by Liam Reese
Prophecy Of The Sun
Prequel
Liam Reese
Terry Guinne
Age Of Oryn
Prequel
Every child knows not to step into the fairy circles that appear on the outskirts of the village at the forest’s edge, or in the fields where the cows and sheep are taken in. The more daring children like to test the limits, stepping up to the very edge of the circles, tapping at a mushroom or flower with their toe before rushing back to the giggling bunch of young ones behind them. The more cautious children watch their braver friends with wide eyes and baited breaths. They dare not even step near the strange circles that interrupt the endless fields of green that surround most of the village. These children do not even look at the circles that appear near the forest edge. One child, however, neither avoided nor tiptoed around the edge of a circle of flowers that had appeared that morning. One sunny day, she skipped directly into the circle, ignoring her friends’ wide eyes and half-strangled cries of disbelief and warning.
Ayne, sister of Croenin, stepped into the circle, looking back at her friends and brother with an almost knowing smirk, and twirled in the center of the yellow and white flowers, as if dancing to music no one could hear. For a moment that seemed like an eternity, Croenin and their friends watched, waiting for his sister to disappear, to be taken as the stories told. He waited for the flash, or perhaps puff of smoke, or even for them to appear and grab her by the arms and take her into the Unknown. Yet, none of this happened. Ayne smiled brightly and skipped back to where her friends waited, faces pale and a few silently crying in fear.
Croenin did not leave his sister’s side for the rest of that afternoon, still waiting for her to be taken. She had, after all, done the unthinkable, breaking the boundary his parents had warned him about just as their parents had done for them. Even fools and drunks knew not to step into the circles that appeared overnight. While the Sidhe had been banished from the realm, their kingdoms ransacked and burned, some still lurked, continuing to fight a losing battle spanning centuries, to steal away those unaware of their trickery. What happened to those taken, no one could say, but it was assumed they were tortured for information on the human world or used as playthings before being discarded by their capricious captors.
Much to his sister’s dismay, Croenin told their mother what his sister had done as soon as they entered their cottage that night. He knew something was wrong when his mother did not yell, as she had yelled at him many times for his various mischiefs. He looked back and forth between his mother’s pale face and Ayne’s disinterested one, waiting for something to happen. Instead, his mother quietly told him to never speak of the incident again and went back to stirring the large pot over the fireplace that held their dinner. Ayne began to busy herself around the small cottage, picking up bits and pieces left over from their mother’s sewing and the small wooden toys their father had carved for them. Soon, she and Croenin moved to the dinner table, waiting for their father to arrive home so that they could eat. His mother put them to bed as she always did, and bade them goodnight before returning to the bed she shared with their father. Much to Croenin’s confusion, that evening was much like every other evening, the only difference being the stern looks his mother gave him to ensure he said nothing about Ayne’s disobedience.
Then, it happened. Croenin felt someone shaking him awake, and was shocked to see through the small window in the room he shared with Ayne that the moon was high in the sky. Panicked, his gaze followed the hand that had grasped him up along a pale, doughy arm to find his mother’s face staring down at him grimly.
“Get up,” she whispered, “and do not say a word.” She beckoned for Croenin to follow her, and he did, glancing back at Ayne’s sleeping form before leaving the room. He followed his mother’s squat, cloaked form out of the cottage silently, bare feet making no noise on the dirt floor. He shivered slightly as they walked along the main path of the village, past sleeping homes and drowsing animals made visible by the bright moonlight. They passed the old well in the village center, its pulley creaking slightly in the night breeze, lending an eerie character to this evening walk. Croenin stopped for a second to run a hand along its cold stones, trying to ground himself in a moment that felt like a dream. He continued to follow his mother as she headed toward a dead end, walking toward a section of the stone wall that surrounded the village. He watched as she hiked up her long skirts and slid quietly over the wall, as he struggled to do the same. Suddenly, he felt her strong hands grab his own, and she pulled him over the other side.
They walked toward the forest, and Croenin’s fear grew. Wolves lurked behind the towering trees, and he could almost feel them watching, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce and devour him. If he strained, he could hear them howling in the distance. Yet, his mother continued on as if there were no danger, padding softly into the trees, back held straight and head erect. Despite her worn clothes, she looked almost regal as she slowly made her way to an unknown location. Her grey eyes and pale round face reminded Croenin of the story his father had told him of the Lunar Queen who would appear in random villages every full moon, descending from the skies to sing a song so beautiful that all who were awake cried at the sound. His father always called their mother his Lunar Queen, yet Croenin had never heard her sing, not even a lullaby.
Croenin, having stopped in fear at the forest’s edge, scampered to keep up with her, knowing it was better to follow than be left alone on the other side of the wall at night. He did not know how long they walked, until they came to a small clearing where the moon shone through the trees, illuminating the forest floor. His mother stopped at the edge of the clearing and took him by the arm, kneeling down so they would be eye to eye.
“Now, my darling,” she said, her large grey eyes meeting his blue, “I need for you to trust me. Do you trust me?”
Croenin nodded, swallowing thickly. He glanced away from her eyes and into the clearing, his heart almost stopping when he saw the circle of white mushrooms contrasting sharply with the dark brown of the forest floor. He began to shake and could feel tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He knew what his mother wanted him to do, but he was not his sister. He was not daring or brave. He was a coward. Everyone knew this. Even though Croenin was older, his sister protected him much more than he did her, fighting those who dared make fun of his fearfulness to his face. The only thing he could do was shake and cry.
As if she knew what his racing thoughts were telling him, his mother hugged him tightly, whispering to him that he had nothing to worry about and asking him to be brave for her before gently pushing him toward the circle. Croenin looked back at his mother, and she nodded encouragingly. Croenin took a few steps toward the circle before running back to his mother and burying his head in her shoulder, gripping her dress tightly and begging her not to make him walk into the circle. He raised his tear-stained face to look at hers and was shocked and frightened to see the grim expression that greeted him. His mother stood, gathering him in her arms, and began walking toward the circle.
Croenin squirmed and tried to wriggle free, but his mother’s grip was too strong. He screamed and begged her to release him, but her face remained a stony mask, her eyes fixed on the white caps of the mushrooms at the center of the clearing. She stopped at the edge, staring into the center of the circle before all but tossing him into it. Croenin, frozen in terror, could do nothing but lie in a heap and stare at his mother’s feet. He shook, staring at those bare feet, browned with sun and dirt, gasping for air as he waited to be taken away by the Sidhe. But, just as his sister emerged from the fairy ring unscathed, so did he.
“Get up.” his mother’
s voice sounded as if it was coming from far away. She was staring at him, face expressionless, grey eyes shining almost silver in the moonlight, as Croenin lay gasping for air. “I said get up.”
As if a spell over him had been broken, Croenin was finally able to move. He sprang to his feet, rushing toward his mother, but instead of embracing him as he hoped, she turned sharply and began walking out of the forest. Dumbfounded, he followed her, rushing to catch up with her brisk steps. He wanted to ask what had happened, why nothing came to take him away, how she knew where a fairy circle would be, why she wouldn’t look at him, but he knew that now was not the time. His mother had seemed a serene queen walking to greet her subjects as they entered the forest. Now, she seemed a hardened old woman staring death in the face.
They made their way back into the cottage as silently as they left it, Croenin returning to his bed and his mother to hers. She still did not speak to him. She did not even look at him. He knew something important had just happened, but he knew it was not his place to ask what. He slipped back into bed, glancing at his sister sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware that something was very wrong. He lay on his back, thoughts racing as he tried to make sense of such a strange day. Yet, despite his anxiety, exhaustion took over, and he fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning, he jolted awake, sitting up abruptly just as his mother entered the room.
“I was just about to wake you,” she said, smiling. “You seemed absolutely exhausted so I let you sleep in.” She came in slowly, holding a bowl of porridge, and walked over to her son, running a hand over his sleep ruffled hair. She seemed so different than the silent, severe figure that had thrown him in the fairy circle the night before. She placed the bowl on his lap and continued running her fingers through his hair before giving him a light kiss on the forehead and walking to the door. She turned and smiled softly. “When you finish eating, I have an errand for you and your sister,” She said before leaving the room.
Croenin gobbled down the porridge, not realizing how hungry he was until he took the first bite. He leapt out of bed once finished and threw on a pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, not bothering to tame his unruly blonde curls, before rushing to find his mother. She was in the garden behind their cottage, tending to her herbs when she heard him approach.
“Ah, you’ve finished so quickly,” She stood, brushing dirt from her long skirt, and took him by the hand, leading him back into the cottage where his sister was just entering from the front, holding a basket of eggs.
“These are from Lirac’s daughter-in-law,” she mumbled, placing the basket on the table. Croenin frowned. She seemed a bit out of it, grey eyes unfocused and brow furrowed as she brushed a silvery curl from her forehead.
“Thank you, Ayne,” their mother said, seeming not to notice her daughter’s strange behavior. She waited until Ayne drew closer to continue speaking. “Now, I need both of you to take something to Old Haega for me.” She drew a small bundle from the pocket of her skirts. “She’s been asking me to give her some cuttings from my herbs for some time, and I just kept forgetting. Can you do this for me?” Croenin let out a breath he had not realized he was holding before nodding. His mother’s strange behavior the night before had made him worry the errand would be something strange and terrifying.
While eccentric, Old Haega was not the least bit frightening. Never married, the old woman lived on the other side of the village in a hut a bit smaller than the others, but cozy all the same. She was always tending to sick children, serving as a midwife at births, and dispensing knowledge as her mother had before her. While other villages might have burned her as a witch long ago, Croenin’s village knew it could not survive without her. Old Haega served as doctor, historian, and almanac for all who lived there, and there was not a child alive at that time who had not been brought into the world with the help of her old, gnarled hands.
Croenin and Ayne loved visiting her, just as many of the other children did, because Old Haega always had something sweet to give the children who passed by her cottage. She also told them stories of how the world was when her grandmother was a young girl, when the Sidhe ran wild and man lived in fear, long before the Age of Oryn. The two siblings raced along the main path of the village, Ayne babbling about what sweets Old Haega would give them while Croenin hung back a bit, fingering the bundle of herbs and wondering if he should tell the old woman about what his mother had done to him the night before. She knew everything there was to know, and would probably be able to tell him why his mother was acting so strangely.
They arrived quickly at the small, lopsided cottage, and before Ayne could knock, the door opened. Expecting to see Old Haega smiling on the other side, Croenin and Ayne rushed in, only to be greeted with near darkness and two figures standing on the far side of the cottage. The door slammed shut behind them, causing Croenin and Ayne to jump. Almost simultaneously, the fireplace behind the figures roared to life, and the two siblings stared in confusion at the two women before them.
Old Haega and their mother stood side by side, faces severe. Old Haega’s unruly grey hair had been pulled up into a severe bun that made her small black eyes seem even harsher. Their mother looked much as she had when they left the house, long blonde hair, the same golden blonde as Croenin’s, in a single braid that fell to her waist. Yet, that same grim expression Croenin had seen on her face the night before marked her round face, making her seem almost like a stranger.
Upon seeing the children’s terrified faces, Old Haega’s expression softened, and she beckoned them closer. When Ayne and Croenin remained standing in front of the cottage door, she began to walk toward them, her old body still erect and strong. In only a few strides she was across the room, and she took each by the hand and led them to where their mother was standing in front of the fire. Old Haega motioned for them to sit, and they did, cheeks growing rosy from the heat of the fireplace behind them. Ayne played with a strand of her silvery, blonde curls, looking back and forth between their mother and Old Haega, while Croenin sat as if he were frozen in ice.
Neither of the women spoke for a few seconds, exchanging tense looks as if urging the other to speak or move. It was their mother who moved first, sighing deeply and looking at her children with tears welling in her eyes. She knelt down in front of them, grabbing them tightly in her arms. The children were confused, and Croenin looked to Old Haega for any hint of what was happening. The old woman merely stared, her face set in that severe look that had greeted him and his sister when they arrived at the cottage. Croenin tried to crane his neck to look at Ayne, but his mother’s head was in the way. He watched Old Haega walk over to his mother and place a hand on her shoulder.
“It is time,” he heard Old Haega say, and his mother stood, letting go of her children. She walked briskly toward the door before glancing back tearfully at Ayne and Croenin. Unable to help herself, their mother rushed back to them, gathering them into her arms before breaking down into sobs.
“I can’t,” she wailed. “I can’t let them go!” She gripped her children tighter, and Ayne and Croenin struggled to breathe, head squashed against his mother’s chest. Ayne began squirming in her arms, struggling to get away in panic and demanding to know what was happening. Croenin started crying along with his mother, confused and terrified. Old Haega watched the scene before her, hating what she had to do, and decided to let the family have a few more minutes. She walked over to them, running a hand over Ayne’s and Croenin’s hair and offering her a comforting smile. She drew back slightly, placing both hands on their mother’s shoulders, gently pulling her to a standing position. The children remained seated on the floor near the fireplace, staring up at the two women in fear.
“You must go,” they heard Old Haega quietly tell their mother, and Croenin and his sister watched as the women walked to the door, Old Haega embracing their mother before gently pushing her out of the door. They could hear their mother’s muffled sobs fading as she walked back to their own cottage.
The old woman turned back to face the children with a small smile, walking to take a thick, leather-bound book from the shelf near the fireplace before sitting in the chair to their right. Croenin began to whimper, but Ayne stared silently and resolutely at the woman who until now had been a trusted figure in their lives. Old Haega took her time, opening the heavy cover of the book, licking a gnarled finger, and slowly flipping one page at a time. Croenin looked back and forth between his sister’s blank face and the old woman’s unreadable one, tears still sitting at the corners of his eyes. Ayne followed the flipping motion of the pages with her large grey eyes, as if trying to decipher what the book could hold. Neither she nor her brother were literate, yet, as Croenin looked at her, she seemed to change. Her eyes, though remaining grey, took on the same knowing glint as Old Haega’s. She stood slowly, walking over to the fireplace and placing her hands near the flames, never letting her eyes leave the mysterious old book.
“What are you looking for?” she asked as if this were any other visit to Old Haega’s cottage. Croenin couldn’t believe his sister’s nonchalance. She seemed to have forgotten their mother’s breakdown only a few moments before as she warmed her hands and stared at the old woman. The small girl shook her wild, silver curls before repeating her question. At that point Old Haega looked up, smiling grimly.
“I am sure you already know, my young one,” the old woman responded, continuing to flip the pages of the book.
Ayne merely nodded, as if taking in some unspoken knowledge. She walked back and gracefully dropped down to sit by her brother’s side, reaching out a hand for him to hold. Croenin grasped his sister’s hand tightly, holding onto it as if it were his last hope. There was something important happening that both Ayne and Old Haega seemed to know and he didn’t, and that worried him. He wondered if it had to do with the fairy rings. Perhaps the Sidhe did not immediately take those who stepped into the mysterious circles. Perhaps they were taken later, scooped up in the dead of night so no one would see them. Perhaps Old Haega would be the one to hand them over.