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John was born and raised in Michigan, and after high school served in the Army during the Viet Name War. After leaving the Army he graduated from Appalachian Bible College in West Verginia and Berean Christian Collegae in Witchita, Kansas. His hobbies are hiking, fishing and climbing mountains. He has been a teacher, pastor and assistant mission director.
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MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- Graduated from Appalachian Bible College with Honors.
- Had his book, WANZALARA'S COTTAGE published by Essence Publishing, Canada.
- Has had articles,short stories and poems published in magazines and anthologies.
- Published a mentoring manual for men in ministry through Northwest Independent Church extension in University Place, WA.
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MY NEWS:
John married margaret Sampson in June of 2005. Margaret is a professor of business and economics at Calvin college in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
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MY RESIDENCE INFO:
City: Grand Rapids
State/Country: Michigan
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BOOKS PUBLISHED:
WANZALARA'S COTTAGE
There shall not be found among you anyone who makes his son or his daughter
pass through the fire, or one who practices witchcraft, or a soothsayer, or one
who interprets omens, or a sorcerer, or one who conjures spells, or a medium,
or a spiritist, or one who calls up the dead. For all who do these things are an
abomination to the LORD, and because of these abominations the LORD your
God drives them out from before you. You shall be blameless before the
LORD your God... the LORD your God has not appointed such for you.
Deut 18:10-14 (NKJV)
And we know that all things work together for good to those who
love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.
Romans 8:28 (NKJV)
Part 1
Wendie's Tears
Chapter 1
Wenrak allowed his grandmother a hurried sidelong glance and a wag of his hand as he sprinted by her house. From her chair on the porch she answered his wave with a quick cheerful smile. She's always smiling! he thought. But down the street he continued, his arms pumping, and his feet kicking dust, all the way to the village smithy, where, gasping for air, he skidded to a halt in front of his father and grandfather who stood in the doorway talking. His grandfather smirked, tousled the boy's hair, made a comment about all that energy! then bade Wenrak and his father the day. As the old man turned to go he gave the boy a gentle whack on the rear with his cane, then hobbled off toward home.
Wenrak focused momentarily on his grandfather's limp, then turned and looked up into the big blacksmith's twinkling eyes. "Father, it isn't fair!" he groused angrily.
"And just what is this great injustice that has riled your dander, Wenrak?" laughed the blacksmith of Fairholm Village.
"Father, don't laugh at me!" The boy's hair, the color of sun bleached sand, half shaded his fiery brown eyes. He set his eight year old jaw and twisted his freckled face into a terrible scowl. "You've always said the Maker is good. But if that's true why did he let Hadran's father leave him and his mother all alone and run off to Zephers to work on a sail ship that will be out to sea for months and months. Hadran's been crying all morning cuz he doesn't want his father to go. Hadran's father says it's the Maker's will. But Hadran says it's not fair, and I don't think it's fair either!"
The big blacksmith eyed his son thoughtfully. "Tell me, Wenrak, would you have Hadran and his family starve?" Awrak winked, then turned and ambled back inside the shop, Wenrak at his heels. With a pair of tongs the blacksmith took an iron plowshare out of the fire, picked up his hammer, lifted it above his head, and brought it down on the steamy metal that he held against a huge black anvil.
CLANG!
"Course I wouldn't want them to starve. But what's that got to do with anything?" Wenrak wasn't ready to give up on the subject.
CLANG!
"Well, there's no work here in Fairholm." Awrak paused, cast Wenrak a grim-faced glance, then added, "Hadran's father has no choice but to look elsewhere, as difficult as that may be for Hadran. And, son, in spite how bad things may seem, I assure you, the Maker will work it out for good."
CLANG!
"But, pa, if it's bad, then how can it be good?"
CLANG!
The big blacksmith's face thawed from scowl to grin. He laid down his hammer and set aside the plowshare.
"It's time to close up shop." he announced. Awrak gathered his tools and put things in their place, then Wenrak helped him heave the big doors shut with a bang.
The little village of Fairholm lay nestled at the base of Bittersweet Mountain in the land of Medara. North of Fairholm, Bittersweet Creek tumbled from the Fairholm Mountains, meandered east along the southern edge of Darkwood Forrest to Zephers, then dumped its root stained waters into The Sea. Wenrak and his family lived beyond Bittersweet Creek at the edge of the forest.
On their way home Wenrak and his father stopped to watch the Bittersweet in its quest for the Sea. They sat down on a grassy knoll overlooking a bend in the creek. There, side by side, Father and son leaned back against a large stump, and watched in fascination as fish sucked bugs off the surface of a sun glistened pool.
Finally Wenrak broke the silence. "I still don't think it's fair!"
His father laughed and shook his head.
"Father, I'm serious." Wenrak pushed at his father with his elbow.
"Well then," trolled his father, "I shall tell you a story, and when the story is done you can tell me if the Maker is fair."
Wenrak loved his father's stories. So with youthful excitement he agreed to the arrangement. He prepared himself by crossing his legs and putting his hands behind his head. His father smiled, shifted to a more comfortable position himself, then began his story.
Long ago, two sisters lived in our village, twins, lovely little girls, identical in every way but one. Glendora, the first to breach the womb, grew up mean spirited and selfish. She was always reaching out and grasping with her long, narrow, greedy hands. Glendora did not love the Maker, for she wanted to live her life however she might choose. On the other hand, her sister, Mendora, grew to be a gentle woman, caring and self-giving. She loved the Maker and always sought to do his bidding.
When she came of age, Mendora married a fine man named Wenfred. He was a hard working man, a forester. He worked in the woods beyond our cottage, cutting timber and building log cabins much like our own. Wenfred and Mendora had been married just over two years when a child graced their home, a little girl. They named her Wendora, but called her Wendie.
At four years old Wendie cried her first hot tears. A fellow woodsman carelessly felled a tree that struck Wenfred and left Mendora a widow and poor Wendie a fatherless child.
"Why, mommy? Why?"
Her mother offered quiet comfort but did not attempt an answer. For she had no answer.
Mendora and Wendie eked out a living gathering berries, mushrooms and herbs, which they sold at the village market. They missed Wenfred, and although they did not understand why the Maker had allowed him to be killed by the falling tree they accepted their fate as the Makers will. As time passed peace returned to their hearts and joy once again danced in their eyes.
"Curse the Maker!" Glendora barked at her sister. "He robbed you of your husband and cast you into poverty and hardship, yet all you can do is smile. If the Maker exists he is cruel and not to be trusted. But if you want my opinion, and I'll give it whether you want it or not, I do not believe in the so-called Maker. He is a figment of the imagination. We are born by chance, we live by chance, and we die by chance. So I say, grab what you can today, and make your own tomorrow!"
Wendie thought her Auntie Glendora strange, even frightening, both for her harsh words and the terrible fire that burned in her eyes. But Mendora pitied her sister and felt deeply saddened by her brusque tone and passionate disbelief. So Mendora made a point of visiting her sister regularly in spite of the heartache she seemed to purposely cause.
Glendora, neither caring nor gracious, lived only for her own good pleasure, and in so doing took no notice of the pain and discomfort she brought to the lives of those she rubbed shoulders with, including her sister and niece. Still, she claimed affection for them both.
As it was, a week after Wendie turned seven years old she and her mother headed out to the hills north of Bittersweet Mountain to gather herbs when an unexpected storm swept down from the Fairholms. The last fall rain, touched by the chill of the coming winter, penetrated to Mendora's bones. Mother and daughter returned to their cabin and a warm hearth. Wendie dried out and laughed off her shivers. But not so Mendora. In spite the sweat that dripped from her brow she felt cold and trembled uncontrollably.
Pneumonia claimed Mendora's life within the week. In the dark, Wendie cried the tears of an orphan. But "good hearted" Auntie Glendora came to Wendie's rescue, and she claimed as her own both Wendie and the wonderful cabin built by the hands of Wenfred. Now she had a home in the village, a cottage in the country, and a house girl to boot. And, of course, the village watchers chattered fence to yard about Glendora's act of unusual kindness toward the unfortunate orphan girl. And so before the eye of the public Auntie Glendora portrayed Wendie as her beloved niece. But in private she treated Wendie with disdain, and required the girl to serve as nothing less than a slave.
Wendie cleaned her Auntie Glendora's house and cottage. She cooked her Auntie's food. In fact, she did whatever her auntie told her to do, or paid the price of her loving benefactor's wrath inflicted with broom, whip or stick. Still, Wendie remained a sweet spirited girl, molded in the image of her mother. She worked hard to please her Auntie and quietly endured the abuses. However, Wendie's meek response only intensified Glendora's irritation with her.
"I can no longer stand to look upon the child!" she complained to her friend Ekazar, the village undertaker.
Ekazar also dabbled in the forbidden arts of dark magic and sorcery. In fact, he considered himself a necromancer, and the citizens of Fairholm feared him. Tall, gangly, stoop shouldered, he walked the streets of the village his grim, shifty eyes intimidating all comers, in spite of the fact that from a distance he struck a comic image with wire bound spectacles balanced on the end of his long narrow nose, that hung out over his almost-always frown, that drooped poutishly above his pointed black goatee. Atop his head, crumpled and askew, sat a black stovepipe hat. And when Ekazar walked, the pointed tails of his ebon coat bounced off his heels.
Glendora conspired with him in the living room of his large stone house south of the village near the graveyard. A moonless night provided an appropriate backdrop for heir kind of business.
"Yes, I have seen the girl." A mischievous light flickered in Ekazar's eyes. "Her form is comely to the eye." He paused, ran a fretting hand through his hair, then continued. "You know what I mean." He laughed nervously. "How old is she?"
"Gad! I have put up with the little wretch for these seven years!" groused Glendora as she flopped back in her chair and rolled her eyes nearly out of sight to emphasize her exasperation at having to care for the girl.
"Well, I buried her mother...most of her anyway," [he sniggered obnoxiously as he spoke] "a month before the child's seventh birthday, if I remember correctly. Must be fourteen now." He paused, cocked an excited eyebrow upward, and leaned forward smiling grotesquely. "She's a young lady...mature for her age wouldn't you say?"
"Hard work does tend to build one's body, if you know what I mean!" laughed Glendora. She eyed Ekazar carefully to be sure the seed was well planted. And she smiled to herself as his neck turn red and his hands began to tremble. It certainly doesn't take much to manipulate his vile mind! she mused.
Glendora cut the conversation short, satisfied the seed had found fertile ground. And as she skittered through the darkness toward home she allowed herself to contemplate the possibility of being rid of the wretched child. But she grimaced at the thought that she would not actually be free to marry the girl off until her sixteenth birthday. "Oh well!" she sputtered to herself as she stomped along the dirt road. "The two years will pass quickly. And besides being rid of the girl I will gain a handsome dowry."
As for Ekazar, from that night forward he began to gaze upon the young girl more freely, and to visit his "dear friend, Glendora" more often. And so, on a gray sullen evening nearly two years later, while Wendie cleaned the stable behind the little cottage built by Wenfred, Auntie Glendora and Ekazar the Necromancer planned her future, for she would soon come of age.
"And don't miss those cobwebs!" her auntie had barked just hours before. So after shoveling the stalls, Wendie returned to the cottage in search of a broom. As she approached the house Ekazar's voice carried out through the open window and stopped the young girl in her tracks. She spun on her heels thinking she would flee back to the safety of the stables, but the words that fell on her ears caught her attention. She turned again, pressed her back to the outer wall of the cottage, and in spite of the fear that set her legs to trembling, listened to the gruff exchange.
"It is settled then." harrumphed Ekazar. "Though I must say, you drive a hard bargain, my lady." Then the necromancer sighed deeply and aired one final complaint. "Twenty gold pieces is at least ten too many, an exorbitant price for a bride."
"Yes, and I'm sure you'll get your money's worth out of the little wench." growled Glendora with an air of triumph. "Ten gold pieces gives you a clean house and laundered clothes. The other ten gold pieces pay the price of your lust for woman flesh. So you can divvy up the first ten now and the other ten when I deliver the girl to your door the day of her sixteenth birthday."
"Done, my lady! Done!" Ekazar's voice rang with anticipation. He drew in a long breath, then continued in more somber tones. "But, mind you, no bruises on her body when she is delivered. Looks is as important as function, ya know." Then he burst forth in uncontrolled laughter.
Ekazar's hideous laughter continued to echo inside Wendie's head as she fled to the stable loft, where she fell upon the hay and cried as she had never cried before. [And as you know, Wendie was well acquainted with tears]. Finally, when tears would no longer come she looked toward the ceiling and cried out to the Maker in despair. "Why? Why?" she murmured. But her groanings met with silence.
After a bit, fearing her auntie would find her thus, she pulled herself together, found a long stick, and began to worry the stringy cobwebs that seemed to hang everywhere. She cleaned the stable, but made a sooty mess of herself. And that was how Auntie Glendora and Ekazar the Necromancer found her when they came to the byre calling for her.
"Wendieee!" called Auntie Glendora with a freakishly pleasant ring to her voice. "Oh, my dear, sweet Wendora, where are you? Mr. Ekazar wants to see you before he returns to the village."
Wendie stepped out of the barn into the light. Cobweb runners draped her hair, and dried tears mingled with soot smudged her face. An unsightly black grime daubed her dress. She stank like the stuff she had shoveled from the cow stall. And in her hand she held a long crooked stick twisted with nasty webbing.
Ekazar's brow cocked upward, his eyes bulged, and his nose wrinkled as he took a step backward. "This is... Well, I... What's the meaning..." he sputtered. Then he turned his glare from Wendie to Glendora.
"Oh, my!" she muttered as she covered her mouth with her hand. Embarrassment rose from her neck to redden her face. She cleared her throat, and forced a smile as she turned to Ekazar and declared, "Well, as you can see with your own eyes, Ekazar, the girl is a hard worker."
"Humph!" grunted Ekazar in disgust. "I've never seen such a filthy little strumpet in all my life!" With a huff he folded his arms and turned his head aside. "Such filth is most unbecoming to her otherwise fine form. Do see that she takes a bath, Glendora."
Now Ekazar could handle dressing and preparing the dead for burial, even cutting them up when...convenient to his arts. But dirt! Quite deplorable! He kept things in tidy order, and washed several times a day. So with a final glance of disdain leveled at the possession just purchased, he turned on his heel, and without another word, or even a wave of his hand, he stalked off toward the village.
Two weeks after Ekazar's visit Auntie Glendora took the girl to town for a holiday. So she told Wendie. In reality she took Wendie to the village to parade her before Ekazar in order to insure his continued desire for the girl. Glendora did not want him going back on his deal. And besides, her village house needed a going over with broom and duster while the little wench was still in hand. In fact, Glendora experienced extreme anguish at the thought of selling Wendie. She found the prospect of having to clean her own house and cook her own meals utterly distasteful. But she quickly swept any second thoughts away. For she found the idea of cleaning her own house much less distasteful then enduring the presence of her wretched niece day after day.
Now Wendie had been in Fairholm just two days when she made the most bold decision she had ever made in her life. Wendie decided to run away. The idea came to her when a wagon loaded with goods from the village mercantile broke down in front of Auntie Glendora's house, while her Auntie was away taking care of "business." Wendie watched from the window as the owner of the wagon headed up the road toward the smithy. The thought of running away crossed her mind at that very moment. She hesitated, bit at her fingernails, broke out in a sweat...then dropped her broom, slipped out to the wagon, and crawled under the canvas cover where, trembling, she wedged herself between crate, barrel and sideboard.
Wendie found a knothole in one the boards. Putting her eye to the small opening she saw a handsome young man come strolling down the road toward the wagon. At the young man's heels trundled the town blacksmith with hammer in hand. Wendie held her ears as the burly artisan banged, jerked and pried on the tongue of the cart.
"Well, that should keep the axle from catching when you go around a corner." muttered the sweat drenched smith.
"What do I owe you?" asked the young man. His voice sounded smooth and pleasant to Wendie' s ears.
"A couple coppers oughta cover it." trolled the smith.
Then the world exploded!
"Wendoraaaa!" shrieked Glendora at the top of her lungs. She had arrived home only moments before to discover an empty house, unfinished work, and the broom lying on the floor unattended.
"Wendoraaaa! Where are you, you wretched imp! I'll teach you to play games with me!" She stumped down the steps and scuttled out to the gate. "Say, you two, have you seen that indolent niece of mine?"
"Ain't seen the wench since you came to town." grubbed the smith resentfully. "Ya keep her cooped up in yer house and rob us a' the pleasure!"
"Who are we talking about here?" asked the young wagon owner.
"She's a pretty blond headed thing named Wendora." gruffed the blacksmith. "A good looker. Seen her once ya wouldn't mind seein' her again. A nice kid."
"Guess I missed out on the pleasure." laughed the young man. He turned to the distraught woman. "But I'd be delighted to help you look for her, Glendora."
"I'm sure you would!" she snapped. Then she shook a boney finger at the boy and snarled, "But you can take your cart and be off to your father's castle. I'll take care of my own business. Besides the sorry strumpet is already promised, and Mr. Ekazar wouldn't take kindly to a young rogue like yourself trifling with his property."
"Well, if the poor girl be promised to him she done run fer the hills. Rather take her chances wi' the wild beasts, I reckon." guffawed the blacksmith. "And who wouldn't. I'd wish ya luck findin' the girl but it would be blasphemy ta say so, it would."
"Go flatten your bulbous nose on your anvil!" shot back Glendora. She tromped back up the walk, entered her house without looking back, and slammed the door after.
"Such a nasty temper." mused the young man. He shook his head in dismay, then pulling a leather pouch from his shirt he turned his attention back to the blacksmith. "Must say, I pity any girl promised to Ekazar. A strange fellow, that one. Gives me the creeps!"
The blacksmith allowed another outburst of laughter, collected his coppers and headed back to his shop. Then Wendie felt the wagon tip as the young wagon master hoisted himself aboard. "Ha!" he shouted. The horses whinnied and the wagon pitched forward. At that same moment the realization of the risk she was taking lurched in Wendie's chest. Her heart pounded and her hands trembled uncontrollably...there was no turning back.
Chapter 2
For the next hour the wagon trundled along the bumpy road bouncing Wendie from sideboard to barrel to crate and back again. But in the process she got her emotions under control, which means she finally stopped trembling, primarily because a bruised hip, elbow and upper back occupied her mind. And just when she thought she could take no more battering from crate and barrel the wagon stopped. She almost sighed aloud for relief, and had to fight to quiet her breathing. Still she felt sure the young man would surely hear the pounding of her heart.
"Ah, the Fertile Fields of Medara." trolled the youthful wagon master in a rich resonant voice. Wendie wondered whom he might be talking to. She looked out the knothole but could see no one on that side of the wagon. The young man continued, "The flowers are in bloom and their sweet fragrance rests upon the air. What a delight!"
Then with a sudden slap of canvas light flooded into Wendie's hiding place, both frightening and blinding her at the same time. And her fit of trembling returned.
"You have nothing to fear, my lady." said the resonant voice. "Come sit beside me here on the seat. It's much preferred to lying pinched between keg and cask."
Wendie rubbed the glare from her eyes and struggled to her feet. "Oh, please don't take me back to Fairholm!" she blurted.
"Send you back to Glendora and Ekazar? Not a chance." grunted the young man. "You must be Wendie. Saw you peeking through the knothole when Garth and I returned to the wagon. And I must say, you are every bit as pretty as Garth said."
Wendie ignored the compliment. She never thought of herself as being pretty. She did not understand such flattery. After all, her Auntie Glendora had told her over and over that she was a very plain looking girl. Nor did Wendie mind being quite ordinary...another term her auntie used. But right now her concern was to escape Ekazar's clutches.
"What will you do with me?" Anxiety rode the edge of her voice.
"I can take you to my father's castle for now. He will take care of things, I'm sure." He paused, raised his eyebrows questioningly and added, "How does that suit you, my lady?"
"Suits me just fine," Wendie offered a half smile, "as long as your father doesn't send me back to Fairholm to marry Ekazar. I cannot bear the thought of that man's touch."
"Can't blame you there. But come. From up here you can enjoy the grandeur of the Fertile Fields in Springtime." The young man as he slid over to make room for Wendie. "My name is Arrak, but most people just call me Arrie. My father is Aasak, the Baron of Medara. He's a just man, and kind. You'll like him, I am sure. Now tell me about yourself, and especially how you got into the terrible predicament of being promised to Ekazar."
So Wendie told Arrak her story, beginning as far back as she could remember, back when life was care free and filled with joy, and the wonderful laughter of her father and the sweet smiles of her mother. Arrak listened attentively looking over at her now and again to assure her of his rapt attention. But each time he set his eyes on her something strange happened in his chest...tightness and a rapid heartbeat. And for some reason his hands felt clammy, and strange thoughts popped into his mind. He felt an urge to reach out and touch Wendie's silky blond hair and gaze into her sky blue eyes. In fact, he found himself staring at her. Then, with effort, he reined in his passions and turned his attention back to the road. Startled, he took a deep breath and pulled the horses to, for the wagon had trundled two wheels off the path into the meadow crushing bystanding flowers as it went. He glanced at Wendie. At last she was smiling.
Arrak's father, indeed a kind and gracious man, listened to Wendie with smiles and nods of understanding. But as her tragic plight became clear the baron's countenance turned gray and his eyes grew dark. On finishing her tale Wendie looked to the baron for his response, but Aasak just sat there in thoughtful silence gazing at her. A disconcerting frown weighted the corners of his mouth. Wendie shifted uneasily. The baron continued his lost in thought stare.
"Father," complained Arrie, "your grim demeanor is making Wendie uncomfortable. Smile, father, and please say something. What is the poor girl to do?"
The baron looked at his son and shook his head in dismay. The young man would have further protested his father's gravity but Aasak held up a hand and stopped him. Arrie chafed at the bits, but held his tongue.
"As Wendie has said, she turns sixteen in three weeks. And the fact is her aunt has every right to find her an appropriate husband. Like it or not, Glendora is her legal warder." The baron turned from his son to face Wendie, frown meeting frown. "I'm sorry, but by law you are obliged to marry Ekazar in accordance with your aunt's wishes. Of course, a warder usually takes his or her charge's desires and feelings into consideration. However, the law does not require such. And as Baron of Medara I am bound by the law even if a particular application of that law may seem unfair to me. So...your dilemma has now become our dilemma. And frankly, it is a dilemma to which I have no ready answer.
Arrak's jaw dropped to his chin. New tears welled to Wendie's cheeks. The baron momentarily closed his eyes, knowing what was coming.
"But father," protested Arrak, "you can't send Wendie back to Fairholm to marry that necromancer. You know Ekazar practices the forbidden arts and does not worship the Maker. It would be an unholy union. And isn't an unholy union also unlawful?"
"Yes, one would suppose that to be true." Aasak grimaced, then continued, his voice filled with heaviness, "But what one knows and what one can prove are two different things. And although Ekazar has oft' been accused of pursuing the dark arts evidence has been lacking. And since he has not been convicted of the same, and has never openly denied believing in the Maker, the marriage cannot be ruled illegal. So I'm afraid we have no recourse."
The baron rose from his chair, stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on Wendie's shoulder. "I'm sorry." He sighed, and forced a smile. "You are welcome to the safety of my castle until you turn sixteen, which gives us a bit of time to give this nasty dilemma further thought. Who knows, perhaps your aunt will have a change of heart or Ekazar a change of mind."
That night Wendie shut herself in her room and wept bitter tears. Why? Why? Why? echoed through the void she felt in her mind. She searched the empty silence but found no answer.
Far to the north in Fairholm an angry Ekazar bustled along a dark street toward his fine stone house. He kicked at a cat that crossed his path, and pushed people aside with a foul glance.
"Out ten gold pieces!" he mumbled as he pushed open his door, crossed the threshold in a long purposeful stride, and slammed the door after. "But she'll not see another unless she herself delivers the girl to my doorstep on her sixteenth birthday. But deposited on my stoop or not Wendora is my rightful property. And one way or another I'll find the wench and possess her as my own."
So with jaw set, and his boney hands shriveled into fists, he marched down the narrow hall to a dark windowless room, where he lit a candle that sat atop a wax dribbled skull. He hunkered before his profane altar, and there, midst dancing, ghostlike shadows, he sought contact with the world of evil spirits.
"They will know! They will tell me where to find my prize!" he muttered. And as the murky light of the candle frolicked on the dank rock walls a malevolent spirit came forth and stood before him, a dark shadow untouched by the light. A voice issued from the ebon presence, and the apparition's words enraged the villainous necromancer.
"So the little crone overheard our conversation and fled to the baron's castle!" hissed Ekazar. He spat on the floor, and rattled off a line of expletives. "How dare the little snippet spurn my affections! Long I have waited to caress her soft flesh!" He paused to take several deep angry gasps of stale air. "My betrothed has lessons to be learned!"
Immediately Ekazar sent a missive to the baron demanding the return of his intended, the runaway girl, Wendora, and without delay. Aasak responded: "I am under no obligation to return the young lady, Wendora, who sought refuge within the walls of my castle until her sixteenth birthday. Furthermore, I am studying the law as to my duties in this regard due to past accusations by citizens of Fairholm concerning your involvement in the practice of necromancy, and in light of the fact that the young woman in question has no desire to become your wife."
Ekazar, infuriated at the baron's reply, stormed back down the gloomy hallway to his secluded sortilege chamber. An hour later he emerged in the guise of a blind beggar. And as he stepped forth he tucked a small vial filled with a milky liquid into the folds of his heavy ragged cloak. "Just one drop!" he snarled. Then he hurried out into the night and set out down the south road toward the baron's castle.
Late the next morning he limped through the castle gate, leaning on a twisted balewood staff with one hand, while groping protectively with the other. "Alms!" he rasped pitifully. "A piece of bread. A morsel from your table. Alms for the poor."
In the land of Medara a beggar must never be denied a meal. A coin? Rub it between your fingers. Contemplate giving it away. Then shrug your shoulders and keep it for yourself. Who knows what the vagabond might spend it on. But a morsel from your table? That your are obliged to share. Thus it was that one of the baron's guards directed the blind beggar to the scullery door. A squat, round faced cook gave the rag man his due then shooed him off. "There's work to be done here!"
Feigning confusion due to the dark world of the blind, Ekazar sneaked and snooped about the castle grounds. And in the midst of his poking around he came upon an ornate gate beyond which lay the baron's labyrinthine garden. An impish smile crossed Ekazar's face, for walking among the flowers he spied the object of his hunt. Careful not to be observed by manor staff he slipped through the gate and approached the unsuspecting girl. In his hand he held a cup of wine taken from the palace kitchen. The necromancer's dark eyes watched Wendie from the shadows of his cowl. He no longer pretended blindness.
At the sound of footsteps Wendie looked up from the flowers. She gasped. An icy chill ran up her spine. She spoke to the beggar with a trembling voice "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
The beggar limped forward. Wendie took a step backward. Her chest became tight. A shrively hand held forth a silver chalice.
"Just a poor beggar, mam." Ekazar disguised his voice with a growly rasp. "In return for my meal the good baron asked me to bring you this cup of wine. The day is hot, and he said a refreshing drink would do you well. You wouldn't deny a poor beggar the right to earn an honest meal, would you?"
"I'm sorry." Wendie sighed. "You startled me." Reluctantly she reached out and took the chalice from the beggars hand. Although the sudden appearance of the shrouded alms man unsettled Wendie, she welcomed the cool draught and appreciated the baron's thoughtfulness.
"Your service is rendered....Be off with you now!" She did not like the way the beggar stared at her from beneath the hood that shadowed his face.
"I'm but a harmless beggar, my lady. Ya needn't treat me uncharitably!" grumbled Ekazar. "Would your kindness were as your master's!"
Ekazar hobbled away, then at a distance he slowly turned and watched Wendie lifted the chalice to her lips. Dark eyes danced as the unsuspecting girl drank deeply of the refreshing draught. Ekazar laughed to himself when the chalice left her lips and he saw her eyes go wide. He watched Wendie's form change. Her nose grew long and crooked. Her back pushed into a hump at the shoulders. Her face knotted into a mass of fibrous tumors. "A hag!" Ekazar whispered.
Wendie tried to scream, but to her horror no words came forth. She looked down at her clothes...the rags of a beggar! She found that in one hand she held the silver chalice, and in the other a crooked stick twisted with cobwebs.
Suddenly the sound of boots beating on hard ground echoed through the garden. Ekazar slipped aside and hid among the trees.
Wendie suddenly found herself face to face Jared, one of the baron's guards. He held a glistening sword in hand. "Over here!" he bellowed triumphantly. Other footsteps could be heard.
"Aha! The stolen chalice!" He ripped the cup from Wendie's hand. Other guards joined him followed by the baron himself. "A week in my lord's dungeon will give you time to think about your crime, beggar woman!"
While all eyes were on Wendie Ekazar slinked stealthily from the garden. "She will be expelled from the baron's castle in a week and I will be waiting!" he tittered beneath his breath as he hurried off toward the castle gate.
However, back in the garden the good-hearted baron intervened in behalf of the dumb beggar woman. "Nay! My dungeon has not been used in years, and besides that it is no place for a woman, not even a woman who resorts to begging and stealing in order to get by . The chalice has been recovered. Return it to the scullery and send the wench on her way with food and drink to tide her by. But see that she does not return to steal more.
Wendie tried to protest, but no words came forth. Moisture blurred her vision as Jared grasped her roughly by the arm and led her to the kitchen and then showed her to the castle gate.
"Poor woman." The Baron commented as he watched from a distance. "No tongue. Begging and stealing alms to get by. And her tears almost break my heart. A pity she cannot be trusted."
Aasak gave a nod to Jared, who in turn shouted an order, and the castle gate squeaked on its hinges and clinked shut. Wendie sighed, looked once over her shoulder, then set her feet to the road leading north.
And far out on the Fertile Fields laughter echoed on the air as Ekazar hurried off toward Fairholm. "A week in the dungeon will do her good. And when they throw her out I'll be there to take possession of my property." he muttered to himself.
A mile north of the Baron's Castle Wendie came to a crossroad. A sun bleached wooden sign pointed the way to Fairholm. A second sign pointed east toward Zephers. Wendie had no inclination to go anywhere by way of Fairholm, so she turned her now bare and wrinkled feet toward Zephers.
Now and again Wendie met fellow wayfarers along the road. They whispered, laughed and pointed. They also gave wide berth. Again tears ran down the folds of Wendie's cheeks. Outside of Zephers a little used footpath marked, The Forrest Way, turned off toward the north again. "Yes, I will hide in the forest." she mused. So she turned her weary feet to the little used footpath, and as she hobbled along the dusty trail she ran her fingers over her deformed face and let out a deep, mournful sigh.
"Why? Why have you done this to me?" she wept the words aloud, directing them toward the heavens.
"See, father!" interrupted Wenrak. "Your story only proves that the Maker is not so good as people say he is. I told you he isn't fair."
"Oh, but Wenrak," laughed his father, "my story is not yet finished. Granted, at this point it would seem the Maker was not fair in allowing all of these things to happen to Wendie. But let me finish the story before you tell me what you think of the Maker. However, that will have to be another time. We must be going. Your mother will be wondering what's keeping us."
So Wenrak and his father left the hillside overlooking Bittersweet Creek, crossed the bridge, and made their way to where Wenrak's mother waited in the doorway of there little cottage at the edge of the Darkwood Forrest.
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