The first page recording the date was written in larger handwriting than the contents of the journal. Devin squinted at the first entry in frustration as the letters and words blurred together. He rubbed his eyes but no matter how he struggled, the words were as indecipherable as though they were written in a foreign language. What if this problem with his eyesight was permanent? He could never return to his work at the Archives. Of what use was an archivist who couldn’t read or copy manuscripts? He put the journal back in his jacket. He’d had little or no sleep last night, he rationalized. Perhaps that was part of the problem, and admittedly the light inside the hut wasn’t good either. He put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. A short nap might improve things.
Marcus entered, wakening him. He laid two skinned rabbits down on the hay. “I thought you’d be devouring that journal!” he said in surprise.
Devin passed a hand over his eyes. “I guess my lack of sleep got the better of me. Perhaps we can read it together after dinner.”
“Read it to me while I cut these rabbits up,” Marcus directed. “I think we might be able to roast them a bit over that lantern.”
Devin slid forward. “I can’t, Marcus.”
“You can’t what?” he asked, busy with his rabbits. “I know you don’t like raw meat. I just said I’m going to try to cook it for you.”
“It’s not that,” Devin answered.
“Then what’s the matter?” Marcus asked, sparing him an annoyed look.
“I can’t read,” Devin blurted out. “My eyes are blurry all the time. I can’t see straight.”
Marcus dropped his knife and turned around. “When you first mentioned this, I assumed it was temporary. You read the date in that journal to me yesterday.”
Devin turned the book so he could see it. “The date and Father Sébastian’s name are written much larger. I was able to make that much out. But in the journal entries …” He turned a page and held the book up for Marcus, “the writing is much smaller. See for yourself.”
“God, Devin, I had no idea! You should have told me,” Marcus replied. “It’s only been five days, maybe it will go away.”
“Maybe,” Devin conceded.
“Have the headaches stopped?”
“Yes, and the dizziness, too. It’s only the blurriness in my eyes that’s remained.”
“What can I do?” Marcus asked.
“Read the journal to me tonight,” Devin said. “We need to know what’s in it. If something should happen – if the book were captured – no one would know the truth about what happened at Albion.”
“Anything,” Marcus promised. “I don’t know what to say, Devin. You know I shot you to save your life.”
Devin nodded. Marcus’ concern seemed palpable. He had no desire to reassure him; he didn’t have the heart. Losing his eyesight would bring all his dreams crashing down and he wasn’t ready to deal with that now.
The lantern proved efficient at cooking bits of rabbit on wet sticks. The edges were crisp and the center tender and juicy. Devin couldn’t remember having enjoyed a meal more. They were both famished after last night’s lack of dinner and this was certainly an improvement over moldy bread!
Marcus disposed of the remains of the rabbits and returned with two full waterskins. He sat down next to Devin against the wall and pulled the lantern to his side. “Let’s have that journal,” he said.
Devin handed it to him, watching as he opened it to the first entry. “I, Father Sébastian Chastain, priest to the people of Albion and Rodez …”
“Rodez?” Devin interrupted. “That’s another very small village. It’s not far from the Arcadia border.”
“I’m not familiar with it but if their priest disappeared, there might be more information at one of the churches close by.” Marcus glanced at Devin. “You know we can’t take the time to look for any more information now?”
“I know that,” said Devin, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. “It simply adds more validity to the journal, especially if there are secondary sources describing the destruction of Albion. Go on.”
“… must record the events that led to the destruction of Albion and all its citizens. On 12 Avril 1406, Gascon Forneaux …”
“Forneaux?” Devin yelped. “Is it possible that this could be René Forneaux’s ancestor?”
“We’ll never know if you keep interrupting me!” Marcus snapped. He took a deep breath and began again. “Gascon Forneaux and some of his men destroyed the dam holding back the waters of Gave d’Oloron, subsequently flooding the town of Albion and drowning all of its inhabitants. I saw the waters coming over a great distance from the hill above the church and rang the bell to alert my parishioners but my efforts came too late. Every man, woman, and child was swept away by the onslaught and I will forever bear the guilt of their deaths. Had I only reached the church bell sooner, I might have saved some of their lives.”
Devin exhaled. “What a burden to bear! He blamed himself and yet he couldn’t have done more than he did.”
“I am leaving this journal in the hope that my sister Lavender or one of my brothers may find it and give it to my father. They are the only ones that I have shown this safe room to. News of my death will bring them here to search for answers.” Marcus dropped the journal on his knee. “Now that is just scary! So, Lavender actually was Sébastian’s sister?”
“His little sister,” Devin reminded him. “The Lavender that the story made famous was a child when she ran after her pony. What would have brought her to Tirolien, do you think? Even had he shown her that room as a child, she wouldn’t have been able to travel all this way by herself.”
“But maybe as an adult she did,” Marcus said. “Maybe she was drawn here because of her brother’s death.”
“She said she had heard the story from her father,” Devin added. “So her brother must have died before she ran away. Could her brother have written to his father expressing his concerns about Gascon Forneaux and the villagers’ refusal to pay their taxes? Do you suppose he expected retribution?”
Marcus shook his head. “This is all too complicated for me. I feel as though I’ve fallen into a fairytale.”
“Keep reading,” Devin urged.
“It is incomprehensible that the rivalry between two brothers could have cost so many innocent people their lives,” Marcus continued.
“Two brothers?” Devin repeated. “Does he give the other brother’s name? I think there was a Forneaux who was elected as Chancellor several hundred years ago.” He heard the faint sound of voices. “What is that?” he asked, holding up a hand for silence.
“It sounds like people talking,” Marcus said.
Devin stood up. Through the trees he saw the intermittent light of lanterns swinging. “Someone’s coming.”
Marcus was on his feet, too, snuffing the lantern but taking it with them. “Devin, pick up your pack! We need to get out of here!” he hissed.
They stumbled through the dark, tripping over rocks and tree roots, hoping desperately that their hasty escape wouldn’t be heard by the group moving into the pasture behind them. They made their way to the far side of the field and scrambled below the brow of the hill, pausing long enough to glance back. A group of twelve people with several lanterns between them gathered at the shepherd’s