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The Queen's Ambrosia By Lynn LeFey 1. The last day among them I sit and I listen. I hear the hum of bees, the rustling of leaves, and the wind in the trees. I hear the screams of men and orcs, caught in a struggle of life and death. They fight for scraps of metal. Shiny, soft metal. Nothing more. I am a human myself, and part of me wants to come to the aid of my fellow man. I silence that part of me. It is not that I wish the orcs to win. Nor do I wish the humans to win. The conflict is not my concern. They are fools, throwing away their lives for gold. So, I sit in the crotch of a tree, well hidden in the foliage, and I watch the events unfold. I watch the blood and death, and know that I am a watcher of the sacred cycles of life. Despite any desire to separate myself, to be an unattached observer, I am involved. I care nothing for the struggle for wealth... or what they perceive wealth to be. I care only to alleviate any prolonged suffering that may follow. I must draw the line somewhere. This time, the humans win. Six orcs lie on the ground. Let me explain the orcs. They are generally like men, having two eyes, two hands, five fingers, but are burlier. They have greenish hides. Their language seems harsh to me, though I can't speak it myself. Their faces have been described as porcine... like a pig. I don't find that to be accurate. They do have noses that are more forward facing than humans, exposing the nostrils more. I think it is the lower protruding tusks and heavy jaw that make humans compare them to pigs. Personally, I find them unpleasant to deal with. But then, these particular ones are in no condition to do much of any bullying. I take quick stock of their condition. They are dying. I treat the worst first. From my medicine pouch, I produce leaves and herbs. My position affords me a relationship with the land, the earth, and the sky, and forces of life and death. I draw upon that relationship. I feel myself swelling with the very power of the world. That power, I in turn give to the herbs, to draw out their natural potential. Within moments, a month's worth of healing passes. The wounds knit, and I move on. By the time I reach the last, the first one I've healed is stirring. He watches me. The humans have taken his axe, and his dagger. They have even stripped him of his shabby cobbled-together hides. He has nothing. He fears I am here to rid him of his last possession, his life. But even this dim beast understands soon enough that I am making his companions well. The look on his face... it's the same look I've seen a hundred times over. He doesn't understand why some humans fight his people and some help them. I find that odd. I understand them. They attacked the humans for gold. Gold will get them food, make their tribe stronger. The problem is that the strength is never enough. If they covered the entire world... if there were only orcs, they would still war with each other. Humans are little better. I do not heal these creatures because I have any love for them. I do it because their deaths would have been unnatural. Normally, an animal would die from predators, or disease. I can see that as part of the nature of things. Other animals must eat, and loss of life is regrettable, but it is the way of things. But for these creatures to suffer and die because of a few scraps of metal is not right. Let them fight each other, kill each other even, but not here, not in my woods. Finally, the rag-tag band of man-beasts are bandaged together well enough to be on their feet. "Do any of you speak trade tongue?" I ask. "Uh-huh. Some," replies one. Lucky me. "You must leave now. I gave you your life. Now, go," I point with authority. One looks at me, perhaps wondering if my small pack holds any of that wretched shiny metal that gets so many creatures killed. He pauses a second too long. I whistle, and the woods around me rustle. Three large gray wolves slip from their hiding place. One heels at my side, baring his fangs. The other two flank to my left and right. The orcs make the wise decision to be on their way. I watch after them a moment. Again, the sounds of nature begin to fill my senses. I turn my attention to the affairs of the day. I slowly kneel. The shivering begins, rolling down the base of my spine. My body flows like water into a new shape. I am now one of the pack, like the gray wolves around me. Mostly. The three wolves around me are brothers. In this form, I am... quite literally, a bitch. This oddity sent me to a master of my order. Every form I take, and I may assume the form of many beasts of the field, is female. My human form is male, although I confess to not ever feeling particularly comfortable in my body of birth. I spring forward. It is hard to describe the difference of sensation in the new form. Speed, for one. I feel like I'm riding the wind when in this body, an almost tireless stride. Yes, the sights and sounds are different, but of all the amazing differences, it would have to be smell that is most remarkably enhanced. So much so that after learning the secrets of animal form, it is only with great regret that I return to the body of man. To have this gift, like a whole world of olfactory sensations flood my brain with delight... to have that taken away once it has been experienced is almost cruelty. Sadly, it must be so. There are many lessons I still must learn as a man, so I only wear the form of the wolf as a gift. It is a gift I truly cherish. Throughout the afternoon, I trot up the foothills into the mountains. These are low, green mountains. They are called the Metal Mountains, for obvious reasons. The form of the wolf was the best choice for my hunt. It is no beast I search for. Magic can be found in strange places. It can be found in ant hills, in weeds, in rotting bark, and in cow shit. It is this last type of magic for which I search. Not specifically the droppings themselves, but what might grow in them. Given the right height, the right rain, and the right time of year, you may find a fungus with great mystical properties... the psilocybe. It is perhaps four or five inches tall, with a small domed cap. Again I feel the shivers, the hair flowing, the bones and muscles rippling. Again, my sense of smell goes dead. Always a sad moment... I set the sadness aside. The pale gray of the mountain sky against the lush green grasses here is breathtaking. I pull my cloak from my pack and wrap it around myself, staving off the seeping cold of the mists. I kneel and examine my find. It is indeed that which I seek. From my medicine bag I withdraw a tiny silver sickle. To my kindred, it is known as a boleen. It is used to collect herbs and plants for ritual. I gently gather three of the mushrooms and store them with care in the medicine bag. I pause, watching the soft gray clouds miles away, streaked with gentle rain. I watch the eagle overhead as it circles. I whistle twice, and the three wolves come running. I make a circle motion with my hand, and they tear off again, looking for dinner. I must eat nothing. Not until after the ritual. Not until tomorrow morning. I untie the mouth of my water skin, swish a mouthful of water, and swallow. My stomach complains a bit at the water in my otherwise empty stomach. The miles of mountain slope roll past slowly as I descend. The clouds break and the sky turns bright. As the sun sets, there is a beautiful rainbow in the valley before me, in the East. I take it as a good omen for the evening. I stop near a clear, shallow pool, to refill my water skin. I stoop to gather a handful of colorful rocks. Some are crystals. I drop them into a little pouch on my belt. I hold the remaining rocks, and stare at my reflection. I can bend many things in nature to my will, but as I drop the pebbles into the water, the reflection always returns. It will not be denied. The solitude of my chosen path might drive others mad. Some believe that this is what's happened to me. Certainly, I can say that my perspective is quite different than that of the villagers around me. For instance, we learn from birth that our flesh is real, and our forms immutable. Those of my order believe otherwise, and against years of indoctrination into a way of thinking saying we are stable, unchangeable forms, I have adopted a new paradigm. This makes me wonder; do those who cannot change their form simply deny themselves their innate power, or have we learned some trick that allows us to take new shapes? I believe it to be the former. I believe everyone is only thought, only desire, wrapped in flesh. We lie to ourselves, fool ourselves into thinking we are merely flesh, that we are what we see. And while I hold to my beliefs, I am troubled because of my own bodily changes. I have only one human form, and it is male. I can take the shape of anything as small as a raccoon, or as large as a black bear, but every animal form I assume is female. Unanimously. In all the long years of practice, my mentors have never heard of such a thing. Nothing in our long oral traditions speak of such a thing. So, I must make a journey to the dream-place, and speak with the lord of dreams. It is not doubted that he knows why this happens, but none of us know whether he is willing to give up his secret. Some of my order would even argue that I already know, and the dream lord is only holding up a mirror, so that I may see myself more clearly. All of the metaphysical thinking sometimes leaves my head reeling, and I simply wish I could just roam the fields, eat berries, hunt... live. Live like every other beast, untroubled by such puzzles. 2. Ritual My brother wolves are still off. They know better than to go into the village without me. I rarely take the road into the village. It seems to me like a rule imposed on nature. I walk through the stands of old pine, watching the small curls of smoke from chimneys. This is where I was born, this village. I have wandered perhaps farther than most in my days, but have always returned. I don't really live in the village any more, but keep a shelter off in an ancient grove of oaks. I come to town occasionally for provisions I can't gain elsewhere, salt being chief among them. There is a man in particular I am here to see, but in passing through the village, I spot a dear friend, a young woman named Palata. Many felt we would be betrothed before I joined the order. Sometimes I sense a sadness in her that this dream never came true for her. We exchange pleasantries. I continue on my way. There is a learned man in our village, who makes potions and elixirs. Perhaps he could be described as an apothecary. I show him the stones I've gathered. I know he finds value in them. I trade them for some herbs, and a pint of honey. I'm not sure if he has some thaumaturgic use for them, or if he simply sells them as pretty trinkets. I am aware that lapidaries sell stones by rarity, clarity, and size. I just don't understand why someone would work so hard to gain something with no real value. It's the same with gold. It's just shiny metal. It has no VALUE. You can't eat it. It doesn't keep you warm. It doesn't bring you happiness. Maybe it's this very thinking that's driven me to study the ways of nature. Perhaps it is this thinking that sets me apart from my kin. The sun crawls toward the Western horizon as I leave the village. It will be a beautiful starry night. I pull my cloak tight as I move into the deepening woods. The remaining light of day is largely swallowed by the thickening stands of oaks, gnarled and twisted with age. The wolves find me, following behind me, snapping playfully at one another. They must have found a good dinner. I walk into the open grove, seeing the dark standing stones in the fading dusk light. The braziers atop the four pillars have been lit. The altar at the center already holds many items; a flower, a square of white silk, a marble mortar and pestle. With these items, I add the herbs, the jar of honey, and the mushrooms. My mentor approaches from the edge of the woods. He is an older man, with a long beard. While his eyes show age and wisdom, he seems to always be smiling, like he knows something... or everything, and is at peace with that knowledge. He is called Bramier. He doesn't speak. He rarely does. He just looks at the items I've procured. He begins to vigorously pound the mushrooms into a paste, then adds a handful of what looks like peanuts. I think for a moment that perhaps he's planning on cooking. Next, he splits open the bulb of the flower and scoops out the contents adding them to the paste. Last comes the honey. Here he is sparing in his measure. He switches from the pestle to a spoon carved of horn, scraping the contents into a small silver bowl. He moves to the small campfire, and snags the lip of the bowl with two wooden tongs, then holds the metal over the fire. I watch as the contents begin to warm. He begins making a growling chant. I am quite certain that in all my days learning the woodland arts, I have determined that this particular addition is wholly theatric. It does nothing for the mixture. I watch as he stirs the mixture, adding splashes of spring water, or another spoonful of honey, until it reaches some consistency he finds pleasing. I listen to the musical tinging of the silver bowl as it cools. At long last, he hands me the bowl, secure in the knowledge that it is cool enough to touch bare handed. "Are you ready?" he asks. "How would I know if I'm ready to go into the unknown?" I ask, smiling. He raises an eyebrow, and smiles. "I, or another of our order, will watch over you in your sleep. If your body wanders, we will follow, but will not interfere." he looks at me solemnly. I only nod in response. I tip the potion to my lips. It's thick, like oatmeal, with a horrid spongy consistency. After the first taste, I'm sure the honey is a sad attempt to cut the bitter, wretched flavor. How much worse would it have been without it? I drink, and while it could probably be swallowed without chewing, I chew it out of reflex... like applesauce... only totally unpleasant. I wonder if cinnamon would improve the flavor? I finish the repugnant concoction. "Can I take water?" I ask my mentor, reaching to wash the taste from my mouth. "Please. Also, you may want to throw up in about half an hour. Don't worry if you do. The potion will already be in you, working its magic by then." He smiles again, watching my eyes. He stands up and stretches. His old body cracks, he flips off his sandals and unties the cord holding his ceremonial robe closed. He drops it to the ground. Skyclad, he turns to face the rising moon, bathing in the pale white light. He ripples like water, flowing into a new form, into the shape of an owl. He finds a perch on a nearby branch, and alights. I sit and wait, listening to the wind in the trees, the creaking branches, the rustling of leaves. I watch the dancing flames of the fire sputter. I take another drink of water. It tastes wrong. I can feel my stomach tighten as the water hits. A few moments later, I'm vaguely aware of an odd sensation, like the ground rushing away from me, even though I'm sitting perfectly still. I can almost see myself from above. The world, the whirling stars... I can feel the motion of all the heavens. For an instant, there is a dawning of truth. Like the mirrored reflection on placid waters is an illusion of the material world, so that material world is a mirrored illusion of the spirit world. It is so simple and clear. I vomit. It is an inconsequential action of the crude flesh. I feel my body now very clearly as a tool, a vessel for my soul and nothing more. A vessel of clay, still malleable. Our bodies are no more solid than the sculptor's clay. I understand. I lie back, and close my eyes. I'm supposed to sleep while my mind races this way? I smile. Ten thousand years pass, and all of reality streaks before my mind's eye. I nearly come to tears, knowing my feeble addled brain caught so little of it, understood so little. Through all of it, I am there. A reality that spans in either direction into infinity, and I am here, now. My eyes snap open. The trees, and stars too numerous to count whirl overhead. The owl watches. Bramier watches. This is why he smiles. He's had the universe opened up to him. I can never unknow what I know now. But, my task remains undone. I lie back again, and close my eyes. I inhale consciously, and sit up. I fold my legs and rest my arms on them, palms up. I exhale, and inhale again. Softly, gently, rhythmically. Starting with the tip of my head, I begin pushing the energy out. The built-up anxiety of wondering what this moment would be like... I let it go. Like tiny luminous grains of energy, I press them down, back into the earth. Down and down I press the tainted energy, out of my body, into the ground, until nothing remains. Slowly, I feel the energies returning. Pure energy, untainted by expectation or experience. I expand my awareness, reaching out ever further, to touch the earth, the trees, the sky, the creatures of the land... slowly gathering from them, gleaning the barest sliver of their power. Even that miniscule fraction, gathered from so far, from leagues... fills me. The vessel nearly overflows. Now, feeling the warm internal glow of light and power, I press the energy, sweeping it into a ball, a globe of power inside me. I press until it becomes its own star, outshining Zenith. Finally, I give the energy purpose, and release it, to expand into a sphere that slowly encompasses me. The circle is complete. I am protected from all harm. I am now safe to travel. 3. The Dream Place I step out of the vessel. Out of my body. I am now a being of light. There is the feeling of rapid ascent, and I find myself in the bright lands. It is a beautiful forest, perpetually caught in a late summer afternoon. This is my place, my haven... or heaven. It is of my making, and in this place I am... queen? The word came unbidden. Queen. Not God, King, or Lord. I look at my luminous form in a crystal pool. Perfection. A perfect fey maiden. Perhaps dryad, perhaps elf. Even in my dream place, I am woman. I move down the path, through the wood, to the flower glade. She awaits there, my spirit guide. She only smiles at my approach. As it always is, she does not speak. It is not language we communicate in. It is knowing. I know she has no wisdom to impart. I know I must catch the dream lord. He is clever and elusive, doling out truth like a master feeding a dog table scraps. In many things I am patient, but in my search for the truth, I would rather not play. I take wing, flowing into the shape of a great thunderbird. The well-known hills of my dream realm melt away, lost in the seemingly infinite green of the forests of dream. I ride the wind to winter, till the green is no longer that of deciduous trees, but thick evergreens... tall, ancient, and burdened with snow. I know I will find him here, the dream-king. I circle a clearing. I small gray hare nibbles at shoots protruding from the snow. I fold my wings and dive. The hare bolts, zigging and zagging. At the last moment, it dives into a hole, and is lost to me. Fine. I have more tricks available. I take the form of an ermine, bounding into the dark. I smell it, its fear, its flesh. Even here in the dream lands, the flesh has undeniable reality. I scramble through the tiny tunnels. Ahead is light. The prey has already made its way out. I emerge, to be waylaid by a great mountain lion. It pounces on me and we tumble down a snow bank. In seconds, the cat finds itself wrestling sister bear. I take the upper hand, delivering a vicious rake of my great claws. The cat tumbles, and lies still. I hesitate for a moment. I feel no pride in slaying the beast. Instead, I want only to amend the tragedy. I again become my dream- form, fey maiden, and approach the cat with trembling hands. "Ah, her heart bleeds for the wounded cat." The soft, slightly mocking voice comes from the cat as it turns to watch my approach. "Do you understand?" it asks, after a moment. "No." I say truthfully. Something in me is threatening to break, and tears wish release. "Am I a cat?" it asks. "You wear the form of a cat, but you are the lord of dreams." I say, confused. "Do you understand now?" the bleeding cat asks. "No!" I shout. I feel frustration and anger... and the cat won't stop bleeding. "Are you an eagle, a weasel, or a bear?" the lord asks me, slowly taking the form of a man, clad in black. "I am none of those things, my lord." I feel his power now, as I stare into the eyes of forever. I kneel and cast my eyes down. "Then what are you?" he asks softly. "I am a..." I pause. I feel the conflict clearly now. In the waking world, I wear the form of a man, but in this place, I am a maiden. The dream lord smiles. He picks up a nearby pinecone, and feigns interest. "I don't know, my lord. In your realms, I am a maiden, but in the waking world, I am a man." I tell him honestly. "Which is the truth?" he asks. "How would I know?" I ask. "You find me in the winterlands. You hunt me, and when it comes to the kill, you shy away. You lament. Why?" he speaks without looking away from his treasured pinecone. "I do not kill lightly. In this place, I do not hunger. There is no need to feed. No need to kill." I tell him. "You run with the wolves. Do you ever feed with them?" he asks, smiling, bearing yellowed fangs of a wolf. I recoil momentarily. He smiles and shakes his head. "Never." I admit. "Why?" He persists with the questions. "I suppose I do not find death to my liking" I admit. "But you are in the winter lands. This is the dark half of the year. This is the realm of the Horned God. It is his dark duty to live off the flesh of beasts. This is the land of the hunt. To hunt is not just to stalk, but to kill, and survive by killing. If that offends you, perhaps you should find your way back to the green meadows of the realms of the Goddess, green growing pastures, sweet fruits. Perhaps this is no place for you." He says, looking me in the eye. The fear of his gaze settles into me, but I fight it. I will not be cowed. "I would gladly leave the winterlands forever, my lord, but I am locked to my fate as servitor of the horned god by some accident of birth. If I could change that, I would gladly take my place as hand-maiden of the Goddess." I blurt. I tremble with fear but hold my ground. "You say nature made a mistake? An accident of birth?" he mocks me. "There are two headed snakes, and children born blind. Of course nature makes mistakes. Or perhaps it is presumptuous for me to make such statements, and there is a design to such calamity to which I am not privy. However, I am a servitor of the forces of nature, and I am given free will to shape my own fate. If it is my right to do so, I would change my human form, that it might match my dream form, and my beast form." the fear persists, but I am encouraged slightly by my own clarity of thought, and newfound understanding of self. The master of the dream realms seems on the verge of swelling up like a tyrant storm, but finally blinks and raises an eyebrow. "So be it," he says in a matter of fact tone, seeming satisfied with my decision. "How?" I ask. "How, what?" he returns, turning the cone in his hands. "How do I enact the change?" I persist. He cocks his head like a teacher arrogantly demonstrating his superiority of wit to a particularly dim pupil. "Well, my queen... it seems that it would require your coronation, as it were," he says with a smirk. "And what crown would I seek?" I press. "No... not a crown. Do you know what bees do to create a new queen?" he asks, looking a bit excited at nearing the end of this night's riddle. "They feed a worker bee royal jelly," I say. "And there is your answer. Of course, you'll need a lot more of it than you could ever find in a regular beehive," he says with a smile. "The answer to your dilemma is on that path, but... be warned. You must be willing to make sacrifices." "Anything." I tell him honestly. "You say that now...but just wait," he laughs. 4. Ever Seeking I awake from fitful sleep. My hips, back, and stomach all have their individual complaints. I choose to listen to my belly. I feel somewhat off kilter and depleted somehow. The wolves lie near, and seem to sense when I awaken. As ever, they come to me to nuzzle, and lick my face. There is nothing so reaffirming as unconditional love. I take stock of my surroundings. I'm no longer in the grove, but from the looks of it, more than a mile away. I begin the walk back to the standing stones, slowly at first, but finally limbering up to a point where I am making a good trot. Tattered remnants of my dreams blow out of my head like cobwebs. Those things I saw in the dream place while seeking, those stay. More than memories, they are burned into my mind. Royal Jelly, the food that turns a normal worker into a queen. Like food of the Gods... a queen's ambrosia. Where would enough such material be found? What sort of bee would guard such a treasure? It literally makes me shudder, conjuring the thought of man-sized bees, swarming angrily around a hive the size of a village. I enter the glen, and another of my order, a female known as Easala is cooking over the campfire. She is Elven, and older than any of us. She also seems perpetually uninterested, and unhurried. The rumors of elves being immortal are not true. They may be immortal as humans see it, but they do pass away, from old age... given six or seven hundred years. I look the young maiden in the eyes. Young, I mean, in elf years. She is not yet two hundred years of age. She seems like a human in her late teens. She has not yet accepted that she is more than her flesh allows. Changing the mind of an elf is like changing the course of a river. I sit by her, watching the flames lick up. I feel both excited that I now know of a solution for my dilemma, as well as anxious at the prospect of what lies ahead. Easala, I think, feels this. She scoops oats and cooked apples into a bowl for me. My belly lurches for a moment, but I readily accept the food. "So, tell me. Did you speak to him?" she asks. For an elf, she is excruciatingly open and straightforward. "I did." I tell her, between spoonfuls of breakfast. "Did you find a solution to your plight?" she persists. She knows I had a troubling question, but doesn't know exactly what it was. She won't come right out and ask, either. While she is crass, by Elven standards, she certainly knows some social boundaries. I hesitate. Perhaps with another member of my order, I might feel shy in saying such things, but Easala is different. Something about her makes me feel at peace. I suppose I trust her. "I think I am a nadleeh... a two-spirit," I tell her, watching her eyes. She only studies my face for expression. "That can be a very difficult path, Tulnat," she speaks with slow deliberation, as if it were a conscious choice I made. "It has already been such," I tell her. Our order demands that we strive to find our place in the natural order of things. I could not have guessed that mine was so far departed from the norm. "My people call such individuals lhamana. Such a position, by birth, gives great spiritual power. But, it is also a burden. We take much of our identity from seeing that we are like or unlike others. You may struggle being unlike most people," she holds my gaze. "It's not a decision I made, Easala!" I turn to look away. I can feel my throat tightening and my lower lip quivering. She moves from the fire, to sit next to me, gently placing an arm around my shoulder. She speaks something softly in Elven, then continues in the human tongue of our region. "Forgive me, Tulnat, sacred lhamana... my brother-sister," she pauses as I relax in her embrace. "What are you to do now?" she asks. "The Horned God mistakes me for one of his own. As will everyone of our community. I have been given a quest. I must find a nest of bees, great enough to make royal jelly in quantity sufficient to change me into my proper form," I tell her. "South, across the Crystal River, deep into the forests of Emdonil, such nests might be found. But the bees will not let you take their treasure. They are not like our brother- animals. Their mind is as one, all under the command of the queen, and only she will allow the royal jelly to be doled out. They can not be reasoned with," she speaks in her perfectly measured trade tongue. I finish my breakfast, and decide to inform Bramier of my decision. The hours of the morning slip away, and even with my wolf friends assisting, I am unable to locate him. I finally leave a message on a drawing slate at the grove for him. The words are painstakingly scratched in the script of Ogam Bethluisnion, the sacred script of our order. I gather some dried food and a walking cudgel, and start my trek south to the crystal river. ... The hours slip into days, as I traverse the endless miles of the great forest of Emdonil. Its expanse remains untamed, and unmarred by even the elves. It is truly wild, and home to the mysteries of the deepest forests. I marvel at a stand of oaks, each having a trunk more than fifteen feet across. These trees are most likely more than a thousand years old. I can almost hear their wisdom, and their confusion at seeing a beast who walks on two legs. Perhaps because tales have been passed down among them of ones such as I, I find myself most unwelcome. I chose my wolf form again, to ease their fears. Night falls, and I curl up with my pack to sleep. The forest is alive with night sounds. Sleep comes uneasily, and my dreams are disturbing. I awake alone. The others have gone off to hunt. I resume my ill-fitting human form, and eat a light breakfast. The day passes and as I walk with my pack, I hear a droning sound, both familiar and new. I know it immediately as the humming of bee wings, but the pitch is incredibly deep, and it is much louder. The worker bee flies past. The insect is about three feet long, and the sound of its wings awakens new fear in me. Surely its stinger carries enough poison to kill a man. Still, I take note of its course. My destination is near, and I will not be deterred through my own fears. The afternoon wears on, and I eventually find what I seek. Built high into a tall oak is a wondrous site. It's a bee's nest so large as to consume nearly the entire tree. The workers buzz in and out, and I see the reaction of my pack. I signal for them to go. They cannot help me here. I shouldn't have brought them this far. I sit on the ground and watch. Like all bees, they are industrious. I reach forth with my feelings, hoping to touch upon the intelligence controlling them. Certainly, it is there, but foreign. It does not appreciate my intrusion, and does not recognize my authority of the forces of nature. It is singular in its purpose, and will not be swayed. The workers swarm out, searching for me. I hesitate for a moment. I will not outrun them on two legs. I might be able to outfly them if I took to wing, but if I could find water, and take on the form of a turtle, or large fish, I would certainly escape harm. I stand up and bolt for a large stream, not too far off. I see the workers fanning out, and I hear the sickening yelps of my packmates. They're dying, caught by the angry workers, stung with wicked venom. Because of me, they're dying. The stream draws near, I can see it as I push my human form for every bit of speed it can muster. The humming of the bees' wings grows near. I am nearly within range and prepare to dive into the shallow stream when the stinger stabs into my back. It feels like a knife made of fire. I stumble, mere feet from my sanctuary. The second poison dagger sinks in, then the third. My breath comes short, and I feel my throat swelling. My blood is on fire, burning my body, making my thoughts loose all coherency. So, this is to be my end. I see a glimpse of my hand, above my staring eyes, red, swelling. The air is getting harder to draw in. The bees pace nervously. Those who have left their stingers in me fly off to find a place to die. They have sacrificed their lives for their queen, to protect that which I would steal. My breath stops. I don't have the strength to draw it into my lungs. I realize with a great sickening of my heart that my loving wolves suffer this same fate. I doomed them for my selfish ends. Oh Goddess, in my last moments, let it be known that I only wished to serve you faithfully and with love. I can feel through the fire in my body that it screams for air, but I have no power to fulfill that need. My face is tingling and my lips feel numb. The pain slackens. Oh Goddess... accept me warmly in your embrace... 5. The Circle The pain is gone. The warm scent of leaves rides the breeze. The grass is soft and fragrant. I open my eyes, hoping that perhaps I've been spared my fate. Perhaps my order found me and stopped the poison. I realize immediately that it is not as I'd hoped. I am not in the lands of my birth. I am in my haven, the eternal late summer world of my sanctuary. I sit up and stare at the slopes of my private orchards. I breathe the sweet scent of the vineyard. I am somehow both content and sad. Has that life passed by so quickly? I am the fey maiden, once more. Less luminous, more tangible. I lay nude in the soft grass. I wander down to the trees, and find a ripe pear. It nearly falls into my hand. A bee buzzes by, performing its duties. I taste the succulent meat of the pear, and wander up the slopes. I hope my spirit guide remains. I have many unanswered questions. I wander into the flower garden atop the hill, over the orchards. I find her sitting on the marble bench, as always. I find a man there as well. His face is not familiar to me, but his eyes show through to the heavens. He is the dream lord, I know without a doubt. "You seem sad," he says lightly. "I... I failed. I guess I never considered failure as a possible outcome," I admit reluctantly. He smiles brightly. "I'm glad my suffering can amuse you," I tell him. I want to feel angry, but I only feel regret at a life cut so short... "If it's any consolation, you were meant to fail," he says, still smiling. "I don't understand. You gave me a quest that you knew I would fail? Why? What cruel purpose could you possibly have in such villainy?" I plead. "There are things which are beyond my power, dear. The horned God would not release you from his service. Not unless you left your body behind. I have many powers, and know much, but even I cannot bend the will of the master of the hunt. So, I did what I had to do," the dream-lord said, smiling. "Now what?" I persist. "Now, you reflect on your past life. You may wish to take some time, and serve as a spirit-guide to the younger souls. Or, you could act as a spirit-guardian of heroes for a while. But I suspect none of those will suffice. Not for you. Finally, if it is your wish, you may be called back, by your order. They prepare the ceremony, even as we speak," he concludes. "And when I return, will it be as a male?" I ask. "Oh no. You see, while I do not control everything, I will make my will known in this instance. I choose your form, and it is not done lightly. You will indeed be a maiden, but you are not going to get off without punishment for your arrogance. As I said, you will be a maiden, but an Elven maiden. I sentence you to nine hundred years of life in this form, and while you may consider it a blessing, you may think differently when generation after generation of friends and lovers wither to dust around you. "They call you now. Go to your fate. Make of this new life what you will," he smiles, the same dark, knowing grin which will forever haunt me. I feel the call of my order, drawing me back to the world of flesh, back to a form more fitting my spirit. I fear the future, but also await it with great anticipation. My haven fades somewhat, and I see the vessel of clay my order has made, and I watch it take shape. It is a perfection of form, a tribute to the beauty of the Goddess. I'm glad. It will be my vessel for nine hundred years. I hope that I may spend such a fleeting time wisely. End. Story Notes: These rituals and beliefs present a mixture of earth-based religions; shamanic, druidic, and Wiccan. The words 'nahleeh' and 'lhamana' are from Navajo and Zuni respectively. Ogam Bethluisnion is the old script of the Celts and specifically the Druids.