By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
I was accustomed to forests. I had learned much in military training, and even more by two years of dwelling in the wildwood. We of the Fyana kept no long-term camps and boarded wheresoever we might. If friends were near to hand, the best accommodations were to be found at farmhouses and cottages.
Oftentimes, though, we considered ourselves lucky if we found some abandoned hut or forest cabin to sleep in. Lacking that, one might have to make do nestled behind a rocky break or out of the wind under a stone fence. How we hated the rain and the snow on nights like that.
I can recall a fair number of camps passed shivering on the lee side of a boulder, or beneath a peasant's hayrick, with the snow sifting upon our shoulders between the boards. In the worst circumstances, even a fire might be denied us, for a campfire would have guided in bands of patrolling militia. In such circumstances, a blanket is easily worth more than a diamond.
I think what makes privation endurable is ultimately not blankets or fire, but camaraderie. There is warmth of another kind in a sharing community. During my ride through the forest in Ava's body, it was the lack of companionship that I most sorely missed. But I actually didn't lack for significant companionship. Fear was my faithful companion.
But fear was nothing new to me. As a soldier and a rebel, I had had to learn wariness. Is fear something a fighting man should try to ignore or banish? Of course not, for fear is a great protector of life. Men who are readying themselves for combat do not ignore their apprehension. Beware the companion who seems to possess no fear. It is the same as having no wits.
Understand that I do not speak in praise of cowardice. Such a quality is not the same as healthy fear. In truth, a man who frightens too easily poses a greater danger to his companions than does the reckless bravo, and he will suffer for it. Unfortunately, others may suffer, too. A coward's death is usually a small loss to his warrior band, but the troubles that it may bring on others is the thing that is tragic.
It is disconcerting to become a stranger to oneself, as I had done. I hoped that becoming a woman had not made me a fainthearted. Yet, why should I fear this? I knew full well the courage shown by many women -- especially Ceann, whom I held most dear. I think what bothered me most during my solitary ride was that I had not been tested in my new guise and didn't know how I would fare. My first instinct -- to pit strength against strength and skill against skill -- might be, I realized, entirely inappropriate. But, given that, what exactly was appropriate?
*****
Ruelm's Tavern
