Mason Beck Fiction

This section took a lot but I’m hoping I’ve gotten the shape of it right. While I struggled a bit, it was pretty fun.

Check out parts one through four, linked on the homepage.

I hope you enjoy!

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Four weeks prior.

Her hands trembled on the reins as they entered the clearing. The cold and the weight of anticipation pressed upon her, and the sight of men in furs, knives at their belts and bows across their shoulders, sent a shiver down her spine. Before them, the elders sat upon blankets of fur and hide before a small fire that burned at the heart of the clearing.

“Are you all right, madam?” asked Magistrate Altham.

She started at the sudden sound of his voice, her horse shifting uneasily beneath her. Covering her mouth in embarrassment, she glanced toward the men who had escorted her to the meeting.

“My apologies, Magistrate. Yes, I am ready. Thank you,” she said.

“Very well.”

The magistrate took the lead, the interpreter close behind. Eliza drew a slow breath and followed after.

They stopped some twenty feet from the fire and dismounted, tying their horses to the stake provided. Altham raised a hand in greeting and motioned for the others to follow him to the furs laid opposite the elders.

She fought against the fear rising in her chest and took one slow step after another, clutching the sketches of her husband and son to her bosom, whispering a quiet prayer.

In another time, the cool breeze and the silence, broken only by the crunch of grass beneath her boots and the gentle whinnies of the horses, might have calmed her. But not now. Not beneath these expectant eyes, among strangers whose words she could not understand, with armed men watching her from either side.

Her stomach turned, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to flee.

But she had not crossed an ocean just to run again. They had left the old world in part for her sake, because the press of people, the clamor of voices, the expectation to speak and be seen had worn her thin. She could never seem to draw breath with others so near.

This time she would not turn away. Not from the eyes, not from the silence, and not from the weight that gathered in her chest. Whatever else waited beyond this meeting, she would not let it take her family from her.

She steeled herself and caught up to the men as they reached the circle, where one of the elders by the fire motioned for them to sit. Gathering her skirts, she followed and took her place beside them, her eyes shifting between those across the fire and the ones who had come with her.

The magistrate spoke first. “We would like to thank you for meeting with us in this sad time.”

He paused while the interpreter struggled to find the words. He was not the best, but he was the one they had.

“To show our thanks, we have brought a gift,” he added, turning and gesturing behind him. At the signal, the sheep was led forward by its tether.

There were quiet nods from the gathered elders as Altham spoke. Then one of the women replied.

Eliza had never heard such speech before. She watched her lips move, waiting for the interpreter to make sense of it.

“You and your gift are welcome,” he said slowly. “But we may not be able to give you what you came for.”

Altham glanced from the interpreter to Eliza. She swallowed and gave a small nod.

“This is the wife and mother of the man and boy who went missing,” he said. “She would like to ask if you have seen them.”

Again they nodded as the interpreter repeated the words, but when they looked to her, their eyes turned downward and did not meet her gaze.

The magistrate gave a small gesture, signaling that she could begin. She nodded, her lips trembling as she gathered herself to speak. Straightening, she lifted her chin and looked toward the fire.

“Thank you for meeting with us,” she began. “Two months past, my husband and my son came this way, looking for a place where we might make a home. We have been told that some among your people may have seen them.”

She held out the sketches. They were passed from one hand to the next, quiet glances exchanged, heads slowly shaking.

“Please… if you know anything. Even…” she faltered, her voice catching as her eyes filled with tears, “even if it is where we may find their bodies.”

She paused, breath unsteady.

“So that I might give them a proper burial, and say a prayer for their souls. I… I cannot bear not knowing.”

The elders clutched their coats and looked from one to another, murmuring in low voices among themselves. After a time, one of them raised a hand and, at last, looked directly at her. His face was solemn, and in his eyes she saw something that felt like sorrow.

“We did see your people,” he said. “They came in a wagon and passed beyond our lands. We saw the way they were heading and tried to warn them not to go into the valley. But they could not understand us. They were determined, and they went on.”

He paused, voice steady but low.

“They had made their choice, and they entered the valley. I am sorry. Your family is gone.”

The interpreter stumbled over the words, slow and unsure. Each phrase landed like a stone, and every silence between them stretched long, cruel, and hollow. Eliza sat frozen, her heart rising to her throat while the rest of her seemed to fall away into the earth beneath her.

“What? What do you mean, gone?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Again, the elders looked to one another. Then the same man brought his hands together, fingertips pressed, and began to speak.

The interpreter hesitated, listening, then spoke uncertainly.
“The valley is not… I’m sorry, I do not know the words. Something like part of the ground?”

He paused, then conferred again with the elder, struggling to find the shape of the meaning.
“Perhaps… of the earth? That is the best I can do.”

The elder continued, his voice soft.

“Those who pass into the valley do not return. They cross the bridge of tangled roots, and beyond that lies… I think the word might be city. A city of stone and mist. They have gone where the spirits do not walk. Or perhaps… where the ancestors cannot follow.”

The interpreter looked to her, his face drawn with discomfort.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. That is what he said.”

Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms. She turned to Altham.

“Please, Your Honor. Take me to this valley. I beg you. If that is where they went, we may yet find them.”

The magistrate looked at her, his eyes wide with sorrow.

“Madam… I cannot do that.”

Her cheeks flushed, and her voice rose, thick with fear and grief.

“Why not? We are so close!”

Altham swallowed, his gaze dropping.

“Ma’am… there is no valley.”