Chapter One

Chapter One
Owain’s life had always been ordinary. Ordinary and simple and predictable, but fairly safe and certainly happy. Well, he wasn’t unhappy anyway, even if he merely endured the same routine day in and day out. He was a quiet and thoughtful sort, the kind that was prone to daydreaming and flights of fancy, a small, slender lad with soulful brown eyes and a mop of shaggy brown hair. He was the son of a sheep farmer father and a weaver mother, and his family had lived in the same village for ten generations. Once a week, bearing offerings of sheep’s milk, cheese, and some of his mother’s homemade bread, he would make the long, uneventful pilgrimage to the home of the old man everyone simply called Odd Pywyll. It was a fitting name, for Pywyll was indeed quite odd, some would even say mad. He lived alone, well away from the village and its people on the outskirts of a vast, green forest with just his books and his enormous orange cat Oliver for company. In truth, Pywyll enjoyed Owain’s weekly visits, and he always provided tea and an assortment of biscuits for his young friend’s arrival. Owain quite liked visiting as well, as it was a welcome excuse to get away from the sheep for awhile. And away from the walking embodiment of evil known as Daffyd, a big, doltish lad, who, along with his equally unsavory chums, often took out his frustration on poor Owain’s face. They never followed him to Pywyll’s though. The rumors that the old man dabbled in sorcery were enough to keep even the bravest and most brutish away.
So naturally, Owain really had no reason to assume this day would be different from any other. As usual, he gathered up the carefully wrapped bundles of bread and cheese and a clay jug of fresh milk and placed them in the pack attached to his ancient pony’s saddle. He bid farewell to his parents and set off eastward for the forest and Odd Pywyll’s humble cottage. He sang a few songs to himself, some off-color ditties he had learned from the fishermen at the docks, songs that would have caused his dear mother to spontaneously combust. When he ran out of songs, he amused himself with naming the different birds that trilled their early morning chorus. Still, despite the rising sun painting everything on the rolling landscape gold, the sparkle of fresh dew on the grass, and the crisp, but not unpleasant bite of the air on his face, the ride was dull. His old pony wasn’t much good at conversation, so Owain mainly talked to himself for the next hour and a half.
Pywyll’s little stone cottage sat in a small cropping of trees just on the edge where the forest deepened. Owain didn’t really care for the forest, and had difficulty shaking off the feeling that something or someone was watching him from behind the trees. Occasionally, he thought he heard laughter or sometimes even whispers.
“It’s the fair people.” Pywyll had once said, his pale blue eyes twinkling merrily. “The Tylwyth Teg.”
Tylwyth Teg indeed. Owain didn’t believe in fairies. Well, not entirely anyway, and yet for some reason he always carried an iron nail in his pocket. “Just in case.” He told himself. People in the village often decorated the front doors of their cottages with iron horseshoes to ward off and elven-folk that might wander from their canopy of trees into town to steal babies and wreak others forms of havoc. A certain Mrs. Davies was still convinced that her three year old grandson was a changeling child, and even Owain had to agree that there was something off about the boy, whether supernatural or just the regular type of childhood strangeness. There had also been quite the stir when one of Owiain’s father’s lambs had been born with two heads. The little creature died not long after birth, but talk spread among their neighbors that fairy devils had left the deformed animal as a warning. More horseshoes went up that night, including one on his own family’s front door. Since no similar incidents had occurred for awhile, everyone just assumed that these preventative measures had worked.
Owain reined his pony up in front of Pywyll’s cottage, frowning slightly as he realized there was no smoke curling from the chimney. The old man always had a fire going, even in summer. He shrugged and dismounted. He didn't even bother to knock, he just simply pushed the door open with his shoulder and entered the small abode. Darkness hit him, and a sweet, unfamiliar scent that permeated the room. An eerie mist hovered along floor bringing with it an unnatural cold.
"Master Pywyll!" Owain called, keeping his voice light. There was no answer. A sick feeling began stirring in the pit of his stomach.
"Master Pywyll?" He placed his bundles down on the sturdy wooden table once meant for eating but was now cluttered with parchment stuck together with long ago spilled ink. He noticed a thin band of light coming from beneath the door to the room the old man referred to as his "study" where he performed failed experiment after failed experiment making potions and elixirs. Owain wasn't allowed into the study. It was nothing personal, Pywyll had told him, it was just that magic was a delicate thing. Owain crossed the room to the study and rapped gently on the door. "Master Pywyll?" He called again, resting his ear against the worn wood. He could hear movement inside, a rustling and a sound like small glass bottles tinkling to the floor.
"Come in, Owain! The most marvelous thing has happened!"
Owain drew back from door and hesitated, a bit apprehensive of what he might find in there. He remembered one time when one of Pywyll's potions had failed and blew up in his face. The man's skin remained blue for a month.
Owain took a deep breath and shoved open the door.
And stared.
The room was a disaster. Books and papers were scattered every which way, the furniture had all been turned over, and that same sweet scent, much stronger now, was enough to make his eyes water. He covered his nose with his sleeve and choked, "Master Pywyll?"
"Down here, lad." The wizard said.
Owain looked down, but all he saw was Pywyll's huge orange cat. The creature gazed up at him through slitted green-gold eyes.
The boy frowned. "Where is he, Oliver?" He asked the cat.
"Right here, my boy."
For a moment, Owain thought he saw the cat's mouth move in time with the words. He shook his head to clear it.
"Salutations, Owain!" Said Oliver the cat, quite cheerfully. And it WAS the cat that had spoken to him. Owain cried out in surprise and horror, stumbling over one of the scattered books. He fell backward and landed hard, slamming the back of his head on the floor. He was only vaguely aware of light pressure on his chest as his world slipped into blackness.