The Ghost of Providence

Chapter Nine

Corbyn

Several weeks had passed since his discovery of magic, and Corbyn’s life had fallen into an unexpected routine.

During the school day, he would wait for classes to end impatiently, his tiny toes tip-tapping below his corner desk in the back. When it was finally over, Vendor Pice picked him up from the gate, took him to the clearing, and they would train in the woods for hours on end. Afterward, the boy would spend the night in the shop, catching up on shoe orders.

Today though was an off-day from school. Today his entire focus went into the shoes and then his training in the evening. Corbyn loved his new lessons, but shoemaking was just as well to him at times.

It was cathartic, meditative — the process of making shoes was a grounding practice.

Recently he felt as if he was flying too close to the sun with these new discoveries. Magic reminded him of a tale his father once read him from one of Pice’s old books: a book about a boy with wax wings and a father who warned of ambition. Corbyn couldn’t recall the name, but he resonated with the story.

Magic was his wax wing, and making shoes brought him a little closer to earth.

It was ironic that making shoes that kept others off the ground made him feel so connected to it himself, but anytime he needed to escape his own ambitions, he would meditate over his work.

As he pulled leather strips from the back room, he thought of Olivur.

What’s going on with him? he’d ask himself as he tied strings and cut fabric. Should I talk to him?

He let himself sink into the craft as his mind ran miles a minute, a luxury he allowed himself that his father didn’t. Jacob was good at keeping an ear out for arriving customers, but Corbyn found it more difficult to multitask in that way. So he’d hung a bell over the yellow door. That way he’d know if one of the few customers who trickled in needed his attention. A simple solution to his simple problem.

Ding~

The clear chime gathered his eye to the front door. That bell may have been the most genius thing I’ve ever made. He wouldn’t have even heard the door open or the man walk in.

Once his attention was on the customer however, it was difficult for the man to lose it.

Draped in the finest silks the island could offer, the tall, blonde man struck envy with his every movement — the sway of his silver-tipped toes, the casual display of comfort in an unfamiliar home, the nod and removal of his corded, fur fedora at the entryway as he met eyes with the young cobbler.

“Good morning, Corb!” Uncle Regan greeted as he hung his grey hat and coat on wall hooks. “I feel like it’s been forever. How are you, son?” he beamed at the boy with open arms.

Corbyn hurriedly threw his tools down on the desk with an iron clatter and ran into his Uncle’s embrace. “It really has Uncle! It feels like it’s been forever.”

“Hahah,” the man rubbed the boy’s long black hair affectionately. “It really has, you know.” The two separated and the tall man looked down at the boy with a kind smile. “You should come over for dinner soon. I’m sure Oli would love to have you over again. Can you do tonight?”

“Tonight? Well, I don’t know,” Corbyn verbally skirted the request along with an awkward sidelong glance at his workstation. The excuse didn’t feel genuine to himself or the man either, but Corbyn couldn’t very well say he had to practice magic later.

Plus Olivur’s been acting weird...and then there’s Halle, he shivered.

Uncle Regan saw the subtle refusal in his face and didn’t push the matter further. He was always a gentleman.

Corbyn rapped his fingers along the wood-top table to fill the silence but eventually spoke again. “So...what’re you here for, Uncle? Do you need some new shoes?”

Regan laughed strangely and wrung his hands together nervously. Nervous? Uncle Regan? Corbin couldn’t believe his eyes.

“No, not quite,” he admitted softly before reaching into his pocket for a folded paper. He gave the parchment to Corbyn with an awkward expression on his face, and the boy opened it excitedly.

I wonder what’s making Uncle Regan so giddy.

As his careful, craftsman fingers unfurled the old paper, Corbyn’s green eyes observed a shoe design. His eyebrows raised at the diagram. “Are these for Halle? They’re a bit small...and pink for you, don’t you think?”

Raking his fingers back through his hair shyly, his Uncle chuckled self-deprecating. “Yes, they are. I...messed up with her, and I wanted to get her something to apologize with.” He rubbed his nose. “I don’t know about Halle, but your mother used to love getting new shoes.”

Corbyn looked to him. “From my father?”

“Er—Yes!” He quickly inserted. “Exactly right! Olivia used to tell me how much she loved these bright pink shoes your father got her. She said wearing them felt like she was stepping on cherry blossoms...I want to get Halle something like that too.”

The boy nodded at the answer. “I can make them Uncle,” Corbyn assured. “When do you need them by?”

“Soon,” the man snorted. “I need them soon.

Corbyn couldn’t help but smile at the response. “I’ll have them to you soon then.”

Uncle Regan closed the distance between them once again and brought him in another hug. Tight this time. “...I think of you as my own son, Corbyn,” he said after a time. “You understand that? Come to me if you ever need anything. I know that it’s been hard since...You know.”

Corbyn shifted between the man’s long arms. He was tall for his age, but the man was easily over six-foot with an arm span to match.

This is weird, Corbin thought at the sudden affection. “I know you do, Uncle Regan...I’ll have the shoes for you soon, okay?” He wanted to deflect all this attention from himself. Uncle Regan has done so much for me already.

His non-related Uncle smiled patiently at his squirming and let him go with one last pat on the shoulder. “Til next time, I suppose.”

After grabbing his coat and his hat, the man was out the door, gone back north.

“Til next time,” Corbin replied quietly to the empty workshop.

***

A steady snake of fire slithered between wood blocks and enraptured the last of five in the ocean. The blazing stream hugged the furthest block, and the hardwood could be heard distorting, crumpling, charring, as it sizzled away atop the water.

Vendor Pice clapped and roared beside the sweaty heap of a boy still at work. “Good job, Corbyn! You might have the best control I’ve seen in all my years. Myself included! Keep at just a little longer! This is the last one!”

Throughout their weeks of training, Corbyn found the merchant to be far less eccentric in his lessons and encouragement than he’d expected. He didn’t know how others went about the process, but the old man’s attitude was encouraging — the sight of the last bobbing block burning to embers more so.

“And...stop!” the old man said happily as he looked from one clump of embers to the next. “My god, boy. You are something else.”

Corbyn felt validated as the flames from his hands fizzled out and his teacher gripped him by the shoulder. They both looked out at his work proudly. The clean, wood form of each cube was unrecognizable from the clumps of black they turned into.

“I did this..,” Corbyn awed to the Vendor’s giggling approval.

“Yes. You’ve gotten to this point much faster than I’d expected.” The old man looked down at his curled pupil with blustering pride. “You don’t know it yet, but you’ve got the talent to change everything.”

Corbyn swiped at his wet forehead with the top of his shirt. “Change what?” he asked the man curiously.

Vendor Pice rolled his eyes. “Always with the questions, this one. I swear..,” he grumbled, walking off the Ghostyard dock to rummage through the backside of his carriage. He came back with a ragged, hooded coat in hand, and threw it to Corbyn.

“What’s this for?” he asked, moving to wipe his face with it reluctantly. “You don’t have a cleaner towel?”

The old man cringed as the dirty coat was swept across Corbyn’s dirty face. “It’s not a towel,” he clucked dejectedly. “It’s a damn coat, boy.” He massaged his forehead roughly with his fingers. “Why would I give you a dirty coat to wipe your face?”

Corbyn stopped what he was doing, set the coat on his lap, and chuckled embarrassedly. “Ha, of course...What’s it for then?”

“I need you to go down to the Gully for me and fish for something I need.”

“Fish?” Corbyn said. “Yeah, I can do that. What do you need?”

“I need you to go down to one of those rivers down there and get me a Red Herring,” the old man grinned ominously. “I hear they’re especially good this season.”

“A Red Herring?” Corbyn pondered the image. “I’ve never heard of it. What are those?”

The old man smacked him upside his head. “What did I tell you about asking questions, eh? Just go down to the river over by the gullies and catch me one of the redfish.”

Corbyn rubbed his tender head and lifted the coat. “What about this then? Why do I need this dirt thing?”

The merchant looked at him as if he couldn’t understand the question. “That’s for you to wear. It’s nearly winter, boy! It’s freezing out by the water this late at night.”

Corbyn cringed. “You want me to go tonight? We just finished training.”

Once again, Vendor Pice vacantly observed him as if he didn’t understand the question. “Why else would I give it to you here? I want you to go right now!” He lifted Corbyn up, put a rod in his hands as well, and pushed him off the dock. “Go! Go! Go! I need it soon, boy! Hurry up!”

The man ignored Corbyn’s further complaints, and eventually pushed the boy all the way out of the Ghostyard until he was back in the woods. When Corbyn turned around for the final time, the man was gone. His carriage. His horses. The blocks. All disappeared.

“How does he do that?”

Knowing that he wouldn’t get an answer by just sitting and wondering, Corbyn turned to his destination with a frustrated heave and started hiking to the Gully.

“I’ll have my answer one of these days.”

***

Still grumbling, complaining about how tired he is, and sweatier than before, Corby reached the river by the time the sun fell for the night. It was dark, dreary, wet, and cold. He shivered lightly under Pice’s dirty coat, sat off the edge of one side of the slipping river, and flung his line into the water below.

There was a man across from him on the other ledge. A large man decked in rags and a pair of muddy boots, his bent fishing pole dangling over the river with an experienced grip. Corbyn couldn’t make out the man’s face though, it was so dark.

“Popular fishing season, huh?” Corbyn muttered below his breath. “I wonder how long this will take.”

A long time, it seemed.

Half-an-hour went by and the pair on either side of the river hadn’t caught a thing. Corbyn could tell the man on the other ledge was growing impatient: he’d begun to kick the river wall with his dirty boots and grumble about how long he’d been there. He seemed on the verge of losing it. His grumbling grew more clipped, his kicks sunk further into the muddy ledge, his motions grew more agitated.

That was when Corbyn’s bob got a bite.

He didn’t have the luxury of excitement though, the man across from him had risen to his haunches and stilled like a predator ready to pounce.

They looked at the shifting bob and the tugging line, and then at eachother tensely. Just as Corbyn began to pull up his line, a dangerous sensation struck him. He peeked at the other side of the river and the man had disappeared.

His eyes darted all through the dark until he found the man’s large figure rushing across a bridge of earth that connected both sides. Those same darting eyes widened hugely.

Is he serious?! Corbyn screeched in his head. He turned to the water and yanked at his fishing pole to rip that fish from the water. “C’mon! C’mon!” With a few more grunts and a desperate pull, the fish came loose. By the moonlit, red shine across its side, Corbyn knew he had the one he needed.

But the man drew closer with each quick, heavy stomp. He was so fast that his hefty steps felt like tiny earthquakes across the ledge.

“No! Hurry up!” Corbyn seethed as he rushed to put the fish away, his trembling fingers fumbling around for a sack. “Wha—” Corbyn grit his teeth. “That crazy coot didn’t give me a bag to put it in! Damnit!”

He threw the rod aside, panicked, and carried the flailing fish over his shoulder as he made to dash away. But then a slam from behind sent him sprawling through littered rock and mud. As his face hit the stone floor, Corbyn saw stars. The looming menace stepped closer, his face still obscured by shade.

Is he that hungry?! Corbyn had never seen someone so aggressive over a single fish.

“You!” the man growled as he stepped from the shadows. “I been sittin’ on my ass all damn day fer that Herrin’ and I’m not about to ‘ave it snatched up by some scrawny beanpole!”

Corbyn ripped at his hair when he heard the voice finally. Hugh, damnit! Why is it always you?! What is my luck?

He quickly grabbed up the fish and hurried to his feet. He knew his cousin would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and right now he wanted what Corbyn needed.

I can’t give this up. If he’s been fishing all day, I might not find one again. He considered his position a moment. Would the old man stop my lessons if I don’t bring back a single fish?

Corbyn gulped as he thought of the mad merchant. Yes. Yes, he would

With outstretched hands, he turned to face his infuriating cousin. As Hugh’s eyes fattened in surprise, bright red light reflected from his pupils. He jumped sideways just in time to dodge a whip of fire to the face.

As the lash landed against the stone side of the river, it left a long tendril of dying embers and black char in its wake. The two cousins looked at it, both having grown shocked and highly strung.

...I almost killed him, Corbin regretfully scrutinized. At least that’ll scare him.

Hugh leered at the mark. “Fire…” Hugh sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s Harrowbird magic,” he whispered curtly as if he’d realized something. He regarded Corbyn with an extended finger and a hatred he hadn’t seen since the last time Hugh got this upset…

“Olivur!” his cousin roared. He haunched his legs, ready to launch himself for the second time. “You damn Harrowbird, I swear on everythin’ I love, yer not goin’ home tonight! What did you do to Uncle Jacob?!”

He leaped forward without waiting for an answer.

Oh fuck.

Corbyn turned to run as fast as he could. But even on land, his gigantic cousin was much faster. How?! As the hairs along his neck tensed, so too did Corbyn as he sent another burst of fire backward at his pursuer.

He didn’t stop to look. He heard a heavy cough, but the halted steps picked up no later than when the red light faded behind him.

That’s when it happened.

As Corbyn sped up the hill, something collided into his shoulder. He yelped at a pain that was so consuming Corbyn began to cry as his legs stuttered and swayed sideways.

What was that? A rock?! The pain died as his shoulder numbed over. Is it broken, he worried with a sidelong glance. He hoped it was only bruised, but when he turned to look at the damage, Corbyn realized that bruising was the least of his problems.

Whatever his cousin had thrown hadn’t just hit his shoulder...it went through it. Something shaped like an arrow, but clear and cold as ice, had lodged itself right above his right shoulder blade.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A rhythm pounded in his ears so loud that Corbyn could focus on nothing else. It pounded so heavy behind his eyes that they began to bulge and unfocus. As he fell to the ground and his vision frayed at the edges, Corbyn finally recognized the beat: It was his heart, hammering away as adrenaline tried to keep him awake.

“What?” he wheezed into a face full of grass, the taste of which lingered like muddy water behind his lips. He was so close to death’s door that he could smell the other side.

It smells like blood...no, that’s my shoulder leaking onto my face.

He could see his cousin’s raised foot through the blood in his eye and yelled a hoarse plea. “No! Stop Hugh! Stop! I’m not Olivur!” He let go of the fish that had finally stopped flailing and threw his hood back to show the colossal boy his face. “It’s Corbyn!”

He didn’t know what was going on anymore, but pretending to be his friends wasn’t helping.

The lug paused his foot above Corbyn’s face. “Corb?” he called.

He looked to the trail of ruined landscape — the char and flickering embers, the woods partially caught, the tattered shirt further tattered and burned — and then back to his cousin with haunted expression.

“No way. Corb...why can you do Harrowbird magic?”

Corbyn clutched at the icicle in his shoulder and flinched at the pain. “I don’t know anything about Harrowbird magic, Hughey. Please believe me.”

His cousin stopped to pull Corbyn to his feet. He put a hand to the icicle and it shrunk till there was only a hole where it once was.

“O’ course I believe ya Corb. Is all just confusing, ya know? A family like ours aren’t supposed to have fire magic. It only comes from one family.”

“The Harrowbirds,” Corbyn connected with a frown. “But then why can I do it?”

His cousin shrugged. “I ‘on know. Maybe our family’s related to them some’ere back down the way.”

Corbyn squinted at his cousin. “Wait. That was magic too right? That ice.”

The guard Hugh seemed to hold up before was gone. He readily answered Corbyn. “Yup. Harrowbirds are fire. Lightlys are water.” He nodded like he knew it all. “That must be why we’s hate the other so much.”

Corbyn questioned the logic there, but he suddenly remembered something his cousin had said before.

“What did you mean earlier? What do the Harrowbirds have to do with my da’?”

Hugh shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I on’ know what they did, Corb, but people don’t jus’ up en die,” he shrugged. “En only the Birds would hurt Uncle Jake.”

A furrowed brow formed on Corbyn’s forehead. “Okay...but why would they want to hurt da’?”

Hugh threw his hands in the air. “I ‘on know! My da’ just used to say that Uncle Jake stole Auntie from Olivur’s da’, and that the beanpole was mad about it.”

“What?” Corbyn could feel his heartbeat again. What? “Uncle Regan...what?” The questions running through his head and the theories he was forming for each of those questions tilted his world upside-down.

Corbyn peeked at his cousin, his innocent eyes, and was convinced the giant boy wasn’t lying to him. He leaned onto a tree for support and lost himself in the dark woods.

“So...you’re saying Uncle Regan might’ve—” he hyperventilated. “He might’ve—” he did it again.

Hugh grabbed onto his shoulder to help him up, but the pain sent another shock through his body. “Ahh!”

“Oop, my bad, Corb.” He tilted his head at the awkward situation. “Umm, what can I do?”

Corbyn shook his head as he stared into the black night that sunk between the trees. “I need to think, Hughey.” His voice sounded strained, overwhelmed.

“I ‘on if that’s what you need, cus.” Hugh motioned to hold Corbyn up again but was pushed away with a shaking arm.

“I need to think, Hughey...Please,” Corbyn’s voice cracked. “Just go.”

His focus didn’t linger for the response. His eyes drifted along in the abyss of the woods, his mind slowly making sense of the darkness of it all.

He could hear his cousin mumbling something he was sure was meant to be comforting. Maybe words of encouragement? Support? He didn’t care either way. He stumbled into the woods...and mulled over a single word as his feet took him further and further north.

How long passed? He didn’t know.

When he could see once again, he was walking up a tall hill where a large, white house sat at the very top of the Plat estate. When he could think again, he was already at the door.

He stopped walking then and knocked on it. And for the first time in hours, Corbyn could finally say the word he’d obsessed over out loud. He growled it below his breath hatefully as footsteps approached the door.

“Harrowbird.”