Earlier this week I read a wonderful little article by that talked about Dryads. I encourage you to read it. It can be found here - "The Gods of the Nations are Demons," but Must all the Dryads be?

As someone who joyfully suffers from frequent bouts of waldeinsamkeit and who is writing a fantasy novel about a form of fae that live in the forests I hike through, I could not escape the imagery or the flood of inspiration the article prompted in me. After a day or two of the poem broke free from the forests of my mind. I hope you enjoy it.

Before the axe had found the wood
The Dryad stood where oak trees stood
Appointed by Eternal Word
To tend the grove and guard the bird
The council placed her at the root
To coax the blossom into fruit

But men chose axes, stone and steel
To wrought and shape to sins appeal
Dead things made of wood and stone 
Where demons came to make their home
To blind and claim the rites of men
and lead them to their doom again 
and as time passed the gnawing blades
became Machines to strip the glades

She felt the chainsaw on her bones
She cried her grief in forest moans
The council heard her sorrows plea
As men cut down those sacred trees
The council King looked down and knew
Redemptions plan was tree bound too

For from the tree now stained and red
There flows redemption for the dead
and for the glade and forest too
that font of grace for me and you
it will undo those dreadful deeds
we’ve done to each other and the trees

When all the axes finally cease
And Redeemer’s hands bring lasting peace
The Dryads step from bark and bough
And walk with men as once and now
For in the age that is to come
The garden forest shall then become 
a place where God and man can see
The dryad safe back in her tree

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Artwork - Blasted Tree by Jasper Francis Cropsey

The more you say a humble prayer
the more you see God everywhere
in the fields and in the trees
in song of birds and buzz of bees
in thunderstorms and May days flowers
in baby’s breath, life’s final hours
but can you see Him in the dirt
in evil deeds designed to hurt
or in the bombs we drop for peace
or usury’s chains and renter lease
where is this God I used to see
In all things, who set us free
When culture turns to death and worse
have we been left to Adam’s curse?

I look at what’s beyond my door
the unborn deaths and foreign wars
and wonder if Moloch or Baal
has Western lands under their thrall
or is just our own desires
that cast us smiling into the fire
or towards the void of meaningless doom
streamed for free into techno-tombs
that own our hands lest they be folded
and our heads bowed and spirits molded
by that blessed humble prayer
that helps you see God everywhere.

Cover Art: St. Jerome Praying

I bet you’ve heard the tale
But have you heard it true
The Battle of Farrow Mael 
Which I will tell to you
The tale which you have heard
Is surely somewhat right
But not every singing bird
Was there that fateful night

And here I boldly stand
With scars as gruesome proof
This tale that you will hear
By the gods, it is the truth

The Marked Day as you well know 
was Elagos the 5th.
Dollan Banners heard the call 
as Sur Khûl crested the blackened cliffs

Each army took up camp
On the plains of Farrow Mael
Soon to be a bloody swamp
A fly ridden, haunted hell

My company was all Named Men
Of number Twenty-three
But lo before all was done
All that remained was me.

As the footman held the front
And the archers blocked the flanks
We saw the thing rise from the dust 
And shatter through our ranks

Perhaps it was the tentacles
Or scales as black as hell
But many turned and ran in fright
The others nobly fell

The mages of Sur Khûl
Had summoned something vile
What it did boys and men
Still fills my mouth with bile

I knew my only hope
Was simply just to flee 
But Named Men do not run, 
Not one or twenty three.

Gareth Korrin Blackhand 
Was the first to fall
Then twin brothers Jut and Kash
Were torn to pieces small

Shenbeth tried and failed
To find a weakness yet
Terish, Vhon and Grimbol
All met a gruesome death

Then we sadly learned 
The fiend had darker powers
For it bent and fed upon them
And grew as it devoured

And as it grew and grew
Young Timot cut a slice
Across the great fiends back
But drew blood no more than twice

Timot died with honor
Which is more than most could say
Rhaenol cried and charged on in
And was covered in the spray

From its tail it now could spew
An acrid wretched rain
Which melts and burns both flesh and steel
Causing endless pain

This unholy fetid slime
Claimed seven other men
It melted off their faces 
So they will not be Named again

Great Doren rallied forth
And gave us all a chance
He pinned the fiend to the ground
With his Holy Blessed lance

But he too fell beneath the claws 
of the horrid fiend
But his sacrifice was not in vain
The creature writhed and screamed

We final six rushed in
And slashed and stabbed and fought
By the time the beast went still
The other five we naught

Kiren, Shallax, Bartok 
Zemo and Gar-Din
I buried all twenty two
That last of the Named Men

And then I fled from that place
No more war for me
I’ll tell the tale and drink their Names
Till of their memory I am free

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Rests upon the Godly soul
Hears their prayer and makes them whole
And the too wicked will find His face
Set against them and their ways

Their memory He’ll wiped from earth
All their deeds of little worth
The righteous cry and He
Saves them from their misery

Near the broken is the Lord
Healing hearts with His gentle word
Those discouraged find Him there
Even in the depths of despair

There are many (here on Substack and in my non-digital relationships) who have recently shared prayer requests with me, requests which come from places of despair, darkness, a sense of being lost, anger, sorrow etc. As I prayed through these requests today Psalm 34:14-18 came to me. I read them over and over and this poem came to me. I pray that those who need it read it and that it is a blessing to them, a beacon in the darkness a reminder that the Lord is good and those who pursue Him, and call to Him, will be saved.

Grace and peace to you all.

He slept in a cave on some dead dragon’s gold.

With greed in his heart he gave in to the deep,

And woke as a dragon, transformed in his sleep.

The bracelet he’d slid on his arm in delight

Now bit into his foreleg and he woke with great fright.

The hoard that he’d hungered for cut to the bone—

For dragons hoard treasure, but always alone.

He clawed at his scales, tried to Scrubb himself clean,

To peel back the dragon and crawl out from between

The cracks in his hide that split him to his core

He scraped and he scraped, but there always was more.

For under each scale lay a deeper one still,

No Scrubbing could free him by effort or will.

The self cannot save what the self has become;

The harder he tried, the more surely undone.

Then came the great Lion, who said with such care,

“You must let me undress you—now hold still, and bear.”

The very first cut went so deep and so true

It tore past the dragon and pierced his heart through.

It hurt beyond hurting, yet there was life in the pain,

Like drawing a thorn out, like sun after rain.

The Lion tore off what no striving could do,

Then plunged him in water and bathed him anew.

He rose from the water, remade and made whole,

Not scrubbed by his striving but saved to the soul.

The cure is no prize you can earn, hoard, or weigh—

It’s given, beloved; received in the Way.

Only the Lion can tear off the hide,

Of the dragons we nurture in greed and in pride.

He clothes us in Christ, makes the old nature cease,

And sends us to labor in His coming peace.

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Art - The Dragon’s Cave, 1917 by Georg Janny,

We stare at the screens in the hush of the dawn,
And counting likes and follows before we have yawned.
The followers tallied, the comments double-checked,
A bed made of metrics on which our souls get wrecked.

No mountain can shelter the hoard that we keep,
It’s public and ranked and hollow and cheap.
Your neighbor’s pile glitters just next to your own,
And envy curls in like the wyrm near full grown.

The vilest of evils is harder to name,
For people, not jewels, are prize in this game.
We harvest attention and call it our due,
And count human faces as coins that we’ll use.

But Thorin and Co. offer wisdom for free,
If you hear their tale then perhaps you might see
The mountains of treasure were clouding his sight,
He fell into the darkness and away from the light.

So close down the mountain and go find your door,
Tend to your neighbor, and hunger no more
For hoards that compare and for reach that decays,
The merrier world is in face-to-face days.

The cure sings to us: Your true name is known,
Before the algorithm, before metrics have grown.
You are not the number on the dashboard displayed,
You are the beloved, and love is not weighed.

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When Odin saw the Cross and Man

He understood the broader plan

And that he had a part to play

As lesser one, to point the way.

Horus too, saw on the tree

The God-man who is King of Kings.

Lugh and Brigid did attend

And saw man’s sin come to an end.

Shiva and Varuna too

Saw from afar and then they knew.

Zeus, Enki, Thor and heavenly host,

Knew Father, Son and Holy Ghost

Were to be honored to be praised

gods one and all bowed down amazed.

All laid down their myth formed crowns

And left to stand on Higher ground.

Then man turned, from them to Christ

And blessed the earth with sacred rites

The True faith spread on Roman roads

Saving man from sin’s great load

But then we turned to our own wits

Producing the enlightened splits

And man designed philosophies

Making gods anew for you and me.

To facts and science we now bow

Or another man-made sacred cow

These of course built a new hell

Gulags, Pol Pot, Death’s Carousel

And My Lai, Darfur, Babi Yar

Plus bombs and drones launched from afar

Perhaps the old gods should stop by

To shake the world and grab our eyes

To help us once again to see

The Son of God upon the tree

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The elves are swift and jolly

They dance on ground

Where toadstools round

Grow underneath the holly

Holly dolly dither

When moon is just a sliver

They feast and play

Through night and day

Then have a merry dinner

Pinner panner puff

Though finding them is tough

Your giant size

They’ll surely prize

So guard your precious stuff

Bluffer duffer dandy

They’re deft and quick and handy

They’ll take your things

Like gold or rings

Or all your pockets candy

At that God forsaken square

Can you not see its sirenic glow

Promises much yet drags you low

To baser things of flesh and death

And lays upon your purchased head

Not the Crown of Gold He bought

But Chains of Iron cruelly wrought

You were set free for so much more

The Garden grand to help restore

All that in His life you’d gain

Machine in hand will surely drain

So put it down and go outside

See His work, and Glory bright

In the woods and in the fields

In flowers bright and harvest yields

And also in your neighbors face

Your ancient prayers and ancient place

These too pour forth His healing power

Slaying hungers that devour

All creations blessed gifts

Sowing lies and tearing rifts

‘Tween God and man, and man and foe

Lest to the grave you staring go

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To meet the fairy and the sprite

Down in the caverns of the earth

Sits noble King of all the Dwerf

But deeper still the Crystal Queen

In beauty rules from throne unseen

Her rule and reign comes from above

A gift bequeathed from Lamb and Dove

So if you tumble that far down

Forget you not the thorny crown

She may grant a mighty quest

That calls from you your very best

Slay a dragon, save a maid

In gold and fame you will be paid

Then off you’ll set with parting gift

A glowing sword or boots of swift

Adventure calls to noble men

Who wander far through field and fen

Seeking glory for God above

By dragon slain and maidens love

Yet greater still is victory won

Beneath the Cross of God’s own Son

But heed this truth, young errant knight

No blade you bear can win the fight

That rages in the hidden heart

Where pride and fear tear souls apart

No quest the Crystal Queen can give

Can teach a dying man to live

No Dwerven gold of nor fairy art

Can mend a broken wretch’s heart

So lean upon the blood stained tree

And offer prayers from bended knee

For to the humble, not the proud

Is given grace and life unbound.

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it lets you see and answer all

no more worry doubt or shame

granting clout and gifting fame

It used to be for wiser hands

but now belongs to every man

Even those who lack the smarts

to discern what lies within their hearts

this is why the forbidden tree

was not for you and not for me

But now that the crystal ball is here

Man has his own mind to fear

For if he isn’t trained in heart

The hollow sphere will death impart.

Digital trees aligned in artificial glen.

No wind here stirs, nor root is grown,

Each plant and seed is machine sown.

A world of buzzing mirrored glass,

With artificial fruit and grass.

There lustful cherries tempt the eye,

And apples gleam with envy’s lie.

Mangos of greed, so round, so bright,

Yet empty hearts consume their blight.

Pears of pride rise in rows,

Their hollow sweetness we all know.

Plums of wrath flare red and sharp,

And grapes of sloth hang still, and dark.

Figs of gluttony plump and vain,

Feed neither flesh nor soul’s domain.

No seed shall sprout, no sap shall flow,

No blessing comes from man-made grove.

Each fruit a lie, each tree a snare,

Designed to trap you unaware.

The orchard hums with wires and code,

A paradise of machine node.

Man lingers here, drawn by desire,

Finding nothing, and after fire.

But once there was a garden true,

Where rivers ran and light shone through.

By Word twas made and Spirit hovered,

Adam to tame and Eve to mother.

But now the hands of man do make

A hollow Eden, made of bait.

So turn away from false delight,

From crystal fruit and endless night.

The living Tree alone sustains,

The risen King enthroned now reigns.

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These are the opening words of the eleventh chapter of Hebrews. The small group my family participates in on Tuesdays has been working through this book of the Bible for months. We move slowly and often only cover a verse or two at a time. The discussions are edifying, humbling, vulnerable. Our group is comprised of a wide range of people, who have pasts that include addiction, loss, heartbreak, and healing and of course a continued movement into living life as a faithful Christian.

Last night, feeling that we had been moving a little to slowly we took a big bite and read, prayed and discussed verses 8-19, which detail the story of Abraham and Sarah and how they lived faithfully.

By faith Abraham obeyed.

By faith he lived as a foreigner.

By faith Sarah received the power to conceive.

By faith Abraham offered Isaac.

As we discussed these examples of faithfulness one of our group sought for an answer to a very common question.

This question comes from a heart that is yearning for LIFE. To live and act faithfully out of a love and desire to serve the King, to put sin and the old flesh away, pressing on toward the prize that is hoped for. It is a question I believe most Christians ask.

As we discussed it seemed that a principle came to the surface. A principle that Christian’s could use as a lens by which they could in courage and hope, step faithfully toward Christ and in service of His Kingdom. As we looked back over the previous heroes of the faith mentioned in the chapter we see Abel, Enoch and Noah and we see a pattern begin to emerge.

Faithful steps into what God is calling us to is more often than not. Inconvenient. Abel - Give your best as an offering. Inconvenient. Noah - Stopping your life and build a giant boat. Inconvenient. Enoch, walked with God in a time when there was no Law, no Prophets, and the world around him was steeped in Bronze Age pagan practices that were not just grotesque by our standards but were sickeningly idolatrous. Resisting the culture around you is incredibly inconvenient. Abraham continue this. Leaving Ur a major city in the ancient world and lived the remainder of his life in tents.

Would I be willing to be so inconvenienced?

In each case The Principle of the Inconvenient can be seen as a signpost that something is a part of the faithful path. If something is personally inconvenient and requires loving self sacrifice. Pay attention and lean in.

The next piece of the lens is a concept found in the third verse of the chapter.

“we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible.”

Here I think we see a foundational principle for looking at each of the stories in this chapter. I would call this the Principle of the Invisible. What is Seen comes from that Which is Unseen. Noah, built without having ever seen rain. Abraham left Ur, a major city, “And he went out, not knowing where he was going.” v8. Able trusted in the God that there would be future livestock. Again we see a pattern. Beyond things being inconvenient, the heroes of the faith are more often than not called to step into situations that they have never seen before or can not see the outcome of. And by this they participate in God’s life and work by making visible that which, when the first step was taken, was invisible.

How often do I fail to live faithfully because I demand to see the proof before taking action?

Step toward the invisible. I am reminded of the pivotal moment in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when Henry Walton Jones Junior, AKA Indy, must take a leap of faith onto a bridge that is “invisible”. A fun moment of movie magic that contains this “step”.

The third element of this lens is closely tied to the Principle of the Invisible. It is that many times faithful action demands belief in the impossible. Abraham was according to v12 “as good as dead” and Sarah was barren. Yet, the impossible occurred. So to we see that Abraham believed and acted from a position that God would raise Isaac from the dead. Something that again is “impossible”. It is worth remembering the words of Jesus in Matthew 19, “with God all things are possible.”

We discussed both the big and small kinds of impossibility. Often in our modern secular world, we have adopted ideas that many things are to small for God to take note of or engage in. Many things in modern life we no longer consider to be His responsibility or concern.

How often have I failed to cross the finish line in my own faithful walk by believing something to be impossible?

If we add in the Principle of the Impossible, we have a open door to step forward in faith toward what could be, we just have to let go of the idea that we determine what the limits of God are.

I hope this has given you something to consider as you ponder those questions.

• How do I know what God is calling me to do?

• How can I know if an impulse feeling or intuition is from God?

Consider these three principles and ask yourself prayerfully.

Is the calling Inconvenient?

Does it require you to let go of outcomes or of having full knowledge prior to acting?

Is that outcome something you consider impossible? Whether impossibly big or impossibly small?

Go and live faithfully.

And remember, I love you and God loves you.

Phillip Mainprize

A bit of me, a bit of you

What is this vile thing you ask

The Machine we built for every task

It makes us things and stuff we want

It plows the fields and leaves them gaunt

It plots the roads and builds us towers

Devours forests to send us power

For all our toys and trinkets too

But back to me and back to you

We built it and we made it thus

Ain’t no God, but in Machine we trust

So walk on by as it eats your neighbor

Another lost for cheaper labor

We turn the knobs and oil the gears

It grinds us down year after year

Some I hear are still free

They live in woods or by the seas

I also know it won’t be long

Till they get caught up with the throng

That places hope in man’s progress

A little slumber, a little rest

The Machine will expand a little more

Till it sits outside their door

Then they will see they’ve been missin

A robot girl designed for kissin

Or something else to keep them numb

A tap a swipe just use your thumb

The whole world can be brought to you

Just buy it now for a buck or two

So do not worry about the fields

The genetic crops have better yields

Just sit back while it eats

It only needs a little meat

Atop the mountain peak sublime,

A throne aglow in emerald green

In jasper and carnelian sheen.

The light streams down the paths of gold

To gates upheld by pearly globes.

From its base one looks and spies

Sapphire, Amethyst, Chrysolite—

Sardonyx, Topaz, Chrysoprase,

A gathering all cleansed by grace.

The crystal mountain with its throne

Waits for those whom Christ has known.

They travel here from every land

To see the nail-pierced feet and hands,

And kneel before the Son and King,

Then join the song the angels sing:

Holy, Holy, Holy! Worthy is the Lamb!

Lord of lords, God of gods, who is the great I AM.

Will you come to this holy place?

To see and know Him face to face?

The Way is there for each of us

To walk with pilgrims’ faithful trust.

At last we’ll cross the crystal sea

To dwell with Him eternally.

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Inzil and I broke through the canopy above Fellowship Forest and began to fly northeast. I looked down, despite my fear, and saw the house at the corner of Carver Road and Pammel Park Trail. The home and two outbuildings flitted by as the cool June breeze carried us onward. We turned northward toward Pammel State Park. I hiked there so many times in the past few years since moving to Madison County. Seeing it now from a literal bird’s eye view stole the breath from my lungs. Just beyond two fields with black earth showing signs of being recently tilled were waves upon waves in a sea of leaves. As we passed the fields that would soon produce the first buds of soy and corn, the tree-tides swelled and crashed in the wind. A battle of branches was underway. Emerald, granny-smith, and celandine green surged and fought to overtake and subdue a competing flood of olive, jade, and pickle.

The new Conservation Center came into view, and for a moment, I panicked. What if someone saw us? Would their existence be revealed? Of course, you know by now this fear is unfounded as the Children of the Leaf are all but invisible to us machine-minded moderns.

Charging across the parking lot as if he were a green knight atop a squirrel-shaped steed, Hanako darted out of the undergrowth and made a daring leap across the road. I lost sight of him once more beneath the leafy sea. Inzil and I, abird our Rokokwen, headed toward the bulk of the forest that would place us just south of Middle River Ford, which sits on the north end of the park.

The sprint to the finish line, if one could call it that, was surprisingly fun, and I would like to say that Inzil and I won, but the risky cut across the road bought Hanako the time he needed to arrive at the Nothlir before we did. We dove into the canopy and headed straight toward a mature and very tall sycamore tree, its upper branches glowing an Artemisian white in the sunlight. It would’ve been impressive at normal size, as sycamore trees can grow over a hundred feet tall, but being Mithren, I was speechless. How many times had I walked by these trees and taken them for granted, either staring at my phone or flipping through a field guide?

Hanako raced up the trunk as we careened through the quartz-like towers adorned broad leaves that waved like a castle’s banners. Inzil pointed and I spotted a large hole on the side of the tree. Doubtless something a hiker or camper would have considered the home of an owl or family of squinnies. This opening, however, revealed two more Lassakwen standing guard. Carapace and bark armor concealing the green of their skin. Spears within reach.

“Turu! Turu! Turu!” Hanako whooped. It is a sound I am sure you have heard if hiking is a hobby of yours, but you most likely dismissed it as an unseen bird. He had realized he would arrive at the tree-top gate first and thus win the race.

We landed on the branch nearest the gate just moments after Hanako arrived, the guards cheering him on. Inzil dismounted and then helped me safely down. She turned to the majestic raven and bid it farewell. Now for the second time two tiny, shocked faces looked at me. Twin pupils amid tie-dye fields dilated in disbelief. The guards stood speechless as Hanako sauntered up to them. His Rokokwen companion darting off on some other adventure.

“See, Elentirmo, I told you we would find something amazing today.”

The two guards gathered themselves and I approached. “Lelya” I said bowing and unintentionally giving them a second shock. As Inzil approached, Elentirmo recovered and stepped forward; his parakeet green skin glowing faintly under black and white carapace armor, most likely from a bald-faced hornet. His dual pupiled eyes, which gleamed in pools of metallic cherry and carmine, locked with Inzil’s. His tone was fiercely protective.

“Inzil, you brought him here?” She gave a curt nod as the tension rose. “This was a risk, you more than any know what could have happened. Alda was closer. That Nothlir would have accepted him as well.”

She looked at him with a slight dropping of the eyes and then a quick furrowing of her brow as if a moment of sorrow was quickly pushed aside by irritation. “Do you think I am unaware of this? Hanako sang the Aerlinn of Anduya before I could intervene.” Hanako glanced to avoid the accusatory eyes of the guards. “I have most of all suffered from its previous utterance. But” she quickly followed up not giving him time to rebuttal, “I also know the prophecy. While Hanako may have acted rashly, Ahto’s music will not be denied or altered. We are here now, and he is going to see Her. Alda has lost much recently and should not take on Mithren. Heledir’s hands are full.” The other guard stepped forward and whispered something in Elentirmo’s pointed ear. Elentirmo nodded.

A worry crept up in my throat. An unsettling feeling that whatever I just stumbled into was bigger than what I had first thought and not only because I was six inches tall.

“Lelya Mithren.” Said the other guard as he moved passed Elentirmo. “I am Fennatir, we welcome you to Silmóna. Please remove your shoes and we will escort you in.”

With boots and socks removed we stepped into the interior of the Sycamore tree. Both Elentirmo and Fennatir watched me closely

As my eyes adjusted to the subtle radiance of the interior of the tree, an audible gasp jumped out of my lungs. The interior of the Nothlir was breathtaking. What we call modern architecture would be considered beyond offensive to one who lived in this city. It glowed and hummed. Gleaming and luminous. Awash in the soft fairy fire tones of a variety of bioluminescent fungi. Vast spiraling staircases wound their way down into the depth of the tree. Bridges spanned its interior diameter, which grows wider the deeper you travel. I saw mushrooms I knew well, but they were more, more vibrant. The brilliant pink of a Rhodotus, commonly called the Wrinkled Peach, caught my eye; a long strip of the wall was a vast flush of brilliant mushrooms that seemed to buzz and hum rolling in a rhythmic pattern between lemon-yellow and orpiment-orange. Hanging platforms made of twigs, with guard rails adorned with acorn cap molding were suspended from root-rope and swayed gently as numerous green skinned Lassakwen sang together and worked these fields of fungi. Other pockets of myco-culture were present as well. Like a wall that was a living painting in a surreal museum.

The areas not covered in fungal farms were an endless collection of open chambers like the cells in a beehive. In many sat or stood more members of the Lassakwen community. Each time my eyes came to rest, I became captured by the astounding beauty of a place and its people that lived in harmony.

Hanako nudged me, bringing me back down to earth, and we continued down fungal staircase that spiraled. The top of mushroom caps felt reliable and welcoming to the soles of my now bare feet. I fought back the desire to stop and classify these mushrooms—to remember genus and species, resisting that nagging urge to photograph and catalog. For me every mushroom had become a Latin name, a GPS coordinate, a photo in an app. But here, descending these fungal stairs, the giddy excitement that my daughter and son are consumed by when they find a giant puffball bigger than my head came for me as well. I returned to the time when each fungi found was just... magic. How many times had I, taken moments of wonder and killed them with technique?

This gentle sting of conviction reminded me that I had a life, a family, hobbies, and an identity beyond this surreal place. Had done the same to them? To my children? No less than a month ago my son brought me a rock. With glee he presented it to me. I simply said, “Oh cool, limestone.” and returned to my activity. Not even noticing it deflated and devalued his discovery. What would happen to them if I never returned? Would they be better off? What story would they tell about me? What was my impact on their lives? A sense of melancholy mingled with wonder and shook me to my core. The beauty of this place forced me to ask myself what really, truly mattered, and had I treated it appropriately. Tears warmed my cheeks unsummoned.

We made it to a large landing, which would appear to those with no knowledge of Aerlinn to have been perfectly carved. On this sublimely smooth surface I was greeted with expressions of shock and awe by several more of these woodland folk, coupled with this I now began to see the subtle but noticeable difference in not only the hue, but the saturation, texture and brightness of their skin. Some of them, the taller and therefore older, seemed to shimmer or glow. Now, if you’re a grandparent or simply getting on in years, this will surely delight you:  aging for the Lassakwen means no wrinkles, no bent backs, no titanium hips, but, rather a continued increase in brightness and saturation and when returning to The Maker, for that is what natural death is for them, they simply begin to glow so brightly they rise up into the sky and blend in with the light of the sun. These elderly Lassakwen moved with the same grace and bounce as the shorter and darker green children or Lassanien.

Joyous greetings and hugs, which is their custom, followed us as we made our descent. Though some stood back cautiously, I did not perceive this as rudeness. Someone brought forward small pouches similar to a bota bag or wine skin and handed them to us. I do not know the material they were made of, as leather is made from livestock, which I would learn the Lassakwen do not own. But within each vessel was a liquid best described as an elixir. Seemingly made from herbs, honey and water, I found that this gave me a boost of energy just as the overwhelm and fatigue of this experience was beginning to set in. And more than this. I felt a tingle that flirted with a burning sensation flowing up my spine. My sore back from the fall vanished and strangely so did my beard. I had worked hard to grow what I felt was the beard of a wise man, and in an instant it vanished. I felt my face; the face of my youth without stubble or blemish returned to me. When would the wonders of this place cease?

We carried on and once past this large platform, and I was able to look down into the depth of the tree, and truly down to its roots. It was all very clear, even though by my estimate this would be around four hundred feet high if everything was scaled to normal human size, perhaps due to the elixir, or some unexplainable side effect of being brought down to Lassakwen size, but also due to a brilliant light emanating upward, its center point almost too bright to behold.

Subsequent trips up and down these stairs did wonders in helping me overcome my fear of heights. Seeing me beholding this, Hanako reached forward, placing a hand on my shoulder and pointing toward the bewilderingly bright light below.

“That’s Her.”

I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into the story I am working on. It is currently around 52,000 words long and details the experiences of a man who goes on a hike and finds the world changed—or rather, to find that he has. Now six inches tall, he’s been drawn into the world of the Lassakwen, the Children of the Leaf, who have lived since the first notes of Ahto’s music were sung.

These tiny forest folk shape the world through song, ride ravens and squirrels, and see what humans have long forgotten: that reality is not dead matter to be mastered, but living music to be joined.

But the Lassakwen are not safe. For three centuries, the Gorgol—twisted by fear and wrath into something monstrous—has hunted them from the shadows. And Raymond, a father and mushroom forager who’s spent his life reducing the world to data and taxonomy, must learn an older way of knowing and living if he’s to help them.

Or if he’s ever to go home.

Thanks for reading this. Remember, I love you, God loves you.

Phillip Mainprize

I see them marching in my dreams

Their banners black and red

They came from far beyond the hills

And then my father’s dead

My brothers too, despite their courage,

Found dirt their final home

I wonder if He heard their cries

The King on far off throne

My sisters rode to Sotë

To flee the crueler fate

Mother and I were taken thence

Thrown in the iron crate

Carried forth to Müland

To fetch a purse of gold

So long as we survived

The desert and the cold

Across the Vren of Möth

The carriages rolled on

My mouth felt swollen shut

The moisture drained and gone

Wind wielded blades of sand

By darkness and by day

Mother sang and held my hand

Until she went away

Two Canat or perhaps three

Is what I was sold for

A merchant smith from mountain deeps

Needed someone to scrub the floor

This I did at night

As the embers glowed and burned

The morning meal was given,

Only if it had been earned

He would call me Sūri

Though this isn’t my true name

The others he had bought

Were Yon, Admel and Fane

We swore to one another

To watch our whip worn backs

And share as each had need

Or where ever there was lack

Admel and Fane worked in the shop

And Yon the furnace tended

Our Master Findë, shaped the steel

On which the wars depended

We armed the men who sold us

Do we share their guilt?

Are we now a part of the beast

The tyrant’s hands have built?

The orders they have doubled

As summer winds arrive

Admel overheard a whisper

A foreign King now rides

If the banners seen are true

And rumors of losses too!

Do we risk the joy of hope?

That things could be made new?

Oh Mother, I hear the soldiers

Fighting on the walls

They say the Golden banners

have come for those who called

The cry of those in bondage

He hears no matter where

And will always come to set them free

From darkness and despair

Amid the joyful shouting

We stood along the way

The triumphant King rode by

Our true names we then could say

Findë knelt and begged for mercy

While other merchants fled

The King granted him pardon,

And offered cup and bread.

Müland lay abandoned

But to home we did not go

We joined the great King’s journey

Under the golden banners glow

For Findë we still worked

In the forge and furnace hot

But made we now, for the King,

Golden crowns for those He sought

From the seas of Rhûn to the Forodchel

We’ve welcomed all who see

That life under the banners glow

Is where one at last is free

No longer bound by chains of iron

Which man forever make

We serve the ever glowing one

That heals our every ache

My dreams are now full

Of song and dancing friends

I see my family there sometimes

Before my waking ends

Great joy is found in life

For those who serve the King

And even more they say

When after death we sing

EDIT: I have updated this poem to include original artwork sketched by .

Which, in my glee about distraction, I had overlooked. I have since noticed there are indeed moments of clarity. Usually, these occur when he is watching his children, yes, those little rodents, and they reach for his phone or nag him over and over to watch something on the screen. The worst is when they do this in public, as it makes him very self-aware and brings about a sense of social embarrassment. It also occurs when his wife asks him a question and has to repeat it three times with ever-increasing intensity to get his attention.

It is in these moments that a pang of conviction returns. A sense that something is wrong with what he is doing and the relationship he has formed with the device. I am trying hard to keep him from realizing that in these moments, he is losing something precious. And of course keep him from rightly understanding this conviction as a nudge from the Enemy.

You are right to point out that this is dangerous territory.

If he were to put the phone down and sit in silence, to confess (what a vile word that is) to the Enemy what’s happening, I would lose the ground I have gained over the past several months. The Enemy is ever ready and yearning for those moments when He can rush in with that obnoxious Grace and undo all of my hard work.

So here is what I will do. As soon as the conviction begins to rise, I will hit him with a barrage of justifications and do my best to keep at bay the truth that none of his miserable species are capable of justifying themselves.

Here are my whispers. Let me know if there are others you have found effective.

“Everyone’s on their phones. This is just how modern life works.”

“You need to stay informed. How else will you know what’s happening?”

“You’re not as bad as [insert someone else].”

“You can stop anytime you want. You’re in control.”

That last one is particularly effective. As long as he believes he’s in control, he won’t see that the phone controls him.

Then, if justification doesn’t work, I fire off a salvo of guilt:

I will direct his guilt toward something else—something he didn’t do today, someone he didn’t call, some spiritual discipline he neglected. Anything I can tie back to a negative label we have convinced him to adopt for himself. This, as you know, is most powerful. When we urge him to grasp and hold the authority to define himself, we gain the power to keep those other titles at bay, those which the Enemy gives freely to His sons and daughters.

Keep the guilt diffuse and generalized. Never let it focus sharply on the actual problem.

And if that doesn’t work, I pull out the tool you taught me at our last meeting. The digital detox as the solution

I let him think, “I should do a phone fast. I’ll go a week without it. That’ll fix everything.”

He tries. He fails within two days. And then a whisper of shame: “I can’t even go 24 hours without my phone. I’m hopeless.”

And in that shame, I will guide him to reach for... You guessed it, the phone. Which is so much easier now that his body and brain are wired for it. For comfort. For pride or lust or politically motivated self-righteousness. Whichever the algorithm offers up first.

It’s a beautifully closed loop, Malthus. Beautiful. I truly must thank you for helping me get my patient to this point.

Your ally in his Malevolent Service

Camazotz

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This is the ninth letter in my Screwtape style correspondence between two demons Camazotz and Malthus, who are sharing tactics on how to use smartphones as a means of breaking down their patients connection to God and others. Read the first one here - My Dear Malthus

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3. What Happened Next

The afternoon sunlight was dancing through the leaves and boughs of the oak tree as Inzil turned to Hanako, and said, “If we are to return to the Nothlir before nightfall, we cannot travel in this way. We need Rokokwen.” This is another word that does not translate well. On first hearing it I would have told you they said horses. But as with any language, the more time you spend with it the deeper its meaning can be understood. Rokokwen truly means Children of the Claw.

Hanako nodded, “I will summon them.” Gracefully turning on one heel he walked toward the trunk of the tree, leaned his face against the bark and began to sing. This was another one of those strange songs. A song that came from him, but that in its very words carried notes of the harp and lyre. It was warm and bright, like an invitation to a party and as he sang, a rosy floral smell filled the breeze. I don’t mind telling you that this music or perhaps I should say magic, which is a key part of Lassakwen life, cut through me and filled me with joy, hope and a growing sense of wonder. I would later get a chance to ask him about his summoning song. The lyrics were very different from my first attempt as you will see later in this story.

Friend with fur and sharpened eyes,
Friend who sees what hidden lies,
If you hear and wish to come,
I am here, the day’s begun.

Not to bind, and not to take,
But to share the path we make—
Tree to tree and stone to stream,
Will you join our traveling?

He finished the song and sat down with his back to the trunk of that grand and mighty oak. Sensing a second chance, I asked Inzil a question that for me was equal parts of hope and fear.

“So, I am Mithren and I don’t understand exactly what that means or how this is even possible. I am mostly convinced that this is either a dream or that I am having a psychological break from reality. Perhaps I am still unconscious. But I am worried about my family and that they will think I am dead or have abandoned them.” More panic threatened to flood in.

Inzil’s brilliantly purple dual-pupiled gaze locked onto mine, and an immediate relief flooded over me before she even spoke. “Ahto,” that is their word for The Maker, “has seen fit to have you not only see us, but to respond to Aerlinn.” She paused, “There is too much to explain, and it is Her task not mine. But trust for now that you are in the hands of The Maker, and he lets nothing slip from his hands once held.” I don’t know what came over me, but in that moment, I stepped forward, threw my arms around Inzil and cried. A feeling of immense joy and deliverance crashing over the panic, pulling it away with the tide. She placed a steady hand on my back, no doubt thinking this was incredibly awkward.

A shudder went through the branch that pulled me back to this newly revealed reality. I almost fell to my death at that very moment, overwhelmed by vertigo and saved only by Inzil’s quick reflexes. What startled me was the creature peering over her shoulder, looking at me with an intelligence I could not account for. It was a raven with a noble bearing. Black feathers shone with silvery sardonyx lines of white and grey. Embarrassed at my poor performance in managing myself at this size, I looked away and hoped this creature wasn’t judging me as unfit or as a piece of food. Pulling my attention away from the unwelcome thought of just how many animals might now consider me a meal was an incredibly loud “Cheap cheap reap reap cheap”. This chittering came darting forward through leaves and branches and heralded the arrival of a squirrel whose fur glowed like amber in candlelight. It arrived and began nuzzling against Hanako’s chest.

Hanako, with acrobatic agility, leapt onto its back, turned to Inzil and said, “Race you home!” and in a flurry of fur was racing from branch to branch toward the neighboring tree.

Inzil was astride the raven’s back, and I faltered, wrestling with seeing a raven and squirrel the size of a car, she extended her hand to me. Only one choice now. I took it and climbed aboard, or perhaps I should say “abird.” I wrapped my arms around her waist and squeezed my hands together. Like her brother, she smelled of a woody, resinous pine-tree aroma. She leaned back and said, “Do not let go.” I had no intention of doing that. Her next words were to the raven, “Khamu Kwendië Nothlir” which means, “Take us home.” A loud Kho Caw Kho Kaw erupted from the raven’s mouth and with a powerful flap of its wings we took flight, leaving the oak tree and my pack with all its now giant sized and useless tools behind.

The wings continue to beat with a pounding thwump thwump thwump as we swooped over and under branches toward the treetops. The flight out of the branches and into the sky overflowed with experiences similar to those had when a parent observes their young child’s firsts. First field full of fireflies, first s’more over a campfire, first snowman etc. We went up at sharp angles and dove down again, my belly floating as if on a roller coaster. Several nearby birds, a goldfinch and cardinal, joined the dance, though distinctly normal compared to the Rokokwen’s elegance and demeanor; they seemed to be answering a call to escort us up to the top branches of the canopy. This all blended into a dream-like experience. A dream from which you would never wish to wake up.

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I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into the story I am working on. It is currently around 52,000 words long and details the experiences of a man who goes on a hike and finds the world changed—or rather, to find that he has. Now six inches tall, he’s been drawn into a hidden layer of reality where the Lassakwen, the Children of the Leaf, have lived since the first notes of Ahto’s music were sung.

These tiny forest folk shape the world through song, ride ravens and squirrels, and see what humans have long forgotten: that reality is not dead matter to be mastered, but living music to be joined.

But the Lassakwen are not safe. For three centuries, the Gorgol—twisted by fear and wrath into something monstrous—has hunted them in the shadows. And Raymond, a father and mushroom forager who’s spent his life reducing the world to data and taxonomy, must learn an older way of knowing and living if he’s to help them.

Or if he’s ever to go home.

Thanks for reading this. Remember, I love you, God loves you.

Phillip Mainprize

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