Take Me to the River

The warning, the fact that everyone knows, that the not-Fae are infiltrating our home like poison through the vein, weighs heavily on my mind. There have been several occasions now, when the barrier-folk have crossed paths with me in The Wildwood. In truth, neither seemed to be overly threatening (not like the villainous, blood-thirsty, weapon wielding monsters my imagination had accounted for), yet, I have taken necessary measures to protect myself better. Daily, I undress, hidden from the eyes of others (shame adds further burden to my figure), and flex each wing at the joint. Already their strength improves. By my fiftieth year, it would please me to break the shackles which hinder, nay, that debilitate me, and fly. In the meantime though, I travel with company, albeit slow and dim-witted; my warm palm rests against the smooth, black armoured head of the old beetle and we walk almost as one, pace well-matched. Only recently, I’ve fitted him with a name, Mordo (shadow), an idea inspired by a human once met in Ludo’s Woods and the young Gryphon in his company. There is a sliver of me that would like to sit with Jigano and Isuma one more time; a guilt inducing desire I could never admit with voice. Memory of his finely chiseled face and moon-silver hair linger within me, tempting surges of putrid excitement and wonder, and try as I might to reprimand each blasphemous rumination when it begins, my heart aches to understand further the strange mystery of his culture. I wonder if they remember me? It is early in the afternoon, two days and six weeks, since my second encounter with barrier-folk. Half that, since I spoke with the war chief. The air around us is milder than usual, pleasant after a run of cripplingly hot days, and the long cloak I wear is pushed back behind my sunken shoulders so that the softly whispering breeze might cool the sweaty-dampness beneath. Tethered tightly to the humped shell of my companion is one of the larger of my baskets (one that wasn’t quite finished to Mother’s liking, enough anyway for market). I have already collected a good quantity of fresh reeds and vines today and bundled into carefully bound balls, these sit hidden behind the brown, textured vessel built from the same. I’m usually the one to gather material for our craft. Mother hasn’t the time. It is a fair trade. The Stonesong’s glittering surface lures my appreciative eye as we, Mordo and I, pick a path along the rugged shoreline. Wrens and other small birds cling to the long spears of grass as I pass, unbothered and unafraid. If I were that way inclined, it would take no effort to reach out and seize them; I smile for them, not at all a predator and their trustful twittering fills my listening ears. Another worthy tussock brings this ambling walk to a halt, but as my free hand moves nearer, a familiar sight steals my notice clean from duty. With a brightening expression and a straightening (somewhat), spine, my childlike voice cries out unabashed, “Isuma!” While I beckon for the small creature who bounds from one boulder to another, these green eyes scan both tree and water line for the familiar face of Jigano. For the moment, two foxes fishing, are naturally overlooked. So too was the warning I’d intended to heed.