That morning a large assembly of Marnen and Thad guiding clouds or sheep, flocks of cackling geese and herds of cattle entered Ollagoth. They were accompanied by Elundi and Shahang riders and amongst them were Nialla, Sara, John and Obala. That night, as they sat on the great well lit pine porch after dinner, Ohean smoking a cigarette and Wolf a long pine pipe as if he were an old man, Conn wished he was a smoker too and looked up into the hills which were above the trees. He could just see, like stars, the lanterns of men and women, traveling up those hills.
“I wonder where they’re going?”
“Into them,” Ohean said.
“Into…”
“That is a Raid,” Ohean said. “That is a traveling band of Ystrad. High Folk.”
“The Elves,” Gabriel breathed, tracing a sign of blessing over himself while Quinton blinked and looked away.
“The Children of the First Creation.”
“Are we even still in Westrial?” Derek Annakar wondered.
“We are very much still in Westrial,” Cal returned, but Sara said, “It really depends on who you ask.”
“The men of this place called it by the old name, Ankar,” Quinton said. “I don’t believe they ever used the word Westrial.”
“I was as if we came into a foreign country three days ago,” Derek noted.
“How do you feel about it?” Nialla asked him.
“I don’t mind it at all. It’s an older place, a safer place. I wonder if they would ignore the color of my skin and see the blue of my Robe?”
“Oh, there are many people in the Greenwood,” Sara said, “half of them fleeing from something and the other half making sure that something never comes, and everyone respects each other. Least as I remember.”
They were traveling over uneven land that dipped to the cold black stream made by the island in the middle of the river. The only things brighter than the grass were the leaves on the trees and the sun now and again shone like a gold spear through them. All about was the rushing of water and screeching of fighting blue jays, hoping robins and blackbirds which leapt from the rocks under the delicate ferns which spread themselves over the river bank. When they passed the island and could see the wide brown expanse of the Arne, and the high trees on the other side going up and up to the Reghed Hills, the water was populated by troops of ducks and families of geese with earnest business, but not so earnest there was no time to turnd around and made swirls in the water, bob their heads in it, shower their wings and move on. The color of morning, a blue haerons slow wings beat the air as it skimmed the river and on the shore, never getting mixed up with the other geese, trooped the wild geese of the Forest.
The other geese were the geese of Sara’s brother Maxen who had returned for mthe war a year ago with his sister Sara and Cal and Gabriel. He marched a head of them singing an old song.
“Isn’t this wood supposed to be full of bandits?” Sara asked.
“Robin Hood’s men?”Quinotn said form where he bobbed up and down on his pony.
“Or Michael Flynn’s. Yes, yes very much that, Quinton.”
“We’re not exactly a match for them,? Quinotn noted.
“I’ll protected you,” Matteo growled, grinning like a wolf and flexing an admirable muscle.
Ignoring this, Jon said, “No, we are not match for them at all, which is why we might want to stay closer to the wizard who is leading us through these hills.”
“And my point,” Quinton continued, “is if we are no match for them, and if we have no wealth, it’s really no good worrying about things we cannot change.”
While they were talking, Obala and Zan were far ahead of them. It was only when Quinton and Jon and Nialla had caught up with Obala that she said:
` “Robin Hood or Robing Wood, is the spirit of the Green Wood. Everyone knows the stories spread about him are spread by rich Ayl lords who try to come in here and run things, who attempt to steal fromthe people. Robin is the voice of the Greenwood and its redemption. This wood is huge, full of villages, full of people living their lives, full of travelrs and those fleeing for safety. All those who belong to the Wood pass through it unharmed.”.
“Well, Obala that’s all very fine,” Jon said, “but this Michael Flynn who calls himself Lord of the Forest seems to be a very real person, and have you noticed that none of us belong to this wood?”
“Speak for yourself,” the large woman said. “And the wood claims her own.”
“I love this wood,” Sara said, earnestly. “If I could I might spend all my days here.”
“I thought,” Gabriel said, smiling at her, “you would have spent all your days at the Temple.”
“Would you not come with me?” she said. “Would we not have a new temple together? Imagine that. A Blue Temple in the Green Wood!”
The next morning they rode deep into the high treed forest and they camped in an old hut, though Ohean said, “We will be there tomorrow. Our journey is nearly done.”
But even as they camped in the hut, there was the jingle of bells, and from where the stayed in the house, Conn saw brightly painted wagons led by shaggy horses, and governed by colorful people, laughing and singing, take their rest in the field not far off. He and Wolf watched the camp being set up and the fires build. Men around the fire sat smoking and he said, “I wish we could go out to them.”
“We could,” Ohean said. “But I would leave people their peace. For those are Travelers, and there is much time when they know no peace.”
“I do not fear them” Wolf said.
“It is not a matter of fear,” Ohean told him. “I do not fear them either, for long ago they gave me a home and much more.”
The New Forest
That night, as they settled down to rest while Thano and Wolf built a fire, Anson said, “It would be good if we had a tale.”
“Master is a fair bard,” Wolf said. “In fact, he is one of the greatest bards in the Four Lands.”
“Only in the Four Lands?” Ohean smiled, bemused while Thano cackled.
“Master Ohean!” Wolf said.
“Well, I say we have had weary traveling,” Ohean replied, “and why tell you one of the strange and ancient tales of my people, when you have tales of your own, and a fair storyteller at that.”
“Ohean,” Imogen turned to him, “is there a fairer bard than you?”
“More of a skald than a bard,” Ohean answered, “though there is not much difference. As he turned to Wolf, the redheaded man blushed.
“Wolf!” Myrne sounded delighted at finding him out. “Really?”
“I don’t play an instrument. I’m just a singer of tales and a stringer of words.”
“Can you do it in the old fashion?” Imogen said. “In the Old Tongue?”
“He can,” Ohean boasted while his young servant went red.
Anson came from around the fire, pulling his knees under him and smiling fiercely.
“This I must hear. I haven’t heard the singing of a real skald since I left the court of Inglad.”
“Keep that old Skraeling language to yourself,” Imogen differed. “Whatever we used to be and whatever we used to speak, it is too much like the Dayne across the sea for my taste. I want it in plain Common Tongue.”
“Or as plain as a poem can be,” Myrne added, “for whoever wanted a poem to be too plain?”
Wolf looked to Ohean and Ohean, shrugging, said, “It looks as if you will be singing for us, my lad.”
“The tale of Sevard and Byrnahild!” Anson cried.
“Oh no, the Geatasaga!” Imogen said.
“I always loved the story of the Brisangamen,” Myrne murmured, touching the necklace at her throat.
“I will do none of them,” Wolf said. But already, as he sat back and placed his long fingers on his knees, his voice had grown more musical, his northern accent turned into something else, something older. “I will sing of the hero of the North, King Beo, the last lord to rule all of the Hale together. After him his descendants became the kings of North Hale and Hale, and in his time he chose to rule little at all, for he was a great hero and chose to be the champion to kings rather than a king himself. Beo the Great, Beo Wulfstan, who some have come to call Beowulf.
When the sun was sunken, he set out to visit
The lofty hall-building, how the Daynes had used it
For beds and benches when the banquet was over.
Then he found there reposing many a noble
Asleep after supper; sorrow the heroes,
Misery knew not. The monster of evil
Greedy and cruel tarried but little,
He drags off thirty of them, and devours them
Fell and frantic, and forced from their slumbers
Thirty of thanemen; thence he departed...
