The Whispers Of Trees

Sol had been just a child, three rings old, innocent and defenceless. Unknowing of the world he had been born into and what consequences his birth would have. But his mother knew. Even as he grew older, she kept it hidden from him, from everyone, pretending as if everything was normal, that her son wasn’t an abomination that could destroy everything.

Sol, even being as young as he was, had seen it, the look in his mothers’ eyes. They had dulled over time, becoming hollow and bleak just like her mood. Nothing he did changed it, no picture he drew or joke he told. But maybe this time he could make her smile.

They had been trekking through the woods away from their home in Birchwood for some time, his little legs barely keeping up as his mother dragged him along by the hand.

She had said they were going on a trip for a few days; she had not specified where or what they would be doing, but he was excited, nonetheless. She had encouraged him to embrace the world around him and use what he could from what nature gave them. Sol remembered learning how to collect sticks for fires, which she would make, to spare his childish hands, and how to forage for berries, plants and fresh water.

He’d loved learning, especially with his mother.

But he was admittedly thankful when they stopped for a break here and there.

Sol knew his mother well, her usually kind nature and polite mannerisms. So, it was unusual to see her so frantic and watchful of the area around them, as though she were looking for something that scared her.

She had explained that beasts and unsavoury sorts of people lurked outside Birchwood, but the fear seemed to intensify when she caught sight of him, her own son.

It never changed, even when they were on the move, putting as much distance between themselves and home, to the point he began to worry his mother had gone mad.

It had never crossed his mind that something sinister could be afoot, even when they stopped for the night as the clouds thickened, and the skies darkened around them and the blazing fire they had made.

They sat in silence, his mother usually being the first to initiate conversation. But when it all became too quiet for his liking, he broke the silence.

“Mamma, what are we going to do on our trip? Are we going to hunt for frogs and toads? I like that game,” he said, in the sweetest voice. So naïve, so forgetful.

She flinched at the name he used, a word so simple and yet, he knew he shouldn’t have used it.

“No, we are going to sleep tonight, and in the morning, I will leave you to sleep while I find us something to eat.” Her eyes, that never left the flickering flames, dazzled beyond compare with burning cinnamon. The same colour as the wilted leaves on his fickle tree back home.

“But what about after that?”

“After that, we will see. Now tuck yourself in and try to sleep,” she stated, her words blunt and leaving no room for arguments.

Sol did as he was told, as always; he was never a defiant child, even when he was little.

As warmth began to spread beneath the blankets, he shut his eyes and began to dream, listening to the creaking branches of the swaying trees above and the crackling fire, knowing his mother would still be awake into the early hours. It had become commonplace for his mother to sit and stare blankly into the gardens and woodlands from their kitchen window at home. He found her a handful of times doing so, seemingly in her own world, pondering. Sometimes he would see her at the end of his bed, with dried tears beneath her eyes, but recently there had been none, as though what she had been pondering and questioning had been answered. He listened to her hum and held onto the feeling of her fingers running through his hair for a while, knowing when daylight came, her motherly side would vanish with the moon.

Her presence, at least for now, was a comfort, until sleep took him into its embrace.

***

The sun, peaking through the boughs and cascading leaves, woke Sol from his childish dreams of beasts and magic.

It was a subtle light, one that was not harsh on his innocent eyes that blinked their way open.

He sat alone in the woods, oblivious to the absence of his mother.

Hazy-eyed from a night of sleep, he began to wonder, growing further and further afield from the died-out fire and dewy blankets.

The world was so large, the trees looking like great stomping giants, the skies completely out of reach and the foliage and bushes of Yule appearing evil and thorny.

He chased after critters and bugs, followed the charming tweets of birdsongs towards the rushing sound of water, his face turned upwards, watching the shifting clouds. His elation soon began to dwindle as grey smudges in the sky crept in, signs of a thunderstorm approaching. It was sudden and heavy as he realised the lack of his mother’s presence, an overwhelming feeling of alarm and dread that consumed him. He couldn’t remember which direction he had come in, and which way would lead him back to the fire. Everything looked scary, more so without his mother beside him, but even worse was the lifted root that snatched at the back of his ankle as he panicked. Before he knew it, he had tripped, the sound of water getting louder. He was dragged away into the rapids of the rushing river.

The water was roaring around him, and all air was non-existent in his burning chest. His sense of direction and the world he knew blurred into whites and blues, slowly growing darker until black was the only colour to be seen, and all noise silenced.

Every sense was washed away with the current, including him.