—WILBUR—

Wilbur woke and immediately went to the monastic granges and cloistered garth to scoop samples of each soil. Under the microscope, he saw the compounds needed to bring it back to life. Temporarily, anyway. The influence of the miasma was stripping away its nutrients so that the crops grew weak. Add to that the miasma hovering in the air, turning the crops grey and brittle. But Wilbur knew what must be done to fix them. It’s just like his medicines; it’s a puzzle he needed to solve and he was already finding some of the pieces that would fit.

Wilbur packed his satchels, tucking his small sharp knives into a folded burlap sack. The opportunity hadn’t presented itself before, but now that it had, in the form of a burial site in the Village of Grant, well… Wilbur hoped that cutting open several corpses would prove fruitful. He also wished to see young Tatum Worthe, the little boy whose death-chill he healed.

Wilbur went up the passageway and into the nave to look for Woodrow in the granges when he saw the redhead with Ryne, sitting on the front steps of the church.

“You miss Claude and you’re worried why he hasn’t come back,” Woodrow stated matter-of-factly. “I see you sulking for some nights now.”

Wilbur crept behind the statue of Saint Gaelmar, out of their sight. The direwolf pup, Ember, leaned her fluffy head on Ryne’s thigh, tail still on the floor.

Ryne’s shoulders fell. “I’m worried that the terror has sunk. I’m afraid that he ha realize how awful it is to be in my company.” Ember whined. “Not that I blame you,” Ryne said as he scratched behind her ears.

Woorow’s tone was patient. “He’s a farmer, Ryne. He has many responsibilities. Agate and Harlan have just told me that this is the usual harvest season. He’s probably busy storing their grains and helping with their endless house chores, on top of taking care of his mother and little sister in a bleak world. He’s the only one they can depend on.”

Ryne leaned his head back. “You’re right. He’s probably busy.” He chuckled. “If only I knew exactly how to help him.” A moment longer, he added, “It seems selfish now that I think about it.”

“It’s not selfish. You just miss your friend. Cheer up. I sensed Claude enough to know that he misses you too.” Woodrow said. Then he pushed Ryne’s head a little, teasing him. “Besides, you don’t exactly look good yourself. All those prayers and blessings are taking a toll on you. Me and Wilbur are worried.”

“I’m fine, Woodrow. Thank you. Besides, I like to feel useful. And even though you’ll say that whatever we did back at the past monasteries was of service to Blake, you still helped a lot of people. It’s my time to give back.”

“Ryne,” Woodrow said firmly, “We are grown men stuck in our prime. You, on the other hand, are stuck as a child. Barely reaching the age where the voice cracks and deepens." Woodrow pinched his arms. "Even though you're thin, you still have the plumpness of infancy.” He scoffed. “I hope Saint Gaelmar knows that.” He called as if the Saint was really listening to him.

Wilbur looked up at the stone face above him. The eyes looked blankly at the floor. “I have the same sentiments.”

Ryne yawned and Woodrow bid him goodnight. Wilbur thought he heard Agata and Harlan call his two brothers, but Woodrow waved apologetically and retreated inside the dark nave. He and Wilbur locked eyes. Woodrow looked down at his satchels.

“This evening, when the villagers are asleep,” Wilbur said, reminding Woodrow of the plan. He motioned to the granges. “I notice you’re not spending much time with your new friends.”

Woodrow’s tone was level. “I’m not sure I can control myself around them, Wilbur.”

Wilbur understood. He said, “I think I may have a solution. Remember Fairstep Monastery?”

Woodrow’s face scrunched up. “How could I forget?”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur remembered the feast; how Woodrow's red hair glowed more brilliant than the great flame roaring behind him, how his siren-like call made the villagers forget themselves and the men and women of Fairstep followed the passion hidden in their hearts. They thought it a successful event. But then came the aftermath of the feast; how the people turned into mindless husks slashing the air with their scythes.

Wilbur went on. “I meant the solution we did back then. We must collect the blood of the healthy, without the need to use your powers directly to charm them. That is how we’re going to feed ourselves now. Yes, I will tell Ryne. Of course. Nothing goes in Rothfield monastery that he won’t know about, since he is technically the one who runs this place.”

“He’s so tired,” Woodrow agreed, looking back at Ryne's figure.

“If we’re successful tonight, we can help him recover and save more of his strength in the coming days.”

“How? He doesn’t drink blood. His powers don’t come from the same source.”

Wilbur pointed to the old toolshed. “Grab two shovels. We’re going to the village of Grant, the place where the vines took me. It's a dying village. You will help me dig up bodies and harvest their organs. Particularly the heart and liver.”

Woodrow stared at him. Wilbur could hear the questions racing around his head. But Woodrow settled on just one. “Why?”

Wilbur told him about his theory. “The soil is affected by the miasma. Some sacred parts of Rothfiel still managed to survive, but most have been long dead or dormant. And even though he's awoken, Saint Gaelmar’s influence isn’t strong enough to sustain it and needs Ryne, a small boy who has very limited energy. We need to nourish the soil with the thing it will not reject. Miasma. Particularly, the heart and the liver of the people who died under the grip of miasma-induced sickness.”

“Why the heart and liver?”

“Because it’s the most potent organ of the human body. And their properties seem to fit what the black soil of Rothfield monastery needs.”

___

Woodrow and Wilbur shadowstepped into the night, away from the villagers and their night patrol. Wilbur admired the clearing Harlan and his men made and the few wooden huts that Agate and her team built.

Woodrow saw him staring. “Their builders insisted on constructing an elder’s cottage first, but Harlan and Agate insisted in return that the elder’s house be a communal shelter for the children and women until more huts were built.”

They reached the border of the dark forest. This was the part that Wilbur wasn’t sure would work. The vines only ever listened to Ryne. Otherwise, the dark forest had a mind of its own. Wilbur whispered to it just as Ryne did.

“We require assistance. Take us to the village of Grant.”

The vines heard him. The ground rumbled, not enough to stir suspicion from the night patrol, their torches in the distance. The thick plants grabbed them by their waists gently and carried them through the underground tunnels. The vines slithered back after dropping them on the area where they first placed Wilbur, waiting for their mission to end.

Woodrow surveyed the scene. His eyes scanned the dilapidated huts. “Kent was a lot nicer.”

Everything was quiet. There was not a whiff of life in the place, not a faint light that should be coming from the communal fire. Wilbur went to the house where little Tatum was. He called him, but no one answered. No head appeared in the small window of his hut. The entire village was abandoned.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Woodrow placed a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder. “I don’t sense a living soul anywhere.”

Wilbur sighed, thinking of Tatum. It suddenly struck him that maybe the Shivermaiden I didn’t work after all, and it terrified Wilbur that he may dig up Tatum on the soil. But he put such thoughts to the back of his mind. He would deal with it when he saw him below the ground. He would not harvest his organs. Wilbur would bury him in Rothfield.

“There was a woman there,’ Wilbur said, pointing to the visible mound that was their hurried gravesite. “She wailed as if she was pushing out all the air inside of her. Letus not touch the body she mourned over. I know the place to avoid.”

They walked down the hill and silently removed the Saints’ marks on their graves. Wilbur brought his shovel down and began to dig until he hit wood. He opened the casket and saw the corpse. He sliced the chest and noticed Woodrow continue digging elsewhere. He collected the ingredients he needed and closed the casket whispering, “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

Woodrow asked, “Why is it again that we need shovels when we can dig faster with our bare hands?”

Wilbur pointed to the ground. “It’s not exactly dry earth, is it? The ground feels like mud. If you want to ruin your clothes badly, then be my guest.” Wilbur looked at his brother. Woodrow was blanching. “And this from the speedy soldier who’s efficient in dealing death blows.”

“It’s different when they’re alive.”

“Just think that we need them for Rothfield, and for Ryne. At least they’re contributing to the greater good, and I’m sure they won’t mind.” Wilbur stowed the heart in the thick burlap sack in his satchel.

They continued well into the night, grunting with effort. The burlap sack where he stowed the organs grew heavy. Once, Woodrow stopped and shook his head, burying the coffin again. “Young,” he simply said. When Wilbur encountered his own small coffin, he murmured a prayer like Ryne would have done.

Woodrow wiped the thick, undrinkable, unsavory blood from his hands on the mud, making a face. “You have a stronger stomach than I. Please tell me you have enough hearts and livers.”

“It’ll do for now,” Wilbur said weighing the sack. It looked like Brother Swithin’s catch after a hunt.

“What happens if you run out of organs?”

Wilbur looked at him. “I don’t think we’ll be running out of organs anytime soon.”

Woodrow grimaced. His eyes wandered over the mound. “Poor shmucks. To have died because you hadn’t yet invented your potions. He helped Wilbur up. “You’re right, though. What we can do is to move forward.”

They returned to Rothfield, Wilbur pressing the burlap sack close to his chest. It was handy that the fabric was thick enough to not let the blood seep out. He went straight to the dungeons and was dismayed that Ryne was still awake, haunting the cloister garth. Woodrow blocked the sack behind him.

Ryne pointed to the everbane. “You harvested it? What did it look like?”

“I have a sketch in my journal. I’ll show you later,” Wilbur said. Ember was coming towards them, nose up in the air. He had to push her away gently with his boot. “Why are you still up?”

“I can’t sleep. I decided to walk around and something just told me to look at the moon under this oak tree. I thought I’d look for you but both of you were gone.”

They all looked at the oak tree with the symmetric branches, resembling the antlers of a stag.

Under the moonbeams, Ryne glowed. He closed his eyes and walked to the parts of the monastery that were still covered in thick brambles; the areas they didn't have access to. Wilbur and Woodrow followed him. These brambles and forest vines were thicker than the ones they encountered in the dark forest, wound tighter with thorns as thick and as tall as Ryne. Wilbur had been afraid the first night they arrived in Rothfield that the thorns would suddenly shoot out if he came too close. Ryne placed both of his palms on the surface of the brambles and said, “Reveal.”

The glow from his heart passed through his arms and into the sinister-looking cage. They glowed and cracked like frozen arms. Dust flew as they moved, slithering slowly back to the ground. The moonlight cast its faint beams on a structure hiding behind the brambles that Wilbur and Ryne instantly recognized.

“An infirmary…” Ryne whispered.

Rothfield Infirmary had two marble columns before the entrance. Wilbur checked the brick walls of the infirmary. They looked old but stable enough as he pushed hard. The air surrounding it was thick with the smell of forest. Ryne led the way, touching the marble columns as he entered.

There were already cots inside the infirmary; five beds on each side and a sturdy long table at the head of the infirmary, raised on a platform. The long desk had two candles on each edge, almost waiting for Ryne to light them. He placed one finger on the wick and gave it life. As soon as he did, the other candle lighted itself along with the torches on the walls. Dries leaves curled on the cots, but they looked comfortable enough. Nothing a little laundering won’t fix.

“Sit down, Wilbur,” Ryne said. He pointed to the chair facing the cots.

“Are you sure?”

Ryne wiped the dust and leaves off the chair and performed a gesture for Wilbur to sit. The flames sputtered immediately as he did, welcoming the new healer of Rothfield. Wilbur gripped the burlap sack tighter.

“There’s a door here with a lock,” Woodrow said.

Wilbur spotted a shelf under the table. A single key rattled when he pulled it open. He put it carefully on the metal lock of the wooden door and pushed. There was another more spacious room behind the infirmary proper. A large ornate table made of both stone and hardwood lay waiting at the center of this room. When Ryne touched its surface, the torches that were bolted around these walls roared to life.

It was supposed to be his new lab, Wilbur just knew.

The dark brothers pointed at the new things inside. There was a small window to let in a slant of moonlight. It fell perfectly on the lab table. They found several empty barrels stacked on the corner. Willbur was already thinking of its uses. One could be filled with water from the stream. One would be filled with other such liquids. Maybe one could be filled with salt to preserve the unsightly things in his burlap sack. Woodrow almost tripped on a section of the floor used to carry fluid out of the lab and out into the dark forest.

“No fair, when’s it my turn?” Woodrow asked as he looked around the lab.

Ryne chuckled and then he yawned. “Well, now we know why I stayed awake for so long. I think I shall retire for the night. Have fun, brothers.” He called Ember but stopped short as he passed Wilbur. “You smell… odd,” Ryne said. He looked up at them, Wilbur betraying no expression and Woodrow smelling his cloak for show. They both hid their hands under their cloaks. He shrugged. The pup looked at them suspiciously and barked once before following Ryne outside. Wilbur wanted no secrets but now was not the time. He would tell Ryne after.

Wilbur and Woodrow collected his lab equipment from the sarcophagus and placed them on the large stone-wooden table. They carried buckets of water from the stream to fill one barrel.

“It’s just what you need,” Woodrow whispered when he was about to leave.

Wilbur clapped Woodrow’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. It was uncharacteristic of him, that they both looked at his hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Anytime.” Woodrow smiled at Wilbur. “Now get on experimenting so you can help me cook for the people out there.”

Wilbur did not waste another moment. He placed the carved heart on the surface of the table and began to cut it with his many small knives. When the pieces were manageable enough, he added them into the bottle with the soil used for crops. He placed that large glass bottle on top of the flame, waiting for a reaction. Sparks jumped from the bottle’s opening. He watched them turn yellow, then, green, then, blue, then black again. Wilbur grabbed his microscope and inspected the soil. He sucked in a triumphant breath. The corrupted soil accepted the corrupted heart. But there was one more thing to do.

He added clean water to the mixture until it bubbled. Slowly, the black color turned into dark copper. Wilbur smiled at it as he held the bottle under the moonlight. “This is it… this is it!”

He ran to the granges and poured the mixture–no, the fertilizer–into the first area of crops; the part where Claude and Ryne planted the rye and barley. Wilbur only had to add the glowing fertilizer to the soil a few drops to make it fertile. He saw under the microscope that the miasma soil accepted the nutrients.

Wilbur felt he wanted to jump in the air. He returned to his infirmary lab and did the same procedure with the liver and the garden soil, the color more like russet than copper. The garden soil accepted it nonetheless. He would still need ores to wake the flowers, but at least Ryne did not have to expend his energy there.

He hastily scribbled down his findings. Woodrow was right. This was crucial information.

Managed to make a new type of fertilizer that would keep the lively quality of both crop soil from the granges and garden soil from the cloistered garth for a while. Need further testing to check how many drops to use per day.

I suppose I shall have to name them now.

For the monastery granges, I shall call it, “Hartfert I”. I included the first version because there may be more versions of this as we progress.

As for the cloister garth, I shall call it “Verfert I”.

We still need to harvest ores from the mountains to keep the flowers blooming. But suffice it to say, this will definitely help the monastery. This would immensely help Ryne.