I guess I should start writing now. Commandant Crowley just left. I heard the lock click as expected. I guess he doesn't imagine that I will do much damage to the files. He is itching to keep looking over my shoulder to see what I write. He wants to know my full story and he will. He'll just have to come back and read the papers. For now, I want to think and write in peace. The room is quiet fortunately. There is a window behind me and it lets some light in. There are papers and filing cabinets everywhere in this room because it is the Ranger Archives. Anything important goes on. Anybody makes a name for themselves. The details get written up by Crowley or a junior Ranger and stowed here. Plus, all the monthly reports filed by the fifty Rangers are arranged chronologically. My father was a Ranger. I think if I looked I could find his reports on Brougham fief. I grew up there. That was where I first hit the bull's eye with both knives and arrows. But I'm rambling. I need to start the story from the beginning not the middle. My name is Maia Marion. My father was a Ranger. Maybe you are wondering what a Ranger is. It seems silly to put an explanation in for the Rangers reading this paper, but Crowley said I should be complete.
Any child in Araluen could tell you about the Rangers, but I don't know if they'd tell you rightly. The Rangers are the best archers and spies on the island. There are fifty fiefs with a Ranger for each. The common people say that they are black magicians, but they aren't. They've just learned how people think, and how to stay hidden. Most Rangers don't marry or they retire before they have children. My father was different. He was torn between the woman he loved and his silver oak leaf, symbol of a Ranger. In the end, she made up his mind when she calmly stated that she would be a Ranger's wife or not at all. She loved him as long as she lived, which wasn't all that long. She died when I was born. A life for a life, in a way. Of course, I don't remember her. I wish my father would have spoken about her more, but whenever I asked he always went silent and looked into the distance like he was sighting a far shot. All I have of my mother is a green stone pendant. The only explanation I ever got was that it was my mother's and that she always wore it.
I wish I knew where it came from or why she wore it.
The closest person I ever had to a mother was the housekeeper/governess from the village. She was plain as a fencepost but the sweetest person I ever met. When I was ten she married and moved away to another village. She would have kept in touch but she soon had children, which kept her from visiting, and she never learn her letters. I think my father liked having her around the house during the day. It turned a building into a home. After the she left, Father didn't get another housekeeper, so I was alone whenever he went away. I kept house by myself, sometimes weeks on end. When I was alone, I didn't really live in the house. I slept in trees, fished, hunted, dug for roots.
Except for digging roots. I stopped that after I made a mistake, ate the wrong root, and got sick. I would've died if one of the women from the village hadn't checked on me. That was the catalyst for the women of the town to send a kind of delegation to speak to my father on the proper way to bring up a child. The stridency of their demands that I be allowed to live with one of them when Father went away only increased when I slipped from my perch on the roof where I'd been eavesdropping. Reluctantly, he agreed.
I didn't.
The next time he left, chaos reigned upon house of the woman who had taken me in. Everything was not where it should be. The milk somehow curdled during the night. The eggs all disappeared though there was certainly no fox in the area. The cows broke their fence and ran wild over the countryside until they were rounded up. The yarn she set me to spin tangled itself. All the needles I used broke. After a few days, she had had enough and told me to return to my house.
And that was the end of that.
When I was eleven, my father surprised me with a colt. He was a black and white pinto. I named him Patch. We grew together. He is good company. I still ride him today.
When I was twelve, my father gave me the first of several bows. You see, my father always wanted a son to follow in his footsteps. No matter what I did, I always felt inadequate. I wasn't what he wanted. Nevertheless, he did teach me the skills of a Ranger. He wanted me to be safe when he wasn't there to protect me. I am sorry to say that I did not use the ability to walk unseen very wisely. I sneaked around pulling pranks and tricks on people I didn't like. And I exposed secrets better left in the dark. I hurt people in a way that could never really heal. All that was pretty small though; my father turned a blind eye or gave me a talking to. I didn't learn.
Or rather, I did, but it was about archery not what's right and what's wrong.
Matters only came to a head when items in the village started disappearing. They were small things such as wallets, purses, and the like. Father couldn't believe it when I was dragged to the castle by the ear by a man-at-arms proclaiming I had stolen his wallet. I had. It was really just for challenge; I was going to give them back when I had a chance. In the end, everything was returned, but the damage was done. The mood in the town toward me turned from something close to pity, to suspicion, and hostility. My father kept a closer eye on me after that. He decided that the best way to keep me out of mischief was to keep me busy. I learned to read and write. I learned to sew and fletch.
But he still went away. There was nothing he or I could do about that.
Things were quiet after the pick-pocketing incident. My thirteenth birthday came and went without any celebration. Father made sure that I only went into town with him. I learned much, but was lonely. Sometimes, he would go to the castle. But, before he went he was sure to assign me a task that would occupy me for the entire time. One night though, I slipped into town. I reveled in the freedom, but stuck to the shadows. I didn't want anyone to comment that I had been there.
After wondering around for a while, the darkness of the tavern alley invited me in. I pressed up against the wall and listened to the hum of conversation within. I saw a few farm women trundle in. They settled right by the wall where I was listening and drowned out all the other talk with their hen-like gossip. I was getting up to leave when I heard my name. "…that girl, Maia, it's a wonder she isn't running 'round naked like a barbarian. Did you hear? That Ranger left her for three weeks! Alone!"
"Well I never," interjected a second.
The original speaker picked up her thread of speech again: "I actually saw that poor Maia the other day when I was delivering a few eggs. She's dressed in rags, at least not a proper skirt. I have half a mind to sew one and take it down. I just can't stand to see a child in need."
My hands clenched into fists. I was not in rags. I had been riding. A long skirt would get in the way so I wore an old one. I had several long skirts, thank you very much.
A third was speaking: "Bertha, don't waste your fabric on the little beggar. Why, she stole my Alf's purse, right off of his belt she did." There were general murmurs of agreement.
For a moment my vision turned red. I wanted to burst into the tavern and tell them they were wrong.
I didn't. As the woman Bertha started talking again, I melted into the darkness of the night.
The town was not a draw to me after that.
Two months later, my father and I started to saddle break Patch. He was already halter broken; he had been before he was a year old. I wasn't able to ride for several more months but Patches and I became even closer friends. Indeed, he was my only friend.
On my fourteenth birthday, my father gave me a second bow. It was much heavier than the first. I was a skilled archer and the new bow extended. Also on that day, I rode Patch for the first time. Sometimes when Father was teaching me a secret of the woodland, I would wonder why he hadn't retired from the Rangers so we could be together more. I still don't know why he stayed so long.
A few weeks later, I tracked and shot my first deer. My father was so proud that night. I almost felt he accepted me as a girl. A month after that, strange things started happening to me. For the first time, I sought the council of an older woman. She nodded sagely and said, "Aye, it is the way of women. You will have to live with it." I eventually accepted it.
The morning of my fifteenth birthday had not yet dawned when there was a thunderous crash in my room and my father routed me out of bed. All he would say was to hurry. We rode until the sun came up and lit a beautiful grassy hill. Then we sat and breakfasted. It was very peaceful. The birds were singing. The dew was still on the grass. The world was new and fresh. For the first time in a long time, I was truly happy. My father reached into his saddle bags, pulled out a small bundle, and handed it to me with a kiss on the cheek. "Happy birthday, Maia."
It was a saxe knife and throwing knife. Ranger issue.
