A Path of Oak and Ash

by M. P. Reeves

  With each footfall he found himself feeling less homesick and more at home. Uncaged. Reborn. The crisp night air was pure serenity, the stars above clear and plentiful. In a way, Carrick began to feel cheated. All those years living in cities, in the suburbs, existing in wooden boxes or cement chambers. How many breaths of pollution had he taken? How many yellow number five filled drinks had he consumed?

  Movement beyond the tree’s caught his eye. It was larger than a deer, a thin silhouette that flashed in the darkness, a faint purple glow. Carrick immediately paused, turning slowly towards the location. Eyes searching the darkness, mind probing the wood. What returned to him was not alarm, but calm. As soothing as a light breeze, whatever lurked beyond the tree line was not viewed as a threat to Dre’ien. Taking a step off the path, he kept his eyes focused on the rustling leaves interlocking around the great wood. Fireflies danced passed, teasing at illumination yet revealing little. Thin fingers draped over the oak, nails a deep onyx shade.

  A hand?

  “Hello?”

  There was no verbal response, what little outline he had been able to make out retreated, as though his voice was startling. “I can see you. Please. Come out of there. I won’t tell anyone you were out late or whatever. If you’re worried about being in trouble.” He could just imagine some kid had been following the weird outsider around town.

  Carrick strode forward a few more paces, the woods not more than an arm’s reach away. He figured if whoever it was tried to make a break for it, he could catch them. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Unless you make me. “Now get out here.”

  What stepped through the tree line was not what he was expecting. Standing just over five feet by his estimate was a woman unlike any he had ever seen. Shapely, not thin like the magazine models but more like a nineteen fifties pin up. Her face was perfectly shaped, eyes wide, cheekbones high, her lips lush but not overdone. She had on a long flowing skirt that appeared black in the moonlight. It was one of those odd ones, longer in back than it was in the front, no shoes covered her feet but she wore several ankle bracelets on her left side. Her top matched her skirting, sleeveless and cut low. Hair that almost appeared to be a green shade poked out from underneath a hooded cowl, the deep loop of the garment falling down over her chest to just above her belly button, which was exposed. Her stomach decorated by a metal belt with many cascades carved to resemble vines. It was not her physique that took his breath away, it was her eyes.

  They were the color of amethyst. A brilliant shade that seemed to almost sparkle in the dark, contrasting with the dark hazelnut shade of her skin. Unfortunately it was not wonder or affection that seemed to dance in those brilliant orbs but fright. Her arms wrapped around her waist, as though to shield herself. Carrick put his hands up, feeling like a complete jerk.

  “Hey, I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

  She didn’t answer, instead slender hands rose to readjust her cowl, a small purple orchid decorated her right wrist, almost like a corsage.

  In his most gentle tone he asked the million dollar question. “What’s your name?”

  “Uprooted from its home, a sapling is in turmoil once replanted. Tell me son of the Elderwood, do you flourish or wilt?”

  Carrick frowned. “What?”

  Without another word she turned, her form disappearing back into the forest.

  “Hey wait!” Legs pumping he rushed after her, eyes searching the blackness for her form. Running left and right he called out, to no avail. There was nothing lurking in the black night.

  Above his head, Arcedes had landed on a thick branch. She looked down at him inquisitively, he got the feeling she was wondering what he was doing out in the woods in the middle of the night.

  “I know. I should be in bed. Come on. Let’s go home alright?”

  With a flap of her wings, he knew she was in agreement. Together the pair traversed the stone path past the high rise homesteads, Carrick read the softly illuminated family markers; Fhanafall, Alhavyen, Parthalon, each inscribed on a post in front of the homestead in thickly decorated plaques. Then his own. Slaine. Staring at it in the darkness, he found he quite preferred it to Smith. Smith had always sounded off in his own ears. Slaine of the Elderwood. It was an odd custom to have both a surname and a housename, but it was easy enough to get used to.

  Carrick reached out and gently touched the cool metal plaque. He found himself wondering if his mother had known his father’s last name. Had she known of this place? Of the people who were here? If she had, how could she have wanted to take him so far from it? It was a paradise. A secret world. His secret world. Nothing here had been aggressive nor harmful, the people were kind while remaining flighty, his uncle had been odd but caring. Yet, despite all that, walking up the living stair to his home Carrick could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

  9

  A month passed in the blink of an eye. The days and nights bleeding together into a repetitive rendition of wonder and pain. Despite multiple people living in Dre’ien, Carrick spent his time solely with his uncle, having been promptly removed from the children's group for not being able to keep up. His waking hours devoted to learning the ways of the druid, his time of rest that of healing. No longer a lanky child, his bones were coated with a thick sheet of new muscle. His body constantly bent and pulled, twisted and broken throughout the physical trials of the day, rapid healing had eased his exhaustion and helped him to ‘bulk up’ in a way he never thought would be possible. In fleeting moments early in the morning, he’d cross by the gilded mirror in his room and marvel at what he had become. He looked a lot like an extra in a Spartan movie, the kind of guy he would glare at across the lunchroom. The type of guy that would make a passing lady put her phone down and stare. A model, a movie star, an athlete...in the end none of those words crossed his mind. When he met his blue stair in the glass there was one singular thought in his mind.

  I am a druid, I am one with the earth.

  A fact that made him smile more than any of the frivolity he left behind, loud gregarious advertisements and imperfect false realities modeled on camera lost behind the serenity of the wilds.

  When Carrick had not been training his form in physical trials, his mind had been put through the scholarly ringer. There were so many topics; histories, fables, family lines, mathematics, botany, biology and what he could only declare to be a bit of magic. There were artistic endeavors to memorize such as paintings and craftworks. Lastly the topic that always made him smile, the so-called perversions of man. What a funny thing that was.

  Technology. The word itself is misleading, even uncommon in the English language until the eighteenth century. Technology was at its origin; Art. Skill and cunning hands some thousands of years prior. It is in that ancient term that Carrick found the druidic life embraced technology. Leatherworking, weaving and Pottery were prevalent in Dre’ien, craftsmen did their finest on hand looms and refined leather. All skills governed by a simple underlying principle of do no harm to our shared earth. Anything that could be taken from the land and returned was accepted. Which made it easy to see why the Industrial revolution became the fork in the road.

  Mining and mass chemical production are a far cry from anything that could be considered returnable. Hollowing out the earth for its bounty and leaching hybrid elemental compositions that did not occur in nature into the water supply were one of the highest forms of sacrilege. As Erik had given him story after story of the foolishness of man, Carrick found himself feeling sick to his stomach during those lessons. Mercury in the water, PAHs in the air.

  North American pollution hindering crops in Europe. Even the simplest thing from the world from which he came could have horrid consequences. For example: a metal cleaning solution. Something that could be ordered online, used daily, mass produced. Probably dumped out from time to time by an old man outside his garage before he recycled the plastic container it came in, thinking he was doing the world a solid as he worked on his nineteen fortie
s ford restoration job. Blissfully unaware that container had been filled with Trichloroethylene. A nasty chemical that when leached into the soil spread to the living things around it in a multitude of ways. A carcinogen that could also cause birth defects, heart disease...and that was just in humans. Turns out the chemical did a similar number animals. Changing their behavior patterns, growth, gifting them with cancer as well. Just one little chemical, one little container. How many wall paper removers, solvents, insulations, flame retardants, and preservatives fit that bill?

  In contrast to the world he knew, agriculture was not prevalent in the forest. To till the land was to disrupt the land. Instead foods were grown in small non-disruptive gardens, the denizens scoured the forests for berry and animal rather than keeping stock.

  It did not impact their food consumption. Now, as Carrick stood in the commons in the fading light, before him was an ample buffet of fresh fruits, cooked meats, cheeses and hand tossed breads. A feast fit for an ancient king, fitting with the lute music that echoed softly from the corner.

  “We’re going to a festival tonight, in the commons.” Erik had told him first thing that morning over eggs.

  “Oh?”

  “Celebrating the successful return of a pair of Níomair.”

  “A what?” It had sounded like another fancy shoe brand.

  “A druidic agent in the world of men, an advisor of sorts. One planted to keep ignorant greedy humans from chaotic choices.” Erik had frowned. “I tell you, it was far easier in the time of Kings. Then there was only one ear you had to have. These days with bureaucracy, committee’s, boards, regulations, international treaties...I do not envy those who volunteer for assignment.”

  “So they like, befriend high ranking government officials.” Spy movies had flashed through his mind as Carrick finished his milk.

  “Or utilize that little skill I’ve taught you to intercept and persuade.”

  Carrick had frowned. “If you can do that, why not just body double the president and change the world?”

  “You assume a president has power.”

  “Um...duh?”

  “We seek not the puppets but the puppeteers. You know in your heart your world is governed by money not elections.”

  “A magic wielding conspiracy theorist?”

  “A realist.” Erik had smirked, causing his cheek to dimple. “Just behave, don’t be stupid or do anything to embarrass our family line.”

  Now as he stood in front of the bustling crowd he worried he would do exactly that.

  Carrick tugged at the hem of his white linen shirt while watching the throngs of people smile and dance, debate and feast. His uncle was by one of the mead kegs, his floor length robe glowing against the candle light as he spoke, gesturing lavishly with one hand while drinking politely with his other. In his company were several other important looking men whose hair had long grayed. One severely hunched over, his beard down to his knees, relying heavily on a gnarled walking stick for balance. Yet despite his decrepit form his tongue seemed to not have lost its wit, Carrick watched as a frail finger extended, the old man making some comment to his uncle that made the small crowd guffaw in unison.

  Walking up to so many ancient druids to join a conversation was unnerving so his eyes kept moving over the glen. Children danced around the center fire at a distance, their heads decorated with floral wreaths, their flowing tunics twirling as they spun. It was hard to distinguish the boys from the girls, all of the children had long hair and similar clothing. Majority of the women congregated not by the feast, but by the garden’s opposite the lute players. One by one their voices joined in song to the beat of the hand drum.

  “The maidens of beauty, lithe, draped in green

  ambled one morning fair, bright and early they strayed

  under billowing clouds cross the hills of Dre’ien

  twirling a glow as the birds trilled in the glade.

  Out through the moonlight, home break of morning

  the land the true love of each maid.”

  “Well now, what do we have here?” A male voice called out. Carrick had been so absorbed in the melody he did not notice the group in front of him.

  Before Carrick stood four male druids, all appearing about his age. They eyed him shrewdly, as though they were attempting to size up his worth. The one on the far left was taller than the others, his hair pitch black and flowed over the grey cloak on his shoulders that had been decorated with some sort of dark animal fur, clasped in a pendant that resembled a wolfs head, jaws open in a snarl. His facial features were stuck in a perpetual frown, eyes matching his cloak topped with thick brows brought forward in his glum expression. Beneath his cloak he wore the dark pants, handspun shirt and thick boots akin to everyone else he had seen so far around the community. A scar of four equal diagonal slices could be seen peeking through the thin off white material of his undershirt.

  Next to the dark glowering man was a blond boy who bore no expression at all. In a way he reminded Carrick of a renaissance painting. That whole handsome man with no emotion routine. Rather than a cloak, he wore a white long sleeved linen shirt under a leather vest embroidered with a stag arching up to the sky. The daggers at each of his hips lead Carrick to believe he was a close range fighter.

  The third of the group was the most casual, a lazy smile on his fine features. Standing in the middle of the pack height wise, everything about him screamed stereotypical druid. If such a thing existed over here. The guy had medium brown hair half pulled back and half braided, his face clean shaven. The tip of a sword hilt hidden under the emerald canopy that hung from his shoulders became visible when he stuck his arm out. “Nice to make your acquaintance son of Brannon.”

  “Hey.” How do you know me? Carrick thought as he accepted the greeting. He took the stranger’s arm, not in a handshake but grasping him on the forearm just before his elbow joint. With a firm squeeze the man dropped his hand, taking a step back.

  “I am Aodhan Fhanafall,” He gestured to the others with his left arm, “this is Quin Paorach, Conall Cattan and Tadhg Ros.” Each gave a quick nod of their heads in greeting when their name was called. The redheaded on the end tacked on a short wave, smiling. The palest of the bunch, Tadhg had a freckled face with green eyes and a nose that had been broken one too many times.

  “You are all of the Fang?” Carrick asked, going off their armaments and Quin’s chest scar.

  Aodhan laughed. “Glad Erik is teaching you something! We are indeed, warriors in training the lot of us. So tell me, what of the human world? Is it true that no life grows in the earth in their cities?

  “I’ve heard they keep animals in cages for amusement.” Conall added, his face remained flat despite the obvious disgust in his tone.

  “Are the girls as beautiful as they say?” Tadhg pronounced girls like guls, his accent thicker than the other two that had spoken thus far.

  Carrick wrinkled his nose thinking of Mary, refusing to dwell on Liz again. “Some are okay I guess, not as pretty as the one’s here.”

  Aodhan snorted. “Been here nay a month and the lad’s already found himself a gal. Who? Meridi?” Aodhan pointed at a blond on the far side of the fire. She was pretty, with large round eyes and fair skin, her cheeks carried a natural blush that most women paid for.

  “No. I-”

  “Alanna?” It looked like he gestured to a redheaded girl with an upturned nose and wide hips. “No. She-”

  “Brinne then? Sar? Viole?” The druid was not giving up apparently. He continued to toss out names at a constant pace.

  “I don’t know her name.” Carrick shook his head, feeling quite silly for even bringing it up.

  “What does she look like then?”

  “She’s about this tall,” Carrick held a hand up to the bridge of his nose, “dark skin, purple, really purple, eyes and her hair is...well it’s a deep green. She had a flower tied around her wrist.” Aodhan let out a whistle.

  “Bloody show off.” Quin hissed
, eyes dark and narrow, then spat on the ground at Carrick’s feet. With a twist of his feet he stalked off from Carrick. A dark form disappearing into the night. Tadhg shuffled his feet while Conall wrinkled his nose for a fraction of a second.

  “I-” Carrick opened his mouth to form an apology or a question, but nothing came to mind. It was Aodhan that cut through the awkwardness.

  “Don’t mind him Carrick. It’s no surprise to me that you would attune easily, what with your father and all.”

  “What did I do?” Carrick was utterly confused.

  “That’s no normal girl you saw, that’s a wood nymph. Guardian spirit, kin of the forest.” Conall piped up from behind. “It takes a Druid many years to gain their trust, to open their ears to the spirits. Quin has been meditating in the glen for decades trying to earn their acceptance.”

  “Decades?” Carrick’s blue eyes widened. “How old is he-are all-of you?”

  Aodhan spoke for the group. “Quin is one hundred and sixty five, Conall is fifty four."

  "Fifty two." Conall corrected.

  "Apologies!" He turned back to Carrick, "I am the young one as I am only thirty. The lad here,” Aodhan jabbed Tadhg in the shoulder, “is creeping up on seventy two.” Carrick had to blink a few times, he had just turned fifteen and at the surface, these guys appeared to be his equal yet some were old enough to be his grandfather. Not to mention his grandfather’s grandfather.

  “Wow.”

  “I know laddy, I barely look a day over fifty!” Tadhg bragged, locking his thumbs under the sides of his thick red cloak with a grin.

  “Will I...” Carrick trailed off. After meeting this bunch it became evident to him what his uncle had meant by his ‘differences’ in age showing quickly. It had seemed preposterous until...