He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, rigid, staring every now and then into the patient, amber eyes of his dog. There were no clocks, and he hadn’t put his watch on before going through Merlyn’s door. The temperature crept lower, enough to make the hair on his arms stand up, and the light gradually faded.
He glanced up. A young woman was watching him from the other side of the glade.
“Hello?” His voice rang harsh in his head after so much silence.
The woman did not reply. She blinked once and continued to scrutinise him. Her eyes were large, black pools in the evening light, her dark hair reaching to her waist. She was chalk-pale, thin, and still. Warren thought she was too thin, like something half-starved, though she was well-dressed in a long, grey dress and something like leather leggings.
“How long have you been there?” he said. He guessed it was about eight o’clock at night and hoped his father hadn’t found the door to the forest and closed it. “Where did you come from?”
At last, she spoke in deep thought. “Who are you?”
“Warren. And you?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Warren? What sort of a name do you call that?”
“You haven’t told me yours yet.”
“Morgan.”
“What kind of name do you call that?”
She looked away, her face haughty. Warren wasn’t sure, but she may have been suppressing a smile.
“If you’re looking for Gwynvus, or Merlyn, they aren’t here,” he said. “There’s just me and this creepy tree-woman.”
“I’m here for the battle.”
“Arthur’s being besieged somewhere else in the forest, not here.”
Morgan nodded. Instead of walking away, she stayed there, swinging one of her legs backwards and forwards in something like indecision.
“What are you doing in the battle?” Warren said. “I didn’t think girls fought wars here.”
“I don’t speak to peasants.”
“I’m not a peasant!”
“Really? Who are your mother and father, then?”
“My father’s a farmer. My… my mother was a librarian.”
“Was?”
“She died.”
“Oh.” A short pause. “Well, then that means you are a peasant.”
“Actually, I’m a time-traveller.”
Morgan did not deign to acknowledge that remark. She said, “I ask for refreshment.”
Warren decided he didn’t like her. “There’s a well here, if you’d like to stick your head down it.”
“Boy,” she said, her dark eyes burning. “Do you know who you are talking to? I am Morgan the Fey, daughter of Duke Gorla and ward of Leodegrans. If either of them were to find out how you have dared to address me, you would not have a head to stick anywhere.”
“Gorla’s dead.”
Morgan stood unmoved. “I never knew him, anyway. Is there bread in that… house? And water?” She swallowed. “Please?”
WHATNOTS:
The latest instalment of Once Upon A Crocodile ezine (issue 14) is now out, complete with plasticine illustrations (move over, Nick Park) and short interviews with the contributors:
The next issue will be ready in March 2024, submissions for humorous and funny stories and poetry are open until then:
UPDATE ON CODEX CORVIDAE
I had planned on self-publishing this as a collection of short stories and giving free copies to anyone who bought “A Dark Heritage – The Nighthunter” but could not for the life of me work out how to set that up. And then the collection of stories kept on growing into a sprawling expanse of over 100,000 words. It still isn’t winding to an end any time soon, so this year I aim to serialise each story on Amazon Vella so at least readers can read them as I continue to write.
ETA 23/01/2024: After some research it looks like Amazon Vella is only available in America, so this isn’t a viable solution either…
Nightwalks 