Woven

by Michael Jensen

  “The people in Cobblestown are some of the most honest and hardworking people I have ever known,” he continued. “Why would you even say something like that?”

  “Forget it … Don’t speak to me unless spoken to.”

  The peasant’s jaw clenched as he turned back to the path ahead.

  Tyra could not understand. She cared about her people. She was obligated to. How could that be a lie? No matter how she tried to justify it, the small stone had spoken otherwise. Annoyed, she pulled the ring off her hand and tossed it quickly into her knapsack hanging around Brooklet’s neck.

  The afternoon had grown late when Tyra and the peasant reached a fork in their trail. Neither of them spoke much, which gave her an opportunity to listen and look about. The farther they traveled into the forest, the denser the trees became. At first the sky had peeked through the branches overhead, but eventually the trees blocked out every trace of the horizon and its darkening dusk.

  Tyra grew displeased with the gnats that pestered her relentlessly, but it wasn’t the insects that bothered her most — it was the ring. If that stone had turned black because she only claimed to care about her people … what did that mean? She didn’t want to admit it, but the ring had revealed a truth that stung deeply. She hardly spoke that truth, even to herself.

  The stone hadn’t turned black for the peasant, but it had for her.

  “There’s no path to the south,” he said. “Did we miss a crossroad?”

  Their trail came to an end at a junction with faded signs, the remaining paths leading everywhere but south. Tyra dismounted to stretch her legs and to give Brooklet a rest. “Are we lost?”

  “West, south, and west again,” the peasant recited. “There’s no trail to the south.”

  Opening the knapsack around Brooklet’s neck, Tyra rummaged for a helping of Gleesel’s bread. Traveling was terrible on her stomach. “The way south is clear and looks wide enough.”

  “I wouldn’t call that overgrowth a clear path. Should we go west some more?”

  Feeling the cold ring brush against her hand, Tyra came up with an idea. She slipped the ring on her finger. “The way to Westmine Castle is south and west of here.” It turned green. Tyra smiled as she mounted Brooklet. “Think of it — we’re looking for Westmine Castle, right?”

  The peasant’s bottom lip shifted to the side. “Right …”

  “You know the legend about that castle being haunted?”

  “Yeah,” the peasant answered.

  “Most people tend to avoid such places, which can only mean one thing: The path with the most overgrowth is the clearest way to the castle.”

  “I think you’re right!” The peasant pointed to a space between the trees. “That might’ve been a path once.”

  Tyra pulled Brooklet’s reins to the south. “You catch on quick, ghost.”

  Laughing, the peasant presented an exaggerated bow. “I do my best.”

  With a soft tap on Brooklet’s side, they set off again and headed south, with nothing but the thin spaces between the trees to guide them. The peasant found a new branch and began to sweep at the prints as Brooklet made them. Tyra had nothing to worry about — not anymore.

  This journey wasn’t about her; it was to prove that she cared about others.

  Together, they would find their way to Westmine City.

  The sun set just as they came to a river. They crossed over shallow foam that drifted from a churning waterfall nearby. Nels stood close to the mare, making sure she stayed clear of the edge of another fall downstream. The valley’s basin lay a short distance down the river, which led to a lake that reflected the orange heavens. In spite of their progress, Hilvar’s castle was nowhere to be seen, even from their elevation. With no clear path left for them to follow, judging where to go next was nearly impossible in the dark. But the princess seemed confident in her direction.

  Her eyes, for some reason, frequently strayed to the ring on her hand.

  Nels jumped out of the water and floated above the bank.

  Since taking the southward path, the rest of the day had gone by without so much as the beginning of an argument. Tyra’s insults and haughtiness had toned down considerably, and this change caused Nels some concern. He had grown accustomed to her snide remarks. This new manner was disconcerting.

  “There’s not much more we can do tonight,” Nels said. “You should rest.”

  Tyra looked up from her hand again. “Find us a camp.”

  Nels led them to an area near the lake’s shore; it was surrounded by dying birches and pines. A few small flowers grew around the tree trunks. Now that the sun had set, it was hard to make out their fair colors. Nels kicked a few rocks aside and laid Tyra’s quilt on a patch of ground.

  Tyra dismounted. “I would like a fire.” She stroked Brooklet’s neck and unfastened her saddle. “I didn’t think we would travel this far. Some flint would have been useful.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best. A fire might attract attention.”

  Tyra removed her knapsack and bow. “We are surrounded by trees in the middle of a deserted forest,” she implored. “No one will see a fire with this much cover.”

  Nels nodded. Maybe he was being too cautious. “I’ll make a small one.”

  With a little effort, he gathered some tinder and a couple of stones and sparked up a modest fire. Tyra looked comfortable as she feasted on provisions, while her mare meandered to the lake for a drink. She finished off the last drops from her waterskin and then tossed it at Nels.

  “Fetch me more water, will you?”

  Picking up the skin, Nels retraced their steps and filled it at the waterfall. A thick mist drifted around him like a fog, the roar of the water deafening. At least he could hear it. When he came back, he found Brooklet resting. The princess, however, had a hand over her stomach.

  He carried the water to her. “Are you sick?”

  Tyra moaned as she took the waterskin. “Maybe …”

  “Did you eat too fast?”

  She shook her head.

  Is she still upset with me?

  Nels faced a dead tree, picked up a stick, and swung it like a sword.

  “Do you often fight with unarmed trees?” Tyra said.

  Surprised by the question, Nels turned back to face her. “I used to,” he said, laughing. He had often parried with the dead oaks near his cottage, pretending to be a knight fighting for the kingdom. “I meant to apologize for what I said earlier, but you told me not to speak unless spoken to.”

  With a small smile, Tyra nodded. “A request you are presently violating, ghost.”

  Nels laughed again as he thrust his stick forward and slashed down, knocking loose bark from the trunk. “You can call me by my name, you know. Or have you forgotten it?”

  “You will have to earn it,” she said in an almost playful tone. Nels swung his stick high and then low, whacking at the decaying tree with merciless blows. The sound of his blows echoed back from the forest as dull thuds. Tyra reached for a stick of her own and stood up. “Your form is ghastly.” She stepped forward, her arm raised.

  Nels gave her a slight smile. “You think you can handle a branch better than I can?”

  Without any warning, she swung her stick and slashed it through him.

  “Hey!” Surprised, Nels jumped back and blocked her next blow.

  “Bend your arms,” she said. “Keep your elbows close to your center.”

  She continued to advance on him, thrusting and slashing with intense focus, her eyes keen and gleaming in sport. Nels could do nothing except deflect her blows and step away from her — until he remembered that he was a ghost. Smiling, he jumped over her head and waited for her to turn around. The hem of Tyra’s dress whipped at her ankles.

  “What was that?” she cried.

  “Are there any rules about flying during a match?”

  “No,” she said. “Strike when you can. Use your advantage!”

  Nels was unsure why, but they continued to d
uel. Only twice was he able to extend his arm to strike her. Tyra drove her weapon through the center of his chest once more. She was good — Nels could not argue that. He never expected that she could spar so well, even if she was only doing this to spite him — or was she? She did appear to be having fun.

  He welcomed this foreign, playful side of her.

  She swung forward with an uppercut, an easy block — or so Nels thought. “Make use of your surroundings,” she commanded. “Your stance is everything. Hold your ground or you will never advance!”

  Nels took the advice to heart and lunged at her, but he missed, and she swung her weapon next. Their sticks clashed. They paused, and their eyes met. Her eyelashes fluttered. The beauty in her eyes surpassed all her previous stares. Smiling, she jabbed her stick directly through Nels’s throat.

  She’d won.

  “And never,” she panted, “ever let your guard down.”

  Nels grabbed her stick and pulled it away from his neck. While Tyra was clearly out of breath, Nels wasn’t winded in the slightest. He’d never learned so much about swordplay in a single match. Judging by Tyra’s practiced stance and the range of motion she employed, he could tell that she’d gone easy on him. He had a lot to learn if he was to become a real knight.

  Tyra glanced at his hand, gripping her weapon. Her breathing slowed as she stared into his eyes. “Not half bad,” she told him, “even if you can’t hold your ground against a lady.”

  “You’re better than my friend Wallin. You’re amazing!”

  She smiled. “I know.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head; I’ll be ready next time.”

  “Sure.” Her smile faded as she glanced downward.

  Something troubled her.

  “Is something wrong?” Nels asked.

  “At the festival, they called you the Knight of Cobblestown. The whole village knew you, but I’d never seen you before.”

  Curious as to why she had brought this up, Nels tried to think of an excuse that wouldn’t embarrass him. “Mother never let me go. That was the first festival I’d ever attended.”

  Tyra held on to her stick with both hands, her finger tracing the knots and loose bark. “Why did you want to become a knight, anyway?”

  “My mother asked me the same thing before I died.” Nels thought his dream had died with him. Now that he had another chance at life, his answer was no different. “I want to make a difference. I’ve always had a knack for helping others and solving problems.”

  Tyra greeted his eyes with a new smile. “You hardly need to be a knight to do that.”

  “You don’t really mean that, do you?”

  She turned away at that question. “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t that why you like Arek, because he’s a knight?”

  Tyra’s eyes shifted to the green stone on her finger.

  Why does she keep looking at that?

  “The people love him. They listen to him. He would make a great king.”

  “I don’t think people like him as much as he thinks they do.” There was no way to say that without sounding jealous, so Nels left it there. “You’re their rightful heir. You should rule.”

  “I know,” she snapped. “I’m forced to live with that thought every day, in everything I do, but … How can I live up to their expectations? What will happen when I fail them?”

  “What makes you think you will?” Nels asked. “You haven’t failed anyone.”

  Her eyes glistened in the firelight. “How can I rule a people that I don’t care about?”

  The charred firewood shifted. Hot ashes floated into the air.

  Nels sighed. “It was wrong of me to say that. I’m sorry.”

  “No. You spoke the truth. I should thank you for that — thank you, Nels.”

  He reached for her hand — still holding the stick — and wrapped his fingers around hers. There was no warmth from her hand, no texture, but his chest burned like the embers in the fire. Her hand moved through his when she tried to return the touch. Tyra raised her chin and her eyes connected with his, voiding Nels’s mind of all other thoughts. “You’re welcome.”

  Tyra averted her stare to the fire. “I think it’s dying.”

  Nels nodded as he looked. “I could gather more wood.”

  “Yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “That would be —”

  Something rustled behind the trees. A fallen limb moved in the shadows, followed by a playful yelping. Tyra jumped back as Brooklet raised her head and snorted. Nels reached for his stick and Tyra removed her dagger as two furry animals, dark and clumsy, scurried into the clearing, chasing each other. They paused at the fire, their short round ears up, stiff and alert. Nels had heard of creatures like this before, but he had never seen one — let alone two.

  “Ooh!” Tyra cooed. “Little bear cubs — how adorable!”

  Adorable? Nels didn’t think so. “Don’t make a sound.”

  With their small black noses sniffing at the air, the two cubs lazily explored the camp and soon found Tyra’s knapsack. It didn’t take them long to dump everything out of it.

  “Hey!” Tyra cried. “That’s mine! Shoo. Go on — shoo!”

  “Wait! You’ll scare them!” But Nels was too late. The cubs raised their ears, saw Tyra, and with whimpers and cries, sprinted up the nearest birch. Although her provisions were now safe, the cubs continued to mewl, calling to the night.

  A great roar returned their cry.

  A humongous bear lumbered into their camp from behind the shadowy trees, stomping its brown paws on the ground before it let out another roar. Nels had no reason to fear for his life, but the bear’s massive claws and crushing jaws gave him plenty to fear for Tyra.

  With thankful cries, the cubs descended from their sanctuary and scurried into the bushes. But the bear didn’t leave, its fierce eyes glaring at the princess.

  “Don’t look at it,” Nels warned. “Don’t make a sound.”

  “What am I supposed to do, then?” she whispered.

  The bear snorted and stood, taller than a castle’s gate. Nels jumped back. Tyra did as well — that was a mistake. Ramming its paws into the dirt, the creature roared as it charged for the kill.

  Brandishing his stick, Nels swung at it, but he missed his mark and stumbled through the bear’s stomach. Dropping her dagger, Tyra cried out as she bolted for the rotted tree behind her. The bear caught up to her and swiped its paws. Chunks of bark flew as Tyra dodged the blow, her face turning white. She sprinted for the other side of the camp, where her bow lay.

  Nels pointed at the branches where the cubs had hidden moments before. “This way!”

  With her bow in one hand and an arrow in the other, Tyra ran toward Nels as the bear rebounded and charged again. Nels hurled his stick at its head. It bounced off, doing little more than upsetting the creature. An arrow whizzed through the air, right over Nels’s shoulder, and found its mark in the bear’s arm. The creature howled and paused, providing them more time.

  “Here!” Nels stooped by the tree and cupped his hands. “I’ll hoist you up!”

  Placing her foot in his palms, Nels thrust her high, aware that the animal was behind them. Nels elbowed it in the gut, but this only angered it more. Snarling, the bear reached up and pawed at Tyra’s middle. She gave a terrible cry. Blood dripped from her side and fell through Nels’s arm.

  “Tyra!”

  Nels dashed for his stick again and swung it at the bear with all his might. The creature turned its head, caught the stick in its jaws, and snapped it in two. There was a loud crack. Then the tree leaned, its roots ripping from the soil. The bear rounded on the tree and pushed.

  In a matter of seconds, Tyra’s haven would crash down — and she with it.

  Just then, Nels caught a glint of firelight.

  The fire … “Hang on!”

  He raced for it, seized a hot coal in his bare hand, and drove it into the bear’s side. The creature yelped as it backed away and stared at the flo
ating ember. The bear showed its teeth and clawed at the air, but Nels maintained his lure, waiting for the right moment to strike. He grabbed the bear’s paw, yanked it hard, and tripped the creature onto the burning coals. The camp went dark as the bear’s cry shook the air. The creature jumped up and retreated into the trees.

  “Nels …” Tyra said, her voice shaky and weak.

  He looked up at her. “Are you all right?”

  She teetered. “I don’t … think …”

  Her eyes closed as her grip gave out.

  Nels sprinted and caught her before she hit the ground. He laid her down on the quilt. Their camp was a complete mess, but Tyra was worse: her bodice mangled, her side torn. The bear’s claw had ravaged her flesh, leaving deep slashes that had dyed her skirt red with blood.

  She was losing too much; he had to stop it.

  “Stay with me, Tyra!”

  Nels looked for a cloth or a handkerchief. There were none. Their supplies and provisions were smashed in the dirt — except for a little box of cedar wood. Maybe something inside could help. Running to the box, he picked it up and returned to Tyra’s side. She moaned and shook as he tried to open the latch.

  Suddenly, he heard the hooves of a horse drawing near. Nels raised his head, surprised by a floating light in the distance, bobbing up and down like a drunken firefly.

  A stranger with an excessively large stomach emerged from the thicket, followed by Brooklet. The man had a dense beard, and he wore a glowing lantern fastened to a metal hat on his head. Adorned with furs across his burly shoulders, the bearded man entered their camp while speaking to Brooklet. “A bear, you say’n,” he said in deep voice. “Come’n from over here?”

  Brooklet gave a gentle whinny. She didn’t seem to mind this man.

  “Girl might be hurt? Better have’n a look.”

  Nels couldn’t trust this man, whoever he was. When the man approached the princess, Nels retrieved one of Tyra’s arrows and held the tip inches away from the stranger’s throat.

  To his astonishment, the stranger merely smiled at the floating arrow.

  “Ol’ Hilvar?” the man asked. “Nah, Hilvar bothers no bears this late.” He scratched his head, his eyes fixed on the floating object. “Well, best not be scare’n the cubs. Makes you not welcome.” The stranger pointed a pudgy finger at Tyra. “Better if I help, or else’n she dies.”