Chapter 6
Who Stirs the Cauldron of the Lake?
— Part the Second —
Upon setting foot ashore, Jyré dashed over the rocks, his gaze searching at once for his father. The fire blazed ever brighter and higher, casting flickering shadows across the gathering. Soon enough, he spotted Fév, steadily tending the flames with her serene, thoughtful expression. Her hair, bound by a pine-needle circlet tied neatly behind her ears, shimmered with the same hue as the flames themselves, seeming to dance alongside them in the gentle breeze. She felt her brother's eyes upon her, lifted her gaze, and smiled, nodding in greeting. Jyré waved back.
Al, too, appeared without need for searching, wandering amidst the merriment of the gathering, a picture of good cheer. Fet, meanwhile, sat stiffly atop a tree branch, legs dangling like a puppet's. In the dusk's deepening shadows, his small figure was as black as pitch, save for the gleaming, covetous glint of his eyes. From a distance, one might mistake him for a catelf, rather than an elven boy. Yet Father? Nowhere to be seen.
Gathén, having climbed from the low bank onto the rocky rise, now stood beside Jyré, steadying himself with the rowan branch as though it were a great staff. Above, three waxwings swooped and jostled, their wings brushing as they pecked greedily at the crimson berries. Kyanna burst from the throng with a wide grin upon her round face, snatching a sprig from the branch. Raising her voice to be heard over the joyful din, she called out:
“Father! Come now — they're waiting for you to begin!”
The storyteller chuckled as Kyanna swiftly wove the rowan sprig into her beechwood wreath and set it back upon her raven-dark hair. Gathén strode forward, melting into the crowd. His booming, resonant voice rang out, silencing the gathering for a spell as all turned to hear him.
And thus, he began his tale:
Mistress Pine , the lofty lady, whose skin is dark as bark and eyes as black as smouldering coals, her hair a wild cloud of pine needles and twigs, loved from the dawn of time all that, in the mind of the Lord of Trees, was imagined to be water. The Lord of Trees, ever watchful, noticed how the solemn and sorrowful face of Mistress Pine would brighten with a rare smile when she dreamed of seas, rivers, lakes, mighty glaciers, and rains luminous as starfall. And so, he granted her leave to aid in their slow creation.
At times, she astonished even him with her craft — for even the Lord of Trees, with his boundless genius and foresight, could still be surprised by his own creations. And though no Master might shape a soul, their mastery of matter is unmatched. And so Mistress Pine, from the smallest particles, wove lakes, rivers, seas, glaciers, and rain. For this, the tidecomers — the Wardens of Water — loved her above all other Children of the Trees.
Yet once, Mistress Pine astounded the Lord of Trees anew.
There was a lake-daemon, one who served nought but the Likho and dwelt amidst the marsh-marigolds. Oft did he rise above the water’s surface, his head crowned with reeds and his dark thoughts circling like black butterflies above him, to mar Mistress Pine’s designs and undo her works. He was no weak daemon, bearing strength and cunning aplenty. Yet, one day, a storm came upon the waters. The lake surged, and a bolt of lightning struck, wounding the daemon grievously and pulling him toward the depths.
With no hesitation, Mistress Pine strode upon the waters — untouched by the lightning (a gift only later inherited by the vodyanoys) — and pulled the lake-creature from his fate. She healed him and, without judgement, let him go free. From that moment, she became the beloved of the Lord of Trees, for he understood that her spirit was pure and her mind truly comprehended his own. As a reward, he bestowed upon Mistress Pine the greatest gift of healing known to the universe, unmatched by any other being, to wield wisely in her boundless mindfulness.
There was also Master Beech , the artist…
"Father!" Kyanna interrupted eagerly. "You can finish the tale later — now let’s be merry!"
The storyteller grinned wide.
"Very well, my impatient daughter! Welcome, then, Feast of the Night, when the Lord of Trees blesses the love of Master Beech and Mistress Pine, giving her to him as bride! Let us play and revel at their wedding!"
"And these fruits of Mistress Spinner," he added with a jest, laying the bough of rowan with a grand flourish upon the great feasting table of thick pine wood, where space yet remained amidst the laden dishes, "shall be the first wedding gift for their bridal chamber!"
"Come, dance with me, Jyrcho!" called Kyanna as Gat finished speaking and cheerful music rang out.
"Wait," said Jyré as the elf-girl tugged at his sleeve. "Later. Have you seen Father?"
"But he’s right here!" teased Kyanna. "You just came with him on the raft."
Jyré rolled his eyes, shaking his head in mock exasperation.
"Jalo. I mean my father."
The maiden laughed.
"Oh, I know, I know. No, I haven’t seen him. What do you want with him now?"
"I’ve a matter to speak of... And besides, I’d rather change my clothes." He pulled the edges of his cloak apart and ran a hand across his wrinkled, rumpled shirt. "I’ll dance with you after."
Kyanna shrugged with a playful laugh.
"Fair enough," she said lightly, darting back towards the bonfire, where singing and dancing had already begun in earnest.
At home, Jyrcho found no sign of his father either, and he had no desire to go searching through the workshop for him. Fév and Fetén chased after him there oft enough — he had no wish to share their honour of standing by the smelting furnaces, waiting for a moment of Jalo's attention.
Whenas he returned to the shore, clad in a deep blue, festive tunic and a dark green hat embroidered with cypress branches, Jyré made straight for the table and heaped his plate with boiled beech nuts and fried dandelion blossoms.
"What’s going on?" he asked the folk sitting by the table, their curious eyes fixed on the scene unfolding by the bonfire.
"Your bard’s about to play, I reckon," answered Od, a lad from a neighbouring tree, well known to Jyré.
Jyrcho poured a thick drizzle of pine shoot syrup over his beech nuts and ladled himself a cup of wild forest cider from the cask ere dropping onto an empty seat beside Od. His gaze wandered to Al, who sat by the fire on a large, round birch stump that could seat several creatures at once.
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"Do you know The Song of the Blind Spinner, sage bard, since we’ve all been feasting on rowan?" asked Ada, Gat’s wife.
"Of course I do," said Al brightly, reaching for his lute. One of the waxwings flitted down at once, perching on the stump behind him, peering curiously over his shoulder, drawn by the enchanting hum of the strings.
"Wait!" someone from the gathering called out, halting Al. "Since it’s about the Spinner, Féven must dance for us — it’s her Mistress-Mother after all, and she’s her only child in our village."
Fév smiled softly, first to herself, then at Al. Casting off her hooded cloak, she stepped barefoot onto the smooth stones, her pale tunic and beech-leaf skirt rustling faintly. Al struck up the melody and eftsoons began to sing, his voice weaving magic through the night air.
It was unlike anything Jyrcho had ever heard. He had listened to many woodland and meadow musicians during his family’s wanderings, but none came close to what Al achieved. His playing was as light as the wind’s breath, as though it were not fingers upon strings but crickets and grasshoppers leaping across a summer field. It seemed as though Al himself floated above the earth, and that the entire forest — nay, all of nature, the whole universe — played in harmony with him.
To be like him. Free... thought Jyrcho wistfully.
"Ah, your sister..." Od muttered suddenly.
"What about my sister?" Jyré snapped, irritated by the intrusion.
"Well, she’s beautiful..."
Jyré wasn’t sure if Fév was beautiful. She wasn’t an extraordinary dancer either, not like the meadow dancers he had also seen during their wanderings. Yet as he watched her move upon the stone slab, her steps as unbound as Al’s music, there was something about her that drew every gaze, holding it fast.
"Perhaps I’ll dance with her," Od mused. "What d’you reckon? Will she agree?"
"Leave her be," Jyré said curtly. "Fév’s not for you."
Draining his cider in one swift gulp, he rose from the bench. "I’ll dance with my sister myself."
With his hands shoved into his pockets, he strode toward the bonfire.
"Al, play something merrier than that woeful Spinner’s song!" Jyré called out.
Al laughed heartily and eagerly shifted to a livelier tune, as though it suited him well. The village musicians joined in with cheerful harmony, and Fév darted toward Jyré, pulling him into the dance. Soon the stone clearing filled once more, and the circle around the bonfire tightened as more dancers joined in.
"You’re beguiling Od again," Jyré whispered to Fév after a while.
His sister laughed light-heartedly.
"What am I doing? Where do you learn such amusing words, brother?"
"Come on, let’s go there!" He tugged her gently by the hand toward a fallen beech whose trunk stretched from the high bank down to the lake’s surface, like a makeshift bridge. "It’s crowded here, and I want to talk."
"About beguiling Od?" Fév teased yet hopped nimbly after Jyré onto the trunk without protest.
"I’ve always been honest with him. Od knows well enough that nothing will come of it," she added more seriously.
Jyré waved dismissively.
"Not about Od. I’m not trying to sway you toward him — or anyone, for that matter. You’ll do as you please."
They fell silent for a moment. Fév leaned against a branch, watching Jyré as he scuffed his boot against the decaying bark, peeling away a brittle strip.
"What’s with you?" she asked at last.
Jyré glanced up at her from beneath the tousled fringe of his dark hair.
"With me?"
"You’re thoughtful," she said, her tone now earnest. "That’s rare for you."
Jyré shrugged, then suddenly bristled.
"Fév, it’s just... I really want to leave this place! I’ve had enough of staying here! I want to join the guard — not just any guard, I want to go to the City of Trees!"
"Ah, Jyré!" she said with a soft, teasing laugh. "Grow into your ambition first."
"Sometimes you’re just like Father..." Jyré grumbled, kicking the stripped bark into the lake and leaning against the branch beside her. "Where is he, anyway?"
"Where else would Jalo be?" she said with a smile, though her tone carried a weightier edge. "He’s belike in his workshop."
"Fév, why does Father despise Sén Serén so much?" he asked after a pause.
"I don’t know," she said simply, turning her gaze to the lake. Not far from the trunk where they stood, near the low bank where during the Season of Mists and Droughts towering bracken grew wild, an ancient weir of brushwood and willow stretched across the water, long ago built by the Forest Folk. The moons illuminated it more brightly than the water, making it gleam pale against the dark expanse of the lake.
"Doesn’t it make you curious? Besides, you love learning—don’t you want to study? Don’t you want to break free from here? To go to the wise ones, the druids, the alchemists?"
"I don’t know," she repeated.
"Is that all you do know?" he muttered impatiently.
Féven glanced back toward the soft plash of water, as though a pebble had just been cast into the depths.
"Sometimes I do," she said quietly. "And yet at times it seems that all I wish to know lies here, in this place. That nowhere else could I learn more than from Father."
"Father, Father..." Jyré grumbled, pushing off from the branch and pacing along the beech trunk. "And what does he know, anyway?"
Then, lightening once more, he took her hand and spun her into a playful dance. "Do you remember the revel beneath Bréldan’s Mountain? How we danced?"
Féven nodded with a smile.
"Those were better days," he said. "Mother was alive, and there was no Fet..."
She cast him a reproachful glance. Jyré rolled his eyes yet broke into laughter.
They talked a while longer till the music softened, fading into the night. Moments later, Al appeared beside them, his lute slung across his back. He glanced around curiously, as though it were his first time atop the trunk. His gaze soon wandered upwards to the star-strewn sky.
"Will Gat be telling tales?" Féven asked.
"Aye," Al nodded, his eyes flicking toward her. " Master Beech, the goldsmith who roamed the deepest caverns... What’s this bridge?" He gestured toward the weir.
"Old, rotten, and rarely used," Jyré said carelessly as the three of them stood facing the right-hand shore, looking down toward the water.
"As we first came to the village," Féven said after a moment’s thought, "I heard a tale of a boy who fell from that weir one night and nearly drowned. They pulled him out, but he'd broken his leg in some strange way during the fall. It never healed properly — or so folk said. Perhaps he had a poor healer, or perhaps nothing could be done. But the elves in the village have their own notions about this lake." She smiled faintly. "Since that tale, they’ve feared setting foot on the bridge."
"Al?" Jyré asked suddenly, partly to break the silence, partly out of sudden curiosity. "Why d’you wear a beechwood cloak, not a willow one?"
Al laughed at the unexpected question.
"My father was a beech," he said lightly, still staring thoughtfully at the old weir.
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Father at last emerged from his glassworks, long after many a tale had been spun, songs sung, conversations had, and after he and Od had savoured plenty of forest liqueur. The night was already deep whenas he appeared. Jyré was taken thoroughly aback to see him stride towards the glass-light display, burdened with his tools and wares.
This was not the Jalo he knew — the man who wore one set of grey, workshop-stained garments only to change into another of the same drear shade. No, tonight he was clad in a bright, clean tunic, festive in a manner so rare that only the scorch marks upon his hands betrayed his craft. Jyré reckoned he had never seen his father like this before. Even his gait held a strange vivaciousness, something uncommon.
Loaded with crystals, globes, and sheets of glass both small and large, Jalo leapt onto the raft with a flaming torch in hand. With a skilful push of the pole, he shoved off from the shore and drifted out onto the lake.
The display was as well more magnificent than ever. Not that Jyré had much fondness for his father’s light-shows on the water — he had seen dozens, perhaps hundreds, over the course of his life. Yet even he had to admit that some newfound spirit had awakened in Jalo that night. It was as though he had ceased to be a mere glassmaker and become, all at once, an artist.
As he deftly manoeuvred the crystals, the glass, the torch, and the radiant gleam of moons, night, and stars, light in every hue of the rainbow danced upon the water. Sometimes fierce, sometimes gentle, it formed silent fireworks in the air.
Even he’s come down from his tree, Jyré thought, catching sight of Fet, his little brother, racing to the far end of the fallen beech trunk. Out of curiosity, Jyré followed, weaving through the crowd. Most of the villagers had gathered on the high shore, along the rocky edge or atop the fallen tree, hoping for a better view of the spectacle and, as custom dictated, to divine fortunes from the patterns of the lights.
Eftsoons Jyré stood at the very tip of the beech, right beside Fet. A chill wind swept across the lake, swirling in a circle.
Should’ve brought my cloak, he thought, though it wasn’t cold that troubled him. Instead, the wind set his head spinning, darkening his vision. Awhile, he couldn’t tell whether it was the wind whirling, the lake itself, or Father twisting the torch — suddenly extinguished — or if it was the pole that spun as Jalo turned the raft.
Or was it a sword tracing a circle around the raft?
Od’s liqueur, he muttered inwardly.
“What’s you?” Fet asked, staring at him like a post driven into the ground.
“Nothing I, nothing I,” Jyré grumbled, shaking off the dizziness. He jerked his head toward the shimmering lights on the water. “Watch Jalo’s lights. Bother me not with silly questions.”
The flames upon the lake flared anew, burning with greater splendour than before.