The Girl of the Forest

     Without ink there are no words.
     Without words there is no story.
     Without a story the pages are bare.

     I used to be the bare pages.  My life with no ink to tell a story.

     I cared for no one.  No one cared for me.  I knew no other way.  I cared for the forest.  The forest cared for me.

     The forest and everything within was my main protection, provider, and teacher; I did the best with what I had. Rarely would I venture into any town or village.  My appearance, to most, was appalling; dirty, tattered and ill-fitting clothes and shoes, and unkempt hair.  I was easily ignored by eyes that briefly glanced my way – even as a child.  A few sought pity on me as a child, but as I grew older, pity turned to condemnation and then to being seen, yet unseen.  I chose to remain unseen and when entering a town or village, it was by way of moonless nights.

     It was one such night when I ventured into the Village of Chatsworth.  I preferred Chatsworth due to its low stone walls, easy entrance, and the absence of folk late at night.  I rummaged through rubble for discarded items; clothing, scraps of food, utensils or damaged weapons – anything I could use.  Even though the forest provided what I needed to survive, I still needed things – person things. 

     I was attentive to my surroundings; I always was, always felt I needed to be because I did not belong.  But this night, I elicited the attention of a dark presence; a shadow, something quiet and still as the night.  No matter where I was in the village, the presence followed.  I hid and waited twice, but saw nothing.  I rummaged, in a distracted way, looking around my surroundings more than at what my hands were searching for.  Even then, I was approached – suddenly and mysteriously – by a female Cimmerian Elf cloaked in black, skin not much lighter.   She startled me and I yelped, and even though she did not seem a threat, my apprehensive nature, and embarrassment, forced me away and I ran.  I ran toward the hills near Edgevale Canyon, and to the wood, the thick wood where I easily escaped. 

     Did I?

     The birds were the first to wake me with cheerful chirping and songs.  I half-opened one eye to the night relenting its black veil to the first purples of a new day.  I closed my eye, rolled onto my side, and pulled the layers of cloth I used as a pillow over my head.  It muffled the birds, and that was enough. 

     The poke of a cold, moist nose on my cheek – which I thought was part of a dream - but the wet, rough licks from a wolf’s tongue was not, and I woke again.  I sighed.  I cracked open my other eye to see the sun pushing away the purples with orange hues.  I was not encouraged to open my eye further.  “Not yet.” I mumbled, bringing myself into a ball and pulling the cedar branch blanket over me.

     If you have never heard the high-pitched bugle of a bull elk at close range, I can assure anyone, it is not how you want to be woken.  I bolted straight up, wide-eyed, and petite Elven nose to large, dark, wet, elk snout – and I stared for a moment.  My heavy exhales were no match to the warm gusts coming from the two large, nostrils before me.  I leaned left to see two sitting wolves.

     I let my eyes fall to half open while taking a few deep breaths to calm myself.  “What?” I asked.

     The pair of wolves, Adler and Tala, stood with ears perked, tongues hanging to one side, and tails swooshing almost in unison.  Volwin, the elk, stepped back raising his majestic antlers skyward.

     I rubbed my eyes, picking at the sleep crusted in the inner corners with my forefingers.  “What has my friends excited that you must wake me?”  I asked running my fingers through tangled hair, picking a few small cedar cones from it.

     I folded the cedar blanket upon itself and stretched before standing – and then stretched again with a long, deep yawn.  The wolves pranced and turned in circles.

     “Another minute or two, please.”  I said pointing a lazy finger and yawned once more.

     I scooped a mouthful of water from an old kettle I once found, swished it around and then swallowed it in one gulp.  I did this once more before eating two Wintergreen berries.  The animals were already at the edge of my lair by the time I turned around, led by Volwin who trumpeted his call.

     “Yes, yes.  Coming.”  I said while dusting my shirt and britches, both were a young mans and baggy on my petite female frame. 

     We did not venture far, maybe fifty paces, to the edge of the thicket that surrounded my home.  As the animals neared, Volwin stopped, pawed and pounded the ground before letting out a low rumbling sound.  The pair of wolves took turns looking at me and then at the thicket.  When I joined them, they stepped aside and there, as plain as the sun rinsing in the sky, was a pile of things. 

     “This is what has you excited?”  I asked before I even gave the pile a good look.

     Things are found in the forest.  Items left by accident after a rest or a night’s stop.  Items dropped from wagons or riders along the trade routes.  Things are found in the forest.  But, as I realized, this was inside the thicket and unless you knew the ways in – or in my case, let in – it was almost impenetrable.  The thicket, I thought, was more formidable than the stone walls of Chatsworth.  The dense mesh of thorny bushes, twisted and bent thin trees, and a myriad of vines made my home, my lair, a world within a world.

     Volwin nudged me and Tala put her front paws on my hip and vigorously licked my arm.  I walked to and knelt before the pile and I understood their excitement as it began to well inside of me.  I picked up shirts, britches, and dresses – all appeared new.  One basket held breads, cured meats, vegetables and fruits.  Another basket held a brush, a mug, forks, spoons of different sizes, and knives.  Tied in a bundle were cloths of different sizes.  Finally, to the side was a dagger, a short sword, a bow with arrows, a pair of shoes and sandals.  I was amazed and confused.

     “How did this come to be?  Who left this?”  I asked more to myself, not expecting an answer.

     “The dark one, during the night.”  Said Volwin’s low voice in my head.

     An image of her flashed in my mind; I jumped to my feet and threw the clothes to the ground.  I ran to the nearest pine and climbed it like the squirrels taught me; just high enough to look over the thicket.  I looked in every direction, but noticed nothing.

     “How?”  I asked.  “I did not believe she followed; never once did I see her as I ran.”

     “The forest.”  Said Adler.

     “Yes, let her in.”  Said Tala

     I stood in the pine for a moment and stared across the land, to the thicket that has kept me hidden, and finally to my lair. 

     “The forest let her in?”  I questioned.

     A breeze stirred the long pine needles creating a muffled, “Yeeessss.”

     “You are both old and wise, my friend.”  I said stroking the silky rough bark.  “You have ever been my protection.  You allowed her in on your own accord?”

     “Yeeesss.”  Was the answer on the breeze.

     I hugged the trunk of the pine before climbing down and rejoining my animal friends.  I gathered what I could carry, Adler and Tala each had a basket in their mouth, and we headed back to my lair.  I looked at everything in disbelief and excitement; and I was hungry, so I broke the bread and ate a tart apple.

     Several evenings passed when I was returning to my lair from bathing in the Westerfair River, brushing my long red hair and wearing one of the new nightgowns.  It was refreshing to wear clean clothes, have clean skin, and hair that is not a tangled mess.  These are simple things that as a child did not matter, but as a young adult my appearance, at times, weighed on me.  As I walked and brushed my hair, I began to wonder, “Could I walk the streets of Chatsworth without being judged?  Would I be accepted?  Would people smile and bow a greeting to me, the girl of the forest?  Would they recognize me?  Would I want this?”  The last question stirred emotions and conflict.  “Do I want that?”  I asked out loud knowing both the simple and complex answer of yes and no.

     I crested a small hill and stopped steadfast; I sniffed the air.  The smell of smoke was thin, but I did not remember starting a fire, nor do I leave one burning when away.  But there, rising through the trees toward my lair, was smoke.  I quietly strode across the field of waist-high grasses and flowers to the thicket.  I slowly pried the branches apart and peered through to see a roaring fire with a hooded figure sitting next to it.  Not a doubt crept into my mind as to who it was, yet, who was it?  My suspicions were confirmed when the figure stood removing their hood - it was the Cimmerian Elf from Chatsworth.

     “Come my child.”  She said in a soft voice, looking at me.  “I have provided a hot meal.”

     I let the branches go and stepped back to hide myself, but it mattered not; she knew I was there.  I was skeptical and reluctant as I made my way through and stopped on the inside edge of the thicket, ready to retreat.  I furrowed my brow and shook my head in response.

     “I mean no harm and I am unarmed.”  She assured me and opened her cloak to reveal her simpleton clothing and no weapon.

     I looked around for others, but saw none; I hesitantly approached.  As I neared, I asked her to turn around, and she did, revealing her braided hair.

     “You are a mage.  You need no weapon.”  I snapped.

     She turned, looked at me, and calmly said, “I am an Elder, a healer, a protector.  I shall leave if you so desire.  I came to talk.”

     She sat to the left, and I cautiously walked by the fire and sat on a log across from her.  She asked me my name and I could not give it.  She asked where I came from and I could not provide it.  She asked about my parents, but I did not remember them.  She told me her name, Dendrianna, and confided that she did not know, for most of her life, her origin either.  She explained how she lived off the land for a time after escaping from her underground village.

     She poured hot stew into a bread bowl and I ate.  She talked, and I listened.  I could not understand why someone, especially a Cimmerian Elf, would want to help and befriend me, a vagabond Aurorian Elf.  Before she left that night, she said, “Shall you need anything, simply whisper my name upon the wind.” 

     I did not and yet, without fail, she would leave baskets of food, supplies, a few pouches of coin, and books to read.

     The two moons of Malevand passed overhead twice since I last saw her and the coming night would be moonless; my thoughts drifted to her.  My daydream of feeling her dark presence on a moonless night caused the book that I held to slip from my fingers.  When I lifted it off the ground, a piece of parchment fell from the pages that read, “I would very much enjoy your company.  Dendrianna” Again, her motives escaped me – I carried the piece of paper with me the remainder of the day.  When I settled in for my evening meal by the crackling fire, I held the piece of paper and read it several times before looking across to where she once sat.  I remember my heavy sigh and how its empty echo made me realize how much was missing in my life. 

     I closed my eyes and whispered her name.

     I do not know when, as I had fallen asleep in my soft mossy bed, but when a loud pop from the fire jarred me from my slumber, there she sat with a basket of fresh food, just as she was two months ago.  I reciprocated her warm smile with my own tired smile and drifted back to sleep feeling assured that a change, a good change was taking place in my life.

     I woke to a diminished fire and a soft song in the air, an appeal to my soul.  I looked around and found her standing near the eastern edge of my lair; I joined her, and we both stared at the endless speckle of stars.

     “Dendrielle.”  She said

     I looked at her and her at me.

     “The stars have given you a name.”  She smiled and looked back at the stars.  “Dendrielle.” She said once more.

“Dendrielle.”  I whispered, and I smiled, and I began to cry.

     The pen has been dipped in the ink.
     Words written on a page.
     A story, my story, is being told.
     I am no longer a bare page.

~~The girl of the forest – Dendrielle