Many quiet walking days followed the incident, though they spied frequent signs of the creature’s destruction, and the witch inspected and blessed each one. Tildy found herself tensing at any sound that broke the silence, which made sleeping difficult. She decided she didn’t like adventures as much as she’d hoped. The lack of sleep and her heavy pack were making her miserable.
The morning of the fourteenth day started like the previous: breakfast and a quick departure. Using green tendrils from a wild clenchertine, she tied her long grey-brown hair up in a topknot, not having the energy to otherwise deal with it. They had been walking some hours when the witch paused for a moment and Tildy stopped beside her. They had travelled enough together that no words were needed. The road ahead went through the center of a small copse of trees, or rather, Tildy saw, the remains of trees. Many had been pulled out by the roots or broken, exposing healthy yellow wood within.
Satisfied there was no immediate danger, her adoptive mother moved furtively ahead, Tildy at her side. The witch kept her head cocked, more intent on listening than looking. Finally, she placed her hand on one of the damaged trees and said, “What do you think?”
Tildy tried not to be irritated. The witch had been wanting to put her at ease after the incident in the storm, oblivious that each site brought back the terrible memories. She took a calming breath, using her keen eyes to evaluate the destruction. “This is less than a day old. Look how fresh the inner wood is. Exposure darkens its color.” She looked at the witch. “Our quarry continues back the way it came.”
“What else have you learned?”
“We already knew it was large and powerful. But I think I underestimated its strength. These are young trees, but already mighty. To snap them like twigs,” she trailed off, awed by the power she imagined.
“I have seen trees this age stop a rolling boulder that would flatten a man,” the witch added, confirming her thought.
“Wait, what is that?” Tildy asked, pointing to a dark stain on one tree where a tattered remnant hung.
* * * * *
“Keen eyes,” the witch said in compliment. She stepped forward and plucked a leather strap from the sticky ichor. A feather dangled from it. “I believe it is blood and an adornment.” She smelled it and wrinkled her nose. “The scent goes deeper into my memory than I can presently recall.”
“This confirms that the monster and the other party are fighting,” Tildy surmised.
“Disputes amongst those of dark purpose are common,” the witch replied. She wrapped the items in oilskin and placed the bundle in an empty pouch on her belt. Then she found an open patch of ground and planted an acorn from another pouch, this one embossed with a tree encircled by a trailing star. “May you be replaced before too much time has passed,” she said to the tree. Looking at Tildy, she added, “As trees measure time, of course. We have not such luxury. Come, we must hasten to Greywetherton.”
“Many days have gone. Do you have a better guess of what we’re chasing?” Tildy asked. “Certainly, a Giant couldn’t have wandered these lands unseen. A Dragon? It could fly above eyesight, but why go through the trees at all?”
The witch did not respond but quickened their pace. At last she said, “No, not a Dragon. Not only would they simply avoid trees altogether, the strength they prefer is in their cunning and breath and voice. No, this is not like their kind at all. Even if it were a rogue.
“I agree it is not a Giant. You have never seen one, Tildeneth, but with footfalls like collapsing mountain peaks, we would have known, both at Dappledown and in the storm. Likely, just before the boot squashed us,” she added as a casual aside. “The damage would be far worse. No, there is more subtlety here than a Giant possesses.”
Tildy looked behind them. Subtle was not a word she would use. Something Dess had said came back to her. “Could it be a Troll, mother?” she teased.
“Hmph. Today is not the day for that tale.” She sighed and recited an old rhythmic verse: “Strong as the bones of hills are Trolls. And just as thick in the head.” She sighed again. “Many signs indicate one, but there is a greater intelligence at work here. No, this is a riddle to which I do not have the answer. But I fear more than ever for Greywetherton.”
* * * * *
They continued eastwards. The monster’s trail kept mostly to the road, which bore many cracks and craters, some that held water from which small animals could be seen drinking. They scattered as Tildy and the witch approached. Where-and-there, white boulders rose from the earth like blossoming seeds. Those nearest the road were broken or pushed aside.
As they crested a low rise, Greywetherton came into view. What remained of it. Tildy gasped and put her hands to her mouth.
Unlike the tracks through the trees, the village did not have a straight trail of demolition through its midst. Every white stone structure bore signs of destruction and char.
“There were fifty houses here or more,” said the witch in a low voice. Quiet as mice, they crept toward the village entrance, so marked by the remains of two white boulders that flanked the path. She muttered to herself as she explored. “Stables there. Smith. The inn and its savory breads. The mill and its tall tower, intact though its turning sails are burned away.” She gave each building a perfunctory inspection, which indicated she did not expect to find anyone living. Tildy followed at a short distance, fearing a gruesome scene despite what they suspected of the other attacks.
The witch threw her voice, a trick that cast her whispered words over distances. “They had some warning. I spy a few horse carcasses, but not as many as I would expect. The rains have destroyed much of the tale I should like to read.”
Tildy noticed something in the dirt. Having not mastered the voice trick, she waved to her adoptive mother, who hurried over a bridge that crossed a musical stream.“I’ve found more marks, but these are fresh.”
The witch knelt to examine the spot. “Curious. They appear less the obliteration of tracks and more like, hmmm.”
“Are they dragging something?”
“Perhaps, but whatever it is, it is a back-and-forth sliding motion, which is rather unusual.” She stood to dust her knees and said, “But lo, night chases Mother Sun from the sky. Let us not linger amongst the bones of Greywetherton. I should feel safer off the road and nearer the sanctuary wood there.” She pointed toward the trees.
* * * * *
They waded through yellow highgrasses, the very end of the Whispering Prairie that led west and north to distant Evereign, the fortress city where once lived the Lost Royals. They deposited their packs in the tall grass near the treeline, favoring the lee side of a white boulder that would hide them from the village. The witch cut away the turf, setting the chunk of earth aside, and then rummaged through her pouches. Tildy gathered fallen sticks and branches from the forest edge. With flint and steel, she lit kindling and set them to fire. She took a pot and her waterskin and wandered into the woods, following the tinkling music of a stream, which was clearly another reason her adoptive mother had chosen their campsite.
The trees were not thick, and the ground was relatively clear of brush and grass. A soft breeze followed her into the increasing dim beneath the trees. The last rays of the afternoon danced merrily upon the stream as it wended its casual way through the soft sward of a clearing. She picked up a stone and tossed it into the laughing water.
Tildy removed her boots and luxuriously stretched her toes. Too long had it been since she’d been barefoot, and many miles lay beneath her feet. Leaving her gear at the water’s edge – and most of her cares – she padded through deep spring-grass. The ground was cool and soft, nourished by the stream. The effort and heat of the day leeched from her feet, and she was reminded of a song she’d learned many years ago.
With a giggle and a spin, the old song burst forth, unable to be contained by the perils they’d seen on the road.
i.
Down by the water where the river daughter dwells,
Sings a pretty little lark, who has flown up from the dells.
She dances and she hops with a funny little cat
(The cat who you might have known by his funny little hat).
And the bird, how she marvels at the clothing that he brings,
And wishes she to now adorn her pretty little wings.
Devious, the cat you’ve guessed, is a hungry creature, dark.
Devises he a plan for trick and capture of the lark.
“My dear,” here says the cat, “I know your heart’s desire.”
“You wish, I do perceive, to be clad in my attire.”
“But, oh, as you should see, my hat’s too big for you.”
“If you can bring me cloth and string, I’ll make a coat for you.”
.
ii.
Now the bird, she was delighted, make no mistake of that.
For coat of blue for her is so much better than a hat.
So, far and wide she spread her wings and searched for such as those,
And many days and many toils sought the makings for her clothes.
Now finally, the bird she’d found enough to make a coat.
Brought them all, she did of course, and sang a merry note.
“O, cat, my cat, come out and see the stuffs that I have brought!”
Slinked out the hungry cat and knew his prey would soon be caught.
“O, lark, my happy lark, I’m so pleased by what you bring.”
“A coat of blue is what you need and love your heart will sing.”
.
iii.
And so, the cat did work the cloth and join it now with thread.
And in three days he had a coat to put down o’er her head.
With buttons bright and collar fine and shining hem of blue.
The lark, she loved the garment, so lovely and so new!
“Oh, thank you, cat,” the bird began, then suddenly gave pause:
For then it was with much surprise, she saw the kitty’s claws!
The cat knew well that silly bird had never worn a thing.
He watched her struggle in a coat without a hole for wing.
The cat, he grinned, most devious, for he knew that she was caught.
“Oh, little bird, how cheaply has my lunch of you been bought.
.
iv.
With horror in her little eyes, the lark hopped back away,
And played her part so very well, since she was not the prey.
Out jumped the wolf with whom she’d spoke not but a day before,
And in one gulp the cat was gone, and danger was no more.
“Oh, thank you, wolf,” the bird called up, “You saved me as agreed.”
“Now help me please, out of this coat, I have but this last need.”
Now ravenous doth be a wolf, with belly never full.
Another snack before him sat; not a second did he mull.
And with another sudden gulp, the bird she was gone, too.
Never would she sing again or seek for clothes of blue.
.
v.
Perhaps, my friends, you’ve read the tale that’s told between the words:
The truth of wolves, of clever cats, and of little singing birds.
The currency of falsehood is a villainous coin to mind.
A trick that’s paid with trickery is paid with trick in kind!
.
Tildy’s dancing ended with the song. She giggled, and heard the sound echoed from behind. She whirled to find a lanky boy watching her from the clearing’s edge, standing between her and the campsite. He might have been her age. His bright smile faded as he saw that he’d been caught. Quick as rabbit, Tildy backflipped across the stream and removed her garden knife. The sudden movement surprised him, and he backed away. “What do you want?” she demanded, punctuating her words with stabbing motions. Having the stream and her blade between them made her feel safer. Bolder. “Go away!”
* * * * *
The boy hesitated, halfway between turning away and speaking. Finally, he said in challenge. “Who are you? What’re you doing here?”
“You answer me!” Tildy retorted. “You’re the one spying.”
“Spying? I followed a sneak haunting my woods. Only ghasts and ghouls don’t name themselves first,” he said, quoting the old adage.
“Your woods? I’m quite sure a string bean like you barely owns his own clothes.” To her surprise, the boy deflated, all bravado gone. That was easy.
It occurred to her that she wasn’t using her eyes. Or her wits. He spoke bravely, but retreated at her first challenge, having no weapon but his fists. A small open pack dangled loosely from one shoulder, apparently empty aside from a bedroll that hung beneath. His clothes were dirty, ragged, and hung loosely on his tall frame. A gaunt face suggested he was undernourished. His black hair hung limply around bright eyes that were shadowed by lack of sleep. And he smelled. He’d clearly been living in the woods, a survivor from Greywetherton. She lowered her weapon. “You’re from the village,” she said.
He nodded.
“I’m from Wayfahren,” she said, adopting their usual tale. She kept the stream between them. “What happened here?”
The boy cringed, fear crossing his face. His eyes darted around, though they kept returning to her: he was keeping an equal eye out for other dangers. His muscles were tense, ready to spring away at any moment. He composed himself, standing straight and puffing up his chest. “I’m not afraid of you!” It seemed he spoke not to her, but to the woods themselves. Or at least, anyone within earshot. A fire burned in his eyes as he addressed her, and she couldn’t help but admire him. “I’m the last resident of Grey’therton, and these are my woods. With the, with the Master gone,” he stammered, “even sprites walk ‘ere by my leave.”
Tildy laughed despite herself, thinking of the pup that barks when the hound is hunting. “I’m sorry,” she said, covering her mouth. “You’re quite brave, I’m sure. You do honor to your village.”
A shy smile finally broke across his lips. “I guess you’re not a spirit. You’re pretty brave, too, y’know. For a girl. I mean, um.” He trailed off, but it was too late.
In a flash, Tildy was back across the stream, landing in the grass near him, though whether she had leapt or flown, in her anger she could not tell. “Don’t forget, boy,” she said stressing the word though he was about the same age, “I have the knife! And I have more besides!”
“Now children, calm yourselves.” Her adoptive mother appeared, as silent as ever on her bare feet and unheard even by Tildy.
The boy leapt like he had wings of his own, but much to his credit, quickly placed himself between them. “Show ‘er your steel, girl,” he warned. “She looks like a witch!”
It was her mother’s turn to laugh, much to their surprise. “Now, now, good sir. The young lady and I are together. We are travelers from distant Wayfahren desperately seeking news. Much as your stomach sounds desperate for food, I should think. We could arrange a trade beside our campfire, should you deem new company trustworthy. That is, if Tildeneth has stopped singing and can finally bring the water for dinner.”
* * * * *
He turned eagerly to Tildy for confirmation. The thought of food had removed the last of his wariness. “I’m Marklin,” he said, looking earnestly into her eyes. “M’father’s the miller, so everyone calls me ‘Marklin Miller-son’.” He frowned at the name.
“Tildy,” she replied, blushing. Because my mother chastised me, not because his eyes cannot be that blue.
They stood closer together, each studying the other’s face. His lips promised a coming smile, but he turned back to the witch. “And you are?”
“A witch, as you say!” she said, her voice mischievous, but without the affectation she’d used with the boy in the market. “Come with me, Marklin Miller-son, if you judge it safe, and we shall see about that food.”
Without hesitation, he followed her from the woods. Tildy noted he was smart enough that, when food was at stake, he didn’t press the witch on the question of her name. He looked over his shoulder to see if she followed, but she indicated her discarded pot and he shrugged. That was cute, she thought. But not in a he’s-a-cute-boy kind of way. More like a puppy.
But he was rather cute in that other way, too, as she considered it. Horrified at the notion, Tildy rushed to the stream to collect water. For a moment, she watched a paint-tail fish swim by, bright colors effusing into the water in its wake.
He probably wasn’t anything special, but she didn’t know enough males to judge. Fietha didn’t count; he was family. And there was the stupid one she’d punched in the nose. She decided this Marklin was as ordinary as any other person. The fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about his name didn’t make him any different. If she had to put some thought toward the idea, she decided “cute” was a good word for the boy. Marklin. Certainly, he wasn’t handsome like the knights described in her books. Marklin was just a boy. And boys were cute. Well, not all boys. But certainly this one.
Suddenly realizing how much thought she was putting into it, Tildy slipped and fell into the stream.
Tildy’s not falling for this lost boy, is she?
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© Michael Wallevand, August 2024
The Lost Royals 