Spirit (Notevember 2021, #6)
The forest makes a place for her. A nest of soft moss and heather. “Welcome,” it whispers. “Welcome, once again, Mother-Who-Travels, Lady-Who-Sees.” She accepts the greeting, and settles down to wait.
The woodland creatures stay away. A young doe watches warily from the treeline. A rabbit, unattentive, having suddenly found itself too close, darts away in a panic. This is the Lady’s place now – no place for animals. But other things have sensed her arrival. They draw near.
These are the spirits who live here, making their homes among tree and mushroom, in rill and rock. A forest without spirits is no more a forest than one without leaves, or needles, or lichen, or earth. There is another world here, inside and beside the world of beast and man and plant. And the Lady knows how to step from one to the other, and straddle the line between the two. Oftentimes, her journey takes her far away. But now and then, when the wind is right and the rain speaks of home, she finds herself drifting back – and now is that time again.
The spirits are with her now. They mingle in their multitudinous forms. Large and looming, like the antlered ones, and the quiet ones with three eyes. Small and chittering, like the toad-helpers and the pebble-born. But most, by far, take shapes too vague and shifting to merit any attempt at description. Soon, as if on cue, the otherwordly hustle and bustle dies down. The spirits gather behind the Lady, taking their seats. In her verdant nest, facing away from the crowd, the Lady stands, speaking the familar words:
“I am the Mother-Who-Travels, the Lady-Who-Sees. My veins run with the sap of these woods. My breath is the sweet scent of pine. My feet break no branches and rustle no leaves as I tread. Am I not her?”
The spirits answer her in unison: “You are she.”
“And am I home?”
“So you are. And home is here.” Then the voices turn into a broken chorus of hundreds. “We have questions.” “So many questions to ask.” “Questions for you.” “I want to ask.” “I have questions.” “I need to know.” Even the ones who cannot speak with words make they desires known. Wisdom, they want. Advice, knowledge, they require.
The Lady obliges. “Who seeks answers of me? Face me, and speak.” Her words are not loud, but they cut through the cacophony, hushing them all.
A moment passes. Two, three. No one dares be the first. But a smallish spirit – so much like a badger that only its stark, pink eyes marks it as something else – is shoved forward by its companion. Startled, it gives off a squeak before shuffling in front of the Lady. With a deep, shuddering breath, it raises its head to meet her gaze.
“Honored Mother,” it begins. “What news of Welterbrook Downs? We smelled fire from the west for three days.”
“Welterbrook Downs was singed, but spared. There is life there yet.”
The not-badger bows in gratitude, shuffles back to rejoin its kin, who by now are a huddle of relieved whispers.
And so the snow of trepidation has started to thaw, and the spirits begin to trickle forward. They ask about the outside world – about humans and their goings-on, to know which dangers might be approaching. They ask for weather forecasts for the coming months. Some speak worriedly of disease among the deer, or trees infested with a strange new beetle species. A massive spirit – old and gnarled and with masses of roiling swampwater where one would expect eyes – merely tilts its head in a quizzical way. The Lady gives a single nod in response, and the giant walks away, seemingly content. Some rare few of the company are greeted with much warmth. Their questions are always the same: “How long will you stay?” or “When will you next return?” They know the Lady can never say for sure, but they ask more to show love than to satisfy their curiosity. Their reward, instead, is a fleeting but true smile, or even an embrace.
To a one, the spirits – regardless of question – accept the answer given, no matter how vague or disappointing. Once everyone has had their opportunity for an audience with the Lady, she rises again, turns to those still assembled, and bows. It is a deep bow, and a truly humble one. Each and every spirit knows not to bow in response. They bid her farewell, and leave her in silence.
The night, longer-lasting than usual, as if put on hold by some mystical means, resumes its usual pace. By the time it gives way to dawn, she is still there, in her willing seat of moss and heather. The Lady-Who-Sees looks for signs. The Mother-Who-Travels knows she will have to travel again, soon. So she puts her question to the world. “When?”
The answer is immediate. “Not yet.” So she lays down to sleep, and she is glad.