A Girl and Her Mother

A tree doesn’t have eyes. It doesn’t have ears or a mouth, and yet they see everything. Every step, or broken branch, and hidden nest they know about. And they whistle this news through the forest. Through their branches, their leaves; humming in the wind. Their trunks sway with the weight of words passed from branch to branch. They know everything. And they know what happened to Aria Miletos.

…

Pine trees reached their sharp needles into the sky; they stood, imposing and soldier-like in the deepest parts of the wood. Far down below, at their feet in a bed of moss, a dragon lay. A snore escaped, shaking the old tree with a soothing rhythm.

The dragon in question had fallen through the branches of several trees not a hundred feet away. The pines had resisted, tearing at its wings with their sharp needles. They were impenetrable trees, they didn’t like for things to come in uninvited. But the dragon, despite the resistance, had fallen anyways. Landing with a thud that shook the trees to their roots, and slid hard into the feet of the pine where it now rests.

Word quickly spread through the branches, down ragged cliffs, and across glacier creeks. Soon the whole forest knew, because a dragon, a wounded dragon, was an unusual thing. And even more exciting, the trees hummed to each other was what was coming to it.

…

Aria Miletos was a child from a small village on the edge of the deep woods that housed many strange things. And, the trees often argued, she could be considered one of the strangest. Because even for her 4 years, she had yet to speak a word. Many people in the village had tried to coax it out of her, offering sweets, toys, a ride on the prettiest horse. But nothing would make her utter a sound. And, perhaps, the trees hummed, it was for a good reason.

But there was one person who felt the shame of Aria’s silence more than anyone else. Contrita felt she had to compensate constantly for her daughter. She hated how far behind her daughter was from the other children in the village, in her mind, the silence wasn’t the problem, but the whispering was. The other wives would hush behind her back

“That's Contrita’s girl, the one who can’t speak.”

“Poor dear, she must be simple. Contrita will never be able to do anything with that girl.”

Cruel whispers, to say about a child, to say in earshot of a mother. And despite her best efforts, these words intoxicated Contrita. At first, she couldn’t stand how they looked at her daughter, with pity, with contempt. And even worse, when they turned those same whispers onto her. And soon, the village began speculating about the girl's father. About why she was this way. Contrita’s heart thumped with the poison of these words. How dangerous they were.

Every inch of her feared for her daughter. For the light inside of her. For everything, she did not know.

There were many trees outside their tiny house that night. And none would say what they felt happening within the thick oak walls.

A mother intent on recreating her daughter caused more pain than many could know. And Contrita knew she had no choice. And, finally, she got her to wish. After years of silence, Aria opened her mouth and screamed.

And what followed, was something not even Aria will remember clearly. But the outcome was splintered glass, a scorched wall, and a hole where a mother had been.

When the people who had whispered venom into the ears of a mother finally went to find the source of the shattering voice, Aria had disappeared.

The trees had swallowed her up.

Aria stumbled, and sped on, diving deeper into the woods. Trunks shot higher than she could see, but they never ended–the ground tilted–the world had flipped. She was falling straight into space, the trees reached for her, trying to grab her legs, her arms, her face. She was too heavy; she couldn’t stop, she couldn’t slow down. All she could do was scream.

And the more she screamed, the emptier she felt. She felt the air slowing down as it sped past her. The branches were grabbing at her softly, like fingertips brushing her skin.

She landed in a bed of moss, lighter than the day she was born.

The trees reached around her, covering the tiny body in the dark.

“Move ya stupid pine! I gotta…”

A hand ripped open the small cavern of needles that surrounded Aria, and a face appeared. Eyes widening at the sight of the child.

A tiny woman–with dark hair that reached to her ankles, and glowing skin–stared at the girl who was spitting fire from her mouth.

“My, my. You’ve got quite the tongue there haven’t you?”

Aria only looked back in response, she wiped at her mouth. A flame sputtered out on her hand.

“I suppose you shouldn’t speak, should you?”

Aria looked down.

“That's alright, I can talk enough for two.”

The woman slid into the cavern of branches, letting them snap violently shut behind her. The branches seemed to tighten their grip around the pair.

The woman sat down on her hair, crossing her legs.

“You know, it isn’t often the trees make such a show of partiality.” She leaned in so that Aria could smell the thick scent of her words. “What did you say to them?”

Aria leaned back, pressing her torn dress into the sticking needles of the pine wall behind her. She pulled her knees up to her chest.

“Oh, well aren’t you a sweet one? It’s ok, I can tell from more than words whats happened to you.” She tilted her head to the side, her face being pulled in the wrong direction from the hair she used as a seat. Her smile stretched further, revealing a row of pointed teeth.

“I know what you have inside, Aria, something greater than I’m sure you can truly comprehend.”

She moved her head back, but the smile stayed the same. She lifted a hand up to brush the hair out of her eyes.

She reached towards Aria, her fingers growing longer, and paler as they inched towards her face.

Aria flinched, and the woman laughed.

“Don’t worry dear, I won’t do a thing to you. I can see from your eyes you’ve had quite the day.” Aria could see a fire in the woman's eyes, it was only when she moved her lips did she realize it was coming from her.

“I can also see, that this forest is no good for you.” The branches closed in tighter, pushing Aria closer to the woman, her heavy words grabbing onto her skin.

The fire glowed brighter in the woman's black eyes. And her words echoed in Aria's chest, grabbing at her soul.

“I know it was your mother that did this to you. And she’ll do it again.”

The branches pushed her forward, needles sticking into her back, closer and closer to that cheshire smile that wrapped around the woman's head.

“And what a treat she’ll have.”

The long fingers reached for Aria, the smile gaped in front of her, and she pushed back. Choking on words to get her out.

The branches opened behind her, and she fell, fell, fell away from the glowing skin, the dark hair, and the beauty that turned darker with the more words it said.

…

Sunlight broke through the canopy of trees, streams of gold dancing along the moss, and along the back of the sleeping dragon. And then a branch moved just enough so a ray of light hit the dragon's bloodied eye. It flicked up, then back, and the dragon let out a low deep sound, shifting its weight carefully.

All along its side the thick skin was torn and bleeding, scales ripped off, green and yellow oozing out. One eye was clawed beyond recognition and its front claw knarled like oak.

The trees stood, silent, as the dragon rose and began to hobble towards the distant sound of water.

…

Aria awoke to the sound of water gurgling past. She split her eyes open, seeing the mossy creek bank, the sunlight filtering through the branches above to land softly on her face.

Slowly the world around her came into focus as sounds. The branches brushed against each other, the bees vibrating as they flitted across coloured petals on the other side of the creek.

She lifted her head, taking in the warm scene. Tentative, she sat up and froze. A monster as big as her house–with mud and pine-coloured scales, and bat-like wings with tattered ends– was staring into the lightly foaming waters of the creek.

Aria heard its low thumping heartbeat. She didn’t make a sound. She stayed exactly where she was, watching as this dragon slowly lowered its head to drink. Aria could keep quiet, she had so much practice, but the forest had never mastered that skill. One particular tree, stationed beside Aria, moaned loudly as a gust of wind hit its branches high above them.

Aria held her breath, and the dragon looked over–not because there was a sound but a lack of it. Aria’s bubble of silence seemed to encapsulate her, protect her, as the dragon turned its slitted eye towards the child.

And she gasped, as the wretched-looking wounds covering the other side of the dragon's face appeared in the sunlight. The sound vibrated through the dragon, reaching inside and grabbing something neither the dragon nor the girl could name.

The dragon looked at this child, not knowing what it was, not knowing anything except its hunger, its exhaustion. Its eye lit up, the dragons vision filled with the child, helpless, alone.

The dragon took one step, then two, thudding towards Aria curled on the mossy banks of the creek. Aria looked on, wide-eyed, as something like death and magic approached her. Limping slowly, the dragon was just near her, not moving for fear she would run. It curled its lip back, revealing sharp teeth and black gums.

The trees did what they always do, they watched, as Aria Miletos stared straight into the jaws of death. And the only thing she said was…

“Hello.”

The air around her and the dragon stilled. The glowing in the beast's eyes dimmed, and it stood frozen in front of the child.

The power of words, of sounds, was something Aria had been aware of since the day she was born. As she slid out of her mother's body, she didn’t make a sound. She had known then–somewhere inside of her tiny, wrinkled body–the weight that words can hold. Somehow she had known this, as the trees knew how to grow up towards the sky, and just like breathing, the words came naturally to her.

“Mother.”

And just as the dragon began to lunge towards its first meal in a long time, it stopped. A beat, then two passed as the pair hung in silence

The trees shook with a breeze, the only thing that moved in the forest. They waited, watching from above and all around.

The dragon no longer saw a child shivering on the banks of the creek. Its gaze softened, its shoulders relaxed.

The dragon saw something else, something glowing in Aria. The dragon saw everything, the dragon felt the pain of the child as deeply as she did the day she gave birth. It saw Aria’s first steps, it felt her impossible small hands around its own. The dragon saw Aria, tiny, and red–and not making a single sound–in her arms. Its heart split open, with the pain of knowing what Aria was. It knew everything that she didn’t, it felt the desperation of trying to save Aria from a world where words could tear you apart from the inside out.

Its wounds bled from a battle that seemed far away, and Aria looked into the clouded eye of this terrifying creature that seemed to soften with each breath. It loved her, so, so much. The dragon touched its nose to Aria’s tear-soaked cheek. Finally, she was home. The dragon was going to save her.

The trees stood stoic, as the dragon looked at the child with every inch of its soul in agony, and swallowed her whole.