It took everything inside Martin not to whip the horse into a gallop. The horse strained enough against the heavy cart, and he didn’t dare push it further, for fear of letting one apple drop on the road that was now a small stream.

His heart pounded as he saw a scattering of houses farther away and a large group of people in the center, arguing. They had the energy to argue. Martin’s throat caught. This entire thing was too strange to be believed, but he couldn’t deny what he saw and felt.

Days were spent trying to break through the barrier of snow. His hands had almost frozen over, but he kept pushing. He couldn’t turn his back on a village this desperate. How would he explain himself to them in the afterlife?

But then the heat came, hot as a summer day, and he barely had time to back the horse and cart up before the snow began melting too quickly. He himself was soaking wet, his black hair streaked with gray a mess on top of his head. His stately white High Elder robes now looked brown with mud, but he didn’t care. He needed to check on these people in Mountain Pass. He had too many questions to simply drop off the load of supplies and leave.

The group was still a far way off when they spotted him. Martin waved to them as big as he could. “Here! Here!”

Most of the group dispersed heading straight for Martin. If the message was true, these people would be in a state of fatal starvation, but they ran fast toward his cart.

“Whoa,” Martin said as he pulled back on the reins of the horse. He didn’t want these people to startle the horse. The last thing they needed was the horse to run off with the cart. He jumped down, trying to unhitch it as quickly as possible.

The people came, clamoring toward it. The horse began to whinny, trying to back away. Martin stroked the horse’s nose, connecting with it. His healing power was sporadic in animals, but he calmed the horse as best he could. The crowd had gathered, some starting to argue and fight over a sack of potatoes. Martin closed his eyes, forcing a surge of his healing power over the group to heal them of their anxieties and fears. It was brief, but it was enough to give him another moment to take over.

“Women, children, and sickest first, please. There is plenty for all,” Martin said.

The villagers nodded.

“High Elder Martin?” a man asked.

“Martin is enough of a title,” Martin said. “And you are?”

“Hugo. I’m the postmaster here.” Being postmaster was another way of saying he was the strongest tree talker, able to deliver messages to other towns through the trees and stay connected.

Martin watched as a little boy grabbed an apple, taking a large bite out of it and smiling contentedly. “How long have you been without food, Hugo?”

“Supplies ran out about a week ago.”

“And your crops?” Martin asked.

“What we had we gave to the war efforts before the storm. The storm killed the rest,” Hugo said.

“Did I hear the message right? It lasted a month?” Martin asked.

Hugo nodded. “It stopped snowing at night. During the day it kept getting worse and worse.”

Martin stared again at the people around him. He had to catch himself from stopping a woman from biting into some dried meat. A week or more in a blizzard with limited to no rations, these people should all be dead, not eating dried meat like someone sitting down to a picnic. He should be cooking broth to spoon feed to the few remaining members of the village.

“Sir?” Hugo asked.

“How many have passed on to the afterlife?” Martin asked.

Hugo frowned, then looked around. He studied every person in turn. “None, sir. There’s a boy, though, that we’re worried about.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. Still alive. All of us are. I can’t explain it. Only through God’s grace were we able to survive this storm. Our village healer isn’t strong enough for something like this.”

“I am not strong enough for something like this.” Martin lifted his hands toward Hugo’s head. “May I?”

Hugo nodded, leaning forward. Martin placed two fingertips on the man’s temple and closed his eyes. The healing power searched, but there was nothing wrong with Hugo. Starving, like one who had worked hard in the field and hadn’t eaten all day, but perfectly healthy.

“Sir, could you help the boy?”

Martin nodded, placing his hands in his sleeve. “What happened?”

“He’s unconscious. He used… he used the devil’s corrupted powers to bring the sun back. But I’m worried what the villagers might do if he wakes up. They’ll listen to you, though,” Hugo said.

Martin stared at Hugo, doing everything in his power to look only concerned. “How old is he?”

Hugo frowned, most likely surprised at the odd question. “He’ll be twenty at the start of the new year, sir.”

Martin turned toward the small group of men that hadn’t broken away to the cart. “Take me to him. Now.”

“He’s over here.”

“Is his mother dead?” Martin asked, trying to walk as calmly as he dared.

“Yes, sir. Died just last month.”

Martin dropped his hands, ignored pretense, and started to run. Hugo, despite living a month under a storm, having little to no food for weeks, and living in a village ill prepared for a blizzard, kept up with him.

They approached the group of men circled around in the mud.

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“Slip the knife in his belly before he wakes!” a man yelled.

“Not without a proper trial!” another man shouted.

“We all saw his eyes burning black! How much more of a trial do you want!”

“He’s in the devil’s sleep now, he won’t wake up for days! That alone will be proof enough that he used corruptive powers!”

“Move for Martin the Healer,” Hugo said.

The anger was still there, but everyone kept it within themselves as they turned to see Martin.

“Please, gentlemen. Go tend to your wives and children. Get some food. We mustn’t make hasty decisions, especially on empty stomachs,” Martin said.

The group parted, most of them leaving for the cart. At this point, Martin didn’t care about the cleanliness of his robes as he knelt in the water and mud. One of the remaining men held the young man, trying to heal him. Martin could hardly distinguish a feature; the young man was caked in so much mud.

“What’s his name?” Martin asked.

“Indenuel,” the man said.

The group had tied Indenuel’s hands behind him. Martin took the opportunity to untie him. “Full name?”

“Indenuel, son of Lucia,” the man said.

There was a pause. Martin understood. In a full, legal name, the mother’s name was never first. Not unless the mother gave birth out of wedlock. “Did Lucia say who the father was?” It was another piece of the puzzle.

“Not that she told us,” the man said. The information was short, but the hostility from him was deep.

“Andres,” Hugo hissed. The hostility wasn’t only noticeable to Martin.

Andres shrugged. Martin finished untying Indenuel and motioned Andres to hand him over. Andres did, hesitating. Martin situated Indenuel better in his arms. He used one hand to place his pinky and his thumb on Indenuel’s forehead and closed his eyes. The first thing Martin felt was pain. Not of the physical kind, nothing he could easily heal. He was only strong enough to ease anxiety and fear for a moment or so, not heal the pain that came from losing a mother.

Once he shifted through the pain he sensed the jumble of power. This boy was undoubtably powerful, but he had used too much of the corruptive kind.

Martin opened his eyes, staring forward as he sorted through this in his mind.

“It is a marvel to see you work, sir,” Andres said. “I, myself, am the village healer. I could learn tips from you.”

Martin stared at Andres. “Did you have anything to do with the healing of the villagers this past month?”

Andres raised an eyebrow. “No sir. I’m not that powerful.”

“So it was all Indenuel, then?” Martin asked.

Andres frowned. “Indenuel doesn’t have the healing power. His mother told us he controlled the weather.”

Martin said nothing for a moment before he moved his other hand under Indenuel’s legs. “Indenuel has been in the mud far too long. If I could get some help, we need to carry Indenuel inside. Is his home close?”

“Right here, sir,” Hugo said.

Andres didn’t move to help. Hugo knelt to help Martin lift him up, then the two of them carried him inside. As soon as the door opened, three children scattered away.

“Oh, hello,” Martin said to the children. Andres walked in, helping Hugo carry Indenuel into a room. Martin smiled, knowing he must be a sight to behold with his mud encrusted robes and water-soaked hair. The two little girls gathered around the older boy. “What’s your names?”

The children just stared at Martin with wide, terrified eyes. Finally, the boy managed to speak. “Is Indenuel dead?”

“No, no. He will be fine. He’s just resting.”

“Matteo, Emilia, Isla,” Hugo said walking out of the room. “High Elder Martin has brought food. Come, let me take you to get something to eat.”

The children still refused to talk, but the necessity of food was too much. They followed him out as Martin walked into the room where Indenuel was still unconscious. He was on the floor in between the two straw mattresses in the room.

Martin requested a bucket of water and a rag, and once Andres delivered it, he left to eat. Martin had a feeling it was more than that. There were plenty of cautious or vile looks from Andres toward Indenuel’s unconscious form.

Hugo returned with the children right as Martin finished washing off as much mud as he could. He had taken a few trips to get fresh water, and Indenuel still didn’t look completely clean, but it would be enough. Hugo came to help carry Indenuel into one of the straw mattresses. Martin covered Indenuel with the blankets.

“Sir, the children keep asking about Indenuel,” Hugo said.

“He needs a few days to recover,” Martin said.

“What do I tell the village? They believe he sold his soul to the devil,” Hugo said.

Martin placed his hands in his sleeves again, frowning. “Tell them the truth. Do you see the mark of the devil on the boy’s chest?” Hugo hesitated, then glanced at Indenuel. Though still a bit of mud here and there, it was obvious Indenuel had no such mark of the devil on his torso.

Hugo let out a sigh. “The village already believes the boy was a curse to Lucia for being born with an unknown father. Always had issues controlling his temper, though his heart was in the right place. But we all saw him not only stop the storm, but make it as hot as a summer day.”

“So he has the power over weather?” Martin asked.

“It’s what his mother told us, though he was never invited to the fields with the other weather controllers. None of us ever saw him change the weather. Not until this evening,” Hugo said. “His eyes didn’t completely turn black, but they did flicker, sir.”

Martin nodded, staring at Indenuel. “Concerning, true. Many individuals, when processing grief, tend to use the corruptive powers out of instinct, but not enough to be considered a witch or warlock. Indenuel has no mark. Not even a lesser red one. Let the rest of the village know this.” Hugo nodded. Martin again studied the boy. “Tell me more about his mother. What did she look like?”

Hugo shrugged. “Brown hair. The green eyes of any other Santollian.”

“You say you’re the postmaster of this village?” Martin asked.

Hugo nodded. “I am.”

“Can you reach Santollia City from the trees here?”

“Unfortunately no. But we can get to Tavi, the town closest to us on the main road. It has a priority line to Santollia City,” Hugo said.

Martin stood. “Good. I need you to send a message for me as quickly as you can. Address it to High Elder Navir the Tree Talker.”

“What should it say.”

“What is Lucia’s full name?” Martin asked.

Hugo closed one eye tightly as he tried to remember. “Lucia, daughter of Anil and Mia.”

Martin nodded. “Send that.”

Hugo didn’t question. He simply gave a bow and left. Martin gave one more look at Indenuel, frowning.

The door squeaked before Martin saw a blonde head dart away. He smiled to himself before standing and opening the door. Matteo was there, his green eyes wide.

“Sorry, sir,” Matteo said. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You’re concerned about Indenuel?” Martin asked.

Matteo nodded. Martin motioned him inside the room. “And your twin sisters?”

“Sisters only in name, sir,” Matteo said as though it physically pained him to correct Martin. “It’s getting late. They’re both in bed.”

Martin smiled as he looked down the hall. “So it is. We’ll have to start lighting candles soon.”

“We don’t have many sir, but you may have them,” Matteo said.

Martin looked surprised. “What manners.”

He stared at the ground. “Ami Lucia taught us well, sir.”

“I heard the news she passed on a month ago. I am sorry. From what I can tell, I am sure she is secure in the peace of God.”

Matteo nodded, blinking back tears he was embarrassed to show. “Thank you, sir.” The boy’s voice cracked. Martin placed a hand on the child’s shoulder. Matteo trembled, rubbing his eyes repeatedly. “Sorry, sir.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“And Indenuel will be alright?”

“He will be just fine.”

Matteo gave another choked sob before quickly recovering. “Thank you, sir. I’m very tired and… and this is my room.” Again, the poor boy looked physically pained to request something of Martin.

Martin tried to hide his smile. He had never seen such manners coming from a boy. Not even from his grandchildren who were trained in the top schools of the country. “Of course, Matteo. You need your rest.” The boy gave a bow before going farther in the room to the second mattress on the floor. Martin walked out of the room to let them rest. He met Hugo heading for him, holding a strip of paper.

“High Elder Navir has already answered.”

Martin nodded. “He is always prompt.”

Hugo handed Martin the paper. “It’s a brief message, but I’m required to write it down anyway. Rules and everything.”

Martin said nothing as he took the folded piece of paper. “Thank you, Hugo. Make sure your village is in order. You all had a hard month.”

Hugo nodded and left the house. Martin tried to keep the anticipation at bay, but he couldn’t stop himself from opening the paper as fast as he could. Navir’s brief message was there in Hugo’s scrawl.

Yes.