White Eyes (part two)

Spoiler! :

This is the first section of the second chapter of the fantasy novel I am working on. It won't make much sense at all if you haven't read the first chapter.

But yeah. Reviews are - need I repeat it? - enormously appreciated and I will be forever grateful to those who can tell me what I am doing wrong and what I am doing all right already.

Thank you so much,

Ignis

Chapter Two: Argo

Morgan awoke the next morning with a heavy heart. She did not know what weighed it down so. Yet by the light of the morning sun, the answer became clear.

Katrina was gone. She was gone without a trace, without a note or reason. Nobody had seen her since the day before. She had simply vanished. John seemed strangely subdued at the breakfast table, and after eating he took Morgan into the town to look for Katrina. They searched every corner of every alleyway, and talked with every passer-by, hoping against hope that somebody might have seen her.

By midday, there was still no news, and Morgan’s father was growing desperate. He could not find any reason for her disappearance and although he went through every single possibility in his mind, not one seemed to fit the circumstances.

Morgan, however, had much more than a vague idea. She knew without a shadow of doubt that her mother had left in the middle of the night, and that she had been following something. She dared not name it, even to herself, for fear of … fear. But whatever it was, she had followed it into the woods and was far, far away by now. Morgan knew that it was far too late to catch her.

She was silent as she and her father sat outside the village bakery, contemplating their position. The shop beside the baker’s, a small wine-merchant’s stall, owned by Mr. Teagle, was empty. She watched the baker absentmindedly through the doorway. There was a small assistant with him, and they were talking earnestly. Morgan saw the baker’s gaze switch momentarily to her father, and watched as the boy hurried out of the doorway and ran towards them. He was a skinny little thing, with a mop of unruly black hair, and his face was stained chalk-white with flour.

“Morning, sir,” he said briskly, looking at John through bright blue eyes. John’s head did not move. He remained staring at the ground.

“Morning,” chipped in Morgan, not wanting to be ignored.

The boy glanced swiftly at her, offered a quick smile, and then turned his attention back to her father.

“Good morning, sir,” he repeated.

“Morning,” persisted Morgan. The boy shot a slightly annoyed glance at her and again turned back to John.

“Er, excuse me, sir. Good morning!”

“Morning!” repeated Morgan again. She did not like the boy’s attitude. Yet the boy still ignored her.

“Sir, I have come with a question from my master. Er – good morning, sir?”

John did not stir.

“Have you now?” said Morgan cheerfully. “Well then, stop good-morning-ing and get on with it.”

The boy looked at her angrily. Apparently he was not too pleased that he was being spoken to like this by a girl. He coughed importantly.

“Sir, my master has a message for you!”

“Well, sir, if you intend to actually give the message and are not just saying this for the fun of it, then I suggest you stop bleating pointlessly and get on with it.” Morgan’s temper was fast in the rising. If this boy was going to be impudent, she was going to be impudent right back at him.

It seemed, however, that the boy did not entirely warm to this idea. His face went bright red underneath a thick layer of flour and he spluttered incoherently.

“Well, I never … spoken to by a girl … what a rude little … little prune, you –”

“That will be enough of that, young Master Argo.”

The boy’s head whipped around. John had finally decided to give him his attention. Ignoring the man’s angry words, Argo proceeded to deliver his message.

“Why, good m– ’’

“Oh, enough of the ‘good morning’s! Just get on with it, will you?” John was not in a particularly amicable mood.

“Oh, all right then,” said the boy, very much taken aback. “Well, Mister Baker sent me to ask you if you need any …”

“Not your message! I want you to apologise immediately to my daughter.”

The boy scanned the street up and down, puzzled. He could not seem to find the girl John was talking about. Then his eyes widened, and he looked from John to Morgan and back again, aghast.

“Apologise … to her?”

“Yes. That is my daughter, Morgan.”

“Sir, she was … she was very rude to me, sir …”

“So I gathered. But you were rude to her also, were you not?”

The boy’s mouth opened and closed.

“But … but surely that doesn’t count?”

Morgan’s temper was now at boiling point.

“And why shouldn’t it, young Master Argo? Could it possibly be because I’m a peasant? Could it? More than that, I think. Maybe it’s because I’m a peasant girl.” She spat the last word in the boy’s face.

Argo looked fit to burst. His face had gone red as a beetroot – and as plump as one, too – and he was spluttering like a leaky faucet.

John’s mood had not improved in the slightest.

“I want you both to apologise immediately. Now!”

The two children shouted together.

“No!”

“I said, NOW!”

“NO!”

The three of them were starting to attract odd looks from passer-bys, and some young boys had gathered around the scene, obviously hoping that somebody would start a scrap.

“Morgan, on the count of three …”

“No, wait!” Morgan had seen the boys and sudden inspiration had sprung into her mind. “I have a better idea.” Stalking over to Argo, she grasped his wrist with a grip like iron and hoisted it high. Argo, completely surprised, attempted to pull it down again, but Morgan’s grip was too strong. “I propose,” started Morgan in a very loud, box-speaker’s voice, “that we hold a tournament!”

Several of the boys on the sidelines went wild with excitement, but others backed off, muttering about not wanting to hurt ‘the girl’.

But Morgan was not finished.

“And guess what!” she said, with obvious relish. “You’re not competing! None of you are!”

The cries of joy from the sidelines quickly changed tone.

“Why not?” said one boy.

“Yeah, we’re more than a match for a puny little girl!” said another.

“I’m sure you are,” assured Morgan. “And once I’m through with this one – ’’ she hauled Argo’s arm into the sky again, “anyone who wants can come up and have their turn!” She gave the boy’s arm a final triumphant tug, and then let it fall to his side. Turning to him, a strange light in her eyes, she smiled. “Let’s begin then, shall we?”

The crowd of boys had elected a spot in the empty town square. One boy had engraved a large circle in the packed dirt with a sharp stick and ordered the two competitors to step inside. Another, more educated one had procured from his tattered breast pocket an equally tattered scroll of paper, which he proceeded to read with great gusto.

“Rules for a tournament fought between two b– I mean, two people of the same age. Number one: Do not step outside of the – de-zig-nay-ted – space.” Here he tapped the edge of the circle with his foot. “Number two: Do not use knives or – weh-pon-ary – of any sort. Number three: No kicking in the … in the …” He glanced quickly at Morgan. “Let’s just forget that one, shall we? Number four: No backing out once the tournament has begun!” The boy gave a wicked smile as he rolled up the scroll.

Argo went pale.

“But … that’s it? I mean … no rules about … about no killing, or anything of that sort?”

“Nope,” said the boy, his smile widening in delight. “But I wouldn’t say you have anything to fear, would you?”

Argo glanced around at Morgan, taking into account her size.

“No, but …”

“She’s a girl, mate.”

“I guess so.” Argo looked a little bit more relaxed as he turned to face his opponent.

The scroll-boy cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Let the tournament begin!”

Argo stepped forward tentatively. As angry as he was, she was still only as girl.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered.

“No, of course you don’t,” said Morgan cheerfully. “I’m only a girl.” She did not look nervous in the slightest.

Argo flushed.

“Well … you are, really …”

“And does that mean that I have absolutely no hope whatsoever of beating you?”

“Well … I suppose … yes,” he said gingerly.

Morgan’s face was cheery.

“Wrong answer,” she tweeted merrily, and in the space of a millisecond, Argo found himself flat on his face on the dirty ground, arms twisted underneath him at a very odd angle.

The surrounding boys gasped and blinked simultaneously. Her move had been so swift and subtle that no-one had noticed how she had done it. There were no smiles on their faces now. They suspected some kind of devilry – maybe a demon had wormed its way into the girl’s brain and was controlling her.

Morgan did not seem to notice the stunned silence. Glancing down in apparent surprise at her floored opponent, she tut-tutted severely. “Well, now, what is mister High-and-Mighty I-don’t-want-to-hurt-you doing on the floor? The tournament hasn’t even started yet!”

Argo was in shock. It had been so quick – he had hardly felt it at all. And she was a girl …

“Hurry up and get up!” Morgan seemed to be getting impatient, while actually very much enjoying herself. Argo attempted to rise, but his twisted arms caused him to fall back down with a thud.

“Here, let me help you,” said Morgan sympathetically. Ignoring his cries of protests, Morgan hooked her hands under his arms and hauled him upright.

Argo took a moment to untwist his arms, and he emerged from the effort more red from anger that from exhaustion.

“Fine then,” he snarled. “I’m not going easy on you anymore. You’re gonna wish you’d never been born!” He lunged at his opponent, in a similar manner to a charging bull. The boys on the sidelines were certain that this was the end of the girl. Not even a witch could escape a charge like that. But before they could make any more assumptions, Morgan moved, and Argo again found himself flat on the ground, this time outside the circle. Morgan stood innocently by, looking at her felled opponent with some surprise.

“Oops,” she said. “He must have slipped.” She went to help him up again.

“Outside the circle!” shouted the boy with the scroll. “One strike for each of you!”

Morgan showed no anger, and gently lifted Argo from the ground, again ignoring his furious cries.

“Ready to go again?” she asked.

“You bet,” snorted Argo. “There is no way I’m going to let you win this.” But he did not charge again. The two circled each other like prowling wolves, locked in each other’s gaze, each daring the other to make the first move.

But the tension was too much for Argo, and he was furious. He made a very sudden dive-roll, aiming at Morgan’s legs, intending to knock her out of the circle. But his eyes had betrayed him, and Morgan made a leap, pushing herself off his back and propelling Argo out of the circle.

The boys went wild.

“Strike two for Argo! Strike two for Argo!” The boy with the scroll was shouting madly. It seemed incredible that this puny little girl could have floored the tall, lanky Argo so many times without a scratch.

Morgan again stepped out of the circle to help the boy, earning herself another strike. She intended to end the score fifty-fifty, cancelling out her own points as she earned strikes. That way, Argo did not lose his honour as a boy, and she earned newfound honour as a girl.

As Argo again stepped back into the circle, Morgan thought quickly. She had to think this last try out carefully. Watching her opponent with the eyes of a bird of prey, she silently planned her move. Her eyes widened as he stepped towards her. Now was the time. His every move was monitored with the utmost attention.

Just in time, Morgan noticed a slight tenseness in his right leg. Half a second later, the leg was swung high into the air, scraping Morgan’s nose. As quick as lightning, Morgan grabbed it and held on with all her might.

The boys in the crowd gasped. The kick had been executed so swiftly, and yet the tiny girl had managed to catch the boy’s leg. They watched as Argo viciously tried to tear his leg from her grasp. Morgan was slowly driving him backwards. Now he teetered on the edge of the circle, hopping madly on his free leg, striving to keep his balance. His long arms flailed wildly about him. The sight was very comical to the spectators. Then Argo’s eyes grew wide and with a final desperate cry, he toppled onto his side, landing with a thud on the hard-packed ground – outside the circle.

The crowd was deadly silent. A cow mooed far off in the distance. And then there was a sound like the roof caving in as the boys cheered and yelled. The scroll boy was dancing up and down in delight.

“STRIKE THREE FOR ARGO! STRIKE THREE FOR ARGO! THE GIRL WINS!”

Morgan ran out of the circle to help Argo up, but her actions went unnoticed, and her shouts were drowned in the chaos about her.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled with all her might.

“HEY!”

The boys fell silent and glanced nervously at each other. Surely she wasn’t going to challenge one of them? Hadn’t she proved herself enough already?

But Morgan said nothing of the sort.

“I was trying to tell you,” she huffed, “that I haven’t won. Look.” Morgan tapped the ground where she was standing with her big toe. “I’m outside the circle,” she explained, when none of the upturned faces showed any comprehension. “Outside,” she repeated. “Strike three for Morgan! It’s a tie.”

The scroll boy finally understood, and, grinning devilishly, shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “You won fair and square.”

“No, I didn’t,” insisted Morgan. “I just earned myself another strike. We’re equal. It’s a tie. The rules – ’’

“The rules say nothing about it,” interrupted the boy smugly. “And, as the ref-i-re-fy –’’

“Referee,” growled Morgan.

“As the ref-i-re-fy, I say that once one competitor has earned his third strike, the tournament’s over and nothing that happens afterwards counts. It’s only fair.” His face glowed with glee at what he clearly thought was a very unfair statement. He knew Morgan could do nothing about it.

Morgan was speechless.

“But … what if the other competitor refuses to accept the title of winner?”

“Can’t,” stated the boy bluntly, his smile broadening. “If you’re winner, you’re winner, and there ain’t nothing you can do about it.” He turned his back to her, intending to address his cronies. A very unwise move, as it turned out. A savage kick from behind sent him flying, and he landed sprawling on the dusty floor.

Morgan stalked past the other boys haughtily, treading heavily on the scroll boy’s chest as she passed. It is likely she would have shown a beetle more mercy. Nose in the air, she stalked out of the dusty square and sauntered off down the road. Her swagger did not last for long, however, as no sooner had she gone out of sight of the boys than her father appeared before her, and at his shoulder, the baker.

John was so red in the face that Morgan wondered for a moment how long he had been running. But then she noticed a vein pulsing in his forehead, and recognized it as a bad sign. She began to back off slowly.

John and the baker advanced, her father growing redder all the while. Finally he exploded.

“What on Earth did you think you were doing?” He spluttered. “Running of with a crowd of ruffians – ’’

“Boys, Father, no older than myself.”

“RUFFIANS!” barked John, so loudly that Morgan jumped. “Running off with a bunch of ruffians to compete in some tournament or other – ’’

“What’s so bad about that?”

“YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!” John’s face had turned the colour of a ripe plum.

“Father! Please don’t talk nonsense. They were all my age, and I could have thrashed all of them single-handedly.”

Her father’s mouth opened and closed in astonishment at being accused of talking nonsense.

At this point, the baker intervened.

“Steady, John,” he said. His voice was high pitched and strangely clipped. “Now, young lady,” he started, waggling his finger in front of Morgan’s nose in the most infuriating manner, “Your dad here’s bin working hard all morning, and trying to find your mother – which’s cost him a bit of time an’ money, mind you – ’’

“Mister Baker,” interrupted Morgan sweetly, blood pounding in her ears, “would you mind not reminding me of something I’m already quite aware of, and if you’re going to speak at all, please inform me of something that’s not a waste of time.”

The baker flushed and fidgeted with his hat.

“Now, Morgan, t’ain’t fitting for a lovely young lady like yourself to go round saying things like that. You ain’t the one to do it, I tell you, and there’s not one who could tell you better, save perhaps your father, who’s bin working hard all morning, and trying to find your mother – which’s cost him a bit of time an’ – ’’

“You’ve said that already,” interrupted Morgan rudely. Nose in the air, she turned on her heel and flounced off, letting her father’s angry cries for her to “Come back here this moment” fall on deaf ears.

As soon as she rounded the corner, she broke into a run, and did not halt once until she had reached the Elnari tree.

*

It seemed to Morgan as though the tree welcomed her as she laid her hands upon its firm bark. It seemed to help her up even more readily than ever before, almost as if it were apologising for something. Morgan began absently to wonder what it could be, and then remembered her fall.

“It’s all right,” she murmured softly, to nothing in particular. “It’s not your fault. I should not have loosened my grip.” She stroked the bark tenderly, and then it struck her how odd this scene must be – a young girl, sitting high up in a tree (where by rights it was generally considered a girl should not be), stroking the bark and talking to the tree as though it had a mind of its own. Thank goodness nobody is here, Morgan thought. Even though she did not usually care what others thought of her, she did not want to earn herself a reputation as a crackpot.

Even as she thought this, her keen ears picked up the sound of light footsteps on the dusty path below. Ducking swiftly behind a densely leaf-populated branch, Morgan peered through a small gap in the greenery.

She slowed her breathing as the stranger approached. What if it was her father? Yet it did not seem to be so. Whoever it was, they were travelling swift and light, making hardly a footfall. Soon the walker strolled into view, and Morgan almost laughed when she saw who it was.

Argo’s face was smeared with a thick white paste – a mixture of flour and water – and his baggy clothing was hardly recognisable under a caked layer of mud. Morgan wondered fleetingly what on Earth he could possibly have done to himself. The matter became more serious, however, when he veered over to the side of the road and began fingering the trunk of Morgan’s tree for handholds.

Morgan thought quickly. She would never allow him to discover her up there – she had never revealed her hiding place to any but her parents, and even then not willingly. She was certainly not going to reveal it to a filthy baker’s boy who thought girls were useless.

Morgan watched as Argo found a ledge near his left eye – the one Morgan always used, but had thought was well hidden – and began to haul himself up. His lanky limbs made him look rather like a spider, and despite the grave situation, Morgan almost laughed.

She watched more intently as he became stuck halfway up the trunk. He did not know about the secret little knob that sat almost directly beside his right elbow. That would allow him to propel himself far enough up the trunk to grasp the lowest branch, and once he had reached that the going would become much easier. But as it was, Argo did not find the knob, and Morgan was greatly relieved.

Until he jumped.

The move was so unexpected Morgan almost cried out. Argo’s long limbs flailed wildly in the air, and his eyes opened wide. Luckily for him, one of his spidery arms caught on the lowest branch, and he hung there helplessly, saved from a nasty drop.

Now Morgan was in serious trouble. She would not allow him to make it all the way up. She could not. As he recovered his footing and his balance and started to climb steadily further up, Morgan tried to think. If she could just find a way to deter him…

Too late. With a final effort, Argo hauled himself onto the last thick branch and flung himself onto the platform. Sitting up, he looked around, obviously extremely pleased with himself. “Bet no-one’s ever managed to get up here before,” he muttered to himself. He was so pleased with his prodigious talent that he stood up, swaggered to the edge of the platform, swayed and almost fell off. Catching himself, he glanced hastily around and, certain that no-one had witnessed his unfortunate slip, relaxed back into his cocky grin and leaned casually against a leafy branch.

“Argo the Great,” he grunted, “King of the Trees.”

After a while in which he blinked uncomprehendingly at it, he noticed that the branch had eyes. Moreover, he realised that the eyes were staring at him.

Staggering back, Argo almost fell off again, flailing his long arms like windmills. Again he caught himself, and blinked rapidly. Staring hard at the spot, he rubbed his eyelids and squinted. Were there really eyes there? Or was it some trick of the flour in his eyelashes?

Tiptoeing cautiously forward, he raised his hand, hesitated, and then waved it in front of the eyes. They did not blink, or move. It seemed that they were frozen. He sidled slowly two feet to the right, and peered at the branch from a different angle. The eyes were still there. Then, glancing furtively over his shoulder, Argo cupped his hands around his flour-covered mouth and whispered hoarsely.

“Hello?”

Still the eyes did not move.

“Who – what are you?”

The eyes blinked, and it seemed to Argo that he could catch a hint of amusement in them.

“All right,” he huffed. “Laugh. But There’s nothing funny about my thinking of you as a thing. What else could you possibly be?”

No answer.

“Fine,” said Argo dismissively. “Ignore me. I don’t care. I’m just a useless, skinny idiot, is that right?”

A gravelly voice issued from between the leaves.

“You dare speak to a tree Sprite in such a manner?”

Argo froze.

“A tree Sprite,” he whispered in wonder. “Wow. I knew you were something.” Kneeling down before the branch, Argo hailed the eyes, looking extremely awkward with his long legs and arms jostling for position on the platform. “Er - o wise and mighty Sprite, pray tell your servant what he must do to - er - repent of his actions.”

Morgan was greatly enjoying herself. She watched with pent up hilarity as the skinny baker’s boy bowed down before her, his mud-caked hair almost tickling her toes as his head sank to the ground.

Striving valiantly to control her voice, Morgan spoke again.

“Most unworthy one,” she began, in a voice she hoped boomed like thunder, “you have crossed the boundaries of the paths of mortals!”

Argo shivered, but said nothing.

“You have entered, unwittingly or no, into realms dominated by a power your simple mind cannot hope ever to imagine, let alone comprehend. You have walked by your own will into a land of great beauty and majesty, of evil and danger.” Morgan paused, giving Argo time to absorb her lies. Then she said, with great relish, “And you are not fit to be here.”

Argo looked up.

“So … if I just … go …”

“Oh, I am afraid you cannot do that.”

Argo faltered.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“You have crossed into the boundaries of a forbidden land. Mortals are not permitted to come here. The Book of the Ancients leaves nothing out. Trespassers must die!” Morgan spat the last word at Argo so that he flinched and cowered against the wood of the tree.

“Please! Please, I beseech you. I am but a poor farmers’ boy, uneducated and disturbed. My mother, she died when I was a baby, and then my father sold me to a slave-dealer without a second thought. I have been brought up under the whip and the cruel hand of starvation. My master beats me thrice daily, once before breakfast, once at lunchtime and once before bed, and then he sends me to sleep with the pigs. He gives me just one dry crust and a drop of water once a day, and then he sends me off to the market carrying a ton of melons on my back, which he expects me to sell, and I have to crack them open with my head. Please, don’t kill me! I’m poor, very poor, and starving, and I was running away, and– ’’

“Shut your snivelling mouth, human. You will take your punishment as it is delivered. None escape the wrath of the terrible Sprite of the Elnari tree!” the eyes narrowed to hungry slits, and Morgan made a horrible gurgling sound in her throat.

“Don’t kill me!” Argo backed off in horror.

“I am hungry,” rasped Morgan. “I have not tasted Man-flesh in a thousand years …”

“Please, don’t eat me!” Argo’s voice came out as a petrified squeak. “I’m no good to eat … look, look at me! I’m all skin and bones.” He stretched the skin on his arm as a demonstration.

The eyes seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then Morgan let out a disappointed sigh.

“Count yourself lucky I do not eat bones. Now, get out of my sight before I send for a Sprite who does!”

Argo needed no second bidding. Bounding to the edge of the platform, he scampered down as lithely as any squirrel, and with twice the speed of one. He did not halt at the bottom, but stumbled off along the road as fast as his considerable legs could carry him. He did not look back.

Morgan watched after him, a broad smile lingering upon her features. What an idiot. What a poor, poor idiot.