The Land of Infinite Whispers

The ground fell away before her into a deep, dark abyss; cattle, sheep, rocks and trees fell into its nothingness—entire homes, gone, along with the countryside and even the blue of the sky being consumed by the blackness. It approached quickly, with the earth turning beneath her feet. The wild wind whipped gray clouds across the black sky, and it was there Mirabelle bore witness to the terrible visage of the Scourge, with eyes of bright ruby and a soul dark and menacing She saw a high hill, with a castle—no, a temple—rising above a forest of silver trees. A bright light flashed from the temple, and then nothingness consumed it.

The young Lady woke in her sheets, soaked in sweat with the stench of fear ripe in her nostrils, her heart a war drum beating its march inside her chest. She closed her eyes and took in deep, long breaths; she told herself that it was just a dream—a horrible nightmare that wasn’t real—but nothing could quell the anxiety she held deep inside.

The sun outside her window shone through the white lace curtains in delicate slivers that met the floor in pools of warm light, and her room was quiet except for the stir of servants in the halls. Mirabelle’s eyes immediately found the compass and journal that sat on her dresser across the room, skillfully blended amongst other bits and baubles she had taken to collecting: lockets and padlocks, keys and rings, mirrors and ornate brushes. Even from across the room, she could see the cracks in the worn leather and the wrinkles of the book’s spine, and sure enough the compass needle spun lazily one way, shifted, and spun the other. Mirabelle thought of the passages she had read the night before and she wondered what else her brother had recorded.

A knock came at her door, and then the knob turned and the hinges squealed as it opened. Tilly, a young handmaiden dressed all in white-blue, stepped through the way carrying a stack of fresh linens. “You’re going to be late for breakfast, my lady!” Tilly exclaimed in her high-pitched voice. Her face was like that of a fox, with a small, pointed nose and small, pointed lips and a small, pointed chin, and her frame was small and thin as well, as if nothing could fit her better.

Mirabelle yawned and stretched out of bed. “I couldn’t sleep last night, not with all the horses,” she spoke the half-truth.

“I know,” Tilly sympathized, “with all that ruckus, I’m surprised Lord Maddock doesn’t sell those beasts. They whine and kick, night after night, I can’t ever get any sleep! And they say something happened in the town square last night! What is this world coming to?”

The young Lady shrugged as she stood to change out of her nightgown and into the dayclothes Tilly had brought for her; a pearl-white lace dress with a silk underlayer, buckled shoes with white stockings, and a lace collar with two matching hairbows. The handmaiden helped Mirabelle dress, and when she was ready Tilly escorted her into the hallway, down the creaky wooden steps, and into the dining room where the Baron’s family sat, breakfast plates stacked with food before them. At the end of the table sat Mirabelle’s mother, Alena, and filling the sides of the table were her siblings: Merlin on the left, and across from him sat their sister Morgyn, beside an empty chair meant for the youngest Maddock child, Mirabelle herself.

Mirabelle’s father, the Lord Baron Maelor Maddock, sat at the head of the table with a pint of milk in his fist. He was a man hard as iron, with eyes the color of storm clouds and hair like salt and pepper. His boxy, strong jaw structured his face in such a way that Mirabelle couldn’t imagine him in any other position other than Lord Baron of Maddock’s Mark. He was as cold as the stone he resembled.
“Did you oversleep, Mirabelle?” her father asked from the head of the table. As soon as she sat, her siblings began digging into their plates, stuffing their mouths with biscuits and milkgravy, eggs, and toast and jam.

“I apologize, father,” she said quietly. “Pritchett and I were out late, tending to the horses. They woke me in the night.”

“They woke me as well,” the Baron said as he stabbed a soggy biscuit with his fork and stuffed it in his mouth. “What’s with these late-night episodes, anyway? There is nothing for them to be afraid of. I’ll have to talk to the stablemaster about controlling them better.”

No one replied. They all knew why the horses grew with unrest in the night and everyone knew that eventually it would come to an end. It was Merlin who said after a few moments, “I hear the villagers talking. The travelers, they say the Scourge is coming for us all. Is that true, father?” Their mother, Lady Alena, immediately put a hand on his shoulder to end the subject, but the Lord Baron interrupted her.

“It’s nonsense, all of it. Nothing is coming for us, nothing is going to hurt us, and nothing has hurt anyone else. It’s all myths and fairytales, spun by those with nothing better to do in their time.”
Everyone shifted in their seats and a heavy silence fell over the dining table. It was Merlin again who broke the quiet: “We received refugees this morning. I saw them from my window. From Maplewatch, they said. Why would they come here from Maplewatch if there was nothing to be afraid of?”

“The people will do as they please,” said the Baron. “Why do priests preach? Why do crusaders crusade? Pilgrims embark pilgrimages because that’s what they do. Refugees seek refuge because that is what they do.”

Mirabelle opened her mouth to tell them about Sterling, about their brother Maelor, but a pounding at the door interrupted her. It was three quick raps, before Abbigail, the Baron’s stewardess, stepped through it. She was a middle-aged woman with auburn hair and a sense of dignity about the way she carried herself. Her tone was hushed when she leaned over to speak to the Baron. Although she was quiet, all the table heard her words: “My lord, there are several urgent matters that require your attention immediately after your meal.”

The Baron told her, “I will be there shortly. Where?”

“At the statue of the First Baron. Should I tell them you will come soon?”

“Yes, do that,” he said and returned to his meal as the woman left the dining room to tend to her duties.

Mirabelle grit her teeth. Would she even have a chance to tell her father about everything she found? Would he even believe her? She wasn’t sure any amount of proof would convince him of the danger coming their way.

“If it’s not the Scourge, then what do you think it’s about?” Merlin began questioning his father. Mirabelle shared a glance with her sister Morgyn; neither could believe that their brother was speaking out of turn in such a way.

“The people will never be satisfied,” their father said as he used his fork to cut a sausage in half before skewering it. “I suppose it’s more fearmongering and rumors. Mindless drivel.”
“Can I come with you?”

“I don’t see why not,” the Baron said, and just a second after he set his silverware down on his empty plate and stood. “Come, let us go see what they want.”

The two of them stood in unison, Merlin resembling his father so closely that Mirabelle could hardly tell the difference between them, and they excused themselves from the table. Once they had passed through the way with the door shut behind them, Mirabelle’s mother set her silverware on her empty plate and pushed it away. “I must go review appeasements,” she said with a sigh, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt before she stood. “I will be in the office for a while if you need me. Someone needs to keep this town from crumbling to the ground.”

And with a swift slam of the door behind her, their mother Alena was gone.

“I’m going to the gardens,” Morgyn said and stood, revealing her dress skirt decorated with intricate embroidery of white daisies and yellow sunflowers on blue silk. As she was pushing her chair in, Mirabelle stood in following and said, “I’ll join you.”

Together the girls left the dining hall and crossed the hall to the foyer, where a wooden door with a stained-glass window depicting a bright red rose led outside, into the beautiful gardens that decorated the back of the Baron’s estate. Morgyn would often retreat here during the day, or when she was stressed, to be among the myriad colors created by the flowers. With the cold of Autumn setting in, the colors were faded and dark, and many petals of blues, reds, and yellows, littered the cobbled stones of the walkway. The oak trees, which stood tall and green and powerful in the summer, now began to turn orange and brown all around, and their leaves were already beginning to pile under their limbs.

The wind moved as a quiet breeze, both cold and calming to Mirabelle. She and her sister began on the stone path, walking among the bushes and thickets of verdant foliage. “It’s so pretty in the fall, don’t you agree?” Morgyn questioned, plucking a half-wilted rose from a bush as she passed.
“It is very beautiful,” Mirabelle agreed.

Morgyn brushed the rose with her thumb, its fragile petals slowly falling one by one, each caught in the movement of the wind on its way down. Mirabelle examined her sister’s watery eyes, her plain expression. “I’m a grown woman, now,” Morgyn said. “It won’t be long before mother and father marry me off.”

“Are you not excited?” Mirabelle asked. Ever since they were little, all Morgyn ever spoke of was being married to a rich lord, and having little lordlings, living her days somewhere beautiful as if she herself were a princess.

Her sister forced a chuckle, the last bits of the rose crumbling and falling between her fingers. She looked over at Mirabelle and said, “I’m terrified—our final days are coming. I want to spend them here, but father said he will have me off as soon as he finds a husband.” They rounded a bend, along the path lined with bushes and flowers, and came to a stone bench chiseled with an ornate design around the trim. Morgyn plopped down on the stone edifice and let her face fall into her hands, where she began to sob through her fingers. “I just want to be with my family,” she cried. “I don’t want to be a princess or a lady or even a wife! I want to be here with you and with mother and father and Merlin!”

Mirabelle couldn’t find any words to say. She sat beside her sister and rubbed her back, trying to calm the flood that had broken the walls in her eyes. She cried and cried, ranting on and on about leaving home, about father, about her husband-to-be. She ranted so long and about so much, Mirabelle couldn’t keep up with it all.

When Morgyn finally calmed down, she looked up at Mirabelle, her eyes swollen and her cheeks red. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t cry like this.” She used her dress to dry her eyes then stood to smooth her skirt. Mirabelle stood in following and gave her sister a tender hug.

“Mother won’t send you off,” she said. She had no idea what the Baron would do.

“I hope not,” Morgyn shook her head. She reached out and plucked a second rose from another bush and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. Mirabelle couldn’t tell what was going on in her mind.

As they began again on the cobblestone path, Morgyn pointed across the yard. A plethora of horses, carriages, and wheeled carts crowded the yard around the stables. Tents had been erected along the road by the gatehouse, and many people gathered in a circle around the Baron who stood on a soapbox. They couldn’t hear his words, but they both knew he was giving some sort of speech. Probably the same one they’d heard this morning.

“That’s father,” Morgyn said. “Who are all those people? Are those the refugees from Maplewatch?”
The crowd was not the common folk of Maddock’s Mark; they seemed almost worn, dressed in drab clothing and loose fabrics. Mirabelle wondered what they had to say—what brought them here? The carts and carriages were stacked with boxes and bags. They’d left their homes prepared.

Mirabelle pushed through a hedge and out into the yard. “Where are you going?” Morgyn asked. “This is father’s business. We shouldn’t be there.”

“Well, I’m going anyway,” Mirabelle spat back.

“We should go over there,” Mirabelle thought aloud. “We should go see what they’re talking about.” She began to step off the path toward the stables, but Morgyn caught her hand.

“But why? It’s business. Father says women shouldn’t do business.”

“Why not?” Mirabelle asked her. She couldn’t tell Morgyn, but she hoped that she might hear some hint of what lie in her brother’s journal. If he had been there, they would know where he might be, what he might have gone through. She stepped off the cobbled path and pushed between two weigela bushes, but Morgyn stood still on the other side. “Are you coming?”

“We shouldn’t.”

“Then stay. I’m going.”

The young Lady started toward the stables, the grass crunching under her shoes with every step. She hadn’t made it far before Morgyn called behind her, “Wait!” and she pushed through the bushes in pursuit. Once she caught up to her sister, the two crossed the estate yard to the barn.

The girls crouched low between a wagon and the barn walls, just around the corner and out of sight. Mirabelle led, and stuck her head around to see the crowd. The Baron stood tall before the crowd, with Merlin at his side and Abbigail close by. A man from the crowd was yelling now, “We’re telling you! The Scourge will take Maplewatch soon. The Mark is next!”

“Yes!” another voice from the crowd echoed. “We had no choice but to pack up and leave.”

“Even so, we cannot take you here,” the Baron said. He gestured to the town behind him; the small dirt roads, the shanty buildings, all surrounding the statue of his own ancestor. Maddocks Mark had certainly seen better days. “We have no space for you, not with ourselves to worry about.”

“Heartless!” one woman spat from the crowd. More followed, “Cretin! Selfish!”

“Would you rather our children freeze or starve on the road?” the first man questioned.

“I would rather you all return home,” the Baron told them. “Turn back to the comfort of your own fireplaces and your own land. We have nothing for you here.”

“Turn back? And die in the Scourge of the Land?” a woman’s voice was shrill. “This man would rather we die!”

Mirabelle’s eyes scanned the crowd; they were downtrodden. A week’s worth of riding and walking had dirtied them and dampened their souls. She could see how worn they all were and knew that none would want to turn back now, not after their effort. If only she’d told her father before—if only she’d shown him Maelor’s journal, the king’s writ. Did he even know that Sterling had returned? She looked at the silver mare through a crack in the barn walls. Was her father truly so clueless about the world around them?

“Is that Sterling?” Morgyn asked, pressing herself against the barn walls. Mirabelle ignored her, though, as their father began to speak again.

He used the voice of the Lord Baron Maelor this time and told the crowd, “I would rather you all live! To cower like this is disgraceful. The Scourge is a lie—rumors and hearsay from fearmongers and lunatics. I’ll repeat myself: return to your homes and your own land, ours is not to share!”

There was a long silence. No matter how much they argued, he did not want them there. Mirabelle’s heart sunk in her chest.

After a moment, he picked up: “I will give you one night’s stay on this land. Tomorrow, I want all of you gone back east, and you will all see the lies you have been fed about this Scourge.” With that, the Baron climbed down from his soapbox and walked away with Abbigail and Merlin in tow. The refugees started back to their tents, to their wagons and carriages. Morgyn and Mirabelle sat in silence, listening to their venomous whispers: “The devil walks the earth. Only a selfish monster would send us to our deaths.”