Forest
Day Two of A Dozen Days of Magical Realism
I’m loving the potluck stories on “Solitude,” so let’s keep this party rolling!
What kind of person are you? Mountain or ocean? Forest or lake? Desert or glacier?
I’m all of the above. Drown me in sensory experience wherever we go, please!
Forest
“Oh, look! The little pink things are crawling around in the dirt!” I called to my neighbor.
“Again?” Weary and disinterested, but polite. He was a good neighbor, older, very patient with the flighty interests of such a youth. “I thought they only came to watch us fall asleep. Creepy little things,” he muttered. “Kind of gross.”
“They are not! They’re cute. I wish I knew where they came from, what their lives are like. But they seem completely oblivious. I wonder if they could be conscious?”
“You said last time you thought all things were made of consciousness,” he sighed, continuing the obligatory conversation, looking down from his towering height with more affection than condescension. He was so much grander, I wondered that he even bothered to speak with me, even though we had shared so much of our patch of earth with each other.
“Well, they’re alive, aren’t they? They come and go—who knows where?—the way they move is so very dramatic. Oh, look! It’s touching me! On purpose! Do you see?” I was so excited, I shivered out to my very tips. The birds reacted to my enthusiasm, taking flight with a shimmer of song that glistened like raindrops rising.
The star-shaped creature had wrapped its quick little branches around my trunk. I could feel its warmth, like a tiny sun, seeping through my bark. It fluted to its companion, who fluted back in a staccato, chattery way. Oh, how I wanted to know what they were saying! If only they would stay for more than a moment, maybe I could begin to make sense of it all. My heartwood swelled with wonder at the intricacies of creation.
“Well, looks like they’re on their way,” the great old oak rumbled, lifting his gaze back to his thoughts in the crown and the sky. Like moving flowers, the ephemeral organisms seemed to be blowing away with the breeze.
I wanted to give them something, a piece of me that would keep our spirits connected somehow. I rustled my leaves, maple green in the flush of late spring, and inhaled deeply. Then, as the wiggly pink stars disappeared, I poured a lacy veil of tree-breath all around them, soaking them with all the love in my aerobic omophorion.
Your turn! Post your stories below.
If you need a refresher on the “rules”, check the party invitation!
There is decently sized grove of old, mostly coniferous trees across the road from my home. Not a huge forest by any means, but a cozy patch of woodland which I love to look at each morning when I drink coffee from the steps of my front porch. The grove’s inhabitants often emerge to greet the day along with me, and I’ve come to view them as friends of a sort. I’ve seen several deer — sometimes with their fawns — and even a few bucks. Once I was gifted the sight of a black bear. Most often, however, I’m simply treated to the activities of squirrels, rabbits, and countless birds.
At night, when I sip my wine, I tend to spy the glowing eyes of whatever nocturnal creatures roam the grove. Raccoons, possums, and even a fox every now and again. I relax, taking in the perfectly tuned music of the night: cricket chirps, frog croaks, and owl hoots.
These are normal nights. My favorite nights. They’re never quiet but always calm, and thankfully, they’re the nights I experience most often, because there are other nights — like tonight — that are not normal. Nights when everything is quiet, but nothing is calm.
I can always tell it’s going to be one of those nights because as soon as the sun begins to set, there’s not a sound to be heard. Neither the hum of insects nor the snapping of twigs. Only disquieting silence.
Nights like tonight, I sip my wine inside. Because on nights like tonight, he wanders the woods, and I don’t go outside when he’s there. No living thing does.
The first night I learned about him and his occasional visits, I'd only been in the house for a few weeks. I sat on the porch with my coffee each morning and my wine each night ever since I moved in, and everything had only ever been normal.
That evening, with a book in one hand and a glass in the other, I sat on my porch steps as I had every night for weeks. The crickets chirped, the frogs croaked, and all was well. But right before sundown, as instantly as a television shuts off with one click of a button, every normal, natural noise of the grove ceased. The abrupt muting and sudden shift in the atmosphere was impossible not to notice, and by the sun’s full setting, the silence was deafening.
Curious, I gazed into the grove. I saw not a single glowing pair of animal eyes…but I saw him.
And he saw me.
I slowly rose to my feet. He did the same. I stepped backwards towards the door. He stepped out from the woods, into the open air. I seized the doorknob, my sweaty palm slipping as I twisted it. He lurched forward onto the road, and I slammed the door.
I don't go outside on these nights. Nights like tonight, I’m perfectly content to sip my wine in bed.
There is power in stories,
A mother tells her daughter, as they weave songs into pictures. She tells of the wild gods, the gods of the forest that lays outside their village. Dark gods, hidden in the trees, seeking the blood of sacrifice. The wind whips through the leaves and the daughter shudders.
There is power in stories,
A mother tells her daughter, as they write pictures onto wood, golden bright windows to a world beyond. She tells of a tree that gives life, a spear against the darkness of the forest outside. The wind twirls thorough the branches and the daughter smiles.
There is power in stories,
A mother tells her daughter, as they sew piecework by firelight, eyes straining as the darkness encroaches on the forest outside the city. She tells of the fair folk, hidden deep in the woods, and spoke of ploys and prayers to defeat them. The wind howls through the city streets and the daughter yearns.
There is power in stories,
A mother tells her daughter, as she tucks the girl in bed. She reads stories of magic and renewal, of worlds made whole and hale through grit and guiding lights. The wind whispers though the window and the girl ponders.
There is power in stories,
A daughter tells the world. She speaks of forests coming alive, of vengeance and right-making, machines burned and new life growing up in the ashes. The world ignores the wind hissing in her words and the girl plans.
There is power in stories,
A daughter tells the woods. She shouts out those stories to the trees, tales of tree-shepherds and bridge-slayers and forests that wake up in strength. The wind stirs up dust with the slow movement of roots and the lifting of limbs and the girl laughs.
There is power in stories.