“Oh, there you are, you silly thing,” he said, smiling like a child, eyes nearly rolling back into his head in his attempt to look at the kestrel perching on his skullcap.

His behavior was as strange as his appearance. He leaned down and kissed the roots of every tree in the vicinity, as if they were objects of sacred worth, wiping his forehead on the bark of the trunk and jumping up with all his might to reach the leaves, until he ran out of breath. The kestrel held on to his cap the whole time, nonplussed. All the man’s movements were punctuated by a clicking of the tongue and an awed murmur, with the occasional hop in place.

The hag stood with her hands on her hips, an expression of half-disgusted indulgence on her face.

“Have you missed me, hag?” he said, as though remembering the reason for his visit.

“Humph,” she said.

He walked up to Voran and smelled him, making an exaggerated grimace. He faced the hag and smiled lopsidedly.

“Why are you bothering me again, Tarin?” growled the hag. “I don’t want to hear any stories today, especially after the horrific one you sprung on me, for which I paid you a king’s ransom.”

“Don’t lie,” he chuckled, “you loved that story. But I’m not here to entertain you. I’m afraid you’re in a bit of a pickle. You’ve got the attention of the Authorities. And not for the right reasons. Seems you’ve annoyed the Alkonist with your mistreatment of this poor specimen.”

Voran’s heart hammered. He did not quite understand what was happening, but he had heard of the Alkonist. They were Creatures of Aer, High Beings. It seemed they were the ruling authority of the Lows of Aer. Would they take his side over one of their own?

“You have no authority to speak for the Alkonist, Tarin. You’re only a man.” Voran thought he detected a sliver of fear in the increased shrillness of her voice. “Let them come themselves and speak to me. I dare them.”

“Baaaaaah! Do you really?” said one of the trees near the watermill. Except it wasn’t a tree at all. It was a giant, covered with matted hair and green moss, with acorns and pinecones sticking out of his long beard. He sniffled like a porcupine. Voran had heard that sniffle before, in the sleeping-wood, what seemed like such an age ago.

“What are you doing here?” complained the hag. “Don’t you have some travelers to scare with your clapping?”

The giant took an angry step away from the trees and shrank in a second to the size of the grass blades surrounding the hut. “I hate it when that happens,” he muttered in a mouse-squeak.

Something laughed in the trees. It was a girlish laugh, uninhibited and slightly insane. She had thick, waving blond hair reaching to her heels. It dripped wet, but still covered her body. Voran was grateful for that, because she was completely naked. She rocked back and forth on an oak-limb, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

“What do you have to laugh about?” complained the former giant, who by now had grown to the height of a tree-stump.

She gasped and fell silent, hands raised to her mouth in mock alarm. It was such an exaggerated gesture, that Voran felt he was watching a very badly-done stage play. The girl broke into laughter again.

“What do you expect, Lesnik?” drawled a bored voice from the roof of the hut. “She is drowned, after all. Can’t help herself.”

The girl stopped laughing and began to moan, tears of sorrow seamlessly replacing the tears of laughter. The bored voice came from a huge tawny cat with the most cunning eyes Voran had ever seen.

The stump-sized former giant named Lesnik snuffled into his overgrown, mossy beard.

“Hag,” said the cat, yawning so hugely that Voran was surprised its jaw remain hinged, “we of the Alkonist have been keeping an eye on you. It seems you’re breaking the rules again.”

“I haven’t done anything illegal,” she grumbled.

“Do you know? I never liked liars,” said the cat. “I knew you were the worst when we let you into the Lows, but I didn’t expect you to be so blatant about it. Yes, we can all appreciate occasionally harassing a human. We all do it! But what you’ve done with that poor creature is unforgivable. You should know better.”

The hag bristled at the cat’s manner. “Don’t insult me, cat-thing. I demand a trial by ordeal.”

Lesnik laughed. It sounded like a pig eating swill. “We thought you would. So we brought the storyteller. It will be an ordeal of story.”

“Couldn’t I just tickle the human and be done with it?” said the naked girl. To Voran’s horror, she had the same expression a wolf might have after being starved for weeks. To his even greater horror, he found himself strangely attracted by that expression. He tried to shake it out of his head.

“Only if the hag wins the ordeal,” said Lesnik. “You know the rules.”

“An ordeal of story?” The hag groaned. “That’s the most idiotic—”

“The ordeal of story is the most ancient ordeal in the world, hag,” said Tarin, clicking his tongue. “And who better to judge than the original storyteller?” He bowed to the cat, who graciously acknowledged the compliment. It purred, conceit evident in the fluffing of its tail.

“Perhaps I can tell a story while you decide, hag?” said the cat, its eyes wide and excited. “In a certain kingdom, in a certain land…”

“No!” The hag stomped in frustration. “Your stories are the worst. If I win the ordeal, what do I get in return?”

“You?” said Lesnik, one eyebrow—which was actually a chestnut—raised derisively. “You get nothing. Continued permission to reside here, that is all.”

“And if I lose?”

“Tarin takes your slave for himself.”

Voran’s heart leaped. Tarin was strange, it was true, but anything would be better than bondage to the hag.

“For the benefit of all concerned,” the cat drawled, extremely upset at being interrupted, “I will review the ancient rules of the ordeal. Its premise is simple. Two tellers will weave a story of their choosing, and we three Alkonist will decide the winner. We will consider the following criteria: originality, beauty of language, musicality of expression, and truthfulness.”

“Truthfulness?” The hag made a sour face. “That’s very vague. Very subjective.”

No one paid any attention to her.

“Now for the traditional incantation,” said the cat.

“Oh, this is too much,” said the hag. “I will not say it. It’s silly and outdated.”

“It will be done in the proper way, or not at all,” said Lesnik. He was nearly man-sized again, his voice deepening with the growth.

“Maybe I should just tickle him?” ventured the drowned girl. Everyone ignored her, as though they only tolerated her presence out of necessity. Voran tried not to look at her as her hair waved lazily in the wind.

Tarin drew himself up to his full height, and the kestrel flew up and re-alighted on his shoulder. It looked intently at Voran, as though trying to think something at him. Tarin intoned.

“The art of story is sacred and old,

So, teller, beware, lest your heart be revealed,

For the power of words can turn iron to gold

Or bind fetters as fast as the roots of the elm.”

The hag repeated the incantation through gritted teeth. Tarin raised his staff and began to tell his story.

The Tale of the Sirin and the Child

In ages when the earth was untamed and curious as an infant, men were yet a thought in the mind of the Heights. Strange and magnificent creatures inhabited the earth. Wardens of this wild earth were the Sirin, highest of the natural creation, fiercely beautiful and glorious. The Sirin reveled in the delights of mountain and steppe, lake and river, basking in the simple company of the beasts who adored them.