Chapter Forty Five - Curious Willow

Willow was a quiet, curious boy, who caused his parents no end of worry and vexation. Barely able to remain still, the agile child who was as slender and long as his name suggested would slip from their sight without care, only to reappear in any number of places.

"Your boy crept into the nursery and upset my babies!"

"I was curious to see them," he stated innocently.

"Your son was sitting on top of my roof!"

"Old Alder's rooftop has a great view of the village," he told his parents.

"Brother snuck after me and scared poor Apple when he fell off of a tree branch!"

"I wanted to see what sister and her friends were doing," he said this and confessed with a slight grimace; "but I lost my balance."

Right now, the green eyed, red headed little boy was lying on top of a high tree branch, playing a random melody on the rough little flute he had carved by himself. He showed some promise with his ability, already able to carve basic things such as bowls and cups, but this did not necessarily make his father happy.

His dad was one of the village warriors, who patrolled their borders, keeping the people safe from the forest predators. He had hoped his first born son would follow his path, but the boy lacked talent with a bow and was not interested in spear or staff.  He could only hope his second son and third born child showed better talent, but the boy was not even two, so it was too soon to tell.

Far below the small boy's perch was a large striped sabre, one of the largest feline predators of the forest, but this did not bother the boy.  A village man's height might only reach the shoulder of an adult sabre and this beast was larger than that.  However this sabre was rather lazy and far too heavy to climb the trees and traverse through the branches.  The cat was happy to linger at the base of the tree, listening to the boy's happy tunes.  The odd pair had spent many a hot afternoon this way.  If Willow had more sense, he would not be so reckless, for even if the sabre was not interested in chasing him for food, this tree they favoured was a distance from the village borders and the sabre was not the only hunter in the forest.

Willow's parents scolded him when he returned, for they had not been able to find him in the village that day, so knew he had left the borders again.  "It's not safe, Willow," his mother told her five year old son once more.  But a slightly distant look had already spread across the small boy's face as he thought about whatever had entered his head at that moment.

Willow's sister also added her views to her mothers, she was a whole two years older than him, after all, so he ought to listen to her.  She blathered on a while, not noticing that he had already disappeared.

Their treetop home was typical of the village, a series of rooms built over time from wood, clay and dry grasses, all connected by a sturdy bridge or terrace attached to tree and supported by thick branches.  The hub of the home was the small kitchen space, where mother prepared fresh fruits and leaves for their meal.  Occasionally there was slithers of raw fish, but the curious Willow had not yet found out where this came from.  The family would sit and eat here as well, before retiring, once it became dark, to their beds.  Willow's sister, Fern, slept in a room built on the roof, his parents slept in a building attached to the home by a bridge and connected to that was the nursery where Corn, his brother slept.  At least until the baby was born, their mother was expecting again.  Then, it had been decided, Corn would sleep with Willow, on the mezzanine above the kitchen.

As the false dawn lit the sky, Willow roused from his slumber, stretched his small body and jumped down into the kitchen.  He took an apple from the fruit bowl, grabbed his flute and his little carving knife from where his mother attempted to hide it in punishment and hurried outside.  Using his lithe body and his sharp little claws, he leapt from branch to branch until he was near the lake.  There were no fish for eating in these waters, just bugs, some water snails and freshwater eels.  He removed his long vest and tied shorts and jumped into the freezing water.  He hated the cold, but always felt the need to be clean.  And besides, no beasts woke so early, so he had found it was the best time to swim.  He scrubbed his clothes, made of thin leather and returned to the trees to let them dry in the dawn light.  And as he waited, he began to carve a dead branch into something else.

Naturally, he was scolded when he returned home. Despite having his carving knife taken away once more, Willow was not one to take his punishment to heart and after an hour of light chores, his eyes began to wander to the village edge and his feet led him out of his home and towards his favourite perch. But he did not get to settle and laze the afternoon away.

Beneath the tree, the hunter had become the hunted.

Willow's father, naturally worried for his small son's safety, had watched the direction the boy had disappeared into a few days before and had expanded his patrol of that area. Shocked to see a large striped sabre, he had warned the village elders, who had thought it best that they kill the beast, less it become a threat to the village. Bleeding from its many wounds and arrow tips hindering its movement, the dying feline came to lie beneath the tree, panting deep breaths and growling empty warnings to those who wished it dead.

One man raised his spear to prepare a final strike, when a small pale green body leapt from the tree and made him pause. Shocked to see a village child spreading his skinny frame and shielding the feline, the warriors did not move for almost a minute. "Willow!" The boy's father finally yelled. "Get out of the way, Willow, that beast is dangerous!"

"No!" Willow cried. "He won't hurt me, he likes my playing!" The warriors again froze, wondering over the boy's words.

"It is a threat to the village!" A older warrior claimed.

"How would you know?" Willow complained. "He only ever comes during hot afternoons, then he goes away again. He never went near the village." The feline yowled like a small bush cat, before leaning forward to lick Willow's back, its tongue wider than the boy.  The warriors tensed, unsure what to do and the large sabre nuzzled the small boy's back, almost knocking him from his feet. But before the men took any action, its head fell to lie on its paws, its panting becoming erratic and heavier.

"Alright, Willow," his father pleaded, placing his bow upon the ground in acquiesce. "But come away from it now. What is done is done, the sabre will not live long now."

But the small boy refused to listen to his father, instead sat beside the dying cat. He took his simple flute from his belt and began to play, but it was not one of his jovial, playful tunes. The cat and the warriors listened to the haunting melody until at last the sabre closed its eyes and let out one final breath. The music stopped and the player wept in painful sobs.

*****

The heartbroken child refused to leave his mezzanine bed for several days, not to wander, not to pester the old Carver, who taught him woodwork, not even to visit the lake to wash. He would accept the food his mother offered him, but then he would hide away once more and would not speak. Finally his mother sent his sister into the mezzanine to drag him from his mourning.

"It is time you learnt some truths about our way of life," his mother told him, then passed him to his father to take in hand. His father took his role seriously; he had been moping about, blaming himself for his son's depression until his wife scolded him soundly and told him that he wasn't wrong to dispose of the beast. Were its source of food to become scarce, the chances that it not raid the village were few.

And so her husband took their son to the roots of the trees where a wagon with several beast corpses lay. Amongst them was the skinned body of the sabre, for its fine fur would not be wasted, despite the circumstances of its death. The boy looked as if he was about to cry, so his father told him; "That sharp-tooth attacked Warrior Birch and Warrior Moss as they patrolled close to the village. Moss has a large chunk of flesh missing from his left arm, he might not be able to patrol anymore. That red eyed monkey almost killed two children as they played near their home. Those timber wolves attacked a wagon line and killed old Resin. We don't kill beasts because we want to, we kill them to stop them killing us. It is the way of beasts to hunt for food. I know that sabre did not mean harm to you now, but we can never say it wouldn't ever harm you. I could not chance that, Willow, you are too important to me and your mother."

Despite the ache in his chest, he gave his father a small nod of understanding. "Come on," his father then said. "These beasts may have died, but their bodies will not be wasted."

Willow tilted his head to one side. "What do you mean?"

His father ruffled the boy's bright red hair, happy to see a little life appear in his green eyes. "Ah, well we use the fur and leather for clothes and blankets, you know this?" Willow nodded. "And so the meat, which our people cannot eat, is taken to those who will not refuse it." And so Willow followed his father and the wagon through the dense woods in a direction not far from the lake where he bathed.

The trail led to the forests edge, a sight that surely made the curious boy feel nervous as did the strange hard land where very little green life grew and the grey ground rose upward and curved into the shape of several different sized dens. They waited in a tree shelter, taking it in turns to watch the wagon, until the sun began to set. And as it did, an old man with skin the colour of the ground walked out of the largest den, his eyes bound by thick cloth.

"Good evening, Elder Oak," the old man greeted the old warrior with them.

"Good evening, Elder Shale," the old warrior replied.

A small boy, whose grey skin was so like the colour of the old man's, he had been camouflaged in his shadow, peeked from behind his legs. His eyes were also bound, but not as heavily.  "Ah, my grandson, Slate," the old man introduced. "I hope you don't mind he joined us, his parents were recently lost and he had taken to cling to me."

"Not at all," the old warrior answered. "We have a child with us ourselves." He indicated that Willow and his father should come out from the trees, which they did. The cave child lifted up his blindfold suddenly.  Warm jet black eyes met eyes the colour of pale jade and a smile appeared upon the previously shy boy's face.

"Hi, my name is Slate," the boy, whose age seemed to be the same as Willow's own, greeted. "What's yours?"

"I am Willow," came the reply.

"Nice to meet you, Willow. Do you want to go play?"