The Wayward Forest

The forest whispers to some people. Tells them things. Its words are often mistaken as the rustling of trees, or the long, drawn-out groaning of aging tree trunks as they sway in a stiff breeze. But certain individuals, with their keen hearing, are able to hear the songs it sings. Ancient, whimsical melodies, their notes flittering to and fro in union with dancing leaves. Those who hear are drawn into the forest, past the veil of the ordinary and into a grove nestled away from prying eyes. Many find their footsteps are guided by an old, gentle spirit, who has taken them by the hand and shown them a long-forgotten path.

If you’re one of the lucky ones – one whose ears can still hear that ancient melody – the forest will show you things. Those things we thought we saw as children; little lights and shadows hanging on the edge of your vision. And when you’d look, it would be gone. Our parents would hush us when we relay to them our discoveries. But still, we’d keep on searching, convinced our imaginations are trying to send us a message. That perhaps, there’s a veil beyond the reality we see with our eyes. Our childish, innocent minds still able to pick up the occasional whisperings and flashes of things waiting to be discovered.

In that grove nestled away from the surrounding world, time moves more slowly. It’s as though the air itself takes deeper breaths, causing grass and strewn leaves to skitter lazily across your feet. The sunlight deepens, the radiance somehow more brilliant, yet more pleasing to the eye. A golden hue of deepest autumn, when the sun sits low in the sky, causing the horizon to be limned with color of honey. Strolling through that forest, you’ll find little lights, no bigger than marbles, bouncing between the leaves. They tinkle with innocent laughter – the sound of children out past curfew still playing the in the street.

Myriad animals often retreat to this tucked away area of the woods, obscured by the fabric between reality and the realm lying beyond. Here, they rest easy; owls and robins, woodpeckers sharing boughs of the same tree. Wolves sing different tunes here. Not the lonely, sorrowful solos, but here, they come together and sing hymns which awaken the earth. Flowers bloom at their music, and trees lean in to better hear their lyrics. Foxes and rabbits and squirrels poke their heads out from their resting places and remember the earth as it was before it was forced to bear the ever-increasing burden of mankind. Here, the earth can breathe again, loosed from rampant need and greed. The very ground beneath your feet sings of the solace in this place, where things are as they should be.

The secret of the wayward forest lies in its heart. Where the trees grow so thick and so closely together, one would conclude the natural barrier would be cause for journey’s end. But look closer – into the space between the trunks where not even the golden sunlight can reach.

In the unnatural shadows, eyes stare back at you.

Not one pair. Not two. But three pairs of eyes, all belonging to the head of a great beast. They burn an ethereal green, and with a stare so intense, you might think they’re seeing more than just our natural world. More than the sacred grove it protects. Perhaps, past your own eyes and into your thoughts. If you’re brave enough…if you possess the wherewithal to not shrink back from the oppressive presence of the beast beyond the trees, it will judge you. It will see those things within your heart you hold most dear, and what has taken root there. All the good and bad. The light and dark. How they war within, and the resulting product that becomes your being.

The eyes flashes, and at once, the trees simply move aside to allow you passage. Golden light spills in and pools on the dark ground, illuminating your path. At the end of it, stands the being. At first glance, you’d think it a horse. Or perhaps a stag. But it’s sheer magnitude of height and breadth mark it as anything as ordinary as a mammal. Its body seems to pulse with energy, and the great rack of antlers protruding from its shaggy head glow with the same radiance as the sun. Still, those three pairs of eyes remain fixed on you. Then they all blink slowly, then the beast strides away on four hooved legs – a clear beckoning.

The forest is quieter here. The song of wolves melts away, only to be replaced by a faint, but ever-present thudding of a pulse. As though a literal heart beats somewhere in this space. It seems not only all around you, but also within, as though matching the tempo of the drumbeat in your chest.

Ahead, the beast continues its sojourn further into the woods, guiding you. Where the sun breaks the thick canopy and meets its antlers, a cascade of rainbow flecks scatter around the muted space. You yearn to speak with it, but then again, would it even understand you? Can it even speak?

But any desire for conversation stops short at what lies ahead. The trees at last come to an end, and what awaits beyond are aged, stories tall marble pillars. Shoots of ivy cling to its surface like a lover, cracks aging the architecture to an era beyond memory. The unnamed beast pauses at the threshold and turns its great head towards you. It gives an almost imperceptible slow nod before vanishing on the spot, the final vestiges of its being carried away on a phantom wind. It’s just you, now, and the entrance to what appears to be a forgotten mausoleum.

That faint pulse still thuds through the air around you, and suddenly, the forest feels less welcoming. Faintly, you wonder if the vanished beast is watching you from distant shadows. A quick glance to the surrounding area reveals nothing but faint pools of sunlight illuminating the forest floor, and cathedral-like trees standing watch over you.

Boldly, you take a step forward. And another. Before long, the pillars are passing you on either side, and at once, the steady heartbeat ceases, only to be replaced by another sound. Unsure of what exactly the noise is, you wander deeper into the building. A grey marble floor, just as ancient as the rest of your surroundings, echoes your footsteps. Pillars continue in steady intervals in various states of agedness and disrepair, until…

It was exactly as you heard. The sound of writing. Thousands of quills racing across pages. A look into the near distance reveals rows bookshelves. Interminable in number, and massive in height, stone shelves house innumerable books of varying sizes. And floating idly in the spaces between, books hang open and suspended, invisible authors moving quills across their pages. The sight of it shocks you for a moment. An old library in the heart of the woods, housing ghostly authors writing…what?

Curiosity finally winning over your fear and trepidation, you make your way to the nearest book. A book opened to its final pages, the quill moving in a markedly lazy pace across the parchment. Sidling around to get a better look you find…

…And it was only her regrets that kept her company. The bed was cold and stiff, the weather outside misanthropic. She had thought of it, of course. What her final moments would be. Perhaps a lover would hold her hands and whisper of their time together. She would look into his old, lined face, but still remember the younger man he had been. Time would have beaten them into the shells of what they once were, but at least they were here. At the end.

She blinked. That was not her reality. Her hospice nurse would find her first, of course. What was her name? Aria. Would Aria cry for her? No…no, she wouldn’t. She, in her old age and bitterness, had long lost what had made her whole. Perhaps she should have been kinder. Should have said that Aria had such a kind face and gentle words. Yet, she only met them with as much vitriol as she could muster. The worst part of it is that she didn’t even know why. “Old habits”, she supposed, “Really do die hard. But not me. No…the world keeps spinning, and it will keep spinning without me in it. Life, whisked away faster than a dandelion in a storm.”

Thus, Juniper Anne Charity breathed her Last Breath, and thought her Last Thought.

The book snaps shut, and at once, idly begins drifting toward one of the shelves. Without a second thought, you follow, apprehension twisting your stomach. You pass book after book, word after word being written within them.

First dates. Birthdays. Lovers’ quarrels. Life. Death. All of it being documented by unseen authors, writing novels of varying length. Most books are easily hundreds of pages long, and others…quite the opposite.

At last, Juniper’s book seems to find its appropriate shelf. Without a fuss, it slides into a spot between two other unremarkable books and moves no more.

The drone of the quills continues ceaselessly. Millions of lives, all happening in written words. The chronicle of every person who has ever experienced a thought or feeling, rests in this disquieting library. Which means…

Your footsteps slap noisily on the marble floor, breaths coming fast as you bumble your way around a sea of books and quills. It must be here. Your name. Your story. The quill documenting every thought and action.

The quill.

If you could get your hands on it…could you?...

The beast appears before you, emerald eyes blazing, golden antlers resplendent in their otherworldly light. You stop short, heaving, only just now aware of your sweat-soaked shirt. Your tussled hair. The manic appearance on your face, reflected starkly in the beast’s eyes.

It speaks.

A voice in your mind that sounds like you, but magnified. As if someone had gathered a “you” from every age of your life, young and old, and used the collective chorus of those voices to speak.

“Man wishes nothing more than to control his own fate. To take the quill which has written his life, and carve into the pages what he wishes to be. Fortune. Love. Peace. Power. Such are the driving desires which make up what man is.”

Something catches your attention. A book, floating just out of reach beyond the beast. And there, you can make out your name, and the silver tipped quill writing it.

“I am guardian of the Wayward Forest. Here, are the documented histories of every human to have walked the earth, however briefly, or however long. Yet, you are the first to make it here. The first to look at me with unflinching eyes. Within you are the driving forces of light and dark. The decisions you make spring forth from their ceaseless war. From what side you choose to listen to. I will now give you a choice.

The beast moves aside. You step forward to your book. The quill, even now, is writing your every thought. An overwhelming desire to take it, to impose your will on the pages crashes over you. And yet…and yet, something about it seems wrong, somehow. Is it a crime to control those things you were never meant to control? Or is this simply an opportunity?

“Will you take control?” The beast says with your voice. “Will you seize the quill and carve your own desires onto these pages? Or will you yield? Rather, leave this place, and instead, carve your destiny with every step you take? The choice is yours.”