Chapter One – A Boy and a Girl
This story starts, like every other story that ever drew breath and lived, with a boy and a girl. This particular boy was in trouble. You might think that this trouble took the form of the men who were, at this very moment, scouring the woods, in their twos and threes; rough looking men, whose dirty garb and assorted arms and armour spoke of ill meaning banditry rather than the polished discipline of soldiery. No – these men the boy did not hold to be a threat. His father was a woodsman, and from his earliest days the boy had been taught the forest paths and how to stalk prey, silent and deadly with bow and spear. At present he was safely hidden in the scrub on the verge of a clearing in the forest and had no fear of these men.
The boy’s mind was filled with dread, for that morning he had promised his father he would not tarry long in the woods. It had been fair and bright, the trees swaying in the stiff breeze, beckoning to his boyish imagination to come and play. But the day had turned ill, and he had found nothing to trail or to follow, to hunt or to snare. And out of nowhere the clouds had arrived thick and dark, yet rainless, driven by a wind that now lashed the trees this way and that, and thunder that threatened to split the sky. And now, how could it be so dark under the clouds, because it could surely not be much past the mid of the day? And so, the boy feared the wrath of his father for broken promises and for tasks left undone. And though he would not admit it to himself, the tracks seemed to have been blown hither and yon by the winds and, although born to the woods, he was lost and could not think of a quick way back. But those imagined fears had little to do with his true danger.
The trouble that the boy was in lay some fifty yards away, in the clearing, and took the form of a girl who probably imagined herself to be hidden behind a rocky outcrop that thrust out of the ground on the steep hillside. That her robes were torn and muddy was scant camouflage, and she was quite visible to the boy. But he was just a boy, barely in his twelfth year, so how could he know of the danger of girls? And, even if he were older and wiser, still he would not know the danger of this particular girl. And how could he? She was dirty and muddy and scared and crying. But the last was his imagining and not his seeing, for crying was what he knew girls did, and he did not have to see tears to know she cried. Or so he thought.
Oblivious to his danger, the next moment the boy was beside the girl, his hand on her shoulder, and shaking her, as he hurled a shouted whisper in the wind.
‘Come with me, I’ll take you home.’
She looked at him furiously and spat, ‘Don’t be a dolt! They’ll find me.’
‘Them? They couldn’t find their backsides with their own hands!’
She laughed aloud, throwing back her head.
‘Shhh!’ he hissed and off they scrabbled and scampered into the dark of the forest. As he led the way, scurrying from hiding place to hiding place, always with an eye and ear for the hunters, the boy mused that, for a girl crying and scared, she did not do too badly. She stopped when he beckoned, freezing or dropping down behind bush, tree or rock; hid where told, not needing much help to be safe from any but the most piercing gaze. And, most importantly of all, she was quiet. Not born to the woods silent, but quiet enough given the howling winds, and thrashing trees. She didn’t say anything, or argue, or decide that she had a better place to hide that wasn’t quite so dirty or wet and she didn’t cry or complain when he left her securely hidden to scout the way, checking for the men and, although she never knew it, looking for the track back home.
Many a time they hid, tight and scared, while the bandits passed so close that their swearing and curses could be heard. Smelling the stale sweat on their dirty cloaks, the boy knew true fear for the first time, the kind that turns the head light and the stomach heavy. But that particular boy and that particular girl were not found. And, in truth, they were beginning to enjoy the game.
The hours passed, and night began to fall while they hid from those bandits, scampering wildly when they could. But at last they burst out of the trees and through the door into the boy’s hut. It was dark inside, no welcoming fire in the hearth with his father beside it, offering safety, no matter what anger would accompany it. How loud their breathing sounded, now that the howling wind was silenced by the door slamming shut behind them! How loud the creak and groan of the swaying trees which might mask, or even be, the sounds of the bandits closing in! Dark and empty, the hut no longer seemed the safe refuge of home. And where was his father? Out looking for him he supposed. Now, suddenly, the hut seemed lonely in the forest, far from the village and the nearest friend.
And then, though he was paces from the door and his back was to it, he felt it shuddering as it opened. Wild with panic he shoved the girl roughly behind him, grabbing his little knife from his belt. He held it in front of him, as if it could hide them both. Perhaps she squealed at his rough handling, or screamed as the door swung open, or perhaps she was a silent as the grave, the boy did not know. It seemed that the door opened slowly, taking forever, each instant frozen in time. And the figure that filled the gap was not his father, who was slight of build – no, this man was huge, whose laugh was quiet and menacing. He had dirt in his long lank hair, and a large nose and ears and a fat hand clasping a rough club. The boy leapt, dagger striking at the fat belly, but skittering painfully from his hand as it struck hard leather. He felt the man grab him roughly with one hand, as the other raised the club above his head. The boy struggled wildly, suddenly wriggling free as the man grunted in puzzlement and then, tripping over the threshold, fell. The boy could see his freedom then, the doorway was clear. But the girl was trapped and he could not leave her. He swung round searching for his knife, only then realising that the man was not moving. Out of his back stood two arrows buried deep, motionless and final. He heard shouting, but it was certainly no friendly shouting. The boy knew that they could not stay and become trapped again, so he stooped down and, snatching for his knife with one hand whilst grabbing the girl with his other, they fled out the door, away from the shouting and confusion, not caring who was friend and who was foe.
They ran until their sides hurt and the air seemed to burn in their lungs, not heeding where they ran or in what direction. It was no longer a game, when fear added to the excitement. Now it was something terrible. And they carried on running.
At last they fell, their legs aching with stabbing pain, and could move no further. They huddled where they lay, not raising their heads to see if any better hiding place was to be found.
And that was where they spent the night. If they were cold they did not feel it, and if they slept at all, it was barely a doze and they did not remember it. But with dawn the rainless storm had passed. And, suddenly, they were found, his father sweeping them both into a wide hug. Where he had come from and how, neither the boy nor the girl knew or cared.