David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

When next she awoke, someone was rapping on the door. A woman called out.

"Marielle?"

It was Annelise. Without waiting for a response, the young woman opened the door and stepped inside.

Marielle groaned.

"Are you ill, Marielle?" Annelise asked, standing beside her. "It's well past midday. We assumed you were off wandering or gathering wood, but when you didn't reappear, I decided to check on you. Sergio will be wondering why you haven't risen."

Marielle drew the blanket over her head. "I'm fine."

"Then why not get up?" Annelise persisted, mildly annoyed.

"All right, because I'm ill," said Marielle. "Or I was. I'm better now. I'll be up in a moment."

"I'd help you dress," said Annelise," but I've got to get back to my baby. "She paused. "It looks like you did burn yourself last night, Marielle. Your leg has a mark."

Marielle opened one eye, following the gesture of Annelise's hand. Sure enough, a red streak lay upon her thigh.

"It's nothing," she said.

"Well, it's not bad, but you should be more careful," Annelise chided. "I don't suppose you will, though."

Marielle sighed. The woman was tedious. "No, I don't suppose I will."

Annelise did not hear her reply. She had already stepped through the door and closed it behind her.

Marielle rose and pulled on her clothes, then stepped out into the daylight, squinting. The sun was not bright, despite her reaction. Gray clouds hung low in the sky, promising a heavy rain. Three boys were playing with a stick and ball while a dog bounded beside them, yapping. The sound hammered through Marielle's head.

"You don't look well, Marielle. "It was Annelise, back again. This time, she held her baby to her breast. Her concern was genuine, if not deep.

"Perhaps I'm not," replied Marielle. She gazed around the camp. She could not bear the thought of remaining there through the day, and hungered for the night to return. "I think I'll go for a walk. It might refresh me."

"Now I know you're ill," said Annelise. "Can't you see a storm is coming? The weather is about to break. It'll hardly do you good to be soaked to the skin."

"I won't be gone long," Marielle answered. Without looking at her companion, she turned and walked into the woods, thinking that perhaps she might never return.

If she found him, she thought. If the previous night had not been a dream after all. She hurried through the pines and down into the valley, seeking out the spot in which they had met, in which they had lain together. He had promised he would return. Rain began to fall softly, and she broke into a run.

When she reached their trysting place, water was pouring from the heavens. The sky was black, relieved only by brilliant lightning, which tore across it like a jagged blade. Thunder filled her ears. She pressed herself against a tree. With each stroke of lightning, she scanned the clearing, desperately seeking any sign of her lover. He did not come. In time her legs collapsed, and she slid to the wet ground, huddled against her knees. So she remained for hours, tears diluted by rain. Still, he did not come.

Finally, Marielle rose, calling out his name. Perhaps he was lost in the tempest, she thought. Lost, just as she. She stumbled into the forest. The earth turned to deep, gluey mud. In the darkness she misstepped. The mire closed in around her, pulling her downward, swallowing her to the waist.

Again, she called out, then three times more. The mud rose to her chest. She flailed desperately, clutching at nothing. Her face and shoulders sank into the mire, and the mud muffled her screams. Then a hand clamped hard on her wrist, drawing her from the grave just as the world faded to black.

When Marielle regained consciousness, she found herself in a great cavern, lying on the ground beside a campfire. A black, scratchy blanket covered her body. She rose quickly, then hastily pulled the blanket around her. She was nude, and not alone.

Around the fire sat a dozen gypsies. All had blueblack hair and skin as pale as the moon, like Damius. In their ebony clothing they resembled mourners, while she herself played the role of the dead. They gazed at her calmly, unblinking, with eyes the color of steel. A young woman beside her touched her arm. Marielle flinched. The cold fingers stung her like frozen metal upon bare, wet skin.

"You have nothing to fear," murmured the woman, white teeth flashing. "Nothing at all."

Her words brought no comfort. Marielle looked about the cavern, searching for Damius. The chamber was immense, with corners draped in shadow. She could barely make out two passages, though where they led, she could not see. A smoke-filled alcove lay on the opposite side of the cavern, and within it another small fire glowed. A trio of elders sat around the fire. Only their stooped posture and their silvery hair described their age, for their white skin appeared smooth and unlined. The pale hair glowed against their black robes; in the dim haze, it was as ethereal as the smoke. One of them turned and met her stare. The eyes flashed yellow, then looked away.

A knot of fear took root in Marielle's stomach. By instinct, she pulled her legs close and clutched the blanket more tightly, withdrawing into a fragile, futile shell.

"Where is Damius?" she asked quietly.

"Very close," said the woman at her side. "But you are safe here with us. Is that not true, Niro? Play a little music to soothe her while we wait for Damius to return."

She nodded to a man opposite the fire, and he drew a shining black fiddle to his chin. Ghostly strains issued forth, filling the cavern. Marielle felt the music piercing her soul, and indeed, it put her at ease. Such beauty was not to be feared.

The woman beside her hummed the melody softly for a moment, calming Marielle further. "Damius told us you were near death when he drew you from the mire," she said. "Your body is weak. Drink this, and you shall mend."

She offered a cup filled with dark, bitter tea. Marielle drank it down dutifully, then set the vessel aside. The white faces swam before her, smiling faintly, each a copy of the other. She sank limply to the ground, twisted like a rag doll in lazy repose.

The roof of the cavern swirled overhead. Wet, glistening red lichen covered the stone, pulsing in the firelight like a living organ. Stalactites hung from the ceiling. Tendrils of smoke and mist caressed each glittering and jagged point, unhurried as they sought their escape through some hidden chimney in the rock.

"Yes, rest," said the girl. "I am Lizette, sister to Damius. He will come to you soon."

"Damius," Marielle echoed, tasting the name upon her tongue. Her eyelids sank, unable to bear their own weight. She heard a shuffling beside her, as if a small crowd were drawing near.

When Marielle opened her eyes, Damius sat at her side, stoking the fire. He turned and smiled, sensing her gaze. The white teeth shone like pearls.

Marielle struggled to cast off the vestiges of sleep. Damius reached out and stroked her face, tracing her jaw, brushing her lips. His fingers conjured a thin line of heat upon her skin, a tiny snake of sensation that wriggled down her neck and across her body even after his hand had lifted. Her strength slowly began to return.

"I'm sorry I was not here when you first awoke," he said. "I was gathering more wood to ensure your warmth."

Your touch alone is enough, thought Marielle, but she didn't say it. The rest of his tribe still looked on, as quiet as ghosts.

She rose to her elbow, pulling the blanket close.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"At my family's camp," he replied. "Our vardos are outside. We take shelter in this cavern when the storms come."

Marielle looked at the faces gathered round. Half were male, the others female. Their resemblance to Damius, and each other, was uncanny. A few, like Lizette, appeared young, perhaps no more than twenty, though Lizette herself was no longer among them. The others seemed roughly the same age as Damius, which was indistinct, somewhere past thirty, yet still prime. There were no elders among them; the silver-haired gypsies in the alcove had vanished. Nor were there any children. Perhaps the young and old had left the cavern and retired to their wagons.