Over the next full year, Lavinia somehow survived, due in great part to learning how to cook boxed macaroni and cheese. Meanwhile, Margie learned aspects of human nature that had been missed during her upbringing, aspects such as neglect, fear, cruelty, and especially loneliness. She was not impressed.
In the wee early hours that followed one of Momma’s increasingly frequent parties, Lavinia shook in misery within her closet room. She really needed to pee, but she peeked through the crack in her doorframe and saw a scraggly couple passed out on the dilapidated couch.
She normally would never leave her room with strangers in the house, but felt she was much too old to have an overnight accident. She finally found the courage to sneak to the toilet. The plastic privacy curtain suddenly swooped open and revealed a skeletal gap-toothed crack-head who leered down at the terrified girl.
"Ain't you a pretty little thang? Just like yo’ Ma, only fresh and cute. How about a little sugar, Sugar?"
The frightening stranger winced and reached down to pull the forgotten syringe out of his arm and loosen the tie-off. Lavinia took the opportunity to slip her ankles out of her panties which was quicker than trying to pull them up into place. She tried to run past the danger and aimed for the stairs and hopefully Momma, but an arm snaked out and caught her hair.
The hand suddenly jerked open and dropped Lavinia to the floor as she looked up to see the face wrenched in rictus. Drool gobbed down the corner of his mouth and both eyes rolled up to show the yellow-tinged whites. A thin tight scream fought its way out his spasmed throat, but silence followed as the addict settled back to a relaxed stance. His eyes, however, remained white and pupil-less.
A strangely pitched voice, hauntingly feminine, issued out of the possessed man.
“Don’t worry sweetie, I have him under control.”
"Margie? Is that you?"
"I was called Margie as a child, but I'm all grown up now. Call me Margaret."
Margie had followed Lavinia to the toilet and hovered nearby when she noticed the man struggled groggily to his feet and wove quietly across the room. She had no concept of the depravity in his mind, but to her very being she understood he meant evil. As he grabbed Lavinia's hair, she simply attacked and dived into his body confront him spirit to spirit.
The soul she found was wizened and black, abused and rotted, and incapable of fighting back. She cast it out, where its curled edges withered inward as it descended into a netherworld best left to the imagination. As she settled into his body, Margaret felt quite comfortable.
She thought "Didn't realize I could do that either. I wonder if I can find a ghost owner’s manual somewhere? Pretty cool."
Margie's life was cozy and safe during her first half-dozen decades, a loving incubation. Margaret intended her next century to be fun. She walked over to the couch where the other addict remained passed out and sat near her. The man’s body slumped over dead as Margaret abandoned it. After a moment, her new body stood up and shoved the old one off to the floor with a disgusted look. She got up and stooped under the closet to retrieve her baby-doll body which was, after all, home. This current body was just a meat puppet, one of many more to come.
"Take care Lavinia, I'll be back to check up on you, but I have things to do. Love you, little one, see you soon."
~end~
Chapter 3: Family Tree
Once upon a wintertime, there lived a mighty tree that overhung a shallow, frozen creek. Snow covered grasslands rose gently eastwards, then sharply sloped into endless foothills. Westward, across the creek, a large valley flattened outwards towards the far horizon. One day a passing bird dropped a small seed, which became the only tree, of any kind, in any direction within sight. The tree grew season by season into a mighty, solitary oak. Deep inside the thickest portion of the trunk curled a wizened, nut-brown tree sprite known as Byrl.
Byrl slumbered peacefully within the heart of her tree ever since true winter began nearly three months earlier. A restless dream brought her awake and had it only been mid-winter she would have rolled over and continued to snore. The weather, however, had warmed during the previous week and began to melt the ground frost.
Byrl could feel her tree's sap thin but not yet flow. In a dream, she was just giving in to the amorous advances of a luscious Merman, who suddenly morphed into a nightmarish incubus that attempted to devour her life force. Dream-Byrl was yanked out of her tree and pulled into the stream, held under the rushing water by grotesque creek-naiads. An oversized pair of webbed hands grabbed her head and began slamming it against a jutting rock, in a strange triple-paradiddle rhythm...tap tap tap, tap tap tap.
Her eyes snapped open, awakened by the early-season woodpecker that tapped her bark in search of grubs. Byrl uncurled and stretched a bit to try and shake off the residual anxiety. It wasn't the drowning or head banging that stayed with her, but the feeling of separation from her treasured oak. Byrl wasn't sure if she even could leave her tree, but she knew for sure she never had the desire.
She existing in a state between spirit and matter, and as such remain anchored to her symbiont. Since she was awake, Byrl took a deep breath and stretched. She willed her perception up and out until her being filled the twenty-foot tall by eight-foot gnarled tree. She exhaled slowly and coalesced into a bird-sized presence that sit on a branch to confront her assailant. "Hello Birdie, a little early aren't we?" she asked.
The young woodpecker froze with a sideways stare at the nearly human five-inch figure. It decided Byrl was neither threat nor food, gave a few half-hearted taps on the wood, then gave up and fluttered away. Byrl followed the red-mohawked male with her eyes, able to track the tiny, rapidly pulsating spirit long after the physical body had disappeared into the bright morning. As well as their physical bodies, she could see the spirit essence in all animals as well as communicate simple thoughts and emotions.
She decided to take a stroll but decided to walk rather than climb. Gravity for a sprite remains polarized towards the surface on which they walk. They are able to apply or disregard orientation, movement, force, and other mundane physical laws at their discretion. Even in the strongest storm, from a sprite's viewpoint, the outside world wildly fluctuated and gyred around while they remain perfectly stable.
The sun was warm, but the breeze was cool, and everywhere north-facing shadows lay, patches of snow remained from the last storm. An inch or so of ice still rimed the creek along the north bank, but a trickle of water pushed along an occasional bubble beneath the crystalline covering.
Byrl enjoyed a full social life most of the year, including both sprites and animals, so began feeling a little depressed surrounded by the intense quiet. It was early in the season, but she thought the creek-naiads might be dozing in the weak sunshine. She shrank herself to pin-head size and squeezed through her tree's capillary cell-walls slide down through a major taproot that dangled out into the creek.
Byrl did find half a dozen fishtailed naiads lying with their faces to the sun, but all were still in deep slumber and unresponsive to her gentle call. A cloud moved in front of the sun as a cooler breeze shivered the branches. "Enough for today!" she said to herself. "A couple of weeks and a good nap should bring more lively company."
Byrl expanded once again for a final look around and then shrank into the heart of her tree to curl up for the last of winter's hibernation.
~o0o~
Byrl loved her life and the life of all those around her. She awoke at first light and began the grand tour of her tree's major branches to visit her newly born spritelings. As each new leave began to uncurl from a tiny bud, a miniature version of her emerged, albeit with the addition of tiny translucent wings. There would be over two hundred thousand of them by summer, more than she ever could get to know personally, but each held a special place in her heart. Although leaf sprites were rather silly, sexless creatures that lived only a season, they always added joy and laughter to her nearly four hundred years of life.
A noisy flock of birds interrupted her walk as they gathered around and sang a welcome song to the morning. She reached out to a mated pair and gently scratched between their eyes, which they closed a moment in pleasure and trust. The flock suddenly jumped into flight to follow their leader, then circled twice before they dropped to the creek for an early-morning drink and their never-end search for possible snacks.
Several creek-naiads rose to the surface and used their tails to ambush the birds with splashing water. They were immediately drenched in return as the birds fluffed and shook sprays of water, all in fun. Later in the summer when the heat settled in, Byrl would join them. But, for now, her mind was on the next major event in her yearly cycle; the birth of her daughters.
~o0o~
As each flower opened along her tree’s branches, a petite, precious fairy uncurled from the center to greet the world. The surrounding tree sprites, eager to play and tease their new sisters, immediately turned and set upon them. Byrl went from one branch to the next and gently chided the sprites while she welcomed her infant fairies. Though the sprites lived only three-quarters of the year, the fairy lives were even shorter and so that much more cherished.
The sprites flew at will up to a hundred yards from the tree, which brought no end of mischief to the surrounding animals and nature-spirits. The fairies faded into nothingness if they went further than their short arm’s-length from their flower. They soon seemed to appreciate their sisters' enthusiasm, and participated in their games where possible, but wistfulness lay upon their faces that only Byrl fully understood.
One week later, Byrl awoke to a noisy commotion at the edge of a thick branch. Hundreds of sprites milled about, half in angry possessiveness and half in curious excitement. Byrl transferred to the location of the mob and her expectations were confirmed. A bumblebee buzzed as it visited flower after flower and carried a male version of another tree’s fairy riding upon its back.
At the visitor’s approach, each flower’s tiny fairy tried to enchant the male with enticing dance, their suppleness and beauty exceptional beyond human experience. The mounted fairy speculatively eyed each unique femme fatale, but how was he to choose? Suddenly, for no reason any outsider would understand, his pupils grew wide, his breath fast and shallow, and he fell smitten.
He jumped from the bee to take the lucky flower fairy by the hand, and they joined in a dance that took the breath away from all who saw them. They began spinning quicker and quicker and clung closer to each other with each revolution until they became a blur. They physically merged with each other and disappeared into the flower’s stamen.
In time, the flower would fall and be replaced by a tiny seed. The fairies cocooned within were merged into a potential Byrl, where they awaited Fall and fate to discover if they would find the proper conditions to sprout and perhaps mature into a mighty tree themselves.
The disappointed, overlooked fairies did not have long to sorrow. Each following day of spring seemed to bring more and more male fairies on the backs of bees, butterflies, hummingbirds, and on whatever else they could hitch a ride. All had a merry time as the sprites soon learned to playfully interfere, not that the couples paid them any attention. Before long, the sprites tried to imitate the mating dances with each other, or in a pinch with any passing creature they came upon. Although their acrobatic performances were entertaining, they could not match the pure beauty of true love.
This was the time of the year Byrl most loved when the acres around her tree were vibrant and alive with life both in the semi-spiritual world and the natural. She always made time, of course, to visit the river naiads and their aquatic creatures. She also enjoyed the company of every other living soul that came within reach, from earthworms and insects to passing rabbits, moles, foxes, and birds.
Byrl's social life became less frenetic as summer continued, but the long days remained filled with cherished relationships as seasonal visitors, many whom she knew from their birth to their death, stopped to visit. The more intelligent species loved Byrl’s wisdom and tenderness, for even though she was immensely longer lived than any, she remembered and valued each of them. She was always willing to spend time and give advice without an agenda of her own.
Late fall through early winter was a melancholy time. Not only due to the departing of old friends, but also the passing on of her tree sprites. As the weather grew colder, she could feel her tree's sap as it retreated to the roots and inner core, which resulted in leaves that slowly faded away. With each change in color, a leaf’s sprite wrinkled and aged, and spent more and more time just lying about and soaked up the waning afternoon sunlight.
As each brown leaf finally separated from its branch and floated gently down or was violently blown away on an autumn wind, its sprite slowly faded from existence until it was no more. In the end, only a few hardy leaves remained to cling tenaciously to the hibernating branches. Byrl patiently visited each remaining sprite to ease their fears until they too passed.
Finally, during a bitter, extended ice storm, Byrl took a last look around and huddled into the center of her trunk to sleep the winter through.
Decades passed in a pleasant, languorous rhythm.
~o0o~
A new herd-species appeared on the grasslands. At first, only a couple of small groups of the shaggy bison wandered by and stopped for a drink along the bend slightly upstream. The next week, an additional hundred meandered across the landscape. Soon after that, groups in the tens of thousands thundered by in great dust clouds and temporarily drove all smaller wildlife to find shelter from the massive beasts.
From that season on, twice a year, the immense herds rolled through. Beyond the commotion, they had no impact on Byrl since none had the time or temperament to stop and converse. Byrl paid them no more attention than she did any of the other portents of the changing seasons.
Many years later, she noticed another new species that come on the heels of the bison, small herds of upright bipeds that loped along the same trails and vanished over the hills. This new pattern continued year after year while the two-legged predators attacked their four-legged prey. This didn’t bother Byrl one way or the other as nature had its own way to feed and provide for all her children. Byrl did notice that these predators seemed quite solicitous of the departing life forces of the bison and treated them with respect and honor. Byrl approved.
~o0o~
The day was warm, and the hunt was a success, so the tribesmen carried their meat and hides to the shade of the tree, washed and cooled themselves in the stream, and rested. The hunters were happy, and not just with the hunt. They looked at the location of the tree, stream, and sheltering hills behind and decided to bring their elders and shaman to pass judgment on the possibility of making seasonal camp.
A few weeks later a larger band returned to survey the area. An ancient medicine man, nearly as gnarled as the oak, hobbled up and stood beside the tree. Byrl could tell his soul was special as he appeared to see into the foggy midlands between the spirit world and the natural world that Byrl inhabited.
At first, he just stared at the tree, patient and still, waiting. Byrl became curious, so pulled herself into the trunk from the overhead branch where she sat and formed her face against the bark at the same level as the shaman.
“There you are wily tree spirit! Surely, you’re not afraid of one old man.”
Byrl was quite surprised just from being noticed, let alone the shaman's direct speech and droll manner.
“Do you have a name, spirit, or has your age made you rude and curmudgeonly?”
She was so taken aback, as well as slightly annoyed at the slight, that she fairly shouted, “Byrl!”
The shaman tilted his head, concentrated deeply, and repeated in a slow whisper, “Byrrrrl.”
"Well, hello Byrl, pleased to meet you. I am Tuku Nan, shaman of the People. We have been blessed by the Great Creator, growing in numbers and power over our enemies, and ask your permission and wisdom to camp within your
domain.”
Since Tuku Nan spoke in loud, well-enunciated syllables. Other elders joined nearby to witness the conversation if not to participate. Tuku Nan reached into the small leather bag that depended from his neck and withdrew a garland of dried branches woven into a wreath. He placed it on a low-hanging branch and stood back.
"Tonight we shall entertain you with dance and song, and if you are pleased, we ask for a sign of your acquiescence.”
With the ceremony finished, the people dispersed to find bison patties for the fires and set about making camp. At sunset, a respectful distance from the tree, they set a large bonfire. The flickering light did make Byrl more than a little apprehensive. A lightning–caused brush fire burned her in her early years, which was the one truly painful experience of her long life.
She soon saw that the fire was well controlled and lost her concern. The drums that accompanied the singing and dancing pleasantly resounded within her wood. Periodically, by twos and threes, dancers made their way from around the fire to circle her trunk and sang words of praise and respect for her wisdom and asked her protection. No other animal had ever shown her so much respect.
The ceremonies finally wound down an hour before dawn, and Byrl thought what wonderful friends these People would be. She remembered Tuku Nan’s request for a sign and thought awhile. She really had little power in the natural world, and not all that much within the spirit side, but then she remembered the garland on her branch and smiled.
Shortly thereafter, the shaman also smiled. He, along with a couple of watchmen, had spent the night sitting in sight of the tree. As the sun appeared above the horizon, the garland of branches squeezed forth several small leaves and one bright flower.
~o0o~
The People thrived for many generations. They always arrived with the herds in spring, and stayed until they departed again in the fall. Few of the People had the quietness of spirit to communicate with Byrl as did the shaman, but most seemed at least able to feel her spirit. Hundreds of tents filled the air with families and activity, somewhat to the detriment of the local wildlife, but in Byrl’s opinion these new children of nature more than made up for the loss. They never failed to enchant her during their visits.