Some Soul of Goodness

Dangerous Ends

Chapter One

His ankle hurt.

Of course it hurt. It always hurt, but at the moment it was screaming for attention, grabbing him at one moment with a sharp cutting pain and another moment with a deep dull bone ache.

The weather had turned.

A week ago, the weather had proclaimed it was early spring. Daring the elements to rescind their heralding of warm weather, he had set off to walk the far distance to Milledgeville Fair to sell his yarns. He'd packed them all securely in a sturdy bag that he could carry on his back. Along the way, he'd slept in the shelter that ditches might provide or under brush piles. Once in the town, he'd found an alley inside the church grounds that provided some smattering of security from pickpockets and robbers (who would commit robbery in the shadow of Mother Church?). He hadn't wanted to waste money on creature comforts and a room at the inn would have taken some of his limited finances.

In the morning at that same church, he'd stood in line for tough bread with rancid butter and hot weak tea for his breakfast and then again for a slab of stringy meat, mushy beans and undercooked potatoes for his supper. The clerics served the poor and long ago, having dispensed with his pride, he had learned to take their handouts without shame. He washed himself as he could in one of the cisterns that were placed in the town's center square and smoothed out his garments, blotting off the mud and brushing off the dust. He ran his fingers through his hair.

On the first day of the festival, he'd set up in one of the free scant spaces in the hot sun to display his yarns, all spun over the course of the long winter. He'd stood back fearful that his position, his person, would not attract attention. His yarn was excellent. He knew that. But he didn't have one of the bright tents to stand under nor was he dressed to appear to be any more than what he was – an unfranchised peasant. He watched the other vendors. Most were like himself, hanging back, but there were a few that loudly announced their wares. They seemed to attract the most attention.

He sighed. Shouting out to strangers regarding the fine quality of his work was contrary to his basic nature, to the harsh lessons life had taught him. One was more likely to survive if they didn't attract attention to themselves.

And so, he'd sold nothing the first day and was in despair that the entire trip would be for naught. However, on the second day of the festival, he stood by his yarn and announced them quietly to passersby.

"Quality Fenshimer sheep wool here with the fastest dyes." He didn't get more involved that this nor could he bring himself to be loud - or look people in the eye. Several fair goers stopped and looked at his wool.

"Fenshimer sheep? Aren't those only found on the slopes where the uncouth hill people live," one young man said causing the cluster of young people he was traveling with to laugh.

"No, they're found in the ice mountains and grow uncanny warm fleece – fleece that will keep you warm in the coldest weather," he clarified, surprised at himself for speaking up.

Apparently the young man was equally surprised that the peasant had spoken. He was about to retort when a very pretty older woman spoke up. "Jeavon, you've appreciated the Fenshimer scarf I made for you two years ago. I recall you saying how well it protected you from the coldest bursts of wind." She picked up some of the wool and addressed the man directly. "These have excellent colors. Dye them yourself?" she asked.

He nodded, tongue-tied in the presence of this handsome woman. She was dressed simply and beautifully and he guessed she was the wife of some up and coming nobleman . . . or more likely, the latest wife of some older, wealthy nobleman.

"Oh come on, Sophia. He's just a peasant," one of her women declared.

"No one else is selling this kind of quality," she told her women. "Look," and she unwound one of his skeins to hold the yarn up to the light. "See how long the fibers are and how evenly they are spun. The colors are pure and sharp. This is quality work, much better that we can get at Master Sourworth's, for all that he gives you a candy treat for coming to his tent."

She chatted with the man, surprisingly knowledgeable about spinning and dying.

He complimented her understanding and she confided in him that she had been a sheepherder's daughter before she'd married a nobleman, so, yes, she did know about this type of thing. She let him know she was impressed with his merchandise and she made a sizeable purchase. Several of the women in her group followed suit and in a short time his inventory was happily depleted.

"I'm sure I shall find a use for these," she assured him, paying him a pretty price. "I shall make my husband a Fairy Isle sweater with this yarn and he shall be the envy of all his friends."

The spinner bowed and thanked the young woman. He had done as well as he had wanted to, perhaps a bit more than he had expected to and had managed to sell all of his inventory. He would be able to limp home with a much larger purse than he had come in with and perhaps invest in a younger, spryer ram for his own little herd.

Now done with his own business at the fair, it was time to head back home. But he ever leery of thieves and bandits, so he distributed his earnings, putting some small part of the money into his change purse and some into his socks. Most of it he had inserted up his bum.

Recognizing the dangers of travel, recognizing how vulnerable a target a cripple was, he gave much consideration to the best route home. Rather than the Queen's Highway, he had taken the shorter road that would take him near The Dark Castle knowing this area's reputation kept most people, including thieves and bandits, away. He knew well that most people would go out of their way to avoid the area, although there were persistent rumors of a village that existed somewhere under the shadow of the Darkness. There were many more shocking tales of folks going in but never coming out of the Dark Forest. The Castle itself was rumored to be haunted, to be the abode of a great evil, merciless power. The grounds around the Castle were home to ravening beasts and freaks of nature. He was desperate enough to risk that the stories told were merely cautionary tales used to frighten children into staying close by to their parents when traveling.

Even on this much less traveled route, he remained cautious and often paralleled the road rather than walking on it, stumbling on the uneven ground, hoping he wouldn't twist the ankle on his good leg and hoping his bad ankle would hold out. He would stop frequently to listen for anyone else moving on the road but there had been no sound, no indications of other travelers, no indications even of animals in the area.

But as he had slogged on, the weather betrayed him. It began to turn colder and wetter. It wasn't exactly raining, but there seemed to be a cold mist gathering, some of the air turning to fog, some to drizzle. His progress was painfully slow and he realized it was getting dark even while he was still in the purview of the Dark Castle.

Without other options, he trudged on, stepping around tree roots, struggling with his cane and his weakened ankle. He would sometimes step into holes, mud and wet seeping into his shoes. His ankle began to ache with every step, the increasing cold and dampness aggravating the old injury. He began to look around for any semblance of shelter recognizing that if the temperature continued to drop then he would not survive the night in the open. Three hours without shelter, three days without water and three weeks without food – he knew the delineators of survival under harsh conditions.

He realized that his nose was running from the cold and his breath had begun to fog the air around him. In the rapidly increasing darkness he was having trouble seeing where to step.

Then he heard them.

A single howl in the distance, followed by an answering howl a little further away.

Wolves!

The drive to find shelter now became more urgent. He knew he had no hope, even if he went to the road, of outrunning wolves. Perhaps he could climb a tree, but that did not improve his chances of survival in the increasing brutal weather. His progress became increasingly frantic and with each step it was more painful.

He had to find real shelter – something to protect him from the wolves and the elements.

To have had a successful vending trip but then to have everything taken away by bad luck. He closed his eyes, tears coming despite his determination to be strong. He had risked much for this trip and for it to end for him this way, either as a meal for the wolves or to die from the cold in the raw elements was heart wrenching.

He struggled on. He had no other choice.

He could hear the howls of the wolves. They seemed to be getting closer. As he looked around himself, he realized that he had lost sight of the road.

He was now lost in the woods, lost in the enchanted woods around the Dark Castle.

He sighed. What other evil could befall him? What god had he offended that this should happen to him? He had tried all his life to be a good person, to do the right thing but always things seemed to push against him. He sighed again.

He had no choice but to keep on.

Then he noticed the soft white flakes. At first he thought it might be ash from a fire, but soon enough realized it was snow.

It was now snowing. An early spring snow.

He was shivering, cold and wet to the bone. Tired, cold, hungry, desperate.

He looked up. There was a half moon and he could see dark clouds racing across the sky and as he looked out, in front, he saw it.

It loomed.

There was no mistaking it. He had never heard a description or seen a picture, but he recognized the large, hulking structure in front of him.

It was The Dark Castle. Somehow he had made his way right to the cursed citadel.

It was very tall, taller than any building he'd ever seen. There were multiple towers, toothed crenelations across the curtain walls and smooth blackened walls that seemed to shine in the moonlight.

He stopped a moment. What were his choices? He could try to outrun the wolves, keep going in the hope of finding shelter or he could chance the Dark Castle.

Yes, he had heard all the rumors, but he wasn't as much a superstitious man as he was a desperate man. He made a decision and made his way toward the castle.

The ground became increasingly level and there were fewer trees as he neared the castle. He was moving as fast as he could, hearing the wolves closing in. He burst from the forest and found himself in an open area with the front of the castle now perhaps a hundred yards in front of him, a postern gate visible to him in the moonlight. He gathered his last shreds of energy and sprinted as he could with his weakened limbs across the open area to the gate. As he neared the gate he heard the howling closer behind him and he knew if he turned that he would be able to see the wolves.

Now he was praying to deities he didn't believe in that the gate would be open, unlocked. Out of breath, he marshaled every last bit of energy and dashed to the gate.

Oh, but it was shut . . . locked.

He pounded on the gate.

"Open! Open!" he shouted. "Please, please let me in! I will give you half of all I have! Let me in!"

As if in answer to his plea, the gate abruptly unlatched and swung open. He didn't think twice. He vaulted in and slammed the gate behind himself, latching it shut.

Then, and only then did he risk looking back. The wolves were near enough to the gate that he could see their red eyes glowing. He could feel the heat from their breath.

:Stupid man. His fate is decided. He would have been better off with us: He heard one of the wolves in his mind.

The wolves milled about, gathering more of their number, howling and barking at each other. They would not approach the gate and, for the moment, he knew he was safe although unnerved at having heard the wolf's voice.

He turned around. He was still breathing heavily. He was inside the grounds of the Dark Castle.

And now, out of immediate danger he felt the cold tendrils of fear rise up to wrap themselves around his heart. Although he was not one to believe in haunts and spirits, this place was eerie, cold, quiet, still, as if there was some Waiting Presence. He felt like an unwelcome intruder, coming unbidden into the home of another. Would someone come to order him out or, presumptively, just try to kill him?

This place was supposed to be inhabited by the Dark One, a long-lived, very evil entity that would grant any wish but at the cost of your soul.

"Hello," he called out, his voice weak and shaky.

Better to announce himself than to sneak in like a thief, he thought. There was no answer, which was a relief. He calmed himself, forcing himself to take deep breaths.

He began to explore. A half-moon splintered through the clouds and he could just make out that he was in the bailey of the structure. There was a great keep in front of him and he made his way to it. There were overly-large ornate double doors. He knocked on them and again called out. "Hello, anyone here?" His voice sounded thin against the silent backdrop of the empty bailey.

Again there was no answer. He pushed on one of the doors and it opened.

He peeked inside. This was the entrance to a great hall. In the center of the room was a large table. The room was comfortably warm although there was no fireplace. There were lighted sconces all around the hall. He entered the room, the door shutting behind him, slamming, causing him to jump. Trembling with residual cold and fear, he slowly, carefully, made his way into the great hall, approaching the table.

And there he found a fine meal set for one person. He could smell the food. It had been more than a day since he had eaten or drunk anything and prior to that there had only been meager unappetizing portions. He agonized for a moment. This food was fresh and smelled beyond deliciousness. He didn't want to offend whatever entity had provided it but he couldn't be sure if it was meant for him.

"Please, is this for me?" he asked aloud and waited nervously. "I don't wish to offend you or take that which is not meant for me, but I am grievously hungry."

There was no answer.

His hunger made the decision for him and he sat down and began to nibble at the food. Soon he was shoveling the well-cooked, well-seasoned meal into himself, using his hands to stuff himself. Well done potatoes mashed with milk, a tender cut of some unknown meat and a variety of vegetables, salted and seasoned. And bread, soft, crusty bread, not burnt nor stale, but fresh and light with sweet butter melting into the soft crevices. There was hot tea on the table and he poured himself one cup after another, drinking it straight down.

And then, his stomach, unused to so much food, rejected it and he bent over, emptying himself suddenly and violently onto the floor of the elegant dining room. He nearly panicked. Not only had he eaten the superb meal that may not have meant for him, but he had soiled the room with his puke. He looked around, frightened. Surely now the invisible inhabitants would come and usher his wretched person out, out into the cold, out into the enclave of the wolves. Trembling, he struggled back into the cushioned chair and slowly sipped some more of the tea and sucked on some of the crust from the bread.

He waited until he was sure he would keep down the food. He took a napkin and wiped up his vomit as well as he could.

He looked around himself and saw a door going off to the back of the great hall that was now opened. He hadn't noticed it before. He limped towards it, his ankle screaming each time he put weight upon it.

He entered the other room to find a large sunken pool of water. He gingerly approached the water and found that it was quite warm. A hot bath awaited him. He again hesitated but decided that whatever entity dwelt in this place was determined to see to his needs.

He stripped off and slowly slipped into the water. There were bottles alongside the sunken pool and wash cloths. He smelt the bottles and found one with a clean, refreshing sent and used it to soap himself up. He washed his hair and ducked under the water several times to rinse it out.

He'd never had a bath so pleasant, usually having to forego washing himself in general. There had been a few times when he would rinse himself in cold river water or would use a splash of warm water from a bowl to wash himself, but the only soap he'd ever used had been coarse lye, harsh to the skin, not this soft, sweet-smelling foaming, frothing concoction. He reluctantly eased himself out of the warm pool and dried off with a plush white towel.

He found that his clothes had been replaced with a pair of soft brown woven pants and an off-white linen pullover shirt. There were also fine lawn cotton underthings that he pulled on, appreciating the excellent workmanship in the delicate clothing. There were slippers for his feet. He dressed and then saw another door partly opened revealing a narrow staircase. He went inside and slowly climbed up the stairs, by now believing that whatever entity or entities that abode in the castle were not out to harm him.

The stairs went up and up and he climbed, feeling that he was going around the outside of the keep. He went by one door and kept climbing. Finally he came up to a door that opened onto a hall. He went down the hall and found another door open. Inside he found a large room, the central feature being a soft bed complete with pristine white linen sheets and a down stuffed comforter. The sheets had been turned down, inviting him to rest. The room was heated by a fireplace that burned but did not seem to be consuming the wood. He realized he was bone-tired and crept into the bed. Before he closed his eyes, he said quietly, "Thank you. Thank you for saving my life, for the food, the bath and this bed."

He then closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

When he woke the next morning, he first stared at the plastered roof above his head, not recognizing it. It took him a moment to orient himself. Ah yes, he was in the Dark Castle. The fire was still going and the room was still comfortably warm. He slipped out of the bed and found his own traveling clothes, now cleaned and ready for him. His worn boots had been replaced with fine new ones. He changed back into these clothes and went back down the stairs and out through the bathing room and into the great hall.

Now he found a place for breakfast had been set for him; all vestiges from the evening meal and his digestive indiscretion had been cleaned away. He sat down and, more slowly than he'd consumed his meal the night before, he ate eggs softly scrambled, buttered bread and well-cooked bacon. He drank warmed milk spiked with vanilla and honey. It was another wonderful meal. As he finished this meal, he used the napkin to wipe his face.

It was early morning and he thought it was as good a time as any to take his leave. He pushed back from the table and couldn't help but notice that hanging on a rack near the double doors was a fine coat, plain black on the outside but inside, fur-lined. He put it on somehow not surprised that it was a perfect fit for his thin frame. Before going through the double doors, he again humbly thanked his unseen benefactor.

In the early morning light he could see around the bailey. Over to one side was a beautiful rose garden, with deep red roses blooming despite the time of year. He thought how his sweet Aunt Marjorie would love one of the flowers. He considered picking one, but did not feel comfortable taking even one, not wanting to take further advantage of his host than he already had.

He stumbled on to the side gate he had come in through. He unlatched it and looking back once more, he stepped through the gate.

"You promised me half of all you have."

He whirled around and behind him, standing still, was a slight cloaked figure, hooded so that there was no face that he could see. The material wrapped around the small still figure shimmered in the morning sun. Power emanated in waves from the figure.

He dropped to his knees.