The room and its contents are coated with the dust of years of disuse and neglect. Things were put here to be stored away and forgotten. Heavy shutters guard the place from the elements. Time has a way of wearing away even such protections and the weight of one of the shutters has proven too much for its hinges to bear for even a minute longer.

It does not move much, barely a fraction of an inch. Yet move it does and the sanctum of forgotten things is breached by the merest finger of moonlight. Slowly, with the passage of time, the beam moves about. With the tentativeness of a thief aware of its trespassing on forbidden ground, the beams motions takes it along the floor and then up the leg of a table. Had that moonbeam eyes to see, it might have known that the table held an item that seemed out of place with the furniture and debris that littered the rest of the room.

The table bore something that was covered; something that looked like a person asleep. A heavy cloth spread over the form, almost totally hiding the feminine form atop the table. Completely covered it was, save for a slim hand that had dropped slightly off of the table and lay exposed.

Perhaps that questing moonbeam did have some way to perceive its surroundings, for its slow travels took it unerringly to that hand; caressing it with its silvery light.

A cloud of dust shimmered and shivered; motes and dancing sparkles in that moonbeam. The figure beneath the cover had moved! Fingers twitched, almost audibly creaking, and stirred up a bit more dust. It drew itself back beneath the cover and al l was still once more.

Then she sat upright with a start; eyes of deepest jade green blinking repeatedly as though attempting to regain their focus after a too-long sleep…

She looked around the darkened room, trying to see where she was. A single shaft of moonlight, though, provided poor lighting for as large a room as this one and shadowy shapes dominated every nook and cranny. Whatever was not covered with heavy cloth such as that which partly covered her was stored away in wooden chests and crates or simply and carelessly left lying upon the floor. She tried to figure out where she might be then gave up that chain of thought when she could not even recall who she was.

As she sat upright, the heavy cloth that covered her spilled from her naked form; and her long, jet black hair spilled from the table and stirred up some dust from the floor, causing her to emit a dainty sneeze. She looked at herself, hoping that the act might help her to remember who she might be and, through that, how she came to be in this dark, dusty place.

She was tall and lithely built yet still generously curved. If the silvery bit of moonlight was to be trusted, her skin was only a few shades lighter than the wood of the table upon which she sat. Of its own accord, one of her hands crept up her leg and belly; eventually coming up to caress one of her breasts. She moaned softly as fingers teased a nipple to erectness then gasped as that small noise seemed to echo in the silence.

As though the act of self-pleasure were the trigger, she became frightened and forcibly grabbed the questing hand with her other and deliberately placed it back on the table's top. Something inside her told her that it was not safe to make much noise in this place; even though it would not provide a further clue as to what this place might be.

Images started to form in her mind. A tall woman with white hair and deep, penetrating eyes of deep, sapphire blue. And a second woman, almost childlike in stature and having dark chestnut hair and merry, sparkling hazel eyes. Another mental image of the second woman showed pointed ears that would peak now and again through that dark hair. She could see them, and she could remember being with them…

Being with them in ways that made her moan and gasp once again; though not in fright this time. She knew that she had belonged to them, and only briefly wondered why she would use a term like "belong" in that thought.

A person did not "belong" to another person, did they? Not in the way that a chair or a table or a painting would belong. Yet that was now her mind showed it; she had belonged to them, as surely as a piece of furniture. Yet it was a cherished belonging; it had been right for her to belong to them.

But, try as she might, she could not place a name with either of them. And, when she tried to think of what might have happened that she was not with them the smell of woodsmoke mixed with more acrid odours drove such thoughts to distraction. Part of her feared that odour and that part dominated the quest for identities. It was a smell of bad things; of bad things that might happen to her.

Suddenly, the urge to escape this place grew even stronger. However, she knew that attempting to escape in her current, naked state would only serve to prevent that escape, not help it.

She leapt from the table and walked over to a small crate. She did not understand how she had the knowledge, but she knew that the contents in that crate belonged to her. The lid had a locked clasp, though that only slowed her for a few moments as it seemed to unlock itself as her hand passed over it. She half expected a musty odour when she opened it, and was surprised that the contents seemed to be as new.
 
 

She drew forth the items and quickly placed them on her own body; a white blouse that fit loosely in places and fit quite snugly in others; a dark blue skirt that reached her knees and swirled about as she twisted and turned; a shash of a lighter purple that wrapped about a trim waist. And several gold chains of golden coins that went around waist, ankles neck and wrists.

For some reason, she felt good that she was no longer naked. She knew that the dark-eyed woman had made these things for her, and that made her even happier to wear them.

Emboldened by the clothing and curious about her surroundings, she walked over to the window; gold coins clinking and tinkling gaily. Her feet made sounds that seemed odd to her ears; they sounded more solid than she thought bare feet should be on a stone floor. With a push, the shutter creaked open further then dropped off the already weakened hinges to land with a loud crash. She stared out, then down, and saw that she was in a high tower that was part of a larger structure crafted from hard stone.

It was as though staring at the open field far below opened floodgates within her mind. The images became even stronger and more terrifying. She knew why the woodsmoke smelled so bad. And she knew why she was not with the two women in her memory.

Once again, she moaned. This time, however, it was not for pleasure but in pain for what she had lost. What had been taken from her in this…

this…

The words came unbidden to her mind. This place was called a cathedral and the people that had built it had belonged to something called the Inquisition.

"Saamiel...Kalindriel..."

The names were said with longing and sorrow for she knew she would never see them, be with them again. The fires that had burned in the field below had seen to that.

The pressure, the need to flee this hateful place grew overpowering; she could not abide to be here for even one instant longer. She whirled away from the window and dashed for the door…

With the ultimate inevitability, the night had long worn on and the moon had faded from the sky. Now, unknown to the woman who had her back turned to the window from which her renewed life had issued, the sun now started to shine. With a seeming deliberateness, the sunlight streamed through the now shutter less opening and caught just the very back of her heel as she ran for the door.

It was enough…

And, as the sunlight robbed her of the life and mobility the moonlight had granted her, she remembered who and what she was. She was the greatest creation of a powerful sorceress and was the property of her and her elven slave and lover.

"My name is Miriya...." She declared to the room as she fell into a, once more, lifeless assemblage of wood and wire crafted to resemble a Gypsy dancer…

The last chants of midnight mass had long since finished echoing and the last of the, admittedly few, people had departed as well and Father Antonio was alone in the cathedral. He liked this quite time, using an old broom to quietly sweep the floor of the bit of litter. It was in this solitude that he felt closest to both this church and to God. He had long come to know intimately all the tiny noises that the cathedral made in its slumber; the sonorous tick-tock of the grandfather clock out in the side hallway; the occasional shush and gurgle of the plumbing and all the other little noises.

Thus, it was with some surprise that Father Antonio heard a noise he did not recognise. It was soft but rapid; like footsteps though it sounded as if whoever was running wore wooden shoes. Curiosity piqued, he set the broom against one of the pews and went to investigate. Whatever was making the noise, it seemed to be getting closer as he moved towards a hall that ended in a spiral stairway for one of the towered corners of the cathedral. Tac-tac-tac-tac, fast for several seconds, then it would stop for several seconds only to resume; sometimes with a jingling sound like small metal bells. He was nervous for a short bit wondering if might be some burglar then waved off the thought as unlikely; why would a burglar have climbed the outside of a tower that stood nearly ten stories tall?

And why would said burglar wear such unusual shoes?

He would find out soon, though, as whatever was making the noise sounded as though it was now on the stairway; coming down as he was about to go up. Caution made him decide to stay at the foot of the stairs. Whatever it was, it would show itself shortly.

Father Antonio was prepared for nearly anything. However, he was ill-prepared for what had made the noise as it came crashing into him, sending both the cause of the noise and the one seeking thatcause tumbling head over heels.

He lay there, dazed and somewhat startled as the girl kept rolling one last time and came to a stop on her feet once more; now running as if Satan himself had been hot on her trail. He was reminded of stories his grandfather had told him of the gypsies he had seen as a child himself. She was dressed colourfully and her long black hair streamed like a banner behind her. It was only as she crashed through a doorway and ran out into the night that he realised that she wore no shoes; wooden or otherwise.

"Wait child!" He called after her as he rose to his feet to go after her. It was impossible, he knew. She could not have been where she had been and he most assuredly would have remembered seeing anyone that had looked like her even if she had been wearing less colourful clothing; even that brief glimpse of her beautiful face as they had gone tumbling would remain with the old priest for the remainder of his days.

And, as he got to the door only to find that she had long since disappeared into the night, did he pause to think how a barefoot girl might have sounded as if she was wearing wooden shoes…

Just as day must surely follow night, so too must night chase after the day. Thus, with the certainty of eternity, moonlight once more appeared in the window of the room filled with dust and neglect. This time, though, it did not enter with the timidity of a single moonbeam. This time, it strode in with surety and purpose through the shutter less window frame and sought out the still form of a Gypsy dancer that sprawled upon the floor a bare arm's length from the door. And, with the invigorating touch of moonlight once more upon her form, Miriya stirred.

There was only a few moments of confused thought this time before she could remember where she was. And when she did remember, she rose to her feet and reached for the latch on the door. It surprised her that the latch, while rusted and stiff from disuse, was not locked. However, she did not waste time pondering this stroke of good fortune; she knew she had to escape and escape swiftly lest the people of the Church found out she was…

was…

Was whatever it was that she was when moonlight touched her form. She knew that she was a creation of a powerful sorceress and that she owed her ability to move and speak and even think to that great woman's magics. And she knew that those magics did not save the woman from death at the hands of the Church so her own chances to escape lay in not letting them know that she was able to move again.

As quietly as she could, she crept out of the room where she had lain she knew not how long; out into a short hall that held two other doors. One led to another room such as she had just exited. The other one opened upon a stairway that lead downward. She took to the stairs, stopping now and again to listen and make certain that none had been alerted by the noises of her passage. At last, she could see the bottom of the stairs around one last curve and could see light. Desperation overcame caution and she ran down the last several steps…

...straight into an old man who appeared at the stair's base!

She had an instant to recognise his outfit as that of a priest before she collided with him with a loud "OOF!" and they both fell and rolled. Blessed with a nearly unhuman nimbleness, Miriya tumbled a few more times before coming to her feet a short distance from the still fallen priest and she ran even faster for fear that he might call out for guards to capture her.

Call out he did, though she could not understand what he said. She cast one last backward glance as she struck a door full force and it burst open outward before her. The priest had regained his feet and was coming after her!

It was dark outside save for the bright moonlight that called to her and she wasted no time answering that call and the Cathedral and the old priest were quickly left behind.

Through fields and woods she raced; for when one has no need to breathe or muscles that grow weary from too much effort, one can travel quite fast indeed. So, she ran as fast as she could until she come to the edge of a large, open field. There was a road, a long, straight path of hard-packed earth and on the other side of that road lay a dense forest. A quick glance to the east along that road showed her that she had run through what was left of the night of her escape and the first stirrings of false dawn showed on the horizon. If she could make it a short way into the forest, she knew she would be safe from any hunters; Kalindriel had taught her some of the ways her elven people could almost literally become one with the trees.

She stepped onto the road and was surprised that what she had thought was packed earth was actually even harder yet; it felt like stone to her bare feet but she could see no sign of seams were individual stones might have been laid.

A strident klaxon startled her out of her musing and she glanced towards the sound in time to see an enormous metallic monstrosity with several bright, glaring eyes bearing down on her. Fright added even more strength to her agility and she leapt lightly away only to hear a sound similar to the first coming from the opposite direction.

For several seconds she danced as never before; leaping, twisting, darting weaving the many metal creatures. Sometimes she leapt completely over some of the smaller ones and some portion of her mind wondered if this was some stampede of beasts and that she was vaulting some of the young.

That stray thought proved to take too much concentration from her dance, though, and she landed too close in front of one of the middle-sized creatures. It sounded its version of the cry that scared her so but fear had frozen her in place as it hurtled her way.

She felt it strike her and she was surprised that it felt so blunt as she went flying through the air;she had expected sharp, gnashing teeth. She hit the ground with hard on her left shoulder and went rolling in two directions as the force caused her arm to fly away from her body.

She screamed as the sunlight found her even as the metal creature came to a stop in front of her battered form…

In some part of her mind, Miriya wondered if this is what dreaming was like. She had an oddly detached feeling; as if things were only half-real. Images drifted in and out of focus in her mind's eye; some pleasant, some not so. As if from the position of an outside observer, she saw her manic dance with the strange metal creatures and saw the small one that struck her. She remembered the sun coming up just as the beast came up to where her broken body lay…

And then nothing. It was neither pleasurable nor painful; hot nor cold. It simply was and she simply was there. Slowly, though, awareness and sensation were returning. But, even then, it seemed to be conflicting sensations. Portions of her body felt cold and stiff and others felt warm and "alive." She could also feel odd, pinching sensations in one shoulder and she finally mustered the will to open her eyes…

...and completed the scream she had started after she had been hit. That scream was echoed by a startled shout from a man who sat hunched over her body where she lay upon a table.

He had not expected her to awaken; or whatever it could be called that she had just done. Especially not while he was still in the process of reassembling her. Dylan still could barely believe that the woman he had hit with his car on a French highway was some type of artificial creation.

He had gathered up the pieces of what he thought was a destroyed artifact; wondering all the while how such a creation could even exist, let alone be where it was. Or, perhaps, WHEN it was would be a more appropriate phrasing. He had read of clockwork devices that had been made by artisans and mages from times long since past; though he never expected to see any except perhaps in some obscure museum or ancient castle. Still, there was nothing for it but to take this poor creature back to his own home and see if he could at least put her back into some semblance of a single piece.

He had suspected that whatever magic that had animated here would have been destroyed or leeched away when his car had hit; yet, there she was, screaming at him on his worktable.

He stood up slowly, with his hands out and open; trying to show her that he was no threat. She seemed to be able to speak, and quite loudly at that, though he had no idea what language she was using. Her appearance was that of a Gypsy, however her words did not sound like either the Romany tongue or any of the other tongues in use in eastern Europe. So, at least for now, gestures would have to do.

Miriya was very frightened. She felt so helpless and could not seem to get her bearings to stand up. She saw the man, heavyset with thinning brown hair and storm gray eyes. She watched him rise up from the table and, though she tried to plead with him to let her go, to explain where she was and what had happened, it seemed as though he did not understand her. Slowly though, through gestures that showed he did not mean to harm her; that, in fact, he was trying to help her (taking her detached left arm and setting it back beside the shoulder joint and working some of the wires that held it there helped with that explaining immensely) She understood and relaxed as best she could so he could continue his efforts on her behalf.

The work had continued on through the night and into the morning; and the sunlight peered through a window to put her back into her inanimate state just as the man finished installing her arm…

Dylan worked on the wooden woman for several weeks. At first, he could not understand why she would be what he came to consider "awake" at times and "asleep" at other times while he proceded with the repairs and restorations. After some observations,he figured out that it was tied to the moonlight. Now the repairs were complete, he opened the drapes in the room and let the moonlight enter. To his delighted surprise, she stirred as the moonlight touched upon her form. She blinked a few times, which seemed to be normal, and why he thought of it as waking up as he, too, did the same when he would awaken; a natural reaction. She remained laying upon her back, but turned her head to glance over at him and smiled. He smiled back at her and stepped back closer to her. So far, smiles, frowns and other facial expressions have been their only common language; he had tried several languages and had yet to find any that she appeared to understand.

Or, at least, to which she would respond positively. Dylan had tried Latin one time, since several magical texts were written in that language. He immediately dropped any further attempts to use Latin due to the horrified expression on the woman's face.

It was very hard not to think of her as a living woman. Living for she seemed to have all the emotions and animation of any human creature. And a woman as well for the fact that her body was quite exacting in detail...

Most exacting, indeed...

Dylan considered himself lucky that she was asleep when he had examined and performed repairs on some of the more...intimate...portions of her wooden anatomy.

Not that she seemed to be the least bit modest; not if her currently sitting up and letting the sheet he had used to cover her from the neck down was any indication.

"Ah, well," He sighed, "nothing for it." Which was quite probably true. Considering how detailed she was, there was little doubt that whatever mage or sorceror had crafted her had designed her to be able to perform as her body indicated. Modesty was probably not something her creator had considered. He walked back over to her and, with the clinical control of his emotions that had served him so well in his life's pursuits, gestured to her to move about and see if everything was working properly.

Miriya watched him, bemused at his apparent discomfort at her state of nudity. It took a bit, but she managed to understand what he wanted her to do so she stood up and walked about a bit. She turned and twisted and flexed her arms. She could see him watching her with curiosity so she smiled to him. Everything seemed to work just like it should, with no stiffness. She could not feel pain; even getting hit by the metal creature caused only discomfort, no true pain. This man, whoever he was, was a true craftsman. He had been gentle when he had worked upon her body when she was awake and she had little doubt that he had been just as gentle when she was asleep.

She walked over to him and embraced him in a hug before he realised she had him. She kissed him quite deeply and passionately; despite his larger size he either did not possess the strength to break free or was just too stunned by her act to attempt to struggle. For the first time, she spoke to him,

"Thank you, Master."

Already taken aback by her unabashed forwardness, Dylan nearly fainted when she spoke...

And he could understand her! He had tried nearly every language he knew; certainly every language of European origin, though he did not know many from Eastern Europe. He had even tried the Arabic tongues that of which he knew a few phrases. Only Latin had elicited any response, and that was a negative response. He had never, never, thought about this tongue.

"Speak you Enochian?"

"Enochian, Master? I speak the tongue my creatrix spoke."

Dylan had to concentrate to catch what she had said, she spoke the old language so easily and fluidly. That he knew it at all was due to his own family's magical orientation and training. But his own talent with the language was mainly in translating the old books into languages with which he was more adept. He had never considered that anyone, let alone a wooden woman who was alive in the moonlight, would actually speak it.

"Called Enochian tongue is," He replied to her, stumbling over the melodic language. He did not try to get the grammar straight; he did not speak it well enough to even make the attempt. But, if he could at least make himself understood to her he'd work out a way to make a full understanding later on. "Not speak well, do I."

Miriya chuckled, "You speak wonderfully well, Master." Which was hardly true; his accent and grammar was horrible. But they could speak and understand each other. She would be able to serve him as she had her Mistress. And he appeared to be kind and considerate; not like those pawing priests back at the Cathedral after...after...

Dylan could feel a change in her; a sadness. Instinctively, he hugged her back. "Safe are you now. Hurt you will not I."

It had been very late in the night when he had opened the drapes and now dawn was approaching. He gave her one last hug then stepped back from her, "Sun rise now. Sleep must you."

She nodded and climbed back upon the table, laying down. She smiled to him, "Thank you, Master."

"Master not I. Dylan name mine is."

"I am called Miriya..." She said as the sunlight entered the room and its warm caress sent her back to sleep.

"Miriya..." He mused. A name as lovely and mysterious as the wooden woman that bore it. He kissed her forhead then slid the sheet back over her inanimate form.

For now, though, it was time to get a bit of sleep and then spend some time in his library and research some spells. His command of Enochian could be called poor at best and he would quickly reach the end of what use it would be for making him understood to her. There were other ways, though; faster ways than spending months trying to teach her English or another language.

He simply had to find them.

One thing was certain, though, he mused as he made his way to his bedroom; a life that had already been most interesting had just become far, far more so....