Ch. 1 – No. 3: Duet
Clove makes a friend in the forest.
A crane was perched on a decaying log preening long plumage as the Circadian Forest hummed and buzzed around him. Sunlight streamed through the canopy into patches of dappled radiance The damp warmth of early summer was beginning to arrive in earnest.
From amid the forest’s symphony of birdsong and chirping insects, a new melody arose. The crane perked up, his long neck straightening as he listened. Somewhere near, a reedy flute tumbled through a melody with loose yet nimble modulations, and for a moment the crane was transfixed. And then he was curious. Trailing small feathers in his wake, he took to the air and broke through the canopy, quickly finding a light breeze which bore him toward the song’s source.
Work on the inn had concluded and the crew had moved onto smaller jobs solicited by villagers. Meanwhile, Clove had been making arrangements of her own. After all of the work in Yonderwood was complete, the caravan would depart for their next job while Clove would remain here, along with a few of the caravan’s most skilled craftworkers. Lady Warblewort, Clove’s beloved steed, would accompany the rest of the caravan upon their departure. She had belonged to the caravan prior to Clove’s joining, and despite her best efforts, Clove could not convince the stubborn foreman to buy or trade for the beast. And as for Clove’s post in the group, one of the caravan’s general assistants would take over the position of sustainer. Materials were being acquired for the house’s repair while Clove and her small crew drafted plans. Stowed in the bottom of her trunk was a reserve of recent, secretly acquired coin, and while her team had looked to her curiously as she placed a healthy payout before them, they had asked no questions.
Now, though, she was still tasked with her duties as sustainer. She spent her days prowling the forest, occasionally sourcing meats and salts from local merchants, and prepping meals at the group’s camp on the woods’ edge.
Northwest of the ruined house, the terrain of the Circadian Forest dipped gradually toward Relic Pond. A great sculpted stone hand reached out of the water’s center, an enigmatic monument after which the pond was named. Here, there was an air of stillness; an isolated reprieve from the world of people who moved about in the village, on the Forest Road, along the lake’s surface. Clove had never encountered anyone else at the pond nor could she detect any manmade path ending here.
After stumbling across the small body of water while following a drabdeer path, Clove fished here daily. And after many days of pushing through the undergrowth — briars breaking skin, vines and branches hacked clear — she had developed a proper trail from the ruined house to Relic Pond. The fishing here was excellent, superior to that of the lake.
Clove settled on an outcropping of large rock jutting into the pond. Setting aside her gear, she retrieved a wooden flute from her satchel. Sitting pensive for a moment, she gazed at the strange hand, the placid water, the reeds sprouting from the pond’s edge. Her eyes fell closed as she commenced a lilting, haunting melody. The notes resounded across the shore as she fell into a meditative improvisation.
And then, with a rush of wing and talon, the crane touched down on the rock beside Clove’s seated figure. Wide-eyed, heart flailing, she froze, waiting for the crane’s next movement as he stood tall with an uncanny stillness.
But there was an oddity about him, an otherworldly quality with which Clove was very familiar, yet it surprised her: fibrous threads emanated from his body, shimmering and weightless and beautiful to behold. They were translucent, spindly, ethereal things, meandering through the air toward Clove, their motion and faint sound arrhythmic in nature. And then the phantom of a distant memory danced in the periphery of her mind, just out of reach.
Before Clove could form a single thought about any of this, the crane’s beak parted to replicate the melody that had recurred throughout her scattered noodling. With a gentle treble, the bird’s vocalizations followed the notes through a steady rhythm. Pausing, he tilted his head and looked to Clove, as if prompting her to join him. And so, she did. The crane’s simple song wove into Clove’s improvisations, the two effortlessly following the inklings of rhythm and melody.
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