Their path soon intersected the Eastwen Road. Despite the disrepair, they found it an easier track than the wild grasses of the dell. Where-and-there, they passed ponds and lakes, the latter often revealing a sylvan islet or two.

Tildy realized she was finally following the route she’d always wanted to take. Every step could bring her closer to the answers about her past and the caravan that had not escaped Caraban Losh. Perhaps she’d even reach that final destination.

The witch, however, kept their focus on the mystery at hand: their missing friends. She had Tildy ask questions for at least an hour, starting with the clearing where they’d found the remnants of Fietha’s wagon. It was a tactic the witch employed to ensure they didn’t forget any details. The conversation always came back to a question they couldn’t answer: Why had their friends been taken? Uncounted miles passed beneath their feet.

“Ohhh,” the witch said, slowing her steps as though redirecting energy to her thoughts. “Think back to Demensen’s story. About the victims.”

Tildy didn’t have to think too hard. There were horrors in the man’s words that would haunt her forever. “So much death,” she began. “For months and months. Everywhere that creature went, death followed.”

“Did it?” The comment caught Tildy so off-guard she stopped in her tracks. Her adoptive mother walked a few more paces before noticing. She turned around, adding, “Think about the way he described things, Tildeneth.”

Tildy organized her thoughts before replying. “There were disappearances on the road. Reported by travelers. Eventually, people they knew didn’t return.”

“Go on.”

“There was a farm. Harshhay, I think. Completely destroyed and everyone killed.”

“Are you sure?”

* * * * *

Tildy stared at the ground, thinking hard about this part of the crofter’s tale. She studied a patch of dead grass. “No,” she replied slowly. “But he and others thought that was true. He said they ‘didn’t have the heart to look’, but he only specifically mentioned the animals.” She looked up. “He only mentioned animals!”

“Yes!” agreed the witch, a keen light in her wide eyes. “Let us continue our talk and our walk.”

“And there was the bard’s tale. Berrenbee was his name,” Tildy said, the words coming quicker than footsteps as she began to understand her adoptive mother’s thoughts. “He reported the destruction of Dethelwain. Every building destroyed. Dess said it was a grisly tale.” She had thought the story incontrovertible. Certainly, the man saw people, right? “You don’t think he found any bodies.”

“I do not, though I am certain it was quite a story, delightfully full of the blood and gore that every audience desires. Demensen said the bard stopped drinking after that.”

“You think he made it all up?” Tildy asked. It seemed an unlikely conclusion.

“No, but I think he exaggerated, thanks to an ale-soaked mind. Besides, storytellers are not to be trusted, for they seek appreciation – and coin – for the recitation of a good yarn. That, combined with the growing hysteria of the lands, well, those are the makings of a thrilling tale, to be sure. The poor bard probably believes it himself, delusion or no.”

Like the gears of a clock, things clicked into place for Tildy. “Only animals are being killed. People aren’t; they’ve all been taken like our friends.”

* * * * *

The witch nodded. “I did not understand my feeling at the time, but there was some missing detail in Demensen’s words. I could not put my finger upon it.”

“But instead of answering the question about why our friends were taken, we just expanded it! Why are all these people being taken?”

“And I believe we have a new question, as well,” the witch replied. “I do not know how our quarry, which seems a being of destruction, would be able to abduct the entire village of Dethelwain.”

“Another party?”

“Recall the devastation in the clearing where Fietha and Demensen were taken. There was a battle, but one beyond the strengths of our friends.”

“But who? And why?”

“I have only speculations, and no good ones at that.”

Tildy wanted to interrupt her self-deprecation, for she knew the witch’s theories were often as reliable as the facts in books. However, a twinkle in her mother’s eye promised a piece of tantalizing information.

“I found sweeping marks, as though someone were hiding their footprints.”

Tildy skeptically contemplated the clue. “Considering the feet of our quarry obliterate everything on the ground, this seems unnecessary.”

“It suggests someone returned to the scene to ensure their identity was not betrayed.”

“They wear distinctive boots,” Tildy said, catching on.

“Or have very unusual feet.”

That hadn’t occurred to her, though it should have, Tildy thought, looking at the witch’s bare feet. She sometimes forgot that not all peoples wore shoes. “That could be any of a number of races,” she replied, feeling no closer to the answer.

“Indeed,” replied the witch with a curt nod. “But it narrows the list. This shrinks it further.” She held up a feather, striped brown and grey.

“An owl feather?” Tildy asked, a bit confused. “We find them all the time in the forest.”

“True enough, though not usually with blood on them. I believe something killed the owl.”

Tildy took the feather as they ascended a rise, chastising herself for missing the dried blood. “Owls have few predators, though I imagine mice and snakes fear them most. Not that those creatures are capable of retribution,” she added with a snort.

“Quite. I shall ponder that some more. Like breadcrumbs, I suspect we will find more clues along the Eastwen Road. Let us hope no ‘birds’ have cleaned the trail,” she added, chuckling at her jest.

* * * * *

At the end of an otherwise uneventful day, they found a clearing in the woods beyond sight of the road. The witch looked into the sky and declared, “No rain tonight. We shall camp in the dingle.” She pointed toward a bowl-like depression, ignoring Tildy’s giggles over the word.

Tildy was glad to be stopping, and, not for the first time, cursed the number of things she’d crammed into her backpack. Three previous locations had been eliminated after they discovered unusual animal trails and more bloody owl feathers. While this caution could be tiresome, she trusted her adoptive mother.

Once settled, the witch built a small fire, tossing in a green sprig of aphonic holly to deafen unfriendly ears. In that time, Tildy had prepared a plain, but hearty stew of vegetables, roots, and dried meats, placing the pot within flames that now burned with an emerald heart.

After an uneventful meal, she cleaned up in a nearby stream. Dusk arrived, which reminded her how exhausted she was. “I’m going to bed,” she announced as she returned to the dingle.

The witch sat studying a patch of unblossomed wild’s flowers, offering a distracted “Good.”

Usually, such preoccupation would inspire a flurry of questions, but it had been a long day with an early start. Tildy made a note to ask about it in the morning. She lay down on her bedroll, falling asleep almost immediately.

* * * * *

“Tildeneth.” The voice of the witch was quiet, but insistent. Tildy sat up, rubbing her eyes against the light of the buzzing lantern.

“Whazizzit?” she asked with a sleepy yawn. She thought she’d just laid down her head.

“The Summer Heralds have arrived.”

“Really?” Tildy sat upright, looking skyward. As far back as she could remember, she’d loved seeing the monthly starfalls, though they often occurred late at night and her mother wouldn’t wake her. She stifled another yawn and stood, getting her bearings by the Renegade Bowman constellation that glowed brightly above the western horizon. “Now? I thought they were days away.”

“If there hadn’t been a storm last night, you might have seen the watchful moon. Lun’s crescent also appeared four days earlier than He should. Curious, is it not?”

“Curious” was a word the witch always used in understatement. Stories told of the significance of the ‘falls and the mighty beings wrapped up in them. Some said they were a god’s fiery anger directed at distant lands, and children were taught to be thankful that their misbehavior wasn’t given such punishment. Others called them dying stars that plummeted from the sky when their fire was burning out. Eventually, the heavens would be devoid of starlight and darkness would rule once again. Dwarves thought they were descending rocks that moved so quickly they caught on fire. Few agreed with such an obviously ridiculous notion.

Her adoptive mother, however, told the tale that Tildy chose to believe.

* * * * *

Lun, the skyward moon, lamented the loss of His sister Nim, the fallen moon, whom He’d lost in the Unnumbered Age before mortals tracked time. He hung in the sky, scowling in pain and bitterness, diminishing until only a frowning sliver remained. His darkness gave birth to fear amongst the young Elves, Fairies, and other Fay peoples who lived in the mortal lands of Malthreare, for they had not ever been afraid.

Hoping to cheer Him, the Sun filled Him with Her light, promising that He would always find happiness. For a time, this proved true, and He circled all the mortal lands, smiling brightly upon the children of the world, offering His wisdom, and delighting in their every deed.

Much time passed, during which the Sun found Herself in growing jealousy of the Moon, for She prided Herself on the warmth and hope She cast upon the world. Thus, She came to Him to compliment His light. “How your sister would love to see what you have become,” She said, knowing well how He would receive such words. “But alas! She has fallen, never to rise again.” And on and on She went, praising Lun, while reminding Him of this great loss. The melancholy Moon faded unto the pale. The Fay called Him “unwatchful”, for He cared nothing for them anymore.

The Sun’s spiteful task was a job well done. Grievous were the hurts She caused, and in His sorrow, Lun cracked. Pieces of Him fell from the sky, the radiant children of the Mother Sun and Father Moon, the fiery starfalls that fell like tears for the loss of Nim. Only then did the Sun understand Her folly and ever did She seek to make amends, slowly filling Lun each time Their children fell from the sky. Yet, always did His anguish return, and He resentfully watched the starfalls who came closer to His lost sister than He ever could.

The Dwarven myth reminded Tildy of something. She searched her pack and retrieved the starglass, a gift from a troop of Dwarves who had unexpectedly visited Dappledown when she was seven. “What does it mean? It feels like a foul omen, not a fair one.”

“I agree. There is no such thing as an early starfall. The number of stars will vary, of course.” She trailed off, though her face was inscrutable. When she spoke again, her words were troubled. “Our world is a clockwork, created with a preciseness to it. We are but an orb, chasing a circle’s perfect path around the Mother Sun. A solar degree a day, with Lun watching over us with an encircling precision. Something fiddles with the cogs of the gears and nothing good can come of it.”

Tildy considered that as she held the starglass above her head. The broad convex lens magnified the sky somewhat, but it also had the curious ability to make the falling stars appear slower as they passed behind the glass. They were too far away to see any real detail, but it was an interesting trick that never bored her. She turned this way and that, sometimes catching a star, sometimes not. She oohed and ahhed with each success, counting them aloud as she caught them.

“I do enjoy these quiet times together, Tildeneth.”

“But I’m not being quiet.”

“You are being quiet enough,” the witch said, patting her shoulder.

They watched side by side long into the night. Tildy thought about other viewings, including a starfall two years ago when a particularly bright one had brought daylight to the night sky and left noctilucent clouds in its wake.

Wolves began to howl at each new flare, but they stopped when Tildy replied with a haunting cry of her own. She looked often at her adoptive mother, wondering what she was thinking and whether the night’s omen would prove fair or ill. A frown spread across the witch’s face, but she didn’t explain her thoughts before they returned to their bedrolls.

* * * * *

They started early the next morning, despite the late-night viewing. The witch had packed before Tildy had even woken, a habit that annoyed her, even if it resulted in breakfast by the fire. They ate a brief, but nourishing meal of warm milk, herbs, and oats, and packed up their gear, leaving no trace of their stay, which included returning the grass turves to the place in the ground where they’d been cut for the firepit. The witch always insisted upon preserving the nature of a place, but on this trip, she clearly wanted to conceal their presence.

They returned to the Eastwen road, following it at a brisk stride that had Tildy puffing within a few miles. The morning was wearing well on when she finally returned to the subject of the early starfall. “Last night, your frown deepened as the starfall continued. Is ill fortune upon us?”

The witch slowed to allow her to keep pace. “I sometimes forget how observant you are. Even during one of the most brilliant displays in all the realms of Malthreare,” she said with a wry smile. “But yes, I believe so. You remember what I said about their timing?”

“That they were as regular as the moon, though this means Lun is also affected.” Tildy stopped in her tracks, struck by a revelation. “The plants in Dappledown are behind and the heavens are ahead.”

“Very good. Yes. As unrelated as star and plant might appear, all things are connected. Our minds struggle to see the correlation because we are too focused on relative things. However,” she trailed off, “when my mind had been sharpened by the release of sleep, I came to believe these two things were indeed linked.”

“How?”

“Of that, I am not yet sure. But there are few things that delay life or accelerate decay. We shall see.”

Philosophical talk like this always made Tildy’s head hurt, but as she rubbed her temple, she understood that a different pain had arrived. The old familiar stabbing one. Her walking stick clattered to the ground as she clutched her stomach. She bent in two, the weight of her backpack nearly pitching her face-first into the dirt. Her mother hurried over. “What is it?” Tildy could only groan in response.

* * * * *

“This illness. It is beyond chronic.” The witch rummaged through her own pouches. “I used to think that with your abilities, you might be less prone to sickness. Here, take this,” she pressed a dark-veined leaf into Tildy’s hand.

Tildy put it in her mouth and nearly vomited. “Whut issit?”

“Do not talk with your mouth full. Chew.” The witch watched as she did. “Swallow,” she ordered.

Tildy gagged as her teeth pulverized the leaf. “Blech. Water?” she asked, her voice straining against the paste coating her throat.

“Not yet. We need to let the leaf do its work.”

“What is it?” Tildy asked again, her voice sticky.

“Something new. Herb by the name of peffelin. I have seen birds nibble it after eating something that disagreed with their little stomachs.”

“You think I have a bird stomach?”

“Do not be silly.” The witch’s eyes searched Tildy’s face. “How do you feel?”

“Like I ate a rotten pumpkin, mother,” she said, using the word to indicate displeasure. “Disgusting.”

“Worse than the sickness?”

Tildy had been sick like this dozens of times, often wondering whether it would kill her. “No, not worse.”

“Good!” chuckled the witch. “Perhaps we are getting somewhere. Fortunately for you, young lady, I plucked plenty before we left Dappledown.”

“Wonderful,” she forced herself to say, though the vile tang made her question this optimistic outlook. Still, vomit seemed an imminent possibility, so she tried not to think about it.

“We are close enough to the lunch hour, so we shall stop here. No, no,” she said, holding up a hand. “You sit and rest. I am quite capable.” With her back turned, she added, “And yes, you are well enough to eat, so give me no guff.” Tildy smiled weakly and allowed her mother to dote on her.

* * * * *

After a brief rest, a sandwich of wheat bread, ham, and greens, and several mouthfuls of water to remove the last remnants of the peffelin leaf, Tildy was ready to travel again. She leaned against a tree, watching the witch pack up their supplies. “How far is it to Greywetherton?”

“We have crossed into a region known locally as Higrassten. Less than a fortnight, as the wesrook flies,” she replied, closing up her pack. She paused, her ear cocked while her nose sniffed the air. She looked down at the tall grasses around them and pointed. “The blades bend in the wind. We have a few hours to find adequate shelter before the storm finds us.”

“Great,” Tildy replied as she watched the seeded tops bobbing in the breeze. She was thinking quite the opposite: “Adequate shelter” usually meant a roof of trees, not an actual building.

A few hours later, the temperature dropped significantly, and it became cold enough to don cloaks and raise their hoods. As twilight lay down its shroud, they diverted from the road to find shelter in a copse of sugar maples and poplar. The witch gave one dying tree a wide berth, indicating the ugly green-grey rot covering its bark.

The distant treetops had begun to sway when the witch lowered her hood, an indication she wanted to hear better. “Tildeneth,” she began in warning. “Give me your pack and hide behind this old maple, a strong grandfather amongst the other children around us.”

Tildy was suddenly alert: Her mother only spoke in that tone when deadly serious. “But I could easily fly up—”

“I will not have you tangled up in the branches if that monstrosity tears through here,” the witch said, peering into the gloom.

“It’s here?”

“Do as I say!” the witch hissed, her voice going unusually shrill. Tildy complied, too shocked to argue. The witch disappeared into the shadows with all their gear, leaving her alone with her thoughts and fears. Lightning flashed all around, revealing nothing but trees.

* * * * *

Tildy pressed her back against the bark, finding a broad furrow in which she could hide, and her fingers clutched the rough ridges to hold herself in place. She jumped when a booming sound rolled over the lands. When it wasn’t immediately repeated, she of course recognized it for thunder, not a footstep of approaching danger. She calmed herself, controlling her breathing. The towering maple loomed overhead.

Wind gusted through the copse, a final herald of the imminent storm. In subtle motions she could feel but not see, the mighty tree at her back swayed, a ponderous tower of invincibility that offered minimal shelter. As though in contest against it, rain came swirling from every direction, soaking Tildy and plastering her hood and short hair to her scalp. Lightning and thunder joined the assault, nearly simultaneous events as the squall surged. She didn’t typically fear such weather, having made many journeys with the witch, though being unnecessarily caught outdoors was always an annoyance.

The howling gale and hammering thunder drowned out all other noise in the world. Each lightning flash showed numerous shadowed hiding places. Debilitated in her ears and eyes, she realized she’d be easy prey for any monster stalking her. So, she pulled her hood to her chin to blend into the tree, telling herself to make no further movement or noise until the storm ceased.

Yet, she shivered against the cold, feeling more vulnerable and exposed than she had in previous travels. She steadied her breathing again, blowing hair from her mouth, distracted from noticing it was longer than it should be. She listened for the sound of footsteps, but there was none, nor was there sign of the witch.

At last, the winds subsided, having carried away the remnants of the rain and lightning. Following after came the sweet, woody smell of wet bark and the humid exhalation of dense foliage. Tildy finally caught sight of her adoptive mother, ambling through the fine mist that was the tail of the storm. She was completely dry.

“How do you do that?” Tildy asked as she arrived. Cold water still streamed down her long hair and back.

“Do what?”

“Walk through the pouring rain and not get wet?”

“That is not true.”

“What?”

“It is not pouring rain.” As though on cue, the clouds parted, and the sun returned. “See? A summer’s cloud burst. Your backpack is quite heavy, you know,” she added, handing it to Tildy with one hand.

Tildy shrugged off her cloak and donned her pack, long wet hair crossing her face as she struggled with its weight.

“You changed your hair.”

“I did?” Tildy groped around her ears and her hands brought back tightly curled, shoulder-length tresses that were mottled brown and grey.

“Matching it to the bark. Inspired!” the witch said, beaming. “You appear little worse for wear and just as good! I saw nary a sign of the creatu—” she stopped short, and Tildy saw the color drain from her face. She gawped at the ground mere yards from her adopted daughter’s feet.

Tildy followed her eyes to a track of deep indentations that fell close – uncomfortably close – to her hiding spot. Filled with water, they might have been unremarkable puddles, though there was something unmistakable about the irregular step.  The monster had passed Tildy in the storm.

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