The Wolf and the Sorceress

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The Wolf and the Sorceress Page 4

by Brian Pemberton


  “So then, would you like to tell me exactly what did happen?” he studied his daughter’s irate expression with some amusement.

  She looked into her father’s open smiling face, realised there was no anger there, and hugged him round the waist. “I wouldn’t have troubled you and mother with it, if those men hadn’t come here,” she confessed. “I honestly don’t know what happened father. All I can tell you is that just as one of the boys was getting ready to punch me, my arm started to tingle with heat. At first there was just a faint glimmer of light, I could see it was coming from the amulet on my wrist. Then it grew brighter and brighter, so that I could hardly bear to look at it, and it started fizzing, like when mother makes me a sherbet drink. It kind of exploded outwards and we were all wrapped up in the light. The boys were crying that they couldn’t see and running about falling over and bumping into each other. Although I could still see, I was so scared that I ran home.”

  Jakob reached for Nemeila’s hand, and gently twisting it this way and that in the wavering lantern light, closely inspected the jewelled band on her arm. When he had first discovered his daughter in the forest, it had fitted her wrist perfectly and, no matter how hard he tried or how much butter Taliena applied to her skin, they could not slip it over her hand. She was now nine, and turning into a strong-limbed young girl. The bracelet was still as tight on her arm, but no tighter. As Nemeila had grown, it seemed that the amulet had grown also to fit her wrist.

  He caressed his darling girl’s hair, which gleamed in the lantern light like polished mahogany. As he recognised the honesty and love in her gaze, he considered the wisdom of explaining how he had found her in the forest, the day a wolf had delivered her to his feet. Perhaps she and the amulet were magic after all. Taliena seemed to read his mind and shook her head slightly, her eyes pleading with him not to reveal Nemeila’s origins. Not yet anyway.

  The incident caused much bitterness between the families for weeks, but once the boys’ eyesight returned to normal they accepted Nemeila back into their games. Their fathers grudgingly bought Jakob a mug of frothing ale in the tavern, a sign that the unpleasantness was forgotten. However, the boys had learned a painful lesson on the day the amulet came to life by itself. If a person was more skilled or clever than them, they should not be a target for spiteful jealousy and bullying assaults. They should be given due respect and admiration for their ability, and if they are to be beaten, then the boys must study and practice, until they can hope to beat their rival fairly and with pride in their achievement.

  Chapter 2

  The Cottage in the Woods

  Nemi knew that her father would be home later that day from a hunting trip, and being bored, asked her mother if she would like some mushrooms picked for their evening meal. “Yes, that would be most helpful,” said her mother, gratefully, “but don’t stray too far away from the house. There are many wild animals out there who would like a young girl for their supper.”

  “I’ll be careful, mama, I promise,” Nemeila said, picking up a basket and going outside.

  Discerning mushrooms from toadstools when you were nine years of age took a keen eye, and as she couldn’t find any growing close by, Nemeila widened her search. Soon she was lost, no matter which way she turned the forest looked the same. The river was nowhere to be seen and there were no houses to guide her. Nearly in tears, she held the basket against her chest, as if it would protect her from harm. In utter despair, she trudged along a darkened pathway through the trees, her heart skipping a beat when she came across a small cottage. The front garden was alive with flowers, blooming even though it was winter, and the curl of smoke drifting upward from the chimney made the place look very inviting. As she dithered about whether she should knock on the door, it opened and an old woman shuffled out into the frosty air.

  Seeing the girl on the path, she stopped and called to her. “Hello child, are you lost?”

  “Well, yes I am,” said Nemeila, politely. “I was looking for mushrooms, but now I cannot find my way back home.”

  “Your house is not far away,” said the old woman, “you need to take that path to your left, and then at the twisted beech tree, turn right. If you follow the track it will lead you home.”

  “Thank you,” breathed Nemeila, with relief, then as she was about to walk away, she saw the old woman walking heavily towards the woodpile.

  “Would you like me to carry the logs for you?” she asked.

  “That would be kind of you, my dear,” said the old woman, “and while you do that, I will pour us two mugs of broth, it will help keep out the cold.”

  Forgetting her fears, Nemeila stacked some logs in her basket and entered the cottage. The old woman was leaning over a large black cauldron hanging from a chain over the fire, ladling the broth into two bowls, one of which she gave to Nemeila. “Do you have a name, child?” she enquired.

  “Yes, it’s Nemeila, but all my friends call me Nemi.” The old woman looked closely at the girl. She had long dark hair peeking out from beneath a green stocking cap. The girl had full lips, short nose, and wide-set yellow-brown eyes beneath long, butterfly lashes. She was indeed, beautiful. “What a pretty name for a pretty girl,” said the old woman. “Do you know how to write it?”

  “Not really,” said Nemeila, “but there is no need to write my name, I can do as my father does, make my mark.”

  “What will happen when, perhaps, you have to make your mark on a Deed or to prove who you are? Would you like me to teach you how to read and write?”

  “Could you?” asked Nemeila, her eyes lighting up. “I could help my parents; maybe show my father how to write his name. He makes a funny squiggle when he has to prove who he is.”

  The old woman pulled a charred stick from the grate and blew out the flame. Then, using the blackened stub, she wrote Nemeila’s name on the grey stone of the hearth.

  “There,” she sat back, “that is how your name looks when it is spelt, Nemeila. Now, take the stick and try to copy it.” She also wrote the shortened version: Nemi. Nemeila copied the letters of her name over and over again until she had perfected them both. Suddenly she looked up at the old woman, remembering that her mother would be worried that she hadn’t returned home.

  “I will have to go,” she said anxiously, dropping the stick, “I told my mother I would stay close to home. If I don’t hurry she will be worried.”

  “Here,” offered the old woman, “you will want these, or your dinner will have no flavouring.”

  She half-filled Nemeila’s basket with mushrooms, then before showing her to the door said, “If you would like to come and visit me again, Nemi, I will show you how to write more than your name. But you must tell your mother before coming here.” With a smile and a thank you, Nemeila left the cottage and hurried down the path towards the twisted beech tree. Then taking the track to its right, she soon recognised her own house in the distance.

  “Where have you been?” her mother scolded. “You’ve been gone for such a long time I was beginning to get worried. There is a wolf out there constantly howling; if it were hungry, you’d be its dinner. When your father returns, I’m going to ask him to set a trap for it.”

  “I got lost;” said Nemeila, excitedly, “then I found this little cottage where an old woman lives. She fed me some broth and showed me how to write my name. Look, I’ll show you.”

  She searched the hearth for a charred stick, and wrote her name for her mother to see. Her mother looked at the letters and wondered if that was how it was spelt.

  “I didn’t know there was another cottage close to us, away from the village” she said, slowly, “and certainly not with an old woman living in it.”

  Nemeila glanced up at her mother, her face full of excitement. “She said I could visit again, and if I did she would teach me more words to write. Can I go, please?”

  “We will have to ask your father when he comes home. If he thinks it’s all right, then you can. But if he says no, then you must stay away
from there. Do you understand?”

  When Jakob returned home, and had eaten his meal, Nemeila told him about the old woman’s writing lesson. At first he was angry with her for going into a stranger’s house, but his anger was short-lived when he saw how excited his daughter was at being able to spell out her name.

  “I will take you there tomorrow,” he said, “I would like to see this old woman who lives apart from the village. I know most of this forest and I’ve never seen a cottage where you say there is one.”

  The following morning, Nemeila pointed out the way, but had to run to keep up with her father’s long strides. Jakob noted that the cottage wasn’t really that far from his own, but for some inexplicable reason he could not remember seeing it before, or actually walking the path that led to it. They strolled to the front door and Nemeila knocked loudly. Her stomach felt full of butterflies, and she wondered if the old woman had really meant for her to return.

  “You must be the girl’s father,” said the old woman as she opened the door, standing aside to allow them to enter. “I knew you would come, I too would want to know who my child was visiting.”

  “My daughter says that you can teach her to read and write,” said Jakob. “Is that true?”

  “If she wishes to learn, then I can teach her. You have nothing to fear, she will come to no harm while she is with me.”

  Jakob studied the old woman then turned his gaze upon his daughter, realising how much she was longing for him to agree.

  “Then I will pay you for your teachings,” said Jakob, “for knowledge is not acquired without payment.”

  “I have no need of payment,” said the old woman, waving away his money, “the forest provides me with all I need. Besides, your daughter’s company will help brighten up an old woman’s loneliness. If you allow her to come, after she has finished her chores, I will be happy to pass on what I know of the world about us.”

  “Do you want to visit here and learn?” Jakob asked Nemeila, knowing what the answer would be.

  “Yes please, father. I will then be able to teach you and mama how to write your names, and how to read, if I learn enough.”

  “OK,” said Jakob to the old woman, “but if you will not take money, I will have my wife sew together pelts for you to wear; they will at least help keep the cold from your bones.”

  “That would be payment enough,” said the old woman, smiling.

  Over the following weeks, Nemeila visited the old woman’s cottage every day. During which time she was taught to read and how to transfer all her thoughts into writing. The old woman also tutored her in mixing potions to heal wounds or cure illness.

  One morning Nemeila entered the cottage without knocking, and as she stepped over the thresh-hold she saw the old woman lying with her left cheek resting upon the table. At her feet, resting its muzzle on two large front paws was an enormous timber wolf. For a moment, she believed the old woman to be dead and wanted to run to her side, but the wolf moved and she feared it was about to attack her. “Get away from me,” she cried, backing towards the door she had entered by.

  Suddenly the old woman’s eyes blinked open and she sat upright. “Do you ever have dreams, Nemi?” enquired the old woman, her wise old eyes searching Nemeila’s worried face. “Have no fear of the wolf, he will not harm you.”

  “For a moment I thought you were dead,” gasped Nemeila, “that the wolf had killed you for food.” She cautiously side stepped to the old woman’s side and sat down, then answered the question. “Yes, sometimes. But I can never remember them, only fragments remain when I wake up.”

  “You will learn in time to understand your dreams, although at first they may seem very strange.”

  The old woman brought a bowl of water from a nearby sideboard, placing it on the table before Nemeila.

  “What about visions?” she asked. “Have you ever seen anything other than your reflection, when you’ve looked into a pool of water?”

  “No,” said Nemeila, puzzled at the question.

  “Then look into this bowl of water with me,” said the old woman, “maybe together we will see more than our faces.” At first there was only a vague reflection of their faces, until the old woman ran the palms of her hands across the water’s surface. Nemeila watched, fascinated, as the surface began to cloud; as the mist cleared she saw a beautiful landscape. It was bathed in sunlight that seemed to bring peace and tranquillity to wherever it touched. Trees surrounded the area, and flowers bloomed everywhere, their petals held out as though willing you to touch them or to smell their fragrance. Fascinated by what she saw, Nemeila dipped her own fingers into the water. “Wow, that’s really clever,” she said, but the image disappeared when the water was disturbed.

  Nemeila felt her heart suddenly start to beat a little faster, for the first time since she’d met the old woman, she felt a little afraid.

  “Are you a witch, to be able to do such things?” she asked, feeling her fear grow, wondering why, after all this time, she imagined the old woman would want to tell her the truth about herself.

  “No, my child, I am no witch. You too have such powers if you put your mind to it.”

  “I have never been able to do that, but I have often seen my reflection in pools of water. It is said that only witches can perform such magic.”

  “You will find,” said the old woman, “that as you grow older there will be many things that you can do, things that those without understanding will call witchcraft. But this is part of your inheritance, part of who you really are.”

  “Who I really am, what do you mean? Why should I be any different from anyone else because I am a woodsman’s daughter? The other children I play with cannot perform these feats.” Suddenly the horror of what she was able to do came to mind. The way she could make things move by thought and the fact that she could pull a drowning girl from the river by powers unknown to her, maybe she too was a witch. “I had hoped that a few more years would have passed before I had to tell you all this, but events are beginning to happen which will involve you, and it would not do for you to remain ignorant of your ability.” Now Nemeila was puzzled. “What events are these?” she asked. “You are a special child, not born of this world, but in every part belonging to it. You will find that as you grow older, the elements will be yours to command, fire, water, the earth and the air around you. You will also be able to see future events, although they will not always be clear in their meaning. These powers are what the people here call witchcraft, and you must be careful who learns of your abilities. It is your birth right.” “What do you mean, ‘My birth right’?” “Had you been born on my home world you would be a princess. Your grandfather would be the king. Take my hand, Nemeila, and close your eyes. When you open them, do not be afraid of what you see.” Nemeila closed her eyes, then when instructed opened them again. What she saw before her was not the old woman but a beautiful lady who looked to be in her late twenties. Her hair was long and dark and her eyes were golden in colour, almost the same as her own. She pulled her hand free from her grasp and stepped away from the figure before her. “You are a witch,” she said, trying hard not to panic, and to stop her heart from beating its way through her chest.

  “No, Nemeila, I am not. I had hoped that you would not need my help for many years yet, but events are happening quickly and if you will not heed my advice, then you will die.”

  “Who are you?” pressed Nemeila. “And why do you have a wolf here, in the cottage?”

  “My name is Ilanthia; I am your birth mother. The wolf was chosen by the amulet on your arm as your guardian, when you were a baby.”

  The information took Nemeila’s breath away; it was the only thing that she wasn’t prepared for.

  “You’re not my mother. My real mother is at home. Why do you lie? When I fall or hurt myself my mother comforts me, and my father takes me into his arms and hugs me when he returns from a hunting trip. How can you be my mother?” Nemeila stood, glaring at Ilanthia, demanding an answer.
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  “I think perhaps, it would be best if we went to your house and I spoke with your parents and explained it to you there. There are many things that you must know if you are to survive.” Ilanthia held out her arm. “Will you take my hand and lead me there?”

  “What about the wolf?” Nemeila asked, watching it stand and walk to the woman’s side.

  “He will do whatever he wants to do. If he follows us, do not be afraid, he will not hurt you. Why don’t you stroke him, let him smell you, so that he remembers who you are.”

  Nemeila cautiously held out her hand towards the wolf, which at first sniffed then licked her fingers. She, in turn, ran her hand over his head and tickled his ear. “He’s lovely,” she said to the woman, smiling.

  Outside the confines of the cottage, the wards that had been created began to lose their strength. Ilanthia began to feel the atmosphere choking her. She fought to build a ward around her, to stop herself suffocating before she had a chance to tell her story to the good people who had brought up her daughter. Reaching her home, Nemeila led the way into the cottage, closing the door behind them. The wolf had padded silently behind them, but only to Nemeila’s home. Having seen them enter, it hid from sight in the surrounding trees. Her mother came into the main quarters and, seeing Ilanthia with her daughter, wondered who the visitor was.

  “You must be new to this area,” she enquired, “I don’t recall seeing you around here. I am Taliena, Nemi’s mother. Please, sit down and I’ll get us all something to drink.” She returned with three mugs, gave one to Nemeila and one to the woman sitting beside her. “Have you just moved into the area?” she asked.

  “To this area, yes, but I have lived on the shores of Kallopia for a number of years now,” said Ilanthia.

 

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