The Folk of the Moth: An Earth Legend

By Patricia Crommett

In this world of myth and faery tale transportation is by one’s own hoofs or wings or the wings of the great-moth.  Long distance communication is by “speaking mind.” Two tiny, six-winged faery go to seek the riders of the great-moth to learn the secret of the mother moth, twah.

Led by the Black Faery, Sorro of the m

• Language: English
• Publisher: LitFire Publishing
• Release date: Nov 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643980942

Patricia Crommett

Patricia Crommett is a retired reading teacher. The Folk of the Moth is her first novel. She has recently completed a sequel. She lives with her dog and cats in a rambling house in a small town. She enjoys quilting and reading mysteries, especially Agatha Christie's novels.

Book preview

PRELUDE

In the dim time between the end of ‘Civilization’ and the advent of the Stewardship, the earth was quiet for a while. For a few million years it breathed a sigh and rested from the thunder of the great ones. While it rested, as if in a fanciful whim, it bred some small and gentle folk. Too mild to maim, too kind to kill, to full of the love of life to last, they peopled sheltered valleys, seashores and high plateaus and gave the earth a moment of cloudless joy. They left no trace in the fertile soil where they had walked.

The moment that they vanished, all thunder ceased, the tides that swept the shores were silent, and the persistent wind only whispered around the rocks it was endlessly wearing away. The earth itself swung breathless for a moment as it remembered the gentle folk who had given it respite; then, from out of its very bowels, a howl went up, echoing over plain and sea and mountain top, and the living earth resumed its age old duty.

PROLOGUE

Across the shore of an ancient sea, an escarpment arose like a wall at the end of the world. The hoofed people dwelling in its shadow called it simply The Wall. They had never clearly seen the top of it, for mist and clouds and even the blue of the sky constantly obscured it. In fact, many believed that it had no top, but that it simply went upward forever.

There was one who knew a Hunger for that wall as one might know hunger at the end of a long day or at the sight of a loved mate. He had no eyes for the deep forests and sunny beaches of his home but only for the topless cliff that mocked him, daring him to find a way to its heights.

One summer, in the company of a sometimes unwelcome companion, Gormaak (Gor-may-ahk) roamed into the high reaches of the mountains and passed between two sentinel towers of rock, then he was lost to the world below. Deeper and deeper into a canyon, between sheer peaks and broken walls, he and his companion crept. Warily they stepped around moss-slick boulders and bottomless pockets of dark water, until the cliff faces drew close together, and the water poured over a parapet of stone where it gushed into a cauldron, smooth sided and high. Across the deep pool, Gormaak could see a terrace of rough stones like steps going down into a green valley. The water poured over the terrace in a white torrent and disappeared below the wall of the cauldron.

Water does not need steps, he said to the dark Saytre creeping behind him. Perhaps they will serve our need, and gathering his lower limbs under him, he jumped blindly into the cauldron. Moments later, the water began to churn then sluice with a rush toward the far side of the cauldron. It seemed to him that the cauldron itself and even the mountains around it were being shaken like a reed in a high wind. Gormaak was drawn deeply down into the bitterly cold water and carried like a piece of driftwood toward he knew not what end. The flailing of his heavy limbs served only to make him more helpless. At last his mouth opened, and he knew that he was caught and drowning in some kind of undertow.

Tumbling, cold, rushing water, blinding suffocation, fainting mind, failing heart, Gormaak was only aware of blackness without sensation.

Am I dead?

Light touched his eyelids, sand scraped his skin, wind breathed in his nostrils.

No! Not dead!

Carefully he drew a breath. Carefully he opened his eyes. One by one he moved his limbs. Yes! He was above water. Yes! He could breathe. Yes! He was still alive. But where?

He clambered to his feet and waded out onto a high, grassy bank. Before him he saw a pleasant valley walled at his back by the rugged cliff. A stream of water poured away down the valley. The valley stretched away to left and right between snow-capped mountains. Momentarily, he wondered whether the upper end of this mountain pass might lead to the top of The Wall or to a way down again. He looked back at the cliff. He had come through that? An open waterfall poured onto a tumble of broken rock. Where was the cauldron? Where was the stony terrace? And where was that wretched Hawngo? For a moment, the earth trembled under him again. An earthquake! He had leaped into the water just as an earthquake shook the mountain, and it had destroyed the cauldron and its terrace. The surging water had drawn him down and spilled him into this valley. He studied the clutter of rock and knew that he was lost to his people and to the seashore and to the warm, green forests below The Wall. For a moment he wanted to leap back into the stream and return through the mad water to the home he might never see again, but he saw that home was now the top of the Wall that he had longed for.

To his people then, he became no more than a legend. The Lost One will return, ran the adage, when the Black One flies again from the top, which was only to say that, like the winged creature of legend, he would never be seen again.

With only nominal concern for his erstwhile companion- Hawngo will turn up again, he said with a shrug- he moved down the valley and was soon luxuriating in the green vegetation and the vista of long valleys between high mountain peaks. He did not doubt but that he had come to the top of The Wall. Where the valley broadened, he stopped and considered: should he first explore the upper end of the pass for a way down from the Wall, or should he at once explore the valley and all that it might offer? He had come to see what lay at the top of The Wall. The way home would have to wait. After all, a mountain pass would not go away. He turned right and started to follow the seemingly endless valley.

In the evening, he stood on the crest of a hill enthralled by layer upon layer of clouds reflecting the fiery sunset. Suddenly, he saw that one layer was moving steadily toward him: winged creatures shifting and flowing in the twilight, growing larger as they came, bird-like, thick bodies stiffly straight, so large he felt urgently that he should move out of their path, but the leaders passed him without notice, rising above him as though he were simply another obstacle in their path. Gormaak realized that the creatures were not birds. They had four wings, long segmented bodies, and bulging, faceted eyes. Moths! Gormaak thought in disbelief, as long as my arm, and those wings - they are wider than my reach with both arms. He stood watching them until they disappeared at the upper end of the long valley.

Suddenly, the earth shook again as violently as before, and it seemed to him for a moment that the shape of the entire mountain was being changed. The upper end of the valley appeared to dissolve and slide together into an impassable jumble of boulders and broken glaciers. They crumpled and settled into a solid mass of rock and ice that would never melt. Gormaak had fallen to his knees and haunches. There he stayed for some time waiting for the earth to calm itself. When there was no more trembling and he could breathe again, he got to his feet and settled for the night in the tall grass under the nearest tree. Wrong that time, he thought. A mountain pass can go away.

Gormaak and Hawngo, who had turned up again, followed the valley for two days. One evening they stopped short and gaped in further disbelief at the sight of a towering tree of unknown kind standing in the midst of a round vale. It seemed to them that its bare limbs scraped the sky. They trod down the slope toward it, then Gormaak began to gallop headlong – panting. What wonder had they discovered now? He circled around the giant and, on the south side of the tree, discovered an opening between the roots large enough to admit his bulk and to admit a great deal of light even at sunset. The tree was hollow as far up as he could see. Here we can make a dwelling, he told Hawngo, until we have learned about this land.

Aye, Centor Gormaak, replied the dour Satyr, and for how much longer?

BOOK ONE

JOURNEY TO THE END OF THE LAKE

CHAPTER 1

The Faery Sky

During the night it had rained. Under the great suntrees of the Green City, the pools and canals still rippled with intermittent drops that, falling, winked in the growing light. Within the deep crevices over the limbs of the suntrees, small creatures began to stir then flutter up on bright-hued wings to meet the dawn.

Thorn of the Skydweller Clan awoke with a light wind against his face. The wind, he knew without opening his eyes, was fanned by a set of pink wings moving steadily. A bare toe nudged his shoulder. It is a Faery sky, Thorn. Let us be awing. Every cloud will be taken.

Mumbling, Faery sky? Thorn raised his head and tossed his knee cushion toward a shelf. Still sitting with his knees drawn up, he stretched his arms in four directions, swung his head from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, then rolling onto his feet paced the balcony as he pumped renewed vigor into sleep-softened wings. At last he skimmed through the portal and overtook his mate. Dawn seized his hand and drew him in a dancing quick-step to the tip of the broad limb.

A Faery sky indeed! he exclaimed.

Above the suntree, he waved to someone standing on the topmost branch. There is Sirefro Sky, he said soberly. And Damfra Glow is winging up the trunk.

They are getting as close to the clouds as they can, Dawn whispered with an indrawn breath.

I suppose so. Thorn’s wings sagged for a moment, then, Come on. With a vigorous flapping of wings, he rose toward the still clouds dotting the deep morning blue. Where the sunlight turned the mist to a white glow, they lingered in vigorous harmony.

The hum of the Faery’s mating chant murmured from cloud to cloud. The flurry of Faery wings churned the mist. Their breathing made new whiteness. As the edges of the cloud dissolved into sunlight, the cloud-born mates fluttered deeper into the cool mist and lingered until the cloud was only a wisp.

With the fading of the vibrant hum, the clan of Skydweller began to think about breakfast. I will race you to the pool, Dawn cried as she dived toward the suntree.

Not until I have had breakfast, Thorn called after her. Wing-dipping easily toward bath and breakfast, he watched his mate and sang to the morning air:

When a Faery sky arises,

My warming blood advises

All my limbs to seek for joy anew.

With my heart’s desire beside me

And a rising breeze to guide me,

I would stride the clouds

And drift the morning through.

There is no path so pleasant

Where you and I have -

Thorn! Her frantic cry shattered the morning. Above you! Motheater!

Ah-h-h! Thorn clapped purple wings against his back and plunged. He had swiveled his head and seen gouging claws so close that they blotted out the sky.

The motheater, clutching only empty air with its hard talons, clacked its harsh call and flapped away on mottled gray wings.

At treetop level, Thorn spread his wings and skimmed through the leaves. Dawn was standing on a swaying branch, two arms pressed across her chest, two fists on her hips, plainly undecided whether to hold or scold.

Moonglow-fro-Thornblood-fro-Skywind, you must remember to watch for those creatures. She wrapped four arms and six pink wings around him, shaking helplessly.

Oh, Thorn, right over the City?

So it would seem, he gasped against her pink down. We have been attacked at our own portal.

Of course, they do not like bony Faery heads. Dawn managed a smile and set her wings against her back. But think what those claws did to Sire Sky. If the creatures start coming here, we are all in the same danger.

Thorn rubbed the frontal peak of his thick purple down. The creatures have started coming here, he said.

Motheater! Motheater! Other couples returning to bath and breakfast had taken up the cry.

What? Thorn peered up. Could it have attacked some one else? He sprang up and glided through the outer leaves. Dawn followed.

Oh, no! Motheater! Motheater! The futile cry was torn from them.

From above the Broken Hills, a giant moth swept a steep path toward the Tree of Skydweller. A torn wing flapped raggedly. In close pursuit came six clacking motheaters. Out of the clouds, the Faery were diving to intercept. Frantically, the moth flapped toward the top of the suntree. For a few moments, it seemed to the two frozen watchers that the giant insect might escape, but almost at treetop level, a large bird pressed ahead of its fellows and swooped toward it. With one motion it seized the moth, plucked off its head and tossed the writhing body toward those behind.

In horror, the Faery saw the squawking, clawing predators tear their prey and flap away gobbling bits of it. A few of the angry Faery pursued them, but most dropped toward the suntree, their joy in the morning forgotten.

The group in the pool looked at each other large-eyed and tight-lipped. Half-heartedly they gathered the leaves of the dalevetch growing luxuriantly along the edges of the pools and canals. Even tiny Petal, who had found her wings only the day before, clung timidly to her damfra, awed by the stillness around her. Dawn swam to her newest grandchild and began to chant a child’s song of gathering as she pulled leaves and piled them on a tray.

One hand for plenty today,

One hand for winter’s drought

One hand to bear the tray,

One hand to stay the mouth,

The last saying much about the usual appetite of the Faery. The familiar picking chant lifted the dark shadow cast by the marauding birds, and soon trays were heaped with the succulent leaves of the inexhaustible Faery staple.

Under the edge of the vines, Thorn and his sire Sky had been whispering together. With a nod, Thorn looked around and, spying his third son, called, Clay, please, help your grandsire to portal and then call Council.

Forest can help me, Sky said with a cold glance at Clay. You can call the Council. Clay made a wry face at his sire and fluttered away.

With his forehands, Sky grasped the slim, knotted rope that Forest dangled into the water. Without a word to Forest, Glow leaped up and grasped the rope also. As they lifted Sky, his blue wings dangled, limp, against his back and legs. He pulled them into place with his hinter arms and held them there while Forest and Glow carried him out over a canal and up toward the top of the suntree.

Seeing Clay’s dispirited departure, Sorro announced, I shall help Clay call Council and then tell Gormaak we are calling a Council meeting about the moths.

Her black wings spattered fine drops as she winged after her brother. Relieved to have something to do, several others of the extensive Skydweller Clan followed her.

Dawn saw that those who remained were idly plucking leaves while they speculated about this latest episode of the vanishing moths. The rest of us might as well have breakfast and then cut pods, she called. It will be midday before the Council meets. We might as well get something done.

Come, Frala Petal, young Damfra Berry gushed, you have pods to cut before you give your sage counsel to the Council.

Images of the fluttering, green-winged mite having the undivided attention of Damfra Melody Sunwing and the members of the Council brought smiles as an assortment of sons, daughters, parents, aunts, uncles and cousins, with a spattering of fine drops, winged up to don their suits and break their fast and to ‘cut pods.’

Well done, Damfra Berry, Dawn murmured to her second daughter as they rose with the rest.

Berry shrugged. My frala makes it easy for me to be silly. I suppose everyone thinks I have become a mothhead over my fledgling.

You have become a damfra, my dear. Dawn laughed ruefully. Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference, but we know the difference. We know it very well.

Berry nodded. Yes, she said. She two-winged toward her portal holding the frala who would have flown.

Dawn winged out over a canal before rising toward the arched portal where Thorn was just entering.

Beside a shelf above the balcony, she donned a clean suit, then she two-winged down around the tall central cupboard, calling, I am going to roll leaves. You can crush the fruit.

Thorn made a wry face as he followed her down. Crushing the juicy berries always left splotches on his suit. Still, his mouth watered at the thought of the tangy pulp. He found the covered crushing bowl and dropped a currant into it, then he flitted up to a bin near the top of the cupboard. Dawn’s bright eyes followed him.

Are you putting millet in the crushed fruit again?

Thorn dropped down. I had forgotten, he said, that it is all gone.

What? Why, there was plenty of it the other day.

There was, but I gave it to Fro Turnwing. Sky complained that his vat was empty.

You gave the last of the millet to the brewer for that awful black nectar of Sky’s? Tho-orn!

Thorn turned sharply. Should I not?

Of course, but try to be less grieved for him. How can you continue to blame yourself for something that happened before you were born? On a tray, she placed rolled leaves fastened with small thorns. Beside them she set mugs of brew, hot from the steam portal, the heat vein within the bark of the suntree.

Thorn saw the approach of an old argument but could not resist the habitual denial. Dropping another currant into the crushing bowl, he retorted, I do not blame myself. That would be foolish. I like to please him when I can: a gift for his endurance.

Dawn watched him striking the crusher and shook her head worriedly. Among a sky-loving people, none loved the skyways more than Thornblood-fro-Skywind. That his sire was wingless was a constant grief to him.

He stopped whacking the crusher and shook a finger at her. Do you know what I think of every time I look at those circles of new suntrees? Dawn shook her head and shrugged. Sky says he could have easily out flown that bird if he had not hesitated to make sure his bag of seedling was secure, and when Forest and Glow found him, barely able to flutter, he was still clutching that bag of seedlings.

Forearms tautly crossed, hinter fists on her hips, in a pose that Thorn had learned to respect, Dawn retorted, And when I look at those circles of new suntrees, I remember that sixty summers ago there were only twenty suntrees in the whole vale, including the Lakeglider’s, and I think, ‘what a great Faery he is to have accomplished so much in spite of his terrible loss.’

I suppose it is the better way to look at it.

Dawn’s voice was pleading. It is better for you, Thorn.

Wiping at a spatter of red on his suit, Thorn said, I have asked Sky to tell his story again, for both of us.

Thorn! Dawn ruffled in irritation. Why now?

Do you think a great moth would really carry someone, he asked abruptly.

Many Faery believe so. And that is why we are hearing the story yet one more time?

Ignoring the sarcasm, Thorn said, If there actually are Mothfolk, they would know a great deal about the moths.

Undoubtedly. Are you thinking of searching for them again?

He stopped pushing the crusher. What do you mean ‘again’?

Before we were wed, you thought about it a great deal. She met his eyes calmly and picked up the tray.

As they walked out onto the flat and sat down with the tray of rolled leaves and crushed fruit between them, Dawn began to hum the feast chant. Thorn waited for a moment and then joined with the counter, male melody. Sitting on their heels before the portal with the tips of their fingers pressed lightly together, they locked eyes and hummed softly. When the breakfast chant should have ended, Thorn found himself being led into a higher level of the Faery Ring Chant. Dawn’s voice grew more vibrant. The cadence and rhythm quickened. He had no choice but to follow. He shivered as she passed the fourth level that they had hummed so joyfully that morning. Rising in volume, her voice drew him on to the fifth, then the sixth level. He was gasping lightly but could only follow where she led. Suddenly, he knew where she was going. When the humming moderated and faded away, he sat with his head bowed, his forehead resting on his clasped hands. Tears stood on his cheeks, and he sobbed quietly.

Finally he looked up to see Dawn staring at her clasped hands. The eighth level, Dawn? Before breakfast? She dropped her head further, and he reached for her forehand. I know why you hummed the wing chant this morning. It was because of that bird. You are frightened for my wings, are you not?

And for your grief for Sky, Thorn, she whispered, pained. You grieve for him all the time, and that bird could have put you in the same position.

Abruptly, Dawn reached for a leaf. Now, let us get to the food level, she said.

Dipped leaf in hand, Thorn said accusingly, I think you have known all along that I went to find the Mothfolk that time before we were wed. A sly grin around a crisp leaf answered him.

I went that time to look for the Mothfolk, but so many folk did not believe Sky’s story that I could not tell anyone why I was going. Before Dawn could remonstrate, he added, not even you. He leaned forward, elbow on knee. Yes, I want to go again. Sky believes they are the only ones who can tell us why the moths are vanishing. Ironic! Our very lives depend upon the great moths, yet we must go seeking a legend to learn of them. Why is it the lore wise have not become moth wise?

Dawn leaned back on two hands and reached for her mug with a third. The moths have always been here. As dependable as sunrise.

Until now. Dipping a bit of leaf in the last of the fruit, Thorn let his eyes follow a trailing tendril just beginning to shed its yellow spores into the air. That was what their lives depended on, those tendrils that could not burst from their pods until the strong jaws of a moth crushed the outer shells. He chewed the leaf thoughtfully. The Faery, the moths and the suntrees - through the ages, they had sustained one another. The Faery and the moths aided in the pruning and the propagation of the suntrees. The nurturing suntrees provided shelter for the other. Without the aid of the strong jaws of the moths, the tendrils could not burst from their hard pods to trap the heat of the sun and send its steady warmth into the chamber over the limbs where the Faery and the moths dwelt, then the chambers would grow cold in the winter and the preserving virtue of the peaked domes would be lost, and so would the Faery, unless -

It is time we faced the seriousness of the situation, he said. The motheaters would not come over the Broken Hills unless they are starving, and if they are starving -

The Green City is failing, Dawn finished for him. Grim faced she drained her mug and stood up. All right, but if you are going to search for the Mothfolk, then I am going with you.

Thorn grinned up at her. Is that a promise?

It certainly is. Let us go and talk to Sky.

They set the tray inside, walked in glum silence to the tip of the limb, and glided to the top of the suntree. On their flat Sky and Glow were sitting on their heels over a tray of white petals and mugs of dark nectar. Thorn and Dawn were greeted by Sky with, Ah, here they are. I will get you some nectar.

You told me your vat was empty, Thorn said with some asperity.

It was. Forest brought me a jug.

Glow scowled. Your brother is always helping, she said bitterly. Thorn glanced sharply at Sky.

Now, Glow, please. Sky waved his hand, dismissing Thorn’s anxiety. It is not the first time I have vexed your damfra, Thorn. Do sit down. I will bring the nectar. He walked with a slight stoop that kept his crippled wings in place with the little strength left in them. His legs and arms were heavily muscled for he had walked or clung to the knotted rope for more than sixty summers.

As he headed for his portal and the jug of nectar, Sorro and Clay came winging up the massive trunk of the suntree. Thorn frowned his disapproval of his black-winged daughter’s flippant disregard for clan privacy.

Do not worry, Sirefro, she said with a grin, we did not peek inside of any portals. Besides, everyone is ‘flatting it’ this morning. Even after all that cloud-drifting, all anyone is thinking about is that motheater attack. Ugh, those awful birds! The whole clan is passing speculations from limb to limb.

The motheaters are only following the Set of their Song, Thorn said. It is for us-

Oh, ambrosia petals, Sorro exclaimed without waiting to hear her sire’s, to her, incomprehensible defense of the violently predatory birds. With a quick grin at her granddam, she helped herself. Soberly Glow extended the tray to Clay. Dawn was sure she was straining against unshed tears.

You were to call Council, Thorn said to Clay.

Clay ruffled wing. We did, he said around a mouthful of the white petal. We sent Favor to the Raingatherers, Ginger to the Thundersingers and Keen to the Sunwings-

Thorn raised all four hands. I think I understand. Did you send to the Lakegliders?

I went myself, Sorro answered. When I had described the motheater attack, even Elder Grape and Elder Turnip Seed were ready to come to Council.

I hope so, said Sky as he returned with a pitcher and mugs. I would like to send searchers as far west as the Sunset Plain and southwest to the Rabbit Pastures. Nectar, Clay?

Clay shook his head at the proffered mug as his grandsire expected. The nectar was strong and bitter, and he always refused it.

Oh, yes, I forget. You like the pale stuff, Sky said with a snort. I will get you some.

I will get it, Clay said patiently and headed for the portal.

Thorn and Dawn exchanged glances. Sky’s baiting of Clay had become spare habit, and so, they hoped, had Clay’s shrugging it off. They took some of the acrid nectar out of courtesy and sipped slowly. Sorro took a mugful for the only reason she ever did anything, because she liked doing it.

While Sky poured, she told him, We are not the only ones setting out to search for the moths’ nests. When Gormaak left this morning, he was muttering about ‘where these precious moths come from.’ I am sure he means to track them down. As soon as we have listened to your tale again, I shall overtake him and tell him that we are going to search for them also.

That is good news, said Sky. We could not get help from a more determined source.

He will find them if anyone can, Sorro declared with great confidence. She raised her mug. To Grandsire Sky’s City. May every new suntree make a thousand portals and nest two Faery in each one.

Sky looked at her soberly. It will be an empty City though the suntrees reach their fabled ten thousand summers if the moths do not return, he said.

Or the Mothfolk can not help us, said Dawn. Come, Sire Sky, tell us the tale again, and this time we will open our ears and listen.

With a cry of delight Sky sat down and caught his knees with his forearms. An audience at last! he exclaimed and plunged into his story.

I went looking for suntrees not illusive Mothfolk They were the last thing on my mind. Melody Sunwing and I used to argue about their existence over nectar after every Council meeting. She wanted them to exist. I did not care. I only wanted the City to grow, but I argued with her to hear her voice deepen and see her eyes glint with determination to convince me. I was half-convinced anyway, but I always let her think I could not accept the possibility. Ah, her rhetoric can be quite eloquent at times. Sky smiled a fond smile from which Glow turned away with a set face.

"Well, I found enough seedlings that day to be certain that I must have some third summer seedlings, but I was a long flight from home and needed to keep them fresh. I flew until almost sundown because Middling Lake Tree had a large portal with a good peak even then. Just as I had finished placing the seedlings under the peak, I heard a cry. I ran out to see who else was using Middling Lake as well as to offer any needed aid. As far as I knew, no one else was searching in that area.

There was only a great moth alighting on the end of the limb then I saw him, a strange fro in a loose robe stretched out on the flat. The moth was nudging him with its jaws. Did wild moths ever attack folk? I leaped awing to see them better and waved my arms at the moth. It paid no attention until I winged closer, then it snapped its jaws as if warning me away and moved right over the fro lying there. For a terrible moment I thought I might see the creature begin its next meal.

Shuddering, I winged higher for a better look at the situation. I saw the fellow move a little and heard a groan. The moth moved back a bit and gave him another nudge. Why was he wearing that robe? If he did recover, how could he get awing with that robe covering his wings, and why would he cover his wings even to sleep? Or was he - I looked at the broad-winged moth then at the loose robe - a moth rider?! The revelation was thunderous. I literally fell back onto the flat. His wings were of the moth! On a limb in the depth of the moth plain at dusk, I had discovered the unconscious form of one of the Mothfolk of legend. I leaped up again. I had to do something. The sun was setting. I do not know if I were more concerned for the plight of the moth rider or for the fact that I might lose him in the darkness. I moved toward them. The moth moved nearer too. It was still snapping its jaws.

We were eye to eye. ‘Come, great winged brother,’ I coaxed. ‘Stop snapping and let me help you. You know you cannot take him home by yourself. See? His head is oozing and his arm is twisted. Your vigilance may be his death. I will patch him up, and then you can show me where home is.’ Oh, how I wanted to know where home was. Sky paused and sighed deeply. Alas, I still do."

As I talked, he continued, "the moth watched me, while it slowly waved its wings. I tried to move mine in the same rhythm.

While I was talking, its coils unrolled and stood out on its head. I had the feeling that it knew every word I said. Finally, I winged toward them and was relieved to see the creature move back. Keeping my wings spread and continuing to talk, I dropped down beside the rider. He had a dark bruise over his eye and was breathing heavily. As I carried him toward the portal, I heard a pipe playing very sweetly. How lovely it was to hear a pipe at dark. Dark! Closing my ears to that deceitful pipe, I clutched the moth rider and dashed through the portal.

At dawn, I found that I was sitting among my seedlings with the rider lying beside me. I sat marveling. There was no doubt. He was of the Mothfolk. The simple, uncluttered body had only four limbs, two arms and two legs. Everything about the head seemed to be round, round eyes, round close set ears and a round, puckered mouth. Even the straight auburn hair made a half-circle on his forehead. His legs seemed to be quite long for the rest of his body. I judged him to be taller than I by half a head.

The bruises on the rider’s head looked painful, and my seedlings looked dry. Both could do with some water, I decided, and I wanted to bathe. As I stood in the portal mantling my wings, I heard a gasp. The rider was staring up at me with those round eyes as big as mayberries. What a sight I must have been to him with every limb extended. He just sat up and said, ‘Ah, the winged Faery. I be in thy debt.’

His accent was strange, almost incomprehensible to me. I would understand it somehow, I vowed.

‘I am Skywind of the Green City of the Faery,’ I told him, ‘and you are of the Mothfolk.’

He looked at me for a moment and then answered, ‘As the Faery be.’ At the time I thought it a peculiar thing for him to say. ‘Trotner, I,’ he said touching his head carefully.

‘Is the bruise painful,’ I asked.

‘The grotto be good, the pain little,’ he said. He looked up at the peak and moved a little to be directly under it.

‘Nevertheless, I shall seek water,’ I told him. ‘Your head will be the better for it and so will my seedlings.’

He touched each seedling. ‘The tree be strong,’ he said. I was sure he knew.

At the portal, I looked back. That slender, almost limbless body seemed so fragile. ‘I hope, when I return, that we may learn something of one another,’ I said.

He astonished me by answering, ‘For such I come.’

The morning was a delight, but the rider had all my attention. After a quick dip in the lake, I hastened back with my water bag. Trot had arranged the seedlings in a circle under the sharp peak. He took the water bag and wet the roots, then he laid the bag over them. ‘It be well,’ he said.

We stood for a moment eyeing one another. ‘Ye return,’ he said. I was elated to think that he had been anxious also.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I wish to learn of you and your people. We have never been sure that you even exist. We have many legends of the moths and the Mothfolk, but only in recent times have tales of encounters with any of your people been told, and none was ever confirmed.’

He studied me, frowning. ‘The Faery speak much word,’ he said. He fastened his eyes on mine, as though he were looking into my very heart. For a few terrible moments, I could not escape his gaze. When I managed to turn away from those grasping eyes, he walked out onto the flat and looked about. The moth fluttered down beside him, and, before I could regain my composure, he had mounted the creature and departed. To my relief, they went only as far as the limb above. Determined to have food enough to stay aloft and follow him should he depart, I headed for the patch of berries and dalevetch that I had dined from the previous evening. When I returned, Trot was sitting by my portal with a wet cloth covering his bruised eye.

‘Some foolish, I,’ he greeted me, ‘Ye come at dusk. I walk on the edge,’ he pointed toward the limb above, ‘on the dropping of a bird.’

In spite of his being injured, I was pleased. Trot had been so curious about me, that he had not watched where he was stepping. ‘I am sorry for your injury,’ I said, ‘and I must confess to a great curiosity about you also.’

‘Curiosity be a waste,’ he answered.

I soon discovered that curiosity about him was indeed a waste. He was intent on something he had felt compelled to do. He had traveled far from his home to seek a stranger on the plain.

‘You knew I would be here?’ I asked.

‘I seek only,’ he answered. He seemed to feel that he and I were set to bring about changes for good or ill.

‘I tell thee,’ he said pacing about, ‘Twah claim score of score of swarm. Twah be mortal. Tomorrow of tomorrow Twah die. New Twah be at need.’

‘Who is Twah," I asked, ‘and why will his death effect the moth swarms?’

‘Twah be the great mother moth,’ he answered. ‘All moth come of Twah.’

A chill prickled my wing blades. ‘But among the smaller moths, all of the females lay,’ I cried.

‘The great moth live long. Twah be the mother moth,’ he repeated.

I said, ‘But surely the moths know by instinct how to replace the layer, as the bees do.’

At this, he tapped his bare foot and said, ‘We need seek the new Twah.’

‘Why do you tell me this?’ I demanded. ‘What do the Faery have to do with finding your new Twah?’

‘The Faery be of the moth,’ he said.

‘There are still many moths on the plain. They are enough for us.’

‘The moth of the plain be food for the bird,’ he said.

I asked him what they would do if a new Twah were not forthcoming. He answered me with another puzzle, ‘‘N we be wise, our people flourish.’

The moth came and settled on the limb. He pulled a cup from a pouch at his waist. ‘I sup,’ he said. ‘Sup ye as I.’

He touched the moth behind her bulging eyes, and she set her wings over her head. Trot went to a spot near the end of the segmented body. Where the segments overlapped, he pressed with his hand and stroked downward. A heavy white fluid flowed slowly out and down, and he caught it in his cup. It took only three or four strokes to fill the cup, which he swirled for a moment, sniffed and then offered to me. I took it with great curiosity and sniffed as he had and tasted of it. It smelled and tasted of the vines and fruits that the insect had eaten, and of something else. The scent of the suntree was in it. Perhaps, the bark of which the cup was carved had given it seasoning.

While I sipped the liquid, I asked him how the Mothfolk trained the great insects.

At swarm with vine and hand, he said. When I asked further, he said abruptly, The Faery have the wing and the vine. Seek not of the moth.

When the cup was empty, he drew for himself and stood stroking the head of the moth as he drank. It rubbed its jaw against his thigh. Trot’s eyes were half closed, and the moth seemed to be staring up into the slits.

When he had put the cup away, I said, ‘She knows your mind, does she not?’

This time he looked surprised and laughed. ‘Ye be some wise, Faery,’ he said.

He sent the moth away, and it soared toward the lake and dipped and fluttered over the water. Seeing the water splatter from its wings, I asked, ‘Is it drinking or bathing?’

‘The moth like the water,’ was his non-committal answer.

He talked about the moths, always about the moths, and about the Singing Tree, apparently the abode of Twah and her brood. His thoughts were centered on the need for the new Twah. I cannot remember all of the moth lore he told me that day, for it was strange to me, but I began to understand that without the children of Twah, the moths of the plain would diminish too. He said that the spring would come when no new swarms would fly, and we must all be ready or diminish with the moths.

I had spent half the day trying to communicate with this utterly strange dweller of the moth plain. I longed for the sky. My wings ached for want of use, and I had acquired more unanswered questions than useful information that I could take home to convince the City, and especially Melody Sunwing, of this not-really accidental meeting with Trot of the Mothfolk. Strangely enough, I was not concerned about the seedlings. Trot had said, ‘The tree be good,’ and I believed him. He, too, looked as though he were spent-from trying to communicate with someone utterly strange. I suppose that my many words were as confusing to him as his few were to me. He seemed to say only a part of what he meant in his clipped accent. Often he would stare at me intently, as though by staring he could bring greater understanding between us. Finally he sighed and said,

‘We speak not well.’

My aching wings ruffled almost of their own accord as the moth came and alighted beside its rider. It occurred to me that perhaps we had a thing

in common.

‘We are of the air,’ I said.

‘Indeed.’

‘I will take you aloft.’

He looked up into the sky and then at the moth patient beside him. ‘The moth go but to the treetop,’ he said and stroked the creature reassuringly. ‘The Faery wing be so sturdy?" he questioned. I nodded and shrugged.

Pulling the cloth from his head, he walked out to the far end of the limb and soon returned with several dried tendrils. With a few sturdy knots he had fashioned a sling in which he could sit. While I hovered, he adjusted the sling over my shoulders and arms, carefully testing the vine and the knots. He seemed to have no qualms but settled into it. Eager and delighted, he nodded to me, waiting. Slowly, fearing to have him come to harm, I rose to the top of the suntree and let the midday calm soothe me. Trot was looking beyond me, still waiting. With one thrust of my wings, I raised him higher than he had ever been before. I thrust again. He cried out, so I thought he might be frightened, but he was leaning back, clutching the vine and laughing.

We rose high up, and the wind caught my wings. I soared on an upward current that carried us over the water. Far off I could see the cliff at the end of the lake, but Trot was pointing upward toward a small fleet of clouds. He had never know the high clouds. I swept toward them and let the sling with Trot trail through the mist, then I dropped into the clouds and for a while we were invisible to the world. The cloud shattered, and we rode a falling draught, gliding toward the lake. I let the glide grow steeper, and Trot laughed for joy as we plummeted toward the water. As I spread my wings on the verge of the waves and skimmed along the surface, he threw himself backward and reached toward the waves until I was sure that he would fall from the slender vines. I soared upward again as high as my wings would take us, where we lingered upon the sky.

At last we spiraled downward slowly, reluctant to let the earth claim us, and came again to the lone suntree by the lake and were greeted by the patient moth. Trot gazed at me long and touched my face with his fingers. ‘I be forever in thy debt, Faery. Too fair the sky to Trot.’

‘Your joy is mine,’ I said. ‘Trot will never leave my memory, and his words are burned into my heart.’

Unexpectedly he asked, ‘What swarm claim ye?’

Understanding him to mean the number of times that I had seen the sun rise over the peak of mid-summer, I said, ‘But two score and ten,’ and though I thought him to be of my claim, to do his wisdom honor, I said, ‘You claim, I am sure, twice that count.’

He smiled his curious round smile and said, ‘I claim a score of score and three.’

I stared at his firm, unseamed face. Few of our kind have ever endured half that count.

‘Do all of the Mothfolk endure so long?’ I exclaimed.

‘It be common,’ he said with that smile.

‘Where are your people? Where do you dwell?’ I begged. ‘I truly yearn to learn more of you.’

He waved his hand. ‘The end of the lake,’ he said, ‘beyond the cliff.’

We lingered through the sun’s long descent. He talked still more about the moths and Twah and the Singing Tree. Although he seemed reluctant to tell me much about the lives and the past of his folk, he did reveal that there were three groups living in three large suntrees, and that they considered themselves three separate clans.

‘Twahin be three of one sire dwelling yet as they,’ he told me as though that were their entire history. ‘Not so long as the Faery,’ he added, feeling, I am sure, that he had really told me everything. So I supposed that they had sprung from a common ancestor, who came long ago from a distant place and, with a few followers, had made a home there where they still dwelt. Such knowledge only makes the existence of the Mothfolk more strange. Where could yet other clans dwell when we cannot prove the existence of this one. Sky dropped his chin on his knees and stared into the past. Well, well, let me finish. At dusk Trot asked me to take him aloft again. We rode the air in silence until the shadows grew deep on the plain.

‘Stay the morrow,’ I said as we parted, ‘or let us visit one another at home.’

‘The journey be long,’ he said, and he stared at me so intently that I seemed to see through his eyes into a distant day. Sky paused and turned toward Glow, who had been unusually silent throughout his recital. Then Trot said to me, ‘N we be wise, Sky and Trot be sires of a new race.’"

Glow knew the details of Sky’s story as well as he did. She blinked in surprise. Skywind, in three score summers you have never told that before. Are you embellishing your story now at the last?

Sky clasped her hand. It was too implausible to repeat even to you.

Sorro looked up with quick interest. Why implausible? If I could find him, a big fro with no wings would surely be different.

Clay grinned at her, a sly look. But you would have to cloud drift a-moth back.

That would be different too, she said with a shrug.

Sky wondered for a moment at this odd pair of his son’s offspring. The one, black as night, acting out, unknowing, an ancient legend, the other so afflicted with dark sleep that a cloudy day made him fey. And yet what Trot had said - he sighed deeply.

‘To be your kindred through our children’s children will be an honor indeed,’ I told Trot. Before dawn he departed. I searched to the end of the lake, but I found no suntree to house a village. Beyond the cliff the rocks tumbled over steep hills past my sight. He had said, ‘At the end of the lake, beyond the cliff,’ but there was no place there that a suntree could flourish, and I had gathered that each suntree nested an entire village. Such an enormous suntree would be visible from a great distance.

Sky shrugged as though to ruffle wings. Trot had had a message to deliver, a task to perform, and I must make of it what I could for Trot was gone. I could not search again, and there was always so much to do here, and the suns rolled around. He did not come to me. He did not promise to, but I have always dreamed that he might. I suppose he grew weary searching for his ‘new Twah’ and has long since gone to the lake.

Thorn stared at his sire’s face etched with lines too deep for his seasons. No Faery before had ever endured to live, wingless, for more than a turn of the seasons. Sky had endured for longer than Thorn had lived - for the sake of the City.

I wonder if he found her, he said, or if - He left the question unasked.

And now, Sky said, taking his mug, tell me of your encounter with the Mothfolk, my son.

What! cried Thorn. Why, even Dawn knows nothing of that.

Sirefro, you too? Sorro said, astonished.

Pleased that he had guessed rightly, Sky said, You were always so circumspect after you returned from that journey. You went to learn for my sake whether or not the Mothfolk were out there, and you were never certain of what you found, but you could have told me. I would have believed you.

I wanted everyone to believe, Thorn said. I rue our penchant for sleeping at dark. I could have learned more that night, but it was growing dark, and I had to sleep. Sleep is no companion for a searcher.

It is useless to rue the Set of your Song. It only angers your viscera, admonished Sky. Come, tell me what you saw.

Thorn ruffled and turned to Dawn. Do you know the scent of burning flowervetch?

Sharp, but pleasant?

Yes, I could smell it one evening. I was standing by a portal on the lower limb of the suntree by the cliff, Old Mossy, you know. A great moth was there on the limb above me. It was nearly dark and I could see a tiny glow up there. Someone was with that moth and burning flowervetch. He nodded as Sky exclaimed under his breath. It was so dark that I could only creep into my portal and wait until morning. I was up as the stars dimmed, but even so, I almost missed them. I was mantling my wings on the flat when a shadow passed over my head. I leaped up and managed to follow long enough to see- He stopped and Sky leaned forward eagerly. I tell you, someone was lying on the back of that moth with his head propped on a hand, watching me.

Did you follow? Sky cried.

My wings just were not awake. I tried to follow, but that moth out distanced me in a moment, and there were no more moths with riders. I followed the cliff for some distance and even spent a night among the rocky hills beyond it. He shuddered. I would be an absolute mothhead as a Rock Faery. How awful that country seems to me.

The next day I came back to the plain and found myself over the great rabbit pasture. Those hare were so tame, I could sit on them. He laughed in recollection. But there were no suntrees there, nor moths, so I abandoned the search and came home with the long grasses I was supposed to be collecting, and took a wife and told no one about the moth rider because there was really nothing to tell.

To his surprise Dawn ruffled wing and shouted at him. Thornblood-fro-Skywind, how long have we shared portal? When did I ever keep any secret from you? Yet here you have kept this marvelous tale of an actual encounter with one of the Mothfolk from me all these seasons. And from Sire Sky. You know how much it would have meant to him!

You, Nightshade-fra-Dawnflower, have kept from me your belief in the existence of the Mothfolk.

I did not! Have I not always supported Sire Sky’s story?

Damfra! Sirefro! Sky shouted them to silence. Thorn has said he had very little to tell, and maybe that is reason enough. Now let me hear all there is.

While the rest of the group listened with interest, he questioned Thorn closely, but there was simply very little that he could tell. At last the older fro sighed. Learn of them, Thorn. Go and learn of them for all of us. We are all Mothfolk, my frolo, and we will all suffer without the moths.

They sat in the spangled sunlight until a cloud obscured it, and the wind chilled their wings.

CHAPTER 2

The Council of the Ring

As good as her word, Sorro jumped up exclaiming, I must not let Gormaak get too far ahead of me. He moves at a trot that is almost as fast as the wings of a Faery. She ran to the end of the flat and leaped skyward.

Sky looked after her with a shake of his head. What can Gormaak do? He can neither climb trees nor delve into the deep places in the mountains.

Yet it is said that he knows the plains and mountains as no one else can know them, simply because he has been here for so long. Thorn drew a long breath. Who knows? Someone must find an answer.

Gormaak, wait. Sorro had spotted the Centaur trotting along the stream that flowed toward the lake shore.

He stopped and waited, smiling as he watched her. Of all the Faery he had known and loved through all of his many seasons on the top of The Wall, none pleased him more than this strange black creature dashing toward him. One of a kind, he thought. In a thousand summers there have been none like her. What is going to happen to this rare black Faery?

His thoughts strayed to the spring that he had first looked into the wide basin of the Tumbling River. He had wondered at the smooth green of the mound where an enormously large and ancient suntree stood. Following the long slope down from the Broken Hills, he had stepped, unbelieving, on the short, thick grass and knew that skilled hands were tending it.

A sound, a rustling whisper, neither leaf nor wing, had brought his eyes to the limbs above him. Bright wings flashed among the leaves. Too full for birds’ wings, he had first thought them to be moths nesting in the ancient suntree, but a bold flyer, darting over his head from one limb to another, had left him gaping. Distinctly a ray of sunlight had marked tiny, booted feet crossed one over the other. Skin-prickling astonishment chilled and thrilled him. The Satiree had said that they couldn’t even trade with the Faery, since the course of the desert river had altered after the Great Trembling, but he had thought it a figure of speech.

For many days, he had tramped about the valley and the hills observing and coaxing the shy folk of the vale. It was the Faery appetite that had at last persuaded them to come within speaking distance of the fearsome-looking giant. By simply following the gatherers out into the valley, he had learned that they collected and consumed great quantities of blossoms. Every morning for days, he had left under the limbs of the suntree a gift of all the petals he could collect.

One evening at dusk as he placed his gift, like an offering, beneath the suntree, a piping voice had said, The Tree Faery thank you for your generous gifts. Will you join us for breakfast?

Though dusk concealed the speaker, he had answered promptly, With the greatest pleasure! and had slept right there on the Central Green for fear that the invitation might be withdrawn.

Gormaak chuckled at the recollection. They had even given him a vat of their delectable mid-summer nectar, and, while Summerwind told him tales from the lore of the Faery, they had forever astonished him by breakfasting until an unbelievably quick sundown.

How many Lorewise had he listened to? How many had made him the subject of their tales? Glad Summerwind had been one of the wisest of them. He thought he had become inured to the quick passage of their lives until he came one spring and learned that Summerwind had gone to the lake on a winter day leaving him a message of love and thanks.

And now there was Sorro, the innocent, unknowing embodiment of old legends even of his own people below the cliff. He stamped in delight as he saw the small black figure winging toward him, as always, with one foot hooked over the other ankle. Among the Faery, even the newest fledgling soon begins to cross the left instep over the right arch while in flight - all but Sorro. I find it awkward and uncomfortable to twist my toes like that, she would complain and let her left foot slide up over her right ankle.

Gormaak, we are going to help you search, Sorro called.

The Centaur looked up at her as she fluttered above him. Indeed? And what is it that we are all searching for?

Why, where ‘these precious moths come from.’ Those are your own words. You had departed before the motheater attack this morning. I have had a long flight to overtake you just so that you would know we are finally getting our wings spread to search for them too.

A motheater attack? Sorro, was anyone injured?

Only a poor old moth. We saw the birds tear it to pieces. Now Grandsire Sky is calling a Council, and Sire Thorn has promised to go looking for their nest again, and Clay and I are going to search the plains. She stopped and drew a breath. I could help you search, Gormaak. Since you cannot climb trees or delve into crevices, I could look in such places for you.

The Centaur was chagrined at how eagerly he responded to the notion of having the Black Faery traveling with him. Use your common sense’ he told himself. "I’m going on a long trip, Sorro, clear to the end of the Wall. There is a place there where I can look out over the Sea of Sangorlea and believe there is a way to get down to it. Maybe this time I shall find it. On the way I will watch for