Random 8

Hush now, child, and listen; for there are things that you should know and none who live to tell them except me. And when I'm gone, who will pass the stories to your daughters and to theirs if not you, else they be lost forever?

So listen, and believe me when I say the forest was not always as you know it, this place of darkness, ice and fear; it once was full of light and laughter and the songs of pretty birds, where girls your age would play among the dappled glades, and feast on fresh-picked apples, and spare no single thought for the razor teeth of wolves.

There was food aplenty, then, and sweet, fresh water, and every week brought travellers from a different distant land, with lace and beads and porcelain dolls to trade, and bands of musicians and conjurors and dancing bears, and we'd welcome them with ale, black bread, and a whole boar hot from the roasting pit.

If you met a man on the path in those days, why, you'd curtsy low and he'd sweep off his hat to bow, and you'd pass the time in polite chit-chat, not run off screaming and calling for the watch. There were many men on many paths, and many idle meetings, and this is how your mother met your father, and in due course they were wed.

She was the fairest lass ever born, save only yourself, and he was dark and tall and handsome, and courteous and kind. Came from the southern mountains, some said, which you might glimpse on clear days if you climbed the highest tree; or from the rolling plains beyond; or perhaps from the bright red desert far to the east, where princes fly about their kingdoms on the backs of giant birds. We never knew for certain, but we loved him as our own and in time forgot he'd ever been somewhere else.

Your grandfather was the village blacksmith, a fine man but no longer young, and he brought his new son-in-law to the trade. It was as if the boy'd been born to work iron and steel, as if it were in his blood; he made the forge his own. The smithy flourished and before long the old man retired on his share, maintaining only a small proprietary interest for appearance's sake. Your father took a prentice of his own, and the bellows pumped and the hammer rang all day, and at night he'd dance your mother around the square and everyone who saw them would laugh with joy because they were the happiest and most beautiful couple in the happy, beautiful world.

And then, my dear one, came the day that you were born, and it was also, by great misfortune, the day everything changed.

Your mother was at the birthing house in the throes of labour, and though your father begged to be at her side the women turned him away, for that was then, as now, the one place men were not allowed, not even men as tender and loving as him. So it was that he was at the anvil when a rider came from the forest, his horse having thrown a shoe, and announced himself as an esquire of the King's hunt.

You cannot imagine, my poor child, how this news was met, for you have lived your whole life under the Dark Reign, but for us it was a matter of mirth and bewilderment. The village -- the forest -- the whole world, as far as we knew -- had no King. No man or woman had ever claimed sovereignty over us, ever called us to obey or troubled us for tribute. This could only be another traveller who had lost his way, with a fairy tale for our entertainment. He demanded his chestnut mare be reshod at once, by royal command, and we fell about with laughter.

All except your father.

I was there, that afternoon, in the square, and the memory of his expression chills me to this day. He knew, you see; had always known. Perhaps he thought they'd never reach our little village, never touch his beloved family, never find him. Or perhaps he always knew they would, and merely hoped to carve out one moment of happiness first.

He called the rider and horse to the smithy and fitted the shoe as he was bid; and I was shocked to watch him because he did it badly, a job more clumsy and hamfisted than I thought him capable of. But the rider was watching with narrowed eyes, and even in his shoddiness your father was too measured and deliberate; somehow, he gave himself away.

After the rider galloped back into the woods, as the villagers fell to gossiping about this odd visitation, your father ran straight to the birthing house, battering at the door with his fists and crying to be let in. This was the very hour of your birth, and your mother was wailing and screaming, but in the midst of it she heard your father's cries and shouted for him to be admitted. He was not.

The soldiers arrived shortly afterwards, and several people were killed to emphasize the establishment of the King's rule. Men were pressed into service, and the royal party feasted on ale, and black bread, and a whole boar hot from the roasting pit, while the rest of us looked on, battered and dazed, and went hungry. The King made a toast to the return of his greatest armourer, long thought lost for good, and his entourage drank heartily as your father glowered in chains.

Later, the court moved on, leaving a small garrison to keep the peace. The blossom was just beginning to wither in the forest glades, the birdsong fading; and you, my poor, sweet child, were crying out for milk from a mother the fever had already taken.
Posted by matt at September 20, 2005 11:20 PM