by Jae Loren
fingers pointed down at the stone. He knelt down to examine the piece of History, brushing aside the tangling vines because a Sprite of the Deep Forest wouldn’t abase herself with such work, he was sure. The pads of his fingertips ran over the engraved surface of the stone. He squinted, aided slightly by the Sprite's green glow, and the light of the fireflies that had followed them to this place. Different inscriptions, looping shapes and symbols decorated the structure. From what he could see, it was smooth on five of its six sides. The front was slightly sloped, and the only surface with writing of any kind. Again, there was a circle surrounded by three fans, much like the one displayed in the Great Museum. There were other etchings of man-like figures, but he couldn’t understand most of the symbols, except one that was off to the corner. Twenty-one lines, messier than the usual work of the meticulous Imperial Scribes, formed a familiar word that he knew, and behind it, was a circle, more deeply engrained than the other inscriptions. Someone had taken the time and great effort to carve out that particular image.
Though she had never asked a question the Sprite of the Deep Forest tilted her head at him, as though inquiring for an answer. Softly, quietly, he began to explain, his voice kept at a whisper because her large ears surely did not require much sound. He wasn't unsure why he knew she could understand him. She didn't speak, but her eyes were sharp and focused on him. He moved his hands in easy gestures for her to follow. He had to get the meaning across to her.
He knew he spoke about the Great Museum and the Scholars, and might have even described the many Artifacts. The Sprite leaned towards him, her radiant robes stationary even as her body moved. The sight pulled at a fading thread of alarm he had previously ignored. What else, he wondered, was different in the world of the Deep Forest? Even now the crickets and fireflies had moved to the background. His alertness was slow to return. He didn't want to do anything but remain where he was with the Sprite. Her breath was like a sweet caress, and he turned his face toward it in an attempt to capture it much like he had the bright, flickering insects in his childhood.
A single shout pierced the veil, and something cold gripped his mind. The hand of the Sprite snapped out to his throat. The touch was icy and strong; the touch dug into his skin, strangling his voice when the scream tried to emerge. White sprang before his vision, four walls and blaring light. So white. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the thoughts that escaped his mental bonds in a muted rush. A shadow-clad figure yelled at him, but he could not respond past the blockage in his throat. The Sprite stood before him, glowing even brighter in the stark chamber. Her face glowing, she whispered softly against his forehead, the wisps of her hair tickling his ears and encircling his neck. When the smell of the wet Deep Forest returned, he collapsed. Gasping, he tried to take in deep to push the air back to his lungs.
Bright eyes, burning fire.
Another loud shout followed: his name. There was a worried question in the tone. His hand touched a sharp ache in his neck, where the tip of his spear had pressed and left a tiny incision. He could not remember picking up the spear, but it clattered from his fingers. How much time had passed? Hours? Days? Sweat dribbled down his neck and onto his armor. There were shadows in the dark, looming before him with pupil-less gazes, and the last memory he had of the Sprite was the twisted, angry look of stunned disbelief that darkened her tranquil features.
He was not mad. Taking his spear, he called back to the darkness, and his voice trembled even to his own ears. Fireflies fluttered around him, a few landing behind him on the stone that remained unchanged. Even as his world tipped and slanted, the one word he knew reigned above the others. The single word that plague the Empire, the word that told a History no one could remember, not even the old ones. Domination.
“The forest is not ours,” the old ones would say. “It is a poison we cannot take away.” Later, they would gather at the ruins, point to the circle with three broad fans as they bemoaned its strange and fleeting meaning. Their eyes would take in the earth, the fertile soil beneath their feet over and over again before the History would escape them and they would talk about thin, gleaming objects winkling in the sky, shimmering and looming against the moon.
Stumbling, cradling his head, he went back the way he had come, looking for the light of his oil lantern on the stool where he had left it. He still could see nothing beyond the endless fog. The world tilted, and he fell along with it before hands reached out to pick him up, hoisting him upon warm, hide-clad shoulders. His comrades wordlessly led him over the roots and growth; their bodies becoming enveloped by the gray mists of the Deep Forest as they returned to the Last Caravan.
***
The trees shifted and groaned with the effort put upon them. Dark, skulking figures with unfamiliar features and awkward steps reached out to follow the soldiers’ footsteps, their lithe, crooked forms gleaming like sword blades as they blended within the shadows, breathing in the mists shallowly.
