Lost Lore: A Fantasy Anthology

by Ben Galley

  It was not quite harvest season yet, but the wheat fields were being tended to by the villagers, checking on their crops, not willing to let a blight or parasite ruin their food so close to when it would be collected. Men and women walked the fields. Some would have true farming Knacks, magical talents that allowed them to excel in their chosen craft, but Felton knew from his own experience that this close to harvest even unKnacked residents would be asked to help, as a good crop of food ensured everyone’s survival during the winter months.

  The older brother scanned the fields for a few moments longer. “There,” he said, pointing at some distant figures to the south west. “Let’s go and ask them.”

  Tad looked confused. “But, there’re a few men right there, much closer. It’d only take a few minutes to reach them, instead of spending half an hour crossing the fields.” The young boy stepped forwards, and began to wave his hands in the air. “Hey-” he shouted, but Felton quickly covered his mouth with his hand, and the older boy pulled them both with a thud to the forest floor.

  Felton studied the men his brother had startled. They raised their heads, scanning the treeline to find the source of disturbance, but soon returned to their work.

  He was reminded of his hand still covering Tad’s mouth when his brother bit him on the fat of his thumb.

  “Little prick,” Felton said, cuffing Tad around the head.

  “Why’d you do that?” Tad retorted. Tears were already beginning to well up in the boy’s blue eyes. “Why’d you push me to the ground?”

  “Pushed us both to the ground, didn’t I?” Felton said, checking again to see that the farmers were back at work. “I just… just didn’t like the looks of those men, you know? Strange village, and all. Those ones over there look like girls. Reckon it’d be safer to ask them for directions.”

  Tad looked at the distant figures again. “Maybe we should just head home,” he said, worry clear in his voice. “Don’t want to get caught before evening bell.”

  “Nah, mam would tan both of us if we wasted a day with nothing to show for it. Let’s hop over and ask about blackberries. It’s a straight path home, only takes a few hours - we’ve got ages till sunset.”

  Face uncertain, Tad picked himself up and followed his brother, both of them walking just inside the treeline to avoid being spotted by the villagers working the fields.

  “This is exciting, right?” Felton said, grinning, giving Tad a small shove to get his attention. “We walked all the way to another village today. Don’t think mam’s ever seen another village before. That makes us adventurers, right?”

  Tad did not seem so sure. “Don’t think I want to be an adventurer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too many stories end up with them being dead.”

  They walked a bit further, Felton continuing to hit at any trees that caused offence by getting too close to him.

  “You pay too much attention to stories, Tad,” Felton said eventually, stepping up his pace so that Tad had to jog to keep up. The young boy was too exhausted to reply.

  “So, you just stay here and hide. I’ll go talk to her,” Felton told his brother, after getting close enough to one of the women in the field to be able to see the cornflowers braided into her hair.

  Tad pouted his lip. “Stay in the forest by myself? What if something happens to me?”

  Felton rolled his eyes. “Just give a few hoots, and I’ll come running.”

  “You want me to sound like a witchbird? I don’t like witchbirds, Fel.”

  “You don’t need to like them. Just hoot like one, let me know if there’s any trouble.”

  “What’ll you do if you get in trouble?”

  “Nothing’s going to go wrong, Tad.”

  “But how’ll I know when to come help you?”

  Fel’s face grew stern. “Don’t come. Just stay here and hide.”

  “But-”

  Fed up, Felton turned and began to walk into the wheat field, his hand fumbling in his tunic pockets as he crept through the tall, yellow grass.

  The farm girl was only a minute from the trees. Felton could not believe his luck, that he had found her separated from her family, out here where they could talk in secret. Just like before.

  “Hafwen,” he sang when he got close enough to her, keeping his head low so others would not spot him.

  The farm girl’s head shot up at the sound of her name, and Felton felt his chest tighten. He had thought about her every day, and dreamt about her every night, since the beginning of spring, but even so, the months had been kind to Hafwen. The summer sun had kissed her often, leaving a pleasant arrangement of freckles across her cheeks and nose. The girl Felton remembered at the start of the season had been just that - a girl - but he was well aware he was now staring at a woman.

  He smiled at her, and waved.

  Hafwen turned, looking for others nearby, ready to shout.

  “No, wait. Hafwen, it’s me. Felton.”

  The young woman turned back, looking in confusion, nose wrinkling as she considered him.

  “Felton, from Gallowglass?” he suggested, mortified that she did not appear to recognise him. “We spent the night together?” It sounded more intimate than he had meant it to, for that night had been an innocent affair, as trysts went. Hafwen and her family - indeed, most of her village - had travelled to Gallowglass to take part in Fastern’s Eve, the celebration before the growing season, during which villagers pleaded the Magpie Spirit to bless the crops that were about to be sown. Hafwen’s family had boarded with Felton’s that night, sharing their cellar to hide from the forest creatures. Their bedrolls had been close, and in the dark, with their family snoring around them, their hands and lips had briefly found each other.

  Realisation dawned on Hafwen’s face, moments before it was replaced by irritation. She motioned with her hands for him to crouch lower, and she did so herself, racing through the wheat towards him, checking that none of her family had spotted anything out of the ordinary.

  “What in Artemis’ name are you doing here?” she said upon reaching him, her face red. “You - are you alone?”

  Felton felt his mouth hanging open, and did not seem to have enough control over his faculties to close it. He shook his head, doing what he could to displace his doubts about this encounter. Instead of answering her question, he reached into his pocket, pulling forth a piece of glass about the size of his fist. It had been fashioned into the shape of a small bird.

  “I - I wanted to… My Knack came this season, since we last met,” he said, offering her the bauble.

  Hafwen’s stern expression softened slightly as she accepted the gift.

  “You’re a glassworking Knack?” Glassworking, like blacksmithing and carpentry, was a rare and much sought-after Knack to develop.

  Felton’s face reddened. “No, I, uh…”

  He had saved all of his earnings from this summer’s goat herding - his actual Knack - to buy the bird for Hafwen, in anticipation of this meeting.

  She looked at it fondly, sighed, then offered it back to him. “Can’t take this from you. Have it back.”

  “But, but, that night. We…” he lowered his voice. “We kissed. We held each other as we slept.” He did not add that Hafwen had fallen asleep much sooner than he had. He remembered the warmth of her skin close to him. He had been remembering that warmth all summer, the wet of her lips, how pleasant the curve of her bottom had felt as he had lowered his hand to it, well after she had drifted off.

  It was Hafwen’s turn to redden now. “You know how it is. Had to try it, snuggled up close like that, didn’t we? But we were different people then. Take the glass back.”

  “It was only five months ago,” Felton exclaimed, looking incredulously at the glass bird being thrust back at him. The girls of Gallowglass had ‘oohed’ and swooned when he had shown it to them.
He could not believe it was not having the same effect here. “We haven’t changed that much.”

  Hafwen stood up straight, tossing her braid behind her back. Felton tried not to focus on how her upright posture made her breasts stand out, his eyes drawn to the mysterious depths of her cleavage. He had spent hours that night daring himself to move his hand to them as she had slept, but had not found the courage. How he wished he had done so now.

  “Well, I’ve changed,” she said to him, matter-of-factly. “Got a man now, I have. We’re to be wed next spring, so I can’t be accepting no birds from no Gallowglassers.”

  The bottom of Felton’s world fell out from under him. He regretted not having Tad’s straw hat now - the sun beat down on him, glaring in his eyes, making him sweat.

  “No,” he heard himself saying. “No, that can’t be right. I was going to… I wanted to…”

  Hafwen’s expression turned to awkward pity. “Look, you should be running back, now. Evening bell is only a few hours away, and Gallowglass is a good trot along.”

  “But,” Felton heard himself saying again, looking at Hafwen again in confusion. Who was this woman, standing in front of him? She was not the girl he had been dreaming about all season. This was not the pretty face that had kept him sane whilst moving the goats through the woods, guiding them towards the known pastures. His Hafwen was kinder, more timid. “But,” he said again, “I wrote our names. Carved them both, on the Heartwood tree.”

  Hafwen’s face darkened. She took two steps towards him, and slapped him across the face. The glass bird flew from his hands, landing unseen in the nearby wheat with a wretched crack.

  At the same time, in the distance, Tad began to hoot.

  Felton stood still, mouth open, staring at the field at his feet, face stinging.

  “How dare you,” Hafwen said, full angry now. “You had no right.”

  He could not look at her. The hooting in the distance continued, growing in volume.

  “I just thought…” It was not supposed to have been like this. In the stories, when the young lover had spent time keening after his heart’s desire, spent so long focussed on attaining what he wanted, things always turned out well in the end. In the stories.

  “Look at me,” she commanded, and he could do nought but obey. Her eyes were coals, fixing to brand him. His Hafwen would never look at him like that.

  “You find that tree,” she said, finger pointing accusingly. “You find it, you peel the bark off it, and you… what in Artemis’ name is that?”

  Felton, released from her glare, looked back towards the forest. There, already having travelled half the distance between the forest edge and the young lovers, was Tad, his floppy hat bobbing up from behind the wheat stalks every few steps, accompanied by his best witchbird impersonation.

  “Is that a boy?”

  Felton did not answer, watching his brother move towards him. Tad stopped every once in a while to give another hoot to catch Felton’s attention. The bobbing of his head was almost comical - would have been comical, if not for the situation - and made Felton hope desperately this was part of a nightmare, and he was really sleeping restlessly in his father’s cellar.

  “What is it?” Felton shouted, when Tad was close enough to hear him.

  “She hit you,” Tad shouted back, trying to keep hidden behind the wheat stalks, avoiding Hafwen’s gaze.

  “I noticed, Tad. It didn’t escape me.”

  “You know him?” Hafwen said. The rising pitch of her voice told Felton it was time to leave, before another slap came his way.

  Hafwen’s eyes widened in realisation. “Is he your brother? You brought your brother all the way here to come and court me?”

  Felton could not look her in the eyes. “We’re leaving now. Forget all about it.”

  “But he’s so young. What is he, three?”

  “I’m five,” Tad spoke up, standing straight for the first time. “You hit my brother. I don’t like you.”

  Felton did not know whether to clout or to hug him in response.

  Hafwen, ignoring Tad, looking accusingly at Felton again. “You took a five-year-old all this way into the forest? Are you crazy? What if… what if… how far is evening bell?”

  “We’re leaving,” Felton said again, walking over to Tad and grabbing him by the arm, still not looking Hafwen’s way.

  “Are you sure?” she said, uncertain now. “Father says Wolves are abroad. Get back before dark or they’ll get you both.”

  “Don’t believe in no Wolves,” Felton muttered, marching away, dragging a struggling Tad behind him.

  “And Mother Web lives close by - stay away from her lair,” Hafwen shouted, voice growing more distant. “And beware the Bramble Man.”

  Felton and Tad both froze.

  They looked at each other, both shocked, then together they turned around and marched back towards Hafwen.

  “What did you say?” Felton said, when they got close again.

  Hafwen took a step back, surprised at the urgency in his voice. “Mother Web’s lair is here, they say. They say-”

  Felton waved his hand. “Not about Mother Web. Don’t believe in no Mother Web. The other one?”

  “The Bramble Man?”

  Tad gave a gasp of pleasure.

  “There’s no such thing as the Bramble Man,” Felton growled, uncertain.

  Hafwen, confused, shook her head. “No, no, the stories say-”

  “Can’t be any stories,” Tad interrupted, grinning at her now. “The Bramble Man’s mine. I made him up.”

  Hafwen stood, mouth open, speechless.

  “Did you tell any of the Meldrum kids about him on Fastern’s Eve, Tad?” Felton asked, still eyeing Hafwen suspiciously.

  “What?”

  “The Meldrum kids. Did you tell them about your Bramble Man?”

  “‘Course I did, Felton. It’s my best story.”

  Felton rolled his eyes. “Nothing but a kids’ story, that Bramble Man,” he said to Hafwen, in a tone that suggested she should have known better. “Probably half the stories of the forest are just as pointless. Come on, Tad, let’s get out of here.”

  “Beware the Bramble Man, they say,

  His roots run deep, his hunger too,

  When earth turns foul, and thorns weep red,

  He’ll run his roots deep in you too.”

  The wind changed, blowing cold from across the river. The boys stood, transfixed, staring at Hafwen long after she completed her rhyme.

  “Where’d you hear that?” Felton asked eventually, still suspicious.

  She shrugged. “Been running through the village all summer. Everyone knows it, now.”

  “You make that up too, Tad?”

  Tad, his mouth hanging open, shook his head. “It’s a good one though, right? Even got the thorns in it. My Bramble Man has red thorns. Thought it’d be scarier if they were red.”

  Felton shook his head, dismissing the moment. “Still just a stupid kids’ story.” He turned his back on Hafwen, and began the long journey home. “Go back to your village and tell them to stop wasting their time with kids’ stories,” he shouted.

  “Oh yeah?” Hafwen yelled back, her confidence returning. “You just don’t forget about that Heartwood tree. Get rid of it. You had no right putting my name on it.” She paused, waiting for a retort.

  Felton did not give her the pleasure, instead continued to walk away.

  “No goatherder has the right to carve my name on Heartwood.”

  Tad was too far away to see the tear fall from Felton’s eye at the final insult, but knew it would sting. He picked up his pace, running after his brother, not paying any attention to the crunch underfoot when he trod on the wing of a glass magpie, grinding it into pieces.

  “We’re almost home, right?” Tad asked, struggling to kee
p up with his brother, all too aware of the fading daylight.

  For the last few hours, Felton had been silent, and continued to be unresponsive. His mind was too full of Hafwen, the daydreams he had wasted on her, and the future he had fantasised about for so long, now thrown to the wind.

  “It’s just,” Tad continued, “I don’t remember coming this way, and evening bell can’t be too long from ringing. We’re nearly home, right?”

  “Don’t worry, Tad,” Felton responded, finally, emotionless, not looking at his brother. “The Magpie King protects us, remember?”

  Tad looked at the unfamiliar trees about him, then continued to jog behind his brother.

  “Yeah,” Tad muttered, “but I think he’d protect us better if we were locked up safe in our cellars.”

  Finally, Felton stopped. He had reached his destination. Before him stood the Heartwood tree he had carved Hafwen’s name into, entwined with his own. He laughed darkly when he saw the carving, how much it had changed in the months since he had made it. The bark around the engraving had begun to fester and rot, turning the smooth white canvas black, spreading out from their names like a tumour. The tree was dying.

  “Should’ve known,” he muttered, pulling his knife from his belt and beginning to hack at the names, erasing his dream from the forest.

  Tad’s eyes widened when he realised what was happening.

  “We’re not at home? Felton, what’re we doing here? Let’s go, it’ll be dark soon.”

  Felton continued to maul the tree, doing what he could to remove his own words. When he saw the letters that made up Hafwen’s name, he saw the image of the young girl smiling at him in the cellar in the candlelight, and used his blade to sever her from his memory. “Thought this is what people did to make their dreams come true,” he explained, continuing to brutalise the dying tree. “This is what da did when he fell for ma, and it worked out for them. Stupid bloody Heartwood.” He had spent weeks driving his herd further and further from their village, just so he could find an unblemished Heartwood tree to carve his future onto.