The whispers of Virginia and the forest grew more frequent now that my mother had passed from their place into history itself; and with them, mysteries within the woods grew deeper in my mind’s eye.

The animals grew more curious of me as if they knew not just their keeper but Irene’s as well.

That night, sitting by the glow from a fire, a young doe came near. It was so close it could be felt against my hand. A breath.

Its young eyes seemed all-knowing as if the beginning of time had been a page in her life.

I spoke to her and she to me in a silent language only people who truly understood such things could know.

Her message was clear: the woods needed my protection now more than ever.

As if I knew how to protect them anyway. Maybe I was the one who needed protection?

With newfound purpose and deeper self-reflection, I turned to study now the whispers of trees, secrets plants share and shadow shapes dance in.

I became a temporary caretaker here just as my mother once was there.

People from the farther towns would come to seek my advice, their eyes wide with wonder and dread about what I had become.

Some brought gifts, others brought warnings of the world encroaching. But I knew that the woods had chosen me for a reason.

The trees grew tall around my cabin, a living fortress; and the animals grew bold in my presence.

They knew that I was one of their kind, part of the forest as much as they were themselves.

I wanted to teach them the human tongue, and they taught me how to find myself through their care.

Together we watched over the woods, maintaining a balance between nature and the ever-hungry world outside.

The townspeople whispered of a witch in the woods, a guardian of nature, and those whispers eventually grew into a legend.

But in every rotation of that wheel, I am guided by love and preservation - the love which is in the heart of a mother for her child, and the love which a person bears towards his native place.

The house grew old with me, the logs turned grey, and leaves and moss began to cover the roof, yet it stood sturdy, proof of our lives here.

So when it was my turn a few months after my mother's leave, as it is with all things, I wanted to leave the forest and leave behind the pain in those dark woods.

Yet, even in my mother's memory, how could I?

Jane’s spirit stayed at my side, and Brutus’s gentle growl rumbled away with me in the trees.

As the earth went down me, the forest went around me, my story merged with the whispers of the woods.

The tales increased, the whispers grew even louder, and the forest became wilder and more magical, more violently defended.

And in the hearts of those who told such tales the spirit of Irene and her child moved on, as love and nature know no bounds, are never conquered, and go on forever.

I am now the one who must care about us- we who are left.

I am the caretaker now.

Those were my thoughts then back in my early years, oh the pain we went through in those woods.

I write these moments as I recall them, living them once again with careful memory digs while I'm on the porch.

Still, even in my older age, I still long for some of those great adventures.

I walk into the woods even now, looking for something more.

The ground beneath my feet whispers secrets as old as time. I filled my lungs deeply with the smell of pine and earth.

This is home and has been for longer than I can remember. The trees creak and sway, their ancient voices constantly murmuring in my head.

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A twig snapped nearby. I sit up sharply, senses sharpened by years in the woods. It isn’t dangerous - I know that smell. The young fox, barely more than a cub, peeks out from behind a gnarled oak.

“Come on out, little one,” I coo. My voice is throaty without water but as melodious as a spring breeze. “I’ve got something for you.”

The fox tarried a moment, yellow eyes glittering with curiosity. I fish through the pocket of my old coat and bring out a dried piece of meat; the smell draws him nearer.

As he takes the morsel from my hand creased with the marks of age, I can feel his warmth, the quick pulsing of his heart. For a moment, I am taken back--an innocent child once more, I would learn at my mother’s side the ways of the wood.

“You remind me of somebody,” I say, scratching behind the fox’s ears. “A friend of mine, a long time ago. She was as bright as you are clever.”

The fox seems to understand.

Maybe he does. Many odd things have happened in these woods.

The light filtering through the tender green leaves is dotted by a cool breeze.

Change is on its way. It is in my bones, the way light is pushing its way through the tops of trees.

“We better be getting home,” I say softly, more to myself than to the fox. The rascal is already deep in the bushes, disappearing in a flash of red against the green.

My cabin is a slow walk to get to these days. My joints groan like trees shaking the branches, but I won’t let it stop me. There’s still plenty to do.

When I get back to the edge of the clearing, I see them--three young faces sticking out from behind a cluster of white birch trees.

Children from town, come to see a sight of what the witch in the woods looks like. “Hey there now,” I say, trying to hide my laughter under a reproving tone.

“It’s rude to sneak about someone’s home. Get yourself out of there and say hello!”

They emerge sheepishly, two boys and a girl They can’t be more than ten or eleven years old--the girl, freckles galore and cheekily ruddy, steps forward.

“Are you a witch?“she asks, a mixture of fear and wonder on her wide-eyed face.

I lean on my gnarled walking stick, “That’s hard to say. Just depends on who’s asking, doesn’t it? Some folks call me that. One girl in the village said I was a crazy old woman who talked to her trees.

“The tall boy jumps in by saying, “My gran says you’re able, like, to put a curse on people.

“And that time I burst out laughing, a dry cackle that sends a flock of starlings scattering from a nearby tree.” Well, I thought I was good at giving folks a piece of my mind who need it.”

The kids are giggling nervously, not sure whether to be afraid or amused. I beckon them closer, lowering my voice.

“Would you like to know a secret?” I ask them. They nod eagerly. “Curses and spells don’t have all the real magic in them, that’s for sure. It’s in knowing how to listen to what's around.”

I tap an ear occasionally and sometimes wave toward the forest. “These woods have stories. But most folks are too busy making noise to listen th’ em. Only perhaps if you learn to listen--really at the center of things--may you hear something wonderful.“Her eyes light up. “Can you teach us?”

For an instant, I’m looking into her face an eager younger version of my own, full of curiosity and hunger to learn. deep within me, I feel a lump rise in my throat.

“About these woods,” I tell them, straightening up. “Why don’t you call on me all again tomorrow? Bring your folks if they’re worried. Yes,--I’ll show you a thing or two of what these here woods we live by.”

I bid all of them go on their way chatting delightedly, and feel a warmth in my chest unconnected to the afternoon sun.

It’s been too long since I shared what I know. Maybe it’s time I passed on some of Irene’s wisdom. Whenever she is in sight under that night’s fire, the walls reflect shadows, there is an unseen presence.

It seems friendly and familiar, and there are many traces of roses and pine needles in the air. I ask Mama softly, “I may be carrying some apprentices after all.“The fire crackles as if in reply and I hear laughter in the sound. Jane’s spirit comes into being at my feet, a warm weight I can almost touch.

As I drift off to sleep the whispers of the woods grow louder.

Cycles end and begin again: Small dragons, rather than creatures, have after Left Behind Dawn breaks, painting the forest with golden sun colors. The children are due before dawn evening and there are things to be done.

I gather herbs from the garden, their pungent scents clinging to my fingers. Chamomile for hope, rosemary for memory, lavender for peace. Every one of these things has its own story and its lesson for us to learn. The squirrels chatter noisily in the trees above, scolding me for interrupting their breakfast. I offer them a handful of seeds way they snicker”

This place feels just, we’ve got company. If you see anything coming that isn’t mingin’, I expect you to behave.

“A robin lands on another branch nearby. Suddenly the air seems to grow hushed and still.

“That goes for you too,” I say to it. “No snitching pretty things away from these little ones.”

Buffered by the morning breeze and the applause of the forest, I glanced up.

The bird chirped fretfully and then flew away. I stood there, chuckling ironically, and shook my head. Some things never change.

I hear them first entering the woods near midmorning. The excited voices of children mixed with the cautious tones of adults.

From the tree line, they come three from yesterday, plus another couple and their kid and several other curious onlookers.

I straightened, brushing dust from my palms. The whole woods seemed to hold its breath.

“Welcome,” I called out. My words carried on the wind “for those who have come here to learn and for those who have come simply to look around. - The trees have been expecting all of you.”

The group quieted. The mothers too, usually so skeptical, listened with mouths agape to the wonders of the woods as if they were children at heart beholding it all for the first time.

Full of contentment, I let out a smile. This is what makes me stay here is still clear after all these years. It is what the trees have kept me for.

To teach the old. To share it. To keep it from dying.

“So,” I explained, drawing them closer, “who’s ready for a story?”

They surrounded me, eyes full of questions. My mother’s spirit seemed to be hovering over them even more than before. They couldn’t hear her whispering secrets from within the woods.

And so, hemmed in by Irene’s legacy and the warmth of Virginia’s forests, I begin to teach indefinitely.