In the Wood

Finn heard a loud clamorous rushing in his ears, his arms flailing wildly for balance, but it was already too late. He was falling. It seemed the earth had just given way beneath him. In a backward sprawl, he tumbled and bounced down a long sloping hill. Nettles tore at his face, bits of stick and thorn ripped at his garments. He jolted against a rock a moment later, stopping abruptly and painfully.

Drawing dazedly on his elbow, Finn shook his head against the whirl of his senses. His vision was blurry and swimming. He rubbed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, trying to steady himself. Unevenly, the blur began to focus and sharpen. As his sight slowly returned, he gazed cautiously, mystified by what he beheld.

Stretched before him in all directions were miles of sunlit and sparsely forested meadows, broad hillocks and grottos, and the distant sparkle of lakes and flat-bedded streams. How could this be? When Finn had stood upon the ridge early this morning, surveying the Wood of the Turning Timbers, he had seen no such open places. The canopy of timbers was unbroken and gloomy throughout. Finn looked behind him. Gone! The thick forest, twisting paths, and woods were all gone! Even the hill he thought to have just tumbled down, it too was nowhere to be found. He stood on an open rise, the ground sloping down and away in all directions. Everything about the dark and foreboding wood had seemingly vanished.

"Enchantment!" Finn exclaimed for a second time this day. For his tastes, that was already twice too often. Yet, despite his wariness, it was clear that he had entered the Wood of the Turning Timbers in some manner unknown, whether by device or chance. A wry smile came to his lips.

For this small victory, at least, he was pleased.

Stiffly, the Son of Cumhal rose to his feet and began to cast about in search of his belongings. A short distance away, his bow and quiver of arrows lay haphazardly shattered, broken apparently by his mysterious fall. Useless now, he ignored them. A little farther on, he glimpsed the hilt of his sword, where it peeked from beneath a tangled bush. Near and about it were the scattered contents of his flint pouch and satchel. He moved slowly toward them, nursing his bruised muscles. Gratefully, the weapon was yet whole and sound. He sheathed it, gathered the remainder of his belongings, and turned to consider the country before him.

The four directions seemed straightforward and clear, with the late afternoon sun now visible in the sky. Yet, Finn hesitated. How could he be sure? With all that had happened today, could he be sure of what he saw with his own eyes? What could he trust? A course of due south lay directly ahead if his senses did not deceive him. Somewhere beyond the far horizon would flow the great River Blackwater. Behind him (though at present hidden by enchantment) must still be the ridge he had stood upon this morning and further still –many days behind– the cottage where he was raised.

Bodhmall and Liath had often told tales of hunters lost to places enchanted by the Faery folk, never to be seen again in the mortal world. Was Finn in such a place? Was the heart of the wood the same; was it even the same day growing old about him, the same sun overhead?

Of what could he be sure?

Finn considered this. He gazed at the countryside, weighing and measuring it against his thoughts. Then with an abruptness Bodhmall and Liath had come to know as characteristic of Finn's decision-making, the Son of Cumhal set out on his journey, making for what by all accounts yet lay southward toward the heart of the Wood of the Turning Timbers.

"The sun can't be changed," he announced, stilling his hesitations.

And that was the last thought he gave to it.

The travel was pleasant. Sunlit meadows opening into broad and airy reaches invited the boy, recalling the spacious forests of his childhood play. Up ahead, he saw a hollow of trees that particularly drew him. It seemed cozy to the eye; its thick, soft conifers sewn together like delicate lace. On its edges, creepers with brilliant flowers – blues, reds, and gold– hung like jeweled portals before its many dark openings. He was sure there must be wide open paths within, good places for any bold lad to find adventure. Without noticing, his feet had turned from his way. He was making straight for the boundary of this enchanting place.

As he approached, his earlier sense of wariness and caution disappeared utterly. A lift came to his step, and for the first time since he'd learned of his heritage from Bodhmall, even the shade of a smile tried to awaken in his eyes. He slowed near the edge of this grotto. There was a sense of almost unearthly abandon in the air. He was moved by an impulse to cavort and frolic in a nearby meadow.

"But no," he struggled, "I must remember my purpose here, pass on my way."

"Purpose?" "What purpose?" he grew irritated.

To where was he in such a hurry anyway? Finn chuckled to himself. "How funny!" he thought and began to laugh aloud. The discord of his laughter sounded stark against the quiet of his surroundings, but this also seemed funny, tickling him more and more until he was nearly beside himself.

It was in this very instant that he saw the wood sprites.

Had Finn remembered to quickly follow Liath's teachings, to spit in the four directions and then jump up and down while clapping his hands over his head and saying his name rapidly backward ten times, all that was to follow might not have happened. Although sometimes mischievous, wood sprites are not very intelligent by nature, particularly those inhabiting such a remote place, with little or no contact with mortals. Such a potent counter spell would have repelled them, paying Finn no more bother.

But warnings are one thing.

Finn had never seen a sprite before. They at once enchanted him. The result was that whatever cautions Liath had given Finn on sprites skipped across his mind like stones over placid water, disappearing in a twinkling into its murky depths. Dumbfounded, his mouth agape with wonder, Finn was instantly caught in their spell.

There seemed to be a dozen or so flitting back and forth in the air among the trees and bushes. Counting them accurately was impossible because they were always in motion. Also, several could occupy the same space at once. The Son of Cumhal stared at what he assumed to be one sprite when suddenly two more peeled themselves away, revealing there had been three the whole time.

"How beautiful..." he whispered.

These were forest sprites; thus, they were long, slender, and reed-like, rather than mountain sprites, which he knew could be pretty stout, or water sprites that were veil-like, filmy, and nearly translucent. Pleasant-looking creatures, they had tiny, barely discernible features and pert little ears that were pointed and sharp. Their eyes were like chips of bright shiny jewels. Everything about them seemed to come to a point. They didn't have legs; their lower bodies tapered to a fine needle-like end.

Not only did the sprites take on the colors of whatever flora they hovered near (thus were they an ever-changing array of the greens, golds, and browns of the forest with occasional brilliant bands of blues, reds, or yellows when part of their bodies happened to pause for an instant before a forest wildflower), the sprites also magnified those colors many times over to a brilliance that seemed to sustain itself for a little while, only growing dimmer by degrees after they had passed on to the next flower or bush. This dazzle of lights and colors flitting and shifting in front of Finn's eyes had a hypnotic effect on him. He moved trancelike toward the sprites, but they continually backed just out of reach, leading him deeper into the dark forest. After a time of this, once Finn was wholly disoriented and lost in the depths of the wood, the first of the sprites removed itself from the near flora and hovered momentarily at the youth's shoulder.

It was not a wholly unpleasant feeling, not differing significantly from a feather fluttering at his ear or a fly winging its way quickly by. Except it tickled him strangely in the pit of his stomach, making him feel a little tired. Finn giggled and waved the simple creature away. But even as he did so, three more took its place. He tried to wave them aside, as well. Instantly, six more were flitting about him.

What had been no more than a mild annoyance grew increasingly uncomfortable for Finn. His breathing became rapid and difficult. The pit of his stomach felt queasy, and he could not focus through all the whirling and fluttering of shapes about him. He felt suffocated and trapped like an inexperienced swimmer overlong in the water.

"Go away!" he shouted, flinging his arms wildly.

If Finn had remembered Liath's teachings about sprites, he would have known the silly and empty-witted creatures meant him no harm. Usually happily sustained on the peaceful emanations of flowers and trees, these sprites were drawn to the novelty of his human complexity. At this point, had the Son of Cumhal relaxed and quieted himself, the wood sprites would have soon grown bored and returned to the nectarous flora, which was more to their liking. But instead, Finn did the worst thing he could have done; he became angry.

This was his second mistake.

Anger is a powerfully complex human emotion that is instantly overwhelming for a creature as frail as a sprite. Being exposed to the direct force of Finn's emotion, these curious creatures would, for weeks, possibly even months afterward, suffer from all manner of their versions of flu, stomach aches, and colds; the only good result was that they would never again be so silly as to come so close to a mortal. But for now, they were equally caught as Finn in a trap of their own making.

As anger began to heat the Son of Cumhal's blood, the creatures ceased flitting and moving. All about him, they began to hover, suspended in the air like erect little soldiers. A strange buzzing emanated from their bodies, building slowly, becoming increasingly frantic. It was an eerie sound, electrifying and immediate. Bewildered, Finn watched the bodies of the spirits grow very pale, almost a translucent white. Then the eeriest change by far began to occur. The sprites, once comely and sweet looking, now took on the faces of tiny demons. Their mouths became cavernous and dark; their sharp pointed features seemed to lengthen and grow diabolic; their hands grew taloned and dangerous looking. Coupled with their strange and fearsome buzzing, they appeared as images from some hellish and fearful dream.

When the first of the creatures, driven by the excitement of Finn's anger, began to move again and fly at him, every passing felt like the sting of a leather whip. The others instantly joined suit and, as if everywhere at once, riddled and worried the youth into total confusion. Finn tried to fight back, flailing wildly at them, but they were too much.

Panicked, he began to run.

Finn's fear redoubled the sprites' attraction to him. Unable to see for the confusion of stinging and flitting forms, he ran headlong into trees and branches, scratching and bruising his face and body. In his confusion, Finn exposed himself to natural dangers of the wildwood. A hungry predator lurking nearby would find the youth easy prey. He risked being entrapped should he near any bogs, cliffs, or other dangers.

Finn never really understood how it took place. The sprites were at the very height of their fury. He was stumbling headlong into every tree and rock when a loud, cracking sound suddenly filled the air, like the quick ripping of a long linen sheet. Finn felt his ears pop, and the sprites instantly ceased all motion. Hovering alertly, they became intently alert. Then, like dozens of hummingbirds winging into the distance, they suddenly fled into all parts of the forest. In the wake of their passage was complete and utter silence.

Weakened and panting, Finn collapsed against the bole of a tree. His eyes closed as his head rocked backward against the trunk. There was always a characteristic scent when thunderstorms battled the land in the spring of the year. Finn noticed that smell now. He was curious about where it emanated from but couldn't force himself to stir. He seemed so very, very tired.

He lost track of how long he lay there. He might have fallen asleep. Suddenly, he was quickened by the sense that he was not alone in the forest. It was too quiet. Instinctually, he secreted himself behind the tree. Withdrawing his sword, he held it readied as he peered cautiously into the surroundings.

He did not have long to wait.

Peering about the edge of the bole, the distant foliage suddenly parted. A sapling split loudly in a close stand of trees, followed by loud crashing and the rending of undergrowth. Whatever was approaching was large, very large. It was too late to flee.

What stepped forth was a most unusual sight.

It was not one intruder but two: a giant and a young girl. The giant was massive, a burly beast of a man, at least fourteen feet tall. He appeared clumsy and flat-footed, shuffling with a listless and lazy gait. With an old, battered cooking pot for a hat, his clothes were soiled, rent, and hung limply on his big bony frame. Even his shoes didn't match; one shoe, though newly made, was over-small, causing him to limp from pain, while the other was a boot so old, overlarge, and full of holes, it threatened to fall away with every step.

Over one eye, the giant wore a black patch, while the other eye peered askew with a blank, lifeless expression. His chin reminded Finn of the bill of a duck –useful for digging muck at the bottom of a pond– for it was flat and squared off, yet it sported dark patches of uneven stubble, splatted and smeared throughout with strands of pitch and reeds. A large bulbous nose, like a fat carrot, hung in the center of his face, and his ears drooped like limp lettuce on the side of his head; while his body was hunched over and caked with dried mud and dust. Under one arm, the giant pinned a large forest pig who squealed occasionally but mostly hung in resigned silence. Altogether, the massive man was a wholly uncommon-looking sight.

But for all the dull and thick-boned appearance of the giant, the young girl, by contrast, was animated, quick-footed, and dainty of step. A pretty thing, she seemed not much older than Finn, fine featured, with dark hair long and plaited, her skirts flowing loosely about her, and her soft blouse trim and close fitting. So light of step and bright-eyed was she, Finn found himself instantly put at ease by her. She covered ten paces for every one of her companions and, wholly unafraid of his great size, prodded and vigorously shoved the lout whenever he attempted to lag, which was most of the time. Without expecting to do so, he called out. "Begging your pardon, lass?"

As if he didn't exist, Finn's call was completely ignored.

The pair continued on their way without the merest turn of the head, perhaps even picking up their pace a bit. Finn grew irritated. In this single day, he had been befuddled by a magic wood, tumbled down a hill that didn't exist, and driven nearly senseless by a swarm of witless sprites. Now, after all else, was he to be ignored by a walking tree and a young nymph of a girl?

No! He'd had enough. He took off in hot pursuit.

Finn expected to come even with the giant and the girl in a few straightforward strides, but oddly, they'd advanced more quickly than he'd expected. He redoubled his pace, but mysteriously, instead of closing the distance between them without any clear burst of speed on their part, they soon appeared even more distant. Finn's pursuit had a strange dream-like quality as if he perceived them through an oddly receding forest tunnel. Then suddenly, just as they were about to turn a bend in the wood that would have hidden them from Finn's eye, an eerie mist appeared out of nowhere. The giant and the girl stepped into the mist and instantly vanished. Finn slowed and made his way to the edge of the uncanny vapor. He stopped.

"Faery mist," thought the Son of Cumhal.

Finn stared at the fog as it billowed and swirled before him, strangely beckoning. Then, it began to dissipate. Liath had told him that faery folk often use such a mist to disguise their flight if pursued by mortals.

"There was little courtesy in you to one who is a stranger in your forest," he called aloud, "and for this reason, I'll not give up calling you to account for your untoward hospitality!" Boldly, Finn stepped forward and was instantly swallowed in the mist.