When skin touches skin the vile touch of the Fallen is passed on. And once touched the victim will go insane. Or so the legend goes. There have not been any confirmed sightings of the Fallen in a thousand years. But suddenly strange goings on are observed in the village of Marbon. A huge black feather is found in the village. It can only be from one of the Fallen...

 

Chapter V.

            He could not tell anymore what it was that had awakened him this day. He was still a bit dazed, having been ripped out of a dream by the sudden commotion in the village. The details of the dream had already eluded him, but it was likely to have been something rather ridiculous, like most of his dreams that he did remember. Marsen rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he lifted himself out of bed. The polished steel plate serving as a mirror in the room revealed that he had taken on the look of a hedgehog. His dark hair which was usually hanging smooth and straight was now standing in all possible directions and perhaps a few impossible ones as well. The merchant tried to flatten it, using his fingers as a makeshift comb, but to no avail. Well, at least his mustache still looked half way civilized. He stretched and yawned and put on some clothing. What was going on in the village today? Usually the Marboners were a fairly calm lot, reasonably friendly even to strangers. Why was there such an upheaval in the village today?

            Women and children were shrieking, men were cursing and everyone seemed to be in an awful hurry to get someplace.

            Had the war reached Marbon? Marsen wondered as he moved to the window to take a glance outside. But Marbon was on Lord Grathen’s territory. As far as Marsen knew, Lord Grathen had not chosen sides in the conflict. Or had that changed over the course of the last few days?

            The travelling merchant could not see any soldiers. The village was not burning. And as far as he could tell, no new strangers had arrived, who might have caused such unrest in a peaceful village like Marbon.

            “Then what has gotten into them? The whole village is running around like headless chickens.”

            Marsen opened the window a little bit to try and hear a few scraps of conversations or understand some of the screams. He knew, as a stranger in the village he would have to be careful, so that he was not accused of anything. He still had not sold all the merchandise he had hoped to sell in Marbon, nor had he gotten even half the marble carvings he had hoped for. But seeing all of the villagers go crazy as if they had been touched by a Fallen, it would be for the best if Marsen started making plans to leave Marbon and attempt his luck in the next village.

            “Alright, I’ll prepare the wagon today and I guess I will move on first thing tomorrow morning.”

            He had not even been able to hire any body guards for the next leg of his journey. But it did not look like any of the villagers would be likely to let themselves be hired for that job.

            “Perhaps I can still convince Galvin to come along, at least until my next stop.”

            Concentrating on the screams outside the window, Marsen was able to understand a few scraps, and this did nothing to alleviate his worries for his safety. Perhaps he should still try to leave the village today? He would not make it to Lakeside in the time left to him on this day. Besides, Lakeside could already be caught in the middle of the war. He had not intended to stop at Lakeside at all this year. But it became painfully obvious that he and any other stranger in the inn at the moment had overstayed their welcome in Marbon.

            “The Fallen, the Fallen are here!” some wench screeched somewhere in the village.

            “Well, watch where you are spitting people,” Marsen mumbled. “The Fallen? Are you actually trying to tell me that you believe someone had been touched by the Fallen? The way you are running around like idiots, all of you must already be touched, so what are you still worried about?”

            Watching the villagers, Marsen had to smile as he remembered playing black feather as a little boy. One of the children would be given a black feather from a raven or crow and would be the Fallen. All the other children had to run away from the Fallen and had to avoid getting touched by the Fallen or they would be made to do silly things.

            The Fallen, the Fallen, the Fallen have come to town! The child with the feather would recite.

            Oh no, oh no, the Fallen have come, don’t be touched or you will be the fool. The rest of them would answer.

            What will you do? What will you do? The Fallen are here.

            We run like the wind and trust in Okaya to save our souls.

            Then the group of children started running, trying to reach the line of Okaya, which would mean safety for them and the child with the feather would try and touch them on the way. It was not enough to touch them just anywhere, the victim had to be touched on skin to be turned a fool by the Fallen. Anyone so touched then was forced to do something very humiliating and foolish, before a new Fallen was chosen and the game began anew.

            “It’s a silly game.” Marsen said, but seeing the villagers all excited, he had to wonder if perhaps the Fallen really had arrived in Marbon.

            It might have been better if he just stayed put in his room for the moment, later prepared his wagon and just left the village. But Marsen was nothing if not helpful. And in spite of his own warnings that he should skip town, he decided instead to go outside and to see if there was anything he could do to help. After all if he were able to help, perhaps people would then be more willing to buy his wares.

            Marsen washed up at the wash stand, tucked his shirt into his trousers, and once again tried to convince his hair to stay straight. He put on a jacket and his boots and went down to the common room.

            “What’s going on?” he asked the inn keep, but the man just shrugged, not knowing any more than Marsen.

            The Merchant stepped outside. At first the villagers in their fervor just ignored him, and kept screaming about the Fallen and something about a feather. A feather?

            “Oh that’s just bad taste worse than murder, are you telling me the whole village actually is playing black feather?”

            The merchant walked toward the center of the village. As a precaution he put on his leather gloves, even though so far no one in the village had demanded that of him. But he was a stranger after all, no reason to give them cause for complaint at such a time as this.

            Near the village well Marsen spotted Lotta. “Galvin’s girl. Well the boy seems to have his senses about him; maybe his girl is not as insane as the rest of them either.”

            He approached her.

            “Lotta was it?” he asked, once he was certain she could hear him. The girl screeched in answer. Alright so she was sillier than the boy.

            “Don’t come too close sir, please.”

            Marsen kept his distance and raised his hands, showing the gloves he was wearing.

            “I won’t touch you girl, I swear, I just want to find out what’s going on.”

            She did calm down somewhat as she noticed that he really did not try to come any closer.

            “Haven’t you heard? They found a feather of the Fallen.”

            “I had heard something about a feather yes, what do you mean a feather of the Fallen?”

            “They’ve found it near the bakery, a big black feather as long as a man is tall.”

            Marsen wrinkled his forehead, he had trouble believing that.

            “A night eagle perhaps,” he offered, although he would have thought these birds existed only in the Cuhvar Mountains, not around here. “Have you actually seen this feather?”

            “No,” she had to admit, it was just what she had heard.

            “Well, is there anything I can do to help or do you want me to just leave you be?”

            “You are Galvin’s friend, aren’t you?” she asked, as if that would make any difference, if he really were touched by a Fallen.

            “Yes, I like the boy.”

            This seemed to be all she needed to trust him.

            “I have to look in on my great grandmother. I’m worried that she will be accused of being touched, because she is not quite right in the head anymore. And probably we should find Max. Everyone knows that he had the accident, but it’s probably better if they don’t find him out on the road right now.”

            “Then let’s go.”

            “And what about you? They don’t like strangers right now either.”

            “I’ll be alright.” I hope.

            The merchant accompanied Lotta to her great grandmother’s house, where he tried to help Lotta convince the old woman to stay inside the house for a while. But the two of them did not get much further than explaining to the old woman, who Lotta was, and that Marsen was not Loran and did not know Loran, that in fact Loran had died two years earlier.

            “Great grandmother please, you need to go inside the house, it is not safe for you outside.”

            But there was no convincing the old woman. Lotta got desperate and eventually looked at Marsen. She trusted him. She thought.

            “Do you swear that you haven’t been touched by the Fallen?”

            “I assure you young woman I have not been touched. Besides I am wearing my gloves.”

            “Alright… do you think you could carry her inside? And I’ll bring her chair. Hopefully that will make her stay inside after.”

            Marsen agreed and gently picked up the old woman. She was almost literally just skin and bones and weighed almost nothing. But she was not amused to be picked up or to be brought into the house and started screaming. Marsen had to put her back down on the chair and waited for Lotta to come up with another idea. But before the girl could come up with anything a few concerned and angry looking men from the village had been attracted by the old woman’s screams.

            “Is he bothering you Lotta?”

            “No he was just trying to help me carry great grandma inside the house.”

            The explanation, however, did not placate the men. Instead they used walking sticks to start poking Marsen.

“Stay away from them stranger! If you have no official business in the village, you should be staying at the strangers’ inn!”

            Lotta tried to speak up in his defense again, but again was ignored by the men, who obviously felt strong, considering there was four of them and only one of Marsen, who, while not skinny, was also not particularly strong. If he really were carrying the touch of the Fallen, it would be enough for him to touch them in turn to pass it on to them. Or so the legends told. So Marsen was not certain, what these men hoped to achieve with their display of ignorance. But if it were up to him, he would prefer to avoid a fight. He was a merchant, not a soldier. He raised his hands before him in a gesture of peace, showing the men that he was unarmed and that he was wearing his gloves.

            “I meant no harm. I was only trying to help and I took the necessary precautions and put on the gloves.”

            “We can help our own, we don’t need a stranger for that!” one of the men answered and poked him again with the walking stick.

            “That’s enough!” Lotta screamed at them, “I had asked him to help me! He is not touched! He is wearing his gloves and he made no attempts against me! He has been nothing but a perfect gentleman, which is more than can be said about you louts!”

            “It is alright. They are right. It was rude of me to come into the village at such troubled times. I shall return straight to the strangers’ inn. No harm or insult was intended.”

            “Yes, why don’t you do that,” one of the men challenged him, but at least he refrained from poking him with a stick again.

            “I’m sure these gentlemen can help you much better than I can. May Okaya protect you.”

            “And you. Thank you Marsen. And you idiots get lost, go bother someone else!”

            Marsen still heard how old widow Shangles was hollering again and saw that Lotta had resorted to carrying her inside by herself. But he knew he should have listened to his own advice to begin with and should have stayed at the inn instead of coming into the village on a day like this, when everyone was hysterical. Hopefully the girl would be able to also get Max out of harm’s way. But this was none of the merchant’s concern at the moment. He had to look for his own safety. These men had been poking him only with sticks. Who knew if the next ones he met would be as kind with him. He would not take any more chances, but would head straight for the inn and prepare for his departure first thing tomorrow morning.

 

***

 

            It would have been better to leave right away. For later in the afternoon an entire mob of angry villagers was advancing toward the strangers’ inn. Marsen, together with another four patrons of the inn, were now questioning their wisdom of wanting to spend another night and leaving with first light.

            “The strangers have brought bale to the town of Marbon!” The calls were heard from the mob of villagers.

            “They have brought the Fallen to the village.”

            “Two have already been touched! The old widow Shangles and Max! Both have lost their wits.”

            Marsen just shook his head. Old Mrs. Shangles was just that: old. And Max had lost his wits after an accident at the quarry. That was years ago, everyone knew that, even Marsen, and the merchant was not even living here.

            “Okaya keep them safe from this insanity,” Marsen spoke a short prayer to Okaya, pleading for assistance for the innocent. As far as he knew, old widow Shangles and Max had never done anything to deserve this antagonism from the other villagers. Perhaps it would have been better to pray for his own safety, but the young travelling merchant was confident he would get out of this unscathed in the end. He was packed and ready to leave, he just had to wait for the mob to dissipate some and he could leave, even if it were at night. For now, though, it was best for him to stay put in his room and not be seen.

            Unfortunately, as it turned out, he did not have to be seen in order to become the subject of the villagers’ hatred. He heard the screechy voice of some old woman already making accusations not only against strangers in general, but against him in particular.

            “And you know this merchant or whatever he pretends to be. He is a sorcerer! I tell you he is. Just the other day he passed by my cote he did. And the butter curdled in the barrel and my cows and goats were giving sour milk. I had to pour away the whole lot of it.”

            “Oh this is just bad taste worse than murder,” Marsen mumbled, but made sure he could not be seen from the outside. The situation was quickly getting out of hand. This morning would have been a good time to leave.

            “Let’s not jump to hasty conclusions,” somebody, probably one of the village elders, raised his voice and demanded attention.

            “There is no evidence of sorcery!”

            “My milk went sour!”

            “If one were to believe you, Mrs. Hanglar, everyone here in the village already managed to sour your milk. We have all been accused of that at one point or another.”

            This did shut up the old woman at least at the moment. The village elder continued his speech and his attempt to calm down the mob, “There is no evidence of foul play or of sorcery. And Marsen the merchant has visited us every year for the last six years. He has always been polite and always been fair in his trade with us. He is practically not a stranger to Marbon. There is also no evidence of anyone having been touched by the Fallen…”

            “What about the old Shangles wench? What about poor Max?”

            The elder had to raise his voice considerably to shout down the mob once more.

            “What about them?” he roared, “Everyone here knows that the honorable Mrs. Shangles is suffering only from getting old and everyone here knows that Max has lost his wits during the accident. Both have been in this condition for years, what does it have to do with what is going on in the village today?”

            “I’m just saying…”

            “You are just saying nonsense and this does not help! Now I urge you all to calm down. All we know for sure is that a feather had been found! We do not know where it has come from or why. We do not know what wore that feather before it was dropped.”

            “It’s a feather from one of the Fallen, what else could it be?”

            “Well one suggestion I heard earlier today was that it might be from a night eagle.”

            “There are no night eagles in these mountains!”

            “As far as we know, but who is to say where Okaya’s creatures travel to?”

            “Maybe it was the merchant who brought the feather to scare us.”

            “And what purpose would that serve?” the village elder was trying to point out, but this time was no longer able to shout down the mob, who demanded that Marsen the merchant be banished from the village immediately.

            “This is just bad taste worse than murder!”

            A timid knock sounded at Marsen’s door. The merchant opened it slowly. Only the innkeeper of the Mugworthy was standing in front of it, looking a bit embarrassed and knitting his toque in his hands.

            “Yes,” Marsen asked and offered the other man to come inside.

            “I’m sorry sir. And it’s not that I don’t trust you. But I have family and the inn is all I have to feed them and… and…”

            “And you are asking me to leave!” Marsen stated to make it easier on the innkeeper.

            “Yes sir. If that wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Marsen put a hand on the man’s shoulder and gave him a friendly smile.

            “It’s alright, I understand. With everyone gone crazy out there I wasn’t planning on staying much longer anyway.”

            The merchant could see how the other man relaxed a little, how relief washed over his features. Even the nervous tick at the other man’s eye seemed to abate.

            “I thank you sir. Okaya knows that you are a good person. Here, this is part of your coin back for your troubles. And should you come back next year, or the year after that, I can give you a good price, if you stay at the Mugworthy again.”

            The innkeeper held out a handful of copper and silver coins, offering them to Marsen. The merchant took the man’s hand into his and closed it over the coins.

            “You need these more than I do, especially if this incidence forces you to send all of your guests away. I’ll be alright. And when I do come back to Marbon, I will book another room with you.”

            “Thank you sir. You have a good soul. May Okaya look over you and keep you safe.”

            So this was it then? Marsen picked up his belongings, double checked the room to make sure nothing stayed behind and went downstairs. He did not look forward to stepping outside to face the mob.

            “Is there a back door I can use to get to the stables unseen?”

            “You could go through the kitchen into the backyard,” the innkeeper offered and it sounded like a good idea to the merchant.

            “Okaya bless you,” Marsen said before stepping out into the back yard and also meant it. He was not angry at the innkeeper. To be honest, he could not even be angry at the villagers. They were simple and uneducated folk. One could not expect too much of them. Marsen straightened his dark mustache. He wished he could still exchange blessings with Galvin the forester’s apprentice. Or if possible still hire the powerful youngster as a body guard for his trip.

            “That is if the boy isn’t out there with the rest of the morons.”

            He decided to take the road out to the forest to see if he found the young man there. Galvin was the closest thing to a friend the merchant had. He did not want to leave Marbon without at least wishing Galvin Okaya’s blessing.

            Solemnly he led his horse to his wagon and put the yoke over the animal’s neck. He stashed his personal belongings in the wagon and carefully opened the stable doors. The villagers were still besieging the strangers’ inn. With a bit of luck Marsen could get going before they noticed he was gone. He led the horse and the wagon outside, closed the stable doors behind him, sat on top of the wagon and stirred it away from the village. By the time anyone noticed him, he was already far enough away for the villagers to not take the hassle to chase him. They resorted to shout a few accusations, threats and obscenities after him instead.

            “Okaya bless you too,” Marsen snarled, but did not bother to yell anything back at them. This was the risk he took when trading with the villages, instead of sticking to the towns and cities.

 

***

 

            Before him split off the path into the forest. Marsen hesitated for a moment. He wanted to see Galvin, but what if he did not find him in the forester’s cabin? What if he found out instead that the boy was one of the people in the mob driving him out of Marbon instead?

            “Won’t find out unless I go there,” he eventually told himself and took the path into the forest. Perhaps it would have been better for him, if he had just continued along the road. But some decisions, once made, could not be undone after they turned out to be bad decisions. Besides, for the rest of his life Marsen would never be certain if it really was a bad decision or if the events that followed were not a blessing in disguise, even if not exactly one of Okaya’s blessings.

            About half ways to the forester’s cabin Galvin approached him from the opposite direction.

            “Okaya’s blessings Marsen. Are you leaving Marbon?”

            “And blessings to you young friend. Yes, I’ve kind of overstayed my welcome.”

            Galvin had had no clue what the man was talking about.

            “Well, you won’t get far on this road. It ends at the forester’s cabin.”

            “And who said this isn’t where I was heading to? I did not want to leave without exchanging blessings with you.”

            “Oh? So why the sudden rush anyway? I thought you still wanted to stay for a few more days.”

            “I wanted to, but let’s say Marbon is not the safest place for strangers at the moment. Anyway, am I keeping you from anything important?”

            “Me? No, actually I hoped to invite you for a few ales and perhaps see Lotta after.”

            Marsen stirred the wagon to a place next to the path a little bit further on.

            “Then why don’t I invite you to a few cups of wine instead? Perhaps after I can bother you to take me in for the night and I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

            “Alright,” Galvin answered and climbed up on the wagon next to Marsen, who reached back for a bottle of Riverpoint red and a couple of cups.

            “So what happened in Marbon?” Galvin asked, while the merchant was pouring him a cup of wine.

            “Bad taste worse than murder is what happened in Marbon,” Marsen snarled, before he apologized to Galvin. “They found some big black feather or something and now the whole village is seeing the Fallen behind every corner.”

            “What?” Galvin asked, almost choking on his wine.

            “As I said, bad taste worse than murder. And since I’m the stranger, I was held responsible for curdling people’s butter and souring their milk…”

            “The old Hanglar wench?”

            “I think that’s what they called her, yes. And I was the one bringing the Fallen, or at least the feather; if you ask the villagers anyway. Then the innkeeper was worried that they would get ugly with him as well if I stayed.”

            “He kicked you out?”

            “He was too shy for that, but I volunteered to leave. Not like I would be able to do anymore business in Marbon anyway.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” Galvin offered, while the travelling merchant refilled both of their cups.

            After that the two men were talking of other things, Lotta, Galvin’s plans to propose to her, Marsen’s travels and places he had seen and anything else they could think of. The wine cups were emptied and filled again and again. Eventually Marsen opened another bottle, and later a third one.

            Galvin still noticed how he started feeling beyond tipsy. Brushing his hand through his brown curls he asked: “Should we really be drinking all of your wine? What will you be selling after?”

            “These are all bottles I should’ve sold in Marbon. We might as well drink them ourselves. I’ll never sell them all in the other towns.” And with that he poured the forester’s apprentice another cup.

            “So you’re sure I cannot convince you to join me on my travels? I’d pay you well. And if you get some furs along the way, I’ll cut you in on the sales.” Marsen asked, although in light of Galvin’s recent infatuation with the big breasted butcher’s daughter, he neither expected a positive answer, nor did he get one.

            “Well it was worth another try. Maybe next year then?” the merchant said after Galvin’s refusal and refilled both of their cups once more.

            As this cup was drained also, the forester jumped off the wagon to go and relieve himself. Marsen refilled the cup in the meantime.

            The strong young man was just retying his breeches and had already turned to get back to the wagon when he suddenly stopped and spun around staring into the forest.

            “Hey what is it? The wagon’s over here man!” the travelling merchant called out.

            “She is beautiful, can’t you see her?”

            “See who? What are you talking about? That’s just bad taste worse than murder. You’d think a boy your size would be able to hold his liquor a bit better than that.”

            “There, right in front of me, the angel.”

            Marsen almost spilled his wine. “Oh watch where you’re spitting boy, don’t you go nuts on me as well…”

            Anything else he might have wanted to add died in his throat, as the merchant thought he saw a shape next to Galvin, just for a brief moment. Like dark wings. After he rubbed his eyes, he recognized the shape that he thought were wings as a young, leafy tree. Once again Galvin was staring and now also stumbling into the forest. The young forester stretched out his arm toward something only he could see now. He stumbled over a root and landed with a splash head first in a big, muddy puddle.

            “Boy, what did you do that for?” the traveling merchant swore, as he jumped off the wagon to help Galvin get back up on his feet.

            “Come on boy, take my hand, don’t stay in the mud like a pig,” Marsen said and offered the other man a hand to pull him up. The merchant was still wearing his gloves, but Galvin reached out and grabbed his lower arm above the glove. At this moment, as skin touched skin, Marsen’s eyes opened wide. For a brief moment he thought he understood everything now. Then he too stumbled and fell into the mud right next to Galvin.