Prologue

The boy chased it from the tavern all the way to the outskirts of Ilawan.

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.