Part 1

Heartwood

This was without doubt Pirin’s favourite time of the day.  In fact, it was his favourite place too.  The moon, capturing the last few rays of the descending sun, was an enormous pale disc suspended just above the silhouetted trees and cast a bluish light through the clearing in which he sat.  Bluebells, woodruff and pink campion carpeted the woodland floor, the twilight air richly suffused with their heavy scent.

Pirin squinted at the spoil heaps which gave away the entrances to the badger sett.  The light, as always, was starting to play tricks on his eyes, discarded lumps of chalk and fallen branches appearing to move or change shape in the half-light.  The sett itself pock-marked the inner slopes of an old flint digging, long abandoned and now overgrown with wild cherry and sycamore.  Pirin’s concealment was an ancient beech tree that had split in two at some point during its early life, now forming an elevated and surprisingly comfortable vantage point from which he could see through the trees and out into the meadows beyond.

The furious rattle of an alarmed wren from a dense hazel thicket drew Pirin’s attention to his left and within a few moments a vixen padded warily into view.  She paused to sniff the air before angling down a well-used badger path, stopping just below Pirin’s tree.  Her frame was lean, ribs clearly visible through threadbare fur.  The vixen’s gaze was focused on a small area of bramble at the base of a fallen oak, her body motionless save for the end of her tail, the white hairs of which were ruffled by the faint breeze.

Pirin remained perfectly still, scarcely breathing for fear of startling the vixen or her intended prey.  Rabbits shared the sett, but they were always alert and ready to scatter at the slightest hint of a threat.  He watched as the muscles in her back legs began to tense and bunch.  Then, in a precise and graceful arc, she pounced into the brambles with a speed that belied her apparent frailty.  She emerged almost immediately with a small vole, its legs still twitching as it dangled from her jaws. Pirin knew that such a diminutive offering would not satisfy her hunger for long and she would have to hunt again that night.  He watched as the vixen picked her way back up the path.  Pausing, her tawny eyes looked straight up into Pirin’s, as if she had known all along that he had been there.

Danger.  Leave.

The voice was thin and clear in Pirin’s head.  The vixen held his gaze momentarily before trotting off once more between the trees and out of sight.  Pirin laughed quietly to himself.  As something of a dreamer, he found that prolonged solitude in the wildwood could sometimes blur the distinction between imagination and reality, but he had never experienced anything remotely similar before.  As a child he had always shown an affinity with all manner of beasts something that had struck his parents as at best amusing and at worst eccentric.  Helping his father clear the sowing ground for the spring crops, he would painstakingly examine the cut brushwood for snails and spiders, toads and hidden hedgehogs, all of which were liberated with care to the sanctuary of the surrounding woods, sparing them from cremation when the bonfires were lit.  He even felt somehow guilty at the sight of the limp and lifeless weeds that were torn from the soil to make way for their crops.  For Pirin, allowing the brightly coloured flowers to wither and shrivel away in the sun was somehow a violation of life’s order.  Even now, on his visits to Crowfoot, he still avoided his uncle’s house whenever possible.  Eris was a butcher and a discernible pall of anguish shrouded the small abattoir to the rear of his cottage.  Pirin wasn’t squeamish, but found it impossible to cleanse from his mind the condemned eyes that would follow him from the barred carts that periodically arrived.  His increasingly stubborn refusal to eat meat as a child had always upset his mother, who took it as a personal slight that he picked at her cooking, often declining it completely.

Still shaking his head in disbelief at the nature of his encounter with the vixen, Pirin slipped silently from the tree.  Darkness by now had almost engulfed the wood and he set off in the direction of the open meadow and better visibility.  Leaping across a small stream he climbed up a primrose-clad embankment and emerged into a paddock, several rabbits bolting for cover as he did so.  Pausing only briefly to survey the moonlit view, Pirin began to run in the direction of Crelda’s cottage.  The old woman was a recluse, and preferred the company of animals – especially her dog Trisk – to anything the village could offer.  Somersaulting deftly over the crude gate, Pirin stood in the small yard and waited.

The cottage itself was a thatched, single-story building with green shutters and an oak door framed by honeysuckle.  Herbs and medicinal plants tumbled from every conceivable shape of container, flowers and vegetables jostling for space in the small but carefully tended garden.

Come on Trisk, where are you?

As soon as the words had crossed his mind, a huge white beast bounded from the shadow cast by an old rusty water butt and reared up against him, its momentum sending them both spinning to the floor.  Twisting and using his full weight, Pirin rolled the dog on its side and pinned its enormous head against his own.

“Thought I’d fall for that one, eh?  Now get off me, your breath smells of old leggings.  You’ll need to be quicker next time, flea-bag.”

Trisk’s nose nuzzled into Pirin’s shoulder and the two friends lay still in the damp grass, breathing heavily and revelling in mutual recognition.  Suddenly releasing his grip, Pirin leapt to his feet.

“Race you for an oatcake!”

Pirin sprinted for the door, which was now open, with Trisk close behind.  Entering the large, single room he jumped onto the table, grabbing the roughly-hewn bowl that stood at its middle as he did so.  Raising his arms above his head, he held it just beyond the reach of the barking dog, taunting him. 

“They’re all mind, all mine….for meeeeee!”

“Actually, I think you’ll find they’re all mine.”  Crelda, smiling, leaned forward from her chair next to the hearth.  “I heard the commotion outside.  Your timing is impeccable as always, Pirin.  They’re freshly made.”

Crelda had lived her entire life in the wildwood.  She had married Akin, a forester, and lived in this simple cottage for almost forty years.  Akin had always been as strong as a bison and no-one, including himself, had suspected his weakening heart – the amiable giant’s death seven years previously had been a shock to the entire village. 

Crelda now lived an isolated existence, enjoying the company of Trisk who, as Akin’s working dog, was a tangible reminder of her husband, and the regular visits from Pirin, who shared her love of the woodlands.  Pirin, she knew, was special.  He was a keenly sensitive individual capable of intuitive judgements who, unlike many less talented, kept them mostly to himself.

Lowering himself from the table, Pirin placed the bowl carefully in its original position and took one of the warm cakes, broke it in two and passed half to Trisk, who retreated to the shadows to enjoy his reward.  Walking over to where the old woman sat, Pirin kissed her cheek and lowered himself cross-legged in front of the fire. 

Although it was late spring, clear nights were still cool and Pirin soaked up the remaining heat from the dying fire.  Biting into the cake, he savoured the sweet mixture of oatmeal, treacle and dried fruit.  Then he spoke.

“I’ve been over at the diggings looking for badgers, but didn’t see much.  Something must have unsettled them.  There was a scent I didn’t recognise.”

Crelda reached into a wicker basket next to her chair and lifted out a wedge of chopped wood that still had traces of ivy clinging to it.  Tossing it into the fire, orange sparks flickered up the chimney and the wood almost immediately began to pop and hiss.

“Everywhere has been very quiet, Pirin.  You’re the first visitor I’ve had in over a week.  Even the deer have been skittish.  One ventured into the garden yesterday to nibble at the beet tops but it soon disappeared again.  The forest is a cautious place at present.  Things are certainly not as they should be.”

Pirin chewed slowly and deliberately on the cake, suddenly feeling awkward.  Perhaps even his mentor and friend Crelda would laugh at his experience with the fox.  After a short silence, he summoned up the courage to tell her, although he kept his tone as casual as possible.

“I did see a vixen.”

Crelda leaned back and folded her arms, her face expressionless save for a raised eyebrow.

“Go on.”

“Well, the strangest thing happened.  It was almost as if she spoke to me.  A voice in my head told me I was in danger. And then she disappeared as quickly as she had arrived.”

Pirin paused and shrugged his shoulders. 

“Perhaps I’ve been spending too much time alone with only my thoughts for company.”

A typically broad structure animated Crelda’s features.

“How long have you been visiting that sett, Pirin?”

Pirin hesitated for a moment, trying to think of a precise answer, but couldn’t.

“For more years than I can remember.”

“In all that time, have you not noticed how the badgers and the other creatures that frequent the sett have accepted your visits without concern?  They understand that you mean them no harm.  Your presence as a human no longer instils fear in them.  Fear corrupts and weakens the mind and since it is the foundation upon which most human relationship with animals are based, it retards our capacity to communicate with them.  You, on the other hand, have slowly and without knowing it acquired their trust, and with it the ability to feel their spirit.  The universal spirit.  You were in danger, Pirin.”

“I’m sorry Crelda, but I do not understand the connection.  What do you mean?”

Pirin sat forward, resting his chin on the palm of his hand.

“The vixen was only doing what the birds do for each other every day.  Think of the way they bicker and squabble for the scraps left for them outside my window.  Hunger is their driving force, survival their motivation, yet they all know that to get to the food they must place themselves in danger.  The sparrowhawk knows this and sits and waits for its moment to catch them off guard and in the open.  He knows that if he is detected, his likelihood of success is minimal.  The alarm call of each type of bird may sound different to our ears, but they convey the same message and will be understood by all, scattering them to the refuge of the shrubberies.”

“Surely you are not suggesting that I can talk with animals?” Pirin asked.

“No,  of course not.  That is a nonsense associated with childish stories.  But understand this, Pirin.  Not all knowledge is gained exclusively through the five senses.  After the sparrowhawk has swept through, complete silence always ensues.  Most humans cannot hear it, but the birds are still communicating with each other until the danger has passed.  In the same way, Pirin, you are sensitive to the thoughts of animals and they yours.  It is a gift that goes beyond empathy.  Humans in the main are arrogant creatures who perceive themselves as superior to the rest of Creation.  They like to think that they are safely cocooned in their own consciousness, isolated from others and in control of their own will. Yet we are all parts of a whole, the collective spirit binding us together through the life energy that pulses within all of us.”

Pirin screwed up his face.

“I’m sorry Crelda, but this is all very hard for me to comprehend.”

Leaning forward, Crelda pointed out of the window.

“Think of the mountains that embrace the northern forests of Calandria.  The Seven Sisters of Dorlain.  Or the Clembian Crags.  Do they not stand in splendid isolation, their peaks towering above the clouds?”

Pirin nodded.

“But they are not individual entities.  Their roots are embedded in a common landscape that binds them all together.  A willing soul can traverse from one to another.  Unfortunately, too few humans consider it a passage worth making, but it is possible for those who have the gift to do so.”

Pirin sat quietly, staring at the fire and the sleepy dog now stretched in front of it.

“I have seen it in you for a long time, Pirin.  But it is something that you must realise and discover gradually for yourself, step by step.”

Lifting himself from the floor, Pirin leaned into the old woman and hugged her.  She held him closer and more tightly than usual.  Eventually, Pirin pulled away, his outstretched arms on her shoulders.

“I need to think through carefully what you have said, Crelda.  It’s a lot for me to take in.”

Pirin smiled.

“My journey home will be a more reflective one than usual.  I leave early for the valley of the river Torvus tomorrow with Karis.  Thank you for your hospitality, as always.  I will return in a few days.  Until then, farewell.”

Pirin looked once again at the sleeping Trisk and patted him gently on the head, which the curled-up dog acknowledged with a faint flick of his tail.  Opening the door, he took a deep breath of the cold night air and set off, head down, towards the village.  From the direction of the badger sett, a single high-pitched bark broke the silence.