My Story

EARADORN NAUGHE

PROLOGUE

My name is Autumn. Autumn London. And I have a story to tell you. I feel I should be forthright from the very start; so let me begin by explaining...I am in fact, dead, by your definition of the word. I hope it doesn't frighten you away. You wouldn't know it if you saw me. I look exactly the same as I ever did in life with only one exception. But I'll leave that for later. I'm not human like you either. Not anymore. I don't even exist in your world any longer. Sounds peculiar, I know, and I wouldn't have believed all of this myself a year ago. But things are different now. Very different. And to tell you the truth, in my world it's not so unusual to find someone like me who was once alive, and once dead, walking about. It's perfectly normal. Your world, the one I left behind, seems stranger to me now than my own. I wouldn't go back if I could. But I suppose it's necessary just this once more, to return, if only in memory. To go back to where it all began. Back to my first life, so to speak. Back to when I was residing in Tisbury, England with my mother and father. Back to when I had nothing to live for.

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Roseacre Street was the 'haut monde' of all the avenues in England, and it was there that our house stretched up from the ground to loom over the oak trees. I use the word house and not home, because nothing about it was even slightly homey or comfortable. It was an impenetrable fortress. One of cold graystone blocks and tall windows, of glass so thick it would take an intruder a half of an hour to drill fully through. Smashing one would be contrary to reason, especially using an elbow or a foot, as the force of the impact would blow a bone to shards. Father made sure of that by testing the durability out on our old butler Harold who ran away the night of that little experiment (not very quickly I'm certain, what with his obliterated foot). He was never heard from again.

When father had first constructed the place, he made sure it was sealed up tightly like a drum. Secure and safe. But over the years, cracks had started to form in the stone from the cooling of winter snow and the heating of summer sun. Little weeds had begun poking their heads through the cracks, spiders were beginning to make their use of the niches, and father was beginning to feel vulnerable. He tried industriously to keep up with the declination, but there is only so much one can do for deteriorating rock. It was still a fortress, and anyone else would have felt richly protected, but father wasn't satisfied. It wasn't good enough for him any longer. Nothing was ever good enough for father, not even things of his own creation, like this house, or, for another example, myself.

It was a well known fact that the reason why he was so paranoid about cracksmen breaking into our house in order to gruesomely murder him during the night, is that father was the grandest arsehole politician to ever trod the face of the planet. He was a tyrant, a bully, a jerk. He was a master manipulator on a bad day. And he knew it well himself. He had enemies. But it was also how he had risen through the ranks so quickly, seemingly achieving a new promotion every single day.

"The only way for a man to get ahead in life is to be an ass," he used to say. "An elegantly dressed ass. And that is precisely what I intend to be, right up to the moment they kill me."

I strongly disliked father.

The grounds of the estate were kept neatly manicured by Culver, the caretaker. Culver was a foundling who had been raised by gypsies, and had several years ago taken up residence in our garden shed after begging employment. Mum and da treated him like absolute dog dirt in exchange for his long, sweat-stained hours and beautiful work. Secretly, I thought he was beautiful, at six foot two and just about my age, with the wavy black mane of an Andalusian. I would watch him work on those rare cloudless days, captivated by the sunlight glistening off his tawny skin. But make no mistake, nothing would ever have come of it, had a relationship been pursued. I was condemed to dangle only the suitors that were chosen for me, but every day I wished that we could be together; that we could run away to some far off land just the two of us. Maybe go back to the gypsies and live out the rest of our years like roaming adventurers. Alas, it was to be left only to my dreams. But oh, Culver's handywork was lovely! Row upon gorgeous row of rosebushes lining the black iron fencing that encircled the perimeter of the capacious yard. Red and yellow mostly, with a few pastel pink ones scattered throughout the lot. They were his artworks, his babies. I loved them almost as much as he did, 'specially those pink ones, and I made sure Culver knew that his toiling was appreciated. Told him every day, I did. Someone had to.

Inside of our illustrious domicile, the vaulted ceiling of a foyer gave way to the great hall, cold and empty with the exception of a chandelier and a long, marble table where mum liked to hold her pretentious dinner parties. There was a basement, in theory. But unlike the other basements of Roseacre Street, cobbwebb-coated wine cellars, ours was more of an arsenal and trophy room where father displayed his museum-like collection of mounted beastie-heads and weaponry. Knives, shotguns, pistols, machetes; pick your poison, it'd be there. The remainder of the abode wasn't much different; cold and empty and spacious.

S'pose I could have summed it up more efficiently by simply saying I was born and brought up in a prison with a lovely yard.

Throughout the years the neighbors came and went, consistently changing like the seasons, but we remained forevermore directly where we were. And where we were, seemed to be the intrinsic reality of boredom. Upon any given hour I could most likely be found either reading in my room, sleeping, or running some sort of tedious errand for mum. I didn't have a job of any sort, because apparently my life purpose was to become a society hostess by way of finding and marrying a man. Specifically, according to the desires of my parents, a wealthy man, perhaps even famous with noble blood and a large estate. And so, many a night I indeed found myself yawning through a dinner and a dance with one repulsive suitor or another, picked out for me to try on like a hat, only to be tossed back later onto the rack. Some found me to be agreeable, some did not. I found them all to be nauseating.

Now, I had a lot of possessions. A veritable plethora of blouses, skirts, hats and gowns, all dripping with expensive lace and silk, neatly folded into my wardrobe. And there was the eclectic assortment of fine jewelry that had been accumulating inside of my top dresser drawer since before I can remember. Almost all of it had been passed down to me from rich, dead aunts and rich, dead great aunts. There was more stuff packed into my room than I knew what to do with and I passionately hated all of it...except for my pocketbook. An heirloom that I wouldn't have cared nearly as much about, had I not inherited it two years ago, at the age of 18, from poor departed Grandmummy Brinkleberry, the only of my relatives who was not a monster. The only of my relatives to win my admiration, even my affection. In fact, I had always thought of her as a sort of heroine. A queenly goddess you might say. She had a passion for words, a free thinking mind and an independant spirit. All the kinds of things that are frowned on by men.

Her pocketbook, delicately embroidered with a swirling leafy pattern of jade, stitched to a lavender background, was beautiful. The memories of Grandmummy carrying it with her wherever she went made it especially so. I loved it. I took the petite little thing with me everywhere I went. Some nights, I even went to bed with it beneath my pillow, where my sleeping fingers could find it if they so desired. In a way, sadly I know, it was my best friend.

And then came the distressing period of time when the pocketbook went missing. I hadn't the faintest notion as to where I could possibly have misplaced the damn thing! Oh, and I do apologize ahead of time for my recent inclination to swear like a sailor, being aware of how dreadfully unladylike it is. A naughty little habit I've picked up from an actual sailor, in whose company I have recently spent a good deal of time. Well, to be perfectly honest, pirate would be the more accurate term to describe his occupation. But I digress. Back to the pocketbook! The bloody thing was always disappearing! But never for this long a span. And never my fault of course, as it did indeed have a mind of it's own. And it was always turning up in the strangest of places; the birds nest resting on the tree branch by my window, for example; the washtub; the Mulligan's postbox down the road; the garden, half buried, just to the right of my favorite rosebush; and now queerest of all, the fireplace in Sir Thompson's bookshop. I must have climbed to the roof and dropped it down the blasted chimney in the dead of night. I know what you must be thinking, and to be honest, I, at present, agree wholeheartedly.

You see, I had indeed been accused, specifically by my dear mother and father on more than one occasion, of sleepwalking, and was in quite a state of denial on the matter. However, I've come fully to terms with it. A mysterious stranger, destined to present himself later in my tale, informed me that it was a true thing, my noctambulation issue, and cleansed me of any lingering doubt that it was the cause of the pocketbook perplexity. Not to mention, if you think on it, sleepwalking really is the only way to elucidate by what means it was always popping up in such wonky places.

Now, my mischievous pocketbook mystery actually holds quite a good bit of significance, for it was the very thing that induced my unexpected adventure; a journey that has changed me so thoroughly, I scarcely remember the girl I was before.

It was extremely gone for a full week before Sir Thompson returned it to me, that fateful day, upon my entering his bookshop in order to give him the invitation my mother asked that I deliver, advertising her upcoming tea party. He apparently had been questioning every damsel that crossed his threshold about it. And a good thing it was that he did, for it would never have crossed my mind to ask if it had been found at that particular location. I was never one to frequent his establishment, much preferring the town library, where I could borrow my reading material for no cost, as opposed to purchasing them at his outrageous prices. What a robbery to charge a good silver bit for a one time read, which would then sit for the rest of eternity atop my dresser, collecting dust and those wispety cobwebs. And that because the maid never did do her job properly. Oh dear, I'm digressing again! After having claimed my pocketbook, now nicely glazed with soot, and chatting for all of two and a half minutes, I returned to our home on Roseacre Street. Mum was back from market quite early, in a dreadful tizzy, and upon seeing me, narrowed her eyes and began her usual questioning.

"Child!" she snarled, "whatever has happened to your pocketbook this time? It appears to have been blasted with excrement! Never mind that, I'm not sure I want to hear. Disgusting. How are we ever going to get you married off if you insist on behaving like a four year old, hmm? Have you at least delivered all of my invitations? This tea party is the height of importance for us, you realize Autumn. Getting to know the citizens of this town will prove exceedingly beneficial to your father's upcoming run for office."

"Yea mum, I realize. And I've succeeded in delivering all save one of your invitations. That meant for Gertrude's family. I've neglected it, purposefully mind you, because I don't exactly wish to see her so long as she continues ignoring me."

"I wasn't aware that she was. What a shame. I suppose that now I'll have to go to the trouble of ordering Trudy to deliver that one." She raised an eyebrow. "Did you say something to upset her? Really quite a shame. She is your only friend, after all."

"Was my only friend, thank you. I think she still holds a grudge against me because of the other night. We were taking the air in the park, minding our own business, when a young man approached me with a flower. He turned an unnatural shade of red and hurried off without a word, offering nothing to poor Gertie. Attractive as he could be." I frowned. "She always was the jealous type, but I feel just terrible about it. She is, in my opinion, more lovely than I, with her golden curls. And she has such a sweet disposition, mum. She indeed was the one deserving of that flower. But sadly, there's not much I can do, now that the damage is done."

Mother sighed and shook her head, obviously disappointed. She wanted us to remain friends. For selfish political purposes, mind you, that she tried to pass off as genuine maternal concern. But I could see right through her, when everyone else, including father was fooled by her bewitching charm and elegant beauty. There were times when I truly became frightened by her cold voice. It seemed so...hollow. She spent the better portion of her life in the kitchen, which she kept chalk full of spices and seasonings and little bottles of unidentifiable liquids, and I must admit that more than once I found myself wondering if she hadn't been slowly poisoning father and I for the past several years, smiling through her teeth all the while.

I glanced up at her, unaware that it would be the last time my eyes would have the privilege.

"Tell da I say 'ello upon his arrival home. I've the urge to retreat to my room for the remainder of the evening. Currently, I'm quite involved in a particular novel."

"I shall pass along your salutation. Won't you eat supper with us tonight? I've just brought home the makings for a lovely turtle soup and ice cream for dessert."

"No, I'm still quite full from lunch to tell the truth. G'night mum."

And with that I indeed took my leave; up the winding staircase, down the hall, past the loo, to the right of the bay window, to the left of the tapestry, and into my room. All the while clutching my dear pocketbook. I decided right off that before I did anything else, it should be thoroughly cleansed of it's rubbish. So I took it straightaway to the little netty directly connected to my room. Yes, spoiled as I was, I did indeed have my own netty, which is generally quite unheard of, which I generally quite took for granted. Onto the window seat, I hurriedly dumped the contents of the bag, then scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed some more. The bloody thing just would not get clean! I scrubbed until my fingers developed raisin skin, until I came to terms with its stitching now being gray, rather than lavender. Then onto the sill it went, to dry, and hopefully not to lose it's shape.

Upon returning to my room and taking up my novel, I very much lost count of the hour. I was whisked away to another world entirely. One of dragons and Vikings and a terrible sorceress queen who enjoyed scorching things with bolts of lightning that shot right out of her fingertips. I had little choice but to devote the night to it, not only because it was an excellent read, but also because it was due back the next day, and I could never bear to return an unfinished book, terrible or not. The stars were out now, an entire blanket of them, illuminating the sky and the old oak just outside my window. A gentle breeze stirred the branches. Not a single cloud floated in the atmosphere. Picturesque, it was, but strangely enough, I unmistakably detected the nearby rumblings of a growly sort of thunder. Ponderous....Quite ponderous. It was a mystery I quickly cast from my mind upon remembering my pocketbook, sitting on the netty windowsill. I had the urge to check on it, as though it were an infant, in need of my attention. I was, after all, nursing it back to health.

I lay my book down, and scurried back to the netty. Something was off. I couldn't quite place it, but I felt it right down to my bones. Curious. I squeezed the pocketbook. Nearly dry now, and positively safe to begin replacing it's contents. Everything appeared to be yet intact. Coin purse filled with several silver and copper bits, a small bible mother made me carry about with my flower pressed inside, a comb with five broken teeth, a crumpled note. Hold it.... That certainly wasn't there before! In the distance I heard more rumbling. And suddenly, the sound of rain. I tore aside the curtain and stared up at the stars. A torrential downpour from what was still a cloudless sky. "What on earth....? I do believe this is scientifically impossible!" I remember thinking to myself, more than a bit alarmed. How naive I was. "This really can't be...." Yes, it could. I was nearly overflowing with anticipation as my trembling fingers unfolded the crumply parchment. "Meet me where the END begins, when rain falls from the stars". That was all it read. I thought on it for a moment, then turned, shuddering, back to the bleary window. "Okay," I whispered, "I know what I have to do....."

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I was dangling from one of the higher branches of the old oak tree, and soaked to the bone. Crawled right out my bedroom window, I had. And was now trying to recover from misplacing a foot earlier on in my descent. It hadn't helped much that the bark was slippery as a salesman with cool rainwater. My fingers were nearly separated from their hands as I tried to swing my legs out far enough to reach the branch a ways below, and just a bit out of toes reach. I had to do this barefoot you see. Much easier to grip the branches that way. Unfortunately this did force me into holding my shoes, by the straps, between my teeth. Not the most pleasant of experiences. And it certainly made breathing infinitely more difficult. Eventually, I decided I'd waited long enough, and made the jump to the branch below, hitting it harder than expected with both my hands and feet. The impact jolted the tree and shook the surrounding branches, causing the aforementioned birds nest to fall directly upon my head. Lucky for me it was quite empty of eggs at that particular time. I must have looked like a crazed lemur in a dress!; hopping around on all fours with a nest atop my head and my shoes in my mouth. It was smooth sailing after that. I leaped from branch, to branch, to branch, to...finally...the magnificent ground, with only scrapes and bruises left to brag about.

Now what?

I knew precisely where I was to go, but hadn't the slightest idea of who, or what to expect upon my arrival. I knew it was risky, even foolish of me. A wiser girl would have stayed in her room. However, regrettably, I knew I could never placate the insatiable curiosity that was now gnawing away at me. I had to discover what this was all about; the letter, the sourceless rain, the possible connection to my pocketbook. And so, after removing my new hat and reapplying my shoes, I began making my way to the covered bridge which marked the beginning of the path that led into the Earadorn Naughe Darkforest.

It was aptly called a darkforest because the tall, tall trees grew together so thickly that their uppermost branches and leaves meshed together, creating the effect of a canopy. And even on the sunniest day of the year, it might as well have been dead of night in Earadorn Naughe. Light simply couldn't survive there. And neither could even the bravest of England's men who dared venture beyond the covered bridge and into the darkness, never to be seen again. Not a single soul had ever returned after crossing the bridge and disappearing into the tangled mass of thorns and shadows.

I was indeed frightened of Earadorn Naughe. Everybody was, as I'm sure you can imagine. Yet there I was, standing at the threshold, pocketbook slung over my shoulder, rain still falling all around me. But where was the note-leaver? It appeared I was quite alone, and was beginning to think I had misinterpreted his message. And then, suddenly, I detected footsteps, and the presence of a man. I gasped and spun around to face a cloaked figure, of impressive stature, emerging from beyond the trees.

"At last you arrive. I was beginning to wonder if you hadn't found the note." He snapped his fingers and instantly the rain ceased. His tattered gray robes were blowing hauntingly in the wind, making him look like a fantasmical being. A wizened, tattooed face, framed by feathery wisps of long white hair, was barely visible behind the folds of fabric draped about his head. There was a sibylline element to his being. As he approached me, a pulsing, purple, energy of sorts began emanating from his body; and with it my entire world rippled and pulsed, deeper and stronger with every step he took. It danced through my body, dizzying me.

"Stay back!" I warned.

"You have forgotten you. To help you remember is why I am here. We found you in the dreamworld, and led you. We guided you. We are in need of your help."

As the creature spoke, he faced me directly, but kept his misty eyes rolled up to the sky, as if in a trance. Never blinking. And I....I could do nothing but stare.

"Come, I will explain everything." He motioned to the darkforest.

"You....you want me to follow you in there? You must be mad. I'll never agree."He continued walking toward me. And with every pace, I felt myself slipping further away as if into dream.

"Come. You are needed, Autumn, and are likewise in need of us."

I was powerless. Unable to argue. I followed blindly, as he turned round and made his way, slowly back into the woods.

The air beneath the trees was surprisingly light and sweet. It smelled overwhelmingly of juniper, and I'm quite sure I detected a hint honeysuckle as well. This was in stark contrast to what I was expecting. Something more along the lines of mushroom stink and compost. And all the while my olfactory senses were being ravaged, I had yet to see a thing. If it weren't for the dim purple light radiating from the cloaked man, I could easily have been walking through an abyss. Strange noises began permeating my ears. Croaking and chirping and the flapping of wings. I was growing dreadfully curious of my surroundings, but all answers evaded me.

The cloaked man seemingly glided across the ground just ahead. There was so much I wanted to ask him, but for the moment, the only thing I could think of was how it was that I was unable to control my own feet and the direction in which they moved. I remained powerless, obviously under some sort of spell. I could control my thoughts, my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my ears, basically the entirety of my head was still my own, but all else was being somehow manipulated by this cloaked stranger. He guided my feet to follow his. Upon looking down at my body I was astounded to see that I was now emitting a dim little glow of my own. The closer I got to him, the more vibrant it became. I was gradually absorbing his force field. It made me feel safe, secure, but not complacent. I wanted....no, needed answers.

"Please. I don't know who you are. I don't know where you're taking me. I don't know what's happening at all. You promised an explanation. Now please, before we go any further, won't you tell me what's going on?"

"Aahh," he groaned in a deep, painfully drawn out monotone, "I never promised."

"Are you bloody serious?"

"I am. I never promised. But I shall explain nevertheless," he teased. "I think we'd better sit down."

"But I don't want -" I was interrupted by my legs collapsing from underneath me. The cloaked man had made up his mind to sit, and in turn, took me right to the ground along with him. Apparently whatever he did, I was forced into as well, as though I was his mirror image that looked absolutely nothing like him.

"Aahh," he again moaned, "let us begin our familiarization with a question." He pulled a long pipe out from beneath his robes, raised it to his lips, and began thoughtfully puffing away at it. "Are you at all happy?"

People were always asking me these kinds of mystifying questions, such as, How are you, Autumn? or What have you been up to, Autumn? And I always had the hardest time figuring out how to answer. Either I would have to lie, which is a thing I didn't much like to do, in order to make it look like everything was alright, or I would be forced into boring them to tears with an awkward recount of my dull week and how I spent it in misery, locked away in my room or running errands for mum. But no one had ever come right out and asked me if I was happy or not before. This time, I decided to be honest, but at the same time, stick to how I was feeling only at the moment. Considering the state of confusion I was currently in, it was nearly impossible to see anything beyond the present, or anything that had passed before finding the mysterious note.

"Well currently I'm a bit confused as to why you've been so evasive, and as to why I was forced into this darkforest in the manner you used. My dress is itchy and my pocketbook is the wrong color. So no, I am more angry than happy. "

"I suppose I am. I'm happy not to have the consumption or typhus or cholera. Happy to have escaped my house tonight without being caught by my father, who would have taken pleasure in punishing me severely, even if I had blamed it on sleepwalking. It's happened before. I am happy to have recently rescued this very pocketbook from the hold of a deadly chimney. And you haven't killed me...least not yet."

He chuckled.

"That is indeed a wonderful explanation. However I was referring less to your current state of mind, and more to your life as a whole. Your world and all the people in it. Are you contented with any of it? Do you believe the future holds more than what the past has delivered thus far."

I knew from the start that's what he had meant, but I didn't really want to get into it. I wanted "Alright then. No. I'm not happy. Not in the least. It's hard to explain, but I've always felt like I belong...somewhere else. Like I was born into the wrong family, even into the wrong century. I feel like I want to make a difference somehow; change the world. But there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. I'm a girl...a woman. And where I'm from, women are seen as little more than playthings, practically servants to their husbands. I don't want that to happen to me. I want to be someone! I don't want to be condemned to the kitchen my entire life like my mum. But it's hopeless isn't it? Damned and bloody hopeless. I've been insignificant my entire life and it's not about to change, as far as I can see."

"I know you feel that way, Autumn. I've known it from the start. I've been inside your head. Inside your subconscious when you were dreaming. The question was asked because you needed to hear yourself say it aloud. I'm going to present you with a choice. Before you make your decision, I want you to think very hard about what you just told me."

"Fair enough. I promise. But first I want to know what you meant...about being inside my head when I was dreaming. And you still haven't told me anything about yourself. What's your name? Where do you come from? I've never seen or heard of anyone coming out of this forest before, and you seem to know your way around in this darkness like you've lived here all your life."

"We are sitting right now, inside of my home."

"The forest, you mean, is your home?"

"Yes it is, but more acutely than that, we are sitting in my living room," he paused, "by the fireplace...on the fur rug...which is in desperate need of a beating."

"What manner of jabberwocky are you feeding me?"

"It is not jabberwocky. Just because you cannot see or feel something, does not mean it is not there. Do not mistake the perceptions of the senses for reality. Sometimes it is necessary to surround oneself with darkness in order to find what one is looking for."

"Uh-huh." I had really no idea what he was talking about.

He took a long drag from his pipe, and blew a great smoke ring into the air before us. It hovered suspended like a fluffy purple cloud in the luster of our luminosities.

"You see this smoke before you?"

I nodded.

"It seems very real. Doesn't it?"

I nodded again.

"But when one attempts to grasp it," he combed his fingers through the air, "it vanishes. Was it ever really there, or was it a figment of your imagination all along?"

"I don't-" I stopped speaking when I noticed that the cloaked man's head had begun to tilt to an unnatural angle. His sockets narrowed. It was clear he was looking past me, despite that ever-skyward gaze of his.

Hesitantly, I twisted round to find only more of the same overwhelming darkness. "What are you looking at? There is nothing but a world of nothing out there!"

He paused for what seemed like a very long time, then without warning, threw his pipe to the ground and leaped to his feet. "Run!" he exclaimed. "He has found us!"

"What? Who-"

Suddenly, a great and deafening roar swept across the forest floor and caught me in the chest. It blasted me backwards, spreading me out on my back, causing my eardrums to hum and rumble something awful with the echo of the painful bellow.

For a moment, I simply lay there, dazed and disoriented. But as the pain gradually began to subside, I began to come to. I called out into the darkness for the stranger. There was no reply. The realization that I was now alone startled my blood to pumping. The cloaked man was gone! And so, too, was the source of my light. A wave of terror washed over me and at the very same moment, my ears detected a faint scratching sound coming from god knew where. I tried to convince myself not to panic. Slowly, I propped my back up on my elbows and wildly strained my eyes to see something....anything! around me.

No. Nothing. This was not good.

The frequency of the scritchy sound was increasing at an alarming rate, and it seemed to be growing closer and closer and closer every second. So I did the only thing that seemed logical at the time. I scrambled akwardly backwards across the ground as fast as I possibly could, crabwalking. Over what felt like dewy moss that tickled my palms and the backs of my legs; up and down little dips in the earth; deeper and deeper into the blackness. As I continued plunging backwards, I judged from the declination of the noise that I was making a bit of progress in losing this creature. For a split second I was inspired with hope, when suddenly, my pocketbook became ensnared on something! A bloody tree root.

I gasped. The last thing I wanted was to ruin it again. And of course being caught and maimed by whatever was out there would have been a terrible fate as well. I know it's hard to believe, but I do suppose, looking back on it now, that I would actually rather have faced my doom than to see any harm come to my pocketbook. For in the time I had spent carefully unwinding it from the root, the creature had caught up to me. Only just a minute ago had it become snagged! And now, I found myself staring into the shadowy outline of what seemed to be the puffing, snarling face of a very angry, very large dragon.

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But you are also sad, your life lacks direction and purpose. We can give that to you. Help us, and I promise, the course of your life will be drastically altered. I know that is what you desire. You will be forever changed.

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Far away, the Protectress stood at her chamber window, staring down at her pupils in the marketplace far below, scurrying about like tiny, fragile ants. They scattered in between the tattered vendor tents, searching for the perfect potion, book, or herb to complete their latest assignments; oblivious to the peril that would come with the dawning of the next day. She clutched the sacred tome to her chest, and prayed, wishing she were incapable of thinking on tomorrow, of what was to become of these innocent children of nature, whom she had devoted her life to protecting. She wished to cast the horrid thoughts from her mind, and try to convince herself that the impending doom that was approaching wasn't real. But she also reminded herself of the importance of proper preparation. Their fate was truly in her hands. Now was the time for planning and for action. Certainly not the time to be locked away with only her grief for accompaniment.

An eagle soared past the window and called out as if to reassure her that all hope was not yet lost. It doubled back, gracefully swooped down, and passed by her once more before disappearing into the blushing incarnadine of the horizon.

"If only we could fly freely as you do, noble eagle." She whispered quietly. Feeling a sudden surge of urgency, she drew a long, deep breath, straightened her back, and tried to regain her dignified composure. It was time to alert her people.

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"I am as poor as a church mouse," Iñaki was thinking aloud again. He was meandering through the marketplace, contemplating whether or not it would be wise to spend his last silver on apple spice for his famous cider. A luxury he could scarcely afford these days, but indulged in nonetheless. It was after all the only reason, or so he presumed, that he was visited by Omi, with whom he was painfully in love, but hadn't the bark to tell her. She would stop by his tavern every week and purchase a mug of the steamy hot cider from him, followed by a display of her charming smile, which caused him to tingle from his leafy head down to his tiptoes. Then she would sit for hours in the corner by the fire and read and sip the delicious brew. Yes, he decided remembering the smile, it was worth the extra money spent. That in mind, he strode over to Sage's spice stand.

"What'll it be today Iñaki? Ah. Let me guess....Apple spice! Yes? Am I right? Heh heh heh."

"You really know me all too well now don't you Sage." Iñaki smiled.

"Well one would hope so after all these years, sweetbark. I'd be out of a job if it weren't for your loyal patronage." She smoothed her apron down with her gnarled hands (treefurs were not known for aging particularly gracefully). "Would you like a pound or a pinch?"

"Just a pinch today Sage. But I promise I'll be back for more after sales pick up. I'm sure they will soon. Beautiful day. Well I'm off to enjoy what's left of this beautiful day." He started off with a bounce in his step.

"Goodbye dearie!" She called out after him.

When Iñaki arrived back at his shop he was met with more noise and bustle than the tavern had seen for months. People everywhere, mashed together, standing on the tables shouting and drinking. He raised both eyebrows in disbelief. His rascally leafling of an assistant, Meza, whom he always left in charge while out and about, came scurrying over to him, frazzled and out of breath. "Iñaki, the whole of Earadorn's been summoned by the Protectress herself to meet in the town square at one past midday. Apparently it's extremely urgent and not of a pleasant nature by any means. Everybody began pouring in here all at once, talking and bickering on what this might be about. And they just keep coming as more and more are being alerted! Good news being the unexpected flood of business. Hope you decided on more than a pinch at market today."

"Curses," Iñaki thought aloud. "You wouldn't mind running back for me, would you Meza?" He noticed Omi was among the gatherers, and saw this as the perfect opportunity to strike up a conversation. "Tell Sage hello again for me, and inform her of the news, in case she's not yet found out. Here you are," he handed him five silvers, "now hurry!"

"Not a problem, jefe." Squeaked Meza, already dashing through the wide wooden doors.

The tavern was situated among a little cluster of shops smack dab at the center of the northern perimiter of the square, the perfect location for business this afternoon, and just what Iñaki sorely needed. Not that he could think of a worse reason for it. The news had to be bad if the Protectress wanted everyone to gather together all at once this way.

His eyes scanned the crowd again for Omi's pretty face, her dark green, leafy hair that she kept piled atop her head, her sweet smile. He eliminated several individuals before locating her. "There she is! Oh no, no, the bark is too course. Was that her? No too skinny. Now that one is too large. So many lady treefurs here this afternoon! But none, of course, can compare to my Omi." Finally his eyes landed upon her, sitting by the fire as usual.

"Aha," he shuffled over to the bar and slipped behind the serving counter. Taking a jug from the cabinet he poured into it what was left of his apple cider from the barrel tap. Then he poured the contents of the jug into the pot above the fire and let it heat for a short time. Finally he took a dangling mug from its hook, filled it with hot cider and made his way over to Omi with the suprise.

As he approached he discovered, to his dismay, that she was already in the company of a man, engaged in full conversation. A rather handsome man at that. Inaki was already on his heels to head back to the bar when he heard Omi's voice. And was she calling to him?

"Inaki? Hello! Come over here!"

She was! His heart skipped a beat. Cautiously, he turned around and made his way cross to her and the neatly trimmed gentleman.

"Hello Omi," he sank into a big fluffy armchair.

"Inaki, this is my cousin Oonso." Inaki felt quite relieved to hear it. "Oonso, this is Inaki. I've told you before about his marvelous apple cider. What would I do without you and this place, hmm?

Inaki chuckled. "You are too kind. Oh yes. Speaking of which," he looked at his feet, "I have anticipated your desire for a mug of it and already poured some just for you. My treat."

Omi grinned warmly as she accepted the mug from her admirer. She could see for the first time, something more than just the false generosity of a proprietor in him. "Thank you so much."

Inaki nodded. "So, have either of you come to any conclusions as to what this is all about? I'm dreadfully curious now, and one past midday won't arrive for....one more hour! And indeed I must admit that I'm rather suprised to see that everyone seems to have chosen my tavern as the place to meet while they wait."

"Not too suprising if you ask me, friend," said Oonso, "if you can believe what Omi says about your cider and all. Plus you're right on the square! What better place for everyone to meet and talk and drink?"

"Oh I suppose so," he glanced at Omi. She was staring at him. "It's just that for months now, this tavern has suffered less half the amount of it's usual patronage. This was so very unexpected. But, as my grandfather would have said, it is about as unwelcome as a good friend."

A rather soppy sounding voice called jubilently out from the crowd. "Another round of brews over here Inaki!"

"Yes of course, coming right up!" he shouted. Then turned to excuse himself. "Meza's still at market for me, poor fellow, so if you both would be so kind as to excuse me." He got up and started off to the counter again.

A tap on the back startled him. "Mmmh?" He twisted around.

It was Omi. She batted her eyelashes quite flirtaciously and said, "I can sense you're uneasy...about the meeting. But I wouldn't worry, dear Inaki. We haven't come to any conclusions yet. But I do know that no matter what happens, we'll be alright. Because we have family."

"But I don't have any family Omi. All of my relations have passed to the other side."

"You have us now. We'll be your family. Let's stick together, the three of us. Oh and Meza too of course. Yes, that makes the four of us. We stay together no matter what and we'll be just fine. You'll see."

"That is very kind of you. Very kind indeed," he paused to look down at his jagged, tortured feet. "Thank you Omi."

--------------------------------------

The Protectress flew down the winding staircase carved into the core of the giant old redwood tree that had served as the infrastructure of the Palace Earadorn for centuries. The cavernous belly of the massive fortress was illuminated with candle light. Millions upon millions of columns of half melted wax lined the walls, nestled inside of little inlets etched into the soft bark. She passed by countless hollows before she reached that of her adviser, Landen. Unable to control herself, she threw her fists at the door, pounding furiously.

Inside his chamber, Landen was practicing cutting and thrusting with his magnificent sword, and he nearly fell on his own blade at the commencement of the unexpected din. Who would be rude enough to interrupt his practice with such a ruckus? He fumed over to the door. After vigorously wrenching it aside, he was shocked to find the Protectress standing there, her usually queenly face wrought with such concern as to turn the milk sour.

"Landen, I fear I've been withholding a piece of terrible information from you...from all the people," she said wringing her petite hands, "I was informed of it early this morning and ever since, I've simply been unable to function. I am terribly overwhelmed with shock. Disbelief, Landen. I thought this was all behind us. I thought we needn't worry or dwell on it any longer. I thought...I thought wrong."

"Protectress, please explain yourself. What has happened? What have you learned? I must know."

"Tis far too long a yarn to be spun more than once. Too long and too dreadful. I'm afraid you'll find out at midday along with the rest of the people."

"Good Lord, my queen, please!"

"I am truly sorry Landen, but I simply cannot bear to tell it more than once. Send out the spores immediately! The message to be conveyed should read as follows..." she peered deeply into his eyes, and spoke to him the indelicately concise directive.

"Yes Protectress." Landen hurried to the chamber of the scribe. The room was a disaster. Yellowed papers strewn across the floor, unstable towers of books climbing the walls. Horowonsk, the scribe, had said for years that the only way he was able to locate any particular document, was to let the room fall into a state of utter disorder. Landen couldn't understand that way of thinking. In his world, order and discipline ruled all else. Eventually, after much searching, he found a timeworn chest of red oak and iron trim nestled just below the window. The chest of spores. He knealt down and unhooked the big, creaky latch, crusted with rust from lack of use. No longer than a second after the lid was raised, spores were spouting into the air like a gush of orange water, buzzing and whirring around in chaos. They swirled together, completing a giant circle, spiraling higher and higher, until they were all hovering just below the ceiling, bobbing up and down as they awaited their new message.

Landen folded his herculean arms across his chest and tilted his head up to the little creatures. With a formidable vocalization that boomed from his throat bringing forth a generous spray of saliva, he bellowed, "SPOOOORES! PAY ATTENTION NOW!" It startled them into a chaotic buzzing frenzy which resulted in their huddling together in the shape question mark. Landen groaned. "Oh, right," he said to himself, embarrassed of forgetting that spores couldn't understand voice, only whisper. He began again, this time whispering loudly, "Spooooores! Pay attention now!" Straightaway, the little puffballs snapped into place forming four separate rows. They stood at Landen's attention.

"That's more like it." He whispered sternly. "I need this message to find every soul in the forest. Top row; I want you to travel to the Northern corner and enter every shop, every home. Second row; to the Eastern corner. Third row; Southern. And bottom row; you are to travel to the Western corner and relay this message...."

--------------------------

The Western corner of Earadorn is a place of machines. Where twisted, metallic structures seem to scrape the dark heavens, and curling, silvery rivers of mercuric liquid snake the ground inbetween them. Mechanical creatures as tall as lamp posts roam the streets, crunching screws and bolts between their steely teeth like tea biscuits. The air always seems to be spiked with frosty prickles despite an everpresent bloodshot glow that hangs in the sky, suggesting warmth. Like a potbelly furnace.

The creatures of breath that dwell in this corner are sparse, and cannot be found at all during the day. They sleep until nighttime when the robots power down to recharge themselves for the coming day of drudgery.

There were so many fireflies,

"Focus on my nose. Don't take your

phosphorescent.

Treefurs came into existence by a taboo sort of means. We don't usually talk about it my dear, but I suppose I can make an exception for you and your inquisitivity. You see, the trees can't rightly move, what with being rooted to the ground and all, and therefore are quite unable to mate amongst themselves. (Mating being horrendously different, and far more enjoyable, from pollination or the planting of a seed.) Sad really. And so, they occasionally take it upon themselves to find potential partners among the other races of Earadorn. I shan't go into much further detail, but as you can imagine, the final result is the birth of their offspring; half tree, half humanoid. Hence, the conception of a Treefur. The Treefurs, additionally, have been reproducing amongst themselves for centuries. And not surprisingly, are one of the more dominant races found in Earadorn these days.

The sky was ripped open, rainbullets thrummed on the roof, so I ran outside, compelled to breathe in the mist, to feel the droplets stream down my face as did my tears, as it mirrored my feelings of a wonderful, terrible sorrow.

I did not know until quite recently that the planet Earth was the little finger on the hand of the universe. That the stars were

there is more than one inhabited planet. that they all overlap. that they are all part of planet earth. that the one you inhabit is the only one visible to you. it's like a world on top of a world. You only see the one you were born into, but that doesn't mean the other isn't there. He found a map. Technically it was two maps overlapping. If you peeled up the first layer, you would find the bottom page to contain an outline identical to the former. However the contents of the map, the trees, the mountain ranges, the borders dividing up the land and the names of the places to be completely different. A hidden world. Mirror images that look nothing alike.

Auto Eloise was plain as dirt but she was smart. Those two qualities, Ive found, actually seem to go hand in hand quite often.