Anadia's Tale

My earliest memory is of water. First the sharp, pervasive scent of the ocean – the smell of a friend, of happiness and contentment. This almost instantly followed by a choking, screaming darkness, where that same familiar tang is in my eyes, nose, ears, and finally right down inside my chest where it hurts. I remember fighting for a while, but I was only young, and the sea is a formidable opponent to the hardest of rocks, and the sturdiest of ships, let alone a little girl.

Later – I do not know how long – I woke. My mouth was full of sand, my lungs afire and all my limbs leaden. But it was earth below me, not the ever-changing waves, and I was able to gather my strength briefly in order to drag myself slowly up the beach – for such it was – and past the tide mark. There I cast myself down once again, and for a period knew no more. To this day I look back upon the chance that saved me, and on the instance of purest luck which must have blessed me when I needed it most. For the sun broke from behind her veil of clouds, and the wind blew his cool caress across my cheek. The two combined covered me in a layer of sun-warmed sand, and protected me from an almost certain death that exposure to the harsh elements would have bought down upon me. This same benevolent sun, though, also dried my hair, and it was the colour of it that caught a certain sharp eye. So it was that when I next awoke it was to find myself surrounded by robust wooden walls, my bruised and battered little body salved, bandaged, lying upon a soft bed of hay, and covered with lavender-scented linen. I must have been all of four years old, though I have never known for certain my true age.

And so began a period of learning in my life. My saviour went by the name of Ostoher, or at least, he never gave another. My own history had been washed away in the trauma beneath the waves, and I knew not so much as my own name. Thus I became Anadia, I believe after Ostoher’s beloved wife, or perhaps a child, although this is yet another unfinished chapter of my life, for he never told me. The sharp eye that had spotted my hair belonged to my master’s constant companion – an old crow called Craban – who had spent more than 20 years flying with Ostoher. He was already an incredibly ancient fellow, garrulous and feisty despite his near-constant arthritis, and it was only chance that took him down to the beach that day. His simple acceptance of my arrival, and the speed at which he integrated me into his and Ostoher’s life, went further to bringing about the following ten years than any conscious decision on the old man’s part.

My studies began with the speech of beasts. The learning of such a language is a slow and arduous process, and despite my awareness of the two of them communicating, Ostoher refused to translate until I had grasped the basics of it myself. For many years I would retreat to the small clearing behind the hut. There I would practise my marksmanship with the bow I had made myself, also under Ostoher’s tutelage. This method of venting my frustration was as beneficial as the language lessons, though I did not realise it at the time. But it was not long before I was old enough to chafe at my ever-lengthening list of chores and to believe – as all young people do for a time – that I had learnt all I could possibly need to know in the areas I had been set to study – archery, swordplay, reading and writing, hunting, a palpable affinity for nature, many more.

It is in shame that I recount the next part of my tale. In a fit of pique I told both Ostoher and Craban that I no longer needed or wanted their help. The reason for my tantrum I fear to admit that I cannot even remember. But I left the hut that had been my only home for ten years, never saying farewell, nor thank you, nor sharing with the old boys the love I felt for them. I spent the following months learning what the land and its inhabitants could teach me. I learnt more about myself, and grew more as a person, than I had at any other time in my life so far. A stubborn nature prevented me from considering a return home, but after perhaps a year, I found myself in the aforementioned quandary of being unable to remember the cause of our quarrel. It was not long before I decided to return to the hut and make peace with my fathers. For thus they were to me - man and beast both.

Looking back, the journey only seemed to take days, not the weeks it was in truth. I made camp early the night before I was due to arrive. I wished to surprise them the next morning, perhaps with a brace of rabbits with which I could make the stew that they both loved. The day dawned bright and clear, and it was with a light and hopeful heart that I continued upon my way at a brisk pace. By midmorning, I had reached ‘our’ stream, situated no more than a quarter mile through dense undergrowth to our door. And it was here that I became suddenly aware of the fact that something was desperately amiss. The forest was quiet, hushed, whilst always before it had been full of the sound of birdsong, and the stealthy movements of diurnal animals. My skin tingled with a sharp feeling of dread, and I noticed the large, flat footprints of goblins surrounding the merrily running stream, their foulness ruining the water and churning the banks to mud.

And I began to run.

The details of what I saw I cannot bear to describe. There had been no reason for the attack other than the evil stupidity of goblins, that much was obvious. Suffice to say that my friends had died only a short while before – perhaps even as I had made my camp the previous evening. And they had suffered. More than I could possibly have imagined despite my self-proclaimed worldliness. Perhaps this was a blessing at the time, for should I have understood the extent of their pain, I believe I would have gone mad with the horror – and the guilt – which such a revelation would have awakened in me.

That was almost five years ago. Since then, I have been travelling the lands in search of I know not what. Forgiveness? Perhaps. Revenge against a race so bloodthirsty as to kill an innocent old man and his bond beast simply for the pleasure of seeing the two suffer together? Possibly. Maybe a mixture of both, plus some emotion buried so deep I cannot – dare not – acknowledge it. All I know is that I still seek absolution, and I pray to one day find it.

Until then my fathers, forgive a foolish child her arrogance. Know that all I do as a ranger, and all I do for my guild, I do for you.