The sun had dipped past mid-day now, but the surprise of warmth still lingered from the previous days. Though with the heavy rains of yesterday evening, the air was beginning to grow thin again as the chill reclaimed its territory in the valley. Beoda lay unbothered beneath a twisted tangle of bare branches. In the spring this forest would have been a dense canopy, but now her low-hanging perch was pleasantly bathed in afternoon sunlight as it filtered through the trees. She lounged in peace, cradled by ancient knots. At times she imagined them as a grandparent would be, a patient and vigilant presence that was somehow genuinely interested in her trials and tribulations, even if to one so old they were trivial and sometimes petty. The woods had personality in that way, she thought… and whether or not they did, she found a comfort in thinking of them as such. At other times, when she was feeling particularly vulnerable, she imagined the spirit of her mother through them.
Her presence had been something she had taken for granted, as surely they all did. As anyone did. When she was young, she had thought they would have had many interactions like this one. Cradled in the afternoon sun, the day’s chores done (or not), fingers combing what should have been long, thick hair into a single plait while Beoda traced the outline of her chin and told her mother all about how she had wished Leoffrith had tilted her chin up a little higher and leaned in a little closer.
Beoda opened her eyes and turned her head to look out over the moss bed of the forest floor, the farm fields visible through the skeletal trees just beyond. She inhaled, wet dirt and bark filling her lungs to bring her back to the truth of the matter. The great bough of this branch was a poor substitute, but she could at least imagine her shoulders cradled by a great presence. Her hair, too short and dirty to suit her dreams, could at least be combed by the fingers of her spirit which lived in the wind. Beoda smiled to herself, her fingers absently on the scar of her chin where he had set his hand. Not jeering or teasing, but gentle and curious. He treated her with such respect and listened with such sensitivity; it was a wonder he felt himself so slow-witted, for in many ways he spoke unlike anyone she had ever heard. He seemed to think and feel with such depth.
“You would have loved him.” She told the spirit of her mother, cradling her from the tree, fingers combing her hair in the breeze.
There was so much about him she did not yet know, had not yet discovered. Her legs itched to leap from the tree and make the trek to Hookworth. If she ran, she supposed she could make it just after nightfall; certainly not the longest distance she’s covered or through the roughest terrain. She had sat up before she realized it, eyes pinned through the trees to the south and lips upturned in a small smile at the prospect of some small surprise and adventure. Mother had always said she was a creature of action, driven by a heart that felt deeply and fully. It pulled her feet after her father and brother through the woods, it pulled her into the mountains every moment after, just as now it was pulling her towards the south where she knew Hookworth was nestled into the mountain ridge.
Thought seldom curbed her desire, which risked and often crossed the line of being inconsiderate and bold. But she hesitated.
Leoffrith would be studying, she knew. She imagined him bent over a book in the stables, that rustic red hair pushed back by a hand that rubbed his temples as he read. She wondered if he was having just as much trouble as she, but oddly, she sat back against the tree instead. Sure as she was he would be happy to see her, she wanted to return the boundless respect he showed her with every meeting. His training was more important than her whims. …Today, anyway.
A slow smile spread over her face as she returned her attention to the small book in her lap. It was a thin thing with ink printed words, but papers were stuffed inside of it with letters scrawled over the pages. She would keep to her word instead and study with him, finding some solidarity in the idea they could be doing the same activity even when far apart. Letters and words were less appealing than horses and swordplay, but Heulyn was a good teacher, and Beoda a fast learner when she put her mind to it.
“Yes, you would have loved him very much.” She said aloud as a piece of wood with a burned tip scrawled over a page. A secret smile pulled at her lips this time, however, prompted by a passing thought somewhere in the back of her mind. I think I could, too.
A ray of sun peeked through a shifting branch to rest on her cheek, as gentle as a mother’s kiss.
