As the Raven Flies

Chapter One

RHYS sat next to his brother and leaned back against the trunk of a large willow tree and tried not to think about the gnawing hunger in his stomach. The tree’s branches hung down around them and trailed into the slow, wide stream that murmured quietly in front of them. It was their own little hideaway, and Rhys could almost pretend that the hanging branches were the wooden walls of the little cottage they’d left behind in their tiny village outside of Cardiff.

‘No, you musn’t think about that,’ he told himself sternly. ‘Think of something cheerful until Martin finds a way to get us something to eat.’

Rhys glanced sideways at his older brother. One might have thought that Martin was asleep, with his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the tree, sitting perfectly still, but Rhys knew that he was thinking. He’d done that a lot in the last few weeks that they’d been wandering by themselves. They’d run out of money in the last town they’d passed, but Martin was fifteen, five whole years older than Rhys, and he had never yet let them go hungry, so Rhys was not really worried.

With a soft sigh, Rhys stretched out his legs and wiggled his bare toes. Both of them needed new shoes, Martin had said, since the soles of their old leather boots had nearly worn through, but Rhys liked walking barefoot. Back home he’d spent most of his time exploring the seashore or the woods without any shoes, and he didn’t think he needed shoes now.

But Martin might, he realized with a frown. His older brother was blind and needed a walking stick to help him walk, but even with that he could hurt himself if he didn’t have shoes. The roads here weren’t too rough, but they were keeping to the woods and fields now instead of the roads, and there were lots of things that could hurt someone who wasn’t careful—ditches, bramble patches, upraised roots.

Rhys was startled out of his worried thoughts as he felt somebody’s thumb rub gently across his frown. He jumped, and blinked, and found himself looking into the blank eyes and smiling face of his brother. Martin was crouched in front of him and had obviously finished thinking.

“Not worrying, are you, Rhys?” he asked kindly, with that soft laugh in his voice that always made Rhys feel better.

Rhys shook his head, but then remembered that Martin couldn’t see the gesture so he said fiercely, “No! I’m not worrying. You’ve come up with a way to get us food, haven’t you?”

Martin nodded and used his walking stick to stand up. “Yes, I think I have,” he said.

Rhys got up, too. “There then,” he said in satisfaction, “you see, I don’t have to worry.”

Martin chuckled and ruffled Rhys’s unkempt hair. “Well, I’m glad,” he said cheerfully. “You just leave the worrying to me.” He paused and then caught his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t forget your shoes, Rhys.”

Rhys sighed and scrunched up his nose as he sat down to put on his old worn boots. ‘How does he do that?’ he wondered in exasperation. Being blind never seemed to stop his brother from knowing just what Rhys was doing. Probably he knew what Rhys was thinking, too.

When Rhys had finished putting on his boots he stood up and looked expectantly at Martin. “Well, what are going to do?” he asked when Martin did not speak right away. He seemed to be thinking again, but Rhys was impatient and hungry and did not feel like sitting still and quiet while his brother thought. He tugged on Martin’s sleeve and repeated his question.

Martin looked down at him with his wry crooked smile and tweaked Rhys’s ear. “That hungry, are you?” he said brightly. “Well, I suppose I’ve thought enough. I hope to get us money as well as food tonight, and perhaps some new boots, too.”

“I don’t need new boots,” said Rhys stubbornly. “I can go barefoot. Just get some for yourself.”

Martin sighed and opened his mouth as if to protest, but then seemed to change his mind and shut it again. He shook his head, not saying anything, and they began walking out of their hideaway.

They had only come to the willow tree and surrounding lands the day before, and then they had had some food leftover from the last village. So they had not yet fully explored the area around their hideaway, and were thus surprised to find that the main village was a great distance down the road. They learned this when, quite by accident, they met the nearest resident.

They had walked for about ten minutes through the thick tangled forest, and Rhys, ignoring Martin’s admonishments to the contrary, had taken off his boots in favor of going barefoot. He could pick his way through the dense underbrush as lightly as a deer, and he guided his brother around the most difficult places. As he was in front, he was the first to discover the winding narrow trail between the trees. He stopped when he had gone a few steps onto it, uncertain.

Rhys heard Martin come to a halt behind him, feeling the trail with his walking stick. “A footpath,” he whispered, half in question.

Rhys nodded, even though he knew Martin could not see it. “Aye,” he said just as quietly. “No deer or boar made this. It was a person—or maybe a couple of people. Not many, though. D’you feel how rough and thin it is? Not many people come down it.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Martin seemed to be considering. “So perhaps it leads to a cottage that’s been abandoned. We could spend the night there, and maybe there are some things inside that we could use or sell in the village.”

Rhys thought that he’d rather spend the night under the willow tree than in an abandoned cottage, but he didn’t say anything. After a moment Martin gave his shoulder a little push. “Let’s follow it and see where it goes—but slowly now! Be careful.”

Rhys nodded again and started forward, more slowly this time in case the builders of the path were nearby and unfriendly. A woodthrush called somewhere to his right, but otherwise there was not a sound to be heard above the soft crunching of Martin’s boots on dry leaves. Rhys walked almost noiselessly on his bare feet, and after a while he took his brother’s hand, as the path was uneven and twisted ’round the trees so sharply that sometimes Rhys could not see the path ahead. But by and by it began to even out, though it got no straighter.

All at once, Rhys noticed that the soft woodthrush’s trill had been joined by a multitude of other birdsong, which grew louder as they continued forward. Rhys was about to turn and question Martin about this, when they rounded another abrupt turn—and nearly walked straight into a person standing in the path!

Rhys stopped so suddenly that Martin stumbled and fell against him, sending Rhys forward, almost face-first into the hard dirt path. At Rhys’s little involuntary yelp of surprise, the person standing in front of them moved swiftly and caught the boy before he could hit the ground.

Upon finding himself supported by two long arms, Rhys blinked with surprise and looked up into the kindly bearded face of an old man. The man righted him—he felt Martin’s hand close tightly, protectively around his arm—and then bent down a little, and Rhys saw that for all his grey beard and lined face, he was very tall and looked quite strong.

The man smiled. “Good day, young ones,” he said. His voice was warm and friendly. “’Tis not often that I get travelers down my path. Are you lost?”

Martin’s hand loosened a little on Rhys’s arm. “No sir,” he said cautiously. “Not exactly…” He paused, uncertain how to explain their wandering through the wood.

Rhys piped up. “We thought the path led to an abandoned cottage,” he said. The tall man’s friendliness had put him completely at ease. “We wanted to spend the night there, maybe, and—” He stopped as Martin squeezed his arm warningly.

The stranger smiled again, apparently not noticing his sudden stop. “Well, it does lead to a cottage,” he said, “but not an abandoned one. It leads to mine. I am Father Anselm, hermit of these woods. You are welcome to stay the night and sup with me, if you like.”

Martin released his brother’s arm, and Rhys was glad to see that he seemed to be more comfortable with Father Anselm now. “Thank you, Father,” the older boy said, bowing his head a little. “My name is Martin, and this is my brother Rhys. We would be glad to stay and share a meal with you, if you are sure it is no trouble.”

Rhys beamed, proud of his brother’s way with words. Father Anselm seemed impressed, too. “No trouble a’tall, my young friend,” he said. “I enjoy having visitors from time t’ time.”

Rhys was grinning with delight, and looking up he saw that Martin was, too. They thanked the hermit heartily and he began leading them down the path to his cottage. He had observed and accepted Martin’s blindness without comment—or pity, which immediately earned him the boys’ gratitude and respect; and they followed him trustingly down the path.

“’Tisn’t far,” said Anselm as he led them. He added apologetically, “’Tisn’t large, either, as you might expect. But there should be room for you two, provided you don’t mind sharing a pallet. I’ve only one extra, I fear.”

“No, Father, we don’t mind.” Martin answered for both of them. “It’s very generous of you to let us stay with you."

The big man smiled. "I only wish I could do more for you two, young one," he said - and then as they rounded a turn, he added, "Ah, here we are!"

The cottage was very small, as befitted a hermit, with an even smaller old barn behind it; but upon seeing it Rhys stopped short and caught his breath. Martin halted by his side, touching his arm. "What is it, Rhys?"

"It's just like home!" Rhys replied in a whisper. Despite himself he felt the prickling of tears in his eyes as he imagined their old cottage, where their mother was always busy, always sewing or cleaning or cooking. And always smiling, too, even though sometimes her eyes - a soft, gentle violet just like Rhys' own - seemed somehow sad...

Martin's hand traveled up Rhys' arm to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He might not be able to see his younger brother's homesickness, but somehow he could always sense it. Behind them Father Anselm watched them for a moment in silence before saying in a quiet, kindly voice, "Come inside, lads, and rest awhile."

Rhys swiftly dragged his sleeve across his eyes to dash the tears away, and looked up. The hermit smiled at him, understanding in his dark eyes, and offered a large hand. Rhys took it, and feeling Martin grasp his own hand, he followed Father Anselm into the cottage.

To be continued...

Anyway, this story here is something that I've been writing on and off for a year or two, usually whenever I get stuck on one of my other stories. So don't expect regular updates (then again, nothing I post seems to get regular updates anymore); I am very fond of this little story, though, so I doubt I'll drop it. It's just something I work on in-between other stories.

Please drop a review and let me know what you think! Constructive criticism is always appreciated, of course -- but if you are going to scold me for historical inaccuracy/lack of detail, let me just tell you now that there is no set time period for this story. It just popped into my head unanounced one day. Ergo, until I get a better idea of where exactly it's headed, I'm not doing any research on it. If there's anything else you want to point out, though, please go right ahead! I can't remember if I ever had this one beta'd, so there might be a few typos here and there.

Okay, guess I've rambled enough. Don't forget to check my bio page for updates, and thank you for reading! I'll try to update something soon! God bless!