Folk Tales On Postcards # 3
“Furtooth Smoke; Or The Enigma Of Fog”
Upon reaching the mountain’s notch, a grand elm held before us the distance of fifty men laid toe to head. I had seen nothing like it in life.
Its pigment tinged by the color of blood and recent madness. Veiny branches held out an ancient parish of silvery leaves like a giant wraith’s arms, stretched and straining to lift in good faith her long life’s fortune above her brow, paying tithe to some unknown heaven unimpressed by such Lilliputian offers.
Furtooth Smoke haulted, head down. Eyes and snout scanning along the parameters, he spoke out unsure and uneasily, still acclimating to the vocal patterns of men. An inferior jest to his ears.
What his sirefather would think to have throat corrupted so. Maybe if he had listened, the wolf would have been able to protect the last of their kind and the guilt all endlings carry.
But he had not.
Only forgiveness left to be begged to ghosts. Furtooth’s fatherconfessor now bones and legend as the rest. For but a tick, the wolf closed its eyes.
Peering through savage fog, opaque and slowly dancing in circles, a congregation of midnight’s impish children connected in white, flowing gowns surrounding the tree’s bloated trunk, I caught glimpse of an unrevealed figure sifting about as shadow within, and startled as Furtooth gabbled.
The wolf, spoke with a low, regal air as if possessed by the dueling whispers of wisdom hardened by the experience of noble monsters and unmoving instinct long ago aquainted yet forever at odds.
“Human, all trees hold the secrets of the countless inside. This one ahead, Enigma, holds someone bound to its skin.”
Furtooth paused, as his ears straightened north.
“This prisoner, is becoming. Changing wild like storm clouds with teeth. A poor thing’s memory already at last breaths before final fade. The smell of bitter fruit Enigma splayed across her terra firma proves her own fear of what’s to come anon.”
“But such olden ladies of bark and root were not born to know terror. It must be faced now or we flee to failure upon Orison’s song.”
I breathed deeply, still buzzing from the witch’s spirits, wiped the sting of sweat cowardice conjured from my eyes, and nodded knowing no other way.
“Whatever it takes to get to my, Sifer”.
The wolf paced ahead of me and I followed into the murk, two minds trying not to burn as those dancing children in the mist began to giggle as we drew closer.