Chapter 8: Further Tales by the Fire

It was as much an impossibility as were Brandyé’s inexplicable journeys to lands far away (or dreams, as Ermèn called them), yet Brandyé could not deny the senses that told him the friend whom he had not seen in almost five years now stood before him.

The light was fading swiftly, and Brandyé could see few of Elven’s features, but he saw well enough the short and grizzled beard, the hair so much longer than he had last seen it, and above all the life in the eyes that was ever in his memory. Elven was shawled in a thick cloak, black as his own though made of cloth and not hide, and Brandyé was astonished to see a short blade at his side, for he had never known Elven to bear a weapon.

And of course, to the side and pecking at the ground was Elven’s falcon, and at the sight of her a swell of memories rushed upon his mind, and unbidden a tear came to his eye. Brandyé reached out a hand to touch Elven, and laid his fingers upon his face. “How can it be you?”

For his part, Elven seemed unable to speak at all, for he would only shake his head, his mouth open. For many moments they gazed wordlessly upon each other, until finally the falcon broke the silence with a impatient cry.

“Hush, Sonora,” Elven spoke finally, and it seemed the spell of silence was gone, for in a moment Elven had grasped Brandyé in a great embrace. “My dearest Brandyé! I cannot even begin to say how you have been missed! Oh – in all of Erâth, how is it we should both happen upon this spot at this same moment?”

“I have become a wanderer,” Brandyé said, for it felt true enough, though he had be with Ermèn for some weeks now. “I am here in these woods for lack of anywhere else to be. But what of you?”

“There is so much I wish to tell you,” Elven said. “I live here now, with both mother and father as well as Maria and Julia. We left Consolation nearly a year ago now, seeking a sheltered life from the rule of the Fortunaé.”

“What has happened?”

“The Lord Garâth is dead – Danâr now rules in his place, and his rule is cruel.” Elven looked once more about him, as though only just now realizing the closing dark that was upon them. “Come,” he said, “follow me. I will bring you to our home; it is not far.”

For a moment Brandyé hesitated, for he was reluctant to leave Ermèn to wonder where he was, but he realized that there was little other choice; he would not arrive at Ermèn’s before full night, and he did not wish to be among the trees unprotected. He rose to his feet as did Elven, and together they set out through the trees, Elven leading the way.

It was not long before Brandyé began to see a glow among the trees ahead, and they were soon upon on a small building of logs: a veritable home in the woods, though it was of rough construction and boasted no decorations of any kind. “This is our home,” Elven said as they approached. “It was built by father and I throughout the weeks of the summer, and has proved excellent shelter since then.” He paused at the door, which was made of several uneven boards fastened to each other by yet more boards, and hinged to the wall by, of all things, thick rope. “I do not know how mother and father will take you,” he said quietly. “We have not spoken of…of my sister since you left.”

Brandyé nodded. “I will understand anything they have to say.”

Elven pushed upon the door and it swung upon, and they stepped in, and Brandyé was presented with an astonishing, welcoming, and at the same time bittersweet sight. In many ways, the inside of Elven’s home was not dissimilar to Ermèn’s; he faced one large room, though it was considerably larger than Ermèn’s. There appeared to be in the walls no windows, though Brandyé later learned that they had smaller doors cut into the wall that could be swung open during the day. Nonetheless the scene was well lit, for many candles stood on tables and counters, were held by candelabra on the walls, and even hung from the ceiling in a crude chandelier. […]

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Chapter 7: An Unlikely Encounter

The nameless old man’s home seemed impossible to Brandyé; a door in the trunk of an enormous tree, low so that he had to stoop, and then stairs that led deep below the earth. Had Brandyé not been following him, he would have passed the entrance unaware of its existence. It made him wonder whether there might not be other homes in the forest that he had passed.

At the foot of the stairs was a cave of earthen floor and walls, yet it was clean and warm and comfortable. A hearth had been carved from the wall at one point, and a welcoming fire blazed within it, the smoke whirling inexplicably up and out of the cave, though there was no obvious opening. Candles burned here and there so that the cave was well-lit, and Brandyé could see the clutter and paraphernalia of a well-lived home.

There was a passage that led from this main room, but it was dark and the old man did not bother with it. Instead, he beckoned Brandyé to sit at a small table near the fire, and fastened a kettle above the flames. “Ah!” he said. “We shall have tea indeed, soon.”

Brandyé was still so utterly mystified that he could but act as though all of this was utterly normal, and asked, “Is there any biscuit, or bread?”

“No,” replied the old man. “But there is something better – caterpillar loaf.”

Brandyé was not sure he had heard correctly. “I beg your pardon – did you say caterpillar loaf?”

“I believe so,” said the old man. “Did you hear something different?”

Brandyé shook his head. “Is it what it sounds like?”

The old man frowned at him. “What does it sound like to you?”

Brandyé was befuddled. “It sounds like it is made from caterpillars.”

The man smiled. “Then so it must be! I grind them and bake them – it is quite a treat.”

And as Brandyé watched, the old man bumbled about, gathering mugs and plates and knives, and from a pantry in the wall brought some butter and what appeared to be a small loaf of bread, but of a greenish color. Brandyé felt bile, but insisted to himself that he at least be polite with this strange person.

Soon the kettle was whistling, and the old man unhooked it from the hearth and poured it into the mugs. He then ground herbs into the steaming water, and suggested they wait a few moments while the tea brewed. He cut a slice of the loaf, and offered it to Brandyé. “I prefer mine plain,” he said, “but you may wish to have some butter with yours.”

Without a word, Brandyé took the loaf, and inspected it carefully. He saw no legs or antennae or other signs that it was made of what the old man had suggested, but it certainly was not bread as he knew it. With a knife he cut some butter, spread it over the slice, and took a bite.

He was quite surprised to find that it in fact had quite a light and sweet flavor, and as the scent of the tea began to reach him, he realized it was a perfect compliment. “It is quite good,” he said with his mouth full.

“Thank you.” The old man smiled. “The butter is made from flies’ eggs.”

Brandyé stopped chewing, and focused upon the man once more. “Truly?” he mumbled.

“At least, that is what I put into it.”

Brandyé paused, and wondered if he could swallow what was in his mouth. After a moment, though, he recalled that he had eaten things not so dissimilar during his solitude by the Black Sea, and in any case, the knowledge hadn’t changed the flavor, which was still pleasant.

“Is the taste familiar?” the old man asked.

“It is,” Brandyé admitted. “Some years ago I was forced to live on my own with no provisions. There were occasions when such things were all I could find, though I burned them first.”

“Interesting,” the old man mused. “Shall I burn your loaf for you?”

“No – it’s very nice the way it is.”

“I am glad,” the old man said. “I am glad also, that we should meet. I have wished to speak with you for some time.”

Brandyé took a sip of tea, and said, “I do not understand you. You act as though you know me, but it is impossible that we should have ever met.”

“It is?” The old man seemed curious, and amused. […]

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