Black Spot — Part 3
The search for Black Spot begins.
The windless day gave way to a cloudless night and let out a cooling breeze to shake up the dry cornstalks so that when I set off, the path ahead was serene and magical under my bare feet. I held my shoes by the laces in one hand, and in the other, a small hatchet I hid under the porch stairs.
The night was far from lonely. Every step I took was serenaded by whispers of leaves shivering against each other, and the subtle scrape of my feet on the dusty road reminded me of my journey. The crescents of horse-shoes were long gone, swept away by mice and birds crossing the path in the course of the day, but the moon glowed brilliantly above, enchanting the path like a beacon, as if on this long straight road, I might get lost in my own thoughts.
I counted the blue shadows of fence posts until the last one stretched a hurdle in front of me, and I paused. This was the furthest I’d ever walked from home, the place I first opened my eyes, where I was given all I could ever dream of, and had it taken away not long after. To my left, behind a wall of wheat as high as my head, I knew my parents were buried.
We had a graveyard once, which never seemed to fill up, but I didn’t want to put them there. I made them a little spot in the corner of the field so that if I ever got lost, I might stumble upon the narrow headstones, and find my way back to the road. That day never came; I never did get the chance to get lost.
As I stepped over the final fence post, I started to hope tonight might be the night.
But as the night opened, and a bright eye looked down at me, I turned to the path instead of the sky, and put aside thoughts of adventure. There was time enough, if I could sneak out again, to explore the boundaries of these fields, that in my mind had to go on forever, but now I saw like everything they had an end.
I left behind the sighing fields and reached the crossroads, a tall skeletal sign reading nothing in the dark, just a black ribcage made of a dozen or so signs. Just these, even unreadable, gave me a terrible sensation in my gut. Could there be so many places to go in the world? With every step it got bigger and more daunting, until it felt like not even the moon had gazed upon it all.
Shaking off these thoughts, I squinted at the ground, but there was no need. The bare face of the moon glowered down and lit up the pale ash path in front of me, the remnants of a dozen fires sweeping across my feet and I could swear in the cooling air it was still warm.
I muttered a quick prayer of thanks for the stillness of the night, that I could still follow the clear line, however thin, of ash leading my way to Ciara.
I took the road to the right, making a mental note to leave earlier next time, or with a lantern, so I could read the names on the signs and remember my way by day. I figured that if I knew the names of places they would feel less far away and also smaller.
The whole time I walked, my eyes skimmed the tops of the fields. The cornstalks and wheat whispering against each other barely trembled, but every once in a while there was a scurry, or the sound of a footstep snapping a delicate stem, and against the backdrop of the deep blue sky, I could imagine a black figure stalking along with me, moving along like death, razing every unripe stalk with his great long scythe.
Every time I looked up, unconsciously baring my teeth and the hammer in my little hand, there was nothing. Only stars that glimmered like two innocent eyes over the silky fields. A wave of silver, once I climbed up a hill road, washed over them and traversed across the visible world, like a silk pall falling over something dead, but I knew from the smell alone that the world was so alive. I knew from the feel of the ground moving ever so slightly under my feet that the world was good and not too scary, but just scary enough to be worth seeing.
I turned again to the right, keeping my eyes fixed on the horizon lest the sun rise before I was done with my quest, but found myself forgetting what I was even outside for. I ought to be in bed, my prayers were said and I washed my face just an hour ago. All the children were sound asleep. Virginia and Cedric and Philip and –
Ciara.
The path of ash had come to a sudden end and I was standing at the mouth of a sleeping village. It was silent, almost dead, and a cold sheet had fallen over me. I grappled around with my bare feet, having gotten so lost in new feelings that I’d dropped my shoes somewhere, and the hammer, too.
A creaking gate startled me, but it was only a distant outhouse, out in a short yard by the first house, closing when the tenant grumbled back inside. I stood still as a rock, scanning the place. A wide road cut the village in two, and houses on either side trembled with snores and other sounds of sleep. A single lantern in the middle seemed sufficient to light the whole place up, and the moon did the rest.
But what held my gaze for the longest time, that I felt myself almost fall asleep looking at it, was the grand house on top of the hill just beyond it. I couldn’t call it a Castle, because I knew nothing about Castles then, and I can’t call it a Castle now, for the very same reason. To me, who was used to papery shacks and little stone wells and dirt roads, it was like walking up the Heaven, gates wide open, and knowing I had to be home in the morning.
I so badly wanted to walk up to the door and put my ear to it, or my eye to the keyhole. All the windows I could see were lit up gold and the curtains drawn open, a moving light shining like music from inside, dancing around on the textured ceiling.
When did I get here? I thought, sure that only two seconds ago I was at the entrance to the village, and now I was on my tip-toes, peering through the curtains.
I made up my mind to turn back, and find my way another day. At least now I knew where the trail led, either into the village, or to here. Ciara was old enough to remember and speak about what she knew. I would ask her in the morning. If that brought me nowhere, I could simply find the old lantern in the attic somewhere and come back.
But before I turned away, my eye was caught on something in the great room, of which I could see only the top of the furniture, and the light of the fire dancing on the ceiling.
A black hat bobbed into view, round-rimmed and blacker than night. A gloved hand reached up to it, and slid it off, hanging it on something above the fire. With wide eyes I watched Black Spot move about the room, his golden hair glittering like the sun itself had combed its hands through it. The head turned sharply, though I could swear I was hardly breathing, I didn’t make a sound at all.
I took a step back, and stumbled on a rock I didn’t catch on my way here. When I picked myself up and started running, once again I was surrounded on all sides by tall silky wheat and cornstalks, as if the entire journey was a walking dream. My feet were sore, my eyes paining from the strain of finding suitable footfalls, and by the time I reached the door to the house, (where the hammer and my shoes lay untouched where I left them last night) my spirit was heavy in my chest.
Ciara was asleep in the bed next to mine when I got in after washing my hands and feet, a pink ribbon braided into her hair, and her hair tied up like a crown around her ears. I took a moment in the moonlight to run my hands over it, the soft strands so gently folded over each other.
She looked like a princess. I couldn’t help the pang of envy that settled in my heart as I fell asleep.
Amalia Cotovan