gold. It is easy to have hope in the fall when the vallenwoods
are as red as living blood. But in the winter, when the air is
sharp and bitter and the skies are gray, does the vallenwood
die, warrior?”
“Who spoke?” Caramon cried, staring around wildly, clutch-
ing his sword in his trembling hand.
“What does the vallenwood do in the winter, warrior, when
all is dark and even the ground is frozen? It digs deep, warrior.
It sends its roots down, down, into the soil, down to the warm
heart of the world. There, deep within, the vallenwood finds
nourishment to help it survive the darkness and the cold, so
that it may bloom again in the spring.”
“So?” Caramon asked suspiciously, backing up a step and
looking around.
“So you stand in the darkest winter of your life, warrior.
And so you must dig deep to find the warmth and the strength
that will help you survive the bitter cold and the terrible dark-
ness. No longer do you have the bloom of spring or the vigor of
summer. You must find the strength you need in your heart, in
your soul. Then, like the vallenwoods, you will grow once
more.”
“Your words are pretty -” Caramon began, scowling, dis-
trusting this talk of spring and trees. But he could not finish, his
breath caught in his throat.
The Forest was changing before his eyes.
The twisting, writhing trees straightened as he watched, lift-
ing their limbs to the skies, growing, growing, growing. He
bent his head back so far he nearly lost his balance, but still he
couldn’t see their tops. They were vallenwood trees! Just like
those in Solace before the coming of the dragons. As he
watched in awe, he saw dead limbs burst into life – green buds
sprouted, burst open, blossomed into green glistening leaves
that turned summer gold – seasons changing as he drew a shiv-
ering breath.
The noxious fog vanished, replaced by a sweet fragrance
drifting from beautiful flowers that twined among the roots of
the vallenwoods. The darkness in the forest vanished, the sun
shed its bright light upon the swaying trees. And as the sunlight
touched the trees’ leaves, the calls of birds filled the perfumed
air.
Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected
Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent
As glass, as the heart in repose this lasting day.
Beneath these branches the willing surrender of movement,
The business of birdsong, of love, left on the borders
With all of the fevers, the failures of memory.
Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected.
And light upon light, light as dismissal of darkness,
Beneath these branches no shade, for shade is forgotten
In the warmth of the light and the cool smell of the leaves
Where we grow and decay; no longer, our trees ever green.
Here there is quiet, where music turns in upon silence,
Here at the world’s imagined edge, where clarity
Completes the senses, at long last where we behold
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent.
Where the tears are dried from our faces, or settle,
Still as a stream in accomplished countries of peace,
And the traveler opens, permitting the voyage of light
As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.
Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected
Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent
As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.
Caramon’s eyes filled with tears. The beauty of the song
pierced his heart. There was hope! Inside the Forest, he would
find all the answers! He’d find the help he sought.
“Caramon!” Tasslehoff was jumping up and down with
excitement. “Caramon, that’s wonderful! How did you do it?
Hear the birds’? Let’s go! Quickly.”
“Crysania -” Caramon said, starting to turn back. “We’ll
have to make a litter. You’ll have to help -” But before he could
finish, he stopped, staring in astonishment at two white-robed
figures, who glided out of the golden woods. Their white hoods
were pulled low over their heads, he could not see their faces.