TREEDEN

  The shy sun finally peeked through the clouds; its rays lit the darkened sky and warmed the ground beneath Victoria’s feet. Walking for hours, she wished she had brought her broom; flying would have been so much faster. She is an excellent flyer and loves the freedom flight brings and the intense exhilaration of being amongst the clouds with the wind blowing through her long hair and across her face. Not wanting to garner attention to herself, she did not, so here she slowly walks.

  Hours later she eventually greeted the tree line to the magical forest.

  Golden rays of sun barely penetrated the thick brush in front of her, but knowing her home and its surroundings she manoeuvred through a thin opening between two trees.

  The magical forest had a life of its own. In fact, all roots, be it large or small were all…connected, all knew what was happening. Even a newborn root that sprouted from the soil was instantly connected to this inter-forest. They formed a sort of symbiotic communication system that stretched past the borders of the forest itself to the grasslands covering all of Pangerath. This communication helped it to shift and move to protect itself. Deterring any trespassers from finding the home of the white witches who protected them.

  You see the white witches had a respect for the lands and their inhabitants. They cared for the forests and its creatures and would never do anything to harm them, so the forest, in turn, cared for them and protected them as well. Providing them with a safe place to call home. Opening routes for them and them alone. And so the trees and brush moved aside, creating a path for Victoria to follow home.

  The magical forest is not only home to the white witch, but many other magical creatures share this lavish community with its dense vegetation, thick thorned plants, and never-ending trees. Like the enormous and mighty red oak which stood tall and strong creating an umbrella for the shrubland below.

  Everything had its place and purpose in the magical forest, to preserve itself as well as the natives it deemed worthy.

  After walking along the path provided, Victoria had finally arrived at the outskirts of her village. She stood an ant before the thick trunks of the giant oaks and redwoods that had the semblance of tall, long-vine-haired women, dressed only in leaves and bark. They stood, rooted and motionless, holding each other’s branched hands below and at their sides creating an oval link of tall wooden-shaped women that curtained and hid the village inside. The first line of defence against intruders, should they somehow figure out their whereabouts.

  The fallen gold and rust-coloured leaves rustled beneath her feet as owls and birds high in the treetops announced her arrival.

  Walking south she came to stand at the trunk of the grandest of the trees, the thickest, tallest, and oldest of the lot. Mangled and disfigured it was evident that what stood before her had survived for generations.

  As Victoria smiled at the towering tree, knots, deeply carved and aged bark as well as traversing vines of the tree itself gathered before her to shape into an old man’s face.

  Victoria uttered “Ostium.” And the old face looked down towards its guest, then nodded with approval. A blue, glowing magical barrier at its wide base appeared, of which she entered and disappeared, reappearing on the other side of the tree surrounded village.

  “Welcome to Treeden my son. Welcome home.” She smiled delightfully at the comfortably sleeping babe swaddled in her arms.

  The massive village inside surrounded by the enormous trees stretched for hundreds of yards. A canopy high above provided shade or moonlight when needed.

  In front of her, a massive fire burned in the centre of the village. A gathering place where the witches discussed events at home as well as what was going on beyond their little world.

  Homes throughout the village all seemed to be fashioned by the earth itself as if the earth decided to rise to form domes of grass, dirt, roots, and vines. Including the chimneys for the home fires within and hanging strands of budded flowers and leafy vines that covered the doorways.

  There was a stream, an artery from Windemere in the northeast and their lifeline, which ran underneath the trees in the far north, through the centre of the village, eventually emptying back out a southern breach beneath the grand tree and on through the forest where it ultimately emptied into the oceans of the west.

  The great tree stood at the south of the village, its old big-nosed face now looking inside. A dome of roots from the old tree was bent to form the shape of a rooted hand that gently rested its fingertips in the running stream near its base. Towering above the other trees that made up the borders of the village, it was the matriarch, supplying, through fingered roots, the waters needed to sustain the other trees.

  Children were playing on top of a mound of grass beside the great tree, jostling and pretending to fly on homemade brooms of various branches tied tightly together with dead vines and roots provided to them by the magical forest. The real flying brooms the witches used were made of special enchanted branches given by the trees themselves when a witch was truly ready or in dire need.

  Amongst the progeny of the trees were little branch-like creatures called Twiks, the buds of the larger trees. They scurried about running and playing with the children. Most were the size of not more than two inches high. Thin twigs/sticks with dark brown round inquisitive eyes that were usually not aligned correctly, one may be higher or lower than the other, this uneven sight made for a distinct tottering walk. And they all had the same small round mouths that looked like knots on a tree. Some had a leaf atop their hollowed-out trunk, while others remained bald. All had thin, yet strong branch-like arms and legs that were crowned with firm leaf to serve as hands and feet. As they moved about one could hear minute clacking sounds, like when a branch lashes against a tree (tock-tock-tock) As well as a high-pitched whistle sound that emanated from the top of their hollowed-out head. They used either their leaf-type hair or hands to tap the top of the head creating a variety of pitched sounds. This was believed to be their communication system with other trees and Twiks of the forest, a type of Morse code as well as a warning system for the forest and humans alike.

  As all things do, they eventually got older and moved on in search of other Twiks with which they could form a symbiotic family-type relationship. But for now, they played and rested in the armed leaves of the fully-grown Twiks that bordered the village.

  To the west of the running stream was a fenced-off area where the much older of the witch’s planted and tended a garden of various vegetables. Only what the land provided. This was the staple of their diet. Together with fruits in the form of red, and green grape vines that straddled the trees encircling the village, as well as numerous fruit trees of apple, pear, and cherry. All supplied not only the energy they needed but also a source for trade in the Agora residing in the city of Tanis, the trading hub of Pangerath.

  The only other inhabitants of Treeden were the livestock who roamed freely. Consisting of two cows, Lucinda and Rebeka. Affectionately known as Luce and Beks. And then there was Billy the goat, with his long grey coat and white beard and two long bent-back and twisted white horns. He walked head held high as he chewed side to side watching everybody, as though he owned the place. And he wouldn’t budge from whatever path he decided to walk. People got out of His way. He pranced short and proud. A chauvinistic goat who did what he wanted, when he wanted, at times going in homes late at night to loudly crunch on the grass floors, leaving patches of dirt in his wake. Not caring who knew he was there.

  As Victoria stood at the entrance of the village she waited as the adult witches gathered around her. Raising only her eyes she watched her approaching sisters, then slowly lifted her head to look fully into the crowd of curious eyes staring back at her.

  The eager witches stood google-eyed, trying to grab a peek at the bundle she held. Victoria looked around “Please, sisters send your children to their homes.” She insisted. “This is not for their eyes.”

  They did not question their Queen and immediately sent their frustrated, huffing children off.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Making sure none were around but the adults she cleared her throat and sadly told the impatient-looking sisters “While away for the time of mating, our dear sister, Helen…has passed!” The crowd gasped in disbelief as distressed whispers circulated the crowd. Then one after another they dropped their heads and mumbled in prayer to mother earth.

  Through the sobbing chaotic voices, one voice rained out from within the crowd “How did she pass my Queen? She was far too young.”

  Victoria looked around trying to distinguish from whence the voice came. Not finding its source, she seethed “She was cursed by Malus! To die upon birth.” The crowd gasped and fearful whispers of ‘Malus’ circulated throughout the 20 plus witches.

  A witch in the back of the crowd yelled back “Upon birth?”

  “Yes, Malus forced himself upon our sister then cursed her should a seed ever take root.” Sighing, she continued as the stunned witches awaited more “Unfortunately it was his seed that took root.” Trying desperately to hold back tears she humbled her head for none to see her distressed face. She was the Queen and must portray strength onto others.

  Reaching down to the bundle of cloth in her arms, she unwrapped the child and raised him for all to see.

  Retreating backwards the witches held their hands to their mouths. Someone in the crowd uttered “A man child, you bring a man child to Treeden, sister, this is forbidden?”

  Another witch came forward, Lizabeth Mordon, exasperated, she hissed “This is his? His evil…and you bring it here? His bloodline is cursed, only evil and destruction of our homes can come of this. Discard the child and be done with it.”

  The Queen did not take kindly to orders, for she is the Queen and will forcefully act as one if need be, especially when her best friend's innocent child is being persecuted. With a wide stance, she clenched her jaw and looked sternly at the crowd. Locating Lizabeth, she snarled “How dare you address me as such… MORDON!”

  The Queen was furious, as she never uses the last names unless she is so. “Am… I! Not you’re Queen, and was not Helen, our sister? This is her child…Tristan. An innocent child…MORDON!” Exploded Victoria in an infuriated demanding tone.

  A witch within the gathered group came forth. It was sister Agatha one of the oldest of witches, she looked down at the child being held close to the chest of Victoria. Then asked “But my Queen, I thought that only witches beget witches, sister, no man has been born of a witch since before our time. Can he be the one of legend? Can he be the Ses O-M” The crowd whispered and muttered amongst themselves, for all witches, be it black, white, red, or any other denomination knew of the prophecy foretold long ago.

  Victoria looked down at Tristan then said, sombrely “I pray that he is. I pray that he is! And you are right we do not beget a man child because we have, for generations made sure our incantations adhere to the mate of our choosing. Malus is not one of those men. And I do hope for the sake of land and our home that he is indeed of the prophecy foretold, for Malus and his abhorrent armies are on the warpath!”

  A wave of sighs once again came over the crowd. Whispers and incoherent words spat out. The Queen raised her hand to silence them and continue “But, even if he is not the one of legend, he is still our sister’s child and we do not abandon family…this is my word! And this is FINAL! We will NOT! Make a pariah of this blessed child.”

  Victoria scanned the lowered heads to see if any oppose her word, they knew better and stood hushed. The reluctant silence afforded her to continue and so she ordered “We shall teach him all our magic. All our ways of defence, healing, and offensive magic’s, potions, and the like…then we shall see. And we will teach him our way of life, so that he may cherish the earth and its creatures as we do.” With a single voice, the crowd reluctantly whispered: “So let it be scribed, so shall it be done!”

  Most of the witches congregated around Victoria and the child at her bosom, trying to get a better look at their new pupil-to-be. All, except Lizabeth.

  After a few minutes, Victoria raised her left arm motioning for an opening; the crowd slowly opened a path for the Queen, allowing her to head to the far northern end of the village, and her home.

  Atop a small mound stood her home created by risen grassy-earth and roots and vines. It overlooked the town centre and the rest of the village. No door was present save for the vines that hung over the oval hole of the earth-home. No door was needed for sister witches were free to enter each other’s homes at will. They were as one family.

  Her earthy-round-home was surrounded by a garden of sunflowers and a variety of roots, plants, and spices. Ingredients for food preparation as well as potions.

  Victoria sighed a sigh of relief upon stepping into her home and smelling the faint scent of smoke still rising from the dying embers in the firepit. Her sisters must have kept her home warm while she was away.

  Walking on the cushioned and perfectly trimmed emerald green grass inside she headed for the dying firepit and placed dead logs as she held Tristan close to her chest and said the words to erupt a flame within.

  Then on to her favourite spot, to sit in her rocker beside a large round dugout window in the far right corner which had an embedded assortment of flowers that would catch a gentle incoming breeze that aromatized the dirt and grass-scented household. A perfect place to unwind and reflect on all that has happened and what may happen.

  The essence of burning, crackling, deadwood, filled the tiny home with warmth, emphasizing the bouquet of the fresh grass and the sweet soft aroma of flowers. As she sat in her rocker in front of the fire, a flickering shadowy ballet of flames danced about the room easing more her drained body and mind.

  With Tristan in her arms, she rocked him off to sleep, chanting repeatedly “Hoc Defendat Puer” Protect this child…protect this child. Until exhaustion from the day's events and the long march overtook her as well and she too fell victim to the intoxicating aroma and enchanting ballet of flames, sending her into a deep sleep as she stared heavy-eyed lovingly rocking the cuddled bundle wrapped warmly in her arms as the long emotional day surrendered to uneventful night.

  Daylight’s scattered beams broke through the tree canopy melting the dewed grass from the chilled night, creating a moistened grassy scented air inside Victoria’s home, toppled with the smoke of spent logs and blooming vines.

  Yesterday’s dreary and dreadful day still lingered in her thoughts as Victoria rose to her feet from the rocker chair, holding firm the still sleeping Tristan.

  Moving quietly towards her bed in a room at the far-left corner she placed the little babe upon her wooden bed of woven linen packed tight with feathers, hides of animals long since passed served as covers. She then headed back to the cooking area to prepare a meal of goat’s milk and herbs for the young babe, mixing all in a wooden bowl.

  Grabbing and emptying a small skin used to store her water for travel, Victoria filled it with the goat’s milk and herbs and pierced a small hole in the bottom corner to serve as a spout.

  Rustling from the back room grabbed her attention. Taking the newly made mixture and a wooden horse bibelot for his amusement, she headed to her room where Tristan lay. A smile encompassed her face as she entered and saw Tristan’s arms flailing about as he “Gooed and Gaaed,” and kicked the air.

  Picking him up she stared into his bright blue eyes. Even though he cannot see at this age, he must feel the love emitted, for when she held and rocked him, a gummed dimpled smile engulfed his tiny face as his little legs kicked in the air with excitement, followed by a shrieking hyperventilating laugh, making Victoria laugh in return.

  Smiling, Victoria softly kissed his little cheeks and said “You are home and you are safe, Tristan. Now, little cutie, you must be starving?” As she placed the goatskin to his mouth for him to find and suckle his little hands squeezed the leather skin as his lips pursed in and out creating a bubbling, watery sound with each suckle, soaking his cheeks and the blanket under his tiny chin. This became the daily routine for many loving years.

  As those years passed, everyone remained safe in their hidden village. The horrors of her best friend's murder and of Malus’s attack and take over of Bubastis have become a distant memory. The memory of her friend though still haunted her dreams. And she hoped that her dear friend would approve of how she raised her son.

  To the bewilderment of all, Malus had seemingly ceased his aggression against kingdoms. They did not realize it was only a temporary cessation of hostilities, so he could expand his army. The calm before the storm. For he knew to make a move further into other lands he would need a massive, matured, and ruthless army, for the other kingdoms have much more in way of defence and better-trained soldiers than that of the razed Bubastis.

  He had been at work, training and growing his dark army. Some of which came from the multiple islands that were just off the shores of Pangerath, as well as from small isolated villages he took hostage. Forcing them to do his bidding on fear of death for them or their loved ones.

  Villages that resided on the outskirts of Tanis, with whom he skullduggered into an alleged allegiance, were unaware that it was in-fact, Malus who had been raiding and taking hostage their remote towns, for when Tanis’s King sends a war party to investigate more often than not they do not return, but rather become consumed into Malus’s ranks through payment or fear.

  Malus even had the audacity to offer his aid in pursuing the so-called pillagers to King Cratus of Tanis. Garnering even greater trust between himself and the unsuspecting King.

  Not only did Malus tear families apart through his enslaved recruitment, but he also murdered the land in the process, swiftly assaulting the vitality of this Edened land as his men scorched homes to cinder, some of which, that stood adjacent to the forests, needed only a hint of wind to carry their spark to nearby trees. Trees who then cried a crackling cry, as they too burned and blistered too ash, blackening the sky above with their plumed soot.

  The once beautiful and vibrant land his men crossed had become suffocated. Grass once green and vivid, had turned brown and lifeless, stamped-out by the many fires and the fallen dead bodies that leaked blood and decomposed, creating a foul odour that could be tasted and smelt for miles.

  Pangerath cried out for help as it tried to wash away the destruction and blood with torrential rains that became ever more frequent.

  With no one to stop Malus and his killing of the people and the lands, this unmatched paradise will perish forever beneath chaos and the death that accompanied his bellicose actions.

  Then, for reasons unknown, as fast as his warmongering began, he suddenly ceased his aggressive onslaught and recruitment/kidnapping and focused mainly on mining the underworld in a hastened search… for something.