The small birds sung their summer songs in the green hued forest

The forest of Protherum

The small birds sang their summer songs in the green hued forest. Shafts of light pierced the canopy, and illuminated the butterfly’s dance around the fully bloomed wild bluebells and roses. The mating call of male birds echoed back and forth hidden up in the highest reaches of the trees. Eager squirrels darted back and forth in the eternal search for nuts. The sky above, if it could have been seen was a rich sapphire blue, with not even a smidgen of a fluffy white cloud as far as the eye could see. It was nature as a true artist would have spent fifty years to capture properly.

Occasionally a small bird would dash out into the avenues that past for forest paths. These broke up the green of the forest with smidgens of red, orange and yellow. The odd rabbit would dash out across an open stretch of cleared path, trying to avoid the day hunters whose keen watch was almost always vigilant. But even they weren’t interested in hunting at this time. Other than these small interruptions, peacefulness reined. Well, as much as nature could be said to be calm.

It was close to two in the afternoon in the middle of the week when the serene tranquillity was disturbed. Not just disturbed in fact, but blown to smithereens. The butterflies, rabbits and all other manner of creatures that strew the well warn forest paths were forced to scatter suddenly to make way for a gangly, sweaty dark haired youth, with shimmering turquoise eyes running full pelt.

He could feel the course ground through the thin, tattered and tarnished leather coverings that barely passed for shoes on his feet. The rest of his unclean, grey rags were in little better shape. They hung over his body as if they were made for someone older, flapping behind him like a brief physical memory of where he had been an instant before. Who ever had bought it had planned for him to grow into them a lot more than he had before they reached this stage, or they had been handed down. The third, even less pleasant, but more likely option, were that they were stolen, the more likely option for this individual.

The grey colour clearly showed that he had not been in a hygienic environment for some time. The child, just beginning to approach adulthood had deep shadows under his eyes, as if his sleep had been uneasy and he was expecting to be disturbed. On top of this, the lad could barely remember the last hot meal he had had, even one that had been dishonestly acquired, like the rest of his food.

The dagger tied to his belt was as blunt as a butter knife, and less than a hand span in length. It had been more to look as if it could be used for protection than for any practical purpose. However, the villagers had been extremely apprehensive when he had first arrived a month previously. Since then he had been unable to pick up a trade, leaving only one avenue open to him.

Before he had moved the youth had lived in a mining town close to twenty miles away, where a cave in had seen off his father, leading to the spiralling decline of his family, who were no longer able to support themselves in the community. After the accident, his father had been blamed as a scapegoat. He had been the explosions expert after all. If he had done his job correctly then the cave shouldn’t have collapsed. This made the other grieving families feel better.

Over time rumour twisted and mutated into given fact, and the pantheistic religious, Vordean, leader gained the support he needed to exile the remnants of the stigmatised family. He had been a rival against Ivaen, the lad’s father, since they had started to go to school together, always jealous, on his own in the corner of the playground, unable to make friends with the other children, never understanding it wasn’t a game they were playing when the others ran away from him.

This lead him to look deep down inside, and realise he was vile, not just on the outside, but the inside to, which opened his eyes greatly. He was the kid who was spotty from the age of ten, and stank to the high heavens because he didn’t like bathing. As Ivaen was the complete opposite the spiteful rival ended up plotting. He sought out power, and found a calling in the church. From there he drew out respect and obedience from all the people he childhood and adolescence had been tormented by.

The memories of his father’s old tales of his own growing up faded as reality shunted its way back into to the young man’s life. If he had stopped running, he was sure that the strain he was putting his legs through would catch up with him, as well as the pitch fork wielding madmen. As a newly arrived outsider, with no family and not old enough to take up a trade he had been the first suspect of all crimes. Now that an heiress had ended up dead the villagers had decided hanging was the only solution to the urchin’s presence. They wanted blood, for such a heinous act against another human being.

A small clearing held a solitary half-height tree, its leaves all long gone. Many from the nearby village of Protherum used it as a marker during winter. It said to all who knew it that they were a mile and a third north from home. It was in case they should be caught out on a hunt when the snows came, or for any other reason which would cause a wonderer to be lost and needing to know which way to head, this far away from the safety of the straw villages. Other than that it was totally unremarkable.

Without knowing where he was heading the youth stumbled on a tree root at the edge of the clearing to find out he was there. He could hear the shouts of the angry mob not far behind him. The stumble had broken the rhythm and now the boy felt his legs explode in a plethora of pain. He didn’t need to move them to feel it, and even when he did, that just made it ten times worse.

He gritted his yellowed teeth until the back of his jaw ached from the effort. Now was not the time for weakness, he thought to himself. With his breath staggered and deep, he pushed off the tree he had leant against and hobbled on into the clearing. Behind him one of the mutts barked to signal the scent of fear and sweat was growing stronger as they caught up to the hunted youth. It was then that he felt his heart pounding like a woodpecker on an ancient oak, which no longer put forward leaves.

He had thought himself afraid before, and that had spurred on his flight, but now full fledged panic was gripping him. He turned to see whether he could spot her pursuers, as he limped on, heading roughly in the same direction as he had been before. Through the trees he thought he could see the flickering movement a hundred metres or so behind him. When he had started he had had more than three times that. With that he knew that he couldn’t outrun them forever.

With a sigh he turned to face where he was heading. It was perhaps too late to avoid falling into the entanglement of the half-height tree. He tried to struggle free, but the more he fought the more it seemed to wrap around him in spindly fingers that sprouted from its burly branches. It scratched and tore at his flesh drawing drops of blood.

With it seemed to flow his ability to resist. The sweet, sickly smell of warmed honey tentatively wafted across his nose. Involuntarily his eyes closed as he inhaled deeper, as if his brain wanted only to pay attention to that one sensation. Dimly he heard the sound of the hunt getting ever closer, but this no longer registered or seemed important to his conscious mind. All he wanted was to breath deeper the sickly sweet scent, until it filled him. His limbs were going numb, so he could no longer feel the tight grip of the half-height tree that held him relentlessly in it’s grip.

His mind felt foggy, and vague recollections of the care and protection his parents had offered when he was but a small child drifted softly across the mental images capturing his mind. He remembered once he had been so sick that he couldn’t go to school, and had to spend the whole day tucked up in bed with seemingly endless supplies of chicken soup and love from his mother. The memory was extremely pleasant, though when exactly it had happened was lost to the pages of history. His heart longed for a return to such easy times. To safety and comfort that he could no longer feel in this new place, so far from family and familiarity.

With that the last tendrils of his control were freely released, as a dream state took over the harsh waking reality.

The lad’s head throbbed and ached as if he had been hit violently across the back of it. It was the first thing he noticed as consciousness appeared to slowly return to him. Moving as slow as an old oak tree’s limbs in the wind he reached up to the centre of the pain. The slightest touch sent sparks of unparalleled agony shooting all over, that preventing him from uttering even a whimper as it was so intense. The area itself felt wet and sticky. Be brought his fingers around, already expecting the worst. The tips of his right hand, which he had touched to the back of his head, were a deep crimson red.

He groaned, wondering what he had banged it on to deserve such a violent wound. Both inwardly and outwardly he groaned. Today had not been the best of his life, though with any luck, there was still a chance he could escape it being his last. The next thought to sneak passed his defences and pollute into his mind was to wonder how long he had been out. It couldn’t have been to long for surely the hunt would be upon him if it had. But it had reduced his lead, and they could be on him in next to no time. With muscles that felt like stretched rubber, he hauled himself to his feet.

The rapid change in position made him feel giddy and dizzy. He closed his eyes trying to will it away so he could continue his flight for freedom. Everything seemed to stop moving after a couple of seconds and he started to stumble on. He had to squint though to see where he was going as everything seemed to be a little bit blurry. This didn’t seem to help a great deal. “Come on.” He whispered in a croaked voice to try and drive himself to get back up to speed and flee again. The more he went forward though, the more everything seemed to blur into one, and within a few more steps the trees were indistinguishable from one another.

He reached out with both hands to try and help avoiding walking into a tree. He was more annoyed than afraid at the new state he found himself in. A howl sounded a short distance behind him which reminded him why he should be afraid, and should be running. He felt his heart rate pick up again, which did no good to the back of his head as it seemed to ache even worse with each pounding of his frantic heart. His eye lids felt heavy, and his limbs seemed to keep gaining weight and thus effort to move.

In reply to the howl behind him, a second slightly higher pitch one rang out from his left, quickly followed by a third to his right. He spun slightly to try and face first one, then another, which unbalanced him once more, instantly returning the feelings of disorientation. The lad tried to inhale deeply, hoping the clear air would empty the sensations away.

The lad fell to his knees, having pushed himself to the limit of his physical endurance. He had nothing left to draw energy from to carry on. If death was his fate, then he had no choice left now except to face it. He reached down to take out his dagger, reasoning that there was no point going down without at least one last fight back. His handed patted the spot where it usually was, but didn’t land on the handle. Had he dropped it when he had fallen into the half-height tree? He must have, and not noticed when he had got up, he reasoned, cursing inwardly.

Dully he remembered that it had been off the ground, rather from amongst the entwined branches that he had got up from, and wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. Something dark and grey shot in front of his vision. He could think enough to panic, but do little else. Stories had circled in Protherum that there were wolves in the forest, but one hadn’t been seen in years. Had he swapped the hang man’s noose for a more bloody death?

Questions didn’t seem to matter any more. The grey disentangled itself from the jade and emerald greens of the forest and seemed to grow in his blurred vision. Two tiny specks of amber flicked into a burning bright scolding light near the top of the grey form. As a last act of defiance he stared into them, and instantly felt like his entire life was being scrutinised. He ever secret torn from the deep recesses of his mind.

He felt as exposed, naked and vulnerable as the day he was born, all at once, but not in equal proportion. Having been clothed for the majority of his life, the feeling of being undressed was the most disturbing, despite his clothes not actually being removed from him. Had he been at a less confusing point in his life, where hair was sprouting all over, and his voice kept cracking to a deeper tone, it might not have been so bad.

A shuddering chill came over him. The two glowing points had kept advancing all this time, and were now less than a metre away from him. The form blurred and seemed to expand in rhythm to his pounding heart, as if his mind were playing one last cruel trick on him. The face of the beast was so close now that the lad could smell the rancid breath it exhaled, and that was the last thing his mind interpreted before he slipped into unconsciousness.