White Wind Rising

by Dan Davis

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Keeper said. ‘He’s perfectly friendly.’

  Archer knew they must be quite a sight. Not only because they had a dragon, but also because they were filthy and bloody and grimly silent. Not like children were supposed to look at all.

  ‘Do you have any food?’ Weaver asked him.

  He did not stop but sped up, hurrying away from them.

  ‘Oh, thank you very much, mate,’ Weaver shouted after him.

  Most of the people of the Vale would be in their homes, perhaps eating their supper together, perhaps mending their clothes or preserving their fall produce for winter. Yet Archer felt an enormous relief at being back where he belonged. The houses that they could see from the road had smoke coming from their chimneys and some had light leaking from shuttered windows. The dear Sweetwater River gurgled and rushed nearby and they kept catching glimpses of it. Archer smelled the cool waters mingling with the wood smoke and the wet fertile earth. The smell of the Vale.

  It was growing dark by the time they came to Writer’s house. They could see it from the road, and the house and outbuildings stood at the end of a winding path between the road and the river. It was indeed a grand affair. The outside was plastered and painted a soft pink, with a floor above the ground floor. They even had a stable with a horse in it, snorting at the sound of their approach.

  ‘You have a horse?’ Weaver asked Writer as they stood before the front of the house.

  ‘No,’ said Writer, looking worried. ‘We do not have a horse. We don’t even have a stable.’

  ‘Is this not your house?’ Keeper asked, looking at the stable.

  ‘It is my house, I’m certain,’ said Writer. ‘It is merely a little different.’

  ‘You were gone a long time, months probably,’ Archer said. ‘They must have built a stable, that’s all.’ He was cold and exhausted. The house looked incredibly welcoming and comfortable.

  ‘Yes,’ said Writer. ‘I know that. I do not know why I feel sad. Perhaps it is that life has gone on without me.’

  ‘Well, what else is it going to do?’ Keeper asked, rubbing his hands together. ‘Come on, it’s freezing let us get you in to your mum and dad, shall we?’ Keeper was smiling. Burp hissed and Keeper patted him on the head. ‘Don’t forget to ask them if they have any cabbages.’

  ‘Can you please hold the spell book for me, Archer?’ Writer said. She stepped up to the front door and stopped before it. The others followed but stood a behind at a respectful distance, rubbing their arms and stamping their feet to keep warm. Burp crouched down by Keeper looking happy enough.

  Writer knocked with a heavy iron knocker.

  An old woman opened the door.

  She stood bathed in warm light from inside. ‘May I help you, young lady?’ she said, looking down at Writer with a frown on her face. ‘It is rather late for callers, my dear.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Writer said, her voice shaking. ‘I was looking for my mother and father. They used to live here. Did they move away? Are they in health?’

  The old woman gasped and took a step back. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ Archer was shocked to see that the old woman was crying. ‘Alfred!’ she called into the house. ‘Alfred!’

  Writer took a step backward too. Like she was afraid. Archer got ready to pull his bow from his back in case there was trouble.

  An old man shuffled up to the doorway next to the woman. He was holding a tankard. ‘What’s the matter, my darling?’ he said, putting his arm round the old woman. ‘What’s all this fuss, then?’

  The woman held a shaking finger out at Writer.

  ‘Ah, good evening to you. And may I help you, young lady?’ He peered out of the doorway over Writer’s head. ‘Would you and your friends be lost?’ he asked, and then he too cried out, as if he had taken a blow to the stomach. He dropped his tankard onto the floor, sending sherds and cider everywhere.

  Writer just stood there. Archer did not know what was happening. Then her body racked with a huge sob. ‘Mother?’ she said, quietly. ‘Father?’

  ‘Oh my child,’ the old woman cried and threw her arms around Writer. ‘Maerwynn! My Maerwynn!’ She squeezed Writer so hard Archer thought it must have hurt but Writer was squeezing her back so it must have been all right.

  The old man stood over them. ‘How can this be?’ he was saying, holding his hands to his head. ‘How can this be?’

  ‘My baby,’ the old woman sobbed into Writer’s hair. ‘My beautiful sweet baby.’

  Archer turned away, tears blurring his vision.

  Writer had been away for so long that her parents had grown old. Yet she herself had not grown up. Not aged at all.

  How was such a thing possible? Could she really have been away from home for so long?

  What about the rest of them?

  Home is Where Cobnut Forge Is

  After some time they were led into the house and things were explained, stories exchange and more tears shed. The Alchemist was cursed and reviled and Writer and all the children were hugged more than once.

  Burp’s existence and presence was explained to them by Keeper. ‘He’s a dragon,’ he said. ‘And he’s my friend.’

  ‘Good enough for me,’ Writer’s father – who was called Alfred – said.

  They slept there that night, warmed by a vast fire and bowls of hearty stew and flagons of powerful hot cider.

  Archer’s wounded eye and ear were washed clean and bandaged up by Writer’s father.

  ‘Your eye is still whole and in your head, young man,’ Alfred said, ‘but I am afraid that your ear is mostly gone. There are a few tattered pieces. I hope that the flesh will heal cleanly but you will have a mass of scars on the side of your head. I am very sorry. Lucky that you have long hair.’

  Archer did not know how to feel about that and perhaps that was why he felt nothing. There was a certain emptiness inside him, a blankness.

  ‘You’re exhausted,’ Weaver said to him when he tried to explain how he was feeling. ‘That feeling is called being tired. Go to sleep.’

  Archer, Weaver, and Burp slept on the floor, over and under lots of blankets in front of the well-banked fire in the downstairs part of the house. While the others snored, and in spite of his overwhelming tiredness, Archer listened to the sound of Writer and her parents upstairs, by turns talking and crying together.

  Archer was sure that it was crying from happiness but also from grief at the time lost to them. Writer was truly amazed to learn that she had been away for almost forty years. In spite of all she had learned from the Alchemist’s books and writings, she had had no idea that such a thing was possible. Archer’s heart went out to her but he of course worried about his own family and it worried the others, too.

  Archer was sure that he had been gone only a few days. Surely, his parents would not be old.

  There was no way to know. Not for any of them. Not until they all returned to their homes.

  Eventually, he slept. A long, deep, healing sleep with his belly full of nourishing food, under thick blankets, with his friends snoring beside him. It was by far the best sleep he had ever had.

  In the morning, they were fed again with a porridge sweetened with lashings of hot raspberry jam. Burp had been fed on a couple of cabbages outside and was happily curled up at Keeper’s feet.

  ‘I wonder what things will be like from now on? Now the Alchemist is gone,’ said Keeper to Archer, his mouth full of porridge. ‘Probably my grandma and grandpa will be getting more work if everyone has a few more pennies to spend.

  Archer shrugged. ‘More freedom to do what we all want,’ he said. ‘Things should get better, anyway.’

  ‘Hold on a moment, there,’ Alfred said, putting down his spoon. ‘What do you mean from now he’s gone?’

  ‘We defeated him, father,’ said Writer. ‘As we told you last night.’

  ‘I know that,’ Alfred said. ‘What I mean to say is when did you defeat him, precisely?’

  Writer and Archer exchang
ed a look. ‘Three or four days ago, I think,’ said Archer. ‘Perhaps five?’

  ‘A couple of days before everyone in the Vale saw our dragon balloon flying over,’ Keeper said, grinning.

  ‘And, you see, that is what is confusing me,’ said Alfred, staring at each of them in turn. ‘Because no one in the Vale has seen neither the head nor the tail of the Alchemist these past six years.’

  Archer dropped his spoon into his bowl. ‘Six years?’ he said. ‘How could it be six years? I only just left home a few days ago.’

  Keeper was aghast. Weaver looked even angrier than she usually did. Burp hissed loudly under the table.

  ‘How can six years have passed since we defeated him?’ Archer asked Writer. ‘We left almost immediately after. We only stayed one night and left the next day.’

  ‘I have no idea, Archer,’ Writer said, gripping the edge of the table. ‘I am sorry. I do not know how I was away for forty years without growing older. I do not know if the days passed more slowly for us inside or if the numbers of days was the same.’

  ‘Perhaps it was both at the same time,’ Keeper said, in a flat voice, his head hanging low.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Writer said. ‘Or perhaps the days inside the Tower had no relation with the days outside at all.’ She looked at them round the table. ‘Perhaps the days had different meanings for each of us. I simply do not understand any of this.’

  Archer had believed that he could not have been away for as long as Writer had been he was mistaken. For all he knew, he could have been locked away even longer than she was. ‘Do you know my family? We live right up the top of the Vale, up past Bures, right at the foot of the hills by the Moon Forest and we grow mainly wheat and wool. My father’s name is Edmund. My mother is Matilda.’

  ‘And my grandpa and grandma are the smiths at Cobnut Forge, do you know it?’ Keeper said to Alfred, his voice wavering. ‘His name is Osbert, I think, and hers is Ingrid.’

  Weaver just sat looking down at her porridge.

  ‘I know what you are both asking,’ Alfred rubbed his nose. ‘You want to know if your family is still there or if they are old like Mildred and I.’ He sighed. ‘I would dearly love to be able to help. But I am afraid I don’t travel to that end of the Vale, not ever. My business is all in Morningtree, so I would not know either way.’

  Archer did not know what to say.

  ‘Grandma and grandpa aren’t all that old,’ said Keeper, quietly. ‘They are young,’ he said, looking at Archer, ‘for grandparents, anyway.’

  Archer nodded at him. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we,’ he said. Keeper nodded. Weaver did not respond.

  Everyone started eating again and conversation stopped while they shovelled it down. Alfred went and ladled more into the children’s empty bowls.

  Looking down at himself in the bright light of day, Archer felt very bad about his sorry state. His once-white tunic was black with filth. The dirt under his fingernails would never come out, he was certain. He peeled back his tunic to check his bruises. To his astonishment they were all gone. His chest was perfectly healed.

  ‘You alright there, lad?’ Alfred asked him from the head of the table.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Archer. ‘Just looks like my bruises have all gone.’ Archer shrugged. ‘But then I always healed quickly.’

  Alfred and Writer’s mum exchanged a look. ‘Our Maerwynn is like that,’ Alfred said, taking Writer’s hand. ‘Never a scrape that didn’t heal up right away.’

  ‘I was just looking at you and thinking,’ Writer’s mother, Mildred, said to Archer, ‘how much better your eye looks today. The swelling has entirely gone.’

  Archer reached up to feel his eye socket. They were right. There was no swelling and no pain.

  He felt the bandages about his ear. There was no pain there, either. He started to unravel the bandage wrapped round his head.

  ‘I would leave those bandages on a few days more yet, dear boy.’ Alfred said. ‘That is neither a bruise nor a scape but a bad wound that you have there and you’re risking it going bad if you remove that bandage.’ Archer ignored him and Alfred looked at his wife. ‘There’s no telling the young anything, is there.’ Mildred patted Alfred on the hand and Archer finished unwinding the bandage and peeled off the gauze. ‘I will simply have to wrap your head up once you have satisfied your—’ He stopped as Archer turned his head and felt the side of his head.

  They all stared at Archer, open-mouthed.

  ‘Your, your…’ Alfred said.

  ‘Your ear has grown back!’ Keeper cried. ‘That’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.’

  Weaver grinned, shaking her head. ‘Good trick, that,’ she said.

  Archer felt around his new ear. It did indeed feel whole and there was no pain, none whatsoever. Relief flooded through him. It was only an ear, it would not have made much difference to his life to be without one and yet he was immensely relieved to find himself whole again.

  ‘What magic is this?’ Alfred said.

  ‘It is because of the Alchemist, father,’ Writer said. ‘This must be something referenced throughout the Alchemist’s writings that he called the Elixir of Life.’ She looked at them all. ‘Do you remember the Alchemist talking about it before we basketed him?’ They nodded. ‘And do you remember when he threatened to take my ears? He said that they would grow back. At the time, I thought he was taunting me but now I see that he really meant it. He gave us all this Elixir. A potion of some sort, a special concoction that confers this healing power.’

  ‘How?’ Alfred said, warily, glancing at Mildred. ‘Why?’

  ‘I know not,’ Writer said. ‘It had something to do with his plans for the four of us.’ She glanced at each of them. ‘Something to do with our abilities.’

  They all sat in silence for a few moments. Burp was under the table scratching his chains with his back feet.

  ‘Well, it’s good for Archer and everything but it doesn’t matter any now, does it,’ said Weaver. ‘The Alchemist is defeated and he’s up there in the Moon Forest rotting underneath the biggest beech tree you ever saw in your life. We’re shot of him, for good. No more messing about with the Vale. Finally we can do all we want.’ It was the longest speech Archer had ever heard her say and he agreed with her. They all did.

  ‘All that matters to your mother and I,’ Alfred said to Writer. ‘Is that you are back home with us, Maerwynn. Home where you belong. We have every right to be angry with the Alchemist for stealing away our best years from us but you are here now and here you will stay. And we shall have no more talk of magic or Alchemists or Elixirs of any kind. Just a nice, quiet, happy life.’ He held his wife’s hand with one of his and patted Writer’s with the other.

  ‘Thank you, father,’ Writer said. ‘You are quite right.’ Archer thought she seemed sad. ‘But I am going to still read that spell book and learn all that lies within.’

  Alfred and Writer’s mum exchanged a look. ‘I’d forgotten what a headstrong young woman you could be,’ Alfred said, with evident warmth and a smile. ‘But we will just have to see about that spell book. I wonder if it might not be better to lock it away somewhere, to be on the safe side.’

  Writer clenched her jaw and her knuckles were white from gripping the edge of the table.

  Soon, it was time to leave. Keeper was unusually quiet and he hugged Burp even more than usual. Weaver, had grown even more silent and grim and Archer knew she did not want to leave this wonderful, warm, happy house for more walking in the cold and the rain. He felt the same way. But he wanted to feel the arms of his parents around him far more than he wanted to feel the warmth of this hearth.

  Writer saw them out. She looked tired but happy and Archer was glad for her. ‘Goodbye, Writer,’ Archer said. ‘I suppose I should call you Maerwynn now?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said, sadly. ‘You all have to come back and visit me, any time you like. As soon as you like. Come in a few days, if you feel like it.’

  ‘We will,’ s
aid Keeper. ‘We definitely will, won’t we, Burp.’

  ‘Please do,’ Writer – Maerwynn - said. ‘I miss all of you already.’

  ‘We’re special,’ Archer said to Writer and to all of them. ‘And not because of what the Alchemist said about it being us that went to the Tower when no one else did. That was before. We’re special to each other now. And even though we’re all going to have a quiet, normal life we will always have each other, won’t we?’

  They all said yes.

  ‘All he means is,’ said Weaver. ‘Enjoy getting back to being normal and we’ll see you soon.’ She elbowed Archer in the ribs. ‘He’s just got a long-winded way of saying things.’

  Writer laughed. ‘I will enjoy being home and near to my river,’ she said, her blue eyes shining in the morning light. ‘But I don’t care what anyone says, I am going to learn all the spells in that book and I’m going to master all of them.’

  Archer did not doubt her for a moment. ‘You can show us some good ones when we come to visit.’

  ‘And you don’t go getting into any more trouble,’ she said to Archer. ‘You are good at making plans, so plan things properly before getting angry and just picking up your bow and rushing off and getting captured or something.’

  ‘Oh I won’t,’ Archer said, laughing. ‘I have well and truly learned my lesson.’

  They all hugged Writer and headed out again up the Vale, following the river, back along the road. It had rained again over night and the heavily rutted road stretched away with two rows of puddles in the ruts with high hedgerows often cutting off their view either side. Always off in the distance over the hedges stood the Tower. It looked as it always did but they knew that it was not. There was no Alchemist in there now. And there never would be again.

  It was not raining now and the sun even came out at times, taking the edge off the cold. Yet. without Writer there, it simply wasn’t the same. He was going to miss her. He wished he had told her how much he liked her. Although, they lived at other ends of the Vale, she was posh, and he was a farmer. They did not have much in common. She would probably not be interested in hanging round with him.