Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) (19 page)

Jean
had still not finished with the girl. He was slower tonight, another sign that
his body was weakening. I knew what upset him more than anything was the fact
that his body was not as young
as mine and many others in our
circle
.

Marek

It was an overcast day like many others
I had seen, but one particular morning, a week after my arrival at the castle,
I woke in a feverish sweat, and shivering uncontrollably. My chattered teeth
reverberated loudly within my skull. It was a different kind of sickness, for
it was partly of the mind. I wanted my bad dreams to evaporate but they would
not; they were real memories from the night before. I had not imagined my
terrors this time. There had been too much evidence.

I
was fully dressed beneath my quilted bedding, my clothes clammy and sticking to
my skin. In the glass candelabra on the ceiling above me, I could see my own
reflection. I hardly
recognised
myself. My hair was
stuck to my forehead, my complexion ashen. I tried to leave the bed but my back
and legs ached so much it was difficult and I fell to the floor. My body and
limbs coiled protectively around my stomach, filled with unbearable pain.

I
stayed where I was and pieced together the events of the previous evening. It
had been yet another night of festivities. Every evening there were gatherings
of such extravagance and never had I met so many interesting people in my life:
all powdered and vibrant, rouged and coifed. Last night Oleander had brought in
new groups of entertainers. There were jugglers and gypsy troupes singing.
Waiters carried trays of drinks and delicious morsels: grape leaves rolled and
stuffed with brined cheese, pastries filled with cream and garlic, and spicy
meatballs of lamb and herbs. So much food and the trays seemed to remain full.
A most unusual thing was that most attending these festivities appeared no more
than the age of twenty.

One
might think that I was tiring of it all but I danced with pretty girls all
evening, always saving the last dance for Zola, and even stealing kisses from
her on a private balcony decorated with icicles. And then some nights, at a
late hour, I went to her room and danced with her privately.

This
night had been different. The party had finished in the early hours and members
of the circle again left on foot disappearing into the wilderness. Oleander had
ended the feast a little earlier than normal and there was a collective sigh of
regret as
revellers
departed. But the night was not
over for our private group: those who lived in Oleander’s castle. Her special
flock as she referred to us. Jean fawned over
Oleander
as always throughout the night, though it had seemed a touch condescending in
some ways. He stood as close as he could to her throughout our evening sojourn.
And I did on one occasion witness a reciprocal look. One time I found them in
her library. He was leaning very close to her, so close he was breathing on her
neck. They both seemed annoyed by the intrusion and I took my leave quickly to
resume the search for Zola. She was dancing with a handsome man whose powdered
face was topped with a curly brown wig; too much frippery to be a real threat
for my attentions, but still enough to cause a lump in my throat. When she saw
me she broke into a smile and dragged me close to her, her tiny feet moving in
time to the sounds of the flute playing a fast tune. Not being a dancer before
this I took her lead and welcomed it. Then I found I knew the steps as if I had
been dancing all my life.

Caught
up in the moment I daringly asked Zola if she would run away with me. She
swivelled
around to the next person flirtatiously sending
me a look that she would be
back,
leaving me hopeful
that later she would be exclusively mine.

But
it was not to be. At the end of this party, Zeke was put to bed and Oleander
announced that we would continue our night in a nearby village. I laughed,
thinking it unlikely the local taverns would be open and that many a rough
person might take offence to our kind in such fine clothing. ‘Precisely,’ said
Oleander, and with that we were swept into Oleander’s wake as we ran on foot
through the trees, the four of us laughing. I was still high on life from the
week-long
feasts of music and dancing.

Oleander
commissioned the making of my clothes and sent them to my room each day.
Costumes that fit me so perfectly it was hard to believe how anyone could be so
exact. I had the choice of more brilliant shades of vests and cream silk shirts
with lace at the wrists, and a velvet coat. If I had dressed myself in such
attire back on the island I would have been laughed at, but within the castle
it seemed so normal, and so appropriate.

I
had tried several times over that week to talk to Oleander to discuss Father
and my island, and to convince her to come back with me, if only just for a
visit. It would also be an opportunity to learn more about our mother as she’d
had ten more years with her than me. But it seemed she was avoiding me unless
at the festivals and then it was too noisy and I had been swept away in the
moment. During the day when I would wander to her study, Jean would head me off
saying that Oleander was either resting or absent. It appeared that being the
leader of the circle meant she was very busy but what she did with her time was
not something I was privy to.

We
wandered through heavy falls of snow. Oleander walked in front. Her hair was
coiled up high, no braid out of place. There were flecks of snow on her hair
and violet brocade dress, her full skirt floating behind her like a sail.

Jean
suggested we have a race into town. He was into any sort of gamble I was
discovering. Like hounds we ran fast, and the world rushed by. Only weeks
earlier if you had called me a witch, and accused me of having healing powers,
the ability to hear human thoughts, to be able to sprint so fast you have
trouble seeing me, and speak a foreign language, I would have thought it was
you who was losing their mind. But I knew I had become fearsome to others,
making the memory of this night something harder to bear. For, huddled in my
room that feverish morning, I wished I
was
Marek
the carpenter, and that the special craft was merely
the gift of a few extra skills and not so different from the boys I grew up
with.

We
continued through the forest. Oleander proved the fastest, then Jean, so fast
that they disappeared from sight the moment we started and neither Zola nor I
could catch up with them. Though, I suspected that my companion had been slower
than normal to be polite.

Suddenly
Zola stopped in front of me, and as I was not so proficient with my new skill,
I crashed into her and we fell into the snow laughing. I helped her rise up and
we continued on, agreeing that we would take a bit longer and enjoy each
other’s company. She was unconcerned that we had lost the race.

I
asked her about the relationship with Jean. We had not had many conversations,
preferring each other’s company without too many words.

She
said that Jean came from a wealthy merchant family but he did not want to carry
on trading silk, preferring instead to wear it. He had been brought to the
circle many years earlier, and had been a loyal
favourite
of Oleander’s.

‘Are
they something other than friends?’ I asked.

‘No,’
said Zola. Then she bent her head. ‘Perhaps once, and something that Jean would
like to rekindle, but Oleander is driven by other interests.’

‘On
what is she focused?’

‘On
creating a better life for our circle.’

There
were so many questions but there was one in particular that had been burning a
hole in my thoughts up to that point. ‘How does she afford to live and have so
many staff?’ She did not appear to have any obvious means.

‘Why
do you not ask her?’ Zola said, somewhat guarded. From that I gathered she was
loyal also. And I was left in the dark once more still knowing little about my
sister and wishing that witches could read the minds of their own kind.

‘And
what of you?’

‘You
know about me.’

‘Not
a lot,’ I said. ‘I know that your parents died and left you all alone in your
house. I also know that you prefer to spend idle days at Oleander’s castle.’

‘If
you had the choice of living alone in a city that is suspicious of single women
of independent means, or living in a big house with friends and celebrating
your very existence night after night, what would you prefer?’

‘I
take your point but one can get sick of so many festivities surely?’

‘Well,
I can assure you that Oleander never gets sick of them. Ever since Lewis left
she likes to have a lot of her kind around her all the time.’

‘Lewis?’

‘Yes.
He was the original circle leader. Our life to that point was comfortable but
more staid.’

I thought
that the current lifestyle seemed a bit overindulged but I did not say so. I
most certainly wanted to ask more about this Lewis but refrained as by then we
had arrived at our destination. We crossed a short and narrow bridge that took
us into the town with its cobbled streets. In this part there were many wooden
buildings lining the river where tanners, fisheries, glassmakers, tinkers and
loading docks were available to sailing vessels. There was black sludge on the
banks where waste has been thrown mixed with other foul liquids.

I
took the opportunity to voice my desire. I did not want the moment with Zola to
disappear: ‘Zola, will you come with me to meet my father when I go back to my
island?’

Never
had we had so many moments just to talk freely without others listening. As
irrational as it seemed, even in my room I felt that others were watching.

Zola’s
face was hidden from me but her voice suggested she was not smiling.

‘I
can’t.’

‘Why
not?’

‘Because
you aren’t going back.’ Before I had time to protest and disagree, Zola was way
ahead of me and calling my name
. I lost sight of her
behind the buildings. At this time of night, while the more respectable
professionals were sleeping, many in the underside of the city were active
– thieves, whores and shady dealmakers. Men leaning against buildings
leered at me and I read their evil thoughts, not necessarily about me, but
about their heinous plans. The sound of their thoughts grew louder as I
approached each of them. I wished I knew how to shut them out.

I
caught sight of the hem of Oleander’s skirt trailing around the corner of an
alehouse. At that moment I heard the sound of a man screaming, the noise even
louder in my head. I clutched at my ears to drown out the noise but it did not
work. It was deep inside my own thoughts.

As I
neared, I could see that Oleander was kissing a man, her mouth over his in an
intimate embrace. Stepping back, I was deeply embarrassed but she turned
sharply, sensing me there. In the dark, her eyes glowed amber like a cat’s, but
there was more to see and I stopped dead for what was to come was, and is still
now, unbearable.

Oleander
held the man limp in her arms. He was nothing more than a husk, a shell,
a
shadow of what a man should be. Oleander’s mouth was open
and I shut my eyes in this present moment of recall, for the image was pure
horror. Her teeth and lips were glistening with blood.

I
ran past them down the next alleyway only to find Jean. He too was in a similar
embrace with a man. He looked up and laughingly threw his head back, blood
dripping from the corners of his mouth.

Running
back the way I came, and through the forest, it was there I retched. There was
a hand on my back and I could see from the skirt whose it was.

Zola
took my hand gently. ‘Oleander was wrong. Perhaps it is too soon.’

I
was too ill to ask her what she meant. All I wanted to do was be free of them
all. We did not speak as we returned to Oleander’s castle. So upset and
confused, I can barely remember the return.

‘
Marek
, our instincts, desires and methods of survival
differ from humans. It is perfectly normal.’ I could not bring myself to
respond nor to look at her as I dragged myself, stupefied, up the long
staircase to my room. My head filled with thoughts and images I wanted to
erase. I knew I could not have imagined the fishermen. Zola had lied after all
and this deception cut me deeply. I felt betrayed.

My
sister was not human and while I lay there on the floor the next morning,
clutching blankets to thaw my chilled bones, I had to believe that I still was.
The only thought that kept me from slipping into madness was the image of my
father and my plan to return to
Gildoroso
.

Throwing
the velvets and frippery into a corner, I packed my bag with items I would need
and put on my old clothes.

I held
my troubled stomach and crept down the stairs. It was silent but for a few
servants who walked light-footed during their nightly cleaning tasks. They were
without the craft, and I could hear their thoughts. None of them had sensed me
near, and I would at least know straight away if they were to report my
whereabouts.

Opening
the heavy door the light was blinding, the glare burning my eyes. Not even the
island sun competed with such fierce icy light. Water nearby sounded like it
was rushing through my brain, and my footsteps were magnified: each step a
hammer blow against my skull. Temples and limbs ached, and stabbing pain
gripped my abdomen in waves.