Changeling: Prelude to the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  The chickens clucked in annoyance and the horse nickered softly at his approach. Ignoring the birds, focused only on the horse, he held out his hand so that it could taste his sent. He did not want it to be afraid of him. It was already too much that he was so different. Could the horse sense that? If it did it refused to give any notice. Its hot breath puffed gently into the boy’s hand, as if looking for a treat. A trace of a smile lifted the corner of the boy’s mouth, but it did not reach his eyes.

  Sensing it was safe, the boy put his hand on its nose, feeling the soft hairs under his hand, and began to pet it. It pressed into his hand, wanting more pressure, and the boy obliged. Finally here was a creature that was not afraid of him.

  The man had been afraid, the boy recalled, when he had entered into the little glade. But when the man who called himself Geraint, grabbed him and swung him about as he tried to escape, the boy had flashed back to the similar situation a fortnight ago. He had not meant to hit the man, and a part of him was sorry, but all he wanted to do was to get away so that it could not happen again. Never again would he allow himself to be placed in such a position, but the man’s tight grip on his arm did not release. It was the sight of that raised hand so ready to land a blow that proved to the boy that everything was repeating itself. The man was going to strike him and then he did something that amazed the boy. He lowered his arm. The explanation that the man was there to teach him was dubious. Why now? Why could it not have been before?

  The horse nuzzled the boy’s chest, causing him to take a step back and he scratched it behind the ears. The horse whuffled in pleasure. It seemed that the horse liked him. To have a friend like this would be wonderful. There would be no judgments, no fear, but that was unlikely for a boy who did not have any friends and his prospects were none. Surmising that it was Geraint’s, the boy refused to care. He was content to just stand here enjoying the horse.

  Would the man - his name is Geraint, the boy reminded himself, remembering the man’s calloused hand gripping his at the edge of the forest - teach him to ride? The thought of being up on this beasts back, flying over the land with the sun on his face was intoxicating until he remembered. He would never be able to be out in the sun again. New tears formed and he moved to the side so he could bury his face into the horse’s long mane, breathing in the musky horse scent. The man would not teach him now. There was no way anymore. The day was taken away.

  “Cadfarch needs to be brushed down.”

  The nearness of the man’s voice surprised the boy and he stiffened, afraid what his trespass on this man’s horse would bring. Did the man think that his touching of the horse somehow contaminated it?

  “I’m sorry,” the boy apologized and backed away from both horse and its owner.

  The man ignored him and went into a saddlebag’s side pouch, pulling out a hard bristled brush and tossed it to him. The boy managed to barely catch it in both hands and stared at the device.

  “You can brush him down while I take off his saddle and bridle,” directed Geraint. The boy stood and stared, confused at what he was being asked to do. Brush down a horse? He nearly dropped the brush when he noticed the man’s eyes had lowered as if studying him. “You do know how to brush a horse, don’t you, boy?”

  He shook his head.

  The man sighed and motioned him over. “Come on, I’m not going to hurt you.” Reluctantly, the boy took a step closer and watched the man back away, giving him space to reach the horse. “Now brush him, starting from the top, working down. Go with the way the hair grows.”

  Chestnut skin twitched as he put the bristles against the horse and tried to drag it downwards but his own nervousness made the brush slip out of his hands. He managed to catch it before it hit the ground, but before he could apply it again to the horse, a rough hand enclosed over his and his breath caught as his body tensed. The man was standing behind him. He could feel the man’s warm breath on his bare shoulders and the rough woollen tunic against his back. Trapped between horse and man, the boy could not move.

  “Left handed, eh?” harrumphed the man. “That will make training tricky, but I’ve always been up for a challenge. Now, Cadfarch likes firm strong strokes.”

  He let the man guide his hand up and down, up and down. Did he hear the man right? But how can that be? His arm went up and down on its own and Geraint had moved to remove the saddle.

  “Keep that up, and don’t forget his legs. He gets brushed down before he gets fed and watered,” explained the man, his voice soft and encouraging. The boy dared a glance at the man and watched the mechanics of the removal of the harness and saddle. “I brought some feed with me. You can give it to him when you’re done.”

  The boy looked up at the man, his task forgotten with his hand halted in mid brush. Was he hearing right? Geraint was entrusting the care of his horse to him?

  The man looked back at him. “Cadfarch likes a bit more strength and movement when he’s brushed. I know you’ve got both, boy.”

  Brown eyes blazed into him and he saw the man test his jaw. Realization swept over the boy and he stammered another apology. He had never hit another person before. He had not meant to. Instinct and a desire for survival had won out.

  The man waved the apology away. “More my fault than yours. What I’m wondering is, who taught you to punch like that?”

  Embarrassed, the boy turned back to the horse and returned to his task. The horse snorted as if wondering what took him so long to get back to the job. The long careful strokes were unsuccessful in alleviating his mind of his turbulent emotions. A grumble sounded, and the man was beside him once again. Was he doing this wrong? The warm hand stopped his. The boy did not dare to look up, but stared at the ground between the horse’s hooves.

  “We’re not going to get very far if you won’t talk.” Geraint’s voice was gentle, but firm. “A few words here and there are not conversation, and I don’t like talking to myself. If you want to learn you’re going to have to speak. You do want to learn, don’t you, boy?”

  The idea of learning what this man could teach him swam in his head. It seemed so impossible but he so wanted to try. He nodded, eyes downcast so as not to look up at the man.

  “Try putting words to that,” offered Geraint.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “I want to learn.”

  “Why?”

  The question surprised him. A quick glance told him the man was waiting for an answer, his muscular arm resting on the horse’s shoulder. He could not even form the words in his own mind without opening up a floodgate he was afraid would never be able to close once a foothold was taken. But even though he wanted to learn, it was not possible.

  And then a new thought formed and he spoke, his voice barely audible. “Why do you want to teach me?”

  He felt, more than he saw, the man straighten obviously not expecting such a response. Turning to look up at the man, the boy felt something nudge his heart into a faster rhythm and the words poured out faster than he could think. “All my life I have been hidden away by Auntie. Told over and over that if anyone found out about me something bad would happen. She never told me exactly what, but I found out.” He could not believe what he was doing. All those years of loneliness and fear falling out of his mouth to a stranger who could easily finish what was started in that grove.

  His voice broke with emotion, tears welling in his eyes. Goddess, he just wanted the tears to stop. “And now, you come and offer to teach me too late. Why? Because Auntie asks?” The boy looked back at the horse. “I now know why she has hidden me. Why she has feared me to ever be seen by anyone. I found out that day in the grove and now she brings you into the secret.” His tears flowed faster, his breath catching as he whispered, “You can’t teach me because – because-”

  The man caught him as he crumbled to the ground, sobbing. He felt the man’s strong arms hold him against his broad chest and through his cries he heard, “Because you are Fay, making you alone, but you’re not alone anymore, boy, and no one
will ever hurt you again. I promise.”

  Llawela stood by the crackling fire, a large stick in the cauldron to stir the fat and ash bubbling down to become course soap. Finally, she thought to herself as she watched Geraint console the boy, pleased that the healing of both father and son could begin.

  Chapter V

  Come on, boy. Get that sword higher. You know better than that,” Geraint chastised his student as he held his own practice sword ready.

  He could hardly believe that seven years had passed, but the grey in his once dark brown hair and moustache bore the witness of those years. In that time he had grown to love the boy who now stood a head taller than he. From a thin, almost delicate boned child to a tall, slender yet muscular young man, the boy had a natural grace that reminded Geraint of a large predator, and he had the heart of one as well.

  Through the years of training, the boy had shown proficiencies in hunting and fighting with sword and knife. What astonished Geraint the most was the boy’s incredible accuracy with the bow.

  Today, though, they were out in the early morning fog with only a fire beside them for light for one last lesson in the sword. Well, he hoped it would not be the last, but circumstances as they were, made Geraint believe it to be the case. When the sun came up he would leave to meet up with his men before joining the others in a battle to protect their land and their king. He had not told the boy. Yet.

  A yawn escaped from the boy. How many times had Geraint told him to keep focused and used this as a perfect opportunity to teach the boy that one final lesson. Bringing his own sword up he brought it down in a swing that would, if the sword had been real, cleave the boy through the shoulder and down.

  The boy was no longer standing before him. The sound of wood smacking wood resounded in his ears and then he was spitting dew soaked grass out of his mouth. He could not remember how he managed to lay sprawled on the lawn. Trying to turn over, he felt at the back of his neck the point of the wooden practice sword. He did not know whether to be furious or to be proud but accepted both feelings as he rolled onto his back to stare up at the young man who had felled him so easily.

  The point lingered above his face for a moment longer before the boy lowered it and offered a hand up for the older man. Geraint begrudgingly accepted the cool white hand and let himself be lifted up. Was that a smile on the boy’s face? It was not often that the boy smiled, always serious. He had tried to bring some laughter to the boy, but it was rare to even get the boy to truly grin. Thinking back, Geraint could only remember one time when he had seen the boy’s face light up with happiness.

  It was the first time he had taken the boy out to hunt. That was what? Five years ago? Geraint had wanted to make sure the boy had skills with the bow and tracking before going out into the forest at night. It had been a strain on Geraint. To teach at night things better taught during the day had at first been difficult, as he had to teach himself as he instructed the boy, but they had managed together. Geraint could not believe how well the boy had absorbed the lessons and the night they went out in search of a deer it was the boy who led the way through the dense woods.

  The moonlight made it easier, dappling the trees, bushes and ground in silver ribbons. Geraint had spotted the red tailed doe first. Silently he indicated to the boy the target and that they needed to stay down wind of the beast lest it catch their scent and bolt away. The boy nodded and followed Geraint, making no sound among the dead fall. When they were close enough, Geraint allowed the boy to take his long bow and an arrow.

  Expecting that the first shot would go wide and possibly frighten the deer, Geraint had another arrow ready. What he saw astounded him. The boy, straining at the pull of the long bow, fired cleanly into the beasts shoulder. Frightened at the sudden pain, the doe tried to flee, but its front leg wouldn’t co-operate. The boy took the second arrow and shot it in the neck. Dark blood spurted out and Geraint knew the boy had gotten the artery. Down went the deer. Not knowing who was more in shock at the sudden luck, Geraint turned to see eyes sparkling in the moonlight and a true grin broke on the boy’s face. It was a radiant smile of pure joy and thrill of a successful hunt.

  “You tricked me,” stated Geraint, looking up into boy’s pale face. Sweat mingled with the moist air, plastering long white hair to the boy’s face. The half smile turned into a full one exposing perfectly straight teeth, second incisors and canines longer and pointed. Maybe that was why the boy did not truly smile often?

  “You underestimated me,” corrected the boy, his voice soft and melodic.

  Releasing their grip, Geraint smiled and nodded. “Aye, I did. I won’t be making that mistake again.”

  The boy nodded once, the smile gone as he looked into the increasing light of dawn. Through the dense mist of the summer morning they both knew that once the sun rose and burned off the fog it was going to be a sweltering day. One in which the boy had to be indoors before the first rays could do harm. Even in this increasing light the boy had to squint.

  They had tried through the years to see if the boy’s incredible sensitivity to the day had waned. It had not. After the third try nearly a year after coming into the boy’s life, it was decided that this change was permanent. The boy had delved into another depression, but Geraint refused to let it last. He made the boy train doubly hard even though he could only come every fortnight. The boy trained in earnest and absorbed whatever Geraint could teach as though he were a sea sponge.

  “Come on, let’s see what Llawela left in the pot.” With a hand on the boy’s shoulder they headed inside. Both had to duck under the lintel, but it was the boy who had to watch his head indoors lest one of the beams clip his head. The soft sea-saw snore of the old woman greeted them, and they quickly and quietly picked a couple of wooden bowls from the floor beside the hearth and dished out healthy servings of porridge before they left as quietly as they entered.

  It was a ritual whenever Geraint came. One which both of them enjoyed, a time for the two to sit and talk, or even to just listen to the music of nature as the day woke. They never watched the sun rise; the boy would leave to go inside before that point. They sat facing east, leaning against the wall of the hut and watched.

  Taking a spoonful of the porridge, Geraint wished he had some precious salt to make it taste better. As if hearing his unvoiced complaint the boy passed him a small jar of honey harvested from Llawela’s bees. Spooning some into the thick mixture of boiled oats and dried fruits he placed the jar on the grass before him in case either of them wanted more. Honey was much nicer with porridge than salt, if one could get either. Geraint was grateful that Llawela was brave enough to care for the bees.

  The two sat quietly in the mist and the growing light, enjoying a meal together. Geraint wanted to do much more for the boy, but could not without raising suspicion and felt a little self conscious at his elaborate and expensive clothing. It was important for a Chief to be well dressed, or so his mother explained before she passed two years ago to a wasting disease. He just wished he could have brought some proper clothing for the boy who only owned one rough woollen shirt and kilt made from a blanket he had brought last year.

  Both ill fitted the growing boy. The old clothing became rags that bound the boy’s feet. At least Geraint was able to bring a gift this time. It was hidden in the house so that Llawela could give them to the boy once he was gone.

  Concern washed over Geraint as he picked out a piece of apple and popped it into his mouth. Llawela was a very old woman. Not many people lived to see nearly four score of years, and her health was starting to fail her. What was the boy to do when the old woman was finally gone? His brow wrinkled in worry and he could see the boy giving him a sideways glance as if picking up on his thoughts.

  It was time to talk to the boy. He may not get another chance.

  Clearing his throat, Geraint broke the fragile silence. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do when Llawela finally…um…passes?” He turned to look at the boy who stopped his spoon
in midair.

  Shoulders slumped as the boy dropped his spoon into the bowl and put both on the ground beside him. He shook his head, sending his straight waist length white hair shimmering.

  Geraint knew he had hit a nerve, but he had to press. He wanted his son safe when both he and the old woman were gone, and he feared that it would be sooner rather than later. “She’s not a well woman, boy. Llawela’s seen more years than ours put together.”

  “I know,” the boy whispered, staring at a spot on the grass ahead of them.

  “Has she, I mean, has Llawela said anything about what you are to do when she’s gone?” Geraint placed his empty bowl down, watching the boy’s face. How like his mother the boy’s soft features were. The boy was not handsome in the traditional sense, his features too much like his mother’s, lending to another and more effective description - beautiful.

  “No,” replied the boy, his voice quiet. “I guess I would just continue to live here.”

  Geraint nodded. It was not a good plan, but it was better than nothing. “If you ever need of anything, you come to me. If you can.”

  The boy lifted his head and turned to face Geraint. It always made the older man a little uncomfortable to have those large expressive eyes, the colour of blood, stare into his. Eyes were never meant to be that colour, but he did not show it.

  “You’re not coming back, are you?” challenged the boy.

  It was Geraint’s turn to feel uncomfortable. The time had come. “No, boy, I’m not coming back.” Surprised shock filled the boy’s face and Geraint stopped the boy from saying anything with his own words. “Tomorrow I’ll be leading a group of trained warriors to the king. Raiders have been attacking all along the coast line and the king has a plan to route them all out and send them back across the waters with their tails between their legs. If we win, and that’s a big if, boy, then I may be able to come back, but I, like so many other Chiefs, think this is foolhardy.”