right, of course,” said the Journeyman Wizard, swinging the bow of their boat over to the right bank. “I could easily light our way, but why call anyone’s attention to ourselves? It’s time to get some sleep and have a bite to eat, anyway.”
“I’ve already eaten,” Marbleheart said. “Crayfish cocktail and watercress salad! Yummm!”
Douglas was content with Waybread and the last bit of Pitchfork’s dried Valley beef. He built a small, hidden fire, mostly for company as the night air was warm, and turned his pocket handkerchief into a soft, woolly-warm blanket with the familiar, old spell remembered from his first journeyings with Flarman.
“No need for a tent in this weather,” he told the Otter, who was standing by, wide eyed as always at the young Wizard’s everyday magicking.
They sat in companionable silence, listening to the night bird calls and the croaking of frogs on the river marge. After a while, the Otter turned to Douglas.
“How does this forest feel to you, Douglas?”
The young man sat very still and breathed deeply.
“There is a presence here, I deem,” he said at last. “What do you feel, Marbleheart? Animals are supposed to be more sensitive to such things.”
The Otter trotted to the edge of the circle of light about their fire and stared off into the dark toward the great, spreading trees.
“A presence, definitely. A watcher, I’d say.”
“Not especially hostile, but definitely watchful,” agreed the Wizard. “Maybe I should...”
He drew a leather case from his right sleeve, opened it, and studied its contents. Looking over his shoulder, the Otter saw the case was sectioned with loops of colored silk tape. In each loop nested a glass vial the size of a man’s little finger. Some were filled with powders: white or colored, fine or coarse. Others held clear or cloudy liquids, in many muted or bright colors. Some glowed faintly in the dark and others seemed to bubble or swirl slowly around and around in their vials.
After studying their cryptic labels, Douglas carefully selected two of them; one of coarse white crystals, the other half-filled with an oily, greenish liquid.
“These should do it,” he decided. Placing the vials on a flat place on the ground, he carefully unstoppered each, and allowed a drop of the liquid to fall on his palm and even more carefully dusted the greenish droplet with three tiny crystals.
“Exactly a scant smidgen,” he explained to the Otter. ‘Too much will ruin the spell.”
“Oh?” asked Marbleheart in awe. “What next?”
“This,” said Douglas.
He extended his hand over the middle of the fire and allowed the green globule, which had hardened into a tiny pebble of green with white striations, to drop into the hottest part of the fire.
The pebble grew larger at once, floating in the smoke and heat of the fire like a toy balloon, until it suddenly burst with a musical ping.
“I understand you are looking for information?” said a tiny Firefly, its tail flashing green, settling on Douglas’s left hand, where the chemicals had been mixed.
“Yes, please, if you will be so kind,” Douglas replied, unsurprised.
“Hoy!” exclaimed Marbleheart. He peered curiously at Firefly, who in return blinked his light in polite interest
“Fire creatures are always at a Fire Wizard’s beck and call,” said the Firefly. “I’m proud to be of assistance to the pupil of Flarman Firemaster.”
“We travel up Bloody Brook,” explained Douglas. “Through the dark oak forest and far beyond. Is there something we should know about this forest before we enter it?”
“You’re right, of course,” said Firefly, beaming brightly. “This is the Forest of Forgetfulness, or Craylor Wendys in the Faerie tongue. My family has lived here since long before there was the Kingdom War. We lighted the way for those who went out each night of Last Battle to recover dead and wounded and those driven out of sanity during the dreadful
“I’ve already eaten,” Marbleheart said. “Crayfish cocktail and watercress salad! Yummm!”
Douglas was content with Waybread and the last bit of Pitchfork’s dried Valley beef. He built a small, hidden fire, mostly for company as the night air was warm, and turned his pocket handkerchief into a soft, woolly-warm blanket with the familiar, old spell remembered from his first journeyings with Flarman.
“No need for a tent in this weather,” he told the Otter, who was standing by, wide eyed as always at the young Wizard’s everyday magicking.
They sat in companionable silence, listening to the night bird calls and the croaking of frogs on the river marge. After a while, the Otter turned to Douglas.
“How does this forest feel to you, Douglas?”
The young man sat very still and breathed deeply.
“There is a presence here, I deem,” he said at last. “What do you feel, Marbleheart? Animals are supposed to be more sensitive to such things.”
The Otter trotted to the edge of the circle of light about their fire and stared off into the dark toward the great, spreading trees.
“A presence, definitely. A watcher, I’d say.”
“Not especially hostile, but definitely watchful,” agreed the Wizard. “Maybe I should...”
He drew a leather case from his right sleeve, opened it, and studied its contents. Looking over his shoulder, the Otter saw the case was sectioned with loops of colored silk tape. In each loop nested a glass vial the size of a man’s little finger. Some were filled with powders: white or colored, fine or coarse. Others held clear or cloudy liquids, in many muted or bright colors. Some glowed faintly in the dark and others seemed to bubble or swirl slowly around and around in their vials.
After studying their cryptic labels, Douglas carefully selected two of them; one of coarse white crystals, the other half-filled with an oily, greenish liquid.
“These should do it,” he decided. Placing the vials on a flat place on the ground, he carefully unstoppered each, and allowed a drop of the liquid to fall on his palm and even more carefully dusted the greenish droplet with three tiny crystals.
“Exactly a scant smidgen,” he explained to the Otter. ‘Too much will ruin the spell.”
“Oh?” asked Marbleheart in awe. “What next?”
“This,” said Douglas.
He extended his hand over the middle of the fire and allowed the green globule, which had hardened into a tiny pebble of green with white striations, to drop into the hottest part of the fire.
The pebble grew larger at once, floating in the smoke and heat of the fire like a toy balloon, until it suddenly burst with a musical ping.
“I understand you are looking for information?” said a tiny Firefly, its tail flashing green, settling on Douglas’s left hand, where the chemicals had been mixed.
“Yes, please, if you will be so kind,” Douglas replied, unsurprised.
“Hoy!” exclaimed Marbleheart. He peered curiously at Firefly, who in return blinked his light in polite interest
“Fire creatures are always at a Fire Wizard’s beck and call,” said the Firefly. “I’m proud to be of assistance to the pupil of Flarman Firemaster.”
“We travel up Bloody Brook,” explained Douglas. “Through the dark oak forest and far beyond. Is there something we should know about this forest before we enter it?”
“You’re right, of course,” said Firefly, beaming brightly. “This is the Forest of Forgetfulness, or Craylor Wendys in the Faerie tongue. My family has lived here since long before there was the Kingdom War. We lighted the way for those who went out each night of Last Battle to recover dead and wounded and those driven out of sanity during the dreadful
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