Sorceress

Chapter 4:

Sunlight rakes through the forest as I open my dreary eyes. Turning over on the leafy forest floor, I can feel a sharp throbbing pain in my side. Slowly sitting up, I realise that it is from a beating I had yesterday. Realisation shocks through my body like the crack of a whip as I recall the night's action. Brea... She is truly dead. The thought greatly saddens me, but her humiliation at being forced into slavery makes me cringe for her sake. We are a proud people, we do not suffer well under a master. Turning my eyes to the sky, I see the beginning of Autumn leaves floating down from the tall beech trees reaching up into the sky. Winter is fast approaching, and I need to find or make myself shelter to outlast the harsh months ahead. Groggily getting to my feet, I look around me at the forest spanning way into the distance. I realise that my best chances are heading South, away from the settlements of Vikings up North. In that case, I need to find my bearings. I look at the tree to my right, its trunk and branches looking sturdy enough to hold me. Gripping the rough bark, I hoist myself up, aiming for the branches looming far above my head. Trusting in the practise from when my village still existed, I slowly make gradual progress up the gnarled bark. Don't glance down. Don't. I whisper under my breath, almost like a mantra. I accidently look down, noticing the large distance I am now from the ground. I bite my lip, reminding myself of the pain that has been mine, of what all my people and Brea would want me to do now. What they would say to me. I must keep going.

I reach the first branch, hoisting myself onto it with all of my strength. Panting, I lay with my back against the tree trunk, blowing on my red hands. The view is spectactular, the drop sheer, and my relief immense. Just two more branches or so, and I will be high enough.

My head breaks through the sea of branches, scattering several flaky leaves to the ground, far below. I smile, feeling the fresh air chaff my face, and the sunlight glance across my skin. The midday sun gleams brightly far above me, sorrounded by a canvas of intense blue. Looking at the position of the sun, I realise that I have to continue going straight left from the tree I am on, this should roughly head me South.

I land on the forest floor, my foot coming to rest on a hard object. I go down to my knee's, brushing away the scattered gold Autumn leaves, a stone about the size of my palm rests on the floor. Inscribed upon it is the ancient Ogham script. Reading it, I realise that this is a recent message, left for me, it reads, Follow your path South. It will lead you to us. Meet me at the weeping willow, where it cries for those that have been wronged. I immediatly recognise this as the work of the runaway slaves, like myself. There were stories about them roaring through villages like wildfire. As the Vikings descended down on us, there were tales about all those that were forced into slavery, and the fortunate few that escaped it. It is said that they were free of fear of Vikings, and lived like the elves in the Southern forests. I heard that story a week ago, three days before we were invaded. It makes me wonder what to expect when I arrive- will I be fortunate enough to see any familiar faces there? Picking up the stone, I am not incredibly shocked to recognise it as a witch stone, Celtic knots of many forms weaving acorss the skin of the stone. With that, I carefully place it back under it's grave of leaves, ready for the next runaway to seek refuge, and head South.