The moss maiden moves silently through the forest, between ancient cedars that stand like sentinels.
She is looking for a place that only she knows, where the emerald moss whispers a particular song.
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic... --Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, From Introduction to Evangeline
Her steps are light as she glides across the densely carpeted forest floor.
It is her task to gather the softest moss, tiny filaments of striking green, that sing the forest's oldest song, and weave with them a gift for each new faerie babe.
As she works she sings the forest's song, and whispers ancient faerie blessings, weaving words and delicate mossy tendrils into a resplendent blanket.
This is the oldest magic, for while a faerie babe sleeps beneath the mossy blanket lulled by the forest's ancient song, she dreams the story of the world, as she rocks in her cradle.
This is how it's aways been, the moss maiden knows.
