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The woodpecker dove from the boughs, its feathers spanning a current of air. Then she capered in circles around the young woman, flapping as if to tease her. A cacophony of joy ensued, with the lumber girl bouncing on her toes, and the bird bouncing on air, and both of them communicating over each other. It was impossible to understand a thing, with the girl lecturing the bird for taking so long, and the bird chirping.

“Oh my, Seasons, where were you, I was so worried, did you get caught, are you all right, you’ll never believe what...”

Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp...

They hopped in place, the girl holding the woodpecker’s wings, continuing to scatter giddy words and tweets everywhere.

Once calmer, they embraced, the bird nuzzling its beak under the girl’s chin, and the girl clutching the bird to her chest. Nicu and I smiled, bearing witness to the most endearing and boisterous of reunions. I was happy for the lumber maiden, to see her friend returned without injury.

“What took you so long?” she groused, releasing her sidekick.

The bird flew into the overhead tree, the branches shuffling and then spitting out a feathered hat.

This subjected Lyrik, Nicu, and myself to an unparalleled noise: a squeal.

Indeed, the girl’s squeal pierced throughout the colony. She grabbed the hat and did a little hip-accentuated dance, then propped it atop her head, setting it at an angle.

It seemed the valorous bird called Punk had succeeded in her mission, delivering my tidings for the Royals as instructed, then retrieving her friend’s hat from the fox mavens. A courageous undertaking, but how in the world had she managed to carry the accessory this far?

With this odd group complete and introductions made, the mood lifted. Punk flitted between the girl and Nicu, then perched on the maiden’s lap and dozed.

From a cupboard embedded into one of the oaks, Lyrik produced a jug of cider and poured it into cups. We supped on a hearty rye loaf and roasted corn, heating some of the kernels until they popped. I discovered how animated of an eater and drinker the young woman was, her tongue tracing juice droplets from her lips.

Lyrik blazed a second cylinder of paper, the scent biting the air. He conveyed rumored tales of the people who had dwelled here, the inhabitants of old, living amidst a wilderness known to host a fairytale, equally grim and enchanting. No wonder it had convinced so many, as this forest gave the appropriate impression.

The wooden girl listened to our host with intent, but when he disguised his voice to something conspiratorial and spook-riddled, her engagement waned, no longer taking him seriously.

Nicu eyed Lyrik with lively skepticism, his expression seeming to strike Lyrik in some way, motivating the rogue to engage him. I detached from their conversation, but as I studied the wind’s direction, I caught glimpses of the pair and eavesdropped.

Our host asked, “So where’d you learn that excellent singing trick?”

“You liked it?” Nicu sounded surprised, rightly so. “Why didn’t you say that?”

“Did you need me to?”

After a moment’s thought, Nicu accused, “You’re a tendril.”

“You’re right. I’m a teaser,” Lyrik acknowledged.

Nicu babbled. Lyrik smoked, occasionally contributing an uninvested comment, possibly humoring my friend.

Meanwhile, the girl brushed her sidekick’s feathers, watching the creature sleep. I beheld the scene, rapt by the display of affection and considering her merits: adoration for that bird, a budding kinship with Nicu, and devotion to an ailing mother. However limited, there existed good sides to this lumber maiden.

A quest for knowledge compelled me to act. Though I did not foresee her telling me about her mother, she might account for other subjects.

“I wonder that you’re not a person of notoriety,” I said. “I’ve never heard of you, yet I feel that I should have.”

“Because of my woodskin?” she asked. “People prattled at first, when I was little. They thought Mother was a witch and almost pitchforked her, but she convinced them that I’d been created from nature’s will, that Autumn had bestowed on her a rare sort of tyke—one with a skin deficiency. That’s why the buzz never got far from quarter, though it took longer for children to quit making fun of me.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you were rather diligent in making them stop?”

A mean smile crept across her lips. “With most people still calling born foolsborn foolsback then, and with the Royals declaring Autumn a haven and encouraging integration, the locals had other things to preoccupy them. Though they still look at me and see a skin ailment, plus a set of pretty odd joints.”

The phraseborn fooldid not get bandied about around as much as it once did. In former times, Autumn claimed the born as property of the Crown, just as all the kingdoms had. Although Mista was now a purveyor of equality, enlisting Winter as an ally in its efforts, the term still existed in our land, as did the prejudices amongst half of Autumn’s citizens. For eons, people with ailments of the mind had been deemed abominations—those with physical afflictions, a bit less so.

Regardless, this girl knew how much she stood out.

She swiveled her voluptuous, wooden hips my way. “What’s it going to take to get my axes back?”