Chapter Six
The future is something he never dares to predict.
Prophecy is the magic of others and his hands are too busy with the present.
The now weighs enough to convince him not to bother with thoughts of the future.
Then she looks up at him, a quiet desperation in her eyes and a child in her lap, and all he can see is the heartbreak that’s sure to come.
FRANCE
Hunger haunts the countryside like a ghost.
Its phantom fingers are in every town, every city, carving the fat away from the bones of the have-nots.
Brutal winters and heavy rains have strangled the yield of grain for bread and feed for live-stock.
Only the nobility face the day without hunger clawing at their bellies, their stores saving them from suffering as their countrymen sacrifice their dogs and horses to stave off starvation.
When she left Norwich, she did so with the intent to slowly migrate over to Italy—staying long enough in the cities and towns along the way to live and work before moving on after a few years.
She regrets that decision now. Anna doesn’t stay in any one place long, afraid to watch their faces wither into bones.
She cuts through the forests and the fields, foraging what she can.
She’s not the only one. Hungry faces stare back at her from between the trees, their hands digging up the earth in search of anything they can bring home.
When she sees them, she always stops. She shows them where to look for tubers, what leaves and roots they can eat safely.
It takes her more time to teach than to tell, but when night falls and they return home she feels the dark weight in her stomach lighten with a threadbare string of hope that they’ll live long enough to see the next good harvest.
It’s enough to ease her conscience—enough to let her move on instead of staying to do more.
She doesn’t stop in any of the towns or major cities, but the rumors still reach her.
Merchants traveling the main roads relay the horror stories—each growing more gruesome than the last. Grains drowned by torrential rains, cattle herds decimated by murrain.
They tell her stories of parents abandoning their children, shallow graves being unearthed, of families turning on each other over empty plates.
She hears how the city streets are lined with malnourished bodies and mass graves.
And Anna is useless in it all.
Hunger is not an ailment she can treat, not when there’s no food to be found.
Not when she’s struggling herself. She knows death will not come, but she fears the possibilities of what starvation might mean for her.
Would she grow weak and frail? Would she eventually collapse and never find the strength to rise?
It’s a horrifying thought, one that motivates her as much as the hunger to eat what she can when she can find it.
Between the fatigue in her limbs and the unforgiving rains, travel is achingly slow.
Fewer merchants travel the roads, more and more refuse to let her ride on the backs of their carts in fear that she’ll steal from them once their backs are turned.
Eventually, she gives up on them altogether and sticks to the forests and meadows.
It’s slower, but there’s more peace in being alone than being stared after by skeletal faces and hungry outstretched hands.
She still stumbles on the occasional forager, still helps when she can, but her focus has shifted.
Travel is no longer one town to the next, but crossing the country as quickly as her feet will take her—eager to leave this one behind.
Anna makes it to the southern part of France before she stumbles on perhaps the one thing that could persuade her to stay.
He’s barefoot and dirty—sitting so quietly that Anna almost misses him entirely. But when their eyes meet and her steps falter, Anna is frozen by the boyish face staring up at her from the cradled roots of an ancient alder.
He can’t be older than six and yet, when she looks around, Anna finds that he is unquestionably alone.
It has taken her long enough to travel through the country that she has picked up enough French to be well-versed in understanding it, but she knows her accent must leave a lot to be desired when his face pinches in confusion. “Tout va bien?”
When he doesn’t answer, Anna repeats the question more carefully—hoping her tone alone will help convey her concern.
He shifts, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand.
His face is dirty, the tear tracks lining his cheeks pale against the filth.
“Maman said she was coming back,” he says, a weak whisper of a voice.
His blue eyes are wide and haunting. In them, Anna sees the truth before he can speak it. “I think she lied.”
His name is Piers and he has seen five summers.
It’s the only thing he really knows about himself—he isn’t sure where home is, or what it’s called, and the only thing he knows about his family name is that he’s pretty certain he has one.
Anna stays with him, sharing the mulberries she had picked on the way and watching as afternoon turns into evening.
Piers is quiet, but so is she. It’s uncomfortable, but Anna doesn’t try to fill the silence.
Doesn’t try to distract him from the fact that she’s there and his mother isn’t.
It feels disingenuous at best, cruel at worst. Some traumas are best faced quietly and with caution, and Anna doesn’t want to risk accidentally forcing him to confront what he may not be ready to face.
For the first hour, they sit with feet between them. By the third, he has scooted close enough for their shoulders to touch.
When the summer sun kisses the horizon, he leans his head against her arm.
Anna lets him, waiting until the sun’s last light before rising to gather wood and start a fire to chase away the shadows and warm the chill in her heart.
Once she sits back down, she folds him into her arms and feels his grubby face press against her neck and shoulder.
Piers’ mother never shows.
Nor does his father, or the three older brothers he speaks so fondly of, and Anna’s hopes sink the darker it gets.
Still, it’s not until late the next morning that she offers him her hand.
It’s dirty and small, but his grip is firm in ways that break her heart.
She’s not sure if it’s fear or trust that convinces him to follow her, but under the filtered shadows of the trees, Anna makes a silent promise.
She has passed by so many starving faces, but not his. Not Piers.
Because he may be the only one she can save.
She retraces her steps, finds the tiny cabin she had spotted overgrown with brambles.
Piers gorges himself on blackberries, hardly flinching when he pricks himself on the thorns and his blood mixes with the dark fruit.
Anna cuts away at the worst of it, freeing the creaking door from its strangling grasp.
The inside smells of moss and rot with little to nothing of value beneath its sagging roof.
It’s enough to confirm her hopes of it being abandoned.
She knows Piers is too small to travel the rest of the way to Italy.
Even if he wasn’t, he’s far too weak. The cabin is small and in desperate need of repair, but it’s enough to get them started.
The walls are strong and there’s a hearth in the corner that looks solid enough.
When Piers peeks through the doorway, his mouth stained purple, Anna’s answering smile feels like the most honest it’s been in years.
It is only the lessons she received from Eira lifetimes ago that get them through it.
Anna forages for all she can, even when the taste is bitter or tough to chew.
She shows Piers what foods to search out and which ones to stay away from and lets him help fill their cabin with the supplies she knows they’ll need come winter.
She removes the rotten thatch of roof and replaces it one layer at a time.
It takes her longer than she’d like. The summer rains are merciless, but they are quick to show where her repairs are weak.
By the time the weather turns crisp, she’s confident it will at least withstand the snow.
They stack firewood along the interior walls where it will stay dry.
Anna stocks up on every herbal medicine she can find, just in case illness finds its way to their door.
She’s not familiar with this part of the country, but when she asks Piers, he insists he’s lived through a snowstorm the previous winter.
Anna’s not sure what a child considers a storm, but she’s not willing to leave it to chance.
Particularly when abnormal weather has doomed an entire continent to hunger.
She prepares as much as she can—waking with the sun and refusing to sleep until long after it’s set. Piers seems to sense her worries, because he tries to help where he can and never complains even when Anna knows his belly feels far from full.
“Summer is forgiving, but winter isn’t,” she tells him, but the lesson has never felt this hard.
She is terrifyingly aware that his life is in her hands, that his hunger is a direct result of her choices.
She lessens her rations, just so his can grow.
Her bones ache and she can never seem to rid herself of the fatigue, but it’s worth it to see his cheeks fill and his eyes brighten.
His smiles come more easily and with it, his speech.
Piers, she learns, has no trouble filling the silence.
He makes up silly songs as he fastens bushels of sticks into makeshift dolls and searches the forest floor for rocks to use in a game that looks suspiciously like something that might be found in a back alley gambling ring.