Folksburywoods

“I do not know what future you face, my son, but I pray that it be a peaceful one,” remarked the Gwelf.

Trillium held her child, fearing the wind might come and pluck it from her arms.

“Your father is away at war. When he returns, you will be big and strong, able to stand,” said the woman.

Trillium had ridden out to the forest at daybreak to listen to the voices on the wind. In the village, she could not focus due to the chatter of its inhabitants.

Her dog interrupted her tuning. “What is it, Bartholomew?” Trillium asked.

The dog raised its head toward the east and sniffed the air. “You smell the dark rider’s work, don’t you? the woman remarked.

Bartholomew placed his paw on her legs and whined. Behind her, the horse pawed at the ground.

“Quiet, you two. I need to tune, the wind will tell us what we need to know,” said Trillium.

Pictures formed in her head, men fighting and dying. There came a flash of her husband mounted on his steed, then it faded. Blackness followed and nothing more.

“I fear our future will be a lonely one,” Trillium said to her child.

The woman rose and walked to her horse. “Come, Glade, we must prepare for the dead’s arrival. There is much to do this day,” Trillium said.

Mounting the steed, the woman adjusted the child so it could ride in comfort on her chest. They rode back to the village to prepare for her husband’s funeral.

“You will face the future written by the Norns and, like your father, buried by your wife. As it was with my mother before me,” said the Gwelf.

Trillium wondered if her people’s time would move forward like an arrow rather than the seasons’ circle.

“Only time will tell,” mumbled Trillium as she spurred her horse forward.