THE WATCHER BENEATH THE ROOTS

AS TOLD BY GHILLIE DHU GUARDIAN OF THE FORESTS UNDERGROWTH

I do not walk as you do. I do not speak in the way your kind understands. But I am here, always-woven into the moss that carpets the forest floor, nestled beneath the roots of the silver birch, listening to the hush of leaf loam.

I am Ghillie Dhu, the quiet one. The moss child. The root keeper. I was born when the first birch unfurled its leaves to the sun. When the wind learned to hum through hollow trunks. I do not age. I do not change. I watch.

The forest is not a place. It is a pulse. A breath. A conversation that never ends.

The Language of Trees

The birches speak in creaks and sighs. The oaks in slow, deliberate groans. The willows whisper secrets to the stream, who carries them downstream to the reeds, who giggle and pass them to the frogs. I understand them all. I am their translator, there archivist.

When the wind comes from the north, sharp and smelling of frost, the trees brace. I tuck the foxes deeper into their dens, coax the badgers to sleep longer. When the rain comes heavy, I guide the water to the thirsty roots and away from the burrows of the voles.

The Storm That Didn't Break Us

There was a time, not long ago when the sky grew angry. The clouds rolled in like boulders, and the lightning cracked open the heart of the forest. A great pine fell, its roots torn from the earth like threads from a tapestry.

I mourned it. Not with tears, but with silence. I lay beneath its fallen trunk for three days, listening to the fungi begin their work. They are the recyclers, the quiet alchemists. They turned death into nourishment, and son saplings began to sprout in the pine's shadows.

This is nature's way. Not tragedy, but transition. Not loss, but layering.

The Visitors

Sometimes your kind comes. Children with wide eyes and sticky fingers. They do not see me, but they feel me. They pause beneath the birch and say it feels like "Magic." They are right.

One girl left a red ribbon tied to a branch. I watched it flutter for weeks, a splash of red against the green. When it finally fell, I buried it beneath a fern. The fern grew taller that season.

The Rhythm

I do not seek change. I do not crave adventure. I am the stillness that allows movement. The quiet that makes song possible. The forest does not need heroes. It needs listeners.

Part 2

The Autumn Pact

The forest does not announce its change. It whispers them.

The first sign is not the color of leaves but the silence of the bees. Their hum fades, replaced by the rustle of squirrels preparing their caches. The mushrooms bloom in clusters like constellations on the forest floor. I trace their patterns with my fingers-soft, damp, ancient.

I do not sleep in winter, though many do. I slow. I listen harder.

The Owl's Warning

One dusk as the sky bruised with twilight, the old owl came to me. She landed on a low branch, her feathers dusted with frost. She blinked once, twice, then spoke in the language of wind and wind.

"The ash trees are sick," She said.

"The sickness comes from the edge."

I knew what she meant. The edge-where the forest meets the road. Where machines growl and humans forget to listen. I traveled there beneath the soil, through tunnels carved by moles and softened by centuries of decay.

She was right. The ash trees were fading. Their bark flaked like old paint and their leaves curled inward as if trying to hide.

The Quiet Cure

I do not fight sickness with fire or fury. I call upon old allies.

The nettles fierce and stubborn volunteered first. They grew thick around the ash roots, warding off trampling feet. Then came the elderberries, their fruit rich with healing. Birds carried their seeds to the sick trees, planting hope with each drop.

I whispered to the fungi, and they responded with mycelium-threads of life weaving beneath the soil, connecting tree to tree root to root. The forest began to hum again.

Not loudly. Just enough.

The Ritual of Stillness

On the longest night of the year, I sit beneath the oldest birch. I place a circle of acorns around me, each one a promise. The foxes gather nearby, there breath misting in the cold. The deer come out too, silent as snowfall.

We do not speak. We remember.

The forest is not a place of forgetting. It is a place of layering. Every fallen leaf, every broken branch, every creature that lived and here-none are lost.

They are folded into the soil, into the song.

And I, Ghillie Dhu, remain. Not to change the forest. Not to lead it. But to keep it listening.

Part 3

The Thaw and the Thread

Spring does not arrive with trumpets. it tiptoes.

The snow does not melt-it recedes, as if politely making room. The wind softens. The soil loosens. The forest exhales.

I feel it first in the moss. It thickens, brightens, stretches toward the light. Then in the roots-birch, oak, hazel-all pulsing with slow, deliberate energy. The mycelium beneath me hums like a distant drumbeat.

The First Stirring

A caterpillar wakes beneath a curled leaf. It blinks, if such things can blink, and begins its journey. Not toward transformation-no, that's not my tale-but toward the edge of a branch where sunlight waits.

I guide it gently. Nit with my hands, but with warmth. A subtle shift in the bark. A whisper in the wind.

It reaches the branch. It eats. It lives.

The Nesting Pact

The robins return next. They do not ask permission. They never have. But they nod to me, in their way-a flick of wing, a pause in song.

They build in the crack of an old elm. One I've watched for centuries. The nest is a patchwork of twigs, moss and a single strand of red ribbon-like the same one the girl left seasons ago.

I smile though no one sees it.

The Blooming Beneath

Not all flowers bloom above ground. Some bloom in secret.

The wood anemones open like stars beneath the brambles. The violets creep along the edges of fox paths. The wild garlic unfurls, scenting the air with memory.

I do not pick them. I do not name them. I simply watch.

And when the bees return-tentative, golden, humming-I guide them to the bloom. I mark the safest paths. I shield them from sudden winds.

The Thread that Binds

One morning, I find a thread. Not of silk or wool, but of connection.

A child walks through the forest, hand in hand with her grandmother. She odes not see me, but she feels me. She pauses besides the birch and says "It feels like someone is watching."

The grandmother smiles. "That's the forest saying hello."

They leave behind a drawing-tucked into a knot on the tree. A fox, a mushroom, tree with eyes. I do not need gifts. But I keep this one.

Because spring is not just renewal. It is recognition. The forest remembers who listens.

And I, Ghillie Dhu, remain. Beneath the roots. Among the moss, watching the world bloom again.

Part 4

The Height of Green

Summer arrives not with a single bloom but a full symphony.

The forest swells. Leaves thicken. Shadows deepen. The air hums with insects, birdsong, and the rustle of creatures weaving through underbrush. It is not chaos-it is choreography.

I do not direct it. I observe. I adjust.

The Dance of Wing

The butterflies are everywhere. Painted ladies, red admirals, brimstones. They do not ask where to go-they simply go. But I guide the breeze, just enough to lift them when they falter.

One lands on a fox's nose. The fox sneezes. The butterfly flutters upward, unbothered.

This is summer's humor. Brief, gentled, shared.

The Canopy's Secret

Above, the canopy thickens into a living ceiling. Sunlight filters through in golden threads, illuminating patches of fern and fungus. The trees speak more slowly now, their voices heavy with-growth.

The birch tells me of a squirrel who nested in her hollow. The Oaky grumbles about a woodpecker's persistence. The willow sighs, content beside the stream.

I listen. I archive.

The Burrow Festival

Below, the badgers host their mid-summer gathering. It is not a gathering, not as humans know it. It is a ritual of grooming, of sharing roost and berries, of sleeping in a tangle heap beneath the earth.

I send fireflies to light their tunnels. I coax the mushrooms to glow faintly like lanterns. The badgers do not thank me. They simply include me.

That is enough.

The Heat and the Hush

Then comes the heat. The kind that passes down, thick and still. The stream slows. The leaves droop. The foxes nap longer. Even the bees grow quiet.

I work harder then. I guide moisture from deep aquifers to thirsty roots. I whisper to the fungi to slow their spread, conserving energy. I ask the trees to share shade with the undergrowth.

They do. The forest cooperates. it always has.

The Offering

One afternoon a child returns. Not the same one as before, but another-barefoot, curious, carrying a basket. She leaves it beneath the birch: berries, a feather, a stone shaped like a heart.

She says aloud, "For whoever's watching."

I do not take the basket. I let the birds and mice share it. But I mark the moment. Another thread added to the tapestry.

Because summer is not just abundance. It is generosity. It is the forest giving freely, and those who listen giving back.

And I, Ghillie Dhu, remain. Beneath the roots. Among the moss. Holding the balance quietly.

Part 5

The Turning and the Tending

Autumn does not mourn summer. It prepares.

The forest shifts its weight. Leaves loosen their grip. The air sharpens, scented with bark, berries and the first hints of frost. Creatures grow deliberate. The rhythm slows, but the process deepens.

I do not grieve the changes. I welcome it.

The Migration Song

The birds begin their long conversation. Not of sorrow, but of direction, tracing invisible maps in the sky. The swallows gather on high branches, tracing invisible maps in the sky. The geese call to another across dusk their voice echoing like ancient chants.

I guide the wind gently beneath their wings. I mark safest places with clusters of elderberries and soft moss.

They do not see me. But they follow the paths I lay.

The Gathering Pact

The squirrels are frantic now. Not with fear but with focus. They dart, dig, bury, retrieve. I watch them mark their caches with tiny twigs, each one a memory.

I help where I can. I loosen the soil. I nudge acorns toward hollows. I whisper to the Jays not to steal too many.

This is the season of trust. Of storing not just food, but faith.

The Ritual of Flame

One evening the foxes gather.Not to hunt, but to watch.

A lightning strike has felled a tree-an old pine, dry and ready. The fire begins slow and crackling. I do not stop it. Fire is not always destruction. Sometimes it is renewal.

I guide the flames away from nest, from dens, from saplings. I call the fungi to prepare. I ask the wind to be kind.

The foxes watch until the fire dies. Then they leave, silent.

The next morning, the ground is blackened-but rich. The ash feeds the roots. The cycle continues.

The Thread of Remembrance

The child returns. Older now. She walks with purpose, carrying a bundle wrapped in cloth. She places it beneath the birch and whispers, "Thank you."

Inside: a drawing of the forest, a note, and a single glove-small, worn, red.

I do not touch it. But I let the moss grow around it gently. It will remain. A memory folded into the forest's skin.

Because autumn is not decay. It is preparation. It is the forest remembering what it most carry through the cold.

And I, Ghillie Dhu, remain. Beneath the roots. Among the moss. Tending the turning quietly.

Part 6

The Silence and the Seed

Winter does not arrive. It settles.

The forest exhales one final breath, and then holds it. The leaves are gone. The branches bare. The air is glass-clear, sharp, reflective. Sound travels differently now. Even the wind tiptoes.

I do not sleep. I deepen.

The Stillness Pact

The creatures retreat. The badgers curl into their dens. The squirrels vanish into nests lined with moss and memory. The deer move slowly, their steps deliberate, their breath visible.

I do not guide them now. I simply watch. This is their season of trust.

The trees speak less. Their voices are low like distant drums. They do not ask for help. They ask for patience.

I give it freely.

The Sky's Descent

The stars seem closer in winter. The canopy no longer hides them. They blink above the forest like old friends returning.

One night, the snow begins. Not with fury, but with grace. Each flake a whisper. Each drift a blanket.

I guide the snow to settle gently. I shield the saplings. I mark the paths for the foxes with faint glow-lichen, frost, memory.

The forest becomes a cathedral. Every branch an arch. Every silence a hymn.

The Glove Beneath the Birch

The red glove remains. The moss has grown around it, but not over it. It is visible still-a thread of color in a monochrome world.

One morning, the child returns. Alone now. Older still. She kneels beside the birch and places her hand where the glove rests.

She does not speak. She does not cry. She simply listens.

I do not reveal myself. But I let the wind carry warmth. Just enough.

She stands. She leaves. The glove remains.

Because winter is not absence. It is presence, distilled.

The Seed Beneath the Snow

Beneath the frost, beneath the soil, beneath the silence-life waits.

The acorn sleeps. The roots rest. The fungi pause. But they are not gone. They are gathering.

I feel it. A pulse. A promise.

Spring will come. The forest will rise. The cycle will begin again.

And I, Ghillie Dhu, remain. Beneath the roots. Among the moss. Holding the silence.