This week’s image was taken a little under a year ago. I think we were on a walk between Cambo House and the Kingsbarn Distillery. To me it has a Cambo sort of vibe, anyway, so I’ll go with that absent any other information. For those of you who haven’t been there, Cambo House is a delight. I’ve been to a couple of family weddings there, so we’ve had a good chance to have a poke about both the grounds and the house itself. Its proximity to a whisky distillery earns it bonus points, of course, and the woodland walk between the two is lovely in itself.
I fought my way through cloying undergrowth. My only guide was the chattering of running water. This deep into the Neverwood daylight tiptoed past the canopy turning green in envy at all the places it would never reach. In here the only directions that mattered were inward and away. My weary feet continued inward. Closer to the voice of the stream. Nearer to the goal of my quest.
During the last few hours the rilling of the stream had become a literal babbling. As the water flowed deeper into the woods it changed. It became more alive. I could clearly make out syllables now. The proper sounds of speech. They weren’t yet words. At least not in any language I knew of. I say that like I know many languages, which I don’t. I know one to speak, have overheard heard conversations in three others, and a smattering of words in a further two. The voice of the water spoke sounds that were alien to my ears. I stumbled on towards where the voice was clearest.
Everything was changed by the Neverwood. The stream flowed in from the mountains above as normal as water can be. This far in, so legends claim, one should not drink from the Neverbrook any more than one should drink another’s blood. Luckily for me rain was a constant companion. I had merely to set up a funnel into my waterskin overnight to have all the fresh water I could want.
Without warning the undergrowth gave way to a clearing. I stumbled against the sudden lack of resistance and nearly fell into a deep gully. At the bottom the Neverbrook ran shallow but swiftly. The water spoke words now. My journey was at last drawing to an end. Well, a middle, really. I still had to get back with my prize.
I listened for a moment. Not only were there words. The sounds had started forming sentences. That or the Neverwood was changing me into a madman. I suppose I’ll never know which is true. By whatever mechanism, the stream had many voices that all spoke together. Some of the voices I couldn’t understand. Others were as clear to me as those of my own village.
“Turn back,” they said. Variations on that theme, at any rate.
I could not.
I recalled my instructions. Cross where the voice of the waters speaks clear. Follow the way to the heart of the wood. Receive a seed of the sacred tree and return hope to our land.
Well, the waters spoke clear. A short way to my left a fallen tree offered a convenient bridge over the gully. Just as well as I had little idea how I could survive a plummet to the bottom where the waters ran. In the centre of my bridge was a cluster of tiny buildings. At home I would have thought them no more than twee garden ornaments. At the brink of the Neverbrook I was not so sure.
My foot touched the moss-covered wood when a voice rang out clear over the witterings of the water.
“You cannot pass!”
A tiny sprite had emerged from the nearest of the buildings. It hovered in the air in front of me at the height of my shoulder. As far as I could tell, the sprite bore no weapons. Even if she had, at barely the size of my hand, how could she possibly be a threat.
“I must,” I said. “Please don’t stand in my way.”
The sprite sighed. “You cannot pass.” Her voice carried a melancholy that I did not understand, though I soon would.
“Please,” I begged. “You must let me through. I don’t want to hurt you, but if I don’t return with a seed of the sacred tree, my people are doomed.”
She sighed again and fluttered aside.
“Thank you,” I said and began my crossing.
I took great care to step over the buildings without damaging them. I owed the tiny way-keeper at least that much. Two steps beyond I felt the air thicken. I pushed forward, though it was like swimming through treacle. The harder I pushed, the stronger it pushed back.
Sweat beaded on my brow and my breath came in ragged gasps. Perhaps I could ask the sprite for advice or assistance. I paused in my efforts, but the air didn’t return the favour. It pushed hard against me. My feet slipped on the damp moss covering the wood.
I lost my balance.
I fell.
“I said you could not pass,” said the sprite as I plunged to the water below.
Brandon Lim 