In The House Of The Forest Guardian

Venture into an ancient forest,

Encountering its guardian spirit in tonight's fantasy bedtime story.

Sleep in Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep in Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

I'm here to help you fall asleep.

Whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and surrender to sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing visualization exercise.

In tonight's story,

You set off on an adventure,

Leaving behind your cozy home in Slumbershire.

You must cross an ancient forest and deep in the woods you encounter the guardian spirit of the wood.

He offers you rest and shelter,

Giving you insight about your journey and yourself.

You come to realize that he's more than a friendly sprite.

He is an ageless being of great creative power.

Eldest,

That's what I am.

Mark my words,

My friends.

Tom was here before the river and the trees.

Tom remembers the first raindrop and the first acorn.

He made paths before the big people and saw the little people arriving.

He was here before the kings and the graves and the barrel whites.

When the elves passed westward,

Tom was here already before the seas were bent.

The Fellowship of the Ring,

J.

R.

R.

Tolkien.

It's mid-afternoon when you reach the crest of another hill,

Bringing the ancient forest into sight below.

Thick and dark and puzzling,

The wood that lies ahead is vast,

Stretching beyond your vision on all sides.

There is no way around,

But this you knew from the old songs and stories.

Though few of your kind have traveled this far from the cozy hamlet of Slumbershire,

The tales have survived,

However twisted and exaggerated by time and distance.

You never thought you might be one of those few who set foot outside the borders of your land.

You've always been happy,

Comfortable in the valley,

Surrounded by kinfolk,

Well fed,

Too.

Hardly a day's travel outside the village,

You already feel the ache of homesickness,

The longing for a hot meal at the table,

Teething by the fire.

You look over at Theo,

Whose expression is pensive and soft.

It's out of loyalty to him that you undertook this quest.

Kind,

Quiet Theo.

To look at him,

You'd never suspect the burden he carries.

You feel duty bound to follow him and protect him on his journey,

Even if you don't fully understand the purpose yet.

The wizard Lovian made you swear an oath to remain at Theo's side till his quest is finished,

To protect him.

So this pledge took place only beside the hearth and not in some great lord's hall,

And there was no sword or cloak or ceremony.

It rather reminded you of the songs of knights in the other lands,

Songs of big people who pledged themselves in service of a king or lord,

Or who undertook feats of strength and courage for the love of ladies.

Even now,

In your apprehension,

Your chest swells a bit with pride.

Informal as your knighting was,

If you can even call it that,

You are Theo's knight.

That thought gives you the courage to take the next step and the next.

As you and your companion slowly descend the hill,

Moving with caution against the steep angle and slippery grass,

You pose the inevitable question whether or not to enter the wood.

You already know the answer,

But it must still be asked aloud.

You haven't made as much progress as you might have liked by now.

You had hoped to reach the town of Bellwood on the other side of the forest by nightfall,

But the landscape conspired against you,

And being halflings unused to long journeys,

You and Theo found yourself stopping to rest more times than you'd planned for.

And now,

Here you are at the very edge of the familiar,

The comforts of a home lying leagues behind you and only the unknown ahead.

Theo,

Though his voice is tinged with some unease,

Speaks optimistically about the wood.

If you can keep your strength and pace up,

And if you head due east,

You should be able to cross its distance in a matter of a few hours,

Three or four at most.

With the angle of the sun as it is now,

That should put you right in Bellwood at dusk,

Leaving you the unlucky fate of wandering through the forest in the dark.

That's a lot of ifs,

You think,

But you keep the comment to yourself.

Theo seems energized after your last rest,

And you both enjoyed a ration of bread and some fruit plucked from a wild apple tree that brought a semblance of life back to you.

The forest has a proper name,

Tor Bereth,

Some relic of a bygone age and tongue,

Some sort of elvish most likely.

You know the name from the songs,

But your people only call it the ancient forest,

And ancient it is.

If the old songs are true,

Then once the whole of the land was only forest,

It sprung up in the great creation as the first beings sung the world into existence.

Their music birthed and blessed the land,

The flowers,

The trees.

Green covered every inch,

From ocean to ocean,

And all was wild,

Mysterious woodland,

Uncultivated and free.

Such a thought fills you with simultaneous discomfort and unbridled awe.

The picture of untamed forest spreading out in all directions,

No paths carved,

No civilizations,

All green and life and breath,

But no gardens either.

Now there's a sorry thought,

For nothing brings you such joy as hours spent in gardens,

Pulling up weeds and pruning hedges,

Tending to the blossoming flowers and climbing ivy.

This forest is all that remains,

At least in this part of the land,

Of that once all-encompassing green.

Over time the land was settled as the elves came,

And then men.

No one knows for sure when the halflings arrived,

As few sing songs or tell stories of such reclusive,

Unknown people.

Only legends and unlikely tales of the past exist between your kinfolk.

Theo once thought he might write down the tales and try to record the true story of the halflings so that future generations might learn from it.

Perhaps when you return home from your quest,

He'll still fancy taking on that project,

Especially if there's a tale to tell of your adventures.

But now you're approaching the edge of the wood,

And all your vision is consumed by green.

It's late in the year,

And the oak trees and beech woods of Slumbershire are all nearly bare,

Holding dearly to their last leaves of red and gold.

But these trees on the outskirts of the wood are green still,

Their branches lush with sparkling needles and bright red berries.

Gaining courage from a glance at Theo's stalwart expression,

You step across the threshold into the shelter of the trees.

The fluting song of a missile thrush is the first sound to reach your ears in the eerily quiet forest.

It puts your mind at ease with its uplifting melody.

And to your relief,

There's something of a path before you.

This might be a smoother journey than expected.

The afternoon sun finds its way through the trees to cast golden,

Dappled pools of light on the earth.

You and Theo follow the path ardently,

Periodically consulting a compass to confirm your direction.

Though the path winds and curves around massive trees and rock formations,

It always returns to itself,

Correcting east.

You pass the journey with light conversation,

Amusing yourselves with stories of your friends back home.

The trouble you got into as kids,

Your most beloved and most impossible family members,

Your dreams for the future.

Theo always wanted to be part of the community.

Only any halfling holds ill feeling toward him,

And it's a gossipy,

If good natured,

Lot.

He might be the best loved of anyone in the village for your money.

He thought he'd want to be a teacher or something,

Maybe even run for mayor of Slumbershire.

You admire that about him.

He's not attention seeking by any means,

But he's never minded being in the center of a conversation or sticking up for those in need.

You were never so ambitious.

You've been tending to gardens for years,

And you always thought you'd simply do that for the rest of your days.

You're quite good at it.

Flowers and shrubs are easier to talk to than people,

You reckon.

You can pass an afternoon jesting with the jonquils and bargaining with the bluebells.

There's something deeply satisfying about watching a garden flourish from seed to sprout,

From bulb to blossom,

Getting your hands dirty in the soil and bringing up these natural wonders.

But you harbor another passion,

Too.

It came to you as you were tending the flowers and hedges of the gardens you steward.

Time and again you find yourself humming the melodies of old songs.

Sometimes,

You'd sing them aloud when no one was around,

Letting your voice illuminate the past,

The great deeds of noble warriors and legends of distant lands.

And when you felt inspired,

You'd change the words,

Adding a body lyric here and there,

Imagining your own tales,

Or even weaving the stories of your own people into the verses of great kings and countries.

It seems to you like an offering,

A generosity to your home and kin,

To sing their little lives and joys and sorrows with as much gravity as the great ones.

Through your songs,

You elevate them,

Bring them into the light of importance.

The songs of Slumbershire are worth singing,

Too,

Though few know or care to know what goes on in the valley.

It was Theo who heard you crooning away one afternoon while pruning the holly bush outside his home.

He was the one who first urged you to stand up at the tavern and belt out a song.

Theo conspired to have a flute carved for you by the village woodworker.

It was such a thoughtful gift.

Soon,

You were playing and singing at parties every season.

Through your music,

You found the courage you lacked in social situations.

Slumbershire feels so far away.

You know you've only just left its borders,

And yet it's the farthest you've ever been from home.

You're not sure when you'll see our sloping hills again,

The party tree decked in ribbons,

The children at play in the hollow.

If you were back there now,

You might try harder to make friends,

To be part of the community.

You realize you're composing a song in your head,

And a smile dances across your lips.

It seems,

Rather,

That you're humming along in your mind to the song of the wood,

A melody that whistles through the leaves and trips over the rocks of delicate streams.

Like primroses speckle the grass around the path,

Such fine and delicate flowers that look like they disintegrate at the touch of a hand.

You notice red-capped toadstools and lichenous stones in elegant,

Natural patterns.

This part of the wood is denser with tree cover and vegetation,

And the light grows dim.

What sun manages to penetrate the canopy casts a rose-gold aurora upon the ground.

Admiring the blossoms and colors of the forest floor,

You don't see Theo stop before you,

And you run straight into him.

Blirting out a hasty apology,

It's a moment before you see what's got him stopped in his tracks.

Before you,

The path which has been so steadfast and singular till now forks at the base of an unusual tree.

It's unlike any of the other trees in the forest,

Or any you've ever seen before.

Certainly nothing like this grows in the Slumbershire Valley.

It appears unimaginably ancient,

Its trunk wide as a cottage and twisted round with rope-like bark,

As if its trunk were in fact the fused boughs of a thousand smaller trees.

It's not so tall,

But its branches stretch overhead well beyond the trunk's diameter,

Each thick with dark green needles and spotted with bright red berries,

Immature green cones sprout from the branches beside the berries.

The more you look at the tree,

The more details reveal themselves to you,

As if it's coming to life before your eyes,

As though it lay dormant here in the heart of the wood,

Waiting for someone to set eyes on it and awake its splendor.

It's only now that you notice the tree's massive trunk is in fact hollow.

There's a separation in the wood like an archway or a doorway with darkness beyond it.

And then,

It's as if a veil has lifted from over your eyes.

For now there is a shallow flickering light within the trunk of the tree.

And now there are pointed windows yawning into the wood,

Also twinkling with that inner glow.

And it seems the open archway stretches and spreads into an oaken door with glass panes that refract the light from within.

The whole tree transforms,

Or perhaps it was always this way,

And only now shows you its true nature,

Into a cozy-looking cabin.

You and Theo share a look of pure wonderment,

For you've never seen such magic before.

The wizard Lovian likes to thrill children with firework displays and simple sorcery,

But this feels older and stranger.

Now you catch a whiff of a pleasant and familiar scent wafting from inside the tree,

Baking spices and fresh bread,

Plus something hard to describe,

Ambry and floral.

You feel your shoulders drop,

The scent invoking sweet memories of childhood,

Standing by the kitchen window and inhaling the scent of pies cooling there.

There's a chill on the breeze,

And your muscles ache from hours of walking.

The scent and spectacle are warm and inviting.

Your imagination fills in the unknown,

Conjures up an illustration of the cottage's interior.

Big,

Cozy armchairs and warm blankets and a steaming teapot.

Oh,

How you long to go inside and relax by a flickering fire.

But there's ground still to cover and forest to traverse.

You can't lose sight of the quest,

Can you?

Something tugs at your mind,

Something almost irresistible toward the cottage.

You can't explain it,

But deep in your heart you know it's not only entirely safe,

But that something important lies within,

Something of yours.

It calls to you like an old song originating here and rippling out like waves.

Many how the woods seem to sing,

The wind,

The distant streams,

The forest has a voice of its own which vibrates in the earth.

You wonder if Theo can hear it,

Feel it too,

Or if you are specially tuned to the music of the forest.

Can you hear that?

Theo asks as though he's plucked the very thought from your mind.

But he's not talking about the steady sweet humming of the wood,

The music that's rung in your ears since you set foot between the trees.

No.

There's a voice,

Clear as a bell,

Coming from somewhere in the forest.

It bounces off the trees,

Confusing your mind as to its direction.

Sometimes it's behind you,

And sometimes before you,

Sometimes all around.

It's a voice that reminds you strangely of Lothian,

The wizard,

Though it's undoubtedly distinct.

Commanding yet tender,

Bright but weighty.

It's like a boat skimming the surface of a wide river,

Sails catching an easterly breeze,

But ready to drop its anchor,

Hooking itself to the bottom of the river.

The voice sings upward,

Outward,

And downward all at once,

And fills you with awe and spirit.

So overcome by the beauty and gravity of the voice,

You hardly try to absorb the words it sings.

But here and there,

You pick up a canny phrase or two.

The flowers are sleeping,

The night comes along,

And down in yon forest,

Old Jack sings his song.

Despite your struggle to locate the direction of the voice,

It does seem to be drawing closer.

You find yourself gathering a deep breath,

Sure that the singer will soon emerge before you.

In the forest she sparkles,

The evening breeze blows,

And old Jack's a-wandering has come to a close.

Nearer still it draws,

And the sweetness of the voice fills your ears,

Softening your heart.

Old Jack will keep singing,

The forest his choir,

Till ye wend and pluck the new world from the fire.

Footsteps through the trees,

From the path once you came,

And the sound of a walking stick falling softly on grass and gravel.

You and Theo turn round to see the bearer of the extraordinary voice step through the trees.

For a moment you are certain it's Lovian,

For the figure is great,

Tall and bearded,

Carrying a staff much like the wizard's,

With a greenish crystal embedded in its head.

You are half ready to leap into his arms,

Grateful that he's come to guide you on your quest.

But it isn't Lovian at all,

You realize.

Certainly it looks nothing like him,

Save for some indescribable impression.

Yet the sense of safety and trust remains.

It is not a thing of wickedness or fear before you,

But something old and doubtlessly good,

Or beyond good,

Beyond evil.

He seems to shine at his edges,

Like the last rays of sunlight breaking over a hilltop.

He's clad all in green and brown and the tones of the forest,

Cloaked against the chill in a mantle of velvet moss,

With leaves of ivy in his hair and beard.

The leaves look like they might have become stuck in his hair as he trudged through brambles,

But equally like they in fact grew there and are inextricably part of him.

His face is lined with faint wrinkles and a smile glimmers in his eyes,

One that looks like it must persist even when the rest of his face is solemn.

He's at once grand,

Refined,

And shabby looking as a hermit.

And oh how strange and beautiful as he approaches you each time his staff strikes the earth,

A pillow of grass and tangle of flowers blossom from the ground.

His voice booms,

No longer sung but spoken,

And shakes the trees.

He rings out a mighty salutation to you and Theo as you crane your necks to see the whole of him.

Seeing your expression of dumbfounded amazement,

He begins to laugh,

Shaking his belly and rustling the leaves of the canopy.

Timeroses and bluebells spring up in the wake of his staff as he carries on down the path,

Between and past you and Theo,

Who revolve to fix your gazes on him still.

He seems to shrink as he moves toward the door of the tree trunk cottage,

Punching forward and diminishing into the size of an ordinary man.

Not that you've seen enough humans to tell what an ordinary size would be.

Before he turns the knob of the front door,

He glances back at the two of you and says,

You're not staying out in the cold,

Are you?

You and Theo look at each other.

From his expression,

You can tell that he,

Too,

Can sense that the stranger is no threat.

You wait for Theo to take the first step.

This is his quest,

But you will go with him wherever he wanders.

Together,

You follow the stranger,

Still humming below his breath,

Into the trunk of the hollow tree.

Once beyond the threshold,

Your face flushes with the warmth of the cottage.

The stranger is lighting a fire in the fireplace.

You take in the interior,

Very like what you imagined,

Only larger,

Surprisingly so.

The cottage integrates seamlessly with the tree's natural make.

The walls are the polished wood of the trunk,

Sloping and curving organically.

Big,

Fluffy armchairs sit before the fireplace,

Laden with knitted blankets.

There's a small kitchen and a table in a corner that emerges from the floor like a squat tree stump.

A throw rug across the floor appears to be woven of strong,

Sparkling grass from the forest floor.

About the windows are intricate carvings in interlocking patterns,

And in the very center of the chamber,

Carved elegantly from a light-colored wood,

Is a spiraling stair that reaches straight upward through a hole in the natural wood ceiling to an unseen second story.

The stranger is still singing to himself,

Though here,

In the cozy confines of his walls,

His voice takes on a gentler quality.

It's no less sublime,

But it does not shake the earth so much as before.

Instead,

It rings against the walls with quiet resonance,

With the fire now roaring and radiating a comfortable heat into the room.

He gestures for you and Theo to sit down.

You hoist yourself into one of the armchairs,

Which is clearly made for someone much bigger than you.

You sink into the cushions,

And your whole body relaxes against the soft upholstery.

The fire tickles your toes pleasantly.

Listening to the old man's musical muttering as he prepares a kettle of tea over the flame,

A little spark sets off somewhere in your memory.

Old Jack,

He called himself in the song he was singing before.

Old Jack.

Are you Jack of the Green,

You ask?

The old man turns his head and winks,

A smile breaking across his face.

Then he returns to his tinkering.

Theo looks at you astonished,

And it dawns on him too.

Jack of the Green is a character from the oldest folk songs,

The ones no one knows the origins of.

You recall hearing songs and stories of him at harvest festivals and spring bonfires.

The stories describe an arcane trickster who dwells in the trunk of a hollow tree.

But the songs,

Oh the songs,

They are something altogether different.

The Jack of the Songs is a guardian of sorts,

A protector of nature and the wildest wilds,

A jolly spirit who looks after the trees and birds and flowers of the forest,

Shielding them from the work of man.

The forest under his protection will never be cut down,

The chorus goes.

The wildlife under his auspices will live free forever.

And you're sure,

Deep in your bones,

That this is him.

Old Jack of the Ancient Forest,

Guardian of the wood.

Goose bumps rise on your arms and the back of your neck,

And you shiver in the presence of such a venerable being.

The kettle whistles and Jack pours cups of tea for each of you.

The steaming tea smells of juniper,

Fur and spiced jasmine.

You blow on it gently to cool it,

Then raise the teacup to your lips.

The taste is soothing and lightly sweet.

You feel your body soften into the cushions of the oversized chair.

Now Jack sits at last and regards you and Theo from his wing-backed chair,

Which by his presence resembles a mighty throne.

His gaze is friendly and kind,

But something burns behind his smiling eyes.

A quiet intensity that you sense,

Or at unleashed,

Would hold greater power than you can imagine.

He looks between you and speaks.

One of you is under a hill,

He says,

His voice warm and crackling like the flame beside him.

Theo's eyes widen.

How do you know my name?

He asks.

Because Jack knows much,

He hears it on the wind and in the forest pools.

Jack speaks in riddles with a melodic edge and loping rhythm so it still sounds like a song.

The forest brought your name,

He continues with a mysterious cadence and the nature of your quest.

Theo's hand flies to his breast pocket,

Involuntarily it seems.

Only you and Lothian know what he conceals there,

Though you do not fully grasp its importance.

A relic of some kind,

Perhaps of great power,

And certainly of great significance to the realm.

The outcome of your quest depends on its secrecy.

So how does Jack know of its existence?

But rather than pressing for more,

Jack simply moves on.

He turns to face you now,

And in your periphery you can see Theo relax,

Exhaling a sigh of relief.

And you,

Says Jack,

No name followed you on the Lark's morning song.

Tell me,

Who are you,

Little one?

You swallow a lump in your throat.

Jack's gaze burns still with that low intensity,

And you feel as though he sees through you into your very soul.

You offer your name,

Which escapes your lips more like a croak than speech.

Jack smiles.

You're a bard,

He says.

It's not a question but a statement of pure insight.

You sputter to say that no,

You're a gardener,

Surely a lover of song and an aspirant to hire music but a bard?

No.

Yet Jack's smile,

His kindly eyes,

And his fierce energy fix still upon you.

You're not used to such attention,

And certainly not from a being such as Jack,

A mysterious guardian of the forest.

You might have thought he would look only to Theo,

Bearer of the burdensome relic,

The heroic and chivalrous halfling.

But the nature of Theo's quest seems only a passing fancy to Jack of the Green,

A trifle to be noted then dismissed.

He's infinitely more interested in you,

A lowly gardener with a hobby for singing folk songs.

Old Jack offers you supper and lodging,

For the night comes on quickly in the wood and the wind is cold this evening.

You graciously accept.

In the morning,

You'll resume your quest,

Rested and fed.

As Jack prepares a meal in the kitchen,

You and Theo stretch out upon the hearth to warm your hands and whisper to each other.

He knows of Theo's quest,

But shows no interest in the object,

And he knew you were a bard,

Simply from your demeanor.

Flowers grow spontaneously in his wake.

Surely this Jack is a being of great magic.

Theo confides in you that he also sees him as similar to Lovian,

But older and wilder.

You wonder what Lovian could tell you of such a man.

For surely if there are tales of Jack in remote Slumbershire,

The wise old wizard will know of him too.

Outside the windows,

The forest grows dark and a night wind whistles through the trees.

You feel safely cocooned inside the tree cottage,

And you're grateful to be in out of the cold.

Jack invites you to the tree stump table and you break bread altogether.

You take turns politely asking questions of Jack,

All of which he answers in riddle and song.

Where do you come from,

You ask?

Old Jack was here before the forest and the rivers,

He answers.

How do you come by your magic,

Asks Theo.

No magic is mine nor no land.

The land lends me her magic a while,

He replies.

What is your purpose here in the old forest,

You ask?

I keep my own country and these woods here keep me well,

He responds.

And like this it goes,

So that the more you learn of Jack,

The less you're sure of.

After supper you sit again in the comfortable chairs,

Feeling the warmth of the fire.

Jack asks you to sing for him.

It's been so long since he had company,

Aside from the birds and rocks and trees.

A voice like yours would be welcome inside his walls.

At first you're taken aback,

Having heard Jack's sublime singing voice,

Which moved the very earth.

You feel inferior,

But then you swell with pride at the honor of such a gifted singer,

Asking for the pleasure of your song.

Theo gives you a reassuring nod,

His face bright and confident.

To conjure up the courage to sing before the master of the forest,

You close your eyes and let your mind slip into memory,

Transporting you to a spring festival in the valley.

A bonfire blazes and halflings dance,

Merry with food and drink and fine company.

Their shining faces give you strength and stoke your voice.

The song is one of your own composition,

Wrought of the small and unremarkable days of you and your kin on the slopes and dales of Slumbershire,

Made important only by the value of being sung with care.

We often read and written fine,

As learned men do us remind,

That lays that now the harpers sing are wrought of many a marvelous thing.

Some are of weal and some of woe,

And some do joy and gladness know.

In some are guile and treachery told,

In some the deeds that chanced of old.

Some are jest and ribaldry,

And some are tales of fairy.

You sing of toil and gardening,

Of summer nights at play,

Of quiet mornings under the great oak tree,

Of seasons changing and families growing,

Of nothing of great consequence,

But of things that mean the world to you.

Inside the cozy cottage,

Your voice rings clear and bright,

Vibrant as a sunrise and calm as a placid pool.

You've never listened to yourself so.

You've always sung in loud and boisterous halls,

Or else below your breath in the garden.

Here with no other noise save the glittering fire.

You can feel the very vibrations of the music in your chest,

Your chair,

And against the walls of the cottage.

It's as though you wrap yourself and Theo and old Jack in song.

When you conclude,

A thoughtful silence comes to rest between you all.

Theo's eyes are shining.

Jack is grinning from his seat by the fireplace.

You're a bard,

Jack says again with finality.

Because I am old Jack and I am Torbereth,

You are a bard.

You can feel yourself blushing with an expression of puckish mischief.

And now you can see the glimmer of the trickster Jack you know from the tales.

The forest guardian tells you there's something he'd like you to see.

Until now you hadn't noticed that there was a doorway past the kitchen.

Maybe it wasn't there until now,

Until needed,

Just as the cottage itself waited to be observed before making itself visible.

You and Theo wrap blankets tight around your shoulders and old Jack pulls tight his mossy cloak.

Through the doorway you follow him.

Night has settled,

Sparkling in the glade.

You're on the far side of the tree now and you step carefully over its tangled root system.

Jack strikes his staff upon the ground where springs a tuft of grass and blossoms exuding a delicate bioluminescence.

The staff's crystal begins to radiate a gentle green glow.

It's enough to softly illuminate the scene before you.

There below the roots and the sloping path is the mouth of a creek.

It originates from beneath the tree's roots spontaneously with no apparent source,

But flows forth actively as though it's gathered momentum from somewhere.

On the banks on either side grow thickets of flowers you've never seen before,

White and opalescent in the crystal's glow.

Old Jack was here before the first rains fell,

Jack says,

His voice low and booming in the night.

In the moving water below the crystal's light reflects,

Rippling.

There you can see the vague silhouettes of yourself,

Theo,

And Jack of the green wrinkling on the surface.

In the reflection,

Though liquid and in constant motion,

Jack looks young and splendid,

His beard a fiery red and dripping with ivy.

We gave shape to the world,

My sisters,

Brothers,

And I,

He continues.

I sing the trees to life and the birds and all the creatures of the forest.

And now he hums a low resonant tone.

You watch the waters ripple and agitate,

Responding to the very note.

The flowers upon the banks peel open as though to receive more of his song.

The forest groans and all around you the trees seem to stretch taller and wider.

Then he ceases and the hum of the wind and rush of the water fill in the low silence.

A night owl whispers from somewhere in the trees.

Jack turns to you and places a large gentle hand upon your back between your shoulder blades.

He gives you a solemn nod.

You understand.

Inhaling the chilly scent of night air through conifer needles,

You let go a note of song,

A simple,

Clear,

And effortless note that tunes to the bend of the trees.

You hold it for some time,

Feeling as though your breath will never run out.

It journeys outward in all directions to the edges of the forest,

On all sides.

And as you sing,

Feeling Jack's firm hand against your shoulders,

You too can see the white flowers unfold their petals,

Turning their blossoms to your direction.

You can feel the forest expanding,

If only by centimeters.

It's an extraordinary feeling of power when you know is only borrowed from the forest guardian.

Through his touch,

You sing the world into motion.

You create and renew.

At last your shoulders drop.

Jack removes his hand and you breathe in the cool air again.

Your note seems to still hang over the wood.

The radio is quietly moved beside you,

Nearly weeping.

You thank Jack for the gift he's given you,

The honor of singing through his voice.

You feel a rush of overwhelming reverence and loyalty,

As though you've become entangled somehow with the roots of the great tree and thus connected to all the trees of the wood.

You will never forget this,

Nor will you take the gloriously wild for granted ever again.

Jack of the green,

Mantled in moss and tangled in ivy,

Looks older as the night gathers.

The wrinkles carve more deeply into his skin and his posture hunches the more by the hour.

It's time to retire and renew his strength.

You should do the same.

A long journey still lies ahead.

Another forest awaits you on the journey.

This Jack can read in the winds.

You'll need your strength for every leg.

You and Theo climb the spindly spiral stairway that rises through the center of the little cottage.

On the second floor,

There are two rooms already made up for each of you.

You bid Theo a pleasant night and take the chamber to the left.

The room is small and cozy,

Just the perfect size for someone like you.

It must be Jack's magic again.

Or like he said,

The magic he borrows from the earth.

Just as the cottage revealed itself to you in time,

Perhaps it grew to accommodate exactly two halfling guests.

This theory seems more likely by the second as you realize in the spill of moonlight through the window that the blankets on the bed are quilted with patterns resembling your favorite flower,

The ones you so love to plant and care for in the gardens you tend.

Before climbing into bed,

You take a look out of the small window.

You can see the trees wide-reaching branches overhead through which the moonlight peaks.

Below you realize you can see the creek flowing continuously in the night.

You are exhausted.

Then you think of rising again in the morning to walk endlessly through the woods,

Your muscles ache and groan.

But as your eyes attempt to follow the creek's path,

Then lose sight in the density of wood,

You wonder if old Jack might give you a boat.

You could sit in the bow and sing merry songs as the water carries you out of the wood,

Right to the door of your destination.

With this pleasant thought drawing a smile to your lips,

You retire to the bed,

Which is just as soft as you like it at home.

You hope Theo is comfortable in his chamber and that he sleeps well tonight.

He needs his rest even more than you do.

What an auspicious evening it's been,

You think.

What gifts you've received.

The very spirit of the forest gave you a taste of the song of creation.

For he was among the first beings who sang the very world into shape and existence.

Only that he showed no interest in Theo's quest,

Nor any inclination toward the relic's power.

Jack of the Green keeps his own country well,

And all his country is wild.

There's beauty and majesty in the wild,

You suppose.

Just as there is magic in the cultivated garden,

All is shaped by larger forces,

Breathed into and given up to nature's wiles.

You let out a long,

Slow sigh,

Feeling your chest resonate.

When you wake,

The quest continues.

Theo,

A hero born,

Though unexpected,

Will need a protector,

And he will need someone to tell the tales and sing the songs of his great adventure.

Closing your eyes,

You picture yourself,

Enveloping Theo in a shield of music,

Glowing and powerful and protective and wild.

Outside the window,

The night wind howls,

The trees yawn.

The guardian of the forest prepares to sleep.

Your mind will be North Sea fair.

Visualize a big,

Magnificent tree.

Whatever kind of tree comes to mind,

It might be a redwood or a douglas fir.

Maybe it's a specific tree you've seen before in childhood or recently.

Or maybe it's a tree entirely of your imagination.

But it's very large,

Hard to even see the top of it.

Look up at the branches.

Let a gentle breeze rustle through them.

Breathe.

Remember that beneath your feet,

The roots stretch deep into the earth.

Visualize the root system of your tree digging into the soil,

Soaking up the rich nutrients and moisture.

As the high exposed limbs of the tree soak in the sunlight,

The roots gather up nourishment from the ground.

These dual energies,

Above and below,

Light and dark,

Allow the tree to thrive and grow.

As the branches and boughs respond to light and breeze and climate,

Sprouting anew in the spring,

Blossoming,

Bearing fruit,

Then drying out and shedding leaves in the autumn,

The roots continue to feed the tree's needs,

Even in darkness.

The roots are connected to the roots of other trees in the forest.

Visualize a network of roots burrowed in rich soil,

Communicating with each other like telephone wire or neural pathways carrying messages to safeguard the health of the forest.

They protect each other,

Even in darkness.

Keep observing your tree as it cycles through the seasons of autumn,

Leaves golden and crisp,

Or evergreen.

Winter bows heavy with snow.

Spring blossoms on every branch,

And summer,

Full and green and splendid.

Breathe.

Visualize give-off energy,

Healing and nutritive.

Visualize your tree in a halo of calm,

Light-giving energy,

As though the final rays of sunset shine from behind it.

Let that energy replenish you with warmth and safety and protection.

Let your branches enjoy the gift of sunlight,

And let your roots gather nourishment,

Even in darkness.

Be well,

Sweet dreams.