And of the Lands.

The traveler drank some water at the bedside; it was merry and fresh, and tasted of the little forest stream in the Forest of Moon. It was without any flavor, but bore its own magic, and brought back the colors of the room in the Hopital, bearing forth greens and browns in its pure clearness.

“Many do not believe that this land exists. The stories are as different as the searchers who seek it, it seems.

Some have wandered the land, and found it delightful, but desolate as a moor, with no sign of settlement beyond the small village of Flich. Others swear that they see naught but carven stones, Others find megaliths erect or strewn about, set into the most marvelous patterns.
For those who have been to the villages, it is much as it seems – or seemed, in as much as the people are hospitable, but deadly dull. They seem completely unaware of magic, mostly. They are simple farmers and villagers, having little modern conveniences. Most who have met them believe that they are frightfully stupid, not wizards at all, but some sort of troll-like branch of humans.

Some find only deserted sandy dunes or,” he shuddered, “ocean cliffs.”

There are some paradoxes about our land which seem to trouble our visitors,” said the Senechal. “We are open to all who seek us; but so few can find us.

We call the outlanders Quillen – puppies, you might say. But specially, meaning those puppies or small animals that are new-born, before their eyes open. They bumble about, terribly helpless. Our town of Southmarch exists for the purpose, among others, of guiding these delightful little beings about out land, that they do not fall into puddles, or frighten themselves. The Senechal laughed like the patter of sweet May rain.

“Pardon me,” replied the traveler crossly. “This puppy feels abused indeed, what with being strung up above a cliff and all. You people seem more vicious and cruel than kind, says this puppy.”

The Senechal bent forward, eyes closed, deep suffering grey upon her face. She sat quietly for a few moments, unnervingly; it recalled the silence of the Elders before the Trial. "It was hardest for you, wizard, and you are brave among the Quillendal. I shall explain what happened, if you wish; but it will not wipe such things from your memory. I came as quickly as I could, for I was Judge of the Trial.

A shocking desecration has occurred, as not been seen for many years, near the March of this Land. There was a horrible slaughter which took place, and the place is now known as Cail Orgun, and it is haunted and horrible, and none dare go near. You made note of the little stream which comes from that place, and it was strong testimony in your behalf during the trial, that you noticed that the stream still stank, even after many healings had been placed upon it after it exited that awful place.

We understand the ways of the Quillen, although many differ from our practice.” She began to speak haltingly, as though she were thinking in a different language, and translating it into English.

“You need warmth for travel and home, so you take – you collect – fallen branches and kindling, and set these – these dead wood pieces – on fire, you set it afire. And this is right, this is alright, for to keep one warm in the cold is a proper thing.” Her face seemed to struggle with the next things to say.

“And some Quillen take trees respectfully, like you take from the herd, for sustenance and shelter. You lay it aside for a fit and proper amount of time, so that it – I understand green wood does not serve the purpose of these things. And then you put it to good use in the care of one’s self and others, which is truly an honorable practice.”

“We gather wood, and use it. We are prudent, and not wasteful. We gather the harvest, the beasts of the field, and our pasturage. You know this. What is it, the great crime, where? For this you torture and try to kill other humans? For wood?

She sighed. “Wood has life in it, life that outsiders often cannot see, even after it is taken from the wind’s fall, or a tree is killed and set to dry. Some even keep their aliveness long after the physical life passes from them.”

Your wands are living wood. Do you not know, even in your – understandings, that the wand chooses the wizard; how so is that, if there is no life there?

The only wood we burn, is wood which is truly without any vital force, dead wood. We burn it not for useful things, but for respect, and in melancholy.

“We understand that the woodsman is no different than the hunter or herder. But life must be sacrosanct, and be given for further life. “

“What happened in the Cail Orgun was a desecration, in the way that murder is a desecration to all peoples – the wasting of a life. Some malign spirit with power over living wood set forth to murder that forest, to blight it and still the life; not only in each tree and bush, shrub and flower, but the being that encompasses the living of that place – its true name, in a sense.”

“And what is perhaps worse, is that it was done with the consent of murdering wood itself. A wand or twig, something with the wood that lives, was warped in some unspeakable way, that it would turn its hand against its brother.”

“Regrettably, you spoke of starting fire with a wand, with wood burning wood. That called the indictment upon you, innocent as we know now you are. But we have not heard of such things, not for a long age. We cannot risk that a murderer be set forth into our Land.”

“None of this ought you know, traveler, and none of this should you ever have seen. We do, in fact, protect the Quillendal from these harsh things. There are terrible things in our world, as there are in yours; most of these arise from malice. Our roots are deep, profoundly so, and many reach to dark places from which your people never dream. They are protected, in a sense; with an all-encompassing protection or blessing that you likely never imagine. We who know of these bitter things guard you from them, the Quillendal. We do not mock your blindness; it is the evidence of our diligence on the March of the World. For not all guardians protect only this land, but places which you may never see or imagine that they do so.

For instance, your English School.

An Awakening. The Seneschal

Awake! Open your eyes!

A voice called again, deeply - AWAKE! Unfamiliar.

He was chilled to bone. Only a flicker of warmth lay deep within. Through his eyelids, he could tell that light was here, and his face felt warm like sunlight. He opened his eyes in a merry, sun-bathed room, with the scent of fresh flowers streaming in through the window.

The elders were there, and also the speaker - a golden-cloaked woman with long grey hair and grey sparkling eyes.

You were tested. You survived.

The traveler grimaced. His mouth was full of the taste of blood and ashes. " Let me out of this God-forsaken place. And let me have my wand."

The Drussard smiled, a wan and horrible effort, as though had mouthed a spoonful of sugared vomit, and was trying to seem appreciative. "Well, you've sure been through a thing or two!"

The gold-cloaked woman stared at him, and his sickly face melted like tallow. The Drussard stepped back, and slowly crept towards the door, like a man trying to flee a burning building nonchalantly.

"I am the Senechal. I know you have suffered much."

"Lovely, madam, just. There seems to be a plethora of titles, for some sort of roles held by the idiots and liars who live in this lunatic home. Please come tell me again how gentle you people are to the Quillens. How patient you are. "

"I am deeply, grievously sorry for the suffering you have endured. It is....regrettable. Things are happening, and your suffering was not from your doing; or from ours."

"Well, once again, spiffy. It seems that I'm laid up here like a log in a bin, all respect to - what are you, mate? the Master Pourlebois? Perhaps you might stop glowering and fetch my wand now?

The Master had indeed been staring, with an odd air that he did not regret in the least the suffering of hte traveler. He, too, stepped to the door, and left.

"The Master does not trust you, that is true. But he may have, in fact, come up with the idea which saved your life."

"Jolly good, friends like him, et cetera. You may notice that my life didn't particularly need saving until I came to this rotten borough!?"

"It was the Master's idea to take testimony from your wand. Your wand, in fact, saved your life. Through his wisdom, in this and other ways, you were brought back. You were indeed warned, traveler, that this land was not safe. Lore has it plenty that it is perilous to seek us out, no?"

Hesperides

Afar, along the wrath-wracked sea,
A wizarding clan there may dwell,
None seems to know. Hesperides, they say.
More ancient than England's eldest line.
They greeted the Cruithne, of the Circinn, Fotla Cait and Ce they will regale;
and built the brochs and crannogs
And tell of the time when the Great Ice left.
They tell of the hunt of Airlann and the taking of the great segh,
And of other things they would tell.

They are perhaps somewhat feared and shunned, although the wizareds of England would not tell so; they are rather dismissed, as a primitive clan, although with magic of great power. There is no attraction to them from outside. Perhaps it is their magic which would have it so.

They send no teachers, but curiously, they send their children who have no magic to work at the universities and schools in England.

To be continued.

wizard

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