Algy was exceedingly tired, and felt that he could adventure no further that day. So he tucked himself under the massive roots of a fallen tree, high up the hillside in the thick of the ancient woodland. As he fell asleep he remembered a scary poem, but crossed his wings and hoped for the best:

          The gnarled boughs hand darkling down,
          And briers sweep my knees;
          The moon is low, like a gold lamp,
          Behind the twisted trees.

          O dark and still are the wet fern
          And trees where no birds nest;
          What heed have I for night or day
          Who ride a livelong quest?

          There is no cockcrow in the dark,
          No bleat from a far fold,
          When the Forest Folk begin to stir
          Under the starlight cold.

          Rend your wild hair, you elfin things,
          That peep from bush and tree;
          I know what strangling arms you reach
          Athwart the dusk to me.

          Twist your fierce lips, you false fair things,
          I know what dance you tread
          To what drear tune ‘neath the cold moon
          O’ nights wi’ the sheeted dead.

[Algy is quoting the poem The Enchanted Forest by the early 20th century English poet Cicely Fox Smith.]

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