I felt the reeds brush along my forearms as I trudged, knee-high in mud, through the riparious avenue that was once the Beech-to-Oneka Canal. Briefly an artery of commerce, the canal was inevitably left at the mercy of nature as the railroad carved its way through the valley. Now this drained vein transports litter instead of barges, and I am its sole passenger - seeking the litter’s pilot.

Though it was still early in the afternoon, I was only reminded of the sun’s presence by the scattering mirages of light that danced to the rhythm of the canopy. The further I trudged, the scarcer these mirages became until they were a mere suggestion between the stone walls that now rose to either side of me. Lock 4. I climbed onto a stone rim along the base of the wall to my right and continued deeper into the ruins.

I could hear his snorting before I could see him, but it was not long before I was in the presence of the lock’s primary resident - Grimo of the Muck. He was reclined on a wooden lawn chair, long since considered too dilapidated for use, and his porcine snout and bloated jowls emerged from beneath the brim of the road cone he had converted in to a hat.

Grimo did not acknowledge my presence beyond lazily extending his arm and indicating downwards to the canal between us. The water was still and framed by colonies of algae. Like islands in a sea of decay, a collection of objects bobbed halfway above the surface. A dented metal can, a bent bicycle wheel, a bottle whose contents I would leave to mystery - all labeled with small price tags. Among the inventory I spotted my quarry, my prized dodgeball, once proudly displayed as a symbol of triumph now discolored and deflated. To Grimo, it may have only been worth $3, but to me it was priceless.

A light breeze whispered clean mountain air into the wizard’s study, and the rising full moon’s light snuck through frills of a resting quill onto the stony surface of an old desk. Hiffeldifflin strode over to the open arched window overlooking the vast mountain range around Dokar’s Bald, upon whose peak he had constructed this observatory over a lifetime ago. From his perch, the wizard watched the moon reveal deep blue rivers that carved lush valleys between ice-capped peaks, colorful tents of distant Mountainkin camps, and prehistoric glaciers, whose journeys have long-since concluded. And yet, all of this was inconsequential, for tonight the old wizard’s mind was preoccupied with something far more significant.

Another breeze returned Hiffeldifflin’s attention back to his study, nearly exposing his thinning gray hairline to the moon’s gaze. He adjusted his fez, constellations stitched into its rich blue fabric, and turned back towards his desk, having recently been the scene of incredibly earnest writing, the likes of which Hiffeldifflin hadn’t committed to parchment since he had first discovered the third moon of Ganidir. Beside the inkpot lay a thick leather glove. As he slipped it over his right hand, the old wizard allowed his mind to wander again into a recent history that has breathed new life into his dulled bones.

Since his early years as a mason’s apprentice, Hiffeldifflin’s heart had always been in pursuit of the stars. Upon completion of his studies under the Royal Communion of Wizards, he fully committed to understanding the cosmos, despite the claims of his more conventional peers that it was not the business of mortal minds to know that which cannot be known. But Hiffeldifflin saw how farmers counted their days by the moon’s curve, how oracles suffered dark visions from an eclipse, and - as he recently discovered - how two unlikely souls might meet in search of a fallen star.

The remoteness of his occupation did not trouble the wizard. In fact, he welcomed it as a deterrent of distraction; however, even his celestially obsessed mind could not always ignore the solitude. Most of his interactions with the world below the clouds were confined to brief exchanges with passing Mountainkin, for whom their gods and the planets were interchangeable, and heated attempts at bartering with nomadic atmos-peddlers, whose eclectic inventories were consigned by long-dead civilizations, much like the ancient skyships that carried them. Only his loyal owl, Mr. Tuft, whom he had nursed back to health one long winter, was a constant companion. Hiffeldifflin resigned himself to this life long before he placed those first stones on the bald, but he never opposed any potential disruption to his status-quo, no matter how temporary. Assuming it were temporary.

* * *

It was a lunar month ago when Hiffeldifflin witnessed a heavenly blaze interrupt an otherwise calm evening sky. With the mighty telescope atop his tower, he followed its path until the alien object disappeared within the vast distant treeline of the Sultarwood. The wizard quickly prepared himself for a journey through the mountains. Despite his age - approaching one hundred and thirty - he still possessed some of that tough masonic spirit that had pushed him through many a challenge over the years. With a final adjustment of his fez, Hiffeldifflin hauled on his basket, collected his staff, and began his descent down the overgrown stone path of Dokar’s Bald, Mr. Tuft flying beside him.

The journey was long but peaceful. Distant were the days when warlords set the law and ghouls haunted the lands of men. The fresh air of spring steadily channeled between the mountains, stirring the many draeflowers and whisper bells into colorful displays between waving grasses. Whenever the sun receded, Hiffeldifflin would locate a good rock against which to recline and watch the stars blink into existence across the approaching night sky. As nostalgia lapsed over his mind, he would recall the endless nights of stargazing in his youth, long before his telescope and any real understanding of those distant nocturnal lights. With each morning, spring progressed, and so did the wizard until finally he and his feathered companion arrived at the edge of the great Sultarwood. Its canopy blossomed like rose-colored clouds captured by the grasping branches of ancient trees. Hiffeldifflin reviewed his map and continued into the woods, towards where he estimated the sky-born blaze had settled.

The change in environment was dramatic - from enchantment to destruction. A large crater penetrated the forest floor. The trees bore scars of a recent blaze. The air vaguely crackled, as if this intruder from the skies had perverted nature’s routines. Mr. Tuft perched on the rim of Hiffeldifflin’s basket, seemingly afraid to approach the crater. The intruder, itself, was a large irregular stone lodged into the center of the crater; its smooth sapphirine surfaces darkly reflected the land it had disfigured. Strangest of all were the clear white flowers that appear to have sprouted at the base of the stone. Despite the destruction, Hiffeldifflin appreciated the otherworldly beauty of the scene before him. He quickly located a small clearing between some trees that had largely survived the impact and began to assemble a temporary worktable. That was when he spotted movement behind some bushes on the opposite side of the crater.

Someone had beaten him to the scene.

With both hands Hiffeldifflin gripped his staff as he deliberately crept through the trees around the crater, Mr. Tuft silently waddling behind him, until they both could clearly observe the stranger. Before him stood a woman, leaning over a worktable not dissimilar to his. Her own long journey evidenced by the way her flowery green dress frayed at the bottom, revealing thick mud-stained boots. A long embroidered shawl lounged across her hunched shoulders, and a large frizzy mess of hair, an orange desaturated by wisdom, embraced her head. In a moment of carelessness, a charred twig snapped beneath Hiffeldifflin’s foot, and the woman quickly raised herself and turned, her large round eyes now gazing through small circular spectacles at her curious visitors.

“Goodness!” The woman’s voice was soft but sturdy.

“I apologize, good lady,” Hiffeldifflin quickly responded, shifting his staff to one hand and placing his free palm against his chest. “I - we did not mean to startle you.”

“Well, you certainly did,” she retorted, carefully observing her tall guest and the bird hiding behind his master’s robe. “Might you also have been drawn here by this...,” she waved her hand at the crater. “This?”

The old wizard chuckled, amused not only by the woman’s lack of vocabulary for the disturbed woodland but also by his own inability to assist. “I suppose I have.” He extended his hand towards her. “I am Hiffeldifflin, Lesser-Overwise of the Order of Rothuul, Seeker of Stars, and this ponderous peregrine is Mr. Tuft. It is a pleasure to be in your presence.”

The woman’s small hand met Hiffeldifflin’s in a hearty greeting. “Sarah,” she paused in thought for a moment before scowling and lowering her voice in an attempt to imitate his, “greatest medicine woman in all of Weavestown.” She let a small laugh escape, and the scowl disappeared. “Although, I suppose that is because I am also the only one.”

Sarah. What a strange name, Hiffeldifflin mused as he released her hand. “If this Weavestown of yours has not found it necessary to seek out another, I would venture that your title is well-earned, Miss Sarah.” Hiffeldifflin glanced over at her worktable and spotted some of the clear flowers. “Would it be a bother if we joined you? Perhaps our shared wisdom may decipher what we individually might not.”

“It would be a bother if you did not.” A kind smile extended across Sarah’s face between large rosy cheeks, and he could feel a similar smile manifesting beneath his whiskers.

Resettling beside his new acquaintance, Hiffeldifflin took to examinine the mysterious azure object, having chiseled fragments off of it with relative ease, as Sarah continued to inspect the flowers. Mr. Tuft excitedly paced between the two and occasionally peered over the edges of their worktables to observe the samples they had collected, amusing Sarah. The wizard and the healer delved into deep discussions about the stone, its origins, and the otherworldly flowers it seemingly sowed; however, the contents of the crater were slowly forgotten as the subject shifted towards each-other. Sarah inquired about Hiffeldifflin’s life before and into wizardom and listened intently as he recited the many secrets of the skies. He, in turn, learned of the medicine woman’s lifelong enthusiasm for herbs and roots, of legends about the first divine healers, and of Weavestown and its population of talented, though metabolically challenged, seamsters, victims of a curse of illness proliferating from the sins of a long-dead townmaster. Sarah had herself been largely unaffected by the illness, so she dedicated her life to alleviating the suffering of her fellow Weavers, a dedication that had sadly cost her the time to ever truly connect with those whom she treated.

Hiffeldifflin marveled at the deep wisdom Sarah had accumulated at the youthful age of eighty. The spritely eagerness with which she spoke did little to conceal how relieved she was to find someone with whom she could share the many years-worth of experiences that had accumulated within her, like steam freed from the kettle. For the old wizard, the experience was mutual. Although Hiffeldifflin had often divulged his revelations to the Communion of Wizards and assisted atmos-peddler navigators with their starguides, this distribution of knowledge very rarely escaped the bounds of its immediate practicality. He could not recall when he had last spoken with someone - excluding occasional one-sided ramblings endured by his loyal Mr. Tuft - about his deeper analyses, his methods, and the fine technical details of his telescope, and not until this moment had he ever considered the intricacies of harvesting nightroot and red carrots.

The days at the crater passed quickly, brimming with talk of star and stem, until dwindling rations finally forced the pair of scientists to end their interrogation of the strange blue stone. Hiffeldifflin suggested that they share any future developments in writing. She happily agreed and noted on the wizard’s map where Weavestown lay, nestled between the Rainbow Fields and the Swamp of Utter Demise. And with a final shake of their hands, the odd twosome separated. Sarah departed, hopeful yet unsure that the clear flowers may finally save her people, and Hiffeldifflin, his devoted owl following closely behind, returned to his tower, unsure if the answers he received from the stone were worth the new mysteries it presented; however, both knew that their journeys had been fruitful in a way neither could ever have imagined.

A flurry of correspondences followed in the ensuing weeks with Mr. Tuft as the messenger, generously rewarded with large rodents at each end of every trip. Sarah wrote of the progress she had made with her new clear-flowered concoctions and would occasionally share recipes for stews and broths. In return, Hiffeldifflin informed the healer of the ways the stone fragments would illuminate under a full moon, throwing in a tale or two of more exciting moments in his long career.

* * *

A distant hoot echoed in the night sky, and Mr. Tuft’s gliding silhouette appeared before the full moon. Hiffeldifflin extended his gloved arm before the window, preparing for the arrival of his courier. Another light breeze entered the wizard’s study. There was much to read within the stars tonight and many theories yet to ponder about that celestial stone, but all of it could wait, as Hiffeldifflin knew that the scroll within Mr. Tuft’s claws was far more significant.