But, now here I am again, to give this another try.
But, on the whole, I've decided that the emotional benefits of having an ongoing fantasy story that I can periodically escape into outweigh the frustrations. At least that's my calculation at the moment.
Arguably I shouldn't even be posting it yet. (Most writers don't share their work when it's still so rough.) But having started, I may as well keep going. But now the purpose of sharing these rough draft chapters is just to let readers of this blog can see what I'm up to rather than to solicit feedback.
Chapter 7: Arthur Returns Alone
It was dawn. Carlyle, Aflred and Margaret were still in bed, but Catherine couldn’t sleep. She sat by the fire and tended to it quietly, stoking it, but trying to avoid making any noise that would awaken the others.
While she stoked the fires, Catherine’s thoughts drifted. It was now two days since Catherine had visited the Witches’ Coven. The past two days had passed without incident. Margaret had done the cooking and cleaning in the house, while the teenagers had gone out to meet their friends on the mountainside. Catherine had not attempted to go off by herself again, and there had been no more quarrels between her and Carlyle.
And yet, Catherine was still troubled. She still had this feeling that an energy was growing inside of her. It felt like an alien power, something that was not natural to her body.
Yesterday, she had been out with Alfred and Carlye and their friends, and she had felt it rise up inside her. It had started gradually, but it had gotten bigger and bigger, until she had felt like she had this great energy inside of her that had to be released. So she had decided to try the herb that her mother had given. Discreetly, when the attention of the group had been distracted by one of the fights, she had brought the herb up to her mouth and had taken just the tiniest little nibble of it, and swallowed It had made her feel immediately sick. She ran over to the bushes to vomit and this, of course, had attracted everyone’s attention. So much for being discreet.
“Catherine, are you okay?” Molly had asked.
“I’m fine,” Catherine had managed to say rather weekly. “I think it was something I ate.”
It had been embarrassing, no doubt about it, even though Catherine always tried to pretend that she didn’t care what the rest of the group thought of her.
But the herb had also seemed to work. The feeling inside of her had gone away. It felt like she had killed the growing energy inside her. It felt like she had had killed it with the poison, but it also felt like she had poisoned herself.
Catherine continued stirring the fire. The fire didn’t even need stirring at this point, but Catherine’s mind was elsewhere. Her mind kept returning to the conversation she had had with the witch. “If magic isn’t used,” the witch had said, “it will leak out in unexpected ways.” That’s what it felt like was happening to her. Something was trying to leak out of her.
Catherine had been watching her mother very closely the past couple of days, to try to see if there was anything in her mother’s behavior she had missed over the years--to see if there was any magic that might be leaking out of Margaret. But she had not seen Margaret do anything that indicated any magic abilities. Except… except that it was so strange that Margaret had known exactly what herb to use to kill the energy. How did Margaret know these things if she wasn’t magical herself?
While Catherine was still deep in thought, contemplating all of these things, there was a loud thump at the door which startled her. Her hands involuntarily jerked backwards.
“It’s alright. That’ll be father,” said Alfred. Catherine hadn’t realized that Alfred was also awake, but Alfred was wide awake and already scrambling out of bed. “It’s been five days already,” he said.
The thump at the door was repeated. “It’s me,” said the voice. “Open up.”
Carlyle and Margaret were beginning to wake up now as well. Carlyle was rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he stood up. Margaret was sitting on the edge of her bed and putting on her boots. Catherine undid the latch, and pulled open the door. Arthur was standing in the doorway. Finn was nowhere in sight.
There seemed to be something wrong with Arthur. He looked paler than usual.
“Where’s Margaret?” he asked.
“Father, are you alright?” Alfred asked.
“Margaret.” Arthur repeated
“I’m here,” Margaret said. She was now out of bed and walking towards the door. “What’s wrong? Where’s Finn?”
Arthur did not reply immediately. Catherine noticed for the first time that his shirt was covered in blood.
Margaret noticed the blood at the same time. “Where’s Finn?” Margaret asked again, the tone of her voice was higher this time.
“I’m sorry, Margaret,” Arthur said
Margaret breathed in sharply, resulting in a gasping sound.
Catherine stepped towards Arthur. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Somewhere inside of her, Catherine already knew what was wrong. But she needed to hear Arthur say it in order for her brain to fully process it.
Arthur looked absolutely miserable. He looked at Margaret first, to see if Margaret was going to give him any signals. But Margaret was still in shock, so Arthur looked back at Catherine. “Catherine, your father is dead. I’m so sorry.”
Carlyle was at the door now as well. “Where is he?” Carlyle demanded.
“He’s dead,” Arthur repeated.
“Let me see him,” Carlyle said.
“He’s still on the mountain road,” said Arthur. “I had to leave him by the cart. I was wounded myself, and I was too weak to carry his body.”
Carlyle bolted out the door and started running down the mountain slope.
“Stop,” Arthur called. “It’s not safe yet. They’re still out there.”
Catherine ran after Carlyle, and lastly Alfred ran after them both. All three ran down the mountainside.
“Wait!” Arthur called out again. But they did not listen.
Carlyle did not want to believe what Arthur had told them. He hoped that Arthur was mistaken, and that his father was not really dead. And that is why he ran as fast as he could. He desperately wanted to find Finn still alive.
When you are running down a mountain slope, it isn’t hard to go fast. The problem is that you can easily go too fast, lose your footing, and fall down on your face. But for teenagers who have grown up on the mountain slopes, this seldom happens. They learn at a young age how to handle the mountain slope--how to leap and spring, and land, and balance on your feet to keep from falling. Carlyle ran with all the agility of one who had been raised on the mountains. His feet glided down the mountain as he pushed himself to run faster and faster. He leaped over rocks and fallen trees and any other obstacle on the slope without losing his stride. And Catherine and Alfred were right behind him the whole way.
In no time at all, they had reached the mouth of the mountain trail. They ran down the trail. A huge tree had fallen over and was blocking their path. Carlyle leaped over it without even pausing. Catherine and Alfred did the same.
Various rock formations emerged from the mountain, and the trail twisted and turned as it winded its way around them. But as Carlyle came around one of the corners, he saw it.
Carlyle’s heart sank. They were too late. The wolves were already circling the body of his father. In the mountains, it never took long for a dead body to attract the scavenging animals. And now, Carlyle wished he had stopped to take some weapons. “Begone,” Carlyle shouted as he approached the wolves. “You have no claim to that body.”
The wolves turned toward Carlyle, but it was obvious they had no intention of obeying him. They snarled, and crouched as if preparing to pounce on Carlyle.
Catherine now came around the corner. She saw Carlyle, Finn’s body, and the wolves, and in an instant she knew what was happening. In that moment, she had no time to process any emotions. She simply had to act. “Begone,” she yelled at the wolves. “That body belongs to us.”
At the sound of Catherine’s voice, the wolves immediately stopped growling. They stopped focusing on Carlyle, and looked over at Catherine. They seemed surprised to see her. “Begone, I say,” Catherine repeated. And the wolves ran away. Carlyle thought this was strange, but for the moment he did not ask any questions to Catherine. His mind was too preoccupied with his father’s body.
Carlyle knelt down beside the body. Once he saw the body up close, there was no doubt that Finn was indeed dead. The warmth had already left the body. There was no pulse. And there was a huge wound in the chest, where Finn had been stabbed.
Both Carlyle and Catherine were too shocked to speak. Neither of them had ever contemplated the possibility that Finn could die.
Of course, Finn was very old, and of course, they knew that the mountains were dangerous. But they were young, and like all young people, they viewed the world through the illusion of permanency. Finn had always been there, so it seemed that Finn would always be there.
Alfred, who was somewhat less emotionally affected by Finn’s death, found the presence of mind to speak first. “The thieves took everything,” he said. “All the supplies are gone from the cart. But at least they left behind the cart. We can use it to pull his body up the slope.”
The cart had been turned over and was lying on its side. Carlyle and Alfred turned it over. Carlyle was still numb with disbelief and didn’t speak.
“Help me lift his body,” said Alfred. “We need to put it in the cart.”
“Where’s his sword,” Catherine said. “He needs his sword with him.”
“His sword is gone,” said Alfred. “The thieves took it. Of course. They wouldn’t leave anything as valuable as a sword just laying around.”
Catherine and Carlyle both stopped moving. They seemed to have difficulty absorbing this information. “He used that sword to kill the ogre,” said Carlye.
“He used that sword to fight the werewolves,” said Catherine. “That sword was his most prized possession. It was his identity.”
“He doesn’t need it anymore,” Alfred said gently. “We need to get him into the cart and get him back up the mountain before the wolves come back.”
“They won’t come back,” Catherine said quietly. And once again, Alfred and Carlyle were too preoccupied with the dead body to wonder about what she meant.
Carlyle, Catherine and Alfred lifted Finn’s body up, and put it in the cart. Then they pulled the cart up the path.
Margaret met them before they got to the top of the mountain. She had come down to find them. She carried an axe with her as her weapon. Her eyes were red. “That was foolish of you to run off like that,” she said without emotion. “But you’ve done good to recover his body. It wouldn’t have done to let the wolves eat him.”
Together, they all got the cart back to the house. They took out Finn’s body, brought it inside, and laid it on the table.
Margaret shook her head, and let out a small sob. She covered her mouth with her hands, and then when she regained her composure, she said sadly, “For fifteen years we’ve lived in these cursed mountains, and we’ve fought off all manner of beasts and monsters. If he had just lived for a few more years…” Her voice trailed off.
“What killed him?” asked Carlyle.
“It was one of the robber gangs,” Arthur answered. “They were waiting in ambush. We tried to fight, but there were just too many of them.”
Arthur was grimacing in pain while he spoke, and Margaret suddenly remembered. “We need to see to your wound,” she said.
“I’d appreciate it if you did,” said Arthur.
“Sit down on the bed,” Margaret commanded. “Catherine, go get my thread and needle. And boil some water.” Margaret turned back to Arthur. “Where are you hurt?” she asked.
“They stabbed me in my side,” Arthur answered. “It doesn’t feel too deep, but…”
“I’ll look at it,” Margaret said. Having a task to do seemed to rejuvenate Margaret. She moved now with a sense of purpose. Arthur obediently went towards the bed. Margaret noticed Carlyle and Alfred standing idly by. “You two, go and chop some wood,” she said. “We’ll need a funeral pyre.”
Nobody got a burial in the mountains. Much of the mountain slope was covered in rocks, and stones, and even for the parts that were covered in dirt, the dirt was often frozen by the cold weather. And even if you could dig a proper grave, the freshly dead body wouldn’t stay in the ground for long before creatures dug it up and devoured it. So the mountain folk burned their dead on wooden pyres.
Carlyle took the ax from the house, and went outside with Alfred. They walked down the slope to one of the clumps of trees.
Carlyle knelt down in front of the tree, and raised his hands up. He remembered the words that Finn used to recite. “Forgive me, for what I am about to do,” Carlyle called out to the tree. “I must do this to survive. If there are any spirits or other beings who have made this tree their home, tell me now in order that I may not harm you unknowingly.”
“What are you doing?” asked Alfred.
“This was father’s way,” explained Carlyle. “He always said this before he cut down any trees. He wouldn’t have wanted me to cut down his funeral pyre without saying these words first.”
Alfred swallowed the rest of his questions, and let Carlyle continue. “If there are any spirits or nymphs in this tree,” Carlyle continued, “I beg your forgiveness. I declare that I am ignorant of any beings who live in this tree.” Then, he stood up, and began to chop at the base of the tree.
