Timbrelle moved on careful feet through the forest, as was her way. There had been little rainfall in the past weeks and it had made the trees restless. Much as a man will sleep after gorging himself, so too did the trees. Becoming lethargic and content when rain and sunshine were plentiful. It is during this time of peaceful rest they gained their height and bloomed their blissfully indulgent blossoms. But it was not so now. Now it was the dry season, and the trees grew impatient rather than taller.

It was rare to see a woman travelling in the woods, much more so without company. The woods stoked clearings to life. Expansive rooms carpeted by lush grasses that beckoned Timbrelle to stay the night in their vigil. They wanted to watch her- or rather; they wanted to be entertained by her. Those more impatient trees, Firs, almost always, would creep roots onto the dirt path to hook her feet and send her tumbling into the briars. Maples would reach down to flick the crown of her head as she passed. Each time they lashed out she delighted them with a string of curses that vibrated along their timeless consciousness and recalled for them memories of travelers long past.

They’d lost their travelers. Once the forest had been thrumming with commerce. Caravans came through almost constantly and large way stops had been lively with music and dancing. The trees learned to be men by watching them live. Men had taught them to be curious, and men fed the forest with songs and stories around their campfire. Timbrelle had been told that when a new trade route opened by river, subverting the forest, the trees became indignant. How could they go back to being trees when they had tasted what it meant to be men? Not long after, an earthquake dammed the river and the traffic through the forest began again. But the trees of the forest had learned more than curiosity and joy from the humans they watched. Their scorn had taught the forest to hate. It was then that the forest’s name changed. Whistle Wilds was much too frivolous for the place of rage and terror that it had become. Men now referred to it as The Dorark Forest, for the trees whose sap began to run red just as a man’s blood.

Moss gave way beneath her feet as she dug her heels in. Most clearings she trudged through had been nearly identical. Though, their offering to her differed slightly depending on what berry bushes or fruit trees they led her to.

This time, the clearing was not so much a b&b as a glimpse into her future if she did not escape the forest. Timbrelle glanced at the dead tree across the clearing. It held within it an artifact of the forest’s coming of age.

Storytellers in Yost were fond of the Dorark origin story and referred to the trees as children. They were a new generation of humanity that had no elders. Belligerent and naïve, their anger molded them without the resistance of a human conscience.

The scorned forest that massacred the humans was long dead; those who own the paths and streams today hold only the curiosity of humanity. The forest’s anger had cooled. Though they no longer loathed mankind, their curiosity had turned morbid.

Long after this particular tree died, its leaves and branches returning to the soil and fortifying its kinsmen, a strong wind had torn the dry corpse it in two. Just like a rock cracked in half exposes a fossil, this tree, rotted and flaking away in each rain, yielded up its prize.

She edged closer to the blackened skeleton that was ever so slowly emerging from the dead tree as slivers and splinters gave way. The barely visible growth rings of its prison curved delicately around each finger that poked out of the wood. The skeleton’s hand had been raised as if in protest. Its head thrown back in a terrible scream. Timbrelle could almost hear the prayer caught in its mouth as the flesh of the tree grew in her lungs. On its smallest finger sat a thin gold band- a wedding band, surely. It shone traitorously cheery in contrast to its owner.

Timbrelle snatched the ring with clumsy fingers. She backed away, gripping the ring in a shaking hand. It wasn’t fair to the corpse that the tree be allowed to keep something so precious. Not after it had already taken their life.

The clearing must have been pleased as she ran, raising her feet high above the undergrowth with each step as if the roots would snatch her ankles and draw her into a similar embrace. She welcomed the trail, eager to leave the sight behind.

Where to put the ring? She inspected her clothes. Tears had made the ragged shift nearly immodest by Yostier standards. It lent her no warmth, but in the oppressive heat of the forest, it mattered very little. While it did suit her needs, there one thing she continually longed for: pockets.

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Swallowing the ring would be only a temporary solution, one that promised more trouble than reward. She could wear it on her finger. But it felt… wrong. Nevermind that it had once been a sign of love and devotion for the owner, she didn’t want to invite their bad fortune upon herself.

She ended up tying the delicate ring into her hair. Tangles weren’t a concern. She had gotten past the bedraggled state of her dark brown hair near the beginning of her stay in the forest. She’d longed for a tie to keep it off her neck and discourage bugs from finding a home in the frizzy nest that encircled her head like a storm cloud. There was a woman in the last village that could have braided it to lie obediently against her scalp, but Timbrelle had fled before the woman could make due on her promise. At this point, she would have let the woman shave her bald if only to be rid of the mess.

As Timbrelle picked her way through a tangle of branches, she realized she’d already traversed them. There were her footprints. With a sigh, she sat down in the middle of the forgotten limbs, looking very much like she was getting sucked into them. Perhaps she was.

Word had spread through the forest. The trees whispered messages along the wind, and soon every sapling and Elder Oak knew of their visitor. Why did this woman with skin as dark as tree bark and hair as unruly as whistleweed only loiter in their clearings for so short a time? Why did she run from time to time, looking for the entire world like something was chasing her? Something that, as yet, could not find her.

No, that was silly to think. The trees knew what was chasing her. It hid behind each trunk- she was sure of it. A feeling at the base of her throat told her when it was near- a word welling up in her lungs. It felt like trying to smother a cough that, inevitably, would break free. With it pressed against her throat so intently, it dared her to speak. In those moments there was no recourse; she ran when she felt her mouth fighting to betray her.

Today, the pressure was a tickle; a hint of what pursued her. Always running always followed. That desperation had driven her into the woods. Time had proven it a foolish decision.

No matter where Timbrelle trekked through The Dorark an exit could not be found. Paths tended by the trees were as indecipherable as they. A trail headed northward would deposit her South of where she began. The trees, it seemed, were unwilling to give her up. It felt as though she was being herded, perhaps paraded in circles, and every path she found herself on was no different.

Timbrelle snapped. She hated the trees. No, she loathed them.

In a huff, she stomped through the underbrush. Feet that had been painstakingly trained over the last month to move silently crushed anything in her path. She knew she was inviting the ire of the forest but by now it had earned hers. She would never be rid of the labyrinthine place. What followed would find her. One day her scant loot pile would disappoint a new weary victim.

If only the forest understood she was not from Yost! She didn’t deserve to be harried like this.

She carved her own path through the soft growth of ferns, moss, and assorted exotic plants she did not recognize. Layers of fungus grew up the trees like stairs. The newest growth near the top began a dark, luscious purple that faded to a pale pink in the few days between birth and death. A gradient of early morning hues that inched up the trees. In Cake’s forest the oil stags drank freely from the rivers, unafraid of being dragged into the current by the stray root of a fir that had grown bored. Here, only the occasional emaciated doe had crossed her path, looking nearly as lost as she. Just another player trying to navigate the maze they found themselves in.

In Cake’s forest, the trees acted like trees.

She tore at bushes, ripping their leaves off and tossing them like confetti in her parade. Rocks in her path got thrown into the dense, leafy treetops. A solid, thorny branch became her mace as she swept through a Chicory bramble. Dark blue juices stained her shift as she smashed open pods. The viscous liquid splattered on her face and she wondered what the trees were thinking. Perhaps they saw her as a soldier covered in the viscera of her enemies—their brothers.

Good.

Daisies that grew dense as a snowdrift became her next target. Each swing sent heads flying and pollen puffed in great clouds trying to escape her rage.

The sun had grown heavy in the West, sending bright shafts of evening light through the canopy when Timbrelle finally collapsed. A desecrated hillside covered in the remnants of a mushroom clutch became her bed. Her cudgel had been discarded after it eventually shattered against an excessively thorny tree.

As she drifted off, she could feel them watching her. Eyelids heavy, she spoke to the trees.

“You won’t be happy until I’m dead.”

There was no reply.

“No… I’ll die to it whether you let me leave or not. You won’t be happy until you see it catch me.”

No reply.

“Aw. Say something. You’re always so wooden.”

Nothing.

“Ugh. You’re awful to- hey!” Timbrelle bolted upright, wiping rotted crabapple out of her eyes. She scrambled out from under the moody tree. It swayed pleasantly in the breeze but Timbrelle no longer trusted her impromptu camp. It would be a long night looking for hospitable clearings after her stunt.

Timbrelle sighed and began walking once again.