“A girl— large but not too large. Those babies seem to be the easiest to deliver.”
“Did you eat?”
“Yes. I think I’ll go to sleep now. I just wanted to make sure you were fine. They gave me a chicken. I’ll butcher it tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Bertha.”
Once the woman crawled onto her pallet, Dove grabbed her cloak and whipped it around her shoulders as she slipped through the door. She skipped through the forest, ducking instinctively beneath low branches, avoiding rocks and debris as though tiptoeing. She knew every inch of the path, and when she reached the clearing, she paused; he wasn’t there. How could he be? He had no idea she might return; even if he did, he might be thankful for the excuse to leave.
Her feet flew through the trees. Listening and watching, suddenly she saw him ahead, retracing his steps from one of the various branches to the path. “Lose your way, did you?”
“You knew I would. I was crazy to think I could get out of here without starving first.”
She took his hand and led him back to the main path, showing him how to see which had the freshest imprints to retrace his steps backward. Philip felt odd. It was strange to walk through the forest in spring with a little girl’s gloved hand in his. She was so tiny and delicate, even under the large cape that shrouded her so thoroughly. No one would ever assume that the high-pitched voice, the tiny hands, and the breeched legs of little Dove were those of a nine-year-old girl. It seemed preposterous.
“Tomorrow is Thursday.”
Dove glanced up at him, as though he were daft. “I’m glad you know that. You’re quite intelligent— for a boy.”
Philip’s laughter rang through the trees. “I meant that tomorrow I’ll go to see Broðor Clarke and hear the stories from the Bible. I can ask him then about being made in the image of God.”
“Is that what he does when all the boys come? Bertha didn’t answer when I asked.”
Tucking this bit of information away for future consideration, Philip nodded. “In winter, we go into the chapel and sit around the fire, but when it’s warm enough, we sit under the oak in the middle of the village.”
“Why only the boys?”
He shrugged. He’d never considered why girls weren’t invited. Had he been one, maybe it would have occurred to him, but as one of those expected to come, he’d been oblivious. “Maybe the boys are supposed to tell their sisters.”
“And if the girl doesn’t have a brother, how is she to learn? If this is important, enough that the Lord Morgan insists the boys be allowed to come, then why isn’t it important for the girls? If these are about a god who made all of us, then why are not His stories meant for all of us?”
“I don’t know, but I shall ask. Maybe if Broðor Clarke had a wife, she would tell the stories to the girls.”
They were at the edge of the wood. In the evening air, the mists rose around them as they rolled in from the sea. Philip looked around him concerned. “Do they fill the forest?”
“Sometimes.” A new wave of fog washed over them. “This will be one of those times for sure.”
“Can you find your way back through them?” Regardless of the minister’s stories, superstition still had a small hold on the boy’s heart. The local legends about the mists unnerved him in spite of himself. On the field, Philip felt strong and brave, but among the trees that creaked in the winds and on paths that led to places unknown, he shivered at the thought of the mists smothering him as he stumbled in the darkness.
“Of course! I could walk home blindfolded.”
“Are you not afraid of them?”
“Who?” Dove was tempted to pull back her hood to see into the boy’s eyes. She reached for the edges of cloth and then jerked it farther over her head. She’d lose her new friend if she were so foolish.
“The mists. They’re said to be the thoughts of wandering spirits. Do you not fear they’ll overwhelm your mind?”
The temptation to laugh was strong. She wanted to tease and mock him in good fun, but there was no doubt, he was sincerely concerned for her. It would be unkind to jest about such concern. “Bertha says that is rid— untrue. She says it is just a cloud that is too heavy to stay suspended in the sky. Not heavy enough to rain, though, so it hovers over the ground.”
He nodded. The idea made sense. “But can you see?”
“I can see. I am accustomed to it, Philip. Don’t worry about me.”
The sun dipped beneath the horizon leaving only a faint glow. “I have to go. I’ll try to find a way to come back. I don’t get many days off like this, but maybe Tom will feel poorly again tomorrow. That might mean I can come back.”
The cloaked waif waved him away impatiently. “Go before you can’t find your way home. Come when you can.”
Philip sprinted across the field toward the scent of the village fires. After about twenty yards, he heard Dove call after him. “Be aware, Una Fletcher is with child. She’ll need extra help soon.”
Philip waved back at her and disappeared around the edge of the northernmost point of the trees. A baby. If it were a boy, would that mean that Tom Fletcher would regret taking an apprentice? His family couldn’t afford for Philip to come home. His older brother Will, a sailor like their father, had been apprenticed to the blacksmith until he was fourteen, and then he’d joined their father on Lord Morgan’s ships. At twelve, he was too young to go to sea, and if he were honest with himself, he’d admit that he didn’t want to go.
He arrived at the fletcher’s cottage, scooped up a fresh load of firewood in one hand, filled a bucket of water with the other, and carried them into the cottage. “How is he, Una?”
“Still coughing. I’ve sent for Bertha; the hælan Biggs is at the castle this day.” She saw his arms. “You’re a good boy, Philip. Not everyone would have thought of me at the end of a free day. Did you have fun?”
“I explored the cliffs and the forest near the point.” He hesitated. Should he admit he’d met the Ge-sceaft? He wouldn’t yet. He didn’t know how others would respond and didn’t want to be forbidden to see her again. He knew it was a prohibition he would not obey.
“Be careful, Philip. They say pirates use those caves by the cliffs, and dragons live in that part of the forest.”
“I don’t know about pirates, but I don’t think it’s logical for dragons to live in a forest. They breathe fire when angry, don’t they?”
“So they say,” Una agreed cautiously.
“Well, the forest wouldn’t be there anymore if a fire-belching dragon was among those trees.”
Una smiled at Philip. She liked the lad, though she tried not to show it. It wasn’t considered proper to form a friendship with an apprentice. They were cheap labor for those with skills, and affection would mean a lack of control over them. “You’re a smart one, I’ll give you that. Still, be careful. That creature is always wandering in and out of there and that isn’t an old wives’ tale.”
Philip nodded. “I feel sorry for the Ge-sceaft. People fear what they do not know. I wonder if it fears our fear? People do horrible things when they are afraid.”
“Sometimes, Philip,” Una mused, as she ladled soup into a bowl for him, “I think you should be in the Lord Morgan’s guard. You are as brave as your grandfæder.”
Along the road that bordered Wyrm Forest, near Bertha’s cottage, a minstrel wandered toward the scent of the village fires. Where there was a village, there’d be a tavern, and there he’d find a meal and a chance to earn a few coins. From the mists, he heard a high-pitched eerie voice singing a common lullaby, and a tremor shook him. The night grew colder by the minute, and he shivered in his cloak. From nowhere, a rock flew at him, striking him in the head.
“Go away, you evil ge-sceaft!” shrieked a voice from a direction he couldn’t identify.
“What have I done to deserve such a welcome?” retorted the minstrel, rubbing his temple and swaying woozily.
“You terrify children, your singing summons the devil himse
lf, and if it not for the midwife Bertha, we would drive you from our village,” returned a voice that sounded farther away now.
Another rock sailed toward him, whomping him in the gut this time, and knocking the wind from him. He doubled over in pain, fighting to regain his breath. A hand reached out from the mists and pounded his back. He thinks you are me, and they fear me.” The eerie voice he’d heard moments before, now spoke into his ear. “You’ll be safe if you stay here. I’ll lead them away.”
“Why do they fear you?”
A small sigh escaped the little Creature’s lips. “Why does anyone fear anything? What we do not know, we do not understand. What we cannot understand, we fear. There is a sense of safety in that fear.”
“But you can’t be more than a child. Who could fear a child?”
“Only one has ever risked knowing me. I believe the town says that I have horns and a tail. Perhaps they think I am the devil.” She turned her back on him, and with the cloak spread wide, whispered, “Stay until you hear me sing again from the other side of the trees. They’ll think I’ve gone, and you’ll be safe.”
With that, the creature ran, its cloak billowing behind it like a large bird flapping its wings. Shouts followed the creature. The voices, for there were more now, followed, taunting and tormenting it as it raced through the mists, around the trees, and then deep into the forest where it knew no one would dare follow.
The minstrel listened anxiously for several minutes, wondering if he’d be able to hear the creature’s song. Should he try to go? Should he remove his cloak to appear different? What was the cloaked ge-sceaft, and why had it bothered to help him?
Just as he’d decided to risk moving, he heard the faint, haunting sound of the lullaby, resonating through the trees. He cocked his head and strained to hear the words. It was safe now. Thanks to a creature that the village feared, he was now safe.
Chapter 5
Broðor Dennis Clarke
“And then they took Joseph’s coat from him and threw him into a pit…” Broðor Clarke was an excellent storyteller. The boys sat around him listening, with eyes bright with excitement and eagerness for more. He occasionally referred to lines in his book— his Bible, but the rest of the time, he spoke from memory. Philip had asked him once why he kept his Bible nearby, and Broðor Clarke reminded the boys of how important it was to be accurate. “Never risk telling God’s tales inaccurately. He has forbidden it.”
At the end of the story, the boys scattered for a game of tag through the streets on their way home for supper. Philip, however, chose to stay behind and ask Dove’s questions. “Broðor Clarke? May I ask you something? I met the Ge-sceaft— the one in the cloak. She’s just a little girl.”
“I’ve often suspected that.” The gentle round-bellied man smiled at Philip thoughtfully. “So, you’ve made friends with our little legend, have you? What kind of child is she?”
“Intelligent. She had never heard of the God of all and asked many questions.”
“How did you meet her?”
Philip had hoped the minister would not ask. With drooping shoulders, the boy recounted the story of his exploration and subsequent rescue. “I was never sure if dragons truly lived here or not, but I saw it with my own eyes, Broðor Clarke. Truly.”
“I believe you. You’ve never lied to me, and I’ve seen evidence of them myself a few times. So, you say she held the beast’s gaze?”
Nodding emphatically, Philip described how the girl had pulled back her hood and stared directly into the dragon’s eyes, all while singing in her high-pitched voice. “I didn’t see her face, but the dragon did.”
“And did she not show you later?”
“No.” The boy felt like a failure for his lack of information. “She refused. She seemed afraid. I know she thought I’d never come visit again if I saw her face.” Philip whispered glancing around him, “I asked if she was a harelip. She said she wasn’t, but I think maybe she is.”
“And if she was, would you still be her friend?”
“Of course!”
“Does she know that?” Broðor Clarke’s face told Philip that he knew the answer.
“Yes, but she’s been well-trained never to show herself.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe if we spoke to the midwife…”
The minister shook his head. “Unfortunately, there are many superstitions mingled with truth. We do not know all that there is to know, and as innocent as she may seem, not everyone will recognize that. Her cloak may incite fear or repulsion, but it most likely protects more than we can possibly know.”
The minister walked along with Philip toward the fletcher’s cottage. “I was wondering. How do you like your position with Tom Fletcher?”
“It is easy work. They’re kind.” Philip never knew how to answer these kinds of questions.
“Are you learning much?”
He stumbled over his words for a moment and then thought of an honest reply. “I didn’t for a long time, but I have recently been learning more. I think fletcher Tom teaches patience and diligence before he teaches artistry.”
“And what has he taught you most recently? Can you straighten an arrow? Nock the end? Are you learning how to choose the best feathers?”
Philip stumbled over his feet as he struggled to find some way to answer truthfully and without exposing his master as a failure as a teacher. Eventually, he stopped, looked into the minister’s eyes, and said, “Broðor Clarke, I cannot tell you. I fear I am not ready for tasks beyond fetching and carrying. This is, for now, the bulk of my work. I am sure that when I have shown aptitude, Tom will teach me all I need to know.”
Broðor Clarke draped an arm around the boy and spoke low. “You are a good apprentice. I gave you plenty of opportunities to degrade your master, but you were honest and respectful. I am proud of you.” They walked for a while before the minister asked another question. “Do you think perhaps Tom is overly concerned with perfection to risk wasting materials on a beginner?”
Philip nodded, the relief he felt, shining in his eyes. “He’s a good man. I am fortunate to have someone so kind.”
“But your parents entrusted him to teach you a trade; you are supposed to get something from this too.”
“My parents have one less mouth to feed, thanks to Tom.”
“But in two years, will you be able to make arrows for his lordship’s archers? Will you be able to make a living?”
He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “I will find a way.”
“You were right, m’lord. The boy hasn’t been taught anything about the trade. He was discreet but honest when pressed.”
Lord Morgan sat behind a massive table, hands folded, listening as Broðor Clarke related the entire conversation. At the news of Philip’s meeting with ‘the Creature’, Charles Morgan’s face switched from contemplative to surprise. “He talked to it? What is it?”
“A child—a little girl. Philip said she’s about nine. Apparently, she looks smaller and sounds younger but talks like someone much older.”
“I’ve heard of the cloaked being, the Ge-sceaft as they call it, but I always assumed it was a dwarf or a hunchback.”
Broðor Clarke reclined into his chair, folded his hands, and waited as Lord Morgan considered the situation. His lordship rarely became involved in village affairs or things that were off the castle grounds. When he did learn of something, he took it seriously; sometimes, he stepped in and made a difference in someone’s life. “This fletcher is good to the boy, though? He treats him well?”
“Philip had no hesitation or complaints. He was insistent that he had a good position.”
“Do you have any idea of what skills the boy could learn in the meantime?”
The minister considered the options at hand and suggested, “I can train him for the church. He could also train as a guard when he completes his apprenticeship. He’s brave and just. If the church isn’t for him, he can always serve here.”
“Done. I’ll trust you to remind m
e of it if that time comes. Encourage the boy to learn all he can from you. Teach him to read and write.”
Broðor Clarke nodded. “Yes, m’lord,” he agreed as he stood and exited the room. All the way from the castle, down the hill, and through the village the minister thought about how to accomplish his responsibilities.
“Lord grant wisdom and patience to all,” he murmured as he entered his cottage and shut the door behind him.
Unaware that the Lord Morgan and Minister Clarke were on a similar path to improve Philip’s prospects in life, it occurred to the boy that by working both harder and faster, and peppering the fletcher with questions, he might be able to learn something or be given time to occupy himself away from the cottage. The morning after his ruminations, Philip decided to try it. The worst that could happen would be that life stayed the same.
He hurried to fill the wood boxes, the water buckets, and the dozen errands that he often waited to be asked to do. Long before lunchtime, he was finished with everything that he could think of and asked for more work. Una sent him to Tom. The fletcher tried to send him on errands, but everything suggested was met with, “I’ve done that Tom” and “Una told me to come to you.” After a dozen similar questions, the exasperated man finally ordered him to take the day off.
“You work hard around here, Philip. I appreciate it. Take some time for yourself. Maybe one of the lads will get free, and you can go exploring together.”
Excited, Philip thanked him and raced to the cottage. “Una! Una—” he thundered to a stop at the doorway of the cottage. Bertha Newcombe stood just inside the door nodding at something Una said. “Oh, sorry, Una. Tom said I could go off for the day. I wondered if I could take some bread and a turnip or something with me.”
“She is in the woods again, but she said something about getting oysters for supper.” Bertha’s interruption seemed to irritate Una. Philip didn’t know if it was due to the interruption or because she mentioned Dove.
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 4
