A Song of Sorrow, Ch.1 Endings P1, REVISED

A little whiles back I posted the older version of this. Here is the shiny new revised version. Ta da! Comments welcome :)

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She wandered forth, down the path. A rough beaten track, forged by the passing of generations. Her soft calve skin boots, although protecting her from the more virile nettles and grasses, did not dull the sensation of small stones, twigs and packed earth that lay beneath her feet. Rather than be deterred by this she welcomed these intimacies, curling her toes into each step, only to spring forth, wild giggles eddying in her wake.

The path meandered through a winding corridor formed of blackberry brambles grown thick and high. A few fruit remained, dry and shrivelled, refusing to give up their safe harbour amongst the thorns. The harbour which had protected them from clever, prying beaks and eager purple stained fingers. She carried a long yew stick using it as a switch to thrash and whip causing brittle stems to break, casting the last of the summer seeds into the strong autumnal breeze. To her they seemed like fairies, skirling and twirling, leading her ever on.

There, somewhere in the rambling thicket, came a noise. She paused, poised still, breath caught. A scratching interrupted the susurrus of the wind , then a crashing, breaking rushing. For a moment she considered turning back, images of strange creatures cavorting in her mind.

She hesitated, foot held above the earth, should she go forward or back? Llew would never let her live it down if she came back empty handed. With a pounce and twirl she carried on her way. What fae could possibly harm her when she was so fey herself?

Just in case she renewed her thrashing, like the fearsome knights in the training yard. Llew thought he was so tough, so brave playing with the others. She didn’t care, she thought they looked silly running round with no shirts on, waving sticks around. If she wanted to play games she would simply run with the keep children. They had dogs as well. Big, smelly, slathering dogs.

The narrow vision of the corridor was thrown open, the path continuing its sinuous way, downwards, through rolling greens, into the King’s Wood. The trees bedecked with fiery leaves. Deep green of evergreens contrasting with bright reds, vibrant golds, crisp golden yellow, deepest purple. Bark slick with resin framed by slim, silvery birch, peeling back to reveal its black core. Over the patchwork canopy loomed the sky, fat rain clouds heading to sea, charcoal grey and indigo. The setting sun bringing out unknown colours, painting the sky a brilliant flaring orange, as if it’s dying had bled fiery ichors across the heavens.

The world seemed caught in the apex of its season. Autumn it declared with it’s molten hues, spilling radiance with it’s last breath.

She stood in silence, for an unknown time, the wind moulding her cloak against her back, skirts tugging about her knees, red curls flying as if seeking to merge with that burnt splendour.

Her mind was still, absorbent, within her a heart an almost painful lifting. The earth seemed to thrum beneath her feet, a ponderous heartbeat, pulsing with her own blood, at once exhilarating and calming.

Upon the wild winds a scent lingered, spicy and earthy. She let it pick her up, carry her forward. Into the green she descended, following the path into the woods… upon the edge she hesitated, glancing back. Dark would descend soon, she must be quick.

She knew where the rowan copse lay, it was not far. In her mind she was the heroine of a story, her destination clear. She must not veer off the path, or some snarling beast or pointy toothed goblin would soon gobble her up. If Llew thought she was afraid, well, she’d show him. She thought back to his gloating face, daring her to enter the woods to gather for her masque, knowing as everyone knew that the old places were favourite haunts.

But she was not afraid, she told the butterflies in her stomach. Not only would she enter the woods but she would fashion a masque of rowan leaves and berries, bound with ivy and mistletoe, all the better to see truly, invoking protection and wisdom. She wanted to see!

The woodland opened up to reveal the copse. A wood within a wood, the berries bright beads of red in the gloom, the fanfare of leaves riotous in their gold and red glory, the ancient boles knarled in repose.

She began to gather, casting her eye over the bounty, searching for the best leaves, perfect in their sequence, of all the varying colours. Slender fingers plucked up the round berries, like drops of blood, vibrant sprigs. Her perception narrowed, her awareness solely on her task, pleasure growing with each perfect specimen collected. Deeper into the copse she ventured when into her reverie slowly sank the awareness of a voice. Soft and sibilant it seeped through the boughs, quiet and drifting. It was no language she recognized.

Curiosity piqued, she rose from amidst the ferns and bracken. She felt no fear from the unknown voice. Lower branches sought to grace her hair and shoulders with caresses, seeming to coax her into their heart. Within she glimpsed a movement; colours leeched from her surroundings, the shadows darker in the presence of some pearlescent glow.

When hidden by a single branch she ceased her movement, hands resting against the bole of an ancient tree, surely the largest of them all. The scent of the bark surrounded her, reminiscent of the lingering spice earlier, beneath the spreading canopy lay a secret cavern. A living latticework holding the smouldering sky at bay. Within stood a white stag, every line a grace, silvered antlers tall and forked. His breath billowing mist, lambent eyes resting on the bent form of an old woman. She stooped, covered in dark wool, the hood of her cloak creating a shadowed recess; with a turn of her head she revealed a glimpse of her craggy, deeply lined countenance. One hand curled around a tall knobbled staff, its end firmly plunged into the loaming, the other emerged from within the voluminous folds of her clothing. Emerged with a crooked finger, beckoning.

Her heart seemed to stilled, the silence to press against her; in waiting. Should she answer the call or flee? Flee to the bonfires and press of humanity, flee to the safety of all she had ever known?

Her hand dropped from the bole and she stepped way from its shelter, revealing herself in full. Chin raised high she met that knowing gaze. The stag grandly paced forward. Each hoof placed with a dainty precision, the muscles beneath that glowing hide rippling with each step. Stopping before her, he bent his noble neck to snuffle at her face, her hair floating in his warm breath. Above, a full moon was cupped by arcing horns.

Enchanted she dared raise her hand, slowly reaching up a pale finger to alight upon his silken pelt. As her hand stroked surely down his neck it seemed to her that there was a flash of amusement in those dark eyes, and, with a snort he spun and antlered through the trees, his luminescence swallowed by the gloom.

A cackle split the night air, the old woman looked upon her with merry eyes.

“”Come, child, will you no greet me?

Looking into her face she saw something that reminded her of her bond father…thinking it prudent to show respect, she folded neatly into a curtsy.

Again that cackle, like wood splitting in the freezing snow, or the bark of a rook.

“So the little spy does have manners, eh? And what, pray tell, is a wee lass like yeself doing wandering the woods on Samhain nact?”

Meredith was aware of her precipitous position. Unconsciously she chewed her lower lip, thinking fast on what to say. She’d never seen this woman before, she couldn’t know who she was. Could she just pretend to be some peasant girl, lost her way? Something about her heavy presence , the same thing that demanded respect, told her it would be pointless to lie. With a shuffle of her feet the words poured forth.

“Lady, I had no intention of spying on you! How would I know you’d be here? See, I came to gather these for my masque, Llew, he said that girls aren’t brave, he dared me I wouldn’t come here tonight. So, see, I had to come, coz’ I am not scared, and I want to see them! Tonight I’m going to-”

“ Hush child, you do be babbling. Tis’ does seem clear to me ye be truthful, and bold!”

Meredith closed her mouth, pursuing the crones amused expression. She had not expected to be found amusing. Mostly grownups seemed annoyed by her presence, forever sending her on her way or scolding her. For simply being.

“ Let me see what ye have gathered girl, I’ll fashion a masque to leave all others gasping, that I will.”

The crone slowly lowered herself onto a grassy hummock, with much sighing and grunting, patting a spot by her knee. Meredith knelt to arrange her trove before them both. The crone quickly plucked up a few larger, supple boughs, twisting and weaving, placing the leaves and berries just so. Her fingers surprisingly dextrous and nimble.

“Girl, ‘ave ye a tie?”

Meredith dug through her pockets, pulling out a leather thong. She removed a sticky honey drop with a bashful flick of her eyelashes, hastily wiping it off on her skirts before she placed it upon the crones knee.

“Green, eh? Not the best colour but it’ll do, aye, it’ll do.”

She worked the thong into the weave, seeming already to know the measurements needed.

“What’s wrong with green? I like it, its my favourite colour, I thought it would work well.” Her tooth making a painful indent of the soft flesh of her lip.

“Ach don’t sulk. As I said, green’ll do. Sometimes a colour can help focus intent, or denote meaning. Green is for healing, obviously, green, green things a growing, cures and potions. And poisons too…Do they teach you nuthin’ in that grand castle o’ yours? Lean forward.”

She obeyed, holding her unruly curls back from her eyes.

“Of course they teach me, if I don’t run off that is. Yes, I know green is for healing, it’s why them healers wear green, right? It’s not hard. But then I thought rowan is really powerful, right? Isn’t that stronger than a colour? And isn’t letting me see truly like a healing? I mean, if I couldn’t see properly before, isn’t that like an ailment? And so, this is like a healing.”

She sat back on her heels, gazing through the masque, red and gold fringing her peripheral vision. The crone seemed enthroned by the vast tree, its roots rising up and curling round her, merging with her skirts. Some trick of the twilight revealing half her face in soft light, the other lost to shadows. Yet both dark eyes were clearly set on Meradith and the shadows could not hide her expression. Dark knowledge and a shifting sense of hope. In that moment the crone appeared both far older, and far younger than Meredith had imagined. The moment grew heavier, reaching out, new paths and possibilities stretching forth, all encompassed in that contemplative gaze. The crone turned her head, settling her deep hood in consideration, her face lost to darkness. A smile playing about her lined lips as she turned fully into the half light.

“You have an interest in such things, eh, child? A keen mind too, when you’re not rambling on. Help me up, these bones need a warm fire to settle next to. And no doubt the dancing’s calling to young feet such as your own. Let us be way from this place, t’night tis for others to make merry in.”

The crone placed a gnarled hand upon her shoulder, huffing as Meradith helped her to her feet. She planted her stick firmly in the ground with each step, so that they created a rhythm as they made their way through the darkling woods. Twilight had deepened, shrouding the trees to form strange shapes. The shadows pierced by subdued splashes of light, glowing fungus climbing trees like phosphorescent steps. Strangely they never once stumbled, never found a stray rock or root to trip blind feet. It was almost as if the woods themselves gently guided them out.

Had she been alone she would probably have ran home, just in case some boggle was laying in wait. But walking beside the crone, stoic and calm, it was impossible to be afraid. In the dark the sounds of the night washed over her; ravens barking as they came to roost and told one another of their day, the sweet song of some night bird carried by gentle passing of the wind over the burble of an unseen brook. Anchored by their own steady footsteps.

They came to the edge of the woods and ascended the rolling greens. Behind them the last remnants of the sun lay in thick bands of purple above the tree line, hints of green giving way to the deep velvet blue, and finally endless back, lit with the cold fire of the stars. The woods themselves were a solid wall of shadow, their tips moving as if the surface of some vast lake, faint glimmerings of dancing lights in its depths. For a moment the distant song of the night bird sounded like the sweet, haunting voice of a woman.

Again she entered the thorn corridor. Here the darkness was deep, almost palatable, the white stones gleaming against such nullity. . . For awhile they walked through the burgeoning dark. The moon rose higher overhead, beams framing the darkness rather than dispelling. Into this lull the crone’s voice dropped like a stone to a well.

“ I would make ye an offer, child. It seems to me ye be of quick wit and a keen interest in the arts of herbal lore. It so happens that I do be knowing something o’ tha subject, and tha I’ve a firm hand. I’ve also an inkling ye need one of those. Firm but fair, mind ye. My offer would be t’ meet wit’ ye on occasion and share what I know.”

Meredith looked askance at her. Firm? That didn’t sound very good. But then the crone had listened to her, had spoke to her like an actual person. And she did want to know, to understand.

“Why? Why would you want to?”

“Because I’m an old woman.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Tha’s all the answer ye’ll be havin’, child.”

Guess that’s the firm, she thought to herself, and mysterious. She did wonder who this crone was. She was fairly familiar with the keep folk yet had never seen, nor heard of her before. She had a feeling that she was someone who would be notorious. Someone who would not appreciate prying questions. There would be a price. She had seen clearly that there was always a price. Yet what harm could come of it? Surely learning how to heal could only benefit the kingdom she was part of. The ramifications were unclear to her young mind, but she could see no bad, only something that she could finally have as her own, something worthwhile.

“I would be honoured if you would teach me, Mistress.”

The crone searched Meredith’s face, though for what Meredith was not sure. The intensity of it made her want to squirm or look away, but she held her ground, letting her see whatever it was she was looking for. A smile broke out over the crone’s face, her wrinkles deepening around her smile and merry eyes. She reached out a hand to smooth away a wind tousled curl.

“ My name is Cerid Wren, child, seems you ought to know it now.”

“Pleased to meet you Mistress Wren. My name is Meredith.”

“I know tha, child. I’ll be leaving ye here. Meet me again in t’ rowan copse when t’ first frost do be arriving, I have business to be about till then. You are too keep this t’ yeself, mind. It’s best for now if its just you and I. And call me Cerid, child, ‘Mistress Wren’ makes me feel old.”

“But….”

Chortling the crone turned and headed towards the Townsway. The darkness swallowed her hunched form, the thump, thump of her stick growing fainter.