far away to catch. They never touched, keeping a few feet between them as they spoke, but it seemed as if …
they knew each other
. The woman nodded her head many times. Then she picked up the crate and left, disappearing around the rocky point.

“She’ll look after you,” Peddler told me as he returned. I lay in the sand, my entire body betraying me with its exhaustion. “But
you must never get close to her. And you must never touch her.” Then he knelt and removed the cord from my wrists. Before I could ask any questions, he walked back up the trail.

Leaving me alone, chained to a log, as the sun set at the edge of the sea.

Mother didn’t leave my side. She sat in the chair beside my bed, clutching my hand, her voice ragged as she begged the surgeon to save me. Peddler’s blade had slid between two ribs, narrowly missing my heart. The blood had pulsed from the wound, warm and sticky, running down my side as I lay in the dirt. Luckily Father had been woken by the horse and wagon and had rushed to my side. If he hadn’t been such a light sleeper, I’d have bled to death.

The surgeon assured my parents that no internal organs had been pierced. “But we must hope that no fever appears,” he said. “If fever comes with the morning, then the wound is corrupted.”

“I’ve got to go,” I murmured through a haze of pain.

“Steady,” Father said, as if gentling an injured horse. “Steady.”

“Keep him still,” the surgeon said. Father sat on the bed and held me down. With his assistant at his side, the surgeon mixed up some sort of paste and smothered my wound. The stinging was
unbearable. Then he wrapped it tightly, just as he had wrapped my once broken rib.

“Emmeline,” I whispered. “I need to find Emmeline.”

Something bitter was poured into my mouth. “Brew this tea three times a day,” the surgeon told Nan. “Give it to him each time you change the poultice.” Then he leaned over me, his dark eyes piercing with concern. “You stay in bed, Owen Oak. Those are my orders. I can’t cure you if you don’t follow my orders.”

I closed my eyes against the pain. Stay in bed. My bed, which still smelled like her.

I’m not sure how many days passed. It was the surgeon’s voice that woke me. “There’s no fever. His color’s good. Continue the poultice three times a day, along with the three cups of tea.”

The edges of the room blurred. I tried to sit up but Mother stopped me. Her hair hung loose and uncombed. Dark circles had settled beneath her eyes as if they’d been painted there. “Have they found her?” I asked.

“No,” Father said, chewing on the end of his pipe.

“How long?”

“It’s been ten days. Tax-collector Pinch has printed posters. He’s offered a reward for Emmeline’s return.”

“What?” I pushed away Mother’s hand and sat up. “He knows about Emmeline? Who told?” I glared at the surgeon.

“Pinch came to the house,” Father said. “He brought the town council. They demanded to know where the chocolate had come from. Pinch threatened me with an importation tax. He threatened to double our pasture tax if I didn’t tell. The council was willing to
evict us from our shop.” Father sat on the edge of the bed. “I had to tell him the truth about Emmeline. Now everyone knows she made the chocolate.”

“Are they going to arrest her?” I asked. “For not staying in the Flatlands?”

“On the contrary,” the surgeon said, closing his wooden case. “They want her to make more chocolate. Our tax-collector knows an excellent investment opportunity when he sees one.”

“As does Peddler,” I said, grimacing as I leaned against the pillows. “I’m sure that’s why he took her.”

“But how did Peddler know about Emmeline?” Mother asked. “Your father didn’t tell the tax-collector until well after Emmeline’s disappearance.”

Who would have told Peddler about Emmeline? A round face popped into my head.

“It’s my fault. I took Emmeline to the butter room and Fee saw her. Peddler must have bribed the information from Fee with one of his trinkets.” I grimaced again. “How much reward is being offered for Peddler?”

“There’s no law against kidnapping a dirt-scratcher,” Father said. Then he raised his voice and it echoed off the walls. “But there is a law against attempted murder, and when we find him he shall stand trial for trying to kill my only son.” His cheeks burst with color and he waved a fist. “I’ll hang him myself.”

Mother took my hand again, fear swimming in her gentle eyes. I knew her thoughts. To lose one child was more than she could bear. To have almost lost the other …

I squeezed back. “I’m fine,” I told her.

Peddler hadn’t killed me. But if he’d hurt Emmeline in any way, he’d wish he’d never been born.

I waited until nightfall. Mother had finally left me alone, falling into a deep sleep in her own bed. I slipped into my britches, shirt, and vest. Peddler had taken my snakeskin belt, so I grabbed a corded belt. I tucked my knife into my boot, then tiptoed down the hall. The pain wasn’t so bad, as long as I didn’t cough.

This was my fault entirely. Without me, Emmeline would never have made chocolate. And Fee would never have seen her. And she’d still be here, safe in my bed.

Hold on, Emmeline. I’ll find you
.

Time presses as heavy as armor when one sits alone, chained to a log.

Everything was a blur of sameness. In the evenings I took shelter in one of the crumbling dwellings, sleeping on the sand-covered floor. Though the roof had partially rotted and the gaping holes offered little protection from the elements, I felt safer with walls around me. Who knew what might crawl from the depths of the sea when night fell? How many ghosts lingered in this lonely place?

In the mornings I awoke to the shriek of gulls. As the sun rose above the cliff, the woman would appear carrying a basket of food, which she’d set on the beach, never getting too close to me. Then she’d retreat to a nearby boulder and watch while I ate the basket’s contents. The food was always the same. Smoked silver fish, the size of fingers. A bowl of chopped sea plants, red and green, salty and strange. And water in a jug. The first morning I ate everything, then discovered there was only one meal a day so I started saving some of the fish for evening.

The woman never spoke, nor did she remove the scarf that hid her hair and most of her face. I guessed she was in her middle years only because of the occasional wisp of graying hair that stuck out from the scarf. At first I tried to reason with her. “If you free me, you can get the one hundred coin reward.” But she never spoke. “Who are you? Why won’t you talk to me? Why are you helping Peddler? He’s a thief and a murderer.” Still, she said nothing. She never stayed long, eventually walking down the beach and disappearing around the rocky outcropping.

I spent hours trying to break the chain, pounding it with a rock, sawing at it with a sharp shell, but the iron held fast around my waist. I tried jamming small sticks into the padlock, but they’d only break. I tried moving the log but it would have taken a group of men to move such an enormous timber.

The chain was long enough that when the tide rose I could wade into the sea to bathe. The seawater wasn’t as cold as the river, and the wind quickly dried my clothes and skin. Though I was clean, the seawater left my skin feeling tight and scratchy.

Ships passed by, some with tall white sails, some just specks amid the blue and white. I waved but they never came close, staying well beyond a reef where the waves crashed.

At times I screamed in desperation. Surely someone would hear me. Craning my neck and pointing my face at the clifftop, I screamed until my throat burned. But no one ever answered. Nothing moved up there except the grasses. Hatred grew with each passing day.
I’ll never make chocolate for you
, I whispered as if Peddler sat next to me.
I’ll never make chocolate for him
, I whispered to the tiny white crabs that scuttled over my socks.

Why me? I wondered countless times. Why could I make chocolate? Was it possible that other Flatlanders could make it but didn’t know? If my mother or father had been given a churning bucket, could they have changed the course of their lives? But I’d never be able to answer these questions as long as I was chained to this sorrowful place.

Ten days, twelve days—what was Peddler doing?

The woman was the answer, the only hope of escape.

“You must never get close to her,” Peddler had ordered. “You must never touch her.”

“What’s your name?” I asked each time she appeared. “Where are you from?”

But she never answered.

It seemed forever since I’d heard another voice. Even with my outcast status back in Root, I’d never felt completely alone. Father had always been there, asleep in the next room or sitting at the table—a beating heart just an arm’s reach away. But the long days on the beach were eating at me. There was nothing to do but mourn Owen and try to think of ways to escape.

So when the woman finally spoke one morning, tears filled my eyes.

“My name is Lara.” Her voice was surprisingly sweet—not cold the way I thought it would be.

“Where are you from?” I asked, wiping away the tears. “Are you from here?”

Lara said nothing. She sat on the boulder and folded her hands, which were always wrapped in shreds of cloth. Did she keep her face hidden behind the scarf so I wouldn’t know her true identity?
But why would she hide her hands? Lara probably wasn’t her real name.

“Do you live over there?” I asked, pointing down the beach. She must have a house, a husband, maybe even a family around that bend. Surely she was not alone here. She didn’t answer.

“How do you catch the fish?” I asked, desperate for conversation. If I could gain her trust, maybe she would help me.

“I catch them with a net.”

“You catch them yourself?” She nodded. “Do you live out here alone?” She looked over at the gravestones. “Did you know those people?” No reply. “What does the sign say? The one at the top of the hill?”

She pulled the scarf closer, her eyes nearly disappearing behind the fabric. Then she folded her arms, tucking her hands away. Was she hiding them the way I hid my foot?

“Is there something wrong with your hands?” With the chain trailing behind like a monster’s tail, I took a few steps toward the boulder. Lara tensed, preparing to flee. “No, don’t go, please. I won’t get any closer.” I winced as a piece of shell pierced my left heel. I sank onto the sand and peeled off the left sock. Cuts and scrapes covered my good foot. I couldn’t control the anger that burst forth. “Why are you helping Peddler?” I cried. “Why? Why would you help him? Is he paying you? Is that it? Can’t you see I’m miserable? Don’t you care?” I didn’t even look at her, knowing she wouldn’t answer. “He’s a murderer,” I yelled. “Peddler’s a murderer. Did you know that? He murdered Owen Oak. You’re working for a murderer!”

Heartless about my plight, she slid off the boulder and walked away.

That same day, Peddler finally returned with a bulging burlap sack slung over his shoulder. He’d kept his hair short and smothered in soot. He’d traded his long, pocketed coat for a green merchant’s jacket with shiny buttons. I was actually happy to see him. Since Lara had proven impossible to win over, Peddler was my last hope.

“What do you think of my new coat?” he asked as he stepped off the trail. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if it were completely normal for a girl to be chained to a log. “Can’t let anyone know who I am. Peddler’s still wanted for kidnapping the famous Milkmaid.”

I held a rock in my hand. The plan was to throw it at his head, knock him out, then take the key and unchain myself. But I faltered. “Famous?”

“
Very
famous.” He set down the bag, then handed another poster to me. As I unrolled the parchment, my face appeared. “The reward has increased to one thousand coin,” he said, a grin spreading across his wrinkled face. What dreams swirled in his mind? What was it that he hoped to buy? He did an odd jig in the sand. “One thousand coin.”