Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound

Wild…untamable…free
fertile…evergreen The Seventh Kingdom…
The jewel beyond price
set in the laurel crowns
of King Olaf VIII…LeafFall his Queen…

Where
massive trees…
of oak…hawthorn…yew…
tower high into the sky
canopying the earth below
in tangled masses of leaves…branches
casting shadows cool…deep…dark.
Their gnarled trunks…roots
slashed…scarred
by the honing of…
ancient…new…
wild boar tusks.

Where
underneath…in cool…damp shade
mosses…ferns…ivy…mushrooms…
rhododendron thrive
in brash…unfettered profusion

Where
at night…in woodland clearings…
foxes…hares…white does
caper…dance
to the tune of wood-men’s pipes
and owls whisper the names
of incomers who pass
through its secret glades.

Where
bluebell paths wind past
bubbling springs…
deep rock pools and hollows…
secret lakes…enchanted tarns
that nourish sylvan glens…grottos
and
rocks thrust sharp elbows
through blood red clay.

Where…
trickster sunlight will-o-the wisps.
Coming…going…
appearing…disappearing
filling groves
with secrets…dreams.

Where…
badgers scuff…hedgehogs snore
and the rich…pungent…tang
of fertile earth…expiring leaves
permeates…lulls…exhilarates.

Torin doused the campfire twice, stirred the resulting mess, then buried it under sand, making good and sure no residue of fire remained. Having had one run-in with elven forest rangers he wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

The elves safeguarded their environment to the point of obsession, but having since learned of the threat they’d so long ago barely managed to sidestep, and having seen the Scourging Blight’s devastating work first-hand at Swan’s Rest, he understood their fanaticism.

His kit was packed and the campsite secured, so a final run to the pond to refill the canteen seemed all that was left to do before getting underway. Whistling under his breath he started down the slope. Leaning forward to dip the flask his weight shifted causing his foot to slip in the mud. To catch himself he made a grab for some reeds and in doing so startled the cat who had been patiently stalking a juicy toad. At all the commotion the amphibian hit the water with a plop and disappeared. The cat marched off, extremely disgruntled. With a rueful shrug Torin wiped his muddy hands and followed.

He’d been on both animals’ snit lists since taking leave of Swan’s Rest. He’d explained to them as best he could why it’d been necessary to leave in the dead of night, without saying farewell to their host and hostess. But he’d left a note and hoped it would prove sufficient. In it he’d promised the Comte and Jeassmine that he’d return soon and explain everything but for now, he was on a quest of some urgency. It was obvious from the pair of glum stares he’d received, that his explanation had fallen far short of Fortenbrass and the cat’s standards. Well, it couldn’t be helped and knowing they’d eventually come around, he’d decided to ignore them. To be honest he was hurt and resented their attitude, after all, leaving had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but he had to trust Odette that it was the right action to take.

After consulting the map one more time Torin tucked it into his belt. Calling to his companions and hoping they would follow, he abandoned the campsite and was almost immediately swallowed by the dense forest of ferns that enclosed it. With relief he heard the muffled clomp of Fortenbrass’ hooves behind him.

The Seventh Kingdom was a beautiful but terribly disconcerting place, being visible to the surrounding kingdoms only at dawn and dusk. They’d wasted an entire day at the border for twilight before being able to cross. The region was as luxuriant and bountiful as the Fifth Kingdom but without its overripe assault on the senses; it was more like a soothing balm to the spirit.

Once clear of the fern-choked dale, the hiking was less arduous and the clean, fresh air and crisp breezes were invigorating. Fortenbrass sneezed and snorted. Torin had to fight a grin when he noted the beggar lice hitching a ride on the horse’s nose, mane and tail. He’d clean them off later that night when they made camp; for now he was just going to enjoy the exercise.

Suddenly, a wispy trow scampered across the path setting Fortenbrass into a startled sidestep. Several nights over the course of their journey Torin had been aware of bands of the creatures foraging around the campsite but it was most unusual to see one so clearly during the day. So light and swift they are rarely seen as anything more than fleeting shadows covered with earth and moss.

The combination of the rare creature and the unique beauty of the greenwood reminded Torin of a trip his family had made when he was twelve. It had been to the Great Rock Candy Mountain Memorial Park in the southern part of the Second Kingdom. They’d camped in pastel tents, visited the Village of Cream Puffs, seen how fruit was harvested from the Sugar Plum Trees and toured the newly restored gingerbread, candy cane and gumdrop house where Queen Gretel the Great and her brother Hansel, the Duke of Marzipan, had battled the witch. As a special treat, his father had purchased tickets to a reenactment of the brother and sister’s ordeal. As Torin recalled, it had been pretty realistic and his little sister had squealed and hidden her face in his shoulder when the witch tried to put the children in her monstrous black oven. Afterwards, his father had taken he and his brother on a climb to the summit of the mountain. The ascent had been relatively easy, as a trail had been carved in the rock-hard sugar. When they’d reached the top they had celebrated by chiseling chunks of chocolate, nuts and marshmallow from the craggy walls. Arriving back at the campsite toward evening, their faces and hands smeared with sticky goo, his mother had pretended exasperation and threatened them with a trip to the Tooth Fairy once they got home. It had been one of the happiest times of his life.

The memory of all those sweets roused his stomach so he pulled a piece of venison jerky from his pocket and took a bite. It was tough and dry but took the sharp edge off his hunger. His stomach grumbled irritably at the fare. Well, it would just have to learn to like it because that, along with salted pork, salted fish and an assortment of root vegetables were all he had to sustain him for the week it would take to journey to Nod. To add insult to injury, the cat picked that moment to spring from the underbrush, a nice plump vole clamped proudly in its jaws.

Torin chose to ignore it and petulantly tore off another chaw of venison. Elven laws are legion and one of them states that only animals and birds are permitted to hunt in the Seventh Kingdom. As wild creatures they only respond to their inherent natures and therefore can’t be held accountable, but humans [lumped together with ogres and trolls], are viewed as nothing less than poachers and despoilers and the law is swift and unrelenting if any are caught breaking it.

Argenbright

Mid-afternoon into the fourth day of their trek Torin caught a whiff of cinnamon and apples. The shifting of weight on his rucksack told him the cat had also noticed it and in a moment its head appeared beside his cheek. Smoke spiraling up from the trees ahead signaled that either a campsite or dwelling lay in their path.

Topping a rise the trio found themselves above a neatly landscaped plot of land. Dominating the scene was a rambling stone cottage topped by a high-pitched thatched roof. From a tumble of rocks behind the house a small waterfall spilled into a pretty pond. Near the edge of the forest, beneath the spreading arms of a giant oak, an old man sat cleaning his pipe, every so often tapping the bowl against the arm of his twig chair. From the forest behind an unseen woodpecker tapped back.

The ring of Fortenbrass’ shoe against a stone alerted the old man to company. Seeing they’d been spotted, Torin hesitated but was beckoned to approach. His nose tingled again and he noticed a large clay teapot next to the chair from which the unmistakable spicy bouquet of hot cider steamed.

Nearing, he recognized the old man as a half-elf and what he had first taken for a thick fur greatcoat was in fact the most enormous snow white beard he’d ever seen and it was...he felt the cat on his shoulder tense. Fortenbrass whinnied a warning. Catching the cat in mid-leap, Torin quickly stuffed it inside his coat, wrapping his arms around his chest to hinder its escape. As Torin fought to subdue the irate cat, the old man broke into gales of high-pitched laughter, causing the birds nesting in his beard to squawk in protest as they were jostled about. Picking up the teapot, a mug and his pipe the halfling motioned for Torin to follow and led him to the cottage. At the door Torin turned aside, loosened his coat and tumbled the cat onto the grass, then quickly entered, shutting the door behind him as the furious animal howled in indignation and protest.

When the door fell shut Torin was enveloped in a deep gloom, the only illumination coming from a small fire in the hearth. He was absolutely certain he’d seen mullioned windows set haphazardly in the cottage walls. Apparently they were covered over from within, which was rather unusual. But then, so was his host.

The elderly halfling tugged at Torin’s sleeve, urging him towards the fireplace. The ponderous beard seemed to pose no restrictions on his movements, which were quick and sure as he bustled across the room. Removing a kettle from the coals he poured Torin a mug of the fragrant cider then settled cross-legged upon a pile of gaily decorated cushions that littered the floor around the hearth. Jabbing his pipe he indicated that the human should also join him. Having been unable to make out any furniture in the room other than a low-set table Torin awkwardly lowered to a cushion while trying to avoid spilling his cider.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the murkiness he discerned that dozens of tapestries lined the walls and even billowed down from the ceiling. The overall effect was that of being inside a cozy tent. Instead of bucolic woodland settings or the usual scenes found in most homes depicting the heroes and heroines of the Nine Kingdoms, these were rather drab and unimaginative. Only figures of ordinary people, all shapes and sizes, plain and beautiful, old and young, human and non, were illustrated.

An owl’s hooting brought his attention back to his host. He jumped slightly at the sight of seven pairs of eyes gleaming across at him in the firelight: the old man’s and those of two owls, a hen, two larks and a wren. The halfling grinned and giggled childishly. Tamping tobacco down into his pipe and lighting it with a taper he settled back against the pillows, wreathed in smoke. With lids half-closed, puffing contentedly on his pipe, the elderly man appeared to have forgotten he had a guest. Growing uncomfortable, Torin cleared his throat. As though he’d been waiting for a signal the halfling began to speak in a strange sing-song voice [referring to himself curiously in the third person], his words now and then punctuated by the sneeze of a bird.

Hafling…human-elf…elf-human
Argenbright…
he was named at birth
but redesignated
Argenbright…the cursed.
Argenbright…the damned.
Argenbright…the reviled
banished to these woods
by the High Council in Pillywiggin.
expelled from the Elven social order
to subsist…abide
in solitude…shame
for a crime committed
in the recklessness of youth.

Punished for
discovering…taking…using
his human sire’s sling.
Persecuted for
searching…finding an agate stone
perfect in shape…dimension.
Condemned for
hunting…targeting…aiming…
letting the stone fly.
Vilified for
striking…felling…killing
a red-tailed hawk.

Death would have been his fate
had pure human blood
flowed through his veins
but Elven law prohibits
eliminating one of their own…
be they whole or hybrid…
so exile…and curse
was judged the fitting penalty.
Having destroyed a life
he would…
until the end of his own…
be a donor…rather than defiler…
providing a site for nesting…
bringing forth new avian life…
forever reminded of that
which he’d taken…deprived.

Pity for the elderly being flooded through Torin as well as outrage toward the elves who had shown so little mercy in their sentence. To condemn any creature, human or otherwise, to a life devoid of companionship, to deny its existence validity by the simple act of never allowing it to hear its name spoken aloud was abhorrent. He vowed that once departed from this Kingdom he’d never set foot across its borders again. He wanted no part of a land or people where such things were thought just.

Trying to right the wrong a little Torin addressed the halfling by name, thanked him for his hospitality and introduced himself. He was rewarded by a beatific smile and an offer to refill his mug. Glancing down in surprise at the mug in his hand, Torin found it had been drained but had no memory of doing it. Not wishing to offend his host he extended it and watched the amber liquid rise to the brim. Resuming his reclining position Agrenbright now pressed his guest for details…what brought him to the Seventh Kingdom - business or pleasure?

Torin hesitated, deciding that it might not be wise to admit the real reason for his trip. But astonishingly, his tongue seemed to have a mind of its own and before he could curb it, it was off and running, revealing everything. Partway through his narration his tongue began to thicken. Taking a few swigs of cider did nothing to alleviate the feeling. The words marched from his brain but died in his throat. His lids too, refused to cooperate. They slid closed and it took all his willpower to force them back up, but they refused to stay and dropped like curtains with the sandbag cut. As his lids descended, his body toppled back.