[Koobdooga]

Koobdooga's post -- Egil

Egil raised a hand in welcome when Wenda entered. His deepset eyes glittered in appraisal of the sack she’d slung to the floor. One hand slid down to pat the sack couched beside his chair.

The Glitterfist Hall had been busy these past few months. Beneath the western tip of the Iron Hills their forges had belched out great clouds of smoke and their hammers had rung out against the metals used in the making of fabulous toys. Set with glittering gems in the whorls of enameled color and the cleverest of mechanisms, the bright creations would whirr and twirl and move about at the turn of a key. They were much prized by the men of this northern area. And those who could make the trading price bought them to be handed down to their children and to their children’s children.

Already, Egil had delivered a small creation, egg-shaped and golden, to the mayor of the town. Set with rubies about its middle, it twirled slowly at the key’s turning on its red enameled base, blossoming open like a flower to reveal the tiny figure of a huntsman all in gold as he gave the death blow to a great, tusked boar with his stout stave.

The Dwarf chuckled to himself, recalling how proud the mayor was of the kill last year, and wanted something to recall it to mind for his future generations. His good-wife, on the other hand, was desirous of something pretty. And as their purse would not stretch to cover two toys, a compromise had been struck.

He pulled his chair nearer to the great fireplace as the others gathered about the steaming urn, stowing his sack carefully out of the way beneath it. Taking the offered mug, he raised it to Goody, and gave her an encouraging nod. ‘Go on then, Gran,’ he said. ‘Tell us your story from the days gone by.’

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Undómë’s post -- Old Goody's tale

Well, then, this is how it was told to me by my Gran, and she got it from hers, and hers before her, and back to that first daughter who spoke the tale. And so it must be true . . .

She saw from the corner of her eye how the Halfling who’d spoken of his granda’s story nodded his head, ‘yes’, at her words.

When the world was young, great stands of trees covered much of it. Beeches and poplar, ash and oak, and the evergreen firs and pines that thrive here in this cold land. And many, many more of their cousins, short and tall; fat and thin.

Beneath the trees and in the glades between the stands, the forest floors were covered with a riot of flowers and tangles of bushes bearing berries or flowers themselves. We two-legged creatures had not walked much in the vastness of these forests; it was the birds and beasts who made the trees and underbrush their home.

Now far, far into the west, it was said, there is a great Lady who loves the growing of things. Large and small, they are all her province, it is said. And some say, though Her lips had not the telling of it, that she sent creatures of her own design to care for her forests and her gardens.

Great, tall beings. Brown limbed and lithe; clad in green and grey bark; their chins covered with twiggy, bushy beards. Dark brown eyes they had, deep wells of brown shot with a green light. They keep off strangers and the foolhardy. They train and teach and walk and weed. Herders of the trees; wanderers in the mountains and the valleys and the plains where the trees grow. They keep them safe, as they can. Still do, though it’s said the number of their kind grows less.

She looked at the Dwarf and then round the others in the room.

‘Woe to the one who takes axe or fire to Tree-walkers’ flock. He might find himself snatched up by long brown fingers and the air squeezed out of him, til his eyes pop and heart goes still. Or crushed under a great seven-toed foot, down down into the ground. For the worms and such to feed on.

She cackled at the expressions on her listeners’ faces. ‘We should all be grateful as the Green Man has gifted us this tree,’ she said, throwing another piece of holly into the heart of the blaze.

Her gaze drifted to the glowing embers beneath the flames.

‘I saw’un once,’ she murmured low. ‘Oh, not the great tall walkers. A pretty little thing, she was. Cheeks as red and full as any apple as ever grew. Soft, white flowers in her silky yellow hair. It was early of a morning, at my granny’s hut. Late spring, too. With the dog-tooth violets just coming into bloom beneath the apple tree at the edge of the herb garden. Milking the nanny is what I was about. And I saw her, with my two good eyes back then, as I started for the goat shed. She was humming to herself. And first I thought there was bees about. But it was her. A pleased sort of humming. And she bent right over the edge of my gran’s garden and ran her long, thin fingers through the plants as were just bushing out. She looked up and caught me looking right at her and trying to be still as ever I could. Quick as a wink she took herself off.

‘Well, you can bet I took myself off, too, ran fast as my short legs’d carry me to tell gran what I’d seen. She weren’t surprised in the least. Just said I’d seen her ‘visitor’. Like it was the most everyday thing as could happen. “She likes my garden,” gran told me. “Comes to weed it when she can. And she stirs the plants.”

‘ “Stirs the plants?” I asked.

‘ “Wakes ‘em up a bit. Sorts ‘em out and tell’s ‘em what they need to know to grow to suit her. Has her own ideas about such things. Most particular.”

‘Anyways, at was all she’d say about it. And I never saw the pretty little lady again. Still . . . always tried to keep my herbs all in order and growing good in my own garden. Just in case, you know . . .’

Old Goody’s voice trailed off, and she seemed to fall in on herself once again. The Yule log crackled and popped, an ember flying out onto the hearth. She roused herself enough to shoo it back in where it belonged.