Minstrel of the Water Willow

of the

By Elaina J.
Davidson

Minstrel of the Water Willow

First
Edition

Published
2016

Copyright
Elaina J Davidson 2016

All rights
reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publisher.

This is a work
of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents,
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or
dead, organisations, events or locales, or any other entity, is
entirely coincidental.

Cover designed
by Poppet

Cover credit goes to Letze Schatten.

Original
photography by Marina Mahova.

Laughter is a
bridge between strangers

L
ines
formed an intricate map upon her face.

She was old
now, but to him she remained ever beautiful. He knew the reasons
for her wrinkles, what she had endured in life. He had watched her
since she was two years old.

Squatting
under the willow where the fronds swept the surface of the placid
river, he observed her kneeling with infinite care until she was
able to reach the clear pond from where she drew her drinking
water.

So slow now,
when it felt like yesterday when she came squealing in happy
abandon down to the water’s edge, honey ringlets bouncing.

She peered
around as if expecting someone, but he knew she was alone here. She
was not looking out for someone expected. She had been alone a long
time.

He was the
only one who watched, although she had never seen him. Sometimes,
though, he had the clearest sense she was still aware of him,
despite her withdrawal in recent years. She no longer concerned
herself with living, only with dying, but in the past, when her
step was sprightlier and her eyesight clearer, she would gaze
across the expanse of the river directly into the shadows under the
willow. Once she even summoned him; she had known he watched. She
had not looked at his face, but she told him music meant everything
to her.

He realised
now she listened intently to the natural silence as if hoping to
hear the notes of life itself.

Closing his
eyes, he wished he had brought his small lyre to pick out gentle
tones, to weave them into the birdsong surrounding them.

Eighty years
ago he was himself a boy, splashing in the shallows in summer’s
heat, when he heard the sound of laughter.

Instantly his
mother dragged him into the trees beyond where the shadows were
dense, abandoning the cones and twigs they had gathered for the
hearth back home, but he saw her.

A little girl
ran towards the river with her mother trailing after, admonishing
her to slow down.

“Kell, be
quiet now,” his mother had whispered in his ear, and he had not
understood why.

He wanted to
go to the girl. He wanted to laugh with her. She was so pretty and
so happy, so bright, so
new
.

She was not as
careful as her mother had warned her to be, and fell into the
water. A tiny shriek of fear and surprise drifted across to him.
His mother was forced to hold him back when he moved to go to her
aid.

“Silly, look
how wet you are!” Her mother, laughing, pulled her out. “Come on,
silly, let’s get you home and dry. Are you hungry?”

They
disappeared up the gentle slope towards the old cottage no one had
lived in for many years. They held hands and laughed together as
they went.

For a long
time he thought her name was Silly.

The cottage
was not in view of the river, but he had seen it once. In search of
wild herbs, his father carried him across the river that day and
they passed it by. It was pretty, but needed much care to make it a
home again.

Later he
realised her name was Erin.

That was the
day she went and lost herself and her mother ran along the water’s
edge frantically searching for her daughter, calling, “Erin! Erin,
where are you?”

That was also
the day his father yanked him forcibly into the shadows of the
forest and told him never to return to the river, to leave the
mother and daughter to their lives. He had already been to the
water many times hoping to catch sight of her again, and he was
told in firm words that he had proven himself too rash to wander
unsupervised.

“She is lost!”
he shouted at his father. “She will be scared!”

“Kell, she is
human and we do not speak to humans. They may not see us. I will
watch over her until she is found, but you will return home
now
.”

Thus was that
also the day he realised he was something
other
. Not
human.

It was the
worst day of his life.

Love cannot
measure time

F
orests
dominated the broad valley between two mighty mountain ranges, and
many rivers and streams interlaced.

It was a
sylvan paradise, emerald in sunshine, and silvery in mist.

Kell was born
in a stone cottage amid giant trees while wood pigeons gathered to
mark the event. Many other creatures congregated as well, but the
pigeons were vocal, their cooing the music he heard as he drew his
first breath. Newborn were a rarity for fey kind, but particularly
for his people. They were both elf and faerie, known as the Forest
Fay, and the marriage of the two kinds back in the fogs of history
had caused much uproar. Accepted today, it was still a truth that
conception remained difficult for the Fay and birth even more
so.

Thus was
Kell’s birth celebrated.

The Fay lived
out their lives under foliage, weaving amid tree trunks ancient and
new. They preferred the dappled light, for they were light-skinned
and suffered burn easily, while their pale eyes saw further in the
shadows.

He too adored
the myriad of beams amid the trees, but was not afraid of the full
sun. Allowed every freedom, all were his teachers, from the elders
to the smallest fox.

The border of
their domain to the south was the river, for there the forest
ended; beyond lay pastures. Many copses dotted the sun-drenched
landscape, but it remained exposed ground for people preferring
mottled glows and familiar boles to hide with.

Until the day
little Erin appeared, Kell had suffered no denial. No one had ever
said no to him. No one had needed to; not only was he a responsible
child, but also there was little to fear in those times.

Humans did
live in the valley, but tended towards the open regions.

Erin’s mother
and father chose to inhabit the cottage near the northern slopes,
where the true forest began, and where the tilled land was more
suited to oats.

Erin’s arrival
entirely changed Kell’s world.

No longer was
he able to roam as freely; until then no one had needed to warn him
away from others, for the nearest farms were far distant. He hated
being restricted.

“If they see
you, you will be hunted,” his father stated, sitting him down that
same night after Erin was lost.

His father had
waited until her mother discovered her asleep in a meadow amid long
grass and wild flowers before returning home to confront his
son.

While his
mother prepared the evening meal, his father had words with him,
revealing in them something unknown, something different, something
unwelcome.

“Always there
have been many races on our world and for many ages everyone lived
together in harmony. It was not always peaceful, but we were allies
when it counted. No race can claim being oldest, for memory tells
us that we have all been here for a long time, even the Fay, who
are of two kinds and therefore came later.”

“Humans, too?”
Kell asked, listening intently.

“Yes, son, all
kinds, from trolls to sprites and all between. You are five years
old, and have not travelled beyond the borders of our woodland
realm yet, but when you are older and stronger we will go over the
mountains and then you will see what I mean.”

It did not
make sense to Kell. If he would see all kinds elsewhere, why were
humans not to see him? Why were they called ‘human’ while he was
‘fey’ and he appeared no different, other than being a boy while
Erin was a girl?

“A thousand
years ago there was war with the humans. It began over fertile land
and became a war of the races. Unfortunately humans had grown in
number more than we had and, therefore, to protect ourselves, we
vanished from view, retreating to the lesser inhabited spaces where
humans feel uncomfortable and thus choose to ignore.”

His mother
joined them at the table, taking his hand into hers. “Kell, there
are more humans now than any other race and, as they grow in
number, we lose more territory. We must remain hidden or they will
take from us what is left.”

He could not
understand, not then, about birth rate and survival needs, nor
could he understand when his father told him humans lived shorter
lives.

“You like the
girl,” his mother murmured, “for you see her as a friend. I
understand, but soon you will see how different you are. Her father
would hunt you, Kell, and she will follow his directives. It is the
way of humans, and Erin alone cannot change it, if she becomes of a
mind to do so.”

After
promising to stay away, he was sent to bed.

He broke his
promise the next day, creeping to the river and the willow that
grew on the edge and threw thick fronds into and over a shallow
sand bank, to watch the far edge. He watched Erin splash in the
shallows on her side, giggling to herself. He watched her chase
butterflies and wondered why he was different. He wanted to play
with her. He too wanted to chase butterflies in the sunshine. He
wanted a friend.

Instinct, and
probably the wiser words his mother spoke, forced him to remain
silent, to not approach.

All he could
do was watch.

As the years
passed, he understood.

She aged
faster.

When Erin
turned three, she had grown taller while he barely gathered an inch
in height. At four, she was as tall as he was. At seven, she would
have towered over him had he stood beside her, although he was
older.

He watched her
mature and understood something else, something different. He loved
her. He was fascinated by her beauty, but mostly he adored her
compassionate nature, smiling through tears when the creatures of
the area all came to greet her, a daily ritual. It happened for him
as well, the greetings, every morning when he left his home, and it
proved to him how beautiful her soul was also.

Now she was
eighty-two, bent and frail, and he remained young. In her terms, he
was no more than thirty years in appearance. He was now taller than
she was, of course, but she would die soon and he would live on for
centuries.

It was
unfair.

Music
transcends all

W
atching
Erin carefully fill her urn, wary of falling into the water and
therefore currents she had not the strength to fight, his thoughts
grew introspective.

After his
journey over the mountains to the east, at age ten, where he met
and saw trolls, goblins, fairies and faeries - the former tiny, the
latter man size- elves, dryads, gnomes, centaurs and many others,
even the ever wary sidhe, he understood the warnings from his
parents. He had grown in the years since Erin’s arrival, and heard
the elders more readily.

He listened to
the tales of war, of dying, of being pushed north and east into the
inhospitable regions where it was hoped the races would succumb,
flourishing instead. He heard of the raiding parties also and once
saw such a party in the distance. Humans came to pillage … and
murder.

He understood
their swift years were their greatest disadvantage.

During their
sojourn over the mountains, he was tested. At age ten all boys and
girls of the long-lived races were tested to discover their
inherent talent, the factor that would earn them their keep in the
march of years.

Until his
testing, he had not given it thought, but clearly his father had,
for he brought forth the musical instruments from home.

Ever when it
got dark or the days too cold for the outdoors, Kell would sit and
strum something quietly in a corner, softly singing. Already he
knew most of the old songs. He loved reading also, but when
searching for tranquillity, he found it in music.