Where the Path Leads-Chapter 13

• MARY DRAKE –

Into Blackwood

Emily squinted as the summer sun shone on the water meadow; cicadas whined loudly from the trees, and the sky was cloudless. It would be another hot day. Even the morning hadn’t been cool. Insects hovered in clouds over the mud, grown stickier and drier from draining, making plants harder to uproot and the remaining water difficult to channel.

            “We need to weed our own fields,” Cyril said to Isaac. The two were working near her. “But we’ll not have time today, what with working here.”

            “If we don’t,” Isaac strained to pull his hoe through the mud, “weeds’ll choke the wheat and make a poor harvest. We won’t have enough left after tithing.”

            “I know. We can’t afford another crop like last year’s.”

            “Too bad the ground . . . isn’t rich like this,” Isaac said, straining to dig.  “Look . . . how dark it is.”

            “You have your own fields?” Emily asked.  She thought the Baron owned all the land.

            “The . . . other side a the village.”  Isaac exhaled with exertion, still weakened from the snake bite.

            “Why do you have to pay tithes? Isn’t it enough that you’re doing this?”

            Isaac wiped off the sweat already running down his forehead and rolled his eyes.

            Cyril stood from his bent posture with a groan. “What strange questions you ask girl.”

             “But you’re paying in services rendered. Why are you still taxed on your crop?”

            “Weeeell . . . ,“ Isaac drew out the word with exaggerated patience, “lemme see, maybe ‘cause it feels like our land, but it’s acta’lly his.”

            “And we also pay for protection,” added Cyril, “in case the Northmen come back. It hasn’t happened for many a year, but if it does, the castle knights will defend us, and we’ll ‘ave the castle where we can go for protection.”

            Paying for protection seemed like some primitive form of life insurance, but she still didn’t understand how the Baron could own all the land, and why the crops they grew on their own land were not theirs. “His land?” she said.  “You rent it from him?”

            It wasn’t like that, they said. The Baron owned all the land, what was his and what was theirs. He allowed them to farm it, but they were tithed for the privilege of using the land they lived on.

            Sounded like renting to her, but with rent paid in crops. She remembered Sophia talking about her family having lived on the same land for generations, but invaders had still parceled it out. To Emily, that didn’t make sense. If they lived on it, if they farmed it, it should belong to them.

            “What about squatters’ rights?” She recalled her American history. 

            They just looked puzzled.

            “You know, squatters, the ones who actually live on the land. They’re in possession of it, they use it, so . . . it’s theirs; they own it.” 

            Isaac and Cyril looked astonished. 

            “If you work it, it stands to reason you own it.”

            “What you’re suggesting,” Isaac said slowly, glancing to see if the Bailiff had arrived yet, “is treasonous. The Baron owns the land. We just work it.” Another laborer who had been working within earshot glanced at them but said nothing. 

            “Are there no lords back where you come from?” asked Cyril, lowering his voice and looking around.

            “Anyone can own land.”

            “Then . . . who’s in charge?”

            “Who’s in charge is not the same as who owns the land,” she said.  “People choose their leaders by voting. Would you choose the Baron or the Seneschal to be your leader?”

            Cyril mopped his brow, squatting down since there was nowhere dry to sit, and appeared to consider this question. He was a good-natured fellow. On their first day in the meadow, Emily had seen him share his lunch with a young boy who had dropped his food in the mud, and he often helped Isaac whose strength still hadn’t completely returned.

            “I don’t know who else would be our rulers,” he finally said. “I guess they were meant to be.”     

            “Doesn’t matter if we choose them or not.” Isaac said. He was digging again and didn’t look up. “That’s the way it is.  And even if the land feels like we own it, we don’t. We still have tithes to pay.  Now hush. The water meadow has ears.” He said, glancing at a man with stringy hair two rows over who was giving them a strange look. 

            “Yon Adcock speaks oily words to the Bailiff. It’s al’ays ’Yes sir, this, and ‘Can I help you with that, sir?’ But with reg’lar folk I’ve ‘eard him say the coxcomb demands too much and takes more’n his fair share. He’d like not to have lords.”

            “Speak of the devil,” said Cyril, standing back up quickly.

            Everyone worked diligently as Simon Poyntz galloped towards them, reining in his powerful horse to an abrupt stop at the marsh, his pale blue eyes bearing down on Cyril, a frown on his face.

            “Loafing already, Cyril?” 

            “Just took a short breather, sir.”        

            “Don’t tell me what you were doing. I know your lazy type. If you’d rather not work, you can take all the time you want to do nothing in the Seneschal’s dungeon.”

            “Oh no, sir. I’m workin’ hard as I can, sir.”

            Simon glowered.

            “That’s good, because the sooner this field is drained, the sooner it can be planted.  The Seneschal wants it planted by the end of this month.”

            The laborers murmured. 

            “You,” he said, addressing Isaac, “finish clearing and draining that corner today so that all of you can join the others tomorrow on the west side and help pull up cattails and water grasses where the stream comes in.” 

            Both the Mouse river and the Castle stream emptied into the water meadow, which made it very lush indeed. The corner Simon wanted finished today was at least two days’ work, and at the mention of the stream, Isaac’s eyes widened.

            “Not afraid of a little water, are you Isaac?  After all, you survived the last time.”

            But cattails and water grasses were notorious places for snakes to hide. Isaac muttered something unintelligible.

            “This work is going entirely too slow,” Simon yelled. “Too much squatting on your haunches and talking. All of you,” he sat up in his saddle, looking around.  “I want to see progress here. If the stretch of meadow from here to the low road isn’t cleared by dusk, I’ll bring in your children and wives to work, and your own fields can go to rot.”

            There was more murmuring and some of the laborers began hoeing and pulling weeds faster and with more gusto, although probably no one would have the energy to keep it up all day.

            Simon tossed back his hair, the black horse restlessly shifting and pawing the ground.                   Surely, Emily thought, the Bailiff knew that if the laborers’ own crops suffered, they would have nothing to feed their families this winter, plus the conditions in the swamp would be hard for young children to endure.

            “And you girl! I want to see some results out of you. You’ve never put in a decent day’s work in your life, I’ll wager. You’ve a long way to go to satisfy the residency tax.”

             Arthur had warned her against angering the Bailiff, but she wasn’t accustomed to biting her tongue. Besides, she was beginning to realize that she needed to take responsibility for herself, and one thing that meant was standing up to bullies. Trying to make her voice sound neutral, she said, “I’ve given you many decent days of work since I started here, and it seems to me like I should have paid the residency tax by now.”

            There was a hush around her as everyone bent to work; only the buzzing of insects and the scraping of the hoes could be heard. The Bailiff stared, his neck reddening, then the flush spreading to his face. Without warning, he seized a whip from his saddle and snapped it in the air. She was sure it made a crack, though she didn’t hear it. Instead, she felt it land on her arm like a red-hot coal and she cried out.  It had torn the fabric of her sleeve and an angry red welt with droplets of blood was forming. When he spoke again, his tone was low with carefully modulated fury.

            “You’ll be done working when I say you’re done. Until then, do as you’re told and never speak to me out of turn again or I’ll give you a proper lashing.”  White knuckled, he yanked the reins to turn his horse, then added in a general parting, “I’ll be back at dusk to check on the work.”

            After he was gone, Isaac let out a long, low whistle.  “You’ve made a powerful enemy of him, Emilia.”

            Holding her arm and blinking back tears, she replied, “He’s such a bully.  How can he treat people so badly and get away with it?”

            Adcock, the man with the stringy hair, spoke up from a few feet away where he was still digging a water channel in a dilatory way.

            “Well, that’s just what we been askin’ ourselves for a long while, young miss.  There’s them what gives all the orders and there’s us does all the work. A man oughtta be able to live his own life.”

            Cyril nodded toward the channel she’d been digging, urging her back to work.

            “Careful of him,” Isaac said under his breath, referring to Adcock. “A troublemaker. Might even be spying for the Bailiff. What’er you do, don’t let ‘im hear you talk no more about squatters’ rights again.”

            “And it might keep you a whole lot safer if you were more respec’ful.”  Cyril said. “You know, lower your eyes and don’ say nothin’ ‘til he speaks a you.”

            She knew they meant well, but Isaac and Cyril had been oppressed for so long that they had forgotten there was any other way than subservience. She agreed with Adcock. A person ought to be able to live her own life.

            As morning blended into afternoon, the talking stopped. All that could be heard were scraping hoes, an occasional grunt or cough, insects whining, and fluttering wings as flocks of birds accustomed to landing in the marsh were scared away by the laborers.

            Why hadn’t she gone home before this, as she had decided?  She told herself it was because of what might happen to Sophia, but she knew the deeper reason was her desire to see Arthur again, to get to know him. Where was he, right now?  Probably somewhere nearby, but he felt very far removed from her. Was it even possible that they could get to know each other? How long would she have to work here? And how long could she put up with it?

            The swamp appeared unending. Her heart sank as she looked ahead to where they were supposed to have cleared by tonight. She shook her head, realizing that what she had thought was insects buzzing was actually in her head, which now also ached.  Even the slimy, muddy ground, infested with frogs, salamanders, slugs, and the occasional snake looked like a good place to lie down.

            Over near the water wagon, driven there each day and stationed at the edge of the aspen grove, countless silvery green aspen leaves shivered in a phantom breeze that seemed to whisper, Deep shade. There’s deep shade in the forest. Rest on the cool moss.    

            She looked at her companions and they were both preoccupied, Isaac straining to enlarge another channel to drain the water, bending low in his efforts, Cyril, on hands and knees, trying to catch something in the water–maybe a salamander for supper? 

            Emily leaned on her hoe, swaying slightly, a weariness that would not be denied washing over her. Surely just a few minutes’ rest couldn’t hurt. Trying to steady herself, she picked her way in what seemed like slow motion through the mud and toward the water wagon, stepping over trenches and pulling her feet out of sucking mud, which tried to hold her back.

            It was unusual for no one to be at the wagon, no line. She didn’t have to wait to get a dipperful. The water wasn’t cold, but it was wet and she gulped it down, standing motionless, breathing hard from the walk. The buzzing now sounded like steady humming, sweet and alluring, and it was coming from the shade. At the forest’s edge, where the shimmery lightness of the aspen grove gave way to the interior darkness of the larger trees, she thought she saw something sparkling, moving in random dips and loops.

            A noise startled her. Adcock of the stingy hair had also come for a drink and was standing beside her.

            “What are they?” She pointed to the mirage of sparkling movement.

            “Miss?” Puzzled, he peered toward the forest. “Oh, them’s dragon finches.  You see ‘em all over the meadow, wherever there’s water.  Prob’ly we’re pushing ‘em out.”

            The humming was louder now, more insistent. Whatever the things were–finches, birds, insects–they seemed to beckon her with an irresistible lure. They were calling her to find comfort and rest in the shade. Entranced by the moving objects, their lazy circles and swirls bright against the dark woods, she was drawn into a forest where the floor was cushioned by a soft bed of leaves and the air was cooled by the running stream and smelled of rich earth and pine needles.

            Wandering into the aspen grove, she vaguely thought she heard someone calling her name, but the sound was drowned out by humming in her head. Or was it coming from the dragon finches?  Or somewhere else? There was also another sound also, a distant horn. Briefly, the thought flitted through her head that it might be Arthur, hunting with Big Ben. It would be so wonderful to see him. Surely, he could make things better. Her weary steps led her towards an imagined rest, while a niggling awareness, like an invisible companion, whispered that she shouldn’t be doing this. She should be working.  But she passed into a forest of giant-sized trees with a lurking understory of brush and saplings.

            Later, she would not be able to recall clearly whether she had been lured away by the humming that clouded her thoughts, by the sparkling attraction of the dragon finches and their promise of shady rest, or by the longing to see Arthur inspired by the faraway horn. Though it didn’t matter, anyway, because the result was all the same–disastrous.

            As she had hoped, the forest was cooler, but she wandered dazed and aimless. Occasionally something would move near her, a thrush taking off from a branch, a squirrel scurrying up a trunk, though she barely noticed it. Her heart beat as rapidly as if she were running a long race, and finally, when she came to a mossy knoll at the top of a ravine, she stopped, too tired to go down the ravine, in fact, too tired to go any farther. This seemed like a good place to rest, no matter where she was. She simply must rest.

            When Emily opened her eyes it felt like she had just closed them, but something was different. As she lay there, she tried to figure out what had changed. Was it the light? It was slightly darker. Was it the shadows? Had they lengthened?  Yes, but there was something else. The horn–that was it. The double horn blasts that had woken her up—the sound was much closer.

            She sat up, listening. When she had entered the forest, the horn had been far away. She stood up shakily, holding on to a tree trunk for support. Her headache had lessened, but she was still weak, trembling and exhausted.

            Then she heard the hunting horn again, maybe the length of a football field away, and suddenly she was filled with panic. Arthur wouldn’t be alone. He’d be with the other ruling folk, and she wasn’t supposed to be here. She should hide or get out quickly, but she couldn’t even remember the direction she’d come, having staggered in here like a drunk. Now she looked around for something familiar, something she had passed earlier.

            That was when she spotted the deer, a handsome buck with a large rack of antlers, zig-zagging madly through the forest, going this way and that, racing up and down slopes, making huge leaps across gullies or over downed trees, in a desperate flight. Even from a distance, however, she could see its saucer-like brown eyes were wide with fear. 

            Then came the barking.

            As if in a waking nightmare, she watched the hounds circle the poor buck, snapping and growling, while the terrified deer dodged again and again, only to find more hounds everywhere it turned.

            She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to see this. The horn sounded again even closer, and there was a great pounding of hooves and rustling of leaves as hunters approached. Frozen with panicked indecision, she looked around her, uncertain how to get away. Then out of the ravine stormed an enormous bay horse that seemed to be instantly upon her. She hadn’t seen it coming and cried out, holding up her arms to protect herself from being run over. Clearly, the massive animal hadn’t anticipated her, either, but couldn’t stop its own momentum, so it went the only way it could go to avoid trampling her.  Rearing into the air, its frenzied neigh sounded more like a scream.

            Its dark-haired rider was thrown to one side where he clung on desperately, yelling invectives at the horse which nevertheless spun around with lightning speed and hurtled back the way it had come.

            In horror, she watched the terrified horse tear back down the ravine, tree branches and underbrush whipping at the rider who valiantly tried to regain his balance. Gaining speed, the frantic animal tripped over a tree root, plunging to the ground on its front knees and toppling its rider even further, who now barely hung from one side, only one foot in the stirrup and a tenuous hold on the saddle. The bay, however, sprang back up from its knees and continued its headlong flight, the rider yelling, to no avail. It hurtled down the ravine and up the other side, approaching two old trees at the top through which there was only a narrow pass. The horse made it through, but the rider, hanging off the side, smashed headfirst into one of the massive tree trunks. Emily uttered an involuntary scream as he crumpled onto the ground and lay there, unmoving. The horse galloped away.

            It was Edmund, she realized, Arthur’s brother, and she wanted to go help him, but the horn sounded again, this time right upon her, and the forest was suddenly alive with riders. The hunting party was there, and, panicking, she fled.