by S. L. Horne
Oh, how the fortunes were in his favor today! He pushes his brother out of his way and grasps Zara’s wrist, painfully pulling her from her small chamber. Shouting orders to any guard within earshot, he drags her through the halls to the great room. He would have his wedding at once and without delay, he declares. He does not want to wait another day to claim his title as the true lord of the castle.
“Take her to my chambers, get her bathed and dressed for our wedding, at once!” he orders. “Do not let her out of the rooms and sound the castle bells! Today,” he sighs in his triumph, “is my wedding day.”
They shuffle Zara into his chambers. She is fussed over, prodded and poked, and servants fix the maid to order. “I will take this,” announces a servant referring to the locket dangling from her throat, “we have a better one for you to wear,” a servant says as she attempts to remove the jewelry from around her neck.
“No!” Zara slaps the hand away and pushes herself to her feet. She glares at the servant and dares her to argue.
“It’s all right, My Lady. I simply meant to replace it with more fitting jewelry.” The servant steps back.
“This is fitting enough, thank you very much.” She grasps the locket in her hand and holds it tight in her fist. Sitting back down, she gives in to her fate, but is careful not to allow the necklace to leave her.
The moment finally comes in which the servants finish. “May I have a moment before I am married off?” Zara asks. An undertone of disdain coats her words, and against the servants’ better judgment, they all step outside, offering to stand there for a few minutes so she can gather herself.
Rushing to the window, knowing she does not have much time, the maid draws back the curtains only to find that the guards have barred the windows. Frustrated, she decides on another plan.
Her locket contains a white powder which she carefully dumps into her hand. Closing her hand, she squeezes her fist carefully through the bars and opens it once more. She leans as close as she can and breathes in, on and on she inhales. She continues breathing in until it seems she cannot possibly breathe in any more, and yet she continues to fill her lungs. When she finally comes to a stop, she slowly lets out the air again. Blowing the powder from her hand, a seemingly endless stream of dust and air drift from her palm and onto the crops below. On and on, she covers the crops of all the land under her betrothed’s power.
It is not long after before he comes to gather his bride-to-be. The bells of the castle ring, and the doors to the inner courtyard are flooded with all the people of the castle and surrounding villages. They prepare a large celebration, and the smell of food cooking wafts in from the kitchen. Live music resonates through the courtyard and cloths of every color cover all the tables, chairs, and surfaces. Servants are setting up the altar before which they will wed. Taradhish marches around with slicked-back hair, dressed in a fine suit of gold and burgundy, barking orders at anyone who suffers to pass by.
They escort the reluctant Zara to her place at the table now set for a feast. She watches as men carry in bushels of freshly picked crops from the fields before accepting the chair that is pulled out for her, and tolerating the servants who dote over her.
Long tables are being carried out and plateware placed upon them. The chaos lasts well into the evening as they make the final arrangements. Lanterns offer light for the ceremony and incense is thick on the air. Finally, with everything completed, all the guests sit down to fill their bellies. Nothing could take the joy away from the master’s face as he sits down for his last meal as a lord’s son, soon to become the lord of his own castle and husband to the most beautiful woman of all the land. Greed fills his heart, and he is bursting with joy.
Excited to hurry the night along, Taradhish clinks his spoon to his cup as a sign for everyone to enjoy their meal. Chatter once again gains momentum and conversations fill the courtyard. Zara slowly eats her food, not speaking or attempting to engage in conversation, glancing from her plate only so often.
A slow drag to the words of every guest comes first and they blame the wine for the slurring of speech which soon follows. Only after guests begin to fall from their chairs does anyone question what is happening. Chair after chair topples to the ground, and servants, having been the only ones who have not yet eaten, rush around trying to help.
No one who had eaten at that banquet lived to tell the tale, for the maid had poisoned the crops. The salting sunk deep into the ground and the land never bore crops again.
The master and nearly all the wicked members of his family are taken to rest with their father’s spirit.
Only the sister lived, spared from the horrible fate for she liked to eat with the servants, finding their company better than those of the other adults. The maid sacrificed herself, knowing her heart was more important than living a life without happiness.
Chapter 12
Elara wakes with a start. She had stayed up late the night before, enjoying Tag’s company. They laughed, painted, ate and rejoiced in having found like minds. Sitting up in bed, she realizes that sweat has soaked her nightgown as it sticks to her body. A dream had invaded her mind, so real she would swear she could touch the water contained within it. Attempting to go back to sleep proves futile, and the dream clings to her as closely as her clothes.
Slumping out of bed, she dresses and snatches her keys off the counter. Resigned to the fate she has yet to understand, she knows the feeling will not leave her be until she is able to act on it. It is similar to a song which repeats itself over and over in her head, only able to rid herself of the tune by playing it out loud.
The drive goes quickly, the energy of the lake beckoning to her as she draws closer.
She walks into the water, not questioning her actions. As she wades deeper into the lake, her shirt rises around her and her skin prickles from the cold. Holding her hands out to her side, she lays her palms on the water’s edge and moves them around in half circles. A sense of peace rests over the emotions her dream evoked.
Ripples dance away from her and, without warning, the ground takes a sudden drop. Her head plummets under the surface. Kicking her feet as she sinks rapidly, she reaches her hands above her head and pulls them down to her side, trying to swim her way to the surface. Her lungs burn for air and her eyes are open, searching for something to grab hold of.
She sees the leaves dipping carelessly into the water and the clear blue sky behind the trees stretching farther away, as she continues to sink. To her dismay, she sees the sun move across the sky, fast. Faster than normal, faster than possible! It streaks out of her vision, replaced with an impenetrable darkness. Before she can wrap her thoughts around what’s happening, the yellow ball of the sun jumps into the sky again.
As if she’s being lifted from the water by unseen hands, she floats to the surface. Gasping when she breaks through, she tastes salt on her lips and fights to understand what just happened. Seagulls cry out above her and waves shove her back down. Tumbling, her back is suddenly slammed against sand, her skin stinging with pain from the impact. She attempts to orient herself and discovers that she’s in shallow water. She crawls her way out of the rough waves, spitting sea foam from her mouth.
Thankful to be on land again, she quickly backs away from the waves. Unexpectedly, her hands land in a thick growth of plants. Gnarled roots, sturdy leaves, flowers, and bugs border the beach she finds herself on. Large, lush fruits grow from the trees, and the scent of citrus suffocates her senses. Pulling her hair out of her face and standing up, she turns about, taking in where she is. Mouth agape and the sun beating down on her skin, the ocean stretches out before her, beautiful and intimidating.
With nowhere else to go, other than back into the water, she makes her way into the dense forest. Colorful birds sit in the trees watching her as she passes by. She’s careful where she steps because the roots make walking difficult. As she trudges deeper into the forest, the sounds of the waves crashing on the beach soften and she hears a calm lapping stre
am. It drives Elara onward in hopes she’ll find a community or at least a house near the fresh water. Desperate for answers and another person’s company she quickens her pace.
No matter how hard she tries though, the trees are forever in her way. Frustrated, she exclaims, “Oh, come on!” Having tripped for the countless time, she tosses her hands up in the air and slumps back against a tree. She lets out her anger by stamping her feet on the ground.
“Pardon me, Miss.” Elara gasps and jumps, craning her neck up to see the bark of a tree forming a mouth. “Are you all right?” the tree asks, leaning over her as the bark continues to twist to form the full effects of a face.
“Oh my God!” Stunned like a doe before a hunter, she looks at him, unblinking and wide-eyed. “Are you—” she stutters, “are you, t–talking?”
“Well, I am not swimming, that is for certain,” the tree answers.
“You’re absolutely beautiful,” she states, mouth agape in awe.
“I’ve been called many things in my day, but this is a first. Thank you, Miss.” The tree perks up. “Are you all right?”
“Um, I don’t know. I think I’m either lost or dreaming, maybe just crazy.” Her confusion is pushed to the back of her mind as she becomes overjoyed by the prospect of a talking tree. He stands tall and his branches are tangled with various vines and flowers. The trunk of the tree is made of two tones of bark that twist in all different directions through the branches.
“I can tell you, you are very much awake, Miss. You appear upset about being lost, though. Where are you trying to be if I might ask?” He completes righting himself and the last of his leaves finish turning upward.
“I’m not exactly sure. I wasn’t really trying to go anywhere. I know where I was though, I think.” She ponders if she ever did know where she was; the name of the lake she knew was a nickname and not its official title, after all. She tilts her head to the side and rings out her soaking hair onto the ground. “Lake Sticks?”
“Ah, you are a Traveler,” he says.
“Um, not really.” Confused, she tries to go on. “I haven’t really gone much of anywhere before, until recently. I mean, I moved a few states away from where I grew up, but that was for personal rea—”
The tree cuts her off. “That is your heritage.” As if his last statement fixed everything, he turns to move away.
“Heritage?” With more questions than she had before meeting him, Elara rushes after the tree. “What do you mean?”
“Heritage? Do you not know what heritage means?” he asks.
“Of course, I know what it means. But I don’t understand what you’re talking about. What is my heritage?” She puts her hands on her hips and stares up at him, waiting for an answer.
“I’m talking about your magical heritage.” His long thick roots lift from the earth and slither along the bed of the forest like a tangle of snakes. “It is in your blood, the magic. Everyone with magical heritage has a certain thing about them, a specific ability. Life’s way of setting your path, if you may.”
“Magic? In my blood?” She emphasizes the word blood and jogs to keep pace with him.
“Lake Sticks is a byway. I have seen many like you before in my time, and I will help you find your way on this island, but you must find the way back for yourself.” As he moves, other trees part to allow them passage. Before long, they come to the edge of the freshwater stream she heard from before. It flows gently, clear water pooling in a small basin before falling down into a shallow stream again. The water runs lazily into dozens of small basins, all connected by a portion of the stream that flows into the next pool.
“I don’t fully understand?” She reaches her hand down to play in the clear water.
“This is where all time meets. For Travelers, like yourself, you will never feel content being still. There are others, many others. Travelers, Seers, Shifters.” He pauses. “Ah, Shifters are a meddling bunch for sure, tricky little things. Sometimes they dabble in witchcraft, nasty stuff. Dark stuff.” He returns to his previous train of thought and looks directly at Elara. “There are others, many, many more. You may know of those who have magic being referred to as Fae, a common term started long ago to label the gifted. Each Fae has their specific path meant for them, divination gifted through their blood. Abilities that other heritages do not share, although some are common within them all. All Fae can recognize each other, feel the energy in each other.”
“Fae? Like, fairies?” Elara breaks out into a huge smile. “You’re saying I’m a fairy?” Excited, she tries her hardest to focus and follow along.
“No, surely not in the sense I know you are thinking. Fae,” he says repeating the word with emphasis. "There is a significant difference. History has its labels, however: gifted, talented, divine, gods or goddesses. The list goes on,” he explains further.
“The point is, heritage deems the abilities you have. You aren’t simply born with the ability to breathe underwater unless your parent or parents have that ability as well, see?”
“So, then, um… are you…” She pauses to remember the term he gave. “A Shifter?”
“Oh gracious, no! I am just a tree.” She sits down, dipping her toes into the water, pondering what he could mean.
“Can all trees talk then?”
“Unfortunately, they cannot. We are an old breed and I do not have many family left. I cannot survive off soil alone, you see. We spend our lives in places of magic; we are the keepers, if you must, of the byways and other places. We thrive off the energy and return it to the earth and water. Without us, the byways would fade away.” The weariness in his voice returns when he speaks of his kind.
“I’m sorry.” Silence stretches between them, and the awkwardness of the conversation presses Elara to return to her journeying home.
“No matter, Miss. One day we will thrive again. Until that day, let us focus on helping you return home.” He stretches his face to turn up in a smile.
“You are really wonderful, um…” Elara hesitates, realizing she does not know his name. “What can I call you?”
“My name is Tenemit, and what may I call you, Miss?” he asks.
“Elara, and it is nice to meet you, Tenemit.”
“Likewise, young lady. Now, to get you home…”
Chapter 13
Denton sits in his small boat, rocking quietly with the calm waves, minding his fishing pole. The sun glares on the water, causing him to squint his eyes, the brightness almost making him miss when a girl's head floats above the water. Her body gently rises to the surface, face down with long bronze hair drifting around her. He looks again, shading his eyes to be sure they are not deceiving him.
When he realizes what he’s seeing, he dives quickly into the water and wraps an arm around the girl’s waist. Lifting her head out of the water, he pulls her back against his chest and leans her head onto his broad shoulder as he paddles back to the boat.
Color is still bright in the girl's face, but it appears she is not breathing.
After pulling her onto the boat, Denton puts his hands together and pushes hard on her chest to expel the water he is sure invades her lungs. His face gets covered in a spray as she coughs up the sea. She sits up and bends to the side, grasping at her chest, inhaling with gasping breaths and coughing.
He pats her back and grabs a nearby blanket to drape over her shoulders. The light gray fabric quickly darkens where the water soaks in. He waits patiently for her to gather her breath and wonders at her strange clothing. She wears pants of a material he has never seen before, and ink adorns her skin. The tattoos are similar to his own, but in a way he has never seen before. His own markings are simple, made of black ink only, yet hers are vibrant colors against her white skin.
“Where am I? Did you—” Her teeth chatter, and although the sun is warm, her body shivers. “Did you pull me out?”
Denton swipes at the dark, wet curls that have fallen over his brow and scratches his head. The words this girl is speaking are
unrecognizable. A foreign tongue perhaps?
He tries his best to communicate with her. “You were floating. I pulled you out,” he says. But the girl does not appear to understand him any better than he understood her. Denton tries something else instead. He places his hand on his chest and says, “Denton.”
The girl appears to be about his age, maybe slightly younger. He watches as her face contorts and processes his actions, she then follows his lead and places her hand on her chest. “Elara.”
The ensuing silence between them is only broken by the waves lapping at the edges of the boat.
With no other solution coming to him as to how they might communicate, they sit staring at each other’s faces. Eventually, Elara bows her head and clasps her hands together, he looks at her feeling puzzled.
Denton makes a decision. He pulls the oars from the sides of the boat to take them to shore. He forgets about his fishing pole still dangling its bait, and it falls into the water as he rows. Although he hears the plop, he keeps his eyes forward and tries his best to mask his embarrassment. He hopes she did not hear the pole being left behind as he navigates the small boat alongside an enormous wooden dock.
