It might be difficult to mention only five, as spring may well be my favorite season, but here goes!

Temperatures. Of course, the season springs on us (see the pun there?) in mid-March, and ends in mid-June. In my neck of woods, that means that the average temperature goes from 39/22 (H/L) to 77/59 (H/L). To me, the best days are at about 70 degrees, and with a good spring, we get a number of them. Sitting outside is such a pleasure and I get a chance to do more walking which, admittedly, I do not do on the blustering cold, windy, and icy days of winter. And then there's the fabulous scent of spring that comes with the temperatures changing. It begins with the dirt and follows through with flowers and herbs and other living things...
​

The days get longer. I appreciate that this might not be a big deal to some, but it is to me! Here, our shortest day of winter daylight is only 8 hours and 45 minutes. Not so on the first day of spring. This year we got 12 hours and 10 minutes of daylight on March 20. Now, keep in mind that this came just a couple weeks following our getting an extra hour of daily sunlight as a consequence of daylight savings time. And the last day of spring? We will get roughly 16 hours—with a sunrise at 5:24 am following a “dawn” beginning to light the sky at 4:48 am, a sunset at 9:04 pm, and the end of twilight at 9:40 pm. I track the addition of minutes, almost daily, reveling in each and every one of them! The only downside, is that on the first day of summer, I then have to begin the countdown ...

Color and Life. This is easy. With spring, each day things turn more green, plants begin to flower, and color reigns! When I look out, I see the herds of deer that walk through my yard regularly, the eagles that fly overhead, and the red fox that like to slink around the chicken pen. What more can I say?

Thunder Storms. I love them. Thunder and lightning are like magic. The sights, sounds, and energy, intrigue me. Do you agree?

Special Events.  The month holds Mother’s Day, two family birthdays, and Memorial Day. These are wonderful times to get together with family and friends to celebrate, share our lives, and spend time together—outdoors.

What are your favorite things about spring?

Once upon a time, frightening memories haunted the lovely Gilda Bolt. For some time, she found them too fearful to face, but eventually, she grew weary of spending one restless night after another. And thus she surmised that she must do something. She must admit her past transgressions, offer her apologies, and if possible, make amends. Moreover, she must do so post haste.

On awakening one cold morning, Gilda donned her slippers before heading to her kitchen. Mere coals remained in the range, so she fed it some well-dried oak. Stepping back, she momentarily allowed the flames to mesmerize her as they licked at the logs’ edges. 

While her fire grew, Gilda collected ingredients in a saucepan she set on the burner: oats, milk, water, salt, and a dash of cinnamon. Soon, the mixture came to a boil and as Gilda soaked in the heat, it gradually thickened. 

“Mmmm,” she inhaled its sweet scent.

Gilda dished her oatmeal into a bowl, drizzled honey over it, and then sat in her long lost father’s old and none-too-comfortable kitchen chair, to eat. Sadly, having missed dinner the evening before, she was so hungry that she tasted her breakfast too soon.

“Oooh! Oooh! Hot, hot, hot!” she cried as she dropped her spoon to grab a nearby pitcher of water for a drink. Then, sighing, she glanced out the window to find snow falling.

Today is the day, she determined. Today I shall journey into the forest, face my past, and hopefully, put my guilt aside for all time. It is time. I needs must dress in layers and brave the cold, but go, I shall.

Gilda checked her closet, took her time to find her warmest skirt and sweater, and dressed. Then she returned to the kitchen, cautioning herself against further stalling. 

She took a mouthful of her oatmeal, and then dropped her spoon once more.  

“Now it’s too cold?” She sighed. “Well, that’s what I get for taking so long to decide what to wear,” she muttered. She returned her oatmeal back to the pot, reheated it, then sat once more to eat.

“Mmmm,” she practically moaned in contentment, “just right.” 

Finally through with her breakfast, Gilda retrieved her boots from their perch near the front door. This time, she decided she would forgo use of her father’s hard old chair, as it had been bad enough to breakfast there. Instead, she headed to her mother’s well-worn reading rocker. Unfortunately, when she sat, she sunk in so deeply that she was unable to get her boots on. 

She pulled herself back up and headed for the only other chair she owned.

“Ahhh! This is better,” she said. 

After donning her boots, Gilda returned to the front door where her outdoor gear hung on a nearby hook. She put on her warmest coat—a long red one—and accessorized with a matching fur scarf and hat. After glancing into a mirror and finding the results satisfactory, she set off.

It was a cold day, but not a terribly blustery one, and for that, Gilda was grateful. Still, she had a long way to go. 

Hours later, as midday came and went, and as she tired, Gilda found herself daydreaming about taking a nap on returning home. She smiled, grateful that she’d finally rid herself of her father’s old straw mattress. After years of wear, it had become too compacted. She tried her mother’s down one after that, but like Mumsy’s chair, it was far too soft for Gilda’s comfort. And so, for the first time ever, Gilda had purchased a new mattress for herself. Ever since, on days like this, she found herself grateful to have a warm bed to return to—one that was just right for her. 

As she neared her destination, Gilda’s thoughts wandered back to that day, so many years ago. I was just a child, she thought. Still, I should have known better. I should never have trespassed, never have taken or used what belonged to another. 

In that precise instant, Gilda came to a halt, as before her stood a massive bear, and behind him, the cottage she had been seeking.

“Who dares trespass?” the bear growled.

Initially, Gilda struggled to find words, but eventually she said, her voice shaking, “I do, kind bear.”

“We bears are not keen to trust others, he said, “as strangers have treated us poorly in the past. What brings you here?”

Gilda looked closely at the bear. Her eyes narrowed. Then, This could be it, she thought. This could be my moment. I’ve come for just this! 

“Well?” the bear prodded.

“I— That is— Excuse me kind bear, but have you lived here long?” She pointed at the cottage.

The bear growled. “Since I was just a wee one, yes.”

As Gilda took in a deep and cleansing breath of frosty air, she stood tall with gathered courage. Then, “I thought so!” she said. “You see, I’ve come to apologize for having trespassed into your home some years ago. I believe you were just a wee baby bear at the time, but perhaps you remember me? I ate your food and I made myself to home. I tried your chairs and your beds. Why, I even napped! Then, when you and your Papa and Mama returned, I ran away in fear. But now I’ve grown, you see, and I want to apologize for having trespassed. It was wrong of me. Ever since, I have suffered the pangs of guilt. But today, I am taking responsibility for my actions.” She paused, then added, “Do you remember me at all? Of course, my hair is longer now, and it is darker, and I—”

The bear moved closer, interrupting her story. He reached his paws out to her, leaned in, and sniffed. Then, “Goldilocks,” he said, “is it really you?”
​

The still air echoed the calm before a storm. Yeysharov Valamyr paused atop a ridge, leaning on his spear while he caught his breath. He’d been at this too long already. Rumor placed the witch in this area, but he’d found no sign.

​He gripped the haft of his spear, the other hand going to his protective charms. One touching the skin of his chest, one on either wrist, and five more worked into his thick fur collar. The other men mocked his caution, but they feared him, too. And well they should—they’d seen the results of the witch’s curse…

Some say it doesn’t exist.

But they are wrong.

It does. It does.  

“It does!” Nellie cried, as though repeating her mantra, whether in her mind, or verbally, would make it so. 

She pulled her boots on, then wriggled her toes, testing the fit. “And now for my goggles,” she mumbled, as she donned them. She placed them over her eyes for a moment, adjusted them for a perfect fit, then slid them back up to rest on her forehead.

Climbing into the cabin, she grinned. Flying is almost as good as what I seek, she thought in anticipation of her coming venture.

She started her engine, pausing to listen to its purr, pulled her goggles back down over her eyes, and then started off. As her speed grew, each clump of grass, each rock strewn about on the runway, caused a jolt to her spine. 

Nellie gave her engine even more throttle, then braced herself as her wheels lifted.

“It does exist. It does!” she exclaimed, before bursting into giggles, exuberant over her successful take-off. 

For some time, Nellie glided through the air, watching below for signs that she neared her destination. From this vantage, she easily identified wildlife roaming the savannah below. Giraburrows, tall, furry, long-necked, four-legged creatures that liked to tunnel below ground, lifted their heads to the treetops to watch as she flew by. Meanwhile, monkions, carnivorous creatures that swung from limb to limb in search of food, jabbered amongst themselves in the treetops. A band of hyilla, dog-like creatures that beat their chests as a means to scare away potential predators, skittered off into a field of tall grass.

“There!" Nellie cried, on sight of a run down shed that she knew served as a safe place for someone caught in the wilderness when his jeep ran out of gas, or perhaps following his unexpected encounter with a pride of elemoose . . .

She thought back to the radio message she’d received earlier that morning from Dr. Eliza Hester, whom Nellie had assisted on numerous past occasions. The good doctor had spent years on her mission to find the origin of magic. She swore, following her last venture out, that she was very close, indeed! Nellie anxiously looked forward to learning what Dr. Hester may have discovered. 

After lowering her altitude, Nellie took a final circle around, then committed to her landing. Having practiced her methods of late, this landing was perhaps her best of all time.

The moment her wheels went still, she jumped from the cabin to greet Dr. Hester, who had run to meet her.

“Well?” Nellie asked.

“I believe I’ve done it at last!” the doctor cried.

“Tell me!” Nellie urged.

“I will. I will! But . . .”

“Yes?”

“I am ever so hungry, and I’m out of foodstuffs here, and . . .”

“Say no more.” Nellie turned back and climbed aboard. Then, gesturing to the back seat, she invited the good doctor to join her.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Doctor Hester said as she settled in and buckled up.

“It’s no trouble at all." Nellie started her engine. Then, "Here we go!” she added as, once more, she donned her goggles.

No sooner were they airborne, than Nellie thought she heard something. She turned her engines off so she might concentrate more closely as she glided through the air in silence.

“Nellie!”

“Nellie!”

Catching a glimpse behind, confirming it was not the good doctor who called her, Nellie turned forward once more.

“Nellie!”

“Yes?”

“It’s time for lunch!”

There was no longer any question. In truth, Nellie would recognize that voice, her mother's voice, anywhere.

She landed her flying machine, hopped out, and then ran to the kitchen.

“Here I am,” she called.

“What have you been doing?” Mother asked.

“Just playin'.”

“I see,” Mother said with a grin. “You have indeed discovered the value of your imagination. It is truly magic. Is it not?”

People don’t talk about it, probably because they don’t remember, but being eight is the hardest age. Even harder than being a junker. Or an evaporative farmer, or whatever we are now.
​
I guess it didn’t start right when I turned eight. So maybe it’s eight and a half. (Turning seven was even awesomer, ’cause that’s when I got my goggles, and my nickname, “Gogs.”) Even so, turning eight was pretty good . . .

Calico held back a chuckle as a memory bubbled up of her younger brother, River, calling the local graveyard a “skeleton park,” but then she quickly grew serious again as she continued, tiptoeing her way through the Graveyard of the Devout.

Stopping occasionally to hide behind a marble statue or concrete monument, Calico kept her focus on the evil witch, Rosita Brack, just ahead. It was rumored that Rosita had stolen the Vial of Duplicate Sin. The Vial held a putrid green slimy syrup that, if ingested, would cause a person to repeat the wrongdoings of the last person to hold the Vial. Calico shuddered at the thought even as she patted her pocket. Inside it, nestled a dried leaf that looked distinctly like a fairy’s wing. Fairy Flickernoodles had given it to Calico, along with an instruction, when she sent her out to retrieve the Vial. “Chew on this in the event of an emergency,” she had said. Thus, Calico kept it close at all times.

​Sneaker remained at Calico’s heels—except when, like now, a shiny coin sitting atop a tombstone, distracted him. Fortunately, he didn’t usually disappear for long, but Calico couldn’t always trust him. Thus, she was relieved when, looking back, she found him loping her way. Once back at her side, he sniffed at her. Then the two looked ahead at the precise moment that Rosita entered a single-crypt mausoleum before them, leaving its door wide open behind her.

Sneaker growled low in his throat. 

Calico patted his head, then crept closer. Soon she heard Rosita from inside, in her high sing-song voice.

“Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble,” the witch chanted.

Smelling smoke, Calico inched even closer. Then she peeked inside.

Rosita stood, faced the other direction. Against the wall before her sat a shelf, and on it, jars of dried herbs, bottles of unrecognizable liquids, and numerous tattered, well-read, books. 

There! Calico spotted the Vial of Duplicate Sin. Now, to get to it . . .

On the concrete floor behind the witch, and nearer Calico, a cauldron hung over a fire that emitted a sooty black smoke that tickled Calico’s nose. She stifled a sneeze, crept inside, and then crouched low behind the crypt.

Rosita bustled about, picking up and then returning items from the shelves. When she found an ingredient she liked, she added a portion to a mortar. This she did several times before she opened the Vial. She poured a few teaspoons of the syrup into the mortar, resealed the bottle, and then set it back down. Once done, she grabbed the pestle and proceeded to grind the items together. All the while she hummed, unnervingly off-key. 

A quiet minute passed before, quite suddenly, Rosita stopped. She lifted her head and sniffed the air once, twice, thrice. Then she muttered something about a pretty dog, or so Calico thought. Still, the witch's voice was so low that she couldn’t be sure.

Rosita turned around and stepped nearer the fire. Holding a grimoire in one hand, and the mortar in the other, she slowly emptied its contents into the pot, as she read out loud:

Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing--
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Calico held her breath, pondering how she might snatch the Vial and escape with it, when quite suddenly, Rosita cackled, “I’ll get you my pretty, and your little dog, too!” 

Rosita had spoken loud enough that Calico knew with certainty, that her presence was no longer a secret and so, believing it best to face trouble directly, she stood.

Rosita loosened a sorry substitute for a laugh. “Do come closer, my dear,” she whispered, crooking her finger.

Calico shook her head.

“Ahhh, but I’ve something here for you. Now, now, you needn’t fear me, child.”

Once more, Calico shook her head.

“No fear! No more fear!” the witch cried before grinning her wicked grin. Then, “I have been changed for good,” she said as she inched closer.

Calico backed away, turned to her right, and then circled around the crypt, all the while keeping her focus on the evil witch. Soon, she stood near the shelf of potions and ingredients. For a second, she allowed herself to glance at them. There, just as she’d seen previously, sat the Vial. She grabbed it.

With a shrill and piercing scream, Rosita charged, but before she could reach Calico, Sneaker snapped at the witch, grabbing her skirt. He shook his head and growled, even as Calico rushed to the door.

​“Sneaker!” she cried, the moment she reached its threshold. “Sneaker! Come!”

After loosening his hold on the evil witch, Sneaker ran to Calico. The moment he was close enough, and with the witch approaching from behind, Calico stepped out and grabbed Sneaker's collar. Then she put the leaf that Fairy Flickernoodles had given her in her mouth, and chewed. 

In a second—and must to her surprise—Calico took to the air. 

Shortly, she arrived back home. When her feet came to rest on the ground once more, she looked up. 

“Fairy Flickernoodles!” she cried. “It worked! The leaf! I don’t know how, but I— I—” She stopped short, unable to find the right words. 

She fairy chuckled. Then, “Everyone deserves a chance to fly,” she said.

​“But it was amazing! That leaf was . . . like magic!” 

“Oh, the leaf was just to give you courage, my dear. Indeed, it had no power whatsoever.”

“But— But, I flew!”

​Once more the fairy laughed. “You’ve always had the power, my dear. You just had to learn it for yourself.”

Smoke and the stink of rotten eggs shrouded the Issves te Ergint encampment. Thin, powdery ash drifted in eddies, settling over buildings, camp tents, wagons, hitching posts. Men… Despite the season, soldiers wore scarves over their faces, wet to stifle the fumes and poison. Ergint jidoma, the natives called it. Live silver. Invaluable to the rich and powerful; death to those forced to extract the stuff from the bowels of the earth.

​Heat challenged winter’s bitter cold as the nearby mining town died in fierce shades of red, orange, bronze. Mostly red. It was foolish to set fire to wood permeated with poisonous dust. Or so the Dog thought as he strode between rows of gray- and vermilion-streaked canvas…

You would be forgiven for thinking you had stumbled into an apothecary. Or an herbalist's shop. It was actually a dead man's home. If you could call it a home.

​A single room occupied the back of the junk and trinket shop, "Treasures and Troves," where the proprietor, Janey Muld, allowed, (or had allowed until very recently), Thadeous "Gutrot" Flynnder to live, in exchange for some small rent payment, (more often forgotten by both than not).

"Gutrot" Flynnder made a meager living doling out herbs, medicines and cures for everything from warts to the more severe and deadly cases of "blueface." He never set a price. Whatever the widow, or tramp, or jobless father from the Wayfair could afford. Which was often nothing. His remedies, unlike his finances, often hit the mark. This might have surprised anyone who cared to take notice, but hardly anyone except the hopeless even knew "Gutrot" Flynnder's name, much less where he could be found.

Hardly anyone.

Which means, almost no-one.

Which really means, someone.

​Find more here.

At first blush, you would think the beard is his defining feature. He growls any introduction through a tangle of grizzled brush that looks like it would have taken high marks at a ZZ Top concert. The little bit of skin that can be seen behind his face wig is a cross between bark and old leather. He only introduces himself as "Doc." Combined with the gray streaked through the beard you get the hint that he might have already come home from Vietnam when Pink Floyd formed in 65'. A faded bandana that could have been blue with stars on it at one time holds back a mop of hair. An old hippie. Except then you see a flash in his eyes. Almost black in the shadows, but with an unsettling spark. Cunning. Intelligent. Watchful. This is no peace and love and weed hippie. A live-and-let-live Big Lebowski.

​This is a fighter. A hunter.

KipKap… What would you like me to tell you about him? We are friends, I think. Some people find that distinction uncomfortable, for he is also a foreigner to our world. The term “demon” is insulting, for he is no such thing, though that is what he is labeled by most. He possesses a sublime sense of subtle humor, a keen mind, and a remarkable tolerance for idiots. This is, perhaps, what makes us so compatible.

'KipKap’ is not his proper name. When he says it, it’s longer. He makes the K’s more guttural and the P’s more spitty, which I find altogether too messy for my mouth.
​
​“Did you name him?” Tanris asked…

Darcy Channing heard the scratch of a fingernail on the door before she heard her name whispered. She opened one eye to look at the cellphone on the nightstand.

3:22 AM. Ugh. Nothing good ever happened at this time of the night ...

There is nothing like a pandemic to bring out the best in some people and things. Here is a list of ten things that over the past weeks have encouraged me and/or for which I have found myself most grateful. With the exception of No. 1, they are not in any particular order of importance.

10. Our leaders keep us informed on a daily basis of the situation and what each of us can do to help ourselves and others. We can choose to listen or to remain in the dark, but information is available to us (which is much more than many people around the world can say).

9. Businesses of all kinds have stepped up to manufacture much-needed goods and equipment and to get those products to those in need in record time.

8. Scientists are making daily discoveries about this virus, and are proposing the means to treat it in record time. (Every evening when I retire, I thank God that we are one day closer to an answer to this virus.) Recent scientific findings have allowed for true heroes—in the shape of those willing to be test subjects—to step forth. I read a story one day about a vaccine in testing. A volunteer stepped up to receive it, after which she would be exposed, intentionally, to the virus so as to see how it would work. Wow. Just … wow ...

7. Healthcare workers on the front line report to work each day, notwithstanding the risks to themselves and their own. 

6. People are becoming aware of weaknesses in our system with respect to our dependence on other parties that are possibly unfriendly to us, and with regard to how we respond to the movement of people and goods. With this awareness, hopefully in the future, we will take action to correct problematic situations for the future.

5. Families and friends are able to stay in contact with one another through the internet, social media sites, by cell phone, and so on. It wasn’t that long ago when a situation like this would have left most of us largely alone and in the dark, and without information about those we love the most, but that is not the case today. (Fortunately, to date, my family and loved ones are all well. I hope the same is true for you.)

4. As the days pass, I find more people discovering a playful side to their nature, as they find humor in little unexpected places and things, and as they stay in touch (remotely and virtually) with their families, friends and other loved ones.

3. There is an increased awareness of our interdependence on one another and on the importance that various parties play. In many cases, people are showing gratitude to those who, too often, are overlooked. Today less focus is set on sports figures and celebrity entertainers, and more focus is directed toward truckers, clerks, mechanics, farmers, security personnel, and so on.

2. OK, this one is odd and very close to home, but I have to include it … Personally, I’ve discovered the benefits of CBD oil. Honestly, I do not know where I’d have been over these past weeks without it. I do have a tendency to be anxious (and even worse). This simple product has provided me with incredible relief and with better sleep. (If you are interested in a great source for a great product, let me know!)
​
1. The number one best thing I can share—which actually is so incredible that it is above the chart itself, and that is this: God is still on the throne and in control. I find comfort in His word. Here are just a few of the many versus that have encouraged me, of late:

Also, I just found this on YouTube. I thought I would share it with you.

When Hubby and I sit down to watch a movie together, one of our top favorite genres is fantasy. (You’re surprised, right? I knew you would be.) Much to our delight, the offerings are increasing in both volume and quality. And it’s about darned time my favorite genre in the whole wide world got wider recognition! It did, however, make the task of narrowing the selection down to three fairly formidable. There are “the greats,” of course: Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and The Hunger Games (in that order), but they’re so obvious. What about the other stuff? What about the also-really-great movies like …

The ramshackle hut sat in a damp tree-shaded hollow, deep in the Forest of Infatuation. An occasional bright green patch of mold stood out on its thatched roof and spotted its weathered, paint-crackled, windows.Their half-open shades looked like eyes peering down at the bed of poison ivy just outside the hut’s door, which hung slightly askew on its rusty hinges.

Nearby, Calico Dew hid. She patted Sneaker, her faithful canine companion, whose shaggy mottled coat helped him to meld into his surroundings. This well-served Calico’s purposes in carrying out her duties as an official retriever of stolen magic artifacts. However, Sneaker also came with a downside. That is, while his physical traits allowed him to rummage about stealthily, he also possessed a particularly annoying personality quirk. Specifically, he ofttimes absconded with small, shiny, objects. Calico’s mind wandered as she recalled how she’d one day discovered—quite by accident—what he did with them, but then she cautioned herself to return her focus to the present.
​
Just a day earlier, the nearby Wolfwater town denizens had informed Calico that the witch, Rosita Brack, who resided at the hut, was out of town. So Calico rushed there, hoping to find that which she sought—that which was rumored to be there, namely, the Boots of Ominous Delight. Ages old, they had proven most dangerous over the years, as anyone donning the footwear would find themselves delighted to remain lost in the forest. Too many good people under their evil magic had wandered their way off cliffs hidden in those woods, or into waters rushing through them, or down the jaws of the dangerous wildlife that inhabited them.

Calico was grateful she had the means to break the spell of the boots. She felt outside her pocket to confirm she still carried the tool necessary to do so: the Brooch of Nonexistent Misery. Made of gold, with a dozen inset light-reflecting precious stones of various colors, Calico could almost see the brooch shimmering through her pocket. She knew if she wore the item, its powers would allow her to wear the boots without danger (which would be most beneficial, as then she would not have to carry them back home or find room for them in her already over-filled backpack).

Having witnessed no movement around the hut, Calico approached. At the door, she hesitated, listening closely. Hearing nothing, she pressed on it, then winced when its hinges squeaked before directing Sneaker inside to scout.

After sniffing about to confirm that no one hid there, Sneaker whined his master’s way, inviting her to enter.

There! 

Almost immediately, Calico spotted the boots she sought standing in the corner opposite where she stood. Struggling to repress a grin, she retrieved the broach from her pocket so as to pin it on her tunic and thus, make short work of her venture.

At precisely that moment, the door squeaked once more. Shocked, Calico’s arms went flying, causing the trinket to pass from her fingertips and through the air. In a flash, her eyes followed its arc before turning back to find Rosita Brack, leaning against the doorsill. The woman's witchiness was most evident in the manner in which she had shadowed her now-narrowed eyes (likely with coal) and in which she had artfully painted her thin, scowling lips (in a color so deep and dark a red as to border on pitch). 

“Caught you!” Rosita cackled.

Calico knew Rosita’s history. The witch would put a spell on her, force her to don the magic boots, and then send her on her way. After all, she derived her greatest joy from the suffering of others.

Shaking, but with no hope of convincing the witch to spare her, Calico addressed her with a quivering voice. “Well,” she said, “it seems I’m trapped.”

“Indeed, you are,” Rosita responded. Within seconds, she spun her dark magic, rendering Calico compliant. Then she directed her to put the magic boots on. Once done, with a laugh bordering on the maniacal, Rosita sent Calico on her way, Sneaker at her side.​

Trudging through the forest, Calico found herself delighted with her surroundings. Even so, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew two things: first, that danger lurked; and second, that she possessed the means to overcome it. She had, after all, witnessed that precise moment when, in a flash, Sneaker had snapped the Brooch of Nonexistent Misery—after it flew from Calico’s fingers—out of the air and into his jaws. He had then—as Calico might well have expected—swallowed. And, thus, the means to escape the evil witch’s intentions walked at Calico’s side. In the end, while those means might not prove exactly … convenient ... or clean ... or odorless (eewww!), Calico was confident she would know freedom once more.

The autumn sun slid toward the horizon, gilding the moors and pulling twilight ever closer. Little streamers of fog drifted this way and that, half-formed fairy ribbons. Archibald Cumming laughed to himself. The old man was getting to him. Had already got to him, years ago, truth be told. And where was the old fool now? Shifting his backpack, he trudged up the sparse hill. Hands on hips, he stopped at the top to catch his breath before he had a look around. When he had his breathing under control again, he straightened and stood still and quiet, listening. Listening as he'd done dozens of times already just today. This wasn’t the first time the old codger had taken off on his own.

He was about to move on when he heard it …

"I'll be requested by kings," said the shiny face of ambition, caught somewhere between a boy and a man. But the glint in his eye was ageless.

"You'll be an outcast."

"Princes will offer me untold wealth and honor," he continued, unhearing.

"You'll reject it all."

​He rubbed his hands together unconsciously, unaware of how silly he looked, how small and unworthy. "My name will be known from the border of Darjil to the Jabob River and beyond."

"Where you will be unwelcome and hunted until the last of your days." The old man sighed. Ambition turned his head, the sigh finally catching his attention. Was the old one dying? Would he pass on the boots now?

"Master Eli...are you well?"

The grizzled beard, streaked white and grey and sandy-desert brown, twitched. Eli looked full at his apprentice. Looked in his soul through the undisguised eyes.

The boots would instruct him.

"I must go." Eli struggled to his feet. He could not rest. Not yet.

The apprentice's long eager fingers grasped an elbow, half helping, half clinging. "I'm going with you."
​
​Eli shrugged. "Do what you must."