Fian finished his final chord and announced a break. He bowed respectfully to his audience and walked over to the bar counter.
His throat was parched from the long ballad about the “Echo of the Night,” so he ordered a mug of pine mead. As the mug sat before him, he looked into it thoughtfully and whispered, “Well then, here’s to this evening. And to all of you here in the tavern, my friends.”
Beside him, a familiar voice whispered, “Such a heavy heart, little bard? Yet your story is a success. You have mastered your craft—I grant you that.” Without looking up, Fian replied, “I hope you aren’t too disappointed that I chose a story worth telling rather than singing praises to your beauty.”
A gentle paw rested on his shoulder, and now he finally looked at her. He could have sworn she was smiling, somehow, from deep within herself. “No, not at all, little bard—quite the opposite. Anyone else in this situation would have done something of that sort, or at least sung of the glorious wolves. But you opened a dark chapter—one that has nothing to do with you. I am truly curious to see how it continues.” He answered softly, “It is simply one of those stories worth telling and preserving.”
She, the white wolf, whispered softly into his ear, “But for all your talent, do not forget that a path in the dark forest must be walked. Whether we wish it or not, we shall have to meet again when night falls.”
With those words, she returned to her corner and rested her head upon her paws. He felt her cool gaze fixed solely on him and his stories by the fireside that evening. He sighed and took another sip of his pine mead, then carefully retuned his lute. Then he rose and walked to the fireplace to continue telling the story of the Boraida, his head held high.
He was alone. Completely alone.
When his last scraps of food vanished, he tried rationing again — in vain. They disappeared mercilessly, and with them, his hope. At the end of his strength, he sank to his knees and cried out: “Death? So, here you are again! Last time, you didn’t get me!” With these words, he collapsed — exhausted, parched from hunger and thirst.
He awoke early in the morning, as always, shaken by a gruesome nightmare. A crash, a thunderous boom — something struck him, and the blacksmith’s face flashed before his eyes again and again. He crouched beneath a tree, trembling, waiting for sunrise. “Death, lay your merciful hand upon me and release me!” he cried. He felt his sanity slipping.
But nothing happened.
Or… did it?
He could have sworn he heard a voice. He listened. And indeed — someone was coming along the path. A woman. Singing. She must have come from somewhere — perhaps a village. He could ask her. So he rose and followed her voice. Finally, in a shallow valley, she came toward him.
She danced and sang.
When she saw Boraida, she ran to him joyfully and greeted him warmly. “Welcome, stranger…” she giggled. “Are you lost?” “No… well… I don’t know,” Boraida began. He had expected many things, but not this. “Well then, come with me for a while,” she suggested cheerfully.
“I’d be glad to,” said Boraida. He was simply relieved to meet another living being after so long. “What is your name?” She smiled brightly. “I am Anna.” They walked together along the path, back through the valley Boraida had just come from. After a while, he asked:
“May I ask where we are going?”
Anna giggled softly. “To the blacksmith! He is the only one for miles, and he promised me something very special.” Boraida stopped abruptly. Even if they managed the journey — the blacksmith was dead. He had killed him. “Anna…” he began carefully, “don’t you think it’s a bit far, just to visit?” Anna looked at him with innocent surprise and pointed to the gentle hill ahead. “Why? It’s right up there, just off the path.”
As he followed her gaze, he heard it:
CLANG… CLANG… CLANG‑CLANG…
He had wandered for days until his supplies ran out — and now… No. It had to be another smithy. “Are you coming?” she asked, pulling him along by the hand. He let himself be led — partly out of curiosity, partly because he did not know what else to do. No one had seen him. He could appear at any moment as an innocent traveler.
He hid the empty bundle he had stolen from the smith behind a tree and followed Anna.
They reached the hill and pushed through the undergrowth. After a few meters, they found a narrow path winding toward the smithy. Anna giggled. “Many people never find this little path and end up forcing their way through the thicket.”
Boraida felt hot and cold by turns — he knew this place. Surely he could not have covered so little ground in all those days. Finally, they rounded a bend — and there he stood.
The blacksmith.
Anna released Boraida’s hand and ran joyfully toward him. “Hello, Anna!” the smith called, embracing her warmly. Then he looked up and met Boraida’s eyes. “Who is your friend?” “Just a lost traveler,” Anna said. The smith turned back to her. “Aren’t we all?” She giggled. “I think he’s in a great hurry to get somewhere…” The smith put his arm around her and led her toward the hut. “Come. Let us eat. I am starving.”
Boraida, however, had lost all appetite. What in all the world was happening here? Hours passed. Eventually the smith returned to his workbench and began to hammer again. Boraida sat a little apart, waiting for Anna.
She did not come.
“Smith?” he asked. “Where is Anna?” The smith replied without looking up: “There is no one here.” Boraida stood, anger rising. “That cannot be. I came here with Anna.” The smith set down his tools and looked him straight in the eye. “Are you calling me a liar?”
The gaze struck Boraida like a blow, deep into his soul. He held the stare. “Who are you?”
The smith studied him for a moment, then turned away and placed iron into the embers. “Only the smith. Nothing more, nothing less.” “The smith?” Boraida’s anger grew. “The smith of what?” The smith did not answer, as though the question had never been asked. Boraida stepped closer. “I asked a question. A polite answer would be appropriate. The smith of what?”
He seized the blacksmith by the shoulder. The smith whirled around and fixed him with an icy stare. “Only the smith of what you see.” “And…” Boraida forced out, “what do I see?”
The smith laughed. “A smithy. What else?” Boraida struck him in the face so hard that the smith fell and spat blood. “So — once more. The smith of what? I want answers.”
The smith rose and looked at him expectantly. “Or what?”
Instead of answering, the smith gripped Boraida’s throat with his massive hands and squeezed the air from him. “You do not truly believe history repeats itself, do you?” he whispered, grinning. Boraida felt his throat tighten, his lungs burn — he gasped for air. In panic, he grabbed his knife and hurled it. It struck the blacksmith’s leg, but the man only laughed darkly.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones…” In his death throes, Boraida kicked and thrashed, but the blacksmith’s iron hands held him like a vise, mercilessly squeezing the life from him. A dark red mist clouded his vision. The last thing he heard was the blacksmith’s bewildered laughter.
Then — darkness. Silence. Emptiness.
He nudged her gently. “Anna?” She stretched and rubbed her eyes. “Good morning!” she chirped cheerfully. He thought for a moment. He was still alive — so the morning could not be entirely bad. But how had he come here? “Did you bring me here?” She looked at him, puzzled. “No, we came from over there and lay down to sleep here.” Then she giggled. “And you were talking in your sleep. It was funny — the things you said.”
He considered this. It explained much. If everything he had experienced had been a dream… then that meant…
He looked for the stab wounds he had suffered in those dreams. They were gone. Not a single mark. So it had all been a dream after all?
He looked around cautiously. The reddish morning sun broke through the branches; birds chirped, a bee drifted past. He opened his provisions bag. It was still full — more than enough. And he was hungry, as if he had not eaten for days. Well, he thought, it must have been imagination. A very vivid dream.
“Are you hungry, Anna?” he asked as he prepared breakfast. “Oh yes,” she said, “I could devour an entire piglet. But bread will do.” She giggled. He wondered what they were doing here; somehow he had forgotten. Surely she would know. So he asked, cautiously, with a crooked smile:
“And what shall we do after breakfast?”
“Oh…” she said, throwing herself back into the soft forest floor, “why don’t we stay here a while and rest? We haven’t been on the move since yesterday. And the blacksmith isn’t going anywhere.” She stretched contentedly and giggled. He smiled — yet in his throat he felt only a silent scream.
After breakfast, they walked together up the gentle slope — the very hill he had seen so often in his dreams. Only this time, the forest was not a lifeless, icy, eternal graveyard; it was teeming with life. Rabbits played by the roadside, birds sang in competition, and the tapping of a woodpecker joined in cheerfully.
Boraida did not know where to look first; there was so much to see. Anna danced beside him up the path, delighted by every creature she encountered. What a sunny disposition, he thought — he had never known anything like it. Suddenly, she stopped and knelt down. She was speaking to someone. “Hello, Master Bumblebee,” she said softly. “How are you today?” She giggled.
Boraida leaned over her shoulder — and indeed, a bumblebee sat upon a buttercup, buzzing gently. “No, truly?” Anna exclaimed. “And that is what you did?” She giggled again. “But don’t you think that’s a little unfair?” Boraida nudged her. “What… ah… what are you doing, Anna?” “Oh,” she said lightly, “just listening to the latest gossip. You wouldn’t believe what happened to his third cousin. Remarkable…!” “Uh… yes… well…” Boraida began, “don’t you think there are more important things we ought to do?”
She rose and looked at him with her leaden‑gray eyes. “Like what?” she asked curiously. “Well, I’m only going to the blacksmith because you want to go to the blacksmith.” “But I thought you wanted to…” He faltered. He could not find the words — after all, he had only dreamed it. And that meant Anna was not actually on her way to the blacksmith. If only he could remember what he had intended to do…
“What important thing do you have to do?” she pressed. “You haven’t told me anything!”
He thought he saw a glint in her eyes — as though she had found a place in his pride she could twist with delight. “Well…” he said helplessly, “it’s a sort of secret mission. I cannot simply speak of it.” She took his hand and pulled him along. “Well then, off we go, Master Keeper of Secrets!” He walked on in silence.
CLANG… CLANG… CLANG‑CLANG… Hiss…
Ominous sounds from the forge echoed through the forest. The closer they came, the quieter the world grew. It was as if nature itself kept a respectful distance from this place. Anna pulled Boraida relentlessly into the icy stillness. He let himself be drawn along. “Come now — or are you frightened?” she trilled cheerfully. He sighed. His only thought was to get this encounter over with and finally… Yes — finally what? Perhaps this forge was the only thing left to him now.
Suddenly, they stood before a fork in the path. Mist settled over the land as if from nowhere, and time seemed to stand still. Only he, Anna, and the accursed smithy remained. “Well then, wanderer!” Anna cried, pulling him into the undergrowth. Thorns scratched his heels, and he stumbled more than once. And then — they stood before the forge.
And there he stood — the blacksmith.
But the sight of him made Boraida’s blood run cold. One eye was red, his neck bore marks of strangulation, and his leg was bandaged — from a stab wound. He looked at his two guests and said nothing. He simply watched. Finally, Anna broke the silence with her cheerful voice: “I found him again — the lost wanderer. Isn’t that wonderful?” The smith nodded. “Yes. Dreams find everything.”
Anna giggled. “Do you think he’ll get lost again?”
The smith stared at Boraida with his blood‑red eye and shrugged. “We shall see.” Then he turned and began to forge once more.
CLANG… CLANG… CLANG‑CLANG… Hiss…
“Smith?” Boraida asked. The blacksmith raised a hand. “One moment. I am at a critical point.” Anna released Boraida’s hand and ran to the smith. He held up a smooth sheet of metal, and Anna asked: “Is it finished?” The smith nodded. “Let us eat.” He put his arm around Anna, and together they walked toward the hut.
Boraida remained alone.
He looked around. The smooth sheet of metal still lay upon the anvil. Curious, he approached and picked it up. Strange lines and figures shimmered upon it — yet he could not decipher them. And still, they felt familiar. Fascinated, he studied the lines.
“Yes,” said a voice behind him, “this is for you, boy…”
Boraida flinched — he had not heard the blacksmith return. “Where is Anna?” he asked. “Everywhere and nowhere,” the blacksmith replied. “Did you not recognize her?” “You said dreams find everything… Is she a dream?”
“She, you, I… does it matter whose dream it is? You are here.” “How did I get here?” “Like anyone who comes here when he no longer knows where to go.” “How many times have I been here?” “Does it matter?” Boraida frowned. “Not really,” he admitted. “But where do I come from? Am I dead?” “No,” said the blacksmith. “You are not dead. Then again — what is death, if one has not lived, or does not know where his life is?”
“I only want to know who I am — and how to return home.” “Do you truly want your old life back?” “That is why I am here, isn’t it? My old life died somehow, and I did not know where to go.” “I do not know why you are here,” said the blacksmith. “But you are here. That is a fact.”
Boraida looked at the metal sheet — fine lines formed upon it, glowing in brilliant colors. “I am holding my old life in my hand, am I not? Is it better than the new path?”The blacksmith shrugged. “It is a new path. You may become anything you wish. Your dreams live. Or you may return to where you came from.”
“How did I get here?”
“You did not know where else to go. Everyone comes to me eventually.” “And who are you, blacksmith?” Instead of answering, the smith pressed a small tin into his hand. “This is for you. It contains all the answers you need. A charm for your future.”
Boraida opened the tin — and saw himself in the mirror. He looked at his reflection for a long time before making a decision. He placed the metal sheet into the fire and watched as the lines glowed red — and vanished.
Then he said:
“I am a wanderer who has lost his way…” The blacksmith nodded. “Aren’t we all? What do you seek, wanderer?” Boraida thought long and deeply. At last he said:
“A new life.”
The blacksmith clapped him on the shoulder. “Let us eat first. I am starving…”
They ate in silence. Then the blacksmith asked: “Where does your journey lead now?” Boraida laid the knife upon the table and smiled. “To the mountains. They say that upon the highest peak, one may touch the stars…”
Fian lowered his voice. “And therefore, the Echo of the Night is cruel, but not evil, and if you strand at this place, your hope is true – there is always a light in the dark, but there is always a tribut … ” He ended with a last chord of his willow lute and bowed his head. “And if you like my Furry way of Folk, I am just a happy bard walking all alone in the dark.”
He put aside his lute and returned to the bar to drink his pine mead. He had played enough for the day; another bard had already taken over and was singing a song in honor of the wolves in the high mountains.
She stood up, joined him, and gently touched his forearm. “Thank you for this lovely evening, little bard.”
He replied, “I would offer to buy you a mug of mead…” “Well, perhaps the little bard might surprise you?” she interrupted.
So he ordered a second mug of pine mead for her, and they stood quietly side by side for a while. Then she spoke softly: “What shall we toast to, little bard?” He rested his elbow on the table to prop his head up on his paw.
Then, using his other paw, he picked up his mug and said with a slightly ironic smile, “How about ‘to things yet to come’?” She took the mug and clinked it softly against his. She smiled—her expression warm beneath her ice-blue eyes—as she said, “Little bard, to things yet to come.”
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