A voice falls over them:
“O weary ones,
toiling for bread,
burdened with days of sorrow.
Children of earth,
Reborn Fae,
if I can ease your path,
if I can breathe even a moment of light
into your heavy sky,
know that I grieve with you.
Too often I’ve thought of your fate—
trapped like beasts in their pens,
living without joy,
dying without hope.”
“What can bind you
to such places of torment—
factories like tombs,
air choked with dust and sweat,
children bent before their time,
women and men fading,
ghosts in their rooms?
The masters grow rich,
and you grow sick,
trading years for pennies,
until life itself
is shortened into silence.
This is the poverty I would end.”
“What joy can there be
in labor without life?
You move like machines,
endlessly repeating
the same stale motions.
Your minds stagnate,
sparks dimmed,
as if buried beneath ledgers—
pages upon pages
that only blur the eyes,
a drudge’s toil without reward,
pity rather than envy,
suffering without praise.”
“In pity I watched you,
abject, blind,
like moles clawing forward
in endless night.
Your days crawl cold and heavy,
devoid of light,
so I resolved to make you something more—
a diversion, a dream,
creations born of wandering thought,
woven into pageantry,
so fiction might breathe
life into your weary hours.”
“I long to lift your thoughts,
to shine a lamp
inside your dim cells of mind,
to unfold before you
the scroll of imagination.
Like hidden texts unearthed from the Spiral Archive,
its mysteries await—but not unguided.
Freedom is not chaos.
You must not fling yourselves too wildly,
nor soar so recklessly
that Pooka carries you
beyond return.”
“So I have chosen a guide for you,
A companion of solitude.
Whose voice soothes like water
sliding through flowers,
Whose discourse bright as play.
Who knows the paths of retreat
as if held by a silken thread,
and with, you will wander safely.
You will hang upon words,
melted, enchanted.”
At this, The Raven smiles,
and summons the Cedar.
Cedar rises,
leaving behind, her own sweet labor,
grateful for the honor.
To serve, no burden— a gift,
a chance to pour forth art
in homage and in joy.
She comes in loose attire,
robes flowing careless,
half work, half ease.
A crown of laurel circling her brow,
hair falling wild beneath a hood
she scarcely noticed she wore.
Her gaze fixed—
drawn to the visions flitting before,
creations of the mind
she could summon or dismiss at will.
Now, she turns from them
to lead the gathered crowd.
They press close behind,
marveling at the winding route.
she moves with purpose,
yet it seems at times
they circle endlessly,
descending gently
through shifting corridors
lit by half-glow.
At last they reach
a great arched door,
where they wait, hushed,
for entry.
Cedar reaches for her belt,
where a ring of keys clinks faintly.
Selecting one of bronze,
she turns it in the lock.
With a groan of iron,
the portal swings wide,
revealing a stair descending long
into vaulted chambers below,
lamps flickering against stone,
casting pale light
on mystery.