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The first time he takes shelter with me, he is hunted. I can see it in the wildness of his eyes and the speed of his breathing. Like a rabbit seeking a hole, he crashes through the brush, a tangle of arms and legs collapsing before me.
Mobile creatures are so small and easily broken, even in maturation, yet this one is little more than a twig. A bruised twig. Like a nestling with shell still stuck to wet feathers. Yet he has found his way into deep woods, so some mettle must flow through him. Either that or fear.
I sense no sharp edge on him and he carries no fire. Has he offended the fey? Fallen afoul of a Huldra? Has a Drude caught his trail?
This bruised twig presses himself into a little hollow between two roots, his back to my trunk. His sap pumps so swiftly. The fur on his head is honey-gold and his hide is pale. Water runs from his eyes, and but for his rapid breathing, he is silent.
My sap runs slow, but questions between trees pass at the speed of thoughts. So I ask, questing along my roots to where mine meet many others.
Is there pursuit?
Root to root, the question ripples out. A hundred answers return.
There is a fox on trail of a rabbit.
An owl has caught a mouse.
A spider traces the strand of webbing that has caught a falling ant.
A very loud human has been searching for something, but tires of it. He stinks of long-boiled grain.
This answer is the latest to return to me, pulsing from a sapling much closer to the edge. Of all the answers I receive, this is the most likely predator for the prey cowering at my trunk.
It is not for me to shield prey from predator. What fairness is it that I take life from the snake by hiding the wounded bird? And yet this predator has long lost the trail.
Many little waterfalls pour from his hide, moisture that sinks into the earth. I taste in it the strain of an unending chase in plain sight. I do not understand, for even mice find time to enjoy the seed and nut they find. Even the smallest birds sing to the rising sun. Yet his moisture tastes as if he has never stopped running for his life.
I sigh into the earth. There is a wrongness within him that should not exist, and it disturbs me. Tranquility is driven from my branches, so I emerge from my trunk.
The moment I do, even more liquid exits him. He thinks me a hunter, now, and finds his legs in a flash.
"Do not look at me thus, nestling." Nearby trees vibrate with the force of my voice. "It is your own presence that has woken me so."
Back on his hindquarters. His mouth hangs open, and I did not think his eyes could round further. Perhaps I have been too forceful. It is long, long since I have spoken with his kind.
For a moment, I lift my eyes to my body behind him. It is far thicker and a few feet taller than when I last looked on myself. I am pleased at the gnarls and whorls in my bark, every branch carefully constructed to gather the spring and summer sunlight. Emerged, I resemble his kind in general assemblage of limb and body, but beyond that there is little comparison. He can fit inside my hand.
I am proud of the body I have grown and proud of the form I take when I leave it. I choose to closely resemble my body in its size and intricate detail. Trees closer to the edge, I know, have taken to molding their emergences into more pleasing representations of the humans. It is folly. The way I present, no human will come to me with an axe, seeking to "free" me of my "forest chains" should they look upon me. They are more likely to flee. Of those at the edge, there are always tales that come back…
But I am distracted. He leaks terror. It is a wonder his body does not destroy itself. I pluck him off the ground and nestle him in the palm of my hand. He curls up and I nearly laugh. Does he think to disguise himself as a stone? But he still trembles and I promised myself to do something about this wrongness so that I could return to rest.
Rest. Now it comes to me that rest is what this tiny creature, trying to hide in the crevices of my hand, so desperately needs. His body will break itself if it continues this never-ending running that is written in its fluids. And so, I sit upon the throne of my own body and sway with the wind, humming the tune yesterday's short-lived breeze taught me as it passed through my leaves.
His eyes are on me, now, watching me through his paws. His gaze is like a squirrel inspecting the hole it will exit for any sign of pursuit. I cease humming for a moment and creak a few words to him, mindful of the force with which I expel each. "Rest, nestling. None hunt you now."
He peers over the tops of his paws now, covering his mouth. Fear of the hunted still poisons his moisture. The taste of it agitates me. I cannot comfort him like the vixen does her cubs, my branches would scratch or crush him if I tried to groom his hide. So I drop some late summer leaves, a small shower that patters on his body and softens the surface he crouches in.
His paws drop lower and jam into his mouth. He rocks, finally emitting sounds, though he seems to throttle them back. I begin to regret my choice. There is precious little I can do to soothe this tiny creature who shakes like a wind-blown leaf and leaks all his water everywhere. Averting my gaze, I continue swaying and singing yesterday's breeze.
The sunlight has cooled by the time he lies still, eyes closed and breathing even, under a covering of leaves. I turn my thoughts to solve a new problem. What to do with him? Here in the forest there are also predators, though different than the one that first sought him, and it is not for me to deprive one of life to save the other. Returning him to the same place may, however, deprive him of life to sustain the hunter. This, too, is not for me. Though, was this even a matter of a hunter requiring sustenance? It does not seem so, and so does not fit into my understanding.
I shift. It is troubling. Neither solution is right, and the heat-stealing eve is coming. There is not fur enough on this one to keep it in health. So I turn my back on both solutions, curling my hand around him and moving through the forest.
Surprise courses back to my roots from surrounding trees, like reverse ripples for every step I take. I have not been seen to leave my immediate planting grounds for generations. I answer nothing back, making for the forest edge opposite the nestling's entry. It is a place near paths made hard for human's swift-travel. The nestling will be found by more of his kind there, though whether hunters or pack I cannot say. Leaving him there will ensure equality in the outcome.
By dark I have come to the edge. Ahead, I can see a thinning of the trees. None conceal their shock at my approach.
I look down to the form in my hand. He has opened his eyes and is staring at me. It has not been enough rest, but he has had a little taste of it. I bend down and lay my hand flat to the ground.
"Ahead." I point with my other hand.
He doesn't move, his body curling in on itself again.
"You are far from the place you entered."
He uncurls a tiny bit, turning his face back to me. I hear his words for the first time, barely louder than a mouse squeak. "How… how far?"
"Very."
He stares at me, and I at him. I can wait.
He looks down. Looks up. "Who are you?"
I tilt my head. The fey would be silly. They would preen, proclaiming their names unpronounceable by mere mortals, or they would curse the foolish mortal ignorant enough to ask. But they are capricious, changeable as the wind. "Yettle," I creak.
"Yettle," he echoes. "I'm, um. I'm Arthur."
It is foolish of him to give his name so easily. It is different for me. Few in this world are able to wrestle the will of the trees. The strength of the forest would shield me should any try to assault me through my name. He, though, has no such protection. "Speak it not so lightly," I warn, tilting my hand slightly to slide him off.
He clings to my branches and I pause at the earnest gesture. "Can I find you again?"
I do not know how to answer him. It is not wise to enter so deep in the forest, he was fortunate this time. And his question awakens unease in me. Stories from sisters at the edge, stories of humans who do not understand. Who come with axes, intent on bringing us home whether we will or no. I pluck him off my hand and set him away from myself, facing the road. I turn to make my way back.
"Thank you," he calls. I do not look back.
The second time he takes shelter with me, he is haunted. I hear it in his voice as he stumbles through the forest, heedless of the world around him.
There are fewer of us to mark his passage, for the edges of the forest have shrunk inward, but I am still surrounded by great tracts of my family. Some of the great ones have been felled. Some of the young ones are scarred by lightning strikes. Many were lost to infernos that sprang up in blistering heat. Those that remain speak of a human passing them. They speak in harsh crackles and threatening creaks, warning me that he has a name on his lips as he passes. My name.
Sharp edge? I ask. Flame?
A hundred reports respond, No.
If he knows my name, it can only be the twig from before. He is no immortal creature and he has no magical guide, so he will not find me by chance a second time. Indeed, he is far afield already. I can tell, though, there will be no rest for me until I return him to the forest edge again. Emerging, I stretch out of my body, flinging limbs skyward for a moment before I move on feet and bent knuckles to intercept him.
He hears me coming and is already stumbling in my direction when I see him. The questions I would demand answers for never fall from my branches.
No longer a twig, but a sapling now, he is as frail as he ever was. A top limb has been struck from his body in recent days. He lurches toward me, water falling, as ever, from every part of his face. Now, though, he is loud. He nearly retches with cries, throwing himself at my feet.
Without hesitation, I take him into my hands. It is with great effort that I do not fling him from me in that moment, for his body carries wrongness I can barely comprehend. The running inside him has never ceased and has been joined by a wretched taste, like the inside of a tree that has rotted away and become a core-hole. The amount of rest he has stored is as the last scraps of a winter hoard, barely capable of sustaining life. Beyond this, he has been tainted by the touch of immortal creatures. Gently, I probe a wound on his upper trunk, still healing. Here had been a corruption that sought ownership of him. A parasite. No wonder his branch was struck off. This alone had saved him.
"Yettle," he cries like the twig he once was. "Yettle." My name does not contain myself when he speaks it. It contains all that he wishes to say. I can hear unspoken rivers of words crammed into one. He says nothing else.
I stand here, Yettle-of-nearly-six-hundred-years, staggered by the suffering contained in this small body. Once again, there is little I can do. So I carry him away from the place I found him and return to the throne of my body, seating myself in the branches I crafted, and sway softly.
"Rest, nestling," I urge him. "None hunt you, now."
But rest will not take him. He huddles in my hands and will not uncurl. Stimulating plant extracts flow with his sap. How long has he fought to stay awake? How long has he been running?
It is a greater wrongness than before and I cannot bear to leave it as it is. There is no hunter this time, I reason. Making a change for him will deprive none of life.
And so. I strip the colorful leaves he uses to cover himself. He does not fight me.
And so. I secrete a counter to the stimulant, passing it through my bark into his hide, encouraging the toxins to leave his body.
And so. I take him to a stream that I know of, one that flows a little warmer this time of the year.
And so. I lower him into the waters as moisture leaves his hide in great amounts, carrying stimulants out of his body to be washed away in the waters. I hold him here, in the waters, until the sun shifts aside and all the running has left his body. He tilts to the side, a loose pile of sticks that I lift out of the water and cradle in my hands.
I cannot force that which tastes of rot out of him. I have heard of trees recovering from great injury, but only after much care and attention. For a moment, heat kindles within me. Has he no litter? No packmates? No creatures kin to him that might heal this? Is this why he returns to me?
Where, I ask myself, was his pack when he was hunted as a twig? And now?
At least some of the wrongness has left his body. I have few leaves left this time of year, so I gather the fallen ones and cover him with thick layers. This suffices to keep the night from stealing his heat.
The sun rises again. When he wakes, he does not stir. He remains a loose pile of sticks. I dare not gather fruit, nuts, or roots for him. Even this much meddling may deprive a forager of its winter stores. And yet, there is no pack that comes for this one. There wasn't then, and there is no whisper of search for him now.
I will not return him to the forest edge like this; a loose skin full of death. That itself would be choosing a fate for him, would it not? And so I place the tip of a branch between his teeth and pour a few drops of my own life into him. Sap flows down his throat, burning fierce with the gathered sun and rain of many centuries.
Again, he does not fight me, and returns to sleep within the hour. It is like that for the next many hours. He sleeps. He wakes. I drip life into the hollowness of his insides. He sleeps.
By the second sunrise, whispers from the edge of the forest speak of an intruder, a small dog that cannot be a small dog. Large teeth. Magic. Illusions, they warn me. I have no response for them. Perhaps, I think, it has nothing to do with Arthur. So I tend the stricken human as the light brightens and fades away.
By the third time the sunrise breaks his eyelids open, Arthur struggles to raise himself. "Yettle," he says, soft as a bird's wing gliding through clouds. "I found you? Something really bad must have happened." He speaks as if confused by this. Does he not know why he sought me?
His body knows. His body holds the pain and reasons within and I can still taste the toxins. But the hollow-rot taste has faded, and his body recalls what rest is. I have re-taught it. That is all I can do.
I carry him to the stream and wash the filth from his hide once more.
"Where are my clothes?"
Carried away by various creatures to line their nests and burrows, if I recall correctly. I did not bother to stop them. I choose not to answer his question.
A hunter approaches. The dog walks the human's path to you. The human is tracked.
The whispers come closer than yesterday. There is no denying the connection now, and I close my hand around the body I hold.
Perhaps it is Arthur's pack. But if not, then this is a hunter. A real hunter. Whichever is true, sheltering the nestling against him is a betrayal. It is reaching too far. Unbidden, the heat in me kindles brighter. For the first time, I find myself wishing eternal night on the strong and healthy hunter looking to steal the weak chick from its nest. It has not ever been wrong for this to happen before. It still is not wrong for this to happen, and yet I wish…
The hunter scents your presence.
Too swift. The hunter has found the place where I scooped this one up. I must conceal myself soon. The ripples of information flow to me in faster bursts the closer it comes.
"Yettle?" The question is muffled. Slowly, I uncurl my hand. It is only fairness, but I do not take comfort in this. With great care, I place him in the highest fork of my branches. I touch the tip of a branch to his lips once more, leaving one more drop of life on his tongue. Then I re-enter my body, vanishing from his sight. He gasps, gripping the branches tightly. If he were not in such danger, I would be amused by his response. He is so young. He has seen so little.
What emerges from the forest is not impressive to look on. It is a small dog, no taller than the middle of the man's leg. But as the others warned me, there is some great magic within this creature, pulsing just under fur and hide. It lifts its head and its ears perk as it spies the man seated in my crown.
"Arthur!" it barks in a human language. "Thank gods, I found you. You're… why are you in a tree? Naked?" There is relief in its voice, but I prickle beneath my bark. It speaks as if it is pack with the man, but if so, where was he days before? Where was he when the branch was struck from this man's body?
The man, this Arthur, looks down at the dog, silent, his remaining hand drifting to the wound. His body remembers. His body testifies against the dog. It is the dog who did this thing. Thorns poke tips through my bark.
The dog, or whatever creature hides behind this disguise, stumbles back, turning its head left and right. Its tail sticks straight out, ears flat to its skull. If it can sense my anger, it is wise to fear.
I pause, disturbed by my feelings. I cannot stand between a hunter and its prey.
"Mystery?" Arthur speaks as if he is dreaming.
The dog remains tense, alert, but he speaks again. "Arthur, where have you been? Why are you here? Vivi's worried sick. She called the police, posted a missing person's report-everyone's looking for you."
"I…" Arthur looks down my length, then back at the dog he calls Mystery. "Something bad happened. I don't know what it was, but I needed to rest. So I came here."
"Here?" Mystery's fur bristles at the whispers all around him. "Arthur, this wood is not safe. It's inhabited by several very unfriendly beings, not to mention standard predators that could easily take you down."
Arthur is still staring at Mystery. "Mystery, is Lewis okay? We were in the cave, and I went with Lewis… you said Vivi was worried, but you didn't say anyting about Lewis. Something bad happened, I know, but…"
The dog's tail tucks and his ears droop. In that moment, I know this creature is truly pack, not hunter. "He… Arthur, he's… gone."
"Gone?"
"Gone."
Arthur nods his head slowly. "Then we need to find him."
"Find—Arthur?"
"We need to start looking for him. Does Vivi know anything that could help?"
Mystery hesitates, then shakes his head. "First thing's first. How did you get up there? Can you get yourself down?"
Of course he can't get himself down. It would be difficult enough for an animal with his build to do it with all the limbs he was birthed with. It is a risk to emerge before a magical creature of unknown strength, but there are still enough of us left in the forest that I need not fear this Mystery. I reach my hand, and only my hand, out of myself to grasp Arthur.
Mystery leaps another step back with a yelp and a snarl.
"It's okay!" Arthur shouts. "It's okay. Ye—this is a friend."
"F-Friend?! Y-you made friends with a-?!"
With care, I set him on the ground in front of my trunk and withdraw my hand, vanishing again. He weaves on his feet, unused to standing, and sags against my roots. Mystery's fur stays on end, but he approaches, sliding his neck under Arthur's remaining top limb.
Arthur turns to my trunk, asking quietly, "Can I come back?"
As before, I say nothing.
He sighs, struggling to his feet with the dog's help. "Thank you, Yettle."
I watch as he moves off into the forest, some peace returning to me.
Perhaps for humans it is slow, but for me it is quick as being split by lightning when my family vanishes from around me. Where innumerable whispers flowed to and from me, now there is silence. Some few remain within sight, but the distance between us is bridged by lifeless root fragments, the remnants of trees cut down and torn up. We who are left cannot speak to one another and I have not the will to sing with the breeze for their comfort. Indeed, I descend within myself as human shelters sprout from the ground faster than spring growth.
But there is no rest for me, even here. I writhe within myself, wrestling unnatural thoughts and desires that grow steadily within.
I wish I could leave my body and destroy our hunters.
I wish I was also felled.
I wish for someone to have been there, to stop what happened.
I wish to become something terribly dark, to go against everything I once held dear and true. To destroy hunter and prey alike until nothing is left.
Most of all, I wish not to be so terribly, horribly alone. It devours my insides and begins to rot my branches. I do not care. I hope to fall upon the human shelter I stand behind, crushing it and salting the ground with the sap of any who live within.
And so, the third time he comes, I am the one both hunted and haunted.
Cold metal rests on my trunk, and I shudder within myself, bracing for the end. They have finally come to tear me down.
"Yettle?"
Every branch stills. It is winter, and there are no leaves left to keep from rustling.
Next to the feeling of cold metal, warm hide presses against my trunk. "Yettle, are you there?"
It is him. I do not want to come out. I have nothing left to give. Please. Please. Fell me or go away.
"Yettle, it's okay. I promise, nobody's going to touch you. Gods, are you in there? Please tell me you're still here. Yettle?"
I do not respond. I will not come out.
"Mystery, can you tell if-?"
"There is still life in this tree, but it… it smells wrong. Something is going bad."
May the dog find only stony ground to grow in. Why does he interfere?
Arthur keeps calling my name, as if trying to wake me. I was fool to give my name to him, thinking the strength of the forest would sheild me always. As it is, I am weak with solitude. Even a creature of no magic can sway me, now. His voice draws me to the edge of emerging before he finally stops. His footsteps retreat. Relieved and grieved all together, I sink back into the hollowness of myself.
Too soon, he returns. There's that same feeling of cold metal and warm hide, and then it is scaling my trunk. A slow progression of grunting and scrabbling, but he makes his way to a low branch, breathing hard and shedding moisture and skin scrapings. I do not absorb it, I do not want to know how he has been and I do not want to care.
"Hi, Yettle. It's just me, Arthur. Mystery says you're still in there, so I thought I'd come out tonight and keep you company. I don't know why you're not coming out, but… I mean, it's really different out here. I'm guessing… that was a shock. I didn't realize they were developing this area. It happened pretty fast."
I want to hear him and I want to shut him out. My branch creaks under him.
"I don't actually know what you feel about this, and maybe it's stupid to guess like this, but I'm… I'm worried about you and I don't know what else to do. So. Correct me if I'm wrong, yeah? It would be nice to see you. But, all this… I mean…" He's silent for a moment. "Damn. Vivi would probably be better at this. You'd like her, I think. Well, I don't know. I don't know what you like. But, you probably liked how it was before better. Maybe that's why you're not coming out."
Suddenly I need him to keep talking. He doesn't see perfectly, but he sees some, and he wants to understand. And I need to be seen. I need to be heard. There is nothing but dead roots touching mine and—
And a warm body in my branches. He is sitting with me. He's still alive.
And he's still talking. "It probably doesn't mean much to you at this point, but I pooled funds with Vivi. She's a friend of mine. I couldn't afford this place on my own, but we're both sick of renting and… well, there's some bad memories attached to old places. So, with Lewis back, we decided to get this place as our home and base of operation. We were able to swing the down payment and all, but we'll have to really bust our tails to keep it. But that's okay, because they both understand how important this was to me. Because of you, I mean. I told them about you. Vivi's super excited to meet you. I asked her not to come out for a while, but she's staring through the window up there. Yeah, I see you over there!"
He shifts in his position, and my branch cracks loudly. He is suddenly very still.
"Um… Y-!"
The branch shears off, dropping him to the ground. I remain huddled within, because I do not care how far he fell. I do not care that a limb broke off. I do not care about the commotion by my roots, or that he is carried away. I do not care if he never comes back.
When they come for me with sharp edges, I am afraid. I tremble and groan as they slice through my branches, removing many of them. Must they take me apart into pieces before I am felled? Can they not get it all over with at once?
They stop after four branches. I hate them for stopping. How dare they start and not finish in one stroke. Why—
"Hey, Yettle."
They have left, and Arthur remains. He returned.
"That can't have felt good, and I'm really sorry, but you're sick. They said the rot has spread pretty far, but I'm not ready to give up on you. I don't know much about taking care of trees, especially magical ones. Is Dryad the right word? Maybe you'll tell me sometime. I'm more of a mechanical guy, y'know? But I talked to the team we had come out to remove a few branches and they gave me some tips. I'll do everything I can to help. I promise."
He doesn't climb this time, instead settling between my roots. "I was kind of messed up at the time it happened, so I didn't talk to you about it, but I lost my arm, too. I think you noticed. It had to come off, though. Did you know Mystery did that? He probably saved my life by taking it off. Maybe I should start from the beginning."
His words are a steady river flowing over my wounds. And as he tells me a tale full of things I only understand in part, I tentatively soak in some of the moisture on his skin.
His body is tired and there is fresh stimulant in his sap, but it is not as pervasive as it once was. There is, finally, a store of rest and the experience of a summer bounty in him—a well of contentment that he can draw from. Even the way he leans against me is different than any time before. The looseness of his muscles speaks of security. His breathing is steady and even. Of course, he has a pack now, or they are acting as a proper pack. It matches with the parts of his story that I understand. He does not feel so horribly alone.
It is a terrible thing to be alone and hunted.
"So, it took a long time to sort things out. Mystery ended up being our main mediator, and it was pretty hard to find out I'd… well, it wasn't me who killed Lewis, but my arm and all. When I heard that, I was almost happy it was gone. Lewis and I worked it out for the most part, I think. It's still weird, but we're trying. And he's sticking around for Vivi, so we have time to rebuild."
It is not difficult to recall him as a twig, a creature ready to burst out of its skin to escape, and as a sapling, stricken and rotting from the inside. This same human had poisoned limbs stricken off my body and sits at my trunk, speaking to me as if he holds me in his hands and wills me to live. As if his words could be life pouring into me a drop at a time, and he keeps making them.
When I emerge, he does not see me at first. He is still pouring out words. There is a large, colorful leaf wrapping him, likely to keep the cold away. One limb hangs by his side, whole. The other is cold metal, the one he built for himself. Grief creaks in my throat, and his head turns, his words falling still.
He stands. When has he ever been taller than me? But he is, else I am much smaller than I was. Reduced. I clutch my hands to myself, to my chest, trembling like an autumn leaf. He crosses the space to me and curls his limbs around me. I lean into the touch, and the sound of a thousand of my kin crashing to the ground comes tumbling from my lips. I weep the rending of wood and death-cries of the forest.
His grip is firm and does not waver. Salt moisture from him drops onto my back in a two-beat pattern every few seconds, full of warm sorrow. He does not understand full, he can never understand fully. But he understands in part, and it is enough.
When the storm within lessens, he speaks softly to me.
"Rest, Yettle. This place is ours, protected, as long as we own it. I'll fight to keep it as long as I live. Nobody can hurt you, and you need to rebuild, too. Rest."
I lean my full weight on him, and small as I have become, he can take it. "Thank you," I croak, brittle as sun-bleached bone.
And so, I allow him to support me back to my trunk. I slip inside, and find the dark thoughts and ill wishing have dissipated, like smoke carried away by a stiff wind. It is not all, but it is enough.
And tiny shoots of new growth sprout from my roots.