The Prequels

Extract from Book 1 The Dry Folk

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    On the third night, the storyteller began a tale. One that eventually drew Mem’s interest as he sat at the back of the hall half listening. This tale travelled far into the past and the storyteller spoke of the beginnings of all people.

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    “As the ancient races faded from the land of Koa, the great isle of Nebessa gave life to its own children, the first people. Tall, black skinned men an’ women, fleet of foot an’ resourceful, they grew in number an’ prospered, until the land could no longer support ‘em. The chiefs of each tribe met in counsel an’ it was agreed that six of the seven tribes would venture out into the world beyond. Bein’ brave an’ skilled in the craft of sails an’ nets, they set forth when the seas were kind. Their boats sailed north an’ soon all eyes fell on a land so vast it stretched from horizon to horizon. The six tribes set out, each travelin’ until they found a place that suited ‘em. The lands were full of strange animals an’ plants, but no other people existed beyond the isle of Nebessa an’ it wasn’t long before the first of the tribes settled in a land they named Amaria, meaning place of the long river. The second tribe settled in a land they came to call Urukish, meanin’ the land of tall trees in their ancient tongue. The third travelled far to the east an’ named their land Akar, the land of beauty. The fourth tribe roamed far to the north to a land of mountains an’ called it Aylis. The fifth an’ sixth tribes travelled west. One settled in a land of lakes an’ so called it Hallorn an’ the sixth took to the sea an’ found an isle an’ called it Ronce after the bay that looked as if it had been scooped out by a great ladle. The wisdom of the tribes travelled with ‘em an’ all prospered.

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    In the generations that followed each tribe saw the birth of a child more closely linked to their lands than any amongst ‘em. As each of these children grew it became clear they possessed skills an’ wisdom not seen in the tribes before. We now call ‘em The Cunning Ones, but their people named ‘em differently. Shack Quill Tree the Elementalist, born in the land of Amaria. Then Nemalt Stilt Tree the Calismet of Urukish, Kallian Spice Wood the Field Master of Akar, Abrais Green Comb the Clever Hand of Aylis, Halda Gnarlwood the Metagist of Ronce an’ finally Morrin Copper Beam the Dry One of Hallorn. As they grew, their link to the power of livin’ things, of water an’ fire, of stone an’ air also increased. Each served their people an’ the tribes prospered still further. Until at last their numbers became such that many settled in neighbourin’ lands. Ildra, the land of treasures, Pidone, the land of the long tail, Neath, the land of mountains, to name but a few. Soon all the lands were settled an’ named, leaving three clans without soil to call their own. They looked to the great mountains, at length finding the only pass through the towerin’ range. There they disappeared from the eyes of their kin an’ when next the land shook the pass closed forever.

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    Three thousand generation lived their lives, an’ the people of the South became as varied in appearance as their ways an’ languages. But as all changed The Cunning Ones endured, countin’ their age not in seasons but in lifetimes. Their knowledge an’ wisdom had become great, too great for one mind alone, an’ each came upon the idea of puttin’ speech into symbols, marks that could be made on stone an’ skin an’ paper. They named it writin’ an’ in time made books into which such writin’ could be placed. Each created a great book, the receptacle of all their knowledge, but greatest amongst ‘em Morrin Copper Beam an’ Nemalt Stilt Tree had knowledge an’ wisdom enough for two.

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    When all was done, it is said The Cunning Ones took stock an’ looked back an’ about ‘em, for a life lived so long can be a lonely path. Was this all? Was there no more knowledge, no other to learn it from? And so, each took leave of their people an’ travelled far and wide, by means no mortal could employ an’ in long time found each other. Their joy was great an’ in that joy, they shared knowledge enough to benefit all, but agreed that none of their number should know the contents of all eight books an’ so a balance was found. To signify this promise an’ their unity, they conjoined their craft an’ created a place of meetin’, a private place, but a wonder for all who happened upon it. Here they often met in counsel an’ the simple pleasure of kindred minds an’ hearts.

The generations continued to mark the passin’ of time. The Cunning Ones aged, in mind an’ resolve if not so fully in appearance. Their meetin’s became less frequent, until eventually they stopped. Each content to live in relative seclusion an’ peace. But one amongst them, gentlest in heart, longed for the truest form of kinship, the joy of parenthood.”

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    At this point, and like all good storytellers, he left his audience wanting more, promising that all would be revealed in the final night’s telling. For some, it couldn’t come fast enough and so all again crowded round the fire and the storyteller continued his tale.

“Morrin Copper Beam more than any of her kind was loved by her people. Many a strugglin’ babe had been rescued from death by her skills. Mother after mother thankin’ her an’ sobbin’ in joy for the tiny life saved. Morrin watched an’ longed for this special bond. Her kin had long since ended their meetin’s an’ she missed the warmth of those reunions. An’ so, she set her craft an’ arts to the creation of two children. Rounded babes of rosy cheeks, the jewel of their mother’s eye an’ a comfort in her old age. They grew an’ played and wondered at their mother’s gifts, in time askin’ why she had the power of livin’ things, of water an’ fire, of stone an’ air, but not they. Indulgin’ her most beloved, Morrin taught them a few tricks an’ the girls delighted in their new skills. They grew more an’ asked for more, until eventually Morrin said enough.

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    The sisters grew in age an’ beauty, the likeness of their mother, but inside the bitter seed of jealously also grew. An’ each time they asked her for the knowledge of livin’ things she replied no, an’ the seed grew, sendin’ its roots through their bones. To their dismay it tainted their beauty an’ the sisters sought to reclaim the rosy bloom of their cheeks. While their mother travelled to counsel the great king of Hallorn, they found her books an’ searched the pages an’ learnt more than they should, but not what they wanted. Upon her return Morrin realised her own folly an’ her daughter’s deceit. In anger she confronted the sisters an’ in fear they struck out. Their mother fell an’ was lost to all. Terror an’ guilt, fear an’ remorse fed the seed within ‘em an’ as its roots spread further they twisted the bodies an’ faces of the sisters. Time worked its own revenge for their crime, its hand became harsh, favourin’ ‘em no longer.

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    Shunned an’ reviled by all, the sisters fled, takin’ the two books with ‘em an’ hid where none might find ‘em seeking revenge for the mortal loss of Morrin Copper Beam. Decades passed an’ alone they obsessed over their lost beauty. They lived in a tower of stone in the heart of a forest, both tower an’ trees drawn from the very ground itself by their command. As they poured over the books an’ learnt every letter an’ symbol the sisters became aware that there were other books, spread far across the lands of the South an’ so they began a search to find ‘em. One by one The Cunning Ones fell at their hand. With each victory their obsession anticipated the taste of success, but instead it found only bitter disappointment, each new book failin’ to offer what they hoped to find.

Four books still remained beyond their sight an’ grasp, now set beyond reach as time had withered them further. Old and feeble they consulted their books an’ created a child of their own, taskin’ it to find the remainin’ volumes, to travel where their legs an’ wanin’ powers could no longer take ‘em. As their child failed year in, year out they treated it cruelly. Forced to roam the forest, in all seasons, alone an’ feared, the miserable creation ventured into villages to steal food, or sit by doors so that it might feel a part of that which it longed for, but could only listen to. Surprised one night by a farmer returnin’ late from his fields, the creature struck out in fear, leavin’ the man with a mark to remember. Three claw marks across his arm, three claw marks that would not heal. Fearin’ discovery an’ blame for the attack, the sisters raged, punishin’ their child in frustration, in anger, in fear an’ in desperation for a task now made all the harder…”

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    The storyteller’s tale went on from there, growing ever darker and sadder, his audience enraptured. But Mem had stopped listening, it was a story, and nothing more, he would not allow superstition to cloud his judgement of real events. At one point, in his inner dialogue, he looked up to find Goody Wythre staring at him, it was a small nod, but it spoke volumes, irritatingly summarised by four words. “I told you so.”

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