Changeling: Prelude to the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  “Then don’t go and fight. Stay here.” The boy’s voice rose in alarm. “Or take me with you so I can help.”

  “I can’t.” Geraint shook his head sadly. “To either. We have to go and fight with our king or be charged with treason and have our lives, family and property forfeited. I can’t take you with me not because of your inability at arms. God knows you are a natural and you are old enough, but because –” He hated to say this after so long. “— you’re too different. The battle would be fought during the day.”

  The boy stiffened at the bluntness of his mentor’s words, and then slumped in recognition of the truth. “You will try to come back, won’t you?”

  “I will.” Geraint gave the boy’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “I do want you to do something for me, boy.”

  “Anything.” The boy looked up earnestly.

  “Be careful when you’re out in the woods,” explained Geraint. “People have seen you.” Ignoring the horrified expression on the boy’s face, he continued. “Word is out in the surrounding villages of a spectre that haunts these woods. I can only assume they are talking about you based on their descriptions. Some are even saying that Gwyn ap Nudd has returned. That may work in your favour, as they won’t want to come upon the God who takes people to the Underworld. Some may want to seek out the truth. Just be careful.”

  Surprise and shock flitted across the boy’s face before he nodded. “I will.”

  “Good lad.” Geraint smiled half heartedly, trying to be more optimistic than he felt. Worry did not convey the full extent of his feeling toward leaving the boy. “Now finish your food and get to bed.”

  The boy tilted the bowl of cold porridge with a long, delicate, white finger, his appetite gone. “I won’t see you when I wake, will I?”

  “No, boy, you won’t. I’ll be gone then.” The sadness in the boy’s countenance brought tears to Geraint’s eyes.

  The boy turned to face him, his own eyes wet. “Geraint,” the boy’s voice thick with emotion, “thank you.”

  That did it. Geraint grabbed the boy in a bear hug. He could feel the boy’s slender yet strong arms wrap around him, returning the fierce embrace. “No, thank you,” Geraint whispered, white hair soft against his weather worn face. Pulling back, he put his hand to either side of the boy’s face, feeling the wetness of tears. “You take care. Now get to bed.”

  The boy nodded and Geraint let go of him. Standing with a fluid grace unmatched by anyone Geraint had ever known, the boy offered another rare smile before entering the cottage. Sunlight hit the home, illuminating the mist as it broke it up into millions of dazzling crystals before it was gone. Geraint could not see the beauty for the tears in his eyes as he burned the memory of their only embrace into his mind.

  Carefully, the boy placed one booted foot down after another. Fallen twigs gave way to his weight but did not break as he looked through the leafy bush to his prey munching delicately on the foliage between its hooves. The boots were one of the gifts Geraint had left for him that morning four months ago.

  The second of the gifts he swung off his shoulder and fitted with a black fletched arrow from the quiver strapped to his back. It was rare for one man to own one bow, Geraint had taught him. Most often it would be shared between two or three men because the yew tree they were made from was rare and it took a lot of effort and knowledge to make a bow. Geraint had one all to himself, but that was due to his rank of Chief.

  Letting the bowstring relax, the deer forgotten, the boy closed his eyes. Goddess, he missed his mentor. That last day in the morning mist seemed so long ago that the boy still could not believe that such a short time had passed. Geraint had been right. He had not returned.

  Word came from Geraint’s daughter a month ago. The boy had slept through the visit of the now orphaned woman coming to visit her great aunt for the first time. It was when he woke to find Auntie sitting by the hearth, its fire almost out and tears on her face that he knew something was horribly wrong. Auntie never let the fire go out. It was something only a fool would do. Without fire there was no life. Through a quiet voice, broken with emotion, she told him that Geraint had been mortally wounded in the battle that felled the king. He had been brought back by litter to his home and within a matter of days lay dead. The boy had stood in shock before the realization hit him and he had to sit lest he fall down.

  Without Geraint’s visits it was back to just he and Auntie, but even she seemed to have grown old overnight. She stayed indoors more than before and stopped the visits from those who would need her help every ninth day. The silence between them grew. Partially due to the fact that she was firmly ensconced in living her life during the day and he had to live his at night. The love was still there, there was no doubt about it, but the distance was as far apart as night and day.

  He missed her, and he worried about her. Geraint had been right about another thing. Auntie was not doing well. It pained her to walk, causing her to hobble since she refused a walking stick. She coughed, even in her sleep, and she could barely see. Most of the work done to maintain their home now fell upon the boy and every day he worried more about what he would do when she finally was called back to the Goddess. He was terrified of this obvious eventuality.

  Until then he had to take care of them both and tonight he had to bring in the meat. There was precious little else and the on coming winter was proving to be one filled with starvation. The loss of the king and the breakup of the nation under lesser rulers invited the raiders and thieves to make what they had done before seem like nothing. This year there would be famine.

  Bringing his bow back up he lined his sight to the unaware doe, notched the arrow and drew it back to his ear. A twang of the bowstring suddenly releasing and the startled expression of the dear as the impact of the iron tip drove deep just under the ear, behind its eye, told of the arrow’s fast flight through the air. A lucky shot, Geraint would say, and the doe collapsed to the underbrush.

  The boy let out a breath he did not realize he was holding, stood and swung the bow over his shoulder before stepping silently to the deer. Kneeling before the dead animal, the boy took out his knife, a finely wrought piece of work that Geraint had also left him. With eyes closed the boy muttered a prayer for the animal, thanking it for its sacrifice so that he and Auntie could live. This was not something that Geraint had taught him. It was something that felt right and proper to do. With a quick flick of the knife, he dug out the arrow, and cleaned it off on the grass before putting it away in his quiver. Tomorrow night he would have to clean it properly lest it begin to rust.

  Removing the bow from his shoulder, the boy unstrung it and placed the bowstring beside the quiver with the arrows. No longer under the stress from the sinew, the yew relaxed into a natural position that would allow the boy to use it as a staff. With natural ease, the boy hefted the carcass up and over his head to land on his shoulders. A bit of adjustment and the deer was balanced, albeit uncomfortably so, but there was no other way to get it back on his own. If Geraint had been there, they would have both carried it on a cross brace. But Geraint was not there and he would not be coming back. Bow in hand as well as the forelegs and back legs, the boy headed home.

  The old woman woke with a start. She did not know what woke her, but something did not feel quite right. The fire from the hearth was blurred orange and yellow, lending light to objects she could hardly see. Sitting up in her bed made from straw covered with hides and blankets she looked around in hope that whatever woke her would make its presence known.

  Then she realized what had woken her. There was no sound, except the sounds of the crackling fire. Not even the crickets and the night birds were out singing their songs. That was what woke her, the silence. A sense of dread filled her belly. Looking down to the bed next to hers, she was relieved not to see the boy there. Unable to see into the darkness to see if he was there in the hut she whispered to him. Receiving no answer, she painfully stood up, grateful that she slept with her robe on
.

  Her hips hurt and every other joint in her body raged with a fire that made movement painful. Poultices only helped for a short time and willow bark helped, but she was in a constant battle with the pain and she knew she was losing. She did not want to tell the boy how bad it was, but she knew he suspected. Words were unnecessary between them and it was rare that they talked to each other. Not because she did not want to talk, but because she respected his silence.

  She worried for him.

  The sound of horses radiated into the home. Someone was outside and Llawela knew it could not be Geraint. He was long gone. She prayed silently to the Goddess that it was not raiders. Who would raid a single old woman who had nothing? The time of night made the feeling in her gut rise higher into her throat.

  Shuffling to the door, she lifted the hide out of the way and stepped outside to face five men on horseback. Two of them carried torches. Around them and behind them were more figures on foot she could hardly recognize as anything more than just fuzzy blobs even though these others carried torches as well.

  “What is it?” she declaimed to the mob. “Why do you come to an old woman in the middle of the night?”

  One of the horsemen kicked his horse forward, obviously the ringleader. She could make out his brown wavy hair and the nasty red scar that ran from his forehead across what used to be his left eye and down to his jaw. This young man may have been good looking once, but the new scar twisted his features in a menacing way.

  “We have come, old woman, to exact justice from you.” The young man’s voice was barely recognizable through its gruff countenance.

  “What in the Goddess’ good name are you talking about, Huw?” She tried to straighten her curved back so that she could look up at him better.

  “You killed my little girl!” cried a woman from behind the horses. Llawela could not make her out of the blurred figures before her. She could hear the woman break into tears.

  Dumbfounded by the ludicrous accusation, Llawela responded. “Adyna, is that you? I have done nothing of the sort. Your daughter died because it was her time. Nothing could be done about that.”

  “Liar!” cried Adyna’s husband.

  “Is that what you have come here for, Huw?” demanded Llawela, bringing her attention back to the man on horseback. “If that is the case, then I am going back to bed and all of you can leave. We all know that Gwendolyn died of the wasting disease and I won’t stand here and be accused of something I didn’t have any hand in.” She turned to go back into her home.

  “Then what about our Chief’s death?” countered the young man.

  Llawela slowly turned around, menace filling her voice. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you deny that you cursed Geraint before he left to do battle for the king?” challenged the man on horseback. People around him murmured their agreement with his assessment.

  “I do deny such ridiculousness! Now leave my home!” She turned to go back into her hut but stopped at the sound of the five horsemen dismounting in unison.

  “I think not, old woman.” Huw grabbed her by the arm, halting her escape. Turning her to face him, she could see how ugly the scar had made him. Or was that his rage?

  “You cursed him and that is why his heart for battle was gone. And that is why he died,” hissed the young man. “That is not all. We know you consort with the white devil. People have seen him come and go from your home.”

  Llawela could not believe what she was hearing. She knew she had never cursed Geraint. He was too much like a son, but the fact that some had seen the boy; it was her worse nightmares come to life. All she could do was stare dumbly as Huw pulled her away from her home.

  “Here stands the witch that has brought us so much pain,” Huw declared to mob. “She is the reason why our crops have failed, why our loved ones lay in the earth and why our Chief is dead. What say you for her punishment?”

  Cries from the crowd called for her to be burnt, to be beaten, to be hanged. Every case was a death sentence. Llawela could not believe what she was hearing. These were the people she had helped all her life. These were her people she swore to uphold. Somehow she managed to find her voice in the growing noise of the crowd.

  “I have done nothing of the like! You all know this!” she cried and began pointing out all the good things she had done for the different people she recognized in the mob. She could not believe what was happening. Accusing voices resounded around her, drowning her protestations.

  Suddenly pain illuminated her sight and washed over her. Lifting her hand to her forehead she felt the gash from a thrown stone and the warm stickiness of the blood that flowed freely down her face, into her eyes. The violence of the act had shocked the mob into a moment of silence before they attacked en mass.

  Rocks flew and then it was hands and other implements. Her clothes were ripped as pain greater than what her own body could generate exploded with each new impact. Impotent tears ran down her face to mingle with blood and fear laden sweat. There was nothing she could do to stop the madness and was thankful that the boy was not here lest the same fate befall him. Twisting blurring orange and shadowed faces swirled around her. Each rotation brought new pains as she cried out for rationality, for help, but none came.

  A blow landed on the back of her head and before she surrendered to the sweet oblivion of the Goddess she heard a familiar voice cry out, “Die witch!”

  The walk through the forest at night was always magical to the boy. He stepped carefully, listening to the deadfall groan and crack under him and the dear’s weight. The leaves shuffled out of his way. Autumn was a beautiful time even though he could not witness the changes of green into the rainbow colours of fire. The smell of mould and damp lifted to his nose with each footstep and he breathed deeply, gaining strength to carry the burden of the dead doe.

  The forest never ceased to amaze him. Geraint had shown him so much that he never imagined could be found. All one had to do was look. The colours were gone only to be replaced with the silver and blue light from the moon and stars.

  It was a magical world, one in which he had learned to enjoy even though he still missed the day. The night was a time of power, so Auntie had taught him, when those of the Otherworld would come and play. It was these creatures that he knew Auntie believed he shared a kinship with and maybe she was right.

  He did not know, but there were times when he felt eyes staring at his back, sending the short hairs on his neck to rise. Tonight they seemed absent and he appreciated their vacancy in his life. They always reminded him how different he was. Auntie did not know he knew and he left it that way.

  The knife’s sheath caught on a bramble and he had to stop to give a gentle tug so that he could continue with his journey. It was then that he noticed the light; a sparkle of orange and yellow through the foliage that drew his attention ahead. Too early to be dawn and coming from the wrong direction, his breath caught as he realized that it had to be coming from his home. Leafy branches swayed in the breeze, staggering the growing glow. Sick fear washed over the boy as he moved forward to break through the forests edge.

  Shock pummelled into him as he let the carcass slip and fall from his shoulders without notice. His mouth and eyes went wide at the sight of his home consumed in a conflagration roaring with greedy hunger. He could not believe what he was seeing. He knew that the hearth fire had been properly banked when he left that sunset. It had been done in the same way as every other night for the entirety of his life. He could not imagine what could have gone wrong. Surely Auntie would not have set it by accident. She was in bed when he left, with the promise to take it easy.

  Oh my Goddess! thought the boy, realizing that Auntie must still be in there. Without reason, the boy ran to inferno that used to be his home in hopes that there would be a way for him to get inside and drag Auntie to safety. He had to get her out. She could not be dead.

  The image of her burning to death in the blaze nearly choked him, or was that the smoke bl
owing down on him? Coughing in the black air, he cried out for Auntie. The heat from the inferno made it impossible to get within ten feet of the cottage. It was a useless gesture, but he called for her nonetheless.

  Sparks and soot-laden air flowed around and upon him to the point where he could not breathe and he had to back away. The sound of burnt beams cracking under the weight of the thatched roof gave a split second warning to its collapse, sending a new wave of searing heat, sparks and smoke flying. He had to back away, his face and hands sore and reddened by the intense heat. Tears left streaks of white on a face dusted with blackness. The sight of his home, his life, destroyed dropped him to his knees. His breath came in short gasps. All he could do was watch in numb fascination as the fire licked and ate hungrily.

  A sound off to his left rang in the back of his mind but he paid it no heed. Then it came again. This time, a little louder, forcing him to turn and face the intruding cause of the noise. Choking back tears, he pushed himself up to his feet, using the bow staff as support, and wiped away black wet streaks from his face with the back of his hand.

  The sound came again and this time he recognized it coming from a pile of rags he had jumped over to get to the inferno. Could it be? It was too much to hope for, but he ran and slid to his knees beside the heap. What he had mistaken for a pile of rags was Auntie laying face down in blood soaked grass. Daring to hope, he carefully, gently rolled the old woman over onto her back so that her head and shoulders rested in his lap.

  The sight of her battered and bruised face cut off any hope and his breath in a gasp. Bloody gashes had swollen her eyes shut and her mouth was twisted with teeth missing or broken. He had to take a deep breath with eyes closed in a failed attempt to recompose himself.

  Opening his eyes he took a look at the rest of the woman who had raised him. The illuminating light from their home aflame outlined the horror that used to be her body. Through the tattered remains of her clothing ragged wounds seeped life’s precious fluids. Her right arm was bent in a way that no person’s arm should be and he could see the wet glistening bone sticking out through her forearm. Her legs were not much better. This was not the result of the fire. An agony filled groan escaped her as she tried to move.