A Journey of the Heart

A Journey of the Heart

• 28. Truth
  
• 29. The Willow Tree
  
• 30. Midsummer's Day
  
• 31. The Lady
  
• 32. The Council Stones
  
• 33. Innocent Birds
  
• 34. Running Away
  
• 35. Vintel's Way
  
• 36. Fear
  
• 37. Courage
  
• 38. Death
  
• 39. Power
  
• 40. Spoils of War
  
• 41. A Choice of Evils
  
• 42. A Journey of the Heart
  
• 43. Merin
  
• 44. A Wicked Lie
  
• 45. A Warrior's Burial
  
• 46. Tamar
  
• 47. A Time of Trouble
  
• 48. Hearts
  
• 49. Demons
  
• 50. The Spiral Path
  
• 51. The Harvest
  
• 52. An Undivided Heart
  
• 53. A Different Light
  
• 54. The Most Important Thing
  
• 55. A Strong Friend
  
• 56. Blood Debt
  
• 57. Outlaws
  
• 58. Wilderness
  
• 59. A Fairy Tale
  
• 60. Winter
  
• 61. The Forest
  
• 62. The Past
  

Copyright (c) 2008 by Catherine M. Wilson

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted herein are the product of the author's imagination and do not represent any actual persons, living or dead.

ISBN: 978-0-9815636-2-6

Cover photo by Donna Trifilo

Published by Shield Maiden Press

P. O. Box 963

Boulder Creek, CA

95006-0963

Visit our website at

www.shieldmaidenpress.com

Many people offered advice, support, and encouragement during the "quite some time" it took to finish this project.

It is an extraordinary piece of luck for a writer to find someone who is willing to discuss a work in progress, someone who can enter the world of the story and gossip about the characters as if they were real people, who will question their motivations, scrutinize their actions, complain when they step out of character, and cast a light on a side of them their creator may have missed -- someone who will take the work as seriously as the author does. For me that person is my friend and editor, Donna Trifilo, who, in addition to all of the above, pushed me through the hard times.

To everyone who was willing to read a work in progress, sometimes more than once, I offer my gratitude and the assurance that everything they had to say about it mattered.

Susan Strouse helped me overcome a major stumbling block at a crucial turning point. Lisa Liel, whose enthusiasm for the story rekindled my own enthusiasm, showed me how I could take a good idea and make it better. Ann Thryft's considerable knowledge of the time, place, and culture deepened my own understanding of the story and its characters. Jo Trifilo's insightful comments and careful critique gave me a new perspective on the story.

In ways too numerous to mention, significant contributions were also made by Jen Davis-Kay, Katherine Gilmartin, Rebecca Hall, Rob Field, Carmen Carter, Kate Maynard, the late Dr. Susan Barnes, Judi Miller, Jack Contento, Ru Emerson, the members of my first writers' group--Morgan Van Dyke, Barbara Murray, Cooper Gallegos, Sandralee Watters, Marlene Michaelson, Rebecca Morn, and Eileen Thompson--who suffered through my early attempts to get my story started, and Heather Rose Jones, who helped me find my characters' names.

And many thanks to George Derby and Marissa Holm for keeping me well fed.

Maara took the sword from my hand.

"What is this?" she said.

"It's a sword," I replied, as if she couldn't see that for herself.

"What are you doing with it?"

"Practicing." I wiped away the sweat running down my face. "I'm not used to its weight anymore."

We were standing on the practice ground, where I had been giving a wooden post the benefit of my clumsy blows. I was discouraged. Although I had grown a little taller in the last year, I still had to use both hands to wield the heavy sword, and it had been so long since I'd practiced with it that I felt like a beginner again.

"Did I say anything to you about practicing with a sword?"

Maara leaned the sword against the post and beckoned to me to follow her. She found us a place to sit in the shadow of the earthworks where it was cooler.

I waited for her to speak. I had thought she would be pleased with me. Instead she sat frowning down at the ground.

At last she said, "I don't want you to practice with a sword. Not even with the wooden ones."

"Why not?"

"When will you be strong enough to wield a sword one-handed?"

It was a question I didn't know how to answer.

"Someday," I said.

"I don't think so."

What dreadful thing would she tell me next? Was she saying I would never be a warrior after all?

"You don't believe I'll ever be strong enough?"

"No."

I couldn't comprehend what I was hearing. Why would she have apprenticed me if she didn't believe she could make a warrior of me? I almost suspected her of accepting me because she knew that I would fail and so release her early from her obligation.

"I thought you believed. . ."

"What?"

"That I could become a warrior someday."

"Of course you can," she said. "You will."

"A warrior without a sword?"

"A warrior with a weapon she can use."

She reached for something that lay hidden in the tall grass. I recognized at once the bow she took from the man who killed Eramet.

"The bow and the sword are very different weapons," she said. "A sword takes both strength and endurance. A bow takes a different kind of strength. It also takes great skill and more patience than most people ever have."

I was only half listening to her. I was grieving the loss of my dream of myself with sword and shield, standing with my comrades, as I had imagined my mother and her sisters standing, shoulder to shoulder, against the enemy.

"A bow is a coward's weapon," I said. I was mouthing words I'd heard somewhere without understanding what they meant.

My warrior frowned at me. "Any weapon is a coward's weapon in the hands of a coward."

I blushed with shame and looked away, but my pride was wounded, and I refused to understand her.

"Why did you accept me if you thought so little of me?"

"So little?" She waited for me to meet her eyes. "I think the world of you."

A lump in my throat prevented me from speaking.

"If I did not," she said, "I would hang a sword from your belt and a shield from your shoulder and pray that you never had to use them."

If she was making a joke, I didn't find it funny.

She turned the bow over in her hands, admiring it. Her fingers followed the carvings, swirling spirals that meandered up and down its length. When I had first seen it, it had no bowstring. Now a new string wound around the shaft of the unstrung bow.

"Do you know what kind of bow this is?" she asked me.

I shook my head.

"It's a forest bow. Powerful, but meant to be used at close range. Easy to carry among the trees. Small enough not to get in its own way."

"Small enough even for me?"

I couldn't keep the bitterness out of my voice. She answered me in kind.

"Yes," she said. "Small enough even for you." Then in a kinder voice she said, "And like you, it is powerful and clever. Like you, it has strengths that are easily overlooked, but they are many nonetheless."

The sweetness of her words was meant to help me swallow a bitter truth, but I was not yet ready to give in.

"If a bow is such a wonderful weapon," I said, "why is it that you carry a sword?"

"For the same reason you want so much to carry one. A sword is a symbol of power. A hunter may carry a bow. Even a child can make a bow to shoot at birds that would scratch the farmers' seed out of the ground. Only a warrior has the right to bear a sword." She gave me a long look. "I understand your disappointment, but you must face the truth about yourself."

"And the truth is that I'm too small and always will be."

My words tasted bitter in my mouth. Nothing she could say would sweeten them.

"Too small?" she said. "Too small for what? Too small to wield a sword? Yes, I believe you are. But the whole truth is that you are small of body. That's all."

She stood up and took several steps away from me, then stopped and turned around. She still held the bow, and she shook it in a gesture of impatience.

"There is great power in this truth you can't accept, and I don't know how to make you see it."

Now she had my attention.

"If you insist on acquiring the trappings of a warrior, that's all you'll ever have. A sword can't make you something you were never meant to be."

"What was I meant to be?" I wondered aloud.

"I have no idea," she said. "Nor do you, but you'll discover that only when you can face the truth about yourself."

Although nothing could make facing the truth any less painful, she had made it a little easier. She had held out to me the hope that, by letting something go, I might be able to take hold of something better.

Maara came back and knelt down in front of me.

"You once told me that every warrior's heart is different," she said. "I never thought of it before, but you showed me that it is a warrior's heart that matters, more than her size or the weapon she carries."

Surely it was the power of the oak grove that had given me those words. I could never have thought of them myself.

"A woman with a warrior's heart shouldn't fear the truth," she said. "No weapon in the world is stronger than the truth."

I closed my eyes and tried to find the courage to face the truth about myself. I would have to let go of a dream I'd dreamed since childhood. For a little while grief filled my heart. I had no choice but to bear it. Then the pain subsided, and I put that dream away.

"It can't be done."

"Yes, it can." She was trying not to smile.

With all my strength I tried to bend the bow, so that I could slip the loop of the bowstring into its notch. It stubbornly refused to bend.

"Let me see it."

I handed Maara the bow. She placed one end on the ground and braced it against her foot. While I had been tugging hard on the other end, which only drove the bow straight down into the soft ground, she held it lightly, her fingers ready to guide the bowstring into place. With her other hand she grasped the belly of the bow and pulled. The bow bent, and the string slipped easily into its notch.

"Nothing about a bow is obvious," she said.

She unstrung it just as easily and handed it back to me.

I didn't succeed right away, but after struggling with it for a while, I was at last able to string the bow. She had me practice stringing and unstringing it until I was drenched with sweat and my arms trembled. Then she let me rest.

"That's all for today," she said.

"Oh."

I was disappointed. She knew why.

"You're not strong enough yet to draw a bow like this," she said. "When you can string it without effort, you'll be ready to learn to draw it."

"If I were strong enough to draw a bow, wouldn't I be strong enough to wield a sword?"

"A bow takes a different kind of strength," she said. "To wield a sword, you must have the strength to lift it and to strike with it. Once you've drawn a bow, you must hold it drawn while you take all the time you need to find your aim. I've seen many who had no trouble wielding a sword in battle shake like an aspen in the wind after they had held a drawn bow for only a short time."

Day after day I practiced stringing the heavy bow. After several weeks went by, it did seem to be getting easier. Maara found a lighter bow for me in the armory, and after I had strung and unstrung the heavy one until my arms were limp, she let me try drawing the lighter one. She had me hold the drawn bow as she circled around me, adjusting the placement of a foot or the angle of an elbow until she was satisfied.

I was impatient. If I was going to become an archer, I wanted to get on with it. Every day the other apprentices practiced with sword and shield. I watched them enviously, wanting to believe that someday my skill would be a match for theirs, though mine was a different weapon.

The day came at last when my warrior met me on the practice ground carrying a few arrows in her hand. She saw my eagerness and smiled.

"Let's go down the hill a little way," she said. "We don't want to hurt anyone."

She found a place where I could shoot the arrows into the side of the hill. I was more than ready to begin, but she sat down in the grass and patted the ground beside her. I resigned myself to waiting a little longer and sat down.