B) Chapter 1 - An Unpleasant Intrusion

*Chapter 1 of 'Against the Elements'*
*(Follows on from Prologue)*

It was a glorious Summer day and in the village of Twing, nestled in a
natural bowl among the emerald-green hills on the west bank of the
river Eskin, everyone was joyful. The people of Twing tended to be
joyful even in the face of adversity, but today they were more so than
ever. The reason for this was the Harvest Festival, an event observed
across much of Miraloc to mark the cutting of the first sheaf of wheat,
although no other village celebrated it with quite so much gusto.

Cheerful men, dressed in their finest clothes, marched up and down the
cobbled streets with a spring in their step, wishing each other health
and happiness. The women of the village, many of them whistling
seasonal ballads, bustled to and fro carrying paper chains, cooking
pots, vegetables and all manner of other things, all in preparation for
the evening feast. They were often hindered in these activities by
excitable children in coloured hats, who were playing amusing little
games and chasing their friends all over the square. Everyone allowed
themselves to be carried away in the spirit of the event.

Even the very old were mucking in to help. Penwise, the wise old
scholar of the village, was doing his very best to control the
excitable children by encouraging as many as he could to sit quietly on
the ground in front of him and listen to his tales of high adventure.
He looked quite resplendent with his long, grey beard, his colourful
robes and his sensible-looking, eight-sided hat, sitting in the middle
of the village square and surrounded by enthralled youngsters. Just at
the moment he had them spellbound by the legend of how mankind
discovered fire, much of which, in truth, he had made up himself.

'You mean the fire actually spoke to him?' interrupted one of the
children.

'Of course,' replied Penwise, and smiled. 'You see, long ago, when the
world was still young, Fire was a living creature just like you and I.
It was, I must say, a great deal more cunning than our young hero and
much more powerful. It was also a very mischievous being and devised
numerous unpleasant ways of trying to trick the boy, but in the
end?'

'Mr Penwise, sir!' called out a nervous voice from somewhere among the
crowd.

'Good grief, what can it be now?' muttered the old scholar.

It was in fact Pwyll, the Chieftain's page. He negotiated his way
through the throng to where Penwise sat, bumping into and tripping over
one or two people on the way. Pwyll was an awkward looking young man;
slightly too skinny and slightly too tall, with a crudely cut mop of
hair. He wore leather boots, brown leggings and a green tunic. The
tunic was his very best. Many people were wearing green for the
festival, as it symbolised the green of the land, from which all of the
harvest's plenty came.

'I don't know what to do Mr Penwise!' Pwyll exclaimed, 'I don't know
whether I should be helping with the preparations or if I should be
with His Honour. He might need me at his side on an important day like
this. And if I should be helping then what should I actually do?
Everyone looks so busy and there are so many things to do but I don't
know if I'd be any good at any of them. I'm so adrift!' Pwyll had
barely stopped for breath.

The old scholar sighed. 'Why don't you look for Arawn and ask him if he
needs you, young Pwyll?'

'That's part of the problem! I've looked for His Honour everywhere! I
went to his house and only his maid, Mrs Wicker, was there. She said
that he'd left ages ago with Mr Strongclout to visit the farmers, so I
crossed Squealers Walk and looked for them there but everyone said that
they'd gone to see how the fishermen were getting on, so I checked all
the piers but apparently they'd already left for the mill, so I went
there but?'

'Yes, yes, I see.' Penwise murmured, acutely aware of the fact that the
children were losing interest and would soon disappear to bother their
already busy parents. Pwyll looked as anxious as ever, and was becoming
further troubled by the morning breeze, which kept blowing his hair
over his eyes. 'Where was the last place you were told that they would
be visiting?'

'Well, the bakers said that they were coming here, to the
square.'

'Ah, well in that case you may set your mind at rest, young page. I
myself have been sat here in the square all morning, and I may assure
you that neither the Chieftain nor Mr Strongclout have so much as set
foot here. No doubt they will arrive soon. I suggest you find yourself
a suitable vantage point and wait for them.' And with that, Penwise
turned his attention back to the impatient children, and continued his
tale.

Pwyll rather fancied that Mr Penwise had been uncharacteristically
short with him. Then again, perhaps he had a right to be; keeping
excitable children occupied on a day like this couldn't be an easy task
for a usually serene old gentleman. Or perhaps people just found him
irritating. He really wasn't sure. He briskly walked the short distance
to the pond, hoping intensely not to trip over again, and climbed up
onto its edge. He suspected that he might stumble and fall in, but it
was the only obvious way he could see of obtaining a good view of the
market square. Pwyll peered over the heads of his fellow villagers. If
he stood on his toes he could see right down to the river, and
everything in between. There was the guildhall, with its elaborately
carved door depicting various scenes from popular legends. There were
the warehouses, more like smallish sheds really, probably full of cloth
from Elthron, or even wood cut from the Thickening Forest. Scattered in
between were dozens of little wooden houses, with smoke rising from
holes in their roofs; a sure sign that cooking for the feast was
already underway. It was probably the thought of the feast that made
all of the hectic preparations seem worthwhile, and kept a smile on the
face of every man, woman and child. From the pig farms on the western
side of the village to the fishing jetties on the east, Pwyll saw that
people were laughing, singing and generally getting into the spirit of
the occasion.

* * *

The merriment of the fishermen, however, was suddenly turned to quiet
intrigue by the arrival of an unexpected guest. It was impossible to
tell whether it was a man or a woman because a large, black cloak with
a hood covered its body from head to toe and cast an impenetrable
shadow over its face. It was paddling downriver in a small coracle made
from the dark wood of the trees that grew near the mountains. The
stranger's movements were so slow and graceful as to seem almost
unnatural, yet the little boat was approaching the northernmost pier
with surprising speed. As the fishermen looked on, all thoughts of the
festival forgotten, it slowed and its passenger clambered up onto the
jetty, before fastening the coracle to a peg via a length of gnarled
rope. Still he, or she, had not announced themselves, or even made a
sound. Nor in fact had the assembled men of Twing, who normally
welcomed visitors to their happy village, but who felt quite indisposed
towards this hunched bundle of black rags. They also felt that its
presumptuous use of their pier without so much as a 'hello' betrayed a
lack of common courtesy.

The ragged robes walked, or more drifted, onto the bank and past the
North fish house, silently stepping around anyone in their way. All
eyes were upon the creature. Finally, one young man who did not want
any visitor, however odious, to think that the people of Twing were
without manners said 'Can I help you, friend?' as the bundle went past.
It stopped suddenly and rotated to face the speaker, although its head
was still bent downwards and completely covered by the large hood.
'Take me to your chieftain.' the man replied; it was clear now from his
voice that it was a man. But what a harrowing voice! It was monotonous
and cold and the man croaked when he spoke, like someone on their
deathbed, and his words were barely above a whisper. It sent a chill
down the young fellow's spine. 'Uh?follow me, please.' he
managed.

They turned left at the corner of the fish house and walked briskly
through Meeting Place. Here, too, fishermen were busily coming and
going, preparing for the last catch before the feast. Yet the presence
of the rags seemed to make them withdrawn, and most ceased their
activity to watch the figure glide past, guided by the pale-faced and
uncomfortable-looking youth. They continued on past the Not-North fish
house, Merchants' Garden and the guildhall before finally reaching the
market square. The journey couldn't have lasted more than two minutes,
but it seemed to the young fisherman like an hour. He would be glad to
escape from this unnerving creature. Anxiously, he stood on tip-toe,
craning his neck to see if Arawn had taken his seat in the square yet.
'Ah, yes?there he is, next to the pond.' he said, pointing towards him.
'Do you see?' he asked, turning to address the cloaked man. But he had
already slipped away. The young man gave a slight yelp of surprise and
then scurried off down the streets again as quickly as he could.

* * *

Arawn, His Honour, Chieftain of Twing, had finally negotiated his way
into the market square, after visiting and speaking with almost
everyone in the village. He was an old man, and the effort of walking,
talking and remaining jolly throughout had made him weary. Strongclout
had realised this, having been the Chief's bodyguard and friend for
many years, and had endeavoured to direct him towards his official seat
near the centre of the square. There, he had hoped, His Honour could
have a rest and something to drink. This was not to be, however. Pwyll
had spotted them as they were making their way to the pond and had
immediately begun harassing Arawn about where he was meant to be, and
apologising for his absence over and over again. Now the Chief was
attempting to calm him.

'That's quite enough apology for today, my Page.' he smiled, 'It
reassures me to think that you've been running around looking for me
all morning like a restless fly. I should, I'm sure, be apologising to
you for not making my wishes clear yesterday.'

'So what shall I do, Your Honour?' Pwyll asked feverishly.

'You can start by fetching me a mug of water.' Arawn replied, with the
benign and paternal look upon his bearded face that always made Pwyll
feel so elated and proud to be in his service. As he walked briskly
away in search of a pitcher, various other people began closing in on
the Chieftain and clamouring for his attention. Strongclout waylaid
them quite effectively with a mixture of persuasion and gentle force,
but one managed to evade his attention and slip through. There the
mysterious, hunched and faceless man stood, covered in his tattered,
black cloak. Arawn raised an eyebrow.

'And who might you be?' he asked; not challengingly, but with a slight
note of testiness in his gentle voice. It had been a hard morning after
all.

'I am a messenger.' the rags rasped in response, 'I have been sent by
His Highness and Holiness, Seketh Kardraith, Lord of Krathlithe.'

The hunched-up creature was as unpleasant as ever, but Arawn was not
easily ruffled. In his youth he had been an adventurer and had seen
many things, both awe-inspiring and terrible. Then, in middle age, as
Twing's Captain of the Guard, he had had to deal with intrusions of
unruly rogues and adventurers himself. Now, he had the great task of
managing a vibrant and growing village. His eyes were full of wisdom
and experience spanning decades. He was certainly not the sort to begin
stammering simply due to being confronted with a dilapidated little
wanderer.

*(Chapter 1 is not yet complete - keep checking back.)

*('Against the Elements' continues in Chapter 2)