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Great Writing - Home > SF > The Healing part 1
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Science Fiction and Fantasy
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| The Healing part 1 | |
| By John_O | ||||||
| 26 November 2009 | ||||||
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This short fantasy story forms a part of the fictional history of a novel that I originally wrote some time ago and then revised to put it on the Authonomy website - Two Moons Rising. It is a stand alone story so there is no need to go hunting for Two Moons Rising, though you may want to read it if you like this story, and immerse yourself in more of the fantasy world of The Forest. In the youthful days of the Great Forest, when the Magi dwelt in peace amongst the tribes of Men and Folk, it was the practice for the herders to bring their stock from the steppe into the forest for trade at an annual fair. The herders were that last of the Folk who held to the old nomadic life out on the grasslands, following and tending their goats and sheep. The annual fair was eagerly awaited by the Folk of the forest for they still had need of the wool for yarn and they relished the fine meat for their tables. The fair of Kolls Cross was held in the shadows of the Magi’s high teepees and it was a great gathering of Folk. Many came to trade, to sing and dance and perchance to find a partner for sons and daughters, a few brought their sick or injured family members for the Magi were renowned for their healing. Ebor and Grinda had made the journey from the open plains to the cool forest interior many times but for the past fifteen seasons it had been all the more joyous for the presence of their daughter Lyssa. Their first born child, she had her parents brown eyes, her mother’s chestnut hair but a tall slender build that came from neither of her stout short forebears. When she danced it was with the elegance of the crane as it strutted in the field or the energy of the swift on the wing. Her voice was likened to the sweetest of honey by all who heard her; soaring like the skylark on a summers morn. She would sing and dance at any time yet there was a glade close by the site of the Kolls Cross fair, set in a gentle fold in the land where a clear burn watered a meadow of sweet ripe grass sprinkled with the flowers of the steppe, in which she delighted. Ever would Lyssa run ahead of the flocks and celebrate that enchanting place with song and dance of purest pleasure. But this year she tarried with her family her face turned downwards her arms crossed across her stomach, her hands clutching with unquiet fingers. “What’s this?” Ebor laughed. “Our Lyssa grown shy?” But as his daughter turned to face his jovial enquiry his smile fade faster than a sunbeam from a storm wracked sky. “What ails?” Her face was pale, drained of colour and her watering eyes brimmed with pain. “There is wrong nearby father,” she whispered, “such ill as I have never known.” “Ill, who is ill?” Grinda demanded as she cast her keen gaze about their family. “The land, it cries out in its pain.” “Tish, what a tale and you a grown woman near enough, tis more like your time.” Grinda decided. “Twill pass Lyssa, and you must smile even so, no man will desire a sorry looking lass to take as his wife.” “I shall take no husband while the earth lies so stricken.” “Ebor, talk sense into her.” Ebor gently took up his daughter’s hands in his own. “Forgive your mother Lyssa, she sees only half of the world. But say no more of this heh? The fair is near and it is a time for us enjoy.” Lyssa bowed her head to him and tried to smile as she straightened up but it was a rictus of pain that slashed across her face and she doubled over. “Lyssa!” “Father, it is as though they dig into my own belly.” Ebor knelt before her and supported her. “Who does this to you?” “I do not know, but they are close, so very close. The very air bears witness to their harm.” “Then we shall confront them, come!” He summoned his sons to their side and cradling Lyssa to his side they hurried ahead of their flocks to emerge from the tunnel of trees to a wretched sight and vile smell. The meadow was no more. A cratered hell of pits and fires bursting out of furnaces in roaring plumes had turned the green and fruitful glade into a place of dreadful industry. The last few trees not felled to feed the fires were draped in funeral shrouds of withered leaves, the bleached bare branches pointing dead fingers at their desecrators below. Filthy bow-backed figures busy tipping spoil from the pits and slag from the furnaces in pyramidal piles where no grass grew, no flower bloomed. For a moment the horror held them all in its dreadful thrall but Ebor broke through his dismay to seize one of the labourers and spin him about so that they faced one another. “What have you done?” He raged into the filth caked face. “Done nowt.” The man shrugged him off. “Our meadow….” “Your meadow.” The man laughed sourly and once more hefted his load of spoil. “We rested our flocks here.” Ebor whispered. Long held ways were suddenly ash in the wind; it was gone, it was all gone. The blow could not have been more painful if it had been delivered with a punch and Ebor sank to his knees in the muck. “Where are we to find pasture and water?” The burn was an oily rank sewer that drained the foul exudations of the land, not fit for even washing the dirt from his boots. “Talk to them if you’re aggrieved.” The man pointed with his shovel at a group of tall figures surrounded by a gaggle of well dressed men. In his despair Ebor did not immediately recognise those tall figures. “Magi.” The awed whisper of his sons penetrated the mist of his stunned mind. Magi, how could he possibly argue with such exalted ones? The undying ones, he could not confront them, they were wise beyond his meagre understanding. As his chin sank onto his chest in self defeat and his thoughts turned to retreat he reached out for the one sure point in his misery, his eldest child. But she was not beside him. “Lyssa!” His cry received no answer from the clank and roar of the despoiled glade and he staggered to his feet, casting about in increasing desperation for his precious child. His fevered eyes were blind to the destruction, they only sought her slim form amongst the hunched troll-like workers. Yet when he beheld her it was as though she were someone unknown to him for she was walking towards the Magi and the encircling men made a way for her. The many conversations hushed as the three Magi turned as one away from the men and regarded the tall girl who was making her stately way through them. “Child?” Wakewill enquired solicitously as she stopped before them. “Did you allow these to dig here?” She challenged him without any show of deference. “Are you lost child?” “I am Lyssa, daughter of Ebor and Grinda. For as many seasons as I can recall and for many before my birth our family have come here to pasture our flocks on the passage to Kolls Cross. I am not lost, I am robbed. You have destroyed our sweet meadow and poisoned our waters,” she declared, “you have committed a monstrous crime against us and the land.” Her finger was like a dagger to his throat and Wakewill found he could not respond. “Lyssa, this place holds rare ores which we seek,” Veanor spoke up, “there are other pastures, other streams. Come, let us guide you to them.” His voice was calm and reassuring, able to draw the fire of even the most hostile but it foundered upon the rock of Lyssa’s emotion, for she was not angry, she was in pain. “You who tell us to love the forest and cherish it, you have desecrated it, you are killing it.” Wakewill and Veanor looked to one another for an answer but there was none to offer, Lyssa had spoken an undeniable truth and their momentary loss confirmed it. “All will be restored in time.” Veanor offered. “Come, let us show you to fresh pasture.” Ebor had made his way through the surrounding men in time to hear the offer and he stood with eyes down turned in their awesome presence. “We thank you for such guidance.” He managed to say and reached out to reclaim his daughter. She turned to him with such hurt in her eyes that he was moved to tears himself and tenderly gathered her to himself to cradle her head as she wept. The encircling men shuffled away awkwardly leaving the Magi alone with them as the other families pressed forward to witness the desolate scar that had been their haven for generations. Now there were angry words softly spoken as they surveyed the ruin of land they considered their own. Yet none was bold enough to point the finger at the tall Magi as they stood in dignified silence amidst the bitter destruction. Lyssa felt all the hurts and anger of her kin and released herself from her father to face the Magi once more. “Lead us to clean water and good pasture, but do not think that you may lead us in healing this land, you are blind to its needs.” “Lyssa.” Grinda whispered with her hands to her mouth. She had never heard such coldness from her firstborn, nor such authority. “I see it mother. They who are not of this land can never truly understand it as we who are born and raised of it.” It was at these words that the third Magi stepped forward to stand over Lyssa and stoop slightly to lay a finger upon her forehead for silent moments. Finally he raised his finger away and straightened up to regard her, his long sombre face seeming very stern to the assembled Folk. “Lyssa will you come with me?” He requested.
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