The Skrayling Tree by Michael Moorcock

‘ducks’ and was also the nickname for the balls used in their game.
    “Presumably we are at the mercy of fate, like the rattling balls,” I said. “Do we control anything? Do we not merely maintain
     the status quo as best we can?”
    Ayanawatta was not sure. “I envy you your skills, Countess Oona. I still yearn to walk the white path between the realms,
     but until now my dream-journeys, dangerous and enlightening as they have been, have been accomplished by other means.”
    He did not know if I was any more or less at the mercy of fate than himself. He longed to make just one such walk, he said,
     before his spirit passed into its next state.
    I laughed and made an easy promise. “If I ever can, I’ll take you,” I said. “Every sentient creature should look once upon
     the constantly weaving and separating moonbeam roads.” The women of my kind, of course, constantly crossed and recrossed them.
     And in our actions, in the stories we played out, we wove the web and woof of the multiverse, the fabric of time and space.
     From the original matter, acted upon by our dreams and desires, by our stories, came the substance and structure of the whole.
    “Divine simplicity,” I said. With it came the full understanding of one’s value as an individual, the understanding that every
     action taken in the common cause is an action taken for oneself and vice versa. “The moonbeam roads are at once the subtlest
     and easiest of routes. Sometimes I feel almost guilty at the ease with which Imove between the realms.” All other adepts hoped to achieve the ability, natural to dreamthieves and free dream-travelers,
     of walking between the worlds. Our unconscious skills made us powerful, and they made us dangerous but also highly endangered,
     especially when the likes of Gaynor chose to challenge the very core of belief upon which all our other realities depended.
    “The path is not always easy and not always straight,” I told him. “Sometimes it takes the whole of one’s life to walk quite
     a short distance. Sometimes all you do is return to where you began.”
    “Circumstances determine action? Context defines?” Grinning, White Crow made several quick movements with his fingers. Balls
     rattled and danced like planets for a moment and then were still. He had won the game. “Is that what you learned at your
musram
?” And he darted me a quick, sardonic look, to show me that he could use more than one vocabulary if he wished. Most of us
     know several symbolic languages, which affords us few problems with the logic and sound of spoken language. We are equally
     alert to the language of street and forest. We are often scarcely aware which language we use, and it never takes us long
     to learn a new one. These skills are primitive compared to our monstrous talent for manipulating the natural world, which
     makes shape-taking almost second nature. Quietly, however, White Crow was reminding me that he, too, was an adept.
    “To wander the paths between the worlds at will,” he said, “is not the destiny of a Kakatanawa White Crow man.”
    Ayanawatta lit a pipe. White Crow refused it, making an excuse. “We need have no great fear of the Pukawatchi now, but it
     would be wise to keep guard. I go forward to seek an old friend and hope to be with you in the morning. If I am not, continue
     as we are going, towards the mountains. You will find me.”
    And then, swiftly, he disappeared into the night.
    We smoked and talked for a little longer. Ayanawatta had had dealings with the pygmies. They had skills and knowledge denied
     to most and were fair traders, if hard bargainers. When I told him that Klosterheim had been the same size as me when I last
     saw him, Ayanawatta smiled and nodded as if this were familiar enough. “I told you,” he said, “we are living in that kind
     of time.”
    Did he know why Klosterheim was now the size of a Pukawatchi? He shook his head. White Crow might know. The dwarves and the