Thorn Chronicles: Part Two

That night, the moon rose to beam down upon Thorn with a grin that outsparkled every other night Miles had seen that year. The stars were sprinkled by the thousands across the sky, and twinkled and pulsed faintly in their distant galaxies. The night was filled with noises: the soft gurgles of the fountains in the garden, the nightingales’ and owls’ songs competing in the trees, the leaves of all the plants rustling in the light breezes which tumbled here and there. Miles lay stretched on a small patch of clipped grass, smelling the sweet fragrance of the hostas behind him and staring up at the stars. He was at the very back of the garden where the neatly kept flowers gave way to the wild, tangled wood behind the palace. Hawthorns twisted and turned restlessly among ancient ashes, while privet filled the spaces the trees did not. It was not a forbidding wood, but neither did it give easy passage to those who wished to explore its depths. Unlike the towering Mirowood in Lamonte or the Mirabellon’s renknowned Winwood with its vast acres and waterfalls, this little wood sat humbly but jealously on the little space it had claimed.
Miles’ eyes sank from the sky to rest on the wood. In the brilliant moonlight, even the ugly, twisted little trees seemed enchanted. The supple, slender branches of privet formed archways and tunnels which would never be visible in the garish light of the sun. As Miles gazed into the softly lit wood, an idea began to dawn in his mind. He rose slowly to his feet, as if a sudden move would break the spell of the moon, and hurried to the small cottage where his master kept all the gardening tools. Soon, he had assembled several pairs of clippers, an axe, a hammer and nails, and a fat spool of twine. These he bound up with rope and slung across his back before slipping into the tanglewood.