The Strange Tale of Mr Valens; Part 5

On a spring morning, the sun’s gentle, unblinding shimmer began to descend upon the lower skirts of Bogascallough Vale. The sky stretched above in a clarity seldom seen vast and immaculate. As the sun climbed higher, its rays filtered through the ridges of the Malahirol Mountains and reached the Majori River, where the water caught and scattered them in sharp, radiant glints that awakened shimmering lights across every fold of the valley.

That day, not a single cloud nor the faintest trace of mist marked the sky. Everything appeared with an unmatched clarity, and the rows of trees stretching to the mountain’s base revealed themselves in the deepest shade of green. Jasmine scents had only just begun to unfurl into the air, while white lilies blooming in the water hollows near the river joined this quiet magnificence in a graceful dance, stirred now and then by the passing breath of a gentle breeze.

Even the roe deer that dwelled in the valley’s deepest hollows had emerged that day, bounding lightly down to the river to drink. Ladybugs flitted in every direction, poppies drifted in the breeze, their petals offering no resistance to spring’s tender touch. Among them, Hender birds moved with delicate grace, gliding from bloom to bloom in search of small prey not with urgency, but with the quiet ease of creatures at peace. Even the fish in the river broke the surface now and then, leaping as if stirred by the joy of the morning itself.

The Mojori River was clearer than it had ever been. Nearly everyone from the valley had gathered by its banks for a picnic that day. Children ran freely in every direction, their laughter ringing through the air, while mothers carefully unpacked cherry tarts, still warm from the ovens of their homes. These beloved tarts made with the ripest cherries picked from the lower slopes of the valley were the village’s most cherished treat, always served on special occasions alongside steaming cups of Alista tea. And it was clear: today was one such day, quietly extraordinary in the hearts of all who had come.

The people of Bogascallough Vale were known for their warmth, sincerity, and quiet generosity. But their nature, much like the day unfolding in the valley, held a disquieting kind of perfection. Every stranger who set foot there first felt a profound and unshakable peace stirring in the depths of their soul. Yet, as time passed, that very perfection began to weigh on them an unsettling harmony that wrapped itself around the spirit. And in the silence of their hearts, something nameless began to stir a vague unease they could never quite speak aloud.

It was as if everything that day had been orchestrated flawless, almost by design. And on such a day, just as the shimmer of the noonday sun began to descend, Valens decided to go for a walk, inviting Darin to join him. Soon after, Telder fell in step with them, and Gabarin appeared beside them as if summoned by fate. When Nole saw this band of wanderers from his window, he dashed outside and, without a word, became part of their unspoken, unplanned journey.

As the course of the journey began to reveal itself, Telder suddenly stepped in front of the wanderers and declared that the walk must end before it truly began. Valens, taken aback, asked why and Telder replied:

Not all that glitters is gold, Valens. This, without doubt, is a fleeting and delicate moment of goodness one that surely conceals mischief beneath its surface. I know my valley folk well; they are kind, yes, but even for them, this much sweetness feels unnatural. As the sun nears its setting, it casts its fiercest light upon the grey clouds, and so they appear orange to our eyes. But they are not orange they are grey still. Eyes alone cannot discern truth; they may falter, deceiving us when clarity is needed most. In the perception of reality, those clouds remain grey but the heart, moved by the sun’s brilliance, longs to see them as fire. And that longing, Valens, is nothing but a gentle descent into delusion from which those who hope too much rarely return unscathed.

Soon the sun will set, and with it will vanish the fierce light it cast upon the land; the swallows that once soared toward its glow will disappear from sight, and the owls of the city will begin their quiet pursuit of the dark. Though the moon may shine with all its blinding brilliance, the grey clouds will blacken and blanket every hopeful gaze. Come, let us gather none of us wishes to remain, like a lone white rabbit in the heart of a shadowed night. For if we tarry, the place we arrive at shall be the deepest end of the darkest corridors.

Valens replied, “Perhaps you’re right, Telder but still, I am not afraid. And as for when the time is right for such a journey… I may never know. But there is one thing I do know: we begin today. There is no place left for fear, so cast aside your worry, and follow the tune of Darin’s old song. Let yourself drift into the mysterious game of fate.

Telder remained unconvinced, yet he had no true choice but to follow for these were the dearest friends he had in all the world. And though he believed each of them had been quietly imprisoned by their own good intentions, it was Darin with whom he often clashed most. In Telder’s eyes, they were retreating from truth, choosing instead to dwell in dreams. Still, he did not hesitate to walk beside them, convinced that such well-meaning delusion, left unchecked, could become a form of gentle madness. Though he did not join in Darin’s old song, he could not help but listen to its pleasant tune. And despite the unease swelling in his chest, a faint smile found its way to his lips he would not give his fears the dignity of his attention.

From Valens’s garden, the band of mad wanderers began their walk toward the forest’s deep heart and as they moved beneath the whispering boughs, they all began to murmur in unison.

Jump along, jump along, this land is your true home.
The children of the Vale are merry wherever they roam.
Should worry find you, run to Sebra’s gentle shore;
There the cure you seek will whisper forevermore.

Walk along, walk along, to the hills of the Vale.
Fear not climb high, let no doubt make you pale.
If the Witch of Tellawick dares to draw near,
Call for the spear of Ledasir it shall appear.

Run along, run along, to the meadows of Mojori bright.
The tarts are baked for Umma’s soul, in morning’s golden light.
Let the cauldrons boil, let the feast be wide and grand.
Fear not, fear not let your journey take command.

Up to that moment, all had gone blissfully well; the four wanderers, hearts brimming with joy, ventured deeper into the forest’s embrace. Yet as they pressed on, the sky began to gather its gloom the cheerful songs of birds gave way to the harsh cries of ravens, and the sweet scent of cherry tarts no longer lingered in their breath. A veil of fear-laden mist had begun to creep across the land of Valens.

They entered the forest’s deepest paths, where worry dared not reach their souls. They had accepted the price of the journey yet that did not mean anxiety spared them entirely. There was no turning back now; the road had claimed them. Neither fear nor doubt could break their stride. Drawing strength from one another, these four friends these oddities pressed on, until deep within the shadowed woods, they came upon a cabin. Should they take shelter, or should they move on? As the question lingered, a thunderous noise erupted from the heart of the forest.

In the wake of the sound, the odd ones were flung apart scattered into unseen corners, and in an instant, none could see the others. It felt as though they had slipped from the realm of reality into the first bewildering breath of a dream. And so the friends began to search for one another. Valens called out to Darin and Telder, but instead of hearing replies through the trees, he heard their voices echoing inside his own mind as if the two fools were speaking from within his thoughts. At once, Valens sensed the strangeness of it all, the subtle shattering of his grip on reality. In desperation, he reached for a sprout of an ancient herb he had tucked away in his pack one rarely found in Bogascallough Vale. The moment he crushed it and breathed in its scent, the fog in his mind began to lift. He soon found his companions and gave them the sprigs to inhale and the mists within them parted, too.

At last, they had come to their senses; the fear-soaked illusions their minds had conjured vanished all at once. Without doubt, this had been the work of the Witch of Tellawick. That the road ahead would be difficult was already clear but to face such a trial so early on left them deeply shaken. Still, none of it was enough to turn them back. These wanderers these glorious fools were prepared for far worse, and would press on, no matter what shadows lay ahead.