Excerpt from The Edge a fantasy novel by Mary Stephenson.

Orange beaked the seven blackbirds flashed. Against a tapestry of forest green they flew. With wings stretched to full span they shuttled between trees weaving a path through branches and leaves. They cared not for the snapping of twigs, nor too for the dislodging of ancient mosses. Let both tumble to the forest floor. Let both be seen by the villagers below so that they might read the signs and know too that change was afoot.

Long time the blackbirds had waited for this summons. Long time indeed. For more than fifty score years blackbirds had kept sentry over the lands of Chara- biding their time waiting for the moment that The Elder Watch had promised would come. And now with the first sign that a Seeker had finally emerged, the blackbirds had risen from their roosts as if one, paying heed to naught that stood in their path.

Skywards they flew climbing ever higher above the canopy until the reached the thinner air. Each blackbird scanned one of the seven mountains that marked the Edge of their land. Five of the mountains were but shadows in the dimming light. But the sixth and the seventh glowed in the setting sun as if alight with fire. To all who dwelt in the Lands of Chara they were known as the Sister Mountains of the Forest of Teleftera and it was to this forest that the seven messengers turned with haste.

 In near time they reached the Sister Mountains and arrowed their way to the centre of that forest deep. There, above the clearing, the blackbirds circled thrice. Then thrice they swooped and thrice they sang. Their duty done they turned their heads and followed their beaks whence they had come.

In the cottage below, Camhnóir heard the blackbirds’ song and shuffled his feet in time to the tune. And he would have continued to dance, had he not remembered the meaning of their birds’ trilling. Then tapping his temple with a finger crookéd, as if to prompt him of himself, he put down his kettle and took up instead the undertaking of his own task. A task so long ago assigned that barely he remembered it. And, so he took upon his back his coat of green. And upon his head his feathered shawl, for the before-eve air he thought unto himself had turnéd a cooling of sorts. And at that thought, another thought took its time to enter his ancient head. And forgetting the blackbirds’ song, he looked to his hearth. T’would be cold soon and sorely he would regret not stopping now to light a fire to warm him on his return. And what good a fire without a feed? He brightened at the thought and chuckled. A skip and a hop nor more would it take to gather kindling and a log or two. He would stay and enjoy his cup of brew; a bite to eat then when he was warmed and supped he would see to that which he had been bidden to do. He rubbed his hands delighting in a fire that was not yet lit. But where his boots?

If any of the Elder Watch had thought to take this moment to cast their attention on the Forest of Teleftera they would have sent dispatch quick to remind Camhnóir of the urgency at hand but as it was the Elder Watch itself over time had fallen in its vigilance and so, unnoticed and unwatched, Camhnóir continued in his forgetfulness to search for his boots. 

Camhnóir’s toes lead him from the kitchen cold, to the welcome-room of his dwelling. There beneath his greeting-stool his toes sought to find his boots. Big toe touched leather straps and foot drew it forth but when his toes returned to look for the other boot, they chanced instead upon a length of wood. Camhnóir’s mouth formed an O of surprise and to his mind an image came. But needed he to bend and take a look to make sure that what he thought was really so and not the trickery of long-time longing. Creaking on bended knees he stretched out upon the floor. One ear he placed upon the walking boards, not for the listening but to allow for the seeing that one eye could see. Waited he for the grey veil of dim light to pass and then with eyes adjusted to the dark, he espied, asleeping, his long-lost flute, all newly found. His fingers danced a welcoming jig as they did venture forth under the stool taking with them his elbow and his shoulder broad. Then quick as a blink his stretchéd arm plucked back his once lost flute and brought it home to him. Ah, the joy of lost and found.

To his breast he held it first and then he kissed it with his heart. Then rested it he, against his cheek and caressed it with his breath, waking it from sleep. His fingers nimble, his fingers quick he played the notes of his land and in their song he delved as if in dream or under spell. Gone from his ears the blackbirds’ warning, gone from his care the fire burning, gone from his mind the quest awaiting. Camhnóir, the Keeper of Teleftera played on.

Five mountains west from where Camhnóir played, a lone traveller heard his flute atrilling. Moilinth stayed her foot mid step and left it hovering for fear of crackling twig or leaf. She listened with cocked head and turned ear to far and near. The trilling was of a gentle sort. A lilting song full of love and glee, but e’en so Moilinth looked to good side and bad then to abovehead and atfoot. No sign of danger did she see, but mindful of evil and cunning ways, gently she lowered her foot. With steps as soft as feet of bare she left the woodland path and slipped amongst the trees. A curtain of willow she found and behind it down she lay upon the ground. She hastened to make a cover of leaves to hide her skirts, her coat and shawl. To the grass she turned her face and a rock made she of her back. If from the path, some being or creature should pass, she would appear as if of the forest floor. She slowed her breathing and to the wind she turned her ear. 

       

The tune was of a sort she had not heard before, but in it she did discern some ancient notes that were familiar to her ear. The music, pleasant to her senses, was soothing to her grief, lulling her into thoughtfulness of times when happier she had been. With each note the fear that had held her body tight began to disappear. And by and by with heavy eyes thought she now of how it came to be that she was here — ‘neath willow tree in forest deep acomforted with song so fair, from a player she could not see.

Excerpt from The Edge a fantasy novel by Mary Stephenson.