Somewhere dusk was settling. The air

Was stirring gently as one sleep deprived

Whose body yearns so much to dream that it

Rebels, and tries to slumber standing up

Whenever and wherever mind and will

Relax their vigilance. It moved the grass

Upon the hills as tides roll through the weed

In rocky coastal crevices, then sank

So grass and leaves grew still, then with a start

It woke again to glide across the plain.

Somewhere sun was setting. All the air

Was turning gold translucent, like the film

Of antique movies all in shades of brown

As if shot through a lens of topaz carved.

Somewhere night was coming. Ere it came,

Varr knew they would need shelter, lest the ash

Destroyers, overcome so easily

In daylight, should upon them chance at night

With strength and stealth and cunning multiplied

By darkness, as a sponge with water swollen.

He was only a moment's time away

From speaking, when the refugees they led

All stopped at some sign silent. One of them—

A beldame matronly—had raised her hand

And all the folk watched her as soldiers do

When all their orders are but half pronounced.

She stood not to her full height, but she stooped

As if with long attention on some craft,

Or if with weight around her shoulders hung

As if she carried iron ingots strung

Beneath her many shawls and petticoats

Instead of only beads of colored glass.

Her gown was patterned like a circus tent

Inverted or rotated in fragments

So that the bands of color twisted round

Into a geometric tangle. In

Her auburn hair, she wore a feather tucked

Behind her ear, and chains and braided charms. 

She nodded at a boy and girl. “Go fetch,"

She said, “a willow switch, no longer than

The space between your finger and your thumb,

Peel back the bark, and then fill full your bowl

At yonder stream. Come swiftly back to me,

And go with wariness. Do not assume

That champions like these grow on the trees."

Varr looked askance, but Shane laughed and he said,

“Caution is good. A guard is better. I

Will go with you, children, and watch your task.

Those that would offer harm must go through me."

“Go then!" the lady said, and smiled. They passed

Through screens of tangled brush that by degrees

Concealed the pilgrim band, so that they saw

Decreasing fragments of the scene they left

Eclipsed by autumn-fading yellowed green.

Down underneath a canopy of brush

Between two almost-cliffs that it had carved

With weight of water and slow years from clay

So that a careless touch could smash the work

Of ages, lay a secret stream. The sky

That showed above between the treetops shone

In perfect congruence. It reflected

The shape of waters that reflected hue

From it, except where willow fronds,

Still clinging to their summer stoplight green

Where the long leaves had their roots in the bough,

Trailed down into the ripples. There the boy

His pocketknife between his teeth, scrambled

Onto the listing trunk and disappeared

Among the leaves. The girl regarded Shane

With solemn curiosity as she

Immersed one corner of a wooden bowl,

With bluebells and with oak leaves painted, in

The stream, like one who stoops to pan for gold

In pantomime or some ceremony

Unconscious. Shane returned her look, like one

Addressed in tongues he does not know, and she

Asked him, “Are you not cold? The autumn air

Cannot be kind to one so lightly dressed.

My grandmother, who sent us, can lend you

A cloak or tunic, an you need but ask."

Shane blinked. “I am not cold. I had not thought

Upon the weather. I do feel coolness

Upon the air, like scent of distant rain,

But I can feel no chill from it," he said.

“I had forgot," the girl replied, her bowl

Now brimming full, “that you would be of those

Who have gone through your graves to arrive here.

Perhaps the cold cannot sting you, or numb

The corners of your face as it does me."

The boxer said in puzzlement, “Then you,

You are not dead, as I was told I was?

You live yet, and came to this place alive?

Do you then know a way one could return?"

She laughed. “Doubt not that you have died, warrior,

Though whether you are dead I cannot say.

My grandmother told me how such as you

Will wake amnesiac to wander here,

Will like the angels neither breed nor age,

Will wait like plasters until battle comes,

And how could they do thus, had they not died?

But once she foretold one like you, I think,

Who will salvation be from sulfur dread,

And if it was you, you need worry not.

For you death works two ways, if but you choose."

And more she might have said, as earnestly

And casually as one remarks upon

The possibility that it will rain

Had not the boy dropped from the rustling leaves,

A bare twig in his hand, and scowled at her.

“Heed not my sister, sir," he sulked, “she speaks

Things not for ears of outsiders. They wait

For us, and night waits not for them.

We may have miles to go before we sleep."

So they returned: the boxer sore confused

At his demise discussed so casually,

A willow twig bare to the green-white wood

Clutched in one fist, the girl abashed, the boy

Frightened and angry at he told not what

So that he would not suffer his sister

Should help him bear the bowl up the steep bank

Though nigh it came to spilling more than once.

The lady took the bowl with thanks. She raised

The green wand to her lips, and whispered low

Something sibilant and warm sounding: though

Shane did not catch the words, the murmur felt

Like spring and budding leaves. She set the twig,

Now leaking sticky sap, to float upon

The trembling water's surface. As all watched,

It swung round slowly; first clockwise, then back,

Then back again, as does a compass waved

Suddenly round that gropes for north again.

Then it was still, quivering, like the coils

That burn electric vibrations within

The antique heater your grandmother had.

The lady smiled, though suddenly she seemed

Both tired and out of breath. “Yonder," she said,

“Not far beyond these hills our haven lies.

Yonder our beds tonight. Yonder safety.

Let all make haste, before the day is gone!"

The refugees as one hoisted their packs

And set off where the wand had pointed, save

The boy who cut it. First he went to help

The lady, who seemed now to need a prop

And followed on his arm as on a cane.

Shane stood dumbfounded, mind incapable

Of swallowing what eyes reported. Though

He had strange things seen, none had been so plain

And obviously otherworldly yet.

Varr shook him by the shoulder. “Brother, wake!

We must not fall behind. The night is nigh.

If come the Soot again, these folk will need

Your fist more than they did this morning! Come!"

Shane shook his head, as does a dog who gains

The shore and shakes the water from his ears,

And cried incredulous, “What are these folk?

Who know how we are dead, yet have not died?

Who speak of secrets and who whisper sooth?

Who complicated wonders work as if

It were no remarkable than to

Sweep up the dusty floor or boil an egg?"

They followed rearmost in the failing light,

And as they made their way, Varr thus explained:

“These are the Witchfolk. Ever were they here.

Before the first of us awoke, they dwelt

Amidst the forest fastness, in the glades,

Deep in the mazy thickets where the paths

Shift when you are not looking, to confuse

And deflect the chance visitor. No more

Than half a month together they would stay

In the same place, but ever on the move

They would through copses steal in twilight's cloak

To yet another secret haunt. They take

Not kindly toward strangers. Not well known

Their hospitality was. Those who strayed

The wrong way on patrol might disappear

To surface several seasons later on

With three days growth of hair upon their cheek

And memories no firmer than a dream.

But now, it seems we're good for more than sport.

For now, I guess, they have another foe

More hated and more puissant against

Their charms and half-fogs. If they ask our help,

I willingly will give: I hate their foes

More than they fear their foes, more than they scorned

Those whom they tricked, more than I love my pride.

But I will not entrust my life or hate

To such as these, who hide behind dead leaves,

Who fight with shadows and illusioncraft,

Whose very nature is to run away.

I trust not such. If you count worth my word,

Do likewise, brother." Shane frowned, and he said,

“I would I could be as aloof as you,

But something they let slip, that sounded like

The echo of the answers to my dreams,

And I must know the whole of that, at least,

Or call myself a coward. I do fear

That I could be afraid of what I learn."

Said Varr, “I know this much: they cannot lie

Outright. Whatever answers the witchfolk

May give you grudgingly, they will contain

Some truth, if not too much. Ask boldly, then,

But what you hear, interpret cautiously."

Yet there their conference ended, for they came

To a hill crowned with boulders, laid the one

So close against the other that they formed

A natural battlement about the top.

Within the circle towered three great pines

Whose boughs and darksome needles gently trailed

Upon the rock tops. In the only gap

There stood a stunted sapling of the three

That towered overhead and stole the light

With gnarled roots to crevices clinging

And knotted trunk, and slender sprigs for boughs.

Within, the cleft was carpeted in brown

Soft pins long fallen on the mossy stone

From which the rich aroma of decay,

Of tannin, and new soil slowly arose.

The weary people filed within, relief

Upon their faces written. Shane and Varr

Looked backward for pursuit, but nothing stirred

Upon the evening-soaked shadowy knolls

Save grass wind-animated and the glint

Of fireflies illuminating for

Another night of watchmanship. At last

The lady spoke, “Good warriors, go within.

It would be poor repayment for your might

To leave you locked without throughout the night."

They shared a puzzled glanced, but stepped across

The line of rock gates and dwarf pine, then turned

In time to see the lady reach within

Her draping sleeve and fumble there, as does

A raccoon at the waterside, that gropes

For crayfish in the mud and catches them

By feel. She drew a slip of paper, brown

With age and entropy. Inscribed upon

The nether side were sigils serpentine,

And tangled glyphs, and runes forgotten long.

A moment only it was visible,

Yet at the sight Shane felt his breath go cold

And come with much effort, as if his lungs

Were shrunk by half, or the air were thickened

To the consistency of wet concrete.

His balance told him that he stood upon

A surface slowly tilting, and he felt

Himself drift forward, though he did not move

As does a man in fever when he sleeps

And feels his mattress forget gravity.

The moment passed. Shane stumbled standing still.

Varr's gasp for breath told that he too had felt

The radiated flash the runes had shone.

The lady smiled sadly at them. “These signs,"

She said, “Are those of death and burial.

Of all the paths beyond the living world.

Of cairn and pyre, of barrow and lichyard.

The dead cannot pass by where this is set,

No more than can the water flow uphill

Though they be brave souls bodiless, or else

Corpses of the dishonored, lacking souls.

Thus must our ash marauders wait outside

While we lie safe and soft this night. Affix,"

She told the boy, who only with her stood

Outside the ring of stones, “This paper here

Upon the sun-starved bark, then come inside.

To wait much longer is nigh suicide."

So saying she passed by, and went within.

Shane raised a hand, but could not bring it near

The place the ward was set, but he again

Felt faint and breathless, as if he were pulled

Unwilling from himself, as some have said

They witnessed their forms lying in white light

In hospitals or ambulances, ere

The doctor's magery returned their souls

Into their bodies. “I think you were right,"

He said to Varr, “She truly spoke the truth.

We cannot pass this ward." Then Varr replied,

“That means, at least, you know that you are dead."

He said no more, but turned and left Shane there

To watch the last light vanish from the plain.