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"Are you sure it was this tree?" Jareth Vasalen called to his friend.

"Yes, I'm positive," Larr Ovaak called up.

Jareth sighed, blowing a stray strand of yellow hair out of blue eyes. Thirteen-year-old muscles quivering with the effort, he kept climbing.

Larr had spotted the blessing cloth—or, at least, what had certainly looked like a blessing cloth; no one had ever actually seen such a thing—dancing in the wind. It had led the two boys a merry chase, away from chores and family and other mundane things, and now Larr was convinced that it had gotten lodged in the topmost branches of this ancient oak tree.

"Think about it, Jareth!" Larr had exclaimed. "I'll let you share it, since we both saw it. Everyone'll be jealous!"

But of course, it was Larr who would keep the cloth, and Jareth who was expected to make the tricky climb on branches bare and slick with ice. Jareth didn't really mind; he loved this old oak. Often he would sit for hours, cradled in its large branches, looking out over the farmland and watching it turn from green to gold to brown and finally, as now, swathed in winter's cold blanket of white. He sometimes felt as if this ancient forest was more his home than the house he shared with his elderly parents, both of whom seemed exasperated by his frequent need to climb to the topmost limbs and look out over the world.

But though he had climbed the tree more times than he could count, Jareth had never ventured quite this high before. Up here, the branches were thinner, and seemed reluctant to bear his weight. Once he slipped, and his breath caught in his throat as he grabbed on to another limb. After a moment he regained his footing and continued to climb. If the prize was what they thought it was, it would be well worth it.

The people of Lamal believed the blessing cloths were woven by the mysterious, seldom-glimpsed people called the taaskali. Dark of skin, hair and eye—or so the songs said—the taaskali had unusual skills, even perhaps magic, and were believed to have a special connection to the gods who lived on top of the mountains. The taaskali were nomads, their entire reason for being to follow and protect the herds of the equally mysterious and seldom-glimpsed animals called selvas, whose milk bestowed health and long life.

The songs weren't exactly clear on what the selvas looked like. Jareth imagined them as white deer with golden horns and hooves. Cloaks woven from their thick white wool were believed to turn arrows. All taaskali clothing was made from selva wool, including, and especially, the blessing cloths. Jareth remembered the huskaa of Two Lakes telling the tale beside the fire when he visited not so long ago.

"And each season," he had said to his rapt audience, "the selva settle in their grazing fields. That's when taaskali take that season's magic and weave it into the cloths. They sing and play as the fabric is woven, infusing it with their hopes, and dreams, and blessings for the selva, themselves, and indeed all the people of Lamal. Then they release them, and the blessings fly all over the land."

Jareth was more than half-certain that the cloth tangled in the tree was no more magical than the fabric that comprised his own clothing, but he was almost there now, and he was not about to descend without it.

"Can you see it?"

Jareth turned his head carefully, making sure he had a good grip on the branches. "No, I don't think—wait."

It looked just like any other scrap of cloth, but then his hand closed on it and he gasped. Slim, strong fingers, rough from working in the fields and forest since childhood, had never before touched something this soft. It was…he couldn't think of any words to describe it.

Gently he untangled it with one hand. It came loose easily, and now he saw that it was more than simply white—it seemed to have the soft glow of the moon about it. Slowly, his heart racing, Jareth brought it to his face and inhaled its scent deeply.

Summer. This one had been woven in summer. He smelled the fragrance of soft breezes, flowers, good clean earth, all manner of fresh and growing things. It was unbelievable—this overwhelming scent of summer in the middle of winter.

They were real. The blessing cloths were real. That meant that the selva were real, and the taaskali, and—

"Did you find it?"

Jareth started from his reverie. He stared at the cloth. He couldn't possibly bring this down and give it to Larr, who would shove it in his pouch along with his knife, interesting bits of bone and dried meats and whatever else his friend felt like carrying. He couldn't have this brought out and showed around, an object to elevate himself and Larr in the eyes of their friends. This cloth was more important than that. It had a task—to bring blessings everywhere across Lamal. It was never made to be crumpled into a boy's pouch like a skipping stone.

Jareth made his decision. He shifted his grip slightly for better purchase. When a breeze stirred his long blond hair, Jareth threw the piece of cloth as far up as he could. The zephyr gladly took it, and Jareth could have sworn he heard the cloth…singing. He watched as it danced away and vanished from sight.

"I'm coming down," he called to his friend, not answering the question. Jareth was not looking forward to the inevitable confrontation but was secure in the knowledge that he had made the right decision. The thought of that beautiful blessing cloth crumpled and dirty made him feel slightly sick.

Copyright © 2005 by Christie Golden