Path of a Novice

by R K Lander

  An awakening, Narosén had said, and Turion, sceptical Alpine that he was, believed every word the Spirit Herder had said.

  ***

  They slept well, as if they floated upon a cloud of silk and feathers, although the truth was not quite so luxurious. It was a matter of perspective, of course, but the fact was that they lay well into the morning upon pallets of leaves and blankets, soft and warm, their bellies full and their minds filled with memories of home. Fel’annár had awoken to the sound of his own mouth working as if he ate—the aromas of spring pea soup almost perceptible upon his salivating taste buds, the image of it slowly dissipating in his waking mind.

  Now, after a refreshing dip in the nearby river, Fel’annár lounged back against a tree, listening to his companions talk quietly of mothers and fathers, of sweethearts and lovers, of nut cakes and venison pie. For him, it had always been Amareth’s pea soup, and a dreamy smile was back on his face.

  Rising slowly, he murmured to his companions, “I am going for a walk,” to which Angon replied, “Stay within the perimeter, Hwindo.”

  Fel’annár nodded and strolled away, walking slowly and allowing his mind to wander, for it was safe to do so here.

  He thought of his performance as a novice, of what he had learned, of that which haunted him now—the strange malady that had taken him not so long ago. He thought of Turion and Lainon, of their lessons and guidance, and he thought of Amareth, of Idernon and Ramien whom he missed and wondered where they would be. All he knew was that they, at least, had been stationed together, to the Eastern patrol. Perhaps they would walk upon snow, he mused, for they would be close to the eastern mountains that marked the end of Ea Uaré and the land of Tar’eastór.

  He stopped suddenly and trained his eyes on the sight that stood before him. There, a mighty oak towered over him, its branches so thick and long they bent to the ground and upon its brown bark, patches of vivid green moss covered the mighty limbs like a soft, woollen blanket. The sheer size and beauty of this magnificent specimen stole Fel’annár’s breath; never had he seen such a thing in all his years. His eyes filled with awe and a rush of emotion he could not quite place. Before he could move towards it though, a soft voice startled him.

  “’Tis awe inspiring, is it not?” asked Narosén, who appeared at Fel’annár’s shoulder silently, making the boy flinch.

  “It is . . . majestic,” whispered the novice, his mouth barely moving, his eyes fixed on the massive expanse of its branches and leaves, eyes alight in Silvan wonder.

  Narosén, however, was watching the young warrior carefully, his own, deep blue eyes anchored firmly on the strange green irises of the half-Alpine boy.

  “’Tis strange to come across an Alpine who admires a tree the way you do, child.”

  Fel’annár scowled, ripping his eyes momentarily from the tree to the Spirit Herder beside him.

  “I am Silvan,” was all he said.

  “You do not look Silvan,” came the all too familiar retort which always managed to exasperate Fel’annár. Calming his irritation, he explained as briefly as he could so that he would be left once more to admire the oak before him.

  “I am both, Sir, but my heart lies in the forest, with my people.”

  “A Silvan at heart then, if not in blood.”

  “In blood too, Narosén,” said Fel’annár somewhat curtly.

  “I do not mean to offend, only to comprehend, warrior. I—I have been observing you for some time now. You are restless and in your wandering, you have come here, to this tree—why?” asked Narosén softly, his eyes gleaming and his head tilting slightly to one side, as if he laboured to understand something.

  “I did not come to the tree, Narosén, I simply came across it.”

  “That is a matter of perspective, I suppose,” said the Spirit Herder with a smile. “Come, join me?” He held up a skin with what Fel’annár could only hope was wine. He was not on duty and would be permitted to drink, in moderation of course, so he gave Narosén a tight smile and nodded, following him under the boughs of the oak until they sat near its base.

  Accepting the skin with both hands and a respectful nod, he took a long draught, savouring the rich, woody aroma that warmed his chest, before handing it back and watching as his strange companion drank.

  “Why do you watch me?” asked Fel’annár in genuine curiosity.

  “I am not sure, eh, what should I call you?” asked Narosén with a frown.

  “I have many names,” said Fel’annár with a smile. “Hwind’atór, The Silvan, Fel’annár . . . you may choose,” he said with a smile as he drank once more.

  “The Silvan?” came the surprised question.

  “Yes, I know—I do not look Silvan as you have already pointed out. I inherited my father’s face and colouring, yet my eyes are those of my Silvan mother. It is more a question of the soul, Narosén. I feel Silvan, they are my people, the ones I wish to protect . . .” he finished, his thoughts turning inwards.

  “Then Silvan you are, of that there can be no doubt. I knew from the way you admired our sentinel,” he said lightly, but Narosén’s eyes betrayed him, for there was a deep, almost hungry expression in them.

  “Sentinel?” asked Fel’annár, his eyes riveted on Narosén.

  “The more sensitive members of our society say this tree is our guardian, the one that looks over us in this part of the Great Forest.”

  “What do you mean by sensitive?” asked Fel’annár, his right hand smoothing over the mossy ground beside his legs.

  “There are those who can feel the trees, that feel their emotions. They can sense their moods, feel their joy, suffer their fear,” he whispered finally, blue eyes wide and almost aflame as they sank into Fel’annár’s. “Even the king has a measure of it, they say – strange for an Alpine though it is.”

  Fel’annár was mesmerised and yet not quite sure of how to interpret Narosén’s words. It was then that his mind rushed to show him Lan Taria, a young child with a penchant for sleeping with his windows wide open, a chubby hand brushing over a green leaf, a tiny window beside his bed at the barracks that had turned all the colours of the forest, strangely foreign emotions when a young recruit sat beneath the bows of a willow, a hand brushing over the roots of a tree; again, and again.

  Narosén’s eyes were trained on Fel’annár’s hand, watching in fascination as one, long finger reached out and brushed over a root and the young warrior froze, as if struck.

  “Fel’annár?” whispered the Spirit Herder, his voice echoing strangely around them. “Child, do not be afraid . . .”

  Fel’annár heard, as if from far away, but he could not answer and the colours were back, that green and purple halo appeared once more, surrounded everything but when he looked at the sentinel now, it shined a dazzling white blue, transparent. Something moved inside it, the sap pumping up and down the trunk, pulsing into the branches and into leaves, a living life force of pure, liquid light.

  He had not breathed for some time. Finally, he sucked in a laboured breath, standing shakily upon legs that threatened to give way. Narosén followed suit, his eyes never leaving those of the boy.

  “Do not be afraid,” said the Spirit Herder again, awe-struck as he watched a white-blue light reflected in the boy’s eyes, as if he stood before the naked sun and yet there was nothing there, only the old oak.

  “What . . .”

  “It is a good thing, Silvan. Feel it, let it in . . . Aria has blessed you. Would that I could see what you do.”

  His mind was filled with emotions and sensations, of sureties and doubts, of something arcane he could not fathom and it was suddenly too much, and with a cry, he fell to the forest floor, only his strong arms keeping him from falling flat on his own face.

  Narosén was beside him in a flash, his own face alight in wonder and awe, the strange blue light now dwindling in his own eyes. He
spared a glance into the brush to his right, where an elf stood watching, and Narosén nodded at him, and then watched as Lorthil returned it, before melting away into the darkness of the forest.

  “Now I understand,” murmured the Spirit Herder, his face shining with wonder. “There is hope, hope for the Silvan people.” He smiled then, before looking down upon the beautiful child that sat on the ground beside him, scared and confused. His long hand reached out and smoothed down the strange locks of blond and silver, before his fingers traced the outline of his large green eyes and then ran down the side of his smooth, rosy cheek.

  “Fel’annár of Ea Uaré,” he whispered, watching as the singular face turned to meet his gaze, deep confusion swirling in its depths.

  “You, are ours!” announced Narosén solemnly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Deliverance

  “All elves feel the Spirit, but the Silvan people more acutely. Some though, can even understand it, interpret it. These elves are the Listeners.”

  On Elven Nature. Calro.

  ***

  The next day, Fel’annár did not awake with the delicious memory of Amareth’s pea soup on his tongue, but to feelings of deep dread, the acrid smell of burning wood and Lainon’s urgent voice, barking out orders as he pulled on his outer leather vest and tightened his vambraces. Lainon’s blue-black hair was still loose and it flew around his shoulders, agitated yet controlled, like oil in water, his thick Ari twists audibly banging against the reinforced leather of his pauldrons.

  “UP! Kit out now! There is fire to the North. We move in five minutes!

  Fel’annár sprang out of bed in nothing but his breeches, eyes searching for his boots and then remembering Angon’s oath to never sleep without them. Pulling them on, he slipped into his white linen shirt and then the sleeveless leather vest, securing the clasps with one hand and reaching for his vambraces with the other. Buckling them on he slipped his blades harness over his back and then his quiver. Reaching back, he tied the heavy upper locks to the back of his head as he jogged out into the clearing, standing in line with the rest of the Western Patrol. His head thumped painfully, and he realised he must have been breathing the heavy smoke even in his sleep.

  Deftly stringing his bow, he slipped it back in its quiver over his head – he was ready. It was a cold winter morning but no clouds greyed the sky. Instead, a thin blanket of smoke loomed over them threateningly, slowly descending and stinging their eyes. They stood together with Lainon and watched as their captain spoke with Lorthil, the village leader, their words hushed and urgent.

  Elves ran here and there, not chaotically but with purpose, calm and measured. Some carried supplies to the Village Hall while others collected food, or herded children into the open glade, lining them up and counting them. It was a testimony to the life these people led, for the forest was spectacular in its beauty—the colours and textures, the smells and sounds, the simplicity that came with living off the land; yet the price they paid in return for such a privilege was this—the constant threat of fire, of attack, the insecurity that was inherent to these parts of Ea Uaré. The city dwellers called them stubborn, selfish for putting themselves at risk for it meant deploying more warriors to defend them, but the Silvans argued that the army existed for this very reason—to defend their nation. Where else would they be sent? Fel’annár tried to imagine these people living in the city but he could not. They were two different worlds, two completely different mind-sets.

  Turion turned his back on Lorthil and addressed the patrol and although his face was inscrutable, his words were tinged with urgency and worry.

  “This is what we know. There is fire to the North, and the breeze is pushing it westwards, towards the foresters’ outpost. I need water pumped from the river this way through their irrigation pipes,” pointed the captain, “so that Lorthil can oversee the villagers and take preventive measures while the rest of us travel to the source and douse the flames if we can. Fel’annár, Fer’dán, you are in charge of ensuring these people get the water they need to protect themselves should the flames reach them; the rest of you, move out!” he ordered, swivelling upon his heels and leading them into the darkening grey curtain of ever-thickening smoke.

  Fel’annár frowned deeply, feelings of inadequacy assailing him once more, turning only briefly as Fer’dán’s heavy hand rested on his shoulder for a split second before he ran off towards the river.

  Turion was either protecting him, or was still unsure of his worth. There was a third option too, one he did not want to consider, but it had pushed its way to the fore and would not be ignored. What if Turion thought him an invalid, cursed with some strange illness that rendered him useless to his patrol? What did it take, he wondered, to be accepted as an equal? To prove his mettle? He utterly ignored the fact that Fer’dán too, had been sent to the pumps and he was a tried, veteran warrior.

  Reaching the pump, Fer’dán opened the lock as Fel’annár began to work the mechanism, watching as the water slowly gained momentum and the liquid began to flow down the pipes that had been skilfully engineered, straight into the heart of the village where the Silvans gathered it in pails and began to wet the ground, the foliage and the trees surrounding the settlement.

  After ten minutes of furious pumping, Fer’dán took over as Fel’annár watched the water, ensuring the pipes aligned adequately. His arms burned with fatigue, but not enough to stop his errant mind from returning to the strange events of the day before. They harrowed him, and Narosén’s words came back to him.

  ‘Do not be afraid..’

  “Fel’annár!

  Fer’dán’s sudden yell jolted him and his head whipped to his companion.

  “The wind is changing.”

  Fel’annár scowled, and then looked around the glade, his heart dropping to his boots and leaving him feeling strangely light. His nose prickled uncomfortably and smoke collected at the back of his throat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The situation had become urgent, for the flames were now approaching Sen’oléi. Anxiety slammed into him with a force that almost made him stumble where he stood, the strange dissonant harmony he had first heard that morning flaring painfully at his temples. That sensation was back, realised Fel’annár, the feeling that whatever caused his dread did not come from himself but somewhere else.

  ‘It is a good thing . . . embrace it . . .’

  His brow furrowed even more, and he wondered if Narosén had been right. Perhaps if he just relaxed, stopped fighting it—perhaps if he moved with it and not against it—whatever it was . . .

  Fer’dán scowled at his companion as he pumped, and then visibly flinched when Fel’annár whirled around to face him. There was a strange light in his companion’s eye, he would later say, something that compelled him to obey, even though he was the senior warrior.

  “Fer’dán, continue pumping while I go to the Hall. I will return in ten minutes!” he shouted. Fer’dán simply nodded and Fel’annár was away, sprinting parallel to the water pipes.

  His long legs pumped hard and his chest laboured to provide his muscles with the air they required. He was not even sure why he had so suddenly left his companion, but he had decided to go with his instincts and this is what they had screamed at him to do.

  Inside the glade now, he slowed his pace, his mind registering the growing chaos for the people of Sen’oléi no longer seemed calm and organised, but in a state of mounting anxiety. They had formed a line and were now passing buckets at great speed towards the tree line, wetting everything they could. A small crowd had gathered to one side and it was there that Fel’annár found Lorthil and Narosén.

  “Lorthil—what else can we do? What are your priorities?”

  “We are all accounted for, save for three. The last to arrive tells us the flames are but twenty minutes away on foot. I dare not risk sending a rescue party,” shouted the village leader, a hint of desp
eration in his voice, for he knew the patrol had gone to the source of the flames—they would not be able to help those who had strayed on the path home.

  One woman struggled in the arms of two men, who only just managed to hold her back as she screamed and writhed in their clutches, kicking out in a desperate attempt to free herself.

  “No!! No!! My children!!”

  The villagers behind the struggling trio covered their quivering mouths, clearly at a loss as to what they should do. The flames were fast approaching and if they did not get all hands to work now, their settlement would be engulfed.

  “You can’t leave them there! Pleeeease!!” screamed the desperate woman. A mother’s tormented wail, her face twisted in disbelief and terror. It was her eyes though, that Fel’annár could not escape from, for something inside them sent a violent shiver down his spine. What a terrible sight, a lovely face so utterly transformed by suffering. It struck him that he had never seen such an atrocious thing, not even from the Deviants. His own eyes welled, not in pity but in horror, and then he looked to Lorthil who was now having to shout over the din of the encroaching flames.

  “It’s too dangerous! Eloran will keep them safe—by Aria, can you not see—stop, Alféna!

  “What is their route?” yelled Fel’annár. “From where do they emerge? Is there a path?” he yelled.

  “Yes—there, do you see it?” gestured the leader and then coughed and spluttered. Fel’annár followed Lorthil’s eyes and barely made out the small path that led into the forest, now almost completely hidden by the darkening smoke.

  “Can you send someone to relieve my companion at the pump?” “Yes!” shouted Lorthil, and then grabbed at Fel’annár’s vambrace with surprising strength. “You do not know the way . . .” he said quietly, his mouth close to his ear, his tone pleading. There was a message beneath his words and Fel’annár searched the ancient elf’s eyes. But there was no time to ponder the question for the noise was now a roar and the elves around them began to shout louder, their desperation finally showing for this was as close as any fire had ever come; they needed all the hands they could find.