The Journey Begins

I am alarmed to report that what began as my customary visit to Meadowfen has turned into something much more.

Throughout all my travels I have found no village as happily situated as that of Meadowfen. It lies to the west, just close enough to the Scorched Grove to share the richness of its soils, but far enough away to escape notice of the creatures that lurk there. The perfect place to rest and recuperate.

In Meadowfen, the Birdfolk and Humblefolk work the fields and reap the harvest alongside each other. They live together in little careworn cottages painted cheery colours beneath fraying thatched roofs. I couldn’t imagine calling a house on the ground my home, but apparently the Birdfolk here have grown accustomed to it.

The roads had been dry, warmer than usual for the season, and littered with signs of bandits on the move. I’d had more than enough of keeping watch alone at night, and so to Meadowfen I had come for food and company.

I was enjoying a bowl of Crispin’s finest in the center of town, savouring the food in my mouth and sun on my feathers. The day was hot and the seasonal rains still refused to fall, but Meadowfen was the picture of tranquility.

“It’s a fine soup, Crispin,” I said to the portly Mapach.

Crispin clapped his paws together, brushing off breadcrumbs, and undid his apron. His raccoon-like face took on an air of warm satisfaction. I had watched him work before, and his focus and passion while cooking approached that of religious fervour, but he knew how to relax like the best of them.

“It’s all in the seasoning,” said Crispin sagely.

“And you said you do this for free?” asked Olive, a well-travelled Jerbeen sitting on a stool beside me. She wore glittering jewellery in her big round ears and I saw more than one musical instrument strapped to her pack.

“Of course,” said Crispin. “Before Hath we are all just scavengers in search of a tasty morsel. There’s plenty to go around.”

“I can see that,” said Olive, eyeing the bubbling pot.

“Now, I must make sure the young ones get their share too.”

I frowned. Yes, generosity was a virtue and all that, but Crispin let the villagers run roughshod over him and would gorge themselves if he let them. If he wasn’t careful, and indeed he usually wasn’t, there would be nothing left for the neediest by the time the gluttons had indulged themselves.

I could already see three scrappy-looking Humblefolk kids edging closer to Crispin’s stall, but they weren’t fast enough. The usual suspect, a chunky possum Mapach called Fievel, pushed his way to the front of the stall and leaned over the pot to give it a good sniff.

“Mister Crispin,” coughed Fievel in a gravelly voice that got right under my feathers. “Can I ’ave a sip of the soup?”

“Of course,” Crispin beamed. “Just try to remember to share, won’t you?”

Fievel chuckled. “Oh yeah. I’ll try.”

“Listen up, Fievel—” I began, but a piercing shriek tore through the pastoral scene.

“Over there,” said Olive, using her powerful legs to jump up off her stool and scurry through the market crowd in the direction of the scream. I chased after her and heard the quick panting of Crispin’s breath as he followed behind me.

The scream had come from Cara, an owl-like Strig, who glided awkwardly to ground and stumbled the landing. Her wing was badly burned. It was amazing she could use it at all. She collapsed against the cool stone of the village well.

“Cara, what happened?”

“Are you alright?”

“Mayor Ardwyn…” Cara spluttered. “Take me to Ardwyn.”

“You need a healer,” said Crispin. “Fortunately for you, I treat myself for burns a lot.”

“Ardwyn first,” said Cara through clenched beak. “There’s no time to waste.”

---

Olive, Crispin, and I took Cara to the mayor’s house where she finally accepted Crispin’s healing magic.

The tale she told there shook me to my core.

Fires from the Scorched Grove had swept down and consumed the town of Ashbarrow within a single day. To compound the situation, those fleeing to safety were attacked by bandits on the road, the numbers of which we could scarcely believe. Cara had barely escaped with her life and put all she had into returning to Meadowfen to warn us.

“What could have brought this on?” I wondered aloud.

“A worthy question,” said Ardwyn, “but not the first order of business. We must prepare to accept refugees from Ashbarrow.”

“There will be many,” said Crispin solemnly.

“And we must get word to Alderheart,” Ardwyn continued. “Someone must persuade the Birdfolk Council to send us aid and supplies.”

Cara coughed weakly. “I’ll prepare for the journey.”

“No,” said Ardwyn decisively. “You’ve done enough, Cara. You must rest. We must rely on the goodness of these travellers to help us.”

“The roads will be very dangerous,” I warned the others. “Better to stay and help the village if you aren’t sure you can handle yourselves.”

Olive smiled confidently.

“Don’t worry, Plume,” said Crispin. “We’ll look after you.”

---

We resolved to set off immediately. Though not before I taught a lesson to that gluttonous possum, Fievel, who had made a sickening display of greed by downing the entire pot of soup in front of a crowd of hungry orphans. I struck him to the ground and chastised the crowd for allowing such a waste of Nature’s precious gifts.

But then Crispin fed the orphans magic berries, which slightly undermined my point.