Charlotte Stone and the Children of the Nymet

by Tasha O'Neill

  ‘Partly, but also because you are the best weaver in the Barra.’ Tay’mor sighed. ‘There are things I must tell you and you must swear not to divulge these to anyone… not even Mor’seka.’

  ‘I am to be initiated?’ Tar’sel gasped.

  ‘You are; and once you bear the Mother’s kiss you will be bound to her song.’ Tay’mor pointed to the mark on his own forehead to emphasise his point. ‘But first, we have work. As guardians, it is our responsibility to ensure that the song does not die out.’

  The Draoi had given no indication that they were aware of their presence but at these last words they silently filed round the tree before picking up the dead woman and leaving the temple.

  Tar’sel took a deep breath to calm himself, and approached the tree. It was so wide that they would not have been able to reach round and join hands. The bark was rough and split, the bole bulged and undulated in places, and it was in leaf. He paused for a moment, unable to believe he was this close to the Great Tree let alone about to touch it, before he lay both hands on the trunk.

  At once he felt something was wrong and looked again at the leaves; speckled with brown many were folded in on themselves and wrinkling at the edges. The sap flow was barely detectable; there was no doubt the Great Tree was dying and not from a bolt of lightning. This was Naswalemos, a powerful illness, and it had taken root some time ago.

  ‘You feel it don’t you, Son?’ Tay’mor searched his son’s face for his reaction to the illness.

  Tar’sel nodded. ‘What is it exactly?’

  ‘No one knows, it crept upon her slowly, but it has been noticeable since the time of the weeping moons.’

  The weeping moons was the one night of the year when the twin moons of Sorcha and Kyrene came close enough to the Earth’s atmosphere that a strange phenomenon occurred; the moons would shed their own weak atmospheres of red cloud and appear to be weeping overhead. It marked the beginning of the feast of Nabinder – the feast where he had had his vision. Tar’sel tried not to let the shock show on his face; he realised he still hadn’t told his father.

  Turning his attention to the issue in hand for the moment, he started with the simple job of a broken branch to build his confidence. Tar’sel cleared his head as he had been taught, and allowed the silence to flood his mind. He listened intently as the note of creation began to hum through him, vibrating every atom of his being, and waited for the song of the Nymet tree to rise through it. It took so long Tar’sel worried that she would not talk to him but eventually, there it was, low and shy.

  He knew better than to chase the sound and let it build at its own pace, gradually painting a sonic picture of the physical tree. He heard it almost immediately when the song had finished its first cycle; the off-key note jarred with the rest. Tar’sel hit a pure D with his own voice and began to knit it into the song, slowly, gently pulling the broken sound back into key.

  As he brought the song back into balance he felt the strength return and the energy flow. The song grew louder and more powerful. He could feel the, now perfect, note pushing him away. From a distance, he could see her entire song, stretching through eons of time, her dance through the ages, her emotions, her experiences. This must be what the Draoi saw.

  ‘That will do for now.’ Tay’mor gently shook his son’s shoulder. ‘You need to rest.’

  The sun was dipping into the sea and Tar’sel realised he had been working for a full day, even though it had felt like only an hour at most.

  ‘ ‘How…?’

  ‘She will do that to you, Son,’ Tay’mor chuckled. ‘She is so ancient, her memories so old, she has no measure of our little lives.’

  ‘She has seen this valley when the rest of the forest was just saplings,’ Tar’sel sighed.

  ‘Best not to let her mind overtake you, Tar’sel, men have gone mad that way,’ Tay’mor warned, ‘but yes, she holds the memory of the forest, the blueprint of all things.’

  In the silence, Tar’sel realised the Nymet song had subsided. This was the first time he had been alone with his father for months. Now was the time.

  ‘Dad… there’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘Me too, Son, me too.’

  Tar’sel recounted his vision at the Nabinder feast as well as his encounter with the Lady Morrigan, fully expecting a telling off. Instead, Tay’mor just nodded sadly.

  ‘That explains a lot and makes what I have to say that bit easier.’ Tay’mor took a deep breath before continuing. ‘We have problems greater than the Naswalemos.’

  ‘Greater than that!’ Tar’sel blurted out, aware he had just interrupted an elder but unable to stop himself. Again Tay’mor overlooked his disobedience.

  ‘Yes. What if I were to tell you that the forest in which we live no longer exists, and that even the Nymet does not live here in Syluria, but was born in a mystical place called Albion in the universe of Earth?’

  Tar’sel was speechless, what his father was suggesting had never been proved; such theories could have him branded as a mad man, yet Tar’sel believed every word. It didn’t make it any easier. He could feel every part of his life unravelling inside him. Every plant he had weaved into life, every tree he called a friend… every defining moment of his life was a lie.

  ‘There have been whispers in the leaves that our beloved Nymet is in mortal danger in that realm and we need to find a way through to find a warrior to protect her,’ Tay’mor continued.

  Letting his head fall and trying to control his emotions, Tay’mor sighed before adding, ‘If the memory dies, the forest falls. Without the Nymet, our home will die… and so will we. We are the children of the Nymet after all.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Tar’sel replied miserably. ‘We are just shadows.’

  ‘Everything has its place, including us.’ Tay’mor squeezed his son’s shoulders.

  Tar’sel had a feeling he knew what was coming next.

  ‘Son, you know most stories are vessels for truth. The flame-haired girl, the saviour of Syluria for example, is real.’

  Tar’sel nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, I know. And I think I know where to find her.’

  The Galleries

  ‘Why don’t you help me deliver these rather than sit there all day,’ Aunt Clarissa chided, though she did it with a smile. Charlotte didn’t look up from her book on British trees.

  ‘I’m OK thanks, besides, I need to work on my plan to save the Nymet… I haven’t got very far. In fact I still need to find out what a “Nymet” is – and I think all this involves my parents somehow.’

  ‘Suit yourself but you know, not all knowledge can be found between the pages of a book. You never know what you might learn from the world around you or some chance encounter and I thought you could get to know the place; now you’ve decided to stay. You’ve only ever been to that tree.’

  It was true she had only been to the park since moving to Brackenheath; she had been hoping to find her sister Edessa there. However, there had been nothing but the briefest whisper, a shadow in the corner of her eye. All the staff at Belleswater Hospital could tell her was her sister was ‘comfortable’ whenever she called and Charlotte had to keep reminding herself to be patient. Edessa would find her way to the oak as soon as she was able.

  Charlotte surveyed the kitchen table covered in maps of North Africa, glass vials of samples from the oak and piles of books, from tree management and plant diseases to environmental law. There was also the latest copy of the local paper with its front cover story about the lightning strike and the headline ‘IS THIS THE END OF THE BRACKENHEATH OAK?’; she suspected The Morrigan was going to be annoyed about that. Maybe Clarissa was right, she should try to tackle this from a different angle.

  *

  Aunt Clarissa had been right of course, it was good to be outside on a day like this. Charlotte wound down the window and felt the rush of the wind on her face as they drove along the tiny country roads. For once she was glad of Clarissa’s speedy driving as the cobwebs in her mind
blew away. It was certainly gentler than being struck by lightning, if somewhat less dramatic.

  Though the countryside was whizzing past, colour was returning to the landscape making it more inviting than the day she had arrived. Edessa would love this place; the light was amazing. The fields were covered in golden rape that seemed to reflect the sun and some of the trees still held blossom, from white through to bright pink. The elderflowers, however, were all but gone now.

  ‘So, what are we going to do then?’ she beamed.

  ‘Well, first I need to visit a few of my clients then off to Wykenhall, that is where I sell most of my stock. It’s also where you’ll be going to school.’

  Charlotte’s heart fell at that last word, she wasn’t looking forward to it one little bit. Hadn’t she been through enough already without having the trauma of having to work at fitting in to a new school?

  ‘I’m sorry, have I used a rude word?’ Aunt Clarissa said, reading her face. ‘I know it’s hard but on the plus side you’ll meet others of your own age rather than having to hang around with an…’ Aunt Clarissa paused, looking as though she was trying to remember something, ‘… an “old bat” I believe is the term you use.’

  Charlotte went red. How did she know that!?

  ‘Why can’t I continue to home school?’ Charlotte started to itch. ‘See, I’m allergic just to the idea.’

  Clarissa’s face told her she was wasting her time.

  The Galleries was a beautiful, two-tiered back street complex of Victorian-styled buildings that reminded Charlotte of the boutique shops of Covent Garden. There was a round courtyard with a fountain in the middle, lit underneath the water with green lights. Its pool was surrounded by a low bench and, in the water, silver and bronze coins glittered in the sunlight that refracted through the glass ceiling.

  The entrance was a creative twist of gothic-looking black iron archway, complete with the gargoyles that seemed to be popular here. At the far end was a small walled garden full of hanging baskets, and the tiny café tables of Bertichelli’s Ice Cream Emporium.

  ‘What say we meet back here in an hour for lunch, dear, and in the meantime you have an explore?’

  ‘Then we’ll do some clothes shopping, eh?’ Charlotte replied.

  ‘Only if you don’t learn everything you need to know to pass your future exams in the next hour, dear,’ Clarissa replied with a wicked smile before heading to the upper floor of the Galleries.

  I’m teaching her bad habits, Charlotte thought to herself as she surveyed her surroundings.

  *

  Ahead of her was a shop with such curly, ornate writing she couldn’t read the name. In the window, displayed on black velvet, was a geode of purple crystal like the ones in the porch of Rosemary Heights, except they were half the size and not nearly as impressive. ‘Amethyst geode – Brazil’ read the card and the price tag made Charlotte baulk. ‘People are prepared to pay that for a rock?’ she muttered to herself.

  She was greeted by the same smoky sweet smell that filled Clarissa’s home as she walked in. Everywhere there were stones and fossils of all descriptions: blue kyanite shaped like fans, ‘candle wax’ quartz points and huge dark obsidian crystal balls. She’d never heard of these but, among the tumbled stones, she found something familiar: pieces of malachite and lapis lazuli.

  ‘I’ll take these, please,’ she said to the bohemian-looking guy behind the counter. He took the crystals from her and wafted them through the clouds of incense coming from the joss stick that was burning beside the till, before lovingly wrapping them in rose-coloured tissue paper.

  ‘Do you know what these are used for?’ he asked her. Charlotte stared at him.

  ‘The green one is malachite and was used by the ancient Egyptians in eye makeup and the blue one is lapis, also known as Egyptian sapphire and used in jewellery and temple art,’ she replied, amused by his astonishment.

  ‘You know your stones,’ he nodded, obviously impressed.

  ‘I know my ancient Egyptian history,’ she retorted.

  A thought struck her.

  ‘You wouldn’t have anything on Veshengo, would you?’

  The guy looked blank. ‘Not a term I’m familiar with, if you could give me a bit more information…’

  Charlotte wasn’t about to tell him everything that had happened in the wood; even he would think she was mad. What was it Boris had said? ‘How about “men of the woods”?’

  ‘Nature spirits,’ the guy grinned, ‘sure, plenty of books on those and fairy folk.’ He rummaged through a large bookshelf full of titles like Releasing your Shadowself, Atlantis – the people and culture and Yogic Breathing for a Modern Age. Charlotte made a mental note of the last one; Jude might appreciate it.

  ‘Here we are, The Revised Encyclopaedia of the Fey Folk, and Where to Find Them,’ he announced triumphantly. ‘Knew it was in there somewhere. Best book on the subject. If you don’t find what you need in this, you won’t find it anywhere!’

  ‘Will there be anything in there about The Morrigan?’ she asked as an afterthought.

  ‘Some.’ The man nodded before tilting his head to look her up and down. ‘You’ve met her, haven’t you?’ he said with a grin.

  Charlotte was so taken aback she didn’t have the chance to deny it.

  ‘Tricky character, she is. You want to be careful of her,’ he said, handing Charlotte her purchases.

  Charlotte didn’t normally do pink, yet here she was with a rose-coloured paper bag full of crystals and a book on fairies. Her inner scientist was mortified, but it couldn’t deny her encounter with Boris and The Morrigan. She consoled herself with the thought that The Morrigan probably didn’t do pink either.

  *

  Charlotte wandered aimlessly again, weaving in and out of the arches and up the winding stairwells. There were all manner of interesting stores and Charlotte appreciated the range but she was in no mood to shop. She just wanted to get home and dive into her new book so she decided to perch herself on the nearest bench.

  ‘Sign the petition! Save the Brackenheath Oak from destruction. Thank you, Madam!’ called a blond-haired boy in a checked shirt about her age. He was set up in a corner by the double staircase leading to the main car park, a small table with a clipboard and a guitar case in front of him.

  ‘Make sure to add the date of the public debate into your diaries, ladies and gentlemen. And now, for your delight, another little local history ditty penned by yours truly.’

  He was a real showman and while not many stood to watch, everyone that went past gave him a nod and smile, as well as a few coins in the case.

  ‘Evergreen Oak, tell me, do you dream

  of silver moon and golden stream?

  Flowering Oak, what secrets lie

  beneath your roots, hidden from the sky?

  Oak and Rowan, the song is sung

  Soon the flame-haired girl will come’

  It was a strange song and Charlotte made a mental note to research it later. She found the singer just as curious; with his soft curls and easy smile that took in everyone around him. He reminded her of Edessa when he sang, with that same far-off look as he became lost in music. This was why she had not wanted to come out; she was confronted by ghosts of her family at every turn.

  While he was deep in conversation, Charlotte dropped a coin into the guitar case on the floor and went to make a quick get away.

  ‘Hey you, wait.’ The boy turned away from the crowd and beamed in her direction. ‘I’ve not seen you before, you’re not the new girl from London, are you?’

  Charlotte hadn’t expected anyone to know who she was. ‘What makes you say that?’ was all she could manage.

  The boy gave another warm and cheeky grin. ‘This is a small town, everyone knows everyone else’s business here. If you were an axe murderer with a unicorn fetish we’d probably know.’ His smile was welcoming and you couldn’t help but like him.

  ‘I’m Olly.’

  ‘Charlotte,’ she replied, jug
gling her bag so as to shake his hand.

  ‘Been shopping, eh? I see you’re into the mystic and mysterious?’

  ‘Erm, not so much, no.’ Charlotte was now rather self-conscious and embarrassed of the pink bag. ‘Just a book on folklore – research,’ she lied. ‘Actually, I was wondering about that last song of yours, is it a local myth?’ Charlotte deflected Olly’s attention away from her. He was clearly pleased she had asked and keen to discuss the subject.

  ‘It’s a nod to a number of local legends surrounding the Brackenheath Oak. The time it grew acorns in the winter, the rumour that something evil is buried safely bound by its roots and finally, the prophesy that it will be saved by a red-haired girl in a time of danger.’ He was really getting into his subject now.

  ‘Dad reckons it is the last remaining tree of a local system of Nymets, that’s a sacred grove to you and me; you might have heard about it, it was struck by lightning the other night.’

  Charlotte mumbled about having a vague idea.

  ‘They’re looking at building on that whole area so this lightning strike will no doubt be a golden opportunity for them to…’

  ‘Morning, Mr Batterbee, not protesting again are you?’ Charlotte recognised the police officer as the one who had found her in the park.

  ‘Bringing sunshine to people’s lives, that’s all I’m doing, PC Taylor.’

  ‘Just make sure you keep it light, Son. Like the new song by the way.’ The officer smiled amicably.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘You go easy and try to avoid any more excitement, eh?’ The policeman gave her a knowing wink.

  ‘Good to meet you, see you at school, Charlotte,’ Olly smiled before entering into debate with PC Taylor.

  Charlotte waved before leaving them to it and making her way down to the ground floor.

  She hadn’t got far before tripping over a piece of paper lying on the floor. It was a handwritten note that read ‘Homeless, please help’. Sat beside one of the plastic ficuses that adorned the Galleries sat a strange, wrinkled old man who looked familiar. It wasn’t till she noticed the Hovis bag that she realised who it was.