RETURN
OF THE
WHITE DEER
Robert Sells
Smashwords Edition
Martin Sisters Publishing
Published by
Sky Vine Books, a division of Martin Sisters Publishing, LLC
www.martinsisterspublishing.com
Copyright © 2012 by Robert Sells
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Sky Vine Books, an imprint of Martin Sisters Publishing, LLC, Kentucky.
ISBN: 978-1-937273-25-5
Science Fiction/Fantasy
Martin Sisters Publishing, LLC
Dedication
For my wife, Dale, without whose gentle prodding, infinite patience, and perceptive critical analysis, this story never would have left my mind.
Acknowledgements
My first thanks must go to my children whose expectant eyes helped conjure so many stories. During the difficult process of writing, Margaret Duff was my ever enthusiastic supporter. Her kind words pulled me over rough waters. Astute suggestions came from Karen Weidman, a good friend, and Caressa Sells, my English major daughter. My son, Rob, badgered me about the title and eventually we agreed upon Return of the White Deer. My writing was polished by Nancy Luckhurst. The staff of Martin Sisters Publishing was helpful and gentle with my naïve questions. Aaron Lazar was both my inspiration and guiding light in this new world of writing. To all, a heartfelt thank-you.
Finally, my thanks are extended to you, the reader, for taking a chance on new author with an old story.
Prologue
Last and tallest of the Pennines range in England, Cross Fell Mountain loomed above the forest called Markwood. Getting to the wooded plateau near the peak of the mountain was challenging for even the most experienced mountain climbers. The king of Mercia, Cearl, precariously positioned just below the plateau, wedged his toe into the slight crack reluctantly offered by the steep cliff and raised himself higher. His foot slipped, but strong, sure hands maintained a grip on a rock. Fierce eyes bore into the unforgiving mountain. In one fluid motion, he swung himself up to a ledge leading to the plateau. He had beaten it. For a moment, the king lay on the ground, taking in great gulps of air. The remaining climb to the peak would have been short and easy, but reaching the peak held no importance for him. Here was his quarry. He raised his head, dark eyes slowly scanned right, left, and back to the right. Between two large bushes he glimpsed the movement of something white in color…and then nothing. Could just be the fog, he thought. Or, could it finally be the end of his hunt?
The king, crouched low, crept stealthily from the ledge onto the level ground. Hidden behind a solitary tree, he shifted his quiver of arrows to the ground. There were four long arrows, each sporting golden feathers, each with a shaft engraved with a unique animal symbol, tipped with a large, jagged head. Three of the arrows had been successfully used before: one sporting the image of a wild boar, one a bear, and one a mountain lion. Brushing the blond hair from his face, his long fingers reached out to the fourth arrow, bearing the unimpressive form of a deer. Back at the castle, late the night before, he had carefully painted the humble form stark white. Now, on the mountain, he caressed the perfectly straight arrow and silently notched it in the tight string of the great bow.
Cearl was an accomplished hunter. He was considered the best swordsman in the kingdom and one of the best archers. Many slain animals were silent testaments to his skill with the bow, the heads of which adorned the Great Hall. The graves of many men, both good and bad, were evidence of his ability with the sword. To him these encounters were nothing more than sport, even the killing of men. Today’s effort, however, was of a more serious nature.
After the Romans departed England, the land fragmented into dozens of small kingdoms. The success of these small kingdoms depended upon strong leaders. The white deer, a strange creature approaching the status of myth, had a long history of choosing able and caring leaders for Mercia. Cearl’s father, King Jared had not been chosen by the white deer, at least not in the typical manner. The old king claimed to have communed with the animal in a dream, but most were skeptical of his account. Regardless, it was validation enough for a nation mired in civil war. After his coronation, the white deer disappeared from sight; many took it as a sign of her disapproval. The next year a famine wasted the country. The year after witnessed a terrible plague. Many whispered it was not coincidental that dark times had befallen the country.
Upon the death of his father, Cearl assumed the mantle of king, without being chosen by the deer. Those who challenged his legitimacy succumbed to his sword. Brave advisers in court urged him to invent a connection with the mysterious animal just his father had done. Cearl retorted that if indeed the white deer lived, its head would be mounted above his throne. If it did not live, why bother with any charade?
But, he was not blind to the discontent of his subjects. So he resolved to hunt down the animal and neatly eliminate the problem. He was on Cross Fell Mountain because it was the last place the deer was sighted years before.
Movement again. With grim satisfaction, he realized this was no fog. Cearl followed the ghostly motion in the waning light. From behind a holly bush, the white deer emerged. Astonished at her very existence and then her beauty, he gaped at the specter. She stood calmly, almost regally, on the edge of a cliff and looked over the vast expanse of Markwood forest below. Cearl regained his composure and deliberately pulled the string back, aiming at the heart of the animal. At that moment, she turned her head to look at him. Not more than twenty paces away, her startlingly blue eyes pierced into his very soul. He felt fear for the first time. He shook his head free from distracting thoughts and released the missile. It sailed harmlessly past her neck.
She continued to stare at him, unperturbed by the arrow that had just barely missed her. Cearl was stunned; he had never missed before. So confident was he in his abilities only one arrow was dedicated for each prize he sought and only one arrow was ever needed. Yet the deer still stood directly before him, alive, aware, and unfazed.
Looking down he found another arrow, frantically strung it, and turned back in the deer’s direction, but there was only empty ground. Cearl ran to where his arrow had passed into the bush, but in the last light of the day, he could not find the treasured shaft.
He stayed there on the mountain, huddled under the tree that neither blocked the rain nor sheltered him from the cold wind. The next morning he searched in vain for the spent arrow. Miserable and hungry, he returned to the castle.
For an entire year, he returned each month to challenge death on the cliff. He searched the plateau for some sign of the white deer or his arrow, but both seemed to have vanished. On that cursed mountain he did find two other things: frustration and its child, anger. Not the flickering anger which makes a brief appearance and then politely leaves, but the deep, abiding anger that alters the very essence of a person. As one maddening year passed and then another, his visits became less frequent yet his obsession intensified.
After his mountain visits ceased, he invited hordes of hunters to search Markwood for the deer. Some were true hunters, but most were former soldiers or criminals willing to do the bidding of whoever paid them the most gold coins. Cearl rewarded them well as they searched both forest and mountain. They found no white deer, so their arrows wreaked vengeance on other animals, thinning the numbers of both large and small beasts. Mercia became a land made harsh by a bitter king and barren by heartless hunters. After many years, he withdrew most of the huntsmen from the fruitless search, but still retained their services. The mountain was declared off-limits to all but the very best hunters within that dark group. Any rumors of the white deer were thoroughly investigated by those cruel mercenaries.
Despite the king’s brutal efforts to eliminate the white deer and her influence, the legend grew.
Chapter One
Two travelers, a boy and a girl, traversed a road that ran straight as an arrow through the countryside. The girl, tall and slim, laughed. Though unaware of it, she was growing into a beautiful woman. Liana had convinced herself that her gray eyes were an unacceptable color, her nose too small, and the flowing chestnut hair, now loosely secured at the back of her head, was far too unruly for anyone to find appealing. Were she pressed to name her best feature, she would admit that her teeth were rather nice which explained the ease of her laughter with the boy.
The boy’s given name was Penda, but everyone called him Pen. He was the same height as the girl, but his young body displayed a greater stature. His frame, once lean and wiry, had filled out with muscle. His pleasant face was not yet burdened with lines of worry. Like many twelve-year-olds, he thought he knew almost everything, except death, which had not yet visited friends or family. He also did not know that his life would soon change. Within a month, certainty would be replaced by doubt, pride by humility, and life by death. For now, though, the most troubling matter of his innocent existence was trying to focus on the embarrassing question Liana posed.
Astride a finely muscled brown horse, she stopped, turned to her companion, and asked once again with exasperation, “Pen, why do you hide it from your father?”
Pen found it difficult to concentrate on matters so disconcerting and Liana’s questions were often such; his mind had drifted to the horse. The old horse had carried him even at the tender age of three and now dutifully helped his father plow the fields. But he ran so slowly…. Pen’s ruminations dissolved away as Liana pushed him and tried to dislodge either rider or answer.
Firm in the saddle, he shook his head free of his musings, squinted his blue eyes, and focused on his companion. “What did you ask?”
Liana glowered, a clear sign she was about to chastise him for his inattentiveness.
“Pen! You must listen better! What’s wrong with simply telling your father?”
“You don’t have to yell, Liana. I hear perfectly well.”
Eyes rolled, Liana looked away as her hair whipped around. Pen knew he had better get to the answer or suffer her acerbic words, undoubtedly being framed right now.
His mouth formed a rare frown as he struggled with the explanation. “Father is a farmer, Liana… just a farmer. That really explains it all, I guess. Not only has he no weapons, he doesn’t want any around. Though he was of age, he didn’t fight in the war. Songor did, but not my father. Father… well… he is what he is.” Pen continued; his face strained with the effort of explanation. “He wants me to be a farmer too, but that’s not what I am, Liana. A soldier perhaps. Maybe a huntsman.”
“You, a huntsman?” She laughed. “You walk around ants to avoid hurting them. I can’t see you as a huntsman, Pen.”
He smiled. “No, I guess you’re right, I couldn’t be that. However I end up, I must be able defend myself. I need to know how to wield a sword, Liana.” His voice dropped to a whisper: “I must be ready.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know!” he snapped, startling her. “I just know I have to be ready… for something.”
Liana glared at him, more angered by her own surprise than offended by his harsh tone. She shot back at him, “You sneak away to Thatch to have that old soldier teach you how to use a sword. And, what is worse, you tell your father you were with me! All I can do is nod and smile, nod and smile. So, I become part of the lie! Wrong! Wrong, in so many ways, Pen! And I am wrong to let it continue. If you won’t tell your father, maybe I should!”
The earlier eruption of anger vanished with Liana’s threat. Panicked, he quickly begged, “Please don’t, Liana. Father doesn’t suspect anything and I don’t want to upset him.”
She shook her head resolutely as her steel-gray eyes drilled into him.
“You don’t want to upset Pen! By telling him you were with me, you not only lied, you put me in the middle. I don’t want to be involved in this anymore.”
Tears welled in his eyes so he looked away. At twelve, tears formed quickly, but they were no longer allowed to fall in front of friends. Seeing his discomfort, she stopped pressing the point. Their horses carried them along, bodies and heads bobbing with their steady gait. After a few moments of silence, Liana added in a softer tone, “All right, Pen. I won’t tell him. You can stop crying.”
Pen struggled to compose himself and blinked away the tears as he continued to look away. Pretending to look at an abandoned hut, he waited until the evidence of his distress had sufficiently disappeared.
“I wasn’t crying! I was… thinking.” Then, quick as a snake strike, he turned and fired at her. “And you may be older than me, but I am taller! And you’re just a stupid girl, anyway.”
Instead of retaliating, she laughed at the outburst.
“Girl or not, you still need me to be part of your lies, don’t you?” He started to protest but she held up her hand to silence him, eyebrows upraised, her head slightly tilted; her expression gave warning. “I will keep playing your game, but understand at some point you will have to tell him.”
He knew she was right, so he turned away and ignored her.
Liana was his best friend. Not that he would ever admit it to other friends, especially Jack, who was nearly his best friend. She was not like other girls. She would climb a tree, casually brush away wet leaves and even squirmy slugs, and step over the occasional snake without shuddering like he did. She was also skilled in matters boys considered important, like archery. Once, one of his friends brought an old bow from his father’s hunting rack. He and his friend shot arrows at a not-too-distant tree for the entire afternoon, getting progressively closer to the crude target they had erected. Liana came by and watched them show off for a few minutes. Then she snatched the bow from Pen and effortlessly placed the arrow directly in the center of the target. No, she was definitely not like other girls.
A few farms they passed bustled with men planting crops. In the woods between the fields were dilapidated huts, depressing reminders of the recent deterioration of the country.
Two rough, barefoot men approached them with faces turned downward.
Liana no longer attended to Pen's idle talk, her hand slowly moved toward her knife.
In silence, the poorly attired men passed. Looking back over her shoulder, she noted their determined walk did not change. Relieved, Liana glanced back to Pen who still was complaining about his numerous, but simple chores, oblivious to the possible dangers on the road. She interrupted his incessant chatter.
“Your father let you have Mirus today. I thought he was going to plow the west field with him this morning.”
“He and Songor were fixing the barn today. Tomorrow they might plow.”
“Well, rider of the plow horse,” she taunted, “let’s see if you can beat me in a race to the farm.” She looked at him with a grin and was about to spur her horse forward.
“No fair”, he whined, “you have Brill and she is your fastest horse.”
She held up, turned to her friend, and smiled.
“Why Pen, I’m just a stupid girl, don’t you remember?”
She leaned over in the saddle, nose-to-nose with him. “But the girl always wins, doesn’t she? Now talk to my backside, boy!” With that she whipped the reins back and forth; a cloud of dust trailed behind her and Brill.
No horse his father owned was a match for Brill, certainly not this one. The boy urged the large animal forward, bringing him to a lackluster canter. When the animal finally reached a respectable speed, he urged him into a gallop. The horse grudgingly complied. The distance between Mirus and Brill grew wider. Pen refused to spur the horse or whip its flanks. Someone, long ago, had left scars all over the poor creature’s body, so he did his best to encourage him with words as he leaned over his neck and spoke into his ear.
“Onward, great steed. Faster, Mirus!” And the horse continued his indifferent gallop. Liana looked over her shoulder and laughed.
Pen recalled a word he heard Thatcher say when he wanted two boys to rush together to practice sword fighting. The word was “adgredi”, a Latin word meaning to advance swiftly. In desperation, Pen yelled, “Adgredi!”
The horse came to an abrupt stop; Pen was nearly unsaddled. Well that didn’t work. He was about to build up to a canter again, when the horse snorted, reared, almost dislodged him again and, in the blink of an eye, broke into a sudden, furious gallop, his black eyes fixed on the brown horse. The boy gripped tightly with his knees, praying he wouldn’t fall. He had never known such speed. Shoulder-length hair flew back exposing an uninhibited grin. When Liana looked back again, her smile dropped away and was replaced by an astonished stare. They were only a few horse lengths behind and closing fast. Shocked, she spurred Brill faster as Mirus closed the gap.
At last they were neck and neck. Pen hazarded a sideways glance at the girl. She stared at him in amazement, her reins snapping right and left as Mirus slowly coasted past. When they splashed into the wide creek, water spraying away from the great horse, Pen pulled gently on the reins. When the horse finally stopped, knee-deep in water, the boy hugged him around the neck. Another splash sprayed behind them. Liana looked at Mirus for a few moments, watching him bob his head up and down, great blasts of air and water exploding from his nostrils. Squinting her eyes, she turned toward Pen.
“How did you do that?”
Pen, smiling broadly, looked at her. “Mirus said he didn’t like looking at your backside.”
Exchanging playful banter the two walked a short distance to Pen’s farm. They failed to notice Pen’s father waiting for them at the barn, arms folded. When they turned to lead the horses in, they were met with a dark scowl and their smiles wilted.
Chapter Two
With a flip of his hand, Larmack silently ordered his son down. He stepped up to the boy, one eyebrow raised.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Penda?”
One of the tallest men in the village, Larmack’s imposing height was complemented with well-developed muscles from years of hard farm work. The portion of his face not covered by thick, peppery beard was deeply lined, suggesting a past familiar with pain and suffering.
Pen had a sinking feeling his father had discovered his clandestine visits to Thatcher, but he silently prayed his secret was still intact.
He hoped to distract his father with what he thought was important news. “I finally won a race, Father.”
Under his farmer’s tan, a red hue filled his face. Pen grimaced, turned his face slightly, and cringed as he waited for the verbal attack that was sure to follow.
“I care nothing about a silly horse race; I care everything about your safety! Why didn’t you tell me about your sword lessons?”
The boy, wide-eyed, just looked at his father.
“You think you can keep secrets with so many wagging tongues about?” Then, turning from his son, he lashed out at the girl. “Liana, I am disappointed in you.”
“Sir, I…he…”
“No more lies, Liana! You are three years older and should know better.”
Liana’s head hung low. Larmack had never scolded her; he was more like a doting uncle than a neighbor. She wanted to scream that she had told Pen again and again to tell him, but she would not put her friend in a worse predicament, though he richly deserved it. Besides, she admitted to herself, she had indeed lied with her silence.
Guilt outweighed fear as Pen blurted out, “Father, I am at fault. I begged her to go along with my lies. Liana told me many times to tell you, but I didn’t listen.”
The father spun around to face to his son. “She gave you this advice and still you didn’t tell me?”
The bowed head nodded.
“Leave us, Liana. I must speak to my son alone.”
She wasn’t sure if it was Pen’s bravery in exonerating her or the pain she felt watching him being verbally thrashed, but tears came to her eyes and would not stop.
She pulled Brill away and rode off, wiping her nose and eyes.
Larmack realized his son had put himself in jeopardy by defending Liana. Softly he queried, “Why didn’t you tell me, Pen?”
Pen watched Liana leave and then turned to his father.
“I was afraid you would forbid me to do it.”
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission, eh?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know! I just wanted to learn how to use a sword. You always tell me to avoid fights because you don’t know how to use a sword. I won’t do that.”
Amused, the tall man put a foot on the fence rail, folded his arms, and raised an eyebrow. “Ah, you think your father a coward, then?”
Pen finally looked up, relieved to see a twinkle in his father’s eyes.
“No, you are…wise. It would be foolish for you to challenge someone with a weapon.”
The father could not suppress his smile. “So now I am a fool?”
“No. No sir.”
He recalled how his father had many times advised him to listen first, think carefully, and, if absolutely necessary, speak. It was certainly necessary now. But what was the best way to say it?
His father waited patiently and finally the boy continued with a firmer voice, eyes holding his father’s.
“We are different, you and I. If I stay on the farm, I won’t be afraid of anyone! I mean to protect myself and that is only done with the sword. You can’t teach me swording, sir, so I had to learn from Thatch.”
Larmack was quiet for a few moments as he looked away from his son. He understood the lad’s concerns.
“Perhaps you are right, son. I probably don’t know as much as you or Thatcher about sword fighting, but I do know this. If you think having a sword makes you less afraid, then I am fearful for you. When violence is born, it grows up mighty fast and it’s an ugly beast.”
Larmack looked away, paused for a moment, and spoke so softly that Pen barely heard the words.
“Not everything is as it seems, son.”
Pen stared at the tall man scanning the fields. He knew his father would protect him even if he had to match shovel against sword.
“I’m sorry I lied. I’ll never again lie to you.”
“At least as long as this memory is fresh, eh?” Larmack said good-naturedly, turning back to his son.
“No. Never again, sir, never.”
He put his arm around the boy’s shoulder and pulled him closer. “Good. I know you mean what you say, Pen.”
As they walked to the barn, Pen endured the rare show of affection. Pen wanted to be considered an adult and this last year he had cast off any hugs his father had given him.
“Songor and I have to help Eldrick cut a new barn door.” Larmack leaned to Pen’s ear and whispered, “I told Songor our work would not give him time to make us dinner and that we would eat at the inn.”
Pen smiled. Songor was a terrible cook, but they would never hurt his feelings by suggesting his meals were anything but tasty.
Father and son walked over to the wagon where Songor had just finished loading wood.
Larmack climbed onto the wagon and released the brake; the wagon inched forward as the mare slowly pulled it. Settled on the buckboard, he looked back at his son. “So, you got the old horse to run, did you? Knowing you, it wasn’t by whip or spur, so how did you do it?”
Leading Mirus by the reins, he walked beside his father as the cart, moaning and creaking, moved toward the road.
“It was strange, sir. I just kept talking to him, trying to find something that might get him moving. I guess I just said the right word.”
“The right word,” mused Larmack, winking at Songor. “Let me guess… adgredi.” The large black horse suddenly stirred and stared at the farmer.
Pen, a puzzled expression on his face, looked at his father.
“How did you know?”
His father laughed.
“He’s been my horse far longer than yours, boy. I got him from an army officer; he was in many battles, son.” The man snapped the reins and the cart careened off. Pen waved goodbye as Songor leaned back over the buckboard and smiled at the lad.
As the weary steed contentedly munched on the thick grass that lay near the barn, Pen wiped him down. His hand crossed over the scars Mirus had carried all these years. Pen spoke into his ear. “When I fully master the sword, I will seek out your previous owner and thrash him for you, dear Mirus. No one should ever have allowed you this pain!” Mirus looked at Pen, whinnied, then snorted and nuzzled his head close to the boy.
Leading the old horse to his stall, he thought once again about his father. He loved the tall, taciturn, gentle man and respected him in most things, but felt acutely embarrassed whenever he avoided confrontations. The previous week, Pen overheard the blacksmith, Griswold, curse the soldiers, right to their faces. He almost backed them down, but they got what they were after. When the soldiers came to collect taxes from his father, the man only stared into their eyes and handed over what they insolently demanded.
Pen long ago decided he would never quietly accept the soldiers’ slurs and insults that accompanied the tax collection. He would soundly rebuke them as the blacksmith had done and, if necessary, punish them with his sword. Pen smiled at the thought. He looked down the road toward the village and the inn; his stomach growled.
Chapter Three
Pen, Larmack, and Songor, lived on a farm just outside the village of Kirkland. The largest structure in the small village was the Three Decker Inn.
The three men dismounted upon arrival at the inn; their talk was light and jovial. Larmack surveyed the long porch in both directions before following his son and servant inside.
Songor burst into the room hailing one friend after another. Wide as he was tall, he waddled more than walked. He constantly wiped sweat from his ruddy face with a rag from his pocket. The hair he still had circled his pink skull like a white halo. If he wasn’t talking, he was eating, and if he wasn’t eating, he was drinking; often he tried to accomplish all three tasks at the same time. As Songor happily contributed to the general din of the tavern, Pen nodded to a few farmers and one of his friends.
Larmack scanned the clientele and the free tables that dotted the inn. The tavern was built over one hundred years earlier by a retired sea captain. He fashioned a series of three decks, each three steps higher than the one before it. Larmack preferred the highest one, and a table there was free. The trio climbed the steps to highest level and claimed the table. The tall farmer sat in the corner facing the rest of the tavern.
Once seated, Songor immediately popped up and leaned over the railing (it sagged perilously with his weight) and chatted with a group of men right below him on a lower level. He chose this group because the aromatic steam from their pork stew reached his nostrils and excited his palate. Turning to Pen, his face was contorted with both confusion and concern. “Where be our dishes, Master Pen?” Just then three wooden bowls were slapped down in front of them.
The waitress shook her finger at Songor whose arms encircled the sumptuous treasure, eyes closed as if in a trance. His nose uplifted slightly as it inhaled the fragrant stew so delightfully close now.
“Don’t you be expecting extra helpings, Songor. Last time you was here we had to kill two extra pigs!”
“Sally, this be me fav’rit. Come ‘ere, lass. Let me give thee a kiss fer ye kindness to me.” He reached out toward her.
Sally frowned and lightly tapped his hand with a small loaf of bread.
“Get on with you now. Here’s your bread. Eat as much of that as you want, Songor.” She huffed off to another table. Pen had already begun to eat the stew. Songor delayed his start for only a moment as he once again sniffed the steam from the mixture of small purple carrots, onions, peas, and chunks of pork in thick gravy. He attacked the stew and quickly surpassed both Pen and Larmack in his consumption.
He raised his hand to the waitress.
“Sally, Sally. Could you favor me with another bowl, dear?”
The waitress rolled her eyes and stomped down to the kettle. Later, their supper mostly done, Larmack rested with his back against the wall, watching the antics at one of the tables while he listened to Songor’s ramblings.
“So, I walks right up to the bartender…”
Florid from the drink and sweat dripping from his forehead, Songor interrupted his tale only to take a draught of honey-laced mead. Before he continued, he leaned into Pen who seemed most interested in his words.
“… I looks him straight in eye, I did. And I told him just what I thought of his drinks.”
Another gulp. An appreciative smile formed on his face; apparently he had a more favorable impression of this drink than the one in his story.
“Then he looks at me, grabs me cup…”
Songor giggled in anticipation and only allowed himself a quick sip so that he could finish his story.
“He said, he said,” Songor chuckled, “‘then you won’t be missing it’ and poured it on me head!” An explosion of laughter followed and Pen couldn’t help but laugh with him. Larmack grinned and raised his cup to the storyteller.
“Sally, dear, we needs another cup of this fine, fine mead.” Songor yelled over the clamor of the other patrons.
Songor kept talking. “‘Minds me of the time we traveled to Lindsey. So many taverns and the mead there… oh, the mead. Sir, you remember when they threw Higgins into the vat. His head came out and he asked if he could have another drink.”
Pen looked up from his plate, swallowed quickly, and asked, “You and father were in Lindsey, Songor?”
The fat man stopped talking and nervously looked at his master whose narrowed eyes glared at Songor.
“Well, yes, yes…but long ago. Long, long ago. Twas nothing, just a trip.” He looked about uncomfortably for some distraction.
“Sally, dear, dear Sally. Songor be dying of thirst. Save him girl,” he bellowed.
“But to get to Lindsey,” persisted Pen, “you had to have gone through the Markwood Forest. Tell me about it.”
Avoiding the stare of his irritated boss, Songor pondered the question for a few seconds and then responded. “Weren’t much, Pen. Not much in Lindsey either.” Songor quickly began another story, about a drinking contest he won handily, boring Pen into a daze.
The three were essentially finished with their meal, though Larmack had just started nibbling his almond cake which was covered with honey.
Upon Sally’s delivery of the drink, Songor was about to extol the virtues of the Three Decker Inn’s mead when two soldiers entered. The jovial din dropped immediately to absolute silence. Two men, both wearing bright red tunics with black trousers and boots, looked for a table. The locals put their heads down and silently studied the flat, wooden surfaces in front of them. Soldiers in these parts were sometimes like mean dogs and a stare could excite them into snapping and attacking. Larmack alone watched the two men saunter through.
Gorm and Eusibius were well known in the village and not much liked. They acted as the local police force, collected taxes (usually a bit more than what the books required), and ostentatiously practiced swordplay as they laughingly crashed into stores and bumped and pushed into people and obstacles in their way. Eusibius was older and consequently a bit more polite. Taller than his young comrade, he had a pockmarked face. Gorm was short, rash, and devilishly handsome. It was Gorm who noticed Larmack staring at them. Gorm led Eusibius toward the farmer. All talk had ceased and all that was heard was the noisy rattling of the swords as the soldiers climbed the last few steps. Larmack did not take his eyes off the two men as he casually placed a morsel of cake into his mouth.
Gorm stood over Larmack who cut another small piece of cake with his spoon.
“We want this table, farmer. Move on and let us eat.”
Pen started to get up, but a stern glance from Larmack sat him back down. What was his father doing? It was for situations exactly like this that he wished for a sword at his side. The old farmer slowly brought the morsel to his mouth, closed his eyes and shook his head, making a show of enjoying the dessert.
“Gorm, you really should try this cake. It’s quite delicious.”
Incensed, the muscular soldier kicked his chair and repeated his order.
Larmack looked around and then back to the soldier.
“I see many empty tables.”
“Well, we want this one, you impertinent trash. Get up and get out.” His face matched the red of his tunic.
Songor slowly backed away from the table and stepped down past Eusibius, who watched the proceedings with a smirk on his face. Pen would have only been too glad to follow Songor, but his father had given him no sign to leave.
Larmack ignored the command, picked up the spoon, and cut off another small piece.
“Insolent pig! Now I will thrash you!” Gorm reached for his sword. What happened next was such a blur that even the boy who watched the entire incident could not say for sure what took place. But a moment later, sword cast aside, Gorm was face down on the ground as Larmack twisted the man’s arm behind his back, head pressed into the floor. Then, just as abruptly, Larmack released his hold and casually sat back down on his chair. The enraged soldier immediately turned over, lunged toward Larmack as he reached for his knife.
The same knife Gorm futilely reached for was at his own throat. Somehow Larmack had extracted it during the struggle.
Eusibius reacted by reaching for his sword only to find it too gone. Then he felt the tip of a blade in his back. Songor pressed the point just enough to be uncomfortable.
“Ye mustn’t move, Eusibius, sir.”
Larmack held the blade close to the kneeling man’s throat. “Now you will rise very slowly and sit down on that chair.” As Gorm got up, he stared down at his blade touching the exposed fleshy part of his throat.
“Hands to your side… ah, very good. Sit there until I tell you to get up.”
Gorm sat across from Larmack who had laid the knife down beside his plate. Larmack slowly finished the cake. Finally he pushed himself up from the seat. Stepping closer to Gorm, Larmack leaned down, close to his ear, and whispered, “Try to hurt me or mine and you will die.”
The soldier turned defiantly toward the farmer, but went pale as he met with his cold, unblinking gaze.
Larmack stared until Gorm turned away. Then he calmly picked up the sword and handed it to Gorm, along with the knife. “Now you may have the table.”
He walked down the steps, and Pen, stunned by the events, found himself momentarily alone with Gorm who breathed heavily and stared at the table. Quickly the boy got up, knocking his chair down and followed his father. Songor placed the blade of Eusebius on the table by the door as they left.
On the short ride home in the darkness, Pen was too astonished to say anything. Larmack offered nothing and even Songor was quiet. Pen repeatedly twisted his head to listen for approaching horses.
“Don’t worry, Pen,” Larmack said quietly, “they won’t be bothering us tonight.”
During the moonlit ride home, the boy looked sideways at the man riding beside him. This man who steadily worked from dawn to dusk, this man who tenderly cared for him when he was sick, this man who avoided confrontations, this man who was his father, was now a mystery to Pen.
When they reached the farm, Songor mumbled goodnight and walked quickly to his room in the barn. Pen returned the horses to their stalls. On the way out, he paused at Songor’s door and knocked.
“Come in, Master Pen.”
Songor was sitting on his rumpled cot. “I ‘spected you might be visiting tonight.”
Pen sat down on a chair facing Songor. “I’ve never seen anything happen so fast. How? What… Songor, was my father a soldier?”
No laugh, chuckle, or smile emerged as his face contorted into frown lines so rarely used. He worried a piece of thread out of his bed sheet and shook his head.
“Pen, I promised your Da’ not to talk… to you or anyone. He says to me ‘Songor, ye mustn’t tell what we done.’ How did he say it… wait, let me think…” the man winced and closed his eyes.
“I gots it now… he says… ‘The past be dead, it canst have no part of now.’ That’s what he said, Master Pen. Or sumtin like that. So I canst talk about us soldiering. Canst, Master Pen, I simply canst.” Songor looked pleadingly into the boy’s eyes. Pen held his stare for a few seconds, thinking about Songor’s inadvertent admission. Then he focused on his friend. Whenever the large man worried, sleep would be denied him. The boy patted him on the shoulder.
“I understand you can’t tell me anything, Songor. You go to sleep now.”
Relieved, the portly man lay down on his bed and promptly started snoring. Pen covered him with a blanket, patted him again, and walked out of the barn. His father had been a soldier!
Upon returning to the dark farmhouse, he found the farmer sitting on a chair by the fireplace.
“Son, don’t ask me questions about tonight.”
He looked at Pen with a piercing stare that brooked no question and demanded full compliance. Pen looked down and simply bade him goodnight. An hour later Larmack retired to his bed.
By the time Larmack finally found sleep, his son had lost his. Pen’s sleep was plagued by strange dreams. He awoke, startled, and sat up in bed, sweating. He found himself breathing hard, but could not clearly remember the last dream. It had something to do with the white deer. Then, as he reclined on his cot, his eyes wide open, his mind recalled the odd events four years earlier…
Chapter Four
Eight-year-old Pen, excited about nearly everything (except chores), and Liana, just emerged from the cocoon of childhood, spent most of their free time together.
Though the young boy enjoyed spending time with Liana, he was frustrated. Paths well-trodden were paths too familiar for Pen.
A particularly sunny morning found eight-year-old Pen arguing with Liana. Invincible in his cloak of youth, he yearned to seek new adventures in the mysterious forest just down the road… Markwood. He issued another of his dares to enter that foreboding realm of impossibly tall trees and impassable thorny bushes. Such taunts usually resulted in a diatribe from the girl, but she was intent in coaxing a chipmunk to feed from her hand.
He pestered her with another challenge to enter the unknown woods; his raised voice scared off the timid creature. Liana pointed her finger like a stabbing dagger.
“Your own father told you never to go there, Pen! Why don’t you ever listen?”
Exasperated, she once again warned him of the wild, dangerous animals and the mysterious green men who inhabited the inner part of the forest, never seen until they surrounded you. Dismemberment and death followed their manifestation.
“So what? I could fight them off, Liana.” He jumped up and waved a stick in a menacing manner. She gave him a disgusted look and tried to coax the chipmunk back.
Pen stopped thrashing about, watched the chipmunk hesitantly reappear, and then blurted out, “You don’t really believe that stuff, do you?”
The chipmunk darted off into the woods again. She turned slowly and glared at him. Eyes squinted tightly, she stabbed him with her stare.
“Yes. Everyone says it’s true, even your father. He told you not to go near those woods.”
“Come on, Liana. He wouldn’t find out.”
“We must not go into the forest. Ever! Bad things happen there.” As usual, when she was this adamant, Liana got her way. She rose abruptly, deciding for both of them that the conversation and their time with the chipmunk had ended. They spent the rest of the morning walking along the creek. At the end of their trek, they saw the creek wind slowly until it disappeared in the thick forest. Cross Fell Mountain loomed behind the green wall. Pen turned to Liana, head tilted, and looked at her hopefully. She firmly shook her head and walked back along the creek, away from both mountain and forest.
As she mounted her horse to return home, Liana told Pen she would be gone for over a week. In the spring and summer, she was often absent for week or more. She refused to tell him where she went or what she did and it annoyed him immensely. Mother Hebron, Liana’s mother, would also leave. It was all some kind of girl secret. Even Songor didn’t know what was going on. Not allowed to ride a horse alone, eight-year old Pen was stuck at the farm and forced to amuse himself. As he waved goodbye to her, he looked in the direction of Markwood Forest. An idea came to mind and he smiled.
The next morning, Songor and Larmack trudged out under a sky still black with just a streak of lavender on the horizon, a silent promise of a new day. By mid-morning, chores done, the boy was packed with cheese, bread, and a rusty knife from the barn, all essential ingredients for his quest.
Pen darted to the creek. After looking over his shoulder to make sure no one saw him, he ran along the bank to where the churning waterway emerged from the tall, green wall of the forbidden forest. He hesitated a moment, his heart racing as much with anticipation as with trepidation and before impulse could be bested by reason he ducked under branches and followed the creek into the new world.
It was a world without sun, the diminished light a monotone green. He smelled the rich aroma of grass, ground, and dead leaves, all still damp in the perpetual green shade. Small creatures scurried here or slithered there, surprised by his entry. Birds tracked his progress with scolding chirps.
Though he had no fear of animals large or small, he was concerned about those mysterious green men. Liana insisted they could change from bush to person and back again. Though he didn’t believe the story, the boy carefully scrutinized the bushes near him. They seemed normal enough, but he felt it necessary to check often.
After nearly an hour, he came to a small meadow, neatly bisected by the stream, lush grass on either side of its banks. Here he saw bright blue sky instead of the monotonous green canopy. Far away, on the other side of the meadow, circled by wild flowers, was a small pond. Settling on the thick grass, he took out the cheese and bread and commenced to eat. Before long, scurrying squirrels, rabbits, darting chipmunks, and fluttering birds surrounded him. They wanted the bits of his snack, unsure of how to safely extract the food once offered. Hunger overcame fear as they darted to the boy, plucked a morsel of food from his outstretched fingers, and ran away with their tiny treasure. When the food was finally gone, a few of the animals were enticed to accept his gentle caresses. Liana had tried this, unsuccessfully, during all their outings; he couldn’t wait to tell her. She’s going to be so jealous, he thought happily.
When evening began to inhale the sun’s light, he sadly rose, waved goodbye to his new friends, and followed the creek out of the forest, getting home before his father and Songor ambled back from their labors.
He repeated this visit over each of the next few days. More and more animals of every type would visit him in the grove. Soon he was able to coax even the wary fox to allow his gentle touch.
He bounced out of bed early on the fourth morning, packed a lunch for himself, and put tidbits of food in his bag for his new friends. Arriving at the meadow, there were no animals to be seen nor could he hear any sounds, save the rustling of leaves in the wind. Puzzled he scanned the entire field.
At the far end of the meadow, she appeared. Perfectly proportioned, pure white, the deer walked purposefully toward Pen. The boy stood still, watching. The graceful animal slowly approached him, stopped within a few feet, cocked her head and stared. His mind seemed to be gently pried opened and faint ideas bubbled in his consciousness. A moment later, he was both shocked and delighted to clearly “hear” her thoughts as distinct words.
“Pen, I am so happy to finally meet you. You have taken good care of my friends. Thank you.”
The deer’s large blue eyes stared deeply into his blue eyes. “Don’t be alarmed. Walk with me.”
Although it had to be nearly two hundred yards away, it seemed it took them only a few steps to reach the other side of the pond. Looking back, he saw the animals had emerged from hiding. Lined along the edge of the trees, all watched.
Oddly, he felt somewhat tired. His mind was fuzzy, as if in a dream.
The white deer stopped at a small outcrop of granite. In the shade of a tall tree, she continued the conversation.
“I am the caretaker of this forest, Pen, and all the forests in the land. Without a king to model goodness, to show kindness, to give mercy, balance always suffers. So the forest has suffered, so the land has suffered, and so too do your people suffer.”
He wasn’t sure what she was meant by “his people”. Father, Songor, Liana, and Mother Hebron? The villagers? Caressed by a soft, cool breeze, Pen began to nod off.
“Balance must be restored, beyond the forest. There is only one who can do this, Pen.” He looked at her carefully while she gazed at her animals on the edge of the forest. Unlike other wild creatures, her coat was untainted by dirt or brambles, no sores or wounds compromised her body. Her profile was perfect and beautiful. Her next message conveyed a deep melancholy as she turned toward the boy.
“I am sorry, young Pen.”
She placed her head closer and he tentatively petted it. So soft was her hair. She gently brushed her jowl against his cheek.
Though enraptured by her closeness, he was concerned about her words. What was she sorry about?
As though answering his question, she explained. “I see your heart, Pen and I know you are good. But you will have to be brave and strong as well. You will need all of those qualities, and luck.”
She abruptly backed up a few steps to a large, flat granite slab embedded in the ground. She struck it with her hoof and Pen heard a sharp crack followed by a stream of sparks emitting from the rock. He stiffened in fear, ready to run.
“I am about to tell you a secret. Forget this and you may forfeit your life, Pen, as well as the lives of others.”
Blood drained from his face as he anxiously stared at her.
“In all this land, only one person knows my name. Repeat my name to only him so he will know you are the one chosen by me. He will be wearing a pure white robe, and when he requests the word, say “Angelus”, for that is my name. Now close your eyes and whisper it back to me.”
He squeezed shut his eyes and murmured her name, over and over. Her voice grew fainter as the deer repeated a hypnotic mantra:
“Only the one in white, Pen, only the one in white.”
He didn’t know how many times he’d chanted her name but suddenly he opened his eyes. Though it seemed like only a few seconds had passed, it was now almost dark. A few stars dotted the sky above. The forest animals had disappeared again and the deer was gone. Alarmed at how late it was, he ran through the meadow and returned home just before his father and Songor trudged in from the fields.
The next day, with Liana still gone, he decided to return to the meadow. After a few chores, he asked his father if he could play in the woods. Busy fixing the axle of the wagon, his father agreed. Pen wove along the creek bed and snuck back into Markwood forest. When he reached the meadow, no animals waited for him.
He sat in the middle of the meadow totally alone, save for the ever-present bees. He felt abandoned. Where were they? Why did they leave him alone?
He was alone and lonely where he once enjoyed so many new friends. Somehow he knew they would never return. The loss was too much, too sudden. Perhaps Liana was right after all. He should never have entered this strange forest, not because it was dangerous, but because it was enchanted. Shaking his head angrily, tears falling, he realized enchanted places don’t follow the rules of the outside world. Sad and angry, he sprang up and ran out of the meadow.
He had wanted to share his experiences with Liana and all his friends, but the dream had turned into a nightmare. Perhaps it was best not to tell anyone, he thought. Who would believe him, anyway? Even if Liana believed him, she would certainly scold him. Upon hearing of the animals, she would gloat over his loss. He could hear her now. “I told you so, Pen! Don’t go in Markwood. No good will come of it!” No, he thought, best not to tell anyone.
Pen emerged from the dark forest into the sunlight. He found some solace in the realization that his life could return to normal. He didn’t like lying to his father about his excursions, so he would be relieved of that irritating guilt. He missed his friends and looked forward to some games in the nearby, thankfully un-enchanted woods. Liana would be home in a day or two. As he walked away from the mysterious forest, he was not half as sad as he might have been.
*
Liana returned a few days later and Pen was delighted. The pair ran across the fields, not stopping till they reached the cool woods. As always, Liana did not discuss her absence and Pen did not share his recent adventure with her.
The afternoon passed in conversation and exploration. The two friends again endeavored to coax small animals to eat from their hand, and, much to Liana’s delight, they achieved instant success. She assumed they’d simply found the right food, but Pen knew it was because of his new ability to communicate with the animals.
Others, however, noted that Larmack’s son had an unusual ability with animals. During a thunderstorm the blacksmith was trying to get two frightened horses into his barn. Pen walked up to the stomping animals, grabbed their reins, and led them into the barn without incident. The blacksmith just shook his head.
One winter morning, Liana came to the farm and helped Pen feed the animals. A duck waddled over to Liana quaking loudly. Liana threw it some meal, but the duck ignored the feed and continued her annoying harangue.
“Stupid duck,” she muttered and started to walk away. But the duck followed, noisily quacking all the while. She threw more food. The duck looked at it, and again commenced quacking. Liana entered the barn where Pen threw hay to the horses.
“This silly duck refuses to eat, but she insists on quacking.” She threw more meal down, but the duck ignored the offering and continued noisily after her.
Pen tilted his head as though trying to hear.
“No, she’s trying to tell you…wait.” And off he ran. The duck looked at him for a moment, then turned back to the girl and continued its insistent squawking. A minute later, Pen returned with a duckling cupped in his hand. He kneeled and laid the shivering baby by its cackling mother. She quickly inspected the squeaking offspring, nodded her head with some sort of approval, and proceeded to eat the meal on the floor, quiet at last. Pen gently petted both duck and duckling as they ate.
“What? How?”
“She was telling you that her baby had slipped through a crack in the floor and was trapped under the planks.”
“But how did you know?” the astonished girl inquired.
He shrugged.
“I don’t know. I just did.”
Liana stared at him, wide-eyed.
“You talk with animals?”
“Well, it’s not really talking…”
“You are a communicator!”
“What’s that?” Pen asked.
Liana cocked her head and looked at the ground, puzzled.
“I’m not really sure. But mother does. She knows so much; you have no idea. We must tell her so she can explain things to us both.”
So off to Liana’s home they went.
As Liana and Pen entered the warm cottage, a smooth-faced woman with prematurely white hair greeted them. She was shorter than Liana and wore a blue apron, dusted with brown flour that covered a body nearly as slim as her daughter’s. The kitchen was filled with the keen fragrance of cinnamon in the morning and the rich, pungent aroma of garlic in the evening. Nearly noon, both scents battled for prominence in the small kitchen.
Seeing her daughter’s look of excitement, Mother Hebron wiped her gown clean from the flour, and sat, motioning for the children to sit on the other side of the table.
Liana related the story of Pen and the duck.
“Mother, could he be a communicator?”
Mother Hebron stared at Pen a long time before she responded.
“Pen, do you communicate with animals using your voice or through your thoughts?”
“I speak words to them, but I hear their thoughts.”
Mother Hebron nodded, her eyes down, considering his response.
“One more question, child. Did you ever see a white deer?”
Pen’s eyes widened a bit. He told no one of that time in the forest. How could she have guessed? He hesitated slightly, then answered in a voice he hoped was convincing.
“No…no deer.”
Mother Hebron squinted and tilted her head quizzically. Why the hesitation, she wondered. Her eyes pierced into Pen’s eyes. She could not discern any deception. No, she concluded, he was just a farm boy.
Hands folded on the flour-dusted table, she looked at the two children.
“All right. I am going to tell you about the past, but knowledge of the past can be dangerous. Don’t share this with anyone, even your friends.”
Wide-eyed, both children quickly nodded their heads in agreement.
“First, your ability to communicate with animals. It’s a power no man has ever possessed, Pen, though a few women have it. It is good to have, but you mustn’t let others know.”
Pen frowned, confused.
“Let me explain, Pen. All of this has to do with Cearl and the White Deer.”
She chuckled for a moment.
“First a lesson about religion. The Goddess was first in this land. All worshipped her long, long ago. Then the Saxons and Angles came from across the sea and brought their own gods, the cold gods of the North. The Goddess was pushed out and only a few remembered her. Not long ago the new god, the Jesus god came to England. It was told that Jesus was the son of the Goddess. The Christians called the Goddess, Mary. So those who still worshipped the Goddess followed her child, Jesus. Some became nuns. Jesus and the Goddess grew strong.”
She smiled triumphantly. “Now Odin and Thor are being pushed out. Jesus and the Goddess will take their place. Soon.”
Pen nodded. He knew the stories about these gods. Mother Hebron leaned toward the two children.