The Logatré

The Logatré

by Eileen Burnett

He peered out from behind the boughs of the delicately feathered trees nearest him, those last bastions of safety and solitude that one could run to before the landscape dropped off into the ichor-ridden tundra that now surrounded the land of his youth. The trees gave plenty of cover from prying eyes, and so Garran, grateful for the respite, took a knee as he scanned the landscape for any signs of life. He saw none.  Sighing, he turned his sights up toward the fimbriated filaments that danced overhead, those marvels of nature that masked his intrusion into the world of the beyond, and for a moment, was overcome with an overwhelming sense of calmness. Not a single thought crossed his mind during that time, save the occasional echo of a memory of his youth, and the thaumaturgical sensation of being in utero.

He stayed there in that moment for what seemed to be a lifetime, half-dazed, half-standing, eyes transfixed by the serenity of it all as time passed slowly over the horizon and the melting sky, when, just as suddenly as it started, the feeling stopped. A light breeze roused him from his waking slumber, bringing him back to his senses, and a trickle of sweat seized an uncomfortable passage through the crevice at the top of his lower back. It was here that he relented, setting himself down beside the base of the tree, too distracted to keep searching. He was famished.

Garran’s bag was light from the journey, but it still produced something edible when the need arose, so that was all that mattered. What it contained now was an amalgam of the hunter’s necessities: a map, inconveniently torn just at the place where he needed to go, but nonetheless useful when navigating the countryside; a bit of flint and some moss, a small tin of salve; a large, half-eaten wedge of cheese that he regretted but for no other reason than its ridiculously pungent smell, and a hand-sized loaf of rúgbrauð that he acquired from some villagers about two days back. It was carefully wrapped in a kind of cloth-like paper made from beeswax, sewn together into a neat little pocket that he thought would be a good place to store the cheese later. He was getting tired of the smell every time he had to fish out the map. The whole sack now smelled heavily of the cheese, especially whenever he opened it, but he told himself that he had grown blind to the smell, as one often does when forced to cohabit with the unthinkable. Nonetheless, he winced and held his breath as he opened the bag once again, to sift through its contents like a child fishing through a bag of worms.

Wasting no time, Garran pulled out the small loaf, mouth salivating at the thought of an evening meal, and quickly tied up the opening. The bread, after all, would not last very long, but the cheese, in a better, airtight container, might just last him most of the journey back. Cheeks full with the sweet, dense morsel, Garran’s head rested against the side of the tree and chewed in silence, stopping every now and then to linger at the brilliance that swayed before him.

He had asked the villagers about them as he made his way to the outlands. Everywhere he walked, those plumes screamed from the distance, and he thought to himself that he had never seen something so beautiful and terrifying before in all of his life. He asked at every home he stopped at, but their answers always reflected the same sentiment that most anyone who glimpsed that hedge of wonder did: suspicion. The trees, out of place both in form and fealty, did not resemble anything he or anyone else had ever seen before, and for that, they were feared. There was just no color in the secluded valleys where his kind lived. There, everything was the same- the sky, the trees, the grass, even the houses all reflected the pale shades of alabaster and marble that made up his world. The cottons and flax all produced the same monotone hues of tranquility, and that brought comfort to those whose existences hinged on a uniformity.  So why do they want it? he wondered. It wasn’t his place to question, but being here, now, he couldn’t help but ask. Why he had been commissioned to bring back a trophy whose very presence in the kastala undermined all that they believed in? All that was good?

It was just then that Garran noticed the warmth. Right underneath him, everywhere his body touched, radiated a heat that was almost uncomfortable if not for its softness. Strange, he thought, that this area would exude such a fever. Had he ever felt this comfortable? Sleepily, he looked up at the plumes once again, mesmerized by their movements. What were they called? Garran thought for a moment, then let his mind wander to the last home he had visited. The villager that lived there had called them the logatré, and said they were cursed. To stay away from them. That when the winds came, as they often did, they came quickly. Quietly. Sneaking up from the barren wastes like a shout and running like a pack of ravenous invisible wolves, seeking to devour the bodies of elders and little children that wandered off too far from their homes.

He had heard the stories well enough. Knew them from childhood. But laying here, in the cradle of their arms, he could see no reason to fear them. They were beautiful things, named for the pleasing mix of golden ochre dipped in crimson, a breathtaking image of some other-worldly sentinels guarding the borders of civilization from the desolate landscape of the beyond.  And when the winds came, like the breath of some mountainous slumbering creature, these logatré would transform, becoming living, breathing fire dancing on the horizon of the unknown. How could these radiant creatures be the source of such ire? What was it about these trees that gave his people such a desire to eliminate them?

He lay there, dreaming of flames that danced with the wind, when he heard a small, still voice coming from the depths of the earth below him. He almost thought himself still asleep at first, dreaming this whisper of a voice bubbling up around his head buried deeply in a plume, but as he lay quietly, the voice got louder. Clearer. Calling him to remember. To remember the time in which the land- all of the land- lived in color, bright and vibrant as these trees under which he now lay. It whispered of the love that filled the land and its people, such a powerful love that the very rocks themselves cried out in joy for the life that inhabited it. He saw lakes of the clearest blues, and iridescent green frogs in the marshes. He saw the rosy cheeks of the children at play, unhindered by the fears of their parents, people dressed in purples and scarlet, and that not one thing looked quite like the other. This surprised him, but the overwhelming sensation was that there was peace. Peace in beauty, peace in triumph, and peace of heart.

But then the image began to change. Morph. Twist as he saw the great leaders of old seek to unite the people with promises of plenty. He saw colors drain as they conformed, one by one, but for the promises of peace that never returned. Then he saw the blackness in the hearts of men, spreading out over the land like a cancer, swallowing up all the remaining color, everything within its grasp, until only the husks remained. Then he saw the fingers of his king, long and spindly, reaching for the logatré and its plumes of fire, seeking to relinquish them of their spark, and with them, all the love that was left in the world. Then everything went blank.

Garran awoke, drenched in sweat. Beside him, a piece of fruit, ripe with the sweetness of his daughter’s smile, lay nestled where his head had once been. He picked it up, and placed it in his sack. The heat had subsided, replaced with the thick cool that had been his existence up to that point. He was still Garran, but somehow different now, his mind resonating with the memory of the dream of color and love.

He looked up at the tree, softly swaying in the breeze, thriving despite the harshness that surrounded it from both sides, and sighed, picked up his pack, and walked away.