CRYSTALLUM LOST DREAMS | Fantasy Novel |

Prologue

The old man climbed up the soft hillside, using a sturdy and gnarled walking stick. The crescent moon, as in every cloudless night, tried to overcome the light of the stars.

He turned to observe the blurred yellowish glows of the nearby city. His face was pale and gaunt. He looked away and moved forward: one step, the stick, and another step.

At the top, a giant tree covered the entire height. A roof of blood-colored leaves, tickled by the breeze. The old man struggled among the roots that rippled the earth and protruded from it like bristling snakes.

He clung with both hands to the piece of wood and slowly sat down on a square rock. He fixed his gaze on the massive trunk for a long time and from that short distance, he studied every detail. He brought a hand to his gray and greasy hair.

From the burlap sack he carried, he took a bundle composed of thin strips of leather and opened it carefully. The wrapper hid a white and porous stone, full of small irregular grooves, and he was careful not to touch its surface.

He looked back at the tree and this time he frowned. He threw the stone at the feet of the trunk, just under the largest roots, raised from the ground like waves in turmoil.

He waited and continued to fix that point with all the attention he had. It was night, but his sight was able to penetrate the darkness.

A gust of wind reached him from behind and shook the foliage: the imposing oak moved as if it had a life of its own, only to calm down immediately without dropping a single leaf.

But the stone was still there, in its place. The old man made a grimace, rubbed his fingertips and stood up again with the help of his trusty stick. "It's not yet time," he whispered, disappointed.

He bent over with one hand behind his back and retrieved the leather handkerchief. When he was so close as to cross a root, he jumped back. The stern expression became a melancholic smile.

Dozens of thin, restless branches sprouted from the earth, shaking off worms and moss, and attached themselves to the stone. After a few moments, the appendages withdrew and revealed the mineral, now shining and polished, with a purplish hue. The man narrowed his gaze and took the stone with a piece of leather. He examined it closely, more than once. Now, that same stone had a pale phosphorescence, a faint glow that reflected in his dull eyes. He turned his attention to the trunk and approached it with determination.

He followed the irregularities of the bark, as if it was the first time he truly saw it. He stepped back and raised his head towards the higher branches. "Welcome back, dear friend," he said in a calm voice. He tightened his fist and then relaxed it hesitantly; then he extended his palm to caress the tree's tough skin. He gave two timid taps and finally felt its consistency.

His hand became darker, his fingers withered and elongated, turning into skeletal claws with unnatural shapes. His face disappeared into the shadow of an indistinct shape made of smoke. In place of his glassy eyes, two white flames burned. Suppressed feelings rose to the surface: hunger, more incisive than he remembered, came mercilessly. A need that made him look towards the lights of the city. Not now, he thought, not so close to a populated area. He tightened his fist and the claws scratched his palms like iron on wood.

He walked away from the tree and shifted back to his human form. He picked up his staff from the ground. His troubled face relaxed. The feral need had been quelled.

"Time has been a meticulous cleaner of your memory," he said to the tree again, "but your return can only mean that events are turning." He remained still for an indefinite time.

Finally, he limped down from the small hill. His slow, weary pace. He crossed the path and headed for the forest.

There, his outlines were lost in the night like a drop in a lake.