Louisa Shorney

Louarn passes through the entrance in the mighty girth of the oak. Ivy climbs up either side, towering pillars of deep green foliage, guarding the entrance. Expecting the darkness of a cave inside, he is quite surprised to find that the tree is completely hollow. Looking up he can see the clouds rolling by in a bright blue sky, encircled by a frame of golden leaves clinging to gently swaying branches. The oak seems to have grown around itself as its core has slowly crumbled into dust. He can see no signs of Feithleann anywhere, although her scent still hangs in the air. Uncertain of what to expect, or of what is expected of him, Louarn curls up in the centre of the hollow and stares out of the ivy clad doorway. The rhythmic creak and groan of the swaying branches lulling him into half sleep. His focus softens on the deep green pillars, twining their way into the sky, unaware of the lattice of tendrils coiling beneath the floor of the hollow. Silently they surface. Stealthily they creep. Wrapping themselves around him until their tightness breaks into his sleep. Howling in alarm he tries to leap up but is held fast. The more he struggles the tighter they grip. No longer cellulose tendrils but slithering snakes, hissing and spitting, lashing to bite. Yelping in anguish as imagined fangs sink deep into his veins he loses consciousness. Terror visions fill his mind, his body convulses and his mouth froths. A loud crack from the bark of a hot arrow maker ricochets through the woods amongst anguished yelping.

‘Sionn! Madrach! Siobhan!’

Snarling, blood drenched fangs of a fighting badger closing around him. Friendship is a bond of trust!

‘Broc?’

The ground beneath him opens wide and ivy pulls him in. Down, down he falls, deep under the forest floor. His heart beating so rapidly he can hear it banging against his skull. Gagging soil pouring into his howling jaws. Suffocating blackness. He is drowning. Drowning in his own mind. But from somewhere deep in the back of it comes a soft, violet glow. You can not pass whilst fear rides your back and anger clouds your mind.

‘Come on now old fella, muster yourself. Gather your wits about you before they’re lost. These are just tricks playing in your mind. You can weave a web or two of your own, can you not’

Purple brightness shrouds him. Louarn takes a long, slow, deep breath and finds his calm. Still falling, he turns and takes a dive. Choosing to make it his own. He dives deeper and deeper until he finds what he is looking for. An intricate lattice of threads laid out before him like a great river of light. Pulsating currents of consciousness, the interconnected web of life. No longer falling, he finds his own thread and slides into its flow. No self and no matter, only sentience. He lets himself drift through the lattice and becomes aware of each leaf fluttering in the breeze, each loss of purchase and spin to the ground. Each breath the forest breathes. The flowing of nutrients through cambium. The silent, slow movements of the rocks. The motion of decay as humus rebirths as soil. There is no need for thought here. Awareness has all the knowing he needs. Noticing a change in the timbre of his thread, Louarn brings his awareness back to his own flow. Moving at great speed now it begins to climb towards the surface. Steeper and steeper until the ascent becomes vertical. Looking up he can see a hole of daylight moving towards him. He can hear the creak and groan of a tree’s timbers and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. There are roots all around him flexing with the sway of the tree and hugging the hole as if holding it open for him. Nearing the surface he realises that the hole is not a hole at all but the mouth of a spring. As his head comes clear of the water’s surface he knows exactly where he is. There beside him, cradling the pool, is the twisted Alder. Looking up at the tree he smiles.

‘Hello old friend. It is good to see you again.’

‘Hello my friend. We have been waiting for you.’

Louarn spins around, startled by the voice coming from behind him and not from the Alder. The vision that greets him has him stunned for a moment. Lost for words with which to respond.

‘Please friend, be at ease. We have met before, as you know. I am Argentos. This is Coron.’

The white stag turns his head and bows to the great white wolf stood to his right.

‘Greetings Louarn.’

The wolf bows his head to Louarn, who bows back still speechless.

‘And this is Dagmar.’

Turning to his left Argentos bows to the giant white bear.

‘Greetings Little Fox.’

Dagmar’s voice growls as he bows to Louarn, who bows back still speechless.

‘And this.’

Argentos raises his antlered head and looks up into the branches of the Alder.

‘Is The Lady Achren.’

Louarn looks up, following the stag’s gaze, sitting on a branch above his head is the largest white owl he has ever seen.

‘I am glad to see that my faith in you has not been misplaced, Cunning One.’

She glides down from her perch and rests upon the edge of the pool so that their eyes can meet. Held transfixed, as he was by the stag’s gaze, Louarn stares into a firmament of burning stars. She giggles with delight and releases him. Finding a little voice, Louarn manages to squeak.

‘I am honoured to meet you.’

‘As are we you. You have shown courage, clarity and cunning indeed, Little Fox but soon you will be called to great task and these gifts of yours will be put to the test. For now, though, you should take some rest.’

With that Dagmar lays a giant paw on Louarn’s head and before he can raise any objections, sleep takes him.

Down, down, sucked down into a swirling vortex of myriad colours. Louarn’s head is spinning so fast that his stomach wants to leave his body. The cyclone twists and stretches his mind like the elastic tendons of a buck rabbit’s hind legs just as they rip from their skeletal hold. Not exactly his idea of rest, obviously Dagmar has a very unique brand of humour. The wisps of colour racing around him start to coagulate, forming into reflections of disassembled memories. A whirling cloud of distorted images and sounds. Sionn’s face reaches forward to nose his mussel and puffs into vapour as soon as it touches him. Her whisper calls and his heart wants to rip open his chest. Madrach and Siobhan, running through the streams of colour, yelping with fear. A booming crack and their bodies drop, sucked into the swirling eye. Snarling, blood drenched fangs from a badger’s snapping defence. A thousand high pitched screams as roots are torn from a ground that is made of his own flesh. The deep, droning, rumble of the giant long-necked monster. Louder and louder until his brain rattles inside of his head. Louarn lets out a long piercing howl until anguish and terror are spent. And then there is darkness and silence, except for the drumming of his heartbeat in every drop of his blood. Lying still for a while he slowly draws himself back in. Gradually his breathing comes to heel and his beat returns to his chest. He feels the solidity of ground beneath him but what ground he has no idea. Is he back in the hollow or perhaps he never left? Tentatively he stretches a fore paw out in front of him to test the ground with his claws. The surface does not yield and the scratching echoes ringing around him confirm that this is not the hollow. This is a place made of hard, solid, rock. Rock that surrounds him on all sides if his ears do not deceive him. He continues to lie still for a few moments allowing his senses to accustom themselves. Listening intently to the messages coming in from his fur into his skin, from his ears and his nose, alert to every nuance in the air. There is the interminable drip of water on its ceaseless journey to find more of itself. The gentle tinkle of its collective calling the drips to join them in their flow. A chill of air in movement whispers that there is a gap somewhere in the rock enclosure. Louarn takes a deep, calming, breath and lifts himself from the hard, rock, floor. Continuously sniffing at the air as he gently pads forward, collating a definition of the space in which he moves. The walls are no more than three lengths of his own body apart in every direction, with no sign of any gap nor opening from whence the air is drafting. A circular cell of solid stone.

‘Welcome to my realm, Little Fox.’

The familiar deep growl of Dagmar’s voice but it does not reverberate. Louarn forms an image of the great white bear in his mind and focuses his thought on it.

‘What is this place and why have you brought me here?’

‘This isThe Great Forge where your metal with be tested and honed.’

‘What metal? I am fur, flesh and bone!’

‘Those are just the substance of your body. But what of the substance of your heart and mind? What is your metal and what is its flaw?’

‘My heart and mind are made of me and in that, I’m afraid, their flaws are many.’

‘Ha, I am glad to hear you think that so Little Fox, for your metal would not survive the flames if you did not. Come let us see what the fire forges from you.’

Quite surprised by his own lack of questioning argument Louarn silently moves forward following the cool draft. A subtle shift in the timbre of the air assures him, that in doing so, his head will not meet with the hard resistance of rock. Some way in the distance a faint orange glow begins to form, becoming larger and brighter as he moves towards it. The temperature increasing with every pace. His surroundings are more visible in this glow of orange light. A cavernous place. Towering walls of rock with no end in sight. Clusters of giant crystalline shards penetrate the bedrock floor refracting the light like dancing tongues of flame, an echo of what lies in the chamber beyond the orange glow. A sudden gust of searing hot air hits Louarn full in the face stinging his eyes and drying his throat. He balks and shies his head, every sensible trigger from his body screaming at him to keep away. If this is a test then it is of his courage or folly and now is the time he must discern the two. Focusing inward he gathers command of himself.

‘If it is metal they want then their concern is not with fur, flesh and bone. Remember this is a Muscarian journey. The Agar plays his games with my mind not with you body. Hold fast, stay strong and keep with me.’

Louarn steps forward and passes through the glowing, orange, curtain. The air is so hot that each gulp of it steals oxygen from his lungs rather than replenish it. Each drop of tear that tries to moisten his eyes evaporates as soon as it appears. Blind and gagging he struggles to keep mastery of fur, flesh and bone.

‘Riviniana! I need you now more than ever.’

From deep in his belly the call is answered. Balming violet energy flows into his bones and his flesh and fills his fur, wrapping him in a coat of coolness. Breathing deeply, oxygen soaked, air calms his aching lungs and moisture rich, lids blink the sting from his eyes.

‘Thank you my friend.’

With his sight restored his heart skips a beat at the scene before him. Standing on a narrow ledge of hard rock, the lip of a giant cauldron, a writhing sea of hot thermals rise from the bowels of the earth before him. He pads to the edge and peers over. Far below spits a river of bubbling molten rock, softening his focus he slips into the web to seek out the flow of the fluid stone. He hears whispers, faintly at first but as they grow louder and clearer, strange little beings form in the columns of heat rising before him. Part lizard? Part human? But not really like either.

‘Greetings friends, I am Louarn.’

‘We know who you are, Fox. But friends? We are not sure. What do you want with us?’

‘I was hoping you could answer me that question. Dagmar sent me.’

The little beings disappear for a moment, amongst hushed whisperings, before one reappears.

‘We are The Dermus, we bring an end to the old and a beginning to the new. If The Dagmar has sent you, then you must begin a new.’

Louarn is not entirely sure he understands what this means but is quite certain that he is not going to enjoy it.

‘And how do I do that?’

‘By bringing an end to your old.’

‘How can I do that?’

‘You must leave.’

‘Leave? But…’

‘There is but one way out, Fox.’

The Dermus turns and points through the writhing columns. There on the opposite side of the cauldron is another ledge. A stair, cut into the rock wall, rises up into the top of the chamber where Louarn can just make out a glimmer of day light.

‘Find your way through the Fire of the Forge and become new or become ash.’

‘But how? There is no path.’

‘You are the Cunning One, are you not?’

The Dermus disappears leaving Louarn to stare, dumb founded, into towering columns of glowing, hot thermals.

‘Is this what you brought me here for? To become nothing but ash?’

Louarn howls at his image of Dagmar not expecting a reply that he knows will not come. He thinks of Breac and Sionn, their strength and wisdom, but this is his test and he must pass it or fail it, on his own. He stares into the glowing towers and lets his mind settle the confusing muddle of experiences he has had upon this strange journey. Behind the grief, the loss, the pain, the terror and so much anger, something stalks. Your mind will be trapped like an arachnid’s lunch, lost in the web. A shiver runs along his spine and an uneasy feeling creeps across his skin. Giving himself a good rolling shake he tries to extirpate his growing anxiety.

‘Come on old fella, you’re the hunter not the hunted. If anything’s stalking you it’s your own stupidity……Ha, ha, ha you old fool! Of course.’

Gazing back into the plumes of heat he lets his mind soften into the web and drops into his flow to seek out his shadow. With all of his senses on hunt mode, bristling from the catch of the scent, truth will not lie hiding for long. As images begin to form in the glowing air, so too does the faint nauseating twinge of guilt start forming in the pit of his belly. He sees Broc with a fat wood pigeon dangling from his mouth standing over one of Louarn’s open and empty larders.

‘So what truth lies hidden here?’

No sooner asked than answered. Louarn watches as Broc drops the dead bird into the hole, scrapes some dirt, twigs and moss over the top to hide it and then trots off.

‘But why steal from my larders if you’re only going to hunt to fill them again, that’s stupid? No. He wouldn’t would he. It’s you that’s been stupid, blinded by grief and anger. Friends do not steal from each other fool. So show me. What truth hides behind my folly?’

Another image begins to form in the thermal plumes. A large wolf, nose to the ground, sniffing out a food cache. He stops, paws at the ground a few times then pulls out a nicely rotting hare haunch and wastes no time in devouring it.

‘Coron? It was you all this time? But you said nothing of this. Why? Arghh! There’s no use in questioning thin air but I will take this up with you when we meet again.’

The twinge of guilt has been growing to overwhelming proportions, sucking the air from his chest and clogging his throat with self disgust.

‘Broc, my friend, what a foul fool I’ve been.’

He howls with remorse as another scene plays out in front of him. Broc snarling and snapping blood drenched fangs of defence as Louarn sinks his teeth into his friends rib cage. Anger and grief driven rage numbing his reason he tears a deep wound into his friend’s side. Keckering with pain Broc makes his escape and scuttles into the undergrowth.

‘You do well to call me fool and spit at my presence. Friendship is a bond of trust and I am not worthy of it.’

Louarn hangs his head in shame overcome with guilt. Closing his eyes he steps into the burning thermals to plummet into boiling rock. As the hot air gushes through his coat he wonders if Riviniana’s magic is still at work. In stead of searing heat burning away fur, flesh and bone it soothes his heavy heart, stripping away fear, pain and guilt. The pressure of stone under paw pads deny his fall. Opening his eyes he is amazed to find that he is not falling at all. The thermals have opened like a curtain in front of him to reveal a stone causeway bridging the cauldron. Gazing lightly into the columns of heat, that now surround him, he searches for the Dermus.

‘Dermus? My friends? I bid you farewell, I think.’

The columns twist and turn into form and substance as a great hoard of Dermus appear. Lining the edges of the causeway they bow and sing as Louarn trots across to the waiting stair.

‘That which was old is banished and burnt but no ash for fur, flesh and bone. Strong is the metal of a heart no longer fettered and bound. With courage restored clarity is found in the Cunning One made anew.’

Not stopping to look back, he bounds up the stairway to the top of the chamber and the glimmering hope of daylight. He blinks, adjusting his eyes to the light, as he steps out of Dagmar’s Forge back into the hollow oak. A net of tangled ivy lies coiled on the floor like a nest of sleeping vipers. An owl hoots for attention somewhere above him. Looking up into the circle of branches Louarn sees a giant white owl staring down at him.

‘Lady Achren.’

She swoops down from the tree top, disassembling herself as she does so and lands beside Louarn in human form.

‘But…What…How? You’re mankind?’

‘I am of no matter, fox but I can bring what matter I will to form and this form suits my present needs. I am Annwm. We are Elemental.’

‘You’re one of the Flimsy Folk?’

‘Ha! Yes we have been known by that name.’

Louarn’s distain for humans is making him feel decidedly uncomfortable in the presence of Achren’s chosen form. His hackles rise, in spite of himself, as he muffles an uncontrollable spittling growl. Since the loss of his family distrust has blossomed in to hatred.

‘What needs suit you being of mankind? What quality could they possibly possess that the great forest does not already have in abundance?’

‘They have hands, with opposable thumbs, which I need to make Cerridwen’s Crown. She is in much need of it, little brother and you must take it to her.’

Lady Achren kneels on the hollow floor beside the nest of ivy and begins to plait the tendrils into a wreath. From around her waist she pulls a belt of honeysuckle and twines it into the crown.

‘Feithleann will sooth her mind, untwining the lie from truth, whilst Gort will bring clarity to her intoxicated mind. Together they will help her to find balance and wisdom.’

She places the finished crown over Louarn’s head like a collar.

‘And it will do you no harm to gather their gifts whilst you carry it, Louarn. Sooth that hatred from your heart. Remember that you are all Brigid’s children and there will come a time when you will need each other.’

‘It’s not me that needs to remember that truth, my Lady. Who is this Cerridwen anyway? Why is a human so important that she should be given your aid?’

‘She is a child of Lilith, Little Brother.’

‘I thought they had fallen into the shadows, lost within the depths of time.’

‘They have not been lost only hidden. There is one last chance to rid themselves of the poison that corrupts the line of Eve, before it destroys them all.’

‘So let it destroy them, there is no respect in their world.’

‘Their world is your world Fox. Your fates are entwined. Their destruction will be your destruction and all other life along with you. Is that what you want?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Then remember your brotherhood and give aid to your kin.’

‘So where will I find her?’

‘Seek the river, you will find her there. Cerridwen must alchemise the poison Louarn and not succumb to its lure. Her Dance has begun and she must complete it to gain the Snake’s Medicine. She will need your help Little Brother.’

‘What help can I give? I know nothing of Snake Alchemy.’

‘You know far more than you realise. Trust your metal, it is sharp and strong and it will not fail you. Go now, Little Brother, your friends are waiting.’