TWT-010
Barista: Julius Mendoza
Date: Feb-4-2020
Receipt: TWT-010
Subject: Witches
The sky shifted while we slept. We woke beneath a soft amethyst haze.
No sun, no moon. Just a large empty blanket of color and shifting light. Yet morning found us in this in-between. We’ve only walked an hour from our campsite and we’ve reached it.
The Navel of the World.
It crests the tallest hill we’ve seen yet. A hill that rises like a cathedral built from loam and grass. And at its summit stands the Sacred Tree. Taller than any skyscraper I’ve ever seen. Its roots reach down into the bones of the Isle. Its canopy swallows clouds that never move.
Surrounding the Tree is a sprawl of canvas and silk. A camp, or something like one. Nomadic Fairfolk, by the look of it. Bright tents, windchimes that chime without wind, hooves where there should be heels. They haven’t approached us yet. But they’ve seen us.
If the Goddess is here, she’ll be within the Tree. Not beneath. Not beside. Within.
The others are stirring. I think Jean-Marc can feel it too. Julia hasn’t said a word since we crested the ridge. Her mark is brighter than I’ve seen since the funeral. Almost silver.
That’s all.
Julius.