Time of the Twins

Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected
Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent
As glass, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

Beneath these branches the willing surrender of movement,
The business of birdsong, of love, left on the borders
With all of the fevers, the failures of memory.
Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected.

And light upon light, light as dismissal of darkness,
Beneath these branches no shade, for shade is forgotten
In the warmth of the light and the cool smell of the leaves
Where we grow and decay; no longer, our trees ever green.

Here there is quiet, where music turns in upon silence,
Here at the world’s imagined edge, where clarity
Completes the senses, at long last where we behold
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent.

Where the tears are dried from our faces, or settle,
Still as a stream in accomplished countries of peace,
And the traveler opens, permitting the voyage of light
As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected
Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent
As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

Caramon’s eyes filled with tears. The beauty of the song pierced his heart. There was hope! Inside the Forest, he would find all the answers! He’d find the help he sought.

“Caramon!” Tasslehoff was jumping up and down with excitement. “Caramon, that’s wonderful! How did you do it? Hear the birds’? Let’s go! Quickly.”

“Crysania—” Caramon said, starting to turn back. “We’ll have to make a litter. You’ll have to help—” But before he could finish, he stopped, staring in astonishment at two white-robed figures, who glided out of the golden woods. Their white hoods were pulled low over their heads, he could not see their faces. Both bowed before him solemnly, then walked across the glade to where Crysania lay in her deathlike sleep. Lifting her still body with ease, they bore her gently back to where Caramon stood. Coming to the edge of the Forest, they stopped, turning their hooded heads, looking at him expectantly.

“I think they’re waiting for you to go in first, Caramon,” Tas said cheerfully. “You go on ahead, I’ll get Bupu.”

The gully dwarf remained standing in the center of the glade, regarding the Forest with deep suspicion, which Caramon, looking at the white-robed figures, suddenly shared.

“Who are you?” he asked.

They did not answer. They simply stood, waiting.

“Who cares who they are!” Tas said, impatiently grabbing hold of Bupu and dragging her along, her sack bumping against her heels.

Caramon scowled. “You go first.” He gestured at the white-robed figures. They said nothing, nor did they move.

“Why are you waiting for me to enter that Forest?” Caramon stepped back a pace. “Go ahead”—he gestured—“take her to the Tower. You can help her. You don’t need me—”

The figures did not speak, but one raised his hand, pointing.

“C’mon, Caramon,” Tas urged. “Look, it’s like he was inviting us!”

They will not bother us, brother... We have been invited! Raistlin’s words, spoken seven years ago.

“Mages invited us. I don’t trust ’em.” Caramon softly repeated the answer he had made then.

Suddenly, the air was filled with laughter—strange, eerie, whispering laughter. Bupu threw her arms around Caramon’s leg, clinging to him in terror. Even Tasslehoff seemed a bit disconcerted. And then came a voice, as Caramon had heard it seven years before.

Does that include me, dear brother?

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