There is a place of mossy, ancient oaks who rub shoulders with evergreen fir in the sweet mist, with bluebells and clover carpeting and vines and thick berry-bushes. There are great, carved boulders, statues covered with moss, and arms and armour. There are wooden spaces to hide away, little caves made not by stone but by venerable, living, cherished wood. Wolves and bear and deer roam, and only those humans who seek to harm are in danger. Others shall be turned away. If you are not human, if you are of the forest or of the forest fae, thou shalt find thyself in the forest. Come further.

In the cavelets there are good books, well-bound and illuminated, and heavy blankets that do not itch or irritate. If you are very still, very quiet, you can watch small lights dancing. If you are very good, they might come and dance with you. You shall not be kept here against your will. Come as you are.

Sit down by a still, circular pool of water. Breathe as it ripples. Exist, very slowly. Here you are free from the cawing-demands of time and clocks.

Deeper, and weave to the left; the oaks turn into conifers. Snow brushes the tips of pine-needles. Everything is holding its breath, awaiting the whirling victory of the Wild Hunt in the sky. It is content. The red berries are edible, and no thick thorns will cut open your hands; the stains on the snow are berry-juice. If a fawn comes to you and asks for a berry, give it to them. No kindness goes unrepaid.