season in an appropriate fashion, even if the rest of them did not care about holidays and such things.
"Do you know where I can get a paper and a pencil?"
He struggled into his boots. "Now, what would you want them things for?"
"I want to make a calendar."
"A calendar? Why, you would need a store of paper and any number of pencils to keep a calendar
out here. I'll teach you how to watch the sun in the sky and take notice of the living things. You'll know
time enough by them."
"But what if I want to draw a picture or write someone a note?"
Luchóg zipped up his jacket. "Write? To whom? Most of us have forgot-ten how to write entirely,
and those that haven't, didn't learn in the first place. It is better to have your say and not be putting down
in more or less a perma-nent way what you're thinking or feeling. That way lies danger, little trea-sure."
"But I do like to draw pictures."
We started across the ring, where Smaolach and Igel stood like two tall trees, conferring. Because
Luchóg was the smallest of us all, he had trouble keeping up with me. Bouncing along at my side, he
continued his disserta-tion.
"So, you're an artist, are ye? No pencil and paper? Do you know that the artists of old made their
own paper and pens? Out of animal skin and bird feathers. And ink from soot and spit. They did, and
further back still, they scratched on stones. I'll teach you how to leave your mark, and get you that paper
if you want, but in due time."
When we reached the leader, Igel clapped me on the shoulder and said, "You've earned my trust,
Aniday. Listen and heed these two."
Luchóg, Smaolach, and I set off into the woods, and I looked back to wave goodbye. The other
faeries sat together in bunches, huddled against the cold, and let the snow coat them, mad and exposed
stoics.
I was thrilled at being out of that camp, but my companions did their best to control my curiosity.
They let me stumble about on the trails for a time before my clumsiness flushed a covey of doves from
their rest. The birds exploded into the air, all pipes and feathers. Smaolach put a finger to his lips, and I
took the hint. Copying their movements, I became nearly as graceful, and we walked so quietly that I
could hear the snowfall over the sound of our footsteps. Silence has its own allure and grace, heightening
all the senses, espe-cially hearing. A twig would snap in the distance and instantly Smaolach and Luchóg
would cock their heads in the direction of the sound and identify its cause. They showed me the hidden
things silence revealed: a pheasant craning its neck to spy on us from a thicket, a crow hopping from
branch to branch, a raccoon snoring in its den. Before the daylight completely faded, we tramped
through the wet grounds to the mucky bank of the river. Along the water's edge ice crystals grew, and
listening closely, we heard the crack of freezing. A single duck paddled further down the river, and each
snowflake hissed as it hit the water's surface. The sunlight faded like a whisper and vanished.
"Listen"—Smaolach held his breath—"to this."
At once, the snow changed over to sleet, which ticked against the fallen leaves and rocks and
dripping branches, a miniature symphony of the natural world. We walked away from the river and took
cover in a grove of evergreens. Ice encased each of the needles in a clear jacket. Luchóg pulled out a
leather pouch hanging from a cord around his neck, first producing a tiny paper and then a fat pinch of
dried and brown grasslike fibers that looked like tobacco. With deft fingers and a quick lick, he rolled a
thin cigarette. From another section of the pouch, he extracted several wooden matches, counted them in
his palm, and returned all but one to the waterproof compartment. His thumbnail struck the match,
causing it to burst into flame, which Luchóg ap-plied to the end of the cigarette. Smaolach had dug a
hole deep enough to reach a layer of dry needles and cones. Carefully taking the burning match from his
friend's fingertips, he set it in the bowl, and in short order we had a fire to toast our palms and fingertips.
Luchóg passed the cigarette to Smaolach, who took a deep drag and held the smoke inside his mouth
for a long time. When he exhaled at last, the effect was as sudden and percussive as the punch-line to a
joke.
"Give the boy a puff," Smaolach suggested.
"I don't know how to smoke."
"Do what I do," said Luchóg through clenched teeth. "But whatever you do, don't tell Igel about
this. Don't tell anyone at all."
I took a drag on the glowing cigarette and began coughing and sputter-ing from the smoke. They
giggled and kept on laughing well after the last scrap had been inhaled. The air beneath the evergreen