A column of ants marched along the wooden flooring, retrieving the plunder of their expedition. These were not soldiers, but workers, separated they were weak, yet working together they could build amazing structures, and reach unfathomable heights. This synergy comes at a price, for they may not follow their desire. They follow their prerogative, for the system to function.

Following the trail was a young girl with clear white hair, a bad omen among her people. She had set her eyes on one specific worker and dreamt of its family who it would surely feed this day. She had given it a crumb, so that it may have food for the winter, or it may even have enough to share with its friends. Her green and yellow linen dress properly dirty from cleaning. Her little friend seemed unafraid of the giant creature that had set her eyes on it, as it ran up the wooden wall. If the weight of the crumb slowed it down, the child could not tell. The strong and persistent creature carried its weight, past the orange curtains and through the window leading into the garden. The line of sight was broken, but the girl would not want to give up her adventure, she grabbed a hold of one of the stools and placed it by the opening. She let go of the broom she had only now remembered she was holding. It had barely clattered against the ground, before the child had hauled her small body up, through the cloth barrier and into the autumn air. With a thump, she landed in the vegetable garden. The smell of ripe berries and root crops ready to be harvested filled her nostrils, reminding her that supper was around the corner. She adjusted her seating and realized she had landed on a one of the garden crops. A root vegetable of some kind, purple like the forests within and without the wooden village wall, she quickly picked it out of the ground, and scouted for the line of ants. Before long she had rediscovered the foragers scaling the outside of the wall. Following the line towards the ground, she crawled along the ground, searching for the crumb carrier. Using both hands to steady herself, the purple root in her mouth, she went, all fours. Her path took her from garden, past fences and between homes, before she found the little worker. Her long white hair, an omen of catastrophe, filthed by the lanes between houses. Through the muck and mud, she followed the caravan, until she came upon their colony. She admired their discipline, for despite their size they had traveled far to feed their city. She drew a heavy breath filling her lungs with the air of old cloth and fallen leaves, as she began chewing on the crop, she had brought with her. She knew not for how long she had been sitting before she heard her mother’s call.

“Syndra!”

Her mother’s shriek snapped her out of the separate reality she had found herself in. Though distant, the tone was unmistakable. Syndra was in trouble. She took stock of the situation and realized that she was in trouble. A ruined dress, a half-finished sweeping and stolen food. Without the heart to return home, she ran, hoping that her mother would calm down or start some activity before she would come home.

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She ran through the winding trail through the forest. The holy tree, The Ghost-Willow, would be her solace. Among the high grass she hid near the tree. She spotted the priest, packing up bucket and ladle. His blessings granted, he stole a glance towards the fugitive, and gave a silent nod, before he turned and passed through the proper path back to the village. Reminding herself of his wisdom, she took a deep breath and calmed herself. She leaned her back against the tree, and peered into the woods, digging out the vegetable, she brought it to her mouth. She savored the bites she could have, for she realized that it would be her day’s dinner. The sweet taste was amplified by the smell of bonfire and falling leaves. So she stayed with the tree, silently whispering her day’s adventure. Telling her story to the only audience willing to listen. The sounds of the evening began to creep in, whenever she took pause. Orange autumn colours amplified by the setting sun, threatening to pour cold air through the village. The clammy feeling of thick air forewarned rain, but until she was forced inside, she would stay away for as long as possible. The juices from the vegetable sticking her hands and between bites she wiped them off her already dirty dress, with the thought that her mother would be angry either way. With the sound of crackle, the water impacted the leaves. The smell of wet underbrush filled her nostrils, and the cold rain wetted her clothing. The rain became heavier and heavier, yet she would wait for the dark.

By the time the twilight had become night, and cold permeated her body, she trudged back through the trail she had come from. Mud caked around her moccasins the more she hobbled. Eventually she pushed aside the brush and emerged in the village once more. She dragged her feet through the mud, freezing her feet with water, the smell of embers permeated the pathways until she made it her family home. A quiet ear against the door, betrayed stillness. She pushed the door open and trudged into the house. Taking off her footwear, she placed them next to the other indoor shoes, and quietly snuck into the living room.

Barely had she made it toward her sleeping place, before someone grabbed her by the arm. She turned and saw Evard, her brother. She tried struggling, but he easily dragged her along. She dragged her heels, quietly trying to grab for doorway, any heavy object. Her desperate flailing availed nothing, as she was yanked toward their parents’ darkened bedroom. She pried her arm, but Evard’s hand was a vice. As a doe dragged towards the butcher. Tears welled in her eyes, heating her cheeks.

“Please don’t, Evard. Please don’t tell mum.” Syndra whispered quietly.

In vain hope, she tried appealing to his heart, but as she should have learned her brother possessed little. He took pause. In thought he regarded his sister, considering her plea. Just as Syndra thought she might strike a bargain, a wicked smile split his face. He leaned downward and brushed her dress.

“Mum will not like this.”

He spoke quietly as the night; a hidden glee coated his words. Moving his hands over the much at her knees. “But she will hate this”. Letting go with his other hand, he grabbed two fistfuls of her dress, and ripped the thin material apart.

Syndra threw a fist towards her brother, but she was slow, and he was strong. With barely a skipped breath, he grabbed hold of her arm and pushed her toward the cruel fate her mother would subject her to.