WSD-Chapter 1 Revised

Maria slams a plate into the drying rack. The nearest candle’s flame balks like a horse that's seen a snake. She grits her teeth and waits for Grandfather’s admonishment.

Nothing.

She opens one eye then the other.

Still. Silent. Safe.

“Mother doesn’t visit.” Maria slides a dish into the rack and grabs another from the sink. “Grandfather doesn’t talk about it.” She places the last dish in the cupboard. “She never visits.”

Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Maria can just remember her mother’s face. There are no portraits of Mother at Grandfather’s farmhouse or Professor Goodall’s manor.

She stares out the closed window and frowns. A lone star twinkles in the twilight as the summer sun sinks slowly below the far horizon and faint wisps of clouds play tag across the sky. A few buildings dot the flat plains, candlelight dances inside.

A young girl stares into her summer home. Maria sticks out her tongue. She looks away from the glass window and her reflection, down at the pile of dishes that need drying.

Maria smoothes her wool skirt and tucks her shirt into her belt. Plain and unadorned, these are her favorite clothes. Relaxed, loose, and unafraid of messes. Not like the dresses she wears on Sabbaths. Those are afraid of a speck of dirt.
When the dishes are clean and back in their cupboard, she opens the window. A familiar, faint cherry smell drifts into the kitchen. She grins.

Maybe today, Grandfather will talk about her.

She opens the door—creak—and walks toward the rocking chair on the wooden porch.

“Need to fix that,” Grandfather mutters around his pipe.

“Grandfather, will mother visit this summer?”

Grandfather looks away from Maria, stares down the narrow path from the house to the fence, and does not answer.

I need to ease him into the discussion the way I eased him into buying me a pony. “Mother doesn’t even visit Professor Goodall’s manor.” She dares not give voice to the doubt worming inside.

Grandfather bites down on his pipe and runs a hand through his thinning, white hair. “Once upon a time, there was a young princess named Maria.”

Maria groans.

“Problem?” Grandfather raises an eyebrow.

“Princess Maria’s adventures in sitting.” Maria crosses her arms.

“I remember a time, not too long ago, when you loved my stories.”

Maria twists her lips. “I’d prefer an adventure.”

“Heh.”

“Civil war looms.” She stares up at Grandfather. “Doesn’t it?”

His blue eyes lock with hers. “How’d you know that?”

Maria stares at the wooden deck. “I overheard you and Gareth.”

Grandfather breathes a few smoke rings in rapid succession.

Maria bites her lip. Though it does not bleed, blood’s metallic tang drifts into her mouth.

“Peter False Hollow, then,” he says.

Maria looks up.

His blue eyes smile.

“False Hollow?” Maria asks.

Grandfather winks. “The people of Maythern have many names.”

Maria claps her hands. The heroes of Maythern. She climbs into his lap as Grandfather begins his story.

#

Two days before my eighteenth birthday, I still hadn’t decided on my Name. Nothing seemed right. I wanted it to be perfect. It needed to be perfect. Was it fair that we got to choose our own Names? It didn’t seem like it. It was a privilege; at least, that’s what had been hammered into me since before I could understand. A rite of passage into adulthood. At the moment, however, I wished someone would choose for me.

I crouched in a field with a small stone in my hand. A perfect skipping stone. The long grass tickled my bare feet. Mud squished between my toes as I approached the brook. Its slow waters whispered quiet enticement. I stared into the afternoon sky as I rolled the rock between my fingers. Sheep milled around the field and grazed contently. Wind whipped through the fields and across gently rolling hills, turning the grass greenish-silver as it passed. The heat of the day beat upon us like the lash in a strong arm. A few clouds danced with the wind. Bugs chattered back and forth. On the wind rode the scent of the forest, bark, dried leaves, fresh sprigs, and green growth. The subtle warning of rain danced on the wind.

Nearby, the distinctive sound of a floating trot drifted over the slow-moving stream as Peter warmed his horse for the day’s ride.
“This is boring.” Sid Berry’s grey eyes scanned Peter Amon’s sheep like a child after opening the last Yuletide gift. He shook his blonde head and the tips of his ears tried to peak through like the sky hiding in a wheat field.

“Learn to relax.” Ralph Mae kept his eyes closed as he lay in the grass. His breathing slowed as he flirted with sleep.
“At least it’s a chance to get away from tilling fields and planting seeds.” I watched the rock skip across the water’s surface.
“Scouts.” Sid pointed toward two wolves at the edge of the woods.

Keeping low, I slowly moved toward Ralph. A knot already forming in my stomach.

“Excellent.” Sid smiled.

I jostled Ralph with an elbow to the ribs.

“Huh?” he asked. Ralph’s golden-green eyes focused on me.

I pointed toward the wolves.

He turned to stare at the pair.

My hand reached for the sling on my belt. Crouching low, I watched the wolves stalk a young lamb. The lamb’s terrified bleats cried to the rest of the flock; they scattered from the predators. Whipping my stone in the sling, I took aim.

Sid loosed a small stone and struck one of the wolves in the left hind leg.

It yelped.

The second wolf turned toward us. Ralph shot it between the eyes with a small stone of his own.

My stone still in the sling, I let the weapon drop to my side. The pair of wolves retreated into the forest and I removed the rock with a sigh.

“Come on,” Sid said.

“Into the woods?” I asked.

“We’re just going to let them get away?” Sid asked.

“What about the sheep?” I asked. “We told Master Amon that we’d watch his flock all afternoon. We’ve barely begun. He hasn’t even left for Redvale, yet.”

“You watch them. I’ll protect them.” Sid ran after the wolves.

“Sid, wait!” I called.

He didn’t even pause. I turned to Ralph. “This isn’t a good idea.”

Ralph shrugged. “We can’t let him go off on his own. There won’t be anything to bury.”

I stared into the woods then at the sheep.

Ralph ran a hand through his dark hair, wiping it away from his eyes.

“A lamb’s missing.”

“Let me tell Peter Amon.” Ralph turned toward the farmhouse. He yelled, “Peter False Hollow, we give chase to wolves.”

I frowned and then reluctantly followed after Ralph.

Peter Amon shook his head. “Don’t be foolish.”

“Sorry,” I yelled. Then raced toward the trees.

“I’m just about to meet your father,” Peter called after me. “We’ll find the lamb together.”

I passed the first tree.

Peter grabbed his bow and leapt onto the bare back of his chestnut horse. Hooves gallop away from the wooden paddock like distant thunder.

I chased Sid. Without boots.

Inside the forest, I sprinted around trees, jumped over fallen logs, and balanced along narrow tree trunks. Careless where I stepped, dried leaves crunched beneath my feet. We weren’t stalking deer, we were hunting wolves. Time blurred like the trees passed in our haste. Still, we ran.

I caught sight of Sid. His eyes fixed upon the wolves, he avoided trees by instinct and luck. I raced to catch him. “Sid!”

He didn’t even notice.

Ralph breathed heavily beside me. “They’ll outlast us.”

A patch of white caught my eye. I pointed toward Sid, Ralph nodded. I turned from Sid’s path.

Slipping between two thorn bushes, I stopped in a small clearing. The roots of a recently fallen tree stuck out of the ground on my left. Blood pounded in my ears, drowning out my gasps for breath.

A lamb bleated.

I knelt next to it and waited.

Slowly, tentatively, it inched closer. Cautiously, it came within reach.

I wrapped it in my arms and pulled it close to my chest. Lifting it off the ground I searched for Sid and Ralph.

I found them staring at the wolf scouts.

The two wolves growled. Twenty more wolves stalked behind them and began circling around us. The largest pack I had yet seen prowling the woods.

A foul, acrid taste burned my throat. I swallowed. It lingered. “Nice plan,” I said.

Sid grinned. “We can take ‘em.”

I fingered the stones in my belt. Not enough. Not even between us. We each carried six stones. “What I wouldn’t give for a bow and arrows.”

“Aim true, second cousin,” Ralph said to me. His sling spun blindingly fast. His stone smacked a wolf’s snout.

“You may be my aunt’s nephew, but next time, I’m not following you,” I told Sid.

“You finally think I can take care of myself?” Sid asked. “I’m touched.” His stone struck a wolf’s knee.

“Depends how next time goes,” I said.

Sid laughed.

“There won’t be a next time, if we’re dinner tonight,” Ralph said. He struck another wolf on the nose.

Closing my eyes, I gripped the struggling lamb tightly with one arm, fumblingly slipped a rock into my sling with my other hand, and began spinning it rapidly.

I breathed in deeply to steady my nerves. It helped as much as water to a drowning man. I couldn’t die. Not yet. I still needed to find my Name. Without a Name, how would the angels know me?

Distant thunder rolled nearer. Twigs snapped behind me. I knew we were surrounded. I whispered a silent prayer.

Thwip.

A wolf yelped. Another whined.

Opening my eyes, I saw a wolf on the forest floor with an arrow sticking out of its belly. Another wolf limped away with an arrow in its hindquarters. I spun.

My father glared at the wolf pack, another arrow nocked.

Peter Amon loosed an arrow and hit a wolf between the eyes. Dead where it stood.

Ralph and Sid each let a stone fly from their slings, but I could only watch in astonishment.

“Where did you come from?” I asked my father.

He loosed another arrow and the wolf pack fled. “Peter found me walking toward the forest. I had planned to hunt deer, not my wayward son.”

“Lucky thing too,” Peter said. “Not many can shoot two arrows at once. None would dare shoot with his son between the targets.”

“None except Henry Longbow.” Sid beamed.

I stared at my feet. “We should not have left your flock, Master Amon,” I muttered.

“No harm done, my boy. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

My father frowned. “Your word must be your bond, my son. What else do we have in this life?”

#

Maria sits in Grandfather’s lap. “Why False Hollow?”

Grandfather shrugged. “He lived on a hill and thought it clever wordplay.”

“He was a great hero? A true son of Maythern?”

“A true son, yes. A great hero, depends who you ask.”

“Tell me another story about Maythern. Every Princess Maria story includes a hero from Maythern.”

“You don’t want to catch fireflies?” Grandfather rubs his nose. “You know I don’t mind as long as you stay within shouting distance.”

“Please?”

He turns his head slightly to face her, a smile spreading slowly onto his face. “As you wish, little princess.”

“Why do you call me princess?”

He puts his pipe down on the small table next to his favorite chair and wraps her in his arms. “When Harrence Longbow was eighteen—”

“Wait. Is this about Maythern?” Maria interrupts.

Grandfather’s face fights against laughter. He stares into her earnest green eyes. “What kind of story do you want?”

“Tell me how you met Grandmother.”

Grandfather chuckles. “I ran into her in the market.”

Maria frowns.

He smiles down at her, brushing her blonde hair aside with his strong hand.

“Did you ever meet a sorceress? Your stories never contain magic.” I wish they did.

Grandfather frowns. “You shouldn’t trifle with magic, it’s dangerous—”

“Someone who can live forever must use magic,” Maria interrupts.

“No one can live forever.”

“There are other uses,” Maria says. “Like finding something you lost.”

Grandfather looks across the lane and frowns. “Did you clean the chicken coop, today?”

Maria groans. Magic and Mother, topics Grandfather twists away from like a rattlesnake. “Of course.”

Grandfather chuckles. “Apologies, little princess.”

“I’m not a real princess, am I?”

Grandfather smirks and his eyes twinkle. “Do you want a long story?”

“How long?”

“It might take up most of your summer holiday...” He rubs his bare chin, and mutters, “The truth?” He chews his lip. “It began with an adventurer, a son of Mathern; though not a true son. Not yet. For Fredrick Orcsbane had yet to earn his Name.”

#

Rupert’s saddle was freedom, especially after my father’s sharp words. I rubbed Rupert’s chestnut neck and tangled my fingers in his dark mane. Alone together, we enjoyed a leisurely afternoon.

The sun warmed my cheeks. Eyes closed, I faced upward and breathed in deeply the sharp tang of clay, the freshness of grass, and woody spice of trees. My arms hung at my side and I guided Rupert with my knees at a leisurely pace.

“Father won’t always be there,” I said to my horse. “Why did I freeze when we saw the wolves?” I ran a hand through my light brown hair. “What kind of son of Maythern am I? No hero runs in the face of danger.”

Rupert shook his head.

I frowned. “I did chase after Sid.”

Rupert nodded.

“Was that courage or stupidity?”

Stopping atop a hill, I looked down.

Amy Teller drew water from the river.

The sun reflecting off her short, brown hair made me smile. I patted Rupert on the neck, “Shall we visit?” He whinnied in answer and nodded his head.

We rode under a crabapple tree. I ducked beneath its branches and picked a few pink blossoms for her hair. My stomach clenched. My throat dried. We neared Amy.

Fred Castille—a lanky, red headed boy—blocked our path.

Is his face redder than usual? I thought.

Fred rode a lean, blue roan with long legs and powerfully muscled hindquarters. He sneered. “You ride that mangy horse? He’s not fit to pull a plow.” He looked over his shoulder at Amy. “You think she’d even speak to you? What would you even say to her?”

Looking at the flowers in my hand, I frowned.

“What could you offer her? You don’t even have a Name.” He rode past me.

The flowers fell from my hands. The blossoms danced between Rupert’s hooves and the dirt path as my tall bay turned.

“I’m off to earn mine,” Fred said.

“You’re leaving?” I called after him.

Fred stared straight ahead.

I leaned over and patted Rupert’s neck. “No one leaves Rivertown. Why would they?”

Rupert snorted.

“No way to earn Orcsbane in the village,” I whispered. “Did he know that before choosing?” I frowned at Fred’s back and scratched my head. “His Naming Day path didn’t point away from the village.”

Rupert pawed the ground.

“Did a Name choose you or did you choose a Name?”

#

The stars shine brightly in the night sky. Maria stares up at them, but knows she cannot count them all.

“Did he ever help Princess Maria?”

Grandfather tilts his head to the left and taps his lips. “Most certainly.”

“Where were you while Orcsbane adventured?”

“By the time I was fourteen, I had taken a job in Redvale.”

“I don’t want to hear about your job,” Maria says. “I’d prefer one of Princess Maria’s royal adventures to that.”

Grandfather laughs. “All right, Maria, all right. I’ll get to it, I promise.”

She cannot stifle a yawn.

“We should stop for the night.”

“No Grandfather, keep going, I enjoy your stories.” She narrows her eyes. “But, we are getting to Grandmother eventually .”