Glorina
I woke gradually, becoming aware of sounds, birds, breezes through the leaves, the waterfall. And smells, the spicy smell of the leaves, and a fresh spring, damp odor. I lay there, taking it in, long before I was willing to open my eyes, and start moving.
I did, eventually, though. And sat up. I had not thought that the trunk would have been so comfortable, to put me asleep almost immediately. I stood and stretched, and tried to orient myself. I hoped Tolly hadn't gotten too bored waiting for me.
I frowned, as a trickle of . . . Memory? . . . Dream? Surfaced. Had Tolly been talking to someone? I shook my head. He wasn't near me. And there was no one here to talk to.
"Hello, Glorina," Tolly said, warmly, as I stepped out to the beach. He was just finishing setting up a picnic lunch on the table.
"I didn't know you brought lunch."
"I thought you might be hungry," he said, smiling down at me. "Even before your little nap."
"I don't know what came over me," I admitted. "I wasn't sleepy. It just kind of happened."
He waved that off. "Don't worry about it. The atmosphere in these woods can be a bit heady at times. Especially if you're not used to it." He looked down at the table. "Hope you're hungry."
"Oh, I am." I walked up to the table. "Did you make this?"
"Not this time," Tolly said. "Picked it up at the restaurant."
I wasn't really listening to him. Instead, I looked past him, my eyes widening, seeing something unusual attached to one of the trees. "What is that?"
Tolly turned, and saw what I was looking at. "Go and see."
I walked over to a tree and touched the out of place item. A wooden rose? Growing out of the tree? Apparently not, as it came off in my hand at the slightest touch. There was even a faint scent to it. Not exactly rose, but still a floral perfume scent.
"Did you put this here?" I said. "That was sweet of you!"
His amusement deepened. "'Twasn't me," he said gruffly. "Lots of odd things can happen in these woods."
"Like falling asleep unexpectedly?"
"Among other things," Tolly agreed.
"Do you think someone will want this back?" I asked. "How did they make it?" I looked closer at the flower. Individual petals, not a solid carved piece of wood.
"No one else will claim it," Tolly said. "It's yours if you want it."
"Thank you," I said, still sure that somehow Tolly had left it for me. I touched the petals lightly, and smiled. I wouldn't be able to keep it, of course, but I could appreciate it while I had it.
A sound like a pleased sigh went through the trees. How odd, I hadn't noticed a breeze.
That evening, I smiled as I put the wooden rose into a small vase Belinda had found for me. I didn't know when I had had such a good day. How kind of Tolly to give it to me.
I touched the petals. This was impossible. I didn't know how he had made it, or found it.
My smile fled. I wouldn't be able to keep it, of course. I glanced in the mirror, and put smile 17 on. Determination with optimism. I still had at least two months’ worth of work to do, and I would enjoy it while I could.
As the days went on, I found a few more paintings that seemed to be of Tolly, but after getting the same response to them as I had to the first, I gradually stopped showing them to him. After all, I reasoned to myself, he had to be right, those portraits couldn't possibly be him. Ancestors, maybe. Though . . . He never actually denied it.
One of the last ones I found of him, or someone who looked just like him, which had him clasping the shoulder of a much younger man. "Toler Lichtel, and Son," the label read. Funny how all these different men all had "Tol" and "Licht" in their names. But it wasn't possible. I looked at the younger man, but didn't see much of a resemblance.
Funny, I'd always thought of Tolly as a man alone, set apart. I shook my head. As if they were the same man, indeed. Still, I wondered about this young man, how long he had lived, who his mother was. Not that it mattered, of course. All the people involved had been dead for hundreds of years.
And then I found one I had absolutely no desire to show Tolly. It still looked like him, but with a hard cynical edge to his face, and frown lines in his forehead, and bitter pain lines carved around his mouth. "Bitter Tolly," I muttered as I saw him. Tolvert Talicht, the tag read.
I sat back and looked at it. It couldn't be Tolly, of course. Not unless a man could grow younger in—I verified the artist—seven to eight hundred years. Not unless a man could live that long, of course.
I shuddered, and put that portrait away, and tried to sit still until I stopped shaking. Bitter Tolly. I hoped I never would meet him.
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