Godzone

The unnatural silence alerted Tāne to the encroaching threat. The normally boisterous woodland stunned into silence. No intermittent birdsong, scraping or rustling.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Tāne ignored the bead of sweat caressing his forehead and focused on the clearing in front of his cottage.

There.

A suspicion of a shadow.

Would he never be free of this?

Tāne adjusted his gilded bow. The already cocked arrow targeted the intruding presence. The sense of utter revulsion screamed at Tāne, but he didn’t allow his focus to waiver. Touching the head of the arrow with the index finger of his left hand, he whispered a solitary word of power.

“Tika”

With the smoothness and surety of a master bowman, Tāne loosened his grip and the arrow sped from its imprisonment.

A chill scream shattered the silence as the arrow hit its mark and disappeared. The almost-shadow briefly solidified, revealing the outline of a gaunt figure, before it began dissipating like mist.

Tāne kept himself still, choosing to wait and watch.

Life returned. The tentative birdsong of a female Tui, the ticking of an agitated Weta, the hesitant flutter of a Pūriri’s wings.

Tāne heard and knew them all.

He added his own sound to the growing symphony. A simple note of purist clarity.

Whakaaio. All is well.

Gently, so as not to disturb the life returning to the woodland, Tāne floated down from his position high in the treetops, effortlessly riding the currents in the air.

Tāne alighted next to the last vestiges of dissipating shadow and extended his senses through the veiled opening thanks to his link with the arrow. His fist clenched as he became aware of other creatures. So many of them.

They were all a threat.

Just before the final piece of almost-shadow collapsed, Tāne called to the arrow.

Fly. Fast and true. Fly.

As though released anew from his gilded bow, Tāne felt the arrow rip free. The agonising cries meant the arrow had found fresh targets.

That should give his assailants something to think about.

But it won’t stop them.

Nothing he did stopped the attacks. No matter how many lives his attackers wasted, they still returned. Time and time again.

Tāne turned to his cottage. His peace had been defiled and he was compelled to journey deeper into the valley. Maybe he would be safe closer to the mountain.

Maybe.

Approaching the cottage, he connected with the life dormant within its walls.

Remember who you once were.

Tāne placed his left hand against the wood of the cottage and closed his eyes.

Remember.

Tāne felt the life in the wood respond to his call. He recalled the image of three stately Kauri trees growing in a clump, three kings of the forest.

Be who you once were.

The wood withdrew from Tāne’s hand in response to his call. The trees that had consented to take a form alien to their nature now reverted to their true selves.

Ngā mihi. Thank you.

Tāne opened his eyes. His gratitude was sincere. How could it not be? These trees had willingly sheltered and cared for him.

“Leaving so soon?”

Tāne spun around, shocked at being caught unawares.

Before him stood a hooded and cloaked figure, standing just over half his own height. The deep folds of the hood effectively hid the figure’s identity.

“How are you here?” Tāne inquired, his curiosity overriding his disgust.

“I am here by right.”

“You have no right. Your presence is an abomination.” Tāne responded. “Begone.”

“No.”

“Then you choose death.” Tāne lifted his bow and began summoning a fresh arrow.

“Will this do?”

Tāne stared at the object the figure held in its hand and almost stumbled. The stranger held the arrow which he had loosed at the almost-shadow, a mess of red blotting its otherwise golden sheen.

How is it possible?

It’s not. And yet here it was. In the hands of an intruder who should not be able to be physically present.

“Who are you?” Tāne demanded.

“One you abandoned.”

“Abandoned? You speak nonsense. I hold true.”

“Maybe you should look closer.”

Tāne stared at the intruder, trying to penetrate the cloak’s darkness. The stranger’s assertion embraced foolishness.

And yet…

Could it be?

Tāne probed deeper, allowing his senses to sharpen. The flute-like sound of the female Tui gave him a start. Life in the woodland continued on as usual. Without fear.

But that meant…

“Show yourself.” Tāne commanded.

The stranger pushed back its hood, revealing a dark-skinned girl with an explosion of unruly black hair and piercing brown eyes. She looked no older than seventeen, in human years.

“I don’t know you.”

“No?” The girl closed her eyes. When they reopened, her eyes were a fiery gold.

“How? Who are you?”

“Come now father. Do you not recognize your own daughter?”

Daughter? Is it possible?

“Why are you here?”

“What? No loving embrace? No expression of remorse? No interest in my welfare or that of my mother, not even an interest in my name?”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

The girl’s eyes blazed like molten fire. “My mother died many lifespans ago. She died hungry, for she gave me what she should have taken for herself. I didn’t need it as much as her, but I was ignorant of my strength. I have spent the time since helping the remnants of humanity try and stay alive.”

Tāne stared silently at the girl, resolute and unflinching.

“I am called Lilith.”

“I have done nothing wrong, Lilith.”

“Why do you hide? Why do you treat prayers as attacks?”

“Because they are attacks!” Tāne responded, his intensity igniting. “Humans were supposed to be the pinnacle of what I created, but I am betrayed. They delight in violence. They destroy what is good. They are not what I intended them to be.”

“There is good in them.”

“I have not seen it.”

“You have not seen anything. You hide in your idyllic woods.”

“I hide to protect.” Tāne replied, sweeping his arm in a wide gesture. “I hide all this to protect it. To protect it from them.”

“They are dying.”

“They deserve death. They are a poison.”

“What of the innocent?”

“There are no innocent.”

“What of the young? What of the ones who would care for the woods?

Tāne shook his head. “Your words seem wise, but you speak nonsense. A short-lived few are faithful. But mostly there is greed and destruction. It is better they die.”

“You will not be swayed?”

“I will not.”

Lilith bowed her head. “I’ve spent too long seeking you, believing you would listen. Watching hope turn to despair. I will not let you do this.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Don’t I?”

Tāne laughed. “Will you fight me? You are out matched. Best you enjoy what time you have left with the humans you choose to love.”

Lilith’s golden eyes began to fill with tears, her earlier bravado exhausted. “Did you never love them?”

Tāne sighed. “More than you can ever know. Their betrayal is bitter.”

Lilith pierced Tāne with an imploring gaze. “And my mother?”

A lost memory tugged at Tāne, a smiling face, a laugh like a gentle brook. “I loved her once. But her nature was anathema to me.”

“She waited for you. Desperate to tell you about me.”

Tāne’s expression softened. “For that, I am sorry.”

Lilith nodded. “I too am sorry. For you leave me no choice.”

Tāne sighed. “You have no power here.”

“You have given me power. You have shed innocent blood.”

“There are no innocent.”

“There is one.” Lilith opened her cloak and revealed a tunic bloodied by a wound. A wound likely to have been caused by an arrow.

Tāne’s eyes widened and his breath stilled. The wound horrified him.

All his work. All his hopes. Undone.

“Do not do this Lilith.”

“I must.”

Tāne sunk to his knees. “I beg you. Do not do this.”

Lilith waved the arrow in Tāne’s face. “They deserve a second chance.”

“They have had it, and more. They care not. For a time, they change. A brief time. And then their true nature returns.”

“A nature you created.”

Tāne raised his head and closed his eyes. “Do not mock me. I know what I created. They were supposed to be protectors. Guardians.”

“They still could be.”

Tāne looked back at Lilith. “They had their chance.”

Lilith shook her head.

“And what of the Tui? The Kauri? The Pūriri? What of the life humans destroy?”

“They will learn to care and protect.”

“Learn?” Tāne almost spat the word. “How?”

“I will teach them.”

Tāne laughed then. A bitter laugh inspired by bitter memory. He had, at one point, believed the same as Lilith.

“So, you will not be dissuaded?”

Lilith raised her chin. “I will not.”

“Then all is lost.”

“No Father, all is gained.”

Tāne winced as Lilith took the arrow in both hands and snapped it in half.

The accompanying rent in the air sent the woodland into confusion. Sensations and sounds of fright assaulted Tāne as his creatures responded to the abrupt change.

The barrier between worlds collapsed.

Tāne closed his eyes, struggling to shut out the pain. He felt something grip his hands, and he opened his eyes.

With the broken arrow discarded beside her, Lilith held his hands in hers. Eyes wide and imploring. “Forgive them father.”

Tāne stared at the massed ranks of pitiless, feeble figures assembling at the boundaries of his wood and returned his gaze to his daughter. The first vestiges of compassion burst into his consciousness.

Compassion for her, not for them.

“No Lilith. I cannot.” He removed his hands from hers and stood up. “It will be up to you to forgive, if you can. But I fear you do not know what you have done.”

Tāne had one last refuge. One last defense against the relentless flood of humanity. It would probably not be enough, but it stood as his last hope.

He gazed at his beloved woodland, already suffering the loss of its rhythms and melodies. He stared at his daughter. A daughter he had never known. Maybe she would succeed, where he failed.

Maybe.

With a rueful shake of his head, Tāne, the God of the forest, fled his home, running away from the invading humans. Running away from his daughter.

Agitated by the divine separation, a male Tui broke from the height of the trees and soared over the empty space Tāne had occupied.

His call went unanswered.

Lilith did not recognise his song.