After they walked out of the Trollop’s view, Curesoon stopped and sighed to himself. “I have no idea which way we should be going.

Grumbling, Tippleglee came up behind the bard and then walked around him without saying a word. Curesoon quickly turned to follow though he did not know what course the little man had set himself upon.

Tippleglee walked with a surprisingly fast gait when taking into account his size and apparent age. Though his own stride was considerably longer, Curesoon was forced to quicken his pace in order to keep up.

Without a word, the two men walked for what seemed like an hour weaving their way around stagnant pools and over small muddy hills. Then, quite suddenly, Tippleglee came to a beautifully crafted wooden bridge that spanned a wide black stream.

The old man paid little attention to the moss-covered bridge as he quickly passed over. The hard leather souls of his pointed shoes made a very distinct sound as he walked across the smooth wooden planks.

As he stepped, each board produced a different tone so that by his crossing a cheerful melody sounded. However, the song did not fit well with the sour expression that seemed frozen upon Tippleglee’s bearded face.

Curesoon began to cross the small arched bridge as well but then stopped midway to study its construction. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. Its make and style were much like the torch-rack that he had seen in the Trollop’s den. It was of wood – carved, smoothed, and delicately designed – yet its structure made it look more like a thing grown rather than built.

After a moment of marveling, Curesoon looked up to ask who had made the lovely little bridge, but he soon discovered that Tippleglee was nowhere to be found. The grumpy old man had quickly ambled away out of sight.

With musical steps, the bard hastily finished crossing the bridge and climbed a large hill that rose just beyond. Its slope was so steep that he was forced to use the trees that densely lined the hillside to aid in his climbing. Upon the crest of the hill, there stood a huge ancient oak with great gnarled roots. Though the tree seemed half dead then, it had to have been at least a thousand years old, for its girth was massive.

Curesoon was far too concerned about finding Tippleglee to marvel long at the giant oak. The fact that he did not know his way out of that black bog made his searching all the more frantic.

“I only have a day and a year!” he mumbled and then frowned. “Does that day start now or tomorrow?”

As he beat himself up for not getting a more detailed description of the rules, he walked around the tree’s enormous twisted roots surveying all the wood below, but for all his looking, he could see only the broken tangle of the dark forest standing dense and thick. There was no sign of the grumpy little man, and it seemed as if Miremurk consciously withstood his searching gaze.

“Hammers and pegs! What are you gawking at?” Tippleglee’s ill-tempered voice suddenly came from somewhere behind the bard.

With a surprised expression of relief, Curesoon turned to find Tippleglee standing on the porch of a funny little house which was built under the roots of the massive old oak.

The house seemed to almost be a part of the great tree so that one root was made into a bench upon the porch, another was a handrail along the steps, and yet two others were positioned to be rafters holding up its thatched roof. Like the bridge and torch-rack, the house looked like someone planted a seed, and it grew into a dwelling under the gnarled roots of the giant old oak.

The front door was oval shaped with a round stained-glass window. The design of the glass was of a dark-green grapevine leaf on a red wine-colored background. The wood of the door itself was covered here and there with dark-green moss and there was a polished brass doorknob on the left side. The rest of the house was the color of finished wood, and it blended in well with the tree’s great moss-covered roots. Gray long-moss dangled down from the rafters of the roof, and dead vines covered much of the structure. It seemed the house had been there a hundred years though its maintenance was well kept.

To Curesoon’s amazement, the old man had made ready for travel in the short time it had taken him to admire the handiwork of the bridge and find him again.

Tippleglee now had a traveling-bag flung over his old thin shoulders. The backpack had all manner of tools dangling from it. There was a pot, a pan, a ladle, and a large wooden spoon. A bedroll was tied to the top of the pack, and in his hand, he held a walking stick which finished out his traveling attire so that he looked much the part.

The little old man turned from locking the door and glared suspiciously at Curesoon. “Do you mind?” he asked crossly.

“Do I mind what?” Curesoon replied with a look of confusion.

Tippleglee rolled his largely magnified greenish-hazel eyes, which seemed to be a staple of his facial expressions.

“I’d like you to turn your gaze away while I put my key back in its place,” he grumbled.

“Ah… Yes… Of course!” Curesoon stammered feeling a slight flush in his cheeks.

With his key put away, Tippleglee started down a path that wound its way round the side of the hill. The path was only wide enough for two to walk side by side, and it went in a slow but steady incline. In his haste, Curesoon hadn't noticed the trail before, but he was glad for it now.

Soon the path brought the two men back to the small bridge, and after crossing over once more, Tippleglee stopped abruptly and turned to Curesoon. His look was like the expression of one who awaited his next command.

“Have you forgotten something?” Curesoon asked feeling that the man wanted help from him but not knowing what he could do.

Tippleglee pushed up his spectacles and sighed grumpily. “Where from here?”

“How should I know?” the bard replied somewhat annoyed.

The little man growled. “Aren’t you the leader of this fool’s errand?”

Curesoon looked bewildered. “Do you not know the way to the farm of Guileless?”

“No, and why should I?!?” Tippleglee snapped irritably.

Truthfully, the little man did not want to admit that he had forgotten most of the paths within Miremurk. It was a great embarrassment to him because he, of all people, should never be lost in that wood, but he had forgotten many things in his quest to forget only one.

Befuddled, Curesoon stood looking about the dark forest. There was nothing else to do, so he simply chose a direction, and the two men took it. Thus, they began their long arduous stroll through the foul bog of Miremurk.

The bard took the lead at the demand of Tippleglee; however, it was virtually impossible for them to walk a straight course while weaving their way around the reeking pools of black water. And when they came to wide stagnant streams, they crossed by stepping upon slimy rocks, but when they could find no other way, they reluctantly waded through them.

They had walked for hours when suddenly Curesoon heard a grumble coming from behind him. “Hammers and pegs!”

“What’s the matter now?” the bard asked turning to look at Tippleglee.

“We’ve been here before; we’re going in circles!” the little man complained.

“How do you know that?” Curesoon asked not wanting to believe him but knowing it was probably true. “Every part of this foul forest has the same look and feel.”

“I tapped my pipe on a stump an hour ago.” Tippleglee answered. “Behold, the very same ashes!”

Curesoon slumped down on a fallen tree, took off his colorful hat, and wiped his brow. The air in the bog was stiflingly humid so that his sweat made his clothes cling to his body. Tippleglee, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be bothered by the heat in the least.

“What do we do now?” the bard groaned.

Sitting down upon a black stone that butted up against a dead tree, the little old man lit his pipe again and offered no reply. He felt embarrassed that he too was just as lost.

“‘Tis sorely uncommon for my folk to lose their way in a wood,” Tippleglee thought with a deep feeling of self-disappointment.