Page 50 of Into the Heartless Wood
They are watching. Listening.
They will tell my mother we are here.
I say: “Come. Quickly.”
He follows me into the wood. The box thumps against his back.
Trees reach out craggy fingers. Roots writhe under the ground. They mean to snatch him. Ensnare him. Choke the soul from his body, since I will not.
I say: “Stay close.”
He curls one hand tight around my arm. Fear sparks off of him, hot and bright. But his trust in me is greater.
He does not let go.
The souls my sister slew today clamor in my mind.
He should not trust me.
We reach our hill. I climb to the top; I kneel in the grass.
He crouches beside me. Watchful. Tense.
The trees clatter and creak.
They are angry.
They mean to claim him for themselves.
But I will not let them.
I plunge my ruined hands deep into the hillside.
The earth reaches out for me,
breathing in the lifesap
that flows through my veins.
New fingers grow from my hands,
and from them I send out roots,
pushing them up and up, toward the sky.
I sing the shoots to life.
I call them higher, higher.
They reach up all around us.
They sprout branches,
unfurl tender leaves.
I sing and sing,
until the trees are tall enough to screen the wood below.
