Chapter 1
Fireside Tales

The old man's voice was hushed as he spoke in whispers to the group of children at his feet. They sat mesmerized as the he told of wonders and impossibilities of another lifetime, as they did often in the evenings. The old man, who lived in a hut near the outskirts of a village near Rohan, opened his home in the evenings to the village children. The firelight flickered low as he was nearing the end of his storytelling. At the present he was telling of trees that moved and spoke like human beings, which he called ents. "And if ye didn't watch yer step," he looked around the hut for effect, "they could reach out—and GRAB YE!" The children jumped back and gasped.

One little boy spoke up in a shaky voice. "They-they don't still exist…do they?"

The old man leaned back and nodded. "That they could, young one. That they could." At this the children fidgeted and whispered to themselves as the old man chuckled. "If ye be real careful and quiet and don't go nowhere without yer mammys, and by all means stay outta the woods, I think ye might be safe. But if ye don't…" His voice trailed off and none of the children wanted to know what would happen.

But one little girl about ten years old scoffed. "I don't believe the story," she stated boldly.

The old man was surprised. Usually all the children believed the stories religiously. He shrugged. "You cin believe 'em, er you cin not. 'Sup to you. But I'm warnin' ye…" Again he trailed off. The children squirmed uneasily as the old man leaned back in his chair and lit his corncob pipe, which meant that he was through and they could go home. The children shuffled out the door and towards their homes by the flickering firelight that came streaming out of windows, some glancing fearfully at the pitch-black of the night-filled woods that weren't too far away while some walked just a little faster than usual towards their house.

The little girl that had spoken up earlier, however, held her head up and walked slowly to her house just to prove she wasn't bothered by the story. Her name was Arrell, and she was a small thing with long blond hair and big blue eyes.

"Hey Arrell, I bet that story did scare you!" One little boy about her age sneered. "That's why you said you didn't believe it!"

"You just be quiet, Eredor! You're just scared yourself!" She shouted back at him.

"I'm not! You're chicken! You're—" He was cut off by a flying tackle by the little girl. She pinned him on the ground and was delivering repeated blows to his face when she felt firm hands pull her off the boy. She turned around to see the stern face of her older brother, Estor, staring reproachfully down at her.

"Arrell," he intoned disapprovingly, the controlled calm in his voice about to give way to disciplinary rage.

She jerked away and brushed her now-tangled hair out of her face. "He called me chicken!"

"I don't care what he—"

"Well I do! I'm not chicken, and curse anyone who says I am!"

"Arrell, watch your mouth—" But the little girl had already stormed off. His shoulders slumped as those of a weary parent, then he raised them back up and ran after her. He was only fifteen, but he took it upon himself to keep his mischievous and tomboy sister in line as their parents were busy leading the ever-toiling life of peasant farmers. Now he felt years beyond his age as he ran off in search of Arrell, who was bound to be in deep trouble later.

He found her dangerously close to their home, in the loft of the family's barn out back of the house. She was sitting in the midst of some hay bales with her knees drawn up to her chest, sulking as ten-year-olds sometimes do, with a tiny candle flickering low beside her.

"Arrell," he called softly as he walked over to her and sat down beside her.

She whimpered despite herself. "Please don't tell Mama and Papa," she whispered softly, her voice muffled as she had her face buried in her knees.

He acted like he didn't hear her. "What did you hit him for?" he asked gently, yet reprovingly.

She raised her head. "I told you. He called me chicken!"

"That's not what I mean. What purpose did you think hitting him would serve?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think he changed his mind just because you hit him? Or do you think he still thinks you're afraid?"

A pause. She looked away, chastised.

"Did you hitting him change anything?"

"Well…no…" She looked back at him. "I'm sorry." A tear slid down her cheek despite her best attempts to stop it.

He smiled gently at her. "I won't tell Papa or Mama." She giggled as he pulled a piece of straw from her wheat-colored hair. Then he sterned. "But I won't lie for you if they find out. You'll be on your own then." She nodded, then yawned. He lifted her up by her arms. "We need to go in now. It's late and Mama will be worried."