The High Keeper

A sudden forgotten task leapt into my mind. I looked at the trees around me, cataloging each.

Spruce, pine, elm, maple…

Not the tree I needed; I had to go deeper into the forest. Alder, I needed to find an alder tree. It would be easy to spot one this time of year. Long catkins covered in tiny white-yellow flowers would be hanging from the branches. It wasn’t these I was after though. I needed an alder tree for one of the residents of its branches. High, high up in the top of the alder tree, safe from deer who munched the moss on its trunk, and too sparce to provide the cover birds desired, grew a rare flower, a type of yellow orchid called Wizard’s Tears.

It was my task to claim these flowers from the dangerously thin tops of the alder tree as often as I could. It was the only way to keep the lingering illness that plagued my mother at bay. Without it she would grow weaker and weaker until she could not so much as raise her head and her lungs failed her. It was the terrible gift left to us as a constant reminder that my mother had only barely escaped the plague that took my father. Before I was strong enough to climb the alder tree my mother would have to scrimp and save all she could to buy the dried flowers, weak and bitter as they were, from the alchemist when he passed through the village. It felt like living on borrowed time, always at the mercy of a traveling stranger and the crippling price he decided was fitting for the little petals he knew would give my mother her life back. There was no negotiating. He knew we had no alternative. So the day I found I could climb to the highest branches of the alder tree was the day we reclaimed our freedom. I was the only person in our village who could get to the flowers because, whether by luck or the will of the Powers, I was small, strong and nimble enough to accomplish the task. The men of the village could never reach the top branches because thy were too large and snapped the delicate stems well below where the orchids grew. Those younger than me were not sure enough of hand and foot, there was too great a risk they would fall and kill themselves. So thus it was left to me.

‘There you are.’ I said to myself. I craned my neck back looking up the trunk of the great tree as far as I could. I jumped up and wrapped my hands around the lowest branch, kicking off the trunk and swinging myself up. ‘Here we go.’ Branch by branch I climbed higher and higher, snaking around the thick lower branches with ease. As I climbed to the middle of the tree I scaled higher, moving lightly, always staying near the trunk with one hand on the bough overhead. Higher still I climbed, past nests of birds, past little alcoves inhabited by squirrels. I could no longer see the ground below, the leaves too thick. I looked up and could only occasionally see a flicker of the blue sky beyond canopy. I stopped a moment and rested, dangling my feet as I sat on a branch, resting my arms and pulling a splinter or two from my palms. The next part of the climb was the tricky part. The higher I went the more fragile the tree became. I would have to carefully move from slender branch to branch, my foot resting only as heavily and as long as I absolutely needed against the delicate joint between the trunk and new growth. A wrong misstep, an over estimation of the branch’s strength, exerting too much force or weight would rip the narrow stems from their places and send me hurtling to the ground, slammed against innumerable branches, a bloody mess before I met my end on the ground below. I took a deep breath and tested the branch overhead. I would need to now rely more on the trunk to shimmy up. Slowly, carefully I scaled, my hands intuitively knowing just how much pressure to exert and when not to dare put weight on a branch. I felt a slight touch of wind against my face. I was close to the top. I began to search the tiny knots in the tree’s trunk to find where an orchid might be growing, little flashes like yellow stars, hidden amongst the greens and browns.

‘Found you!’ A circlet of bright flowers was growing along the trunk of the tree a few more branches up. I could feel the trunk itself becoming less rigid, thinner and thinner as I climbed. I needed to be just a bit higher and I could reach them. I breathed lightly, willing myself to weigh less, to add less stress to the tree. Carefully, slowly I reached overhead, just able to touch the delicate orchids. With every ounce of me trying to be less, I snipped the thin green stems of the flowers between my nails, placing them gently in a pouch that hung from the belt around my hips. One by one I collected the life-saving flora, each one a gift, a blessing. I smiled as I placed the final flower, a dozen in total into my pouch. This would make weeks and weeks worth of tea. Once ground into a fine powder and made into a concentrated liquid, my mother would only need to add a tiny drop to her tea each day and all would be well.

I began the climb down, a great happiness in my heart. I felt this way after every successful climb. My mother did so much for me. This was something only I could do for her and something that had made life worth living again. I was only a few branches from the ground, my thoughts far away, when my foot slipped on a patch of moss and my hands failed to grip the branch above me. I fell, hard, my shoulders slamming against a branch, my ribs on the next then finally, with a thud that knocked the wind out of me, I hit the ground. I laid there and groaned, catching my breath.

That what you get for loosing focus.

I sat up, rubbing all the parts that hurt, sure to have loads of bruises but I had the flowers. That was all that mattered. With some swearing I got to my feet.

I made my way back through the forest and as I planned, now much in need of its relaxing aura, veered towards the brook I loved. Of all the places in my small little world, this was my favorite. The little waterway was shaded by tall drooping willows whose long roots jutted into the stream amongst the smooth stones. Great boulders laid all around, brought perhaps long ago and fallen into shapeless place, now covered in thick green moss. I knew I should go hunting, set a few snares perhaps, but my nerves needed to be calmed.

I found my usual bolder, it leaned back against a willow, creating a sort of natural chair. There was no need to hurry home and I was confident I could manage a brace of rabbits. I had seen where a large warren had been dug in the side of mound created by an uprooted tree. I’d go there later. I sat down, listening to the babbling water and took the stone the old woman had given me from my pocket. Her words replayed in my mind.

‘The time will come when your possession of this will pay us all back.. and then some.’

What in the world did that mean? Nothing probably. There was a very good chance she didn’t know what she was saying. She looked about as old as anything. Still though, very unusual words.

I twisted the stone between my fingers, admiring the way it changed colors as it caught the light flashing blues, greens and yellows. It was rather delightful to look at. I was transfixed by it, the more I looked the more I wanted to see. The longer I looked the brighter the colors seemed to be until it almost looked like they were moving inside the stone, dancing of the own accord. I couldn’t look away, no it wasn’t that I couldn’t, I didn’t want to.

‘Excuse me.’ A deep voice shook me from my admiration of the stone. I shot up reflexively and turned to see who was there. The sight that met my eyes made my heart drop and my stomach jump into my throat.

It was a knight.

I froze.

A knight. My brain repeated. A knight.

My heart pounded in my chest. So soon? It was only just spring! They had come to claim their victim already?

‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He smiled.

Typical. They always look so friendly.

He was certainly a mountain of a man. Big by anyone’s standards. He didn’t ride in full armor as the others had, rather he wore a tunic of deep blue on which was pinned the sidgel of the Rune Lords - a dragon biting its own tail. But a long sword in an ornate, jeweled scabbard hung at his side and I could see the tip of the hilt of a dagger poking out the top of his brown riding boots.

‘Which way is the village?’ He asked, still a smile on his bearded face.

I said nothing, but pointed behind me. I felt as if I was betraying my village, everyone I loved, but as my mother said “it does no good, little dove”. Even if I lied he would find his way eventually using whatever dark tool the Rune Lords had given him. The fate of the Chosen was sealed.

‘Thank you.’ He tipped his head to me and gently urged on a his great, chestnut colored horse. I watched as they ambled away. There was no sense of danger or malice, no hint of despotic pride, the man and his horse simply walked away through the underbrush, disappearing out of sight amidst the thick trees. Once gone, I turned and ran back home. A smile was spread across my face.

It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me! The knight had come right up to me, spoken to me, and passed me by. For another year I was safe. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, trying not to bash the eggs to pieces and bruise the apples in the process. I burst through the front door of the house, scaring my mother and causing her to drop the bowl she was mixing in.

‘Lendra! What on Earth!’

‘It’s not me!’ I said joyously, throwing my arms around her. ‘It’s not me.’

‘What’s not you?’

‘I saw a knight in the forest. He came right up to me and asked me where the village was and left. He wasn’t interested in me at all.’

A tear of joy came into her eye. ‘Thank the Powers!’

The anxiety that had been unconsciously trapped inside us since the first thaw melted away and we both let out a released sigh mixed with laughter.

‘We must certainly celebrate.’ My mother began as she walked to the cupboard and took out a bottle of strawberry wine that she had made and been saving. ‘What a blessing. To come so early this year takes a great worry away doesn’t it?’

‘It really does.’ Though I could not but help feel guilty. Wasn’t it wrong to be happy? I had been spared, true, but that meant someone else had not. By nightfall I had no doubt someone would arrive at the house to tell us who had been taken. Which unlucky person would be stollen from their family and never come back?

My mother poured us each a glass of strawberry wine. It was delightfully sweet, fragrant and light, if spring had been a flavour it would be my mother’s strawberry wine, without a doubt.

‘How was the market today? Busy?’

‘Not very. I think it’ll be a couple weeks yet before the pilgrims and such pass through.’

I felt so much more free, so much more hopeful now that I knew I had been spared. The dark cloud had moved on and all would be well for another year. Maybe I could actually enjoy spring. Maybe I could see and feel something of what my mother described from her childhood. We sat together at the little round table in the kitchen, sipping on the wine and eating the fresh berries. The scent of baking bread wafted through the window from the wood burning over outside and the birds sang melodiously.

So this is spring.

My mother began to hum. She loved singing. She untied her golden hair, hair I wished I had, my own was more of an ashen blonde as my father’s had been. She rose up from her chair, her cheeks pink with wine as mine were, took my hands and we began to dance to the song she hummed, laughing and filled with happiness. Grateful for our simple life. Grateful for each other. Grateful for –

Knock. Knock. Knock. Came the sound of a heavy fist on the door.

We froze, staring at the door.

Knock. Knock.

We looked at each other, uncertainty in our eyes. But then we both remembered, the knight had passed me by.

‘It must be someone from the village coming to tell us who has been chosen.’ I reassured myself. I walked to the door, my hand hesitating above the handle then swung it open.

My throat dried.

‘Hello there.’

My hands went numb.

‘I am looking for a family by the name of Hasufel.’

My head began to spin. Hasufel. That’s my surname.

I couldn’t speak. All I could do was look from the tall knight to my mother.

‘Is this the home of the Hasufels?’ He asked again.

What could I do? Should I run? Should I lie? Should I try to fight? But to each of those things my mother’s words echoed back:

“It does no good, little dove.”