Firestone Key

by Caroline Noe

  As swiftly as the chaos had arrived, it was gone, leaving an unnerving silence in its wake. Three pairs of eyes rose into view, cautiously peering over the edge of the hole. A particular pile of dirt appeared to be moving. Bert jumped out of the hole and waved his sword in the direction of the shifting earth.

  “Be coming out, spy!” he yelled, pushing the climbing Morden back into the hole for safety. This action was quite unnecessary; the older man was more than capable of defending himself.

  The pile of dirt began to shudder and slide, as though the mound was trembling in fear. Without warning, a muddy blond head broke the surface, followed by a pair of tear-laden, bright blue eyes. As the earth fell away from the woman - for woman it was - she coughed and spluttered. A single tear cleared a streaky path down her cheek. When her gaze fell on the sword, she let out a shriek and scrambled backwards, only to land in more mud.

  “Be ye greening?” asked Morden, sidling around his aggressive friend. He crouched beside the quivering wreck and gently touched her shoulder. She promptly began to howl with grief. “SSShhh, Morden be here,” he said, wrapping an arm around her and rocking her back and forth.

  “What ye doing?” Bert asked, incredulity making his voice ascend an octave. “She be spy.”

  “Be looking like spy?” Morden returned.

  Bert had to admit that the trespasser appeared miserable, lost and afraid, quite unlike the usual brand of sneak the tribes kept trying to infiltrate amongst them; however, she could be acting.

  “What she doing in muddly heap? And what she wearing?” he asked, noticing the little black dress that had attended the woman’s engagement, in another time.

  “What ye doing in there?” Morden asked her, ignoring the clothing issue in favour of the more important consideration.

  “Not a spy don’t know where I am came through helix dropped me in here my brother’s dead Project blew up Elaine left me and Cal’s gone.”

  The unintelligible stream of woe ended with a terrible wail.

  “Taking her inside to Anne,” Morden informed his friend. “Be telling Gawain we have guest.”

  “Ye be carely,” Bert warned him. “Nought good in this. Ye listening?”

  “Aye, Bert,” Morden agreed, somewhat off-handedly, as he helped the trembling woman to her feet and gently guided her towards the castle’s living quarters. “I be Morden,” he told her. “What be yer name?”

  “Leila,” was her whispered response.

  * * *

  Gawain was exactly as he appeared. Just shy of average height, stocky, muscular and battle-scarred, his entire demeanour bespoke the endless years of conflict and responsibility heaped on him from his youth. Raised by a warrior father to succeed to leadership in a time of extreme peril, Gawain had never been allowed, or desired, the luxury of frivolity. He had rigorously applied himself to the study of military tactics and excelled in the art of staying alive. Unfailingly loyal and consumed by the ideal of justice, he had never experienced a single moment of peace in forty years. Romantic love had long ago been consigned to the ever expanding list of things for which there was not time. The love for, and of, his people was all that he could reasonably expect from life.

  Moving slowly through the forest, hunting for their next meal, Gawain’s men spied a swift flash of possible prey and readied bow and arrow.

  “Hold!” Gawain ordered. His men stared at him, confused. “Thinking best not putting arrow in arnus of young Melith.”

  “Oh, no,” groaned a youthful voice from the midst of guffawing men. “Melith, ye there?”

  A rather podgy, little red headed girl of thirteen sidled out of the forest, her face scarlet with shame. The owner of the voice was almost apoplectic with rage.

  “I telled ye not follow me.” he bellowed. “Why ye not leave me lone?”

  Melith’s plump bottom lip began to tremble as tears filled her eyes.

  “Asher, b’not so hard,” one of his colleagues told the young man in a mock tone of sympathy. “She be in love with ye.”

  “Shut up!” a furious Asher yelled at him, before turning on Melith. “Go away. Never want see ye, ever.”

  Poor exposed little Melith burst into tears and fled through the trees, leaving Gawain to gaze at Asher with reproof.

  “That not nicely,” he scolded. “She caring for ye, and only little.”

  “Not that little,” quipped one of the archers, receiving another look from Gawain.

  “Busy yeselves hunting,” he told them and then lowered his voice, so that the others could not overhear. “Asher, one day ye may be of goodly cheer that she love ye. Remember what I say.”

  Asher didn’t reply. He was fifteen and could not envisage any circumstance in which Melith could come to mean more to him than the respect of his peers. To him, all that mattered was to be accepted as one of Gawain’s men, besides, when he did have a spare moment, which wasn’t often, his sexual tastes ran to older and more svelte feminine specimens, not a besotted, overweight orphan.

  The arrival of a ruffled warrior broke his train of thought. Bert was Asher’s hero, though he worked hard to cover that fact from his colleagues.

  Bert smiled his response to the young man’s attempt at an offhand, manly nod and whispered his news to a concerned Gawain.

  “Carry on hunting,” Gawain told his men. “I must return to castle.”

  Asher watched the two men leave, but knew better than to speculate on what had prompted this exit. No doubt Gawain knew best, as always. Asher shouldered his bow and turned his attention to the hunt, or he wouldn’t be eating tonight.

  * * *

  Despite the astounding turn of events and her amazing arrival in the past, Leila’s mind was fixated on Elaine, remembering the look on her former friend’s face as she perpetrated her betrayal. The heat of anger helped to dry the abundant flow of tears and brought her to her senses. Even so, Morden was unable to elicit any information from her. Not that he was given much of an opportunity to conduct a proper interview.

  Immediately on arrival at his rooms in the castle, escorting the distraught, bedraggled woman, his beautiful, if rather pale and ethereal wife, Anne, whisked her away to be scrubbed clean in a metal bathtub and neatly dressed in warmer clothing. Morden was left to pace the floor with concern. No comment had yet been made on the nature of the mud smeared discarded dress. Anne was more concerned with the poor wretch’s physical and mental state.

  The refugee returned an hour later and was being led over to the roaring fire to dry her soaking wet hair when the door banged open, making her jump with fright.

  “There now,” soothed Anne, comforting the nervous stranger. A tearful teenager blasted into the room and wobbled past in a tearing hurry. “Melith? What be matterly, childlin?”

  “Be hating him,” the girl announced, the fire of rage burning in her eyes.

  Still thinking of Elaine, Leila muttered, “I know just how you feel.”

  The comment surprised Morden and his wife. Their charge had been silent since her arrival in their quarters.

  “What Asher do now?” Anne asked, sitting Leila on a cushion and gesturing for the girl to join them.

  Melith hesitated, shuffled on the spot and then decided that pouring out her woes to Anne was better than crying into her pillow. She flung herself down beside them with a ‘plop’.

  “Why he so mean to me?” Melith whimpered, wide eyed with innocent hero worship.

  “He telled ye not to follow him, girl. He be...” Morden’s words died in his throat at the look Anne gave him.

  Melith burst into theatrical tears and flung herself into Anne’s arms.

  “Oh, pilt,” moaned Morden. So much for finding out who this Leila be and what she doing here. Where be Gawain when ye need him?

  “Morden! Yer tongue,” his wife scolded, turning her attention back to the wailing Melith. “Melith, dear,” she said, deciding to divert the child’s passion to a more useful target. “This be Leila and she fearly. So, must be nicely
to her.”

  Melith was a child of extreme emotions and warmest of hearts. Once told that poor Leila needed caring for, she immediately forgot her own woes. If there was one thing that Melith loved, it was to be needed.

  “I be asking Grain ‘bout getting ye something to eat,” she announced, bouncing to her feet and wiping her tears, and nose, on her sleeve.

  “That be right goodly idea,” offered Morden, enthusiastically. When the girl had left the room, he turned to the newcomer and asked, “So, Leila, what be ye doing here?”

  “I’m not a spy,” whimpered the traumatised woman.

  “Course ye not,” Anne agreed, giving her shoulders a quick squeeze.

  “And I don’t know where this place is,” Leila admitted.

  “Well, how ye get here?” Anne prompted.

  Leila’s internal gaze alighted on the memory of the helix and her brother’s death, making her eyes fill with tears, again.

  Anne sighed and looked pointedly at her husband. “Erm, maybes we not asking more now.”

  “Oh, aye, nicely,” Morden responded, ladling on the sarcasm. “And when Gawain ask me for report, be saying me wife not let me. Ye not her mother, woman.”

  “Not calling me woman,” Anne told him, her eyes narrowing, “unless ye wishing sleep lone ‘til end of days.”

  “Sorry,” squeaked Morden, an exaggerated look of horror on his face.

  Anne couldn’t help herself. He always knew how to make her laugh. Unfortunately, her musical giggles had always been followed by a hacking cough, ever since those terrible days of illness.

  “Anne, be breathing gently now,” said Morden, crouching beside her, concern driving a furrow into his forehead.

  “I be fine. Ye fussly,” she said, forcing the cough to cease by sheer strength of will. The pale lady may have been physically weak, but her spirit was strong.

  “Here I be!” announced Melith, bundling into the room, followed by a sour-faced, middle aged man labouring under the weight of an enormous tray of food. Fruit, vegetables and cold meats were heaped on top of one another, seemingly attempting to escape the boundary of the plate by flinging themselves over the side of the tray.

  “Melith!” Morden exclaimed. “That be nough to fill Gawain’s men, all of ‘em.”

  “Told her so,” mumbled Grain. He had never seemed a happy soul, nor a talkative one, but his few words hid the most loyal, trustworthy and noble manservant that the realm had ever been blessed with. He had been right by the side of Gawain since that leader was born, alternating between the roles of father, mother and tutor. There was no-one that Gawain trusted more, including his closest advisor, Morden.

  “Only right be goodly host,” announced Melith, whipping the tray out from Grain’s grasp so fast that he staggered. She thrust the overflowing tray into Leila’s hands and plopped down beside her. “Be helping ye, if not able eat all.”

  Morden looked to heaven with exasperation. Anne burst into another of her musical laughs, followed by more coughing.

  When Gawain returned to his semi-constructed castle, he found the new guest finishing her impromptu feast and an infuriated friend unable to give him any pertinent information.

  “Not blaming me,” Morden sniffed, after Gawain’s silence spoke volumes. “I tried. Be yer problem now.”

  He didn’t, however, leave the room. Morden would never leave his leader alone in the presence of danger, even if it came in the form of a rather beautiful blond.

  Gawain silently circled the newcomer, trying to get her measure. The blond head remained resolutely tipped forward, her drying hair veiling her face. Eventually he knelt down in front of her, ignoring the hiss of concern expelled through Morden’s lips. Grain shuffled a few steps to one side and surreptitiously availed himself of the empty tray as a possible weapon.

  “So, who be ye and what ye doing in me castle?” asked Gawain.

  “I’ve already told them, I’m not a spy.”

  The voice was soft and sultry, instantly capturing his attention. Her brilliant, china blue eyes slowly rose to meet his hazel ones.

  “Rightly then, who be ye?” he asked, unable to break eye contact.

  “Leila,” she whispered, noticing that his brown irises contained tiny flecks of yellow and green. Surprisingly, for such a stocky, ungraceful man, the black eyelashes curled like a woman’s. “My brother was killed and I’ve travelled a long way,” she told him, finding refuge in partial truth. She was unable, as yet, to trust this man. “I don’t know how I got here. Help me. Please.”

  Gawain was somewhat disoriented by the effect the blond woman was having on him. He had thought himself impervious to this sort of feeling and experiencing it made him nervous. His confusion must have been written on his face, for he noticed Anne staring at him, a knowing expression on hers. Gawain shot to his feet like an uncoiling spring and unnecessarily straightened his leather jacket.

  Somewhat taken aback by his leader’s peculiar reaction, Morden didn’t know whether to laugh or be alarmed. He settled for the latter. His fears only increased when Gawain granted Leila asylum in the castle.

  * * *

  Leila’s decision not to trust her new protector crumbled within two days of her sudden arrival. She had always been impetuous and her reaction to Gawain was no exception. Having come to the obvious conclusion that she had been transported back into the distant past, Leila proceeded to do what Elaine had not; she told Gawain, and only Gawain, everything.

  In the dead of night, unable to sleep, she had left her room, crept down the stone staircase and found him, staring into the fire, responsibility weighing heavily on his troubled soul. He had welcomed her presence, thankful for the diversion of his thoughts from imminent war to her beautiful face. Sitting beside him, tucking her feet beneath her and leaning back into a collection of cushions, Leila soon began to unfold her tragic story, only leaving out the ridiculous episode of the so called Firestone.

  The domain’s warrior leader listened to the outpouring of woe and betrayal with, at first, scepticism, but was soon drawn into the intensity of her narrative. Gawain had spent his entire life veering between measured calmness and open hostility. Leila’s elusive combination of roller coaster emotion, enthusiasm and unstable genius somehow appealed to a man who was her very antithesis. She was able, in one conversation, to force him into experiencing all the emotions he had, thus far, been able to avoid: Elaine’s betrayal awakened his anger; Neil’s death aroused his pity and Caleb’s loss, his jealousy.

  It was, however, the description of the Project that, for the first time, made his eyes narrow with suspicion.

  “What?” Leila asked, noticing his sudden change of expression. “What have I said?”

  “Ye comed here by magik?” Gawain probed, his body tensing.

  “By science,” she countered. “It’s no more magic than…than your bow and arrow, or sword. A long time ago, no-one knew about those. They might have considered the wheel to be magic.”

  “Ye not magiking?” he insisted, grasping her shoulders and leaning close.

  “I wouldn’t know how. There’s no such thing as magic in my time.”

  “Then yer time blessed indeed.” Gawain suddenly realised how intensely he was holding her and relaxed his grip. “We plagued with Magikers from old times. Been sayed that they caused terrible scourge, long ago. They outlawed by me grandfather for bloodly outrage. If me people believe ye be one, may not be able to save ye.”

  “I am not one. I promise.” Leila impetuously took his hand. “Do you believe me?”

  Gawain could barely remember the last touch of a woman.

  “Be so,” he whispered. Glancing away from those piercing blue eyes, he added, “Be helping ye. We look for yer Elaine, but not telling anybone, lest they accusing ye both of magiking. We tell that she yer friend.”

  Leila pulled her hand from his, her face a mask of disgust. “She is not my friend.”

  “Trust me in this,” Gawain insisted.

 
Leila looked back at those warm brown eyes. “I will…I do.”

  * * *

  Despite her delicate state of health, Anne was a devout collector of damaged and distressed souls and soon added Leila to her eclectic flock. Anne hadn’t always been frail. Throughout her robust childhood, she had often been seen haring through the undergrowth or scampering up the nearest tree, to the mortification of her parents. The change came when, on the eve of her twenty-first birthday, she developed a serious case of pneumonia, made worse by her then exhausted state. Only her husband was privy to the full details surrounding that terrible time and he had never related them to anyone, not even Gawain or Bert.

  Through the prayers of her family and friends, and the constant care of a guilt-stricken Morden, Anne recovered from her near fatal illness, but she was never the same. Unable to exert herself physically, she poured her energy into emotional causes, creating a safe haven for the weak and traumatised of the domain. Constant conflict provided her with endless candidates.

  Thus, had little orphan Melith arrived on her spiritual doorstep, having lost her only remaining parent to another of the tribal wars. The child soon attached herself to the equally parentless Asher. When, at the age of twenty-four, Anne married Morden, their unofficial brood of hard luck cases amounted to a staggering total of thirty-two children, ranging from the ages of seven to seventeen. Whilst Morden found it difficult to keep track of them all and remember their names, he was consoled by the fact that his wife was happy caring for them. Due to her weakened condition, they had not dared attempt to have their own children.

  Leila’s arrival in a distressed and traumatised state immediately engaged the sympathies of this mother hen, who promptly took her under her wing. The scientist found herself part of a vast extended family, all boisterously intent on making her feel welcome. Naturally, she tended to find the loving cacophony a trifle overwhelming and, at such times, sought the rather more subdued company of Gawain.