The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

by it. Each glimpse of weakness Annyeke let slip from her mind would be taken up and shaped into a lesson in how to be brave. She soon learned how to keep things hidden, or how to deal with them alone. Her mother proved to be an ineffective ally, although she never fully acknowledged that fact until later. It was her grandmother who ruled the household.
    The most terrible fact of all was her fear of birds. Annyeke could never hide it from anyone. How could she when she was unable to understand or control it herself? No matter how often she told herself to remain calm, not to give in to the blanket of red and black that overpowered her thoughts, she did not have the strength or the ability to do so. Yeke always found her out.
    And, in finding her out, her grandmother tried to cure her. Two or three times in a summer week-cycle, when lessons were done, Yeke would take the small girl out for a walk in order, ostensibly , to give Annyeke’s parents a chance to be by themselves. But such walks would always lead to encounters with birds, and little Annyeke grew to dread them. So much so that sometimes she would hide in the garden or under bedding, in the foolish hope that she would not be found. It was impossible, of course, for a child, unskilled in the protection of the mind-net, not to be found. At other times, she would pretend to be ill or tired, and sometimes that worked, but no one can be ill forever.
    In the end, therefore, Yeke would always win.
    Sometimes, though, her grandmother was merciful and the two of them would walk through the theatre region of the city towards the lines of elms and wind-poplars where the actors rehearsed their dramas in fine weather. Here, Annyeke would feel the most at ease with her grandmother. The song of the poplars would lull her thoughts and she loved to hear the players learning their lines. More than anything, however, the birds here were tree dwellers, smaller by far than the river fowl or the raptor that had first terrified her. They did not approach too closely. No matter how much Yeke would try to coax the elm-larks to her hand, she was never patient enough to bond with them.
    It was the times when their steps took them to the park and its two small lakes that Annyeke found her skin growing hot and clammy and her mind becoming more heated and darkly coloured. For here, the wild swans lived in abundance, accompanied by wood geese and always the distant cry of the ravens and dawn owls, some of whom drank from the lake during daylight hours. She was always afraid they might touch her.
    Because of this, her grandmother drew her to the water, splashed her fingers into the shallows and sparked the birds’ attention, bringing them flocking for food or purely out of curiosity. Yeke carried a pouch of stale bread for the purpose of giving courage to her grandchild. Because of this, Annyeke did all she could not to go near the waterside. She pretended interest in the games of the babies and younger children who were not allowed as near to the water’s edge as she was. She found much to occupy her amongst the trees or in watching the actors whenever they strolled by.
    None of these ruses helped her.
    For in the end, Yeke would insist that she feed the bread to the creatures she feared above all others. There had never been any question of disobedience to her grandmother’s rule—rebellion came later on in Annyeke’s life and was precious for that reason. But, as a young child, she had to do as she was commanded in the end. If she did not, then that strange crimson shadow would pass over her mind and Annyeke knew she could not fight against it. So she forced herself to breathe slowly, take the slimy bread from Yeke’s hand and stretch out her fingers to the hot, strange feathers and beaks that sprang towards her. On most of these occasions, she managed somehow neither to scream nor to cry, but once or twice her small store of courage deserted her and she would run, wailing like a wounded puppy, past the children and theatricals and into the safety of trees.
    It was no use. Yeke would catch up with her, the daggers in her voice tearing through Annyeke’s thoughts, and drag her back to finish her reluctant communion with the birds. There seemed to be no end to it. Only with the onset of winter did those evening walks begin to diminish, and often not even then. The following year-cycle, Annyeke would be older, more able to hide her fear.
    All through those seasons of water and