Field Journal – Entry I

  13th of Bloomtide, 647 - Shadow Weave

  Camp outside Wetheren, edge of the Northwood Range

  The last of the village roofs disappeared behind me at Golden Hour. I had expected to feel triumphant setting off toward the mountains at last — instead, I feel the peculiar hush of someone stepping into a story that may not wish to be told.

  Six weeks among the hill settlements yielded less “data” than the university would prefer and far less than my tenure review demands. The tales change from valley to valley: some speak of “Hammer Witches” who sing to the cliffs until they split, others of “Stone Widows” who mourn the trees when they fall. Every version ends the same way — a sound, metallic and terrible, echoing through the mountains, followed by silence and fear. A full compilation of my interviews entitled, “Hammer Witch Interviews”, has been sent to UON’s Anthro Dept for cataloging.

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  When pressed for detail, no one agrees whether these figures are human, spirit, or storm. One woodcutter told me the “witches” are miners driven mad by “the mountain’s voice”; another swore they were guardians who punish logging greedily. It was incredibly difficult to find anyone willing to discuss the topic at all, even under bribery. Most people even refuse to speak after Light Fall. Even the children lower their voices when anyone mentions, “the ringing”. After the humiliation of the South Reach survey, I cannot afford another season of rumors and dust, which is why I’ve cut the ethnographic phase short.

  I have secured supplies enough for three months and a rough map copied from a tattered mining ledger. My route will follow the upper creek toward the north face of what is labeled, “Kelvek’s Crown”, where several accounts place the “crying slopes.” The innkeeper’s wife warned me not to strike metal on stone once I cross the treeline — “They hear it and think you’re calling them.” I promised her I would not.

  For the record: I still expect to find signs of an isolated metallurgical culture — perhaps a reclusive smithing lineage or abandoned temple complex. Yet the air feels... attentive. I would not admit this in my report, but the mountains seem to be listening.

  Tomorrow, I begin the ascent. If these “Hammer Witches” exist, they are up there, somewhere among the ringing stones.

  — A.T.