by B R Crichton
“I could get one for you,” Kellan urged. He looked hard into her piercing green eyes, “but you have to promise not to tell anyone who it was that got it for you.”
She looked tempted, and a little sheepish. “When?” she said quietly.
“Before lessons tomorrow,” he said, “I will leave a little earlier and climb up and pick one. Your friends will be so jealous if you go to lessons with a honeycup in your hair.”
She grinned. “Yes, all right.” Then she skipped back to her room down the corridor. He watched her go.
“Did you really see honeycups?” Elan asked.
“Just one, across from the ledge in a crack in the rock.”
“Can you reach it?” he asked doubtfully.
“Not sure. I can try,” he answered.
“Leave it. She will have forgotten by tomorrow. Anyway she can’t really tell on us the day after, so why bother?”
“Because I said I would,” he replied. “Will you help me?”
“You’re mad,” Elan shook his head. “People pick honeycups for girls they want to marry you know. Do you want to marry my sister?”
Kellan blushed. “No!” The side of his face not covered with the birthmark was scarlet.
“You do,” Elan teased, “Kellan wants to marry Eloya.”
“Shut up,” he pouted.
Elan began to mince about the room holding imaginary skirts in his pinched fingers. “Oh Kellan, you are so brave,” he said in a high pitched voice, “climbing all that way to pick me a honeycup. We shall be married in the spring, and have lots of babies.”
Kellan tackled his friend and they fell, laughing, to the floor. Wrestling, jabbing the other in the ribs, and giggling.
“Well I see your spirits are not dampened,” Granger said from the doorway. He was leaning against the door frame with his arms folded, watching with wry amusement. The boys scrambled to their feet and stood sheepishly, awaiting a reprimand.
“Come downstairs,” he said quietly, “we have something to discuss.”
Elan did join Kellan the following morning to try to pick the honeycup. They could barely contain their excitement when they met, not because of their mission to get the flower, but because of what they had been told the previous evening. They carried their books bound together with a tether and slung over their shoulders
“I thought we were going to be punished,” Elan said.
“Me too. But martial training?” Kellan was buzzing. He had hardly slept that night, after being told. He was a little nervous, still being small for his age; he would be even smaller amongst older boys, but he could barely wait all the same. They would start as soon as Master Sharrow could make the necessary arrangements, which would only be a few days. Every day after lessons, they would have to report to the Martial Training School to begin their journey into adulthood.
“I can’t wait,” Elan said, “I will be the finest shot in the land, and win all the contests.”
“Do you really get to make your own bow?”
“Yes. And arrows.”
“And we get to fire at targets?”
“Oh yes,” Elan said casually, “target practice is very important. It’s the main part of our training.”
“I can’t wait.”
They passed several of the stone houses, the glow of lamplight signalling the occupants were up and readying themselves for the day. Each collection of houses sat in a family Grove. The trees ranged from the strange squat saplings, to the stately old giants of the Groves.
They reached the pool with the cliff rising from its edge, and Kellan looked up at the ledge he had jumped from. It didn’t look so high from down here; he was sure it had been much higher.
“Where is it?” Elan asked.
“Somewhere to the right of the ledge; it was hidden from the ground. I only saw it when I was nearly at the ledge,” Kellan replied, looking up at the black face in front of him. The handholds to the side of the route they had taken the previous day were a lot scarcer and Kellan wondered if he would be able to reach the fissure when he found it again. He placed his books on the ground.
He started climbing, placing his hands and feet onto lips and ledges he recognised from his efforts the previous day. The rock was worn smooth where countless young boys had climbed through the generations to make the jump into this pool.
But Kellan’s interest lay across to his right. He could see it now, the fern-like leaves protruding from the plant’s precarious position on the cliff. From the middle of the cluster of leaves rose the yellow trumpet of the honeycup with its bright red stamens and wavy edged petals. He had never actually picked one before, only having seen them when some beaming girl sported one in her hair, earning the delight and envy of her friends. The scent was meant to be exquisite, and he fancied he could smell it already on the breeze.
“Can you reach it?” Elan asked urgently from below.
Kellan assessed his position and looked for any holds that might take him across to the flower. “I think so,” he replied.
He reached across with a pointed foot, and placed the edge of the sole of his shoe on a small lip, then slowly transferred his weight onto that foot while moving his hand across to a shallow crack.
“Careful,” he heard from below. A fall now, and he would not have the luxury of a watery landing; instead the flat rock he had lain down on to recover yesterday awaited. He edged across a little further, palms beginning to sweat as he made careful moves on tiny holds. He found a ledge big enough for half the width of one foot where he balanced and rested his aching fingers. The flower was now only a stride away, but a stride through thin air.
There was a large hold just out of reach. He was sure he could reach it if he lunged for it, but failure carried a heavy cost and he wondered if he should just go back. He was about to turn back when the sun broke over the horizon, sending a shaft of golden light to illuminate the flower. It was like a beacon. It was as though the flower shone from within, calling him. He could not turn back now.
He steeled himself for the jump, and counted to three, then launched himself from the little ledge with such force that for a moment he feared he had overshot the hold, but mercifully his fingers closed over the large flake of rock. He heaved a sigh of relief and looked to his right. The flower beckoned. He let go with his right hand and reached for the flower and his fingers brushed the fern-like leaves. He edged his hands a little further over and raised himself a little to increase his reach. With a mighty effort, he stretched across and grasped the base of the stem with relief, plucking it easily from the crevice.
He placed it carefully between his lips, careful not to crush the stem, and returned both hands to the hold. The flower filled his nostrils with its heady perfume, but all he could think about was what would happen if it made him sneeze
Having jumped across to the handhold he was not able to make the jump the other way, but there were a few holds above him, so with an effort, he climbed higher.
“What are you doing?” Elan sounded agitated. Kellan was unable to answer with the stem in his mouth, and so climbed on silently. Eventually he was able to make his way across and then down to the ledge over the pool, and then down the way he had come.
“Got it,” he said triumphantly, when he was able to remove it from his mouth. “Let’s go.” They picked up their books and ran back the way they had come. Lessons were due to start soon, and they had better not be late.
On the way, they saw Eloya. Elan called to her, and ushered her to the seclusion of a large willow tree.
“Did you get it?” she asked eagerly.
Kellan produced the flower and held it out to her. She gasped when she saw it and reached out with both hands. Then she pulled them back a little, cupping the flower instead with her hands but not touching it. She breathed in the scent deeply, eyes closed and a look of sheer pleasure on her perfect little jade coloured face.
“Kellan, it’s lovely,” she said at last with that crooked bashful grin of her
s. She took it delicately, and placed it in her hair above her left ear. She produced a small hair clip from a pocket and secured it. The bloom looked huge against her delicate childish features, but no less lovely for it. Then she reached for his face and pulled him towards her, planting a kiss square on his lips.
Elan guffawed, as Kellan stood dumbstruck for a moment. Then Eloya lifted her chin, spun imperiously, and strutted away to show off her prize.
Five days later, the boys hurried to the Martial Training School. Lessons had dragged that day. Since hearing that Master Sharrow had agreed to take them, every day had been interminably long, with this final morning seemingly without end.
They arrived at the gates and passed through into a small courtyard in front of a large stone building built on three levels. They walked through the wide, open door into the spacious room within. The central atrium used the full height of the building, with stairs ahead leading to a balustrade that ringed the central room on two upper levels. Doors led from those high galleries, presumably to classrooms, offices, or accommodation. The centre of the atrium was dominated by a suit of intricate armour. The heavy leather was worked to fit snugly over the torso of a bigger man than either of them had ever seen. There were display cases of swords and axes, crossbows and longbows, battered armour and crushed helmets. They felt timid now, their initial enthusiasm somewhat dampened by their surroundings.
“Kellan Aemoran and Elan Arellan.” They both jumped at the voice that boomed and echoed in the atrium. He was on the gallery above them, and made his way to the steps.
“Master Sharrow,” Elan managed before his mouth dried up.
“You have arrived on time,” Master Sharrow said approvingly. “That is a good start. Be sure and maintain your punctual manner, and we will get along fine.” He smiled a wide, friendly smile as he walked down to meet them. He was broad shouldered but wiry with short cropped black hair greying at the temples. His skin was the colour of uncut jade like all of his people, but his carried the raised and puckered marks of many scars.
He inspected them visually, then looked into their eyes carefully, and felt their shoulders and arms for muscle.
“Mmm,” he grunted, “it will be some time before either of you can draw a longbow. But that does not matter, for we are making arrowheads today, and the next several days. Basic smithing of arrowheads is an important part of being a good bowman. Come, follow me.” He turned and made his way through another door that led out to a large courtyard with straw filled targets and hanging boards on ropes attached to pulleys.
“Hold!” he shouted, putting his hands back to stop the boys behind him.
“Clear!” came a call, and a line of archers, boys a few winters older than themselves, put their bows down. They crossed the large archery range to another stone building, this one open at the front. Gathered there were several boys and a heavyset man of perhaps seventy winters in a thick, leather apron. His skin was dark green from years at the furnace and parchment thin with age, but the sinews in his arms told of a man with many winters left in front of the forge.
“These are Kellan and Elan,” Master Sharrow introduced them. “They will be joining us. This is Master Eromin the Smith. He will teach you to make your own arrowheads. We are renowned for the quality of our archers and the weapons they use, and we believe that the strongest arrowhead is not cast but forged. Cast arrowheads are fine for hunting, but you must also learn to forge heads for use against armour.”
“Are we going to war?” one of the boys asked, wide eyed.
Master Sharrow smiled. “I certainly hope not. We have lived in peace here for centuries and will continue to do so as long as Fate allows it. But we must guard against the day that we need to make a stand. If you are to truly master the longbow, you must master all of its component parts. You must be one with the bow and shaft. Master Eromin taught me all I know about smithing arrowheads; he is a master of his trade so mark his words well.”
The blacksmith gave a grunt in acknowledgement.
There was a ring of anvils around each of the two furnaces. A boy was standing at each one dressed in an apron similar to the heavy one worn by Master Eromin. Each clutched a hammer, or had one on the anvil.
“Aprons,” Master Eromin said, gesturing to a pair hanging on the wall. The boys retrieved one each and put them on. A little big, especially on Kellan, and they covered the boys from chest to knees. “Let us begin,” he continued once they had tied the straps securely.
“I don’t have an anvil, Master Eromin,” Elan ventured.
Master Eromin smiled toothlessly. “No,” he said, “today you are on the bellows.” He directed each of them to a bellows that fed air to one of the furnaces. “And we need the fires hot.”
They worked the bellows for the next four days. Not once did they lift a hammer or tongs, or beat the glowing nuggets of metal on the great anvils. They worked the bellows, bringing the coals to white heat with their efforts. The work was tiring and the harder they worked the hotter the fires burned and the more they sweated. When the other boys went to the grindstones to put edges on their flat tips, Kellan and his friend cleaned the grates under the furnaces and swept the floor. Martial training was not all he expected.
Every day after lessons they made their way to the Martial Training school, and each day they walked a little slower. At the end of each day, they both went to bed bone weary and dreamt of nothing but labour.
Granger and Kellan lived in a small cottage in Elan’s family Grove, but despite his proximity to his friend, they stopped seeing each other in the evenings, having gone to bed early. Granger had an elaborate meal cooked for Kellan every evening when he got home and he would eat it hungrily, taking a second helping where he could, and then wearily head for bed.
When the older boys carved out their fluted arrow shafts, Kellan and Elan swept up. When the older boys fired their arrows on the range, Kellan and Elan bound straw with twine for targets. When the other boys learned to glue the strips of different wood together to make a longbow, Kellan and Elan mixed pots of hot resin on the stove.
For weeks they laboured; while the older boys learned, and sniggered when their instructors weren’t looking. Kellan was beginning to think he would rather never do martial training than put up with another day of menial tasks. He slumped into his seat when he got to the cottage and put his head on the table.
“Tired again,” Granger said. “They must work you very hard.”
“It’s terrible,” Kellan moaned. “All we do is clean and tidy and lift and carry. I haven’t even touched a bow yet.”
“Maybe there is more to your training than simply learning how to draw a bow.”
Kellan looked up. “Like what?” he said suspiciously.
“Perhaps it is important to learn discipline,” he said, placing a bowl of stew and a hunk of freshly baked bread on the table in front of Kellan.
“What do you mean?”
“A soldier’s life – for it is a soldier’s training you have started – is not all about exciting battles and heroic deeds.” Kellan started on the stew, but kept listening. “Most of the time a soldier is in camp, or on the march, or waiting on an order that could come in the next heartbeat, or not for many weeks. A soldier needs to be disciplined at all times and follow the orders he is given. That way, when a Commander gives the order, he can be sure that it will be carried out regardless of how unsavoury the task might be. If a Commander tells his men to cross a river, but half of them decide that they don’t want to get their feet wet, then his army is split and vulnerable.”
“But all we do is boring stuff,” Kellan said through a mouthful of stew. “At least soldiers get to do a bit of exciting stuff.”
Granger sat down and squinted at Kellan. “I believe you are being tested.”
“Tested?”
“Have you ever complained about the work you have been given?”
“No,” Kellan replied, as if the very notion was unthinkable.
“Then I believe you are doing well in the eyes of your tutors.”
Kellan sighed. “Will they ever teach me anything fun?”
Granger laughed. “They will teach you all you want to know, in time.”
Kellan was buoyed by the thought. At least there was hope.
That night, Kellan dreamed of bowstrings drawn taut and arrows in flight.
In the morning, Granger told Kellan that he would not be going to lessons that day. Ganindhra wished to see him. Kellan had not seen the strange creature since that first day, but Granger spoke with him regularly.
Ganindhra was the leader here in Lythuria. He could never leave his prison throne, yet was held in awe by the people he ruled. He was old, Kellan had learned that much, though how old he did not know. The bark-skinned man had been in that place within the greatest tree since the history of this people began. Some said that Ganindhra gave them life, breathed the vital spark into the soil and created their kind. Others said that he was just a very old and wise being. Granger clearly knew more about the strange being than he was willing to divulge, however.
Whatever he was, Kellan was afraid of him. The way he appeared to grow from that living pillar of wood, his skin gnarled and twisted, made Kellan’s skin crawl.
He arrived at the great tree and was met by a Lythurian man who greeted him and waved him past to the opening in the massive bole. The room within was dim in comparison to outside, and Ganindhra was the only presence there.
He hung from the pillar, fused from the waist down and his torso tipped slightly forward, apparently asleep. Kellan moved slowly, deeper into the living cavern, watching the creature constantly. Two slits opened in the knurled features, revealing eyes like backlit emeralds. Kellan felt a stirring within him he had not felt since their first meeting. It was like a creature trapped in a pit, trying to claw its way up the steep sides, but not having the strength to do so. Formless as yet, in the depths of its abyss, but emanating menace all the same. And with it, that infernal buzzing he knew to be in his own head.
