Into the Raging Mountains Read online

  There right before him in the cleared thicket: Mardint's old house. Still abandoned. There was no sign of returning. Even though he felt very brave, perhaps stubbornly so, still he waited a long time on the edge of the cleared brush watching for any movements, or any traps. Satisfied that he was the only large living thing within eyesight, he crept forward, slipping through the ground cover, silent and cautious. Approaching the busted doorway, the boy who was almost a man, at least in his own eyes, broke from the shelter of the greenery and dashed to the house. He saw no movement as he ran.

  Reaching the safety of concealment inside the structure, he paused so his eyes could adjust to the darkness inside. There were no sounds from within or without. His heart was pounding, partly from fear, partly from running.

  Eyesight restored, he walked back to the trapdoor to the larder and pulled it upwards with ease. He had no light to see the recesses of the underground storage area to him, but that was fine with Cethel, as he keenly remembered the placement of shelves and jars. He stepped down the built-in stairs and felt along the shelf for the placement of the first bottled treasure.

  Hands met with glass softly, so softly. He touched one and then another. If he counted right there were at least fifty jars of food waiting to be plundered into his eager possession! Growling, his stomach indicated its glorious anticipation. All mine!

  Taking four jars in his arms, he climbed out of the root cellar and placed them along the wall nearest the doorway. Then, he went down into the dark again, retrieving more treasure.

  It would not be the fastest process, but Cethel figured to move them all a little at a time, through forest pathways and safe to his hidey hole. He took all the jars from the cellar and laid them out on the cottage floor. When he finished, he couldn't help admiring his newly acquired wealth, gleaming in the waning sunfall light that shone through the broken door.

  Going down into the pitch dark to scavenge any other goodies left, he felt along the walls, searching the highest shelves and the farthest corners. At the last corner, almost underneath the flooring, tucked under the stairs, a slicing cut almost severed his fingers. He jumped back into the darkness, sucking on the open wound, so deep it had not yet begun to bleed.

  With a great deal more caution, he gingerly felt around that area, tentatively searching out the cause of his injury. Agile fingertips found cold metal, flat-sided. Following the lay of the blade toward himself, by touch he established the location of the slick, animal-skin grip. Pulling it free of the wall, he used the found dagger to cut a slice of his shirt which he wrapped tightly around his injured fingers.

  Emerging from the darkness of earth, he examined the blade. Never had he seen the like. Cethel was familiar enough with the whittling and skinning knives his father and uncle carried, stashed in their protective casings, latched onto their belts. This was completely different, like the moon was to the sun, like sting of cold was to the blast of heat.

  It was a dagger, but of a design and function he could not guess. Incised patterns flowed up and down the shaft: swirls and glyphs of some kind. The grip seemed to be made of a smooth, almost shiny, animal skin. It felt something like the cow leather his father used, but much more fine. And, perhaps more importantly, it was covered in the brown remains of dried blood.

  Not his blood. The trained youth was certain the wound he received had not left any trace on it, as it hadn't bled 'til two heartbeats later, welling out of the wound. Quite clearly though, the situation was different than he had supposed. A lark into the forest to retrieve some abandoned supplies had just become alarming. And, although there might be more items to be found, discovered in the darkened earthen room, he would not be the one to find them. The owner of a knife this fine would be searching for it.

  Cethel's bravery evaporated. No amount of bribery or commands would have sent him back down the receding stairs. He had gotten to the derelict house with a modicum of courage and foolhardy fortune. The dagger told him a different outcome was very possible. His life wasn't worth some paltry jars of food.

  Alert to the very ends of his toes, Cethel felt his peril intensely. He knew he had to get back home, back to his father's wisdom and stern protection. And, he had to be careful doing it. The stakes had risen from a lark to a silent and quick death.

  He gulped hard, nostrils dilating. His every sense was attuned. Every hair stood on end in anticipation of coming action. Searching the surrounding land minutely from the sheltering cover of the structure, he still saw nothing, no reason for fear or worry. But, now he knew differently. And his whole world changed in that singular moment. Something could be out there waiting. I do not want to meet the owner of this blade unaware!

  Creeping to the broken door, he held the discovered dagger tightly. Convinced that he was still alone in the clearing and that waiting any longer would mean traveling the last part of the journey in the nightfall forest, he crawled out the doorway and ran. He ran for his life out of the cleared meadow, away from the wretched dwelling. His one thought: to get home. Stepping agilely on fallen tree trunks, bounding over mud puddles and berrybriars, he had ran half way back to the village before he ducked into his hidey hole.

  Sitting within the roots of an old tree, his hollowed out space was big enough for himself and a few collected odds and ends. It seemed sadly empty for the boy now that he had been so close to the possibility of instantaneous food. Wrapping his head and shoulders tightly within the folds of his spare brown hunting cloak, he sat as still as possible and waited.

  He listened for any sounds of pursuit, keen hearing tuned to the slightest noise. His stomach crunched and rolled when he heard them coming. His pursuers were familiar with forest traveling and very deft at it. They were almost upon him when he first had any sign of their passage. The crack of a larger twig was thunder to his ears. He dared not move to watch them pass.

  Covering his feet with the mossy brown, leaf-sewn fabric of his cloak, he held as still as was humanly possible. His lungs strained for air and yet he fought to hold his breath, staggering intakes and exhalations through his nose, held hard against the concealing cloth. The only sound he heard as his pursuers passed by was the hiss of fabric rubbing in repetition and the regulated breaths that they calmly exhaled.

  Intensely glad to have escaped, Cethel did not doubt his pursuers knew as much about woodland travel as he did. They sound much, much bigger than me. Safety would not be found in going to ground, though. Not if those who hunted him knew such obvious tricks. His tracks would have vanished. He had only moments to decided what course his life would take.

  Taking his hunting cloak with him for the small amount of concealment it might offer, he darted away from his hole, running along the side of the village, not daring to run forward, straight into their waiting traps.

  He ran. Filled with fear, darting in and under and through all of the familiar landscape, he ran hard, carried by the rushing of his life's blood. Ducking down again, he leaned against the rough stones that littered the forest ground around Lookout Rock, pausing but a moment for sounds of his followers. The forest lands were still. But that brought no relief; it was the quiet, the absence of the sounds of life as if even the smallest animals were afraid of the things that now ruled the treed land.

  Cethel knew there were vicious hunters in the forest. Too late, he knew. From his concealed vantage point he watched them creeping forward, closing like a pack of wolves surrounding a lone elk fawn. He crouched low to the ground, having covered his visible skin and hands in mulch and dirt. The red-haired head of Cethel the forester's son was matted and covered with cloak and mud. Only his eyes moved. He saw, and he could do nothing about it.

  *

  Freedom! Freedom! Finally! With a giddiness that trembled through her whole body, Azure was transported with joy. Never one to be confined, the withdrawing of far-spread families to the village center following the mystery-filled disappearances was a crushing blow to her sense of wonder and limitlessness.

  Day after
day the vast expanse of the forest called to her. From the village's meeting house she could just see the top of Lookout Rock. It seemed to almost wave to her, in both a cheery hello and a forlorn sadness. As the days crawled on and on and on, she missed her playground so terribly that she began to unravel. The spaces were too close, the prying eyes too many. The squawking tongues and reproving stares seemed ever present.

  The little blue girl had no words for the growing feeling that wound its way around her heart, tighter and tighter as each sun fell behind the canopy of her beloved trees. It felt like her ability to think, live, and breathe was dying, caught in the midst of the squabbles and humanity of village life. The twins did not help matters.

  They had gone through the few possessions she had packed for herself, all of it tucked into a hand-held box. With the uncanny sense of toddlers for anything precious or reserved for others, she had come home after school the second day they had been stuck there in the village square to find all of her little trinkets and knickknacks scattered around the outside of the tent, in the mud no less, trampled and broken. She could only save a few even with all the ingenuity of her mother to help her. Most of her nice things: ribbons, two books, one necklace and three cloth-rag dolls were wrecked beyond repair.

  So, as the days dragged on and on, Azure had no means to comfort herself, no relief, nothing to tide her over from the sorrows and disappointments of yet another dreary day filled with small doings and even smaller minds.

  Azure had started to sing to herself and rock back and forth when she was alone in the nightfall. Softly, so softly she sang that the words almost sounded like humming to the nearby ears of her mother. When the forlorn child closed her eyes against the weariness of nightfall's arrival, it seemed to take such a very long time to find sleep. Although Azure sought slumber constantly, she could never say why.

  Her dreams were overflowing in vivid colors, filled with forest sounds, smells, sights, scenery. Trees whipped by. Her hair flew around her, as she ran with the animals, stealthy in the darkness. Only then, only there, did she find some measure of peace, some easing of the constricting pain around her heartbeats.

  How long can a wild animal be contained by a silken ribbon? How long can the beckoning power, the thirst for the familiar paths and scents, how long can those be assuaged? The love she had of the free spaces, the way Azure felt within the shelter of the woods, that freedom was the very opposite of the cramped and forlorn quarters she and her family shared. Too small! Too small! Not even enough room to turn over, to run, to jump! It was just too much for her.

  So, the wild-born little girl waited for the right moment, begging her mother all the day long, sure she could somehow persuade Tatanya to just let her go play on the edge of the forest. She had no reason to fear. To her dismay Azure found that tantrums hadn't worked and were somewhat exhausting. Then, her brothers and their constant fighting and bickering finally provided the perfect escape.

  Ducking under the largest tent flap, edging her way quietly to the opening, she slipped away. She was away from the confines of their temporary home, away from the cheerful voices of mother and brothers. Away to the fresh and free wildness of the forest! Away to quiet and the freedom of the wind!

  Darting for the nearest shadows she couldn't help but imagine how Roach would have done it. Climbing over several refuse piles, scampering down back alley ways, Azure fled the center of town. She traveled quickly, looking as innocent as possible; no one asked her where she was going. She wouldn't have answered anyway. A desire to truly breathe deep and free was the all-consuming hunger that sat like a humongous toad on top of every thought.

  So, with the grim determination of a child, she fled from the arms of love and safety to the beckoning wild, running pellmell into the waiting arms of Laylada, whose mouth opened in surprise. Pleased for the company, the older girl gave a quick hug to her little friend. With a basket held in each hand, they went about harvesting berries on the edge of the cleared meadow.

  They searched for the perfect ripeness, reaching high and low, but the briers did not give up their fruit without a fight. Little nicks caused them to jump a bit now and then, but did not stop them in their eagerness for redberry scones. Because of her extra height, Laylada quickly filled her bucket, stretching up to grab the highest clusters unmolested by small animals. Azure's collection was only half-full, and so she kept on searching, always keeping the village in sight, mindful of the possibility of her mother's discovery of her absence. At least when she got back to the tiny tent, she would be able to bring some delicious berries. Azure could proclaim with all honesty that she had not gone into the actual forest.

  Laylada whispered that picking berries never seemed a high-risk activity until recently. Thank goodness they had got all they wanted and could head back to the boring but welcomed safety of the village.

  Azure reached as far back as she could into the briers which protested in the usual way, scratching her arms. The largest clump of ripe and juicy berries hung there just out of easy grip. With a delicate softness her fingers touched the edge of the clump, which then swung away from her again. Frustration mounting, her mouth watering, she could see no way to get those beautiful tantalizing berries except to go around the bushes and try from the backside. She was a perfectly logical child and it was a perfectly logical choice. Moving quickly, she skirted the sides of the sprawling climbers and crawled along a makeshift passage, the slightest trail that led back into the woodlands.

  *

  “Azure! Azure!” came the distant cry, from the frantic eyes and searching heart of a mother, bereft of child. “Azure! Where are you? Azure!” Tatanya's cries became louder as she ranged farther from the tent. “Child? Answer me!” Her panicked voice bounced in echoes off of the mountainsides so that the air was filled with the sound of her daughter's name. She ran, overturning large baskets, or any possible hiding place.

  Tatanya's pleas roused the whole village. Other women gathered and began to look within and without the village proper. The Elders tsked at the unruly disturbance. Such trouble to be made when the boundaries had been set quite clearly. Who did the child think she was anyway, to be above the village's law? Right as stomachs grumbled in anticipation of the nightfall's repast, right as wearied men had arrived home from a long day of labor and skill, Tatanya's cries pierced the village’s heart. Forlorn in the very sound, at once desperate, determined, angry, and scared, the cry of a mother to a lost child was a demand no one could deny.

  Searching the whole of the village quickly with the effort of all inhabitants, Tatanya looked again to the glade. Surely she hadn't gone there? Surely? She wouldn't go out into the danger of the woods? Azure is too smart for that. Right? Right? Praying to the powers that pushed the orb of light through the sky, moving the heavens with their will, Tatanya's heart pleaded while her voice searched and sought the missing girl.

  As Tatanya neared the edge of the glade, even she was hesitant to step into the area of unknown danger. Looking behind her for support in her decision, four women she knew and respected came hurrying up behind her.

  With a nod, she plunged on, through the berrybriers that infested the place, making it almost inaccessible to adults. Several thorns caught her unguarded face and left angry red scratches over her cheeks and lips. With a distinctive sound, her dress and apron ripped and tore as she frantically tried to pass the barrier into the middle of the glade. The other women followed slowly, taking more care to avoid injury. Tatanya was not concerned with insignificant damage to herself. In her mind, there was only the numbing, rising blankness: the panic of loss.

  There was no one in sight, none except the five women, breathing heavily and uncertain if they should attempt to go further away from the village's scope of protection.

  Downcast eyes would not look directly at Tatanya as she collapsed, her ripped clothing in tatters, her face bleeding, her hair pulled and disheveled. Hands over her face, cupped in offering, gathered tears of love and desperation, tears
that gently passed through her grip and fell to the forest floor. The circle of women could still hear the cries of their neighbors and friends, searching for the missing child within the village walls and along the river and mountainsides.

  “Perhaps one of them will find her?”

  “Perhaps she is just hiding?”

  With a good amount of earnest intent, one of the women said, “She probably is back at your tent now. Knowing she is in tremendous trouble, the child is keeping silent now because she is afraid of the punishment.”

  Several gazes met. Reaching a consensus, they started walking in different directions within the glade softly calling to the silly child.

  “Azure, Azure, Baby, come!”

  Another called out gently, “Let's play! We have treats for you.”

  “We have new toys, right here! Would you like a new doll, Azure?”

  All of their voices softened to an invitation; no one was in trouble, just come home, all will be well. These sentiments and many similar benign ones were said then, cajoling, enticing.

  Only the wind of the falling sun answered.

  Arriving at the very edge of the farthest thicket, one of the women cried out. As a group they ran to her side.

  She pointed at the object on the ground. Half-covered in high grasses, it was the distinctive wooden handle of a berrybucket, full of ripe fruit which lay scattered on the ground, spilling out of the container. Clearly they had been picked recently. Near the berrybriers, they found footprints, tiny marks in the muddy grass.

  With a gasp, one said to the others, “Two! Two sets of footprints!” Both were made by familiar, handmade village shoes. “Is someone else missing, too? Another child?”

  On the edge of the village without any protection but their own, the frantic women clustered together and spoke in whispers. Forward or back? Forward or back?

  Tatanya's mind was focused on one purpose only: she must find her own child. Even as the others huddled like feeding hens at the grain dish, the distraught mother followed the tiny and medium footprints around the edge of the briers and into the shadows of the forest itself. Her hand slipped into her apron pocket and clutched protectively at her talisman. Small as it is, it is sufficient. The only protection she had, it was all she needed to find her little girl.