"They say they walk in groups of three, or five, or even seven... They bear many names. Old people call them "The Beautiful Ones", "The Eddies", "The Unnamed", and so many others. For their name is not known to any human being. And even if they knew it, woe and bitterness to the one who utters it ... Death would fall on him in an instant. Only the wind knows their name and shouts it in tangled whispers, misunderstood by the human mind.

"They live in forests, clearings, on the banks of waterways, and at crossings of roads; and they appear on stray hikes, on the full moon, at midnight. Their bodies are of fog body and wear dresses of air. Their long locks reach their heels and shine, even in the middle of the night. And they are beautiful as no other creature on earth.

"The shortest night of the year, in the midst of summer, is their night. It is the night when our world mingles with theirs, and the heavens open, becoming one with the earth. And the Eddies are caught in the chorus and start dancing under the moonlight until morning. Their song is so tender and sweet as if made in Heaven. But the grass stays burned under their feet, and the cattle do not dare to eat it and the man gets sick if walking it. And woe to him who interrupts their dance. Either he gets ill, weak, dumb for life or he turns mad... Or he vanishes forever as if he never existed on the face of the earth.

"Sometimes, they appear during the day, too, and take the form of gusts of wind catching leaves and flowers in their whirl, with the ringing of bells at their ankles and cheers coming from the air above. It is good to avoid whirlwinds that appear out of nowhere because they can take you far, far away, and never bring you back."

This is what the old woman used to tell to the two small children by the fireside of the stove, in the evening, that winter when the soft flakes of the first snow fell quietly from the sky. In a low voice as if she was sharing the most hidden secrets with them.

The children were watching her, their eyes wide, terrified of her stories. From time to time, they shuddered, huddled on the low, narrow bench, big enough to fit only the two of them.

Mother Doca smoothed the thick woolen thread torn from her wool bundle, her gaze staring somewhere far away, lost in memories. She was over eighty years old, but she was as agile and hardworking as a young wife. There was no way she could stand still. Even in the evening, when she finished the housework, she would retire by the stove and spin wool or knit socks, late into the night. Only the fire's flame in the stove lit her knitwork. Because her eyes and mind were as sharp as when she was a young child.

"But who are the Eddies, Mother Doca?" the little girl asked. "Where do they come from?"

The old woman stroked her blonde hair, neatly combed in two thick tresses.

"Well, they are said to be the daughters of the Moon, my dearest. That the Moon and the Sun were sister and brother who loved each other very much. But as such love was not ought to be, they were cursed never to meet again. And then the Moon, to spite everyone, sent her daughters to wander the minds of the young boys who crossed their roads, and separate them from their lovers. That is why those who disappear or remain sick for life are young and beautiful young men who are enchanted by their singing and beauty. And they forget about their loved ones who are waiting for them to come home, sobbing for them for eternity."

The girl's blue eyes blinked, her eyelashes like butterfly wings.

"Have you ever seen them, Mother Doca?"

"I did not see them, but I heard them, God forbidden. In the woods next to my house. They chirped and sang in the middle of the night, in the middle of their choir ... And I made my holy cross and closed myself in the house, trying to forget their song."

"And why is it called Forest of Wind, this forest near your house?"

"It is said that in this old wood which has been here since the beginning of the world, the wind behaves differently ... Every blow brings whispers and words that were not and will never be understood. Each whirl carries mysteries from another world. As if the wind were a stranger from other lands who can't find the peace to stay in one place. And a traveler lost in this forest sometimes feels touched by a cold breath, like a caress coming from the other world ... And this wind is deceiving, that it can carry him far and sometimes, the road does not find its way back home. And the wind is a good comrade with the Eddies..."

The little boy threw a branch into the fire and a stream of sparks rose to the chimney. "I don't believe in such creatures, Grandma," he said. "And even if they were real ... If I met any of these faeries, I would tell them to go away because I'm not afraid of them or their dance. Honestly. I would tell them right to their faces." His black eyes grew darker, too, and he stood there, frowning.

The old woman smiled and answered softly, "You can believe what you want, my dear boy. You're young still. So did a villager of ours, Marin. He laughed at them and mocked them. 'Bad, ugly creatures,' he shouted at them one day as he gathered his hay on the field. And once a whirlwind came up and took his hay up, straw by straw. And since then, he learned his lesson and has not thrown harsh words at them ever since. You will see when you grow up that in life, you'll meet many things that you once thought hard to believe. But let's forget about spooky tales, for now... How about giving you some freshly baked bread from the oven? It must be done already. With some nice cream on top. So that you both grow up strong and beautiful .... How about that?"

In silence, the two children began to feast themselves with big chunks of bread with sour cream, under the old woman's tender eyes. Outside, the blizzard surrounded the house near the forest, wrapping it in its thick snow cloak. And the wind whispered stories only it knew...

*

The years passed, and the children grew up. But not even time could separate them. They did everything together. Playing, learning, wandering the clearings, and watching their parents' flock of sheep together. Laughing and dreaming together. And as they grew up, so did the love between them.

One day at the beginning of spring, when they were seven years old, they forgot the time, playing hide-and-seek in the clearing near the creek. And the night fell suddenly as it usually happened when you were a child and everything that mattered was playing. They both found each other surrounded by darkness, their sheep gathered and trembling of the rising night and noises around them.

Far away, in the distance, lights flickered in the woods. The same forbidden woods everyone in the village avoided.

The boy showed the lights to the girl, "Maybe we should follow the lights. Maybe they'll take us home."

But the girl shook her head, shivering. "Those are bad lights. They're faery lights. They will only get us even further from home," she whispered.

George laughed, his joyful laughter rising to the sky, carried away by the wind to the forest of whispers. "You're always so afraid, Maria. Nothing bad is going to happen," he said and headed to the woods.

The little girl followed, still shivering, with the sheep quietly crowding behind her. "George, let's go back... Maybe we should wait for a little longer. Please..."

But the boy didn't stop. He carried on, guided by the trembling lights and the wind that pushed him from behind. And soon, the wind gained a voice. A sweet, gentle voice, like a mother's whisper, calling his name.

"Can you hear that?" he asked the girl.

"What?"

"The voice calling out my name..."

Maria stopped and listened. Then, she began to sob, tears quietly falling down her face. "I'm not following the voice. I'm not following the lights, either. I want to go home," she said and sat down on the fresh grass with the sheep gathering around her.

George sighed and turned back. He sat beside her and slowly stroke her hair, "Don't cry, Mary. You don't have to be afraid. I'm here, with you... I won't go if you don't want me to..."

And the two children cuddled under the endless sky, with the wind whispering above them. Soon, the moon came out of the clouds, and they could see the path that led to Mother Doca's house.

The old woman took them in, put them by the fire, and gave them each a bowl of hot soup. She listened to their story of flickering lights and the voices coming from nowhere. She blessed them with a prayer and made them promise they would never, ever follow those lights or listen to those voices. The girl nodded again and again, her eyes wide with fear. But the boy crossed his fingers behind his back as he made the promise. And the voice did not stop, turning louder and louder, ever more alluring...

*

Time passed by, leaving the memory of that night behind. But the voice did not go away, yet stayed in the boy's mind like a distant whisper. And as time does not give rest to anyone, so did the children grow up, and the old woman burdened herself with years.

George turned into a young man as tall as a fir tree, with raven hair and raven eyes. He was hard-working and had a warm heart, as warm as hot bread. His only flaw was his recklessness to try mad things whenever he encountered them along the way. Was a tree too tall to climb? George was the first to dare. Or some too deep pound in which a stray sheep had fallen? George came down first to save it, and would not have stepped aside from anything. So the village called him Mad George.

Maria, on the other hand, was as thin as a willow's branch, with golden hair and eyes of blue sky. Even though George had loved her since they were children, the girl couldn't be more different than him. She was obedient and didn't go out of her parents' word. She would not have thrown herself into danger, not even for his sake. And George laughed every time because of that.

"Mary, with a heart as big as a needle tip," he used to mock her. But still, they remained best friends, despite their different nature.

Maria's heart began to long for the hardworking, fearless boy, and she wanted him as her husband when the time would come. But George had other dreams. He dreamed of riches and wealth, away from the poor village and its people who worked so hard for nothing, every year. He dreamed of becoming a landlord with countless herds and endless lands. He saw himself married to a girl from a good family, with a large dowry. So he set his eyes on Elena, the landlord's daughter in that area. But she didn't seem to notice him whenever they met at the village gatherings. And many times, the young lad heard words that he did not know whether to believe: that she was promised to the landowner's son from the neighboring village. And no matter how hard the boy tried to hug her while dancing the hora every Sunday at the village gatherings, she slipped between his strong arms and laughed mockingly in his face.

"A girl like me will never look at someone like you, peasant boy," she used to giggle. But the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips put hope in his heart every time.

Thus, George became more and more eager to make a fortune, and this as soon as possible. By any means. He had heard from the elders of the treasure of the fairies. Mother Doca, his grandmother, was still alive, and even though she was old, almost blind, and powerless, her mind was whole. And George made her tell him every time he visited about the priceless treasure.

"It's said that it's hidden somewhere in the woods, right in the round glade in the middle. But no one found it, although many have tried. You don't mess with the fae, my dearest," the old woman used to tell him.

"Nonsense", said the boy, spitting into the fire. "How come no one has ever seen them?"

"You see, those old times when they showed themselves to people, are over. Now, man is a stranger to nature and its wonders. And he is moving further and further away, he no longer believes in the greatness of the air and in the power of the earth. Even the audacity to believe that man can subdue them ... And this is a great recklessness on our part ..."

But George ignored the old woman's words. And every time he came to her, sent by his mother to help her with the housework, he would ask his grandmother to tell him about the treasure. He begged her to remember other stories and legends about the priceless treasure. He had come to dream of hit at night, and he began to enjoy being haunted by its spell.And soon, he was no longer the happy, joyful lad the whole village knew. He no longer gathered with the boys who counted on him. He no longer took his cattle in familiar places but took them to wander in the Forest of Wind near his grandmother's house. Even the forest that was said to hide hidden things and that sometimes, in the middle of the night, the glitter of gold scattered among the trunks of old trees.

"From the faery treasure, most certainly," George thought, and his desire to find it grew by the day.

Maria also noticed the boy's struggles and would have always been eager to help him. If only he would ask. But George was stubborn, too preoccupied with his life, and didn't pay her the slightest attention. He barely greeted her when they met by chance in the village. They, who were the best of friends... If before they used to tell each other everything, now they hardly spoke. And the girl's heart broke with each day, piece by piece.

One day, at the beginning of summer, when the girl came to help the almost blind Mother Doca to patch a coat, she found him cutting wood in the small yard in front of the house. And as she knew the boy didn't like to be interrupted from his work, she stayed on the porch with the old woman, trying to mind her own. But her longing eyes could not find peace, and she stang her finger the needle. And her gaze flew at the boy with the well-built body who hit the stumps almost with anger.

But not only the girl's heart skipped random beats when they met. Sometimes his gaze searched for hers. And when the black eyes reflected into the girl's blue ones, time stood still. They were silent, looking at each other, barely breathing. And then the boy really discovers it. With blond hair, tight in a thick tress that reached her waist. With her big, always wondering eyes, looking into the depths of his soul. Her skin looked more delicate than a flower's petal. And her slender, wasp-shaped body rippled like a reed on a water's edge. Butterflies and bugs gathered around her, trying to get drunk with the sweet scent of the flower in the hair. A ray of light caressed her hair and forehead, illuminating her whole being. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time ...

A bird's chirp suddenly woke him up from his daydreaming, and George carried on with his work, trying hard to focus. That couldn't happen. He couldn't fall for Maria. She was like a sister to him. He had heard rumors in the village that many young lads like him had their eyes on her. Wealthy lads who did not care the girl had no dowry. And why shouldn't they? She was beautiful, kind, and hard-working. But Maria turned them all down, even though she had already reached the age of marriage. It was as if she was keeping herself to someone ... And George felt his heart ache at the thought that someone else might become her husband. But he quickly dismissed the thought as if shivering by the cold weather. Definitely, he couldn't let her reach his soul. Not now, when the calling of the treasure was becoming real.

Suddenly, the evening fell. They gathered on his grandmother's porch, around the oak table. The table still bore drawings of flowers, stars, and trees carved on the edges. George smiled and remembered the day when at the request of the sky-eyed girl, he drew whatever she asked. He almost forgot the scolding he had had. Just the thought of seeing her smiling wholeheartedly had driven the pain in her grandmother's palms out of the more hidden places of her body. And now, just like back then, they stared at each other without caring about anything else. The boy was carving a new crane for his grandmother, and the girl was struggling to knit something under the dim light of the lamp on the porch. He didn't even notice Mother Doca putting in front of them the freshly baked bread and the grilled trout George caught the other day.

Soon, the smiles turned into laughter. They talked about everything and nothing, just like in the old days. The fresh air of the beginning of summer was filled with the trembling sounds of the night's creatures. And with their laughter. The night turned colder over the small house, and the forest and stars filled the sky, adorning it with their sparks. Mother Doca watched them, smiling peacefully, at a thought known only to her.

A distant, muffled clinck interrupted their laughter. Without wanting to, they all looked at the forest shrouded in a thin mist. The sound stopped, but the forest trembled. And every commotion brought shadows of whispers that were then carried by the wind to the distances. George was certain someone called his name, but he tried to stay calm so as not to scare Maria. Then, the clink again, this time closer.  Ever closer...

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Text copyright © 2020 Angela Poppe

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I do not own the photo on the cover of the book, nor the photos and the videos accompanying each chapter of this book.