The Forest of Wind (Book Four of The Whispered Tales) - on hold

The Eddies

"They say they walk in groups of three, or five, or even seven... They bear many names. Old people call them "The Beautiful Ones", "The Eddies", "The Unnamed", and so many others. For their name is not known to any human being. And even if they knew it, woe and bitterness to the one who utters it ... Death would fall on him in an instant. Only the wind knows their name and shouts it in tangled whispers, misunderstood by the human mind.

"They live in forests, clearings, on the banks of waterways, and at crossings of roads; and they appear on stray hikes, on the full moon, at midnight. Their bodies are of fog body and wear dresses of air. Their long locks reach their heels and shine, even in the middle of the night. And they are beautiful as no other creature on earth.

"The shortest night of the year, in the midst of summer, is their night. It is the night when our world mingles with theirs, and the heavens open, becoming one with the earth. And the Eddies are caught in the chorus and start dancing under the moonlight until morning. Their song is so tender and sweet as if made in Heaven. But the grass stays burned under their feet, and the cattle do not dare to eat it and the man gets sick if walking it. And woe to him who interrupts their dance. Either he gets ill, weak, dumb for life or he turns mad... Or he vanishes forever as if he never existed on the face of the earth.

"Sometimes, they appear during the day, too, and take the form of gusts of wind catching leaves and flowers in their whirl, with the ringing of bells at their ankles and cheers coming from the air above. It is good to avoid whirlwinds that appear out of nowhere because they can take you far, far away, and never bring you back."

This is what the old woman used to tell to the two small children by the fireside of the stove, in the evening, that winter when the soft flakes of the first snow fell quietly from the sky. In a low voice as if she was sharing the most hidden secrets with them.

The children were watching her, their eyes wide, terrified of her stories. From time to time, they shuddered, huddled on the low, narrow bench, big enough to fit only the two of them.

Mother Doca smoothed the thick woolen thread torn from her wool bundle, her gaze staring somewhere far away, lost in memories. She was over eighty years old, but she was as agile and hardworking as a young wife. There was no way she could stand still. Even in the evening, when she finished the housework, she would retire by the stove and spin wool or knit socks, late into the night. Only the fire's flame in the stove lit her knitwork. Because her eyes and mind were as sharp as when she was a young child.