Éric

A bird brought it early in the morning. It had a camphor’s bark brown colour, made of coarse wool with a double overhand knot at one end neatly arranged in beautiful symmetry.
Kumihimo took it and contemplated for a while, to see where she would put it in her collection. It could be the seventh thread she was waiting for.
When she took it from the stone where it was coiled, she found some traces of fresh wet purple clay on it, and it smelt strongly of artic fox den and of dragon breath. A very unusual combination indeed. Definitely some rare ingredients that could braid well with the six others…
She had some preparation to do.

For the last day, he’d gone to the shrines, pay his respects to his ancestors.
They had long joined with the trees, for most, still living in their roots, and while the trees that they prayed to were young in comparison to the ones in the Heartwood, they were all connected.
Here, it was harder to ignore their messages. Their voices had the gravity of silence, bearing the weight of ageless wisdom. Among them, Rukshan felt at home.

The cold was sharper than the day before, and the east wind brought with it smells of industry and worry, and that of the dragon’s bad tooth. He felt there was a past were such things disturbed him; for now, he was at peace.

Back to the campement, he retreated in his small lodge with the thin paper walls, and the warm mountain salt crystal lights.
There, in front of him, was the little he possessed, and the provisions needed for the climb to the mountain.
He’d found a page from the vanishing book reappear from time to time in his bag. Everytime it carried different words, and would vanish again. Its magic didn’t come from the trees, but their messages intertwined. The page carried bits and pieces of news about the Sage Sorceress, who had started to move on her healing path, the Teafing Tinkeress who was hunted by a swift menace of godlike powers, and also a Gifted Gnome, on his way to become his own maker under the protection of a Renard Renunciate looking for lost souls.
He couldn’t figure out the stories yet, but he was glad for the piece of paper. He was helpless at distant viewing in general, so it did save him additional worry about sorting through his impressions and getting them right. Like after the Court audience, when he couldn’t feel Margoritt’s presence, and worried she and Tak were in trouble. The resident Seer at the campement had peered through his glubolin and confirmed that they were both fine. He did also confirm that she’d fainted, and was recovering. Rukshan had wanted to go back, abandon the trip to the Hermit, but reasoned that Margoritt was fine for now, and that she was a proud woman. He would have to trust she and Tak would be alright.

“Magic comes from the heart. You will know when to use it.” the words said in passing were etched in his memory, and the potion was still here. Its color seemed to reflect his mood at times. After the morning praying, it was almost glowing gold. Now, it was a pale purple. He had felt no pull to use it. At first, there was strong resistance about it, but now, there was a mildly curious acceptance of the gift. Like the vanishing paper, whether it appeared or disappeared was of no consequence for now.

The paper wall shivered. His meditative state was easily distracted by the sounds around, even after nightfall when everything went quiet.

“Quiet suits you well.” The visitor was near him, wearing thin wool despite the cold.
“My Queen?” he was surprised.
“You still don’t remember who you are, do you?” the Queen leaned forward. He felt a strange attraction, and their lips touched. The kiss was warm and filled him with longing. They fell into each other’s arms.

There was no way around it. As hard as he would have tried, he couldn’t reach the peaks of the mountain without crossing the part of the Enchanted Forest which the Fae called their own. There was no way for him to avoid paying the price, or to avoid facing the Court.
Rukshan wished there was an easier way, but trying to avoid it would only delay the inevitable. Besides, he would need provisions to continue his journey —that is, if they’d let him.

The first signs of the enchanted signposts had appeared two days ago. He’d been walking through the silent and cold forest for close to ten days already. His progress was slow, as the days were short, and the nights were better spent recuperating.
The early signs that he was approaching the Fae land wouldn’t have been noticeable by any other than those with some Fae blood in their veins. Some were as subtle as enchanted dewdrops on spiderwebs, other few were watcher crows, but most of the others were simply sapling trees, shaking at the slightest change of wind. All of them silent watchers of the Forest, spies for the Queen and her Court.

From the first sign, he had three days. Three days to declare himself, or face the consequences. He would wait for the last one. There was something magical about the number three, and anything more hasty would only mean he was guilty of something.

Like improper use of magic he thought, smiling at the memory of the oiliphant. The Queen was clutching at a dwindling empire, and magic sources gone scarce meant it had to be “properly” used.

He never believed such nonsense, which is why he’d decided to live outside of their traditions. But for all his disagreement, he remained one of them, bound by the same natural laws, and the same particularities. Meant to reach extremely old ages while keeping an external appearance as youthful as will is strong in their mind, able to wield strong magic according to one’s dispositions, ever bound to tell the truth (and becoming thus exceptionally crafty at deception), and a visceral distaste for the Bane, iron in all its forms.
Thus was his heritage, the one he shared with the family that was now waiting for his sign to be granted an audience in the Court.

One more day, he thought…

The cave’s entrance was glowing in a golden light. The fresh snow had blanketed the entrance that the midday sun was bathing with warm rays through the fog.

The cave was hanging perilously on the precarious slopes of the mountainous ranges, where only a few woolly goats could safely reach its heights without fear of breaking their necks. It was a safe haven for the Hermit.
Below the cave, the vast expanse of the Forest was almost entirely white, except for its fringe, far from the mountains, where the cities had flowered, and except from its center, the darker Dragon Heartwood with its reds and greens that seemed almost black in contrast.

She was known as the Hermit by most of the Faes living in the forest, a honorary title if not slightly belittling when they called her that. To others, she was often known by different colorful names. Sometimes when she was seen flying in her bird skin, accompanying the giant raptor birds from the plateaus with her long white hair flowing to the wind, surveying from above the life of the land, she would gain other names as well.
Her shaman name was Kumihimo, or weaver of threads. In the cave, many threads were carefully hanged onto a long line, without particular noticeable pattern, either by colors and material. All were different. Her birds friends, big or smaller would often bring her threads from many great distances. She would hang them here, without particular care, or so it seemed to the naked eye.

It had been a long time she had weaved any of them, or had the impulse to.
But she had dreamt.
She never dreamt. To dream for her was a matter of crucial importance.
She had dreamt of seven threads.
It was time she made a new braid.

“I know you want to get out, but it’s not time yet” Margoritt is braiding small twig figurines on the wooden table, and has lined up already four of them.
“One for each soul in the house,” she says as if to answer silent questions, “you Tak, Rukshan, Emma and myself.”
The young Tak is pointing at the last one she makes inquisitively.

“It’s tradition to make one more for the Stranger. Who knows maybe someone is on their way, or in need of help. There, help me hold this.” She ties the head firmly and nips the thread with a quick jab.

“If they come, they’d better arrive during daytime. Nobody wants to be outside during the night.”

She looks pensively at the bed, where Rukshan lies motionless. “Whatever got you, may still be out there, lurking. Tonight’s the longest night, better get prepared.”

She smiles again and gives the little figurines to Tak. “Keep them safe, we’ll do the burning ceremony at noon. I hope it will give new energy to your friend. He’s been in deep sleep for a long time already.”

Tak holds the bamboo flute carefully against his chest. The clothes are two sizes too large for his natural appearance, but he did not dare change to human form.

He is looking through the window at the snow falling gently. He isn’t used to not smell the forest nearby, and seeing it through the window without its smell is utterly fascinating.

The old woman is always busy, writing on paper, weaving goat’s hair, cleaning vigorously and when she isn’t, she is busy talking to herself. He doesn’t mind the chatter, oftentimes gibbons are chatty too.

“Are you hungry? He’s going to be fine you know” the kind woman talks to him again. The goat nearby seems used to it, and is busy eating straws. “Let me see your flute, I will teach you how to play.”

He looks at her with an air of surprise.

“But for that you’ll have to take your human form.” She smiles warmly to him. He doesn’t know how she knows, but he knows she knows.

“I’ve seen many strange things at the edge of the Enchanted Forest’s heart, you see. That’s what I like here, you have to expect the unexpected.”

By breathing slowly, he’s able to regain his human child appearance and asks with a voice full of hesitation, handing over the precious instrument “Music?”

It was the smell of the cedar incense that brought him back to consciousness. All was still very confused in his head, his muscles aching, sore from the run.
He remembered the sudden cold that stopped the rain in mid-air, blanketing the bamboos in snow in a snap.
Something had disturbed the spirits

“Ah, I see you’ve woken up! About time! You’ve slept the sleep of the dead” the voice of an old woman —he remembered her too, vaguely,… stout and strong, finding him and…
“Tak?” his voice croaked, his throat was parched with thirst.
“There, there, have a hot drink here, it will give you back your strength.” He almost recoiled at the strong smell.
“Don’t be a child, or Emma will think you don’t like her.” She pointed at something at the back of the lodge. A small hairy goat bleated knowingly. “A gift from Mr Minn. She’s cute, gives good milk, and lets me weave her lovely fur, what’s not to like? She’s for the company he said. He helps me settle here Mr Minn. Quite a funny fellow, you’ll see.”

“Tak? Where is he?”
The old woman looked surprised for a moment, then almost immediately smiled. “Oh, you mean your monkey?”
“Not monkey…” he said before she cut him “I know, an ape, don’t lecture me on the difference, I was a philosophy professor before I turned weaver-author. He’s here, come, little one! I must say it’s the strangest monk… ape I’ve seen,… I like the outfit by the way. I guess without him, you’d be still freezing to death in that forest. He was quite stubborn.” She seemed not to have spoken in ages, and was never out of subjects.
“I’m Margoritt by the way. All my friends call me Margo.”
“Rukshan” he croaked.
“You’re a fae, right. I could tell. You were lighter than you seem, made carrying you easier. Even with Emma helping, my knees were killing me. Anyway, you fae were a long way home. You probably have fascinating tells to share. I’ve seen your book. Oh don’t get all upset, it’s safe, I didn’t open it, just saw the leather-bound spine. You’ll tell me all about it if you want when you get back on your feet. For now, you should rest.”

I feel so old… he said in a whisper before falling back to sleep.
He could hear Margoritt’s unstoppable litany continue in the background “No complaining about that again! Old, old,… bah, I’m old. I was not meant to live centuries like you, and that cold…”

The small fire had died during the night. There wasn’t a lot of firewood in the forest, so he’d used all the dry leaves he could find. The child was quiet, and sleeping peacefully.
Waiting for the sun to rise, Rukshan was carving a piece of bamboo into a flute.

The night had been cold, and a lot of the smaller bamboos had turned yellow. He thought about the ginkgo trees in the town, guessing they would have left all their golden leaves to the ground by now, going into the winter sleep, falling silent for a little while.

He didn’t have a clear plan, but some twirling leaves on the ground seemed to invite him in another direction than he had planned. He gazed into the last of the fire’s smoke, and saw there was a small lodge he didn’t know about, close to the Dragon Heartwood. Something he didn’t expect. There was an old woman there, to whom he could entrust the care of the boy, while he would go to the mountains.

They would go there, another little detour, at the first crack of the pale sunlight above the bamboos’ tops.

There was one inn he knew about, the last one before the haunted bamboo forest. It served a solid but plain mountain meal, enough to be worth your coins, and carry you through the rigours of the cold ahead.

He doubted the oiliphant would carry him further through the thickly planted bamboos, so he would have to let her go for now, let her return to one of the secret entrances to the Forest, and be one again with the wild and her own.
Already the little crowd following them was getting thinner and thinner. After a while, the spell of novelty wore off, and they would realise where the enormous beast was walking toward. Very few wanted to have anything to do with the place. Rukshan wasn’t sure how such legend had spread about the bamboo forest behind haunted, as he would as a youngling find the crackling and wooshing sounds in the large plants rather soothing. Of course, as of all places, it was dangerous to venture there mindlessly, but he’d found the spirits dwelling there usually rarely ill disposed towards visitors, unlike deeper and higher in the mountains were some evils would ride the wind to great distances.

Not without feeling a small pinch in his chest, he said a last goodbye to his oiliphant friend, and went in the direction of the inn as the sun was already low on the horizon. The distinct sound of the bamboos could be heard from miles away, and there was only a few people left looking at the beast. His goodbye seemed to have lifted the last of the trance, and they suddenly woke up to where they were, some with an instant recoil on their faces. After a few minutes, he was alone once more.

Strangely, the fence had continued for longer than he’d thought. It wasn’t very high, more like a little nuisance really, but the complete oddity of its presence was enough to grate his nerves. He was reminded of something his master had told him For every inside, there is an outside, and every outside, there is an inside. And though they are different, they go together. The secret of all insides and outsides is this – they look a different as possible, but underneath are the same, for you cannot find one without the other. It made him realise that he couldn’t tell where the people who’d built the fence were from – the city or the forest. He’d immediately assumed something, while it could have been easily the reverse.
Now he looked at the fence itself, it was quite an ingenious piece of work, trying as much as possible to reuse local and discarded materials. Maybe it was more a tentative of a connective tissue rather than a fence…

It was in this more peaceful mood that he reached the inn, just an hour before nightfall, as he could tell from the sun. Lanterns were already lit outside of the inn, and although he’d expected it to be empty of customers as often was the case, it seemed to have another guest. He wouldn’t mind a little company, maybe they could enlighten him about the nature of this new boundary.

“My name is Lhamom” the traveler said to him with an inviting grin and slim beaming face. She wore a deerskin hat, and a patchwork of tribal clothes from villages around the mountains in the manner of an explorer of old times. She was already drinking the local woolly goat butter milk tea, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy every mouthful.
Rukshan would only bear it with enough spices to soften the strong taste. Nonetheless, he took polite sips of the offered beverage, and listened to the pleasant stories of the nearby and faraway countries she would eagerly tell about.
Now, curled up near the burning woodstove, enjoying a simple meal and simple everyday stories, after a lovely day riding above troubles, he would already feel complete, and closer to the magic he sought.

The oiliphant recognised him with her deep thoughtful motherly eyes, and extended her trunk as a greeting. He accepted the gentle pat on his head, feeling as though a blanket of inextinguishable love had spread over, pouring over and inundating the land with unspoken blessings of grace.
With her trunk gently wrapped under his arms, she lifted him as if he were weightless, landing him on the soft spot behind her neck’s wrinkles, where he could sit and not fall.

She then proceeded to move slowly to the forest, not after having trumpeted a clear call in the heavy air surrounding the city, as though she was trying to spread purity to clear the misgivings in suspension over the town.

The walk was pleasant, and had a slow meditative quality. Every moment was connected to everything, everywhere. Each footstep was deliberate, a perfect action in perfect resonance.

Rukshan didn’t know how much time had elapsed when the border of the enchanted forest appeared. He realized they were coming close when the oiliphant’s serenity and soft lull of the walk felt slightly disturbed.
He blinked to look in the distance. The mist of the air had not completely cleared at this early hour, but he could make out the source of the disturbance. He suddenly felt a rage flare up, a rage he didn’t know he had in him. How did they dare! They had fenced the Forest, and put a toll booth!