Worlds Unseen by Rachel Starr Thomson (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

will not spare much thought for this earth, where now I sit by the dying embers of last night’s fire and write.

Yet it troubles me to think that I will be forgotten to this world, for I have loved it, though it bears no love for me. I leave this journal, then, for those children of men who will one day be; and I hope that they will remember me.

My name is Aneryn. I am a Poet, and I am a Prophet. I fought beside the King in the Great War. The Brethren of the Earth-spirits of wind and tree and beast, of water and of fire-fought alongside me. There were men on our side as well. Few they were, and weak, as I am, but nobility and courage were in their hearts. This skeletal world without a heart and without flesh does not know what it means to feel courage, or to feel love. They, my sword brothers, knew. And I know. I alone know.

In the end the heart of the world was broken. The King took himself away. He took the faithful children of men with him, beyond the sky, to the kingdoms of light. The Earth Brethren were left alone. They continued to battle the Blackness, but they were overcome quickly by the strength of the enemy. They would have gone with the King if it had been permitted them, but they are bound to the Seventh World and cannot leave it. I know not where they are now. They live still, I believe, but as captives. They wait for the day of his return.

I alone remain of all the hosts of the King. I watched as my sword brothers and my Lord passed through the sky circle into the kingdoms of light, but their path was denied me. I was left here, for it is not good that the earth forget completely. Someone must remain who remembers. I am that one.

I write these things, so that the world can never really forget. Those who care to look will find the truth. When I am finished and my pen is at last run dry, then I will lie down and let my wounds drain me of life.

And I, too, will journey beyond the sky.

*

The Major’s Gypsies were on the move once more. Nicolas sat on the driver’s seat of the Major’s wagon. Peter the Pipe-Smoker rode a shaggy little mare at the back of the caravan, and the Major, having declared an itching for a good walk, kept up a powerful stride next to a wagon further back.

Maggie sat on her bunk and rode with the back door open so that she could see out. She watched as the Major stretched out his arms so that Tiny Paul, Maggie’s four-year-old friend, could climb up on his shoulders. Together they strode along: the Major, with a heavy sword swinging at his side, and Paul, waving his wooden one furiously.

The wagon bumped and jolted over the ruts in the road, and Maggie sighed with contentment as she leaned against the wall. A flock of birds burst suddenly from the trees and flew, cackling, over the heads of the Gypsy band. Maggie heard a long, high whistle rise from one of the wagons. It was the second time she had heard such a sound that morning. The first time, Nicolas had explained that Marja was hailing the birds.

Maggie stood unsteadily, taking a moment to get her balance in the rocking wagon, and then pushed aside the green blanket. She stumbled past the cupboards and climbed onto the driver’s seat beside Nicolas. They sat in happy silence, rumbling down the road at the head of the Gypsy band.

The voices of the Major and Tiny Paul mingled with the sounds of horses and wagons as they sang a raucous song at the top of their lungs. Maggie grinned at the sound, then turned to Nicolas.

“Why do they call him the Major?” she asked.

“He was in the High Police,” Nicolas said with an ironic grin. “Not a very respectable position for a Gypsy. Members of the Wandering Race are not usually drafted into the Emperor’s service.”

“Was he really a major then?” Maggie asked.

Nicolas shook his head. “No,” he said. “I can’t be sure-Gypsy stories get a little tangled with time-but I don’t believe he belonged to the police more than a week. Just long enough to make him the butt of many a fireside joke.”

“They seem to respect him,” Maggie said.

“Oh yes,” Nicolas said. “Yes, they respect him. He’s like a father to them. It’s been a while since anyone made fun of him. He laughs at the police just as hard as the rest.”

“Have you known him a long time?” Maggie asked.

Nicolas was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Yes.”

Maggie knew that she was prying, but another question came almost without her bidding it. “Are you a Gypsy?”

He sighed quietly and did not look at her. “Half,” he said at last. “Actually, if it weren’t for my gift of hearing, I’d have grown up in a respectable Midland home like you did.”

Maggie didn’t bother to correct him, as memories of the Orphan House with its high iron gates filled her mind. She didn’t prompt him again, but Nicolas had decided to talk.

“My father was a Gypsy,” he said, “but a Galcic family adopted him when he was a boy. My mother was Midlandish.” Something in his face softened. “She was a good lady,” he said, “but she died when I was six. Scarlet fever. My father… well, he left before I was two. I don’t remember him.”

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said softly. Nicolas didn’t seem to hear her.

“My mother’s family was going to take me back to Bryllan, but some of them had an idea that I was crazy. See, when I was little I thought everyone could hear things like I could. Animals, and babies, you know. So I would tell people, and they all decided I was a little off in the head. One night I heard my mother’s sister-she was a mean old lady-talking about putting me in an Orphan House in Londren.”

He shivered, too preoccupied with his own thoughts to see the look on Maggie’s face. “You have no idea what that meant to me,” he said. “I had seen Orphan Houses in Galce, and there is no nightmare that could have been worse. You don’t know what it was like.”

Maggie said nothing.

“So I ran off, through the streets in the city where I was-I don’t even know where. I got lost in the city, and an old Gypsy woman found me. She took me on the road with her. I lived with the Gypsies until I was thirteen, and then I started wandering on my own. I found Bear, and I learned to like living by myself.”

“But you seem so happy here,” Maggie said.

Nicolas nodded and smiled wryly. “Thing is, even the Gypsies think I’m a bit crazy. I don’t really fit in here, Maggie. But you’re right-when I’m here, I’m happy. At least for the first while.”

They were silent for a long time, and then Maggie asked, “What happened to the old woman who took you with her?”

“She’s dead,” Nicolas said. “She was the Major’s mother.”

Before anything more could be said, Nicolas pulled up on the reins and signaled to the caravan to halt. The Major strode forward to see what the hold-up was, handing Tiny Paul to Maggie as he joined Nicolas.

A dead deer lay in the road, and a flock of ravens picked at the remains. The largest, an enormous black bird, opened its mouth and cawed. Its malevolent stare was fixed on the caravan, and Maggie shivered.

Nicolas jumped down from the driver’s seat, and he and the Major approached the carcass, throwing a few stones to get rid of the birds. The large raven flew onto a branch overhead and sat watching.

Peter rode up to the front of the caravan, his pipe hanging from his mouth, his brown head wreathed in smoke.

“Any meat worth saving?” he asked, taking his pipe in one hand.

“No,” the Major said. “Doesn’t look to be safe eating. We’ll have to get it out of the road.”

Peter called for rope, and Marja appeared at the front of the caravan with a long coil. As the men tied the deer to the saddle of Peter’s shaggy mare, Maggie saw Marja’s face go pale. She followed the Gypsy girl’s gaze to the raven on the overhanging branch.

Slowly, Marja let out a long, eerie whistle. The raven ruffled its feathers and did not move. Maggie thought she saw Marja’s face turn even whiter.

As Peter’s horse hauled the deer carcass out of the road, the Major came back to his wagon and reached for Tiny Paul. Maggie handed the child over. She heard Marja say in a low voice,

“The raven’s a bad omen. He ought to move on with the dead. Yet he stays and watches us.”

The Major looked over his shoulder uneasily at the huge black bird. It had not moved from its perch. With little conviction, he said, “It’s just a bird, Marja.”

“It’s a sign,” Marja insisted. “And not a good one. It’s an omen of death. The scavenger waits for carrion when he sees danger approaching.”

Maggie found her eyes drawn to the raven. Once again she shivered. Marja’s worries were nothing but superstition, yet the bird frightened her somehow. There was something familiar about it, as though she had seen it in a nightmare.

Peter and Nicolas returned from disposing of the deer. Peter re-lit his pipe and headed for the back of the caravan, Marja disappeared into a wagon, and the Major again walked with Tiny Paul on his shoulders. But something had changed; Maggie could feel it. The Major did not pick up his song, and Nicolas did not continue his stories.

An ominous cloud had fallen over the Gypsy band, and the raven left its branch and followed the wagons.

*

Eva Cook wanted very much to be happy. She had cause to be: Pat was coming home. She would be back in Londren within two days. It had been months since the young woman had left for Cryneth to work as a seamstress for an acting troupe-an unusual occupation, but one that suited Pat well.

But Mrs. Cook was worried. There had been no letter from Maggie yet. She had received the mail every day with a thrilling heart, but there was nothing. She had chided herself time and again for worrying. Pat habitually went for weeks without writing, and Mrs. Cook had not worried then.

Maggie had not been gone long. She was busy; she had probably forgotten all about writing.

So Mrs. Cook told herself, but she continued to worry, and brood, and frown. An idea was beginning to shape itself in her mind: that when Pat arrived, the two of them would go to Pravik and find Maggie. Everything would be fine, of course. But Maggie would be glad to see them anyhow.

The fact was, deep inside, Mrs. Cook was sure that everything was not fine.

Mrs. Cook stared through the steam rising from her teacup to the little pile of letters on the table in front of her. She mentally went through the pile again. A bill, from the coal seller. A letter addressed to her husband, Charles Cook, dead of a heart attack fifteen years earlier. The letter came from a Londren club that Charles had sometimes patronized; she had sent letters back to them before with the word “Deceased” written on them in big black letters, but evidently someone at the club didn’t consider death an