Thorod Ashstaff
First Post
Round 3 - Thorod vs Mythago
SUMMIT
‘So few,’ Dimble thought, looking out over the crowd. He’d been hoping for twice as many, at least. ‘So few, but maybe it will be enough.’
There was a merrow from Ireland, nude as always, red haired and as tall as a mortal; there were a handful of pale skoggra from the north, nearly as tall as the merrow and with hair so blond it was almost white; a group of tommy-knockers had come over from the Americas, barely twenty inches high and still carrying their mining gear; the leshii had traveled from Russia, two-footers like Dimble, with their long black and grey hair reaching almost to the ground; and a few dozen of the tiny Huldrefolk had come, with their hats in their belts so they were visible. There was also the usual assortment of fairies and pixies that lived here in Brittany, and always came to the gathering.
Dimble cleared his throat, and jumped up on the stump of what had once been a huge oak. His choice of podium was intentional, but would anybody get it?
“Welcome, gentlefairies,” Dimble began. A few pixie children who had been playing flying tag stopped to hover and look down, but other than that Dimble might as well have been talking to the air. The merrow in the back was playing her harp, which currently sounded and looked like an electric guitar, and her music had caused an impromptu circle dance amongst the skoggra. The cantankerous tommy-knockers were trying to start a fight with the huldrefolk over nothing. The leshii were half-drunk on ale, and two of them had transformed into huge mushrooms just to show off. [picture 1, magicmushroom] A typical October gathering. Dimble sighed.
“Please, my friends,” Dimble said, nearly shouting, “listen!” That got a few more of them looking his way, but not enough; it was time to resort to more drastic measures. Dimble did some quick transformation magic, and now on the stump stood an eight-foot tall bridge troll with thick red hair and a resonant, deep voice as loud as Dimble could make it.
“Does it concern you at all that the immortals are DYING!” the transformed Dimble shouted. The spell had worked well. His voice swept over the gathering like a wave, and between the volume and his choice of words, he now had everyone’s stunned attention.
“That’s better,” Dimble said, shrinking down to his normal two-foot self. The pixie children clapped, thinking he was just showing off like the two leshii, but the rest were staring at him in shock.
“You heard me right,” Dimble continued, “I said we are dying. It’s a rude word, I know, but I make no apology for it. It is time to wake up, my friends, and look around!”
“I’m looking around,” one of the leshii shouted up at him, “but all I see is a brownie who’s too drunk to know when he’s out of line!”
“Maybe I am out of line,” Dimble said, “but I’m a lot more sober than you, Ivanik. I see a dozen of you leshii here tonight, a dozen. How many of you were here a hundred years ago?”
“How dare you!” Ivanik said, getting truly angry. “You know that’s one of the forbidden questions!” His long hair was standing on end, making him look more like a puffball than a leshii, and Dimble started to think up a counter-curse, just in case.
“It is the way of things, Dimble,” a skoggra named Inga said, “why darken our joy? What will that accomplish?”
“I know, I know,” Dimble said, “the eternal way. The children of Lilith wax and wane with the passing ages, and we do not ask why. But I am not talking about the natural way. We are dying like we have never died before, in any cycle! Will you answer the question, Inga, and ignore just this once that it is forbidden? How many skoggra are left in your forest? I only see seven of you here at the gathering.”
There was angry muttering from all directions now. “Leave her alone!” one of the tommy-knockers shouted. “You’re asking to be banished, brownie!” a pixie yelled, pulling his children away from the stump. It was quickly getting ugly, but Dimble didn’t budge.
“How many?” Dimble asked again, quietly. He kept staring at the blond skoggra, though by the hairs rising on the back of his neck he knew he was about to be blown clean off the stump by a leshii curse, or worse. The whole crowd was closing in; they had not heard this kind of blasphemy in a hundred gatherings.
“Wait!” Inga said, holding up her pale arms in supplication. The crowd stopped, curiosity balancing against outrage. “Wait, hold your magic. I will answer the question.”
“No, it is forbidden!” one of the other skoggra said, pushing through the crowd to reach Inga.
“I will answer!” Inga said again, her voice firm. She walked to the stump and turned to face the crowd. “How many of us have asked ourselves this same question, when we wake screaming from dreams of the mortal world? Are we angry at Dimble because he speaks what is forbidden? Or are we angry at him because he speaks what is in our hearts?” She had their attention. Curiosity - or recognition - was winning out over outrage.
“Three hundred,” Inga said. “Three hundred skoggra are all that remain in what’s left of Europe’s forests. That is why my dreams are black, though I still dance when the merrow plays.”
The merrow in the back nodded to the skoggra, acknowledging the truth of her words. The merrow’s electric guitar was once again an Irish harp, and her look was serious.
“There were thousands of us a hundred years ago,” Inga went on, “twice as many two hundred years before that! The brownie is right, this is no natural ebb and flow of the fey, no cycle of waning, this is real death. My forests are being cut down, and the trees that are left are dying from the very rain itself! It is not our way to discuss death, or to think about aught but the present, but does anyone else here remember who started this gathering? Does anyone remember Avriel?”
“It is forbidden to discuss those who have passed over!” one of the older Huldrefolk said, but his own companions shut him up with a quick bit of magic. Dimble knew that Inga had struck a chord, and the hairs on the back of his neck were lying flat again. He was grateful that his choice of podium had been recognized by the skoggra.
A nixie popped into visibility, her green hair shedding water as she spoke. “Avriel was my friend,” the nixie said, breaking one of the old laws by speaking of the dead. “Her forest was a sacred place then.”
‘Good,’ Dimble thought, ‘that’s three already, this might actually work.’
“Avriel was my friend too,” the merrow added. “She was the kindest, wisest and most beautiful dryad I’ve ever known. When she started this gathering it was deep in the forest, remember? Now we dance in an empty field, and Avriel is dead, her tree cut down with all the others that were here. You speak to us while standing on her grave, brownie, why?”
“Because I must,” Dimble said. “Because our old laws and our old ways are not enough to save us, not this time. The mortal world is on a path of pillage; they are out of control like they have never been in fey memory. It is time for the children of Lilith to rise up. I call a summit to discuss our own destruction, and what we can do to stop it. My name is Dimble, and I invoke Feymoot!”
There was a collective gasp from the crowd, though Dimble was pleased to see that it was surprise, not anger. At some deep level, they all knew he was right.
“Feymoot has not been called in over two thousand years,” the old huldre said, finally shaking off his fellows’ silence spell.
“Yeah, and it didn’t work out very well!” a tommy-knocker answered. “We reached a Consensus then alright. Hide, disappear, retreat. Look at us now, and see what that Consensus has done for us. I’ll answer the brownie’s question, huldre. I don’t think there’s a hundred knockers left in the Americas, and from the rumors I’ve heard there aren’t any left in Britain at all. Dimble is right, it’s time to wake up.” He raised his pickaxe high over his head and swung it in a circle. “My name is Shevik, and I invoke Feymoot!”
‘Just one more,’ Dimble thought, sensing the momentum shifting his way.
“I will also answer,” the merrow in the back said, her voice shaking. “I know of only three score of my kind who still live.” Her voice firmed up. “My name is Trishaelys, and I invoke Feymoot!”
There was a flash of light from the merrow’s harp, and it turned to ashes in her hands.
The merrow made a gesture with her fingers, and her lithe nude form was suddenly covered with coarse human clothing. “No music,” she said, “no dancing. No joy until there is a new Consensus!”
Suddenly they were all talking at once. Three invocations, from three fey, said out loud. They could all feel it deep in their bones, even the old huldre. Feymoot had begun.
“My lake is full of petrol, and my hair is turning as yellow as a dying weed,” Dimble heard the green nixie say. “And it’s too hot!” one of the tiny jacks-in-the-green answered, “we’ve all woken from wintersleep three weeks early these past years…” Dimble heard the like from all quarters now, too many deaths, too much poison, too little forest. He had burst the dam, and all the fey were speaking what they had kept buried in their hearts for too many gatherings. What he didn’t hear were any ideas on what to do about it. Invoking a new Feymoot had been easier than Dimble had thought, but he was sure that reaching a new Consensus would be much harder. As it turned out, he was completely wrong about that.
Dimble stepped off the stump, now that he’d accomplished what he came here to do, and joined in the debate. “What made you dare to risk banishment, Dimble?” Inga asked him. “Are the brownies in trouble too? You never told us how many of your kind were left.”
“One,” he said.
-
Once Feymoot had been invoked, word spread like wildfire. They came from all over Europe, by crossroads, or by stone circle, or by shadow-walking. A group of djinn came in by whirlwind, stirring up dust as they landed; they stirred up more than dust with their tales of the endless mortal wars in their lands, and the poisons that were being used in those wars. Even the nisse came, flying from group to group and arguing passionately in their high, musical voices.
It took seven days, just seven days of debate to reach Consensus. The last Feymoot had gone on for as many months. A few had wanted to come out of hiding, confront the mortal world directly in battle, but wiser heads prevailed. There were too few, they all knew that, too few to accomplish anything but their quick destruction with such a confrontation. But they had other ideas, and the children of Lilith were remembering that they were not weak.
The new Consensus was simple, really, when it was reached. Act. Engage the mortal world. Make every bit of magic be for the purpose of preservation, of life. Reverse the damage, and show the mortals a different path. No pranks, unless they furthered the cause. No seductions, unless they distracted a land developer or industrial polluter from his ways. No pots of gold, unless they went to mortals who fought the same fight.
It was going to be tough, and Dimble saw a long road in front of them. Some of the fey could not do magic when steel was over their heads, and there was a lot of steel now in the mortal world. Others could not act at all outside of their forests, or leave their ocean homes for more than a day or two. But they also had some advantages; few mortals in these times knew the fey weaknesses anymore, and most of those that did dismissed such knowledge as legend instead of racial memory. But their biggest advantage, now that Dimble had woken them up, was internal. It was the advantage of desperation.
The fey broke up the gathering, and traveled back to their homes to begin the new work. The mood was somber, but hopeful, and even as they left the field the various groups were coming up with new ideas and new plans. Dimble himself was going to start small, with an industrial pig farm on the edge of his forest. Ethry, the nixie from the gathering, decided to join him.
Two days later the two of them were approaching the farm. It was twilight; the time when he felt his own magic was strongest. There was a rope fence around the farm, and a human was walking by on the other side of the fence. ‘At least it’s hemp,’ Dimble thought, ‘much easier than chain link.’ He waved his hand, and a hole opened in the fence, just big enough for him and Ethry to climb through. [picture 2, theresahole]
The human looked over, hearing the hemp twist, and Ethry vanished in the blink of an eye. Dimble could not vanish, but he blended into the grasses as only a brownie could. The human was staring straight at Dimble, right through the hole in the fence, but saw nothing, and after a moment he continued his walk around the farm’s perimeter. Dimble smiled, brownies had always known that humans were very good at seeing what they wanted to see, and very bad at seeing what they did not believe should be there. Ethry reappeared, and the two of them climbed through the hole and headed for the largest building.
It was a big warehouse of cement block. The main door was steel, with a complicated lock, but no lock could defeat a brownie for long, and a moment later there was a click and the big door swung open. Once inside, Dimble and Ethry hid quickly behind a stack of pig feed, and looked around. It was bright, clean, and sterile, and the smells were more chemical than natural. And there were humans here, working still despite the late hour. A far cry from the last farmhouse Dimble had dared to visit, decades before.
Dimble reached out with his senses, and in no time he knew what their target should be. Another door stood directly across the room, and Dimble could smell what was stored beyond the door. Nasty, industrial, artificial. A hormone to make the pigs fatter. He knew that smell from his forest; this stuff had leaked into one of his favorite streams, and the little fish that used to live in the stream were gone. The frogs he’d had to kill himself, out of mercy. He whispered to Ethry, telling her about the hormone.
“I’ll take it from here,” she whispered back. There were no hiding places big enough for a brownie beyond the sacks of feed. “Time for a little nixie magic,” she said, “but I need to get closer.” She vanished again, and Dimble held his breath, watching the human workers. Ethry was as silent as a breeze as she walked, but Dimble could see her trail as plain as day under the harsh lights. With each step her tiny bare feet left a print of water on the warehouse floor, the old nixie weakness, but the humans did not notice. [picture 3, getyourfeetwet]
The watery footprints reached the door and stopped, it was Dimble’s turn. He cast his spell, and the lock on the door clicked quietly. The door opened a few inches and then closed, and still the humans saw nothing. It was almost an hour later when the door opened and closed again, and Dimble watched the tiny wet footprints cross back to him. Ethry reappeared at his side, looking exhausted, and gestured silently for them to leave. They ran for their hole in the fence, and made it out without any alarm being called out from the farm. Ethry was stumbling, and Dimble had to help her through the fields.
By the time they reached Dimble’s forest Ethry was close to unconsciousness, and her bright emerald skin had gone a pale pistachio color. Dimble carried her to the closest pond he knew, and slipped her limp body into the water. He stood vigil through the rest of the night, worrying, but in the morning Ethry emerged from the pond with a smile on her face. She looked exhausted, but her color was starting to come back.
“That was a good night’s work,” Ethry said, shaking the water from her green hair, “but I need to rest a day or two before we try something like that again!”
“What did you do? I felt the magic, but couldn’t identify it.”
Ethry laughed. “Every one of their precious vials of hormone is now full of pure spring water!” she said. “They can inject those poor beasts all they want, and it will do absolutely nothing. It was not easy though; there were a lot of vials. I haven’t used that much magic in many a long year.”
“I’m sorry,” Dimble said. “I’m sorry you had to use your magic on such a thing. I’m sorry the essence of who we are is reduced to this.”
“Don’t be, it should have started a long time ago. You should be proud, my friend. Besides, it feels good, doing something so real with my magic. Better than spooking the human children who come to swim in my lake. Come on, sit with me and let’s talk about what we will do tomorrow night!”
-
And so it went.
Land developers in Europe were losing interest in their developments, and getting divorced. The rumors said they would disappear every night, and come home in the morning haggard and too weak to work. They spoke to their psychiatrists of pale-skinned women in the moonlight, and were diagnosed with stress-induced hallucinations.
Corporate lawyers and government lobbyists were getting the urge to go on hiking vacations in their country’s national parks, after having strange dreams. Some came back changed, wanting to do something different with their lives. Others didn’t come back at all.
Scientists who had been struggling to fund their studies of alternative energy sources were suddenly receiving huge contributions. Sometimes the contributions were in pure gold coin, but the price of gold was high so the European banks did not question them too closely.
Coal miners in America were reporting strange tapping and creaking sounds deep in their mines, and as soon as the mines were evacuated for inspection they would collapse, no matter how strong the shorings had been. A few of the oldest miners had their suspicions, but nobody wanted to be called crazy so they kept their mouths shut.
In the Middle East oil fires were being blown out by sudden unexplained whirlwinds, but when they tried to restart the wells the workers found their deep reserves of oil had vanished, and the pumps poured out only sand. The wars of the area ground to a halt as equipment on both sides began to break down, always from freak dust storms. Extremists left their bomb labs, following shimmering illusions of silk-clad maidens, and never returned.
Commercial fishing barges were having trouble finding schools of fish, despite constant upgrades to their high-tech sonar equipment. When they did find fish, their steel net cables would be cut clean through, and the nets would disappear into the depths. Accusations of international submarine warfare kept popping up, but there were no submarines to report on the sonar. What the captains dared not report to their corporate owners were the sailor’s tales of bare-breasted women in the water, with flowing blue hair and shiny blue tails.
-
By the next April Dimble was still working with Ethry the nixie, a new mission every night. Both of their magical abilities were getting stronger, despite, or maybe because of, the constant use. And the air was cleaner, just a little. Dimble’s powerful nose was beginning to sense it. On one sunny day Dimble was sitting cross-legged on a beach in the west of Brittany, waiting for Ethry, who was in the ocean turning old syringes into seashells. It was a new power for her, something she didn’t even know she could do until she’d tried.
Dimble was relaxed, for once there were no humans in sight to hide from, but suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck rose up. ‘Magic,’ he thought, jumping up and looking around, ‘but not from the water.’ There was a swirl of white silk floating down from above, and as Dimble watched, the silk began to spin. The spinning silk landed in front of him on the sand, and transformed into a tiny warrior, not much taller than Dimble. He was pointing his long sword right at Dimble’s face, and his white silk robes blew out with the momentum of his spinning landing. [picture 4, stayin’alive]
“You!” the warrior shouted. “You are the invoker?”
Dimble could sense that the warrior was fey, one of the children of Lilith, but he did not recognize the type, though the fey’s power was clear.
“If you mean was I the first to call Feymoot, then yes,” Dimble said. “I am Dimble, brownie of the Brittany forests.”
The tiny warrior sheathed his sword, and bowed deeply. “I have found you at last,” he said, “after many months of searching. I have never met one of your kind, and did not know what to look for in either appearance or aura. I am Xuxuan, high shen of Mt. Heng, and I bring you a message from Madame White.”
Dimble had already guessed the fey was from the East, but the name of Madame White was a surprise. She was only a rumor to the European fey, but tales spoke of her great age and powerful magic. Dimble bowed back, trying to match the shen’s courtesy.
“What message does one of the legends of the East have for the likes of me?” Dimble asked.
“This,” the shen said. “Madame White honors you for what you have started, and wishes to tell you that the Eastern fey have joined you. The fox fairies will do their part, and the mountain fairies, and the shen. The high shen of the five sacred mountains will fight tirelessly in this new war,” Xuxuan nodded slightly, “as will Madame White herself. We have already caused the workers at Three Gorges to lay down their tools, and that is just the beginning. Madame White wishes for the fey of the East and the West to work together, as they have not done in centuries.”
“Your message is welcome indeed,” Dimble said, “and I will spread the word as quickly as I can. Now I know that we will succeed, no matter how long the struggle may take. Please tell Madame White that we are grateful, and will not forget.”
“There is more,” Xuxuan said, “a warning, and also a message for you alone. The high shen of the five sacred mountains wish you to know that if you - if any fey of the West - dares to invoke another Feymoot, there must be at least one shen or fox fairy present. Such powerful magic will not be called upon again without a representative from your Eastern brethren to bear witness.”
“That is a fair request, and I will honor it, as will my brothers and sisters in Europe. You have my word, by Lilith. But you said there was a message for me alone?”
“Yes. Madame White says that you may find what you have long sought if you take the road to the forests of Siberia.”
Dimble caught the meaning of the cryptic message at once, though a part of him did not dare to hope that it might be true. “That’s a very long road indeed,” Dimble said, “since I cannot fly through the air as a piece of white cloth, and must walk.”
“I suggest you try, nonetheless,” Xuxuan said. “Madame White does not give advice lightly.” The shen whipped his arms around, and his white robes began to spin, soon there was nothing in front of Dimble but a swath of spinning silk, which floated up on the breeze and was gone.
An hour later Dimble was still sitting on the beach, pondering the shen’s words, when Ethry walked out of the water.
“It is done,” she said, smiling, “this stretch of beach is pure again.” She looked at Dimble. “What is it, my friend, you look troubled.”
Dimble told Ethry of the shen’s visit, and repeated his messages from Madame White. When he was done she sat in thought for a while, her emerald hair dripping on the sand.
“You must go, of course,” Ethry said at last, taking his small brown hands in her webbed green ones. “If there is any chance…”
“But what of the cause, the new Consensus?”
“That fight has a life of its own now, Dimble, the shen’s visit proves that. It can go on without you for a while, though I will miss my partner. Go in blessedness, Dimble, and may you find what you seek.”
“Look for me at the October gathering,” Dimble said. “Whether I succeed or fail, I should be back by then.”
-
It was a long walk, and spring turned into summer as Dimble traveled east from one patch of forest to the next. Everywhere there were signs of the Consensus, changes for fey and mortal both. Loggers were no longer cutting into the old forests, and the mortals were finding other ways to satisfy their craving for wood. Older oil refineries were shutting down, as the flow of crude turned into a trickle. The air smelled sweeter with each passing month.
Always the local fey wanted to talk to Dimble, hear his tales of the fight and tell him their own. There were many long nights talking by starlight, and drinking ale in hidden groves of oak trees. Dimble found that he had become quite famous. The one who had invoked Feymoot, the one who had dared to ask the forbidden questions. The last brownie.
Eventually he grew impatient with the delays, and broke another old rule. He hid in the baggage car of a human train, though it was forbidden for fey to ride in a steal machine. In a week he had traveled through the rest of Europe and deep into Siberia, a journey that would have taken many months on foot. The forests here were still thick, thicker than anything that remained back home, and late one moonlit night Dimble left his hiding place, walked past the sleeping human passengers, and climbed up to the top of the train car, just to smell the trees. Or maybe from instinct.
He knew he should go back, dawn was coming soon and not everyone on the train was asleep; but something was holding him there, sitting cross-legged on the top of this great steel beast. There was a feeling in these woods the train was rushing through, more than just the smell of healthy trees. Then he sensed it, magic, from deep in the forest. And he recognized the magic. Dimble leaped.
-
The October gathering was one of the best in years, and one of the most crowded. The field now had a few human houses, including a big brick mansion built right over where Avriel’s tree had once stood, but no one cared. They just wove a few enchantment spells over the development and put all the humans to sleep, a very deep sleep. This was where Avriel had started the gathering, after all, and where the first Feymoot in two thousand years had been called. They weren’t about to move.
The reclusive nisse had come back, and were flying through the eaves of the brick mansion leaving garlands of glowing blue sparks that did not fade. The desert djinn had cast a forest illusion, a new trick for them, and the field was now surrounded by a thick, if somewhat shimmery, grove of trees. The tommy-knockers had brought their best ale, the stuff they usually kept for themselves, and were even sharing it with the huldrefolk. A few fox fairies were there as well, and the fey that had never met their Eastern brethren were plying them with ale and demanding to hear every song and tale the poor fox fairies could remember. Circle dances popped up at the least hint of suggestion, and harps and pipes were playing non-stop.
Everywhere there were the stories; this one about a successful raid on an oil refinery, that one about almost getting caught by an old human who still remembered some of the ancient tricks, another about a river where the fish had begun to return. There were even some stories about the mortals who were fighting the same fight, now with new energy and hope, though they still had no idea who was fighting at their side.
Dimble and Veshika shouldered their way through the crowd, hand in hand, trying to reach the new brick mansion. He ignored the shouts of recognition and the questions. When he opened the door to the human house he was greeted by a warm fire, and old friends. Ethry was there, her hair now as emerald green as her skin, with not a patch of yellow in sight. There also were Shevik the tommy-knocker, and Inga of the skoggra, and half a dozen more from the last gathering. And Trishaelys, naked again as was right and proper for her kind, even out of the water. Her harp sat on the mantelpiece, and Dimble knew when he saw it that they’d been waiting for him. They were all standing now, and clapping. Dimble smiled, and when he looked at Veshika he saw that she was smiling too, though more shyly.
“My friends,” Dimble said, “I would like you to meet Veshika, last brownie of the Siberian forests, and my wife.” There was a cheer, and then Ethry ran up and took both of them in a wide hug, getting them wet in the process.
“I was going to go for an Irish jig,” Trishaelys said, taking her harp down from the mantle, “but I think maybe something Russian would be more appropriate tonight!” Her harp changed into an accordion, and she sat down and began to play. [picture 5, polkanaked]
They all laughed, Veshika laughing along with the rest. Dimble still held Veshika’s hand, and he squeezed it in pure joy. Ethry took her other hand, and soon the group had formed a circle. Trishaelys’ music was loud and fast, and it was filled with powerful merrow magic.
They danced.
SUMMIT
‘So few,’ Dimble thought, looking out over the crowd. He’d been hoping for twice as many, at least. ‘So few, but maybe it will be enough.’
There was a merrow from Ireland, nude as always, red haired and as tall as a mortal; there were a handful of pale skoggra from the north, nearly as tall as the merrow and with hair so blond it was almost white; a group of tommy-knockers had come over from the Americas, barely twenty inches high and still carrying their mining gear; the leshii had traveled from Russia, two-footers like Dimble, with their long black and grey hair reaching almost to the ground; and a few dozen of the tiny Huldrefolk had come, with their hats in their belts so they were visible. There was also the usual assortment of fairies and pixies that lived here in Brittany, and always came to the gathering.
Dimble cleared his throat, and jumped up on the stump of what had once been a huge oak. His choice of podium was intentional, but would anybody get it?
“Welcome, gentlefairies,” Dimble began. A few pixie children who had been playing flying tag stopped to hover and look down, but other than that Dimble might as well have been talking to the air. The merrow in the back was playing her harp, which currently sounded and looked like an electric guitar, and her music had caused an impromptu circle dance amongst the skoggra. The cantankerous tommy-knockers were trying to start a fight with the huldrefolk over nothing. The leshii were half-drunk on ale, and two of them had transformed into huge mushrooms just to show off. [picture 1, magicmushroom] A typical October gathering. Dimble sighed.
“Please, my friends,” Dimble said, nearly shouting, “listen!” That got a few more of them looking his way, but not enough; it was time to resort to more drastic measures. Dimble did some quick transformation magic, and now on the stump stood an eight-foot tall bridge troll with thick red hair and a resonant, deep voice as loud as Dimble could make it.
“Does it concern you at all that the immortals are DYING!” the transformed Dimble shouted. The spell had worked well. His voice swept over the gathering like a wave, and between the volume and his choice of words, he now had everyone’s stunned attention.
“That’s better,” Dimble said, shrinking down to his normal two-foot self. The pixie children clapped, thinking he was just showing off like the two leshii, but the rest were staring at him in shock.
“You heard me right,” Dimble continued, “I said we are dying. It’s a rude word, I know, but I make no apology for it. It is time to wake up, my friends, and look around!”
“I’m looking around,” one of the leshii shouted up at him, “but all I see is a brownie who’s too drunk to know when he’s out of line!”
“Maybe I am out of line,” Dimble said, “but I’m a lot more sober than you, Ivanik. I see a dozen of you leshii here tonight, a dozen. How many of you were here a hundred years ago?”
“How dare you!” Ivanik said, getting truly angry. “You know that’s one of the forbidden questions!” His long hair was standing on end, making him look more like a puffball than a leshii, and Dimble started to think up a counter-curse, just in case.
“It is the way of things, Dimble,” a skoggra named Inga said, “why darken our joy? What will that accomplish?”
“I know, I know,” Dimble said, “the eternal way. The children of Lilith wax and wane with the passing ages, and we do not ask why. But I am not talking about the natural way. We are dying like we have never died before, in any cycle! Will you answer the question, Inga, and ignore just this once that it is forbidden? How many skoggra are left in your forest? I only see seven of you here at the gathering.”
There was angry muttering from all directions now. “Leave her alone!” one of the tommy-knockers shouted. “You’re asking to be banished, brownie!” a pixie yelled, pulling his children away from the stump. It was quickly getting ugly, but Dimble didn’t budge.
“How many?” Dimble asked again, quietly. He kept staring at the blond skoggra, though by the hairs rising on the back of his neck he knew he was about to be blown clean off the stump by a leshii curse, or worse. The whole crowd was closing in; they had not heard this kind of blasphemy in a hundred gatherings.
“Wait!” Inga said, holding up her pale arms in supplication. The crowd stopped, curiosity balancing against outrage. “Wait, hold your magic. I will answer the question.”
“No, it is forbidden!” one of the other skoggra said, pushing through the crowd to reach Inga.
“I will answer!” Inga said again, her voice firm. She walked to the stump and turned to face the crowd. “How many of us have asked ourselves this same question, when we wake screaming from dreams of the mortal world? Are we angry at Dimble because he speaks what is forbidden? Or are we angry at him because he speaks what is in our hearts?” She had their attention. Curiosity - or recognition - was winning out over outrage.
“Three hundred,” Inga said. “Three hundred skoggra are all that remain in what’s left of Europe’s forests. That is why my dreams are black, though I still dance when the merrow plays.”
The merrow in the back nodded to the skoggra, acknowledging the truth of her words. The merrow’s electric guitar was once again an Irish harp, and her look was serious.
“There were thousands of us a hundred years ago,” Inga went on, “twice as many two hundred years before that! The brownie is right, this is no natural ebb and flow of the fey, no cycle of waning, this is real death. My forests are being cut down, and the trees that are left are dying from the very rain itself! It is not our way to discuss death, or to think about aught but the present, but does anyone else here remember who started this gathering? Does anyone remember Avriel?”
“It is forbidden to discuss those who have passed over!” one of the older Huldrefolk said, but his own companions shut him up with a quick bit of magic. Dimble knew that Inga had struck a chord, and the hairs on the back of his neck were lying flat again. He was grateful that his choice of podium had been recognized by the skoggra.
A nixie popped into visibility, her green hair shedding water as she spoke. “Avriel was my friend,” the nixie said, breaking one of the old laws by speaking of the dead. “Her forest was a sacred place then.”
‘Good,’ Dimble thought, ‘that’s three already, this might actually work.’
“Avriel was my friend too,” the merrow added. “She was the kindest, wisest and most beautiful dryad I’ve ever known. When she started this gathering it was deep in the forest, remember? Now we dance in an empty field, and Avriel is dead, her tree cut down with all the others that were here. You speak to us while standing on her grave, brownie, why?”
“Because I must,” Dimble said. “Because our old laws and our old ways are not enough to save us, not this time. The mortal world is on a path of pillage; they are out of control like they have never been in fey memory. It is time for the children of Lilith to rise up. I call a summit to discuss our own destruction, and what we can do to stop it. My name is Dimble, and I invoke Feymoot!”
There was a collective gasp from the crowd, though Dimble was pleased to see that it was surprise, not anger. At some deep level, they all knew he was right.
“Feymoot has not been called in over two thousand years,” the old huldre said, finally shaking off his fellows’ silence spell.
“Yeah, and it didn’t work out very well!” a tommy-knocker answered. “We reached a Consensus then alright. Hide, disappear, retreat. Look at us now, and see what that Consensus has done for us. I’ll answer the brownie’s question, huldre. I don’t think there’s a hundred knockers left in the Americas, and from the rumors I’ve heard there aren’t any left in Britain at all. Dimble is right, it’s time to wake up.” He raised his pickaxe high over his head and swung it in a circle. “My name is Shevik, and I invoke Feymoot!”
‘Just one more,’ Dimble thought, sensing the momentum shifting his way.
“I will also answer,” the merrow in the back said, her voice shaking. “I know of only three score of my kind who still live.” Her voice firmed up. “My name is Trishaelys, and I invoke Feymoot!”
There was a flash of light from the merrow’s harp, and it turned to ashes in her hands.
The merrow made a gesture with her fingers, and her lithe nude form was suddenly covered with coarse human clothing. “No music,” she said, “no dancing. No joy until there is a new Consensus!”
Suddenly they were all talking at once. Three invocations, from three fey, said out loud. They could all feel it deep in their bones, even the old huldre. Feymoot had begun.
“My lake is full of petrol, and my hair is turning as yellow as a dying weed,” Dimble heard the green nixie say. “And it’s too hot!” one of the tiny jacks-in-the-green answered, “we’ve all woken from wintersleep three weeks early these past years…” Dimble heard the like from all quarters now, too many deaths, too much poison, too little forest. He had burst the dam, and all the fey were speaking what they had kept buried in their hearts for too many gatherings. What he didn’t hear were any ideas on what to do about it. Invoking a new Feymoot had been easier than Dimble had thought, but he was sure that reaching a new Consensus would be much harder. As it turned out, he was completely wrong about that.
Dimble stepped off the stump, now that he’d accomplished what he came here to do, and joined in the debate. “What made you dare to risk banishment, Dimble?” Inga asked him. “Are the brownies in trouble too? You never told us how many of your kind were left.”
“One,” he said.
-
Once Feymoot had been invoked, word spread like wildfire. They came from all over Europe, by crossroads, or by stone circle, or by shadow-walking. A group of djinn came in by whirlwind, stirring up dust as they landed; they stirred up more than dust with their tales of the endless mortal wars in their lands, and the poisons that were being used in those wars. Even the nisse came, flying from group to group and arguing passionately in their high, musical voices.
It took seven days, just seven days of debate to reach Consensus. The last Feymoot had gone on for as many months. A few had wanted to come out of hiding, confront the mortal world directly in battle, but wiser heads prevailed. There were too few, they all knew that, too few to accomplish anything but their quick destruction with such a confrontation. But they had other ideas, and the children of Lilith were remembering that they were not weak.
The new Consensus was simple, really, when it was reached. Act. Engage the mortal world. Make every bit of magic be for the purpose of preservation, of life. Reverse the damage, and show the mortals a different path. No pranks, unless they furthered the cause. No seductions, unless they distracted a land developer or industrial polluter from his ways. No pots of gold, unless they went to mortals who fought the same fight.
It was going to be tough, and Dimble saw a long road in front of them. Some of the fey could not do magic when steel was over their heads, and there was a lot of steel now in the mortal world. Others could not act at all outside of their forests, or leave their ocean homes for more than a day or two. But they also had some advantages; few mortals in these times knew the fey weaknesses anymore, and most of those that did dismissed such knowledge as legend instead of racial memory. But their biggest advantage, now that Dimble had woken them up, was internal. It was the advantage of desperation.
The fey broke up the gathering, and traveled back to their homes to begin the new work. The mood was somber, but hopeful, and even as they left the field the various groups were coming up with new ideas and new plans. Dimble himself was going to start small, with an industrial pig farm on the edge of his forest. Ethry, the nixie from the gathering, decided to join him.
Two days later the two of them were approaching the farm. It was twilight; the time when he felt his own magic was strongest. There was a rope fence around the farm, and a human was walking by on the other side of the fence. ‘At least it’s hemp,’ Dimble thought, ‘much easier than chain link.’ He waved his hand, and a hole opened in the fence, just big enough for him and Ethry to climb through. [picture 2, theresahole]
The human looked over, hearing the hemp twist, and Ethry vanished in the blink of an eye. Dimble could not vanish, but he blended into the grasses as only a brownie could. The human was staring straight at Dimble, right through the hole in the fence, but saw nothing, and after a moment he continued his walk around the farm’s perimeter. Dimble smiled, brownies had always known that humans were very good at seeing what they wanted to see, and very bad at seeing what they did not believe should be there. Ethry reappeared, and the two of them climbed through the hole and headed for the largest building.
It was a big warehouse of cement block. The main door was steel, with a complicated lock, but no lock could defeat a brownie for long, and a moment later there was a click and the big door swung open. Once inside, Dimble and Ethry hid quickly behind a stack of pig feed, and looked around. It was bright, clean, and sterile, and the smells were more chemical than natural. And there were humans here, working still despite the late hour. A far cry from the last farmhouse Dimble had dared to visit, decades before.
Dimble reached out with his senses, and in no time he knew what their target should be. Another door stood directly across the room, and Dimble could smell what was stored beyond the door. Nasty, industrial, artificial. A hormone to make the pigs fatter. He knew that smell from his forest; this stuff had leaked into one of his favorite streams, and the little fish that used to live in the stream were gone. The frogs he’d had to kill himself, out of mercy. He whispered to Ethry, telling her about the hormone.
“I’ll take it from here,” she whispered back. There were no hiding places big enough for a brownie beyond the sacks of feed. “Time for a little nixie magic,” she said, “but I need to get closer.” She vanished again, and Dimble held his breath, watching the human workers. Ethry was as silent as a breeze as she walked, but Dimble could see her trail as plain as day under the harsh lights. With each step her tiny bare feet left a print of water on the warehouse floor, the old nixie weakness, but the humans did not notice. [picture 3, getyourfeetwet]
The watery footprints reached the door and stopped, it was Dimble’s turn. He cast his spell, and the lock on the door clicked quietly. The door opened a few inches and then closed, and still the humans saw nothing. It was almost an hour later when the door opened and closed again, and Dimble watched the tiny wet footprints cross back to him. Ethry reappeared at his side, looking exhausted, and gestured silently for them to leave. They ran for their hole in the fence, and made it out without any alarm being called out from the farm. Ethry was stumbling, and Dimble had to help her through the fields.
By the time they reached Dimble’s forest Ethry was close to unconsciousness, and her bright emerald skin had gone a pale pistachio color. Dimble carried her to the closest pond he knew, and slipped her limp body into the water. He stood vigil through the rest of the night, worrying, but in the morning Ethry emerged from the pond with a smile on her face. She looked exhausted, but her color was starting to come back.
“That was a good night’s work,” Ethry said, shaking the water from her green hair, “but I need to rest a day or two before we try something like that again!”
“What did you do? I felt the magic, but couldn’t identify it.”
Ethry laughed. “Every one of their precious vials of hormone is now full of pure spring water!” she said. “They can inject those poor beasts all they want, and it will do absolutely nothing. It was not easy though; there were a lot of vials. I haven’t used that much magic in many a long year.”
“I’m sorry,” Dimble said. “I’m sorry you had to use your magic on such a thing. I’m sorry the essence of who we are is reduced to this.”
“Don’t be, it should have started a long time ago. You should be proud, my friend. Besides, it feels good, doing something so real with my magic. Better than spooking the human children who come to swim in my lake. Come on, sit with me and let’s talk about what we will do tomorrow night!”
-
And so it went.
Land developers in Europe were losing interest in their developments, and getting divorced. The rumors said they would disappear every night, and come home in the morning haggard and too weak to work. They spoke to their psychiatrists of pale-skinned women in the moonlight, and were diagnosed with stress-induced hallucinations.
Corporate lawyers and government lobbyists were getting the urge to go on hiking vacations in their country’s national parks, after having strange dreams. Some came back changed, wanting to do something different with their lives. Others didn’t come back at all.
Scientists who had been struggling to fund their studies of alternative energy sources were suddenly receiving huge contributions. Sometimes the contributions were in pure gold coin, but the price of gold was high so the European banks did not question them too closely.
Coal miners in America were reporting strange tapping and creaking sounds deep in their mines, and as soon as the mines were evacuated for inspection they would collapse, no matter how strong the shorings had been. A few of the oldest miners had their suspicions, but nobody wanted to be called crazy so they kept their mouths shut.
In the Middle East oil fires were being blown out by sudden unexplained whirlwinds, but when they tried to restart the wells the workers found their deep reserves of oil had vanished, and the pumps poured out only sand. The wars of the area ground to a halt as equipment on both sides began to break down, always from freak dust storms. Extremists left their bomb labs, following shimmering illusions of silk-clad maidens, and never returned.
Commercial fishing barges were having trouble finding schools of fish, despite constant upgrades to their high-tech sonar equipment. When they did find fish, their steel net cables would be cut clean through, and the nets would disappear into the depths. Accusations of international submarine warfare kept popping up, but there were no submarines to report on the sonar. What the captains dared not report to their corporate owners were the sailor’s tales of bare-breasted women in the water, with flowing blue hair and shiny blue tails.
-
By the next April Dimble was still working with Ethry the nixie, a new mission every night. Both of their magical abilities were getting stronger, despite, or maybe because of, the constant use. And the air was cleaner, just a little. Dimble’s powerful nose was beginning to sense it. On one sunny day Dimble was sitting cross-legged on a beach in the west of Brittany, waiting for Ethry, who was in the ocean turning old syringes into seashells. It was a new power for her, something she didn’t even know she could do until she’d tried.
Dimble was relaxed, for once there were no humans in sight to hide from, but suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck rose up. ‘Magic,’ he thought, jumping up and looking around, ‘but not from the water.’ There was a swirl of white silk floating down from above, and as Dimble watched, the silk began to spin. The spinning silk landed in front of him on the sand, and transformed into a tiny warrior, not much taller than Dimble. He was pointing his long sword right at Dimble’s face, and his white silk robes blew out with the momentum of his spinning landing. [picture 4, stayin’alive]
“You!” the warrior shouted. “You are the invoker?”
Dimble could sense that the warrior was fey, one of the children of Lilith, but he did not recognize the type, though the fey’s power was clear.
“If you mean was I the first to call Feymoot, then yes,” Dimble said. “I am Dimble, brownie of the Brittany forests.”
The tiny warrior sheathed his sword, and bowed deeply. “I have found you at last,” he said, “after many months of searching. I have never met one of your kind, and did not know what to look for in either appearance or aura. I am Xuxuan, high shen of Mt. Heng, and I bring you a message from Madame White.”
Dimble had already guessed the fey was from the East, but the name of Madame White was a surprise. She was only a rumor to the European fey, but tales spoke of her great age and powerful magic. Dimble bowed back, trying to match the shen’s courtesy.
“What message does one of the legends of the East have for the likes of me?” Dimble asked.
“This,” the shen said. “Madame White honors you for what you have started, and wishes to tell you that the Eastern fey have joined you. The fox fairies will do their part, and the mountain fairies, and the shen. The high shen of the five sacred mountains will fight tirelessly in this new war,” Xuxuan nodded slightly, “as will Madame White herself. We have already caused the workers at Three Gorges to lay down their tools, and that is just the beginning. Madame White wishes for the fey of the East and the West to work together, as they have not done in centuries.”
“Your message is welcome indeed,” Dimble said, “and I will spread the word as quickly as I can. Now I know that we will succeed, no matter how long the struggle may take. Please tell Madame White that we are grateful, and will not forget.”
“There is more,” Xuxuan said, “a warning, and also a message for you alone. The high shen of the five sacred mountains wish you to know that if you - if any fey of the West - dares to invoke another Feymoot, there must be at least one shen or fox fairy present. Such powerful magic will not be called upon again without a representative from your Eastern brethren to bear witness.”
“That is a fair request, and I will honor it, as will my brothers and sisters in Europe. You have my word, by Lilith. But you said there was a message for me alone?”
“Yes. Madame White says that you may find what you have long sought if you take the road to the forests of Siberia.”
Dimble caught the meaning of the cryptic message at once, though a part of him did not dare to hope that it might be true. “That’s a very long road indeed,” Dimble said, “since I cannot fly through the air as a piece of white cloth, and must walk.”
“I suggest you try, nonetheless,” Xuxuan said. “Madame White does not give advice lightly.” The shen whipped his arms around, and his white robes began to spin, soon there was nothing in front of Dimble but a swath of spinning silk, which floated up on the breeze and was gone.
An hour later Dimble was still sitting on the beach, pondering the shen’s words, when Ethry walked out of the water.
“It is done,” she said, smiling, “this stretch of beach is pure again.” She looked at Dimble. “What is it, my friend, you look troubled.”
Dimble told Ethry of the shen’s visit, and repeated his messages from Madame White. When he was done she sat in thought for a while, her emerald hair dripping on the sand.
“You must go, of course,” Ethry said at last, taking his small brown hands in her webbed green ones. “If there is any chance…”
“But what of the cause, the new Consensus?”
“That fight has a life of its own now, Dimble, the shen’s visit proves that. It can go on without you for a while, though I will miss my partner. Go in blessedness, Dimble, and may you find what you seek.”
“Look for me at the October gathering,” Dimble said. “Whether I succeed or fail, I should be back by then.”
-
It was a long walk, and spring turned into summer as Dimble traveled east from one patch of forest to the next. Everywhere there were signs of the Consensus, changes for fey and mortal both. Loggers were no longer cutting into the old forests, and the mortals were finding other ways to satisfy their craving for wood. Older oil refineries were shutting down, as the flow of crude turned into a trickle. The air smelled sweeter with each passing month.
Always the local fey wanted to talk to Dimble, hear his tales of the fight and tell him their own. There were many long nights talking by starlight, and drinking ale in hidden groves of oak trees. Dimble found that he had become quite famous. The one who had invoked Feymoot, the one who had dared to ask the forbidden questions. The last brownie.
Eventually he grew impatient with the delays, and broke another old rule. He hid in the baggage car of a human train, though it was forbidden for fey to ride in a steal machine. In a week he had traveled through the rest of Europe and deep into Siberia, a journey that would have taken many months on foot. The forests here were still thick, thicker than anything that remained back home, and late one moonlit night Dimble left his hiding place, walked past the sleeping human passengers, and climbed up to the top of the train car, just to smell the trees. Or maybe from instinct.
He knew he should go back, dawn was coming soon and not everyone on the train was asleep; but something was holding him there, sitting cross-legged on the top of this great steel beast. There was a feeling in these woods the train was rushing through, more than just the smell of healthy trees. Then he sensed it, magic, from deep in the forest. And he recognized the magic. Dimble leaped.
-
The October gathering was one of the best in years, and one of the most crowded. The field now had a few human houses, including a big brick mansion built right over where Avriel’s tree had once stood, but no one cared. They just wove a few enchantment spells over the development and put all the humans to sleep, a very deep sleep. This was where Avriel had started the gathering, after all, and where the first Feymoot in two thousand years had been called. They weren’t about to move.
The reclusive nisse had come back, and were flying through the eaves of the brick mansion leaving garlands of glowing blue sparks that did not fade. The desert djinn had cast a forest illusion, a new trick for them, and the field was now surrounded by a thick, if somewhat shimmery, grove of trees. The tommy-knockers had brought their best ale, the stuff they usually kept for themselves, and were even sharing it with the huldrefolk. A few fox fairies were there as well, and the fey that had never met their Eastern brethren were plying them with ale and demanding to hear every song and tale the poor fox fairies could remember. Circle dances popped up at the least hint of suggestion, and harps and pipes were playing non-stop.
Everywhere there were the stories; this one about a successful raid on an oil refinery, that one about almost getting caught by an old human who still remembered some of the ancient tricks, another about a river where the fish had begun to return. There were even some stories about the mortals who were fighting the same fight, now with new energy and hope, though they still had no idea who was fighting at their side.
Dimble and Veshika shouldered their way through the crowd, hand in hand, trying to reach the new brick mansion. He ignored the shouts of recognition and the questions. When he opened the door to the human house he was greeted by a warm fire, and old friends. Ethry was there, her hair now as emerald green as her skin, with not a patch of yellow in sight. There also were Shevik the tommy-knocker, and Inga of the skoggra, and half a dozen more from the last gathering. And Trishaelys, naked again as was right and proper for her kind, even out of the water. Her harp sat on the mantelpiece, and Dimble knew when he saw it that they’d been waiting for him. They were all standing now, and clapping. Dimble smiled, and when he looked at Veshika he saw that she was smiling too, though more shyly.
“My friends,” Dimble said, “I would like you to meet Veshika, last brownie of the Siberian forests, and my wife.” There was a cheer, and then Ethry ran up and took both of them in a wide hug, getting them wet in the process.
“I was going to go for an Irish jig,” Trishaelys said, taking her harp down from the mantle, “but I think maybe something Russian would be more appropriate tonight!” Her harp changed into an accordion, and she sat down and began to play. [picture 5, polkanaked]
They all laughed, Veshika laughing along with the rest. Dimble still held Veshika’s hand, and he squeezed it in pure joy. Ethry took her other hand, and soon the group had formed a circle. Trishaelys’ music was loud and fast, and it was filled with powerful merrow magic.
They danced.
