Dirty Little Secrets

Lodan arrived just in time to see the dark stranger and his shadows disappear through the portal.

Eh? What’s this? he thought. Slowly he circled round the portal to the right, three times. He pulled the silver pennywhistle out of his knapsack and softly began to play a tune on it. With each breath a luminous green mist appeared to come from the end of the whistle, which slowly wound its way around the portal as if tying it up in a glowing green net of knotwork.

As Lodan continued to play the pennywhistle, the magical net and the portal inside it became smaller and smaller, until it was no bigger than a small sack. He picked the sack up and seemed to step sideways for a moment, at which point an observer might say he’d disappeared, yet he merely shifted into another location on the Isle of Dreams… the edge of the Nightmare Forest.

Lodan once again stepped sideways and materialized at the edge of the Nightmare Forest, where he was greeted by a group of goblins. Recognizing Lodan and the mission he was on, the goblins, being an honorable bunch, traded a magnificent hunting knife with decorated scabbard for the magical bag containing the portal.

They jabbered with delight at his acceptance of their trade and scampered off into the heart of the Nightmare Forest with their prize. Lodan chuckled watching them go and stashed the hunting knife in his knapsack. Then he turned himself into a white stag and began the journey home to Áine, making quicker progress than he had on the way out of the mountains. And no one ever saw him pass.

The goblins, in the meantime, began to wager and gamble amongst each other for the magical bag, and late one night one of them snuck off and got lost in the heart of a pitch black bog, where the magical bag containing the portal was dropped.

Áine emerged from the bedroom a few hours later, looking rather dishevelled, but happy. I wish the DreamMistress was here… she’d never believe me if I told her what just happened here. I hardly believe any of this myself… and I was there for it. Áine chuckled, as she made her way to the bath, wincing because she was sore… a good kind of sore feeling, it was.

Lodan was gone for about a week, and in that time Áine kept busy with the chores around the house. The snow was almost gone, and it would soon be time to plant the garden. Each day the sun became a little warmer, and in the afternoons she would take her tea outside and sit in the sun reading a good book.

One day she glanced up to see a white stag on top of one of the peaks, looking down at her. It bugled and then suddenly it shapeshifted into the form of a man.

“LODAN!” she called, and he looked at her and carefully made his way down the slope towards the woman he loved, and their house on the island in the middle of the lake.

“Áine!” Lodan said, smiling, as he reached her and they held each other, “I brought you something.” He reached into his knapsack and brought out the hunting knife he had gotten from the goblins.

Áine liked the knife. It had a carved handle in the shape of a raven’s head, a wicked-looking ten inch blade of highly figured damascus, and a number of small silver runes inlayed into the dark wood near the blade. She looked more closely at them and saw that they were in the Old Tongue and each was imbued with a different kind of magical property. The scabbard was made of polished wood, the same sorts of runes embedded in it, matching those on the handle. The knife would only go into the scabbard when those runes matched. The blade was balanced perfectly and fit into her hand as if it were made for her.

She looked up at Lodan’s face to see him smiling at her. “You got this from goblins?” she asked, a wry smile forming at the corners of her mouth.

“Aye, but I don’t think they made that, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said.

“No, I don’t think goblins could read this even if they wanted to… I’m just wondering how they came to have it, and where it came from,” Áine mused. Lodan took it carefully from her hands and attached it to the belt encircling her waist.

“Thank you for the gift, Lodan.” From her kiss, he knew how much she’d missed him. They walked towards the house together, and just before reaching the door, Lodan picked her up and carried her across the threshold. He closed the door behind them with his foot.

Later that evening after he’d told her everything that had happened while he was away, Áine went into the library with her tea. She sat at the desk and took out quill and parchment and began writing…

Dearest Dagoba,

Although I haven’t heard from you, nor seen the messenger pigeon that I sent some months ago, I feel certain you’ve received my other letter and that you are taking good care of the bird, else it would have returned here by now, I’m thinking. Lodan… oh, Lodan is the name of the one who was living out here and we’ve… well, we’re together now (more on that later)… anyway he has told me about the dark stranger he encountered in the Enchanted Forest and about the portal he’d found there. He traded that to some goblins in the Nightmare Forest for a hunting knife for me. It’s an unusual weapon, and one I’m sure you would find most interesting!

We’re planning on making the journey to Akkadia in a few weeks so I can show you the knife then. We plan to be handfasted! Surprised? No, I didn’t think you were, I remember when you wouldn’t read my fortune before I left… you Knew He was out here, didn’t you? I suppose if you’d have told me then, though, things might not have worked out this way, hmmm?

At any rate, I’ll see you when we get there. I just wanted to let you know we were coming. We have lots of catching up to do.

With Love,

Áine

She rolled the parchment up and put it into the leather tube, then went out to the stable and found a pigeon willing to fly and deliver the message. She attached the tube, and set the pigeon free outside, and it flew off in the direction of Akkadia. She hoped the message would get there in time.

Eachtra Áine ag Lodan
[The Adventures of Áine and Lodan]

The sky was lightening towards dawn, but the sun had not yet risen and a misty twilight still lingered. Áine gently disentangled herself from Lodan’s arms and crawled out from beneath the hand-stitched quilts. She could hear the crackling of burning wood, and the aromatic odour perfumed the air within the hillside home. She glanced back over her shoulder at Lodan, still sleeping. In the flickering firelight, with the quilts bundled up to his chin, and his raven hair loose and flowing, he looked curiously childlike and innocent. Áine carefully bent down and kissed him on the forehead, and in his sleep, he smiled.

It’s good to have you home, she softly smiled at the thought, then quietly shuffled off to the kitchen where she set a kettle boiling on the stove. She was an old woman, yet this morning, she felt as though the tides had turned and the worst of the aging was now behind her. Áine sat at the kitchen table. By all appearances this is where her story might have ended “happily ever after,” but it seemed, as she thought of it, that this was far from the ending of a story, and closer to the beginning of a new one.

In the Spring… I’ll see to the garden first, then… Akkadia. I wouldn’t mind a stop at the Hart and Ale for a few either. There’s something to be said for a night of drinking with friends. I miss my old friends, but I like it out here too…

And Lodan… she sighed… my memories of him were banished for such a long time… such great love, and then such wretched heartbreak… I couldn’t bear to think about him, walking off and leaving all of us in the World of Men like he did… and Fand went after him… I despised her for that… I nearly cursed her… I don’t even know where Fand is now… ahhh, but that was such a long time ago…

I remember, too, as time reckoned by humankind passed, I thought he was forever lost to me… but then I heard tales of one like him… different names in different places… little hints here and there… and there was always the whisper of his spirit about those stories… I had to know if it was Him… I had always imagined that the stories were exaggerated, mere poet’s fancies and bard’s tales… I looked everywhere for him, and now I find him here… and he is even more beautiful than they painted him…

The tea kettle whistled on the stove. She poured the boiling water into the teapot and let the tea leaves steep. From the cupboard she took down two china cups, they were white with a pretty cobalt blue design of a meadow hand-painted on them. All of this she put on a tray and brought back to the bedroom, where she was shocked to find Lodan weeping, tears running down his face. She quickly put the tray down and went to him.

“Truly? Do you truly love me?” he asked through his tears.

She nodded, profoundly touched by the sight of such a strong, handsome warrior face marred by such emotion. Gently she brushed the tears away. “Why do you weep, my love?” she said to him.

He looked into her eyes… she felt naked there in his gaze, completely open and vulnerable,… just as he was to her now, as well. “I weep because I once thought that love was little more than another name for longing or lust. I weep because I left you and wed Fand… I… I thought I loved her…” he choked, “but you taught me what love really is. You taught me that love must grow of its own accord, it cannot be taken or made or bargained for.”

Áine hugged him to her in a warm embrace. “Do you love me now, Lodan?” she whispered to him.

“Aye, I do love you,” he replied, “as deeply as the fountains in their crystal pools at the foundation of the worlds.” He kissed her gently, and she felt the blood rush to her face, but the touch of his lips tingled pleasantly on hers and it left her feeling lightheaded, and wanting more.

“In the Spring… when we are better matched,” he promised.

Lodan picked her up and put her back in the bed. “You aren’t quite ready to be running around like a wild lass yet, Summer Queen… and before ye start protesting, let me remind ye how I found ye here?” he said in a voice that was like music. She closed her mouth in mid-protest, made a face at him, and then pulled the quilts up to her chin.

“Don’t ye be thinking you’re always going to get your way, mister…mister… Puddle Elf!” She grinned at him.

“Feisty one, eh?” He winked at her. “Shall I pour us some tea now, your royal pain in the arse?” he teased. She grinned at him.

When he’d finished drinking his, he tucked her in and then went in the stable and took care of the birds and Dubhealain. The cygnets were growing fast, and it wouldn’t be long before they’d need to make their home outside.

“Aye, you two will make a fine pair on the lake,” Lodan said to them, “and you can watch over our little queen when I’m not home, eh?” They bobbed their heads as if in reply. The cygnets were just starting to shed their grey downy feathers and the white plumage was beginning to grow in. They were, in fact, looking quite ugly at the moment, not at all what they would look like in another few weeks. And as clumsy as they were, they’d taken to herding the hens around like sheep, which was in itself a comical sight.

“It would be nice to go for a morning ride,” the black mare said to Lodan in mindspeak.

“Aye, it would indeed,” Lodan replied. So he got the tack assembled and they went outside, where he mounted. The snow muffled the hooves of the black mare. Lodan had been in these mountains for many lifetimes, it seemed. He’d seldom gone to Akkadia, preferring the wilderness to the city. When he did go, he always went wearing different guises, or appearing in other forms. As such, there were few in Akkadia who knew of him, and he liked it that way.

“Are ye ready, Dubh?” Lodan asked. The mare snorted and pawed the snow. “Let’s ride, then.”

He touched her neck lightly and off they went. Dubhealaín was of the Eacha Uisce [water horse], they were a special breed of Faery horse… very aware, very smart, responsive to rein and voice and touch… and they could mindspeak. The breath of horse and rider mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air. They crossed the frozen lake and went into the mountains. It was nice under the trees. Lodan kept Dubh to a walk, looking all around him as they went. He knew this wood, but every time he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The smells filled his nostrils; the pungent aroma of pine needles, the perfume of the cedars. He caught a glimpse of a big grey squirrel moving through the snow-covered branches of an oak, and paused to study the silvery web of a spider. They followed a deer trail through the woods.

From up ahead came the faint sound of rushing waters. It grew louder until they reached the stream, which was running high and fast. Spring melt was just beginning in the mountains, but it would be a few weeks yet until the snows were gone. Lodan dismounted and led Dubh on foot to a crossing. The deepest part of the crossing came to mid-thigh, but they didn’t cross the stream. Lodan let go of the reins and allowed the mare to drink. The current foamed around rock and root, and Lodan could feel the spray on his face as he reached down into the water. He cupped the icy water in his hands and drank deeply.

Very slowly he made his way slightly upstream to an overhanging root of a large pine tree, where he plunged his arm into the water and pulled up a speckled trout. He reached in again and pulled up another. He cleaned the fish with his dagger, and stuck them through the gills with a stick, then attached them to Dubh’s saddle… a nice breakfast when he returned to the hillside house. Carefully he washed and dried the dagger and returned it to its sheath.

Lodan mounted up again, and he and Dubh headed back to the house, but this time at a full gallop. The horse and rider were as one, and both enjoyed the burst of speed through the woods. When they reached the house, he led Dubh back to the stable, brushed her well, and fed her an extra measure of oats. He filled the buckets with water, and placed the blanket back on the mare.

When he’d finished in the stable, he went outside to the garden. It was still winter, but there were signs here and there of the coming spring. This will be a fine garden under Her care, but perhaps I can help the fruit trees along a bit, he thought. And so he walked around the stone wall and every now and then his hand reached out and he touched a branch or trunk here or there… and a green phosphorescent light arced from his fingertips as he worked his magics, lingering in wispy vapor-like clouds of glowing green about the garden.

For several weeks, Lodan stayed busy around the hillside home, clearing brush, fixing leaky windows, repairing gates, and clearing a log jam in a nearby river. One day while he was out in the garden, Lodan stopped what he was doing and cocked his head, listening… and suddenly he knew that the mystery of the mountains, and the deep enchantment of the twilight mists, had found a voice in the lake and would speak with him. Something changed in his eyes as he listened, that look of boyish innocence was gone, replaced with seething anger.

How dare he place a portal to such darkness in the Green! Doesn’t he Know of the Nightmare Forest where his kind flourish? Who gave him leave to do so? Lodan listened a bit more. No one gave him leave? He just did it without asking anyone?… Ahhhh, I see, the Enchanted Forest’s Guardian is away… this is why you come to me? Lodan nodded, more to himself than anything else. Yes, of course I’ll intervene… though he won’t like it, I’m sure.

Lodan turned around and stomped into the house, slamming the door in anger. Then he remembered Áine was napping, and cursed himself at his clumsiness. Áine wandered out of the bedroom sleepily and stood there in the hallway looking at him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I have to go attend to something, and…” he turned and looked at her, “Good gods, Áine, have you looked at yourself in the mirror today?” he said in disbelief at what he was seeing.

“What? No, is my hair a tangled mess again?” she asked, “it seems to have a life of it’s own…”

“No, not at all. You look twenty years younger, and your hair is turning a wondrous shade of copper!” Lodan went to her and brushed her hair with his fingertips, it was silky soft. He pulled her close to him and gently kissed her neck from earlobe to shoulder. “I might be gone for a while, but it’s needed,” he whispered into her hair, “and yes, I’d much rather stay here and finish what I just started, but I…” he kissed her some more, “…have to go and I don’t have time to explain.” Áine moaned involuntarily, and rather than let him get away without finishing what he’d started, dragged him into the bedroom and closed the door.

He came out of the bedroom an hour and a half later with a sappy looking grin on his face, packed a few things in his knapsack that he thought he’d need, and headed out the door with a spring in his step. He thought about taking Dubhealaín on the trip, then thought better of it. No, she might need the mare while I’m gone. And so he set off running in the direction of the Enchanted Forest.

He leaped and bounded over logs and rocks, through the trees, and it was as if they made a clear pathway for him the entire way. Indeed, it felt to him as if he was carried along. He ran for leagues without resting, barely pausing to take a drink from the streams he passed along the way. He didn’t remember stopping to sleep, it seemed as though he slept as he ran, and woke still running.

When he was nearly there, Lodan heard the sound of a deep laugh coming from up ahead, and when he arrived at the spot, he got there just in time to see a dark stranger step through a portal and disappear, the shadows following in his wake.

As she soaked in the tub, Áine’s thoughts drifted… He is a stranger, yet He is no stranger… odd… what is the truth of it? Where did He come from and how is it that He is here in these mountains now? He is not Síabhru, yet He is Síabhra [of the Sídhe], I can Feel it in Him. Who and What is He? She closed her eyes and searched her memories… back… far back in subjective time… she could hear the sounds of the sea, the surf striking against rocks like thunder. Her heart was mixed with both joy and sorrow, the boundaries fuzzy and undefined, like twilight.

If joyful is the fountain that rises in the sun, its springs are in the wells of sorrow unfathomed at the foundations of the world… He’d said that to her once, a long, long time ago… and then they’d parted.

No, this cannot Be! her eyes flew open, but she Knew it was the truth as soon as the thought came to her. The tears came unbidden to her eyes all at once, welling up from deep within, and her tears were of both joy and sorrow.

Back in the kitchen, he suddenly felt what She was feeling, and a tight knot gathered in his throat at the realization that She’d remembered. Will She now reject me, as I rejected Her so many years ago? Would serve me right if She did, I was a foolish lout in those days. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat, but with great difficulty.

He returned a while later and helped her out of the bath, dried her off, and wrapped her in a warm fleece robe. He picked her up in his arms and easily carried her back into her bed and covered her again with quilts. From the kitchen, he fetched a tray with a big bowl of chicken soup, biscuits, and coffee, and he fed them both with the same spoon.

“What shall I call you?” Áine asked.

He hesitated, then looked at her with a hint of a smile in his eyes. “You already Know,” he teased, “but I’ll humor you anyway… I’ve been called many names… not all of them very nice,” he chuckled. “Some call me Giolla dé Cair, the Hard Servant… others call me Trickster or Coyote… some call me the Son of Lir… while others call me Winter King… some say I am the Green Man… Manannan, Abarta, Barinthus, Manawyddan… and you have called me Like the Sea,” he winked at her, “Does that answer your question?”

She grinned at him playfully. “Yes, but what shall I call you now?” she teased.

He seemed thoughtful a moment, then said, “I’m sure you’ll think of something suitable, Summer Queen.”

Áine looked at him, not hiding the surprise she felt at His use of that name.

“Go back to sleep, woman. I’ll still be here when you wake,” he touched her face ever so softly. “Sleep,” he said, and she closed her eyes and slept the most peaceful sleep, her smile never fading.

While she slept, he explored the house. He found the stables and henhouse, cleaned them out, and put down fresh straw and feed. Dubhealaíin consented to allowing him to brush her coat, Knowing her mistress was not up to the task. He brushed the mare until her coat gleamed with nearly a blue-black sheen, then covered her with the woolen blanket again.

“Relax, Dubhealaín, our muirnín [beloved] will be fine… I’ll see to Her… don’t worry yourself, good friend,” he said as he went back into the main hallway.

He had himself a bath and a shave, and looked in on Áine who still slept. He was very tempted to crawl into bed beside her, but he didn’t wish to wake her. Instead, he went into another bedroom and crawled beneath the quilts. He lay there for some time, tossing and turning, rehashing old memories. I swear, by all that I Am, I will not repeat the mistakes of the past… this time, in this place, things will be different. And at last, he settled down and drifted off to sleep himself.

In the morning he awoke just before dawn, kindled the fires, gathered fresh eggs from the henhouse, and made the two of them a hearty breakfast. Áine was already awake when he entered her bedroom. There was much she wished to talk about, but he was having none of that and insisted she eat and then rest some more. She convinced him to read aloud to her from a book at her bedside, because lying around in bed all day even when you needed to was maddeningly boring. And so, he opened the book after breakfast and began to read aloud.

The book was called The Magic Road and it told the tale of a traveling harper on a quest to find the Oak King’s daughter, and it told of his plans to win her heart, and to make her his wife. As he read to her, Áine watched him closely. There was not a nuance or any single thing about him that she failed to notice. And as the hours passed, she wished more and more that he would put the book down and climb under the quilts with her. But then she would glance down at her old woman’s hands and realize that it was likely he wouldn’t do such a thing, and she tried to push those sorts of thoughts out of her mind, and simply enjoy what was.

And she would… for a time. But then those thoughts would force themselves to the foreground, over and over again, and she knew not what to do to make them go away. It was during one of those moments of anguish that he happened to glance up from his reading and saw the look on her face.

He quietly closed the book and went over and sat on the bed next to her.

“What is it?” he whispered, “What is causing you this pain?”

And she couldn’t tell him, but he already knew.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

She closed her eyes.

“What do you see?” he asked.

She thought for a minute, then she said, “Your face, your hair, your eyes,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes just as she opened hers, “I see your face, your hair, and your eyes, too… and you are not an old hag, because I see you as you Are… in Summer, and as you will always Be… inside.” And then he slowly bent his head down, and their lips met, and he kissed away the tears that silently trickled down her cheeks.

“Did you forget that in Summer, I will be the old one and you will be the young one?” he whispered in her ear. “In the Spring and in the Fall, we will be well-matched, for We are Beings of Twilight, you and I, and we are in the Windlass Mountains on the Isle of Dreams… where Twilight magics Are… We will Be as Twilight Is here in this place… We are limnal Beings in a limnal place.”

“But I almost perished,” she whispered.

“But you didn’t,” he whispered back, “Do you know why?”

She thought long and hard about this, but no answer came to her.

“You are of the inner seas. I am of the outer seas. We are two spirits… meant for each other… a matched set,” he softly said.

Áine got very quiet, thinking about everything that had happened. She looked at the ceiling. He wondered what she would say next and the silence was deafening, and then the silence was broken.

“Is tú mo rogha?” Áine whispered. [You are my chosen one?] She almost held her breath, waiting to hear what he would say next.

“Tá sin de rogha agat,” he whispered back to her without hesitation. [That is for you to choose.]

She looked over at him lying there next to her. She couldn’t help but smile, but quickly wiped the smile from her face. He’d responded in the way the tradition required.

“Ní imghabhaim aon fhear,” she said. [I shun no man.]

“Ní imghabhaim aon beann, in urraim duit,” he said to her. [I shun no woman, out of respect for you.]

“In the Spring then,” she smiled and he pulled her close for a kiss, and held her in his arms.

“But you still haven’t told me what you’ll call me,” he teased.

She thought for a moment and then collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“What??” he grinned, “Tell me!”

She kept laughing, and then blurted out, “Lodan Luchargán…. Puddle Elf… ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“Why you….” and then he laughed too, thinking about it.

They spent the rest of that day talking and laughing and making plans for the Spring.

As the weeks went by and the days grew shorter, there followed many more gift exchanges between the two, and often, just as the twilight fell, she heard the music of the silver pennywhistle, drifting in on the breeze, and her mind was filled with images of other times and other places, and the tunes carried stories to her, and remembrances, too… and as time went on, she experienced something else, entirely unexpected. As the season drifted from late Summer into late Fall, Áine found herself changing, and she was often very tired. Her bones began to ache whenever it rained, and rising each morning became more and more of an effort. She did her best to take care of the animals and herself, but each day it seemed a little harder than the day before.

Áine bundled more clothes on, feeling chilled to the bone even on warm, sunny days. She kept the fire burning in the stove in the kitchen to ward off the chill she felt. The swan eggs had hatched and she did her best to care for them, feeding them by hand. She treated herself with herbs and various magical concoctions, but nothing seemed to stop the aging, and as each day went by, she felt herself getting older and older. Was this aging an effect of living in a place where the Old Magics flowed freely? She did not know, but it worried her enough to send a letter to her friend Dagoba, the fortuneteller, by messenger pigeon.

Dearest Dagoba,

I think of you often, and I hope you are well. I have no idea how long I have been gone or how far I have traveled, but I am currently making my home somewhere in the Windlass Mountains, on an island in the middle of a lake. The place seems cozy enough, there is a beautiful garden here, and a very large house built within a hill. It’s prior resident, one Conaire MacNeesh, Third Lord of Calatin, (perhaps you knew of him?) has provided for, seemingly, every need a person could ever have here. Enclosed please find his letter. If you could favor me by filing this letter with the court in the Akkadian Hall of Echoes, I would be most appreciative, as I am not sure when I will be in Akkadia next, though certainly not before Spring, I’m sure.

On the whole, this place is wonderfully magical and I am happy here. There is someone else living out here in the mountains, though. I haven’t met him face to face yet, and he often brings me wild game and other things he collects on his wanderings. I do, however, seem to have a small problem and that is that I am rapidly aging. I’ve used every herb I can think of to try and counteract the effect, but have managed to do nothing more than slow its pace somewhat. I am thinking it has something to do with the effect of my Being combined with the Magics here, and I must learn to work with them… and quickly, it seems.

I do miss you and the DreamMistress. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have you two here with me for an afternoon of tea and gossip, though! Hehehe.

With Love,
Áine

She carefully rolled up her letter and MacNeesh’s and put them into the leather tube, instructing the pigeon where to take it and whom to deliver it to. The pigeon promptly flew off in the direction of Akkadia.

The garden was prepared for the coming winter. She’d preserved the harvest by drying and bottling what she could to see her through until Spring, so there was little she needed to do each day other than keep the fire burning and the animals fed and watered. It wasn’t long before the snows came into the mountains and the lake froze over. She spent more time in the libraries, gradually working her way through shelf after shelf of books, though there were many years’ worth of reading here.

By the dark of the year at winter solstice, her hair had become fine and white as a spider’s web. Her hands were as gnarled as tree branches, and her back was bent and crooked. With the aid of an alder staff she shuffled throughout the house painfully slow. She didn’t know it but out there, in the wood, as the season changed, He grew ever younger, more muscular and athletic, able to walk or run for many leagues without tiring. He hunted and often left venison, elk, and other wild game at her doorstep. The two of them having formed a sort of silent partnership out here in the wilderness, and never having met or spoken face to face. She was, of course, curious as to what He looked like, but she didn’t force Him to show Himself to her. He, of course, had already seen Her and had been observing the changes in both himself and Her throughout the season. They both kept their distance.

One morning in the midst of the coldest winter the mountains had ever seen, He noticed no smoke coming from the stovepipe of Her home, nor did He see the old woman shuffling about to feed the birds as she always did. He set his rabbit snares out in the woods, and then went back to the front door of Her house and knocked loudly.

No one came to the door.

He pounded on the door a bit more, but still there was no answer from within. He stood there for long minutes… half turning away to go back into the wood, then turning back to face the door. He was in a quandry about what to do. He had to know if She was alright, and He knew that if He returned to the wood without knowing, He would constantly be returning to see if She’d come outside or lit the fire anyway, and His whole day would be useless. He stood there debating with himself a few minutes more, and then tried the door knob and found it was unlocked. Very quietly he crept into Her home, and room by room, He searched for Her.

He found Her at last in one of the bedrooms lying in a huge bed covered with a very large pile of hand-stitched quilts. She was cold to the touch, unconscious, and just barely breathing. He almost didn’t recognize Her at first, She was very aged, yet still beautiful in His eyes, for though He hadn’t yet said it to Her, He had through the months been falling in love with Her ever since She’d first come into the glen in late summer.

Quickly he filled a tub in one of the bathrooms with water fed by a hot spring within the mountain. He raced back to the bedroom and tore the quilts off the bed, and then stripped the clothes off of her. He carried her naked into the bathroom and gently lowered her into the water, where he massaged and bathed her body until the skin began turning a healthy pink. By this time, Áine was conscious and aware of her circumstances… and that He was there, as well as what He was doing. She was too weak to protest or show any embarassment, and likely wouldn’t have anyway. This was the first she’d seen of Him, and what she saw was not at all unpleasant.

He was young and handsome, strong, yet so very gentle with her. And when she looked into His eyes, she Knew that this was the one who had been waiting for her here, and that she would never again be happy without Him. And she saw that same look there in His eyes. Still, she was so old and He so young… it seemed an unbearable cruelty that they should find each other in this way, and a feeling of profound sadness crept into her heart.

“How can you bear to touch me… as I am… like this?” she hoarsely whispered to him.

“Shhhh now, lass,… we’ll speak later. Right now, you need warmth and food in you,” He said in a gentle whisper, “Will you be fine here if I let you soak for a bit and cook us something in your kitchen?”

“Aye,” she smiled and slid further down into the water, and He washed her hair for her, and then went off to the kitchen.

[This part of the story crosses over into Mal’ahk’s character, Dagoba… and this is what she wrote in her story…]

Dagoba shook her head and chuckled quietly to herself after Akila departed. As fond as I was of her mother, she thought musingly, I must admit Akila and Gja give me more hope for the future of this Isle than anyone has in a long time. I love them both as if they were my own daughters.

She was interrupted in her musings by a flutter of wings. Looking up, she noticed a messenger pigeon fluttering just outside the window of the crystalline ziggurat-like structure, attempting to find foothold on the thin sill before giving up and perching on the gradiated step below it. With a sigh, Dagoba heaved herself to her feet and hobbled over to the window.

The pigeon hopped up onto the sill of the open window, cooing softly, turning it’s head this way and that as it regarded her with bright black eyes. “Well, goodness,” said Dagoba in an amused voice as she offered an arm to the pigeon. Obediently, the trained bird settled itself on the old woman’s arm and waited patiently while Dagoba removed it’s message.

She read Aine’s letter quickly, then a second time more slowly as a warm smile touched her lips. Though it had been a good many years in her subjective time since she’d last seen the Faerie woman, she’d corresponded with Aine often and had been concerned with the letters had suddenly ceased a few years ago. It made her heart joyful to realize her old friend was still in the Windlass Mountains.

With a start, she realized that this was the first letter she’d had since Akila and Gja had taken over the Isle of Dreams, and it was very possible Aine had no idea that so much had changed. “Well, that’s going to be a tricky bit of news to impart,” she said out loud to nobody in particular.

She patted her pockets, then smiled at the pigeon apologetically. “You’ll have to come back to my shop with me, Wingchild,” she told the bird. “And I’ll give you some suet and a comfortable perch whilst I figure out how to send the news to my old friend without giving her heart failure!” The pigeon cooed agreeably and hopped up to Dagoba’s shoulder.

The old woman shuffled out into the sunshine, her gait was slow but to the more observant there was a definite lift to her steps that hadn’t been there this morning.

Áine awoke on a sandy beach by a lake somewhere in the Windlass Mountains. She knew not how long she had lain there, nor how she had come to this place. A black mare was standing nearby chewing on some grass. In the back of her mind, Áine was aware that the mists of the Isle of Dreams had been summoned, cutting the pathways to this place some time ago, but she was uncertain how long ago that had been or whether all of that had simply been a dream.

The clearing by the lake she now found herself in was really quite lovely, a tiny green patch amidst the grey weave of the surrounding hills and woods. She looked at the black mare and in mindspeak asked, “Where is…? How…? Hmmm, it seems I’ve forgotten his name.” She brought her hand up to her forehead and winced, having found a nasty knot sprouting there, probably sustained in her fall from the white horse she’d been riding.

“The Eacha don’t speak one another’s names, Miss,” the black mare replied in mindspeak, “but the one who was serving you had to return to his mare, who is even now birthing a new foal. He sent me in his place, ma’am, to serve you as long as you wish.” Áine nodded and her head throbbed. “Argh! It seems I’ve taken a nasty tumble,” Áine groaned with pain.

“Aye, Miss, he carried you unconscious for some time. Said you’d knocked your head while coming ’round a sharp bend on the way here, but even unconscious you managed to stay on his back until you arrived here at the lake. He waited nearby for you to awaken as long as he could, but with the foal coming, he could wait no longer. They say it will be a fine young silver one that is born… a Special one,” the mare told her.

Áine carefully brushed the sand from her face, avoiding the knot on her forehead, and slowly stood and shook the sand from her clothing. “What name might I call you?” she inquired of the black mare. “The two-legged call me Dubhealaín, Miss Áine,” spoke the mare.

“Ahhh… Dubhealaín… black arts… black magic… a good name, to be sure,” Áine smiled and winked at the horse, who nodded and whickered in reply.

Áine looked about and found her traveling bag nearby, glad it wasn’t lost. She slung this over her shoulder, then surveyed the surrounding terrain. Nothing seemed familiar about this place, though it was a truly beautiful glen in the mountains, and there was an air of the Old Magics drifting about. The grasses were a rich, deep green color, the lake was crystal clear and its bottom could be plainly seen. All about were the sounds of birds, frogs, buzzing insects, and occasionally a fish would rise to the surface and pluck a few bugs for its lunch. On the north shore was a small hut built against a hillside. It had a perfectly round door, almost like a port hole, and it was at one time blue, though the paint was almost completely gone with weathering.

Áine and Dubhealaín wandered around the shoreline until they stood quietly in front of this hut. There were no foot tracks leading from the doorway, no smoke trails coming from the small stovepipe they now saw emerging from the top of the hill, nor any sign that anyone had been here in quite some time. Nonetheless, Áine slowly approached the door and gave it a satisfactory knock, then stood back and waited to see if anyone would answer. When no one did, Áine knocked again.

After several minutes when still no one came to the door, Áine tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, and she stepped inside. Dubhealaín followed her, for, indeed, the entrance was actually quite large, though appeared small from the outside, it was large enough for a horse to enter.

The door of the hut opened onto a tunnel-shaped hallway, a very comfortable hall which led further into the hillside with many twists and turns. There seemed to be no end of doorways leading off into other rooms within the hill. Amidst all the doorways were bedrooms, bathrooms, sitting rooms, cellars, pantries, a very large stable suitable for dozens of horses and cattle, kitchens, dining rooms, a banquet hall, several libraries filled with books from floor to ceiling, an armory, and a grand ballroom complete with musical instruments of many kinds. The floor throughout was of oak, worn golden with age and polished smooth with use, though it seemed no one had, indeed, been here in many, many years. The walls were of the same oak and consisted of uncounted numbers of wooden panels, each inlaid with many other colored woods depicting scenes of feasts, battles, hunts, and all manner of creatures and beings. Altogether, it was a very artistic rendering of some history of adventures. Áine thought it might take weeks to explore it all, and since she had no idea where exactly she was, nor any better place to be at the moment, she thought it might be a rather nice place to rest for a while, provided the owner didn’t return and kick her out, that is.

Áine wandered into what seemed to be the main kitchen and found a piece of parchment on the kitchen table. On it was some handwriting which was not only legible, but highly decorated with flourishes and such. The note read:

To Whomsoever Should Find This:

Greetings, Wanderer!! On this side board you will find an annual glass with flowing sands (or not, as the case may be). If those sands are no longer flowing, it means that I did not return to this homestead for over a year, and You, having found this letter, may consider that I have no intentions of returning to this household. You may also consider that my latest adventure has been either a wild success, or that I have met an untimely demise.

Whatever the case may be, You (whomever You may be) may consider this letter to be a legal document rendering this household, its contents, and the surrounding lands and waterways, over to your legal possession and care with full rights thereto, etc., etc. to keep in perpetuity for as long as you or your heirs may desire. You, by virtue of making it into this valley past its enchantments and other magical protections, are now the legal owner of everything you see around you.

And now, you may be wondering where I’ve gone off to and whether I shall return? I am, as near as I can tell, the last of my kind in these fair Isles, and so I have no further reason to remain here. I now journey alone to the world of Men to make a new life and in hope of finding some of my own Kin who may yet survive there.

If you wish to remain here and make this your home, and that is my hope, you will find this to be a comfortable home in all seasons. The lake and adjoining stream are always rich with fish, and the garden on the southeastern side of the hill is also well-planted, and these should see you through many seasons (provided the weeds and the deer and such haven’t taken over by now). In addition, you will find the pantries and cellars stocked with provisions, so you need not fear starvation whilst you accustom yourself and your family to life in this glen… provided you decide to remain here.

In the libraries you will find an abundance of reading materials, maps, useful bits of advice, and other things with which to occupy your spare hours. I do hope you enjoy reading as much as I do. You will also find parchments and other such writing materials scattered here and there, with which you may send messages to residents of Akkadia and whomever is in charge of this Isle by way of the pigeons I have bred for this purpose.

Please take good care of all you find here, as it now belongs to you and you alone. I hope that life within this glen is as pleasant for you and yours as it has been for me. At any rate, I am off!

May the gods watch over me in my travels, and may you find life here to your liking.

Signed,

Conaire MacNeesh
3rd Lord of Calatin
Windlass Mountains
Isle of Dreams

Áine put the parchment back on the table. “Hmmm… well, I guess that explains that,” she mused as she looked at the glass on the sideboard. The sands hadn’t flowed for quite some time, judging by the layer of dust that covered it. “Well, Dubhealaín, what say you and I make this home for a time?” Áine turned to find the black mare had already made its way to the stables and was even now fast asleep. She chuckled softly, then found a warm woolen blanket among the things in the stable and carefully covered Dubh’s back with it.

Returning to the kitchen where she’d found the letter, she realized the place needed a good dusting, but for however long it had been vacant, it was still fairly clean and cozy. She’d see to the dusting on the morrow, but for now her concern focused on getting a nice hot cup of tea and a bite to eat, so she lit a warm fire in the kitchen stove and put some water into a kettle to boil. In a nearby pantry she found a tin of shredded tea leaves, some bottled salted chicken meat, flour and other baking goods, dried vegetables, spices, etc., and set about to making a nice meal.

While it was simmering on the stove, she wandered off and found a bathroom where she washed herself. Surprisingly, there were ladies’ clothes in the wardrobe, and though years out of fashion, they were in good condition and quite moth-free, and from these she selected a pretty green frock, a blue hand-knit shawl, and a warm pair of sheepskin slippers. In the cupboard in the bathroom she found vials and tins with healing herbs and balms of all sorts, and having some knowledge of the healing arts, she set about to treating the painful knot on her forehead. It wasn’t going to look pretty for a few days, at least, but it would heal in time.

The tea kettle began to whistle in the kitchen, and the soda bread was ready to go into the oven, so Áine fixed herself a cup of tea and popped the bread into the oven, then stirred the chicken stew on the stove. She hadn’t long to wait until everything was ready to eat, and when she finally sat down at the table with spoon in hand, it occurred to her that this was her very first meal in her new home. The thought pleased her. It had been quite some time since she’d had any place to call home… she’d been wandering a long time… even she wasn’t quite sure how long. After a satisfying meal, Áine crept off into a nearby bedroom and fell fast asleep.

The next morning Áine worked on dusting. She found cleaning supplies in a closet off the kitchen she’d used the night before, and got to work just as the sun was rising. Normally, she would have preferred to sleep in until mid-morning, but today was the first full day in her new home, and she was excited. As she went about her cleaning, she discovered more and more rooms leading off other corridors in every direction. “I’ll never catch up with the cleaning at this rate,” she thought, and at mid-morning she put the kettle on and went into the stable to see if Dubhealaín was awake yet.

The black mare was standing there having a mindspeak conversation with a group of pigeons. They, apparently, were the messenger pigeons and were familiar with the terrain of the Isle of Dreams, and they indicated to her that for a few handfuls of seed, they would be happy to carry messages to anyone on the Isle that Lady Áine wished to communicate with.

“Very good, Dubh, I see you’ve found some friends here,” Áine grinned. She walked around inside of the stables until she came to the grainery. “Hmmm… it seems Lord MacNeesh kept the place well-stocked inDEED!” she said aloud, “though I wonder how he managed it all by himself?” She found a feedbag marked “pigeon seed” and scooped out a generous measure which she placed in a tin and gave to the pigeons, who seemed very grateful to have it. Here, she also found a mix of oats, barley, and sorghum which she gave to Dubh, and the mare nickered her thanks.

Áine wandered deeper into the stables and at the far end found stalls for sheep, sows, and a coop for raising hens and ducks and other fowl. On the wall was a note tacked up which read:

“Seed on the floor
fowl galore,
Seed in the tray
all the hens lay.”

Áine chuckled, “It seems MacNeesh had a way with magic.” She took a handful of feed and flung it across the floor, raising a cloud of dust as she did so.

Nothing happened.

“Heh, well, I suppose that one takes a bit of time to work,” she smiled. She poured more feed into the tray, as well, and then went back into the main hallway. Áine wandered into one of the libraries. There were, of course, books from floor to ceiling, their bindings standing at attention in colorful ranks. There was also a large desk in one corner adorned with colorful inlays of oak leaf and acorn around its edges. On top was an ornate ink blotter, quill, ink bottles of many colors, parchments, sealing wax, and other such supplies. A large over-stuffed chair with side table, oil lamp, and tobacco humidor stood next to a small fireplace in another corner. The room was neat and tidy, and Áine thought she might spend many pleasant hours here when the snows came. But now was not the time for that, she must see to the rest of this household and glen.

Back in the main hallway she wandered deeper into the hillside home looking for a passageway that would lead her outdoors to the southeast, where the garden MacNeesh had written about was located. After opening several doors and discovering various rooms filled with all manner of things, she finally found the side hall leading out.

It was a fairly large garden; concentric circles of planting beds cut by pathways in eight directions, aligned with the directions of the winds, or the sun’s path. Each bed had been built up, above ground level, and shored with mortared river stones of various colors. Surrounding the outside ring of beds was a rounded stone wall built of the same stones as the beds themselves, and this was built to the height of a man’s shoulders, a good height to deter cattle and other animals from entering and destroying the garden. All along the wall were espaliered fruit trees… apple, pear, cherry… all were heavy with fruit not quite ripe. Another few weeks until the chill winds came, and with it, the harvest. The stone work of wall and planting beds was very well made; it had withstood uncounted years of seasons and changing weather.

Áine strolled ’round the garden in a clockwise direction, gradually coming to the center where she stood before some sort of circular table or platform. She didn’t quite know what to make of it, though it was carved with all sorts of magical symbols and pictures of animals and birds of all kinds. The thought of stepping upon it seemed somehow wrong, and so she didn’t, and for the time being turned her attention to the rest of the garden and surveyed it over all.

The garden wouldn’t amount to much this year, overgrown and late in the season as it was, but it would be enough. It was full of volunteers from many seasons’ worth of fallen seed. There would be much needing pruning and thinning, and so she threw herself into work. Gardening is difficult work, hard labor, but it is the kind of work which requires strong muscles and leaves the mind free to think its thoughts.

Áine wondered about MacNeesh… the kind of man he was… the reasons he abandoned this glen, his home. She thought about her own reasons for entering these mountains, as well. If asked, it seemed doubtful even she could explain exactly. Somewhere out here, she knew, was someone who awaited her… but whether it was a memory, dream, or reality, even she couldn’t say.

“The world shows a different face among these peaks… sometimes real… sometimes unreal,” she whispered, though there was no one save the wind to hear her. She thought about all the people she’d known, both human and otherwise, their proclivity toward either kindness or meanness; how some were no better than animals, heh, the animals would be insulted by some… how others set themselves up as judges over others when their own actions were blind to themselves.

Áine muttered, “Aye, the roads were full of wolves in those days, nearly all of them two-legged, and just as dangerous and deadly.” She was glad to be away from others, out here in the mountains. She wasn’t a bit frightened being alone out here. Some in the past had made the mistake of thinking her frail and vulnerable, without protection. They soon learned otherwise. Oh, she’d been trapped a time or two, but she’d always found a way to free herself, and the two-legged wolves had been made to regret tangling with her.

Just then, the hair stood up on the nape of her neck; she felt like she was being watched. She stood and did a scan of the area, but found nothing… which was, itself, unusual. Someone or something was out there in the hills watching, but whoever or whatever it was, it was capable of shielding itself from her probes. And that usually meant danger.

She slowly made her way back into the hillside, acting as if nothing whatsoever was amiss, yet every one of her senses was acutely aware. Once inside, she ran quickly to every outside door that she knew of and secured them with bolt or latch, then placed magical guards about the place as well. Locked within the hill might keep her safe, but knowing there was one outside who could block her scans, and not being where she might observe this one, did little to make her feel secure. Besides, she couldn’t stay locked within forever, could she?

“All there is for it is to make a map of this house, so that I might know its passageways and rooms as well as I know my own hands,” she whispered to no one. Áine went to the library she’d visited before and got the parchments and quill and ink, and then began at the lakeside door, drawing a crude map of the interior of the house, marking on it rooms, bends in the main hallway, and exits from the hill. She worked on this map for days.

By the third day of map-making, Áine was fairly sure she had covered most of the house, though she knew in a place like this there could easily be hidden passageways or corridors throughout the mountains that her map did not encompass. It was on this third day of map-making as she was having mid-morning tea that she heard someone knocking on the front door. She hurried to it and threw the door open fully prepared to magically bind whoever was there in an instant, but when she flung the door open, no one was there, and looking down, she saw footprints in the sand, as well as a parcel left on her doorstep.

The footprints appeared to go from west to east through the glen, stopping only at her doorstep to drop off the parcel and then hurrying quickly into the woods on the other side. They were made by man-sized boots. Áine picked up the parcel, scanned it briefly, then opened it. Inside were a freshly killed pheasant, two swan eggs, wild mint, thyme, sage, parsley, and some carved bone fishing hooks and sewing needles. She smiled. “Well, that was nice of Him… I suppose now I’ll need to give a gift in return… but… hmmm… perhaps if I left something by the lake, He’d find it?” She searched the surrounding peaks, but found not a trace of him. Aloud she called out, “Beannacht! Guím an t-ádh leat!” [Blessings! May good luck go with you!] Then she turned and went back inside.

She cleaned and dressed the pheasant and put it in the oven to roast. The swan eggs she brought to the stable, where she found several dozen chickens and ducks running around loose. Áine giggled and shooed them all back into the coop on the far side of the stables and closed the gate so they wouldn’t get out again. She placed the swan eggs into one of the hen’s nests, replacing the chicken eggs with them, and brought the chicken eggs back to the kitchen. She’d now have fresh eggs every day, thanks to MacNeesh. She pumped water from the pump at the sink and filled two buckets. One she brought to Dubhealaín, the other to the fowl.

Áine returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table, thinking. The aroma of roasting pheasant wafted around the kitchen. She began to think of what sort of gift she should give to her mysterious benefactor, and she also wondered how he’d found his way into this glen, if MacNeesh had protected it with enchantments as it said in the letter. There was more to this mysterious stranger than meets the eyes, but not having caught a glimpse of Him, she had no idea what sorts of things He might need. Then again, there were things that all Beings have need of, no matter their circumstances or what station of life they may occupy, by chance or by birth or by their own efforts of labor. She picked up the parcel and opened it again, then took out one of the bone sewing needles.

She went to the library where she’d left the house map. She studied the map carefully, then walked down the main hallway, perhaps forty paces, and turned left. She opened the door to a room containing cloth, a loom, thread, yarn, and other notions. She selected some heavy green canvas and began constructing a strong knapsack with numerous pockets on the outside, and she put loops of cloth here and there, suitable for tying on any number of things. She melted some parafin and soaked the knapsack in it so as to render it waterproof, and set this to dry. Then she went into one of the bedrooms and opened a wardrobe.

She took out several shirts, trousers, and a green woolen cloak. On a fine shirt of saffron linen she began an embroidery. She threaded the needle with hairs from her own head and began sewing an intricate design across the back of it, humming an ancient tune as she did so. Her fingers moved deftly and so quickly it seemed a blur. When she finished, the design on the shirt could have been mistaken for a sepia tone photograph of the glen, the lake, the surrounding mountains, and her hillside home on the island. It was truly beautiful, and she hoped He would like it.

She carefully packed everything into the knapsack. Into the side pockets she placed tins of tobacco, a new clay pipe, an ivory comb, a pair of sharp scissors, a shaving razor, a small mirror, and a packet of chocolate bars wrapped in waxed paper. She placed the embroidered shirt in last so that it would be the first thing He saw when He opened it. Almost as an afterthought, she added a silver penny whistle, tying it to the top of the pack with a leather thong. She hoisted the pack and carried it outside to the shore of the lake, and left it in plain sight. Then she went back inside and enjoyed a delicious dinner of roast pheasant, potatoes, and corn. The next morning, she saw that the knapsack had been taken, her gift accepted.

She didn’t know it, but the sight of the embroidery had made Him weep, so touched was He by her gift, for He saw it for what it was.