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  Petyr didn’t reply.

  “I could see the sky in that dream,” she said.

  “Perhaps you saw what could have been,” Petyr said.

  Shallah shook her head thoughtfully. “No,” she said. “I saw what is to come.”

  “But how can that be?” he asked.

  She tightened the knot in the sling and handed it to Petyr, then sat forward to warm her hands by the fire. “As you say,” she said, “I’m trying to keep the faith.”

  “How old were you when you lost your sight?” he asked tentatively.

  “I was in my eighth year,” she replied. “It seems a lifetime ago.”

  “Only ten years,” he corrected her. “My word, you’re not much more than a child.”

  “Oh, really?” she chided him. “And how old are you, Mr. Petyr Fleete Jr.?”

  “I’m in my twentieth year,” he replied challengingly, “with two children of my own to care for, thank you.”

  “Being a father doesn’t make you a man,” she said. “A boy can be a father, though he might not make a good one.”

  “Are you calling me a boy, then?” Petyr flared up.

  “Well, you’re quick to take offence! I said no such thing.” Shallah was bewildered. What had she said wrong? She had the feeling it would take much longer than she’d imagined to understand men. They were so moody!

  “Come,” he said grudgingly as Shallah removed her shoes, “let me bind your foot.”

  “With one hand?” she protested.

  “At the very least allow me to wash the cuts on your hands and face. I’ve water in my pack.”

  He seemed determined to occupy himself, but Shallah wouldn’t have it. “Please don’t fret over me,” she said. “You’ve cuts of your own to tend to, and you must rest.”

  “I won’t find rest tonight,” he admitted. “I thought I might but …” he trailed off.

  “I dread the morning,” she said.

  “As do I,” he said.

  Shallah sat tearing the remains of the blanket into strips for a while more, as Petyr tended the fire. Eventually, she lay back and let sleep take her to dreams of careless mirth. But Petyr could find no peace. A pain much deeper than the physical wouldn’t leave him be. He sat in the mouth of the cave, watching the shades of darkness until they began to lighten ever so slightly with the morn.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Petyr surprised Liam and Shallah with a small breakfast feast when they awoke. He’d laid out bread, fruit, cheese, nuts and the last of his oat cakes. He’d left the cave in the hopes of catching a small rabbit to roast over the fire but had had no luck, and when he returned he found his companions just waking. The three fell on the food and ate ravenously.

  It had rained some during the night and the air in the cave was damp. Raindrops dripped in the entryway, each drop as loud as a thunderclap in Petyr’s ears. They all knew what would come next. He longed to have it done for Shallah’s sake, for he knew all to well the agony of not knowing. It was always better to know for certain than to wonder, for one always wonders the worst.

  Once their bellies were full, Petyr sat back and tried to think of a beginning. For him, the story began when he’d gotten to his feet in that meeting and condemned a little boy to exile. From that day on he’d been haunted, unable to face what he’d done, yet unable to avoid it. Sitting across from that little boy now, as he caught raindrops in his palms in the cave’s entrance, Petyr wanted more than anything to beg his forgiveness. But there were more pressing tales to be told, and Shallah was waiting. So Petyr had to make his own beginning.

  It was Averill Olney who made the discovery.

  Her baby brother Wylf had been fretting all night long. He was red with fever and wouldn t take his mother’s milk. Come dawn, Edid sent little Averill to fetch Sabeline Guerin, who in turn sent the girl to draw water from the well for a healing drink. The child wouldn’t have been on the green so early otherwise. She wasn’t often sent to draw water, for more often than not she spilled her bucket before she made it back to the toft.

  Petyr was in the Carberry’s close when the first cries went up, not that he took much notice. He was locked in a heated argument with Betta over her daughter Catin’s refusal to watch his girls that day, for she said she could no longer stand his rudeness. The girl was cowering behind her mother, biting on her kerchief strings, as Petyr cursed so loudly he awoke the neighbours.

  Betta Carberry summoned up her sternest expression, her arms crossed over her ample bosom. “How dare you say such things about my Catin! You have some nerve, Petyr Fleete. bosom. “How dare you say such When Milo hears of this –”

  “Oh, damn your Milo!” Petyr burst out. “If he had any sense at all he would’ve beaten the cheek out of that girl years ago.”

  Betta’s eyes widened with shock. Catin ran for the house as though she thought Petyr might try to do the deed himself. “You’ll get off my toft and never come back if you know what’s good for you,” Betta bellowed, poking a finger into Petyr’s chest.

  Petyr noticed a commotion over by the well, but was too furious to pay any attention. Restraining the urge to slap the silly woman across the face, he turned on his heel and crashed through a gap in the hedge.

  “Wicked man,” Betta cried after him. “That’s the last time we’ll do you a kindness!”

  Petyr barreled his way across the green, hardly looking where he was going. The crowd milling about the well blocked his path and for a moment he thought of punching his way through.

  “What the devil’s going on?” he roared.

  Averill burst into tears.

  Rikild Blighton put an arm around the girl and drew her aside. “Calm yourself, Petyr,” she said softly, though her words were lined with lead. “You’re not the only one with troubles now.”

  Petyr felt his anger begin to dissipate. Rikild never failed to make him feel like a child throwing a tantrum, perhaps because Marion had so resembled her. The thought of his late wife filled him with shame. If she’d overheard his argument with Betta she wouldn’t have spoken to him for a month.

  The villagers were eyeing Petyr uneasily. “What is it?” he asked Rikild quietly.

  She turned to him in exasperation. “Haven’t you been paying attention?” she said. “There’s not a drop of water left. The well’s gone dry.”

  “But what about my brother?” little Averill sobbed, and Rikild bent to comfort her.

  Petyr turned away. How could the well go dry?

  The villagers had been in good spirits since Shallah and Liam’s departure the day before. There was an air of rejuvenation about the town as they all looked forward to better times to come. The evening before, Petyr had spent a pleasant hour playing with his daughters, the weight of worry lifted from his shoulders for the first time in weeks. Now, he watched his neighbours dragging their feet as they tramped off to the fields. What a short reprieve it had been, hardly worth the trouble.

  We’re being punished, he thought. We should never have sent that boy away

  Petyr’s stomach stirred with guilt.

  In keeping with tradition, the village council held a meeting. Petyr didn’t attend. He didn’t want to see the accusation in Old Brice’s eyes.

  His good friend Leland Goss stopped by his toft after the meeting and told him how it had gone. His wife Gemma, large with child, stood by with a resentful look on her face. Gemma was Marion’s younger sister, and agreed with her father where Petyr was concerned.

  According to Leland, the meeting had been like any other. Much shouting had taken place, and in the end nothing of importance had been decided upon.

  Leland smiled at Petyr. “Those old men haven’t got a clue. How’s about you and me put our heads together and figure this thing out, Pete? We’ll stun the lot of them.” Gemma clicked her tongue with distaste. Leland’s charm and easy-going nature might have made her fall in love with him once upon a time, but she certainly wasn’t in the mood for it that night.

  “We�
�ve got to get home to Moira,” she said, pulling on Leland’s arm. “Now, Leland.”

  Petyr bid his friends goodnight and went into the house. Alina and Emelota were asleep on their pallet, their masses of blonde curls spread out like a blanket. He sat by their side long into the night and thought about the well. If the water didn’t return there would be trouble, and the worst kind of trouble at that: trouble without answer. Petyr hadn’t hit upon trouble like that in a while, and his reaction to it surprised everyone, himself most of all.

  In the half-year since his wife had died, Petyr had fought at the world with a rage that couldn’t be contained. Only a month ago he might have sneered at the pompous council, and taken joy in their failure, for the truly miserable love misery and seek to create it at every turn. His hurt had twisted him into a bitter, callous mess of a man, the sort of man his children would grow to despise. But that day, as it dawned on him that the dark times they’d all thought passed were in fact only just beginning, Petyr felt no fury building in his belly. Instead, looking over the sleeping faces of his children, he felt panic budding in his chest, and beneath that – for the first time since his wife’s death – hope.

  He hoped the well would refill itself as mysteriously as it had drained. He hoped their village might be cured of its ills overnight. He hoped his daughters wouldn’t have to know thirst, for they’d already known grief, and that was yearning enough. In short, he hoped for a miracle.

  It didn’t come.

  The matter of the well was like a storm cloud hovering over the village. Throughout the next day it was discussed around every hearth and in every field and pathway. When neighbours met on the road they spoke of little else. “Any change?” they would ask. “Any word?”

  The answer was always the same.

  Two days into the water shortage, the harvest was brought in at last. The harvest feast had to be abandoned, for none could spare the water to cook the dishes. It was a terrible upset for the children. Petyr himself had to admit that without the celebrations the end of harvestime seemed to lose its significance. Though the workload in the fields would be lighter, they all knew there would be no reprieve from Rab Hale’s nasty temper – the drought had only enlivened it. An aura of dread hung about the villagers as they returned to their tofts that night.

  On the third day, the villagers’ spirits were uplifted for a time when Gamelin Turvey suggested an elaborate system to collect rainwater. Soon Gamelin could be seen walking about the village, followed closely by a band of children. But when it became quite clear that the rain wouldn’t come, the children dispersed, and Gamelin fell back into his lethargic haze.

  And still the well stayed dry.

  As they began seriously to take stock of their supplies, the villagers grew suspicious of one another. Amaria Hale was said to be refusing to discuss the amount of water her family had left. Rab Hale paced the fields at mealtime, criticising any who reached for their flasks too, his wife Sedemay at his heels, keeping score. Hacon Klink, old Malcol’s unmarried son, was locked in his home for hoarding two jugs of drinking water, and for one long hour there was talk of a hanging. Petyr watched his children grow weaker by the moment with a sense of impending doom.

  Soon it came time for assigning blame and once again the light became the culprit. When the cows ceased giving milk on the fourth day, the villagers chose to stay indoors. The dreadful sun was cursed for melting the water away. Children were scolded for playing in their own tofts.

  “I knew that child with the strange eyes was a bad omen,” Petyr heard Balduin Goss say. “Now look what’s happened.”

  The villagers abandoned their farm work and remained locked in their homes until night fell, as though their cherished darkness could save them. By day, the town was eerily quiet. Petyr was one of the few who saw the pointlessness of staying in, along with Sabeline Guerin, who was busier by the day.

  That afternoon, Petyr came upon her on the green, her basket of herbs tucked under her arm. She was seated on a stool by the well, so motionless that Petyr didn’t even notice her at first. He’d not encountered a soul for hours.

  When he approached her, Sabeline started, as unaccustomed to meeting others in the open as he. “Well, Petyr Fleete,” she said. “Brave enough to venture out into the light, are we?” She was speaking to him as many of the villagers still did – as though they had to keep him at arm’s length. He could hardly blame her.

  “It’s not a matter of bravery,” he replied. “You look tired, Sabeline.”

  She gave him an appraising look. “I am tired,” she admitted. “I only stopped for a short rest. Mirabel Carberry is ill.”

  It was difficult to think what to say next. “And how does your family fare?”

  “Better than most, I suppose,” she said, “though many families are doing well for the time being. It’s the coming days that concern me.” Her eyes searched his face. “They’ve given up. This nonsense about the light – it’s their way of giving up.”

  Petyr stared at her. He’d never heard anyone disparage the village’s fear of the light before, though he felt exactly the same way. The villagers had left off trying to fight their fate. They’d buckled down to wait for the worst to strike. He gazed down the road at the dismal fields. The threshing still had to be done, and the autumn ploughing. They’d abandoned everything, all to give themselves over to idle waiting – waiting for death.

  Sabeline was still watching him. “We could have made a plan,” he burst out. “We could have sent out bands to search for water. We could have scoured the entire forest! We could have done something, anything, other than this … this …”

  “Nothing,” Sabeline said, a knowing look in her eye.

  Petyr felt short of breath.

  “And how are your girls, Petyr?” she asked.

  That morning Alina had been too weak to rise from her pallet.

  Peter was roused from sleep by his younger daughter Emelota’s insistent voice.

  “Come on, Ali,” she was saying in a half-whisper. “I want to play with Finly.” Finly was their pig. Petyr had discouraged the girls from naming him, for he would be slaughtered this winter, but they’d gone ahead all the same.

  “Go, then,” Alina said. “I’m tired.”

  Emelota stamped her foot. “I want you to come too!” she cried.

  “I’m tired,” Alina said. Petyr rose from his pallet and placed his palm on his daughter’s forehead. “I’m so tired, Papa,” she said. “I can’t get up.”

  “Papa, it’s not fair!” Emelota exclaimed.

  That night, Petyr paid a visit to Old Brice. It wasn’t easy for him. He hadn’t stepped foot in the Blighton home since his wife’s death, and just the sight of the overlarge toft with its various outbuildings brought a rush of heartbreaking memories. Marion and he had been happy here. He’d once loved this family.

  Old Brice didn’t welcome him with open arms. The family was readying for sleep. He led Petyr to the trestle table, the same table they’d sat around when he’d asked for Marion’s hand. Rikild was busying herself by the hearth, but Petyr could tell she was lingering nearby to listen. It didn’t bother him. He’d grown determined that day, and didn’t care what anyone thought.

  “What is it, boy?” Old Brice asked none too kindly. Petyr noticed his beard had grown whiter in the past week. This crisis couldn’t be easy with seven children to feed.

  “I know I’m the last person you expected to find at your door,” Petyr began. “I know I’ve been hateful to you and yours these past months. There’s no excusing that. I’ve been –”

  “Get to the point,” Old Brice growled. Petyr’s new humility didn’t seem to be softening him one bit.

  Petyr folded his hands in front of him. “I want to leave the village,” he said.

  He spoke for over an hour, until his voice was hoarse and his mouth dry. He poured out all the guilt and frustration he’d felt over the last week. He explained his need to act, for if he didn’t, and his children ca
me to harm …

  Throughout, Old Brice eyed him suspiciously, as though unsure if he was being taken in. Petyr could tell he saw no merit in his plan. He took his sudden energy as the panic of a deeply pained man who’d lost a wife, and might soon lose a child. He saw only the man Petyr had been, not the one he’d become.

  “I don’t need your permission,” Petyr reminded him.

  “I’m well aware, my boy,” Old Brice replied. “It’s supplies you need, and for those, you'll need my support.”

  “I wish only to save our village. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “No harm at all, unless you fail,” Old Brice said. “You’ll return a broken man, or worse, you won’t return at all. You’ll die out there.”

  “We’re dying anyway, old man,” Petyr replied.

  Old Brice raised his eyebrows. “And the children?” he asked. They’d finally come to it, their point of contention. “What good will you do them by leaving them behind?”

  “All the good in the world,” Petyr said. “For they will die if I stay.”

  “You don’t know that!” Old Brice said harshly.

  “I know I can’t sit back and do nothing,” Petyr said.

  “Then go, you foolish boy,” Old Brice said, raising from his stool. He seemed to have resigned himself. “Be gone. I wash my hands of you.”

  Petyr didn’t linger, for he could tell he wasn’t wanted. As he crossed the close, he heard footsteps behind him. Rikild, her hair loose and flowing, pressed something into his palm. Without a word, she turned and ran back to the house, her grey skirts flying behind her. Petyr opened his hand.

  It was a bit of blue cloth.

  He looked back at the house, but Rikild had disappeared inside.

  It was a square of cloth cut from Marion’s wedding dress.

  The villagers thought Petyr a fool. Many were so sure of the forest’s dangers that they gave him their condolences, as though he were literally walking into death. Others simply scoffed at his arrogance.

  “How can you laugh at me for daring to depart when you’ve never stepped one foot into those woods?” Petyr countered when ridiculed. “How can you know there’s no water out there if you’ve never sought it out?”