Chapter 1: Ennor
The ley line had tangled in a way that made Ennor shiver in the early spring sun. Such a tangle meant death nearby. While clearing the lines, she’d heard rifle shots. Probably those nasty Shabedi brothers hunting, she thought. What had they killed? Who had they killed?
In answer, male voices carried across the hill.
“—that damn fox. Saw it up here yesterday. Missed, dammit.”
“Get us a fox fur necklet!”
The voices belonged to Tijest and Egash Shabedi, nephews to the old Lord of Kenallech Manor and more vicious than the mean old Lord had ever been.
Ennor followed the muddled ley line up the green pasture, into the trees at the top of the hill—buckthorn and hazel, oak and ash. Sad bleating led her to the dead ewe. The two-month-old lamb lay crying against its mother. Blood seeped from a wound in the ewe’s head. Those bastards from Kenallech Manor had shot her. Missed the fox they were hunting, and killed the ewe.
Ennor cuddled the lamb under her blue wool cloak. Early spring could be chilly. The lamb quieted in the warmth, then tried to suckle the fabric. When no milk came, it bleated in disgust.
“Shh,” Ennor told it. She stood up to carry it down to the shepherds, hoping another ewe could be persuaded to feed her, then stopped. The Shabedi brothers were coming back along the hillside, arguing loudly about who was the worse shot.
The old Lord Kenallech had driven off his oldest son, married his daughter to a crony whose abuse and neglect had killed her, then mourned his younger son, who had died of drink and an untrained colt. Now bedridden, the old lord had promised his two scurvy nephews, the Shabedi boys, a huge inheritance to come and look after him and his big manor. But the boys had an evil reputation when it came to women. Several maids had left their employ, as had their line-walker. Another maid had died in childbirth. The old lord and these devils deserved each other.
And these devils had shot the ewe. Ennor forced herself not to rush out and scream at them. They had rifles; she didn’t. Wrapping the lamb in her cloak to muffle its complaints, she leaned into the earth, letting its power cover her.
The brothers stomped along the tree line, crashing through the bushes only a few yards away from Ennor and the orphan lamb. Ennor tried not to breathe, until their tramping faded toward the distant ocean.
Then, slowly, carefully, she stood up. The lamb tried to suckle her long blonde braid. Pushing the braid out of the way, she carried the lamb back along the tangled ley line, smoothing the line as she walked. She would have to come back later and clear it completely, even though it would take another hour.
In Yanosar, each field was crossed by several lines of energy, the ley lines. Without help, these lines could bury themselves too deeply or tangle up, keeping the ground water too far underground to fill wells or nourish grass and crops. Line-walkers could feel their energy and bring them to the surface, or untangle them. Ennor had been a line-walker for nine of her twenty years; she had learned from her mother and grandmother.
She carried the lamb down the green hill, toward the white puffs of grazing sheep. Above, like sky sheep, billowing white clouds wandered through the spring blue.
The shepherd, Nituse Moyle, whose brown thatch of hair had just begun to gray, came to meet her. “Where’s the mother?” he asked, nodding at the lamb.
“Up in the tree hedge. It was old Yargie. Those foul Shabedi louts shot her instead of the fox they’re hunting. How could they mistake a sheep for a fox?”
“Gabisk maluun fecking baluuds! Drunk, likely.”
“They say the old lord is dying. If these, um, baluuds take over…” Ennor stopped. “Today’s trouble is enough for today. I hope you can coax another ewe to take this babe in.”
“Peran!” the old shepherd called to his son. “Take this girl to the brown-spot ewe. She and Yargie always grazed together.”
The gangly boy gathered the lamb from Ennor and carried it down the hill, threading his way through the grazing sheep. His father and Ennor followed. When Peran reached the brown-spot ewe, he rubbed a cloth along her swollen udder and another cloth over her own lamb, which was dancing nearby. Then he rubbed both bits of fabric over the orphan’s coat and stepped back.
The ewe approached, sniffed the orphan, and permitted it to suckle. Her own baby joined in. Little tails flapped happily. Ennor smiled in relief.
“How long has Yargie been dead?” asked Nituse. “Can we use the meat?”
“They shot her in the head about an hour ago, so—yes. They were still hunting when I found the body. But be careful. Those idiots will shoot at anything that moves.”
The shepherd nodded. “I’ll be on the look-out. You know I never like killin’ the old ones for the meat, but if she’s already dead…”
Ennor pointed to the west. “She’s up near that old oak tree. Give some of the meat to crofters who need it.”
“Peran,” Nituse said to his son, “go see Kesab Butcher, tell him we got a job for him.”
The boy nodded his blond curls and started off across the grassy slope, toward the gravel road leading to the nearby town of Webedi.
*
Meharig, healer and cook, looked up from setting out breakfast as Ennor strode into the kitchen.
“Lines broken?” Meharig asked, tucking her graying curls back under her scarf.
Pulling off her wool cape and tossing it furiously onto a chair, ignoring the omelet and scones Meharig had laid out, Ennor told her story. “Worst of all, those pisliks and their dogs tangled the lines right after I’d cleared them!”
“Eat your breakfast,” said Meharig, pouring Ennor a cup of steaming chamomile tea. “Nothing to be done about those nasty boys. Keep away from ’em.”
Meharig was usually more sympathetic to Ennor’s struggles with the lines and the Shabedi brothers. She had been cooking for the Gedelar family for years, well before Ennor’s parents and grandmother had died, and by now was part older sister, part mother to Ennor.
Too angry to ask Meharig what was wrong, Ennor accepted the mug of tea in silence.
The tea warmed her cold hands, and the tantalizing scent of hot scones made her sit down obediently and begin her breakfast. She still had to water the horses, milk the cow, gather eggs from the hens, and feed them, but first she needed to eat.
Meharig was cooking mutton stew in a big iron pot over the fire. Iron was expensive; it came from Bencado, the country across the water from their island state of Yanosar. People there supposedly had fancy iron stoves for cooking. Here in Yanosar, an open fire was more common, with slots in the stones on either side for bread-baking.
“That was delicious, as usual. Thanks, Meharig. I’ll go do the chores now.”
“You got a letter from your brother.”
“What? He never writes to me.” No wonder Meharig was worried.
Ennor took the envelope between her thumb and forefinger. Her older brother, Yafe, had gone to school in Pitolio, the largest city in Bencado. There he had converted to the strange Bencado religion and changed his name to Jonathan. He was now the Obir Jonathan Desalin of a Bencado congregation. His hair and eyes were dark enough that the Bencado had welcomed him, and at this point he seemed more Bencado than Yanosar.
Their father, Sehay Desalin, had wanted his son to come home and take care of the Gedelar estate; he had willed the place to Yafe. Their mother, Taye Gedelar, had wanted Ennor to have the house so that she could continue to keep the ley lines clear. It was the only fight her parents had ever had. To patch things up, they had taken a sea trip to far-off Sipeeni. Their ship had foundered in a ferocious storm, unusual for the season, and the will that Taye had hoped to change gave Gedelar House legally to the Obir Jonathan.
Ennor held up the envelope to Meharig. “Please cut it open,” she said.
“It won’t bite you.” Meharig found a clean knife and slit open the envelope, then read over Ennor’s shoulder.
Dear Sister Ennor,
I have sold Gedelar House to a very respectable family from my church, Mr. and Mrs. Istevan Birhan. Their young daughter is ill, and they hope the fresh air will cure her. They will arrive between April 10 and 15. Please clean the house and serve them well.
Your brother,
Obir Jonathan Desalin
Ennor wanted to rip the letter to shreds, but she had to answer the smecking thing.
Meharig asked, “Does he mean Ebrel?”
Ennor nodded. Bencados used different names for the months. “He also means us to be this family’s servants!”
“And he sold our house?”
“He sold our house. And wants us to be servants to Bencados! We should at least be paid for the extra work—I’ll tell him so.”
“But you’re the Inbeta of Gedelar House. You can’t be a servant!”
“Not much of an Inbeta, with all the work I do, thanks to Yafe taking most of the money from the fleeces.” Ennor glared at the letter, then shook her head. “I can’t leave here. How could I leave? But if I have to be a servant…” She grabbed the letter and stamped out the kitchen door.
Too upset to care for the animals, Ennor strode down the long drive leading from the house to the main road. Gedelar House should have belonged to her. For years she had cared for it—for the sheep, the cow and horses, the chickens, the garden, most importantly the ley lines. She couldn’t move away from her house. It was all she had left of her parents. And her brother didn’t care about their home; he only wanted the money from selling the wool.
Walking faster and faster, she remembered everything annoying that she could think of about Yafe.
Chapter 2: Yafe / Jonathan
When Ennor was ten years old, just learning to line walk, she had gone out every morning with her mother. They would come home to Yafe’s complaints. Their father was responsible for the animals and the garden, and for teaching Yafe how to manage them. But Yafe hated taking care of the cow and chickens, he hated working in the garden, there wasn’t anything decent to read in the house, he had a headache, and why did Mother spend so much time wandering around the country with Ennor?
Mother would try to soothe him, to explain once again about the ley lines, but later Yafe would find ways to irritate his sister—stealing the novels she liked to read or pulling her blonde braids. The result was always a scuffle, and Ennor always won. That would start him up whining again. “I hate it here!” he’d yell. “Why do I have to do all the hard, muddy, disgusting work?”
Mother said he’d grow out of it. Father agreed. But Yafe secretly applied to college in Bencado and was accepted. After that, he came home to Yanosar only for the Midsummer Solstice Celebration. Then he became a minister of the Bencado religion, changed his name to Jonathan, and didn’t visit for several years.
When their parents died, he agreed to come to their Remembrance Service. Meharig had organized the service, gathering all those folks who knew the family well. Everyone brought food or drink. They all sat in a circle, and each person told of a memory—a kindness, the first time they had met the lost pair, even a funny story.
Beforehand, when Ennor reminded Jonathan of how a Remembrance worked, he had told her it wasn’t a proper funeral.
“It’s how we do it here,” Ennor told him.
Her brother had explained that Neosrani was the one true religion, and then announced that he required the proper funeral rituals, which he, as a minister of that religion, would lead.
“Do whatever you want,” Ennor snapped, deep in her grief.
The Remembrance proceeded as Meharig planned, but when Jonathan’s turn came in the circle, he began to intone in Bencado. Everyone stared at him, then at Ennor, who had been struggling not to cry during the stories of her parents. All she could do was lift her brows, indicating her own bewilderment. The guests sat quietly as Jonathan chanted in a language no one else knew. Ennor could read books written in Bencado, but this chanting seemed to be in a language she’d never heard.
When Jonathan paused and looked expectantly around, Ennor’s friends stood up and began to take their leave.
“I haven’t finished the ritual,” he protested.
The line of friends stopped and stared at him.
“They don’t know your language or your ritual,” said Ennor. “Neither do I. You can finish it later with me, if you insist.”
Before he could respond, Meharig added, “Your parents didn’t know anything about your religion either, Yafe. If you need to do this ritual, do it by yourself.”
He stared around the room, seemed about to speak, then left.
Afterward Ennor escaped to her room, but her brother followed her and flung open the door. “Neosrani is the only true religion,” he told her. “Without it, our parents will dwell in darkness forever.”
“Out!” cried Ennor, and pushed him so hard that he stumbled, barely catching himself. She shoved him out the door, slammed it, and dragged a chair forward to block it.
The next day, Jonathan tried once again to explain the True Religion to her.
“It’s not the ‘true religion’ here,” she replied. “If you continue talking about it, I’ll leave the room.” He grumbled, but left her alone.
When the will was read and Ennor learned that Jonathan would own Gedelar House, her grief turned to anger. “Do you plan to live here and continue to annoy everyone with your religion?” she asked.
“No. Clearly, you Yanosars refuse the true religion. I don’t know what I’ll do with the house yet, but I may find some other Obir to live here, one who has time to teach Yanosar the true faith.”
“Good luck with that idea,” Ennor growled.
For the rest of his visit, she refused to speak to her brother. After he left, she didn’t hear much from him, only short notes telling of his marriage and the birth of his children. Fortunately, he never found anyone to come to Gedelar House and teach his stupid religion.
However, when Ennor turned eighteen, Obir Jonathan had decided she needed to “get settled.” That meant, in what he called his mind, finding a man to marry her.
Line-walkers couldn’t leave Yanosar without getting very sick, even dying. Traveling on the ocean wasn’t a problem for them, but setting foot on any land other than Yanosar could be fatal. Her brother, however, thought that all this was superstition, and that there was no reason for Ennor not to marry a Bencado and move there with him.
He brought his curate, a lanky, inarticulate young man, for a visit. Ennor did her best to be a courteous hostess, but did not accept his stammering proposal of marriage.
“It was unkind to make Mr. Lelar think you liked him,” Jonathan complained. “He was wounded when you turned him down.”
So, when Obir Jonathan brought the next suitor, a brash young merchant, Ennor ignored him as much as possible. She spent most of her time out walking the lines or helping Meharig in the kitchen. At dinner she smiled but answered the man’s questions with monosyllables.
This time her brother complained of her discourtesy as a hostess. “Mr. Diotan must have believed you had no manners! You were raised better than that!”
Faced with a third suitor, almost forty, Ennor agreed to walk with him. This man was a compulsive talker, telling her about his managerial job in a Bencado factory, his saintly mother, his collection of antique china, what he had said to his boss, and what his boss had said to him. Somewhere among these remarks, he took Ennor familiarly by the arm and smiled at her meaningfully.
But Ennor had thought up a wonderful lie for this occasion. “I must tell you, Mr. Ritante, that I’ve pledged myself to eternal celibacy in an ancient Yanosarian rite. I shouldn’t even be walking with you, but I didn’t want you to feel I was neglecting my duties as a hostess.”
When her brother learned of this ridiculous tale, he washed his hands of her. “I’ve done my best for you,” he announced. “I will not come here again!”
Though Ennor didn’t get along with her brother, she regretted that she would never meet his children, her nephews and nieces. She was left with no family at all. And now she would have to become a servant in the house she ought to own. Or leave altogether—but that was impossible. She had to walk the lines. Besides, she loved her home; she didn’t want to move into some tiny cottage or croft.
Back in the house, she went to the study, found a pen and paper, and wrote:
Dear Yafe,
If we are to become servants, we must be paid fifty mondrams an hour. That is what servants are paid in Yanosar. Because I have to care for the garden and the animals, I cannot also serve inside the house. Please advise the people who are renting Gedelar House.
Ennor Gedelar
P.S. Does Mrs. Birhan have a name, or are they both “Istevan”?
—
Author’s Statement
On a visit to Cornwall, England, I recalled the many romance novels set there and wondered if I could write one. Because I always seem to write fantasy, my novel ended up being set in Yanosar, a magical country inspired by Cornwall. ENNOR AND THE LEY LINES contrasts two nations with two different approaches to life—the land-loving people of Yanosar and the fierce, sexist kingdom of Bencado, based on nineteenth-century England. The story is also about a strong woman who is lost and unmoored, but finally lets herself be cared for.
Yanosar needs line-walkers to keep the grass and water available for the sheep, and to provide well water for the humans. Ennor’s brother lives in neighboring Bencado, and he sells their family house to a Bencado family, who turn Ennor into a servant. The family has a sickly daughter, Tavi, whom Ennor befriends. Meanwhile, Meharig, the family cook and a healer, has taken in and healed a sailor. He leaves—but later turns out to be Lord Redwan, the master of a nearby castle.
Frustrated with the interloping family, Ennor and Meharig escape to a tiny cottage. Tavi then shows up there, renouncing her stiff parents. Her father hires a thug to force Tavi to come home, but Ennor causes some earthquakes to scare them off. When Lord Redwan finds out about her dilemma, he hires Ennor, Meharig, and Tavi to work at his manor.
Soon after this, Bencado invades Yanosar, causing many difficulties and adventures. Ennor plays an important role, exhausting herself by causing more earthquakes to stop the Bencado soldiers. Of course Yanosar wins, and afterward Redwan and Ennor marry. The novel ends with an adventurous sailing trip as their honeymoon.
Judith Pratt lives in Ithaca, New York, with a husband and three cockatiels. Her experiences—as an actor, director, professor, fundraiser, and freelance writer—inspire her novels, stories, and plays. Her stories have been published in The Gateway Review, The Fifth Di, Fiction Junkies, Stars and Staffs, Golden Walkman, Hags on Fire, and Synkroniciti. She self-published her first novel, The Dry Country. Her second novel, Siljeea Magic, was published in 2019, and her third, The Skill, in 2024. Her plays have been produced in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Kansas City, and Cape Town, South Africa. In 2019, her play Maize was selected for the Louisiana State University SciArts Prize. Her play Losing It was published in Best Ten-Minute Plays of 2020.
Embark, Issue 24, April 2026
Embark 