The Story - Part III: In the Woods

Time lost its importance and its passage went unmarked. The trees blocked out all but the thinnest rays of sunlight. They rationed and measured everything. I knew activity only when they provided small meals or let rainwater pass through their branches and over their leaves to me. Even sound was muffled, and this is how I knew I was in a prison of their making. As I had walked in the edge of the gentle woods, on the outskirts of the Elders, the woods had been loud with the sound or rustling leaves, crashing pinecones and acorns, the crackling of trees stretching their limbs. Now they did not want me to know of the world outside this place.

At first I continued to struggle, to reason with them. I am not your daughter, I told the Elders. I do not fit here. Your ways are not suited to me. But they could taste youth in my words and hushed me as they would an inexperienced child, stretching more and more vines between me and my freedom, until I feared the vines would take over what little space remained to me, and I was silent.

So in silence I pushed attacked the woody vines, and they remained. In silence I sat with my back to them, and pressed my flesh against their hard unforgiving surface. They would not give way, so I pressed harder. They would not give way, so I pressed harder still until the vines clung to me, taunted by my pressure and pleased with my spine. They encircled me as an abandoned and desolate sculpture. The more I pushed the tighter they clung until I was uncomfortably restricted. I finally extracted myself like a spring bud escaping its branch. I found relative safety with my back against the roughness of tree bark, and I was still.

And I think this was when I first became acquainted with the scent of death. Until I knew its name, I could only identify the smell of fear in it and turn away. But death would lurk in shadows, intertwined in the vines surrounding me. So to find it, I rested my head against the trunk of a tree, barely moving, tilting my head inch by inch, until I could tell when the scent was the strongest. Then I stared at the shadows in front of me until they separated, until they took shape. The forms would gesture to me. It was then that I knew death waited for me.

Still, I could hear my friends. They were not loud or close. At times I worried that I only imagined them. I feared all that remained was my powerful longing for their company. But in a place of such stillness, where the scent of death is so powerful, even the smallest thing is a big thing. When sky’s breezy fingers probed delicately through the vines and feathered my hair, I knew it was my friend and not my longing. And when it sought me in this locked up place with clear sunny fingers, unafraid and tender, it gave me courage in a deep place inside. Days would pass and I would not hear from it, then I would see a ray of light pointing to a spot on the forest floor, revealing a small glistening bead of dew on a single blade of grass. I would edge toward it slowly, drawing little attention to my movements, moving a few inches at a time, stopping to sleep, then waking to move again. And when I reached the blade of grass, I would extend a single finger to the fragile fellow and the drop would coat the top of my finger. I knew it was a greeting from my friend, who despite the greed of the trees found something to spare for me. It was a miracle I could tell no one about, but I protected it in my heart.

This is how my life was reduced. And I had to participate. Because to spend my hours waiting on signs which were few and far between was to waste hope on what might not be. My mind thirsted for the next touch of the wind, the next cool drop of water on my fingertip. Eventually they would forget me, I knew, and the signs would stop coming. I would be left to this place for whatever purpose the trees had. My friends would find more engaging companions. Losing them, losing the hope in them would be worse somehow than losing my journey and my freedom. So I gave them up early. I stopped looking for their signs. Hope creaked to a halt and I was left alone with my worn and tired thoughts.

And the trees marked my days.

The Story - Part II: Journey

My companions brought joy to me, stroking my hair and whispering in my ears. I walked tall with an easy stride and did not worry about the passing of time. The path from the birthplace of my memories was smooth. Novelty distracted me! The sky delighted me with colors she’d never shown me. I was a traveler, she said, and should be treated to new sights. And the air was different here too, gathering leaves to swirl in the air or shout unfamiliar sounds across the waves to jangle around my ears. Birds knew different dances here and they displayed them, eager for a new appreciative eye. I paid them homage with my delight.

Earth often reminded water to refresh me, and within its banks it would slow seriously and invite me to drink. When I reached the banks however I could see how beneath the surface it could barely contain its giggles. It did not want to be the majestic flowing water of life, not then. It wanted to play. I would drink deeply so it could return to its games. I loved the water that day, because it was delicious and clean and because it could dance.

My companions comforted me. I found love in their generosity. And time carried me further away from home. Each day the path got a little rougher. I wouldn’t speak as much to the waves or the air as I had to look where I was going or stumble. And the sky seemed further away those days, hiding behind trees. She would still shake their tops, which made them gossip noisily and analyze her in minute and specific detail, but I would hear her thoughts second hand, in leafy echoes.

I also noticed the thirst of trees for the first time. They clamored for water. So when I spoke to the water, our conversations were spare and forced, as it seemed to be telling me it had little of itself to go around. I rationed myself, leaving my thirst not completely quenched. I did not want water to mind my company. That was the first memory I have of concerning myself with such matters.

The trees were friendly enough though, always inviting me further down my path. They intrigued me with stories from their memories, which stretched further back than my own. They explained that they had created this path just for me, at a time way before my own existence. This fascinated me. What would be around the next curve? What would I see at the top of the next hill? It was all an adventure.

And when I was tired, I would sit at their feet. They would shade me from storms and high winds, and speak in soothing leafy whispers until I drifted in sleep. They seemed eager to tell their stories to me, as eager as trees can be in their steady unflinching nature, eager like I was an adopted daughter who needed to learn both their stories and their ways. Memory became more important to me than the present in fact, and I would walk for long stretches where all I concentrated on were the trees and the tales and the step in front of me. Birds and wind and sunrises could not distract me. I took delight in purpose.

I do not remember when I first lost the sky and when the taste of sunlight became unfamiliar, but suddenly I missed it. Suddenly I was hungry for it and it was missing. And one special day I woke and sensed they had abandoned me. The air was not gone, but it was not as I remembered. It was quiet and tight and seemed somehow to have aged. I was in the Deep Woods, I was told, and this was its proper name, and here is where I would stay.

I looked around me, examining my surroundings. The pathway out had been obscured as if the trees had decided to link their branches together and contain me inside them. Had there always been vines here? I could not tell you, but they had grown up at some point. They were thick and strong and I could not break them. When I probed too deeply I found thorns and drew my hands back.

Above all was the whispered leafy encouragement. Slow down, they told me, you move too much. You should stop. You should be still. And I was still. Not to rest, but to be dulled and turned into lead, or into earth where nothing green will grow.

--Laura