A wizard once cautioned: there are many magic rings in this world, and none of them should be used lightly! Wise advice for some hero mired in the conflict of the fantastical; words to be penned in a book for our amusement. Reason would point us toward the practical, and that such is mere childish imagining, but our hearts tell us different. They whisper of adventure, boast of courage, wrench in heartache, and hold to hope. There is something within that wants to believe in more than just tales spun for our own diversion. Perhaps it wasn't always so. Perhaps we have simply forgotten. Perhaps the world has only changed, and some things that were lost are about to be found.

Chapter I

Atop the Highest Bough

It was raining. Droplets thudded heavily against the rooftop and I observed the deluge from the small loft window. Dismal and dreary; tree branches sagged in overabundance, their leaves dripping in a constant stream. The over-saturated ground pooled water in the grass, over the sidewalk, and into the street. A drain that had long since reached its capacity flooded the area adding to the already hazardous weather conditions. And then there was the mist. It hung about like a blanket, hiding things from view until you were just upon them.

Gran would have loved it. The two of us would be snuggled on the window seat in the living room, wrapped in blankets and hands cradling steaming mugs. She would stare out the windowpane, her thin wire-framed glasses slightly askew on the bridge of her nose, and wiry strands of hair framing her face. Then she would smile; her face crinkling warmly before she spoke. The same lasting excitement that was birthed in a 7-year-old girl and carried into young adulthood would bubble within me. I would listen with the same rapt attention to the stories that Great Gran had told her and she in turn had told me. My mother had no intention of carrying on the longstanding family tradition of, in her words, reiterated hogwash.

She was a driven, serious sort—my mother—who lived only for herself, and so it was no small wonder that I had been born at all, the unhappy accident that I was. A nasty business, really, fortunately—in this case—it became a most profitable bargain; one worth the great inconvenience that was pregnancy. Simply put: Gran got the daughter she never had, and my mother got no daughter at all.

This point was not without struggle. It instilled in me a feeling of lack, of being cast aside, of drifting. When I was just a girl, Gran had told me that there was no magic in my mother; it had all passed to me. She had too much of her father and not enough of Gran. The thought had made me feel special, but as time passed reality robbed me of the comfort. Magic existed only in tales, and now that Gran was gone, so were they. My throat constricted painfully and I tried to swallow away the lump forming there. I had not cried, not with her in the house, and it was beginning to catch up with me. It was why I was here, in the loft. It was the only place left that was remotely peaceful and free of her calculating presence. It was only a few measly hours after the burial and she had begun a thorough inspection, tallying everything into a flawless margin of profit and loss. Tomorrow men would be here to take the junk away and the estate sold. Everything would be gone. It would all be reduced to a husk of what it once had been, and I was being left with nothing but memories.

A chill ran down my spine as the door creaked open and someone stomped up the stairs. Sheer determination kept me staring out the window instead of acknowledging the loft's newest addition. The silence was palpable, and I swallowed.

"How much garbage do I have to go through?"

I listened uncomfortably as boxes were ripped open and things were rifled through without care.

"Unbelievable." There was a clank as something was tossed, now broken, back into its place. "What is all this?" my mother impatiently demanded.

I shrugged, still not bothering to fully acknowledge her, and my discomfort growing. I could feel her stare like daggers in my back.

"Just why are you here, then?" was her cutting reply.

This did get me to turn around, hot, angry tears gathering in my eyes.

"She was sick; someone had to be." My voice was husky.

She scoffed at this with a roll of her eyes before adding, "Well, I suppose you do have some uses."

I glared at her, the only show of my defiance, and pursed my lips. Gran wouldn't want me to fight, not here, and I didn't want to. I wanted to remember things how they used to be and not have them become embittered as well. Besides, I wouldn't ever have to see this woman again after this.

"What do you want?" I questioned when I had reasonable control. It was obvious from her posture, crossed arms and pointed stare, that this wasn't some random visit.

"Isn't that a question you should ask yourself? How many years have you been at college?" she taunted.

"Are you paying for it?" I angrily bit back.

She smiled at that. It was obvious that she took pride in my response, that it was some sort of proof that I was her daughter despite Gran's influence. Not that she was interested; it was more about crushing the family legacy and winning their longstanding argument which wasn't even settled in death. It made me feel ill.

"Waste all the time you like," she continued to prod, but I stubbornly refused to give her any more satisfaction. That dampened some of her haughty spirits and thankfully, she finally got to the point. "There was a ring—"

"I don't know," I interrupted.

"You don't know," she repeated disbelievingly.

"No, I don't. I asked Gran about it, but she said it's lost."

"Lost?"

"Yes, lost. Probably deliberately, but lost all the same. Meaning: I don't know where it is."

"How's that even possible? Do you really expect me to believe that she didn't give it to you…her little prodigy?"

There was no mistaking the bitterness dripping from her tone. The sudden intensity and venom was unexpected, and I didn't know what to say. It brought all sorts of emotions to the surface. My mother despised my relationship with Gran. It absolutely killed her that she was denied the one thing she had wanted for years. Such blatant rejection (though suspected) was almost impossible to take, thrust in my face as it were, but I also couldn't ignore the thread of truth in her words, however cruel they may be. That ring had been passed down in the family for generations. The fact that Gran had not given it to me had been hurtful. I had never done anything to betray her trust

It must have been apparent on my face that day, because she had gone to great lengths to explain. What merit is there when that which we desire is simply handed to us? Worth is found in the earning, in the struggles that are heaved upon us. They unveil the unexpected, bringing to light what is truly precious. The words rang in my mind and I could almost hear her speaking them. Gran… It twisted unbearably within me and there was no stopping the tears now.

"Believe what you want," I answered as I stood and moved toward the stairs. I couldn't take it anymore, this room, and this house. I had to get out.

"I will find it," she called after me—that woman—my mother. "And if I find that you had it…"

I slammed the door and shut out the rest of her words. The hall passed in a blur as I decided to take the back staircase: down into the kitchen, through the mud room, then I was free. There was no vantage point from the loft to spy my retreat. I was met by mist and rain, but I didn't care. The moment my feet landed upon soggy earth I quickened my steps until I was running. Across the expanse of green, back into the trees, and farther still. Through the fence that had been in disrepair for years, further into the thick foliage. The trees were closer together here, their trunks broad and untouched; one small piece of old still left in the world.

The way was well known: a path to many a make-believe adventure, a retreat for many a sorrow. I slid and fell against my refuge: a particular tree with such curvatures that it had immediately been likened to a humanlike form. It was silent as I finally broke and my anguish spilled from me. Not that it wasn't always so (trees usually are), but I wished for just a moment that this time was different. The notion was entirely ridiculous, wits end was probably a much more applicable description, but could nothing prove true? Was there really nothing left of she who was dearer to me than any other? Was it not human nature to wish for the impossible? The grief was suffocating, excruciating. How could I bare it?

I sat there for an indeterminate period of time, mud-speckled, soaked, tears mingling with rain until I was spent. The overcast sky began to darken in hue, and I guessed it to be close to evening. By all reason I should have been heading back, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. The promise of dry clothes not enough to entice me, especially in light of the explanation that would be demanded due to my state. Instead, I gazed up at the old wood.

"What am I to do now?" I asked. "There's nowhere for me to be."

Hadn't I cried myself out? My spent utterance conjured more to the surface. My vision blurred as I sought for some answer. That is when the unlikeliest of occurrences happened. My tree, the one I'd lovingly nicknamed Fatroot in my youth, had moved. At least, I thought it did. Perhaps it was a trick of the eyes, the dimming of light. But I swore that the topmost branches reached out. It had been some time since I'd last sat beneath these limbs, but I was almost certain that it had been twisted in the opposite direction. I could do nothing but stare. It was not possible, probable, and a hundred other words that meant exactly the same thing. Finally standing, I reasoned that it was exhaustion and the wind, choosing to ignore the current lack of breeze. I'd just decided to go back when there was an absurdly loud creak. I couldn't help but look back up and that's when I saw it. How I caught the glint of silver was miraculous in its own right, as was the fact that the much debated "ring" was up there, caught on a tiny twig.

That crafty old woman! How had she managed it? I couldn't imagine Gran climbing up there, let alone trekking all the way out here to begin with. It made no sense. There were easier ways to lose a ring. It was a mystery not to be answered. I walked around Fatroot looking for some purchase, but they were all just out of reach. So I scanned the nearest trees, and while they came close, it was not close enough. The one thing left of my beloved Gran and I could not get it. Somehow I knew that if I just left it, my mother would surely sniff it out. She'd destroy yet another thing to get what she wanted with no thought of the ramifications. That could not happen. But what was I to do? Short of going back for a ladder, and that would definitely tip my hand, there wasn't anything. The futility of it all only served to frustrate me further. My eyes glinted accusingly in the failing light.

"It is the only thing left of her, and you taunt me with it." My voice sounded hollow, and I struggled against a new onslaught of tears. Anyone might find it curious, my conversation with a tree, but there was no one else, and truly it was to blame. I would be none the wiser had it not moved. That is, if it had indeed done so. What a train of irrational ideas! What would I believe next? Unwilling to entertain anymore impracticalities, or to stumble my way back through the dark, I turned sharply around and ran deftly into a solid branch.

To say it smarted would be a gross understatement. My hand immediately settled upon the spot of pain and I took a few steadying breaths, waiting for the throbbing to subside in my head. When I was able, I glared at the offending sprig and pointed at it in an incredulous manner. That had not been there a moment ago. Either I was dreaming, or things were not as they seemed to be. Or I had gone blooming mad! Perhaps all three were true. I thought better of making any further comment lest something else extraordinary befall me. My eyes skimmed over the old tree and the realization that there was a way up settled upon me. There had been none, and then in a twinkling of an eye it changed. It was almost like…magic.

The thought came unbidden; stirring within me, kindling what I had thought was gone. There was no question as I pulled myself up. Hope had taken me. There was something left. Meant for me, and it propelled me upward. I ascended easily and gave little thought to how perfectly placed each branch was. Usually there was some sort of exertion involved with tree climbing. Had I the sense, I might have stopped to ponder the ease of the exercise. Never mind the implications, what was of more import was my reaching the very tippy-top. Briefly, I felt a twinge of fear as I gazed down. It was strange how much higher it seemed when I was aloft.

It wasn't prudent to dwell on the distance anyway. I was here, the ring was there, and this wasn't the first time I'd scaled the heights of plant life. Caution kept me alive but there was something to be said about the fearless. With that in mind, I clung tightly to Fatroot and reached for the ring. My fingers grazed the tiny budding and, throwing caution to the wind, I stretched out. My body came away from the trunk, plucking the ring from its resting place. Euphoric relief rushed over me and I very nearly lost my footing. Like a lifeline, I held tightly to Fatroot; my triumph just about replaced with disaster. My heart pounded uncomfortably in my chest—I could not afford to be reckless—so I did something completely rational.

I slipped the ring on my finger.

There were several good reasons for the action: it was dark, I didn't want to risk it falling from my pocket, or dropping it entirely. I supposed that I could have held it in my mouth, but then the surety of my falling was almost guaranteed, and I didn't want anything ghastly like swallowing said object to happen. How was I to know that the moment the cool metal slid over my digit, I would be overcome with disorientation? My skin prickled and the very air became unpleasantly potent. My senses so blaringly loud, I could not distinguish what from where. There was a crack, a scrape, a groan, an escalation of squawks from neighboring birds, and a rumble that was quickly encapsulating it all. That, of which, was originating from the tree itself; and it was frightful. Then, my suspicions were confirmed. It moved before my very eyes and I quite forgot myself. I recoiled and there was no correcting the mistake.

A scream echoed about as I plummeted, smacking into branches and breaking some in the process. Desperately I tried to grab hold of one, but gravity was unmerciful and my fingers raked the bark. My head hit one and my body slammed into another, knocking the wind from me, but it seemed to hold. Until an unsettling snap! There was a lurch before it broke entirely, and I fell again. My outcry lost in the coming windfall, it was all a fast coming blur. Things pulled and thrashed, and through it all I held fast to my doom. Steadily, a point of light grew below me and it played havoc with my equilibrium. The riotous crash I was a part of burst into the bottommost limbs where I dramatically became snagged in a y. The rest of the debris thudded onto the ground and into the light, which turned out to be a blazing fire. I tried to focus, but as is common with such accidents—head injuries and all—it only expounded on the impending outcome: the emptying of the contents of my stomach straight into the fire and the boiling pot suspended over it.