An Excerpt ...

Having moved quickly to the entry of the cathedral earnestly trying to avoid any more interactions with horned beings suited for more mythical times, I soon realized that proceeding further, beyond the doors, would be a near impossibility. Those doors, large, looming and arched, a familiar sight for those who have seen their share of medieval churches, was built of what must have been an ageless oak. It had withstood the gnawing and biting of the Lord of Time’s gnashing teeth without so much as a hint of rot in its beams or rust upon its iron hinges.

Vines lay hold of the door in such a way that it seemed they were protecting it, for they were the sprawling, turning and twisting arms of rambling rose bushes. Their menacing and protruding thorns were enough to dissuade any attempts to move the door that they embraced but if that were not enough the skeletal remains of a man lay caught amongst the bushes and slumped against the door. One particular thorny tentacle had wound its way up the spine of the poor fellow like a serpent and come to rest at his forehead only after circumnavigating his skull three times, as if he were adorned, like our Lord, with a crown. A wholly unnerving sight was this and I now found myself retreating from the doorway, completely absent-minded regarding the reason I had fled here in the first place.

That reason made itself known once more and spoke before I had a chance to retreat a single step.

“He sports a similar crown to mine, wouldn’t you say?” remarked the horned one, who had apparently made his way noiselessly to my side. I thought it useless this time to run as my fear had been allayed by the fact that this fellow could have harmed me already had he intended to. Though, what his intentions were, exactly, I could not say.

“You will surely agree, however, that mine are much grander than his. See how the thorns imprison the skull of this dust shod ’un, yes? Mine branch out and upward, not a prison but a freedom enshrined, toward the Great Shining Lord of the Sky they alight, he whose crown reaches down toward us. Touching us with his light and warmth. Blessing us with knowledge and health. It’s as if I bore his very rays upon my own head in a manner fitting to my own aspect.” He gestured toward the old, dry bones caught in the thicket and continued on. “Had this one still been in possession of his skin those thorns would be shredding it against his very skull. Quite painful, I imagine. Of course, that thorny tendril has only made its home upon his head since he has long perished, so we are merely speculating at this point.”

“Not mere speculation. There is a story.” I started, before pausing, doing my best to hide any fear and show forth as much respect for this being as possible. I composed myself and continued. “There is a story amongst our people, the most important story of our people, in fact, of a man who wore a crown of thorns such as this. He did indeed suffer much, but not only for the thorns that pressed against his temples. We consider this crown the grandest of any in human history.”

He gave me a puzzled look and after a moment, simply replied with a “Hmph.” Followed by, “You are a strange folk.” All this as he began to pack the bowl of a smoking pipe that looked as if it had grown upon a tree fully formed as it appeared now. On reflection I could not recall where he had retrieved this pipe from, he had no carry bag or belt for such things. It was as if it appeared out of the ether. Though perhaps I was simply not paying attention. More peculiar still was that he seemed to be packing the bowl with whatever it was that was loosed from his own skin after rubbing a single hand together for a short length of time.

There was a silence as he continued on the bowl and, as he packed it, the song thrush that had been upon his shoulder earlier was now flittering between the many extruding prongs of his antlers, whistling its song with unending merriment.

I waited, patiently holding my words, though more had I still to say, I could not bring myself to fall upon the delicate song of the little feathered one with the weight of my own voice. Thus far, despite my bewilderment at the current state and situation I found myself, one thing had become apparent; that the birds of this place understood and communicated an ancient language other than mere birdsong. If indeed any birdsong was mere birdsong.

Meanwhile, peculiarity upon peculiarity, the contents of the bowl of fellows smoking pipe, which he had now finished packing, spontaneously began to smoulder the moment he began to puff upon the end of the pipe’s stem, large billows of smoke breaking free of his mouth and rising, partnered hand in hand with the birdsong, patterning and spiralling their duet of praise toward the heavens.

The song thrush in a moment fell silent, hovered in flight before the horned being for a time and then flew off, beyond sight, into the woods.

A short time spent in this contemplative silence ensued before the fellow spoke again.

“You showed an unexpected prudence by remaining silent while the little one spoke, dust shod ‘un. A pleasant surprise. I feared that, had you spoken, I might have had to rip your tongue out.”

I searched his face for any sign that he spoke in jest.

I found none.

I swallowed hard to fight the lump in my throat and forced reluctant words across a tongue which lay safely in my mouth for the time being.

“They seem to speak in a language of such profundity I can scarcely grasp it, except in a sense all to fleeting.”

“Indeed.”

“What did he say?” I queried, looking for confirmation of my bird-sense and a validation of my own sense of pride.

“He said that he had not yet eaten this morning and spoke of the joys of a full belly and a hunger satiated.” Came his matter-of-a-fact reply.

“Oh.” I responded, underwhelmed. A wry smile came upon his face, and he puffed heavily a few times upon his pipe.

Thinking the smile to be an indication of a softness beneath an austere surface I proceeded to a question specifically to allay any fears for my safety, which had been near extinguished until stoked again by his recent threat.

“You would not have torn my tongue from my very mouth simply for interrupting a bird, would’ve you?” I nervously chuckled.

“Of course I would have. I am from beyond the Garden. I am of the wilderness and am full of wildness … as are all folk such as myself. The Wild Folk are wild. Your folk forget as much, more often than not. In fact, curiously, you spend a great portion of your lives building walls to keep out the wilderness, but on the off chance you step foot outside those walls you are often besotted by her beauty.”

“She is both beautiful and terrible, that is certain and so your instincts are true, but you must not get lost in beauty at the expense of your wits. Nor can you wall yourself in, away from the terrible, without your world becoming ugly.”