The Forest That Overlooked The Farm

The day she saw the doe on the hill was the very same day she buried her husband in the backyard. 

It was a hot, muggy, August day. Thunderstorms that shook the very frame of their old farm had passed through for three days, and Cecil had died on the first of them. Thelma had been waiting for it, not out of excitement, but simply because she knew it was coming. Cecil’s body had been aching since he came back from the mines, all quivering lip and sharp back pains, and she could sense the sickness like a dog. It was inevitable when one day she slipped from the sheets and Cecil only rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. She drifted about the morning, worry permeating her every thought before Cecil called her to his bedside and told her he could feel a storm brewing from his metal shoulder plate. It hurt worse than it had in ages, and he made her swear she would lock the horses away and keep their shepherd dog, Petunia, close because you know how she gets when it thunders. 

Thelma swore. Cecil was dead the next day, as lightning tore the sky apart. Petunia cowered under the bed and the horses huddled away from the stall doors. The river rose past the bank and flooded the yard. Her power flickered and threatened to go out, and the windows rattled loud enough to startle her awake at night. The elder oak trees split at the trunks and tumbled to the ground. It was the kind of storm that would put the fear of God into an old lady like herself, but Thelma was resilient. Resilient enough to tuck Cecil into a cocoon of sheets and keep him in the concrete cellar until the soil was solid enough to hold him. The last thing she needed was for her husband to be swept away from his resting place. 

Cecil had not been a bad partner, either. He was quiet, well-mannered, respectable. He held her when she felt she did not deserve it. He pulled his weight, never left the corn in its husk, and tucked the chickens in their coop at night. He hunted as Thelma did not have the stomach for it, bringing rich meat to the table for months to come. He carried Thelma back to the house when she fell off her horse and broke her leg. By all means, he was a good husband. Thelma just couldn’t quite place why all she felt, as her shovel broke the soil, was a hollow sort of feeling. 

She packed the dirt tight, the grass still dewey at her feet. Petunia sat close to her, her paws crossed over each other, her nose pointed high and sniffing like she was daring anything to come close and take Thelma from her too. Thelma crouched to Petunia’s height and carefully scratched the spot behind her ears. 

“It’s just us now, huh?” she spoke softly. She kissed a light brown spot amidst the white fur on Petunia’s head. The dog whined. Thelma let out a greatly held breath and sunk into the earth, the crow’s feet around her eyes sharpening as she squinted against the high sun. Noon had begun to slip away from her, quick as a wink. Petunia held her whine, like a gentle blues singer. Thelma hung her head between her knees, listening to her dog and the whooshing of the wind through the trees. 

Petunia’s whine shifted gear into that of a deep-throated growl, the kind that Thelma associated with her childhood dog and black bears. She snapped her head up, her heart slamming in her chest. She instinctively placed her arms around Petunia, knowing she was not in the space to run after her dog if the need arose. That was when she saw it too, perched on top of the hill that connected their–her–little farm to the sprawling forest beyond. 

A deer. 

It wasn’t odd to see deer this close to the farm. It looked like a normal deer as well, a tawny brown with a white tail, huge, unwavering eyes, and alert, pointed ears. Except, it was odd to see any this time of year, this time of day. Especially just one of them. 

It stood still, watching her with a gaze Thelma could only describe as ‘knowing.’ Petunia continued to growl, her lips skinned back from her fangs. For a moment, when Thelma turned her head to the side, the deer seemed like a mere mirage. Something took its place, its shimmering form. Something human. 

Thelma raised her hand–she wasn’t quite sure why. Perhaps to let the deer know she wasn’t a threat, that Petunia certainly wasn’t either. Perhaps to see if it would react at all. 

The deer simply held her gaze for another minute, stark against the lush green of the forest. Then, it turned and kicked away deeper into the trees. 

---

In the following days, the deer returned. It was always the same spot, and every time it seemed to know exactly where to look for Thelma. On the days when the farmwork was the hardest, it stayed for longer. When Thelma turned in for the night, it would too. The only time it didn’t show up was when it rained, even if Thelma persisted. Petunia eventually stopped growling, but it took a biscuit or two at first. Thelma didn’t question or disturb the deer. If anything, she liked the company. 

It wasn’t until both of them failed to plan accordingly that Thelma was able to confirm her rising suspicions. The middle of August was as hot as ever, but it didn’t stop Thelma from working. The deer stood rigidly on the hill, peering at her with an almost unnerving look. The sun was blazing on the back of her neck, her long gray hair pulled into a bun, when she saw Petunia zip for the porch under the house. Wrathful clouds gathered in the near distance, and flashes of light broke across the dark sky. Thunder spilled over the yard and rain followed suit in a divine fury. Thelma turned to look at the deer, who finally possessed a semblance of emotion: fear. 

Before it could turn and run, it happened. The rain cut through the deer like it was a holographic image, and for a second of an instance, Thelma saw a woman take its place. Tall and slender, with long brown hair that fell to her knees. The deer was back just as quickly, and knowing it had made a mistake, fled. 

Thelma chased after it. Again, she felt something come over her and she wasn’t sure of the reason. Part of her knew she had to find this woman, this being who cared for her enough to see her almost every day. She felt foolish, like she was chasing the remnants of a good dream she woke from but could not remember. Rain soaked through her button-down linen shirt and the denim of her overalls. It sloshed in her rubber boots and the wind ripped her hair from its bun. Thelma tumbled into the forest with such vigor she was tripping over herself.

She came to a clearing, where the sun had yet disappeared behind the clouds. The rain was rushing in, but here it seemed to skirt around the grass and clumps of wildflowers. A figure was knelt amongst the moss, next to a burbling stream. She was a younger woman, much like the one Thelma had seen on the hill, with swirling hair and soft skin. She was nude, but her skin bubbled and seethed with some type of burn. Thelma watched from behind a tree as the woman dipped her hand into the creek, grimacing while the water washed over her. Thelma’s breath caught in her throat, staring at the rapidly healing skin. 

The woman snapped up her head at the sound of the gasp, though the look on her profile was one not entirely of concern. She turned in Thelma’s direction, and a smile pulled at her lips. 

“You can come out,” she said, her voice smooth like ocean foam curling on sand. “I hope I haven’t scared you.” 

Thelma felt at a loss for words. She peered around the trunk, attempting to return the grin. The woman beckoned to her. 

“I should be the one saying that,” Thelma managed, her heart fluttering against her ribcage like a trapped bird. It had been so long since she had spoken to another person. Much less a person like this. Was she a person?

“No, no it’s alright. I’d say it’s about time we met each other.” The woman stepped closer. Thelma took a step back. “I’m… Rhiannon.”

Thelma swallowed thickly. She felt as if the woman already knew what her name was. The woman stood, waiting patiently. Thelma turned to look back toward the farm, but it was as if the forest had closed her off from it. There was only foliage as far as the eye could see. Thelma slipped from the tree. “Who are you?” 

The question hung in the air for a moment. Rhiannon twisted her hair in her hands, trying to find the right words. The wind shifted direction, and Thelma couldn’t look away as it pulled the burns from Rhiannon’s skin. She sighed with relief and finally spoke. “I’m more or less a… guardian. Of this forest. Your husband hunted and lived here a long time, you see, and when he died I felt it. I could feel it in you. I don’t know. I guess I wanted to help you in what ways I could.” 

Thelma wasn’t sure what to do with this information. She certainly didn’t want to admit that this woman’s strange company had soothed her. “And the rain? What does it do to you?” The edge in Thelma’s voice was dripping into a curious, calmer tone. 

“Your guess is as good as mine. It hasn’t been this bad in quite a while. I would think it has to do with Cecil’s–” Thelma flinched “–death. There was a disturbed balance. The acid levels and intensity of the storms got worse.” 

Thelma not only found that this explanation answered her questions better than she thought, but that she wanted to know more. The next step she took toward the woman was confident, self-assured. Rhiannon was almost surprised. 

“Is there a way to restore this balance?” Thelma rang out her wet hair, her heart now thrumming with anticipation. 

Rhiannon’s smile grew wider. 

---

August seemed to never end. 

Petunia raced alongside Thelma and Rhiannon through the forest, barking at their heels. The wind swirled leaves and petals in their wake, and the grass became greener where they touched. They spun out of the trees and onto the hill, tumbling toward the farm below. The sun shimmered over the horizon, bathing the crops and Thelma’s cozy house in an orange haze. The sky was a brilliant purple, the first stars glittering into view. They collapsed to the ground in each other’s arms, fresh flowers blooming under Rhiannon’s palm. She laughed loudly, unashamedly, as Petunia tripped on her way down the hill. Thelma looked up at her and realized that she couldn’t stop smiling. 

The weeks she had been with Rhiannon had been near-magical. They shared stories, Rhiannon helped her forage and hunt, and Thelma showed her how to tell Petunia to sit and stay and roll over! In the morning, they ate sweet berries, tended the farm, and held hands as they walked by the river. They sat by a campfire at night, shared gentle touches, and whispered to each other. It was the youngest Thelma had felt in ages. It was the most alive she had felt. Rhiannon sensed this. The forest sensed this. 

When Thelma finally kissed Rhiannon, the storms lessened. It was a clear night, the heat settled on their skin, and as their lips touched, Thelma felt like she had breathed for the first time. The farm breathed with her. She pulled away, not sure what to say or do next, but then Rhiannon kissed her back. Thelma’s chest filled with warmth, the kind you could not fake, and found herself giggling. Rhiannon laughed as well, their foreheads bumping together. 

It was not Cecil who held the unbalance of the forest. When Thelma was with Rhiannon, she began to realize that the hollow she had felt in his death was stitching itself up. The sky was stitching itself up too.