Author: James Yarton

The sun beat down overhead, sending wave after wave of oppressive heat, leeching any free moisture from soil and flesh alike. Plants that should have been green and heavily laden with fruit and berries drooped, their offspring withered on the vine. The rivers and creeks, strong flowing only weeks before, lay stagnant and shallow, revealing flaking clay and powdering dust on their banks. The air that should have been filled with the songs of birds and the humming of insects lay silent, instead heavy and swollen with the angry static of a lightning storm waiting to spark. The Hungerer had awoken, and all of Nature suffered under his presence.

The first bits of his flesh turned to bark, those on his hands, were now covered with mossy growths and had hardened to the point that they turned the bite of insects and steel alike. Those that followed later were still soft, but he could tell that the atmosphere was accelerating the change, as if his Curse was aware what was coming and sought to have him ready for the challenge. If so, then it seemed that Grandfather’s gift was more far-reaching than even he knew. Still, the new growth across his torso itched, and only a good soak with cool river water from the few ponds left near the beaver’s dams seemed to ease it.

Sinking bare feet deeper into muddy soil, Etienne once more considered the task before them as he let the waters seep into his tired body, satisfying a thirst that he had been unaware of until it was sated. They had fought their way through the tunnels, across rivers of bile and pools of acid, through waves of parasites and rat-folk, only to be confronted with a solid wall of flesh and bone as the final barrier to the Heart, the source of the great evil and where their fates would be decided. They bore steel and song, the powers of faith from both traditions, along with the most recently developed weapons that they could forge…but would it be enough?

A single cry split the silence of the day. Falcon, a frog caught in his talons alighted on the smooth boulder nearby and began to eat his prey, before turning to consider the man (was he still a man?). The druid turned to face his friend and companion, the first spirit who had ever been willing to speak back directly all those years ago. “Falcon. How fares your range? Is there something I can do for you?”

Yellow eyes pierced into his own, unblinking and endless in their depths.
*Prey is scarce. The forest, afraid. The Court grows silent, and so the land waits.*

“Waits? Waits for what, the turning of the season? For the Court to make a decision?”

*Waits for you. For the People. To act, to decide. Will you succeed in your struggle, or will you fall? Will you retreat into the Other, or will you remain here in the Green?*

“We have already agreed to stay here, that running away won’t solve our problems and would be abandoning our purpose to Vecatra. Why then do you all wait?”

*The Mother asks what the Mother should already know. My, the People do love to talk, don’t they.*

A few quick pumps of wings, and then the talons, still streaked with blood and viscera, sank onto his wooden shoulder, the hooked beak beginnig to preen his hair, bringing order to the sodden chaos.

*The Spirits *have been*. The Spirits *are*. The Spirits *will be*. Locked in the cycle of the Green, as ordained by Vecatra in the beginning and playing our parts until all returns to being one in Her embrace. To Change, that is the gift of the People, one given alongside your tasks to Name and Question, to Steward and Prune. Of all of Vecatra’s creatures Man was given no special gift of claws, or fangs, or thick hides or furs, but of the idea What Can Be.*

*Hope. That is your gift, and your great curse. It can lift or destroy in equal measure.*

*And so we wait.*

Silence once more reigned in the shadow of the trees, even the burble of the waters seeming to fade as he contemplated the sudden deep truths he was given by his old friend, before a particularly harsh preen drew him from his thoughts. “Ouch! I know I’m more bark than flesh these days, but that’s no reason to go digging for bugs that aren’t there!”

*I’m hungry. Get me a fish.*

Laughter, unbidden and deep overtook him at those words, sending him into such a fit that he all but fell over and sending Falcon hopping back to the stone, squawking at the indignity of almost being thrown into the pool.

What did he have to worry about? After all, they would do their best, and what would come would come. Why waste what time they had left stuck thinking dark thoughts when they could spend it with their loved ones? Finally, he managed to control breathing enough to respond.

“Falcon? Never change, my friend.”

—

And so the rest of the day went: he set a line to cry and catch a fish; Falcon told him of the goings on of the forest and hills, of leshen and bee alike, and he felt the despair leave him and be replaced with a sense of peace.

What will come, will come. We know the task before us, so let us be about it.

Etienne tossed and turned, the heat and humidity meant that what sleep he did manage to get was fitful at best. Eventually, he gave it up as a bad job, rising to splash water on his face at the basin before walking out of the bunkhouse to the front porch in hopes of catching a morning breeze.

The dream was back, the one he’d been having off and on almost all of his life, as far back as he could remember. He wasn’t sure if it was the vision at the Grove, the discussion of what Corbin saw while in the realm of the spirits, or something else, but for the first time he knew what the dream meant. He cast his mind back to his dream, long familiarity easing the task.

*Surrounded by white softness, mist beaded together to form a drop of water, before suddenly plummeting through the air, surrounded all the while by thousands of its siblings. Green fingers reached out to cradle them as they fell, some sticking to the leafy fronds, others swept aside by the wind to continue down, past the mighty trunks and outstretched arms to the black soil far below, before being drawn inexorably towards the call of those waters born beneath the earth and bubbling up to meet their siblings from the skies. Together they mingled and danced, entwining together to form first a spring, then a trickle, a creek, then finally the mighty river that branched into three forks: one that fed the bayous of the Louressaint, calm and peaceful above but full of life and struggle underneath; one that wove its way towards the great ravine at the edge of the forests, pouring down into the depths of the earth, hidden and secret to all creatures; one that churned and twisted upon itself, before seemingly ending abruptly in a deep pool beneath a circle of white oaks, all dark water with no bottom that reflected the night sky.

A voice called out, the words indistinct, and he was suddenly aware of himself as a creature again, somehow seeing all three rivers and their ends at once, and he was consumed with an urge to pick one to quench his thirst*–only to wake once more, sweaty and thirsty in that way only fitful sleep brings.

Three rivers. Three paths. Three endings. Which would they choose?

To return to the shadows now, after all they had done together in the sun? No, it would be unthinkable. To flee, to shed their Forms and Purpose to dance with the deathless outside of their appointed place and time? Not while he lived and wore the mantle of Mother.

No, they would sup on the waters of struggle, but those of home, and fight for that golden path that Vecatra had shone them as the answer to their question. It was the only way to not make all their efforts, and those of all who came before them, not be in vain.

The heavy gray clouds overhead rumbled, and a single white tongue of lightning leapt out to strike somewhere in the deep woods, the thunder that followed acting as the opening bell to a torrent of rain that finally relieved the oppressive humidity of the past weeks, the water cool and refreshing in the summer heat.

Thunder rumbled overhead. Black clouds hung low and swollen, ready to burst and release their precious cargo to the thirsty earth below. Spring was here, and the rivers ran rapid with the thaw, carrying life from the rills to the swamp and beyond. Bird calls and the chirping of tree-dwellers blended into a song of life, growth, and green that swept him along its current as he strode deeper into the forest, eyes near closed as he listened for the song.

‘This might be our last Spring.’

The thought came to him unbidden, yet undeniable. The Mists were all but spent, the Court reduced to whispers and final blessings granted through shrines despite the restoration of the Grove and the leylines beneath it, and Etienne could hear it in the song of the woods. There was life, yes, but life fed by death. Growth, at the expense of something, some*one* else. The green shoots reached for the sun, but their flowers and fruit seemed…lacking in some essential element, leaving them hollow and unfulfilling in the stomach.

Already the Hungerer’s restlessness was visible, the effects of it waking resulting in the constant gnawing in the gut, the weariness in the bones. Would their winter stores make it to the first harvests in summer? Each ration stretched shorter and shorter by the day, and if nothing changed, the elders would be reduced to eating pine shoots and grass soup by the end of spring.

Finally reaching the Grove, he paused to take it in: the mushroom circles and carefully tended herb plots; the newly crafted shrines in their place of honor; the canopy overhead stretching out shadows to protect from sun and rain alike. It looked much like it always had, but for how much longer? Without the Mists, if they were to survive the Beast Below, what sort of a future would their children have? One of hiding and secrecy, the Grove reduced to a place of secrets and lies instead of joy and laughter?

He looked at his hand, once again overgrown with bark and moss much like his Patron, the temporary reprieve from the granting of the patronage faded like a dream. It was a visible sign of their Oath, a reminder of one possibility for the Circle and Luisant, and one he hoped wouldn’t be required. He *wanted* to trust in kith and kin, in the spirit of cooperation and comradery that had been built up these past few years, but was he right to make that call?

The clouds above gave out, no longer able to hold up under their mighty load, and the pale morning turned to a sodden gray as the heavens wept. Tears of joy and relief, or tears of sorrow he could not tell. Perhaps it was both, and rightly so, as his own tears mingled with the rain as it fell, each one a silent prayer for wisdom that he was unsure if it would be answered, but needed to be made nonetheless.

Charcoal scraped over the loose sheets of bark in front of him, blackened fingertips tracing the lines of tally marks and labels to the quiet rhythm of the rain outside. A quiet harrumph of displeasure is followed shortly after by the rumbles of “hmm” and “ahh”, as the line is quickly struck out and re-tallied based on the half-scribbled note slid into the ledger’s margins. Why did people wait to submit their plans for spring so late in the winter, when there was little time left for reconciling the records against the stores?

Sighing, Etienne took the opportunity to stand and stretch, adding blackened fingerprints to similar marks on his shirt as he twisted to and fro, seeking the subtle pop of joints and ligaments sliding back into proper place after too much time stooped over the desk. Spring was on its way sooner than expected, and that was the problem. Short winter meant flush storehouses and happy townsfolk, but less time for the soil to renew itself and feed the endless maze of root and vine that fed the land. They could clear away the deadwood, crop the bent and broken limbs to allow for healthy growth, but was the food there to fuel it? And that was before this mess with the wizard and his curse, sapping the lifeblood of the forest for his own purposes…

His gaze turned to the storm outside, seeing the rivulets of runoff worm their way back to the river. Everything was connected here, hung in a delicate balance overseen by the spirits and managed by the efforts of man and beast. How will things change, when the Mists finally fail, when the Standing People no longer have the strength to talk to the people and are left as deaf and dumb as the lion statue the townsfolk worship around? Tears well in his eyes at the thought, quickly brushed away with a careless hand leaving streaks beneath his eyes.

Realizing what he had done, tears quickly changed to mirth, quiet laughter bubbling forth as he sought out the basin to clean the coal from face and hands. Enough maudlin thoughts, he confirmed to himself, reaching for soap and cloth. We should be looking forward to spring, and the return of the sun. The town was growing ever closer together, the Circle grew in strength as Patrons were selected and blessings granted, and the near impossible had occurred in Grandfather Oak agreeing that their changes were for the best.

As thoughts shifted to Oak, a still-damp hand paused to reach for the scar over his heart, still pink and fresh even all these months later. Yes, perhaps now is the time to finally have that chat, now that the winter winds were giving way to the season of change…

Sap and blood mingled together in small rivulets under the careful edge of his knife before he wound a clean cloth around his left hand to staunch the flow. Now that Willow-bark’s Pact had faded, he had expected his exploratory cuts to hurt, and the lack of pain was equally a relief and of concern. Soon, the linen hid the worst of it, leaving only the rough edges exposed like spider’s legs growing down each finger, tiny sprigs of gathering moss like the first fuzz on a baby’s head. Tests had shown that there was no loss of dexterity or feeling from the flesh on spindly fingers, but the bark wrapping around the palm, backhand, and wrist itself only passed on heat, cold, or pressure, and would split apart at the first touch of a blade. So much for the hope that it would at least act like the armor it appeared at first glance to be.

Still, what was done was done, and there was no sense in tears or rage. A hand was a small price to pay for Marinette’s life, and he would do it again even knowing the cost. He worried more about the mark his act had left on her breast: was it merely a scar, a memento of her brush with death, or was it a sign of the curse taking hold on her as well? Yet another question for Grandfather Oak come next market, after the fall harvests were complete and winter stores laid down.

Etienne sighed, then began a series of breathing exercises drilled into him since childhood. After a minute, he opened his eyes, now freed of all the stress and fear their journey into the Thicket had accrued: the nightmare’s cold touch spiking through his heart; the sickening snap as Hugo’s leg was shattered by the thorned grasp of the shades hounding his desperate rescue of Marinette; the weeping sobs of Lunette joining with Rowan’s keening of relief into a song of pathos that brought tears to his eyes at the mere memory; all were breathed out into the world, no longer held within to fester and bring doubt, like a blight scarring healthy wood to uselessness.

His gaze drifted away from the canopy overhead and to the small mound he sat beside, clustered at the base of Oak’s roots. Rowan was back among them, freed from the Thicket, but bound to have scars from their journey and the long task of warding off the Devourer before that. Would it be better to let them sleep, to recover themselves and emerge on their own time, or to accept the help they offered in payment of the debt of their salvation, and potentially cripple their recovery? Only time would tell, but that was the one thing the town was swiftly running out of. Reports on the encounters with the anacrusis beast said that it was only growing stronger and more dangerous, a sure sign of the rising strength of its master. Soon, the townsfolk would have to risk direct conflict with the beast and its horde of slaves and abominations, or else they risked destruction of all they held dear.

The silence of the grove gave him little reassurance. The soft rumbles of the ancestors within their wooden slumber was lost in the slow cadence of the beating of his heart, and his eyes grew heavy. Sleep then, and recover his strength. There would be plenty of challenges come the next day.

Pulling his cloak around his shoulders and tipping the brim of his hat to shade his face, Etienne soon stilled into sleep, shaded by the mighty arms of the great oak tree at his back, the soft breath of leaves meeting with his own snores as the heavens turned overhead.

You often don’t recognize the normal sounds of life until they are disrupted. They fade into the background, forming a symphony that scores your highs and lows, your successes and triumphs: The ringing of bells to tell the passage of time. The calls of kith and kin going about their daily business. The grinding buzz of crafting tools, steady beats of axes, and the soft scraping of hunters dressing their latest kills. All dance in time to the pumping bellows of the breath and the swinging of limbs directed to their tasks, but beneath it all, the steady dance of the heart, softly moving humors along their way to maintain the balance of life.

You never realize how important something is until it’s gone.

You can never truly understand the meaning of silence until you rest like a tree, your arms outstretched to the morning sun, the rays soaking through your flesh and filling you with light. The thoughts and passions that drive creatures seem insignificant compared to the songs of birds, the dance of winds, the slow seeping coolness of rich, dark soil full of moisture and tiny seeds of life below…

It is a gift; one unasked for and unearned.

It is a curse; forced by a greater power and paid for in blood.

It is a duty; taken up with zeal so that others may yet grow stronger and the balance be restored.

They say that the songs of a Maiden are pure and full of the joy of discovering youth, while the voice of a Mother is silent, yet full of the memory of song. I think this deceptive, as Mothers can still sing, if merely following the rhythm of a different drum. Lost is the fire and passion of Spring, the yearning desire to Know and Name, instead given over to the steady determination of Summer, where tasks *must* be done lest disaster come.

Gone is the birdsong, sweet in the morn, and remains the hunting cry, sudden and shrill.

You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

[Recommended listening: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQQnxm8FNog&list=OLAK5uy_kd3XarZHq7VOt3BXK4ba_05iHa3iB3s14]

Rain poured down from the roiling mass of thunderheads, bouncing and tumbling off of leaves and branches alike, seeking their new home in thirsty soil and sodden clothing, weighing down wool and linen to cling to flesh. It was all the same to Etienne. The dirt, the roots of the great trees, his pale skin shivering beneath the weeping skies, all were numb before the haze in his mind, locking him into a state of reliving the night before as a series of images; no sound, no touch, merely light and shadow, red and hungry. If someone were to come across him in this state, only the slight steam of his breath would reveal he yet lived.

‘Why do I try so hard, when we can’t even agree on something as simple as upholding a promise?’

‘When have they sacrificed anything for this town, this place sacred to us all? We give, and give, and always bow to their sensibilities, and for what? More loss? More pieces of ourselves torn away?’

His hat, long since sodden, gave up the fight against gravity and slipped off with a squelch of wool and bark meeting at force, sending the small planter dangerously close to tipping over and losing its precious cargo. The sight snapped him from his thoughts, lunging to save the seedlings, and successful at the cost of a face of mud and loam. The scent of rich earth dragged him back to this time, this place, letting the shades of the past evening finally lose their grip and retreat back into memory.

In their place came tears. Of sorrow. Of rage. Of helplessness and frustration and a thousand things and none, all mingling with and becoming lost in the steady rain that refused to quit, determined to accomplish its goal of returning life to the land after such a harsh winter.

Above it all, a distant cry of a hawk, the voice somehow overlaid with the feeling of [Hunger/Hunt/Prey] as it carried across the forest. It seemed his friend was awake, and starving. A sudden snort of laughter at the thought was cut off by a surge of mud meeting sinus, leaving him sputtering and fighting to clear his face of the invader, before turning face to sky, allowing the cool drops to wash away his tears.

Maybe he had convinced them, maybe he had not, and would soon be an oath-breaker. There was nothing more he could do but to *be*, and hope it would be enough. What was the old saying again? Ah yes: “Faire flèche de tout bois.”

“Make your arrows from any wood, my children, as each is as precious as the last, and you never know which will feed you and which will feed the forest.”

“If you keep digging like that, you’re going to ruin my good hatchet, fils.”

The quiet voice on the wind disturbed his prayers, scattering thoughts like cattails in the hand of a curious child. He swallowed hard, eyes locked on the bloody tangle of roots and soil before him, before restarting his entreaty to Willow for her peaceful guidance through the Thorns for Simon.

‘Grand-mère, veuillez guider cette pauvre créature vers son repos. Il a parcouru nos chemins et a accepté votre bénédiction. Menez-le à travers les Épines sans blessures, qu’il puisse retourner sans ombre dans le cycle du monde.’

The moon shone brightly all around, the specks of heart’s-blood on his hands glowing softly in contrast to the white criss-cross of scars on his flesh. The words tumbled from his lips were paired with puffs of steam, the night air cutting into lungs with every breath. It wasn’t enough to block out the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder, her words in his ears.

“You did as you were told, beb. You listened to your Mère, and got what dat poor boy needed. Don’ you waste tears dat it wasn’t what you wanted.”

Prayer complete, he rose to his feet, shrugging off the (imagined?) hand on his shoulder, and reaching for a cloth to clean both flesh and steel. “Why do you always have to talk now, hahn? Why not when I actually need your advice?” His words were harsh, darkened with traces of grief and pain. “I know dis was the best outcome, short of him being free to join the Circle, but since when are we dat lucky, no? Was it when de Kruzemore showed up, carried on paths of tiny legs? Or was it when our *lord* was taken and replaced by his useless son, arrogant as any youth? No, MawMaw, we not dat lucky anymore, an’ it looking to be gettin’ worse.”

Task complete, he placed the hatchet back on his belt before turning to stare at the moon, high in the night sky but seemingly close enough to touch, perfectly outlined by the tips of the trees of the grove. “All dose stories o’ yours, of Arbor and his adventures? How he protected the forest and guided the woodcutters to the best groves and taught the secrets of the undergrowth? His mighty staff ensuring good footing through de worst o’ de bayou?”

He spat on the ground, flecks of blood amidst the saliva. “Lies. All o’ dem.” He turned to face the willow tree, its branches softly tossing in the night’s breeze. “He’s a spirits-damned Lion, and now I don’ know *what* to believe.” A small tear formed at the edge of one eye, before being ruthlessly scrubbed away by a scarred back of one hand. “But I’m a good boy, an’ I know my duty. The Hungry One is wakin’, and we need the Pact to be strong. I’ll do my part, but know this: I will never forget. We’ll grow, and move on, but dis only goes to prove you right, your favorite saying an’ all.”

“When dealin’ wit de People an’ de Court, know dis: you always get what you need, but rarely what you want. Live well, work hard, and only lean on gifts when all else fails. Everything has a cost, an’ you might not be the one to pay, cher.”

“Don’ worry about dat wind none, fils.” his father’s low voice murmured, when the latest storm blew through camp and set the lanterns creaking in their dance, the canvas of wagons and tents snapping to the rhythm. The groans and pops made him burrow ever deeper into warm, protective arms. “It’ll blow t’rough by morn’n, and da woods will still be here, guarding an’ growing as ever.” Warm brown eyes winked down at their smaller mirror-image, a small grin growing beneath a bushy mustache as more creaks lead to shivers in his small form.

“You wan’ to know deir secret? How dey give no mind to storm an’ sun alike?” His small head gave a timid nod, eyes locked on the light reflected in his father’s spectacles, the wick’s flame dancing like fireflies. The thought of summer; of the sun and being away from the storm threw all notions of fear aside for precious moments, before being cast aside as the wind howled anew. His father chuckled, his emotions had obviously been all over his face despite his attempts to be brave.

“Strong roots, fils. Down, down t’rough dirt an’ loam; past water an’ darkness to heart of de eart’ herself.” He could almost picture it, the lines of strong wood spreading like the nets they used on the river, ever deeper into the world below them. “Course, it’s not jus’ de one tree dat makes it work, hahn? De roots, dey reach out to each other, tied together like holdin’ hands in de Circle. Dat’s what makes dem strong, fils.” His father’s voice started to fade, as the his eyes drifted closed, fear losing the battle to gentle voices and soothing warmth…

Étienne startled awake, hat dropping into his lap from the sudden jerk of his head. Reaching for it with one hand, he felt the bark of the great oak behind him with the other, its rough rasp familiar and anchoring him in the *here* and *now.* Part of him ached to return to his dream, to that time of protective strength and certainty, but the rest of him knew that escape into the past wasn’t the point of his meditations today. He had gone into the Wild alone for a reason, to search for the answer to Grandfather’s challenge last market, and hints as to the best path forward for them all as a community.

“Roots hahn?” he muttered, standing and brushing off his trousers before gathering his things and preparing to return to camp and prep the evening meal, already counting out ingredients in his mind’s eye. “If that’s the sign we need, to stand together and be heard all the same, then who am I to doubt?”

His eyes turned to the oak once more, patting the bark gently before turning and leaving the grove for home. “Merci, père. You always knew what to say when I needed it most.”