In a Clearing in the Woods
Exactly seven luminous berries hang from the plant. A line of ants weaves in and out and over the bed of pine needles that is still recovering from the previous night’s frost. They wind up the thawing stem, just kept warm enough by a canopy that had formed—slowly, luckily—over the years to cover the small clearing the plant stood in.
At one point, the plant must have been covered in berries until it drooped, must have numbered in the tens of thousands. Over the years, as time moved on and the forest sprang up around it, the berries fell or rotted away or fed the wildlife. Time only knew, and time could only wonder at the remaining seven, whose skins have grown taut thanks to the cold air.
The leading ants reach the lowest berry and start gnawing at it with their mandibles. At once, it bursts, sending a deluge over the leaders. The followers can only redirect and recollect themselves as they gather the spilled innards and retrace their footsteps back to their mound. What is a few of them lost? What had been a few of them lost in the frost?
They turn, headed for home. They wind in and out and over, but before they can reach the intricate tunnels of the ant mound, the ground shakes. The line scatters. The ants try to maintain their order, but the earth upturns beneath them as a young woman skids into the clearing.
A young tree—older than most humans, but younger than most trees—stops her in her path. Once stopped, she doesn’t move, too exhausted. She can barely breathe. All the forest sees is her chest shallowly rising and falling.
Perhaps it’s pity, or perhaps it’s chance, but the canopy that had built up over the years shifts. It falls just enough on the northeastern side to protect the clearing, the plant, and the newcomer from the drop in temperature that will happen in the night. The young woman shivers and trembles in her already troubled sleep, but at least, come morning, she wakes up.
The first thing she sees when she awakens is the plant topped with exactly six bright berries. But she’s too hot. She’s freezing. She flexes her toes and fingers a few times, hissing at how stiff they’d gotten. A small layer of ice cracks up over her wet socks. Her shoes had been lost miles back in a muddy creek as she ran from her old life.
The line of ants returns. Ever undeterred, they’ve dug themselves out of the trench she’d created and regroup with the home mound, turn around, and start out for the plant again. They disregard the newcomer, though perhaps a few more days will make her worth hauling home.
The tall, skinny pines sway as a wind sweeps through. The young woman closes her eyes to keep needles and ice pellets out of them, but she still can’t bring her arms up to keep the rubbish off of her face. She tilts her head side to side to remove it, and that is the most she can do until the sun reaches its low apex.
The air warms just enough to allow her to inhale deeply without it feeling like shards of glass are moving up and down her nose and throat. She gulps one down, then gasps. The she takes another. Every desperate inhale and exhale she takes makes a low-hanging branch above her twitch in anticipation. Eventually, it warms just enough from her joy that the ice encasing it melts a drop, which lands on her cracked lips.
Surprised, she hiccups, darts her tongue out to catch the water, and gasps in relief. Her eyes focus above her. Once she sees the source, she reaches for the branch and drags it toward her. It bows understandingly, if half-choked in her grasp. A stray ant that was exploring the frozen leaves and twigs is crushed by her hold.
She doesn’t move again that day except to gingerly curl up against the young tree as the sun goes down. More of the canopy that had veiled her the night before slides into place alongside her against the winds. Meanwhile, the ants hurry their success back to their tunnels. They lost a few more lineleaders to the overflow of berry juice, but in keeping with their persistent in and out and over, the ones from yesterday and this day may, in days to come, be known as the necessary sacrifices.
The wayward ant exploring the branches did not have a line of its own to scatter and report back to the tunnels; it is never missed.
When the sun rises the next morning, thankfully so does the temperature. Spring begins this morning, and there will be no more unbearable nights for the trees, the ants, the animals, or the old plant that holds exactly five sparkling berries.
The young woman, however, does not know this and is still alone. Not truly, but she’s not like an ant or a tree. She manages to stretch out her joints and drink more. Once she soothes her throat, she tries calling out into the forest.
“Help.”
She cringes. Her voice was always too deep in her own ears, made worse as she aged into adolescence. And now, it echoes briefly around her: “Help.”
She sobs against it, trying not to speak anymore, but knowing it is perhaps the only way to save herself. Dragging herself up against her adoptive tree, the next voice she hears is the nauseous wail of her stomach. She flinches, grinds her teeth against it, and glances around for anything in reach, ignoring the new and constant drip of water on her shoulders.
Her eyes rest on the plant. She stops herself from lunging instinctively, instead breathing deeply and digging her numb fingers into the dirt and pine needles. The berries, after all, could be poisonous, and they have known if they were forever. She had run away to live. But, she had run away to live, against all odds.
At one point, the plant must have been covered in berries until it drooped, must have numbered in the tens of thousands. Over the years, as time moved on and the forest sprang up around it, the berries fell or rotted away or fed the wildlife. Time only knew, and time could only wonder at the remaining seven, whose skins have grown taut thanks to the cold air.
The leading ants reach the lowest berry and start gnawing at it with their mandibles. At once, it bursts, sending a deluge over the leaders. The followers can only redirect and recollect themselves as they gather the spilled innards and retrace their footsteps back to their mound. What is a few of them lost? What had been a few of them lost in the frost?
They turn, headed for home. They wind in and out and over, but before they can reach the intricate tunnels of the ant mound, the ground shakes. The line scatters. The ants try to maintain their order, but the earth upturns beneath them as a young woman skids into the clearing.
A young tree—older than most humans, but younger than most trees—stops her in her path. Once stopped, she doesn’t move, too exhausted. She can barely breathe. All the forest sees is her chest shallowly rising and falling.
Perhaps it’s pity, or perhaps it’s chance, but the canopy that had built up over the years shifts. It falls just enough on the northeastern side to protect the clearing, the plant, and the newcomer from the drop in temperature that will happen in the night. The young woman shivers and trembles in her already troubled sleep, but at least, come morning, she wakes up.
The first thing she sees when she awakens is the plant topped with exactly six bright berries. But she’s too hot. She’s freezing. She flexes her toes and fingers a few times, hissing at how stiff they’d gotten. A small layer of ice cracks up over her wet socks. Her shoes had been lost miles back in a muddy creek as she ran from her old life.
The line of ants returns. Ever undeterred, they’ve dug themselves out of the trench she’d created and regroup with the home mound, turn around, and start out for the plant again. They disregard the newcomer, though perhaps a few more days will make her worth hauling home.
The tall, skinny pines sway as a wind sweeps through. The young woman closes her eyes to keep needles and ice pellets out of them, but she still can’t bring her arms up to keep the rubbish off of her face. She tilts her head side to side to remove it, and that is the most she can do until the sun reaches its low apex.
The air warms just enough to allow her to inhale deeply without it feeling like shards of glass are moving up and down her nose and throat. She gulps one down, then gasps. The she takes another. Every desperate inhale and exhale she takes makes a low-hanging branch above her twitch in anticipation. Eventually, it warms just enough from her joy that the ice encasing it melts a drop, which lands on her cracked lips.
Surprised, she hiccups, darts her tongue out to catch the water, and gasps in relief. Her eyes focus above her. Once she sees the source, she reaches for the branch and drags it toward her. It bows understandingly, if half-choked in her grasp. A stray ant that was exploring the frozen leaves and twigs is crushed by her hold.
She doesn’t move again that day except to gingerly curl up against the young tree as the sun goes down. More of the canopy that had veiled her the night before slides into place alongside her against the winds. Meanwhile, the ants hurry their success back to their tunnels. They lost a few more lineleaders to the overflow of berry juice, but in keeping with their persistent in and out and over, the ones from yesterday and this day may, in days to come, be known as the necessary sacrifices.
The wayward ant exploring the branches did not have a line of its own to scatter and report back to the tunnels; it is never missed.
When the sun rises the next morning, thankfully so does the temperature. Spring begins this morning, and there will be no more unbearable nights for the trees, the ants, the animals, or the old plant that holds exactly five sparkling berries.
The young woman, however, does not know this and is still alone. Not truly, but she’s not like an ant or a tree. She manages to stretch out her joints and drink more. Once she soothes her throat, she tries calling out into the forest.
“Help.”
She cringes. Her voice was always too deep in her own ears, made worse as she aged into adolescence. And now, it echoes briefly around her: “Help.”
She sobs against it, trying not to speak anymore, but knowing it is perhaps the only way to save herself. Dragging herself up against her adoptive tree, the next voice she hears is the nauseous wail of her stomach. She flinches, grinds her teeth against it, and glances around for anything in reach, ignoring the new and constant drip of water on her shoulders.
Her eyes rest on the plant. She stops herself from lunging instinctively, instead breathing deeply and digging her numb fingers into the dirt and pine needles. The berries, after all, could be poisonous, and they have known if they were forever. She had run away to live. But, she had run away to live, against all odds.