by Helen Gosney
Red Rowan
Book 1: Forester’s son
Helen Gosney
ISBN 978-0-9925853-0-3
Copyright © Helen Gosney 2014
All rights reserved.
Cover image © Mikesilent | Dreamstime.com
Cover design by author
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed therein are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events, locations and organizations is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Sian
“… a big black grumpy cow…”
1. “…he wants to join the Guard.”
2.“I’m damned glad this young fellow’s going to be on our side!”
3. “…No better than half-civilised savages at best.”
4. “I don’t know why they keep him.”
5. “There’s no taking it back…”
6. “A forester, you say? My, my. Fancy that!”
7. “… a man has to look out for his fellow troopers.”
8. “… there could well be a bloody problem!”
9. The Champions’ Trophy
10. “…we can’t be calling the new Champion by a dog’s name, can we?”
11. “… as if he was just a very tall dwarf.”
12. “He had the heart and spirit of the dwarves within him.”
13. “I hope I’m the one who sends him packing.”
14. “Oh, dear. You really did upset him, didn’t you!”
15. “… every garrison should have an Egbert.”
16. “You play a dangerous game, Captain. A very dangerous game indeed.”
17. “That bird has flown, Bella.”
18. “…wed beneath a soaring Forest Giant …”
**********
Sian
Sian [“Shee-ahn”] is a small province to the west of Wirran; a wild, beautiful place known for its magnificent forests and timbers, its swift fish-filled rivers and cold deep lakes and the proverbial stubbornness of its foresters. It’s almost entirely encircled by high mountains: south and west are the Caterpillar Mountains with the Break between them and the Sleeping Dogs to the east. The Break is one of only two entries for commerce and trade, the other being the smaller Gap in the west. Across the northern border are the Granite Mountains, fearsomely high and steep in places, with perhaps a few dangerous passes through them that are known only to the hunters and trackers of the foresters. The Sleeping Dogs are so named because they’re generally considered to be best left alone, but if anyone was mad or desperate enough to try to cross them, there’s only one place to do it: the Dogleg Pass. It starts off easily enough on the Siannen side as the trail runs through deep-sided gullies lined with lovely tree ferns and tall trees, but it quickly becomes steeper, narrower and more dangerous and it certainly lives up to its Siannen reputation of being as crooked as a dog’s hind leg as it climbs upwards.
The track loses itself and nearly everyone else somewhere in the middle of a confusing jumble of deadend canyons and sheer drops; but, if one knows where they’re going or has a very good guide, one will eventually reach the Fangs.
Two mighty crags, they are, at almost the highest part of the Sleeping Dogs. Up here the wind blows cold and hard even in the height of summer and the Fangs are always crowned by ice and snow. From mid to late autumn until sometimes surprisingly late in spring the way is simply impassable.
The southern Fang has been split for several hundred feet from its apex by some ancient cataclysm and it’s prone to quietly drop bits of itself on unwary travellers. The northern Fang is so steep the sides are almost sheer, and the Pass winds between the two, as crooked as ever, until it runs around the side of the north Fang as a windswept, horribly exposed track for a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. From here, the view along the spine of the Sleeping Dogs is magnificent, but most folk are too worried about the sheer thousand-foot drop below them to notice it.
The foresters called this bit the Breath Stealer, or the Scream. After this, anything is a relief, but the Wirran side is just as narrow, steep and dangerous in parts as the Siannen, perilous to the inexperienced and unwary for most of its length.
It’s widely believed that even the mountain goats avoid the place and that only madmen and Siannen foresters ever go there. Some folk find it hard to tell the difference between the two, but to be fair, few madmen do actually make the crossing.
**********
The Siannen foresters are a tall, handsome, well-built race, generous and hospitable to others whether they’re Siannens or not. They’re hardworking, honest and plain speaking to a fault. Most tend to be dark-haired with blue or brown eyes, but a few northern clans are redheaded; not the sandy or carroty type of red, but a beautiful true auburn, and a few forester families have the mottled green-brown eyes that are so rare elsewhere in Yaarl.
Inevitably over the years some have drifted away from the hard life of the foresters, moved to the slightly gentler southern and western parts of Sian and built small cities and towns, like Siovan and Sinter, both near the Break. Even there, they’re never too far from trees, for first and foremost Sian is known for its trees. They’re everywhere… little copses of eucalypts, open forests of oak and ash, dense stands of lovely cedars and spruce and mighty marblebarks. And then there are the fabled Forest Giants, said to be the tallest and biggest trees in Yaarl, that grow only in certain isolated parts of north-eastern Sian and nowhere else. The forests are alive with birds and creatures great and small. It’s said the forester-born pine and die away from them; certainly it’s unusual for a forester to leave his beloved forests, and they rarely stay away for long.
**********
No Siannen forester, male or female, has short hair and it’s only ever trimmed to keep it tidy, never to cut it short. It’s considered to be a mark of respect and love for the forests and of course this doesn’t alter whether a Siannen is in Sian, Wirran, the grasslands of Nessun or the Great Sandy Desert. A woman’s hairstyle is variable, but all men and lads over twelve wear the traditional braid. Some braids are deceptively simple, some very complex, but nevertheless they contain a lot of information about their wearer, to those who know how to interpret them. There’s no deep, dark secret to it, but it is complicated.
Each clan has a particular pattern to the braiding, then each family of that clan has their own variation, and each individual has their own variation again. Some clans have a single long plait down the back, some two or three, and a couple of clans have dozens of tiny plaits, beginning with them woven closely against the head. The exact pattern of this weave differs from clan to clan. Then, some families braid all the tiny plaits into a single one, some braid perhaps six or seven of the little plaits into one and repeat it over the head, and some leave the whole lot loose. Needless to say, this style of braid takes hours of work and that’s probably why more clans don’t do it.
An example may serve to illustrate it best.
All male members of the Ghost Cedar clan who are older than twelve have their hair braided closely to their heads in a pattern of straight lines running from the brow to the back of the head. The hair is then braided into dozens of tiny plaits. If these plaits are left loose, the man is of the Binnen family. If there are red and green threads woven in as well, they are of the family of Albe d’Jass. And if the man has four silver beads woven into one of the front plaits, then he’s Josef d’Albe d’Jass a’Binnen del’Tarn, the fourth son of old Albe.
Rowan’s braid, a
single six-stranded braid at the back, is of the Forest Giant clan.
The two plaits woven against his head at the sides indicate his kin, the Quint family, the absence of coloured threads indicates he’s specifically of Rhys d’Rhuary’s family, and the two plain silver beads at the end of the braid show that he’s the second-born son. The fact that one of these silver beads is joined to a golden one shows that he’s a twin and he now has two woven gold and silver beads for his wife and their baby son.
Rowan’s name would be Rowan d’Rhys d’Rhuary a’Quint del’Quist if he ever felt like giving the full title, and indeed that is as it is on his Guard papers; but most foresters don’t bother to add their family name into their use-name, simply because they feel that anyone who has any business knowing will already know from their braid, and others can ask. And it makes for less confusion amongst outsiders, who already seem to find the Siannen system difficult enough without adding to it.
**********
“… a big black grumpy cow…”
“Gran, Gran! There’s a… there’s a big cow out here!” Rose cried as she ran down the long central passageway of the house. She didn’t like the way that cows tried to nibble on her hair and slobber on her face.
Dana turned and smiled at the little lass, so like her mother Rhianna at that age that it nearly broke her heart. Dana’s beautiful daughter was dead these last ten months and she was helping to take care of Rose and her brother. They were twins, nearly four, and they were beautiful children by any standards. Strong, healthy and long-limbed, they were very alike: both had their mother’s lovely auburn hair and pale skin and the unusual dark-lashed hazel eyes of their father, Rhys.
“A big cow, lovie? What’s it doing here?” she said as she gave Rose a hug.
“I don’t know, Gran,” the little lass replied unhappily, “But it’s a horrible big black grumpy cow. I don’t like it.”
A big black grumpy cow? Bloody Hells… one of their neighbours had a huge black bull, a magnificent creature of uncertain temperament. If he hadn’t been such a superb animal whose progeny were just as good as himself, but better natured, he’d have been a docile work ox or beef stew long before now. But what would he be doing here?
“Where’s Rowan and Glyn sweetheart?” Dana tried to keep calm. Normally the twins and their friend Glyn were inseparable and she knew they’d been kicking a ball around earlier.
Rose frowned, annoyed with her brother.
“Rowan’s out there patting the big black cow, but he told me and Glyn to go away because we didn’t like it. So Glyn went home.” She looked up at Dana, puzzled. “It’s got a big sort of ring thing in its nose, Gran. Our cows haven’t. Why has it got a…?”
Dana ran down the passage and stopped dead at the front door. It seemed the bull had decided to come and pay a neighbourly visit to Rhys’s two milking cows. It stood near the paddock, huge and magnificent, right beside a little auburn-haired lad.
“Rowan…” she whispered, reaching for the bow behind the front door. She didn’t think she could kill the huge creature with a single shot though.
“Don’t hurt him, Gran. He’s not hurting anything, truly. He hasn’t even been in the garden,” Rowan said anxiously as she stepped from the house, bow in hand. He reached up and patted the bull’s mighty shoulder. It slobbered in his hair and lowered its head. He ruffled the curls on its brow, fascinated, and then tickled its ears. The bull sighed happily.
Suddenly it raised its head and stared back down the way it had come. Coming along as quickly as they could was a very worried, very breathless group of men armed with pitchforks and ropes and a couple of dogs that were almost as fierce and unpredictable as the bull itself. The bull snorted and stamped a hoof.
“Be careful, Grumpy!” Rowan said severely, “You nearly trod on my foot then. You should be more careful, you great big silly thing.”
The bull turned its great head to him again and looked very embarrassed. There was simply no other word for the expression on its face. Dana would have laughed if she hadn’t been so terrified. The bull carefully rubbed the side of its face against Rowan’s shoulder. He braced himself and grabbed the bull’s horn so that he wouldn’t fall over and he was about to tell Grumpy off again when he heard the men.
They stood open-mouthed as the little boy patted the massive bull. Their dogs trotted up to him with silly doggy grins on their faces and licked his hand.
“Hello, dogs. What are you doing here?” Rowan said as he stroked them with one hand and the bull with the other.
The men looked at each other, stunned. Many of the Forest Giant clan seemed to have a way with horses and of course they’d heard the rumours about this little lad of Rhys’s, but… they pulled themselves together.
“Dana, what the hell are we going to do? Can you get young Rowan away safely?” one of them called softly as they spread out and grasped their pitchforks more tightly.
She hoped so. He was a good little lad, obedient usually, but he could be stubborn like his father. Well, like all foresters really; it was simply born into them.
“Rowan, love,” she called as calmly as she could, “Leave him and the dogs now and come over here please, sweetheart. Carefully now, and then the men will take them all home where they should be.” She desperately wanted to scream but she didn’t want to frighten boy or bull.
Rowan nodded reluctantly and gave Grumpy and the dogs a last pat each.
“All right, Gran,” he said and started to walk towards her when he saw the raised pitchforks he’d been too busy to notice before. His eyes widened.
“Don’t stick him with those!” he protested in horror, “Gran, they’re going to stick poor Grumpy with those big sharp things! But he hasn’t done anything… don’t let them hurt him! ” He stepped back in front of the bull protectively. “Gran, don’t let them stick him with those! I’ll take him home, like I take Glyn’s Gran’s goats home.” He turned to the bull and patted him again. “Come on, I’ll take you home, Grumpy. Come with me… I won’t let them hurt you. Come on, dogs.” He walked towards the circle of gaping men, Grumpy walking carefully beside him and the dogs at his heels. The bull snorted at the men and moved its great horned head just… so… and they parted before him.
“Where does he live, Sir?” Rowan asked one of them.
“Er… down there, Rowan lad, and then ‘tis the house with the red gate. In the… er, in the yard at the back with the high fence,” the man pointed the way, his eyes wide as one of the dogs curled its lip at him suggestively and Grumpy gave him a very dirty look that said he’d better not be thinking of laying that finger on Rowan or he’d be sorry. “We’ll… um… we’ll come with you and help with the gate, laddie. ‘Tis heavy…” he added quickly.
“Thank you, Sir,” Rowan said politely and set off, the bull beside him slobbering as it nibbled gently at his hair and the dogs racing ahead to collect the stick he’d thrown for them.
“Great Bloody Gods,” one of the men said devoutly.
“’Tis true then,” said another as he started back home at a discreet distance behind boy and bull. “I can’t bloody believe it, but ‘tis true…the little lad is truly a Whisperer…”
He’s a Whisperer all right, Dana thought, or I’m a damned Forest Giant. She remembered the first time she’d seen him sitting laughing in the middle of the paddock surrounded by huge work horses, a couple of cows and a sow with fifteen piglets; she’d nearly fainted. He’d been nine months old.
“’Tis all right, Ma,” Rhianna had smiled at her, “They won’t hurt him. They never do.”
She’d stared at her daughter, sitting serenely on a log in the sun with Rose on her lap.
“What the hell do you mean ‘they never bloody do’? What’s he… how the hell did he get out there?” she was wondering just how she was going to get through all those damned beasts and rescue her precious little grandson without stampeding them.
“Don’t fret, Ma. He’s all right, I promise you. Do you seriously
think I’d be sitting here on my backside if he wasn’t?” Rhianna smiled at her again.
“Rhianna! Don’t be bloody daft! What do you mean?”
“Ma, Rhys and I think … you won’t believe me, Ma, we can’t really believe it ourselves, but… but we think little Rowan’s a Whisperer,” Rhianna said softly, “He’s crawled out there now, that’s how he got there. I… I turned away for a minute to tend to Rose and he was gone. He’s so damned quick… but ever since he was a tiny, tiny baby, Rhys and I would bring him and Rose out to see the horses,” she shook her head as if puzzled, “We didn’t even have to call them. They’d all trot up and nuzzle at Rowan’s little hands or his toes. They’ve never hurt him and he’s never been frightened of any of them. Rose isn’t always sure about them, but Rowan’s always loved them. One day Rhys took him up to the other end of the paddock, I don’t know why now, and the horses all went too. And ‘twas the same if I took him and left Rhys and Rose here. We’ve tried it with Tilly and Griff carrying him too, and ‘tis the same. ‘Tisn’t me or Rhys or Griff or anyone else they want to see, we might as well be stumps,” she looked at her little boy as he pulled himself up on the long silky hairs on the legs of one of the workhorses. The foresters kept their workhorses on a communal basis; each family tended a few and they were taken into the forest as a big herd when needed.
The horse lowered its head and watched curiously as the little lad almost stood, then plonked back down onto his backside. It snuffled carefully at his thick dark red hair as he tried again. This time he managed to stand, swaying unsteadily as he patted the horse’s velvety muzzle before he landed on his backside again. He frowned and reached for the feathers again; he wanted to stand up and pat the horse and he was going to.