From The Forest, It Calls

I walk forward at a steady crouch, the carpet of leaves below me barely making a sound from the soft footsteps I leave. The night air is biting and cold, and the awareness that something is watching surrounds me. Even without light, and with grasses and shrubs blocking the trail in front of me, I know the path I follow.

I’ve come out here every night since I was 8. My parents caught me the first time. They’d kept me up all night drilling into me the dangers of the forest at night. 

“There are vicious animals out there,” they told me, “And strange men who want to take you. But even worse, the forest has become the realm of the magicians.” 

They surely had no idea that the reason I had gone out there was for the magicians. Magicians have always caused trouble. From the day they first were gifted with the divine sheets, they disrupted the peace. They first were simply social outcasts, ones you went to simply when you needed to. 

But soon, their true power became manifest, and the king outlawed them. You would see the royal guard, pacing the streets, shiftless eyes and guns in their coats, searching for them. The ones that were found, they shot on sight.

This led to something from the north of the country. I fail to call it an uprising because it was so successful that it was more like a decimation. People all over the north district heard a great harmony rising from the land below them before the ground began to rumble, and the homes of all the kings' guard fell in great heaps of rubble, and there was a great triumphant singing before the ground rose around them, and a great wall was erected. And just like that, the magicians had created the land of Chorus.

While the magicians of the north rejoiced, a much darker thing fell upon the rest of the kingdom. The rise of Chorus terrified the king. So he responded by trying to exterminate the rest of them. That day, the guards came banging on everyone's door, conducting a search and looking for anything as evidence that you might be a magician. Even if you were simply suspected of being one, they dragged you out into the street and killed you there. The king truly hoped he had eliminated them then.

But you can still hear their magic echoing at night. That sweet, beautiful, melancholic, terrifying sound pierces your very being. He is no exception. Every night, as I was drifting peacefully into the realm of sleep, I could hear the magic, and I would become enraptured in its beauty. 

Finally, I knew I must come and hear it. Echoes are a beautiful distortion, but the raw energy of the magic must be heard up close to truly understand it. So I began to sneak out into the forests late at night, and finally, I found him. The source of this magic which penetrates my living being so deeply. 

He started into his warm-ups. Simple vocal exercises and simple scales on his violin. Not anything discordant or unpleasant, but not the magic in store. He slowly complicated them, throwing together scales and pushing the limits of his voice, going exponentially faster each second he practiced.

Then he switched suddenly and began to play songs. Slow, old, folk songs at first, but slowly performed more energized and obscure pieces as he continued. He was a masterful performer, bringing forth all emotion possible. But this was not the magic, not even close. 

Soon, he went into a long solo on his violin, and my breath caught in anticipation. You could feel it building now, coming from the roots and the earth they held, being drawn up to his mournful song like water to a drain. He was awakening the magic.

He began to sing in a low quiet voice, in a language strange and unfamiliar to me. It was beautiful; as if its words were made just to be as pleasant to the ears as possible. The lights of small fireflies began to surround him, spiraling around him and branching out farther into the forest. Little pockets of them began to rise all across the forest valley, and a rhythmic buzz began to accompany his playing. Soon, there was a melodic howling and the sounds of bird voices harmonizing through the trees. 

His voice was louder now, and the sound of his music less morose. But most importantly, you could hear the magic now. Much like how a simple listener to a piece of music may only recognize a rhythm or melody, but the experienced player can tell the intricacies of the scales and time signatures, I was but a passive listener to this deep power, not even capable of comprehending the full extent of it. But he, the master, he knew perfectly to himself what his piece was, and the intricacies of the thing I could never understand were probably as simple to him as a melody. 

The entire forest was alive with his spell now. The fireflies illuminated everything, flying around in step with the music while the trees swayed along as well, creating a sound almost like a tambourine. The birds and the wolves and every animal there was was playing along, bolstering his now energized and proud magic. 

But you could tell that by now, the spell was on its way to ending. The climax of the piece was nearing, and just as I expected, he began the closing notes. He did a short arpeggio before leading into the long, high ending of the song with the forest reaching its crescendo.

What I didn’t expect was for the trees around me to move, framing me in my perched hiding spot. The fireflies now surrounded me in a spiral as well. And as I looked at him, I saw him staring at me. Not with anger, malicious, or fear. No, he gazed at me with excitement and a welcoming offer. And that's when I realized the last line of his song; had been my name.