E Stricker - The Almanac

It was nearing sunset on the second day when he reached the spot on the riverbank where once he had stayed outside the walls to dig a box from the mud. Illya paused then gently laid Benja down. He scooped up some river water and trickled it onto Benja’s forehead to cool him before taking a drink himself.

The wound did not seem to be worse but was no better either. Illya stood. They would be in sight of the gates soon, and he was glad. Benja would be safe, and he would finally face them all.

They passed through the gates without meeting anyone. The air felt unnaturally still and thick, pulling into his heaving lungs like molasses. Nothing but the weary creaking of the travois broke the silence.

After a bit, he smelled the fires, heard them crackling, then heard the laughter of the villagers. Benja moaned, stirring for the first time in many miles. Illya tightened his grip.

This was it. Samuel’s hut was close, almost in sight now. Please let it not be too late, he prayed silently. Even if there had been a way to avoid the circle, he wouldn’t have taken it.

He wanted to face them. It was terrifying, but he wanted it more than anything he had wanted in his life. The weeks of crushing guilt were over.

Illya strode into their midst as if it was just another evening. Everyone stopped talking.

A ripple of whispers followed behind him; the response delayed as the people shook themselves out of their shock and turned to their neighbors to ask if they had indeed seen what they thought they had.

“That’s Illya. That’s him.”

“But he is dead.”

“Where did he come from?”

“He’s crazy. Why would he come back here?”

Illya lifted his chin, meeting the incredulous stares, and pushed on, dragging the travois step by step. Samuel’s hut was visible beyond the circle of firelight. The second hemisphere of the murmuring crowd stood ahead of him, threatening to block his way. He hoped Samuel himself would be somewhere among them and would step out of the crowd, but it was not to be.

“Stop.”

Illya glanced in the direction of the voice. Conna, apparently not affected by the paralysis that had stopped everyone else, was standing up on the steps, his bow fully drawn. He had an arrow aimed directly at the center of Illya’s chest.

ILLYA STOPPED.

Conna’s bow creaked. The door behind him opened, and Impiri emerged, holding an ancient gun. She came to stand beside him.

“I knew it was too good to be true that we had seen the last of him,” she muttered to Conna.

“Let me by,” Illya said, his voice steady. “Let me take Benja to Samuel. Then I’ll come back, and you can do whatever you want with me.” He raised his voice as he spoke, pushing past the nerves, hearing it ring out with confidence that it had never had when he had been their Leader.

Conna contemplated this with narrowed eyes, his bow unmoved from its mark. Illya swallowed. Conna only had to let go of the string and the arrow would be buried in his heart.

“Let him. Where is he going to go?” Aaro said. Conna frowned, looking from Illya to Benja and back again. Illya stared him down. There was no fear, just the inevitability of what had to happen.

“Fine,” Conna said finally and lowered his bow. Behind him, Impiri frowned.

“Don’t forget that he is not to be trusted,” she said.

Illya didn’t bother to answer. He turned back to his path, put his head down, and pulled, watching the stones of the mosaic passing by under his feet. Only twenty more steps remained, but they seemed to stretch out longer than any part of the journey before. The crowd parted in front of him. No one apparently wanted to take issue, now that Conna had backed down. Instead they stared, their eyes boring into him as he passed.

He passed the oak tree, and there, standing under the canopy of its branches, was Sabelle. She stared at him with wide eyes, her face pale, looking thinner than he remembered. He met her gaze and she dropped her eyes to the ground. On her left hand was a promise ring carved from wood.

Illya gritted his teeth together and went on, telling himself that it didn’t matter, not anymore. He had not slept or eaten in two days. The remainder of his shirt hung in tatters. He was bone tired, filthy, and covered with Benja’s blood. He reached the Healer’s hut and kicked the door open. His entire body shook.

Samuel lifted one eyebrow, betraying only mild surprise at the sight of Illya bursting through his door.

“Knew you would come back,” he said.

Together, they moved Benja off his travois onto the pile of skins beside Samuel’s fire. Absently, Samuel directed Illya to boil water and to tear fresh bandages. Every so often, he muttered the names of herbs as he unwrapped the old bandages and examined the wound. Illya stared at the Healer’s face, his stomach clenching with every crease of his forehead, every frown. He retrieved herbs for Samuel from the shelves on the walls and from the dried bunches hanging from the ceiling.

“You did well,” Samuel said. “It’s clean and still no red streaks.” He looked up at Illya with a small smile. The door opened again, pouring light into the dim room and revealing Conna, backed by four Enforcers.

“That’s enough. You’ve got him here,” he said. Illya took a slow breath and shifted his eyes from Samuel to Benja’s pale face. He had barely opened his eyes or spoken since they had first left the camp. Illya knew that as difficult as the journey had been for him, for Benja it had been a hundred times worse. He only hoped that the strain of it hadn’t been too much.

“He’s going to be alright,” Samuel murmured.

Illya met his gaze. The Healer’s eyes were sincere but betrayed concern despite the reassuring words.

“Wonderful,” Conna said. “When he’s awake, he can answer for breaking out of prison.” He motioned, and the Enforcers surged forward, seizing Illya by the shoulders. They pinned his arm behind his back and propelled him away from Benja and Samuel, out of the hut, back to the crowd at the center fire.

Illya did not struggle. He had promised that he would come. It was only fair that he be judged for his actions.

He stood below the stairs, the sea of angry faces only a few feet away. Behind him, on the stairs, Conna was speaking.

“You all know what he deserves,” he yelled. It could have been his imagination, but Illya thought that he heard an edge of panic behind Conna’s words.

“This summer was all we had. He lied to you. It is his fault that all we have to show for it is that field out there,” Conna said. To the west of the circle, beyond a few rows of huts, was the field. Illya’s mouth went dry. The rays of the setting sun illuminated it, making it glow with a sick beauty. Where there had been row after row of waist-high plants, full of promise, now there was a mat of withered leaves and white-coated stems.

“Banishment wasn’t enough for him,” Conna said. From behind him, Illya heard the creak of a bow being drawn. “This time, we have to make sure he isn’t coming back.” Illya knew that there was no point in defending himself. Denial would be hollow in the face of their anger and despair.

“You want justice?” he asked. “You should have justice. It’s only right.” Behind him, the bow creaked, but no twang and piercing ending followed the sound. Conna must have been waiting for the crowd’s approval before he released the arrow.

Illya took that moment while they hesitated, confusion at his easy capitulation warring with their anger, to pull up a vine from the ground. It was a plant that grew everywhere, even pushing up between the stones of the mosaic.