RAMBLINGS OF A REBEL

                The wind swiftly rushed through the trees, carrying the scent of wildflowers from a field on the east side of the forest.  It glided through the brush effortlessly until it came upon a tree. The tree, older and larger than the others, rested at the edge of a small clearing. Dense roots broke the earth like a dolphin breaks the water as it surfaces.  Rough as hands callused from long labor, the deep tan roots escaped from the dark earth in search of the sun’s warmth. The wind soared upward, around the large trunk of the tree. Faded tan from years spent under the sun, the trunk swayed from the force of the wind.  The wind delved into the tree’s core where it held seventy-years of memories. It remembered fighting to hold its ground in the midst of a storm, striving for life in the middle of a drought, and the joy of watching a small bird take its first flight.  The wind shot up the rest of the twenty-foot trunk above the dark canopy of the trees and into the sunlight, wrapping itself in the tree’s long branches.  The branches directly attached to the trunk beckoned the wind deeper into its umber clutches. Other branches, some as thin as candle sticks, diverged from the larger ones, forming a labyrinth the wind fought to escape. The nodule branches constantly grew, striving for longevity and the warmth of the sun.  Long needles, smooth as leather, dangled from the faded tan branches and glistened in the sunlight.  Forest green pine needles protruded from every portion of each rough branch. The thin needles danced, displaying a thousand shades of green as the wind weaved through them.  The wind carried the scent of damp earth through the tree, brushing the waxy needles together.  The rustling startled a small squirrel scampering through the branches. Its nose twitched, alert for danger.  The amber dusted brown squirrel stood erect on its hind legs, the white stripe down its back stationary. Its black, curious eyes, wide as golf balls, emanated with fear.  The wind followed the squirrel as it scurried down the tree’s trunk to its home, a leafy nest at the base of the tree.  The wind continued past the squirrel and away from the tree, toward the center of the clearing. It rippled through a chocolate mass of hair lying on the ground.  It slid over the woman’s sleeping form before soaring off to find a new adventure.

 

            The woman’s pale features faced the warm sun.  She abruptly opened her sapphire blue eyes. The rustling of leaves made her sit up quickly, her long, brown hair falling onto her shoulders. Her wide eyes scanned the clearing carefully. There it was again, a rustle in the trees to her left.  She locked her gaze on the pine tree the noise seemed to be coming from.  She bent her knees under her and wrapped her soft, pale fingers slowly around her bow, her eyes never leaving the large pine tree.  She silently pulled a single arrow from her quiver that lay on the ground to her right. Pushing herself into a crouch, she nocked the arrow. Her form-fitting, cream gown rippled around her ankles as she straightened, expanding a few inches to form a circle around her, approximately six inches in diameter.  Her bare feet glided through the brush soundlessly towards the thriving tree. She brought her bow up to eye level, prepared to shoot at the slightest provocation.  With a loud cry, a cloaked figure cascaded through the branches, showering the floor with green pine needles.  A groan escaped the heap of fabric that landed on the ground just six feet in front of her.  Startled, she merely stared at the motionless bundle.  It twitched and, hunched over, started to rise with its back towards her.  She could see now that it was the shape of a man covered in a black, hooded cape, no doubt to protect him from the elements, or to hide his identity.  Realizing this, her body tensed as she pulled back the string of her bow, the arrow aimed at the figure’s back.

            “Turn and face me,” she yelled with command that only a noble woman could have. Still bent over and swaying the figure took a step forward.  She narrowed her eyes.

            “Turn!” Only cowards would shoot an opponent’s back, she thought.

            When the figure continued to remain motionless, she loosed the arrow. It pierced his arm, and he doubled over in pain.

            “Reveal your face!”  She demanded, fitting a second arrow to the string.

            The figure pulled back his hood and, gripping his arm, whirled around to face her.  The man wore a pair of black breeches and a dirty tunic that looked like it was once a cream color.  The sleeves hung loosely around his arms down to his wrists.  The black cloak was draped around his shoulders, the hood now resting on his back as he stared at Gwenn with piercing amber eyes, eyes that Gwenn knew.

            “Bloody hell, Gwenn! Why’d you shoot me?!”

            “Christopher?!”

            “Who else’d I be?!” He winced and grumbled, “What kinda girl goes and shoots her best friend?”

             “Well if you would’ve just turned around and shown me who you were, I wouldn’t have shot you! What are you doing here anyway?”

            “Trying to find you! What else would I be bloody doing out in the middle of bloody nowhere?! And how do you expect me to move properly after falling ten feet from a tree! Gah! That smarts!” he exclaimed, breaking the shaft of the arrow where it protruded from his bleeding arm.

            Gwenn cocked an eyebrow before grabbing the shaft and quickly sliding it out of his arm. He bit his lower lip but showed no other sign of pain.

            “Do you have to be so rough Gwenn? Why can’t you have the hands of a lady?!” He teased.

            In mock offense, she kicked his shins with her bare foot then gathered the hem of her gown in her hands.

              “Sit,” she ordered.

            An old log rolled next to them and he sat on it.  She rolled her eyes and ripped a long strip of cloth from the bottom of her gown.  With the homemade bandage, she bound his wound tight. 

            “Ow!” he yelped as she tightened it even more.

            “Stop whining.  You’re acting like a child,” she retorted.

            Grinning, Christopher stuck out his tongue.

            Gwenn punched his uninjured arm and walked toward the center of the clearing before ordering, “Come help me.”

            “You just shot me!”

            “I don’t bloody care! The sun’s setting and I don’t want to freeze to death,” She stood still in the center of the clearing, her back to him. “So hurry up and get us some wood.”

            “Fine,” Christopher straightened his back and closed his eyes.

            His long, injured fingers twitched as a light brown haze formed around them.  Dead wood began drifting into the clearing, each piece surrounded by the same haze that covered his hands.  When a small mound had gathered, the brown haze faded from around his fingers, and he opened his amber eyes.

            “Show off,” she commented snidely.

            She quickly started the fire and plopped onto the log beside Christopher.

            “Real graceful,” he bantered.

            She shoved him playfully. “Let’s see how graceful you are after you’ve spent the last four days and nights alone in this God-forsaken forest!”

            Christopher’s face grew serious.  “What happened, Gwenn? Why’d you leave?”

            Gwenn looked at the ground, wringing her hands.  She could almost feel her friend’s worry, but she couldn’t bring herself to explain to him what she had endured despite the fact that they had known each other since she was seven years old.  Her father was a mighty lord in the king’s court while Christopher’s father was a mere farm hand.  But Gwenn and Chris had often found themselves together.  Their individual mischievous endeavors blended into one. Over the years, they learned to depend on no one but themselves.  They trusted only one another. Gwenn was the only one that knew Christopher had the Connection. If anyone else found out, he would either be imprisoned or killed.  Gwenn had held his life in her hands for seven years.  It made for a very strong bond. 

            She felt Christopher place his hand on her arm.  She looked up into his round eyes and whispered, “They know.”

            His eyes widened in fear, “They know? You’re sure?”

            She nodded, a tear sliding down her cheek. “They found out two months ago. It was an accident. It just kinda slipped. That’s why I haven’t seen you.”

            Christopher caressed her shoulder as she angrily wiped away the tear.  She felt his hand stroke the part of her back that was exposed.  She felt him gingerly touch her skin above the swooping back of her gown where the bruises lay and run his fingers over the tips of scars from the many whippings she had received.  She felt him slide back her sleeves slightly and caress the scabs where her skin had been rubbed away from countless ropes.

            “What did they do to you, Gwenn?” He whispered.

            Gwenn didn’t answer. She simply put her head on his shoulder, content to be with him again.  She closed her eyes as he stroked her hair and his musty scent enveloped her.  Her mind drifted back into times they used to lie in the fields together, hiding from her father.  They would talk for hours about everything and nothing, their futures, their pasts, their unique abilities, marriage.  Gwenn had always known that she would be married off to some lord to gain an alliance with another land.  But then, that would be different now that she had run away.  Even if she was found, no man would want such a disobedient child.  A smile hinted at the corners of her mouth. She would be no man’s prize. Gwenn’s thoughts continued to wander through the past before darkness clouded her eyes and she drifted into a deep sleep. 

            Noticing her tense muscles relax, Christopher closed his eyes and called the moss in the forest to him. He formed a crude bed on the floor by the fire just large enough for Gwenn’s small form.  He lifted her thin body into his arms and carefully carried her to the moss-bed, his arm throbbing and his eyes watering from the pain.  He laid her gently on the ground and called a small clump of moss to cushion her head.

            Christopher leaned over her and whispered, “Sweet dreams, Gwenn.”

            He gave her a soft kiss on the forehead and dragged himself back to the log.  He tore some fabric from the bottom of his own faded tunic and took off the first bandage, revealing his wound. The blood flow had slowed some, but not enough yet.  It took some time, but he was finally able to bind the arrow-wound on his own.  He threw the blood soaked bandage into the fire and lay down opposite Gwenn as the fire hungrily ate the fabric.  His mind frantically searched for a way to help her without breaking her fragile boundaries.  If he wasn’t careful, he could bring about damage himself.  But without knowing what she had gone through, he couldn’t formulate a course of action.  He fell asleep as the last pieces of the cloth were being absorbed into the flames still at a loss.