Alice found the elf by accident, as she found most things: by tumbling into them. This time, it wasn’t a rabbit hole, but a fissure in the earth, hidden by a blanket of moss and the shade of a weeping willow. She landed with a soft thump on a bed of ferns, her gingham dress a bright splash of blue in the dim, green light.
A pair of very, very old eyes blinked at her from the shadows of a gnarled oak. They were the color of faded leaves, and the wrinkles around them were like the rings of a tree. “Well, bless me,” a voice rasped, like dry leaves scuttling across a stone path. “Another one.”
Alice, never one to be flustered for long, brushed a stray leaf from her nose. “Another what?” she asked, her head tilted to the side.
“Another child who has lost their way,” the elf said, emerging from the gloom. He was slight and stooped, with a beard the color of winter frost. His name, he told her, was Fle. “I’ve seen so many. They all come seeking something. A way home, a lost toy, a purpose they’ve misplaced.”
Alice considered this. “I’m not lost, exactly,” she said. “I know where I am. I’m in a sort of underground forest, and you are a very old elf.”
Fle chuckled, a sound like gravel rolling down a hill. “Ah, but you are. Lost in the way that all mortals are. You are looking for an adventure, aren’t you?”
Alice’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been watching the world for a very long time,” Fle said, settling himself on a mossy root. “And I’ve learned that the ones who fall into the quiet places are the ones who are looking for the loudest stories.” He gestured with a spindly finger to the world around them. “This place is full of them. The tales that have been forgotten. The songs that have been silenced.”
He told her a story of a talking mushroom that wept tears of light, and of a river that flowed with liquid dreams. He spoke of a queen who ruled over a kingdom of clouds, and a knight who wore armor made of moonlight. His words were like a spell, weaving pictures in the air, and Alice listened, her heart thrumming with the rhythm of his ancient tales.
“So, you see,” Fle said, when he had finished, “the world is not just a place to be. It is a place to be discovered. And sometimes, the most wonderful discoveries are found when you fall into the quiet places.”
Alice stood up, her blue dress a beacon in the twilight. “Thank you, Fle,” she said, her voice full of a new kind of wonder. “I think… I think I understand now. It’s not about finding my way back. It’s about finding my way forward.”
Fle smiled, a thousand years of wisdom in the gentle curve of his lips. “Precisely,” he said. And then, as quietly as he had appeared, he faded back into the shadows of the old oak, leaving Alice alone with the rustling ferns and the whispers of a thousand forgotten tales, ready to write her own.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 