The SONGS of SPRING

ADIEUS

Raen sped up the steep-sloping forest pressing her dark green cape about herself, the night was deep and quiet save the faint noises coming from the Watcher's House*. The rain had stopped and the moon sailed high. She had gone far, a half a mile she noted, but she could still see the grey smoke shifting slowly from where she stood. Raen halted to catch her breath and to take glimpse of the grey forest below. At length she had climbed a hill at the middle of the night just to bid farewell to Old Aghan.

Heaving, she pinned her bo to the ground, dried leaves hissed as they rolled down and she leaned back throwing her hood down. Home, she sniffed, and a smile lighted her face out of the dark. The forest was thick and dark under the starlit skies and it rolled far away and wide, until the dark glens of Stonewain Valley met her eyes. Westward she could see Eilenach grey and frowning and the forest rolled farther West where a sea of mist blanketed the tree-tops. At length she marveled at the stars as if counting them one by one, then a sudden feeling of longings filled her heart, longing of something she doesn't even know. Deep in her heart, she was empty as a dried up river waiting for the next rain to come.

Raen scooped another deep breath and when she lost count of the stars she went back on climbing the slope, running this time. Woses do live uphill, most of them, oftentimes living on trees if not in them. Not so long she found the bottom of the stairs to Old Aghan's tree-house. Squinting further above, she saw many faint yellow lights and they grew brighter as she climbs up the stairs carved on steep earth. Fireflies, Raen found thousands dancing below the tall oak tree of Old Aghan's house, and she came to a second halt to get a better look at them.

They were like stars cast from heaven to earth, flickering yellow and pale green it brought a wide smile on her lips as she turns and try catch them. There was a sound of a snap and Raen bent to peek at it between her hands. 'Hello there little fellow,' she whispered to the one she caught. 'I hope you'll find your mate tonight.' And she opened her hands to set the poor bug free.

Off she went on and down the tree at last. It was a huge oak with gnarled roots and thick boughs and a house fifteen feet above ground. The trunk skewed the house at the middle then there were one tall window from each side and two at the front with a door protruding eastward in a walled porch between them. Round the house there laid a flat surface to roam around, railed with dried vines connecting six lampposts round each corner. A single lantern hung from the bough casting a ring of light on the grass-roof.

'Old Aghan?' Raen called. 'Are you still awake?' She guessed the old man was still on his carving table, for Old Aghan rarely sleeps until dawn is breaking. Most nights he is up doing scribbles, some nights he's busy carving wood and uncustomary to the Druedain's ways, Aghan prefers solitude atop the trees than hunting in the forest.

Moments later came a creak and a window next to the door swung half-open. A bald head with dark eyes popped over the window's sill, his lanky long white beard was plaited. He was short and bent, dark-skinned, age had taken seven inches out of his former height. 'My Dear Raen, what brought you here at the deepest of the night?' he said. Then he disappeared but reappeared at the door after a few heartbeats. Next he was out standing at the porch casting a wooden ladder folded in three. 'Climb! Climb! 'Tis cold night.' His voice was guttural. Aghan waived his gnarled hand inviting her up.

Raen made haste and dropping her bo she climbed. 'So, what have been busying lately? Is it done yet?' she said dropping her head to avoid short doorway, but as she turned she caught the hangings overhead - little carvings and amulets of many cuts and colours, blue, green, white, red. Old Aghan's little house was filled with them and he likes hanging them by the ceiling like decors. She fingered the carven wood on the table, sculpted bears, birds, deer, wild cats and her favorite -- the Pukel-men. She took the figurine to take a closer look. 'This one looks like Ghan-buri-ghan,' she laughed. 'He's stout and short, grumpy and rolling his eyes, very visage of him'!