THE NAMELESS ONE
Written by: Lily Adile Lamb
Edited by: Brad Vance
Book Cover: Shayla Mist
All Rights Reserved. This story may not be sold, changed or reproduced in any format without the writer’s written permission upon your written request.
This story is a total fiction from the writer’s overworked imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is nothing less than an amazing miracle, so it is entirely coincidental and beyond what the writer intended.
Contents
DEDICATION
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
EPILOGUE
DEDICATION
Where would I be without my husband, who gives me the time and the space to write my stories?
No one would read and enjoy my stories without my editor, Brad Vance, who also happens to be a wonderful author. Thank you, Brad, for your endless support, assistance, teaching and encouragement.
I am still that “new kid” on the block, busy learning and growing slowly. I thank all those who support me and wish me well… Thank you.
Elizabeth Tabary-Collins, Ann Mickan and Ian Mitchell, you are treasures and wonderful beta readers.
Chapter One
Once upon a time, there was a small village, well hidden in an enchanted forest at the foot of an enchanted mountain. People who lived nearby knew about the inhabitants, because they heard their voices from time to time, but no one walked into the forest, and none came out of the forest apart from one old woman. She always wore a thick and tattered robe with a large hood that made her face almost impossible to see. Outsiders assumed she was an old woman, because she shuffled around, using a stick to support herself.
Even if someone wanted to visit the village, they couldn’t, because both the mountain and the forest prevented outsiders from coming close to the village. It was just as well, because the outsiders never wanted to enter, as they knew that inside the forest was the result of their dirty deeds long since past, and who wanted to face that misery anyway?
The forest was dense and dark with tall and gnarly trees, but what frightened outsiders and passing travelers most was the shape of the trees. One of them looked like a gnarly monster, about to jump on anyone that came close. Then there was the one that resembled a rabid snarling dog. Each tree’s appearance fed the outsiders’ imagination, their grotesque faces shaped as if they’d walked out of Hell to be the guardians of the forest and its inhabitants. Poison ivy clung to the trees and rocks like a giant hideous cape, the bushes twining together, preventing anyone from passing through without being torn by the nettles springing from them.
The old woman wasn’t unfriendly toward anyone, but people still did their best to avoid her, because they thought she was a witch. Whenever she was in the town, she shuffled around the merchants and the market, buying cotton cloth, wool or candy sticks.
People shuddered when they watched the nettles and the poison ivy open the way for the old woman to pass through. Whenever they saw her, they whispered to each other in fascination and fear that she must be the guardian of the forest. How the otherwise frightening trees suddenly looked joyful, that she was returning home like a long lost friend! Why, even the birds sang on her return! What they didn’t realize was that while she would shuffle and hunch outside the forest, she would regain her strength and youth upon her return. But, the less that outsiders knew about that, the better it was for her and the forest.
You see, those who lived in the forest were not like others. They were the ones who had been abandoned at the edge of the forest by the outsiders, because they were sick, disabled, or just different. Some parents didn’t care whether their child perished or not, so they just wrapped the child in a cloth and left it close to the forest. However, a few, somewhat kinder, parents suspected that the old woman took care of the children, so they dressed the child and left the little one in a basket, along with a gift for the woman. The enchanted forest had many eyes, so it saw everything. Once the child was left alone, the trees would whisper, and the birds would cry to alert the old woman. She always found the innocent and the abandoned. As the children grew up, they chose to stay in the forest, and helped the woman who brought them up.
The woman’s cottage was more of an underground cave, nestled deep inside the forest between two tall trees that were hundreds of years old. One of them crouched as if it was a beast, and the other resembled an old man standing tall in a defensive posture, as if it were ready to lurch forward to defend the old woman.
Those who lived in the forest loved the old woman and called her Sylvonna. They rarely came to visit her for they respected her privacy. They knew that if they had a sick child or needed any help, she would turn up unannounced, knocking on their door to offer her assistance. No matter what, in those moments, the poor folk felt at least a little wary of her, wondering how she knew they needed her help.
One cold, windy night, Sylvonna stirred her coffee, brewing slowly in her dented and worn-out coffee pot on a rickety old stove. She used to have a fireplace, until the stove turned up eighteen summers ago, a gift that came along with the boy with whom she still shared her home. She was thankful to whoever abandoned the malnourished infant to her care, because he was a joyful child. To think that he might have been abandoned somewhere else, where Sylvonna couldn’t find him on that cold night, still gave her the shudders.
Making coffee was her nightly ritual after dinner. She cherished the moment, because coffee was so expensive, but the young couple who owned a shop she patronized always gave her a little handful. The couple was honest, kind, and always paid fairly for the mittens and the socks that Sylvonna knitted for money.
Sylvonna’s gaze never left the gently growing froth in the pot. While she slowly stirred the coffee in circular motion, she spoke to the young man sitting on an ottoman by the warm stove, chewing a freshly boiled sweetcorn. He was still a slip of a boy, even though he was of eighteen summers. She watched his long curly hair fall over his face, gently brushing his cheeks and shoulder as he nibbled his sweetcorn. Although he wore old pants with many patches, and a shirt that had more patches than the original material, he was clean and warm, and that was enough for him.
While she stirred her precious finely ground coffee, Sylvonna turned to him and gently chided him.
“Why aren’t you wrapping your legs with the blanket?” Although her voice was gentle, the young man still didn’t appreciate being “told off” for forgetting to wrap a blanket around his twisted legs, a condition he’d suffered from birth. The young man sighed and frowned as he pulled the blanket over his legs.
The old woman shook her head, before she reminded him gently “It’s getting cold and I don’t want your legs to ache. Have you forgotten how much pain you had at night last winter, my darling boy?” As he listened to Sylvonna, he remembered those painful nights, when she massaged his legs in slow gentle movements. He felt bad for frowning at his Sylvonna, who loved him as if he was her own flesh and blood.
“Sorry,” he said tightening the blanket around his already cold legs, earning him a nod from her.
When the coffee was ready, she took the pot off the stove and poured it into her chipped and well-worn coffee cup.
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The small room smelled of freshly brewed coffee, and the orange peel that dried on the stovetop. The young man loved eating oranges, then putting the peel on the stove to release a refreshing citrus aroma. Sylvonna sat next to the youth, on the other ottoman by the fire.
She watched him for a while, smiling at the way he nibbled the nearly finished snack. She knew he was innocent despite his age, because there were none like him in the village. He was well loved by his peers, but none could be his mate, because none of the other men in their midst found other men attractive. And that left him alone.
Chapter Two
Everyone in the forest knew that he would grow up to be a very special man. The small community all helped him to grow up to be a strong, kind and independent man.
A day before Sylvonna had found him, the trees had whispered about him.
“There will be another boy tomorrow, at the edge of the woods. He already belongs here, to the mountain and the forest, and we will make sure he grows up to be a fine man.”
It was rare that the trees would whisper like that, but they did on that occasion, and so everyone who lived in the forest learnt about the boy that day.
However, Sylvonna and the others told him nothing about his destiny, because he needed to make his own choices without influence. So everyone, including the forest and the mountain, said nothing to him, but waited until his other half arrived.
As she sipped her coffee, Sylvonna remembered the evening she found him, too sick and weak to cry. When she opened his swaddling, she saw his legs, and knew that he would need a stick to walk when he grew up. The older children had helped her look after the little malnourished babe night after night, day after day, praying that he would survive.
The deer and the sheep in the forest turned up at her door to offer their milk to feed him, and the shrubs near the house produced the juiciest berries for him. Even the old chestnut and walnut trees dropped their produce when the woman passed by, so the boy would have the choicest delicacies to eat.
He was a fighter, and reached the tender age of eighteen, and was still as playful as the new kitten that had turned up at their door a few nights ago. His heart was as clean as the spring that ran from the mountain into the forest. He had no ill wishes or desires for anything or anyone, but did his best to help others.
He even took it upon himself to lead the sheep, because he would find the juiciest grass for them near the mountain. He was a shepherd to them with their permission, but it was no easy task for him, as walking was hard and painful. He relied on an oak branch that was given to him by the oldest oak tree in the forest. Many moons ago, he slowly shaved and carved the branch and never left it behind. The sheep were part of the enchanted forest, so they understood his need for slow walks and rest. They loved that he would forget his pain and struggle just to take them to the lushest pastures. The sheep never left him alone when he walked, for he was often unsteady and stiff during the winter.
“Ready to play a pick-up-sticks game, Faine?” She named him Faine, as she’d been asked to do by the forest. He’d grown up to be a happy soul, true to the meaning of his name, which was “joyful.” Sylvonna watched him lick the tips of his fingers after he put the cob on his plate. She could see he wanted more, but he’d already had two, and it was fun to watch him hunt for the odd corn that might have been left on the cob. Faine nodded his head at the woman as he smiled at her, not noticing the small piece of corn stuck beside his lips.
Sylvonna shook her head with exasperation and fondness. She leaned forward and wiped the corn off his face, then combed his long blond hair back with her fingers. Last night, the trees had whispered to her that Faine’s mate would arrive soon. While she was excited and happy for him, she also felt a little sad, because she would miss the man she’d loved as one of her children.
She took another sip, then put the cup aside to pick up the bundle of short sticks. As she wiggled her eyebrows, she held the loose bunch upright and then released them onto the floor. Each stick fell in random disarray, and the man rubbed his hands eagerly, ready to start removing a stick at a time from the pile without disturbing the remaining ones.
“Okay, here it goes…” Faine said, gazing intently at the sticks. They played the ancient game until Faine removed the last stick. When they counted who’d picked up the highest number of sticks, Sylvonna laughed out loud. “Yes! I won this time!”
“Does this mean I wash the dishes again, Sylvonna? Please say no, cos this week I did nothing but lose the game.” Faine shook his head in good humor, but Sylvonna could see that he didn’t look forward to washing dishes. They often played this game, and the loser would wash up or cook dinner. They played fairly and kept the games fun.
“No, luv. Tonight I shall wash the dishes,” she said softly, “but tomorrow you will cook that delicious stew of yours, okay?” When Faine nodded his head, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, son.”
Chapter Three
That evening, Faine went out for his daily evening walk to listen to the forest. As it was cold, he wrapped himself with an extra scarf and left the house, holding onto his long walking stick.
Faine smiled when he noticed the kitten following him. The moon was his guide, but he knew by heart how to get to his favorite oak tree with the large protruding roots. After he sat down and leaned back against the great tree, the kitten climbed onto his lap and made herself comfortable. He scratched her neck, and listened to the trees chattering to each other.
His curiosity was piqued when he noticed that they were talking about an infernal creature. Faine had heard of those beings, but had never met one, so he sat quietly and listened.
He heard that it was long ago, when an infernal creature with enormous dark wings that could turn into flames at will was forced to live in a bottle, granting the three wishes of anyone who summoned him. The trees eerily whispered that it was part of his punishment to grant the wishes to his masters, year after year.
Faine never before heard the tree speak in such a sad voice that sounded more like a moan than anything else to him. The slow haunted whisper tugged at his heart for the creature. “He felt his punishment was more a curse than a punishment. There was no end to his suffering unless a master used one of the wishes to set the creature free, but that never happened… Once he was a fearsome mighty infernal one, and now he is nothing more than a slave for the human. All this time, he did nothing but grant wishes and stay in the brass bottle that in fact was nothing but a dark abyss.” The oak spoke as if his leaves shivered in despair and horror. Faine felt all the vibrations and rumbling as he sat by the tree.
Faine stopped scratching the kitten and rubbed his aching heart when he heard the wild chestnut’s groan as it spoke. “Whenever the creature’s heart started beating, his lungs filled with air and exhaled with gusto, he knew he was summoned. The creature would close his eyes to bear the pain of being crushed bit by bit to come out of the bottle. As he lost the count of seasons he spent in his life as a slave, he learnt to ignore the torture of being put together and then pulled apart to be sent back into the bottle again… I heard this from a passing nightingale that it broke the creature’s heart and shamed him to watch his human masters watching his agony with fascination and sometimes in cruel fun.”
The trees cried to express their sorrow at how each master cajoled and lied to the creature to make their deepest desires come true. Fearing that he may trick them, they filled his heart with empty hopes.
The ghost-like willow tree shivered at the horror as it recalled. “The masters did not realize the creature was incapable of disobeying or lying. After each wish, he would bow his head to grant wishes and watched with a broken heart as his masters got rich, or healthy, or experience exotic lands. Oh, those idolatrous humans, the things they wished for, and it seemed there was no boundary to their greed. They lied, cheated, stole and killed to get richer or more famous or loved by many, but each never wished something for another’s happiness.
“It took many seasons, but the infernal creature learnt not to hope anymore. I heard the bees telling their queen how he no longer tried to escape, as he realized there was no hope for him to gain his freedom. So he just let his heart beat, as it should for him to function at each summoning, with no hope for anything good.
Faine no longer held his tears when he heard the willow shake in distress as it went on. “Those were the only time he let his blood-infused tears flow, after each return to the abyss in the bottle. Once his crushed bones and torn ligaments passed through the bottle, he knew his bones and flesh would knit again, and then his heart and lungs would cease to work until a new master summoned him. He thought he was like the bull that turned the stone wheel to grind the wheat to make flour, turning round and round reaching nowhere.” The trees shook in sorrow and dropped some of their leaves as if they were their tears.
Faine couldn’t imagine such an awful life for anyone. He wondered what kind of tale this was, because with no happy ending it served no purpose but to cause hurt to the listener, but he couldn’t help but keep on listening to this sorry tale.
“The creature watched his masters watching others with envy and greed, and then demand what didn’t belong to them. All the beings saw and heard how he moaned, groaned and wailed at each crime he was forced to commit. All because his Elders judged and sentenced him for being different… He thought no one heard his cries, howls and roars, no matter how loud he was, but he was heard.”
“Enough!” Faine tried to stand up, but dropped his staff and fell on his knees. He couldn’t help but beg the trees to stop telling the story.
“Enough… Please no more. Why are you telling this story? What kind of lesson can one learn from such a sad story?” he asked in despair.
The trees shook in sorrow and whispered all together, as they leaned toward Faine, dropping their leaves all over the man in distress. “There is no lesson, little one, because this is no tale, but a true story. Do you want to listen to the whole story?”
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