A Light, a Child, a Forest

In the Labyrinthine Forest, time did not behave as it did in the rest of the Rainlands. Beyond those leafy borders, months and years trudged along in an orderly fashion. But in the Forest, under the boughs of the primordial trees, in that perennial autumn where leaves and rain fell inexhaustibly, the passing of time was as impossible to distinguish as drops of water in an ocean. So it is with some trepidation that we say our story occurs in the Third Age, when the Lost Kingdom of Eld was at the peak of its influence, and its citizens still honored their ties with the Forest, and surrendered those unfortunate children born before the harsh summers to the mercy of the trees. A brutal tradition, to be sure, but a necessary one, the farmers that lived along the Forest border agreed – for it was ultimately a choice between certain death and an uncertain future. That was, if it could be said that there was any future in the Labyrinthine Forest… or past, or present.

Some Eldfolk believed that the Orphans of the Trees, as they were known, would quickly fall into a deep slumber amidst the great roots, and dream as the slumbering maples and firs and hemlocks dreamt, and know the Rainlands as only those ancient beings could. Others claimed that the Orphans returned in another time, in another place, when they were needed. Still, others – detractors of the tradition – would argue that the lives of these children were forfeit, as the memories and lives of other wanderers of the Labyrinthine Forest were forfeit, their life force burnt up like so much kindling by the spirits of the trees. Ultimately though, no one knew what happened to the children, as most people that entered the Forest never returned, and those that did come back were altogether changed, speaking only in riddles.

Our tale begins with one such child, a girl of four, whose name was lost to time, but who later came to be known, by those who tell her story, as Ember.

Ember’s father was a humble, taciturn man, already approaching middle age by the time of his daughter’s birth, and her mother, though an artisan’s daughter, was a willful woman who had married for love, below her station. Ember was their fourth child and only daughter, born during a particularly troubled time. For in the valley where they lived, an ambitious baron, stirred by visions of empire, had determined that all of the Westing Hills should be his, and had set about buying up the land and its resources, with no care for the communities he displaced in the process. Those stubborn families that remained faced the long, harsh dry seasons of the region without the support of neighbors they had relied on for centuries, and, as a result, some died every summer, when the heat and famine set in.

Though he was a stoic man, Ember’s father was not a callous one, and it was with repressed tears that he told his wife, one gloomy evening in the late spring, that he would be leaving the following morning with Ember on a two-day journey to the Forest. He did not have to say what purpose there was for the journey. There could be only one.

“Is there no other way?” Ember’s mother asked.

Ember’s father grimaced, turned away to hide his watery eyes. “What other way could there be, dear?”

“We could – we could send her to the city.”

“What life would there be for a common girl in the city?”

Ember’s mother didn’t answer, knowing that there were only sordid possibilities. She bit her lip, thinking.

“Perhaps we could send a message to the baron, offer her as a ward, or else ask for aid.”

Ember’s father frowned. “The baron is not a charitable man. I doubt he would deign even to hear our plea.”

“Well then, maybe…” but her voice trailed off, and she said nothing. Rather, she reached for her husband’s hand, and he took it, and together they wept in silence, the hard tears of hard folk.

They stood by their daughter’s bedside as the girl slept, unaware of what the following day would bring. Her father swept a strand of hair from her brow. She had his features, but her mother’s auburn hair, and striking hazel eyes. She was a quiet child, unlike her brothers, and a thoughtful one. She reminded him of himself when he was young– observant, well-mannered, but also dreamy, stubborn, and full of questions. Regret clutched at his chest as he watched her sleep, but also wonder, that she should see with her own eyes what he had only dreamed of: the secrets hidden in that sacred place, where time stood still and ancient knowledge endured, even as the rest of the world forgot.

“If there is magic left in the Rainlands,” he told his wife, “it hides in the Forest. And of all our children, I believe she is best suited to face it.”

“But she belongs with us,” his wife protested. “She is our daughter. Our only daughter.”

“She is also another mouth to feed, too young to work, and might spell the ruin of our family this summer. Would you prefer that we all perished, rather than one of us?”

“I will go to the Forest in her place.”

“You will not. Your sons need you. I need you.”

“Do they not need her? Do you not need her, husband?”

He didn’t answer straight away, but rather studied his daughter, frowning. After a few moments he let out a shaky sigh and turned away from the bedside.

“We will ask her what her wish is on the morrow,” he said, and left the room.

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

They traveled mostly in silence, Ember seated in between her father’s legs on the retired plough horse which he rode into town when the tinkers visited. Though she had cried as they left the farm, with her mother and brothers standing solemnly on the porch, looking brave for the girl’s sake, she was quiet now, and seemed resolute – as resolute as any child so young could be. She did not ask any questions, as had been her custom since she’d learned to speak, but rather looked dutifully forward, toward the Labyrinthine Forest. As the hours passed it grew larger and larger, and soon consumed the horizon.

It was her father who eventually broke the silence.

“You did not have to say yes,” he told his only girl. “Your mother would have gone in your stead.”

“Ma needed to stay. She needed to help.” The girl hesitated. She was precocious for her age, but still, she was so little, solemn occasions were hard for her to navigate. Hers had been a life of play and rest and curiosity. She had not known tragedy until this day.

“This is how I can help,” Ember asserted, sounding far older than her years. She did not turn back to see the tears running freely down her father’s cheeks.

“You have ever favored the Traveler, daughter,” he said, evoking the Eidos, though he was not a spiritual man. “I hope you will find adventure where you are going, and remember you are loved.”

“I hope you remember that you are loved too, Pa.”

It was not long before they arrived at their destination— a crumbling stone arch which marked the end of the far reaches of the Kingdom of Eld and the beginning of the Labyrinthine Forest. There they dismounted, first her father, then Ember, whom he lifted off the saddle and held in his arms for a moment before setting her gently on the ground. He draped her in his best jacket, an article older than her by some years, and gave her a knapsack with a few day’s supply of food and water— all that she was strong enough to carry. It was more than most struggling families were willing to part with under such circumstances, but to her father it felt a pittance, and seemed confirmation of Ember’s doom. He did not betray these dark thoughts, however, only stooped to kiss her brow, and clasp her tiny shoulders in his hands for the last time.

“Be well, daughter,” he said. “You go where only the bravest have gone before you.” Then he mounted his tired old horse, and watched as the girl turned to regard the arch. It was the same arch under which many great heroes had passed, as well as the poor and the forsaken and the banished, the curious and the foolish and the wayward. After crossing that ancient threshold, such descriptions no longer held any meaning. All were the same then, that tread those unknown trails. Lost souls, given over to one of the world’s great mysteries.

The girl looked pitifully small in the oversized coat as she walked away from everything she had known. Her father watched as she proceeded under the arch, down the road, into the trees and, finally, out of sight. When he was certain she could not see him, he doubled over, buried his face in the horse’s mane, and sobbed.

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

It started raining soon after Ember entered the Forest, and did not stop again. For one so young, there is terror hidden behind every dark corner and distant sound— a childhood bedroom, a dusty cellar, the creaking branches of a tree at night, the barn cats yowling on fenceposts. So then to be in true darkness, in this stirring wood that was alive with foreboding and strange sounds and ill-intent, was more than the little girl could stand. Though her pack was heavy and her coat trailed along the mud, she broke into a run, tripping over herself as she went.

She ran for as long as her little body allowed, and when she could run no longer she crawled into an abandoned fox den, hugging herself and shaking. She was young, but not so young that she thought anyone would answer if she called out. So she said nothing, only held herself and cried, first noisily, then without sound.

Ember made it no further that first day. She slept in the fox den, wrapped in her father’s coat, smelling him on the wet fabric, the reassuring smell of earth and sweat and pipe smoke which had always made her feel safe. Even now there was some comfort in that smell, and she almost believed that he was not far, that a part of him was still there. Surely in the morning he would be waiting to take her home.

When she woke it was still dark, and she was alone. The rain came down as steadily as it had the day before, and it was scarcely lighter than it had been when she fell asleep, though something told her that it was morning. The gray light that filtered down through the canopy was meager, and seemed to come from a source colder than the sun.

Ember took a few bites of hearthcake, had a little water, then wriggled out of the den and started down the trail again.

For some time the girl walked alone, accompanied only by the steady patter of rain, the moan of the wind, and the stirring of the great trees. Fear had such a hold on her heart that she progressed thoughtlessly, moving forward by sheer instinct and will. And though the hours went and the trail climbed and dipped and climbed again, it seemed to her that she hadn't gotten anywhere, that nothing changed, and she drew no nearer to any kind of destination. She felt that if she looked over her shoulder the stone arch would still be in sight, and, beyond it, the rolling hills that marked the border between this dark place and her erstwhile home. But when she looked back, she saw only the same winding trail that stretched on before her.

She stopped once or twice to eat a bite of hearthcake, and sip the water in the skins, but never for too long, for she had quickly discovered that she was only warm when she was moving-- and never dry. The rain came down with a relentlessness she had not known, even at the height of the stormy season back home.

The voices came as evening settled once more upon the Forest. They came as whispers, children’s whispers, and sometimes faint peels of laughter, ringing through the trees. When she first heard them, Ember stopped, searching wildly, calling out. But she was not met with an answer. Only more whispers. The voices did not seem angry, but because they came from nowhere, they sent waves of terror through her belly.

For a second time, Ember ran.

Again her coat dragged in the mud, and she tripped and tumbled, only to push herself up and run again. Tears mixed with rainwater as she fled, while all around her the whispers grew louder and more insistent. They mixed with the wind and the rainfall, became a droning chorus.

Her foot caught a jutting stone and she fell, landing face down in the mud. Her breath whooshed out of her lungs, and for a moment everything was silent.

When she pushed herself up to her knees, the whispers returned, and Ember saw a faint light glowing in the distance, some ways off trail, amid the trees.

Come, the whispers said in unison. Come, little Ember, and be warm.

Her breaths came in rattling wheezes as she stood once more, and took a few steps toward the light. It was radiant, that light, so white that it seemed colorless, and with each step she took its brightness increased. And sure enough, it grew warmer, too. She pulled her father’s coat a little tighter around her, summoning what bravery she could from the faint smell of him on the collar, and forged on.

The whispers became a wordless hum, blending somehow with the light and warmth, so that they were an almost tangible thing, dominating Ember's senses. She didn’t know how long she walked, climbing over roots and rocks, passing between the trees. She knew only that the rain and cold diminished with every step, and the light grew brighter and warmer, and steam began to rise from her clothing as it dried.

Come, said the voice again, which was not merely a voice now, but also the light and heat, too, and a thought in her head, accompanied by the purest emotion, a feeling of reassurance which she had only felt when she'd laid between her parents late at night, listening to their steady breathing. It seemed the Forest itself was breathing now.

Then Ember stood before the source of the light, and saw it for what it was, and cried out-- in fear or exultation, she did not know.

At first it was only the shape of a dragon, too brilliant to look upon directly. But as Ember’s eyes adjusted, she began to take in the details of the creature: its brilliant white scales, luminescent and pure, its folded wings, bigger and more glorious than the sails of a galleon from the Commonwealth, and those two smoldering eyes, gold flecked with green, with slitted irises like a cat’s. The dragon was curled up like a cat, too, its fearsome legs folded beneath it, its talons as pure, white, and effervescent as the moon.

Though its mouth did not move, the dragon spoke to her, its words booming, echoing through the Forest in her father’s voice.

I am Oerrm, it said, its golden eyes fixed on her.

For a moment, Ember was stunned, and said nothing.

When her wits had returned enough to speak, she drew a shaky breath and addressed one of the creature’s eyes, as its visage was too large to look upon.

“I am…” she began, only to realize that she had forgotten her name.

The Forest took your name, Oerrm told her. Just as it will take your memories, and your spirit. But no matter. You are like an ember of that First Spark, which began here, deep in the roots, and gave birth to your race. And that is how you will be known henceforth. Ember.

The girl’s lips trembled, and she fought back tears.

“Why do you sound like my Pa when you talk, Oerrm?” she asked.

It is how your mind hears me. And it is just as well. There is some of your father here, in me, and in you, too. Everything stems from this place-- the First Place, where life began, and life, someday, will end.

“My Pa told me all the dragons left in the First Age. They went away, with the children of the moon and the earth.”

Most did, Oerrm agreed. The rest were hunted to extinction by ancient kings and queens who would not abide our wildness. But I remained. I gave myself to the Forest. Just as you have.

“I didn’t want to!” Ember sniffed, crying a little now.

I know, little one.

“But I had to!” She felt the hot tears in her eyes. “I had to for my Ma and Pa. And my brothers.”

I know, Oerrm said again. It was a beautiful thing you did. A noble act that ought not be forgotten.

“That’s good, but…” She sniffed, regarding her wavering reflection in the dragon’s eyes. “But I just want to go home now, Oerrm.”

The dragon blinked, looking thoughtful. It stooped a little lower, waves of heat rolling off of its scales.

Home… Oerrm said dreamily. I can take you there, little Ember. But only for a brief visit. Nothing can be as it was. The Forest has already claimed you, as it has claimed me. But it does not take without giving.

“What did it give me? I’m all alone!”

Dear one, the dragon said. It gave you me.

Then the dragon lowered itself further still, so that its head rested on the leafy earth beside her. It turned a little, so she could see a hollow where its wings and back met with its long, spiny neck.

Climb onto me, Oerrm said, and the girl did as she was bid.

Then, with a great, rumbling growl, the dragon stood up on its clawed feet, breathed deeply, and launched itself into the air.

Together the pair soared up, over the trees, higher and higher, until the trees were no longer trees but a wave of shifting green and blue, red and yellow, and yet more colors that there were no words for in the Common Tongue.

As they climbed, everything merged into one, and Ember saw as Oerrm saw, as the Forest saw-- she saw the Pattern in all its glory. She breathed deeply, knowing in that moment what she had lost and what she had gained, and what purpose she now served.

Together they flew, Oerrm and Ember, over the Rainlands and the shadows of the innumerable other worlds, appearing and disappearing where and when they would, inspiring all that saw them with the wild beauty of the dragon and the pure good of the girl’s heart.

And one fall morning, in the Westing Hills, a man, much older now than he was the day he lost his daughter, saw the great beast soaring overhead as he toiled in his fields, and felt the presence of the girl he’d given up, whose face he saw every night in his dreams.

He took off his hat and pressed it to his chest, bowing his head.

“My girl,” he whispered. “You have returned.”

Later that day, one of the farmer’s sons found him there, lying motionless amid the swaying wheat, looking peaceful, smiling at the sky.