Michael seemed intent on keeping their arduous pace; he showed no signs of fatigue. She wondered how his black garb did not become burdensome when the sun pierced the heavy foliage and grew more potent with the day.
She wished she could call out to him to let him know she needed water and food. A sprinkle of perspiration marked her forehead. If she could pin up her long hair, pull it off her back and neck, it would be a welcoming relief. And rest—oh, how she wished she could rest if only for a moment.
He stopped suddenly and Mary almost collided with him. He stood still and listened, and she did the same, hoping to hear what had caught his attention, praying it was not footsteps.
It took a moment but she heard the familiar sound and smiled. It was faint but distinct—a brook or stream. She wanted to run fast, cup handful after handful of water to drink and splash on her face. She eagerly turned, ready to find the stream.
Michael took hold of her arm. “We must be careful. Any who travel will look for water to refresh themselves and we must not be seen.”
They made their way cautiously toward the sounds and, after Michael made certain they were alone, walked to the stream.
Mary immediately dropped down, cupped some water and did not stop drinking until her thirst was quenched. Then she proceeded to wash her face. The water felt refreshingly cool against her warm skin.
From the corner of her eye she saw Michael scoop water into his ungloved hand and drink. This was the first time she caught a hint of flesh. She was surprised to see that his skin was warm in color, not pale as one would expect, as he spent his days completely shrouded from the sun.
He finished quickly, reached for the glove beside him on the ground, and stood. “I will find food.”
She nodded eagerly and returned to rinsing her face with the cool water. When she finished she combed her tangled hair with her fingers as best she could. Mary then looked for a twig; picking one off the ground, she twisted her hair up onto her head and threaded the sturdy stick through the knot. She retrieved from the loose hem her stones, then fashioned a pouch with the corner of her tunic, knotting it to keep the them in place. She tucked one stone in her belt, ready and handy to use when necessary. She felt refreshed.
Michael was standing beside a tall tree. He stood perfectly still and seemed as focused on her, or perhaps his attention was on something in the distance, beyond Mary.
She turned but saw nothing, and when she glanced back to Michael she jumped; he stood beside her. She held her palm out, walked her fingers across it then pointed to her ears and shook her head.
“Silent steps are necessary for me.” He held out his cupped hands filled with berries.
Mary took a handful and savored their sweet juice.
“We will rest for only a few moments; we have a distance to go and cannot waste time.”
Mary nodded, walked to the water’s edge to sit and give her weary legs rest. Michael joined her, offering the remaining berries. A tender smile showed her appreciation and she reached out, gently brushing the berries from his hand into hers. She stared at his glove-covered hand realizing that strength and tenderness rested there. He could pick delicate berries without crushing them, and yet the same hand could snap a man’s neck. He was a contrast of shadow and light and she could not help but wonder what had created him.
She wished she could speak, ask him questions. A sudden thought struck her and she looked around excitedly, reached for a stick nearby. Then she wrote in the dirt in front of them.
Why?
She pointed at him, her finger going up and down the length of him.
“Why do I conceal my identity?”
She nodded.
“If people could look upon the Dark One, he would be dark no more. And he could help no one.”
Why help?
He did not answer immediately. He turned his head away and answered harshly. “I have no choice.” He stood and held his hand out to her. “We must go.”
She dropped the stick and took his hand. She had touched on a subject he did not wish to discuss, did not wish to reveal. Strange, they were so much alike. They both hid. She from Decimus, but who did he hide from?
Her thoughts were soon directed to her footsteps, the terrain having grown more difficult. Small hills, fallen trees, large stones that needed to be climbed, avoided, or walked around slowed their pace, as did her tired aching muscles. Just before nightfall they stopped briefly to eat roots collected along the way. Mary wished for any bed, even the hard ground to rest upon, but it was not to be. They continued on, darkness closing in around them. Mary tripped several times, unable to clearly see the path. Finally, she almost tumbled to the ground but Michael quickly caught her. She dropped her head tiredly to his chest.
He wrapped his arm around her for support. “I know you are worn out, but there is a cave a few more miles ahead and we can rest safely there.”
It felt good to rest her weight against him, if only for a moment. But she had to remain independent, reliant on herself, no matter how exhausted she was. She reluctantly eased herself off him. Then they continued, Michael at a hardy pace, she keeping up—surprising for two people who had been walking since daybreak. Neither uttered a word, focusing all their energy on steady and persistent footsteps.
Nearly two hours passed before they arrived at the cave. It was small, dark, and cold. Mary shivered. She rubbed her arms, longing for a fire to warm her bones. Michael cloaked his robe around her. “I will not take a chance and light a fire, though I do not think anyone has followed us this far; I will not risk it.”
Mary fought against dropping against him to rest again, but since she had not an ounce of strength left, it took only seconds for her body to betray her. She slumped against him, surrendering with her entire weight.
“Sit and rest while I go find soft brush to fashion a bed,” he urged. “We must sleep and have much land to cover tomorrow.” Then he lowered her exhausted body to the ground.
Mary’s aching legs were grateful for the reprieve. As she rubbed the sore muscles she gave thought to Magnus. Would he join them soon or were she and Michael completely on their own?
Michael returned shortly with an armful of pine branches to find Mary writing in the dirt floor. He laid out the brush, then looked to see what she had written.
Magnus here soon?
Michael explained. “I am to see to your safety until I can contact him. He will then decide what is to be done with you. He is a good friend and cares very much what happens to you.”
Mary hung her head, her shoulders slumped, and she sighed heavily.
Michael bent down in front of her, slipping his glove-covered finger beneath her chin and lifting it gently. “Magnus will make certain that you have a safe place to live.”
She shook her head. As long as Decimus lived she would not be safe. She stretched out on the bed of pine.
“Your fatigue brings disillusionment. You will feel stronger in the morning.” He lay down beside her.
Strength. Her parents’ death had given her strength. One night she was a young girl with a loving family, the next night she had no one and faced torture and death. She remembered how she had cried when Magnus told her they were dead, that she would have to leave her village, go far away. She had cried until there were no more tears to cry, and then she got angry. She swore that one day she would make Decimus suffer for what he had done, but that was a young girl’s hurt and pain speaking.