Cursed (AU,M/L,TEEN) Ch 5 Pt. 3 - 16/02/05 [WIP]

[nickimlow]

Banner by Annie (Thanks!)

Title: Cursed
Author: Samantha & Nicole
Contact: samccx@hotmail.com; nickimlow@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: Characters are from Roswell, story is our own.
Rating: TEEN
Coupling: M/L. Bit of A/I later on. Conventional.
Summary: Max POV. A parent's words are sacred, thus both blessing and curse are real. Max and Isabelle are twins who live with their father in a little village. When disaster begins to befall them, they must run. Max has to seek answers in order to save his sister. It's mainly a story of a brother's love, though there's a little of that *other kind of love* in it, as well For all you Dreamers out there, M/L will come in later Don't worry, this is a Dreamer soul here.

A/N: I co-wrote this with my friend, Samantha. She doesn't belong to this board, but we'd both like to know what you think. We showed this to two of our teachers - one loved it, the other hated it It was an original story at first, but it's been Roswell-ised (with the characters, not the setting). Told from Max's POV. Please review! Thanks!! ---Nicole

PS - Please let me know if you think the paragraphs are too long and you find it hard to follow. I'll fix it if you think it best for me to do so




Chapter One

Ten years have passed since my sister embarked on her journey. I know in my heart of hearts that she will never return, but I rest assured that she has found peace, and that we are never truly apart.

Our story begins when we were only eight years of age; so tender, so vulnerable. We were only children, young and carefree. But everything changed on that fateful day, when Father did not return from the battlefront as promised. Our mother was ill, and, in her distress, quickly weakening. She had tried to hold on, I know it. I only wish that things could have been different.

But fate was in line.

There had been a plan for us, though we knew not of it, not then. As my mother lay on her deathbed, fighting to stay alive, so fragile from her illness, she told us a story, one that would forever be embedded in my mind.

The sky was a mournful gray and raindrops were beginning to fall - were the heavens weeping for our poor mother? My sister bustled around the kitchen, preparing broth for her. I sat beside Mother, dabbing a damp cloth at her forehead, down her pale cheeks and thin neck, hoping to reduce the temperature of her body that was so rapidly burning up. It crossed my mind, the memory of her doing the very same thing for me many times before. At long last, she ordered me to stop. "My time is nearing; nothing will help," she said ever-so-softly, as if she had lost all hope. "Call your sister. I must tell you something."

So I ran to the kitchen to get my sister. The both of us were confused. She took in with her gentle brown eyes our features, knowing that it would be the last time she would. Dared I hope for a miracle? "I have told you many tales," she began, her breath already running short. Indeed, she had - tales of fire-breathing dragons, of valiant kings and fearless warriors, of lovers and of children. "But this is one tale that you must know, one that you must keep close to you, and remember always."

"Mother, you are tired," I said innocently, terrified of losing her now. What could be so important that her health be brushed aside? Did she not want to live anymore? "Don't talk. Just rest, please, Mother."

She shook her head dismissively, and oh, I remember so well even to this day how lovingly those brown eyes looked at me. "You must know."

"Once, a woman was caught in a fire, near death," she started her story, her voice barely a whisper. Each word she uttered drew her closer to her end. She knew that well but went on still. The manner in which she began the tale reminded me of the childhood stories I had always been so fond of. But it was no ordinary story, as I later discovered it to be. "The air was choking her. The scream would not escape her lips, the tears refused to fall, but her heart was clenching in pain. In the midst of the flames, she tried to fight her way through the smoke to safety. Then a man came to her rescue, grabbing her in a flash, bursting through the fire. This was how it began, their love. She loved him not out of gratitude, but for the sheer goodness of his heart, pure and simple. He loved her not out of pity, but for her sweetness and subtlety, so lovely and true. But the day came when she would die not long after painfully bearing him two children. They were twins, like you; the boy the older, the girl younger." Mother drew a deep breath, flinching, struggling to go on. It amazed me to see her telling the tale so descriptively when every syllable was killing her.

"The man lived with his grief in his struggle to raise the children who had stolen from his wife her life. He fathered them well enough, setting aside momentarily his agony of loss. The twins grew and blossomed into good young lad and lass, but the time would come when the father could bear no more. When the two were grown and wed, he lived alone with but his memories for company. He had not known that, though he had saved his wife once, he could not do it the second time around; nature had taken its course, and try as he might he could not interfere. These thoughts tortured him, haunted him, until one day, he lashed his anger out at the twins. From the lips of this father, a curse was cast upon all twins who should be born into this family. With a double birth came doubled grief. One would live a flawless life, in appearances, in status, in health. But he or she would have to witness the other's distress, for the other would suffer, be it in pain, in plague, or in poor luck. Of brother and sister who had both been tortured by their anguished father, one died, and the other went on living with a half missing from deep inside."

My sister and I could only look at our mother, thinking that the coming of death was playing wicked tricks on her mind. What was the significance of this tale, now when she was dying? Why did she not take this time, this precious time, to tell her son and daughter that she loved them and could not bear to leave them, and would hold on for them? Why had she chosen to relate to us a story of a curse, a tale that must have been so very old and of no importance to us at the age of eight? But we had not understood then. Only later, much later, did we find out why she had told us this.

Our mother looked at us lovingly, her liquid eyes so sad, its brightness slowly fading. "Bid your father . . . bid him farewell for me. Tell him that I love him, and my spirit shall continue to even when I am gone." I held on to her hand, willing her to live. If God would let just a little of my life flow into her body, perhaps she would not have to die, I thought. She had read the expression on my face and had interpreted exactly what had been going through my mind. She put a hand to my cheek. I saw the scar that had, for as long as I could remember, always been on the back of her palm. A cut, perhaps, from her childhood days. "My body may fail me . . . but I will never leave you, my son," she murmured. "I will always be here." She let her hand fall over the place where my heart was beating. My sister's lip quivered. "Do not weep, little one," my mother said soothingly. "I am here . . ."

Soon, she could no longer speak, and was between this world and that, settling on the margin, one foot advancing towards another light. Beneath heavy eyelids, she watched us serenely.

I was angry at my father for not returning sooner. I was angry at him for not being there to help her, or at least provide her the comfort she needed in her final hours.

So Mother died, her eyes never closing, never leaving our weeping faces. When my father returned, limping, his left arm bloody and his cheek scarred, I screamed at him. I beat my little fists against his chest until I could no longer, and, along with my sister, sank into his shaking embrace.



When I was eleven, I thought myself a man. Isabelle was a little taller than me then, and would always tease me that I was no man if I was shorter than a girl. I would put my fists together and say, "So you want to fight, eh?" Father would berate me. No man strikes a girl, he always said. So I never hit Isabelle, and never allowed other boys to so much as touch her. As Isabelle grew older, she became more beautiful; very demure, kicking away her tomboyish habits. Her hair was a shiny shade of gold that reached her waist, most of the time plaited with colourful ribbons and flowers. She had dimples in her cheeks, and her eyes were a warm brown, much like Mother’s. With my dark eyes that seemed to be black and hair that was darker still, I had always looked more like Father.

Perhaps those years were the best of our childhood. Father taught us to be strong and not to lament over Mother’s death. I was angry with him, angry that he hadn't been there for Mother, angry that he did not save her. Isabelle, on the other hand, loved Father and did not want to hurt him, and I knew that she wanted badly to comfort him, to lend him her strength for she knew that he was empty on the inside. But she was worried about me as well. She knew how I hated him, and that I would feel betrayed if she went to his side. So in the end she hid herself in the little room that we shared, yelling at us from behind the closed door for making things so hard for her, crying because we were no longer a family.

Before that incident, I had always thought her a little dense, a silly little girl who should have stuck to embroidery and cooking – not following me around, climbing trees and jumping in mud.

But at that moment, I learned something from her. She was really a deep girl at heart and that she cared strongly, perhaps fiercely, about us. Father stared at me for a long time, and eventually I gave up. What was the use of blaming him any further, when Mother was already dead? I apologised. And then he broke down; it was the first time I saw him cry. Father was a big man; I had never seen him so much as shed a tear. When Mother died, he had been numbed by the shock and stayed thus for many days, so I did not see him cry then, either, and thought him heartless. But he was human, after all, capable of both laughter and tears. The strong man that was my father wept to his heart's content. Then he hugged me and said that he missed Mother very much, and that he was sorry he hadn't been there during the time of her passing. And then Isabelle came out of her room, flung her arms around us, and we all cried together. I wondered what Mother thought of us then.

A year later, Isabelle and I celebrated our twelfth birthday. Father bought us cakes and biscuits. Isabelle and I took only one slice of cake and a biscuit each. We saved the rest for winter, as those foods did not come leisurely. We were emerging into the years of man- and womanhood, said father. There were going to be things that would happen beyond our control, and we had to be strong enough to overcome it when it happened. We did not know what he meant, but three weeks later, the first sign was sent down to us.

It was a cold winter's day. After trudging through layers of snow, clearing the path to our little door, I was about to go back into the warmth of the house when I was hit on the head by something hard. I jolted for a moment, my vision going black. When I regained my composure, I realised that it had been a hailstone, and there were more from where that came. The hail pelted the rooftops and more bounced off my head. I ran into the house, slamming the door behind me. I peered out the window as the hailstorm grew stronger. I saw the villagers running for shelter. Seldom did we receive such weather in our parts, so why now?

It was then that I realised that Isabelle was not in the house. She had only just left for Farmer Jack's to trade some goods to store for the cold season. I told Father and he went absolutely frantic. He was furious with himself for letting Isabelle go to Farmer Jack's alone. What if something happened to her, he'd said, barely daring to venture into that path of thought.

The two of us dashed out into town, running through the shower of ice. We found her only barely conscious on the way to Farmer Jack's, her forehead bruised and her lips purple from the cold. We brought her back, shielding her with our bodies. I had, as had Isabelle and everyone else, thought that the hailstorm had been merely a misfortune, just bad weather. But in the days that followed, Isabelle and I both noticed the changes in our father. His face was etched with what seemed like worry, and he looked older than we had ever seen him look. More than once, he had opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he would close it again every time. Father constantly fought an inner battle with himself, one that we did not understand.

The second blow came at the first bloom of spring, though bloom it did not. The snow had melted away, bringing forth a new day, lush and sweet-scented. Alas, it did not last long. The flowers and grass had been struck by some sort of plague and had withered away, returning to the ground. I remember how Isabelle, who loved tending to her little garden, had wept and I had to comfort her.

We thought it was simply the destroying of natural beauty by an untimely natural disaster. Who were we to question nature doing its work, good or bad?

How wrong we were to have viewed things from such a simple perspective.

Harvesting season rolled by and our village was once again seized by misfortune. A swarm of locusts destroyed all the crops and with them went the livestock. We were caught in famine and in drought. The villagers grew weak and many succumbed to failure. Father and I, we were strong enough to go without, but we had feared the worst for Isabelle, who drew near death. Thank the heavens, she had never been a quitter, and had refused to give up.

Time passed, and our thirteenth birthday drew nearer. Isabelle was up and about again. It was early winter, but snow was already falling heavily, painting our village pure white. The adults frowned at this, but the children enjoyed themselves with snowball fights, oblivious to everything strange. Father brought home sweet honey syrup from town and allowed us to make candies with it. We collected clean snow in our pans, patted them flat, and poured the thick, brown syrup over it. Isabelle did hers in spirals and circles and even made little faces. I did not have the patience to shape the snow like that, so I poured a considerable amount into my pan and made a huge lump of candy. Father kept the rest of the honey for later use.

“Max,” Isabelle said as she rested her chin on her folded arms, leaning on the table, bent over and staring at her pan, waiting for the syrup to harden. “Have you noticed . . . No, I'm sure you have. Don't you think things have been getting a tad strange lately?”

I lifted my eyebrows comically. “You mean like how Peter is taking an interest in you?”

She glared at me for a moment, and then her eyes softened. “No. I’m talking about the weather. Father’s so worried about it.”

“Of course he is. You said it yourself, things have been strange.” I prodded my candy. It sunk in a bit, and I could vaguely see the dent that my finger had left on it. “Everyone is worried. It’s not everyday you see hundreds of rats drowned in the river.” My eyes darted to the window, and I could almost see in my mind, not far from our house, the River, where pristine water flowed – or rather, had once flowed. The image of the hundreds of dead fat, black rats floating on the water's surface came back to my mind. How that had happened remained a mystery.

“You’re ignorant,” Isabelle accused, poking at her candies as well. “I'm not talking about the weather or the rats. I know the other villagers are worried, but don’t you think Father is taking this too seriously? He’s always staring at us as if he sees ghosts instead of his children, and he mutters the strangest things when he’s alone in his room.”

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully; still no facial hair. "Well, I guess he has been acting odd. But I think it's because . . . well . . ." How was I to put it? Because he'd come so close to losing his daughter? I leaned my back against the counter. "He's just worried about us," I said more simply.

A frown settled on Isabelle's lips. I sensed how upset she was and she probably thought I was taking her words lightly. "Izzy," I said, using the nickname I had given her when we were young. "Put yourself in Father's shoes. Wouldn't you be just as frightened, for the welfare of your two children?"

Isabelle nodded. She stared absently at the candy.

"Don't look so down," I said.

She looked at me, her sad expression somewhat defiant. I never liked to see that frown on her face; I hated her having to endure depression. My sister needed cheering up, and who better to do it than her very own twin? I grinned at her mischievously. She eyed me cautiously. "What are you up to?" she asked suspiciously.

"Smile," I ordered playfully. This made her frown even more, her lips curved downwards stubbornly. "Smile," I warned her again. She refused. "Well, well, you leave me no choice, little sister." I grabbed her and tickled her just beneath the ribs, and the smile that I had been waiting for broke out on her face, lighting her eyes up like the dawn of spring in the midst of winter. She tried to fight me off through giggles. I had succeeded. "Now, keep that smile there! Promise?" When I let her go, she said nothing in reply. I lifted my hands in the air again, ready for another attack. "Promise?"

Laughing, Isabelle swatted me away. "All right, all right, you win," she declared in defeat.

"Good! Now, how about some candy?" I said, turning back to our honey-coated snowballs that had already hardened.

We pinched at the balls of sweet, icy snow. Well, Isabelle did. I munched at my gigantic one, and finished it quickly. What can I say? I've always had a sweet tooth! Soon, I had no more and Isabelle was still picking at her little candy balls. I propped my elbows casually on the tabletop while she ate idly, and when she wasn't looking, I snatched one of her candies. "Thank you!" I said, popping it into my mouth as she scolded me.

That was probably the last of our happy, carefree days before the real disaster struck. If we thought the strange weather and dead rats bad, we did not know what bad really was.

[nickimlow]

So much for a day or two! Well, sorry I took so long. Here's the next part. Hope you enjoy!




Chapter Two

Three years had since passed, and we were celebrating our sixteenth birthday, which Father had insisted on making special.

Moses, our devout Christian neighbour, gave us a cross each – to protect us, he'd said. God would watch over us while we had it with us. Peter gave my sister a portrait of herself, painted in warm colours, the edges decorated with real flowers (he had always been artistically talented). All I got from him was a little rock – something for warding off evil spirits, apparently (though it was probably something from his backyard). I knew he never liked me, anyway. And then there was our friend, Jeremy. He was different. He was smart, and could read and write. It was an advantage on his part, especially at his age. The bad thing was that he never used those abilities wisely. He carved a tablet for my sister, with little letterings on it that he explained was her name. I received a little book that he had made. In it there were pictures, for he knew I couldn’t read. The sketches showed men and women with not a stitch of clothing on their bodies. There were different poses and actions, which I found disgusting and amusing at the same time. I tried to look at it from the artistic point of view, but it wasn't very artistic at all. “You’re a man,” he whispered as soon as my father busied himself in the kitchen. “This will be useful.” Ever the naughty one, Jeremy was.

Isabelle waltzed up to me and peered over my shoulders, and I hastily hid it in a cupboard. It wasn’t long before Father found it, but I was thankful that he shoved it away in a corner where no one would find it.

Uncle Smith and Aunt Laura were generous. They were farmers, and had always let me get away with stealing their eggs. That was when I was still a child. But I was sixteen on that day and stole eggs no more. This year, our uncle and aunt brought two horses as gifts. Isabelle’s was white and pretty, and it kept its head high like a princess. Mine was brown and a bit dirty, its mane wild and tangled. It seemed a bit grumpy too. I never understood why Isabelle always got the best gifts.

Despite all the nice gifts and warm guests, Isabelle seemed upset. I did not understand at first, for she would not tell. A frown stayed on her face most of the time, and she wouldn’t play with her friends or ride her new horse. But later on, she pulled me aside.

“I feel dreadful,” she said softly. Then she launched into a torrent of words. “I can’t help it, but I feel dreadful. I know it’s our birthday and I should be happy – oh, I feel guilty for being unhappy and dragging you into this. It must be a sin. But I can’t shrug off this feeling. It’s this deep, lonely feeling in my heart, cold and heavy, and it won't go. And sometimes, my heart aches, as if a spear is being shot through my chest.”

I stared at her for a moment, not knowing what to say. “Does your heart still hurt now?” I asked gently, reaching out to pat her head. Could it be a sickness? A stitch, maybe, from running around too much in the morning. While I was pondering over this, I thought I saw a shadow in her eyes. A brief streak of darkness; a bad omen.

There was a sudden crash, and our guests screamed. I heard a tumbling sound of something big and hard falling, and then something split and ripped – our roof.

“OUT! Out, everyone!” someone yelled. The door swung open with a bang and everyone ran out, screaming in panic.

I grabbed Isabelle’s arm and pulled her, but she wouldn’t move, or couldn’t. “Father!” My heart pounded rapidly against my chest. The ceiling was quickly giving way. The planks fell right at the corner; the wood from the roof came down, splinters flying everywhere. The cupboard toppled and fell, and crashed into half as the planks landed on it. It blocked the entrance of the kitchen. Well, the book that Jeremy gave me was gone. Father would forget about it, and we would all live happily ever after. But now, there was an important decision for me to make. Take Isabelle with me and run out of the house before it collapsed into ruins, or run to the kitchen and help Father? Before I could decide upon anything, though, a big hand grabbed my shoulder and dragged me out of the house. Isabelle gave a scream and the ceiling tumbled down with great noise. We got out just in time.

“Idiots!” Father spat. “What did you think you were doing, standing there like that? Why didn’t you escape? The entire house would have crushed your skulls if I hadn’t pulled you out!”

“I – I –” I didn’t know what to say. Children were crying, and adults were cursing. Some of them volunteered to help, but Father told them all to go home. He said that it wasn’t safe anymore, and that they should know it. I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but dared not. It was always best to leave that man alone when he was angry. He was breathing heavily, but he did not scream at us anymore. I could hear Isabelle sniffling, but I knew that there were no tears in her eyes. She had once said that a girl’s tears are precious. She wouldn’t cry unnecessarily, and this certainly wasn't a good reason for her to weep.

I think.

The three of us stood before our house, which was now a heap of wood and stones and debris. A momentary sadness swept over me as I realised that this house, the one in which we had built all our precious memories, in which Mother had told us tales and sang us songs, in which Isabelle and I had played, in which Mother had sighed her last breath . . . this house was in ruins, no longer salvageable. I turned to Isabelle and put my arm around her to calm her down. She rested her head on my shoulder, and for once, I failed to notice that I was taller than her. Under normal circumstances, I would have teased her as she had teased me when we were younger. Now, though, it seemed so unimportant.

Father stepped in front of us and kneeled, holding our hands in his. I was taken aback by this gesture, and Isabelle must have been, too, because I felt her jerk. "Max, Isabelle," he said more softly this time. I heard something different in his voice, something that I had never heard before, but I couldn't quite place what. "I want you to listen closely." We nodded, still confused and in shock. "Your very lives are in danger. I want you to do exactly what I tell you, and there will be no turning back. Do you understand?"

I wanted to protest, to say something, anything. But I didn't, and instead, just listened obediently. "You are no longer safe. In the presence of people, you are endangering them as well as yourselves. Under a roof, the roof may fall; beneath the sky, lightning may strike. Nowhere is safe anymore," he said, an edge of pain in his voice. "I want you to leave, to run. Go to Hillsburn, you know where that is. Seek out a man named James Archer. Give him your mother's name; tell him that you need answers. No, don't ask. Just go, my children. Leave at once."

"Why? I don't understand, Father. From what are we running away?" I demanded. I did nothing without reason, so now I needed one. I found my father's words absurd. Was he going mad?

"Ask no questions!" Father snapped in exasperation.

"But what about you?" Isabelle asked timidly, her voice small and frightened. "Are you abandoning us?"

"Dear heart, no! Of course not, Isabelle. When you reach Hillsburn, wait for me there. I will come once I have settled things. But you must go now," he said in a rush, almost pleading. "You may ride on these horses. Now, go!" My father had known that the worst was yet to come, that action had to be taken, and that he was forced to believe my mother's tale that he had for so long dismissed. He pulled us into his embrace and kissed our brows. "I love you, my children, and I promise that I will meet you there once I am done here." Father removed his worn, woollen coat and placed it around Isabelle's shoulders to keep her warm from winter's chill. "Your belongings are beyond saving now, I'm afraid. Will you be all right in the cold, Max?"

I nodded. Did I have a choice?

We sat atop our new horses, carrying nothing, and bid a confused farewell to Father. We rode north, towards Hillsburn. I had always wondered why the town was named thus. Did the townspeople wish for their hills to burn? But at the time, my mind was cluttered with things that I did not understand and I had not yet recovered from the shock, so much so that everything else seemed to matter little. It would take four days, perhaps five, to reach there, and until then, we would still be in the dark. The chilled air slapped my skin like little knives.

"I don't understand," whispered Isabelle, her voice reflecting despair. I longed to comfort my sister.

What was going on? Why did Father not tell us?

We stopped by a stream and let our horses drink. Isabelle and I sat beneath a tree, mixed emotions running to and fro between the both of us. "He sent us away," Isabelle whispered, her head in her hands. "We were a burden, so he sent us away."

"No," I said firmly, giving her a good shake. "Father would never do such a thing, not our father. There must be a reason, a logical explanation for this. Until we know what it is, we have to be strong and do as Father ordered. We must have faith."

Isabelle placed a hand to her temple, closing her eyes. "Are you all right?" I asked, suddenly reminded of what she had told me earlier on.

She wanted to tell me, but then she feared burdening me further. She insisted that she was fine and that we should ride on, but in my heart, I felt her pain, heard her cry of anguish. "You can tell me anything," I assured her. "I'm here for you."

We continued our journey into the evening, due north. Come twilight, our horses grew weary from our weight on their backs. We halted and decided to take shelter in the forest for the night. The snowing began again, the little snowflakes falling on the damp ground. Just yesterday, we were seated in our cosy living room before the fire, singing songs to fight the cold. But now, it seemed as if it had all been just a dream, a dream too good to be true.

For a while, we huddled together in companionable silence until Isabelle fell asleep in my arms. It was almost like old times again, when she would run to me in the middle of the night, afraid of the monsters tapping at the windowpane, and I would hug her and tell her it was all right, and then gently rock her back to sleep. I sat propped up against the tree, holding my sister close. I could not sleep, and even if I had been able to, I would have been haunted by demons in my dreams. I was weary and my body ached, but I remained wide awake, listening to my sister's low, steady breathing. Once or twice, she whispered something and twitched, but I did not wake her. All night long, I tried in vain to figure out all the strange things that had been happening, to piece together the complicating puzzle. I wondered how our house had fallen to rubble so suddenly. I wondered how those rats had died in the river all at once. I wondered how we would survive if there were to be a snowstorm during our journey. I wondered when we would be able to return home - and then I remembered that we no longer had a home.



Just before dawn, Isabelle awoke. My lack of sleep must have shown on my face. "You did not sleep?" she asked, sitting up straight.

I did not answer her question. I stood up and stretched, my muscles stiff from remaining still all night. "We have a long day ahead," I said, turning to the horses.

She frowned at me. "How are we going to travel if you didn't sleep a wink all night?" There she was, my sister, being my mother.

I had always been headstrong and so had she. Stubborn as mules, we were. "I am no weakling," I scoffed, vaguely offended. I was a man, after all.

We resumed our travelling. By midmorning, we came upon a town. I would have been content with riding straight on had our horses not grown tired. We rested by a well, where I drew water for the thirsty young horses. "We would be able to move more quickly on foot," I pointed out as I heaved the old bucket out of the well. "Horses their age tire too easily."

Isabelle laid her hand on her white horse. "But they're so lovely," she said, stroking its mane admiringly. "Besides, they are our only company for now."

My heart ached with a pang of sympathy for my sister. She wanted so much for her family to be whole and perfect again; being separated from our father only made matters worse. I sighed as the horses lowered their necks to drink the chilled water. "Well, if we are to keep them, we must name them," I reminded her, hoping to cheer her up.

As I expected, her eyes lit up instantly. "I have already chosen a name for my horse. Her name shall be Mystic, for her grace and beauty," she declared without hesitation. "What name shall you be giving yours?"

I stared at my mud-brown horse, her unruly mane shaking as she drank. She looked like a wild and defiant little creature. What was I to name her? Such a wild thing should have a wild name to go with it.

“I don't know,” I told Isabelle. “Maybe I should just call her Wild Thing.”

Isabelle stared at me, then at the horse, and back at me. “Wild Thing?”

“She is a wild little thing.” I patted Wild Thing’s back. “Like you.”

Isabelle pouted. “I’m as much a lady as the next girl. And you’re so unimaginative. What sort of name is Wild Thing? I think . . . Brown. Yes, Brown would make a much better name.”

I stuck my tongue out at her. “Brown - how imaginative is that? Besides, I think she already has a lovely name. Don’t you think so, Wild Thing?” The horse gave a little neigh as if to sigh and mutter, whatever you say. What, even the horse thought the name wasn't good enough?

My stomach began to rumble and I placed a hand over it. We had not eaten since we left our house the day before. I looked around the place. People were putting up their stalls, getting ready for a day of selling fresh fruit and vegetables, meat and fish, flowers and fabric. My sister lifted her brows at me; she knew what I was thinking. We did not have a single penny with us; Father had forgotten that little detail.

“You know . . . we could sell her,” Isabelle suggested heavy-heartedly, laying a hand on Mystic’s muzzle. Mystic’s eyes shone, and she nudged her owner in an affectionate way. “It’ll be hard to ride on Brown alone –” It seemed that she had already decided on my horse's name. “– but at least we’ll have something to eat.” I frowned. We'd only had the horses for a day now, but I knew she loved hers very much. This was a suggestion that I had not expected her to bring up. I believe that she had been thinking about me as much as herself.

"We could sell Wild Thing instead, you know," I offered. I was not very attached to the stinking horse, anyway.

"But she's a messy one. Mystic looks prettier and I reckon she will fetch a great deal more," Isabelle pointed out. Wild Thing kicked the ground grumpily as if she understood. "No offence, Brown."

"Fine then," I said, but I had a plan. We couldn't both ride on one horse for the rest of the road; Wild Thing was too young and would probably die of exhaustion by dusk. And I knew that Isabelle would find it hard to part with Mystic. "Come on."

We led the horses through the marketplace. The townspeople looked at us strangely; they knew that we were not from the area. Nevertheless, some people sang warm greetings to us. This was such a happy little town. They must have all been born with smiles on their faces. We settled at a corner, next to a lady who had baskets of beautiful flowers arranged nicely. The lady studied us from top to toe, her eyes averting from our horses to our filthy bodies. We smiled at her, but she did not smile back, only giving us a slight nod; she was an exception to the born with smiles rule.

Now, how could we get someone to buy Mystic? Other traders were yelling loudly, "Apples for sale! Apples for sale!", or pulling random passers-by to their stalls and honeying them with their sweet, persuasive words. As a big brother, I had to know what to do at a time like this. But as Max Evans, I did not know.

“Uh, anyone interested in buying a white horse?” I raised my voice and asked the question again, trying to lure some attention. The flower lady raised an eyebrow at me. She was probably thinking what I was thinking: it's not working.

Maybe I should just follow Apple Man's tactic, I thought. “Horse for sale!”

Apple Man was a clever strategist because his tactic actually worked. It wasn’t long before a man stopped by. He was smartly dressed, his sleek hair parted at the middle. “Good horse boy,” he began, “how much will you trade your fine stallion for?”

“Mare,” I corrected him.

How much was Mystic worth? 5 ounces of gold? Or was that too much? Or too little? The man was peering at me with his sharp eyes, running his fingers through her mane. “Look, how about I give you enough sheepskin to make three coats, and I get this horse?”

I did not know if that was worth it, but I tried my luck. “That will be wonderful, sir." Closing my eyes sadly as I turned to Mystic, I murmured, "Oh, Mystic, Mystic.” I shook my head pathetically. Isabelle turned her back to us, unwilling to see her horse given to a stranger. I continued my sham, pretending to address the stupid white horse, though my words were meant only for the man's ears. “Mystic, you've been under my care since you were a foal. I still remember the time when you were just a little baby, wobbling on your legs, neighing sweetly in the fields next to your darling mother . . .” I had no idea what I was talking about. “How sweet you were when we fed you sugar lumps; how sad you were when your mother died. I long to keep you, Mystic, but we have no food now; we can’t feed you anymore . . . Little one, we must part now. Perhaps your new owner will have your coat cleaned and your stomach filled.”

Now Isabelle pinched my arm. She did not say anything, though, and I was thankful for that. “Oh, sir,” I said pleadingly, forcing tears to come to my eyes. Oh, if Jeremy Stoddard could have seen me then. “Please take good care of this little darling. She gets chronic easily during rainy days. She misses her mother every December, too, so it’s best to pamper her more during that month.” What was she, human? I stroked her muzzle, and she crooned, playing along with my act expertly.

“You really love this thing, don’t you?” the man asked.

“Oh yes.” I gave Isabelle a nudge. “My sister and I love her very much. Isn't that right, Izzy?" I said pointedly. Isabelle sniffed and pretended to dab at her eyes, at lost for words. "And I –" I heaved a sad sigh and sobbed on, "– I raised her. I helped bring her into the world with my own hands." Come on, mister, hurry up! I thought, unsure how much longer I could keep this up. "Unfortunately, we have run out of money and have not a crumb of bread to feed ourselves.” Isabelle’s shoulders were shaking, but she kept her head low. I could not tell if she was stifling a laugh or a cough.

The man was falling for it, as he, too, wiped at his damp eyes. “Poor things. Where are your parents?”

I froze at that question. What was I to answer? After a second of quick thinking, I replied, “He has left the mainland, seeking rare herbs that can cure our mother of her illness.”

I stroked Mystic's neck with feigned affection. "Goodbye, dear one . . ." I whispered, loud enough for the man to hear. "I will miss you, but this –" I allowed my voice to quiver slightly. "– this is for the best." I choked on a forced tear and tore away.

The man was generous, as I had hoped. He was also a hopeless sucker for pitiful stories. With a sad expression, he took off his coat. "Here, take this. It will keep you warm. And keep your horse." What? Where were the offers of food? Of shelter? Of, most importantly, money? Hey, mister! This wasn't the way pitiful stories worked, and –

"Please accept this, as well." He pressed something into my hand. Now, that was more like it!

"Oh, no, we cannot accept this, sir," I said modestly, holding the bag of coins limply in my hands. "We may be poor, but we are humble folk, wishing only to do honest business. This is –"

The man silenced me with a raise of his hand. "Take this as a small token of my appreciation. I enjoyed your story very much. You're a talented, my boy. Very convincing," he said, patting me on the shoulder with a smile.

I gaped at him, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment, unable to conceal my shock with another spontaneous act. The man just winked at me and walked away. Once he was at a distance from us, Isabelle collapsed to the ground in giggles. I stuck my tongue out at her. "Hey, you get to keep your Mystic. If you don't stop laughing, I'll slaughter her and we'll have horse meat for our next meal," I threatened, scowling.

Isabelle got up, straightening the pleats of her skirt, trying hard not to laugh. Humiliating as it was, it felt good to see her smile. "All right, all right," she said, grinning from ear to ear. "Oh, thank you, big brother." She threw her arms around me and planted a kiss on my cheek.

"Enough, enough. Let's go," I grunted grumpily as I wrenched away, still feeling stupid. "We can get some food and stop to eat up front, where there are fewer people," I added, shooting a last glance at the strange flower lady as I mounted Wild Thing.

We got ourselves bread, cheese, and carrots (for the horses) enough for at least two days. By then, Hillsburn wouldn't be much farther down the road.

“I wonder how they are doing back home, at our village,” Isabelle wondered aloud as she bit into her bread. Wild Thing was stomping her hooves on the ground, itching to run in the wide field we were resting at. I had her tied to a tree with Mystic; how could they run in the snow? Besides, she had to save her energy for the ride ahead.

“Peter is probably wondering where you are,” I commented. “Maybe he’s already asking Jeremy to write you a love poem. Oh, Isabelle, Isabelle, whither art thou, dear heart?”

“I never knew you had a flair with poems,” Isabelle said dryly. If we'd been at home where supply of food was plenty, save during times of famine, she would have thrown her bread at me. "I'll wager you'll become a playwright someday."

“I never knew you had a flair with boys,” I replied. "Should I elaborate?" She wrinkled her nose, but said nothing.

We finished our food quickly and continued riding on through the light flakes of snow. I came to realise that controlling Wild Thing was a difficult task. She wouldn't go on if I didn't let her stop by a stream to drink water every few paces, or would just stand still when it got too cold. We had to stop so frequently that the word Stupid was becoming more like her name. As our journey wore on, the path grew wider, the ground hidden beneath a thick blanket of snow. Some time afterwards, Wild Thing decided that if she rode faster, she would feel warmer.

By nightfall, my rear hurt sorely and my fingers hurt from clutching her rein tightly to prevent myself from falling. I could barely move my muscles anymore, as they were numb from the cold. We spent the night on the corridors in front of a row of shops, like homeless children.

The next morning, Isabelle awoke. She had developed a cough and was grumpy; she did not want me to fuss over her, so I did not. The cough subsided by evening, but her nose was running. Her condition worsened the next day.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, scrutinising her properly.

“Fine,” she answered faintly. Her eyes were red. Something on her arm caught my eye. I snatched it and rolled her sleeve up.

“That’s not fine!” I exclaimed, taking her other arm to check if the rashes had spread there.

“You're right. I’m not feeling very well,” she confessed.

I could feel her shivering; I placed Father’s cloak around her shoulders and touched her forehead. “You’re having a fever,” I told her. We could not turn back to the town now; it would take a day to go back there. We had to ride on to Hillsburn; there was no choice. But how would Isabelle go on like that? She'd die before the day's end, at this rate. I passed two loaves of bread to her. “You’ll need it.” She opened her mouth to protest, but I silenced her. “I’m a man. I can go on without food, but you’re a girl and you’re sick.”

"There you go again with your big man show." Isabelle rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"I also happen to be your brother, Izzy," I said seriously.

"All right, all right, big brother," she said, smiling faintly. "Don't get too near me, now. You don't want to catch what I'm having."

"Can you ride?"

She nodded with a show of confidence. "I'm a fighter," she said in a tone that I couldn't help but admire. "Spots and fever won't stand in my way. We can't afford to delay."

I eyed her sceptically, but knew better than to advise her otherwise. "Let's go, then."

I came to regret letting her ride. Halfway along the road, Isabelle began to sneeze and cough again. "Let's take a rest," I suggested, alarmed.

"If we keep taking rests like this, we'll never reach Hillsburn!" she complained. "You don't have to mother me, Max."

My instincts told me that if she didn't get any rest, her flu (or whatever it was) would only get worse. The only thing we could do now was seek shelter and stall the journey for at least a day. I conveyed this thought to her.

"This is absurd, Max!" Isabelle yelled at me. She turned away to suppress a cough. "You never let illness get in your way, why should mine hold us back? No, Max. Not a chance."

"Do you want to die, then?" I retorted, my temper rising. "Do you want to die, so far away from home?" But the instant those cruel words left my lips, I regretted saying them. I saw the colour drain from her cheeks. "Izzy, I'm sorry . . ." How could I have been so insensitive? How could I have said such a terrible thing to her? "I'm sorry, Izzy, I shouldn't have said that."

She bit her lip, refusing to talk to me. She took rode on quietly. Sometimes I wondered if our stubbornness was for the better or worse. We passed by a little farm, animals not in sight; chickens were probably in the coops for warmth, cows in the barn feeding their young ones. Smoke emitted from the chimney of the little cottage. I imagined an old couple residing inside, sipping hot tea, seated on comfortable rocking chairs, staring into the fire and enjoying the peaceful company of each other's presence.

I was somewhere between fantasising about the interior of the cottage and contemplating the harshness of reality when Isabelle's fingers uncurled from Mystic’s mane and her head fell forward. I brought Wild Thing up to her and tried to wake her, but she did not respond. The red spots were more evident now. The heat of her forehead pricked my palm. I had to get help now, quick – but from whom? I looked back and saw faint wisps of smoke in the air. The farm.

[nickimlow]

I'm a procrastinator, shoot me Sorry for taking so long, if anyone still remembers this story.



Chapter Three

I tried to carry my sister, one arm around her back for support, the other under her knees. “Follow me,” I told the horses, as if they understood me. “Come on, good girls. Follow me.”

They did.

I never knew how heavy my twin was. About twice my own weight, I guessed. (I suppose in the cold of winter and having eaten little, I was capable of such an exaggeration.) When we reached the farm, I had to put a hand on the wobbly fence for support.

“Help!” I yelled. “Help!”

After a few more desperate shouts, the cottage door creaked open and out came a young girl who was about our age (unlike the old couple that I had imagined). Her eyes were a dull green, her auburn hair tied in a neat bun. "Who are you?" she demanded in a thin and shrill voice, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“My name is Max,” I said breathlessly. “This is my sister, Isabelle. We are – travelling. My sister is sick; she passed out not too far up front. Could you help us, please?”

She opened the gate for us and allowed us to enter her house while she led our horses to the stables. I laid Isabelle on the floor before the warm fire. The girl came in again, reaching for a stick and poking at the coals, sparks flying off here and there as the fire grew in the hearth.

After warming my numbed hands near the fire, I heaved Isabelle onto my lap and wrapped my arms around her, taking her hand and curling my fingers around hers in hope of thawing the frost. The girl did not introduce herself. “So you are travelling?” she questioned. “In this weather?”

“No choice.” I pretended to mutter a few words not meant to be understood, so that it sounded like I was reluctantly explaining something to her. “Now, do you think you can help my sister? Herbs, maybe?”

She knelt down beside me now, taking my sister’s arm gently and lifting the sleeve. She traced her finger around the spots, and forced Isabelle's mouth open to check her tongue. “Might be measles,” she observed. “Or smallpox, or cowpox . . .”

Measles or smallpox … My sister could die from those diseases! A shiver ran up my spine before her last word registered in my mind. “Cowpox?”

“Just to check if you’re listening.” A small smile flickered across her face. She got up. “I’ll get some soothing salve for her, and maybe something to keep the fever down. You’ll have to wait until Father comes back to give her proper medication. Now, don’t move around.”

I heaved a sigh. The wind was howling madly outside, weeping hard, and the snow was thickening. Even if Isabelle was not ill, travel in such weather would be impossible. “This might be too much to ask for,” I called out, “but do you think your folks will allow us to stay over for a night? It is too cold for my sister and me to continue our journey. Besides, Isabelle needs rest.”

“You might be allowed to stay. We’ll see what Father says. He’s at the village trading his chickens.”

“How about your mother?”

“Ran away with some hook-nosed wretch years ago.”

She spoke of it so nonchalantly, as if she was speaking of fishing at the lake on a fine day. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, sincerely but awkwardly.

She made no reply. She took Isabelle and me to a room where we laid her on the bed and tucked her under the blanket.

“I’m Maria, by the way,” she finally introduced herself. Before I could reply, a bell jingled in the hall and she skipped to the door. I trailed behind her just in time to see a tall man with a red beard entered the cottage, carrying baskets of juicy berries and red meats in his arms. He greeted his daughter with a wide grin, but immediately frowned when he saw me. The bags fell, and he drew his daughter to his side protectively.

“Who is this person, Maria?” he asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowing into slits in a manner identical to Maria's.

“A traveller, he says,” Maria answered. “His sister fainted, so he came and sought help. I was thinking maybe you could check her, Father. It might be measles or something of the sort.”

Her father did not smile, but continued to watch me closely. “Did I not tell you to leave the gates locked at all times, Maria – under all circumstances?" He shifted and stepped forward, grabbing me by the shoulders. I winced beneath his strong grip. "Who are you?"

“I mean you and your daughter no harm, sir,” I told him as calmly as I could. Maybe we shouldn’t spend the night here after all, I thought. He looked like he would grab an axe and behead me then and there if I did not answer him. “We are travellers, heading north. My sister is sick; she passed out on the way. I was hoping you could help her, sir.”

Maria led him to the room where my sister was. He checked her body and then turned to me, now laughing and thumping my back with his great hand. It's no wonder his daughter is so strange; look at him! One minute, he looks as if he wants to murder me; and the next, he finds me absolutely harmless and welcomes my presence. “I see that you are telling the truth, lad!” he exclaimed. Then, in less cheerful voice, he muttered, "Hmm . . . Curious. This rash, it isn't measles, I'm sure."

I heaved a sigh of relief.

"I cannot be sure what it is she is suffering from," he said grimly. "But, well, I can give her some medication to reduce the rash and fix her fever. Of course, she must rest. It is probably an allergy of some kind.”

Of that, I was not so sure, but he didn't seem too worried, so I allowed myself to breathe freely for a few moments. Then I remembered something that needed to be straightened out. “I was – I wonder – I suppose we would be bothering you, but –” I didn't get to finish because he seemed to have read my mind.

“Certainly, you can spend the night here if you must. We do not have much to provide, I'm afraid, but it will do, I hope. We must nurse your dear sister back to health - I make it my responsibility as of now. ”

“My name is Max, sir,” I said, supposing an introduction between us was due. “And this is Isabelle.”

“Call me Fat Man Joe,” the man said with a grin and patted his huge paunch. Once he had told Maria what to prepare for Isabelle, he gave me a little tour around his house. The hall was small and packed with little jars and pots, brewing teas and potions of all kinds. He must practise the art of medicine, I thought. On who, his cows? As I looked around the kitchen, I felt immense gratitude towards this man and his daughter. They had little, and yet they welcomed us into their home, providing both shelter and food as best they could. I felt bad; the amount of food that they had would probably have been enough for more than a fortnight for the two of them, but with Isabelle and me there . . .

Fat Man Joe sensed what I was thinking because, winking, he said to me, “Don’t fret, young man. There are always the cows and the chickens back there.”

After a while, we went back to check in on Isabelle. She was awake, staring around quizzically at her surroundings. "Max, where are we?" she asked, her voice quivering. She tried to lift herself up.

I placed my hands on her shoulders and gently made her lie down again. "Ssh, ssh," I whispered. "This is Mr. . . . uh, Mr. . . . " The name he had given me was too strange to say aloud.

"Fat Man Joe," he provided. "And this is Maria."

"This kind sir and his daughter let us in. You are unwell, Isabelle," I told my sister.

It took a while for Isabelle to gather herself back together. And then she must have remembered the horrid thing that I'd told her just before she collapsed; I could almost hear my heartless words echoing themselves in the room. "I don't want to die away from home . . ." she said softly, her eyes sad.

"You're not going to die, child," Fat Man Joe assured her kindly. "My herbal remedy and plenty of rest will restore your health before you know it." He snapped his fingers in emphasis. "Are you hungry, dear?"

Isabelle shook her head.

“I'll get you something to change into,” Maria told my sister. Then, as she was walking out of the room, she said to me, “I don't have anything for you though, unless you don't mind a dress.”

“You can change into mine . . . if you don’t end up swimming in them, of course.” Fat Man Joe laughed at his own joke. I smiled politely. “Come on, let's find you my smallest shirt and get you some hot porridge. You can catch up with some sleep after that. We’ll wake you up if your sister looks for you.”

“Thank you,” I said faintly. “Good night, Isabelle.”

As we stood up to leave, Maria came in carrying a light blue nightgown. "Out, both of you," she commanded, hurrying us out of the room so that she could help Isabelle change.



Those were dark times, when we set out to seek the truth, Isabelle and I. Nevertheless, we still tried to make each other smile. Because Isabelle’s health was always weak and fragile, I couldn’t help but keep a close watch over her. I busied myself with her, and did not realise it when my sweetheart was right before me. Of course, I denied it then . . . But when I thought about it, I realised that it would be a great loss if I did not tell her that I loved her.

Who is my sweetheart? Oh, she’s a pretty little thing; a little like Isabelle, but not quite so. She was her own person. Her head was a lovely crown of dark red curls, her eyes a deep green, and she had nice, white teeth that shone when she smiled. If you’re thinking Maria, then you are terribly wrong. Although they bear an unmistakable resemblance to each other, their characters had always been like chalk and cheese.

I remember clearly, that day when I walked out of the house with a lighter heart to breathe the cool morning air. A girl of about fourteen or fifteen wearing a shawl (cream-coloured with embroidered flowers, as best I can recall) appeared at the gate, standing there with a handsome black horse.

"Good day, I don't believe I've seen you around here before," she said with a friendly smile, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulder.

"I'm just a–"

Before I could finish, a voice from behind me called in a surprised tone. "Elizabeth!" It was Maria.

"Hullo, Maria! Get over here and unlock the gate, will you?"

"Of course, of course." Maria let her in and gave her a hug. "Well, let's get you inside."

"Um, do you mind . . . ?" Elizabeth gestured towards her horse.

"Oh, right! Well, you see yourself in, then, while I take Sprinkles to the stables," Maria said, guiding the horse away.

Elizabeth and I walked in together. "I don't believe we've been introduced," she said in her sing-song voice. "I'm Elizabeth Phillips. How do you do?"

"Fine, thank you," I said with a smile. "Max Evans. Nice to meet you."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," she replied. I opened the door for her. She stepped into the cottage with a gracious, "Thank you."

"If it isn't my little Lizziemoo!" came a loud, jovial voice.

Elizabeth ran to Fat Man Joe and threw her arms around his big frame. "Hullo, Uncle! So nice to see you again!" she exclaimed.

"Max, I'd like you to meet my sister's daughter here, Elizabeth," Fat Man Joe said, laughing as he ruffled Elizabeth's hair.

I smiled. "We've been acquainted."

"Good, good. Now, what brings you here, Elizabeth?" the big man asked, ushering his niece inside as he spoke.

"Oh, I'm just on the way home and I thought I'd stop by. I just went to visit Annabelle, see," she answered as she took a seat.

"Ah, yes. How is she?" Fat Man Joe asked, getting interested.

"Oh, she's getting along well. The baby is a boy. She and Aaron named him Joseph Hayden. Isn't that a lovely name?"

"Aw, the little thing is my namesake. Wish I could see him, but I won't have much of a chance to, at least for the next few days. Must look after Max's sister. Poor girl has a bad rash and high temperature, I'm afraid," Fat Man Joe explained.

Just as he spoke those words, Isabelle appeared in the hallway wearing Maria's blue dress. "Good morning," she said, her voice more cheerful than it had been the day before. She still sounded weak and there were deep shadows beneath her eyes. Her long hair was tied in a loose ponytail, and the chestnut brown enhanced the contrast with her skin, which was white as sheet save the fading red spots.

"Good morning, Isabelle. Um, this is Maria's cousin, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, my sister," I said as my sister took a seat beside me.

"Hullo, Isabelle," Elizabeth said politely.

"Oh, I hope this rash isn't contagious! Do you think it is, sir?" Isabelle asked Fat Man Joe suddenly, ignoring both me and Elizabeth.

"Oh, you can't stay cooped up inside that room, anyhow. We'll take our chances," he answered kindly.

Isabelle relaxed a little and turned to greet Elizabeth, "Good day."

"Hullo," Elizabeth repeated just as Maria came in.

She sank into a wooden chair, wiped the sweat from her brow, and asked, "So, what did I miss?"



We talked for a while, the five of us. My sister had already gotten used to our new friends and was beginning to open up to them. Later, when Fat Man Joe had gone to feed the animals, and Maria and Elizabeth went to prepare breakfast, I took the opportunity to ask Isabelle how she was feeling. I sounded like a fretting mother.

"I – " She broke off with a sneeze. "- excuse me. I'm feeling a little bit better, I think."

"That's good."

We sat quietly for a while, until Isabelle broke the silence. "Where are we safe?" Isabelle asked me, as if continuing a conversation. "How much longer will it be before something else happens? How much longer before another disaster befalls us?"

I turned away, staring absently at my hands. We both knew it; we felt it in our very bones. One calamity after another seemed to be coming down on us. Isabelle had fought hard in silence the whole time, but how much more could a young girl possibly take? It was always Isabelle who suffered; I was never sick or injured. Why, why Isabelle alone? What could I say? How could I answer? As I faced her again, I tried the words from my heart. "We've got to stick together, Izzy. We can overcome all the obstacles together, ride to Hillsburn together, seek answers together. We will come out of this together."

Choosing to ignore my heartfelt speech, Isabelle went on, "Father said we are a danger to everyone. Under a roof, the roof may fall. I think we should leave as soon as we can, Max."

She was right. As much as I wanted her to gain complete strength, I was aware of the risk we were putting Fat Man Joe and his daughter in. Did I really want to take that risk?

No, I decided. "You're right," I agreed with a sigh. "We leave tomorrow morn."

After that, we had breakfast, and the five of us seemed almost like a family, there at the table. I almost felt a longing to stay there and escape all our troubles. But the trouble was always with us, wherever we went - it followed us, and there was no place to hide.



And that was the day I met Elizabeth. I was attracted to her, yes, for I soon learned from our animated conversation that she was a complex character. She was sweet and polite, clever and quick, and outspoken when need be - not the typical village girl. But it was not love at first sight, I think. At noon, Elizabeth departed. To where, she did not say.

Isabelle and I stayed the night, and by the following day, her fever had subsided and she was coughing less frequently. The spots that covered her body began to fade, and it was the fastest recovery I had ever seen. Fat Man Joe was a miracle worker, and Maria had played a part in it as well.

"Thank you so much for everything," Isabelle said to them before we left. "I'm forever grateful for what you've done for me. I'll never forget this."

Fat Man Joe laughed in his big voice, and it was a good, comforting sound. He bent and wrapped Isabelle in a big hug. "Ah, don't mention it. You take care, now, young lady. Don't strain yourself - you're not completely well yet, remember that. Are you sure you cannot stay, for just another day? It would do you good."

"We'd love to, but we must be on our way. Someday, we will come back, for we must repay you for your kindness," I said sincerely. "Thank you is not enough to express our gratitude - my gratitude."

"Nonsense! You owe us nothing." He slapped me on the shoulder and smiled approvingly. "You're a fine young lad. Off with you, now. Till we meet again."

We bid our farewells, and were on our way, horses laden with bags of food that would last us the rest of the way. That day was tough, because Mystic and Wild Thing were only just getting used to being back on the road again, and Isabelle was still recovering. But in the days that followed, things began to ease. By the fifth day, we reached Hillsburn's neighbouring town, and on the morning of the sixth, we rode into Hillsburn itself.

[nickimlow]

Thanks mrslaws and roswellluver for the f/b I would have posted this part earlier but I had to edit some stuff. I hope it's OK.



Chapter Four

Our clothes were dirty and a bit torn from the wear, hair quite unruly and eyes shadowed. What an eyesore. At first, the Hillsburn folk shook their heads when they saw us, and then big men began shooing us out of the way as they got ready for the morning market. Isabelle (rash free and feverless) and I wandered about blindly.

“Who was that man Father asked us to look for?” I asked. The name had already slipped from my mind after all those days of travelling. Isabelle huffed disbelievingly; it was absurd that I could forget something as important as that, when it was the sole purpose of coming to Hillsburn. But as she tried to recall the name, her face grew red. It took a moment before she snapped her fingers.

“James Archer!” She grinned triumphantly. People stopped moving around us, and heads turned. They began to talk in low, hushed voices, their eyes fixed on us. Isabelle frowned. “Did I just say something wrong?”

I shrugged, too exhausted to give it a moment's thought. "Let's just find this fellow, do what Father told us to do, wait for Father to arrive, and then leave." It was an allowance of fantasy, a small reward for journeying so far, the prospect of our task being so simple. What reality would bring, we could barely fathom.

We walked through the streets with our horses and everyone stared. At one point, I turned around and found that an old woman was following us. She wore a gray veil over her face and had a wooden walking stick. Wrinkles creased her skin and strands of silver escaped from beneath her scarf. She came to me and grabbed my arm with her bony fingers. "Time runs short . . ." she whispered in a raspy, almost strangled voice. That was all she said. Time runs short . . . She shot a glance at my sister. Isabelle's eyes grew wide and she stared at me as the woman released my arm from her grip and turned away, leaving us both dumbfounded. Her words had been a sign – a sign that things had only just begun. Whether she had had a part in this or no, we never did find out.

"What did . . ." Isabelle looked at me with big, searching eyes. "What did she mean by that?" she asked me, her expression horrified.

I shook away the uneasy feeling that had just risen in me; my sister needed my strength. "She's probably just a homeless madwoman with nothing better to do," I said, hiding my uncertainty from her.

But she knew it – she knew what I was thinking. She was, after all, my twin sister. Still, Isabelle just nodded and dismissed her anxiety. "You're right," she said. "I suppose that is all she is."

We continued walking, our horses trotting along at our sides. The houses there were big and a bit odd, and the people dressed in rather bold colours. Some retreated to their work, shaking their heads. Others stared on, as if my twin and I were green with horns on our heads. I decided to ask one of the strange villagers about James Archer.

The first person I asked, a scrawny bow-legged man, said, "Not wise to get mixed up with the likes of him, laddie," and walked off, shaking his head.

Not convinced, I stopped a lady wearing a green hat and red boots, and asked her.

“That man . . .” The lady peered around, pulling her shawl closer. “We cannot speak of him here. It is forbidden."

"Why?" I asked curiously. Who was James Archer, I wondered.

The lady eyed me suspiciously, but answered my question. "They say he was a sorcerer, or a seer – maybe a prophet, depending on which tale you follow. Good bloke, but the townspeople were afraid," she said, glancing around again. "Who knew what evil he could - or would - inflict on us? He was driven out of Hillsburn two years ago – never seen him since. For what purpose are you looking for him?"

“Oh, we've heard tales about him,” I said quickly, taking a step back with each word said. “We are foreigners, as you can see. Interested in this man. Children, curious. Don’t worry, we won’t ask about him anymore. We'll be off, now. Thank you!” We ran into an alley, away from the woman. There had been something in her tone that I didn’t like.

“You could’ve at least asked her where he might be,” Isabelle breathed deeply.

“Weren’t you listening, Isabelle? They’re not allowed to talk about him.”

“What are we going to do now?” she asked, taking the little bag from Mystic’s back and showing me the contents (and quite scarce, they were).

“What happened to all the food that Joe gave us?” I gasped, grabbing the bag from her as if to check if it was real.

“You kept it next to you when you slept last night. The horses must’ve eaten it all . . . or you might have finished it in your sleep,” she guessed. I was about to protest against her second idea when I realised I did not feel as hungry that morning as I usually did. Besides, sleepwalking wasn’t really new to me. Father and Isabelle had told me tales about my wandering at nights sometimes. I gritted my teeth and tied the bag to the horse again.

“I have little silver left with me.” I scratched my head, thinking of a way to get more food. “We could stay at an inn for a day or two, until Father comes. But should we risk it? I mean, remember what Father said.” I certainly didn’t want to pull another pathetic story trick on any of the townspeople.

"We wouldn't want that," said Isabelle, and she stepped out onto the street. Suddenly, a blur image passed before my eyes very quickly and I fell down. I broke the fall with my left arm, soon feeling a splintering pain in my elbow.

“I’m so sorry!” a familiar voice shrieked. But I began cursing. This was perhaps the only time I could curse aloud, after all those times of keeping the anguish and fury of the whole journey hidden inside. It felt good to let it all go, with an excuse.

“Are you all right?” A pair of brown eyes stared into mine, wide with concern. She grabbed my arm and pressed it to check if there were any broken bones.

“Elizabeth!” Isabelle cried out in recognition, surprised. I rubbed my eyes and blinked. It really was Elizabeth, Maria’s cousin.

“Hello, Elizabeth!” I got up, straightening my clothes. I wished then that I hadn't screamed such obscene language.

“You shouldn’t say ‘Hello, Elizabeth!’. Try, ‘I beg your forgiveness; I am forever your slave!’” Isabelle snorted, still smiling. It was indeed a comfort to meet someone who was not entirely a stranger to you in an unknown environment full of people who dressed in bright, blinding colours.

Elizabeth blushed and shook her head. “Oh no, it is I who must apologise! I'm terribly sorry, Max,” she said ruefully. "I was just heading home."

“It’s all right! My arm is strong, you know.” I flexed my arms, hoping to show off my muscles, but there was only a small, pathetic lump on my forearm. "Hold on, now. You're heading home? You live here?"

Before she could reply, a thundering sound echoed across the streets. We all looked up, trying to find the source of the noise. It was the sound of hooves – not the hooves of one horse, but many horses – and then we saw it, the sand being kicked into the air, the angry faces of the horses that were galloping across the town. It took a moment for me to fully realise that they were heading towards us. The townspeople fled from their stalls; some of them tried to warn us, telling us to run, but not daring to come near us. Mystic and Wild Thing lost control and galloped away from us. Sensing that Isabelle might run after her horse, I grabbed her, turned on my heels, and ran. We ran and ran as fast as our legs could carry us.

“Elizabeth!” I heard Isabelle’s voice amidst the roar of drumming hooves. “Take my brother with you. Make sure he’s safe!”

For an instant, my feet slowed down. The horses were approaching, and fast. What was she thinking? I was the big brother, I made all the decisions, and I was supposed to keep my twin safe - not the other way around.

“I’m going to distract the horses. Get him away!”

“Izzy! Are you mad?”

“Go, Max!” Isabelle bellowed. I didn’t want to go; I could not leave her to be trampled by the mad horses. But she gave me a hard push out of the way, and Elizabeth reached for me and pulled me out of the way. I lost my balance and rolled onto the ground, sand and dust entering my nose and mouth, clouding my vision. Elizabeth landed on top of me.

Through the mist of dirt, I could see Isabelle struggling to move as quickly as possible, the beasts still after her. I couldn’t find my voice; I couldn’t call her. I didn’t mean to push Elizabeth off just like that, but I needed to save Isabelle. I got to my feet, but by the time my eyes were cleared she was out of my sight.

The mad rush of clip-clops was growing softer and softer. This was it. Soon, Isabelle would not be able to go on; she’d fall and get trampled by the stampede. Elizabeth laid a hand on my shoulder, her eyes closed as if she understood my grief.

But she would never.

After all those days of travelling, of bad weather and sickness, Isabelle had made it this far . . . All that, to meet this end? Could she really be gone? My twin sister?



It all happened so suddenly. In my mind, I had imagined the cruel image of my sister's mangled body, bloody and twisted. We followed the horses, Elizabeth and I. I could feel my heart racing, pounding against my chest. Isabelle had known that it was her they were after. At the last moment, I reckon there was understanding that was ever clear. She had known that by doing what she had done, she would be saving everyone else. What if, at that instant as I raced to catch up with her, it was too late? What if she was already . . .?

No. I would have known; I would have felt it. In an angry sprint, fuelled by my fear as much as by my fury, I ran to catch up with her. And there she was. I saw the head of blonde hair. She was alive. Her legs were moving, but they were already beginning to fail her beneath her heavy skirts. I saw that her hand was pressed over her heart. What was she thinking then; what was going on in her mind? Was she thinking of a way to save herself? Was she hoping for a miracle? Or was she visualising her end? Don't give up, Izzy, I willed her silently.

Every turn she made was followed suit by the mad horses. They were going to kill her; they were sent to kill her. Even if Isabelle were to change her course, they would go with her. There had to be a way, there just had to . . .

Finally, as if my prayers were answered, I saw a ladder going up the wall of a building from the side. This was her last chance, Isabelle's only hope. "Isabelle!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, for my legs had not the strength to catch up with her speed. "Isabelle! To your left – the ladder!"

I held my breath as she leapt to the side and scrambled up the ladder as quickly as she could with those skirts weighing her down. The ladder threatened to topple over, but it didn't. And then it was over. I saw her disappear over the roof of the building. The horses stopped abruptly in confusion. For an instant, there was a sudden silence that sounded louder than the beating of their hooves against the ground. Then the stampede thundered on.

I breathed a sigh of immense relief. She had made it. Elizabeth caught up with me. I pointed at the roof and, as soon as we reached the building, I clambered up the ladder with Elizabeth close behind. Once I'd reached the top, I tumbled over, my body aching and weak.

My sister was lying unconscious on the smooth floor. "Isabelle . . ." I whispered, my voice hoarse from exhaustion.

Elizabeth bent and turned Isabelle over gently. Her face was pale, her body limp. But she was alive still. Lightly, Elizabeth shook my sister awake. When Isabelle opened her eyes, I sensed that something was different. Yet, I was so glad and relieved that I gave it only a moment's thought and just threw my arms around her.

She didn't hug me back. When I let go and held her at arm's length, she just stared at me, her expression blank. The pale eyes were the same . . . and yet so different, for something in them had dimmed . . . or perhaps died. Right there, right then, I realised that I had lost her.

[nickimlow]

roswellluver, Luvya, and rigel - Thanks so much for reading! I really appreciate the feedback

Here's a short bit.

Chapter Five
Part One

The fire warmed my body, but nothing could wipe away the sick coldness that had settled in the core of my heart. I watched as the red-orange flames swayed in the hearth – side to side, up and down; so slowly, and then so quickly. There was no telling what it would do next, how quick a pace it would take; it was impossible for one to predict. Such were our lives at that point of time.

"She's sound asleep." I was jolted back to the present by the sound of Elizabeth's voice. I looked up and saw her gentle brown eyes staring at me with genuine concern, the warm light from the fireplace outlining her delicate features. "You should get some rest, too," she added.

After the stampede, we brought Isabelle to Elizabeth's house, which was a short distance from the marketplace. What would I have done had we not met Elizabeth, at Fat Man Joe's and in Hillsburn?

I turned back to the fire, looking into it but seeing nothing. "Has she spoken?"

Elizabeth lowered herself to the seat beside me. "I'm afraid not," she whispered sympathetically. "You must give her some time. Time to recover."

I buried my face in my hands helplessly, the last shreds of my mask of bravado slipping away. From behind my hands, I saw nothing but darkness. Not a glimmer of light, not a sign of hope.

"Stay for as long as you must," Elizabeth said kindly. I looked up again. "You are welcome here."

She did not know us well, and yet she was so good to us. She'd let us into her home willingly and trustingly. But I could not put her life in risk - her life, and those with her. Judging by the poor condition of her house, I guessed that she belonged to a humble family - we couldn't burden them further. Still, Elizabeth's kindness moved my heart. "Thank you . . ." I could utter no more, for tears were threatening to spill from my eyes and I could not cry – not in front of her.

"I wish I had known that you were heading this way," she went on. "We could have travelled together."

I nodded without saying a word. I couldn't bear to think about all the things that we could have done, things that we could have prevented, things that could and could not have happened. And yet, I knew that this was not how it worked, because one way or another, something of the like would happen. There was no stopping it.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

I nodded again.

"I must see to my mother," she said finally. "Get some rest, will you?" She stood up and left the room.

We could not stay here any longer than we had to. Her mother was ill, and she had two little sisters to look after. I decided that we would look for an inn to stay, or sleep on the streets if we had to. We would continue our search for James Archer and then wait for Father to arrive. Tomorrow, I would thank her for her hospitality and we would leave and do all that I had just planned.

But for the time being, I would close my eyes. I drifted into a restless sleep, haunted by dreams – dreams that would, later when I awoke, prove significant.



The flames were all around, the heat licking my skin, but I could only stand and watch. Her eyes were filled with terror as the fire prepared to devour her. But then he came, and in an instant, they were gone – the fire, the girl, the man.

I saw instead two infants, their cheeks red and their hair sticky. They were wrapped in thick blankets. My eyes moved to the bed, and there she was, the girl, half-smiling and her eyes half-closed. The sheets were stained with blood, and, beside her, sat her grief-stricken husband. I watched helplessly as she closed her eyes, never to awake again. I shared the man's sorrow as they covered her body.

Then that, too, was gone. Quickly, images passed before my very eyes. Two babies learning to crawl. Two toddlers trying to talk. They grew up, and fine young people they turned out to be. They wed and had their own families.

But the man soon found that he was alone. He had lost his wife, and all because of those two children. He was angry and he went insane. They were called to his house. They had not known of his intentions, and came with baskets of fruits and gifts.

A horsewhip sliced through the air. A blade gleamed menacingly in the light. The screams echoed in the air. They could not run, they could not hide. He yelled at them, and he cursed their children and their children's children. What force could deny these words – these words that came from the lips of the man who had raised the ones whose children he'd cursed?

And at last, all that was left was a man who had lost his wits, a young husband and father who had lost his life, and a tormented sister who had lost her other half . . .

[nickimlow]

rigel - I didn't realise the TFD was there. Got it fixed Thanks for reading!

kittens - Well, that will be answered in the upcoming parts. Thanks for reading!

roswellluver - I appreciate your f/b Thanks!

Here's the second part of Chapter Five. It's nothing much, but . . . Hope you don't mind Please let me know what you think!



Chapter Five
Part Two

I opened my eyes and I half-expected to see the ghosts of the three people in my dream. With it, came a memory; distant, and yet so close to the heart. I saw again my mother's face and heard again her voice telling the last tale she had ever told. The answer, I realised, had been this all the time, and I had not seen it. She had told us to remember it always. She had told us this terrible story at her deathbed. If I pieced it together – the reason to why she'd struggled to make this story known to us, the terrible things that had been happening, why father had sent us away – it would all make sense.

But then, what sense? Did I really believe in curses and craft? Maybe I was so desperate for an answer that I leapt for the first thing that came close. Perhaps this was not it, after all. But what could explain all these disasters that had been happening to us? There was a stitch in my heart as a horrifying thought came to mind. What if Isabelle was gone? Disappeared, maybe? There was no knowing what would happen to her next.

I ran to the guest room where Isabelle was sleeping and saw her still sleeping, peacefully. I laid a hand on my sister’s warm forehead and prayed to whatever higher force that might be listening - prayed that she would come to herself again, prayed that she would be safe. I didn’t know how much longer I could take it. How strong had I to be? I was living in constant fear, Isabelle in ceaseless pain. I opened my eyes and saw the tears on her cheeks, though her own eyes were not open. Whether she felt how I was feeling, or her nightmares were tormenting her, I did not know.

But even if I did, what could I do to help her? At that moment, feeling angry with myself, and at the heavens, and everyone else in the world, feeling Isabelle's pain, I allowed myself to cry. The tears that had built up within me all that while were unleashed and I buried my head in her arm.

Isabelle stirred and awoke. Her blue eyes were cold and dead.

“Isabelle,” I wiped my tears at my sleeves. In front of my sister, I had to be strong again. “Isabelle, how are you?”

She stared at me for a long time, as if trying to remember who I was. Didn’t she recognise me? Or was she trying to remember who she was?

“It’s all right, Isabelle. You have nothing to be afraid of. I’ll be right by your side no matter what happens.” I thought I felt her tremble slightly. I hushed her to sleep again, and she closed her eyes, the whole time saying nothing.

It was still dark outside. I went downstairs again and tried to sleep, but couldn't. Finally, the darkness lifted. Not too long afterwards, I heard Elizabeth leaving the house. To the market, I guessed.

When she returned, a good two hours later, it was a long time before she spoke. Finally, she told me in private, “I checked with the local stables. The horses were Farmer Jameson’s, but he did not know what caused them to lose control like that. They were found near Delia's Lake yesterday night.”

If there had been no explanation to the catastrophes before this, there would be no explanation for this, either. I admitted to myself that I needed Father. Where was he . . .?

“Be strong, Max. Someday, surely . . .” Elizabeth did not follow up on that thought.

That day, Isabelle did not get out of bed. Seeing no choice but to wait for her to get well again, I busied myself with helping Elizabeth with her little garden in the morning and fumbling in the kitchen in the evening. Her mother was still ill, her little sisters were too young, and she had no father, so I felt obliged to help around the house.

“Hey, Elizabeth,” I asked her while we were in the kitchen making bread. “Do you know of any foreigners coming to this town recently?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Apart from the both of you, no. But I was at my elder sister's house. Annabelle, she just had a baby, see."

"So you're an aunt now," I said with a grin, my hands still kneading the flour.

“Yes, I am. Too much egg, Max,” she giggled. I let her take over the kneading. She was a great cook, even better than Father. “The broth is ready. You can take it to Isabelle.”

I took the bowl of broth and made my way to Isabelle’s room. “Here, Izzy,” I said gently. Isabelle was already awake on her bed in a sitting position, staring into space, her mouth opened slightly. “Have something to eat.”

She did not turn to face me, but opened her mouth wider as I fed her. I struggled to smile. It was a start, at least. “Are you feeling better?” I didn't expect an answer, since, after all, she hadn't spoken since the– incident.

Isabelle closed her eyes, and took me by surprised when she said it, so softly: "The day will never come, for me to feel better." The voice sounded so lost, so tired, so hopeless. There was a deep sadness in her words. This couldn't be my sister. My sister was strong and brave.

It will, I thought, making a silent vow. If I die trying, I will fight so that you may see that day. My unspoken words bore the weight of a promise – it was, perhaps, my first true step into manhood.

She didn't speak again after that, not for a long time; she pulled back into her shell, once again quiet and withdrawn. The next day, she got out of bed. With a shawl over her thin shoulders, she'd ventured into the streets. She had refused to let me follow her.

"You're not fit to go out just yet!" I had fretted.

The icy stare she'd given me had been enough to silence me. I didn't know what to do. Elizabeth said that it was best to leave Isabelle alone for the time being. "She needs time," she had reasoned. "Time to sort things out. I'm sure she will find her way back here."

I could tell that Elizabeth was curious about us, but she didn't press with nosy questions. She let me tell her what I wished to tell her, and let me keep to myself what I wanted to remain secret. I should explain, I thought. But what was there to explain, when we did not understand the situation any better ourselves? I sighed. "Since Isabelle is out, I might as well do something useful. I have something important to attend to," I said.

"Let me help you," Elizabeth volunteered. Just then, the sound of her mother's coughing came from her room.

"No, it's all right. You must look after your mother. And who will watch Linda and Caitlin if you go out? No, best you stay at home." We had already been such a bother to her, a load of extra work. I thought about her mother, who lay ill in her room, her chest seized by painful coughing. I heard her sisters, six and ten, playing amongst themselves. The least I could do was get out of Elizabeth's way.

She was about to protest, but then her mother called for her. With a sigh, she agreed. "You're right. But please take care, will you?"

I smiled. "Don't worry. I'll watch out for mad horses," I said. It had been intended as a joke, but I found myself being overcome by a wave of sadness as I uttered those words.

"Be careful," she bid me again.

"I will return before sunset." I turned and headed for the door. Then I stopped in my tracks and looked back at her again. I could not say what I had wanted to say, because she was not standing there any longer. My shoulders slumping slightly, I made my way out.

*

Out on the streets, I walked without sense of direction. I found an alehouse a mile down the road. The man behind the counter asked, "A little too young, aren't you, to be coming into a place like this? But hey, it doesn't matter. What can I get for you, eh?"

I thought it best to be blunt, so I plunged right in. "Actually, I'd like to inquire about – something."

"Ask away, then. Come on."

"Sir, have you heard of a man named James Archer?" I asked, getting straight to the point.

Almost immediately, the entire alehouse quieted. All eyes were on me. The man looked at me suspiciously. "Why do you ask, sonny?"

"Have you?" I pressed on.

"Best you get out of here, boy," said the man grimly. "

"Sir, I need to know where I can find him. This is important," I said, my voice pleading. I was desperate.

A strange fellow sitting in the corner with a black hood over his eyes asked in a very unnatural voice, low and hoarse, "Why would a young boy like you be looking for a man like him?"

"I asked my question first," I reminded him, and the rest of the crowd. I needed to know, and blessed be anyone who would give me an answer.

"That's it, boy," said the first man. "Out and along with you, now. Can't have anyone stirring up trouble in here."

What was the use? Everyone feared the very mention of his name, even these burly drunkards. No matter how much I begged, I knew they would not answer. I held my head high, muttered a cynical, "Thanks for your time," and strode out of the alehouse and down the street again. There had to be another way around this.

Something pulled me to a halt. It was a voice from the alley to my right. "You, boy," the voice said. I turned and saw the hooded man.

[nickimlow]

roswellluver - Thanks for reading!

rigel - Your question is partially answered in this part Thanks for reading!

And now, the final instalment of Chapter Five.



Chapter Five
Part Three

"How on earth . . .?" How had he gotten there so quickly, when I had left first?

"I ask the questions, you answer. If you answer them all for me, then I'll answer your questions. Fair enough?" He pulled me into the alley.

I eyed him suspiciously. "What do you want?" I demanded.

"Is it a deal?" he asked. His blunt approach reflected my own directness back at the alehouse.

"Reveal yourself," I said, playing the game. "Show me your face, and I will do as you wish."

"Accept my offer or decline and walk away."

I had no choice. He knew I was desperate. If I wanted to know about James Archer, this was my only chance. I had to take it or leave it. What did I have to lose, anyway? "On the condition that you will later answer what I ask."

"Repetitions are unnecessary, boy. I said that I would and I will." said the man harshly. "Now, answer me this, lad: Why do you ask of the man, James Archer, whose name has been unspoken here for two years now?"

I thought for a moment and weighed the situation. "I was sent to look for him, because he has answers that I need."

The man stood very still, his face still half-hidden beneath the black hood. I guessed he was an outsider like me, for he wore no bright colours. "Who sent you here?"

"My –" I hesitated for a while. "– my father."

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Your father, eh . . . What answers does this man have that you must know?"

Why he cared, I wanted to know. What was this to him? Was he playing a game with me? "I was told only to speak a name, and he would know what to tell me. For now, I am still quite in the dark," I confessed.

The hooded man nodded, and did not question me further. "I have to keep my end of the bargain," he said.

I was tempted to ask him why he'd asked so much. Then I thought, why bother? Which was more important – my curiosity, or Isabelle's life? "Indeed you do, sir. My question is: do you know where I might find James Archer?" I asked.

I saw the man's mouth tighten and his skin crease in a frown. "He does not wish to be found. He lives in exile, away from Hillsburn folk."

"That does not answer my question."

"Straightforward boy, you are. I like that." The man nodded his approval. "Well, then. People say he retreated into the forest and lives in a cave. Others say that he changed his name and travelled south. He used to have his heart set on - what's the place - Downing Village."

I gaped at him, unable to conceal my shock. All this while, he could have, just could have, been back home, right there in our little village? "Why was he driven out?" I asked, though I had already been told the answer by the lady I had approached on the first day of our arrival in Hillsburn. Still, it wouldn't hurt to ask again – maybe he could explain more.

"Ah . . . Something happened, boy. He tried to do a good thing, but his possession of such ethereal powers brought fear to the people." There was something in his voice that sounded a touch sad, or maybe disappointed. With a gesture of my hands, I urged him to go on. "I can tell you no more."

My shoulders slumped. "Why not?" I asked dejectedly.

"I must depart," said the hooded man. He gave me a brief nod and strode past me. When I peered out of the alleyway, he was gone. Strange man, he was. Anyhow, going into that very alehouse had been a stroke of luck. Some information, little as it was, was better than none at all.



It took me a while to find my way back to Elizabeth's house, but I did, eventually. Isabelle had returned and I was glad to see that some colour had returned to the cheeks – perhaps it was from the cold. Still, she would not speak to anyone. I wondered, later that night and many a time afterwards, if she would ever speak again.

I found myself going through memories as I sat by the warmth of the fireplace. As a child, I had always been closest to Mother, and Isabelle to Father. Sometimes, we would get into scrapes and yell at each other. To calm us down, they would pull us apart and Mother would hug me and tell me a story, and Father would do the same with Isabelle. We would always apologise and reconcile, and the four of us would sit by the hearth and spend quality time together.

I was alone now, with Mother dead, and Father far away, and Isabelle so lost in existence. I was all alone. I thought about the times when Mother would be bustle around the kitchen, scolding us for eating the cookies before they cooled. I smiled to myself when I remembered the time when Father chased Isabelle and I in the fields in springtime. Mother was laughing as she stood at the door. Then Father would catch us, scoop us into his arms, and run back to the house, where he would kiss Mother and she would kiss us. But gradually, the image of my dying mother returned to my mind, and I saw her as if she was really there before my eyes, short of breath and pale-faced. I saw my father returning from his duties on the battlefield, and recognised the hideous scar that had been left on his cheek, a reminder of the last battle he had ever fought which mingled with the memory of the loss of his wife. I thought we could live happily together, in my mother's memory. Indeed, we had been doing just that until everything changed forever. Our lives were destroyed – there was no turning back. How could we change what was destined to be, if it had truly been the family curse?

Mother would have known. She had, after all, told us at the very last hour; she had warned us. Why would she have done that if there was no way out? I wondered why she hadn't told us earlier, why she hadn't prepared us for it. I made a mental note to ask Father about it.

Thinking about my father, I found myself feeling worried about him. Where was he? Was he safe? Why hadn't he come with us? Why hadn't he arrived at Hillsburn yet?

"A penny for your thoughts?" I looked up and found Elizabeth standing behind me. "You look troubled," she pointed out.

I forced a smile. "Best that you are not burdened by my troubles for surely you have problems of your own," I said.

She took a seat beside me. "Burdens are best shared," she said. The shadows bounced off the head of wavy reddish-brown hair, giving me the illusion of it having a life of its own; her eyes of green sparkled like emeralds in the firelight. I noticed that she had the loveliest features, delicate and pretty, but she was also small and thin, perhaps from her responsibilities caring for her family and having little time for herself.

"I am not the only one with burdens," I said, giving her a pointed look.

Elizabeth sighed. "Let us not venture into that line of thought, shall we, then?" She stared into the fire.

Every time I looked into the blazing flames, I saw images. I saw memories, good and bad, I saw things that I wished I could have but could not have, I saw things that I imagined would happen but hoped would not. I even saw the dream I had had the previous night playing before my eyes again. What did Elizabeth see when she looked into it? "Sometimes, burdens are best shared," I repeated.

Just then, Linda, Elizabeth's six-year-old sister, came in. She stood at the doorway, rubbing her eyes. "I can't sleep," she mumbled.

"Come here, sit with me," Elizabeth said, tapping her lap.

Linda threw herself onto her sister's lap. "Will you tell me a story?" she asked hopefully. I thought she was referring to her sister, but then I realised that she was looking at me.

"Me? Oh, no, I'm not very good with words," I said, a little shy.

"Anyone can tell a story. Come on, give it a try," Elizabeth urged. "Linda loves bedtime stories. I never really grew out of it either. Please, Max, just one."

I thought for a moment. "Well, then," I said, a small grin growing at the corners of my lips. "I'll tell you the one about the silly boy who tried to trick a man at a marketplace." Elizabeth raised her brow at me but I just went on, laughing inwardly at the memory. So I launched into the story with feigned enthusiasm for the little girl, but soon I felt artificiality ebbing away and I began to enjoy myself. Linda interrupted me a few times. "Was it a long journey?" "Why didn't they bring food?" "Why didn't they sell the brother's horse?" Elizabeth hushed her sister.

"Well, the brother's horse was ugly, smelly, and a little touched in the head. Who would want to buy such a horse?" I said with a grin.

Linda tilted her head. "I would," she told me, her voice innocent and sweet. Elizabeth gave her a little pinch on the cheek. "Let Max tell the story, Linda."

I laughed. "You might, but not many others would. Back to the story, shall we?"

"All right," Linda squeaked, resting her cheek in the crook of her sister's arm.

I went on until I was once again interrupted, this time by giggles. Her laughter actually lightened my heart a little.

Finally, I came to the end of the story. Elizabeth gave a soft chuckle. "I'll wager the brother was you, and the horse was Isabelle's?"

"Why, how did you guess? Oh, oh, ssh . . ." I said quickly when I saw that Linda was fast asleep. "I must be a terrible storyteller, for her to fall asleep. No wonder she didn't interrupt towards the end."

"Oh no, she's just tired. Linda loves stories and she has always said that everyone can tell them. She taught me that," Elizabeth said, stroking her sister's rosy cheek. "The simplicity of a child's way of thinking is just so beautiful, so peaceful. If only we could all think like that . . ." Her words trailed off, and I guessed that she had stumbled upon thoughts that she did not wish to bring back to mind.

I nodded. Wouldn't it be a much better world if things were less . . . complicated?

"Well, now, let's get this little one to sleep, then," Elizabeth said.

"Come, I'll carry her," I offered. She let me take Linda into my arms and bring her to the room. Inside, Caitlin, the other sister, was already fast asleep. I put Linda down on the thin mattress that was her bed, and tucked the blanket under her chin.

"Good with kids, aren't you?" Elizabeth acknowledged when we had gone back outside. "Not many boys your age would even care."

I shrugged. "I do have a sister, after all. Not that she's a child, but we do have to take care of each other." I didn't add that I was the one who had to do all the taking care of now.

"Elizabeth . . ."

"Yes?"

"Do you know anything about a man named James Archer?" I asked.

Elizabeth shook her head. "My mother told me that he was an evil man, but that was all she ever said about him. Why?"

"Just . . . curious, I guess. You aren't tired?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Twilight is the only time I have to myself," Elizabeth said. "Time to think a little, you know?"

"Then, I suppose I should leave you to your thoughts."

"Oh no, please stay. A little company wouldn't hurt."

We sat in silence, keeping our thoughts to ourselves but each providing the other with a warm, comforting presence in the cold. We both had our own problems, though we spoke not of them. I found that, just by being there for each other, we had become friends.