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The
King Sword
Chapter
1 – The Watcher on the Hill
"Wake up boy!". He snapped awake with
a start - only a dream - the old man wasn't
really there.... No Koval the scholar, no
lessons - the drowsy day was entirely his, after
all.
Even the clouds were lazy today – making their
unhurried way across the vast blue plain of sky
above him. Yet there was no wind, no breeze –
not a breath. As if to verify this observation
he licked a none too clean forefinger and held
it to the sky. Nothing – not a whisper of wind
in the mesmeric heat of the day. So if there was
no wind, then how were the clouds moving? What
pushed them on their gentle, fleecy way if not
the wind? Maybe there was a breath of breeze up
there even if there were none down here. But how
far was “up there” and just how much breeze
did it take to push a cloud? Come to that, how
much did a cloud weigh? Come to that – how do
you weigh a cloud……?
But, as is the way of a fourteen year old mind,
this throng of questions that tried to elbow
their way to the forefront of his mind, that
flashed and shimmered into his thoughts like
mirrored fish in a pool, that seemed so
ponderous and so important for a brief second
were soon forgotten to be replaced by other
fleeting fancies that were equally momentous
during their brief lives. It was not that he was
slow or lacked attention – his mind was that
of a young boy with few responsibilities, even
fewer ties and a lot of unoccupied time. After
all, the tasks he was required to do for his
uncle were hardly demanding and gave him many
pleasant and dreamy hours of summer daydreams
when he pondered the marvels and the mysteries
of the world. That he came to no conclusions and
found no answers worried him not in the
slightest – he was still young enough to be
confident that one day all the workings of
existence would be laid open before him.
That’s what it was to be a man.
A soft, snuffling bleat broke into his reverie.
One eye ventured to open, recoiled momentarily
against the needles of light that stabbed into
his lassitude then up came a grubby fist to rub
away the last vestiges of his dreamtime. He
pushed himself up onto his elbows, blinked as
his eyes adjusted to the dazzling insistence of
the early afternoon sun and sighed regretfully
that all was as it had been before he lay down
some two hours earlier. He was still on the
gentle side of his favourite hill –
Watcher’s Hill he called it – in the half
shadow of a mossy rock that stuck out from the
spongy ground like an encrusted tooth. He knew
where it had come from – his former
explorations had told him that the greenish-grey
fleck of the rock was very different from the
other, smaller lumps of stone that lay scattered
about. But it was exactly the same as the other
weathered outcrops that he knew were to be found
on the small level place at the top of
Watcher’s Hill – the seven misshapen !
forms that described an indisputable circle- a
circle from the arc of whose symmetry one piece
was missing. How or when this errant boulder had
made its way half way down the side of the hill
one could only guess. But the stones of the
raddled circle – which he knew was called
Watcher’s Crown- gave every indication of
design and purpose and not the random placing of
accident. He remembered the name well because he
had decided to call the place Watcher’s Hill
before he knew that the ragged ornament that
topped it was called Watcher’s Crown. The
thinking of his young mind was typically direct
and purposeful – it was a hill where he sat
and watched – so what else could it be called?
A damp nuzzling in his ear broke the spell –
the damp and earthy smell of goat brought him
back to himself. Lazily he looked around at his
flock of charges and from force of habit did a
rapid count to make sure they were all accounted
for. Seven varicoloured heads lifted at his
call, seven pairs of soulless eyes stared with
no apparent interest at where he sat. Yes- they
were all there. Time to head home soon before
evening set in. Watcher’s Hill was not the
place to be caught as the sun was going down if
half the stories he had heard were true. In one
way he wanted to believe them, in another way he
was almost sure they were only tales for
children to frighten them into obedience or
silence. Almost sure… Of course, he was no
longer a child and, he told himself, the terrors
of childhood imaginings had been left far
behind. Still, he had better head for home soon
– he didn’t want his mother to worry and the
goats had to be bedded down for the night. So
there were many safe and comfortably adult
reasons for not lingering.
His name was Doran and he felt his life to be
beautifully uncomplicated. No longer a child –
not quite a man- a limbo land which for others
seemed to be awkward and uncomfortable. But he
felt warmly sure of his place in the world –
in his world. He lived in the village of Oakvale,
some three miles distant, with his mother, Laran
and his uncle Dareth. However long and deep he
had searched the recesses of his memory there
was no image of his father. He must have had one
– he knew enough of the ways of the world to
be sure of that. But for some reason which he
could not grasp, the lack of both the presence
and the memory of his father did not distress
him. When they were younger, his friend Modrun
had tried in the cruel ways of children to make
an issue of Doran’s lack of a father. But the
lack of any reaction or annoyance soon bored
Modrun and his magpie mind had quickly flitted
off to some new distraction where he felt there
was greater potential for mischief. Indeed
Modrun was the source of most of the stories he
had heard about Watcher’s Hill and did not
seem to comprehend or attach any importance to
the huge inconsistencies that his tales
encompassed. But this is the strength of a mind
that can only hold one idea at a time – while
trying to impress Doran with some unnecessarily
bloody account of the supposed history of the
hill and its stones Modrun would flatly
contradict the version of events he had narrated
not half an hour earlier. Although he was
younger than Doran by two years – which at
that age is a passport to manhood – still
Doran was fascinated: not by his younger
friend’s need to lie so consistently but by
the fact that he did it so badly! Surely,
thought Doran, anyone who bent the truth that
much and that often should be better at it by
now!
To many it may have seemed strange that they had
become friends for they were different in so
many ways. Modrun was small even for his age,
wiry, sharp and alert. His look was dark –
raven hair even to the blue shadows when it
caught the light, his skin the colour of dark,
fresh honey even in the damp days of winter.
Doran was tall for his years but lacked the
loose-limbed awkwardness common to his age. And
his colouring was fair – from the feathery
tawniness of his hair which was as straight as
an arrow, to the paleness of his skin untouched
even by the sun-drenched days of summer when he
was out on the meadows and hills with the goats
that were his ever present companions.
But the days of sun and long dreamy hours were
rapidly passing which brought a fleeting flicker
of sadness as Doran thought of the short, gloomy
days and interminable evenings that lay ahead.
He was so much a creature of the open skies and
the wild places that the cage of winter always
lay heavy upon him as it drew ever closer with
its slow and icy fingers. Of course they still
found plenty for him to do but the long grey
hours hung heavy upon him and his chores seemed
even more tedious and pointless than usual. He
knew they had to be done but that was no reason
to actually enjoy them! By his reckoning there
were about two more weeks of bringing his small
flock to the hills and the high pastures where
he could dream away his days and idly watch his
contented charges. He spent so much of his
summer days with them that he came to know them
all and their different ways. To his uncle they
were just money on the hoof or food on the table
but he didn’t spend hours every day watching
over them, chiding them and, on occasions,
rescuing them. When it came time for one of them
to be slaughtered – either for their own table
or to raise funds for their other needs – it
was always a time he dreaded. His uncle had
asked him more than once to help but he knew he
could not do it. Doran was not squeamish – any
lad from a small farming village knew that
animals were not bred and cared for as pets or
companions but that did not make it any easier.
The day after one of their number was
dispatched, the surviving goats eyed Doran with
what he swore was suspicion and blame – he
knew that was absurd but he avoided their
pitiless eyes for some days after one of their
herd mates met his end.
The seven creatures he had in his charge at the
moment he had given names – his uncle Dareth
heard one day as he called to them but instead
of being angry or contemptuous as the boy might
have expected, his uncle laughed until he wept
which in some ways was even worse. Doran could
not be sure if his uncle was laughing with him
at what he saw as the lad’s idiosyncrasy or at
him for what he thought was sentimental
stupidity. The undoubted leader of the herd was
Lorcas – a cantankerous, foul tempered old ram
goat named after an elderly woman in the village
to whom he bore a remarkable resemblance both in
face and character. His coat was dirty white
with a splattering of dark brown blotches and
his eyes were a startling silvery grey in
colour. His main consort and undisputed leader
of the female contingent in the herd was
Marjoram as this fragrant herb was her favourite
food and grew wild and abundant on the nearby
hills. She was delicate of frame and her coat
was white almost to blueness. The two minor
wives were Dancer – who always walked
delicately as though she were about to tread in
something unpleasant- and Strawhead – the most
unkempt beast Doran had ever known who seemed to
acquire a whole range of additions to her coat -
straw, weeds, grasses - so that by day’s end
her adornments were a veritable catalogue of
their travels. The last and junior members of
the entourage were the three young goats, all
born within the last year. There was Dreamer –
daughter of Lorcas by a former consort who had
since been slaughtered - who spent all her days
staring off into space as though pondering the
mysteries of life and the cosmos. Next was
Springer – son of Marjoram – who bounced and
leaped about with such single minded vivacity
that Doran was sure that somewhere in his
ancestry lurked the traces of one of the wild,
elusive goats they sometimes saw in the farther
hills. Last and youngest was Runt – the
daughter of Strawhead- who was thought dead at
birth and had only been saved from a swift fate
at the hands of uncle Dareth by Doran’s
pleading and swearing that he would look after
her and protect her. Runt’s mother had
rejected her so Doran had more on this hands
than he had contemplated – sitting up every
night in those early months to feed the scrawny
young creature or to coax her through one
illness after another. But now she was as strong
as the other kids – albeit smaller and more
delicate – and she watched Doran constantly
and never strayed far from him. After all he was
her mother as far as she was concerned. She it
was who had nuzzled him a few minutes before to
assure herself that all was well and once
satisfied this was so, she was now feeding as
enthusiastically as all her herdmates.
But he would have to head back soon. He shaded
his eyes to see how low the sun hung down to the
horizon. About three hours to sunset. The
village was just under an hour’s walk –
allowing for the speed he could make with the
goats in tow, watching for any strays, cajoling
them to keep moving, trying to curb their
endless curiosity and need to investigate
everything they came across on the way. No need
to rush yet. If he got back too soon before the
evening meal he was sure that his mother or
uncle would find him something mysteriously
urgent that needed doing.
Their philosophy seemed to be that at his age
every moment had to be filled with what they
judged to be useful employment or some boyish
mischief would be sure to suggest itself and
just as surely be acted on. The thought of the
evening meal reminded Doran just how hungry he
was so he reached round to the worn leather
pouch at his belt to see if any of the food that
he had packed for the day’s herding still
remained. A fragment of cheese about the size of
his thumb…a scrap of bread which had been none
too fresh this morning…two mouthfuls of
watered wine in his flagon…it would have to do
until he could sit down in the warm, steamy and
comforting low-beamed kitchen where his mother
worked daily miracles, producing culinary
wonders from the simplest of fare. Well, in that
case he might head back a bit earlier and risk
an extra chore or two. He lightly brushed the
last crumbs of his remnants of food from the
front of his brown tunic fashioned from his
mother’s homespun, hitched his rope belt tight
and made ready to leave.
Runt was near at hand as ever, watching him
steadily. He went down on one knee just below
the fallen stone from Watcher’s Crown and
called the kid to him. With adoring confidence,
Runt came to him and nuzzled into his waiting
hand and let out her customary chirrup of
contentment which Doran always described as her
purr to his uncle’s amusement. Runt lifted her
honey coloured head to be scratched under the
chin as usual. Doran petted her, clicked to her
in the private language he had with his charges
then stopped still….. In the silvery depths of
the young goat’s eyes he saw something that
should not be there. He could see the roundly
distorted shape of his own face that made him
look comically fat, he could see the hazy brown
reflection of his shoulder but there, over his
shoulder was… a fleck of golden light that
danced and shimmered like an ember mirrored in
water. From where it was placed above his
shoulder he knew this play of light must come
from the fallen stone and as he looked the
golden glimmer blinked once, like a disembodied
eye, blazed in a moment of brightness and was
gone.
Doran was not a timid boy – in fact his mother
and uncle had often had words with him about
taking what they considered foolhardy risks. And
in his jaunts and games with Modrun he was
always the one who took the lead and pressed
their ventures that bit further, that bit
higher, as if to test his own limits. But at
this moment he decided, in a moment as quick as
thought, that heading home as rapidly and as
directly as possible seemed a very attractive
idea. He shouted to his herd – at which they
looked up in mute surprise at the sharpness in
his voice- and was off down the shoulder of
Watcher’s Hill as quickly as he muster them
together. The blue-green shadow of the fallen
stone seemed to follow him down the gnarled
flank of the outcrop as if reluctant to let him
go. Doran chivvied the goats and hurried them
along until they came onto the faint, pale path
that skirted the hills and marked his way to the
warmth and safety of home.
Watcher’s Hill was the last and lonely outpost
in a range of low and rocky outcrops that ran in
a ragged arc on Doran’s right as he trod his
familiar way along the dusty path. There were
six hills that flanked the way back to Oakvale
– Watcher’s Hill, Hunter’s Hill, Rimtop
Hill, Reaver’s Hill, Pilgrim’s Hill and Tarn
Hill. Four of these Doran was sure he knew the
origins of – though how far back these names
went he had no idea. Watcher’s Hill seemed
obvious to him – it was the last outcrop and
offered uninterrupted views all around of the
plain and woodland beyond. Hunter’s Hill in
summer was always infested with coneys and
ground squirrels – its grassy sides a carpet
of bobbing heads and twitching noses. Tarn Hill
had a small, mossy depression at its crown which
became a shallow pool for the few weeks when the
rains came day after day – but this green and
glassy eye in the crown of the last hill was
soon gone when the grey-bellied storm clouds had
sailed on their way for another year. Rimtop
Hill he had only climbed a few times but its
summit formed a bare, rocky basin that dipped
slightly in the middle, legacy of some forgotten
upheaval of the earth and stone beneath his
feet. But the names of the other two hills –
Reaver’s and Pilgrim’s – he had no idea
how these had come about and although he had on
a few occasions idly wondered why they were so
called, he had never been interested enough to
make any efforts to find out.
He nagged the goats along the path that wound
around the sides of the hills that looked darker
and steeper than usual. Doran knew that once he
had rounded the rocky shoulder of Tarn Hill he
was the best part of half way home and he strode
on, determined and straight backed. He made one
of those strange, boyish pacts with himself that
he would not look back until he had reached Tarn
Hill – if he did that then everything would be
as it should be and he could saunter the rest of
the way home at his normal pace and still be
back well before sundown. But as he drew near to
the foot of Pilgrim’s Hill he almost stumbled
as Runt let out a sudden bleat and ran between
his feet. The young goat turned and stopped on
the road directly in front of him and looked
back beyond him to the way they had come. Doran
muttered to the kid and tried to pass but Runt
sidestepped and put herself directly in his path
again, her silver eyes staring back beyond him.
He turned – despite his private pact - and
looked back along the line of hills. The sun had
lowered down towards the wooded, western horizon
and the dim, purple bank of nightcloud loomed
low down in the east. The strange and unreal
half light of early evening was beginning to
muster when a golden spark flashed out from the
near side of Watcher’s Hill, hung there for an
eyeblink and was gone.
After he had rounded the foot of Tarn Hill that
was now falling into lengthening shadow, the top
of Watcher’s Hill was lost from sight. Doran
felt foolish at what now seemed like childish
flight from what had probably only been the late
sun glinting off a fragment of rock. He knew
from his many visits to the flanks of
Watcher’s Hill that it was littered with
shards of broken stone and flint and any one of
these could explain the flash of golden light
that he had seen. That must be what had caused
it. But something in this convenient explanation
still did not seem right. He crouched down where
he stood and drew a rough map in the dirt at his
feet. Runt, thinking she was missing out on
something, came trotting up and sniffed at the
lines he was scratching into the ground, looked
up at him, apparently mystified and then
wandered back to her grazing herdmates. Doran
sketched in the six hills, the path where he now
stood that skirted Tarn Hill and led straight
into the shallow vall!
ey that led back to Oakvale….. something was
missing…yes, the sun. He jabbed a grubby thumb
into the soil to represent where the sun now
stood, frowned in concentration as he tried to
work out where the light would have been when he
saw whatever it was that had flashed twice on
the side of Watcher’s Hill. It was all wrong
– where the sun had been when he saw the
golden spark it couldn’t possibly have been
the late sunlight glinting on rock or flint or
anything else on the side of the distant mound.
Doran would be the first to admit that he was no
scholar and often wished that he had paid closer
attention to old Koval during the years when he
had reluctantly crept each day to the old,
dilapidated house at the end of the village
where the old man ran what was the nearest the
village had to a school. Doran had stopped going
to classes last year as the demands of the
family and the goats took more and more of his
time but from the chats he had with Modrun –
who was still a pupil of Koval’s – the old
man was just as odd and if anything his temper
had got even worse!
But from what little Doran could remember from
all the charts, parchments and diagrams with
which Koval had baffled him on the subject of
the heavens and the laws that governed them, the
comforting explanation he had concocted was not
physically possible.
“The sun was there – well roughly anyway –
and I was sitting there and then when we were
walking back I would have been facing that
way….. It just doesn’t make sense! What does
it matter anyway? I’m just making something
out of nothing again. Let’s get home before
it’s dark…”
He scuffed his battered leather sandals into the
dirt where he had been drawing to erase his
calculations and set off down the valley path
towards home in the deepening dusk. Calling the
goats to him, the thought of food and rest, of
light and companionship seemed suddenly the most
desirable of things in the whole world.
Doran came over the low brow of the last rise
before he reached the edge of Oakvale and there,
sitting like some dark, quick eyed creature of
the woods, was Modrun. The younger boy was clad
in a dark russet tunic and dark, scuffed boots
– Doran knew that Modrun’s father had made
both as he made so much that was needed for the
folk of the village. As soon as he saw Doran and
the herd of goats, Modrun was on his feet and
running towards them. Modrun seemed to run
everywhere whether speed was essential or not
– but that was all of a piece with his way of
talking as though every breath were his last and
words had to be fired out like arrows for fear
of missing their target.
“You’re back early – it isn’t even dark
yet. I wasn’t expecting you this soon – is
everything all right? You’re looking a bit
pale – are you not feeling well? You ought to
get home and get the goats bedded down – these
late summer nights can be cold and it gets into
their bones, you know. If they get the cold into
them when the sun hits them the next day they
just melt like an icicle and I’m sure you
wouldn’t want that to happen….”
Doran held up his hand – it was the only way
he had found to stop the younger boy in mid
flight and although this had been a very modest
outburst by Modrun’s standards, Doran was not
in the mood to listen to an endless tumble of
the boy’s disconnected thoughts. He knew what
he thought best to do and had decided to say
nothing to Modrun about the earlier events up on
Watcher’s Hill. It was not that he didn’t
trust him – in fact, he understood so little
himself about what had happened that he was not
even sure that it was a matter of trust. All he
felt sure of was that at the moment – and he
couldn’t say why- he wanted as few people as
possible to know about what worried him. He had
known Modrun since infancy and counted him his
closest friend in the village but he was only
too familiar with the way that the younger
boy’s tongue ran away with itself. He loved
Modrun like a younger brother – though he
would never have described his feelings in those
words- but he would never trust him with a
secret. It was not that Modrun was untrustworthy
– he was so open and lacking in deceit that he
would tell anyone anything.
“Modrun – have you seen Koval around
today?” asked Doran
“Of course not!” chirped the younger boy.
“Oh, but of course you wouldn’t know would
you because you were not here earlier today-
you’d already taken the goats out to graze. I
can’t remember exactly what time it was he
came round to our house but I’m sure you had
already left for the day…”
Doran’s hand again silenced him.
“Why do you say of course?” asked Doran
“Because he left the village this
morning….”
“Do you know where he has gone?”
“Of course-I spoke to him as he was
leaving,” said Modrun.
“So where has he gone?”
“To Mistedown – he will be back tomorrow, so
he said. But of course he didn’t tell me why
he was going so if you were wondering that I
can’t tell you. I could probably find out if
you really need to know – is it important?”
“I have to see him,” said Doran, quietly.
“I don’t know if I can wait till
tomorrow…”
“Well, you’ll have to,” chirped Modrun,
“unless you mean to follow him to Mistledown
and I don’t think your mother and uncle would
be too pleased about that, with it getting dark
and all. It’s a good two hours journey on foot
and anyway he will back tomorrow. Surely it can
wait till then… whatever it is.”
“I suppose it will have to,” muttered Doran.
“And it’s no good dropping hints, Modrun,
I’m not telling. At least not until I’ve had
a chance to talk to Koval.”
“Well that’s up to you.” The younger boy
frowned sullenly. “If you don’t trust
me…”
“You know that’s not true. I just don’t
want to involve you – or anyone else- in
something I don’t understand.”
Modrun shrugged his narrow shoulders, brushed
off the grass and leaves that had snagged on his
tunic and stretched his tanned arms.
“I must get home,” said the dark-eyed lad.
“It is time to eat.”
“Me too.”
Modrun set off slowly down the dirt road to the
village while Doran called the goats to him.
“Modrun,” called Doran. “If it goes all
right when I talk to Koval, I will tell you all
about it. I promise.”
The younger boy shrugged again without turning
back, held up his hand in silent parting and was
gone.
It was getting well on towards evening now and
Doran started to think longingly of warmth,
comfort and his evening meal. When he was
younger and sat in the seemingly everlasting
classes over which Koval presided for the
children and young people of the village, the
stories the old man had told of wild and distant
lands, of untrod paths and unseen seas, of
savage and terrifying creatures never seen in
the lands of the West – his young mind had
been fired with a passionate longing. A fierce
desire to see these places, to fight these
beasts and to find a name for himself. But at
this moment in the first pale chill of evening
he could think of nothing finer that a stroll
through the gentle and familiar streets of his
own village and a peaceful few hours in the
dreamlike warmth before his own hearth.
From habit, he called the foraging goats to him
as he made ready to set off down the main street
to the village centre. His charges looked up
from their various feeding places and ambled
over to him with no apparent sense of urgency.
He looked round and counted… Lorcas was making
his slow deliberate way from the edge of Tarn
Stream that traced its pebbled bedded course
beside the road that led into the heart of the
village. Here came Marjoram and Strawhead, over
there was Dancer, unable to resist a last nibble
on the late summer dock leaves that fringed the
lane. Doran scanned round the bushes and the low
trees and heard Dancer and Springer before he
saw them: then out they came, snuffling and
munching onto the road and look up at him
expectantly, doubtless looking forward as much
as he to a welcome meal and a warm bed.
But there were only six…. Lorcas,
Marjoram….Dancer….where was Runt? Doran
called again – the six goats near him looked
vaguely surprised then went back to their
browsing, apparently satisfied that the urgency
in his voice was not meant for them. Of little
Runt there was not a sign. The low, scrubby
bushes beside the track, the lusher, tender
grass beside the shallow stream, the yellowing,
late summer brush under the ash and oak trees
that crowded in about the narrow ribbon of the
path into the village – none of these held any
sign of the tiny, mottled figure of Runt.
Doran fought the rising panic bubbling in his
mind and decided as quick as thought what he
should do. He was not so worried about what his
mother and uncle would say if he got home both
late and one goat short – though he did not
relish the idea. But Runt held a very special
place in his affections and he banished the
growing image of the tiny creature that so
depended on him wandering the dark paths of the
wood with the glowing eye of every night
creature tracking him longingly.
“Stay here!” he shouted to the other six
goats who looked up at him with a vapid look of
supreme incomprehension. Apparently satisfied
that whatever had excited their keeper need not
interrupt their single minded feeding, down went
their heads in unison to crop the luscious,
stream fed grass.
Doran’s usual good sense seemed to desert him
as he ran into the thick woodland to left of the
road. Before he had gone twelve paces he was
into a new and threatening world – dark
skinned oaks crowded in about the few spaces
that the frantic, slow choking of growth had
left. These solid, moss mottled and heavyset
trees that gave the village its name were
unusually small for their kind – the oldest
and hoariest of them was no more than twenty
feet in height. But as though nature had
displaced the slow, remorseless push of their
growth, they were huge in girth, ponderous and
seemingly immovable as the thick, gnarled
fingers of their roots pried with an
irresistible grip. The boy stumbled and fought
through the infuriating tangle of twigs and
leaves, listening for a bleat or a call from
Runt, working his clawing way deeper into the
heart of the wood, ever further from the open
light of the road.
“Runt! Runt! I’m coming…..!”
With the startling suddenness of the first,
feeble sunbeam that breaks the horizon after a
sudden storm, that logical, sensible part of his
mind snapped out of the torpor of panic and
brought him to an abrupt, leaf churning halt.
How far had he come? What was he thinking of? He
had left six valuable animals to wander at will
to rush off in a moment of blind stupidity in
search of one tiny creature that could be
anywhere – he had no earthly idea why he had
rushed off in this absurd direction with no
evidence that his quarry had come this way. He
suddenly felt very foolish – he must think and
get back to the narrow road, get the other goats
safely home and then come back out in search of
the orphan – yes, that was a much better plan.
However, he now had to face the undeniable fact
that not only did he not know how far he had
stumbled into this wretched wood but with all
the twisting and weaving that the woody fingers
of the trees had forced upon him, Doran had not
the slightest clue as to the direction he should
take to get back onto the village road. He
looked up. What he had taken to be the
oppressive gloom of the implacable trees that
crowded in upon him was in fact the true
darkness of evening. Where he had expected to
see the late sun, he saw instead the early
stars. How long had he been in this trackless,
remorseless wood?
In the furthest corner of his eye a flicker of
light glimmered and was gone. Pale, golden
light.
Doran tried to think as sensibly and as quickly
as he could. Find Runt? Get back to the road?
See what that light was?
The hardly seen spark of gold drew him – it
was the only course he could take that gave even
the illusion of knowing where he was going. The
boy headed off at a more cautious pace in the
direction from which he thought the flash had
come. Slowly, carefully – it was getting
alarmingly dark now and down here between the
mossy, twisted trunks the distance he could see
ahead was only a few feet at most.
There it was again! A fragment of gold in the
darkness…..
He changed direction slightly to his left,
heading towards the elusive will o’the
wisp….
Clasping, clinging, twiggy fingers raked at him
and seemed intent on barring his way. A breath
of night wind sighed though the branches above
him, sounding like the death rattle of the day.
The woody claws of the trees stiffened as the
mournful cadence sighed around him. There was a
word on the wind… it must be his
imagination… no, he could hear a long, dying
sound echoing to nothing:
“Arad…..arad….”
It was gone.
The deep and utter silence snapped him from his
fear. He pushed and forced his way forward. It
seemed to him that the mute hostility of the
dark forms around him, the now black and crooked
shapes of the trees, held back, almost willing
him now to pass. To the boy’s sharpened
imagination, it seemed almost they were guiding
his steps.
A sound… a bleat… feeble but reassuringly
real.
It was Runt. He hurried on, calling and chirping
in the tones he used to call the goats to him.
Runt answered strongly – over to his left.
With a shocking abruptness the tangle of low
branches and late summer leaves parted before
him. Doran stepped cautiously into a small
clearing where the fading light seemed a little
stronger – the unseen moon must have climbed
high enough overhead to give this dim but
welcome glow to the glade. The boy stopped. His
breath caught in his tightened throat.
It was not the distant moon that lit the twilit
scene – there in the grass lay Runt, looking
up at Doran with a deep and fathomless light in
her eyes. And Runt shone with a flickering,
golden light. |
