It was the type of investigation that practically demanded to be done on a dark, starlit night.
But, as she made her way slowly though the nearly deserted pitch black tunnels carrying only a small torch, Harriet could not help but silently curse her need for appropriate atmosphere.
It had not been hard to find out in which direction this new magical item had made its appearance in the rock.
Since two hours ago a steady stream of young girl fraggles, in herds of two and three had been slowly dwindling down from the top of Goldengrass Hill.
The storyteller tried to block out each new burst of excited whispering she overheard as they each passed by, flashes of a time that seemed suddenly to be so far behind her now.
It was just research. She coached herself mentally.
Yes, she was the rocks' storyteller. It was her job to search out each and every detail of a new story that happened in the rock. This had nothing to do with a desperate pitiful last effort at love...
She stood up a little straighter, the very picture of a self assured fraggle on a mission of education, when suddenly the loud hooting of a large tree creature overhead made her shrink back into a nervous slump.
And yet maybe after all...
Around her the darkness and the flicker of torchlight played a game of uneven tag . Mist collected in pools, only to be pushed slowly by the heartbeat that was the continuous winds of the caves.
Try as she might to not listen to them, she still heard the whispered voices of the passing travelers.
Their many questions weaved together in slow steady somewhat unnerving beat that set the rhythm to words that began to surface in her mind.
"He didn't appear?" "Why won't he notice me?" "Maybe its how I do my hair?" "Will I get my first kiss before I'm twenty-three?" "Is it so wrong if I just tie him to a tree?" "Why am I so shy?" "What is he thinking?"
"Whywhywhy? What is that the old ones' say? What is love? What is love anyway?"
Their mostly all talking about other males they know..Funny, how something like the legend of a perfect one has that sort of effect. She thought, trying her best to appear like she was not singing a song worthy of a fraggle half her age under her breath to this shadow laced chorus.
Oh, it had been far too long since she sang songs from her own storyline for once.
Is love a flower or a tree in the wind?
A passing dream that wilts after an hour, or whips in the strongest wind?
The wind seemed to answer, mixing its spooky low hum for up on the hillside with the loud croaks of two inkspots that hopped along beside her, drawn to the sound of a well practiced fraggle singing voice.
I thought I knew the answer but now where do I began?
Is love a flower or a tree in the wind?
Does love have a vain bright color like the passing glory of the torn laced rose?
The wind grew stronger as the last of the young fraggle girls that came before the storyteller made a hasty, spinning, retreat downwards...
Or does it grow with the steady common green of a weeping willow do you suppose?
Moments later, along with a cloud of bright yellow and orange fall leaves, the inkspots' suction cup like webbed gave way from the stone floor, sending the small creatures spinning like living tumbleweeds.
I thought that my hearts hourglass of hope was an oak but every now and then...
There's a petal, a small petal...in the wind...
The last notes of the song fainted way as the figure of the fraggle, alone save for her own shadow, finally reached the top of the hill.
She placed her torch in the small new looking holder hanging from a stalactite, noting silently how the wind happened to have suddenly died down to a breeze that barely bent the flame.
The magic was heavy here, whatever, or whoever truly was the cause of it.
Harriet allowed herself a dry gulp, drinking in all the details of the place as she turned, writing them down on a fresh white page in her mind for future retelling.
The rock, in a all its real or unreal power did look a bit like a fraggle, but only just.
A small indent after the rounded point of the stalagmite suggested a head. Around its length, nearly a foot taller than her own, shallow lines, much too neat to be craved by hundreds of years of dripping water alone, looked like the hem of a cloak. A small rock to one side rose up to meet the later nearly like the length of a tail at a certain angle.
But it was the base that the stone rested on the made the storyteller's heart suddenly jump into her throat: It was real after all!
The wide circle of cracks that was the universal symbol for magic among all races of fraggle rock was a wonderful thing to see. After all, even the most learned of the wizards hardly used it anymore, even in drawings of the Solemn Mark of the Fraggle where it had once made up the marks belly, traditionally.
The circle with its intricate weaves like the lines of a spiderfly web had been outlined many times over with the sticks of chalk nearby, each new layer of hue accompanied by a stick of intense placed in shallow holes around the outermost rim.
For once, in all her ten years as a storyteller, Harriet had lost her place in wonder.
It's research. It's only research..You can just walk away now and fill in the missing details with artistic license later.
No one would be the wiser. You could make him a monster, that's more exciting than a ghost, everyone wants to hear a monster story again...
She bit down on her mouth sharply, shaking her head once to clear it.
No, someone would be the wiser. She would, and that was one audience she can never send away complaining of a headache.
She reached for a piece of pink chalk, turning it over a couple of times in her hand nervously.
It was just a magic circle..what trouble could possibility come of invoking one (very small) magic circle?
For ten minutes the hillside was filled with nothing but the slow scratch of chalk on stone and the breezes' mumbled conversation with a handful of sleepy crickets.
"There now!" The fraggle remarked at last to herself, sitting back to admire her handwork as she wiped a pink dusted hand across her brow.
The bright cheerful chalk color stood against the drab gray surrounding the pattern, picking up the tiny amount of light off the dying embers from the once strong torch fire.
Alright, a magic circle was one thing, but enhanced incense? The oldest symbol of fraggle love?
Maybe Merri was right, maybe I really am too old for silly made up romantic stories like this...
But...oh...what if? Just what if it was true?
I just can't let this chance go by, not like all the other chances..all those many years...