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Chapter 3

 

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.

 

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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?