“No, there won’t.” Elena said, “I’m hurt deep inside. Down here…” She tried to gesture to her stomach but it hurt too much to move. She was tired, bone tired, but she kept talking, and slowly she explained who she was to the woman caring for her.
After a time she learned that the woman was named Meredith Eldridge, Miri for short, and her husband Royce had found Elena on the road. He was a blacksmith and had been on his way to take a cask of nails and other sundries to the castle at Lancaster. Fortunately he always took his bow with him on such trips. The two women spoke for over an hour before Elena could no longer continue and lapsed into a troubled sleep.
The next day her fever was worse but Miri still held out hope for her. Elena convinced them to let her have pen and paper but the struggle to sit up and write was almost too much for her. She fought her pain and weariness and eventually she found a position sitting at the table which didn’t hurt as much. Her left arm was useless but she could still grip the pen in her right, as long as she didn’t move it too far while writing.
She wrote two letters. One for her son, and a much shorter note to the Duke of Lancaster. At last Miri helped her back to bed, exhausted. “Don’t tell him Miri… not till he’s older.”
“What’s that love?” Miri tried to sooth her.
“Don’t tell him about me, till he’s older. Let him be happy. When he must know, give him my letter.” She was emphatic.
“Shush now, you can tell him yourself when you’re better. You’ll stay here with us and when you get your strength you can help me with the place,” Miri smiled and stroked Elena’s hair. “You just rest yourself, and someday soon we’ll have a picnic. Spring is here and it's so lovely out. The flowers are blooming and the air is full of sweet smells.” Elena fell softly asleep while Miri talked. She felt like a girl again, with her own mother singing her to sleep. After a while Miri got up and went to start dinner.
Elena never woke. She passed quietly away that night. Her son woke the Eldridges the next morning with his crying. It seemed he knew somehow that she was gone.
Chapter 1
The ideas examined within these pages were originally meant to explore the nature of magic alone, until deeper examination revealed the connection between the ‘aythar’ that is spoken of by wizards, and the miracles and supernatural occurrences found in all faiths and religions. No one was more surprised than myself, at this connection between the ‘natural’ and the ‘supernatural’ and it formed the basis of my loss of faith and the beginning of my fall into heresy. Therefore be warned, if you are a man of faith or religion, a cleric, monk, priest or holy man of any type, stop here. Read no further, for the ideas and science presented within will doubtless erode the very necessary foundations required for any sincere connection with the gods.
I never felt like an unusual child, which I suppose is true of everyone, at least up to a point. Growing up I was inquisitive and adventurous as most boys are, but as I grew my mother made some observations, “He’s a very quiet child.” I don’t remember the first time she said that, but it immediately struck me as true. In fact I was very introspective, despite my amiable nature and easy smile. As I got older she went so far as to describe me as someone born with an “old soul”, whatever that meant. Mostly I just thought a lot, which set me apart from the other children a bit, but not enough that I felt a difference or a gap. Looking back it seems clear that my native caution and introspective nature are probably what kept me alive.
My father’s name is Royce, Royce Eldridge, and he is a blacksmith by trade. I’ve often wondered if he regretted his vocation, since it seemed he loved horses more than metal and would use any excuse to slip away to the city to see the races. He had also spent a bit more money than would be wise purchasing high bred horses of his own. My mother, Meredith is her name, chided him about that, but she didn’t really mind. In truth she loved horses just as much and it was during one of his trips to see the races, as a younger man, that he had met her. Unfortunately after they married they were unable to have children, but as fate would have it my father found me years later, on another of his trips into the city. As he tells the story I was just a lone babe, abandoned on the roadside not far outside of town. My young mother had put me there, where I could easily be seen and heard, in hopes that some farmer’s wife might happen upon me. I’ll probably never know exactly why she chose to do so, but things have worked out well for me anyway, so I have never borne her any ill will.
Royce and Meredith were happy to have a child of their own and being an only child I got a bit more attention than most children. If my parents had been wealthy I would have probably been completely spoiled, but as it was I was simply happy. Most of our neighbors didn’t realize I was adopted, but my parents never kept it a secret from me. I was proud to be an Eldridge and I worked hard to please my father. He made a point of letting me watch him work in the smithy, familiarizing me with the tools and methods of his trade. I found the ruddy glow of hot iron fascinating, watching it slowly take shape under his patient hands. Being a smith’s son it was naturally assumed that someday I would follow him in the craft, and I had no objection. If things had turned out differently I might be working at a forge even now, happily shaping metal to make my living.
As I grew from a curious boy into an awkward adolescent it became apparent that I might have some difficulty at the work. I had many natural talents. I was unusually intelligent, something that most adults noticed within minutes of talking to me. I had a good eye for metal and a natural gift when it came to crafting or building. My hands were sure and skilled, an artist’s hands my mother called them. That lay at the heart of the problem; although I was long of limb, I was not particularly stout. I worked hard helping my father at the bellows but no matter how much my mother fed me I never seemed to fill out. It seemed I was doomed to remain a gangly youth forever. Still, I was skillful enough that given time I would probably have managed to become a competent smith, if not for what happened that spring, when the rivers were swollen with rain.
The day had dawned bright and full of promise, as spring days are wont to do. The rains had been especially heavy that year, my sixteenth year, but they had ended a few days ago and the whole world seemed alive and shining. The sun was warm while the air still held a crisp chill left over from winter. All in all it seemed a terrible waste to be cooped up in the smithy with my father. I suspect that is why my mother sent me out to look for herbs. She had always been kind and I think even then she knew my youthful spirit was too large to be bounded by the orderly confines of the smithy. So it was with a spring in my step and a wicker basket in my hands that I went out to explore the fields and woods near our home. I knew the area well of course, but I enjoyed every chance I got to roam about, and I knew my mother wouldn’t expect me back very soon.
I spent the morning roaming about the fields, picking a variety of greens and dandelions that I knew my mother liked to use in her cooking, but as noon neared I decided to venture down to the river in search of angelica, a medicinal herb. I had no notion of what I would find there that day. I passed through a heavily wooded area that was close to the Glenmae River. The land rose up before reaching the river, so I was still unable to see the banks when I heard the sound of a horse in distress. The horse was blowing and nickering loudly, with a pitch that indicated it was full in the throes of panic. If you have spent much time around horses you probably have an idea what I mean. I immediately broke into a run, youthful daydreams forgotten. I still don’t regret what I did that day, but looking back I wonder how things might have turned out if I had taken a different path and avoided the river.
Coming over the rise I saw a young man about my own age standing at the bank of the river, swearing loudly at the surging waters. I suppose it might be more correct to say he stood at the ‘new’ bank of the river, for it appeared that a large portion of what had been the bank had been swept away, undercut by the rushing water. I still could not see the horse, but the boy I knew, for he was my best friend, Marcus. Even at this distance I could see his face was white with fear. Within half a minute I had reached him, and though I shook his shoulder he looked at me blankly, as if he didn’t know me. It took him a moment to recognize me and collect his wits enough to speak coherently, “Mort!” I should probably mention at this point that my name is Mordecai, but most of my friends at this age had taken to calling me ‘Mort’. “I’ll never get her out of there Mort! She’s going to die and it’s my fault!”
The ‘she’ he was referring to was his father’s prized mare, Dawnstar, although we just called her Star. She was a beautiful roan, with a star-like blaze on her forehead. She was also one of the most expensive acquisitions in
