Rebekah's Refuge Read online

  Rebekah gasped, feeling shame spread vine-like tendrils through her body. “Sickness? People are sick?”

  “Yes,” the woman said. Rebekah heard her swallow convulsively. “Don’t worry, now. You’ll be all right. I—”

  “It was a lie!” Rebekah cried out with pain and regret, her face growing hotter than ever. “I-I lied to you. I’m sorry!” She bowed her head in shame.

  “Lied about what, child?” the woman asked.

  Rebekah gulped and brushed tears from her flaming cheeks. “I have no Aunt Annika,” she said. What was to become of her now? And, why was she worrying about herself when so many other frightening things were occurring? “Mother,” she whispered. “I have to find my mother.”

  There was a long pause. Then the woman spoke. “We will, child.” After another moment, she said, “You mustn’t be frightened. I’ll keep you safe. Everything will be all right. How old are you? You seem fairly young to be traveling alone. You’re blind as well, aren’t you? Why would you lie about meeting an aunt?”

  Rebekah shuddered. “I’m ten. I was born blind. I had to lie about meeting an aunt. He found me. I had to get away.” Again, the gentle voice and the cloying peppermint scent invaded her mind. The nightmares were encroaching upon her waking moments as well.

  Martha did not need to ask who he was. She already knew. After all, hadn’t her own daughter, Laura, fallen prey to him? Laura had possessed a beautiful voice; small in volume but large in authority. When she sang, her hair responded, bringing forth beautiful life as it danced in a breeze that only Laura could discern. But then, the man had come with his cleaving tools and honeyed wine. Laura’s voice had been silenced forever.

  Martha trembled but managed to speak firmly. “He’s not here, child. You’re quite safe. I’ll make certain of that.” She stood and bent over the girl. “I heard women from the dining car were serving soup to those who could eat. I’ll get you some. You need strength.”

  Rebekah nodded. “Thank you,” she said. She listened to the woman’s retreating footsteps.

  After a time, the woman returned. She reached forward and placed one of her hands beneath Rebekah’s head. Rebekah sniffed the pungent odor of broth. Her keen nose identified each vegetable; carrots, broccoli, potatoes, and green beans. She detected many herbs as well, particularly basil, rosemary, and just a hint of thyme. Her stomach rumbled. As the first sip of soup caressed her tongue, she sighed with contentment. “My name is Rebekah,” she said around her second spoonful.

  “I’m Martha,” the woman said. Her voice held a broad smile.

  Chapter 3

  The room was lovely. Tabitha could not deny this fact. Colorful tapestries adorned the walls, the canopied bed was soft, and the food was sumptuous. Anything she desired was at her command. Yet there was no door.

  Tabitha looked out the single window of her prison room. The ebony-inlaid window seat held plush cushions of astounding comfort, and bookshelves made from the same type of wood surrounded her. She crouched upon the cushions and gazed at the vista of rolling hills and abundant trees. An ideal place, this, a place to cherish. Then she heard it, the tap-tap of familiar footfalls. She turned from the window to gaze into the tall man’s wan face as he entered the room, seemingly appearing from nowhere. Tabitha trembled.

  “Was your supper to your liking?” The man’s cultured voice was so very soft. “I knew that you liked honey cake. I hope the other dishes were satisfactory as well.”

  Tabitha bowed her head. How could such a gentle voice frighten her so? The man’s handsome features were drawn with fatigue. His homespun shirt and trousers were wrinkled and worn. As on his other two visits, she was mesmerized yet repelled by him. “P-Please, sir,” she stammered. “Please let me go.”

  The man inclined his head. “You came to me, remember?” An almost pitying look flitted across his drawn features. “Since you refuse to tell me where your daughter is, I’m afraid you must remain here.” He raised his right hand in a supplicating gesture. She saw that his fingers were trembling. “I assure you that all of my visitors are treated like royalty. Tell me what you need.”

  Tabitha’s face crumpled. “You cannot give me what I need. I’ll die here,” she whispered. “Don’t you understand that?”

  The man shook his head. “Do you think I want you to die?” He frowned. “I am doing what I must. You will not die, but I’m afraid you will grow quite weak. Now, stand before the window seat with your back toward me.”

  Tabitha surveyed her prison. How had the man entered the room? What could she do to escape? For now, she must comply with his wishes. If she didn’t, he would force her to do so. Slowly, she turned to look out the window, trembling as she awaited his next action.

  The man smiled. “Good,” he said gently. He stepped toward her, his movements slow and deliberate. “You truly don’t know what a difference your sacrifice is making. Take comfort in knowing that you are performing a greater good.” He leaned closer, his breath smelling sweetly of peppermint. Tabitha’s stomach clenched. She had always loved peppermint candy. It had been one of her favorite treats growing up. Her father used to buy the candy from their local general store in delightful long sticks of red and white striped goodness. Now, she despised the smell.

  Her captor reached into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew an innocent-looking pair of scissors. “You drank the honey wine that came with your meal, did you not? You didn’t throw it away as you did last night?”

  Tabitha was surprised to hear concern in the man’s voice. How could someone determined to destroy her be so concerned for her comfort? She had indeed thrown the wine away the previous night. When she came to the man’s house, he had forced her to drink a sweetly cloying concoction that had thrust her into a heavy sleep. She had awakened to find herself in this prison. So, when he had presented a similar drink to her last night, she had resolved not to imbibe it. However, when he had cut her hair, the pain had been excruciating. Tonight, she had drunk the wine. At least this particular drink had not put her to sleep. “Yes,” she said wearily. “I drank it.”

  “Excellent. The wine will numb the pain.” He positioned the scissors at the nape of her neck. Snip! Snip! The merciless tools did their work, their hungry teeth gouging and devouring. Tabitha gasped, for the weakness took her in relentless hands. Her scalp tingled. At least this time it did not burn so horrendously. The honey wine must have contained a drug to help alleviate pain. Even so, she sank to the ground and fell into a deep sleep, for her strength was spent.

  The man bent over the unconscious norn. He held the lovely braid of golden hair in his trembling hands. This particular braid was thinner than the last, of course. Each sacrifice grew less effective. Soon the norn’s hair would not be worth cutting, and she would be so weak she would be of no further use. The man sighed. It simply meant he would have to find another sacrifice soon. The hair was vital. A rich scent emanated from the golden braid: the pungent scent of earth and sap. He lifted the norn and placed her upon the canopied bed, tucking the covers around her frail body. His every movement was one of gentle care. He abhorred touching her, but he couldn’t leave her huddled on the floor. He was a caregiver, after all. “I don’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered as he turned away. He simply needed what the norns could provide. The norn would sleep through the night and awaken in the morning. The scent of morning dew and the music of birds would revive her. Now to complete his night’s work. The man left the room and made his way down to the kitchen.

  The man had been fending for himself for ten years now. He knew what must be done. Carefully, he laid the braid upon a chopping block. With a knife, he sliced through the finely woven filaments. They broke apart with a peculiar crunching sound, and golden sap bathed the block in sunlight streams. The rich scent of earth grew stronger. This was not the hair of an ordinary type but hair from a nonhuman creature. It was, in actuality, a plant. On a norn’s head, hair appeared to be normal. When touched, it had the same consistency as human hai
r. But, once cut, a norn’s hair changed to the texture of tender lettuce. The lettuce was of a golden hue and had a peculiar taste; sharp but with a hint of maple sap. Norn’s hair was not supposed to be cut, for it was the source of their power to create new life. The man shuddered as he surveyed the hair splayed upon the chopping block. He thought of the days of his youth when he watched his father’s axe descend upon the hapless neck of a turkey and of the times he had been forced to perform the task himself.

  The man placed the chopped pieces of the braid within a pewter bowl, added thin slivers of cheese, a tomato slice and generous dollops of vinegar, garlic, and olive oil.

  The man peered down at his work with sorrow. “It will help her pain,” he murmured. “It must.” Then he trudged from the kitchen to a dimly-lit bedroom a few doors away. “Darling, I’ve brought you your salad,” he said.

  A wan-faced woman raised her head from the abundance of pillows on her canopied bed. Her heavily-veined hands trembled with eagerness, and her thin frame shook. “Thank you,” she whispered. The growth within her throbbed more than ever now. It clung to her innards like a barnacle.

  The first bite of golden salad was placed into the woman’s mouth. She sighed in relief as the pain shrank away. The sweet, crisp lettuce crunched between her teeth. The tomatoes burst upon her tongue in tart, but juicy deliciousness, and the vinegar, garlic and olive oil caressed her taste buds. The cheese was sharp but not overpowering. The woman sighed with contentment.

  At last, the salad was finished, and the woman fell back against the pillows with a contented sigh. The pain of her illness was gone for the time being. She smiled at her husband. “Egaphia bless you, Charles,” she said. “You’re so good to me. How do you always manage to find salad when I most need it?” A tear slid down her pale cheek.

  Charles bent and placed a tender kiss upon his wife’s cheek, his lips caressing the place where the tear lay. “I pay to obtain it,” he said softly. “I will do all that is necessary to keep you with me.” His voice was choked with pain. “Sleep now,” he said. “I’ll sit by your bed for a while. Do you want me to read to you?”

  The woman nodded. Charles retrieved a peppermint drop from a gilt-inlaid dish that sat upon his wife’s bedside table. He placed the candy into his mouth, allowing the sweetness to caress his tongue. The cleansing pungency of the sweet never took away his pain, but it reminded him of happier times. He remembered carefree days when he and his wife would sit together in companionable silence and read, her free from the burden of illness, he unfettered by the burden of caregiving.

  Charles selected a book from the shelf by his wife’s bed. “I’ll read a bit from the first chapter of Opeha,” he said. He scanned the page and began to read in a gentle voice.

  “And Egaphia surveyed all that he had made, and it was exceedingly fine. And he said to the man, ‘I have given all to you as a gift. The beasts of the earth, fowl of the air, and fish of the sea are yours as are all plants and the norns that make them. The norns are your brothers and sisters as well, created to share in my creation as are you. They shall bring me glory through their work. You shall treat the norns with respect. They will give you food for healing and strength. Do not defile them by taking their source of creation away. No blade is to be used on their heads, for they are set apart to perform great deeds and to bring healing to all the nations. They will hear my song and provide—’” Charles’s voice trailed away as guilt overcame him. He surveyed his wife’s peaceful face. “Sleep well, Angela,” he murmured. Then he bowed his head and wept.

  Chapter 4

  “You are certain of this?” Martha looked up from the papers in her hands.

  “Quite certain, madam,” the doctor said wearily. “Thank Egaphia we had not yet arrived at the station. Who knows how many could have fallen ill. Wickson is being placed under quarantine. Other places might soon follow as a precaution.”

  Martha bowed her head sadly. “We’ll travel home to Plumvale, I suppose.”

  The doctor nodded. “Travel the Howardson Passage route. It’s longer, but you’ll not pass by Wickson.”

  “Of course,” Martha said. “So, I can take her now?”

  “Yes.” The doctor collected the discharge papers, surveyed Martha’s signature on each one, and left the room. Martha sighed in relief.

  The bed linens rustled as Rebekah sat up. “What happened?” she whispered.

  “You’re leaving here today.” Martha tried to make her voice smile. She hoped the girl could not hear the tremor. “But you’ll need to stay with me a while, I’m afraid. The train station—”

  “What happened?” Rebekah asked. “Where’s Mother. Why hasn’t she come to get—” She gasped as a sudden memory surfaced, the memory of her mother’s doughy hands pushing her into a small, dark closet. She felt the bite of Mother’s coin purse as it was thrust into her hands. She heard the urgent whisper. “Stay there until you hear the birds singing at dawn. Then run. Run toward the north. You know the route well enough. We’ve practiced it many times. Remember that the train station is just two streets away. A bakery is beside it, and you’ll smell the cinnamon bread right before you reach the station. Buy a ticket to Wickson. I’ve sent a message to the norn settlement. Someone will meet you there.”

  Rebekah swallowed nervously. She knew how Mother had sent the message. All norn’s were able to communicate through song, music traveling from one norn to another just through thought. But, she heard no music from this woman, which meant she wasn’t a norn. Could Martha be trusted? What choice did she have? “What happened in the train? Where will you take me?” Rebekah asked.

  Martha sighed and sank onto the chair by the bed. “I don’t know all that happened,” she said gently. “But the train was derailed. Sickness occurred at Wickson Station as I told you. Wickson has been placed under quarantine as a precaution. I’ve heard talk in the hospital corridors, and the only newspaper I’ve seen is speculating that it’s the Bind Weed Plague. You’ve heard of it?”

  Rebekah shuddered. “Yes,” she said sadly. “It’s worse than any poison. My mother and I—” She quickly closed her mouth. It wouldn’t do to say that. She had to keep her mother’s secret.

  “You and your mother tried to help people who were stricken, is that what you were going to say?” Martha’s voice shook.

  Rebekah gasped. “You know what I am,” she said. “You found the Leaf Mark.”

  Rebekah remembered standing with Mother on an acrid-scented hill outside a town. The place had reeked of sorrow. The aldermen of the town had contacted Mother, offering to pay her to help the plague-ravaged people. Mother had agreed to try and had refused payment. Rebekah and Mother had stood with linked arms and had sung, feeling the surge of creation flow through them like a summer storm. They had left the hillside covered in abundant plants of beauty which could be used to make medicine to alleviate pains and soothe symptoms. “But, these plants will not cure Bind Weed Plague outright,” Mother had warned the townspeople. “Given time, perhaps we can find a cure, but—”

  Rebekah remembered how angry the townspeople had been and how they had turned her and Mother away with scorn. Norns were often misunderstood and ridiculed, so they often lived as quietly as possible, helping in ways that would not attract unwanted attention. There were even norn settlements for those who wished to live separately from humans.

  Now, it seemed as if the Bind Weed Plague had struck once more. People would seek healing and would cause pain to the norns.

  “You know I’m a norn,” Rebekah whispered.

  “Yes,” Martha said.

  Rebekah thrust the covers from her. “Y-You have to let me go. Please. I’ll give you all the money I have. Just please don’t tell anyone. He’ll find me, and—”

  “What do you intend to do? Wander through the streets with no destination in mind? Come now. I’ll take you to my home in Plumvale until we can discover some answers. You’ll be quite safe.”

  “But, Mother—”

  �
�I will be your mother now. Do you understand? If we meet strangers or people in authority, you must tell them that your name is Laura. If they do not ask you a question directly, then you need not talk to them.”

  Rebekah’s heart plummeted. The norn settlement was in Wickson, and Wickson was under quarantine. She had no idea where Charles lived, so how could she find Mother on her own? “You can’t just take me away, and—”

  “These are desperate times,” Martha said harshly. “You know what happened to your mother, don’t you? Charles took her, didn’t he?”

  Rebekah flinched as if she’d been struck. “N-No,” she stammered. “He didn’t take her. She went to him. I just keep hoping that maybe she changed her mind. What if she’s back at our house? And, how do you know Charles’s name?”

  Martha felt the lump rise in her throat. Laura had not been so fortunate as Rebekah. If only Martha had gone in her daughter’s place! But she was not the person Charles had sought. “Your mother is a norn as well?” Martha asked softly.

  Rebekah nodded. “He came to our house,” she whispered. “He asked to see our hair. Mine was what he truly wanted. Mother pleaded with him to wait one more day. She said she wanted to have one more night with me. He agreed. When he left, he said he’d return to fetch me the next day. Mother hid me in a closet and told me to stay there until the next morning. I knew that she was leaving, that she was going to Charles’s house. She went because of me.” Her voice broke, and she began to weep.

  Martha blinked tears from her own eyes. She stood and approached the bed. She gently wiped Rebekah’s tears away. “She went because she loves you. I know,” she said softly. “You feel as if a hole has been bored into your soul, don’t you?”

  Rebekah nodded.

  “I know his name because Charles took my daughter away,” Martha said. “Her name was Laura. Come with me,” Martha pleaded. “At least until we can determine what to do.”