Brightly Coloured Paths
The men were rough and rude, and Roland MacTavish didn’t like them at all. They demanded the best rooms and the finest food in the inn. The MacTavish, Roland’s father and the owner of the inn, did all but lick the ground where they walked. Roland took their horses for them and said nothing when they cursed at him and told him to be careful with the animals, and called him “Boy” and threw him a shilling for his trouble.
He knew who they were; everyone did. They were Imperial High Police, imposing figures dressed in black and green. But that did not give them the right to treat the villagers like inferiors, Roland thought, here in this land where his family had lived for hundreds of years, maybe even before there was any such thing as High Police—even before there was an Empire. Other boys in the village talked with bright eyes and high expectations of the day when they might be recruited by the High Police. They spoke of going to Athrom, the Great City of the Emperor, to train, and of becoming great warriors. Roland, the only son of his father, knew that he might one day be taken into the ranks of Black-and-Greens, but for him there was no joy in the knowing.
When the men went to bed drunk that night, Roland kept the village children entertained with imitations of their peacock’s strut and harsh accents.
He did not learn to be afraid of them until the next day, when they began asking after Virginia Ramsey.
They went to Wee Cameron first, the five-foot-two blacksmith with arms like iron pillars. Roland was in Wee Cam’s shop, helping shoe a horse, when the soldiers came in, asking where to find a blind girl who was rumoured to have strange gifts.
Wee Cam chewed on a bit of straw and looked at them with squinty eyes out of a sooty face. “What would you be wanting her for?” he asked.
One soldier answered. “She’s wanted in Londren.” He grinned.
Wee Cam spit and folded his enormous arms over his chest. “Sorry, but I canna help you.”
The soldier stepped forward menacingly. “I’m asking as an officer of the Empire,” he said.
Wee Cam drew himself up to his full height and glowered at the soldier from a face that was nearly as ruddy as his hair. His eyes sparkled with heat borrowed from the forge.
“And I’m tellin’ you, as a citizen of this village, that I canna help you.”
The soldiers backed out of the shop and went in search of more amicable help. A look passed between Roland and Wee Cam, and without a word Roland left the horse to Cam’s able care. The men were on their way back to the inn, and Roland followed them with a mounting sense of dread.
He listened as his father told the men how to reach the side of the mountain. Roland wondered if the men would toss his father a coin for his troubles. No doubt the MacTavish would be properly grateful for it.
Before the MacTavish had finished detailing the way to Virginia’s outcrop, Roland was running for Angslie as fast as his feet could fly. He ran first for the little stone house where Grandfather Ramsey would even now be working the land, but he changed direction midway and ran for the great house of Robert Sinclair, Lord of Angslie, instead. This was the laird’s land. There had to be something he could do.
* * *
Lord Robert had not been gone half an hour when light began to probe once more at the corners of Virginia’s darkness. But there was no shock this time; no swirling, reeling bewilderment of colour and scene. Instead, gentle rays of light found their way through to her eyes. They illuminated no strange scene, but her own hillside. She saw the rock and earth beneath her and the blue sky overhead, speckled with clouds. She saw the colours of her own skirt and the plaid wrapped around her shoulders. She saw the deerhound sleeping by her side, its rib cage rising and falling under a cover of wiry fur.
She turned her head to look at the worn path that stretched away from the outcrop and down the mountainside. Someone was coming up the path toward her.
As he came closer, a breeze rustled through the grass ahead of him. It carried the scent of spring flowers and running water. Virginia felt something stir inside her. His shadow fell over her, but it was not a like a shadow—it was like light coming through raindrops. She looked to his face and found that she could not describe him. He seemed young, but then he seemed old; his skin was neither dark nor white. He wore a homespun robe and his feet were bare.
He came very close, and Virginia stood to meet him. He held out his hand to her and she took it, without hesitation or fear. His touch was strong and warm.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked in a voice as indescribable as his face.
She nodded, slowly. “You are the King.”
“Do I look like a king?” he asked, glancing down at his homespun robe and bare, calloused feet.
“Yes,” she answered.
He smiled. “You see very clearly, little one. What do you know of me?”
“Only that I will follow you wherever you go, if you will let me come,” Virginia said. His presence filled her with a sweetness and peace that she had never known. All that was in her reached out to him. The only fear in this moment was that he might leave, as all visions left.
“You name me king,” he said. “Of what kingdom? Can you tell me that?”
“I do not know.” Virginia faltered. “But, if my heart can be called a kingdom, then you have a throne in it. Somehow, I think you always have—though I have never seen you before today.”
A distant light appeared in his eyes. “Be it known, then,” he said, “that I am the king of all the world and all the sky and all the stars, and of all the vast worlds beyond them. There was a time I walked this earth and all hearts knew me. But they have forgotten. They wanted to forget.”
The sadness in his voice tore at Virginia’s heart, and all she could say was, “I’m so sorry.”
“So am I,” he said, smiling again. “But you, and a few others, will wake the world to me. Yes, your heart is a kingdom, and I am king in it. Be ready, for I will come soon.”
“Can I not go with you now?” Virginia asked, for he had begun to move away from her.
“No,” he said. “You will come to me some day, but not for a time. Can you be courageous, little one?”
“Yes,” she said.
“My enemies hunt you, and you must face them,” he said. “Do not forget who I am. And do not forget who you are, no matter what happens. This day I have called you mine.”
Far away, Virginia thought she heard the baying of a hunting hound. For the first time since she had first seen the shadow creature in her visions, she felt no fear at its coming. He looked toward the sound, and his face was solemn.
“Remember me,” he said, “and through you I will wake the world.”
He let go of her hand and stepped back down the path. Behind him a circle of light flared into being. He faded away into it. In the next instant, Virginia’s sight was gone.
The loss of his presence left an echo in her of such deep longing that she fell to her knees on the path and wept.
* * *
Roland fell against the oak door. He pounded on it with all the strength he had left, panting for breath. His knees buckled under him when the door swung open, revealing the housekeeper’s stern face.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Please,” the boy gasped. “I need to see the laird. It’s about Virginia Ramsey.”
“What about her?” said a deep voice from the shadows behind the housekeeper.
Lord Robert stepped up to the door. Roland started to answer, but his words trailed into nothing as the world spun around him. The laird knelt down beside the boy and lifted him up, brushing blond hair back from the child’s face.
“Come now, boy. What do you have to tell me?” he asked.
Roland drew a deep breath of air. “They’re going to take her away,” he said, leaning heavily on Lord Robert’s shoulder.
“Who? Who is?” Lord Robert asked.
“The police,” Roland gasped out.
“Village police?” The laird’s face was a knot of frowns.
“No, no,” Roland said. “High Police.”
Lord Robert stood and handed Roland over to his housekeeper.
“Get him something to drink,” the laird commanded. “I believe he’s run the whole six miles from the village.”
With Roland safely in the housekeeper’s care, Lord Robert dashed out the door in the direction of Virginia’s mountainside.
* * *
Virginia heard them coming even before the deerhound began to growl. The breath of a shadow hound echoed in their footsteps. The deerhound tensed and she rubbed his neck soothingly.
“Hush,” she said. “Lay still.”
The footsteps came closer. The deerhound sprang to his feet, ignoring Virginia’s entreaties to lay down. The dog’s deep-throated growl rose to a crescendo, and he sprang toward the intruders.
Virginia heard the sound of cursing and the metallic whir of a sword being drawn. The hound’s bark ended abruptly in a long whine. Suddenly the men were all around her. The flat edge of a knife pressed underneath Virginia’s chin, forcing her face upward as someone wrenched her arms behind her. She felt a man’s breath on her face as shackles closed around her wrists.
“Blind as a bat, just like they said,” said the man in front of her. His voice became low and taunting.
“We’re going to take you away, girl. They want to see you, and they don’t never let anyone go home again. What do you think of that, eh?”
Virginia said nothing. The knife was pulled away, allowing her head to drop into a bowed position.
“Aw,” said one of the men. “She didn’t answer. Maybe she’s deaf, too.”
They laughed. Rough hands grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet. The heavy iron shackles rubbed painfully against her wrists, and she stumbled as the men propelled her forward. The path, usually so familiar, seemed strange to her feet.
They were still talking, joking with each other, but their voices were only an incoherent noise in Virginia’s ears. She thought she heard the deerhound whine nearby, and her thoughts reached out toward him, longing to go and bury her face in his wiry fur. Had they killed him, she wondered—was it only her imagination that heard him whining for help? If he was not dead, he was badly hurt, or he would have been at the men long before. Desperation welled up inside of her, and she moved against the grip of her captors, as though she would tear her hands free from the shackles and run for the cover of the hills. And her old hound, her most faithful and understanding companion, would rise to its feet and run like the wind at her side.
“Look,” one of the men said suddenly, “Tears. There’s a person in there after all!”
Someone grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, making her clench her teeth against the pain. He stood close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, and shouted into her face, “Are you afraid, girl? Are you afraid?”
She made no reply. He let go of her, shoving her head forward with such strength that she fell to the ground.
“Get her up, and let’s get out of here,” said the man. “Looks like a storm’s brewing.”
The hands were back at her arms again, making the iron bite into her wrists. Before she was steadily back on her feet, a familiar voice rang out over the mountainside.
Lord Robert.
He shouted again, a wordless, raging sound. The hands let go of Virginia and she sank down on the path, her heart beating painfully. Her protector had come. She whispered a prayer for his safety—to the one whose words still echoed in her heart. “Remember me.”
The sounds of a fight broke out. Metal clashed against metal; bone against bone; and suddenly all was silent.
In a moment the laird touched her shoulder with a hand shaking with adrenaline.
“Are you all right?” the laird asked. His voice was shaking like his hand. Virginia started to nod, and instead found herself being lifted in strong arms.
“I’m going to keep you safe,” he said. “But you’ll have to come away with me.”
In answer she nodded, and then turned her face into his chest and let him carry her away.
* * *
The Galcic forests were deep and golden with the colours of fall. As time passed, Maggie found herself overwhelmed by the abundant presence of tree, rock, stream, and leaf; each one so much like the others, and yet uniquely its own, and all occupying one vast, peaceful world. In this place where insects lived for a brilliant day and trees stood guard for centuries, time ceased to hold much meaning. The solitude of the forest bore down on her, now like a weight, now like a song. At times she wished for nothing more than to see a town, and the next moment she hoped that she might become endlessly lost in the woods, never to see another human settlement with its noise and confusion again.
If it wasn’t for Nicolas, she was sure, she would be lost. There were moments when she was quite certain the path led in one direction, but Nicolas and Bear would confidently head in another. When she could see no path at all, they did not slow their steps. Boy and beast seemed equally a part of the forest.
They had been in the forest for three days. Maggie’s shoes were beginning to give way under the constant friction of roots and ruts and pebbles. Her whole body ached from walking. Nicolas, his feet bare, did not seem to notice any strain. He walked until he grew tired, and then they would stop and rest in the cool shade of the trees. Nicolas would curl up and sleep soundly, and Maggie soon learned to sleep when he did. If she did not, the chance would be lost. Even at night, they walked.
At first, Maggie was concerned about food. But what Nicolas did not find, Bear did: they ate roots, leaves, nuts, and berries. Nicolas fashioned a spear from a thin branch and caught three fish with it. The scanty fare rarely left Maggie feeling full, but she did not lack for energy.
It was late afternoon, and Nicolas was singing. The song was a nonsensical spinning of melody and words without any meaning. His long branch-spear waved in the air in time to the music, now and then moving quickly enough to whistle in the air and add punctuation to the song.
The path moved steadily downhill. A piece of rock gave way under her foot, and Maggie slipped. She winced at the strain on her sore muscles as she struggled back to her feet.
Nicolas turned at the sound of her fall and ran back to her. He offered his hand, and she gladly took it. She brushed herself off, grimacing as her fingers brushed a tender patch on her leg.
“Oh, that’s going to hurt later,” she said under her breath, envisioning a purple bruise. She let out a breath of air and started to walk forward again, but Nicolas stopped her.
“You look tired, Maggie,” he said. For the first time he seemed to notice the weariness in his companion’s step. His face crumpled into such an expression of worry that Maggie almost laughed at the sight. He gestured downhill.
“There’s a good resting place, just down there,” he said. “Come just a little further. And then you can rest as long and hard as you like.”
Maggie couldn’t help smiling as he clambered down the hill just ahead of her, now and then telling her how good a resting place they were coming to.
It was a good place, indeed. Maggie almost fainted with relief at the thought of curling up on the patch of moss and leaves and sleeping until she wasn’t tired any more. As Bear puttered around nearby, she lowered herself down onto the welcoming carpet and closed her eyes.
She had barely begun to dream when Nicolas’s urgent voice penetrated her sleep. She opened her eyes a crack and squinted at him. He was peering down at her with great excitement, rambling on about something. It took Maggie a minute to adjust her senses to the point where she could actually understand what he was saying.
“Come on, Maggie, we’ve got to go now or we’ll miss them. You can sleep all you want when we get there.”
“That’s what you said about this nap,” Maggie complained, clambering groggily to her feet. “Can’t we stay here a little longer?”
Nicolas was pacing back and forth on the path. “It’s not far, I promise. You won’t regret it.”
Maggie’s head hurt as she followed Nicolas. She realized that she really needed sleep; needed it very badly.
“Where are we going?” Maggie asked, when she had caught up with Nicolas.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he said. “There’s a Gypsy camp ahead.”
Briefly, Maggie wondered how he knew that, as she had seen no sign of human company in the woods. She bit back her questions. The flight from the inn had given her a sort of faith in Nicolas’s instincts—his hearing, or whatever it was he had.
“Tell me,” she said as they walked, “Why do we want to catch up with the Gypsies?”
Nicolas looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “You can ride instead of walking, sleep even when we’re moving, and eat meat instead of berries. And they may have feather pillows.”
Maggie grinned. “Don’t you think we’re going too slowly?”
Nicolas laughed. “Well then,” he said, “Catch me if you can!”
Without another word he sprinted ahead through the trees, leaping obstacles like a goat. Maggie ran after him, surprised at the strength that rose up in her at his challenge. They ran for a few minutes, until Maggie had to stop for air. She leaned against a tree and gasped in deep breaths, laughing as she did so.
Nicolas came back to stand by her. “There’s a clearing just beyond those trees,” he said. “Campfires and horse dung all over the place. Looks like they’ve just moved out. They can’t be far.”
Maggie nodded. After another minute, they headed down the path again. Their step was slower this time, but they soon came across the abandoned campsite. A much wider path, clearly distinguishable as a road with wheel ruts on either side, led out of the clearing. On another side, a similar road headed out.
“Which one?” Maggie asked, gesturing toward the roads.
Nicolas didn’t hesitate, but walked toward the first. “This one,” he said. “They’re very close. I can hear them.”
Maggie shook her head and followed him, Bear at her heels. In a short time she thought she heard voices, and before long, she clearly recognized the sounds of horses, wagons, and shouts. Bear began to grunt as he caught the scent of the camp ahead.
A sudden cracking noise interrupted Maggie’s walk, and a small figure fell in a shower of leaves from the overhanging tree branches. Maggie jumped back with a startled cry. The creature had nearly landed on top of her. With her heart still thudding in her chest, she broke into laughter at the sight that met her eyes. A boy, no more than four or five years old, stood in the road, holding a wooden sword. Dark eyes glowered out of a round, dirty face. The boy wore trousers that had once been white, and a green vest without any buttons that exposed a bare chest.
Maggie moved toward him. The child’s skinny arm lifted the wooden sword defensively. He snarled like a fox. Suddenly his eyes grew large, and he stepped back. Maggie felt the massive form of Bear just behind her. She reached up a hand to touch the animal’s head, and held out another hand toward the boy.
“It’s all right,” she said. “See? He won’t hurt you.”
The boy lowered his sword apprehensively, eyeing Maggie and Bear with evident suspicion. His feet remained rooted to the road.
“Would you like to pet him?” Maggie asked, stepping even closer to Bear to demonstrate the absence of danger.
Curiosity overcame the child’s caution. He took three hesitant steps forward. Then, throwing caution to the wind, he let his sword drop limply to his side as he trotted happily forward and reached out to touch Bear’s nose.
Bear licked the boy’s hand with his long, rough tongue. The child laughed. His laugh was musical and free of fear, and Maggie melted under his charm. She crouched down beside him and laughed with delight as his giggles erupted under the force of Bear’s sniffing nose and wet tongue.
Nicolas’s voice broke through Maggie’s reverie, coming from somewhere oddly far off.
“Don’t look now, Maggie,” he said, “but you’re surrounded.”
She jerked her head up, and her mouth dropped open at the sight of the people standing silently all around. They stood on the road and in the midst of the trees, at least twenty of them, dressed in ragged, brilliantly coloured skirts and vests and head scarves. Men and women both wore earrings and necklaces, and the women wore loose bracelets. Their hair was long and dark and curly, and they held weapons of many shapes and sizes in their hands.
Maggie shivered suddenly. Had she been an enemy of the Gypsies, she would not have stood a chance.
Her eyes skirted past the dark, unfamiliar faces to Nicolas. He was standing next to a tall, big-chested man with a black beard and long, curly hair.
The tall man motioned with his hand. Maggie heard a rushing sound as fifteen or so daggers and swords were tucked into homemade sheaths and sashes. She stood awkwardly to her feet as the little boy happily skipped to the side of the tall man next to Nicolas. Bear nudged her arm comfortingly.
Nicolas held out his hand. Maggie left Bear’s side, walking past the eyes that silently followed her down the wheel-rutted road. She stepped up to Nicolas and took his hand. He presented her to the tall man with a bow.
“My friend, Maggie,” he said.
The tall man cocked his head in question. “Is that all the name she’s got?”
Nicolas nodded. “In Bryllan there might be more,” he said. “But here she’s only Maggie.”
The tall man seemed pleased by the answer. He bowed his head politely.
“And I am only the Major,” he said. He spread his hands out to encompass the still-silent individuals in the road. “These are my Gypsies. We haven’t got much, but we’ll share it with you for as long as you like.”
Maggie smiled. Her voice expressed gratitude and relief.
“Thank you,” she said. Before she could say more, the Major turned and walked down the road, the little boy clinging to his hand and jabbering excitedly. The silence of the crowd broke as the air filled with laughter and talk. Nicolas walked at Maggie’s side with a proud little smile.
They soon arrived at a place in the road where horses impatiently stamped and tugged at reins held by children on brightly decorated wagons. The horses were shaggy, small, and strong, with broad backs and light-stepping feet. Their manes were long and unkempt, but their eyes shone brightly, and the wagon wheels rocked as they strained at their bonds.
The Gypsies climbed aboard their wagons. Some reclaimed the reins from their children. At the front of the caravan, the Major stood on the driver’s seat of a wagon painted red and yellow. Beside him, a teenage boy smoking a pipe held the reins and waited. Nicolas climbed into the back of the wagon and pulled Maggie in after him.
They moved quickly to the front, where they could see the road and the pipe-smoking boy and the Major standing precariously on the seat.
The Major shouted and Maggie heard a chorus of answering shouts from all around. He raised his bare arm and held it high in the air for a moment, bringing it down with a cry of, “Move out!”
The wagon lurched forward as the pipe-smoker lashed the reins on the horses’ backs. They pulled with a jubilant toss of their heads. The jangling sounds of wagons on the move echoed through the trees.
The Major took his seat, his broad back blocking the view of the road. Maggie settled back into the wagon, leaning against a wooden cupboard with a sigh.
Nicolas pushed past a worn green blanket that divided the wagon into two compartments and motioned for Maggie to follow. In the back of the wagon, three bunks were built into the sides: two on the left, one on the right. Nicolas pointed to the single bunk.
“There you go,” he said. “Sleep all you like. And look.” He snatched up a plump pillow and threw it at Maggie. “Feather pillows. Just like I told you.”
“Won’t the Major mind?” Maggie asked as she caught the pillow and let her weary body settle onto the bunk.
“Of course not!” Nicolas scoffed. “Anyway, I asked him already. This is your bed for the rest of the trip, so long as you want it.”
He turned and positioned himself at the back door, ready to leap out into the dusty road. He turned his curly head back to smile reassuringly. “Good rest, Maggie.”
With that, he was gone. Maggie was left with the rocking of the wagon and the lull of the noises outside. She pulled her tattered shoes off her feet for the first time since she had arrived in Calai, swung her feet up on the bed, and laid back slowly, letting herself sink into the softness..
Before she knew her eyes were shut, she was asleep.
* * *
It was dark inside the wagon. Maggie sat up and wondered for a moment where she was. Outside she heard the sound of voices.
She felt around on the floor for her shoes, and soon gave up. The air was still warm despite the night. She groped her way to the door and pushed it open, stumbling into the open air. The ground was hard and cool under her bare feet. The air felt open and sweet after the closeness of the wagon.
Traces of firelight illuminated the shadowed wagon and made its colours dance, aided by the distant moon shining into the clearing. The caravan was arranged in a circle, with the wagons sitting end to end to form a wall of wood and harnesses. Here and there a campfire burned beside individual wagons. In the center of the circle, a large bonfire blazed.
Maggie thought she could see Nicolas’s slim form in the silhouettes around the fire. She moved toward him. Before she had quite joined those seated around the fire, Nicolas jumped to his feet. He stood with his back to the flames, voice rising. Maggie slipped into the circle, sitting cross-legged in listening silence. The little boy from the road, now wearing a long cotton shirt, spotted her and plopped himself onto her lap. His fingers twined in her sleeve as he listened, wide-eyed, to Nicolas’s story.
“The creature was so close I could feel its breath through the floorboards,” Nicolas said. “I took all the matches I could find and climbed up on deck. There it was, staring at me, with its horrible green breath and glowing eyes. It took one look at me and roared like a lion. It shook the whole ship.”
The little boy huddled closer to Maggie. She put her arms around him as she watched Nicolas.
“I turned and ran for the ropes,” Nicolas said.
“Were you scared?” interrupted a boy of about eleven.
Nicolas drew himself up to his full height and did his best to look offended. “I am never scared,” he said haughtily. “I used my head—and I knew that I would be at better advantage in the rigging than on deck with the monster.”
The boy nodded apologetically. Nicolas continued.
“I hung high above the raging sea. The wind tore at my clothes and the monster paced on the deck below.”
Maggie hid a smile in the little boy’s hair. Her own memory recalled a calm sea. She had, after all, been out on it.
“My eyes fell on a dry pile of rope right next to the beast,” Nicolas went on. “I reached for my matches—struck one. But the match would not burn! I threw it from me and lit another… and another… and another!” His voice dropped nearly to a whisper. Maggie leaned forward with the rest of the crowd to hear him. “Still, they would not light. And then at last, one match caught! But even as I prepared to throw it, the mast on which I perched swayed and cracked. The monster had attacked from below! I lost my footing. I fell!”
Maggie was holding her breath. The little boy’s fingers dug into her wrists.
“Down, down I plunged, until I reached out and grabbed a rope! Saved! I swung out like a bird over the ocean, flying in the wind, and then back over