Waldut

I peered from my garden, over the soft roof of my modest home, through the faint woodsmoke pillar which rose from the chimney, and unto the eastern hills. Everyday did Sun rise over those gentle prominences, that lightbringer which in resplendent Summer engorges unending seas of foliage and which in aphotic Winter gives rest to darkness and makes prisms of ice and snow. Yet, never have any explorations nor necessities led onto their terraced slopes. What vegetables might be dug from their untouched soils? What leaf medicines might be meekly in forest shade growing, those cures to stubborn ailments? I leaned my ho against the wooden fence bordering the empty March garden, and went inside. With my inner judgement I could not quarrel so, despite my expecting his hesitancy to allow my solitary journey into the eastern hills, I informed my father of the plan.

He was dropping an armload of split logs beside the wood stove when I approached him; he wiped the dust from his hands, crossed his arms, then turned to me; he was a grizzled and stout man and I had just nineteen years and a frame like a mountain aspen. 

“Father. I’ve come to ask permission for a journey.” He nodded, prodding me to continue. “I was looking this morning, while tilling, out at the eastern hills; and so many imaginings of great hefty tubers and herbs which emanate with angelic light; and birds which sing prettier than flutes; and deer tall enough to forage chestnuts on the branches came to me!” I caught my breath, for verbose I was and lively in performing these wonderful conjurings. “That is to say, I wish to turn my wonderings into knowings. With a wicker on my back and gramma’s botany books I plan to go there and report my findings; for the betterment of Forstdorf, of course.”

Father contemplated for a moment, even put a hand to his chin. After coming to his conclusion, which was marked by his nodding in self-agreement, he placed an arm on my shoulder.

“Unexplored the eastern hills are,” he said, “not because we’ve never thought to point our feet Sunward, but because strange stories abound in their regard.” He paused for a deep inhalation. “Despite this, my son, because of the nineteen strong years you have, and the gumption, I’ll let you there, to conquer those eastern knolls. It is time.”

In my excitement, I reached out my right hand, my father grasped it, and vigorously did we shake them like a farmer and a bankman might as they stand before the hundred acre frontier so graciously transferred from vault to hand. Without a word, I hauled up the ladder to my loft and changed into clean clothing, and denser socks and pants to insulate from moisture; also adorned was my hunting cap, a circular headwear with a visor, made of dark-stained leather. From my nightstand I procured a notebook and pencil, should I encounter any flora or fauna worthy of record. Next my hurried legs carried me to the garden shed, where I shouldered Mother’s foraging basket—a wicker with two shoulder straps, worn on one’s back, and with a hinged upper flap—, having packed in it a spade, six small glass jars, hand-trimmers, and my notebook and pencil. I buttoned, too, a knife to my belt. I stood at the end of our front path, and hollered goodbye to Father, then turned eastward, but was abruptly stopped. From the home came Father running, a water canteen in hand, which he slung over my shoulder; then with a shake of the shoulder, he sent me off, the tools and glass jars clinking in rhythm with my steps.

How swiftly my excitement turned to worry! Those eastern hills rose before me then like a great verdure wave, gathering in mass and height with each step, ready to break its chaos on I and the whole of Forstdorf. Four ravens roused from chimney perches; so well-synchronized was the flight of these rattling, ominous beasts with my despair that I could not help but conjure metaphors of grand literature, for the omen of their presence could not be ignored! I pushed on yet, through the dirt roads of Forstdorf, brushing against skeletons of last year’s grasses and wildflowers which grew on their edges. 

Not long after my departure was I upon the village border. A clay-brick wall, so overgrown with vine, moss, and lichen that one might, if shrunken, perceive it as a natural structure, perhaps an esker of ancient glaciers; but, on deeper observation, those maroon prisms became apparent, and their overgrown state a reminder of Forstdorf’s avoidance of the eastern prominences. The wall’s vine webbing made its ascent simple—I gripped the larger tendrils and placed my feet into concavities in the bricks, pulling myself upward until I sat upon the wall’s ridge. Snow had gathered on the forest side, owing to its shading by the woodland’s wall of immense hemlocks and oaks, so I carefully dropped the wicker, then, again holding the vines, brought myself onto soil yet untouched by the soles of man. I shouldered the wicker, then turned to the forest, and absorbed its peculiar immensity, as one might observe a disturbed painting; enamored by its severity, unnerved by its rawness, but in awe of the creator’s hand.

Even in March, when broadleaves were bare, the hemlock veiled its forest floors with dense greenery; the understory was sparse, for little thrived in shadow, but it was that heavy, unending shadow which gave the impression of pushing through chaotic jungle, encompassed on all sides by green hell. I looked not then for herbs or tubers, nor for critters or mushrooms; awestruck I was, in the aphotic hemlock realm, at their immensity, and the wisdom which they exuded, and the gray stones which protruded from the ground, wrapped tightly by the unrelenting, questing roots of the leviathans. Once unable to see Forstdorf, having walked long and upward enough into the woodland that from all vantages only dense, green canopy could be seen, I placed my hands upon one of these behemoths, felt its moisture and the roughness of its bark. Never had I been so dwarfed by anything living or dead; and never I had, upon the touching of a creature, experienced such a sensation: my fingers trembled with vibration and, as if this phantom energy had taken root through the arteries of my outstretched hand, my arm began to buzz like flame, and this feeling tunneled deeper until it reached my heart. I tore my hands from the tree, and the sensation subsided. 

In my fright, my head had turned, and looked upon a quaint spread of green on the forest floor. It seemed illuminated by a Sunray but when I inspected the canopy for an opening there was none. I knelt beside the glowing herb. Its leaf-mat was deeply green, and had many toothed edges like those of a carrot’s. A gently curved stalk rose from its center, and suspended from its upper part were five delicate white flowers, with yellow-tinged ends and miniscule pistils. I brought my hand beneath them, and with light pressure, brought them upward and sniffed—the fragrance was light, but similar to freshly-cut turnips’ floral earthiness! In my excitement I unshouldered the wicker and pulled forth the spade, questing for the tubers which might reside beneath; I struck ground with it, beside the flower stalk. Abruptly did its glow recede, that light with no source. And its flower stalk followed: the flowers grayed and the stalk curled upon itself then fell limply. Its leaves withered and before me was an indiscernible slurry of decaying greenery. I stood then and peered around the forest; what little comfort I felt dissipated, for the forest which had before surrounded me had changed. I looked even towards the hemlock upon whose trunk my hands had been pressed moments ago, and in its vicinity was an old, twisted maple.

I commenced a slow pace through the weird forest, hoping to force calmness by way of my gentle gait—this strategy, in many ways, worked. Though the forest was odd, and overlain with gloomy confusion, my nerves were quelled enough to refrain from detrimental action which might further my haphazard navigation. Eventually I came to a plateau, and nestled in it was a small pond, surrounded by dense shrubbery. One specimen, which appeared abundantly, had bark which looked like it could be pulled off in paper-thin strips, and this I knew to be blueberry. There was another, though, with wrinkled, vaguely pointed leaves which grew to my waist, that I did not recognize. I picked one of the leaves and held it to my nose, only to recoil from the dastardly scent it exuded. So horrid it was that my eyes watered, and the sparse juices which had leaked from the tear onto my hand burned my skin. I bounded to the waterside and dunked my hand in, blinking maniacally to wash out the sudden pain, akin to that which comes with onion slicing, only heightened. Once my senses were returned, I sat upon a rock beside the pond and pondered the non-success of my excursion thus far.

In my melancholy, a sparrow appeared, perching on one of the blueberry bushes and peered at me with a birdish head tilt—it was a quaint thing with a pale underside, white head markings, and mustard-yellow wing patches. I looked into its glossy eyes and asked within my mind, like a prayer, this: Do you know where I might find something to eat? Or something to bring home? I’m feeling discouraged thus far. The sparrow tilted its head in the other direction, then pointed its gaze upward and let out a song filled with such melancholic gloom that I thought I had somehow spoken through it—the high-pitch song, which began with two descending notes, then finished with a deliberate, fluty melody repeated thrice, echoed mightily through the hemlocks. One assumed that this little creature’s song was made for that purpose; that it was written for propagation through the hemlocks it inhabited. After its song, it bounced for a moment on its branch, then flew off; without hesitation, and heeding the command which had risen within me, I began to follow the sparrow as it fluttered from tree-to-tree, leading me deeper into the eastern hills.

Our path tended upwards, but caressed the terraces and ridges at a slant; perhaps the sparrow was aware of my laboring breaths and the periodic stops I made to drink from my canteen, leaning on a tree to slow my heart, and altered course. Monotonous had the forest become. Hemlocks all around; as we ascended, the sparse and burry cones of stunted understory spruce began to appear. And once a squirrel, whose rusty coat and nasally voice was unlike the gray creatures which reside in the oaks of Forstdorf, called out to me from its elevated perch—but soon I and the sparrow passed, and, at a distant it must have discerned appropriate, ceased the racket. Many interesting herbs were passed, verdant Spring sprouts ascending from the rich, ebony soils, but on I went, keeping the sparrow always in view, matching its unrelenting pace. 

Finally, though, bent with fatigue and with hands on my knees, I stopped and asked the sparrow: Where are you taking me? The creature of course did not answer in a comprehensible way, but did repeat its fluted song, and bounced excitedly in the spruce branch overhead. I did not speak nor understand the language of sparrows, but perceived its intention. Still breathing heavily, I raised my head and followed the sparrow’s gaze. There in the forest, amongst a glade of exposed stone and barren mountain-ash, was a structure that was like a whip-poor-will upon a lichened branch: hidden almost entirely, and exposed only by vague polygonality. The sparrow sang once more, then fluttered to the building and took rest on its mossy roof. Trepidatious I was to approach the peculiar place, but had built trust in my sparrow-guide, so followed its lead, though with care as to not tread loudly on the detritus underfoot. Once upon the building, which was hardly higher than the fingertips of my upstretched arm, I discerned a dark wooden door through its veil of weeds. I looked nervously to my sparrow-guide who, from his roof perch, seemed to approximate a nod, suggesting that I ought to give the door a knock. I pushed the brush aside and laid three meek knocks on the dense wood; the sparrow whistled, as if to prod me to knock harder, so I did—three heavy strikes which fell flatly onto the forest silence. For a longer while than one would expect a personed home to react to such a knock was there silence; long enough that I began to back away from the structure, believing the mischievous sparrow had led me astray. I did not make two back-steps before there came from the stone house the sound of much shuffling about and the clinking of glass and the creaking of wood from slow, heavy steps.

When the door opened it pulled with it the dessicated vines which had weaved into the gaps between its ancient planks like, sending a cloud of dust airborne. Further yet the door swung, moaning on its atrophied hinges. The stone cabin’s inside was so absent of light that for a moment it appeared that the doorway was empty, but the mysterious resident stepped forth into dim hemlock light, and was at once discernible against the darkness of its abode. The inhabitant was a gargantuan thing, humanoid in silhouette, but stocky and nearly ten feet tall. It wore no clothes except for a skirt of hemlock boughs, and was densely furred over extensive musculature. And how unsettling were the eyes of this giant! Mostly dark, as if the pupil had conquered its vibrant neighbors, except for the white flecks scattered faintly throughout, like a new Moon sky. When it spoke, I felt its primal voice rattle my ribcage with profound baritone:

“Finally, you have come.” I was still, standing in the mossy stone garden of the giant’s abode. “Are you ready?” I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. “Come then. Follow me.”

And with that the giant turned left, and stepped over the boulders as if they were roots uprisen into a wooded path; his feet were unshoed, and shaped like great snow racquets. I obeyed, though questioningly, and scurried behind, each of his steps making six of mine. We went for some time along exposed ledge, where ] spruces were wind-swept and the ground was a lush moss carpet or a pale, skeletal heather-field of lichen. The giant was many bounds ahead when he stopped upon a large rock outcrop; he turned to me and, with hands which might hold a maple trunk as a cane, urged me to his side. 

He looked briefly down at me with his face like weathered stone, then pointed eastward. “Look,” he said.

So I did. And my eyes fell upon a landscape which I could hardly comprehend. A vast, gray expanse of decay and ruin. Dead forests and black lakes. Far off, veiled partly by fog, the remains of a great city; those I had only read of in the vastly imaginative fictions held in Forstdorf’s library. There was no life before me. No buzzards circled the fallow, for even death had many years ago depleted. I brought a hand to my mouth, struck suddenly by a grief which I could not explain—I knew not what once laid in this dead expanse, nor who lived in those ruinous metropolises, but felt the weight of shared loss.

In my stricken state, the giant had gone to a large boulder and sat cross-legged on it. “I remember when on both sides of these hills there was a great green sea of forests, and rivers and fields. And how the skyscrapers of that far-off citadel did on sunny days shine white like fresh now.”

“What happened?” I asked; my voice was weak and dissonant.

“Fire rained from the sky. It took one day. It was a war. I do not know who won.” A gust of wind blew, and for a moment the vista was shrouded by swirling clouds. “I remember, too, when your valley was empty. And when twenty or so gaunt folks—they were filthy and sick, and some were missing limbs—hobbled into that valley many decades ago, and began building homes, then gardens, then a school and waterwheels, and–”

“Who are you?” I asked, with immense reverence. 

“I am Waldut, father of these hills. I’ll be here long after you and your people are gone. I’ll be here, perhaps, when this dead land”–he pointed eastward, where the clouds had cleared once more–“is green and peopled once more.”

“You believe that can happen?”

“Surely. There is a reason that I, a being older than any stone you may turn, chooses to express the body of humankind. You are a sturdy creation; possessed, sometimes, by evil, but never choosing any fate over life. So, yes, I do see a world unfallowed, someday, by the same hands which desecrated it.”

Waldut leapt from his boulder, and landed near me on the ledge with a sonorous thump. “Now go home, and tell your father this: ‘We have met’, and nothing more. Someday, everyone in your village will meet me. Go now, before dark sets in. Goodbye.” 

I listened to his command as I descended the eastern hills unto Forstdorf; and when I again laid eyes on my village from those slopes, the grass seemed greener and the streams seemed to flow with deeper purity, and the woodsmoke rising from chimneys blew eastward, over the hills, and the ash landed like snow on the charred land, grain by grain making a soil of our survival.