The Third Door

8 - Keelin

Fighting down a wave of sickness, the boy whose name for now was Keelin crumpled the threatening note in his fist. Who am I? he thought frantically. What have I done to make someone hate me so much? His head began to swim. He shut his eyes, ordering himself to relax.

And as his mind steadied, he realised with grim amusement that he had learned something new about himself, at least.

He was not used to being hated. Not like this. Not so personally. Otherwise, the loathing in the message would not have shocked him so badly. Whoever he was, he had been used to being liked—even loved.

So he did not need to fear. Deliberately he opened his eyes, smoothed out the paper and read the words again. This time, he took in the points that should have struck him from the beginning.

The writer of the message thought he was only pretending to have lost his memory. The writer knew him. And the writer had been in this room, for how else could the message have been placed in the pocket of the gown?

Keelin’s thoughts ran on, suddenly clear as a bubbling stream.

He had a secret enemy. If he could unmask that enemy, he would get what he most wanted—knowledge of who he was, and, with luck, what he should be doing.

Petronelle turned and began stumping towards him carrying a steaming bowl. Hastily Keelin stuffed the note back into his gown pocket. He did not want her to see it, to exclaim, to make a fuss. He wanted to think about the problem in peace, at least for now.

Murmuring his thanks, he took the bowl of rice porridge sprinkled with dried berries and drizzled with honey.

Petronelle peered at him. ‘You’re looking a bit feverish,’ she said, frowning.

‘I am well,’ he assured her, and took a spoonful of the sweet, gluey porridge to prove it.

Petronelle waited till he had taken another spoonful, then whisked away to pull open the door of the apartment.

Watching from his chair, Keelin was surprised to see that a strapping young man with a scarred face was standing on guard outside the door.

‘Jett, please tell Chieftain Farr that the patient is awake,’ Petronelle said crisply.

The man nodded sullenly and marched away.

Petronelle closed the door again with a slight flounce. She looked round and saw her patient staring, the spoon halfway to his lips.

‘I had to tell, Keelin,’ she said. ‘I swore to Farr that I would.’

‘I did not know this room was guarded,’ said Keelin. ‘Is that to keep me in, or to keep others out?’

The old woman shrugged. ‘A bit of both, I daresay. Eat up!’ She went to his bed and began straightening the covers with sharp, cross little tugs.

Keelin ate a little more porridge. It was very good. The clink in the fireplace chattered and he threw it a scrap of dried fruit.

‘That guard—Jett—did not seem friendly,’ he ventured.

‘He’s not,’ snapped Petronelle. ‘Not to me, in any case. It’s my eyes.’

She turned away from the bed. In the light streaming from the window, the difference between her two eyes, one green, one brown, was very noticeable.

‘The mismatch happens in my family from time to time,’ she said. ‘Some say it’s a curse because of a wrongdoing long ago, but I don’t know about that. Maybe it’s always been.’

‘I think it is interesting,’ Keelin said loyally, tossing another scrap to the clink. ‘Jett is a fool to dislike you because of the colour of your eyes!’

The woman smiled without humour. ‘He’s not the only one. Finish your breakfast, Keelin. Farr will be here soon. And stop feeding that clink!’

She turned back to the bed. Keelin ate the last of his porridge and put the empty bowl on the floor. He felt restless and uneasy. Suddenly the familiar room seemed more like a prison than a refuge.

On impulse he pushed the rug aside and stood up, holding on to the arm of the chair for support. His bare feet felt tender on the wooden floor. His legs were wobbly. He glanced guiltily at Petronelle, but she still had her back turned. He edged to the window, leaned on the deep sill and looked down.

He was high above the ground. The street below was broad and busy. Horse-drawn carts clattered to and fro in the centre. People strolled by on either side, stopping now and then to look in the windows of the shops that lined the road. Wooden barrels planted with flowers stood by many of the shop doors. Everything looked very clean, very bright, and totally unfamiliar.

Voices whispered in Keelin’s mind. His eyes watered in the sunlight. As he straightened he caught sight of his own reflection in the window glass—a ghostly face framed with a broad strip of white bandage. He turned away from it, reaching blindly for his chair, and winced as he trod on something small and hard.

He looked down to see what had hurt him. It looked like a bead—part of an earring, perhaps. Taking care not to lose his balance, he bent and picked it up.

It was a pebble—a bright blue pebble. He looked down at it, cupped in his palm. It stirred something in him—something deep and very powerful.

He felt a thrill of excitement. The pebble meant something. For some reason it made him feel strong, warm and safe. But how had it come here? And when? Every evening, just before settling him for the night, Petronelle swept the floor. She did it thoroughly, chasing down every crumb, thread, and speck of dust. She would not have missed a pebble.

So the pebble had come in the night. Either someone had come into the room while he and Petronelle were sleeping, or …

Keelin looked back at the window—the window that was always left open at night. He imagined the pebble sailing into the room, thrown by someone standing in the street below.

There was a knock on the door, which at once snapped open. Startled, Keelin lurched back into his chair, stuffing the pebble deep into the pocket of his gown with the threatening note.

Chieftain Farr and the lady Janna entered the room. Zak was with them, tiptoeing cautiously as if he had been warned to be very quiet. Petronelle swung round from the bed and by the time the door had shut she was hovering protectively by Keelin’s side.

‘Never fear, Petronelle,’ Farr said with a tired smile. ‘We were at breakfast, so came along together, but we will not trouble your patient too long. I merely wish to know—’

‘He still remembers nothing,’ the old woman said bluntly. ‘Not so much as his own name, let alone anything else. But it will come.’ She glanced at Keelin and he nodded, his heart sinking as he saw the disappointment in Farr’s eyes.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I have tried, but …’

‘Do not apologise!’ Farr said, moving forward and stretching out his hand. ‘It is we who should apologise to you! You were hurt saving our son! And for that I can only thank you, from the bottom of my heart.’

Keelin took the offered hand. ‘I am sure you would do the same for me,’ he murmured, then felt awkward as he saw Farr and Janna exchange puzzled glances as if his reply seemed a little strange to them.

They do not say that here, he thought suddenly. They reply to thanks in a different way. And silently he added another fact to his small store. He was a stranger in this place. A foreigner.

Yet he did not feel a foreigner. Until this moment he had thought he was one with these people. A lost one, certainly, but not a stranger.

Zak was whispering to his mother. At her nod, he moved forward and gravely presented Keelin with something wrapped in a white napkin. The gift proved to be a small brown cake that smelled of spices.

‘Thank you, Zak,’ Keelin said. ‘I will enjoy that later.’

‘You’re welcome,’ the child said, then added, with a sly grin, ‘I mean … I’m sure you’d do the same for me.’

Janna smiled. Keelin’s heart warmed.

‘Was there nothing in his possessions that might identify him?’ Farr asked Petronelle as she carried away the spice cake and put it on the shelf where she kept her supply of food.

Keelin saw the old woman’s eyes slide quickly to the chest in the corner of the room and just as quickly slide away again as she shook her head.

‘At last your memory will return, Keelin, I am sure of it,’ Janna said gently. ‘It is best you do not strain yourself to remember.’

‘Sometimes another shock or blow will do it,’ said Petronelle, returning to Keelin’s side. She frowned at Zak, who had leaned forward with interest. ‘Not,’ she added forcefully, ‘that this should be tried. It may do more harm than good.’

There was another knock on the door. The door opened a little and Jett’s face appeared in the gap.

‘Councillors Manx, Sigrid and Barron are here, Chieftain Farr,’ Jett said, his scarred face expressionless. ‘They say the matter is urgent.’

Farr nodded shortly. Petronelle began to protest, but he quelled her with a glance.

‘Farr—’ Janna murmured.

Farr shook his head. ‘I must hear what they have to say, Janna, and I can’t do it in the hallway. Besides, they will know by now that Keelin is awake. They will have asked Jett and he would see no reason to lie.’

Keelin watched alertly as three people came through the door—a thin, black-robed man, a stout, red-faced man and a very upright woman with a grey braid wound around her head. As Farr introduced them to him, Keelin could feel their suspicion and dislike. Or perhaps the dislike flowed from only one of them. He could not tell.

‘Has the boy’s memory returned?’ asked the stout man Farr had called Barron.

As Farr shook his head, the other man, Manx, frowned. ‘We have news from the inland,’ he said. He glanced at Petronelle, Zak and Janna, clearly unwilling to talk in front of them.

‘Petronelle, would you please take Zak back to our rooms and see that he finishes his breakfast?’ Farr asked easily.

Shooting Manx a scathing look, Petronelle took Zak by the hand and left the room, squeezing past Jett, who was still hovering in the open doorway. Janna stood her ground, smiling pleasantly as if she was entirely unaware that Manx wanted her gone.

‘Yes, Jett?’ Farr asked, as the guard made no move to shut the door.

Jett held out an envelope. ‘This came for you a few minutes ago, sir,’ he said, moving into the room. ‘I did not want to disturb you, but you may wish to take it now.’

Farr took the envelope, glanced at it, and suppressed a sigh.

‘A message from Carryl,’ he said to his wife as Jett retreated, closing the door behind him.

Manx looked sour. Sigrid sighed. Barron turned down the corners of his mouth in comical dismay. ‘Open it, Farr!’ he groaned. ‘Let’s see what the old girl has to say this time.’

With obvious reluctance, Farr pulled a note from the envelope. The writing was large and spiky. Keelin could easily read it from where he sat.