The Evening Tide

by Jeremy Forsyth

  Luckily, the words were few. It read:

  Wait for me, Dawn. Wait. Stay away from the Winds. Stay away.

  I folded the cloth gently and held it to my heart, swooning internally, vowing to myself that I would indeed heed the note. I will, Asharal. With all my heart, I will stay away from the Winds.

  Chapter 10

  Though midnight was close, this evening’s warmth and serenity contended with our weariness, especially out here within the gardens of Wind Tower; a serpentine array of paved stone, meandering through handsome hedges and tall clustering trees that bore fruit ripe for the picking.

  One could get lost in this garden. It made coming here for the first time an exciting experience, and I could see it on my lady’s face. Though she still felt some apprehension in stepping out with me, she appeared quite taken by the garden’s beauty and mystery, and it pleased me to make such a discovery.

  “This garden,” I said, “was my father’s first project after he took the Sunchair.”

  “The Father of the Sun created this place?”

  I surveyed my surroundings, taking pride in it. The blazing torches cast light and shadow upon the trees and soft grass at our feet, whilst deepening the darkness of the garden’s borders. It gave the place a peaceful, enigmatic look.

  “Yes,” I answered her. “It took some time, for my father had other projects he was pursuing when he began this one. Yet, over the years, his labours bore their fruit.” I picked one of those fruits from a dangling vine, thinking that one of my father’s attributes which made me admire him so much, was just how unwavering his drive was, how strong his resolve remained; his ability to succeed in whatever it was he had set his mind to do was inspiring.

  I handed the fruit to the elvess and she took it without meeting my gaze. I delighted in her beauty. Those eyes, those dark, handsome, green eyes.

  For a moment, she turned the fruit in her hand, staring at it without saying a word. I encouraged her to have a taste, and she bit into it, the juice of it spilling out from the corner of her mouth. She wiped at her lips hurriedly, tried to compensate for the untidiness of the bite, without realising that I thoroughly enjoyed watching how it all took place.

  The elvess eventually gazed up at the dark trees but brought her head down suddenly when she spotted the statue beyond and her eyes became fixed upon it. Noticing this, I took my cue and very casually led her towards it. When the statue’s likeness was recognised, there fell a silence I had a hard time deciphering.

  Was she in awe, or did she, like most upon our island, resent the image of the Father of the Sun?

  “Is this the Father?” she asked.

  “Indeed. Once this garden was completed, this feature became its final and most important addition.” I stepped closer, suddenly caught up in feelings of pride over my father’s image – this image at least. The real life one, I hadn’t felt like this towards for many years. “He was much younger here,” I whispered, raising a hand to the stone of the statue’s face, running my fingers along the crevices of its design.

  You were a mighty figure once Father, I thought to myself, aware of how the pride I felt at the image was slowly transforming into a deep sorrow, for the days when the Father of the Sun appeared like this had long since disappeared.

  “Does he still look like this?” asked the elvess.

  “Yes,” I lied. “Age has taken its toll of course, for this portrayal of him was done many years ago. But the Father still stands tall above all else.”

  “Are there statues of you, my Son?” the elvess asked me suddenly.

  That took me by surprise. I concentrated on the image of my father, and then, very quietly, I told her the truth.

  “No.”

  It was my wish for her not to enquire further, for I would have to quickly come up with a worthy answer that would disguise the truth, which was that the Father only glorified himself and no one else, not even his sons. That was something I would do differently once it was my turn to ascend the Sunchair. I would exalt my sons. I would raise them high. I would teach the Sun Elves to hold them in greater esteem than myself. Then the Winds will always grow greater with every succession.

  Father, you fool!

  “Oh,” she said simply. Then the elvess looked up at me and made an enquiry that I would sooner not have been met with. “And the Mother? The Mother of the Sun? Are there any statues of her?”

  I couldn’t meet those eyes of hers and so I turned my head and concentrated again on the statue of my father, saying, “Not anymore.” I swallowed the discomfort of her question and moved away, willing the elvess to follow me deeper into the garden.

  We came to a stop beneath the Heart Tree of the Wind Garden: an inordinately large tree that had been planted in the centre of the garden and named after the Mother of the Sun. Seeing as that name I had vowed not to utter aloud, I had begun calling the tree the Heart Tree, and so this elvess beside me would unfortunately never know just how special this tree was.

  “My Son,” said the elvess, timidly.

  I smiled down at her and when our eyes met again, the benevolence of her gaze took me unawares, and I felt moved in a way that I couldn’t understand in that moment. What I knew though, was that after this evening, I would want to see her again. After this night was done and I returned her, I would discover the location of her residence and I would show her my undivided favour.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  She looked away, towards the Heart Tree. “It is getting late.”

  My heart dropped but I refused to show how her desire to leave my presence disappointed me.

  “Not too late that it would cause concern, surely?” I asked, though immediately turning to guide her back inside Wind Tower, so that I might have her returned to the outer courtyard where the people still mingled.

  “I think perhaps a little concern. Maybe.”

  I smiled at her. “Then I shall promptly return you to those who love you.”

  The smile she gave me in return filled me with immense encouragement, for I could see that my response pleased her more than whatever else I had said this evening. It occurred to me that I had gained some ground in creating some comfort for her, and an inclination to trust me.

  We passed my father’s stone image and then found the main pavement that would lead us back to Wind Tower, when suddenly the prophet, Verid, appeared in the doorway, looking incredibly displeased, almost angry.

  “My Son!”

  I stepped forward. “Speak, Verid. What has happened?”

  “Asharal, my Son,” he said. I recoiled slightly at the name. It was a name I loathed to hear uttered in my presence, for it filled me with disquiet. “Asharal is come. He is come.”

  Chapter 11

  We journeyed south towards Wind Tower, passing meandering streams, glistening and dazzling beneath the sun’s beaming gaze, the rivers becoming sombre and complacent when skies above were overcast.

  It was all the same with each new day that my family and I rose from our tent to continue towards Wind Tower. Either the mornings were brisk and the afternoons filled with light when the sun hung high, the winds warm and calm; or shadows came and deepened when the sun became veiled, causing my family and I to seek extra layers to cover ourselves against the relentless cold.

  It had rained only once since Papa led us from our home. That had been the bleakest of days. Out in the open, other than some scant trees, there was little to shield us from the rainfall and, until it had darkened that afternoon, the three of us had been soaked to the bone, eventually deciding to flounder forward, with few words shared between us.

  I recall even now how welcome that fire had been when evening finally fell and the rain at last ceased. The rain had made everything wet, yet Papa had managed to strike a flame none the less. After we had spread out our wet luggage to dry, we all huddled around the fire, as close as possible. At length, Papa had begun talking to us about how once he had found himself in a similar situation with his own father, my gre
atfather. According to him, to keep warm, my greatfather was able to summon from deep within his core, a ‘great’ and unique heat.

  “Your greatfather was never able to explain it,” Papa had said to me. “But ever since he was a child, he had always been able to stir up within him a deep heat that he said came from the soul. It would radiate from him. I wouldn’t even need to sit that close to him before I could feel it caress my cheeks.”

  Mother had listened with her usual indifferent expression. Whenever Papa told such wild stories about his father, who according to my mother had always possessed a vivid imagination which made him seem peculiar and prone to strange talk, he spoke always of incredible and absolutely impossible deeds done during his early years as a small and wilful child. He claimed every time that all that his father had done, whether it be calling fire from the sky or turning himself into a great wolf, it was possible because of this ‘great’ heat that swelled up from inside his body and allowed him to do the inexplicable.

  Whilst huddled around our fire, I had made my first sceptical enquiry of my greatfather’s claims, which I could tell surprised Papa. Up until then, I had always believed and marvelled at his stories.

  “Did my greatfather truly believe he could call down fire from the sky after summoning this heat from his body?”

  “He did believe it, sweet Pebble,” Papa had answered me.

  Hesitating, I had asked softly, “Do you believe it, Papa? Do you believe my greatfather could do what he said he could?”

  Papa had given me a very decisive and conclusive nod. “I absolutely do,” he had said. “My father was never one to make such things up. And if you had felt the heat that he could muster, you would be as convinced as I am, for it was a strange heat, one that felt like it could burn a hole through the ground.”

  “Did you ever see him call down fire from the sky, or see him change into a great wolf with black and purple fur?”

  Papa had cast his gaze down at that point, seeming sad. “Unfortunately not. Your greatfather never once understood how he was able do what he did, even when summoning the heat. He told me once that, as a child, he tried and tried to learn how to control his power, yet he could never quite manage to grasp how it all worked. Always these things he did at queer times, and always, it was involuntary.”

  Returning to the road, we had come across countless travellers like ourselves, all heading south towards Wind Tower. Yet it wasn’t until just now that we found a family like our own; except while Papa and Mother had a daughter, the other family had a son who to me, looked much younger than I. Our families soon connected and it wasn’t long until we found ourselves sharing the road. Before, no matter who we greeted or who greeted us first, Papa led us on, slightly quickening our pace or lagging somewhat behind to create distance.

  Most of the travellers were males, either small groups of three or four or pairs, friends with crass tongues and even crasser appearances. Without fail, each took the time to notice how both my mother’s hand and mine were held tight by my father.

  “My dearest over here believes that, should the Father of the Sun grant us all a taste of the Eternal Pool, we should one day save for a raft and visit the islands in the west.”

  This Dearest had the name Talywn. The one who had just now informed us of Talywn’s desire to brave the turbulent seas of the west was named Narthal; their son, who remained quiet and brooding, as if resenting the new company, had introduced himself as Velandyn.

  “A raft is too expensive!” gasped Mother.

  Neither Talywn or Narthal seemed fussed. “Seeing as we are to live forever, saving for a raft will come quickly,” said Narthal, confidently.

  “I hear queer folk live on those islands,” commented Mother, timidly.

  “Yes,” agreed Talywn. “But word has it that folk are elves, like us.”

  “I hear they have blue skin,” quirked Papa, happily.

  “Indeed,” replied Narthal. “They are being called the blue elves. No one knows their proper name, though.”

  As interesting as it was to hear talk of other elvin races out there across the ocean, I couldn’t help but lose focus on the conversation, for I was caught up in an intent study of this son of Narthal and Talywn. It seemed he was greatly displeased. He looked to be sulking, pouting, and I was curious to know why.

  Not knowing what to say initially, I decided to fuse my desire to speak of Asharal with my desire to spark a conversation with this young elf, so I asked him if he knew who Asharal was.

  “Who doesn’t?” he said, dismissively.

  His curt tone took me by surprise. “So, you have heard then that the Winds are looking for him?”

  “Yes, of course. For all the good that will do them though.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, curious. I wasn’t sure what had made the elf so angry.

  He looked at me with clear impatience. “Asharal will not be captured by the Winds. He is too smart. Their sudden desire to apprehend him means they are scared, and because of their haste, Asharal’s plans will now come more swiftly.”

  “How do you know this?”

  I was in love with Asharal and I believed he was in love with me and not even I had contemplated what this elf had apparently considered.

  “I don’t. I just believe. Soon, Asharal will sit on the Sunchair. Mark my words. And when he does, I will become one of his blades.”

  “You will?” I couldn’t conceal how his presumptuousness left me surprised and doubtful.

  “Yes. Anyone can learn how to wield a blade. Not everyone is loyal. And I would be loyal to Tree Evening. Once he sees that, I will become one of his blades. Mark my words.” This Velandyn fellow looked up into the night and I saw him change, his capricious tone revealing now his longing to see Asharal succeed against the Winds. “No one understands how different things would be if Asharal sat on the Sunchair. Everyone is scared because the Father of the Sun has powerful spells. But Asharal can defeat him. He must… He will.”

  At last the day came when we arrived at the incredible fort of the Winds. But Wind Tower was barred to us by the thousands of Sun Elves who had ventured, as we had, to witness the Son of the Father taste his father’s revolutionary creation.

  Tower River bent around Wind Tower’s stretching walls and flowed mightily upon either side like lanky wings. Small clusters of trees bordered the River beyond the banks, and amidst them I spied out sunlit glades, my inquisitiveness piquing inside me, a desire to explore those areas.

  However, as Papa led both my mother and I past some of the people, the Tower River and its trees were quickly forgotten. Wind Tower’s main gate loomed ahead, the twin turrets that Papa had told me were named Eyeguard and Windwatch flanking its main gate, its battlements busy with pacing sentries.

  We passed the main gate at a snail’s pace and, at last, Wind Tower appeared once more, plastered upon a backdrop of blue skies and snow white clouds, its towers and high walls thick and dark, the windows taking circular shapes. These towers also had pacing guards acting as sentries.

  Now, in the midst of the throng, completely walled in by Wind Tower’s great walls, I looked to the east and saw another great gate that led to a wide bridge. This bridge, Papa said, stretched over the Tower River. He pointed me to towards the western gate and said it was the same there. Yet all I could acknowledge was how many people poured in through each gate, feeling slightly discomforted being amidst such a mass.

  There were raised platforms here in the courtyard that Mother said would soon hold singers and musicians. Whilst people scurried around for a place on the grass, I was far too concerned with Wind Tower; a part of me had never imagined such a building could ever exist, and that there were people who called it home. It was daunting, even more so when I, suddenly and involuntarily, imagined the slight possibility that one day I would be living inside it.

  My thoughts caused my eyes to narrow slightly, to search amidst the faces I saw before and all around me, thinking, Surely Asharal wouldn’
t be here?

  He and his brother had become the most wanted elves on the island, to hear Velandyn say it. He had, after that first night, revealed himself to be a very chatty elf, though with only one subject of conversation, of course: Asharal. I had come to learn that Velandyn idolised Asharal, and that his displeasure I had picked up at our first meeting was because he and his family were attending a Wind event.

  “I do not support the Winds. I will not celebrate the Son’s immortality,” he had proclaimed.

  I recall thinking how Asharal would indeed enjoy this Velandyn. His zeal was rather moving; his sense of conviction towards Asharal’s cause, endearing.

  Surely Asharal wouldn’t show his face here at Wind Tower?

  I dearly hoped not. There were guards everywhere. I didn’t want Asharal to come to any harm.

  The crowds pushed in all around us. I gripped Papa’s hand tighter when someone moved in close next to me. That someone was wrapped in a dark hooded cloak and he was taller than my father. At first I thought it was Narthal, but he and his family had parted with us upon arrival at Wind Tower. Yet when I considered how odd it was for anyone to be concealed in a hood in broad daylight, my heart suddenly leaped. I turned my head to the right and gazed up, and began imagining that the face beneath the hood would be Asharal’s.

  Surely not? And yet, please by nature, let it be so!

  I let go Papa’s hand, beginning to reach towards that cloaked figure, but before I could complete the gesture, the cloaked figure shifted and looked down at me. I pulled my hand away swiftly. Asharal’s face was not the one who gazed at me.