9 : 021 : 18 : 23 : 42

I spend the hot summer days exploring the forest in search of anything even remotely edible or valuable, hoping to turn our misery around and repay my hosts for their troubles. I leave straight after breakfast in the morning and come back when it starts to grow dark, wash myself in the rivers and ponds like I'm that kid in The Jungle Book. Most of the time, I slouch home with little to show for my efforts. Whatever fresh I come across, I have to chomp on the spot to silence the howling of my empty gut.

Turns out, you don’t get very far with only a handful of berries.

If I could catch a deer, or a rabbit, we’d live like kings, for at least a little while, but the animals in the woods have long learned to be wary of people. They smell and hear me from far away and never let themselves be seen. Only the birds have no fear. They fly high, high above in the canopies and do their best to poop on me.

Practice doesn’t always make perfect, as it turns out. Even someone blind, deaf, and dumb can stumble across grub while it’s warm and the nature's in high gear. But before I know it, the nights begin to grow longer, the days cooler, and my loot list is left shorter and shorter.

Autumn rolls over, winter hot on its heels. Berries dry up and fall off the shrubs. Mushrooms become smushy and rotten. Herbs wither and turn bitter. The earth hardens, digging up roots hurts your fingers. I try to gather firewood too, but I’m not built to be a lumberjack and my armful is about the same as the old man’s handful.

There are times I have to go home empty-handed and they’re becoming more frequent than the days when I don’t. And just as many times, I have to witness Selia’s expectant smile be clouded by disappointment, despite her efforts to hide it. No matter how she denies it, Selia’s still young and wants to believe in miracles, in heroes and godly spirits. That things happen for a reason. That you can find meaning in pain. That my coming to this village is a sign of something new. That it wasn’t only a big, mad coincidence in a world that doesn’t make any sense, and won’t stop the inevitable, or even postpone it a little.

The air gets damp and cold. The old man’s hip aches at night and keeps him awake. No, it probably always hurt, day or night. It’s simply gotten worse, to the point where he can’t act through it anymore. He has to use a walking stick to get around. The amount of firewood he can lug around is even less than it was before, and on some days he can’t go outside at all.

As the most versatile worker out of the three of us, Selia basically runs the show by herself. She does the chores, keeps the rotting house in shape, prepares meals, takes care of Nihls, and helps out at the village in exchange for crumbs too. As one of the rare literate people around, she teaches the few village children how to read and write, and cooks for their parents, and nurses them all when they’re sick. She’s the first to get going in the morning and the last to come back at night.

But as capable as Selia is, the workload and crappy diet takes its toll on her too. I notice she's started to cough a lot, is constantly sniffling. She sometimes loses track of the conversation and forgets things that happened a minute ago, dizzy from hunger and fatigue. But whenever I try to tell her to take a day off, she tells me she’s fine. This is how we've always been, she says.

I can’t insist too strongly either. After all, if Selia takes a day off, it's a day we all go hungry.

“At this rate, we might have to say goodbye to Nihls soon,” the old man declares one night as he gives our skinny goat a mournful look.

To think I used to envy Nihls in the summer. He could just munch grass without a worry in the world. Never a hungry day for him. I even went as far as to wish I’d be reborn as a goat in my next life. But my envy for Nihls turns to pity one morning when I step outside to see all the grass surrounding our cabin frozen overnight, now covered with an ankle-deep layer of snow. The goat stands stiff in the middle of it all, shivering and deeply confused.

I’ve never seen snow before, but based on the sensory feel I’m getting, I can tell it’s the type of shit that will, slowly but surely, kill us.

In short, we’re fucked unless a miracle happens.

But what can I do?

What the fuck can I do?

8 : 346 : 10 : 09 : 12

As cold as the air is, I try to get out as much as I can and continue my daily excursions. I’ve given up on finding wonders. There’s hardly anything left to eat in the forest, but being on the move keeps my body warm. Owning little in terms of winter fashion, working up a sweat is the only way. Beats sitting indoors in the freezing cabin, where we keep no fire when it's day.

So I drift among the solemn trees like a sleepwalker, or a nutcase on the run from Arkham.

I meet nobody on my lonely excursions. If I hear the other villagers, I avoid them like I'm one of the beasts. I talk to no one, except myself. I could talk to the trees too, I guess, but they keep giving me the cold shoulder.

Funny, isn’t it? Trees are supposed to be living beings too, but compassion or camaraderie aren’t a thing in their world. We people can starve or freeze to death for all they care.

Trees. Everywhere I look, day after day, it’s just trees.

Huge damn trees. The very word starts to lose meaning, the more I repeat it.

See how dumb it looks:

Trees.

Trees. Trees.

Trees. Trees. Trees.

Trees, trees, trees. Trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees.

You know what?

I fucking hate trees.

I hate them like Anakin Skywalker hates sand. Probably more. They're coarse and irritating too, and get everywhere. Bad enough to push you to the dark side and make you mow down a league of little jedis. If I could, I'd burn them all down until we had a nice, level landscape and a sea view.

I stop to glare the nearest fucker by the path. A gargantuan spruce, at least a hundred meters tall. I reckon it was here before Columbus found the burgers. This tree has lived through who knows how many storms and winters without bending, not giving a toot. It’s so thick I can’t reach my arms halfway around it and so high I have to point my chin straight up at the sky to see the top.

It’ll take more than an axe to bring down this bad boy. A fucking crosscut saw at least, and multiple grown men to tug it in turns. Too bad, every strapping chap in the village took off while they still could and didn’t leave so much as a chisel behind. Those who stayed are now too feeble to run away, or make any difference.

We’re just too weak.

While this tree? I’m looking at the real survivor here.

I want to punch the tree, but its bark is hard and rough like dragonhide and I’m scared of being hurt. I lay my hand on the trunk—a lot less exciting than it sounds. It feels like my pencil wrist will shatter from just feeling the sheer volume. I’m not pushing it down with these muscles, that’s for sure.

It’s that shit, you know. The survival of the fittest.

I learned that heart-warming lesson shortly after I was born. Only the strong and lucky can earn their right to live. All we defective goods get is death and when you’re dead, nothing matters anymore. You’re only so much garbage then.

I thought I’d passed the test after I got away from that island, but I had it all wrong. In the days I’ve spent in this crappy little village, I’ve realized one thing—that game never stops. It starts anew every morning. Every single day, you have to get up and get out there and fight to earn your right to exist, over and over. Nobody's asking if you like it. Quitting means perishing. You just do it. You do it until you don't.

Life's crazy and everybody's crazy for doing it.

I plant my forehead against the cold, uwavering side of the tree and laugh quietly, manically, hysterically.

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Average radius: 2.380911... / Maximum body length: 67.32110823... / Mass as a collective: 10311.67898... / Cellular composition: primary material: microfibrillar cellulose / Average atomic density 12^258... per cubic / Prana conduction rate: 182930/303202 / Dominant elemental orientation—

“Whoa——!?”

A weird sensation passes through my head and I pull back with a shudder.

Weird, as if someone stuck their hand in my skull and gave the contents a good spin.

It wasn’t painful, exactly. Just very, very weird.

I back away from the tree and see hair-thin lines of light flicker in and out in my vision. Faint, overlapping geometry, foreign letters, symbols that blink in and out before I can get a good look at them. But somehow, I know this—those symbols represent the primal mechanics of the world, the underlying laws of the cosmos.

Great. Have I finally gone off the deep end? I always thought going officially insane was a more gradual, subtle process.

I didn't even eat any funny mushrooms today.

I rub my eyes, but the weird feeling won’t go away. It's like I can still see even with my eyes closed, but it's not light I see. What the hell? I squint back at the tree. I don’t know how to explain it in any sensible terms, but I suddenly get this hunch like I can understand the tree. What it’s made of. How it lives. What makes it tick.

What had seemed so overwhelming and distant at first is sliced up and spread wide open in front of my mind's eye, exposed down to the last fiber. What I took for a dead, dumb object is actually chock full of life from root to cones, and a home to a myriad of smaller beings, all of them silently breathing, moving, pulsating at a faint but steady rhythm.

And this thing's not half as tough as it looks. It’s strong where it's strong, but it also has clear, glaring weaknesses. Worms have eaten the base on one side. A strong enough hit from the opposing direction might, theoretically, crack it.

The observation lights a wild hope in me.

I back up a few steps more and point my arm at the tree, fingers straight.

“Let’s see...”

I draw a deep breath, and try to recall the sensation from that day.

The last time I did this was on that island. It feels like a lifetime ago now and I already almost forgot I could do it. But what my mind forgot, my body still remembers. The formless pressure begins to flow along my arm and fingers. I shape the tension with my will, pour it at one specific point, let it build up until it feels I can’t hold it any longer, and then let go.

An invisible punch shoots out and hits the tree. PAF!

It was a little louder than expected, but I did it! I’ve still got the power!

“Ha! Hahaha!” I laugh like Mozart.

However, examining the result closer, I haven’t killed the tree yet. The shot blew off a bit of bark, but under the surface the main trunk stands firm. I’ve barely scratched my foe. And that was by far and wide the strongest Shockwave I’ve ever pulled off to date.

Damn, am I just too weak?

I thought this is the part where I amaze the audience with my awesome cheat skills, but did I actually end up with the feeblest magic in the world? Come on, how do I make it stronger?

I try again without giving up, as a proper action hero should.

Again. And again. And again. And again.

The show goes on.

In the process, I discover I can adjust the shape of the Shockwave at will. I can make it fan out, or fly in a narrow line, or a big ball. But there’s a clear limit to how much oomph I can bring out in one go, and the larger the affected area, the weaker the hit overall.

My nemesis still stands.

Meanwhile, I’m leaning on my knees, out of breath and dizzy. Getting worked up and concentrating so hard in my famished state drains me fast.

Judging by the results so far, if I come here to blast this tree every day from now, I'll blast through it in about 128 years. Not really a sustainable career plan, seeing as I’ll likely die of exhaustion in less than a week. But what the hell else can I do? I can’t manifest food, or anything else that’s useful. I actually tried. All I have is this dumb fart wave, the ice shield, and that—

“—Wait a hot minute!”

Why didn’t I think about that sooner?

I quickly crawl back to the tree again. I’m dumb. I’m super dumb. And also genius. Why am I trying to blow the thing down with precisely the kind of force it’s naturally resilient against? The tree absorbs Shockwaves not because it’s so tough, but actually because its fibers are flexible. So what if, instead of trying to blow it down like a big bad wolf, I were to alter its structure inside first?

And I might have a way to do just that.

I hold my numb palms against the trunk, near the base, gather my waning strength and whisper,

“—Freeze.”

Conjuring ice-aspected magic when it’s winter and you’re already freezing feels pretty dang awful, like dipping your hands in boiling water after getting sunburned, but it’s just a feeling. I can’t be harmed by my own magic, born of my spirit.

A faint blue light is lit under my hands. In a blink, a rapidly spreading sheet of frost wraps around the tree. It covers the base of the trunk, forming a steaming belt around it, far colder than the outside air. I endure the sensation like countless needles stabbing my hands and hold my focus. Hold it. Hold it. The effect has to penetrate all the way through, layer by layer, until the trunk is solid from front to back.

Finally done, I get up to shake and rub my numb hands, ready for round two.

“Let's see how you like this...”

The tree’s now as hard as diamonds. Not really, but close enough. And being super hard makes it brittle!

Let’s science the shit out of this mofo!

I move a short distance away and ready Shockwave once more, with feeling.

Better make it count. I don’t have enough stamina left to mess this up again.

One last strike, at maximum power. I don’t aim my whole hand, only one finger, and compress the air in a space so small and tight I can no longer tell which will blow up first, the spell, or my head. No waves, no lines—make it a point, an arrow, a needle. One quick, sharp bullet, straight through the heart—let’s call it Flashpoint.

Only when I simply can’t hold it any longer, I let it fly.

Zip——!

The air bullet slips straight through the bole of the spruce with a glassy crash.

The tree, frozen solid, shatters by the concentrated hit. It breaks apart in hearty chunks and icy shrapnel flies in every direction.

The damage goes deep enough. The rest of the work is done by the sheer mass of the ginormous tree. With a melancholic groan, it tears itself apart from the base. And I watch it happen, congratulating myself for a job well done, feeling like I’ve just sent a probe to Mars by myself. Hell yeah, eat that, Houston! One small step for a gal, one giant leap for—

My smile fades when I realize the tree's falling my way and about to land on my brow.

The broad branches scrape past the tree’s siblings left and right, as the top half comes down at a steadily quickening rate. I scramble to throw myself out of the way, dive into the shallow snow and crawl on as far as I can make it before the hammer of the gods lands.

BA-TOOM——!

The almost 100-meter pillar of wood smites the terrain and knocks down the snow from every other tree in view. The impact gives my innards an unpleasant jolt too and was probably audible all the way down in New Zealand.

“...”

I lie still long after, showered by powdery snow, and don’t dare to move a muscle, instinctively dreading the sky will come down soon after the tree. It doesn’t. Not this time.

Finally, I open my eyes one at a time and raise my head. Silence has returned to the forest. The only difference to the usual soporific picture is the fallen spruce, which now divides the woodland like a castle wall, surrounded by a sea of bent and snapped branches. The mess is huge.

I did it.

I can't believe I did it.

I cut down a tree, with my own two hands. Technically, I didn’t use my hands—but whatever. The fact is, I did it, even hands-free, without any tools, and that changes absolutely everything.

Could it be, maybe—I’m actually not so weak, after all?

Might it be possible my power is something awesome?

I can do better than pick up berries for a living and warm the bed at night.

Firewood, man. Unlimited, copious amounts of firewood!

There’s so much fuel in my hands all of a sudden I have no hope of carrying it all back home on my own. I’m loaded to the noggin just with the dry branches broken off in the fall of the colossus. I hurry back home stacked like a mule, having forgotten my hunger and exhaustion, stoked to share the news with the family.

Over the trip, my mind cools down a bit and I start thinking again. I don’t tell the Bengholms I broke the tree down with magic. I should play by the trope and keep my powers a secret, until the time is right. They might ask me to kill the Demon Lord next. I only tell them I came across a fallen tree by chance, that's all.

Already before nightfall, all three of us hike back to the scene and carry back home as much wood as we can. We can’t cut the trunk or the bigger branches without tools, but we get a lot just knocking off the dried and frailer ones. There's too much for even three to carry at once. Plenty for days to come. The fresher sticks can be stored and dried for later too.

That’s right. For the first time since I came around, we actually have something to store in the shed. We don’t need to count our twigs anymore or sleep in a house of “survivable” temperature. We can have it warm. We put such a lively fire in the stove that its sides glow red like strawberries. Even in the clutches of the early winter night, every corner of our cramped cabin is heated dry and comfortable.

And it won’t be only tonight. With the wood we have and a way to get more, we can have summer at home every day, all year round. Better yet, we have enough firewood to sell too. Proper bread, butter, beef jerky, eggs, chocolate frogs—the next time the trader shows up, I’ll buy the whole lot and we’ll have ourselves a barbecue party. Fuck yeah!

I watch Selia’s dreamy smile as she warms her slender hands in the stove’s heat, not shivering or sniffling anymore, and experience happiness and pride I never thought possible. It almost makes me feel like bursting.

Who would’ve thought? It’s nice to get what you want, but it feels even better to give people you care about what they want. It’s a feeling a hundred times sweeter and more intoxicating than even the discovery of magic.

As brief as it lasts.