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It was only a small thing, hardly anything at all, but when it cried out the wood knew it was not one of its kind. Grackles and ravens took to wing from dark pine trees that appeared as sinister as looming, annoyed adults. He huddled down into his small clothes. He did not understand how he got where he did. How long he had been here and how long he had walked. He had been home, his Mam with the plow horse—the horse had spooked and frightened him. He thought that he had run to safety just a bit away into the woods, but he had never traipsed about them without his Mam yet...With the panic of his flight, the cold rain and the mist, it had not been long for him to realize he could no longer hear his mother calling frantically for him and the only sound he could hear now was the damp plits of rain. And the forest. Then it was dark and then light again.
If he wasn't so cold and so tired, he might have been more frightened of the way the wood seemed to groan in the wind. How grey and barren the trees without leaves looked and how black the pines seemed in such a gray morning.
At the foot of an old, old oak with gnarled roots as large as giants he had found shelter. But poor shelter it was, full of wet rain. The smell of once-frozen winter earth clogged his nostrils and his voice had all been yelled out.
Now all he could do was shiver then cry, then shiver again, until even that grew too tiring and he felt himself drift off.
His eyes were so heavy suddenly. He thought he saw a flutter of something brighter than the dark wood, yet all he could think of was how warm he was now and how comfortable it would be to simply drift off and sleep...
#
Not even the rain darkened her pelt. As it lazily dripped from the skies above it misted fine over the sleek line of her shoulder and haunch making her seem almost aglow against the drab of winter trees. She had been grazing; nibbling really when the tiniest of sounds, only a small thing that did not sound of the wood and its kind called out. Still as death she went for a moment, eyes rolling to the skies and one ear flicking to follow the sound of the birds—the other toward the noise. Her eyes, dark little violets in dewy white lash rolled nervously at first.
Slowly, slowly, they found a scrap of white in the belly-knots of a great oak tree, bright as silk in candle light. Long legs and careful hooves had her approach while her nostrils flared wide attempting to gather scent.
What her nose took in was a scent she knew. It was fire and ash and crushed leaves, tears and lava, dirt, memories. Memories of—
"Mama?" Said the tree drowsily. Startled, the white deer reared her head. Quickly however, she lowered it, shoving the velveteen of her nose within the long roots after a little dance forward. Gently now, gently, she lipped at the boy's cold brow.
#
At the edge of the village Aileen was crying and laughing her fool head near fit to fall off. The boy was warm and ruddy cheeked as if he'd spent the day and night and some of the next morning by her side in the house.
It was only a small thing, hardly anything at all, but when it cried out the wood knew it was not one of its kind. Grackles and ravens took to wing from dark pine trees that appeared as sinister as looming, annoyed adults. He huddled down into his small clothes. He did not understand how he got where he did. How long he had been here and how long he had walked. He had been home, his Mam with the plow horse—the horse had spooked and frightened him. He thought that he had run to safety just a bit away into the woods, but he had never traipsed about them without his Mam yet...With the panic of his flight, the cold rain and the mist, it had not been long for him to realize he could no longer hear his mother calling frantically for him and the only sound he could hear now was the damp plits of rain. And the forest. Then it was dark and then light again.
If he wasn't so cold and so tired, he might have been more frightened of the way the wood seemed to groan in the wind. How grey and barren the trees without leaves looked and how black the pines seemed in such a gray morning.
At the foot of an old, old oak with gnarled roots as large as giants he had found shelter. But poor shelter it was, full of wet rain. The smell of once-frozen winter earth clogged his nostrils and his voice had all been yelled out.
Now all he could do was shiver then cry, then shiver again, until even that grew too tiring and he felt himself drift off.
His eyes were so heavy suddenly. He thought he saw a flutter of something brighter than the dark wood, yet all he could think of was how warm he was now and how comfortable it would be to simply drift off and sleep...
#
Not even the rain darkened her pelt. As it lazily dripped from the skies above it misted fine over the sleek line of her shoulder and haunch making her seem almost aglow against the drab of winter trees. She had been grazing; nibbling really when the tiniest of sounds, only a small thing that did not sound of the wood and its kind called out. Still as death she went for a moment, eyes rolling to the skies and one ear flicking to follow the sound of the birds—the other toward the noise. Her eyes, dark little violets in dewy white lash rolled nervously at first.
Slowly, slowly, they found a scrap of white in the belly-knots of a great oak tree, bright as silk in candle light. Long legs and careful hooves had her approach while her nostrils flared wide attempting to gather scent.
What her nose took in was a scent she knew. It was fire and ash and crushed leaves, tears and lava, dirt, memories. Memories of—
"Mama?" Said the tree drowsily. Startled, the white deer reared her head. Quickly however, she lowered it, shoving the velveteen of her nose within the long roots after a little dance forward. Gently now, gently, she lipped at the boy's cold brow.
#
At the edge of the village Aileen was crying and laughing her fool head near fit to fall off. The boy was warm and ruddy cheeked as if he'd spent the day and night and some of the next morning by her side in the house.