fragments of their earliest memories of civilization. A few other old ones shouted of shadows in the sky, looming, watching with bright eyes like amber and silver bodies. The soldiers had shoved them back, announcing that the sun was only waiting until nightfall to kill them. It was jest, at first, but as the villages began to fade in the background, he had turned to see a crowd of old ones gathered at the demarcation of the village and the Deep Forest. Their silhouettes shimmered briefly with the rising heat, swaying as they stood upright, watching the caravan enter the forest like avid spectators.
He too, had shaken off the stories like his comrades, but only earlier a Scout had returned to their temporary camp after a three day exploration, heavily wounded and one of his leg bones bent awkwardly through the bleeding skin. The solitary assignment was meant to be carried out quietly and swiftly, as the caravan needed to travel the safest route through the forest. The Scout hobbled past the first line without a word. When he went to help the wounded man, the Scout had sworn fiercely and lashed out with clawed hands. His eyes had been large and wild, saliva dripping down his chin and bubbling at the corner of his mouth. Although it was obvious that the Scout's injuries had taken a physical toll, his reaction was all anger without any evidence of weariness or a whimper of pain.
It had taken three men to subdue him, and when the apothecary had come to glance over him, holding an oil lantern up to cut through the gloom, the scout had shrieked in outrage, and scrambled against his broken leg to free himself.
The memory still haunted him in the solitary of his station; the dark, scarred eyes reminded him more of a portrait he had found as a small boy; it was a small portrait, no larger than his hand, the surface a faded brown but also glossy and smooth. The ink didn’t run when wet, and the portrait tended to bend light into long streams of white at certain angles. The portrait was of an animal. The Artist had made the creature: with four legs, a long, pointed mouth with a dark rounded triangle at the end, and two floppy pieces of folded skin that were held back against its oddly shaped head, appear pitiful and scared at the same time. A thick red gash was visible against the animal's flank. It was wounded, and yet its lips were pulled up in a snarl, revealing a black underlining and sharp teeth that were surely used to devour or destroy its attacker.
Many times he asked himself why would anyone go near such a beast? He had not met the strange creature, nor anything like it, but he knew that that creature would fight to the death, even if he was hurt, to save himself. And that same desperate determination to survive was constant in the Scout that had returned.
There was something wrong with the forest. Everyone felt it, saw the manifestation of their suspicions, but every last soldier that had been affected could not point to a cause. If they could even respond intelligibly at all. Most were rendered back to wordless speech that no one could understand.
Against his will, he gripped his spear closer and wished for the simple comforts of his home: the soft melon and sweet bread, the tangy aftertaste of the Emperor’s lemon-bean cakes that were always served with the freshest fruit juices the Empire could produce.
A soft noise off to his side brought him to a seated position. His eyes glanced around the swirling fog that surrounded his post, but the mist revealed nothing. Wiping his hands down on his hide armor, he tightened his grip on his weapon and stood, taking a few cautious steps before retreating to his post.
“It’s the forest,” the old people said, “It does not belong to us.”
How long would those words haunt him? Frowning, he stood and picked up his oil lantern, placing it on his stool to let the next guard know that he was moving to investigate. After a few moments, another light was barely visible through the thick murkiness. Taking an oil dipped torch, he lit it on the lantern and stepped away in the direction the sound had first come from.
Moss crunched beneath his feet like peanut shells, the outstretched arms of smaller trees brushed him with their fingers, teasing playfully, catching the edges of his armor until he tugged firmly to free himself.
The sound came again, this time, familiar. It was a ‘plink’, like a pebble falling into water. The buzz of insects hummed into his ear, and he pushed the air against his head. He had to be alert, ready. If the invaders had made it into the forest, if they were slowly making an advance, he would be the first to know. He would have to warn the entire camp. A quick flash of his lantern would set the entire caravan to attention. Within minutes, the remaining soldiers would know and be ready and armed.
He wasn't too far from his post, but at this point in the forest, the fog rose higher off the ground and became a curtain of hot, moist air. The mist became denser as he walked. he could no longer see in front of him, and was reminded of the stories he heard once as a boy of those who disappeared in the depths of the forest, lost forever. Those myths had never bothered him until now as he ventured forward, alone and with limited vision.
Carefully, he felt the ground in front of him with his feet, feeling it soften and give way, sinking his sandals into the dirt. Pausing, he knelt down at a painfully practiced angle. One leg was poised behind his body to allow for a quicker response. His hand touched the forest floor and felt the moist soil before dipping into the wet pool he nearly entered.
The water was cool. Cupping his hand, he splashed handfuls onto his face, allowing the droplets to run down his chin and neck. Taking a drink as well, he shook out his fingers and stood, feeling around the edge of the pool with his feet. His lungs let out a relieved sigh. By this pool, the air was cooler and not as thick.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flickering glow. Fireflies, he thought, although their light was more vibrant than he had recalled, but that was probably because of the darkness around him. The insects floated around, following each other as they moved over the pool's surface. Green light ebbed and flashed, but even that sparse illumination pierced the gloom more efficiently than the oil lanterns that the Caravan relied on.
There was no natural light in the Deep Forest, a consequence of the overgrowth. Yet every fire started by oil or flint or wood never truly burned bright in the fog. It was as though the darkness ate every flicker of light they created. Except for the fireflies.
The insects danced around, gently landing on his arm and then flitting away. He found a smile forming on his face, a shiver of youth sliding down his spine. He remembered days of catching the fireflies between the rose bushes of the Gardens. There was a saying that the fireflies led you between the vines and twigs as a distraction so that you didn’t notice the danger until you were already pricked by the sharp barbs of the thorns. A power game, the old ones would say. Constant tricks and evasions that led you further into the carefully laid trap. As a child, he didn’t believe in the tale. All the bushes of the Gardens were free of any thorns. They were filled, instead, with lush unfurling roses that in the Spring grew fuller and more luminous in their intricate beauty.
Caught in his musings, his arm began to sag. His spear, though light in weight, felt heavy to him and his fingers slackened in their grip. With a long exhale, he started back for his post. Having found nothing of suspicion, there was no point to venturing further. Wandering too far was not wise considering the events of the past days.
A feminine laugh tinkered out of the flood of fireflies behind him: light and airy like small bells. He turned his head. A glowing maiden, soft and ethereal, stood in the fog. Soft ripples of air sent the gray mass rolling in waves beneath her feet.
Her long black hair was pulled into a braid that draped over her shoulder. Her voluminous robes were plain with intricate and unadorned creases of fabric. Every part of her visible body was awash in green light. A brief flicker shifted the shadows around them.
Her hand reached out towards him, beckoning. He found his body changing direction, moving towards her as he tried to get a better look. Her features were not all that clear from this distance. His arms stretched forward.
Was she a vision, a sprite of the fo
rest? The Scholars spoke of neatly stenciled drawings of women with wings and long-tipped ears, an aura against the backdrop of the world. They were nearly always with trees, flowers, and green, always with a flute or harp. He knew her to be one of these: a Sprite of the Deep Forest who was weaving her song in his presence, even with no instrument in sight.
Her form floated from his grasp, and he moved quickly to follow her, mirroring her playful footsteps against the trees and thickets of bamboo. Something drew him to her, something he could not identify. He allowed her to lead him by string of her lingering laughter. His blood ran hotter as the sound filled his ears. She was lovely.
The thoughts of duty and his current task left his mind. He didn’t think about the chaos it was going to cause back at the camp. Soon, the shouts of his absence would bring more trouble than he cared to….
He continued to follow until they reached a clearing, the never-ending fog dissipating as the Sprite leaned over a clean, gray, uprooted stone, covered by creeping, flowering vines. The foliage was testimony to how long the piece had remained untouched by his people. Wouldn’t the Scholars shake in their silk slippers over such a discovery?
Slender