Marysvale Read online

  MARYSVALE

  By

  Jared Southwick

  www.jaredsouthwick.com

  Copyright © 2010 Jared Southwick. All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Illustrations by Bradley O. Fullmer

  Cover design by Design Publishing Group

  Library of Congress Control Number (LCCN): 2010932686

  ebook ISBN-13: 978-0-9845882-2-0

  This book is also available in print.

  Hardback ISBN-13: 978-0-9845882-0-6

  Prologue

  GREAT torrents of hot, humid wind roared through the dark woods, whipping up dust and debris. Try as he might, the young boy kept getting dirt in his eyes, while branches ripped at his clothes and scratched at his face. Ten-year-olds don’t get scared—or so he kept telling himself. Tears poured freely down his cheeks, as pangs of fear seized him. The sky swirled and churned with black, ominous clouds. They hung low over the treetops like a heavy blanket, withholding their rain and smothering the forest. Jagged streaks of lightning split the air with deafening cracks and rolling thunder. Everything looked the same. The north looked just as it did to the south, and both equally resembled the east and west. Even though it was noontime, the clouds had grown so thick that it felt well past eventide.

  A faint sound touched his ears.

  Was that a growl? He worried.

  It was hard to tell over the deafening storm. His mind conjured up all kinds of ferocious beasts that surely lurked in the shadows, behind dense foliage and thick tree trunks—monsters he had fought countless times before in the safety of his own home and imagination.

  There it is again! His heart stopped and he froze, afraid to move.

  What is it? Where is it coming from?

  He closed his eyes and strained his ears, listening intently. There, carried faintly on the wind was the sound.

  Tepidly, he moved forward and listened again.

  That’s no monster. It sounds like…singing?

  Blindly, he fought the wind. With arms up to protect his face from the thrashing branches, he continued to push his way through the woods toward the sound.

  It has to be human, he thought. Encouraged, he plowed on.

  Finally, the clouds burst. Sheets of rain drenched the ground, making it slippery and treacherous.

  The song grew louder.

  Almost there.

  He wiped the stinging moisture from his face with a sleeve. In doing so, he failed to see the root that snagged his foot. Falling in the mud with a splat, he half slid, half tumbled down a small hill.

  As he came to a rest, lightning cracked overhead. The song was right there.

  Not a song, he realized. It’s chanting.

  He wiped the mud from his face and looked up, finding himself at the edge of a clearing. Before him, black-hooded figures, adorned in robes with silvery runes, swayed in a tight circular pattern as they chanted around a…

  He couldn’t believe what he saw. His breath escaped in a small cry, drowned in a clap of thunder.

  The figures didn’t hear him; but the monster did.

  Its hulking, hairy form towered above the cloaked people; the lower half obscured by the circle of bodies surrounding it.

  The boy poised to run; but the monster’s black eyes locked on his, momentarily transfixing him. They were wide, searching eyes—like those of a trapped animal.

  Could it be afraid? wondered the boy.

  The chanting grew louder, reaching a fevered pitch. The monster’s eyes rolled back in its head, exposing only the whites. The figures stopped their movement. One of them raised a blood-drenched dagger high above his head and shouted something in a strange language.

  A dark, unnatural fear gripped the boy—the terror of some unnamed, ancient evil. He scrambled back, flight being his only thought. The monster bellowed a deafening roar, exposing teeth as long as hunting knives.

  The boy screamed!

  This time, he was heard.

  Cloaked heads snapped around, searching for the source of the disturbance. Anger flashed across their faces as the boy stumbled back into the forest, desperate to flee the scene.

  The figure holding the dagger pointed it at the retreating child and gave a blood-curdling yell. Instantly, two others gave chase.

  Chapter One: Syre

  THE woods blurred as we flew by. Fading sunlight trickled through a canopy of oak, hickory, and maple trees towering above, igniting the woods in a sea of gold. The first of the autumn leaves blazed in their respective reds and yellows, as if in homage to the primordial sun they worshiped. The most devout of these early wayfarers had already begun their pilgrimage to the ground, only to be kicked up and violently expelled in our wake. They swirled angrily behind us, in their own little whirlpools of wind, as we ran for our lives.

  We can’t keep this up much longer, I thought. I was cold, tired, hungry, and bleeding. The miles were taking their toll. To make matters worse, my best friend, Smoke, was tiring. He could run long distances and was the fastest horse I’d ever seen, in my—now all too short—22 years of life. And although he was an extraordinary animal, there were limits to his amazing abilities. I could feel the strain in his thunderous gallop as he began to slow. His dark gray coat dripped with sweat as we struggled up and down the valleys and hills. The gigantic, snarling monsters pursuing us were closing the gap. If he collapsed now, we’d both be dead. One way or another, it would soon be over.

  I wished I had stayed and taken my chances in the village of Syre, with its hard-packed dirt roads, small shops, and cottages. If I had kept my mouth shut as planned, when I had arrived two years ago, I wouldn’t be running for my life now. If only I had hidden my gifts better and not asked that fateful question there in the center of the village…but there are some things I can’t ignore, even if it means trouble for me.

  “Mrs. Martin, does he whip you…and Thomas?” I asked concerned, unsure of what her reaction would be.

  Tears moistened her eyes, glittering in the sun like little pools of diamonds—held back momentarily, before breaking loose and streaming down her cheeks; out of fear or relief, I couldn’t tell. Either way, someone else knew her husband’s hideous secret and his hidden pleasure: the way he felt powerful and satisfied when he put “them” in their proper place. It infuriated me and I desperately wanted to help.

  “How do you know?” she asked with a quiver in her voice.

  Choosing my words carefully, I replied, “I’ve seen the marks on your wrists, the faint blood stains on the backs of your shirts, and how your son sometimes grimaces in pain when I pat his back.”

  All of which was true…what I didn’t say was the way I could see through her foul husband’s eyes, past the flesh, and deep down into the core of his soul—not his alone, but everyone’s. I only needed to look into their eyes for a few moments and I could comprehend their fears, hopes, wants, and desires even better than they could. I knew what would motivate them. I could feel what they felt and, occasionally, if I pressed hard enough, I could pull thoughts from their minds. Right now, Mrs. Martin’s personal purgatory was overwhelming, and I knew
she would never ask for help.

  She said nothing, but tried to wipe away the evidence of any emotion with her apron. She was a slight woman, frail and bent in her brown cotton gown. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face and tucked under a white linen cap. I looked at her haggard face. She was, perhaps, only ten years older than me, but looked forty. Under other circumstances, she would have been beautiful; but a lifetime of physical and verbal beatings, at the hand of a cruel man, had taken their toll and broken her will.

  “Mrs. Martin,” I continued, “please, I want to help.”

  “You have helped,” she said quietly. “You’ve been a friend to Thomas.”

  Her son, Thomas, had been one of the first to welcome me to Syre...well, not really. Actually, I was the one to approach him initially, but there was no losing him after that. In the beginning, I thought he was just an annoying, temperamental adolescent; but I quickly saw a brightness and keen intuition that were missing from most boys his age—qualities that endeared him to me.

  “That’s not hard,” I said with a smile. “He’s liked by everyone.”

  “Yes, but you understand him like no one else. Before you came here, he was quiet and withdrawn; he wouldn’t talk much at all. You’ve changed that. Even my husband has noticed a difference in him.” She hesitated momentarily, as if debating what she could really tell me, and then added timidly, “He hardly gets a beat’n anymore.”

  I looked into her tired eyes and said bluntly, “But you still do and that hurts Thomas more than anything he’s had to endure. He hates his father for what he’s done; I can see it in him.”

  It didn’t take anything special to see that, and it looked as if Mrs. Martin already knew what I was telling her.

  I continued, “You know Thomas doesn’t even call him Father? He won’t refer to your husband by anything other than Him.” I hesitated and then added cautiously, “Thomas is waiting for the day when he’s big enough to stop him and punish him for what he does to you.”

  Silence and more tears.

  If you can make it that long, I thought.

  There had been a time when her face was so black and swollen that she could only see out of one eye, and her nose had been broken. She said a horse had kicked her; but anyone with a pebble of smarts could see that it would have taken multiple kicks to do what had been done to her. Bruises could also be seen on her neck, and she had a slight limp after that particular incident. Typically, Mrs. Martin didn’t leave her house much after a beating. Thomas usually told me what happened; but only after we had known each other for several months, and he had gained enough trust to know I wouldn’t tell anyone else.

  “What can you do?” she asked hopelessly. “He’s the magistrate.”

  “I know. I’ve thought about that. He values his position in the community?”

  She nodded slightly.

  “If this knowledge became public, it couldn’t be ignored—it would ruin his reputation and standing in the village. I’ll threaten to do just that if he doesn’t promise to stop.”

  It wasn’t much of a plan; but with him being the magistrate, there weren’t many people we could turn to…in fact, none that I could think of.

  “No, you can’t!” she cried. “I couldn’t bear the disgrace.”

  “You have no shame in this!”

  “He’ll destroy you. He would falsely charge you with a crime, and I will not have that on my conscience.” She shook her head and whispered, “I couldn’t bear to know that I was the cause.”

  “He’s accused innocent men before, hasn’t he?”

  Avoiding a direct answer, she continued softly, “He especially hates you. Thomas isn’t the only one you bring out the good in; others in the village are drawn to you, and he can see that. I think he’s afraid you will challenge him for power someday.”

  “How absurd!” I scoffed. “I have no desire for such a position. Besides, who in this world would ever choose me as a leader?”

  She looked straight into my eyes, as if she were the one now boring into my soul, and said, “More than you realize. I’ve heard him talk to the other elders and village counselors, and some of them believe the same.”

  Surprised by her answer, I replied, “It doesn’t change anything.”

  She took another approach. “Can you protect us all day, every day?”

  I looked down and said nothing. She knew I couldn’t.

  “If you tell, sooner or later he will take it out on us. Maybe even…” Her voice caught and she couldn’t finish, so I did.

  “Kill one of you,” I added glumly.

  “I wish there was something you could do, but there isn’t. Now, I have to go. I shouldn’t be seen talking to you.”

  Unfortunately, it was already too late.

  “YOU!” bellowed a commanding voice.

  Mrs. Martin jumped. Her faced turned ashen as her eyes went wide with fear. She began to tremble.

  I cursed silently. He wasn’t supposed to be here now. Thomas had told me he would be gone for a few more hours.

  I turned around to see a red-faced Mr. Martin, striding up from the direction of the town hall. Although not as tall as my six-foot frame, he was built like a bull, with broad shoulders, thick neck, and a square jaw. Atop his large head sat a powdered wig, which hung in rows of curls down his back. His long, black robe flapped angrily behind him.

  Pretending like nothing in the world was wrong, I said, “Good day, Mr. Martin. I hope you find yourself well?”

  He glared at his wife, who raised her hands as if to ward off an attack.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” he hissed.

  Then, turning to me, he snarled, “Do you think I’m a bloody fool?”

  “Well…” I said, but caught Mrs. Martin shake her head slightly. Mr. Martin caught it too, and this infuriated him even more.

  He swung a fist at me.

  It seemed to take forever for the blow to connect; everything moved so slowly. Even more amazingly, my body didn’t seem to be locked within the same slowness as the world around me. I’m sure I could have bent down, picked some wildflowers, put them in his fist, and step out of the way before he would connect...perhaps that is an exaggeration, but not by much.

  However, experience had taught me not to act in any way that didn’t seem normal. If I did, every bully in the village would try to prove himself by picking a fight, while others would grow nervous and become scared of me. In the end, I decided not to move. Maybe he wouldn’t take it out on Mrs. Martin if I let him beat me.

  So, I braced for the impact the best I could, and was greeted with momentary blackness and stars when his fist finally crashed into the side of my head, which sent me sprawling in the dirt. An instant later, a heavy boot slammed into my chest, knocking the wind out of me and connecting the throb in my head to the newly acquired one in my chest. Pain washed through my body. Again and again, he kicked me in a savagery I didn’t think possible.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Confused and dazed, I simply lay there. I heard voices, but it took a moment before my mind recovered enough to understand the words.

  “You made your point; he’s had enough,” growled a gruff, deep voice.

  Cautiously, I looked up and saw the huge frame of James Shepherd, the blacksmith, standing over me. Sweat dripped from his short, matted hair and ran down his blackened forehead, and into his red, graying beard. He clutched what looked to be a very heavy hammer in his large hands, which were attached to even bigger arms. He was a man no sane person would dare to challenge. It looked like Mr. Martin was thinking the same thing, because he just stood there, scarlet faced, with his cold eyes glued on me.

  “This is far from over, boy,” he spat.

  He turned and, with a hard kick, sent Mrs. Martin weeping up the road.

  I hated him! I would have taken the beating for Mrs. Martin and let it go at that, but that wasn’t enough for Martin; he had to show that, because of me, his wife would pay the price.
/>   I leapt to my feet, but the strong arms of Mr. Shepherd wrapped around and restrained me like a great vice.

  A toothy grin spread across Mr. Martin’s face. “That’s right, boy; you learn your place,” he purred.

  In vain, I struggled to free myself from Mr. Shepherd’s iron grip.

  “Not now, lad,” he whispered, in a slight Scottish accent. “The time will come, but not today.”

  He lifted his head to Mr. Martin. “And you,” he yelled. “If I see you harm her again, I won’t just restrain young John here—I’ll join him!”

  Martin’s grin faded. “That would be a very grave mistake. You know what I would do, if you tried.”

  Mr. Shepherd paused, as if contemplating the threat, and then replied coolly, “Yes. But when I’m done with you, you won’t be around to tell.” This time, he grinned.

  Mr. Martin looked murderous. I was sure that no one ever spoke to him that way. I gazed into his cold eyes and saw his dark soul turn even darker. Indeed, murder had entered his heart. Neither I nor Mr. Shepherd would be safe now, I was sure of it. I wondered if he would take us in cold blood. I gazed a moment longer. No, I didn’t think so. His soul was so filled with anger, that it was difficult to pull individual thoughts out. However, in that brief glimpse, I could see it wasn’t enough for him to merely silence his enemies—he had to make them suffer. Beyond that, he wanted them to know that it was he who was inflicting the torture, so they could see his power over them and know they were completely defenseless. I suspected he would use his position, as the magistrate, to take his revenge.

  A crowd grew, and with it, so did the potential witnesses. Realizing that there was nothing more he could do to intimidate us, Mr. Martin, still shaking with anger, abruptly turned and strode up the road without saying another word.

  Mr. Shepherd let me go. I whirled, ready to yell at him for holding me back; but he raised his hand and gestured toward the small group, cautioning me to be careful about what I said. Some wore scornful expressions, but most had ones of understanding. A few even looked encouragingly at me.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.