Chapter 2

Shaking the memories away, Bog looks up into the pre-dawn lit sky. With a heavy heart, he holds the large jar carefully above the ground and slowly shakes the contents out as he walks around the lone hawthorn. Once empty, he smashes the ceramic jar hard against the ground.

"We are from the land and to the land we return," Bog recites. "Their magic is now yers to command."

Removing his gloves to wipe at the tears, Bog walks slowly to the barn to do his chores. He does not notice as the thick blanket of snow melts from around the leafed hawthorn and reveals the vibrant mushroom ring and the blooming primroses. Nor does he see the bright shimmering as the dawn's light breaks over the horizon.

The bellowing, baaing, clucking, and quacking greet the heartbroken boy but it offers no relief as the animals look expectantly toward the door. Old Ada snorts as Bog tries to lead her to the milking stall and then the stubborn cow lays down in protest.

"Come on, Old Ada. Ma can't milk ye anymore," Bog murmurs, tugging her halter again. "Ye're going to have to let me do it. Ye didn't have any problem last night so come on, ye silly girl."

Finally getting each cow milked, Bog quickly heeds the complaints of the other animals for food and fresh water. His chores take longer without two more sets of hands but Bog holds back the tears as he carries the eggs and milk back to the house.

"Some things are the same but everything's is different," Bog mutters.

The familiar form of Angus coming up the road gives Bog comfort but their usual form of greeting has no warmth in the bitter cold. Even the semi-warm house does not chase away the chill from around Bog's heart as he sets the milk pails on the counter. He ignores Angus' look of disapproval at the inside temperatures and says nothing as the older man stokes the dying fire in the living room before helping Bog find where Griselda placed the milk jugs.

"Ye going to be okay, Bog," Angus questions?

"Aye," Bog answers, pouring the fresh milk into the jugs.

"Do ye want us to come sit with ye for a spell," Angus asks?

"No, that's alright. Aunt Plum should be here before too long. Thank ye, though. I just...," Bog chokes. "I knew they shouldn't have gone out yesterday! I should have done something more!"

"Nothing more that ye could've done, lad," Angus consoles, patting the younger man's shoulder. "No one can predict a falling tree, especially one that healthy. Besides, the bloody idiot would have still thought driving drunk in that weather was a good idea. The police said that yer da saved a lot of lives by forcing him into that hedge and knowing yer ma, she was probably ready to give him something more than a hangover to recover from."

Bog chuckles waterly at the truth of that. Sending Angus off with his needed milk and a promise to look after himself properly, Bog forces himself to eat something for breakfast as the quietness of the house bears heavily down on him. The walls glare harsh reminders of the everlasting change in his life. The sound of bells alerts him to his visitor as Bog cleans his meager dishes.

"Happy birthday, Boggy," Plum greets as she enters the door!

"Bog and my birthday isn't official until tomorrow, Aunt Plum," Bog corrects, grinning slightly at the traditional argument.

"You were born on the winter solstice and that lasts from dawn to dawn according to the old ways. Therefore today is the start of your birthday, even if you aren't an adult until tomorrow morning," Plum insists, kissing his cheek. "Where's Loch? I need to talk to him."

All at once the familiar crashes down under the weight of the new reality and with fresh tears Bog explains the events of yesterday that led to the heartbreaking news of last night. The trip to town with Tavish to retrieve his parents was still like a blank void but he tries his best to recount faithfully to his only family left. The older woman rubs his watery cheek before giving it another kiss that seems to soothe a bit of the pain and make it easier to talk.

"I was hoping ye'd arrive early because I didn't want to lay them to rest without ye but Da insisted that if anything happened to him to have him cremated and spread around the hawthorn before the sun rose the next day with the same instructions for Ma," Bog adds. "He said that it was a tradition that must not be broken. I waited until near sunrise before I did as he instructed but it was before the sun rose."

"I thought something was different," Plum mumbles, pulling an item out of her tote bag. "You did well, Bog. I guess that leaves me to explain your clan heritage but that's after I pay my respects. Oh, and this is for you."

Bog grabs the cloth-wrapped item and feels a spark a curiosity chase the gloom. Plum's gifts were always exotic since the strange woman could never stay in one spot long. For longer than he could remember, Plum always came the day before his birthday and was always gone the next morning for a new adventure. Unwrapping the cloth, the odd shape becomes firmer until wood is revealed and one last move uncovers the whole object.

"Halfling," Bog gasps, staring at the carved image!

"You know her," Plum questions?

"Uh...well, kinda," Bog mutters. "It's just a story continued from the one Da told me growing up. Halfling is half-field folk and half-forest folk. She's thought to be the offspring of some unverified union or even the daughter of the forest king but the truth is..."

"Continue, Bog," Plum gently commands. "The truth is what?"

"She's cursed because of her love of both kingdoms and torn into halves of each," Bog answers lowly. "In her quest to restore the forest kingdom to its former glory, she leads a band of forest folk rebels against the field kingdom."

Bog squirms a little under Plum's sharp gaze, her own blue-eyes seeming to sparkle with stars, and he's reminded of his thoughts of her when he was a child. He'd known growing up that she wasn't really his aunt or any blood relative to either of his parents but the story went that she had done such a great thing for his parents that they had made her part of the family since she had none of her own. She had always been his aunt, though, and when he was little, he sometimes thought she was a fae because she always seemed to sparkle. Now, with her contemplating appearance, Bog can almost swear that she looks like she's surrounded by a blue light. A blink, however, reveals the white-haired woman the same as always and Bog mentally smacks himself for letting his imagination run away with him again.

"Hmm, maybe it isn't Loch that I need after all. I'm going to pay my respects, Bog. I'll see you in a little while," Plum remarks, heading out the back door and shutting it.

Bog watches his aunt walk toward the hawthorn before directing his attention back to the carving. It was exquisitely done and so lifelike, even down to the murderous expression. Bog chuckles, taking his new prize into the living room and setting it down on the mantle. The roaring fire warms him up as Bog studies his present. She was exactly like he dreamed of her and his heart pangs as he wishes she was real. Something scurrying across the floor directs his attention away and he looks around.

"Great! Just what I needed, a bloody mouse," Bog mutters, looking around his Da's chair.

Odd chattering, almost like tiny laughter, causes him to swiftly turn back toward the fireplace. His jaw drops at the thing sitting next to the carving. The small white furry creature, probably no bigger than his thumb, opens its long snout to laugh again as its long tail waves the tiny glowing pink bottle it's wrapped around. A tiny paw waves to the stunned man before uncorking the bottle and in a flash, it sprinkles some of the contents onto the carving before scurrying away fast.

"Puck! Get back here," the used-to-be carving screams!

Bog stares as the winged girl takes flight after the creature and barely moves out of the way as the creature jumps onto the lamp. He grabs the lamp before it crashes into the floor and sets it upright again before turning his attention back to the creature traveling fast across the couch. With a startled yell and the creepies running rampant through his body, Bog tries to stay still as the creature jumps onto him. The girl just misses the little thing and with another laugh, the dreadful sound of the bottle uncorking by Bog's ear rings out. Turning his head, Bog watches in horror as the contents are thrown toward him and then darkness takes over.

"Are you okay, Bog," a feminine voice rings out?

"How do I look," Bog grumbles?

Getting his bearings back after the small span of darkness, Bog sits up and looks around from his place on the floor. The surrounding area looks both the same and different and with dread, he looks up to the barely-smaller-than-him girl fluttering over him.

"What just happened, Halfling," Bog groans?

"Puck happened."