11

Visitors

As Peter rode he saw neither trees nor snow, but instead a glorious vision of Sofia. The girl was arrogant for sure, but all he could see were the rich tresses of her hair, her welcoming brown eyes and dark skin. With a wrench he shook himself, and tried to push Agnes back into Sofia’s place. He found Sofia floating into his mind again, and started to work on the image, lightening and shortening the hair, turning the brown eyes gray. Finally he watched as the brown skin grew paler, paler, paler. There, that was Agnes.

But no! He watched in horror, transfixed as Agnes’s skin took on an evil whiteness, the whiteness of death, and became impossibly wrinkled and old. Her lips shriveled, her nose became pointed and thin, her hair grew lank and noisome. Her eyes flattened and widened, darkening and disappearing in shadow.

Shadow.

“No!” Peter cried into the air, then snatched himself away from the grotesque vision.

 

He let Sultan slow to a walk once Sofia was out of earshot. They followed the bank of the river Chust out to the hut. But Sultan was uneasy. He sensed something up ahead and now stopped completely.

For a while Peter urged him to walk on, and they managed to go a few more steps. Then once again Sultan stopped, this time for good.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Peter whispered, his attention divided between the horse and whatever might be up ahead that was bothering him.

Sultan made no noise, but merely stood as still as any horse can.

“Well, you’ll have to stay here.”

Knowing what Tomas would say about leaving their most expensive possession alone in the forest in the night, he reluctantly tied Sultan’s reins to a sturdy birch.

Peter turned around and all there was to see were the shadows of the night forest. Trees stretched off into the distance in every direction, becoming gray ghosts and then no more than suggestions of ghosts. In the gloom the river chugged softly somewhere away to his right, but there was just enough starlight to make his way, so he started off toward the hut.

As he went, Sultan gave one final snort, then was silent.

Peter knew Sultan well, knew that he was trustworthy, not the sort of horse that spooked easily. Sultan’s refusal to go any closer to the hut was a sign that something was wrong. Peter slowed his walk to a crawl as he stepped as gently as he could along the riverbank, and was glad at least for the sound of the water rushing, hiding his quiet footfall.

There was the hut in front of him, across the log bridge. At first sight nothing seemed to be amiss, but Peter’s heart froze as he made out the shapes of not one but two horses on the bank, just beyond the bridge. The horses were tethered, and alone.

He stared through the pricking darkness at the hut, but could see nothing, could hear nothing but the water. There was light coming from inside, flickering slightly, as if people were moving around.

Something was wrong. No one ever came to see them, certainly not late at night. He put a foot on the bridge, eyeing the horses as he did so. He didn’t recognize them, but he noticed that strangely they bore no saddles. He turned his attention back to crossing the bridge without making a sound. He succeeded and stole a few hurried paces across the island to the hut, but instead of opening the door and walking straight in as he usually would, he slid close to the wall, crouching nervously beneath the shuttered window.

He could hear voices.

He raised himself on his knees, bringing his ear as close to the window as he dared. He knew that he could not be seen from inside, but still something made him desperate to keep hidden.

Now he could make out words.

“…you have no choice…”

A muffled reply. Peter knew it was his father’s voice, but the words were not clear.

“Once, you would have spoken differently.”

“You cannot refuse. There is no choice. The Shadow Queen has taken your choice away.”

The Shadow Queen. Who was his father talking to in there? Now several voices all spoke at once, urgently.

“…the Shadow Queen is coming.”

“…more hostages.”

“…where is it, Tomas?”

“I don’t have it.”

“You will agree. You have to understand that.”

“No!”

His father again, shouting this time.

There was silence for a short time, then quieter voices, indistinct but insistent nonetheless.

Peter was about to risk moving closer, when the door flew open on the far side of the hut. He dropped to the ground and crawled to the corner by Sultan’s stable. Between the cracks in the planks of the stable, he saw four figures leaving, then crossing the bridge.

The light from the open door shone across the island and the bridge. Its glow was enough for Peter to see the identity of the visitors.

The Gypsies who had been with Sofia in the village.