Journey to Aviad

by Allison D. Reid

  To Morganne this was simply a very bad storm. She was apprehensive, of course, hoping that the roof would hold, and praying fervently that entire crops would not be laid to waste. Such outpourings of nature’s fury could easily destroy them, not so much in the short term, but over many years. Storms such as this one often marked the beginning of bad times, bringing about widespread famine and plague. The balance was so delicate, so easily disturbed. Too much rain would drown crops, just as surely as too much sun would dry them up. Bad harvest led to low stores and starvation through the winter months; starvation led to weakness of the body. Weakness of the body led to sickness, and sicknesses spread like wildfire in the close quarters of Tyroc. Morganne tried not to think about these possibilities. She continued preparing their evening meal as she balanced Adelin on her hip, suddenly grateful for the abundance they had enjoyed for so long.

  Elowyn’s young mind was far less practical. She was not thinking about crops, or floods, or famine, or plague. Deep down, some part of her knew that she could survive on what the wilds provided her. Elowyn was, however, thinking very hard about the last storm, and how it had seemed unnatural in the same way this one did, only this storm was far more powerful. And no matter how she tried to push away the memory, she could not help but recall the apparition who had appeared at the door. The strange coin was still in her pouch. She fingered it with trepidation, wishing with all her might that she had been able to rid herself of it in the stream.

  She wondered how Einar had known that the storm was coming. There had been no visible signs, she was sure of it. He was holding something back; he had even admitted as much. What did she really know about him anyway? Who was he? Where did he live? He said the woods were his home, but even hermits in the wilds have a place of shelter from poor weather, a place to store food, clothing, and other personal items. Where was he now? Certainly not out in the storm, and the hewn place below ground he had taken her to was not exactly suited to live in. There were no provisions there, no water and no blankets for warmth. It was a shelter for hard times, not a residence. Einar had not given her any reason to fear him, but the cloak of mystery that surrounded him only peaked her curiosity more each time she encountered him.

  A large crack of thunder followed by a deafening crash startled her from her thoughts. A nearby tree had probably been hit by lightning. The rain and wind pounded the cottage harder than ever, making eerie, mournful whistling sounds through the cracks in the shutters. She surveyed Adelin with envy. Elowyn was frightened too, and longed for some form of comfort. But she felt too young to be strong, like Morganne and her mother (who didn’t seem to care that a storm was raging outside), and yet too old to be held and comforted like Adelin. All Elowyn could do was sit trembling by the fire, consumed an endless stream of fears and questions that had no answers.

  Her mother suddenly jumped up, cursing and flinging her work aside in a fit of temper. The roof had begun to leak above her, just barely missing the loom where she had been completely engrossed in weaving a very fine, beautiful linen cloth. Morganne and Elowyn both froze, barely daring to breathe, lest they call attention to themselves. However frightful the storm was, it was not half as dangerous as their mother would be if her weaving was ruined with water.

  Elowyn found it difficult to understand her mother, even in the best of times. In all visible ways, she assumed the grace, attitude, and proud posture of the nobility. At any rate, she had no trouble looking them in the eye, and did not fear them. She often demanded rights and privileges not given to women of her class, and she typically got them. For instance, she had insisted from the beginning that all of her daughters be given an education, and she wanted a scholar from the Temple in Tyroc to give it to them. The wisdom of their mother’s request was questioned by many, to no avail. In the end, she pounded the High Priest’s desk with her fist, a large sum of silver in hand, and asked whether her money was less valuable than anyone else’s. She explained that she never worked on large orders without a signed and sealed contract, and she needed her daughters to be able to read and work from them just as she did. The High Priest, eager to be rid of her, finally agreed that Elowyn and Morganne could be taught reading and writing privately, but explained that the laws of the Temple forbade them from learning with the young boys taking classes there. Accepting this solution as a victory, she grumbled defiantly under her breath on her way out that no child of hers would grow up to be an ignorant street urchin.

  Elowyn could not tell if their mother had done so out of pride, or necessity, or as a rare act of good will towards them, but the effect on Elowyn and Morganne was a positive one. Not only did they learn to read and write; they also got their first gleaning of knowledge about the Ancients. Morganne in particular had absorbed everything she could in utter fascination. She pored over book after book, until their tutor finally had to admit that there was nothing more he could teach her in regards to language. He was, however, greatly impressed with Morganne and asked that she be allowed to continue her studies on a more spiritual basis at the Temple. The idea was resolutely rejected by their mother, who growled that she was not paying him to teach her fairy tales. That was the end of their tutoring sessions. Morganne’s reading skills were immediately relegated to reviewing contracts their mother had signed, though occasionally on trips to town, Morganne would sneak visits with her old tutor and he would loan her books to read on the sly—usually by candlelight when their mother had gone to sleep.

  As offended as some were by their mother’s ways, she instilled a certain confidence in her work that went unquestioned. Indeed few would dare to. Morganne was convinced that half of those who came to her for material, did so not only because of the outstanding quality, but because they were afraid to go anywhere else. Despite the regal air she donned when doing business or dealing with the upper class, she had a coarse side too. She could string curses together as if they formed a kind of high poetry, and she was extraordinarily tough. At times she could be downright brutal and seemingly devoid of all compassion when her temper flared, and it tended to flare quite often. Morganne had learned to tiptoe her way around trouble most of the time, and Elowyn could not really fault her for that. It was Morganne who was forced to work so closely with her day after day, trying to keep orders filled on time.

  There were times when Elowyn was painfully jealous of their closeness … the way they worked together so flawlessly without needing to speak. Far too often Elowyn mistook it for affection, which she felt was so purposefully and acutely withheld from her. Morganne had even been named after their mother, Morgan, implying a special bond between them. But then there were also times when Elowyn came home to find Morganne bruised and bleeding and swollen, with “all the willfulness beat out of her,” as their mother said. In those moments Elowyn understood the truth—that is to say, she understood it in the fleeting and somewhat vague way that children do. That truth was just as quickly forgotten again the next time her mother overtly rejected her, or ignored her existence while depending on Morganne’s.

  Elowyn watched her mother’s movements as she scrambled to protect her loom with a large piece of waxed cloth. The water kept coming, but at least it could be directed away from her work. A tub was placed to catch the drips rolling off of the cloth, and a delicate peace was once again restored. Their mother continued weaving, Morganne went back to the pot over the fire, and Elowyn was left again with nothing to focus on but the worrisome storm swirling outside.

  It was unbearable … sitting helpless, listening to the wind tear at the world just beyond their door, knowing the only barrier between them and it was a very small cottage with a leaky roof. Their mother weaved, and the storm went on. They ate in tense silence, and it still continued. Adelin got tired of being afraid of it and fell asleep. Morganne, unable to sleep, picked up her sewing and got nearly an entire garment done before she finally laid out her mat by the fire and closed her eyes. The storm even outlasted their mother, who at some point stood, stretched out her bac
k, yawned, and withdrew to the small room that served as both her sleeping area and storage space for cloth and other materials. It was separated from the main room by a heavy curtain and was the only place of semi-privacy in the whole cottage.

  Elowyn poked the fire, watching the flames jerk violently back and forth in the draft. She felt terribly alone. The door rattled and she jumped, her heart leaping to her throat. What if the apparition from the last storm was back to torment her? She grabbed her satchel of protective herbs and stared hard at the door, though she wasn’t all that certain of their powers against this particular spirit. At the least, holding it brought her comfort. Morganne had made the satchel for her when she was young. Elowyn’s name was stitched on one side of it, and the symbol of Aviad on the other. It reminded Elowyn of the days when she was innocent enough to believe that it could magically protect her from absolutely anything.

  Thankfully there was no knocking this time, just a rattling, scratching, snuffling sound, as if something were sniffing at the crack under the door. A great wave of relief and compassion swelled through her. “Poor thing,” she whispered to herself. “Some wild creature is seeking shelter.” She didn’t dare let it in though, whatever it was.

  The sound soon stopped, and Elowyn’s body began to succumb to exhaustion. It was not long before she fell asleep, a troubled sleep though it was. All night, she had shadowy dreams about the brothers, the black-cloaked man, the coin, and the bowman. None of it made logical sense as a story might. When she woke she just had vague memories of people and places, and of feeling a great burden crushing down on her heart.

  The morning was a dismal one, gray and wet. They all ventured out to survey the damage and found that the outside of the cottage had taken a considerable beating. There was no question that the roof would need immediate repair, for all of them could see where patches of it had blown away and the whole thing sagged heavily in the middle. If not tended to, it would eventually fall in. Sometimes they could patch up weak spots themselves, simply by weaving in more straw and reeds, but this was beyond their capabilities. Their mother cursed and grumbled about the cost and inconvenience of having to get it fixed.

  Behind the cottage, lightning had indeed split a great tree in two, felling it dangerously close to the cottage. There were many more branches and tree limbs strewn about as well that would make easy firewood. Their mother’s trivet had been uprooted and knocked over by the wind, but did not seem to be damaged. It would need to be reset into the ground over the fire pit once the ground had dried. At that moment, the earth beneath their feet was still swelled with water—small ponds had formed all around, and the rain barrel had overflowed. If the rain did not stop soon, they might be flooded out. Elowyn prayed that everything in her treasure-hiding tree was all right, especially the bow. There was no way she could check it now, not without revealing its location to Morganne and their mother.

  It wasn’t until she rounded the back of the cottage that she noticed tracks and remembered the animal scratching at the door. She was curious as to what sort of visitor the storm had brought to her door, but the prints on the side of the house were far too muddied to be distinguishable. She could only tell that they had been made by a large, heavy creature. As she neared the front of the cottage the tracks became clearer, until finally, just beside the front step, there was one perfect print—the print of a Hound. It hardly seemed possible that these horrid creatures, once held safely at bay in the Shadow Wood, should suddenly appear not only in the Tyrocian woodlands, but right at her very doorstep. She wondered if, despite Einar’s precautions, it had followed her scent and she was responsible for leading it home. How long she stood staring at its footprint she wasn’t sure, but the pallor of her face must have betrayed her anxiety.

  “What is wrong?” Morganne asked, coming round the corner after her. A dozen different misleading answers raced through Elowyn’s mind. Telling Morganne the truth was out of the question, at least for now. Morganne knew very little about animal tracks, but she was quick to tell when Elowyn was holding something back, so Elowyn gave her the most believable answer possible.

  “Last night during the storm there was something scratching at our door, probably a rather large wolf. I’m glad it wasn’t more determined to get in.” Elowyn quickly ducked inside the cottage and hung her dripping cloak on a hook by the door. She hoped Morganne had been satisfied by her answer and would not ask about the tracks any further.

  Elowyn wanted to grab the bow and find Einar. She needed to speak with him, more now than ever. But to her frustration, she was instantly sent her into town to fetch someone to fix the roof. Their mother could not spare Morganne who was once again sewing in earnest. So Elowyn went, and with each step, her entire being felt as though it would burst—this would take up her entire day and Einar was waiting for her. The urgency of his request pressed upon her like a huge immovable weight, crushing the very breath out of her body.

  Finding a thatcher wasn’t easy. Buildings were damaged all over Tyroc, and several of the older and less sturdy ones had caved in completely. Every able-bodied person was out helping to clean up the wreckage, carting away debris, shoring up leaning homes, fixing broken shutters, tending to those few who had been hurt, and assessing roof damage. Those who could repair their own homes would do so with help from their neighbors. The rest would be given to the thatcher and his apprentices in priority order … that is to say, the most important people got theirs done first, and the rest would have to wait. After seeing the state of Tyroc, Elowyn knew she would not be very high on that list, even with the extra money her mother had given her to “bargain with.” She gave the most imploring and desperate looks she could muster, hoping that someone would take pity. In the end, she settled for the lowest of the thatcher’s apprentices, who was not yet trusted with the important jobs. And she mainly got his attention by promising to slip him the extra coins without telling his master about it.

  Elowyn was relieved that she had secured a small assurance of temporary peace at home. Nothing was ever certain, of course, but she could not imagine anything that would wear worse on her mother’s temper than the roof falling in on her loom.

  The apprentice was not much older than she, and rather awkward. He walked with his shoulders stooped and head lowered in the same way as one who has just entered a room with a low ceiling. Elowyn wondered what he thought he would bump his head on out in the open air. Silently he shuffled along behind her, looking warily about as though he were embarrassed to be seen with her. Elowyn walked faster. She wasn’t especially thrilled about having him drag behind her like a corpse either. The sooner this unpleasant business was over with and she could escape into the woods, the better. In her soul she felt that she had been spending entirely too much time locked away behind walls and shutters.

  Upon reaching the cottage, the apprentice intently surveyed the roof with his eyes without making the apparently gargantuan effort of lifting his head. He shrugged.

  “The whole thing has to come down,” he said matter-of-factly in the most monotone voice Elowyn had ever heard. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning with the tools and materials. It should hold the night if we don’t get more rain.” Then he took the money she had promised and shuffled his way back to town.

  If her mother was pleased by her victory, she didn’t show it. She grumbled something unintelligible in Elowyn’s direction, which most likely meant that she wanted to be left alone. Elowyn was more than happy to fulfill her wishes, and after quietly grabbing an empty sack and a few provisions, she skipped off to her treasure tree. She was horrified to see that the rain had drenched everything inside. Her chest and the bow were both sitting in a deep puddle. Elowyn quickly grabbed the bow and dried it off with her cape the best she could, though she could do nothing about the string. She hoped it was not so damaged that Einar no longer wanted it. She slung the bow over her shoulder, stuffing the arrows and the helm in the sack. Perhaps if he was upset about the bow he could be won over with the
helm. Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was looking, Elowyn slipped quietly into the cover of the forest.

  Vivid Dreams and Tree Sailing

  Contrary to her usual manner, Elowyn tried to stay close to the city wall for as long as she could. The presence of the Hound tracks had shaken her, and the best part of the day for traveling was already gone. She urgently wanted to get to the place Einar had shown her before nightfall, hoping that he would already be there, awaiting her arrival beside a blazing hot campfire. For the first time she was forced to admit her own fears about the wilderness—fears she had not known before, that she never thought she, of all people, would succumb to. How could her world have changed so completely, and so quickly?

  Elowyn’s progress was slowed considerably by her desire to make as little noise as possible. She was starting to incorporate the movements she had watched Einar make into her own, but they were difficult, forcing her to concentrate intensely on every footfall. In one sense, she was grateful to have something methodical to concentrate on, something she could lose herself in and forget everything else. In another, she was left more vulnerable. She could not focus on perfecting every movement of her body, while watching and listening for signs of danger at the same time.

  Truth be told, the journey was a miserable one. She was not used to traveling with so much baggage. She found that the constantly shifting weight was tiring and made her muscles ache. Everything was off balance. It did not help that portions of the forest floor were either very slippery, very muddy, or completely under water. She was soaked through to the skin and covered in mud. And all the while that little voice inside was urging her to go faster, to get there before dark, or else.