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It was almost as good as tree-climbing.
Opening her blind eyes, Shallah reached for her basket of herbs, then paused, cocking her head to one side.
Someone was coming up the path.
A vague rush of anxiety rippled through her as she got to her feet, placing the basket on her stool. Fearless as she was, Shallah had never quite conquered the distrust of others that had set in when she’d lost her sight. The dark she could handle, the forest she could trust, but the stranger – for every person is at first a stranger to the blind – always made her anxious.
Within a moment she let out a sigh of relief. It was only Raulf Guerin, the healer’s son. She could tell by the lightness of his step, and the way he skipped forward as he spotted her, ever impatient, ever eager. In her mind’s eye she always saw him as a whirl of motion, never still long enough for her to picture his face – though, to be honest, she’d never seen his face. He was only twelve years old and had been a babe when she’d lost her sight.
“Have you heard?” he cried as he ran up to her, dropping the bucket of well water at her feet and continuing into the house.
Conversations with Raulf often began this way, with a question Shallah couldn’t conceivably answer, though it mattered very little. Raulf could carry on the dialogue all by himself.
“The whole village is abuzz,” he continued. “Alys came to the fields and told us all about it, and my Mam went straight home with Betta, ‘Damn the harvest,’ she said. Hardly any work got done from then on anyway, what with all the gossip. I’m sure the harvest will be late, and won’t that put Mr. Hale in a rage? You’ll be coming to the meeting, won’t you? I’d wager the whole town will be in attendance this time, don’t you think so, Miss?”
Shallah’s heart sank at the mention of a town meeting. It didn’t bode well. Of late, a great many meetings had been taking place, and though she’d attended none, she couldn’t help noticing that the times were changing, and not for the better.
In recent months, several families had reported a mysterious illness among their animals, and more than a few calves had perished. The inexplicable never sat well with the people of Trallee, and these happenings were no exception. Some claimed the deaths were due to the poor quality of the season’s hay, but this theory wasn’t generally upheld. For, as the number of dead calves mounted, so too did the fear of the light.
The villagers took to closing themselves in their homes after the day’s work, their shutters locked to keep out that terrible brightness. The young girls began to don the kerchief to protect their heads from the light, while by custom only married women were made to cover their hair. Children were scolded for lingering in the green, and fathers declined to take a cup of ale in their neighbours’ tofts. The light became the chief victim of blame for all that went wrong in the village. Its evils were heralded around every hearth, and in every lane.
Just the other day, as Shallah was returning home after caring for Raulf’s youngest sister, Ilara, while the family toiled in the fields, she’d heard one boy inform another he’d be whipped senseless if his mother caught him out of doors, for the light had given him a cough, and it was believed he might die of it. The other boy seemed to think this quite plausible.
Shallah brought her attention back to Raulf. “You haven’t yet told me what’s gotten the village so worked up,” she said as the boy tripped about the room, stoking the fire and doling out pottage and helping himself to a cup of ale.
Raulf came to a halt with surprise. “So, you haven’t heard?” he asked, immediately forcing her onto a stool. “I’ll tell you all I know,” he said, suddenly serious.
According to his sister Alys, who’d been at home all the day with Ilara, it had taken place that very morning. It was a brighter day than usual, as one of the larger maples had started losing its leaves early. All the children who’d been kept back from the fields were defying their parents’orders to stay inside. They’d collected on the green to play a game of catch-the-light, a sport that was strictly forbidden, and often played. They were so exuberant that the small figure in the middle of the square wasn’t noticed right away.
It was Amaria Hale who spotted him first. Every able-bodied villager helped in the fields at harvest time, but Amaria often avoided the heavy work by pleading female pains and headaches, and her husband Walram, son of Rab, was too dull to catch her lies. Thus, Amaria was the only adult about to scold the children for their mischief and noise. She was doing just that, her voice rising above the chatter, when she saw a small boy sitting calmly by the well, his dark curls waving slightly in the breeze. A beam of sunlight fell directly onto the child, making him glow. His bronze skin was of a hue like caramel, and as he blinked at Amaria in the brightness, his eyes shone like gold.
A meeting was called.
Shallah knew the meeting would be held at Old Brice Blighton’s place. Trallee had no official leader, but Old Brice headed the village council, and his opinion held the most sway. When a family came upon hard times, they always went to Old Brice for advice, and more times than not they came away feeling better about their woes. Most importantly, Old Brice’s home was the largest in the village, the only one to boast a second storey, for he’d seven children still living at home. His table was large enough to seat a dozen adults, and there would be plenty of seats for the crowd, though many would bring their own stools and line them along the walls, pressing close so none would be left without a place.
Normally Shallah abhorred attending such events, but she found herself considering the prospect as Raulf slurped his ale. Something about his description of the child intrigued her.
“His skin is entirely brown,” Raulf said, “quite a bit darker than yours or mine. And he has the strangest eyes, like little flames peering out at you. Some are saying he’s a sign of good times to come. Do you think that’s so?”
She smiled and patted the boy on the arm. “I don’t think I know enough to be making any assumptions, Raulf,” she confessed.
“You’ll come tonight, won’t you, Miss?” he asked as he rose to leave. “It’s sure to be quite an affair. You wouldn’t want to miss it.”
Shallah wasn’t so sure about that, but she smiled at Raulf as she saw him off, and promised to consider it. It amused her to notice that Raulf, who usually preferred playing pranks on his sisters during town meetings, had taken such an interest. But then, the situation did seem to have the whole village stirred up.
Shallah wiped her fingers on her apron as she thought about the mysterious child. It surprised her that Maude hadn’t mentioned a word about him when she’d stopped by, for what a juicy bit of gossip it was to tell. But Maude had always been offended by Shallah’s reluctance to mingle with the villagers, and never hurried to bring her news, as though she hadn’t the right to hear it. Likely more than one villager would think her similarly unwelcome at the meeting tonight. Nevertheless, she found herself lacing up her shoes and catching up her walking stick from behind the woodpile. She was nearly out the door when she remembered her apron, and paused to untie it.
In that moment she felt herself hesitate. She’d made no commitment, and could easily stay home, avoiding the drama and noise of the meeting. She wouldn’t be wanted there anyway, and she’d have to suffer through their whispers, their silent stares. It would be so much easier to stay away. Then the urgency in Raulf’s voice came back to her and she recalled how, at another town meeting, Malcol Klink had accused his neighbour of stealing three of his chickens and they’d nearly come to blows.
Someone’s got to keep an eye on things, she thought to herself as she closed the door behind her. There’s no knowing what they might get up to.
The room was near to bursting when Shallah arrived. Raulf ran forward to greet her, finding place enough for them both on a bench near the window. All the chairs around the table were filled, and there were people milling about at the front door and on the cobbled pathway. The loft above was full of children, their chubby faces peeking down at the crowd. Rikild Blighton and two of her girls were passing a jug of ale around, and a few of the older men had already lit their pipes. All through the house there was a buzz of excitement.
“It’s quite a sight, Miss,” Raulf said, leaning in to whisper in her ear. “Rab Hale is here, of course, and Amaria has a seat at the table. That’s Isemay Wray sitting on your right, she’s hardly left her house once in the last year. I know because my Mam brings food over to her.”
Though young Raulf had failed to notice it, the attention of the room had shifted somewhat when Shallah entered. More than a few faces were turned their way with interest, and a great deal of whispering was going on. To be fair, many hadn’t seen Shallah’s face in years, for she seldom worked in the fields, and if she had to come into the village she usually did so when few were about – which is not to say she didn’t make a contribution to the town.
In their isolation, the villagers were forced to rely on one another for all the things they couldn’t make themselves, and like the rest, Shallah had her tasks. While others tended her strip of land, she spun wool, mended clothing, baked bread and oat cakes, and cared for their children – though in actuality the Guerins alone called on her for this service, as many of the other families wouldn’t entrust their children to a blind girl. In short, she was a member of the village as much as any other. Still, to a good number of the farmers she was a phantom girl, sometimes glimpsed out of the corner of an eye as they drove their oxen or carted their grain. She’d not been to a town gathering since childhood.
One man told his son she was a wild woman. “Stay away from that one,” he whispered. “She might be blind, but she’s got some odd ways. I tell ya, she’s not right.”
Shallah showed no sign that she was aware of this attention. She sat quietly in her corner, feeling the warmth of the room and listening to Raulf’s lively prattling, until Old Brice got to his feet and a hush fell over the crowd.
“Well, it seems we’re all here, so I’ll begin,” said Old Brice, his voice clear and strong – the voice of a man used to speaking to a crowd. “This meeting was called to address the issue of the child found by Amaria Hale. She took notice of him in the early hours and brought him directly to the Carberrys to be cared for. We’re told he’s quite a sweet lad, isn’t that right, Betta?”
Betta Carberry stood up and nodded her head with great enthusiasm, her ample bosom nearly bursting the laces of her brown kirtle.
“Oh, he’s just the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen,” she said. “So soft and quiet. He must be almost five years old but he never says a word, not a peep, and no crying either. Just sort of looks at you with those strange eyes and smiles and sits and plays. The best boy I’ve ever cared for, if I do say so.”
“What was that about his eyes?” asked Kimbery Klink, who stood just to Betta’s left. “It’s said demons have peculiar eyes, you know. I heard that somewhere.” Many of the villagers nodded their heads.
Betta seemed taken aback, and put her hand to her chest.
“But he’s no demon, Kim,” she said, looking about the room for reassurance. “It’s just that his eyes are a tad golden, is all. Makes ‘em quite pretty in my opinion. He’s a beautiful lad. There’s no harm in him at all.”
“Now let’s not jump to any conclusions on that one,” Rab Hale leaped in. “You may think he’s sweet as pie and innocent as a lamb, but we none of us can see into his heart. A pretty face can easily hide a foul soul, for good looks lead to cosseting, and cosseting to conceit. I’d just as soon trust the ugliest maiden as the beauty with the flowing hair, for I’ll never have it said Rab Hale was taken in by a pretty face.”
Shallah had to bite her lip to stop from letting out a derisive laugh. Rab Hale was so full of himself it was a wonder he wasn’t bloated. She knew the bit about the flowing hair was a jab at her, for no other woman in the room was without a kerchief. Rab had never liked her, for he knew her to be unimpressed with his wit, and because she aligned herself with the Guerins, whom he disdained above all others. In Rab’s eyes, being treated by a woman healer was like taking marital advice from a cow.
Raulf leaned over to whisper into Shallah’s ear. “You should see the look on my Mam’s face; she’s about ready to pounce. She says it’s a travesty that so many are taken in by Mr. Hale and his fine words, for it only makes him think more of himself and gives him leave to order us about in the fields. He just about yelled himself hoarse when he saw Edid Olney setting off for home early yesterday, when everyone knows she’s a sick baby at home, and only little Averill watching over him. He’s about as sincere as a fox, if you ask me, and he looks like a toad whose eyes have grown too big for his head.”
Shallah burst out laughing.
“Now hold on,” Old Brice said, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “We’ve no reason to distrust this child, and I think we should listen to Betta’s opinion, for she’s always been as good as her word.” Before anyone had the chance to object, he went on. “I think we should stick to the matter at hand: to decide what ought to be done with the boy. Now I’ve discussed this with the village council –”
“Bah! You and your council,” interrupted Malcol Klink from his seat by the hearth. Malcol had been a member of the council until he grew too argumentative for their taste and was asked to step down. “All you lot ever do is discuss. There’s a time to talk and a time to act. I’d say this is a time to act!”
“Klink, you old fool, shut your mouth before they throw you out again,” said Thurstan Turvey, Malcol’s longtime friend. “Let the man speak.”
“So it’s only the council that can have a say, is that it?” asked Edid Olney, her eyes on Rab Hale, little Wylf on her hip. “I want to know about this child. I want to know what we aren’t being told!”
“Nothing is being kept from you, Edid,” Old Brice began. “I can assure you not one thing –”
“Hasn’t he got dark skin?” a voice called out from the back of the room.
“Yes,” Gemma Goss responded, “I’ve heard that as well. Perhaps he’s been burned.”