Myran
A Tale of The Four Worlds
Angela J. Ford
Copyright © 2017 by Angela J. Ford
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
www.TheFourWorldsSeries.com
Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Myran/ Angela J. Ford
ISBN-13: 978-1548369767
ISBN-10: 1548369764
May you find that wild thing called “hope.”
Contents
Flame
History
Choices
Small Beginnings
Goodbye
Fifteen
The Vast Unknown
Lightening Vision
That Which Comes
Midnight Conversations
A Wild Thing Called Hope
Years
Resistance
Young Ones
A Tale
Embrace
Halender
Mesmerized
What Love Built
923
Fire from Flame
Epilogue
CHAPTER ONE
Flame
Maybe she had known all along what the end would be like, what it felt like for him to walk away. The end of all that had been worked for, had finally come. She knew he was traveling into certain death, there was no doubt, yet a sharp shard of hope gleamed in her heart. Maybe he was the One after all; maybe he was the answer to all the songs the young world had poured forth in its unequivocal oppression. Maybe she had raised him to be strong enough and determined enough. But she knew she hadn't. Her love and protection were all he knew. This would be his failure; he was not built for loneliness.
As she watched his lone shadow disappear behind a hill, she reached out a hand, as if to preserve the memory. With a sudden pang, she found her way back inside and sat down heavily on one of the decrepit wooden chairs. So it was over, and now her memory took her back to the beginning of what seemed to be a dream of joy in a world determined to crush all...
***
“Myran!” The voice was not so much demanding as delightfully scolding. “Don't splash water all over the floor; you'll have to clean it up, dear.”
I tried to hold the water pitcher higher, but my five-year-old arms were too short. “Mama, it's so full.” I laughed.
Mother smiled at me, dimples dipping into her round cheeks. She wiped her flour-white arms on her apron and smoothed back her dark blond hair before taking the water jug from me.
“There, my little one, go set the table.” She held the water jug against her belly and watched me, a proud light shining out of her eyes. I knew she loved me; I was her only daughter, her only child, a striking mix of her and my father. She smiled as I strained to reach the table. My waist-long, brown hair kept falling into my face, but I was laughing. I was happy. Mother promised me a treat after the last meal, and I know it would be a hot, rich cake—my first taste of the delightful delicacy. Long had it been denied, and long had it been demanded.
My father strode into the one-room hut, humming a tune and winking at me as he took in the scene. He drifted toward Mother, sliding his arms around her waist. He pressed his lips into her neck as she sank into his embrace. They cut a pretty picture, and if I had known, I would have turned around and taken everything in: the way my father was only an inch or two taller than my mother and how they were both Crons—the people group characterized by light hair, short stature, and adventurous in heart. My father's blond hair stood straight up, and his piercing blue eyes gleamed in pride. My mother’s rounded features adding a tenderness to her face. They were strong, and they loved me. I knew this as they watched me, and every move I made was intentional, acknowledging how much they loved me.
Much later, when the sun had darkened the forest so those creatures of the wood could begin their midnight rituals, I sat in my mother's lap, falling asleep while she played with my hair. All three of us were relaxed on the bed. Father held mother; mother held me. Through the clouds of sleep, I heard father. His deep words were muffled and blurred into the music of mother humming. Slowly, I drifted away into a land where the sun shines its warm rays on sleeping children, and when you wake, there are always sweet cakes to eat and nothing to do all day other than dance under the shady trees. I dreamed of colors shifting, and I saw a rainbow falling; it was about to crash on my head. My sharp cry of fear woke me.
Instantly my mother’s hand covered my mouth, and she whispered a few soothing words in my ear, which tickled like butterfly wings. I looked around with sleep-dazed eyes; the candles were still lit, diminishing the sharp edges of the darkness. My father stood at the window, staring out. Almost as if he did not want to be seen. Almost as if he feared what he might see. That's when I heard it: the faint thundering, coming nearer all the time. It was the galloping that inspired the fear in my dream and the cruel shouting that scared me awake. As the dimensions of the sound increased, my father turned to my mother with a warning and a hint of fear in his deep voice. “They are coming.” That was all he said.
The pressure of my mother's hand tightened for a minute. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me away from the bed. She took me across the room to a large chest. It was about my height and full of quilts, which she pulled out as quickly as possible. One she wrapped one around me, she lifted me up and placed me inside the chest. She looked at my eyes, large and wondering, and I looked into hers. They were darker, attempting to hide the fear. “No matter what you hear and no matter what happens, don't come out. Lie down, and go to sleep. Sleep well, my little one. Have no dreams, no thoughts, and no worries. Remember, don't come out.” She searched my eyes to make sure that I understood, and I nodded, too confused to do more than obey. Mother kissed me on the forehead. Then, as I snuggled down in the depths of the chest, she pulled the cover over me, and I sank into darkness.
It was not a silent darkness, except for those first few minutes when it was silent as death. I couldn't even hear myself breathing. I don't know that I was. I don't remember when I ever drew a breath again without shaking all over. After the silence, there came the terribleness: the pounding on the door, the sounds of splintering and cracking, the determined yelling and shouting, the sound of steel clashing, furniture falling, and then the death screams—blood-chilling and horrible. Finally, it was dark and soundless, except for my body shaking with sobs of fear. How long I lay there, I don't know. It must have been hours before I, forgetting what my mother had said, pushed away the top of the chest and stood. It took a little while for my eyes to adjust; all was dark except one candle, still burning in the intense blackness. I looked and saw the floor strewn with candles, dishes, food, ripped clothes, and pieces of the chairs and table. I saw blood caked everywhere and the eyes of my mother and father, wide in their death stare. No one had to tell me. I stood frozen with tears streaming down my face. I knew. I knew who. I knew the reason. Most of all, I knew fear.
Nothing was real. All was dark and cold, and the only things affected by time were the candle and I. It continued to burn, regardless of how dire the circumstances. I stood—unaware of how cold I was, unaware of how tightly I was clutching the quilt, and unaware of the tears that refused to stop. Time continued to fly by, first in minutes, then in hours, and finally in days, which only amounted to three. I did not know hunger or thirst or pain; all I felt was grief ripping me apart.
On the third day, she came,
as if she knew I was there, waiting for her. She was tall, a giant to my young eyes. She was pale green and dressed in a color that shimmered and danced and hurt my eyes. She glided in through the broken door and past the candle. Her slight wind turned it over. Through glazed eyes, I saw the small flame take to the floor, at first slowly, as if tasting its' feel for burning, and then faster, licking up the death and despair. The lady did not even appear to notice. She headed straight for me, lifted up her arms, and pulled me into them, quilt and all. And then she ran with me, leaving my home, my childhood, and all my dreams burning behind me.
***
“Child,” an unfamiliar voice whispered. It seemed far away. “You shall be like the candle, like the flame, because of you, this world will be raging, and this evil will be brought to terms, judged, and destroyed...”
Chapter TWO
History
I lived in the Four Worlds, down south in a large landmass called the South World. It was divided into east and west by the Jaded Sea. I used to live in the land of Truemonix with my parents until that dreadful night, which scarred me for life and caused me to wonder about the reasoning behind incomprehensible brutality. Born in 900, a time of fear and oppression, I grew up during the terrible reign of Magdela the Monrage. The years seemed as if they would stretch infinitely onward. The dark power was strong. Their fortresses were invincible, and their allies great and terrible. There were two sides to this conflict: the White Steeds and the Black Steeds. To explain this story, one goes back to the beginning to time. There were always talking animals, four people groups, and strange “wild things” or creatures of the wood. Then there were those who choose their way: to rule and wreak havoc on anything that got in their way. There were also those who kept the peace, who looked out for others and made sure no one got trampled on. Those two concepts were taken to the extreme, and sides were chosen. It all started with the white horses and black horses. Since then all the animals, people groups, and creatures of the wood declared themselves as either Black Steeds or White Steeds.
Magdela the Monrage was once a creature of the wood, a beautiful Green Person, who was confused by the White Steeds and Black Steeds and their goals. She could not understand who was ultimately right and where the decisions would lead. Then the Black Steeds took hold of her and led her down the death road. She not only became one of them, but she went far and above. She dove deep into the black evil, which consumes those who learned how to practice its arts. From there, she took over the entire South World and ruled through fear. She determined that it was best to completely wipe out the population of White Steeds and all who might have the slightest desire to oppose her. She set up the terrible Three to make sure her rule was strictly enforced and to continue campaigns of massacre. Then, in 910, when I was ten years old, Magdela the Monrage was brought to trial for her double-dealing and treachery. The Black Steeds, her own subjects, sentenced her to a witless life out in the wild and devouring woods of the Eastern World. Without her, the Black Steeds should have fallen, but the Three kept fear alive. They viciously suppressed the White Steeds until, little by little, the White Steeds separated from each other and hid, not only from the Black Steeds, but from one another, until they were few and far between. If one went wandering far and wide, to meet a White Steed would be a rare honor.
My father and mother were White Steeds. We lived in hiding on the edge of Truemonix, close to the mysterious forest of Shimla, the place where Magdela the Monrage had emerged and the home of all the creatures of the wood. It was a wild place, a lost place. No one knew its secrets. To enter was to encourage certain death: wandering and starvation in the woods. For no “wild thing” could be found lest they wished it. I suppose my parents thought if we lived a day’s walk away from Shimla and closer to a small town in Truemonix, we would be safe from raids. But in 905, even before Magdela the Monrage was gone and before the rule of the Black Steeds was tightened, my parents met their end, and I lost every shred of hope and courage. One night defined my life, defined my world and the world of those around me. I lived in a world of fear, and the wild hope for One to rise up and save us all.
CHAPTER THREE
Choices
Dreams are vague, yet sometimes they overlap into reality until one wakes. I always thought I could wake up, and often I wished I would, to the familiar scent of my mother and the deep voice of my father rumbling on. With the lady, everything was foreign, from her accented voice and the rations of food she pressed into my mouth to the warm, green surroundings that smelled moist and heavy. Surprisingly, I did not cry or struggle; fear should have been the ultimatum, but I only looked at her through my large, round eyes. I did not trust her. How could I know what this gentle giant wanted as she ran on with me? It may have been an instinct. I did not think she meant to harm me, but then again, how could I be sure? How could I know what she would do with me, especially in this war-torn world? How could I know?
***
Shifting colors of the forest blurred through my eyesight, I did not care, and I did not wonder. Most of that short journey was lost in my grief. I recalled, days later, the boundaries of the forest left far behind. We reached a place that appeared more permanent, and finally, the lady set me down.
At first, it was strange to feel the long blades of grass and smaller clumps of dirt and rock under my bare feet. I continued to clutch the quilt. My hair was stringy and in my face. My cheeks were tear-stained and most likely smeared with dirt. Outwardly I moved, yet inwardly my thoughts were still frozen in unspeakable grief. Then, I did not have realized the full weight of what I had lost. My mind took it in while my physical form stood under the enormous leaves that filtered sunlight. A bed of furry moss was a few feet away, desperately trying to cover the mud lying in a creek bed. The creek was higher than normal for that time; it kept lapping at the moss before continuing its slow progress eastward.
“Child,” called the lady. “Come wash.” I turned to examine her. For the few moments I observed the forest, she had also stood, but intent and alert before she relaxed. I did not think about it at that time, yet I assumed giants would know more than me. Maybe she wasn't a giant, but for me, six-and-a-half feet seemed as tall as a tree. Now I had my chance to scrutinize her. Her ears were abnormally large; her eyes were a pale color, taking on the shade of the world. Her long, wavy hair appeared colorless except it took on a hint of sunlight at all times, setting a glow on her pale green skin. She seemed more at home outside in the forest, and her coloring did not hurt my eyes as much. She held out a long, slender hand to me. I walked a few steps towards her, but I was slightly confused. She had to unwrap the quilt from around me and pry it out of my tightly clasped hands. She gently lifted me out of my dress and scrubbed me clean in the cold water of the creek. Finally, she wrapped me in the quilt again and sank onto the ground, where she held me in her lap and untangled my long, wet hair. “Child, what is your name?” she asked, gently massaging my head.
I shook my head. It wasn't that I did not want her to know; I just could not produce sound. It seemed too tiresome to open my mouth and let sound escape. “You may call me ‘Lady.’ Do not fear child; I am here to protect you.” Protection, whatever that was, I only wanted my parents and the snug, one-room house. I fell asleep.
***
Once again it was dark when I opened my eyes, and I could see lights. They seemed to float with no worries of falling or extinguishing. I was still in the arms of the lady. She was stroking my back, and the smooth, fluid motions almost made me want to drift to sleep again. I closed my eyes, but not before I could tell there were more giants about: some were sitting, some were standing, maybe some were holding lights, and maybe there was a whole tribe of them in the trees. They seemed like trees: all pale and tall with breezy hair.
“This is the child,” the lady said, almost as if she had to present a case and almost as if she were asking for protection and not rejection. “They found her family and destroyed them. She, hidden and alone, was the one
who remained...”
“What you are asking is impossible,” a male interrupted. His voice would have sounded harsh if it had not been beautiful and sounded more upset than angry. “You know we cannot let mortals in. The world of immortals must continue this way, as it has been for years. With this request, small as it is, you could bring about the ruin of all that we have worked for: this secrecy and safety...”
“Which is why I am asking. It is exactly what is needed. Do you know the future of this child? Do you see the potential as I see it?”
“I know what you speak of.” The voice was now a warning. “But do you realize what that means? It will be another fifty years of waiting. Time is running out; the Black Steeds are on the move, and in fifty years, there might not be any White Steeds. There will be no hope at all. Do not ask this of us. It will cost more than you know. They find mortals much easier than us immortals, you know this.” Now the voice was pleading.
“You would throw out all hope.” the lady said, “You refuse to risk your life. By this small act, we risk ours, yet eventually, we shall gain so much more. Do you not realize...”
“No!” the other voice suddenly barked. “No, us creatures of the wood are not meant to take over for the mortals and fight their battles for them. We can offer safety and protection for a time, but not like this.”
“Have you forgotten who sprang from our midst?” the lady suddenly demanded violently. “Have you forgotten the pain and suffering endured for that? Now tell me how you can stand there and say we do not take up for the mortals, not in their battles, when clearly this is about all of us, mortals and immortals, for once. If we cannot offer help to the one who might save us all, what good are we for this world? What use is there for us? If our task is finished and if our people are protected, build the ships and let us sail away! There is no use if our people are already protected. But what if, by this small chance, we can help to save the world, our world? We are as much a part of it as any mortal.”
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