Read Online My Swordhand Is Singing by Marcus Sedgwick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marcus Sedgwick
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Peter felt the village excluding him, felt barriers that he couldn’t break. One shrewish old woman bluntly told him that he and Tomas weren’t wanted. They had always been outsiders, Peter knew that. Now that darkness had descended on the village, anything strange, anyone foreign was a target.
Had Agnes’s mother received more visits in the night from Agnes’s father? Again, no one would tell him.
As time wore on, Peter grew anxious and restless. Tomas, as he got better, needed his son’s help less and less, so Peter was free to worry about other things.
Agnes had been shut up in the hut for six days. The hut lay beyond the little thatched fence, beyond the threshold, beyond the safety of the village, and was no place for a young woman even in normal times. And now something evil was happening around Chust. Tomas dismissed all talk of the Shadow Queen as nonsense, but the villagers believed in her, and whether or not she was real, the result was the same: fear and suspicion had crept into Chust like an outbreak of plague. Soon everyone would be infected, and Tomas and Peter would have to move on again, back to their old nomadic life. Running, always running, though Peter still didn’t know what it was they were running from.
By the time Tomas swung an axe again, Peter had made up his mind.
He couldn’t go near the hut in daylight—it was just visible through the trees from the edge of the village, and he knew he couldn’t take that risk. If he got caught, the very least that would happen would be that Agnes would have to start her mourning all over again. But he was going to visit Agnes.
On that first day out with Tomas he worked hard enough, but reserved his energy as much as he could. Tomas didn’t seem to notice. Peter had sensed a change in his father: he seemed to have retreated into himself. He was quieter than usual, and was even drinking a little less. Peter wondered how much, if anything, it had to do with the accident, or with the visit from the Gypsies, but Tomas wasn’t telling.
That evening, Tomas drank and Peter ate stew, and they both stared into the fire in the potbellied stove, thinking their own fireside thoughts. Then they went to bed, and while Tomas was soon snoring heavily, Peter lay awake, thinking, and waiting.
When he was sure Tomas was sound asleep, Peter swung his legs out of bed, and by the faint glow coming from the stove, slipped his boots on and left the hut. Outside, he pulled the door to again and waited for a moment, listening; but he need not have worried, his father was still snoring just as loudly as before.
Once again, he left Sultan where he was; the noise of getting the horse from the stable might be enough to wake Tomas.
The bridge lay picked out by faint starlight, and Peter cautiously slipped across the planks, the pure water gurgling past underneath.
It took him a while to reach the village, but he wasn’t going in tonight. Instead he chose a path that ran along the eastern edge of Chust, and set off around it. As the boundary fence curved here and there, so did the path, and Peter didn’t hesitate. It wouldn’t do to hesitate. If he had stopped to think who or what might be out in the night forest, he would never have left the safety of the hut. In the last few days there had been two murders, and wolves were the least terrifying of the possible culprits. Peter hurried on, and pushed thoughts of anything and anyone else to the back of his mind.
Another few minutes and he saw the shape of the church hunkered in the darkness. He went on past it, and then slowed. Somewhere soon, he knew, he would meet another, smaller path running out from the village and up to the hut where Agnes had been left.
As his pace slowed, he began to wonder if there was something wrong with his eyes, because suddenly it seemed he could see much less than before in the dark. He lifted his face to the sky, trying to see what light there was, and felt snowflakes brush his
Had Agnes’s mother received more visits in the night from Agnes’s father? Again, no one would tell him.
As time wore on, Peter grew anxious and restless. Tomas, as he got better, needed his son’s help less and less, so Peter was free to worry about other things.
Agnes had been shut up in the hut for six days. The hut lay beyond the little thatched fence, beyond the threshold, beyond the safety of the village, and was no place for a young woman even in normal times. And now something evil was happening around Chust. Tomas dismissed all talk of the Shadow Queen as nonsense, but the villagers believed in her, and whether or not she was real, the result was the same: fear and suspicion had crept into Chust like an outbreak of plague. Soon everyone would be infected, and Tomas and Peter would have to move on again, back to their old nomadic life. Running, always running, though Peter still didn’t know what it was they were running from.
By the time Tomas swung an axe again, Peter had made up his mind.
He couldn’t go near the hut in daylight—it was just visible through the trees from the edge of the village, and he knew he couldn’t take that risk. If he got caught, the very least that would happen would be that Agnes would have to start her mourning all over again. But he was going to visit Agnes.
On that first day out with Tomas he worked hard enough, but reserved his energy as much as he could. Tomas didn’t seem to notice. Peter had sensed a change in his father: he seemed to have retreated into himself. He was quieter than usual, and was even drinking a little less. Peter wondered how much, if anything, it had to do with the accident, or with the visit from the Gypsies, but Tomas wasn’t telling.
That evening, Tomas drank and Peter ate stew, and they both stared into the fire in the potbellied stove, thinking their own fireside thoughts. Then they went to bed, and while Tomas was soon snoring heavily, Peter lay awake, thinking, and waiting.
When he was sure Tomas was sound asleep, Peter swung his legs out of bed, and by the faint glow coming from the stove, slipped his boots on and left the hut. Outside, he pulled the door to again and waited for a moment, listening; but he need not have worried, his father was still snoring just as loudly as before.
Once again, he left Sultan where he was; the noise of getting the horse from the stable might be enough to wake Tomas.
The bridge lay picked out by faint starlight, and Peter cautiously slipped across the planks, the pure water gurgling past underneath.
It took him a while to reach the village, but he wasn’t going in tonight. Instead he chose a path that ran along the eastern edge of Chust, and set off around it. As the boundary fence curved here and there, so did the path, and Peter didn’t hesitate. It wouldn’t do to hesitate. If he had stopped to think who or what might be out in the night forest, he would never have left the safety of the hut. In the last few days there had been two murders, and wolves were the least terrifying of the possible culprits. Peter hurried on, and pushed thoughts of anything and anyone else to the back of his mind.
Another few minutes and he saw the shape of the church hunkered in the darkness. He went on past it, and then slowed. Somewhere soon, he knew, he would meet another, smaller path running out from the village and up to the hut where Agnes had been left.
As his pace slowed, he began to wonder if there was something wrong with his eyes, because suddenly it seemed he could see much less than before in the dark. He lifted his face to the sky, trying to see what light there was, and felt snowflakes brush his
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