Meadow Whisp's Arc

Chapter 1 of 10

Meadow Whisp had told three people a tree tried to kill him, and all three had laughed. That was why his sword arm would not move. The blade hung from his fist, but the fist would not swing. He stood frozen in the cold berry wood, caterpillar body coiled on a low stone, top hat tipped against the fading sun. He had once been a warrior who feared nothing. Now he feared being right. He had come out only for berries. His pail sat half full by his feet. But the walk had carried him past the carved stones, the old burial markers with their strange cut letters, and past them stood the thing he could not forget. A towering cluster of slender bamboo rose at the clearing's edge. Between the pale stalks, something taller waited. He had glimpsed it two nights ago. Teeth. He was sure he had seen teeth in the bark. No one believed him. The sun dropped lower. Shadows pooled between the bamboo. Meadow forced himself closer, because proof was the only cure. If he could see the teeth in real light, his arm would unlock. He would know he was not mad. He pushed through the stalks. At the center leaned a weathered wooden board, propped against a trunk like a forgotten sign. Someone had carved a sleeping face into it. The face was a tree-man, eyes shut, roots braided into a beard, branches curling from its skull. Dark grooves ran deep as real wrinkles. Meadow stared. This was it. This was what he had seen. Not a living monster. A painted board left by travelers. No teeth. Only closed eyes and quiet wood. His arm sagged. Relief and shame mixed in his chest. He had frozen over a picture. He almost laughed at himself. He reached out to touch the carved face, to prove the wood was only wood. The ground gave way. Branches snapped under his weight. He dropped into a pit someone had dug and hidden beneath leaves. He hit packed dirt and lost his breath. The sword clattered beyond his reach. Above him the hole framed a square of darkening sky. He clawed at the walls. The soil crumbled in his grip. Then the carved board shifted at the pit's rim. Dirt trickled down. The painted eyes were open now. They had not been open before. The wooden mouth split, and inside the grain he saw them at last, clear and close in the last gray light. Teeth. Rows of them. The carving leaned over the edge and looked down at him. Meadow's sword lay above, out of reach. His arm was free now, and it shook. He pressed his back to the dirt wall and stared up at the thing he had sworn was real. He had his proof. No one would hear it. The teeth parted wider, and a low sound rolled down into the pit.