Where are those elves?

All writers have this vague hope that the elves will come in the night and finish any stories.

-Neil Gaiman

Day 15 - Dropping Off the Horse

Helmuth reached forward to touch the glistening hoof that protruded through the rungs of the cart. The foal whispered out some air between her large teeth, but didn't blink. He felt the smooth surface of the young horse's foot and patted it reassuringly, though clearly no reassurance was needed. Perhaps it was reassurance to himself that such a fine horse in his care would benefit them both.

The remaining horsemen, who seemed to number in the thousands, with their identical tunics and packs, probably only numbered over one hundred, but were still in an overwhelming mass for Helmuth. They had all gathered now in the clearing before the house.

Helmuth turned his attention away from the cart and back to the man he now presumed was the group's leader.

"I thank you for bringing me my charge," said Helmuth. "I regret I lack means, however, to suitably entertain your... entourage," he looked for the right words. "I could not have expected-"

"Nay, Master Helmuth," the horseman interrupted. "We are anxious to return from whence we came. We leave our fortune in your hands now and bid you goodbye." And he and every other mount gracefully turned and headed back the way they had come, leaving Helmuth alone with a cart and a new horse.

Stunned by the entrance and exit of such a large group, Helmuth stood, stunned, for perhaps a quarter of an hour as he first watched them disappear in the distance, and then listened to the softened echos of the hoofbeats until there was nothing but the settling sound of birdsong in the forest again.

The horse purred and brought him back to the moment. His hand was still cupping the smooth slope of the hoof, and she was still observing him.

"Let's loosen these binds and see what we have here," he said. "Gut?"

He proceeded to untie the ropes that kept her safely within the confines of the short-railed cart. He was surprised to find that they were not tight to her skin, and even more surprised that she did not jump up when she found herself freed. He pushed the bed of blankets to one side and jumped in the cart himself in order to hoist her to ground. She continued to watch him without alarm.

With a gentle tug at the rope usefully knotted around her neck and muzzle, he led her to the edge and straddled the rail. He guided her front legs over and onto the ledge next to the back wheel. In synchronicity, the both deftly leapt to the ground in a single movement.

An auspicious beginning to the road of training upon which they were about to embark.

Day 14 - Black Horse

"And when may I expect the horse?"

"Her wagon is just a ways back." As he said this, a wagon bearing a small, dark foal pulled forward into view. From this distance, it appeared the horse was lying down.

"And the journey? Has she been made to walk it, as well?"

"She's been exercised a twice daily, but only during rest stops and not to travel. We have orders from… We have orders to treat her well and to deliver her to you without the wear of travel."

"And how far have you come? Where does she call home?"

The visitor cleared his throat. "She is here now to be broken and trained by you. You'll be rewarded, you may trust in that."

"I would like the return of such trust," replied Helmuth as he squared his shoulders and looked sternly into the eyes of the mounted horseman.

"As men of God, you may trust us."

Men of God? A mounted, non-armed army of holy men?

"What is this trick?" Demanded Helmuth. "What are you playing at?"

By this time, the cart had reached these two men, and the arrival of the Oldenburg caused an abrupt ceasefire in their conversation. Even lying down, the foal was a specimen worthy of admiration. Soot-black, she was easily a smooth shadow, were it not for the background of hay and worsted blankets. The ropes that bound her to the cart were startlingly bright against her ebony skin. Though tied, she did not struggle as Helmuth approached, though her eye rolled in its socket to observe him underneath her long, delicate lashes.

Day 13 - New Horsey Arriving

And his young life quaked with a shift that would make him.

For, as they looked eye-to-eye, Helmuth suddenly felt an understanding with the horse. As though he could hear her thoughts, as though she could speak directly to him, and only to him, he knew all that she knew. He knew she liked the taste of the late-summer air, just before the season gave way to harvest. That she would run her hardest when her rider wanted her--not himself--to be fast. He felt the elation and complicated emotions of being chosen to ride, being saddled, and being led to the start of a chase. He knew that, right now, he could return to his mount on her back and ride her around and around the stable.

And so he did. And so he enjoyed his lolly much the rest of the morning.

Helmuth was still lost in this reverie when he heard sounds of an approaching party. They were still distant, but he was certain he heard a great many hooves pounding the forest floor. He moved away from his table and out into a faint sprinkle of late-afternoon rain.

He could not yet see them, but the birds in the trees were acknowledging the presence of this approaching group with songlike calls and twitters. The array of sounds was an orchestration to Helmuth's ears of bird-provided flutes and violins, with hoof-beats for the percussion. Only, he wasn't sure if the resulting music was inviting or foreboding.

Finally, the leader rider came into view. While leading a veritable garrison of men on horseback, they carried no banners, no visible weapons, and no defensive shielding. Instead, they wore plain-colored tunics and hats, carried non-descript parcels on the backs of their saddles (presumably provisions), and smiled in a friendly way, quite the opposite of the sneer of the peerage that typically graced a visitor's face when Helmuth was "blessed" with a visit from the ruling class.

"Peace, friend," called the leader. "We seek Master Helmuth."

"I am at your service, m'lord," replied Helmuth with a small bow. "Am I to receive a foal, as expected?"

"Indeed. We have traveled many days and miles, on horseback and by sea. We will be grateful for our help and guidance for this young horse as she's made ready to inherit her future."

"What can you tell me of her sire and her dam?"

At this, the man on horseback paused, looked sideways to a companion that was pulling up to match his placement, and pursed his lips. His companion raised an eyebrow in response. Both returned their attention to Helmuth.

"We cannot say," was the reply, "but to tell you that they were well-matched and produced a healthy foal."

"And her birth? How was that?"

"Long and strenuous for the dam, but to no damage to the foal. Dam recovered quickly and is back and sturdily serving her master again."

Horses Giving Birth

This novel-writing exercises has me researching subjects I never considered previously, such as 17th century naming conventions in Wales, the Welsh language (how is any of this pronounceable?!), and horses giving birth.

Regarding the latter, it's quite interesting, but be forewarned that there are also a GREAT many woman willing to show their own, personal birthing experiences on YouTube.com.

Day 12 - Back to Horses

He was ashamed of his father, and would have given anything to deny that he was any part of him. Anything, including that thing he had done back at the abbey, that horrible thing he had done that would doubtless pull his soul asunder at the day of reckoning, if not sooner.

But if it could come close to erasing his father, his soul was a small price to pay.

-----

Helmuth brushed the crumbs of his morning meal from the surface he called a table--a crudely-hewn plank set atop a stack of horse tack he was storing for a trader friend who was away and traveling without need of it for a time. The contents of his meal was typical of his celebratory tradition of delivering a well-broken and trained horse to its owner, but this meal lacked the excitement and congratulatory feel of his other deliveries. This meal was overshadowed by the mystery of his previous days' visitor and the Oldenburg expected soon.

The Oldenburg. He was surely familiar with the animals, but he had not, in his professional life, ever had an opportunity to work with one. His grandfather had one, of course, as most farmers did. Grandfather called her Ungebunden--Unbound, as she displayed a most independent spirit that was no match for an amateur rider.

Once, when Helmuth was a young boy, his brother had paid him a stick of candy to ride Ungebunden around the outside of their grandfather's stable. Just once around, he'd been promised, and the candy was his.

Helmuth took the dare, thinking his brother a fool for giving up a sweet so easily. Why, they both knew they'd been on horseback nearly as soon as they could walk! He had no qualms about going astride this filly for a short jaunt.

But Ungebunden had other ideas for her young rider. No sooner had he called, "H'yah!" than she pranced evenly backward two steps and sprung Helmuth backward and into the air.

He jumped to his feet from the dirt and grass and strode back to the side of the horse and looked her in the eye.

Day 11 - Llangynllo

Accepting that he would be trekking in the dark before he reached the village, he kept on, sack slung over his back, and a gnarled walking stick in one hand. He couldn't quite recall when or where he had acquired this prop. Likely back when he was still in the forest and the branches were plentiful. Trees were more scarce in this area and, while not completely without, any communities nearby would well have harvested them for fuel.

Hours later, in the dark, with the cold damp of night setting into his clothes, Renaldo heard distant voices. He walked toward them and soon he was able to make out the dim lights of cooking fires ahead. A bit farther and he could smell those cooking fires and the meals upon them.

"Ydych chi'n ffrind?" came an urgent voice nearby. A young woman's voice, inquiring but not at all afraid. Are you a friend?

"Yr wyf yn ffrind. Cefais fy ngeni yng Nghymru," he replied. I am a friend. I was born Welsh.

The voice became a solid figure of its speaker. "I am Juliana, daughter of Hopkin the miller" she continued in Welsh. "Please be welcome to our village."

"I thank you," replied Renaldo. "I am Re-nal-do," he enunciated slowly, "son of…" he paused. "...of Angharrett of Rhayader," he named his mother.

"Ach! Welcome to Llangynllo! I have kin in Rhayader!" The urgency wore off her speech and evaporated into warm welcome. "Please, it is late. My mother will be able to find you supper. Come with me."

Renaldo accepted, grateful of his acceptance, and followed Juliana past a communal stone oven that glowed upon the few bakers remaining to collect their loaves for supper. The emanating heat was a comfort to his cold, travel-worn body. He would liked to have stayed here to warm for a bit, but checked his weariness and continued after his host.

They soon arrived at the door of a house that cozied up to a fast-flowing creek. Juliana opened the door and swept her arm to invite her guest inside.

"Mother, we have a guest for the evening," she called out. "He hails from Rhayader!"

The call drew her mother from the adjacent room, of which there were two in this dwelling. She was a short woman, but not diminutive.

"Pray, traveller," Juliana's mother said. "Be welcome. Are you hungry? I have some fish and small ale left from supper. Hopkin got a nice catch of trout from the Lugg this morning. Small things, but plenty of them."

"Thank you," replied Renaldo. "They sound very satisfying."

"Of course," replied the mother, as she set about the process of selecting and filleting from a bucket that she pulled seemingly through the window. Renaldo looked on in puzzlement.

"Oh," laughed Juliana, catching his confusion, "we don't always hang our food in buckets out the window! Mother, show him what you've done!"

Mother winked and put the bucket out the window and let out a rope Renaldo had missed seeing a minute ago. After many lengths out, it grew slack, and she hoisted it back in again. She pulled it to the window ledge and set it on the sill, dripping with water.

"The river runs behind our house," explained Juliana. "It's fast-running and turns our water wheel well, but there's also a hole just below our window where the water catches and pools a bit before slipping back into the stream. It is our good luck to have it there and so close to the kitchen; our trout always tastes freshest of any in the village!"

Renaldo walked over to the window behind Mother and poked his head through the open pane.

"Yes, what good luck you have to use the water this way!" Good luck--pob lwc--was always welcome, especially when concerned with food in village life.

"It was good luck, too, when we found it," said Mother as she deftly relieved the fish of its skin. "The baron sought to navigate this river some years ago and much of the village was employed to make it wide and deep enough in the necessary spots. At the time, this house abutted a large rock where that hole is now--a rock nearly as big as the water wheel!

"The townspeople knew better than to try and move the rock, so they chose to circumvent it and move the river away from the house which, unfortunately, would also pull the river away from our wheel."

"Father's great-grandfather built that wheel," interrupted Juliana. "We're generations of millers because of that wheel."

"Yes," replied Mother. "A new course for the river would mean much adjustment for our family, and for the villagers that rely on our help to grind at harvest.

"So the baron provided the villagers some horses to help pull his troughs so that they could dredge the huge amount of riverbank that would need to move. All of the village was needed for this particular effort."

"Including the children," put in Juliana.

"Yes," agreed Mother. "Including the children. Juliana and her brother, though he was only four years old at the time, and a handful to manage.

"But," she continued, "his help was needed and so he joined me at our assigned rear of the trough, knee-deep in river water as we guided it along.

"Well, the dredging worked, and we were able to pull a great depth of mud and clay from the river bottom, but it was hard-going…"

"Because of the suction!" interrupted Juliana. "It was like the river was pulling back against the earth we were removing! And Evan…"

"Yes, Evan," picked up Mother, "got distracted in the effort and lost his balance, toppling himself into the void we had created. And the river didn't stop sucking! He was pulled right under before anybody could reach him!"

"Mother started screaming," said Juliana. "I was so scared!"

"Yes, I lost my head," said Mother. "But thankfully Elton was nearby and at my side as soon as he heard me. He was immediately up to his waist, holding onto the rock, and reaching his arm for where his son might be.

"'He's stuck!,' he cried. 'He's partly under the rock and he can't get his head above water!' Elton was panicking and his voice was unearthly with fright."

"And then," Juliana continued, "Father lifted the rock off Evan. Plum straight off! He just rolled it to the side as though it weren't as tall as our wheel!"

"Aye," said Mother as she watched Renaldo's astonishment. "We like to tease him that his ancestors practiced lifting all the flour sacks in Wales just so he could inherit the strength of 20 Welsh ponies!"

"He indeed much be strong!" exclaimed Renaldo. He was truly impressed.

"Nay," laughed Juliana and her mother smiled encouragingly. "The rock was full of, guess what? Holes!"

"Holes?" Renaldo confirmed.

"Holes too tiny for a bird's beak, but holes nonetheless. The entire rock--all the whole of it--was… what was it, Mother?

"Mandyllog." Porous. "It was found to be light, so full of spaces without rock!"

Mandyllog, thought Renaldo. A surprisingly light stone. This was indeed surprising.

"And Evan," inquired Renaldo, "is he alright?"

"Not a scratch," said Mother. "But tell me--having told you so much already, why don't you tell me your name? I am Gwen."

"My thanks to you for your generous hospitality, Gwen," he replied. "I am Renaldo." He pronounced it slowly, as he had earlier for Juliana.

"Oh!" Gwen responded with surprise as she draped the fish around the spit. "Such a Norman name for a Welshman?"

"I am told my father was a Norman," said Renaldo in part truth. "My mother, Angharrett of Rhayader, would have called me James."

"He must have courted her well, that she would allow 'Renaldo.' But then, it's the blood in our veins that makes us Welsh, not our names."

Renaldo flinched at this as though he suddenly felt his blood divide.

Day 10 - Pushing Toward the Moors

...Baeddan. Baeddan was a large man by Welsh standards. He towered over most of the village and had since he was almost 10. Now a man, he was regarded as a giant. And while outside of his home village it was assumed he carried the presence of an ogre (the name "Baeddan" translates to "boar" in English, a birth day "gift" from his drunken oaf of a father), the villages knew him as kind and generous. On a typical day, he could be found helping merchants heft heavy bags onto and off of carts, or moving bales of bedding and feed on local farms. He was of average intelligence, but given his size and the hands that came with it, he was not given to handiwork, and so apprenticeships eluded him. However, the people around him were kind and took care of his needs by keeping him constantly employed with various jobs that required mere strength. Renaldo was anxious to catch up with Baeddan and reconnect their old friendship. It was Baeddan who had shown him the various methods with which to use one's own body to catch the better of an opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Those were youthful pursuits, but none the less important skills to master when one spent as much time on the road as Renaldo did. Mind you, Renaldo did not use his weight against Brother Frederic. By the saints, Renaldo was not even in the room at the time! But if one were to compare the shifts of tonnage and leverage of body to body with the seemingly abstract placement of abbey furniture at the time of… "Hail!" called Renaldo as he spotted a shepherd boy. "How near are we to Llanfair?" The boy looked up at him in surprise and shook his head. He hadn't understand the question. He tried again in Welsh, "Ble mae'r Llanfair?" His grasp of this western language was sparse, but he was confident it would serve him in wayfinding, at the very least. The boy raised an eyebrow, but allowed the question. He pointed his staff to the east and the nearly setting sun. "Ar ôl machlud haul." After sunset. He drew his staff back to his body and turned toward the rocky outcrop nearby. Renaldo could see the remnants of a meal scattered on the stone surfaces. The boy caught him looking toward the foodstuffs and paused, briefly before quickening his pace. He reached his makeshift dinner table in a few strides, swept the remains into a sack, and hurried off between the many boulders that grew into a veritable forest of stone that continued as far as the eye allowed. ***** Renaldo was alone again. He was about to continue on his way at a quickened pace when a movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye. A flash of black fur. A spector? An Welsh Pony! It had to be! With their regal bodies, the well-tempered ponies were beloved riding horses of the Welsh in this region. They afforded a tall mount and were hardy for the wet weather. They were good companions in this cold region, when you were fortunate enough to have and break one. Renaldo had not seen these moorish ponies since his childhood, and a rush of memories filled his mind without warning. The moors. An inn in the village. Barmaids. Strangers. Brawls. And more, too. His mother. His brothers. His baby sister. His baby sister's burial. And the undersized pony that bore her tiny casket to the church yard. He had to pause now, as if this flood of memories had pulled him like a fierce swell from the Irish Sea. He pushed back against the thoughts and began breathing--without realizing it, he had been holding his breath and now he filled his lungs with steady air. Welsh air.

The Moors

My novel keeps giving heartburn because I pull my characters into contradictory situations. For instance, he's off to the moors of Wales and comes across an Exmoor pony (cute as a button, BTW!). Come to find out, they're moorish, but only exist in the Southwest of England. And then I turn to a Dartmoor... which unfortunately ALSO is outside of Wales.

Well, now I have the Welsh Pony and there's none of this it's-not-in-Wales rubbish.

But since I resolved that bit of horseplay, I'm now ever-so-slightly concerned that the moors only exist in the Southwest of England. I've very much got my heart set on Renaldo reaching the moors. I don't quite know what pulls him (me) in that direction, but I mostly blame Mary Lennox from The Secret Garden, who was very anxious to view the talked-about moors on her rail journey to Misselthwaite Manor.

But of course I can't pull him out of Wales because he's uttered some lovely phrases so far, full of consonants and completely incomprehensible to my mono-lingual eyes.

What ordinary-yet-mystical location speaks to you?

Day 9

I'm several days - and gazillions of words behind! Oh my!

=====

The silence hung between them like a heavy, opaque brick. Nearly a full minute passed before either moved.

"I will send for the bay's groom on the morrow," Helmuth finally consented. "My work with her is done and the master may take her. If you bring me your foal then, I will inspect and consider it."

The visitor nodded and began to cough again.

"Understand, though, that if it is not of good quality, it is not worth my work," insisted Helmuth. "I will judge tomorrow and then can we talk of information."

"I would expect not less," said the visitor, as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "And I assure you that you will be pleased. Wahrlich." Verily.

While Helmuth felt surprise in this last expression, he was careful not to show it. In the course of this negotiation (if one could describe it as such), Helmuth had regained control of his emotions and expressions thereof. This stranger should know no more about him, at least until Helmuth could know what part this man played in the world they were both seemingly involved in.

"Until tomorrow, then. And now I must beg you leave as I must send a message to the castle for the groom."

The visitor, who had not moved from his standing beside the door, cleared his throat a final time, put his hand on the door, and turned to leave.

"What shall I call you?" asked Helmuth.

The stranger paused, looked Helmuth in the eyes, and furrowed his brow. He shook his head slowly, looked away, opened the door, and left.

Helmuth watched the man's departing back as he walked the path toward the trees and disappeared. He should have been angry at the imposition and the lack of information, but what he really felt was relief at his absence, no matter how short-lived it might be.

These were unknown emotions to him. Was it fear? It was fear. Fear growing larger and darker as he considered his mind.

And his past. There was so much about his past that he feared. The fear had been gone, but this man had brought it back. There was lots of fear that rose to be be considered.

-----

Renaldo had made good progress today. Soon he would reach the moors and, by default,

Baeddan. Baeddan was a large man by Welsh standards. He towered over most of the village and had since he was almost 10. Now a man, he was regarded as a giant. And while outside of his home village it was assumed he carried the presence of an ogre (the name "Baeddan" translates to "boar" in English, a birth day "gift" from his drunken oaf of a father), the villages knew him as kind and generous. On a typical day, he could be found helping merchants heft heavy bags onto and off of carts, or moving bales of bedding and feed on local farms. He was of average intelligence, but given his size and the hands that came with it, he was not given to handiwork, and so apprenticeships eluded him. However, the people around him were kind and took care of his needs by keeping him constantly employed with various jobs that required mere strength. Renaldo was anxious to catch up with Baeddan and reconnect their old friendship. It was Baeddan who had shown him the various methods with which to use one's own body to catch the better of an opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Those were youthful pursuits, but none the less important skills to master when one spent as much time on the road as Renaldo did. Mind you, Renaldo did not use his weight against Brother Frederic. By the saints, Renaldo was not even in the room at the time! But if one were to compare the shifts of tonnage and leverage of body to body with the seemingly abstract placement of abbey furniture at the time of… "Hail!" called Renaldo as he spotted a shepherd boy. "How near are we to Llanfair?" The boy looked up at him in surprise and shook his head. He hadn't understand the question. He tried again in Welsh, "Ble mae'r Llanfair?" His grasp of this western language was sparse, but he was confident it would serve him in wayfinding, at the very least. The boy raised an eyebrow, but allowed the question. He pointed his staff to the east and the nearly setting sun. "Ar ôl machlud haul." After sunset. He drew his staff back to his body and turned toward the rocky outcrop nearby. Renaldo could see the remnants of a meal scattered on the stone surfaces. The boy caught him looking toward the foodstuffs and paused, briefly before quickening his pace. He reached his makeshift dinner table in a few strides, swept the remains into a sack, and hurried off between the many boulders that grew into a veritable forest of stone that continued as far as the eye allowed.