Forever Fog - The Running.

Once in deeper water, Prince Linus set his second sail. He couldn't explain what had happened in the bay; it was night one minute, and day the next. It had to be some kind of magic trick. Another thing beyond explanation was, Gwyn. How had she grown so weak in just a few hours? All of it was puzzling but the only part that mattered was, Gwyn.

He held her in his arms, and even as ill as she was, her beauty was dazzling. As they sailed further from shore, the waves began to pitch the boat which made Gwyn’s eyes flutter open. She looked shocked to see him; perhaps she hadn’t understood he was coming for her? She said something, and touched his face, but he didn't understand her strange words.

As his crew took charge of the ship, he tended his love, as a mother tends a child. He touched a dish of honey-water to her lips, coxing a drop at a time into her parched mouth. She desperately needed water; any sailor knows that thirst can kill. By noon, she slumbered more peacefully so he covered her with a blanket his finest silk.

The man at the helm had been holding the ship with the wind, ignorant of a destination, just happy to be moving once more. “My Lord,” he said, when Linus took over the teller. He studied the sky, and the sail, then with a flick of his wrist he filled them even more. The ship charged at the waves, putting miles behind them.  

  

“Where do you intend to go, my Prince?” asked the crew man, humble and respectful. Linus was aware of the torments his men had endured. They had travelled far and faced certain death. But his word was still law; he was their Captain and their Prince. If he decided to sail on forever, they would have no say in the matter. But Linus was a good man, and he cared for his crew. They longed for home and in truth, so did he.  

He looked at the place where the sky touched the ocean and said, “I have the urge to see the house of my father.” A smile spread across the face of the sailor.

“You are as wise as you are handsome, my Prince,” laughed the man.

“You silver tongued, scoundrel. No wonder husbands fear you making land,” laughed the Prince, gripping the man by his shoulder.

“Home is good, but where lies the path?” inquired the sailor, reminding Linus they were in unfamiliar waters. As a boy, scholars had tutored him in the ways of the heavens. They said, desert nomads used the stars to guide them. Linus hoped he could do the same.

“Our home lies where the sun wakes. The storm set us far off course but I believe, if we sail into the morning sun, and keep the evening one behind us, we should find our way back,” he said, aiming the bow of the boat at the rising orb. The sailor pondered the Princes words, finding truth in his logic, he simply nodded and set off about his duties.

A day and a night they sailed, across the wind and through ocean swells. Gwyn was sick to start with but Linus kept refreshing her with water and food. By the dawn of the second day she was eating unaided and her body had grown accustomed to the movement of the boat. Linus and the crew built a shelter for her, so she would be protected from the worst of the elements. The Prince intended to take Gwyn as his wife, and as such, her private moments were no sight for his crew.

Midway through the second day, land appeared, causing the crew to celebrate wildly. Only Prince Linus held his cool. He studied the position of the sun and the nature of the shore. It was similar to Beanntrai in colour, but a little dryer. This was not their homeland; not yet.

“We can’t sail toward the sun, my lord. We shall run aground,” protested a crew member. Linus studied the wind, the water, and the land. He thought of the conditions during his outward journey. The wind in his face, and during the storm, the wind was at his back, which should have sent him toward home. Now, the wind wanted to blow him on shore, but they were still too far north. At home, the sun rode much higher in the sky.  

“Keep the land in sight, and to the lee of our bow,” he commanded. As the crew made good his order, Gwyn appeared at his side, touching his hand with hers. Her eyes were full of questions, but her language was beyond his reckoning. He touched his chest and said, “Linus.”

She smiled, and touched his chest, repeating his name. Then she touched her own and said, “Gwyn.”

He repeated but she frowned. She took his hand, pressing it to her chest, and said “Gwyn.” The thump of her heart and the heat of her body took the him by surprise. This time, when he said her name, his voice was cracked with want. He tried to draw his hand away but she held it firm. She moved it slightly, and without accident. Linus’ eyes widened, causing Gwyn to laugh delightedly. Taking her by the hand, he said, “Perhaps the rest of this lesson should be in private.” She must have understood because she dragged him to her quarters, away from the eyes of the crew.

***

Corri walked sadly away from the headland, leaving Fia wailing on the ground, watching the Prince’s ship vanish. She sought out the Druid and told him what Fia had done. He was furious beyond reason and raced to the headland to hunt his wayward wife home. As he dragged her back to the hut, his words bounced off her without being heeded, so deep was her despair. It didn’t matter what he said to, or about her, she just kept keening and trying to get away.

“You terrible girl! You've betrayed me, you've betrayed us all,” he blustered as they got back to the cottage. Corri was waiting at the door for them.

“I don’t care what you say, the Prince should be mine, not hers,” she snarled at him. The girl was more animal than human.

“Your wicked…and you’re stupid. It’s a dangerous combination,” he said, dragging her into the house then barricaded the door until he could decide her fate. It didn’t take long for the story to spread through the village. It was evening when the Warlord, and a procession of elders, marched up the hill. Seeing them approach, the Druid went to meet them on natural ground. “Watch her,” he said to Corri, and slammed the door behind him.

He strode purposefully toward the mob and they stopped at the edge of his land. Some looked angry, but most looked nervous. “You never needed so many to show you the way to my door before,” he said to the Warlord. The man had the good grace to look bashful, but even the Druid knew he couldn’t back down.  

“There are stories of witchcraft rife among the people. Your wife, Fia, is at the heart of them,” said the Warlord, which raised a rumble from the mob.

“She is my wife, so it is me you must deal with,” he said firmly. This stopped the Warlord in his tracks. Taking on a powerful Druid was no light matter. This could be dangerous for them both.

“She cast a sell! She is a witch,” the Warlord boomed for everyone to hear.

“Ha,” snorted the Druid. “You weren’t so quick to complain about spells when your crops were plentiful, or your children born healthy!” The mob seemed to falter, not one among them hadn’t visited him in the past.

“Those were mere blessings, and you know it. I'm talking about spells, dark magic,” countered the Warlord. It was the Druid’s turn to be held in check. He considered what his chieftain said, and the deeds of his wife, trying to divine the right path to take.

“Witch!” a faceless voice in the crowd called.

“Bring out the witch,” echoed another.

“She’s been foolish! Even spiteful!” roared the Druid, “But she is no witch!”

“Has she been using her powers for her own benefit?” asked the Warlord, causing the crowd to hush with anticipation. The Druid was trapped, if he lied, his own position would be in pearl. If he told the truth, he condemned Fia to death. In the end, his own self-interest won out.

“She did,” he conceded.

“She’s a witch, so,” said the Warlord.

“Bring her out,” several of the mob cried.

“Burn the witch,” howled a woman’s voice.

“There’ll be no burning, today,” he bellowed, charging to block the few villagers that advanced on his home. They quickly retreated to the pack.

“Who knows which of us she will turn on next, she is too dangerous to let live,” the Warlord reasoned.

“Fia will be banished,” he said sadly, knowing it was the only way to save her life. She might be a stupid little girl, but she was his wife and in his own way, he loved her. He could not watch her burn in a pit of flame.

“That’s not good enough,” said one villager, feeling brave in the midst of the mob. “What’s to stop her coming back and casting her spells in the dead of night?”

“Slavery then. I’ll sell my own wife into slavery, with the tin miners of Croom. Will that keep you sleeping soundly in your bed, you little weasel?” the Druid said advancing on the man who questioned him. The Warlord held up his hands, stopping the Druid before he cursed them all.

“Aye, that will do, well enough,” he agreed. The Warlord turned, and walked back down the hill. With their leader gone, the mob soon scuttled away. Corri emerged from the hut as he returned and wrapped her arms around him. She had been crying.  

“I thought they would kill her,” she sobbed on his shoulder.

“You were very nearly right. How could she be so foolish? Didn’t I always treat you well, were you all so unhappy with me?” Only a day ago, he had been husband to three, now look at him. One, vanished across the oceans and another banished as a witch. His house had been devastated by lust and betrayal.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“I’ve given my word. Fia is destined for Croom. We should leave before they change their minds and burn us all in our sleep,” he said, the burden weighing heavily on him.

Corri packed travelling bundles for each of them. As the moon rose, he bound Fia’s hands and saw that her eyes had grown hard and hateful. Her body was still that of a young woman, but her mind was that of a crone.

“You’ll gladly make me a slave?” she hissed, as he finished knotting the thong on her wrists.

“It was this, or a scorching death! Anyway, it was your own actions that landed you here,” he said, as he finished binding her.

“I’d rather death than life without him,” she snarled, and spat in his face. Without realising his actions, the Druid's hand whistled through the air, rattling Fia's teeth when it landed. The blow only served to make her more resistant. She bared her teeth at him, like a rabid dog.

“At least in the mine there might be a real man, to make me squeal, something you could never do with that withered little wand of yours,” she snarled at him. When the blow landed this time, it was Corri that delivered it.

The journey to Croom was not easy, but with the treat of death following hot on their heels, it was speedy. As the path began to climb, he got off the cart and lead the pony by his head. Dense forest gave way to barren hillside. Streams washed away the thin soil covering the bones of the mountain. Soon, the Valley of Croom lay before him. Bolder strewn and desolate, the mines were a dreadful place. A stinking trickle of water ran along the valley floor. It was thick with silt and human waste. Thread-bare ponies grazed at wisps of grass and the Druid wondered how they still survived. He stopped long before he reached the huts, and announced his presence. The Croom men were not kindly disposed to visitors.

“Bless all who hear my voice,” he called, and held his hands aloft showing his unarmed condition.

“What want you, old man?” asked a voice from behind a hill of slag.

“Simply to trade. I come in search of ore.”

“With what will you trade?” boomed the voice, and it echoed off the steep walls of the valley. He dragged Fia from the cart by her bound hands.

“I wish to trade this woman,” he said, unable to keep the sadness from his voice.

“Woman?” chortled the voice. “I see you have two, why not both?”

“Only this one,” said the Druid firmly.

“What if we keep both, trade or not,” threatened a voice accustomed to violence.

“That would be a dreadful mistake indeed. Do you not recognise a Druid when you see one,” he said, standing tall and true. Minutes passed before a filthy beast of a man, with matted hair all over his body, came out into the open. He held a knotted bough of an ash tree, crusted with metal spikes. It was a formidable war club.

“You are indeed a Druid, but years are creeping up on you,” the man observed, slyly.

“For a wizard, the passing of years simply strengthens his magic,” he said, hoping his boast wouldn’t be tested.

The filthy man came closer, and circled Fia, using a long-nailed hand to test the solidness of her. He rubbed her skin and probed the mussel underneath.

“This little thing will last no time in the mine! She is too soft,” scoffed the brute.

“She is a hard worker, and tough for her size.”

The miner guffawed, grabbing a fist full of breast. “The only hard work this one has done was lying on her back,” he laughed. “She will have plenty of that here… while she’s still sweet.” Fia slapped away the hand with her clench fist and flew at the man. With the slightest flick of his enormous arm, the miner sent her crashing into the stinking stream.

“How much do you want for this unbroken filly?”

“Two carts of ore,” he said, wanting the trade to seem genuine. If this monster suspected an ulterior motive, he might kill them all.

“Two! You’ve spent too long on the road, old Druid. One, and you’ll be lucky to get it.”

“She is easily worth three, but two is what I want.”

“You can have one or begone.”

The Druid knew he was being robbed but he couldn’t do anything about it. “Trade,” he said sadly, holding out his hand.

The miner slapped the Druid’s palm, “Trade.”

The ore was loaded by a gang of ragged slaves while Fia was dragged away by the miner. She spat at the Druid as she passed, crying, “I’ll never forgive you, pig!”

The cart couldn’t be loaded quickly enough for the Druid's tastes. It was a blessed mercy when the pony took his first stumbling steps down the mountain. The sound of his wheels, crunching over pebbles, did nothing to mask the cries coming from the miner’s hut. Fia had gotten her wish it seemed. The men of Croom were more than able to make her moan. Corri shed silent tears as they passed the hut were a queue of miners waited to take their turn.