Morrigan Blackwater's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Morrigan crouched in the mud at the edge of the wetlands, watching the ridge through her binoculars. She'd been tracking the logging crew for two days now, memorizing their patterns, waiting for the moment they'd make their first cut. That's when she'd move. Chain herself to the tree, call the press, and force the world to watch. It was the only way to stop them from taking everything her grandmother had died protecting. But footsteps came through the brush behind her. She spun, hand already going to the swamp oak root in her pocket. A man stood there in work boots and a safety vest, hands raised. He didn't speak until he was close enough that she could see the bracelet on his wrist — twisted golden vines with green moss still clinging to them. Her grandmother used to weave those same vines into charms. The man's voice was low. "Dawn tomorrow. Not three days. They moved up the schedule." He turned and walked back toward the ridge before she could ask why he'd warned her. Morrigan's fingers tightened around the root. Tomorrow meant no time to prepare. Tomorrow meant she'd have to move tonight. She hiked up to the ridge as dusk settled over the wetlands. The crew's wooden shelter sat on stilts near the equipment staging area, lights already out for the night. She counted the machines in the clearing. Two bulldozers, a skidder, and the feller buncher that would tear through the old growth in hours. Her chains were back at her truck, a mile away. She had to get them, find the right tree, and lock herself in before the crew arrived at first light. Her grandmother's voice echoed in her head, the words from that last day. The land remembers. Morrigan turned back toward the wetlands. She'd make sure it had witnesses too. She stopped at the excavator on her way down. The rusted bucket was aimed at the tree line like a threat. Someone had spray-painted a number on its side. Tree sixty-seven. She walked into the wetlands until she found it — a swamp oak older than the permits, older than the company, its roots twisted deep into the water. Morrigan wrapped her hand around the trunk. This was the one. She started back toward her truck at a run. By midnight, she'd be chained to it. By dawn, they'd have to cut through her to cut it down.