The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

took a stone and killed it as it ran for cover. Gathering sticks the next morning, the four travellers made a fire and ate the creature greedily, dividing the flesh as fairly as possible between them. It tasted differently from what he was used to, leaving a bitter coating on the tongue, but he shrugged it off as part of the strangeness of the journey. His mind was filled instead with the question he had not yet asked his companions— Why him? However, he did not have the courage to ask it.
    After the story telling, they didn’t talk much; most conversation arose out of necessity—when to rest, when to eat, where to sleep. And which of the three adults would take the first watch of the night, because the knowledge of their pursuers, and the power they possessed, always lay on the travellers’ minds. Simon could feel the dank fear of it like an aura around their heads. Still, the question continued to beat at his mind, craving an answer:— Why him? And another question too— when will Ralph and the one Simon should call “the enemy” overtake them?
    By the end of the second day, the mountains were so close that they loomed almost high enough to block out the sky. The closer they came, the more the boy and Simon lagged behind their two companions, in spite of the necessity to hurry. He couldn’t tell which of them was the more reluctant. Though, if he were being honest, it was he. As the sun began to set, and the great rocks to take on a more forbidding aspect, the boy’s small fingers slipped into Simon’s and clung to him as they walked. Glancing down, he noticed the boy looked more fragile, and Simon could sense the despair in his heart.
    “Johan,” Simon called out. “Wait.”
    Johan stopped, but Isabella turned to make her way back.
    “What is it?” she asked, a frown crossing her face. “We must keep going.”
    “I understand,” Simon replied. “But it’s nearly dark. The boy is getting tired, as am I. More than I would have imagined. You obviously have strength enough for ten men, but mere mortals such as we are should rest soon. And…”
    “There is no time for this.” Johan’s deep voice rolled over Simon’s lies, sweeping them away as a river in flood. “Besides, what you say is not the truth. You are not too tired to walk a little further; you are afraid. Of the mountains.”
    Simon made sure his grip on the boy’s hand was firm and comforting. “Why shouldn’t I be afraid? And the boy, too. Both of us have been raised on tales of destruction and terror, which stem from the mountains you speak of so lightly. It is in our blood. This is a place where few have gone for generations, and those who do never return. Almost everything that has come from them since the wars has harmed or destroyed us. There are monsters in the clefts in the rock, which can suck the soul from your body and leave your flesh rotting even as you live. There are arrows which torture and kill the mind, which you cannot escape. You wonder why we are afraid? You may say these are only stories, but stories have power; they can change lives, and they can kill.”
    In the silence following his words, Simon could hear the drumming of blood to his ears. Isabella made a sudden movement with her hand, as if in dismissal, but Johan shook his head. When he spoke, his answer failed either to reassure or to confirm the legends.
    “Some of what you have said is true,” he whispered, “and some of what you have said is a lie. All I know is that we must go a little further tonight to reach the shelter we seek, which will give us protection for tonight, in order to be close enough to our initial destination, although not our final one. You see, Simon Hartstongue, tomorrow, at dawn, we must enter the mountains. Whether you will or not.”
    All night Johan’s words haunted Simon. He lay awake, looking up at the stars, listening to the distant cry of the night-owl at her work. He kept his back to the mountains. After that conversation, they had walked for a further hour or so, even in the dark, before finally stopping in the shelter of a valley, where a grove of elms provided some ease from the wind. By then, both the boy and Simon could hardly stand. They ate the last of the food, and sucked the remains of any nourishment from the water-leaves. It seemed to do Simon no good, although the others looked refreshed enough. Here there was no stream, and no sign of any animal life he might catch and eat, though it would have been