Chapter 21: "The Trees"

Theodore dropped his belongings in a small clearing in the Evereaves Forest. He sat on a fallen log and hung his head in his hands. What the hell was he doing here? His feet hurt, his back hurt, he felt sticky and sweaty and dirty, well and now hungry as his stomach released a low rumble.

“Speak with the trees, my young apprentice,” Theodore mocked, “The trees will tell you.”

He drug a toe through the damp dirt. “Oh and don’t forget the fentail fern!” He rolled his eyes as his mimicking voice echoed through the woods. That was why he was really out here, wasn’t he? It had nothing to do with the trees. It took two days to get here and all for a little fern. What if he missed a visit from Ky while he was out here? The thought made him pause. What if Ky was out here? Now, that would be even better. He ate a sandwich as his mind followed that fantasy. At the end of the sandwich and the end of the fantasy, he was feeling much better. Hunger always made him cranky. He was sure Master meant well, but without knowing all the information, it was hard not to have fear.

He set a little campfire and rolled open a tent. He wondered how long he should stay out here among the trees. He guessed until one of them talked. He laughed. Yeah, okay Master, whatever. He lay in the sleeping bag and stared up at the moon. It was halfway lit, but the shadow portion could still be seen. He stared at it until the clouds pressed in and it started to rain. He pulled the tent flap down with a grumble. The fire hissed as the rain drowned it. Theodore pulled another blanket from the supplies and wrapped it tightly about him. He felt miserable and what was worse, he felt hopeless.

When morning came, Theodore limbs were stiff and cramped. The birds sang cheery tunes encouraging him to wake, but he sulked in the misty air. After some time, he ate a small breakfast of herb cheese and buttered bread, then finally pulled his boots on and stumbled out of the tent. The fall day was unusually warm for this late in the season. The cloudy grey sky above pressed in humid air around him.

“Alright,” he said to the trees. “Show me what you’ve got!”

The forest remained unchanged. Squirrels chittered and birds flitted around. Theodore sighed. He lifted up an empty bag and set out looking for Master’s damned ferns. It took him forty-five minutes before he spotted a patch of them. He bent and started plucking sprigs from the young ones.

“Why kill the babies?”

Theodore jumped. He looked around. There was no one there, but he could have sworn— no he thought it. It was his thought. He looked down at the little ferns. He frowned. He guessed they really were just babies.

He flipped out a knife and instead made deft slices at the older ferns, only taking branches near the bottom and leaving the new growth alone.

“That’s better,” he thought, or he thought he thought it. But why was it better? They were just ferns. And why was he thinking this? He wrapped the fern pieces in a cloth before gently placing them in the bag.

“Gently?” Theodore said aloud. What had gotten into him? These were just plants. He picked a sprig up and examined it closer. The ends of each green leaflet curled into a spiral. It gave off a pungent mossy scent. He admired it for a moment. The life inside it still beat through it. He knew if he soaked it in water, it would grow roots, like many of Master’s various haphazard half planted herbs on the kitchen counters. For a plant, a blade was not the end of its life, only the potential for a new one. Not like a human.

He imagined putting a dying person in water to save its life. They would grow roots and live, then he’d plant them in a forest. What an absurd thought. He laughed as he imagined when they finished they would look like these trees. He looked around. The gnarled bark was starting to look like faces. He wiped at his eyes and blinked hard. Where had his mind just gone? There were so many strange thoughts through his head today. He looked to the trees again. Maybe they weren’t his thoughts?

He shook his head. The forest must be driving him mad. He wrapped the fern sprigs up carefully and lay them in the sack. He had found what Master needed, now he needed to focus on what he sought. What did he seek, though? Wood, rock, metal?

He pressed his lips together as he looked around. No one was here. What if he embraced the madness? It’s not like anyone would see or judge him. He took a deep breath.

“Alright trees, here’s the deal. I’m searching for materials to make hilts for a set of daggers. It’s for a friend. He… well maybe she, needs protection.”

He flipped out one of the unfinished blades and displayed in his fingers like an offering.

“Here is one of them.” He hesitated and after a moment’s thought he added, “Please help me.”

A small sliver of sunshine broke through the clouds and glinted off the blade. It passed and the sky returned to its sulking gray. The wind rustled the branches of the trees, shifting the loose brown leaves free. He watched them float to the ground. The evergreens remained still and silent while the birds flitted from branch to branch.

He waited patiently. If he was going to act crazy, he may as well go all the way. He closed his eyes. He thought he could feel a pulse in the blade, but maybe it was his own. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there. A couple of minutes? Or maybe twenty?

He shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but whatever it was, it wasn’t happening. He opened his eyes. The little grove of ferns danced in the fall breeze. He released a sigh. He was really going crazy if he thought something was actually going to happen.

He spun the unfinished blade in his hand and set out on a meandering path through the forest. He ended up on what looked to be a deer trail. The blade felt smooth in his hands, but he kept his eyes looking up ahead of him. He wasn’t really looking for anything, he was just out on a forest walk to talk to the trees… Crazy old man. A good one, but still batty as all hell.

He wondered what he should talk to the trees about. He should probably do it aloud, too. He looked over his shoulder double checking no one was around. It was fine if the forest thought he was crazy, but other people? No, thanks.

Once he was sure no one was watching, he started talking quietly. At first, it was just nonsense. Things like “swords” and “friendship”. Eventually, it grew into a monologue with a steady rhythm. The words flowed from his lips without too much thought.

“So, I could use bone, I guess, but there’s something about it that just seems, somber, you know?”

Theodore spun the blade in his hand again.

“And wood could be nice, but what type? I mean, I see at least twenty different trees around me right now and these blades are so perfect, I don’t know what would balance them or suit them. I think a dapple would be too light and a fir too heavy. Her horse is named Cherry, well him. Either way, that’s the name of Ky’s horse, you see. Whether Ky is a girl or boy is to be seen. And I really like him, er her, er whatever. I helped get his horse back once and we spar and play cards. He’s really quite strong for a kid. It’s just, any help would be really nice an—.”

His rambling came to a sudden halt as he stumbled over something large. He flipped end over end. The blade in his hand slid against his palm as he landed in the grass covered ground on the other side. He dropped the blade as blood rushed forth from the cut. He quickly pulled at his sack until an herb cloth came free and wrapped around the slice. It wasn’t incredibly deep, luckily, but there was still a lot of blood.

Once he secured the bandage, he looked around for the fallen dagger. It glinted, blood-streaked in the sunlight. It was skewed across the obstacle he had fallen over. How the blade had gotten behind him, he wasn’t sure.

He paused and watched the blood drip from the blade. It splashed droplets that trailed down the surface of … was it wood? Theodore stuck a hand out and gently touched the surface. He moved his hand along the grain. It was wood, but unlike any he had ever seen. He didn’t even know the name of it. It’s silver hue almost shimmered in the light but held a soft dull unpolished look. He could already imagine it all polished up and sparkling. The hunk of wood held five perfect thick branches off the main trunk. It was as if the branch had grown exactly for his purpose.

He jumped to his feet. Had the trees answered him or was this only a coincidence? He pressed his lips together in thought. Better be safe about it, he supposed.

“Thank you, trees. Thank you for your offering.” He rested his hand on the wood again. It was already dried out despite the falling rain. It was perfect.

“Thank you.” The words came out as a sincere whisper this time, straight from the heart.

He collected the blade and wiped the blood on his pant leg. After pocketing the knife, he hefted the branch over his shoulder and carried it back to camp. The trek was a long way back. He hadn’t realized how far he had gone, and yet the forest opened up the way for him.

How could this be? Were the trees really speaking to him or was he making something out of nothing? He thought about it all the while he walked. Eventually, as he readjusted the most perfect log he could have ever found and decided that there was no harm in believing as long as he didn’t expect it. Hesitant faith or openness to believe without a need to, he decided.

He would be thankful even if he looked or felt crazy doing it. When he returned to camp, he looked at his little fire pit and tent, then turned about to the trees. They felt closer, but not stifling, only protective.

“Thank you,” he said. He looked past the branches to the sky. Most of the day was gone. He would have to stay another night.

He gathered firewood and ate a small dinner. His fingers absently found the wood. He pulled out his knife. He could already see the hilts of each dagger in the wood. No, not daggers anymore, knives. All this time he thought they were daggers, but the hilts were knives.

His fingers closed around his carving knife. It wouldn’t take much to carve them out roughly and finish them off when he returned home. He was having trouble keeping his fingers from moving.

“Thank you,” he whispered again and started his work.

A few days later, Theodore returned home. He worked ceaselessly and before long he was running his fingers over the smooth hilts he had just sanded.

“I thought you said they were daggers,” Master mused from behind him at the workroom door.

“I thought they were,” Theodore answered as he looked at the mostly finished blades spread out on the work table.

“They look more like throwing knives,” Master said.

“They do, don’t they, or really angular narrow daggers.” Theodore ran a finger over the short hilt and the triangular cut of the metal that attached to the hilt. It was missing something right here, where the blade met the wood, an embellishment possibly.

“They aren’t finished,” Master said.

“I was just thinking that. It needs something right here.”

Master nodded.

“What do you think it needs?” Theodore asked.

Master rubbed at his short white stubble. “I don’t know. They don’t know yet. Time, yes, time.” Master squeezed Theodore’s shoulder. “These need time to grow. They will tell you. Sleep on it. Now, where’s my fern? Were they good little ferns for you?”

Copyright 2019 Ava Altair

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