1 A child of forest and stone.
NAY, let us walk from fire unto fire. From passionate pain to deadlier delight,— I am too young to live without desire. Too young art thou to waste this summer night Asking those idle questions which of old. Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.
— Oscar Wilde, Panthea, 1881
There was once a magic stone on the top of a mountain which was higher than any of the trees and wider than the largest trunk. It stood far above the forest, weathering the snow, rain and winds. The sun boiled its skin to a dark grey, making the ground smoke, crackle, pop!
Nightfall would arise where creatures of all shapes and sizes scratched, ripped, bit at this mysterious rock. Chipping their teeth, dulling their claws, they left no marks and surrendered to its tough surface.
As the age of man rolled by, many had tried to break the stone. Striking it with pickaxes, shovels, drills and even magic. It seemed nothing could crack its mighty coat.
Then the days grew still and the air died down, far away from the forest, a wizard changed the world with fear and might. The moon turned blood-red, marking a terrible night of murder and victory. One by one, a wizard marched into each house in London, slaying everyone inside. Cloaked in rags of black and green, no words escaped his stale lips as wizards, witches and muggles screamed for mercy. He gave no mercy.
Until his powers were abolished by the dying words of love and a child was saved... while another was born.
Upon the mighty wizard's death, the rock split open to reveal a small baby. It was the size of a melon, with the skin of a peach and white as garlic. When the wind blew, the baby cried from the cold, hugging itself from the air. This called the animal's to look and wonder at what just happened.
The owls hooted, "The rock has broken. This is a good night!"
The bats screeched, "The egg has hatched. This is a bad omen!"
Dark hair flowed over the baby's eyes while teeth grew inside its mouth. It rolled around, bones growing twice in size while ripping at the moss to cover its body, pushing itself up to crawl. It hobbled around for a bit then began to walk. With its senses, the last to come, the sounds of the riverbank below soothed the baby's ears before it spotted the moon's red face soften to its silvery smile. The baby giggled, the leaves crunching under its feet, the dirt squished through its fingers, the smell of pollen filling the air. It had never known such things.
More animals looked and wondered.
"A baby?" The hares shrugged, "We have enough of those already,"
The deers drew closer and sniffed, "This thing is stronger than it looks."
"That stench is unmatched," Laughed a faun, clopping it's hooves.
But unaware by all, a cat watched this strange thing from afar. The square markings and striped fur blended the cat in the tall grass. Growls grew low with claws at the ready, it stalked across the forest floor. Closer, and closer to the child. Right as the cat edged the top of the mountain, it dodged a slew of arrows, jumping back to safety. The baby cried from shock, balling in tears.
"Not one more step, witch," The faun called, as a herd closed in around them. They drew another round of arrows, "That baby is ours. Leave us be or you'll never see it again,"
The cat hissed, shifting into a tall woman, somewhere in her seventies. Her hair, black as coal, was combed back into a tight bun exposing her very prim expression. She wore robes an emerald green and very long hat with a sharp point.
"Better you than the wolves I suppose, but I shall not be bullied by such savages." She huffed, pushing the square spectacles up the bridge of her nose, "That child, regardless of species, is magical. Magic is what I know best."
"You lie, all humans lie," The faun shouted, "You know nothing of this child,"
"Then let me learn... I'll teach the child everything I know. If it's not enough, they'll be yours forever," The witch walked closer to the baby. Sparks flew from her hands, green, pink, blue and red! The child squealed in delight.
She smiled, "Afterall, such a thing as this should be caged to the forest,"
The herd whispered lowly, drawing their arrows again. The arrows flew through the air like lightning as the winds cracked against the branches before rain crashed through the riverbank below.
The witch deflected the arrows, gripping the child by the hand as vines coiled from roots and swirled around, whipping at the herd.
The fauns screamed, retreating into the valley. Sounds of their cries echoing across through the trees.
The child smiled and pulled on the witch's cloak, handing her a flower. The witch's face went white as the blood drained away. She clasped at the gift before bursting into tears. The white, lily drank up all her tears until the sun rose.
