Anne Bishop - Belladonna

Lady of Light, have mercy on me.

Michael folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. Then he closed his eyes in order to close out the room and the other men.

Heart’s hope lies within belladonna.

A warmth, a tug that suddenly turned into a longing so fierce it was almost painful. He could feel her, smell her, hear the music in her heart. The dark-haired woman who had been filling his dreams lately.

Dreams, Aunt Brighid had said. Portents.

Could his dream lover be the key to the riddle? Could she lead him to the Warrior of Light?

“Michael?”

He opened his eyes and noticed the glass of whiskey. He drank it down, wanting the heat of it to warm a cold that suddenly filled his bones.

“Trouble at home?” Kenneday asked.

“I’m not sure,” Michael replied. “But I’ll take your offer.”

Kenneday started to push back his chair. “Then let’s get you settled. We sail with the morning tide.”

Michael shook his head, then leaned over and rummaged in his pack. When he straightened up, he held his whistle. “Give me an hour here.”

Heart’s hope lies within belladonna.

He let the rhythm of the words fill his heart, his body, and then let the words shape the music that flowed from him as he played no particular tune. He could sense something quivering in response to the music, had the strange sensation of the ground turning under the building to align itself with…What?

He had no answer, so he concentrated on the music—and hoped he would dream of his dark-haired lover. He wanted that last memory of her as a talisman when he sailed through water where Evil dwelled.

It flowed from the sea to the land, a shadow under stone, a feeling of menace that made horses bolt and run wild through the village streets, made penned animals fling themselves at their enclosures until they broke free—or ruined themselves in the attempt—made women, for no reason they could explain, snatch up their children and bring them inside, ignoring the wails and protests that toys had been left behind.

As It flowed beneath the earth, It sent the force of Its own rage through the Dark currents that ran through the land around the village of Raven’s Hill. It could sense the presence of the Landscaper who had helped the True Enemy hide the Place of Light, but It couldn’t find her. Somewhere on that hillside. There and yet gone. Somewhere.

Frustrated and furious, It paused on the edge of a well-tended lawn, a darker shadow among the shadows cast by stones and trees. Paused and stretched Its mental tentacles to touch the minds of the villagers.

And, oh, wasn’t this delicious? These foolish humans looked on the Landscaper with distrust, not realizing she was their protector, that her presence spared them from the stains within their own hearts.

Sorceress? Yes, It whispered. Yes, she is a servant of evil. She covets what youhave, wants to destroy what you hold dear. Nothing good has come from that family. Nothing ever will.

Hearts wavered. Were seduced. Fed the Dark currents. One heart blazed with the Light and one heart was too anchored in the currents of Light to be completely swayed, but even in those hearts It found shadows of doubt.

It flowed along the base of the hillside until It reached the path that led upward. Like other animals, humans had game trails they followed. The Landscaper traveled this one often. It could feel her resonance in the earth.

It could feel something else too—a tangle of currents so bloated with the Dark and resonating so strongly with It that Ephemera gave up that piece of itself with no resistance.

And part of the meadow behind the cottage near the hill changed to rust-colored sand.

Satisfied, the Eater of the World rested—and waited.

Michael tucked the tin whistle inside his pack, secured the pack’s flap, then set it aside where it would be out of the men’s way but within easy reach when they finally dropped anchor at Raven’s Hill.

He was glad his presence and his music had eased the hearts of Captain Kenneday’s crew, but he hoped by all that was holy that he wouldn’t be ready to leave when Kenneday sailed back this way, hoped he could find a reason—or an excuse—for taking the roads to head back to the villages that made up his circuit. Because he didn’t want to sail through that stretch of water again, even knowing that it would be hard for Kenneday and his men to make that part of the journey without him.

What was out there was no story told by the surviving fishermen in order to explain a tragedy. Kenneday’s ship had had a clear sky, a good wind, and no hint of anything unnatural. Then they sailed into fog.

He’d heard the voices of the dead men. A chill had gone through him, as if he’d stepped out of the sun into deep shadow. So he’d picked up his whistle, and he’d played. At first the tunes were laced with sorrow and were a salute to the dead and the families who mourned the lost men. Then he eased into tunes that threaded hope into the melody. The fog thinned, the voices of the dead faded, a hazy sun shown overhead, and he imagined he could see a faint glow around each man as, one by one, they shed their despair and believed they would reach clean water again.

When they finally sailed clear of that terrible stretch of water, Kenneday looked at his pocket watch—and discovered they had been lost in the fog for three hours.

No, he didn’t want to sail through that stretch of water again, but as he had played, a thought had danced with his tunes. Maybe his brain had gotten addled in the fog, but if not, the feeling people had of a journey being shorter or longer than usual might not be just a feeling after all.

Leaving his pack, Michael made his way to the stern, where Kenneday was manning the wheel.

Kenneday smiled as Michael came up to stand beside him. “We’ll have you home in time for tea, Michael. That we will.” Then he looked away. “I’m grateful for your help. If you hadn’t been on board…Well, we might still be sailing in that fog, becoming more of the lost men, if it hadn’t been for you.”

Michael gave the captain a sharp, assessing look and decided Kenneday believed what he said.

And it is true, Michael thought. If this isn’t more than fevered imaginings, a ship might never leave that stretch of water if the men on board start believing they’ll never get free of that haunted place.

“I think there’s a way to avoid the fog,” Michael said.

“What? Sailing clear around Elandar every time I have a supply run between ports in the north and south? That would put days on every trip.”

“You don’t have to avoid this part of Elandar, just that stretch of water.” When Kenneday made a dismissive sound, Michael clamped one hand on the captain’s forearm. “Listen to me. The bad water is where those five fishing boats were destroyed. Talk to the men who were in the other boats. You can be sure they know how far out they were when that monster rose from the sea. Damn the darkness, man, you and the other captains can figure out the position of a safe channel that will keep ships from sailing into that water. You mark other dangers; why not this one?”

“Because this one is different.”

Kenneday might be arguing, but Michael heard the underlying hope in the man’s voice.

“This one has boundaries, same as any other piece of dangerous water,” Michael said. “I don’t know how I know that, but I know it. And I’m thinking the area inside those boundaries is never any smaller than the area where those fishing boats were destroyed, but it can expand to be as big as a person believes it to be.”