Wanderhome: Notre Dame des Laitues
The Month of Snowblanket
- It’s unbearably bitter cold. There is snow up to waist. But there is light of white sun shining down.
- Folks have many layers of clothing and have numb fingers hidden in pockets. Because the sun sets so early, folks like to watch stars while sipping from mugs of steaming drinks.
1st Place: Notre Dame des Laitues
The Monastery
- Aesthetic: Scriptorium and the Wise Mama Lilly who remembers Clover from when he was very young.
- Folklore: The Generous Mentor and Her Betrayal
Long ago, a brilliant monk, admired for her kindness and skill, grew reclusive without explanation. One night, she broke into the Scriptorium, struck down those in her way, breached the forbidden section, and vanished with a book. To this day, people wonder what the book contained and her fate. Some say she lives eternally, as the book taught. Now, forbidden sections no longer exist, as knowledge is open to all.
The Bridge
- Aesthetic: Churning Waters Far Below and Mighty Erie Hiding Underneath
- Folklore: The Bargain of the Flat-Faced Bass Daemon
From Aeons ago, a Daemon in the shape of a bass fish lived under the bridge near the monastery. The Daemon fed on memories. It spoke to monks with shaking faiths and helped them cross over to the secular world in exchange for the memory in the monastery.
The Field
- Aesthetic: A Solitary Tree and A Friendly Shepherd And Their Flock
- Folklore: The Dance of the Flower Goddess
Every year the Flower Goddess is born, dances, dissipates and is born again. During Bright and Breathe, the Goddess dances and sometimes sings. Her dance is like a flame, constantly moving and dynamic but stationery. Then from Silt, light particles break off from her skin. Finally during Chill, she is gone. But millions of her light particles live on the Field. That is the light you see in the field during the Chill nights. They’re not fireflies, but pieces of the Goddess. Then in Leap, the particles gather and aggregate, and the Goddess is reborn.
The Monastery
I’m Clover, a lop rabbit. I was left at the monastery gate as a bunny, with nothing but a deck of oracle cards to my name. Perhaps that was the beginning of my path—a journey that would eventually lead me away from the church. My godmother, who raised me with great care, hid the deck until my sixteenth birthday. She was understanding about it but warned me to keep it secret. “The other Fathers and Sisters wouldn’t approve,” she said.
When I finally opened the deck, it transformed my understanding of the world, the Creator, and everything in between. I still believe in the Creator, but I practice my faith in unconventional ways. With no books or mentors to guide me, I relied on meditation to learn the cards. It took two years to interpret them in my own way. Slowly, I began experimenting—hypothesizing, observing, and refining my approach. Over time, I developed a personal craft, using the cards and simple rituals to infuse intention into everyday moments.
A year ago, something miraculous happened. On a rainy afternoon, I was hurrying back to the monastery when I saw a figure swaying gracefully in the downpour. She was the Lightning Dancer, a radiant being who seemed to weave the rain itself into a dance. Entranced, I joined her, and together we waltzed beneath the stormy sky. Only the stars will remember the steps of our dance. Before she disappeared, she left two pale handprints on my shoulder and waist. From that day, I could hear and soothe the grief of spirits long gone. The spirits taught me their favorite offerings were candies—flavors unique to each spirit. Unfortunately, as time passed, the handprints faded, and so did the gift. Still, I continue to leave offerings wherever I sense their presence.
As my passion for craft grew, so too did the distance between me and orthodox teachings. I didn’t feel ashamed or guilty; my rituals felt as sacred as the mass and prayers of the monastery. In fact, I often drew inspiration from the Holy Book’s prayers, finding new depth in my faith by wrapping my words in tangible acts of devotion. Yet, I kept my practices secret, knowing others wouldn’t understand.
But Sister Netty noticed things—a habit here, a symbol there. One day, she remarked, “I’ve noticed you always stir your tea clockwise three times when you pray. That’s very peculiar.”
“I have OCD,” I replied, hoping to deflect her curiosity.
Her suspicions grew. She spotted me leaning over a well, sensing a spirit below. Finally, last night, she caught me performing my weekly forecast. Soon, a committee of Fathers and Sisters convened, giving me a choice: abandon my craft or leave the monastery. I chose to leave. I couldn’t forsake the one thing that truly ignited my passion. Unlike the passive reception of holy words, my craft allowed me to actively seek my own sacred truths.
Father Dodo, ever kind, offered to let me stay until the end of Chill. But I couldn’t bear to linger under the weight of my revealed secret. I hugged my friends goodbye—they remained blissfully unaware, thanks to the adults’ discretion. Then I packed my belongings and stepped into the unknown, guided by my faith, my craft, and my questions.
I didn’t have much—such is the merit of a broom-closet witch. My pockets were filled with candy for forgotten gods, and my bag carried my trusty oracle and grimoire. Lastly, I donned my waterproof cloak.
Before leaving, I visited the Scriptorium, where Mama Lilly, my godmother, waited. A wise and chatty Galapagos turtle, she had always supported me. No one knows her true age, but she’s one of the Elders who helped build the monastery.
“I came to say goodbye,” I said.
Mama Lilly poured tea, her eyes gleaming knowingly. “You came with the snowy wind, and now you leave with it. Mind if we talk a little before you go?”
I nodded and sat beside her.
She handed me a cup of tea. “Twenty years ago, during the war, many children were left at our gate. You stood out because you never cried. Instead, your eyes sparkled with curiosity, as if trying to absorb everything.”
She smiled fondly. “I remember when you tried to read. You saw Ophelie with a book and imitated her by holding yours upside down. And when you finally learned to read, you tried to grab the giant Holy Book but got a concussion when it fell on your head.”
Her voice softened with pride. “That little bunny read everything we had, then set her paws on a path destined for greatness. I’m proud of you.”
I blinked, my nose twitching in disbelief. “You are?”
She chuckled. “Of course. Many tried to discourage your practice, but the war is over, and so are the Looming Gods. You have a passion that cannot thrive here. You must follow it.”
“Even if it’s unconventional?”
“There’s no one true way to worship,” she said. “What matters is that your faith is sincere. Where will you go now?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted, my ears drooping slightly.
She tore a map from an old book. “Then I suggest finding Weenie, the Witch of the West. She’s a crone who saw the beginning of Haeth and may see its end. She can help you hone your craft. This map isn’t accurate, but if memory serves, you’ll find her on the West Coast.”
As the bells for afternoon sermon tolled, Mama Lilly draped my cloak over my shoulders. “Go now, before anyone notices. And remember: don’t fear the world. Trust its people, even those consumed by greed. Engage with the world—it will enrich your journey.”
I kissed her cheek and hugged her tightly, my throat thick with emotion. With a final wave, I stepped beyond the monastery gates, carrying her wisdom and my dreams into the vast, unknown world.
The Bridge
The front yard of the monastery was covered in thin snow. I walked toward the bridge, thankful for my thick fur. When I reached it, I saw the bridge had collapsed in the middle. The memory of the chaos back at the monastery flooded my mind—Father Dodo had promised to call the beavers for repairs after Chill.
I stared at the broken bridge, frustration bubbling up. Great. I should’ve thought of this. Kicking the snow, I muttered, “I can’t go back just because I can’t cross the river.” A fleeting thought crossed my mind—if only I could fly, like the witches in fairy tales.
A voice interrupted my thoughts. “Kiddo, what’s wrong? Need help crossing the river?”
From the churning waters sprang the Bass Daemon.
“You’re the Flat-Faced Bass Daemon, aren’t you?” I asked, recognition dawning. “I read that you help monks cross in exchange for their memories of the monastery.”
He grinned. “You know me? Sweet! So, want to hop on my back?”
I hesitated. Though I had left, I still cherished my memories of the monastery—they were all I had of my childhood. “I can’t give them to you,” I said firmly. “Do you take something else? I have some freshly baked Stollen. It’s really good.”
“Okay! Sweet! Give me all of that cake, or no deal.”
My nose twitched. “All of it? I have a long journey ahead. How about half? Does that sound fair?”
Before he could respond, a growl rumbled from beneath the bridge.
“You greedy flatfoot,” a voice growled. “Float away, or I’ll call the tide to take you.”
The stranger revealed herself—a majestic silver wolf with a shimmering coat that glistened in the sun. Mighty Erie, the last Silver Wolf, stood before me. Once a god of herculean strength, Erie had fought in countless wars, only to declare her solidarity with mortals and disappear when peace was won. Her eyes, wise and weary, reflected the rise and fall of ages.
Erie knelt gracefully. “Come ride. I’ll take you across.”
The Bass Daemon panicked. “Wait! I changed my mind! Half is fine!”
Erie growled, her tone menacing, and with a disgruntled huff, the Bass Daemon sank back into the river, leaving us in peace.
With effortless grace, Erie leaped across the river in a single bound.
“Thank you,” I said, looking up at her in awe. “I know who you are! You chiseled the mountain so the Rebellions could escape—that’s one of my favorite tales about you. Where have you been?”
“Here and there,” Erie said, her voice steady. “Sometimes helping folks like you. Mostly, I’ve been enjoying this long-awaited peace.”
I hesitated before asking, “Are you not lonely? Being the last of your kind? Are you… happy?”
“I’m quite alright, dear. I’m never truly alone. My kind may no longer exist in this realm, but they live in another, one I visit through meditation and dreams. So yes, I would say I am happy.”
Relief washed over me. “Then I’m happy too. Where were you heading?”
“I came for you,” Erie replied calmly. “Lilly, my childhood friend, summoned me. She remembered the bridge.”
I blinked in surprise. “Wait—Mama Lilly? You know her? How? Is Mama Lilly a god too? She never told us!”
Erie’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Many gods are forgotten—and some prefer to be forgotten. Now, where are you heading? Should I take you to the village?”
I shook my head. “It’s alright. I can go on my own. But please thank Mama Lilly for me.” I pulled out a piece of extra-large candy, offering it to Erie.
She gobbled it up in one bite, her gaze warm. “Lilly said you’d stand on your own feet. Brave, little Miss Clover, I hope we meet again.”
With that, she turned and disappeared into the distance, her shimmering form fading into the horizon.
The Field
I decided to head to the village first before seeking out the Witch of the West. At first glance, the village seemed close, but the journey stretched far longer than I anticipated. Each step deepened my regret for not asking Erie for a ride. Next time someone offers a favor, I resolved, I’ll accept it right away.
Eventually, I reached the Moaning Tree and decided to rest against its gnarled trunk. A bumblebee zipped past me, and I greeted it with a smile. “Oh wow, hello there! Would you like some Stollen?”
Breaking off a small piece of the sweet, dense bread, I offered it to the bee. It eagerly nibbled at the treat, attracting others until a small swarm surrounded me. (I’d heard seagull folk could be pushy and relentless, but bees? Now I knew better.)
“Oi, you little busy bees!” a voice called out. “I told you to find a key, not bother a poor woman!”
A ferret in a puffy jacket and worn hiking boots dashed through the snow, scattering the bees. “Sorry about that,” she said, shaking her head. “They’re harmless, but relentless. At least they’re not gannets, eh? I’m Fiona. I keep bees—or, well, me bloke used to. Long story. Anyway, we’re hunting for me storage key. Got a knees-up tonight with the gang and need me top-notch nosh! Veggies, biccies, a bit of cheese, and a proper drop of whiskey.”
“I can help!” I offered. “I’m good at hiding things, so maybe I can find them too.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really? Perfect! It’s a brass key with a bee charm. I’ll sniff around while you hop about. Between us, we’ll find it in no time.”
Tying my ears back, I began searching the snowy field with Fiona. Her bees occasionally brought us “clues”—glimmering fragments of Light—but no key.
“Ugh, you blundering pillocks!” Fiona scolded them, throwing up her tiny hands. “What am I supposed to do with bits of the Flower Goddess? Put her back, you daft little dunces!”
I had an idea. Pulling out my oracle deck, I sat by the shimmering particles and whispered a quiet prayer to the Flower Goddess for guidance. I flipped the Ace of Disks. It led me around a large boulder where something glinted in the snow. “FOUND IT!” I cried. “No wonder the bees were confused—it sparkled just like the Light fragments!”
Fiona watched me, amazed. “Blimey, you’re a witch, eh? Knew you had the touch. I owe you a meal for sure. Tell you what—why not be our guest of honor at Bonfire Night tonight?”
My stomach growled, and I nodded eagerly. “I’d love that.”
Fiona let out a sharp whistle to call her bees, and we started the trek back to her farm. She glanced at me curiously. “It’s a bit of a walk. Why not tell me about yourself?”
So I did, sharing stories of the monastery and my journey so far with my newfound friend, Fiona the Ferret.