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Rom
met Yldich on a trip to the North when he was almost twenty years old.
He was a slender young man, with hair the colour of crow feathers, and
eyes that were almost as dark. He had a temper on him that was like an
underground forest fire. It could smoulder undetected for a long time,
and consume him from the inside, but a well-aimed spark and sufficient
fuel could ignite it and make it blaze like a bonfire.
At an age when most young men had already put
down roots and were tending their fields and holding, their young wives
raising their first babies, Rom travelled the country alone, buying and
selling goods. To the far northeast he went in spring, selling precious
dyes, spices, silk thread for embroidery, silver needles, buttons of
mother of pearl, sea salt, and any other things that were rare to the
people of the North. Back to the South he travelled in autumn, to stay
in the old little farmhouse and buy goods from local farms and holds to
sell next spring.
When people from the village started to say Rom
should stay on the farm and get married like any honourable young man
his age, he ignored them. When people said he was a strange one, always
had been, and no good would ever come of him, he ignored that, too. When
a migrant farm worker who had sampled a lot of strong local ale one
night in The Lucky Goose
inn referred to him as ‘that shady Tzanatzi-looking bastard in the corner there’, he did
not ignore it, and the man ended up with a broken nose and a lost tooth.
Rom ended up in the village lockup. It had needed two town guards and a
wrathful innkeeper to subdue him.
When the after-effects of the alcohol and a thorough beating had worn
off and he regained consciousness, he found himself in an uncomfortable
situation. Not only did the numerous hurts and aches vie with each other
to get his attention first, he also had to find a means to pay both the
substantial fine for fighting in a public place as well as the furniture
and goods the innkeeper claimed had been damaged in the process. The
list included three chairs, a table, ten bottles of wine, two bottles of
brandy, a keg of beer, the farmhand’s tunic and some other assorted
items Rom couldn’t remember breaking. But then, he had been reasonably
drunk.
Apart
from that, to contest the fine would mean demanding justice at Court. He
had no taste for that. It was common knowledge that Southern judges did
not favour Tzanatzi
in their rulings. But it meant a substantial portion of his earnings
from the trip to the North would be lost. He would have to set out again
as soon as possible, to earn back some of the damage. It would mean
travelling in autumn, when the winter snows threatened from the North,
instead of waiting for spring in the comfort of the old cottage.
He set out a few days later, on horseback,
leading a sturdy pony laden with merchandise and supplies for his
journey. His ribs were still sore, but the cuts on his face were healing
nicely.
The first days of his journey were uneventful.
The nights were still warm, so he slept beside his horse, wrapped in his
blanket. When the evening air became edged with a chill that hinted at
the ending of summer, he decided to seek a place indoors to stay the
night.
The first wayside inn he stayed in was The
Squealing Pig. It had a bad reputation as far as food and
hygiene were concerned, but it was a good place to start a journey, for
lodgings were cheap and as the inn was frequented by both locals and
travellers from all over the kingdom, it was a good place to sample the
local news. Though Rom was not one to chat with locals, his face was
familiar to most frequent lodgers as he had travelled the same route
before. So they treated him fairly enough, though they knew better than
to try to get him to socialize.
It was down in the common room that evening,
while Rom washed down a somewhat dry meat pie with a mug of home brew,
that he was warned off the journey north. Not as many people stayed at
the inn as was usual that time of year, and a big, ginger-haired
traveller in his early forties was obviously looking around for some
company. Rom ignored him, but the man took a seat at the same table,
across from him.
Unfortunately, as there were no other diners
present, he could not pretend the man was not there without insulting
him. The incident of the previous week still fresh in his memory, he
nodded stiffly. He silently hoped the man would be put off by his grim
appearance, the yellow-purple discoloration around his left eye, and the
healing cuts, visible remnants of being in a fight. The man seemed to
take no notice, however, and introduced himself as Yldich. He spoke with
a subtle accent Rom had never heard before.
Yldich did not seem to mind Rom’s
monosyllabic answers to his questions where he was from (‘south,’)
and where he was going (‘north,’) either, as he had enough tales of
his own to fuel the conversation. He told Rom about his travels, his
home, and his experiences on the road, evidently enjoying talking and
hearing the sound of his own voice. Despite his tendency to keep to
himself, Rom found he actually enjoyed the man’s tales. He gave a
silent, encouraging nod every once in a while to keep a story going.
Yldich
had signalled the serving boy to refill their beer mugs for the third
time, when he said: ‘Well. This business of yours up north, will it
take you through Gardeth Forest?’ Rom’s head snapped up. He glanced
sharply at Yldich. ‘I thought as much,’ Yldich said. ‘You
haven’t heard about the trouble people have had up there then?’
‘I went around last couple of times, because
I had business on the East coast.’ Rom turned his mug around in his
hands and frowned at his beer. ‘I’ve never gone through the Forest
all the way.’
‘Better go around again,’ Yldich said in a
low voice. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows. ‘I’ve barely
been able to get through in one piece myself, this time. And I know the
region well. Something’s haunting the Forest, something that doesn’t
like people passing through.’ He set his mug down on the table with an
audible thump, and sat back in his chair. ‘It started about ten years
ago. Well, the Forests have always been dangerous for the unwary to
cross, especially in winter. Frozen branches, even whole trees crash
across the paths, horses get spooked and run off, ropes will break on
you for no apparent reason. Treacherous frozen lakes appear where there
hadn’t been any before. But last winter it got really bad.’ He
leaned over his mug, and fixed Rom with a stare, his grey eyes like ice
under an overcast sky.
'Travellers
have been disappearing. Their bodies have been found at the Forest’s
edge, frozen solid. They looked as if they died in terror.’
He
took another draught of beer. ‘Now, some say the Forests have been
getting worse because they’ve been stirring up trouble in the mines on
the South border. Disturbing some sort of balance, something to do with
dark spirits or whatnot.’ He shook his head and sat back. ‘I’m
just a simple farmer; I don’t have anything to do with that sort of
thing. But you mark my words, young man, be careful, or better still,
don’t be passing through the Forest at all.’
Privately
Rom thought Yldich might be a farmer, but whatever he was, he wasn’t
simple. He wondered also if there could be a specific reason the man
wanted to discourage him from travelling through Gardeth, other than
warning mere strangers from the goodness of his heart. But he couldn’t
think of any.
‘I’ve
got no choice but to pass through the Forest,’ he said. ‘It’s
already late in the year, and I can’t afford to waste any more
time.’ Yldich shook his head in disapproval. He looked concerned, but
he did not press the matter further.
‘Well, you do as you see fit, lad.’ He got
up and left a small pile of coins on the table to pay for the beer.
‘Sleep well now.’
‘Good night.’ Rom watched Yldich leave. He
moved surprisingly graciously for a man of his heavy build.
While Yldich had a short talk with the landlord
before he went up the stairs, Rom stared at the worn tabletop, lost in
thought. Maybe Yldich was trying to warn him off the journey through
Gardeth not because of supernatural danger, but a natural one. Rebels?
Robbers? But what would be his motive to dissuade him from passing
through? Rebels would not take offence at a lone traveller passing
through. Robbers would welcome the chance of an easy prey. But if the
Forests were home to any kind of illegal activity, why would Yldich not
just say so? Why the ghost-stories? It made no sense. Unless the man was
the gullible, superstitious kind, and he didn’t seem to be, not at all.
When
he was finally in his bed, he mentally went over his supplies again. He
thought of the small but sharp knife he always had with him on his
journeys. It could cut through tough ropes, leather, roots and the like,
but it would not be of much use against robbers.
Despite
Yldich’s warnings, he decided to journey directly north to the Forest
and pass through
it as quickly as possible. That way he might avoid the worst of the
winter weather.
The next morning, after a quick and simple
breakfast of stale bread and hot soup, Rom went outside to pack. He was
checking on the ropes and leather harness when he heard a short,
deliberate cough behind him. He turned around sharply. Yldich carefully
stood just a few paces behind him. He grinned through his trimmed rusty
beard.
‘Good morning to you,’ he called. ‘Still
set on going north?’
‘Yes,’
Rom said. He wondered what would be next.
‘That’s just as well. I’ve decided to go
visit my relatives in Hernicke. It’s just on the other side of the
Forest, on the Eastern border. I will accompany you.’
Rom
felt singularly ill at ease riding through the fringes of Gardeth forest
with his new travelling companion. He was not used to having company on
the road. In fact, he wasn’t used to any kind of company at any time.
From a young age he had always taken care to go about his business alone.
Yldich did not seem to share his discomfort. He
was humming under his breath, looking around with his bright grey eyes.
There was no beginning or end to the cheery tunes, just endless
meandering notes. The older man apparently knew the Forest well. On his
journeys to the northeast, Rom had always taken care to follow the
well-trodden paths used by farmers and goatherders. But Yldich had
chosen a route that took the men straight through the Forest, and
ignored the existing paths and trails altogether. What means he had of
knowing the way through the trees, which looked all the same to him, Rom
could not discern. He seemed to find his way through the foothills and
trees effortlessly.
The cheerfulness of the humming contrasted with
the sharp vigilance with which Yldich took in his surroundings. Was he
on the lookout for signs of trouble? Rom’s eyes flitted across the
path, but he could discover none. The forest floor looked undisturbed;
there were no signs that anyone had camped along the trail recently. He
was also concerned about Yldich’s motives for travelling with him.
First, the man wanted to dissuade him from going north. Then he had
insisted on going too. Somehow Rom had been unable to shake him off. He
was like a big, stray dog that followed him around and wouldn’t go
away. Suddenly his mouth pulled in a wry smile. It was the other way
around: he was following the dog’s lead.
Every once in a while, Yldich pointed out
something to him: a lizard basking in the sun, almost invisible against
the background because of its bizarre camouflage patterning, a small
group of deer in the distance, that threw back their heads and sniffed
the morning air, a beautiful large hunting cat that moved noiselessly
through the underbrush. Rom wondered at the abundance of life around him.
It had never been so apparent to him before. Had it always been there
but had he never seen it? In contrast to his stream of talk the evening
before in The Squealing Pig,
Yldich was silent except for his humming and occasional remarks.
When
the sun was sinking behind tall trees, they stopped to make camp in a
small clearing. Rom cleared a space for their campsite and gathered some
dry grass and twigs to start a small fire. He had some trouble to get it
going. Yldich had seen to the horses and had gone, probably to relieve
himself. Rom was busy with the fire for a long time, frowning and
concentrating. It was already getting dark. Then, just as it caught, and
he had a small blaze going, he heard the sharp snap of a twig break
behind him. Without thinking, he threw himself forward and whirled
around on the forest floor, and put the fire between him and whatever
was behind him. He fumbled for the knife in his belt. He had it out,
ready to strike, when he recognized Yldich, who stood there with a dead
rabbit hanging from his belt. Yldich lifted an eyebrow at the sight of
the sharp knife pointed at him.
‘Caught
us some supper,’ he said. He sat down and proceeded to skin the rabbit
with his own belt knife. Rom released a breath and got up slowly. He put
the knife away and started to feed little twigs to the fire. Every once
in a while he threw a glance at Yldich. The man deftly pulled the furry
skin off the rabbit, taking care not to tear it and spoil it. His face
was expressionless.
When
the rabbit was roasting on a makeshift spit, Rom asked: ‘How did you
catch the rabbit?’ Yldich grinned.
'I called him.’
‘What?’ Rom blinked at the man, as if he
doubted he’d heard him right.
‘I called him. He was ready. He came. I
caught him.’ Rom raised his brows in incredulity.
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that,’ Yldich said softly. ‘I
would have preferred not to take his life,’ he went on. ‘But we have
to be careful of our supplies, we have a long road ahead of us. Bad
weather’s coming.’
Rom stared at him. The sky had been clear all
day. He wondered once more just what kind of man he was travelling with.
Was he merely an eccentric, was he mad, was he dangerous? Would he be
killed in his sleep tonight?
When they had eaten, Yldich stretched his heavy
limbs and sighed. He arranged his blanket around his large frame moving
slowly and carefully, as if he was aware of the younger man’s
misgivings.
‘Have you ever heard the tale of Rabbit and
the king of the Pixies?’ he said. Rom gazed at him through the fire.
He shook his head.
‘One
day, Rabbit was running from his enemies. He was making his way through
the Forest, chased by teeth, nails and fangs, and because he had no
means to defend himself, all he could do was run. It was dusk, that
magical time between night and day, and he was still running, and
getting really tired when he crossed the border of the land of the
Pixies.
As it happens, the King of the Pixies was
having a Feast. All the woodland folk were there: beautiful deer with
antlers, adorned with field flowers, field mice with little gems tucked
behind their ears, and lots of Pixies having a good time.
‘Welcome,’ said the King of the Pixies. He
was the most magnificent of all creatures present. His coat was made of
precious stones and he had a wreath of delicate night-blooming flowers
in his hair. His eyes were as bright as peacock feathers. He looked at
Rabbit, who was still panting from being chased through the Forest all
day and all night. ‘Well met, young man,’ he said, giving a little
burp, because he was slightly tipsy from the elderberry wine. ‘Please
join us in our merry-making, and know that if your heart desires
anything tonight, if I can give it to you, you shall have it.’ Being
slightly drunk made him generous.
Rabbit thought for a while. He was really tired
of being chased. He said: ‘Your Magnificence, if it’s not too much
trouble...’
‘Not at all,’ the King of the Pixies said
without hearing him out. ‘Tell us what you would have, and I will see
to it that it shall be so.’
‘I would like to be safe from my enemies,’
Rabbit said. ‘I would like to have a coat of armour, and sharp teeth
to defend myself with, and sharp nails to hurt my enemies with.’
‘Eh?’ The King said, being temporarily
distracted by an attractive pixy lady passing by. ‘Very well,’ he
said. ‘Let it be so!’ He waved his hand, and spoke a secret spell.
And in no time at all, Rabbit was transformed.
Rabbit felt it instantly. For one thing, he was
much taller than he used to be. He was heavier too. His hide had become
thick with scales, from the tip of his nose to the tip of his little
tail. His claws had grown to the length of small swords, and they were
very sharp. His teeth had grown to the length of fangs. Rabbit was very
pleased.
‘Now no-one will bother me ever again,’ he
thought. ‘Now I will be safe from all my enemies.’ He thanked the
King of the Pixies extensively, and went on his way again.
He strode through the Forest, feeling big and
strong. A large forest cat had followed his Rabbit-smell to the border
of the land of the woodland Pixies. When Rabbit came out, she picked up
on his trail again.
‘Ah,’ she thought, ‘here’s that little
bunny-smell again. I will have a good meal of him tonight,’ when she
bumped into Rabbit’s transformed self. Her big yellow eyes went wide.
She screeched, and all the hair on her back stood on end. The forest cat
turned her tail on him as fast as she could, flashing it in front of
Rabbit’s nose. It was three times as big as it had been. That was the
last he saw of her.
Rabbit was very satisfied with the effect of
his transformation. He walked home, much at ease and taking his time.
Who could bother him now? He hummed as he approached the rabbit hole
were he lived with his wife and children.
‘I’m home, dear,’ he sang, but there was
something odd about his voice. ‘Must be my improved girth,’ Rabbit
thought. Mrs. Rabbit came out, and the little rabbit-children behind
her. Their eyes went wide when they saw Rabbit standing there, with his
scales, his fangs, and his nails. ‘I’m back, my love,’ Rabbit
began. ‘And you wouldn’t believe what happened,’ but before he
could finish his sentence, Mrs. Rabbit whacked him on the head with a
large stick. The little rabbits shrieked and fled down the hole.
‘Get away from us, you monster!’ Mrs.
Rabbit used the stick in an honest attempt to bash his head in.
‘No, no, wait, it’s me, let me explain!’
Rabbit tried to shield his head from the resounding blows. Mrs. Rabbit
had a good aim. But the words came out all slurred around the heavy
fangs that now occupied his mouth and he didn’t recognize his own
voice.
‘Get you gone,’ Mrs. Rabbit cried, and
after one more painful blow, Rabbit fled.
He
walked through the Forest, feeling wretched and alone. After a time, he
became hungry. He thought: ‘I’ll feel better when I’ve had a bite
to eat. Then I’ll go back to my wife, and explain it all,’ and he
went searching for something to eat. He tried to nibble the grass, but
his fangs got in the way. He tried to dig out some roots, but he hurt
himself with his is long, sharp nails. He tried for a long time to find
something he could eat, but it was of no use. After a while, he became
thirsty.
‘I’ll have some water, first,’ he said to
himself, and he went to the edge of the small forest lake. He was so
tired and hungry; he dropped to the ground at the water’s edge, as he
moved his head to the water. But he was not used to the heavy bulk of
his armoured body, and he toppled over into it. Rabbit fell into the
water, and he couldn’t swim, not with the long nails and the heavy
scales on his body...so he sank, the water closing above his head, and
he drowned, and that was the end of Rabbit and the gift of the King of
the Woodland Pixies.’
After
Yldich had finished the story, he fell silent.
‘So...what does it mean?’ Rom said.
‘Mean? Well, with my people, to find meaning
in a story is left to the discretion of the listener.’ Yldich chuckled
softly. Rom stared into the glow of the dying fire, his brows knit. He
didn’t like riddles. He was about to ask Yldich another question, when
he became aware of a soft snoring sound. The man had fallen soundly
asleep.
The next morning, Rom woke up with a start. The
sun had been up for a couple of hours at least. Despite all his
intentions to be wary and keep an eye on his companion, he had slept
through the night, deeply and without waking once. He cursed himself
softly and looked about. Yldich and the horses were gone.
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