The mender
second-place winner, Halloween contest 2000

© 2000 Candi Leo-Holmquest
All rights reserved.

"I think the rumor is true; he's had a change of heart."
Angelene turned on the prisoner behind her as if to tear out his tongue. "Trust me, Tainen has no heart to change!"
The other shrugged his jaw, but Angelene wasn't looking. She pulled her filthy, matted hair over her eyes, grateful it had grown in thick. How long had it been since she'd last seen the sun? Two years at least, she reckoned. Now it was being forced upon her, and she found it painful and strange. Keeping her eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time was next to impossible; a legacy of long and bitter confinement. She gazed at her bare, grime-blackened feet as she hobbled along on the cold stones of the castle courtyard and wondered if they would truly carry her from this dreadful place.
One among fourteen other inmates, she was being herded along by her erstwhile tormentors toward the portcullis, rising on its creaking chains up ahead. Disoriented and scared, Angelene reminded herself of how long it had been since she'd walked without shackles battering her ankles. It would take some getting used to. She couldn't even remember how much time had passed since she'd been able to stand without colliding with the damp ceiling of a cell.
Her mind tried desperately to cope with the barrage of new sights and sounds pummeling it. She was limping—all the prisoners were limping—and continuously bumping into the poor wretch ahead of her. It startled her, and probably him, too, each time it happened, but she didn't seem able to prevent it.
They were joyless for people being set free after long years of suffering. Angelene feared it was all just another of Lord Tainen's cruel tricks. She shuddered angrily with the thought, and flinched from instinct as a grim-faced man-at-arms brushed past her.
She'd heard the rumors like everyone else: Tainen repented his evil ways and was attempting to make amends. She put little stock in rumors, especially ones absurd enough to warrant laughter—if, that was, the dungeon hadn't swallowed her sense of humor long ago.
One of the guards caught her when she stumbled over an uneven brick and her head shot up. She glared into his face, then pulled away in disgust. "Curse you," she muttered. "The whole lot of you." She thought he would strike her, but he didn't. He dropped his eyes and moved on. She stared after him in astonishment, and heard the prisoner behind her state again his conviction.
"See, like I said."
The stones beneath her feet had become wood now, and she realized they were on the drawbridge. Crossing the moat, she wanted to let herself feel the hope that struggled to release itself within her. Memories jumped forth instead...
Three years before she'd also stood on this drawbridge, and Tainen had too; laughing while she was hauled inside by some of these same henchmen who now tried to play themselves off as kind. She bit her lip, knowing that laugh would echo around in her skull as long as she lived. Fierce hatred burned her face, made her feel ill. That was when she caught sight of the stranger on the edge of the drawbridge.
Damning the sun, Angelene flung her red hair aside and almost heard the blood drain from her hate-flushed cheeks as she froze in her tracks.
Wearing a long hooded cloak, the stranger leaned beside each prisoner as they passed him. Angelene squinted hard; the cloak was rapidly changing colors!—green to black, black to blue and then back to green again, all in the space of a moment. His bare hands shimmered and flickered like smoke on a hot day. More bizarre still, the hobbling wretches passing him didn't seem to notice anything at all; even when he actually appeared to touch them, they showed no response.
The girl shuddered again, her dungeon-pale visage losing another shade of color. What hideous witchcraft was this? She'd heard it said that Lord Tainen was in league with the Devil. Based on personal experience, she wasn't wont to disagree, and now the matter seemed beyond doubt. The man behind bumped into her back, obliging her to move forward again despite the watery sensation that gripped her knees. She threw eyes over the somber faces of the guards in a desperate desire for explanation; but, though many walked right past the hooded one, they showed no more awareness of his presence than did the prisoners.
Angelene's teeth set. She'd suspected this supposed release was merely a callous prank; she couldn't believe Tainen would set her free, not after all the energy he'd expended trying to destroy her. Tears welled up in her blue eyes and she welcomed them. These weren't tears of despair—all those had been exhausted years ago—they were tears of rage, and she felt the spirit, that once she'd feared had been ripped permanently out of her, begin to return. She touched the shoulder of the prisoner just ahead, the one who's heels she'd been perpetually clipping. "Who is that man?"
He turned his face to her—the face of a boy, and one who had clearly seen more horror than any his age ever ought to. "What man?" his voice sounded cracked and hoarse, as if speech had only recently returned to his life.
"There," she pointed, "wearing the colored cloak."
The boy's eyes followed her finger, and returned carrying soft pity. "I see no man," he said. She watched him make eye contact with the one behind her—the optimist—and then turn away. Had they thought her mad? Assumed the suffering had taken her mind? It wasn't so uncommon a malady in Lord Tainen's victims. Angelene rubbed her eyes, but still the stranger stood. She refused to doubt her sanity any further.
Anger seized her as she edged nearer to the man in the many-colored cloak. The tall stranger leaned over her and she flinched back, feeling old defiance grip her vocal cords. "Who are you? I can see you even if no one else can."
The downcast, hooded head rose up before her. She crossed herself and swallowed; having never seen a demon firsthand, she didn't know what she should expect to find staring back from inside that hood.
Sharp gray eyes greeted her, shining brightly but containing no discernable malevolence. The face, hidden in shadows, looked human, and she watched the man's flickering finger rise up to his mouth as the gray eyes widened sternly. Staring now more in awe than fear, the girl shut her mouth as bidden. The stranger cupped a hand along his cheek and said, "Seek the Mender."
The voice came out like that of a man talking down a well, and it was strangely soothing. In her mind's eye, Angelene saw a little hut on the edge of the forest. The place was familiar, she'd seen it many times before. People believed it to be the abode of the Mender; the place where one could bring a cracked cart wheel or broken scythe and have them mended. Why did the stranger wish her to go there?
She tried to keep him in view as she moved along, but found it a daunting task and quickly lost bearings on his faint image. Stepping from the drawbridge, she watched as the great creaking structure began to rise on it's rusty chains, eventually landing in place with a hollow thud.
Only then did Angelene finally allow herself to believe this sad epoch had indeed come to a close. What the future held she couldn't say, she was too busy contemplating a mysterious stranger who had just vanished before her eyes.

Leaning over the clear stream, Angelene washed two years worth of tears, grime, stench and misery from her face and hair. She'd almost forgotten how it felt to be clean. Still, she grieved; the dirt might come off on the outside but she knew her soul, putrid with hate and despair, would continue to fester on the inside. Some things just couldn't be washed away; some stains were permanent.
When she was done, she waited for the water to settle that she might survey her handiwork. She was still quite young, and her face had been beautiful once. It was still, despite all the abuse it had endured. The sight did not please her, though. For Angelene, beauty had been a terrible thing. Tears gushed up as she remembered how it had been before; before her lovely face and shining red hair caught Lord Tainen's eye.
Even if she had not been betrothed to the one she loved above all others, Angelene would never have consented to Tainen's wishes. He owned the land her family cultivated, the village she lived in and all the people she knew, but her body and heart belonged to her alone, and she hadn't feared to tell him so.
Yes, the words had been reckless, and yes she had regretted them. When her hapless husband died before her eyes she regretted them most, yet she'd seen—by the proud smile he wore—that he had not. The memory of that smile made his death easier to bear and she was always grateful to him for it. Her family's fate though, brought nothing but agony; it little mattered that she hadn't witnessed their sufferings firsthand, her conscience filled in all the blanks. Driven from their fields by Tainen's wrath, they had starved to death while she languished in a dungeon not even big enough to stand up in.
After that she felt she had nothing more to lose and her life became a relentless struggle against a man determined to break her. Bitter tears flowed as she remembered these things, hate seared her heart. The lovely face turned dark again, but it was not soot or grime discoloring it now. She thought it a darkness that could only spring from a wounded soul.
"Seek the Mender," she said, almost mockingly.
"Seek the Mender."
The words echoed in her mind; the voice speaking them sounded distant ... and strangely soothing.

From what Angelene could remember, she had to conclude that the Mender must be a very peevish fellow. When one sought his services, one had to follow a strict procedure or one was apt to be turned away empty-handed. It was said that when you came to the Mender's hut you had to rap on his door three times, then name the material to be mended; "wood," "metal," "straw." She could even recall people going to the Mender to have wounds treated and bones set.
Now though, as she stood before the hut, she couldn't think what to say. She had nothing upon her that needed mending. Well, there were the tattered rags covering her body, but they were in such poor condition she feared the Mender would be deeply offended if she rapped three times on his door and then said: "cloth."
She rapped three times ... and said nothing.
The door opened and she beheld a small, kindly looking old man standing before her.
"Well?" he asked, seeming impatient with this flagrant disregard for his rules.
Angelene, in no mood to be kind, showed him a wary face. "I've come seeking the Mender."
The old man sighed. "I thought as much. What is it you wish mended?"
"I was told to come to you," Angelene said. "I don't know why. The man in the colored cloak—"
The old man grabbed her arm and cut her off. His eyes turned anxious, even demanding. "What do you want mended, girl?"
Angelene jerked away, she didn't like being touched anymore. "I don't...I've nothing to mend but—"
The door slammed in her face, leaving her shaken and angry. From the other side he called, "I can do nothing lest I know what it is I am to mend."
Angelene stomped her foot. "Damn you!" Her language had coarsened in the dungeon, along with her out look on life, and she now felt shame seep in atop the anger. What have I become?
"Forgive me," she said, in softer tones. "But unless you can mend souls, I've nothing for you. I shouldn't have come."
She heard the door open as she was turning away to leave.
"How do you know what I can mend if you don't ask?"
The voice! The voice from the well. Angelene spun around with a start and found a tall man stood in the doorway now, his sharp gray eyes twinkling beneath hair so blond it was almost white. She stared wildly at him and he shrugged, wearing a grin the frightened girl wasn't sure she liked.
"You can still see me, can't you?"
Angelene nodded. "Where's the old one?"
The Mender laughed and motioned her inside. "He's not gone far." He closed the door and tossed the tattered blue cloak he held across his shoulders again. The old man re-emerged. "You like me better this way?" his voice sounded ancient.
Angelene's lips trembled, but she couldn't pull her eyes from him. It seemed he'd taken complete possession of them, allowing them to turn only on his command. "You get much use from your cloaks, don't you?"
The Mender smiled. "Well, in my line of work, they're essential."
Angelene's eyes narrowed. "Who are you, Mender? What is your line of work?"
The Mender gently nudged her toward a chair. Beautifully carved, it had apparently begun life as the stump of an ancient tree and appeared to be still rooted into the ground. "I don't think you came to talk about me," he said kindly—a little too kindly, Angelene thought. He extended a hand toward the chair. "Please, sit."
Angelene eyed the thing, but she didn't move. "Why did you summon me here?"
The Mender pointed at her. "Sit," he said. It wasn't quite a command but Angelene fell into the chair without having time to think, or refuse. The wooden seat seemed to compress under her and mold itself to fit her body perfectly. The chair suddenly felt very comfortable ... and very comforting. As she raised her face to the Mender, all the fear gushed from her heart, like the meat of a grape forced through its tough skin.
The man with the gray eyes sat himself at her feet and she followed him down with her own eyes. He smiled again, and Angelene found herself smiling back. "Tell me what ails you," he said, in his strange, soothing voice.
"I've no bleeding wounds or broken bones." Angelene shook her head sadly. "I'm sure you're very good, but how can you mend something you can't touch?"
The Mender clasped fingers under his chin and leaned his elbows on upraised knees. "Before I can mend a thing I must first know how it was broken." His eyes sparkled; they might have been friendly, they might have been evil, Angelene wasn't certain, but their spell was irresistible. "Tell me."
Angelene's jaw tightened but she began to speak nonetheless. She found she couldn't hold it inside now, all the pain and hatred. It flowed out in words and sobs and before she realized it, she had told this stranger everything; things she once thought she could never allow herself to remember, let alone speak of again. She finished in tears, screaming her loathing for Tainen into the Mender's face, but he only listened in solemn repose.
He stayed silent while she wept, but after a while he took her hands and held them affectionately. "Do you still wish to be mended?" he asked, his voice more inviting and gentle than ever.
A sad smile rose beneath Angelene's tear-soaked cheeks. "There's nothing you can do." She gripped his hands, as if he were the one needing comfort. "You can't give me back what he's taken from me."
"That's true." Compassion melted the Mender's features. "But I can ease your pain. I can wash the dark stains from your soul ... the stains Tainen has left you with." His face turned eager. "Do you want me to do this?"
The girl wiped away tears with both hands. "I don't understand," she said.
The gray eyes became pleading. "Give me your pain!" He squeezed her hands so tightly it hurt her. "You want to be rid of it don't you, child? Give it to me."
Angelene trembled. He must be the Devil, she thought, he knows too well how to tempt me. Why would he want her pain, though? Was it not the Devil's business to inflict pain? She couldn't think straight, there was too much ... pain in the way. Shutting her eyes in resignation, she grimaced and submitted to a stranger's plea where she had refused a Lord's demand.
"Take it then!"
The Mender stroked her cheek with a touch that was warm, pleasant—not at all Satanic—and yet she felt a shiver pass through her beneath his fingers. He rose, went to a large barrel standing in the corner, and returned holding a transparent bottle with a wide base and narrow neck. It fascinated Angelene, she had never seen a glass bottle before, and she looked it over intensely when he handed it to her.
"The only way you can be rid of your pain is to face it again," he told her. "One last time." Angelene nodded agreement and the Mender stroked her cheek once more. "I want you to think of all the evil that's been done to you, of Tainen and the hatred you bear him. And when I tell you, you must blow into the bottle as hard as you can, so no breath is left within you." He gave his head a slight tilt and Angelene stared into the mysterious gray eyes. "Can you do this?"
"Yes," she said sadly, "but you should know, Mender, I've nothing with which to pay you and—"
"Oh, you're wrong, you have a great deal with which to pay me."
Her eyes flew up. "I see. My soul, perhaps? Is that the payment you collect for your services?"
The Mender looked indignant. "You misjudge me," he said. "My task is merely to mend whatever comes to me broken. When I succeed in this, it is payment enough."
Angelene wanted to sneer at the reply but found she couldn't; as foolish as it sounded, she believed him. She didn't know why, but she did. A deep breath swelled her lungs. She eyed the Mender for a long while before her attention reverted back to the bottle, gripped tight in her hands.
Reluctantly, she began again to remember things she could never forget...and never forgive. First her husband's, then her family's and lastly her own pain—the pain that ate at her soul and burned her with its craving for vengeance. As her lips drew taut over her teeth, she felt the Mender again beside her ear. He whispered a strange word in his distant-sounding voice, and Angelene felt her chest and stomach heave violently. Something seemed to swell within her body, and begin a slow climb up her throat. It was excruciating; she choked violently, thinking she was going to throw up.
"Now!" the Mender said. "Blow it out."
She did, she felt powerless to prevent it. Through watering eyes, she watched a thick, dark smoke-like substance begin to pour into the bottle. It had an intensely bitter taste and she was desperate to get it out of her mouth. When she'd blown all she could, she lifted her head and gasped for fresh air.
The Mender paid her no heed. Immediately seizing the bottle, he jammed a cork into its neck. He moved with ferocious speed and startled Angelene even as she struggled to recover her composure. Still gasping, she watched him carry the bottle, cradling it with meticulous care, to the large barrel it had originated from. Jerking the barrel open he disposed of it within and Angelene heard it shatter bluntly at the bottom.
Breathing had become more comfortable and Angelene found she felt different—lighter somehow, like she might after setting down a heavy burden at the end of a hard day.
"What was it I blew into the bottle?" she asked, then realized she already knew what the answer would be.
"Hate, pain, bitterness. All the things that tainted your soul." The Mender still gazed into the barrel. "And do you feel mended now?"
Angelene sensed that he too already knew the answer. She cleared her throat, and discovered her mouth now tasted slightly sweet. "I feel...very well," she said. Perhaps a bit too well. Her face darkened. "And you ask no payment in return for this?"
"You've paid me very well already, child." The Mender turned back to her, displaying his overly kind smile again. "You're free to go." His eyes flashed and another shiver spiraled up Angelene's throat. Intuition told her she should leave now and she rose to obey it. Yet, she stopped before reaching the door.
"There's no price on what you've given me," she said, turning back to face the Mender with intense gratitude glazing her eyes. She had to force herself to seize the door, she didn't want to leave. Curiosity gave her the excuse she desired to remain. "Have others blown into your bottle?"
"Yes," the Mender replied. He looked quite happy to see her still in his threshold. "Many others. Your Lord Tainen has always fed me well."
"You feed on the misery of others?"
The Mender sighed, with sadness it seemed. "I only do the bidding of others." He turned back to the barrel and Angelene turned back to the door.
"Is the barrel full?"
"It is now."
"And what will you do with it...now?" She knew the Mender was staring at her again, she could feel his gaze on the back of her head like hot summer sunshine and it made her tremble.
"I'll have to get rid of it," he said. "It's dangerous."
She would never argue that point; intensely concentrated hate and vengeance, what could be more dangerous? Even at a distance the barrel gave off a kind of repulsive heat. That was in me, she told herself, and her lungs exhaled with relief as she searched her soul and found no hatred left there.
"How will you get rid of it?" she asked.
"How would you have me get rid of it?"
She couldn't see his face but she knew he smiled. "I don't understand," she said. The trembling became more intense and her fists clenched in a painful spasm.
"It was you who summoned me," the Mender said. "It is your bidding I must do."
The girl spun around. "No! it was you ... `seek the Mender,' remember?"
The Mender shook his head. "Only one who summons me, will see me." He grinned, and it looked a bit mocking. "I've been doing this for a long time, child." He approached her calmly, even humbly. "What would you have me do?"
Angelene's eyes fell, and her stomach tightened. "The hatred, it's all gone. And yet I'm not at peace. You've removed the darkness from me, and I'm grateful but—" a strained look came over her features, "I still belong to Tainen and he could hurt me again. I want ... I want to be free." Her voice broke, but she was glad she had said it.
The Mender returned a solemn nod. "The last speaks as did the first. The judgement is made." He bowed low before her. "Thy will be done."
Angelene shut her eyes. "God forgive me."
"His is the final judgement," the Mender said.
Fear reverberated in the voices of the people, as they talked of the mysterious plague that had infested their Lord's stronghold. Fear and something else as well, something like sheer disbelief. Most of the servants survived the ordeal and they brought out harrowing tales of the fate which had befallen Tainen and his soldiers.
"It was just an old barrel," the elderly serving woman insisted, clutching Angelene's arm. "The old man said it was wine but when he pried the lid, there warn't nothin' in it at all." Angelene listened with a set expression, her eyes tired and haunted.
"It was so fast," said the old woman's husband. He had a kind face, marred with a deep scar in the shape of an X, on his forehead. Angelene had seen him receive that scar; Tainen's mark of disapproval for a servant perceived to be sluggish. "I never saw nothin' like it. The flesh just seemed to be eaten off their very bones, right in front a' us."
"It was horrible," the woman added.
Yes, Angelene thought, hate devours. It's the only thing in this world that never goes hungry.
"But you weren't infected," she said, remembering how this same old woman had once smuggled her a field mouse to keep her company in a lonely cell.
"No," the old woman said. "And not Andre"—she gestured toward her husband—"nor Robert, the stable-boy, or little Jeanne or Therese." She shook her head. "God have mercy."
"And Master Christophe," Andre said, "he didn't catch it neither. 'Bout the only one a' His Lordship's kin who didn't. He'll be Lord a' the manor now, I guess."
Angelene remembered young Christophe, too. When Tainen had shoved her down the stairs of his bedchamber, screaming obscenities behind her, it was Christophe's gentle hands that caught her and provided a small but precious hope of deliverance. "There was no hate for him," she said.
Andre let out a wistful sigh. "There were many times I could've wished Lord Tainen dead but ... never like that."
"It's sad, too," his wife said, "because he'd grown quite kind these last few weeks. I even thought he was repentant."
A moist, forlorn film began to spread across Angelene's eyes and she wanted to hear no more. Leaving her companions, she wandered across a desolate field and let the terrain mirror her mood.
"Are you happy with how things came out?"
She was hardly surprised to behold a man with gray eyes and white hair standing beside her. Her lips tightened and she shook her head. "I think I would be, if I still harbored the hatred you drew out of me."
The Mender smiled, and it was not unkind. "Ironic, isn't it? I get that complaint often." He leaned into her. "So, are you free now?"
"The chains of guilt aren't much lighter than those of hatred."
The Mender drew in air eagerly. "I could take them from you as well."
She gave him a somber nod. "They're not something I would part with, however severe the pain they cause me."
"We shall see." There was a calm finality in his stance. He flung the cloak about his shoulders, and began to vanish. Turning slowly, he walked away from her.
"Will you be bearing my barrel when next I see you, Mender?" she called sadly after him.
The Mender shrugged, but she could barely make out his shimmering outline now. "That's never up to me, child. I can only do the bidding of ... others."
"I know," Angelene said. "Others like me."

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