Enemies of The Forest

Chapter Two

"Lyla!" Will you please wake up!" I bolt up in my bed, my lungs burning, my hair sticking to my head, the bed sheets soaked through with my sweat. What...Ethel. I frantically look to the other side of the room, my heart beating frantically at the thought that she won't be there. A sigh of relief flows past my lips at seeing my sister delicately making her bed, already dressed for the day. She's here. She's fine. She's here.

"Mother is calling for you," Ethel says airily as she flits about the room dreamily. Ethel is definitely fine. I shake my head but can't stop the fond smile from lifting my lips as I watch my sister clean imaginary dust from our little shared room as she hums a light tune. I have never been happier to see her sun light yellow hair and soft face. My mother says that when she becomes of age next month, she will have every eligible man in the village lining up to get the chance to ask her for her hand. Sadly, the same wasn't said about me.

"Lyla!" My mother shouts loudly pulling me away from my thoughts.

"Coming!" I yell back, flinging the wet cover off of me and rushing over to my drawers where my small amount of clothing is.

When I turned eighteen three years ago, I made the decision that my sister should receive all of the nice dresses and slippers and shawls, while I would be happy in my breeches and tunics. My father and I agreed, much to my mother's distaste, that I would help him in the market, hunting and selling our catches while Ethel will be tutored by my mother about etiquette and the importance of running a household. We all knew that the likelihood of me finding a husband was slimmer than Ethel's and with my father becoming weaker each year, he needs the help.

I dress quickly into my leather breeches and white linen tunic before rushing out of the room with a quick goodbye to Ethel on the way out.

"I have called for you five times, what have you been doing?" My mother is sood at the bottom of the small wooden stairs, her hands on her hips and face stern.

"I overslept," I reply sheepishly knowing that a lecture is soon to be coming. I rush to the door to put on my tattered boots that have holes in the soles which always cause me to come home with wet and cold feet.

"Do you know how long your father has been waiting for you to wake?" My mother asks as she watches me lace my boots, the sternness in her voice lessening.

"I know mother, I'm sorry, where is he?" I cringe at the wetness still clinging to the inside of my boots as I stand to face my mother. Wait, my boots are wet? It was dry all day when I was out working with father yesterday.

"He has already left for the market, he said to meet him there," my mother replies distractedly looking at something by the door. I follow her line of sight and see Ethel's new and expensive sheepskin lined boots.

"Mother,"

"You shouldn't have to go without the finer things just because you decided to help you father; you should be wearing dresses and fine clothes that flatter, not those old clothes of your fathers!" It is the same argument every day.

"We agreed that I would help father and Ethel would get the nice dresses-"

"You are a lady, Lyla! Ladies do not walk about in breeches!" I cringe back at the high pitch that my mother's voice has taken, yet it is the same again, always the remarks about me not dressing how a proper lady should dress; how I do not act how a proper lady should act. I roll my eyes at the notion, at the cages that we women are trapped in, forced to do one thing and one thing only, be a wife. Men are allowed to do as they please, but women? No, we have standards on how we should behave. I grab my bow from its place leaning against the front door, ignoring the ramblings of my mother as I do.