page 5

They moved slowly through the woods. Kelling rode Mangle ahead to look for dangers, then back to the group, thinking that with the noise they made, the raiders were sure to find them, but at least they would scare away the bears.

One old woman fussed at him as she had trouble keeping her footing near the stream. "We have no business walking through these woods! Are you going to carry me when I fall and break something?" He helped her cross, and found a branch for her to use as a walking stick. For a moment, he thought she might hit him with it.

Later that afternoon, after he had helped Catta set up the tent, then left her in the charge of Annie Blackpot, Wallach met with the other soldiers. Retired soldiers, he reminded himself. The routines of soldiering were easy to fall back on, so they could direct the others how to arrange the camp, and set up tents. There were always camp followers, so even the women and the children were not totally foriegn to the situation. There were some things, missing, though. Soldiers, for one. Men who had been training, and knew the enemy's strengths and weaknesses. These men didn't even have weapons to go around, but had to trade off swords and bows to the men standing guard.

"What are we going to do?" one of the older men asked, "Hand them all firewood?"

Another laughed, "Here, Junior, here's your stick, now you're a soldier."

Kelling wasn't smiling, he had talked it over with a man name Brinton earlier in the day. He and Brinton had served in the same squad, then both as Century in the same Legion. Now Brinton spoke up, "Yeah. That's pretty much what we do. Even the women can swing a stick. If the raiders attack us, we're done for unless everyone stands up to 'em. All of us."

"We could all do with a little drilling," Kelling added. "Remind our muscles what they used to know without thinking."

A couple of the men nodded their aggreement, while a couple others shook their heads, picturing the youngsters, sticks in hand, charging the raiders. Finally one said, quietly, "It's just not right."

"What is right about having your farmstead burned, and your family killed?" Brinton said. "What is right about those younglings having to have lived through that? We give 'em something to do, something to focus on, or they go over the cliff"

"Might as well," the other replied. "Maybe it will keep me from the edge of the cliff, too."

page 4

Catta sighed as he walked off. Kenit was strong and fair of face; tall and almost a man. In other days, he'd had his eye on her sister Lily, visiting their stead often. He had been oblivious to Catta's lingering looks and sighs, then. Now, she had no time for such foolishness. Now, he felt more like a brother than anything else, and she supposed she should go put on her own woolen tunic and help gather what he chopped, and bring it back to the wagon. The coffee had cooled quickly enough to drink down before she left. Porridge could wait until after the wood was collected. When the wood was stowed, there was time for breakfast, and more coffee. Then breaking down camp and packing their belongings carefully in the wagon.

Wallach Kelling left his young charges to that task without a word. The attacks on the farmsteads and Bobkin Village had left about 50 refugees, eight of whom, like him, had once been Baron Ahngrine's soldiers to earn their granted land on the frontier. The rest of the refugees were the elders and youngers of the men who had served together.

The men fell into the habits of those days easily, and one of the men who had been scouting since dawn, reported to his "Century," Kelling. " The main road to Maston is to the south, and it seems clear enough."

"Clear enough for an ambush," Kelling replied. "I think we should stick to the woods."

"It's slow going. The road would be faster," another said. "The faster we get there, the sooner we can warn them. Get news to the Baron."

"Which is why they will be watching the road."

There were nods around at that logic, and the first man continued his report, " To the southwest is a stream that we can follow. It will give us good water, and turns to the west about a mile north of Maston."

"That should do," Kelling said. "Let's get moving."

page 3

The next thing Catta knew, she was almost at the doorway, her father holding her back from entering the ruined house. He was sooty and smelled of smoke. "You must stay by the wagon," he said.

"Mam!" Catta wailed. "Lily! Wallach!"

She did not know in her panic that her father's eyes were streaming tears as he looked over her head at Annie Blackpot, shaking his head at her unspoken question.

That night had been the last time Catta had cried. She felt like she had cried herself dry. Dry of tears, and sometimes she felt dry of hope. She had changed that night. Grown up. Pop had changed too. He was quieter now, and never seemed to smile. Sometimes it seemed like he couldn't let Catta out of his sight while at the same time he couldn't bear to look at her. They were rarely far apart, like now, in the small tent.

The stirring of the camp around them, and the smell of coffee finally became too much for Catta to resist. Well, that and the even more insistent call of nature. She quietly sat up, pushed her feet into her boots and wrapped the blanket around her to answer the call. When she returned, Pop was sitting outside the tent on a wooden box, warming his hands with a cup of hot coffee.

Annie put a steaming cup in Catta's hands as well, and stirred the porridge before putting a lid on the pot, and lifting it away from the fire. Kenit came around the edge of the lean-to he shared with his brother, Jerem. He had a warm woolen tunic on over his heavy shirt for warmth. Even now, in the late spring, the mornings were cool in the wooded mountains they traveled through.

Kenit held an axe. "That fallen oak is dry and I aim to chop us some before its nothin' but twigs," he said as he stepped out of our camp. He hadn't gone two steps before the sounds of chopping came from about 50 feet west of them. Kenit wasn't the only one with an eye on good dry wood.

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Pop had taken Catta to the village, letting her drive the wagon while he rode alongside on his big bay, Mangle. She had been practicing and the big draft horse, Old Molly, grew accustomed to her hand on the reins as the traveled through the day on the way to the village, passing farms and fields with sheep as they went. Catta was happy to have her father all to herself for a few days.

They had gotten their shopping done in the village, taking a couple of days to gather the supplies they needed. Father and daughter headed home along the narrow wagon trail, past the thick woods, and the meadows, with early spring flowers blooming the first green of the spring. They stopped in at Annie Blackpot's little cabin and had tea and shared a block of cheese with their neighbor.

Pop had seen black plume of smoke at Annie's. They discussed in worried voices what could be burning, and soon Pop mounted his horse and turned Mangle's head down the path toward home. "I'll see you at home, Catta." he said as he spurred Mangle to a gallop.

"I'll gather my things quickly, Catta, and ride in the wagon with you," said Annie. She was a healer, and as worried as Catta had quickly become, she knew waiting for Annie was the right thing to do.

She flicked the reins and drove old Molly faster than she should have down the rutted path. Molly didn't like the smell of smoke, and soon it was all she could do to keep the big draft horse moving forward. The closer they got to home, the denser the smoke was. Catta wondered if the forest was burning up.

As she pulled around the last bend she could see through the last few trees that it was not the forest, but the barn that was engulfed in flames. The stones of the house had collapse in, and the wooden ruins were still smoldering. For a moment, time seemed to stop.

page 1

Chapter One

In her dream, the tendril of smoke rose from the ruins of the barn. She could feel the grass on her cheek where she lay, feeling as if the weight of he loss was holding her to the earth. She was aware of the acrid smell of smoke and fire in her nostrils. Catta started awake, out of the dream that was a memory. Into the darkness turning light. She could hear the crackle of a fire somewhere near and the rustles of bodies awakening and starting to move outside the tent. The smell of smoke was not entirely in her imagination, then.

She lay under the warm blankets, listening now to her sleeping father's regular breathing. She knew if she rose, no matter how quietly, he would wake, and the routine of the day would begin for her as well. Her mind went back to the memory her dreams brought her so often. She didn't want to remember, but she couldn't help but gaze on the wound in her heart.

Wallach Kelling had taken his younger daughter, Cattarina, on that early spring trip into the village. He had meat, and cheese, to sell or trade for some flour. He had money for seed for the kitchen garden they would soon be planting. He and Mam had planned a grand kitchen garden this year, with plenty to put up for the winter months. Catta never looked forward to the work of the garden, but she appreaciated the eating from the garden so she did her share of the work without complaint. After all, she was the practical one. The hardy one. The one that followed Pop around and helped him with whatever needed doing. She helped at the forge. She helped with the animals. She even chopped wood into neat piles for the winter months.

Lily was the beautiful sister. The one who took after Mam, with her dark curls, and graceful hands. Lily was the one who had patience for the garden, and would plant and tend flowers so she could cut them and arrange them for the table. She made the bread, and delicious pies. Lily could make delicate lace and embroider intricate designs of ribbon and yarn. Lily who put the smiles on the faces of all the young men at village gatherings, dancing with as many as she could. It was Lily who was gone now. Gone with the neat homestead they had called home. Gone into the smoke and flames with Mam and the baby boy Pop had been so proud of. Gone like everything Catta had known of life.

Preface

This blog is an experiment in writing. Fiction writing to be sure, on a daily basis, with the intent of eventually creating something that could be a novel. I take credit for it, good and bad, and I hope that you as reader will also. While access and reading this work is free (and probably worth just that), please remember that it is my work, unless otherwise noted, and I do claim copyright to my work.

The idea is to take the daily exercise of writing a blog a step further. Will it work? Will it not? Will it lapse into a coma? That is what the experiment is all about.

Thank you for reading.