Here's how the novel begins: Raven's Gift Copyright © 2006-2008 by Tobias D. Robison, Princeton, NJ, USA All Rights Reserved; But please, read on! ISBN for the AUDIO version: 978-0-9741106-5-3 ISBN for the PRINTED version: 978-0-9741106-4-6 Let's Begin our Tale: One-armed Blehhm casts his spells so well, his hand rarely gestures to perfect the magic. Eight hours a day he chants, chants, adding substance, life and growth to his creations. He concentrates deeply. A brief distraction might cause the whole to flicker or fade, become greatly damaged, require weeks of repair ere he can progress again. PART ONE :::::: WYRM Chapter 1: Redthwen Raven's not ready to face the smells of Redthwen guesthouse. She stands alone at forest's edge, surveying the wide clearing where the ramshackle building stands. She's too far away to assay its dry thatch, rotting timbers, makeshift walls. But her instincts tell her: this is a miserable place. Raven's a thirtyish woman, very short. Her tangled long red hair, freckled face and golden eyes blend well with the white and yellow crocuses that carpet the clearing. A thick dull gray robe hides her figure, concealing her strength. The robe keeps her warm. It also protects her deceptively well from swords and knives. A cloth bag hangs off her right shoulder, and an empty ale flask hooks to the leather belt that tightens her robe. She sees smoke escape from the roof of the guesthouse, and she hears sounds of chopping, hammering and sawing. Birds and butterflies shuttle about the clearing avoiding the brush and old rotten hay. It's early spring, a late afternoon, cold. She brushes a few strands of red hair from her face and steps quickly sideways, disappearing from view among the dense pines. Now, she can't be seen from the path or the clearing. Among the pines there's a little open space, a carpet of pine needles with their tasty aromas. The smells of a guesthouse always overwhelm her at first. And she will not use the disgusting bog that every guesthouse provides for its patrons. She searches about and snaps off a few delicate, soft leaves from a weed for wiping, then she lifts her robe and squats. She's comfortable with her own odors, but she worries that these might offend others. No one keeps very clean in this hard, outdoor life, but people are unaccountable, and some will take offense at anything. She wipes, drops the leaves and hops forward before releasing her precious robe, to keep it clean. She walks back to forest edge. Then she sighs, clutches her bag, and stands still to smell the deliciousness of the live forest again. There's that piney smell, and there are many kinds of early flowers. And she smells vole dung, there must be a large community of them living nearby. She also smells a vague something remarkable, a tart, vinegary aroma with a hint of danger to it; a hint of old apple juice with a kick, it makes her saliva run. There's no direction to this tart scent, it comes to her from everywhere. She steps carefully back onto the path, enters the clearing, and approaches Redthwen Guesthouse. * * * Birds chattered at her as she approached. She listened to the birds and the hammering, the sawing, trying to clear her thoughts. As she came closer, the appearance of the guesthouse worried her, especially the dry thatch roof. The building looked awfully vulnerable to a careless, quick, hot fire. A broken brown board on an old pole announced "Redthw" in large, hand-painted black letters. She walked right past the sign, pretending that the letters held no meaning for her. How shall I announce myself? she wondered. The lady-like rap on the door is best, but Oh, to show how hard I can pound it with my fist! There was no need to decide. The door opened and a man stepped out to meet her. A large, strong man, bald, with scraggly black beard and whiskers. He wore simple work pants and no shirt. Bunches of black chest hair sprouted around his suspenders, and more sprouted from his armpits. He dangled a two-handed scythe, his eyes staring her down unwelcoming. "I'm Abarham," he said, his stentorian voice blocking out all the other sounds of the place. "Welcome to Redthwen." She stepped close to him, unafraid. He smelled like most country men, of sweat, pee and unwiped dung. "I'm Claire," lied Raven, "and if I'm welcome, why do you block the door?" "I block the door because I'm same size of it! Do you want in, it's three silver." Three silver coins to get in, the bastard, thought Raven, but it was late in the day. Best to hope she could steal more silver than that, once inside. "I might have two." She rummaged in her bag. "Y'll need more than that, staying here!" She carefully pulled out the three coins and handed them forward. He reached out and took them without any attempt to caress or squeeze her flesh. An honest thief, she thought. "Step in, my lady," he barked, and as he backed away, she did step in. All her senses were assaulted at once: lanterns that burnt sheep tallow in the half-dark room, the odor of burnt lamb, a clanging noise, the rough wood on which she pressed a hand to stay her uncertain balance, a flute and a tinny drum. There were at least a dozen people here, mostly men. Abarham stood by a rough, knotty pine plank, a sort of desk, guarding a keg and a few big skins of ale. A small wiry man sat next to him, lip-thatch neatly trimmed, better dressed than the rest: the innkeeper, perhaps the owner of the place. Three workmen stood by the desk swinging their drinkpots, bellowing an argument. The cooking smells issued from an unseen kitchen. The hearth fire, which should have had a warm, welcoming aroma, was a little off, its firewood too green and wet to burn properly. The commons table was small, room for six customers at most to bump arms and eat together. An oldish, bent woman, a small pretty child, and a wolfish young man looked up at her from that table. Orvannon was not there, he had probably not arrived. All the people in this place smelled dirty. The glass-bottomed lanterns provided light, but there were only a few of them. She'd been staring at the commons table too long. She turned to the innkeeper. “I'd like to stay a night or two.” “Two nights, four silver coins.” A nasal voice, very clipped and crisp, no hint of kindness. “I already gave that Abarham three silvers just to come inside.” “So, you pay me four for two nights then. As I said.” “Perhaps one night ...” “Four silver.” Her supply was too small, she'd have to ask Orvannon for more. When he came. He'd sent word to meet at Redthwen, first full moon of the new year. This was the right time, she had the right place. But sometimes Orvannon was late, even terribly late, delayed by hideous emergencies she once liked to daydream about, but now only feared. He must come, and soon. She pulled four silver from her bag. “And, please, some dinner, an ale.” The innkeeper went toward the back room with her silver. “You'll get it, wait at the commons table.” “Must I pay more for dinner?” He turned back to her. “What do you think of me? It's included!” And he was gone. The musicians were hard to hear through the general clatter, so Raven moved closer to them. They played a wonderful song, Orelia's Dompe. The old, thin, bewhiskered drummer beat its slow, halting rhythm very fine. Raven liked the young flute player too, even though many of his high notes were flat. He spun out the melody in the old-fashioned way, separating melody notes with little graces and twirls, not relying on tiny silences to separate the notes. She stood next to the drummer, joined his rhythms with her boot, and quietly hummed the melody. How old had she been when she learned it? Eight? Ten? “Do you know the words?” said the drummer. She nodded yes as she hummed. The flutist stopped and waved the drummer to silence. “Start over,” he said. They started the first verse, and after the short opening, Raven began to sing. She stood stiffly as she sang, knowing well that she could not move her body appealingly, as so many performers could. But people stopped to listen to her husky, resonant soprano. She preferred less attention, but oh, how pleasant to sing Orelia's Dompe! As they got into the middle verses, Abarham came over and joined them, standing oppressively near Raven and banging his boot on the floor, not too far off the actual beat. His breath and sweat distracted her, but the real challenge was to ignore his boot stomps and stay with the musicians. In the last verse, where the lover returns, they sped up, faster and faster to the tricky finish. One final note, and all four of them laughed together. Raven wondered whether Abarham might be in a mood now to return some of her silver, but he escaped back to his post before she could ask. “Another?” asked the flutist. “No, I'm too hungry. Tomorrow, maybe.” The drummer started another beat, a simple farm song, and the flutist lit into it. Raven went to the commons table for her dinner. The young man did not get up as she sat down. He looked her over, aggressively grinning. My Victim for the Night, she thought. The woman did stand, but with difficulty, her old sinews and misbehaving bones clicking painfully into place. “I'm Claire,” she lied to the woman. “And what's your name?” she asked the little girl, who continued licking a bone but looked down, curled her lower lip and did not respond. “I'm Gretel,” said the old woman. “And. You'd please not bother my little charge. That thickhead next to you's Garfie. Did you:   order dinner? Good food here.” She spoke haltingly, a hag's throaty sounds ruining what might have been a pleasant voice. This Garfie laid a clammy hand on her bag, or actually on Raven's hand, which she quickly, protectively interposed. “Show us what's in your bag, woman!” It often started this way in guesthouses, some quick, rowdy challenge, she hated it. But this challenge was something new, better than having to retrieve her bag after someone grabbed it away. Raven did not want to provoke the man into some angry scene. She pulled her bag out of his reach, made a show of opening it, rummaged about and pulled out her little stacks of coin. “My coin,” she said. He watched her with interest, then slowly reached toward her coppers. She longed to bring her fist down hard, smashing his hand, breaking bones, but she only looked at Gretel and implored, “Please.” “Garfie,” said Gretel, and Raven heard a world of command in her voice. Garfie froze. “You do not want: to touch. The lady's coins,” she said. Garfie laid his hand close by on the table, but gave Raven a stalking look, as if she would be his victim tonight. Raven took out her thick sewing needle and a piece of brown thread. She set her tinderbox on the table. Turning again to Gretel, Raven pulled out a precious bit of paper that she'd spent much time rubbing and wearing down. “This's a message from my betrothed, telling me to meet him down south, by the harbor of Dukeston.” She turned the scrap to face Gretel. “They tell me that's his name,” she said, pointing to one of the few words that could possibly be legible. Gretel took the parchment from her, apparently without effort, but Raven was amazed at how she pulled it away so fast. Whatever Gretel's aches and pains, she was dexterous. “Why then.  Your love's name be 'the',” chortled Gretel. She looked more closely at the scrap. “Or could it be: Donald?” “Yes, yes, he's Donald, of course,” said Raven. “Then. THAT'S  his name,” said Gretel, pointing to the longer word.   “And where are you  from, Claire?” “Oh, Meachtle, to the far north.” “Then you've come a long way, and you've still far to go,” said Garfie, triumphant. Does he reckon me unfaithful to my made-up lover? she wondered. Raven drew her most prized possession from its sheath on her belt, her father's very own knife, and set it on the table. Its irregular blade looked poor, but she knew how to polish it sharp, and its edge sawed deep when she used it. Gretel tested the blade with her finger, drawing a drop of blood and seeming not to mind. The child glanced once at the knife and continued to suck her bone. “I've been traveling months,” lied Raven. A fat old woman waddled out from the back kitchen and slapped an ale and an iron pot of stew before her. An iron pot! Raven leaned down, her nose almost touching the stew, and cuddled the little pot in her hands, breathing its aroma carefully. It smelled delicious, good stewed beef – none of those peculiar odors that preceded her being violently sick. It would taste good, and she was famished, there had only been cold roast roots this long day. She straightened up and began shoveling handfuls of stewmeat into her mouth, as slowly as she could manage. After a few good chomps she took a long, refreshing gulp of the stale ale. “There's more in your bag!” said Garfie. “Out with it!” Raven froze, but then she remembered, of course there's more in my bag. With the air of a puppeteer raising the puppet's hand-strings, she lifted out the bloodstained cloth she wiped with in her monthly infirmity. Even clean, it looked very dirty. Abarham was at the table at once. “Here, we don't want that here,” he said, “Put your rag away!” She stuffed it back into its place. No one would test her bag for its hidden compartment and its puzzling prize tonight. “I'm hungry,” she said. “Then eat!” said Garfie. “We'll watch you.” And watch her they did, as she ate the stew and downed the ale. “What is she doing?” the child whined, when Raven commenced to chew on the pot. Raven hoped she was not the only woman in Ausland who chewed rust, but she'd never met another. Her white teeth, which had been kind enough to stay in her mouth, gradually teased bits of powdered rust loose. Her mother had tried in vain to teach her better “pot manners”, but she had failed. As she chewed, Gretel looked studiously away. Garfie still stared, seemed to be calculating whether she was too loony for him. The little girl set down her bone to watch. Finally, the little one seemed to make a decision. “Gretel, give me a pot.” “No, Trudie.” “I want a pot!” Gretel took the child's cheeks kindly in her hands, “Trudie, please. Do not.   Want a pot.” “Not fair.” The girl looked down, took up her bone and sucked. When the urge to chew left her, Raven turned back to her ale, and Garfie made his move. “What do you like, then, my tiny Claire?” “Ale. I like this ale,” lied Raven. “Lots of ale, in the evening. This evening.” “We'll have it then!” Garfie got up, went to Abarham. There was a quick transaction and he returned, bearing a heavy aleskin. “Perhaps,” said Gretel, “You'd prefer. Aerm. The full moon celebration. Nearby. Tonight.” “What part of the urstory will they recite,” asked Raven, “before everyone gets much too drunk to listen?” “They recite the One's gift:  of   nature,” said Gretel. “I've heard it, too often,” said Raven. “And anyway, the ale. The excess.” “You. Prefer this?” Gretel looked carefully at Garfie's heavy aleskin. “Perhaps I prefer the company,” lied Raven, giving Garfie a slight smile. “I'm to my room then,” Garfie leered, and he shuffled past her. As he passed, she held out a hand, and he dropped six silver coins into it. Raven looked at the coins and shuddered. What would he want her to do for six silver? Raven briefly visited her own small room. The bed was a dirty straw mattress with a stiff linen sheet. There was a small cushion she could use as she wished. The chamber pot looked empty, but a terrible stink rose from it, overwhelming the smell of burning beef tallow in the lantern. A pot of fresh water sat next to a simple washstand. Garfie's room would be the same. A piece of broken glass lay next to the washstand. She angled it against the flickering lantern light to look at her face. Her hair was in dreadful shape, burrs and twigs sticking out from hairy knots. She ought to find somebody to cut it back, she'd never learned any other way to care for it. Fools like Garfie provided her with a small income as she traveled through Ausland. Raven knew only one way to manage them. She wanted them falling down drunk, too helpless to beg for sex. It seemed a desperate gamble, but it worked: give the man a head start with the ale, and he'd be the one to fall asleep. Later tonight as he slept, Raven would toss Garfie's room, extracting coin, or a few items to sell. Her work gave her no time to make an honest living, nor – perish the Holy One – an ordinary husband to submit to, cleaning his linens and washing his feet. Holding her bag tight, she went down the hall into which Garfie had disappeared. His door was partly open, she smelled him but could not see him. “Garfie?” She pushed the door wider and stepped in. The door slammed shut, and he was upon her. The tackle from behind slammed her down against the floor. She turned her head to avoid a nose-break, and the splintery wood floor pressed her cheek against her teeth, drawing blood. He held one arm tight around her waist, pinning her arms as he kneed her legs apart. One dreadful hand poked at her quirrel, and with tearing pain, he entered her, thrusting, withdrawing, a new pain at every thrust. Her full strength, she thought, could not break his grip. And with the door shut, no one would interrupt no matter how loud she screamed. And she had hoped to attract no notice! Raven thought furiously, looking for some opening to escape him before ... what? “Garfie, stop! Stop!” she cried. He thrust faster and then strained pressing tight, motionless, against her. He's sowing seed she thought miserably. He made a gurgling sound and relaxed, his full weight lurching against her. She smelled his sweat, his sex, and fresh blood. And another person. “Claire. You're a fool! Couldn't you see what he intended? In his eyes? Lie still a moment.  I'll:  pull him off you.” It was Gretel. As Garfie's weight withdrew, she felt great shame that Gretel might see that portion of her between her legs. She pulled her robe down, then turned her head to look. A long thin knife stuck out of Garfie's back. It had been expertly aimed, and accounted for the strong smell of blood. And death. She could smell death now too. “Aerm. Are you all right? Claire?” asked Gretel. There was no pity or kindness. It was merely a request for information. “No,” replied Raven. “You silly lamb. I mean: are you: broken? Can you: move? Walk?” “Yes, I think.” Raven looked up at Gretel, and Gretel looked directly into her face, showing no desire to consider Raven's violated body. “Return to your room.  Go to sleep. I will clean up.  In morning, Garfie will be gone.  His room, empty. No one will suspect you. Sleep well. It will be better.  In the morning. You will feel all right.” Raven felt the full blast of Gretel's willpower, it was enormous. She had just the strength and understanding to resist it, but she must be careful lest Gretel suspect her own training; she must appear to succumb. She kept her freckled face turned to Gretel and said only, “yes.” “Go then, Claire.” Raven stood up in pain. She glanced at the dead Garfie, the fat skin of ale, and the room that would give all its meager treasure to Gretel but none to her. She walked awkwardly back to her room, trying to find a way to move that would not pain her at every step. Back in her room, she checked her bag; nothing had fallen out of it. And what if it had? What might she do? That man had sowed seed in her. Her garden might even now be starting to grow his bastard child. Raven remembered her only birthed babe, which she – to her lifelong regret – had sold to a rich woman. That little girl might now be suffering that woman's every command. She'd no idea how to find this child now, no way to better what she had done. And then a year ago, when another pregnancy started to show, she'd gone to a bloodwitch to end it. The witch had dealt evilly with her, she was sick, deathly sick for months, no use to anyone. And if this one started to grow ... Raven threw herself down on the straw. The sheet and the little cushion smelled of the hundreds of men and the few women who had used them before her. She nuzzled her nose beneath the cushion, wept, and slept. * * * In the morning Raven stank. Why hadn't she washed before going to bed? Why hadn't she stolen out again to spy on Gretel, to see what became of Garfie? In fact, she'd done exactly what Gretel had told her to do, she'd succumbed to that woman's powerful will. Now she must clean the stink off herself, remove any remnant of Garfie's seed. She longed for a secluded place with water, where she could clean her aching center. She picked up her robe and examined it for dirt, brushing some mud off its skirts. Her body was well-muscled, especially her trusty right arm. With a practiced swing, she twisted the robe over her gray, sweat-stained underdress. She wanted something to drink, she must look for Orvannon, she had a lot to do, she mustn't just stand there and think. She returned to the common room. No Orvannon in sight. “Abarham, ale?” “Morning ale, on the house, here!” he barked. She drank quickly, set down her ale pot and walked out. Now, to look for wash water, or for Garfie's corpse. There was a clean water pump by the kitchen, but she could not wash there, it was dreadfully out in the open, even the thought of using it made her burn with shame. She saw a wash-pump near the smelly bog, but would not approach it for the strong smell of dung. Perhaps there's a creek or a pond, she thought. Come on, Raven, walk! You have to look. She trudged miserably round the inn, looking and sniffing. Garfie's body ought to stink by now, she'd catch wind of it if she were at all close. She sampled all the aromas that came to her and began to suspect that Garfie lay in the one place she would never check: Redthwen's bog. She sorted odors out as they came to her. The normal scents of the guesthouse with its fires, ale-brewing and cooking; the faint, ubiquitous worrisome tart, vinegary aroma; birds, rats and voles; last year's rotting hay. And fresh flowers, as she drifted farther from the house. She found no fresh water. She tried the surrounding the forest, where a creek might be. She moved deeper, farther into the pines, coming at last to a pretty, wide flower-filled meadow, but still, not to water. The unsettling tart aroma was strong here. Why did she associate it with danger? Early spring flowers here faced a warm sun. Birds twittered, there were colorful butterflies, and honeybees serviced the flowers. A giant hovering insect – some would call it a tiny bird – visited orange trumpet-shaped flowers. Raven felt no cheer from these sights. Even the lovely flower aromas gave her no calm. She lay down on the sparse, rough meadowgrass and buried her nose in the good, clean dirt. Tears would not come. She thought of her rape in the night. She was still in pain. She should be in total anguish, rage, ready to seek vengeance. 'It will be better in the morning. You will feel all right.' Gretel's power of suggestion had stolen her ability to feel, to suffer. When would she mourn her loss of control, the moment of being crushed by Garfie? Mourning would come upon her at some inconvenient future moment. It was not going to be fair. Sitting up again, she noted a light, bright greenness behind the flowers at the edges of the meadow. She turned around and that green was everywhere, not close but hiding always among the surrounding trees. The tart scent came very strongly now, she jumped up, drawing out her knife. And then she saw the giant head. Snake-like, monstrous, towering over her, slipping slowly closer, a big body behind that head, the long green tail reaching to everywhere. Its wide open mouth breathed vinegar at her, its tongue flickered like a punishing whip. It closed to within ten long strides of her ... and she swooned.