White Eyes (part one)

Prologue


It is cold and dark.
Where am I?
The trees close in about her like faceless wraiths.
What are they?
The wolves howl a mournful dirge.
Please let them stay away …
The soft breeze sighs and the wood moans and whispers.
They are only trees …
The moon’s shining silver face is concealed behind a veil of dark clouds.
Please let it come out … please …
Boughs form dark shapes and mists drift into shapeless figures.
It is just an illusion … they are not real …
They are coming closer … she cannot escape …
What do you want?
She cannot escape …
Leave me alone!
YOU CANNOT ESCAPE …

Elnari collapsed in a sobbing, bedraggled heap upon the forest floor. Her mind was in turmoil, her limbs trembling with fear and fatigue. She did not know where she was, whether it was night or day … she could not even remember her own name. Her breath came in short, tortured gasps, strangled with sobs. Her matted hair fell over her face like a curtain but she did not attempt to brush it away. She could not think, and she did not care about anything. She screwed up her eyes, waiting for the wolves to attack, for the trees to close in on her, for the wraiths to envelop her. She was certain that she was going to die, or be driven mad by the nameless fear that threatened to engulf her entire being.
Afterwards she could not say how long she lay there on her bed of rotten leaves, sobbing and moaning, her heart rent with fear. It seemed that time did not exist in that forest, or if it did, it went so slowly that if one waited a hundred years within it one would not have grown a minute older by the time one left it. 
After what seemed like an eternity, the wolves stopped howling, and now a dead silence fell over the woods. The silence was not that of a peaceful sleep or a moonlit night. It was the silence of death, and terror, stone cold fear, a silence as cold as a gravestone. Elnari felt it in the air; she sensed it in her mind. It weighted down her heart like lead and she feared to look up lest she be struck dead by terror.
Through Elnari’s mind raced a myriad of fevered thoughts, each one inspired by dread, darkness and sudden death. The silence seemed to intensify with every passing moment, and she jerked violently at every snap of a twig, every rustle in the branches surrounding her. Although she never looked up, her mind formed horrific scenes of what might be happening. She imagined, in her delirium, the trees creeping closer to surround her, and every creak of a bough convinced her that they were coming closer, lifting their roots from the ground and creeping forward. The trees developed hideous faces: gnarled, twisted faces that displayed menace and hatred in every groove of bark, every crease and hollow. Elnari wanted to scream and to run, to escape from these monstrous fiends of doom. How many innocent travellers had they consumed in their blind, purposeful murder? How many had fallen victim to their cold, dark eyes; the pure terror they inspired?
A sudden, very loud snap caused Elnari to cry out and leap to her feet, trembling from limb to limb. 
She found that she could not see even a foot in front of her. The pale glow that had shone dimly through the clouds was gone without a trace. The dead silence pressed upon her eardrums. Cold fear struck her. It was not the type she had been experiencing before. This was real, paralyzing terror. Elnari could not have described it if she had wanted to. 
She stopped shivering. Her limbs fell limply to her sides. She felt cold; cold and clammy, and her knees felt suddenly weak, as though her bones had simply melted into oblivion. Her eyes widened and her face contorted into a dreadful expression, mouth agape in a silent scream. Her eyes saw nothing, but she felt it in the air, she heard it through the pounding in her eardrums. Something was moving. Fast. Although it made barely a rustle, her ears picked up the sound of leaves moving across the ground. As the sound grew louder, her limbs tensed and shook, and she uttered a soft moan. The darkness was deepening. As the thing approached, her surroundings seemed to close in around her, smothering her. She could not breathe. She could not think. All she was aware of was the soft rustlings all around and the trembling of the ground. 
And then it laughed. The sound was terrible; a low, moaning sound that throbbed in the air. It rose and fell, and reverberated around inside Elnari’s skull. The sound was not loud, but it resonated through the whole forest as a bellow, filled with all the menace and cruel mirth of an ancient being, so filled with memory and long held grudges that Elnari felt as small as a babe. She stood there, enchanted with fear, listening to the melodious rumble in the air until at last, whether by some devilry or sheer exhaustion, her mind went blank, she fell to the ground and she knew no more.



Chapter One: Morgan



“Morgan!”
“I am not coming down, if that’s what you want.”
“Morgan, show yourself this instant.”
“No.”
“You will do as you are told, young lady, and nothing besides.”
“Well, I’ve told myself that I’m going to stay here. For my whole life. For ever.”
“Well, I’m telling you to come down.”
“Well, I don’t care what you think you’re telling me to do, because I told myself that I wouldn’t tell anyone that they could tell me what to do, and therefore you telling me to come down just won’t work!”
“It had better.”
“Or what?”
“Or I get my axe right now, and chop this tree down.”
Morgan’s golden head appeared between two branches. It scrutinized the man underneath her with sceptical eyes. “You wouldn’t,” said Morgan eventually.
“I would,” assured the man, relieved that he had finally touched bottom.
“You wouldn’t dare,” insisted Morgan. “Mother would kill you.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said the man.
“Prove me wrong!”
“What if I kill her first?”
There was a loud rustling sound, and within a few moments Morgan appeared, sliding down the trunk. She ran to the man and folded her arms, a serious frown creasing her brow. “Now I know you’re lying.”
“Yet you came down.”
“I came down because I was hungry.”
“Oh, so you’re not going to stay up there for the rest of your life?”
“I never said that.”
 The odd twosome struck down the road at a leisurely pace. The man, who was Morgan’s father, swung her onto his shoulders.
“Well, I don’t care if you stay up there for forever and day, but you are not going back until you have done your chores.”
“I knew it!”
“You knew what?”
“I knew you only wanted me to come down to do my chores.”
“Of course I did. Why else would I disturb the peace of the Queen of the sacred Elnari Tree?”
Morgan gave a dramatic gasp and almost toppled off her father’s shoulders. 
“Careful, you little monkey!” Her father grabbed her just in time and pulled her back up. “You’ll end up killing yourself one day.”
Morgan acted as if nothing had just happened. “How did you know?”
“Well, the way you keep behaving – ’’
“No, no! How did you know about the Tree?”
“I cannot possibly miss it. You spend half your life up that old tree.”
“But its name, how did you know its name?”
“Why, you spend the other half of your life talking about it!”
“I do?” Morgan looked puzzled for a moment, and then relaxed into her old cheeky grin. “Well, as a man who spends half his life in his shed and the other half talking about it, you are hardly the one to talk!” 


“Katrina, I found her!” Morgan and her father had arrived at their old tumbled-down shack and, in the absence of a door, her father was knocking on the wall and shouting through the doorway.
A rather forceful voice rang through the hallway. “Found, aye,” it said, “but in ‘ow many pieces is what I’d like to know!”
Morgan’s mother, Katrina, appeared in the hallway, a filthy rag in hand. She was attempting to clean a grimy bowl, but only managing to turn it a darker shade of brown than before. She surveyed the two keenly, her sharp eyes roving over her daughter’s shaggy appearance – the knotted hair, complete with twigs and leaves, the dirty face and the filthy clothing told all. “You’ve bin climbin’ in that darned tree again,” she observed shortly. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from there? Ya filthy ragamuffin of a girl. When will ya learn? Ah’ve told ya agin an’ agin an’ a hundred times over. Aye, that I ‘ave. but do ya listen? No, sirree, ya don’t!” She bustled off down the hall, muttering to herself and shaking her head.
Morgan stared after her in a confused manner. “Why doesn’t she like my tree, Father?”
Morgan’s father looked at her fondly. “I expect it is because she is jealous.”  
He whispered the last word with all the secrecy of a furtive conspirator, plotting with his allies.
Morgan looked aghast. “No,” she gasped. “Not Mother.”
Her father gave her a grim look. “If only you knew all the facts,” he said elusively.
He then jumped a mile in the air as a stern voice boomed right beside him. “Not plottin’ mutiny, I ‘ope, John?” Katrina certainly looked very menacing in her voluminous apron. The impression was enhanced by the rather large wooden ladle she held in her hand. Of course, it might have helped that she had been stirring tomato soup with it a moment before, although Morgan did not know this and hoped that that her last victim had not suffered much.
“Plotting?” Her father looked aghast. “Mutiny? Perish the thought! I was merely having a moment of father-daughter time with Morgan.”
Morgan was hauled up in front of him, in a similar manner to a shield. The ladle certainly looked very menacing as it waved within two inches of her nose.
“Now, John, stop puttin’ ridiculous ideas inna this gal’s ‘ead. If you ain’t careful, she’ll end up just like you!” Katrina glared at me as if daring me to defend her husband. “An’ we don’t want that, do we now, girl?”
“No, Mother,” said Morgan cheerfully.
“Good. Now, come an’ help me with lunch.” Katrina set off down the hallway again, Morgan trailing behind, feeling like an ill-fated pig being led off to the slaughter house. She cast a pleading look over her shoulder at her father before disappearing into the kitchen.
Morgan found her mother bent double, reaching into one of the numerous store-cupboards that riddled the walls like rabbit burrows. She waited fearfully as Katrina cursed and muttered to herself, letting her eyes wander over to the large copper pot on the wooden bench, and the un-chopped vegetables that lay beside it like condemned criminals. Morgan wondered what poor soul had fallen victim to the cruel ladle of her mother, and silently swore that however many vegetables were added to the ghastly mixture, she was never going to eat it.
Morgan grew slightly alarmed when her mother extricated herself from the cupboard and emerged clenching a very long, very sharp knife in one fist. As Katrina approached her daughter purposefully, Morgan began to wonder if the victim had not yet been killed.  Anyhow, it was likely to be over pretty soon anyway. She slowly backed away, but her mother beat her to the door. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, young lady.” 
Morgan was shepherded towards the wooden bench. On her mother’s face was an expression of grim intent. Morgan winced as her mother raised the knife for the fatal blow and pointed it at her chest.
“Now,” she said triumphantly, “start chopping.”


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 


Despite any resolutions Morgan had made earlier, she ended up sitting at the dining table half an hour later, a bowl of tomato soup before her. Her insistence that she was not hungry had done absolutely nothing to manipulate her mother. The only sympathy she had received had been rather poor: her father had said, “Well, look on the bright side. It can hardly be any worse than the fried chicken eyes we’re having tomorrow!”
Morgan dolefully watched her mother slurp enormous spoonfuls of the rather lumpy mixture, apparently relishing it. Her father prodded his gingerly with a spoon, and looked rather queasy when it made a squelching noise and wobbled.
Morgan glared suspiciously down at her own. She could have sworn that it was slowly moving, bubbling to the surface.
“Mother,” she said tentatively, “the soup’s moving.” She poked it with a finger and a large slice of celery slid off the top.
“Don’t be an idiot, girl. It’s perfectly fine.”
Morgan was quite aware of that. It was the thought of eating it that made her stomach lurch. 
Looking up, she saw that her mother had gone back to eating. Sudden inspiration struck, and glancing around furtively, she tipped the whole bowl down the front of her dress. Morgan experienced a horrible sensation as the mixture dribbled over her chest, down her legs and dripped slowly onto the floor. She smiled brightly as her father looked up, and made a pretense of licking the bowl.
But her father was not interested in that. The first tiny amount of soup dropped from his spoon, and his mouth fell open. “My God,” he gasped. “What on Earth happened?”
Morgan glanced hastily down at her dress, which had been stained a bright red by the tomato juice. She shifted the bowl casually up to the stain, hiding it from view. Again, she smiled cheerily. “Oh, that’s my new dress,” she invented wildly. “Mr. Sandy gave it to me for – for my birthday. Don’t you remember?”
She started edging her chair back across the floor. It seemed a hasty escape would soon be required. But her father rose and stared at her. “No it isn’t,” he whispered. “That’s blood! Morgan, what happened?”
But Morgan was already at the door. “Blood? Nonsense, Father. It’s just a bit of a … a stain …”
Joe started hurrying towards her. “My God, what have you done? What … what are we going to do?”
“It’s alright, Father. Really.” Morgan started edging around the doorframe, soup dripping from her dress with every step.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, young lady! Come back here now.”  It was her mother. She had risen from her place at the table and was advancing with long steps. Now was the time to cut and run. Morgan disappeared around the doorframe and sprinted. Out of the front door, through the overgrown hedge and down the dirt road, as fast as her short legs could carry her.
Morgan stopped for breath about a hundred meters down the road, and, thanking the Heavens for her parents’ stumpy legs, proceeded at a more leisurely pace.
She came eventually to the junction. This was where the country road joined up with the more well-trodden road that led to Charicadd Square, and the town that shared its name. It was there that John went to sell his wares. He was a carpenter and created the most beautiful figures out of wood. The trouble was, there was hardly anybody wealthy or sympathetic enough to by them. When somebody did, the money was enough to last about two weeks before the family relapsed into their previous state of poverty.
It was also here, at this junction, that Morgan could find a very familiar landmark. This was in the form of a very old, gnarled  tree. It stood right on the roadside, its thick roots protruding forward onto the path like the vines of a creeper, seeking to choke all in its path. At some points the roots threaded through the ground like thread on a needle, disappearing underneath the dust and reappearing a couple of yards across the path.
Morgan smiled as she spotted the tree. The sight always filled her with joy and comfort, but there was also another feeling that she could never quite explain. It was as if she and the tree shared something, a deep secret and understanding that reached very far back, deep within the vaults of history. She knew that the impression was childish, but she could never quite shake it off. 
Putting aside her thoughts, she ran to the tree as if it was a lost-lost friend. Reaching it, she stroked the rough bark fondly. She whispered gently to the tree, and pressed her ear against the trunk as if listening for something. The feel of the trunk was strong and firm, and it was warmed by the sun. As always, she could hear the steady pounding of blood in her ears, and, as always, she could hear … something else. It was very hard to detect, but it was still there – a steady throbbing, or humming, that emanated from the bark and seemed to issue from the very heart of the tree. 
Morgan stood there listening for a while – the sound was so soothing, so strangely familiar – and then pulled her head away from the trunk and started to climb. It seemed, as always, that the trunk formed footholds wherever her feet landed, and that the branches reached down to pull her up. She almost floated up the tree, her arms hauling herself up as easily as if she were a feather. 
Reaching what she fondly called ‘the living room’, which was a wide, flat platform closest to the lowest branches, Morgan sat down and turned her face towards the sun, feeling its soft rays upon her rough skin. She loved the feeling – it was like warm water seeping into her very skin and soaking her in its soft presence. 
After a while, as was her nature, Morgan grew bored of the stillness, and started to climb again. She climbed much higher this time, reaching a special fork between two thinner branches. This was where her father had found her earlier on. She had chosen to hide there because of its extreme seclusion and shelter – the leaves were so thick at this point; it was impossible for anyone on the path below to spy a little fair-haired girl nestled between two branches. More than that, though … it was as if, whenever Morgan was in this tree – or any tree,  really – she camouflaged perfectly with the bark and green leaves. No matter what she might be wearing – although she had only one piece of clothing – she could not be seen when up a tree.
It was for these reasons, coupled with her silence, that when the strangers passed by underneath her – not on the road but in the bush – they neither saw her nor perceived that she was there. 
Neither could Morgan distinguish them properly. They were like men, hooded and cloaked, yet they hunched over so that they seemed children, and their cloaks seemed more like their skin or shrouds of shadow than pieces of clothing. They did not say any distinguishable words, but Morgan’s sharp ears could catch a very soft, varying humming sound. Morgan felt strangely soothed by it, and soon she found herself swaying gently to the ‘music’, as her ears perceived it, and it was only the strong arm of her tree that prevented her from falling. Indeed, as she swayed, her ear pressed against the branch, and, stronger than ever, the much deeper, much more reassuring hum of the Elnari tree penetrated her eardrums. Morgan stopped swaying immediately, and suddenly the voices of the strangers came clear to her ears, and they were no longer soothing, but cold and purposeful. It seemed as though the Elnari tree was giving her the benefit of its ears, as it could understand all languages, vile and fair. And Morgan perceived their words:


From land of woe
To land of foe
With voices sweet
And hearts that reek
By Evil’s hand
Far from His land
Our candles call
And strong men fall.


From world of hell
To gilded Bell
With lights that shine
And hearts of slime
Intent to kill
Held by His will
Condemned to life
Bound by the Knife.


Morgan’s breath caught in her throat. Her blood pounded frantically in her ears, and she pulled her head viciously from the tree branch, unable to bear any more of the terrible verse. She knew now that the soothing humming was no more than a façade, and their evil words revealed their intent.
She wanted to scream, to tear away from the tree and run, run as fast as she could. She wanted to warn her family before these foul beings reached the town.
But before Morgan could make a move, the sound was gone without a trace. It had vanished along with any trace of the shadowy figures. 
Morgan sat there, heart pounding like a frantic animal behind the bars of her ribcage, for what seemed like an eternity. Then her senses returned, and she climbed faster than ever she had before, slid down the trunk and ran.
As she ran, she thought. From land of woe … they came from the Dark lands … to land of foe … they were enemies … with voices sweet … that humming … but hearts that reek … that much was obvious …
By the time Morgan had figured out most of the vile poem, she had reached her home. Racing through the door, she collapsed onto the table and gasped, quite out of breath. Not a second had passed before she felt strong hands lift her, and she found herself staring into the anxious face of her father.
“Morgan, are you all right?” His voice seemed to be fading. “Morgan, what is wrong?” Fading into the distance …
Morgan was abruptly aroused by a splash of very cold, very refreshing water. She gasped, and her eyes flew open.
“Father,” she whispered, breathless. “There were … three of them… they – they were hunched like … like children … they want to … to kill us, Father …” It seemed very important that he know immediately.
But John was not interested. “We figured what happened to your soup,” he smiled, and then frowned again. “But that is no excuse for what you did – leaving us sick with worry, thinking that you were going to go off and die somewhere …”
“No, Father. You do not understand. That’s not important anymore. They are going to kill us, Father!”
John frowned. He obviously thought that she was trying to scare him. “Now stop your fibbing,” he scolded. “Nobody is trying to kill us.”
“But, Father …”
“No ‘buts’! You are to go off to your room right now and calm down, or I will make you. Understand? Off you go!”
“But … where is Mother?”
“She went out looking for you. See the trouble you have caused, you and your foolish little tricks?”
“Oh no,” gasped Morgan. Without a second thought, she was again out of the room and out the door.
“Morgan! Come  back here immediately, young lady!” But her father’s cries fell on deaf ears. Morgan was already halfway down the garden path. 
Soon she came to the road, and without stopping for breath, ran on. It was not long before she reached the Charicadd Town junction, and here she stopped. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. Surely she had not walked all the way to the town?
Glancing from side to side, Morgan decided that the best way to find her mother would be to climb the Elnari tree and try to see her. If she was anywhere near, Morgan would find her. The Tree was by far the tallest for miles around and one perching at the very top would be able to see for just as far.
So Morgan began climbing. This time she did not stop to listen to the tree, but carried on hauling herself up, branch by branch, until she was higher than she had ever been before. As her head breached the very top branches, a breathtaking scope of the landscape was laid out before her. It was as though she was a giant, observing a beautiful map crafted by the gods themselves for her very own viewing leisure. But Morgan was not interested in the view. As she scanned the dull twilit forest below her, she caught – or fancied she caught – a glimmer of light, far away, deep in the forest. She glared hard at the spot for at least two minutes, but the light did not appear again. Just as she was ready to look somewhere else, Morgan caught it again, a little further away this time. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted with all her might. “MOTHER!”
The light vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. “MOTHER, MOTHER, MOTHER!” Morgan yelled and yelled, willing her mother to hear her.
Then something completely unexpected happened. There seemed to be a disturbance in the air around the spot the light had disappeared. The wind stirred up the treetops and birds flew into the air, crying madly. Then the wind seemed to change direction. It advanced rapidly towards Morgan, sending up a storm of birds and tearing down trees in its path. Morgan opened her mouth in a silent scream, her eyes opening wide as the storm approached. Suddenly something equally unexpected happened. The bark beneath her fingers began to vibrate and throb, the sensation growing with every passing moment. Soon it was audible; a long, low throbbing that filled her head with sound. It grew and grew until the entire forest vibrated with it, and Morgan’s grasp on the tree went limp. She closed her eyes as she fell.


“Morgan.”
Morgan heard the voice, but she did not perceive its meaning, nor  did she care what it said.
“Morgan, listen to me.”
Morgan knew the voice. She was sure that she knew it. It sounded very familiar, but she could not put her finger on it.
“Morgan, wake up, gal!”
Morgan’s eyes flew open. Sure enough, her mother’s face was floating above her, anxious eyes peeing keenly into her own.
“Oh, thank the gods, Morgan,” she sighed. “I thought you was dead, I did.”
“Mother …”
“Shush. You just had a nasty fall; ya shouldn’t be wastin’ your breath.”  
“But Mother, what … what happened …”
“No need ta be botherin’ yourself with that, young lady. Now, if you’ll just try ta stand up for me …”
Morgan tried, but her legs collapsed underneath her. “That’s it,” said her mother. “Take it easy … I only need ya to lift yourself a bit … good … there!”
Her mother hauled her to her feet. She then hoisted her daughter onto her back and took a few stumbling feet forward. “I feel a bit weak meself, ya see …” Katrina grunted and pushed forward, up the grassy bank by the roots of the Elnari tree. 
Soon she and her small bundle reached the road, where they found John looking around, obviously very anxious.
His jaw dropped as he saw the two of them. ‘Why … Katrina … Morgan … what …?” He hurried forward, relieving his wife of her burden. He laid Morgan gently down on the ground. She had clearly fainted. He looked up at his wife with wide eyes. “What happened?”
“Fell,” was Katrina’s abrupt reply.
John’s eyes travelled up the trunk of the Elnari tree, to the very highest branches where Morgan had been. “My God,” he said softly. “Come on, we need to get her home.” 
As Katrina clearly lacked some of her former strength, her husband took it upon himself to carry his daughter home. By the time they were back, it was pitch black. Morgan had reawakened and was breathing normally. 
After a thorough examination of her, to ensure that she had suffered no broken bones – “It’s a bloody miracle,” said her mother – Morgan was allowed to lie down in her room and rest, though not without many reassurances that she was ‘in for it’ tomorrow. 
‘Rest’ was the last thing that Morgan wanted to do. She lay awake on her narrow bed in the smothering dark, thinking and worrying. Thinking about the most puzzling lines of the evil verses she had heard earlier – our candles call and strong men fall … condemned to life, bound by the knife – what was that all about? And worrying – worrying about where the little hunched figures were now, worrying about her mother … did they really lead her into the forest, as Morgan had assumed they did? And if so, was she any safer right now than she had been then? The thought chilled Morgan to the bone, and she decided to go and check on her mother, just in case.
Katrina lay peacefully on her bed, no differently from the way she had done every other day of her life. Morgan watched her thoughtfully for a while, and then turned to leave. As she did, however, her mother stirred and softly called her name.
“Morgan …”
Morgan crept back towards her. “Yes, Mother?”
“Morgan, it’s the middle of the night.”
“I know, Mother.”
“So why are ya here?”
“I …” Morgan thought quickly. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“And what might that be?” Katrina sat up and peered at her daughter through the darkness.
“It’s just …” Morgan thought again. “Where did you go when you went searching for me?”
In the gloom Morgan could see a little frown appear on her mother’s face.
“Where was I … where was I …”
Morgan waited patiently.
“I don’t really know what happened, truth be told,” said Katrina eventually. “One moment I was walkin’ down the path, looking for you, and the next …”
“What happened next, Mother?” Prompted Morgan gently.
“Well, I dunno, do I?” Katrina suddenly sounded irritable. “But I do know that one moment I was in one place, and the next I was somewhere completely different.”
“Where was the other place, Mother?”
“The woods. I found myself in the woods. There was an awful windstorm, an’ I found myself in the middle of the forest. An’ I saw …”
“What did you see?” Whispered Morgan. It was all making sense.
“I saw smoke,” answered Katrina. “Smoke all around, and nothin’ else. An’ then there was this awful sound …” she shuddered. “It was so deep, and so low, and so angry. It throbbed, if ya know what I mean. An’ it grew louder, an’ louder … even when I covered my ears it was ‘orrible. But it did seem to blow away the smoke, and it stopped the windstorm. An’ then everythin’ was quiet, an’ I could see agin.”
“But … was there anything else, before the sound?”
“I told ya, didn’ I?”
“Yes, but … could there possibly have been any … any lights?”
“Good Heavens, child, why would there be any lights? There was just smoke, as I told ya.”
“Oh.”
“So then, I found my tracks – which was odd, might I add, as I’d just appeared, as I thought, plus the windstorm should’ve blown ‘em away – and I followed ‘em. An’ they led me ta you. You was just lying there, all alone an’ out cold, at the foot of your beloved tree. I thought you was dead, as I say. It’s a bloody miracle in itself that you wasn’t injured. You should count yourself lucky.”         
“Yes, Mother.”
“But it don’t mean ta say you’re gettin’ away with it just yet.”
“No, Mother.”
“Alright, then. Off ya go.” Katrina lay back down and watched her daughter tiptoe out of her room. Then she closed her eyes and thought of their conversation. It was very odd, now she came to think about it. She tried to remember straying off the path and into the forest, but any memory of anything like that had gone beyond recall. Very odd … Katrina suddenly felt very tired. She had just begun to drift off when her eyes flew open and her heartbeat intensified a thousand-fold. She heard it. The humming. It was so soft, so melodious. She felt her mind drift into oblivion as the sound numbed her senses. They were calling … the voices were calling … she heard what they said as clearly as if they had been speaking in words …


Follow the candles. 



Chapter Two: Argo


Morgan awoke the next morning with a heavy heart. She did not know what weighed it down so. Yet by the light of the morning sun, the answer became clear.
Katrina was gone. She was gone without a trace, without a note or reason. Nobody had seen her since the day before. She had simply vanished. John seemed strangely subdued at the breakfast table, and after eating he took Morgan into the town to look for Katrina. They searched every corner of every alleyway, and talked with every passer-by, hoping against hope that somebody might have seen her. 
By midday, there was still no news, and Morgan’s father was growing desperate. He could  not find any reason for her disappearance and although he went through every single possibility in his mind, not one seemed to fit the circumstances. 
Morgan, however, had much more than a vague idea. She knew without a shadow of doubt that her mother had left in the middle of the night, and that she had been following something. She dared not name it, even to herself, for fear of … fear. But whatever it was, she had followed it into the woods and was far, far away by now. Morgan knew that it was far too late to catch her.


She was silent as she and her father sat outside the village baker, contemplating their position. The shop beside the baker’s, a small wine-merchant’s stall, owned by Mr. Teagle, was empty. She watched the baker absentmindedly through the doorway. There was a small assistant with him, and they were talking earnestly. Morgan saw the baker’s gaze switch momentarily to her father, and watched as the boy hurried out of the doorway and ran towards them. He was a skinny little thing, with a mop of unruly black hair, and his face was stained chalk-white with flour.
“Morning, sir,” he said briskly, looking at John through bright blue eyes. John’s head did not move. He remained staring at the ground.
“Morning,” chipped in Morgan, not wanting to be ignored.
The boy glanced swiftly at her, offered a quick smile, and then turned his attention back to her father.
“Good morning, sir,” he repeated.
“Morning,” persisted Morgan. The boy shot a slightly annoyed glance at her and again turned back to John. 
“Er, excuse me, sir. Good morning!”
“Morning!” Repeated Morgan again. She did not like the boy’s attitude. Yet the boy still ignored her. 
“Sir, I have come with a question from my master. Er – good morning, sir?”
John did not stir. “Have you now?” Said Morgan cheerfully. “Well then, stop good-morning-ing and get on with it.”
The boy looked at her angrily. Apparently he was not too pleased that he was being spoken to like this by a girl. He coughed importantly.
“Sir, my master has a message for you!”
“Well, sir, if you intend to actually give the message and are not just saying this for the fun of it, then I suggest you get on with it.” Morgan’s temper was fast in the rising. If this boy was going to be impudent, she was going to be impudent back.
It seemed, however, that the boy did not entirely warm to this idea. His face went bright red underneath the thick layer of flour and he spluttered incoherently. “Well, I never … spoken to by a girl … what a rude little … little prune, you –”
“That will be enough of that, young Master Argo.”
The boy’s head whipped around. John had finally decided to give him his attention. Ignoring the man’s angry words, Argo proceeded to deliver his message. “Why, good m – ’’
“Oh, enough of the ‘good morning’s! Just get on with it, will you?” John was not in a particularly amicable mood.
“Oh, alright then,” said the boy, very much taken aback. “Well, Mister Baker sent me to tell you that …”
“Not your message! I want you to apologise immediately to my daughter.”
The boy scanned the street up and down, puzzled. He could not seem to find the girl John was talking about. Then his eyes widened, and he looked from John to Morgan and back again, aghast. “Apologise … to her?”
“Yes. That is my daughter, Morgan.”
“Sir, she was … she was very rude to me, sir …”
“So I gathered. But you were rude to her also, were you not?”
The boy’s mouth opened and closed. “But … but surely that doesn’t count?”
Morgan’s temper was now at boiling point. “And why shouldn’t it, young Master Argo? Could it possibly be because I’m a peasant? Could it? More than that, I think. Maybe it’s because I’m a peasant girl.” She spat the last word in the boy’s face.
Argo looked fit to burst. His face had gone red as a beetroot – and as plump as one, too – and he was spluttering like a leaky faucet.
John’s mood had not improved in the slightest. “I want you both to apologise immediately. Now!”
The two children shouted together. “No!”  
“I said, NOW!”
“NO!”
The three of them were starting to attract odd looks from passer-bys, and some young boys had gathered around the scene, obviously hoping that somebody would start a scrap.
“Morgan, on the count of three …”
“No, wait!” Morgan had seen the boys and sudden inspiration had sprung into her mind. “I have a better idea.” Stalking over to Argo, she grasped his wrist with a grip like iron and hoisted it high. Argo, completely surprised, attempted to pull it down again, but Morgan’s grip was too strong. “I propose,” started Morgan in a very loud, box-speaker’s voice, “that we hold a tournament!”
Several of the boys on the sidelines went wild with excitement, but others backed off, muttering about not wanting to hurt ‘the girl’.
But Morgan was not finished. “And guess what,” she said, with obvious relish, “you’re not competing! None of you are!”
The cries of joy from the sidelines quickly changed tone. “Why not?” said one boy. “Yeah, we’re more than a match for a puny little girl!” said another.
“I’m sure you are,” assured Morgan. “And once I’m through with this one – ’’ she hauled Argo’s arm into the sky again, “anyone who wants can come up and have their turn!” She gave the boy’s arm a final triumphant tug, and then let it fall to his side. Turning to him, a strange light in her eyes, she smiled. “Let’s begin then, shall we?”


The crowd of boys had elected a spot in the empty town square. One boy had engraved a large circle in the packed dirt with a sharp stick and ordered the two competitors to step inside. Another, more educated one had procured from his tattered breast pocket an equally tattered scroll of paper, which he proceeded to read with great gusto.
“Rules for a tournament fought between two b – I mean, two people of the same age. Number one: Do not step outside of the –  de-zig-nay-ted – space.’’ Here he tapped the edge of the circle with his foot. “Number two: Do not use knives or – we-pon-ary – of any sort. Number three: No kicking in the … in the …” He glanced quickly at Morgan. “Let’s just forget that one, shall we? Number four: No backing out once the tournament has begun!” The boy gave a wicked smile as he rolled up the scroll.
Argo went pale. “But … that’s it? I mean … no rules about … about no killing, or anything of that sort?”
“Nope,” said the boy, his smile widening in delight. “But I wouldn’t say you have anything to fear, would you?”
Argo glanced around at Morgan, taking into account her size. “No, but …”
“She’s a girl, mate.”
“I guess so.” Argo looked a little bit more relaxed as he turned to face his opponent.
The scroll-boy cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Let the tournament begin!”


Argo stepped forward tentatively. As angry as he was, she was only as girl. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered.
“No, of course you don’t,” said Morgan cheerfully. “I’m only a girl.” She did not look nervous in the slightest.
Argo flushed. “Well … you are, really …”
“And does that mean that I have absolutely no hope whatsoever of beating you?”
“Well … I suppose … yes,” he said gingerly.
Morgan’s face was cheery. “Wrong answer,” she tweeted merrily, and in the space of a millisecond, Argo found himself flat on his face on the dirty ground, arms twisted underneath him at a very odd angle.
The surrounding boys gasped and blinked simultaneously. Her move had been so swift and subtle that no-one had noticed how she had done it. There were no smiles on their faces now. They suspected some kind of devilry – maybe a demon had wormed its way into the girl’s brain and was controlling her. 
Morgan did not seem to notice the stunned silence. Glancing down in apparent surprise at her floored opponent, she tut-tutt-ed severely. “Well, now, what is mister High-and-Mighty I-don’t-want-to-hurt-you doing on the floor? The tournament hasn’t even started yet!”
Argo was in shock. It had been so quick – he had hardly felt it at all. And she was a girl …
“Hurry up and get up!” Morgan seemed to be getting impatient, while actually very much enjoying herself. Argo attempted to rise, but his twisted arms caused him to fall back down with a thud.
“Here, let me help you,” said Morgan sympathetically. Ignoring his cries of protests, Morgan hooked her hands under his arms and hauled him upright.
Argo took a moment to untwist his arms, and he emerged from the effort more red from anger that from exhaustion. “Fine then,” he snarled. “I’m not going easy on you anymore. You’re gonna wish you’d never been born!” He lunged at his opponent, in a similar manner to a charging bull. The boys on the sidelines were certain that this was the end of the girl. Not even a witch could escape a charge like that. But before they could make any more assumptions, Morgan moved, and Argo again found himself flat on the ground, this time outside the circle. Morgan stood innocently by, looking at her felled opponent with some surprise.
“Oops,” she said. “He must have slipped.” She went to help him up again.
“Outside the circle!” shouted the boy with the scroll. “One strike for each of you!” 
Morgan showed no anger, and gently lifted Argo from the ground, again ignoring his furious cries. “Ready to go again?” she asked.
“You bet,” snorted Argo. “There is no way I’m going to let you win this.” But he did not charge again. The two circled each other like prowling wolves, locked in each other’s gaze, each daring the other to make the first move. 
But the tension was too much for Argo, and he was furious. He made a very sudden dive-roll, aiming at Morgan’s legs, intending to knock her out of the circle. But his eyes had betrayed him, and Morgan made a leap, pushing herself off his back and propelling Argo out of the circle.
The boys went wild. “Strike two for Argo! Strike two for Argo!” The boy with the scroll was shouting madly. It seemed incredible that this puny little girl could have floored the tall, lanky Argo so many times without a scratch.
Morgan again stepped out of the circle to help the boy, earning herself another strike. She intended to end the score fifty-fifty, cancelling out her own points as she earned strikes. That way, Argo did not lose his honour as a boy, and she earned newfound honour as a girl.
As Argo again stepped back into the circle, Morgan thought quickly. She had to think this last try out carefully. Watching her opponent with the eyes of a bird of prey, she silently planned her move. Her eyes widened as he stepped towards her. Now was the time. His every move was monitored with the utmost attention.
Just in time, Morgan noticed a slight tenseness in his right leg. Half a second later, the leg was swung high into the air, scraping Morgan’s nose. As quick as lightning, Morgan grabbed it and held on with all her might. 
The boys in the crowd gasped. The kick had been executed so swiftly, and yet the tiny girl had managed to catch the boy’s leg. They watched as Argo viciously tried to tear his leg from her grasp. Morgan was slowly driving him backwards. Now he teetered on the edge of the circle, hopping madly on his free leg, striving to keep his balance. His long arms flailed wildly about him. The sight was very comical to the spectators. Then Argo’s eyes grew wide and with a final desperate cry, he toppled onto his side, landing with a thud on the hard-packed ground – outside the circle.
The crowd was deadly silent. A cow mooed far off in the distance. And then there was a sound like the roof caving in as the boys cheered and yelled. The scroll boy was dancing up and down in delight. “STRIKE THREE FOR ARGO! STRIKE THREE FOR ARGO! THE GIRL WINS!”
Morgan ran out of the circle to help Argo up, but her actions went unnoticed, and her shouts were drowned in the chaos about her. 
She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled with all her might. “HEY!”
The boys fell silent and glanced nervously at each other. Surely she wasn’t going to challenge one of them? Hadn’t she proved herself enough already?
But Morgan said nothing of the sort. “I was trying to tell you,” she huffed, “that I haven’t won. Look.” Morgan tapped the ground where she was standing with her big toe. “I’m outside the circle,” she explained, when none of the upturned faces showed any comprehension. “Outside,” she repeated. “Strike three for Morgan! It’s a tie.”
The scroll boy finally understood, and, grinning devilishly, shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “You won fair and square.”
“No, I didn’t,” insisted Morgan. “I just earned myself another strike. We’re equal. It’s a tie. The rules – ’’
“The rules say nothing about it,” interrupted the boy smugly. “And, as the ref-i-re-fy – ’’ 
“Referee,” growled Morgan.
“As the ref-i-re-fy, I say that once one competitor has earned his third strike, the tournament’s over and nothing that happens afterwards counts. It’s only fair.” His face glowed with glee at what he clearly thought was a very unfair statement. He knew Morgan could do nothing about it.
Morgan was speechless. “But … what if the other competitor refuses to accept the title of winner?”
“Can’t,” stated the boy bluntly, his smile broadening. “If you’re winner, you’re winner, and there ain’t nothing you can do about it.” He turned his back to her, intending to address his cronies. A very unwise move, as it turned out. A savage kick from behind sent him flying, and he landed sprawling on the dusty floor.