The Gathering Storm - Elsewhere, Book 1
Chapter 1

The gathered crowd stood before the waterfall and watched with baited breath as the glistening shower fell like sheet diamond in the moonlight, appearing from nowhere and vanishing magically before it reached the ground. The evening was crisp and clear, a darkening sky shrouding the scene like a star spangled magician’s cloak. The air stung their nostrils with the pine scented hint of an oncoming frost. There were around forty people, huddled in thick coats and scarves against the chill, wondering quite why they had ventured out to this isolated location at the behest of a travelling showman. He had enthralled them with story after story, transporting them to faraway places and distant times, conjuring characters colourful and compelling. And then he had asked them to come and see a show beyond belief, a night of entertainment which would dispel the haunting demons of their conformed and oppressive lives, renewing a hunger for adventure and a hope in something beyond their physical world. They had been fascinated and intrigued, many of them buying tickets on the spot from the gaudily clad performers, calling for babysitters and cancelling prior engagements. And now they were there. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

The storyteller was nowhere to be seen, but a curious creature stood near the water. Above the waist he seemed to be a man, although with pointed ears and bristly, mane-like hair. His legs resembled those of a horse or perhaps a mountain pony; stocky, covered in short hair and ending in black hooves. The crowd looked for any defects in his costume; any hints of how this centaurean illusion was created, but could find none. He was elegantly dressed in an embroidered waistcoat decorated with a gold pocket watch, silk jabot at the neck. To finish his outfit he wore a dark top coat and carried a bowler hat in one hand and an umbrella in the other. This he used to divert the centre of the falling water, creating a doorway filled with light.

“Welcome,” he said. “Welcome..... Elsewhere.”

The crowd of men and women glanced at one another nervously, clearly tempted but apprehensive of the otherworldliness of the situation. No-one moved forward, yet.

“I bid you pass through the Falls Gate,” said Jonor Flax, their Equiseen guide. “These are The Falls of Mortal Hope. Beyond lies a realm which will take your breath away and restore your faith in magic and enchantment. Cast off your cynicisms, be no longer jaded. Embrace the myriad possibilities of the Else...”

“Teach me Mikkol, please!” begged Aysh of her friend, grabbing his hand and pulling him behind the nearest house.

“I can’t,” he protested. “You know I can’t. Your father would kill us both!”

Aysh pouted and looked up at him through her long lashes.

“You said you would,” she sulked. “I want to learn.”

“I said that I could, not that I would and it was in the heat of the moment and I didn’t think you were serious,” reasoned Mikkol, hoping she would let the matter drop. Aysh has always been rebellious, skipping out on lessons in the forge to run in the grasslands behind the village or play-fight with the boys, till the men sent her back to her mother. Keera Mayorr was at her wits’ end trying to persuade her daughter of her duty and destiny. The Equiseen were a strict and traditional people; staunchly upholding centuries of custom and passing their standards on to each new generation, they were uncomfortable with change. But Aysh was a law unto herself.

“Well I was serious and I want you to teach me now! It’s nearly sunset; we could go out to the grasslands and no one would ever know.”

Mikkol, clearly torn between what he knew to be right and loyalty to his friend, glanced back towards the village. There was no one around as most people were still eating their evening meal and would not begin to socialise till the sun had set and the torches were lit.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But you can’t ever tell anyone. Not even Taya.” Mikkol’s sister and Aysh’s best friend, Taya was not good at keeping secrets and neither did she look favourably on Aysh’s mischievous ways.

“Of course I wouldn’t tell.” She waved a dismissive hand as if he had stated the very obvious. “I like my hair.”

Mikkol hesitated nervously again and fingered the end of his own long, shiny braid, a mark of honour and achievement. He was nineteen and had fought in two battles now, acquitting himself well on both occasions. The first had been against a band of Manguin raiders from Lytos Meer who had been untrained amateurs, lacking any skill with their weapons. Several months later a group of Haraquin had dropped in suddenly on his hunting party which had followed a herd of gazelle into the foothills beneath the Misted Rocks of Even’s Doom, where those vicious, winged xenophobes lived. He remembered their chilling shrieks as their wings cast great shadows over the ground. He had emerged largely unscathed on both occasions and his father had expressed pride in his performance. His braid would continue to grow as long as he conducted himself with honour, did his duty and respected the traditions of his people. If he was found to have acted shamefully, he would be shorn. As would Aysh. Equiseen girls were apprenticed to their mothers in the forge at the age of five. Almost as tall and strong as the males, and much stronger than the women of other races, they were skilled and accomplished blacksmiths and metalworkers. While the boys learned to fight and hunt, the girls were taught to create items both functional and beautiful, ranging from armour and weapons to needles, fish hooks and jewellery. Aysh had always been miserable in the forge, longing to be out in the sunshine and swinging a sword, but for women to fight and hunt was utterly forbidden.

She sensed Mikkol changing his mind again and pulled his arm.

“They won’t know. I promise. We’ll be careful to come back separately so if anyone sees one of us we can just say we went for a run.” She smiled winningly at him.

Mikkol laughed, shrugged and shook his head.

“Last one to the Lone Rock is an old goat,” he challenged her and ran through the east gate of the village and out into the grasslands, his hooves thudding on the dry ground. Aysh gave a surprised laugh, her chin falling in disbelief, then she turned and raced after him. Her muscular legs propelled her forwards at an impressive speed, her breathing remaining even and measured. Despite his head start, Aysh gained ground on Mikkol within the first mile. She kept pace with him for a while then increased her powerful stride and raced ahead, laughing. Once it had infuriated Mikkol to be beaten by a girl but it had soon become clear that Aysh outstripped every boy in the six Equiseen villages as far as speed was concerned. He knew that Aysh found a feeling of freedom when she ran that the rest of her life denied her.

After about three miles he saw the Lone Rock rising tall and grey on the horizon. Over twenty feet tall and the same distance around the base, the stone sentinel had always been there, standing guard over the land. Aysh reached the rock and leaned back against it, catching her breath. As he drew near Mikkol slowed his pace and stopped, flopping to the ground and making an exaggerated show of being winded.

“Hi there old goat,” grinned Aysh. She allowed him a few minutes to catch his breath before prodding him in the side with her hoof.

“We’re wasting the light,” she observed. “Teach already.”

Mikkol stood and brushed off the loose grass, looking suddenly nervous again. He put one hand to the sheathed sword at his belt and looked her up and down.

“We appear to be a little underequipped,” he hinted gently.

“Oh, right. I have one behind the rock. I took it from the forge and hid it here yesterday.”

“I hadn’t even agreed to do this yesterday!” exclaimed Mikkol. “You were that sure you could persuade me?”

“Yup,” smiled Aysh, reaching out and patting him on the cheek as she walked past him and around the rock. She returned holding something long and wrapped in leather. Whipping the cover off, she revealed a highly polished sword, obviously unused. The blade was nearly two feet long, narrow and razor sharp. The grip had been bound in soft brown leather and the steel guard curved back in the shape of narrow leaves.

“Will this do?” asked Aysh, holding it out for inspection.

Mikkol took the weapon from her gently, weighing the balance, looking down the blade for any defects and admiring the intricate engraving along its length.

“That is a thing of beauty,” he breathed. “Who made it? Won’t they be upset when they notice it missing?”

“I made it,” admitted Aysh, a certain amount of reluctant pride coming through in her voice. “It’s my final apprentice piece. I took it when my mother wasn’t looking. It’s already been scrutinised by the Master Smith. Your mother said she couldn’t fault it and I can start working unsupervised. Hanna Lorne is getting too old and her right shoulder bothers her. I’m to take over her work.”

“Aysh that’s brilliant! Congratulations!” Mikkol leaned in to hug his friend, but she snatched back her sword and snapped crossly at him.

“It’s not brilliant. It’s the rest of my life stuck in a hot, sweaty forge, smelting and pouring and hammering, hardly ever running in the sun.” Her voice threatened to crack and tears smarted in the corners of her eyes. She brushed them away fiercely and swallowed hard at the lump in her throat.

“I thought you understood,” she accused Mikkol. “I hate it there. I’m good at it, but I hate it. If they’d let me fight and hunt as well I wouldn’t mind so much, but to be told that’s all I’ll ever do, short of joining with someone and making babies...”

Aysh looked at the grass, embarrassed at letting her tongue run away with her in front of Mikkol. He was a good friend, but he was still a boy. Two years her senior, his bronze skin and strong features matched her own. Lean and muscular like all the Equiseen, his ears were long and pointed and his equine legs dark brown and sleek, ending in glossy black hooves. Aysh had known him all her life, but had recently developed something of a crush on him. He seemed to be the only one who even tried to understand how she felt; actually he was the only one she had sensed felt any sympathy at all and she had never dared tell anyone else. Mikkol had sat with her for hours and let her pour her heart out, promising to keep her secret and try to help her. She hoped he wasn’t regretting that promise – she had spoken of making babies to him! She knew she was blushing a deep pink. Her mother had told her how such things occurred and warned her that if she let it happen before she was joined, both she and the boy responsible would be shorn and their child raised in shame. An Equiseen joining was never forced, but always permanent, so while parents encouraged an engagement before temptation got the better of their young folk, they also tried to make sure that adolescent curiosity and infatuation were not the only reasons behind it. She glanced up. Mikkol’s pink cheeks echoed her own, but he looked for some way to remove the awkwardness.

“So place your feet like this,” he started, showing her how to stand. “And hold the sword this way. Find the balance in your hand.”

For the next hour he drilled her in the basic exercises he had learned as a child, which were denied to Aysh and every other Equiseen girl, even if they wanted to learn. When the light was gone, they walked back to the village, separating some way out and entering the torch lit streets from different directions. They both went to the village meeting hall where the young people gathered most evenings and went in a few minutes apart, joining their own groups of friends. Mikkol’s sister Taya threw Aysh a curious glance that meant she would not escape without an explanation as to her lateness. Aysh wondered what she would say.

Squinting into the bright light of the Falls Gate, the crowd stepped nervously forward, whispering with their friends. The cool spray dampened their faces as they passed through into the other world beyond. On the far side, small fires scattered around a large clearing flickered merrily between the shadows. In the centre a large burgundy canvas was suspended from tree branches and tall wooden poles. It was partially walled, in the manner of a circus big top, but in places they could see through to the other side of the clearing. Strains of music floated past on the breeze; the visceral rhythm of hand drums and alluring harmonies played on reed instruments. Enticing aromas drifted over to them from canopied stalls where vendors proffered various snacks. Nearby a tall woman with unkempt white hair and pointed ears was stirring a large cauldron over a fire which burned with green and yellow flames. Her hooded blue cloak was embroidered with curious sigils and emblems. On the table next to her a variety of jars, bowls and bottles contained the ingredients of whatever concoction she was stirring. Some of them seemed to dance and glimmer as if trying to escape their glass prisons to play in the night air.

They peeled off their winter clothes as they noticed the tropical atmosphere around them. Suddenly a burst of giggling erupted in the trees above. Leaves rustled and branches creaked like old floorboards. Aggrieved, their guide cried out and raised his hands protectively over his head. He shook a handful of acorns from his hair and coat and frowned up into the trees.

“Tree Sprites,” he explained in a tone of mild exasperation. “Ignore them. They won’t hurt you – they just delight in annoying me!”

The delighted crowd gazed up curiously and searched the branches for creatures which an hour previously they would not have believed existed. Even now, most of them were almost certain this was all lights, mirrors and good make-up. They were rewarded with the appearance of two smiling green faces between the leaves, framed with mossy hair and lit up by twinkling hazel eyes. They appeared to be about five years old and were enchantingly pretty.

“They’re so little,” remarked a woman in the crowd. “Won’t they fall? It looks dangerous, letting them play up there.”

“Don’t be fooled by their appearance,” answered Jonor Flax. “Those two are a century old – Tree Sprites only grow to the size of small human children then stop visibly ageing altogether. They’re still as mischievous as toddlers though.”

“A century? Like, immortal?” asked an incredulous voice from the crowd. “Come off it, mate. That’s just fairy stories!”

“You are in the Faerie story sir,” replied their guide with a short laugh. “Open your eyes and look! Unstop your ears and hear! Believe what your senses tell you! It is all real! When you left your world there was a chill in the air; now the night is hot and humid. There you could smell pine and peat; here the air is heavy with persephone and moonflower. Can you not feel the tingle of magic on your skin? Let go of unbelief and be open to the truth.”

As Jonor spoke it was as if they were suddenly able to lower their shields of ‘grown up’ and ‘sensible’ and allow the truth of their surroundings to truly engulf them for the first time. The woman stirring the cauldron was clearly an Elf, their guide really did possess the legs of a horse and the green children scrambling confidently through the branches above were obviously not painted five year olds.

With a new eagerness they ventured further into the clearing. Jonor breathed a sigh of relief. The first hurdle belonged to his friend Emerden, the storyteller; getting them all to show up at the Fall’s Gate. Jonor considered this to be a very low bar – most just thought they were going for a good night out at some sort of show. His own challenge was considerably tougher: making them cast off all the conditioned adult cynicism of their world and accept the truth before them. Now the evening could really begin. He toured them round the various stalls where Elves and Pixies sold their diverse crafts, crystals, spells and foodstuffs, answering the many questions asked of him as they went.

“Are you immortal too? Is everyone here?” asked one girl.

“No one here is immortal,” replied Jonor. “Elves are what we call Eternals. They don’t grow old, they don’t get sick, so mostly they don’t die. An injury can be fatal though and many Elves have been killed in battle. The Sprites and Pixies have very long life spans, sometimes centuries, but eventually they do age and die.”

“And you?” asked the girl. “What about your people?”

“My people are Equiseen. We are mortal and most of us pass seventy or eighty Turns of the sun.”

“Turns of the sun? You mean years?” asked the girl.

“That’s right, you would call them years,” remembered Jonor.

“I don’t see any more Equiseen here,” said the girl, glancing about the carnival. “Where are they?”

“They live in villages nearby,” Jonor replied, adding “Look, I think the show is about to start. We should all take our seats,” he said in a louder voice so that everyone could hear. Herding them towards the large tent, he was relieved he had seen Emerden signalling him from the backstage area. It was never a good idea to be drawn into conversations which could reveal too much about the rest of the realm. Humans were a very curious race and once they knew about the Bridge of Aught Else which spanned the massive gorge between the Carnival and all that lay beyond, they always wanted to see more. Telling them that the bridge was guarded by Equiseen warriors and that crossing was forbidden usually just made it worse. Better to try and avoid the subject and keep their attention on the Carnival.

Miles and miles away, on a tiny island in the middle of Lake Lomoohr, the water in the large clay bowl rippled and the picture vanished. Raya looked up at the sudden draft and scowled as the raven settled on its perch.

“Bah! Lost the signal. As if you care, stupid bird.”

“Ah-ark!” cawed the raven in return, its eye glinting malevolently. “Stupid woman!”

Raya laughed, a low growling gurgle in her throat. She crossed the low stone room to the shelves on the far wall and took down a glass jar of green powder. Turning back to the table on which the clay bowl stood she took a pinch of the powder and scattered it across the bowl, speaking an incantation as the powder dissolved. The water clouded, then cleared to reveal the carnival in full swing.

Raya watched the tiny people on the surface of the water as they juggled and tumbled their way back and forth and wove stories that captivated the watching crowd. She pointed a finger at this figure and that, as if choosing them for some unknown fate, a small smile playing on her wizened face.

“He will come to you and your lives will change forever,” she murmured.

She started as a thin golden thread of mist wound its way through the carnival towards the forest, rising above the tree line into the sky.

“And what are you then?” she wondered. “Never seen you before.” Raya reached up and gathered her long greying hair into a bun, pinning it into place the better to see the bright yellow miasma. She spoke the words of another spell and moved her fingers over the water, tracking the mist north above the trees. It traversed the grasslands, the plains and eventually the foothills of the Lomoohr Mountains west of her home, rising all the time until it wove its way into the clouds.

“Well, we’ll have to find out more about you, won’t we? Can’t have you wandering about our realm not knowing what you are, can we?” She went back to the shelves, gathering more ingredients and carrying them to the table, watched all the time by the raven.

“Well, what do you say?” she asked the large black bird. “Work to do?”

“Work, work!” squawked the raven.

The crowd jostled and sorted themselves on the benches around the tent. The performers waited patiently behind a curtain for them to settle down before beginning their show. There were many acts, all interlinked with a story about a band of campers who by chance stumbled across a Faerie dell and upset the otherworldly people living there with their rowdy behaviour and their lack of care for the natural world. Each ‘camper’ in turn performed according to their talents to appease the Faerie folk, enchanting and entertaining the crowd.

The crowd laughed as the acrobatic Myrial brothers juggled all sorts of objects and tumbled and turned around the floor clownishly, then ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ as they balanced and threw one another in a much more challenging routine. Jonor danced and turned cartwheels, throwing his hooves effortlessly over his head and at the same time tossing his hat in the air, to catch it again when he landed. He seemed to conjour various objects from people’s ears, noses and pockets and made them disappear again with equal facility. To finish he balanced his umbrella on his fingertip, his nose and at the end seemingly on empty air.

Soorah and Eliish, Myrial sisters who possessed the power to magically control flame, juggled with fireballs and wound ribbons of fire around their bodies, swirling the rings about themselves like hula-hoops as they danced to the music provided by the Carnival band.

There were songs both comical and heart-breakingly melodious, sung principally by two Elven maids, Marielle and Hyranna, although the rest of the troupe joined in the more boisterous choruses. Beyon and Tisha walked across a high wire between two trees, then all but flew to a pair of silks attached to a higher branch and wound themselves up and down their length in a sort of aerial dance. Through it all Emerden told his story and kept the audience invested in the outcome of the show.

At last the Faeries, in the persons of the mischievous Tree Sprites who were now dressed in diaphanous costumes, declared that the campers had earned a night’s stay in their dell, as long as they promised to take care both of their patch of ground and the rest of their lands, and to pass on the message to all they met. The applause when the show was finished were thunderous and no one wanted to go home, but their time in the realm was always kept to only a few hours and they were all ushered back to the fall’s gate at the far end of the clearing. As the last person left; the girl who had questioned Jonor earlier, she turned and spoke to him.

“Thank you. I really will try to be better at all the eco-friendly stuff, you know, recycling and that. It was a great show. Goodnight.”

“Well, if we even changed one person, it’s a difference. And maybe we reached more than one,” said Jonor hopefully. He and Emerden walked back to the tent where everyone else was clearing up their props and equipment.

“Okay, let’s finish up here and go for a drink at Demet’s,” suggested Emerden. This idea was greeted with a general call of assent from everyone else and the tidy up suddenly gained speed.

Taya watched her friend all day long in the forge. So much so that her mother had to upbraid her three times for lack of attention to her work. Twice she hammered a sword so flat that it more closely resembled a cooking spatula and once she overfilled a set of arrow moulds and covered the floor in molten metal, nearly burning her own leg and earning herself a week of extra chores.

“Outside, Taya,” commanded her mother. “This is no place for a distracted mind; you will injure yourself or someone else. Take a break and straighten out your head. Come back when you can concentrate.” She shook her head and turned back to her work, hoping that whatever was weighing on her daughter’s mind was not something she should be worrying about herself.

Taya sat in the sun adding up her suspicions and making answers that suited her. She had seen Aysh looking all moon-eyed at her brother on several occasions and their not-quite-joint arrival at the meeting hall the previous evening sealed it in her mind. Besides, now she came to think on it the phrases ‘Well, Aysh says...’ and ‘Oh, Aysh thinks...’ had tumbled from her brother’s mouth too many times recently for it to be a coincidence. She hugged herself in delight and grinned from ear to ear.

“I always wanted a sister,” she whispered to herself. “Once Mikkol and Aysh are joined my best friend will be just that. Awesome!”

“What are you muttering about,” asked Aysh’s voice from behind her. Taya looked round to see her friend leaning against the door jamb, drinking from a water flask.

“Nothing,” replied Taya, smiling conspiratorially. “Only, I know your secret.”

“You do?” asked Aysh, alarmed. “I mean, what secret? And why do you look so happy about it?”

“What secret!” scoffed Taya. “Come on Aysh, I’m not blind. You and my brother? Sneaking off together? How long has it been going on?”

“It’s not going on!” denied Aysh, blushing a deep pink. “Nothing is going on. We just went for a run, that’s all”

“Oh, you’re fooling no one, Aysh Mayorr. Does your mother know you’re walking out with a boy? Has Mikkol already spoken to your father? If he’s told my parents they’re keeping it very close to their chests. Oh, I can’t wait for us to be sisters!”

“Sisters?! Oh don’t be so daft, Taya, Mikkol doesn’t think that way about me; we’re just friends. Honestly. Sorry to disappoint you.” She smiled at her friend, relieved beyond belief that Taya had got hold of the wrong end of the stick. She sat down next to Taya and bumped shoulders with her playfully.

“He is gorgeous though,” she grinned.

“Eeuww! He’s my brother Aysh. He is annoying and smelly and in no way gorgeous!” She paused, then admitted, “You’re wrong, though, about him not liking you. He talks about you at home; what you like, what you think, that sort of thing. And last week I saw him write your name in the dirt, then rub it out when he saw me looking. He definitely likes you. A lot.”

“Really?” Aysh blushed again and looked sideways at her friend from the corner of her eye. She hoped with all her heart that it was true.

The moon was just starting to pass behind the tree tops and dawn was still hours away when Nula smiled her greeting to the guards on the bridge. They were well used to her nocturnal ramblings by now.

“Mother and baby well?” one man asked courteously.

“Mother and baby well,” she confirmed wearily yet with the unmistakable joy in her eyes of one who has just witnessed a miracle. She would say no more than that; it was not her place. The parents would make their own announcements after sunrise.

As she crossed the Carnival ground, Nula thought again of the new Elven family enjoying their first few hours together. She reflected on everything she had done, as she always did when she left a delivery, clearing with her conscience every point of the labour and birth. Nula felt this improved her practice as a midwife and helped with future deliveries. In her little cottage a couple of miles away, nestled under the shade of the Ever Tree on the banks of Lake Merriem, she was compiling a book. In it she noted what techniques and approaches worked best in each situation, with each species, and what had gone wrong in each of the deliveries where either the mother or the child had been lost. It was not a common occurrence; the vast accumulated experience of generations of midwives, passed down through the Turns and improved upon by each new practitioner, and more recently the assistance which could be requested from the Elves in the form of tonics and salves, made childbirth less dangerous than it had once been. In one or two particularly difficult cases Nula had even requested the presence of a Norn, the most powerful Elven mages, to avert disaster. Still, her job was not without tragedy and Nula felt that having a written volume of birthing knowledge could only help to reduce this.

She removed her short boots on the board in front of the steps of Emerden’s vardo. It was an old fashioned Gypsy wagon in brightly coloured wood, although in the failing moonlight it appeared grey-brown. She padded quietly up the wooden steps, taking care not to let the door creak or bang shut. She stripped off, laying her tunic and leggings on top of his wooden clothes chest, and slid gratefully between the sheets, pressing herself against Emerden’s warm body. Smiling sleepily she listened to his deep, even breathing. Her fingers traced the contour of his muscles; well defined along his arm and chest, then softer past his naval and becoming slightly fuzzy. She heard his breathing quicken and watched his eyelids slowly open.

“Morning?” he asked, yawning.

“Nope,” replied Nula, nuzzling into his neck then lifting her face for his kiss. His hands felt warm on her skin as he turned towards her.

“Oh, I see,” he whispered, his lips gently brushing hers. Enfolding her in his arms, he bent his head low and covered her mouth with his in a long kiss, slow and gently at first then becoming hot, fast, intense, until Nula moaned, her back arching in pleasure. It seemed as if she had melted inside. She felt him growing against her thigh and she welcomed him, forgoing sleep a while longer for the chance to share her joy in this melding of body and spirit.

Emerden curled his toes in the dew soaked grass and sipped from the steaming mug in his hand as he watched the sun rise slowly above the tree line. He smiled as he heard the not-quite-silent pad of small Pixie feet on the steps of the wagon behind him, then felt Nula’s arms wind around his shoulders.

“Morning, love,” he murmured as she lightly kissed his cheek, then playfully nipped his ear with her teeth.

“Morning,” she whispered back, leaning her chin in the angle of his neck and moulding herself along his spine. Emerden cupped his hand round her forearm and gently squeezed the soft, creamy skin. In his thirty-some Turns of the sun he had never felt for anyone else the sweetly painful melting of his heart that Nula’s voice, scent and touch never failed to arouse in him.

The man lay in the boat, feverish dreams plaguing Him under the hot sun. He saw His sister, holding out her arms to Him, begging Him to save her, but it felt like He was trying to run through syrup and He couldn’t reach her. She was swept away from Him by a great wave which dragged her down into a whirlpool. His mother screamed in despair, but a wolf was alerted by the noise and it pounced, tearing out her throat. He cried out, grief and frustration welling up in Him like a storm. One by one everyone he loved appeared to Him in His mind and was lost to him again; a parade of grisly deaths to torture Him. He woke with an anguished cry, making the boat rock beneath Him. He was drenched in sweat, as much from the dream as the weather. Weak and listless, he lay back down. He had no water left and his lips were parched. It had been so long. How long? How many days since he had set sail? It was too much effort to remember. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was dry and puffy. Too hot! A fur lined cape lay next to him in the base of the boat, with boots and breeches made of leather, a linen shirt and a woollen jerkin. He had cast them off as the air temperature rose far higher than he was used to. Now he wore only a loin cloth and his skin had reddened in the glare of the blistering sun, poorly protected by the thatch of dark hair which covered his body. He had tied a kerchief round his head, gathering his sweaty, matted hair off his neck and stopping so much sweat from running down his forehead. Far above him the wind howled along the cliffs, through tall pillars of rock fashioned by the tides and the gales, wailing mournfully. He stared up at the improbably blue sky and watched sea birds circling.

He was exhausted. There had been a great whirlpool; a maelstrom miles wide. He had had to work so hard to go round it, to avoid being sucked down. Once passed, he had fallen asleep and let the wind fill the sail and take him south.

A quest. He was on a quest, had left his home and family with a purpose. Home! He was heartsore thinking of it. He had to find someone; someone who could help, someone who understood the magic. But first he needed fresh water, or he would soon die. He turned his head and scanned the cliff side for a gap, a river estuary where he might head inland. He saw none and eventually it grew dark, and he slept.

Neryn pulled her small green body up onto the next branch, set her feet firmly till she had her balance, and reached up again to the branch above. She was high in the forest, far above Theyos Raal, the Elven tree city, the sun dappling her skin through the leaves of the canopy. Neryn crept along the branch as far as it would hold her weight then, bouncing as if she were a diver on a springboard, she launched herself through the air toward the next tree, giggling and flinging her arms out like wings as she flew through the air. She landed deftly and ran along the branch to the trunk. Her forehead shone with perspiration and a small frown of concentration indented the green skin between her eyebrows. Using a run of gently rising branches like a staircase around the tree, Neryn made one final jump to the next one over and stopped. In front of her, taking up a space around six feet wide, was a nest made of intertwined branches. Leaves and flowers grew out of the walls and soft moss covered the nest floor. Spaced evenly around the structure were six smooth white buds, each one about the size of Neryn’s head, sitting on mossy pillows. Each bud contained a baby tree sprite, growing slowly and nurtured by the tree, which was in effect its mother. There were only a dozen or so Sprite trees in the whole of the Great Summer Forest which lay across the Bridge of Aught Else from the Carnival. One at a time, and each only once in a century, a Sprite tree would take several Turns of the sun to form a nest among it’s topmost branches, weaving branchlets and twigs together to form the walls and floor then carpeting the inside with moss and leaves. It then took another full Turn to grow the half-dozen flower-eggs, each one protecting its own baby Sprite. Once the eggs hatched, the tiny green babies were sustained by nectar vines which connected each Sprite to the tree where other babies had umbilical cords. This also served as a safety line once they started to crawl about. The tree would also grow one very large leaf above each nest which acted as a sort of umbrella or parasol, protecting from the intense sun and occasional rainstorm. After about a year the umbilical vines dried up and fell off and the Sprites were free to explore and improve their climbing and balance skills. They were born with an innate sense of balance and a formidable grip, so accidents were almost unheard of.

Neryn reached out her small hand and tentatively stroked a smooth white egg.

“Hello little brothers, hello little sisters,” she whispered. “Not long now; not long till we can see you.”

She smiled at the eggs protectively and sat on the branch beside the nest. Caeya, her nest-sister, climbed up from below and joined her. The two were never far apart, having been almost inseparable since the day they had hatched from neighbouring eggs in this same tree a century before.

“Will it be soon, do you think?” she asked Neryn.

“It must be. We saw the eggs starting after last New Turn’s day. It must be really soon. We’ll watch, won’t we?”

“We’ll watch,” confirmed Caeya. Then after a moment she asked, “Tell Nula?”

“Soon,” replied Neryn. While Nula’s professional expertise was not required at a Sprite hatching, she wanted to be aware if one happened and to check on the babies. This would be the second one in her lifetime. Since Sprites could live for several hundreds of Turns and the forest could only sustain so many creatures, the trees regulated their own reproductive cycles.

“Alright,” agreed Caeya, “Soon.”

She linked hands with her sister and the two sat there for the rest of the morning in the high branches of their mother tree, watching over their siblings.

In the early light He had seen a gap and forced himself to sit up, hold the tiller and adjust the boom, sailing across and then against the current up the estuary. The cliffs towered high on both sides, now sheltering Him from most of the wind, so that the sail dropped slack. He filled his water skins and drank deeply, so thankful for the fresh water that it tasted like nectar. Then He resignedly shipped the oars and began the arduous task of rowing upstream till He could find somewhere to go ashore. The cliffs remained as high as trees for miles and the man began to fear quite irrationally that they would continue so forever. Inevitably though, the gorge grew shallow and He could see grass up ahead.

At one point He had seen a great bridge high above Him, spanning the cliffs.

“A bridge means people,” He had thought and rowed on with new determination, although His arms ached and pain coursed through His back with every pull.

He landed the boat on a muddy bank and drew it up out of the water before collapsing on the grass. After a while he felt something tickling his cheek. He half opened one eye and saw a large black one staring back at him, surrounded by a furred and whiskered face. Quick as lightning, for hunger trumped exhaustion, his hand shot out and grabbed the rabbit. He sat up, broke its neck and pulled out his knife to gut and skin it. Ravenous as He had never been before, he bit into the raw, still warm meat, desperate to fill His belly. His body revolted against the blood and uncooked flesh in His mouth and He vomited, acid searing His throat since there was nothing else in His stomach. He lay on the grass again, cursing Himself for a fool. Gathering what feeble strength He could, He laid the rabbit on a rock and gathered wood for a fire. He cut some green sticks to make a spit and roasted the rabbit over the flames. Now when He bit into His meal He thought meat had never tasted so good. Laying His cape on the ground, he curled up on it and went to sleep.

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