The Kindred Wood

In all of the mountains there was no fairer glade than where the elk-riders lived. Before the many dwellings were built, naught but eglantine and mountain-thistle bloomed in that knolly place. Little had changed since ages past, though black moss grew thicker, draping over roof-rims or cladding the keystones, and these mossed abodes were arrayed in those darkly garlands alike the ancient fanes of the lowland. This moss-bedecked place pleased the shaggy denizen elk, and the folk made these beasts their greatest stock and blazonry, while the sheep and kine took to the lower heaths and plains.

The glade was much like a grading cliff-ledge to range one’s eyes far over the earthly sphere. In winter time, such as now, the far mountains lived deep in fog and the closer orange fir boughs swayed in drifting dance. But on a summer’s day, the lake below gleamed and the living waters spangled near sun-like. Even when beholding the great span beyond, the town won out mightily in beauty. The rock-face at the back-end of town went up into taller ridges, so gouged through the gadding hills in a blending of larches and elms. The houses were either built of wood or well-carved into cliff-stone, granting the glade its name of Carvenstone.

Nigh to the north, on this snow-veiled mountain, a stranger people dwelt. Narrow paths wound through the hinterlands around Carvenstone, so it was not solely the gladesmen and their elk who knew these foot-ways. Rare were the riders to enter deep into this woodland realm, but they rode in gladness up and down the mountainsides through both the hinterlands and lowland woods.

The old tales told that strange moss-maidens might marry with the elk-riders of Carvenstone. If the tales of them were true, while unwedded, their natural strength could sunder the land, but a trothed maiden would turn leaves to true gold. Reinmar of Carvenstone believed heartily in these old tellings, because he knew first-hand what these maidens were capable of. He had long been in love with the fleetest girl of the forest, cherishing often the image of her in his mind. He had seen her many times since he was a young swain. But his kindred scarcely believed in the mighty maidens or their hidden shrub-mother.

Reinmar was the master of the glaive-wielders, and while not in war-time, he was little more than a fierce-faced hunter of Carvenstone. He was not the only one in the village with hair likened to cooling flame, but his eyes shone a wilder green than all others. The tall, strong women of Carvenstone adored Reinmar, but his interest burned only for Weide, the loveliest of the moss-maidens. Rarely, often seasons between, he would find her, swimming with her sisters in the brawling brooks or near lower pools where she sought berries. He would sometimes find her running in the hinterlands, counting leaves or sprouting moss on the boughs by simply grazing her hand on the bark. When she believed herself hidden beneath waving tree-shades, she took on her true form, one of exceeding beauty; but when knowing of onlookers she sprouted stringy moss over her feet, her hair paled to a messy white, and her face gnarled and warped ugly like an old, knobby spruce.

Reinmar often tried and failed to convince her to marry him, and all their times were pleasant in his eyes, yet burdened by the trouble of their differences. He yearned to look more at her true form, when her hair was pale yellow-green, her skin alike, and her look even wilder than his, just as young spring leaves. Weide trusted Reinmar to what degree she may, but would never change for him. Her reason being, if he placed his ancient gold ring to her true, unshifted finger she could not leave the glade when she wore it, and the longer it was worn, she would lose power to go afar and never see her own kindred again.

*

He entered the great hall. Wakeful with the thought of her, he wished to speak of those dreams with his folk and harken to their counsel, maybe pressing him out in search of Weide this wintry day. The hall was dark, lit only by a few candles below the herb-pots. Within, a kinswoman stripped leaves from stems, while a man carved a linden spoon.

“Shall any of my fellow gladesmen join in a woodland ride?” Reinmar soon held their looks with his loud way in. “What sayest thou?”

“Blind to the frigid day, glaive-master, or still planning the trothing of the moss-maiden, yea?” The clever kinsman, Siegfried answered, lifting his half-carved linde to him.

Reinmar laughed to warmth and smiled gaily. “Yea, thou hast known me well these many seasons.”

“Mulling over her…thirty winters?” Siegfried gave a side-eye, to which Reinmar looked at the young kinswoman beside him.

So spake Silja, who had reddened in the cheeks over their talk. “The forest-folk cannot marry us, their trothing customs are naught more than braiding the moss-beards and drinking from lichen-cups…But the folk of the glade are kind and love thee well…So still thou hast those fleeting eyes?”

In his tarrying quiet, Silja took to cutting fiercely, casting her grey eyes low to the herb-stems. It seemed she had forsaken the herb-stripper in aim of more bitter means. Reinmar knew not how to ease the chieftain’s daughter, when she was always somewhat overcome by the mentions of Weide, as Silja herself was unwedded.

“Siegfried, wilt thou join, yay or nay?” He asked the dun-haired man.

“Reinmar…snow’s brittle out that way coming dusk, and worse in the late-angled shadows,” again the kinsman saith, tapping his finger on her chair.

“No hills nor swards appease the elk to forever cease bestriding them.” Reinmar waved him off, but gathered bread from the table and slipped it in his girdle. With or without their blessing, he would make his way.

“Those moss-creatures are ugly things, weak of will and weaker of power. My grand-mother always warned me never to have dealings with them, and you shouldn’t either.” Silja was cast over in a gloomy cloud. She took to peeling the stems apart with her dainty fingers.

“Nay. Remember the old tales. Think—what tokens and wealth might the moss-maidens bring, both ye know gold is worth the time…And Silja, they are as lovely as the forest when they wish it, as right as thee, so take to the golden mirror on the dais.”

She scrunched her brow, pondering over his words. Her picking thus soothed to stillness with the herbs.

“Is the forest girl even out now, Reinmar?” Siegfried began, “is it not so that the maidens move through paler paths thwarted to men?” He swept off the carving dust from the table.

“Always a chance when the sun dapples.”

*

After a while of staring at his glaive, he reasoned better to bring a dagger. Reinmar slung up his gear, arraying it well for himself. His vest of brass ring-mail went over the white winter-wool beneath. He draped his shoulders with the brindled-black fox pelt that latched together at the neck. After snugging his arm-rings above blackened-hide gloves, Reinmar tossed his likened pack over the fur cloak. After addressing the sundial and finding the light aging, he made off swiftly towards the elk-yard to gather his last need by dusk in the brittle snow, so Siegfried saith.

When he and his elk, Baletearer, rode though the back-end gate which rose narrow in a steep path toward the hinterlands, that snow scarcely seemed brittle while the sun still glinted on the ice-crystals. The beast strode cheerily, beyond the plain elk-yard into the heavy, lichen-filled forest. In the forest, light blazed blood-red by later day but now only pale yellow sun-beams dappled on each mossy tree. The golden tints over those lush patches swelled all hope in his heart that soon he might find her.

Snow muffled most sounds, blanketing jutting rocks and boughs. Only a bit of melting snow softly dripping could be heard in the dens and burrows below their craggy undersides. He stalled Baletearer, to look closely in those hollows. A maiden might linger where the mosses live. Reinmar knew better to ignore the forest’s silence, lest he be unprepared if a toilsome beast instead wandered here, he had only a dagger and the elk who was not so trained through its younger years.

Reinmar began to tire from the wasting day, but he pressed higher to the upper tarn. Shafts of amber light cut across the snow in sword-like rays. He carefully noted each nook along the northern path. The larch-needles were thinning, and nearer to the icy pool the trees were mostly leafless, housing only dangling wisps of black moss. The broken ice along the bank mingled with brown leaves and many paw-prints had been stamped in the days-old snow. Reinmar likewise traced over these prints around the tarn as there were rocks and hollows to scout. The sky lit up through passing fog and he saw over the land to larger clusters of boulders. Reinmar brushed his hair out of his face and let out a long sigh. The elk meandered them over towards a lichen-laden trunk and took to ripping and tearing.

A thump and sudden snow fell behind him, Reinmar turned Baletearer in search of the sound. The falling dust told him that the runner was heading back down the hillside. He followed after the sounds of the runner, but their feet were keen across the season’s land so they stayed far ahead of Reinmar. He wondered where to go when the light glared through the fog and the elk’s steaming breath. The thumping of the hooves muted Reinmar’s subtler hearing, but he saw more snow-dust, and so he went thither. For what felt like hours he kept up this chase.

Reinmar stopped Baletearer when the sound went silent. He rubbed his own nose to remind it of blood. Now the dashing tread came towards him, atop a higher ridge beside him. It was a large red fox who leapt over Reinmar and the elk, then it bounded on through the hinterland. He thought to take himself back to Carvenstone, for the maiden was never afoot. Reinmar took to the shorter passes that went straighter down, keeping to ridges by his side, harsher with more rocks but the elk was untroubled.

“Oh Reinmar, why chase foxes without your cruel glaive?” The sweetest sound made him look up to the high rocky ridge. Atop was Weide, the moss-maiden sheathed in messy form, easily blended into hills and crags.

His heart sang merrily in answer to her playful song, and Reinmar looked round to see how to climb the boulders. He reasoned that Weide sent the beast his way. “I sought, but instead I met the gamboling fox. Thou hast laid the snare too close to the lure, now I have surely won,” said he.

“Not-so plainly! Weary Reinmar, grow no thinner than my willow-whip!” She mocked and giggled, comparing him to her narrow weapon. She came sliding down the snow. Weide was too far off to grab, dallying now on a lower ledge right beyond his reach.

“My heart leaps in goodly measure even as I look at those hairy feet.” He laughed, his love burning as kindling embers, as he drew back Baletearer in rustling stomps.

Weide smirked and began her dash, leaping over him like a fox. She sprinted swiftly down the path. His mount bounded after, somewhat slowed by the steep angles and deep-red sky. Ahead was her beacon-white hair, shining his way. Weide gave an easy chase for his younger elk. But when Reinmar would gain on her, she would twirl off, hiding beneath the shadiest bower.

The woodland became as silent as the earlier day. Reinmar tracked between the trees until he saw a sliver of white hair beyond one of the trunks. He slid from his mount and tossed a rock a ways off to throw off Weide’s thinking. He rarely dismounted in their old chases and Weide likely was not guessing it, as she wore her pride over his day-long weariness.

Reinmar pulled out his ropes and whipped them at the tree. They caught spinning around the trunk. Weide shrieked. She was entrapped, but managed another sprint into the snow, her light-feet were practiced on land but his stride was longer and simpler now. Weide yanked, and he lost the rope, but she dragged them off in her run. He reached for the trailing ropes, and missed. Weide laughed into the darkening skies. Looking up was her folly and he got a grip of the trailing tail of rope. Reinmar tumbled her down where they rolled a bit, then he pressed the moss-maiden into a deep bank of snow, burying her below him where she couldn't sprawl out easily lest she be cut by the brittle ice on the snow’s surface.

She shouted when he bound her in the ropes, as they had done time and again in these same woods. When her bindings were secured, Reinmar flung her up against the tree, and stared long and closely on Weide. Only a thin veil cast over her beauty as she panted. Reinmar was filled with joy at the near sight of her, even in her ugliness. Weide was no longer enjoying their play, angered by his unforeseen win.

“I have more larch-needles to count, let me out now. I have plans under the dark,” she pleaded softly, trying to rouse his sympathies.

Reinmar brought her in front of him on the elk and made off to the glade.

“Oh, Weide, shift and I shall heed those words most kindly.” He held his necklace, holding his ring-pendant to her. “The ring will remain on my neck tonight, and I will sleep in the chair.”

“Those stories are wrong, I am all but this form and little more, only when wetted can I take that shape as thou hath seen beside the river.”

“I’ve seen you unwetted, as fair as the sun-goddess.” Reinmar walked Baletearer to the yard. A few folk sat around the red fire on watch, clearly in the midst of talk over them.

“Did you drink the mead with us, Glaive-master, to flirt with such ugly bark as that?” The others all rose into laughter.

“Yea, much so that we are going to rest in my bed,” Reinmar lied in answer, but they ignored him and returned to mirthful song and drink.

The maiden sneered as he carried her off to his door and locked them in together.

*

As Reinmar lit candles, he noted Weide, who never was so wont in sadness. She betook her downward eyes unto the dried leaves he once scattered in his abode she dwelled when her game was lost. He made a woodland bed just for the maiden, soft evergreen needles brimming up in a stone-ring, layered over with her favorite mosses, therewith further rolls of unspun wool and linens from the lowlands. Weide’s bed was as she wanted, leastwise when it came to something sheltered inside Carvenstone.

“Rest there, make this thine stead,” he pleaded.

“I will not be your bed-maid, Reinmar!”

“Nay, Weide! Are we not friends? I will take my watch in the seat over there.” He aimed to quell the wild-haired maiden and she shrank back meekly.

“Thou should be made wilder, with me in the woodland.” She turned away, but laid still in the stone-ring.

“In the thickets I never know your path. Here, how you would be well-cared for. Must I hunt for a hunger deep in your heart, for sustenance and livelihood withal? If you so ask, I will foster greater peace between our kindreds, and begin with you and me. But you are my long friend, Weide, first above all.”

“What friend is kept in a cage, Reinmar?”

He furrowed his brow and rubbed his beard as he gave into the pain of her words for a while, but his thoughts remained his own. “May I comb thy hair?”

Weide leaned up from her bedding, and looked him dearly in the eyes. “You may at least lie with me,” she answered strangely, though he still leaned beside her odd ring of evergreen.

Reinmar turned to lie more comfortably. He rested his arm on the barky maiden and shut his eyes. Maybe the hours were lost. When next Reinmar looked about, he held only an ugly gnarled log, in place where she had lain. He felt the bites from many crawling creatures. He sighed and brushed off the beetles from his body. He would once have been driven to anger at his failing, once more, for Weide’s clever illusions and tricks, but now he only smiled at her wily ways and easy escapes.

Beyond his window the leaves of the forest swayed in the wind. Reinmar thought he could hear her gentle laughter in their rustling song, calling him once more to the chase.