Caen paused and listened. A sweet, ethereal music emanated from the depths
of the forest.
The boy smiled. “A wood-fairy, indeed,” he murmured to himself. Such
was the rumor.
But he and the trees both knew the singer well.
With a sigh, he followed the sound.
* * * * *
In a clearing
beside the bubbling stream called Merriwater was a twisted tree with a mass of
roots forming a nest. There sat the singer. Her name was Ella, and she was a
twelve year old girl wearing the plain beige dress of a farmer’s daughter.
She leaned against the mossy trunk and lingered over the last
melancholy notes of the ballad of a Rhohinian hero.
As quickly as the dappled sunlight danced across the forest floor,
her mood changed, and she began a new song with mischief in her voice. It was a
rhyme of her own making:
“A jealous little snake
Eyes a king upon a throne,
And forms a wicked plan
To make the kingdom all his own.”
“Sneaking, lying, stealing,
He turns the people’s minds,
He kills the king and queen,
And every good man that he finds.
Hang their followers!
Burn the books!
Find the rebels,
Search all the nooks!
Re-write the songs
That people sing,
So everyone will know
That the snake is king!”
She could have
gone on much longer—but then she cut off the song with a sharp gasp.
There was now no sound except the chatter of birds and squirrels and
the rushing of Merriwater.
She was certain she was no longer alone. She scurried up the ancient
tree and perched on a sturdy limb.
There was a heavy rustling in the brush, and she caught sight of a
boy walking through the trees. He was older than her and dressed in the same
rough cloth of the peasants.
“Ella!” he called out.
There was no response.
“Now Ella, it’s no use; I know you’re here.”
He walked closer to the old tree.
“You may as well come out.”
He stood directly under the branch on which she was crouched.
“Come out at once!”
She gave a wild yell and pounced, knocking him to the ground and
landing on top.
“Go sneaking in my woods, will you?” she growled, giving him a shake.
“Elowene!” He flung her away. “Sometimes I’m not sure whether I have
a girl or a wildcat for a sister.”
He rose to his feet and brushed a hand through his brown hair,
dislodging the twigs and moss that had looked quite at home there.
“Well, I did surprise you that time!” she said.
“Only a little. I was looking for you, and I heard you singing…”
“Singing?” she tapped her chin. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play games with me.”
“You must have heard a bird…or perhaps that wood-fairy.”
Her brother gave her a look, his dark eyes growing almost black,
making her squirm inside. “Ella, you must be more careful. If anyone ever came
near enough to hear the words to some of your songs…well, we would all suffer
for it.”
“Oh blast it all! Gothel has all of Rhohin…at least here in the woods
he can’t stop me from saying what I like about him!”
“Hush!”
She scowled. “And why were you looking for me?”
Caen sighed in the way only elder siblings can. “Father will return
from town in a few hours, and you haven’t even begun your half of the chores!”
Ella flushed crimson. “Oh? And I suppose you’ve already cut
kindling, repaired the leak, and what not?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I even milked the cow for you—but only
out of pity for the poor creature.”
Ella stuck out her tongue, then smirked. “Hurry—I’ll race you back!”
With that, she ran off into the flickering shadows of the forest.
“The loser has to take a dunking in the pond!” Ella called over her
shoulder.
“I’ll agree to those terms!” His thudding feet followed.
The brother and sister raced out of the wood, through a field of
waving grass, up a hill, and down into the valley where they lived.
Caen reached the goal—their thatch-roofed cottage—first with little
difficulty. Ella complained it was unfair, as he had two years’ advantage and
longer legs. He replied that it had been her idea, and she had gotten a head
start.
She knew she was beaten, and marched to the pond with what little
dignity remained to her. The summer was not yet very warm, and the pond still
had a chill at the bottom. Ella lingered on the edge, waiting to see if her
brother would have mercy. He only laughed. So, with her face stony, she walked
straight in.
Afterwards, in a spirit of goodwill, Caen offered to help with her
chores, but she refused. Ella’s pride had been damaged enough already.
As the sun was casting its last light and the first stars were
beginning to wink, Ella was still scrubbing pots in the scullery. The clip-clop
and rickety-creak of horse and wagon was heard in the yard. Ella tossed her
cloth aside and ran out to meet her father, Errel.
He brought his wagon to a stop near the barn and lowered himself from
the seat. A smile filled his weathered face as he embraced his daughter with
oak-strong arms. Errel laughed as he picked a piece of cabbage from Ella’s blonde
hair and brushed a charcoal smudge off her nose.
Caen came out from putting the old horse Clay in his stall, and
asked, “What was Market Day like?”
“Very prosperous for us,” his father answered. “I sold or traded
nearly all our produce and made good purchases. Here, if you’ll help carry these
bundles into the barn, I’ll show you some of my more interesting finds.”
Market Days were always important occasions in the nearby town of
Drune. For up to a week at a time the town square would be full of colorful
tents and booths belonging to merchants who sold everything from seeds to fine
clothes. The atmosphere was festive, as there were always acrobats, minstrels,
players, magicians, and a fortuneteller or two who performed in the square.
But Errel rarely allowed Caen and Ella to attend—for reasons he did
not make clear.
When sacks of grain, a new plow, and several other items were put
away, the little family gathered in the main room of the cottage. The father
sat in his customary chair with a lumpy package on his lap, and the two
children brought their wooden stools close to him.
He withdrew the largest lump with a wide grin on his face. “Here is
something very valuable, and we must be careful with it. Understood, Ella?”
She nodded eagerly. In his hands, Errel held a book. The cover was
worn, and the pages wrinkled and stained. She reached out and took it as gently
as if it were an infant. The title was engraved in faded gold letters. “‘The
Legend of the Kings.’ Oh, Father! How did you…? Oh, my!”
He chuckled. “Well, it cost quite a few silver pieces, but I believe
it was well worth it.”
Ella grinned and hugged the book to her chest. Inside was a lengthy
history, told in rhyme and prose, which chronicled all the kings of Rhohin from
Shawn to Trintan the First—the last to have his story properly recorded. Books
were scarce in peasants’ homes (they themselves had only five), but an old
chronology, unauthorized by King Gothel, was rarer still. With some hesitation,
she handed the treasure to Caen.
He opened the book to its first page and quietly read a few lines of
the poem that introduced the history.
“Rulers and kingdoms
Do crumble and fall,
Till time has its end,
They shall pass away all.
But one Name will stand,
God our Highest King,
An everlasting rule
And Kingdom He does bring.
Jesus Truest Prince,
Was in stable born,
So by His great grace,
The least a crown have worn.”
“Beautiful!”
murmured Ella. “I’ll read it every day!”
The last two lumps proved to be small gifts for the brother and
sister. Ella thanked her father, but she could not conceal an envious glance at
Caen’s dagger as she fiddled with the latch on her little hinged box.
“You aren’t pleased with it, Ella?” asked Errel.
“Oh no, Father,” she murmured. “It’s very nice. I’ll keep my
treasures in it.”
As she spoke, the latch came loose and the lid cracked open. She
caught sight of a bundle of cloth inside. From it she raised two pendants of
white stone on delicate silver chains.
Her father appeared equally surprised. “I thought it was only an
empty box!” He leaned closer to look at the objects.
They were shapeless, but carved with beautiful patterns.
“What’s this writing?” Caen asked, pointing to tiny inscriptions on
the stones. “I can’t read it.”
“I can’t see it,” chuckled his father.
“It must be some foreign language,” Caen decided.
“I wonder where they came from?” said Ella, holding the pendants up
to the lantern, where the light glowed through them. “How could you miss that
they were there, Father?”
“I didn’t look,” he admitted. “The peddler made no mention of them. I
wonder if he himself knew?” His brow furrowed. “He surely would have charged a
higher price.”
“I can keep them, can’t I?”
He frowned. “I’m not sure, Ella. We wouldn’t want to cheat a poor
peddler. I’ll think it over.”
She hurried to prepare a simple vegetable stew for dinner. While they
ate, and long after their bowls were scraped clean, Errel told his children
stories about Market Day. He described a merchant from Alistria who displayed
every variety of bird imaginable, another who sold miniature harps and flutes,
the tales of a storyteller who sat beside the great sundial in the square, and
much more. It was soon far into the night, and Caen and Ella reluctantly
retired.
* * * * *
Eight-year-old Caen
stared at his mother Elowene’s pale face and struggled to keep from crying. It
was approaching midnight. The boy had hesitantly asked his father several hours
before why he and Ella had not been sent to bed.
“Your mother wants you near,” was the only reply.
They were in his parent’s chamber, lit by a candle, beside the bed
where she lay. Caen sat at her right, his father at her left, holding Ella on
his lap.
The little girl’s head drooped, and her eyes grew dull with sleep.
She was only six, and she did not understand.
But Caen did. He was old enough to know things, and he knew that they
were watching their mother on her deathbed.
The wasting disease had begun to affect her long before, making her
wearier each year, each month, and then each week, until she was unable to
leave her bed. Many cures had been tried, and a few charitable physicians
consulted, but none had done any good.
Now the end was near. Neither his mother nor father had told him so,
but Caen could sense it.
Elowene sighed and opened her eyes. They were dull and hollow. With
her sunken cheeks and thinned hair, she looked like a breathing corpse.
Caen held back a sob.
Her hand found his and held it in a weak grasp. She looked at her
husband and daughter.
Ella was asleep, draped over her father’s arm like a rag doll.
“Poor little thing,” murmured Elowene. “Put her to bed…just let us
say goodnight.”
Errel gently raised the girl and whispered in her ear. Ella blinked
rapidly and yawned. He set her on her feet.
“Goodnight, Mama,” she murmured, stretching to kiss her mother’s
cheek and have her own kissed.
“Goodnight, Darling. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mama.” She reached up for her father, asking to be
carried out. At the last moment she turned around again. “Oh, Mama, I forgot! I
wanted to show you the butterfly I caught today, but it flew away so I can’t.
I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
“It was a big butterfly, with yellow stripes. It was pretty.”
“I’m sure it was, and you know? I’m glad it flew away.”
Ella yawned again. “Why?”
“Because God made butterflies to be free and happy, and we can best enjoy
them when they are. But I’m so happy you thought of me.”
The little girl nodded wearily, and swayed. Her father reached out to
steady her.
“I’ll pick you some flowers tomorrow, Mama,” she whispered as he
carried her to her own room.
When his father and Ella were gone, Caen lowered his head onto his
mother’s pillow and finally began to weep, quietly at first, then with
wrenching sobs.
Errel silently returned and took his place by his wife’s side.
Caen grew quiet, and then his mother spoke.
“Oh, Caen…my dear, dear boy.”
He sat up and looked at her.
Her eyes were pooling with tears. She turned her head toward her
husband, a desperate look stretching her already tight skin more taut. “Please,
Errel,” she whispered. “Please.”
“No!” he said in a sudden, harsh tone. Then tears poured down his
face, and he leaned close to kiss her forehead. “You know we can’t.”
They shared a long, painful look, an understanding that seemed very
hard for both of them.
Elowene sighed heavily and slowly turned back to Caen.
He grasped her hand desperately, as if that would prevent the
terrible parting.
“These are the things I want you to do,” she said, looking into his
eyes. “First, remember that God will never leave you alone. Second, always be
kind to people who are poor and sick. And third…take care of Ella.”
She glanced at her husband. “I fear she’ll be a handful, even for the
two of you.”
A sob burst from Caen. “Mama! Can’t you stay?”
She reached up with trembling arms and drew him down, holding him
tight against her frail form. “God always stays,” she whispered.
Caen wept until he was too weary to keep crying, and fell asleep in
his mother’s embrace, listening to his father’s murmured, grief-wracked
prayers.
He awoke to grey light and a warm breath in his ear. His mother’s
words were so faint he barely heard her.
“Oh…beautiful. It’s worth it…worth it all…”
He jerked up, staring at her, and saw her blue-green eyes alive with
a glow they had never had before. She gazed at something distant, and smiled.
It was over. Her eyes drained of life like glass orbs pouring out
their shining contents, and were left empty. But her smile remained.
* * * * *
Caen awoke
suddenly, and found it to be night again. He was trembling, and when he put a
hand to his face, it came away soaked with tears. He knew that he was in his
own room, the one he shared with his father—not his parent’s old bedchamber.
The door to that room had been shut six years ago, soon after his
mother’s death, and he had never entered it since.
It was a dream, he told himself, wishing to still his rapidly beating heart. He shut
his eyes and listened to his father quietly snoring on the other side of the
room. Yes, this is reality.
