Belladonna by Anne Bishop
He’d taken that first step back when a voice called from one of the tables. “There’s the man! Barkeep, bring my friend a whiskey and ale.”
The sailors, recognizing the voice, relaxed and went back to their conversations. Michael made his way to the table and shrugged out of his pack before sitting across from the man who had hailed him.
“Captain Kenneday,” Michael said. He glanced up at the barkeep—a new man who hadn’t been working at the Port of Call the last time he’d visited Kendall—and began digging in his pockets for the coins needed to pay for his drink.
Kenneday waved a hand. “On me.” Then he raised his glass of ale. “To your good health, Michael.”
“And yours,” Michael replied, raising his own glass to return the salute. He looked around the room. “Doesn’t seem to be a night to drink for the fun of it and get pissed enough to tell a bald-faced lie to your mates and believe it’s the truth.”
“No, no one is drinking for the fun of it.” Kenneday drained half his glass, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Did you hear about the murders?”
Michael’s hand stuttered, almost spilling the ale. “Murders?”
“Four streetwalkers and a young gentleman who had picked the wrong night to go slumming around the docks.”
“Someone killed four women?” The young gentleman wasn’t that surprising. Anyone who came around the docks at night dressed like he had money was a man begging to be robbed at the very least.
“Three women.” Kenneday shrugged to indicate he didn’t pass judgment on who was earning a living in the alleyways. “All viciously killed. Caused quite a stir.”
“They didn’t find the man who did it?”
“The constables didn’t find anything. It’s like whatever killed those people just melted away.”
“Which is impossible.”
“Is it?” Kenneday whispered. “Is it really, Michael?” He scrubbed his salt-and-pepper hair with the fingers of one hand, then smiled, clearly trying to change the mood. “So where are you off to now? Heading for your southern ports of call?”
How many other people realized his wandering wasn’t as aimless as it seemed? It had started that way, but by the end of his second year he found himself making a circuit, returning to the same villages several times a year.
Just like his father had done. Odd that it had never occurred to him before, but the last year the family had traveled together, he’d been old enough to anticipate revisiting places but too young to appreciate what the pattern of traveling meant.
“Actually, I’m heading north,” Michael replied, suddenly feeling cautious. Kenneday was ten years his senior and an open-minded man who usually wasn’t inquisitive about another man’s personal life, except for a bit of bawdy teasing. The question sounded friendly, but he couldn’t shake the notion there was something behind it. “Going up to Raven’s Hill to spend some time with my aunt and sister.”
“I’m heading that way myself. Got cargo to take up to the White Isle, so we’ll be sailing past Raven’s Hill. I can drop anchor there long enough to see you ashore.”
“That’s kind of you to offer,” Michael said, feeling more wary by the moment.
Kenneday shrugged to indicate it wasn’t worth mentioning. But he kept his eyes fixed on the table as he moved his glass in slow circles. “We’ll be sailing with the morning tide, so I can settle you into a bunk for the night. Have you had dinner yet?”
“No.” Michael glanced around the room, then leaned across the table. “I’m not saying you’re not a generous man, Captain Kenneday, or that you haven’t offered me passage at other times to make the traveling easier, but before I agree to anything this time, I’d like to know what’s behind the offer.”
For a moment, Kenneday looked up, and Michael caught a glimpse of a haunted soul. Then the other man fixed his attention back on the glass and the circles he was making on the table.
“Safety,” Kenneday finally said. “Safety for my ship and my crew. That’s what’s behind the offer.” He hesitated, then leaned forward so his forehead was almost touching Michael’s. “I’ve been a sailor most of my life. Took to the sea as a boy, as soon as I was old enough to be hired on. So I’ve seen my share of the world, and I can tell you there’s something strange about Ephemera and the way it responds to some people.”
Magician. That was the word that now hung between them. First Shaney, now Kenneday. Maybe he’d never been as unremarked as he’d believed.
“There’s stories coming down from the north,” Kenneday said, “and the captains who sailed past the spot are swearing they’ll sink their own ships before they sail that stretch of water again.”
A twitch in the belly, a tightening in his shoulders. “What kind of stories?”
“Something evil has risen from the depths of the sea. A great, tentacled monster. It destroyed five fishing boats, killed everyone on board. Now fog covers that stretch of water—a fog you can’t see until you sail into it. And while you’re trapped there, you can hear men calling for help, calling for mercy, calling…” Kenneday swallowed hard. “Just calling. The voices of doomed men, already dead.”
“There are stories about all kinds of monsters,” Michael murmured. “They give a reason for tragedies that have no reason.”
“Can you look me in the eyes and tell me there are no monsters in the world, Michael? Can you tell me there’s no truth behind those stories?”
He couldn’t. Not when he knew demons walked in the world. After all, Elandar had the waterhorses, who would give a man a fatal ride, and the Merry Makers, who would lure their prey into the bogs with their lights and music.
“I’ve seen the mood in a room change just because you started twiddling on that whistle of yours,” Kenneday continued. “That’s all I’m asking. We have to pass that stretch of water in order to go on to the White Isle, and I’ll be sailing with half my crew if I try to haul anchor without some kind of talisman to protect us when we reach that foggy water. But if there’s a luck-bringer on board, twiddling a bit of music to calm the sea and whatever stirs within it, my men will be easier for it.”
“I don’t know…” Michael jerked back as two meaty hands set two more glasses of ale on the table. “Big Davey.”
Big Davey tipped his head toward Kenneday. “His won’t be the last offer, just so you know. I reckon right now you can get passage on any ship for the price of a few tunes.” He pulled a folded and wax-sealed paper from the pocket of the stained apron tied around his waist. “This came for you. The sailor who left it said a Lady of Light had asked him to leave it here for you since it was known that you stop here when you come to Kendall.”
Michael’s heart jumped into his throat, but his hand was steady when he took the paper.
“I’m thinking another whiskey might be in order,” Kenneday said quietly, looking at Big Davey.
Big Davey nodded and went away. Kenneday picked up his glass of ale, then leaned back and half turned in his chair to look at the other men in the tavern, giving Michael the illusion of privacy.
Michael,
Come home as soon as you can. Things are happening. Dreams, portents. It is possible that the Destroyer has risen from whatever shadow place it has used as its lair.
I had a dream, Michael, and in the dream a voice said “heart’s hope lies within belladonna.” I do not know the answer to this riddle, but I feel certain the answer is the key to protecting Elandar from a great evil.
I hope you receive this message, and I hope you can come home. But if your heart calls you elsewhere, you must follow. Find the answer to the riddle. For all our sakes, find the answer to the riddle.
Your aunt,
Brighid
P.S. Do you remember the story about the Warrior of Light?
Cold hands closed over his heart…and squeezed.
The Destroyer? The Warrior of Light? What did two plants have to do with stories and dreams and a riddle? Did Aunt Brighid really expect him to prot
And what if finding the answer was the only way to protect Elandar?
Lady of Light, have mercy on me.
Michael folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. Then he closed his eyes in order to close out the room and the other men.
Heart’s hope lies within belladonna.
A warmth, a tug that suddenly turned into a longing so fierce it was almost painful. He could feel her, smell her, hear the music in her heart. The dark-haired woman who had been filling his dreams lately.
Dreams, Aunt Brighid had said. Portents.
Could his dream lover be the key to the riddle? Could she lead him to the Warrior of Light?
“Michael?”
He opened his eyes and noticed the glass of whiskey. He drank it down, wanting the heat of it to warm a cold that suddenly filled his bones.
“Trouble at home?” Kenneday asked.
“I’m not sure,” Michael replied. “But I’ll take your offer.”
Kenneday started to push back his chair. “Then let’s get you settled. We sail with the morning tide.”
Michael shook his head, then leaned over and rummaged in his pack. When he straightened up, he held his whistle. “Give me an hour here.”
Heart’s hope lies within belladonna.
He let the rhythm of the words fill his heart, his body, and then let the words shape the music that flowed from him as he played no particular tune. He could sense something quivering in response to the music, had the strange sensation of the ground turning under the building to align itself with…What?
He had no answer, so he concentrated on the music—and hoped he would dream of his dark-haired lover. He wanted that last memory of her as a talisman when he sailed through water where Evil dwelled.
Chapter Eleven
It flowed from the sea to the land, a shadow under stone, a feeling of menace that made horses bolt and run wild through the village streets, made penned animals fling themselves at their enclosures until they broke free—or ruined themselves in the attempt—made women, for no reason they could explain, snatch up their children and bring them inside, ignoring the wails and protests that toys had been left behind.
As It flowed beneath the earth, It sent the force of Its own rage through the Dark currents that ran through the land around the village of Raven’s Hill. It could sense the presence of the Landscaper who had helped the True Enemy hide the Place of Light, but It couldn’t find her. Somewhere on that hillside. There and yet gone. Somewhere.
Frustrated and furious, It paused on the edge of a well-tended lawn, a darker shadow among the shadows cast by stones and trees. Paused and stretched Its mental tentacles to touch the minds of the villagers.
And, oh, wasn’t this delicious? These foolish humans looked on the Landscaper with distrust, not realizing she was their protector, that her presence spared them from the stains within their own hearts.
Sorceress? Yes, It whispered. Yes, she is a servant of evil. She covets what youhave, wants to destroy what you hold dear. Nothing good has come from that family. Nothing ever will.
Hearts wavered. Were seduced. Fed the Dark currents. One heart blazed with the Light and one heart was too anchored in the currents of Light to be completely swayed, but even in those hearts It found shadows of doubt.
It flowed along the base of the hillside until It reached the path that led upward. Like other animals, humans had game trails they followed. The Landscaper traveled this one often. It could feel her resonance in the earth.
It could feel something else too—a tangle of currents so bloated with the Dark and resonating so strongly with It that Ephemera gave up that piece of itself with no resistance.
And part of the meadow behind the cottage near the hill changed to rust-colored sand.
Satisfied, the Eater of the World rested—and waited.
Michael tucked the tin whistle inside his pack, secured the pack’s flap, then set it aside where it would be out of the men’s way but within easy reach when they finally dropped anchor at Raven’s Hill.
He was glad his presence and his music had eased the hearts of Captain Kenneday’s crew, but he hoped by all that was holy that he wouldn’t be ready to leave when Kenneday sailed back this way, hoped he could find a reason—or an excuse—for taking the roads to head back to the villages that made up his circuit. Because he didn’t want to sail through that stretch of water again, even knowing that it would be hard for Kenneday and his men to make that part of the journey without him.
What was out there was no story told by the surviving fishermen in order to explain a tragedy. Kenneday’s ship had had a clear sky, a good wind, and no hint of anything unnatural. Then they sailed into fog.
He’d heard the voices of the dead men. A chill had gone through him, as if he’d stepped out of the sun into deep shadow. So he’d picked up his whistle, and he’d played. At first the tunes were laced with sorrow and were a salute to the dead and the families who mourned the lost men. Then he eased into tunes that threaded hope into the melody. The fog thinned, the voices of the dead faded, a hazy sun shown overhead, and he imagined he could see a faint glow around each man as, one by one, they shed their despair and believed they would reach clean water again.
When they finally sailed clear of that terrible stretch of water, Kenneday looked at his pocket watch—and discovered they had been lost in the fog for three hours.
No, he didn’t want to sail through that stretch of water again, but as he had played, a thought had danced with his tunes. Maybe his brain had gotten addled in the fog, but if not, the feeling people had of a journey being shorter or longer than usual might not be just a feeling after all.
Leaving his pack, Michael made his way to the stern, where Kenneday was manning the wheel.
Kenneday smiled as Michael came up to stand beside him. “We’ll have you home in time for tea, Michael. That we will.” Then he looked away. “I’m grateful for your help. If you hadn’t been on board…Well, we might still be sailing in that fog, becoming more of the lost men, if it hadn’t been for you.”
Michael gave the captain a sharp, assessing look and decided Kenneday believed what he said.
And it is true, Michael thought. If this isn’t more than fevered imaginings, a ship might never leave that stretch of water if the men on board start believing they’ll never get free of that haunted place.
“I think there’s a way to avoid the fog,” Michael said.
“What? Sailing clear around Elandar every time I have a supply run between ports in the north and south? That would put days on every trip.”
“You don’t have to avoid this part of Elandar, just that stretch of water.” When Kenneday made a dismissive sound, Michael clamped one hand on the captain’s forearm. “Listen to me. The bad water is where those five fishing boats were destroyed. Talk to the men who were in the other boats. You can be sure they know how far out they were when that monster rose from the sea. Damn the darkness, man, you and the other captains can figure out the position of a safe channel that will keep ships from sailing into that water. You mark other dangers; why not this one?”
“Because this one is different.”
Kenneday might be arguing, but Michael heard the underlying hope in the man’s voice.
“This one has boundaries, same as any other piece of dangerous water,” Michael said. “I don’t know how I know that, but I know it. And I’m thinking the area inside those boundaries is never any smaller than the area where those fishing boats were destroyed, but it can expand to be as big as a person believes it to be.”
“That’s crazy talk.”
“Is it? Then how do you explain us being in that fog for three hours?”
Kenneday hesitated, then shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You said yourself there’s something strange about this world. I’m thinking it’s gotten stranger. So maybe there’s someone out there who knows what is happening and what to do ab
His dream lover’s face filled his mind. Would she understand Ephemera’s strangeness? Did she know the answer to the riddle his aunt had sent him?
Maybe you’ve been alone too long.
Where had that thought come from?
“Michael?”
The sharpness in Kenneday’s voice brought him back—and he realized he was now holding the man’s arm in a painful grip.
“Sorry. My mind wandered.” He took a step back and tucked both hands in his pockets.
“I’ll talk to the other captains about marking a channel.” Kenneday tried to smile, but worry filled his eyes. “After all, we can’t always have a luck-bringer on board with us.”
The truth of it, and the unasked question under it, caused an awkward silence between them.
“I’d best pull my gear together,” Michael said. Since Kenneday would have seen him checking his pack, it was a poor lie, but it served its purpose.
Michael paused near his pack, then didn’t even pretend to check his gear. He went to the rail and looked toward the shore. He wanted to go home, needed to go home.
But as he looked at the shore, he suddenly had the feeling “home” was a place he hadn’t seen yet.
“What are you playing at now?” Caitlin muttered. “If I don’t get back in time to help Aunt Brighid put tea on the table, there will be nothing but cold silence this evening.”
When there was no response to her words, she rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead as if that might scrub away the day’s frustrations. How many times over the years had she used the old hoe to work the soil in that part of the garden? There shouldn’t have been any stones there, let alone a big stone buried under the soil just deep enough and just at the wrong angle.
Giving the broken hoe handle a sour look, she used the jagged end to poke at what should have been the path leading down the hill to the cottage.
It should have been a simple day of weeding and tending the garden, but everything had been harder to do. The ground held on to weeds with a perverse tenacity. For the first time since it appeared in her garden, the knee-deep pool of water at the base of the little waterfall held no more than a finger length of silty water at the bottom, so she’d had to let the bucket fill by leaving it under the falls—and yet the surrounding beds weren’t saturated.