Melforger (The Melforger Chronicles)

by David Lundgren

  Wesp stood with his arm in the air, the pepperbox pointed upwards with a thin wisp of smoke trickling out of the end. “What do you think you’re doing?” he yelled. “Boy, come back and get on this wagon. Now!”

  Fergus held tightly to the Foreman, eyes closed.

  “But the boy has requested sanctuary and we have accepted. You heard him, trader,” said Madame Ottery.

  “I don’t care what he said! Either he gets back on this wagon or I start shooting.”

  Gasps of fear echoed through the crowd and people scampered backwards. The Foreman lifted his hand to stop them and then disengaged the boy from himself to push him across to Madame Ottery.

  “According to our laws, the boy has been welcomed as a member of our village now, trader.”

  Wesp snarled savagely and suddenly shot the pepperbox again, a second deafening explosion that made them all jump. “I don’t care about your laws, you fools! I will shoot someone if he isn’t back on the wagon in three seconds!” He waved the weapon wildly at them. “One.”

  Raf thought desperately. What do I do? This is my fault!

  “Two.”

  The Foreman was trying to say something to Wesp, appealing to him, but the trader wasn’t listening, just wildly swinging the pepperbox from left to right at the crowd. There were screams as people tried to duck and scramble away.

  “Thr-”

  It all happened so slowly in Raf’s head. Wesp swung the pepperbox to point at the Foreman. In one smooth motion, Raf grabbed the hilt of his knife, whipped his arm backwards and then flung it at Wesp. He watched in slow motion as the knife spun through the air. There was a bright spark as the knife blade hit the pepperbox and knocked it out of Wesp’s hand to clatter to the ground.

  Wesp screamed in pain. He held his hand to his chest and Raf saw a line of blood run down his right arm. One of his fingers looked like… Raf gagged as he realized half of the finger was gone. It had been sliced off.

  There was silence as Wesp moaned through clenched teeth, his face screwed up grotesquely in pain. He stumbled to the wagon, shrieking a command at the goats as he clambered on board. The animals, already nervous from the shots, took off in terror and the wagon skidded and reeled as it tore off down the path, bouncing violently over roots. Wesp turned around, face contorted in agony, to give them one last venomous look, before he disappeared into the night.

  As the wagon noises faded, the only sound left was a soft whimpering. Madame Ottery looked down to stroke the hair of a shaking Fergus who was standing with tears streaming down his face.

  “It’s all right, dear. He’s gone now. You’re going to stay with us here in Eirdale.” He looked up at her, eyes red, tears still streaming, and gave her a brave half smile.

  The Foreman gazed in the direction of the vanished wagon. “Orikon.”

  The hunter nodded once at him before jogging down the path after the wagon. Then the Foreman walked slowly up to where Wesp had been standing and stooped down to pick up both the pepperbox and the knife. Stony-faced, he held out the knife until Raf hesitantly took it, and then moved through the crowd which opened up for him.

  Somewhere in the distance a peacock called and was answered by another. The sounds passed unnoticed as the small crowd dispersed into the night.

  9. BHOTHY

  “Nothing, Foreman. No sign.”

  “You’re sure, Orikon?”

  The tall hunter nodded. “I followed his tracks all the way up past Emborough. He drove the animals hard and without break towards the Pass. We are clear of him.”

  Dr Allid shook his head. “He won’t be back. He has learned a lesson, I think. We foresters are not to be easy prey for city scum like him. Just as well Orikon kept an eye on him.” A few of the others grunted in agreement.

  “Yet, I cannot help but wonder what that man will do when he returns,” replied the Foreman rubbing his eyes. “Traders talk, and when word gets around about what happened -”

  “Nobody will listen,” asserted Leiana. “People know better than to pay any attention to a revolting creature like that.”

  “Leiana, you don’t know Miern. In a city that big, that dense, word gets around – even if it’s from someone like our trader friend. We can’t afford to lose trade.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. Resma and I will organize a Festival like the Aeril Forest has never witnessed, and people will arrive in droves. Good news will spread,” said Leiana, standing up. “It’s finally our turn to host it, and now that we have the coin, I will see Eirdale carved into Forest history.” Madame Ottery clapped enthusiastically.

  “I’m sure you will, Leiana.” answered the Foreman. “We need something positive now to focus on after yesterday’s incident. In fact, I think I’ll make an announcement after this meeting to let the villagers know our Festival is definitely happening and put pay to the rumors that were no doubt flying around.” Leiana rolled her eyes at this and gave a sour shake of her head.

  The Foreman stopped on his way out. “How is Raf today? I didn’t see him this morning and was hoping to have a word. He must be shaken after last night. Word of the story has spread through the village, understandably, and he seems popular all of a sudden. Perhaps… he’d like a place on the final bill to perform at the Festival end?”

  Tarvil laughed and then covered it up quickly with a hand to his mouth, pretending to cough. The Foreman looked at him suspiciously.

  “I… er... I am not completely sure that that… would be such a welcome gesture, Foreman,” said Tarvil carefully. “Raf doesn’t much like performing. He gets stage fright and would pro-”

  “- what my husband means is that Raf would be delighted to perform in the Festival for Eirdale,” Leiana interrupted. “He could even play that instrument that he made: Orfea, was it?”

  The Foreman looked at her and then at Tarvil who stood there pursing his lips as he looked at his wife out of the corner of his eyes. “Well… I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Leiana. I’ll go and let the village know our news now.”

  He started chanting the farwelayre and the others joined in. For a moment, the chamber resonated with vibrant harmony, and then the Council shuffled out into the darkening dusk. Leiana immediately set off at a brisk pace towards their home and Tarvil had to rush to catch up with her.

  “I think you might have considered that better, dear,” he said tentatively, matching her strides.

  She stared ahead. “I’ve no idea what you mean. The performance will be good for Raf. And good for the village.”

  “Good for Raf? Dear, you know perfectly well that he won’t want to. He’s made it pretty clear he doesn’t want to perform.”

  She stopped and turned towards him, hands moving to perch on her hips, mouth tightening furiously. “Doesn’t want to? This Festival is the lifeblood of the Aeril Forest! It is the single most important event in the year. Without it, we would… we…” She hesitated. “Well, it would be disastrous. It must happen. It must be spectacular. And we simply must have a few representatives from Eirdale in it this year, especially if we’re organizing it. I’m sick of watching those Hunton Daire folk and the Three Ways show-offs hogging the stage. Raf is a competent musician and, although I have my own opinion about last night’s incident, if the Foreman has offered him this opportunity, then he’s doing it. There are no two ways about it.” She marched off.

  Tarvil trudged back home, deep in thought. As he walked up to the boys’ branch of their sycamore, he caught sight of Rio and one of his classmates up ahead in a small thicket of bamboo, playing with some toy bows and arrows they had made.

  “Rio!” The boy turned to see him and then ran up pretending to shoot an arrow at him. “Oohhhhh… you got me.” Tarvil staggered around on the spot, holding his hands to his chest while Rio giggled.

  “Do you like my new bow, Dad? I made it today. Me and Fechin both made one. We’re gonna hunt wild boars!”

  “Wow,” said Tarvil. “Can you make me one too?” They both nodded delighted
ly at him. Tarvil reached down to Rio’s tangled blond locks and gave them a fond ruffle. “Are you looking forward to the Festival, boys? It’s not far away now.”

  “Yeah!” burbled Fechin. “Madame Ottery is teaching us a new song and everything. It’ll be brilliant!” Rio nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

  “I hope so,” said Tarvil. “Tell me, do you know where your brother is? I didn’t see him at breakfast or lunch today.”

  “No, he was gone this morning when I got up,” said Rio.

  “Well, if you see him, can you send him to me? I’ll be over eastside at the new buildings with the Foreman.”

  Rio nodded, and Tarvil got to his feet. He wandered down towards the building sites where he could hear instructions being shouted out by Foreman Manyara. There was precious little time now to get ready and the Foreman was pushing hard to make sure everything was perfect. Not that he liked to bully people; he was one of the calmest people Tarvil knew. In fact, he had only ever broken his cool composure once, that Tarvil had seen, and that was some ten years ago when he had caught his own cousin, Bhothy, trying to light a fire in the middle of one of the plantations.

  Bhothy was a sad case. His birthright was to hold the official village Bard role, something which didn’t really exist anymore – which was probably the reason he had turned out so irresponsible and reckless. The man had been so drunk that he had dropped a cask of gin over the fire which had then set ablaze the trunk of a beech Ancient. If the Foreman hadn’t caught it in time, the consequences would have been too dreadful to imagine. Living up on their Forest platform held a few obvious, inherent dangers.

  . . . . . . .

  Raf woke up and looked around, rubbing his neck which ached from the odd angle he’d been slouched in. He hadn’t been able to get to sleep and left their home a few hours before dawn, walking around aimlessly until finally he succumbed to fatigue. He had made himself comfortable against the soft moss on some oak roots and fell soundly asleep.

  He wasn’t completely sure where he was; he’d taken no notice of where he was going other than heading in a generally south-west direction. His head was still spinning after the events of the night before and he couldn’t stop playing the scene over and over again in his mind.

  Stretching and yawning, he rolled onto his knees and stood up, squinting in the mottled sunlight. He’d found his way into the banyan grove, it seemed; it was much darker here. The banyans grew in a tangled mess that cut out much of the light. The ground and trees were also covered in moss. Every inch of every surface seemed to be caked in shades of green, from the dark green that carpeted the ground, to the streaks of bright moss and lichen that decorated the banyan branches.

  It used to be thick with olive and birch trees many years ago, but then the strangler figs, or banyans that flourished in the Forest set upon them rapidly. Vince talked about it as if it was quite gruesome and, in a way, Raf supposed it was. The strangler figs basically colonized the other trees - grew all over it and around them - destroying them. But because of the way vines grew, spiraling and crisscrossing their way upwards, the whole process left behind strange webs of ropy branches.

  Taking a deep breath of the fragrant air, he climbed over a steep mossy mound and moved deeper into the grove. For a while, he walked on, stopping occasionally to break a watervine open for a quick drink, or to pick a few mulberries to eat. It was quite soothing, and he found himself relaxing a bit. Until he heard a strange laughing sound from up ahead.

  He peered forwards. It was definitely a human voice. He couldn’t quite make out where it was exactly, but it seemed to emanate from the dark gap between two hanging curtains of banyan roots. Walking carefully, one foot in front of the other, he moved up to the gap and saw that the banyan roots had grown so thick that they seemed to form two gnarly walls. It was from somewhere down this natural passageway that the sound came.

  He walked forwards into the gap, opening his eyes wide to adjust to the darkness, and after a few seconds he found himself standing in what seemed to be, for all intents and purposes, a covered porch to someone’s home. He moved further forwards and saw a doorway leading inside, so he crept through it. There was an odd smell he had never encountered before. An acrid smell, vaguely floral, but sharp. Intrigued, he edged his head around the corner to peek inside.

  It was a mess. There was a small candle set in the corner of the room which gave off enough light to illuminate the shambles inside. Containers were strewn everywhere and clothes were lying all over the damp mossy floor. And there, slumped over on a leather bag, was an obese forester with a bushy orange beard that curled out from his cheeks in great knotted tangles. As Raf watched, he held a small pipe to his mouth, sucked the end and then coughed. The strange smell was obviously coming from the pipe.

  It had to be Bhothy, of course. Everyone knew about the Foreman’s banished cousin, but no one ever saw him or had anything to do with him; it was strictly forbidden. And he’d been living here just a few miles south of the village all this time? Apparently all he’d been doing was eating. Raf had never seen a stomach like that on a forester! He shuffled sideways to get a better view but felt his foot slide on the slick mossy floor, knocking into a small table.

  “What?” shouted the man spinning around. “Wh’sat? Who’s there?”

  Raf twisted desperately to back out of the doorway, but as he moved, both feet slipped on the damp moss again, and he lost his balance, stumbling over to crash headfirst against the wall. There was a sharp wave of crushing pain through his head before everything went black.

  10. DHOLAKI

  “What to do, what to do…” Cough. “Stupid kid.”

  Raf slowly came to. He lifted his head up and saw the man sitting on the same bag as before, puffing away at the pipe. He was rocking backwards and forwards, staring at the floor.

  “Um…” he mumbled, “excuse me, but… aren’t you Bhothy?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Raf. Raf Gency.”

  “Tarvil’s boy?” The man snorted in irritation. “Just what I need. A Council cub sniffing around, trying to kill himself.” He shook his head from side to side and then took another long drag on the pungent pipe. “I am Bhothy.”

  He exhaled thick smoke up into the air. The smell made Raf feel a bit nauseous, and his head wobbled a bit. The man looked at him, eyes bloodshot, and held out the smoldering pipe. “Want some?” He suddenly giggled. “Course not. Wouldn’t be prudent for a Council boy.”

  He stared at Raf, eyebrows lifted high on his head, and then made a squeaking noise as he tried to hold in another bout of giggling but failed. He ended up wheezing violently and coughing into his arm sleeve. Then he turned back to Raf and, wrinkling his nose up, said in a husky voice, “You take it down wrong, you cough your lungs up.”

  Raf stared at him; the man was mad. “Are you all right?”

  “All right?” snapped the man, “Am I all right?” He put his fingers to his chin in a dramatically thoughtful pose. “Now that you mention it, I’m just wonderful thank you. The only human I’ve spoken to, other than you of course, in over ten years is my marvelous cousin Eliath; a bit of a serious fellow, if you get my drift. And now you, who come stumbling in here and almost give me a blimmin’ heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to -”

  “Didn’t mean to?” Bhothy scoffed. “How can you not mean to come poking your nose around this forbidden area? It is still forbidden, right?”

  “I didn’t know I was near here. Yesterday, there was… well, something happened and I went for a walk.”

  “Oooh, a walk,” mocked Bhothy.

  “Yes, a walk,” replied Raf in irritation. “I thought I heard talking so I came to see who it was. Only, because you obviously don’t ever clean the floor, the moss is quite slipp-”

  “You mind your tongue,” said the man sullenly. He glanced around the room and scratched his tangled beard. Crumbs fell out of it onto his chest. “I didn’t know I’d have gues
ts. Besides, that’s hardly the way to speak to someone who’s just healed you.”

  “What?”

  “Of course, you wouldn’t know, you were knocked out. Silly me.”

  Raf touched his forehead, remembering what had happened. He realized it didn’t actually hurt that much - not nearly as much as he expected it to. He looked at Bhothy in confusion. “Are you a healer? Like Dr Ferrows?”

  “No.”

  “Well then wh-”

  “Shhh!” Bhothy suddenly opened his eyes widely and moved his eyeballs from side to side, bringing his finger up to his mouth. “Too many questions.”

  “But… if you healed me, then I owe you my thanks.”

  “Rubbish. Anyone would have done it. You would have done it to me.”

  “Healed you? Not likely. I’m not even an apprentice healer. I’ve no idea which herbs to use, or anything.”

  “Herbs?” Bhothy hooted with delight. “Brilliant! A thousand years of music and we’re reduced to using parsley to cure our problems.” He laughed loudly, only stopping when he was taken by a fit of coughing.

  “What would you use, then?” asked Raf, feeling a little peeved. “Sing a song to cure someone? Yeah, I can see how that would work. ‘La-dee-dah’ and your fever’s gone.”

  “Worked well enough on you, Council boy,” muttered Bhothy, turning away.

  He put the small pipe clumsily into his mouth at an angle and then stumbled over to the table in the middle of the floor where there was a small bush in a pot. It had no greenery on the spindly branches and seemed to be dead.

  “Blast,” mumbled Bhothy. “Running out.” He carefully picked up a small yellow, dried leaf lying on the table between his fumbling fingers, scrunched it up and inserted it into the hollow end of the pipe. Then he drew a thin pine splinter from a box next to the bush and struck it against the rough side. It sparked and flared up into a solid yellow flame that he held to the crushed leaf, drawing in a deep breath so that the end glowed brightly. He immediately broke into a bout of dry hacking and then, with a painful grimace on his face, offered a strained smile at Raf and flopped down onto the bag again, almost falling off in the process.