Chapter 15: Robbie’s Story—A Witch

A patch of crabgrass, grown up between the blocks of the cart path, was Edward’s undoing. He tripped on it, and fell forward. “Shit!” he exclaimed as he fell, catching himself at the last instant on both hands. “Shit,” he exclaimed again, as he felt his right wrist bend backwards and heard something snap.

Unlike Casey’s fall, this one had seriously hurt Edward’s wrist. “There’s definitely a break,” Peter said.

Walter cut strips from his shirt and wrapped them around Edward’s wrist. “This will help,” he said. “It’s not enough, though.”

The boys rounded a bend in the path and nearly stumbled upon an old woman standing by a tipsy horse-drawn cart. The cart leaned heavily to the left. One wheel had left the path and then become mired in soft earth. Catching sight of the boys, the woman called, “Well, don’t just stand there, lift the cart.”

The boys stood, less mobile than the trees that lined the path, their eyes wide. The woman was unlike any they’d ever seen. Her skin was gray, her clothes—from bonnet to shoes—were gray, and they seemed—wispy was the word that came to Peter’s mind. The slightest breeze caused her cloak, skirt, blouse, and pantaloons to billow and swirl like angry clouds.

“Come on, boys,” she called again. “I’m in a hurry.”

Peter and Robbie exchanged glances and then shrugs before walking toward the old woman. Walter followed.

Strong young shoulders under the cart lifted it from the mire. The old woman’s gentle coaxing of the horse left the cart firmly upon the path.

“Thank you, boys,” she said.

“Well, if you’re coming, then come along,” she said, when none of the boys replied. “The horse can’t carry us all, and he’s slow. You,” she said, pointing to Edward, “you’re hurt. Sit beside me.”

She had mounted the cart’s seat, and patted the board beside her. Edward looked at Peter, who shrugged, and then nodded. Robbie helped the boy onto the seat.

Peter, Robbie, and Walter walked beside the cart as the sway-backed horse plodded down the path. “You boys . . . you’re not from around here,” the woman said. She caught the looks Robbie and Peter exchanged, and added, “Don’t be afraid of me.”

What she then said did nothing to reassure the boys. “How do I know you’re not from around here?”

She answered her own question. “In the first place, you’re too clean. People around here don’t bathe as often as they should.”

She sniffed her disapproval. “That’s one thing. For another, you’re too happy. People around here don’t smile as much as you do. That’s two. And, people around here don’t trust as much as you do. There’s no one I know who’d have ridden in my cart—or allowed a friend to do so. That’s three.”

“Um,” Peter began, before looking helplessly at Robbie.

“You’re right, of course,” Robbie said. “We’re not from around here. But neither are you.”

The woman looked sharply at Robbie. “Posh and tosh, boy,” she said. “Why would you say that?”

“Because,” Robbie said, “if what you say is true, then there’s no one from around here who would trust a bunch of strange boys to rescue them, or who would offer an injured boy a ride on her cart.”

“You have the right of it,” the woman said. She paused. “You’re from Arcadia, aren’t you?”

Robbie looked at the other boys. Something seemed to pass among them. Robbie nodded, and then told the woman their story, including Casey’s death, and their oath to find their fellows and free them. The woman nodded understanding each time Robbie paused; that gave him the courage to continue.

“So,” he concluded, “we set out on this road, and met you.”

“That’s quite a story,” the woman said. “The boy who died—Casey—showed extraordinary courage. He must have been a great warrior in another life—or is destined to become one.”

“They found us because they had some of his hair—some of all of our hair,” Robbie said. “After Casey killed the Red-Robe, we kept the bit of his hair they used to trace us. I still carry it.”

Robbie patted his pocket. “I don’t know what to do with it, though.”

The woman seemed to look inward for a moment, and then said, “Keep it safe. When the time comes, you will know what to do.”

In early afternoon they reached the woman’s home. It was a stone building with a slate roof, situated at a crossroads—at least, at the intersection of two paths. “Farmers from there, there, and there,” she said pointing to three of the paths, “come here on the way to market.” She pointed down the fourth path, the one that led east.

“Some stop. I have potions and herbs, and am the closest thing to a healer most of them know. Now, let’s look at Edward’s wrist.”

She tightly bound Edward’s wrist. The woman, who said her name was Esther, had given him a potion to dull the pain and help him sleep. After a brief supper of soup and bread, he dozed on a pallet in the corner of the single-room house.

“Can you carry him without waking him?” Esther asked. “The barn is big enough for you and the horse, and the straw is clean.”

Robbie nodded.

To Robbie’s eyes, his Companions glowed with boy magic—even Edward, who had been wakened by Peter’s cries of joy when he had shared with Walter. Edward’s participation had been short and languid before he fell asleep again.

Hours later, Robbie woke to sunlight coming through cracks in the boards of the barn. The dawn light overcame the glow of the boys’ magic. Robbie wakened the others. After a whispered consultation, they helped Edward to the watering trough. Robbie pumped it full while the others stripped. “I don’t care if people around here don’t bathe often enough,” Peter had declared. “I’m not going to be dirty!”

The others had agreed. “If we have to, we can just smear dirt on our faces and hands,” Walter had said.

“Come on, boys,” Esther called from the back door of her house minutes later. “It’s only porridge, but it’s hot.”

Breakfast was far more than porridge. It was porridge with blueberries, fresh bread and cheese, and apple juice. “Mistress Esther,” Peter said. “My father imposed few rules. One was, take care of your brother. I failed at that. Another was, a kindness is always repaid. What can we do?”

“Edward must rest for five or six days, perhaps more,” Esther said.

“But then we’ll never catch up!” Walter interjected.

“You would not have caught up, in any case,” Esther said. “The soldiers and clerics, with the rest of your friends, will have reached the North Mountain Road or the Iron River by now, perhaps even earlier. It’s not likely they waited while the others hunted you. When they reach the road or the river, they’ll load their captives onto wagons or boats. They’re already several days ahead of you, and will now be moving at least twice as fast as you could walk.”

She saw puzzlement in the boys’ eyes, and added, “They took my son and killed his father and uncle. That was ten decades ago. I have made it my task to find out all I could about them.”

The boys were stunned, and then disheartened by the rest of what Esther told them.

“The Red Robes and soldiers are not ordinary slavers. They were commissioned by Prince Pancrator. They take only boys with innate magic. The Red Robes,” she said, “can see that in boys. Their captives will not be taken to the slave market at Hagen, but to the prince’s city, Herten—the heart of Eblis.”

“But why are you here?” Edward asked. “You are not like them!”

Robbie tried to shush the boy. “You shouldn’t ask,” he said.

“It is all right,” Esther said. “You may know. I’ve had a century to—not to get over it, but to become accustomed to it.

“My husband and his brother were clerics and healers in Morrow,” Esther continued. The boys nodded. They’d heard of Morrow. It was the nearest city to the western marches of Arcadia in which they’d lived.

“I, too, was a healer, herbalist, and midwife. They and I got the notion that we could come to Eblis and bring the Light with us by healing and by example. We traveled for days until we found this place. It was unoccupied and there was no roof. A bribe to the reeve in the nearby market village was sufficient to ensure that our claim would be recognized. Regular gifts to him thereafter ensured that we’d be able to perform healing.

“Of course, he assumed that we were charlatans, heuristic healers, or worse. Nor did we do anything to change his mind. We did, however, restore the buildings and refresh the orchards. That’s where the apple juice came from. We fenced in pastures and traded healing for a few goats that were the start of our herd.

“Gradually, we came to be known to the farm families hereabouts as competent healers. We were becoming an accepted part of the community. And then, the Red Robes came.” She paused. The boys sat quietly.

When Esther had composed her face, she continued. “Since then, I’ve been given a new title: that of witch.”

She smiled at the boys’ consternation. “They don’t believe I’m a real witch, or they’d have burned me. They cannot bring themselves to believe that I’m a real healer, either. They just don’t see enough magic to understand. And, since there is no other healer, they have to keep me alive. I walk a narrow path, though, between two sharp crevasses. One misstep, and I’ll fall. Until then, however, I try to keep our dream alive.”

“Mistress?” Peter set a basket of apples on the stoop. The others were still in the orchard. They’d picked up all the windfall apples, and were now climbing trees to pick others. They had brought Edward into the orchard to keep them company.

Esther pushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “Yes, Peter?”

“Mistress, are we likely to be that misstep that will cause you to fall?”

Esther looked closely at the boy. “You think well and deeply, Peter. And you deserve the truth. Yes, you could be, but you are not likely to be—” She held up her hand to forestall his speaking. “You are not likely to be, but more important, you are the—perhaps realization isn’t the best word—but you are an important part of the dream that brought my family here, and has kept me here.

“Casey would rather have died than be in chains. I would rather die than turn you away. Do not talk about this with the others until long after you have left this place.” Esther turned back to her tasks.

The apples, pressed, yielded sweet juice. Some would be drunk now; most would be put in the cellar where natural fermentation would preserve it through the winter. The boys shoveled the mash into troughs from which both the horse and the goats would eat. Esther smiled as she thanked the boys. “You’ve done in a day what would have taken me a tenday. Come, wash and then into the kitchen for supper.”

After breakfast the next morning, the boys looked to Esther for tasks. “Edward,” she asked, “will you shell peas with me? I think it will help your wrist heal without losing its ability to move. I know that’s girl’s work—”

“Not in my home,” Edward said, and then grinned.

“Nor in mine,” Robbie said. “We all did.”

“Humph,” Esther said. “I’d nearly forgotten that about Arcadia. They don’t subjugate women as is done around here. That’s something else for you to learn.

“Then will the rest of you pick the peas? If you finish before noon, we’ll shell. Then, I’ll show you how to dry them quickly.”

The three able-bodied boys made short shrift of harvesting the peas. After bread and cheese, and the ubiquitous apple juice, they all sat at the kitchen table and shelled. While they did, Esther told them about Eblis, about what to expect, and about how to behave.

“People won’t find it unusual that four boys—even as young as you—would be wandering the countryside. If anything, they’ll find it unusual that you’re still alive and free. The wanderlust usually doesn’t strike until a boy’s a tween,” Esther said. “You know about that?”

The boys nodded, and she continued. “Boys like you are usually wandering not from wanderlust but because they’re runaway apprentices, escaped slaves, or orphans. None of you were branded were you?”

“Branded?”

“Marked with a hot iron,” Esther said. “A burn that becomes a scar.”

The boys looked at one another and shuddered.

“You don’t have slave brands,” Esther said. “Those are put on the forehead. Apprenticeship brands are put on the chest.”

“No, Mistress,” Peter said. “None of us are branded.”

“Then you can claim not to be runaway apprentices. Let people think you’re orphans. Tell them you’ve come from First Rapids. It’s a village west of the first real town on the Iron River. It’s a turbulent place. People won’t be surprised to find orphans from there.

“However, you must avoid the question if possible. You never know who’s a spy for the prince—and his spies are usually semblers.”

“Do you believe her?” Peter whispered to Robbie that night as they cuddled in a blanket-covered nest of hay. “That we’ll never be able to catch up with the others? You’re a sembler. Is she telling the truth?”

“I . . . I’m not sure,” Robbie replied. “When I let that soldier believe I was a Sembler—it wasn’t quite true.”

“But how—?” Peter asked, clearly puzzled.

“He seemed . . . not as worried as he should have been . . . it was almost as if he expected to be rescued . . . as if he knew we were still being followed. I took a chance, and asked him how else we were being followed. When he thought I was a sembler, well, he seemed . . . more afraid . . . and afraid of me! So, I let him believe that.

“But the part about the Mendicant telling me I’d be a Sembler was true. I’m just not there, yet.”

“Actually,” Peter said. “You may be.”

“Huh?” It was Robbie’s turn to be puzzled.

“How old are you?” Peter asked.

“Twenty-four. Well, I’ll be twenty-four at Fall Equinox,” Robbie said.

“So, you’ve only been a boy for what—five or six years?”

“Six,” Robbie replied.

“I’ve been a boy for nearly a half-century,” Peter said. “And, like you, I’ve sworn Brotherhood with a tween.”

Robbie hid his surprise. He’d told Peter and the others about Arthur when they asked him about his missing dagger. They’d understood why he had sworn with them rather than returning to Arthur. Robbie and they knew that either he would find his way back to Arthur, or would see him in another life, but that now, the freedom of their former companions was more important.

“My friend is named Kim, and he is a mage,” Peter continued. “He was teaching me things, building on what my Grandmother had taught me. He explained that he could see the truth or a lie using a spell to see another person’s . . . he called them life signs: respiration, perspiration, and things that looked like ripples on a pond. He said that a natural Sembler did that with his own, inborn magic.

“Robbie, I didn’t see the things you saw in that soldier. I was puzzled that you were so easily able to make him tell the truth. Now I understand. You are becoming a Sembler.”

“But you don’t become a Sembler until you’re a tween,” Robbie protested.

“I know,” Peter said. “And I think that’s happening to you.”

Rain showers in the hours before dawn had soothed the boys’ sleep. The morning sun pulled hot mist from the garden and orchards. Edward’s wrists no longer pained him, but Mistress Esther refused to allow him to use his hands for heavy work. As she had promised, she showed the boys how to use magic to dry the peas. “It’s not the Great Magic,” she said, when Peter had protested. “It’s akin to the simple Craft Magic that a Weaver or Potter uses. It does make noise, but it’s the kind of noise that comes from every hut and holt in the land. Listen for it. Before you can learn to control the noise of your magic, you must be able to hear it.”

All the boys struggled, but only Peter was able to use—and hear—magic as Esther showed them. “Do not be discouraged,” she said. “This is something that requires decades to learn. Peter’s been learning for a long time, have you not?”

Peter only nodded.

* * * * *

“Mistress?” Robbie asked. “Peter thinks I’m becoming a tween. But it’s much too soon! I’ve only been a boy for a few years!”

Esther looked at the boy. “He may be right. You have accepted a great responsibility; you have become the leader of your friends—”

“But Peter,” Robbie interrupted. “Peter was the one who found a way for us to escape. Peter led us deeper into Eblis . . .”

“Yes,” Esther said. “But it was you who refused to abandon Casey. It was you who first swore on your life that you would be free; it was you who convinced the others that their oath was a good oath; it was you who killed the soldier rather than risk the lives of your companions.”

Esther waved her hands as if brushing away a cobweb. “You know that there is more. You are their leader, and even Peter knows that. He has accepted your leadership; the others will.”

When she said those words, Esther’s eyes widened. Robbie did not see.

They’re on a quest, Esther thought. They’re on a quest, and do not know it. What can I say? What must I not say? I do not know!

* * * * *

Edward’s wrists were slow to heal, and even after Esther said the bones had knitted, she cautioned him to be careful and not try to do anything that required great strength. Therefore, he spent much of his time in the house, helping prepare food for winter storage and drying herbs, while the other boys labored in the orchard and garden.

One afternoon, Esther rummaged in a trunk for winter clothes to cut down for the boys. She removed from the trunk a wooden, alto recorder. The wood seemed to glow in the dim light, and drew Edward’s attention.

“Oh, Esther! That is so much more beautiful than the one I left behind. May I—” Something told Edward that the recorder must have belonged to one of Esther’s family, now killed or taken as slaves, perhaps dead. He bit his lip.

Esther understood. “It was my son’s. He was your age when he was taken. He would be a man, now, had he lived.” She stood silently for a moment, and then held out the recorder to Edward. “Would you take this as a gift from him?”

Edward understood. Through the recorder and its music, Esther would remember her son. Through the gift, Edward would be linked in some small way to him. “Thank you, Mistress,” Edward said. “What is his name?”

“Frederick,” she said. “He is Frederick.”

Edward took the recorder. He wiggled his fingers and lay them along the holes. A breath taken, he began to play. It was a simple tune that fit within the range of the instrument. Elsewhere and elsewhen, it would be known as Danny Boy. In Edward and Esther’s world as in many other places and times, it was a lament for the dead. Edward segued immediately into a jig, a song suited for a dance of celebration. When he finished, he said, “Those songs come from my tradition. I hope . . .”

Esther smiled. “It’s been a long time, but I remember both, and their meanings. Thank you.”

The boys had resolved to continue their rescue mission. “We will go to Herten. If we have to, we’ll go to Ultima Thule,” Robbie declared.

“First Market begins in three days,” Esther announced. “Edward’s wrist has healed.”

She smiled, and added, “I would like to keep you here longer. You all need more food in you. And here you would have some protection.

“I know that cannot be,” she added. “Farm families will begin to pass through the crossroads beginning tomorrow. One, perhaps two, I trust, and they trust me. I will ask them to take you to market with them.”

The boys nodded. They understood that they’d face semblers, even at a small market village. At some point, they could tell enough of the truth about themselves to pass. Having someone else answer for them, though would get them into the market village.

“You will need money. You will take pots of the preserves that you have helped prepare, and bags of herbs you have helped gather and dry. You will sell them at the market. This will bring you some money, which you must husband carefully.

“The people you meet will provide food and shelter, and will not accept payment. Do not offer it. To do so would be an insult to them—and to me.”

Esther spend the rest of the evening telling the boys what they would need to know, how to behave, and, above all, what not to do.

* * * * *

The boys were tense as they approached the town, but Esther was right. The farmer with whom they traveled, when asked by the Sembler, simply said, “Smithson of Smith farm and some boys from Mistress Esther’s place at the crossroads.” The truth, and enough of the truth, Robbie thought. And Peter’s right. I saw the ripples. I am becoming a Sembler.

“Mistress Esther said you were headed east,” Smithson said.

Robbie’s eyes narrowed, but he saw nothing that suggested the man was untrustworthy. Not that I’d recognize it for sure, he thought. And she did say she trusted this man. “Yes,” he said. “We go to join some friends who have traveled to Herten before us.”

“Going to be gladiators, are you?” Smithson asked. Whatever he saw in Robbie’s eyes disabused him. “No, no, of course not. In any case, I know just the family for you to meet. They raise goats about 10 miles east of here.” He looked hard at Robbie. “I trust them, as Mistress Esther trusts me.”

Robbie nodded.

Smithson took the four to a stall in which were stacked wheels of cheese. Smithson introduced the boys to the woman who occupied the stall, told her where they’d come from, and explained their desire to travel east, she agreed. “My husband and the boys are”—she waved her arms to encompass the bustle of the market—“somewhere. We’ll be glad of your company. There are some folks who live east of us and who visit from time to time. We’ll introduce you to them.”

After the three days of market, the boys joined the cheese-stall family for the walk back to their farm. The tumbrel on which they’d brought cheese to market was filled with sacks of flour and baskets of squash and dried fruit. Two men and two tweens shared the task of pulling the tumbrel, but politely declined the boys’ offer to help.

The six sons of the family were polite, but remote. None offered to wash any of the Companions, nor to share boy magic. The Companions were invited to share the boys’ room, but were offered a separate bed. Something happened the next morning, however. After breakfast, Aubrey—the eldest boy, and a tween—invited Robbie, Peter, Walter, and Edward to help them repair a stone fence. “The rain washed away a footing. It won’t take nearly as long to fix it as father thinks, and there’s a stream that makes a great place to swim just beside it.”

The work was not hard, and went as quickly as Aubrey had promised. He insisted that they all wash in the stream before their picnic lunch. Nothing was said, but Peter found himself being washed by Aubrey. He looked around to see that one of Aubrey’s brothers had attached himself to each of Peter’s companions. Aubrey’s hands sliding down Peter’s stomach brought that boy’s penis erect, and his attention sharply back to Aubrey.

“We’ll nap after lunch,” Aubrey said, gesturing to where blankets and the picnic had been spread under an oak tree. “But first, will you share boy magic with me?”

Peter glanced again at his companions. It was apparent that each of them had received a similar invitation. “Why today, and not yesterday?” he asked.

Aubrey blushed. “We didn’t know. Father said only this morning that you were guests who could be trusted.”

“Who or what is a Post Master?” Robbie asked Aubrey the next morning.

“Where did you hear that?” Aubrey’s father chuckled when he heard the question.

“Walter heard Aubrey tell one of his brothers that the Post Master sent us here,” Robbie said.

“Do you know of post riders and post horses?” Aubrey asked.

“Post riders are messengers—Army men—who ride swiftly, changing horses at fixed places—posts—along the route,” Walter said.

“But you have no horses,” Peter said. “And the ones that pulled Master Smithson’s cart to the market were not the steeds of swift messengers.”

Aubrey chuckled. “Messengers and their horses and way stations were the inspiration. You are trustworthy; what I am going to tell you is a secret I entrust to you. Do you understand?”

“You want our oaths,” Robbie said.

“No,” Aubrey replied. “You are trustworthy; therefore no oath is required, only understanding. If you were not trustworthy, no oath would be meaningful.”

Robbie and the others nodded solemnly. “We understand,” he said.

“We are a link in a chain of Post Houses,” Aubrey said. “We depend on the trust and trustworthiness of the links on either side of us. We transport and protect messages, small items of value, and—occasionally—people: a grandmother visiting her namesake, for example.”

“You’re smugglers!” Walter blurted.

“Of a sort,” Aubrey’s father chuckled. “Of a sort.”

And we are being smuggled, Robbie thought. I know it. He knows it. He knows I know it, and I know he knows I know it. And both of us know not to come out and say it.

Assured of hosts for the next leg of their journey, and having become fast friends with Aubrey and his brothers, Robbie and his companions easily agreed to stay on, and gladly helped the boys with their chores. After five days, visitors arrived from the east. The two men and four tweens reached the house while most of the boys were at the swimming hole. A child ran from the house and called to them. By the time they reached the house, the visitors had bathed and were seated at the kitchen table.

“Robbie, Peter, boys,” Aubrey’s father said, encompassing Walter and Edward, “know my sister’s son, Mark and his companions. I’ve told them you were friends, and trustworthy. Know that I trust them. They will take you to their town, which lies on the Great Mountain Road.”