Cormac and the Walden Rangers

There’s a saying amongst the northern poachers that goes, ‘in the Greensea, a steel finch only sings once before it flies home’. For those of us not immersed in the lingo of degenerates, it means that should you find yourself engaged in crimes against nature in the vast forest of the Greensea, its rangers will give you a single warning shot before finishing your story, as it were.

Indeed, the lethal reputation of the Walden Rangers is well earned. Since the time when old was young these men and women have sworn allegiance not to any lord or crown, but to the ancient aulde trees and all that dwell beneath their canopies. If any ne’er-do-well heads into the forest in search of wealth from game or to loot its ancient magiks, the rangers will not hesitate to carry out a sentence befitting their greed. Right or wrong it’s difficult to argue with an arrow through your neck.

One can’t help but wonder if they’re protecting more than just flora and fauna in the Greensea. The answer may lie with who they let in, rather than who they keep out. Farmers along the eastern shores of the forest have witnessed long caravans of coaches adorned with strange canvas, whispering peculiar smells and driven by shadowy figures. They didn’t just enter the forest uninhibited but are welcomed and escorted by the rangers themselves. An ancient being? A doorway to worlds beyond? A really good fishing spot? It’s anyone’s guess but I don’t fancy asking hooded folk covered with bird bones what they’re up to.

The ranger’s shift of duty last for months at a time. They’ve no bother from rain or cold, insect bite or damp trousers. It’s said that if they had no need for smithed supplies or medical treatment from their headquarters in the city of Walden, most would never leave the forest. This isn’t to say they’re a solitary or dour bunch, as many rush to characterize them. In my experience they’re some of the most jovial and talkative peoples I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. Perhaps weeks of only speaking to squirrels has that affect.

I’ve long been interested by folk of this sort and so through mutual connections of mutual connections, I secured an invitation this past spring to a ‘pub night’ on the western reaches of the Greensea. Two leagues beyond the forest’s edge and beneath a gargantuan willow’s canopy, I was greeted by a host of rangers making merriment by firelight. Over a mug of sour grass ale, I had the pleasure of turning a stranger into an acquaintance by way of a senior ranger with a charming country twang.

Cormac

Cormac Guudser was born in an entirely unremarkable hamlet on the outskirts of Elmstead. While many burghers of stone cities may romanticize the simplicity of small country villages, Cormac found absolutely nothing of joy in such a place. This isn’t to say that he didn’t appreciate the beauty of country living, quite the opposite. A young Cormac would venture far into the green mists of the forests in search of streams yet named or animals not seen. No, his disdain for Larkin was on account of its most unique feature being an abandoned pig farm with a funny looking tree growing through the roof.

The moment he was able, Cormac thanked his humble parents, grabbed a stalk of blackthorn and hit the road with no destination in mind. Over five years he travelled up and down the Blue Horn River, working as a tavern back, carpenter, hunting squire, and even candle maker. It wasn’t until he reached the city of Walden that he finally felt at home.

Passing through its towering gates of iron bark, Cormac was drawn in by the ancient buildings woven between enormous trees and atop laughing brooks. His touring of the wooded streets led him to the Crook’d Spear, a popular pub next to the ranger’s barracks. It was there that he was told of Walden’s lack of nobles or ruling class of any kind, something that forced his eyes wide in joyous disbelief.

As a storyteller, I wish I could say Cormac’s hatred of nobles was rooted in a revenge story of a family member struck down in the streets by a foreign prince, or of a noble bloodline unjustly stolen. Instead, Cormac just thought they looked stupid. The way they dressed, walked and talked, their music and food, just so painfully, utterly and completely, stupid. The beauty of the message is in its simplicity.

As quick as he could, Cormac enlisted in the rangers and took his oaths of service for the forest.

I suppose what fascinates me about someone like Cormac, or any of the rangers for that matter, is what it says about our own nature. They fly in the face of forgone conclusions that humans are nothing but destructive beings who require subjugation from their ‘betters’. They bow before no kings, but to saplings and stone, the true icons of the natural world that birthed us. It feels like hope, hope that we can be more than the worst of us in dark times.