Belladonna

had the strange sensation of the ground turning under the building to align itself with ... What?
    He had no answer, so he concentrated on the music — and hoped he would dream of his dark-haired lover. He wanted that last memory of her as a talisman when he sailed through water where Evil dwelled.

Chapter Eleven
    I t flowed from the sea to the land, a shadow under stone, a feeling of menace that made horses bolt and run wild through the village streets, made penned animals fling themselves at their enclosures until they broke free — or ruined themselves in the attempt —
    made women, for no reason they could explain, snatch up their children and bring them inside, ignoring the wails and protests that toys had been left behind.
    As It flowed beneath the earth, It sent the force of Its own rage through the Dark currents that ran through the land around the village of Raven's Hill. It could sense the presence of the Landscaper who had helped the True Enemy hide the Place of Light, but It couldn't find her. Somewhere on that hillside. There and yet gone. Somewhere.
    Frustrated and furious, It paused on the edge of a well-tended lawn, a darker shadow among the shadows cast by stones and trees. Paused and stretched Its mental tentacles to touch the minds of the villagers.
    And, oh, wasn't this delicious? These foolish humans looked on the Landscaper with distrust, not realizing she was their protector, that her presence spared them from the stains within their own hearts.
    Sorceress? Yes, It whispered. Yes, she is a servant of evil. She covets what you have, wants to destroy what you hold dear.
    Nothing good has come from that family. Nothing ever will.
    Hearts wavered. Were seduced. Fed the Dark currents. One heart blazed with the Light and one heart was too anchored in the currents of Light to be completely swayed, but even in those hearts It found shadows of doubt.
    It flowed along the base of the hillside until It reached the path that led upward. Like other animals, humans had game trails they followed. The Landscaper traveled this one often. It could feel her resonance in the earth.
    It could feel something else too — a tangle of currents so bloated with the Dark and resonating so strongly with It that Ephemera gave up that piece of itself with no resistance.
    And part of the meadow behind the cottage near the hill changed to rust-colored sand.
    Satisfied, the Eater of the World rested — and waited.

    *
Michael tucked the tin whistle inside his pack, secured the pack's flap, then set it aside where it would be out of the men's way but within easy reach when they finally dropped anchor at Raven's Hill.
    He was glad his presence and his music had eased the hearts of Captain Kenneday's crew, but he hoped by all that was holy that he wouldn't be ready to leave when Kenneday sailed back this way, hoped he could find a reason — or an excuse — for taking the roads to head back to the villages that made up his circuit. Because he didn't want to sail through that stretch of water again, even knowing that it would be hard for Kenneday and his men to make that part of the journey without him.
    What was out there was no story told by the surviving fishermen in order to explain a tragedy. Kenneday's ship had had a clear sky, a good wind, and no hint of anything unnatural. Then they sailed into fog.
    He'd heard the voices of the dead men. A chill had gone through him, as if he'd stepped out of the sun into deep shadow. So he'd picked up his whistle, and he'd played. At first the tunes were laced with sorrow and were a salute to the dead and the families who mourned the lost men. Then he eased into tunes that threaded hope into the melody. The fog thinned, the voices of the dead faded, a hazy sun shone overhead, and he imagined he could see a faint glow around each man as, one by one, they shed their despair and believed they would reach clean water again.
    When they finally sailed clear of that terrible stretch of water, Kenneday looked at his pocket watch — and discovered they had been lost in the fog for three hours.
    No, he didn't want to sail through that stretch of water again, but as he had played, a thought had danced with his tunes.
    Maybe his brain had gotten addled in the fog, but if not, the feeling people had of a journey being shorter or longer than usual might not be just a feeling after all.
    Leaving his pack, Michael made his way to the stern, where Kenneday was manning the wheel.
    Kenneday smiled