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Indigo's Rose: Chapter 2

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Nymff

Nwmenaidd. Caron calls it home. To others its known as the town of tales . The hidden shire. The gateway to Annwvn. These fanciful appellations derive from a background steeped in half-remembered history and legend. What these legends are, however, are vague and fragmented. There are the stories told upon stormy days and around fires, but they are the generic type told in every village of Cymru, and are shared freely. However, there is an undercurrent to them, a secondary level of tale that are are believed rather than expressed. More and yet less than a religion. They are the private beliefs that are not so much hidden from outsiders due to fanaticism, but more from the simple fact that few would truly believe them, or be better off for knowing. Not all tales are comfortable, especially if you are not born to them.
Knowing my disdain for the unproven, Caron tested my devotion the night before our wedding by telling me a selection of such tales as she held dear. I found myself intrigued and disquieted despite myself, for the tales were possessed of a unique blend of  eldritch beauty. I said as much.
'Like the moon over the mist-shrouded moors' she had intoned with a grin, as if quoting.
I did not feel ridicule for her beliefs, but somewhat entranced by the richness of my future wife's imagination and depth of feeling. We would compliment each other well.
We did, and we have. When she goes I'll be unbearably poorer for it, and the magic will have departed from my soul. Whether the undying lands to which she departs are populated by angels or fairies, I will be equally willing to follow. Until that time Derog w-

Caron has awakened.


Dawe scribbled the last three words hurriedly, and with a single stride was over to his wife's bed. Her eyes were partially open for the first time in several days, and he was certain he had heard her call Derog's name.

"Derog..." she gasped once again. So weak he had to strain to hear. Such a change from the voice that had once sung so vibrantly.

"I'll go fetch him." he whispered, and squeezed her hand. Looking down he noticed a blue tinge to the tips. He moved his hand down to her wrist. Her pulse was much weakened as well. Her lungs and heart were giving their last. They would not continue to the following morning. She hadn't the strength.

Dawe took his breath of strength, and pressed his cheek against hers, whispering:

A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have...

His voice caught and he couldn't continue.

"...between the cradle and the grave." Caron breathed, finishing for him.

Dawe's jaw trembled and he kissed her gently. He leaned back, staring into her eyes.
"Our sunbeam..." she spoke so softly, pleading.

He nodded and stood. In the common room Derog was poking up the flu with a stick for some boyish reason.

"Derog," Dawe called.
  The boy jerked in surprise, as if he had been caught doing something forbidden.     "Your mam is awake. She's asking for you."

"I don't want to," Derog said, his eyes fearful.
"She is awake, and you will go to her," Dawe replied, his anguish sharpening his tone.
"No, please."
"Derog, I have not laid a hand on you in years, but if you do not go see your mother now, you will not be able to sit come three days forth," Dawe found himself saying, rage entering his tone.
  Derog didn't respond at first, but stared at him a searching expression.
"What's wrong, Tyta?" he asked.

Dawe hadn't realized until this moment how his son had matured. The question was observant and belied his age. Perhaps it was time.

"I feel she wishes to say goodbye," he replied to his son, and held out a hand.

Derog dropped his stick wordlessly, and stepped to his father's side. Dawe put an arm around his shoulders, and together they walked back to the sickroom. Caron's head lay to the side, but her chest still managed to move the coverlets up and down. She'd fallen back to sleep - the sheer exhaustion of consciousness had overcome her.

Dawe took her wrist and closed his eyes for several moments. When he opened them there was only weary sadness.

"Derog, you need to go into town and find Gridge. He will want to see your mother. Can you do this?"

Derog nodded quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Relief was in his eyes.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

He quickly exited and ran towards the stables. He saddled a half-shetland his grandfather had acquired some years before. It had been the perfect horse for Derog, but the two had never quite bonded despite his being a natural rider. The gelding was too free spirited, Derog too quick to berate it. It sensed his urgency, however, and made no trouble.

Together they sped down the backhills upon which the manor overlooked, Derog disdaining the lane that wound to the main trails. Cross-country would be faster. They rolled into the distance, the occasional tree or stone emerging from the heath and low grasses. To the north was a valley of mossy woodlands that bordered his grandfather's estates, all bluebells, mistletoe and small, winding valleys. To the southeast were most of the homesteads and fenced fields before coming to Nwmenaidd. His grandfather Craig had enjoyed the freedom away from his neighbors in the highlands, though remained close enough for trade and travel.  Nwmenaidd was some five miles away, but the horse was feeling frisky and enjoyed the quickened pace Derog set for it.
Soon they met the bend of the main road. It wound its way like an errant branch from the highway that connected their town with Merthyr Tydfil to the far southeast, crossing the river Taff.

As Derog neared the town, familiar groves began to dot the landscape. Springs bubbled up by the dozens in this country, forming something between a marsh and a pond. His mam had told him they were known to move about, and so curious had he been she had taken him out to see one.
A unique type of tree grew immensely thick about the waters, found nowhere else in Cymru she'd told him.

They had vast weeping branches that would tangle and knot of their own accord, making them perfect climbing trees for an energetic boy. The canopy was wont to weave above as well, so that the waters within were shrouded in darkness. He recalled peering down, imagining what might lie just under the inky surface.

From these trees hung clusters of berries as large as grapes but appeared as frostbit blueberries. Nothing seemed to eat them, understandable once one took a bite. To say they were sweet was an understatement. It overpowered the tongue and went straight to a throat-clenching bitterness mixed with that of rotting lard. This he'd discovered to his own detriment, having snuck one despite his mam's warning. He'd not even been able to taste that night's dinner.

As such, the fruit tended to fall untouched and roll, souring the otherwise pure waters. Even cut, the growths were unusable as firewood, resisting all attempts to cure, and instead quickly rotting. Their only redeeming feature was the unassuming white blossoms possessed of a deep, heady bouquet. Everything the rest of the growth lacked was more than made up for by these blooms. Wilted wreaths decorated many cottages Derog passed, and garlands were thrown over carts and beasts of burden. They didn't last long once separated from the waters of the springs, but for a day or two after gathering they would intoxicate the inhabitants of Nwmenaidd with their scent. During previous festivals, Derog had watched a number of  those with weaker constitution pulled away from a boquet to fresher air, dizzied by the aroma.

The smell grew stronger as he approached the outskirts of Nwmenaidd. This was marked by massive cromlech that stretched across the valley. The road went through the two standing pillar-like slabs some three stories high and three strides across. They supported a third horizontal capstone above that measured several hundred strides long. There was never a time the 'Gate', as his mam called it, had not been here. It was said to be older than Stonehenge, and was certainly far more massive. It could not possibly have been moved by hand, regardless of ingenuity. Gridge had once told him a river had likely run through at one point, washing away the soil. As the ground was gravely about it, and possessed of little true soil, it was as likely a theory as any.

"So... this was once underground?" Derog had asked, piecing the unlikely hints together

It was one of the few times the elder had smiled at him, "Aye. Makes one think, durnt it?"

The top slab had so long been the resting place of birds that a layer of soil was said to be atop, from which entire trees and bushes now grew. Vines hung down, some nearly to the road if not for their routine cuttings.

The houses within town were newer than the frequent stone cottages were without, the town true only having been built within the last couple centuries, with the coming of the protestant movement and the seizure of the land by the Crown. A number, however, were quite ancient.

Despite the Church's influence, Nwmenaidd was as full of  rituals and offerings to other powers as any, and ministers had never settled. Instead they moved from town to town, as often as not giving the Gateway a wide berth. The inhabitants had never discouraged the clergymen, and treated them as guests, but there was an air to the town that discouraged them. Ancient traditions and beliefs older than the church of England itself were firmly settled in the land, and the minds that dwelt upon it.

These stories and histories told by his mam had left him with a delicious thrill of mystery. Their walks about her birthland and their talks were amongst his favorite memories of her. He'd never be able to visit without being reminded. Whether her tales had been myth or no, she'd awakened the magic within himself.

The people, her neighbors, fascinated him, and he was always curious as to what other secrets might permeate them and their lives. It seemed both a burden and a blessing to them.

Such observations had always come easily to him, but knowing his father always  required an explanation, a reason for believing anything, he kept them to himself.
Knowing that such a ruse was necessary was one of many quirks to his particular mind. The knowledge of things as they were, not as they seemed. The guise beneath the mask. What it hid had always troubled him. The ugliness was hidden beneath such a thin covering, and yet that outward film was what most in life took as the truth. The still waters hid many a horror, and he knew what the smallest ripples foretold.
In one of greater years it would have been called wisdom. In a child without the years of social adaption and defense, these understandings in his earliest years would have been life altering and traumatic if not for his mam's understanding.

Derog knew he was far removed from the other children that ran passed him as he entered town.  They still believed the mask, and trusted it with all their hearts. This is also why he get along so well with younger children. They were still what they appeared to be. Those of even his own age, however, had begun to mold the clay into the caricature that they would wear all their lives.

His mother was one of the few adults he had met who was not hidden by such an affection. She was what she had shown herself to be. This fact was all the more disturbing to him as he watched the crab eat away at her mind as much as her body, leaving her only rarely coherent. His father on the other hand was equally unique, one whom he could seldom read. A mystery that only his mother had managed to solve. What his father would do without her balancing presence he couldn't guess, but Derog knew that the physician would be a different man.

Then there was Gridge. The only other he had ever taken a liking to besides his mam, though Derog would  as soon die as admit to such. As much as his mam was supporting and loving, the old man was suspicious and brutal in regards to Derog. It was honest, however, and while the grizzled Scotsman might have no love for him,  Gridge considered his mam nigh a daughter.  She had been the one to first gift him with his moniker. Unable to pronounce the caretaker's birth-name of Gregoire, she'd called him Gridge, and now few knew him otherwise.

The road through town was busy with horses, riders and pedestrians, though rarely were they so thick that they impeded his impatient process. Few were strangers. Despite the renown of the town's festivals few traveled to experience them. There was always a surreal feel to the town, though in most obvious ways it was indistinguishable from another fairly prosperous village. Greenery was much more abundant however, and few were the homes that didn't boast a small garden, or wide sill a potted plant amongst the cooling pies. Moss and ivies were rampant, as well as the accompanying bee and wasp that dwelt amongst flourishing blossom. In fact, from a distant hill many would see an ocean of green broken only by the occasional chimney top.

Small stalls and temporary lean-tos had been set up all about the market, selling all manner of bloom and plant for the morrow. Derog turned his mount to avoid the crowd by taking a small detour through a back walk around the market. He brought the horse to a halt though as a lively melody rose above the urban cacophony.

Turning away from his intended route to the pub, Derog instead peered about for an unobstructed path to the town green. Ironically the green was normally one of the least verdant locations within Nwmenaidd. The town was roughly crescent in shape, built about the green, where many generations had worn down the grass and heather by feet and the appetite of grazing mounts.

Today however lattices had been constructed in the middle of the green, surrounding a raised chair upon the dais where the May Queen would sit. By the next morning the lattice would be a solid wall of twining vines and blossoms. No less than a dozen enormous pits were ablaze here and there about the green as well, their walls strengthened by heat blackened brick.  

Meals were being eaten, though none of the populace were using the fires for any kind of cooking. These were a different type of flame upon May's eve. Anything roasted by it would be an offering, not a meal.
A small crowd reclined amongst the turf, though in their midst stood several with various instruments in vigorous play. Amongst the musicians was Gridge, his fingers flying along his timeworn fipple flute. Derog couldn't help but smirk at the scene, as the man was rarely seen with anything but a thoughtful half-scowl. Music was the one pathway from which he allowed his inner side to emerge.
   He still had a mane of hair that in defiance of his age would have hung nearly to his shoulders if not for its defiance of gravity as well. What had once been a strawberry blonde was now a brilliant white. His face was clean shaven, the five o clock not yet struck to cast its shadow upon his jaw.  In his case, however, it would not have been shade so much as an early frost.
   Piercing green eyes and a sparse frame of lean muscle often attracted the eye of many a woman thirty years or more his junior.

Such a spark was in there now as he pranced about men that could be his grandsons. At any other time Derog might have used the scene before him for a prank or jibe that would bring the elder out of his tune with clenched fists. Despite the festivities and sense of holiday, all Derog could think of was he would likely remember this day as his mother's last for the rest of his life.

He waited for the end of the song and Gridge to finish his dip into the bucket of  water spiked with mead before approaching.

As Derog spoke, he watched the sparkles fade from the green eyes, to be replaced with the normal cold glint. Wordlessly the elder left at a brisk pace to fetch his cart. Though the old man had set his face, Derog could see the sorrow in the crinkling of his eyes. On a whim, Derog left his mount with the stable and climbed in the wagon beside Gridge. The elder seemed to take no notice, just slapping the reigns against the horse. The clydesdale was a draft horse, and certainly no racer, but Gridge set it a strenuous pace.

In the brooding silence that continued out of town, Derog found his thoughts dwelling on how oddly real it felt that this was happening. For some reason he'd thought it'd be hard to grasp, but now he had to acknowledge something he'd refused to admit to himself; he hadn't thought of her as his mother in some time.
As she'd shrunk, the disease feasting with agonizing slowness, and ravaging her body, she had died to him. It had hollowed her out, leaving only a shell for the crab to wear. He found he felt almost relieved that she was failing. It would be over, and they would bury the crab where it could do no more harm.

The cart hit a rock and jolted, and Derog looked about, marveling. So dark had been his thoughts he was somewhat surprised to find it still cheerfully bright. It was like waking up, and he felt shame at the direction his mind had wandered.

"Gridge." he said unexpectedly.

The elder twitched slightly and scowled.  

"Whart?" he responded after a moment.

Derog found he had no idea why he had exclaimed. In that moment of pain at the realization of how he now saw his mother, he had blurted out to cover his mental admonitions.

"What... whatfore did you leave that bowl out by the door for?" he said quickly.
"An offering." Gridge said shortly.
"For what?"
"Tribute. "
"Tribute?'
"For a good year."
"A good year of what?"
"OF HONEY! Whatfore do ye ask? Ye upset it?" Gridge cried out in annoyed passion, a tone that'd have made any child cower who didn't know the elder.

Derog managed a brief grin, glad to pull him out of his grim thoughts.  

"Boy, if not for your dear mam off her feet I'd tear yer a pocket to stick ye teeth in." Gridge said through clenched jaws, but as soon as he'd said it he appeared to regret it.

"We was down last year, and 'twas a harsh winter." he elaborated in a more subdued tone. "Can use all the blessing can get."

"You believe in blessings?" even after mam? Derog had meant to add, but couldn't bring himself to say it.
"Aye."
"Curses then?"
"If there be blessings there assure be curses."
"Seeings and dreams?" Derog ventured quietly.

For the first time Gridge turned to look at Derog, surprise in his expression. Derog peered ahead, avoiding his eye.

"Aye, perhaps." Gridge said finally. "In the manner of the seeing determining."

Hearing the interest in the man's voice, Derog decided to tell him his dream. Gridge had a head to things of the 'fools ways' as his tyta referred to; that not described through natural philosophy.
Gridge was silent for some moments after, and Derog knew he was considering the matter with some seriousness. Otherwise he'd have laid into him.

"Sounds like you met one of the sideways folk." he finally said, a touch of interest betraying his voice.

Derog gazed at him in confusion. He hadn't heard that tale before. Would Gridge jest?

"He was standing straight, not sideways, Gridge! Don't treat this with fun." Derog said irritably.

"That I am not. They are the ones as I left the medd out for, though it appears you got yourself a hearth spirit instead of onna the Ladies."  

"Why are they Sideways?" Derog asked, wondering what he meant by 'the ladies'.

"Something my father's father would tell me. He was a Catholic clergyman before leaving the church. Had been all over Europe, and the Dark Continent. The Holy Lands too. Saw many a thing he couldn't explain. He'd say ye had Jehovah and his angels. Then there are the Devil and the imps and many evils. Them as were fallen angels. But there were things and powers, as mighty as any angel or demon, but not rightly of them or man. They never tried to lead ye against the Almighty, or crusade against the Opponent. They didna care about neething but their own mischief and merriment." he said, trailing off to give Derog a withering stare.  

"He'd reckoned that they were once angels too, but they'd stayed to the side of that Great Conflict. He'd said they weren't thrown out, but chosen to leave Kingdom come. He'd said they'd fallen sideways. The Tylwyth Teg."

He flushed at Derog's blank look.

"Both ye folk with Nwmenaidd blood and ye dunna know even that? Your mam surely must mentioned them.  The Lord have mercy, what do you learn in London aside from how to dodge carriages?"

Derog shrugged. He had heard a great number of tales, but they'd been told him in secret by his mother. She'd explained that while she did not want to anger Dawe, there were things that needed knowing if one was from their town. Even now Derog would not betray her by admitting his knowing.  

"Fair folk and shining ones. The little people and fairies? Pagan gods and suchlike. It makes as much sense as any. The  Tylwyth Teg be the stewards of this Cymru land. They be the good ones, and they keep out the Unseelie. In the land of scotts, where I was a bairn, they still terrorize. Snatch babes from the cradle. Replace them with changelings and the like. Wouldn't surprise me if'n you weren't one of'em."

"I seem to have angered that hearth man." Derog cut in, ignoring the jibe.

"Aye, perhaps, or mebbe he was just trying to put the fear in ye as jest. As I say, even the benevolents be fickle and fey. That last be  where the word come from. Why he might've called ye a child of the waters I couldn't say." Gridge said in a tone meant to reassure. "Healer like ye tyta won't stay long here in the boons anyhow, and them fair folk don't care much for the glint of the iron or bein' seen by many folk. Ye'll be safe there. Churches too they can't abide, having parted from the Almighty."

Derog's eyes widened, "Where are they then? Are they around us unseen all the time here?"

"Do I look like a fairy to know? You meet another, and they don't make a toadstool of ye, see ifna they tell ye!" Gridge finished and leaned back on the bench, obviously having had his say.

As the cart rattled down the lane, Derog returned to his thoughts. Despite Gridge's claim to the altruism of these Tylwyth Teg, his dream continued to trouble him. As they approached the familiar lane towards the manor, his uneasiness returned to a more concrete dread. Tonight the crab would finish his mam.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Derog sat within the main room, near the hearth. Clouds had unexpectedly rolled in during the evening, and rain was falling in quantity that was nigh diluvian.  The temperature was unseasonably cool and Gridge had started a blaze in the hearth. The boy watched the seasoned oak crackling and popping, and tried to recall his dream. The domovoi that had come to him. Derog tried to catch him in his sketchings, but the details, what of his details. Feature and form that were always so crystalline clear to him swam in his memory and refused to surface.

In frustration he set down the charcoal and looked about the room. His grandfather had been considerably well off due to his brewing, but the small manor was far more homey than opulent. The old man's father and his brothers had built it themselves and tamed the land about. All that was left was his mother in that line, she and himself.

Thinking of her, he stood and went to glance into the room. A low-voiced, yet intense discussion was taking place, and he stood outside the doorway.

"Son, is there nothing ye kin do? No time is good for a lass still so young to pass, but of all nights this..." Gridge was saying.

"What night, Greg? May eve?" Dawe responded with uncharacteristic sharpness. "What of it? Death is death! Nothing changes it, you hear? NOTHING!"

Derog felt a chill run through him for the second time that day. So she was dying. While he had known it the admission and his father's tone settled into a knot of dread. Gridge's too. He was genuinely concerned.

"Lad, you could be my grandson, yet I know ye've seen more of death than these old eyes ever will. Its ye path and cross to bear. But harken, I seen life aplenty, and there be a restlessness upon the May in Nwmenaidd, and this is the most restless eve of that May I've yet to see. Believe it or no, the less restlessness in a soul departing the better. That's all I say."

"Greg, I can't think like that. I will not live a life of fearing ghouls in every creak in the dark."

"Nor does it mean ye cover your eyes. Your father was a great physician as well, and he subscribed to this natural philosophy of yours. But, I hear tell he didn't scoff at that which went beyond it. He'd been born to this town, and he knew not all was obvious to the eye and measure. What of that heirloom  he's said to have had? Book with all sorts of medicines handed down from ye greats?"

"It is nonsense, through and through. These so called medicines were like as to ail as aid. It remains in London regardless."

"Well Dawe, best you begin praying then. Seems that's all you've left yourself with."

Dawe remained silent, and Derog heard footsteps approach the end of the room where the writing desk was located.

Derog went to bed late that night, his father not even mentioning sleep as he had every night before. As such he felt oddly out of sorts. He had been forgotten that evening.
As he walked the dark hallways by memory, he heard a sound to his side, but upon turning to look there was nothing. Widening his eyes and looking out of the corners he could barely make out the outlines of doorways, much less anything smaller. The sound then continued, a strange skittering. His first thought was a rat, but it was distinctively different than any he'd heard before. The feet sounded to tap against the floor in a drumming pattern. He began to follow it, though if ever he got too near it would silence and then resume much farther ahead.
Derog finally came to a closed doorway at the end of the hall. Putting his ear against the wood, he heard the clickety-clack continuing. Pushing them open with a slight squeak, he found himself in his grandfather's old room.  
The infrequent flash of lightening illuminated the suite, but Derog saw nothing. He felt his way to the other side of the room and sat by the window, listening to the rain strike against the panes like a continuous stream of pebbles. Something then jabbed his hand. The lightning lit again, and standing by his palm on the sill was a tiny, pale crab. It was a variety he'd been shown while on vacations to the beaches at Swansea. The type that took other shells or trash and used it to protect themselves. This one however was exposed and uncovered. Then the light was gone.

Derog felt around, but was unable to feel the creature. The sky lit up again and he glanced about the room, to see a figure standing not ten feet away.
"Mam..." Derog breathed.

She was young and beautiful, unravaged by disease. Though not seeming to glow, he could see her sharply amidst the darkness even once the initial flash had faded. She opened her mouth to smile, but in that moment the crab scurried up from within her gown and crawled into her mouth. Hair abruptly fell out in clumps from Caron's translucent scalp, and her skin shriveled. She knelt and held out her arms, but Derog flinched away.

"Derog, my Derog!" she was saying, and a tear ran down her wasted cheek as she stood.

"STAY AWAY!" he yelled as she reached towards him. "You're dead!"

"I know, I'm so sorry. I never wanted to leave you. Let me just kiss you one last time." she said with pleading tones. A claw stuck out from between her teeth and clacked.

Derog shook his head and back away until he bumped into the window sill.  "You just want to feed me the crab!"

"Derog! There is no crab! I was just sick. " she tried to explain, but Derog refused to listen. Not to this ravaged Cyhyraeth.

Derog turned and pushed against the windows as she came closer. He had to shove hard, fighting against the wind. Moist night air was sucked into the room and with a gust they were blown out, smashing against the side of the manor violently enough to shatter several panes. Rain was throw in by the gale, immediately soaking him. He jumped up to the sill and down the five feet to soaked, mossy ground. He sank several inches, throwing up a muddy spray, and nearly lost his balance. Catching himself, he looked  back to see his mother looking out as if he were the ghost.

"DEROG!" she wailed, a horrible keening that shook him in his bones and overwhelmed the thunder and rain.  

He ran, hardly noticing the storm, the mixture of wind and wet that brought his teeth to chattering. He ran all he could, feeling the urge to get away from death, from disease, from everything ugly that dwelt within that home and the world. He stubbed his toes on rocks, slipping down hills, but such was his headlong flight these did little to slow him.

Eventually he paused to catch his breath, and peered into the near absolute darkness. Only now did he realize how little he had thought. He simply had had to be away from that house. However, where he was he had no idea.

He listened as he walked, trying to ignore the pounding rain. Eventually the rushing of water grew strong enough to be heard over the rain and he knew he must be nearing the  Afon Taf.  If he followed the river he'd come to Grig's Hop and know where he was. For almost an hour he walked, but he never  came any nearer the river, much less the bridge. By now the heat of his flight had long been consumed by the storm.

He wrapped his arms about himself and continued on, keeping a lookout for any kind of lights in the distance. It was then he noticed a great shadow rising before him. He was nearing the edge of a wood. He was certain he hadn't been going anywhere near the wilder areas. If anything he should have been moving in the opposite direction.

It was then in the distance he saw the dimmest of glows. If he hadn't become so accostomed to the darkness he likely would never have noticed. Almost everyone in the area knew either Gridge or Caron, so he was certain he would be taken in for the night. The glow didn't seem to grow any brighter however, though numerous lights began to appear, scattered through the woods.

Derog's heart fell  as the lights began to move. He hurried forward with dread, and then stopped. He'd been chasing fireflies this entire time. They never flickered on and off, just maintained a steady, streaming brilliance.

Despite the panic at discovering he was now hopelessly lost, Derog found himself fascinated by the spectacle. Forgetting his fear, he was instead filled with a longing to be amongst the beauty before him.  A cloying, sweet smoke began to burn his eyes as he entered a meadow of ferns that filled the clearing. Here the fireflies twirled, not seeming to mind the pungent miasma. He reached out and tried to grab one, but as it touched his hand a burning pain filled his palm, followed by a sudden coldness. He opened his fist, and a small scorch mark marred his skin. Glancing closely he realized there were no wings, or even a bug at all. They were living embers.
What he had taken for white noise was the hissing of the sparks in their death throes, which danced in an attempt to avoid the raindrops. It was a deadly waltz for them, as one would spin only to meet it's ethereal end by the splatter of a stray drip.

They  issued continuously from the edge of the clearing, and he found himself  spinning and whirling in mimicry of their movements. The ground then spun below him as something plucked him off his feet. He was brought to an enormous,  masculine face surrounded by the embers. It seemed carved out of living, polished wood devoid of bark, though the glowing red eyes in the dark face were anything but vegetable. It was a solemn, noble visage not of Britain, but of the exotic peoples to the far east. It sucked on a long, intricately carved pipe with a bowl the size of a washtub.  It was from this bowl that the embers awoke and took flight.

The dream-like state in which he had danced dissolved, abandoning him to the literal grip of grim reality. Derog was now very much awake. Why had he followed the light of the embers, and what had they led him to?

The giant regarded him. It was easily ten feet tall and lanky, leaning against a massive oak. What he had mistaken for young, smooth trees were its knobby legs. A loincloth that draped the back and front was its only concession to modesty. It had four arms, one of which was holding him in the air with no hint of strain. It took a particularly deep puff upon its pipe, illuminating the creature further. Derog recoiled. What he had mistaken for a pattern of pimples or nobs about its skin were man-sized faces. They were frozen, most in grimaces of pain or open-mouthed terror, and sprouted from the creature's naked flesh.

It then allowed the smoke to leak from its nostrils as it removed the pipe from its lips. A language he had never heard moaned forth, surprisingly soft in volume, but so deep he felt the fluted words in his bones. The giant appeared to be expecting an answer.

"I do not understand what you are saying." Derog whispered, terrified by this being, yet at the same time fascinated.

Narrowing its eyes thoughtfully, it peered at the boy and brought the pipe back up. It held the bowl up to Derog's face, who began to choke on its fumes and blister from the flying fires. When Derog thought he might pass out, the bowl was taken away. With a smirk the creature brought the pipe back to its own face to puff.

Desperation and anger raged within Derog. He kicked the bowl of the giant's pipe as hard as he was able just as it inhaled. It was so heavy  Derog felt he had bruised his foot, but the sparks went flying everywhere. In surprise the wooden man's grip loosened, and Derog used his sodden state to slip out. He fell to the ground and rolled to his stomach, the breath knocked out of him. The creature batted at the cloud of sparks surrounding him and wheezed a command. Stepping into the clearing were what appeared as powerfully built men with muscles like wooden knots encased in rich dark skin. However, where their heads should have been were  round, knobby burls; wrinkled and hard.

For the second time that night Derog ran. They burl men charged as one. He had thought he had run before, but now he knew what it was like to run for his life. While he ducked and weaved about the trunks, the men simply lowered their wooden heads and battered their way through the undergrowth. They didn't seem to possess any sight, and occasionally one would ricochet off a particularly unyielding  growth.

He ducked under a log that had fallen from the side of a steep hill he now found himself at the base of, and paused, breathing as deep and quietly as he could. The burl heads immediately slowed as well, and milled about as if uncertain. Derog stood as quietly as he could and began to tip-toe through the mould , the rain drowning out his steps and dampening the leaves underfoot. He had made it some forty feet when he splashed into an unexpected hollow. Immediately half the creatures took running leaps that carried them completely over him, and they turned to block him.

Desperately he looked about and sprinted up the hill, pulling at small trees growing up the bank to hurry his ascent. The creatures were leaping right behind him, though they were having difficulty. They slipped down the leaves that covered the ground once they landed. Likewise they were far too heavy to grip the saplings without yanking them out by the roots.  As Derog climbed the ground began to be spotted with rocks and larger tree-trunks. Eventually he cleared the valley ledge. He allowed himself several deep breaths before turning to continue his flight, trying to ignore the burning in his lungs and calves.

He barely had taken a dozen steps when he rebounded off something spongy, yet sturdy, in the dark. Derog landed hard enough to daze himself. Not possessing the wooden noggins of his pursuers, blood streamed from a cut on his head, feeling hot beside the cold rain. Reaching out to what he had hit, he felt a rough bit of stone thick with moss and smeared with his blood.

Above, the clouds immediately ceased their deluge but began to flicker with almost continuous light. His surroundings lit by the clouds, he saw he was atop a hill. The top was rocky and the heath sparse, the former appearing too smooth to be natural, as if they had partially melted. In the middle was an obelisk-like stone some six feet high. Moss and lichen grew in whirls and twisting patterns upon it like artistic runes.

Then the world went white hot. Derog didn't have time to blink before he went deaf as well. Lightening had come down and struck the stone straight on. As his vision cleared he saw that all growth had been cleared from its surface. Now lines of flame flickered where the growths had been, the runes glowing sharply. The stink of ozone and burnt blood filled his nostrils.

The clouds above began to flicker even more brightly, and Derog just had time to curl in on himself before they struck again with a moment of unbearable heat. He opened his eyes just in time to watch the lightning arc from the obelisk to strike a dead tree on the edge of the hill. It immediately burst into flame. Where the fire touched, the tree's bare wood thickened with bark. Flame trickled up the broken branches, and they lengthened and grew supple. Buds burst from the tips and in moments the tree was consumed in the leaves and blossoms of the spring fed groves. The fire then faded away, except for the veins of the leaves which continued to glow with a hale radiance. Several roots ripped out of the ground and convulsed, tearing the rocky ground to pieces. Left was a hole in the ground that flared up with an eerie red glow. Stone steps descended down as far as Derog could see. This whole process had taken no more than several seconds.

Then there was another flash. Derog covered his eyes and ears, and wept onto the stoney ground. Then there was nothing. Carefully he creaked open an eye. He was in a great circle of fire. All the trees that had died upon or about the hill had been brought back to life in a new guise, and all had stairwells leading downward.

Something began to hurry up the stairs. Many somethings, shadows of all shapes and sizes streaming up.

Derog stared for a moment before running down the hill. Behind him something lean and pale threw back its head and let out a keening scream that reminded him of a dying rabbit a stray dog had once brought to the manor.

Entering the woods, on the opposite side of the hill, he ducked behind a tree and glanced back. Nothing seemed to be pursuing him.

Music could be heard through the forest in an unhuman scale, both eerie and intriguing. It wafted about the wood much like the drenched, bleeding boy weaved through the trunks to escape it. He found himself moving almost in tune with it, and nor the catching thorns or coils of tripping roots ensnared him. It was intoxicating to waltzx through the wood, and almost he wished to turn back, to discover what could make such a melody of such loveliness.

On the hill , unblinking fireflies flitted above, dancing and dipping with the song. The light above continued to increase and with it the temperature. Combined with the humidity, Derog soon found himself surrounded by a thick, dripping fog that now hid even the telltale shadows of rock and tree.

Feeling ahead of him, Derog tried to make his way down into the valley. Then twin orbs of red peered from the dark ahead. Before Derog could even turn, a familiar hardwood hand grabbed him. Derog twisted and squirmed, the cold sweat of fear pouring from him. He felt himself slipping within its grasp but then it took him in two hands, fingers interlocked. Then it began to squeeze. Derog quickly weakened and his vision faded, the horrible red orbs before him narrowed in fury.

A strange scent wafted on the air, and not from the giant It reminded Derog of sun on freshly cut hay, of bluebells  by the river's edge, and, strangely enough, his mother's hair before she had taken ill, when she sat with him in the garden.

"Kālī betaa!" a voice cried out.  

It was clear and resonant without being loud. A voice that sent strange shivers through Derog even as he blacked out. Then he was set to the ground. Though sight returned he was surrounded by darkness still. Breathing in deep, frantic sobs he tried to move away, but his legs would no longer obey. Then the fog took on a luminous quality. Standing nearby with head bowed was the smoking giant, his pipe no longer in its mouth.

A woman stepped around its tree-trunk thick leg, running a hand over its knobby knee in a reassuring manner as she passed. As she came fully into sight, Derog's felt his eyes were opening for the first time. Like a babe emerging into the day when all it had known was the womb. Fear was forgotten, his pain and confusion. Before him was his heart's desire.
Not as the poet's wrote. This was not love. Not even worship. This was everything he desired and needed combined, not knowing until this moment that he had ever lacked.

"Myfanwy..." he breathed. 'My lady. My love.' his soul echoed.

She was not a lady however. Not a woman. Or she was what all women dreamed of being, but even such dreams would not have reached the perfection he saw before him. While all others had some blemish, something than hinted at the disease of mortality that would someday take them, this creature standing before him would never know such a mark. Even the most vibrant woman in the bloom of youth was a wilting blossom before this flawless flower.

Her skin was nether pale nor dark, but a vibrant, sunkissed gold the likes he had never seen. She wore no clothing or jewelry of any kind, but this seemed perfectly natural and in no way indecent. No wrappings could improve her, no gem could match her. Like a deer in the field or a salmon in the sea, she was in her element. Regal as a queen, unabashed as a child.  Both strong as an oak and soft as down. It was Derog who now felt weak and sullied, wrapped in rag's to hide his mortal infirmities.

Her hair of kinks and curls was all shades - pale and dark, red and gold and auburn, all shading to the other like a wild creature's fur, and catching the light like a fowl's feather. It hung to the small of her back in an untamed mass, yet so soft and thick it formed no tangles.

It was her eyes however that truly held him. They were almond shaped and large, nearly to the point of seeming nocturnal. The irises were a deep blue, a shade nearly purple, and so liquid he felt he could swim within.

A smile, sweet and concerned, lit in her face. An expression that made him forget his thoughts of inferiority. Made him feel special and warm and strong.

"You are lost, child." she said, kneeling beside him.

"Not any more." he replied with a tone of heartfelt conviction that would have surprised those that knew him. It was not a child's tone. Nor was the hand that reached up to touch her hair a child's gesture.

The creature before him ducked her head in a manner both bashful and coy. Behind them the tree man rumbled like thunder threatening to lash out.

"Or perhaps he is a man-child." she said, looking back up with an unreadable gaze. "But tonight is not a night for man. You need to return home, Elidorus. The king will not have you again, you know this well."

"I am Derog."
"Are you? What of Elidorus?"
"I don't know him." Derog responded inf confusion, but then something sparked in his memory. "Or... not Elidorus and the golden ball?"
"Oh yes, so you do know him!"
"That happened? It's true?"
"Very much so. It is because of him I must send you away. Mortal children must not see our dance."
"That was hundreds of years ago! I would stay with you forever, lady."
"Forever." the nymph said with a laugh that made Derog's heart beat faster without his knowing why. "Forever and ever? Only that? A forever of man is so short, Derog."
"It'd be a lifetime for me."
"Derog. The obstinate one indeed. " she said in a tone of approval. "But you will forget me by morning."
"Never!"
"But that is the way of things. You may dream, and maybe those will keep you happy. Come, to your feet." she said with a grin. With no effort she lifted him up.

She plucked a small wild rose from a bramble and kissed it. It slowly darkened until it had taken on the indigo hue of her eyes.

"You take this, and with it you will know the way out of the woods as long as it lie quiet in your palm."

"Myfanwy, please don't send me away.  Myfanwy..." Derog pleaded, and tears momentarily blinded him.

The nymph seemed taken aback by this, and touched his cheek with a finger. Upon it was a tear. She brought it to her mouth and tasted.

"Such a gift." she breathed, and reached out to embrace Derog.

"If my memory is so strong that you recall then you will find me again some day." she whispered into his ear. "You gave me sorrow, I give you hope, even if it is for just this night."

She then pulled away. It was then he realized just how small she was. He had put on a lot of growth this year, but he was still years from his man's height. In boots he could look into her eyes however, and as she stepped away he didn't miss an opportunity to do so.

"I will remember." he promised. "I will."

"Then there is no need for tears." she replied, encouragingly. "Now leave us this night."

Derog looked at her, memorizing her, relishing her. Then he turned and disappeared into the mist.

The temperature rapidly began to lower, and then the rain began to once again fall. He turned around, looking longingly. Then the tiny thorns of the rose bit his hand for the second time that day. As he turned back around they grew limp in his hand. He would return in the morning he promised himself. But until then, the rose would deter him, and he would not toss aside her gift.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The nymff watched him leave, impressed despite herself. She had watched the first men come to the island before it was an island, and over the millenia had had many admirers from chance encounters like tonight's. Yet in the eyes of that twelve year old boy had been admiration that would have drowned their amour.

"Why did you encourage him?" a deep, scratchy voice said behind her in a challenging tone.

"Mortals never remember the morning after, you know this." the nymff said with a touch of sadness. "And what I said. Love's tears is a precious gift, Lamba-Dand."

The giant snorted, "Weeping a gift. You have many strange ideas, my Lady of the Indigo Eyes."

The nymff turned to the giant, her disapproving frown as comely as any mortal woman's expression of joy.

"Have you never wept?"

Lamba-Dand drew himself up proudly, "The sons of Kali do not weep, and certainly not their Oldest. I would have bled him had he not made the blood sacrifice himself.  Remorse weakens and stills the hand from action."

"Luckily for he then. " Indigo said softly and turned away, "So he slipped from your grasp? It is said none can escape a kapre's grip. "

"This land is weak. Men have drained away much of its strength." Lambda-Dand said with a glower. "And it grows weaker with each year. I do not understand why your sire allows it. The others might stay behind the Hedge, living easy in Fae, but Arddhu the Green Man is said to love these wilds."

"Men were once wild as well. They still revere him here and there. In the untamed places of their hearts." Indigo said, her tone deliberately unchanged. "

"They should FEAR him!" Lambda-Dand roared.

"So should you, my Kapre Lord. You take from me my right to accept or deny blood sacrifice. I did not condone it.  So you took it. Then once the sacrifice is made you pursue him, to kill a child of my lands, when all that was needed was a drop of his blood. A DROP." Indigo replied, her eyes lit dangerously. "The Tylwyth Teg are not the Unseelie. Gwynn Ap Nudd signed with Solomon. This you know."

A lazy smile then played across her face.

Lambda-Dand sucked in his breath and his eyes widened as she advanced on him.  It was more like a stalk, and her unique scent taking on a sharp, musky tone. He stood unmoving, paralyzed with desire as she climbed his limbs and balanced upon his chest to peer into his eyes.

She stroked his beard and then grabbed it sharply. The warmth snapped into instance winter. "I am hyleoroi of the Gated Fforests, and you will pay me the respect I deserve, and those under my protection. Otherwise I will kindle a flame within that will hollow you out."

She leaped down and 4 foot 11 looked into the widened eyes of 11 foot 4. There was no fear in hers.

Abruptly Lambda-Dand shook himself, as if coming out of a dream. His chest heaved and a fierce, wondering smile came to his face. He lowered himself onto one knee and bowed his head before her.

"So you do have bite, my Lady of Indigo, just as I have been told. Someday we will be a mighty force."

"Someday may be farther than you think, Firstborn." Indigo replied, the cold tone fading away, to one of weariness.

Lambda-Dan beat his hand against his chest, "You have shunned my advances for some time, Lady, but I will win your favor. "

"You have not even begun, Lambda-Dand. "

"What must I do?"

"For a beginning? I would learn to cry."
Chapter 2 of Indigo's Rose.

Here Derog meets the nymff (nymph) and his obsession begins.

I'm using welsh sayings and spelling here and there, so if you wonder how some things are pronounced here is a guide:
Nwmenaidd = Numenaith (the land of numens, or unearthly beings)
Cymru = Kumree (Welsh for Wales)
Tyta = Tit-tee (Daddy)
Tylwyth Teg = Tel-oe-ith Taeg (the benevolent fairies of Wales. Alike to the Seelie, but unrelated)
© 2011 - 2024 Karribi
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