Louisa Shorney

Since leaving the den Breac and Louarn have been travelling in silence. The sun has not yet reached its zenith and they are making good pace. The river, fed by the Fall, can be felt in the air now it must be close. Louarn changes his steady lope into a full gallop in anticipation of quenching his thirst. Breac leaves his perch on Louarn’s back so that he can fly ahead to check their course and choose a good resting spot. As he runs Louarn can feel the breeze, coming off of the rushing water, ruffling through his coat and the moisture it carries seeping down to his skin, which tingles in gleeful response. With the burst of speed his stomach reminds him that extra energy requires extra fuel, having not been fed since sleep it grumbles and growls in complaint.

‘Quit your groaning belly. There’s no time for a hunt. I can only slate your thirst, you must be satisfied by that.’

He mutters silently to himself as he leaps over the rocks that bound the river’s edge. No longer under the protective tree cover he quickly glances around to check his surroundings. The rock strewn river bed is quite broad at this point but, although deep enough to bathe in, the body of water flowing through its centre is no wider than a good leap, the long hot summer has seen to its depletion. He scans the area around him for signs of Breac but finds none. Presuming that his friend will keep to their course he puts his senses on Breac detection alert and heads up stream in hunt mode. Following their course up stream the river takes a turn and disappears from view. As he nears the bend his keen ears pick up the sounds of fluttering wings and splashing water, fearing the worst his heart starts pounding with concern for his feathery friend. Bounding around the bend in the river, leaping from rock to rock, Louarn almost loses his footing with the sight that greets his eyes. Breac, shaking water droplets from his feathers, is standing with one clawed foot dug into the flesh of the still wriggling brook trout he has just caught.

‘Aha! There you are my friend. Hungry? There’s one each.’

With its final wriggle Breac places the trout neatly down beside the still body of one he’d caught earlier.

‘I’m starving brother, but I had no idea you could hunt. How have you managed to keep that quiet?’

‘Ha so you thought me just a scavenger did you, brother? Picking the scraps left by the likes of yourself. It surprises you that we corvids can hunt?’ Breac chatters humorously at Louarn, ‘Well we do brother when needs must or the pickings’ easy, until then we let you hunters do all the work.’

At that Breac takes his freshly killed trout in his beak and tosses it to Louarn and then sets about stabbing at the remaining fish with his sharp beak, ripping back its scaly skin to get at the succulent flesh below. Picking up the proffered morsel with his sharp teeth Louarn skilfully manoeuvres it with his tongue so that in a few chomps the fish is gliding, head first, down his throat. Licking his chops Louarn looks to his friend with a mischievous glint in his eye.

‘That was a tasty mouth waterer, now what’s the belly filler? Magpie?’

‘Ha! Very funny you ungrateful brute.’ Breac puffs up his feathers in mock umbrage. ‘There’s plenty of fish in the river brother. I’m sure a seasoned hunter like yourself will have no trouble filling his own dissatisfied belly.’

Padding up to the edge of the boulder they are dining on, Louarn peers down into the river below. There is a cool rush of air created by the water as it gushes through a pile of rocks that are restricting its flow. He watches a small school of brook trout in the mini pool that waits its turn to tumble through the little gap in the rocks. All pointing up stream, the trout hold themselves in stasis by swimming against the current, matching its speed. Louarn leans out over the edge to get a closer look. Suddenly the fish dart under the shade of an over hanging rock on the opposite bank. He is used to keeping down wind of his prey but now Louarn must attend to his shadow as well, not something he has had to pay much heed to before now. Saliva is welling in his mouth and drooling from his jowl in anticipation of the tasty trout but this hunt will need some considered thought. In the mean time he will quench the thirst that he had put on hold to search for Breac. Louarn heads down stream of the fish pool and lies in the shallow river, lapping up the clear water and cooling his body at the same time. With his newly heightened senses, the receptors in his palate and tongue pick up the tang of trout from the water that has tumbled over the little dam. The hairs of his coat bubble and swirl with the movement of the current. He focuses all of his attention on these sensations relaxing himself into the feelings until he has completely blended with his environment. He and the river flow as one. Maintaining his link with the water, he slowly raises his body and gently pads across the river to the base of the little cascade. Gracefully crouching and lowering his head towards the pool, Louarn uses the cover of the overhanging rock shade to blend with his own, lulling the guileless fish with his fatal refuge. Suddenly, with the speed of a hot arrow, he lunges forward plunging his muzzle into the water with open jaw. His sharp teeth find soft purchase and sink into the succulent flesh of the unsuspecting fish. Flinging his head back Louarn tosses the trout so that it spins and lands in his jaw head first, a chomp and a gulp and it disappears down his throat. Feeling satisfied and accomplished Louarn shakes the water off from his head down through to his tail and leaps up onto the boulder beside Breac.

‘Feeling better now are we? Or is magpie still on the menu?’

‘Ha, ha! Never my old friend. You know I was only teasing.’

‘In that case I will go wash this fishiness from my plumes in safety.’

Breac flutters down into the shallow at the edge of the pool and takes a bath, Louarn watches as his friend busily preens himself.

‘Hey brother do you know who called a council and why?’

Breac replies through a beak of feathers whilst continuing with the important job of realigning them after their cleanse.

‘Astor, I believe. But I know not why. I was hoping you could enlighten me on that matter. Picidae seemed to think that you might know, said that you looked like something or someone had scared you out of your skin but didn’t think it had anything to do with your run in with Broc.’

‘No, no, it wasn’t Broc. He did catch me by surprise, but no it wasn’t Broc.’

Louarn seems a little dazed as if his mind has wandered off. He shakes his head and lets the motion roll along his spine and come out through his tail, helping to tether his mind a little.

‘So it was Astor that made the call. Have you spoken with her yet, Breac?’

‘No I didn’t get back until nearly dawn, that’s when I bumped into Picidae on his way to raise more beasts to the Fall. All I know is what he told me.’

‘Oh.’

Louarn shudders as he remembers the previous days events and a chill follows the roll along his spine and loosens the tether a little. Seeing his friends distress and sensing that there is something that he his leaving unspoken, Breac flutters back up to the boulder and perches on the fox’s front paws. Starring into his friend’s eyes looking for answers Breac speaks softly but firmly.

‘What happened for Astor to make such a call Louarn? Look at me brother and share what happened to you yesterday.’

Feeling light headed and a little shaky Louarn looks up at Breac and stares directly into his little magpie friend’s eyes. Locked into his gaze he slowly begins to retell the sights and sounds of the previous day’s events in the river meadow. Unable to break free Louarn can feel that Breac is sharing in his terror and pain as he relives the experience. Sharing the choking stench that threatened to explode in his lungs. Sharing the tearing pains, as if the flesh were being ripped from his own bones. Sharing the piercing high pitched screams that drilled through his skull. Only as his tale is done can Louarn break the trance like grip of Breac’s eyes. The friends remain in silence for a few moments recovering their senses before Breac breaks the spell.

‘Astor was right to call a council, this is bad, very bad indeed brother.’

‘What does it mean Breac? Do you know what kind of monsters would cause so much pain? And why was I able to feel it all so keenly?’

‘I can not tell you what they are. Although I do believe that Bran will have answers.’

‘Who is Bran?’

‘He is the oldest and wisest of us all. Corvid King and Messeer to the great wolf elder Coron. Since the elders left he has spent much of his time in the Realm of Flimsy. He is privy to things that we are not.’

‘Brother, your explanations invoke more questions than they answer. My head is spinning with confusion enough with out you adding more to it. I was really rather hoping that you would give me answers, not more questions. What is a Messeer?’

‘Forgive me Louarn, I know this is a lot to take in. I will endeavour to share with you all that I know as we journey to the Fall. All I can tell you now is that you are a Messeer. That is to say you and I are Messeer. Messeer are bound together at the core of their being they share each others experiences, thoughts and feelings. They are like one that is made of two.’

‘Why have you not told me this before brother?’

‘To be honest my friend, I was not sure that you were my Messeer until this morning but now there can be no doubt. Ever since I found you shrouded in the light of Flimsy there has been a change. Your thoughts, your emotions and your body senses have been strong in me all day and now that we have joined minds to share memory it is certain.’

‘So, how does one become a Messeer? And why me? Why you?’

Louarn is feeling more himself now that his inquisitive mind has food to feed it.

‘It is a bond between Seer and corvid. They are chosen by the Insubstantial Ones. The Flimsy Folk. But you are something different my friend. I have not known of a Seer that could commune with the ground before Louarn.’

‘You say “Seer” as if I should know what that means Breac and in my dream last night the white stag called it the “Seer’s Pool”. He said that I’d been given a gift, what was he talking about? What are you talking about? What the mother is this all about Breac?’

‘A white stag? What else did he say Louarn? Be very clear now. I need to know precisely what he said.’

‘Ok, ok, don’t get over excited brother. Yes he was a majestic giant of a beast, his coat shimmered like moonglow. He held me with his gaze and I had no will that could deny him. He told me to drink from the pool, well he didn’t talk exactly, it was more like thoughts appearing in my mind but with a voice. If that makes any sense?’

‘Yes brother, we are able to speak to each other through thought, not bound by distance nor time, it is the common language of the Seers no matter what their clan. It was taught to us by the Insubstantial Ones long before the human clan denied the brotherhood and chose to walk alone. You will soon learn to master it yourself my friend. Now please continue, I need to know his exact words.’

‘The human clan was once part of the brotherhood?’

‘Yes but we don’t have time for that now Louarn, I need to know what the great one said.’

‘Ok. He said that I had been chosen by the Forest.’

‘Ah, that is why you feel the ground. It is the plants speaking, now I understand. Sorry my friend, please do continue.’

‘He said that a time of great change is coming and that it will bring life to the brink. He said that my cunning, courage and clarity would bring strength greater than might and then he told me to look into the pool.’

‘And what did you see there brother?’

‘My little ones and Sionn.’

With that Louarn’s voice cracks and a tear rolls down his muzzle.

‘Ah, yes. There is something I must share with you Louarn. Something that I could not tell you before now.’

Breac pauses for a moment, searching for the right approach.

‘The Insubstantial Ones, the Flimsy Folk, are not bound by the same rules of existence as us. That is to say they are beings of pure energy and therefore not restricted by the laws of matter. Time does not flow for them as it does for us. You need to understand this to grasp what happened to your family.’

‘What do you mean, “grasp what happened to my family”? I know what happened, Breac. They died!’

‘Well, not exactly my friend.’

Louarn’s hackles are rising in anger.

‘Not exactly! What do you mean, not exactly? I heard the bark of the hot arrow maker, I saw their bodies drop with my own eyes. What else can they be but dead?’

‘It was not as it seemed, Louarn, please understand me. The Flimsy Folk know who you are, what you are, they know all that is, was, and will be. They must have known that the farmer would find them that day. That’s why they took them before the hot arrows hit.’

‘Took them! Took them where? Took them how? What does this mean? They’re not dead? Then why have they been kept from me, Breac?’

Louarn is up on all paws glowering at his friend snarling through bared teeth.

‘Please Louarn I understand how upsetting this must be. But please my friend do not threaten me so.’

Breac has never seen such viciousness in Louarn before, at least not directed at himself. Hoping that he may still be able to calm him he tries to continue with his explanation.

‘Louarn please my friend back down and I will explain as best I can. But this threatening stance is making me quiet uneasy.’

Louarn ceases his snarling and lowers his body to the ground but his hackles remain high.

‘I will not harm you Breac but I will know who it is that has caused my family harm.’

‘But they are not harmed Louarn! That is exactly what I am trying to tell you. You saw that for yourself.’

‘What I saw was only a dream.’

‘It was no dream, brother. Remember, I was afraid that the Flimsy Folk were taking you? Well obviously they were just bringing you back from your meeting with the elder. Argentos must have wanted you to know that your family are safe and well.’

‘How can they be safe Breac? I don’t understand.’

‘You did not see their bodies drop when the hot-arrowmaker barked. You saw them disappear, taken into the Realm of Flimsy, before they were hit. They were saved by the Flimsy Folk Louarn.’

‘So why have they not come back to me? And why have you not told me before now if you are, as you say you are, my friend?’

Louarn is snarling again, his malevolence palpable, rising to a crouch he glowers into Breac’s eyes.

‘Calm brother please. You must understand. Only the corvids and the Seers can cross into the Realm of Flimsy and return. If your family were to return to this realm, they would have to eat the hot-arrows and drop their bodies, then they would be dead to you forever. Please believe me, I have longed to ease your suffering with this truth but I was not permitted.’

Breac is feeling exhausted by the intensity of his friends anguish and anger.

‘I think we have both had enough for now my friend. I know I need to take time to rest and absorb, I can feel how deeply this has shaken you. But we must make tracks again soon, we still have a long journey ahead of us.’

Louarn nods in agreement. Silently he slopes off to rest his eyes and his weary heart.

*

The sun has already turned and is starting its decent as Louarn and Breac resume their trail. Following the river up stream, as it meanders through the great forest, will take them to the base of the Towering Fall. Breac nestles himself into Louarn’s soft ruff as the fox finds his steady lope, an easy, rhythmic, gait that allows Louarn to rest his weary mind and drift away from the thoughts that are clamouring for his attention. Up until now their journey has been through a predominance of beech wood lightly interspersed with sycamore, hornbeam, ash and the slower growing oak. The lofty canopy of beech keeps the ground shady, cool and relatively clear of entangling undergrowth. But from here the terrain turns sharply upward as it begins its long steady climb up into the mountain. Sloping ground does not hold its water so well and preferring an easier life, the beech relinquishes its crown. Strong and enduring, with a girth that spans more cycles than any one can remember, it is Oak that masters the heart of this forest. Rising altitude brings cooler temperatures, the tree beings here are already beginning to withdraw their chlorophyl, soon the forest will be a sea of gold.

‘Louarn. Louarn, my friend.’

Just a whisper gently floating into the back of Louarn’s mind.

‘Don’t break gait. Stay with the drift.’

Clearer now he can recognise the voice as Breac’s.

‘Time to practise the Seer’s speak. Stay in the drift and think to me’

‘But thinking usually breaks my drift.’

‘Ha! That’s not bad, my friend, for a first attempt. But it was so quiet I had to strain to catch your thought.’

Breac’s voice is so strong in Louarn’s mind that he can not be sure he did not hear it through his ears.

‘It is no different than those internal conversations that you have with yourself, brother. Try againbut with more assertion this time.’

Louarn waits a while allowing himself to fall into the lull of his lope.

‘How did you know I talk to myself?’

This time Louarn’s voice is almost a shout in Breac’s mind.

‘Yes. Yes, you’ve got it. Well done, my friend, well done. You’ll master this in no time at all.’

‘But how do you know I talk to myself?’

His tone calming now that he is gaining some confidence. Inner mind talking is something he has been doing a lot of since he lost Sionn. If Seer speak is no more than that then he is a master already.

‘I listen in from time to time brother.’

‘What do you mean listen in? Do you always hear me when I talk to myself?’

Flustered by the thought that his private internal discussions are being listened to, Louarn loses the drift and trips on a fallen branch nose diving into the leafy mulch of the forest floor. Squawking, Breac tumbles from his perch and lands on his back, wings frantically flapping up dry leaves, feet scrabbling in the air. Louarn lets out a series of screeching giggles at his friend’s hilarious predicament.

‘A fine friend you are, I must say.’

‘Ha! Well it serves you right for eavesdropping on my private conversations.’

‘Private conversations! Is that what you call them? They’re hardly ‘private’ my friend. You shout your mind for all to hear. If you want your thoughts to be private then you must learn to have focused intent. When you converse in your mind with out intention you can be heard by all and any. You should consciously attend to your conversations, Louarn, that way you can choose who will share them with you. This mind drifting of yours, may allow you to access the right state of mind but it has no intention. It makes you vulnerable and leaves you open to manipulation. You need more discipline my friend.’

‘So when we were talking just a moment ago, anyone could hear that? If they had a mind to?’

‘No, that conversation was just between you and me, because your attention was focused on me. When you talk to yourself you do not focus on yourself, you are throwing it out to the ether, so any one can pick it up.’

Breac is quite enjoying this teacher role.

‘Ok. So let’s try honing your focus with intent. I’m going to fly ahead out of your sight and senses. I want you to focus your thought on me. Picture me in your minds eye and speak with me. Wait until you can neither sense nor see me before you start.’

Without waiting for further questions Breac takes off and flies up river leaving his friend behind him. Louarn idly sniffs around looking for any tasty fungi on the forest floor whilst waiting for Breac to fly from sight. His attention quickly falls into the hunter’s drift fully fixed on fungi finding. All senses absorbed with the tasty trail he moves deeper into the forest away from the river. What was meant to only fill the waiting moments is turning into a fully focused hunt. All thought of Breac and their mission has faded into the background, usurped by the lure of mushrooms. As their essence intensifies Louarn picks up his pace in anticipation. Breaking into a final sprint for the catch he leaps over the broken branches of a fallen elderly oak and there he finds his prey. Standing in the clearing of light left by the old one’s demise Louarn lifts his nose to the sky and breathes in a long draft of the heady aroma. The old oak’s carcass holds a banquet of fungal treats busily deconstructing its woody tissue into reusable humus. Deliberating on where best to start his feast Louarn is unaware of the spore cloud slowly creeping along the forest floor towards him.

‘He’s here, he’s here. Tell the Agar, tell the Agar.’

The cacophony of voices resounding in his head disorientate Louarn, he stumbles through his mind trying to regain control.

‘Breac. Yes Breac, that’s it. I’m supposed to find Breac.’

‘Hold him, hold him. He must not break free.’

Trying to push the voices aside he visualises his friend as clearly as he can. With his eyes closed he can almost make Breac real, sitting on a branch at nose height so that they can lock eyes.

‘Old friend are you there?’

He whispers at first afraid that the voices will hear him but there is no response. Concentrating as hard as he can, Louarn stares deeply into Breac’s imagined eyes until he feels as if he could travel into him, see through those eyes as if they were his own. He tries to call his friend again with stronger voice.

‘Breac, my friend. Can you hear me?’

‘Keep hold, keep hold. The Agar wants him.’

Sounding more and more fervent, Louarn tries to ignore the voices, pouring all of his attention into his image of Breac, willing him to respond.

‘Louarn? What took you so long?’

‘Oh thank the Mother. Breac I…’

‘Take him, take him. Take him now!’

‘Did you hear that?’

‘Hear what, my friend? Louarn is everything alright?’

Breac can feel Louarn’s fear, acutely, through their Messeer bond.

‘Louarn, what’s happening? Where are you?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t know. There are strange voices Breac. In my head. They say the Agar wants me and now they’re chanting “Take him, take him.” Help me Breac I don’t know what to do!’

It takes all of Louarn’s strength to quell his fear enough to maintain his connection with Breac.

‘Hold your focus Louarn, keep with me. Have you eaten anything?’

‘No.’

‘Thank the Mother! It is quite possible that you have fallen into a Lure my friend. I need you to take in your surroundings and focus them to me. Seer’s speak in more than just words.’

Following Breac’s instruction Louarn fills his senses with his environment and focuses them into the eyes of his friend’s image.

‘That’s good my friend. Very good. Now look up for me, let me see your skyline and the cloud formations above you. I will come to you my friend, hold fast. And what ever happens do not eat anything.’

Breac’s reassuring voice eases Louarn’s sense of panic but as he begins to relax so does his focus and his intention begins to fade into the drift.

“Do not let me go Louarn! You must keep your focus.’

Breac’s voice floats whimsically through his mind, their connection is waning. Fighting back the drift, that is falling heavily upon him now, Louarn manages to grasp a hold on Breac’s image and pulls himself free of the mindlessness. Talking helps to maintain their connection and keep Louarn’s mind focused.

‘What is a ‘Lure’ and how did I fall into it?’

‘Ah well, now my friend, a ‘Lure’ is a fungal concoction used to draw you in to their world of dreams. Most fungi are fine but there are some that take amusement in playing games with your reality.’

‘But I have hunted mushrooms many a time and not met with this before.’

‘That is most likely the case. They are rarely found in the outer reaches of the forest. Their magic is ancient, as ancient as the forest itself and they gift their visions only to those whom they determine to be truly worthy.’

‘And what is an Agar, Breac?’

‘Who. The Agar is the Shaman of the woods, the Master of the Muscaria. His journeys are as dangerous as they are profound. Not to be undertaken lightly nor by the uninitiated Louarn. You have much more to learn before you are ready to travel with the Agar.’

‘But I did not choose to travel with them Breac, they lured me.’

‘Yes indeed my friend. The hunter is being hunted. This is why it is imperative that you eat nothing until I get there Louarn.’

‘Make way, make way. The Agar is here. Rah to the Agar! Rah to the Agar!’

‘Those voices are back. They’re shouting “The Agar is here, rah to the Agar.” Breac hurry! They are so loud I can’t deflect them.’

‘I’m nearly there. Hold fast my friend. Hold fast.’

Although a shout Louarn hears but a whisper, their connection is fading. Breac puts all of his attention into maintaining their link, leaving his flight to be guided by their Messeer bond.