Journey to a grave - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

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The Journey to a Grave

It took them three days to get home. Three gruelling days of asking for help and begging for food. And in those three days, Rafe vowed never to return to the Grey Valley. Sam had been right. Nobody had wanted to steal their horse, since she had died in the heavy rain. But somebody had decided to steal the six kegs of ale they had left on the side of the carriage path. Rafe carried Cherubim’s Mask in his sack, determined not to let anyone see it. A mask of pure gold would likely be targeted by thieves and he very much wanted to keep it.

     Hurt that their father had not come to meet them along the way, they trudged on the muddy roads, passed by horse drawn carriages whose drivers never took pity on them. Hungry and worn, they thought that nothing could bring them more relief than seeing their humble townhouse nestled between the butcher’s and the blacksmith’s. But once again, they were wrong. 

     “No!” Rafe said in a whisper as they approached home. He had been walking for so long with his head down that he had got to within almost ten feet of the front door of his house to notice it was no longer there.

     Sam’s feet came to a standstill beside him. “We really do have the worst possible luck!”

     Rafe put a hand on his brother’s shoulder as they stared at the ruin before them.

     “What happened?” Rafe asked, breathless with shock. “Where’s father?”

     The blacksmith spotted them from the wreckage of his shop and made towards them. “Sorry lads. We never saw it coming. Your father tried to stop the flames but there wasn’t much he could do by then. Too late.”

     “Where is he?”

     “Went to a friend’s house. Miller, I think he said. Knew you’d be able to find him there. Sorry lads. It’s a terrible thing to see. Kills everything in its path, fire does.”

     “Your shop is destroyed,” Rafe noticed, peeling his eyes away from his own wreckage of his own home for a moment.

     “Yes, but the metal survived at least. I’ll build my shop back up in good time but at least I still have my livelihood. More than I can say for old Giff!”

     The butcher’s shop on the other side of their house had also been destroyed. “I can smell the burning flesh!” Sam gulped.

     “Aye. So did the wolves! We drove them back but old Giff got bitten something terrible. Worst disaster this village ever saw!”

     Rafe realised he had been shaking his head and stopped himself. “How did this happen?” he asked, anger now replacing his shock. The smoke stained walls where fire had blazed through their home was beginning to build a fire within himself. Papers that weren’t caught up in the flames blew in the wind. The scene was chaos and nothing was salvageable. Every possession they had possessed was gone.

     Sam started picking through the crumbling chairs they used to sit on. He tore through the blackened bricks, lifting broken furniture, only to find nothing of use.

    “You should come out of there. Nothing to be found but hurt, boys!”

     “What are we supposed to do?” asked Sam.

     Rafe tried to clear his head so he could think straight. “We’ll go find father.”

     “Wait a minute. There’s something else you should know,” the blacksmith told them. “Your father was hurt in the fire. Looked in a bad way. He must have been glad you two weren’t home when it happened. Perhaps you two are lucky after all,” the blacksmith told them. 

     “Hurt? How badly?”

     The blacksmith shrugged. “He was able to walk away, but had to have a cart and horse to carry him over to the next village. Tarmin it was, or near there.”

     Rafe lifted his head back up and looked towards where they had come. He knew the way to Miller’s mansion, though he had never been before. It was near to the Grey Valley, precisely the place he had just sworn never to return and the thought of journeying there again on foot was almost unbearable. Their father had often told them stories of better times when he had spent long weeks adventuring with the man he called Miller and had frequently spat directions out at them so that it would stick inside their brains. How Miller had ended up so rich while his father was so poor was a matter of great debate, but their father swore that should they ever require help, Miller would be their man. 

     “Can I get you some food and water?” the blacksmith offered kindly. “You look worn.”

     Rafe felt it too. Just hearing the word food made his stomach growl with hunger. “Thank you, we haven’t eaten in three days,” he explained and both he and Sam followed the blacksmith to a small cottage where the blacksmith had been staying. There they ate like starved pigs, caring little for good manners. Once their stomachs were satisfied, Rafe felt an enormous sense of guilt at having thought of his own pain before that of his father’s.

     “Do you know of someone who might lend us a horse?” Rafe enquired.           

     The blacksmith nodded to them both. “Follow me,” he said.

    Stumbling across the cobbled stone of the village streets and out into the fields where the sheep and cows watched them curiously, Sam and Rafe hung their heads. They said nothing to each other, unable to bring words to their lips. 

     “Good luck boys. I hope you find your father well,” the blacksmith said but Rafe had an ever growing fear growing inside of him that had nothing to do with the fire which had destroyed his home, nor the aching of his legs. The golden mask tucked tightly inside his sack hummed to him, though he ignored it completely. Something far more awful had happened here than he yet knew and he was sick to think he would soon be finding out. 

     Minutes later they tore out of the quiet streets on horses borrowed from a kind and sympathetic farmer. Rabbits darted away from them and deer eyed them with caution. There were tears of frustration in Rafe’s eyes though as always, he hid them well from Sam.  

     Dusty roads and familiar hills welcomed them as did the rising sun. The Grey Valley lay a dozen miles in front and once more, Rafe could not appreciate the beauty of its pastures.

     It had taken them three days to travel home on foot, though two of those had been heading in completely the wrong direction. After just five hours of stretching the horses as hard as they could, the painful anticipation of what lay ahead was finally upon them. Rafe looked up. “Come on, we’re almost there!”

     A few miles further, they trotted over a bridge and onto the fields of the Grey Valley, through some woods and then into a garden filled with every kind of fruit tree there is. And at the end of the exceptional garden was a mansion, beautiful, warm and in every way inviting. In his weary state, Rafe dismounted from his horse and walked hesitantly to the impressive red door, and reaching out, knocked loudly three times. 

      A man opened the door slightly. 

     “Miller?” Rafe asked sullenly. “We need your help.”

     The man named Miller grunted at them, sighed at them, and then hastily closed the door.

     “Don’t worry, father warned me he was odd,” Rafe said to Sam.

     Sam wasn’t convinced. The door re-opened several minutes later and an average-sized man with a top hat taller than the door appeared. A monocle cradled his left eye. Rafe had never seen a gentleman before. At least not one that acted so ungentleman-like. 

     “You are Miller, I assume?”

     The man nodded briefly. 

     “I was told my father was here?”

     Miller dipped his head in a short nod. “I expected t’ see ye soon, Rafe an’ Sam. Yer papa came here. He told me abou’ a mask.”

     Rafe eyed Sam before nodding. “Yes, but how did he know?” Rafe asked, instinctively taking off his sack to check it was still there. He had forgotten it temporarily and a slight pang of excitement lifted his spirits for just a moment.  

     “Might I see it for meself first? Need t’ know it be true.” 

     Rafe marvelled at the accent. Miller looked like a nobleman but he spoke like a pirate.  He swung the mask into view. The light in the strange man’s eyes brightened as he reached out his long fingers to touch it. Rafe swung the mask out of reach, untrustful of the greed in his smile.

     “Yer papa had a dream apparently. Said ye had a mask o’ pure gold. Tha’ can mean but one thin’.”

     Rafe shook his head and Miller’s face suddenly held some warmth. He gave a short nod of understanding before stepping outside and closing the giant door behind him. “I can help ye,” he declared with a wink of one eye. "Ye’ll be needin’ shelter and food I presume? And a good hidin’ place!" Leave the horses here. Me butler will tend to em.”

     Rafe looked at him, confused. “Does someone want to harm us?”

     Miller looked blankly back at him.

     “Why do we need to hide?” Rafe clarified.

     A sigh of understanding escaped him. “I hope not!” he studied Rafe and Sam just long enough for it to feel uncomfortable. “No. Ye need t’ hide because ye have a mask that be very important to lots o’ greedy peeps! I be one o’ them though that be long ago and I’ve repented since.”

     “Cherubim’s Mask,” Sam said, his voice low and cracked with fatigue. “That’s what the scroll said, right Rafe?” 

     Rafe nodded, deep in thought. He pondered at the significance of his father’s dream. A low rumble from Miller told Rafe he found something amusing. “What is it? What does it mean?”

     “What ye should be askin’ is why have ye found ‘t and why now?” Miller watched Rafe’s expression before turning from him. “Come, I will take ye to yer papa now. Follow me.”

     He led them through a brick tunnel that appeared almost camouflaged in a tangle of loose hanging ivy. The passageway was long and cold and not in the least bit comforting. 

     “Where are we going?” Sam whispered. 

     “Home, I guess,” Rafe told him, biting his tongue to dull the pain of his words. “At least until father can buy a new one.”

    Miller turned, looking over his shoulder. “This way,” he ordered, disappearing down a narrow path to their left. They followed quickly, finding their feet picking up pace on a downward slope and suddenly it was as though they had walked into a picture. A secluded meadow with every shade of green imaginable lay at their feet. Trees reached far into the sky, brambles were heavy laden with berries, and there were masses of ferns, snowdrops, daisies, and bluebells, all of them blossoming. Then, in the middle of it all, was a giant Oak tree. 

It stood in the centre, thick and bulky and in its grand trunk was a wonky carved door with a small red handle. And beside it, a small mound of stones, laid carefully one on top of the other. Rafe knew immediately what it meant.

    “I’m sorry,” Miller said, tilting his enormous top hat at them both.

     Rafe stood, staring at the newly laid stones, realising with bile rising to his throat that Miller had led them to a grave. His hands, trembling, put themselves around Sam.

     “How?” Rafe managed. 

     “How what?” Sam asked innocently. 

     Rafe ignored him, waiting only for Miller’s explanation. 

     “He was wounded when he arrived. But yer papa be restin’ now. And he dreamt a lot of things before he passed,” Miller told them. “Peeps see things when they be close to death.”

     Sam put his head in his hands, realising what had happened.

     Rafe looked down at the mask, feeling the tingle in his fingers as he touched it. Humming like it did sometimes, he felt its power surging through him. Shaking his head at the memories of the night, he shrugged. “This never would have happened if I hadn’t fallen into that crypt!” Rafe yelled. “We would have gotten home before the fire. I could have stopped it!” He threw the mask on the undisturbed grass, turning away from Miller and bent over, feeling himself retch.    

     “Aye, maybe. But yer papa believed in tha’ mask and he believed in ye too. Believed you would bring great things to the Grey Valley.” Rafe held on to the stones that had been lain for his father and felt how cold they were. When he turned back to see Miller, he was holding Cherubim’s Mask in his spiny hands. His eyes were lost to its golden gleam. “Hide ‘t if ye wish, though remember it often. No-one shall find ye here, I will make certain of tha’.” He forced his eyes away from the mask and tossed it back to Rafe who caught it instinctively. “What do ye know of th’ mask, lad?”

     Rafe looked at him and shrugged.

     “’Tis well known t’ legend. Many peeps be recognizing a mask that be written of. There not be many made o’ pure gold like this one. When they be seein’ it, they be knowin’ tha’ ye are th’ Chosen One. That ye have come to fend fer them and this land. Ye be a hero, Rafe. When th’ time comes.”

     Rafe examined it in his hands. “But how? It’s just a mask.”

     “Thar be plenty o’ time fer me t’ fill ye in on all th’ details. In short, this mask twas forged by fallen warriors keen to protect these lands beyond th’ grave. When th’ time be right, ye will have an army, Rafe. An army bound t’ obey your every command. That be why only one pure in heart is chosen. So keep it safe lad. At least until the true reason why this mask be comin’ out o’ hidin’ be revealed.” 

     “And when will we know that?” Rafe asked, somewhat disbelievingly, the grief of having lost his father masking any hope that he had for his new found treasure. 

     Miller patted Sam’s head in an attempt at affection and looked towards Rafe. “When ye’re ready,” he said reassuringly and as the sun began to set beneath the great valleys surrounding them, he added, “quite soon, I imagine.”

       

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