Where the Path Leads – Chapter 29
- By Mary Drake –
The Great Burning
Still as a statue, Sophia sat on the bench in front of her loom. Weak November sunlight from two high slits serving as windows barely illuminated her chamber. Holding the shuttle, her bony hand lay unmoving on the soft cream-colored linen she had been weaving, again for the Seneschal. Cloth for the Baroness, she suspected, for their joining ceremony.
In better days, Sophia would have woven in questioning threads, threads of compassion, subtle shades to cause Elizabeth to reconsider her actions. She would have woven awareness into the fabric, to seep into the consciousness of the Baroness, who could still make her own decisions but would perhaps ponder over them a bit longer, realizing the pain she was about to cause.
But now Sophia didn’t know if she even had the strength to make the next pass with the shuttle, let alone finish the weaving. Staring blankly, trying to gather her energy, she heard the key grate in the lock. As Morwen entered, she stood, holding on to the edge of the loom to steady herself, her legs weak and trembling.
The gaunt steward entered, closing the carved oak door behind him and latching his large ring of keys firmly back onto his the leather sash about his waist. Then he rubbed his bony hands together as if he were about to savor a delicious meal.
“Ah, madam. Hard at work I see.”
She bowed her head.
“I’ve come about the owl feather.” When she remained silent, he said, “You’ve had sufficient time.” Then he looked at her penetratingly with his shiny black eyes.
“Sir,” she finally said, knowing he liked to be addressed formally, “ I . . . have been unable.”
His voice rose petulantly. “Have you tried? Have you done what’s necessary?” Before she could answer, he continued. “I thought you were skilled. Had some powers. Or are you withholding it? Thinking to keep it for yourself? Because if you are,” and he paused for effect, drawing out a hunk of bread from his pocket, “then I might just as well give this to one of the dogs.”
She felt dizzy again, although not from the sight of food. Rather, from the lack of it. She hesitated, not wanting to speak of her powers, especially to him, especially since they were weakening now. “Sir,” she said again, “I cannot see my way to do it.”
“Pity.” He pocketed the bread again and looked down, fastidiously brushing a crumb, probably from lunch or perhaps some snack he’d been having, from the front of his tunic. It fell on to the stone floor. “Pity,” he repeated, then looked up sharply. “Then the black dog outside the manor this morning must have come for you.”
Too wobbly to stand any longer, Sophia sank back onto the loom bench.
“Someone is going to die,” he chirped. “But don’t leave this world without first getting that owl feather.” He began pacing the room. “You see, the power of the creator is intended for me.”
Why was he telling her this, she wondered vaguely.
“I’ll be the one to see the unseen, to live forever.” He stopped in front of her again. “I haven’t told him about the skin of a snake, necessary to change oneself. As long as he doesn’t have all the objects, he won’t have all the power, and he’ll be dependent on me. I have initiated him to these powers, but I won’t give him the final key.” He gave a short, harsh laugh.
He was probably just talking to himself, probably had forgotten she was even there. She was no threat to him, especially in her weakened condition, which he was responsible for. What had begun as imprisonment would end with starvation. He towered above her, then leaned down to put his beaky face close to hers.
“I want that feather, woman! If you force me to starve you, I’ll just have to get it some other way.”
“If I was stronger, sir . . . .” Her voice trailed off.
He stood back up, contemplating her peevishly for a few moments, then dropped the crust of bread onto the floor.
“You have until tomorrow morning.” He turned to leave, then stopped, and looked back. “And what of your savior? Will we ever see the girl again? The Seneschal may not care if she’s dead or alive, but personally I covet the cypress staff.”
Sophia was already gnawing breathlessly on the hard crust, but looked up at him. “A staff?” she mumbled.
Morwen laughed again. It was like the sound of a knife scraping something rough.
“To think I had regard for your powers! If you had any, you’d already know the branch is destined to be carved into a staff. Whoever possesses it will live eternally, like the cypress wood itself. I think you’re nothing but an ineffectual conjurer.” He turned abruptly and swept out of the room, locking the door behind him.
Brutus held Elizabeth’s hands in his. He was trying his utmost to convince her, but she wasn’t listening.
“Elizabeth, didn’t you hear me? I saw it in the onyx. It shows me what I need to know.”
She turned her turquoise eyes towards him imploringly, her cheeks wet with tears.
“I can’t leave now, dearest. He’s on his deathbed.”
He felt pity for Edmund, for his unawakened state, but he knew the time for their elopement was now, or not at all.
“We can’t wait. If we do . . . we may never leave.” He corrected himself. “You may never leave.”
She squeezed his hands, looking about the room as if the answer lay somewhere in the chamber around her. “But, but what about . . . the objects?” she stammered. During their secret times together, he had confided in her, giving her just the barest hints of his intentions.
He scowled, releasing her hands and walking towards her writing table where he absently fingered the quill resting there beside some parchment. “I sent Simon into the forest to get one of them, from the girl, but that was before I looked into the onyx.” He waved a hand in frustration. “We can’t afford to wait. Even as we speak, the Baron rides towards home.”
She gave a small moan of despair. “What will he say when he finds one son at death’s door and the other, disappeared?”
Coming to stand near her again, he caressed her cheek, wiping away her tears, then cupped her face in his hand, turning it up towards his. “You mustn’t be here to find out, dear one. We need to leave now.”
She bowed her head.
It’s what had first attracted him to her, her submissiveness. And when he gathered her in his arms, the floor beneath them seemed to tremble with their love.
Sophia knew she hadn’t much longer, but eating gave her a brief spurt of energy, enough to press the foot pedals, throw the shuttle, and enter the state of transcendence where she could feel what was happening. Concern for Emilia was foremost in her mind, since the girl hadn’t returned, and a strange burning sensation somewhere in the depths of her consciousness spurred Sophia on. The pedals went faster, the heddles shot up and down like the spokes of a turning wheel, and the shuttle flew from side to side in time with the rapid beating of her heart. In the blankness of the cream-colored fabric she saw people fleeing, pouring in a frenzy from cottage and castle, running down the road and through paths in the forest, trying to escape the fury of the Earth. Desperately, she searched for Emilia, but saw only frantic mothers running with their crying babes; stone walls once thought everlasting, cracking from the bottom up; crockery shaken from its shelves, smashing to the floor. Above everything, there was the great burning, beginning in the forest, in the North, she realized with a shock. Liquid flame shot into the air. It burned trees and subsumed the river, making it a channel of living flame. The creatures fled before it, and smoking blackness covered the ground.
She stopped, breathless, shutting her eyes to the destruction. Her momentary energy was fading and she still hadn’t seen Emilia. Resuming her weaving with great effort, she concentrated on the girl. She felt rather than saw Emilia, felt her questioning nature, her young heart, her growing desire to do what was right, even if it wasn’t easy. For a moment, the other’s goodness and strength renewed hers, and she saw a cave beneath the earth where Emilia was, where it was cold and dark and white icicles hung from the ceiling and grew up from the floor. Emilia was not alone. She didn’t know where the cave was, but she knew it was somewhere in Blackwood forest and that the girl was safe. Her shuttle gradually slowed, finally stopped, as did her pedaling. A mantle of blackness descended around her as she leaned forward, laying her head on the fabric. Her body was shutting down, like a brook in summer that dries to a trickle, then disappears altogether, yet she felt movement, a gentle rocking. It was a lulling sensation. Despite the pain in her stomach and muscles, a warm kindness seemed to seep up from the cloth she had just woven. She felt no anger towards those who had harmed her, and knew she no longer needed to worry about Emilia’s welfare. She blessed everyone and everything. In this halfway state, she could see in the dark, like an owl, like Athena flying high above her, and she opened her arms to a shower of owl feathers.
