Verdana Lux Datlesk was in a hurry. She wasn’t running — she was far too dignified for that, and still out of breath from arguing with a branch that refused to bear fruit. But her stride was quick, decisive, and full of that particular energy that only woke in her when the world decided to be annoying.
Just moments ago she had been standing in her garden, eyes narrowed at one specific branch. The branch looked innocent, but Verdana knew better. Either it was misbehaving, or refusing to fruit, or — worst of all — talking back. And just as she was about to deliver her signature “I told you so,” something sounded from the forest that no witch should ever hear.
The Soundwalker burst out like a storm without wind. Dirt, leaves, and tiny stones flew from its hooves, and its sound chamber snapped its lid in frantic rhythm. It had done that only twice before:
when the Redduns began their migration, or when a meteorite fell.
Verdana stared at it with the expression of someone hoping the world was joking. “That can’t be right. Are you sure?” The Soundwalker tapped its lid twice.
“Redduns?” One tap.
“A falling stone?” One tap.
“Then what is it—” she began, but the Soundwalker stepped far too close. Instinctively she ducked behind a tree to protect her shins. Anyone who had ever seen an agitated Soundwalker knew its hooves had opinions of their own.
“Fine, fine,” she muttered and headed into the forest. The Soundwalker trotted behind her, its long legs creating a strange rhythm that unnerved Verdana more than usual.
She rounded a small boulder, slid down a slope covered in needles, and hopped over a narrow stream. The spring was close now. The air grew colder, the light softer, and the mist thicker — as if the forest knew something was happening.
“What could be worse?” she sighed. “What could possibly be worse than a Reddun migration?”
The Soundwalker clicked its lid nervously.
“The water will tell me,” Verdana said, quickening her pace. “The water always knows.”
She knelt by the spring and brushed away a few fallen leaves from the surface. Then she inhaled and plunged both hands into the icy water.
The water recoiled — as if startled — and formed a hollow around her hands. Verdana snorted in annoyance, then forced herself to calm down. She couldn’t afford to offend the water.
“Alright. Tell me what’s going on…”
The water wrapped around her hands gently. And because it didn’t want to offend Verdana either, it even warmed itself by a few degrees. Verdana closed her eyes.
Then she suddenly gasped.
The Soundwalker snapped its lid, spun around, and bolted deeper into the forest.
And behind it echoed Verdana’s voice:
“I told them!”
Bipilon’s Note
“When water flinches away from Verdana, that’s bad. When it then warms up to make peace with her, that’s worse. And when a Soundwalker runs off before she gets to say ‘I told them,’ it means only one thing: the world has decided to do something stupid again.”