White Eyes (part five)

Chapter Four: Parentless

Morgan arrived home late that night – or was it early in the morning? She could not tell, and she did not care. She only cared that she escape her own mind as soon as possible – and that she need never wake again.
She threw herself down on her hard bed and was too tired and distraught to notice when her father arrived and kissed her softly on the forehead. Indeed, it would be a long time before she could concentrate on anything again – anything but the horror of being trapped within the deep vaults of her memory.

The morning dawned cold and draughty, and although the break of day cleared her mind somewhat, it did not ease the agony of what seemed like poison in Morgan’s veins. She took little notice of the letter her father had again left for her – it was much the same as the previous one – and ate very little breakfast. After a rather meagre helping of dry bread and mouldy goats’ cheese, she set off for the town. She did not know what she planned to do there, but anything was better than pacing the bare hallway of her own home, listening to the silence and watching as past scenes flashed before her eyes.
She ambled slowly along the road, in a direct line from her house. When she reached the junction, she hardly glanced at her tree, although her heart ached to climb it and feel its reassuring strength, at the time she needed it most.
Morgan did not stop once she had reached the town; she took no notice of the urchins who played happily around her. She felt strangely different from them all of a sudden – older, perhaps. It was not a feeling she liked.
In fact, Morgan did not stop walking until she was confronted by the Mayor himself. Farth looked just a about ready to explode. Morgan waited patiently for the outburst. She did not have to wait long.
“Where in the darned universe were you?” In his anger he forgot to use his characteristic formal speech. “There we all were – Baker Oldman, young Pegasus’ father and I – waiting for you and your confounded father! Did we believe you would choose to turn up? I tell you we did, and we spent half the day waiting in broad sunlight, hoping you would decide to show your ugly mugs!” After regaining his breath, he seemed to realise what he had said, because his cheeks turned a rather colourful shade and the stern line of his eyebrows relaxed. “I beg thy pardon, young lady. I was wrong to charge thee hence – and yet, I must beseech thee to give thy excuse, or else apologise most profusely for thy negligence.”
Morgan nodded reasonably. “I am very sorry, Mister Farth. My father and I – had other business.”
“Pray tell.”
“I’m very sorry, Mister Mayor, but I can’t tell you that.”
“And why might that be?”
“Because I don’t know, Sir.”
“Well, as soon as thou shouldst see thy father, pray ask him for the manner of his business – I would speak with him.”
“My father is not in Charicadd Town today, Sir. But I will talk to him as soon as I can.”
Farth glared suspiciously at her innocent features, and perhaps saw something there, for he sniffed importantly and relaxed his gaze. “I shall see thee as soon as possible, young lady. Remember to bring thy father with thee.” With that, he turned in a flourish of dusty robes and strode off importantly down the street. Morgan also continued walking, but this time she had a set destination in mind.

Peering with squinted eyes through the wide doorway of the baker’s shop, Morgan spotted Mr. Oldman, face red underneath a thick layer of flour. He was busy trying to control a mob of young boys, who were taking their numbers as an opportunity to sneak off with freshly baked sweet rolls. He was shouting at them furiously whilst trying to protect a new batch of flour biscuits he had just drawn from his large, stone oven.
Although Morgan took full advantage of the keen eyesight she possessed, she could not see Argo. There was nothing for it – she would have to ask Mr. Oldman.
Stepping tentatively inside the stuffy little shop, she coughed as she inhaled a mouthful of flour. Thankfully, Morgan did not have to shout, as Mr. Oldman spotted her almost immediately and waved her over to the counter.
“Hello, Morgan,” he shouted cheerfully whilst making a violent swipe at the hand of a particularly greedy boy. “As you can see, I’m a bit busy at the moment – GET YOUR HANDS OFF THAT PASTRY, YOU YOUNG WHELP!”
Morgan waited patiently as the perspiring man rescued a rather squashed pie from a small boy who had been attempting to slip away with it. “Here, hold this,” he said, shoving the pastry into Morgan’s hands. “I’ll be right back.” He bustled off into a back room, and was back a moment later, leading three rather vicious-looking dogs. Shouting over the din of the mob, he said, “Listen here, you ragbags! Fang, Crusher and Flesh-Eater here are all accomplished hunting dogs – and they haven’t been fed for ages, so I’d run if I were you. Three … two …”
By the time he had reached “one” there was not a single boy left in the shop. Mr. Oldman grinned triumphantly and patted his dogs’ heads fondly. “Here, Morgan,” he began calmly, “meet Fluffy, Cuddles and Pompom. They’re harmless, really … once you get past the fangs and the claws, that is.”
Morgan edged past the dogs, coming to a rest at the baker’s side. “Mister Oldman,” she began, “I need to speak to Argo.”
The baker’s friendly smile vanished instantly. “Do you now? Well, I’m sorry to inform you that you will have to wait until next week. He’s not allowed to talk to anyone at the moment, and he’s banned from going outside.”
“But, Sir – ’’
“No ‘but’s! He is in disgrace. Abandoning his duties to go gallivanting off with you… I’m very surprised your father has not given you a similar punishment.”
Catching the look on Morgan’s face, the stern look in his eyes softened. Bending slightly, he placed his large, coarse hand on her shoulder. “Morgan,” he said gently, “I know that a lot has happened to you and your father lately, and I’m sorry for you. But, really, it’s no excuse for running off in that manner.” He turned to walk away, but looked back over his shoulder.
“Er,” he said, “if you should be interested in taking a look at my new vegetable garden, it’s just round the side of the house – by the third window from the front.” He gave her the benefit of a small smile, and then disappeared into the back room, leading his dogs with him.
Morgan did not waste any time. Turning on her heel, she strode briskly from the shop. When she reached the side of the house, she stopped, looked furtively about her and disappeared down the narrow path. Once she had gone about two metres, she encountered her first window. She counted one more before stopping at the third. Taking care not to trample on Mr. Oldman’s freshly planted radishes, Morgan hoisted herself onto the window frame and peered through, into the room.
It was a small, dark place with very few pieces of furniture and multiple cobwebs. In one corner stood a rickety little bed with a heap of straw and a few blankets strewn atop it. Sitting on it, staring dejectedly across the room, was Argo.
Morgan alerted him with a soft whistle. His head whipped wildly around, and when he spotted Morgan, his tight-lipped countenance relaxed into a relieved smile. He opened his mouth to say something, but Morgan silenced him with a gesture. Waving him over to the tiny window, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
“Don’t talk to me properly until we’re outside. Can you climb out?”
Argo measured the distance from the floor to the window sill. “I think so,” he whispered back. “Hold on – I’m going to try.” Stepping back a few paces, he took a running start and leapt, his spidery hands grasping the edge of the sill. Morgan jumped backwards, onto the path, and a moment later Argo followed. Still holding a finger to her lips, Morgan led him back up the path and out onto the street, cautiously staying out of the view of Mister Oldman, who was back in the main part of his shop and was huffing and puffing as he attempted to heft a large tray of enormous rock cakes onto the low bench.
Morgan and Argo walked down the road for a while, dodging heavily laden carts and young urchins with bamboo swords. They did not stop until they had reached a secluded alleyway between two small houses. They seated themselves atop a large, long-forgotten barrel of ale and sat still and silent for a long time, each comforting the other with their presence.
After a while, Morgan turned to her friend, a serious frown on her features. “I want to know,” she said, “what ‘Ole Barney’s’ is.”
Argo returned her gaze sadly. “I thought you were going to ask me that. Ole Barney’s is a brand of rum.”
Morgan stared. “You mean …” she began slowly, “that Peg was dealing with rum?”
Argo nodded silently.
“But – with pirates?”
“I guess so.”
“But why?”
Argo shrugged. “I dunno, do I? Maybe he and his father were struggling …”
Morgan was stunned. “Do you know how long he’s been doing this?”
“Ages. The first time I knew about it was maybe a year ago, but he might have been going on for longer.”
Morgan was aghast. “That long?”
Argo nodded. “I was amazed when I found out, too. Now I’m just worried about the fact that there are pirates moored near Northbridge Port.”
“Did you know … at first, I mean … did you know who he was dealing with?”
“I guessed. It might have been something to do with that old rhyme … rum and pirates just seem to go together.”
“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,” recited Morgan.
“A pirate’s life for me,” completed her friend.
“I should have known,” groaned Morgan. “He was singing that song all the way to Northbridge.”
Argo shrugged. “Makes no difference now, does it?”
Morgan slowly shook her head, and the two sat in silence a while longer. Suddenly, she remembered something else that had been bothering her. “Argo,” she started, “why did you run? When we were leaving the ship, I mean … you just sort of ran and leapt over the side.”
Much to her surprise, Argo laughed. “Oh, that,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “I suspect you thought I was running for it, did you?” Morgan nodded dumbly. “Well, I wasn’t. I saw – ’’ He broke off suddenly and became very interested in a hobbled old man who was begging out on the main road, as if he thought he had said too much.
Morgan prompted him sharply. “You saw what? What did you see?”
“Nothing,” said Argo airily, still staring fixedly at the old man, who was now attempting to sing in a rather croaky treble.
Morgan swivelled his head around with her hands and forced him to stare into her eyes. “Argo,” she said sternly, “what did you see?”
Argo frowned at her and tried to pull his head away, but she held him there in a vice-like grip. Finally he relented. “Fine, you win. I’ll tell you if you let me go.” Morgan released him instantly.
Argo massaged his ears where Morgan had held him. “All right. The truth is, the captain threw something over the railing when he came out, and it glittered, so I ran to get it. Happy?”
“No, I’m not,” said Morgan, frowning. “You’re lying. The captain didn’t throw anything – and even if he did, you weren’t facing him so you wouldn’t have seen him.” She scrutinised his face shrewdly. “What really happened?”
Argo sighed. “Why do you have to be so jolly clever?” he grumbled. “Fine, then, if you insist.” He drew a deep breath. “You know when I was captured? Well, the man who caught me brought me underneath the deck and must have thrown me on top of a stack of barrels, ‘cos that’s where I was when I woke up. Anyway, when I did wake up, I saw this hulking great man and a gangling one smirking down at me. I instinctively kicked up at them – it caught the big one right on the jaw, but the other man leapt out of the way. So, the man I kicked didn’t like that at all, and he made a swipe at me with his great boulder of a fist. That’s how we got into a fight, and the gangling man was following us at a distance all the way down the corridor. Then the big man pinned me to the wall, which happened to be a door – we only found that out when the captain opened it, and then we tumbled inside. You don’t need to know the rest of the details of the fight – ’’
“I already do,” interrupted Morgan. “I was watching.” When Argo looked astonished, she added hurriedly, “I’ll explain later.”
“Anyway,” continued Argo, “during the fight I managed to get hold of a certain object that fell out of my opponent’s jacket. Then, when you were helping me across the deck later on, I stumbled and I saw this object fly out of my breast pocket. It went over the railing, and I was afraid it might drop into the water, so I ran and followed it.” He paused uncertainly for a moment, and then drew a small object from his breast pocket, placing it into Morgan’s outstretched palm. “Here it is,” he whispered.
It was a small, round amulet. On it was engraved the likeness of a mighty lion. Forever rearing on its hind paws, its mouth was open in a silent roar. Two muscular snakes protruded from the lion’s mouth – one wore a crown of brambles and was cringing in the background; the other bared its long fangs in an evil snarl and was coiled tightly about the lion’s neck. Two tiny emeralds gleamed wickedly in its eye sockets. Below the image, the following message was imprinted in the faded bronze:

Iungfik cadz ei surg eou finzuk,
Uunt awagze he sarpynt”z belzuk. 

Morgan could make neither head nor tail of it. Turning to her friend, she gave him a quizzical look. “Can you understand that?”
Argo shrugged, and took back the bronze amulet. “No,” he said, quite unconcerned. “It’s pretty, though, ain’t it?” He spat on it, polishing it with his tattered shirt. He then held it up to the little light the narrow alley let through, admiring his work.
Morgan, however, watched him uneasily. “I think you should put it away, Argo,” she said. “I don’t know why, but it makes me nervous.”
Argo shook his head. “I know your problem,” he said. “You’re just jealous, because I found it first.”
Morgan’s temper fired up at this. “I am not jealous. Anything but! It’s just that the stupid thing gives me a weird feeling.”
Argo looked pointedly at her. “Jealousy,” he smirked.
“It is not, you puffed up excuse for a featherless duck! How could anyone be jealous of something that makes them feel like the walls have developed eyes?”
“Search me,” retorted Argo. “Maybe they just give you the creeps because you don’t have the guts to stand the sight of a couple of bronze snakes!”
Morgan was really shouting now. “How dare you say that? How dare you? Who was the one who rescued you from being stabbed? Who stood up for you in the face of danger? Surely not me – no cowardly little girl could have ever done such a thing!”
Argo opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked like a deflated puffer fish in a drained bowl. However, he was saved the trouble of finding an adequate comeback by a loud shout from the house next to them.
“WILL YOU RATBAGS QUIET DOWN?” An old man with a head like a shrivelled pumpkin peered out of a low window. “This is not a playground! Maria!” he shouted over his shoulder, and a moment later a pretty young girl joined him at the window.
“Yes, Uncle?”
“Acquaint these young hooligans with your dogs, will you?”
“Yes, Uncle.” She flashed a brilliant smile in Argo’s direction, almost causing him to faint, and then swept away into the house.
The wizened old man gave a rather nasty smile. “Better run,” he cackle wickedly, and then limped off to follow his niece.
However, the children had no time to run, as a moment later, four ferocious dogs rounded the corner into the alley, restrained by the pretty girl. She now wore an alarming expression of glee and bloodlust, and as she released the dogs, she shouted after them, “Rip them to shreds, my darlings!”
Morgan and Argo struggled to stay atop the large barrel as the dogs leapt and snapped at their ankles. Argo squealed frantically as a large bull terrier caught hold of his boot, and attempted to shake him off by using his other foot as a club.
Morgan cringed against the wall of the building, watching, terrified, as a black dog with saliva dripping from his yellow fangs leapt up at her and barked savagely.
“What are we going to do?” she shouted over the ferocious snarls of the dogs.
“On the count of three,” Argo yelled, “grab my hand and jump! We should be able to reach the roof of this house.”
Morgan looked upwards fearfully and nodded.
“One,” said Argo.
The pretty girl at the entrance to the alleyway was screaming delightedly, egging the dogs on, her face alight with bloodthirsty pleasure.
“Two …”
Morgan was sweating, blood pounding in her ears as she struggled to press herself as close to the wall as she could go.
“THREE!” bellowed Argo, and, seizing Morgan’s hand, he made a great leap for the roof. His long fingers grabbed desperately at the edge, suspending him and his friend from the roof. Morgan flailed wildly about with her arms, attempting to catch hold of the edge. By the time she managed, a couple of dogs had leapt onto the top of the barrel and were again snapping at their heels. With a tremendous effort, Argo swung the two of them over the edge of the roof. They landed with a heavy thud and rolled painfully for a couple of metres. Then they lay, panting, until the roof began to creak ominously. Leaping to their feet, they dashed for another couple of metres until they reached the opposite edge of the roof. Without worrying about the fall, they jumped, landed and ran.
The two of them ran for a long time – not stopping, not looking back; all they cared about was to put as much space between them and the vicious dogs. Finally, they threw themselves down on a patch of long, dry grass, clutching at the stitches in their sides and breathing heavily.
Finally, Argo let out a snort. “Stupid dogs,” he grumbled, and sat up. To his immense surprise, the two had ended up right outside the bakery – and Mr. Oldman was standing in the doorway, glaring straight at him.
Argo lay back down swiftly, but it was not fast enough.
“ARGO!”
Morgan glanced at her friend, who motioned for her to crawl away. When she did not, he made the gesture even more frantically, and this time she complied. The last blades of grass had only just snapped back into place when Mr. Oldman’s red face loomed up in front of Argo.
Morgan watched from a distance as the poor boy received a swift and painful retribution from his master, who seemed to have enough curses and insults in store to fill a dictionary.
She watched with sympathy as Argo was dragged inside the shop by his earlobes, and listened as Mister Oldman booted him inside his room, warning him to never come out again.
As she listened to the irate monologue of the baker, Morgan’s thoughts strayed to the bronze amulet. She had been telling the truth when she had told Argo that it made her uneasy; she did not like the thing one little bit. She had not told him, however, about what had disturbed her most of all: the emerald eyes of the serpent. They had an unnerving charm – for a moment, as she looked into them, Morgan could have sworn that they were staring back, into her eyes. And they were deep – very deep. Morgan could almost feel herself being drawn into them, spiralling down, down into their shimmering green depths. Shuddering, she shook herself and strode off briskly for home.

The next morning, Morgan awoke to the same foreboding she had experienced four days ago – or was it four years? Scenes from that morning flashed through her mind – her father’s face when he found Katrina’s bed empty, her father placing his head in his hands as he tried hard not to cry – and her heartbeat quickened. Her feet seemed to be made of lead as she dragged them along the hallway to the front room.
Morgan saw the note immediately, but tried to pretend it wasn’t there for as long as she could. She prepared her breakfast without so much as a glance at it, and when she had finished, she sat there in silence for a long time, steeling herself. Finally, she turned heavy eyes on the tiny slip of bark paper, trying not to imagine what it might say.
Closing her eyes tight, she reached out, and, with a trembling hand, took the note. She held it up in front of her eyes, and opened them abruptly.
In that moment, her life was turned upside down.

Dearest Morgan,
I want you to know, first and foremost, that I love you with all my heart and will do so until the day I die. Please, always remember that.
I am going away, Morgan. I will be away for a very long time, and I may not be coming back. In fact, it is likely that I won’t.
I am looking for your mother. I have met two very helpful people, and they are going to show me the way. Don’t worry about me.
I am sure you will find lodging with Mr. Oldman, the baker. I would have you stay in our house, if you could, but your safety is far more important.
I will miss you, Morgan, more than I can tell. I only pray that you will keep yourself safe, and happy, and that I may live someday to see you one more time.
I love you.

Father

Morgan lay down the letter calmly. She was not panicking. She didn’t even cry.
What was the point of doing so? There was no reason – after all, her father had just left for a couple of days. Of course he would be back. She found it hard to see why he had even bothered to write the letter.
So why did she feel as though a giant sword had pierced her heart?
As she left the table to clear up the kitchen, Morgan tried to put the matter out of her mind. She had more important things to be getting on with. Besides, it wasn’t as if her father’s absence was forever. They would meet again someday soon.

But Morgan never did see her father again.

Chapter Five: Sixteen Years Later

The old tree by Charicadd Town Junction had been dead for two years. For a while, Argo had tried to save it. Every day, he would go there and attempt to revive it. He would trundle along a cart of manure and lay it at its roots; he would make the long trek from the old well and back to bring it water. But no matter what he tried, the tree remained grey and lifeless.
It had been that way since the day Morgan died. The night before, it had been green and flourishing, waving its thick foliage in the breeze. In the morning … all that was gone. It no longer seemed to laugh at Argo as he went past; no longer did it turn its leafy green arms to the morning sun. Argo had watched its demise in despair; in the absence of his beloved wife it seemed the only thing worth living for. And now it was dead.
Argo still felt the loss of Morgan as a deep wound; the cold knife of Death had pierced him to the heart. He could not picture her face, or imagine hearing her laugh, without aching terribly inside. There were times when he felt physically ill – two years ago, just after she had died, he had collapsed suddenly from weariness that had nothing to do with physical strain. There had been several occasions when he had felt quite faint all of a sudden, and then his eyes would well with tears for no apparent reason.
Argo had kept away from the town ever since his wife had died. He had not shown his face in the square in broad daylight for two and a half years – and even when he did visit, he visited in the evening, when the stalls and shops were just starting to close, and kept his face hidden. He had not even visited his old friend, the baker. In fact, he was quite sure that not a soul in the town knew of the tragedy – not even of his child.

It was on one particular evening, in midsummer, after leaving home to buy the week’s supply of food, that Argo ran straight into the one person he had not expected to meet – Mr. Oldman, the baker. He certainly did look old, thought Argo, as the man picked himself up from the ground and began muttering profuse apologies.
Argo gave him a small smile and bent to pick up a small parcel the baker had dropped. His hood fell back as he did so, but he did not notice.
Mr. Oldman took the object gratefully. “Oh, thank you, sir … most kind …” it was at that point he looked up – straight into Argo’s eyes. He did not even notice when he dropped the parcel again.
“Dear Lord,” he muttered. “Oh, dear Lord …” after searching Argo’s face for a moment, he spoke again. “Argo?”
Argo stopped trying to conceal his face, hesitated, and then nodded. “Yes – it is me.”
The old baker seemed lost for words. “Oh, Lord,” he said again. Then, “Argo … it really is – two years, Argo! Where were you? We thought you were … both of you …”
Argo managed a small smile. “We – I – was where I always have been since I left you,” he said. “The little shack on Old Dirt Road … Morgan’s house.” His throat constricted painfully as he said the name.
Mr. Oldman looked about ready to hug Agro. Restraining himself with an effort, his face broke into an ear-to-ear beam. “Why,” he said, “this is wonderful! The whole town must know! Argo, you have no idea how worried we were – how worried I was …”
Argo stopped him in mid-sentence. “I have no time to stop by for greetings, Master – ’’
Mr. Oldman’s smile faltered, and then broke out again. “Master! Yes, you were my assistant once, weren’t you? A fine mess you made of it sometimes, too …” He grinned at some long past memory.
“Oh, yes! By the by, how is old Morgan getting along nowadays? Still climbing trees and jumping off roofs, no doubt?” He chuckled.
Argo felt the line of his lips tighten. “Morgan is dead,” he said shortly.
The smile on the old man’s face faltered once more. As the full impact of what his former servant had said struck him, his eyes widened in horror. “Morgan – dear little Morgan – surely not …”
“It’s true, Master. She – she died in childbirth.”
Mr. Oldman’s eyes did not leave Argo’s face. His lip trembled involuntarily, and his face blanched. “Morgan … dear little Morgan,” he stammered again. “How – how awful …I would never have guessed it … oh, Argo, my boy, I’m so sorry …”
“It is not your fault,” choked Argo. “The time for mourning – is over. She died – two and a half years ago.”
The baker shook his head slowly. “Oh, dear Lord,” he breathed. He suddenly looked up, and fear was in his eyes. “But the child,” he stuttered, “surely the child lives?” He looked terrified to learn the answer.
“The child – the child – is alive,” faltered Argo, but Mr. Oldman had caught the hesitance in his voice, and studied his face carefully before saying farewell.
“Well,” he said in a strained manner, “I suppose – we should say goodbye for the night?”
Argo nodded tensely and held out his spidery hand. The baker looked at it for a moment, and then pulled Argo into a tight embrace. He let go very quickly, but Argo acknowledged the action with a small smile.
Mr. Oldman watched Argo’s face intently. “I had – I had best be off,” he said, and turned to walk away, but after a few paces, stopped and looked back. “And Argo,” he added, “I truly am – sorry.” He turned again and strode away, somewhat less briskly than before.

Argo arrived home very late that night. As he entered the little shack, he heard a tiny cry. Laying his sack quietly upon the low table, he made his way down the hallway.
As he entered Morgan’s old room, he spied the little bundle of material lying motionless atop the little straw bed. Argo approached it and scooped it gently into his arms.
“Carla,” he murmured softly.
As his face hovered above the bundle, a tiny hand reached out, touching his long nose with soft fingers. Argo held his slender hand above the bundle. The tiny fingers roved around aimlessly for a moment, and then grasped his bony index finger tightly.
Argo freed his hand gently and pulled the blankets away from the child’s face, gazing sadly down at it.
Through the gloom, two milky-white eyes stared back at him.