Empress of Clouds - Chapter 17

                     

Chapter 17

           

              

            They could not have ridden for more than a half an hour before Dowbreth stopped his dark steed.  As the giant faerie reined in the horse, Tolian could hear the strange, malevolent voice almost shouting from the bag.  She was certain she was not imagining it.  A string of foul curses and epithets colored the mysterious cries.  “Fool.  The druid-bitch still follows.  It’s the damned sword.  She’s using the sword.”

            Dowbreth looked at the bag for a moment and considered the words coming from it.  Did a look of doubt briefly flash across his face?  She could not be sure.  He brought his gaze to Tolian and narrowed his eyes.  In a quick motion, he shoved her off the horse and sent her tumbling to the frozen ground.

            Tolian was caught completely by surprise.  She hit the ground hard and was instantly winded by the fall.  Stunned and confused.  Then Dowbreth was on top of her, straddling her prostrate form.  He hit her hard in the face with the back of his hand.  The princess cried out weakly.  “Quiet, wench,” the faerie said.

            She lay there staring up at him.  She was as afraid as she had ever been.  She could read the threat in his eyes, and knew her own eyes shone with fear and a soft, but urgent plea.  There was only the two of them and the moment.  The awful string of curses and unintelligible ravings had ceased coming from the bag.  It was quiet.

            With great violence, the Elven warlord jerked Tolian’s gown up above her waist.  She was frozen in terror.  He spread apart her legs and crawled over her, bringing his face right next to hers.  He whispered coarsely, “Do you want me to do this, Princess?”

            She shook her head.  She was shaking and trembling.

            “Then you must do something for me,” said Dowbreth.  “That sounds fair now, doesn’t it, O Beautiful One?”  The villain paused.  “You must stop your girlfriend from following you,” he commanded.  “At once.”

            Tolian had no idea what the faerie was talking about.  How could she stop Brythia from following them?  Confusion now joined fear manifesting in her body language.

            “You see,” explained Dowbreth, “your girlfriend is using the Moonsword to track us.  But, the sword will obey your command.  And you must tell it to stop.  Do you understand?”

            “I’ve lost my powers, remember?” she said.

            “Not quite,” Dowbreth corrected her.  “Your power is being blocked; its outward expression is being absorbed, but you still control you inner powers, child.  You can still control your sword.  And you must, do so now, or....” He let his lust-filled stare complete his sentence. 

            It had never been clear to her exactly how she was able to do any of the preternatural things she could.  Usually she tapped into her “powers” without thinking;[KR]Never use virtually to describe an action.        she nevers       she never had to concentrate on them.  The sword.  Her connection to it had always been unconscious, instinctual.  She had no idea how to begin to tell the sword not to follow them.  “I don’t know how,” she said, fear dripping from every word.

            Dowbreth looked down at her with scorn, “That’s too bad, princess...”  He leaned back a little and began to unfasten his belt.

            “Please no,” she pleaded.  “I’m sorry.  Please just give me a minute.  I’ll try to do it.”  She hated herself for begging, but her fear was complete.  She was afraid for herself, but also for Brythia.  What if her beloved did track them and confront Dowbreth?  Tolian knew that the druidess would be no match for the Warlord of the Sidhe.  He would kill her and continue on his way.  No, there was no hope of rescue anyway. 

            Dowbreth completed the unfastening of his belt buckle, but still he hung a little away from her.  “Do it now.”

            She closed her eyes and attempted to steady her frantic breathing [KR]You can’t summon composure.      and [KR]      compose herself.  She pictured the weapon in her mind’s eye.  The long blade, the purple sheen, and the hilt, which fit her hands so perfectly.  The image came easily to her mind.  Her sword.  Yes, there it is, she thought.  That it was a living thing of its own right, she did not doubt.  There were times when she could sense its emotions clearly.

            She formed a mental command and visualized herself imparting it to the Moonsword, “Do not follow me; don’t help Brythia track me.”  She felt love radiating from the sword and was warmed by its happy glow.  Then she heard Dowbreth shout at her, “Now.”

            She was shaken.  Fear swirled inside her, yet the sword seemed to be holding their connection fast.  As her fear grew, it seemed the sword’s presence in her mind strengthened.  In terror she shouted, “Stop, you must not follow me.  Do not follow me.”

            She felt the lunar blade’s confusion and its own reflective fear.  The clear impression that the mystical weapon was not happy about her command came to her.  She heard herself screaming her final order, “Do as I say.”

            The vision of the Moonsword faded, and her own harsh words echoed in her ears.  She opened her eyes.  Dowbreth still hovered over her, too close.  His red eyes burned scornfully down upon her.

            “Is it done?” he asked.

            Tolian lowered her eyes.  “Yes,” she replied.  She hated the meekness in her voice.

            The faerie nodded as a crooked smile played on his pale and scarred face.  He reached over and pulled her gown back down below her waist.

            “Good girl,” he said.  “If you keep obeying my orders, our relationship will go well.”

            There was such power and authority in his tone, such superiority.

            “Come,” he said lifting her up off the ground, “We must continue on our way.”

           

            They rode on as night ceded its place to morning.  They traveled now over paved roads again, traversing forests and fields.  Tolian was surprised to see a farmer driving a cart full of winter cabbages on the roadway, though she was certain that she was not as surprised as he was.  Her eyes caught his—saw his shock as the faerie steed raced past him.  Could he see the despair in her eyes?

            The snow began falling shortly after that.  The first few flakes slipped from the sky as a gentle flurry, but the pace quickened to a steady snowfall.  The landscape became a white blur to Tolian in her position in front of the faerie on the dark warhorse. For the first time in her life she was helpless, carried beyond her will towards some unspeakable doom.  A great numbness took hold of her.  She had her fear, but that was all; it was clear that there was no hope for her.  No one could help her, let alone find her.   [KR]No, your readers will hate this. Better to have Tolian ask if this is what it means to be a woman.

      Is this what it really means to be a woman? Are we weak and powerless?  Are we to be preyed upon and victimized without recourse, a plaything for the strong?  She shivered, as much from fear as from the cold.  No, I can’t accept this.  We are so much more, she thought, but her fear threatened to overtake her.  She fought hard against it.

            After a while, some part of her brain reminded her that she was a warrior, that as such she had known fear many times in the past.  She had fought her first battle as a young boy, no older than thirteen.  He was terrified out of his mind.  His father taught him the warrior’s mantra before the fighting and he held it firmly in his mind, “Fear is for my enemy.  Fear is defeat, and the forerunner of defeat.  I will hold no fear.”  The warrior’s mantra.

            She tried it now, gradually bringing it around her mind: Fear is for my enemy.  Fear is defeat, and the forerunner of defeat.  I will hold no fear.  Fear is for my enemy.  Fear is defeat, and the forerunner of defeat.  I will hold no fear.  Fear is for my enemy.  Fear is defeat, and the forerunner of defeat.  I will hold no fear.

            She moved her lips in a secret whisper with the mantra.  It was helping.  Slowly, her panic diminished.  The slightest trace of hope grew in her heart.  She would not be this weak and helpless thing.  She would wait and watch.  She would study her enemy and his mysterious speaking bag.  She would be patient, resolute, and calm.  She would find a way.  Use your perceived weakness against him, she thought.  He thinks he has me beaten.  Perhaps, I can determine how he has robbed me of the use of my powers, and restore them.  Above all, she told herself, I will not give up.  I will kill this villain and return to my Brythia’s side.  Somehow.

            The snow [KR]Surge means to rise and fall in a pattern, so the snow can’t do what you’ve written here.      fell, a force of heaven.  Even the dark faerie stallion was having trouble making progress through the fierce snowstorm.  With a curse, Dowbreth reined in his horse and slowly guided it to the protection of a copse of tall but bent evergreens just off the road.  He dismounted and lifted Tolian off the saddle and set her standing next to him.  He methodically tied the rope from her bound wrists to a branch about ten feet in the air, leaving her, once again, with enough slack to move a few feet away from the tree, but little more.

            “Wait here,” he barked, as he turned his attention to unfastening the strange, but now quiet, sack from his saddle.  “I will just be a moment.”

            Then taking the bag, he disappeared into the heavy snow.

            Tolian looked around her.  The snow was really coming down now, placing a coating of white over the entire landscape.  The tree branches were laden with almost five inches of snow, bowing them under the frosty weight.  Despite this, however, the canopy made by the snow-covered pines protected both her and Dowbreth’s horse well from the precipitation.  Still, it was cold; even with the heavy cloak wrapped around her, her ears hurt, as did her feet, which were afforded almost no protection by her delicate slippers.

            She looked up at the rope, her leash, as it were.  Instantly, an idea entered her head.  Yes, it would be bad if it didn’t work, probably very bad.  She drew back a little as the fear played about the edges of her mind.  Thoughts of Dowbreth touching her.

            She had little time to decide.  It was now or never.  She looked quickly around her and set a suspicious glance at the faerie horse.  Yes, she had to try.  It could well be her only chance.  Perhaps, she thought, Brythia has conjured up this storm to give me just such an opportunity.  Her fear came back with a rush.  A quick look up at the branch again, and she grabbed the rope and began to pull herself up.

            She whispered the warrior’s mantra as she did so.  “Fear is for my enemy.  Fear is defeat, and the forerunner of defeat.  I will hold no fear.  Fear is my enemy.  Fear is defeat, and the forerunner of defeat.  I will hold no fear.”

            It was tough going, arduously pulling herself up the tree trunk, and using her legs to help her.  She struggled, again cursing her weakness, but using her frustration to fuel her efforts all the more.

            Hurry, girl, she told herself.  Hurry.

            At last, she had reached the branch, and with great difficulty she managed to pull herself up to it.  Once there, she fought her way over to a branch on the other side of the tree, about four feet higher, the whole process made exceedingly challenging by her securely tied wrists.  She wrenched herself into a crouched position, perched quite perilously on the narrow branch.  She slowed her heavy breathing and attempted to calm herself.

            Fear is for my enemy.  Fear is defeat, or the forerunner of defeat.  I will hold no fear.

            She waited, peeking around the tree.  She peered as best she could through the snow.  Visibility was poor.  She would have to keep her vigilance up.  Timing was going to be everything.

            She kept the mantra going through her head, but she no longer allowed herself to vocalize it, lest she give her position away.  She was not as well protected from the snow as she had been, and she could feel the flakes quickly accumulating on her head and shoulders.  Her hands were bitterly cold.  She looked again warily at the horse.  It seemed unconcerned.  Tolian had not freed herself from her bindings so it made no alarm.  She hoped it would have no time to give Dowbreth a clue to her whereabouts until it was too late.

            Come on.  Come on, she urged in her thoughts.

            Doubts came again and she fought them back.  “I will hold no fear...”

            Suddenly the faerie’s massive figure emerged from the blinding snow.  At first, his countenance showed no surprise that he did not see her at once as his great steed hid most of the site from vision.  Then Tolian saw his eyes grow wide, and then narrow.  Now he was close enough.  Now, it was time.

            She made a loop in the rope and jumped down at the giant.

            “Fear is defeat, and the forerunner of defeat....”

            She just managed to get the loop of rope around his neck as she slapped down into his back.  She pulled with everything she was worth.

            Clearly, the faerie was not expecting any such attack, and he was ill prepared for one.  At first, she thought it might just work, as she watched him gag and drop his bag on the snow-covered ground.  Tolian put all of her concentration into pulling the rope as hard as she possibly could.  “Die, you bastard, die,” she shouted.

            Once, however, Dowbreth realized exactly what was happening, the situation quickly changed.  With an easy shrug, Tolian went flying off the faerie’s back, and hit the ground hard, despite landing in a small snow bank.  The air rushed out of her lungs, and the rope jerked her wrists so painfully she was sure one was instantly broken.  And there was Dowbreth leaning over her.

            “Will you never learn, girl?” He growled.  He pulled her up by the rope and punched her in the eye.  The pain was excruciating.  He dropped her back down into the snow, and stroked his own neck.

            “I see that I cannot secure your cooperation without using my leverage.  Very well.”

Empress of Clouds - Chapter 16

                       

Chapter 16

             

            Brythia examined Kiliordes’s leg under the light of the torch Delorick held behind her.  A nasty cut, some abrasions, and probably a slight sprain, she diagnosed.  She washed the area out with a little water Pagryus offered her.  Not too bad—it certainly could have been a lot worse.  Pretty much just the leg and a knot on his head.  No concussion.  Still, she felt guilty over the incident.  Clearly, she had been reckless driving them on at an unsafe speed in the dark of night.  They were lucky that Kiliordes wasn’t more seriously injured in the fall.  She removed a sprig of elfroot from her pouch and rubbed it over the wound.  “That should help with the pain,” Brythia explained to him.

            “Elfroot?” Kiliordes asked.

            “Ah, yes, so you remember that as well,” commented the druidess.  “Though, as I recall, healing never was your specialty.  How’s that?  Any better yet?”

            “Yes,” he answered.  “It feels cool and soothing.”

            “Good,” she said, pulling his pant leg back down.  “Can you ride a little further?  At the very least, we need to find some place to set up camp.”

            “Absolutely,” he answered, “I’m fine, really, no problem.  Here, um, Pagyrus, give me a hand.”

            “Of course,” responded the pilgrim.  “Up you go.”  Pagyrus extended Kiliordes his hand.

             “Easy does it,” cautioned Brythia as Kilordes was lifted to his feet.  He staggered a little as he put his weight on his leg.  Clearly, the sprain was worse than she had thought.

            Brythia was torn.  She wrestled with the guilt, yet was ready to get back on her horse and course through the thick, stygian woods to find her beloved.  Her mind churned with strife and uncertainty before settling on an answer to her internal conflict.  “Look,” she said, “this is too dangerous for you.”

            She met the gaze of each of them with a tilt of her head.  Delorick, in particular, shot her an extremely indignant look.  Ah yes, the male pride, she thought.  “I can’t let you travel any further,” she continued.  “Especially under these conditions.  Follow me at your own pace at daybreak.  It’s just too dangerous in these thick woods.  This game trail isn’t safe to ride.  But I know we are close to them and I can’t let them slip away.”  She got to her feet and handed the elf-root to Findelbres, who numbly took the weed from her.  She walked over to Whisper.

            “Brythia, don’t do this,” begged Findelbres.

            “Please listen to reason,” Delorick said.

            She slipped into the saddle.  “Gentlemen, thank you, but it is reason I’m listening to.  I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”  She urged her faerie mount to tread the black trail once again.  The way seemed even darker than earlier, but she did not need to see.  Whisper maneuvered the narrow stretch with ease, holding a speedy gait.  Faerie horses had the highly valuable ability to provide their riders with a smooth, steady ride despite rough terrain or other obstacles.  Neither the nighttime nor the thorny brush along the trail interfered with this skill.  Nor did Brythia require light to sense which way the Moonsword pulled her arm with urgency.

            She was hardly settled fully in her saddle when she saw the flicker of a fire.  A small campfire, she discerned, off the trail to her right, partially concealed by a small grove of white birch.  The Moonsword almost jerked her off her horse as she slowed the beast, directing her further down the narrow path, but she had to investigate the camp.  She halted Whisper and dismounted.  Holding the sword before her, she cautiously approached the fire.  She could see no sign of anyone around the flames.  She cast her gaze warily behind and around her.  No one.  She listened to the winter’s quiet and the crackle of the fire.  No other sound disturbed the chill silence.  Then a pop as one of the burning logs sent a small shower of sparks into the air.  Startled, she held still, then furtively crept closer.  Shadows danced on the trees, cast there by the fire’s whimsy.

            She scanned the campsite in the ample lighting the fire provided.  Though there were no signs of anyone there now, clearly someone had left in quite a hurry, only moments before.  Her skilled eyes caught the marks of a woman’s slipper and prints much, much larger than any human could possibly make.  Signs of a hasty departure.  A half-eaten turkey leg lay discarded near the fire.

            “Damn, they’re gone,” she said out loud.

            A whiff of perfume caught her nose.  Tolian’s perfume.

            She ran back to Whisper.  She bounded up into the saddle.

            “Tolian,” she shouted and kicked the great mare.  With the Moonsword outstretched before her and pulsing with an anxious vibration, she urged the faerie equine forward at a terrific speed.

            Her heart was pounding and nervous energy coursed through her veins.  Her thoughts raced.  She was so close now she knew it.  She tried to focus on the Moonsword, but scarcely needed to.  There was nowhere else for them to go, no offshoots, no more off-trail glades or meadows.  Just the trail which was getting even narrower, yet impossibly her horse galloped unconcerned.  The occasional branch or thorn vine tore at her face, but she considered such assaults as mere annoyances.  She did have to be certain to grasp the magick sword with the firmest grip or it would have pulled itself out of her hand and flown towards Tolian of its own power.

            Occasionally, she yelled Tolian’s name at the top of her lungs.  Her shouts seemed to fall behind her, so fast was her pace.  Nonetheless, she strained to hear a reply.  Her heart begged to hear Tolian’s husky voice echoing from the darkness ahead of her.  She heard nothing.

            As she rode, she could feel the moisture in the air increase and the temperature rise slightly as clouds moved in, creating a gray ceiling high above her.  It would snow sometime that day.  She was still a good enough weather witch to know that.  The thought of snow did not particularly trouble her.  With the Moonsword doing the actual tracking, and Whisper handling the travel with little instruction from her, the impeding snowfall should be little worse than a nuisance.  Certainly, it was nothing to be concerned with, and she did not allow such thoughts to occupy her mind for long.  Nothing did.  Except, of course, for her poor Tolian. 

            “Tolian,” she intoned softly.  “Hold on, my love, I’m coming.  Just hold on.”

            Images of Tolian, powerless and in the clutches of that villain, prompted her to urge Whisper to undertake even greater speed down the now twisting game path.  She was still baffled as to how Dowbreth had managed the whole thing.  Tolian was the epitome of power, of strength.  She was a goddess.  How was it possible, even for a faerie, to rob her of her vast strength?  From the evidence she had seen at the hastily abandoned campsite, it was clear that Tolian was no longer unconscious.  Yet, perhaps the drug the faerie warlord had used had somehow blunted or neutralized her divinity.  Perhaps, but the Moonsword seemed still quite focused on her trail.  It was a mystery to her.  Brythia was tormented by this question and by her imagination, which pictured her love at the mercy of the enigmatic Elven knight.

            “Faster, Whisper, faster,” she said to her steed.

            Fatigue began to tug at her after a couple more hours of the pursuit had passed, but not enough to check her manic resolve.  She could not let her concentration flag now else the lunar sword, which guided her, would slip from her weary grip.  It seemed that even the incredible speed of her horse could scarce keep up with the blade’s urgency. 

            Then it happened.  Suddenly the eager vitality seemed to diminish from the Moonsword’s vibrant pull.  Brythia sensed a deep confusion from the otherworldly weapon.  Something was wrong.  Uncertainty.  A sense of shock, of loss, of pain.  It became quite clear to Brythia that the sword was suddenly at a loss.  She reined Whisper to a much slower pace.  Perhaps, she surmised, the sword just needed a moment to recollect its bearings, but she truly felt there was a more significant cause for the blade’s behavior.

            The reduction of speed did nothing to aid the Moonsword.  It was now inert in her hand.  She attempted to mentally communicate with it again.  She quieted, then opened her mind to the sword and “listened” for any impressions she might receive.  There was almost no effort necessary.  The Moonsword was sending a strong signal.  An overwhelming feeling of confusion and worry poured from the blade to her mind.  She tuned herself in, even more, to the stream of the weapon’s energy.  She projected a thought, a question.  What’s the matter?

            The Moonsword answered her mental probe immediately.  She has closed herself to me.  She doesn’t want me to find her.

            “No,” replied the druidess, out loud this time, “She does want us to find her.  Please try again.  Please.”

            The sword sent its answer to her.  “She told me to stop, and she cut herself off from me.  It hurts me.  She is afraid.  It hurts.  Please, Brythia,” the Moonsword begged, “please help her.  I cannot.”

            She sighed, brought the sword to her lips, and kissed it gently.  “I will find her,” she assured it.  She slid the blade back into her sheath.  But how?[KR]If she’s asking a question, she’s wondering.     

            It was clear, at least, that the faerie would be unable to leave the narrow way of the game trail, so tight and thick was the forest in that region.  With some optimism, she simply followed the trail, until it ended a scant two miles later emptying (as well as Brythia’s hopes) onto a more typical and well-maintained country road.  There was, of course, no clear indication of their path.

            She had already discovered that she would be unable to track them in the traditional sense, and to renew such an attempt would only waste more valuable time[KR]Cliché. You can use it if your want, but see if you can find another word for precious.      .  No, she needed to employ more arcane techniques to pursue them.  She could employ several methods if she had more time.  She could use the Spirit Vision, if she could find the right type of mushrooms quickly enough; but the impending snow would likely render such a course of action impossible.  She forced her fatigued mind to concentrate, to think of the way.  Then, it came to her.  Ah, yes, she thought.  There was only one choice.  She had to attempt the Whole Forest Assumption.  A difficult meditative practice under the most ideal conditions.  Yet, she could think of nothing else. 

            She slid off Whisper, and cast a last, less than hopeful look in either direction down the road.  She could feel the tiredness around the edges of her consciousness, eating away her ability to concentrate.  “Wait here,” she instructed the horse.  “This could take a few minutes.”

            The Elven steed whinnied in response.  The druidess gently stroked the beast’s neck, before turning her attention to the task.

            Brythia walked a few yards away and sat cross-legged on one side of the gravel road.  She drew a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to calm her frantic mind.  She looked around her as she did so, almost as though she was breathing the surrounding landscape into her lungs.  The air was cold and hung heavy with the sweet icy scent of the coming snow.  The sky had brightened now as the heavy snow clouds seemed to glow with anticipation, for it was still too early for the sun to be responsible.  It afforded her enough light to see the gray, bare branches of the trees, almost twiggy fingers, interwoven and reaching solemnly up to the sky.

            Steadier, deeper breaths.  She closed her eyes.  She had to quiet her worries and thoughts.  She focused solely on her breathing.  Deep breath in, count to four.  Hold for four.  Exhale for four.  Let the stress and anxiety fade, get past the sleepiness, she ordered herself.  Let there only be the breathing.  Slow, steady, deep.  And with each breath, a gradual simplicity took hold of her tumultuous mind.  It occurred to her that she had not practiced even basic meditation in some time; most novices could calm their minds more easily.  Then she reminded herself that even such thoughts as that were a distraction to the calming of the mind.  She let the thought go.  With more breaths, she let everything go.  It was coming back to her, now.  Inhale, Hold, Exhale.  The quieting of thoughts.

            Once there was only the breathing, and nothing more, Brythia allowed herself to become conscious of the shadowy forest around her.  First the cold hard ground.  She opened up her imagination and meditated on what it must be like to be the frigid, leaf-covered ground.  A great blanket of icy coldness seemed to descend upon her as she did so.  Cold, hard, and dead.  No, not dead.  There was a quiet network of life nestled inside her, roots twisting and delving, asleep in her chill embrace.  Down deep in her being it was warmer, and larger creatures were nestled in their burrows, dens and nests.  She was all of these creatures as well, she reminded herself.  By realizing this and incorporating them into her awareness, she felt a powerful wave of sleepiness take hold of her.  She could not fight this feeling as it was equally part of the meditation—she had to fully realize every aspect of the forest and every creature in it, even those in hibernation.  She followed the roots back up—climbing the tangled maze back to the trees and out of the ground, though she tried to hold all that she had felt beneath the Earth in the back of her mind.

            Now she was the trees, still the delving root ways, but now also the proud trunks and noble branches.  The sap ran so slow through her wooden veins.  The trees were sleeping as well.  Another powerful urge to sleep.  This time she had to fight it to some degree or she would fall asleep herself.  In doing so, her doubts began to creep in to her consciousness, the nagging feeling that it was all really just her imagination.  This was a perilous doubt; it could disrupt the entire work.

            She felt herself as the thousands and thousands of branches reaching in silent entreaty for the return of the sun, or at least for the snow.  It had been a dry autumn, and Brythia could feel in her countless wooden limbs the subtle yearning for water, a primordial thirst, less in her great oaks than in the maples and smaller trees and undergrowth.  She began to feel the strain in her mind.  Attempting to experience the perceptions of an entire forest was no easy task, and as a rule the trees were where the mind began to get bogged down.  Clearly, the winter should be easier than the summer, but there was still the winter-slumbering lassitude to contend with.  In any case, somehow, Brythia was doing it, and the assumption was unfolding splendidly.

            Her mind raced down the gentle banks of a brook.  She was the frozen stream, flowing beneath its icy surface.  She was the fish and frogs asleep in the deeper regions.  She was the wood mouse searching the dried leaves of the forest floor for food.  She was the great owl.  She felt the rush of air beneath her wings as she swooped down on her unsuspecting mousey self.  She cast her consciousness out further and further into the surrounding forest, attempting to catch some glimpse of her beloved and her captor.

            The hibernation instinct was so completely diffused over the nighttime woods that Brythia had to find as many nocturnal creatures as possible simply to maintain some state of wakefulness.  Many such creatures moved through the darkened woods even at night.  Was she imagining the family of possum that slipped over the log as she looked through their eyes?  She battled her own skepticism, her amplified tiredness, and the enormity of her undertaking, almost constantly now.  The druidess did not stop, however.  She kept expanding her consciousness so that she was the entire forest for at least a three-mile radius.

            Then the snow began to fall and she was the snow.  She drifted, first idly, as a thousand timid flakes moving down through her outreaching branches.  Her pace quickened and she danced through her forest self in crystal patterns of infinite variety.  She became almost dizzy.  Her animal selves moved in haste to find food before all was lost in the frozen white blanket.

            Suddenly, it happened—she was no longer the forest; she was Brythia once again.  But she was not as she would have expected, sitting cross-legged along the roadside.  She was, instead, moving through the tightly knotted trees, searching.  She was surprised by this, and wondered how long it was that she had been doing so.

            The snow fell all around her, moving with its gentle hush through the trees.  Brythia tried to remember the feeling of being the snow, of being the trees, but the Whole Forest Assumption had faded, and she was left with only a few vague, vestigial impressions.  There was something magical, perhaps divine about snow.  An infinite variety of unique icy crystals covered the world in a white blanket of purity.  It seemingly wrapped everything in an innocence that briefly hid even human hypocrisy and hatred.  One of her favorite weather magicks was the Call to the Snow.  She roused herself from this reverie, and tried to concentrate on her situation.  Where exactly, was she?  How far had she wandered from the road?  Fog clouded her brain, making the task of thinking difficult.

            A nearby sound caught her attention.  She turned in the direction of the sound.  She could just see it.  A white shape, now holding still, in the dim light and falling snow.  It was a great white hart staring intently at her.  Brythia stood motionless and casually regarded the remarkable creature.  The druidess uttered a greeting in the subtle clicking language of the deer-clan and waited for the customary response.  She was wholly surprised by the white hart’s reply.

            “Hail to thee, Brythia, Priestess of the Sun, and well met,” the animal said plainly in human speech.

 

Copyright 2004, 2015 Diana Hignutt