Yotun, son of Laenar and Arrut.

Date [standardised human time]: February 5th, 2119

(17 years, 6 months, 29 days before the invasion of the radji Cradle).

Yotun is having a nightmare. It is routine by now, always playing out the same way. His father is angry and is chasing him out of the house, his thundering footsteps always about to trample him.

“Look at what you’ve done!” his mother calls out from their bleak grey home; her voice clear despite the distance. “You shouldn’t have run away!” she whispers right into his ear. Yotun cries out and tries to outrun the spectres, the dark forest looming up like a cavernous maw ahead of him.

“Yotun!” Arrut bellows behind him. The boy throws himself at the trees that always seem no nearer, but that he perpetually reaches. He knows what awaits him, what always awaits him, but he is too frenzied with fright to care. Run, run, RUN! Yotun trips into the bramble infested treeline, the thorny branches snapping shut in a bowl about him. Prey in the snare. His dream-lungs wheeze heavily, pantomiming the illusion of fatigue. The limbs wriggle around him like grubs, a writhing ball of thorny wooden flesh, yet still he can see a furry carcass at the centre. He has to; it wouldn’t be scary if he couldn’t see.

“No…” Yotun whimpers weakly. The brynn twitches in a way the real one had not, but otherwise all the other details are the same: the furry brown body with its legs tangled beneath, the eyes rolling back, a gaping second mouth where its throat used to be. Yotun tries to force his dream body to move to no avail. The foal’s shuddering reaches a state of frightfully zealous movement, the limbs lashing out with frantic speed as it kicks the limp body through the dirt toward him. Still the boy tries to flee and finds his own limbs to be numb and useless. He can only scream.

The brynn shudders onto its spindly legs with a speed most unnatural, convulsing as it glides toward him. He tries to close his eyes, but notices he seemed to be lacking eyelids, so he looks down at the ground instead. The foal’s head, expressionless and disembodied falls into his tortured gaze, and he feels a cold cloven foot pull his weeping face upward. The second mouth gazes down on him, the rended bloody-blue flesh quivering with delight.

“Eeeeeeeaaat meeeee,” it shrills at him. “Pleaseeeeee.” Yotun shakes his head, blubbering and snivelling before the child-corpse.

“Nooooo…” he wheezes, quiet and whimpering in his breathless chest. The thing shrieks exultantly at him, the raw viscera reaching out to pull open his lips.

“Yyeeessssss!” it cries as it feeds itself to him. It breaks Yotun’s jaw on the way down his throat.

“EEEEYYAAAAAAAAA!” Yotun howled himself awake as his partially unconscious body threw itself from his bed. He hit the floorboards hard, shuddering beneath his fur. A stabbing sensation shot through his shoulder causing him to cry out anew. He pressed his back against the wall, hissing as he clutched at the bruising limb. Reaching up to his bedstand, he flipped on his lamp with shaking paws and surveyed his room for rotting undead foals. For the first few weeks after the grim discovery, his parents had come at every nightmare. Then they took shifts, then just his mother. Now no one came.

“The eyelids were new…” he panted to himself, rubbing his fingers over them to make sure they were still there. At least my tormented mind is keeping things interesting. He stood and moved past his desk to the window, throwing it open to feel the chill against his face. Worker drones moved like insects in regular clockwork up and down the vines, spraying them with pesticides, cutting away the rot. In the distance, light pollution from the town of Yuret cast a weak diffuse light across the southeastern sky. Silhouetted against it, the Brackwood hunched like some great predator on the mountains. The outlines of leafless trees gave the shadowy beast claws, the snowy white crests of the range a spikey back. The hunter’s fangs were provided by the stumped grove of bone-white retans where the path into the woods had been cut. Yotun’s cheek crunched as he ground his teeth, and the forest grinned like a Cheshire cat back at him.

~*~

Yotun could hear his parents arguing as he snuck down the stairs the following morning. The fifth and second lowest steps made loud creaking noises he knew, his paw sliding down the white wooden banister as he stepped over those. He crept toward the kitchen, his satchel with his notebook and pens hanging over his shoulder. He kept his step gentle as he passed the living room, stealing a glance at his father leaning on the carved mantlepiece.

“After what happened, and I don’t mean the fucking brynn–”

“Oh, c’mon Laenar,” his father groaned. “That was years ago.”

Yotun tried to blot out the conversation, and the memories it brought. He slunk out the backdoor, careful to make sure it did not slam behind him. Picking his way down the cinderblock steps and out into the orchard, he felt a weight lift from his chest as he made his way uphill and into the break in the woods.

Deciduous trees had begun to shed their leaves, setting the forest ablaze in autumnal colours. Brown leaf litter coated the forest floor, and trees the colour of sawdust sported fiery hairdos beneath the blood-blue sky. Some flora was starting to creep back into the path, desperately trying to put down roots before winter passed and the canopy returned. A light coating of frost was slowly ebbing in the sun, the first hints of winter’s harsh arrival.

He panted as he made his way uphill, his gaunt body relishing in the opportunity to stretch its legs, his face to the breeze. The wind flowed in bursts down the slope, like the cool and refreshing breath of a mountain spirit. Awlets and bellboys danced through the air, singing whistling songs as they went. The little winged critters delighted in throwing themselves from the highest crooked branch or, in a puff of snow, from the frostiest peak to plummet with bodies tucked tight. With a terrific grace the flying gamblers would throw open their wings at the last possible moment, sending them soaring over those more firmly gripped by gravity. He smiled as he watched them scream by, knowing they would be off to try and steal fruit from their vineyards below.

He wondered how far he could go, faintly remembering how one of the ecologists had found him. If I follow the mountains north, I’ll eventually leave their property. Then I could just follow the road as far as Bendara. Yotun relished the idle fantasy, the dream of just leaving. But he knew it would not work out that way, at least for now. So, he would come out to the woods, walk down the monster’s gullet, and see it for what it was: mere trees.

Partway up, something snapped in the saplings to his left, and the boy span about half expecting some terrible monster to put him out of his misery. But there was nothing, only falling leaves between the shaded trees.

Eventually he came unto a small clearing nestled on the path between the mountains. It was most of the way to the west, an hours walk at least, but it was well worth it. The sky was great and expansive, the rolling yellow and white fields of feed spread into the east, intersected here and there by orchards growing fruit. His eye followed the line of the mountains southeast, spying Yuret in the distance. The sea cut a winding border to the continent, light fluffy clouds leaping like foals at play up the coast. Hovercars and spacecraft could occasionally be seen, leaving no trails behind them to scar the sky save where they boosted to supersonic. From this vantage, sitting atop the crouched leviathan’s head, his home looked small and insignificant, a tiny cottage with its modest garden rather than a titan of its industry. Behind him the mountain rose higher, the trees forming a wall of fire between him and the ecologist’s territory. He thought about that odd woman he had met, how she had held him when he panicked at her predator. How had she done that? How could she stand to be so close to that… thing? And what she said about the forest, how it deserved to be cherished. Her protectiveness was more a personality trait than a job. It was… noble, he decided as he pulled out his notebook to draw. Decent, even if a little bit mad.

From this height the only sounds were the wind and the scratching of his pen. It was serene, undisturbed. The horizon stretched far away, vast and indomitable, at once too grand to take in and too beautiful not to look at. It was like staring at the sun. Yotun was scratching at an old sketch, one of the vineyards from this vantage when some rocks clattered down the cliff above him. What was that? He looked up, shielding his eyes from Kay-ut’s light with a paw. The trees ended a short distance away, leaving him vulnerable and isolated on the cliff edge should a rockslide start. He set down his notebook, fiddling with his satchel on his shoulder as he timidly stepped forward.

“Hello? Is somebody there?” he called out. The rock face took his question and spat it back at him. …somebody there?

“Turn back,” the cliff whispered. Yotun yelped and looked about but found nothing more than the trees and the leaves. Had he just imagined it, he wondered, glancing about fretfully between the trees.

“H-hello?” he whispered again.

“Turn back!” the voice said again, more insistently this time. The voice had been quiet, thin as though carried from a great distance. Yotun thought there was a slight melody in it though, an unusual lightness usually only found in the youngest radji. It seemed to come from all around him, like the trees themselves were talking to him. His breathing became frantic. The mountain seemed to rise up into the sky, like the leviathan had awoken.

“Wh-who’s there?” he called out. “A-are you lost?” There was a hush, so long and absolute that even the wind seemed to quiet. A terrible howling roar cut through the silence, a raucous ravenous call that set his quills on end.

“aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAooooooo! aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOoooo!”

He fell over on instinct, almost scrambling over the edge in his attempt to get away. Red leaves were kicked up behind him as he ran, their crunch overpowered by the blood pumping in his ears. Yotun looked over his shoulder as he ran and mistrusted his own eyes when they reported nothing but trees. He felt like whatever had spoken to him was hiding behind his very eyes, and for a moment he felt it running alongside him, just out of sight but closing in. He stumbled and tripped over a root, the Cradle coming up to painfully punch him on the snout. He rolled over himself, his limbs flinging wildly as he bounced downhill.

“Ah-! Oof-! Ack-!” Yotun landed on his front in a ragged heap. His head was ringing, his shins and forearms had scratches, but otherwise he was unharmed. Dizzied and disorientated, he looked about. He was now a short distance back down the mountain; his fall having carried him some of the way down. The young radji looked about for whatever had followed him, but again saw nothing. Groaning, he struggled to his feet and padded back out of the forest.

Yotun stopped to catch his breath as he passed back into the vineyards. He considered telling his parents about what he had heard. Did I just find what killed the brynn? he wondered. No, he decided with a shuddering breath, they’d just be mad I went in the forest. They’d never listen anyway. It was only when he snuck back upstairs that he realised he had left his notebook in the clearing.

~*~

Yotun is having the nightmare again. His father calls out his name like the horn of an oncoming vehicle as he chases him through the rotting vineyards. Ahead the forest awaits him, as does the monster with its nightly rape. Putrid fruit is crushed beneath his paws as he flees, and a voice springs up beside him.

“Turn back,” it purrs, the words clawing through his ears and into his brain. Turn back, turn back, turn back, TURN BACK! Pressing his paws to his head he stumbles over the forest’s edge and into the trap, the brambles snapping shut like teeth around him. This time, the tormentor is on him at once, giggling and chittering with glee. Yotun howls and sobs as the cloven hooves punch against his feeble body. Through the blows he hears that something is beating against the brambles that enclose them. Dribbling blood all over him, the brynn shudders for a moment as a roaring howl punctures and reverberates through the dark space where nightmares reside.

“aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOoooo!”

The brambles are torn outwards, and the air is sucked from his mind as everything is ripped out into the abyssal vacuum of the void.

Yotun gasped as his mother pulled the sheets off him.

“Up,” she said. “C’mon, it’s the start of the school week.” She looked down on him wearing a discomforted expression. “More bad dreams?” she did not wait for an answer, merely shook her head. “You’ll get over them eventually,” she said turning away.

Mother stopped in the doorway, tapping her claw on the frame. She turned back to him, stopping herself short, as though on the edge of saying something.

“Don’t leave your window open,” she said. “You’ll catch a chill.” Window? Yotun thought as she left. His curtains seemed to be thrown open, like long white arms stretching from the wind into the room. He wandered over and shut it absently, something eating at his mind. With slow certainty, he turned to his desk. Sitting primly atop it was his notebook.

~*~

“Have a good week!” his mother said, smiling as she landed the hovercar. He looked up at her soft features, gracing her with a forced smile of his own. The three-day school week was a blessing and a curse. It freed him from his parents, gave him something to distract himself. He got on well enough with some of the other kids, even if they came from poorer parents. But he was taken away from his forest, and he could not walk amongst the trees when the stress overwhelmed him, or when his nightmares woke the dorm. “Are you alright sweetie?” she asked him. He nodded and turned to the door, but she caught him by the shoulder. “Hey, at least say goodbye,” his mother said with a laugh that was devoid of humour.

“Love you Mother,” he mumbled.

“Be good,” she said kissing his cheek, and he was free to run into the courtyard. Some play areas were scattered around the inside of the gates, diving bowls, digging pits, and the occasional tree or patch of greenery. A large group of kids were slowly funnelling into the coterie, and Yotun joined the back of the queue. His parents hovercar thwopped into life, its backdraft rocking some trees as it slowly shot up into the sky. A few of the younger children watched it rise with envious eyes.

The coterie was an old building, part school, part church, part kindergarten. Like all the older edifices, it was partially subterranean, a network of hollows each with teaching implements. The children would sit on great round rugs, each given a lap desk to write upon. References to the new religious texts and important books were also found in the stuffy interior. It was a painfully radji building, all function with little room left for symbolism. Maybe the fact that it’s already buried is poetic enough.

His teacher, Rylett, stood at the door. She was an older woman, somehow keeping a semblance of youth despite being on the older side of middle-aged. Her reddish fur tinged toward ochre on her chest, and she kept that coat neat and proper. She had a sharp, austere-looking face, and one would expect her to be a harsh woman. But those features softened when she smiled, the fur framing her high cheekbones forming dimples with only a few grey hairs creeping about her temples. As befit a priestess she wore a simple hemp smock against the cold and smiled at him as he approached.

“Good morning, Priestess,” he greeted her, looking down at the floor.

“Good morning Yotun, did you have a good break?” she asked him warmly, her voice deep and hooting.

“It was okay,” he mumbled. She placed a paw on his back as, with one last glance at the now empty courtyard, she guided them in.

“More nightmares?” the nun asked with concern, not judgement.

“No,” he said. “Just the same one.” Rylett stopped him as she removed her smock and hung it by the door. The woman folded her paws in front of her as she looked down at him. He was not as short as he used to be, and now she barely had to tilt her head.

“Would you like to talk about it during recess?” she said softly. He looked away again.

“I suppose,” he muttered as he shuffled his feet.

“Okay then,” she smiled at him gently. “Off with you!” she added with a playful push on the shoulder. “I’ll get to teaching in a moment.” He nodded and set down the tunnels toward their classroom. When he arrived most of his class were already sitting on the rug, chatting and laughing with one another. A cream-coloured girl looked up as he entered.

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“Hi Yotun!” Callio called out. Yotun did not have many friends, the slightly younger girl being one of the few exceptions. There was something about her smile that brightened his days.

“Hello Callio,” he said smiling as he sat beside her. “How was your break-week?”

“Okay,” she shrugged. “Papa and I spent some time near the forest, working on that fence of his. He seems really happy with how it’s coming along. I asked if we could go back to the beach, if I could bring some friends.”

“The Brackwood beach?” he asked curiously. She had told him everything about this magical beach, how they had found this boy lost in the woods and how grateful his father had been when they found him. She nodded at him with a resigned smirk.

“Yeah, but Papa said no. Didn’t want to upset Braq and Turin.” Turin… that’s right, that was her name. “How was your break?” she asked, but Rylett entered the room saving him from having to answer.

“Smell ya later,” he whispered to Callio, secretly delighted when she giggled.

“Good morning class,” Rylett called out, setting her desk in order.

“Good morning, Priestess,” they chorused back.

“Pens out please. We’ll start with roll call before we pick back up on mathematics.” Groans resounded around the hollow, save Callio who yipped excitedly. “Yes, yes I know,” the priestess continued. “Please hand up your homework as I call your name.”

Yotun undid his satchel as she began calling names. His notebook fell out as he reached in, and he picked it up with a sullen grunt. What’s that smell? The book fell open, and within was a fire-red leaf, one from the forest. He stifled a yelp as he looked down at the page. Words had been written in thin spikey black letters.

Don’t come back.

~*~

During recess he went to the library and started rummaging through the dusty tomes. He was not sure exactly what he was looking for. Mentions of voices and hidden messages were everywhere, and this mystery voice could be any of them or none of them. A lot of the modern books, the kind that kids would actually be interested in, had long ago been digitised, so a large portion of the library had tablets through which they could be accessed. He decided his best bet was to look at some history books, to see if there was mention of the Brackwood itself.

He was surprised to learn that the Brackwood was one of the last few remnants of woodland left on the Cradle, and that its protected status had been established centuries ago. Quite why was a matter of debate: several different governments had come and gone during the founding of Bendara, but all had voted to preserve the wilderness. He was almost nose to paper, various books and tablets scattered around the table when a voice called out to him.

“Am I interrupting?” He looked up, finding Rylett looking down at him.

“Oh, uh, no.”

“What’re you reading about?” the teacher-priestess asked.

“Um… the forest.”

“Hm. I enjoy natural history,” the woman hooted softly. “May I join you?” He smiled sheepishly as she sat in the chair opposite him. “What were you trying to find out?”

“Er…” I can’t tell her about the voice, she’ll think I’m crazy. “I, um, was trying to figure out a nightmare,” he said.

“You’ve said you only have the same nightmare,” she said with a tilt of her sharp face.

“I do. But… sometimes the details change.” Rylett looked at him strangely, as though sizing him up.

“You can remember the details? How vivid are your dreams?” I don’t dream.

“Very,” he said turning back to the book. The Priestess sat there waiting patiently, resting her elbows on the table with her head upon her paws.

“It’s uh…” he did not know where to begin. “Well… this last one played out like the others. I’m chased into the woods, and when I get there, I’m trapped. Then the…” he shuddered at the monster in his skull.

“…then you’re attacked, and the creature hurts you,” she finished for him.

“W-well… last night… it was different. I heard… a voice, telling me to ‘Turn back’ before I reached the forest. And then… when I was trapped… it was like there was something outside trying to get in.” Rylett just looked inquisitively at him, dropping her paws to the table. Good job idiot now she does think you’re crazy.

“Have you talked to your parents about this?” she asked him.

“No,” he mumbled. “Mother would make a lesson of it, and Father wouldn’t understand. It’s silly,” he said, closing the book. “It’s not like it’s real.” Rylett rapped her claws against the wood.

“What happened next?”

“Well… It tore open a hole in the woods, and everything was sucked out.” Her rapping stopped as she contemplated the imagery. “What do you think it means?”

“Hm?” She shook her head, clearly somewhere else. ”It could mean many things. But it’s all happening in here,” she reached out and tapped a claw against his forehead. “The real question is, what does it mean to you?” He sat quietly for a long moment, thinking about what a voice in the forest might mean.

“I dunno,” he shrugged, hitting a book with the back of his paw. “There’s nothing in these about voices or monsters in the Brackwood. I just wish we had more of the older stuff! There used to be stories of people seeing things in the woods in the folk tales…” Rylett’s brown eyes narrowed at him, a roguish smile threatening to escape her composure.

“How do you young one, know about the folk tales?” Yotun bit his lip, smiling sheepishly beneath his brows. Shit.

“I… er… read it,” he stammered.

“From a book in the teachers’ lounge?” she asked with an accusatorily raised brow, her grin now overpowering her. “From the locked cabinet, on the top shelf, eh?” His flushed face told her everything. “Ah, you silly boy. Your inquisitiveness is a virtue, but you mustn’t let it rule you. Even I’m not meant to see those. If High-Priest Irt found out you’d been looking, we’d both be in great trouble.” Yotun looked down at his paws. She started cleaning her own claws, flicking away some accrual. “Which one?” she asked. He looked up again with wide eyes and saw the mischievous delight flitter across the older woman’s face. Rylett chuckled wryly, nodding as she read his expression. “High-Priest Irt would call them folk tales. Mere stories. Fables. And they are, to a certain extent. But they were more than that to those who first wrote them. Ask any Priest whether their gospel is true, and they will give you an answer of faith. Ask why another’s faith is not and they may just list every reason they can think of. These old tales don’t have any champions, don’t have any worshippers. They are defenceless. It is the fate of the faithful; gods that are not worshipped die their final death. If all those gods before ours disappeared promising paradise, how can we be certain that ours is true?”

“But… can there be truth… in them?” he asked her. “Truth to be found in the stories, even if they aren’t true?” The Priestess leaned forward aggressively, as if to start an argument.

“Excellent,” she whispered with a smile. “Very good. And that is why we worship. Maybe we got it right. I hope one day to walk The Protector’s hall, to join the Great Herd blessed beneath Kay-ut’s light.” She sat back taking a deep breath. “But who is to say I am right? We will all find out, some day. In the meantime, we can work to better this land around us. Find humility in kindness, truth in fables. That is all.” She regarded him for a long time.

“In one tradition, a culture not too far from here, there used to be stories of the waifs.”

“Waifs? Like the trees?”

“Those are woodwaifs, they’re just trees.” Her voice held a youthfully enthusiastic note, her eyes distant as something pressed against her long years in the clergy. “The waifs were said to be small, like children, but far older than even the oldest priest. They lived in the forests, back when this whole continent used to be covered with trees. It was said that you couldn’t look at them, that they were too terrifying to behold. So, they’d hide from travellers, try and lure them astray. If you did see them, they’d play tricks and hurt you in terrible ways.” Rylett lessened again as she turned her mind back to him. She leaned across the table.

“If none of these books have an answer, you’ll just have to write your own. How about you start a dream journal?” she said, and Yotun looked up at her curiously. “Just write a few notes on what you’re dreaming about, see if anything stands out to you. And… I’d like you to talk to your parents. I’ve spoken to them, they’re decent people. Try and talk about this to them, ask them for help.”

“Can’t you talk to them?” he asked her, slumping in his chair.

“I tell you what, at the next summer conference we’ll all be there to discuss your progress. We can all talk about it then if you’re comfortable. Does that sound okay?”

“I suppose,” he said, almost a whisper. She smiled gently and patted the back of his paws.

“And if that’s too much, I’m always here if you need to talk about anything okay?” She brushed down her fur as she stood, a wry look in her eye. “But from now on, stay out of the teachers’ lounge, hm?” He giggled, smiling impishly at her. A thought occurred to him as she started away.

“Priestess?”

“Yes?” she said turning back.

“What happened to the waifs in the end?” he called out. “Where did they go?” Rylett pursed her lips.

“A wise woman entered the forest and stopped by the lake for a drink. When the waifs came for her, she tricked them into looking into the still water. They saw themselves, and being terrified…” she paused, not wanting to say the last part.

“They hurt themselves?” he asked.

“Something like that,” she said grimly with a shake of her fuzzy head. “It’s just a story. But who knows? Maybe there’s some truth to it, hidden beneath the surface.”

~*~

For the rest of the school week, Yotun rushed to get through his homework. He wanted as much time as possible to spend in the forest, so he put real effort into making sure he did well. His mind was racing with thoughts of gods and monsters, children and tricksters in the woods, so much so that he was exhausted each night. He fell asleep quickly, and only woke up screaming once in the three nights. The day he returned home, as soon as he was able to, he snuck out of the house. Mother and Father had tried to ask him all about his week, and he told them all he could stand. He asked them if he could play outside, and they had said yes, so long as he was back for dinner. It was past midday when he ran off down the vineyards and back—at last—into the woods.

Is this stupid? he asked himself as he panted uphill. Oh, most certainly. It asked me to stay away, and here I am walking on back to it. He made his way toward the clearing, the route much the same as previous days. More frost was on the ground, and where it did not crunch underfoot it slid into slurry, slowing his ascent. Still, he forced himself on, desperate to return. The clearing was much as he left it, rocks that had not moved in millennia still sat beneath the same patch of sky, the same side always to the sun with the other pressed into the cold earth.

He sat on the log, panting against his fear. How long do I have to wait? Does it know already that I’m here? Has it followed me? He focused on his breathing trying to find his courage. He waited perhaps an hour or so before he sensed a presence. He had not seen nor heard anything, but somehow, he knew he was not alone.

“Hello?” he called out meekly. “I-I’m sorry to disturb you…” Oh that sounds stupid, I’m not asking to borrow some fruit!

A growl lingered on the wind, rumbling and terrible. It’s trying to trick me, scare me off again, he knew, cornering his resolve. The roar sounded again, Yotun’s heart thundering in his chest.

“aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOoooo!” I’m not dreaming… I’m not defenceless.

“Y-you won’t scare m-me!” he shouted out, clenching his paws tight. His jaw crunched as he yelled. “You don’t scare me!” He held up his notebook, brandishing it like a shield. “You could have hurt me! You came r-right into m-my home!” The wind wailed down at him, ephemeral yet more real than this voice had been. Yotun desperately wished to hear it again, to know what it was. “C’mon! The tricks won’t work! You’ll have to talk to me!” A shrill hiss echoed about him causing his conviction to waiver and his spines to stand. But at last, the voice spoke again.

“Why did you come back?” it asked him slowly, venom in every word. It talks! Not just threats, but conversation!

“I-I-I-” the right words escaped him.

“I warned you.” The hissing sound seemed to shake from the root of every tree. “It’s not safe. Why are you here?”

“Th-this was my place,” he answered, looking up at the mountain in appeal. “It was quiet, and safe, and–”

“This is not your place. This is my place, and it is most definitely not safe.” It spat out the last word, as though it could not stand it.

“Y-you are a w-waif…” Yotun thought aloud, his throat feeling tight.

“Waif?” it called. “What’s a waif?” Would it know what it is? Or am I wrong…

“Rylett- m-my teacher that is, told me about forest spirits. Little p-people, like children, who used to hide in a forest, play games, pull tricks on people. She s-said we couldn’t look at them, or they’d hurt us,” he stammered out the explanation and was met with silence. “A-are you not a waif?” he asked.

“Why should I answer your questions?” it said harshly, and Yotun’s spines bristled. With either courage or stupidity, he retorted.

“Well, why should I answer yours?!” A barking laugh echoed about him.

“Suppose I am a waif, you said they played games, yes?”

“Y-yes…” he answered nervously.

“Then let’s play one.” It’s chitter carried on the wind. “A game of words, a game of truths. We each ask each other a question, and we each must reply honestly.”

“What–” Yotun started but was cut off by a harsh barking growl that sent him trembling.

“There are three questions you cannot ask me, and I will grant you three I cannot ask. Fair?”

“Okay,” Yotun said. It… bargains. Offers deals… “What can’t I ask?” There was quiet for a moment.

“One, you cannot ask to see me, and know that if you do see me, I will hurt you.” The cadence of those words told him that it was deadly serious. “Two, you cannot ask my name. Three, you cannot ask what I am, or where I came from.”

“Hey, that last one is two questions!” he protested.

“Tough,” it replied drolly. “These are the rules. You sought me out, you wanted to speak. This is how. Speak your questions.”

“I… don’t know. Can… I use them when you ask something I don’t want to answer?” To his surprise, the voice giggled.

“Aha! Sure! But I go first. What is your name?”

“So… I can’t ask your name, but you can ask mine?”

“Do you protest?” it hissed, it’s voice light with glee. “Remember, you can only refuse three…”

“Yotun…” he mumbled.

“Yo-tun,” it said, tasting his name. “Ask your question, Yotun.” Am I playing a game with a fairy? No that’s stupid… what is this creature? He felt curiosity like at no other time in his life, this strange voice of the woods fascinated him.

“What do you do out here?” he asked.

“Many things. I play, I explore. I… eat. It is a large forest, there is much to do. My turn: why did you come back here after I told you to leave?”

“Curiosity,” Yotun answered, sitting on the log. He felt like he was having a casual conversation with Irt, waiting for the High-Priest to jump on him for something.

“Just that? Just curious? Hmmm… no… No, you said ‘safe’ before, safe from what?”

“I answered, and it was honest. You have to answer mine now.” A rattling sigh rolled down the mountain. “You said you ‘play’, who with?” This drew a hiss from it.

“Clever Yotun asks clever questions. Should be wary of clever answers. My family.”

“You have a family?!” he asked, perhaps more surprised than he should be.

“Of course, don’t you?”

“I suppose,” he answered.

“Or… is that why you came here? To feel ‘safe’… from them?”

“Somewhat…” he said, picking up a stick as he sat. “But also…” How do I explain this… “Do you have nightmares?”

“Is that an answer or a question?”

“Can’t it be both?” It giggled at him again, before sobering.

“Sometimes.”

“Me too,” he replied. “I… found a brynn, a long time ago. A predator had gotten to it, torn it’s throat out. I see it at night.” The voice was quiet for a long time, so long he almost called out for it when at last it spoke.

“I’m sorry.” Its voice seemed softer, so much so that it surprised him how… normal, almost effeminate it sounded. Is it… a girl?

“You are?”

“I am,” she cooed. “You shouldn’t have seen that. A dead thing is… scary. Do you… fear predators?” The oddness of the question unnerved him, and his quills bristled. Something was screaming at the edge of his mind.

“Well… yes. They… hurt things.” Yotun knew what his next question must be, but found he was struggling to say it.

“Er- um…” he licked his lips. “What… do you eat?” The wind rattled through the trees sending a new rain of leaves to the forest floor.

“Many things,” she replied, a deeper timbre in her voice. “Forest things.”

“S-such as?”

“Careful clever Yotun,” it whispered, it’s voice like syrup. “That’s a second question.” Yotun bowed his head, trying to control his breathing. If you do see me, I will hurt you… “Your… book… I only read some of it… but there was lots of stuff in it… what was it about?”

“M-my notebook? I use it at school.”

“School?” it said the word strangely, emphasizing the longest part.

“Where children go… to be taught. Is that why you took the book?” he asked. “Why you gave it back?”

“No… your drawings. They were… very pretty.”

“Oh. Uh-” Yotun stammered, blushing beneath his fur. She chuckled at his modesty, and Yotun realised that this creature must clearly be able to see him.

“Who is she to you? Why draw her so much?” she asked, her curiosity palpable. Yotun swallowed.

“I’m, uh… not answering that one.”

“Fair enough,” she said softly. There was a long silence, until eventually she said, “I like drawing too.”

“Really? What do you draw?” What does a forest creature draw? he wondered.

“Lots of things… I could show you…”

“How–”

“Turn around,” it said causing his spines to stand up anew. All this bristling was starting to make his back hurt. “Face the sky.”

“Uh…”

“Relax, I won’t hurt you. So long as you don’t look.” He was panting hard now, any comfort he had found in the conversation had ebbed away. His body was slow and clumsy as Yotun forced it around, his intellectual curiosity outweighing his primal fear of this creature. What the hell am I doing?! It could just attack me! Or maybe it’d prefer to push me over the edge, wouldn’t that be a nice trick?! It’d be nice and easy to eat me when I’m paste on the mountain!

“Close your eyes,” the voice commanded, and Yotun was shocked by how clear it was. Protector… it’s right behind me isn’t it?! Fighting to take control, the prey animal within demanded he look. “Yotun,” it hissed, “don’t turn around!” He yelped, and covered his eyes with his paws, not trusting himself.

“Don’t look,” it breathed, so close now he trembled. “I don’t want to hurt you.” For the briefest of moments, Yotun fancied he could feel a breath on the nape of his neck. After the longest time, or perhaps just seconds the voice called out again, returned to its echoing distant sound.

“You can look now,” it whispered, a cautious note in its thin voice. Yotun peeled back his paws, half-expecting to be greeted by his decapitated foal, or some other nightmare. Instead, the vista was still there, the sun starting to creep down in the west, orange and yellow light beginning to thread across the horizon. He looked about. Sitting on the log next to him was a paw-sized book, paw-made and bound in brown fabric. He picked it up carefully, like he was holding some treasure or lost artifact. He opened it, finding it to be full of notes and drawings. The sketches were crude, but meticulous, made in a thin and wispy pen like the writing. Some he recognised outright as animals in the forest; stiplets, fiirits, even… brynn. A few were more… abstract; messy scribbles, and tentative doodles. Others were clearly of radji, some nude, others wearing overalls. One was of a young male, slight and lanky given how tall he was, his quills were messy and unkempt. Wait…

“Is… this me?” he asked, holding up the portrait to the woods. His pose was of him drawing, meaning… “You’ve been watching me…”

“Only the once,” she said, and with a shiver he realised she was still close to him, hidden in the trees nearby. “They’re not as good as yours.”

“Don’t bury yourself,” he said shaking his head. “They’re very detailed. How long have you been drawing?”

“Not long… a few seasons I think.”

“A few-?! How old are you?”

“I’m… not sure. I was one the last time I counted, but I must be much older now.” Is it… no, she… a child? Or does she live by different years?

“Before…” he said quietly. “You said you had nightmares. What about?” There was a long pause before he got an answer.

“Monsters,” she whispered, as light as the breeze brushing through Yotun’s fur.

“What do you do, when you have bad dreams?”

“I talk to my parents,” she said at once.

“Do you tell them everything?”

“Aha! No,” she chuckled wryly. “But it helps to talk about it.” The west was starting to look more orange than yellow, and Yotun knew his time was running short.

“I… should head back,” he said forlornly, looking down at the drawings in his paws.

“You won’t tell anyone,” she said. It was not a question, nor a demand. Instead, it was more an observation, an axiom.

“No,” he said regardless, closing the book gently. “Can I come back? I… enjoyed our game.” He rested the book back on the log.

“I enjoyed it too,” the voice whispered gently, but then its tone changed. “But I meant what I said, the forest is not safe. It would be dangerous for you to come back here. Something killed your brynn.”

“I know,” he whispered. “May I ask one last question, one to think about?” She snorted.

“Yes?” she asked curiously.

“If it’s so dangerous, so unsafe, so scary, why do we keep coming back?”

He was answered with silence, save the wispy wind whining about the mountain.

~*~

His father was cooking when he returned, a great succulent meal of fruit and vegetables. Arrut loved to cook something bountiful for the whole family whenever Yotun got back from a school week. Normally, the boy would struggle to eat but today felt absolutely famished. His father grinned happily as he saw Yotun’s expression.

“Hungry lad?” he asked him with a slap on the shoulder. “Excellent. Did you have a good day?”

“Yes,” Yotun said, for the first time in a long while. “I think I did.”

---

“Artists are people driven by the tension between the desire to communicate and the desire to hide.”

– Donald Winnicott.