---WILBUR---

Wilbur dropped his journal as the vines seized him. He had one last look at Ryne’s open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression and of Rothfield monastery before he was swallowed into the earth like how a reptile captures its food down into its belly. The pure scent of earth assaulted his senses, but as he was being transported through this tunnel, Wilbur thought that these vines were careful with him, unlike the first time when sharp rocks and roots scratched his face and arms and neck. He just noticed as well that instead of briars, smooth vines were now sent to whatever the dark forest’s master was.

Wilbur was spat out not long after. The vines pointed in a direction before it sunk into the earth. Wilbur assumed that they would be waiting until whatever he had to do here was done.

Where is here? Woodrow was nowhere to be found. He must have been taken to another path, he guessed.

Wilbur turned to the direction the vines had pointed to and saw small huts made of mud with thatched roofs scattered nearby not far from where he was. From within the village was a glowing red; a communal fire at the center field, perhaps. Wilbur thought he was spat out in a clearing, but it was another area where the dark forest’s edge met a village. Wilbur reacted instinctively, falling back to the trees and allowing the shadow to conceal him.

Wilbur thought the dark forest was out to get them after all. His first thought as he hugged the trees was that the vines separated them so they were easier to deal with. But no, it did not make sense. So, Wilbur observed the village from afar and observed the shadows of men and women shuffling out from the glowing fire. He noticed how gaunt they were, how they coughed and spat and moaned. Then, he heard the wailing. Off to the side of the village was a burial ground, marked with the sign of the saints. A man was digging; near him was a fresh mound. A woman was brought out by others, mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut, beating her chest and screaming as if she would scream for all her life.

Then a coffin emerged from behind this small procession, carried by two men. The woman shrieked again as the coffin was laid near the mound.

“I have no one now! No one! The plague has taken them all! Oh, let it take me, then! I cannot bear it.” She continued beating her breasts, and finally breathless, fell to the ground, knees first. Her hands clawed the earth as the coffin, too small to be her husband’s, was lowered to the ground and buried. The woman’s anguish receded to sobs. Her face pinched each time the sound of dirt landed on the coffin.

It was horrible. Wave after wave of the horrible noise crashed onto Wilbur and he braced himself against the bark of the trees. It was as if the trigger, for the wave of wailings brought in other tides of sorrows. Wilbur’s senses, acute to pick up sounds of distress for wounds, injuries, and sickness, heard sniffles and more coughs from inside the village. Ryne could have seen the black smoke of death he had described hovering above the roofs.

Somewhere in the village was a woman holding a cold pillow. Somewhere in there, a man took his frustrations out on chopping wood. They were crying, thinking it was the end of times and the Saints had abandoned them.

When it was over and the gravedigger patted the ground, the woman had fainted, and her neighbors had to carry her back to the village. For a time, it was quiet, and Wilbur scanned a place where he could slip into the neighborhood.

Then he saw the boy.

He was small and thin and framed perfectly at the center of an open window. The boy just stared at him, unblinking, eyes with purple shadows underneath. It was only when the boy coughed that Wilbur moved away from the trees and glided towards him. Wilbur noticed that his house was on the village border, isolated from the ones warmed near the fire. As Wilbur approached him, he saw there was a mark above the door and windows; a splatter of mud, and again, the sign of the saints. The other houses near it had the same markings.

This house was fortunately close to the edge of the forest and his side of the house blocked him from view. The other houses looked abandoned.

The boy coughed, and said, “The mark of the plague. Stay away from here.” He heaved and when again he coughed, a dot of blood flew from his lips and landed on Wilbur’s cloak. The boy did not seem to notice. “They say I’m going to die soon.”

Wilbur, saying nothing, discreetly wiped the blood from his cloak and put one finger in his lips. He almost spat.

Vile and wrong, Wilbur thought. Blood was sweet to them. But there was an unmistakable poison in this boy’s blood. He might as well be drinking muck with melted metal mixed with rotten eggs. Wilbur winced, not just because of the taste, but because he did not carry any medicine to cure the boy. His satchels contained no cure for him, not even a syrup to help with the cough. He had used the last of his concoctions to treat Annette and poured all his precautionary medicines into the well in Claude’s farmland. He was no good here.

The good thing was that Wilbur knew from tasting what the resources needed to brew the medicine needed to cure this boy. They were in the gardens. One was fully awake, looking like a fine lady wearing a yellow gown. The yellowtongue. Unfortunately, the other thing needed still needed encouragement growing. He must find a way to wake the shivering maiden.

Wilbur brought his attention back to the boy. He gestured vaguely to the village. “When did this happen?”

“A couple of weeks ago,” the boy said weakly. “Villagers from the south asked sanctuary from our elder. He granted it, but we did not know they carried the sickness in them. They looked fine enough.” He coughed again, covering his mouth this time. He swallowed. “The elder cast them out again, but it was too late. We were all infected. The elder was the first to go, then his children, then his grandchildren.”

“What is your name?”

“Tatum Worthe.”

“Do you have someone to take care of you?”

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The boy looked down and shook his head. Wilbur peered inside and noticed that everything was barren. “The priest took our straw beds as kindling for the fire. He takes everything from us. Just like how the plague took my brothers and sisters and Mama and Papa.”

Wilbur swallowed. He wanted to reach inside for the boy and hold his hand or comb his hair and take him to his lab. He thought of Ryne. If things were another way, this would be him now. Alone and abandoned.

“The priest?” Wilbur asked as he composed himself.

“An acolyte of the priest in Rothfield. He was sent here to watch over us. But he does nothing.”

Was he collecting tributes from the properties of the deceased? Was he taking them for himself and sending them back to Rothfield instead of giving them to the neighbors, at least? Wilbur thought.

“Do you have an appetite, Tatum? Do they feed you?”

“They fed me this morning with bone broth and stale bread. Our old neighbor pours it from my wooden bowl.” Tatum points to the wooden bowl and spoon at the end of his bed.

“This priest, where can I find him?”

“At the elder’s hut in the center of the village near the fire.”

Wilbur nodded and stepped back. “Tatum, tell no one you saw me. I shall… I shall come back for you soon. Could you manage to hold out a little longer?”

“I thought at first you were already coming to get me. You appeared out of the woods like an angel, like how my Mama says. Did you take her? Can you take me to her? I miss her.”

Wilbur fought the stinging feeling pushing at the back of his eyes and rising in his throat. Tatum’s eyes had become unsteady. He looked so tired, that Wilbur knew he would fall asleep soon. “Your Mama sent me, yes. So don’t tell anyone you saw me. She told me to tell you that you can’t come with them yet, but she misses you deeply. Can you hold on for her, Tatum?”

Tatum blinked slowly. “I’ll try my best, Mama.” The boy disappeared from the window and Wilbur saw him lay his head on a bare thin mattress using his thin arms as his pillow.

Wilbur fell back to the shadows just as the light of the communal fire faltered. He pressed close to the walls as he scouted the inner workings of the village. There was a clearing at the center of the tiny village where a communal fire burned low, stretching the lonely shadows of other nearby huts. There was no one on the field but a common villager watching the fire burn low, and a footman behind him guarding a door of a house that was slightly bigger and wider than the rest. An elder’s house usually looked the same anywhere.

Wilbur kept to the shadows, mindful of stray kindling and stones about, since he was not as good as sneaking or shadowblending as Woodrow or Swithin. As he passed by houses, he heard muffled coughing indoors, the smell of poisoned blood coming through the curtained windows. Some houses were lifeless and vacant.

Wilbur positioned himself under the window of the elder’s house just as the voice inside barked orders to the footman outside.

“Tell that blasted peasant to light the flames! And spread this incense on it! Useless, the lot of them.”

Wilbur heard the banging of doors and the rattling of locks. He heard the footman tell the priest that some of the villagers were begging for food again. Wilbur spied inside and spotted a short man, his back turned towards him, handing the footman a strong-smelling pouch of incense.

The priest swore. “Tell them that all I have with me is the stock taken from Rothfield. Remind them that the farm there is as useless as they are, that nothing grows there but brittle crops. And most of them going to the lord of Rothfield! If you can find anything to hunt in that blasted dead forest, then, by all means, do so. Now leave me be.” He was about to shut the door in the footman’s face when he swung it open again. “Halt. The men sent to collect this week’s ores, have they returned?”

“Not yet, my lord.”

As the priest banged the door shut and locked them with metal chains, Wilbur jumped inside and snuffed all the candles out with a swish of his cloak. Some papers sitting on a nearby desk fell. There was a ladder leading to the rafters above, a long, thick wooden beam for chickens to roost. There were no chickens now, only the feathers that fell softly to the ground below as Wilbur climbed toward the beam.

“Must I wait for the whole village to die out? Father Brinley is a spiteful man.” The priest muttered in the dark. He re-lit the candle and picked up the papers that fell. As he did, the candle-light flickered towards an open barrel of jerkin with jars of berries and bread.

Liar, Wilbur thought.

When the priest sorted the papers onto the small wooden desk, Wilbur saw that it was a drawn map with a path leading towards the mountain and a circle to where the men of this village must have been put to mine resources. There was also a mug of ale, a scroll of parchment sealed with dark red wax, and the Saint’s Holy Book on the center of the desk.

The white of the priest’s robes—the opposite to a monk’s black or dark brown habit—was torn and muddied on the edges. The only clean thing on it was the purple sash that looped around the right shoulder to the waist and back. The shadows played on the young priest’s weary face as he sat down and regarded the scroll with a wooden knot. There was stubble on his chin. He sighed, drank half of the ale in one gulp, and broke the waxed seal. Wilbur and the priest read its contents.

It was addressed to a Father Clifton overseeing the village of Grant.

It told him to finish the excavation discreetly and tell no one of the new mineral deposits found in the new chambers of the mountains, the new path leading towards them discovered by the local miners. Wilbur squinted, making out the slanted handwriting.

“See how the Saints provide for us now. For years Lord Bahram tried to find new entrances to the mountains where there were more rich deposits and now here it is given to us one night. Rothfield has been blessed. But we must be cautious, for I feel something sinister or miraculous stirs. A fortnight ago, the dead forest shifted right in front of my eyes. There is life again here. Tread carefully, Father Clifton.”

Wilbur’s stomach sank. The threat of discovery and the way he spoke with fervor. It did not bode well. He continued reading.

“Tell the men of Grant that Rothfield cannot send any more footmen. Lord Bahram will not risk the plague infecting them. And as for the men dying because of sickness or disappearing in the mountains. Take shifts. I would rather slow progress than none at all. Make sure you send them in pairs. Prove that you are resourceful, and I will personally send good word to the church to move you to a more favorable place. A church of your own.”

It was signed by Father Brinley, the main priest of Rothfield. Clifton made a sound. He crumpled the paper as if he wanted to crumple Brinley and set it aflame with the candle before throwing it outside.

“What, like you promised me this position ten years ago? No, Brinley. You have taken much of my time. I will take from you, too.”

Clifton’s hands hovered around an object that was in the corner of the desk, far from where the candlelight reached. It was a jagged piece of rock covered by a rag, but the tiny tooth that did poke out was the unmistakable shape of an ice quartz. When Wilbur spotted it, he gripped the beams tighter, causing a splinter that echoed faintly in the quiet hut. Clifton squinted on the rafters, almost spotting where Wilbur hid. Wilbur closed his eyes, remembering that their eyes faintly glowed when feeling strong emotions.

Finding nothing, Clifton turned back and traced with his finger the trail on the map. Wilbur memorized it. “Who knew that Mount Lhottem had veins of lava? How odd.”

Containing his excitement, Wilbur waited impatiently for a chance when Clifton turned away or was distracted. Once the priest raised his big mug to his face, Wilbur glided down and snatched a few jerkins from the barrel. He once again snuffed out the candle with his cloak, making Clifton sputter and swear. He flew out the window and landed on the ground with a soft thud, noticing a soft trail of ash.