Under The Telling Tree

I laid down to sleep and found myself sitting outside my lair holding the doll I had been given by the children-appearing fae. Gold body, emerald eyes, and beautifully embroidered silk clothes. The eyes suddenly flashed and I found myself removed from my previous position. A small hand takes mine. It would seem I have been made the guest of the Folk I had given the remaining gift boxes to. I asked their patience with me while I adjusted to the surroundings. They look like children. They sound like children. They even have that too sweet (with a hint of bitter) smell that young children have!

They are not children.

I actually considered blindfolding myself to keep myself from being misled by what my eyes tell me. These Folk can fuck me over twenty times a second if they decide to be lazy about it. I must not treat them as human children.

I was brought to a Telling Tree that grew at the top of a small hill. A few hundred of the Folk sat down below me as I took the offered seat of honor. I noted the canopy of the Telling Tree was such that it directed all sound downhill. It also captured voices from the audience and funneled them to those seated at its trunk. An excellent auditorium.

Someone noted I wasn’t bewildered by their world, nor by their appearance. I said this wasn’t my first encounter with non-human realms. Someone else caught me thanking the Telling Tree for allowing me to sit there. I said I was learning how to listen to other things, and that this wasn’t my first encounter with plant spirits.

“Tell us about that!” A chorus of youthful voices echoed the sentiment. I smiled and bowed to my audience.

“So. Do you know the difference between an evil witch, and a lost soul?” A chorus of giggling voices intoned “Nooooo”. “All it takes is a little knowledge.” I began to speak the tale and found my audience was not the kind to just passively listen. The tale became an interactive one. When I described the sound of the magic flute, they started whistling a happy little tune and a few even got up and danced a little jig as if compelled to dance. When I spoke of the woman being pelted with pebbles, I was pelted with candy. (That was quickly gathered up and shared with everyone.) When I spoke of the woman being unable to enter the Gate, they gave a collective “Aww” and comforted each other, only to explode into applause when the woman was rescued by her daughter’s love after all.

After the story they asked me many questions about the places I’ve been. I answered them all as clearly as I could. I asked them who told them I was “Friend of Puck”, but of course, no one knew who had heard it first. They asked me was it true I had a “special blue key”. I answered I didn’t know if it was special, but I did wind up with a blue key after hanging around Puck one day. This caused them to fall into peals of conspiratorial giggles.

“Where’s your magic cloak?” “Yea! We would like to see your flying cloak!” I told them I would display it, but they were not to touch it. I kept my voice steady, reminding them and myself that while they appear as children, I know they are not. With somber agreement, they promised not to touch it. I called the cloak to myself, and allowed it to drape over me. To my surprise, the dark feathers appeared devouringly black. No light reflected off them, no sheen marked the shafts. It was as if I wore darkness itself.

The jovial mood of the day quickly fled. Many of the Folk stared at my cloak in shock. The sudden silence made me regret showing the cloak. I leaned towards the Folk sitting closest to me. “Should I put it away? I did not come here to strike fear.”

Ke pulled kir eyes away from the cloak long enough to settle on my face. “No. We have heard… rumors… about you. They needed to be settled. This… settles it.”

“What were the rumors?” “That you are of … [a name I can not remember].”

It took me a moment to comprehend the reply. “Ravenwoman?” Ke shuddered. “Should I not speak that name?” Ke shook kir head quickly. “My apologies. I am not her offspring, if that’s what you mean. And this is my cloak, not hers. I am my own. I just… learn… from her.”

Ke looked back up at me. “You are not her child?” My turn to shake my head. “Then, why does she let you in her realm? And why does she let you leave?”

“That is a bloody good question, and one I’ve never received a straight answer to.”

Normally, I’m very protective of my cloak. Viciously protective. But considering how rumors can twist and distort, I thought it best to break my own rule in the interest of clearing the air.

“If you want to touch it, you may. You may not remove a feather, a piece of feather, or even a stray string. Take nothing. Leave nothing. But you may touch the cloak, if you want.” Most of the Folk drew back at my statement. The Folk closest to me reach out and poked the cloak carefully. Another poke. Then a short touch. Then a gentle stroke.

“Soft. I did not think it would be soft.”

“Are you trying to harm me?” Ke shook kir head. “That’s why.”

One by one, the assembled Folk came up to me and touched the cloak. Nothing was left behind, nothing was taken. As they did, it was explained to me that Ravenwoman was known in their realm. As was the Boneyard. There were rumors that I had been born from the flames themselves. There were rumors that Ravenwoman had given birth to me from parthenogenesis. I listened to many myths about Weaver Ravendaughter. Each one was more fantastic, incredulous, and impossible than the one before.

Ravenwoman, to these Folk, is not an evil creature, but a horrific one. She is the Devourer, the Render, and the Gnasher. If given a choice between striking a worse bargain with my friend, and having to face Ravenwoman, they would choose the worse bargain every time.

The Boneyard is where those that are exiled, or that lose connection with their “source” go. It is what they were desperately trying to avoid when they made the bargain with my friend. It is where they almost wound up because my friend’s duplicity almost destroyed them. Except it is not called the Boneyard among the Folk here. They call it “The Unmaking”.

Everyone now having touched the cloak and found their hand still intact, they took their seats before me again. No one chose to leave. Though no one said anything, there was a bond of trust formed between us. I was not to dismiss the cloak. I am not there to bring harm. They can sit without fear of me. And I am free to do what I do best.

“So. I still have more time. Any other stories you wish me to tell?” Eyes brightened all around me. Knots of Folk began whispering furiously to each other what to ask of me.

“Tell us a story from … there!” If looks could kill, the Folk that asked for a story of the Boneyard would have been incinerated.

“Only if the others allow it.” I thought I was giving them a graceful way to avoid the question. But they reacted as if I called them cowards for wanting to.

“No! Tell us of that place! We only know our own stories!” What to tell them, though? “You say you are not of that place. Have you ever been… unmade… there?”

Unmade. I only have an inkling of what that word means to them. Where I view the Boneyard as the last letting go, they view it as utter destruction. I remember when I released the jersey, and the spirit of the man murdered in it, to the flames. He didn’t look agonized to be letting go of the last remnant of his human life. He didn’t have the palpable fear that these Folk do. And some deep instinct told me that telling them this would not help matters.

Instead, I told them of the countless times Ravenwoman chucked my snarky and insolent ass into the flames. They stared at me with disbelief as I started to recount all the “unmakings” I’ve endured. Slowly the jovial mood returned to the Telling Tree Hill as they laughed at the indignities I suffered. I discovered they took great relish in hearing the physical details of burning flesh. Eyeballs popping from the heat, skin melting off my back, and bones cracking from the intensity of the fire brought laughter to them. I knew they weren’t laughing at me, but with me. Plus I was being a good sport in playing up the physical insults. “I mean, really! It’s one thing to be smacked upside the head with your friend’s hand. But to be smacked upside the head with your own hand? That’s just insulting there!” Much laughter.

Time was growing short. The severe mood had left Telling Tree Hill, and everyone was in good spirits again.

“But that is only stuff that happened to your body, Weaver. Have you had anything of inside you unmade?” I eyed the speaker who was quickly being hushed by the Folk around kir. I stared at kir until everyone else was uncomfortable.

“Yes. I have.”

“You don’t have to…”

I turned to the Folk sitting next to me. “Yes, I do. If not for them, then for myself.”

“Let me tell you what else was devoured by the fires. But unlike my body, which I could not protect, this is stuff I could hoard. This is stuff that I had allowed to poison me from the inside. This is what she can never strip from me, but I had to willfully release it to the flames. Bitterness. Self-hate. Willfull blindness. Self-pity. Fear. Unearned guilt.” I found myself crying silent tears. “Pain that will never have justice. Rage that only devours.” It took several deep breaths for me to continue. “Her flames have not left me unscathed. I have more that needs to be unmade, but I’m not ready for it yet.”

I did not want to leave Telling Tree Hill on such a down note. “Maybe I’m a special case to her.” I shrugged. “I know I’ve hung around there for so long, the ravens there see me as one of their own. Which means I get to deal with interlopers when she is busy with other things.” I scrunched up my face in annoyance.

Sure enough, they took the bait. “People sneak IN?”

I nod. “Some do intentionally. Some do accidentally. Those that do intentionally, don’t survive the experience. Those that do accidentally, well, some get to leave. But with a price to pay.” I slid easily into telling them of the six Portuguese teenagers that stumbled into the Boneyard. With a new tale to listen to, they eagerly drank in the words and turned it into another interactive tale. When I told of how the girls screamed in fright, they mimicked them. When I told of the Brave One taking up a guardian position, several of the Folk did their best superhero pose. When I told of the boy having to turn his friends into living dolls, many of the Folk held up their personal doll for me to pick out what style of doll they were turned into. For some reason, this made them very happy and very excited.

They questioned why I took a piece of rib from him. “If I took a bone from his arm, he will be crippled. If from his pelvis, legs, or feet, he will be hobbled. If from the spine, or skull, he would be severely wounded. But from the rib cage, and from the lower ribs at that, he will have the wound to remind him, but he will not be restricted afterward. He has his own private souvenir to remind him.” They nodded agreeing with my logic.

I surprised myself with how the tale ended. When I spoke of blowing fire over him to blow him out of the Boneyard, I made the blowing motion. And blew fire. Actual fire. I didn’t let my surprise register on my face though. My audience erupted into great applause. They were genuinely happy and thrilled to see the story ending effect. Inside, I was perturbed by the ability, but outwardly, I smiled and nodded and accepted their approval.

“I’m sorry, dear listeners. My time has ended, I must return to my Waking world. Did I speak to your satisfaction? Have I answered your questions well?” They clapped and agreed I did, even though I was scary at times. They were happy I came to tell them stories. And happy to see the cloak without being afraid of me.

As we stood up to leave, the doll they had given me before fell from my lap. The Folk nearest to me scrambled to pick it up. Ke kissed it and hugged it and told it that it would be mine and to take good care of me. I admit, I was completely puzzled by this behavior. When ke handed it to me however, I treated it with the same severity as ke had shown. I kissed it on the head and apologized for dropping it. I told the doll it had to ride in my bag, and I would have a place on my shelf for it. This pleased the Folk greatly.

I tucked the doll into my traveling satchel, and waved farewell to one and all. I turned to the Telling Tree and thanked it again for holding me. I allowed myself to fall through the worlds, and fell into Wakefulness.

Heh.

Weaver Hrafndóttir?

And I thought my tales were unbelievable…

Make of that, what you may.