once upon a never, in a place threaded between the seams of the map, there lay a forest called nettlehaven
wait that's not quite right
no 'lay' about it, nettlehaven doesn't do the whole static existence thing
nettlehaven writhes, nettlehaven pulses, nettlehaven dreams itself anew each midwinter midnight
from afar it looks small and still, an unmoving copse of trees you could walk across in an hour
but take a step inside and suddenly the trees loom large, suddenly the spaces between them stretch and wind, suddenly the quality of the air changes and you're breathing story
breathing a story as alive as you, as fluid and mutable, as laden with secrets
the locals know better than to enter
"strange things happen in nettlehaven," they mutter, casting wary glances at the treeline
"come out different than you went in, if you come out at all"
the locals busy themselves with the solid things, the quantified and catalogued, the comfortingly mundane
but there are those who ache for more
those who feel the gaps in the world like missing teeth, who sense the membrane between this and that stretching thin
and they find themselves drawn to nettlehaven like moths to a green flame
the children feel it most keenly
while adults rush about their routines, the young ones turn their heads to the whisper of the leaves, the gleam of mica in a stone, the suggestion of a path leading away from the trodden track
especially the orphans
the ones who disappeared from the orphanage on the outskirts one day and slipped into the forest, never to be seen again
whispers say that on certain moonlit nights, you can see their pale faces peering out from the abandoned upper windows, haloed in foxfire
but surely that's nonsense
surely they were adopted out or ran away to the city
surely there's nothing still living in that old ruin...
gwenna knows better
ever since her parents died she's felt like a shattered mirror,
fractured bits of self haphazardly pieced together into girl-shape
the cracks show when she looks
when she pays attention to the shivery ripples in her reflection, the sense of else ness that clings to her skin
and sometimes, when she's alone, she swears she hears her mirrored self whisper secrets from the other side of the glass
"come find us," it breathes, a sibilant sigh in the wake of a passing glimpse
"come find yourself"
so she does
one foot after another, gwenna traces a ragged line to the very edge of things
to the patient sentinels of oak and ash and yew, to the wild herb smell of the air
to nettlehaven
the shadows welcome her in shades of purple and green, rich as a bruise
she marvels at the glow sifting through the canopy, dappling her upturned face in gilt and indigo
marvels at the creak and murmur of branch and brook, less heard than felt, twining tendrils through the fissures in her bones
she ventures deeper, shed shoes dangling from one hand, uncaring of the brambles catching at her stockings
"you there, girl," croaks a voice from the gloaming
gwenna startles, whirls, squints into the murk
"hello?"
"not just any girl," the voice clarifies. "you. i see you."
"who's there?" she calls, pulse fluttering swift and feathered in her throat
"a friend," the voice says, closer now. "or perhaps--yes. more than that. a teacher."
a shape emerges from behind a veil of ivy, tall and mantled in moss
a figure with antlers branching above eyes dark and depthless as drowning pools
as drowning pools
gwenna suppresses a shiver, draws herself upright
"a teacher of what?" she asks
the not-quite-stranger tilts their head, regards her with a gaze that flenses pretense from marrow
"a teacher of old ways," they say. "of the paths between, and the presences that dwell there."
they gesture to the forest around them, gnarled limbs spread wide
"i can show you how to walk those paths," they say. "how to see the wonders and terrors most stumble past blindly. how to become more than you've let yourself be."
yourself be."
something flares bright and hungry in the coal-clench of gwenna's chest
(come find us, her mirror-self whispers)
she nods once, decisive. "show me."
the antlered one smiles, a slow unfurling flush with secrets
"follow, then," they say, turning in a whirl of green. "and mind your step."
they lead her off the path, into the veiled places between the trees
teach her to navigate by moss and mushroom, bird call and beetle click
through groves gilded in language older than marrow, past pools that shimmer pellucid with dreaming
to a clearing cradling a crumbling red-brick bulk
"an orphanage," her guide says, "abandoned long ago. a place where the worlds grow thin."
they stride to a side door slumping on rusted hinges, usher her inside
the air smells of time and mold, loam and lost things
motes of memory dance in the slant of light from shattered windows
"there are others like you," the antlered one says. "younglings touched by the other side of the mirror. i've gathered them here, to learn and become."
a sussurus of whispers, a flicker of shadows, and suddenly the room is far from empty
draped in a cloak of cobwebs, a waif with eyes like silver coins
crouched gargoyle-like on a rotted beam, a wild-haired sprite flashing needle teeth
folded into a nest of ragweed and raven down, a changeling child with skin like bark
"welcome," they breathe as one, voices winding in fugue
gwenna feels their regard like a graze of moth wings, a shiver of kinship
the antlered one rests a hand on her shoulder, their touch a briar-snare
"this is a place of unravelling," they say, "of remembering the fabric of the world is more gaps than weave. here you will learn the ways of nettlehaven, of the old wild magics."
they grin, sharp and green as new nettles
"here you will learn the secret of flying."
"here you will learn the secret of flying."
so gwenna stays
in a castle of lost children, cradled deep in a forest dreamed from shattered time
SHE GROWS
sideways and through, at angels unaware
delves the fable-deep of nettlehaven, wanders its hidden ways and unways
learns the speech of storm crow and snark, windfall and wisper
lets thorn and thisle sink their teeth, savors the sylvan sting
splinters herself on the prism edge of season, the places where the path forks fey
peers through mushroom ring and mirror
scries the secret seams of things, the star-stitch and void-vein
weaves her wildling self from rain and root, echo and ether
she wonders about the world beyond the green-drowned haze, sometimes
the straight-backed rote of it, the ticking tyranny
wonders if her parents would know her, shedded strange and shimmering
if they would weep for the weft of her, warped past mending
(if she would care)
she wonders about the world beyond the green-drowned haze, sometimes
the straight-backed rote of it, the ticking tyranny
wonders if her parents would know her, shedded strange and shimmering
if they would weep for the weft of her, warped past mending
(if she would care)
then she shrugs, shakes off the thought like dew
returns to her rookery nest, her ferny fastness
to the belling hush of the wood at dawn, the hum of shadow and sapflow
to the patient tutelage of the horned one, his hoar-tinged whispers
"the worlds are many," he murmurs, "and manifold. story spun from secret."
he shows her the ghost-roads, the corpse-candle paths
guides her gaze to the black roots of stars, the white fire of worms
teaches her to sing thorns from her skin, to ash poisons on her tongue
"every myth has a mirror," he says. "a place where metaphor wakes hungry. nettlehaven is such a place."
in the drowsing gloom of a dollshouse parlor, a foxfire philosopher shares stranger truths
"we walk in the dreaming of an emerald eye," she whispers, lips stained with laburnum
"our steps sketch sigils, our secrets caress the dreamer. we are the rousing, the remembering."
late at night, her fellow foundlings share stories spun from sap and broken glass
of faerie tithes and fasts, snake wives and saint-eaters
riddling rhymes of rainbow's end and ruin
and sometimes, when the frost limes the windows and the wood is still as stone
a troupe of antler-crowned shades steal from the trees, bringing wisps and wildness
they paint faces on the walls, prank coals in the hearth to green-tinged prettyflame
leave feathers on the sills and silver on the stairs
some secrets keep themselves, some songs defy the singing
but gwenna has patience
the slow thrum patience of xylem and sapwood, cambium and cork
she learns to slip between the lines of logic, sidle through the cracks in what's known
glean glimmerglass and howling harmonies, the bright bones of bogles
she grows antlers of her own, a circlet of shadow and shining
one moonless midnight, the horned one takes her by the hand
leads her to the eye of the forest, the fire-scarred scar of a lightning strike
to a hawthorn hunched and humming, bark black as beetle-gloss
"the deepest door," he says, "the inmost gate. are you ready to pass through?"
gwenna pauses for only a breath
then nods, decisive as an axe blade
with his free hand, the horned one parts the curtain of witchlock and ash
plunges his palm into the hollow of the hawthorn's heart
something opens
something like an eye, an absence, an is-not
raw as birth, old as winter
singing silences, the secret self of storms
"now," says the horned one, low and resonant as a ritual drum. "now, step through."
she does
lets the edges of herself unravel, slip sideways and strange
feels the forest enfold her, rain-drenched and root-rich
she opens
and the worlds open with her
dusk and dew, rot and rapture
the tangled snarl of stories, riddled and reaching
the forge-fire core thrumming beneath bark and bone
greening, unraveling, revealing
(remembering)
she laughs then, a wild whooping sound torn from the groaning throat of the gale!
laughs with the bleak bright mirth of black holes, the gleefulness of gods!
she dances!
once upon a never, in a place threaded between the seams of the map, there lay a forest called nettlehaven
wait that's not quite right
no 'lay' about it, nettlehaven doesn't do the whole static existence thing
nettlehaven writhes, nettlehaven pulses, nettlehaven dreams itself anew each midwinter midnight
from afar it looks small and still, an unmoving copse of trees you could walk across in an hour
but take a step inside and suddenly the trees loom large, suddenly the spaces between them stretch and wind, suddenly the quality of the air changes and you're breathing story
breathing a story as alive as you, as fluid and mutable, as laden with secrets
the locals know better than to enter
"strange things happen in nettlehaven," they mutter, casting wary glances at the treeline
"come out different than you went in, if you come out at all"
the locals busy themselves with the solid things, the quantified and catalogued, the comfortingly mundane
but there are those who ache for more
those who feel the gaps in the world like missing teeth, who sense the membrane between this and that stretching thin
and they find themselves drawn to nettlehaven like moths to a green flame
the children feel it most keenly
while adults rush about their routines, the young ones turn their heads to the whisper of the leaves, the gleam of mica in a stone, the suggestion of a path leading away from the trodden track
especially the orphans
the ones who disappeared from the orphanage on the outskirts one day and slipped into the forest, never to be seen again
whispers say that on certain moonlit nights, you can see their pale faces peering out from the abandoned upper windows, haloed in foxfire
but surely that's nonsense
surely they were adopted out or ran away to the city
surely there's nothing still living in that old ruin...
gwenna knows better
ever since her parents died she's felt like a shattered mirror,
fractured bits of self haphazardly pieced together into girl-shape
the cracks show when she looks
when she pays attention to the shivery ripples in her reflection, the sense of else ness that clings to her skin
and sometimes, when she's alone, she swears she hears her mirrored self whisper secrets from the other side of the glass
"come find us," it breathes, a sibilant sigh in the wake of a passing glimpse
"come find yourself"
so she does
one foot after another, gwenna traces a ragged line to the very edge of things
to the patient sentinels of oak and ash and yew, to the wild herb smell of the air
to nettlehaven
the shadows welcome her in shades of purple and green, rich as a bruise
she marvels at the glow sifting through the canopy, dappling her upturned face in gilt and indigo
marvels at the creak and murmur of branch and brook, less heard than felt, twining tendrils through the fissures in her bones
she ventures deeper, shed shoes dangling from one hand, uncaring of the brambles catching at her stockings
"you there, girl," croaks a voice from the gloaming
gwenna startles, whirls, squints into the murk
"hello?"
"not just any girl," the voice clarifies. "you. i see you."
"who's there?" she calls, pulse fluttering swift and feathered in her throat
"a friend," the voice says, closer now. "or perhaps--yes. more than that. a teacher."
a shape emerges from behind a veil of ivy, tall and mantled in moss
a figure with antlers branching above eyes dark and depthless as drowning pools
as drowning pools
gwenna suppresses a shiver, draws herself upright
"a teacher of what?" she asks
the not-quite-stranger tilts their head, regards her with a gaze that flenses pretense from marrow
"a teacher of old ways," they say. "of the paths between, and the presences that dwell there."
they gesture to the forest around them, gnarled limbs spread wide
"i can show you how to walk those paths," they say. "how to see the wonders and terrors most stumble past blindly. how to become more than you've let yourself be."
yourself be."
something flares bright and hungry in the coal-clench of gwenna's chest
(come find us, her mirror-self whispers)
she nods once, decisive. "show me."
the antlered one smiles, a slow unfurling flush with secrets
"follow, then," they say, turning in a whirl of green. "and mind your step."
they lead her off the path, into the veiled places between the trees
teach her to navigate by moss and mushroom, bird call and beetle click
through groves gilded in language older than marrow, past pools that shimmer pellucid with dreaming
to a clearing cradling a crumbling red-brick bulk
"an orphanage," her guide says, "abandoned long ago. a place where the worlds grow thin."
they stride to a side door slumping on rusted hinges, usher her inside
the air smells of time and mold, loam and lost things
motes of memory dance in the slant of light from shattered windows
"there are others like you," the antlered one says. "younglings touched by the other side of the mirror. i've gathered them here, to learn and become."
a sussurus of whispers, a flicker of shadows, and suddenly the room is far from empty
draped in a cloak of cobwebs, a waif with eyes like silver coins
crouched gargoyle-like on a rotted beam, a wild-haired sprite flashing needle teeth
folded into a nest of ragweed and raven down, a changeling child with skin like bark
"welcome," they breathe as one, voices winding in fugue
gwenna feels their regard like a graze of moth wings, a shiver of kinship
the antlered one rests a hand on her shoulder, their touch a briar-snare
"this is a place of unravelling," they say, "of remembering the fabric of the world is more gaps than weave. here you will learn the ways of nettlehaven, of the old wild magics."
they grin, sharp and green as new nettles
"here you will learn the secret of flying."
"here you will learn the secret of flying."
so gwenna stays
in a castle of lost children, cradled deep in a forest dreamed from shattered time
SHE GROWS
sideways and through, at angels unaware
delves the fable-deep of nettlehaven, wanders its hidden ways and unways
learns the speech of storm crow and snark, windfall and wisper
lets thorn and thisle sink their teeth, savors the sylvan sting
splinters herself on the prism edge of season, the places where the path forks fey
peers through mushroom ring and mirror
scries the secret seams of things, the star-stitch and void-vein
weaves her wildling self from rain and root, echo and ether
she wonders about the world beyond the green-drowned haze, sometimes
the straight-backed rote of it, the ticking tyranny
wonders if her parents would know her, shedded strange and shimmering
if they would weep for the weft of her, warped past mending
(if she would care)
she wonders about the world beyond the green-drowned haze, sometimes
the straight-backed rote of it, the ticking tyranny
wonders if her parents would know her, shedded strange and shimmering
if they would weep for the weft of her, warped past mending
(if she would care)
then she shrugs, shakes off the thought like dew
returns to her rookery nest, her ferny fastness
to the belling hush of the wood at dawn, the hum of shadow and sapflow
to the patient tutelage of the horned one, his hoar-tinged whispers
"the worlds are many," he murmurs, "and manifold. story spun from secret."
he shows her the ghost-roads, the corpse-candle paths
guides her gaze to the black roots of stars, the white fire of worms
teaches her to sing thorns from her skin, to ash poisons on her tongue
"every myth has a mirror," he says. "a place where metaphor wakes hungry. nettlehaven is such a place."
in the drowsing gloom of a dollshouse parlor, a foxfire philosopher shares stranger truths
"we walk in the dreaming of an emerald eye," she whispers, lips stained with laburnum
"our steps sketch sigils, our secrets caress the dreamer. we are the rousing, the remembering."
late at night, her fellow foundlings share stories spun from sap and broken glass
of faerie tithes and fasts, snake wives and saint-eaters
riddling rhymes of rainbow's end and ruin
and sometimes, when the frost limes the windows and the wood is still as stone
a troupe of antler-crowned shades steal from the trees, bringing wisps and wildness
they paint faces on the walls, prank coals in the hearth to green-tinged prettyflame
leave feathers on the sills and silver on the stairs
some secrets keep themselves, some songs defy the singing
but gwenna has patience
the slow thrum patience of xylem and sapwood, cambium and cork
she learns to slip between the lines of logic, sidle through the cracks in what's known
glean glimmerglass and howling harmonies, the bright bones of bogles
she grows antlers of her own, a circlet of shadow and shining
one moonless midnight, the horned one takes her by the hand
leads her to the eye of the forest, the fire-scarred scar of a lightning strike
to a hawthorn hunched and humming, bark black as beetle-gloss
"the deepest door," he says, "the inmost gate. are you ready to pass through?"
gwenna pauses for only a breath
then nods, decisive as an axe blade
with his free hand, the horned one parts the curtain of witchlock and ash
plunges his palm into the hollow of the hawthorn's heart
something opens
something like an eye, an absence, an is-not
raw as birth, old as winter
singing silences, the secret self of storms
"now," says the horned one, low and resonant as a ritual drum. "now, step through."
she does
lets the edges of herself unravel, slip sideways and strange
feels the forest enfold her, rain-drenched and root-rich
she opens
and the worlds open with her
dusk and dew, rot and rapture
the tangled snarl of stories, riddled and reaching
the forge-fire core thrumming beneath bark and bone
greening, unraveling, revealing
(remembering)
she laughs then, a wild whooping sound torn from the groaning throat of the gale!
laughs with the bleak bright mirth of black holes, the gleefulness of gods!
she dances!