The Midnight Isle, Chapter One

         Jekke gathered wood under his arm, twigs and bark scratching his skinny ribs through the cloth of his tunic. He was tall for his age, and lean and spare after recent growth. As a warrior’s son, it had nothing to do with diet: he ate better than most in this new land. He had his father’s thick blond hair, his long arms and torso. He wore his mother’s lips and her furtive, inquisitive eyes. Even at twelve, he was nearly as tall as the natives of this vast, strange island.

         As his bundle of sticks grew less manageable, he worked his way back to the ground he’d chosen for the night’s camp. He watched the trees in the graying dusk for anything suspicious. Somewhere in these woods, he knew, his father and other men from the village hunted him. He had remained at large for four days already, making good time. Already behind him were the long river valley, and more than a day’s march of lush forested lowlands. The valley had been more or less tame. Though home to wolves, bears, and boar, there were no men there but Skraeling and their thrall. The forest beyond, however, proved more challenging. Jekke saw poachers, though they had not seen him. He also scryed signs of larger groups of men – too many to be hunters. There were other things in these woods, too. Spoor and tracks he did not recognize. All the more reason to move like a ghost, he thought.

         Jekke dropped his wood atop the pile of his earlier foraging. He invested time in constructing a lean-to. This land was wet and green, and it always rained at least a little every night. The air was brisk, though the year had not yet turned cold. Nevertheless, the boy knew that he had to avoid getting wet if he was to have a hope of arriving at his destination.

         There was a mossy outcropping of limestone here, in a small clearing between the trees. The spot was perfect for a night that would likely see rain, but less ideal in terms of concealment. Jekke considered it a good gamble, though, certain that his pursuers were not close enough to find him.

         He began by digging a small fire pit, and then set to work leaning the larger branches against the limestone. He wove a lattice of branches and twigs, before diligently piling moss, needles, and leaves over his delicate wooden construction. The result was an area in the lee of the stone where no rain would fall. Next, he dug a gutter to guide water away from the base of his nest in the event of a real downpour. Satisfied, he set about preparing his supper. His cooking fire produced a fair amount of smoke, but permitted very little light to escape the confines of his camp.

         Supper was snared hare, and the first hot food Jekke had been able to enjoy since leaving his mother’s kitchen four days prior. The fresh meat smelled heavenly, and despite the lack of seasonings and of anything besides stale bread to go with it, he couldn’t remember a more satisfying meal.

         As he laid his head against his folded arm in an attempt at simulating a bony pillow, Jekke wondered how the other boys had fared. Over the days he had heard continental birdcalls, a sure sign of either his friends or their fathers pursuing them. The closer to the mouth of the valley he came, however, the more infrequent the signs of his peers and countrymen. The implied isolation was exhilarating! All his life, Jekke had chaffed at the limits imposed by his family on his mobility. He understood their desire to protect him, but he never believed anything could happen to him. After all, nothing ever had.

* * *

         The goblin rocked back on its heels, perched on the lip of a limestone promontory. It looked down on the embers of a small cooking fire, which, to its very different eyes was as bright as a beacon fire in the cold and drizzling night. It gnawed on a rabbit bone, cracking it the better to suck the marrow. Under some brush next to the fire was a dimmer, reddish-orange glow. A man shaped glow.

         The goblin found this odd. Inexplicable. For a hundred hundred generations, for as long as the storytellers of men and goblin alike could remember, the grove had been sacred. Men knew not to disturb these woods, or the beasts and creatures they sheltered, just the way the goblins had long known that the sheep of the hills were off limits, even in the leanest of winters. Everyone knew these things!

         Yet, only four feet below him, lay the sleeping form of a man child. For an hour the goblin sat on its perch in stony silence. It picked its teeth with a flint dirk, and it thought. Ultimately, it came to the inevitable conclusion that nobody had told this man child about the sanctity of the grove. This meant that the child was either unimportant and unwanted, or that he came from far away.

         Either way, nobody was likely to miss him.

* * *

         Saatch scanned the ground with urgency, and an odd mixture of worry and pride. The ground was just visible in the pre-dawn light. To his right and just behind him followed Ren, his son’s closest friend, and real devil of the woods. He was ruddy faced with wavy brown hair, and for all of Jekke’s height, Ren had width. He was broad shouldered, and already showing signs of what promised to be a real barrel chest.

         Catching Ren proved enormously difficult. For starters, Saatch hadn’t even been sure which of the boys he was tracking. He had taught both to be woodsmen all their lives, and their technique was identical to one another’s, and to his own. Next, Ren had forded the river as it passed out of the valley, and tracked into marshland, making him very difficult to follow. By sacrificing speed and cover, Ren had hoped to elude detection and make it to the rendezvous, even if he was the last to do so.

         Saatch suppressed a grim chuckle. None of the other youth had cleared the valley at all, and most had been rounded up on the first night. Only his two impossible wards were still away from home, and his gut wrenched at the knowledge that his only son was still out of his reach.

         At Ren’s side hung a canvas sack which swung and knocked against the swarthy youth’s knee. The lad walked in a proud strut, chest out a bit like a rooster’s, and somehow placed great emphasis on the swinging sack. Within was a gruesome trophy: the pierced and rigid body of a bog imp. Claiming the trophy had cost Ren rest of the journey to the coast, as Saatch had easily zeroed in on the exploding swamp gas and raucous screeching of the imp. The boy brought the spiteful creature down before Saatch apprehended him, though, so the prize was properly earned.

         Saatch had been fourteen before he came home with a similar trophy, and the village celebrated him for years for accomplishing the feat so young. Most young Skraeling warriors never claimed a trophy at all, and those that completed the journey were usually sixteen or older. Now his ward had felled an imp and made half the journey at only twelve years of age. His son, the same age, had made it much further, and for a moment Saatch wondered if he might not make it all the way. Surely not.

         Through all of his musing, Saatch remained focused on his surroundings. He saw signs of his son’s passage all around him, and had for the last half hour. He knew his boy had made camp somewhere nearby. Suddenly, he flinched from the sound of a shrill bird call, emanating from somewhere remarkably close to his right ear. A continental call. Saatch whirled and glared at his ward, only to see Ren stare back at him defiantly.

* * *

         Jekke slept lightly, as men sleeping in the wild often do. He felt the uneven ground, and was dimly aware of a stone lodged uncomfortably against his thigh. At the same time, he was walking through a thick fog, winding between trees both like and unlike the ones that surrounded him on his journey so far. A dream, then. His consciousness was in both places at once, and if truth be told, it was scattered across a thousand other places too, though he was less aware of them. He might remember bits and pieces of them when he awoke, but he might just as easily not. There was no such ambiguity surrounding the foggy wood. He was there as firmly as he was lying on the ground under the lean-to, and that part of him that was still aware knew that he would remember what happened here.

         He walked through the trees, treading lightly on the loam, but unconcerned about his footing or any signs of passage that he left. This was extremely unusual for the young man, but for some reason he was free of worry. The forest began to change, and he realized that he had entered an ancient place. The trees were thick, with massive gnarled systems of roots exposed above the ground. A fallen trunk lying parallel to his path seemed more like a curtain wall in its enormity than a thing of nature. An oak loomed over him, and he realized that it was so wide at the base that it would take half his village joined hand to hand to encircle it. It towered to impossible heights.

         Jekke spun where he stood, gawking at his surroundings. He could no longer even see the lowest branches of the oak. Behind him was a boulder, which was shaped suspiciously like a stone he had contemplated kicking only moments ago. On his right was an eight foot tall toadstool, white as bone with brown speckles. Sitting atop the toadstool was a sight that took his breath away.

         He couldn’t immediately make up his mind what grabbed his attention most. The perfectly rounded and upturned breasts, triumphant with taut golden skin and rosy nipples certainly commanded an immediate response. He was, after all, a twelve year old boy. Nevertheless, his eyes were overwhelmed by spectacle, and couldn’t linger. For one thing, there was a twinkling pair of green eyes and a pouty, laughing mouth, astride a face with a most curious and amused expression. Curiouser still, there were antennae; long and graceful, extending from her forehead to a tapered curliqueue. Jekke gulped as he noticed pointed ears emerging from luxurious honey colored hair. He was just recovering from the realization that this wasn’t really a girl, when another shock settled in. He realized that the magnificent splash of glowing color behind this strange apparition wasn’t, as his subconscious had suggested, a stained glass window. It couldn’t be, for a number of reasons, not the least being that stained glass windows didn’t flutter. No, the panorama of color was most definitely a pair of wings, rather like a butterfly’s.

         Jekke felt his knees wobble, and decided that it might not be a bad idea to sit down. Doing so helped immensely, as he had been standing rather close to the toadstool. Once his bottom met the earth, his view was impeded by the lip of the enormous fungus, and all that he could see of the fey girl was the tips of her wings. He attempted to take stock of his situation, but found it difficult. His trouble wasn’t an unwillingness to accept something new as much as the fact that his personality and character depended strongly on certain fundamental points. He was an exceptionally brave young man, but his ability to survive alone in the woods was predicated by two things: first, he understood the perils of the forest, and had spent his life learning everything his father knew about being a woodsman. Second, there was absolutely no such thing as monsters. They simply didn’t exist. Now, whatever was on top of the toadstool didn’t strike him as particularly monstrous, but it did raise all sorts of uncomfortable possibilities. He was twelve. His imagination ran wild.

Laughter tinkled down upon him.

         “There’s no such thing as dragons! Why if there were, what do you think they would eat?”

Jekke looked up. The faerie girl was lying prone, with her elbows on the lip of the toadstool, and her delicate chin rested on her hands. One antenna drooped lazily, and her gossamer wings were folded neatly across her back.

         “You knew what I was thinking?” Jekke inquired cautiously.

         “Well, it is rude to listen in,” she said, blushing delightfully, “but you practically screamed. It’s not really my fault that I heard you!”

         Jekke hesitated, uncomfortable. Part of him wanted to apologize for “shouting.” Another part of him was aghast at the thought. Warriors rarely apologized, and certainly never to girls! Still a third part of him knew that all of this was just something for him to focus on for a moment to avoid dealing with the fact that there was a faerie in his head.

         “You mortals really don’t know anything, do you? I’d love to explain, but we haven’t much time.” The slight and alien figure straightened up, unfolded her wings, and lighted down from her perch. She bent at the waist, knees together, and pulled Jekke easily to his feet.

         She was shorter than him, if you didn’t count the wings, but Jekke didn’t really know what to make of that considering that he seemed to be shorter than forest fungus. He noticed also that she wasn’t, as he had assumed, completely naked. She wore a skirt made of flower petals, though that was all. No shoes and nothing to protect her from the cold.

         “You can call me Niff. I represent this grove, the five streams that run through it and the lake to the north. I speak for the woods from the mouth of the valley down to the coast to the south and east, and for the hills that lie above the lake. I am the voice of the animals and the growing things, save those that men herd and plant. I mistress the balance of hunters and prey. I tend to the cycles of the tiniest creatures. Some are so small that men will never know they exist. I serve Life and Death alike, that the land may always be fecund and fertile.”

         “I am Jekke, son of Saatch. In two more days I will reach the coast and be called a man. I hope soon to claim my warrior’s prize as well. Now I am neither, and I speak for no one – not even myself!” Jekke felt awkward. For all of Niff’s regal tone, she only appeared to be a couple years older. That said, he had listened to the village council before, and even heard his father speak to Vanguard Lord Arisson. He recognized something similar in Niff’s voice. Not the cold arrogance of command, but perhaps the certainty that whatever she said would be heard and considered.

         “I know who you are, poppet,” Niff murmured before placing a gentle kiss on Jekke’s forehead. “I’ve been watching you, after all. No, hush, dear. There are things you must hear.

         “This isle is old, and our traditions are strong. In the distant past, the Firbolg made war on the land. They cut the oldest and wisest trees, and then the dry summer came, much of the forest was lost to fire. They killed the wolves whenever they saw them, to protect their sheep and cattle. Two generations later, the land was overwhelmed with deer and boar. They ate everything and they bred, until finally the Firbolg hunted them down in droves. They didn’t harvest the carcasses, and vile pestilence spread.

         “There was much, much more. Do you understand what I’m telling you? The Firbolg became a sore on the island, and my mother… Well. She decided to put a stop to their desecration. She summoned the wolves and boar and the elk. These she sent to savage Firbolg hunters and shepherds. She gathered the birds. Eaglet, skylark, cormorant, lapwing, rook, starling, wren, night crow, hawk and snipe she sent to plunder Firbolg fields. They ate seeds and crops with terrible vigor. The waterfowl wreaked havoc on the fishermen, savaging their faces and driving them from their boats. She called on rats, mice, weasel and shrew to ransack the granaries and pantries of Firbolg towns. She whispered to the trees. Birch and rowan, ash and alder, willow, hawthorn and oak listened rapt. Holly, hazel, elder and pine. Poplar and yew paid attention. Ivy, vine, and broom were all there. When Firbolg ventured into the forest, they were met with grasping branches and roots; with clinging vines. They never returned.’

         Jekke’s eyes were two full moons; his lips parted in a small “o,” his cheeks leaned on her cupped palm. “You besieged them!” He exclaimed. Then, crestfallen, he turned his face away. “They had no chance.”

         “It is as you say,” Niff said. “Never forget how they brought this upon themselves.” Her voice was sterner now, and older, too.

         “You are thinking that mother need do nothing more, and you are right. They were powerless to leave their villages, deprived of their food. Her susurrations even compelled their deepest wells to dry. Left alone, they would surely have died.

“Nevertheless, my mother was wrath. Hers has always been an impatient rage. She conjured a frightful storm and battered their towns with rain, sleet, and hail. Still, the Firbolg endured behind their palisades and walls. My mother turned her attention to the mountain then, and ordered them split asunder. From the bowels of the earth the goblins came to answer her call. They fell on the Firbolg, and tore down their walls. Flint spears, axes and daggers met Firbolg metal, and there was terrible slaughter and gore.”

         “Did she not spare any, then?” Jekke wondered aloud.

         Niff stroked his hair with one hand, while tucking a lock of her own behind an impossibly long ear.

         “You know she did, Jekke. The Firbolg are with us still. No, there was great bloodshed, but not all were killed. The elder of one village turned his back on his shrine and toppled his gods from their pedestals. He walked into the fury of my mother’s storm and screamed at the heavens for an explanation.

         “The killing stopped, and the goblin horde withdrew. My mother bade the elder walk into the wood, and he did so untroubled by beasts or trees. There she conversed with him, and taught him how to live here on the Midnight Isle. He took that knowledge back to his people and for generations since they have kept it pure.”

         “What was he taught?”

         “Many things, and you will learn them all soon enough. One thing, however, you must learn now, sweetling, and that is how to recognize sacred ground. Even now, you sleep where no man has trod for more than two thousand years. None have been here because all know that this grove is mine. I have high hopes for you, and so I will tell you something even the Firbolg don’t know. My kind cannot abide iron. It is anathema to us.

         “You must wake up now, Jekke, my pretty, pretty boy. You must wake, and as you do, take up your iron dagger. Even now my mother’s creature looms over you. I have no power over him and he is a simple monster besides. He knows only that you lie where you shouldn’t, and that you are his by right. He is hungry.

         “Wake up now, Jekke.

         “Wake…

          …up”

* * *

         In an instant, Jekke’s eyes were open. It was a cloudy, moonlit night. Perfectly dark. He saw nothing, heard nothing, and smelled nothing. The faerie’s warning contradicted all his senses. Nevertheless, he heeded it, rolling over and clutching the bone hilt of his iron long knife. If he had not done so, he would have died.

         His lean-top exploded as a form hurtled into it from above. Needled branches battered his head and body, and Jekke’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. An icy hand closed on his wrist, and the boy jerked away from that contact with all his might. The goblin was smaller than Jekke, and it weighed less. Instead of capturing its prey, it found itself flung bodily forward. It lashed out with its dagger, but the tip only scored a groove across the twelve year old’s chest. Jekke shrieked and struggled ever more fiercely to escape, but the goblin’s grip was fast. The boy leaned back to avoid another swipe of the flint dagger, and he stumbled, dragging the goblin forward even more.

         The goblin’s eyes narrowed and it grinned a sly grin. With a mighty scream it dashed forward, allowing Jekke to fall backward, hoping he would cave the back of his skull in against some rock. Jekke sucked a lungful of air as he went down, only to have it immediately knocked out of him when his back met the ground. His knife was still steady in his right hand, the one trapped by the goblin’s vise like grip, but he didn’t know it in his panic. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, and everything hurt. Then the goblin began to stab him, and pain overwhelmed the boy’s panic. The stone tip plunged into his arm, then his shoulder, then grazed the side of his face. The sensation of tearing flesh obliterated his consciousness.

         Jekke was never able to tell how the tables turned, or even how much time passed. One minute he was dwindling away under the goblin’s onslaught. The next, the goblin lay dead and mauled beneath him. Jekke sat astraddle its chest, his knees pinning its arms, his fists balled up. In one, he clutched the hilt of his shattered long knife, with two inches of brittle, jagged iron still dripping ichor and gore. Jekke began to sob, and once he started there was no stopping. His tears streaked his filthy face, and stung his poor, layed open cheek. His whole body wracked and he wailed like a new widow, or perhaps like a lost child. Eventually, he grew quiet. He fell to his side and rolled onto his back. Jekke slept then, a boy still, but a warrior, too.