A bittersweet wind blew through the valley, wafting memories so clear that the slumbering dale dwellers stretched their hands toward loved ones long gone and accomplishments far past. It was oft like this in dreary Midwinter, thought Charwen. The young sleep, lacking memories to tickle and haunt, while the old toss fitfully in their beds. But I'm not so old, she continued. At least, I wasn't until little Aron came and left --- too soon, too soon.

He was an odd little boy. He appeared in the village one brilliant Autumnhain morning, his face as bright and cheery as the autumn sun. A thorough search of the surrounding countryside uncovered no adult responsible for the sprite. When asked about his parents and where he was from, he shrugged. When asked how he had found his way to Brindledale, he shrugged again.

The Social Assistance Guild quickly stepped in, officious as always. When they approached Charwen, whose second bedroom was empty now that her son was off to university, she was wary. When they pulled out the mountain of paperwork for her to sign, documents that gave them the right to search her financial, medical, cathedral and Amah-knows-what-other records, she laughed them off her porch. The boy watched her over his shoulder as the Assistance chairwoman dragged him off, her birdlike fingers firmly gripping his upper arm.

They were back, of course. They came twice in the following day, each time carrying their suitcase of paperwork with them. There were not many empty beds in Brindledale, at least not for a young boy with no past. As the golden sun settled toward her bed, they returned a final time. With the boy. Without the paperwork. “Here,” sniffed Ingerie Pandlegate, the head of Assistance. “But we'll be watching you, paperwork or no paperwork.” She stomped off down the front path, her back stiff with the indignation unique to bureaucrats whose rules and regulations are scorned.

Charwen and the little boy gazed at one another thoughtfully. “Well,” said Charwen, “I guess that's that. I do believe we won that round.”

The young boy grinned. “I do believe we did,” he agreed.

Charwen was startled. “I didn't know you could speak,” she said. A slow smile spread across her face. “So I'm not the only one to have my own way, am I?” The young boy smiled back.

“What is your name, young one?” she asked.

“Aron,” he replied.

“And where are you from?”

But he just shrugged.

The days passed. Charwen insisted, against Aron's protests, that he attend the local Grammerie.

“But I won't be here that long,” he objected.

“Why, where will you be going?” asked Charwen.

“I don't know, but I'm not allowed to stay long in one village. I wish I could stay here. I like it here with you,” he continued wistfully.

“What do you mean, you're not allowed? Who doesn't allow you?” demanded Charwen.

But Aron just shrugged, and walked off with dejected shoulders toward the Grammerie.

Aron's mind was quick, and his wit was sharp. He continued to be mute when anyone else approached, however. Charwen discovered this during his second week in the village, when the Grammerie educator visited.

“I don't believe it's worthwhile to keep sending him, Mistress Willareed,” said Edwina Brownstone. “I've tried every technique that I know, but I doubt that he's capable of learning,” she began.

“Aron? He's quite bright,” protested Charwen.

“How can you tell?” continued Mistress Brownstone. “He can't speak or write. How do you communicate with him?”

“What do you mean, he can't speak? He speaks perfectly fine. In fact, he has an amazing vocabulary,” she said. “Aron? Come here, please.”

Aron obediently walked into the kitchen. “Aron, Mistress Brownstone says you aren't speaking in class. Is that true?” Aron looked at her with vacant eyes. “Aron? Please answer me, Aron.” Aron continued to look at her blankly, and shrugged his shoulders.

Charwen sighed. “You may go play,” she said. Aron continued to stand mutely. “Aron? I said you may go play. Shoo!” She gestured with her hands. Aron smiled and left the room.

“It's a charade, a ruse,” said Charwen. “He really can speak. I wonder why he doesn't want to talk in front of people?”

Mistress Brownstone frowned at Charwen. “Charwen, I've tested him. I'm not sure he has sufficient intelligence for speech. He's severely retarded, you know.”

“He is not!” cried Charwen. “You haven't heard him –“

Mistress Brownstone cut her off. “Charwen, if you continue to express delusional ideas about the boy, I will have to report it to Assistance, and they may well come take him. I think we should end our conversation now, and I don't think he should return to the Grammerie.”

So Charwen and Aron spent Yule and Midwinter together in her home, laughing and talking, baking and cleaning. She insisted that he work on his reading and writing with her, although his abilities were far beyond his years. “How old are you, anyway?” asked Charwen. “You look about seven,” she continued. Aron, of course, just shrugged.

One morning she awoke, and smelled change in the air. “What is it?” she asked the morning mist. “What is it?” she asked the icy puddles. She did not ask Aron.

The season of Beltanrite passed sweetly. Aron began affectionate rituals, hugging Charwen and kissing her cheeks morning and evening. They walked deep into the woodlands, spying out the red crocury flowers, who peeked their heads through the dwindling snows. They spied out deer and raccoons and squirrels, who in turn watched them. To her wonder, Aron was often able to approach the woodland animals, who bowed their heads to his touch, rubbing against him like barnyard cats.

He fashioned small animals for her from twigs and cones. He helped her gather the forest cones and extract the healing seeds within. One evening, as he fiddled with the finishing touches of a large twig stag, he asked quietly, “Where is your mate?”

“I don't know,” Charwen answered. “He walked into the woods one day and didn't return. I never found trace of him. I assume he fell into a hidden ravine, and his body lies somewhere unfound.”

“But, didn't you search every inch of the woods for miles and miles?” persisted Aron.

“Yes, of course. But those are dense woods, with many unknown places,” she replied.

Aron was silent for a bit. Then, eyes downcast, he murmured, “Perhaps he's not dead after all. Perhaps he's only stuck on a strange path, one that he wandered onto unexpectedly.”

Aron lapsed into silence again, then the words came tumbling out. “I bet he wishes he could return to you, but the path somehow changes with every passing, and he can't find his way. He loves you and thinks of you as he treads that odd road, hoping against hope it will some day bring him home. He wishes -- ” He stopped abruptly and put his hands over his mouth.

Charwen stared at him. “Are you telling me that you have seen my mate? Have you talked with him? Where is this path?”

Aron shrugged. “I've said too much already,” he concluded.

Charwen was silent. Then she asked quietly, “You're on the strange path, too, aren't you? That's why you can't stay in one place too long. It drags you along as you search for your home, doesn't it?”

Aron replied wistfully, “It's been so long, I'm not sure I even know what my home looks like. Will I recognize it even if I stumble across it?”

He was gone the next morning, the magnificent twig stag sitting on her table as a final gift. She cried. It was the first time she'd cried in a long, long time. Then she settled back into her life as it was before Aron arrived.

But through the Beltanrite planting, the long arid Summerhaught days, and back into golden Autumnhain whence it had all started, she thought of Aron. And she thought of her mate, lost and searching for a way home.

“I'm not so old,” she cried out to the memory wind. “And I've lingered far too long.” She rose from her bed and went to the closet, searching for her wanderer's pack. That mysterious path held Aron, and it held her mate. And Amah-willing, soon it would hold her, too.

---(c) 2006 Cherie Renae - may not be reproduced without permission