The Whisper of Wood

It was the very first lesson Owyn was taught: do not go into the wood. She could step into anything else – candlelight, instruments, raindrops – but wood was always banned. Every child grew up coddled by warnings about the dangers of wood; it was the cornerstone to Kaldor’s survival.

The precaution almost seemed unnecessary – children were not taught about Fluidity until they were going on six, and those gifted with the ability were seldom identified before eight. An exceptionally strong-willed or studious Fluid might be revealed around seven years old, but it even more rare for a citizen older than nine to develop the skill. Fluidity – also known as stepping – was the ability to enter an object and become part of it. Extremely uncommon among children, few developed the aptitude, and none achieved it without training.

The very first Fluid was trained by the river Rhuer itself. Kaldor had been established for generations along its winding trade route in the Eliyan gorge, nestled on its western bank. Ancestors claimed the river spoke to them, that its consciousness ebbed and flowed like the water powering its veins. Its lapping waves responded to the dock workers and teased the children playing along its sands, but the growing hum of Kaldor’s activity soon dampened the Rhuer’s voice until it became lost in the sounds of its ripples. The children were last to lose the river’s company, for they spent hours at the water’s edge, stockings off, wading in the shifting shallows. As they played, the Rhuer whispered tales of its travels – brightly-costumed villages, demon’s battles, jewel-like landscapes – saying that their young minds opened naturally to its voice. The Rhuer taught them how it flowed, encouraging the children to be like rivers and step fluidly from one state to another. Soon, many of the children who heard the last of the river’s whispers learned how to make their own steps, commanding themselves at will to enter nature’s soul.

Immediately, alarm surfaced among the village elders – children could appear and disappear at whim – while the town waxed thick with concern. The physicians favoured Fluidity, eagerly vying to study the children, while the church sounded cries of witchcraft. Townsfolk regarded the children warily, unwilling for their own souls to be entered and possessed. Summer faded into late harvest and the children tried to move inconspicuously in the background, aware that the predicament of their presence burdened the air. Their shoulders hung with uncanny gravity while they waited. It was as if all Kaldor held its breath until a gasping boy shattered the silence and appeared before the Mayor’s house.

Snowflakes trailed from the clouds like feathers slowly escaping an overstuffed cushion, floating individually to the greying landscape below. Scattered flakes dusted the boy’s shoulders and cap, while his forehead creased – ripples in the lake of clear expression – with worry uncommon to youth. His mittened hand rapped insistently at the door as he asked to see the Mayor.

Mayor Elbar walked to the entranceway, immediately noting the boy’s scarce-contained worry surface in his fidgeting adjustments. He was one of the many children scrutinized for Fluidity; only true agitation would prompt him to make such an appearance unbidden. His words burst out upon seeing her, caring not for the casual colloquialisms of greeting.

“The woodsmiths are in trouble.” The boy twisted his cap in his hands with fear. That morning the smiths had departed to the woods several miles upstream, although most remained behind to gather the first frost’s crops before the snow came in full. Already, winter hung thick in the air; it could be a matter of hours or of days. Gaven’s voice pitched like a boat at sea as he continued.

“I was watching the snowflakes and wanted to see what it would be like to spin around with them,” he admitted shamefacedly, not mentioning that he also tried a pine needle carried by a winter beetle, “but I guess I didn’t focus enough and stepped into the wind instead. I could feel every snowflake, like having eyes everywhere. In the forest, the woodsmiths were driving towards a clearing and I could feel how empty it was. A squirrel scattered leaves everywhere, running as fast as it could through the clearing, and the branches of one of the trees reached out and grabbed it – the tree was pulling it apart and eating it.”

His face was white with exhaustion and fear as he relayed the horror, while the mayor’s mind gaped with incredulity at the tale. Gaven’s rushed and tumbling words made it obvious that he believed the danger was real – but was it? Perhaps he had fallen asleep in Fluidity and dreamed the nonsensical, believing it real. A hint of doubt tugged at the corner of her mind the way a too-short blanket tries to cover a bed, one explanation unearthing another worry. To believe Gaven, even to humour him, would pull labourers from gathering the last of the crops – a critical task with the quickly-approaching winter. To ignore the smiths if the boy was correct, however, would cast a greater shadow on the village than a lean winter. She gathered her wraps and beckoned Gaven to follow her outside, striding towards the fields in search of volunteers. She would also go – the mayor could not ask for willing workers if her own skepticism was known.

***

They rumbled alongside the Rhuer, the grey edges of the gorge rigid at the thought of danger. Gaven shivered in a woolen blanket as the wind blew temperatures lower, while the collected crew – mostly woodsmiths – still wielded tools from the harvest in their hands. They glinted in scorn of the afternoon’s sun, broken by the low grey clouds otherwise filling the sky with ominous weight.

As they drew closer to the trees, the mayor asked the woodsmiths where the core crew was working. They guided her through the maze of stumps protruding from the lands they had already mined, where stumping and replanting was planned for the spring; it was like passing a cemetery of ghosted trees. Mayor Elbar wondered if it really was necessary to bring Gaven with them, carrying the frightened nine-year-old boy into the landscape of his premonition. His body tensed as they drew closer, muscles tightening as he recognized landmarks only known to him because of the wind. Already, it was far too real.

The woodsmiths could only navigate to a general area, from where the mayor turned to Gaven. Eyes flickering with worry, he pointed towards an opening in the trees. The hard ground unsympathetically hid their tracks, the sparse snowflakes not yet thick enough to discern a trail. As they wound deeper between columns of would-be ashes, Gaven grew more certain that his directions carried them the right way and his reliance on the memories lessened.

He hadn’t stepped into the wind again – loath to leave the warmth and security of his woolen covering, the afternoon’s Fluidity also drained him of the desire to begin a new exertion – but he could hear the trees the way he once listened to the river Rhuer. The pull weakened when the trees were thickest, the woods convoluting the echoes from ringing true in his brain, but the drawing feeling coupled with his earlier visions and assured him of the path. Gaven urged himself to reach the clearing in time, need overpowering his fear.

Soon they could hear voices and rumbling wheels that were not their own, a rounded corner revealing the woodsmiths approaching the clearing’s edge. The mayor called out to them.

“Torin, wait!” The crew leader stopped at the sound of his name and turned around to see the approaching cart, confusion mounting with the sight of the mayor and the boy. The Fluid. They drew nearer and Mayor Elbar shared Gaven’s caution.

The crew chuckled uneasily, like the rasping back and forth of a saw that wears away at the truth. It was hard to believe the mayor, or a child, about the woods they made their living in. The creaking trees spoke of nothing but the surrounding silence, granted, but even the snowflakes encouraged a deep stillness with the suggestion of an early storm.

Adjusting his gloves, Torin tried to understand the mayor’s implications. His voice was measured when he finally spoke. “Mayor Elbar, the Rhuer used to speak to our entire village – if the trees were alive, wouldn’t we be able to hear them too? How could this have gone unnoticed among woodsmiths for generations?”

“The original settlers never had Fluidity, either,” Mayor Elbar spoke firmly, stressing her words, “but here we are. I’m not saying you have to stop, but that you have to be careful.”

At the mention of Fluids, Torin glanced towards Gaven’s empty blanket, the cloth lying in stiff folds like frozen waves. He looked up distrustfully, scanning for the boy. The mayor followed his eyes in disbelief.

“Gaven!” His childlike figure stood entranced at the edge of the clearing, deaf to her call. He had slid silently from the cart, unheeded by the smiths engaged in the mayor’s words. He remembered the lurking danger in the back of his mind, but the overwhelming feeling begging him come, come! was irresistible. He stepped on the frozen ground, hardly realizing he had left the wagon.

Torin passed his reins to the smith beside him and stepped down from his cart, ready to accompany the boy. He strode firmly but casually as Gaven stepped into the clearing. The trees swaying in the wind paused and the air echoed with the absence of their creaking. Disregarding their hesitation, they moved as if carried on a gust of wind, boughs bending towards the boy. With a tangle of limbs marrying wood and flesh together, they lifted Gaven from the ground. His trance slid away and cascaded on the ground like a crumple of cast-off clothing, eyes widening into twin moons as pale irises filled his fearful face.

The remaining woodsmiths followed, beckoned by Torin’s shout, gripping their tools with ease and strength – the familiarity that makes an object become an extension of one’s self. Their muscled forms responded unhesitatingly, confident they would not be called without reason, and halted at the sight of Gaven suspended in the air as he strained against the tree’s branches. Cradled in the large boughs, each twig moved separately to clasp onto his body like individual fingers wrapping around him. They folded over his skull and pressed against his face, tightening their wooden grasp until he could hardly turn beneath them. The woodsmiths tried to advance and mar the tree’s skin, but its lower branches swept the ground, battering the bladed men.

Fear filled Gaven’s nose, the overwhelming scent of suffocation turning musky in his mouth and leaving him light-headed. He could no longer see, closing his eyes to stop the crumbling bark from flaking into his vision. Where was he? Frantic, Gaven turned his mind to the tree; it was already filling his senses, wrapped so tightly that he believed their two forms had melded into one entity. He tried to step inside it and felt its mind overpower his, eagerly grasping for control as he faded entirely into its wood.

The woodsmiths watched the wooden fingers start to surrender, to curl up to the clouds in exultation and release. The layers gradually opened, revealing emptiness; Gaven had stepped into something and slipped away. They looked around, expecting to see his flaxen head and tired eyes appear, oblivious to the stretching trunk of the quivering tree.

It unearthed its roots and bundled them into knotted spires like legs, moving with a human-like lumber. It stepped towards the crew, who realized in horror that this tree could control Fluidity in a way their children couldn’t – by manipulating their own forms. They turned back towards the carts, assailed by a barrage of stinging fruits raising welts on their skin as the tree continued to advance. It swiped at the woodsmiths who were now hurling their carefully kept weapons into the tree while trying to keep the horses from bolting as they screamed at the towering creature. Snapping branches showered the ground and shivered, accelerating their own growth until small saplings sprung from the soil and added to the assailing barrage.

The creature exited the glade towards the carts, stopping half-way as another quake heaved through its trunk and spear its roots deep into the earth, legs no longer. A whitened child tumbled from its branches towards the ravenous saplings as the carnivorous offshoots devoured the Fluid like a long-awaited draught, his abilities exhausted. They turned towards the carts and held still as if to lure them in under guise of normalcy. The carts sped back towards the village in the swelling storm, away from the trees crying out behind them.

That evening, the village gathered in candle-lit solemnity around the fruits of harvest, mourning the events of the afternoon as the snowflakes turned into an early storm. The sky filled with the unremitting breath of winter and tension gripped the town, debates about Fluidity peaking. Fearful townsfolk insisted that the Fluids were a risk with their ability to lure others to the carnivorous trees – the trees harvesting their Fluidity and closing in. Parents cried that their children were the most threatened, risking bewitchment and enchanted allure to the woods, needing protection. When the clamour subsided, Mayor Elbar stated that Fluids were banned from smithing – they must be kept from the woods at all costs. As for Fluidity, she believed it showed the promise of foresight. It was up to the village to learn how to shape the ability and aid society rather than erode it.

At the end of the week, a lone traveler passed through the village. His narrow shoulders were swathed in the homespun threads of a too-large coat, giving him an air of abundance despite his simplicity. Over a shared pot of stew, eaten slowly, the stranger listened to the recent terrors. His face creased like aging leather as he heard the news of the boy’s fate.

“The Gilnin,” he spoke softly, more to himself than the room, “They’ve spread.”

He decided to lodge in the village for the winter, saying the early snowfall was ill-boding for continued travel, and the children soon knew Pollus for his ability to weave tales. One rest day, as they gathered around him, he spoke seriously.

“Never,” he started, “never go into the wood.”

***

Pollus knew about Fluidity too; his familiarity convinced the mayor to listen to his advice. He said the skill was impractical to cause mischief – while the Rhuer had maintained its sentience for years, both size and experience affected ability. Children, he maintained, did not have the stability of mass, and new Fluids rarely managed more than fleeting retention. The townsfolk started to see the truth in his words, that a single step was exceedingly fatiguing for the Fluids and that every moment drained them more upon their return. A thoughtless student could exhaust themselves permanently, only to tumble back into their natural form in a cold heap. Fluidity’s vulnerability to danger slowly gained tacit respect.

Winter had long transitioned past the spring thaw, and Pollus remained in Kaldor. He said the winter inflamed his rheumatism and he didn’t want to uproot himself immediately, but his lithe movements spoke otherwise. He cared for the horses, establishing himself as a stable hand, and continued to teach the children.

“The woods do not just mean the trees,” he would say, reclining on a sun-basked rock, “because wood imprints itself whenever you surrender yourself to it. Even regular woodgrain can amplify the Gilnin’s call. We surround ourselves with wood and can’t live without it – but never so much as think of stepping inside a wall. Do not go into the wood.”

He taught them to evaluate the composition of the world around them before they stepped. “People feel invaded if you try to step into them and their minds cast you out. Animals and plants rarely oppose – the Gilnin are the most dangerous because they invite you in. Their willingness for your entry means they can possess you entirely once you become part of them. As for plants – learn your biology. A woody plant may leave you with a stronger hankering for trees than you should have.”

His words were repeated as each generation of Fluids trained their heirs in Fluidity. Owyn had heard the words hundreds of times herself. Even now she whispered them softly, her breath caressing the familiar woods as her fingers traced the polished woodgrain framing the casement window. Owyn had never felt the rough-hewn surface of wood beneath her hands, the wood carefully varnished to avoid the risk of a sliver imprinting its pattern on her soul. Every year the Gilnin crept closer, devising new tactics as Fluids were tricked astray.

Owyn imagined the maple keys that Ronen, who was apprenticing as a woodsmith, described to her – a shower of bronze-winged butterflies raining down on the earth. The yearning to see them filled her, and she clenched her fist to bottle the desire. She tried to convince herself, lips shaping the well-learned line.

“Do not go into the wood.”

The words were stale, bitter and brittle on her tongue.