A Stranger in the Clearing

The sun hung low in the sky, beams of light sparkling between the tree branches. A pinkish-orange glow painted the horizon and the clouds above, as though their brilliant white had been dyed by wildflowers. The color would fade to blackness soon enough, but, for now, a few precious minutes of glory remained to be enjoyed. The young elm delighted in the feeling of evening sunlight on its leaves. Of all the sunlights, evening was its favorite, dusk in particular. Greater trees thrived in the afternoon brilliance, when the burning heat fed their towering forms and cast dappled light through their innumerable leaves. For the elm, afternoon often became cold; the sunlight above grew weaker with every layer of leaves it passed through, and by the time it hit the elm’s branches, it might as well have been the dying breath of a honey bee. The elm could feel it, but reached no deeper than the surface.

The oldest trees, in contrast, preferred the early morning sun to the afternoon, when the forest was just waking up. It reminded them of their younger days, when everything was fresh and new and untouched by the people. In those days, sunlight pierced through clean air no matter the time of day. The smoke and haze that seemed everywhere these days was no more than a rumor at worst, and most still thought it a fairytale. Now, by the time the sun crested over the mountains and cast her rays onto the trees below, the air already weighed heavy with gray soot and dust particles.

None of you know true sunlight, the grand, old trees would say to the saplings now, you have never felt the sun’s beams unencumbered by the people’s smoke. They were right, really, the elm knew. But since they were right, the evening sunlight felt best to the elm, when the older trees were already going to sleep or had had their fill of the light. The sky darkened in color and birds sang their melancholy lullabies and the elm soaked in the last remaining traces of the sun’s glow.

Tonight, though, was different. The old trees had not yet fallen asleep. The birds still sang their daytime tunes, and, though the sunset sky was as beautiful as ever, the young elm was distracted. Indeed, all of the trees in the grove were distracted.

At the center of the grove, in The Clearing, a young girl lay curled, fast asleep.

The Clearing, as every tree in the forest knew, was a sacred place. It was said, amongst the old trees, at least, that the oldest tree in the world had grown there. An ancient pine, it had been, who had sprouted before any other, and grown in isolation, knowing nothing but water and earth. Birds and insects came soon after, and before long, the other ancient trees began to grow, but even after hundreds of years, they remained dwarfed by the Pine. Even the people, the trees said, had a name for the Pine, though none of them could tell the elm what it was.

When the Pine had finally fallen, the clearing left behind by its roots was larger than any other in the forest. The space had a strange energy to it, neither malicious nor benevolent. Any other tree that sprouted there withered and died, and while wildflowers and simple grasses adorned The Clearing, no animal made its home there. Even the ant colonies, which seemed to have no standards at all for where they built their hills, avoided The Clearing.

But now, a creature slept there. And not just any creature, but a human. The humans, the elm had been taught, were something to fear.

The groups, particularly, the older trees said. On their own they usually do no harm. They are lost, perhaps, or grieving. They will either walk back out and back to their homes, or they will die and feed the forest.

It is the groups we fear. They come with sharp stones and fire, and they kill us and take us away. Or they kill the animals and take them away instead. It is always one or the other.

From what the elm had seen, the older trees were right, though the elm had never seen a group of humans. In fact, it had only ever seen one human. Not far from the elm, a few bones poked out of the dirt from the last human the elm had seen. A man had stumbled into the elm’s sightline, withered and raging. He had been covered with red, like the sky on a deep evening. The elm had watched as the man made many loud noises, then hurled himself at the nearby tree. He fell quickly to the ground and did not get up again. The next day, a young mother fox arrived at the tree with her kits, who feasted on the man and played on the surrounding stones. The elm loved watching the kits run and wrestle, occasionally finding some fun piece of hair or flesh on the man to incorporate into their games. The dead served the living well.

But this human was not dead yet. The elm could see the tiny body in The Clearing, framed by two great oaks that usually slept by this time. Now, instead they hummed with curiosity and concern. Why was the human in The Clearing? and what would happen if she did not leave?

The elm had a neighbor tree, several hundred years of age. To the trees, that was still scarcely more than a sapling, but the tree was older than the elm, and that made it wiser, the elm thought. But, better than that, the tree could hear the elders better, as it was closer to the clearing and, being that much older, had much better hearing.

What are they saying? asked the young elm.

The other tree responded, they’re speaking secretly, I think. They don’t want to worry us.

Worry us about what? What bad thing could happen? The elm had never seen genuine fear before, and found it an uncomfortable feeling. After all, how much harm could the girl do? She was asleep now, and she slept in the most sacred place in the forest. She would either die or wake up and leave, wouldn’t she? That was what humans did in the forest.

They don’t know, the neighbor tree said, they’ve never seen this happen before. They thought she would leave hours ago, but she hasn’t.

I didn’t even see her come, the elm chimed in, wishing to have something to contribute other than incessant questions. Questioning was the way of young trees, but the elm grew tired of knowing nothing.

Neither did I, the other tree said, I think most didn’t. A few say they saw her walk in, but she came from the mountainside, and she stepped so softly they thought she was of the forest at first. The tree paused, as though considering what to say to the elm. The elm scoffed a little. It wasn’t as though it couldn’t understand the things it didn’t know. The other tree seemed to sense this, and continued: they are saying she can’t be a normal human.

The elm didn’t know what the tree meant by this, but it tried to conceal this as best as it could. The elm thought hard, trying to come up with something intelligent or interesting to say, but before it could decide on something, it heard the older trees’ voices from closer to The Clearing. They spoke louder now, as though angry. The elm had never seen the trees get angry before, and did not like it. Then, between the two old oaks that formed the elm’s window of vision into The Clearing, the girl sat up.

Wild brown hair tumbled all over her, like the protruding roots that wove their ways over the grounds of the forest. The elm struggled to take the girl in from this distance, but it could see her movement. She stood up suddenly, turning in all directions, her arms held close to her body. Then she opened her mouth and, for the first time, the elm heard a human’s voice. It could not understand her, but it could tell from the way she spoke that she was afraid.

The neighbor tree spoke again: The older trees are speaking to her. Usually the humans don’t reply to trees, but she can hear them. They think she must be something special.

What does it mean for a human to be special? the elm asked. Embarrassment crept slowly into the elm’s branches as it asked the question, but it was too curious to let this thought pass.

The tree considered for a moment, then said, I’m not entirely sure. But I think it means that she doesn’t want to hurt us. I think she is as afraid of the humans as we are.

Why? the elm asked.

Because humans aren’t like trees, the tree said. We don’t hurt one another, at least not intentionally. Humans do, though. They don’t only kill us and the animals, they kill each other. I don’t know why they do it, but the oldest trees have seen masses of them fight each other. Groups of hundreds come to fight, and they all kill each other. Only a few walk away. So, humans fear other humans.

The elm had no question to ask in response. It was simply dumbfounded. Why on earth would humans kill each other? And why–

But the elm had no time to complete the thought. As it mused on the strangeness of the humans, a bear rushed past, sprinting straight for the girl. A split-second later, a herd of deer followed, then two more bears. A group of rabbits came next, and as they did, the forest swelled with birdsong, neither their daytime calls nor their lullabies, but something strong and powerful, filled with ancient histories the elm did not understand.

She is a friend, they've decided, the neighbor tree said. The forest is coming to meet her. They think she can help us. They think she may help restore the forest to the way it was when the Pine grew in that clearing.

How? the elm asked, how could she possibly help us?

They say they don’t know, the tree said, she may not be able to do anything. But, at the very least, she will try. And she is here now. Somehow, I think that may be enough.

The elm’s roots tickled as snakes and squirrels slithered and darted over them towards the girl. Casting its vision towards the girl again, the elm watched as she held out her hands to the animals and trees, as if to greet them. As the sun sank below the horizon, and the last flicker of pink faded from the sky, the girl looked up, through the trees, and towards the elm. Her eyes glowed like the just-departed sun as she looked at it.

The elm had never had so many questions in its life. But neither had it ever felt hope.