Chapter 6

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Autumn in Coriander Village, some time ago.

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The sun was not out when he snapped awake, his dream suddenly leaving his mind as the shadows of his room met his eyes.  Stephane could hear only the howling of the wind between a few wayward cracks between the house's planks, and the occasional brush of the wind over the grasses and stalks of his field.

There was no breathing on the mattress beside him.  There was no shifting of sheets on the bed across the room from him.  The sounds were subtle and barely noticeable in regular times.  Only now that they were gone, and gone forever, did Stephane realise that they had become a part of his everyday life.  He lifted his left hand high toward the ceiling, craning his head up, studying the back of his hand.  On this hand he shed Isabelle's blood.  On this hand he acted with authority he should not have ever had.  Stephane swung his legs off of the bed.  The air brushed lightly on his legs but he ignored it, even as his back and arms started to prick up with goosebumps.  He reached for his trousers and tunic, changing quietly in the dark.  The farmer grabbed his thick sweater, a lantern, and cloak on the way out.  Kimberly slept on the couch, turning fitfully a few times as he passed her.  She mumbled something in her sleep that he couldn't understand.

The sun wasn't up when he started toward Coriander Village.  Only the slit of the moon lit the night, and although he carried his lantern with him, he decided to hold it instead of lighting it.  Using the path, written into his memory from constant use, the ex-adventurer walked toward the few glowing torches and lanterns that were pricks of light, twinkling in the early morning mist.

The town was silent, as expected.  Not even the dogs were out at this hour.  Stephane entered the centre of the tiny, poor village, and then stepped around a large house that was close to the border of the town, its back facing the mountains and the Weeping Lily Valley.  The Elder's house has a spectacular view of the rocky mountains and the narrow valley that was one of the few direct paths toward the east of the continent.

His eyes were drawn toward the mountains that seemed to glow blue with spiritual energy.  He walked slowly and quietly, almost reverently in nature's view.

Behind the Elder's house was a large yard.  A stable for the horses and the cows that he owned.  One corner had a large barn.  The other corner, closest to the forest, had a small shed.  Stephane hopped the short fence and then dashed across the turf quietly, hoping that any stirrings of the animals he would cause would be dismissed as nervousness.

Stephane found her on the floor, huddled in the corner of the cell.  The shed only had three walls.  The door was a set of iron bars that faced the dark forest.  He noticed that the security wasn't exactly tight around Isabelle, but reasoned that Coriander Village rarely held any prisoners and that they would likely punish her soon.

"Isabelle," he whispered.  When she did not respond, he hissed again, louder.

The woman stirred.  She turned her head up and looked.  Her arms were wrapped inside her shirt.  She looked frail and very undernourished.  But she recognized the face immediately and then crawled toward the edge of the cell, gripping the bars with her fists.  Her eyes were the same: all-knowing, as if nothing could hide from her.

Stephane wondered if she saw right through him.  "Isabelle..."

"You... came for me," she whispered.  Her hand fumbled between the bars, reaching out toward her husband.  Stephane took it.  It was cold between his fingers.  He massaged them gently, putting warmth back into her.

He noticed a cut on her cheek where he struck her.  It had been poorly cleaned since he hit her.  It would probably not scar or leave any sort of mark, but the imprint was already made in his mind.  "I'm sorry... /ma belle/ Isabelle..."

"It's okay, /mon cher/ Stephane... I forgive you.  If..."

"I'm sorry for hitting you," Stephane added, cutting her off.  "I wish I never did it."

Isabelle's dark eyes fell on Stephane.  "This is all a misunderstanding... if  you hear me out, you'll learn the truth... I didn't sell her to the traders..."

"I..." Stephane stared at her.  There was so many lies.. about Colette, about Chantelle.  About her life and skills.  "Lying about Chantelle... how the townspeople were talking about you.  You cut a bracelet out of her hair and made one for yourself, and one for her.  You were angry that I was giving away so much food.  That we didn't have enough money.  And then I find you... talking with the traders."

"I can explain... oh, Stephane.  I can explain it."

The sun was beginning to come up.  The sky began to glow a pale yellow, piercing through the thick cloud cover above.  "Will it be another set of lies?"

"I'll tell the truth.  I promise you..."

"I can't trust you."

Isabelle closed her eyes and then lowered her head, her hand still in Stephane's, her voice turning desperate and rushed.  "Chantelle didn't die.  She was never sold.  She ran away from us to be with Liam.  Colette will be okay... because I sold her to Chantelle for safekeeping."

Stephane's face lit up in surprise.  "Chantelle's... alive?  And so Colette's okay?"  He spoke, perhaps too loudly, and perhaps too soon, as the surprise quickly faded.  He shook his head.  Her story... it was too farfetched!  If Chantelle ran away... then why didn't she just tell him?  Why did she hide everything from him?  Or was this just another lie?

"Colette... she was going to be sold."

"Who was selling her?"

Isabelle's face paled visibly, although it was quite thin as it was.  "Olivia..."

Stephane shook his head again.  "It can't be.  This is... just another one of your stories," he said.  "Even if Chantelle's alive... why didn't she... doesn't... I thought I dealt with the old ghosts already.  And then I hear that she's a slave... and then I hear... I don't know what to believe anymore."  He placed his forehead in his hand.  "It's too farfetched.  I can't believe you.  Can you look me in the eyes and tell me the truth?"

"Can you look me in the eyes and tell me that it'll be okay if you never see me again?"

Stephane reached for Isabelle's other hand and began to rub warmth into it.  He held it as close to his chest as possible.  "You're avoiding the question..."

"I know," she replied dejectedly.  She glanced up at Stephane, with her steady, calm gaze.  "Chantelle ran away... and I sold Colette to Chantelle..."  Isabelle's voice cracked and her eyes curled down, the moisture gathering on her eyelashes.  "But... but that still makes me an evil person, because... because even though Colette will be safe with Chantelle... I still sold her for money.... and... even though Chantelle's alive, and knows where we are, I never told you... and so you haven't seen her for five years and yet... yet...."  Isabelle struck her head against the iron bars once and then collapsed, sliding to her knees, letting out a wail of pain.  She felt her hand slip out of Stephane's grip.  She relaxed her body as her face wrinkled in sadness, the tears flowing down her cheeks and chin.

Stephane only watched.  He started to feel pity for this woman... for making so many mistakes in such a short period of time.  He knelt beside her and watched her cry, unable to offer and support to her other than reaching a hand forward to grip hers.  Her grip tightened on his immediately as she continued to weep.  He was unable to cry, having shed most of his tears, and now steeling himself against whatever worse may come. 

"Can you ever forgive me...?" Isabelle's voice was choked and hollow, her eyes clouded over, no longer able to see everything.  She looked transparent, sitting there in the corner against the bars, her composure totally destroyed in front of her husband.

Stephane's answer was calm and unemotional.  "I don't know."

"I'm... I'm such a fool."  The accused witch gripped onto Stephane's hand as if nothing else existed.  She tried to wipe her eyes with his fingertips, but he withdrew his hand from between the bars.

"I'm a fool too," Stephane replied, standing up, feeling the sun on his back.  He glanced down the shallow slope toward the town.  People were beginning to wake up and move around, and it would be of no good to have him caught around here.  He stepped back from Isabelle, his heart torn, but yet hardened.

The woman drew her knees up to her chest and looked up at Stephane as he turned his back and began to walk away.  "I... I love them," she called after him.  "Our children... /gentile/ Chantelle... /petite enfant/ Colette."  He didn't turn to listen.  Isabelle tried to shout something else, but her throat was tight and it came out only as a croak.  "I... love you too, /mon cher/ Stephane... I... love  you..."

-=-=-=-

Kimberly woke up after a fitful sleep.  Her eyes fell on an unfamiliar ceiling, the red and white beams from the rising sun placing patches of light and dark on the walls.  The hearth was only a small smoldering of ashes now, barely glowing.  She felt cold.  Kimberly tucked her cloak around her, realising that she had slept in her clothes, and slept only with her cloak without a blanket.  She had fallen asleep on Stephane's couch.  She blinked away the light streaming in from the windows in front of her, placing her head back on the pillow.  She wasn't sure what to think of Stephane now.  He seemed like a rather friendly person on a good day.  But certainly the past few days weren't good to him, and staring into his eyes seemed to reveal some sort of a wild animal in him: someone prone to striking at any moment.  She wasn't scared... she refused to think that she was scared - after all, there was much worse to be afrraid of - but she was not confident staying at Stephane's, especially since he had really not invited her over for the night.

The house was cold.  Her bare feet touching the wooden planks proved that fact and she immediately reached for her woolen socks and her heavy leather boots so she could walk back to town to be in time for work.  She also needed to feed Isabelle today.  She glanced toward the screen, where she guessed Stephane's room hid, and wondered if he was still sleeping.  She couldn't hear anything in the house, and was tempted to go check on him.  In the end she decided to leave him be.  She reached for her bag and changed her clothes on the couch, careful to keep the cloak around her not out of modesty, but because the air was too cool to expose skin to.  If Stephane was in fact sleeping, he didn't hear her exit because no one reacted to her leaving his house.

As Kimberly walked back to town, she idly wondered if it was in fact Stephane who was the witch, and not Isabelle.  After all, to be a witch one had to condemn another person, and Stephane was quick to condemn Isabelle and her behaviour.  What better way to drag someone to their deaths than to have them executed for witchcraft?  But if that had been in fact true then why hadn't many more people fell?  Stephane was often the target of jokes and accusations in the town: she heard this kind of news in the local inn.  It wasn't until recently that his reputation picked up for finally leaving Isabelle.  But he was miserable... maybe because he had now lost both of his daughters, and his wife, and so he was finally alone in the world.

Kimberly walked straight along the road, absently staring at the blue streaks that were lighting the horizon.  The sun was warm on her face and neck and cast a pale glow on Coriander village.  Maybe she would be able to do an ounce of good in this world.  Maybe she could be Stephane's friend and save him from his misery.  Maybe she could...

Her thoughts stopped there.  She spotted a gopher hole and avoided it, and began to wonder if gophers knew where they were digging their holes, because sometimes, they dug them just in the right places for people to trip.

The teenage girl arrived at the back of the inn, dropping her bag off in the storeroom, and then announced her morning arrival.  The innkeeper Bartholemew greeted her duly from the stove, lacking any real cheer in his voice.  He never seemed extremely happy or upset to see her.  To him, Kimberly wagered that she just "existed" and did her job, and so that was fine enough for him.  "I'm going to go feed Isabelle..."

"Carry your cross and don't listen to anything she says," Bartholemew warned, not taking his eyes off of his potatoes and meat.

Kimberly nodded, gathering some of yesterday's bread and some fruit that was bruised and unserveable in the Inn.  She was essentially feeding the woman the stuff that they wouldn't ever give to customers.  Edible food, no doubt, but still a step below normal people, and a small step above the dogs whom they gave bones to behind the door.  She was surprised to see Stephane pass her in the town square as she exited.  She cried out to him but he didn't hear her because he was moving much too quickly.  She stared after him for a moment, but then continued on her way, back around the Elder's house, along the fence, toward a small shed in the corner.

Kimberly was taken aback by the sight.  Isabelle looked in worse shape than usual.  She was slung against the iron bars, her face and cheeks puffy and red.  The serving girl had to compose herself before she stepped up to the bars, kneeling down, staring into the eyes of the witch.  Isabelle opened them slowly.  They were tired and foggy, and full of moisture.

Kimberly placed her plate of food on the ground, within easy reach of Isabelle.  She usually didn't leave the plate, but if Isabelle was crying then it would be rude to interrupt her.  She stayed for a moment.  The woman looked so human at this moment of her suffering: so unlike the heartless witch she was made out to be.

Isabelle realised that the girl did not leave yet, and managed to mumble a word.  "If you... know him..."

Kimberly perked up, and then her wide eyes were looking into Isabelle's bloodshot ones.  She moved her head closer to the bars to hear what she had to say, momentarily forgetting that this woman supposedly had the powers to kill people with a word and destroy fields with a gesture of a hand.

"... please... please take care of him."

"Who..?  Stephane...?"

But the woman's eyes shut again and she lay slack against the iron bars.

Kimberly reached a hand up toward Isabelle's brown hair, which had grown to be ragged without any maintenance.  If it was brushed regularly, it would be soft and silky.  She was probably very beautiful in her youth... with adventurous spirit and spark.  At that moment she felt tremendous sympathy for Isabelle.  "I will," she said.  "I will."

-=-=-=-

Stephane was angry all over again.  He stormed into the Elder's house, but then stormed back out right after.  He stomped all over town and was generally unsociable for the sake of having people notice he was in a horrible mood.

Isabelle had lied to him for so many years.  So many!  His daughters were still alive!  He wasn't sure what to do now.  He wanted to believe her.  He truly wanted to be able to forgive her for everything she had done... for even if Isabelle's decisions were bad, her intentions were good.  Her heart was always filled with some sort of sense of greater good, able to see one step above the mere "here and now".

As if she could set up a meeting like that... selling Colette to Chantelle.  As if it could be orchestrated that way.  But... maybe Olivia... could Olivia... and Laia... and.... all those other woman truly be selling girls as slaves too?

How many girls since Chantelle were also swept away in creeks, or mysteriously lost in the woods, or wasted away to disease?

"Stephane!"  It was Olivia's voice, crisp, and almost scolding.  "You're not well.  Shall I walk you home?"

"I'm fine."  He started to head down the path back to his farmhouse.

"Allow me to walk with you."

"I'm fine."

Olivia ignored his brash manner, speeding up her pace to match his.  "The execution will occur in a few days from now.  We found another... another who openly condemned a neighbour's field.  She was also caught lying about her children.  She sold them as well, without her husband's permission."

Stephane stopped in the middle of the road.  "You should /never/ have permission to sell children!" he roared at her.

Olivia tilted her head and placed a hand on her chest innocently.  "My, my... what temper.  No, of course we shouldn't."

He continued to walk, his steps heavy and uncurteous.

"God is slowly purifying this village.  We will have to get rid of all the dirty women and the magicked girls... and then we'll be looked upon favourably again, and receive rain again.  It was with your help that..."

"I didn't help do anything," Stephane shouted without stopping.  He sped up his pace.

Olivia increased her pace again so that she was nearly running.  "Of course you did.  We're going to have a feast tonight to celebrate the capture of the witch.  I want you to come.  We'll also be discussing the plans for the upcoming purification..."

Stephane broke into a ran at that point, and Olivia could no longer keep up with him.  She slowed to a stop and let him go, watching as he receded into the distance toward his house.

The man stepped into his house and then threw himself on his bed, placing his arm over his eyes.  His mind was numb now.  Too much had happened in the past few days... too much.

Stephane wasn't sure now.  He  didn't want to think about it anymore.  He wanted to just curl up and let things go back to how they used to be.

He couldn't get the images out of his mind.  The  feelings of then... hearing of Chantelle's death, trying to forget the pain of knowing... the sudden realisation... and the hesitation...

Isabelle...

... Isabelle...

~ *** ~~ *** ~

Could he look her in the eyes... and tell her that he never wanted to see her again?

He saw the torch, the flame topping the oil-soaked rag, flying up in the dusk skies, crying its fury to god.  Stephane moved.  His legs thrust forward and down.  He pushed past a person.  He pushed past another person, moving his legs to the side.  Gasps and curses rang through the crowd as they turned to see the figure dash past the last person, and onto the centre circle that was sealed off for the ritual.  He punched one of the white-robed attendants in the face, throwing him aside as he ran up the small slope.

He had thought he was alone.  But was he truly alone?

"/Ma belle/ Isabelle!!!"

The woman lifted her head.  Her eyes met his, and they locked.  And as he stared into them, he cried, a voice defiant, crushing the fate laid out before him.  "I want to see you again!"

The flame fell.

The ground flew beneath his feet, the small tufts of grass unnoticed by his toes, the rocks a blur.  The gasps from the audience were secondary to his mind.  He couldn't hear anything.

He heard his name cried, once.  A voice, resplendent, echoing through his mind, like the awe-inspiring choir of a thousand angels calling for him to carry him to heaven.  Isabelle's mouth was open, her face reaching out for him, her eyes wide, staring up toward the sky.

A feather fell, a radiant multicoloured prism, reflecting light in a myriad of colours, hitting her eyes.  It was a single feather, but yet seemed to shine with the light of one hundred suns, bathing her in radiant light of every colour, yet containing none.

The flame rose.

Stephane leapt forward onto the dais, reaching out, but the fire shot up in front of his face and his arm.  He cried out and stumbled back, falling onto his rear as he watched the straw kindling catch, watching the ragged clothes catch, watching the flesh of his beloved embrace the fire, feeding it, absorbing the heat and the warmth, turning into black ash.

Stephane heard cries of pain.  Three shouts in unison echoing their pinnacle of human existence, reverberating in the skies.  He heard no cry from Isabelle.

Smoke rose into the air, four towering pillars merging into one as the wood was consumed into the flame.  A smell of flesh, sickening, diffused over the crowds, floating in the air, awaiting the capture of spirits above.

Stephane felt the warm air blow into his body, drying his tears instantly.  He could only stare as the smooth, pale skin was turned slowly brown, then into black, her pain frozen on her face until the fire turned that too into a blackened husk.  He didn't know how long it took.  He crawled forward as the fire died, his breath in shortened gasps, his eyes tracing the charred remains.  There was barely a human there.  Only a mass that seemed attached to a tall black post.  Moments before, she was before him, breathing, living...

... and now she was not even here at all.

Stephane fell onto his knees.  The sight made him sick.  The smell made him nauseous.  But the feeling in the mind made his head throb in pain.  He felt tears come.  They flowed down his face, washing off ash and soot.  He stared into his hands, covered in black... from the wood and the smoke... and perhaps, with some of Isabelle's flesh.  He shook his head.  "I... oh... oh...."  He shut his eyes, conjuring up her memory, trying to link his memory of her with the burned shell that was before him, still red with subdued heat.  He opened his eyes.  Nothing had changed.

He was now truly alone.  He shouted to the skies... one cry like so many others that were echoed for centuries throughout time.  "I'm sorry... I'm sorry!  Isabelle!  No!  Come back!  Isabelle!!!  /Ma belle!!/  Isabelle!!!!!"

No one responded to his cry.

* * * *

She slumped over, feeling the ropes burn through.  The pain was still fresh in her memory.  The legs, the arms, the face, the body.  The intense heat.  The inability to escape.

Watching as Stephane ran toward her, shouting her name.

There was pain.  Lots of pain.  She tried to hold on to whatever solid it was she was gripping onto, but she felt her grip slip, her fingers twitching with heat and fire, and she fell into the darkness.  She tilted her head back, closing her eyes, feeling the black envelop her, feeling the thrill of free-falling.

Her fall stopped.

Isabelle looked up into a face.  The face was solemn, with cool, sky-blue eyes the centrepoint of the pale skin and perfect complexion.  Isabelle was lying in this woman's arms, her dingy off-white robes partially charred.

"Your soul has been weighed, human."  It wasn't a cold voice, or warm, or comforting; simply a sound that resounded in the blackness.  Her vivid eyes reflected the pale face of her charge.  "If you wish, you may follow the path... and come with me."

Isabelle stared into the blue eyes, piercing, all-encompassing.  She wasn't sure what the chill feeling she felt was.  Fear?  It wasn't that she felt afraid of this woman who was now holding her in her arms.  The arms beneath her were not rough or harsh, they were simply there.  She looked down at her hands, then reached one of them up toward her face.  "What... what happened to me?  Who are you?"  As she asked the questions, she realised one of the emotions was a sense of exhaustion, so much so that she would not be able to turn out of the woman's arms even if she wanted to.

There was a flicker in her eyes, and two silver eyebrows contracted almost imperceptibly.  "I am the Chooser of the Slain - a valkyrie.  You, human, have just died."  Her voice softened, became almost gentle.  "I determine the fate of human souls after their death; yours has been found worthy.  If you wish, you may accompany me.  Your strength has earned a place for you in the hall of the All-Father, Odin."

"So you mean that..."  Isabelle looked around her, as if she could look back on the world around her, but realised that she was only enveloped in total darkness.  "... that..."  Isabelle lowered her eyes and blinked.  "I see."  She wasn't sure what she felt now.  Was it a sense of joy at the realisation?  She was tempted to hug this woman in blue steel armour, but she wasn't sure if she would be so receiving.  "I'll come."  Her voice was clearer now, crisp with confidence.  Even though she didn't know the All-Father, or what his hall would be like, she spoke truthfully.  It was the final realm, in a way... a world unexplored by mere mortals.

"Come, then."  The valkyrie lifted Isabelle to her feet as if she were a feather, her voice once more expressionless.  "Let us go."

Isabelle hesitated at first to step down, thinking that she would continue to fall through the black nothingness, but to her surprise, there was something solid beneath her feet.  She could only stare at the woman.  This... valkyrie.  She was indeed beautiful.  Isabelle let a smile out, wiping at her eyes, which she felt were beginning to mist over.  "Thank... you," she said slowly.  She watched the woman as she walked somewhere, toward wherever "out" of the darkness was.  Isabelle hugged herself, wrapping the remnants of her tattered robe around her.

Even though she was dead, she felt very much alive.  And even though she was dead, she could not help but to think of the living that she had left behind.

--
(By Irwin Kwan, 2001)