Down in the valley

The sun was pale yellow and so was the man; the wizard. He scratched his leg. A purple laurel leaf blew past his untied hair. He blinked slowly. The day was waking up.

The sky on the horizon was baby pink, and was just beginning its morning stretch, up and away from the ground.

The wizard cradled a clay mug between his hands and every so often, took a sip. At the top of his tower, he was serene. The lines on his face were unmoving. He stared blankly in to the sky. A flock of wash-up birds were bobbing steadily along the currents of the morning air, heading down in to the valley.

Much of the valley was still in considerable shadow. The sun was yet to catch up with the birds and complete its commute, so only the very tops of the mountainsides were neatly warmed.

In such a high mountain meadow, several blonde squirrels were leisuring in the waking sun. They chittered and congratulated each other on their excellent real estate, and when they were suitably warmed, they ran down the mountainside to be the first at the forage.

When they reached it, the forest floor was cold. The air was asleep. Nothing stirred. Such stillness suggested caution was needed and the squirrels moved slowly and then stopped. Nothing and no one moved. Then there was the snap of a broken twig. A great thrashing roar of leaves ensued and debris flew across the woodland bed. The squirrels scattered, the trees bowed and all along their limbs ran a distinct shudder.

A small black animal dashed through the undergrowth, running in the opposite direction of the roar. It was moving its legs so fast that its eyelids were pulled back and only the whites of his eyes could be seen. Its paws leapt from log to rock to root. It stopped to sniff nothing. Its jagged jaw was turned upwards and its tail was wagging.

The roaring creature was close behind. It flailed its branches wildly, hoping to snag the small dog with its thorns but none of its swipes could reach. The pup was too fast. Its legs rocked from back to front and cleared the jump over the small waterfall that had been the deciding factor for the location of the travelling caravan’s campsite.

The pup hurried on. He used a sleeping form as a launch pad and another for the landing. As he tore through the centre of the camp many ‘oofs’ and ‘Ah ya bastards’ followed close behind. The more lucid or lighter sleepers followed up with accusing stares, before they were lashed and smothered by the pursuing, vengeful and thorny creature.

It came through in a whirlwind. Its crooked, characteristic grey face was bent by insatiable fury. The tentacle-like brambles issuing from its waist were a writing mass that caught loose debris and tore anything that could be torn. The three limbs above the brambles writhed too. They grasped and clawed, and tossed anything out of the way that wasn’t its intended.

‘Vetch! It’s a thorn vetch!’ A voice cried from somewhere in the camp.

It didn’t take the dashing black pup to wake the camp now. More cries were thrown up and sleeping packs were tossed in to the air along with them. When the pup reached the edge of the camp he stopped, and panting he threw himself on to the occupied sleeping pack of a young boy.

The boy looked down at the breathless pup on his chest. It had pinned him before he could get up and scatter with the rest of the sleepers. Now it was too late. The Thorn Vetch was upon them. It swiped at the animal but it was already up and away again, with its tail wagging. The attack instead fell on the boy and the only exposed part of his skin; his face. It was badly lacerated and fresh welts of blood sprung from his cheeks. Some tufts of his hair were also ripped from his head and the blonde clumps floated in the air like feathered snow.

The singular vision of the Vetch’s one, pointed eye failed to register the boy, and instead led the ancient forest creature back in to the woods, after the darting pup.

The boy’s eyes watered when he touched his face, and he cried when all those around him turned on him. The worst-off from the company, who had been at the front of the camp when the Vetch had come through, were shouting ‘Bastard!’

‘Away with ye, Kip! Leave this camp!’ They shouted. No voice was heard that raised opposition to this so Kip packed up his belongings.

Before he turned to leave, he offered up some of his shirt for use as bandages but it went unclaimed. So with his pack over his shoulder he took a step in to the forest. Just then, the pup came racing back and hopped over Kip’s boot. The boy blinked slowly, afraid that anymore movement would tip off the Vetch. He turned his head by slight degrees, toward the direction the dog had come from.

The vetch was at the treeline. It was close to where those that hadn’t been bothered in the first assault or had recovered sufficiently, were taking their morning relief. On the Vetch’s approach, this vulnerable number rushed to tuck themselves back inside their clothes, without a thought to wipe. Luckily they were able to dodge the Vetch and from their darted-to positions, they seared the guilt of their spoiled morning in to Kip by looking his way. Apparently sensing this, the Vetch made for the boy.

His hand went rapidly from his face to his belt. He unsheathed his short dagger and held it out firmly in front of him. The vetch, not caring for the small blade, rushed at him.

Kip knew he shouldn’t close his eyes but that thought wasn’t as strong as his eyelids and they scrunched themselves shut. Without sight, he listened to the calamity all around him. He could hear the infernal parting of the leaves on the forest floor that came in the Vetch’s wake, and shouting among the campers. None shouted to Kip to advise him to stay the course or dip out of the way. And then the Vetch was in front of him, it stopped. From behind his lids he could sense the great height of it. Suddenly, all was quiet and he could hear his stomach growl. Then in quick succession there was a thud, a gust of air blown towards him and then a chorus of cheers all around.

He slightly unscrewed one eye. The vetch was lying prone before him, with a large metal arrow sticking through its back. Kip dropped his dagger, and his composure. He sank to his knees and breathed loudly through his mouth.

When he had recovered, he looked around for a saviour wielding a bow but found no one of the sort. He scratched his cheek, forgetting he had taken damage. He winced and picked up his pack. He looked at the campers kicking and prodding the dead Vetch as if it were a marvel. He supposed they had not seen a dead one before. As a hairy individual, with a pipe glued to his lip, inspected the spilled blood on the leafy floor, the pup re-appeared beside his hand. Kip noticed this and rushed to restrain the naughty animal but was too slow, its pointed teeth were sunk in to the hairy man’s, hairy hand. He screamed and raised his other hand to clamp over the pup’s head but was too slow, the dog couldn’t be caught. It was off again, darting between cooking pots and feeding whatever breakfast they contained to the floor. He tracked mud over blankets and laps, and stopped to piss on a baby’s basket. Angry bellows were thrown up for a second time that morning and someone who had been inspecting the vetch flicked Kip on the back of the ear.

‘Get your ugly little dog, and piss off!’

Kip nodded.

‘Grimm!’ He called after the dog. Grimm, having caused his mischief, came back to sit beside the boy. On noticing the dead Vetch however, it took up with whittling down the dead creature’s feet. The gathered campers watched and saw that damage had already been done to the feet, before the Vetch had died, and presumably before it had entered the camp. The clear culprit of this assault resumed his work and savagely crunched off the remaining blisters from the old, dead feet.

Whilst thus occupied, the pup was unaware that a heavy boot was heading for his stomach and he took a hefty blow. It wasn’t enough to knock him down however, and he darted away in to the forest. The kicker with the heavy boot shoved the Kip in the same direction.