Crispin_ At the Edge of the World - Avi [10]
Then I remembered: in my village of Stromford it was said that if, before a babe was born, the Devil came and touched the mother’s swollen belly, the babe’s limb or hand or face—like Troth’s—would bear the Devil’s evil mark. Even as I stared at her, that knowledge chilled my heart.
A tap on my leg startled me. It was the woman. “You must speak.”
I felt trapped. Not knowing what else to do, I took a deep breath and told my tale.
I revealed how, not long ago, I, a new-made orphan, fled my little village because I’d been proclaimed a wolf’s head—meaning anyone was free to kill me.
How a kind God led me to Bear, a juggler, who became in turn, master, teacher, protector, and then, as I would have it, the father I never knew.
How we traveled together until we came to the city of Great Wexly, where I discovered I was the illegitimate son of one Lord Furnival, a knight of the realm. There, I also discovered Bear was a spy for John Ball’s brotherhood.
How my enemies captured Bear, and tortured him in hopes of making him to reveal where I was.
How I, to ransom Bear’s liberty, renounced any claim to my noble name, and by doing so, Bear and I were able to pass out of Great Wexly to our freedom.
How, finally, Bear was wounded by a man who believed he had betrayed Ball’s brotherhood.
At first I told all this haltingly. But as I went on, it ran from me like water from a broken bowl. When done I was in tears. For I, in a manner of speaking, was a listener too. How extraordinary that I, who but a short time ago never knew a life beyond the passing of repetitious days, could tell a tale of being, doing, and becoming.
Though Aude and Troth had listened to me closely, neither spoke, nor asked questions, nor made so much as one remark, hearing my words in solemn silence.
By the time I finished the day was gone. Shadow filled the bower. The air was cool and hushed. I was weary in heart and bone. With Bear sleeping easier than before, I could not help myself—and nodded off.
I woke with a start. A dim, ruddy light suffused the bower. My first sensation was fear, thinking I’d fallen into the place of damnation that all true Christians fear. Then I realized the redness was naught but the shimmering embers of the bower fire.
I swung round and bent over Bear. He was asleep, barely breathing. I put a hand to his face. Still hot. I touched his arm. He pulled it away as though stung.
Looking round, I searched for the old woman and the girl. I did not see them, but saw that the front of the bower was bathed in soft, white light. I gazed at it, puzzled, until I realized it was moonlight.
As I listened I caught a faint sound from beyond. On hands and knees I crept to the walled-in entrance of the bower and peeked out.
Aude stood before the bower in an open space that was dappled by moonlight. Kneeling by her side was Troth. A teasing breeze tossed their tangled garments. Tree leaves stirred as though sifting secrets.
Aude had one raised hand and was dangling a branch of mistletoe. The other hand gripped the girl’s shoulder, as if for support.
In a slow, broken voice, the hag was chanting:
There flowed a spring
Beneath a hawthorn tree
That once had a cure for sorrow.
Beside the spring and the tree
Now stands a young girl
Who’s full of love, this girl,
Held fast by love, this girl.
So whoever seeks true love
Will not find it in the spring,
But in this girl,
This girl,
Who stands by the hawthorn tree.
As I watched and listened, I had no doubt it was some kind of enchantment. Were they trying to steal Bear’s soul? My own? If these people were indeed spirit folk, if the crone was a true witch, we should not, must not stay. Yet how could we go if Bear was so ill? Once again came the questions: What should I do if he died? How would I be able to stay free?
I asked this of myself so often it all but became a plain-song chant, to which I provided the only answer I could summon: I must think and act as a man.
But how?
9
MORNING’s DULL LIGHT nudged me into wakefulness. I