Chapter 2

Chapter 2

There was always something magical about this time of year she thought wading through a deep drift of golden leaves. One cold night and the green sheltering boughs overhead would take on their autumn colours, the leaves curling and the summer shades gradually being replaced by muted orange, yellow and golds. The path, worn smooth by centuries of use was hidden beneath the leaves but Eleanor didn’t need the path to guide her. She knew each tree and branch, each rock and stump by sight having walked this way hundreds of times. She was going to visit Elernderil, the giant oak. As the days shortened and the temperature fell, Elenderil would become more and more sluggish, until at last he fell into a deep sleep, and in that state waited out the winter. She wanted to commune with the ancient tree, to impress it with an image of herself before leaving the glades, perhaps for ever. As the ancient oak came into view Eleanor smiled, hurrying to greet it as an old friend, throwing her arms around its enormous girth and hugging it close. She opened her mind to its archaic awareness. Repeatedly whispering his name, she waited for a response. Trees took a long time to notice creatures as swiftly moving as people. Trees normally felt the wind rippling through their branches, the sun on their leaves, their roots burrowing through the fertile loam, but the oldest trees were aware of the world in ways that their younger cousins were not. Elenderil had existed in the world for more than twelve centuries, and over that time he had grown in girth and knowledge.
She felt his touch in her mind like a breeze caressing long grass.
“I am leaving the glades,” she told him sadly, tracing a slender finger over the rough serrations of his bark.
His response was to fill her mind with images. She saw a beautiful city built from white stones and two lines of weeping woman accompanying a coffin drawn by black goats. Across the gulf of time, she could feel their grief, their tears, their aching sense of loss. The elder trees communicated in images taken from their long existence. Elenderil had once brought shade to the palace gardens of Methrylian, the last of the great elven cities. He had withstood its destruction and the long slow decay of its walls until only he was left that remembered it.
“I will try to return,” she promised and was rewarded with a vision of children playing in his branches, laughing and throwing a golden ball to each other.
Eleanor was content. If she failed in her mission and never returned, Elenderil would remember her, and in countless centuries hence would share her image with others. Her people had a saying, “If a remembering tree lives, then all live.”
Slowly, with respect, she withdrew and felt his touch leave her like a warm stole slipping from her shoulders.

“My lady.”
Ackeal, son of Helberwain, daughter of Berm, stood the traditional ten paces away and waited for her to acknowledge him.
“My Lord,” she replied and with the reply gave him leave to approach.
He stepped forward two paces and bowed slightly, she replied with the merest nod. They were old acquaintances, and as such the formalities were just that, formalities. If they had been strangers, the exquisite rituals of their forebears were designed to put each side at ease until a point was reached where one or the other felt that true communication could be possible. Legend had it that two nobles who loathed each other met in the street oen day and spent the next six bowing and swapping meaningless platitudes until one of them stepped aside and let the other pass.
“I have heard that you will be leaving soon,” Ackeal remarked, his blue eyes regarding her dispassionately.
Eleanor thought he looked particularly handsome in his long blue, linen jacket, decorated with tiny wooden buttons stretching from elbow to wrist. The jacket was not his normal everyday clothes.
Eleanor nodded. “Yes,” she added, “ I have been told that we will be leaving tomorrow.”
“My lady, I would beg you to re-consider," Ark said, his voice as soft as a summer breeze. "No one here wishes you to lose you."
"And neither do I wish to be lost," she told him. “I shall return.”
“But why go.”
“Every day our existence on this island in the middle of a land of murderous savages, become more and more precipitous. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for King Laram’s treachery. Three hundred years ago he sent messagers across the seas begging us to help him save his kingdom from the northern invaders. To honour our ancient homeland we agreed. We kept our part of the bargain and in return, those that fought were given this vast forest in which to make their home. He promised that it would be ours in perpetuity, but like all of his kind, he lied. We know that he left a covenant, binding on his forebears, that the forest would never be felled and that wardens would be appointed to keep intact, but each day a tiny portion is destroyed and turned into farm land. Each day the forest shrinks a little more. We could flee, return to the golden shores of New Ganderyl, our people would welcome us. If we did however, the forest would be over-run and the Remembering Trees destroyed. They are the nearest thing to kin we have in this bleak land, how could we abandon them? We have to find a way to keep our home intact and to do that we need to know the enemy. For too long we have lived in the narrow confines of wood and glade. We cannot fight what we don’t understand. We need to walk their paths, breath their air to find a way of keeping them out that will work. That is why I must go.”
“I thought that you would follow your father into the healing arts? I have heard that you have skills in that regard.”
Eleanor sighed. “What use are healers if there are no people to heal? We live surrounded by savages and according to the warden council, if those savages ever found who we are, they wouldn’t rest until they had wiped us out, root and branch.
Stepping closer, she laid a consoling hand on his forearm.
“Your brother thought this way too, I know he did, we talked about it often. That’s why he became a warden.”
Ackeal looked down at her hand with a frown. Eleanor removed it slowly, stepping away as she did so.
“I am sorry about Hamberlyn, “ she whispered seeing the pain in Ackeal’s face. “he didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“His death was avenged,” Ackeal replied, his voice hoarse with emotion, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “The animals who killed him for sport were slaughtered to the last, their bodies thrown to the elements.”
“But who sent them?” Eleanor asked softly. “And will they send others?”
Ackeal straightened up and looked directly into her eyes.
“They will meet the same fate,” he promised.
“Ackeal, we cannot kill every heathen that walks into our woods. We need to know if they are friend or foe? That’s why I am joining the wardens.”
“They are not giving you a sword and sending you off to patrol the boundaries,” Ackeal asked, he eyes widening at such an unthinkable departure from tradition.
Eleanor couldn’t help smiling, both at the thought of donning leggings and sword and the look of utter horror on Ackeal’s face.
“No,” she assured him. “I have had many moons learning about the heathens, about their ways and traditions, and how they differ from our own. To prove that I have understood what I have learnt and that I can apply that knowledge, the council have set me a challenge. I am to leave the forest and go out disguised into their world with nothing but a few coins in my pocket and my own innate wit. For one moon, I must make my own way amongst them. I must eat their food, sleep in their flea-infested hovels, wake each day at dawn and go to sleep at when night falls.”
Ackeal shuddered. “It is beyond cruel to ask a woman of the blood to demean herself in such a way,” he announced, his chin going up and his eyes flashing with indignation.
“And yet,” she answered with a sigh, “It must be borne if I am to prove my worth.”
“Would it dissuade you from this course of action if I offered myself as your consort?”
For a moment Eleanor was completely at a loss for words. Ackeal have never indicated in either word or deed that he thought of her as anything but a childhood companion.
“I am honoured but…” she began but was quickly interrupted.
“I would not see you live in filth like those animals if there was anything I could do to prevent it,” he assured her, his head held high. “You are a descendent of kings. It would be unseemly.”
“We are all the descendant of kings,” she reminded him clasping her hands together in front of her, “ and yet here we are living like nomads among the ruins of our former glory. Our cities and their kings are gone Ackeal. In this land we the last of a proud race that once populated all these lands from the mountains to the seas. When the heathens first came we welcomed them, but they were soon followed by a wave of war machines and iron weapons. They killed everything that stood in their path. They slaughtered our people and tore down their cities out of envy and spite. We are a beaten remnant Ackeal, we live in the shadows. If we began killing them, we would draw attention to ourselves, and that would not be healthy. We need to know how these creatures think to have any chance of surviving in their midst.”

Ackeal nodded. With a resigned expression he bowed slightly, holding his hand above his heart as he did so.
“I assure you that my offer of marriage was genuine,” he insisted looking up at her.
“Thank you Ackeal,” she said, surprised at the sadness that filled her heart. “You do me a great honour, but my mind is set.”
“Then I’ll leave you to your preparations,” he said, giving her a courtly flourish, “and pray to the gods for your safe return.”

Eleanor had much to think about as she returned home. Their community was very small and consisted of one hundred and thirty two individuals. Each person within that community was precious. Hamberlyn’s death and the manner of his dying had affected them all. Many felt angry. It was a depth of feeling that transcended one person’s death, encompassing as it did all the deaths her people had suffered at the hands of the savages that surrounded them.

The sight of her home at the end of the path she trod, warmed her heart. It was built of white stone, taken from the ground where it had lain unseen for more than a thousand years. Its small shuttered windows and the welcoming light hanging above the door cheered her as only a well-beloved home could. At her touch the door sprang open and she would have steeped over the threshold, but a sound behind her made her draw back and turn to see who was there.

“Daughter,” the dark shadow under the pine said without moving into the light as good manners dictated.

“Father,” Eleanor replied, hearing a coldness in her voice equal to that of her visitor’s.

“You are leaving?” he asked without the usual courtesies.

“Yes,” she answered with equal shortness. “Tomorrow.”

“And you didn’t think to let your father know?”

For this accusation he came to stand in the light, glowering down at her from his vast height.

“I did not think having you meals prepared by another justified pulling you away from your patients,” she replied, deliberating throwing his excuse for not spending time at home in his face.

“I am your father.” He snapped. “I forbid it.”

“I have been old enough to make my own decisions for the last two years father,” she told him, taunting him with the fact that he had no idea how old she was, having never celebrated a birthday, or even a feast day with her.

“I have spoken with Merrith, and she approves,” Eleanor said, mentioning her aunt, the woman who had raised her after her mother died giving birth to a sickly baby boy, a child who had survived her by a few scant hours.

Her father just stared, his lips curling into an ugly sneer.

There was nothing she wanted to say to say to him, nothing that would ease whatever poison was eating his soul. The space between them was littered with years of broken promises and bitter words. She had turned her back on all that many years ago. She had no desire to return.

“Then go your own way,” he hissed at her, “and to hell with you!”

Eleanor didn’t sleep well that night, so many things were running through her mind. It was almost dawn when her fevered mind gave up the battle and let her fall into a deep slumber. It was late morning when a soft knock at the door woke her up. Hastily pulling on her dress and fastening the buttons at her wrist, she went to see who was there.

It was Catalyn, the council woman who had recruited her into the wardens. A tall, fine- boned woman with long, pale gold hair, she stood at the door standing straight, like a queen in olden days.

“Good morrow councillor Catayln, please enter.”

“From this moment on,” the councillor announced and she strode across the threshold and stood close to her, so close she made Eleanor feel extremely uncomfortable. “you are going to behave like a heathen, and that means forgetting everything you were ever taught about manners. From today you start greeting people as if they were the dirt beneath your shoe.”

Catalyn further confounded her by undoing the buttons she had just fastened and tugging at the skirt of her dress, eventually dragging it over her head. “So what do you say if someone bangs on your door.”

“Go away,” Eleanor replied, trying to cover her bare limbs with her hands. She felt naked in just her shift.

“Not bad,” her tormentor concluded, “but you need to put a bit of anger into it, to make it sound believable.”

“What are you doing!” Eleanor eventually demanded as Catalyn started attacking her shift.

“Didn’t I tell you?” she asked. “Sorry it must have slipped my mind. You are too pale to pass for a heathen. We will need to dye your skin and hair to make you look more like them. I always do that when we go into town to trade. Since you will living among them for some time, it would be safer if we dyed all your skin, and since the walnut dye we use stains everything it touches, it would be best if you removed all your clothes.”

“All,” Eleanor squeaked as she hugged at her shift and refused to let Catalyn take it from her.

“Child,” Catalyn said gently, letting her hands drop, “this is only the beginning. It is a small thing. If you cannot do this, then I’m sorry but you cannot go.”

With the greatest reluctance Eleanor pulled off her shift and dropped in onto a stool in the corner. Standing there in her breast bindings and loin cloth, she took a deep breath and prepared to let the council woman do her worst.

“I will give you a bottle of this just in case it starts wearing off,” Catalyn said, holding up a bulbous wooden container, “but it should last for a month without fading.”

Taking a piece of cloth from the basket she had brought with her, she unfolded it and laid in on the floor. Taking Eleanor by the hand, she positioned her so she was standing in the middle of it.

“It even stains stone,” she revealed nodding at the flagstones that covered the floor of the room.

Pulling out another piece of folded cloth, she made it into a wad. Opening the bottle she poured a small amount of liquid onto it.

“Don’t ever use your hands to put this on,” Catalyn warned her as she used the wad to smear the liquid all over Eleanor’s arm. “The heathen’s palms are paler than the tops of their arms. If you smear this on with your hands, your palms will end up the colour of old leather, and they will know that there is something wrong. I will also dye your hair, and your eyebrows."

By midmorning Catalyn was finished. After Eleanor had put her shift back on, her mentor handed her a looking glass and watched as she examined her reflection closely.

“I look so different,” Eleanor eventually concluded with surprise, touching her hair, her cheek, running a questing fingertip along the arch of a brown eyebrow. It was still her behind the stained skin, but she looked so unnaturally…brown.

“Here,” Catalyn replied giving her a hair brush with the handle shaped like a fish. “Now I want you to dress your hair so it hides your ears.

Eleanor looked at the brush and then at Catalyn. “Dress my hair?” she repeated, staring at the older woman.

“The heathens females spend an inordinate amount of time in front of their mirrors, twisting their hair into different shapes and using pins or thongs to keep it in place. They call it ‘hair dressing’.”

To Eleanor this was all new. She looked at the brush and mirror and wondered what Catalyn expected her to do with them. The older woman came to her rescue.

“Let me show you what I mean. I know you’ve never had to tie your hair back before,” she continued as she parted her hair at the back of her head with her fingers.
Drawing the two sections of hair forward, she let them rest on her breasts. Then, using touch alone, she divided one section into three lengths and with nimble fingers, began to weave the three strands around each other. Holding the end of the woven section with one hand, she took out a length of cord from the basket. Holding one end between her teeth, she proceeded to wrap the other tightly around the hair, holding her creation neatly in place. After using both hands to tie the thong into a looped knot, she let it fall before repeating the process with the hair on the other side.

“This is called plaiting,” she said as her fingers danced, “It is the same technique we use to make the handles of that reed basket I brought.”

“As you can see,” she continued once she was finished, patting the mounds of hair that now completely hid the elegant tips of her ears, “With this firmly in place, your ears are safely hidden and your hair is out of your face when you are working.”
“I can try that, but if I can’t do that weaving thing,” Eleanor asked her, “Can I just tie it in place with those thongs?”

Catalyn handed her two length of thong. “Just try what I’ve shown you,“ she suggested.

After several abortive attempts Catalyn was satisfied with Eleanor’s effort and that fact that her hair was firmly tied up with the tops of her ears carefully hidden.

“Now the clothes,” she warned as she dived back into the basket.

“I thought I would be able to wear my own clothes,” Eleanor protested.

“Your dresses, like my own are made from the finest quality linen. That type of cloth would only be worn by heathen nobles, not by the common folk. If you wore your own dresses, not only would the style draw unwelcome attention, but anyone who saw you would assume you were a nobleman’s runaway daughter and report you to the authorities. No, it would be better for you to don the guise of a farm girl, one looking for work in the town. No one would give you a second glance.”

From the depths of her basket she drew out a long brown dress and handed it over. Eleanor felt the fabric, it was coarse and scratchy, and thick.

“What is this?”

“It’s a home-made mixture of goat’s hair and sheep’s wool. A dye made from berries has been used to give it that deep, yellow brown colour.”

“Did they gather the hair from dead animals?” Eleanor asked as she raised the material to her nose and grimaced at the smell.

“You’ll soon get used to it,” was Catalyn’s brusque reply as she bent her head to draw more items from the reed bag.

As Catalyn had warned her, the style of the outfit she’d been given was very different to the one favoured by Eleanor’s people. Where hers was a multi-panelled dress, cut on the bias so it could be pulled over the head and fit snugly around the waist and hips, the dress she held was of a much more complicated construction. A panelled bodice was fitted to a padded waistband, from which a flared skirt dropped to the ground. Loosening the bodice ties, Eleanor tried pulling the dress over her head, but it was so heavy she almost collapsed under its weight. Coming up for air she found Catalyn watching her and grinning.

“I did that the first time as well,” she said, her amusement clearly manifest in her broad smile. “Drop it onto the floor and step into it,” she advised.

Eleanor did as she was bid and with a wriggle and a tug, pulled the dress up over her hips. Then she pushed her arms down the elbow-length sleeves and with her head bent forward, began tugging at the ties, pulling them tight, one level after another until she reached the top and tied the long length off into a bow. She was panting with the effort it had taken and looked up to see Catalyn nodding her approval.

“It’s heavy,” she announced standing on tip-toes and feeling the weight of her clothes dragging at her shoulders.

“And if you get it wet, it will get heavier still, so be warned,” Catalyn told her, a stern look in her eye. “Many a girl who could swim has fallen into a river and been dragged to their deaths by their dresses, so be careful.”

With that sombre note she handed over a square of cream linen.

“I thought that…”

“This small piece is all most farm girls would be able to buy, and it would cost them most of a their wages for a month. It would been worn folded in half and tucked around the neck.”

Luckily for Eleanor, Catalyn showed her how to wear it, folding the tiny square across the diagonal, throwing it around her neck and tucking the edges into the neckline of her dress before finally pulling the pointed ends through the ties at the top of the bodice. Eleanor was pleased to have the soft touch of linen between her skin and the dress, it lessened the itching.. Peering over the councilwoman's shoulder, she looked to see what else she had in her basket.

“Shoes next,” Catalyn announced handing over a pair of misshapen leather boots. Eleanor regarded the uncomfortable-looking footwear with dismay, casting a longing glance at her own shoes. Beaten bark as soft as doe skin, sewn onto a slim, flexible wooden sole, made up the shoes worn by most of the forest women.

“Try them on,” she was told.

Reluctantly she dropped the offending items to the floor and thrust her feet into them. They felt gritty inside. She tried wriggling her toes but the feeling that the boots were full of dirt only intensified. Kicking them with a sniff of disgust, she picked one up and fumbled around inside. When her hand came away cover in mud, she glared at Catalyn who was following her exploits with a sly smile.

“Did I forgot to clean them?” her mentor asked impishly as she handed her a piece of cloth.

After a few moments scrubbing the inside of the boots, Eleanor decided that they were at last clean enough to try putting them back on. This time her toes encountered nothing more than stiff leather. Tying up the buckles, she stood up and looked down at her feet. She fervently hoped that she was doing the right thing because her feet looked deformed. She also feared that she would be crippled for life having to wear such clumsy shoes.

“And lastly,” Catalyn announced triumphantly as she pulled out a clump of knotted wool from the bottom of her basket, “you’ll need a shawl.”

“Is that a shawl? The wool looks like it needs spinning first,”

At her words Catalyn began unfolding the tangled mess in her hands, until Eleanor could see the shape of a triangular shawl made from a thick, crudely woven thread. When Catalyn pressed the shawl into her hands she could see that grass, feathers and bits of twig had gone into its making.

“Couldn’t I have…” she began but Catalyn’s uncompromising glare stopped her mid-word. “I am sure it will be warm,” she conceded, placing the shawl on the table and fully intending to leave it behind. She would rather go cold than wear that anywhere near her face.

Taking a long look at her charge, Catalyn, tucked and pulled at Eleanor’s clothes until at last she seemed pleased with her appearance.

“Fetch three shifts,” she announced, sparing the boots a small frown, “and whatever small clothes you can spare. When you return, you will have to burn them all to get rid of the smell.”

As Eleanor fetched the clothes, she wondered how much scrubbing and washing she would need to be free of the smell that Catalyn spoke of. When she return Catalyn unceremoniously stuffed the things she'd brought into the basket, took the shawl from the table and pushed that inside too. Handing the basket over, she brushed back a few strands of pale hair from her face, and gave a deep sigh.

“I will come with you to the sanctuary at Broughton, after that you will be on your own. For the journey I can pass for a heathen by using a cream to darken my face and hands, and wearing a scarf to hide my hair. This time I will not be using the stain. Since I will only be gone a few days, the measures I've spoken of will suffice. This is because the walnut stain is notoriously difficult to remove. When you return expect to be looking at that heathen face for two or three moons before the skin replenishes itself and the stain is sloughed off.”

With that pronouncement Catalyn walked towards the door, opened it and gestured for Eleanor that is was time to leave. Sparing her home a last lingering glance, Eleanor sighed before walking out into the sunshine.

Outside, dotted along the path and standing among the trees she was surprised to see friends and family, smiling at her. Her heart was warmed that they had come to see her start her great adventure. Ackeal was the nearest. Stepping forward he bowed and offered his hand, palm upwards, as a gesture of friendship. Eleanor touched his fingertips lightly as tradition dictated. As he rose, she could see he was struggling with his composure, his eyes firmly fixed on her boots and his mouth pinched as if struggling not to laugh. At that moment, all thoughts of the dangers she faced were banished from her mind as she smothered an overpowering urge to slap him. When Ackeal eventually looked up and saw the displeasure in her eyes, he blinked rapidly before bowing again and quickly taking a step backwards. For a moment Eleanor considered throwing a small curse at him. Just a small one, to make HIS shoes grow the size of tree stumps, but she walked past him with her head held high, refusing to look back. As she followed Catalyn down the path, Merrith stepped in front of her with her arms open wide. Eleanor leant into her aunt’s embrace as she had for all the years that she had known her.
“Be safe my child,” was all her aunt said softly, for her ears only.
After kissing her cheek and holdind her by the arm, Eleanor left her there with tears in her eyes and hurried on.

It was a long walk from the settlement around Eleanor’s home to the edge of the forest. The trail was undetectable in places, but Catalyn knew the route and strode through clearings, across streams, skirting water-logged sinks and hidden chasms with an ease that spoke of long practice. As they walked, the council woman quietly pointed out the landmarks and hidden dangers, telling Eleanor to remember the route, just in case she needed to get back home without warden help. It was as they were using a fallen log to cross a stream, that Catalyn suddenly stopped and held up her hand for silence. Eleanor dutifully halted and waited, but couldn’t hear anything untoward.
“Who’s there,” Catalyn whispered, a dagger suddenly appearing in her hand.
“Be at peace,” a low voice replied from the trees. “It is only I, Maethril.”
Eleanor recognised the voice and the name. Her heart sank. It was her father.
“My lord,” Catalyn replied stepping off the log and placing one hand over her heart as a mark of respect. “Please forgive me,” she begged, the dagger disappearing artfully into the folds of her skirt, “I did not know it was you.”
“I will go a little way ahead and wait,” she told Eleanor before leaving her stuck at the other side of the stream with her father facing her on the far bank.
“Come across,” her father demanded holding out his hand for her to take.
She wanted to tell him that she was better off where was, that she had no wish to get into an argument with him on this of all days, but she had to get across that stream to follow Catalyn, That was probably why he had chosen this spot to wait for her. Resigned to whatever tongue lashing he had in store for her, she edged her way across the slippery log, her arms raised for balance.
Taking the proffered hand she stepped onto the soft earth with a grateful sigh of relief.
“You look…strange.” were her father’s first words.
“Councilwoman Catalyn gave me this to wear,” she explained tugging nervously at her dress, “as a disguise. She also dyed my skin…and hair…with walnut juice.”
Eleanor flinched, waiting for the usual scolding, but her father just nodded as if he understood.
“And the…err…boots?” he asked, sparing them a brief glance.
Looking down at the shapeless flaps of leather tied to her feet. Eleanor felt tears starting at the sight of such barbaric ugliness. In contrast, her father looked polished and elegant in his dark-grey tunic, with healing runes embroidered along the hem. With his height, (he was taller than anyone she knew) and his long white hair, he looked the nobleman to her lowly serving wench.
“The councilwoman gave them to me,” she whispered, feeling small and wretched.
“I am sure she has her reasons,” he answered stiffly, “The councilwoman is one of the eldest amongst us. She is very resourceful. You must mind whatever she tells you.”

Eleanor waited for him to continue, to find fault with her reasons for going, to refuse to allow it. Instead, he opened the pouch hanging from his belt and took something out. Leaning over, he lifted up her hand and placed into it a small object. Eleanor stared at the simple silver pin lying on her palm. It was the type her people used for keeping a cloak tied together, or a shawl. In all the years she had known him, he had never once given her anything, and now this .
“It was your mother’s,” he explained softly.
Eleanor was suddenly stunned, totally unable to speak. When she looked up to thank him for his amazing gift, he was gone, disappearing like the early morning mist, vanished, swallowed up by the trees. Pushing the pin into the depths of her basket, she vowed to tell no one of its existence, not even the councilwoman. With a light step, she hurried along the trail to find her.

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