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“Tell it,” Petyr said gruffly.
Raulf took a deep breath.
When Old Brice closed himself inside his home, the villagers lost all hope.
Raulf was there when it happened. Normally it would have been Alys accompanying their Mam from house to house as she ministered to the sick, but on that day Walram Hale had taken a turn for the worse, and Alys had to stay by his side. Raulf wasn’t happy about it. It was obvious to him that Amaria Hale should have been tending to her husband instead of moaning from morning to night and pulling at her hair.
There’s nothing wrong with her that a tight slap across the face won’t fix, Raulf thought to himself bitterly.
Thirst had put him in a foul mood. He hated the lethargy that greeted him each morning, and the grinding emptiness of his stomach. He hated the look of the village by day, its dreary desolation. He hated yearning for a cool drink of water he could never have.
Most of all, he hated to leave his post by the path. Up until that day he’d kept watch for Shallah throughout the daylight hours, as he’d promised, while all others had locked themselves away. An irritation towards his fellow villagers had grown in him when days passed and the light did him no harm. He wished Shallah were here to temper his cruel thoughts. She’d always been the voice of reason in his life. Sometimes, as he raged against the drought in his head, he heard her quiet voice urging him to be calm.
Whatever the others might say, Raulf continued to believe she would return. It was the only thing that kept his spirits up.
His father, confined to his pallet, urged him to give it up. “The woods have taken her,” he said, “as they will take me, as they will take us all.” Raulf’s youngest sister Ilara began to sob, clasping her father’s hand to her heart.
Ilara was too sweet for this drought. Raulf liked to be out of the house as much as he could, for he couldn’t stand to see the blue circles under her eyes and the trembling of her little hands. He couldn’t stand to watch her die.
Night had fallen when he and his mother made it to the Blightons’ toft. Raulf could hardly keep his eyes open. They’d been on the move since dawn. Every home had a sick mother or father or child. Everywhere there was sadness and pain. Raulf was amazed at his Mam’s capacity to hearten and soothe, to keep them all calm. She never seemed to tire of giving. He’d been at it only one day, and already he’d had enough.
It all happened in a matter of seconds. One moment he was following his mother into the Blightons’ close, and the next Hemon Blighton was crying at their feet, his leg bone protruding through his hose, blood soaking the ground beneath him. Raulf turned aside and retched.
Rikild and the girls came bursting out of the house. Old Brice came sprinting across the green. He’d been visiting every home spreading the word that Petyr Fleete had gone for help, heralding him as a saviour. Raulf seemed to be the only one who saw the humour in his sudden change of heart about his son-in-law.
Old Brice held a candle for Sabeline as she tried desperately to stop the bleeding and bind the wound with the rags Raulf held ready. Hemon had gone pale with pain. Rikild held his head in her lap. She seemed to have been struck dumb.
“Will he be alright?” Old Brice kept asking. “Will he live?” He turned to Raulf, his eyes searching his face. “I told him to fix the roof. I made him go up. He didn’t want to go, I made him. I made him. I made him. I made him.” He broke off and stared over at his wife. “Rikild!” he cried. “I
made
him!” Rikild looked at him blankly. Hemon had fallen unconscious.
“Brice,” Sabeline said, grabbing hold of the man’s arm. Raulf had never heard anyone call him by his name like that before. “I’ve set the bone and stopped the bleeding. I can ease his pain, but he will fall ill if this wound is not washed. Have you any water left?”
The strangest look came over Old Brice’s face. It was as though he didn’t recognize Sabeline, or didn’t want to.
“No,” he said slowly. “We drank the last of it this morning.”
Raulf’s mother looked almost frantic. “Has anyone … ?” Old Brice didn’t answer.
Raulf looked at Hemon Blighton’s face. He was the same age as Alys.
Old Brice took his son in his arms. He carried him into the house. Rikild went after them dumbly, her weeping daughters following in her wake. The door closed behind them decisively.
Raulf helped his Mam clean up the rags. Her hands were covered in blood.
“Is Hemon going to die?” He was close to tears.
His mother didn’t look at him. “Go home, Raulf,” she said. Her voice was emotionless. “Tell your father I’ll be in soon.”
He edged away. He was frightened. He’d never seen his mother cry, and she didn’t cry that day, but the expression on her face was almost worse.
It was as though she’d lost the will to cry.
The next morning, Raulf fought to be allowed to go back to his post. His Mam seemed to disapprove, her lips pursed in a thin line, but she let him go. He wolfed down his meager breakfast of dried beans and pulled on his worn cloak. He was nearly out the door when he noticed both his sisters watching him. They followed him into the close.
“I want to come, too,” Ilara said. Their father had managed to sit up that morning, and Ilara had decided he was cured. She took her brother’s hand. “I’m not afraid of the light,” she insisted.
Raulf couldn’t think what to say. She couldn’t come with him. He’d have to entertain her for hours. She’d want to make it into a game.
He wanted to be alone.
“Listen,” Alys said. “I’m worried about Mam. She’s weakening but she won’t admit it.” She paused, waiting for him to respond. “I’m afraid she’ll never stop. She’ll just keep going until …” she glanced at Ilara. “What should we do?”
Raulf stared at her. How was he supposed to know what to do? When had he ever known better than Mam? If Mam couldn’t help Hemon, how could he help her?
Leave me alone! he wanted to scream.
“Take me with you,” Ilara said. Raulf dropped her hand.
“Don’t you care about us at all?” Alys cried, bursting into tears.
Raulf put his arm around his sister’s shoulders and Ilara hugged her middle. Alys had the most beautiful orange hair. It hung around her shoulders in lovely waves. She pushed it out of her eyes and looked at him, her cheeks wet with tears.
“I’m so scared,” she said. “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”
Ilara looked stricken.
“No, we’re not,” Raulf told them both. “We’re going to survive this.” They didn’t believe him. “You have to
believe
,” he said strenuously.
His sisters nodded at him, but they remained unconvinced. He could tell by the way they looked at him. He wished he knew what to say to make them feel better. Before all these troubles had started, he’d always been able to make his sisters laugh. Now, he couldn’t think of one funny thing to say.
Ilara watched him walk away longingly. She’d become angry as the day wore on and lash out at him in some small way when he returned. She might cover his pallet with dirt, or bar the door so he couldn’t sneak in quietly. Then she’d be filled with remorse, and beg his forgiveness, and want to sleep next to him. Sweet as she was, Ilara had a mean streak that was never-endingly entertaining. Raulf wondered if he should have taken her along after all. Then he began to pass their neighbours’ tofts, and he remembered why he couldn’t.
The green was empty, as it always was at this hour. He paused for a moment by the gate to the Carberrys’ toft. He could hear Betta crying. She always cried hardest in the mornings. He thought it was because she hoped throughout the night for some improvement, and couldn’t stand what she saw when the day dawned. Little Mirabel was said to be the worst off, but Catin was also too weak to walk.
Raulf moved on. Next were the Klinks. Malcol was a loud one. He cursed at the top of his lungs. Kimbery had a chest cough that wouldn’t fade. The Turveys were usually quiet at this time of day, for Gamelin railed against his father’s weakness in the evenings, but the Goss home across the way was alive with the sounds of despair. Petyr Fleete’s girls cried for their father, and Gemma for her daughter Moira, and Leland for them all. Raulf picked up his pace, wishing he still had the energy to run. It was so hard to see what had become of the village.
Visiting the homes with his mother had made him see how far they’d fallen. Many times he’d been asked if one neighbour or another had passed, and been met with surprise when he’d replied in the negative. As nobody left their homes anymore, word had ceased to circulate as it always had. Each home had become an island unto itself, as though miles separated one from the other. Nobody was eager to find that their neighbours were faring so much better, or so much worse.
Having crossed the deserted fields, Raulf stopped to catch his breath. He usually sat in the branches of the large poplar by the start of the path, but today he couldn’t find the strength to climb up. It disappointed him, for he liked to sit amongst the yellow leaves, though many were withered now. He liked the way they wiggled back and forth with the breeze, like little hands waving Shallah home. He sat down at the foot of the tree, promising himself he would make the climb when he felt stronger.
Leaning against the trunk, he thought over what he’d said to his sisters. He’d told them to believe, as though he himself was so full of belief. But was he? A few days before, he’d jumped from his perch and gone dashing forward when he’d spied some movement on the path. It had turned out to be a doe. After that, most of the animals had vanished, taking with them his worry at making another such mistake. But had they taken more than that?
Do I really believe Shallah will return? he asked himself.
He never got the chance to answer.
He heard a footstep on the earth behind him, and then he toppled over as somebody fell on him.
Ilara jumped to her feet, triumphant. “Found you!” she cried, and before he had the chance to scold her she turned away. “What’s that?” she asked, frowning. She was pointing down the path.
Raulf’s eyes widened with amazement.
Advancing along the path was a swath of light so bright it pained him to look at it. It came slowly at first, lighting the trees on either side of the trail one by one. Then it picked up speed, and before he could ponder what was happening, the light had passed through them, washing them in its brightness.
The forest came alive. Withered leaves turned red and orange and yellow. Fir needles went from brown to green. The branches themselves appeared to thicken. Raulf looked about himself in awe, marveling at the colour of the trunks, the shrubs, the earth, the canopy. Ilara’s hair was shinier than he’d ever seen it, her eyes a most startling green.
I haven’t seen the world ‘til now, he thought. This is the true world; all else has been a dream.
Grabbing Ilara by the hand, he took off for the center of town, screaming at the top of his lungs.
That day, instead of sitting in his tree, Raulf sat in the green and watched Trallee come back to life. He knew it would take some time. The villagers had never known anything more than a dim glow emanating from the canopy. This light was a hundred times stronger. It forced its way through their shutters and the cracks about their doors. It was shocking to step out into such light, but he believed they would.
He’d found his belief again.
As he sat, he held an imaginary conversation with Shallah, narrating the happenings to her as he would have if she were present.
Alys and his Mam were the first to answer his calls, emerging from the Olney home with startled looks. The Carberrys were the next to come out. Milo kept glancing about as though he feared an attack. Maude Quigg cowered in her doorway as her daughter Roana pushed past her. Rab Hale called warnings through his barred door. He believed the light’s terrible effects might only be felt after hours of exposure, and refused to leave the confines of his dark house.
The Blightons were the last to make an appearance, though Old Brice stayed behind with Hemon. It was Rikild who questioned Raulf and Ilara on what they’d seen, though they hadn’t much to tell. The light spoke for itself, beating down relentlessly, unceasing even as day wore into night.
“It’s a miracle,” Raulf heard his Mam say as they watched friends who hadn’t seen one another in days greet each other gladly.
But the true miracle was yet to come.
In the brightness of evening, Moira Goss, who Sabeline had called beyond hope, felt the urge to go outside and play. Gemma Goss, who the day before couldn’t feed herself, resolved to join her. All about the village, doors long closed were being opened. Cheers went up every few moments as another invalid stretched his legs. Raulf saw his mother kissing his father full on the lips as he stepped unsteadily onto the green.
“We’re saved!” Kimbery Klink cried, her cough entirely gone. “The light has saved us!” She raised her hands over her head and twirled about like a girl.
But most wonderful of all was a surprise that didn’t occur to many of the villagers until it was well past midnight.
Their terrible thirst had abated.
In the wee hours of the night, though it looked like midday, the crowd began to disperse. Raulf ran with his sisters back to their toft and threw himself on his pallet, though he knew he wouldn’t sleep a wink. This light was magical. It had taken away their pain, and their thirst. It had brought people back to life.
Who knows what might happen next, he thought.
He listened to Ilara and Alys giggling until morning.
Though the well remained dry and no water returned to Minnow Lake, the vegetation grew lush of its own accord. Garden crops grew without tending, tomatoes and cucumbers ripened on the vine overnight. By the evening of the second day of light, a great feast was laid out on the green and attended by all as on the holidays of old.
Old Brice emerged at last from his home, though he refused the seat of honour at the head of the table. He seemed ashamed that he’d turned his back on the villagers, and had trouble meeting their eyes. Only when Hemon, on his feet again with the help of a crutch, pulled out a stool for his father, did Old Brice find the courage to approach the table.