Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) Read Free

my house. My
father would not have approved of it at the time.
    My
power was not something I asked for. It is an ancient art. This I discovered
from a book when we delivered a dining table to a wealthy merchant in the centre of town. I was good with a small knife, carving flowers
around the table’s rim, and we were paid well for that job. The master of the
house was not home when we made our delivery, and it was an opportunity to seek
out his collection of books.
    Here
I found a thick holy book with a cross on the front. Inside were stories of
fairies luring humans to their death, and writings about witches who cured the
sick but only to seek souls for the devil. There were also pictures of women
being tied up and tortured, their heads pushed into water pails. It said that
anyone with such folly must be given up to the Church. It was hard to read and
my stomach lurched at the drawings. It also revealed that this wickedness was
being phased out with each generation as more of these demons, witches and
fairies were revealed. The writer boasted of these captures, documenting
various punishments in detail.
    I
understood then why my father did not want to recognise this craft. If superstitious islanders suspected that I carried magic, I would
be handed over to the Church and my fate would be banishment or death. Such
dark arts, as it described, went against the Christian teachings. This I will
never understand since who I am does not alter my faith.
    My
father did not have the gift. As written, he was born of the sun and from God
in heaven. Whereas those like me were born of the night sky – a term used
to infer that my art comes from the dark depths of hell, with powers strongest
when the moon is full. I did not want to be different. It had been my ambition
to live the simple island life I had then.
    ‘ Marek !’ My father called me from the beach. He was carrying
a branch. He held it out to me proudly. ‘White wood! Perfect for building
boats.’
    Ricco had
higher aims for me. He believed that boats were being built with unsuitable
wood, which failed to withstand rough seas. It had been his dream that we could
sell ships to the north and profit from it, and perhaps purchase some land of
our own on the mainland. He did not see our island surviving. He said that one
day there would be an earthquake so big that our island would crumble and fall
into the sea. Gildoroso would be wiped off the
charter maps. Once he said this to other men and I believe it was one of the
reasons why some of the fishermen avoided us. They did not like this talk. They
were superstitious of theory and prophesy and anyone
with the audacity to speak these opinions out loud.
    Ricco , realising he had drawn too much attention from such a
speech, took me to the public drinking house once a month to take part in
conversations and eat with the men. It was important that we do that, said my
father, because people always make up stories about those who do not mix, and
the longer we are away the more exaggerated the stories. It was also a good
opportunity to enquire and gain more work.
    ‘Did
you hear me, boy?’
    ‘Yes,
Father.’
    ‘Your
head is not here. Are you off dreaming again?’
    ‘Yes,
Father. Dreaming of pretty dancing girls in flowing skirts in faraway lands
– the ones the men talk about at the osteria .’
I lied for I wanted the fear and worry in his eyes to go away lest he know I
was dreaming about my craft. ‘And I was thinking that what you’re holding is
the healthiest looking piece of dead wood I’ve ever seen.’
    Ricco smiled. It was exactly what he wanted to hear. ‘Then let’s go, boy.’
    We
went to an area of island where this wood was plentiful, and we chopped and
carried timber back to the workshop behind our house.
    That
night we dined with Silvia, a middling woman and a friend of my father’s. She
had become a mother of sorts, always stitching me new clothes from some of the
linen she spun to sell.
    Silvia
updated us on