“Cut off my hair?! Seriously?”

Harley clutched the longest strands and wrapped them around her fingers. She couldn’t even handle trimming the ends, how could Barten take off whole inches? She squinted at him, distrusting.

“Yes—I need to cut it,” said Barten.

“All of it?”

Barten nodded.

“That can’t be the only option.”

She crossed her arms and stared at him angrily. This same tactic worked on her Dad, so it would work against the old gnome too. There were always more options than just one.

“The fairies marked your hair, weaving their magic into each strand they touched. I can sense it as clear as your eyes fall on me with hatred. But there’s no other way to remove the trick besides complete separation of the affected strands. You let them touch your hair, did you not? I cannot rewind time but I do have a pair of scissors,” said Barten.

James stood wide-eyed, trying to hide a smirk. “You’re going to look so weird.”

“Not helpful,” scowled Harley. “Go away.”

Berwick chimed in with his advice on cutting techniques, then bickered with Barten about the best haircut to ensure all the magic was removed: crop cut vs. close cut, short top or short shaggy.

Harley felt heated, her anger growing as the gnomes continued their bickering. Every option they presented seemed horrible. It wasnt just unbearable to listen to, it was torture. Finally she couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.

“Stop!” she yelled, stomping.

She ranted, “No one’s cutting my hair. No one, do you hear me? How do I know anything you say is true? You made us explain who we are, now it’s your turn to give me some proof. The fairy’s mark, the watching trees, Cutter’s Gate, singing stones—whatever else—prove it!”

“There’s no other way,” said Barten.

“It saved Borten’s life too,” added Berwick.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fine, fine. We’ll prove it to you,” said Barten. “Let’s start with the singing stones.”

He went to the hearth and picked up a small hammer that hung off the mantle, then signaled for Harley and James to come over. The hearth was assembled with stones arranged neatly in rows. Barten pinged them with the hammer one by one. Each stone made the sound of a bell; some high, others low, but each unique in its own way.

“Can I try?” asked James.

“Certainly,” said Barten.

James took the hammer and gently tapped a stone. It sang a note. He hit another and it sang too. His face lit up like he’d been given a gift. He tried every stone he could reach and some of them twice.

Barten spoke, “The singing stones have a memory; they know the myths and legends, they remember how the world was, and those who have come and gone. You must draw out the memories. Now hand me the hammer.”

James gave it back and plopped on the floor next to Harley. With grace and skill, Barten played the hearth and a wondrous melody filled the house. It was like chimes played by the wind.

Harley closed her eyes. She was home. The sway of the porch swing soothed her and she watched her Mom work in the garden. Out went the weeds, one after another, as Johan plucked dandelions in the yard. A familiar van stopped at the end of her driveway. Taylor smiled through the rolled-down window as Marcie yelled her name from the backseat. Harley skipped off the porch and jogged toward the van.

Harley! Come on, Harley! Harley!

“Harley!” said James.

“What?”

“You looked weird. What were you doing with your face?”

Harley shot him a mean look. With the stones quiet, she was ready to move on, and the next topic was Cutter’s Gate.

This time Berwick provided the proof—a meticulously detailed logbook, handwritten in ink and beautifully drawn, with illustrations of travel through Agoritha. He opened to a page with a great mountain split in two, and through the center a path, twisting and narrow, with oak, spruce, and pine clustered thick at the base and sparsely up the slope.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“The forest grows and dies, changing as often as the seasons, but the mountain resists change, and Cutter’s Gate remains the only pass through the ridge,” said Berwick.

“And that’s what it looks like?” asked Harley.

“Exactly.” said Berwick. He tore the page from the book and gave it to her.

“Can I see?” said James as he snatched the page for himself. “That’s Cutter’s Gate?”

“What about the trees? Should we avoid the ones with faces?” said Harley.

“The trunkmen? No, no—don’t worry about them, they’re good-natured bark,” replied Berwick as he flipped through his logbook. “Just leave them be and you’ll be fine. But see this one with the black growths and mushrooms? Those trees are the watchers. Stay clear of those—they can kill you.”

Harley nodded her head.

“Go ahead and show them the drawing of Borten,” said Barten.

“I’m getting to that, now let me find it—aha! See this ugly gnome with a bald head? That’s my brother Borten. Now keep in mind this is back when we all had hair on the top of our heads. We shaved him clean after he nearly got taken by the magic of a fairy grove. He looked like such a blastering fool, I couldn’t help myself—I drew him on the spot,” said Berwick.

“I don’t want to be bald,” whined Harley.

James burst out in a fit of giggles.

“Well, in the early days we didn’t know much about the fae. A few unfortunate gnomes died before we learned they weaved their tricks into locks of hair, and Borten wasn’t one to take chances,” said Berwick. He closed the logbook and set it down next to the scissors. “But it’s your choice to make.”

Harley sighed and ran her fingers through her long black hair. The struggle against the fairy Aurora was still fresh in her mind, and if the other fairies found her, it would certainly end badly. The choice was life or death, and considering that she wanted to live, she didn’t have any more options—she had to cut her hair.

“I’ll do it myself,” said Harley. She took the scissors in hand, pointing the sharp end out to warn them. “If anyone laughs—I’ll cut you!”

Without a mirror, Harley cut her long locks one by one, until no hair the fairies touched remained on her head, and there was no laughing, not a single peep, not even a comment from James. She swept her hair out through the door and into the rain, then shook off the loose strands and used water to wipe her face. The task complete, she sat by the hearth to mourn.

Barten was stirring the embers while James leaned against the stone wolf. Berwick had fallen asleep in his chair. A sleeping gnome was a peculiar sight, and he looked more like a lawn ornament than the real thing.

“Bleh,” she grumbled. “Looks like we’re stuck here for the night.”

“Hey, Harley?” said James, timidly. “Is Yoyo dead?”

The bluntness of the question took her by surprise. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, I was thinking about it and we don’t know where he is. What if he got struck by lightning or something? Do you think he found shelter too?”

“He knows to stay out of the rain.”

“So you think he’s alive?”

The real answer was complicated. Uncertain. Grim. Answering truthfully would hurt James.

“We’ll look for him,” said Harley.

“Okay,” James responded softly as he traced his finger across the floor.

It was a half truth, and eventually he’d learn the full truth. They needed to forge on, looking for Johan but not seeking Johan. The odds were against him being alive, and they would certainly die too if they stayed here long. The gnomes had said where to go and they needed to get there as fast as possible to survive. At the first sign of daybreak, they’d set out on the trail to Cutter’s Gate.

“Hey, Harley?” said James.

“Hm?”

“Remember that time our whole family went to the zoo?”

“Yeah.”

“And at lunch we all got ice cream?”

“Yeah, James.”

“Do you think the gnomes have ice cream?”

“No, James. I don’t think so. But if they did, they’d have rocky road, with all the marshmallows replaced with real rock.”

James smiled and rested his head on the floor. He sprawled out like he did so often at home, watching television in the living room, tired, prolonging the inevitability of bedtime.

Harley had questions to ask Barten, but it would have to wait till morning—he had fallen asleep in a chair next to Berwick. The embers on the hearth were glowing a deep red color and the house seemed to yawn. In the silence she examined the cut on her hand.

Best not to touch it. Maybe tomorrow it’ll be better, or maybe I’ll wake up in my bed, and this will all be over. A bad dream. Mom always said dairy causes bad dreams and I ate three of those yogurts without thinking. They tasted good, how was I supposed to know what a mess it would cause? They should really put a warning sticker on the label. A person can’t be expected to know everything…

She escaped into the daydream for a long while, eventually stirring to check on her brother.

“James?” whispered Harley.

He didn’t move.

“James?”

She leaned over to see his face.

His eyes were shut, his mouth was open, his breath drew steadily in and back out. He was sleeping soundly.

It had been a long day and she was glad to be with him. They were stuck overnight with the gnomes, but the house was dry and she was warm. She closed her eyes and listened to the pitter-patter of rain. It calmed her. A final thought lingered as she drifted off to sleep.

Tomorrow we’re going to Cutter’s Gate.