Dawn's Prevail: The Search for The Light Scroll

By Laura Mountainspring

In a magical world where fairies play, a naive gnome and a lost bird become unexpected friends who find themselves swept away into an exciting adventure. They team up with a collection of magical friends who are assigned by Laurelwood to get this gnome up to Mount Kadosh. They meet and befriend a giant hare who helps them in their goal of reaching the mountain. The gnome unknowingly carries in his pocket the one thing that could keep the world from falling into deep darkness.

Laurelwood distracts her mother, the evil queen witch, and her wicked son so that the gnome and friends can get away. Laurelwood escapes from their torturous clutches to try and meet with her friends on the mountain. She is delayed by enchanted ingatherings and royal councils as forces outside of her control seek to stop her.

Laurelwood encounters murder, assault, bigotry, and deceit as she tries to make her way to the mountain.

Her half brother keeps trying to stop her as the ultimate battle between light and dark ensues. The friends and Laurelwood must stop evil's encroaching, as all the world balances on the choices that are made.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887319261

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Prologue: Nymphs and Fairies

Chapter 1: Out of Formation

Chapter 2: The Lady Who Lives at the Meadows Edge

Chapter 3: On Their Way

Chapter 4: Not What They Seem

Chapter 5: Shadows

Chapter 6: The Light's Scroll

Chapter 7: Seeing Past What's There

Chapter 8: Casting Shadows

Chapter 9: The Light's Cause

Chapter 10: When Things Go Missing

Chapter 11: A Break in the Weather

Chapter 12: In Defense of Darkness

Chapter 13: The Sum of Choices

Chapter 14: Disgruntled

Chapter 15: A Coming Age

Chapter 16: Pushing Back

Chapter 17: The Darkest Hour

Chapter 18: Lines in the Sand

Chapter 19: She Was Afraid

Chapter 20: Loyalty

Chapter 21: Luck

Chapter 22: Deep Calls to Deep

Chapter 23: Face-to-Face

Chapter 24: Awakening

Chapter 25: On the Word of Flies

Chapter 26: Between the Lines

Chapter 27: Going Under

Chapter 28: Water Seeks Its Own Level

Chapter 29: Emergence

Chapter 30: Play the Hand as Dealt

Chapter 31: Following Suit

Chapter 32: The King's Council

Chapter 33: Lagmore's Lair

Chapter 34: The Light in the Serpent's Eye

Chapter 35: Friendships

Chapter 36: Light's Dust to Light's Dust

Chapter 37: Ingathering: The Arena of Thrones

Chapter 38: Ingathering: We Bring a Charge

Chapter 39: Ingathering: What You Can Do for Me

Chapter 40: Ingathering: But What Does It Mean

Chapter 41: Ingathering: Where Do They Think They're Going

Chapter 42: Ingathering: Restoration

Chapter 43: Ingathering: Receptions

Chapter 44: Burdens

Chapter 45: When in Doubt

Chapter 46: Prophets

Chapter 47: Time to Sleep

Chapter 48: The Cup of Redemption

Chapter 49: The Sun Shines

Chapter 50: A Measure of Grace

Chapter 51: Something Happened

Chapter 52: After

Chapter 53: Labyrinth

About the Author

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Dawn's Prevail

The Search for The Light Scroll

Laura Mountainspring

Copyright © 2023 Laura Mountainspring

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 979-8-88731-924-7 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88731-927-8 (hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-88731-926-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

My deepest thank you to Nick and Rob—your enthusiasm encouraged me!

Angelica. You helped me make it a true art!

And my love, Stephen, thank you for growing with me and giving me the space.

I am spent!

Book 1

The Search for the Light Scroll

Prologue: Nymphs and Fairies

Nymphs and Fairies

In a time that existed between the ages, many stories could be told of gnomes, fairies, and kind-hearted queens, but now was the end of the age that had come before, which saw the time of great gods who are written about in human lore. They ruled the earth. They ruled the air and mingled with mankind, including dragons and griffons, gnomes, and elvish queens, battling wizards of great dark and light, all living here between the age of gods and the coming age of man.

When a god dared gift fire to man, the battles between deities progressed to wars in hopes of ruling men's souls.

Over time, the gods diminished as lesser gods, and half-gods were born. Many became great heroes while others fell into dark crafts: necromancers and werewolf men who took what they wanted regardless of another's claim.

And now, in this time, before Adam took his first gasp of air, this veil still dabbled in magic.

The magic of fairies, witches, and wizards existed among great kings. The wars that tore this earth apart left these lesser gods to reign. After generations of such rule, evil took hold. Few in the realms challenged how things were, but most could feel how dark the days now seemed.

The seven realms with seven thrones had another who sat on a throne higher than their own—a sovereign of sovereigns to rule all. This choice was made to forge peace to end the wars. Many good princes ruled, and many less kinds did too.

But that one high king trusted to keep his watch, chose not to pay attention, instead trusting the integrity of lesser kings. While the royal of royals trusted benevolence, in this folly, evil found the entrance to reign. Demons and cast-outs, such as conniving witches, ate into the souls of queens.

These were the days the world was living. These were the times. The children of the half children of gods now sought magic and craft to hold their forefather's powers. These were no longer gods but longed for those same powers. Without having the power of the gods, thrones became a close second. They were desperate to rule, desperate to hold power, becoming crueler over time in their reign. Yet their time was ending. The age was waning. The age of man's rule is waxing strong.

In these days of weaker kings ruling with laws void of true justice, many still cried out for peace. Seeking wisdom and the voice of reason burdens few in this world, but those who know this weight often felt the darkening time deeply. Visions and dreams became the means to share this insight with men or maidens seeking truth. Such maidens did exist with visions that filled her mind.

In her vision, the feathers were golden brown with a tinge of deep red. The golden bird, an eagle perhaps, showed clearly in her dream. The bird called out as if to speak and looked right into her eyes.

My lady of the Laurel mountains, we speak to you truth.

The woman could see clearly the eagle's head but saw more as the vision's view panned out. The tawny gold of the lion's body revealed who was speaking to the girl. This was a griffon in full glory, about the size of a large horse; his wings unfolding and stretching out, showing a span over twenty feet.

The griffon continued to speak, The queen, your mother, has stolen the light scroll. The orchard king remains unaware. Return this scroll to Kadosh Mountain, my lady, to stop this darn's approach.

The maiden heard more as she slumbered. The bird will find you, the phoenix shall appear, and a gnome shall carry for you this burden. Be ready, our lady. The time is at hand!

The griffon pushed and pumped his wings taking off into the sky. Thunder rolled while the vision faded as the creature flew away.

*****

There's a green, a certain shade of brilliant green, when the sun hits just right, that was emanating throughout the valley this day. Maybe because it was spring, or the long rains that had awakened the ground with a drink deeper than the dew, or perhaps the way the sunlight happened to touch the grass. It had become clear that the time for mischief had come. The topic at hand would inevitably be what kind of mischief to engage.

Mischief itself complied.

Meanwhile, in the valley, the purple tips of an army of early flowers were being prepped for their collective bloom. Against them stood another army, unseen, unheard, but felt, and they, too, were ready.

For what things we, who are human, cannot see or hear, are those things celebrated among the butterflies, the birds, and all such creatures, which, by the luck of their creation, have traits much like the fairies. And it is by looking at nature and its similarities, we can almost grasp the magic of their forms. In the tree, the frost, or the alchemy of the sun, as it turns what it touches into gold—not a fool's gold but a rich glowing gold of no price.

And this morning, many of the unseen were assembled: a flash of green and humming that increased in volume; a hummingbird danced gently, probing the purple flowers, waiting to see their glorious enfolding, revealing nectar not tasted since the dreary gloom of winter had grasped the valley.

Waiting among the flowers hid the pranksters, nymphs hoping to lay destruction to the flowers. These little nymphs had features like insects that were often seen but not recognized as nymphs. These were ready, holding sticks empowered with the magic they possessed, now ready to unleash disruption.

Maybe because the sun was just a little bit higher than just the day before. This magic was not able to break the hold of warmth, for the sun has powers as well. The frost would have to wait. Perhaps the chance to cause such a freeze would happen in a day or a year but not today. Today, the flowers won, without knowing they were at war, to the delight of the flitting bird and bees.

Then there are some, who have ears to see and eyes to hear. These are those who, beyond imagination, witness such things whispered on the breeze. They hear the hummingbird tweeting, moving.

How rude, exclaimed the hummingbird, having caught a nymph in the act.

Ha! 'Tis play! retorted a tiny nymph to the flitting bird. We've been playing it forever. You have no complaint.

One would think, hummed the bird, after centuries of such play, boredom would set in. added the bird, annoyed at the nymph's definition of play.

You think such only because you have forgotten the art of play, countered the spirited nymph. Or perhaps you've grown dull with the red nectar you guzzle from feeders, to the delight of those humans your kind dances for.

Their willingness to provide such nectar only shows they favor us hummingbirds over spiteful fairies!

A favor we do not seek, retorted Chartreuse, who had become bored of the bird.

I tire with this conversation, and the flocks are calling, retorted the bird, flying off to join her ranks.

Chartreuse had a quip to return, but it was already too late. Pff, birds.

The nymph flitted away as well, now calling her friends to join her. Soon, hundreds of collaborating nymphs emerged from their hiding places. One by one, they entered in formation, and like swarming bees, they journeyed ahead to their next location. Their large numbers, giving disguise to their dwindling company, a truth that had not slipped the minds of many in attendance.

Petunia, a kinder nymph, often more enamored with the aromas around her than any task at hand, asked Chartreuse a question.

Chartreuse, she asked, why do we refuse to be seen by the humans? Is there no desire to learn more of them?

Chartreuse replied. None.

Petunia knew enough about Chanteuses's temper to leave it at that.

There were among some, who dwelled in the forest, who did, however, desire to connect with humans, some for good, and others, not as much. The fairy nymphs cared little for them, but it was the forest fairies who delighted the most in the mischief encountered with such play—at least in better times. For many fairies, hard times altered their play. Yet many still interfered and interjected among humans, relishing in the trouble it brings. But invoking rather than just interjecting was the art of creatures beyond the forest floors, the keepers of the dark arts that bring chills even to the hearts of nymphs.

For nymphs sought the attention of gods, not men, as men were lesser beings. And the art of ignoring a danger in one's midst was a skill embedded in the souls of nymphs.

Somewhere in the valley, Chartreuse's swarm had landed. It was a small clearing, an open space, free of distraction and inviting in appearance.

Damn those birds. Damn those fairies! Chartreuse exclaimed while landing in the clearing.

Commander, we saw no fairies, spoke a nymph.

Chartreuse approached this impetuous nymph, who dared to challenge her report.

It is always correct to make the declaration that fairies are at the heart of our problems. We can and will make that known. Understood? spoke Chartreuse to the nymph.

Yes, as always, was the reply while squeaking out a thin smile, trying so hard to look sincere. It had been the sun that spared the hummingbird from a loss of nectar by thwarting a hard frost.

Unlike nymphs, spritely fairies enjoyed life among the flowers. They played with mammals and hid among the dragonflies, butterflies, and hummingbirds. Kindred spirits with such, they often made friends among them. Humans were a fascination, and quests involving their upkeep were the endeavor of many kind fairies.

Now fairies come in all shapes and sizes, and some are kinder than others for sure. Trolls are a fairy, as are gnomes, neither like the other.

Winged fairies, often known to man, are often found meandering in gardens; these are the fairies of childhood tales. And these are the fairies that meet us in the shadows of our deepest thoughts. The thoughts that join us in our sleep, mingle with dreams, and linger in our consciousness when awake. This was the place humans found them. But on certain days, when the light is just right, flitting alongside those same hummingbirds, fairies often give away their status but only if one can see. Trusting one's eyes is often where they are able to hide, as humans don't trust such magic.

Garden fairies are a common strain. Most find themselves coaxing plants to bloom, to fruit, and delight in the process of living things. Combining this love with observing people drew their kind to this world eons ago with a relationship that was almost symbiotic. But unlike humans, these creatures knew how things worked together. That even those opposed in this world were made for dancing together.

If there was any other activity that inspired fairies, it would be the trolling of nymphs. One says trolling with great care in these parts, as trolls themselves are a foot. But trolling, as in taunting and evoking a reaction from them, was the game. Usually, evoking emotions like frustration, anger gave them the most enjoyment. The fact that fairies could outfly, outmaneuver, and easily set nymphs to anger became half the motivation. The other half, most likely, the fact that nymphs were often just mean, and fairies had little patience with mean, which is actually odd, as trolls are a fairy too, and they have little sense of humor or kindness to their bones.

Now fairies can be unrelenting in their play. And just like being overtickled for just too long, fairies could get on anyone's nerves, but the meanness of nymphs could bring out the imp in fairies.

Fairies were known to move about in groups, alone, as teams, or solo. Fairies didn't play by most rules. Fairies, more often than not, made their own. These changed every day and, often, many times that same day. As quickly as they appeared, a fairy could seem a mere thought, leaving nothing to pin them down.

And in this era of vanishing nymphs and nights that seemed a shade darker than before, only a few fairies tempted the fates to dance in the moonlight. Now most had stopped teasing humans; instead, they sang in the shadows during the day. For in this time, few felt like playing.

Many of the younger fairies had begun to seek new ways of helping humans. While others, just as young, looking to the old ways, were stirring up troubles as well.

Time itself had become stale, like bread left out a day too long and no longer good for jam.

But it is the play of such furies that changes mankind: sprites and brownies are believed to have coaxed the first grapes into wine, milk into yogurt, and enabled the cheddaring of cheese. What other creature could gather the yeasts that made man's first bread?

However, now, perhaps due to the darker nights, the sense of doom that lingered in the air or the trust no longer found between these beings, such discoveries were lost to man. It seemed clear; sprites and fairies had mostly ended their helping of man.

With little play between man and spirits, spirits took their own path. They mingled with the elements and learned new ways to play. Mischief became an ally of such sprites at this time

Mischief itself is a living thing—not easily understood and often wielded without thought. This spirit has no agenda but to give way to Chaos itself, as Chaos is a close friend. Now when Chaos takes over what mere Mischief begins, the outcomes are often messy, as Chaos is not kindred with organized or neat. While Mischief looks to have some fun, Chaos cares little about how things turn out. Mischief knew how to befriend fairies and wreaked their own havoc and tricks of their own.

It was nymphs who produced prodigies with men. These heirs had powers from the gods but the souls of fallen flesh. They were lesser gods, who wielded fire, air, earth, and water, merely for the love of mischief mingled with gaining power—queens, kings, lords, and ladies, wearing elaborate crowns, the sons and daughters of these lesser gods. They knew cruel power and wielded it with glee.

Yet even pain showcased one's strength. Weakness is often exposed in the fire, allowing a stronger metal to be forged. But Chaos wasn't done after Mischief had enough. It was through envy, anger, and the darkest of hate that Chaos thrived, often bringing flesh to war.

And even as the time of fairies and tales of their existence waned, there were still those who had adventures. Waning did not mean completely gone, and a remnant of older tales still persisted. There still remained, in these places, tales to be had of many woodland and meadow creatures not yet described—their long adventures, alliances, and friends. Many of them are still to be found or stumbled upon along a journey. But for now, the gathering of sojourners was the task at hand.

Chapter 1

Out of Formation

Spring was rapidly becoming summer with the full expression of creation's glorious songs. Flowers, butterflies along with birds in flight formation, added to the collection of sounds. Occasionally, resting among the trees before taking off again, migrating birds were the ones who were singing.

A few of these birds had stopped to rest and were again taking flight, but Max chose to remain behind, waiting for the flock to take off. Max was not going to leave with them this time as Max had grown tired of flying. He waited, both thrilled with his thoughts of adventures ahead yet sullen, as no bird had come back looking for him. They didn't notice or didn't care, which made running away, even more, the right good choice in his mind.

Max held within himself the dream of being free—free from migration, free from being in formation. This was going to be his life, and now running away was his chance to live it.

He never really felt like he fit in. He had asked before why he didn't look like the other birds. He didn't think like other birds. He knew their tongue, but he could also understand the words of those not his kind. He laughed; he cried. He had never seen another bird shed tears.

You'll grow out of it was always the response of his parents.

He had grown weary of feeling apart, and a crossroad was upon him—to wait for that elusive growing or find out who he truly was.

He had dreams beyond surviving. Deep within, he knew he would be so much more than just drab plumage. But why did these thoughts plague his mind? This was another question that pushed him.

He knew how to peck out a meal by scratching the ground. But right now, he had no thoughts of worms or grubs; rather, the sound of a rustling behind him had his full attention. He pondered, turning around quickly but wasn't sure. He chose instead to calm his breathing and acted like he was unaware.

And as unaware goes, this noisy little thing that had drawn the bird's attention was now fully unaware. Smelling the flowers, humming a tune, until with a sniff, he exclaimed, I smell—sniff—I smell not food.

The bird heard and understood this spoken proclamation and felt fear enter his mind. Did this creature plan on jumping him and turning him into meat?

I should do something, was his thought.

But just what to do? The flock had always known what to do, and now his dream of freedom felt like a trap. Panic, it seemed, became his first inclination. And the bird did nothing but entertain his worries, as this threat literally stumbled down and upon him.

A red wool hat flipped over and over, jumbled up with long red pants Jumping up from his stumble, the intruder exclaimed aloud, Well, well, McGregor is name me, and who be you?

Me? Me? I'm, hey, wait, who are you? asked a confused and startled bird.

McGregor, as told to you I. Robert McGregor, will do, but McGregor just.

McGregor was actually the sir name of a particular family of gnomes. These are a shortened kind, stubby-legged, and fully bearded, even at a young age. By fully one would notice is every inch of skin covered in hair. Heavy in texture, seeming more beard than anything else. A beard of white for most of their days unless they were women, their beards tended to be more sparse. But this gnome didn't bother with all that; he focused mostly on finding snacks. McGregor wore red overalls over an older, tattered shirt.

The bird asked him, Told? What are you?

I'm a McGregor. What missed I in telling?

Well, this bird wanted none of McGregor's nonsense; rather, he pondered catching up with his flock. He grew bored with this puzzle beside him.

McGregor spotted his pondering stare and asked, Waiting for time to decide, it seems?

No! What? responded this bird, now more visibly annoyed at this moment.

You unsure so much. What is in front of you eludes you, no? Stay or go dilemma makes. Seems daylight its answer fading could for you, no? observed McGregor. Name not still know.

The bird was flabbergasted that not only was this gnome speaking nonsense, he actually found it made perfect sense. And in this thought, he made a choice to stay.

They call me Dark Horse.

What do you call you? inquired McGregor.

The bird now looked even more perplexed but showed he understood the question.

Ah, you want to know my name. I think I might be figuring you out, gnome, said the bird with a spark of glee.

My name is Maximus, Max for short. But I may have left—

Before he finished, McGregor interrupted, Left you with no place to lay your head? Ah yes. Above or under?

You are losing me again, added Max.

Not me. I sleep under. You trees?

Ah, I get it, yes. I will sleep in the trees. Are you nearby?

I stumbled not. I came home. Right here, he said as he pointed to a door hidden beneath the forest floor litter, not easily seen without looking.

And they made their choices. The gnome went into his den, and Max, the bird, roosted.

Before the next morning had a chance to completely rise, Maximus was greeting it, much to the dismay of those around, which was pretty much just the gnome underground.

Max, being a younger bird, had a squawk that did not sound like music; rather than charming a snake, it would deafen it into surrender.

While he peeked his head outside of the door, McGregor cleared his throat and asked a question, Would a drink shut that beak?

It's daybreak, and hours are counted against us, said Max.

Gnomes, the largest of garden fairies, don't count time. They count meals.

There was no place Max needed to be. Max did not have inner peace. Like a dog sniffing the wind for scent, deep yearnings called to him. What Max did not comprehend, as many do not, was that this yearning was what kept him from being free. He sought the rote motions that kept him in place; there, he could know who he was. But truth tugged at that mythology and brought the want to be freed.

With more quiet in your meditation preferred, or a drink given will be.

Max thought for a moment about McGregor's ramblings and concluded he was being asked to be quiet.

Sorry. Maybe it's my youth. I just don't see how to not greet the morning with enthusiasm, said Max. Up! Up! Up!

The sun rose higher, sharing its gentle warmth, mostly welcoming those rubbing sleep from their eyes.

Well, awake are we, enter, enter. McGregor motioned the bird to come into his home. So Max ventured into a place he had never been.

Under this tree was McGregor's home, which was perfectly fit for a gnome. There were a few comfy chairs, overstuffed and tearing in places, and boxes to rest one's feet. Even though gnomes appeared to be grumpy, the extra chairs told their real intention. They loved ingathering with friends, but McGregor had very few friends come to visit. Not for any malice against him but rather because of how few gnomes remained.

McGregor lived a very simple life, snacking on the treats the forest and meadows provided, of which mushrooms were his favorite.

Dishes were clanged, and metal crashed while the gnome tried to throw together a breakfast. There was a small woodstove in a corner. It provided heat for the body and a surface for cooking food.

McGregor was indeed clever enough to refrain from serving eggs. The rule regarding what creatures were for eating was not taught lightly in the realms. And even if these eggs were not able to form a sentence, serving one to a bird just seemed wrong.

If it speaks in words, has mirth and sorrow, it is not for eating, for its roots are magical. That was the tradition among gnomes and with most within the lands.

This, however, did not leave much more than mushrooms for the meal. And some mushrooms didn't agree with creatures that fly.

I would prefer, if not too much trouble, the chance to scratch for some grubs outside, asked Max, trying hard not to offend.

McGregor was happy not to have to share and motioned for Max to go on ahead.

So the gnome ate the meal of mushrooms and gravy, and Maximus went above to eat some worms.

McGregor slurped up his gruel and felt far too alone. He had a friend, an odd one at that. He went outside to see where Max was. Max was there doing a dance, scratching up grubs and worms.

So McGregor joined the bird above his den and sneaked an occasional grub as stirred up. He had missed his eggs that morning. With a silly tone, he added, This way makes no dishes. Used to this yes, said McGregor trying to interact.

McGregor looked at the bird shaking his head back and forth.

Nope, nope, not food, expressed McGregor, grossed out by the taste of the worms.

Max looked very puzzled.

Reminding yourself? asked Max, thinking the gnome meant him.

No, oh, not you, not food you.

Seriously, I need a translator.

Not, not needed.

Max looked at him and his musty little self and sighed.

Not asking right, added McGregor.

I'm lost, acknowledged Max.

Not lost, found

Found?

Found are you when you know you are lost. Yet I be here at your front side, and all around I am, encouraged McGregor.

You are a puzzle, whatever you are, said Max, less nervous but still concerned.

McGregor, I, reminded McGregor.

I know. Told me you did, insisted Max.

Look at you, hearing just not but saying now too, said the gnome, very happy.

The gnome was amused at how this bird spoke like him, even if just a short sentence, not mockingly but with understanding. McGregor smiled to himself at the idea.

With a skip in his step, perhaps do to the protein; McGregor motioned for the bird to follow.

Let's go around for walking and such. Then he looked about. Besides, spirits of the dark sneak about these parts. Wanted to from dark walk creepy a bit anyway, said McGregor, trying to convince Max.

McGregor pointed toward the illuminated path that went just outside of the woods. It seemed too many in these parts that the shadows in the forest were getting darker. Gnomes are always subject to feeling such things, and McGregor was no exception.

McGregor was glad to be out of the woods, and Max didn't mind seeing the sky.

These two made very strange companions, a bird and a gnome, not knowing why but walking the edge of the trees.

Such is a morning in the forest.

Chapter 2

The Lady Who Lives at the Meadows Edge

While this odd pair of feather and beard traversed the edge of woods, across the valley, other birds were in their formations, flocks of them. Birds of all kinds and kindred were coming together. They were lingering in places where old and new alliances were made: at a time too soon for those still sleeping—here in the valleys where birds eat for long migrations. But this wasn't a migration; it was an exodus. You see, the feathered have the air; they can hear what's on the wind long before the fairies, whose wings only carried so high. And now this whisper on the wind was getting louder. The birds knew.

They knew it was too late to blame the gods or even those demigods under them. It was too late to blame. Although the cruelty of those lesser gods spawned many wars, some epic, over the centuries, this evil they wanted to escape from was not of the gods. Emanated from them, yes, but they had no real power besides force, which was easily wielded on humans. Wizards and witches born such found their niche among such demigods. Among them were found mere humans who learned to wield powers too.

But birds don't see the world like gods and mortals. A bird's-eye view, so to speak, has a meaning that's rather deep. They see vast. They see beyond, in front and behind, often all at once, to a snow-capped mountain that straddles the heated valley, which from the ground is lovely but altogether different from above. And for this reason, birds could refuse the gods.

And they often did. Demigods wielded power the most, as they lacked the insight of gods. Yet even the gods could not comprehend the powers that were gathering to rip earth's curtain in twain. Even the gods missed basic facts that a simple gnome and a juvenile bird who didn't know who he was were walking along the forest.

As the bird and gnome walked along, they were overshadowed by the flocks who had taken to flight. What Max saw brought a bend to his knees.

These were Max's friends, all of them, in marching form. These birds were not dressed for battle but for flight. There were thousands and thousands forming rank behind them. Max knew they planned to escape from this veil. Max began to weep.

McGregor reached out his hand to Max.

So sad you are?

They're leaving.

Go with them you, asked McGregor feeling sad for Max.

It's too late for me. They are gone already. Their minds are, at least. One cannot take that journey if the mind is not ready.

Then McGregor looked at his friend.

Grief aside, McGregor was hungry again and thought to try coaxing his new friend out of sorrow with a snack. Scratching for bugs was not a skill he had or wanted but convincing Max to might be.

Do what should we now? McGregor asked with an agenda.

I don't know. I don't know anymore, Max answered, slumping over into a pout.

Food help, might?

I think I understand you, my friend. You are hungry again, yes? asked Max.

So with a wink and a nod, Max proceeded to scratch up grubs, tossing the better ones to McGregor, who repeated, Not food, over and over again.

Not food.

Not food.

Not food.

And soon, McGregor was full-on slimy, not food.

Several more endless flocks of swarming birds flew over. These two seemed to be following the bird's direction as they traversed over the ground, still walking at the edge of the forest. The sun was higher in the sky, and to McGregor, this meant hunger. Most things did. Max didn't notice if he was hungry or not; instead, Max eyed the flocks to see if anyone familiar was among them. But the long distance to the flocks and the angle of the light made recognition a narrow quest.

Max and McGregor had no reason for their taking this extended walk. Max, it seems, was drawn by the flocks, fascinated by them as they flew. McGregor was perhaps bored, or in need of adventure, or many other none reasons that seem reasons to a gnome. They had walked for miles, and the day was getting late.

More less hours till sleep, said McGregor to the bird.

Yeah, I was thinking about that too. We will need to find a place to sleep before it gets dark.

Grubs other? asked McGregor

I could try hunting, but I have no fire, answered Max, understanding McGregor.

To this, the gnome laughed.

No either tools. Raw eat yuck.

As Max looked at this hairy guy, he almost felt affection for McGregor, as if maybe he had found a friend. Max had few friends that he could remember. He always felt like he just never fit in. He might not understand this gnome that well. Who could other than another gnome? But he liked how McGregor just accepted him as he is even though Max wasn't even sure what that was.

While Max was lost in thought, McGregor became distracted. He stood straight up like a tightly wound spring. He began to rapidly sniff the air. He took in one massive inhale and proclaimed, I smell, I smell, not, not food!

Max was caught off guard by his buddy's enthusiastic outburst. Max had to conclude after thinking through McGregor's last sentence that McGregor smelled something a McGregor would call food.

McGregor looked right at Max. McGregor understood that Max was smart. He spoke and heard language. McGregor could see that Max was sentient, but he couldn't understand how Max couldn't sense it too.

Smell you it does? McGregor asked Max

Max was curious as to McGregor's display.

McGregor heavily sniffed the air.

What do you smell? What food? asked Max, befuddled at the gnome.

McGregor closed his eyes, and while stroking his beard, ever so careful, he listed off what it was: Lamb.

Again, he stroked his beard, but this time, he lifted his head a tad, leaning a bit right, adding a deep sniff.

Beef and—he sniffed again—corn, noodles, peaches, yes, yes, peaches.

Where? inquired Max while hoping it wouldn't take them back into the woods before evening.

McGregor pointed in one direction, and ever so far off in the distance, Maximus spotted a structure just at the crest if a hill. It looked so idyllic. McGregor felt excited, but Max felt unsure. McGregor bounced like an excited child, hoping to have his way. Without a word, McGregor had Max convinced.

Hmm. In an hour's time, we should be able to reach it.

Reach then, yes, it, we can.

Now this gnome seemed to have a bit more step in his walk than Max had seen thus far. The cabin eventually became less of a speck on the horizon.

Above, more flocks of birds passed over them. Max's heart again felt heavy from the knowledge they were leaving. With a sigh, he tried to match McGregor's enthusiasm under the shear cacophony of bird calls, birds by the thousands of every bird tongue. None sounded familiar to Max.

Just as they reached the top of a hill, they met an animal that neither of these travelers liked. With a loud bark, a dog bared his teeth and took hold of the gnome. The bird stood to fight.

This animal, the dog, took no alarm at Max's display of bravery. He knew he had reinforcements beside him. Two more dogs stood there, attempting to look menacing. Rather than over acting, these dogs took the easy route. They looked at each other with a team understanding and began to secure the bird with a net.

Max squawked and resisted, as any bird would do. He even landed a few good scratches on at least two of the beasts. Yet Max still found himself bound and being placed into a burlap bag. Both rope and bag made resistance moot. Max now had only one real option, and that was to await his fate. He could hear the gnome making a very loud commotion and found a bit of relief as he laughed to himself, considering how hard McGregor had to be for these dogs to understand. Yet even with the reprieve of humor, fear had a greater hold on reality.

Max was trapped. He had runaway, and now there was no going back. He was bound and in a bag with no idea of where he would end. No home going backward and none going ahead. The birds were leaving, and he remained behind. It was his choices that put him in this dilemma. There was no changing it all now. He was scared. All he had in this world was the gnome, and this wasn't working out to be that clever of an arrangement.

Max found comfort, hearing McGregor's complaints, as it caused that chuckle in his thoughts. But the seriousness of this current situation kept Max thinking of a way to attack. He would be ready to strike, completely prepared. He had talons; he was a bird, after all. And he plotted his escape. Still hearing:

No food was was back food smell.

And once again, Max's planning was interrupted with a laugh. This gnome would get him killed, he thought, and then thought of what actually could.

Where and why were they being abducted? Had they trespassed unawares? Would he have to fight or just explain, and would McGregor say something that would get them into greater danger? Like any could understand.

When McGregor was less noisy, and Max contained his frantic thinking, he could hear the opening and closing of a door.

Max and McGregor both suffered bumps and bruises on the journey in bags. With an abrupt thud, their captors dropped them onto a floor. The dogs were panting heavy, and a new scent of perfume came before McGregor's sense of smell.

From the sack that held the gnome, the sound of loud sniffing could be heard.

Not, not food smell I! Not, not food Smell I!

Ford, Blue, Kota, what have you retrieved for me now? she asked in a voice that sounded like heaven to McGregor.

I hope you didn't scare them too much, she added.

This lady released the gnome, who stood there, shaking, still mumbling, Not, not food, again and again. He dared not open his eyes. He repeated and repeated, then stopped, sniffed the air, and said, What flower smell perfume I?

McGregor opened his eyes and looked upon the woman who had untied the burlap bag and was overcome with emotions. He wondered was this love he was feeling, beating in his chest. All fear faded as he looked upon what seemed to him to be the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

She was tan with rosy sun-kissed cheeks. Her long hair framed her lovely high cheeks. Her eyes were bright, and the lips that moved when speaking a hypnotizing dark pink. McGregor was now enchanted.

Oh, sweetie, I mean you no harm, reassured the lady in a voice that sounded as pretty as she looked to McGregor.

No harm? squawked Max, still in a bag.

I will let you go if you make me a promise, she said, trying to assure Max.

Max returned, Are you going to hurt me?

Oh no, I wouldn't. I couldn't. Now, that said, I need to know that you're not going to hurt me or my dogs, right?"

Are dogs those teeth that grabbed us? asked Max, seeking something real he could trust.

They are, and they meant no harm. They are my protectors. So are we good? she asked again.

I won't hurt you, Max promised although he felt justified if he needed to protect himself.

Or the dogs? she persisted.

I won't hurt them either, Max reluctantly agreed.

The woman opened the bag that held Max.

Oh my, she exclaimed, you are beautiful.

Max had to agree with how McGregor felt. This woman was beautiful. But Max did not care to trust her.

Whether Max had grown more on the last day or the fear of his demise brought a new flair to his feathers, he indeed was shining more than he had before. His feathers glowed with an iridescent sheen that even took Max by surprise.

But it was the gnome, who now found himself in the most beautiful place he had ever been in his long years on earth. He had not traveled far, but he had seen decades of sunsets and rises, lunar displays, lights in the sky, and all manner of fairy creatures; so as far as McGregor was concerned, he knew beauty. A tear of sheer joy rolled down his cheek as he gazed upon the most wondrous thing of all.

Behind the lady who had released him was a kitchen, but not just a kitchen, there were rows and rows and shelves upon shelves of all sorts of canned goods set upon them. These held within them promises of many dinners. Most were in glass jars, decorated with labels identifying what treasure each held. These jars held glistening peaches that McGregor had testified to smelling, as well as tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, and corn. There were sauces and cherries and fillings for pies. Besides these, there were bags of rice. Many types of dried beans, including coffee, were also on the counter. There were dried meats and cheeses hanging in cheese cloth bags. And baked goods cluttered the counters. Yes, this gnome could claim he had arrived in gnome heaven.

The visuals alone made his mouth water, but the scent of her home was over all the scent of the most amazing place on this earth, in a gnome's mind at least. He pictured himself sitting by her fireplace, staying warm with chocolate cake and perhaps her company as well, minus the dogs, if that could be arranged. A gnome can always dream.

And he gazed upon the lady, who was at first his captor, saying, Love in am I.

Oh, my little dear, are you hungry? she asked.

Question right ask she do. And McGregor's heart was singing.

Now the lady went about setting a full table of treats.

Max was unconvinced of his safety.

This did not go unnoticed by the woman, who looked at Max and said, I don't blame you, Maximus. Although wise, your trepidation is unneeded.

Max's feathers ruffled. He felt a bit anxious regarding her choice of words. Not wanting to say something wrong, Max just listened, but he felt most concerned after hearing her say his name.

How did she know my name? Max thought to himself.

Max observed his surroundings, looking through the corner of his eyes. He noticed the same food in jars McGregor had, but Max was less enthused. Yet even if unenthused, Max was excited. Perhaps he could hold out a childlike hope that there would be not, not food for him as well. But hope was something Max had lost faith in long ago.

The lady directed them both to her dining room table. She motioned for them to sit. She herself did not join them but proceeded to bring the pair of plates and cutlery. Upon the table rested many kinds of delightful platters adorned with various things, each platter being enough to make a full meal for the company there. McGregor was almost paralyzed with joy, almost. McGregor fully found his resolve to try it all. It was the cakes that caught Max's eye, but he dared not. This woman was touching his mind, she knew his name, and he tried not to succumb to it, whatever it might be—no reason to let temptation foil him now. It was obvious McGregor didn't care if this feast became his last. So Max would stay dutiful and watch the lady's every move.

Max was correct; this woman had something else in mind for him. In her arsenal of sweets and such, this lady who knew his name knew what food to bring him. She left the room for a bit and returned with her hands behind her back and a strange grin on her face.

Her mannerism brought fear to Max's reality. He feared what doom she might have planned for him.

As the gnome was entering course four of sweet cake, the bird was sweating anxiously as this lady came right toward him. She quickly brought the item she held behind her back. Max wanted to flee but could not move a muscle.

For you, my dear Max, this! she declared as she placed the perfect thing before him.

Max looked upon her. He wanted to believe she had his well-being in mind, but she had said his name again, and he knew she couldn't know it. But she did, and again, he was worried.

Do not worry, my dear. I could never hurt you.

Max looked again at the gift on his plate, and his need for sustenance was the victor. Once again, he glanced at her and what was on his plate. This was the biggest, freshest, most amazing sunflower he had ever seen. It was plump with seeds that teased his nose with aroma. The lady had grown it in her garden. Hundreds of bees had gathered its nectar to make the honey she used in tea.

Max considered this wonderful dish while still entertaining his worries. She knew what he would love most. It was how she knew that bothered him the most. This was magic; it had to be. Then the worse fear hit him.

She's a witch, he thought.

McGregor glanced at his friend, the bird, and with mouth still full, he mumbled, Eat not the not, not food. Why?

And before he swallowed, McGregor consumed another bite.

It was obvious to Max that the gnome was the happiest any creature could be. And at that moment, he thought of leaving him with the lady to go forward on a journey that he had not thought through. However, if she was a witch, as he feared, McGregor could be in the biggest danger of all. Max began to resent his need for eating. It seemed at this moment the biggest obstacle to his safety was food and any need for nourishment over all.

The lady took a seat with them and proceeded to eat as well. She used a fork and took samples from a few of the cakes.

After making an exaggerated sound of yum, the lady exclaimed, See, Maximus, not poisoned.

Max seemed quite alarmed at her spoken words. Not only had she once again used his name, but his fear of her was also exposed.

And Max swallowed hard his fear.

Dear Maximus, dear, dear Max. She moved in and put her arm around him. I am no witch.

Not a witch, he thought, as his mind was filled with other possibilities, the most obvious being that she might be lying.

While at the sound of witch, McGregor spewed his bite.

Witch, not, no nice thing is.

Max looked at the lady.

Then calm our fears. Who are you? Max asked.

Well, she began while licking an icing-laden spoon, I was once somebody who had great powers like a witch.

At this, McGregor shrieked, Not, not you, witch?

Keep eating, my little gnome. I am no witch, assured the lady.

McGregor looked at Max, who just shrugged his shoulders. Max was without a clue and merely expressed this to McGregor, who took the gesture as a reason to resume the meal.

Who are you? repeated Max. And how did you know my name?

I cannot tell you all you want to know, some things you have to figure out on your own. But know this, Maximus. You are known, even if you don't know yourself. Not knowing who you are doesn't make you less so, but seeing it is a revelation, explained the lady.

Max was surprised to hear of his fame but couldn't grasp how anyone would know of him. After all, he was a homely bird with nothing so special although his feathers had begun to shine. The only thing that crossed his mind was perhaps she knew his parents.

It is no happenstance that my dogs found you, young bird. You are more than what your circumstances tell. You see, we are not the sum of circumstances but our choices in them, she continued to explain.

More I cannot say, but of whom am I, that is complicated at least, she explained further. I will begin with this. I live here in the Curtain of Earth, not because I want to but because I must. When the angels fell, both gates were opened, the gates of Sheol, to receive those who were falling, and the door of heaven to throw those angels who were to fall out.

Now the gnome had become so enthralled with this part of her story. He stopped taking bites. He just sat, mouth ajar, in awe of this lady before him.

Most of those who are called fairy folk fell with or escaped that day the doors opened and have been here since. I and the immortals fell with the angels and found my place in lands far from here. Others climbed out from the gates of Sheol at the time the angels fell. The darkest of wizards and the evil spirits who follow them. This was the age of the gods and the wars to claim the realms. These weren't the wars of men but of gods. Their battleground was the mind, and controlling the mind was the tool of war. Perfecting that tool into an art was the work of witches, wizard enchanters, and such. It all fell apart and was found corrupted when none could differentiate those who fell or emerged. And we find ourselves now with none who stands clean. All creatures with a soul have been tainted by that fall. But finding its fix is always solo. It is our own journey of discovery and change that is set before us. We are responsible for our own fate.

Max stared at her with peace regarding his safety. He felt as if he could listen to her for hours, if not days. But who are you, Max dared ask again.

Well, Max, I am an enchantress. She smiled at Max and gave him a wink with a twinkle.

Oooooh, said McGregor.

Ah, ah…you are a witch! exclaimed Max, sitting up straight in his chair.

Max, it's okay. I'm not practicing. She smiled while sharing a wink.

Max was confused as to what that meant. He looked at her again, eyes wide, and asked, Why did you stop?

Many reason, Maximus, but mostly this. I found there is better magic than the tricks made by witches and conjurers. There are powers uncorrupted by fairies, conjurers, or man. Although its strength is within them, at their heart, these stand apart from it. To force the spirits to use their power for selfish gain, I cannot. But without this truth, one is nothing. After learning of this magic, it seemed pointless to bend others' perceptions to my will, to alter how they see creation. Instead, I saw to join it. I chose to understand rather them contrive. All that was left was to bend myself before it. Breaking one's pride that lulls us into complacency in our dealing with ourselves is the hardest deception to break. This can lend us to self-adoration and loving oneself over all, which becomes the loneliest of castles to live in.

It seemed to Max that she was not just speaking of figurative things but of the events she most likely knew personally. He really didn't understand most of her words, and he didn't seem to trust her any more than before. There was just too much talk about magic and witches, whether practicing or not.

Both Max and the gnome heard her speaking but barely heard her words. If she wasn't enchanting, they couldn't tell, for they were fully enthralled with the sound of her. McGregor and Max resumed eating in almost a hypnotic fashion as she continued with her speaking.

I cannot change what creation has made me. However, I do hold the reigns of how I wield it. I will always, while on this earth, be what I've been made, and that's not a bad thing. I've made my peace with this, that I am not the creator of this world. But until otherwise moved to action, my peace is in living out my given time here. I've walked away from wizardry, and I have no need to return. I have seen too many who live that life becomes engorged with their own powers and soon become corrupted. For me, I still can hear the mountains speaking and the flowers when they sing. I do not need to tell them how to grow. Besides, the ground here makes the best gardens. I've got my dogs and my visitors, like you. It's within who I'm becoming that the real change comes.

She continued, I have found a grace that doesn't condemn, forged in sacrifice. Sacrifice is something you both will learn more of soon enough.

She patted Max on his head and arose from the table, clearing some dishes as she headed into her kitchen.

McGregor found himself overfed and now drowsy. He didn't quite hear the lady's remark regarding sacrifice, but Max did, and the thought snapped him up from whatever spell he was under. You can sleep here tonight. In the morning, I will set you on your journey. There are things to be done.

She went about getting quilts and pillows for her guests, who were more than ready for a good night's sleep.

And she whispered ever so gently, Until morning. Good night.

Max watched as she left the room and slipped off down the hall.

He heard the panting of the dogs outside the room. Max thought that they were either being guarded or kept, and with that, he fell asleep.

Morning came early in spring, and after a restless night, Max did not look forward to actually getting up. His muscles were sore from all the walking, and he still could hear the dogs as they snored. He wondered if he had really found a friend in his companion, the gnome, or if he was trapped here, albeit very pleasant, and before he knew it, he had worked himself up into being afraid.

Worry was becoming his closest companion, which is seldom a comforting friend.

Now Max could hear the call of roosters, and he listened to hear more. There was a silence, a quiet he had never heard before. There remained no morning bird song except for those who were domesticated or captive after the flocks had flown away. And he worried again if he was trapped.

Max felt deep dread. Was he a captive? And even if not one here, was he stuck in the Curtain of Earth, unable to flee with his kin? He was haunted by the image of the massive flocks they had seen. What did they know? Where were they looking to go? Could he ever join them if he tried? And would he ever want to?

With all his fears and concern, Max could make not bring forth a morning song; rather, he cried instead.

The gnome began to arise from his sleep, and Max wiped away his tears.

McGregor sat up, took a deep breath, and exclaimed, Food that is not, not smell still new!

Maybe it was the fear, or having been crying, but Max was in no mood for interpretations.

They both could hear the lady as she called her dogs to go outside.

Then she called both Max and McGregor as well.

Come on out, my dears. We have the business of breakfast to go over.

McGregor was all for it, but Max decided not to risk any spell or enchantment, as he was not convinced he hadn't already succumbed. Max vowed to himself not to gaze upon her—well, at least not for too long. Yet, at the sound of her calling, he pretty much knew it was already too late.

Perhaps, in his mind, it had made it so, but he was convinced she was enchanting. He was already under her spell, so going along made sense. He sighed a deep sigh of surrender, curious about what was to eat.

Max and McGregor came out of their bedroom—McGregor with enthusiasm and Max unsure. The gnome was ready first. The table was cleaned from the night before, and now a new feast was laid out before them.

So, my little gnome, what adventures do you and Max have planned for today? she asked.

No, not,

Maximus joined them at the table.

Good morning, Max, said the lady, greeting him with a grin.

Good morning, mumbled Max, keeping his eyes on his plate.

She stood up from her seat, placing her arm along Max's back, allowing her hand to stroke his feathers as she walked behind him. Shivers went down his spine, and Max abruptly ruffled his feathers.

Dear Max, she said, bringing her face near his. I know you don't trust me. I don't expect you to.

And she went into the kitchen.

She returned with a tray filled with pancakes, waffles, pineapple, apples, peaches, and juice. She placed it on the table, serving some of it all to each.

Hold on, I will be right back, she said, retrieving the warmed maple syrup. This comes from the Realm of Peace, fresh and pure as it gets!

Again, she sat down.

"You see, Max, I know a lot more than you realize. It's not because I can enchant. It is because I am aware. Anyone can learn to listen. Being the child of an immortal, well, I've had ages to learn the art.

Max and McGregor were enthralled with her speaking.

You've been seeing the flocks, correct? she asked.

Max answered her; he knew she would know anyway.

Yes.

Have you wondered why? she inquired further.

Max answered, still not looking at her.

I have.

You know they are gathering, and they plan on leaving here.

Max nodded, toying with taking a bite. The gnome had no problem with just eating.

She began to explain.

"The birds know. The doors to heaven and Sheol have been sealed for centuries, trapping spirit beings like us here. But the true conjurers of evil intent have been trying to pry the doors open. As I said last night, when the gates of heaven opened before to cast the fallen out, Sheol's doors had to open to take them. Not everything that belonged in Sheol stayed, and innocent spirits stumbled from on high as well at this time. No fault of their own, just bad timing. Still, not all who fell out found their way into Sheol. Hell did not receive them, and they remained here throughout the ages since. Both evil and virtue are trapped on this earth. And because Earth's curtain hung between both