by Karen Dales
It was this difference that made Auntie hide him. Now he was found, a shiver of fear ran through him with the thought of a new attack coming because of him. Would Auntie be hurt for hiding him? She feared so. Was that why that big man had been in his home that night? Had the four in the grove told the man and he was there to punish them both?
The boy remembered the fear on Auntie’s face. He remembered the man and the expression of horror he had exhibited at the boy’s sudden presence. He could not remember what happened next and he was afraid that now these others knew of his existence. They would tell others or come to finish the job the four had started. The boy rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to force away that line of thinking and waited for the hut to darken with the sunset.
A faint sound of metal clinking against metal and the clopping of hooves upon earth clutched his innards. He sat up. It was unmistakable. There was a horse outside and that meant that someone was here! He was found! Panic took root. He had to get away. He had to hide. But where? The idea of hiding under his covers was ludicrous, something born out of childishness. If someone truly were looking for him they would find him here, in his home. He could not hide here. He had to get out.
Climbing to his bare feet, ready to make his escape, his heart skipped a beat when Auntie appeared in the doorway, a smile on her face. Oh Goddess, was she happy to finally be rid of him? The thought shook him to the core, too afraid to say anything.
“I have some good news, boy.” Not taking any notice of the boy’s trembling, she continued, “Geraint has come back and he’s agreed to—”
The boy bolted for the door and the freedom of the twilight, nearly knocking the old woman to the ground in his desperation for escape.
“What?” She twirled around, catching her balance. Realizing the boy had fled out the door, Llawela called, “Boy, come back!”
It had taken Geraint longer than he had anticipated in arranging things back home so that he could return to Llawela and his son. His son! It still mystified him, and though he hated lying to his mother and his daughters – not to mention the rest of the village and his advisors – he had managed something convincing enough to allow him to come to the Old Woman’s every fortnight. Let them think what they may. He had lied close enough to the truth that his story and whatever news he reported back to the village from his visits would seem perfectly normal. He just had to make sure that he did not mention the boy.
Going to a lonely old woman to help her make sure she was well cared for and had what she needed was something a Chief of his people should do. Especially, since she was the sister of the old Chief. It was harder to convince his men that because she was kin he was safe to go alone. Begrudgingly, they had accepted. It was his mother that had voiced the greatest protests, but she did not have a choice in the matter. Leaving the running of the house for a couple of days every fortnight in her more than capable hands would give the women in his life a break from him and he from them.
It was hard living with three very strong willed women, he smiled. Sometimes he felt as though he was Chief in name only and his mother and daughters ran the show. It did not matter now. He was here again and he was anxious to see the boy.
Pulling on the reigns, Cadfarch came to a slow cantering stop beside the coop. The old woman stopped feeding the chickens some grain from a small wooden bowl and stretched her back, her face breaking into a smile at the sight of his figure atop the horse.
“I knew you couldn’t stay away,” she said, forcing the angrily clucking chickens out of her path so she could leave the pen.
Swinging his leg over the chestnut’s back, Geraint dismounted and waited for Llawela to come to him, a smile on his face. “You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
He held out his hand to help her step over the old wooden fence. “Sure I did,” she replied once both her feet were well balanced outside of the coop. “You could have chosen to stay away.”
“After that surprise you dropped on me, not likely,” he chuckled.
His laughter was contagious and she cackled, her face beaming. “So how long do we have the honour of having the Chief stay with us?”
“A couple of days,” said Geraint, starting to strip down his horse from its bundles before he could take off the saddle. “I’ve made arrangements that I can come about every fortnight.”
“Wonderful!” Llawela clapped, clearly pleased with how everything was going. “I’ll go tell the boy.”
Geraint watched the old woman waddle back to her small home as he undid one of the straps that held his kit. A sense of nervousness overtook him as he realized that this time he would be meeting the boy properly. What would he say when he saw the boy? Would he remember him? Suddenly, a streak of white caught his attention and he turned to see the boy running from the house. For a brief moment his eyes caught his son’s before the boy disappeared into the woods.
“Boy, come back!” he heard Llawela cry out.
Ignoring his horse for the moment, he covered the ground between them with long powerful strides. “What happened?”
Llawela stood in the doorway; a hand on the wall for support. “I told him you were here and he ran.” A sigh escaped her and she shook her head as if what had happened could be taken back and then looked up at the younger man. “You have to go after him.”
Dumbfounded, Geraint was not prepared for this, but then again what had he expected? Open arms? To be enthusiastic about a stranger’s visit? The boy’s escape had surprised both he and Llawela, but more so for Geraint as he had never seen anyone run so fast or so gracefully. It was like watching the flight of a deer, or – Geraint shuddered – a ghost whisking off from being seen.
“I can’t go into the woods, Geraint,” she explained. “My eyes are not as they were when I was younger and it’s already getting dark.”
The sky was a deep blue with shades of pink and orange, the sun having set a short time ago. Looking into the darkening woods, Geraint grimaced. How he hated the woods, especially at night. It was a place that sane men were taught to fear. There were spirits in the forest. He had learned that the night he left his son as a babe. It had taken him until sunrise to find his home, his hands and feet and nose nearly frozen. He shuddered at the memory of the sounds of disembodied voices leading him in circles. Luckier than most, he had gotten out alive rather than falling into a bog, never to be seen again.
Going into the woods now, so close to the Beldân festival was an invitation for trouble, but he had no choice. Someone had to go and get the boy and it seemed that person was he.
Resolved, Geraint turned to face the dark forbidding forest. “Okay, I’ll get him.”
A hand stopped him before he could proceed forward. Looking back at the concerned old woman she said, “Thank you. I wouldn’t ask this of you, but be gentle with the boy. Whatever happened to him still is an open wound.”
“You mean he hasn’t said anything to you?”
She mournfully shook her grey head. “He hasn’t said anything. Nothing. Not a word about anything.” Recognizing the inquisitiveness on the man’s face, she stared into Geraint’s soul. “He hasn’t said a word since he came home that night.”
The magnitude of what she said alarmed him. Had the blow caused some damage that made speech impossible for the boy? God, he hoped not. “He can hear, can’t he?”
“Yes,” she said miserably.
“Well, then, don’t worry. I’ll find the boy and bring him back. And I’ll be careful with him.”
Rewarded by a glimmer of a smile, Geraint nodded and walked to the woods.
It only took a couple of steps from the tree line to find that he was in a different world where night had fallen long before the sun had set. Swallowing his fear he put into mind his purpose in being here - to find his son, but where to start looking?
The trees stood as solid shadows that climbed to make up a canopy of darkness far above his head, cutting off the view of the clear night and the attempts of stars to permeate the ne
w night. The trees were easy to manoeuvre around. It was the bushes and brambles that seemed to catch on his clothing, grasping at him as though they tried to stop him from finding the boy. Carefully he would have to stop and disentangle himself when his clothes caught in smaller branches and thorns.
The boy had to be Fay to be in here! he thought.
It would be nice to find a path, or find any sign of the boy, but in the darkness, not knowing the woods in these parts; it made it damned near impossible. Already he had to suck on his hand from the small scrapes and cuts that the brambles created. If the Fay wanted a blood sacrifice to give up the boy, Geraint was already the unwilling supplier.
Frustrated and fearful that he would get lost he let his hunting skills take over. Coming to a standstill, Geraint closed his eyes to listen. First it was hard to hear past his beating heart, but quickly reminding himself that doing this at night was the same as doing it in the day. He let the pounding fall into the background. Whispers of wind fluttered in the trees and bushes about him. A crack of deadfall and a screech of two fighting animals told him that a badger’s nest was nearby. He let the sounds envelop him and found he heard something unusual. Placing his soul in the care of God Geraint carefully, quietly, followed the sound and prayed it was not the Tylwyth Teg playing games with him again.
It did not take him long to find himself in a small clearing, the indigo sky above with stars starting to become visible with the oncoming night. No moon would rise this night. Only the stars would be there to guide him back if - no, when, he corrected himself - he found the boy. The sound continued but louder this time. Turning to face the cause, he found beneath a tree off to his right a figure of white sitting with knees hugged to its chest. He had found the boy and the source of the sound.
The boy was crying. Then he stopped and stared at the man who intruded upon his solitude.
Geraint did not require much light to see the boy’s expression turn from surprise to terror. The boy’s pale skin seemed to glow in the fading light. Geraint took a step towards the child and damned himself for a fool as soon as he did. The boy rose unsteadily to his feet and backed away, searching for a way to freedom, and bolted across the grove to a path hidden between two trees.
Cursing, Geraint, who was closer to the escape route, ran to catch the boy before he disappeared and barely managed to grab onto the slight white arm, whirling the boy to face him. A sharp pain shattered across Geraint’s jaw, sending stars swirling. He almost let go of the boy, but gripped harder so as not to lose him and to steady himself. Gradually, the blinking lights popped out of existence, revealing the shocked and frightened boy in his bruising grip.
Following the boy’s gaze he realized that his other hand was poised to strike back. Shame overwhelmed Geraint and he lowered his hand to test his jaw. Damn, that boy can hit hard. Testing his teeth with his tongue he found one loosened from the blow. Hopefully he would not lose it.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Geraint explained, taking the trembling boy by both shoulders. He winced at the thought of the bruise that the boy would certainly have. “Llawela asked me to come.”
A flash of a question crossed the boy’s eyes, but was too afraid to voice it. Geraint sighed and continued. “She asked me to come and train you in the warrior’s way.”
The boy shifted his stance, his body speaking the words. Geraint could see that the child was wary but curious. Not blaming the boy for not trusting him he released the boy and was relieved that he did not run again. More explanation was needed. Obviously, Llawela had not said anything to the boy about him.
“She wanted me to teach you so that you could defend for yourself when the time came.”
The silence in the grove broke to the hooting of an owl in a nearby tree and the hairs on Geraint’s neck rose, catching his breath in surprise. The boy seemed nonplussed with the sound.
“Do you mind if we talk about this on the way back?” asked the man. It was completely dark out and he did not want to spend a night in the woods.
Taking a step back, the boy turned and without so much as a word, found the path to lead them out. Geraint followed as best he could. The path was obviously meant for someone shorter than he, but it was much better than floundering in the woods. Having no other recourse, he trusted the boy, but when the slight pale figure ahead of him suddenly disappeared, Geraint called out for him to slow down. He could not even hear the boy’s footfalls on the hard packed earth. In comparison, he felt the clumsy oaf. He was better at this during the day when he could see what he was doing and where he was going.
The white figure reappeared before him, standing very still with his back to Geraint, allowing the man to come up to stand beside him. The forest parted to reveal the old woman’s hut. Guardedly, the boy glanced up at Geraint almost as if daring the man to take the next step. Light from the bonfire Llawela must have built in their absence, reflected in the boy’s large expressive eyes rimmed with lashes so thick as to give the illusion of darkness. Mistrust overshadowed fear and Geraint saw a new expression. In eyes red as blood blazed cold anger. Geraint had seen such expressions in others, usually in older men, but in this boy the look filled him with dread.
This was not how he had wanted to start off. He needed a new approach. “I’m Geraint.” He stuck out his hand. The boy stared at the outstretched hand as if it were a snake coiled to strike. “This wasn’t how I expected things to go, but I’m willing to give it another try, if you’ll allow it.”
Silence filled the space between them as the boy studied the man. Brown eyes connected with red before the boy reluctantly slipped his slender hand into a rough and meaty one well accustomed to hard work. Geraint was surprised at the cool softness of the boy’s skin, but ignored it, happy that some positive headway had been made.
“If you want, we can start your training tomorrow at first light,” Geraint offered with a smile.
If it was possible for the boy to become paler Geraint could not imagine until that moment when the boy blanched. “What is it?” concern fought with worry filled Geraint’s voice. Was the boy going to bolt off again?
Eyes of liquid fire glimmered with unshed tears. “I can’t,” whispered the boy, his voice soft, barely audible through the anguish. “They took away the day.” A tear escaped.
Geraint stared in shock as the boy relinquished the grip and strode away. What the—? He needed to find the old woman for her to explain what was going on here. He headed back to the hut as the boy made his own way to the enclosure that held their chickens, obviously wanting to be alone.
Llawela was tending to the fire and was fixing a large enough tripod to stand above the blaze when Geraint found her. At his approach she looked up. “Did you find him?”
“Yes.” Geraint could feel his own anger starting to boil.
Looking into the dark, she turned to him, “Where is he?”
“He’s over by the coop.” Geraint moved to stand in front of her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He strained to keep the anger from his voice.
Blinking in confusion, she stared up at him. “About what?”
Exasperation took over. “What is this about the boy having the day taken away from him?”
Understanding dawned over the old woman’s expression, her mouth forming a silent oh. She turned back to her chore.
“He can’t go out during the day anymore, Geraint.”
“What are you talking about? Speak plainly. I get enough of this run around at home. I don’t need it here where I’ve been asked to come,” he fumed.
Llawela was struggling with a cauldron she meant to hang over the fire. It was obviously too heavy for her and out of exasperation, Geraint grabbed it out of her hands, lifted the heavy iron pot and hung it on the chain that dangled from the centre of the tripod.
“Okay, it’s very simple.” She wiped her hands on her grey ragged skirt. “Whatever happened to the boy changed him, Geraint.”
“That’s to be expected. But –”
&
nbsp; “But nothing.” Irritation filled her. “He can’t go out in the day anymore because if he does he can’t see. The light blinds him with headaches I can’t treat. That’s not the worst of it, though.” She paused waiting for understanding to spark in Geraint’s head. A jaw dropped and she knew she got through. “When the light hits his skin, he burns. Just like when he came home that night.” She had tried to explain things matter-of-factly, hoping to hide her own despair at the changes the Goddess had seen fit to bestow upon the boy.
She let the space between them fill with silence until Geraint exhaled noisily. “Dear God.”
The full impact stunned him. Not being able to go out during the day? He could not even begin to imagine what that would do to a person. Life revolved around the day. Chores were done. Lives were lived.
From sunrise to sunset life flourished and now to be banished from that world into one of darkness, he shook his head. How could he teach this boy now? So much of it was dependent upon clear sight. He glanced back to where the boy stood at the chicken coop petting his horse. A pale figure stood out against the chestnut. Geraint knew he had to find a way, if not for himself then for the boy. Not wanting to disrupt the child, but having to care for his horse for the night, he told himself, Geraint left the old woman and quietly walked over to the boy.
Furiously wiping away the tears that slid down his cheeks, the boy walked to the coop and saw the horse. In the reflected firelight the horse’s coat glimmered like autumn leaves. It was the most beautiful creature the boy had ever seen. He had heard Auntie talk about horses. They were very important to the stories she told him about the Children of Dôn, but to finally see one in the flesh lifted his battered soul just a bit.