He chased it through
the village square, a dusty expanse scattered in the long shadows of evening,
and then over the soft flowerbeds that hugged the village hall. He pursued it
through the cooper’s yard, between mountains of kegs and casks that stood as
unsteady as Old Corgi with his wooden leg, and then he followed it through the
eastern orchards, apples underfoot here and there and the air heavy with a
smell as sweet as it was sour. Then it was on through Rik Red-Cheek’s barley
crop that had grown taller than he was after the mid-summer downpour, the
dragonfly still teasing and tormenting as it cavorted through air, before
arriving in the outer fields that rolled down toward the stream.
Yet Flick kept
running, and the dragonfly kept flitting. Droplets flew from
beneath his feet as he sprinted through the shallows of the stream that
meandered through Ilawan snakelike in the grass, startling water birds that
sought escape in the branches of the willows as Flick ploughed between them. He
knew the river as much as the river knew him, and his feet found every stone
without so much as a stumble.
The subtle chill of
the evening air rushed past his ears, turning what was a whispering breeze to others
into a rushing gale that bit the tips of his ears and nose as he ran. But, despite
all his efforts, the elusive creature remained just out of reach of his fumbling
fingers, and before long Flick arrived at the forest’s edge where the dragonfly
flitted between the leering, aged carob trees and disappeared into the dark
veil of the wood. Flick stopped dead in his path.
Aewin. Everybody knew the
word.
The forest that could incite wars just as to finish them. The forest
whose very mention drew the gaze of hooded strangers in wayward inns. The
forest that that was friend to many and foe to more, and the forest that lay
forever changing, shifting, spreading its arms into the vast reaches Kala. One
day they would not call the world Kala anymore, they would just call it Aewin.
They were the stories, at least. To Flick it was part of home.
The forest breathed as a breeze danced through a thousand limbs. A
thousand limbs surrounding Ilawan like brown green arms and rolling away in
every direction towards the wooded horizon, visible only from atop the tallest
buildings.
Standing on the threshold between light and dark, the fine line between
wisdom and foolishness, Flick panted heavily against his aching chest until he
caught his breath. The night stank of summer, and the shadows of Aewin loomed
over him, menacing black fingers reaching for the village. Disgruntled and
defeated, he turned to make back for the village, in what would have been a
moping and languishing stroll had his attention not been drawn by a hooting
from above.
He looked up into the
branches. The sky behind their jagged silhouettes was a deep azure blue; a blue
that warned of night’s swift approach. Still as stone, Flick’s eyes scoured the
branches until they eventually found the bird; an owl, large as a cat, adorned
in feathers of grey and white and silver. The winged creature stared down at
him, its glare measuring and uninterrupted. Flick had chanced to see an owl
only once before, and even then it had only been at a distance, so he stepped
closer better to see it. It sees me, he
realised. It’s eyes did not waver,
and for the slightest moment they seemed to sparkle glow, so quick that he questioned
having seen it at all. And in a heartbeat, the owl was gone, disappeared into
the blackness of thicket with a soft flutter.
Another challenge.
He did not hesitate.
Flick leapt into the brush after it, his footsteps pounding through the brush
fast as the beating of wings, the dragonfly all but forgotten. Venturing into
the woods after nightfall was foolish, whoever you were, much less a child,
alone at nightfall. There might be wolves
out here, he found himself thinking, blood
bats, tree snakes, but his feet continued carrying him ever onwards,
crunching through the dark, musty undergrowth that carpeted the Aewin’s innards.
What if he fell upon one of the hermits he had been so often warned of? One of
them was rumoured to keep spiders as pets, another fed children like him to his
cats if you believed the tales. Yet he ran anyway. The forest had never scared
him, and neither had the stories.
Eyeing the owl in the
bough of an ash, he halted, but was quickly to his feet again as it was gone in
another flutter. No! let me see you.
The owl traversed
several branches to avoid him, and eventually disappeared completely, as the
dragonfly had done, leaving it’s young pursuer stranded in the black. The
silence fell as quick as sleep, but the dark wood still did not frighten him as
much as he knew it should have. They would be angry, the others, if they knew
where he was, where he had been. Frustrated by his second defeat of the evening,
he kicked the nearest tree trunk, sending a painful jolt from his toes to his
ankle, and huffed. It took a final glance around the thicket to spur his feet,
finally, and Flick turned to head home.
His heart might have
stopped then. Stood before him, among the dappled shadows cast by the tangle of
trees, was a figure; a man draped in a long, grey robe, feathers entwined in
its fabric, a twisted wooden shaft in one hand. Flick inhaled sharply and
froze. The man was not of Ilawan, he knew that much.
The man was so decadently
embellished with feathers; delicately sewn into his robe, dangling from his
hair, entwined in his beard and peeping from the cracks in the gnarled wood of the
staff he clasped. The shaft was little shorter than Flick himself, and at its
head was a crudely carved owls head; its eyes dimly glowing as if it were alive,
watching. It must have been a trick of the light.
The man’s shoulders
rose broad and tall, padded with the same grey and white feathers he had seen
on the owl before, silvery where they caught slivers of light. Even larger
feathers fanned out behind from them, and a feathered necklace hung loosely
from his neck.
A cloak hung long and
limp behind him, and unlike his other garments it seemed to Flick that it was
woven almost entirely of feathers. It wafted gently under the light breeze of
the evening as the figure stood motionless amidst the trees, almost as if he
were a part of the Aewin. On his face a light beard that encircled his mouth
and hung down into three separate strands like stalactites in a cave. A hooked
nose crowned his pale lips that were stretched thin, so taut that Flick
couldn’t decide whether it were a frown or a smile that the man wore across his
time-chiselled face. His eyes glistened in the dark, white globes framed in
black pools, like tiny moons in night skies and every bit as striking as the
owl’s had been. They too were fixed on the Flick, questioning.
“Why do you bother me,
boy?” The voice was more soothing that Flick had anticipated. It reminded him
of how his grandfather’s had once been; warm, wise, ominously deep.
“My name’s not boy,” he replied, stout and stubborn, staring
dubiously back at the man before him. He had always hated being called boy.
The feathered
stranger seemed to smile in the shadows. “Oddly overzealous for a child so
young, wouldn’t you say?”
“Odd? I’m not the one
with feathers in my hair.”
The man laughed. “And
delightfully impetuous. What is your name then, child?”
“Flick. You?”
“In truth, I have
many,” replied the druid. “Most call me The
Night Watcher.”
Flick smirked. “That’s
no name.” He felt strangely at ease in front of the stranger, now that he was
smiling. There was tranquillity to his tone too, soothing almost. About the
wood, shafts of moonlight were beginning to fade gently into existence as the
sun set into a horizon he could not see.
The man laughed
again. “Well, in that case you can call me Fainwyn. Now we are acquainted, why
don’t you enlighten me as to why you pursued me, and with such ardent
persistence.”
“I wasn’t!” Flick
answered in quick defence.
“Oh, were you not?
Forgive me, it must have been your twin.”
“’I’ve no twin. I’ve only
an older brother.”
Fainwyn chuckled with
endearment as he wandered about the trees, touching bark and inspecting moss as
he did so. “Then here we find ourselves in a dilemma, for I saw a boy exactly
like you. He came running across that river, in those same shabby cloth shoes,
some moments ago. Then, would you believe, he ran heedlessly into the forest.”
“I was chasing an owl,” he replied, stubborn.
“Why? Had the owl
wronged you?”
“No,” Flick replied.
“Never really seen one before, see. It was right there a minute ago.” Flick
turned and pointed to the branch where the owl had last perched, watching,
whilst behind him the sound of fluttering wings ricocheted between the trees
again. He turned back to find the man had vanished. Where did he…
“Up here.” Came the voice.
Flick looked up to find the feathered man resting in the bough of one of the trees.
“How…” Flick paused,
staring up at the man who now rested in a branch above, just as his previous
quarry had done. His brow furrowed. The
owl?
“Yes, that’s right,”
assured Fainwyn. “Intuitive child. Far too inquisitive, but intuitive nonetheless.”
Flick struggled to grasp how the man had seemingly heard his thought, and
debated the possibility that he had inadvertently said it aloud.
“Strange Man,” he
muttered, accidentally.
“Man?” Fainwyn
disappeared abruptly with another beating of feathers and emerged a moment
later from the shadows, his feet upon the ground once more. “I’m a druid, boy…I
mean, Flick.” Flick regarded the man suspiciously. “Never heard of a druid?”
“I have. I didn’t
think they were real though.”
“Real? How could I
not be real if you already know of
druids.”
“I didn’t know of…
you, just… there are druids in stories.”
“And yet here I
stand.”
“I mean that there
are stories ‘bout other the other folk. Folk outside.”
“Stories of the other
folk? Stories of outside? What by chance have I stumbled upon here? Surely it
could not be, that you thought woodsfolk were the only peoples in all the world?”
Flick felt his
stomach flutter. “S’only what I’ve been told.”
“That may be so, but
not what I asked. I asked if you
thought that woodsfolk were the only people in all the world.”
Flick bristled. It
was as though the reality of the night had finally dawned upon him, as though he
had realised that he was in fact not dreaming. “I… I guess not,” he muttered,
smiling his nervous smile. “Not anymore anyway.”
“Indeed not anymore
at all.” The druid smiled back fondly. “Do you know, It has been many hundreds
of years since I have had the pleasure of speaking to one so young as yourself.
I had almost forgotten what a delight it can be. A grown mind is an overripe
sort of fruit, and an overripe fruit will only spoil in time, never as fresh
and sharp as it had been when it clung to the tree. Though the day will come
that you must fall from the tree, I fear. But that is a sad thought. Let us not
linger upon it.”
Flick blinked. “Did
you say hundreds of years?”
Fainwyn was
inspecting foliage again. “It’s not so long really, when you have lived as long
as I have.”
Flick brooded quietly;
if hundreds of years was not so long a time, what was long? The thought almost
overwhelmed him. He’s lying. He
decided. He’s a mad old fool with
feathers in his hair. “Are there many of you?”
Fainwyn grinned. “It depends on what you deem
as many.” His answer came with a provocative flash of his eyes. Flick raised
his eyebrows sarcastically, refusing to humour the druid’s teasing, and Fainwyn
eventually resigned with a sigh. “Not one for riddles I see. There are enough
of us, not near as many as there once were, though.”
Flick twisted is lips
suspiciously. He could scarcely believe this conversation was happening. The
druid seemed as real as he was, his face carrying a real expression and his
eyes deep with real history, lined with real wisdom. What he once thought a
drunkard’s story was now stood before him, reflecting slivers of moonlight,
casting a thick shadow and inhaling the glistening dust motes that swam in the
moonbeams. His mind raced. Are then all
the stories true?
As he studied, and as
the druid spouted more talk of fruit and trees, Flick caught a glimpse of a
bracelet that must have lain hidden beneath the druid’s sleeve before.
Fainwyn noticed and
came to life again. “Ah, you like the bracelet?”
“It’s pleasant enough,”
said Flick quickly, coolly. The druid unfastened it from his wrist. The
bracelet was strung together with ragged shards of bark, flawless black stones
and – in keeping with all of his other garments – feathers.
“Then it would be my
pleasure for you to have it.”
Flick frowned, taken
aback. “Why?”
“As a token of my
gratitude for your pleasant conversation.” Fainwyn took Flick by the hand and
fastened the bracelet around his bony wrist.
Flick shook the
bracelet on his arm, observing it in the moonlight, before looking back up to
Fainwyn. “I’ve never been called pleasant before.” His voice had softened, his
stout front dwindling slightly. No one had the time to listen to him in Ilawan,
except for his mother occasionally, and he’d certainly never been rewarded for his
prattling.
Disappointment befell
Fainwyn’s face. “You have been taken for granted, I fear, like most of the
humbler wonders of this world. Only those who haven’t known food for an age can
truly appreciate even the simplest of flavours.” Fainwyn knelt before him, the
moons in his eyes meeting Flick’s stare. “Just as only those who have had
nobody with whom to talk for so long, can truly appreciate the miracle of
conversation.” The druid smiled.
Flick stared back at
the druid thoughtfully. A question had occurred to him, one that any other
would have asked in a heartbeat, one that he should have asked right away, but it had taken time to come to him;
a consequence of his trusting nature. “Why’re you here?”
The druid’s face had changed
before Flick had even spoken the words, as if he knew the question was
imminent. It was a subtle change, but enough to stir disquiet between them.
Fainwyn recoiled awkwardly, a shadow of doubt passing over his calm feathery
mien. “I have already remained too long.” The druid paused, a thousand thoughts
flickering in his gaze, clouds passing over the moons in his eyes. “I fear you
should not have seen me at all.”
Flick’s stomach
knotted, something was wrong. “What? But I have
seen you… What’re you doing in Ilawan?” His frustration with the druid’s
ambiguous manner was sharpening his words, but he could not help himself.
“I can speak no more,”
Fainwyn insisted, “though please know that I act against my heart in doing so.”
“That’s not fair. You’re
the one here spying on my home.”
The druid’s eyes
darted about the brush. “I did not expect to be seen.” Though Fainwyn still
spoke with warmth, there was now worry simmering beneath, clear as day.
“Then why didn’t you
fly away?”
At this interrogation
Fainwyn leant on a tree with his free hand, as if from exhaustion, and stared
blankly into the darkness. “Because in a moment of weakness I wanted to help.”
“Help?”
“But I cannot help.”
“Help with what?” The druid wandered a few feet to
a fallen husk of a tree and sat upon it, exhaling and deflating. He stared at
the moss laden ground for a few quiet moments before bringing his sorrowful,
glistening eyes to meet Flick’s perplexed and protuberant blue ones.
“Please understand
that I cannot intervene.”
“In what?”
“If I told you, I
would be doing just that would I not?”
“Not if I did nothing
‘bout it.”
Fainwyn stared back
at Flick, endeared once again. “Such an intelligent child,” he said. “Perhaps,
maybe…” Then druid lurched at him, alive with vigor once again, and fell to a
knee at his feet. Fainwyn took him by the hand and spoke as if they were the
last words he would ever say.
The dark tide will reach you,
When the rainclouds shroud the
light.
Flames and smoke will burn their
eyes,
Their souls will scorch the night.
Death will come, an orange river,
Char and scold and burn.
Survive you may if knoweth this,
To Aewin you must turn.
Flick was silent for
a moment. “I don’t understand,.”
“And understand you
should not, or I will have said too much. But you will, in time.”
“It didn’t sound…
good.”
“Perhaps,” muttered
Fainwyn.
“Is that all you’ll
say?”
“Though I grapple
with my heart in withholding such, I will say no more on it.” Flick sighed as
Fainwyn rose to his feet and made for the dark. Just like that, he was once
again the helpless child he’d always been, ignored and deliberately unheard.
But after a few cautious steps, the druid looked back to speak again. “I should
not have been here and you should not have met me.” He muttered. “Indeed, my
compassion does lead me astray, as many have sought to tell me in the past. But
do stop trying to be heard, Flick.”
“I still don’t
understand.” sighed Flick.
“You do, because you
will.”
Fainwyn made an
attempt to depart, but Flick stayed him with his pale hand. “Wait,” he pleaded.
“Tell me something I’ll understand. Please. Just one thing.”
“Very well,” replied
the druid, his gaze leaden with guilt. “Know that I am sorry, and should you
find yourself in a position to tell your kinsmen, inform them too that I am…
truly sorry.”
Flick watched,
deflated and pensive, as Fainwyn walked away, the Aewin forest slowly swallowing
him into the dark. Flick half expected that to have been his final word, but as
the man reached the brink of disappearance against the shadows of the wood, he
turned back one last time.
“Though I would
better have said nought at all, remember my words, little woodsman. They may
save your life.”
And with a flurry of
his feather bound cloak, he was gone.
