Three
days since I was pursued, I have reached the Ancient Bush. The white bark of
the trees is almost blinding, and the way they twist through the air like
gnarled fingers is annoying. I am in constant battle with the branches that
reach at me like desperate hands.
I haven’t seen any landmarks to tell me
exactly where I am, but I had to cross the Silver Brook yesterday. So I’m
guessing I’m still heading, generally, in the right direction. Now that I’m out
of the Older Woods, I feel a little bit safer. I’m just confused at how, when
presented with a possible confrontation three days ago, my warrior spirit
dissipated and swirled away in the wind. I felt like a child again, watching
the flames dance on the Dule Plains.
I haven’t seen Édan since, either. I
can’t imagine how he manages to appear and vanish without warning, and why he
gave me that strange object. The silver ball is in my pocket – I can feel its
weight. It makes me feel lopsided.
As I walk, the branches whip my arms.
The branches are resistant to movement, and just move straight back into place.
The wood is hard and would be great for making a fire. Since starting through
the Ancient Bush, I have noticed the trees thinning out. Which is good and bad.
It makes me more exposed, but it means I’m getting closer to the Dead Stretch.
The soil on the ground is black, with
spots of grey here and there. These trees are the only things that grow in the
dead soil. This land was torched, as well as the Dule Plains, as we ran from
the Niranda-kuul. The memory stays fresh in my mind…
I ran, a small girl, through the Ancient Bush. I had dropped the tents
at the edge of the Dule Plains. On the back of my white dress I could see the
orange glow. The hem of my dress became tangled in the crooked trees, and soon
it was being ripped to shreds. The soil made my bare feet go black, as well as
the hem of my dress. I screamed and cried, knowing that Aunty Bellaid was dead
and I was going to die and the Niranda-kuul had my mother…and…
I can feel something swelling within me
as the memory flitters away. The memory twists and ties a greater knot in my
heart. Tears brim in my eyes, and I flick the tears away. A claw digs into my
skin and tears away my flesh. One of the hooked branches of the crooked trees
has attacked me. I unsheathe my sword, and hack the branch off violently.
I am acutely aware of the echo from the
hacking, like the breaking of bones and the splintering of flesh. I hear the
trees moan with anger, another arm reaches out. I slice through the
outstretched arm, and hurry along. The trees have voices and they hear all.
That’s what my mother said to me, once. I continue through the woods, ignoring
the flailing arms. As the sky becomes a dark shade of blue, and the clouds die
away, I see a long thin line of orange on the horizon.
The Dead Stretch.
Smiling the relief of finally knowing
for sure that I’m going in the right direction, I hike my satchel further up my
back and take cautious steps through the Ancient Bush. The crooked trees become
bathed in the blue light of night, and the soil becomes a black emptiness under
my feet. It almost feels like the ground has disappeared below me, and there is
a black hole waiting to consume me.
The air smells like the steam from a
kettle, thought it is cold as steam is hot. The rains are coming.
Heavy
water flows, a river of thoughts all blending with each other making no sense.
Swirling like a whirlpool, but leading to nowhere. Always rushing and pulsing
with each heartbeat. I feel each thought in tune with my surroundings, in tune
with my movements and my body. And now the only thing I can think in my sleepy
state is that my face is wet. I feel a mixture of vague confusion and
unbearable tiredness. I want to dive back into the river of thought in which I
was being swept away, flowing dreams and memories. I raise one hand slowly, as
if unused to movement, and wipe my face. It is cold, and something has
splattered onto my face. It slides down my cheek, and onto my clothes. I am on
the ground; it’s morning.
I open my eyes slowly, as if trying to
open a creaky door without making a sound, and I am surprised at the effort it
takes. Everything is out of focus, then the mist in my eyes clears and I can
see the blue sky above, and the branches of the crooked trees, looming over me
like bars to cage me in. They are covered in dew. A drop falls and I
reflexively close my eye as it narrowly misses it. My hand moves further up my
face to my hair, which is stringy and damp. It must’ve rained last night.
I was right. I smelt the rain last
night, and my canteen, planted in the soil, is filled to the brim. I check my
canteen to make sure nothing crawled in there, then close it with the wooden
plug. I sit up, and my back aches uncomfortably. My clothes are drenched and
covered in topsoil that must’ve been loose and flowed with the rain. The roots
of the crooked trees mustn’t be very good at holding the worthless soil
together. I shake my head, and my black mane flings soil.
My blanket and satchel are wet, as well
as the bowstring of my bow, that not being a good thing. At least I have
another bowstring in one of my pockets…I think…
My weapons seem to be okay, apart from
the bowstring. I would’ve chosen a better shelter – a cave or a gully – but
there is no such place in the Ancient Bush. The Ancient Bush is a flat land of
short, crooked trees with dead, loose soil and almost no living creatures. No
animals can survive here, but there are lots of fungi, at the bases of the
trunks of the trees.
My guardian, Induagel, taught me that
the fungi exchanges nutrients with the trees, so that they may both survive in
the hostile soil.
My boots have squishy soles that make
squelching noises as I walk. I sling my satchel over one shoulder, put on my
scabbard, attach my quiver of arrows to my back and carry my bow, as usual. My
canteen is around my neck. The crooked trees seem to be decreasing in number.
My arms aren’t as sore from their slaps.
Today there is a strong wind, chilling
my skin. I feel like my skin will turn to ice and flake off until I am nothing
but a skeleton, being polished by the wind tumbling the black soil through the
air. Or maybe it’s just that I’m noticing the wind more than usual due to my
damp state. But I can defiantly feel the little pins on the back of my legs –
the soil.
As I walk, the orange line grows
thicker, and comes ever closer. Somewhere around midday, I tear off a chunk of
my loaf of bread to eat, take a drink from my canteen and relieve myself. As I
toss heavy soil onto the hole I’d dug at the foot of a crooked tree, I hear
something that makes me feel my heart has been ripped out and thrown across ice
– a voice. I immediately throw myself onto my stomach, hoping that my flat body
can’t be seen amongst the white trees.
The voices are faint, but I know from
whom they come from. It sends shivers down my spine. My eyes are wide, and each
heartbeat is jolt that reverberates down my body. The voices are human. They
must have rebuilt their road through the Dead Stretch for the trading of wine.
I shift from my flat position to a
crouch, and I waddle a few metres, until the voices become closer and the trees
thin even more. I am nearly at the edge of the Ancient Bush. I don’t dare go
any closer; for fear that they will see me through the trees. I open my satchel
as quietly as I can, fearing that the humans will somehow hear the squeak of
the wet material as I stretch it to reach in and find my cloak. My cloak has a
hood to hide my pointed ears.
The only way I will get by the humans
unnoticed is if I pose as a traveller and keep my pointed ears concealed. The
humans and the elven folk have hated each other since the Galdean War, in which
humans fought for the superiority over elves.
Hopefully, the dirt in my hair and clothes,
and the stringy rawness of my hair will make me look human. Well, human enough
to pass them on that road without having my throat slit. I know that my eyes
could give me away. With a deep breath, I slip into my cloak, pulling the hood
tight over my head. I pull my hair over my right shoulder, revealing split
ends. I know that soon my hair will repair itself.
I yank my cloak forward to conceal my
scabbard, covered with intricate elven designs, handmade. I am still holding my
bow – there is no reliable way to conceal it – so I hold it under my cloak. I
know this doesn’t look very relaxed, neither does the deliberate slump of my
shoulders.
I don’t make a very convincing human. I
become suddenly worried at the distance between my hand and my boot, where a
small, but lethally sharp dagger is concealed if I need it. Only at all costs
will I use it.
It is not the elven way to kill for
blood or hatred.
I rise from my crouch, to a standing
position. Then I walk slowly, drinking in the breathtaking view of the vast
Dead Stretch, or as it was once known, the Dule Plains. Since it was torched,
the soil just died, and now nothing grows there. Not one weed, not even the
spiky grass. It is just gravel. A great expanse of gravel.
Before it was torched, a road wove its
way south, through the Dule Plains called the Vinum Route. It was used by the
humans to trade wine. The torching of the Dule Plains and the devastation the
Niranda-kuul caused to the land resulted in the Dead Stretch, as it was later
named, and the destruction of the Vinum Route.
It has since been rebuilt. I can see it,
a shade of orange darker than the rest of the Dead Stretch, and smoother. From
the tracks on the Vinum Route I can tell that a majority of horses and carts
travel down this road.
The road is the only way I will get
across the Dead Stretch. Out in the open, I will be too obvious and will
attract attention to myself, and who knows what is out there now? The road may
be dangerous, but it is the safest way.
I make my way over to the road, slip
past the few horses and carts, and walk, unnoticed on the left side of the
road, keeping out of the way of passer-by’s. But, unfortunately, a cart stops
and an aged man with balding, grey hair and long moustache looks down on me. I
refuse to let my eyes meet with his.
“You’re a pretty lass. What’re you doing
all the way out here?”
I answer hesitantly, “I’m going north.”
“Your voice is music to my ears! Do you
need a lift? I can drop you off in Tanier, or, closer, Lianell.”
Something sparked in my mind. Maybe if I
was seen with a human, I could be mistook for one. A disguise.
“That would be much appreciated,” I
attempted a smile. “What is your name, good man?”
“I am Golan, a humble wine-trader. And
yourself?”
My fingers twitch, ready to grab the
dagger. Someone shouts from behind Golan’s cart, impatient to get going. Golan
ignores them, and for the first time I notice his horse. A small mare, with a
shaggy coat of brown hair.
“My name is Shae.”
Golan smiles, offering his hand to
shake. I take it clumsily with my left hand, nearly mashing his fingers.
“Sorry, I’m left handed.” I excuse
myself, uncomfortably. It is not in my nature to lie.
“That’s okay. Jump in, Shae!”
I walk around to the back of his cart
and lever myself in with my left hand, swinging my legs over and in. Covering
Golan’s cart is a shade, held up by a wooden frame of thin wooden spokes in an
arch. It is surprisingly cool under the shade, compared to the outside. I
notice that I am sitting amongst casks of wine, stacked precariously. I can
hear the bottles clinking as the cart starts moving again. I can almost feel,
in my own body, the pain of the horse lugging the cart.
I discard my bow to my right and free my
hand. I feel the slick sweat on my palm from holding the bow so tightly. I had
been unexpectedly afraid that Golan would attack me. I will never trust the
humans.
As I relax in the cart, I almost pull my
hood back, unthinking. I can’t do that, for if I am discovered, I will not
live.
Suddenly I can’t relax, and my muscles
tense.
What danger have I just put myself in?