Chapter 1

It wasn’t that Oliver Fowler thought he was a failure, exactly, or that he thought his life had been wasted. If anything, it was that he just thought he was mediocre. He went through school ‘in the middle of the thundering herd’, so to speak. He was bright enough to get into Teacher Training College and earn a Certificate in Education ... it’s only fairly recently it became essential to have a Bachelor’s degree to be a teacher.

As a boy, he loved nature and the countryside, before it was fashionable to do so. He soon found out that if he talked too much about such things he was ridiculed, so he learned to say the right things about the right football team and otherwise keep his head down.

It was a pure accident that he met Frances, who was taking a Law degree at University and he never really did work out how he happened to end up married to her, or why, when the younger child, Penny, was five, she took off for Australia with both children and sued for divorce.

A psychologist, had he (or she) ever got hold of him, would have probably just said he had ‘low self esteem’ or ‘poor self confidence’. Whatever, it meant that he didn’t have the confidence to pursue another woman. He tried a professional ... once. It was ... not satisfying.

As time went on, nature and ecology became fashionable and his spare time was spent working for free on National Trust estates, mainly woodland, but he remained alone through his life until retirement.

They say that most people at some time consider suicide. Oliver was doing so. How seriously, we’ll never know ... but he walked into his favourite patch of woodland and sat, leaning against a suitable tree, looking across a small clearing.

He thought he was dreaming when he saw her. A naked young woman, walking across the clearing. She was very slim. Forget ‘thin’ or ‘anorexic’, because she had a proper amount of flesh in the right places – she was just very slim. Of average height, about five feet four inches, she was very pale, almost white. Her hair, by contrast, black and flowing in waves down her back. A black patch, not large, emphasised her mound. Her narrow face was sharp featured, with a pointed chin, and her ears curved up elegantly to a point also. The word ‘elfin’ came immediately to mind.

She either didn’t notice him, or didn’t care, because she didn’t look round or give any indication she knew he was there; just walked smoothly across the clearing before disappearing into the trees on the other side. The screech of a jay, which landed in front of him and began probing the grass, broke his paralysis and he stood. Was he still dreaming? The tree seemed real enough; his movement disturbed the bird, which flew up, complaining loudly, into a tree on the other side of the space.

“She walked in beauty, like the night...” the fragment of poetry, distantly recalled, rose to the surface of his consciousness. Thoughtfully, he made his way home and found the poem thanks to Google – he wasn’t a poetry enthusiast, and hadn’t even known it was by the mad peer, Byron...

She walks in beauty like the night
of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
meets in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
which heaven to gaudy day denies.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
so soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
the smiles that win, the tints that glow,
but tells in days of goodness spent,
a mind at peace with all below,
a heart whose love is innocent.

It summed up, so completely, his feelings about the vision that he wasn’t even sure was real. He thought about the poem, and remembered every detail of what he’d seen – or, perhaps it had been a dream?

The sort of voluntary work he undertook ... dry-stone walling, brush-clearing, tree-pruning and sometimes felling, fence mending and so on, never really come to an end. But he was a volunteer, and able sometimes to just take an hour or two, even a whole day, off. The woman he’d seen ... or dreamed ... filled his thoughts, so one day he simply packed for a hike and walked into the woods, to the place he’d been before.

She didn’t come to him again, then, not while he was awake. But sitting quietly, leaning against the tree, cushioned on springy moss, he drowsed. On one level, he knew he was dreaming as he saw her. That time, she was dressed; which somehow made her more sensual, though her clothing was far from sexy. In a green the colour of new leaves, it actually looked like an ‘elf costume’, with a skirt that had a jagged edge, reaching just below her knees, a slightly darker jacket over a blouse that might have been white, but was really a very pale green.

“We need you, Praesul. They are cutting the trees that should not be cut. My cousins will die.” She held out her hand, “You are the One. Will you help?”

“Who are you?”

She smiled, “I am Niyulnos. Will you help?”

“I don’t know...”

“You will know. You only need to care enough to stop and investigate.”

“My name...”

“Your name is Oliver, but you are Praesul.” She stepped forward and gently touched his forehead with her lips.

“I will do what I can.”

“I know. We will meet again.”

He was driving one evening; it was Autumn, and the nights were drawing in. Suddenly in the headlights, a young woman appeared and he braked sharply. She was dressed curiously in a flowing robe and he was shocked to see she had bare feet. He pulled in, and set his hazard lights before getting out.

“You came, Praesul! They are cutting trees, they are cutting my sisters; that should not be.”

Before he could respond, she turned and ran up a narrow road into the wooded valley side. He followed, hearing the sound of chainsaws, rummaging in his pocket for his wallet.

Three men looked round as he approached, the woman to one side. Apparently they could not see her. The chainsaw in one man’s hand died and he set it down.

“May I see your authorisation?” he enquired, mildly. “This is protected woodland and I am responding to a complaint.” He flashed his opened wallet, with driver’s licence on one side and his National Trust volunteer ID on the other. In the gloom, it was unlikely they would challenge him. Nor did they.

“We haven’t got the paperwork with us,” one man said.

“Then you had better pack up and go home until you can produce it,” Oliver told them. “I will be reporting this, of course.”

Grumbling, but not seriously resisting, the men left, though Oliver made a note of the registration numbers of the vehicles they were driving, and descriptions of the men, too.

Other women appeared, similarly barefoot and clad in woodland colours. They glanced at him, but ran to the one tall fir which the men had cut down. They fell to their knees about it, weeping. A man, older, roughly dressed, approached him and knelt. “Thank you, Praesul. Thank you. The Princess said you would come.”

“Princess?”

“Of course; Princess Niyulnos.”

Oliver shook his head in confusion. Then gathered his thoughts. “You don’t need to kneel to me, I’m just an ordinary man.”

“But you are Praesul...”

“My friend, I have just done something minor. To prevent a wrong. They were breaking the law...” The women finished their mourning and rose to approach him, then knelt to him, but he reached out, first to the man, and pulled each in turn to their feet. “Please, don’t make this something special ... after all, I was too late for your friend.” Then, after a pause, “I will report this.” He rummaged in a pocket, and produced a mobile phone, dialled a number. Rolling his eyes, he selected a series of options, then listened to tinny music for several minutes before speaking to a real person. “I need to report illegal felling in ancient woodland.”

Having explained to the Police where he was, and what he’d seen and done, he made a note of the reference number and hung up. He then decided that a wider communication was necessary, and called a friend who would mobilise some conservation volunteers.

It is as well that he did, politics and corruption being as they are. The land was wanted for development, and the fact it was ‘Ancient Woodland’ cut no ice with those who stood to make a profit from it. It was claimed that the woodland was ‘neglected and in poor condition’. Anyway, by dint of rallying support from conservation groups and sheer determination, the development proposal was turned down and the volunteers given permission to ‘tidy up’ the woods. Mainly, that meant clearing up the fly-tipping*, though a certain amount of maintenance was required for the trees themselves.

*Fly-tipping, the dumping of rubbish illegally in order to avoid paying to do so properly and legally.

From time to time, he wondered. He wondered about ‘Niyulnos’. He wondered about the women in archaic costumes. He wondered as he realised that he hadn’t considered their reference to ‘their sister’. And he wondered about the title they had fixed on him.

‘Praesul’ – the dictionary was of little help. Google, though, offered ‘Prelate’, ‘Leader’, ‘Dux’. He shook his head in incomprehension, not considering his leading role in preserving the threatened woodland. “Why me?” he thought.

Princess Niyulnos was ‘enjoying’ a rare visit from her father, the King.

“It is time you thought about marriage, little one.”

She shuddered. “Not yet, Father. I mean, who would you suggest?” She met his eyes. “There are so few of us, and the males are ... have a higher opinion of themselves than is justified.” Her eyes took on a faraway look.

Her father noticed. “There is someone, isn’t there?” He studied her expression some more. “A human? Really?”

“I named him Praesul,” she said, straightening up.

“That one? He is old, for a human.”

“He has integrity. He is honest, determined, humble.”

The King sighed. “You are my daughter and I love you. You are not the heir, so I will support your choice. Will you choose mortality? Or have him join us?”

“Do I have to choose now?”

“Of course not. But I will confer a long, active life upon him if you choose mortality.”

Oliver found his way back to the spot where he’d encountered her. It was, coincidentally, the Summer Solstice. He extracted sandwiches and a flask from his backpack, leaned back against a substantial, smooth-barked beech tree, and ate his lunch.

An elderly couple approached him. Elderly, but hale and fit. Something he didn’t understand caused him to rise to his feet.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted them.

“Good afternoon, Praesul. I am Father Quercus, and this is Mother Clio.”

Oliver fell to his knees, head bowed, aware of a certain majesty in their manner.

“Please stand,” the woman said, gently, “we are not royalty, merely elders.” She reached out to him, took his hands and encouraged him to his feet. “Praesul, we bear an invitation. Princess Niyulnos requests your presence tonight for our Solstice celebration.”