“I always did like writing in second person, which may be one of the most obnoxious things a writer can do to his readers. You thought you knew the way. There was a path, broad and brightly lit at the first, seducing you through tangled thickets and along narrowing alleys between the boles until there was nothing left but the ache of your feet and a cathedral-green darkness all around you. The forest had become thick and treacherous, wolves in every shadow, brigands hidden in each tree. Behind? ...You saw nothing. No evidence of your passage. No backward path. It was as if you had been born in this place, child of leaf and branch. Before? Everything, leading nowhere. Just the forest’s endless sheltering shadow. It was as if you had come to die in this place, a rough beast who would slouch no further. Then you saw the light, flickering among the branches, a star descending. Stories came to your mind, fairies of old, time stretched to taffy Under the Hill. You had never believed in them. The light had wings, making a promise of the spark.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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