Chapter 2 Finn Finn Feenbart and The Shadows That Could Dance

More about Chapter 2 Finn Finn Feenbart and The Shadows That Could Dance

Finn Feenbart wandered through the Dewwood early one morning, where the spiderwebs shimmered like silver harps and the trees murmured softly in their own language. His hair carried pollen from the previous night's dreams, and he hummed a quiet song he didn't quite know himself, as if a bird had placed it in his pocket by chance. The forest was peaceful, but Finn soon noticed something strange in the air, like a whispering behind him without footsteps. It wasn't frightening, more curious, as if someone were hiding a smile that might leap out at any moment. The trees stood closer together here, and their branches bent like arms eager to share secrets. Mist rose from the ground, but it wasn't ordinary mist—it shimmered slightly, as if tiny sparks were trapped within it. Finn stopped and held out his hand. The mist reacted instantly, swirling into a small ball and forming a face. A rather round, rather cheeky face. "Good morning!" said the mist.Finn blinked. "Oh. Good morning. I didn't know mist could talk." "Not often," the face replied. "Only when it's particularly curious. And I'm very curious. I'm Mist No. 47. The others are up by the river, busy with theater. Very dramatic, all I can tell you." Finn nodded, as if this were the most obvious explanation in the world. "Where does this path lead?" "Ah! That depends," said Mist No. 47, who now began twisting little mustaches out of himself. "If you continue, you'll find Whisperlight Meadow. There, the beetles dance at night and the shadows in the morning. But today... today is different. The shadows are dancing right now, and they have no one to play the music." A short pause. Then: “And you look like someone who hears music with their eyes.” Finn wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he liked the sound of the words. So he followed. The mist drifted ahead of him, constantly talking about things that were either very important or completely trivial; Finn couldn’t decide. When they reached the Whispering Light Meadow, Finn actually saw shadows dancing across the grass. Not gloomy, not ghostly—more like friendly silhouettes trying to learn to waltz but constantly mixing up the steps. “They can’t dance because they don’t have any sound,” explained Mist No. 47, sighing theatrically, as if he now belonged in the theater after all. “Without sound, there’s no swing. Without swing, just shuffling. And nobody likes a shuffling festival.” Finn smiled and sat down in the grass. He took a deep breath. The wind carried scents of wildflowers, old memories of children’s laughter, and the sound of flutes that no one played. He closed his eyes and let the melody that lay in his heart slowly emerge. No instrument, just his breath and the way he moved it. First it was a humming, then a soft melody, gentle as morning dew, yet so clear that even the fog fell silent. The shadows stood upright.