The Druid of Lathshara

I've finally found it. I can't tell anyone either. If I bring this back with me, I have to give it to them, and they'll never use it to bring him back. But if I keep it hidden until the day of the Solstice, our village might be spared.

I don't like to lie.

"This will save us," I whisper aloud.

Surely, they will thank me when they see the truth.

Unfortunately, the flaming red and yellow feather I hold in my hand cannot come back to Lathshara with me, not even inside a cleverly sewn pocket. There is no safe place to hide such a treasure once I approach the village, for the guards check everyone's baskets and pockets for the rare and sought-after plumage. The feather belongs only to the Elders who deem the one worthy of bringing back.

With my basket of herbs, mushrooms, and berries hanging off one mossy arm, I tuck the feather into my apron pocket and walk further into the forest towards a stream where no one else dares to go. The Orc territory is not far from here and they often come by this stream for water.

Even as my heart thumps against my ribcage, I risk my life to do this and find a rotting tree where a hole in its side gaps open. Peering through the vines of my hair, I take a cautious look around before I stuff the feather inside and cover it with a nearby rock.

A twig snaps somewhere behind me and I don't dare take a second to look. I already know it's an Orc. I run as fast as I can towards the village, my spindly legs and arms taking the form of a deer's to carry myself farther across the forest floor. I have to make it in time.

The terrible crashing sound through the undergrowth pushes me to run faster as I finally reach the edge of the trees, but the burn of the forest magic in my veins reverts me back into the natural form in which I run. Up, up, up a hill I climb with labored breaths and as I crest the slope, relief washes through me at the sight of Lathshara and its watch towers rising tall against the evening's pink and purple sky.

But, oh, how far away safety looks when you're running for your life.

I wave a hand high above my head, leaves fallings from my fingers tips as I call out frantic shouts of warning. The thunder behind me grows louder and nearer but, at last, arrows whistle from the towers and over my head toward my pursuer.

Grunts and monstrous growls erupt from the Orc as I hear it swing its arms like the Oaks of the forest during a violent thunderstorm. Thunk, thunk, thunk goes the arrows followed by the hiss of flames. I dare to take a peek over the violets that grow on my shoulders. There, the grotesque monster staggers and snarls with dagger-like teeth. His eyes are like the sun as they burn a loathing path toward me, but two arrows protrude from his bulging thigh.

"Come on! Run!" The guards at the gate call out to me, waving me on to safety.

With strength renewed, I fly through the open gates which close with a whoosh and I am at once surrounded by my fellow Druids. They lift their hands in praise to the archers as others rub the soil of the Earth onto my body to celebrate and cleanse me. But it isn't until I make it back to my shop and home which is tucked away inside a large tree, that I find myself oddly thankful for the Orc's appearance.

Because no one asked me if I had found a feather.

The coming weeks, however, bring us more troubles as word spreads to the other Orcs about our village. I knew it wouldn't be long before they realized we were no longer being protected, but I hold out hope that the day of the Phoenix Solstice comes sooner than the day of our demise.

Despite the growing risks of venturing into the forest, more Druids go out to scavenge for the feather, hoping the Elders will bring back one of their loved ones. The knot of guilt inside me grows with each passing day, especially as we mourn the loss of another Druid, torn apart by an Orc who ambushed them on their way into the forest.

The guilt I feel is soon paired with fear and anxiety when I think to myself, I will have to venture to the forest again to retrieve the feather.

My thankfulness for the first Orc is replaced with regret because now I wish I had brought the feather with me. Perhaps I could have kept it hidden in my home after all. Then again, perhaps I would have caved much sooner and given it to the Elders.

I must stay strong.

Every day, the number of Orcs grows as if sensing our desperation and weakness as more and more Druids leave in search of the feather. They know we are defenseless, yet they play with us as they let some come and go while others are not so lucky.

"Had the Elders not killed Shamar...we would be safe," Karilya says from the other side of my shop counter. Daisies bloom in a crown around her forehead as the willow branches of her hair swish from side to side when she shakes her head.

"Perhaps they rethink what they did to him now that the Orcs are back," I say as I mix her a unique herbal tea from my jars, pouring the dried leaves into a cloth bag with a small wooden spoon.

"Our forests will surely be purged of us, then what will happen when the forests die?" She slides a fresh-baked strawberry sourdough bread wrapped in cloth across the counter.

"The Orcs do not care nor understand our way of life," I say with a frown and secure the top of the bag with a thin piece of vine.

"Thank you, Marilia," she says as she brings the bag to her nose to inhale the sweet scent of lavender and bergamot, "Perhaps if someone finds the Phoenix feather, they will bring him back this year."

"The Elders will never allow it."

"I suppose you're right," she says with a sigh, turning to leave.

I desperately want to tell her that I have the feather and how I plan to bring him back myself. As much as I trust her, however, one slip of the tongue and the Elders will be at my door demanding I give it over to them.

So, I keep silent as I watch Karilya sway and hum her way out of my shop, the soft clink of wooden beads following as she slips through the decorative string that hangs from the doorway.

Two days pass and more Druids die needlessly. The Orcs now lie in wait at the edge of the woods, ready to ambush anyone who dares step foot between two trees. That night, the Elders call all of us to a meeting by the Moon Shrine pool where willows weep along the bank and moon mushrooms create glowing paths beneath the light of the waning moon.

"Brothers and sisters," Elder Serissa, who stands at the center of the pool on a large rock, says as she raises her bark-like hands to us in welcome. Her white and brown speckled feathers atop her head are intertwined with vines of flowers and leaves.

"We hear your worries as more of our kind die and the closer the Orcs come into our territory, but fear not, for the Great Phoenix who brings us fire and life will protect us!"

Elder Cedrel, who stands just behind her with Elder Almonis, nods in agreement while Almonis's eyes scan the crowd. A few Druids murmur their agreement as sighs of relief go around the pond, but I can see and hear many more who are not so easily persuaded. It is clear that the Orcs only come now that they know Shamar is no longer here to protect us.

"We will build fires around the perimeter of our village," Elder Cedrel says next. His dark green beard reaches his knees and is full of braids that hold many leaves and flowers.

Elder Almonis, a century younger than Cedrel, speaks next, saying, "Once the fire barrier is put up, no one will be allowed to leave the village, but this will only be temporary. The Orcs will tire and leave us alone just as they have in the past."

As reassuring as he tries to sound, whispers of uncertainty surround me.

"It's been a week since the group of Druids left to seek aid from another village!" Someone from the crowd cries out, rising a new concern among us as the tension intensifies.

Elder Serrisa keeps her voice firm and full of confidence as she says, "I am sure they are still gathering supplies and other Druids who will help us. In the meantime, we will keep the fires going."

"We have done this before," Elder Cedrel says as he taps his walking stick on the stone. The crowd falls into silence.

"And so we will do it again. Have patience. Have faith," Elder Serissa finishes and lays a hand on her heart.

Fire pits are set around the perimeter of our village that night as guards rotate out to keep watch so the flames always stay strong. Meanwhile, the Orcs gather closer to our village and set up camp just a few yards away from our new barrier. Their long, bleached-out teeth gleam in the firelight as they grin and pace with anticipation.

"We will all die soon," I hear one of the more ancient Druids say to another. It's early morning and I've come to the gardens to tend to the few plants I grow here. Others who tend to the trees and bushes work without saying much to one another. When they do speak, it's only in whispers so no one overhears them.

This Druid, however, is close enough for me to hear. Her pale green skin looks paler in the morning light as she wrings her leaf-covered hands and my heart aches as I recognize her as one of my mother’s dear friends, Bletilla.

"This never would have happened had the Elders not sentenced him to death," the other Druid says, her violet eyes darting back and forth. I look away before she can catch me staring, but I edge closer to hear more.

"If only someone had found the feather before Solstice," Bletilla whispers, "if I had found it, I would bring him back."

"Shh, you mustn't speak in such a way!" The other Druid hisses, taking a step closer to her friend as she glances around once more.

"You don't want to become like Flax. He tried to keep the feather for himself and was banished for it."

"I am being honest, Galine," Bletilla says, her voice taking on a hard tone, "I hope whoever finds it brings Shamar back. He is our only hope."

"The Elders will not allow it, now please, no more talk of this."

As they walk away, their voices soften like the sound of a small stream and I straighten as I hold a hand to my chest. Beneath, my heart beats with the wings of a hummingbird. I had come so close to rushing over and telling them that I would do it, but what Galine had said was true. Although she spoke positively of Shamar, I also can't expect she wouldn't tell the Elders if she knew I had the feather.

I must find a way to bring it back to the village without anyone seeing me.

Tomorrow night is the Phoenix Solstice.

I'm running out of time.

"Perhaps the Orcs intersected them," I hear another Druid say later that day as I help care for the animals within our gardens. They speak of the Druids who left in search of help from another village not far from here.

Another one says, "The Orcs punish us for having such a warrior as Shamar here to protect us."

I take note of the way Elder Serissa and Cedrel repeat the same thing to anyone who comes to them with their concerns, brushing them off like fruit flies. Meanwhile, Elder Almonis sits in the gardens to listen to those who come to him.

The day of the Solstice finally comes, a day to be celebrated, but I sense the dread and tension within the village as we prepare for the festivities. While food is prepared and vendors set up shop, I see the gloom behind their smiles. I know they must be thinking that this may be their last day because the Orcs grow restless and the firewood dwindles.

I must be clever.

I mingle among the others, pretending to be interested in the mushroom salads, lavender lemon muffins, blueberry wine, strawberry mint tea, the music, and the dancing, but I eventually make my way to the Druid guards stationed at the front gates with two wooden cups of blueberry wine and two wrapped muffins.

One of the male druids with eyes like a deer and bark-like skin smiles as he says, “Marilia, how are the festivities?”

“As lively as last year’s,” I say with a smile and look at the female druid beside him. Her mossy hair is full of tiny five-petal flowers the color of snow and they quiver with every movement of her head. I hold out the food and drink to them.

“I thought you two might want some.”

They take it with delight as I speak more with them and learn their rotations as well as who else will be on watch tonight. As the sun sinks lower in the sky, I bring more food and drink to the others, my hopes for tonight lifting.

Three hours after nightfall, everyone brings their offerings as they gather around the fire pit dedicated to the great Phoenix. We lift our hands together, singing and sending the offerings into the fire one by one. The aroma of herbs, fruits, flowers, bread, and more fills the air as the smoke thickens. Some Druids cry out with tears running down their faces, others fall to their knees in despair.

“Shamar would have protected us!” I hear someone shout, but Elder Serissa is quick to reply.

“Shamar is the reason the Orcs have obtained the courage to trample so close to us."

“While we understand how many of you loved Shamar, we must stay strong together, for he is no longer with us,” Elder Almonis says with a solemn look. His black raven hair is bound at the nape of his neck and he wears his traditional solstice robes, painted in reds and yellows.

“Shamar was never our ally,” Elder Cedrel glances towards Almonis as he slams his knotted walking stick into the ground, “but as Elder Almonis says, we must stay strong together. We are Druids! There is hope.”

As the night wears on, most of the Druids pacified with their false hopes, I slip out of the crowd and head for a group of trees closest to the front gates. The time has finally come for me to retrieve the feather.

I pause and take note of the way the guards sit with their chins to their chests, soft snores coming from a few, and smile. The mushrooms and herbs I’d added to their drink and food earlier that afternoon were working, but they would only sleep for a little while.

Gathering up what little magic is left, I shift into the form of an owl and take to the skies. I make it over the wall and glide as far as I can over the fire pits and the camp the Orcs have set up a few yards away before the magic in my veins runs thin. I draw close to the ground just before I revert back to my usual form.

I land as light as a mouse at the top of the hill, my eyes seeing through the dark like a cat as I descend into the dark forest below and follow the sound of the stream. Once I reach the rotting tree, I stop to pray the feather is still there and plunge my hand in. Relief washes over me when the soft plumage graces my hand as I lift up the rock I'd set over it. Even in the dark, the fiery red phoenix feather is like a light as I hold it up to my face.

Tucking it away in the pocket of my linen dress, I scurry all the way back to the top of the hill where I stop to rest and contemplate my next move. Based on the stillness in the camp, the Orcs still sleep as the fiery barrier roars nearby. I send up another prayer, one for stealth, and creep close to the giant sleeping forms. Keeping my breathing slow and quiet, I step over limbs, axes, spears, and other weapons I don't recognize.

The smell of sweat, rotting meat, dirt, and other putrid smells I can't place forces me to clamp a hand over my nose and mouth as I continue at a faster pace. At last, I stand before the fire pits, but I will not be going back inside Lathshara.

It may not be tradition, but this fire will work just as well as the one inside the village.

The heat brings tears to my eyes as I pull the feather out and carefully weave it into the green vines of my hair. Once it's safely secured, I lift my head to gaze upon the star-speckled sky while the moon hides behind a blanket of shadow. Taking in a deep breath, I press my hands together in prayer to mentally prepare myself, then a low hum climbs up my throat.

The tune of the Phoenix song fills the night air.

I hop from one foot to the next and swing my arms to the beat of the song, performing the ritual dance that will summon the great firebird. All the while, I pray the Orcs don't wake before I've finished. Faster I dance as the words of the song pour out like a river, words I've known by heart since I was a child.

At last, I hear the sharp and long call of the firebird and look up as I sing the last verses of the song.

There's no going back.

His blazing wings stretch wide as he proudly puts himself on display for all to see and I hear my people cry out in awe and wonder as he looks for the one who holds his precious feather.

As soon as I'm spotted, he dives down toward the fire pit like a shooting star, the last note of the song hanging in the air as he swoops across the flames. The entire fire barrier goes out as if they were doused in water, but not even smoke rises from the ashes. Startled, I stand there in a breathless stupor until the Phoenix circles back around to make his final sweep across.

Whoosh.

I breathe in the magic that comes off the new flames, my veins filling with that familiar energy as flower blossoms bloom across my arms. As the Phoenix disappears into the night, I hear the gates of the village open and the grunts and growls of the Orcs behind me.

I must do it now.

I pluck the feather from my hair, toss it into the fire, and call out Shamar's name.

"Rise from the ashes. Breathe life once more until your final day when death takes you once and for all."

As the plume is eaten up, the flames grow hotter but I dare not move from my spot even as my skin burns, sweat pours off my body, and tears run down my cheeks. This is the moment I've been waiting for.

Slowly, the fire dies down until there's nothing left but a mound of ash and a hush of silence falls. Then, from beneath the soot, something rises and takes shape. The villagers in front of me take several steps back, eyes wide and mouths open. Even the Orcs are still and quiet as the form of another Orc rises up.

"Shamar," I breathe as he blinks and wipes a large hand over his face, ash falling to the ground. He stands tall and strong, his muscles as fearsome as the Orcs behind me, and looks just as he did before he was killed. Thudding sounds coming from behind me causes me to turn with alarm. Every Orc has landed on one knee, just as they had when Shamar claimed Lathshara as his territory to protect. I turn to face our great protector once more, my confidence growing.

"You brought me back," Shamar's deep, growling voice rumbles.

Before I can reply, the shriek of Elder Serissa's voice pulls our attention to her.

"Marilia! You had the Phoenix feather all along?"

When my eyes meet hers, they are ablaze with anger, shock, and hatred. Elder Cedrel, who stands to her right, shakes his head in disappointment as his furry brows lower over his dark eyes.

"You have broken one of our most sacred laws!"

"I did it to save us!" I shout back, "You were wrong to sentence him to death."

"You are not an Elder; you have no right to make such decisions," Cedrel growls, slamming his walking stick into the ground.

"No," I take a step forward so I'm standing beside Shamar.

"I know I'm not an Elder, but I am not the only one who was against the sentence of his death. He is good. He is kind!"

"He is an Orc and will only bring suffering to Lathshara," he reiterates, "he could turn on us in an instant!"

"Yet he has never harmed us," I clench my fists, "he swore to protect us, but you refused to understand who he was and is."

"Enough!" Elder Serissa cuts the air with her hand as she steps forward, a look of sorrow on her features as she gazes at me.

"Rules are rules...and you broke them. Druid Marilia, I hereby banish you for your treasonous acts against Lathshara and for endangering us all. And I hereby banish Shamar, the Orc, who was never meant to be brought back nor be a part of this village."

It feels as though the air has been struck from me as I stare up at her, eyes wide. Many of the other villagers mirror my horror while many more still look at Shamar with shock and fear. I look for the ones who spoke highly of him, but my vision blurs as tears fill my eyes.

"The Great Shamar has returned," one of the Orcs behind us says, her voice twice as loud as a Druid's, "but is shunned by the ones he protected."

Shamar and I turn to face her and for the first time, he speaks, "I will not stay where I am not welcome."

"And you are not welcome back within our tribe," she snarls, "you've thrown away our Orc traditions and ways of life. You are no longer Orc."

I spin back around to face my village and search their faces once more.

"Please, you will die here."

"Be gone!" Elder Cedrel says again, slamming the end of his staff into the ground over and over until the entire village chants it and stomps their feet in rhythm, the same village who had rubbed soil over my body in praise when I'd returned safely.

Tears flow like a waterfall down my cheeks as I clutch my chest where my heart slams against it, their shouts thundering along with it.

"Be gone!"

"Be gone!"

I thought the ones who believed in Shamar would come forward.

"Be gone!"

"Be gone!"

I thought the ones who've known me for centuries would stand by me.

"Be gone!"

"Be gone!"

But even those who don't chant simply look away as my mother and father weep in each other's arms.

"Be gone!"

"Be gone!"

How could you?

I look from Shamar, the bloodthirsty Orcs, to the village and my home where my friends, family, and my livelihood lies. How quickly my people have cast me out when I don't share in their stubbornness and fears.

"I will go willingly," my voice cracks as I shout over the chanting and the Druids of Lathshara fall silent.

Though my voice continues to shake, I speak the words that need to be heard, "But Shamar and I also welcome those of you who wish to join us as we build a new village."

These words I cling to as my eyes linger on every single Druid who dares to meet my gaze. Their eyes remain downcast. No one will join us. Not Karilya, not Galine, Bletilla, and many others whom I had spoken to or overheard their cries for Shamar the past year.

"I, too, will accept banishment," Shamara's growling voice thunders, "but I will protect any of you who choose to come with us."

Us.

My heart feels as though it may burst as his words repeat in my mind, helping me stand a little taller. A few begin to exchange looks with one another, a spark of hope in their eyes, but still, no one makes a move. The Orcs behind us grunt with laughter, shattering that sliver of hope I cling to.

"I shall go."

A familiar voice catches everyone by surprise, their heads snapping up as gasps rise from both the Elders and the villagers. Elder Almonis steps forward and meets mine and Shamar's gaze. There is no fear behind his brown-speckled eyes.

"You can't go!" Elder Serissa and Cedrel say in unison.

"You are an Elder," she continues, "you must be an example to the people."

A small smile graces his lips as he turns to face his fellow leaders, his friends, and his family.

"Yes, I know."

One by one, Druids begin joining Shamar, Elder Almonis, and me. They step over the ashes of the fires as if it had been what kept us apart. Sobs break free as I gather my mother, father, my dear friend Karilya, Bletilla, and Galine in an embrace, our tears falling together. Even the two guards I had first given food and drink to earlier that day stand with us with their bows and arrow slung over their shoulders.

At the first light of dawn, Shamar, Elder Almonis, and I lead three hundred and seven Druids North, away from the Orcs and Lathshara, leaving behind eight hundred villagers.

"Thank you," I say as I reach up to take Shamar's hand.

"No," he says as he gently squeezes it, "Thank you."

The End.