At the precipice of my waking consciousness, I smelled smoke. My body felt like it had been hit by a rampaging wagon. I felt every limb, felt my arms loosely wrapped around a donkey trotting downward on a slope.

There was no donkey. When I opened my eyes, I saw Wilbur carrying me on his back. He bent forward to keep me from falling over. My cheeks were pressed on his shoulder, warm with the struggle of carrying his load. Wilbur was seldom without his robes; his modesty never wavered even when sweat flooded his undershirt inside his stuffy workroom. Yet here he was, his tunic drenched, his robes around my back, securing me to him. The sleeves were tied around his chest. My legs dangled on his sides, his arms under my knees. He looked like a ghost claiming a wandering child.

There was a bloodless gash on his neck. I do not remember what happened. Until I did.

The crossbow, the screams, the dogs, Wilbur covering my eyes and a scent that made me drift back to sleep. The flame. Human blood. Blood like acid. Hellfire eyes. A wall of flame.

I stirred awake. Panic and dawning horror coursed through my veins. Sensing my movement, Wilbur stopped.

I pushed him, flailing and looking at my surroundings. Nothing was burning. Nothing, but the faint sun drifting on top of the world. The crows had gone, replaced by sparrows careening under thin clouds scattered in a miraculously gray-blue sky.

“Easy, Erin.”

The voice did not come from Wilbur.

We had another companion walking in front of us. When he heard the commotion behind him, he spun around, the red-haired charmer of our group. His hands reached for me.

My senses fled. I only saw Blake’s ugly dead fingers that tore through my chest. I only saw Swithin’s clawed arms pass through bone and flesh. My only thought was to escape and take Wilbur away. Any brother other than us were monsters, and though he cannot charm us like he does the common folk, I refused to look at his emerald eyes. My feet jerked to run but my arms clung around Wilbur’s neck, and my fingers closed his eyes. We fell to the ground. Wilbur shushed me, his hands already on my cheeks. He untied his robes and guided me to sit.

“They’re dead.” I looked wildly at Wilbur. His eyes were calm. I knew that he was waiting for me to recover, but his gaze darted from my frantic breathing to the path behind me. I held Wilbur’s wrists. “They’re dead,” I repeated, stupid with shock.

Wilbur reached behind him for Woodrow, hands open. His steady eyes held mine in place. They must have anticipated this because Woodrow opened Wilbur’s bag with casual ease and rummaged in its many clinking bottles and phials and brought out a familiar disc. My eyes drifted towards the leather bag. Wilbur was rarely without it and he never gave it to anyone, not even me; it was attached to his body like his hair stuck to his scalp. It looked so foreign with its straps around Woodrow’s neck. He removed the disc’s lid, passed it to Wilbur. He brought it close to my nose. He nodded to me. I inhaled the strong lavender-menthol scent, let it fill my lungs until I calmed. Once my heart slowed, I stood up; knees wobbling, and took the balm from his hand and stored it in my pocket.

Wilbur untied his makeshift carrier, dusted it off, and wore it. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “We have to hurry, Erin. They might catch us. Can you walk?” I looked at Woodrow who was checking for danger on the path. “Woodrow is with us. He helped me subdue the others.”

I really did need Wilbur’s arm this time, for the strength was not in my knees. I felt myself about to crumble back to the earth with each step. But the fear forced me to move.

I could not shake the horrors I’d seen so easily. We never attacked people. Not like that. Years of treating patients in closed, quiet quarters swam to my mind as I forced myself to walk.

Blake was the first to tell us that we must serve the people. He preached often that we had these powers—or in my case, longevity—solely to be of service. Blake depended on Wilbur for that, especially during the early, hazy years of our days. He crushed plants and flowers and herbs for healing ointments and salves. I merely tried to soothe their troubled spirits. Even Woodrow had a part to play. He smiled his sweetest, and pointed to where the infirmary was, where we were waiting for them. He charmed away the worries of many dubious elders and distrustful youths and lull them long enough for Wilbur’s healing hands to fix them. I was told that he satisfied their urges in some way or another. It took me decades to figure out what that meant.

Decades, we have done this. I wavered again, imagining Blake ripping their limbs off, dying in agony, their horrified screams caught in throats gurgling with blood. Blake, the ancient tree we followed, taking the form of a monster. His sermons were ash in his mouth. I pitied the men that the last thing they saw was of his wretched visage.

“His eyes were so hateful.” I shivered. “His arm blasted through that man’s chest like it was nothing but parchment.”

Wilbur shook his head in disbelief. “What he did was cruel. And it was cruel of him to let you see it. But, Erin, please, you must be strong for us. All right? You have to be strong.” He must be thinking that I exaggerated it. They did not see what I saw in that mirror. How that gruesome image will haunt me for the rest of my days. The mirror! An artifact, Blake called it. I was about to share this with Wilbur when he spoke again. “I found something. In my journals. I’ll share it with the rest of you once we get to the monastery.”

I stopped. My eyes were wide, and I felt my jaw drop. “The monastery?” I said, incredulous. “Brother, we must run away.”

“Drop the ‘brother’. We aren’t parading as monks anymore. I’m not even sure why I am still wearing this,” Woodrow said, uncomfortable in his own robes. He pulled the collar away, but Wilbur insisted he kept the facade until we reach the monastic grounds. Better to be dressed like a monk than any other villager. They would find us and capture us just by walking.

I was still distrustful of Woodrow, and he must have gleaned it from my face because his head whipped around and placed one exasperated hand on his hip. “Come now. Your Wilbur there already said I’m on your side. If you don’t trust me, trust him. It’s not like I can charm you into believing me.”

It was true. It wasn’t because I was immune, only that I was too young. Or at least I believed that I was. Some say I looked twelve years of age, which was considered a man at this age. Sometimes, I heard people say I was seven or ten. And I was constantly reminded of their wide-eyed offspring that perished too soon.

Woodrow sounded impatient. I noticed there was something else in his voice, too. No, not something else. Something missing: sweet honey did not drip over his words. He spoke almost like one of us, his usual melodies astray. He did not like to be inspected in this manner, and he pouted as my eyes scanned him. The locks of his hair stuck out as if they were licking flames. His eyes lost their sheen. He was still pleasant to look at, but commonplace pretty, not the kind of radiance that made people stare.

If he wasn’t in the mood, then neither was I.

“Please what has happened. I can’t do this.”

Perhaps it was how I looked and sounded; like my head was about to burst, like my hair was pulled one strand at a time. They looked at each other. Wilbur reached for me. “I will tell you as we walk. But we must walk.”

“How did we get separated?”

Woodrow whistled at Wilbur. “Now that is quite the tale. How did we manage to fight our strongest former members, Wilbur?”

His brows knitted. “I did not think of anything but to get you away from them, Erin. I did not even know that I threw the bottle until I heard it explode. I didn’t even think what it would do.”

“What was that, anyway?” Woodrow interjected.

“An experiment. Apparently.” Wilbur looked frustrated as we were confused. He did not bother to elaborate. “There was a note attached to its body. It instructed me to throw in the face of danger. Well, I am happy that it worked, but I did not foresee its effects.”

“Who gave it to you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I only noticed it as we packed for our travels, a curious glasswork lying on top of my many potions and crafts. I had half a mind to leave it right there, but the note convinced me to bring it along.” He looked at Woodrow and me. “The handwriting was mine. Scribbled frantically and in code, I might add. But I have no recollection whatsoever of writing it.” He breathed and sighed.

Wilbur said that all alchemists learned to code. This secret language prevented greedy, unwanted eyes from discovering their research and journals. As his student, he taught me some of them, so I could decode his alchemy book and write my own someday. I remember the cold months when we huddled together in the kitchens or dungeons. His eyes were wistful at the thought of his little acolyte filling blank pages, adding more pages, to that leather-bound, sealed, wealth of knowledge. Think of all the good you’ll do, he said.

“We have a lot to discuss. I will tell all what I know later. When we are as far from them as possible.” Wilbur’s finger felt the belt under his tunic.

Woodrow looked back again. “You do realize Swithin can catch us in no time at all. Especially now that he may think of us as prey.” We assumed that all of them were the enemies now. I imagined a deranged smile twisting his face, his heart pumping with excitement. This would be no ordinary game of hide and seek.

Wilbur did not answer, but chose to continue his story. “I did not count on the substance being so loud to knock us all off our feet. I do hope that it was loud enough to impair Swithin’s other senses. I heard him howl in agony. I only had eyes for you, though. Then I just grabbed you and carried you away. I do not know how it was possible, but you were unharmed. Your cloak must have protected you.” I remember feeling no pain. The fire was as safe on my skin as rushing water.

“I could have gotten to you sooner. Knox caught my sleeve and throttled me to the ground just as I saw the crossbow. He cast an illusion over us so that we were in a dark tunnel. He put this blasted cowl over my mouth so that I couldn’t scream.” Anger was a rare weight in Wilbur’s tone. His fists clenched. He motioned to Woodrow. “Woodrow punched him in the face and made him stop.”

Woodrow added his version. “I was desperate. While Knox and Wilbur struggled on the ground, Swithin launched himself onto that man. I thought he was just going to tackle him.” He gulped and shook the memory away. “I shouted at Knox, used all what I had in me to make him drop Wilbur. His grip unclenched, but it wasn’t enough to dispel the illusion. Knox was snarling up at me when I knocked my fist onto his temple.” He looked at his hand, then at Wilbur and at me. “It felt wonderful.”

“Wish I could have had a turn.” Wilbur said. “I wanted to punch his ugly mouth. I swear he even licked his lips at the sight of bloodshed.”

Woodrow went on. “Never have I seen Wilbur act so fast. He threw that bottle that ripped the air apart and plunged into that fire to save you. For a horrid moment, I thought I was alone. In a single night, all my brothers, gone.” He thought for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t have minded losing Knox and Blake.” He looked at me and shivered. “What I did not expect was to Swithin emerge from the flames with fur and run like a beast on all fours, and Blake flying in the night sky like an owl of doom. Oh, yes, Erin. He can fly. His talons reached for Knox and he was about to swoop in and take me but I swatted him away. I think I charmed him too, though how I managed that, I don’t know. I was just desperate and I screamed for him to stay away from me. Then I saw you and Wilbur taking off and I followed. And here we are, running for our lives.”

“You charmed him?” Wilbur patted him on the back. He thought about it. “Maybe that is why he hasn’t yet caught up to us.”

They were never the closest of companions. But the sight of them side by side was welcome. I didn’t notice how tall they both were and how they were almost the same height. Woodrow’s brows were just a bit higher and his hips slimmer. Wilbur’s shoulders were wider.

Woodrow looked thoughtful. "There was something off about them. Their eyes were blank and they showed no emotion. Wilbur, do you think that perhaps Blake was just controlling them? He only ever needed Swithin and Knox's powers mostly."

"That must be it," I said quickly. I told them what I saw. As we walked, I described to them Blake’s gruesome form, from his sickly fingers to the color of his eyes. I remembered the thief that brought out the mirror. “An artifact, Blake called it. I think it revealed what he really looked like inside. Before he shattered it, anyway. He was really angry with it. And it felt like a rare object.”

“An artifact,” Wilbur murmured. He was feeling the belt again. “What happened after? I saw you bleeding on the ground with Blake on top of you.”

“He attacked me. He wanted to kill me right there.” Wilbur winced, his eyes closed, banishing the image of my fallen body. “His black nails pierced my chest and then you came and rescued me.”

He let out a pained breath. “What if I was but a second too late?”

“He hesitated.” I remembered the death blow Blake craved for. I spoke slowly. “He had me in his grasp and then he said something about reaching the monastery first before he ends me.”

“I don’t know if I should envy you or pity you, to be the last one to live,” Woodrow commented. Then he clutched his chest, and he closed one of his eyes. He scowled, sucked in breaths of air. Beads of sweat trickled from his brow.

“Do you need rest? Wilbur, do you have something in your bag for—”

Woodrow waved me off. “We need to keep moving, but,” He concentrated on his own words. “Did you just say that Blake wanted you in the monastery? Then, Wilbur, why the hell are we taking our miserable selves there? Is it your wish to make us such easy targets?”

Wilbur shook his head. “Nay. If we get to it first, we may have a chance of protecting ourselves from Blake.” Again, the finger on the belt.

We walked on, following the dirt road to where it led. Cart tracks lined the path, the ground smoothed over by countless steps and donkeys’ hooves. I always perked up whenever I hear the sound of wagon wheels stopping outside my cell room, wherever it was in the building. Deliveries to the nearby town or village were made once a month. As Blake and Wilbur showed the driver where the barrels of fish, ale, mead, and cheese were, I discreetly headed outside and fed the donkey or horse apples and hay. They would let me pet them and I was grateful that they did not stomp in fright.

There was a time when I was so enthralled by a magnificent white horse. A nobleman’s noble steed, I heard one of the villagers call it. Muscles rippled everywhere throughout his long body and when he saw me peering, shook his luminous mane. It was a steed worthy of Woodrow. But I didn’t mind its vanity. I watched him from behind the pillar, saw it tap the ground with polished hooves, saw its marked nose sniff the air. Then a child, a crying, squealing child appeared from nowhere and grabbed the horse’s tail and leg. The spooked horse kicked and the child flew.

I said to Woodrow, “Wilbur is good in emergencies.” He raised an eyebrow. “You said you never saw him act so fast. Some time ago, there was a terrible accident involving a horse and a young boy. I must have screamed because Wilbur came running, and when he saw the bleeding, twitching child, he immediately scooped him up and brought him inside. He rescued him just in time.”

I smiled at the memory with Wilbur, except his mouth was wide open. He gaped. “Did I?”

I copied his expression, dumbfounded. “How could you not remember? The child clung to you for a day and a half until his guardian collected him.”

Wilbur shook his head in disbelief. “I truly did? Well, then… I am glad.”

I faced him then, twisting my body as we walked. I was oddly furious. More memories jumped at me and I reported them to an astonished Wilbur and Woodrow. “A fight broke out between two peasants in the grounds. Some feud about crops and land. Both had daggers and punctured each other’s eyes. You rushed to stitch their eyes. Just at that moment, a woman wailed as her young child banged his head on the stone floor. I was there. I saw him hit the stones with a sickening crunch. You saved them all.”

As each of his deeds leaped from my mouth, he swatted them away, as if all this was a different person. He looked at his hands and perhaps thought if he were truly capable of such feats. I wanted to slap him awake.

“Wilbur!” I grabbed his hands tight. “They celebrated your name for weeks! The way you brought back their sight and mended their bones was nothing short of a miracle. You called me into your office and lay the mumbling child in your arms. You told me to comfort the mother as you pressed your hand on its bleeding skull. There was a burst of light in the room, then smoke, and in the middle of her hysteria you came out with the child in your arms. He blinked once like a newborn and that was all the mother needed to see to know that he was all right.”

Peace reigned in that abbey, much to Blake’s chagrin. As the people rejoiced and toasted to Wilbur’s good health, he sulked in the shadows, frowning at Wilbur’s recognition. He wanted to say something, then. His hand was now itching for his belt. He shook his head. Later.

I looked at him. “Write down the things I remember. Do not ever forget all the good you’ve done.” I remembered Blake’s harsh view of him. My brother Wilbur was not weak. He was not useless.

“My head hurts.” Woodrow was kneading his temples, strands of red hair falling.

We have neared the signs of settlement. Trees have been cut down, their stumps littering a vast meadow dotted with flowers. I recognized them. White, pink, and purple lilies adorned some areas. I did not even notice the breeze until their petals fluttered. Strange. Just yesterday the strong winds were ice-cold. The path we took was different.

“I wonder, do those clouds appear thicker? And do they seem… still?”

Sinister dark clouds loomed on that hillside. Lightning flashed and an angry rumbling of thunder disturbed the peace on this side. But the clouds remained unmoving, bloated with fury on top of those hills.

I disregarded my own question. “Of course, with fragmented and missing memories, unnatural abilities, odd appearances, common villagers wielding enchanted flames, I suppose this is the closest I have seen to ordinary.”

Wilbur huffed. “Indeed.”

Maybe the clouds were part of Blake’s powers after all. They certainly showed the mood behind his impassive face. No monastery was bright for long once we claimed it, and the longer we stayed, the thicker the clouds that blocked out the sun. It soured the spirit of every living thing; made everyone sullen and lethargic and melancholy. Plants and people alike drooped to the ground. If those clouds reached here, all these flowers would wilt in an instant.

It would be such a shame, too, for they were a rare treat to see outside monasteries. I only knew of Wilbur’s gardens. The herbs and flowers there thrived under his care. Ironic, considering that their origins were from lands such as these; meadows and hills and cliffs and valleys where their roots ran free and far and wide and deep, their petals wide open, embracing the warmth of the sun, undisturbed but for passing bees and hungry butterflies.

The grass was shorter on this side. I heard bells and bleating from far ahead. Maybe we would pass grazing sheep and goats. Maybe the village had a communal cow.

Bushes were next to come into our sight. They rustled with the movement of rabbits, scurrying in their shade. I ran ahead and plucked some berries for us. Why not? These weren’t just pretty flowers. They could be food. Then from their depths I saw two unblinking red eyes. I yelled and threw the berries at it. Out leapt a common hare more terrified than me. I realized then that the berries were already half-eaten. It was rude of me to disturb its nibbling.

I gazed out over the meadow, a sea of grass and pollen waving in the wind. “You would think that whatever bloodshed we witnessed was nothing but a nightmare.” I wished it to be so.

Wilbur’s hand went to his chin. The farther we walked away from Blake and the rest, the more vibrant the world became. The sky here was blue more than it was gray. It was the kind of sky farmers prayed for, the kind of sky where cherubs might peep behind plump, wool-like clouds. Then they would probably scratch their heads as they followed the gradient back towards the thundering horizon, the world leeched of its color.

If we created more distance, this meadow would swallow that sight. If only it could hold it in its throat forever.

The road stretched ahead. If the village Swithin mentioned was there, they would wake to a ghastly morning. A season’s worth of harvest would decay. All their toil and tears, wasted.

“Can we do something to help them? Maybe we can warn them of what is to come?”

Wilbur wanted to help, of course, but protecting us was his priority, and that priority overruled his impulse. He searched for words to console me. “Maybe they already know. Cities and towns are already closing their gates, after all. Maybe this village has constructed their stockade to ward off intruders.” He realized how futile it was. “It could offer just a small bit of protection.” Or at least buy enough time for villagers as they fled from an oncoming bloodbath, I thought. Wilbur heard my thoughts. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Erin. Especially after such a strong tale of my character.”

It was my turn to console. “No, you’re right. There is nothing we can do. Not yet. Not now.”

What happened in the past were mundane accidents; careless human errors. This was supernatural danger. Wherever that monastery was, I hoped that it was far away from the village. I hoped that it was far enough to save many innocent men and women from Blake’s path as he pursued us. Though, knowing what he really was now, he would massacre an entire closed city out of spite. I shivered, tried to block the faces of our past patients. It wasn’t hard to do. I realized then that they all were blurred, a canvass of muddled memory of where their eyes and lips should have been. My imagination must have filled in their missing features.

It was when we saw smoke rising softly in the air that we stopped walking. Wilbur stood beside me and motioned to a tree on a mound where we could think of our next move. It was an apple tree, its boughs empty. It must have already handed its fruits to the hungry people nearby. We wiped our brows and collected our breaths under its shade. The topmost branches rustled overhead. I felt somehow calm.

We thought about sending Woodrow, since it was his face we pushed to greet wary people, but considering how weak he was, he may not be able to bring out the full extent of his charm. One would think that people would be more likely to help a pretty stranger, but the adamant suspicion gripping most folks these days branded anyone outside their family as a threat. They would raise their eyebrows at him, even with his natural self. Monks were not known to be so beautiful. We turned to ask for his opinion.

He was lying face down on the ground a couple of steps back, his red hair brushed back by the wind.

“Woodrow!” Wilbur and I ran to him. We took a limp arm each and dragged him up the mound towards the tree, his boots scraping the earth.

We set his head gently against its trunk. He was mumbling, eyes moving wildly under closed eyelids. “Woodrow, Woodrow!” Wilbur called. When he did not respond, Wilbur slapped his cheeks rapidly. “Erin, hold his head.” My hand swooped under Wilbur’s and caught Woodrow’s head. His pale face was cold to the touch. Wilbur was clawing at his bag, fishing out jars and phials of his medicine in a frenzy.

There was a sickening slithering sound on his arms and I saw with a jolt that his veins were showing, green and ugly against the white. He was wasting away. Like me. He was a flower wilting.

He was mumbling, no, he was chanting. Out of his dry lips were words I did not know but felt had meaning. I leaned in closer to him, to better hear him.

Woodrow’s eyes opened. His mouth widened, and he brought my wrist to his teeth.

All sound and sight swirled away into nothingness. I was being pulled away, though my body stayed on that patch of grass. I stared at the spot where Woodrow bit me, blood trickling out from the corner of his lips. Unblinking green eyes stared right back, his grip tight enough to break brittle bones. With each gulp, he dissolved away so that nothing remained but those sharp fangs draining me. Wilbur’s clinking phials were the last thing I heard before that too was gone.

Then, from the center of my vision, a light appeared, hazy at first, but gradually formed into a small flame hovering in the air. Then I saw the wick and the long dripping wax. The flame glowed brighter, revealing a hand that held a candle. This hand moved, casting light on a small wooden room. It looked like an ordinary peasant’s quarters, with sheepskin clothes hanging on a wall and several tattered sheets bundled together in a corner. The light stayed there.

The bundle moved and a little fat hand waved in the darkness. Lightning flashed. The sound of thunder broke the silence. All at once, I heard rainfall pounding the earth, winds howling outside a closed window. The terrified cries of a baby joined the chorus of this storm.

The hand placed the candle on the ground and then reached for the baby. He swathed the babe and held their head against the flame. I was not certain, but the babe looked some months old. Their tuft of hair shone in the candlelight. As they cried, I saw soft teeth jutting from pink gums. Crooning came out of the shadows where the candle’s light did not reach, a soft lullaby that was loud enough to drown out rain and wind. Slowly, the twisted angry face calmed, the head followed the sound. Still, the candle kept the figure hidden, only revealing those two hands gently holding the tiny squirming body. Long fingers pressed their cheek and tickled the chin and nose, and the babe’s eyes opened. They were striking green. I did not move, but it seemed the vision held the baby closer to my face, inviting a closer inspection. The tuft of hair was brown—no, red—or copper, I thought it was. And their face… was like a cherub whose angelic head glowed with a warm halo.

A door opened. Rain and wind entered their household, spraying the candle’s flame. The baby and its caretaker screamed. Heavy boots splattered mud on the wooden floors. In that horrible darkness, the man’s voice howled.

“Not my baby! Damn you all, not my baby!”

Then I was ripped from the vision, my head falling on the soft grass.