...the touch of the wind (ch2)
Synopsis: Madga discovers a long forgotten weapon.
─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───
A sudden gust rammed across the trees and Madga braced against it. When it stopped just as quickly she nearly fell. After a pause she returned to humming a song she had heard a few days past north of Wrysal.
She followed a faint deer trail that gently wound through the forest and out onto a crag. Large hills were rare here and the incline had surprised her.
Her steps paused as she looked southwards across the canopy. In the distance another hill rose under the light of the moon. The sight reminded her a bit of the highlands of her home and her song faltered.
Below the crag the branches of the trees whistled under the onslaught of a different rogue wind. They had just begun budding and she knew they would have been a beautiful bright green in the light of the sun.
A memory flashed behind her eyes, tearing at her mind with ragged claws. She inhaled and her knees bent as she curled inward.
She whimpered. She slid to her knees and covered her head with her hands. Her fingers curled into her wavy black hair, loosening the tie that kept her bangs off her face.
Another gust rolled across the trees, but wasn’t as hard as before. The sound of a wooden limb squeaking across another, and the push of the wind, broke her from her panic.
She lowered her hands and spread her palms on the ground. Although doubtful, she began an exercise that a person from the dog tribe had taught her. She shifted her fingers a little, softly brushing the dirt between them, and breathed.
She could smell the fresh earth of spring. She breathed out. As she continued to breathe slow and long she felt the dirt again. Her pinkie nudged a tuff of grass and twitched. She opened her eyes. Her gaze roamed over the trail, the dirt padded by deer and other animals. Then toward the rough edge of the cliff where the grasses and bush abruptly stopped.
She blinked in surprise as her heart relaxed and her vision widened beyond the narrow tunnel of panic.
She took another breath and leaned back on her heels. A gentle breeze drifted across the top of her head without touching anything else around her. She breathed out, enjoying the touch of the wind.
Her gaze left the cliff and the trail to drift toward the trees. In the south here there were more leaf-trees. Their branches stood tall and spread wide, small buds beginning to unfurl. Her eyes fell on a small needle-tree that had taken root among the leaf-trees. Its needles were thin and its body was delicate. It had chosen a poor spot, right next to another young tree that would surely hinder its growth.
As Madga stared a crease formed between her eyebrows. She followed the trunk of the incredibly straight tree on its sharp, eastward angle until it suddenly ended.
Her mouth parted in realization. She glanced around, then removed her pack and got up.
She neared the staff, careful to avoid trampling the baby needle-tree next to it. It appeared that the handmade wooden staff had been abandoned for sometime—thin vines had crawled along its body while the grasses and bush around it had grown undisturbed. Despite the passage of time, the staff hadn’t rotted, as perfect as the day it had been carefully crafted.
At the bottom, near the tiny needle-tree, the staff changed. Madga blinked, realizing it wasn’t a staff, but a spear, buried deep into the ground until the nearly the entire head had disappeared.
She crouched but couldn’t make out much of the head. She rose again, and after a moment she stepped away.
Another weak breeze brushed her long hair.
She paused. Unsure, she looked back at the lonely spear. She stepped closer and brushed her fingers across a section free of vines. It was as smooth to the touch as it was to the eyes. The wood hadn’t a single rough edge, nowhere her fingers could slip and accidentally get a sliver lodged in her skin. It was cool, and somehow comforting.
She glanced around again, as though someone might suddenly stop her.
She gently removed the vines as best she could, unfortunately tearing at a few where they had grown too wildly to unwind from the staff. She whispered apologies. She watched her step as she planted her feet and wrapped her hands around the spear. She took a breath and pulled hard.
The spear didn’t give but the ground loosened. With a grunt she pulled again, then again, yanking the spear free with a gasp. She teetered backward and spread one of her arms wide. Another breeze brushed against her back but wasn’t strong enough to help. She shifted her weight in an attempt to avoid falling and awkwardly stepped once, twice, until she had returned to the trail in another gasp of air.
She held up the spear and pulled away a string of a vine that had stubbornly held on.
She looked over the wood with surprise. A design like bolts of lightning or tree branches had been carved into it. Again she ran her hand over it, expecting it to catch but didn’t. Her gaze travelled down to the head. She shifted the spear in her hands until she held the head close. It was made of polished and sharpened bone.
The cool, calm light of the moon shone on the shock of white-yellow. Something so dangerous would normally cause her to walk the other way, but something about the spear drew her in like the comfort and protection of a friendly fire in the middle of a blizzard.
She awkwardly turned the spear around. The head briefly caught on the grey wool wrap around her shoulders and she shifted it until she had it upright. The spear head shone tall and proud as it pointed toward the sky.
She stared at it for a long moment before turning and picking up her pack. Once it was on she hugged the spear close to her chest and began walking along the deer trail. Her leather bound feet padded the dirt, and a moment later the end of the spear joined them, now serving as her walking staff.
A small breeze tossed her hair with a huff, but it soon quieted down again, glad to be on the move after so long.