Paradise Island (11 page)

The gentle crackling of burning wood reminded him of his mother's kitchen. He would sometimes sit and watch her cook. She would make a stew in a large steaming pot over the open fire in the kitchen's hearth. Other times she would use the huge, blackened oven to bake bread, or roast their dinner. Always there was a friendly fire that warmed every corner of the snug little kitchen.

He opened his eyes and half expected to see his mother's smiling face as he often woke head down on the kitchen table. “Gregory, you fell asleep over half peeled potatoes,” she would gently scold then give him a wink and a piece of bread and send him to play with his friends while she finished cooking.

There was no such comfort here. Although the fire was a gentle one, contained in an open hearth, it was in a foreign room that was filled with murky, shifting shadows. He tried to focus. But his vision blurred and spiraled into dark, indistinguishable shapes.

Gregory lifted his head and winced when a shot of heated pain blasted through his head. He rolled onto his elbow, felt the back of his skull and found a tender lump the size of an egg. That was the reason why he remembered nothing between blacking out and waking … wherever he was.

His vision cleared a little and he found he was in a darkened, dirty little room, no more than a hovel. The fire was in the center, surrounded by a rough circle of rocks. Above it, on an iron skewer, balanced a small blackened pot. Steam spewed from the top, followed by an unpleasant smell. There was little else more, save a small three legged chair, a rough handmade table that held a collection of dirty glass bottles on its top.

The sun found holes, creating pockets of dappled light in the small space. The roof was no more than thin layers of bracken. The walls were made of straight twigs, bound by smaller branches knotted together. There was a narrow triangular door from which bright daylight streamed in.

A soft body stirred next to him and he looked over his shoulder to see who it was. Estelle. Her silken auburn hair streamed over her shoulders in cascading waves, a perfect frame for her delicate face. He rolled to face her, picked a silken strand from her shoulder and let it glide between his fingers.

She opened her eyes and became alert in a second. Her body tensed and her autumn eyes locked with his. “Where are we,” she hissed, sitting up next to him. She had woken better than he had.

A shadow moved from the entrance and he was on his feet, Estelle followed and they were facing an old woman who didn't seem surprised at all they were in here. She was old beyond guess, her face was wrinkled so much that deep lines beneath her eyes and around her mouth nearly folded over on themselves. Her skin was yellowed and thin and reminded Gregory of melted wax that had pooled at the bottom of a long burnt candle.

There was a lump behind her neck that caused her to bend forward, unable to stretch to her full height. She was dressed in rags. The black material was stained with ingrained dirt and mildew, the smell of which assaulted Gregory's nostrils the moment she stepped into the hovel. She clutched the end of a stick with a thin, claw-like hand. The skin on the backs of her hands was blotted with large brown stains. On one hand a scab formed a raised, red-brown lump on her knuckles.

She blinked at them through light blue, watery eyes. Her mouth opened in a toothless smile and she cackled without humor. “Awake, I see,” she said.

“Who are you and where are we?” Gregory demanded.

The old woman shuffled into the hovel and stirred the pot over the fire. “Full of demands, too,” she said in a dry, paper thin voice. The old woman was in no rush as she stirred the mixture from the pot. She leant over the mixture and sniffed. Satisfied, the old woman picked up two wooden bowls from the table and filled them both with the steaming brew and handed one to each of them.

“Eat,” she said.

Gregory smelt the contents which reminded him of week old wet sails. “No, thank you.”

The old woman cackled. “The smell is the herbs I put in for your health. The meat is good. A rabbit I caught this morning. Send praise to the gods for the food and eat. It will satisfy your empty stomach and calm your nerves.” She handed them spoons and gestured for them to eat.

Estelle sat back onto the pallet, clutching the bowl tentatively between her hands. She tasted a small amount of food from the edge of the spoon. Her eyes opened and she nodded to Gregory. “It's good.” Her voice matched the surprise in her eyes.

Gregory's stomach cramped uncomfortably and he couldn't remember when he had last eaten. If not for the taste, he would eat for the energy the food would give him. He sat next to Estelle and soon found the bowl empty. The old woman filled his bowl without a word and waited for them to finish. She handed them a rough wooden cup of water to finish off their meal.

“Where are we?” Gregory asked.

“You will know where you are soon enough. So near your home, but still such a long journey,” the old woman said.

“What do you mean? What is the name of the land?” Gregory asked.

“Each island a country in full, but all a part of a larger land. So powerful, and yet so secret. Finish your meal and I will tell you more,” the old woman said when she saw the frustration on Gregory's face.

Satisfied they had eaten their fill, she took the bowls and the cups and sat on the small, three legged stool and silently scrutinized them. “Yes,” she muttered. “I can see it.”

“She's lost her mind,” Gregory said.

Estelle stilled him with a hand on his arm. “What can you see?” she asked gently.

“
Mortis Rex
” the old woman said.

“I've read those words before,” Estelle said.

“And no doubt you want to know what they mean.” The old woman cackled. “But first let me tell you that you won't believe a word of it. You'll think that I'm making it all up, telling you stories, that it couldn't be true. You both think that I'm a foolish old woman who needs a good wash and a better place to live. I can see that, too. I can see lots of things.”

“Where have you seen those words?” Gregory asked, turning towards Estelle.

Estelle glanced sideways at him, but didn't say a word.

“Still distrustful I see. I would have hoped for more. Still, you two are bound to each other. The chords of fate have tied you to each other. Even as you speak to me they tighten. That cannot be changed. That which has started by magic, will be finished,” the old woman said.

Estelle moved to the edge of the pallet and lent towards the old woman, “Nothing has started between us. There is nothing. There never will be. We are not bound in any way other than payment for what he has done to my father,” Estelle said.

“I keep on telling you. I have done nothing to your father. I have found where he is and you have stopped me from his rescue,” Gregory said.

The old woman tutted. “This will never do. You two are meant to be falling in love. It is the prophecy, the finishing circle of magic. Amor fati. The fate of love. It cannot be wrong.” She muttered to herself and began rummaging through the several containers on the table top.

“In love!” Estelle gasped.

“Nonsense,” Gregory said at the same time. Estelle treated him to a long sidelong glance.

“I used to be young and beautiful, like you,” she indicated to Estelle with the tilt of her head, “and the fates spoke to me. When it has a hold of you, there is no escape. Like you, I didn't believe. Time has a way of showing you how wrong the young can be. I also thought I was in love. But your love, the love that you will have with each other, will be a real and lasting thing.”

“Madam, who are you and why did you bring us here?” Gregory demanded.

“You can think of me as your fairy godmother. And as for saving you, well, let's just say it's in my interest to have you together,” the old woman said.

“Surely you have a name,” Estelle said.

The old woman scooped out some items from a lidded bowl and replaced the lid. “Once I did. It has been so long since someone has called me by my name, I have almost forgotten it myself.”

“Maybe you can tell us where we are?” Gregory said.

“On an island surrounded by many more. There is old magic in these parts,” she said.

“Paradise,” Estelle whispered.

The old woman nodded, a humorless smile spread on her mouth showing several missing teeth. “It was magic that brought you here. I have asked the gods for so long and at last they have provided. They must have thought I suffered enough over these years. I knew if I just kept praying they would hear me. Even they know the good must balance the bad.”

“That is preposterous,” Gregory said.

“Let me show you.” The old woman threw the small stones that she held in her hand on the dirt floor. They scattered in all directions and Estelle saw that there were white scratches on the top and underside of the smooth brown stones. “The runes never lie,” she said, studying the stones with a practiced eye.

Estelle looked closely at the stones. The lines were not scratches at all, but were definite and quite intricate in their organization of the designs on each stone.

The old woman pointed to them with a gnarled finger, “There! I am right! There are the binding fates that surround a woman and a man brought to me on the breath of divine spirit. There is a task, something that binds you together, something strong enough to end these years of blackness. What is changed by magic must also be righted. Your fates have changed from an event caused by powerful magic. The gods have deemed fit to repay.”

“I can't see anything except chicken markings,” Gregory said.

The old woman looked at Estelle, here eye glinting with an intelligence that age had not wiped away, “But you do, don't you, Estelle. You believe. In fact, you
know
it is true. If not for your friend's magic, I could not have called for you. You have your own magic, but you have only touched the surface of it. You are more powerful than you give yourself credit for, more powerful than you could ever imagine.”

“Can you tell me how to use it? My voice? Tell me, please,” Estelle pleaded.

“It is something that must be learned. It is different for everyone.”

“What is she talking about?” Gregory demanded.

“That is also something for you to find out for yourself. I cannot tell. The fates would not allow it. At long last I have been granted a wish and I will not jeopardize my chance. They have intervened and brought you to me to end that which should not have begun.”

Estelle perched on the edge of the pallet, silent. She pursed her lips. “If we do this task, will you help me get back to my crew?”

“You worry about them. Understandable.” She picked up the runes, pressed them into her palm and murmured some low toned, unintelligible words before scattering them over the floor. “Danger surrounds them, but for the moment they are safe but you will not see them again before you do what the fates intend for you. So many lands, which one is the most powerful? All pieces of a puzzle. All tell but one chapter of a long, ancient story.”

Estelle sighed, her shoulders sagging a little. “What do I have to do?”

“Not just you. Both,” the old woman said.

“I have had enough of this,” Gregory said, standing. The hut was too small for him to stretch to his full height and he had to bend his neck and shoulders. He held the old woman with an edge of steel in his eyes. “Madam, thank you for your rescue and for the meal, but I must insist on leaving.”

The old woman tutted and shook her head. “Such a long way to go.”

“How many miles to the nearest town?” Gregory asked.

“I wasn't talking about location,” the old woman said.

He stiffly bowed his head towards the old woman. “Madam, good day to you.” Gregory made to step through the rough doorway of the hut when the old woman held him by his forearm with a speed remarkable for her age.

She touched her finger to her lips. “Shhh. They are coming.”

As she whispered, Estelle saw shadowy figures pass the hut, blocking out the twinkling sunshine as they moved. There were no crunching of stones or snapping on twigs as heavy men would do as they walked. There was only an eerie silence that had blanketed the animals and birdsong. The old woman held her finger to her lips, facing both Gregory and Estelle, silently warning that they too keep quiet. Estelle slowly stood and drew her sword, triggered by the stark fear she saw etched into the woman face.

She watched them pass, shadows sliding between the small, uneven gaps in the bracken walls. They were dressed head to foot in black, their large hats obscuring their faces in deep shadow. All had their swords drawn, gleaming dull silver in the sunlight. They didn't speak, but moved with a purposeful intent.

By the look of their clothes, they were the pirates from the ship. Estelle glanced at Gregory. He returned her look. His jaw clenched tight and a pulse ticked at the base of his throat. He also knew who they were. His hand went to the hilt at his belt then fell away slowly.

As if reading his thoughts, the old woman moved to the pallet, reached beneath the dirty blankets strewn on top and withdrew a golden, gleaming broad sword. It was the most magnificent sword Estelle had seen. The handle was intricate in design, having an intertwining patterns of lines where hand met sword. The ends of the lines wound into two dragon heads facing each other as if poised to fight, mouths open, revealing large pointy teeth and licking flames. The eyes were glowing rubies and emeralds dotted the lines along the handle. The cutting edge of the sword was broad and curved in a flowing arc, from the handle to the tip and glinted in the dappled sunlight. It tapered to a paper thin edge that would cut through a man's arm like butter.

The old lady dragged it across the dirt floor and pushed the handle into Gregory's hand. “Take this. You will need it.”