Beltane on Sun Mountain

By Michielle Noonberg

This rich and textured paranormal mystery begins during the Spanish Inquisition in the Pyrenees Mountains and culminates three hundred years later in the Flowery Range at the foot of Sun Mountain in Nevada. Follow Maria Martin and her family on a voyage through time, their story of accuser and accursed, murder and reincarnation of loyalty, love, hate and revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781595948618

Book preview

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This story has been a collaborative event and would have never come to fruition without the love and encouragement of all involved.

I would like to express my deepest appreciation to my family and friends for their unwavering support while I worked on this story. From my sister, Melody Strachan who unselfishly sat quietly while I read her chapter after chapter, she never wavered in her support of me or the work. To my friends, Marcia and Steve Litsinger who took their time to plow through the first manuscript and share it with their friends, making me believe this story was well worth their time. I would also like to thank, Lynne Sella, a fellow writer, my confidant and critique, without her help this book would not be possible. And a special acknowledgment to Katie Sella, her fresh point of view kept me moving ahead. Also, I would like to express my appreciation to my daughter-in law, Shannon Stradan whose technical expertise and creativity were indispensable. As well as the amazing editing work offered by Kathy Schuler from the Nataqua News.

When I needed cover art, David Roberts came to my rescue. His vision and talent are evident by the cover he created for this story and his choice of model, Hannah Huntley. Thank you David and Hannah.

I would also like to mention, Candace Toft and Joelle Fraser who read the initial manuscript, their encouragement motivated me to complete this book.

A heartfelt thank you to my husband, Bill Noonberg, who never complained when I sat for hours at the computer or was buried in research; his love and support were constant.

And finally a very special thanks to both of my sons, Stephen and Jason Price who as children lived this story with me in the Old Washoe Club. Hopefully, the specters will lose their power once they are recognized. My sons were my inspiration for this cautionary tale.

Cover design, photos and graphics by David Robert. David is an award winning and internationally published photographer based in Reno. When not photographing rock bands or designing album covers, David roams the Nevada desert in search of old cemeteries and ghost towns. His work can be seen at www.biggestlittlecityphotography.com. Contact David at [e-mail].

Web Design is created by Dempsey Burtraw at Shadow Media Design, Lake Tahoe, CA. http://shadowmediadesign.com

PROLOGUE

Virginia City, Nevada, Spring 1976

I tried to ignore her, but she wouldn’t let me. Visions, mists, books falling off of shelves commanded my attention. The building where she is trapped still stands, tilted and crumbling. The large space under the barroom door allows the dust and debris from the boardwalk on C Street to blow onto the wide planks of the floor. The hallways upstairs are piled high with old paint cans and broken furniture. The building is filled with litter. Some of the wood planked floors upstairs have been removed to reveal large cross-timbers that have continued to support the proud building since they were torn from the old growth forest of Bigler Lake, 100 years ago. It is as if one quick kick would send the Washoe Club careening down the street, taking out its sister buildings like dominos.

It is here that she runs up the stairs, watches from the balcony and gently touches the faces of unsuspecting bar patrons. At times, she slams doors and turns off lights, turns on water and breathes down tourists’ necks. She impatiently waits for a promise to be fulfilled and for her secret to be discovered.

I still remember that first night. The cloud mass had gathered, growing over the little mountain valley. Rolling, deepening to a dark charcoal gray, abridging the distance of the heavens. Snow swirled high in the clouds. The tiny ghost town tucked into the side of the Nevada mountains shuttered itself against the storm. The evening sky framed by the lavender light of dusk trapping me in a childhood snow globe.

The wind pushed fiercely at the front of the old three story brick building. Swirling, it formed small dervishes in the passage sheltering the entrance to the bar. Shadows from the antique oil lamps danced on the high walls of the Washoe Club. The dusty prisms and colorful glass shades clinked loudly threatening to break each time the heavy doors opened and slammed closed. Tiny snowdrifts pushed by the erratic gust of wind crept under the doors into the bar, fanning swiftly across the boot polished hardwood floor. Winter claiming its own.

The last group of Washoe bar customers tumbled out through the doors into the storm. Their arms grabbing tightly around the columns that faced the old hotel; warmed by too much whisky and beer, they laughed as their hats took flight. Their coats billowed into sails propelling them down the worn uneven boardwalk towards the center of town. They were in search of another open bar, a conquest; oblivious to the wind and cold.

Across the street from the club, a solitary figure was leaning against a storefront window. He stood quietly studying the second floor of the Washoe Club. The wind roared around him, deadening the sounds of the laughter and life on C Street. One black boot heel rested on the window casing behind him, the other lost in the swirling snow. His long coat, his wide hat brim defied the wind. Both remained deadly still. He was sheltered from the storm by an invisible barrier. Smoke from his pipe lifted, curling softly around his face.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Reno, Nevada 2000

Jason finished loading the video cameras, tape recorders and electronic sensors through the back door of the van, he gave it a final push, slamming the door closed. He brushed the mud from the door off of his palm onto the front of his jeans shaking his head.

Ready? Steve asked as he slipped his ball cap onto his short blond hair. Let’s get this over with Jason.

Hey. It’s gonna be okay bro. If things get too weird we’ll just bail. I don’t want to do this without you man. Steve, the older of the two boys nodded his head. Both of the young men climbed into the front of the van, fastened their seat belts and gave each other a high five.

Danielle and Jason’s other partner, Robert, checked the video camera equipment in the back of the van, carefully securing it with heavy straps; they crawled across it to their seats, settled in and snapped their seat belts. Paranormal Investigations, JP Productions was in motion once again. Steve edged the truck out of the parking lot at the Peppermill Hotel and Casino, moving into traffic heading south towards Carson City.

Jason, Danielle and Robert had started working together investigating and filming haunted places a few years ago. Usually they worked alone, but this time Jason insisted his big brother, Steve, come with them.

Danielle shifted in her seat; she tapped Jason on the back of his shaved head. Hey, big guy, tell me again why we had to rearrange our entire schedule so that this little trip would be on the tenth of May?

Beltane. Jason nodded his head. Beltane, May tenth. The most psychic, powerful day on Sun Mountain.

Robert tapped the window with his fingers keeping time to the sounds of Johnny Cash blasting from the CD player. Hey Jason, that’s good. I like that, Beltane; Beltane on Sun Mountain, how’s that for a title for this segment? He was an expert with video cameras and musical equipment, it was his job to handle all the music and background sounds for their films.

Jason turned to look back at him, Good as any I guess.

Laughing, Danielle poked Jason. Hey, now, will you tell us what the hell are we all going to do tonight? Is it a graveyard, a hospital, a prison? Her dark wavy hair framed her face; she looked exotic, like a gypsy. Her passion was to research paranormal events, she was fascinated by history, phantoms and ghosts. She had an instinct, an intuition about the unseen, at times it was chilling. She ran her hand through her hair pulling it away from her neck. Smiling, she let out a deep sigh, stretched her lean body forward placing her chin on Jason’s shoulder. She pursed her lips next to his neck, her breath was warm, soft, demanding his attention, she made a kissing sound. Jay, Jas, Jacee…you promised. You promised you would tell us when we were in the van and on our way what we are going to do."

Yeah man, Robert said, What’s the deal? You only said something about a curse in an old ghost town.

Steve looked sharply at his brother. You didn’t tell them? Anything? Fuck… He let out a sigh and turned his attention back to the road, quietly shaking his head.

Wanted it to be surprise, Jason said. Hey, no old abandoned hospital, no prison, but maybe we’ll hit the graveyard, maybe not. Where we are going is the most haunted old hotel in Virginia City, the Washoe Club. The old hotel sits at the bottom of the highest peak overlooking the town, people here call it Sun Mountain. The Washoe Club was built over a hundred years ago, the place is famous. Used to be a private millionaires’ club. When we were kids, Steve and I lived there with my mom, we haven’t been back in years. I’m telling you, this is the most haunted place we have ever worked on. This is going to be our best, this is our ticket.

Steve turned off the main highway and started up a mountain road. The hills surrounding the valley gave way to a canyon as the van eased up the mountain. The sides of the road were held up by native plants. The dirt was the color of a red sunset, burnished with copper and flecked with silver. Light green sage bushes blossomed yellow, surrounded by pink rabbit brush and wildflower created a kaleidoscope of color on the barren landscape. Close to the ground, small blue flax scattered amongst the rocks drew your eyes away from the bright blue Nevada sky. The tight road snaked up steeper and steeper into Storey County towards Virginia City.

The crew in the van seemed hypnotized by the beauty of the stark Nevada country and the soft voice of their partner and brother as he told the story that his mother Christine had told to him, more than that, the story he and his brother had lived. She said the journey had begun long ago with seven people who were destined to travel through lifetimes together. It began with a curse which is still alive today.

Steve pulled the van off to the side of the road. Less than a mile away they could see the tiny little town packed tightly into the side of the mountain. Robert slid the door open and stepped out to stretch. Danielle reached next to her seat and removed the top off of the beer cooler. She handed Robert, Jason and Steve a bottle of dark beer, ice slid off the bottles dripping cold rivulets down their hands as they took their first drink.

There she is, Jason said. He pointed to a small town tucked into the base of a mountain. He drank nearly half of his beer in one quick gulp, some trickled down his cheek, he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

It is so pretty, Danielle said. Her eyes scanned the horizon trying to take it all in; the vast bare mountains stretched for miles sliding into the high peaks of the Sierra Nevada to the west. The variant hues of gray and lavender rolling hills surrounded the small sturdy town gave way to the the extensive graveyards, some large grave monuments were visible even from this distance. A look of amazement crossed her face, she pointed at the tall sparking white church spires that reached high into the sky. Look at all of the churches, brick buildings and mansions. It’s amazing. The array of buildings were packed tightly into the curve of the mountain. The town was busy, lived in. This place doesn’t look like a ghost town Jason, it’s really pretty.

Not so pretty, Steve said. At one time over twenty thousand people lived here, ask yourself why did they lived here? Think about how many of those people died in this wasteland, how think about how many of those dead are still hanging around.

Good point Steve, Robert said. What’s up? How does this place fit into to the curse? What exactly did your Mom say?

Jason looked at his friends sitting around the rocks by the van. She said it all began in the 1600’s in the Pyrenees Mountains on Beltane.

How did she know? Danielle asked.

She knew, Steve said. She just knew.

Jason grabbed a couple of beers from the cooler and tossed one at his brother. Steve caught it with one hand. He quickly twisted the top off, throwing the cap into the open cooler. They moved back into the van, the doors were open; a light wind surrounded them carrying the late afternoon smell of fresh sage and beer, pleasant and fresh.

Jason’s voice soft, quiet rose above their chatter. "Listen up. In the 1600’s there was a woman named Maria Martin. It began with her and a man named Pierre de Lancre He was, French, a Catholic attorney who had something to do with the persecution of witches in the Pyrenees.

I didn’t know there were witch hunts in the Pyrenees? Danielle said.

Shhh. I’ll tell you, Jason said. Maria’s family was wealthy, smart; they owned a lot of land in northern Spain. Maria’s family lived in a small castle above a small village. Jason ran his fingers up and down the beer bottle. He pointed to Danielle and smiled. Pierre wanted Maria and her land, and it didn’t matter to him what he had to do to get them. But she had her own beliefs, her own ways, and she detested him.

As if on cue the crew settled back. Danielle laid her head back against the van seat and closed her eyes. Steve shook his head and stared towards the graveyard. Jason’s voice lowered almost to a whisper. Maria lived during the time of the Inquisition. Her home was near the border of France, in Spain.

CHAPTER TWO

Pyrenees Mountains 1609

My cheek pressed against the cool rock-hewn wall in my childhood study. I was surrounded by heavy timbers held up by the granite stones pulled from the surrounding mountains by my ancestors; a fortress built to house my family and our friends for generations to come. My room rose three stories high above the ground, a stone turret with one small window. Now it was my prison. My hell. My eyes fixed on the expansive courtyard encircled by the distant Pyrenees Mountains. Moistened by my tears, the chinks in the depressions between the stone walls glistened in the new morning light. Both of my hands pressed tightly to my ears blocking out the horror of Juana’s screams.

As abhorrent as it was, I could not take my eyes off of the scene being played out below me. One of the guards wielded a sharp three pronged staff, grinning as he poked at the woman being tied to the stake. The jabs left a trail of blood and ripped flesh. I was horrified at the pomp surrounding the lighting of the faggots, the wood piled high beneath her kicking feet. A special platform had been built for de Lancre, Marcus and their esteemed guests to view the festivities. They were pointing and laughing, their silver wine goblets sparkled in the sun, while they nodded and smiled at the righteousness of their production. Music was playing; people were singing hymns. From the safety of my window, I watched the fire catch, yellow, blue sparks built to an entity unto itself. It converged, its caress flowing, flames undulating, a voracious appetite fed by the flesh and the loose hairs of its host. Her futile struggle mesmerized me. This cannot be real. This cannot be happening. Not here, not in our haven, our home. The hot wind surrounding the flames crept up Juana’s legs. Her white linen skirt billowed then disappeared; consumed by the hot blue and silver ribbons of fire. The pillar of life transformed into searing red flames. My hands dropped, I held on to the marble window sill, knuckles white. In the chaos of the fire, Juana threw her head back; her eyes met mine, dark terrified. At that second, I knew my friend had not been escorted into hell, rather as the scorching air filled her lungs, she was blessedly released from hell, from our home, my castle Semper. Away from the horror of Pierre, his lackey Marcus and the Inquisition. If someone as gentle and sweet as Juana can be taken by them, this too will be my fate. I will have to be very cautious.

Thick black smoke carried by the wings of the morning breeze wafted into my room, bearing the sickly sweet smell of burnt flesh. Behind, it left the macabre black skeleton slumped, crumbling on the burnt faggots. I ran my fingers over the delicate Celtic designs carved into the marble window sill. My chest trembled with a deep breath as I pulled the leaded glass window towards me to shut out the levity below.

Earlier that day, as dawn broke, the pink and coral sky, bright with promise brought the sounds of the auto-da-fe’ to my window. A testament to the witches the Tribunal escorted into hell. For a fortnight I had stood at my window, watching and listening to the sounds of carpenters. Their incessant pounding creating bleachers and special boxes for the spectators, the dignitaries and staff of the Inquisition. Over five hundred people were expected to watch the proceedings. A carnival atmosphere full of pomp, music, prayer and chanting.

Everyone seemed busy, no laughter, no looking to the sky for the signs of the seasons; no lovers hiding in the corners or bearing gifts for one another. Now my people moved, heads held down, busy distributing pamphlets. The Edict of Grace. Confess it stated, You will be saved by the auto-da-fe.

After days of preparation, hoards of people started to arrive. For hours, I listened to the charges, the confessions of the witches being read to the spectators. Some of the accused they droned on about had died in prison from the scourge. Lest the Inquisition lose their well-planned production by not having anyone to burn, these lucky souls were burned in effigy. Their remains were carried in small caskets on the heads of the monks as they paraded around my courtyard. Others of the accused, like Juana, were in flesh, dragged to the faggots and posts that had been prepared earlier. All the while the monks continued to prod them, hopeful for a new confession. Earlier, one of the servants told me, the prisoners who were being burned today had recanted their confessions of cavorting with the devil, to heresy, but still stood accused. Their confessions were brought on by being held in de Lancre’s secret prisons for months; lies, torture, starvation, who knows what tactics they had been subjected to. They had done nothing wrong other than to originally confess to anything they felt the Inquisitors wanted to hear. They were unaware of what their charges were, guilty until proven innocent. Out of terror, out of despondency and defiance, they created outrageous stories of eating human flesh, kissing toads and killing babies. Oh yes, of course as Marcus had stated they had also prepared noxious ointments from decaying flesh. The most damning was their confessions of flying to the Aquilares. There they were said to have danced naked, copulated with the devil incarnate, ruined crops, murdered and ate babies on a regular basis.

My fist balled into the soft material of my dress. I wanted to rip something apart. My other hand closed around the base of a silver wine goblet sitting on a table, it sparkled in the morning sun. I grabbed it and flung it as hard as I could against the locked door. There was little satisfaction as it rolled back towards me. All of those accused today had been stripped of the meager possessions they had worked so hard to obtain. I had heard a few fortunate men, if they could be called fortunate, had been sent as galley slaves to man the King’s Navy. Others were banished from their homes and this land. As if in prayer, my hands held together and pressed against my lips, I whispered into them, This, this travesty is only about money, politics and land it is certainly not about God, at least not my God.

CHAPTER THREE

Three months ago Pierre de Lancre invaded our home in the name of his Church and the Inquisition. His arrival created havoc and death at the invitation of Marcus, my old tutor. Now I find I am living in a nightmare carnival.

I turned to latch the window and heard the heavy iron bar on the outside of my door slide open. I dropped my hands, wiping the tears from my eyes with the sleeve of my velvet gown. Once it had been my favorite, a soft red, now it would forever remind me of this day. Alisia came into my room. She was a sweet child that tended the chickens and always had a lizard, toad or pet of some kind in her pocket. The child carefully bore a large silver tray with steaming tea, rolls and a vase filled with pure white roses. Compliments of Pierre de Lancre. Her head was lowered as she placed the tray on the sideboard, she had to stand on the tips of her bare toes to reach the polished wooden top.

Alicia’s small face was framed by stray brown curls. The morning rays streaming through the leaded glass window brought out the red highlights in her hair, she looked angelic. Was it only eleven years ago, or twelve, when I sat at the side of Juana’s bed and assisted at the birth of this elfin child? The child’s hand shook as she pushed the tray into place. She looked so lost, so frightened. I knew if I held her, comforted her, we could be next on the fire pier. I watched her as she stood stone still, tears streaming down her face, despair seeping out of her little body.

De Lancre be damned. I opened my arms to the little girl. She ran over to me. My arms engulfed her as she cried over the murder of her mother, Juana. My hand rested on the top of her small head pressing her face to my body. She was consumed by light shivers, reminiscent of a frightened bird cupped in the palm of my hands. The sounds of her sobs were muffled by the heavy velvet of my gown. We stood quietly until she was spent. Taking her delicate face in my hands, our eyes locked, I whispered. Listen to me child, confess to nothing, point your finger at no one, become a shadow. I will find a way for us to escape. I will come for you.

After she left, I sat in my chair with my back to the window, waiting until dusk. Dusk, my favorite time of day, that moment of quiet that overtakes the world as the sun slips behind the hills. The time to bid the night stars welcome. My body felt heavy, weary, the entire day was more terrifying than anything I could ever have imagined. I stood and walked to the window, my hand gently pushed it open. A light breeze brushed by me carrying the faint scent of the lilacs Father and I planted in the garden years ago. In spite of the familiar scent of the flowers, the underlying odor of burnt flesh and smoke permeated the air. My eyes scanned beyond the dreary courtyard towards the mountains. The views were vast, peaceful. Full of gradient hues of sage to rich corals tipped with light slivery blue. Standing here reminded me of mother. She and I would stand at this very window, side by side, our arms wrapped lightly around one another. Months before she died, I remember laughing as her craftsman let me pound the last stroke of the rune into the smooth marble. It was the runic symbol for protection, Eolh. A river of Celtic blood runs through you. Mother said, as she took my hand, our fingers entwined as we traced the mystical clean lines. Just enough to always remind you to keep Fey. Open to visions, especially when you gaze out this window at sunset to your future.

I sat back down in my chair, wrapped in the memory of my family, my chamber door opened quietly. Four men squeezed themselves into my cramped room. They dwarfed the arched doorway. Two of the men stood guard, quiet as identical statues. They posed with their legs astride and one hand resting on a hip, the other on the hilt of their long swords. The only sound was the squeak of their heavy leather trousers and vests as they fidgeted. Neither of them would meet my gaze. Their heads lowered, their eyes hooded.

Fleeting thoughts came to me. I could bolt as a rabbit to speed directly under their legs and to freedom. My scramble would only be an embarrassment to me and impossible. As clumsy as they looked I recognized these two were the same men who had dragged Michael out of our dining room three months ago, the night he disappeared. These two were quicker and stronger than he, and my husband was not a weak man.

Pierre de Lancre slipped by them. He glided towards me, his head held high, surveying the rich trappings of my past. He stood behind me, his smooth hands placed possessively on my shoulders, holding me firmly. De Lancre’s palms stroked my hair; he moved to place his fingers around the base of my neck, his thumbs touching. I cringed as his forefingers lightly stroked my neck from the base of my ears to my shoulders. I was still. Every sense of my being withdrew into my body. My eyes pinned on Marcus who had followed Pierre in. He stood in front of me smiling, his lips moving with his restrained mumble. My heartbeat slowed as did my breath. It felt as if all of the air in the tiny room had flown out of the little window in fear of the four men. The two candles on my table flickered and then died. Marcus looked at the smoke curling up from the wicks then focused his gaze on me, his brows drawn together.

De Lancre pointed to one of the guards. Then returned his hand again to my shoulders. The guard’s head turned to look at Pierre and he banged his forehead against the low heavy beams of the ceiling. Pierre laughed at him. Louis, be done with this. Take her trunk to my quarters. He nodded towards the small wooden chest at the base of my bed.

No you will not, I hissed. I turned to face him. It is not yours. This is my property, my home.

De Lancre’s hands squeezed my shoulders, he slid one palm down to rest on the rise of my breast. The other gripped my throat, his fingers crushing my voice. Marcus moved in closer to block any movement from me. My blood rushed through my head, his touch was infuriating.

The trunk not only held my medicines, herbs, needles, bandages. But it also held the journals of all who had been healed with this box. Names of families from my mother’s homeland in Scotland, in France; it crossed all of the Inquisitor’s territory. My small wooden trunk held years, of collecting, of study, passed from my mother and from hers. It had helped us cure wounds, birth babies, and heal minds; next to Michael it was my life. Marcus knew this and he also knew my list of names condemn all of those we had treated.

My teeth clenched as I swallowed my breath to give no rise, no movement to de Lancre’s hungry touch. Marcus would pay for this betrayal. My eyes glared at him to lower his gaze. He turned and followed the guards with my chest towards the door. Pierre pressed his body against my back and lifted both of his hands from away from me.

Your perfume Maria. Hmmm, your scent is enhanced by your anger. As he pressed his palms to his face and took a deep breath, I felt a shiver run up his torso. His arms rested back on my shoulders as he stretched his hands palms up, he placed them against my face, covering my nose and mouth. I could not move or breathe. See? Can you not smell your fear? It is quite pleasant is it not? His body stretched, his head thrown back. He turned away from me laughing as he ran his hands through his long black hair, his fingers lingering over a stray curl. Have a good evening Maria. Do not concern yourself over your chest. It is now in my good hands. I do wonder what we will discover in it?

I sat still until he left, my breathing controlled. When I heard the bolt slide across the door, I stood up and slammed the small side table across the room. Calm, I must stay calm. A closed pot of water sat on the hearth by the fire. It was infused with herbs, a tea. This would settle the rage inside of me. I also knew it would not harm the child resting secretly beneath my breast. My hands were shaking as I dipped a cup from the warm pot. I drank it slowly, holding it in my mouth, and letting the bitter sweet taste numb and soothe my sore throat.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sunset hues danced across the leaded glass window and rested on the walls. I leaned against the chair, the soft velvet of my gown pooled around my ankles. Cold from the uneven rock floors seeped up from my feet to my legs, the chill not hindered at all by the thin leather soles of my slippers. All of the heat from the fireplace collected in the ceiling. Before the burnings I loved to sit by the hearth. My eyes locked on the flames, my bare feet as close to the fire as I could stand, toes wiggling. Worlds were created in the moving, fanciful flames, dragons, birds, lovers. Once the cackle of the fire was a comfort, now it was all I could do to throw more wood onto it. The flames made me queasy, the heat was not worth it.

I toyed with the broach hanging around my neck on its thin golden chain. It was reminiscent of morning dew, small translucent sun splashed beads nestled between the delicate lavender flowers of a golden lilac sprig.

This diamond and amethyst jewel is what Michael presented to me on the announcement of our child’s arrival. When he handed it to me, he said. This brings to mind the first time my eyes rested on you, standing so still, so beautiful, surrounded by flowers.

On that day I was curious about the arrival of the young stranger whose family I had heard so much about, the Frasers. I stood in the courtyard, half hidden by the flowering lilac bushes. It was right before the morning sun pushed the moist dew on the flowers deep into their stems. It smelled delicious.

My family was excited about his arrival. At the invitation of my mother, he came from her homeland in Scotland to purchase one of father’s exquisite Iberian studs for his stable. His mother and mine had grown up together. Their families had always been close, as friends, neighbors and also in business. What wonderful stories they told, they seemed almost magical.

As the gates to the courtyard closed behind our guest I knew he must be weary from days of traveling. Tall and copper haired, the young man gracefully slid his body off of his steed. He removed his gloves to run his bare hands up his horse’s neck lifting its heavy mane to let the morning air cool the warmed body. Steam rose from the dark chestnut coat of the horse as his owner continued to stroke the animal across his shoulders to its flanks. A reassurance it was finally time to rest.

His horse responded with a bow of its head. It was lowered, relaxed, his large brown eyes following his owner’s movements. His front hoof lightly pawed the ground. This animal obviously was more than a mode of transportation for this man; they moved in unison, as partners. He handed the reins off to the young stable boy and gently patted both the boy and the horse.

When my Mother introduced us, at his touch, in an instant, I melted into the palm of his hands as surely as the dew drops descend into the body of the lilacs at the first blush of the morning sunlight.

With thoughts of Michael, my mind drifted to all of the exciting things he had brought into my life. The morning he arrived I watched a hawk circling over his head. At his whistle it dove down, wings carrying him to gently land on Michael’s outstretched arm. I had been entranced with the grace of the bird. Eventually Michael taught me how to handle his hawk. His bird was not only trained as a messenger but would instinctively sound an alarm if he sensed any danger to Michael, circling high and wide, a perfect sentry.

On my nineteenth birthday, he gave me my own exquisite bird, it was a young red tailed hawk I named him Awaren and he too has been my constant companion, my protector. He had keen dark eyes and weighed much more when he lighted on my arm than I had imagined. Our game was to have our birds bring love notes wrapped in small leather bindings on their legs to one another. Something which had begun as a frivolity was now a measure of immense importance. It had been over two weeks and I had not seen Awaren. It was my hope he had not been injured or worse yet killed.

The tea calmed me enough to move from my chair to the window. My eyes scanned the horizon for my hawk. I was mesmerized by the smooth flight of the flocks of birds visible in the stillness of the evening. I could hear their songs as they flew in unison, a moving cloud of feathers and outstretched wings, soaring across the sky.

Before the auto-da-fe’ preparation, I had seen Marcus take de Lancre’s archers to our hawks’ coop. I watched in horror as he positioned the men to shoot our birds as sport as they approached the safety of their roost. Awaren always came to my room rather than to the coop. If he comes across the castle from the back side, he should be safe. Silently I watched and waited until the guards in the courtyard slipped inside for their dinner, all was quiet. A soft whistle slipped by my lips, three times. Nothing, no Awaren. My teeth pulled on my lower lip, a bit of pain to keep the tears from flowing.

With my back towards the window I moved across the room, my fingers ran lightly across the deep roses carved into the curved wooden back of my chair. This chair was a remnant of the days when I would sit quietly, the good child listening to Marcus’s soft voice reading to me. This room is now a comfortable prison. One table, one sideboard, one cot, two chairs, and of course the fireplace, low ceilings and my beloved window. Outside my door the hallway leading to my room and its alcove were too quiet. Finally, my guard must have fallen asleep. I walked quickly over to the hearth, took a slim slip of wood from the kindling basket and tapped it around a cobble that supported the mantle. In a few seconds the cobble stone rolled into the palm of my hand. My other hand disappeared into the hole, I drew two small packets wrapped in dear skin out. I quickly slipped them into my cloak; my herbs, my real herbs, they were strong enough to kill a large beast.

My hand slipped into the hole and quickly drew out my red stag horn dagger; an innocuous weapon I had patiently crafted, another lesson from Michael. My finger ran the sharpened rim of the blade. Sufficient to slit a murderer’s throat. Hours were spent in shaping it, dragging the heavy round horn across the sharp rock on the corner of the mantel. I sang poorly and loudly while I did it, to block the steady sound of the sanding. As I hefted the dagger and held it to the light, I knew I had done well. It had been honed to a lethal point with slim sharp even edges. Almost translucent, it was a simple, deadly weapon. The thick circle butt of the horn protected my hand from slipping off of my home-made dagger as I wielded it. Practice Maria, a weapon for the peasants. Michael had told me. No wise man, or woman need ever go without a good stout blade. He had said as he patiently tutored me in how to craft it and how to use it. Breath, make it part of your arm, an extension of your body. When you wield it use your entire body. He repeated over and over as he made me throw one just like it at the straw man in the field.

Often tiring from the game I would mockingly attacked Michael to end up dragging him behind the poor straw man and finally sitting my full weight soundly on my husband’s chest. He would laugh, gently kiss my neck, then wrestle the dagger from me. He would make me stand up, brush myself off, again and again, we would practice until I thought my arm would fall off. At times I thought he was much too serious. Now I knew he was not serious enough. Be no more afraid of this as you would your hand, or your arm. If you use it, use it wisely, and once you raise it, do not hesitate, not for one second, or it could be turned on you.

The weight and strength of the heavy horn could be matched against any steel blade.

Marcus knew of my silver dagger, he took it from me the same day he locked my door. This unfinished horn he overlooked, buried deep in my embroidery basket with colorful yarn wrapped around it. It was from the same stag that Michael had killed the fall before. For me it held my husband’s essence, he had handpicked it from the heavy thick antlers we fashioned my practice dagger from. This weapon would have the same heat. To me it was alive, not only an extension of my arm but held the weight and wisdom of my husband.

I found a soft piece of leather left in the sewing basket and quickly wrapped it around the sharpened horn, picked up the loose cobble and positioned it back into its place. I lightly tapped the rock with the butt end of the cushioned horn until the cobble held its own place. Once again just another rock in my fireplace. I slipped my dagger under the pillow on my cot.

Taking a deep breath, my head tilted to the sound of Marcus mumbling to himself, his voice raspy, singsong. He sounded happy, his voice matched his cadence as he climbed the stairs. I don’t remember when Marcus started his incessant chatter to himself, whispering constantly. One day I had told Michael that Marcus was his own best audience, how he loved the sound of his own voice. Michael stared at me that day, a long quiet stare. It was not too long after our dagger lessons began. He knew before I did that Marcus could not be trusted. He was right. I looked around the room quickly to see that everything was in place.

Silence, then I heard the sound of the bolt sliding and the door opening. Marcus stepped into my room. I faced him smiling, my hands clasped together in front of me, purposely, I presented a picture of modesty and decorum as he entered the room. For a flash of a second his eyes registered surprise. What did he think I would be groveling based on his and Pierre’s recent attempt to debase me?

Remember Maria, keep him off balance, do whatever need be, but keep that viper off balance. Michael had told me.

CHAPTER FIVE

Marcus dismiss the guard standing in doorway by waving him away with his long fingers. For a second, his attention was drawn to the graceful tilt of his fingers. His head cocked, he stood smiling at his own hand. It was a move I had seen him practicing in the courtyard, early in the mornings. He looked like a big gray bird, arms flapping, mouth constantly moving. He stood just inside the door, a small stack of precious books tucked neatly under his arm.

Just look Marcus, my prison you made for me is a comfortable, closed room with an expansive view of my own lands, compliments of Pierre de Lancre. Are you here to aid in my escape? Or are you here to help him change me? Is that possible? I picked up a sea shell from a box on my sideboard, passing it back and forth from hand to hand. I spoke quietly with my back turned to him. Don’t you see, he only lives to possess, bathed in the light of his Church and blessed by the wealthy, powerful, controlling religion he has claimed as his own. His true nature is sadistic and pious. Ah, but you do see. I know now that you are but a shadow of him.

Marcus stepped closer to me. Do not, please, do not say such things. He sits at the right hand of God, Maria, the quiet man whispered. His eyes were watery light blue, they were sheltered under heavy bushy gray brows, his stare was reptilian.

I turned to face him. My hands were clasped into tight fists. How can you believe that? Did you not hear the screams of Juana’s this morning, what was her crime? She cursed a family for not paying her for her corn, and she danced in the moonlight, she kept a toad for a pet? Have you not danced in the moonlight Marcus? As I recall you did that with Grandmother when she was your lover.

Marcus started to pace back and forth in the tiny room. His voice was loud, it had lost it feigned meekness. No Maria, Juana danced with the devil on the full moon. He pointed out the window and almost screamed at me. She kept a toad for his skin, to eat, to make her fly; not as a pet. She would not repent! You my child must repent! Then you will be saved from the fires of hell. Marcus dropped his hands and started to back up to leave the room.

I grabbed him by the arm roughly turning him around to look at me. He took a deep breath and held his ground. Stay! I have not dismissed you! He pulled his arm away and started to move again. Stay still old man, stop moving so I may address you. Pay attention to me!

Marcus stopped, he placed his hands in front of him clasped tightly, his knuckles showing white still holding on to the precious books of his new religion, his eyes lowered but not quickly enough to hide his new found hatred for me.

"You listen to me. Marcus, Juana was your friend. She cared for your mother when she was ill. How could