The Morks of Mistmoor – Chapter 7 – The Lantern Trees of Whisperwood – Part 3

More about The Morks of Mistmoor – Chapter 7 – The Lantern Trees of Whisperwood – Part 3

Morksik looked up at the lonely silver lantern, its fragile light trembling high above the ancient branch like the last star before sunrise. For a long moment none of them spoke. The countless golden lanterns surrounding it continued their gentle chiming, yet the fading silver light remained almost silent, flickering weaker with every passing heartbeat. Borstel swallowed quietly. “There has to be something we can do.” Elder Lurim nodded slowly. “There is. But the answer has never been found inside this forest.” He turned toward the enormous trunk of the oldest Lantern Tree and carefully placed one weathered paw upon its shimmering bark. At once, the countless carved names covering its surface began to glow with a warm golden light. One after another they shimmered gently before fading again, until only a single empty space remained. It was no larger than Morksik's paw, yet it seemed to draw every eye toward it. “That place has been empty for longer than anyone remembers,” Lurim whispered. “A Mork once lived whose kindness touched many lives, yet time slowly carried every trace of his name away. His deeds remained... but the one who had performed them was forgotten.” Borstel frowned. “How can someone remember the good things but forget who did them?” Lurim smiled sadly. “It happens more often than you might think. Sometimes people keep the gift and lose the name of the one who gave it.” Morksik remained silent. Those words settled deeply inside him. He thought of the Bridge of Bonewood and the shadows that had fed upon forgotten fears. Now another kind of forgetting stood before him—not cruel, not frightening, but quietly lonely. Above them the silver lantern flickered again. A tiny spark drifted from it before vanishing into the morning air. Borstel instinctively reached into his backpack. “I don't know if this helps,” he muttered while searching among his carefully collected treasures. “Whenever something seems hopeless, I usually try sharing food.” Morksik smiled. “That worked surprisingly well on the bridge.” “Exactly.” After a moment Borstel pulled out a tiny acorn wrapped in a neatly folded leaf. “I've carried this since spring,” he said. “I kept saving it for a special day.” He walked to the foot of the ancient tree and gently placed the acorn upon one of its great roots. “I don't know who you were,” he said quietly while looking toward the fading lantern, “but if you helped others, then someone should still bring you a gift.” Nothing happened. The forest remained completely still. Borstel lowered his head. “I was afraid of that.” Then Morksik slowly stepped forward. He removed the smooth walking staff he had carried ever since leaving his village and leaned it carefully against the great tree. “My grandmother once told me,” he began softly, “that names are important because they help us find each other.