"Where are you leading us?" the woman inquired as the dawn seeped into the soil and the plants awoke. The animal hesitated a moment before replying.
"I am leading you to a place of Mist
With trees damp and leaves dew-kissed
Where the terrain slopes down so slightly
To meet the start—or close—of a bridge
That we will cross o'er quickly, lightly
To the land beyond."
The two resumed their walk through the forest, ignoring the grasping bushes. The songbird clung, still half-asleep, to the woman's shoulder. She smiled to herself. This was a promising day already. Today she would learn the story of their companion in depth—she could tell.
"Won't you say more?" the woman prompted.
The animal gave her a side glance, settled its tail straighter in the air, and continued.
"The forest we will enter first
Is called 'The Shrouded Lands'
And it encompasses in sylvan hands
'The Fjord of Whispers', fog-immersed.
Then to the bridge will we—so called it is,
'The Bridge to Infinity'—
A fanciful name with no real worth
But old as the air and the earth.
At the last plank we'll come to grass,
And through the tranquil green we'll pass,
Until we reach my waiting friends
Where your journey begins and ends."
The woman nodded slowly and batted away a curious vine maple limb. The plant gave an angry cry. She ignored it and asked the animal, "But won't you tell us about yourself?"
"Well, okay," it sighed. "I suppose I will.
I've been silent mainly for mystery's thrill.
You see, I'm a whisperer, wand'rer of roads,
And I evaluate deep signs from my foggy abode.
We are known as 'whisperers' since we're quiet, reflective
We read the stars, the Mist, for data collected—
We can read beings as well, like the small bird, and you
And from your strangest thoughts we find odd truths.
And with this new knowledge locked in our minds
We bid you farewell, with a lesson refined."
The woman felt the songbird stirring, and after a moment, it sang, painting a wispy image of the whisperer itself. The mirage padded alongside the animal, tilting its head.
The whisperer regarded its clone and laughed. "I see our little bird's awake, and has a question of where I rank."
The songbird whistled happily and withdrew its song-image.
"Little bird, I am known as Haze,
I am female, young, poetic, and gray.
I have a brother with the name of Frost
Who lives in a desert, weather-tossed.
I was born in the place I think you seek,
Though your mental desires are weak.
I love the Mist, it obscures and heals me
It's the very marrow of this world;
It makes the rivers run and ferns unfurl.
We whisperers—we hear things in the Mist,
And we analyze them with our gift
To understand the purpose of
The morning sun, and death, and doves.
The first thing whisperer young are taught
Is just to listen, impatience forgot—
Open your ears, and then you'll hear.
Open your mouth, and do speak clear—
Raise your voice to the Mist so dear,
But not so loud you are simply noise."
The woods began to thin, giving way to hills that dipped down to meet a clear lake panning out through the land. The whisperer—Haze—flicked her tail.
"Come this way," she continued.
"Let us walk along the banks of the lake,
For the warm sun's giving way to bake—
And we have not drunk for a while.
Now, another issue I may as well address," she said to the woman,
"While we are discussing me, is that of my speech.
It isn't a requirement for whisperers to rhyme,
But they do naturally speak in poems.
I personally stay away from free verse;
I think, with no ill judgment, that it
Is rather sloppy.
And the means of my still mouth, why,
This is a trick I stumbled by.
I'm not aware of how I do it, but
I think the lack of movement
Compliments my mysterious personality,
If you will," she added.
The three traveled through the light trees, dirt becoming grass underneath them. The distant lake shone in perfect turquoise, nestled like an egg in the manicured green. The woman felt a trickle of sweat forming on the back of her neck.
"May I ask you a question now?" Haze inquired.
"I suppose," the woman said. "But I'm afraid there's not much to me."
"Do you have a name, dear?"
The woman stopped short. "What?"
"A name," Haze repeated. "I've tried to read you to find my answer, but my probing has come up empty."
"A—a name." The woman thought. "No. I don't think I do. Maybe I had one before the soldiers came."
"Well, my dear, will you allow me
To bestow a title upon thee?" the whisperer queried.
"For you are not nameless, and shame
Anyone who thinks you ought to be."
"I don't mind. I'd rather like to have a name." The woman felt something joyful creep into her. "I'd like one that looks pretty in cursive lettering."
The whisperer smiled, but the approval shone most in her eyes.
"Fabulous. You need a nice name for the present,
Something meaningful, short enough, pleasant.
So what is your favorite color, dear?"
The woman laughed. "Green."
"Green, sheen, keen," the whisperer sang, waving her tail through the air.
"I'll call you Ravine."
The woman beamed. "Ravine? I love it. But may I ask why you chose it?"
"Because you are split in half, Ravine—
One side of you is strong and arched
Sturdy as boulders and sitka spruce bark,
While the other is frail and tumbling down
Like pebbles from a rock scree meeting cold ground."
YOU ARE READING
Aeolia
General FictionA woman runs from everything. A songbird joins her from nowhere, singing colors and images. A whisperer finds the pair among a field of poplars and graves. A dark and vicious viper stalks them from deep in the earth. They must flee from the Viper...
