Peter stared at the bodies. In the soft glow of dawn he could see that the earth was still dark from their slaughter. There were four of them, Pooxits, distant cousins to the centaur, only much smaller, coming no higher than Peter’s knee. They had the bodies of cats, and the torsos of monkeys. They’d always reminded Peter of little people with their dexterous fingers, chattery speech, and lively, expressive faces.
He could see where the Flesh-eaters had burned them out of the nearby brush, there were slashes in the dirt of a struggle and tracks where they’d been dragged over to be skinned and butchered. Their bones lay scattered about the dirt; Peter couldn’t help but notice the teeth marks on the bones.
He found their heads and hands in a ditch, tossed aside like garbage.
Their eyes—glazed and jellied—stared up at him, the horror of their deaths still plain to see. Peter had heard the screams of those caught by the Flesh-eaters. Be they elf, centaur, gnome, troll, faerie folk, or even Devil, it didn’t matter, the Flesh-eaters showed no mercy. They skinned them alive, butchered, and ate them.
Other than a slight tightening of the jaw, Peter showed no emotion. He turned and pressed on, heading north. The Flesh-eaters’ path of razed, brutalized land spread out before him as far as he could see. He skirted the remnants of a village. The burned-out huts jutting up from the dead, ashen earth like so many jagged teeth. A stack of broken skulls were piled against one wall; their hollow eyes followed him as he passed.
He glanced heavenward. Somewhere above the low-lying clouds, the sun lit up the sky. He could tell the day was going to be warm, could feel the humidity building. He scanned the gray mud and burned husks of long-fallen trees and wondered if the sun’s face would ever grace this tortured landscape again.
Peter crested a long, sloping hill, found himself staring into the eyes of a god, and realized where he was. “Avallach’s Shrine,” he said and dropped heavily onto a boulder. He gazed at the broken ruins. He could see the marshlands below. Deviltree wasn’t far now, just past the swamps, but he wasn’t looking forward to crossing through the witch’s land, not during the day.
He regarded the god’s head, a giant thing of carved granite easily the size of a barrel. It had been knocked from its base at the neck and lay on its side as though listening to the earth. Its face was marred, hacked, and hammered, but even so the eyes still held their strength.
The rest of the great statue still stood, its hands forever clasped to its chest. A ring of craggy stumps spiraled out from the statue—all that remained of the vast apple orchard. When Peter closed his eyes, he could still see those trees, hundreds of them, their white blossoms flittering in the warm sunlight of that faraway day.
PETER SAT BESIDE the old elf upon a large field stone. He cupped a hand across his brow, shielding his eyes from the midday sun as he looked up at the giant statue. The statue’s eyes were set deep within the shadow of its thick furrowed brow, staring ceaselessly out over the orchard.
Apple blossoms drifted lazily by, glittering in the sunlight, gathering in every crease and fold of the statue’s drapery. The apple trees surrounding the statue hummed and buzzed with honey bees, birds, and the ceaseless chatter of sprites and faeries.
Peter followed the Lady’s every move, found he cared to do little more. She stood before the statue, a slender hand resting upon its foot, looking up into the stern face.
“That’s Avallach,” the old elf said. “God of healing, Lord of Avalon. He’s left us, his mortal time on earth long past. He now reigns in Otherworld, leaving his children to watch over Avalon.”
“Uh-huh,” Peter said distractedly.
“The Lady Modron is one of his children.”
“The Lady?”
“Yes.”
“Did her mother leave her too?”
“Mother? I don’t believe the Lady had a mother. Not in the way we might think of, anyway. Avallach created his children from the elements at hand. The Lady’s spirit comes from the rivers, lakes, and streams. Water will forever be her lifeblood. Her brother, the Horned One, was created from living sacrifices of flesh and blood, while her sister, Ginny, the witch, was grown from the earth like a tree.”
Peter glanced over at him, concerned. “The witch is her sister? How can that be? The witch is so wicked.”
The elf laughed. “They’re gods,” he said, as though that explained everything.
Peter looked puzzled.
“They’re Nature and one must always be wary of Nature. They play their roles, keeping the balance of Avalon. None of them would flinch at killing any who should threaten that balance. Why even the children of faerie are not immune from their ire. The Horned One will smite any who enter Avalon uninvited. The witch, well you’re well aware of what the witch does to outsiders. The Lady guards us all with her Mist. Even among the Sidhe, only a very few can walk the Mist.”
Peter watched the Lady lay her cheek against the stone and close her eyes. “I like the Lady very much.”
“Yes,” the elf sighed. “She is hard not to love. She is like the earth itself. But,” he lowered his voice, “one must always be wary of gods and goddesses, lest we become too entangled in their desires and schemes.”
The elf fell quiet for a while.
“Did you know that the whole world was once Faerie?”
Peter shook his head, half-listening.
“Yes indeed, before men-kind came along.” The elf’s voice sobered. “Men have disturbed the balance, putting the children of Avallach to the test. All we have left now is this island. The new gods are pushing out the old. Soon, I fear, there’ll no longer be room for Earth’s first children…anywhere. That is why the Lady comes here. To seek her father’s counsel. Whether he hears or not, none of us know. Judging from her face I don’t believe he does. But that’s the business of the gods. My business is to keep the Lady safe.”
“Safe?” Peter glanced up at the elf. “From what? The witch?”
“No. I don’t believe the witch would harm her, or even could. They might not like each other, but they need each other, the way the land needs water and water needs land. But there are others that would.”
Peter looked concerned.
“The Lady’s spirit is immortal, but she’s not. There are those, even in Faerie, that would feed on her flesh. If her mortal form were to pass she’d no longer be bound to the earth, to Avalon, then where would we be?
“But that won’t happen. Not while I’m part of the Guard,” the elf stated with obvious pride. “It’s my duty to see to it she comes and goes without fear of beast, or witch, or little red-headed freckle-faced boys.” He smiled.
Peter leaped to his feet. “Can I join the Lady’s Guard?” He thumped his chest. “I’d make a great guard. Why, I’m not afraid of that witch, or wolves, or bears, not anything.”
The guard laughed and patted Peter on the head. “Maybe, one day.”
“WE’RE HERE, PETERBIRD,” the Lady Modron said. “My garden.”
It had been a long trek from the statue to the garden. They’d passed through forests and glades, crossed creeks and streams, but to Peter it had seemed no time at all as he walked beside the Lady, as she told him about all the sights and creatures they came upon.
The sun edged toward the horizon, painting the sky and surrounding forest a brilliant gold. The trees about the garden were tall and straight, with pale blue bark and leaves.
They proceeded up a walkway of alabaster flagstones framed by two long, slender wading pools. Tall standing stones stood sentinel in their still waters. The walkway led to a lofty archway cut into a towering white stone ledge. Wide bands of gold veined the stone, glittered in the waning sunlight, sending dazzling beams sparkling off the long pools. A gentle waterfall spilled onto the crest of the archway, dividing the waterfall into twin falls that cascaded down either side, forming the head of each pool.
