The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

courses of the stars. And, most important of all, the legends and myths handed down through the generations.
    Simon is still too young to attend such gatherings, and his mother never has. This is one of the things that sets them apart from the others. Recently too, his father has visited the well less frequently.
    A sudden throb of longing for home pulses through his blood, and he knows he will have to make the attempt soon. Once the meals are eaten and the pots cleared away, his chance of finding his parents again without discovery will be gone.
    The decision is made. Breath catching in his throat, Simon makes his slow way towards the shadowed well. Somehow he needs to slip around it, use the outer path along the houses, and get home that way. He needs to find out what has happened. Every step is loud in his own ears and he is sure that each moment will bring a shout and the sound of heavy paces towards him. He never once imagines that such discovery might be not by an enemy but by a friend. Here he has none. Once, an owl swoops past his shoulder and he nearly yells, but cuts the sound off just in time.
    At the far side of the well, Simon hesitates, glancing left and right before stepping out into the clearing before the houses. As he takes a first step, a sound to his right slams him back into the shadows once more. Two men walk past on their way from the fields, talking and laughing together. Between them, they carry the yoke of a plough. It must have broken and they have decided to bring it home for mending. He holds his breath, praying they won’t hear him.
    Opposite Simon’s hiding place, they pause and the taller of the two gestures towards the well. Simon freezes, hands clutching at the rounded stones behind, wishing he could vanish entirely into the murky depths of water.
    “Ach no.” The stockier man spits at his feet. “Leave the drinking till the gathering later. There’ll be water enough then. Ale, too, if you’re lucky.”
    A bark of laughter follows, and the two of them move away, still talking. Simon closes his eyes and offers a prayer of thanks to the merciful gods protecting him this night.
    Listening hard for another moment, he hears no more human sounds. So, crouching low, he runs across the clearing to the launderer’s home, ducking down below window level to avoid detection. He can hear the launderer inside, cursing, and the sound of his wife’s mocking reply. The smell of cooking is now almost unbearable to Simon’s empty stomach.
    He keeps close to the ground and creeps as far as possible along the walls before coming to the gap at the easternmost end of the village. He is now a few dwellings down and across the main track from home.
    Steadying his breath, he is still unable to stop the uncontained beating of his heart. He checks the roadway and sees no one. No villager, no soldier, no stranger. It strikes him as odd, but he doesn’t question it.
    He hunkers down and, making himself as invisible as possible, darts across the lane. In his eagerness, Simon almost falls, before stumbling through the opening left by the smashed door. He is home.
    A moment later and he realises he should have checked first for danger. But no hands reach out to grasp him and no barked command releases a soldier into cruel action. He is alone.
    Blinking, Simon stares around the interior. Of course the only light is once again the moon. Unlike the other homes in the village, no torchlight flickers. What he sees—or the shadows of what he sees—makes him tremble. Where he expected familiarity, he finds none; the table lies smashed in two across the floor, and the pots and crockery are scattered with it. He steps forward and his foot meets a mound of roughness. Touching it, he realises it’s one of his mother’s small tapestries—he doesn’t know which one—torn from the wall near the door. As he lifts it up, part of it falls away and he sees it has been ripped through the middle. Simon closes his eyes and hugs it, trying to catch the faint scent of his mother. But there is nothing there.
    Still clutching the material to his chest, he waits for the darkness to grow more penetrable before continuing his discovery of what the soldiers have done. As far as he can tell, they have destroyed or damaged everything. Even the linen on his parents’ bed. Even the harvesting tools. And his mother’s precious herb pots have been smashed, their contents scattered amongst the broken crockery. He must take care as