His first sight of the world beyond the hut he lived in with his mother was through a window. The shutters had been raised for the first time in his memory, letting in air that for once carried no hint of winter’s chill. Looking out of it, his view was that of a sheltered garden within a clearing bordered by tall trees. Sunlight filtered through the morning dew and mists of pollen in shafts of light that cast the shadows of the forest beyond into stark relief. From his perspective it seemed as if his home was warded against the darkness beyond by a curtain of light that descended from the sky. It was then, as he knelt upon the stool placed by him under that shuttered window, that he beheld the first sign of animal life beyond the walls of his home.

A Myre-bird ghosted out of the forest, gliding on silent wings. Its plumage, seeming darker than black, slipped seamlessly from shifting shadows cast by the foliage and crashed into the shafts of light one by one. A riot glinted across its feathers. Blue, green, baleful red, royal purple. Even, paradoxically, pure white shone before his curious eyes. Unconcerned by the child watching its visual display, the creature rested upon one of the fence posts bordering his mother’s garden. It took a moment to look around with its bright yellow eyes before giving a short, authoritative caw of approval.

He spent the rest of the morning watching that bird as it groomed itself on that fence post, hopping from foot to foot at the borders of the garden. As if in a trance he traced its lines, memorised its colours and the twitching, jerking movements it made as it turned about hither and thither. A sadness came upon him when the Myre-bird finally flew away back into the darkness of the forest, its coruscating kaleidoscope of colours vanishing with shocking swiftness. There one moment and gone the next.

He didn’t even realise he had been crying until his mother came to check on him and dabbed at his eyes with the hem of her dress, tutting consolingly. She smiled as he fumblingly tried to explain what vexed him so, flashing white teeth. To the boy it was the first time that he had seen something approaching his mother’s beauty. He drew comfort from her warm reds and cheerful yellows. He lay there in his mother’s lap rubbing a strand of her ebon hair, so like his own, between his fingers. Her smooth hands softly stroked his head her fingers running through his curls. The soothing sensations eased his distress as his mother began to hum a lullaby. That night he dreamed of flying through the forest on ghostly wings, unknowing of the faint glow from his body that awoke his mother or of the bittersweet smile that passed across her visage at the sight.

The next day began the first of his lessons. Taking a stick of charcoal, his mother sat him down and slowly, patiently taught him to read and write. The two had long held the habit of talking to each other in a tongue of rapidly shifting words. It surprised the boy to learn that they had not been speaking in one language but several. The boy spent many a hazy day untangling the mixed-up mess of languages under his mother’s firm care. His reward was being allowed out into the garden to play for a time and honeyed bread served with a warm herbal tea that lulled him to sleep where he dreamed of flight.

Time passed that way with the boy having learned all he knew at his mother’s knee. Wonderous were the Books of Heaven that described the ways of the winds and water, the pulse of the earth and fire deep. This and more he learned from her. The Book of Gods, Beasts and Mortals was rife with tales of adventure that stirred his blood. It was filled with stories of heroes who roamed the land and seas battling monsters and trading with spirits in games of skill and wit. This book especially delighted him as there seemed to be a new story every time he opened it.

Most tedious was the Book of Nature that seemed to detail a never-ending list of plants and animals and their properties. His mother insisted he learn that book by heart and he acquiesced if only because such lessons often led to forays into the garden where he could see some of the plants for himself.

Eventually there remained only one book that he had not read, the Book of Fate that his mother held back with a smile.

“It’s not yet time Little Wing.” She’d tell him, “Go and play.”

And play he did, in the garden under the sun. His dreaming had grown stronger as he read each book. Now he was the hero, wielding sword and shield. His footsteps lighter, ever more confident and swifter after each night of rest. He shaped a bow and let fly arrows into the wind. Lance and staff, hammer, maul and more he took up. At times he would lay back in the grass and listen to the sky, hear the beating heart thrumming deep within the earth. When playing or laying about bored him, he would scratch his words into the dirt. Writing the true names of every plant and animal he’d ever read of, he’d then repeat the task in every language he’d ever learned.

When he returned to the hut, he’d find his mother sitting by the fireplace weaving. A meal of cereals and fruits would be waiting for him. His mother would greet him with a smile and lay down her work. Her soft hands tousling his hair and she’d tell him.

“My Little Wing. Come sit for a while.”

At night he’d lay in his mother’s embrace dreaming of the world beyond. The wind stirred leaves of the forest making soft susurrations in time with his mother’s breath. The heat within the earth below pulsing in time with the heart beneath her breasts. The two curled against each other in quiet understanding of what was to come, silently, supporting one another. With the turning of seasons that seemed to pass in slow ages, the boy grew up. In the passage of time turning into a tall, strong youth, dark of hair and eye.

The youth was practising staff forms when the Myre-bird returned. The wooden pole in his hands had been coaxed from a seed with a whisper of encouragement and a flex of his will. The bird watched raptly with uncommon intelligence as he swayed like a river-reed in the wind. The twirling ends made no sound as they spun about with deceptive swiftness. Finally, the youth’s shadow dance came to a halt with a blurring thrust that ended just shy of the fence post onto which the bird had alighted. He exhaled a steady breath slowly and examined the bird that watched him in turn. The Myre-bird concluded its inspection of the youth with an authoritative caw.

His mother was already waiting for him when he returned, wearing a bittersweet smile. She gave him a cloak that he draped over his shoulders. A satchel bag containing fruit and nuts were her next gift to her son. Lastly, she took up the Book of Fate but he was already holding one of his own. At the sight of it she sighed in resignation and said to him.

“It’s time Little Wing, it’s time.”

Deep within the black woods, where hunters and lumbermen dared not lightly tread, the memories of the eldest of mortals tell of a mist shrouded island in the centre of a lake. In times long since past. A goddess was worshipped there, beautiful and terrible as the forest she ruled. Once, in times of plenty, young lovers coupled in the waters as hunters sacrificed animals on the lake’s stony shore. A ritual offering of a bloody heart presented toward the lone aspen tree upon that island in the lake. A tree only seen under the light of the hunter’s moons.

In leaner times and times of war, a more brutal tradition of sacrifice was enacted. Enemies and unwanted mouths were passed into the goddess’ care. The former tortuously slain while the latter imbibed concoctions that put them to sleep as they slipped beneath the waters. For she accepted all, loved all, blessing birth and soothing death. She who was the white goddess of the black woods.

As the ages turned, waxed and waned, fewer people came to that lake in worship. Yet she loved them still. At times the river beyond the forest carried babes into her hands. She accepted them all into her care and sometimes…

Sometimes…

Sometimes…

A Myre-bird’s call roused the youth from his meditation upon the shores of the mist shrouded lake. He wore upon his shoulders a hooded cloak, darker than black. Standing slowly, the youth stared out across the waters and at an island where a single tree, a white aspen, stood in lonely vigil. In his hand he held a staff marked with runes impressed upon it by neither fire nor blade. Slowly, the youth dipped his head toward the tree, in his mind’s eye recalling a bittersweet smile.

“I’m going mother.” He murmured, before turning toward the forest.

His form slowly vanished into the gloom, seamlessly melding with the darkness until he was gone.

No wind stirred the lake waters or air. Yet, on the island, the leaves of the aspen tree trembled.

Murmuring….

“Goodbye.”