Mist upon the Marsh: The Story of Nessa and Cassie (28 page)

Chapter XXXVI:

A Series of Confabulations

I
mmediately after departing from her bedchamber, Nessa flew to that of her parents. The door was locked, and their being asleep was a certainty; but she pounded the wood till she heard signs of movement within, and even then did not cease, till the door had been opened.

“Nessa!” exclaimed Dahro. “What is the matter?”

Surely, the look of her was enough to inspire concern in those closest to her (and a fair ration of fear in everyone else). She had run her hands repeatedly through her hair as she hurried through the fortress, and it stood now to all sides, looking as a violent blizzard all round her head. There were scratch marks standing out angry red against the paleness of her face. Her eyes burnt fiercely, and whatsoever they looked upon could not but receive a part of that fire, so that to meet them was rather an uncomfortable thing. So wild was she in her resolve, and so adamant to see it through with no delay whatever, that she looked indeed as if she planned no less than murder.

Then again, had Morkin come at her again after being tossed away, there was no telling whether this last would have been true.

“I must leave, Father,” she said. “I must leave now.”

Though she tried to make it calm, her voice was filled with agitation. Dahro could only look at her confusedly, and wait for what explanation he surely wanted.

“And why must you leave?” he asked. “Where will you go?”

“I will go home,” she said. “And, when I have decided what I will say, I will make for my real destination.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Nessa?”

Ceir had come to the door by now, and was looking out at her daughter, with eyes wide awake.

“Morachi wishes me to be joined to Morkin,” said Nessa. “But I do not want it.”

Ceir’s mouth opened in astonishment; but Dahro, on the other hand, did not look so very surprised.

“But even if it were not for that,” she went on, “I could not be Orin’s mate. I do not love him.”

Ceir looked quite as if she might die upon the spot, should Nessa not retract this statement immediately. But Nessa had, of course, no intention to; and again, her father did not seem shocked in the least.

“You must think more of this, Nessa,” he said simply. “If you cast aside Morachi’s gift in such a manner, it will not come to you again. I can promise you that.”

Though his voice was filled with severity, he did try here to offer her a small smile.

“Gift!” cried Ceir. “And what sort of gift is that? A bit of power, in exchange for poor Orin’s betrayal?”

“Calm yourself, my love,” said Dahro. “And think of what you are saying. This is no
bit of power.
Nessa will be Queen. By all rights, you know – she shall be King!”

Ceir pressed her lips staunchly together, and refused to answer.

“It matters not,” said Nessa. “None of it matters at all. I can be joined to neither Orin nor Morkin. I love neither of them, but someone else.”

“Only think of it, my dear,” Dahro pleaded. “Is this person – is this person worth your entire future? How great you could be, Nessa! Only think of it, my dear, I beg you.”

While Dahro seemed fixated upon the loss of Nessa’s otherwise secure title, Ceir was concentrated instead upon this unknown third party. “And who is it?” she demanded. “Who causes you to do such wrong to Orin? Another of Morachi’s sons? Tell me, at least, that it is not someone of lower class.”

Nessa looked, astounded, at her mother. “Why,” she exclaimed, “I would never have believed it of you, Mother! And what sense does it make, anyway? Orin is not of our class, after all.”

“But – but he is Orin!” stammered Ceir, frantically grabbing hold of the ends of her hair. “And he loves you so! Till tonight, I thought you loved him, as well. So you must tell me – who is this person? You must tell me, Nessa! I am your mother.”

Nessa fixed her with a blank stare. The woman was, in that moment, so very unrecognisable to her, that she could scarcely bring herself to feel that she owed her anything. But she would tell her: yes, she would tell her, because she was no longer ashamed or afraid. Her certainty was so absolute, that there could be nothing in the world to either check or diminish it. And she would tell them both.

“This person,” she said quietly, “is no son of Morachi’s. This person is not of Mindren; nor of the house of Huro, or Fendon, or Kaegan or Silo.”

“It is not –” gasped Ceir, “–
Faevin?”

“No, Mother,” said Nessa wearily. “Of course it is not Faevin.”

Ceir looked nervously to Dahro, and seemed finally to have naught left to say. For, surely she could interpret the state of the matter, by what exclusions Nessa had already given her. And she was horrified. But Nessa felt that she needed make the final clarification, if only to reciprocate for what unfairness Ceir had shown her. And so she said:

“This person is human.”

Ceir’s hand went to its place upon her heart, and she seemed in high danger of a swoon. So she fell back a little, and allowed Dahro to catch her in his arms. But there was no doubt that she was fit for no more conversation.

“And what is this person’s name?” Dahro asked softly, looking unconcernedly down into his mate’s face.

“Her name is Cassandra MacAdam,” Nessa answered.

(It was very well that Ceir was not conscious to hear this last bit; for it would surely have been, in what state she was already in, the death of her.)

“And you love this – Cassandra MacAdam?” Dahro asked.

“With all of my heart, Father, I do.”

He sighed, and walked Ceir slowly to the bed. He laid her down upon it, and looked into his daughter’s face.

“Then I suppose you must go,” he said.

Nessa flew forward to embrace him. He put a gentle hand on her head, and kissed her cheek.

“I do not say,” said he, “that I would not rather you remained, and did whatever was required of you, to gain the fame that I always hoped would fall to both of my children.” He wiped a tear from his eye, and added, “I suppose I wanted it even more for you, after your brother died. He was not here to take it – and so I wanted you to have it.
Perhaps it was wrong of me, I don’t know.” He took Nessa into his arms once more, and kissed her again. “But believe me, daughter, that I only ever wanted what was best for you. Perhaps I only thought that that thing was something different, from what it truly is.”

“I am not breaking your heart, Father?” Nessa asked worriedly. For, truly – it was a great concern that she had. Which was not to say that it would have deterred her from her course; but she wanted so badly, nonetheless, not to lose what pride Dahro had in her.

“No, Nessa, you are not. I see now who you are; though perhaps I did know all along. But I begrudge you nothing at all, my dear. Only go, go!” he exclaimed, pushing her away with a last smile. “Go now to your Cassandra MacAdam.”

“Thank you, Father,” Nessa whispered. “Tell Orin that I am sorry, and that I will come back, as soon as I can. I want very much to explain things to him.”

And so she kissed her father, and was gone.

~

This night, upon which Nessa finally decided to leave Mindren, was a Tuesday night.

Approximately two weeks prior to this night, Xersha arrived at the home of Qiello; and all of his fellow renegades joined him in the marsh, to learn of Qiello’s plan for revenge against the Endai: which surely would not have interested them so much, if it had not included also the destruction of Arol. 

This was the time when Qiello knew, that he was finally prepared to follow through on what procedure he had mapped out so intricately. Xersha was come; and it was a Monday night. Therefore, Qiello’s plan of action was begun a mere two nights later: upon the Wednesday, when Cassie MacAdam came to the house of old man Clocker.

The night proceeded as follows.

~

Despite Cassie’s wretchedness, which began on the night of the envelope, and only worsened after she left the house of Birdie Post, she never failed to keep her weekly appointments with Samuel Clocker.

And so, on this particular Wednesday, she was situated just as precariously as could be, at the location from which Qiello intended to snatch her away. She sat entirely unwitting while Clocker ate the dinner of steak and eggs she had brought him, and looked neither in the direction of the single window (through which she may have been able to catch a glimpse of movement in the dark) or the door (through which the wolves would be momentarily entering). She only watched the old man, deriving some small amount of satisfaction from the sight of him so much enjoying his meal.

“Didja cook this up yerself, young’un?” asked Clocker.

“You know I don’t cook, Mr Clocker. Billy made it up for you, same as always.”

“Billy?” said Clocker. “Who the hell is Billy?”

“He works at the diner, Mr Clocker. I’ve told you that before. It’s either him as makes up your supper for you, or Bobby as makes up your pies.”

“Ah,” said Clocker, between large bites of steak. “I remem’er Bobby. Makes the best apple pie I ever had, since my dear old mama passed.”

“I’m sure he would be glad you think so.”

Clocker nodded seriously. “You tell him that,” he said. “You tell him I said so.”

Cassie nodded, and they fell back to comfortable silence.

The unfortunate part of this silence, however (never mind how comfortable it was), was that it did not last very long. For even as Cassie and the old man were discussing Billy, Bobby, steak and pies, three wolves were making their way soundlessly to the front door of the house. When the two stopped off talking, the assailants were perhaps a half mile off; and when speaking of distance in terms of the speed of the Voranu, this was really no distance at all. And so it seemed as if Cassie had only just received the charge of notifying Bobby as to the premier status of his baked goods (and, indeed, the poor old man did not even get the chance to finish his supper), when the door crashed inwards. It fell down to lay flat upon the floor; and when Cassie raised her eyes in sudden alarm, she saw that three enormous, hulking figures stood atop it, standing half in the shadow of the short entrance corridor, and half in the bright and unforgiving light of the moon. What Cassie observed on account of the latter was fully sufficient as to render her immobilised with fear. Indeed, though she knew that she must move, she could very hardly manage to convey the direction to her limbs.

But Samuel Clocker was less stricken. Perhaps due to what paranoia plagued him in his old age (and it was this that had once caused him to beat Nessa over the head with his rifle, and knock her clean off his porch), or haply because of what rage and fearlessness had been his constant companions since the death of his beloved grandson, he had no trouble getting his bearings, even with three giant wolves standing directly before him. He shot over to the bed, and snatched his rifle out from beneath his pillow.

We wondered once – perhaps you do not recall; it was some time ago – whether a glimpse of these horrid creatures might steal away some of that old man’s courage, and make him just as unresponsive as Cassie did look in that moment. First we shall provide him with the credit that is due him, upon seeing him stand so very brave and unflinching before the beasts, with his shotgun pointed unshakingly towards the head of the nearest one, and state with all manner of certainty that he was, indeed, the most bold and plucky old fellow as ever we have laid eyes upon.

Now, the wolves present were Qiello’s own three sons: Niono, Onelen, and Tilego. Niono was the largest, rivalling in size his own father, while his two brothers were somewhat smaller. Niono was quickest, as well; and so ducked out of the line of the old man’s sight, just before the shotgun sounded.

Onelen took the bullet to the shoulder, but was hardly affected by it. Before Niono could reach Clocker, though, he got off another round: and struck Tilego directly in the face.

Though we know already that the Voranu were less susceptible to human weaponry (most especially the clan of Qiello, which was made even further invincible by the failed measures which were once taken to cure their condition), there is still the undeniable fact that, a 12-gauge shotgun shell to the head will always be considerably detrimental. This particular shell blew straight through the bone of Tilego’s face, and shattered his cheek (if his misshapen face could indeed have been said even to possess a cheek). The bone splintered, and shot through the empty places in his skull, going so far even as to become partly lodged within his brain. He was not struck lifeless; but he did fall, without pause, to the floor.

Clocker might have rejoiced for a moment in this lucky shot, but was forced straightaway to take aim again. He hadn’t the time, however, to point his gun towards Niono, and so was quickly dispatched by that wolf. His gun fell from his hands, and he dropped down to his knees, with one of Niono’s massive paws wrapped round his throat. Niono shook him violently, and he collapsed to the floor, blue-faced and still.

Cassie screamed.

“Ah,” said Niono, in his guttural voice. “If it isn’t the human girl! Tell me, human girl – what business did you ever have with the house of Dahro?”