Changeling: Prelude to the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  Taking no chances the boy slipped his foot long knife out of its sheath, holding it ready as he backed slowly out of the cave. He was loath to leave his boots and bow and arrows, but he needed the room to move and run if need be.

  Once outside he was grateful that the cloudburst was mostly done. The grass was slick and wet under his feet as he continued to back away. He could not see what it was until a flash of sheet lightning illuminated the area.

  The bubble of fear popped into terror and he found he could not move. Swallowing a suddenly dry mouth he shuddered in fear, his eyes wide at the sight. Standing immensely tall before the caves entrance and nearly as wide was a bear. Its angry roar shook him.

  There was no way he could out run this beast. It was he who was trespassing upon its hibernation. He was not sure if he imagined or actually felt the bear fall to all fours to advance upon him. Not knowing what to do, Geraint or Auntie having never said anything about what to do when meeting up with an angry bear, but saying just to avoid them at all cost, he stood still. Not because he wanted to, but because he found he could not make his legs obey him.

  The bear lumbered up to him, its thick fat jiggled with each step. The next few moments became a blur. The boy could feel its hot fetid breath against his stomach before the bear rose onto its back legs and roared, front legs clawing the air.

  He looked up at it, mouth open and knew it was too late, he was going to be with Auntie and Geraint very soon. Before he could step back and flee, heavy meaty arms covered in long matted fur came down and around him, pulling him into an embrace. Managing to get his arms up, knife still in hand, to protect his head from the large descending jaw, he felt his knife bite in.

  Blood flowed down his knife and over his hands onto his head. Then it was his turn to scream as hot knives of pain sliced through his back. The bear’s claws tore into his flesh as it fought for its own life.

  He could sense himself falling backwards, the bear taking him down to finish what it started. He had only one chance. His knife still in the bear’s throat the boy gripped the hilt as best he could with both hands and sliced to the left with what remained of his failing strength.

  He was rewarded with a fountain of hot blood, spilling into his eyes and mouth before he landed painfully on his back, the dying bear on top of him. It took all his effort not to pass out at the impact.

  Unable to breathe from the weight, the boy grit his teeth and slid out from under the creature, making sure to extract his lifesaver from the throat. The movement to free himself along the dirt and grass made his back ignite in agony, but the breath into his sore lungs was reward enough.

  Slowly, aching, he came to his knees and the world spun. He could feel warmth running down his back and legs and did not need anyone to tell him that he was losing a lot of blood. If only he could lie down he would feel better. Stumbling on rubbery legs he made it back into the cave. Praying that there was nothing else living in there, he bent to enter, the act excruciating to his ravaged back, and collapsed unconscious onto his stomach once safely inside.

  Fire and pain.

  The nightmare slipped into oblivion leaving only the sensation of fire and pain.

  Forcing his eyes open, all he could see was the dirt of the cave floor. A flash of cold ran up his body that made him shiver and was followed by a throbbing heat that in the next instant made his head swim and his skin break out in a cold sweat. He closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths in the hope that the nausea would go away. It did not, not completely, but he opened his eyes again wondering if the dry gritty feeling was because of the sandy floor he lay upon.

  He did not know how long he had lain there on the floor of the cave, but the pressure in his bladder told him that it had been some time. He had to get up but the attempt to move his arms to his side so as to push himself up pulled at his damaged back causing him to cry out and abandon the attempt. Tears escaped his eyes as the world spun and a new flash of cold sweat beaded across his body. Black spots floated in his eyes, dragging him to unconsciousness. Having no choice, the boy lay there for what seemed to be an eternity, waiting for his body to recover somewhat before he would attempt to move again.

  The next time he awoke the disappearance of the spots in his vision and the lessening of the nausea gave him another window of opportunity to try to rise to a sitting position. Gritting his teeth against the pain he knew would come, the boy moved his arms and pushed himself up on weak, wobbly arms. A roar of determination and pain echoed in the dark cave. A wave of queasiness threatened to topple him over and back to the cave floor. Black spots blossomed and broke in his vision making his head swim and then the shivering began in earnest, causing his teeth to chatter.

  He was rewarded for the attainment to a sitting position by the sensation of warmth running down his back, the movement having caused the wounds to crack open and bleed again. Closing his eyes, once more he waited out the pull of oblivion knowing that if he succumbed again he would most likely die. When he opened them he was able to take a look at his surroundings as another flash of heat caused him to break out in a sweat. He knew he was terribly sick and he did not need anyone to tell him that the lacerations in his back were the cause.

  The cave was lit with the reflected light of the afternoon. He could not see to the back of the cave, or even if it had a back. The ceiling was tall and it glittered, as did the walls. It was not a wide cave, but what it lacked in width it made up in length. If there were no other residents to this place it could make a pretty good home, if he lived long enough, but first he had to take care of the wounds the bear had inflicted and that meant he had to stand up and get some water to wash.

  The thought of the cold water turned his shivers into shudders. With agonizing slowness, whimpering in pain, he gained his feet. He so wanted to lean against the cave wall, but the pain in his back told him how stupid that would be.

  Looking down at himself in the minimal light he was surprised at the amount of dried blood that glued the dirt from the floor to him. His hair was matted with the colour of copper and sand, making it hang in ropy strings. Blackness of soot and brown of blood covered him. He had to get clean.

  On unsteady legs, he left the protection of the cave, finding a spot to relieve himself, grateful for the dark shade of the cliff in the mid-afternoon. Finished, he lowered his filthy kilt and made his way to the river, only stopping to stare at the carcass of the bear he had killed.

  The boy could only guess that he had lain unconscious in the cave for the better part of two or three days. He licked his lips with a dry tongue, his lips cracked from dehydration. At least that explained his pounding headache, that and the reflected sunlight that brought the image of hundreds of flies enjoying their feast. The sight made him ill and he turned away to continue to the river.

  The roar of the waterfall throbbed in harmony with his aching body. At the waterfalls edge the spray drifted over and onto him, mingling with cold perspiration as another hot flash from the infection over took him. He considered his options. He could either bathe in the river which meant he would have to leave the protective covering and support of the cliff or he could find a way to stand under the falls, letting the impact of the water wash him clean. Neither notion was something he relished, but he had to wash his wounds. In any case, he would be able to alleviate his thirst.

  Mind made up to brave the falls, the boy agonizingly lifted his shirt but had to stop as a stabbing tug at his back told him that the fabric was stuck to the wounds. A flash of panic was quickly put down. The shirt had to come off. Building his resolve, the boy steadied himself with the feel of the shirt end in his hands and as quickly as he could he ripped the fabric off his body and over his head.

  Blinding hot pain dropped him to his knees and onto all fours, the warm wetness renewing itself down his sides to drip brightly, dappling the green grass with red. His vision wavered as he fought to remain conscious, the remains of his shirt still clutched desperately in his hand.

&n
bsp; Slowly, he kneeled, his sore ankle long forgotten to this new pain, and with shaking hands opened up the rag that was his shirt. If he could not see his back, then maybe the shirt could give him some assessment. Its once cream coloured wool was covered in dried blood and black smoke.

  Turning it around to view the back, the boy blanched at the sight of five parallel slashes on each side where the bear had gouged him. Black blood and yellow ooze from the infection edged the rips. The back of the shirt hung in tatters, a testament to his ravaged flesh. His only shirt was no more than a well used rag and the only thing to keep him warm as winter proceeded. Resigned, he would wash it along with his kilt that was equally filthy.

  Removing the rope belt that held his empty sheath and the stained kilt made from an old blanket, the boy regained his feet and stood naked, shivering in the cold to view the thunderous waterfall. He carefully picked his path to the edge of the falling water, making sure that each step was upon a secure rock.

  Only once did his foot slip, causing him to cry out as he twisted painfully to regain his balance. The spray came down harder, cooling his fevered body. Glancing at a ledge under the side of the waterfall, he made his way to it. Sweat mingled with spray as he stood on the ledge, the pounding water only an arm’s length away. The water was ice cold around his feet with a precognition of what he could expect. Holding onto the rock face of the cliff, he steeled himself and stepped under the water.

  The impact nearly drove him to his knees if not for the rock wall in his hands, but it was the pain of the water washing over and into the wounds that made him gasp. He did not need to look down to see the river water turning red and black before swirling away.

  Cold numbed the pain and when he was sure of his standing he let go of the wall to run his hands through his hair, releasing the tangles and filth into the undulating water. It did not take long for the water to run clear off his body and he drank thirstily in deep long draughts until he was cold inside and out.

  Finally clean, his back throbbing numbly, the boy carefully made his way back to where he had left his ruined clothes and brought them to the lower part of the waterfall. Standing in the shade, cold water up to his thighs, the current pulled at him as he rinsed out the fabric as best he could, his back throbbing with the movements.

  Getting them as clean as he could, he waded back to the riverbank and spread the kilt and shirt so they could dry. He sat down, hugging himself in an attempt to keep warm. The shadows lengthened and clouds skittered east, away from the sun. There was little time left before the sun set, leaving him in the darkness and the cold autumn night. He did not think that his fever would do much to keep him warm. What he needed was a fire.

  A sense of dread blossomed in the pit of his belly. He did not have his flint!

  Geraint had always told him to keep it on him because you would never know when you would have to build a fire. The boy had not thought much about that. He always came home and there would always be a fire waiting to thaw him. Panic grew and he ran his hands through his hair trying to think. What could he do? The flint was back home, or what was left of his home. Then a thought fluttered in the back of his mind, lending a glimmer of hope. Rising to his feet he made his way back to the cave and picked up the quiver.

  Please let it be there, he prayed as he carefully pulled the dozen or so arrows out before turning the quiver upside down. He groaned as the only thing left fell out…the bowstring.

  He was without the ability to make fire.

  Carefully, he repacked the quiver, making sure not to damage his only means of hunting, and laid it against the wall of the cave and then sat with knees to his chest thinking about what to do.

  He had to have a fire. He was foolish not to have taken the stone, but how was he to know. Geraint had told him, that’s how he should have known. Without it he would not be able to keep warm. Without it he would not be able to cook. Without it he would not be able to cure hides or even preserve meat. The thought of food was too much; he was too hungry despite the illness.

  He had to find a way to make a fire and the only thing that came to mind was that he had to steal it, and to do that meant he had to find people. A shudder of revulsion ran through him at the thought, but it was his only chance. Then he would be able to take care of the rest. In the meantime he had to find wood. Standing up, he left the cave, his blood covered dagger in hand, and went to put his soggy kilt on after he had cleaned the blade in the river. The shirt he left on the grass. He wanted his back to have a chance to heal over.

  He woke to the cold of night, trembling in an attempt to keep his body temperature up. He had only meant to nap for a short time, but the illness and the exhaustion of collecting deadfall had taken its toll. Not to mention the lack of food. He knew it was the same evening and counted himself lucky since had he slept through another day the sun would have roasted him alive. The wood was stacked just inside the cave’s entrance to keep it dry and he had slept face down on the soft green grass next to his drying shirt.

  Rolling onto his side pulled at the healing skin and he sat up to drag the ragged shirt over his head. It was better than nothing. His breath came in soft white clouds to be dissipated in the slight breeze. If he was going to find fire he was going to have to do it tonight. The sky was clear with white moonlight illuminating the glade in unearthly silver.

  Maybe he had died and was now in the Underworld. He instantly discounted that idea. If he were truly dead he would not be freezing in the middle of nowhere and Auntie and Geraint would be with him. The thought of the old woman and his mentor made him catch his breath. He needed to stop thinking about them, but he did not want to, and in a rush to his feet the agony of his back was enough to banish the pain of his thoughts.

  The grass was frozen under his feet and sparkled in the moonlight; at least his feet would be warm once he put the boots back on. The cave was dark but he managed to find and tie on the leather boots. He thought at first to take his bow, but the idea of harnessing the quiver to his back ruled it out. The knife would have to be protection enough.

  Freezing, he set out the way he had come in hopes to find someone with a fire. Geraint had indicated that there were people in the woods at night that had seen him and believed him to be the Horned God; people who hunted and could be very dangerous to him. Maybe he would come across someone. He hoped it would be sooner rather than later. His fingers and nose were already going numb as he hugged himself for warmth.

  He walked a long time, following the paths, always remembering to keep the river in sight or in listening distance. He did not want to lose the way back to the grove and the cave. The moon disappeared behind the canopy of skeletal limbs. The only sounds came from the river.

  It was eerie not to hear anything, but he continued on, realizing what date it must be. A sense of dread overcame him. It was Noslen. Maybe he should just go back to the cave and wait until the next night, he thought, but he could not. He needed the fire.

  Quickening his pace out of fear, he searched through the dense sleeping forest for a light, any light, and prayed that he would not be led astray. Tonight was the night when the Fay would be out and the dead would come to visit the living. He shuddered at the thought as he continued.

  He did not know how long he had walked when he saw the light and he prayed to Don that it was not a will-o’-the-wisp to lead him into a bog. Carefully, quietly, he approached. The light did not waver. It stood its ground.

  Halting his progress, the boy took stock of what was around him. If that was really a fire, then there must be people around, and if there were people around then he had to be very quiet. Slowly, he picked out his steps so as not to make any sound. Tonight he hunted for fire and the animal that guarded it was more dangerous than a bear. He clenched his jaw to halt its chattering and focused on his task.

  Branches and leaves made no sound under his well-placed steps. A sheen of sweat beaded his brow making him colder in the frosty air. Finally he came up behind a bush, the branch
es of the thorn standing between he and the fire, but what stood between the thorn and the fire caught his breath.

  A ring of five figures slept around the fire, huddled together to conserve heat. The metal of their leather clothes and sheathed weapons peeked out from under their blankets, glimmering in the orange glow. A pot hung over the fire in a makeshift tripod; its contents long gone to fill hungry bellies.

  Unexpectedly, one of the men rolled over onto his back, grunting in his dreams before his sonorous snore caused the boy to jump back in fright. He had never heard such a sound, let alone coming from a person.

  The hunters were fast asleep under their blankets, their warm breath puffing clouds into the air. Realizing that this was as good a time as any since the night must be coming to an end soon, the boy took a deep breath and held it to laboriously make his way around the hedge, making sure none of the thorns touched his back. Fear washed over him and he swallowed it down. If he was lucky, and Don was with him, the men would sleep right through his theft.

  Clearing the foliage without a sound he let the breath go in a quiet sigh. The next and harder task was to pass over the slumbering men so as not to wake them. Gently he placed one booted foot down beside the shoulder of the man closest to him and halted in mid step as the man rolled onto his side. The boy’s heart hammered in his head and his chest heaved in fright as he wobbled on one foot trying to maintain his balance. If the man had turned over onto his stomach he would have rolled right onto him and his quest for the fire would be over, as well as his life.

  Placing his elevated foot down on the firm earth, he held his breath as he lifted his right foot to make the next step over the sleeping man and prayed that he did not turn again. Foot placed safely, the boy shifted his weight and lifted his other foot over the man allowing a brief sigh of relief to have made it past the circle of men. The pounding in his ears and the ache in his chest did not abate.