CHAPTER 5 MILI
T oday, I’ve decided, I will put behind me the agonies of yesterday, not just my nightmare but also thinking about that god-awful dragon up the volcano. That enticing, strong, alpha, god-awful dragon that I clearly love to hate. Anyway, I need to stay focused. I will bring myself peace, however I can - a bubble bath and a tub of pistachio cream would be nice, but not today. Aurora shall sleep, and I should let myself consider what our relationship really means to me as it stands. Every moment we spend together lately, even last night, serves as a reminder that my feelings have not caught up to hers. Not to mention that my instincts are starting to pull me in a different direction, away from her. Every small breeze streaming down from the volcano is intoxicating. It draws me in. But I need to focus because most importantly, today I visit the ancient spirit of my grandmother to ask for wisdom.
My grandmother rests in the core of a sugar maple that has lived for many centuries. When she passed, as my parents told me, they cried as they buried her body beneath the tree. Their tears watered the earth where she lay, and her spirit became entwined with the nature of the great maple’s roots.
It’s early in the morning, and almost all the woodland’s inhabitants are resting. Still, there are some awake, peering through the canopy or the brush underfoot.
I walk carefully along the stone walkway through the forest, smiling softly at the resting gnomes in their fungi houses. A mailman travels from mushroom to mushroom, carrying leaf parchment with Ethelindan news; I wave softly to him as I pass.
Once I reach the lake, my sanctuary, I turn and continue East along the path. It’s a short hundred paces and I’ve reached the sugar maple. I gently unfurl the quilt I’ve brought and place it on the roots of the tree; I’ve found through many years coming here that being among the roots and leaves helps me connect most closely to my kin.
I breathe and close my eyes, resting my palms on the roots in front of the blanket. Sleeping energy pulses beneath my hands, and I know my grandmother does not expect me. Best to be gentle waking her, then.
“Grandmother,” I murmur, tracing a finger along a scar in the bark. “It’s Milica. I’d like to speak with you, if you are able.”
I wait for a moment, then the wind swells around me, lifting my hair in an arc around my shoulders. There’s the sound of the tree sighing, then the branches lift up around me before falling gently again. I smile –she wants to speak with me, too.
“Hello, grandmother.” I take a deep breath, thinking of what to say. As if encouraging me, the branches lean down and brush my arms and shoulders. I laugh. “Thank you. It’s been a hard day or so, grandmother.”
The tree sighs again, and energy sinks low to the ground. I spread my fingers wide, listening close for the message in the bark, and just breathe. I sit there for a few minutes, meditative and open, before speaking again.
“Grandmother,” I say “I had a ... dream. Chrysthinia, who’s the solar wizard of Ethelinda and a dear friend of mine, told me they fear it was a warning vision. In the dream, the Moon created daggers and claws from its rays. They came into my room and cut my hair, and kept me from calling out in fear.
“I just ... I needed to talk to you. I don’t know anything about the Moon, I never thought her to be malicious, but I feel that I might be in danger. I worry most of all that Ethelinda might be in danger, and that there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” I sigh, exasperated. “I’m sorry, this all sounds so intense. I’m just worried, Grandmother. What does it mean? All I have is guesses; I want to know where the danger is so I can stop it. Where is the danger, and how do I find it?”
For a moment, the sugar maple stands entirely still. It’s as if I can see my grandmother thinking through what I’ve told her, sitting patiently to process it. Then, it starts to move. Like some magick I’ve never seen, the back branches transform into leafy daggers.
The leaves twitch and lengthen, sharpening into vicious points, and slowly extend towards me. I don’t move my hands, although the memory of the Moon’s threat warns me: run, run, run . As the leaf-daggers reach for me, the branches closest to me conceal them, forming a curtain of green and gold.
“A hidden danger,” I say. “The threat is a secret? It will conceal itself from me?” Even as I ask, though, frantically grasping at my grandmother’s meaning, I know there will be no answer. The magick she must have used to create the warning was heavy, and I know she will have no strength to reply further.
I sigh, shaking, and tell Grandmother goodbye quickly. I give the tree a small kiss on a lower branch before picking up my blanket and walking home.
A hidden danger.
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The walk home is eerie, the woods quieter than usual. The toadstools are closed and locked, and the usual sound of forest nymphs flying through the canopy is absent. I purse my lips and frown – where is everyone?
Just as I stop for a moment to scan my surroundings, a deafening scream pierces the air. I whirl around, searching for the noise, then I hear it: the sound of someone tumbling rapidly through the branches above. I look up, nearly blinded by the Sun, but manage to see a figure falling through the trees.
Without thinking, I launch a pillow of air underneath them, barely slowing their fall as they crash to the stone path.
“Oh, curses!” I whisper before sprinting over to the figure. It’s a man, wingless (though this makes it even more alarming that he fell through the trees) and seemingly unarmed (though I should really make sure). I go to him quickly, and roll him over to lay him on his back. There’s a horrible lump on his forehead, and a small pool of blood trickling from his temple. I shout, “Curses, curses, curses!” He’s not a creature from Ethelinda but he’s here now, so without a second thought I start to heal him.
I rest both of my hands on his head, and he doesn’t even moan – he must be entirely unconscious – as I recite an incantation. I mumble quickly, chanting prayers to Ethelinda, prayers to Grandmother, and prayers to the Realm. As I speak, his limbs twitch, and I see lacerations on his arms, legs, and torso, probably from the canopy. But the wound on his forehead is strange. What could have caused it?
My eyes well with panic seeing the state of him, and noticing how unresponsive his body and spirit are. I close my eyes, feeling the sting of my fearful tears, and continue praying.
Mother of Ethelinda, Mother of this Realm, here lies a body, one of your own. Here lies a man, here lies your child. Grandmother, guide my prayer. Hum, hum. Grandmother, guide my prayer. Mother of Ethelinda, bring bodily health, Mother of this Realm, clear the mind. Grandmother, guide my prayer. Hum, hum.
I chant, over and over, every plea I can imagine. I call upon the Mother of Ethelinda and the entire Realm, praying for peace and regeneration of the man’s body, mind, and spirit. I howl incantations in three languages to the sky, and mutter wordless, guttural, instinctual prayers to the earth. Once I’ve grown desperate, I even recite verses of faerykind’s ancient holy texts (though they’re not known to have any real effect).
I pat my pockets and grab the first bottle I feel, a tincture for preventing injuries from progressing out of control. I continue chanting as I lift his chin and gently tip the antidote into his lips. Watching his throat for a swallow shows nothing; I can’t even be sure if he consumed it.
“Gods, please! ” I cry out, burying my head in the man’s chest. I hear his heart beating faintly, and press my hands to its quiet rhythm. I focus all my energy on the lifeblood within that vessel, the heart, and breathe. Slow, deep breaths; take my energy, take what you need , I say without speaking. Take it all .