Standing In The Forest Is A Soul

Standing in the forest is a soul. A soul of no extraordinary import, simply a soul existing. Breathing, moving, and rustling in his clothes as he's done decades-long. He is searching, spreading his gaze for any and everything on this path. Be it birds, other passersby, squirrels, and rodents. All are welcome to cross between or over this soul's narrow feet. He takes strides in synchronicity with the gusts, carrying him forward and throwing his hair in every direction. He is not a soul known for rushing, taking shallow strides in both life and his birdwatching. His breathing. His routines. He has lived too many years now to fall folly to the spontaneous and the wild. His heart cannot entirely take it anymore. He was once a very successful businessman, accounting for his town's taxes. He would wake every day and don a sharp suit, much like he continues to wear even now. Except now retired, he chooses a perhaps more bold color palette, striped black and white, only at the beginning of the first few sun-ups. The rest of which is a relaxed beige - far more familiar upon his face, it appears. This particular morning his journey is a little longer, reaching a distance unfamiliar. His distance is half of this on most morns, as he has a few rescued kittens to provide shelter. However, his kittens have meowed louder and louder with their new growing lungs and summarily been adopted by a few willing adults. With no pressing matters to attend, he begins to carve a few new paths through older and dying trunks, giving way to a marshier land but still ever burdened with trees, speaking to the ground with groans and creaks of aged wood, conveying discontent with this quicker wind. This soul is so lost in the changing landscape, the different flavors of the air, and how those spindly feet feel so misplaced in the spongy, moistened soil. The skies have darkened, the sun dipped so below the canopy, casting rays upwards illuminating angry clouds. A gust picks up, wetting his now grey-looking hair first until it drips down onto his skin, letting a second gust air-dry it off. A third, a mighty one, nearly pushes him off balance, releasing long-lodged underbrush up and into the air giving it another different flavor. Despite the airborne flak, his eyes open as ever, continuing to search and spread his gaze. A fourth, buffeting and violent, toppling a distant tree, landing with a thud that can be described only with sadness and pain. As if the forest lost a limb in a battle against a thousand unseeable cuts. His strides continue but backward. He begins looking for others to help, to aid in escaping a pained soul. A fifth gust now, drifting the angry clouds directly overhead, adding more excessive groundwater to this already hydrated land.

A sixth and seventh fly by, inviting more and more flavors. An eighth gust amputates another limb. It is the ninth and only the ninth that steers this soul's gaze in a direction previously unseen. A brief, unmistakable glint in an otherwise darkened atmosphere. Eerily blue, just over that last fallen limb. It was only the ninth, as the tenth and eleventh were desperately trying to pull his gaze away from the strange sight. The winds are averting his sight away, but his body refuses. Pushing against the torrent, he travels towards the glint, using the ethereal light reflecting off the fallen leaves to guide his direction. Until he reaches an opening in the forest, in which a saucepan pond is rippling with waves from a much calmer breeze. Floating in the middle of the inaccessibly cold and deep pond is the source of the light blue light. A Will O' The Wisp. Strange, confusing, and in some ways familiar to the old soul but long forgotten. Slightly undulating and rotating in place, not quite flickering as one would expect a fool's flame to do. The old soul stops moving through his feeble feet, now merely kissing the lapping water. He thinks nothing of his kittens and how they may be faring in this storm, considering nothing towards the passersby that may be trying to seek shelter from the shower. He does naught but regard, watching and trying to perceive an understanding of this being. It doesn't quite beckon in a direction, which is what a benevolent force would do. It doesn't quite approach, which is what a malevolent force would do. Instead, it simply spins, impossibly, on its own axis.The traveler, the old soul standing in the forest, the sharp-suited wanderer, is stumped. He is conflicted and confused about what to do, where to move, and if to approach or to remain rooted in place. He tries to communicate with it, to yell aloud, but all is lost in the wind and rain. The creaks and groans of bending wood replace every spoken syllable. The traveler is shaken out of his trance by a sudden lack of wind. Like stepping onto solid land from a life lived at sea. In that hiatus, he spots a bright, cobalt blue burst from the top of the enigma. It begins to spin a little faster and hurriedly floats off into what seems a random direction. Without hesitation from the south comes a mighty wind from Notus himself, spurring him in the same direction. The wisp coyly plays with the traveler. Disappearing behind large rocks for a time, just long enough to have him begin to worry, to actively force him to spread his gaze to the other side. Only to reappear on top of the rock and float off in the initial direction. Never directionless. With constant sporadic movement, but always purposeful.

A few hundred more gusts later, the wisp stops, now under an entirely moonlit night sky, in an unremarkable piece of the forest.

The traveler spies two shivering, cold, and gaunt fawns basked in the ethereal blue light. They are huddled together, trying desperately and frivolously to hide from the wind and rain under an insufficiently small overhang made from a grouping of boulders. The two baby deer remark the wisp, shooting their black eyes and furry ears in its direction, but do not move. Until, they too, take their steps onto solid land and are shaken from lack of wind. The wisp shoots a small, familiar, and cobalt blue burst into the chilling air and begins moving slower in a direction seemingly random to the fawns. However, this time is different. The old soul paying close, unavoidable attention to the spinning ignis fatuus notices that the blue burst was towards the distant mountains. This time, however, a slight orange hue accompanied the blaze. The fawns both arise and begin to follow the blue light. En route to the mountains, the wisp is still ever-playful, hiding behind boulders, appearing inside low berry bushes for the fawns to stop and eat. Floating in and around the fawn's legs as they move like a dog would to its owner, guiding them eventually to a freshwater river flowing down from the mountains. The wisp stops and hovers a few inches above and over the water's edge just past where the fawns have begun drinking. The old traveler, who is quickly losing curiosity in this wisp as it remains there waiting for the deer to finish, sends his gaze flying out around him, trying to find other distractions. Instead, he finds a grouping of eight yellow eyes laying low in the underbrush, behind the deer, locked onto the wisp. The traveler knows what belongs to those eyes as a watcher and wanderer of this forest, but wonders why they haven't pounced quite yet. He watches as the ethereal, translucent orb begins spinning quicker and shoots another cobalt blue burst further towards the mountains with flickers of orange like tossing a fresh, dry log onto a waning campfire. It rises ever so slightly higher above the water and remains in place, spinning faster and faster as if waiting for the traveler to follow. The wind starts picking up speed once again. As the old soul begins moving in a wide berth opposite the eight eyes that are slowly approaching their prey, he can't help but watch nature at its most gruesome and gravitas. Watching as a green, scaled, and hungry crocodile leaps from the water directly underneath the wisp, latching onto the legs of one of the fawns, pulling it under. The other bolts into the forest with a quickness, directly into the peering yellow eyes.

Rotating more violently than usual as it goes on, the wisp and the traveler follow north towards the mountain. Still ever playful, constantly moving through and over the traveler's legs. Erratically darting to and fro and touching everything like a child losing patience in a grocery store. Rubbing up against low hanging branches and leaves, setting them on fire with a mystical flame. The old soul watches with worry and pain in fear of it spreading before he quickly shakes the branches, knocking the fire out. The traveler slows down as his legs grow weary from the cold, wet, and gnashing early Autumn winds. Nearly convincing him it's time to hibernate inside a cozy cottage somewhere, but he knows it's much too soon for these winds to be natural and for those thoughts to be enacted. There is some relief when the iridescent ball stops in place, and the winds relent for a moment. He wishes that the ball could hear him and understand his words. Ask it if it could share its name. If it would like a name, then, if it doesn't have one. Why has it stopped, and is it you that the winds answer to? For a moment, he thinks it can hear him, but it was simply the wind picking up once more, and his words are lost amongst the creaks and groans of timber. The wisp has chosen a direction and spins away. With only a few more hundred feet to go before they reach the toes of the mountain, the old soul spies a light moving frantically along the ground, flashing intermittently as it gets blocked behind complacent boulders and crying stumps. The wisp coyly approaches and plays its usual game, but with a bit more energy and what amounts to as excitement only appearing inside the blinding white cone of light shining from the lost man on the other end. As if to keep the man second-guessing himself, what was that at the end of the light? It spins just out of sight when the cone switches direction until the wisp has enough fun and begins to appear just outside of his periphery. It floats intently, waiting for him to lock eyes. The old soul soaking up the enjoyment from watching someone else suffer the petulant teasing from the odd ball tries to yell out to the lost man, but both his face and words are battered and buffeted with sharp, wet leaves. Projectiles are thrown with an unwieldy, unnatural force, forcing the old soul's vision into obscurity and tossing the lost man's light into the spongy topsoil. The light slightly embedding itself into the muck, providing no more assistance.

The only light is now emanating from the rapidly spinning wisp, earning all deserved attention from the lost man. Both are stuck in place regarding one another until a burst of uncharacteristically baby blue fire shoots towards the mountain, and they both follow.

The traveler's vision is returned to normalcy, spreading his sight calmly along the underbrush and through the canopy, trying to regain his composure and bearing. Unfortunately, finding naught but a lack of that now comforting blue light. The traveler, starting to worry, moves at a preternatural speed for someone his age, searching for his wisp. His ever so slightly familiar friend. Eventually, finding himself right at the edge of the forest, shaking hands with the base of the mountain. By this time, watching as the distant blue light is floating above a hidden staircase hammered haphazardly into the face of the mountain. The traveler is awestruck as he witnesses the wisp follow the lost man up the stairs until he reaches the top, being a guiding light in the darkness, wishing him safe travels home. The old soul knows that way is the opposite of his home. Yet, still, he thinks about taking it, to be out of the biting cold, finally out of this forest and potentially where his kittens might now rest their little heads. He is smacked out of his contemplation by an uppercut of wind as the orb plummets back to the ground, creating a shooting star of mysteriously darker blue light. It swirls to a stop directly in front of the old soul. Face to face with the wisp, like being interrogated by a desk lamp.

It begins to swirl faster with the same dark blue energy picking up speed with the wind and the many flavors upon it. The wisp first moves side to side, slowly. Then curves around his wrinkled, tired face keeping within his periphery.

Until it's now spinning around his body, starting to give off bursts of deep reds and orange, retreating into familiar blues and a hint of that earlier baby blue. It relaxes its spinning as it comes to rest into a beautiful violet hue. It then darts off to his left, leaving the old soul with no choice but to follow deeper into the forest, not knowing where or why as per usual but impossibly curious to find out. It flies fast, with seemingly no time to play. No burning bushes or boulders hid behind, simply following on a path set due eastward along the dwindling, shared perimeter of the forest and mountain. The old soul cannot help but feel as if this is the longest path taken yet, whether due to the lack of playfulness or because, truly, he swears, the sky is becoming more and more purple with hints of early morning reds.

A tree larger than its friendly neighbors stands in the now dawning distance, frequently obscured from view by the determined wisp on a straight and narrow path. Moving only side to side, avoiding other trees in the way, dodging impossibly accurately only to skim the side of the trunks. Singing the bark, making the old soul grimace. Afraid it would set one alight again. They finally arrive at the small meadow in which the giant tree stands. The wisp looks noticeably dim, flickering like a dying flashlight repeatedly smacked against a palm. It hesitantly toes the line of entering the soft green grass towards the tree, for once giving the old soul time to move ahead of the wisp and enter an area first. This tree is not of an old-growth size but significant compared to its neighbors, certainly standing prouder and a good deal above the rest. Where the rest sport the usual white and black striped suits or the wrinkled, brown bark faces smiling with age, this tree is a strange menagerie of all those who came before this forest and within it. Parts dressed sharply in black and white. Patches just as monotonous as every other oak the wisp nearly set alight. Pieces are oozing with trickles of slow-moving, dark-green swamp water like its roots are working in reverse. All three of these distinct parts intersect alongside and cover the trunk's surface entirely. Creating a living ecosystem and inadvertently working to make vein-like structures that pulse with dim blue light. Spreading everywhere like spider webs, all coalescing into a central location clearly on the other side of the tree from the old soul regarding the intricacies. Slowly, but eagerly he starts to move around to view the tree from another angle; he watches as the wisp finds enough strength to spin again. Bursting through what seemed an unseeable barrier into the small meadow. Still flickering, it moves next to the tree and waits for the traveler to take in what the veins are pumping towards fully. On the other side, he looks upon a shriveled and wooden shape of a human man. Woven into, with outreaching branches and almost entirely covered in moss. Extremities melded into the bark, leaving only the wooden face and upper torso viewable. Eyes closed in contentment, completely unmoving. The chest is not taking any breaths. Subtle buttons, hemlines, and a cheeky, once polka-dotted handkerchief appear even more familiar to the old soul than the wisp does. Which has now begun to revolve around the tree, dipping below and occasionally above an equal altitude. Wavering, as if trying to hold its balance as it spins faster and faster. Bursts of all colors shoot off towards the trunk, illuminating the veins as those also pulse faster and faster.

The once bright, cobalt blue Will o' The Wisp, confusing and courageous in behaviour. Reducing to nothing but smoke billowing akin to the great dragon's nose as it rises and becomes one with the tree. The traveler, awestruck and wracked with a strange sense of guilt, moves to touch the wooden body's face. To somehow rationalise this scene with more than just sight. Instead, the soul's perspective whisks away into an inky blackness, soon replaced with an otherworldly point of view. Not through two eyes, as he's accustomed to, but through millions upon millions of leaves floating and flying on the settling wind. Feeling his consciousness move and grow through the roots in the spongy soil. Sense and memory return to him, a familiar feeling of being here before. Those wooden eyelids of a long, content soul creak open, revealing a glassy, obsidian texture behind them. He begins to reminisce of a similar wisp once planting a trodden and tiresome soul into a tree. Replacing his human possessions with those made of long evolved stardust. The striped suit he would once wear to work, reduced to wood. A house he would pay for now turned to small crevices for adult squirrels and their kittens. Hikes and forging new paths taken on lunch breaks reverted to merely watching as others continue and let thrive those same paths. Years pass by, and yet more moss grows upon his torso. Completely transfixed in the act of watching and reminiscing. Only to be removed and separated from his memories by his wooden eyelids slightly closing. Not fully, not even halfway. Only just enough to forget slightly his nature, and reclaim some humanity.