Tend' from Heav'- 2 Daisy, 3 Obstruction

SONGS OF TIME
Daisy

Mauree puts the body brush down and inspects its effect in the mirror screen she brings up from the centre of the table. She’s chosen paints to accentuate sensuality, and help to make her irresistible. Of average height she has a slim body with smiling brown eyes in a slight face, rounded just a little. I so don’t like to do this. Why do I? Well, today I do it for Porsley, a whimpering addict from the edge of the forest, doped up with poco; yesterday, oh, who cares. I can’t stop. Give a man a sword and I’ll end up performing any act with him.

A metal sheen catches her eye; a miniature lock to a drawer, etched in the beautiful spirals of an ornate bureau, just behind the settee.
A message from Casley. I wonder what he wants.

She walks over and kneels before the bureau. From around her neck she removes a delicate gold chain with a dainty key and slots it into the beckoning keyhole.

‘Click’. The lock swings free with the slightest of effort. She slides the drawer out to reveal a few secret books, reproduced from ancient books and etched in black on very thin, light metal plates; pliable like paper. On each cover ‘Sherlock Holmes’ appears. His name etched in different font types, position, and prominence. She’d shown Belan these books when they first married, read bits to him.

Now she runs her hand over them, searching. Which one? Which one? Ah, yes.

As Mauree picks one up and opens it the animated face of Casley replaces the words on the page.

She smiles. “I haven’t heard from you for a long time.”

“No young lady and you wouldn’t now, except for what I saw today.”

Clasping the book she hurries to a table with a holographic imager and lays it down. Casley appears there.

“You look very nice today dear. Going out with Belan somewhere?”

“I wish.”

“So, the rumours of infidelity I’ve heard of you have some truth in them?”

Mauree feels tears welling up. “I can’t go on like this. I must see my father. I think I’m going to go mad. I have no one to talk to.”

“You can talk to me, but your father banished you for a reason. He still hides his identity; won’t even tell me where, or who he hides from, but I have the feeling his tormentor now threatens your life, and Belan’s too. You must both leave here.”

“Belan will never come with me. I’m not even sure he should. I can’t stop seeing other men.”

“This infidelity of yours has the feel of a hex, Mauree. I can help there. I’ll visit you right away.”

“You always said we shouldn’t meet.”

“After what I’ve seen today I’ll take the chance. Belan came to my store, and an apparition of a huge dog came after him. Someone sent this dog. I don’t know why, but it wasn’t for anything wholesome. Perhaps your infidelity and Belan’s dog come from the same source; if so high magic caused them.”

“I don’t think so Casley. I’ve seen the dog too. Before he died he used to belong to Derba.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Yes indeed; Derba called him Rodsorg, and I’m sure he means no harm. Belan didn’t know Rodsorg as I did. He hardly noticed him at all.”

“Stay there Mauree. I’ll come to you right away.”

Mauree closes the contact and puts the book away. Perhaps I can turn away from this hex and from Porsley. If I do it might break the enchantment. I’ll clean my face, speak to Casley, and await my Belan like a good wife.

As she passes the table her hand reaches for a small face paint applicator. Before she realises it she has the holographic imager adjusted to a basic mirror. I wonder if a tinge of gold paint will brighten my eyelids for you, Porsley. Let’s see.

* * * * * * * * * *
Unable to resist the lure of this object, Belan falls to his knees and plucks the bamboo out of the ground. He turns it with an absent expression, until startled by the voice in his head again.

You changed for Mauree; made sacrifices to please her, but does she appreciate all this? No, she does not! She took a lover, and she still takes them.

“I told you to go away. She doesn’t take lovers now.”

Then where do the tales of the ‘The Nymph of Moriarty’ come from? Everyone knows The Nymph sleeps with any man carrying a sword, but Moriarty? Who else would choose such a name, if not Mauree?

“No, I won’t believe it. I won’t!”

Belan runs his hand up the feathered bamboo; it feels so smooth, so polished. Tears roll down his cheeks. He finds a join just under halfway along, and pulls. The two ends part, sliding away to reveal a slender knife for opening letters. He lifts it toward his throat with glazed eyes, as images of Mauree’s inviting smile appear to dance across the serrated blade.

“Belan, dear boy, I haven't seen thee for years. Ah thou has it; I wondered where that had gone.” The newcomer carries a staff; an old man in a dark green smocked cloak. He takes the knife with a grunt of satisfaction, and puts it back together before popping it away in his pocket. Belan looks up, staring at this man in confusion as the cogs of recognition re-engage and he emerges from the stupor that almost claimed him.
Of all the people to meet, I didn’t expect to find Derba on this cliff path. How did he even get here? He hasn’t come from above, if he had I would have seen him long ago, and if he came from behind how did he catch up, I’m no dawdler?

At the age of fourteen Belan had seen Derba often. In those teenage days he hung around with Mauree and a group of other youths. Mauree used to feed Derba’s dog with pieces of cooked meat. The whole group always confided in Derba. He virtually mentored them.

The old man eyes the cave as if some monster lurks inside as he speaks. “I met Sonyana from thine old crowd recently.”

Belan follows Derba’s eyes. What a creepy cave, and why have I never noticed it before, after all the times I’ve walked this path? He dismisses it from his mind and a faint smile creeps across his face as he remembers Sonyana. “I haven't seen Sonyana for years. We called her ‘Witchy’, due to her interest in the supernatural . . .”

Derba politely interrupts. “She got married, and now she has a beautiful baby boy.”

“Did she marry Stutgar?”

“No, she moved away from thine old crowd long ago.”

I fancied Sonyana, but never considered her available. A pity, she may have done me good - there again maybe not with my love-life problems. I never thought she and Stutgar might one day split up; adolescents think themselves immortal.

Derba asks Belan if he had contact with any of this old party, and Belan feels a need to pour out his whole story to the older man.
“I married Mauree,” he begins, but then mumbles to a stop.

“Tell me of Mauree?”

“What do you want to know?” Oh Quell! That sounded so bitter.

“Didn’t she have a sister called Tapan?”

He seems quick to move on. No wonder; I must calm down. “Tapan married and moved away, I know little more about her.”

Tapanrica had many names; Taprica, Tapan, even Tap; a high-handed girl, one year younger than her sister. She had long straight hair and a cute stub nose.

“I collected the numbers of ‘Sailess Sail’ boats. The boats required licenses and numbers; and we wrote them in neat notebooks. Do you remember Roome, with the combed down hair?”

“I do; a bright lad.”

“Roome introduced me to the girls. They all lived by Hurley, just another boatyard then, and they even accepted me. Roome followed these boats everywhere. I went with him to collect boat numbers on the islands of Brilost and Texere. All the yards hated boat spotters, but none of their defences could stop Roome and me.”

Derba inclines his head with the mere trace of a smile. “The girls even accepted thee, did they? I think thy underestimates thineself, Belan. Thy had a flighty mother, did thou not?”

“In her twenties I believe mother married a butcher. They had a baby boy and girl. He had to go away for supplies of meat leaving her alone, sometimes for days due to the seas around here. To keep his meat fresh he had an 'onver boat'. An aunt told me my mother flirted, and left the children in a cold, damp house. The girl died, and the boy lost a lung, so the couple to split up with him taking the remaining child.”

“I think your low opinion of yourself came from your mother’s lifestyle.”

“No. She married my father soon after this, and I had a good upbringing.”

“I see. What about thine father then, did he help with this upbringing?”

“Yes, my father always cared for me too. I knew nothing of his string of mistresses until he died and I found them in his diary. He and mother suited each other well, perhaps.”

“It still seems to me that your parents caused your lack of self esteem, Belan.”

“Not to me it doesn’t, I think I have a gremlin inside me.”

Derba laughs. “How did thee learn to use a sword so well?”

“Mother came to know a swordsman. I didn't like him, but I enjoyed fencing. When he lost favour I persuaded mother to take me to a fencing club.”

“So, thee went on to marry Mauree?”

“No, not then, but my life almost changed when I went to a party at Mauree’s. At that time I still had the confidence to mix with girls a bit, and I even danced with them at this party. I counted each dance. I had one with Tapanrica, three with Sonyana, and five with Mauree. Afterwards, I joined them all for some evenings out. My frenetic hobby became more relaxed at this time, and my friends urged me and Mauree together. Up for it, I agreed, but something I cannot explain stopped me kissing her. Our courtship lasted about ten days, and ended due to my fear.”

“What happened?”

“One day I visited their house without Roome. Afraid to knock I sat with my back to a tree pretending to read a book, hoping they would come out. They did, and they made a lot of noise behind me. I heard them but couldn’t respond. I longed for them to call my name and break this terrible spell. Of course they didn't; they knew I could hear them. Angry at my rudeness they left me there, devastated. My life fell apart. I felt something holding me back, my nervousness I guessed - so I fought it, and with some success - for in time I did manage to mix in social settings. When I met Mauree again I fell in love at once, but then the gremlin came; a voice in my head constantly running the woman I love down; it still goes on today.”

“Yet thee did marry Mauree.”

“Yes, during our adolescent days Mauree became a church goer. She worshipped Quell, ‘The God of Creation,’ but did so through the Prophet Mosac like her father, Proclus. She spurned her belief when I re-met her though, after her father had disowned her. Instead she found a new faith by way of a more distant ancestor, one who had unearthed some old fantasy books.”

Derba puts his hand on Belan's shoulder. “What happened to Proclus?”

“No one knows. He just disappeared.”

“What about thineself? Why doesn't thee try something different? It seems like thee needs a new start.”

“Like what?”

“I'm not sure.”

You sound sure to me.

“How about becoming a woodsman? I know a woodsman who could teach thee well. He has a funny temperament, but knows the woods. It will help to keep thee on thine toes.”

“I'll think on it.” Belan leaves Derba and sets off up the path for home.

Derba calls after him. “If thou’s interested I'll meet thee tomorrow lunch time in the Forest Inn.”

“Yeah, okay. I may see you then.” Some chance of that, me, a woodsman? I’ve decided what I’m doing next; I’m going to set things right with Mauree.

* * * * * * * * * *
Derba sprinkles fine sand upon a wind blown slice of rock and earth. Strong breezes threaten to blow this dusting away, so to offset this he extracts a handheld force barrier. Stupid device; perhaps I should have used an enchantment after all; this awkward thing has a restricted range, but at least it limits the amount of magic used.

His long tool keeps slipping off the subject matter, but he perseveres. The sand trickles into tiny fissures, parting and enriching the soil as it falls. A matted daisy struggles to survive in the centre of this dusting. The flower grows a little each time sand passes it, and soon sand fills every crevice to form a matrix of hairline fissures in the ground extending out from the roots of this little plant. Its drooping head and dowdy petals rise up in vibrant white as new airways bring nourishment to it. From the centre of one of its flowers a thin invisible beam of infrared reaches out, and down, into the bay.

That will do. The old wizard pulls the cord on the bag of sand to seal it closed, then he rubs the sand off his hands, but whilst putting the bag away his aura makes contact with the orb, which responds with an intense and penetrating red beam - turning to black light as he stares.
Inside the orb, Moolbol appears, and his arrival brings appalling vitality to this unholy glare. Derba’s heart races; he chants mantra after mantra, each more frantic than its predecessor, as beads of sweat pour down his face to gather on his chin before dropping off. The glare grows stronger as Moolbol searches out a soul, but Derba remains hidden by his chant, if only just. Moolbol soon loses interest and turns his attention away leaving Derba to secure the orb in a force barrier and wipe his damp neckline; he takes deep breaths as he awaits the return of calm.

In time, another old man approaches from below. As he draws close Derba takes the bamboo from his pocket and twiddles with the feather.
The newcomer stops and stares Derba down. “It seems I’ve found the wizard who sent the hound.”

“What does thou imply?”

“That bamboo trinket you hold in your hand gives the game away, Derba.”

“I have no idea what thou means.”

“But you do. I’ve just seen the big dog you sent after Belan. It has the same signature as that trinket you hold.”

“So, some dog has touched it; what has that to do with me?”

“Oh, everything, Derba. You see I recognised the dog’s breed; a large Aidi - like Rodsorg, your dog.”

“My Rodsorg died three years ago.”

“Yes, and you think the pretty bamboo trinket in your hand will snare me, Derba. It has a knife concealed within it. The very knife you used to butcher Rodsorg. It won’t work on me. It won’t work on any servant from Mosac’s Temple. If you’d done your homework you would know better than to show it to me. You would hide it away knowing I can see through it. How fortunate for Belan he came to see me. The dog and the bamboo trinket take essence from each other, and both feed the staff you hold, but something blocks that process, doesn’t it?”

“How does thee know Rodsorg’s name?”

“Belan came to me, as I just said.”

“He wouldn’t remember Rodsorg. Thee must have seen Belan’s wife, I think, and I reckon thee goes to her now.”

“Never mind where I go. Just get out of my way. Your magic cannot harm or stop me.”

As Casley strides past Derba, his foot lands beside the pretty daisy. His feet shuffle as fissures form, and expand beneath them, and the whole section of path slides away, Casley and all. Down he falls with soundless stoicism carved across his face. His head follows a faint trace of red light, until it shatters into a mass of blood, bone, and tissue at the end of this beam, where a pinnacle of rock protrudes from the sea.

No Casley, my magic cannot harm thee, but it seems you forget that the effects of it can.

Derba avoids the destroyed section where Casley fell, and makes his way down the path to the same small cave. Upon arrival he cups his hands to his mouth and calls into the opening.

“I have another task for thee, O’Fanor.”

From inside the cave comes a shuffling sound. “Another job, for me master?”

“Yes, a more difficult one this time my friend. Thou has to kill Mauree. She has some kind of power connected to Mosac and I would like it removed. Whilst thou does this for me my friend, I will close this cave again and then busy myself removing any others in my way. No one can remain alive who has the ability to threaten my plans.”

* * * * * * * * * *
O’Fanor creeps as close to the daylight as his fear of brightness will allow, whilst Derba wedges the bamboo into a crevice. “I’ll call the shadowy shroud to thee, my friend.”

“No master, I’d rather wait for nightfall.”

“I insist, O’Fanor.” The old wizard throws fine sand into O’Fanor’s face. “My eyes become your eyes.”

The elf feels a connection to distant Drallagoon, a link defying all distance, through which Moolbol searches. At least Master Derba likes my services. He has no other Linchetto elves like me in his orb, but such a fragile membrane protects us from the beast. Without Derba’s magic that thin bubble will burst, in a moment.

“Ah, O’Fanor, here comes thine shroud.” Derba takes another handful of sand from a bag, and sprinkles more, this time directly into the elf’s eyes. O’Fanor flinches, but his terror of Derba ensures he resists all sign of pain.

“My eyes become your eyes.” The wizard closes the bag. “The spell will end when I next meet with Belan. Now, go with Rodsorg, and remember I go with thee.”

In a blur of tears, O’Fanor sees the smudged approach of Derba’s canine spectre. It stops outside, and sniffs the cave entrance.
“Make sure thee stays inside the hound until night, my friend and keep the dog away from Mauree at all times.”

SONGS OF TIME
Obstruction

Leaving the old man, Belan goes straight home to Mauree, determined to put everything to rights with her; she isn’t there. He waits, and as time passes frets for her safety. She finally returns at the end of Belan’s shift with her elegant red dress, crumbled and soiled. Part of its beadwork on the V-neck bodice is missing, and the seductive side slit, on the train that cascades to the floor, has an ugly tear.

He gets up as she enters. “I came home early to see you. What happened to your dress?”

“I went to a job interview.”

“Did you get this energetic job?” His low voice spits sarcasm.

“No.”

“Tell me about it?”

“We’ll talk later. I’ve had a tiring day.”

Lies, she tells lies and you know it.

The next day Belan sets off early to work. He heads straight for Casley’s lay by store, but finds it shut, and Duggan has not seen Casley today.
Casley has never failed to turn up before; why today, the very day I want to speak with him?

As he wanders toward his boat he stares at the bare cliff face where he’d seen the red feathers the day before. Can I trust Mauree? He fidgets with pieces of wood, as if busy whenever Duggan comes into view, but with no attempt to do anything constructive. His work mate Creel starts a botch job on the tiller, perhaps sensing Belan’s distress. It acts as a distraction to the foreman.

By mid morning Belan’s fidgeting gets the better of him. I can’t stay here. I have to know where she went yesterday. He climbs from the boat and sets off home. The cave from the previous day has vanished now, and a gaping gap in the path farther up almost catches him by surprise. I should have remembered nearly falling down this collapsed section on the way in this morning. I’ll have to find a new way to work; can’t rely on this path any longer, subsidence like this bodes more of it to come.

He fails to keep track of time on the rest of the walk home, and deep in thought, his front door appears to loom out of nowhere. Inside he finds no Mauree, but an activated table hologram and her open book drawer attract his attention. She never leaves without closing these. He walks over and tunes the table to see what she had connected to. Casley’s lay-by store comes into view, but with Casley missing of course. Perplexed, he scratches his head and catches a glimpse of something green on the floor, just behind the table. He picks it up, a bright green and white hat. I’ve seen this hat before. It belongs to Porsley.

Oh good Quell! Porsley came here for Mauree. He searches the house, but finds it empty.

I’ve met Porsley in fencing competitions, before he became nothing but a poco addict who carries a sword. Has my Mauree gone off with him?

Of course she has, back to Porsley’s room at the Forest Inn. Why don’t you go and see?

For once, Belan follows the advice of his mental tormentor. He strides off down the lane, leaving the door ajar behind him.

The shambles at the back of this ram-shackled inn presents a gloomy picture, full of squalid rooms to house those addicts who still have money to spend. He shivers as he enters these tenements, and not because of the filth.

I can feel the presence of the dog again. Fuck the dog! What about my Mauree?

You know you’ll find her here, Belan.

“Shut up! Who asked you?”

He presses his face against window after window. Inside each he sees a similar pattern; either a dirty occupant stoned out of his or her mind, or an empty compartment . . . then he finds them. The scene sends him dashing to the door in disbelief. He kicks it open and bursts in. The distinctive smell of poco, intermingled with body odour greets him, but he ignores it; too busy gawping. Mauree sits back in a chair with her legs open wide and Porsley’s head buried between them. The man’s naked arse swings in the air like two bald men rowing a boat.

“What the . . . !”

Porsley face flashes terror. He leaps to his feet and throws himself head first through the glass of the window. Outside he stumbles down the lane in a trail of blood, his bare arse and tackle presenting a less than pretty picture.

“Belan, I . . . , Mauree blurts out, and there her utterance falters.

Belan turns and stomps out, without a word. Outside he catches a glimpse of the dog and remembers Derba’s offer. The Forest Inn; he said he’d meet me here.

He strides around the dowdy building and walks inside.

* * * * * * * * * *
Niretam senses Nayton’s anger and grins behind his back as he boils over. “I've had enough of this”, all Astalic cares about is his bloody new buggy.”

Taking little notice of her frumpish body or the crafty glint in her eye, Niretam admires the reflection of herself in a plate glass window. On her face she has a scar, somewhat like a sickle blade. “Yep, you can say that again. Yesterday he had me at Starcross cleaning it, and now I bet he’ll head off to collect it, whilst we do the work.”

Astalic rides by on Nello’s back, and Loram steps from her office to roll her eyes at him. Niretam leaves Nayton to it, and heads for the irate secretary, her nose getting the better of her.

She adopts a timid voice. “I wonder where Astalic goes with our mule.”

“Starcross Stables, no doubt.”

“Viadd will take charge today then?”

“For a while, but Astalic should soon return.”

Viadd, Astalic’s leading student, has learnt all he needs to learn of the forest and in the next ten days or so will graduate here. Astalic often leaves Viadd in charge these days. The young man has competence in all basic forestry matters, but no competence when it comes to dealing with Niretam.

Getting an unexpected response from the secretary, Niretam ups the ante. “Astalic takes pride in his new buggy, doesn’t he? He bought it to clear branches and debris from the woodland paths, but it came from ‘Forest Sports’. They used it for log racing competitions. Does that mean he’ll replace Nello with fast horses? Our poor old mule will look stupid pulling such a fast cart, don’t you think?”

Loram gives her a noncommittal half smile and retreats into her office.

Watching her go, Niretam rubs her hands together in glee. I have most of the morning with Astalic away. The Forest Inn will attract him for sure. I’ll spend the time winding Nayton up, and instructing this new chap, Belan about his workload. I don’t know anything about his workload, but who cares about that?

The morning passes well for Niretam. She rattles Nayton and does precious little work. Only the sight of Astalic through the window, with the buggy he’d negotiated and its two sleek horses spoils it for her.

She edges outside, having given Astalic time to park the buggy, and slips around the side of the building before her boss has time to enter. Astalic will go back soon to barter for these horses as well. I’ve just got to avoid him until he leaves.

Creeping along the building quietly, she makes sure she gives him enough time to enter the centre. At the back the fast buggy comes into view with its two ‘ex-racing horses’, but so does Astalic, who, unbeknown to her, had come straight out again.

Seeing her there he waves her over. “Help me unload the buggy.”

Niretam looks in horror at a rotten sheep draped over the crossbars, but even she can’t escape a chore from Astalic. As she approaches the buggy he gives her a pair of gloves, but nothing for the stench of rotten flesh.

Turning her head away she keeps her arms outstretched like ramrods to give as much space between it and her as possible as she helps him to lift the rancid mutton to the ground. A swarm of abhorrent flies, disturbed by the movement, take to the air.

Astalic points to a patch of soft earth by a bush. “Get Nayton to help you bury it over there, and tell the new chap, Belan, to assist Loram with the show records.”

Sliding into the shadows, Niretam watches Astalic mount the buggy and steer it around the wooden building to test its size in the shed at the back. He returns with a satisfied expression, but she waits until he rides off with it. Once he disappears down the bridle path she heads for Loram, as instructed.

“He wants us to work together on his show records. Shall I fetch them for you? Oh, by the way, he also wants Nayton and the new chap to bury a dead sheep; plant it over by the bush, he said.”

Loram piles some files on her desk, before getting up to inform Nayton and Belan. “Yes, all right, bring the ‘treasured’ records over.”
Niretam smirks as she listens to the secretary mutter all the way out; “this is beyond a joke, beyond a joke.”

With Loram out of the way she collects the files and puts them on the desk.

Her smirk intensifies as she slips out of the door, and closes it with a gentle click.

* * * * * * * * * *
Loram stares at the untidy pile of files on her desk. She sighs; forms for the sake of forms; Astalic loves them, but he doesn’t have to fill them in. Show records indeed, just more unnecessary image promotions to hide away in the office.

She remembers the start of this project in the wood. At eighty years old Astalic had a visit from Derba. This marked the end of his younger days as a timid recluse with the elves of the forest, days of extended youth. Did she believe all that? Well, perhaps she did. He talked and argued with invisible friends in the early years of her employment. She found that enchanting, but slowly such times withered, as did his youth. Derba brought him notoriety and it went to the woodland wizard’s head. That creepy old man makes me nervous, but he did save the forest from an aggressive outsider. I know that for a fact. I wrote up his transaction, and it’s good. No one dares to encroach here now.

She enters the office and stares in frustration at the pile of papers. Where’s Niretam? Oh, never mind; I’ll get on better without her; idle woman. The new man, Belan, seems handy. Astalic should have sent him here instead.

Earlier she had overheard Belan and Astalic talking. In his favour the young man had praised his tutor's smart log buildings. Astalic had constructed and kitted them all out; apart from the stone stove, masons fitted that.

She smiles. He may have a short fuse, but Astalic still has time for people, and he trains them well, despite all his hang-ups. He’s come to like the sound of his own voice though. His long talks put most of his students off, Nayton in particular, these days.

* * * * * * * * * *
Astalic grumbles out loud as if old friends still listen to him, but they’d given up long ago. “Sometimes I wish I’d never gotten involved with Derba. I had to though, as a hermit amongst the elves of the wood how could someone with his elfin record miss me? Derba doesn’t miss very much concerning elves. Once under his influence I started to use the elves for glorification. All you likable elementals shun me now. How can I blame you?”

His mutterings turn to the present. “Derba brought a young man called Belan for training today.” He mimics Belan’s words - [“What a lovely building, I like the stove”]. “Yes, well, you young bastard, Derba liked the stove too; he stuck a shitting Domovoy elf behind it. I hate prying elves, and I'll never get rid of the Domovoy. Domoviye remain loyal to their home. They never leave, even if the owner does, and as for those damn Follets.” Astalic urges the horses faster still, to vent his anger; they respond in an instant.

He hears a jingle from behind, and feels mud hit the back of his neck with a splat, followed by tittering laughter. It shakes him out of his reflective denigration in an instant, and back to the matter at hand - Follets. Stopping the cart he spins around to see a tiny figure in a jester's outfit. Upon facing him it transforms into a goat, like its brethren who’d joined it. He stops the wagon to face three tiny goats prancing about upon the lightweight framework of the buggy, each one little taller than his knees.

“Three Follets and a Domovoy; Derba's making sure I train his new apprentice well. And there lies the problem. Belan married Mauree so I’d soon know if he could perform magic. He can’t even see these pesky elves Derba sent. Belan has no magical apprentice aptitude at all.”

Astalic has had trouble with Follets before. These bucking goat sprites often appear as tiny Billy goats. Unlike some elves, Follets have little fear of religious artefacts. Most of them play tricks on humans, but people who tolerate their antics can find them helpful at times. He draws his dagger and brandishes it. The metal blade doesn’t threaten the little elves, but the steel in it has an effect. The Follets evacuate the wagon and run off squealing. Astalic takes the reins, grim and satisfied. He urges the horses on by thwacking their rumps.

“Perhaps Derba will remove the Follets when they’ve finished here. Rare elves from their line have value to him; not so the Domovoy though.” Many of the Domoviye became homeless, long ago, when people abandoned the old ways in favour of electricity and gadgets. Domoviye will not tolerate these things in their home. Derba gathered up a lot of these elves because of this. He then imprisoned them, out of kindness he claimed, but now his sinister orb contains more Domoviye than he knows what to do with; serves him right”.

Astalic puts the dagger away as the buggy picks up speed. “I suppose I’ll have to tolerate the Domovoy. At least it only comes out at night, and it will feel wanted with a few religious artefacts around the stove. A Domovoy who feels welcome will clean the buildings and tend the animals, so despite their swearing these grumbling, quarrelling elves have their uses. Derba sent all these elves to check up on Belan’s progress though, and I have little idea of his real agenda, but with all this elfin surveillance Belan must have crucial importance in it.”

Deep in thought the angry woodland wizard thrashes at the reins, and the horses stride out even more.

* * * * * * * * * *
Many days later Astalic hears a knock on his door. “Come in Belan.” The door opens and Belan enters.

“Well done. You’ve graduated as a woodsman. I have your certificate for you, and you have a job at F4 if you’d like it?”
“Thank you, I’d like it very much.”

“Don’t thank me, you’ve earned it, and I have a gift for you, too.” He presents Belan with an interactive inprint (psychic recording); it has a plain black cover, and when opened it reveals a moving scene of the woods - with some advice on caring for trees.

Astalic shakes Belan’s hand. “Keep this inprint with you at all times, Belan. It will drive spirits away, and if you take it to Mosac’s Progues in The Temple of Mosac, you might find it has a wider educational and religious significance. Of course, without some kind of mystic help you will find it difficult to utilise, and entering the temple in the first place might prove difficult as well. ‘The Temple of Mosac’ has a semi-temporal entrance.”

“Semi-temporal?”

“Yes, it means that sometimes it appears and sometimes it doesn’t. The temple has a fluid entrance. It can turn up anywhere. Some people never find it; some always do, in the same place.”

“I’ve never seen the entrance to this temple in my life.”

“Have you ever searched for it?”

“No.”

“You won’t find it unless you do.”

Belan puts the inprint into his jacket pocket and shakes his tutor’s hand, whilst flicking at an annoying fly with a shining body, which he stares at in wonder. “Did you see that?”

The woodland wizard smiles as the same buzzing light, about the size of a bee, flees Belan’s body in haste. Oh yes, I can see it all right, but I won’t let on. The inprint’s just ousted one of Derba’s fairies from your mind. What a satisfying surprise. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Derba.

* * * * * * * * * *
Belan had written to his workplace for a lunchtime get together in the unsavoury Forest Inn, chosen because of its proximity to The South Yard. Seven people turned up; his popularity surprised him. The Grongs from the store came, and so did Hairline Creel. Belan's work mate however, hadn’t come. It wasn’t his style to visit inns.

Hairline Creel buys Belan a drink. “I hear you have a new job my good man.”

“Yes, I work in the woods now, so keep away from trees.”

“Bank on that my good man; hey, you disappeared all of a sudden.”

“I know, I had problems, and The South Yard didn’t help them.”

“Good decision, almost as good as a new hair style. I hope things work out for you.”

“Thanks. By the way, how goes the old place?”

“Going down as usual, my good man; going down.”

“Not much hope then?”

“No, not with this management; they continue to drive themselves out of business. Not long before they close now, I reckon. They've got no vision, no vision. You knew when to leave.”

“What about you? Do you have any new plans?”

“I'll keep my eyes open. Something is sure to turn up.”

* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn turns to winter, and then to spring.

Axe at the ready and provisions packed, Belan locks the door to his woodland cabin, takes a deep breath of chill morning air, and sets off to work. What a lovely day; cloudless and calm with the promise of warmth later. I’m so glad I came to Greenfern Forest. Even the voice in my skull has disappeared in this peaceful place.

He notices a distant movement by the tree line of his cabin clearing. Derba! I’d recognise his figure anywhere, but he looks so manic. If I didn’t know him better I’d swear he mutters under his breath at me, and those eerie arm movements give me the shivers; he looks like a mad mystic. Belan waves to him, but instead of replying his old friend slips out of sight into the forest canopy. How odd; he looked straight at me, but did he even see me? Stranger still, Belan changes his itinerary for the day on the spur of the moment; not like him at all. I think I’ll go somewhere new today - a woodland adventure.

As he walks he considers his new employers, ‘Forests for Future’ (or F4 for short). They use technology to keep the forest in good shape. Employees use the ‘recording axe’ provided for them; no one else may cut here, and skyrafts will scan for unauthorised felling.

As he trudges along, the trees become thick and dense. Streaks of sunlight, and the sound of bird song, vanish. Belan even has difficulty cutting a passage at times. Then, well into the morning, he finds a path. Who or what made this out here? I’ll make a clearing; perhaps I’ll find out. He laughs and imagines the expressions on the faces of those who collect his logs when they discover them so deep into the forest. Perhaps I’ve come this far to shock them. He scratches his head. No, I don’t thing so.

Skyrafts pick the logs up. A raft skims the treetops guided by the ‘axe’ tag signals. In large clearings they land, but often a levitation beam lifts logs to the raft’s platform. F4 treasure trees. They never use intensive methods to harvest, except for collection, or in an emergency.

Before lunch he manages to fell enough trees to make a camp. He sits on one of them leaning against a large trunk to eat; just two more trees will do for now. Tomorrow, I‘ll bring a tent, equipment and supplies. As he sits there a woodpecker’s distant rhythm echoes through the branches.

He opens his eyes with a start to find a young woman in front of him. Her light brown hair contains a golden circlet. She takes his ‘breath’ away. Her dress has an outlandish look with an under dress reaching to the ground; a tall lady, almost out of proportion, with a wide face, pointed chin and eyes set high. Where did she come from?

* * * * * * * * * *
As darkness descends, O’Fanor leaves his canine assistant and makes his way back to Belan’s small, terraced house. He follows the shadows of dusk as they creep across the bleak courtyard. From the gloom he peers through a window. Mauree sits on a chair gazing, listless into a darkening corner of the room. A few books lie scattered at her feet. One has a picture of a vicious dog, and a man in a green hat smoking a pipe, on its cover.

The elf edges his way to the door, which stands ajar. He hears pitiful sobs from this woman as he sidles up toward her, hidden behind the furniture. Even though virtually invisible he still takes heed of Mauree’s charisma. She looks up, sensing something, but her eyes stare vacantly; holes full of helpless anguish. She looks away again; then, with head down she makes her way upstairs.

He follows her and watches from the shadows as she flops upon the bed. Much of the night passes as she tosses and turns, wailing and moaning in despair.

In the end, whilst staring at the ceiling, she falls into a light sleep. Seeing his chance he sneaks forward and climbs upon her bed. Her breathing fades, to the point of stopping altogether, as he works his way up her body.

* * * * * * * * * *
Stepping from the trees the woman stops with a start to glare at the scene in front of her. What has this man done? Fallen branches bar my path. I shall smite him, dead! No, perhaps I should give him a chance.

Kill him. What would mother do? She lifts a hand in anger, just as he awakes.

Thrown by a glint in his eye, she smiles. “Excuse me. Can I bowwow some oatmeal?” Smite him, smite him! What’s wrong with me?

Her custom demands the path remains clear. Anyone who defiles it must pay, and pay dearly. My touch will kill him if I will it. Despite her determination her angry glare lessons and she has to force the stern expression back into her eyes. The fallen tree across her path helps to feed the outrage, considerably.

“Yes, dear lady.” He gives her two oatmeal biscuits, all he seems to have, and offers her some of his other food supplies. She only takes the oatmeal. “Thank you.”

She steps back into the forest canopy to watch him from the undergrowth. He picks up his axe to chop the obstructions up, and move them out of the way.

The next day she comes again with a basin of oatmeal cakes to repay him.

“You need not give these to me,” he says to her. “I expect the biscuits have gone to good use. I won't need them now.”
She appraises his work on her trail.

“The twee has gone. As long as you keep this way clearw you can worwk herwe. I pwomise not to botherw you.”

Having said her piece she walks away to stop in the foliage and watch him again. He continues with his work for a while, but his interest in it soon dwindles.

For the next six days she comes back, but she doesn’t show herself now, even though he often looks out for her. On the seventh day he tries to follow the path himself; she titters secretly as it peters out in front of him, an unbroken line of dark trees.