Chapter 18: The Color of the Wind
“Wait a minute!” Dick realized Conti was about to snatch his business and couldn’t help but interject, “Miss Conti, this isn’t an ordinary oak tree. Can you really afford a thousand gold Dugas?”
“A thousand gold Dugas is nothing. I... I'll pay two thousand gold Dugas for this tree!” Conti’s bold declaration sounded uncertain, and she blushed as soon as the words left her lips, hastily adding, “I don’t have that much money on me, but don’t worry. I’ll write to my family and explain the situation. It won’t be long before they bring the money.”
“Hah! Miss Conti, your storytelling skills are far from impressive. If I were Joan, I wouldn’t believe a word of it,” Dick replied with obvious skepticism.
“Fine, since you doubt me, let’s have Mira testify.” Grumbling, Conti turned her back, pressed her hands against the tree trunk, lowered her eyes, and murmured softly.
Joan vaguely recognized she was speaking the language of the Wood Folk, though he couldn’t grasp its meaning.
Suddenly Conti lifted her head, gazing at the lush canopy, and began to sing. Sweet melodies poured from her lips, lingering and swirling through the forest, as if a crystal stream flowed into the hearts of the young men. Joan and Dick instinctively stopped their conversation, standing still to listen.
...
You think you possess everything beneath your feet
The earth quietly submits to your tread
But I know trees, beasts, even stones
Have their own lives, souls, and names
...
Have you ever heard the wolf howl to the moon
Do you know why the lynx grins wide
Can you sing the song of the mountain
Can you paint the color of the wind
...
The storm and river are my brothers
The heron and otter are my friends
We are all bound together
Like the endless circle’s return
...
How tall can the great tree truly grow
If you cut it down, you’ll never know
...
Conti’s song seemed imbued with magic. The surrounding trees swayed gently to the melody. On the opposite side, human-like contours emerged upon the black oak’s trunk. A petite and beautiful creature slowly separated from the wood, resembling a six- or seven-year-old girl, lovely and bare-skinned with a woody sheen. Her hair bloomed like leaves and flowers, dancing gracefully beneath the branches to Conti’s rhythm.
Joan and Dick were deeply awed by this wondrous sight, holding their breath and forgetting where they stood. Meanwhile, Roger, who had been dozing beneath the tree, was awakened by Conti’s song. He stretched contentedly, then looked up and caught sight of the dancing little tree sprite, his mouth dropping open in a gasp.
Startled by the sudden outcry, the tree sprite Mira instantly turned and vanished back into the trunk, leaving no trace.
“Roger! You big fool!” Dick stormed over and smacked his brother on the head. “It’s your fault, you scared Miss Mira away!”
“M-M-Mira?” Roger stared in confusion. “Who’s that?”
“A little tree sprite,” Joan pointed at the black oak. “A woodland spirit living symbiotically with this tree.”
Listening to the others recount the scene, Roger finally understood what had happened.
“Wow—so there really are ‘tree sprites’ in the world. It’s incredible!” Roger exclaimed, then lamented, “Too bad I was asleep and didn’t get a good look at her.”
“You’ll have another chance—so long as you don’t come into this forest carrying an axe,” Conti cautioned the Tyndale brothers with a smile. “Don’t let her delicate appearance fool you. Mira is quite powerful, especially skilled at manipulating trees and beguiling hearts. If anyone tries to harm the tree she lives with, they’re bound to regret it.”
The Tyndale brothers exchanged uneasy glances. Dick now realized his earlier fall wasn’t without cause, and Roger recognized that his sudden sleep was no accident. These were but Mira’s gentle warnings—had Conti not arrived in time to stop them, the consequences might have been dire.
...
To the north of Alfheim lies Midgard, the south is the desolate Muspelheim, while the west is the jagged Fang Mountains and the giants’ plateau of Idavalde. “Idavalde” derives from ancient giant tongue, meaning “Cloud Peak,” so the Idavalde Plateau is also known as “Cloud Peak Plateau.” Legend has it the royal courts of the Cloud Giants and Storm Giants sit atop the plateau, in Asgard.
The Ifen River, originating from Cloud Peak Plateau, winds through the Fang Mountains, passing through Alfheim to form fertile alluvial plains, then flows east into Pike Bay. Its largest tributary—the Drin River—turns south, circles Drin Town, and finally disappears into the vast southern marshes.
Alfheim’s winters are not as long as those in the north. By early February, the weather begins to warm. In the southern marshes, the ice and snow melt, bushes sprout new greenery, and hibernating animals emerge from their dens, full of vigor. In recent years, the lizardfolk population within the marshes has expanded rapidly, and other large creatures, including dinosaurs, have become increasingly rare due to overhunting. This nearly lizardfolk-dominated vast marsh is now known as “Lizard Swamp.”
Hidden and deadly bogs, together with the savage monsters, lend Lizard Swamp a veil of mystery and danger. The residents of Drin Town have always regarded it as a forbidden zone. Whenever a child misbehaves, adults will threaten, “Keep acting up, and we’ll throw you into Lizard Swamp!”
Recently, the people of Drin Town have grown uneasy about their cold-blooded neighbors' expansion—if the lizardfolk grow too numerous to find enough food in the swamp, Drin Town could become their next target. To guard against this threat, the town council formed a militia. The strong young men don leather armor and take up spears every weekend, heading to the barracks for training, with the swamp lizardfolk as their imagined foe.
The afternoon sun blazed, a sickening stench of rot hung over the marsh, and swarms of insects buzzed like drifting clouds close to the water’s surface.
A slender figure, gripping a long wooden staff, cautiously probed his way along the edge of the wetland. His knee-high fur boots sank repeatedly into the muck, and he had to exert all his strength to pull them free. The boy pulled off his cloak’s hood, revealing a pale, handsome face dripping with sweat and dark, profound eyes.
If he had a choice, Joan wouldn’t have come to this mud-filled, mosquito-ridden hell. But there are no windfalls in life; to seek fortune, one must accept risks and venture where others dare not tread.
Joan had come alone to the marsh today to fulfill a peculiar mission—collecting medicinal leeches.