The Amber Legacy (23 page)

An arm wrestling contest erupted, interrupting Blade’s explanation, and Meg let the matter drop as the men settled back into drinking and talking. ‘What about a song from the girl?’ someone called out. ‘She did a pretty good job pretending to be a minstrel boy.’

‘A song!’ chorused the crowd.

Blade looked at Meg. ‘Well?’

She blushed. ‘I don’t know too many.’

‘Sing for us, Meg,’ Long Hillside pleaded.

She looked at the ring of faces shifting features in the flickering firelight, and sighed. Wombat was the cause of all this, she decided. She stood, coughed and began:

‘When I was but a maiden fair, I wandered carelessly

Across the millstream near my home, the flowers there to see,

For often did I stray from home drawn by my curiosity,

And so I chanced upon a sight a maiden should never see.’

It was a ballad she remembered her father singing to her one night. He was warning her to stay close to home as she grew older because of the dangers presented by young men whose intentions were driven by desires older than respect. She’d never realised how pronounced its message was until she was singing it in the midst of a circle of battle-weary soldiers. Some had
wives and daughters waiting at their homes; some were single and desperate for the love of a woman.

As she finished, she half-expected them to be scornful of a song performed to warn young women away from men, but they cheered and clapped and called for another, and her voice had drawn more men to the crowd; men rapt to hear a woman’s voice. Reluctantly, she obliged with two more ballads. The first, ‘The Lovers’ Lesson’, was a rousing tale of two young men who were constantly competing with each other over who was the better at whatever task they chose. It was one she had learned, along with the other girls in Summerbrook, because it was a lively tune and the story ended with both young men being outwitted by a clever girl for whose affections they were competing. The second was the only other one she could recall easily—the tragic tale of two lovers whose love was never fulfilled. As she sang, her tears rose against her will:

‘Close by her grave he stood alone, and sighs gave he full three,

“For here like you I take me rest,” he whispered mournfully,

And from its sheath he drew his knife, its good blade sharp and true,

“Now in the earth I too will lie and never part from you.”’

She broke down, sobbing as she finished. She apologised, and left the circle of silent men. Beyond the firelight, crying, she wiped the tears from her face, angry with herself. ‘Why?’ she asked the moon as it slid between dark banks of silver-edged cloud, avoiding her questions. ‘Why?’

‘Meg?’

She turned and saw Blade. ‘I’m sorry about back there,’ she hastily apologised, and wiped her cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean to start crying.’

‘Everyone understands,’ he said quietly, and came closer. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. I think so now,’ she said, but she was surprised when Blade’s hands rested on her shoulders.

‘You might still find him,’ he said.

The simple statement of hope broke another wall in Meg’s resolve and she burst into tears again. Blade pulled her close and she sobbed against his chest, grateful for the comfort, the sense of security. Her secret, though, she would not and could not share.

He led her quietly to his tent and inside his warmth made her soften in the darkness. He pressed tenderly against her and she let him pull aside her curtain of clothing. His hand, calloused by war, was rough against her thigh, but she wanted the touch, needed it, and sighed as his hand explored her. The darkness also hid her silent tears, tears for the love she had lost, tears for the lovers in the ballad. When his lips pressed against hers, she recoiled, uncertainty flooding through her, but he whispered soft assurance and she let herself sink into his soothing passion.

The people stood above a thin river of fire, their faces lit by the molten glow. Their long, intricately braided hair seemed alight with the energy of the stream of fire, and their eyes were different, elongated. The faces were nothing like any face she’d ever seen—strangely beautiful. Their eyes were fixed on the fire, and their mouths moved in unison, chanting or singing. The oddity was that she couldn’t hear anything. Then a man, an older man by his features, lifted a sword blade from the fire, a golden fiery blade serrated along its edges, and he pressed a sliver
of amber into it as if the vapid heat had no effect on his flesh.

The sword blade flashed with light so intense that she had to turn away. When she turned back the scene had vanished and she was waking to the sound of rain on canvas, and an all-consuming wave of sorrow.

‘
W
ell, I’ve been hearing some fascinating stories about you, my little bird,’ Wombat proclaimed as he swaggered up to her, his bulk dwarfing the soldiers beside him. ‘Lining up on the front line. Fighting in the battle. Regular hero, eh. I take it you’re heading for home, then?’

Meg hoisted her sack over her shoulder, bumping it against her rolled green blanket. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, if you don’t mind the company, I’d be happy to escort you—at least back to Quick Crossing,’ he offered.

Meg was horrified. ‘If you go back there, won’t they put you back in gaol?’

Wombat laughed. ‘Probably. But then maybe they won’t either.’

‘Why go back? I thought you had other places to go.’

‘I have,’ the big man said, ‘but I like Quick Crossing.’

‘I can’t go through there. They’ll recognise me.’

Wombat grinned and ruffled her cropped hair. ‘I doubt it, girlie. You don’t look like the beauty that rode in on a Queen’s horse. If you can fool the army for a bit you can fool the people of Quick Crossing for a passing through.’

Thunder rumbled across the landscape. Meg looked up at the rain-laden clouds. ‘I was leaving straightaway.’

‘Got everything I need with me,’ he replied, and hefted a heavy sack as proof.

‘What about your wounds?’

Wombat patted his side. ‘Not too bad. Bit sore. Might have to walk more slowly than we did getting here.’ He looked at the soldiers who were packing equipment and forming into their ordered ranks. ‘Where’s Leader Cutter?’

‘Gone,’ Meg said bluntly.

‘And your sword?’

‘I gave it back. I don’t need it any more, now that I’m a woman again,’ she replied, and winked, making Wombat laugh.

‘I heard this morning that the army is marching to the capital,’ he continued. ‘That’s why I came looking for you. Future and his cronies will be publicly executed there. It would be a show to see, eh?’

‘I’ve seen enough killing to last me forever,’ she told him. She turned and waved to the soldiers.

‘Safe trip!’ Long called.

‘Feel free to rejoin the army any time!’ yelled Bow, and the Group of soldiers laughed and waved to her.

‘Well, seems you’re a popular one, eh,’ Wombat scoffed.

‘I’m going,’ Meg replied, and she spun on her heel and headed north, leaving the dark green shadow of The Whispering Forest and her twisted dream in her wake.

They travelled slowly for the first two days, hampered by rolling showers and Wombat’s need to rest regularly. ‘I didn’t expect I’d be such a slouch,’ he said, as he sank to the dry earth under the cover of a large gum in a
coppice. His breathing was laboured, and Meg saw that he’d lost his normally ruddy colour.

‘We’d better camp here for the night,’ she suggested. ‘It’s almost sunset and the rain’s settling in. We should be at Quick Crossing by midday tomorrow.’

‘See how I go,’ he said, leaning back against the grey and white bark. ‘If we get a little more distance before nightfall, it would be good.’ He closed his eyes and laid his hands across his bulging stomach.

Meg had wondered at the big man’s intentions when he offered to take her to the Queen’s army, but she had quickly learned to trust him. Now he was determined to see her return home safely and she felt she did not deserve his kindness. And she couldn’t tell him the tragic consequences of her dream. She still refused to accept its outcome for herself.

Lightning flashed over the northern ranges. Moments later, thunder rolled across the land and the drifting rain quickened into a downpour. She stared at the fading light, her heart as cold and miserable as the weather, and cursed herself for trusting wild notions of the magic in dreams. Her Blessing, her dreaming, was twisted and cruel, and she didn’t want it. What did all the strange dreams portend if the killing of Treasure was the result of her most immediate dream? What bizarre world was waiting for her if the creatures and people populating her wilder dreams were real?

A droplet of rain trickled down her neck and she shivered. She looked back at Wombat’s darkening figure and was pleased to discover that he was asleep. There was plenty of dry tinder and wood at the base of the big tree and its neighbours to build a small fire, so she set to the task before the light vanished. Rain drifted in a fine mist through the tree canopy, and the fire she eventually started sputtered and hissed when larger drops splashed onto the flames and coals. She let
Wombat sleep while she ate jerky and dried fruit rations that the soldiers had given her for her journey. She retrieved an army blanket from Wombat’s sack and laid it over the snoring man. Satisfied that he seemed comfortable, she unrolled her blanket and curled up against the other side of the tree, and watched the flames gradually die to glowing embers.

She woke to a babbling voice. It was dark and raining steadily, and the embers were dead. She unwrapped her blanket, wincing at the cold, and crept beside Wombat to listen, but his utterings were meaningless. ‘It isn’t what it seems—trust me—please—you know I know that—it’s too cold—can’t you feel it?—it’s like ice.’ She shuffled blindly, working to rekindle the campfire, until flames leapt into life and licked along the broken bough on the hearth. She used a short length of wood as a makeshift torch and held up the delicate flame to see Wombat’s head lolling from side to side and his face drowning in sweat. The flame guttered and died.

In the dull firelight she saw his eyes open, and he stared as if he was peering at a terrible vision. He babbled wild, unintelligible words, and tried to rise, but he fell back against the tree trunk. She tried to calm him, but a massive arm swept her aside and she collapsed by the fire, nearly rolling into it. When she sat up, rubbing her side, the big man broke into a fit of violent yelling: ‘No! No! I won’t let you!’ punctuated with bursts of swearing. She watched in amazement, no longer sure of what she should do, until his energy subsided, and he fell into a silent sleep.

She cautiously felt his raging brow, before noticing a dark stain spreading along the side of his tunic. She nudged him, but he was unconscious, so she gingerly eased his arm aside and unlaced his tunic until she
could lift it to see the extent of his injury. Blood and pus oozed from a ragged wound that looked like it had been stitched but had split apart. She felt sick. She’d dealt with farm animals that had had seriously infected injuries, but she’d never seen such a hideous wound on a person. Even the horrendous battlefield wounds she’d seen were at least uninfected. She needed hot water and clean rags. She rifled through Wombat’s sack until she found a spare tunic, which she ripped into strips. She stoked the fire, then retrieved a billy from the sack and half-filled it with water. She suspended the billy above the flames until the water steamed and bubbled, before dropping rags into it. She fished one rag out of the boiling water, waved it in the air until it was cool enough to handle, and started to wipe the mess from Wombat’s wound. She expected the man to wake because what she was doing would sting, but he merely groaned in his sleep: a limited reaction that made her more afraid. She wished she had Emma’s powder or healing ointment.

She used several rags to clean the wound, and when she studied it in the firelight she confirmed that the stitching had torn from the deep spear gash. Though it was barely four days since he’d received the injury, it had festered quickly. She patched the wound with cloth strips, and tied the remaining strips into a belt to hold the makeshift packing in place. She covered it, fetched her blanket, and sat beside Wombat to mop the sweat from his sagging jowls. ‘You can’t die,’ she told him. ‘I won’t let you do that.’ He coughed, and caught his breath, which reminded her of the sounds from the dying soldier above Summerbrook. ‘I won’t let you die!’ she said, caught between desperation and anger. ‘Hear me? You can’t die!’ She pressed against his side and enfolded his broad chest with her arms. ‘You will get
better, Wombat. You must. It’s not your choice. I
will
make you better. I promise. Don’t think you can die on me. I won’t let you.’ She focussed on the image of his wounded side and imagined that she could see it healing.
That is what will happen
, she promised herself.
You will heal because I will it.
She shivered as she felt a tingling move down her spine. The sound of rain always did that to her too, and she liked the sensation. Wombat’s laboured breath rattled in his throat. ‘You will get better,’ she repeated. ‘You will get better.’

She couldn’t remember falling asleep—only waking with a start to the chortling of kookaburras. Dull daylight half-lit the landscape. The rain had ceased and the earth smelled fresh. She pushed gently away from Wombat’s supine figure. His face was less pale, and his breath wasn’t as laboured. He was tough, and she was grateful. She got up and draped her blanket across Wombat’s legs, before she searched for more tinder and wood, and restarted the fire.

Satisfied with the fire, she checked Wombat again. His feverish temperature had subsided, and he appeared comfortable. She wanted to check the festering wound, but he had eased onto his side further during the night, making access impossible without waking him. The wound would have to be bathed again, but she decided to let him sleep while she ate.

Bread, army jam and yam root chewed and swallowed, washed down by a freshly brewed mug of billy tea, Meg knelt beside Wombat and gently shook his shoulder. The big man snorted, twitched, and opened his eyes, blinking against the light. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

He raised his hands to rub his eyes. ‘Like I’ve had a long, deep, relaxing sleep.’ He sat forward, no sign on his face of discomfort from the wound, and coughed to
clear his throat. ‘I had a strange dream,’ he said. He looked at her, his brow furrowed in thought, and he nodded. ‘You were in the dream, little bird. You.’ He nodded again. ‘Strange. I don’t usually remember what I dream, but this one I do.’

‘What was it?’ She grabbed his arm when she saw that he was going to try to rise. ‘You can’t—’

‘Can’t what?’ he asked indignantly, as he pulled his arm away. ‘I’m feeling good.’

‘You’re sick,’ she argued. ‘I’ve seen it.’

Wombat turned to her, with a quizzical expression. ‘Seen what?’

‘Your spear injury. It’s infected.’

He raised an eyebrow, looked down at his side and lifted his tunic. ‘I can’t see it. Did you do this bandage?’

‘It’s further around. Let me look.’ She waited for him to settle before she looked at the packing, where she was surprised to find no evidence of weeping. The skin outside the bandaging appeared normal. ‘I must have cleaned it better than I thought,’ she mumbled. ‘Do you mind if I clean it again?’

‘Well, if you must,’ Wombat answered begrudgingly. ‘It’s just a wound. The doctors fixed it up at the army camp, eh. Feels fine to me. It’s just a bit itchy. I want to scratch it.’

‘You don’t touch it,’ Meg warned. She started fossicking in her sack.

‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

She extricated a black tunic and grinned. ‘This. I need more rags and bandages.’ She started ripping the tunic into strips, to Wombat’s bemusement.

‘I wish I could see what all your fuss is about,’ he remarked. ‘Stupid place to have got speared in the first place, eh.’

Meg emptied the tea from the billy and refilled it with water. ‘I’ll boil that in a moment. I’ll just have a
look at the wound and let it breathe while I’m getting this ready,’ she explained as she sat cross-legged beside Wombat and started to untie the belt bandage. As she eased it aside, the wound packing fell to the ground. Where there had been a gaping, pus-infected wound last night was clean, pink unblemished skin.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘I don’t understand it.’

‘Don’t understand what?’

She sat back and stared at the big man’s broad features. ‘Your wound. It’s completely healed.’

Wombat’s eyebrow rose again. ‘What?’

‘It’s completely healed. Like it was never there. There’s no mark. Nothing.’

He twisted, trying to see for himself, unsuccessfully. ‘Bloody thing,’ he growled, and reached back to feel his skin. When he realised there was no wound, he scratched vigorously, exclaiming, ‘Well now,
that
I did need.’

‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ she murmured, her bewilderment increasing. She touched her temple where she remembered being struck by Treasure’s axe. ‘I don’t have any marks or scars here, do I?’ she asked, leaning forward.

‘None at all,’ he confirmed. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It’s—’ She hesitated, unable to explain her confused thoughts. She unconsciously touched the hidden amber necklet beneath her tunic. There was one explanation, but—

‘What are you thinking, eh?’

‘Nothing. I can’t make sense of any of it. It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘And you’re telling me that the spear wound is
completely
healed?’ he insisted.

Forcing a smile, she said, ‘Completely. The surgeons did better work than anyone could hope for.’

‘Well,’ Wombat said, now scratching his lower back, ‘at least a man can enjoy this pleasure then.’

Meg rose and gazed north. The northwest ranges were shrouded in cloud and grey rain. The morning sun hadn’t broken through the clouds in the east.

‘I’d best eat something and then we should get going, eh,’ Wombat announced, getting to his feet. He stretched his arms and back and groaned with satisfaction, saying, ‘Now,
that
has to be the best rest I’ve had in a long, long time.’

Meg had no comment to offer, immersed in her thoughts of Emma, Samuel and the amber crystal.