Feeble, the sunrays sprang amid the clouds and vanished before touching the ground. A thick layer of fog arose in the mountains and formed rings around the peaks, snaking its way among the trees and cascading down the mountain range.

The forest would spread over the slopes, creating a labyrinth of tall trees and dense shadows in the snow. Inside it, the imperceptible circle of rocks. Nearly twenty meters of radius, formed by assorted rocks – some of them nonexistent in the area – only came to confirm the theory that the site had been created by someone else, and not by Nature throughout time.

The circle kept, nevertheless, an oneiric aura that brought peace to whomever approached it. All around it, the forest was more lively, exhaling a strong scent of virgin forest. The air, lighter; the animals, sharp and strong. The turf an emerald carpet, moist due to the weather.

The Drömma was a sacred site to the senoi, built far before any empire – human or titanic. Even before the existence of the elves, or the earliest references to the syrians – the people of the night – the Circle of Dreams would already welcome visitors annually, even though the very concept of time didn't yet exist.

That was a race long forgotten. In the legends, they were known as trolls, vile monsters who devoured infants. In reality, the senoi were a peaceful kind who wouldn't even forge weaponry, and would rather stand back whenever some threat impended upon them.

Thumps in the forest – but no animal fled from what was coming through the woods. Most looked with admiration at the most ancient beings of Nordara. Bigger beasts, like wolves and bears, bowed their heads discreetly, as a sign of respect for the travellers.

The harbinger was a tall humanoid, whose hair was like copper wires braided among leaves and charcoal. The skin, reddish – made of stone, with deep grooves all over it. It wore heavy clothing, made of animal hide. It didn't bring weapons, but a wooden box.

More trolls came by different ways. Very old beings, with gray, blue, green, black or white skin. The rarest among them, as well as the largest, were the brown. There was a red one, Erion.

Each settled beside the rocks most similar to themselves. Even though all of them looked old, the red leader would stand out for the layers of ashes on his skin, and for a patience that only the eldest are able to convey. There were more rocks his color, but there were no trolls for them. He passed by a young senoi, his chest with a hole lodging a birds nest.

– Zyon... – and he continued until he halted beside a grayish troll with silver hair. With something that could be defined as a smile on his face, the elder said:

– Opalla, for how long?... – his cavernous voice sounded low, almost impossible for a human to hear. To their kind, however, the most important was not the volume, but the vibration. This was what gave them the feeling of what they wanted to transmit in a conversation.

– Tohat Erion, over thirty moons... – she stated. Her voice, however, was not like the shaman's. It sounded like a constant sound, without any intonation. Erion was concerned that the number of youngsters like her grew bigger and bigger. Passiveness destroying their culture, making trolls forget basic things, such as singing or dancing. Their race decayed year after year, and the pursuit of a solution undermined his will.

He stopped in the middle of the double ring formed by trolls and rocks. Solemnly, he opened the wooden box and turned it upside down, letting all the ashes scatter in the wind.

– Another brother of ours has passed away... How many of us still remain? Sixty? - sentenced the tohat.

Erion's dark brown eyes probed his fellows, shamans like himself that came from afar to share the dreams of their tribes – for this is what the senoi lived by, based on dreams to decide about everything. The places they would dwell in, the names of their newborns, their migrations. To them, all things in the world had a soul – animals, plants and all embodiments of Nature. Through dreams, the senoi sought to understand this union of souls, to which they gave the name of “Spiral”.

– Nyankomsem, the words of a god from heavens tell us that the age of trolls is no more – and the senoi stood quiet, as still as the stones. With their eyes shut, they emanated with their mouths a sound that resembled the hum of bees.

– Ka ora! I live! – Opalla, the young troll, started the chant, followed by the others. Erion's speech resounded along:

– It's been years since the Titans were banished from our land by the Human Messiah – Erion walked around the circle; his voice had lost its hoarseness and grew louder and louder. He clenched his fist threateningly as his face frowned – What about us? What is left for the most ancient race in this world?

Each of his words struck the hearts of his brothers like an avalanche. One by one, the shamans lifted and thudded their feet in a cadenced rhythm, slowly, like drums. They bellowed every three stomps.

– Ka mate, Ka mate. It's Death, Death – Opalla, always, louder than the others. Vibrating for the first time since she had arrived.

– We were stones that gained counsciousness – we didn't ask for life, we didn't want to change. Immersed in the world of dreams alongside our Gurag, our mentor spirits, who taught us about music, dance, as well as the arts of the spirit. Nyankomsem – Erion spent a few seconds staring at his fellows, reckoning how long it took for their spirits to imbibe the new knowledge and make it part of themselves, as humans do when they feed.

– Tēnei te tangata pūhuruhuru Nāna i tiki mai whakawhiti te Ra. This is the Stone God who makes the Sun glow – shouted the trolls.

Avalanches started in the mountains close to their gathering. The rocks of the Drömma trembled. The sound reverberated throughout the forest. Only then did the animals get startled and fled. Despite there being no fury in the troll culture, there was fear. And it flooded – and spilled out of – the Circle of Dreams.

– How many among us still remember how to write? Our culture is waning as our minds return to stone. We are dying. In less than fifty years the last of us will shut their eyes forever, and there will be no one to scatter their ashes in the Drömma.

A green troll tried to speak his mind, but the only thing he could emit were roars. It was clear that his mind was languishing, and his ashes would probably be cast in the circle within the year. Suddenly, the stomping ceased and everyone looked towards a brown brother.

He was much larger than the rest of them, having at least double the height of Erion himself. His feet sank in the ground as he walked, and his hands went to his chest, when he tumbled down on his knees in the middle of the circle. The leader turned his face away, incapable of witnessing the death of yet another brother.

– Farewell, Nurah – the chant in the Drömma lost its vigor. Cracks escalated over the moribund troll's body. One arm fell off; the other arm crumbled. The rest of his body vanished with the wind.

– One more goes back to dreaming – murmured Opalla. Right afterwards, Erion declaimed:

– We've taught mankind the art they so deeply love. However, we have forgotten it ourselves – we have grown more and more distant from what makes us living beings. We have allowed our memories to fade and have lost our ability to really dream. Today, how many are the trolls in our tribes who know the Nyankomsem?

Erion crouched and forced his mind into remembering the drawings which were, long before, the language of the senoi. Every stroke on the snow was a scar on his own body, due to the strain it demanded. Every trace was a friend, an event, an object. He sought an answer for his people, but the only thing he could read was an unknown name:

– Diren.

Everyone else stopped. The silence as heavy as the ceased thumps. Opalla inquired:

– What?

– I saw a child and a woman in the mountains. It is my duty to save them. The spirits have told me so – decreed Erion, with pain in his chest. He expected salvation for his people, not that.

– You are going mad. There is no life on the peak of the mountains – retorted Opalla. She respected Erion as one of the eldest shamans of the circle, but she was desperate.

– Since when have we started to question the designs of the gurags? – Erion expelled all his vibration through his voice, as a sign of his fury.

– Our kind is dying and you want to speak of people stranded in the mountains! We must save ourselves, Erion! – Opalla stepped forth, trying to intimidate the shaman.

– My call, Opalla.

– Go, but be aware that no one is willing support you. Remember that you'll have abandoned your people for others. Once there, your spirit will decay little by little. Are you prepared for that? – threatened the troll.

– No – Erion answered. – But I'm not ready, either, to die without fighting. The senoi have always been wise – those who took knowledge to other peoples. Wouldn't this be a sign?

– What if it's not? Your mind is turning to stone. Don't waste your last breath in madness. Find a solution for us, not for them. – Opalla gave him a sign of resentment and lowered her tone of voice.

The circle was dismantled and the tohat, crestfallen, went back to their tribes. Erion remained in the forest, looking at the rest of Nurah's ashes and dust. He held in his hands all he could gather, and recited:

– O life, which is now dream, take me to the mountains, make my spirit understand the Nyankomsem one last time before I depart. Even if this is the end of my people's life and mine – Erion hurled the dust upwards, as high as his old arms allowed. Nurah's remains spiraled around the tohat instead of drifting away.

– Datu Bintung at jelong! – he invoked. The Mist, formerly still, joined the spiral. Gray and white took a single shape that left Erion and went upwards until it disappeared above the trees.

Suddenly, a low-pitched voice.

– Erion Mah Meri, is your mind conscious that it may be destroyed?

– Yes.

– Is it conscious that it may die?

– Yes.

– Is it conscious that the secrets herein revealed belong to the realm of dreaming and to it alone?

– Yes.

– Is it conscious of fear?

– No.

With his eyes shut, Erion heard the sound of opening doors and felt an intense warmth involving his body. Out of instinct, he held the old wooden box tight against his chest and let the spiral of Mist guide him.

He entered the mountains, in search for an unknown child and because of his dreams. His own people could be destroyed by this alone. But he had to try. He had to have hope, and to dream of life.

It was the only option left.