Naming of the Two Paths
“Names carry memory, child. And memory carries truth.” - Animal Cracker Grandma, Journey Through the Shadows.
Morning broke soft over the ridge. The mist that had veiled the Valley now pulled back, revealing more than moonlight had allowed. The Circle glowed faintly below, the River of Veinlight shimmered silver in the distance, and far to one side the dark mouth of the Blackwater Well yawned. On the other, a stretch of blackened earth still scarred the land: the Ashen Hollow.
The adults spoke quietly among themselves — Sonder, Martha Marie, and Animal Cracker Grandma. Their eyes followed the two routes that led down into the Valley.
“If we pass the Blackwater Well, the cries may shake the littles,” Martha Marie said softly.
“And if we cross the Ashen Hollow, the land itself may sap their hope,” Grandma countered, apron tied firm across her waist.
Sonder said nothing, but his eyes traced both paths as though he could already feel their weight.
It was then that one of the littles, a girl with a mop of tangled hair and a tomboy’s stance, tilted her head. She had only just joined the company — quick-eyed, curious, stubborn as river-stone. Her name was Anne.
She blurted the question the others had only wondered:
“Why do they have such weird names?”
The littles giggled nervously. Anne didn’t flinch.
Animal Cracker Grandma sighed, smoothed her apron, and bent down to meet Anne’s eyes. “Names carry memory, child. And memory carries truth.” She rose, walked into the SafeTree on Sonder’s back, and from within came mutters and shuffling, and, at last, a cry of relief, “A-ha! Found it.”. When she returned, she settled in and set a book whose cover was darkened, its corners singed, on her lap, the morning light catching her glasses.
“Let me tell you how the Well and the Hollow came by their names.”
Anne, proud of herself, scooted forward. The littles hushed. And in the growing light of morning, Grandma began:
The Spider, the Well, and the Burned Tree
Once, in a land half-swallowed by shadow, there lived a tree who gave and gave until she was nothing but a stump.
Her name was Totu. She had once shaded the boy, fed him fruit, covered him from the storm. But when the fire came, she burned herself out to keep him alive. And now she stood in the middle of a swamp, blackened, hollow, unable to fall yet unable to grow.
Beneath that same land, deep in a cracked well, lived a mother spider named Onyx. She had loved a shining one named Aslan, loved him so fiercely she wrapped him in her threads and dripped venom into him — not to kill, oh no, but to keep him hers forever.
She did not mean to turn her love to poison, but her fear was stronger than her faith. And so he slept, half-alive, in her web at the bottom of the well. And Onyx screamed and screamed, because her clutching could never quiet her fear of losing him.
Above ground, the boy wandered. He heard the stump whisper: “I saved you once, but I cannot save you again.”
And he heard the well thunder with Onyx’s cries: “Stay with me, or I will unravel!”
He wanted to run from both, but the land was theirs as much as his.
So he sat by the stump, and he sat by the well, and he waited.
And what he learned is this:
Love that burns itself out leaves only ashes, unless it allows itself to be reborn.
Love that clutches turns sweet threads to poison, unless it dares to release.
Some say Totu is still waiting for her spark, still listening for the boy who will remember she was once alive.
Others say Onyx is still weeping, still holding the beloved in her venom, not yet ready to let go.
And some say the boy —the one with scars — will one day return to the stump and the well, and when he does, something new will rise from the ashes and the threads.
And so the story goes, but who is to say what to make of the tales from lands half in shadow, half in light?
At the Ridge
Animal Cracker Grandma closed the book. The littles leaned into each other, unusually quiet. Even Anne, so bold a moment before, sat with her chin in her hands, staring down at the Valley.
The Blackwater Well gaped dark as ever. The Ashen Hollow lay silent, its soil gray and brittle.
“Not such weird names after all,” Anne muttered.
The adults said nothing. But each of them knew: whichever way they chose to descend, the shadows would demand their reckoning.
And so they sat together a while longer, holding the story, before the first step was taken.