Something hard banged into Birch’s ribs, jolting him awake.
“Time to get up!” Old Rush withdrew his boot. “We need to talk. I’ll be out front. Don’t dawdle.” The stablemaster walked out of the stall.
Birch sat up, brushed straw from his hair, and straightened his tunic. He got to his feet and headed over to the water barrels at the back of the building. He opened the hinged lid, cupped some water in his hands, slurped some down, then splashed the rest over his face.
His stomach rumbled, but he’d have to get breakfast later. It was never wise to keep Old Rush waiting.
He hurried out of the stable’s main door and found his master sitting on the bench at the top of the field.
“Take a seat, boy.”
Birch sat down at the other end of the bench.
“I’ve heard what happened to you at the Marking Ceremony. You're one of the Markless. I can only guess at how disappointed you must be.” Old Rush locked eyes with him. “But you must try and let go of those feelings. You must abide by the judgment. The Sacred Oak has selected your path. It might not be the one you would have chosen for yourself, but that matters little. For better or worse, your fate has been decided.”
Birch nodded. “I know that.”
“Good. I got told this morning that you will continue to work for me.” Old Rush paused as if to give Birch a chance to absorb his words. “After lunch, I want you to take the pigs up to Honeysuckle Wood.”
“And this morning?”
“This morning you are to meet with a man called Buckthorn. He is an interpreter from Ravenhurst.”
Birch couldn’t tell from Old Rush’s face how much he knew.
“What is it about?”
“He didn’t say much. Apparently, this year’s Green Man has asked him to check on your hand.
He said the Sacred Oak didn’t mark you cleanly.”
Birch pulled up his sleeve and showed Old Rush his angry-looking wound.
The man winced.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not as bad as yesterday.”
“Have you met this Buckthorn before?”
Birch shook his head.
A panel appeared.
Lying +0.01
Birch stifled a laugh and allowed the panel to slip away.
“What’s the matter?” Old Rush frowned. “What were you just looking at?”
“I thought I saw something at the end of the field.”
The panel returned.
Lying +0.01
Old Rush scanned his eyes over the field’s boundary.
“There’s nothing there.” He turned back to Birch. “Listen. Go and see this Buckthorn. Get it over with. And after lunch, we will get you back to work. We’ll get a routine going, and before you know it, you’ll have forgotten your disappointment.”
Birch nodded. It was going to take more than a bit of work to stop him dwelling on the Green Man’s decision. He stood up from the bench.
“Where can I find Buckthorn?”
“He’s staying at the Frog and Fly. I’ll expect you back before midday. Do not be late.”
*****
Birch had never been inside the Frog and Fly Inn before but he knew that it was located on one of the paths leading onto Eldergrove’s marketplace. As a child, he’d often stared up at the faded wooden sign hanging above its door. Once, it must’ve shown a bright green frog sitting on a lilypad, its pink tongue extending from its mouth and ensnaring a plump bluebottle fly, but now, apart from at the very edges, the sign’s colors were more muted, faded by the sun and the rain.
The inn’s door was ajar. Birch pushed it open and stepped across the threshold. It was dark inside, and the smell of stale ale and woodsmoke filled his nose. He blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust. A short bar area had been constructed along the back wall, and a half-dozen or so tables were set out in the space in front of it, filling almost the whole room. A middle-aged man was behind the bar. Birch recognized him as the owner of the inn. Wort or Bort or something like that.
“The interpreter is expecting you.” The innkeeper nodded to an archway on the back wall next to the bar. “Upstairs and to the right.”
“Thank you.”
Birch headed up the rickety wooden staircase. At the top, there were only two doors leading off the landing. One to the right and one to the left. Birch followed the innkeeper’s instructions and knocked on the right-hand door.
“Come in.”
Birch turned the handle and entered. Unlike the room downstairs, this one was filled with light. A window opposite the door had been unshuttered, and a gentle breeze was lifting the corners of sheets of parchment stacked on a desk pushed up against the wall to Birch’s left. A bed and a small traveling chest were the only other pieces of furniture apart from a comfortable-looking chair that Buckthorn was currently sitting in over by the window.
“Thank you for coming. I didn’t know whether you would.” Buckthorn stood up and gestured to the door. “Close that, please. Creates a bit of a through-draft.”
Birch shut the door.
“Now, let’s have another look at that hand, shall we?” Buckthorn opened the chest and pulled out a leather pouch, and from that, he took out a smaller cloth bag. “Sit down over by the window. I just need to fetch a few other bits and pieces.”
Birch plonked himself down in the chair. The window looked out over the lane running behind the inn. Sheds, barns, and workshops, mostly used by the village blacksmiths, lined the route, but up the hill, at the other end of the street, not visible from here, were the healers’ buildings. No doubt Molly would be there now, studying the ingredients to some tincture or remedy, or perhaps she’d be learning how to splint a broken bone.
“Right. Let’s take a look.”
Buckthorn grasped Birch’s hand and rested it on one of the chair’s arms. He laid a cord across Birch’s wound. The cord was covered in tiny lines spread out evenly from one end to the other. Buckthorn was taking measurements. He repositioned the cord several times more and then picked up the same book that Birch had seen him with at the boulders, and a quill, and he started to scribble down some notes.
“Surprisingly, it looks to be healing well. I’ll put some ointment on it, but apart from that, there’s nothing to do. I don’t think it will need to be covered. Just be sure to wash it as soon as you can after it’s become dirty. And, whatever you do, please try not to pick at it.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“That was quick,” Birch said. “Old Rush said I’m not due back until just before lunch.”
Buckthorn smiled. “Although it did need to be done, treating your hand was just a pretense. I was really looking for an opportunity to talk to you.”
“Why? What about? I don’t understand.”
“I think you do, and I don’t think you were entirely honest with me when we last met.” Buckthorn fixed him with a stare. “I asked you whether you’d experienced any changes since the ceremony, anything different. You told me you hadn’t. Was that the truth?”
“Why are you so interested in me? I’m just one of the Markless. I mean nothing to someone like you.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Buckthorn said. “If you answer mine, I will answer yours.”
Birch paused, trying to weigh his options. What did he have to lose? If he told Buckthorn about the panels and the interpreter didn’t believe him, what did it matter? He was Markless. Surely, things couldn’t get any worse.
“No, it wasn’t the truth,” he said. “I haven’t told you everything.”
“Ha! I knew it.” The old man’s eyes shined, and he placed his book and quill down on the desk. “Get up. Take a seat on the bed. My legs aren’t as young as they used to be.” As soon as Birch stood up, Buckthorn took his place in the chair. Birch perched himself on the edge of the bed, facing the old man.
“Start from the moment you placed your hand into the Sacred Oak.”
Birch recounted his story. He detailed the pain he’d experienced and then he spoke about how the panels had appeared and the attempts he’d made to control them.
Buckthorn listened intently. At various times, Birch got the impression that questions had occurred to the old man. But he didn’t voice them, and soon Birch had made it to the end.
“And then Old Rush told me to meet you here,” Birch concluded.
Buckthorn let out a breath. “That’s quite a tale.”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. That’s why I didn’t tell you at first. That’s why I haven’t told anybody.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. I just meant that a lot has happened to you in such a short space of time.” He steepled his hands. “I have many questions, as I’m sure you can imagine, but let me start with this one. How do you know what is written on the panels?”
Birch frowned. “I read the words.”
“And when did you learn to do that? What I mean is, and don’t take this the wrong way, why does someone like you need that skill? Back in Ravenhurst, only those who can afford tutors are taught to read and write before they come of age.”
“Well then I suppose it’s lucky for me that I wasn’t born in your village. In Eldergrove, every child learns their letters and numbers. It is compulsory.”
“Very interesting. I have lots of questions about this too, but we mustn’t allow ourselves to be led astray.” He stroked his beard. “Now tell me more about the points you received as rewards. Have they only ever been in steps of +0.01? You’ve never received a +0.02 or a +0.03?”
“So far, it’s only ever been +0.01.”
“And you’ve only received them for four different skills. Throwing, lying, reasoning, and controlling the panels themselves?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you get the feeling that you could be rewarded for other skills?”
Birch shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think there’s probably more to come, it’s just that I haven’t found them yet.”
“What about walking? You walked here, didn’t you? Were you given a reward for that?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
Buckthorn’s brow furrowed. “I wonder whether it’s graded. You’ve been walking nearly your whole life. If you could see it, I would guess that your total score for walking is greater than your score for throwing stones or lying. You’d probably have to do more than just successfully walk into the village in order to earn a walking reward. Or, to put it another way, as you get more experienced at something, you have to do something more challenging to earn a +0.01. What do you think?”
Birch worked it through in his mind. It was certainly plausible. He nodded.
“We shall have to do some tests,” Buckthorn said, “to see if we can establish some more of the rules and parameters. I get the feeling we are only scratching the surface of the gift you have been given.”
“A gift? I’d hardly call it that. The Sacred Oak just went wrong somehow. I don’t think it meant to do this to me.”
“I have witnessed hundreds of children go through the Marking Ceremony, and I have studied thousands of other marks. Never once have I seen a mark that even remotely resembled the one you were given. And never once have I heard of the Sacred Oak malfunctioning. This was definitely meant to happen. And this answers the question you asked me earlier. I am interested in you because you have received a unique mark. The Sacred Oak doesn’t make mistakes. It doesn’t get things wrong. You were given your mark for a reason, and I want to help you discover what that reason is.”
“So you don’t think I am one of the Markless?”
“I am not prepared to give you my interpretation right now. I need to collect more information, and I need more time to think.” Buckthorn eased himself up. “I will call for you again, but in the meantime, you must act as if nothing has changed. Serve Old Rush as well as you can, and stay out of trouble. Keep trying to discover more about the panels, but do not mention them to anyone else. Let’s keep this between us. At least until we know exactly what’s going on.”
Birch stood up.
“Here.” Buckthorn reached into his bag and pulled out a glass vial containing a thick light-blue liquid. “Take this. Rub it onto your wound in the morning and just before you go to bed.”
Birch thanked Buckthorn, tucked the vial into the pocket sewn into the front of his tunic, and made his way out of the Frog and Fly and back out onto the path.
A group of people headed toward him from the far end of the village. They wore long black robes. Vetch, along with several other apprentices. Birch turned around, looked down at the ground, and tried to slip away unnoticed.
“Birch? Is that you?” The group stopped and Vetch stepped forward. “I thought I could detect the smell of pig shit. Or maybe it’s the smell of the Markless. Either way, it’s a disgusting stench that we could do without around here.”
Birch turned to face him. There was no point in trying to argue with him, or in running away. Better to just stay where he was and take it until Vetch got bored.
“Tell me,” Vetch continued, “what is someone like you doing in this part of the village? Surely there are some very important tasks waiting for you back in the pig field. The dung isn’t going to move itself.”
Birch didn’t reply.
“But before you go,” Vetch said, “perhaps you can show us your mark. I hear the Sacred Oak was so revolted by the taste of your skin that it decided to burn you.” He grasped Birch’s arm and held it up to show it to his companions. “It truly is as foul as people say. You’re not just one of the Markless, you are the worst of them. You couldn’t even manage to go through the Marking Ceremony without doing it wrong.”
Birch chewed his lip. He wanted to respond. To tell Vetch that his mark was unique and that he might not actually be one of the Markless after all.. But it would be pointless without evidence and would just give the boy something else to tease him about.
Thrusting his hand into his tunic pocket, Birch touched the vial he’d stowed a few moments earlier.
“That’s it, hide your hand. At least that way, the rest of us won’t have to look at it.” Vetch shoved him on the shoulder. Birch took a step back. “Now take your disgusting mark, and your foul stench back to where you belong.”
Birch turned around and started to walk back up the hill toward the stables. He could hear Vetch laughing with the other robed apprentices, but he didn’t stop.
“Oh, Birch. There’s something else I must tell you.” Vetch raised his voice. “I spoke to Holly earlier today. She told me she was glad you were now one of the Markless as it meant she wouldn’t have to spend any more time with you. She’s been trying to find a way to tell you for weeks. I imagine she thinks the same of you as I do. She never liked you. She just felt sorry for you. And now finally she can be free of you.” He paused as if to give his words time to sink in. “You are worthless. You add nothing to Eldergrove.”
Vetch was lying, Birch was sure of it. The boy hadn’t spoken to Holly this morning. But he was right that things would never be the same between him and her. Even if she was too polite to voice her thoughts, their relationship was bound to change. It would do her no good to be seen with someone like him.
He gripped the vial tighter and imagined Vetch talking to Holly. A smirk twisted the future reeve’s mouth and he seemed to look directly at Birch as he touched her cheek. Then he leaned in and kissed her. And, for some reason, Holly seemed to be kissing him back.
Birch’s heart beat faster, and he spun around to face Vetch. The boy was now facing away from him and he was starting to walk down the path.
The vial was about the same weight as one of the stones he’d been throwing yesterday. Birch stared at the back of Vetch’s head, took a steadying breath, cocked back his arm, and released.
The vial glinted in the sun as it sailed through the air. He tracked its path, and just before it struck the target, he called out.
“Vetch!”
The boy whirled around. For half a heartbeat, Birch locked eyes with him. Then the vial struck Vetch in the middle of his nose. He shrieked and reached up to his face. Blood streamed from his nose. Birch couldn’t tell if it was coming from his nostrils or whether the broken glass had cut into Vetch’s flesh. Perhaps it was a combination of the two.
“Don’t just stand there!” Vetch spat out a gob of bloody phlegm onto the path. “Go and get him. And someone go and find the constable.” He glowered at Birch. “He won’t get away with this.”
A panel appeared in front of Birch.
Throwing skill +0.02