CHAPTER NINE
That Which Comes
Daylight sent its shafted streams through the forest, yet it was lost on me. The forest was closed, and the shadows were fixed far from me; I was out in the world, unsure, in open meadows and wild lands. Two days had taken my flight through the forest out of the trees and the domain of the wild creatures of the wood. I stood maybe ten feet from that shaded world and watched the golden hue of the grass. It bowed to me by the gracefulness of the wind. Dark smudges on the horizon suggested clumps of trees in front of me, but the rest of the field was open, refreshingly freeing, and yet my feet did not want to move onward. I stood, frozen. Freedom of this sort was foreign to me, and I was not exactly sure what to do with it. My mind had only looked so far ahead as to see an escape and plan to reach the fortress, but as to how was left hopelessly blank. In truth, the world did lie before me, unexplored by these eyes, yet the directions I had pointed east to the sea. I wished my feet knew how to reach my destination for my mind left me incompetent.
Slowly, as if were a bird leaving the nest for the first time, eager to take wing yet hesitant, I shuffled forward, north a bit. Then my feet, deciding which adventure I would find myself twisted up in next, dragged me eastward, keeping to the line of the woods. Only then, moving forward, I found out how anxiously my heart was beating and how I kept wishing, reaching for something tangible. All escaped me and floated away on the keen wind, leaving me with nothing. Nothing but life and the air I breathed.
My mind never suggested to me the words “lost” and “alone,” but I could feel them impending, pounding deep within my quick-paced footsteps and the rhythmic beating of my heart. Little did I know I was leaving the safe forests of Shimla for the wilder lands of Truemonix, places where the Black Steeds did not fear to tread and wreck havoc. There was nothing sacred outside of the forest.
When I heard the thunder, I should not have been surprised. What was I to expect? My guardians were protecting me no more. I was on my own, and there, once again, was the dreaded thunder. One moment I was advancing, quickly covering ground, and the next I was in shock. One minute I was conscious of nothing, not even the familiar movement of the world and the unfamiliar rustles of the open fields; the next, I was paralyzed because of the terrible thunder. This time it wasn't a waterfall. This time it wasn't a messenger bringing good news. It was the true horrible thunder, perhaps the same that had taken the lives of my parents, and perhaps it was going to take me now. Even as this thought escaped my mind, threads of common sense wafted passed my tensing nerves. No one was going to hold me this time and tell me all will be well and all is safe. No one was going to hide me or risk his or her life for my sake. The bitter tang of loneliness stung me. My feet, once riveted to the ground, now rose and ran, fleeing to the safety of the forest, where there was a sacredness that hides one beneath its arrogant boughs.
Once the clammy taste of fear subsided and I was covered by the bewitching twists of leafy branches, I grew brave enough to watch, carefully hidden by my screen, and see what action the thunder would take. I expected to see black horses with red eyes and riders with swords of steel, glistening with dark crimson blood in the sunlight. I thought at least a dozen would be pounding my way, creating a trail of death and destruction, wiping out the population of White Steeds as they went. Did my eyes dare deceive me? I was in for a rude awakening.
Two gray horses were galloping my way. Their riders were dressed in a light brownish color with no signs of blood or hints of death and destruction. Even as they neared, their horses were slowing down to a trot, and I could hear the loud, rough sounds of the common language. They were both males. One of them was short of stature with light hair, and the other was tall and lanky with long, dark hair. I knew enough to assume that they were most likely White Steeds, yet I did not know enough to differentiate between Crons and Tiders. Then, I did not know the smaller one was a Cron—one of the adventurous people, who, for all their courage, tend to be the shorter and fairer. Nor did I know the taller one with the long hair was a Tider—one of those who are tall in height, quiet in manner, and sometimes can be quite elusive for they tend to dwell in hills and mountains.
No clues dawned upon me as I watched from my hiding place. The smaller male called out, “I think we lost them.” After listening to the Iaen and their melodious intones, his voice sounded almost boisterous.
“We should press on,” the other male replied. His voice was calmer and quieter.
“You're right, who knows when they might pounce upon us again? We still have quite some ways to go before we reach the fortress though. We might want to find a hiding place before nightfall comes on, just in case they are still on our trail,” the smaller one went on.
“The forest provides safety as well as peril for us,” replied the other one.
“Ah,” the smaller one paused, and then he suddenly rose in his saddle and turned to stare intensely at the forest. He looked so intensely that, for a moment, I thought he might discover my hiding place. “No, can it be true? Are we passing the renowned forests of the ‘wild things,’ the hiding place of those creatures of the wood? Aye, that I should see this place that is the heart of many songs. Do you think we should be lucky enough to catch sight of one of them in all their glory? Life as we know it would become worthless, I would think.”
“Aye, that it would, yet we should not venture into their lair of tangled mazes and mysteries...”
“And why not?” the smaller one retorted. He clearly had his head in the clouds and was off on a tangent. “Why should we not waste our lives chasing after hidden beauties? Either way, we will die, most likely be killed, by this way or by Black Steeds. If I must encounter death, I will it to be this way and let it be my choice rather than die by a brutal massacre.”
“You speak truth, my friend, yet, influenced as I am by your words, we must live on to escape these terrors. We must survive long enough to warn the others, and then we may do what we will.”
The smaller one sighed. “Your wise words ring true,” he agreed.
At that moment, they passed under my tree, and I saw their wild, haunted faces and their strong, lean bodies, hardened by travel and flight. One thought crossed my mind as they passed: they were headed to the fortress. I stealthily climbed down from my haven and flitted in and out of the trees, following in their wake.
***
Fortunately for me, the males rode close to the forest, leaving me a secure hiding place. Only, horses are harder to keep up with on foot, and the thickly-laced trees were forever hindering my progress. If I had not been raised by the Iaen and knew their secret ways of gliding with ease through woods, I would not have made it. As it was, I barely managed to keep the horses in sight. Every so often, they would disappear, and I would risk all to leave the woods and chase after them. To me, the horses and their riders were a hope that I would live to see better days. At least through them, I would reach the fortress and finally be reunited with my people. Yet as dusk fell, my sight was blurred, and I completely lost my temporary saviors. All that was left for me was to limp on—tired, hungry, and discouraged. My pouch of food, given to me by Luthín, was emptying. I was not used to such rough travel.
My solitude deepened as the shadows grew longer and then melted into the thickening air. The forest became strangely silent. I was unused to this quality of unfriendly woods, and a cold chill of fear spread over my sore limbs. Even only twenty-four hours later, I felt miserable and sorry for myself. When I found a semi-hidden hollow, I curled into its welcoming leaves and tried to sleep away my misery.
***
When morning dawned, I almost did not rise. What better than to wither away in my hole of self-pity? Yet something inside of me refused to let go. I believed I'd been saved from my parents’ fate for some reason; some stubbornness deep inside got me to my feet and forced me to scale a nearby tree to take in my surroundings. Ahead of me and to the east, by a nearby clump of trees, I could just make out two dappled horse
s and two figures that must be the males. Slowly they were rising and stretching, and taking advantage of their sluggish movements, I quickly wiggled out of the tree to the ground and lit off in their direction.
***
So followed the days of chasing, hiding, and—worst of all—losing my guides because horses are impossible to keep up with if one is on foot. I took to leaving the woods more often, for the trees hindered my progress. I traveled stealthily through night and day, only taking rest for scarily a few hours. I grew tired, bone-weary, thin, and most intensely hungry. The open field offered no food; there was nothing except long stalks of grass, which was a refreshing cushion to my aching feet. Yet after a while, I could not even feel that small relief anymore. Now I realized my folly in forsaking the Iaen, but I was too stubborn to turn back and taste the cold arrogance of that mystic world. There was no looking back now; my past was swallowed up in the untraceable secrets of the trees.
Even though my path kept me near to the forest, the trees seemed dark, unfriendly, and, at times, dangerous. I ventured farther away from them into a land of blue skies, stretching onward with fair breezes whispering thoughts I had yet to understand. Despite the nameless beauties of the world, fear had its hand on all things. It was the fear of those black horses and their dark riders, swooping down to kill us all. This was the only reason my feet were fleet, spurring me on to the place of safety, where all would be well, at least, that is what I hoped. For hope was the only thing one can trust after a while. Hope is the secure grasp which holds one when all else is falling. Hope is the only reason to keep living when all have forsaken one. Hope is the reason to keep looking forward when the past is disappointing; maybe the future will not be quite as bleak. The cold irony of hope though is that it keeps one always believing, and yet, maybe all is in shambles, and this life will never grow better.
***
Life is not fair. This is a simple fact. For some people, their choices determine the means to an end, yet for everyone, a different story is written. Maybe life is not effected much by choices; maybe nothing is certain. Everything is on a scale, tipped by the winds of fate. Yet for me, the road I took was first thrust upon me, and then I chose.
***
I caught a distinct and strange scent in the air. It smelled rich and hearty, and I knew it was something edible. Someone was cooking up some delicious food, even in the middle of nowhere. I limped forward eagerly, my hunger-glazed eyes trying to make out the distance. On the horizon was a dark smudge of trees. I judged that the people cooking food were there, and I directed my exhausted body that way. I was too tired to wonder or to even care if it was the enemy or my guides, who had been lost to me for the past twenty-four hours. I was ravenous, and the hunger filled my mind, pounded my head, ripped up my insides, and begged for the least bit of nourishment. This smell would make the pain go away, and I hurried as best I could.
By the time I reached the grove of trees, the sun was already gently transferring its light to the moon, which sulkily, more often than not, decided not to shine on an already dark world. I did not even have to use my skills to glide silently through the trees, peeping out every so often to catch sight of a small, lazy cloud of smoke drifting and blending into the treetops. The delicious smell was overpowering. I swayed dizzily for a minute. My mind had moved on to tasting, skipping over how to grasp this meal for myself.
Involuntarily, I kept moving forward until I saw them, my two guides, the smaller one and the longer one, sitting cross-legged in front of a small fire surrounded by stones. They roasted large slabs of meat on their sticks, every so often saying a few short words to one another, and then thoughtfully gazed off into the calm, spring air. I could see the juice dripping from the meat, making the fire sizzle and spark. I could almost taste the heat. I opened my mouth and promptly tripped on a jutting branch. I sprawled onto the ground and, realizing how much noise I made, I slowly stood up, shaking underbrush from my hair and clothes. When I looked up, the two males were openly staring at me in shock. I looked back into their bright eyes. I was startled and afraid.
CHAPTER TEN
Midnight Conversations
When their initial shock wore off, I realized that I had come too far, and it was far too late to turn back now. I had fallen in with two males who were headed to the fortress and deemed it necessary to waste a day cooking the most delicious looking food I had ever seen. Being raised with the Green People, I had not had meat since my parents were murdered. The sight of it sent memories dancing, but first, the males had to be attended to.
The smaller one was openly gaping. There was a light in his eyes, almost as if he had discovered a mystery. His mouth was hanging open, and if my mind had not been so concentrated on food, I would have wondered if he would start drooling. The other simply froze and fixed his dark, round eyes on me, and I stood, half behind a tree and half out in the open. I had taken a tentative step towards them, but their gazes checked me, and I was unsure of what to do next.
The small one, his white-blond hair standing on end, was the first one to speak. “Are you one of them?'” His voice was hushed in awe. “Are you one of the ‘wild things’?”
I was too wary of strangers to speak. I shook my head.
“What are you then? A ghost of the past? Please, harm us not,” the small one then continued, and I saw that fear was beginning to spread across his face.
If I had not been so weary, maybe I would have laughed at the absurdness of it all. How could I be a wild spirit come to torment two travelers? Perhaps in this strange world, especially in the east where I lived, anything was possible, but this small one's imagination was too much. “I am a Cron,” I said finally after a moment of fearful silence. “Myran, the Cron.”
The silent one looked from his friend to me in astonishment. In light of his friend’s shock, he stood, towering almost a foot above me. “I am sorry for our poor manners,” he stated. "I am Halender the Tider, and this is my friend, Leon the Cron. We are but poor wanderers from the west on our way to the fortress of the White Steeds."
I nodded and, words failing me once more, pointed to their food. “Ah, you must be hungry,” Halender said and offered me his portion of meat.
Like a young wild one, I ripped it off the stick and tore into the meat, which sizzled and burned me. My hunger was too deep. I waited for the feeling of fullness while the Tider sat back down and his friend, the Cron, tried to regain his tongue. Slowly I sank to the ground, exhaustion overwhelming my need for food. I finished off the last tasty bits of the slab of meat, and before my stomach could revolt against the large portion it was unused to, I felt my eyes closing. “I am sorry,” I apologized to the travelers because my actions were certainly of the rudest kind. “I am sorry.” Then my eyes closed, and I slept.
***
The stars were out when I woke, and I guessed it to be around the middle of the night. I still lay on the ground, the grass cushioning my body, and there was warmth. I turned and noticed I lay close to the fire. It was burning softly now, getting to the point where it would simply be a pile of coals. The Cron and the Tider still sat around it somewhere between wakefulness and slumber. I couldn't help but wonder about the companions I'd fallen in with and if they would be so kind as to take me along, or if they would be satisfied to leave me behind. After all, I had acted in an unusually rude manner, scaring them and taking their food, which they probably worked hard to catch and cook. I wanted to tell them I meant no harm, and I hoped they meant me none either. Yet I was shy of conversing with them. It is one thing to talk with creatures of the wood and another to talk with my own kind. I suppose they would think the opposite. I could not forget the look on their faces when they first saw me.
Slowly I sat up, trying not to scare the two again. They both sat up a little straighter from their reclining positions and turned, almost warily, to watch me. Neither felt like saying the first word; this mess was all up to me. “I am sorry,” I started, the darkness chastening my words. “I did n
ot mean to come and steal your food; I was just tired and hungry.” I was not ready to own up to my following them. “Who are you and where do you come from?”
“We are…” The Cron paused. "Hesitant to answer such questions because we have an in-depth history regarding the purpose of our lives, our destination and our place of departure. Only, tell us, are you one of the White Steeds?"
“Yes,” I responded, seeing that we must learn to trust one another since we had the same destination. “I was raised by White Steeds.”
“Ah,” said the Cron. He looked at his friend, and they nodded. “Then you understand. We joined the ranks of White Steeds when we were young and have suffered for it by the destruction of all we know. We herald from the west, where the lands are rough, wild, and not filled with beauty such as this. It is a relief for us to be here, far from the dark cruelties, yet we found we still must seek shelter. We are destined to the fortress not only for safety and protection but to warn those of the apparent evils that are unseen yet are felt more forcefully in the west.” Suddenly the Cron broke off and shuddered.
I wondered what the two were running from. I thought of asking the Tider for, from listening to one of their previous conversations, the Cron had such a grandiose way of talking, and the Tider used simpler words and stated the truth in a way I could understand.
The Tider reached out and touched his friend's shoulder as if to comfort him, yet I could sense that he, too, was shaken. “What are you running from?” I asked, hardly daring to breathe. I suddenly forgot about my selfish concerns and began to wonder if these brave two had escaped torture and certain death from the Black Steeds. I started to feel that we were quite like each other, and although our stories took place at different places, they held similar backgrounds.
Myran Page 6
