Life during the Thaw

There’s only one thing that thaws the village Heart this time of year; the Gathering. For several months now the routes to and from the village have been impassable because of the snow, but now the suns warmth has brought freedom that the whole village celebrates.

Being so isolated strengthens, hardens the psyche. They live the long game; everything is in the preparation. They live as a community, everyone pulling together for the greater good; no one goes without; no stockpiling of goods that no one else can use. Greed is unheard of here, there is no need of it –that way would have led to an early death for all.

It’s not an easy time; hardships are endured but no one has to bare it all themselves. Each person has a part to play, from the youngest child to the eldest Wisen. The children are taught through game and verse how to look after themselves and care for the others, uphold the community. The Wisen share their knowledge and are revered for surviving so many Thaws.

Indeed the celebrations are as much for the Wisens as it is to be thankful for the newly found freedom. Strangely enough this freedom has done nothing to change the size of the population. One could say that it is the perfect society; that by being closed off for so many months has made the community stronger; it is one. So few people have a desire to leave, their roots run deep.

With the Thaw comes the Gathering. Like so much, this is a tradition going back longer than even the Wisened folklore allows. No one knows its origins and, like so much, it hasn’t changed at all in that time.

It’s the only time that strangers from another village are allowed into barter and celebrate with them. Due to the remoteness of Heart no one else even knows of its existence, no one else has ever visited and they know no different.

The other villagers are strange, to be sure. They speak in unintelligible klicks and grunts, but over the centuries the two villages have developed a complicated language of sign and mime that only the Wisen truly know.

And only the Wisen deal with the Woden folk from the other village. They are seen throughout the time of celebration but it is forbidden to engage them in conversation or stop them in the street. Children are taught to fear them with a reverence that almost borders on religious awe.

They are so similar to the villagers of Heart save for one striking difference; they are all adorned with ornate masks; branches like spokes emanating from the third eye. Different coloured woods and sized branches mark each Woden member as unique; as does the number of branches on the mask. Some have discussed whether the number of branches denote status, or maybe the colours; but all such conjecture is forbidden by the Wisen.

Samfire has spent her life knowing all this; knowing it is against the law to court their attention during the Thaw, but each year since she could run she has tried to get close to them, as has her twin S’wain; much to the chagrin of their parents.

But this year they are finally old enough. They have reached the age when they are courted. They must leave their parents shelter and be paired, to find their place in society. However, before this can happen the “Selection” must take place and both sisters can barely contain their excitement.

There are many among them that are fearful and distrustful of the Woden, but not Samfire or S’wain. They wish to be amongst the chosen, anointed by the song, bathed by their love and have prepared long and hard, done everything that was expected of them.. and more.

Their parents, mindful, try to keep their expectations low, have tried to dissuade them from even trying but their minds are made up, as one.

Born as twins, they have done so much together that all has become shared; pains and pleasures and all emotions. They are forever in each others company; if one should become anointed then maybe they both will be. Samfire wants it more than S’wain, who wants it for her sister.

Come the night of the celebration and all is prepared. During the final gathering when they become opened up to the Song of Woden they would open themselves up also to the other twin. For those who heard the Song of Woden would be anointed and chosen; and if one sister was picked then so would the other be.

No one knew what became of those who were chosen but year after year the Woden were welcomed back into the village and the celebrations happened again; and this year it would be Samfire and S’wain’s time.

Come the celebrations, despite being near opposite ends of the village hall, now packed with other hopefuls and celebrants, the Woden were all on stage; barely twenty this year when all other years there had been double that number. Neither twin could contain their excitement, each fuelling the others happiness, stoking it up to near fever pitch.

Suddenly, all is silent and the Woden stand facing them; their wooden masks more elegant and disconcerting than ever, energy seeming to radiate from them.

This must be it, Samfire thinks, giddy with the realisation that it is happening now. But nothing…. Nothing is happening; she can hear only silence. No sound save for the stagnant breathing of the Woden, pregnant with apprehension and menace? What is happening?

Some people are moving to the front of the hall, towards the stage… that should be Samfire! Wait…

S’wain is there, amongst the chosen! She has heard the song, but why has she not opened herself up to Samfire? She tries to shout out, to move to the stage to be with her sister but she can’t. She can not move or utter a word, can only watch with horror and bitter disappointment as S’wain joins the Woden, where she is given robes and a crown of unknown leaves and flowers. Standing there now, amongst the Woden, S’wain seems alien, not of the village any longer. Samfire can not contact her; there is no link anymore and for the first time Samfire is alone.

She can only watch as the Woden lead S’wain offstage with the rest, and when they are finally gone the lights all blink out like an out-breath before everyone is free to move again.

The lights stutter on once more and now there is celebration for the chosen, and for the gifts of the Woden.

All are jubilant, safe in the knowledge that they will survive for another icetime. But for Samfire there is only emptiness. She moves to the front of the stage, walks around to see where the Woden might have gone but they are nowhere to be seen; as if they never existed at all.

And the same for S’waine. Where once there was an experience shared now there is half a life. Samfire will never know why she wasn’t chosen or why S’waine never opened herself up. Part of her is happy for S’waine, or at least wants to be, but there is a phantom pain for a lost opportunity and a reconcilement that will never happen.

The unidentified adventures of Tink and Taylor

It’s generally assumed that UFO’s are a modern invention, more akin to the 20^th Century but, for Tink and Taylor, it was a first-hand experience nearly 100 hundred years earlier; it’s just that no one believed them.

This shouldn’t be too much of a surprise considering their reputation. Hindsight would surely label them as village idiots, which is ironic as that was how they saw themselves too. Not blessed with either erudition or wit they barely managed to scrape a living. Taylor was known for his ability to stitch a button but not much else and Tink was known as the odd jobs man –often with the emphasis on the word odd.

Often found in their cups, having figured a way to distil alcohol from almost any fruit, vegetable (or leaf for that matter) they were often full of tall tales and tattle; hence leading to their being named the Tattle Twins. Normally this mattered not because they were quite proud of their ability to yarn on.

However, this time it very much counted against them for the story that they recounted about being abducted by, what we now know to be, aliens was completely true. They were laughed out of the village and suffered greatly for no one would ever listen to them again.

In deference to history and to balance the scales we’re now going to peel back the curtains and see what really happened that fateful night.

The craft had travelled many millions of miles and had suffered greatly on the journey and entry into Earth’s atmosphere. This was a scout ship, purely on a research mission. Their planet was dying and they needed samples that they could cultivate; and of all the planets visited only Earth had conditions akin to their own. It must be stated that, from the start, they came in peace and actually wanted to sneak in and out without being noticed, but the best laid plans….

At this time Tink and Taylor were busy scrumping as it was the middle of the night and Farmer MacGreggor was fast asleep. His orchard was bountiful and made easy pickings for the pair; one they hit on often. They were always careful and only took enough apples to satisfy their alcoholic needs. They knew exactly which parts of the orchard they’d been to before and made sure to rotate their plundering allowing the tree’s chance to regrow.

So they were busy picking apples by moonlight at exactly the same time as the aliens; however their methods differed greatly. The Tattle Twins picked by hand whereas the aliens used an advanced form of matter teleportation; taking up the entire plot of land, soil and all, including both Tink and Taylor. Both were clueless as to what had happened as the spacecraft had none of the flashing lights that would be attributed to them later, and was completely silent in its approach.

In fact, it took the twins more than twenty minutes to realise that something was wrong; for when they had finished their petty thievery and tried leaving the orchard they were surprised to find, not wood and field, but something more akin to plasticised steel. Obviously neither of them had the remotest idea of what was happening; both initially put the experience down to bad cider. When the lights came on they were astonished to realise just how different their new environment was.

The room they now found themselves in was far larger than anything they had ever experienced before; far bigger than the village hall and so much lighter. In the age of electricity we tend to take it all for granted, but to the Twins it was almost blisteringly bright; so much so that it almost hurt to look up.

Torn between the desire to drink themselves to oblivion or explore they chose the latter. One can only imagine what might have happened should they have chosen blissful inebriation.

It was at this time that the aliens had realised that they had mistakenly picked up the two visitors. They were horrified at the thought of causing them such distress and sought to rescue and return them as quickly as possible; but they were tired and hadn’t thought through their actions. Had they been more alert then 1) They would have realised that there was no way of communicating with the humans and 2) they looked, to human eyes at least, quite horrific; they were immensely tall and thin, looking more like metallic stick insects. They had very soft and pliable bodies which made them extremely vulnerable to any external impact. On their own planet they thrived due to there being no natural predators; everything lived harmoniously.

It was agreed amongst them that, in order to alleviate the intruders stress and fear, only one of the crew would attempt to face and return them as quickly as possible.

Now Tink and Taylor, still in a state of shock and mild inebriation, could not have been more terrified if they tried. They were not God-fearing Christians but did fear the Devil and Hell, and as they were now caught stealing apples they felt that Hell was where they now resided. With each apple a sin, they felt weighted down and were just about put their sacks down and repent when the door upon which they were leaning against slid upwards. They fell on their backs and as they looked up they had their worst fears manifest for it could only be a fiend from hell that now faced them.

Both screamed and scrabbled back just as the alien did the same. It was nervous enough in its own mind, so it tried to over-compensate by making the universal gesture of peace: outstretched arms with fingers splayed. But having ten fingers on each hand and now lunging at the Twins, the gesture had them screaming louder in hysteria, their backs now against the far bulkhead.

It’s not clear who threw the first apple but it was the only thing that they could think to do to protect themselves. Like a bizarre mystery play they pelted the poor, unfortunate creature with apples and it took only one unlucky hit on the alien equivalent of the pineal gland to kill it outright. (it being the one weak place where the skull had not formed properly) The alien collapsed in a heap much to the Twin’s relief. They could also see the open door beyond and the corridor further beyond; so, with ammunition in hand, they resolved to find a way out of the hell they were in.

In the control room the aliens were beside themselves as well. Not only were they causing the humans no end of torment, but it had also led to the accidental death of one of their own. They knew that there was strength in numbers now; maybe they could herd them into a shuttle craft, for that was the only logical place the humans could be moving towards. So they left the bridge en mass to restore some sense of order to their ship.

Of course, Tink and Taylor were not looking for the shuttle bay; they had no conception of such a thing. They were heading upwards for they had reasoned that, being in hell , the only way place one could escape the Devil’s clutches was to walk towards the light: up; which was also where the bridge was.

There was only one alien looking after the controls. With so much damage to the thrusters and stabilisers it took every ounce of its concentration to keep the ship in the air. It didn’t help the alien’s nerves, which were already frayed, that the humans were at loose in the ship somewhere. So it was so totally ill-prepared for Tink and Taylor’s arrival; but the Tattle Twins were prepared as each had an apple in hand, ready to let fly like a vegetarian David. However neither had the chance to let fly the apples of war for the alien suddenly collapsed in fright just on sight of them. But with no one at the controls the ship suddenly realised its mass and crashed with the force of a tidal wave. It was less of a miracle that Tink and Taylor survived and more down to their inebriation but, alas, the rest of the aliens were not so lucky. All died, either being crushed by the shuttlecraft or in the fall itself.

The crash itself managed to rip a huge gash in the bridge area from which Tink and Taylor were able to extricate themselves; bemused and shaken up but otherwise unharmed –which was more than could be said for the aliens.

The Tattle Twins wasted no time in running for the village: they were under attack by Devils and no one was safe. If they had but looked behind they would have seen the ship’s self-destruct mechanism take effect. It was a localised explosion but very effective in reducing the ship to dust. The Twins saw only a flash of light behind them but it was just another thing to keep them running.

Suffice to say, no one believed the Twins for without any physical evidence there was nothing to substantiate their tale. The thought of being abducted by Devils who could be defeated by apples was daft in the extreme; so Tink and Taylor were ostracised and spent the rest of their lives alone.

Across the galaxy their images were known –the last transmission had been beamed to the home planet with a health warning: Earth was not to be visited again. Humans were now a species to be feared and for over a hundred and fifty years we’ve been left alone…. Until now….

Beast in the beauty

Stories are strange: what starts off as fact soon becomes fiction, and after repeated tellings even the most far-fetched yarn can begin to sound like truth. People are much like this too.

 He had been called beastly for so many years that Beast he became, and so he was shunned from all around him. He fled to the deepest part of the wild wood where even the bravest feared to tread and lived in shame and isolation; and soon he repented his actions, though his countenance changed not.

He changed his ways, learned to appreciate the solitude and became friends to the other wooded creatures, for they saw beneath his fearsome visage and saw the gentle soul; the ache behind his eyes. Yet whenever he stumbled upon those who wandered too far –either mistakenly through inebriation or a badly judged bet- he was always judged harshly before he even had a chance to speak, and so faced either fear or aggression; so he gave up even trying.

Until one day a young Beauty wandered into his very cottage: wide-eyed innocence, fair hair and deep blue eyes. At first he thought that she was lost and waited for her to leave, hiding as best he could, lest he frighten her too much. But she didn’t leave.

“I know that you’re there; I can hear you breathing. I don’t know who you’re trying to fool. I’ve come to see you; to seek you out.” He tried holding his breath but only started coughing instead. She found him easily, cowering behind the curtains. “That’s not very beastly.” She said.

“Not everything is as it seems.” He replied, his voice sounding hollow after having no one else to talk to for so long.

“No.. indeed. Well, you might try a little harder. I have a proposal for you.”

The Beast was perplexed. Initially he was intrigued by this beauty, then bemused and the more she talked the more bemused he became. “I could give you a home, companionship and fame. You are known throughout the land as the fearsome beast. Can you imagine how famous  we could become? The Beast and the Beauty who tamed him!”

The idea was ludicrous but the more she talked, the more he found himself listening; she was captivating: her eyes had a cold diamond hardness behind them that told him she was used to people doing what she wanted; and he felt himself compelled to do so as well.

Within three hours he agreed to be paraded in front of the village as the repentant Beast.

As she expected they flocked to see him. They gathered around him in fear initially; in awe at what had lurked in the dark woods: he was the stuff of legends. Many people came from far away as the stories spread. During the day he was caged and roared, striking out at the people around him as he had agreed to; until one day he grew tired of this behaviour.

He had attained a degree of peace and self-acceptance before this and that was now denied him. For sure, in the evenings he lived in luxury with Beauty but even then he was treated as no better than a pet. He had been happier on his own in the wood; but he had signed a pact so had to serve her.

One day the anguish of him being caged became too much and he began to cry; much to the shock of those that crowded around him. Some jeered but most were moved, so imagine their shock when he said three words in his deep, velvet tones: “No more, please.”

This was beyond all reckoning. More flocked to see him and wanted to hear him speak; and so his fame spread further, much to Beauty’s delight. She now dressed him in luxurious clothes that heightened the incongruity of such a beast.

People then began to feel sorry for him and question why he was still being caged. They had been led to believe that he was the Beast, but as time passed they realised that this was not so. They then saw who the beastly one was.

And, as if often does in stories, the tides turned; slowly, gradually: at first she didn’t noticed. The Beast slowly moulted and she became a little uglier each day; her hair becoming ragged, skin sallow and drawn; pockmarked and blotchy. She then developed fangs and grew fur where none should be seen in a lady.

She made the Beast’s life hell then, but he was no longer the beast and would stand for it no longer. When the transformations were finally complete she looked wretched and forlorn, truly beastly.

He was magnificent and noble, a true Prince. He offered her two choices: live as he had in the cage or go back to the wood. She did not appreciate the irony and chose isolation… and I believe she is there still.

The Emperor’s dilemma

And it came to pass that the Emperor had lost his way; he was now naked to the world, a fraud for all to see. True, all who were his subjects lived happily for he was a benevolent ruler; still, his judgement had been called into repute and he was sure that, just as no one could take him seriously anymore, so he could not trust those that advised him in the past; for had they not been taken in as well?

So he sought to find someone who could give him counsel; someone who could advise him; he sent out a summons for all the wise men, soothsayers, high priests and seers to apply for the position.

Seven hundred and seventy seven of the wisest, canniest, most erudite men and women applied and paid visit to the Emperor and were subject to a barrage of questions, problems and conundrums by the Overseers and Officials, all who were determined not to make the same mistake again. They had been hoodwinked once and this time more than their jobs and reputations were on the line.

For weeks they whittled down the wise people to but three: one woman with raven black hair and sorrowful eyes; one wizard who had astounded all who had tested him with magic and witticisms; and a tramp –beshevelled, bemused and bereft. He had barely spoken throughout the interviews and, had it not been for the look of serenity and intense knowing in his eyes, he would have been thrown out. He had also been asked to prove his position by one simple deed and, where all had provided trickery and tomfoolery he had drawn a single, perfect circle.

Before it came to his final decision the Emperor wanted to spend one month with each of the wannabe’s to see if they really had his best interests at heart, and would advise him properly. His officials bade him take the tramp last in the hopes that he would either lose interest or be replaced by one of the others.

For the first month the Emperor employed the services of the woman and initially it seemed as if he had chosen correctly. She seemed in tune with the people, understood their pain and empathised with their suffering. She seemed to care and want to help them in their plight, and so the Emperor felt compelled to emulate this.

He became known as sympathetic and gracious; a caring ruler. But soon he became aware that there was nothing more to this woman; her pain was so deep that the only thing she could do was try to help others. This, however, did not seem to be the answer. In her time with him he had adopted an open door policy where anyone could call on their counsel and he would reward them, but this did nothing to quell their problem and in many cases the Emperor saw their problems worsen. Her wisdom was but referred pain and soon even he began to suffer from melancholia so he called a stop to her term two weeks ahead of time.

The Wizard, who had been called miraculous by the Emperor’s officials, also seemed to be right for the position at first. He had charisma oozing out of every syllable and proverbs and miracles for every occasion that wowed the crowds and made him the talking point for miles around. The Emperor was still spoken about in hushed tones, his reputation suspect. Why was he relying on these people? What was going on? Had he not learned his lesson?

As he spent more time with this man, the Emperor realised that the Wizard lacked consistency; the answers that he gave varied and sometimes even contradicted each other. He began to observe this man more closely and soon realised that these miracles were nothing more than cheap parlour tricks.

In desperation the Emperor set him the impossible “Riddle of the three liars” to test his character. Rather than admit that he could not solve it, the Wizard became moody, disingenuous and then downright nasty. The Emperor banished him in the third week.

Despite his Viziers warning and his own trepidation, the Emperor agreed to see the tramp.

But before the tramp had even sat, the Emperor launched into a soul searching tirade:

“I am at a loss! It seems that no matter what I do or who I choose to trust I’m doomed to failure!  Even from the seven hundred and seventy six wisest all I get is more doubt and uncertainty; and from the three that are left –that show the most promise- one is governed by pain and a bleeding heart; the other trickery and fakery… and then there’s you. You who have nothing, say nothing but can draw something of the most sublime beauty. What am I supposed to do?”

The tramp looked at the Emperor a short while and then spoke serenely;

“It seems that you are in an unenviable situation, my liege. In much the same predicament as the three liars, it would seem unsolvable.” The Emperor was shocked by this as so few people knew of this riddle… “But perhaps you are asking the wrong question…” The Emperor started to smile. “And perhaps you already know the answer.”

The Emperor was so taken aback by this; he knew this to be the truth. He wanted to present the tramp with wealth, glory and happiness but the tramp shook his head.

“What need I of wealth?” He said. “I have all I need and want for nothing more. Glory will certainly not sustain me; it is a shallow cup and once empty will drain those that try to refill it. Happiness, I have in abundance.”

“But what can I do to repay you?” The Emperor asked.

“I have a stone in my pocket; all I need is some boiling water to make the finest soup from it.” Now it was his turn to smile as the Emperor laughed at this preposterous idea.

Time passed and the Emperor learned to rule wisely. He still asked for advice but listened to only one voice now –his own self. In all the commotion and kerfuffle he had too long allowed others to think for him and had lost his way. In the end he learned to keep his own counsel, and encouraged everyone to do the same.

And, for a time, the kingdom was at peace.

Suffer not

The timbers crackled and popped as the flames licked the blood that had soaked into them; there was a sweet smell of roasting meat, and, as the last of the supports gave way, the cottage crumpled in on itself. Marta and Ingel smiled; their childhood was now behind them.

Marta had been hailed as the miracle baby. She had been born premature and had survived in an age where there was no such thing as premature death. The majority of babies died and so did many of their mothers. The facts of life were few; the facts of death many. All hailed the miraculous except her mother who now feared for what the birth meant, and what price they might all have to pay.

For when she was thirteen weeks pregnant she met with a woman in the woods who promised her that Marta’s life would be spared. ‘But at what cost?’ the expectant mother had asked, for she knew how such magicks worked. However, this was surely a small magick, and her need was so great.

But there is no such thing as small where magicks are concerned.

And when the baby was born all marvelled at the miracle, pushing all other thoughts away; but then the baby never cried, never wanted feeding and she had the blackest eyes you ever did see; and then, oh, did the fear start to grow inside her mother.

‘Oh, what is it that I have brought upon our family that I have done such?’ she wept, though all presumed it was due to the torture and torment of such a perilous birth.

Marta was not the first born, and nor was she the last. Mathew and Ingel were both happy births; but she was the most troublesome; but not in a way that her mother could put her finger on (though she tried).

For six years Marta kept her own company, and that of her sister; but of Mathew she wanted nothing. Marta and Ingel played deep in the woods, far deeper than even Mathew would dare go, even though he was three years older.

One day the mother, who’s dread and curiosity had got the better of her, ventured herself into the woods and followed her wayward daughters. Underneath a twisted Elm she saw Marta sitting hunched down, her arms cradle something in her lap. Being very careful not to be heard, the mother edged round so she could see more of what was happening.

And what a sight met her eyes that she shrieked with disgust and fear; Marta was suckling Ingel not from her breast but from a third nipple in the middle of her chest. All back then were well versed in the lore of Witchcraft and knew the signs, and this was unmistakable; but not her daughter, not her own Martha!

She ran to her daughters who were startled by such a sudden noise, and tore Ingel away. She then tore open Marta’s dress to verify her worst fears. Woe then when she could not see any sign of the third nipple any longer; not even a scar. But it was there….

She dragged them both home in silence and if she had dared look back then she would have seen the glances of malice and reckoning pass between her daughters.

“But I did see something. You weren’t there, Papa.”

“Trick of the light, Ma. That was all it was; you’ve always been tense around Marta, and all can understand why. You’ve always been superstitious but not around Mathew and Ingel.” And it was then that she poured out her soul to her husband; all that had been bottled up for six long years.

At first he had looked at her with sympathy, then concern before feeling that maybe there was something more serious wrong with the woman who had borne him three children, The first seeds of doubt are often sewn carelessly but only one needs to root for it to spread like wildfire.

Just as he now paid more attention to his wife, so she paid more attention to Marta. The bond between Marta and Ingel was unholy; more akin to mother and daughter or worse.. but her husband put it down to healthy curiosity; yet even Mathew was ashamed and embarrassed by it. One day his mother found him crying in the cellar.

“Why cry, Mathew? What can it be that ails you?”

“Marta and Ingel; they torment me so.”

“Are you sure it’s not the other way around?”

“I knew you’d never believe me. They said you wouldn’t.” At that his mother hugged him very tightly and apologised, kissing his tears away.

“I’m sorry, my pet. Of course, I believe you. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“We were playing dares. She said that she had something that I didn’t; so she showed it to me.. a third teat… it was disgusting; she asked if I wanted to suck at it. When I said no she asked to see my… my..”

His mother was horrified, so she hadn’t imagined the third nipple, after all. She softly encouraged her son to continue, fearing what she was going to hear next.

“Well, they goaded me; said that I wasn’t man enough; so I showed them. Then it got hard when they touched it and Marta took hold of it; then took a rusty blade and cut it. I couldn’t flinch else she would’ve cut me deep and she said that she’d cut it off if I said anything. But you’ll protect me, won’t you, Ma?”

“Yes, of course I will. Your Pa will hear of this as well, mark me.”

But of course, the father wouldn’t have anything harsh said about his Princess, not the miracle baby. Mathew was simply making it up for attention.

And when Mathew went missing a week later it was seen as another attempt at attention seeking. He was hiding out in the woods somewhere, but his mother knew; oh, she knew something was wrong and so did Marta; and though butter wouldn’t melt when she was with her father (for she was all sweetness and pudding) she reserved her scorn filled gazes for her mother.

And when Matthew was found later, his insides were where his outsides were meant to be.; everyone put it down to wild animals for his body was barely recognisable. Most of his organs had been mangled completely, partly eaten except for his manhood which looked as if it had been cut off.

The mother knew that she would be next. There was her side of the bargain that was due and there is only ever one payment: a life for a life.

Early that morning, when she knew her husband was in his deepest slumbers, she crept into her daughters room vowing vengeance. Ingel looked so innocent; she could still be saved if Marta’s life was ended quickly. Grabbing a pillow from poor Mathew’s bed she placed it on Marta’s face and held it down hard, despite the struggling and muffled screams.

Ingel woke with a start and screamed herself, trying to tear her mother away from Marta’s prone body, scratching red furrows into her flesh.

The blow came from nowhere and hit mother hard on the back of the head. She collapsed and fell against the dresser. Her husband stood over her, his face ashen with shock, eyes streaming with tears at what his wife had tried to do. He hit her again, aghast that his own wife was still trying to get to his daughters bed. After the third blow she did not move any more.

He then cried out himself feeling a tearing pain in his ankles. He fell and clutched at them and was horrified to find gushing blood. His Achilles tendons had been cut through.

“Thank you, Ingel.” Marta said, getting out of bed and into her nightgown. Ingel held the knife and watched the first rays of the morning sun dance on its blade.

“And thank you, Father, I was most afraid that Mother would go through with it; she was far stronger than I had anticipated But, you see, she was quite right. And now it’s far too late for you, just as it was too late for Mathew –but don’t worry; you’ll be joining them both.

“But before you die you’ll be offered as the final sacrifice and the covenant that was started with my birth will be completed, and we will go back to him. Goodbye Father.”

From underneath her bed Ingel took two large torches, walked into the kitchen and lit them; there were stacks of wood in each corner of the cottage –each had been placed there the night previous.

Once satisfied that the cottage was ablaze, the daughters walked to the closest hill and watched their childhood burn away to nothing, before turning their back and walking whence they came; into the darkest depths of the wood.

The Ajar door

There were days like this, believe it or not, where some people knew in which direction their lives lay, even though there were no signposts. This is not a story about those people.

But it was at one such crossroads where two men, who were very different in purpose but not in outlook, met by happenstance. One was pure, though his heart hung sometimes heavy; the other had done and seen too much to turn back though he longed for sometimes more.

“Well met, my son. What ails you? You look in pain.”

“Well; I wouldn’t normally admit to such a thing –for it wouldn’t do well in my line of work to admit to a weakness- but for some reason I know that I can trust you. So yes; I must admit that I am in some pain –the people from my last employment did not take too kindly to the conclusion of the job and they refused to pay me… what’s more, they tried to take my life and almost succeeded.”

“And is this the norm for you?”

“Hazards of the job, though it’s rare to suffer such a close call –I must be slipping.”

“I think it prudent that I don’t ask about your particular line of business.”

“Ignorance is sometimes bliss, Father.”

“Am I that obvious, my Son?”

“Not to those who have not learned to read people.”

“As you can imagine, it’s not always wise to flaunt the cloth. There are too many people that see a man of God as an easy target, often suffering from the misconception that we have rich coffers straining under the weight of justly given gold.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Father.”

“I thank you. Still I can see that you are in need of some healing, and I would be remiss if I did not oblige.”

And with that the man of wisdom and sadness placed his hands on the other man’s shoulders and stood behind him for some time. When at last he was finished both were of one mind and knew that they were far closer in spirit than they had at first thought.

“It’s rare that I can relax with others, Father; and for that alone I thank you. But for the other I am clearly in your debt.”

“There are no checks and balances here, my Son. There are things that I could ask of you in return which would be impossible for you to promise in your current circumstances.”

“But I will not forget the deed, nor the kindness that you have shown me.” The other man spoke. “Where are you going, if I may be so bold.”

“I am going to Slaughly; I hear they are in need of a lay preacher, so I was dispatched.”

“Just know that you are going to Slaughley, and not the other way to Crawlin; which is where I am headed. They are not the sort of company you would benefit from, nor would they from you. It is foul business that brings me there and you would best be away.”

So the preacher followed the assassin’s heed and took the left hand path until he reached the village. When he spied the ruin of the church his heart broke and he wondered what the Lord was asking from him. He found a cross amongst the ruins and propped it on the wreck of the altar before changing into his robes.

“We were told that you had your quirks, Sirrah; but we never thought that they ran this far.”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“You were sent here…”

“I was.”

“By the order.”

“I was.”

“To take care of certain problems…” The men that now surrounded him were brusque, bearded with cold eyes; hardened like dull steel.

“Yes; well – I am here to provide council to those in need.”

“We are all of need here, Father; but not of the type that you can offer us. I can see now that you are not the man we were expecting. No matter; one man is as good as another where killing is concerned.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We would ask of you to take one of your own that step closer to God.”

“You know what you ask of me and why I can not and will not. I am a man of the cloth.”

“Think of this as another Crusade, Father; of a more personal nature where the stakes are far higher for you.”

“How so?”

“If this person is not.. gathered unto himself than your life will be forfeit.”

“You know what you are saying and what the ramifications will surely be.”

“Look around you, Father. Do we really look like God fearing people?” At this the men laughed. “The Innkeep is not one of us; yet he is of powerful family that if one of us killed him then there would be repercussions. However, by you being here all that will surely be alleviated.”

“I will not do your dirty work for you.”

“Then you will die and we will find someone else. This way you can at least give him absolution.” The men laughed again and walked out. “You have three days, Father.”

The priest wept then, asking the Lord what to do.

On the first day he prayed, sought to make penance for his previous sins –which must have been great and many to have ended up in such a place- but he did not leave the sanctuary of the Church.

One the second day he visited the Inn. He wanted to see the soul of the man he had been called to end. He needed to understand why.

The Innkeeper took one look at the man of cloth and laughed. “I am glad that my prayers have been listened to, but it is not my soul that needs saving but my body. My BEAUTIFUL body!” And with that he plonked down a flagon of mead in front of the preacher.

“What am I to do with this?”

“I could think of many things, but you might be offended by them.”

“How dare you!”

“You really are a man of faith! I’m surprised to see you in such a place. Maybe some habits are hard to break. If it’s not a drink that you’re after, then maybe a young boy?”

The man truly was despicable; he was bull chested with no discernable neck or manners. His face was badly scarred and pock marked, yet the women fawned over him; more from fear than anything. His temper was fierce, fists flying over the slightest provocation –and there were many.

During the time he spent there the Priest witnessed much that churned his gut; he had never met such a loathsome creature but did that mean he deserved to die? Would not that deed make them equals?

And what set the Innkeeper aside from the others? Simply that he was not ‘one of them’, despite them all seemingly cut from the same; and the Priest knew that he could not follow through on his deed. When he left the establishment he was accosted by the same villagers from the day before.

“Vile, is he not? Over ripe for pruning, surely?”

“Never before have I met such a creature.”

“So you will do the deed?”

“You can not even say the words. You wish me to murder him in cold blood.”

“He has done far worse.”

“And that justifies it? But so have you all, and if I were to start with him and killed all those who warranted it then you would surely be next; all of you; and I would not be far behind.”

“So that’s a no then, ‘good Father’”

“That is a firm and definite no.”

“Even though tomorrow your life is forfeit.”

“I can not justify his life for mine.”

“You have one more day. Tomorrow we will find out which life you value more: his or yours.”

On the third day he rose from a dreamless sleep. His prayers were unanswered, and he was no closer to understanding why he had been brought here. All he knew was that he would be dead by days end.

There were times when he had become weak and had contemplated ending the Innkeepers life, but he had remained resolute and strong. There were other times he had wanted to run but he knew that he would never have been allowed to leave. There were no alternatives but to accept the day.

In amongst the angst he felt he was also becoming aware of a stillness, a silence that held peace. He had accepted his self and knew that regardless of the consequences he had made up his mind.

There was a strength that he felt now and he knew that he would not die afraid. It was then that he heard someone enter the church. It was his time. He looked up into the eyes of the man he had met at the crossroads.

“Father, please forgive me.”

“Dare I ask what you’ve done now?” Despite all he had felt he now found himself smiling.

“I should not have tarried so long at the other village, but I have never been accepted in such a fashion. They never thought to judge me, or even want to know about my past. They only sought to see the best in me. I have been naught but a vagrant for most of my life and never wanted to settle down, but I could easily have done so there.”

“What made you leave?”

“When I realised just what it would cost you, Father. And that I could not have lived with. I owe you and now I owe you double for you have shown me another way of being.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“Leave, Father. Leave this place and never come back. I am here to fulfil the contract as I was supposed to. You will be allowed to leave unmolested –they know that they will have me to deal with if they try to stop you.”

“And so you will kill this man.”

“Aye.”

“And though it means that you will be taking another persons life.”

“It is either his life or yours. To me there is no equation to fulfil, nothing to balance. And though it will lead me further away from my ultimate destination; thanks to you I now know that there can be peace of mind for me.”

“Know that there will be a place for you in our village. Your way will be hard for there will be much penance for you to pay. Although you believe you are doing this for the right reasons you are still consciously taking another person’s life and that is still a sin…”

“But the way will be worth it.”

“Yes; your way will ultimately be worth it.”

“Until we meet again, Father.”

“And we will, for I know you to be a man of your word. And I will await you, our door always ajar.”

The Time Of Becoming (and how to avoid it)

In days past, there was just the Village and nowhere else mattered; there lived a boy who was on the brink of manhood and his name was Aflet, which meant “fleet of foot” in the native tongue.   He had the look of a man in every way save the depth of his eyes, which betrayed his age.

Aflet lived with his father and two brothers on the outskirts of the village overlooking the forest that surrounded them. There was a wide road which was the only way in or out.

All the villagers knew that Aflet was coming of age, and in five days there would be a huge celebration and preparations were being made. The villagers all knew each other; it was a tight knit community, even before the word was in use.  The village pulled together as one. 

But Aflet, by the large, took his own council; no one asked his opinion and he asked no one for theirs; and in amongst all the celebrations he was the only one who was not enjoying the festivities.  He saw no reason for the party; for him growing up meant the death of childhood and a farewell to the days of innocence and happiness.  Adults had lost the spark behind their eyes and all the parties and enthusiasm seemed like a sham to him, nothing but play acting.  Aflet didn’t want to grow up; he wanted to stay a child.

So on this first day of celebration he found himself walking away from the village centre heading into the forest on the east side.  Now, children were not allowed to wander into the east side of the forest as those were the times when the Faire Folke lived (This was before all the Faire Doors were sealed and they departed the land) and many imps and sprites had much use for the innocence and magic that lay inherent in a child’s eye and soul.  But Aflet cared little for that; he didn’t believe in the Faire Folke and thought them to be a tool to frighten children into obeying adults.

Finding himself a log to sit on in a secluded part of the forest he whittled on a chunk of wood that he found with his small pocket knife.  So intent on his whittling that the woman had approached him and sat down next to him and he moved not a muscle.

“I thought that all villagers had keen hearing and honed senses,” The girl said, her tone slightly mocking, “but here I am sitting right next to you and you never even heard me approach.”  Aflet barely looked up as she said all this; he cared not for the girls of his village.  He certainly didn’t see them as potential mates nor did he feel any stirrings towards them.  So her slinking, shining hair; golden in the glow of the morning sun, barely registered with him, nor did the floating blue of her eyes –deep in Fairey passion- stir anything in him.  Nor her cherry lips and inviting breasts that promised more than he could ever imagine –he was oblivious to all of this, so intent was he on his whittling.

“I heard you but chose to ignore you.  I knew you would not hurt me; could not hurt me, that is.  If you had tried then you would have found out why they call me Aflet.”  At this he looked up at the girl before carrying on whittling.

“Ah –I see.  So you think that you’re fleet of foot, do you?  Could you, say, outrun a deer?”

“No,” He replied, “but I can carve one.”  And he held up the most exquisite carving of a stag, standing proud with regal antlers.  The girl commended him on his carving and asked if she could hold it.  “If you wish.” Aflet replied and handed it to her.  When she took it their fingers touched for the briefest of seconds, but it seemed like an eternity to him.  Something changed in him, and he spoke as if seeing her for the first time. “Who are you?”

“I am one that knows what flutters in the human heart, and rides the waves of passion of the tide that forever turns.”  She said, all the time caressing the carving of the deer with slow, lavacious strokes, never taking her eyes from his.  “My name is Nimè and I am one of the Faire”

“I don’t believe in the Faire Folke.” Aflet said, feeling a stirring deep within himself –he had never faced emotions like this before and didn’t know what to say or do.

“Ah, but it’s enough that we believe in you, dear Aflet.  Tell me,” She paused, taking a slow breath; Aflet hung on every second, “Do you like deer?  You have crafted such an exquisite likeness that belies a passion that is rarely seen in mortals.”

“I love deer –I sometimes wish that I could run with them through the forests, that one day I will run so fast I will turn into one.”

“That may happen,” Nimè replied, “But you must want it with all your very being.  You must give of yourself freely and totally for that to happen.  And I am not sure that you really want that for yourself.”

“Are you saying that I could do that?  That if I ran fast enough I could become a deer and leave my adulthood behind?”

“You have no adulthood to leave behind, young Aflet.”  Nimè handed the deer back to Aflet and put her hand on his. “You are on the cusp of becoming a man and have nothing to lose, except your childhood –you know this to be true.  You know that the adults lie to you, they want you to become like them –dead inside- whilst I want to free you, for you to become like me; alive and one with the wind.  I can grant you what your heart desires and all that is asked of you is that you want it more than anything.” Aflet started to speak but Nimè placed her hand on his mouth. “Do not answer me now, you must think on it.  Think long and hard because once lost, you will never become a human again –you will become like me for all eternity.  You must think on it and come back here on the night that you become a man.”

“But there is a party which is being arranged for me.” Aflet protested weakly.

“A party that you do not even want to attend –is that not right, Aflet.”  Aflet shook his head.  “If you still wish to run with the deer and be with me then you will meet me here at sunset five days from now.”

“But I want to run with you now.” Aflet said, his words leaving his lips before he had even realised what he had said.

“Aflet –learn patience.  You must be patient if you wish to become a man.”  Nimè said this in a mocking tone but Aflet was oblivious to this.  “Everything has to be right for this to happen –your birth-signs must be in conjunction, and they will be that night.  Meet me here when the moon is full on the night of your celebration –then we will be together.  But in the meantime, wear this, my true one.  This will be a token of our love, and all the time you are wearing this I will not be far away.”  Aflet felt Nimè stand up and put a gold necklace over his head before she walked away from him.  He was alone once again and could only wonder how he was going to fill the next five days.

The time went so slow for Aflet.  Five tortuous days crawled past minute by arthritic minute.  With every waking hour his thoughts were with Nimè, and by night he dreamt of her - running with her through the forests, naked like the wild.  Every time he missed her he would finger his necklace and count down the seconds until they could be together.

He became even less sociable and wanted nothing to do with the other villagers, spending more time in the forest in the hope that he would see her again –but this never happened.

None of this went unnoticed by Aflets parents, nor the other villagers.  They had noticed the change in Aflet and seen the new necklace that he now wore and fondled frequently - and on the last day of the festival week they finally confronted him; they knew the signs.  Aflet was bewitched, and once confronted he denied nothing –it was well known that he did not want to be initiated into manhood but it did come as a surprise that he had surrendered so willingly to Nimès charms.

There was talk to postpone the celebrations until after Aflet had been initiated and until that time he was to be kept under constant watch.  The initiation had to take place –the celebration could wait.  When it was finally agreed upon, Aflet was led back to his home to be kept under strict guard for his own protection until after the initiation –only then would he be safe from the Faire magick.

By some quirk of fate Aflets bedroom took its view over the east side of the forest –he knew that he only had to make a dash for it and he would be with his beloved. However, he was watched closely by his father and older brother.  His younger brother, on the other hand, did not understand what was being done, and believed that Aflet was being punished for something; and it was to this that Aflet played to. 

He would secretly call to his brother Boltur through his bedroom wall.  Boltur had a room next door and Aflet talked to him through the wall, and after much gentle persuasion Boltur agreed to help Aflet escape –not realising the consequences of his actions.  Boltur distracted his father long enough to allow Aflet to climb out of his bedroom window and run to the forest to be with his Nimè.

Sure enough, she was there waiting for him.  On his approach she opened her arms and herself to him, and they became one in animal heat and love.

It was at this time that Aflets father and brother realised that he was no longer under guard, and with horror they knew where he would surely be, and prayed as they ran that they would be in time to save him.

When they finally caught up with Aflet they found him naked, embracing a fallow doe as if they were lovers.  The doe immediately bolted, glancing back at Aflet as she ran –an understanding passed between them, and he turned to his kin and faced them.  The Aflet whom they had grown up with was gone –the man that stood up in front of them was no longer mortal.  There was an otherness in his eyes that spoke of foreign lands and magicks that they would never know.

“You are too late.” He said, his voice now deep and booming.

“Come back to us.” His father said to him, his arm outstretched.

“There is still time for initiation –we can undo what has been done to you.” His brother implored.

“I do not want initiation, oh my brother.  I have never wanted initiation.  Nimè has given me my hearts desire –to run with her, to be one with her.”

“Come back with us, brother –please.”  His brother begged now, fear trembling in his voice.

“No –I stayed here to fare you well –to say good bye to my mortality.  Do not try and follow me – this is what I want.  This is what I have always wanted.”  And with that Aflet turned and ran.  He ran as he had never done before –he could see Nimè as clear as the morning sun even though she was far in the distance, waiting for him.  His eyes were so much more powerful now, his hearing acute and his sense of smell keener than ever.  As he ran he could feel his body shift and change.  Soon he was running on four legs, a full set of antlers growing like a crown.

His brother and father could only watch as the transformation was complete. 

Far in the distance, at the other end of the forest, stood two fallow deer; one doe and one magnificent stag.  Around the neck of the stag a golden necklace glinted in the evening sunset, and with that the deer ran off.