A E Johnson

by alice johnson

  go yellow, I’ll be five.”

  Madoc could not help but smile at the innocence

  of the girl, however this was the first he had heard of

  her, and her troubles.

  “Your birth was in the autumn?” The little girl

  nodded. “Would you like to spend the day here?” he

  offered, he was hoping she would agree, the child

  intrigued him, something about her held an innocent

  trouble. She seemed unsure as she nodded. “I have

  some toys, in the box over there,” he pointed to a

  wooden box in the corner of the hut. Covering the box

  were several books, the child headed straight for a

  book which seemed to have caught her interest.

  Oddly, she began to read.

  Madoc stood; he was unable to think how a child

  of five had learned to read a full adult book, given that

  lessons in the camps did not start until the age of at

  least seven. The child looked to Madoc’s bewildered

  face.

  “I like this one, Malgron, he was a poet, and great

  lord of old, the world will one day be shaped by the

  words of the poets.”

  Madoc nodded and smiled taking no heed to her

  strange words. He turned and walked back to his desk.

  Behind his desk was a small door, beyond the door

  were the records of every child in his camp. The

  record room was filled with row upon row of dusty

  bookcases, upon each one was a large bound file. He

  searched for the child of bunkhouse thirteen.

  His eyes searched the pages of house thirteen as

  he sat at his desk. Peering over the book, he saw the

  child silently reading, a sunbeam shone through the

  small window which looked out towards the wood,

  scattered dust floated and danced in the beam. The

  old paper was crudely filled in, nothing but a location

  was written in her space.

  He read, ‘Farhope, child discovered alive, thought

  to be five-months old. Unharmed, anomaly to the

  back of the child’s shoulder blades, two protruding

  lumps seem to cause no pain.’

  Again, he peered over the book. He could see the

  protruding lumps on her back, they showed slightly

  through her ragged clothes. Clearing his throat, he was

  hoping to catch her attention, but she was engrossed in

  her book.

  “Child,” he softly said, the girl turned, “do you

  know, what happened to your back?” he awkwardly

  asked.

  She looked to the floor, she seemed saddened by

  the question. Slowly she closed the book and stood.

  “They say things about me,” she said with a

  depressive tone, “they call me names, and say I was

  hated by my parents,” slowly she walked towards him,

  “I’ve always been like this.”

  Madoc stood and walked towards her. He towered

  over her with his hands behind his back. He leant

  down; his wide gown tumbled to the floor. “I think

  they’re wonderful,” he tried to make her feel a little

  better.

  “They are,” she affirmed, “you don’t see it now,

  but one day they will be like the torb’s, but giant, I will

  have the power to take the skies from dragons,” she

  said with a wonderous tone.

  “Wishful thinking,” said Madoc with a grumbling

  laugh, “the dragons own the skies with the birds and

  stars, it’s doubtful a fey like you could ever reach

  them.”

  The child remained under the care of Madoc, the

  trouble began to slowly subside, the children left the

  Unknown Girl alone, but as the girl grew, as did her

  power. It was something she tried to supress, but

  something was noticeable with the Unknown Girl. Not

  only did her eyes intrigue Madoc, but also her hair, it

  would darken as the year went on.

  Most of her days would be spent wandering in the

  old woods. A new staff member had started in the

  camp. Dune, he was fascinated with the young girl, his

  mentor, Nareena, stood by him as they watched the

  girl wander alone into the autumn wood.

  “Keep clear of that one,” she warned.

  Dune seemed intrigued. “Why?” he had a

  sniggering laugh, having heard her tone of irritation,

  “what has she done?”

  Nareena shook her head slightly, a hard look of

  frustration in her eyes glared towards the girl. “She

  don’t work.” Her tone of annoyance only grew as she

  went on. “Madoc’s little pet, she spends her time in

  the wood. People say the pooka are there, that they

  come and visit her,” Nareena looked to Dune, with an

  evocative tone she said, “the staff are scared of her,

  they say she has powers.”

  Dune followed Nareena as she began to walk back

  towards the mill-house. “What kind of powers?” The

  sound of chiming anvils echoed around the camps.

  Nareena sharply turned. “The kind to get you

  killed,” she warned, “now, on with you, I’ll answer no

  more about the Unknown Girl.”

  “Is that her name?” asked Dune.

  “I’ll answer no more,” warned Nareena.

  Dune followed Nareena, all while looking back at

  the small girl as she disappeared into the dimness of

  the misty autumn wood.

  “Mother!” the girl called as she walked carelessly

  through the wood. A rustle in the bush beside her

  made her turn her head. She watched to see who was

  there, fear seemed distant from her, the late autumn

  wood was a friend of hers. Others would see mist and

  fog as frightening, unpredictable, she saw it as magical,

  beautiful. “Who’s there?” she softly asked.

  She walked towards the rustling bush; a few brown

  leaves still moved. “Mother?” she asked as she moved

  the leaves, a black nose and long brown face stared

  towards her. The face of a four horned deer,

  unstartled, stood staring at her. “How are you today,

  deer?” The deer continued eating the last few bits of

  green foliage on the bush.

  The Unknown Girl continued her day, she did not

  see Mother that day, several rabbits, more deer, and

  many birds were her company in the wood. She

  collected stones, leaves, and twigs and left them in a

  clearing, just inside the treeline. Odd behaviour to

  most, made complete sense to her.

  She was yet to be given her name; she did not

  know how she would get this. She did not have a single

  friend in the camps. Her dreams were her refuge. The

  face of a strange boy she would always see on her

  saddest nights glared towards her, she told no one of

  the boy, she told no one of her dreams, and she told

  no one of her adventures in the woods.

  The mighty city of Cronnin was always a bustling

  place of power and politics. Protected by a towering

  white marble wall, there were only four ways to enter

  the city, through four gatehouses. The streets were a

  maze of market stalls and houses, passing trade was

  constantly flowing through the four gates to the city.

&n
bsp; Battling through the market streets was a pleasure for

  most, being the largest of all cities, it would boast that

  you could get anything in Cronnin. The winding

  streets played host to taverns, bakers, butchers, fine

  jewellery from all over Cronnin, the hardest

  swordsmiths, and the best horses, all sold on the busy

  streets of Cronnin.

  Something else haunted the streets there though, a

  silent anger was looming, rising taxes imposed by the

  council of Cronnin made the people work hard, those

  who had chosen to fill their pockets fast, chose death.

  The war was unending, soldiers were needed, and

  their service would be paid for, whilst they lived.

  The almighty palace of Cronnin stood central to

  the city; its empowering white walls circled for a full

  forty miles. The gargantuan building spelt power and

  to some, greed.

  Four buildings reached from the central point. At

  the end of each was a large tower stretching to the sky,

  atop each tower flew the emerald stag of Cronnin.

  Through the mighty golden doors stood the pillars

  of power. The entrance way had a step down, two

  pools either side filled with exotic fish, a gift from

  Xencliff. Behind the pool’s, doorways led to the secret

  passages of the Cronnin palace. A step up led into the

  mighty marble hall. A large fountain in the centre of

  the hall overshadowed the mighty staircase, which split

  off onto two landings, and a large mezzanine

  surrounding, the walls seemed to be covered with

  doors. The room to the left of the hall two mighty

  wooden doors towered to the top of the first floor of

  the palace, as the council of Cronnin began to meet,

  the elderly robed men made their way into the hall.

  A man of power, King Brenin Oakwood stood at

  the top of the mighty staircase, his hands were caught

  behind his back as he waited for his council to enter.

  His fifty years upon the throne had taken its toll, his

  face was a picture of youthful age. His eyes were a

  haunting dark blue, set in the lines that a lifetime of

  stress had caused. His heavy shoulders seemed

  disproportionate to his slender frame. A short blond

  beard held a few grey hairs, at only sixty-five he was

  young, but a for a wifeless king, his age concerned his

  council.

  The first door closed; it was now Brenin’s turn to

  enter. As he quickly bounced down the stairs, he

  noticed a new member of staff as she came scurrying

  past him. A small woman carried a pitcher of water

  into the hall.

  He gracefully warned, “Mind your way.”

  The woman looked utterly numb as she froze

  before him. “Majesty,” she gasped as she bowed to

  him. “I apologise,” she said with a soft whisper.

  Brenin said with a lengthy breath, “Worry not. I’m

  assuming you’re new,” he guessed, “your name?”

  “Mord, Sire,” she held her bow towards him.

  Brenin smiled. “Well, Mord, lovely to meet you,”

  he held a cheery tone, “worry not, mistakes are made,

  I go in first, wait for a moment, then you follow,” he

  suggested. She was shocked that the king seemed so

  kind. It was her first time meeting him, the stories of

  him being a pompous noble who demanded respect

  were indeed, nothing but stories.

  Bursting into the hall, Brenin quickly walked

  across the echoing grey stone floor.

  “Sire,” a disapproving call came from the side of

  him. He stopped and turned. The man, Ryan, looked

  down to Brenin’s side. Ryan was old, he was

  traditional, his long green robes were like that of a

  temple druid. “Sire, please,” he begged as he looked

  to Brenin’s large broad sword. “You have no need to

  carry them here.”

  Brenin wore his sword with pride, black trousers, a

  red tunic, and green cloak along with long leather

  boots, he wanted to remain young, he did not want to

  slip into his role of a tired old king just yet.

  “My father taught me very little,” he continued his

  way across the hall, “one thing he did teach is that it’s a

  sword that determines the man, the better the sword

  the better the man, no sword –” he stopped and

  looked around the circular room, “well, I shall let you

  all guess.”

  The room was a circle of wooden benches, peering

  down towards the centre of the hall, in the pit of the

  political hall stood a single plinth, a small wooden

  table stood in the centre.

  Brenin made his way towards the back of the hall,

  he climbed the dark wooden stairs which overlooked

  the hall. He took his place upon his large wooden

  throne. It was a shining symbol of Cronnin; the throne

  was carved with all the flora and fauna found on

  Cammbour. The back of the throne looked as though

  the trees themselves had grown from the ground,

  creating the large structure, it was a heavy seat for a

  single man.

  The blurred mumbles began to quiet as a grey

  faced councillor took the floor. He shuffled his way to

  the plinth, almost bent over as he did. Neat grey hair

  sat adorn a head filled with spotting wrinkles, his age

  was ancient, fingers like twigs he reached towards the

  table.

  He called out, “Gentlemen!” His voice was high

  pitched, there was not a single part that age had not

  been cruel to on his living corpse. “Calling this

  meeting to order,” he said with a slow, yet, well to do

  accent, a clear sign of superior breeding seemed

  rooted in him. “Today’s order of business, we have

  several issues surrounding the northern camps.”

  Peering around the door, Mord waited, Brenin

  soon noticed her, holding his hand up he waved her

  in. “And what of the camps in the north, Bart?” a tone

  of annoyance seemed to catch Brenin.

  Bart slowly replied, “Issues,” he turned to the

  papers on the table, slowly he began to sift through

  them, he stuttered, “with the pooka and torb,” he took

  some papers and began to read, he looked around the

  council hall, “they are telling us that the camps are

  showing signs,” he fidgeted with the papers, “of

  overcrowding, and cruelty.”

  Brenin was a man of little patience when it came to

  council affairs. Throwing his arms in the air, Brenin

  could not take any more. “Bart, you’re boring me,

  what is the problem? And can it be solved?”

  “Doubtful,” replied Bart with his mouth curled

  down, “the issue isn’t with their location, we don’t

  seem to have enough of them, too many children, not

  enough parents,” he was unfeeling towards the

  predicament.

  “Fine,” huffed Brenin, he said with a high tone,

  “that’s all you needed to say.” Brenin stood, his voice

  was filled with power as he called, “the funds from the

  camps will remain with them for the next three turns,


  send the masons. They roll off enough linen to find

  the funds, some additional workspace is needed as

  well, the war, Gentlemen, is not settling, we need to be

  sure we can fund our efforts.” A ringing mumble

  began to fill the silence of the hall. “In the meantime, I

  will do my best to settle Bushwell and the pooka.”

  Instantly the room erupted with disapproval, it shook

  Mord to her core as she leapt up. Scurrying from the

  room, Brenin began to follow. “Until you have

  calmed, I will not return,” he ordered.

  As he came to the door, he saw Mord readying

  herself to take another pitcher of water in. “With me,

  Mord,” he ordered. She was grateful that he had called

  for her to follow, the room was still erupting with

  arguments of money and greed.

  Mord followed, they passed the corridor to the left

  and made their way up the huge marble stairs. Brenin

  happily bounced his way up the long stairs, the thick

  green carpet stopped any sounds or echoes. At the top

  of the stairs the huge walls were lined with pictures of

  power. Ancestral kings and queens glared towards her

  from the ancient canvas’. To the left was a long

  corridor, to the right a second corridor, but they

  followed the mezzanine to the right and followed

  towards the top of the bottom hall, Mord hurried

  behind Brenin, her hands were shaking, and legs felt

  weak. The echoes from the council hall still erupted as

  they rushed towards the large wooden doors to

  Brenin’s chambers.

  The guards, statuesque and silent, all wore the

  same neat green tunic, black boots with trousers

  inside. Their long green capes bore the emblem of

  Cronnin, the white stag. Each wore a sword around

  their waist and held long wooden spears, with a large

  point to the top. The guards parted as Brenin and

  Mord came to the carved wooden door.

  Mord stood silent inside his chambers. His

  quarters were one of the mightiest rooms the palace

  held. A colossal room stood before her, a large red

  carpet covered the floor, the extravagance was clear in

  the bright and airy room. To the right and left the

  walls were covered with bookcases, too large to reach

  from the floor, a mezzanine allowed for the bookcases

  to reach as far as the mighty intricate coffered ceiling.

  The smell of pipe smoke and parchment filled the air.