Read Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) Online
Authors: Gemma Liviero
Marek (Buried Lore Book 1)
MAREK
by
Gemma Liviero
Copyright © Gemma Liviero 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted by any person or entity in any form or by any means, or stored by any
information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing
from the publisher.
Florence Publishing
Email [email protected]
PO Box 547, Spring
Hill ,
Queensland, 4004
Typeset & Graphic Art:
Talk Turkey Print & Design
Cover art based on original portrait
by
Bronzino
The characters and their activities
are fictional.
This book is a work of fiction. Any
resemblance
to
actual persons is unintentional.
I am
bathed in the last streak of light from the sun. The white gold bounces across
the ripples of the sea, illuminating the scar on my forearm. This scar like a
lifeline stretches from the little finger of my left hand, across the back of
the wrist where it is jagged and broken, then in a straight line running off my
forearm. The rest cannot be seen for it finishes an inch into my chest.
It
is not an extraordinary scar for I have seen worse, but my wounds go far deeper
than they appear. They tell of a betrayal.
When
I set out to discover the truth of my heritage I had no idea that I would be
delving into a world so dark and treacherous, and so finely balanced between
good and evil. I could not have foreseen that my own kind would strip away
everything I believed good, leaving nothing but a miscreant: a creature far
deadlier than those predatory forest beasts that tear out the beating hearts of
their weaker prey without conscience.
But
I digress into self-pity, for my real intent is to warn that beneath the layers
of our society
lies
an ancient evil that has
threatened the land for centuries. And, in order to preserve your belief in the
goodness and virtues of many of my kind, there are things that I can never
disclose in detail. For beauty and greed can sway the holiest of souls, and
even witches like me.
My
father had been hoping that I was ordinary, that I had not inherited my
mother’s witchcraft, and he kept my past a secret. By accident I discovered my
healing craft, later acquiring more undesirable skills such as the ability to
determine the life-and-death fates of others and the darkest of arts –
immortality. As I was to discover, this last one comes with a hefty price.
One
year on, the nightmares persist. Images of creatures so hideous with sunken
yellow
eyes,
skin hanging from their gaunt frames, and
blood and saliva dripping from their sagging jowls. They chase terrified
villagers through misty wooded lands. One beast in particular recurs in my
dream, fiercer than the others, the leader perhaps, tearing at human flesh with
rapture. Sometimes when I look closely, that creature is
me
.
One
year earlier I was still a boy at heart, yet sometimes called a man. From the
events that happened, it is easy to question whether I am one now.
Chapter 1
1309–Anonymous
A
most extraordinary thing happened. I was visiting the markets with my maid when
a man in a long white coat approached me to suggest which figs were freshest,
much to the vendor’s dissatisfaction who wished to sell his older fruits first.
The stranger, some years older than me, wore an alluring orange-blossom
perfume, with a face so beautifully pale. His luminosity of skin and clothing
made him appear ethereal and it was this quality that left me overawed and
lacking a suitable response. However, I composed myself enough to nod my
thanks.
He
asked if he could walk me some of the way. I protested of course because it
wasn’t proper. My maid would most likely gossip and then I would be the talk of
our staid society. With just a whiff of impropriety, consummated or not, Uncle
was the type of man to send me off to an abbey to “calm down”.
Before
the white man took his leave he purchased a bunch of crimson roses and handed
them to me.
I had never had this much attention from a man
before, not one that I wanted anyway, and my aunt would frown upon such
forwardness and spontaneity.
I
went away and could not stop thinking about the handsome stranger. Even when I
closed my own eyes I could still see the silvery blue of his, so appealing and
bright like the crystals in my aunt’s
jewellery
. I
pressed one of his gifted roses between the pages of a book, as this was indeed
a memory I wished to keep.
I
would go to the markets every chance I could but without further sighting of
him. Just when I thought he would never return, and I would settle down once
more to mediocrity, he suddenly appeared at my side. He kissed my hand and
whispered that he had been thinking of me often. I nervously enquired whether
he might call upon my uncle to
legitimise
our friendship.
He frowned and thought about this a moment before replying that his father was
dying and that he should perhaps wait a while before any formal introductions
were
organised
. He said that he wished to learn the
value of his inheritance and be financially prepared before calling on a girl
of such high standing.
My
disappointment must have been evident for he tapped my nose gently. ‘I’m
sorry,’ he said. ‘Have I upset you?’
I
could not admit to it of course. How foolish would I have looked?
‘There
is another way we can perhaps spend some time together,’ he said in his thick
and sensuous foreign accent.
‘Tell
me,’ I said shamelessly, forgetting that my aunt often scolded me for such
exuberance. She said I was prone to being foolhardy like my mother, and my
tutor once referred to me as flighty.
‘Well,’
he said. ‘My friend is planning the grandest of feasts and you can come as her
guest. She lives just a day’s journey from here.’
‘I
can’t,’ I said. ‘My uncle would never allow it.’ I pictured my uncle’s disapproving
face at the suggestion of attending an event outside our own dull
establishments. ‘I warned you about her lack of good
judgement
,’
he would likely say to my aunt.
‘Oh,’
said the man. ‘No matter.’ And he was gone before I learned his name.
I couldn’t sleep for several nights. I snapped at my
maid and the housekeeper and refused to come down to the hall for dinner. Life
was incredibly boring in this house where my aunt invited old ladies to dinner,
while my uncle attempted to entertain their husbands with uninteresting
stories, and boasting about his business profits. I thought about the man from
the markets, praying for another chance.
Then
one evening there was a tap on my window. In the street below, my mysterious
friend from a faraway land stood waving from beside a carriage. Caring little
for correctness this time I prepared to meet him with much excitement. My aunt
had refused me paints and powders so with a hairpin I pricked the tip of my
finger with a needle and rubbed the ball of blood across my lips making them
appear plump and shiny. I quickly dressed, pinched my cheeks for
colour
, and with my hair still loose around my shoulders I
ran downstairs. My guardians were too busy entertaining to hear me. In fact,
they would not have noticed me gone until late morning the next day if it came
to it.
The
man took my hand endearingly, carefully assisting me to the plush black
carriage seating, while gazing at me constantly. I believed he was smitten and
I blushed.
‘You
are incredibly beautiful,
Mademoiselle
,’ he said staring at my lips.
‘You truly are a most delicious find.’
We
journeyed for what seemed like hours and there were moments of discomfort as
the carriage rode along some deeply rutted forest tracks. My friend amused and
distracted me with stories from his past though admittedly my memory of the
journey is clouded in part, as I may have dozed. It was still dark when our
carriage arrived in front of a castle of all places.
‘Is
this where your friend lives?’
‘Yes,’
he replied as he lifted me from the carriage. It was terribly bold but I
couldn’t help but enjoy the feel of his hands around my waist.
‘Now
my little flower, follow me!’
I
did so obediently, looking forward to the dancing he had described. We entered
a ballroom and I was surprised to find it empty. There was no party here but I
saw that at some point there had been; half empty glasses and used napkins sat
on serving tables.
‘Where
is everyone?’ He did not seem to hear but led me further into the vast stone
building with its high domed entrance. There was such extravagance as I had
never seen before, with elegant silver candelabra, much glassware and plush
velvet, and gilded chairs with legs inlaid with precious stones. We entered a
long hallway passing many rooms, and I was curious about the occupants behind
those closed wooden doors. It was here that trepidation began to creep
in, taking over from my excitement, and I thought of my poor little dogs back
in my room and how they would be missing me. I began to question my decision to
accompany the stranger and wondered for the first time how he had known my
address.
I
could not remember his name and asked again, possibly for the third time. It
was as if the name magically vanished from my thoughts each time. Again, he did
not hear and I found I had to walk very fast to keep up with him.
We
entered another room with marble columns though without the extravagance of the
main ballroom. Someone else was there. As I moved closer I saw that it was a
girl, not pretty, but striking with a narrow brow and high cheekbones. While I
was distracted the man grabbed my arm.
‘What
are you doing?’ I asked, suddenly wary.
He
answered with a smile, though in the dimness of the room, it looked more like a
leer.
‘Since
there doesn’t appear to be a feast I should be going home,’ I suggested weakly.
‘Oh
no,
ma
chérie
! There is no need to rush. You
would miss out on all the excitement.’ The stranger held my hands, and turning
them over in his own he bent his head to kiss my open palm. I experienced a
brief stinging sensation when his lips touched my skin and then a feeling of
coldness passed through my body.
When
he lifted his head I saw that his mouth and teeth were smeared with blood.
No-one
heard my screams beneath the castle hidden in the forest, far from everything
and everyone I knew.
Marek
1309,
the coastal island of
Gildoroso
, off the shores of
Syracuse...
I
woke to a late afternoon sky with a giant fireball suspended just above the
sea. While my eyes adjusted to my surrounds I lay in the thick soft grass on
the hills, brushed a bee off my arm, and listened to the gentle lapping of the
water.
Like
every day at this time the glinting water below beckoned me. The shoreline was
littered with
colourful
shells. These were made into
some of the most beautiful necklaces ever seen, and I wore a band of tiny black
shells around my neck given to me by one of the fishermen’s daughters.
I
climbed down the cliffs to wade into the cool blue, tasting its saltiness as it
washed away the wood dust and sweat of a day’s work; then swam a long distance
from the shoreline until my island was just a small golden mound on the
horizon. Our stone house could be seen from the middle of the sea.
It was on the highest point of the island backed by woodlands
.
Below our dwelling and down to the shore, limestone houses lined the hills in
tiers overlooking the sandy coastline.
As I
swam back to
Gildoroso
, the smell of gutted fish
greeted me, inviting the gulls to circle, swoop and collect their easy prey,
the remains of the haul. My father,
Ricco
, was one of
those men, though not a fisherman, who gutted his fish in the fading light of
day so that it was fresh for the cooking pot. He purchased the fish when the
men came in with their nets. Their greetings were warm towards my father but
there was an element of guardedness that never made them bond as brothers, as
men from the same town often do.
Gildoroso
was remote from the mainland. We were mostly self sufficient and apart from
several wealthier merchants who took their business offshore, the islanders
kept to themselves. Anyone who made their way here by boat generally ended up
bartering to stay for it was like discovering a precious gem or gold, so
peaceful was our community and so beautiful
were
our
shores. It was a place that most dream about.
Ricco
, my
father, was big and gruff. It was thought that I would imitate him in size but
at seventeen I was a head taller.
Ricco
could read
and write, having learned these from my mother I later discovered, and these
gifts he passed on to me. I was fortunate with this knowledge for only the
merchants on my island were educated, and so many others my own age were never
shown such skills.
Writing,
however, was rarely required for our line of work. As apprentice to my father’s
carpentry trade, our combined strength and skill put us in demand from the
townspeople.
Ricco
seemed to think that it was the
widows and their young daughters who were keenest for our services and he often
teased me that my looks were good for business. This I failed to see. Being so
much bigger than the small pretty girls on the island, I could not see how
anyone could love a gangly hulk like me, especially one who had a secret as
large as mine.
At
fifteen years, I discovered my special gift or rather it announced itself on
me. One day, while mending a roof, I accidentally hit my finger hard with a
hammer. I was so angry from the pain that I threw it. The tool sailed through
the air across the water, disappearing into the sun. My father had stopped work
momentarily. He had looked at the departing hammer, then at me, and then
back
to his work as if nothing extraordinary happened.
The
day after my father still said nothing. I accepted that perhaps I did not
realise
my own strength. Though upon reflection, I
recognise
my attempt to mask this strange occurrence with
logical excuses.
Then
came the day when my father’s knee gave way and he could no longer stand. His
knees had gradually been failing him over the years, the joint pain crippling
him in the colder months. He could no longer bend without wincing. And although
I offered many times to do the harder work he resisted. It would mean he was
ailing, something he did not care to admit to. This time, however, his limbs
had finally given up. He leaned on me as we returned home from our work.
I
applied warm cloths to his knees to ease the pain but it was clear from the
sweat on his face and his shortness of breath that the pain was unbearable. I
massaged his leg to which he did not object. I think at this point he would not
fight anything I did. As my hands rubbed over his damaged and swollen knee I
felt a tingling in my fingers, and the palms of my hands felt like they were
burning. As the massage continued, my father’s breathing became more relaxed
and he began to doze. Following this episode a feeling of weakness caused me to
lie down. I slept for nearly twelve hours.
When
I awoke my father was bending over the fire. The swelling in his leg had
disappeared and he was more mobile than I had seen him for years. He said I had
healed him and I was my mother’s son after all. But it was not so much
gratitude, rather a statement of regret and an acknowledgement of my art. His
next words shocked me.
‘Do
not ever tell anyone of this and never do it again.’
I
was confused. ‘Why? What exactly did I do?’
‘You
were born with a gift
Marek
, inherited from your
mother. Though, it is more of a curse.’ And there it was. That’s how I was told
I was different. My father never talked about my mother and up until that time
it was one of the few things I had learned about her.