The Power of Words: Prologue

The day I learned to never cheat a witch was, with great regret, the day after I agreed to make a deal with one.

I was raised in Fimblefoot, a small village on the banks of a large, rough, river. My parents were among the first settlers there, using their skills to transform a thick density of forest into a settlement that overflowed with life, much like the river it was built around. Father was a stout blacksmith - all broad shoulders and no conversation, but with a sparkle of kindness dancing in his eyes. Mother occupied her time on the loom, making new clothes to replace my father’s singed fabrics. She was kind also, but far less concerned with keeping it to herself – no, mother’s kindness was open and inviting.

Fimblefoot grew to be a larger village, with no less than 6 families occupying the land with ourselves. There were a group of children, one of which was myself, who would be seen together in the trees – playing. We were left to our own adventures in the knowledge that home, and it's comforting warmth, was never far away.

When we were caught up in our play, our escapades were not limited to the small bodies which we inhabited. We could be knights, warriors, mythical beasts, or the wildest things our minds could muster! Through our imaginative eyes, the river could swell, revealing a huge, lumbering mass of Kraken. We would become swashbuckling pirates to meet our foe - charging into the imaginary fray! Through the same eyes, the thick trees could become still and brittle, the bones of an old castle for us to lay siege upon as knights of the Kingdom! Nothing was too far-fetched for us - not when we were together.

There were three of us at the center of each epic story: Fernin, Brigid, and me. Everyone called me Dag. It was an unusual name, but no matter, it served its purpose. Fernin was a young boy with pale skin, stocky and blunt in all his ways. We always had him play the monsters. Then, there was Brigid. If Fernin was pale, Brigid was the shine on a waterfall, pure white and blinding. She had curls of ginger hair, falling to her elbows but kept in a tight braid most days – courtesy of her mother, who pulled braids to a tightness akin to her suffocating nature. I, myself was a plain, small boy with a predisposition to nervousness – they often made me play the damsel in distress.

One day, we were playing in the trees together. It was a game of chase, with Fernin imitating a thundering spirit. He was angry and me (a forest elf) and Brigid (a forest fairy) for trying to make a house of the thornbushes. Along the way, Fernin had picked up two large branches and was waving them around as he ran after us. I had felt the leaves on the end of them brush my back a few times, hastening me to run faster. While my boots seemed to stumble heavily on each root and twig, Brigid seemed to swim through the forest, her boots barely grazing the ground as she ran. The thought occurred to me that, if she did have wings, she would make a fine fairy indeed. So enthralled by her was I that, when her boots stopped running, I failed to notice, and ran into her back.

We tumbled down a hill and into a clearing. We stood up with tears in our eyes and wild, painful, heartbeats. Our bodies were not injured, just stinging us in protest at our foolishness. Our eyes met as we brushed ourselves off, making sure the other was undamaged before looking around.

We had found ourselves in a small area of grassland, peppered with flowers and grains. Though those were not what caught our gaze. In the middle of the clearing, adorned with sunlight, was an old, cracked stone building. The roof, while likely made from bundled grasses, was a bright green moss fur. Ivy clung to the walls, snaking around to claw at the splinters poking out of the door. Through the gaps in the walls, hung herbs could be seen drying alongside small fish and twine for weaving. The wind blew at that moment, whooshing through the trees and shaking the hanging objects slightly. I had a strange thought occur to me in that moment, that the breeze could have carried out scents into the cottage. It was a lesson taught to me by my father, who used to teach me the quiet art of hunting and stalking. We both froze, staring at the house. The door creaked and we did what any two sensible children should, we screamed and ran as fast as we could, scrambling to get back home.

Another lesson taught by my father; until I could hold a sword, I was to use my legs to carry me away from anyone who can.

We collected Fernin, who had been trying to reach us, on the way back while we spouted our shared shock in uncontrollable babbles between gasps of air. He was very confused at our tale of the mysterious stone cottage in the woods - which was clearly haunted by evil spirits. He followed our desperate running anyway, all the way back to Fimblefoot.

Surrounded by our parents and the high walls of homes, we all felt a little cowardly. The door opening was probably the wind, or perhaps the building crumbling a little more. Yes, we had let our imaginations get a little too wild, that was it. Nevertheless, we agreed to go back the next day.

I asked my father for my hunting bow, claiming a small rabbit hunting trip as target practice. He agreed while mumbling how much more we could catch with snares. Fernin had taken a table knife and Brigid had a buckler clutched to her middle. Together we marched into the forest, prepared. We carried with us more than weapons and shields, we fortified our hearts upon one another. It does not matter how our hearts quivered because they did so together.

It didn’t take us long to find the path we had ran along the previous day. Fernin had caused some damage to the brush by sweeping though with his branches. Before we had time to consider our investigation, we had found our way to the clearing, complete with mudprint of mine and Brigid’s bodies on the outskirts. But, there was one outstanding difference between the past and present...

‘Were you playing when you said there was a house?’ Fernin questioned

‘But this is the place! Look, here is where we fell!’ Brigid looked to me, confused.

‘No, we weren’t playing…’ I trailed off when trying to reassure Fernin. I looked towards the center of the clearing, puzzled as to how a house had appeared to vanish overnight. There was no sign of it. In fact, the grass that would have been under the house was long and green, as if the structure was never there to begin with.

We spent the day investigating the clearing, scowling at every pebble, flower and mushroom it contained. Fernin was quickly bored with the task, voicing his discontent with passion. Brigid and I were less unfocused, casting nervous glances to each other as we searched for something, anything, that could prove our minds sound. As the sky grew darker, we had to listen to Fernin’s protests and head back home.

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As years passed, we visited the clearing together regularly. The first of us to stop was Fernin, who became interested in learning how to fish and balancing the river. Apparently, there was ‘an art to keeping the river stocked full of fish all year’. One that ‘required dedication without time wasted chasing stories’. I was the next to stop. In truth, the thought that I had seen something so real, but had my own eyes proven blind disturbed me. I felt as if I had been made a fool by the gods, and turned myself away from the whole incident. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing beyond the veil of trees outlining the village.

Brigid never stopped visiting, and wouldn’t respond to Fernin and I when we tried to challenge her. In fact, she kept visiting the forest until her twentieth year. Eventually, she had to stop due to her father’s death. That was not the only misfortune that struck our Fimblefoot, no, the events which followed would make me question everything I knew about the village, its people, and my friends.

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A/N: Hello there reader, I hope you enjoyed the start to The Power of Words! I am so excited to share this story with you all and will be releasing the further parts in due time.

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