The Dryad

by Dante Silva

  The Dryad

  Dante Silva & Vanessa Mozes

  Copyright © 2017 Dante Silva & Vanessa Mozes

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Isis Sousa/Helheimen Design

  Edited by Sarah Collingwood

  Edition: 01

  Also by Dante Silva & Vanessa Mozes

  Exchanged

  Dedication

  For each other, a love letter,

  and for Austen, an old soul.

  Acknowledgments

  We would once again like to give a big thanks to Beckie for her attention to detail. You’re awesome!

  Thank you also to Katie and Austen for not being afraid to be direct with us. Your feedback helped shape the story in subtle but substantial ways.

  Finally, Vanessa is especially grateful to Austen for creating an early concept of the cover when she was barely halfway done writing this story. Thanks again, little brother.

  The Dryad

  JULIAN didn’t have work on the farm that day, thank the merciful gods. He stood in the kitchen doorway, watching his family sit down for breakfast in the dim, predawn light.

  Father shot him a You’d better find work look from the head of the table. Julian glanced at his two older brothers and saw that they were as unexcited as he was. They ate their grains and stared wistfully out the open window, away from the farm. Sure, Julian liked working in town, but it’s not as if he had a choice. He had to follow Father’s orders, no matter how much he liked or disliked them.

  “We have to repair the plow before we can do anything else,” Father said, slicing into a loaf of freshly baked bread. “Three sets of extra hands will be too many for me.”

  I’ll just be in the way. Father didn’t maintain eye contact longer than necessary, focusing instead on his bread and grains. Julian hated being ignored, but that was the price for wanting to spend time learning music. That and Father’s unending disappointment.

  “Join us, Julian,” Mother said, waving him to the last empty chair at the table.

  Julian smiled at his mother and sat down. She passed him a loaf of warm bread that he wasted no time cutting into and eating. The silence hung thick and awkward as everyone chewed their food. Not wanting to invite Father’s criticism, Julian never started conversations during meals.

  Mother’s eyes rested on each of her sons in turn. “You’re looking more like your father every day. Soon you’ll all be old enough to go off on your own.”

  “We look like you too,” Elias, the middle brother, protested. “We’re the only ones in Cloma with your green eyes and darker skin.”

  “There’s no denying whose sons you are,” Father said. “Your mother’s right though. I’d best get you ready to take over the farm. It’s never too early.”

  “Don’t over exaggerate,” Mother scolded. “They’re all perfectly capable, and you have many years left.”

  Capability had nothing to do with taking over. As the youngest, Julian wouldn’t inherit any of Father’s farmland—not that he wanted it—and none of his relatives were interested in him enough to offer work. His best bet was to make a good impression on the people in town and hope that one of them would take him on as an apprentice. If playing music could bring him a steady income, his choice would be made, but being a wandering musician also meant being homeless. As it was, he thought he might be lucky if the blacksmith decided to train him.

  “I suppose you might run into the town girls today,” Zacharai said, not looking up from his plate.

  When no one else answered, Julian glanced about the table and realized the comment was directed at him. He shrugged. “I guess it’s possible.”

  Father clapped Zacharai on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance to visit with those girls soon enough. There’ll be a festival before long. There’s always some ridiculous excuse to have a party in Cloma.”

  Mother’s lips turned down, and Julian struggled to keep his from doing the same. Father didn’t understand why people enjoyed celebrating events by singing, dancing, and playing games. His idea of amusement involved working on the farm for fourteen hours a day and rushing from the house in the dead of night to chase off young lovers trying to sneak into the barn.

  “How else do you expect us to meet anyone?” Elias muttered. “Everyone goes to the festivals.”

  “I understand,” Father said. “You have your eye on a pretty one.”

  Julian didn’t know that pretty town girls existed. He supposed they weren’t that bad, but Mother—with her dark hair and dusky skin—had been the only pretty girl in Cloma for the past twenty years, and Julian hadn’t even been alive that long.

  Besides, he knew some of the girls a bit too well, and he felt awkward whenever he saw them. They reminded Julian of how Father introduced him to young women. The night he turned fourteen, Mother and Father argued when they thought nobody else was listening. Julian hadn’t been able to tell what they were fighting about, but their voices carried enough to let him know that it was an old argument. It wasn’t until the unspeakably awkward experience of Father taking him to a brothel that Julian understood why they’d fought.

  Zacharai thumped his fist on the table. “Meeting a pretty girl isn’t a bad reason to go. Just because you don’t agree with the town’s excuses doesn’t mean you can’t join the celebrating.”

  “I’ve been trying to convince him of that for years,” Mother said, gripping her mug of steaming tea. “If any of you manage to get him to a festival, you can have a day free of farm work.”

  Julian exchanged wide looks with his brothers. Father opened his mouth to speak, but instead he put up a hand and returned to his breakfast. Mother and Zacharai were the only ones who could push matters with Father.

  “Will you be going to the festival?” Elias asked Julian.

  “I suppose that depends on if I have extra money to spend,” Julian said.

  Elias laughed. “We all know you save every last copper. Since you’ll probably go, do you plan on taking anyone with you?”

  Everyone looked at Julian. “I don’t even know when the festival is,” he responded.

  “Less than a fortnight away.”

  Julian smiled. “Maybe one of the girls will ask me.”

  Elias, Zacharai, and Father burst out laughing at the suggestion. Julian didn’t think the possibility was so absurd. After all, hadn’t Mother first approached Father with a song?

  Mother frowned fully. “Ronic, could you begin your repairs? I’ll need to start cleaning now if I’m to have things ready by lunch.”

  “You heard your mother,” Father said, tearing off one last piece of bread as he stood.

  Julian eased his chair away from the table. “I’ll get my things and be off.”

  “Be quick about it. Don’t waste daylight.”

  Making sure to leave the room before rolling his eyes, Julian returned to his bedroom. It was tiny, and he had just enough room to walk around his bed and side table to grab his pack, which had an extra pair of clean clothes, bandages, and other supplies he might need for his odd jobs. His efforts brought him money and security, but that was it. Would there be anything else to his life besides work and sleep?

  Shaking his head and slinging his pack over his shoulder, Julian made his way back to the kitchen. Before he got to the front door, Mother stopped him and gave him a brief hug. He raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  “Don’t listen to your father.” Mother squeezed his arm. “He doesn’t understand the creative soul.”

  “How does he manage to understand you?”

  She shrugged. “He probably doesn’t. Then again, being in love makes you understand things about a person you never thought possible.”

  “I still don’t see why you gave up traveling and music for this.�
� Julian looked around the rustic kitchen with its stained countertops, ceramic oven, and hanging cooking utensils. “If I were in your place, I wouldn’t have.”

  “It’s hard to explain.” Mother crossed her arms and looked over his shoulder. “Do you have my old lyre stashed with your things?”

  Julian put a hand on the strap of his pack. “I always do.”

  “Good. I’m glad one of my sons decided to take an interest in it.”

  “You’d better not say that in front of Elias. He’d learn to play just to spite me.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps, but don’t judge him so harshly. It’s not easy living in Zacharai’s shadow, especially where your father’s concerned.”

  “Oh, I know. I do live in all their shadows.”

  “You have an old soul, Julian,” she said, still smiling. “I know someday you’ll embrace it, and then you’ll live in no one’s shadow.”

  “If that does happen, I promise to learn every song from your homeland there is to know.”

  “Sounds fair.” She passed him a cloth bundle from atop the counter. “Don’t forget your lunch. Now run along.”

  With one more hug, he did.

  THAT night, Julian returned home dirty, sore, and without having practiced his lyre. He’d managed to find work for Syrus, who had Julian place a cobblestone path leading to his front door. Supposedly it was at his wife’s behest, but Julian suspected it was meant to show off how much money the farmer made during the last harvest. Either way, the work paid decently, though Julian gave most of what he made to Father, as was required.

  After dinner and a bath, he fell back onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. His arms and shoulders ached from overuse. So much for my old soul. He hummed a tune and moved his fingers as if he were playing the lyre. How would he ever improve if he didn’t have the time to play? Practicing in his room wasn’t forbidden, but he didn’t want to deal with his father’s and brothers’ comments. He let his hands drop to the bed as his fingers turned to lead, and his worries dimmed as sleep overtook him.

  Julian shifted and raised a hand to rub his eyes. Gray light streamed through the shutter slats, casting pale beams across his face. He stretched stiff muscles and let out a long breath. Morning already? It doesn’t feel like I slept for more than an hour, but it must have been at least seven.

  Groaning and groggy, Julian forced himself to get up and change into fresh clothing. He went to the kitchen for breakfast and was on his way without a word. The sharp, cold air snapped him to his senses, and he rushed into Cloma, hoping the exercise would warm him. He found work moving supplies at the general store, but he looked longingly toward the lush woods every opportunity he had. As he left the store at two o’clock and faced the road out of Cloma, the familiar weight of the lyre shifted in his pack.

  Why not? I never got to practice yesterday, and I deserve a bit of time to relax.

  People, some unfamiliar and some old friends, darted around him in a hurry to reach the market stalls or lackluster shops. The chatter of conversation and the clopping of horse hooves gave him no peace of mind. Julian strode through the crowds to the grassy expanse beyond the bustle and plunged into the woods, sighing as the sounds of Cloma faded into nothingness.

  Finally, he was someplace comfortable. He trailed his hands across the bark of the ash trees and inhaled deeply. This was his favorite place to go when he needed to escape. It wasn’t something he could do often, as Father scrutinized the amount of coin he brought home, but it was one of the few places he could practice his lyre in peace.

  Julian wandered for a short time and enjoyed the quiet. He’d escaped into the woods infrequently over the past few years, but he knew the area well enough not to get lost, assuming he didn’t travel too far. A breeze swept through the trees, ruffling his tunic, and a faint melodic sound reached him, almost too quiet to hear. He paused. It was coming from the north, deeper into the woods.

  Confused and a bit curious, he walked toward it. As he quietly stepped through the grass, he could tell that someone was singing. A woman’s soft soprano grew clearer as he continued. Could it be Mother? No, she sang well, but she was usually at home preparing dinner at this time. It couldn’t be any of the town girls either. Crows sang better than they did.

  The woods became less familiar as he followed the sound, but he was almost certain he could return home without trouble. The voice led him to a copse where the trees shimmered a luminescent green. He stared in amazement at the intense coloring and the way it pulsed to the beat of the song. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. He stepped to the edge of the tree line and placed his hand against the rough bark of the oak next to him.

  Inside the copse, a young woman sang and tiptoed over the mossy roots of a large oak tree. Her bare feet swung forward in fluid arches, tickling blades of grass. Julian blinked, shook his head, then blinked again. Strange. Green hair flowed in thick waves over her viridian shoulders and down her slim, bark-clad form. Long, pointed ears pierced the tresses that framed her small, circular face. Is she an elf? No, he had never heard of an elf having green hair or green skin.

  Her foreign song changed to a faster tempo, and she raised her arms to spin in delight. She leapt through the air and brushed the oak with her fingertips, landing with a twirl. Shifting her weight, she glided past the trunk, swiping at it again. Each time her fingers met bark, the branches of the tree stretched higher, and the leaves became fuller and greener. Julian’s mouth fell open. He could hardly believe it. She was a dryad.

  It had been easy to mistake her for an elf. Stories about elves said that they were graceful people with the most wonderful song and dance. The woman in the copse was all that and more. He’d heard a rare traveler speak of dryads and how they protected the woods and could charm their enemies. He knew they could encourage plants to grow, but he’d never imagined anything like this.

  The dryad danced behind the oak and disappeared from Julian’s view. He slowly stepped to the side to keep looking, but as he caught sight of her, a twig cracked under his boot.

  With a gasp, the dryad turned and looked at him. Before he knew what he was doing, Julian reached out a hand. “Wait!”

  She ran behind the oak. Julian stepped into the copse and rounded the still tree. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  There was no dryad to be found or singing to be heard. Julian walked around the oak, its glow fading. “Are you still here?”

  Quiet moments passed, and he realized she wouldn’t return. Regretfully, Julian sighed and left the clearing. As he wandered back to the familiar part of the woods, he stopped and turned to look over his shoulder now and again, straining to hear a melody on the breeze. There was nothing, save the chirping of jays and the rustling of foxes.

  Julian picked a tree to sit under, opened his pack, and pulled out his mother’s old lyre. He hummed the tune the dryad had sung. It was so different from Mother’s old songs. What language had she been speaking? Not the common one that everyone else spoke. It had been soft and melodic, much like her voice. Gently, he plucked the strings of the instrument with his smooth, tortoiseshell plectrum, trying to replicate her song.

  AFTER his plectrum slipped on the strings three times, Julian stretched and saw the darkening sky. He returned the old lyre to his pack with care. Father was bound to realize that Julian hadn’t made enough money to equal his long absence. He didn’t know how he was going to explain his way out of this situation, but he didn’t have much choice. He ran back to the farm, hoping to make up for lost time.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, Julian walked into the house. “I’m home.”

  Father, Zacharai, and Elias lounged in their chairs at the table, exhausted, a layer of dirt dusting them from head to toe. Mother glanced up from a steaming pot of food and smiled. “You’ve had quite the long day yourself, I see.”

  Julian did his best to smile and pass off being tired from his run as being tired from a long day’s work. “Yes, but it wasn’t as hard
as working on Syrus’s cobblestones yesterday.”

  Father didn’t greet him or ask questions. He simply waited with patient expectancy. Julian walked to the table and fought down his anxiety and disappointment. I guess you never get used to some things.

  Without a word, he dropped most of the coin he’d made at the general store into Father’s palm. Julian wiped his sweaty hands on the back of his tunic, certain his pounding heart could be heard throughout the kitchen. Father shifted the coins in his hand as Julian took a seat at the table.

  “Not as much as yesterday,” Father said, counting the coins.

  Julian shrugged. “Syrus pays better than anyone else in town.”

  Father stared at the coins a few moments longer before giving Zacharai and Elias a cut of copper and pocketing the rest. Julian let out a slow exhale and poured himself some water. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he saw Zacharai staring at him suspiciously. Julian nodded to his oldest brother and returned to his water. Beside him, Elias held out a weary hand to Mother. “Do you need help with that?”

  Mother tutted, using a thick cloth to grasp the edges of the pot and bring it to the table. “You four have worked enough today.”

  She sat and led them through a blessing in the deep tones of her native tongue before serving portions. Julian spoke the Ferassi language about as well as a two-year-old, but hearing its melody and rhythm gave him nostalgia for a coastal land he’d never seen. The memory of a crisp, fresh breeze carrying a different melody lingered in his mind. He hid a smile behind his hand as he recalled his afternoon in the woods. Where had the dryad come from? Had her song been some kind of spell? There was no other explanation for how the oak had grown and glowed. The questions looped in his mind without answer while the image of her dance ceased to fade.

  JULIAN quickly made his way through the woods, trying to find the copse. Luck was on his side today. Not only had he found work with Syrus again, but the pay for planting a garden had been even better than the pay for completing the cobblestone path. Someday, Julian would have to thank Syrus for his generosity. He ducked under a low-hanging branch and scanned the sun-dappled terrain, nervous excitement swirling in his stomach.