This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. Pentark and image are registered trademarks®. ISBN: 978-0-6459042-0-8 (book). ISBN: 978-0-6459042-1-5 (e-book). Text copyright © 2024 T.L. Brechin. Map art and interior illustrations copyright © T.L. Brechin. USA copyright © 2024. The author asserts their moral rights in this work throughout the world without waiver. Book cover and design by Julia Dineen

The crowing of a rooster outside her window woke Marta with a start. Remembering what day it was, she scrambled out of bed, pulled on her best breeches and wrapping up against the cool morning air, grabbed two woven baskets by the back door. With arms full, she pushed open the wooden gate at the end of the garden path and headed down to the orchard. As she passed the barn, Wallace the wolfhound whined and tugged against his chain. Feeling sorry for him, Marta released him and he ran ahead, scattering rabbits as he went.

It was late summer and the apples were still plentiful. She picked the best ones, polished them until they shone and carefully placed them in the baskets. She lugged the baskets back up the laneway to the barn where her father was buckling the last straps on the draught mare’s harness.

Soon he was hoisting large sacks of potatoes across his shoulders, grunting, and rolling them onto the dray. He stacked them into neat rows, while Marta put five new twisted ropes and a small wooden crate of mature cheeses along the other side. Then she filled a nosebag of oaten hay for Bloss to eat later and laid it on top of the cheeses. She climbed onto the seat next to her father and gave Bloss a light slap of the reins. Bloss responded, and straining against the load, headed down to the orchard gate. Wallace bounded alongside the dray to the farm gate, and then lay down and sulked when Marta told him he must stay.

It was a slow journey from Broadmeadow Farm down to the village of Brechin, but Marta loved the crunch and rumble of the wheels, and the rhythmic sway and jolting of the dray. The ruts in the road were well worn and the cobblestones and rough granite made the track arduous for Bloss. Her load was heavy but she had made the trip down the valley many times before and she knew how to pick her way along the crown of the roadway.

Within the hour they reached the arched village gates. The clouds that earlier threatened rain had cleared and sun shone down on the valley’s patchwork quilt of green vegetables, wheat sheaves, oats and fallow ground.

Just as it always was on the village’s monthly market day, there was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and a Much-to-do and Can’t-be-wasting-any-time attitude among the busy folk arriving in an orderly manner to set up their stalls. Peaches, plums, apricots, and greengages sat full and ripe in willow baskets and the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the air.

Bolts of fine cloth: yellow, green, red and blue were on display in the tailor’s window. Sacks of beetroot and carrots stood in neat rows in front of the farmers’ stalls and further along were piles of roughly stacked gourds and casks of mulled wine. Horses that required shoeing were tethered in a row outside the local blacksmith’s. A young apprentice in leather apron and with sweat beading on his brow, pumped the bellows until the coals glowed orange and red in the gloom of the shop. Soon the ringing of hammer on anvil was added to the hustle and bustle.

Bloss patiently made her way through the throngs of farmwives, villagers and roustabouts streaming through the gates. Some were there just for the outing but most wanted to trade or barter their goods. They found an empty spot and Marta’s father unhitched Bloss from the dray. As Marta handed her father the nosebag the mare tried to snatch a mouthful of the oats before being led to the nearby stables. Marta stayed behind with their display. As soon as he returned, Marta hoisted the first basket of apples onto her hip, and headed towards the bakery.

‘Bread for lunch and some milled flour,’ he reminded her as he watched her go, ‘and a small bag of onions wouldn’t go astray …’

‘Yes Father,’ Marta called over her shoulder.

When apples were in season, the local bakers made delicious pies throughout market day, preferring to use Marta’s tart apples and always most grateful to exchange them for some of their finest ground flour. By lunchtime she was pleased to see that all the apples in the basket had been replaced by the ordered goods, together with some plums and peaches as a special treat.

As Marta came near her father’s stall she saw a few other vendors gathered nearby, all drinking warm spicy mead from tankards brought by the publican of The Cock ’n’ Bull as a token of thanks for the trade they brought his way. She sat by her father on the back of the dray, swinging her legs as they shared their simple lunch. There was a bit of idle chatter among the men at first. But then there was a lull in the conversation.

One man leant forward and said in a low voice, ‘Shouldn’t we be talking about what’s been happening in Greenwood Forest?’

He looked around the gathered group. ‘And a few even stranger things have been seen around here of late. You know, it’s a curse Brechin’s so close to it.’ He pointed with his tankard in the general direction of the forest, and a shiver spread through the group.

‘You may be right,’ said the publican, looking down and shuffling his feet. ‘But I’ve seen nothing myself—and I live right here. Anyway there’s naught we can do about it. If you ask me, we’d best keep ourselves to ourselves.’

‘Can’t just ignore it,’ said the wheelwright. ‘I think we should be arming ourselves. I’ve been told that there’s even elves and dwarves appearing out of the forest. What could they possibly want from us? They’re the ones who have magic.’

‘But we have food,’ the farmer reminded them. ‘Rumour has it, ever since the World of the Soul was invaded by the World of the Dark Night, more and more crops have been failing each year. Perhaps the inhabitants are slowly starving.’

‘I think it’s more than that,’ said the wheelwright. ‘The breach in the Treaty of Spheres was twenty years ago now.’

Te publican shrugged. ‘People see things in the dark all the time. Their imagination runs wild. Where’s the evidence?’ ‘As if those vile and nasty creatures from the World of the Dark Night would be leaving any evidence,’ retorted the wheelwright.

‘And don’t forget, the border into the World of Man is still protected by the Arkfeld,’ said the farmer.

‘And I’d take a bet any day that the force field’s too weak by now to stop them from coming here through the forest,’ insisted the wheelwright.

Marta listened with great interest. Rumours of the ongoing conflict within the World of the Soul were often shared on Brechin’s market day, but she had not noticed people being so worried before. The villagers generally seemed satisfied that the Arkfeld’s protection was holding, and that any attacks from the World of the Dark Nights were a problem only for the World of the Soul. She watched the men now as they whispered to each other, and then looked across at her father. He had told her about this rumour of strange creatures being seen in the village, but he had assured her not to be concerned about it. She turned back to the wheelwright.

He nodded at the village elder who had been listening silently all the while. ‘Tell us again about the mysterious woman you saw on a golden stallion that had obviously come through the Arkfeld.’

He raised his hand. Everyone was quiet, waiting for the elder to speak.

‘It was the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen. A kind of glowing golden colour. I was a boy. Over sixty years ago. It was night time, but there was a full moon so that I could see quite well. I was walking along the track to my grandparents’ farm when I heard horse’s hooves and looked up to see a woman riding bareback, cross the track and disappear into the forest. But I swear that she turned her head and gave a kind of nod, looking straight at me. Aye, for just a moment, I admit. But there was something in that look. What she were doing there I don’t know, but I still think somehow she were on our side.’

Te elder took a deep breath and then shocked them all by adding, ‘And I saw her again, just yesterday. And she gave me that same look, as if she was telling me not to be afraid.’ Marta’s father jumped from the dray. ‘Come Marta, try and sell the rest of those apples, eh? And then we can go home.’

Marta noticed the change in his mood. Ever since the Treaty of Spheres had been breached, every new child in the valley had been warned by their parents that they must never go near Greenwood Forest, the boundary between their World and the World of the Soul. But Marta and her father had a special reason to be concerned about the danger. For long ago, when her mother had given that warning to Marta, she had added that she herself had grown up in the World of the Soul.

Tey packed their leftovers into a sack and put them in the front of the dray. Marta hitched the last basket of apples onto her hip and headed to the only place she hadn’t been to today: Jester Alley.