by Karen Dales
Shocked at the unfathomable number of years this man had been alive, the boy almost missed seeing the large root sticking up from the ground. He was able to catch his balance and halt his fall that would have landed him face down on the muck and mire. His big toe throbbed for a couple of heartbeats, forcing him to hobble to keep up with Notus, and then the pain was gone.
It was hard enough to imagine living one year into the next. His mind could not comprehend so many years of life, and since he was Chosen he too could live long. The realizations made his head swim.
Mouth agape he followed Notus deeper into the lit up forest of the night.
Chapter X
Light flashed, igniting the sky in a sheet of iridescent colour before fading into nothingness. No thunder sounded. The storm was still very far away, but the frequency of the flashes belied the clear sky littered with stars. Wherever the storm raged it was powerful and the boy was grateful for its beauty and its distance. He sat underneath an ash tree where he had found the large stick he was working on with his knife.
This was his second attempt to make a wooden copy of a sword since Notus ensconced his presence in the boy’s life. In the years since he was forced to flee his home he had not had the time to continue with the practice that Geraint had instilled in him. Now that he had the gifts of being Chosen the boy found he had more time on his hands than he knew what to do with when he was not hunting, or learning the strange symbols Notus called letters.
A sliver of bark popped off, landing on the ground a short distance away. Its silver grey outer bark lay face down on the matted grass. Its ends curled inwards in attempt to protect its coppery underbelly from the night air. It still astounded the boy how his sight had changed. Everything was alive and he loved it. Never before could he have been so precise with such work. He never had enough light. Now he had it in abundance, especially when the moon was out, and even more so with a full moon, like tonight.
It had taken the boy quite a number of nights to find the right piece of wood since the last time proved to be an utter fiasco. He halted his knife’s work at slicing off another sliver of bark at the thought of what had happened.
He had not put much thought as to what sort of wood should be used for a wooden sword and had spent many nights working on it. It was painstakingly hard to take off all the bark, leaving the inner bark because it was so colourful. Smoothing it nearly made his hands raw had he not been Chosen. He could have stopped there, but he wanted to try his hand at carving designs into it. He thought himself pretty good at it. Even Notus remarked that his likeness for the forest animals engraved upon the wooden blade was quite impressive. That comment earned the monk a rare smile.
Then came the night he would finally try it out.
Notus stood by the front of the cave and watched the boy near the river. The mist from the waterfall caught the waning moon to sparkle up the night. Lifting the sword, the boy began the routines he had been taught by Geraint. At first he went slowly in an attempt to get his body to remember moves that had become so natural years ago. It did not take long for him to slip into the memories and then the world became a blur. Amplified by his speed and in the thrall of feeling the familiar and comfortable weight of a sword, even a wooden one, in his hand, he shifted into an offensive move that took him to one of the lone trees that grew beside the rocks of the waterfall.
The willow tree, with its long flowing withes, became the adversary and he brought his wooden sword into a horizontal strike to the trunk. The worst he expected was to be jarred. Geraint had had him practice against trees numerous times so as to get the feel of what would happen when he actually hit someone, or something. The boy had not expected what occurred.
In one moment what took many days to create exploded upon impact against the trunk. The shock resonated up his arm and his jaw before the hilt flew from his grasp, deeply slicing his hand. But it was the large slivers of wood, both from his sword and the tree, which made him duck. Even still a larger portion of the wooden blade smacked him squarely across his nose, making his eyes water, coughing and spitting blood.
Notus had been there in an instant, the concussion drawing him to the situation. If it had not been for being Chosen the boy knew he would have suffered long with a broken nose and a sliced left hand. Instead, in a matter of moments, the pain of both was gone as well as the wounds. Notus only looked up at him after he had healed and shook his head before going back to the cave. The boy could have sworn the man was laughing.
This time he would not be so foolish. He would take his time and he would not hit anything immovable with it. Notus had said that as Chosen they had greater strength. That night proved it.
Applying pressure to the bark with the edge of his knife, the boy worked to remove another slice. This wooden sword would be nicer than the last he promised himself. He enjoyed this kind of work. It made him feel useful since, with Notus around, his life had changed dramatically.
Gathering firewood was an easy and quick chore, and tending the fire was easier because they did not depend upon it for cooking. The warmth it provided was nice, but it was not absolutely necessary. He did not get cold any more. Then again the spring and summer had been quite warm, enjoyably so.
The biggest change was that he no longer needed his bow to hunt. The bow and arrows were now only used for practice as a skill he did not want to grow dull. With his new gifts he had to be extremely gentle with the bow and string lest he snap them in two. Hunting was still necessary, but the way he drew his sustenance was radically different, as was evident that first night after Notus had told him the story of how old he was. The number was still so large he could not fully comprehend it.
Notus had led them along the trail into the forest, but it was the boy who had caught the scent of the deer. Notus was been surprised, as he had not smelled them. Notus, at that point, let the boy take the lead. He could feel Notus’ intense curiosity on his back as he took them off the trail.
What surprised him was the fact that Notus made noise in the woods when he made none. Several times he had to stop, turn and put his finger to his lips after the man would step on something that could alert the deer to their approach. It became frustratingly clear that Notus, despite his numerous years, was a horrible hunter. No wonder he had been so hungry that first night they encountered each other.
Closing his eyes, the boy took another whiff of the moist still air and then motioned his Chooser further into the foliage. This time he would not allow Notus to make noise and had to stop and point out to the monk not to step on this or that. He could make out the man’s exasperation, and ignored it. They were in his terrain now, under his expertise.
A sound up ahead halted him and he silently crouched. He had to grab the monk’s robes and pull him down lest the deer see him. Notus was none too pleased with that and was about to say something when the boy placed a finger across his lips indicating Notus to be quiet. He then held up two fingers with his other hand and thumbed the direction in which the deer were. He did not need to see them to know they were there.
The pressure like pain in the centre of his forehead flared up momentarily and then was gone as Notus let out a huff of displeasure.
“What is it?” whispered the monk.
“Deer. Two of them,” answered the boy in hushed tones. “Directly upwind and headed this way.”
Mystified, Notus raised his voice. “I do not –”
A snapping sound followed by gentle hoof falls silenced the monk.
“How did you know?” whispered Notus almost imperceptibly, his awe apparent.
The boy touched his nose.
Quietly, both kneeling in the underbrush, they watched as a stag followed a doe to the cover of a budding hawthorn. The pungent smell of their heady musk filled the air. They did not smell like any deer before. This time there seemed to be more to the scent. In the humid air he could imagine that he could discern the distinct differences of their odours. What seemed the same was a metallic smell
that fired his hunger.
A hand clasped his shoulder and he glanced over at his Chooser. Notus’ eyes were heavy but his lips were pulled slightly into a smile, as though he were sniffing a bouquet of flowers.
The boy, about to ask what they were to do, halted before uttering a word by the man’s fingers across his mouth.
“Watch and learn,” came the whispered response. With heightened speed, Notus stood and ran silently through the brush to the doe and hit her with a closed fist squarely on her snout. The resounding smack echoed in the woods. Her big brown eyes rolled up as she fell with a thud. Before the stag could comprehend the intrusion to their evening meal, the monk whirled around, landing another strike between its eyes. Again the sound of flesh impacting flesh reverberated in the air. With less grace than its mate, the stag crashed to the undergrowth, leaving the monk standing between two heaving bodies.
The boy, stunned by the fluidity and grace as well as the violence, stood, his mouth agape, and walked to the monk, carefully making sure not to step on the unconscious beasts.
“This is something you will learn, I believe, with ease.” Notus lifted a half grin to the boy. “The hardest part is not to use too much of your strength that you kill them. Hitting with the right amount of force to hurt, but not harm, is also what I will show you. A dead creature’s blood is no use to us.”
Gazing down at the stag by his feet, the boy knelt and was drawn hypnotically to the steady rise and fall of its ribcage. His pale hand trembled ever so slightly in anticipation as he touched the soft warmth of the furred hide. He closed his eyes in pleasure at the new sensation of blood pulsating through veins and arteries. The fur seemed softer, more alive than ever before. The heat from the body was almost a solid tangible thing he could grasp if he dared. Moving his hand slowly along the stag’s side, he traced the flow of blood upwards, its heat guiding him and its intoxicating scent stirring a lust never before known.
He felt a hand cover his own, forcing him to pause on the great throbbing pulse on the side of the stag’s neck. It jumped and danced to the heart’s rhythm that he could hear. Its music fuelled his hunger. Sleepily, as if drugged, he opened his eyes to stare dreamily at the monk crouched before him.
“When you take him, be aware of his heartbeat.” Notus’ voice was thick with his own hunger-lust under tight control. “Allow his strength to carry the blood to you. Do not suckle or the creature will go into shock and die. Feel him give his blood, his life, to you. When you start to feel his heart struggle, release your grip. Let go. For it is at that point in which he can recover. We do not kill if we can avoid it.”
The boy gazed down as Notus freed his hand, drawing his attention back to the stag. Tenderly he caressed its neck, noticing how when he went with the growth of the fur it felt downy soft but when he went against the growth it stood up and was almost prickly. All he wanted to do was stroke the fur but his hunger wanted more. Bringing his face close to the pulsating vessel, he watched the quick rise and fall as blood sped into the stag’s brain. Without need of further instruction, his hunger leading, he opened his mouth and felt his sharp teeth puncture the soft furry skin.
Thick, hot blood spilled into his mouth. The force of it nearly caused him to choke on the volume before he could manage to allow the liquid to run down his throat, into his body. Instantly a rush of energy exploded within him, forcing a gasp and making him crave for more. With each pulse, more succulent blood filled his mouth. It was so incredibly difficult not to suckle and draw the life out of the stag faster. A hand on his shoulder steadied him, keeping him grounded as each swallow of blood fed the growing fire of his being.
After what seemed too short of a time he became aware of a change in the flow of the blood to his mouth. The heart was starting its struggle to hold onto life. That was the moment Notus told him about. That was the moment he did not want to let go of. He could feel so much more life in the stag and he wanted to devour it all until the conflagration of energy consumed him as well. The hand on his shoulder tightened and with an excruciating effort of will he was able to release his grip on the stag, the taste of its blood still on his lips.
“Good. Good.” Notus had nodded approvingly. “Excellent. We will do this each night until you are able to stop without guidance. At this point the stag will be able to recover. Now watch.” Notus motioned with his chin for the boy to look back at the stag.
The four puncture marks on the deer’s neck slowly began to close, cutting off any trickle of blood. Within a matter of moments the marks had completely disappeared. Astounded, the boy gazed back at his Chooser.
“I don’t know how it works,” explained the monk, “but there is something about our bite that allows them to heal quickly.”
The boy looked back at the unconscious deer and licked the remaining blood off his lips. Its breathing had slowed, as well as its pulse. His hunger had been satiated, but he still felt the strong desire for more. Oh so much more.
The hand on his shoulder left him and he watched enthralled as Notus knelt and fed off the doe.
That first night of feeding was repeated every night for two full months before Notus felt secure enough to let the boy go off on his own one day out of seven.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The wood was almost completely cleared of its outer bark by now. The stars had a veil of clouds coming in from the west, foretelling the storm’s approach. Flashes of lightning were distantly followed by the low growl of thunder so far off he doubted he would have heard it with normal ears. Looking up at the night sky, he figured the storm would come with the dawn, and that was still some time away.
With a last flick of his knife the complete under bark of the ash lay exposed. A pile of slivers littered his lap and the ground around him. Standing, he batted his kilt and shirt free of any shavings that chose to stick, and sheathed his knife in the braided hide belt that held his plain deer hide kilt closed.
The ground under his bare feet was warm in the late summer night and the uncompleted wooden sword in his left hand felt just about right. Stepping into the middle of the small glade he held the sword out. It was far from completed. It still needed smoothing and he wanted to decorate it like the last one, but more than anything he wanted to feel that wondrous glow when he practiced the forms. This time he would not hit anything, he promised himself.
With both hands on the end designated to become the hilt, the boy deliberately and slowly took his time as he moved from one position into the next. The wooden sword cut the air with a swish.
One night in seven Notus let him off by himself for the whole of the night, and the boy relished the freedom. He could not fathom the reason why his Chooser, or anyone for that matter, would voluntarily starve himself and sit outside on his knees for the whole of the night muttering incomprehensible words. At first the boy thought it was some form of magic, but Notus had explained that God had made all life in six days and on the seventh He rested. On that seventh day, Notus devoted himself fervently to the worship of his God.
Notus had tried to get the boy to join him, but it seemed a strange practice and an even stranger belief. A God could not create life. That was solely in the realm of the Goddess. It was females that gave birth and so only a Goddess could give life. Unwilling to budge on that, Notus begrudged him that single day off from learning how to read; by Notus drawing images he called letters in the sandy cave floor, and by learning basic numbers through the same means.
The boy was happy to finally get back to what he wanted to focus on. The wooden sword cut the air as he made an oblique strike at an imaginary assailant. Sure he enjoyed the stories of Notus’ religious mythology, but it seemed strange in a fascinating way. It was when he managed to get Notus to tell the stories he had learned on the Isle of Mon that truly interested him. There were many nights in which, after hunting, he had sat listening to stories of the Ancient Ones and the Gods and Goddesses of the Cymraeg. Sometimes Notus would favour him with a story of a God or Goddes
s from Iwerddod or from the people called Romans who once ruled over the land, but were only recently gone. Those stories he thoroughly enjoyed.
A quick turn, followed by a downward vertical stroke brought him lined up for another horizontal strike. The air swished as he sped up his routine until he had to fully focus on his task.
Flashes of lightning seemed to come less frequently and when they did they lit up the glen for an eternity. Thunder rolled and grumbled closer, but he paid no mind. Soon the light from the moon became completely enshrouded by heavier clouds and even the faint glow that the stars gave off blinked out of existence.
The storm was approaching. He gave it no care. Nothing else existed but him and his sword. Fluidly, he moved from one position into the next. The air rang as he sliced the night. Slowly, he realized a breeze brought thick moisture with the promise of heavy rain and he came to a stop, exhilarated by what he had done. If only Geraint could have seen him.
Lifting his head to contemplate the time remaining to the night, the boy realized his prediction of the weather timed to the rise of dawn was only a little off. He had to make his way back to the cave now if he did not want to be drenched. Holding his newly made waster in the palms of both his hands, the boy smiled. It would do very well.
The walk back home was pleasant. He was grateful that he did not have to wear the foot wrappings and enjoyed the feel of the earth and Her plants under his feet. He could have easily used his gifts to get back faster, but because of those same gifts he chose to take things slowly. The night became an enjoyable time with new wonders to discover.
Wooden sword in hand, the boy followed another trail than the one that had led him to the glade. Not because there was anything wrong with that one, but because he wanted to stay out as long as possible. He knew Notus fretted over him when he entered the cave with only moments to spare. Sometimes the monk came so close to yelling at him about what would happen if he got caught out. Had he not learned what would happen since that first day when he burnt his hand? Chagrined, the boy would always apologize, but secretly he enjoyed forcing these reactions because it showed him how much the strange little man cared for him.
