The Rosewood Prophecy

Chapter 48

                                                                       Aaron

It took us two days to find a way out of the valley. We kept to the trees and the cliffs, always looking back, praying that Lord Victor's soldiers hadn't found our trail. Charles and Christina were oddly quiet and docile; I had expected them to show fear or complain of aches like normal children, but they matched our paces and never whined. Charles stuck close to Katherine, perhaps because she seemed to be a motherly figure, but Christina often chose to walk alone. Her calmness disturbed me; there was a steeliness in her eyes and a mature aura that shouldn't be there for a child who was seven years old.

After that night, when Lord Victor sent a surprise raid on the Wymonds' cottage and murdered both Matthew and Martha, I had not seen Christina cry. Unlike Charles, who sometimes cried for his grandparents at night, Christina didn't shed a single tear over her grandparents' death. Katherine told me quietly that she sometimes saw Christina rocking herself at night, her pendant in hand, but she didn't cry. It made me wonder—did she experience this situation before? If so, what terrible thing happened that could make a child remain stoic at a time of distress and grief?

I wondered, but I didn't press Christina for details. It must have been a very traumatic experience, and I didn't want her to experience more grief than she already did. But I worried for her and wanted to show support if she ever broke her shell, so I often dropped back to walk side by side with her, in silence.

Since the maps were all in Katherine's and Rachel's bags—all lost when our camp was destroyed—we had to figure out directions by looking at the sun. No one knew where Ravenstone was, so our best chance was to head towards the Northern Mountains and ask for directions along the way. Traveling by foot and with two children in tow was slow and hard. We got lost several times, and often had to set up camp at the edge of a forest. We didn't meet a single soul on our way. When we finally saw a village in the distance one afternoon, I was so happy I felt that I could sprint all the way there.

"What village is this?" I asked a young shepherd boy, who was watching over his flock of sheep in a nearby pasture, as we approached the village.

"Our village is called Summerlake, sir," the boy replied. "If you're wondering where the lake is, it dried up a long time ago, according to my grandma."

"Is there a place for us to stay for the night?" Katherine asked. The shepherd boy tilted his head and thought for a bit.

"I don't think there's an inn or anything, but you can go in and ask around. Maybe someone will let you spend the night at their house."

We thanked the boy and continued to the village. It was a medium-sized community, with perhaps fifty houses, along with a general store, a couple of restaurants, and acres of farmland surrounding it. A lot of men and boys were tending to their crops, while women and children were washing and hanging up laundry, cleaning their houses, or cooking. Some of the elderly citizens were lounging on their front porches as we arrived, and they watched us as a lazy cat would eye a mouse scurrying by.

There was a platform in the village square, perhaps for performances or celebrations. We let Charles and Christina sit down to rest while we assessed the situation.

"There doesn't seem to be an inn," Katherine said, "so I guess we'll have to ask someone. But who would let four strangers spend the night in their house?"

"I don't know," I admitted, looking around. Several people walking by had already cast curious glances towards us. Their gazes always fell to the swords we were carrying. "I've never asked someone to stay at their house. I don't know how to ask."