Firestone Key

by Caroline Noe

  True to his word, the stoical leader utilised whatever resources he could spare in a fruitless search for the missing Elaine. As months passed, without so much as a rumour of a sighting, Leila was forced to conclude that her former friend was not present in this age. Elaine had escaped, bearing the fruits of her treachery, into another epoch. Although she had originally worked her charm on Gawain because she wanted to remain in the castle - where she knew Elaine had appeared after the accident - Leila eventually came to consider it, and its resident leader, a temporary home.

  With the Firestone absent from her life, Leila’s characteristic rollercoaster of emotions gradually softened to gentle undulations, although the zany nature of her humour returned in its full glory. To the surprise of all, Gawain’s laughter could be heard ringing through the trees or down castle corridors. Enchanted by her beauty and energy, he was more than happy to have her accompany him on any journey or task, so long as it would not endanger her.

  To the concern of some of his men, late night conversations with the woman began to encompass the state of the domain and its tribal concerns. Although she was undoubtedly peculiar, Leila had always been blessed with the most scientific of minds and was a master at breaking down a problem into solvable parts. Having listened to the situation, she simply applied logic to it.

  “Form a truce or alliance with each tribe separately,” she cheerfully advised. “Pick the most powerful or the most reasonable first.”

  To Morden’s consternation, Gawain had set out to do that very thing. Not that Morden had anything against attempting to negotiate for peace, even if that course of action was open to betrayal and treachery. The people had suffered much in recent years and any respite from conflict would be welcomed. In truth, it was not Leila’s advice that bothered the man, so much as her presence. Something in her gaze reminded him of himself and it sent a chill through his soul.

  * * *

  Even at the tender age of five, Serena was used to being stared at. Blessed or, perhaps, cursed with exquisite beauty, she attracted admiring glances wherever she went. Her bullish father, Styrx, had, for most of her life, kept her hidden from the slavering gaze of the other tribal leaders. Then, one day, it dawned on him that the clamouring for her hand in future marriage actually strengthened his own power base. With no living mother to protect her, Serena became an unwitting pawn in the ruinous game of warfare.

  She was currently sitting within a large tent, pitched in the middle of nowhere, in open ground between two shifting tribal boundaries. Outside, nervous warriors from both sides glared at each other and twitched. Having learnt not to speak without permission or sigh too loudly, for fear of punishment, Serena patiently listened to the endless negotiations between her father and Gawain. They were attempting to form an alliance - that much she understood - but her interest was centred on the beautiful woman who sat behind the stocky, battle-scarred man.

  The stranger was old, at least to the eyes of a child, but was also captivating, with hair almost the same colour as her own. There the similarity ended, for Serena sat with a neutral expression, whilst the woman clearly found the bargaining irritating.

  “Psssst.”

  Serena heard the sound, but serenely chose to ignore it.

  “Hello,” the whispered voice insisted. “Ye like apple?”

  A dirty hand inserted itself between the folds of the tent, waving a slice of fruit. Serena looked at the fingers, whose dirt was smearing itself onto the gift. Glancing at her father, she was relieved to see that the intrusion was unnoticed.

  “No, thank ye,” she whispered politely, not turning around.

  “Juice?”

  A wooden cup appeared next, after a momentary delay.

  “No, thank ye,” she repeated, but curiosity as to the owner of the hand was beginning to get the better of her.

  “Flower?”

  The hand reappeared, sporting a daisy. Serena’s tinkling laugh was like the sound of the wind chimes that had hung above her cradle.

  “Aye, thank ye,” she told the owner, receiving his tiny gift. “Who be ye?”

  A little black nose poked through the gap in the material, followed by a pair of dark eyes. The hair above them was black, filthy and horribly tangled. If she had thought his hand grimy, it bore no relation to the state of his face.

  “Drevel,” he whispered, holding out his hand.

  Serena felt obliged to shake it, for she had been raised to adhere to protocol. Concern for the boy’s feelings prevented her from wiping it afterwards; a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by the lad.

  “I be five,” she told him, for no discernible reason.

  “Goodly for ye,” Drevel replied, unleashing one of his wonderful toothless grins. “Ten, me.”

  Serena laughed again. Unfortunately, this time she attracted the attention of her father.

  “What ye doing?” he bellowed at the boy. “Get away from me girl!”

  Drevel swiftly extricated his head from the tent and scarpered, closely pursued by a warrior. Serena was sorry to see him go.

  * * *

  Although far from carefree, for the first time in his life Gawain saw the bright glimmer of hope appearing on a formerly grey horizon. Three tribal leaders had already entered into a pact of mutual support and protection and there was the distinct possibility of more to follow. Thus, with a certain lightness evident in his step, Gawain’s thoughts tentatively turned to the subject of romance.

  Unfortunately, his experience in such matters amounted to nil, so he sought the counsel of his closest friends. When a thoroughly embarrassed Grain proved of little help and no verbiage, he moved on to Morden. After one particularly excruciating conversation, Morden decided to delegate the training of his leader in the art of being charming to Anne. With her nomination as designated tutor, he quickly abandoned his shuffling, nervous pupil to her care.

  “Erm, well, what ye talking ‘bout, when ye with her?” she asked her flustered charge.

  “War, tribal pacts, hunting…” he replied, his voice fading away. “Oh, and Elaine.”

  “Her lost friend?”

  “Aye.”

  “And...?” Anne prompted.

  “And, what?” he replied, testily, sensing what was to come.

  “That it? That be all ye saying to her?” Anne swallowed hard. This was going to be even more difficult than she had imagined. “What things ye thinking she might like to hear,” she asked, a slight cough punctuating her question, “…from lover?”

  That word made Gawain blush a shade of scarlet. “Not knowing. That why I be here.”

  “Rightly, ye be,” Anne muttered, racking her brain. “Well, start with how beautily she be. Lovely eyes, hair. Her figure be…”

  “Slowly,” Gawain pleaded, furiously scribbling on parchment, leaving blots of ink on his fingers and the floor.

  Anne sighed. This was going to be a very long afternoon.

  * * *

  Leila was no innocent. As soon as Gawain launched into his halting speech on the “wonderly colour of fallen leaf” she guessed what had been happening; Anne’s turn of phrase was too evident. Granted, Gawain hadn’t the charm or charisma of Caleb, nor his good looks, but this man was trying his hardest to be romantic and, whilst the embarrassment was toe-curling, it was, in an odd sort of way, also rather endearing. True, Gawain didn’t engender passion within her, but then, Caleb had never really been much of a friend. Conveniently postponing any decision, Leila enjoyed the novelty of Gawain’s friendship and weathered the feeble attempts at romance.

  It was almost a year after her unorthodox arrival when she first met Gergan. Quite by chance, an afternoon stroll in the autumn sunshine had taken her along the banks of the river. There, bathing in the cool waters, was the most attractive man she had ever seen. Approaching thirty, Gergan was at the peak of physical beauty, with every muscle meticulously toned. As he gracefully rose from the river, a shock of red hair left water to run in rivulets over his naked body. The younger man
saw a woman staring at him and, far from covering himself, he posed before her in all his glory, enjoying the reaction his physique evoked.

  “So, who might you be?” Leila asked, provocatively running her fingers through her long, blond hair. “I haven’t seen you before. I’m sure I would have noticed.”

  “What wrong with yer talking?” he asked, walking towards her. He was still making no attempt to retrieve his clothes.

  “I’m not from here,” she told him.

  He came to a halt, directly in front of her, dripping water onto her toes.

  “Nor be I, yet talking be same.”

  “Ah, but I’m…unique.”

  “To be sure,” he commented and held out his damp hand. “I be Gergan.”

  “Leila,” she replied, feeling the heat from his grasp begin to spread throughout her body. As her hormones roared into life, all thoughts of poor drab Gawain, or even the love of her life, Caleb, were temporarily banished.

  * * *

  Leila’s fascination with Gergan turned out to be short lived. For a while, their secret passion was enough, but infatuation quickly cooled after she discovered that he was an unmitigated bore. He effectively had two topics of conversation: himself and his obsession. The first was only of interest to himself and was soon ignored. The second, however, was a different matter entirely, for Gergan was a practitioner of an art that was hated, feared and banned: he was an underground magiker. Having revealed this dangerous fact to Leila, in an attempt to ascertain whether, as he hoped, she hailed from the Darklands, he was disappointed to learn that she had no knowledge of magiking at all. By this time, Leila had moved from curiosity, through fascination, to arrive at obsession.

  As with most addictions, matters began innocently enough. One morning, following the dizzy heights of the previous night’s sated lust, Leila had awoken to find herself alone on his fur-covered bed. Upon going in search of her lover, she found the cottage empty. Wandering out into the surrounding forest, she decided to check inside a nearby shed, as there were no other buildings to search. Gergan guarded his privacy and had built his domicile in a remote area – all the better to carry on a clandestine affair.

  As Leila approached the dilapidated shed, she could hear strange incantations coming from inside. Flinging open the wooden door, she found Gergan leaning over a bubbling iron caldron, a wooden ladle in his hand. His actions, accompanied by the look of horror on his face, so reminded her of the witches in Shakespeare’s Macbeth, that she burst into hysterical laughter. The maniacal sound, though appropriate to the underhand proceedings, frightened Gergan more than the possibility of being discovered. From that moment, his ardour also began to cool.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Leila asked, her question being ironically appropriate.

  “Nought,” he replied, his nervous body language giving the lie to his words. “Cooking something…Herbs!”

  “No, you’re not,” Leila stated. She never could abide people lying to her. “Show me.”

  She reached his side and, before he could prevent her, began poking about in the thick, green sludge with a ladle.

  “What is that?” she inquired, as the ladle scooped up three grey pebbles and, what appeared to be, some sort of bird’s foot. “There’s no way you’d be eating this.”

  “Hush!” Gergan hissed. “Will be overheared.”

  Gergan snatched the ladle from her hand and deposited the contents back into the caldron. Scampering to the door, he peeped outside, but could see no-one in the vicinity. Emitting a huge sigh of relief, he quietly closed the door.

  “There’s no one for miles. Why are you so concerned that someone…?” Leila’s question faded away as the answer occurred to her. “You’re a…what did Gawain call it?...a magiker, aren’t you?”

  “SShhhh,” Gergan urged. “Just using that word bring dying upon me, and ye.”

  “Me?” Leila exclaimed. “What have I done?”

  “Ye be with me,” Gergan explained. “This realm, that be nough.”

  “Oh, well, if I’m already tainted, you’d better show me what you’re up to,” Leila said, merrily, not perceiving the seriousness of the situation. Neither could she conceive of the terrible consequences that would follow her blasé dismissal of magical power. She was a scientist and, to her mind, magic didn’t exist. On that point, both she and Elaine were once in agreement.

  Leila watched and laughed throughout that morning. She guffawed the following day and all through the first week. During the second week, her mirth became intermittent. By the third, laughter had fled and their passion for each other along with it. Fascinated, she watched as he healed small wounds and illnesses with the blood of sacrificed animals and the recitation of strange words. Then, one dark night, she participated in the conjuring herself. The extraordinary rush of adrenaline-fuelled power was too much to resist. She became hooked; a magik junky hankering after her daily fix. Weeks passed as the conspirators worked towards the goal of the magiker: the metamorphosis of human into animal life and, the pinnacle of success, the creation of new life.

  As Leila’s addiction took hold of her soul, those around her noticed the change in her character. Always zany, their friend’s demeanour took on a maniacal element, whilst her wonderful sense of humour seemed to be disappearing. Unaware of her trysts with Gergan, they saw her spending more and more time alone and became concerned for her welfare.

  When Gawain confided that Leila’s ‘friendship’ with him was waning, a worried Morden passed on his fears to his wife. Anne tried to discuss the matter with Leila, but found it difficult to track her down. Having received word from young Drevel that her elusive friend had passed close by him in the forest, Anne searched that location. Leila and Gergan had long since ceased to be lovers, but when Anne saw them together, returning from his humble home, she jumped to the obvious conclusion. Late that night, she gently confronted Leila with her suspicions.

  Terrified at how close to discovery the pair had come, Leila did what most addicts do well: she lied, to cover her tracks.

  “I was walking in the forest, alone,” she explained, “and I was frightened by a noise in the trees. The man you saw me with? He heard me cry out and came to help me. He was escorting me back to the castle, making sure I was safe.”

  The lie was convincingly delivered and was what Anne wanted to hear, so she chose to believe it. There still remained, however, the matter of her friend’s recent behaviour.

  “I’ve been feeling the loss of my own home,” Leila lied. She had scarcely recalled the Project for months. “I needed to be alone for a while.”

  “And Gawain?” Anne prompted, hoping, for the sake of the love-sick man, that the answer would be favourable.

  “He’s too good for me,” Leila replied, allowing her tears to flow.

  “Gawain loving ye and only ye,” Anne soothed, her worries duly placated.

  Leila smiled through her tears, but the smile was false.

  * * *

  That night, Anne related her news to her husband as they lay in bed. Early the next morning, Morden duly passed it on to Gawain. By the time Leila awoke from her own fitful slumber, events had already moved beyond her control.

  Afraid that she was being watched, Leila resolved to avoid Gergan. She didn’t need him anyway, for her magiking skills were already equal to his. In order to proceed further, she needed to obtain whatever books were available on the banned art, but that was an impossible task at present. She was already beginning to suffer the clammy effects of withdrawal, when Gawain tapped on her door.

  “Come,” she called, forcing a smile as he entered, staggering under the weight of a carved wooden chest.

  “Hello, be wondering if ye have time for me…er, to be talking to me,” Gawain said, falling over his words, even more than usual. He could scarcely meet her eyes.

  “Of course,” she told him, settling herself into a chair. Here it comes.

  “I maked for ye meself,” he told her, nervously gesturing to
the chest.

  “Er, thank you,” Leila responded, examining the item.

  The box had been well made; a sturdy and workable construction. It was only in the matter of its decoration that the hand of Gawain could be clearly observed. Covering the wooden lid was an array of carved flowers, none of which bore any relation to the originals. Leila looked at her gift, then back at Gawain. He was sporting the wide-eyed expression of an eager puppy and she hadn’t the heart to disillusion him.

  “It’s lovely,” she told him. “And you made it yourself, so I’ll treasure it.”

  The reticent warrior beamed with delight.

  * * *

  Two years had passed since Leila’s arrival. To ensure her safety and because he would take good care of her, she agreed to become Gawain’s wife. She was truly fond of him, but not as fond as she was of her secret magiking, carried on whenever and wherever possible.

  Gergan was overjoyed to see her affections pass to Gawain, for it guaranteed her silence regarding her former associate. Truth be known, he was glad to be rid of her, for she scared him.

  As per local custom, Gawain carried his surprised bride-to-be from her dressing room to the ceremony, being cheered all the way. The wedding was witnessed by the five tribal heads with whom Gawain had forged an alliance. Styrx brought his lovely daughter, Serena, who spent the entire time exchanging silly faces with a concealed Drevel.

  Asher, now a hearty seventeen years of age, worked hard at trying to avoid Melith. He failed. She was stuck to him like glue throughout the dancing. It was only when the drinking began that Anne insisted on prising her from his side and sending her, moaning all the way, to bed. His relief was palpable.

  The entire domain celebrated all day and night, happily going to their slumbers in the early hours of the morning. All rejoiced, except one - a man who had begun to recognise that the bride was exhibiting all the hallmarks of his own troubled past. For once, Morden didn’t share his worries with Anne. He could not bear to re-open old wounds.