A little boy and his father were walking down the side of a dirt road when the child caught sight of a single shoe lying in a ditch.  “Look Daddy”, he said, “someone put a shoe on the side of the road.”  It looked new; and try as he might the little boy could not see its mate anywhere.  “Why do you suppose they left it there?” he asked his father.

The corners of the man’s mouth turned up in a knowing smile.  Always happy to tell a story, he began…

 

"There once was a man who suffered from a pain in the heel of his left foot, and nothing he did would help.

Looking for some relief, he went out into the courtyard of his home to talk to his wife.   

His wife pursed her lips in an attitude of disdain when she heard his question and indicated that he should sit closer so that no one would overhear them. 

“Nobody in our family has ever had pain like that before.” she whispered.  The two of them positioned themselves on a bench that sat underneath a tree that was planted in the middle of a large expanse of well-manicured grass.  A few feet away, the couple’s older children sat, cross-legged on silk seat cushions in two orderly rows. Their tutor moved from student to student, watching over their bent shoulders as they making neat, uniform marks on the pages of their lesson books.  The wife’s gaze wandered in the other direction just across the lawn, to the youngest children, who were still too young for lessons, as they played with a ball with their nurse.  “Besides, we must set a good example for our children.  We wouldn’t want anyone to think that this sort of thing ran in our family.” She continued resolutely. “Just ignore it”, she said, “it will go away in time.”

So, the man tried to ignore the pain, and walked with a pronounced limp from place to place.

But his foot still hurt.

 

One day, as he slowly made his way down the road, he ran into a friend of his and decided to ask him about his problem.

“That’s easy”, said the man.  “You need new shoes, like the ones that I am wearing.”  The unhappy man looked at the shoes on his friend’s feet and saw that they were very fancy and expensive shoes indeed.  “I have found”, his friend continued,“that purchasing something new always helps me when I am feeling unwell.  Have you seen our neighbour across the creek?”  The man’s friend looked from side to side warily, and leaned forward saying, “I mean, have you seen his shoes?  Definitely, second-rate.”, he whispered with a self-satisfied grin.

The man was unsure, but, if owning such an expensive pair of shoes would give him relief from the pain, but it was worth the money if it helped.  So he hopped into town and bought several pairs, which cost him a small fortune. 

The new, expensive shoes helped for a little while, but before long, the pain returned and the man was unhappy again.  This time, he was forced to walk with a cane to take the weight off his foot and he was not pleased.  He did not want to spend so much money every time his foot hurt, so he decided to visit his physician for a cure. 

 

The physician was a very learned man.  He had all kinds of certificates and diplomas in gilded frames hanging on his office walls.  He propped the man’s leg up on a stool while he considered the situation with a very serious expression on his long, bearded face.  He didn’t speak to the man, but every so often he would inhale sagely and say “I see.” to nobody in particular.  When he was done looking he turned to the nurse and said something to her that the man did not understand.  She nodded and left the room.  Several minutes later, she returned with a number of small pots.  “You must apply the first one twice a day, every other day”, she said to the man. “The second one, three times a day but only every third day, the third once a day every two days, and the fourth as often as you like.”  Her long fingers lingered over the lids as she spoke, pointing out which pot was which.  The man lifted the first pot and opened the lid.  He grimaced at the terrible odour and looked at the greasy-looking ointment.  He was ashamed to admit that he had already forgotten the instructions.

“What is wrong with my foot?” he asked the physician.  The physician just nodded to the nurse who answered.  “We’re not sure.  But these ointments will ease the pain.”

“What good is that?” said the man.  “When the medicine is gone, I will just have to come back for more.”

The nurse looked annoyed and said curtly, “The doctor knows what is best for you.  Here is a crutch to help you along.”

The man was still unhappy but he didn’t want to argue with such a learned presence so he thanked them both, took the crutch, and went on his way.

 

The ointments smelled so badly that he was forced to contain the smell by wrapping his foot in yards and yards of bandages which he purchased from his friend, the weaver.  As a result, his bandaged foot would not fit into the expensive shoe that his other friend has told him to buy.  He placed all the unused shoes in a pile by the door and sighed sadly whenever he saw them.  Sure enough, the pain returned when the medicine was used up and the poor man was even more miserable than he was before.

This time, he decided to go see the priest.

 

The priest listened to the man and said “We all suffer in this life, but”, he continued, with great conviction, “you need not suffer alone.  We will provide you with a brother-priest who will carry you.”

The man blinked in disbelief.  “I would prefer to walk on my own.” He said.

“Nonsense.” Replied the priest.  “We will carry you.”

The priest assigned a fellow priest, a large, burley man who was very strong and up to the task.

At first, it was rather nice to be carried by the big brother, and the man smiled at the people he passed in the streets from atop his broad shoulders.  But after a few weeks of this treatment, the priest who had assigned the servant came to visit him in his home.  He looked very concerned as he spoke to the man.

“My brother priest has reported to me that there are several places you have visited that are not, shall we say, appropriate for your purposes.”

“What do you mean?” replied the man.  “I’m only visiting those I conduct my business with.  They have done no one any harm.”

“Well,” said the priest, “the big brother reports that only yesterday you visited the weaver.”

“Yes,” said the man, “he sells me my bandages.”

The priest sniffed and said, “Well, he is not a member of our church and so henceforth we will not deliver you to the weaver’s business.”

The man nodded, dumbfounded, but that was not all.   The priest took a paper from his coat and unfolded it.  “Here is a list of all the places that you may not go.” He announced.  “I trust that you will read it and comply.”

The man took the letter and read it.  “But this will make it impossible for me to support my family.” He said. “How will we live?”

“We will provide you with a list of appropriate persons and you must have faith that that will be enough.” With that, the priest got up to leave.

When the man was alone, he looked over the list and sighed.

“What is to become of me and my family?” he wondered.  Wishing to clear his head, he decided to go out for a walk.  The big brother stood up, prepared to carry him again but the man just shook his head and waved him away.  Instead, he hobbled painfully outside on his own.

 

The pain grew worse as he walked; but more than that, the man started to feel very sad.  After a while, he felt so sad that he limped off the road and sat down underneath a large tree and cried.

“Why are you crying?” came a small voice from behind the tree.  A little face, belonging to a  young child peeked around the trunk.  “What is wrong?” she said.

“Oh,” said the man between sobs, “I have this pain in my foot.  My wife said to ignore it but that didn’t help.  My friend said I needed to have better shoes, and they didn’t help.  The physician said I needed medicine but that didn’t help.  And the priest had someone carry me but really, that doesn’t help much either.  Oh, you’re just a child “he said in exasperation, “I doubt you’d understand.” 

The child looked at the man and folded her hands while she thought.  “Well, have you looked at it?”

The man’s eyes went wide when he realized that he had never actually taken a look at the bottom of his foot.

“Here, I have a mirror”, said the child thoughtfully.  “We can look together.”

Seeing his foot for the first time, the man was shocked to find the end of a large, wooden splinter sticking out of a spot on his heel.  With a quick tug, he removed the splinter and a wave of relief washed over him as the pain suddenly ended. 

He was so happy that he took off his other show and tossed it into the ditch and danced around in his bare feet while the child giggled. 

 

 

            And that is how your shoe got into that ditch, said the father to his son.

“AWWW dad,” said his son in disbelief, ‘you’re just making that up!”

The History of the Barony of Woodhaven

 This was written decades ago, and copied from a file on my computer.

I suspect that the layout will be a pain, but someday I'll go back and fix it.

Or maybe someone else will do it for me.

Either way, I love this story and here it is.

From the Author: There is no way that the entirety of Woodhaven, or the people that made it great, can be satisfactorily summed up within the pages of a single short story. We are epic in our scope, and the stories continue to grow and multiply over time. Although I have tried to incorporate many of the extraordinary characters who had a part in bringing our creation to Life, they are simply to numerous to include them all. Even if they do not all make an appearance in the legend, they do, however continue to live on in our hearts. Thank you all, for this story would not have been possible without you. Thanks from the heart also to Michael D., for giving me the courage to finish.
 

A History of the Barony and lands of Woodhaven

The Legend

by Grace Gemini

"Do not judge a tree by its leaves, but rather by its fruit."

- Euripides

 
By the golden glow of firelight on a cold, misty day, an old man sat heavily in a large wooden chair to survey the room and the people before him. In one comer, a handsome, dark-haired woman of middle years sat absently stroking the small, black dog dozing languidly in her lap. In another comer, a plump, pleasant-looking woman sat furiously copying the old man's words onto parchment sheets clamped onto a wooden lap desk while at her feet a yellow-haired youth of fourteen with a sweet face and impossibly large, blue eyes, sat cross-legged on the dirt floor. Many more individuals crowded the dimly lit tavern room, their
faces at once familiar and alien in the shifling shadows which shimmied and dipped across the wattle and daub walls of the old, smoky tavern. The old man ran his thick fingers over the aging, honey-colored wood of the armrests, worn smooth with years of careful polishing.

His voice was steady and his blue-grey eyes shone with an inner light which belied his age. Hair, of a color which could have been golden were he still a young man, fell loose and flowing to his shoulders. He ran his fingers through it calmly while he spoke.

"The Story, my children, goes something like this":
 

***

In the dark times, before the Empire, a skilled Warrior and a powerful Sorceress came to a verdant land with rolling hills and windy mountains. The man and the woman hailed from a region torn apart by warfare and strife, and were determined to carve out a life together in a new land far from home. When they crossed the plateau and viewed the forests and hills in all their splendor from its edge, the travelers knew that they had found the place they had been searching for and decided to make camp in a clearing on a hill before descending into the valley in the morning.

During the night, the Travelers, whose names are lost to memory, built a fire for warmth and looked to the stars with joy in their hearts. They had the wind, the trees, and each other, and they did not know that forces of darkness from their own world were following them. In the blackness of the night, warriors from the nameless lands journeyed to overtake the couple while they
slept peacefully by their fire. If the warriors could not convince the travelers to return and use their talents to support the ongoing war, they had instructions to kill them instead.

Feeling something amiss, the woman was the first to wake. She looked bleary-eyed around the circle, but seeing nothing turned her attention towards the sleeping man. She smiled at his bare feet, sticking out from beneath the blanket that was too short for him. Most blankets were too short for him, but he never complained, curling up into a ball when he slept. As she bent over his face and kissed him lightly on his chin, a warm tingle spread through him; he smiled in his dreams, but did not stir. Then, a stray breeze carried an odd sound to her ears. "Awake, my Love, for I fear that we are not alone in this wood." she said. The world was dark and the sky clear, but the trees shivered and whispered in the mountain breeze, 'Arisssssse! arissssssssssse! You are in grave danger hhhhhhhhere'
 
"Did you hear something my Darling?" the man asked rubbing the sleep from his green eyes.
 
"I'm not certain. But I could have sworn that I heard someone speaking to us." The woman rose from her pallet and peered nervously into the gloom of the woods. The wind carried the metallic clink of armor and the low creaking of oiled leather straps. From the top of the plateau, the travelers could see a long line of torches winding its way up the hill.

"Imperial warriors", she whispered to the man, "but so many of them! My magic alone won't hold them for long -- we can't make a stand here."

"Douse that fire or they'll see us!"

"Too late," she whispered as the stillness of the night was shattered by the sounds of breaking branches and the dry scrape of weapons drawn from leather scabbards. A man, possibly a scout in filthy leather armor, stepped forward into the clearing. Light from the campfire gleamed dully off the iron ring set through his bottom lip.

The Travelers could hear the shouting of the soldiers behind him as they followed the sound of his voice to the clearing.

"Here! They are here!" he cried.
 

II

"Hope is the source of all endeavor"

-traditional Woodhaven folk saying

 
A husky young man with a head of coarse, bright orange hair and a ruddy face still beset by the roundness of youth sat by the fireplace at the old man's feet. Blue eyes stared incredulously from under blonde brows. He extended his big hands towards the fireplace where he pulled a short stick from the pile of kindling. Absently balancing this stick on the tip of a finger, he said, "No one can stand against Imperial troops, they're too powerful!". He scratched his head, "These travelers should have known that they never had a chance, why would they take such a risk for nothing?"

The old man cleared his throat and reached for his tankard of ale. He took a long drink and swallowed before he continued.

"There are things that exist, my son, just beyond the range of human perception. This does not make them less valid to us, although there are those who have closed themselves off to the voices of the Wild. What they cannot see or hear they cannot understand."

The old man's gaze returned to the rest of the room. "It would do you all well to have pity, rather than contempt for these people, for what they do not understand they often seek to destroy. They conquer by force, to subjugate and oppress. Such was the way of the Empire. You see, the travelers wished to escape the destruction and warfare of the Empire, and pursue a life which was in harmony with the world around them. The human spirit will endure limitless adversity for one thing... hope. It was for this reason that the Land, sensing their need, chose to intervene."

***

And so, in that dire moment, the wind rose from a gentle nudge to an insistent push away from the edge of the plateau, parting the foliage and underbrush across the clearing to reveal a path through the forest that the travelers hadn't seen in the dark.
 
The man's eyes grew round with wonder as he reached for his sword. Wind caught the edges of his cloak and lifted the long curls of the woman's chestnut-colored hair urging them both towards the path, through the trees.

"Thissssssssssss way! Quickly!"

The woman's brown eyes met the man's, and she pulled him across the clearing.

"I know something wants us to follow that path. I don't know what it is, but I think it's trying to help us!"

A wry grin lit the ruggedly handsome features of his face, "Alia jacta est." he said, ignoring the woman's quizzical look as they ran towards the path. The night and the trees closed in behind them as they disappeared down the trail deeper into the forest.

Once beyond the line of trees, the forest swallowed everything that came into it: sunlight, wind, and bird song. A thick mat of pine needles cushioned their feet, turning the nornial sound of their footsteps into a dull, dolorous thudding that did little to raise their spirits in that unsettling place. The travelers wandered through this oppressive enclosure, picking their way careflilly across loose stones and tree roots, the branches overhead so thickly interwoven that the trail became a shadowy tunnel. In the distance, the hooting of an owl was the only sound to lead them on through the darkness.

"I hope you know where we're going," said the man softly.

"I can't tell you just how I know", the red-haired woman replied, "but somehow, I know we're on the right path. I've felt it ever since we crested the last ridge."

Looking into the blackness before them, the warrior's face turned suddenly serious, his gaze far away and focused on nothing, "As if we had to leave home, to come home..."

Then, without warning or sign, they simply walked out from beneath the canopy cover of the trees into a shallow river valley. The trees were thinner here, and the banks of the river were soft and spongy. Even in the darkness, they could tell that beyond the rushing water lay an island of considerable extent. The chill, suffocating closeness of the forest gave way to a sudden, fragrant breeze which smelled of rich earth and summer flowers.

Surveying the surroundings, the man spoke. "I think we may safely light a torch in this clearing; these fallen branches will serve." The woman raised her hand in a graceful arc and the makeshift torch smoldered, then glowed, then at last burned brightly dispelling the gloom. As their sight adjusted to the light, the darkness receded to reveal a great oak tree standing alone in the center of the island. The Travelers, eyes wide with awe, somehow sensed that this oak was different from all others. Ancient and lordly, it was the undisputed sovereign of its domain. The enormous gnarled branches stretched stolidly upwards towards the heavens, while the stars stood watch, glittering their admiration from above for the monarch of the wood. The clearing sparkled with the dancing lights from hundreds of fireflies, and the island was bounded by the wide river which made an almost perfect circle around it. The travelers tested the water, and to their surprise found it shallow. They crossed the stream and approached the island, and became aware of another shape nestled between the roots of the tree. The closer they came to the tree, the more light seemed to fill the clearing, much more light than one small torch could account for, and it wasn't long before they were able to make out the kneeling figure of a man in a loose-fitting green tunic and trousers. Looking up patiently at them from the ground beside the enormous trunk, he wore a simple, brown felt cap atop his wavy, blond hair, and a long coil of rope wound round his waist. Over his shoulder he carried a large, leather satchel tied closed, but obviously stuffed near to overflowing with unknown objects. Watching them as they moved closer, his blue eyes sparkled with some secret amusement. He rose to greet them as they passed under the circle of the leaves.

"Heigh there", he said absently scratching the blond beard along his rounded jaw line. "They told us that you were coming."

"Forgive us, sir, but we are strangers here," said the woman gently. "I am afraid that we do not know anyone in this land, perhaps you were expecting someone else?"

"Oh no," said the strange man as if he were speaking to a misguided child. "We know you, word travels fast in these woods, now let us begin..." The upper branches of the oak tree clicked against one another in a sudden gust of wind, and the man stopped his speech and gazed up into the canopy of the leaves as if listening to something. After a time, he fixed the travelers with an apologetic gaze. "Forgive me, I have been rude. I am the Forestal, the guardian of this place, and I am afraid we do not have much time."

III

"The gods keep themselves aloof for two reasons: so that we do not forget that we

need them, and so that they do not remember that they need us."

- attributed to the Priest of Dionysus

A clatter from the rear of the fire-lit room caught the attention of the old man's audience, who shot glances of surprise and annoyance at its source. A burley man with a brown beard and a friendly freckled face looked tip sheepishly from under the wooden trestle table. His knife lay on the floor, along with the remains of the meat and spatters of brown gravy he was eating. Retrieving the knife, he wiped the blade on the thigh of his dark blue trousers while a pretty blond serving girl bent down to clean off the floor with the comer of her apron. The big man gave her an appreciative look and a good natured pat on the backside. His large blunt hands were stamed dark with soot; they opened and closed apologetically as he addressed the occupants ofthe room, "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to interrupt your story there. I guess I was listening so hard I wasn't paying enough attention to my own business." The man cast a sidelong glance in the direction of the bar where the serving girl, smiling boldly, twisted a lock of her hair around her finger and returned the burly man's look with eyes of green and gold. The old storyteller noticed the exchange and smiling, again addressed his audience.

"You see, my children, that this is the way of things. Life and Death, darkness and light... man and woman." His eyes, cast in shadow from the firelight, focused on some distant memory. "Nothing in this world survives alone, nor was it meant to, there exists a balance for everything, and where there is no balance-no exchange. Life means nothing to those who live it. This is the reason that the Gods sometimes favor men, for just as we depend on them for our good fortune, they depend on us to give meaning to their existence. And so, my children...
 

***

As the three of them stood within the clearing of the Oak King, the warm, summer-scented breeze became a frigid, continuous gale smelling of dry, fallen leaves and the promise of new snow. Overhead, branches clicked and clacked against one another in a dry cacophony which sounded at times like laughter, and at times like a low, lilting whisper. Occasionally an owl hooted in the woods. The woman paused to listen to the sounds, feeling a sense of growing urgency in their unearthly rhythm. Over their heads, gray clouds ran across the night sky pushed along by the icy wind. The woman sighed and drew her cloak closer to her as she stared up into the branches of the tree. She gasped in alarm as the cloud cover parted to reveal that the moon had already risen, red as new blood, and glowing with a malicious, baleful light. The Forestal's face grew somber as he followed the woman's gaze to the unsettling sight. He nodded, and paused to scratch his bearded chin.

"For three nights past, there has been such dreadful a thing" he said. "It is a warning that time has brought enemies of the Land to level the mountains and lay waste the valleys. The ancient spirits, guardians of this place, knew that nothing stands unaffected by the flow of time. They foresaw this long ago and planned for it, creating great mystical wards, caches of power in the surrounding countryside to be used in defense of the Land. Safeguards that once wakened, would provide formidable opposition to an invading army. That timeless power has remained dormant, untouched for eons. But the legends of this place say that if two souls, not born of this Land but called by it, could be convinced to take up arms in its defense, there is a chance that the Land and all its inhabitants could survive. That the enemies will be defeated, and an age will come when man and the Land will co-exist in peace. But in all my time here in the glade, there have been none to take up the challenge. It seems that you have arrived just in time."

The warrior fixed the Forestal with a look of disbelief "Let me try to understand you." he said. "There is a beautiful, vibrant land here, and a Lordship up for the taking, and no one has laid claim to it yet?" He turned around slowly with a grandiose, flamboyant gesture, surveying the scenery. Then he grinned dashingly and cleared his throat, "I am a simple warrior, with a warrior's distrust of magic, but I think my associate and I may be able to help you with your problem... that is, if..." the woman lay a cautioning hand on his arm, stopping the speech with a look he knew too well.

"A nice thought," the Forestal said sadly, then nodded to the woman, "But there is more to it than that. There is great Magic here. You have sensed it, I think; although you do not yet understand the extent of its power. If the spirits wake, and if they examine you and find you worthy, and if you survive the examination, then you may remain here," he said to them both, "living out your lives among the spirits and beings of this world, tied to the Land through its Magic. You will have all of its resources to call upon, and to manage. All of its creatures will be yours to command and to protect. And though you will rule here, you can never return to the life you lived before. The Land's life will be your life; its pain, your pain; to be separated from the Land would surely mean your end. It is a great gift we offer you, but we would ask much of you in return. And so the choice is yours to make, said the strange man, "and once made, is binding."
 

IV

"Alia Jacta Est."

"The die is cast"

-Julius Caesar

"Ai," came a man's voice from the shadows, "that be the way it's done" The old story teller looked up from his lap searching for its source, and a man in a fur vest walked silently into the flickering circle of light, carefully threading his path through the seated audience on leather-wrapped feet until he stood next to the fireplace with his hands extended towards its glowing coals for warmth. His earth-brown hair hung to his shoulders in a multitude of intricate braids; the feathers of mountain eagles and hawks fastened to the ends with strips of rawhide. "A great gift carries a great price," he said, fingering a small, red beaded pouch around his neck. The man hunkered down to his haunches by the hearth and turned his attention back to the storyteller.

"That's correct, my friend. You are wise to recognize it; and although the Warrior was not accustomed to the ways of magic, he did understand the nature of service and sacrifice. All worth having is worth working for, and believing in this, it did not take the Travelers long to make their decision."

"And so, by their will, in that place on that night, all that was magical in the Land was awakened. By fire and by blood, and by the oaths of men and gods the Travelers were bonded to the Land and to each other."
 

***

The Forestal lifted his arms skyward and began a low, rhythmic keening. The branches of the Oak King clattered roughly together, providing a dry, curious counterpoint to his whispered words. The frigid wind became a virtual gale as it lifted and carried leaves, dust and flower petals in a twister which held the Travelers at its core. The top of the funnel wound its way up towards a hole in the canopy of clouds revealing the glittering stars. Gazing out from tearing eyes, assaulted by cold, flying dust and wildly whipping strands of hair, they moved closer to each other, standing tightly together against the onslaught. The brutal cold cut first through their worn clothing; lifting it in shreds and tatters towards the sky. Then it chilled their unprotected skin, scouring them with flying dust and grit as if working its way through their earthly bodies, seeking their very souls. And for an instant it seemed to them that every spirit and consciousness of the place, be it from rock, tree or the ground itself had shaken itself alert; roused sleepily from ancient, nameless dreams, and focused on the Travelers now through that raging, howling wind.
Every evil thought and selfish deed, all their mistakes and shortcomings, wasted dreams and missed opportunities seemed laid bare for all the world to see, until the Travelers cried out in anguish and wept with shame.

Lightning shot in brilliant, spidery tracks across the cloudless sky, illuminating the swirling mass of air and debris, and suddenly struck the writhing twister itself with ferocious violence and a deafening clap of thunder. The bolt hit the Travelers with a blinding light, searing them with pain. It forced all the air from the twister and from their lungs; flinging them helpless and gasping to knees scraped raw and bleeding. Then, suddenly all was still in the grove of the Oak King. The icy wind died, leaving the Travelers on their knees, sobbing and panting. And there was silence as leaves and flower petals settled back down towards the earth, green sweet smelling with the wet, mossy scent of Spring. Over the hills, the first pearly glow of dawn deepened into streaks of brilliant pink and orange. The evening stars that had held witness to the events of that night shed their twinkling displays and faded before the approaching light of day. Somewhere in the distance, a lone owl called out to some unseen companion. The Forestal reached into the sack he carried and after some searching, chose three items which he held out to the travelers. They took them gingerly in trembling hands, faces filthy and sweat-streaked.

"These things", he said solemnly, "are symbols of the sovereignty of this Land. You have been accepted here, may you rule wisely."

"Are you certain of this?", said the man, regaining some of his original composure and bravado. A cloud passed over the sun, and he looked quizzically at the Forestal and absently scratched the small scar on his chin. "These common things cannot be of any real value to a soldier."

"Let me see," said the woman, and took the items from her partner. "Yes," she said quietly to the Forestal, "I think I understand you. There is more to them than first meets the eye." She spread out her hands and held the items up towards the light, one by one. The first was a river pebble, deep blue-gray, worn smooth and cool under endless torrents of rushing water; then an acorn, red-brown and gold, smelling of the earth that created it. The last was a feather, sleek and glossy black, whose tendrils and down waved gently back and forth in the breeze. "You see," she said, turning to the man," these things are more important for the things that they represent, than for what they truly are."

"Paugh! More magical convoluted explanations. You can't fight a war with a rock," said the warrior, rolling his eyes.

"No, there is more to it than that," she continued with well-practised patience, "just like a simple bowl is more than just a thing when it can make lovers joyful if it contains a wedding toast, or bring a mother to tears when it is empty and her child is hungry. These things must be tied to the Spirits of this place somehow."

"But what could such things represent that has the power to rule a kingdom?" The Warrior paused in thought and walked to the water encircling the island of the Oak King. Scooping water up in his cupped hands, he drank deeply, then cleaned his face of sweat and dirt, relishing the clarity and refreshing coldness. He knelt to the water and looked at his reflection in a still pool created between a copse of reeds and rocks. The sun came out from behind its cloud, and the rays shone through the branches of the old Oak, turning the woman's hair to dancing strands of copper. Reflecting upon the river in a shower of flashing golden light and warmth, it made the warrior squint his eyes against the glare. He seemed about to say something, then suddenly fell silent as he turned to face the woman, comprehension dawning in his handsome features. He grinned brightly, "I think I have an idea."

V

"To live in fear is a life half-lived."

- traditional Woodhaven folk saying

The Travelers turned back to the Oak tree searching its gnarled roots for the Forestal, but no trace of the odd man with the blonde beard and felt cap remained. Overhead, the topmost branches swayed in the breeze, the otherworldly whispers were gone and the forest turned strangely silent, as if waiting. Too silent, they realized.

"I do not hear the sound of the animals." he whispered. The wind carried a familiar, acrid scent through the clearing.

With a loud crunch of dead wood and breaking branches, the soldiers stepped through the trees and onto one bank of the river surrounding the Oak King's island with swords drawn. Oiled leather and metal fastenings creaked rhythmically as soldiers shifted their weight from foot to foot on the marshy soil. More soldiers skulked menacingly through the trees behind the first lines, hacking through the younger saplings with swords and axes and stripping off their branches. Scouts ran heavily up and down the riverbank, searching for a suitable fording place for the heavy supply wagons. Still more men were busy lashing the poles together to form makeshift ramps and rafts. The Travelers spotted a man across the river; though every individual was in a flurry of motion carrying out his orders, this man stood utterly still in their midst. Barrel-chested and brawny, though not tall, he appeared impossibly huge in his armor made of black leather scales. Under one arm, he carried a helmet of polished bronze-colored metal and a vicious looking battle axe under the other. More weapons were tucked under a broad leather belt covered with bronze discs. He wore his dark brown hair swept back off his face and secured at the nape of his neck with a strip of leather. A neatly trimmed beard covered a determined jaw, and dark eyes under heavy brows contained no mercy and missed nothing. He grinned at the Travelers. The heavy fingers of his gauntletted hands began to tap absently at the gold ring set through his lower lip.

"You knew I would find you, and yet you chose to run," he said, his voice traveling over the water like thunder, "commendable, but futile. The Emperor has little patience for such displays of bravado, and I have even less. You," he continued nodding towards the woman," should not have wasted your talents so, there is nowhere to run now."

The Travelers moved closer to each other, and the woman linked her arm through the man's. Together, they backed up on the island until the rough bark of the Oak tree pressed solidly and reassuringly against their backs.

"We are not ashamed of what we have done," she said, raising her head in defiance. "Alone, we are nothing, together we are more than two. There are some things in this world that cannot, must not be impeded."

"The Gods alone have the right to judge us," the man added with a shudder of remembrance, he looked up into the branches of the Oak as if searching for something, but the tree remained quiet "and I relinquished my claim to your laws long ago.

"A pretty speech indeed," said the big soldier, "but useless. You see, we have already created a fording to your little haven. Since I can assume from your misguided words that you will not join us peacefully, you will have the honor of dying, tied to the tree you seem to admire so."

Although the river was not deep, it was wide and the banks were muddy, and the Travelers looked on as the soldiers began to drive their wagons over their ramps towards the island. The poles and ropes groaned in protest, other soldiers gathered on the banks and marched onto rafts in fighting formations with weapons extended. Under the woodwork, the current flowed lazily, water passed slowly over pebbles and river stones, and a sleek river otter launched itself from its den in the bank and chattered angrily at both sides from the river's center. On the island, beneath the branches of the tree, the man reached out for the woman's hand and gathered the river stone into his grip.

"What are you doing, my love?" she asked

"Testing a theory." he said, as he lobbed the pebble into the water.

The pebble hit the center with a wet plunk!, and sunk out of sight as ripples spread out across the surface. The otter, its curiosity peaked by the noise, swam out to the spot where the stone sank, and dove easily under the water. For a heartbeat, there was no other motion on the river, and the soldiers continued stolidly across the bridge, poling their rafts towards the island. Then, it seemed to the Travelers that the level of the river suddenly began to rise. They could no longer see easily to the stones on the bottom, and the shallow pools formed along its banks by reeds and larger rocks began to disappear as the increasing current pushed the still water out of its enclosures and downstream with ever increasing force and speed. The water lapped first gently, then more insistently at the sides of the poles which made up the soldiers' bridge. In the center of the river, where the stone had first landed, the water began to bubble and churn.

"Climb!" cried the man, and the Travelers scrambled up the old Oak, searching for handholds on its ancient bark. Twisted, rough branches seemed to close in around them, almost protectively. Underneath them, their island grew progressively smaller as the river encroached even farther up its banks covering grass and flowers on its way towards the roots of the tree. Out of the roiling, torrent in the center, a figure began to rise up out of the water, standing slowly as if he had been lying just under the surface all along. Sunlight reflecting off the water's surface made ripples and spots of light to dance on his skin, and he turned smiling with secret amusement, his mouth full and sensual. Then, he waded towards the island, unimpeded by the current, and climbed deftly atop an outcropping of boulders.

He was young, all hands and feet, and the fleshiness of youth still clung to his torso and face, laying smoothly over his muscles, obscuring their definition. But as he moved the Travelers could see the promise of strength and speed residing just below the surface of his skin. His black hair was short and thick, a stark contrast to the translucent paleness of his flesh. He smoothed it back off his round face with his hands, revealing a curious widow's peak over moss colored eyes which were wide with innocence and framed with thick, dark lashes. He giggled once, like the sound of bubbling water over river stones, and stood upon the boulders, bare chested and hairless, hips wrapped in a dark brown animal pelt while he surveyed the scene. Glistening drops of water clung to the rounded planes of his belly and torso, and were flung off in all directions as he turned quickly to face the bridge with arms outstretched.

The river rose quickly then. The soldiers on the riverbank backed away in alarm as the water churned white and moved past their feet in ever increasing volume. Large chunks of sod fell into the torrent with loud splashes and fountains of spray as the water undercut the bank; and the big man shot the Travelers a murderous look as he was forced to move backwards towards the forest to avoid being dumped into the river. Out on the water, the wooden flotilla was having trouble fighting the current, being swept far downstream in spite of the soldiers' frantic poling. Then, as the Travelers looked on from their vantage point atop the old Oak, several large floating logs, torn from their banks upstream, came rushing towards the ramps, impacting them with a tremendous crash. Soldiers in heavy armor, wagons, wooden poles and supplies were all caught in the rushing water and dragged under the surface leaving the remaining men on the riverbank cursing and shouting in anger and fear. The big man with the gold ring fixed the Travelers with an icy glare, and called the rest of his soldiers to retreat back, into the safety of the tree line, and out of sight.

The boy on the rocks turned once again towards the tree, he smiled then; eyes shining like sunlight on water, lips parting wide over brilliant white teeth. Then, he dove silently back into the river and was gone. The Travelers climbed down the trunk of the Oak as the water receded, and once again set foot on the muddy banks of the river. A noise behind them made them turn, and they spotted the otter, lumbering out of the water and up the opposite bank. It paused to shake itself dry, blinking twice at the Travelers, then wandered into the shadows of the forest, and disappeared.

VI

"True Power comes not from what one can take, but from what one is prepared to give."

-from the teachings of Hestia, Goddess of the Hearth

The old storyteller paused then, and held out his empty tankard as a serving girl walked by. She bent to refill it from a polished pewter tankard, her dark brown eyes and abundant spiral curls contrasting with the starched white apron that covered her ample bosom. She smiled at him, blushing slightly under her freckles and moved on to the next customer, a slender man in green with white-blond hair: who sat at one of the trestle tables, his chin resting on his arms, pillowed by a soft leather quiver stuffed with arrow. The storyteller took a long swallow and continued.
 

***

Under cover of darkness the Travelers left the island and in the days that followed, ventured ever farther into the wilderness, following the deer trails up into the mountains of the new Land, marking the evidence of the animals that made them; stripped bark from trees where antlers had rubbed and patches where the ground had been pushed aside to expose the tender Spring shoots to a searching muzzle. But the animals themselves remained elusive. The forest thinned as they grew closer to the windy mountain tops, the terrain becoming dominated by boulders and rocky outcroppings and overhangs that hid shallow caves and deep channels through the earth. Thinking that a cave might make a suitable resting place for the night, the Travelers searched for openings among the rocks. Finally, they spied two boulders standing alongside one another atop a moss covered hill that created a fissure between them large enough to be used as a shelter. A small clearing at its entrance afforded a good view of the valley below, and they headed towards it. An owl hooted loudly in the distance, getting progressively louder as they climbed. The woman stopped walking near the entrance to the cave, and peered nervously into the trees.

"I wonder why a night creature makes such a racket during the day."

"We must have disturbed her sleep; you do climb rather loudly, my love." The man grinned at the woman who answered his playful look with a swift punch in the arm. The Travelers heard a sound from the underbrush and abruptly, the shaft of an arrow appeared lodged deep in the man's shoulder, the black arrowhead showing through the other side. He gripped the wooden shaft and fell to his knees panting, his face white. The woman knelt at his side, her body shielding him, but she could already sense the poison from the arrowhead btwning its way through his veins as she watched. His skin grew cold, his green eyes looked up at her for a moment, then consciousness finally gave way to pain and he slumped, shivering, down into her arms. Then, the soldier who wore the ring of gold came into their midst from the shrubbery in front of the mouth of the cave. Perhaps a dozen more soldiers stepped out from behind the boulders in front of them, iron rings dull gray in the dappled sunlight.

"You haven't learned." he said leering suggestively at the generous expanses of bare skin exposed by her tattered clothing. "You have thrown away all that could have been." The man approached her and extended a gauntletted hand. "You, who were praised above all, elevated above even the pinnacle of your station, have become dust under the Emperor's feet." He stroked the side of her face, and lifted the chestnut curls from her cheek. "Yet even now, as treacherous a kitten as you have been, he would receive you if you were to return to beg his forgiveness."

"You are wrong," she replied, "it is because I have learned that I fled. A life lived without love, with nothing to believe in, nothing to strive for, is death of the spirit. You may tell him that I will not exist at the whims of others, whatever it may bring me." She cradled the Warrior's head in her arms, as his breath came shallow and fast, and bent over him to caress his face. Her hands, traveling beneath his tunic to staunch the blood, encountered something small and round."

"Still," continued the soldier, "even with all your power, untrained as you are you will not halt the poison that flows beneath his skin. Soon his spirit will fly to meet its destiny, and you will be there to greet him!" The Captain drew his sword and raised it high over the woman's head. The other soldiers in the clearing grinned as they watched. The woman's hand closed around the object, an acorn by the feel of it, and she threw it from her where it bounced off a rock and rolled into the mouth of the cave, disappearing into the shadows. The wind rushed through the clearing in powerful gusts, trapping leaves and dust and pushing them in a frenzied dance down the mountainside as the soldier laughed, gold ring quivering. At the zenith of the arc, his muscles tightened, and his hand and the sword began its swift journey downward. The woman closed her eyes, bracing herself for the impact when a loud crack!, and a bellow of rage sounded from the cave. Another fearsome blast reverberated through the surrounding hills and sent the soldiers cringing back, ears covered, into the underbrush, searching for its source. The Captain turned to face the cave, then landed heavily on the rocky ground, tackled by a shape wrapped in red-brown and tan animal hide. The sword flew from his hand and landed on the other side of the clearing, point down in the moss, and the woman opened her eyes and took in the scene, amazed by what she saw.

A young man, long hair spilling over powerful shoulders and flying in wheat-colored waves on the wind, stood over the Captain one bare foot on either side, with his hands in tight fists planted defiantly on his hips. He was naked, except for the hide slung low about his waist. Large wide eyes, broad forehead, high cheekbones, upturned nose: the planes and angles of his face combined to create an untamed, earthy beauty. She watched, enraptured by his wild visage; her eyes pooled with bright tears. He moved like the roll of wind over tall grass, throwing his head back, throat open and bellowing fiercely. He bared his teeth in some exctasy that her senses struggled to encompass but could not comprehend. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves, playing over muscle and bone, splashing the creature with spots of light and making copper shadows on his burnished skin. He carried the scent of rain-watered ferns and musk. The smell filled the soldier's nostrils as the young man bent down over him, head tilted to one side. Golden eyes framed by long, brown lashes narrowed to study his face with detached alien intelligence. the young man sniffed once at the Captain lying prone beneath him, and stepped back from the body. Distaste and disdain played across his handsome features and he began to keen, first softly, then with more volume, stamping an ancient, familiar rhythm against the ground with his feet.

At first, the Travelers heard nothing but the strange cry, then the beating wings of forest birds as they launched themselves from their perches above the clearing. But soon a sound, deep, like the low voice of thunder rolled its way up the hillsides, becoming louder and louder; feeding upon itself layer after layer. The echoes piled up, one upon the other as they bounced off the rocky cliffs, gaining in volume until it seemed that the very ground beneath them began to vibrate in sympathy. It forced soldiers to sink to their knees and clamp their hands tightly over their ears. Boulders and scree rained down into the clearing sending the men scrambling for cover under the trees, only to be pinned and crushed as the trunks toppled over, uprooted by the quake. The Captain spat out a string of curses as he rolled out of the way of the falling debris. Soldiers watched as the wild creature climbed up onto the rock ledge over the cave entrance, all the while issuing his echoing song until the heart of the mountain seemed to resonate, singing as well and repeating each soaring phrase back a thousand times under its spell. The Land trembled; smoking fissures cracked opened, earthen scars ran between the soldiers' feet sending jets of scalding steam high into the air. Soldiers dodged stones and struggled for footholds, but were shaken loose from the fissures' edge and fell, screaming, down into the molten earth. The Captain crawled along the shuddering ground to his sword, then retreated bruised and bloody, down the wooded hillside as tree trunks and rocks fell crashing all around him.

A deep groan from the fallen Warrior shook the woman from her reverie. His skin was gray and cold as wet granite. She grasped him by his shoulders, winding her hands in his cloak and dragged him in desperate heaves into the cave, stumbling across the violently pitching loose stones. Peering up from its entrance under the rock ledge, she scanned the hilltop for the boy, but saw only a magnificent, golden stag, antlers splayed across the setting sun. He stamped the ground once more with graceful hooves, then turned and bolted into the forest.

Presently, the ground ceased its motion, and the woman left the safety of the cave searching for some sign of the man who pursued them, but she could sense nothing. Once inside the entrance, she discovered that the cave was larger than it had appeared, and at the rear, there was a steady trickle of water flowing down a calcite deposit along one rock wall. She cupped her hand under the flow and took a small sip. The water tasted of minerals, but was acceptable so she rinsed the dust from her hands, and then placed her drinking cup on the dirt floor to catch the liquid.

She placed The Warrior down upon a bed of pine needles and moss, and gathered the branches of the fallen trees to build a pyramid of wood upon a large, flat rock within the cave. A few moments of concentration and a graceful motion of her hands was all it took to set the pile blazing, but she had no time to admire her accomplishment. The man lay wrapped in his tattered cloak sweating heavily but shivering violently, despite the radiant warmth of the bonfire.

His injury was not large, but it was angry looking, the thick, sickly-sweet odor of gangrenous flesh making her retch; and she ran her hand over its edges, already turned black and swollen. With horror, she realized that the destruction of the poison had already progressed internally, well beyond her power to recall it. Still, needing to do something other than wait for him to die, she unsheathed her belt knife and placed the blade into the fire, leaving it there among the coals until it glowed orange. With the Warrior up into a sitting position, using her body as a brace, she probed the back of his shoulder delicately with the knife and removed the arrow, first cutting loose the arrowhead at his shoulder blade, then pulling the shaft out gently from the front. She replaced the knife at her waist, and stood to retrieve her cup, allowing the wound to bleed itself clean freely for a moment, then she rinsed it out until the water ran clear of pus and blood. Kneeling by his side, she packed the wound with wild yarrow from her belt pouch and tightly bound the poultice to his shoulder, then bound his arm to his torso with strips of cloth torn from her cloak.

Closing her eyes, choking back the bitter bile, and bracing herself against the stench, she directed her awareness through the gash and down into the layers of wasted muscle and ravaged tissue beneath his skin.  Red and yellow flashes of light chased each other across the insides of her eyelids as she stanched its bleeding with a short push of her mind. He stirred beneath her but would not wake. "How shall I live without you?" she whispered, stroking his hair. In the interior of the cave, his labored breathing was inaudible above the crackle of the fire. She stretched out next to him, and lay her head upon his chest.

"You have taught me to be brave, my heart, and I am trying. But if I had not found you, I would never have found myself. In all the world, there is not one other spirit to match my own; and I am afraid. I need you, my love; but this Land needs you more. All that I have, I would gladly give if you would wake to walk once more upon this earth."

In the dark shifting shadows beyond the firelight, a soft noise like a sigh startled her. She lifted her head to see the shape of a woman, ancient, withered and leaning heavily on a wooden staff. Her face was hidden deep within the hood of a shapeless robe the color of gray charcoal, but thin wisps of lank, colorless hair hung out from underneath its folds. She shuffled closer to the fire and passed to one side of it on bare feet and settled down to her haunches in front of the Travelers. The red-haired woman lowered her face, firelight glinting off the wet trails of tears upon her cheeks.

"If you have been sent by the Emperor's men, I am afraid that soon, they will have no prizes to return to the old land; my foolishness has placed him beyond their reach and mine. What they desire most slips away as I watch, and I will follow. If you reside in this cave, wait but a little while and we shall not be able to cause you any flirther trouble. Do what you will to us now and take from us what you need, this cave will be our tomb and we will lie here, he and I, together for all time."

The old woman chuckled, like the hissing of water on hot stones, and reached forward to touch his forehead with one bony hand. "Thy time is upon thee now," she said. Her voice was not loud, almost gentle in its tone, but it filled the cavern nonetheless as she turned her attention to the other woman; "but even though thou wouldst rather surrender thy life to thy sorrow, there is another choice for thee, if thou hast but the courage to take it."

"Are you a healer, old woman? I have no money to pay you for your services, but do with me what you will, if it means that he will live."

"Aye," said the hag, "a healer I am, if thou dost require it, and more, perhaps, for thee." Her gaze turned suddenly intense, drawing the Traveler's awareness into the shadows under the hood. Some trick of the light made her eyes seem to glow red, like the shimmering hearthstone in the fire. The old woman placed a cool hand on the Traveler's arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "Knowest, child, truly what thou doth ask of me? Truly, it doth take more courage to live than to die, and the cost of thy heart's desire is heavy indeed."

"Anything you require of me, all that I have and all that I am will not be nearly payment enough for his life. What must I do?"

"Thou knowest the answer already, child. Embrace that which giveth thee life, and though thou wilt perish, yet will he be reborn, but hurry, the flame of his life flickers low, it is but an ember and will not glow for much longer."

The Traveler knelt one last time by the side of the Warrior, and bent to kiss his lips, the familiar tingle of it passing between them. Then, gathering her courage about her, she stood tall, and walked into the flames.

Sparks and soot flew up towards the ceiling as her foot brushed the glowing ashes at the base of the fire. Searing pain shot up from her feet to the crown of her head in continuous waves, yet she forced herself to stand still upon the hearthstone clenching her fists and clamping her eyes shut. Agony build up, layer upon layer, preying on tortured nerves, devastating flesh. She tried to scream through the popping and hissing, but the cry died within her as the flames leaped higher, catching on the last of her tattered clothing,orange flames climbing along its fibers to take root in her long main of hair, the skin beneath it blistering and bubbling. Hot air and thick, choking smoke filled the inside of her lungs, closing her throat to any flirther sound. "This is a fitting death." she thought as the dizzying blackness of it enfolded her, and overcome, she felt her spirit strain upwards against its earthly bonds. But even as she willed herself to depart, her clothing gone, her body blackened and charred, her energy spent, she did not fall into the flames. Her spirit hovered just above the flames, tethered by the constant flow of earthly sensations, her body seemed suspended within them, floating limply above the burning wood with the glowing sparks, arms outstretched and head thrown back. A strange and haunting humming sound filled her. She realized that the old woman had not left the cave, but had stood up and was poking at the base of the fire with her stick as easily as if she were tending to a cooking fire. She was singing to herself.

"I am the one who knows where thee live,

the riches of life are mine to give.

Far from the market's greedy clamor,

springs warmth from a stone devoid of glamor.

A haven of peace amid all strife,

that which destroys can also give life!"

The Traveler noticed then, that the overwhelming pain of the flames had abated, leaving her skin feeling as though it had been scrubbed clean, devoid of the weight of its mortality; falling away in dry layers like the ash surrounding a burnt piece of coal. Through the shimmering waves of heat, she saw that the old woman continued to move around the pyre, stamping her bony feet on the packed earth. She raised her skinny arms above her head and turned nimbly in a timeless dance that mimicked the leaping of the flames, singing all the while.

"I am the one who waits by the hearth,

I find home within thee, and all of the earth.

Here thou art tempered within womb of stone,

the fire of courage within thee is grown.

a promise that power, as long as thee live

comes not as ye take, but as ye shall give."

Within the flames, the hearthstone suddenly cracked apart violently sending a funnel of swirling sparks rising from the ashes to surround her, and the Traveler's body began to heal. Ravaged flesh, bone and tissue mended, nerves, skin and hair becoming whole as the smoke began to clear; and through the light of the fire she thought she caught a glimpse of the old woman; only it wasn't the old woman, but a tall, radiant figure of astonishing beauty who smiled at her from the edge of the fire pit. Then, suddenly there was an irresistible pull, and she was falling, falling back into the welcoming spaces of her physical form; spirit settling into her body as a misty fog might settle into a lush, green valley. Soul once again becoming one with flesh. The wind rushing by her ears seemed to whisper; "child..... remember........thy promise.........." and all was blackness.

The Traveler did not know how long she slept, but when she awoke, the man was leaning up on one arm, gazing at her sleeping form with his familiar wry grin. There was no sign remaining of the angry, red wound on his shoulder.

"You see my love, no need for any magic. A night's good rest and I'm healed of my hurt, not even a scar! Perhaps the arrow did not penetrate after all." He yawned and rubbed his eyes.

"I feel as though I've slept for a week," he said, stretching his great arms up towards the sky, "and I'm as hungry as a bear, my love, thirsty as well. We had best go looking for something to eat in this forest or I fear I shall dry up and blow away!"
The woman let out an astonished cry and threw her arms about him nearly bowling him over onto his back with her intensity.

"Here now, my love!", he cried, laughing merrily, "Am I to be crushed to death while I perish of hunger?" It was then that the Travelers noticed her nakedness, this time his grin had an altogether different character. "Perhaps you ought to cover up my love," he said idly stroking the skin of her thigh, "or I shall be forced to satisfy another kind of hunger."

She smiled and pulled the edges of his cloak to cover herself. In the fire pit there was nothing but cold ash, the great stone at its heart was split into two halves.

"Gift of the Gods! Here, my love, what is in this pack?" he said pointing to a corner of the cave where a large bundle, wrapped in soft leather and tied with twine lay against the rock wall. She bent down and loosened the wrappings.

"I think you hit upon the very explanation! Look here, new tunics, breeches, cloaks, even boots big enough to fit over your big feet!" she said smiling. "And, oh! how they're wrought! Just look at this stitching!"

"They could be oat-sack cloth for all I care, just as long as they're warm and serviceable." he said, slipping the larger tunic over his broad shoulders and running his hands along his arms approvingly. "Do you think that the owners of these fine things will be back looking for them?"

"No," she said, smiling over his shoulder at the fire pit." I don't think they'd mind us having them."

After they both had dressed, he turned to look at the woman. Placing his big hands on her shoulders, he lifted her hair to his lips and kissed it. She embraced him warmly, and as they exited the cave, back into the sunshine of the forest he said, "I think that this place is good for us,my love, even my scar seems to be getting smaller. But I have a slight stifihess in this shoulder for some reason, perhaps you could massage it for me later on?"

VII

"Each new beginning follows swiftly upon the heels of an ending."

-Madame Tome

The tree line broke another mile or so along the trails above the cave; the forest at last giving way to an expansive, sunny field filled with long, dry grass. The air was flill of bird song, and as they crossed the field the Travelers often caught glimpses of energetic black shapes darting in and out of the swaying blades. A raven, three times larger than the common crows, starlings and grackles that picked for seed pods among the weeds patrolled the skies over their heads; its wedge-shaped tail flicking this way and that as it navigated the length of the field. The sky was the deep, translucent blue of high Summer dotted by brilliant, puffy white clouds that chased each other across the top of the mountain and seemed almost close enough to grasp. They found no traces of the army that pursued them, and had high hopes that at last, they had eluded the soldiers for good.

The center of the field rose gently, creating a large mound surrounded by wild lavender and mint. The continuous breeze carried the gurgling noises of a nearby stream to their ears. The man let out a whoop!, startling a flock of birds into flight, and sprinted to the top of the hillock long legs covering the distance with giant strides, arms spread wide.

"Just look at this, will you! Water nearby, defensible, and the whole forest at our feet to sustain us!

"This is truly a gift of the Gods", he cried."We must build here, at this place." he grew quiet with sudden reverence and whispered, "I will have this home and no other."

At the base of the knoll, the woman brushed away the superficial surface layer of small pebbles and dug a shallow depression. The soil underneath was dark and fertile. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled its rich scent. Squeezing the black earth into a moist ball, she let it crumble through her fingers.

"The soil is good for planting, I think there is an indication of some past flooding here, but we can compensate. There is certainly no shortage of wildlife", she said, listening to the clamor of the birds, and the distant call of an owl.

She closed her eyes then, and took in all the odors of the place, carried across the field on the wind. Grass, pine trees and mountain laurel, dry leaves, and something else....

"Smoke", said the woman, turning to face the rush of air.

Perhaps half a dozen soldiers stood, waist high in the tall grass some one-hundred yards away, each carrying a lighted torch. At the Captain's command, they lowered their arms and touched the flaming tops to the grass. Flames caught hold in the dry vegetation, pushed along the field by the wind, leaping from blade to blade towards the Travelers with astonishing speed.

She climbed the hill to stand beside the man, and they surveyed their surroundings, eyes tearing from the black haze that already reached them.

"We can't outrun this wildfire", he said coughing. "We'll never reach the other side in time.

"Cowards", he spat, fingering the pommel of his sword, "It looks like they finally figured out a way to destroy us without having to lay a hand on us."

Upwind across the field, the soldiers were waiting behind the fire line, protected from its ravages by the direction of the breeze.
"The river is too far away to be of any use now, even with an army of buckets we could never douse this inferno!", he cried as the roar and crackle of the flames became louder.

A sudden gust of wind carried more smoke up the hill, making them gag and lifting the curls from her soot-streaked face.
"This wind will drive the fire right over this hill. Unless...." The woman looked at her companion, and smiled. "Hand me your belt pouch." she said. He passed it to her, and she loosened the leather thongs and searched inside. When she removed her hand, she held the black feather aloft and released it into the wind. The raven watched them from above with its black eyes, thinking, perhaps that the floating black shape below was an available meal. It flew straight for the Travelers, who ducked quickly and threw up their arms lest they be hit by the animal. Then it passed up and over their heads, and dove swiftly downward following the feather as it landed; and disappeared, lost in the tall grass at the base of the hillock.

A small form darted in front of their faces, then another, and another still, until the air in front of them was thick with whistling, calling, flapping birds. Grackles and robins, starlings and cowbirds, blue jays and a host of others all holding themselves nearly vertical in the air, madly flapping their wings. And, in their midst, standing chest high in the tall grass stood a young man, slender and broad-shouldered, his hair falling in long, black waves. Heavy, dark brows met over green, almond shaped eyes that sparkled with intelligence. A square face, and high cheekbones set off a nose, dusted by freckles; and deep dimples accented cheeks reddened from the continuous kiss of the wind. He studied the scene. Frowning with brows drawn together, his gaze darted between the Travelers and the swiftly approaching wall of fire. He raised his long arms high, and still more birds, wrens, sparrows, finches and doves flew out of the forest to the hill and added their efforts to the fray. Little by little, the Travelers noticed a change in the direction of the wind. The advance of the fire first slowed, then reversed; finally succumbing to the power of countless beating wings.

The remaining soldiers were overcome by smoke as they ran back towards the forest, and fell choking, to their knees. The wildfire traversed a wide arc that surrounded their prone bodies in a glowing, shimmering trap of flames. Black, billowing clouds of smoke and ash hung in the air, obscuring the Traveler's view of the field from the hilltop as the shuddering wall of birds advanced across the expanse of burnt grass and charred bracken to the opposite end of the field. The dark-haired boy ran swiftly behind it, arms waving. Frenetic animals closed in on the hapless fighting men, whipping the fire into a frenzied inferno which incinerated everything in its path, leaving great swatches of blackened land ripe for regrowth. A harsh, inhuman cry sounded from the boy's open throat and the multitude of small, flapping birds were joined by great hordes of giant scavenging birds: buzzards, wild turkeys, ravens and others who scoured the field and gorged themselves on carrion in huge, hopping, squawking piles. The woman hid her face in the man's shoulder, and he hung his head as the frenzy continued, thankful for the veil of smoke between them and the grisly scene. The smoke cleared as the fire's fuel diminished, and the boy was nowhere to be seen. The birds eventually returned in groups to the depths of the forest passing over the Travelers' heads with clicks, whistles and croaks of farewell. From somewhere at the edge of the field, a single raven took flight and soared over the hillock, up into the sky where it circled once, then disappeared into the glare of the sun.

VIII

"Defeat is not getting knocked down, it is not getting hack up."

- Aden, Priest of Hephaestos

The Travelers were still reeling from the horrific scene when a sound, metal scraping against metal came from behind them. Gradually, a figure became visible walking through the smoke. The woman gasped and the Warrior drew his sword as the Captain appeared. She took a step forward, but the Warrior extended his arm and swept her behind him. "No, my love. At last, this is something I can understand." he whispered.

Head raised and back stiffened, he moved calmly towards the bigger man. The Captain grinned maliciously and nodded his head in mock obeisance.

"By my calculations, you should be all out of your little magic tricks now." he said running his hand lightly down the length of his sword blade, an evil-looking thing of black steel and sharp, barbed quillions.

The woman shivered as both men circled each other, weight balanced lightly on the balls of their feet. Their feet were cat pads, the feet of dancers, and they danced with death; the swords mere extensions of long, muscular arms. The two men settled into the long familiar pattern of thrust and parry, each seeking to determine the worth of his opponent. Then suddenly they rushed at each other, final victory in their sights; and too long in the coming to wait a moment longer. Though the Captain was stronger, the Traveler was more agile, twisting out from under blows mighty enough to cleave a man from head to groin. Again and again he leapt aside, again and again the Captain's great sword smashed into empty ground where the Warrior had stood but a moment before. But the Warrior was growing weary, for he had baited the Captain long, and the murderous weapon was becoming more difficult to dodge. Steel rang out on steel as their blades clashed, sending jarring force up the Warrior's arm. Shoulder muscles stiffened and cramped as he fought to keep his blade in motion. Sweat and dirt streaked their cheeks, the force of their exertion fixing their faces in grotesque masks of hatred as each man strove for the advantage. The gold ring set through the Captain's lip quivered fiercely.

The woman watched as the Captain extended his body, shoulder forward, weapon poised to gut the Warrior's belly in a sweeping arc. But something was wrong with his fighting stance. The Captain's weight should have shifted to his leading foot, but he remained planted. The woman sensed a feint, but before she could warn him, the Warrior moved to parry the blow, leveling his own weapon vertically in front of him. But suddenly the bigger man twisted. His arm sped upwards and the curving swing moved his sword past the other blade and connected with flesh. The Woman looked on in alarm as the Captain's blade bit deep into the muscle of the Warrior's upper arm. The red gash welled with blood, which ran freely down his arm. The Warrior stepped back, and passed the weapon to his other hand, but not before the blood had reached his wrist. It covered the hilt of his sword in a thin, slippery layer.

The Captain pressed his advantage, raming blows upon his enemy, sweat flying off his arms and hair with every swing. At last he managed to entangle the Warrior's blade in the guards of his own. A quick twist wrenched the weapon from the Warrior's weakened grip and sent it spiraling into the air. It landed with a clank a few yards away and skittered across some loose stones over the top of the mound. A vicious kick to the midriff sent the Warrior sprawling to the ground, knocking the breath from his lungs. The Captain planted his heavy foot on the Warrior's throat before he could rise, and the woman reached quietly for her belt. Weapon raised high for its final deadly downstroke, the Captain paused.

"No more magic, no more spirit helpers, your woman helpless and soon to be, ....rehabilitated. When all you know has abandoned you, what is left to you now?"

The woman knelt and slid something over the ground, it landed within the fallen man's reach.

"Me," said the Warrior, and threw it. The Captain lurched back in surprise and pain as the bone handle of the Woman's belt knife protruded from the front of his throat. The black sword fell from his grip as warm blood flooded over his massive chest and bubbled out from between his lips. The Warrior rolled to his side, and sprang to his feet in time to catch the Captain's body as it fell, and lowered him to the ground. For a time their eyes met, remorse and something else, recognition perhaps, haunted the fading gaze of the dying man. His eyes roamed across the Warrior's sweat streaked face and settled on the small scar at the top of his chin.

"It is good then," he whispered smiling. Blood-flecked foam clung to the corners of his mouth. "No soldier should die alone."

"I remember," said the Warrior, and the Captain fell limp in his arms.

VIX

"May Athena grant you wisdom,

and Hestia warm your heart.

May love and joy enfold you

until the last tree falls in Woodhaven."

-traditional folk blessing

A young girl sat wide-eyed at the old man's feet, her pale skin taking on a curious translucent quality in the firelight.

"Did the Travelers get married?" she asked breathlessly. "And did they build a castle? How did they live with the memories of all that suffering? Did the spirit creatures ever return? Did they rule wisely?..... and..."

"Enough child," said the old man chuckling. "Suffice it to say that scars heal in time, both the outward and the not-so-visible; and one may achieve healing by many paths. The Travelers raised a stone memorial to the memory of the fallen army, both as a sign of respect and as a warning to future conquerors; and then went on to nurture a new kingdom in the heart of the wilderness. There were many more trials, but that is the stuff of future stories, some of which," he said with a knowing wink, "I dare say, you will even have a hand in creating."

Afterward

Outside the tavern, a gentle Spring rain made the still-cold ground send up wispy tendrils of white mist: as if reaching for the raindrops to pull their watery warmth downwards and dispel the last of Winter's grip on the land. The old storyteller rose slowly from his chair by the fireplace, patted its familiar contours once more and donned his grey cloak with its tattered edges. And, as the crowd parted before him, he once again surveyed the roomful of people, making note of all the eager faces, familiar and less so, that made up his audience. Like so much of life, that which was created by this odd mix of individuals was much more than simply the sum of its parts. He paused outside the tavern door for a moment then, and gazed back inside at its welcome fire-lit glow. Understanding that time would bring change, and hoping that his words, his special gift -- would find its mark within each one of them. By the fireplace, a brown-haired boy, spindly and small for his age, spotted something under the old man's chair. He rose up suddenly and sprinted towards the door with something soft and gray in his outstretched hand. He held out the feather into the mist, seeking to return it to the storyteller, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. Only the drizzle and the swirling mist remained, somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.