At least I am alive. I am still here. Why me and not my father? Why Emmitt?
The trees try to answer my questions, but even they don’t know everything. They resume their singing, ancient songs about the coming of winter and the folly of men who have passed under their boughs. I scratch in the dirt at my feet, scraping the pointed end of my fire poker back and forth as if I can etch my sadness out. This branch, this piece that used to be part of something larger, is now cut off. Alone. Like me.
A blur of shadow from a large tree across the fire catches my eye, and I grip the stick tighter. A gasp tries to climb its way out of my throat.
Like a specter who walks through walls, an old woman steps out from the massive column of trees across from my fire.
It’s her.
Hair the color of dead leaves hangs long and loose around her shoulders. Her robe is rough, giving her the appearance of being wrapped in sheets of bark. Her skin is nut-brown and deeply creased, and the wrinkles at her eyes and mouth fold in on themselves when she smiles. Which she does, promptly proceeding to sit down, cross-legged and easy as a child, with the fire between us. Just like in my father’s blue moon tale.
Her hands and feet are bare and knotted, the swollen joints and thin bones reminding me of twigs shooting off new buds in spring. Her eyes read me with the same masterful air my father possessed when appraising a tree. Something about their black, bright knowingness makes me think she is both very old and not done growing yet.
“Welcome, elder,” the trees around me croon. I sense their excitement at the arrival of this guest at my fire. “The elder one is here!”
I shift awkwardly to my knees, not knowing what to do or say.
“I am hungry,” she says plainly.
Startled by her simple need, I flounder around in my bag and find the end of a loaf of rye and one of my apples. Her knotted fingers close tightly around the food as I sit back on my heels to watch. She eats everything with gusto, including the core and stem of the apple, savoring the seeds and licking her fingers at the end. It feels impolite to gawk, yet I’m not capable of doing anything else while an ancient tree sprite eats so close to me. I’ve decided that’s what she must be. Some kind of wood elf; a living dryad untethered to her fortress.
When she’s eaten, her fingers collapse again in her lap, forming an empty hollow like a bird’s nest. It’s all I can do to stare at her dumbly. I have questions for her, questions I know I should ask, but I forget them all. I don’t feel afraid of her, not for one second, but I don’t feel at ease, either. Her hair and skin crackle with an energy reminiscent of shivering aspen leaves, a palpable static keeping her in motion though she’s sitting still.
“You are alone, young one?”
The simple question comes out like a statement. She calls me what the trees call me.
“Yes.”
“Your maker is gone?”
Her voice is high and light, the sound of wind racing through treetops. I have nothing to hide from her; the tree woman sees me as I am.
“Yes,” I croak.
She nods, looking mournful for a brief flash. “I saw his resting place.”
I think of the mound of dirt not far from where we sit, exposed to the night air and the stars. I haven’t been able to bring myself to walk to it yet.
“You know me?” I ask stupidly.
She blinks. “I remember when you were naught but a sapling, all eager shoots and limbs. I watched over you. I watch over them all,” she says, waving her fingers to the trees standing sentinel around us. “When a puppetmaster takes a tree from the woods, who do you think plants a new one?”
Something small inside me bursts open, like a seed splitting its husk. It feels good to be known. To be seen.
“Why have you returned to the wood?” she asks.
My answer comes tumbling out in a heap of grievances. “Because I cannot abide the sadness at home. With my father gone, it hurts too much. I’m all alone now. And even hearing the trees’ warning, I didn’t get there in time to save my friend; he was killed! I fear this curse will be the end of me as well, if I’m not careful.”
Her brows furrow.
“Curse?”
“When I lie … something happens,” I stammer. “I think it’s a mistake—or a punishment, perhaps. Splinters burst out of me. Maybe I deserve it, even. For the lies. But it ruins everything,” I add angrily, touching the still-tender tip of my nose.
Indignant, I pull the small bundle filled with my tell-tale splinters from my bag. As I hastily gathered my things to run away, it suddenly felt foolish and risky to leave such a strange thing behind for someone else to find. Why have I kept them all these years?
“It’s not fair! I didn’t ask for this!” I say, opening the bundle, holding a fistful out as evidence. “Or for these scars!” I pull up a sleeve and point to my arms.
She raises an eyebrow. “I see.”
Resuming her intense scrutiny, she then commands, “Give that big stick here, girl.”
Cautiously, I reach across the fire, passing her the stick I had grabbed in defense, a branch nearly as tall as I am. She snaps it in half as neatly as if it were a piece of kindling, a mere twig.
“A tree
