The Heart of Darkness

by Odelia Floris

  Rowena ran to fetch a cloth, and upon returning to her prize, flung herself to her knees beside the dimly shining heap and begun piling it onto the outspread sheet. Once all the armour was stacked on the cloth, she deposited her own clothes in the hollow of the breastplate and tied the four corners up.

  She then got to her feet, lifted—and nearly fell to the ground under the weight. Breathing hard, she set it back down with a clang loud enough to raise the dead. The thing weighed an absolute ton. She was sure it was more than half her own body weight.

  ‘He needs armour!’ she cried aloud, her mind almost blind with terrified frustration at this latest setback.

  She heaved again. This time, she managed to get the huge bundle up onto her shoulder. She started staggering towards the stairs. Though the sharp steel edges cut in painfully, she pushed grimly onwards.

  But a moment later she was nearly on her knees again as her foot caught something with a loud clang. The helmet—she had forgotten the accursed helmet!

  Rowena set the bundle down yet again and quickly scooped up the runaway, which was then reunited with the rest of its peers. A perilous trip down the stairs followed, and soon the determined young woman and her big bundle were slowly but surely progressing down the snow-covered road.

  Once the snow cover became thicker, she dropped the bundle to the ground and started pulling it along behind her. She was already breathing hard with the effort, but the iron in her will outmatched that in her bundle. She fixed her eyes on the road ahead, pulled her hood down against the blowing snowflakes placing their icy kisses on already frozen skin, and kept trudging steadily onwards with true grit and hope. Her leather-booted feet squeaked with every step pressed into the soft virgin snow, and the sound of the sharply whistling wind joined with the limp, icy slap of snowflakes hitting their targets.

  Upon reaching the crossroads where the path leading to Stoatley Manor joined the road snaking down the valley, Rowena stopped. The tracks of the Cunninghams’ two coaches had not been quite obliterated by the falling snow yet, but the maiden’s careful scan of the road told her that no other travellers had passed that way since the snow had lightened at dawn.

  What to do now? There was no hope of getting any transport from Eaglestone. All the horses would be patrolling the southern borders with their armoured riders, as they had done regularly ever since complaints about outlaws venturing forth from Glymewood to thieve started coming in. As for Sir Richard and young Pepin, they had left on horseback the previous day—and she had only offered a casual goodbye, certain in the belief they would be reunited the next day.

  She had not told him how much she loved him, had not kissed that dear cheek one last time. This could not be the final earthly goodbye, it could not! A desperate sob escaped her. She heaved the dead-weight back onto her shoulder, for the road up ahead was too stony to risk dragging the precious load over.

  Then she resumed the grim march. Every painful, hard-won step forward was one step closer to him. One step closer to fulfilling the most important task of her life. He could not do it on his own. He would die without her help. She did not know why, but she knew it was true.

  Rowena pressed on until she reached the end of the valley, where the snowdrifts lay deep and silent, piled up against the banks and hedges at the roadside. Where the valley ended, that road ended too. The road it joined was much more frequently-travelled, and the trees had been cleared on a wide strip on either side as the law stated it must, in order to remove cover for thieves to lie in wait for their victims.

  A few faint tracks were visible in the snow, so Rowena decided to put down her burden and wait a while in the hope of getting a lift from a passing cart. A stone provided a convenient if rather hard seat, and soon she was settled down, cloak drawn tightly together by frozen fingers and eyes and ears alert for any sight or sound of a fellow traveller.

  Rowena had only been waiting a short while when the sound of a horse’s jingling harness and rhythmic blowing reached her ears. It was coming from the west, which meant they were going the way she wished to go. The anxiously-waiting maiden jumped to her feet and ran out into the road, desperate to see who was coming around the bend ahead.

  A few moments later a furry little pony pulling a small cart came trotting into view. The heavily cloaked figure driving the cart slowed the pony to a walk and halted as he drew level with Rowena.

  ‘Good sire,’ she cried, ‘I beg you to give me a lift for as long as our paths remain the same!’

  Judging by the wares hanging from his cart, the man was a peddler. He pushed his hood back from his face and gave a courteous nod. ‘God give ye good day, damsel. It is a blessedly rare sight for a young lady to be travelling alone in such foul weather. Are you in any strife?’

  Feeling pleased with the traveller’s kindly face and courteous manner, Rowena allowed herself a weak smile. ‘In a manner of speaking. The offer of a seat in a cart that was to be my means of transport was hastily and cruelly withdrawn, yet my need to reach my destination was ever the same.’

  ‘Ye are most welcome to share my humble cart, damsel,’ said the old peddler. ‘These here parts are not safe for a woman to travel alone. Being at the edge of Glymewood, many tales of wayfarers being robbed have reached my ears, for the greenwood offers food and shelter to many a beast and bird. If a man be turned away by his own kind, he often finds Mother Nature a less cruel companion.’

  ‘Well can I believe that to be so. I travel this hard road by necessity, not choice.’

  ‘I doubt any human being would pass along this road on such a day as this unless prompted by necessity,’ the old Peddler replied, stepping down from his cart. ‘Are these your belongings?’ He pointed to her bundle.

  ‘Yes, but they are terribly heavy, so let me give you a hand.’

  The bundle was soon up on the cart, and Rowena seated beside the old peddler on the bench at the front. A sharp click of the peddler’s tongue and the furry little pony was trotting determinedly down the snowy road. The next few hours passed in a silence that was only broken by the clip-clop of the pony’s hooves and the rumble of the cart wheels.

  It was mid-afternoon when the peddler finally halted his pony at a fork in the road. ‘My destination is a small hamlet a half-hour’s journey up this path to the left. Your journey’s end lies to the right, but surely ye will accompany me to this hamlet? It is not far off your way, and darkness will be upon us in little over two hours.’

  ‘I thank you for your kindness, but I must leave you here and continue east. I cannot afford to lose any time,’ replied the maiden.

  ‘Damsel, I beg ye to reconsider! Many lawless and godforsaken men roam these parts. Ye will be in grave danger travelling alone on foot. And where will ye spend the night? The snow lies thick and the wind blows cold. I fear ye shall freeze to death if ye are forced to spend a night out in the open.’

  Rowena had already dismounted the cart. ‘May God reward you for the kindness you have shown to a poor stranger, but our ways must part here. I may get a lift which will bring me closer to where I need to be, and I believe there is a little settlement not too far along the road. I hope to reach it before nightfall.’

  The old peddler begged her to change her mind, but Rowena was unrelenting. After many wishes for protection and blessing being exchanged, the two wayfarers went off on their separate paths.

  Rowena set off at the fastest pace she could muster, dragging the bundle over the smooth snow. She was brightly optimistic that another traveller would overtake her before long.

  But as the light started to fade so did her hopes. The only thing lying on the road ahead was a pristine, unmarked blanket of snow, and the only things behind her were her own footprints. Just when she was about to give up hope of meeting a fellow wayfarer or coming across a cottage, something caught her eye up ahead.

  The exhausted maiden hurried towards it. A set of footprints came out of the forest and continued up the road—a set of human footprints. They were fresh,
their edges still crisp in the fluffy white snow. The feet that made them could not have passed by more than half an hour ago. Perhaps they belonged to a cottager? Surely their maker could not have been far from home…

  But her hopes had been raised only to be dashed when the footprints disappeared back into the forest after only a short way. Doubtless they belonged to a hunter—but a hunter of beasts or more upright prey? She shivered and glanced around nervously.

  At the place where the tracks passed through a gap in the strands of bare hazel, hawthorn and birch saplings lining the side of the road, Rowena let go of her bundle and sank to the snow-covered ground. The biting north wind and freezing snow had robbed her of her warmth, and the long, weary road robbed her of her strength. What did it matter now if a bandit robbed her of all the worldly goods she had with her? She almost certainly was not going to reach Shrewsbury Castle in two days, if at all.

  Seated on the cold ground, Rowena drew her knees up to her chin and hugged her legs. With fingers and toes registering no feeling and teeth chattering, she stared numbly out at the frozen whiteness all around. Although the sun was hidden by a thick veil of tumbled, watery grey clouds, the fading light signalled sunset. Now and then a snowflake fluttered down from the sky; a tiny drop of purity tossed from the heavens to veil earthly impurity with a pristine blanket of white.

  It was not long before a sweet aroma drew Rowena’s eye to the ground beside her. There, nestled beneath the hazel boughs in a bed of soft green moss, was a knot of violets. Smiling, she reached out a numb, shaking finger to lift the green leaves and reveal the tiny purple jewels cowering modestly beneath, their enchanting little faces turned blushingly downward.

  Next to the shy violets stood a bolder group; a scattering of delicate white snowdrop flowers rearing bravely up from their cluster of bright green spears. The fragile flowers were held defiantly up despite the biting, buffeting winds and frozen world above ground. Feeling cheered by the enchanting sight, a still-smiling Rowena looked up at the plump robin redbreast hopping sprightly from branch to branch above her head, chirping as he went.

  As night fell descended on the silent, frozen land, the clouds parted to reveal a glittering dome of stars above. The twinkling stars filling the dark sky with thousands of little silver lights lit up the winter night with a pale, ghostly glow as the starlight was reflected off the snow.

  Feeling tired, detached and dreamy, Rowena lay down in the soft snow. The stillness and silence were so intense that the night felt holy, and it seemed as though the pale, circling stars were resounding with the music of the spheres. No movement came to disturb the divine silence, and Rowena felt sleep start to overcome her. Her heartbeat grew fainter, her breaths slower and more rhythmical, and her eyes fell shut.

  Then suddenly she was wide awake, eyes open, heart racing, breaths quick and fast. A group of heavily cloaked figures, hoods drawn low over their faces, were ringed around the maiden. Every one of the figures held aloft a burning torch. The woollen cloaks were all in the colours of the forest; there was bright green, red-brown, earthy brown, dark gold and moss.

  The faces of the torch bearers were etched with curiosity and concern, and they hovered silently over the petrified young woman, who felt sure she must be dreaming. Then a trail of thick white smoke started curling towards her, she did not know from where. As she watched with terrified fascination, it snaked and trailed its way towards her face.

  As the smoke reached her, she started to feel as though she was floating, and her sight became hazy. The figures crowded around her faded into a single ring of fire and then became ever fainter and more distant until there was nothingness.

  .23.

  Glymewood in the

  Red Dawn

  THERE was the crackle of a fire and the sighing of the wind in the trees, and her bed seemed to have got much more comfortable overnight—wait, there was no fire in her tiny bedchamber in Stoatley Manor!

  Rowena opened her eyes with a jolt.

  The events of the previous night came tumbling into her sleep-dazed mind. But the torches, the figures, the snow, the cold, they were all gone. Instead, she was lying on a bed of dry leaves and fern branches with a deer pelt covering her, beside a large fire whose hot embers glowed brightly enough to light the forest glade. Yes, a forest glade, surrounded by steep rocks and banks, and atop the banks crowds of woodland giants dimly visible in the flickering shadows.

  But how did she get here? Where were the mysterious hooded figures and their brightly burning torches?

  Rowena sat up fearfully and looked about. There was no one there. Just the cheerful crackle of the fire and the melancholy sighing of the wind high up in the treetops overhead. Her eyes then alighted on a rough wooden platter sitting near the fire, piled with pieces of roasted venison.

  Suddenly realizing she was starving, Rowena reached out and took the platter. Then she paused. Surely one should not take without asking? On the other hand, who else but her could that food be meant for?

  She tucked into the hot food gratefully. It was delicious, tasting of juniper berries and many more woodsy things she could not name. When the meat was finished, Rowena noticed a pot sitting in the coals at the edge of the fire. She lifted its lid and filled a tin cup lying nearby with the steaming pale green liquid inside. It smelt and tasted of herbs sweetened with honey. It too was soon gone, and Rowena started looking about her once more.

  Fear crept up again. Where was she? And why was there no one here? This most likely was somewhere in Glymewood, as that was the place the road bordered. But this was little help. Glymewood was thick, virgin forest with not a single road passing through its primal wilderness, and it went on for countless miles. Except at its very edges, few dared venture in. It was said that there were still wild wolves roaming its shady interior, and even wilder men. Surely she had not been saved from a snowy death only to be lost in the forest…?

  The red flush of dawn tinged the tiny amount of sky visible through the dense canopy, and light was slowly creeping into the greenwood. Her eye caught sight of another light. It was bright and flickering, and just visible amongst the trees at the top of the bank.

  ‘Pray, if there is anyone there, show yourself!’ she called.

  The torch came a little closer, but its bearer was invisible. The light just seemed to hover there. ‘Follow, follow!’ called a distant voice.

  Was this to be the guide that led her out of the wild forest? There was a chance some evil thing was trying to lure her ever deeper into Glymewood, but it was better than stumbling around the thick wood all alone, that was for sure.

  She got up and started climbing towards the light. But the light never got any nearer. When she moved forward, so did the hovering light. Rowena tripped and fell in the half-light more than once as she hurried after the ever-receding beacon.

  ‘Stop and show yourself!’ she cried out to the light. ‘You have nothing to fear from me.’

  But the light never stopped, and after passing under kingly oak and elm, through ferny forest glade and wooded dell, over crumbling log and snow-covered hollow, she at last noticed the trees thinning and the morning light growing brighter. Just as the climbing sun was coming near to revealing the bearer of the light, she looked up at the crimson sky overhead, and when she looked again for the light she looked in vain, for it had vanished.

  She burst out of the trees and onto the road, right at the place she had been the previous night when the torch-bearers and their strange, sleep-bringing smoke had materialized seemly out of nowhere. Suddenly remembering the precious bundle, Rowena looked around for it. And there it was, covered in a layer of snow and guarded by the cluster of snowdrops with their little white helmets and bright green spears.

  ‘Friend,’ she called out, ‘wherever you are, I thank you! If there is ever any service I can do for you in return, send a grey goose feather to Eaglestone Castle and I will meet you at this very spot the next day at noon.’

  No human voice answered, but
as it sighed through the treetops, the wind seemed to say, ‘Yes, yesss, yesss…’

  Casting a last furtive look around, Rowena the seized the ends of her cloth-wrapped bundle and started off down the snow-covered road once more.

  A very strange adventure it had been. Glymewood was said to be enchanted. Perhaps they were elves or woodland fairies? Whatever it had been, it was truly strange. She would do well to have a care whom she told about it, or folk might start thinking her mighty queer…

  It was not long before Rowena was overtaken by a long-eared little donkey that was even furrier than the old peddler’s pony had been. It was pulling a small, simple, two-wheeled cart. At first she thought the short, muffled figure driving it was a child, but when the donkey halted beside her, the driver proved to be a dwarf.

  She felt a little frightened by his strange and rather ugly appearance, for he had a long beard, plaited for half its length, and was dressed in a tall, pointed hat and a cloak made of small pieces of cloth of every hue stitched together. His voice proved to be as rough as his appearance, but otherwise, he was a friendly fellow who introduced himself as Garroway, travelling jester.

  When he told her that he was travelling to the tournament at Shrewsbury Castle, all her reservations disappeared in a flash of delight and relief, and she was soon bumping down the road on the back of the dwarf’s cart with her bundle beside her.

  With the exception of being jeered and pelted with stones by some drunken youths loitering outside an alehouse, Rowena and the travelling jester had an uneventful journey to Shrewsbury Castle.

  Total darkness had reigned for several hours by the time they neared it. A brief but heavy shower of freezing sleet just before dusk had soaked through Rowena’s thin cloak, making her gown unpleasantly damp and her dripping hair cling limply to her face.