The Weaver’s Apprentice, the Shade, and the Sisters of the Pool

Prologue

Deep in the Cappinsic mountain range, there was a magic pool spanned by an enchanted bridge.  They were hidden halfway up a winding trail marked with bleach-white pebbles and full of steep switchbacks and stairs carved into solid rock that eventually led to the summit of a jagged snow-capped ridge.  Both the pool and bridge could only be found by leaving that trail and scrambling up an immense rock shaped like a turtle’s head, covered thickly with moss and lichen and sticking out of the ground like it was sniffing the air.  Climbing atop the turtle, one could find this secret place by following a path of tiny pink flowers, growing low on the ground like clover, but scented like sweet honeysuckle.

Kneeling by the pool, you would find the waters crisp and cool and (here is the magic) if you made an acceptable offering to the pool, it would show you your heart's true desire.  Not everyone was ready for such knowledge, so many years ago—before the first settlers came to the foot of the mountain and built towns—a kindly old wizard wearing a monk’s hood and carrying a talking hawk on his staff, took three sisters and charged them to stand guard over the pool.

With eyes nearly shut, and in a voice barely more than a whisper, he spoke to them with an understanding of one who knew too well the dangers of the pool.  “For the heart and the mind have been known to play tricks on each other, fooling one onto a path or into action that they will later regret—though it was taken with good intentions and in all earnestness.  Because of this, one who learns of their heart’s true desire, perhaps a past that no longer exists or a future that is no longer attainable, may be driven mad, like one who has a veil lifted and can only see despair in that which has been lost.”  The kindly wizard stroked the wing of his hawk which shook its head and let out a squawk.  “You must take care to warn them of the bargain they are about to make and dissuade those who would suffer from such knowledge.”

In unison, the sisters asked, “How we will be able to discern the one from the other?  The prepared from the unready?”

With a small smile, the wizard replied, “Look into their eyes to find those who time has already tested, the seekers that are hungry, or the souls that have seen a thousand storms.”  The sisters pledged themselves to the charge they had been given.

Over the years, the sisters became rooted in one spot, bent and twisted by the weathers of the high mountain pass, collecting moss on their upturned and outstretched arms with their hair turning to bright green leaves.  Some say the sisters are there still, but no longer have the power to warn the unwary traveler with their words.  It is a small matter because since belief in magic has begun to fade into tales of legends and bedtime stories, visitors are rare and of the few who find the pool, even fewer know to bring an offering.  Yet the sisters remain.

The wooden bridge arches above the water with handrails on either side, worn smooth and slick from the hands of the many travelers that have steadied themselves as they crossed.  Some didn’t cross immediately, but simply stopped and waited for hours with their elbows resting on the rail for some sign or signal.  The bridge was magical (in part) because if your offering had been deemed worthy by the pool, crossing the bridge would take you wherever you wanted most to go.

Was the bridge guarded by an evil and ill-tempered troll who requires payment to cross?  Not at all.  Well, at least not anymore.  Many years before the bridge existed there was a troll, bad-tempered and ugly with a potbelly, bald head, and a patch over one eye; barefoot with a heavy spiked club that hung from his belt, he would pole a small wooden barge across the pool for a fee.  Merely a copper or two would do.  The troll thought of himself as a businessman and to seem more reputable he took to wearing a large derby bowler.  If you can picture this and believe it might look foolish on the otherwise terrifying troll, you would be correct.  Nobody dared mention that to the ferry troll.

Sadly, there came a time when the troll became so old and curmudgeonly that he increased his toll and it became impossible for hard-working folk to pay—he began demanding things like small body parts, dragon’s teeth, and the right to name many a young maiden’s first-born child.  Utterly unreasonable and impossible.  At which point the same kindly old wizard first reprimanded the troll, admonishing him to 1) lose the bowler hat, and 2) cease extracting such exorbitant payments (he also confiscated the small but valuable collection of dragon’s teeth).  When the troll ignored the second of the wizard’s demands and continued his ridiculous tolls, the wizard had to deal with the troll more severely.

With a wave of his staff, a few magic words, and a sprinkling of shavings from a satyr’s hoof, both the barge and troll were transformed into the bridge visitors now walk upon.  So, in a sense, the troll is still ferrying people across the pond whether he likes it or not.  Pilgrims and seekers travel across the span never suspecting its true origin, some wearing slippers that tickle the troll (who sadly cannot laugh or sneeze) while others wear hob-nailed boots, stomping hard enough to leave small acorn-sized indentations that don’t feel like tickling to the troll at all.

The wizard’s final irony was forcing the troll to take those who had been deemed worthy by the pool, not just across to the other side of the bridge, but to magically transport them—once their feet landed on the final wooden plank—to wherever their hearts desired them to go.  So you see, the troll really is the bridge.  Or, depending on your perspective, the bridge really is the troll.

*  *  *  *

On a bright and clear day, the kind that follows a week of heavy clouds that brought a steady snowfall of large, wet flakes, a young girl—not yet in her teens and carrying a three-legged salamander in her shirtsleeve—came to the Three Sisters, the pool, and the bridge.  She had a faint band of freckles across the bridge of her nose, pale skin, and large brown eyes that drank in the idyllic scene.  Tinley, for that was the girl’s name, kept her head and arms covered by a simple brown cloak similar to the wizard’s, but much smaller, for she had not yet hit her growth spurt.  The clothes she wore hid her age from others who would do her ill, but also concealed the scars she had acquired before running away from the woman to whom she had been apprenticed.  Her long hair was neatly braided and fell near to her waist, but this, too was kept from view.

Unknowingly, Tinley also brought danger to the pool, an unspeakable evil that had hunted her, following her trail for many days.  The girl had managed to escape the specter at the tavern, but here at the pool, there would be no one to help her and the fiend could finally claim her supernatural gift for its own.

Part I

To understand her story, you must know that Tinley loved animals, all of them from slugs to spiders to otters to eagles.  But most of all she loved her turtle, a small friend no bigger than her hand with curious red and yellow markings across its back.  She named the turtle Noncy and carried it wherever she went.

One summer’s day, well over a year since she had arrived at Hazel’s Chimney, Tinley had set her turtle down in the low grass by a riverbank on the fringes of the village while she picked brimbleberries from a nearby bush.  The more she picked (and ate) the fat, ripe fruit, the more she saw another bush, slightly further on, with larger, juicier berries just waiting to be picked and eaten.  Her fingers were sticky and her lips stained with the bright orange juice of the berries.  Sweat trickled down her back and, with both her bucket and belly full to the brim, she began to feel sleepy in the midday sun.  Turning back to the way she had come, Tinley noticed that she had wandered much further from the riverbank than she had intended and—even drowsy—she began to fret about her small turtle and hastened her way back.

Shortly she heard the cry of a crane and through the bushes saw great white wings rapidly flapping towards the spot where she had set Noncy down; Tinley dropped the bucket and began to run towards the turtle.  But she was too late, for the cry had become one of victory and success as the bird grabbed the turtle tightly in its talons and flew away.

At the sight of the turtle in the clutches of the crane, Tinley’s heart began to break, which quickly gave way to excruciating anger.  She closed her eyes and wished the bird grave harm, imagining its long, elegant neck crushed in the hand of a giant ogre.

The bird fell out of the sky, dead.  Instantly killed, its throat crushed.  Tinley covered her mouth and stifled a scream, her eyes wide with horror.  Quickly she looked around to see if anyone else had been about, but saw no one.  She tried to move her feet, but they were planted in place, refusing to budge; the edges of her vision began to blur, her stomach rolled, and her skin became prickly with chills even though the air was hot.   For many minutes she simply stood there like a fence post, struck dumb by what she had seen.

Tinley would have searched for Noncy, but the turtle had fallen into the steadily moving waters of the river and would be impossible to find.  Now the young girl had two animals to grieve, her pet and the crane, because somehow she knew she had been responsible for the its death.  Deep down Tinley knew that the crane had acted on impulse and hunger, and was not responsible for the most basic instinct of survival.  But in a fit of rage Tinley had killed it anyway.

Not only had she never done anything like this before, or witnessed any such thing, but she had never known such a power to exist.  Certainly, she had heard stories told of priests that could heal the wounded and give protection from evil spirits; of enchanters that could conjure visions, create balls of light, or levitate objects; and by the firelight tales were told of seers that could predict the future or mystics that could talk to the dead.

But this was something inside her that should not exist and the immediate self-loathing should have been punishment enough.  But Tinley had not seen the figure some small distance away, hidden from view by the bank of the river, and soaking sore feet in the water.  Though she had become accustomed to her new life living with the village weaver, all that would change with the witness to the death of the white crane, bringing more pain that Tinley could have ever imagined.

Finally able to move her feet and with her vision restored, she stifled her sobs, picked up the bucket and the brimbleberries that had spilled on the ground, and returned to Mother Matty’s.

*  *  *  *

Tinley’s parents were farmers who largely kept to themselves, doing their best to provide for their children—a roof over their head, food on the table, and a fire in the hearth—while teaching them to be kind and generous.  But more than a year ago, when torrential rains came and the nearby river overran its banks, the recently planted seed was washed away, leaving a barren field and no crops to harvest in the fall.  Without prospects for a future, difficult decisions had to be made.  With tears in their eyes, they apprenticed their oldest to a village weaver, a large heavy-set woman with calloused hands, short and stringy brown hair that laid flat upon her scalp, and a nose and cheeks covered in reddish broken veins.  The weaver lived many days travel away to the north in a three-room home and shop on the outskirts of Hazel’s Chimney; she insisted that Tinley call her Mother Matty, even though they were in no way related.

The thickset woman folded her arms over her great bosom and took stock of the young girl.  She said with a grimace, “My, but you are a waifish little thing!  Half-sized and scrawny, I’m sure I’ve made blankets heavier than you.  What can you lift?”

Without a word Tinley walked over to one of the bolts of tartan wool cloth folded against the wall, herself not much taller, and struggled to lift it across her arms.  But hold it she did, waiting for the large woman to appreciate her strength and determination.

“That’ll do for now.  Put it down before you hurt yourself and you’re no good to me at all.  I s’ppose you’ll grow some muscles and I can make use of you.  Just don’t get any shorter, y’hear?”

“Yes Ma’am” was all Tinley said as she dropped the fabric to the ground.

“And if you keep fiddling with that braid all the time, I’m going to cut your hair as short as a shorn sheep, so you’d best let it go and leave your hands for working.”

Before she was sent away from home, Tinley’s mother would braid her mousy brown hair each morning in a tender ritual that now brought tears to her eyes with remembering.  She dropped the hair immediately and made sure to never touch it when around Mother Matty.

She gave Tinley a cot in the workroom, a low corner where the roof angled close to the floor and the girl could barely sit up.  Like the rest of the house, the room was neat and tidy, but here every nook and cranny seemed filled with Matty’s trade.  Besides two looms, one enormous and one smaller, there was a spinning wheel with baskets of loose wool beside it waiting to be spun and a large sewing table with rows of spools of thread sorted by color.  Dozens of shelves held different colors and textures of yarn, rolled into skeins, hanks, balls, and cakes.  Bolts of different textures—muslin, broadcloth, canvas, and linen—were folded and stored everywhere you looked, stripes and tartan plaids, solids and zip zag designs.  Tinley recognized fabrics of wool, cotton, and silk, but there were others she had never seen before.  All this shopcraft left little room or privacy for her, just a girl-sized space on the floor.

During the day, Tinley spent time learning the trade, cleaning up from meals, and moving bolts of fabric around to get them ready to be sold at the market.  When her work was done for the day, Matty allowed the girl to wander around a bit outside.  Tinley was lonely for someone her age to play with, but the deepest pain was at night when she most acutely felt the absence of parents.  She missed her father and the bedtime stories that he would invent as he went along, with raging monsters and brave heroes on horseback, magical swords and bubbling potions, far away quests that led to foreign lands.  When Tinley crawled onto her straw bed, took out her braid, and brushed her hair to a glossy shine, this was when she most missed the time with her mother: the soothing voice, the smell of cooked herbs that clung to her apron, and the gentle touch of her mother’s hands as she soothed the tangles Tinley had acquired in the day.

Her days fell into a rhythm that, if not entirely pleasant, were at least predictable.  Mornings were Tinley’s favorite part of the day, beginning with rebraiding her hair and securing the bushy end with a length of yellow silk ribbon that Mother Matty had given her to use.  After tidying up her blankets on the straw pallet that sat on the floor, Tinley would step outside to make a trip to the well in the center of town to draw water for the day in a large bucket.  She would be dressed in a fine linen dress—she favored bright solid colors—and a pair of soft wool stockings because, as Mother Matty would say, “No girl from the weaver’s house was going to go out looking like gutter trash.”  She had a reputation to maintain and Tinley was part of the marketing strategy.  But early outings in the finest clothes she had ever worn was not what made the girl smile, for the weaver’s house sat on the outskirts of Hazel’s Chimney, and the view on clear days was breathtaking.

Far to the west of Hazel’s Chimney were the mountains; magical and shrouded in mist in their jagged snow-capped peaks, they were the stuff of myths, fantastic legends, and wild rumors—all of which were a lifetime and-a-half away from the world that Tinley lived in.  These mountain slopes gently gave way to rolling foothills to their east before the land became flat and densely wooded, part of which had been cleared to create the small village.  On the other side of the town, a wide creek flowed past, lazily in the dry season, but strong and dangerous with the snow melt and the heavy rains brought on by the spring weather.

One day while stringing new warp threads on the loom, Mother Matty gave Tinley a bit of a history lesson about town.  “We’re young here, you know.  Hazel’s is a scooch shy of being a century old.”  The weaver was squinting at her work and she paused to stretch her stiff fingers.  “Built for trade we were—lumber and furs, mostly.  But there’s other stuff to be found that the richies—folks with more coin than sense—will buy from us if you know what to look for.”  The older woman gave Tinley a strange look, like some thought had almost made her smile.  “So far, thems that like to give orders have ignored us, too small and new for their reckoning.”

The village itself was little more than a dozen buildings—mostly businesses but also a large pavilion for town functions—surrounding a cobbled square, with the community stone well in the middle.  Most of these buildings had but a single level, built sturdy with walls of smooth riverstone, roofs made of timber harvested from the forest, and stout wooden doors crafted with thick planks held together with black iron hardware.  On the fringes of the town was the tanner’s, keeping the foul stench of her work as far away as from polite company as possible; by the river a stone two-story mill with a giant undershot wooden paddle wheel spun its axle to turn the gears and roll the heavy millstone inside the building.

Tinley would enter from the alley between the baker’s and a small tavern, and (if it was a nice day) walk counterclockwise, taking her time and enjoying the freedom that came with being out of Mother Matty’s sight.  These times she would reach back to her long braid and in an act of defiance bring it over her shoulder to fuss at it with her free hand, remembering the times that her real mother had brushed it until it shined.

Along the north side of the square was a stone statue of a woman with plaited hair, wearing a long flowing dress pouring water out of a ewer onto the grass below.  Tinley liked to pick the wildflowers that grew outside her window and every chance she could, she would make a chain from the flowers and drape the wreath around the neck of the statue, an offering to the Spring Goddess.  Directly across from her on the other side of the well was a large carved wooden statue of a stag, its rack sweeping upwards of twelve feet above the ground.  When Tinley passed by this, she laid an apple at the feet of the god of the hunt, Cherrus.

There were other children who lived in and around Hazel’s Chimney and, while not malicious, they were still curious about the diminutive newcomer and did their best to engage her in conversation.  But their accents were strange to Tinley’s ear, speaking with a lilt and a cadence that was foreign to her, even if the words mostly made sense.  They wanted to know her name, where she was from, how old she was, and if she liked to play games like hoop-the-candle.  But Tinley understood that if she answered the children, it would not be them who seemed to speak strangely, but her, and so—believing they would tease her without end—she kept quiet and refused to answer their many questions.  Eventually most of them left her alone.

However, there was one young boy, the son of the town smithy and several years younger than Tinley but still just as tall (which is not to say that he was any great height at all), who many days would come out to follow her around.  Toby had dark skin that seemed permanently stained from working around the forge, dark kinky hair, and wore overalls and black leather boots nearly every day of his life.  Whenever he could escape the watchful eye of his father, he constantly chatted with her for as long as her errands lasted, not seeming to need much of a response.  Eventually Tinley became used to the boy’s presence and perhaps even enjoyed the company, though she would never have told him this.
One day—long before the incident with the crane—Toby came across a puggy-bug, stuck in the grass on a low spider’s web, its long gossamer wings trapped in the sticky threads.  The sight made Toby laugh aloud and he made to kick the bug or possibly step on it out of sheer boyishness.

“Don’t you dare.”

The sound of Tinley’s voice, the fact that she had spoken to him at all, the strange accent, all made Toby’s foot stop in midair and his eyes go wide.

“Do not.  Ever.  Hurt something for sport.  Ever.  Do you understand?”

The girl’s voice was commanding with a presence that Toby would have never expected for one so small and thin.

He nodded at her and carefully brought his foot gently back to the ground.  “I’m sorry.  I won’t do it again.”

“Promise me.  Promise me now that you won’t ever be cruel for fun.”

“I promise.”

“By the way, my name is Tinley.” 

“I promise Tinny.”  She made a funny face at how the boy pronounced her name, but did not bother to correct him.

The girl stooped, and slowly extricated the puggy-bug’s wings first, and then its body from the web.

Briefly, she held it in her hand before lifting it up to the sky.  “Go now!  And in the future, be more careful about where you land!”

The bug made a wide and lazy loop around the two children before flying off into the trees.

Most days did not have such minor adventures and typically once the morning errands in the town square were finished, Tinley would return to the weaver’s house loaded heavy with a bucket full of water, to attend the rest of her chores.  There was sweeping and cooking, mending and washing, but what Tinley enjoyed the most was learning the trade of weaving.  Mother Matty was swift to criticize when the girl made mistakes and made her undo her work many times to fix a tiny flaw in the fabric, but Tinley’s small fingers were nimble and seemed born to the craft, moving the shuttle leading the weft thread, usually wool or flax, deftly in and out through rows upon rows of cotton warp threads on the loom.  It was, perhaps, the first time in her life she had felt the satisfaction of being adept at anything, of creating something of value, of having worth herself.  For once, Tinley dared to dream that she might have a future far beyond being a lowly floorsweep.

*  *  *  *

It could have been bearable, except that on that terrible late summer’s day when Tinley killed the crane, Mother Matty had also walked to the edge of the small river, needing to soak her blistered feet in the cool waters.  With her frayed and patched skirt hiked up to her knees, she sat on a rocky ledge and soaked her legs right up to the tops of her calves.  That was when the weaver saw the air shimmer around the bird, she felt the power that arrested the crane in midflight, squeezing breath from it and causing it to fall lifeless from the sky; with one look at Tinley’s reaction, Mother Matty knew the girl had struck down the bird with no more than a mere thought.  And Mother Matty began to understand what she had in Tinley.

The girl had power, the mystical gift of a young and untrained wizard.  And Mother Matty had power over Tinley, who was obviously scared and shaken by the death she had caused.  With a power like that, to kill from a distance, the mind reeled at what could be done.  By merely threatening to lame the mason’s mule or strike down the farmer’s chickens, the respect that Matty could not earn as a weaver with her hard work, she could force with fear.  She could impose a tax on all passersby, local farmers and shopkeepers would offer goods and services to stay in their good graces, perhaps even Courtiers would kneel before them.  Matricia Lantrup would never have to weave another single stitch in her life.  Somehow a golden goose had landed in her lap.

Except that Tinley refused.  She vowed never again to wield that power for any reason, not for wealth, anger, or retribution.  Never.

Mother Matty was incensed by the girls’ refusal.  “If yous know what’s good for you, you’ll do as I say.  We’ll gather folks in the square and you’ll stand by the well with a coney and show them what you can do!”

“I will not.”  With a defiant voice that surprised herself, she added, “And you can’t make me.”

In the next few days, Mother Matty struck the girl across the cheek, berated her with insults, threatened to send her home in disgrace, and called her ugly names no child should ever hear.  She reduced Tinley’s meals to a pasty cold gruel, crusts of bread, perhaps a boiled potato, and cheese turned hard and brittle at the edges.  But no amount of punishment would make the youngster use her power.

Eventually, the weaver cut a thick grape vine hanging from a nearby tree and used it to whip Tinley at the conclusion of every day that the girl had not caused some innocent creatures’ death.  Which was every day for what seemed forever.

That was when Tinley decided to escape and make her own way in the world.

For as long as she could remember, Matricia had difficulty falling asleep at night, often tossing and turning with visions of brownies—mischievous knee-high sprites, with long noses and pointy chins—pulling back the threadbare quilt that covered her feet and nipping at her toes and then hiding under her bed whenever she sat up.  This was all hogwash, because no self-respecting brownie would ever inhabit the spotless cabin kept by Mother Matty.  Regardless, this knowledge didn’t help her fall asleep any easier, and for years she spent the early part of every night in misery.

Mornings such as those, Mother Matty would wake and hurl vile curses at the brownies—real or not—words that would make your local publican blush, the weaver telling no one in particular exactly what she would do if she got her hands around the neck of one of the imps.

 This was the case until Mother Matty visited Sumio, the local hedge-witch who lived upriver half a day’s walk, who sold her wolfberries—bright and oblong red berries that, when freshly picked, are at first bland but with a strong bitter aftertaste.  However, the fruit also had the property that they could help an insomniac find peaceful and restful dreams.  The trick was to dry the berries first, which greatly enhanced their sweetness, and to chew just a few before bed.

Each night, Matty would chew a few wolfberries right before bedtime and soon she would be snoring the shutters into a shaking staccato.  Waking with the dawn, refreshed and alert, she would roll out of bed, splash her face with cold water from the basin, and begin her day.  The summer Tinley moved into the cottage, Mother Matty’s routine included barking orders before the girl was even awake, relishing the startled look and confusion of someone who had not slept so well.  The snoring really was intolerably loud.

 When Tinley realized that Mother Matty would not stop the punishments until the girl gave in to the demands, she began to form a plan for her escape.  Though she didn’t know where the wolfberries could be found in the wild, Tinley began squirreling away two or three berries from Mother Matty’s jar every night (not enough to be missed), stashing them between her loose straw mattress and the floor.  When Mother Matty wasn’t looking, Tinley would use a mortar and pestle to extract any oil remaining from the berries, then stored it in a flask with a stopper.  Once she had a full bottle, Tinley only had to find a way to sweeten the old woman’s evening ale with the potent concentrate.

On the night that the girl spiked the stout brew, Mother Matty gave one last swipe at Tinley, leaving a great long welt across her shoulder and sent her to bed with shouts of insults, names, and curses, swearing that one day Tinley would give in.  But even as she finished her tirade, sleepiness seemed to take her over and she stumbled out of the weaving room and to her bed.

Tinley put on her boots, a frock, a coat, then went through the kitchen to wrap in a dishtowel any food that she thought could help her survive: nuts, bread, apples, beef jerky, and a handful of carrots.  A heavy serrated knife in a leather sheath went into her left boot and a short length of rope went around her waist.  Once that was done, she quietly crossed the floor, lifted the wooden bar, and stepped out into the dark, cool night.

 She took one look back at the small cottage which had been her most recent home, built her resolve with a deep breath, and put her feet upon the path that led away from Mother Matty’s, Hazel’s Chimney, and into the familiar woods.  Tinley was deathly afraid that Mother Matty would be able to follow her trail, would track her through the forest and punish her for running away, so tried to walk on the edges of the trail where the pine needles lay damp and thick and her footprints might not show as clearly.  Nonetheless, as she walked, she said a prayer to the Spring Goddess and any other deity that might be listening to Tinley on this dark night.

It soon occurred to Tinley that she had worked so hard to make an escape plan that she had not given much thought to where she would go if she succeeded in leaving without being noticed.  Beyond heading west and trying to find work in a village several hills and valleys away, she was ignorant of much of the geography that surrounded her. 

Tinley wandered for days, scrambling over rocks and wading through shallow streams, climbing uphill almost constantly, and as much as possible always heading west.  The air grew colder, the wind brisker, and the ground rockier as she went on, often passing through clefts in enormous rock formations.

The first night in the wilderness was the worst, with the sounds of unknown things scurrying through the underbrush all around her, owls hooting throughout the night, and the scrrtch-scrrtch of something clawing into the bare earth.  The scents of the woods—the moss and moldy leaves, the wide damp fronds of massive cedar trees, wildflowers with cloying perfumes—all seemed to be amplified as she lost her sight with the darkness.  As she huddled in the shelter of a large, broad-leafed bush, praying that nothing would find her, she promised herself that she would not cry, but the tears came anyway.

Tinley stared at the sky and tried to count the stars, but she lost track of her count each time and had to start over, only to lose her place again.  Giving up, she tried to remember how to link the stars into shapes like her father taught her and found the Sword of Ganeon, the three-masted Boat of Turis-the-Lucky, and the wide-mouthed Southern Cauldron.  But in the end, she calmed herself by whispering a song that her mother would sing when she was afraid of the night noises.

          Darkness is only dark until the morning light,

          Bad dreams can’t hurt when the day is bright,

          I will stay with you and hold your hand,

          All will be well while you visit dreamland.

Tinley took the end of her braid and played with the loose ends below the ribbon, brushing it back and forth slowly upon her cheek until finally she fell fast asleep.

In the morning, she assumed that the only thing that had kept the wolves from eating her was that she wouldn’t make much of a meal.  Skin and bones, covered in filth, with sores still healing from the latest whippings, her long hair matted with leaves and in need of a comb; she was indeed a sorry and pitiful sight.

*  *  *  *

What she did not know was that there were much worse things in the forest than wolves, and much worse fates than being torn apart and eaten.  The wolves kept their distance, not because Tinley would not make much of a meal, but because of what had picked up her scent, claiming her as its prize.

This thing that hunted her had a hunger for death, an appetite for souls that were released when the body ceased to function, yet still briefly clinging to the physical form while becoming accustomed to no longer inhabiting it.  The trace of the dead crane still hung on Tinley’s spirit, and the abomination smelled the aura of the power of death that the girl kept about her, and it wanted that power for itself.  At the right moment, it would seize the girl and devour her.  It could be patient, for the reward would be worth the wait.

End Part 1

Part 2

For several days Tinley made her way through dense woods, steadily climbing the foothills that bordered the approach to the base of the mountains. During the day she hiked without a trail, always working her way west, drinking from streams that seemed to flow from the rock itself and amusing herself by returning the whistling call of birds that perched in the treetop canopy. Between massive, twisted roots there were large flat rocks that time and nature had pushed upward toward the sky, tilted at every possible angle, some the size of the barges that were poled down the river flowing past Hazel’s Chimney. It was beneath these stones that Tinley spent her nights, huddled in the gloom and wishing away every curious creature of the dark, praying that their hunger would not be her end.

Tinley began to ache with climbing over rocks and roots, and her tired legs became unsteady with every passing mile. It became more difficult to lift her feet and clear the broken terrain, causing her to trip and stumble often; as she made her bed in the woods at night, her muscles cramped, making a restful sleep almost impossible.

Wherever the rocks gave way to thicker undergrowth, Tinley contended with different hazards: brambles and nettles snagged her woolen hose and pickiweed that left burning welts on the back of her hands. Unlike the earlier section with gigantic slabs of stone, there was no clear way through here and the young girl had to constantly beat through the brush to make any progress.

On the third day from Mother Matty’s, Tinley passed from such an area into a much different region of the forest, level and tame, as if curated by an unseen steward. There were no claw or teeth marks marring the bark of the trees, and no spiderwebs crossing the empty spaces. Even without marked pathways, this new space felt more like a garden than a wilderness, with every flower, tree, and fern placed with care. The air was warm and steamy, with leaves and pine straw wet and fragrant on the ground, and the gentle sound of buzzing bees made Tinley feel instantly at home; dropping her pack, she leaned against a sycamore tree and closed her eyes to the sounds of birds calling each other from the treetops.

She was awakened by the sound of a slamming door and scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could. The fog of a deep sleep made her head feel thick, like a pillow overstuffed with too much batting, but she was certain of what she heard.

“Who’s there? Come out where I can see you!”

A silly question, of course, because she was in the middle of a forest, alone except for the wildlife, many miles from the nearest village. Regardless of what she thought she heard, it could not have been a door; doors required buildings, she reasoned, and she had not seen a single structure—house, hut, cabin, or even a tumbledown hillside shanty—since she had turned away from Mother Matty’s.

Even so, Tinley cautiously explored her immediate surroundings, walking around the woods (on her tiptoes to make no sound), slowly peering around trees playing peek-a-boo to catch someone (or something) hiding behind. Though she looked high and low, she found nothing that resembled a door—no hinges, doorknobs, and certainly no welcome mats. At this point, she would have even welcomed a window floating in midair.

She tried once more, calling out, “Hullo?” to absolutely no one. As she stood with arms akimbo, slowly turning in circles, predictably, no one answered. She was utterly alone. Still. The thought made her sadder than she would have guessed. Tinley made her way back to the sycamore with its broad leaves and massive trunk.

As she lowered herself down to the ground, she heard laughter, like the flighty carefree giggling of young girls. Followed by a soft scuffle, and then at least three more doors slamming.

She was tired, running out of food, and in no mood to play games with whomever or whatever inhabited this forest. Night would be coming soon, so she did her best to make a meal of the berries she had found and a handful of nuts. Then tucked herself into a natural bowl made by the roots of the tree and closed her eyes.

As the stars emerged, a song began, quietly with high-pitched voices that floated above the low drone of a thousand insects. The sound took her back to Hazel’s Chimney and a day she had shared with Toby when he shyly invited her to see the project he had been working on. With scraps from his father’s cast-off forge works, the small boy had suspended dozens of different metals from a beam in the back of the blacksmith’s workshop—all shapes, sizes, and metals. Toby took a wooden hammer and tapped them in a sequence only he knew, making the chimes ring with different notes, playing a simple but beautiful melody.

“Oh, Toby.” Tinley’s mouth was agape and tears beaded in the corners of her eyes. “That’s enchanting! How?”

The boy blushed as his mallet struck the final note. “I can tune each scrap to a perfect tone by filing off a little here or there until it sounds right to me. I made these when my Da gave me free time after my work in the shop was done.”

As the boy began to play another tune, Tinley reached out tentatively, like she might touch the back of his arm; instead she withdrew her hand and simply let the music wash over and through her.

Tonight, in this magical forest, the ethereal song that she heard reminded her of Toby’s chimes, except more delicate and sublime. But instead of wood striking metal, these bells were the voices of some hidden inhabitants of the woods, and inside the notes that were sung, Tinley could make out words. And those words sang her to sleep:

     Tiny little Tinley, so far from your bed

     The wolves are at bay, calm skies overhead.

     The Shade it still hunts you, but cannot come near

     The Fair Woods will protect you, you’ve nothing to fear

     So sleep in your slumber, we’ll watch o’er your rest

     Tiny little Tinley, sleep well as our guest.

* * * *

The thunderstorm came on suddenly with strong gusts, driving winds, and—for a long while—hail that beat down as Tinley covered her face with her cloak trying not to cry. When the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of hail ceased, a heavy rain flew sideways creating rivulets of washed-out mud in the dirt trail flowing downhill. Trees bent and whipped in the gusts of wind, threatening to be uprooted. If there was a god of sky and storms, she had never learned of them, so Tinley prayed with all her might to the Spring Goddess and Cherrus of the Hunt, that the tempest might pass.

Yet over the wind, rain, and creaking of trees, Tinley heard a new sound, a sort of galloping, but not anything like she remembered from the mounted guards or merchants that clomped through the streets of Hazel’s Chimney; this was different, a heavy pounding, with a loping beat.

Despite the storm, Tinley sensed the presence of some enormous animal pass by her in the dark, seeking shelter to escape the weather. A second later, a bolt of lightning struck a tree, not twenty paces away, and louder than anything she had ever heard; her ears burned like they would bleed and her stomach churned with a pain that came from within her head. In the half second it took for the flash to destroy the tree, it lit the scene all around her: the trees, the forest floor, and a giant hulking shape, bent over on all fours, that looked like it was trying to outrun the squall. Another crash, but this time it was the sound of something massive falling to the ground, then the agonizing roar of an animal that had been trapped and injured, desperate to escape but unable to free itself. In the first moments that followed the bright flash, Tinley was blinded before her eyes eventually readjusted to the darkness.

She could see that not far away lightning had sundered the trunk of a large oak, splitting it in two. Underneath a broad section of tree, writhing on the ground, was an enormous black bear; it roared and clawed at both the ground and the large part of the tree that had fallen on it. The animal was pinned close to the trunk beneath a portion of the tree as wide around as a wagon wheel, and possibly injured with no way to escape. Its instincts to rage at its plight, with enormous jaws bellowing in anger, did nothing to help free the bear. It continued to thrash with eyes full of panic and froth forming at its mouth.

Though Tinley was small and scared, and the bear outweighed her at least ten to one, she could not leave it to suffer. Surely the bear would injure itself further if she left it there flailing beneath the tree; there’s a chance it wouldn’t survive the night without her help. As long as she could stay out of range of its fierce claws and angry maw with vicious teeth, she felt obligated to help.

Ignoring the hideous noise the bear was making, Tinley took stock of what she saw and noticed that yards away from the base of the tree, the section tapered until it was small enough Tinley could wrap her hands around it.

She remembered an incident with a fallen wagon as a merchant lost a wheel on its approach to Hazel’s Chimney. A small man had used a length of wood as a prybar and levered the wagon upright. Even though he could never have lifted the wagon on his own, the wagon moved with relative ease with his simple contraption.

Tinley dug through the wet earth below the fallen tree, away from the bear and where it rested on the ground, to make a shallow depression; then she moved a flat rock beside the small hollow she had formed. Close by she found the largest branch she could move on her own, placed it by the hole over the rock, and using her shoulder, lifted the far edge of the branch so the near end slid into the hole. She didn’t need to move the trunk much, just enough for the bear to wiggle out.

But it was no good. Tinley was much too light and small, even using the branch as a lever, to lift or move the fallen trunk. She needed to add weight to the far end.

The bear, senseless of what Tinley was trying to do for it, continued to rage and roar, drowning out the wind and rain, claws slashing at the air, the ground, and the tree. The guttural sounds speaking to the agony it felt.

Close by, Tinley spied a vine hanging down from a tree, a vine that could act as a rope. Digging her kitchen knife out of her boot, she went to cut the longest length she could, but when her hands touched the vine, her stomach spasmed in revulsion. This vine, very similar to what Mother Matty had whipped her with at night, represented what she had run away from, the pain and scars that she had left behind and tried to forget. But it had to be done. Steeling herself, she touched the vine, then grabbed hold of it tightly, and began to saw with the serrated edge of the knife.

She went to her lever and tied a large loop of vine around the highest part of the prybar that she could reach, then let it hang like a narrow sling. She began to place into the loop every large fallen branch she could find; even if it was still leaning on the ground, it would add weight. When she had added as much as she could, with the bear still writhing on the ground, she reached up once more and hung from the end of her lever.

The split section of the fallen tree moved a fraction. Then a fraction more. The bear pushed against it, adding some of his own strength, and the trunk rolled off the giant beast.

With anger still coursing through its blood, the bear found Tinley still holding on to the vine. She wanted to run, but stood frozen, and waited for him to charge. Suddenly the bear shook himself as if coming to his senses and instantly the fit of rage left him.

Much calmer now that it had been freed, but clearly still injured, the bear loped off a little way to the side in the opposite direction as Tinley, then stopped. The massive creature stood on its hind legs, at least twelve feet tall, and looked back at the girl, her hands bleeding and stinging, her knees scratched, and her face wide with fear.

It was difficult to see in the dark of the storm, but Tinley could have sworn that one of the bear’s paws turned into a human hand, then touched a fist to its chest in a gesture of thanks, then finally waved goodbye. Stunned, she returned the wave, but had no words to speak, and the bear—again on all fours—disappeared into the forest dark.

Exhausted from her efforts, covered in mud and soaked to the bone, she stumbled her way to the shallow burrow and dropped to the ground. Almost convinced she had dreamed the whole thing, Tinley pulled her cloak in tightly, closed her eyes to the calming pitter-patter of the rain, and quickly fell back asleep.

When she awoke, stiff, damp, and still wondering if she had imagined the events of the night before, she found that a fine gold chain had somehow been placed around her neck. Below her throat, resting in the shallow made by her collarbone, the chain was affixed by ornate gold caps on either end to a tiny green tube, no longer than the width of Tinley’s pinky. The color, a deepest jade, mesmerized the girl and as she stared at it, the cylinder seemed to swirl slightly, to gain depth and distance like the way a small mirror captures an entire world within it. She tilted it back and forth, allowing the shades of green to shift within; then held it up to the sky so the sun’s rays could shine through and paint her faded cloak a rich emerald color.

Tinley could not tell how long she sat like that, but eventually the spell was broken when a brave squirrel ran up the tree behind her back, cheeks full of nuts ready to store in its home. She stood and brushed the dirt off her shift and cloak, trying to make herself as presentable as possible.

Any humble person who has experienced the undeserved generosity given freely by strangers has known the kind of love that Tinley felt in that moment. It made her heart swell with gladness and her cheeks flush red with humility. And for just a moment—filled with such an emotion—she was able to completely forget the ugliness and cruelty she had seen in the world.

Not knowing how to address the magical creatures of the forest, she struggled to begin, her eyes dropping to her boots and the ground immediately in front of her.

“Thank you for allowing me safe passage through your wood. It is both lovely and unexpected. I also thank you for this beautiful necklace; it feels like hope and I will wear it always.” Tinley bravely raised her eyes to the lower limbs of the trees surrounding her. “I am glad to know there is still kindness in this world, though I am certain I do not deserve it with the things I have done.”

At those words, from the tops of the trees, something began to drift downward, like large snowflakes from the sky. Except the air was far too warm for snow to be falling. When they got closer, Tinley could see that what she originally thought were snowflakes had tiny wings, fluttering almost faster than the eye could see, attached to slender bodies; faces smaller than a toy button now smiled at her. They danced around the girl in an intricate ballet, and then, as suddenly as they arrived, they flew back to the tops of the trees, and again the sound of a choir of handbells tolled through the woods.

With tears in her eyes, Tinley made a soft “oooh” sound of wonder and awe, still staring far above where she stood transfixed. She placed one hand over the green tube which had become slightly warm and with the other dried her eyes. It was time to move on.

* * * *

The Shade was enraged beyond all reason, for the keeper of the death spell had gone into the woods and whatever power guarded the magical forest-within-a-forest would not allow him passage or even entrance. Finding the girl’s trail was going to take him a very long time, if and when she exited the greenwood, which could be from at least a dozen different points. But the Shade was patient, and the prize would be worth the effort. Her scent was strong, and he would find the trail eventually and catch up to her. It was only a matter of time, and he had plenty of that to spare.

* * * *

Tinley managed to save much of her remaining food stores while making her way through the Fair Woods, for there seemed to be plenty of berries, nuts, and wild vegetables planted just off the path through the forest. Water was found in the streams that trickled down from the higher elevations, gently falling over rocks and making its way down towards the river far below. For two days she traveled, feeling safe both day and night, where she would find small natural alcoves under rock ledges to sleep. But that feeling was tempered with the knowledge that this could not last, and eventually she must leave the wood and its protection, with only a vague idea of making it to one of the many towns that had been built around the foot of the mountains.

Where the boundary of the well-kept forest ended was clear, for the vegetation immediately became wild and unruly, the path overgrown with briars and thorns that scraped at her legs and itched her long afterwards. Sturdy hardwoods gave way to something between an overgrown bush and a dwarf tree; gnarled and twisted, they covered the hill as far as the eye could see, growing anywhere they could find purchase. Though they had no natural foliage, most startling was that they were covered almost entirely in a pale green lichen that had taken them over. Making her way west, Tinley found it tough going, constantly bending below the branches, traveling well into dusk as darkness began to fall.

Common sense would tell her to stop for the night and pull her cloak up over her head to rest, but there was something compelling her to move forward, an urgency that she could not explain that pushed her to gain as much distance as she possibly could. But when darkness was complete and she could no longer make her way, she stopped and had such a meager meal as she dared.

It was there, sitting with her back to a lichen-tree and facing the trail, that Tinley noticed an odd glow not far in the distance, a gently pulsing light not ten paces away. She crawled on her hands and knees towards whatever it was, as quietly as she could, bruising her knees on sharp jags of rock that stuck up nearly vertically across her path. From the glowing object there was a frantic rustle of leaves, but the light did not seem to move away from her. A tiny squeak. The scurried, panicked sound of a small animal, unable to escape from what its instincts said was certain doom.

There, laying under a tree among dried and brown leaves, Tinley found an injured and very frightened glowmander. The small reptile had lost a foreleg and the girl could only imagine that some hawk had swooped it up for dinner in its beak, but then pinched too hard, severing a leg and dropping the glowmander from a tremendous height. It was no wonder the small animal could not run away from her, but was trying to burrow under leaves.

“You know, little one, you would be less noticeable if you turned off your glow, right?”

The magical salamander cocked its head at her, perhaps wondering why she had not already killed it for dinner.

“I’m not going to hurt you. In fact, I would like to help.”

Slowly Tinley reached out her hand to the glowmander like she would a stray dog, carefully building trust that she meant no harm. For its part, the small creature shied a little away, but became curious regarding the open palm extended to it. Gently the young girl lifted the wounded animal—no longer than her hand’s-breath stretched wide—and looked for other obvious injuries. Finding none, she stroked it’s green back and spoke soothing words.

“You’re going to be okay. A little lopsided for now, but you’re going to be fine. Would you like to come with me? It’s been very lonely and I could use the company.”

At either her words or her touch, it was impossible to know which, the light of the glowmander radiated even brighter and warmer in her hand, strength seeming to return to it with each moment. It looked at her with slightly bulging black eyes and as it nuzzled into her hand, the girl felt the recent cut and scrapes on her palm grow warm and tingle and all but the worst of the wounds faded until they nearly disappeared.

With that gift of healing a pact was made between the two, an unspoken agreement that they would do their best to protect and care for one another. In a solemn voice worthy of the moment, the small runaway announced to the glowmander, “My name is Tinley.” She was certain that the magical salamander had a name but was equally certain that it would not be able to tell her what it was. So she chose the first, if slightly unoriginal, thing that came to her mind. “I will call you Mandy.”

Tinley knotted the cuff of her dress sleeve, making a small pouch near her wrist and encouraged the glowmander to nestle there in safety. With what might have been a contented look, it curled up as directed and fell into a peaceful sleep. Tinley soon joined it, resting before the dawn came. At first light she worked to make her way through the dense and eerie vegetation.

Over the next two days, Tinley and Mandy fought their way through the twisted lichen forest, over several narrow streams that had carved small channels through hills, traveling upwards far more often than down. In unexpected places they found great beauty: tall purple flowers on long stems growing out of rocks, moss that sparkled with the dew like diamonds, a carpet of yellow blossoms that kept low to the ground. They crossed paths with many other animals: great spotted deer, magical living wisps shaped like dandelion poofs that floated from tree to tree in schools like fish in the water, an abundance of all kinds of insects, and snakes—but like her real mother always said, they were more scared of her than she was of them, and they skittered away off the path into the undergrowth.

The only thing to frighten the pair was when a giant boar, making a tremendous racket, crashed through the forest and stood not twenty paces in front of them. It was panting and out of breath, its tusks wet and dripping with saliva, and the hair on the ridge of its back stood on end like a bristled brush. It pawed the ground with sharp hooves, muscles rippling underneath its short, red coat. But it did not charge. Its eyes, at first filled with rage, seemed to clear a bit as it focused on the young girl.

Tinley calmed her breathing and concentrated on what she might do to avoid being gored by the wild animal. Without warning, her mind flashed back to the crane and once again she saw it gasping for air, the broad strokes of its wings slowing and becoming erratic as it struggled to breath, finally ceasing altogether; then the bird plummeting to the river below, already dead. With absolute certainty, Tinley knew there was a way to save herself from the boar: she could take its life by causing its windpipe to collapse, leave it dead on the ground while she and Mandy fled to safety.

Shaking the thoughts and image from her head, she said aloud, “No. Not that. Never again.” The glowmander warmed inside her sleeve, and Tinley was certain there was another way to escape from harm.

Mentally she tried to project calm and peace, trying to read what might be in the boar’s mind as it considered her. The edges of her vision became fuzzy, as when awakening and remembering a dream, and her sight seemed to narrow to a tunnel where all that existed was the wild animal. A hazy shimmering surrounded the beast, like the air in the height of summer. The girl had no idea how long she and the boar stood still like that, but eventually the hair on its back flattened and it turned and trotted back into the woods in the direction from which it had come.

“Mandy. That was terrifying.” The girl worked to calm her breathing again before once again resuming her journey.

Without further incident, the pair then crossed through acres of farmland and livestock pastures before finding their way onto the cobbled stone streets of Kyr-sur-Lyn. The town sat at the foot of the mountains, the peaks that had captured Tinley’s heart and imagination, seen from the back door of Mother Matty’s.

* * * *

The Shade had picked up a faint trail of the death-caster, but either it was different now—fainter and lighter, with a peculiar mossy scent—or it was much older than it should have been. Confused and hungry, he became distracted with the scent of a wild boar, certainly a worthy opponent. Upon finding the animal, wandering aimlessly, the Shade found it to be confused and docile, not even showing fear at its presence. Without the fright and the battle, this would be an empty meal. Instead, the Shade chose to track down a young doe that dodged and fled through the forest, showing a proper amount of horror. When he was done feasting on spirit and soul, no flesh had been consumed; all that was left, sprawled lifeless near a fallen ash tree, was the barren husk of the deer for scavengers to feed upon.

Several lifetimes ago, the Shade had been a man who made his livelihood in trading in secrets, dark knowledge that people paid to keep hidden or paid to learn. He practiced his craft in the shadows, lurking in the dark and skulking behind buildings, watching lovers’ trysts and money exchange hands to purchase goods and services which could not be bought openly on the streets in broad daylight. He met people who had been left so empty that their desires had turned into desperate aberrant needs that could no longer be satisfied with conventional comforts of the common man. He became numb to the depravity of humans and believed there was nothing left that would shock him.

Until, the rumor is told, he witnessed something—accounts differ on the specific horror depending on who tells the tale—that broke his spirit and forever twisted his thoughts. Whether he was betrayed by a faithless lover or unwittingly caused the massacre of an entire village, he became corrupted and that allowed an evil to come to him in his sleep. The darkness offered to free him from his body, and that night the man became less physical than a human and more corporeal than a shadow. He became something in between: a shade, an undead embodiment of endless hunger that crept along, sniffling and shuffling through years of torment—and for this it hated the living and despised the light.

It was this menacing atrocity that flitted unseen through the night and hid in the dark during the day that followed Tinley’s trail, closer now than it had ever been.

The Shade came to the edge of a town as evening fell and stopped in the shadows of two large, low pinyon pines. He watched and rested, and waited for the village to go to sleep, as villages always did. Then he would make his move.

* * * *

Kyr-sur-Lyn was built into a valley tucked up against the side of the mountain, with a small creek splitting the village into two halves, crossed by a wooden bridge wide enough for two wagons to easily pass. The buildings were different than those at either Tinley’s home or Hazel’s Chimney, with brightly painted shutters in a rainbow of colors and steeply pitched slate roofs; many homes already had a fire burning as the evening brought damp air, much cooler than what Tinley was used to.

It was closing time and on the main streets, running along either side of the flowing water, folks were busy winding up business for the day: sweeping doorsteps, taking down tents, shuttering windows, loading wagons with small livestock and bundles of goods, all the while shouting at their young workers to be faster at their jobs. Dogs chased chickens through the streets and in and out of the legs of donkeys drawing carts loaded with merchant’s wares. No one had any time to pay attention to the young girl arriving in their town.

Up until now the weather on her travels had been mostly cloudy with occasional sun, but in the late afternoon a severe storm had built up on the horizon, dark clouds and flashes of lightning in the distance promising a downpour. Tinley knew she needed to find shelter, but had only the vaguest idea of trying to find a place that would trade scullery work for a small meal and a corner to sleep in.

Entering town she passed first a stable, scruffy young boys shoveling hay and preparing evening feed, and then a small gazebo dedicated to some god that she did not recognize: a bronze-cast wolf wearing a purple mantle and looking vigilant over the town. Even seated on its haunches, the wolf’s shoulders were above Tinley’s head. The wolf did not notice her, but from the vantage point atop the peak of the small pavilion, unseen to the young traveler, was a hawk with keen, bright topaz eyes. Soon after the girl walked past, the bird flew from its perch, no time to waste.

Dodging the late afternoon mayhem of main street, she made for the first tavern that didn’t make her skin crawl, the Three-Eyed Toad.

Tinley pushed the door open and stepped inside, assaulted by smells and sounds—pipe smoke, spilled cider, burnt meat, breaking glass, a roaring fire, drunken men, and tavern workers shouting orders over it all—that were completely foreign to her.

She stepped inside without a clear idea of the sight she presented. Tinley was filthy dirty from head to toe, her yellow dress now faded to a dull color, but so covered in mud it would have been difficult to tell. Her woolen hose had a hundred tears in it, thorns and briers had snagged and ripped it to shreds, her boots caked in dirt. The scars from the whip were barely visible beneath layers of grime. A cloak and small pack, nearly empty without food enough for even another day, slung over her shoulder; her hair matted with bits of leaves and pine needles stuck throughout.

Several of the patrons, as well as the bartender, immediately took notice, staring at her with eyes that sized Tinley up with malevolent intent. The best of them saw her indentured, no more than a slave for free labor. Others quickly had designs that were less charitable.

Alone and wide-eyed, she was a lamb and they were the butchers. It would be a footrace to see who got to her first.

Before any of them could push back their chairs and get to their feet, a different sort of fellow hobbled over, leaning on a short cane with a large, curved ball end under his hand, speaking in a loud commanding voice before he ever reached Tinley.

“There you are my little bird! Here I have been waiting for you for at least two hours, and you’ve nothing better to do than to be rolling around in the woods like a grodin’s waldkind. Take a look at you!”

The man grabbed her by the elbow and, favoring his left leg, directed her to a table in the corner by a large bow window overlooking the street, saying in a hushed tone so only she could hear, “Come with me. Now. If you don’t wish to fall victim to a fate worse than death.”

Tinley, scared worse than she had been facing down the wild boar, hesitantly took steps with the odd man. She sat down at the table opposite him, clutching onto her few belongings, and snuck a hand under her sleeve to feel the comfort of Mandy, warm and curled up in the knotted cuff. She looked up at the man but dared not look him in the eyes.

He was clean-shaven, featuring a large nose and thin lips, and bald but for a ring of gray hair that encircled the back of his head. With deep bags under his eyes, he looked like he had squinted in dim light for far too many hours. Perhaps a scholar, then? Except that Tinley could see that his rough and weathered hands were deeply calloused, much more so than Mother Matty’s, and she noticed he wore boots of high quality, but scuffed and worn down by years and miles of what must have been hard travel. He settled back in his chair and took stock of the girl.

“You look to be starving half to death. What can I get for you?”

Tinley looked down at the table and did not answer, for whatever this man wanted, she could not give him.

He raised his hand to flag down a waitress. “A warm loaf, cheese and laitin spread, if you would, please. And a fresh press to drink for my young companion.”

By now the other patrons had returned to their drink and conversation, ignoring Tinley and forgetting whatever designs they had made. Arguments broke out and died, glass and pewter tankards banged against tabletops, malts and stouts spilling to the floor. Many times she heard “goblin” and “legion” mentioned in raised voices.

Once the serving girl had walked away to fill the order, the stranger turned his attention back to Tinley. “Introductions might help break the ice, so to speak. You may call me Thorn. And you would be?”

In a quiet voice, barely more than a whisper, “Tinley.”

“Well, Tinley, you’re a special one, make no mistake. Even without the token of the folk of the Fair Woods hanging at your throat, I would have to be completely blind not to recognize a spirit-kin just from the presence that surrounds you.” He cleared his throat and added, “What I can’t figure out is what you are doing here alone?”

The girl did not answer, but sat in tight-lipped silence. Eventually the food and drink came, and Thorn ordered them both a bowl of vegetable soup.

“Young lady, let me tell you what I know. There is something dark that pursues you, something worse than the most evil of men in this bar. It hunts you for who you are and you are not going to make it much further without help. And I can offer you some of that. I have … some special gifts to share.”

At this Tinley finally looked the old man in the eye. “Gifts?”

Leaning forward, in a conspiratorial voice even softer than before, he told her, “I am a wizard.”

Her eyes wider, Tinley shook her head. “A wizard? You look nothing like a wizard from all the tales I have been told.”

“Ah, you would like some proof?” Tinley nodded.

Thorn looked down at the food that had arrived and picked up some of the laitin spread, made of a nut that had been pounded and mixed with butter to make a sort of paste. Between his fingers he rolled some of the spread, about the size of a marble, and began to pinch it here and there, making a head, then a tail, and then three small appendages. Finally, the wizard blew on his creation.

In the palm of his hand was a perfect miniature, quarter-sized reproduction of Mandy, Tinley’s glowmander, briefly animated to life with the breath of the magician as it looked around and then nuzzled into his palm, before returning to a simple, grainy gray spread for the sliced bread.

“Do you believe me now?”

Vigorously, Tinley nodded at Thorn and in her face and body language he could see that she began to trust him.

“Tinley, I am going to help you. Once we finish eating here, I am going to pay for a room and a bath for the night. You will get a good night’s sleep, but I must warn you. Under no circumstances are you to leave your room before the morning sun clears the tops of the trees outside your window. Do you understand?”

With her mouth full of food, Tinley nodded.

“Good. I will make sure that you are not disturbed, but you must stay in your room.” Still chewing some bread, he pointed to her sleeve with his spoon. “Would you like to tell me who you have with you?”

Very slowly Tinley pulled back the cuff of her dress to reveal her glowmander. “This is Mandy. I found her hurt in the forest and she needed my help.”

“I would say that perhaps you need each other’s help.” He paused before asking, “Where are you off to, Tinley?”

“I don’t really know. But I had to leave the woman I worked for. I didn’t really have much of a plan. But please believe me, I had to leave.”

“Oh, indeed, I do believe you. Perhaps you would travel lighter if you told me your heart’s burden that you carry?”

So it was that Tinley told this stranger her story, beginning with her time arriving at Hazel’s Chimney, the crane, Mother Matty and what she would have Tinley do, running away, the bear, and her journey through the woods. The last part was most difficult to remember, for it seemed too dream-like to be real, the sounds, noises, songs and wisps; but for the necklace she wore, she would not believe it herself.

At the description of the weaver and her demands, Thorn scowled and pounded his fist. “Ludicrous! The woman was feeble-minded or demented or both! I would sooner encourage a new-born babe to pick up a sharp knife!”

He considered her carefully before adding, “It is good that left that place. However, you may have unknowingly gone from the frying pan and into the fire. Are you aware that you are being …” The wizard considered his words carefully, not wanting to panic the girl. “…followed?”

Tinley shook her head. Then thought for a moment, tilting her head to one side

as she remembered the urgency she felt each day. “Not really. But I have felt pushed onward, like I needed to keep moving and could not rest, though I have nowhere to be.”

“From this window, I watched as you entered the town—”

“Really?” Tinley had been raised by her parents to be deferential towards her elders, but recent events had worn away her polite reserve and replaced it with a measure of skepticism. With uncharacteristic brashness she continued her interruption. “Because when I arrived the streets were packed with merchants and customers finishing their business for the day. I don’t see how you could pick me out in all that.”

An embarrassed look came over Thorn as he settled his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. “It’s true. You have me. But please understand, I’ve a bit of paranoia about me. So I have set certain watchers about town that let me know if anything of concern might be coming my way.”

“And we concerned you?”

“It was not you, but the thing that pursues you that most worried me.”

At these words, Tinley felt a shiver go through Mandy and for the first time the girl began to understand her peril.

“You are being hunted by a hunger that stays in the shadows, that grows stronger in the dark. How long he has followed I cannot guess, but he is here. You need escape to a place where he cannot follow.”

Over the next few minutes the wizard told Tinley of a strange place—not too far away from Kyr-sur-Lyn—one with a magic pool, three sisters, and an enchanted bridge. “It’s about a day’s journey from here, partway up the mountains in the northern pass.” He gave her directions and landmarks to follow that would take her there, making sure she committed them to memory.

“Will you show me the way?”

“No, little bird. I am afraid I can no longer make that climb at my age and with a lame leg. I will hold you back and speed is of the essence tomorrow if you are to get to the pool before dusk. This is most important, because your enemy will not cease looking for you anytime soon.”

To his eyes, Tinley suddenly looked smaller and more fragile sitting at the table across from him. “But if I am able, I will come find you later.”

The girl began to feel sick at the thought of trying to elude the unseen hunter. “What if I fail to escape? What if I have nothing to offer the pool and it rejects me? I have no weapon and cannot fight such a thing.”

Outside the window, night had fallen, streetlights had been extinguished, and the darkness was complete. The few patrons left were emptying their bombers and howlers, throwing coins down on the tables. A few cast a side glance at the strange pair before stumbling out.

“Tinley,” the wizard began, his voice unexpectedly full of affection for this young runaway girl he had just met. “You have other skills and advantages that you do not know that will help; look for aid in unlikely places and don’t be afraid to accept it. As you have with me. I have a notion,” he winked at her, “that your traveling companion may be of some help when judging the character of strangers. Trust her.”

He sat up straight and cleared his throat. “Little bird, it is late and you have come a long way. I see your eyes getting sleepy, so let’s get you settled.” Thorn escorted her to the room he had reserved. A hot bath was waiting.

“Remember, do not leave until the sun tops the trees. Clear?”

“Yes. And thank you for everything. You are kind, even if you look nothing like a wizard.”

In front of the door, he gave her a final offering, a wizard’s blessing—a priceless gift not lightly bestowed. With his palm on her head and a rough thumb tracing circles on her forehead, “May your feet be sure and your path be clear. The sun shine bright and your heart know no fear. Be strong and brave and may the waters of the pool judge you kindly.” Then he closed the door and listened for her to turn the lock.

Tinley nearly fell asleep in the bath as Mandy curled up on the bed and kept watch over her. Eventually she dried off and got beneath the covers, the glowmander softly pulsing by her cheek, and fell fast asleep, feeling safe for the first time in a very long while.

In the morning she did as Thorn had instructed, and she and Mandy waited under the quilt until the sun was clearly visible over fir trees in the distance. She got dressed and made a small meal of tidbits from her bag.

When she left the room, to her amazement the floor outside her door was scorched black and the door itself bore angry claw marks, though she had heard nothing during the night. The doorlatch itself was misshapen, as if melted by a hot fire. Underneath the scratches on the outside of her door, Tinley could just make out a complicated rune etched in the wood that she was certain had not been there the night before. She hurried down the stairs, afraid to stay any longer on the landing that had witnessed so much violence.

As she reached the ground level which opened onto the tavern’s main dining room, the floor swept of the filth of food, drink, and other disgusting fluids from the evening before and now strewn with fresh wood shavings, Tinley was keenly aware of the bustle of workers preparing for the day ahead. Fresh linens for new customers, bread to bake, a spitted hog to tend over a low fire, beef stew in the large fireplace hearth cauldron, and casks of beer, ale, and cheese to be rolled into the kitchen and behind the bar. As she headed towards the door largely unnoticed, Tinley heard a crash upstairs followed by an ear-piercing scream, boots running, and sobs of hysteria. Something horrible had happened to someone.

Instinctively, Tinley knew it had been her fault, because she was quite certain that the thing that was pursuing her had taken out its frustrations at being thwarted from its darkest desire on some innocent dweller in the tavern. Be it worker or guest, it did not matter: she was to blame just as certainly as she was for the death of the crane. Tinley would never see the hollowed husk of the rugged trapper, lifeless on the bed, his flesh untouched but nonetheless empty of anything that makes us human. The guilt would follow her all the same.

With the leftover food from her dinner the night before and tears in her eyes, Tinley used the confusion and chaos to quietly slip out of the tavern on shaky legs, Mandy glowing soft and warm in her sleeve, comforting the girl the only way it knew how. By now, alarm bells were echoing through the village warning the vendors and townspeople that evil had visited their homes overnight, though no one knew what shape and form that devilry had taken. Shouts and cries rapidly spread through the streets as the news traveled faster than a horse could run.

For her part, Tinley did the only thing she could: she walked away from Kyr-sur-Lyn, and began to make the journey up the lower parts of the mountain to the Sisters of the Pool.

From a second-floor window in the Three-Eyed Toad, the wizard watched the young girl’s progress as she safely made her way out of the town, her steps quick with the urgency he had tried to convey. Raising a palm to the window, he whispered, “Godspeed, little bird,” then eased into a chair by his bed, allowing his eyes to shut for just a moment for some much-needed rest.

End Part 2