Mary-Cade Mandus - Skin Deep

Elena had been a seamstress in the village of Stitchn' Time in the Third Kingdom when she’d caught the eye and heart of a gypsy, Gyorgy, whose tribe had set up camp in the Sewpretty Woods ringing the village. Gyorgy was an honorable and kind man with the glint of good humor in his eye. He was also a trusted friend as well as a fearless and skilled hunter. Out of their respect and affection for him the tribe accepted Elena as his bride. With her dark beauty inherited from her great-grandmother - a full-bloodied gypsy - and her kind heart, Elena eventually became as admired as her husband. The only one to look upon the union with a jaundiced eye was Queen Llorana, called Mother by her people. Her rule was absolute and she had taken an unwarranted dislike to Elena upon first sight.

As was their wont the tribe spent the spring wandering throughout the Second, Third and Fourth Kingdoms, pitching camp at long-established sites before returning to their predominant camping grounds in the Disenchanted Forest. Despite the hardships Elena had settled contentedly into her new life. She and Gyorgy were sublimely happy in their marriage and their happiness was made complete when their daughter Mirella was born. Both parents doted on the baby girl. She had inherited her mother’s looks and by the age of sixteen had surpassed her in beauty. According to gypsy tradition marriages were arranged at birth but Gyorgy had forgone the practice in favor of allowing his daughter to have a say in who would be her husband. This break with custom had not set well with some of the elders and especially with Milosh, Llorana’s favorite grandson. He had coveted Mirella since they were children and was determined to have her.

Tragedy struck on Mirella’s seventeenth birthday. In a freak hunting accident Gyorgy had been killed by a ricocheting arrow, leaving his family without a protector or provider. Milosh had seen his chance and had approached the widow, asking for Mirella’s hand. She had refused him soundly; barely able to hide her disgust that he would use their misfortune for his own gain. She also knew that Mirella detested him, for despite his handsome face he was selfish and had a penchant for cruelty. Furious, Milosh had vowed to Elena that nothing would stop him from taking Mirella for his bride.

Several days later he accosted the girl as she was drawing water from the camp spring. He was in the company of friends and for their benefit boasted that she’d be his - whether it was as his wife or not was no longer of any consequence. Emboldened by his companions’ whoops of laughter he grabbed her and forced a kiss. But Mirella, taking exception to being treated as though she were no better than some strumpety Fourth Kingdom shepherdess, had fought back marking his face and declaring she’d rather be dead than his wife.

Shamed before his friends, and before nightfall the entire camp, for his companions would not keep the incident to themselves - Milosh had sought out his grandmother. After hearing her grandson’s impassioned pleas Llorana had Elena brought to her wagon. Imperiously the old woman had commanded that Mirella be given to Milosh. Elena, having heard the story from her incensed daughter, had foreseen the demand and drawing on her inner strength bravely refused. Llorana had made no comment but her talon-like fingers had begun to beat a sharp tattoo against the arms of her chair and her hooded eyes had reddened alarmingly. All of her loathing for Elena then spewed forth in a dreadful curse. Badly shaken Elena had returned to her wagon to find her daughter unconscious upon the floor. That night she drugged the camp stewpots and when everyone was asleep had fled the camp heading for a place she’d only heard about in legends – the Bewildering Wilderness.

When the effects of the drug had worn off and their absence had been discovered Milosh and a small group of his cronies had set out in pursuit. They had almost been successful in recapturing the fugitives, for Elena had been having second thoughts about her plan and had hesitated almost too long before consigning herself and her child to irreversible exile.

While recounting the story Filch had kept his eyes upon the ground but now he raised them to meet Crispin’s. Frowning, Crispin told him to continue. Puzzled, Filch replied that that was where the story ended. This statement was met by an incredulous look and the retort that he’d not described the curse. Filch confessed regretfully that he knew nothing about the curse – neither its temperament nor how it would manifest. The story he’d just related was all he knew for Elena had never elaborated.

Mirella had been teaching him a song when she’d cried out and slumped to the floor. She’d appeared lifeless and he’d panicked but Mala, Mutch’s mate, had sensed otherwise and had been attempting to revive her when Elena had rushed in. The look upon Elena’s face when she’d seen Mirella had heightened their alarm. Elena had lifted Mirella onto her bed and had remained upon its side rubbing the girl’s pale hand between both of her own for a few moments, her face unreadable but her gaze had been both hot and cold. She’d jumped up and run into the tiny kitchen, wrenching open cupboard doors and rummaging through their contents. Although he’d had the advantage of being elevated he’d been unable to discern what she’d been doing. After awhile, she’d gone out again but as she’d passed by he’d caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the cork stopper of a small bottle clutched tightly in her hand. Mala had stayed behind, her anxious gaze vacillating between her stricken mistress upon the bed and the open wagon door. It was the dinner hour and they could hear the normal hum as the tribe had gathered around the stew pots. About twenty minutes had lapsed when the sounds seemed to dwindle then stop completely. The night was as deathly still as Mirella and he’d jumped when Elena’s urgent voice had called from the darkness beyond the door, summoning Mala. Once Mala was outside Elena had shoved the ladder inside the wagon and locked the door. He’d heard rustlings, the heavy clomp of horse’s hooves and the traces being raised. Within minutes the wagon had shuddered and jerked forward. The journey had been grueling, the route they’d taken strewn with obstacles, which had sent the wagon to bucking, but throughout the ordeal, Mirella had never awakened or uttered a sound.

Filch’s voice faltered and Crispin, impatient, moved to prod him with the crutch but the expression upon the little man’s face stayed his hand. Within his mind Filch was once again inside the wagon on that dreadful night where he clung desperately to the wooden bars, terrified and helpless, as his cage was batted violently back and forth, each swing threatening to tear it from its hook.

Caught within the memory Filch shuddered, threw his arms around his head and drawing his knees up to his chin, lay like a pillbug in the dirt. Dismayed, Crispin felt a tug of shame at having bullied him for, he was truly fond of the odd little creature. Leaning forward he patted the hunched shoulders and spoke soothingly, apologizing for his harsh treatment. An ebony bead peered up from under an arm, the pupil wildly dilated. Slowly Filch unfolded his body and sat up, looking about as though surprised to find himself in such a place. Crispin continued to pat and talk but Filch only cocked his head - his face displaying only blank detachment - and emitted deep-throated croaks. Gradually recognition replaced the dreaminess in his gaze and Crispin relaxed. As Filch recouped, Crispin decided it might be best to modify his tactics. Tapping the empty space on the wall he invited Filch to sit beside him. Suspicious, Filch hesitated then hopped up. Keeping distance between himself and Crispin, he squatted upon his haunches, bouncing uneasily on the balls of his feet.

Crispin smiled amicably and apologized again for his earlier behavior. He continued in this vein for several minutes until the little man unbent and sat down. Filch’s naturally cheerful temperament was rapidly on its way to full restoration when Crispin granted him possession of the pilfered buttons. Then, hoping to enhance the balm, Crispin tugged a few of the remaining ones from his jacket and spilled them into the little man’s lap. Stupefied, Filch stared down at the precious metal pieces. When the implication of the act finally dawned on him he hugged them tightly to his breast and sprang from the wall, hopping and crowing with rapturous abandon.

In the highest of spirits and thoroughly won over, he returned to Crispin’s side, grinning hugely and gazing up at him worshipfully. Treading carefully Crispin inquired if he might ask a few more questions. Filch’s grin deflated and he grew pensive, but only for a moment, then he nodded and asked what else he wanted to know.