The Woods

It was nearly half past seven, and the jittery little birds flitting about the graveyard sang ever so joyfully to the lost souls six feet under. The morning sun, shining so new and bright, danced on Wren’s face through the foliage burnt red and orange by the stroke of autumn’s fire. The late October air was freshly crisp and lightly stirring, but so bitterly frigid that her pale cheeks were bitten rose and fingers frozen, despite their thick encasement inside fur gloves. Nonetheless, she refused to bury her hands into her coat pockets and hurry on to her destination — the novel in her grasp was of much more importance than warmth. A devoted lover of classics, Wren happened to be on the very last chapter of Wuthering Heights and was determined to finish the book before she arrived at the library. This cemetery she was now passing through was a regular part of her daily travel, and it marked that she was three-quarters of the way there.

Each morning at six forty-five sharp, the girl left home to journey all the way across town to the library, a place analogous with the word sanctuary in her seventeen-year-old mind. She was in constant solitude, and therefore found delightful occupation in the imaginary worlds books brought her to. Her visits were cherished by the old women who kept the library. They were the only souls in town who did not disapprove of the eccentric and lonely girl, and adored the stark contrast of her humble nature and strong opinions.

Thinking about her reality gave her a heavy heart, which was why she preferred to live within books. As the object of the townspeople’s taunts, gossip, and frustrations, Wren loathed living in Raven’s Hill. She was acclimated to their cruel labels ranging from the likes of “outcast” and “failure” to “witch” and “demon girl.” In such a small town where even the most trivial things got around, people found it quite comical that she couldn’t keep a job for more than a month — everybody perceived her as lazy, or that she “must be disabled or something,” according to her mother. People also found extremely disturbing her stubborn defiance, careless back talk, and iconoclastically rebellious opinions of the school’s expectations and rules. Her expulsion during her junior year brought her much ridicule that humiliated her parents in their social circles. As a result, her mother and father seized every chance they could to remind their daughter that she was a complete and utter failure. Ones her age steered clear of the ill-omened girl, only badmouthing her behind closed doors in fear that she would seriously hurt them; and the townspeople of little Raven’s Hill eyed her with silent censure at every grocery store, park, and pretty much every public place. Blitzed on every corner, this left Wren believing all of what the others said, despite the soft whispers of her heart telling her all was not as it seemed.  Truthfully, her untamed spirit could never allow her to engage in what did not spark flames in her heart. This prevented her from investing time into people and places that tried watering her down and keeping her in check. She couldn’t bear the melancholy workplaces of mechanical employees, functioning without joy or passion; and she felt sick at the school where she was handed workloads that drained her time and energy, all about subjects that didn’t excite her. She listened to her heart’s song, and that was why the lonely girl was talented beyond comparison — because no matter how hard people tried, they could not keep Wren from doing only what she loved. It was as if she had a contract that her soul had written in her past life; a secret scroll tucked away in the pleats of her heart.

Being raised to value humility and shame confidence as vain, Wren did not think much about how her talents were so astounding that they could be alluded to magical powers. Unfortunately, nobody ever had the chance to behold the variety and proficiency of her gifts. Her parents did not pay much attention to her because of her lack of abilities important to them. Hence, they ignored her every time she tried showing them things as a child. They chose to spend their days working long hours, or locked away in their room dragging on cigarettes and watching television. Ergo, Wren figured there was no use or importance to her designs. With her self-belief doused, she grew accustomed to isolation, and refused to reveal what she truly loved to do with anyone. While her parents were gone and her peers were up to no good, the lonely girl was left to her own devices. Now being seventeen, she could render a painting so realistic that any spectator would liken it to a piece done by an Old Master; her essays objecting the injustices of society were so bold that any authority figure would be instantly infuriated; the simple songs she wrote from her heart were so poetically lovely; her voice was so angelic that if she had enough courage to sing in front of another, they would swoon; and last but not least, an irrevocable thirst for profound knowledge and spiritual truths bestowed her with silent brilliance and psychic powers. She was a walking, breathing star afraid to shine — and for all the noble beliefs she held about how she intended to change the world, the most injustice happened to be her disbelief in her own self. Her doubts in her magic made her life a self-fulfilling prophecy of misfortune. That is, until she tripped over the cat.

“Damn it!” Wren cursed, and saved herself from falling face first into a decaying tombstone. With irritability, she gathered her book off of the frozen ground and met eyes with what had tripped her. Well, who had tripped her: it was a cat, with jet-black fur and the most peculiar set of prying eyes. One was blue, and the other was green. This dazzled the girl to her heart’s core. She gasped in awe, her doe eyes widening with wonder. She found the little creature extraordinary. All annoyance from the fall vanished as quick as it came on. Wren realized that the cat was trying to communicate something to her. It meowed with urgent desperation, rubbing itself against Wren’s legs and twitching its tail in vexation. Its mismatched eyes bore into Wren’s hazel ones with such an intensely pleading gaze that a number of inquiries tumbled out of her mouth. “What’s wrong, poor little thing? What are you trying to tell me?” she asked the cat, falling to her knees to stroke its midnight fur. Just then, a sudden frenzy overcame the feline’s spirit. It leapt away from Wren’s soft caresses and bounded across the rolling hills of the massive graveyard. The girl marveled at the swift prowess in which the cat maneuvered around the crumbling tombs, its obsidian coat rippling in the cold breeze that had picked up so abruptly. The trees began to sway, their red-yellow leaves swirling like an inferno. The girl jumped to her feet and, after storing her book in the depths of her cross-shoulder, followed the strange feeling in her heart that tantalized the blood in her veins with electric excitement. It told her that the cat had something to show her that was of utmost importance; so she made a break for it without a moment’s hesitation, forgetting completely about her plans for the day, and dashed after the mysterious creature.

On the other side of the cemetery at the edge of the wild woods, the black Cat turned around to ensure Wren was following. Then it hurried inside. The girl caught up to in just a few seconds, and jumped into the fire-leafed forest after it.

It was unexplainable how after only a few minutes of chasing the cat that the sun actually began going down. Twilight crept over the woods. Bewilderment overwhelmed the girl as she gawked at the shades of the sky darken right before her eyes. This inspired a faster chase after the cat, who seemed to know the way through these woods like the back of its paw. It suddenly dawned on Wren that there was something bizarre about this place that no amount of logic of the mortal mind could comprehend.

“It was just morning!” she heaved. She was breathless from the pursuit, and paused to lean against the deeply ridged trunk of an oak tree close by. “How is it possible . . . that these woods . . . can warp time?”

The cat halted after noticing that Wren had stopped to catch her breath. “Mrrrreoww!” it replied with necessity, demanding her to press forward.

“Okay, okay! On with it.” The girl recollected her bearings and then persisted, which enabled the feline to do the same. 

Dusk had fallen completely. Pitch black darkness had now infected the woods, and the night wind had grown harsh. It chilled Wren to the bone with fear, especially because she couldn’t even see what was in front of her, and kept tripping over various sticks and stones in her path. The woods were turning out to have formidable effects: her face was cut by imperceptible branches that had whipped her cheeks in her haste, and her jeans were dirtied from falling. She grew increasingly frightened when she heard a nightmarish howl far off in the distance. It was unlike any animal she had ever heard before in any part of Pennsylvania. Then, without warning, an enormous owl whooshed right past her head, finally evoking a petrified shriek she had been holding in since the blue sky had mysteriously turned to a mortifying black.

The girl’s panicked scream prompted a chorus of distant demonic howls — not just one anymore. The cat froze in its tracks when it heard this congregation of wailing beasts.  Its fur stood on end and its ears perked warily; it knew they needed to act fast. Wren did not anticipate the blue and green glow the cat suddenly began to radiate from its eyes with a mesmerizing luster. The luminosity served as a sort of headlights for the pair, and now Wren was able to make out her surroundings. The cat had sensed the oncoming danger for the mortal girl, and raced forward with renewed vigor.

The howling grew painstakingly close.

Wren’s blood curdled with terror. She sprinted after the cat as fast as she possibly could, running now not for faith in the cat, but for her life. 

I refuse to end up like those stupid girls in horror movies, Wren thought frantically, her heart pumping so intensely that it felt like it was going to burst out of her chest onto the forest floor. Well, I did follow a black cat with creepy eyes in a creepy graveyard into some random creepy woods. Pretty sure I must already have a negative score.

Now, the beasts had nearly caught up to them, about a hundred yards or so behind. Wren was far too aware of their massive paws pounding heavily into the earth, leaving monstrously enormous prints into the leaf-littered dirt. Their hot breath was heavy, and they snarled with morbid lust for her human flesh. She knew that these monsters were not of this world. 

Wren had never run so fast. Her conscience was incoherent, being drowned out by primal functions that humans have carried with them since the beginning: all-consuming fear, and the instinctual necessity for survival. She kept up with the cat now, and they ran side by side. Just a bit ahead, she could make out a yellowish glow through the trees. Adrenaline pulsing through her body, she scooped up the cat — who had been falling behind and mewing with distress — and charged forward with such incredible  strength that she never even dreamed herself to be capable of. 

The monsters were now right on her tail. They were so close that they were stretching out their necks, snapping their jaws in hopes of snatching the girl and shredding her flesh. She abandoned her coat to ensure they wouldn’t take hold of it and destroy her — the severe cold iced her blood and pushed her to run faster. Wren did not dare to turn back to look upon the faces of the heathens, because hearing their snarling growls and thundering movements were enough. They were intoxicated by the power in her heart center, and wished to devour its spiritual power for their own — but that was not to be. Just a split second before the nearest demon came close to leaping upon her body, Wren made it into the light, and somehow she knew she was safe. She threw herself onto the ground and fell unconscious.  

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Wren awoke with a start and sat upright, coming alive like Frankenstein. She gasped at her sudden recollection of all that had happened in those woods. Wincing at the severe pain in her head, her hand flew to massage her temples as she looked around. She was on a little cot that she would lay on at the doctor’s, and was covered in a heavy heated blanket. The room was excessively dark, and could only make out her immediate surroundings by the faint glow of a lantern beside her on a small wooden table.  She peered at twinkling trinkets and luxurious decor through the shadows, concluding that wherever she was must be quite posh. How did I escape from those monsters? she thought to herself. And who the hell is this? She had been so lost in her own thoughts for some time that she did not even realize the delicately slender woman sitting before her. Her skin was as colorless as a waxlike figure, being in extreme contrast with her onyx locks. On her hands, she wore a pair of fingerless black lace gloves that exposed crimson-painted nails. She stroked the esoteric black cat, who purred heartily on her lap. She was clothed in the most exquisite Victorian dress that made Wren’s jaw drop — she had never seen something so expensive this close before. It was crafted beautifully of silk and strewn with patterned lace around the shoulders, the materials varying in purple hues of dark plum, light lavender, and pretty violet. Her face was classically beautiful, almost vampiric, with high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and a distinguished jaw, her lips upturned in a knowing smirk. She wore the countenance of a wise raven, and her eyes mused — oh, her eyes! — the left was as blue as the heart of the ocean, and the right was as green as a witch’s brew: just the same as the black cat!

“Who are you? Why have you both conspired to bring me here?” Wren asked weakly. She could barely comprehend what had happened today. She just wanted an explanation.

“Destiny has brought you here, child,” the woman spoke with a low velvet tone. “Moon here —” she gestured to the cat, “ — has been watching over you for a while, hidden in the trees and brush while you were drunken in literary bliss, ignoring the real world. Then she would come and report back to me.”

“Why, though?” Wren demanded sharply. “I’m no use to some prissy high-caliber lady. I can sense the great magnitude of your spiritual power . . . and telling from the black cat you have and creepy woods you live in, you definitely are a witch. And honestly, if you killed me, nobody would miss me anyway. So just do away with me, and get it over with.” She stuck out her lip with a childish pout, and crossed her arms indignantly.

The woman looked stunned. Then she boomed with laughter to the point of almost crying. “You are hilarious! But Moon lured you here so I could pass on a message from your spirit guides,” she affirmed, her eyes softening. “No ordinary human would ever be able to outrun the hellhounds of the woods that protect my home. Artist, you have magical power beyond your comprehension. You have been blessed with so many gifts, and it is sad that you do not do something with them. Your art must be shared with the world. Your voice must be shared with the world. Your words must be shared with the world. You are an old soul, reincarnated in this lifetime for a special purpose: to express yourself, and to change the world. The people of Raven’s Hill are afraid of you. They can sense your spiritual power, just as you can sense mine; however, it intimidates them instead of drawing them closer. This spellbounds you with doubts. But the time is right to get going. If you are to move the world, you must first move yourself. The great person with vigor should demand the rightness of things, timeliness of action, and propriety of method. In this way, power does not become sheer force. You will be surprised at what you will accomplish. Now let these words sink into your spirit. A flower does not open or close according to who walks by, and a star does not dim its light depending on who is watching from below. Shine, dear little artist. Shine.”

Wren was moved to tears. She tried to speak, but her voice would not make a sound. Her vocals were caught in a web. At that moment, the woman reached over the girl and pressed a dazzling crystal on her forehead of a deep blue hue, shimmering enchantingly like a starry night. Instantly, Wren was sent into a deep slumber. 

☆ ☆ ☆

The girl awoke to her six o’clock alarm and her eyes fluttered open, incredulous at the dream she just had. Drowsily, she noticed something moving at her window. How curious was it that a raven was perched on the windowsill — with one green eye and one blue!