Letter from Oreanna #1

Letter 1

All about me the feet of my people pounded, the screams sounded, and those in pursuit howled in gruesome triumph. Their rasping guiltless mouths filled with sounds of the primal and eternal hunt. There were few hopeful routes for us woebegotten travelers. Only the river. The sun had sunk and the Fallen had come from the holes in the rock and the dark of the forests. Like a savage storm they swept down the hills and dales looking only for blood and flesh.

There had been no time for hesitation no time to stop and ponder our course of action. There was only the gap at the end in the narrow valley or death. We plunged into the ford and tied our fate with its swift waters. I was a few cycles old then, but I clung to my mother’s hand like a newborn.

At the time, I had known very little of what had befallen our travelling band. My elders had not thought to indulge the children with knowing the peril of our situation. It was only later that, with the help of a friend, I was able to piece together all that had happened.

Yet there was enough to remember. Enough to remember for a lifetime. We were only half way through the valley when the sun began to forsake us. The creeping sun graced upon the mountain peaks and the shadows grew ever longer. The sun is our life-giver, friend, and god. Yet, at the end of the season, if we do not move quickly the sun will outpace us and leave us to the dark; where they live.

As the sun touched the peak, we ran. We ran without respite. No food or drink except what could be consumed on the path. We had two moon turns before the sun would go beyond the horizon. Most said it would take us three to leave the valley. They, the Fallen, were aware of us and our plight. Some of them, overexcited, as a hound eager for the horn’s call to the hunt, slipped their tethers and ran to meet us. For many, the pain of the sun’s light brought them to their senses and they retreated once more. For others the agony was worth the first pick of the cattle.

The scream of an unfortunate at the back incensed the crowd to greater speeds. Then exhaustion would set in amongst us, we would forget the death throes of our own, and slink back to our pathetic march.

The end came into sight on the second turn. A final bend in the canyon and the sun streaming past in its full splendor and that is when our own world went dark. The sun was entirely eclipsed by the mountain peaks and the already panicked mob dissolved into a herd of sheep startled by the wolves.

My mother stood by my side. Her long bright hair whispered in the wind of dusk. She looked back at the trees. Fleotan, my mother, the deer that runs in the meadow. Her feet were quick and she was always on the watch for danger. I saw the look of the deer in her as she looked at our back. Her pinched nose and careful eyes steadily watched the hills and trees. As the last rays of sun mournfully slipped beyond our reach, her hand reached out and seized mine. Then we ran.

Before us was the river called Guile. It had wound its way deceptively back and forth meandering through the narrow valley. This was the final crossing. The final obstacle to our freedom. Bones and flesh of those conquered by the river rot within the deep pockets that will swallow a man whole. Many of the wanderer’s that were with us then found their eternal home in the river’s bed.

I have heard it said that when a soul is rended from it’s body the spirit is forced to stay in that spot for the rest of eternity. They must wait until the end of the telling. The fire will die out and the Teller will return to it’s home. Then those that have had their lives told and their stories sung shall be free from the awful remembrance of their death and the sun shall shine upon them forever more.

Others say that a soul torn from its shell in the dark of the night is compelled, by the god of the Fallen, to remain. They must linger in that state suffering the pains of their death until the light comes around a full cycle later. The merciful sun will then release them from the grip of the Fallen god. The tortured soul will then vanish along with the mist of the morning.

When I was first told the latter tale, I was not able to sleep for the next five turns. I just sat there imagining the awful ways that man is consigned to die. Now, as I write this, I think of those left in the river’s holes. The river guile isn’t deep at the fords. It isn’t more than thigh high on a grown one. But there are holes in the river’s bed where the torrents flow over and one may never know them.

In the waning twilight in which we stormed through the river pass they were imperceptible. I think of them, the men and women I knew. I think of the dreadful brief moment they looked back to see the oncoming horde of hunters and fell into their tomb of water and stone.

My mother was diligent. Once, when my foot wandered over one of the tombs, I slipped for a moment. She felt the small dip of her burden and heaved me by my small wrist and surged ahead. She lifted me clean above the water. She then set me down in the river’s rushing waters and pushed me onwards.

Though we were in the forefront we were not spared the sounds of those behind. A continual clashing of water against weary legs, a child whimpering in it’s mother’s arms, and a constant sound of the ones we called our family being drug away by the infernal Fallen. There was no time to turn about and see what had happened behind. To us there was only the other bank and the light of the evening.

As we came through to the other side of the river, my mother did not wait for anyone. We rushed through the fields of long grass and muck. It felt like every step the mud tried to seize our feet. The grass might have been trees for how they pummeled against our bodies as we flailed through towards safety.

Finally the sun washed again upon our faces as we came around the opening in the mountain pass. The Fallen would not be following us into the sun. They had fed enough. Few had even continued on past the river to the border between the light and the dark. We were safe.

The twilight dew of the grass bathed my bare face and arms. It would be a mere few turns more before the sun would sink and the hunters would resume the chase. In my mind, there had been no other option but rest. Exhausted beyond any other conscionable thought I collapsed, slept and awoke as though the actions had shared the same moment.

I rose and my mother slept on. It seemed that only in sleep would she abandon her constant guard. Hair the color of harvest grains intermingled with the green autumn grass. Mouth slightly ajar her breath gave the grass an ebb and flow. Her skin was free of the tension that so often troubled her brow. The only sign of her wary soul was in her hand. In her sleep she had gripped a clump of grass and clung to it desperately.

There were so few of us left. Scattered all about in the swaying grass were the remnants of my wandering tribe. We used to say among ourselves that our tribe was as old as the roots of the mountains and would last twice as long. There were so many little things that we did that no one else knew how to do. The way our tents arched together at the apex and were tied with sherenth’s twine. Little things like that won’t ever come back and now I can hardly even speak a phrase of my mother’s tongue.

“Little runner,” my mother’s voice sounded over the evening wind as quiet as the hum of a slumbering child. “Little runner, did your father make it over the river?” Her voice remained quiet. She hadn’t lifted her head from the grass and her eyes were not open.

My father? I had not thought of him since the tribe had scattered with the sun’s eclipse. I didn’t respond to her query. I could only stare back the way we had come, the river. Only a hundred yards away and the river seemed so calm and gentle. Strange, that a small time before it had been the source of so much despair. Now that fear was gone and there was only the empty plains rolling out before us.

Her eyes snapped open and she jerked her upper body up from the ground. Our eyes met. Her’s were filled with terror. As her wide eyes focused on me, she visibly relaxed. “Oh,” she said drowsily. “I thought you were not here. I thought something had happened.”

“I don’t see him. Where could he be,” I asked.

Quietly she looked about at the stranded and dejected remains of our tribe. She sighed from her soul and began to push herself off from the ground. “If he is not here now,” she said as she brushed off her skirt of supple leather and shook her head, “then he did not make it across the river.”

My mother was a practical creature. She had lived past ten cycles, which made her older than most women in our tribe. She had bore a child while she wandered and she had survived which put her socially above most other women. Bearing a child was considered by many to be dangerous and to do so while traveling was suicide. She often said it was the stupidest thing she had ever done then she would look down to me and toss my hair.

Now she bent down next to me and held her hands in mine. “Your father gave his best for us to make it over the river. The only thing we can do now is press on and do our best.” She straightened herself once more and went over to her travel pack. “What do you have left in your pack,” she asked.

We continued to prepare ourselves for the inevitable trek. Ever since I’d woke, small bands of the tribe had risen tightened their packs and set off into the tall grass of the plains of Carracc. There was no longer a tribe. We had been shattered and there was no point in keeping to the tribe any longer. Where before we had been strong in unity and numbers now that strength had been stolen and bled out of our veins. We would find strength only in ourselves. Fleotan and her little runner took stock what they had and set off into Carracc.

As we walked from the opening in the pass, I remember one man sitting in the field. Though we passed near to him, he did not shift from his huddled perch. The man sat and stared back at the valley and the river Guile. He was alone, had lost everything, and he had not the will to rise again.