The Fickle Winds of Autumn

The thick undergrowth rustled and scratched against her legs as Kira slowly approached the glow of the fire. The trunks and deep shadows of the trees and the low dark of the evening still held her invisible in their depths.

The sound of low voices disturbed the forest around her.

Clearly they were human - so at least she didn’t have to worry about witches or monsters.

Reassured, she edged slightly nearer through the woodland vegetation.

Closer still; her nose was tickled by the unmistakable smell of food being prepared over the fire. Her stomach grumbled at her to get a move on, but she paused and listened hard; the rest of her body urged caution.

Across the short darkness, she picked out several distinct voices - all of them men, she judged. One of the voices seemed to be in charge and kept barking out orders to the others and letting them know if things were not to his liking; often the voice shouted at them roughly and used several blunt words which Kira had never encountered before.

“When’s that stew a-ready?” the distinctive gruff voice growled.

At the sound of the word ‘stew’, her frustrated stomach agitated again.

The warmth and brightness of the fire called out to her through the damp, clinging chill of her robes.

A tempting anticipation rippled through her thoughts and body - the prospect of being able to speak to someone else again, and not to die there alone with only the silent trees for company; and to be comfortable by a fire and perhaps even to eat…

“It’s now or never,” she told herself, as she stood up from the skulking shadows and began to march straight towards the enticing warmth of the fire.

“Ermm, … hello!” she announced, still a little way back, so as not to startle those by the fire unnecessarily.

Even from this distance, it was clear that there were indeed three men, as she had thought. They all immediately sat bolt upright and grabbed for their knives.

“Hello,” said Kira timidly, as she stepped forward into the flickering light, “can I please sit by your fire, sir?”

The men stood up and looked at her with distrustful eyes; the one whose voice she recognised as being the leader addressed her, while the other two kept busily peering out into the dark forest around them.

“Who are you? What are you a-doing out here?” he demanded.

“Erm…, I’m a novice from the Venerated Convent of the Sinless Moon. I’m lost - I mean, I got…separated from my classmates. Can I sit by your fire please? I’m tired and cold and I won’t be any trouble.”

Kira stepped closer into the welcoming ring of orange warmth and light.

Closer to the delicious smell of the large pot of stew which seemed to beckon her in; thick and bubbling above the fire; attended by a haggard-looking woman, whose stooped shoulders were worn down by time and circumstance, and whose voice Kira had not detected from the safety of the shadows.

“Alright, you can sit down here, little girl,” said the one who was in charge. He indicated a place by the fire, but his eyes kept scanning deep into the distrusting shadows of the forest behind her, and one hand still clasped tightly to his knife. The other two men moved cautiously about the camp-fire and gazed out in different directions, alert and restive.

Kira sat on the log the one in charge had pointed to. Close up, he was a large burly man whose build suited his gruff voice; his black hair sat above a deep scar, slashed across his forehead and face.

One of the others was thin and pale, while the third was tall and powerfully built.

The warmth of the fire reached out to Kira’s grateful legs and body, but the brooding, powerful presence of the one in charge disturbed her thankful relief.

Perhaps she was just shy and unused to male company?

They had been good enough to let her sit with them, after all.

“Where’s the rest of your travellin’ companions?” the one in charge asked. “A young girl like you shouldn’t be out here in the forest all alone. Don’t you know there are dangers hereabouts?”

“Well, I got …er.. separated from them,” Kira said, not sure how much of her story to tell. “… and I haven’t eaten in a few days,” she said as she deliberately eyed the steaming cauldron.

“Oh, I see,” said the pensive boss, his eyes still searched the dark tree-line out beyond the camp. “You’d better have a bowl of our stew then. Martha, get her a bowl!”

The dour-looking woman ladled out a small portion of the bubbling liquid and Kira gulped it down without caring if it burnt her mouth or not. Her stomach gurgled its appreciation.

It was not the best stew she had tasted - not as good as Sister Dorothea’s, who added plenty of salted rosemary to it - but it was good, and its warming nourishment thawed her relieved insides. The glow from the fire began to dry her robe and body; the drifting trails of water vapour rose and swirled from her boots; a subtle contentment cradled her.

Her anxious shoulders relaxed.

Surely they couldn’t be murderers or cut-throats if they made such nice stew?

And they had been kind enough to share it with her.

The thin man and the muscular one continued to prowl around the dark perimeter of their small encampment; the scarred man, who was in charge, kept his eyes on them and on Kira; the blade of his long knife flashed in the glow of the fire.

“Where’s your ma and par?” he asked.

“I don’t think I have any,” Kira replied. “I was a novice at the nunnery at Corborough - and I’ve been there since before I can remember, so I don’t know about any family.”

The heat of the fire thawed out her weary body; plumes of steam rose from her drying tunic; the nourishment of the stew rippled down and rehydrated her; the relief of finally having a conversation with another human being began to melt her tense concerns.

“Corborough? That’s a fair old way from here,” continued the scarred boss. “But won’t those nuns be a-looking out for you then?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Kira. “They might think I was killed with my classmates back at the Sacred Grove. I mean, I was there a few nights ago, but we were attacked by witches.”

“Oh! Witches is it?” said the boss, “Yes, there be some nasty things about in these woods - can’t never be too careful.” He glanced round at his colleagues and the dark forest.

“So there’s no-one really?” he said, returning his focus to Kira. “I mean, you’ve got no-one that’s a-looking out for you, and a-thinking you’d be missing and a-wishing you was back safely home with them?”

“Well, probably not - only my friend Amber. And the Prima Sister - Amelia Constance - she scolded me so often, I should think she’s probably pleased to be rid of me. She’s such an old meanie.”

The scarred boss put his knife away and sat down near the fire.

“And so you’re here all alone then? Well, a most encouraging piece of luck that you found us, I should say.”

He rubbed his hands towards the dancing orange flames.

“Pocket! Scout the perimeter - make sure there are no… wolves… or such-like a-prowling around.”

The shorter, thin man, slunk off into the forest shadows which encircled the camp.

The warming blood began to pulse through Kira’s numbed legs; she rubbed them and stretched her grateful hands towards the fire.

The flames crackled and spat.

A heavy silence smothered the warm brightness.

Surely it would only be polite to keep up the conversation?

Wouldn’t it just be rude to sit and eat and never talk to her hosts?

“So, are you lost out here too?” she asked.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“No, little lady,” the scarred boss replied, “we are a-travellin’ through these woods - along the Northern Route towards the coast. We just a-pulled in here for the night. The track is just over yonder, but it’s safer to camp a little way off it.”

The thinner man appeared back within the glow of the fire-light; a large bunch of keys on his belt jangled as he sheathed his knife. “It’s all clear out there boss,” he said.

Kira’s shoulders eased down into place.

She was safe - there would be no wolf attacks, or monsters, or witches tonite.

The luxurious contentment of the fire radiated up at her; the pirouetting sparks glided up and danced in the patterns of its changing flames.

This was how she had imagined life outside the convent walls should be - a cosy warmth, and company, and stew, and no maths lessons or nuns to trouble her.

A gentle metallic tinkling chimed intermittently from behind the supply wagon which formed one side of the camp.

“Will your horses be warm enough over there, so far away from the fire?” she asked.

“What them?” said the boss, glancing over to the wagon. “Oh yes, they’ll be fine where they are. You like horses, do you? Want to come and see them? Pocket and I will take you over and introduce, you if you like.”

“Yes please,” said Kira, as she stood to follow her hosts.

Away from the warmth and light provided by the fire, Kira’s eyes strained through the thick, shifting shadows which swam across the wagon.

“Just round here, miss,” the boss smiled.

In the dim light, the dark outlines of two horses munched on some shrubs a little way off from the camp.

But the tinkling sound continued - somewhere down low, close to the wheels.

Another group of people, perhaps ten or so, sat there; they huddled together in muted silence, each covered with only a few miserable ragged clothes, which hung wet and limp from their dirty battered bodies. They had hunkered down with their backs against the wheels of the wagon; they visibly shivered in the chill of the night, their wrists and ankles shackled in a heavy set of iron chains and manacles.

Kira winced; her skin trembled and crawled in shocked repulse.

She had heard that bad people were often locked up in chains and kept in jails as punishment - indeed the nuns had often threatened her with this very fate on particularly vexing occasions - but the reality seemed even more truly awful than her imagination could have envisaged.

“But these aren’t horses!” she gasped. “Are they your prisoners? Did they commit a crime? They don’t look very comfortable or warm. Perhaps you should feed them and bring them over by the fire too?”

“Oh, these ain’t no prisoners,” said the boss, “these here are slaves. We’re taking them to be sold at Albsberg port.”

“Slaves! Oh, but that’s horrible!”

“And now we know you be all alone and not likely a-looked for, it seems that you’ll be a-joining them, missy.”

“What? Me?” Kira replied. “But I haven’t done anything wrong!” and she turned to face her host, determined to protest.

“Quit yer snivelling!” was his rough answer.

The bitter sting of his palm smacked across her shocked cheek.

Her head jerked and reeled; she sprawled to the damp ground; her face and jaw rang in caustic pain; her senses scrambled for meaning from the humiliating blow, but had no time to recover from the ringing impact; the bruising knees of Pocket dug hard into her ribs, pinning her down; the miserable biting cold iron of the shackles snapped shut and stung deep into the soft skin of her ankles and calves.

“Not much meat on her bones,” Pocket commented as he got off her. “But she might fetch a coin or two at Albsberg.”

“An unexpected bonus I should say!” The boss rubbed his hands together. “A nice little bit of business at no extra cost to ourselves - all told, a most encouraging night’s work.”

They walked away, back to the comfort of the fire.

A stupefying daze hummed through Kira’s ears, venomous and oppressive; a bitter red welt burned at her raw cheek.

The wet muddy ground squelched and sucked at her numbed, wretched body, leaching away the heat and hope of the fire; but the heavy, nagging shackles prevented her from shifting position.

She trembled with cold and shock and reached around her shoulders to pull at a warm shawl that was not there.

She had never been hit before - not even the nuns in their most angry moods had ever resorted to physical cruelty.

She peered through the dim chilling, darkness at the other silent unfortunates chained to her and to each other. After the forced isolation of the forest, she now at least had some company; and yet, in all her years, she had never felt so helplessly and miserably alone.