Ordona

Chapter 1

The first thing the boy Link remembered was the kitchen at Bo's farm. For all the rest of his life he had a special warm feeling for kitchens and those peculiar sounds and smells that seemed somehow to combine into a bustling seriousness that had to do with love, food, comfort, security and above all, home. No matter how high Link rose in his life, he never forgot that all his memories began in that kitchen.

The kitchen at Bo's farm was a large, low-beamed room filled with ovens and kettles and great spits that turned slowly in cavern-like arched fireplaces. There were long, heavy worktables where bread was kneaded into loaves and chickens were cut up and carrots and celery were diced with quick, crisp rocking movements on long, curved knives. When Link was very small, he played under those tables and soon learned to keep his fingers and toes from under the feet of the kitchen helpers who worked around the,. And sometimes in the late afternoons when he grew tired, he would lie in a corner and stare into one of the flickering fires that gleamed and reflected back from the hundred polished pots and knives and long-handled spoons that hung from pegs along the whitewashed walls, and bemused, he would drift off into sleep in perfect peace and harmony with all the world around him.

The center of the kitchen and everything that happened there was Aunt Im. She seemed somehow to be able to be everywhere at once. The finishing touch that plumped a goose in its roasting pan or deftly shaped a rising loaf or garnished a smoking ham fresh from the ovens was always hers. Though there were several others who worked in the kitchen, no loaf, stew, soup, roast, or vegetable ever went out of it if it had not been touched at least once by Aunt Im. She knew by smell, taste or some higher instinct what each dish required, and she seasoned them all by a pinch or trace or a negligent-seeming shake from earthenware spice pots. It was as if t here was a kind of magic about her, a knowledge and power beyond that of ordinary people. And yet, even at her busiest, she always knew precisely where Link was. In the very midst of crimping a pie crust or decorating a special cake or stitching up a freshly stuffed chicken she could, without looking, reach out a leg and hook him back out from under the feet of others with heel or ankle.

As he grew a bit older, it even became a game. Link would watch until she seemed far too busy to notice him, and then, laughing, he would run on his sturdy little legs toward a door. But she would always catch him. And he would laugh and throw his arms around her neck and kiss her and then go back to watching for his next chance to run away again.

He was quite convinced in those early years that his Aunt Im was quite the most important and beautiful woman in the world. For one thing, she was taller than the other women on Bo's farm-very nearly as tall as a man-and her face was always serious-even stern except with him, of course. Her hair was long and very dark-almost black-all but one lock just above her left brow which was white as new snow. At night when she tucked him into the little bed close beside her own in their private room above the kitchen, he would reach out and touch that white lock; she would smile at him and touch his face with a soft hand. Then he would sleep, content in the knowledge that she was there, watching over him.

Bo's farm lay very nearly in the center of Ordona, a misty kingdom bordered on the west by the Sea of the Winds and on the east by the Gulf of Eldin. Like all farmhouses in that particular time and place, Bo's farmstead was not one building or two, but rather was a solidly constructed complex of sheds and barns and hen roosts and dovecotes all facing inward upon a central yard with a stout gate at the front. Along the second story gallery were the rooms, some spacious, some quite tiny, in which lived the farmhands who tilled, planted and weeded the extensive fields beyond the walls. Bo himself live in quarters in the square tower above the central dining hall where his workers assembled three times a day-sometimes four during harvest time-to feast on a bounty of Aunt Im's kitchen.

All in all, it was quite a happy and harmonious place. Farmer Bo was a good master. He was a tall, serious man with a long nose and an even longer jaw. Though he seldom laughed or even smiled, he was kindly to those who worked for him and seemed more intent of maintaining them all in health and well-being than extracting the last possible ounce of sweat from them. In many ways he was more like a father to them than a master to the sixty-off people who lived on his free holding. He ate with them-which was unusual, since many farmers in the district sought to hold themselves a loof from their workers-and his presence at the head of the central table in the dining hall exerted a restraining influence on some of the younger ones who tended sometimes to be boisterous. Farmer Bo was a devout man, and he invariable invoked with simple eloquence the blessing of the Gods before each meal. The people of his farm, knowing this, filed with some decorum into this dining hall before each mean and sat in the semblance at least of piety before attacking the heaping platters and bowls of food that Aunt Im and her helpers had placed before them.

Because of Bo's good heart-and the magic of Aunt Im's deft fingers-the farm was known throughout the district as the finest place to live and work for twenty leagues in any direction. Whole evening were spent in the taverns in the nearby village of Upper Gralt in minute descriptions of the near-miraculous meals served regularly in Bo's dining hall. Less fortunate men who worked at other farms were frequently seen, after several pots of ale, to weep openly at the descriptions of one of Aunt Im's roasted geese, and the fame of Bo's farm spread wide throughout the district.

The most important man on the farm, aside from Bo, was Rusl the smith. As Link grew older and was allowed to move out from under Aunt Im's watchful eye, he found his way inevitably to the smithy. The glowing iron that came from Rusl's forge had an almost hypnotic attraction for him. Rusl was an ordinary-looking man with plain brown hair and a plain face, ruddy from the heat of his force. He was neither tall nor short, nor was he thin or stout. He was sober and quiet, and like most men who follow his trade, he was enormously strong. He wore a rough leather jerkin and apron of the same material. Both were spotted with burns from the sparks which flew from his forge. He also wore tight-fitting hose and soft leather boots as was the custom in the part of Ordona. At first Rusl's only words to Link were warnings to keep his fingers away from the forge and the glowing metal which came from it. In time, however, he and the boy became friends, and he spoke more frequently.

"Always finish what you set your hand to," he would advise. "Its bad for the iron if you set it aside and then take it back to the fire more than is needful."

"Why is that?" Link would ask.

Rusl would shrug, "It just is."

"Always do the very best job you can," he said on another occasion as he put a last few finishing touches with a file on the metal parts of a wagon tongue he was repairing.

"But that piece goes underneath," Link said. "No one will ever see it."

"But I know it's there," Rusl said, still smoothing the metal. "If it isn't done as well as I can do it, I'll be ashamed every time I see the wagon go by-and I'll see the wagon every day."

And so it went. Without even intending to, Rusl instructed the small boy in those solid, Ordonian virtues of work, thrift, sobriety, good manners, and practicality which formed the backbone of society.

At first Aunt Im was worried about Link's attraction to the smith with its obvious dangers; but after watching from her kitchen door for a while, she realized that Rusl was almost as watchful of Link's safety as she was herself and she became less concerned.

"If the boy becomes a pest, Goodman Rusl, send him away," she told the smith on one occasion when she had brought a large copper kettle to the smithy to be patched, "or tell me, and I'll keep him closer to the kitchen."

"He's no bother, Mistress Im," Rusl said, smiling "He's a sensible boy and knows enough to keep out of the way."

"You're too good natured, friend Rusl," Aunt Im said. "The boy is full of questions. Answer one and a dozen more pour out."

"That's the way of boys," Rusl said, carefully pouring bubbling metal into the small clay ring he'd placed around the tiny hole in the bottom of the kettle. "I was curious myself when I was a boy. My father and old Barl, the smith who taught me, were patient enough to answer what they could. I'd repay them poorly if I didn't have the same patience with Link."

Link, who was sitting nearby, had held his breath during this conversation. He knew that one wrong word on either side would have instantly banished him from the smithy. As Aunt Im walked back across the hard-packed dirt of the yard towards her kitchen with the new-mended kettle, he noticed the way that Rusl watched her, and an idea began to form in his mind. It was a simple idea, and the beauty of it was that it provided something for everyone.

"Aunt Im," he said that night, wincing as she washed one of his ears with a rough cloth.

"Yes?" she said, turning her attention to his neck.

"Why don't you marry Rusl?"

She stopped washing. "What?" she asked.

"I think it would be an awfully good idea."

"Oh, do you?" her voice had a slight edge to it, and Link knew he was on dangerous ground.

"He likes you," he said defensively.

"And I suppose you've already discussed this with him?"

"No," he said. "I thought I'd talk to you about it first."

"At least that was a good idea."

"I can tell him about it tomorrow morning, if you'd like."

His head was turnaround around quite firmly by one ear. Aunt Im, Link felt, found his ears far too convenient.

"Don't you so much as breathe one word of this nonsense to Rusl or anyone else," she said, her dark eyes burning into his with a fire he had never seen before.

"It was only a thought," he said quickly.

"A very bad one. From now on leave thinking to grown-ups." She was still holding his ear.

"Anything you say," he agreed hastily.

Later that night, however, when they lay in their beds in the quiet darkness, he approached the problem obliquely.

"Aunt Im?"

"Yes?"

"Since you don't want to marry Rusl, whom do you want to marry?"

"Link," she said.

"Yes?"

"Close your mouth and go to sleep."

"I think I've got a right to know," he said in an injured tone.

"Link!"

"All right. I'm going to sleep, but I don't think you're being very fair about all of this."

She drew in a deep breath. "Very well," she said. "I'm not thinking of getting married. I have never thought of getting married and I serious doubt that I'll ever think of getting married. I have far too many important things to attend to for any of that."

"Don't worry, Aunt Im," he said, wanting to put her mind at ease. "When I grow up, I'll marry you."

She laughed them, a deep right laugh, and reached out to touch his face in the darkness. "Oh no, my Link," she said. "There's another wife in store for you."

"Who?" he demanded.

"You'll find out," she said mysteriously. "Now go to sleep."

"Aunt Im?"

"Yes?"

"Where's my mother?" It was a question he had been meaning to ask for quite some time.

There was a long pause then Aunt Im sighed.

"She died," She said quietly.

Link felt a sudden wrenching surge of grief, an unbearable anguish. He began to cry.

And then she was beside his bed. She knelt on the floor and put her arms around him. Finally, a long time later, after she had carried him to her own bed and held him close until his grief had run its course, Link asked brokenly, "What was she like? My mother?"

"She was fair-haired," Aunt Im said, "and very strong and very beautiful. Her voice was gentle, and she was very happy."

"Did she love me?"

"More than you could ever imagine."

And then he cried again, but his crying was quieter now, more regretful than anguish.

Aunt Im held him closely until he cried himself to sleep.

There were other children on Bo's farm, as was only a natural in a community of sixty or so. The older ones on the farm all worked, but there were three other children about Link's age on the free holding. These three became his playmates and his friends.

The oldest boy was Bolin. He was a year or two older than Link and quite a bit taller. Ordinarily, since he was the eldest of the children, Bolin would have been their leader; but because he was an Labryn, his sense was a bit limited and cheerfully deferred to the younger ones. The kingdom of Ordona, unlike other kingdoms, was inhabited by a broad variety of racial stocks. Eldins, Farons, Lanaryuians, Labryns, and even a substantial number of Holodrums had merged to form the elemental Ordonian. Labryns of course, were very brave, but were also notoriously thick-witted.

Link's second playmate was Colin, a small, quick boy whose background was so mixed he could only be called a Ordonian. The most notable thing about Colin was the fact that he was always running; he never walked if he could run. Like his feet, his mind seemed to tumble over itself, and his tongue s well. He talked continually and very fast and he was always excited.

The undisputed leader of the little foursome was the girl, Ilia, a golden-haired charmer who invented their games, made up stories to tell them, and set them to stealing apples and plums from Bo's orchard for her. She ruled them as a little queen, playing one against the other and inciting them into fights. She was quite heartless, and each of the three boys at times hated her even while remaining helpless thralls to her tiniest whim.

In the winter they slid on wide boards down the snowy hillside behind the farmhouse and returned home, wet and snow-covered, with chapped hands and glowing cheeks as evening's purple shadows crept across the snow. Or, after Rusl the smith had proclaimed the ice safe, they would slide endlessly across the frozen pond that lay glittering frostily in a little dale just to the east of the farm buildings along the road to Upper Gralt. And, if the weather was too cold or on toward spring when rains and warm winds had made the snow slushy and the pond unsafe, they would gather in the hay barn and leap by the hour from the loft into the soft hay beneath, filling their hair with chaff and their noses with dust that smelled of summer.

In the spring they caught polliwogs along the marshy edges of the pond and climbed trees to stare in wonder at the tiny blue eggs the birds had laid in twiggy nests in the high branches.

It was Colin, naturally, who fell from a tree and broke his arm one fine spring morning when Ilia urged him into the highest branches of a tree near the edge of the pond. Since Bolin stood helplessly gaping at his injured friend and Ilia had run away almost before he hit the ground, it fell to Link to make certain necessary decisions. Gravely he considered the situation for a few moments, his young face seriously intent beneath his shock of sandy hair. The arm was obviously broken, and Colin, pale and frightened, bit his lip to keep from crying.

A movement caught Link's eye, and he glanced up quickly. A man in a dark cloak sat astride a large black horse not far away, watching intently. When their eyes met, Link felt a momentary chill, and he knew that he had seen the man before- that indeed that dark figure that hovered on the edge of his vision for as long as he could remember, never speaking, but always watching. There was in that silent scrutiny a kind of cold animosity curiously mingled with something that was almost, but not quite, fear. Then Colin whimpered, and Link turned back.

Carefully he bound the injured arm across the front of Colin's body with his rope belt, and then he and Bolin helped the injured boy to his feet.

"At least he could have helped us," Link said resentfully.

"Who?" Bolin said, looking around.

Link turned to point at the dark-cloaked man, but the rider was gone.

"I didn't see anyone," Bolin said.

"It hurts," Colin whined.

"Don't worry," Link said. "Aunt Im will fix it."

And so she did. When the three appeared at the door of her kitchen, she took the situation in with a single glance.

"Bring him over here," she told them, her voice not even excited. She set the pale and violently trembling boy on a stool near one of the ovens and mixed a tea of several herbs taken from jars on a high shelf in the back of one of her pantries.

"Drink this," she instructed Colin, handing him a steaming mug.

"Will it make my arm well?" he asked, suspiciously eyeing the evil-smelling brew.

"Just drink it," she ordered, laying out some splints and linen strips.

"Ick! It tastes awful," Colin complained, making a face.

"It's supposed to," she told him. "Drink it all."

"I don't think I want any more," he said.

"Very well," she said. She pushed back the splints and took down a long, very sharp knife from a hook on the wall.

"What are you doing with that?" he demanded shakily.

"Since you don't want to take the medicine," she said blandly, "I guess it'll have to come off."

"Off?" Colin squeaked, his eyes bulging.

"Probably about right there," she said, thoughtfully touching his arm at the elbow with the point of the knife.

Tears coming to his eyes, Colin gulped down the rest of the liquid and a few minutes later he was nodding, almost drowsing on his stool. He screamed once, though, when Aunt Im set the broken bone, but after the arm had been wrapped and splinted, he drowsed again. Aunt Im spoke briefly with the boy's frightened mother and then had Rusl carry him up to bed.

"You wouldn't really have cut off his arm," Link said.

Aunt Im looked at him, her expression unchanging. "Oh?" she said, and he was no longer sure. "I think I'd like to have a word with Mistress Ilia now," she said then.

"She ran away when Colin fell out of the tree," Link told her.

"Find her."

"She's hiding," Link protested. "She always hides when something goes wrong. I wouldn't know where to look for her."

"Link," Aunt Im said, "I didn't ask you if you knew where to look. I told you to find her and bring her to me."

"What if she won't come?" Link hedged.

"Link!" There was a note of awful finality in Aunt Im's voice, and Link fled.

"I didn't have anything to do with it," Ilia lied as soon as Link led her to Aunt Im in the kitchen.

"You," Aunt Im said, pointing to a stool, "sit!"

Ilia sank onto the stool, her mouth open and her eyes wide.

"You," Aunt Im said to Link, pointing at the kitchen door, "out!"

Link quickly left.

Ten minutes later a sobbing little girl stumbled out of the kitchen. Aunt Im stood in the doorway looking after her with eyes as hard as ice.

"Did you thrash her?" Link asked hopefully.

Aunt Im withered him with a glance. "Of course not," she said. "You don't thrash girls."

"I would have," Link said disappointed. "What did you do to her?"

"Don't you have anything to do?" Aunt Im asked.

"No," Link said shrugging, "not really."

That, of course, was a mistake.

"Good," Aunt Im said finding one of his ears. "It's time you started to earn your way. You'll find some dirty pots in the scullery. I'd like to have them scrubbed."

"I don't know why you're angry with me," Link objected, squirming under her grip on his ear. "it wasn't my fault that Colin went up that tree."

"The scullery, Link," she said. "Now."

The rest of that spring and the early part of the summer were quiet. Colin of course, could not play until his arm mended, and Ilia had been so shaken by whatever it was that Aunt I'm had said to her that she avoided the two other boys. Link was left with only Bolin to play with, and Bolin wasn't bright enough to be much fun. Because there was really nothing else to do, the boys often went into the fields to watch the hands work and listen to their talk.

As it happened, during that particular summer the men on Bo's farm were talking about the Battle of La Mimbre, the most cataclysmic event in the history of the west. Link and Bolin listened, enthralled, as the men unfolded the story of how the hordes of Kal Ganondorf had quite suddenly struck into the west some five hundred years before.

It had all begun in 4865, as men reckoned time in that part of the world, when the vast multitudes of Lorules, Terminans and Kohols had struck down across the mountains of the eastern escarpment into Lanaryu, and behind them in endless waves had come the uncountable numbers of the Gerudoes.

After Lanaryu had been brutally crushed, the Gerudo had turned southward onto the vast grasslands of Faron and had laid siege to the enormous fortress called the Faron Stronghold. The siege had lasted for either years until finally, in disgust, Kal Ganondorf abandoned it. It was not until he turned his arm westward to Elruland that the other kingdoms became aware that the Gerudo invasion was directed not only against the Hylians but against all of the west. In the summer of 4875 Kal Ganondorf had come down upon the Labrynish plain before the city of La Mimbre, and it was there that the combined armies of the west awaited him.

The Ordonians who participated in the battle were a part of the force under the leadership of Mal-Medio, the Windfall Warder or nicknamed as the Shadow of the Windfall King. That force, consisting of Windfallians more commonly known as Fallians, Ordonians, and Asturian Labryns, assaulted the Gerudo rear after the left had been engaged by Farons, Lanaryuians and Elrus; the right by Holodrums and Eldins; and the front by the legendary charge of the Mimbrate Labryns. For hours the battle had raged until, in the center of the field, Mal-Medio had met in single combat with Kal Ganondorf himself. Upon that duel had hinged the outcome of the battle.

Although twenty generations had passed since that titanic encounter, it was still fresh in the memory of Ordonian farmers who worked on Bo's farm as if it had happened only yesterday. Each blow was described, and each feint and parry. At the final moment, when it seemed that he must inevitably be overthrown, Mal-Medio had removed the covering from his shield, and Kal Ganondorf, taken aback by some momentary confusion, had lowered his guard and had been instantly stuck down.

For Bolin, the description of the battle was enough to set his Labryn blood seething. Link, however, found that certain questions had been left unanswered by the stories.

"Why was Mal-Medio's shield covered?" He asked Talon, one of the older hands.

Talon shrugged. "It just was," he said. "Everyone I've ever talked with about it agrees on that."

"Was it a magic shield?" Link persisted.

"It may have been," Talon said, "but I've never heard anyone say so. All I know is that when Mal-Medio uncovered his shield, Kal Ganondorf dropped his own shield, and Mal-Medio stabbed his sword into Kal Ganondorf's head through the eye, or so I'm told."

Link shook his head stubbornly. "I don't understand," he said. "How would something like that make Kal Ganondorf afraid?"

"I can't say," Talon told him. "I've never heard anyone explain it."

Despite his dissatisfaction with the story, Link quite quickly agreed to Bolin's rather simple plan to re-enact the duel. After a day or so of posturing and banging at each other with sticks to simulate swords, Link decided that they needed some equipment to make the game more enjoyable. Two kettles and two large pot lids mysteriously disappeared from Aunt Im's kitchen; and Link and Bolin, now with helmets and shields, hid away to a quiet place to do war upon each other.

It was all going quite splendidly until Bolin, who was older, taller and stronger, stuck Link a resounding whack on the head with his wooden sword. The rim of the kettle cut into Link's eyebrow, and the blood began to flow. There was a sudden ringing in Link's ears, and a kind of ringing in Link's ears, and a kind of boiling exaltation surged up in his veins as he rose to his feet from the ground.

He never knew afterward quite what happened. He had only sketchy memories of shouting defiance at Kal Ganondorf in words which sprang to his lips which even he did not understand. Bolin's familiar face was no longer the face before him but rather was replaced by something hideously maimed and ugly. In a fury Link struck at that face again and again with fire seething in his brain.

And then it was over. Poor Bolin lay at his feet, beaten senseless by the enraged attack. Link was horrified at what he had done, but at the same time there was the fiery taste of victory in his mouth.

Later in the kitchen, where all the injuries on the farm were routinely taken, Aunt Im tended their wounds with only minimal comments about them. Bolin seemed not to be seriously, though his face had begun to swell and turn purple in several places and he had difficulty focusing his eyes at first. A few cold cloths on his head and one of Aunt Im's potions quickly restored him.

The cut on Link's brow, however, required a bit more attention. She had Rusl hold the boy down and then she took a needle and thread and sewed up the cut as calmly as she would have repaired a rip in a sleeve, all of this while ignoring the howls from her patient. All in all, she seemed much more concerned about the dented kettles and battered pot lids tan about the war of the two boys.

When it was over, Link was a headache and was taken up to bed.

"At least I beat Kal Ganondorf," he told his Aunt somewhat drowsily.

She looked at him sharply.

"Where did you hear about Ganondorf?" she demanded.

"It's Kal Ganondorf, Aunt Im," Link explained patiently.

"Answer me."

"The farmers were telling stories-old Talon and the others about Mal-Medio and La Mimbre and Kal Ganondorf and all the rest. That's what Bolin and I were playing. I was Mal-Medio and he was Kal Ganondorf. I didn't get to uncover my shield, though. Bolin his me on the head before we got that far."

"I want you to listen to me Link." Aunt Im said, "and I want you to listen carefully. You are never to speak the name of Ganondorf again."

"It's Kal Ganondorf, Aunt Im," Link explained again, "not just Ganondorf."

Then she hit him - which she had never done before. The slap across his mouth surprised him more than it hurt, for she did not hit very hard.

"You will never speak the name of Ganondorf again. Never!" she said. "This is important, Link. Your safety depends on it. I want your promise."

"You don't have to get so angry about it," he said in an injured tone.

"Promise."

"All right, I promise. It was only a game."

"A very foolish one," Aunt Im said. "You might have killed Bolin."

"What about me?" Link protested.

"You were never in any danger," she told him. "Now go to sleep."

And as he dozed fitfully, his head light from his injury and the strange, bitter drink his Aunt had given him, he seemed to hear her deep, rich voice sating, "Link, my Link, you're too young get." And later, rising from deep sleep as a dish rises toward the silvery surface of the water, he seemed to hear her call, "Father, I need you." Then he plunged again into a troubled sleep, haunted by a dark figure of a man on a black horse who watched him every movement with a cold animosity and something that hovered very near the edge of fear; and behind that dark figure he had always known to be there but had never overtly acknowledged, even to Aunt Im, the maimed and ugly face he had briefly seen or imagined in the fight with Bolin loomed darkly, like the hideous fruit of an unspeakable evil tree.

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