The silence was the worst for Anya. The birdsong and insect buzzing had filled her spirit with joy; it had gone since he came. Anya reminded herself it was no one’s fault; the ancient scrolls foretold his coming. Every child knew of the dark one and his forces of evil. Mothers often reminded their children that if they were naughty, the dark one would come to take them away in the night.
The forest’s stillness was too much. Anya prepared to head for the safety of home. That’s when she heard them. The cries initially seemed unreal, like something from a nightmare, unseen and drifting closer with each breath. You throw your eyes open in the grip of fear; fear is gone, and you breathe deeply. Anya was very awake. She quickened her pace past the singing brook, then crossed the old stone bridge that stood longer than anyone could remember.
“We shall endure the same as the bridge,” Ayna said, then hurried on. Gojeck was away, so she placed a kettle on the fire and added dry crispberry leaves to a large mug. Relaxed and warm, she sipped her tea and reflected on the day’s events.
Remembering the distant sound filled with horrible pain was familiar as if she had known it long ago. Helping herself to a spiced biscuit, she tried to place the memory. The details remained clouded, which only increased her apprehension. It’s best not to fret. She had dinner to prepare and laundry to fold. She closed her eyes briefly, and the image flashed before her.
Anya sat up and said, “The trees, I heard the trees scream.” She stood, walked to the door, and listened. She heard nothing; flinging the door open, Anya marched onto the step and stood still, only the wind and nothing more. Maybe it was nothing anyway. The tuber stew awaited, and the groundnut pie needed baking before her husband came for high tea.
Later, Gojeck asked, “Might it have been a screech owl?” With great restraint, she reminded Gojeck that she had spent her childhood caring for several owl families in the North Woods and would surely know a screech owl’s cry.
Silence fell over the table; the two typically shared their day passionately and excitedly. After the meal, they sat near the fire, discussing Mörken and his gathering of Troth allies. Anya talked of the ancient scrolls that foretold of his coming.
“If it is our fate, why are so many discussing fighting those Troth devils?” said Gojeck.
He stirred the coals, then asked, “Perhaps the scrolls say something about this?” Anya decided to find Malak first thing in the morning and request his interpretation of this resistance.
Malak sat in his chair near the small stream, playing his fiddle; the tune was slow and soulful. Anya stood at a distance and allowed him to finish the song; it was “bad form” to interrupt a musician during a performance.
“Was that a sad tune you were playing, Malak? Has the season passed for cheer already?” asked the matron.
Malak turned his head in her direction and, with almost no effort, began a lively jig that ended abruptly. “Now, what brings a feather duster like yourself out so early in the morning? I figured you would still be roosting in your box,” chuckled the old man.
“If you must know, I came to ask you about the scrolls and what they say about those Waldvolker who resist prophecy and raise arms against The Dark One.”
Silence met her request, and then Malak waved the matron over to his spot and pointed toward the stream. “See the ripples, see how they dance and fight against the current; going against it seems natural for some.”
Anya studied the water and then asked her friend, “You’re telling me the scrolls are not prophetic and that, like flowing water, they tend to seek the path of least resistance?”
The man stood, put his arm around his friend, and suggested they have butter cake and elder nut tea. “We can talk on the way, lass,” Malak explained. The scrolls did not tell the future so much as to guide folks in seeing possibilities or finding one way to view an event.
“The writings never spoke of things as unchanging. Like the rain that trickles over a stone, sometimes it flows straight; other times, it shoots off in a completely different direction. The scrolls interpret life this way and nothing more.”
Anya’s brow furrowed, and she was about to ask a question. Malak added, “We have had peace for so long now that any thought of things changing has no grounds for being. Folks fear change. Instead of challenging the future, they merely accept the scrolls as unchangeable. That’s not what the ancestors intended them for, Anya. Does that answer your query?”
She nodded and blew a shrill whistle, bringing several snowy white owls that encircled the two as they headed toward the building’s entrance. After tea, Anya strolled home, thinking of her talk with Malak.
“There is still a chance, a path that leaves us and the forest safe. Tomorrow is another day to fix what is broken today,” said the matron with a sense of hope she had not felt for a long time.
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Folksburywoods 
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