"Good, thank you," the little girl said, cuddling up to her mother.
"That's good. Are you having fun?"
Jessie nodded. "I rode a horse and talked to a princess."
"Really? Wow. I might have to go see if I can go find the horses later."
Jessie laughed.
"They're only ponies, aren't they honey," Karen said, straightening her daughter's wings.
"You're too big," Jessie agreed.
"Oh well."
"You're Australian?" Karen asked after a moment of silence.
Kim nodded. "Either that or American, whichever will get me through the door."
"Oh."
"Long story involving elopement, unimpressed grandparents, and the CIA."
Normally a line like that got people interested, but Jessie asked a question and her mother was sidetracked. Kim was happy enough — she'd told the story too many times since hitting the road a couple of years earlier. She turned to look out over the field.
A dozen tents were clustered near the edge of the forest to the right. Weapons of all shapes and sizes were standing in racks nearby, most of them looking impressively real from a distance. Dozens of warriors, archers, and camp followers were milling around, but none of them seemed to be ready for action just yet.
The crowd continued to grow and eventually a group of eastern European soldiers from the early renaissance rolled three cannons out onto the field. Introductions and speeches were made over a loud speaker before the battle was declared open with a wadded-paper, three-gun salute. Parents opened their mouths wide in mock shock, children screamed with delight. Most other people seemed to prepare themselves for the real action.
Two teams filed onto the field as the announcer told the crowd a little about each group and the period and regions they represented. Then challenges were called and tributes offered to various damsels and princesses. It was all very awkward and over done. When the battle finally got underway, it was much the same. There were rules and obvious safety issues that kept it all very sterile and theatrical.
"So, is this as interesting as it gets?" Kim had spent eight years in the army and been involved in real military action, much to her mother's eternal mortification. So, while she had a slight appreciation for the fake battles as a form of art, she could not put much stock in them as a type of instruction.
"Oh, goodness, no. There is no limit to the excitement around here. There are archery displays later and jousting. And more battles of course." The witch pulled a sheet of paper from inside her robe. "I have a map and itinerary."
"Oh, boy."
The witch wrinkled her nose for a moment then pointed to a spot on her map. "Here, this is the Major Oak where Robin kept a stash of food in case of emergencies."
Jessie leaned over to have a look. "Can we go there later, gran?"
"We were there earlier, honey. That's the big tree with the hole in it."
"Oh."
The witch continued the inspection of the map. "The stream where Robin fought Little John is..." She turned it over as if something else might be on the back. The only thing there was a picture of the 'Sherwood Forest Country Park Visitor Centre'. "Well, I don't know where the stream is but it's around here somewhere, I'm sure."
"All of this," Kim said, glancing at the girl and wondering if she was about to give away a secret, "despite the fact he never existed. I suppose he's going to arrive later and hand out gifts?"
"He's busy stealing them from the rich at this very moment."
Kim smiled and looked at the map. "Robin must have been very skilled. He lived in an area not really large enough to hide a group of somber men, let alone a group of merry men."
"The forest is quite a bit smaller now than it was, but Robin was very skilled. He'll be at the archery display later if you need proof."
"Oh, my."
After the second battle Kim decided she'd had enough. "This is wonderful," she said to her companion, "but night is coming and I must get to grandmother's place before dark."
"Really? I know a short cut."
Kim smiled again. "Thanks," she said. "You're the nicest evil witch I've ever met."
"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not."
"It is." She smiled at the little girl. "And you're the best fairy."
"You really think so?"
"Oh, of course."
With that she rose to her feet and sidled away though the crowd, back towards the main green. Amongst the stalls again she passed a man playing folk songs on a violin, an instrument that wouldn't be invented until a few hundred years after Robin Hood's time. For a while she watched a group of women working on a tapestry then moved on to a wood carver.
Soon, she'd gone up and down a few rows of stalls and stopped to listen to the shouts, cheers, and screams from the latest battle. Shaking her head, she started following a path northwards into the forest. A long line of people were strung out in front of her like beads on a child's necklace, though most were heading in the opposite direction. She continued forward with no clue as to where she might eventually end up. Perhaps she should have paid better attention to the old lady's map.
It was more than fifteen minutes before she arrived at her destination. The Major Oak, standing near the edge of a wide clearing, was about as exciting as one might expect for a tree. It was quite large, Kim had to admit, and quite hollow, with a high, narrow, curving split giving access to the dark interior. Some of the larger branches were propped up with metal braces.
Kim leaned on the fence that surrounded the tree. Monica loved James, apparently. And, according to another message carved into the moss-covered trunk, Nick had been here about ten years ago. When the excitement became too much, she made her way to a log seat. She sat down with a sigh and closed her eye. Everyone else seemed to have wandered away leaving the clearing strangely quiet. Sounds still came from the festival, a football riot heard from outside the ground.
Just when she was about to nod off to sleep, sitting on the uncomfortable bench, Kim heard a voice. At first she thought she was asleep, and dreaming. But the voice came again, deep and rough, in a language she couldn't understand.
“[The tree is huge, you must be able to get in further than that.]”
2: Wilder Parts
Meledrin had not ventured into the wilder parts of the forest for many years and, as she strode along the game trail, she suddenly wondered why that was. In recent years, hardly any elves went beyond the quiet dells and leafy dales surrounding Grovely. It was only the young men who wished to live the way they once had, if only as a way of avoiding their responsibilities. As a child Meledrin had listened to her grandmother tell stories of weeks spent in solitude, wandering through the forest for the pure joy of it. What stories would she pass on to the younger generations?
Whatever used the trail that Meledrin followed was nowhere to be seen. She had carried her bow, strung and with an arrow nocked, for several hours without coming across anything larger than the robins and warblers that sang from the high branches or hopped amongst the undergrowth. She was unconcerned by this lack of game. There was food in her pack and she was enjoying the verdant crispness of her surroundings too much to bother with serious stalking.
Grovely was a distant memory, Palsamon a warm glow in her consciousness.
She had fought with Palsamon the night before her departure — he had spoken yet again of having children — but out here, amongst the trees, everything seemed different. The two of them had shared a cabin for 23 years, something almost unheard of. Usually elf women selected a new man to share their bed every week or even every night. They chose new, younger men all the time as if any hint of age might pass on to them. Yet they tended to the Ohoga tree almost as if it were a religion because its great age gave it an aura that could not be ignored. For Meledrin, it was the same with Palsamon. He was ten years her senior and could offer so much more than a night of entertainment.
Meledrin's friends, Takande most vociferously of all, su
ggested she find a new man to raise, if only for a short time, above the ranks of the saveigni. Unattached men were plentiful and should not be wasted. She spoke of Halbaden in one breath and Suldon the next as if each was the answer to the same prayer. They could not read or recite poetry, but they could be used for physical pleasure and sent on their way afterwards.
Whispering a Lesser Changing, Meledrin pushed her long auburn hair away from her face, tying it back with a bright green ribbon as she continued to walk.
Despite the fact they sometimes fought, Meledrin knew she would not turn Palsamon out. When she had spoken of her need to spend time alone in the forest, he had understood — more than Takande or anyone else. He understood that she needed time to think and knew not to push for an answer on the spot.
Four days later she was still unsure if she was ready to have children, but it was an idea she no longer dreaded.
Her spirits were lifting with each step.
Some time after the sun had passed the zenith and started its long journey toward the horizon, Meledrin broke free of the tree cover for the first time that day and found herself in a clearing barely twenty meters across. The grass was lush, reaching almost to her waist. She looked up at the clear blue of the sky, shading her eyes to watch a brown eagle drifting in lazy circles. The sight of the bird's effortless grace lifted her spirits further.
Meledrin whispered another Lesser Changing, shadows to light. "Olin saso mo'koo."
So accustomed was she to weaving her day around the ceremonies, the ceremonies around her day, that she hardly noticed. Ending, Lesser Questioning, Greater Action. Those, and a score of other minor rituals, divided each day into controlled, manageable sections. Some of the elder elves needed to say the words and weave the patterns both, but like many others, Meledrin felt that the one or the other was enough. When her hands were occupied, she spoke the words. When her mouth was busy, she danced her hands.
Wading away from the protection of the trees, she hardly left a trail at all. She crossed almost to the other side, grass whispering around her, before coming across a three-meter circle of grass that had been completely flattened. In the middle of the circle, surrounded by chunks of wood and shavings, was... Something.
At first she thought it was simply a log, for stringy bark still clung to the outside, but upon closer inspection she discovered it was actually a chest. It had been carved from a single piece of wood, with a hinged lid and short, bulbous legs. She flipped open the top to find the inside hollow, though incomplete. The sides were rough, and the bottom was littered with long yellow curls of timber shavings.
Why would someone carve a chest in the forest? Meledrin wondered, shading her eyes and looking about. And if they felt the need to begin, why would they leave the task unfinished?
There was no evidence of a camp in the area, other than a small pile of food scraps. The condition of the wood and leftovers suggested the area had been vacated two or three days previously.
The trail the retreating wood carver left was a wide swath of flattened grass. Arrow nocked, Beginning on her tongue, Meledrin strode forward, too curious to let the stranger slip away so easily. She followed the trail for the remainder of the afternoon, occasionally stooping low to examine the ground, but generally walking purposefully, with the dappled sunlight on her cheek and a breeze coming in over her shoulder.
With the coming of night she stopped by a stream and ate fruit from her pack, content to sit under the stars. The chatter of the stream kept her company through the darkness.
Two hours after rising the next day, Meledrin stepped into another clearing, this one at the top of a low, rocky hill. A lush carpet of small, blue flowers mirrored the sky. She pulled up short. On a flat stone near the middle of the clearing, was a chair.
Meledrin quickly examined her surroundings. Nobody was evident, so she continued forward slowly. She held her bow half drawn, but no threat emerged.
The chair she stalked was a sturdy looking affair, made from a slice from the end of a log, four straight sticks as legs and three slats for the backrest. But beside it on the stone were scattered the pieces of another chair and what might have been part of a table. It was as if a dining setting had come to the clearing to die. Or perhaps the chairs, the males of the species, had come to do battle for the remains of a loved one. There were no food scraps to be seen this time, but the scraps of industry were much more numerous. Again, it all seemed to be a couple of days old.
Meledrin took to the trail again with a Lesser Beginning and followed as it swung to the west, back towards the river and Grovely. The township was no more than twenty kilometers distant. She quickened her pace. As the day wore on and the trail failed to veer away, she started to run.
The carpenter led her home. On the way she passed a half finished mallet lying in the path and another pile of timber, stripped of bark but not yet starting to take shape. Meledrin did not slow. She raced along the path, lungs burning, legs aching, mind aswirl with possibilities.
She ran into the village late in the afternoon, exhausted and wondering what she might find. But all seemed to be as it had been when she left. Other residents went about their business as if nothing was amiss. The quiet life of Grovely went on. She jogged among the cabins, following the main trail — a ribbon of brown on the velvet of the lawns. Eventually, she collapsed under a tree on the edge of the common lawn that fronted the Ceremonial Hall. Without the breath to speak an Ending, she danced her hands in a lazy, perfunctory manner. A moment later, Delfrana tottered through the rune carved Ancestors' Door and onto the porch of the Hall.
"Meledrin," the old woman said. "Meledrin, you look as though you have seen a spirit of the dead." She came down a couple of steps. "It is not seemly for a Warder to perspire in that manner. Get you where you cannot be seen."
"Delfrana, High Warder, someone is here." Meledrin tried to catch her breath. "I have followed a trail from out in the forest. It led directly here."
"We are aware of the stranger." Delfrana waved her walking stick. "Now go, before a saveigni sees you."
"You know?"
"Yes. Two nights past, while we were sleeping, someone completed the restoration of the dock. Last night the fence around the sheep enclosure was renovated as well." The old woman waved her stick again. "Go and wash, Meledrin. Quickly."
Meledrin nodded and climbed slowly to her feet. Her legs were aching. Her shirt and breeches were clinging to her skin.
"Oh, if a man should see you now," Delfrana hissed. She spun about and returned to the Hall. Meledrin plucked at her clothes to stop them from clinging and hurried away.
In her cabin, Palsamon was waiting.
"I heard you had returned," he said, offering her a flask of cool water. "Larawin passed by not long ago. She informed me that she saw you running towards the Ceremonial Hall." There was more water in a cauldron over the fire, and Palsamon added more even as Meledrin drank. He went outside to the well for one more bucketful then maneuvered the bathing tub into the middle of the room. "The water will be a good while yet. Why don't you rinse off first, while I prepare some food."
Meledrin nodded; her lover knew everything she needed. How could I return him to the cabins of the saveigni?
When the shutters were closed tight, she stripped off her odorous clothes and crossed to the cauldron.
"What do you know of the stranger?" Meledrin asked. Like all elves, she was tall and thin with slightly angular features, large eyes, and pale skin. She did not think she was particularly beautiful with only her unusual copper colored hair setting her apart, but Palsamon was watching her avidly. Dipping a cloth into the water, she started to wipe away the grime of the forest.
The man shrugged, not taking his eyes off her though he was slicing fruit. "He is a large man. Or woman I suppose, though the latter is unlikely."
"Why and why?" Water sluiced down over her body and disappeared between the floorboards.
"Why is he large? Because of the size of the tracks his boo
ts left. Bigger than anyone I know." Palsamon was mixing fruit in a bowl, but still he watched. "Why is he a man? Because he was able to repair the dock on his own in a single night. The quartet of us who started the task expected to be working for another day. There was much heavy lifting involved."
"So, we have a large man wandering around Grovely mending things at random? In the forest he was making things. At least, he started to. Nothing seemed to be completed, however." Discarding the cloth, she collected a brush to remove the tangles from her hair.
"Making things?"
"Indeed." She enjoyed the way he looked at her but was pleased to know he was listening as well. "A chest, a table and chairs, a mallet. All half complete."
"How good were these items?"
"The quality of workmanship appeared first rate. The craftsman merely possessed no perseverance, apparently. What is being done?"
"Not a great deal. He does not seem dangerous."
"I would still like to be certain."
Palsamon shrugged. "You might want to get dressed before you take it up with Delfrana. I believe I'll just stay here and watch your dinner and your bath water." With the fruit salad finished, he sat down by the table. "Of course, if we are going to all this effort of making you a bath, we could get you really sweaty to make sure it is worth while."
"Palsamon!" Meledrin gaped at him for a moment before remembering herself.
"Yes?" he asked innocently. "I was merely thinking that we require more fire wood. I am sure you are aware of the location of the axe."
Why is it that he can play the child and I cannot? Is it a thing of men? Or of age? Or something else entirely? Meledrin was not certain, but she tried to join in the spirit. In a moment of audaciousness, she crossed the room to take a seat on the Palsamon's lap.
He kissed her softly, running a hand along her thigh, over her hip, and up to her breast. Though the sun was still visible outside, Meledrin returned the kiss.
* * *
Meledrin awoke to the sound of banging. Dawn had just started to spill through the window at the far end of the room, painting vivid stripes across Palsamon's muscled chest. She disentangled herself from his arms and sat up. The sound continued — a slow, rhythmic knocking.
The Space Between Page 2
