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milliethekitty27-writing · 4 years

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The Woods

The first time I went into the woods, my father noticed I was gone within five minutes. He is the greatest tracker in the village for a reason, but it doesn’t take much work to figure out where your seven year old went when there are dents carved in the snow.

He’d dragged me all the way to my grandfather.

“He don’t listen.” my father had snarled it. I’d bared my teeth back at him, rubbing my complaining ear. My grandfather’s dark eyes stayed focused on the fireplace, hands in his lap. “This is the hundredth time. One day he gonna get eaten by the dark.”

“The dark don’t eat.” His look, accompanied by his raised hand, had shut me up.

“By the North you’s a stubborn ox of a child.” my father had sworn. “Talk to ‘im, Arkyn.” His shoes had echoed against the wooden floor as my grandfather turned his attention to me. The door had rattled in its frame but my grandfather was quiet. I’d looked at the white plain beyond the rose-tinted window panes.

“You know the woods is bad.” He’d rasped.

“They’s just trees.”

“They’s more than just trees.” My grandfather’d shaken his head, then motioned at the great wooden shelf across from the fireplace. “Get the book.” I knew those shelves like I knew my own face. The medical books with the purple dye on the cover left my fingers stained like I’d been eating summer berries. The history books were bound in brown, and the Bacroki book my grandfather’s grandfather had bought from a traveler for ten gold and a promise of a guide across the mountains was on the third shelf. It was bound in red leather, with bronze lettering. I’d reverently placed it into gnarled hands that pat the side of the chair. “Who’s the Ladies of the Trees?” I had sat, then exhaled winter and inhaled fire.

“They’s Bacroki spirits.” A little girl had gone into a woods to explore, refusing to listen to her parents, and she’d met a beautiful woman. The woman had asked to see her green cloak, the girl had given it to her, then she’d never been seen again. (at this point in my life I have no fear of pretty women who steal children who take off their green clothing. I didn’t fear them then either, but I should have) “There’s no ladies in there.” I’d added. “They’s just woods.”

“Why’d we have Bacroki fairies if we’s in Macriba?” My grandfather’d cracked an eye open and I’d looked away, digging my fingers into the bear-fur blanket he’d tucked around my shoulders. “Why won’t you stop goin in?”

“They’s just woods.” I’d repeated. He’d shaken his head.

“What’s Bacroki?”

“The easterners who’s scared of everything and wear the wrong stuff in the snow.”

“They’s scared of women in the woods. Is we?”

“No.” I’d puffed up a little. “We’s scared’a nothin.” My grandfather had chuckled.

“Oh, we is. We just know whatta fear.” He’d tapped his nose. “Your daddy’s one of the bravest men’ere.” I’d nodded, scowling a little. “D’you think he’d keep you from the woods for no reason? We don’t talk ‘bout what’s in there, Bain. Just don’t go near the woods.”

My father had still caught me trying to go, the wind whistling through their branches in a song only I heard. Even my grandfather couldn’t stop me. I kept trying.

Some days I would stand on the edge of the forest, just looking in. You could only see a little, even on the most clear day with the breath frosting up in front of your face; it was darker than anything I can describe. The branches hung low, usually barren but sometimes covered in sharp needles. The forest really was the most interesting thing near the village - I had no love for the herd animals and my grandfather was often busy. I would sit on the rocks slick with rain and ice to look into the forest. The coiled branches reached out, almost invitingly, and I sometimes slipped away from the herds to peek inside.

My father and I had stood at the front of the pyre, but I hadn’t looked at the flames eating up the grey cloth covering what had once been my grandfather. I was eleven and I was going to become the storyteller, like him. It would one day be my job to remember the history and stories of Macriba to pass on to the next generations. My father had told me to pay attention to what the priest was saying. My gaze stayed fixed on the trees. Every note from their ivory branches had tempted me closer. Join us.

My dents in the snow had started going just in deep enough to inhale the pine and embrace the absolute silence. My father had no idea how often I was going out. He’d still refused to tell me why I shouldn’t go. The others had called me the forest-fevered-boy. Some of the elders would spit when I’d passed them.

When I was fifteen I’d slammed the great wooden door behind me so hard that it almost splintered, my father bellowing behind me. I’d pulled my fur-lined grey cloak closer to me and pushed through the wall of snow for the last time. My eyes were narrowed against the blistering wind, but I knew the way. I’d pulled the hood off my head as the wind quieted against the protective wall of trees. It was far warmer in here then it was out there, and silent like the wind was too frightened to speak.

“Well,” I’d said to the branches, tucking my green mittens into my pocket. “I’s here now. What d’you want from me?”

My grandfather had once told me that the woods was a dangerous place, not because of the trees themselves but because of what lived beneath them.

The shadows parted and a massive thing had stepped out. It towered far above my head, and I was no newborn lamb. I’d first seen the horns and thought it was an especially large deer, but as I looked down the thick muscle covered in dark fur I’d realized that no deer could be so big. It walked on two hind legs, hunched like an old woman. The claws on its human-like hands were wicked swords tinted dark red, though the ones on its hind legs were far crueler. The worst thing about it was its head - the lower jaw was black and furry, but the top half looked like the deer skulls my father’s dogs chewed on.

I had seen these in a book, only once, because they were in one that my grandfather’s grandfather had bought off of the Bacroki traveler. The Monsters of Macriba was encased in black leather, with golden script, with pages of illustrations of creatures. There was a single page on these things, only labeled with a name and a warning.

You do not speak of the keelagos; it brought their attention to you. They would tear you apart and eat even your bones. I’d stared at the keelago and it had stared at me.

“Uh…” I’d swallowed very hard. “...hello?”

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Thank you for reading!

I’m hoping to do another fanfiction-y piece (I have something in mind) but it unfortunately slipped my mind until... about an hour ago? So this is something I wrote for my writing class based off of a character from a personal project.

#writing #personal writing #sort of a fairytale #forest #mythology sort of #fantasy #it'll get a second draft for the final project #but i'm really quite happy with it

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