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Chapter Two 3 times longer than chapter one - yay!

* I just realised before (major oversight) that I completely forgot to include the Sorceress's name in chapter 1. She will not simply be "the sorceress" throughout the whole thing. Her name is Arna Arishka. I will work this into my redraft of chapter one and hopefully upload it soon.

* Also, I'm not quite all there at the moment *is sick* so, if there's any gibberish or bits that don't make sense, please let me know, or (quite likely) any spots where the style/narrative voice slips out of character.

* Lastly, I know absolutely nothing about farming or agriculture (and haven't had time for research), so if there are any gaping voids or obvious mistakes in this regard, please point them out.

Chapter Two

Year after year, the people of Anturon lived in peace and prosperity, with each harvest as bountiful, if not more so, than the last. They passed the warmer months in their work, tending their fields and their livestock, and teaching and nurturing their children. The colder months brought frosts, and even the odd sprinkling of snow, and always the villagers feared their next crop would fall short of the norm, for surely the mountain soils, rich though they were, could not continue such high yields forever. But, for the time being, it appeared that their fortune would continue.

Each year, as the harvest approached, the villagers worried that their offerings would not satiate the sorceress, Arna Arishka. Her presence was sensed, not seen, and still those who had witnessed her first appearance could hear her rasping voice at the backs of their minds. The winds that howled through the caves of Murmuring Mountain seemed to echo her warning.

You will make an offering from your harvest every year that you encroach upon my existence or you shall pay dearly for it.

The children of Anturon seemed to be born with an innate fear, both of the seemingly deserted house upon the mountain, and for the sorceress they never saw. The villagers would not risk Arna even a glimpse of their children, lest she prefer to eat them than the foods they offered her, like the witches of children’s tales.

Unlike in other farming towns, and indeed in the towns the people of Anturon had once called home, Anturon’s harvest was always a subdued affair. Music and mirth had first drawn them to Arna’s attention, and they could not risk evoking her anger.

The children were not permitted to take part until they came of age in their fourteenth year. Those too young were given fresh bread and newly-pressed honey, and tucked into bed before the sun left the sky.

In the gathering darkness, a bonfire would be lit, around which all the villagers gathered. Brother Almar, their spiritual leader, would give thanks and praise to Lanaya, Mother of Fertility. A small lamb or goat would be sacrificed in Her name, its blood returned to the earth, Lanaya’s womb, from which all life sprang.

The ceremony would draw to a close as the last radiant glow of the setting sun sank below the horizon, and the stars burst forth from the indigo sky above them. The gathered crops would be carried in large woven baskets across the fields, as close as the villagers dared get to the foot of Murmuring Mountain. Livestock would be tethered close by, and fowls contained in lidded baskets clucked sleepily. Returning to the safety of their village, the people of Anturon would see no more of Arna than her wiry silhouette as she peered out her door, ensuring her demands were met and no surprises awaited her.

At first light the next morning, the children of Anturon leapt from their beds and raced to the edge of the settlement. Their feet blackened by the charcoal that was all that remained of the night’s bonfire, they craned their necks for a glimpse of Arna. But there was never any sign of her, nor of the offering she had been left. The little house upon the mountain would show no signs of life, until light once again spilled from the open door as she watched the villagers, like a hawk watching its prey.

* * *

By the fateful year of this tale, Anturon was still only a young town. The first children born in the village were recently come of age. Their excitement grew as their first harvest, and their first glimpse of Arna, approached.

This had been a prosperous season. The wheat stood tall and proud in its field, shining in the sun light. In the orchards, tree branches bowed and creaked under the weight of the fruit they bore. So buoyed by this sight were the people of Anturon that they did not immediately notice the dark clouds gathering upon the horizon, and they paid no heed to the sudden chill on the wind.

As the day wore on, grey clouds rolled across the sky, obscuring the sun. The villagers gazed up at the sky appraisingly.

“There’s good rain in those clouds”, remarked Rycroft knowledgably, with a toothless grin. “Good for the harvest.”

Several men working nearby grunted in agreement, each of them pausing in their work to gaze at the approaching storm. Many other people in the village did the same. A sudden gust of cool air, biting at their hot skin, seemed to jerk them out of their reverie and they returned to their tasks.

They were not long at their work, however, before the light began to fail. No sooner had they ceased their work and gathered up their tools, than fat, heavy drops of rain fell like chips of iron from the sky.

Small children splashed joyfully in quickly forming puddles, and the villagers breathed in the sweet smell of the rain as it fell upon the sun-warmed wheat fields. When the rain redoubled its intensity, the villagers sought the shelter of their homes.

But this was no ordinary storm. Every now and then, when the weather conditions are right, the Northern Reaches are lashed by severe storms, known by some as the Northern Furies.

That night was a sleepless one for the people of Anturon. Roaring thunder shook the very walls of their houses, terrifying the children, and dazzling flashes of lightning sliced through the night sky, illuminating the iron grey clouds.

Children cried and curled themselves up in the protective embrace of loved ones. The cattle lowed in fear and the bells about the necks clanged noisily as the frightened animals agitated the soft ground with their hooves. With each clap of thunder the fowls all squawked and flapped about.

But little of this clamouring chorus reached the villagers’ ears over the sound of the storm. Thousands upon thousands of berry-sized hail stones pounded upon the roofs and the sodden ground with a dull “thunk”, “thunk”, “thunk”. The driving rain beat a relentless rhythm on their roofs and soon began to find small gaps in the thatching. As water dripped into their homes, the people of Anturon resigned themselves to a sleepless night.

Unable to sleep, Myfanwy took up her sewing in the guttering light of an oil lamp which cast dancing shadows upon the walls as she worked. A sudden clap of thunder made her jump, and she swore under her breath as she pricked her finger upon the needle. She flung her work aside in frustration. As still more thunder rang out through the night, her son, Darton, awoke from a fitful sleep with a start and began to cry again.

Darton leapt from his bed and raced towards his mother.

“Mummy! I’m . . .I’m scareded!” Burying his tear-stained cherubic face against her chest, he entwined his fat little fingers in her hair as she held him close.

“Hush, now. It’s alright. It’s just a storm” Myfanwy hoped her son could not sense the tremor in her voice that betrayed her own nerves. How she wished her husband was still alive; she would have felt safer then.

“Make the big noises stop, Mummy!” wailed Darton tearfully as the pounding rain and clamouring thunder continued.

“They’ll stop soon, sweetheart. They’ll stop soon.” She stroked his downy blonde hair as she cooed gently in his ear. “You’ll be a big brave boy for Mummy, now, won’t you?”

She swayed gently from side to side with her child in her arms. Darton was soon asleep again, and Myfanwy followed him shortly, falling asleep on the floor.

As dawn approached, the thunder and lightning ceased, and the rain eased to a light shower. Normally early risers, the exhausted villagers slept well into the morning. The sun seemed to sit higher in the sky than usual, as if it were curious to know what happened and wanted to get a good look.

Stretching, yawning, and blinking in the bright morning light, the people of Anturon emerged from their houses. Never had they expected, or planned for, the sight that met their eyes . . .

* * *

A tangible silence spread throughout the crowd as the extent of the storm’s damage was realised.

Little remained of the golden crop of wheat; fine chaff still floated lazily upon the warm breeze, like golden flakes of snow. That which remained was bent and battered, but salvageable. The corn had fared little better than the wheat, saved only by its hairy husks. Leaves and braches were strewn across the fields.

As the milk maids hurried to soothe the restless cows, the rest of the villagers spread out to better survey the damage.

In the orchards, the fruit trees’ branches no longer bowed because of the weight of their wares, but because they were snapped and windswept. Bruised, battered and crushed fruit lay upon the muddy ground, surrounding by the slowly melting hail stones that had destroyed them. Berry brambles, now no more than prickly sticks, seemed almost to bleed from mortal wounds as scarlet juice dripped from their thorns.

And so it was with almost all their crops. About the only thing that remained reasonably unharmed were the vegetables growing below the rich warm soil. But they could not survive an entire year on carrots and onions, could they?

As the enormity of the situation became apparent, the people of Anturon despaired at their plight. They had grown so accustomed to bountiful harvests that each year they had stored and preserved less and less food.

The harvest was a week away. The grain farmers, feeling that the battered broken wheat was unlikely to grow or recover enormously in the short period before harvest, decided to collect it that day, lest another storm roll in over night and destroy what was left. The same was decided of the other remaining produce, and so the day was passed in fervent work as usual, but with far graver spirits.

The least damage produced was collected and stored in Anturon’s main hall, while the more battered was turned into jams, pickles and preserves. That which was beyond salvage was fed to the livestock.

As the day drew to a close, the villagers gathered about a bon fire, onto which were thrown the broken limbs of ruined trees, amongst other debris from the storm.

Darton tugged at the hem of his mother’s dress.

“Mummy! I’m scareded”. Myfwanwy scooped the child up into her arms. Balancing his weight upon her hip, she caressed his flushed cheek.

“It’s alright now, poppet. The storm is gone.” He fidgeted in her arms, straining to look over his shoulder.

“Noooo, not the storm” he grizzled, “not scareded of the storm.”

“Oh? But then what has frightened you, sweetheart?”

“No food”, he said simply. Myfanwy smiled gently at him and kissed his forehead.

“There will be enough food for you, dear.”

“Not for me!” he said, almost impatiently.

“Oh. Who for then? For me? Or your friends?” she shifted his weight higher up on her hip and continued. “There will be enough for us all. Not as much as we’re used to, but we will manage.” When Darton began fidgeting in her arms and tried to look over his shoulder again, Myfanwy became concerned.

“Darling, what is it? Just tell me. Has someone said something to frighten you?”

“The mean lady” he said, with a tremor in his voice.

“The mean lady? You mean Missus Applet-- . . . ”

“No! The mean lady! Who takes the food.”

Myfanwy still could not comprehend what her son was trying to tell her.

“The one on the mountain, who comes at night.” Comprehension dawned on Myfanwy as suddenly and sickeningly as if a lead weight had been dropped into her stomach.

“Arna.” The word was barely more than a breath.

“Will she eat me instead, Mummy?” Tears welled in Darton’s deep blue eyes, and his mother had to fight back tears of her own.

“No, no, no, no, I . . . I won’t let her, sweetheart. I won’t let her harm you.”

Noticing Myfanwy’s distress, Esme, the “mother hen” of Anturon, enquired:

“Alright, love? Little man getting a bit grizzly?”

“Arna” she said simply. It was all she could think to say. “What do we do about Arna?”

The chatter quickly died away as the thought suddenly struck the villagers. Having spent the day so hard at work, after so little sleep, it had not occurred to them that Arna would be less than pleased with the measly harvest.

“Well,” ventured Esme, a lot more tentatively than before, “not much we can do just now. Best we get some sleep, and we’ll all talk it over in the morning.” The small group half expected her to continue, but when she said nothing more and, instead, fiddled with a small hole in her sleave and avoided everyone’s eyes, they had to admit she was right. As much as they wanted to resolve this new hurdle, it would have to wait. With distracted murmurs of “good night” they returned to their houses.

* * *

Early next morning, all the people of Anturon gathered to consider the problem of Arna.

Brother Almar, as always, believed the best of everyone, and insisted Arna would listen to reason.

“Surely,” he said, “she will see the devastation left by the storm. She may already have seen it. She cannot expect us to make the same offering of years past.” He looked imploringly at the crowd before him, arms outstretched as if to embrace and comfort them all.

“Brother Almar, I mean you no disrespect. You are a man of sound mind and kind heart.” Here the new speaker, Jasper the Smithy, bowed deeply, as if in supplication, which Brother Almar returned with a modest smile.
“However,” he continued a little more forcefully, wiping the smile from the priest’s face, “you cannot possibly believe that dross!” Several of the crowd gasped.

“I I I . . . I w . . . would . . . like to believe it, yes. In fact -- . . .”

“Oh, we’d all like to believe it, Brother, but how can we? How can we believe that this, this . . . thing! this creature will listen to reason? Do you remember what she said that night, Brother? Do you remember how she said we shall ‘pay dearly’ if we do not appease her?”

The stunned priest was lost for words. He merely opened and closed his mouth, voicing no thoughts, like a landed fish gasping for air.

Everyone turned as a middle aged woman stood up to speak. Fear was written all over her care-worn face. “I say we run. Leave. Before she can do us harm.” The desperation in her voice was evident. “Let us not keep our children in harm’s way. The harvest is six days from now. If we gather provisions and our belongings today, we can leave tomorrow and reach the safety of Erumar in three or four days’ walk. We’ll be safe there. We can start again.”

A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd, gathering strength.

“No.”

A sudden silence fell upon the crowd.

A tall, broad shouldered young man stood up, and all eyes turned to him.

“We cannot run. Anturon’s founders left their homes because they had to. They had to find more prosperous soils. We have a choice. We can run away and hide – but what happens if she finds us? Follows us? Or, we can fight for what we have worked for.”
“I say we make our offering to Arna as usual, from the best of the harvest and -- . . .”

“We’ll do no such thing!” cried the middle aged woman. “You’d give all the best to her” here she spat upon the ground, “and leave our people to starve? To live on scraps and jam?”

“I never said it would be easy! But the way I see it our options are ‘hard’ or ‘dead’, and personally I’d rather live on scraps and jam than not live at all.” Several people cheered at this and, buoyed by this show of increasing support, the young man pressed on.

“Maybe”, he said solemnly, “this had to happen. Maybe we had to learn not to be complacent, and to simply expect the good harvests to continue. Maybe we needed to learn that nothing lasts forever.”

At these sobering words, Jasper rejoined the debate.

“I agree with the lad. We must prepare our offering for Arna as usual.” Speaking to everyone, he said “Do we agree, more or less, upon this plan?”

Though a few remained unconvinced of the merits of this ‘plan’, for the most part the people of Anturon agreed. This decision was a defining moment in the town’s short history . . .