“That was so many years ago,” the old witch said to no one.
It was autumn. Night. The moon was full,
Just like it had been
On the night that she had first
Used magic.
She sat there, alone, on the root of a tree. The root was as perfect as any bench could be.
The blue tree stuck out from the purple leaf orchard that sprawled out around her, in every direction. Its bark was pale ice, lined with great cracks. Its leaves were as dark as deep ocean currents.
“Do you remember?” she asked it, or no one.
The autumn was flaring, turning each purple tree vibrant steel grey and blood red and grey-green. The everpurples held their muted hues. But only this tree was blue in that place.
“Do you remember Orcshire?”
The old Orcish woman’s voice was husky, rusty, little used. The moon was full, and both her eyes were drooping, nearly closed, like crescents, not really looking at what they saw.
She put her palm against the tree, and listened to it.
Listened close.
Listened for a thing she knew might not be there at all.
Mmm? her palm asked. But alas…
No answer.
She kept her hand there.
“So many lifetimes ago,” said the witch. Her voice became full of fondness, and she let her mind drift backward, back to…
“Orcshire Valley in the Spring. I remember everything.”
The old witch smiled at first.
“The roads were alive, like a web
All speckled with dots of dew.
And purple trees bore golden apples.
Golden cherries, too. Do you
Remember?
No?”
No answer.
So,
Alone,
She sang…
* * * * / * * * *
1. Orcshire Valley in the Spring
Means moonlight, rinsing everything.
Full as a coin, and dry, dry as a bone…
Purple trees rustle.
The wind’s got a chill,
A memory of winter…
There’s frost on the sill.
Look at the moon…
Caped in bright stars…
Hooded and hemmed in by mountains.
The storm still looks far…
At least it did then.
2. Orcshire Valley in the Spring
Meant boats were skimming down the stream.
Magic in each living thing.
Magic in the way we sing.
What did we sing? The cedars were
Swaying!
What was the song?
How did it go?
‘Come home,’ to the salmon!
‘Bloom wild,’ to the berries.
‘Stay dead,’ to some demon-I-didn’t-know!
‘Back soon?’ to the faeries…
3. Orcshire Valley in the Spring
Means moonlight rippling in the clean
Bubbling stream; the red wind was
Hissing… I was a kid, waking up.
I was a kid…
Was I ever so young?
* * * * / * * * *
That’s how Nala would remember it.
In those days (the early chapters of her life) Orcshire Valley was a peaceful place. It was the kind of place that was wet year round, but the air never got humid or heavy.
Summers were brief, and each season saw rain, but Nala didn’t mind. She was a rain dog.
Nala’s house was on the eastside, in an orchard on a mountain that overlooked the valley. The full moon hung low and yellow, peering out from drifting spring-time clouds.
Down at the heart of Orcshire Valley, Market Town was waking up. There were carts and storefronts far below. Torches yawned to life. Butchers and tanners had selling stands in town, but kept their homes (and ugly work) out in the more remote regions of the valley. Business was better that way.
Nala enjoyed a sheltered childhood, and the price was boredom. She came from a long line of sorceresses, but her magic hadn’t happened yet.
Perhaps it never would, she couldn’t help but think.
…Sour thought.
Nala decided to think of something else.
The spring of that year was a weird one. The normally noisy house (sequestered in the sprawling, semi-wild orchard at the foot of a mountain) was quiet.
All of Nala’s siblings were finally old enough to go on a real market tour, out east, to the dry side of the mountains. Nala had never been, even though she was the oldest kid in the house.
Something in Nala doubted how dry the “dry side” was. It seemed outrageous! The valley was lush and wet year round, and yet they all said once you made it over the Wraithwood crags, it was all desert.
Impossible, Nala thought.
Mama and Nala’s Aunt Kairi went on the road every year, but this time they brought the whole house along— Aunt Kairi’s four daughters, and Nala’s two sisters. They packed up the fruit carts so full they overflowed, and then they left. Their adventure had begun at the end of last summer, leaving only Nala and her Gran to tend the house, and the orchard, in the long, thirsty quiet.
Nala used to wonder if her family had some kind of curse, because all the men in it died. Nala’s papa was dead. Both of her sisters had different dads, and both of them were dead, too. Gran never talked about a man, not that Nala could remember, at least.
The purple grass withered.
Leaves fell. Autumn came.
And then death, with its frost, and its rain, but no snow.
Nala had never known a quiet quite so long before.
Weird.
It was a weird year for other reasons, too.
Sleep, for example. Sleep had changed for her. Nala loved loved loved sleeping in, or used to. It used to be that she could sleep through anything.
But something had changed early last spring. She had a new dream, a terrible dream, a daymare. It had been unspeakable. Unsharable. Even thinking of it made Nala’s stomach turn hollow.
Worst of all, once the dreams started, they did not stop. She had a secret belief that they might even be true dreams, but…
No, Nala thought. My magic hasn’t happened yet.
At first, she had loved the sprawling silence. She’d cherished it, relished the solitude like an exceptional ripe redberry. As the seasons turned, it was just Nala and her grandma (whose name was Akha) savoring the rare piece of peace that lay over the house.
They enjoyed a wet winter. Most nights, the pair of them huddled over the soup cauldron and made up stories together, while the rain played the awning like a drum. Gran Akha was full of stories, and recipes, and poems, and small spells.
After a full season, Nala began to get lonely. Her wish for quiet had come true, too much.
Now that she had enough time to herself to miss her loud family, she felt bad for ever wishing them away. Guilt began to bloom, like mold, souring the sweetness of the winter’s vast emptiness.
Still, the stories were flowing, and this was the year Nala learned how to cook. Gran taught her to clean a salmon (which she hated) and helped Nala make up her first poem (which exhilerated her).
Now, it was spring, and the rest of the family was still gone.
Mountains, and rivers, and dense trees kept the wide world long at bay…
But so did all the magic.
There was magic in the flowers and the fruits.
The Orcshire tulips whispered forgotten secrets to the Purple Ridge Daisies.
There was magic in the birds, and bugs, and bitter winter wind that bites, long after winter’s gone.
In many ways, this is where (and when) Nala’s story began.
She learned so many things that spring, but wished that Gran had bothered to teach her some magic. Nala didn’t want her only power to be “having bad dreams.”
She never told anyone about the dreams, especially when they were bad ones…
And she only remembered the bad ones.
“Beautiful night,” her Gran Akha said, and Nala snapped out of deep thought.
* * * * / * * * *
(Today’s art— If you wanna learn to play/sing “Orcshire Valley in the Spring,” here are my handwritten lyrics and tabbed out chords!)
GIFT SHOP
1. Hats & Hoodies
2. ORC LORE— Poetry about the Gods
3. 8bit Music for Moonthread
* * * * / * * * *
Your music adds that touch of magic and breadth that only you can sing into it. When I read the lyrics, I read words. When I listen to your recording, the words come to life and I can see, hear, and smell the valley.
this was so much fun to read! the poetry at the start had such a great rhythm and the entire chapter had me dreaming of being a kid again. love discovering the lore of your world while stewing in my own nostalgia 😅 💖