Young Writers Society

He struggles up the hill, leaving the cornfield behind. I close my eyes and press closer to him, evading the sun that seeks to scorch my skin. Behind us, I can hear murmurs. Muted talking. Someone has seen us.

Loathing runs through my heart with each pulse. Disgust at the feeling of his arms around my tiny form, disgust at my own weakness and inability to refuse his help. But the pain is still coming. It pours and rages in my small frame like a storm upon the water. I am a boat, tossed and spun by winds that are stronger than the timber of the trees from which it was formed.

It seems like forever before he reaches the front door of my house. The door, thankfully, is not locked. We have locks in this little village, but rarely use them. There isn’t anyone here to steal from us.

Pain is the one thought that consumes me, and I seem to be the one thought on his mind. He get me up into my loft, placing me in the corner beyond the reach of the sun. The gloves come off, and the cloak.

The dark cloth on my back is soaked, sticking to my ribs, and wet to the touch. Peregrine looks at it, glancing also at my sweaty, red hands. His mouth twists in a sour expression. He turns away, crawling back towards the trapdoor.

He disappears down the ladder for a moment. Out of the haze, I hear clattering in the kitchen. Then trickling. A wet sound. Water, I realize with a sudden thrill.

Forcing myself to sit up, I turn my red-rimmed eyes to the space in the floor where I know his head will soon appear.

His sun-bleached hair comes through first, followed by a pair of worried blue eyes.

I force a smile to my mouth, lips twitching as the pain from sitting up hits me. “I’m alright, Hawk… Thank you.” I add the last bit unwillingly. He was helping me because that is what he does. He is Peregrine, the Hawk. Thinking of others first, and himself after.

He grins back and pulls himself one handed up the last rung on the ladder. The blue cup slides across wooden planks towards me. Liquid sloshes out the top, staining the floor beneath it. Perching on the edge, he watches me. “You’re welcome, Nightingale.”

My hand reaches towards it slowly. I pick it up and lift the smooth rim to my lips.

“So, Nightingale…”

I glance at him across the surface of the water. His eyes are on the floor, a touch of nervousness twisting his mouth into a sour expression. Lowering the glass, I stare at him in exasperation that penetrates through the heavy pulsing in my head. “What horribly private thing are you going to ask me about now? If it is my parents, don’t bother. We are doing fine. They may fight with each other, but they never fight with me. Or mostly never, anyways.”

He glances up at me. I catch a flash of blue, and then his eyes are on the floor again. “Nothing like that, Songbird. It was about the dance tonight to celebrate the harvest. I have Jeanne for a partner this year and was wondering who asked you.”

“Oh.” I swallow a quick mouthful of water before answering. “That is simple, Hawk. What guy wants to ask a girl to a party, knowing that she is awkward, will be distracted, and might make a run for the woods at any moment?”

Our eyes meet, black and blue touching. “So nobody asked you.”

I nod and take another drink.

“Does that bother you?” He asks gently, lowering his body down a rung in preparation to leave.

My shoulders lift in a careless shrug. “Not really. I hate dancing. It is just…” I lace my fingers together, scanning his tanned face for a reason to answer.

He promptly pulls himself back up the ladder and sits down on the top with an air of finality. “I’m not leaving, Songbird, until you finish that sentence.”

Anger flairs up in my soul for a moment and I glare at him. Then it dies. It isn’t that important. And my head hurts too much for a fight right now. “Fine, whatever you wish. I was saying, Dad can’t catch me anymore. I can outrun him now.”

His head moves slowly in a thoughtful nod. “I think I understand. You are worried you are going to make a run for tonight.”

I shrug again, trying to push away the fear that clamors with the pain in my tiny frame. “I’m always worried I’ll make a run for it.”

“And Amber has been increasingly active these past few weeks,” he murmurs to himself.

I nod. “Yes, there is that. Mom has spent the last week sleeping with me, just in case I tried to leave. She slept some, I couldn’t. I just lay there, pillow over my head. But the song… it is in my mind now, Hawk. I can’t get away from it. And I can’t hold out forever.”

He swings his body down into the gap, feet dangling into space. “Just do your best, Songbird. Keep holding out. Take it one day at a time, you’ll make it through.”

I swallow the last of my water and push the cup towards him. “No, I won’t. Every day I make it through is a complete shock. My first thought when I get up in morning, and my last at night is this is it. This is the day when I finally crack, finally give in.”

His hand wraps slowly around the glazed blue of the cup. A smile touches his face, leveling at me with pity in his eyes. “Goodnight, Songbird. Try to sleep.”

Settling my body down on the hard planks of wood, I tuck my fingers beneath my throbbing head. A tired grin curls my lips. “I’ll try. Goodbye, Hawk.”

One last worried look, and then he’s gone, pulling the trap door shut behind him.

Rest comes with the gloomy silence. The past few sleepless nights crash in on my weary body, crushing me to the floor.

And now, with not only the sunlight, but also the very pain that rids my body of its strength acting as a barrier between me and the call of Amber Shanndrae, I allow myself to relax. My eyes begin to shut, and I drift away.

In the strange world of my dreams, I wander beneath a never-ending canopy of leaves, shimmering gently in the silver light of a full moon. It is a dark place, and a cold one. And somehow… sad. There is a woman here that roams all alone, slipping from tree to tree. She is dark. A creature of the night, of the stars and moon.

I follow her from far behind, watching every little movement. Her midnight hair waves in a soft breeze: I see it rise on the breath of air. And when she turns to smile at me, there are tears in her black eyes.

Amber Shanndrae, the Gray Lady of Shanndrae Woods, wanders and weeps in my dreams. But she does not sing.