Recuperation

[Viola Thistle]

A small chubby-cheeked hobbit sat on the ground, wiping the dirt from her hands. Tidy rows of cabbages sprawled before her; their miniture heads just poking through the black, loamy soil in the garden by the tavern.

After her hands were reasonably cleaned off, the hobbit rumaged through her worn leather pack pulling out a biscuit and some cherries from the early breakfast. This, of course, was her second breakfast and she was famished after the squatting and bending of farming.

She didn't particularly relish this late breakfast, however. Though the morning was beautiful, the hobbit's thoughts were dark and worried. She had only arrived in Trollsbane a few days before. Battles waged in the streets; a demented hobbit mage seemed to dislike her, and she hadn't been able to settle into "quiet existance" yet. She popped the last cherry in her mouth, tossing the pit toward the river.

"Why was I sent to this forsaken land," the hobbit lady mumbled to herself as layed down in the grass. She could feel the heat of the sun on her head intensified by her dark hair as she picked a firnis blossom and spun it between two dimpled fingers. The cabbages soaked up the sun as well and looked twice as big as they had a moment ago.

"Visiting the oracle had happened a life time ago", she thought as she layed her heavy head down and began to slip into a doze. In the space between wakefullness and sleep, the watery image of an elderly elf floated before her eyes. Faint lines spread from the corner of his eyes vanishing under the shining silver hair. His mouth moved as in speach, but the hobbit couldn't hear the words. She couldn't hold on to the in-between space for long and slipped into sleep in the grass next to the cabbage field, the firnis bloosom still in her hand.

As she slept, the gold gleem of a locket slipped from her bodice. The latch had long since broken through over use and the two sides lay open. Tiny sketches of two hobbit children lay within, one considerably older than the other.

[Viola Thistle]

As the fog seperates, Viola finds herself collecting fungi in the dense underbrush of a dark forest. Moving steadily from one patch of mushroom to another, the hobbit seperates them into leather bags hanging from her belt. Morels, thimble caps, poisonous beefsteak, dryad's saddle and fairy ring mushrooms(*) all pass her hands. Some like the morels and thimble caps are for adding flavor to savory lamb dishes. The others are for something else that seems just out of reach of her memory at the moment.

The pudgy hobbit, kneeling on the moist ground, lets a handful of thimble caps roll into their bag and raises her head. She is a few feet away from small clearing. She emerges from the dark, damp forest into the bright meadow, blinking at the sun. Feverfew grows nearby, but before she can start toward them she hears a deep, low moan of many voices. "Ooooohhhhmmmm, Tooooohhhhmmmm".

Dropping her sickle, Viola walks toward them. The ground becomes difficult to traverse. Ankle breaking holes open beneath innocent rudibecka and slippery mounds appear where the ground was flat. Viola scrambles feeling she may not make it to the voices in time. Falling, her hands plunge into thick, grey mud. As she pulls them out, thorns from beneath the surface scratch and lightly poison her fingers and palms. Painfully on hands and knees she arrives and manages to reach out and touch the black cloak of one of the moaners.

****

Cleaned she stands among the Moaners. A cloaked figure passes a flask to her. Though his face is hidden she detects the obvious outline of elf eyes. Drinking deeply from the flask, swallow after swallow of the warm, thick liquid slides down her throat. By the time she removes the flask from her lips, day is night and her perception has changed. The trees across the meadow are blurred into unrecognizable shapes and she can no longer attempt a guess at how far away they are.

Viola closes her hands over her face hoping the dizziness will subside only to find her cheeks are frightfully hot. Absently she remembers the feverfew. "Crackle, snap, hissss".

"A fire," she whispers in awe, for she had not known there would be a fire here. Head still swimming, she begins a fluid, methodical dance around the fire. "Oooohhhhmmm, Tooohhhmmm" fill her head as the Moaners dance. She wonders if she is following them, or they her.

The pain in her hands return, "the thorns" she thinks and looks down to her hands. Her fingers, thumbs not included are covered in tiny ancient pictographs. "This is old, but I used to know it," the faint sound of her voice is whisked away on the wind. But the memory will not blossom for Viola.

"It's time," came a whisper. "Time, time..time," it echoed. As she awoke, she brought with her the echo, the scent of wood smoke and one tiny pictograph that she would not notice until the following day. Using both arms to sit up, she drops her chin toward her chest. The dream had exhausted her beyond the planting of ten cabbage fields. She sits there with crossed legs and slumped shoulders for sometime before she is able to gather herself enough to collect her rippened cabbages.




(*) http://web.utk.edu/~egrand/fruiting.html

[Viola Thistle]

While washing up at the river after a morning of farming, Viola noticed tiny black lines between her second and third finger. She scrubbed the area without avail. Upon closer inspection she noticed it was a simple design(*).



Though the symbol seemed familiar to her, Viola could not place it. A few hours in the library turned up nothing useful. It was only in the late evening as the sun slipped into the sea far to the west that Viola had a hint of its meaning.

By the fireside, as a loaf of bread burned - forgotten on the hot coals, she stared at the image until it was burned into her mind. She imagined it as a flag or ax, but that didn't quite fit. A person sitting? An animal?

Starting on the right side, she traced the lines slowly. First, a zig zagging path emerged skirting danger on all sides, then dropping quickly into...what? More danger she reasoned. "It's a path," she thought. "Travel, journey...raido," she whispered. Raido - it was not a word the hobbit knew, but somehow it seemed to fit.

The harsh ordor of burnt bread rose her from her ponderings. "Ahh! Not again. I really need to pay more attention." She finished up her evening chores, but the raido symbol still nagged at her and she found herself unconsiously rubbing the area as if it were bothersome.

(*) http://www.tarahill.com/runes/aett_1.html

[Viola Thistle]

Finally retiring to her small hobbit hole, no bigger than a fox's den, Viola prepared her sleeping mat. The hole, which was used by someone or something years before, was hollowed out from a slope beneath an old willow tree. Chartreuse moss covered the top of the home and tiny blue woodland flowers grew in the willow’s shade. The large, twisted roots of the old tree provided a stable framework for the hole and the somewhat uneven round entrance.

Viola had big plans for the little hole. A merry garden full of hollyhocks, roses and delphiniums; lamb’s ear and dusty miller would surround the hole. She flipped fresh sheeting with a crack over the mound of straw. “And vines of honeysuckle and morning glory,” she said sleepily as she lay upon the sheeting and pulled her cloak over her as a cover.

The hobbit slipped easily into homemaking dreams of her quaint hole. She imagined the willow hole was much bigger and had perfectly round windows rimmed by the willow’s roots. Dainty lace curtain danced in the breeze, and the hole was filled with scent of lavender. Flowers were packed into every available space around the willow, many growing taller than the hobbit. To more traditional gardeners it looked like a tangled mess, but it was wonderfully wild, full of energy and hidden treasures - the kind of place fairies play.

“A sign,” she thought, “The Willow Hole.” Above the entrance, Viola imagined a beautifully carved sign. She gathered her traveling cloak and pack and headed to town.

*

Like many dreams, Viola did not end up where she expected. Instead of finding the town and a woodcrafter, the hobbit found herself again in the meadow with the Moaners. She again took a long draught of the burning liquid handed to her in a flask.

“Oooohhhmmm, Toooohhhhmmm”, the chanting was louder and more pressing than before. The moaners again began to dance ritualistically around the flame. This time, Viola was unsure of the movements and stumbled into the damp grass. “It’s getting late,” a dwarf with a red beard helped her up and guided her to the edge of the meadow. Protruding out of the ground unnaturally, the mouth of a cave opened up.

The red-bearded dwarf spoke again, his voice like gravel, “You dropped your sickle.” He handed her a pickaxe and a lantern. Far away, the chanting increased in tempo and began to sound desperate.

The warm draught had taken effect and she seemed to sway from side to side unsteadily. Her vision grew cloudy, but to her surprise her ears picked up the faintest sounds around her and within the cave. Stepping a few paces to the cave opening and holding the lantern up high she saw nothing but blackness. A soft padding of footsteps and an child’s cry reached her ears, however.

Worried, Viola looked back at the dwarf. As he took her small hands in to his calloused ones, her mind was thrown back. Before her she saw someone wrapped in bandages, as if recently burned. His eyes were black with hatred and loathing. Viola ached with fear and only sought to escape. The dwarf held her mind steady, however.

In the wrapped figure’s arms, he held a bundle swaddled in a gold iridescent cloth. Something within began to squirm and a heart breaking sobbing erupted. The cloth slipped and an angelic, angular face was revealed. The child had almond eyes of green, ears that came to tiny points, and skin that glowed softly in the dark. Viola had never seen an elf child, but surely this is one. It looked like a human child of two years, if she could guess.

The wrapped figure growled through the bandages and fear came over the hobbit again and she coward away. The child’s eyes closed tightly and ceased sobbing. Slowly the two began to recede and fade from sight. The dwarf, standing closer now, squeezed the hobbit’s hand like a vice.

*

Viola awoke in the black moments before dawn covered with perspiration and trembling with fear. As the dream began to slip from her mind, she scrambled to remember any part of it. An elf child and a mummy were brought forth, but most of the rest of the dream was lost.

[Viola Thistle]

For the next fortnight, Viola was plagued by the dream again and again. Was it the dream that was so unsettling or reliving it each time she dozed. The hobbit knew not the answer, but the effects of restless nights were beginning to show upon her round, pale face. Shadows below her eyes appeared; she moved slowly during her chores and was slower to smile upon seeing a friend.

She had consulted with a priestess and confided in a friend, but she still was no closer to determining the meaning of these dreams. No elven children seemed to be missing, as surely there would be a proclamation in town if a child were missed. Without a place to start, her mind turned to Oldra, for the hobbit sought the Goddess’s advice in times of trouble.

Stepping out of Willow Hole, with the rays of the early morning sun dancing with the shadows of the leaves, Viola decided she would seek answers this day. The hobbit prepared her pack for traveling. Into the worn traveling bag went cakes and dried fruit, a few bottles containing a healing liquid, and a carefully wrapped bundle, which she laid atop everything else.

After fastening her cloak and donning her pack, the hobbit gathered her bow and quiver and started for the town. She passed a few haflings planting cabbages and gathering herbs near the tavern. She heard the sounds of a lumberjack hacking at the trees just before the bridge and the sounds of merriment and smithing farther up the river by the forge.

Crossing the bridge over Fairy’s Tear quickly, she continued west hugging the northern shore of the river for several miles. Viola feared the dreadful beings that occupied the building just north of town and had avoided the area if at all possible. After traveling several miles along the shore, Viola was able to swallow the lump in her throat for the threat of the mummies had passed.

She found the river grew wider and faster here and sat by its edge on a large boulder. The sun was now high in the sky and the lone hobbit took the opportunity to sample some of her traveling foods. The dried apples and cherries were mixed with groundnuts and were Viola’s favorite hiking snack. The cakes were like those she had sent with her husband over five years ago.

As she nibbled at a cake, she remembered carefully packing the cakes in his pack and watching him leave their beautifully furnished hole with their young son. Olo had only been ten years of age and this his first travel with his father to visit the dwarves. Viola’s husband and the dwarfs had been friends for many years. He often visited them and brought back many dwarven smithed items as presents to friends and family in the village. She had heard the stories time and again and could almost believe she herself had been on the fantastic journeys with her husband and his accompanying host of dwarfs.

First and last. Only weeks after they departed, Olo’s body had been found cast aside on the only trail leading to the mountain of the dwarfs, several weeks’ travel to the south. She had overheard the gruesome details of his discovery from the old gossip one morning while walking through the village market and collapsed on the spot.

Viola traveled to the Mountain to question with the dwarfs about the incident. Surprisingly, they knew nothing of Viola’s husband. Crushed and devastated by the news, Viola sunk into a depression and did not leave the mountain for many years.

It was all a lie - her whole life to that point it seemed. Whatever became of her husband, she knew not. She spent nearly five years with the dwarfs. They allowed her to stay and she kept her distance, kept quiet, and provided them with small healing ointments and potions. Eventually, she visited the Oracle of Oldra and was told of Trollsbane.

The lump in her throat had returned, but this time hot tears ran down her cheeks as well. She longed to hold her son once again, to tell him how she loved him still; that he never left her thoughts. Time is supposed to heal wounds, but Viola’s pain felt stronger and deeper than ever. He would be 15 years now. What would he have been like? She tried to imagine what his face might look like with five years added on. Would he still have golden locks? Enjoy planting flowers with her in the garden? Viola’s shoulders shook with the sobs she had held in since her arrival to the island. “Olo,” she choked, her heart breaking anew. Here in the quiet of the wilderness she gave in to her sorrow and released her own stream of tears into the river.

[Viola Thistle]

The sobbing and crying had ceased, but Viola still sat on the boulder overlooking the river for some time more. She had pulled the golden chain around her neck and produced the locket from her bodice. Gazing at the simple sketch of her son, the afternoon passed slowly.

Eventually, she was able to release her hold on the locket and the memory of Olo and continue her journey on to the grove of Holy Trees. Gathering her belongings she left the shore, turning north on a little used path.

The forest was dark and wild here, brimming with wild animals. Ancient trees grew wide and tall with vines reaching lazily to the ground from the first high branches and back up again. Below the canopy of the largest trees, new samplings grew straight and strong. Ferns and wild orchids covered the ground between the decaying remnants of long-fallen moss-covered trees.

Frogs, salamanders, snakes and dozens of bird species nest and forage in the area. Viola passed a turtle on the needle-covered path and spotted the white up turned tail of a deer bounding away several paces ahead. The lush green forest smelled delicious; the air was damp and heavy with the delicate balance of life and death. As she hiked through the thick undergrowth, the forest was all there was, all there had ever been. She dwelt no longer on her son, or the elven child, or anything else she worried and contemplated on. This place, she decided, was more like the Gods’ world than anywhere else in Illarion. She could stay here forever and be content in its bosom, as the Ancient Gods’ had intended it to be.

As she passed, lost in thought, a darkly mottled wolf watched the hobbit with bright eyes. He lifted his nose and caught her scent – lavender, wood smoke, a particular kind of moss, the faint odors of humans, elves, and dwarfs with whom she came in contact with. The wolf dissected the complex aroma and filed it away, always knowing this hobbit’s scent if he should loose her trail. As soon as she disappeared around the bend in the path, the wolf casually began moving north behind Viola, keeping to the shadows and off the path.

Along the way, Viola began picking up dried branches that had fallen, filling her dress apron with them. Just as the afternoon sun began to sink and the shadows of the woods deepened, Viola came upon the ring of Holy Trees and the small opening to the Glen of Ushara. She bowed her head and asked for passage into the sacred ring. She waited a moment at the entrance before the feeling of welcome surrounded her.

She started immediately preparing the space for the ritual, not wanting to keep Oldra from her duties and displeasing the Goddess. Viola cleared a space before the statue and stacked the collected wood in five places, one for each of the original Gods. As she lit each fire she praised the god or goddess and asked for protection while in the circle of fire. Standing in the center, Viola opened her pack and took the bundled package out. Uniting the yarn and peeling back the thin material, a beautiful wreath of flowers from her garden was revealed.
Viola placed the wreath on the ground along with cakes and dried fruit as an offering. Then called out to Oldra, Goddess of Life and Fertility to join her in the grove for she sought her advice yet again.

Viola sunk to the ground and closed her eyes in meditation. She recounted the details of the dreams to the unseen Goddess. She also told the Her of the unfortunate circumstances with a human and elf in town who were possessed by some evil, possibly Moshran, and needed the cure of Blessed Water . Her thoughts wondered freely with the Goddess during the trance. The hobbit shared the names of those that had befriended her during her short time on this island and her efforts at cabbage farming.

As she sat in the center of the ring with her eyes closed, Viola felt weightless yet rooted into the earth. Her body and head swayed as she sat, as grain in the wind. Her words ceased to be heard by mortals, for now she had a complete connection to Goddess Oldra and voiced words were not needed.

Finally, with her mind’s voice she asked Oldra to bless her friends, her fields and impart any advise She thought the hobbit worthy of. Viola waited into the night for Oldra’s response. She remained like this as the fires burned down to the last remaining hunks of wood.

[Viola Thistle]

A sound draws Viola's attention, a sound from behind. As she opens her eyes, the fires are almost burned down, shadows dance in the dim, flickering light, and thick fog surrounds everything outside the tree ring.

There is that sound again... Slowly, she turns her head. Nothing to be seen, but the sound - a bird's tweet ? Of course... the flapping of small wings, and a sparrow lands on the leaf covered floor, looking at her with his small black bird eyes, watching her. For some time, she looks at the sparrow, and the sparrow looks back. Then, the sparrow flies up into the air, sitting on a nearby branch. Waiting for her to follow.

In the next moment, Viola wanders through the foggy forest, following the little sparrow that hops from one branch to the next. Several moments or years later - time looses its meaning, as walking through a dream - the sparrow lands on a natural rock basin, filled with fresh water. A clay can stands next to it, still wet on the inside, but no sign of any person nearby.

Curious, Viola looks into the water, seeing her own reflection, the sky above her, and the sparrow behind her, his reflection so big that his wings seem to embrace the whole sky, then it simply vanishes. The water in the small basin runs dry within a moment. The grass and plants on the floor grow yellow and dry, the dry trees, without leaves, are covered with flying sand. From one moment to another, the low, fresh breeze turns into a hot wind, almost becoming a sand storm, a storm carrying voices, hard to understand.

Five persons walk by, seemingly untouched by the storm, even their cloaks not moving in the storm.

Four voices say : "A storm must come."

The fifth person raises the arms, and shouts : "Then, i will be the storm !".

The winds die out suddenly, the figures vanish, and the place looks green again, no sand to be seen. Suddenly, animals and more animals run by, fleeing from something. They come out of the fog and run into the fog.

In the very next moment, Viola stands on a small hill, in front of an altair with fruits and bread on it. A small crowd, most of them being halflings and children, stands around her, waiting for her to do something. Then, Viola awakes. She still kneels in the circle of sacred trees. The fires are out, and the sun rises into the early morning. Suddenly, the warm feeling of a hand on her shoulder...


((Special thanks to Damien for providing the vision))

[Viola Thistle]

Viola sucked in a breath. She had waken suddenly and felt disoriented in the morning light. The memory of the vision did not fade like a dream, but remained sharp and meaningful.

I wonder what this means, she thought looking up at the statue of Oldra. I should find a priest to expain this to me.

She began to move herself forward in order to stand. It was then she realized someone was behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder. Shrinking away from the touch, she twisted around to see who it was.

[Viola Thistle]

The light of the rising sun stabbed through the shadows and into the grove. A thick fog swirled just beyond the ring of trees. Slanted shafts of glittering morning light seemed to refract off of everything in the grove, breaking it up into an array of oranges, pinks, and golden hues.

However, the space where Viola expected to see someone was empty, save the brilliant light and crisp, earthy smell of morning. Yet, she still felt the lingering warmth of a hand on her shoulder. The hobbit stood and spun in a complete circle, the trees of the grove whizzing around her. She was alone.

In the few seconds this transpired, the angles of the rays of sun changed ever so slightly. There, directly in the trees in front of the hobbit, about a foot and a half off the ground, shrouded in the deep shadows just out of the reach of the sun, floated two bright eyes. Viola held her breath and stared unblinking at the eyes. The time elapsed was both instant and inexplicably infinite. Suddenly, just as fast as they appeared, the eyes disappeared. Viola waited, still as stone. There was no sound, no movement from the shadows of the trees.

The morning grew brighter, and she reached her rosy fingers to the earth and broke up the fog and drove away the shadows. The area where the eyes had been was now dappled and innocent with the new day. Viola sighed and turned away, attempting to convince herself that it was her imagination without much luck.

She gathered her pack, her mind trying to wrap around the vision. She saw no elf children; no bandaged man. She couldn’t make since of what Oldra gave her. As she shrugged on her pack, deep in thought, she made her way past the fires to the path that led back to town. She didn’t notice, but there were only four piles of ashes. Where the fifth fire had been set was only a scorched place on the ground.

[Viola Thistle]

Viola turned the vision over in her head in the many days that passed. She still was unable to make heads or tells from it. She had just passed through the North Gate from a hike into the wilderness and decided to pass by the Town Board. The Town Board held the daily news, typically sprinkled with plenty of slander, inane comments, a few kernels of truth if one looked hard and read between the lines.

She flipped thru the parchments and pigs skin, some in a language she could barely decipher. One caught her attention.

…the desert to expand, it has grown by about a quarter of it's original size, patches around the desert have been turning sandy, one very close to the town, the water holes near the desert have been drying up…

Viola flinched visibly upon reading this posting. Oldra’s vision filled her mind as if she were being given it again. She felt the course sand swirl around her, chafing her face and scratching at her eyes.

She finally suppressed the vision, though the tips of panic and dread took its place. I need a priest, she breathed. Turning from the Town Board, Viola made her way down the cobbled streets, over the bridge of Troll’s Vein towards the tavern. She intended to retrieve parchments and ink from the depot.

The depots were magical gifts from the gods, given to the first inhabitants of the island long ago. Any number of people could stow any amount of goods in the simple chests. Each person on the island was given a way to open the depot; most had keys while some of the mages used magic words. Each key was distinctively different; some were small delicate golden keys while others were heavy ornate ones made of iron. A person could only obtain the items he put in the depot and nothing else. Truly, this was a gift of the Gods!

As Viola turned the corner of the tavern, she heard the chuckling of Drathe and Sir Gannon. “Greetings, Lady Viola,” they said in unison.

“Drathe, Gannon,” Viola greeted as she curtsied, a warm smile spread across her face. The hobbit looked up at the two human men. Viola had always fancied that the Goddess Sirani had spilled a little extra Potion of Handsome on these two. She was forever confusing them, caught off guard by their charms and good looks.

The two stood practically knee deep in wood shavings and broken saws sipping ale. Sir Gannon wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered up into the sky searching for a sign of the ending of the heat wave. Viola walked to the depot, revealed a bright silver key and opened the depot.

One of the men behind her sighed. “I’m still waiting for Reda’s revenge,” he said nervously. The other chuckled easily at his friend’s predicament with the opposite sex.

Viola dug thru the depot, of course the parchments and ink were at the bottom. Drathe and Gannon continued drinking their ale and jesting with each other. Just as she was locking the depot again, Crosis, founder of the Evergreen Halflings, approached the group.

Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged among the group again, as well as cold bottles of ale. As Crosis filled the depot with herbs, Viola lowered her voice and asked him the names of the priests and priestess resident on the island. The fair halfling whispered the names quickly to her, not prying into the reason she needed the names. He sighed upon seeing her wide eyes. Viola was not one to remember names easily. He took one of her parchments and wrote the names and deities down for her.

“Thank you Crosis!” Viola turned and bid farewell to the Drathe and Gannon and entered the quiet tavern. Sitting at the bar, a half full bottle of ale by her side, she began to compose a note to the Priests and Priestesses of the island, hopeful that one of them would be able to interpret the vision. Looking back to the list Crosis gave her, she noticed no Priest of Oldra lived on the island. She signed. I hope they can help me figure this out. She was beginning to think the vision had nothing to do with missing elf children.

She reemerged into the heat of late afternoon and whistled a loud shrill note. Four large, red-breasted robins landed before her. She reached into her pocket and drew out a handful of dried grain and sprinkled it on the cobbles. The birds pecked at the snack and when they were finished, Viola tied the small parchments around one leg on each bird. Viola whispered the names of the priests and the birds took flight. She watched them fly through the air until they disappeared from sight. A strange uneasiness fell upon her.