Thronegarden Andrew Dickerson (the little red hen ebook TXT) 📖

beautiful woman emerged to rescue him,

Wearing pearls in her hair and on her gown.

 

The Boy was grateful to his savior,

In return he agreed to answer a question,

The Lady asked what is the colour of water?

In your honest opinion.

 

The Boy barely glanced at the water before proclaiming the water blue,

 Reflecting a sky full of adventure,

Where dreams could come true,

Someone may even discover hidden treasure.

 

The Lady offered the child a cerulean sapphire,

When he accepted it, the gem made sure he would never be satisfied,

His ambition would burn like an inextinguishable pyre,

Making the Boy’s heart calcified.

 

One day a Washerwoman brought clothes to the lake to wash,

Enjoying the solitary tranquil scene,

When a girl appeared from beneath the waves with a crash,

Like something from a dream.

 

The girl asked the Washerwoman a question and in return promised to help with her chore,

All she wanted to know,

What colour is the water?

One answer and she would have good work to show.

 

The Washerwoman pronounced the water green,

It seemed to hold a potent mystery,

Something that could not be seen,

Giving the viewer a chilling feeling of uncertainty.

 

The Lady presented the Washerwoman with a piece of emerald jade,

Which caused an envious feeling of spite,

That could never be repaid,

Until all was blight.

 

A Soldier walked by the lake side,

When he heard a woman cry out desperately,

The Soldier saved the woman before she was pulled under by the tide,

Getting her up onto the bank to safety.

 

The damsel was grateful but asked for one more favour,

Could her brave hero see anything amiss?

With the colour of the water,

An answer in return for a kiss.

 

The Soldier saw many colours in the water making a prism.

He believed things happened for a reason,

That it was all part of nature’s mechanism,

A seed for every garden.

The Lady proffered her champion with a piece of clear glass.

In it his mind was trapped,

Unable to escape or pass,

It was now the ladies in an eternal pact.

 

A Poor Man went to the lake for a drink,

He was surprised by a bedraggled woman,

With dirt covering her skin like ink,

She asked the Poor Man a strange question.

 

Tell me the colour of the water,

I wish only to hear the truth,

For this water has magical properties,

It can grant a worthy man his lost youth.

 

The Poor Man was suspicious but saw no harm,

He announced the water to be brown,

Bitter when sweet, dangerous when calm,

In it he saw his reflection wearing a muddy crown.

 

The Lady gave him a lump of auburn clay,

Which would always remind him what he was missing,

With each passing day,

He felt the loss like a humiliating branding.

 

A Criminal passed the lake while trying to flee,

He witnessed a wealthy woman dressed in fine apparel,

Gallantly he offered help to this member of the aristocracy,

Such people were usually gullible.

 

The Criminal made a terrible mistake,

For the wealthy dame was not as she might appear,

It was the Lady of the Lake,

Who demanded to know the colour of the water?

 

 

 

It is the darkest black,

A fetid watery prison,

Like living life with your head in a sack,

Until you lose all reason.

 

The Lady presented the Criminal with an obsidian shard of jet,

 In place of his soul,

It made him forget,

To enable him to fulfil his new potential.

 

These six lost would expand the Lady of the Lake’s dominion,

She named them her Clay Legion.

“That was a wonderful story though I don’t understand what it has to do with moonlight?” Damselfly reacted.

“Well, the criminal was destroyed by moonlight; it is their one weakness,” Bakka explained.

“Are the other five still around?” Buttons asked nervously.

“Three of them are,” the smith replied. “The Washerwoman, Fisherman and Poor Man remain ardent minions of the Lady of the Lake. The Boy and the Soldier were defeated with powerful magic, much of which has now been lost.”

“Do you mean bells?” Damselfly questioned.

“Yes, the boy was overpowered by a sorceress wielding a bell,” Bakka explained.

“Could you make a bell like that?”

“I don’t think so. Those items were often made of rare minerals that are practically impossible to come across.”

“You could craft another vial. I know you can,” the princess pleaded.

“The artefact itself was inconsequential compared to the magic that made it special. There is no one left to perform such rituals and so my meagre talent is of no use,” Bakka revealed.

“There must be something we can do,” Damselfly fought.

Bakka, who had been drawn out of his reverie after so many years by the sharing of mutual stories, began to consider carefully what he might do to help the princess.

“I cannot recreate the vial, or anything that requires magical properties,” the smith stated. “However, I could craft a master key that would enable you access to any garden at any time.”

“Would it get us into the Evergarden?” Damselfly posed.

“I don’t think so,” Bakka answered. “There is no entrance to the Evergarden that can be reached without significant risk.”

“A key.” Damselfly considered the possibilities.

“A skeleton key,” Bakka agreed. “But we will need some material to craft it from and I have nothing here.”

“What about this?” Buttons offered the broken sword that they had been rewarded with in the Wintergarden.

Bakka took the damaged weapon in his calloused hands and turned it over experimentally.

“It might work.” He grinned for the first time in years.

Damselfly leapt with excitement, grabbing hold