Carlyle knocked frantically on the door.
Margaret heard the urgency behind Carlyle’s knocking, quickly undid the bolt, and opened the door. “Alfred’s hurt,” Carlyle said, as he entered the house. Alfred was right behind him.
The first thing Margaret noticed was the look on Alfred’s face, which made it obvious he was in pain. And then she saw his arms.
“Sit here,” said Margaret, pulling up a chair. “Let me take a look at it.” Margaret knelt down and started examining Alfred’s arms. She started gently pulling back what was left of Alfred’s sleeves. “What creature did this?”
“It was Catherine,” said Carlyle.
Margaret stopped moving. A look of surprise flashed across her face as the news registered, but the surprised look was quickly followed by a look that seemed to be dawning comprehension, as if Margaret was realizing something for the first time.
Carlyle noticed the look. “What does it mean?” he asked.
Margaret quickly tried to mask her expression. “I don’t know,” she said. “Where is Catherine?”
“She’s coming now,” said Carlyle.
“Get out the mortar and pestle,” she said to Carlyle. While Carlyle went to one corner of the house, Margaret went to the other corner to search through her collection of herbs, leaves and roots. She selected one of the roots, and some dried leaves, and brought them back to the table. “Chew up this root,” she said to Carlyle. “And then spit it into the mortar. Cut up the leaves, and also put them into the mortar. Then mash them all together, and add in the oil.”
Carlyle obeyed.
“Alfred, chew on this. It will help with the pain,” Margaret said. Margaret held the root out, but then when she noticed that Alfred still wasn’t moving his arms, she put the root directly into his mouth. Alfred bit down and started chewing.
Then, Margaret poured some water into the kettle, and put it on the fireplace.
Catherine entered the house. “Shut the door behind you,” said Margaret. “Don’t forget the bolt.”
“Is Alfred all right?” asked Catherine.
Margaret started chopping up another root. “Shut the door,” she repeated.
Catherine turned around and shut the door.
“Alfred’s arms have been burned,” said Margaret.
Catherine stood still in silence absorbing this news while Margaret continued chopping.
“Did I do it?” asked Catherine at last.
“I don’t know,” said Margaret.
“I think I did it,” said Catherine, her voice more agitated this time.
“Why do you think that?” asked Margaret.
“Because I was holding his arms when it happened,” said Catherine, her voice cracking.
“Catherine, calm down,” said Margaret. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“Mother, what’s wrong with me? What am I?”
Margaret stopped chopping the root to look Catherine in the eye. “Why were you holding his arms?” she asked.
“We were fighting,” Catherine answered.
“Did you want to hurt him?”
“I didn’t want to burn him.”
“But you were trying to fight back against him?”
“It was only a contest.”
Margaret went back to chopping the roots. “Alfred will be okay,” she said. “The burns aren’t that deep. We’re making a salve now.”
Catherine took in a deep breath of relief, and a sob escaped her mouth at the same time. Margaret looked up at her again. “You’ll be okay too Catherine,” she said. “In the future, don’t fight someone unless you really mean it. You can't hurt someone if you’re not trying to.”
“But how did I do it?” Catherine asked.
Margaret put down her knife and walked over to where Catherine was standing. She took both of Catherine’s hands in hers. “I don’t know,” said Margaret. “Don’t let it worry you. It won’t happen again unless you’re fighting someone.”
Catherine nodded. She knew Margaret intended this to be the end of the matter, so she buried the rest of her questions.
Margaret walked back to the table. “How are you doing, Alfred?” Margaret asked. “Keep chewing that root.”
The root was still in Alfred’s mouth, so he just nodded.
“We’ll fix you up in no time,” Margaret said. “Carlyle, how are you coming over there?”
“Almost finished,” said Carlyle.
“That looks good enough. Give it to me.”
Carlyle passed the mixture over to Margaret.
“The kettle’s ready. Take it off of the fire, and pour the water in a cup. Add this chopped root to it. Catherine, don’t just stand there, help your brother. Alfred, you’d better swallow the rest of that root now. I’m going to put this salve on your arms. It’s going to hurt. Are you ready?”
Alfred nodded.
Margaret put the salve on Alfred’s left arm. Alfred clenched his body up, and breathed in sharply, but he did not cry out. “You’re doing fine, Alfred,” Margaret said. She moved on to his right arm. Then, once she had applied the salve to both arms, she took some cloth from her shelf, and wrapped the arms up.
After the initial shock of pain from the salve, Alfred seemed to be doing better. “It doesn’t hurt so much anymore,” Alfred said.
“He’s ready for the drink now,” Margaret said to Catherine.
Catherine handed the cup to her mother, and Margaret gave it to Alfred. Alfred took the cup in his hand. He was moving his arms now. “Drink it slowly,” said Margaret. “It’s hot.”
“Thank you,” said Alfred.
“You’ll feel better in a couple of hours, but keep the bandages on for at least a couple of days. We’ll put on more salve tomorrow.”
Alfred looked curiously at Margaret. “How do you know so much about medicine?” he asked.
“I studied it,” Margaret answered.
“From who?” Alfred asked. “No one else in the mountains knows anything about making salves.”
“Alfred, just try to relax. You’ll feel better soon,” Margaret said.
Margaret sat down in her chair and looked at the three teenagers. Alfred seemed to be doing better. Catherine was still looking upset. “Well, I think that’s enough excitement for one day, don’t you?” Margaret said. “Why don’t you three stay inside for a while? Carlyle, take down the book and read us one of the stories.”
“What’s a book?” asked Alfred
“Carlyle will show you,” said Margaret. “Books are very rare up here in the mountains. But Finn and I managed to take a couple with us.”
Carlyle brought the book over to show Alfred. “Mother and father taught us how to read these when we were young,” Carlyle explained. “It took a lot of time to learn, but all of these little marks stand for sounds. And when you put the sounds together, they make words, and the words tell a story.”
Alfred’s eyes widened. He was clearly fascinated by it, but also confused. “But why do you need the book?” he asked.
“For the wonderful stories,” said Margaret.
“But you don’t need a book for stories,” said Alfred. “My father knows lots of stories. He tells me a new story every night. And he doesn’t need a book to remember them.”
“Books are written by very skilled storytellers,” said Margaret. “They use language that makes the story sound more interesting. I’d be happy to teach you how to read if you want.”
“Will it take long to learn?” asked Alfred.
“It will take some time,” said Margaret.
Alfred turned to Carlyle. “Was it difficult to learn?” he asked.
“It was at first,” said Carlyle. “It takes a lot of practice.”
“And can you all learn to read?”
“Yes,” said Carlyle. “Mother, Father, Catherine and me. We all learned it.”
“But you only have one book,” Alfred observed. “Why did everyone need to learn?”
“Mother and Father always said it would be useful for our future,” Carlyle said. “But they never told us why.”
Carlyle’s tone was pointed, but Margaret only smiled. “There are many skills in life that you must learn even though you cannot immediately see the application of them. You must simply trust that your parents know best.”
“I’m not sure I need to learn how to read myself,” said Alfred. “I’ll just listen to Carlyle read for a while.”
“As you wish,” said Margaret. “Carlyle, choose one of the stories and read it.”
Carlyle sat down on the chair. Only Catherine remained standing.
“Catherine, sit down and relax,” said Margaret. “Don’t worry about the accident anymore, just listen to the story.”
Catherine nodded and sat down. She was still pale looking, but Margaret noticed that Catherine’s breathing was beginning to slow down, and her hands had stopped shaking.
Carlyle opened the book. “Shall we read about one of the ancient heroes?” he asked. “Themales? Or Cathandres?”
Margaret nodded. “Yes, those are always good stories.”
“My father always tells those stories,” said Alfred.
“Good stories are worth repeating,” said Margaret patiently.
“What other stories are in that book?” asked Alfred.
“Lots of stories,” said Carlyle. “What do you like? According to this book, there have been six ages since the world began. First there was the age of gods. Then there was the age of beasts. Then there was the age of heroes. Then there was the age of monsters. Then the age of magic, And the last age is the age of man. This book has stories from all of them.”
“I already know all about the age of heroes,” said Alfred. “And of course, I know all about monsters too. This mountain has more than enough monsters--goblins, vampires, werewolves, witches, ogres, trolls, bugbears…”
“No, those are different,” said Carlyle. “Those are all the creatures we have nowadays. But the age of monsters was back in ancient times, when everything was different. The monsters then were gigantic, and they covered the whole world.”
“Well, read that story then,” said Alfred.
“It’s not just one story,” Carlyle said. “Within each age, there are many stories.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning of the age?” Margaret suggested.
Carlyle sat in a chair and opened the book carefully to the page that he wanted. The book was very old, so they always handled it with care. He cleared his throat, and began to read.
“The age of heroes lasted for one thousand years. But at the end of the age of heroes, there came the age of the monsters. It is not known how the monsters were born, or which god created them. All we know is where they came from. They came from deep within the ground, where they had lived for thousands of years, and one day they emerged onto the surface to devour those who dwelled upon the surface.
“It is not possible to comprehensively describe their appearance, because each monster looked different from the others. There were monsters which resembled giant spiders. There were monsters which resembled giant snakes. There were monsters which resembled giant wolves. Some of the monsters walked upon two legs, but were covered with blue hair, and had terrible claws and sharp teeth, and fearsome horns upon their heads.
“The monsters fed upon man and beasts alike. The beasts ran into the forests to hide from the monsters, but the monsters soon entered the forests, and devoured all the beasts who lived there.
“The people ran to their cities, and begged their heroes to save them. But the heroes could not save them. And here it is that the age of the heroes finally came to a close. For the heroes of old, great as they were, could not survive against the monsters.
“The first of the old heroes to die was Themales. He had been ruling as king for many years in the land of Lieria, but the land was overrun by monsters. So Themales donned his trusted armor, and took his trusted sword, which had served him on many adventures, and went out to meet the monsters in combat. But he found that the monsters moved so fast that it was difficult to strike them with his sword. And even when he could strike a blow, the skin of the monsters was so tough that it was difficult for him to wound them. And so the monsters tore him apart, and devoured what remained of his body. And that was the end of brave Themales, whose many heroic deeds are still celebrated today, but who could not defeat the monsters.”
“Wait!” said Alfred. “Is that what really happened to him? I’d never heard that part of the story before. But what about his brother, half-brother, Stetheus?”
“I think that part’s coming next,” said Carlyle. He looked back in the book. “Then Stetheus, who was still ruling the neighboring kingdom of Menpha, when he heard of the tragic fate that had befallen his brother, did not hesitate to also go out and meet the monsters. He took with him his spear, his sword, and his shield, which was so big that nowadays it would take two men to lift it, but Stetheus carried it with ease. He met the monsters in the plains of Ponant, and fought bravely against them for one whole day, but he could not slay them. And as dusk began to fall, he began to tire, and his arm could not strike as fast with his sword, and his shield began to sag. And then, the monsters slew him, and devoured his flesh so that nothing remained.
“And then the people of Lieria and Menpha, when they realized that they had no heroes left to save them from the monsters, wailed loudly and cried out to the gods for deliverance. But there was no deliverance, and the monsters overran the cities and devoured the people From that day, those monsters were called ‘Teritha’, which in the ancient language of the first men meant ‘the curse from the gods’.”
Carlyle continued reading about how all the ancient heroes fought, and were eventually killed by, the monsters--Scathia the Conqueror, Perexa the Warrior Queen, Servitus the Law Giver, Rasilus the Swift, Cathandres the Strong, and many more.
The fireplace crackled as Carlyle read. As the smoke escaped through a small crevice in the roof of the cave, Margaret watched the other two carefully. Alfred was completely entranced by the story, and had completely forgotten about his injury. Catherine was also beginning to relax and enjoy the story.
At last, when Carlyle came to the end of the chapter, he closed up the book and put it away.
“Is that the end?” asked Alfred.
“No,” said Carlyle. “That was only the beginning of the age of monsters. The rest of the chapters in the section talk about what happened next.”
“But all the humans were killed,” said Alfred. “What else can happen next?”
“All the heroes were killed,” corrected Carlyle. “There were still some ordinary people. They hid out from the monsters in the mountains or the desert or the forest. They eventually formed little tribes. Some of the tribes got destroyed, some of them survived. It’s all in the book.”
“Read the next chapter,” Alfred said.
“It’s getting late,” said Margaret. “Alfred, you’re going to be staying with us for three more nights. There will be plenty of time to read more later.”
They ate a small dinner, and then Carlyle and Catherine showed Alfred where the weapons were hidden.
“We rebuilt the wall after the last attack,” said Carlyle, pointing to the wall guarding the entrance to the cave, which was made of stone and logs mixed with dried mud. “Father tried to buildit stronger this time so that they couldn’t smash it down, but you know how they are. If they decide that they want to get in, it’s very hard for the wall to keep them out. So there’s a sword under this bed.” Carlyle pointed under the bed to indicate. “And an axe under the other bed.”
“We keep the knife hanging by the wall,” said Catherine.
“Do you think they’ll attack tonight?” asked Alfred.
“It’s impossible to say,” said Margaret. “But don’t worry. We have the weapons ready. You’ve fought were-wolves before, haven’t you Alfred?”
“Oh yeah, lots of times,” Alfred said, trying to sound brave.
“Alright, well let’s try and get some sleep then,” said Margaret. “We can talk more in the morning.”
