In the Darkness Visible Page 2

  “We are here to offer a bid for the land that is for sale on the eastern side of the harbor,” Sade said. It was noteworthy that he identified the land this way, for everyone knew which land he meant: the land next to the dark tower, the Tower of the Dead.

  “This land is not for sale,” Salinger said. “It is adjacent to grounds that are sacred to our people.”

  Of course every villager in Harkness knew this. Every soul in the archipelago knew Harkness by its other name: the Isle of the Tower, the tower that stood as a portal between the world of the living and that of the dead. The coins of Harkness were stamped with it. Ships sailed past the mouth of the harbor so crews could take a look for themselves. It was the center of life for those who lived here and legendary in the islands of the Northern Sea. By their accented Oceanic, Gabriella could tell these men were not from the archipelago.

  “We heard otherwise,” Sade said.

  At this point a voice called out from the crowd, “You heard correctly, my Lord Sade.”

  Mab Miller, merchant, miller, and owner of the land, stepped out of the wall of Harkenites gathered on the cobblestone to a chorus of “boos.” A rich man, he normally wore rings on every finger and fat medallions on chains around his neck, but this day he had forsaken the ostentatious and was dressed modestly in skins and furs, like an ordinary Harkenite.

  “He’s making a show of being indigent,” Eloise said.

  Gabriella agreed and wondered herself what Mab was up to.

  “The price is three pounds of gold,” Mab announced.

  The crowd broke into a fury. Harkenites screamed and cursed Mab for his greed, his disloyalty, his betrayal. A head of cabbage flew through the air and landed at his feet, the leaves spreading out on the cobblestones. Salinger called for silence. His people obeyed.

  “Mab,” the chief said. “You know the law as well as I do. A Harkenite might not sell land to foreigners unless the people of Harkness have had one moon to raise an equal amount. If the Harkenites produce such a sum, the land reverts to them.”

  “It is an old law,” Mab said.

  “Because it is old does not mean we shall not follow it. Our forefathers put it in place for a reason, to keep our lands in the hands of our people.”

  “We trade with foreigners all the time. It is the lifeblood of the island.”

  “Not land. Not these lands. Not so close to the tower.” Salinger said it, the subject they had really been talking about: the tower and its traditions. No one actually owned the land where the tower stood. It belonged to the people of Harkness, but for generations, they had passed through the Millers’ lands to reach it. There was no other way.

  “Isn’t it about time that, as a people, we did away with superstitions and old wives’ tales?” asked Mab.

  More shouts from the crowd. Mab raised his arms to fend off another cabbage, this one brown and rotten. Salinger called for silence again and turned back to Mab, his eyes narrow this time. “Careful, Mab, those are your ancestors you speak of, too,” said Salinger, making the sign to avert evil.

  Mab was not cowed. “You have all been fooled by spectacle and fairy tales,” he said, flipping his wrist and mocking Salinger’s sign. “Fellow Harkenites, I tell you now, such an arrangement, such wealth flowing into this island would benefit many.”

  “It would benefit you!” said Tarmac, an elder who was a former chief.

  “Does not the prospering of one business bring profits to others?” Mab countered. More insults followed, but not as many this time. Gabriella knew there were some islanders who did not cling to the old beliefs, who would be interested in doing business with a wealthy partner like Mab. Three pounds of gold would be more riches than all the coin in the village coffers. Mab did not have the entire island on his side, but he might have had enough. Enough that the people fell to conjecture and conjecture led to bickering.

  All of this, the brothers of the Servior watched. The shorter one’s expression was unchanged. He studied the crowd the way a fighter assessed an opponent, cold, calculating, searching for weaknesses while projecting strength. Sade, in the carmine cloak, was more relaxed, a self-satisfied smile splayed across his face. Everything about him—his upturned palms, his open stance—conveyed sincere beneficence.

  Gabriella felt it to be a lie.

  It took Salinger some time before the crowd was again his. Some of the other elders had to join him in the call for order and silence. The people eventually quieted but not before energy rose up among them like the hum of wasps in a nest. Salinger turned back to the Servior, their ship, their weapons, their jewels, all their symbols that bespoke of power, in such contrast to the simple homes and plain dress of the people of Harkness. His voice sounded smaller now, his eyes darting about, unsure. “Lords, I beseech a moon of you, as is our custom.”

  “Granted,” Sade said. “The people of our order are patient. We will wait.” He turned to the shorter Servior, the one who could have been his brother and said, “Come, Vondales.”

  “Your graciousness is noted,” Salinger said as the Servior turned their backs and returned to the ship. “The people of our island are devout. We will consult our ancestors.”

  Chapter 3

  Illicaine

  The undertaker and his two sons had carried Sade’s mother out of the house, her body wrapped in the sheets from her bed. She had become so thin in those final weeks that the pointed angles of her bones were visible even through the fabric. Erasmus, the landlord, was waiting outside for them and swiped the key from Sade’s hand. “Not enough that she couldn’t pay rent for the last six months but now I have to pay for her to be carted away. Turn your pockets out boys.”

  Sade did as he was instructed, then pulled Vondales’ pockets inside out, for he was crying too much to do it himself.

  “Not a pence between them. Worthless. I’ll take any animals and the furniture as well, even if it’s only good for firewood.”

  “There is only Bea the mule left,” Sade said. They had slaughtered and eaten all the chickens, goats, and the cow. Erasmus took one look at the gaunt old mule with sagging skin next to the barn, cursed, then spat at Sade and his brother’s bare feet.

  “Worthless,” he said again, then gestured to the undertaker and his two sons. “I can’t afford three of you. Make the boys here help.”

  The wiry undertaker muttered something to his two sons and walked off. Sade and his younger brother took up their mother’s feet and helped the other boys, not much older than them, carry her to Skull Point. It was a short walk but a long way to carry your dead mother as a newly orphaned child. The undertaker’s boys walked in silence out of respect for Sade and his brother. Vondales was little help, bawling as he was.

  “There, there, we’ll be all right,” Sade said, even he did not believe it.

  The path up to the point was sunken deep into the earth by previous processions so that the four of them moved with the ground near their shoulders. This was not how Sade’s mother had wanted to die, leaving them, with no mourners along the path, no one to take care of her sons. The hillside was bleak, empty, the sky low with dark clouds, and the air wet with the beginning of a rainstorm. Although they were quiet, the two other boys walked at a quick clip so as to avoid the rain. For them, they could not quit themselves of this body soon enough. It wasn’t their mother; it was another job.

  They reached the top of the hill. The gray sea opened from one end of the horizon to the other. Sheets of rain were visible on the wind. The undertaker’s sons set down their load. Vondales had snot dripping from his nose. Tears ran down his face. One of the undertaker’s sons began to take stones from the cairn at the end of the path and set them in the sheet while the other wrapped the body tightly in string. Sade pulled the sheet aside, just to see their mother’s face once more.

  It looked like her and didn’t. It was their mother, but as she looked in those final weeks as the wasting disease had taken her, hallowing out her cheeks, deepening her eye sockets, turning her
hands into an old woman’s. Her lips were purple, like a drowning victim’s. Her oily unwashed hair stuck to the side of her face. She would want them to remember her differently. Nonetheless Sade stared at her until the undertaker’s son closed the corners of the sheet over her and pulled the ends of the string tight. Both of the undertaker’s boys stood at either end of the body, looking back and forth between Sade and his brother.

  “Any words,” the older one said to Sade. Sade realized that was supposed to happen now. Someone was supposed to say some words over the body as it was thrown into the sea. But an emptiness as immense as the gray ocean below opened up inside of him. He found no words. He simply shook his head no and swallowed the shame of it. The young men carried her to the cliff’s edge, swung her three times between them, and let her go into the sky where she floated just before she disappeared over the lip of the earth.

  Vondales sobbed anew and the sound was like a knife to Sade’s heart. He began to cry as well, both of them weeping into the other’s shoulder. Sade thought that he felt one of the other boys pat him on the back as he passed. He welcomed the touch, any touch, any sign that this world was not empty of love. But when he looked up, the two boys were already down the hill. The tap between his shoulder blades had just been a fat drop of water as the rain began to fall.

  Sade knew he had to get Vondales somewhere warm. Their mother had been shunned for her illness and it had been long since any neighbors had spoken to them. So none of the cottages or farms nearby were an option. It was a longer trek, but Sade decided their only recourse was their uncle Micael. With a black disgust enveloping his already sorrow-filled heart, Sade put his arm around Vondales and started walking him, like an injured soldier, down the hillside, away from their mother, towards their drunkard of an uncle.

  The journey took the better part of the day. They wandered deep into the interior of the Illicaine Island. They were far from the smell of the sea and the frigid ocean, but there was no escaping the rain. It fell on them every step of the way, turning the road into a sloppy, muddy mess. Their clothes—already too thin for the season—become stuck to their bodies, their shoes became bricks of mud. Both Sade and Vondales’ teeth chattered and their limbs shook from cold and lack of food. Sade could not remember the last time they had eaten. His stomach was a pit of pain. He knew Vondales was not much better. Outside the third and last village they passed they found some dandelions just starting to bloom on the edge of a meadow. They ate the flowers which had a bittersweet taste, but they were far from satisfying. Vondale’s lips were blue and his face pale. It was as if he were taking on the visage of death that their mother had worn.

  “I want to sleep,” he said.

  “No,” Sade replied, a tremor of worry passing through him. “We’re almost there.”

  Vondales struggled behind him, Sade goading him along the forest trail that led to their uncle’s cabin. His heart swelled with hope as they approached the home and he saw smoke billowing from the chimney. But Sade knew better than to assume they were welcome.

  There were reasons that mother and brother were not close. Their uncle had the gift of weather magic and had been a weather worker in his day before he had lost himself completely to drink. A wagon with a broken axle sat surrounded by dead leaves and weeds in the yard. Piles of hay rotted near the chicken coop, which was covered in a patina of white droppings from sickly looking birds. The uncle’s mare, Crystal, looked as forlorn as they, standing in the mud and rain, her ears drooping. She was an old horse and the fact that she knew the way home was the only reason her uncle had made it back from the taverns most nights. A crude canopy strung from nearby trees covered the only instrument in the yard not lost to rust and decrepitude: a still for fermenting alcohol. A small pyramid of empty jugs sat beside it, waiting to be refilled.

  Sade knocked on the door then stepped back off the porch. A dog barked from inside but there was no answer. Smoke continued to billow out of the chimney so he knocked again, louder this time, calling his uncle’s name. After several minutes, finally Sade hear the cursing and shuffling of feet that meant he had roused his uncle Micael from his stupor. The door swung open and his uncle peered out at them.

  He was equal parts face and beard, the hair matted and stained yellow around the mouth and nose. Hair grew so high up on his face that it was difficult to tell where the beard stopped and the hair from his head began. His left hand shook as it rested on the door handle, the right hung down at his side, a finger looped through the handle of a clay jug.

  On the wall behind him were empty shelves. Once they had held the tools of his craft, spell books, talismans, compasses, and wands. But they stood empty now except for a few crumbling books. The best of his possessions had all been traded away for spirits. He smelled of sweat and mildew. Sade thought he saw black patches of mold growing on the hem of his coat—it was a weather worker’s coat lined with pockets outside and in, but most were turned out and empty.

  The house stank, but Sade could also feel the warmth of the hearth fire on his face. While his uncle stared at him, blinking his eyes without recognition, Sade spoke. “Uncle Micael, sir. It’s Sade and Vondales.”

  “You pips,” he said, his crooked yellow teeth showing as his lips curled. “What do you want?”

  “Mother is dead.”

  Micael took a long swig from his bottle, gasped for air, then said, “I’d heard she was ill. So what do you want?”

  “The landlord turned us out. We’re hungry and have nowhere to go.”

  Their uncle looked them over and instead of inviting them in, stepped outside on the stoop beneath the portico where he was shielded from the rain, and closed the door. His inscrutable face ran through a series of expressions as if balancing a lifetime’s worth of favors and debts left unpaid. Sade was afraid he knew exactly what was coming next.

  “You should have been my apprentice,” his uncle growled. “You had the gift for magic.”

  “Maybe I can be now, sir.”

  His uncle sneered. “I’m too old for an apprentice now.”

  Too drunk was the truth of it.

  “Your mother thought you were too good for me, your own blood.”

  “I assure you sir,” Sade said, blinking rain out of his eyes, “She just misunderstood you.”

  “Now you’ve come like little rats begging for food and shelter.”

  Sade wrapped his arm tightly around Vondales and swallowed. Their uncle turned and entered the house. His hound, its fur patchy with mange, remained in the doorway staring. Micael returned with a chunk of stale bread. It was no bigger than Sade’s fist but his stomach grumbled at the sight of it. Vondales looked up hopefully. The dog sniffed at it, only to be beaten away by his master.

  “You can have this,” he said, shaking the bread. “But you have to fight for it.”

  “Fight?”

  “Fight. You know, bring your uncle some entertainment.” He took another swig from his bottle then sucked in his breath through gritted teeth. “Your mother always thought you were too good for me.”

  “I know sir, you said so.”

  “Now all my knowledge has gone to waste, all because she wouldn’t give me an apprentice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you waiting for? Fight!”

  Sade felt Vondales look at him. “Please, Uncle Micael, Vondales and I are hungry.”

  “Fight.”

  Sade let go of his brother and squared off with him, raindrops plunking into the mud between them. His brother was always the stockier of the two of them, but it was muscle more than fat. Sade harbored some jealousy as his younger brother had grown up stronger than he. Sade had inherited the delicate features of his mother, whereas Vondales had the beginnings of the brawn their father had had, at least the few times they had seen him. The only reason Sade still won when they wrestled was from more experience, but Sade had known for a long time that the day was coming when Vondales would realize his own strength.

  But now
his brother did not look strong at all. His eyes were red from crying and rings darkened the skin beneath them. His hands were balled into fists and shoved under his armpits from the cold. His shoulders shook and his knees were knocking together.

  I can’t hit him, Sade thought.

  But Sade also knew how hungry they both were. His stomach twisted at the very thought of the bread. “Vondales, hit me.”

  Vondales looked from their uncle to Sade and back. His hair was flat and soaking against his scalp. They had fought, at times for fun, at times in earnest, but Sade knew his brother could find inspiration for neither at this very moment. Vondales went as far as unfolding his arms and holding his fists at his side but his emotions conquered him. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to sob once more.

  “Girls! Nothing but girls you are. I’ve got two worthless nieces.”

  Sade tried to encourage his brother, shoving him lightly in the shoulder but Vondales only collapsed onto his rear, still crying. Sade turned to their uncle just as he threw the stale bread into the mud. Sade dove but the hound snatched it up and ran around to the back of the house. Now he and his brother were both on their knees in the mud, Vondales keening softly. Sade looked up just as the uncle slammed the door. He could hear him mutter inside, “Pathetic.”

  Chapter 4

  The Tower

  Gabriella was shivering as they made their way around the harbor on the wagon road. The villagers had left the square for the tower so quickly that there had not been time to stop and dry their clothes by a fire. Now Gabriella took some solace in the mere fact that they were moving, which was better than standing still and shivering. But if it was bringing any warmth to her body she did not sense it. Instead she was painfully aware of each gust of wind from the harbor and every wet leaf lying in the road.

  They found Gabriella’s parents in the crowd along the road. Her mother was not pleased to see her and Dameon’s damp clothes.